Author Archive | Contributor

My Wise Elder by Patricia Wellingham-Jones

My grandmother died when my mother was five,
our only photo shows her cradling
the last child, smiling over
the lace-drenched, long white christening gown.
In family memory she was gentle
with a snap to her tongue
and a Scot’s practical bent.

I hope I inherited some of that.
The only gift I know for sure
was breast cancer.

Her image floats to the front
of my mind as I grapple
with the loss of two friends
and the advanced cancer
of two others. I feel her smile
as I sign up for a long-desired
trip to Costa Rica, daunted

by the logistics of getting there
but determined to live actively
as long as I can.

About the Author: Patricia Wellingham-Jones

PatriciaWellingham-JonesPatricia Wellingham-Jones is a widely published former psychology researcher and writer/editor. She has a special interest in healing writing, with poems recently in The Widow’s Handbook (Kent State University Press). Chapbooks include Don’t Turn Away: poems about breast cancer, End-Cycle: poems about caregiving, Apple Blossoms at Eye Level, Voices on the Land and Hormone Stew.

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Land for Sale by Pat West

Time and time again,
in the darkest hours of the night,
I have gone down
on my hands and knees
and painstakingly measured
the empty space you left
when you died, so vast
and deep: I’m tired of living with it,
so I’ve decided to put it on the market.

Property values are soaring,
there are even bidding wars.
Oh, I won’t sell to just anyone,
wouldn’t want to wake up one morning
and find a strip mall in my heart.
But I could live with an art museum
or maybe . . . yes,

a library with vaulted ceilings,
sprawling wings, quiet reading alcoves
off the main lobby, tables, lamps
with puddles of amber light
dotting the landscape.

About the Author: Pat West

Pat Phillips West lives in Olympia, WA. A Pushcart and Best of the Net nominee, her work has appeared in Haunted Waters Press, Persimmon Tree, VoiceCatcher, San Pedro River Review, Slipstream, Gold Man Review and elsewhere.

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The Blackout by John Grey

By day, Ted has much to say on any subject,
especially what’s in the newspapers.
Damn unions, he snarls. Damn government.
At night, his tongue retreats,
his head diverts the total darkness
by remembering this and that.
Gloria’s sunbathing. Ray’s in swimming.
Dave’s out fishing.
Gloria’s as thin as she’d like to be.
Ray can dive to the bottom, then float to the top,
breaking the surface with a gulp that snares half the air.
Dave claims to have reeled in a whale.
He just hopes that the sun doesn’t burn,
that the water is warm,
that the real fish do bite eventually.
But come the morning, it’s right back into politics.
The mailman gets an earful.
His neighbor knows everyone he hates
but no one he loves.
But then another night
and Ray’s swimming towards a lighthouse
and doesn’t that lighthouse look like Gloria
and what’s Dave going to do
but avoid the rocks thanks to Gloria’s light
and maybe even go after the schools of fish
that Ray is splashing in his direction.
Another day, this time the man
from the gas company cops the earful.
And then night and Gloria’s skinny and brown.
She’s lying on the shore of a lake.
Ray’s in swimming of course.
And Dave is salivating over the fish that leap out of the water,
so close he could reach out and grab them.
“Look, “says Gloria. “Here comes Ted”
Ray dog-paddles, looks in the direction she’s pointing.
Dave turns his head away from the dancing trout.
Ted crashes through the peacefulness
cussing out Democrats and Republicans equally.
Thank God they’ve finally fixed the power, he says.
First to them. Then finally just to himself.
He argues with the television until he falls asleep in front of it.
And then he dreams.
He dreams they never do restore the power.

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When Reality & Fiction Collide (as told to Krista Davis)

by Little Miss Sunshine (aka Twinkletoes)

My mom, Krista Davis, thinks she created me. Can you imagine anything more preposterous than imagining that she put the idea of me out into the universe and then I showed up?

I was born in a house where animals were hoarded. Our people left and when the contractors arrived to fix up the house, they were shocked to find us. Being really terrific people, they divided us up, and each one took three of us to find us homes. In my case, a super guy dropped me (and two little brown Chihuahuas) off at his favorite animal hospital. I was there when he said, “Clean ‘em up and find them homes. I’ll pick up the bill.”  Is that a great guy or what?

