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Flight Pattern by Dianna Sinovic

March 30, 2023 by in category Quill and Moss by Dianna Sinovic, Writing tagged as , ,
Photo by Marcelo Irigoyen @lu3fmm on Unsplash

Dianna has had a very busy month, so we’re rerunning a flash fiction piece from several years ago. She’ll return next month with a new post.

Flight Pattern

Joe cradled the cockatiel in his hands, then extended one of the bird’s wings to trim the flight feathers. His flock of birds now numbered eight, and one pair had three eggs incubating. The birds shrieked and twittered around him as the morning sun though the skylights lit up the aviary. 

            “Easy there,” he said softly, gently turning the bird and trimming the other wing. The bird’s mate was preening on a nearby branch.

            After releasing the cockatiel, he surveyed the aviary. Carey was coming by in twenty minutes, expecting a tour. Would she like it? It was important to him that she understand his passion. These birds were precious to him—they kept him sane. He walked with effort to the doorway and looked back one more time. 

            He had met Carey a month ago, when she sat next to him at a township meeting. He had come to make a statement about the pending municipal budget. She was there to see her friend’s grandson get a community award. They got to talking and discovered that they had both lost spouses. They both read voraciously, he about the Civil War and she about women’s history. And she loved birds. Joe had vowed to himself that no one would ever replaced Amelia, but he was drawn to Carey’s joie de vivre. She wasn’t pretentious, and she seemed genuinely interested in him. 

 Joe’s arthritic hip wouldn’t let him go birding with her, but she said she was intrigued by his cockatiels.

            But now he was nervous. Twice he checked his reflection in the hall mirror, smoothing his thinning hair. When he saw her drive up, he felt as he had all those years ago, when he and Amelia were on their first date. Could love happen twice in one life? 

            “Joe, you look pale. Are feeling alright?” Carey wore a peach scoop-necked shirt and tan capris. She looked lovely.

            “I’m fine, fine.” He ushered her in the door and accepted her gift of freshly baked bread.

            “I thought we might have a slice or two after we look at the birds.” She looked around at the modest living room, and Joe was pleased to see her nod in approval. 

            The aviary was at the back of the house, in a room that had once been the den. He had built a screened foyer that allowed him to look into the aviary before entering it. Most guests got only that far—a chance to see the birds but not handle them. Joe took Carey into the room itself. When a bird landed on his shoulder, he transferred it to her hand. He pointed out the markings that made cockatiels unique. He told her about building his flock after Amelia’s death. He showed her the nest with the three perfect eggs. 

            “Would you like one of the hatchlings?” 

            Carey shook her head. “Thank you, Joe, but I think the baby birds belong here, with your flock.” She seemed to sense his disappointment. “Don’t get me wrong. I appreciate the offer.” Her eyes twinkled. “In fact, I will take one of the hatchlings—as long as it stays in the aviary. That will give me an excuse to come here as often as you’ll have me.”

Some of Dianna’s short stories are in the following anthologies.

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Author Chrysteen Braun talks about The Guest Book Trilogy!!

March 2, 2023 by in category Jann says . . . tagged as ,

Chrysteen Braun is a California native, born and raised in Long Beach. The mountains, where she and her husband had a second home, were the inspiration for her first three books, The Guest House Trilogy. These fictional restored cabins from the late 1920s all had their own stories to tell. Her writing crosses genres of Women’s Fiction with relationships, and a little mystery and intrigue. She’s published articles about her field of interior design and remodeling, both for trade publications and her local newspaper. She lives in Coto de Caza, with her husband Larry and two Siamese cats.

Contact her at chrysteenbraun@gmail.com, or www.chrysteenbraun.com

Today I have the pleasure to chat with the amazing Chrysteen Braun, author of The Guest Book Trilogy.

Jann: When did you know you wanted to be a writer?

Chrysteen: I think every author “always knew” they wanted to be a writer. I was around twelve when I wrote my first book. I have no idea what it was about, or where it ended up, but I do recall being so proud of myself. I actually knew how to type at that age since my parents worked from home and I learned to type and use a 10 key adding machine. Did I just date myself? I joined a writer’s group in the 80s and then got sidetracked with business, so I wasn’t able to write much more than newspaper articles about decorating. Our business was remodeling and interior design. It wasn’t until I retired that I decided I only had so many summers left, and if I wanted to write my novel(s) I’d have to get on the ball.

Jann: Was your journey to publication easy? Tell us about it.

Chrysteen: I spent a lot of time trying to figure out what I was going to write; I knew I didn’t want to write romance, but I also wasn’t a mystery writer, so I had to figure out how to combine the two. Then I had to decide whether to publish traditionally or go indie. I listened to a lot of seminars and webinars about everything writing related, and honestly got so overwhelmed, I had a difficult time figuring it all out. Then, I wrote the first drafts of five novels while they were fresh on my mind. That threw me into another state of overwhelm, along with Covid-19, and I knew if I didn’t make some decisions, I’d never get anywhere. I decided to jump into indie publishing, and began editing the first book, which is the first in the Guest Book Trilogy. Three years later, I’ve published two books, am working on the third, but have gotten sidetracked with a sequel novella, and a prequel novella, (which is turning into another book.!) I went with a company called Bublish, who does everything; book cover, ebook and paperback layout, book description, ISBN, NetGalley, editorial reviews, and initial Amazon and Facebook Ads. I’ve paid for these services, and they’re all under roof, but I knew I’d never be able to finish my books if I tried to learn how to do it all.

Jann: Book One in The Guest Book Trilogy, The Man in Cabin Number Five, made its debut on May 10, 2022. Which came first—plot or character?

Chrysteen: The overall story. Then I had to figure out who my characters were, and since I’m a pantser, I didn’t do an outline. I did, however, keep track of all my characters, and I made up a timeline since the story itself is set in the 1980s but works up to that. I really got myself confused a couple of times and have learned how important it is to keep track of it all.

Jann: Would you share with us what The Man in Cabin Number Five is about. Where did you get the idea for the book? Who are the main characters?

Chrysteen: I read about an unsolved murder in the 50s. and knew I wanted to add it to the story, and The Trilogy is about Annie Murphy who moves up to the mountains in Lake Arrowhead, Ca, to move on with her life after discovering her husband was unfaithful. There she reinvents herself and restores a series of cabins. She complicates her life when she meets a new love interest. She also meets Alyce Murphy, whose story runs parallel. Alyce discovers her father didn’t die of natural causes as she was led to believe but was involved in a murder/suicide in one of the cabins Annie now owns. You don’t know until the very end, what really happened, until Alyce’s father John Murphy tells his story, The main characters are Annie, Alyce and Noah.

Jann: On November 28, 2022, The Girls in Cabin Number Three, Book Two in the Trilogy came out. Tell us about Annie Parker and Carrie Davis, the book’s main characters.

Chrysteen: In book two, Annie makes a wrong turn in her relationship, but also meets Carrie Davis, whose mother Elizabeth, also stayed in one of the cabins during prohibition. There was a (real) speakeasy up in Lake Arrowhead in the 20s and 30s, and as with book one, the reader doesn’t know the real story until the end, when Elizabeth tells us what happened.

Jann: Are you working on the third book in the trilogy? If so, can you give us a sneak peek?

Chrysteen: Book Three is about a Starlet named Celeste Williams who stayed in cabin number seven when filming a movie. Annie meets her son, and he describes growing up with an ‘absent’ parent, and again, it isn’t until the very end Celeste tells her story.

Jann: What would you like the readers to come away with after reading your books?

Chrysteen: I don’t write for causes; I write so my readers close the book and say, “That was a good read.”

Jann: What preparation did you do for the launch of your books?