I was just a baby and covered in fleas. Yuck! It was on the day of my second bath that Mom came along. I was in a cage, sopping wet, and trying desperately to dry my fur. She had a huge dog with her. For the most part I ignored her. I was wet! That was my priority. But I heard the vet say, “It’s a long weekend. Why don’t you take her home for a test drive?”

There was a lot of giggling after that. They knew they’d found a sucker! And just like that, she took me home.

The first night I was there, Mom went outside on an upstairs balcony. She thought she had shut the door behind her, but I snuck through when she wasn’t looking. When she went inside, I jumped and jumped, and went higher and higher until I had the most fabulous view of a world I had never seen before.

An hour later, I heard her calling me. I thought she’d never find my clever spot! But when she went outside in the dark and called me, I mewed to her. The truth was that I wanted to go back inside where it was warm, and I was getting hungry, too.

Have you figured out where I was? On the roof! On top of the world.

She fetched a ladder and climbed up (in the dark!). She reached up to me, and I very slowly and carefully walked down the steep pitch of the roof until she could scoop me up. And then I purred. I figured she’d be a pretty good mom, so I never did that again.

So why does she think she created me? Well, look carefully at the cover of THE DIVA DIGS UP THE DIRT. There I am. It looks just like me! The thing is that she wrote that book before I was born. And then I showed up at her vet’s office. Spooky, huh?

It was meant to be.

Now I have my own series under the pseudonym, Twinkletoes.

My latest escapade is in NOT A CREATURE WAS PURRING. That’s me on the cover with Trixie, the Jack Russell Terrier, who likes to think she’s the star of the series.

But I know the truth. Cats never make a fuss about things like that. We know we’re in charge.

Now Mom has written about a dog named Duchess. We expect to see her come trotting down the road any day.

About the Author: Krista Davis

New York Times Bestselling author Krista Davis writes the Paws and Claws Mysteries set on fictional Wagtail Mountain, a resort where people vacation with their pets. Her 5th Paws and Claws Mystery is NOT A CREATURE WAS PURRING, which releases on February 7th. Krista also writes the Domestic Diva Mysteries. Her newest series debuts in February with COLOR ME MURDER. Like her characters, Krista has a soft spot for cats, dogs, and sweets. She lives in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia with two dogs and two cats.

Connect with her on Goodreads  |  Twitter  | Facebook

A Hush of Blackberries by Richard King Perkins II

Copyright: <a href='https://www.123rf.com/profile_fabiopagani'>fabiopagani / 123RF Stock Photo</a>

For the first time in years
I respond to you—

the rain,
with silence

even as you play little sticks
across my rooftop.

If you were to diminish
your flurry of stems

all that you want me to say
would yet remain unspoken.

The glaze of incoherence
you’ve left

still stirring above me
contains more meaning

than you ever intended—
kisses of togetherness

descending to a level
of unwanted compromise.

A hush of blackberries
rises to a place once loved.

About the Author: Richard King Perkins II

Richard King Perkins II is a state-sponsored advocate for residents in long-term care facilities. He lives in Crystal Lake, IL, USA with his wife, Vickie and daughter, Sage. He is a three-time Pushcart, Best of the Net and Best of the Web nominee whose work has appeared in more than a thousand publications.

Changing It Up to Keep It Fresh by Daryl Wood Gerber

Some days I like to write mystery; other days I like to write suspense. Aren’t they the same, you ask? No. Not at all. My cozy mysteries are much different than my stand-alone suspense novels in tone and theme as well as tempo.

For me, changing it up keeps my writing fresh. However, if I find I’m uninspired by what I’m writing, I move on to another project. On certain days, I’ll write the first page of something brand new to see if I can find the voice.  On other days, I might write a two-page short story or a blog or an article. Or I’ll do a live chat on Facebook looking for inspiration from my fans.

Writing is like exercise. If you do the same exercise every day, your body gets used to the movements and it doesn’t tone. Walk, walk, walk. Boring. Walk, ride, swim, golf, yoga, pilates, run on the beach. Now that sounds like more “fun.”

Oh, sure, when I’m near a deadline, I can press myself to stick with only one project. I will read it and tweak. Read it again and tweak some more. Check for all the words that I’ve repeated—I have a list of over 100 words to search for. Tweak some more. Read it again—aloud. If it’s ready, turn it in.

But when I’m in the muddy middle—the part of a book where I hope the reader will turn the pages fast—I find I can get bogged down. So I pace. I exercise. I bake. I sing. If those activities don’t energize me, I write something else. As a last resort, I slam doors (not too loudly; don’t want to scare my dog Sparky).