Chrysteen: I stressed about it, but Bublish launched both books. I wish I knew more about book launches, and hopefully with the next books, I’ll have a better idea of what I can add.

Jann: What still excites you about writing?

Chrysteen: I thought for sure I was going to run out of ideas, but I’m finding I can hardly wait to finish one story so I can go on to another. That’s what happened with the prequel novella; I kept coming up with more ideas so it’s not turning into another book.

Jann: What’s the best writing advice you ever received?

Chrysteen: Oddly enough it’s from my husband; “When in doubt, just write it.”

Jann: Do you have a website, blog, twitter where fans might read more about you and your books?

Chrysteen: Website, www.chrysteenbraun.com and I’m always available to chat at chrysteenbraun@gmail.com

Jann: Do you ever run out of ideas? If so, how did you get past that?

 Chrysteen: I wish I had a writing ritual. I absolutely have to get all my ‘busy work’ done (like answering emails, doing marketing, listening to seminars, bookkeeping) before I can focus on writing, but sometimes this takes me into the afternoon and I’m burned out. I’m constantly making notes on little pieces of paper, and then when I’ve finished a draft, I go through them and see where I can add or embellish. And when I think I’ve run out of ideas, I go to my husband and ask something like “Where would they go next?” “What could they do?”

Jann: What profession other than your own would you love to attempt?

 Chrysteen: Would I sound pretentious if I said I’ve done everything I’ve loved, not always successfully? Interior Designer, retail store owner, contractor, writer….I haven’t had a ranch or been a court judge. Hmm

Jann: What’s your all-time favorite book?

Chrysteen: I have several. Everything written by Jonathan Kellerman, Sue Grafton, Robert B. Parker to name a few.

Jann: What’s on your To-Be-Read pile?

Chrysteen: Any Jodi Picoult books, The Bookwoman of Troublesome Creek,

Jann: What’s your favorite song?

Chrysteen: The Wind Beneath my Wings, Bette Midler, and Conte Partiro, by Andre Bocelli

Jann: What is the craziest thing you’ve ever done?

Chrysteen: Waterskiing in Capetown harbor.

Jann: What is your favorite word?

Chrysteen: “Dork” when I’ve done something dumb, but “love you” would have to be my favorite

Jann: What is your least favorite word?

Chrysteen:  The “F” word and shut up.

Jann: What turns you off?

Chrysteen: People who go overboard with a cause or are totally opinionated.

Jann: What’s the funniest (or sweetest or best or nicest) thing a fan ever said to you?

Chrysteen: “You don’t look as heavy as your photo.” No, just kidding!!! “I’ve read your book and I’m buying six more to give to friends for Christmas!”

Chrysteen, is was great doing a Q&A with you. Thanks for giving us a peek into your writing world. Good luck with Book Three!!

Book One Buy in Links

Amazon ebook: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B09Y9KGZ3R

Amazon paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1647044626

Amazon hardcover: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1647044642

B&N paperback: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-man-in-cabin-number-five-chrysteen-braun/1141373079?ean=9781647044626

B&N hardcover: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-man-in-cabin-number-five-chrysteen-braun/1141373079?ean=9781647044640

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The Gifts by Kidd Wadsworth

February 27, 2023 by in category Infused with Meaning by Kidd Wadsworth tagged as , , , , ,
 Photo by James Coleman on Unsplash

She placed the three gifts on the mantle, each beautifully wrapped: one in gold foil paper with a white ribbon it’s bow a dove, the second in green and white striped paper like a mint candy cane was topped with a green paper pine tree, the third in classic red and white Merry Christmas paper was adorned with three large red bows. Otherwise, the room and house were undecorated. She couldn’t bring herself to carry all the boxes of ornaments and lights down from the attic. Mike used to that. He would shout, “Ho, ho, ho and where’s my hot toddy!” Christmas decorating had always begun the same way with Mike carrying box after box down the stairs and her in the kitchen juicing lemons and then screaming, “I forgot to buy bourbon!”