When I come back to my material with fresh eyes and enthusiasm for the project, I feel invigorated and ready to rock and roll…or write.

Do you ever feel you need a jumpstart or a change of pace?

About the Author: Daryl Wood Gerber

Agatha Award-winning Daryl Wood Gerber writes the brand new French Bistro Mysteries as well as the nationally bestselling Cookbook Nook Mysteries.  As Avery Aames, she pens the popular Cheese Shop Mysteries.

A Deadly Êclair, the first French Bistro Mystery, comes out November 2017.

Daryl also writes stand-alone suspense: Day of Secrets and Girl on the Run. Fun tidbit: as an actress, Daryl appeared in “Murder, She Wrote.” She loves to cook, and she has a frisky Goldendoodle named Sparky who keeps her in line!

Connect with Daryl (and her alter ego Avery):  FacebookInstagram | Pinterest  Daryl on TwitterAvery on Twitter

A Letter from my Former Psyche by Joules Watts

Photo by Joules Watts

Dear Joules,

You have to end your quest.  Seriously!  You’ve been looking for so long to find the holy grail that will restore me and bring me back.  It’s a futile quest.  Copper toxicity and the damage that came with it turned me into the psychological equivalent of swiss cheese.  Even if you got everything back to normal, I wouldn’t be able to come back.  Too much of me is gone.  And unfortunately you, not me, have to deal with the aftermath.  I’m so sorry.

Art by Obsidian AbnormalYou remember me like I was some shining paragon of amazing and brilliance.  I really wasn’t.  Yes, I had a phenomenal memory and mental clarity.  I could learn things with ease.  I was a musician but remember I couldn’t compose or improvise worth a damn.  That was frustrating!  I was kind and empathetic, but naive as all get out.  I denied myself any negative emotion because it simply just wasn’t done.  It lead to a lot of pain.  Not just for me but for those I loved.  I wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows, that’s for damn sure.

I was so very flawed, Joules.  Medicated with ritalin from 2nd grade.  I didn’t have the tools to function without meds.  If I forgot to take meds, I was close to worthless.  I couldn’t function at all.  Remember that I never learned how to recover from failure?  Yeah, when I inevitably crashed and burned, I didn’t know how to get up.  How much was lost due to my ignorance, my singular reliance on my memory and intuition?  So static, so many opportunities wasted because I didn’t have the tools to grow.

So it’s no surprise, given my fragility, that I wouldn’t be able to withstand the upcoming biomedical onslaught.  Like thin strands of sugar crystals, I shattered when I encountered resistance and nearly disintegrated.

Photo by Joules WattsBut you, Joules.  You didn’t shatter.  You didn’t scatter.  You re-forged yourself after I was gone.  And you gained so much that I don’t think you see.  You were able to learn how to get up after failure.  There is a tenacity in you that I never had.  You were able to gain skills, to adapt, to grow.  You became something I never could be.  Anxious.  Angry.  Frustrated.  Scared.  Determined.  It became a fuel source for you.  Simply brilliant.

You took your inner demons and made them your advisors.  You had the strength to not only face them but to accept them.  To integrate them.  To master them.  I ran from them and denied them.

I have seen you stare into the abyss.  The void where depression and illness and everything uncertain hides, waiting to strike.  And when it stared back at you, you sneered and winked.  Honestly it was the coolest “come at me bro” event I’ve ever witnessed.  I Photo by Joules Wattson the other hand closed my eyes and hid.  Denying that the abyss even existed.

So in the face of that, what do I have to offer?  Why are you so determined to bring me back?

I understand the near obsession of getting back what you’ve lost, more specifically what was stolen.  Your memories, your talents, your former glory.  But, dearest Joules, you can’t have mine.  Not anymore.  All that I had is nearly gone now.  You’ll have to go out and find them on your own.  Start from the beginning once again.  But this time, you have an advantage.  You know you can do it because it already happened.

Art by Obsidian AbnormalI don’t know how much of me will remain as time goes on.  As old things get fixed and as new things failed.  So I ask you this, Joules.  Remember me, as best you can.  Think of me fondly.  But accept that for all intents and purposes, that I am gone and can’t be brought back.  Stop longing for what once was and start planning on what you will now be.

So before I go, allow me a little paraphrase from the 9th Doctor.  (I know he was your fave before Peter Capaldi came in as the 12th…)

Joules, before I go, I just want to tell you you were fantastic. Absolutely fantastic. And do you know what? So was I!