By the time she returned from the store, he’d have the tree up, Christmas music playing, and strings of lights spread out on the floor. “Did you buy replacement bulbs?”

She turned on the gas fireplace. It was cozy room—a lonely room. She pushed down the yearning inside of her soul. “Don’t go there,” she whispered.

She bulwarked heart with memories of other Christmases. Presents and more presents, how rich her parents had been. And each Christmas morning ended the same way, with wrapping paper strown about and delicious smells of ham wafting from the kitchen, and presents, so many presents and not a single gift she liked: clothes, all in shades of navy and mauve, clothes she would never wear, high-heeled shoes that hurt her feet, make-up—didn’t her mother ever look at her face? She didn’t use makeup. At her church they had a Christmas tree with tags on it: stuffed animal, girl’s coat size 8, mittens, boy’s backpack, etc. Surely her Christmases were like the Christmases of those children. All the gifts bought by people who didn’t know them, who didn’t really understand them. Year after year, she slowly learned. Don’t get your hopes up. No one knows you. You are their daughter, but they don’t see you.

Now twenty-eight years old she understood. She had reconciled her expectations to the reality of the world. It was impossible to really know another human being. So, every Christmas she bought herself presents. All sorts of wonderful things like copper cookie cutters and an antique bookshelf. She cooked what she loved including pumpkin pie with extra cloves. She never offered anyone a slice of her pumpkin pie. That would have been cruel—too, too cruel.

And every Christmas she put Mike’s gifts back up on the mantle and dreamed of what could be inside. Their first Christmas together he had stormed out when she refused to open his present. “Please understand, I just can’t be disappointed anymore. What we have is so special, I don’t want to damage it. I can’t bear knowing that you’re the same as my parents. That you don’t really get me.”

He had come back, of course he’d come back. He’d held her.

The next Christmas she’d put the green and white striped present on the mantle, and their third Christmas the present with the red and white Merry Christmas paper. By then Mike had adapted. He brought home hundreds of small things for her. A new mixer, he’d gotten her the red one to match the paint she’d picked out for the kitchen walls. A cup holder for her car that expanded to hold her giant coffee mug. Caffeine and cloves, yup! He was Santa all year long.

“Someday you’ll trust me,” he’d said. “Someday, you’ll open the gifts.”

But that someday didn’t come—no one is supposed to die at twenty-six. She looked up at the gifts on the mantle. “The last two probably just have rocks in them to make them rattle. I mean he wouldn’t keep wrapping up stuff knowing I wasn’t going to open the presents.”

She turned away and turned back again.

“My memories are all I have, Mike. I don’t want to find out that it wasn’t really as good as I thought it was. I don’t want to know that you were only human. You tried hard. I know you did. And this way, I can keep on pretending that you loved me, that you really understood.”

She sipped her hot toddy.

This is the beginning of a story I’m considering for the Bethlehem Writer’s Group new anthology. By the way, did I mention the Bethlehem Writer’s Group’s short story contest is now open for submissions? Click here for details: https://bwgwritersroundtable.com/

Kidd Wadsworths Stories

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The Legend of the Four Winds Butte by DT Krippene

October 31, 2022 by in category From a Cabin in the Woods by Members of Bethlehem Writers Group tagged as , , , , ,

The conclusion of The Legend of the Four Winds Butte.

***

Utter disappointment at Monroe’s no-show didn’t describe Mary’s mood. She regarded the footholds carved in the reddish stone and sighed to realize he wasn’t coming. 

The debate to press forward without him took but a few moments. She shouldered her Nikon digital SLR and exhaled a deep breath. “Make sure I don’t touch the petroglyphs,” she said, needing the sound of her voice to summon courage. 

With the rock surface pitched inward at thirty degrees, the climb was easier than expected. Good thing heights don’t bother me. 

She pulled herself up and knelt on the edge of the flat peak roughly eighteen to twenty feet in diameter, shivering in the stiff breeze. The four-foot-tall monument of smooth reddish stone jutted from the peak’s center. 