-The Former Psyche of Joules Watts

About the author: Joules Watts

Joules Watts describes herself as a self driven bumbler and science afficionado.  Her husband describes her as irreverent half ifrit, which probably explains her incredible heat resistance and fiery personality.  The truth is probably a unique amalgamation of the two.

Aside from her day job, Joules is a geek (leans sci-fi), musician, writer, podcaster, gamer (both video and tabletop), and unfortunately a mildly brain damaged, semi-professional medical patient.  In her considerable free time (trademark sarcasm) she enjoys reading, top rope wall climbing, and chasing the ever elusive full night’s sleep.

Joules currently co-hosts Seize the GM, a podcast that focuses on how to be a Game Master.  (Episodes drop every Thursday, barring horrible technical issues).  She’s also a player on the podcast Hidden Grid (A Shadowrun AP podcast that’s currently on hiatus) and Legends of Earthdawn (An Earthdawn AP podcast).  Additionally she has her own podcast, Five Degrees Off Normal, which is a chronicle of her experiences being a geek with brain damage.

Almost Last Words by Patricia Wellingham-Jones

Copyright: <a href='https://www.123rf.com/profile_micheleranchetti'>micheleranchetti / 123RF Stock Photo</a>

On her deathbed,
oxygen 24/7,
sliding in and out of awareness,
Mother blinked her green eyes
up to mine.

Daughter, she whispered
in a scratchy, unused voice,
I love you so much –
and you drive me crazy.

I blinked my matching green eyes
full of wet shimmers and said,
I know, Mom.
I feel exactly the same.

We both sniffled, then laughed,
she held up her wasted arms.
I fell into them, carefully.
We blended our tears
on our smiling faces.

About the Author: Patricia Wellingham-Jones

PatriciaWellingham-JonesPatricia Wellingham-Jones is a widely published former psychology researcher and writer/editor. She has a special interest in healing writing, with poems recently in The Widow’s Handbook (Kent State University Press). Chapbooks include Don’t Turn Away: poems about breast cancer, End-Cycle: poems about caregiving, Apple Blossoms at Eye Level, Voices on the Land and Hormone Stew.

The Little Black Cloud by Jeanette McGurk

There has been a little black cloud hanging over my week.

Nothing terrible, I am not on life support, I didn’t get the unbearable news that I am highly allergic to chocolate, coffee or Moscow Mules. It was the impending doom of my youngest daughter’s ARD meeting.

If you are not acquainted with this term, it stands for Admittance, Review, and Dismissal. At the start of each year, we have an ARD meeting to discuss what services will be offered through the elementary school to my Learning Disabled daughter. It’s been three years since she was tested and the requirement is that she’ll need to be rested to see if she’s achieved her goals and can be dismissed or is she stays in the services.

There is absolutely no chance of dismissal. At 10 years years of age she barely reads on a 1st grade level.

When she was little, everyone had a helpful suggestion. “Have you tried flash cards? Sesame Street? Do you read to her? Do you have the magnetic letters? Have you tried Leap Frog?” “

“No!” I wanted to scream. “I take her outside and put tin foil on her head and hope that will get her little grey cells working.”

Of course I have done all of that, and more. My husband and I have spent thousands of dollars on every sure to get your kid reading strategy we could get our hands on. Alas, 5 years later, here we sit, $600 a month in tutoring, special programs at school, ADHD medication and still, we are only inching along.

It was easier when she was younger. The gap in her skill set wasn’t so blaring. The L’s she pronounced as w’s were cute, as was calling her back pack a pack pack. Now, I worry about her being bullied, not fitting in, and being made fun of.

We flitted through a wonderful summer of traveling and play-dates. Oblivious to all the nasty reminders of how off path we are academically. Until of course, the diagnosticians and resource room teachers start contacting me with forms I need to fill out for the ARD meeting. Drafts of 504 goals and accommodations she will be given to help her “succeed”.

I am a bit cynical when it comes to the meeting because I am CEO of my kid’s plan only on paper. The few times I have gone in asking for anything, the room has gone dark and cold. The principal and diagnostician sprout fangs from their plastic smiles. When their heads eventually stop spinning they announce with ferocity,

“She is getting all the speech allowed per student. 30 minutes twice a week.
She has been dismissed from OT, the teacher may want her to have access to the room, we say NOOOOOOooooo!
How dare you think we would test her for dyslexia, she is too low on intelligence to even test to see if she might be  dyslexic or to see if that program would work.”

That last one is really what is up my craw.

I have been fighting for 3 years to get the school to test her for Dyslexia. I would be happy to test her outside the school, but my husband has been stubborn. We pay a hefty amount in property taxes for schools each year.

So limbo. Limbo because the school thinks my daughter does not have the brain power necessary to go through the dyslexia program and my husband doesn’t want to fork out $1000 for a test the school may not accept from an outside source.

And truth be told, I was willing to accept that she was better off being taught to read by the resource teacher.

However, practically every adult who interacts with my child, including the pediatric neurologist, tutor, and teachers believe she is not low on intelligence. These folks feel her problem is a processing challenge combined with a severe case of dyslexia. Apparently, if it is really a bad case, a child can text poorly across the board.

Which is exactly what my child has done in everything except problem solving and non-calculation math. On those two things, she does rather well.

So Thursday, my dark cloud and I headed into the ARD meeting. I am expected to play nice so as not to draw out the dark forces, and by Christmas be forced to move my child into a private school.

My daughter’s pediatric neurologist told me it was my number one job as her parent, to keep her self esteem up. What I had not realized, was how gloomy, cynical, and devoid of hope I had become about the whole situation.

For a week before the meeting, my attitude was just bad. I didn’t want to do anything. I was pitifully preparing to go in and be pummeled by people who without really knowing her had already giving up on my daughter. Believing she didn’t have enough brain power to get through 1st grade reading.

People who would not fight for her the way I was supposed to. People who were not there to be her hero, the way I am supposed to.

The problem was, by Thursday, kryptonite had robbed me of any superhero powers. I went in, defeated before I had even begun.

So, it was a great surprise for me to sit down at a table where the roles had reversed.

I was the dark shadow.

From every other person, I heard stories of what a joy my daughter is. How delightful she is to teach.

Her science teacher told me she looks out for her on the playground and sees her playing with one other little girl almost every day. A few days when my little peanut was alone, she asked, “are you okay?” And peanut said, “Yes, today I am in the mood to play by myself.” The next few days she was with a big group of kids.  This wonderful teacher took it upon herself to make sure out of the eighty 4th graders running around like a kicked ant pile, that one little slip of a girl would not be alone in the mix.

The speech teacher commented how they had bonded over kid’s bop. The goals they are now working on go beyond the basic from year’s past to verb tenses and synonyms. Progress.

The new resource teacher said just that day they had leveled up. Progress.

This year she finally gets writing as well and this woman, this sweet woman, looked at me and said, “Don’t worry, we will get there. I have complete faith in your daughter.”

Now I am starting to blink back happy grateful tears. Darn brutal school florescent lighting.

Most shocking of all, the Principal had pulled in the dyslexia specialist without me asking, so they can start testing her next week. The diagnostician still thinks she is too low for it to do any good, but after basking in the glow of my daughter’s own private Justice League, I am not so sure.

They are there all day fighting for her. Lifting her up, getting her to that next step, and the next.

No one in that room had given up hope except for me. It won’t be easy, it will never be easy. But it isn’t hopeless either. In fact, much to my surprise, I left the meeting without the company of my little black cloud.

A loving breeze had blown it clear away.

About the Author: Jeanette McGurk

jeanette_mcgurkJeanette McGurk is a Graphic Designer who entered the world of writing through advertising. She discovered writing a lot of truth with a little fluff is a lot more fun than the other way round. Now that she is no longer spending time making air conditioners, tile floors, IT and Botox sound sexy, she writes about the unglamorous yet wonderful moments of life for people like herself; in other words, anyone looking for interesting ways to put off cleaning and doing laundry.

She is a curmudgeon and doesn’t Twit or Instagram. She has heard the blog is dead but since she has finally figured out how to do it, that is the museum where you can locate her writings. http://jmcpb.blogspot.com/.

Wax Lips by Anita Marie Moscoso

Milo and his wife Jingle were riding the 377 Commuter Bus into Seattle, just before nightfall last Halloween.

The 377 made a special run on Halloween Night through Chestnut and Post Street where, according to the Weekly Entertainment Guide, Wax Lipsthere were over 50 “Spooktacular” Halloween Attractions to choose from for a night of “Blood Chilling” fun.

The bus was nearly full of Witches, Pirates, Vampires, Mummies, at least three Frankenstein’s monsters, a variety of aliens, and one guy who had “Beer” written on his forehead and tinfoil wrapped around his head.