Mary’s first impression was its perfect cylindrical shape. She estimated its circumference at roughly ten-feet. The characters on its unmarred surface encircled the stone in a straight line. Unlike primitive animals and shapes typical of petroglyphs throughout the state, these had the complexity of ancient runes or hieroglyphics.

She carefully circled the outer edge of the rim to view all sides of the cylindrical stone, taking pictures and making notes as she went. A glint caught her eye from rocky gravel piled several inches high around the monument’s base. She got on her knees to squint. A fragment of a different marking peeked from beneath the pebbles. 

Mary crawled closer until she was a foot from the monument. To prevent her fingers from touching it, she used the notebook to scrape away the gravel and expose what appeared to be a humanlike stick figure. She scuffed more pebbles to uncover a second alongside it. Then a third. She unearthed fifteen figures before it ended. 

One etching per known person who disappeared. Monroe’s grandmother was right. Excited at discovering new evidence, she squatted to take pictures. 

Leaning forward for a close up, a loose rock wobbled beneath her boot, and she lost balance. The momentum pitched her forward—until her palms slapped against the etchings. Retracting her hands as if burned, Mary slowly backpedaled toward the peak’s edge with a sickening sensation burbling in her gut. 

The petroglyphs glowed with a silver light. Mary sank to her knees when the sky and surroundings darkened like a full eclipse. Get off the peak, her mind screamed. She scrambled to find the footholds when a gale-like wind pushed her away from the edge. Loose pebbles flailed her body. The wind shifted from different directions, carrying many ethereal voices chanting in an ancient native tongue. A funnel of dust corkscrewed above the monument. The tornadic spiral rose skyward. 

“No, no,” Mary shrieked. “I didn’t mean to. I tripped. I’m sorry. It was an accident.” 

She jerked when an invisible force clamped around her body and pulled her toward the monument. Prickles of static danced on her skin. Dust melded with her tears to form muddy rivulets on her cheeks. “Please don’t take me,” she wailed. 

Suddenly, a strong male voice behind her sang in a native dialect. The song rose and fell in timbre. The static prickling lessened. The winds abated. A few moments later, the invisible force released her body. 

She collapsed in a heap, choking. Dizzy and nauseous, she vomited until nothing but bile drooled from her lips. Strong hands gently helped her to a sitting position. John Monroe’s face appeared when her vision cleared. Mary fell against his chest and bawled like a terrified child. 

“I’m sorry,” she wailed between gasping hiccups. “I didn’t mean to touch it.”

“Easy now,” Monroe comforted. “It’s over now. Just breathe.” 

Monroe rocked her until she cried it out. He handed Mary a handkerchief when she lifted her head.  

She blew her nose. “I should have waited, but I didn’t think you were coming.”

“I was held up by slow-moving campers on the way here. Let’s get off this rock.” 

Monroe went first, staying two footholds below while Mary descended on wobbly legs. He handed her a water bottle when they reached the ground. 

“That song of yours,” Mary said. “What was it?” 

“A little native prayer my grandmother taught me should I ever find myself at odds with spirits.” 

“Do all guides know it?” 

“I doubt it. Most of them are younger and don’t care much for the old ways.” 

“It saved my life.” Mary honked again into the damp handkerchief. “Your grandmother was right. There are fifteen stick people etched on the rock. I almost became number sixteen.” She dabbed her eyes. “What would have happened to me?” 

“The legend claims the life essence becomes one with the winds.” 

My soul scattered to the four winds. She swallowed hard. “Is there any clue to who carved the petroglyphs?” 

Monroe shook his head. “There are some out-of-the-box thinkers who theorize it may have otherworldly roots from before mankind walked these lands.” 

Alien or not, the petroglyphs of Four Winds Butte contained a sinister, lethal power.

Monroe scrutinized lengthening shadows. “We’ve got a good hour hike down to my jeep. We should get back before dark.” 