Then there was Milo and Jingle.

Jingle was sitting next to the window, and when she sighed it frosted up a bit and he watched her take her finger and draw a frowny face into it.

“Feeling a little down, Jingle?”

She shrugged.

“Come on Jin, cheer up, it’s your favorite day of the year!” Milo reached into the front pocket of his worn, soft brown leather jacket and he fished around for a bit.

“Your favorite.” He held up a set of big red wax lips. “Look it says they taste like cinnamon.”

Jingle looked at the wax lips and then she went back to drawing on the window.

After a minute or two she held out her hand. “Give.”

He handed her the bag and she tore it open with her teeth and popped the lips into her mouth and started to chew.

“So, what should we do first? The Haunted Morgue? The Haunted House on King Street? Oh. No wait. I know. The Haunted Fun Run.”

Jingle stopped mid slurp and smack. “What the hell is that? A Haunted Fun Run? What do they do –  get dresfiery pumpkin - moscososed up like Sexy Nurses and Vampires and run from Bar to Bar?”

“No. It’s this bicycle club. They get dressed up and decorate their bikes and ride around town. How’d you like to race around town for a bit? It’s a great night for it. We can hop on a couple of those Ride Free Bikes and -”

The Bus turned a dark corner and bumped down a poorly lit street and thumped along neglected train tracks.  “That’s the dumbest thing I have ever heard of in my life. Who started that one?”

Milo slid away from Jingle a few inches and said, “Gracie Frost.”

Jingle spat the wax blob out of her mouth and it hit the floor with a very unappetizing splat. ” Why is that old cadaver organizing anything for Halloween?”

“Well. It’s a free country for starters.”

Jingle glared at him and didn’t stop until he looked away. “She’s trying to fit into the Halloween scene.” he almost whispered.

“I wish she’d fit herself into a body bag and leave the work to the professionals.”

“I know, Jingle. I know. But you know. Gracie Frost cramping your big night aside, I’d like to check out the Haunted Morgue. If you don’t mind.”

Jingle shrugged.

“Or. We could check out the Haunted House on King Street. I heard that this year they’re going to have a Paranormal Team show up and film everything. It won’t air till next year of course. But it would be fun to show up and try to get on camera. Don’t you think?”

“I think you are a simple creature Milo. However, you do come up with some great ideas.”

Jingle was visibly starting to cheer up. ” It’s a shame what happened to that Paranormal Team at the Haunted Morgue last year. I’ve heard they STILL haven’t found all of their, you know, parts.”

Jingle burped behind her hand and Milo shook his head. ” Don’t DO that Jingle.”

“Well. If it wasn’t a Haunted Morgue before, it sure as heck is now. I’d bet Snickers Bars to Caramel Corn Balls on that.”

There were two Princesses sitting behind Milo and Jingle and they looked at each other and then back down into their phones.

Street scene- moscosoWith a hiss and a thump against the curb the bus came to a smooth stop in front of

SEATTLE’S MOST TERRIFYING HAUNTED HOUSE

and everyone got up with their own special Halloween battle cries and started to file down the aisle.

Just before they got to the doors, the alien with bright silver paint on her face and “BEER” stopped Milo and Jingle.

“Love the costumes man and” Beer said to Milo and then he took a look into Jingles dark orange eyes and slightly down turned smile set in her heavy jaw and he said, “Ma’am.”

“You guys are going to win the Costume Competition for sure. Those are the BEST Werewolf costumes I’ve ever seen.” The Alien reassured them.

Jingle stood there with her mouth open, her long white teeth turning a little blue under the lights shining from above them. “Son of a bi- what is your problem E.T.”

“Happy Halloween.” Milo trilled as he shoved Jingle out the door and down the steps to the sidewalk.  ” There’s a costume shop around the corner. I can’t believe we forgot to dress up AGAIN.”

About the Author: Anita M. Moscoso

Anita Marie Moscoso Anita Marie Moscoso was nine years old when she decided to become a Writer/Pirate/Astronaut. She is now so far away from the age of nine that it’s comical, but it turns out that she did become a writer, and she’s told stories about Pirates and Astronauts. Anita has also worked in a funeral home, explored the cemeteries of New Orleans alone, and has a great dog named Hamish and had a cat named Wolfgang.

More about Anita (in parts) can be found at her blog: Enduring Bones.

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