After stashing their gear, Mary climbed into the jeep’s passenger seat, still quivering from shock. 

Before starting the engine, Monroe turned to her. “You understand now why we don’t allow people there. You were very lucky. So, I’d like to ask a favor.” 

Mary lowered her head with shame and remorse. “Yes. Anything.” 

“If you publish what you’ve experienced here, it will likely renew attraction of other adventure seekers. I don’t think you want their possible disappearances hanging on your conscious. I know of few other petroglyphs hidden from view, and not well known. Nothing as dangerous as Four Winds, but have stories of their own, some of them quite unique. How about you redirect your studies to that.”

Mary swallowed. If Professor Wilkins learned of her transgression and near fatal result, he’d probably kick her out of the master’s program. “Can we—keep what happened between us?” 

“Deal.” Monroe patted her arm. “I think you’re going to be pleased with Three Hands Chasm.” He winked. “No curses. I promise.”   

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What You See . . .

October 30, 2022 by in category Quill and Moss by Dianna Sinovic tagged as , , , ,
Photo by Dirk Ribbler on Unsplash

After three sleepless nights, Damian had the bad luck to draw the early shift at Fitzy’s Diner. His eyes were slits as he broke egg after egg for omelets and poured round after round of batter for pancakes. 

“Hurry it up, Dame!” Fitzy shouted from the kitchen doorway. “This ain’t no five-star dive.” 

“Shove it,” Damian wanted to shout back. But he had rent and a late car payment earmarked for his next paycheck. He was six months clean, and Fitzy, with his sharp eyes and weasel nose, was looking for any excuse to send him back to the streets—or that’s the way it seemed to Damian, who could never move fast enough to please the boss.

When Fitzy slipped back through the swinging doors, Damian turned his focus to the griddle, scraping it for the next omelet. That’s when the spiders crawled out from behind the stovetop, into the pool of melted butter, and skated across the hot surface. Five of them—big, hairy, and long-legged, with eyes that stared him down. 

“Jesus,” Damian half-yelped. How is this possible, he thought. He hated spiders. Too many legs.

When he reached for the whisk, his hand brushed something moving. 

“Aaahh!” This time he yelled. More spiders covered the egg carton and spilled onto the work table.

No, no, no, his mind screamed. Could the hallucinations return even if he wasn’t using? 

“Dame?” It was Helena, on the morning wait staff. She stood in the doorway, concern etched on her face. “You okay?”

Quickly, Damian wiped the sheen of sweat from his face. “Yeah. Just burned myself,” he lied. “Stupid of me.”

She smiled and shook her head. “Be careful. We can’t lose you.” And she was gone, back out to the front counter.

With shaking hands, Damian surveyed the griddle and work tables. The spiders had multiplied, filling the entire stovetop. These couldn’t be real spiders—real arachnids couldn’t survive that heat, could they? Yet he could hear the minute scrape of their feet as they moved. 

He shut his eyes tightly, willing the hallucination to cease. I can’t lose this job.

The paranoia that had been his every waking moment—and often every moment of attempted sleep—had finally driven him to rehab. He could no longer live constantly looking over his shoulder. His counselor had assured him the effects of the inhalants he’d once craved had subsided for good—but maybe they’d been wrong.

The swinging doors squeaked, and he opened his eyes to Fitzy’s bark. “Where’s the short stack and ranchero special?” 

The spiders now covered the mixing bowl with its batter and the bacon Damian had planned to fry up next. He shuddered at the expanding multitude. 

Fitzy grabbed his shoulder, hard, and jerked. “Get moving or you’ll be moving on out of here.”

The spiders descended from the bank of overhead lights and dropped onto Fitzy’s head, swarming down his neck and onto his bare arms. Red welts from their bites began to swell.

After a moment of indecision, Damian removed his apron, hung it on its wall peg, and left the kitchen to Fitzy’s screams.

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