WIcked Good - The Beaning Ceremony - Part Three of Three

Wicked Good – The Beaning Ceremony Part Three of Three It’s All Wicked Good     Amy and I are receiving bean #30 in Joyce’s class tomorrow night. Here are some fun stats related to Joyce’s classes:     The Thursday class has been going for 15 years and has received 20 of the beans. This is my class.     The Wednesday class is 8 years old and has 6 beans.     The Tuesday group is almost 3 years old and has no beans.     Other writers not in one of the groups – 4 beans....more

Spilled Milk, Broken Vases… continues “The Indignity of a Wife Abused”

Dulcenia, with a spring, skipped down the hall on her way outside to play with Mayo and Little Fredo. But halfway down the hallway she stopped because she heard her mother softly crying from the other side of the closed bedroom door—and not the first time. She was crying with such sad whimpers… She sounded lonely and in so much pain. Dulcenia thought to knock, but she fought against intruding on her mother. She didn’t want to pry; fear of the unknown, perhaps.   “Though sadness overwhelms today;...more

Spilled Milk, Broken Vases… continues “The Undelivered Letter”

Were you your father, my once-upon-a-time Papá? Am I my father’s daughter?  Are we to become our parents? Am I to become you…just like you? Because I am flesh of your flesh, am I cursed to walk in your small shoes? Because your blood runs through my veins—as poison and not as a blessed river of life—will I walk and talk and think and feel and be everything that you are, and always have been? God forbid!   “Let me hide my face in shame,  Let me dry my tears like rain,...more

Spilled Milk, Broken Vases… “The Sting of a Child’s Memory” part 2

Not only would Oracio, their Papá, come home at the wee-hours of the morning, a falling-down-drunk, dirty from fighting, and smelling of other women’s perfume—having taken his detours and pleasuring himself to the fullest—but other times he was dragged home by a neighbor, having been found lying in the street passed out, soiled, reeking of urine and feces, and his starched, white pants soaked from bleeding hemorrhoids.   “How time-flies; ruthlessly disappearing,...more

Spilled Milk, Broken Vases… continues “The Sting of a Child’s Memory”

Making memories is a curious thing; it is taking notes—a composition and accumulation of life segments arranged in pieces, later finished like a puzzle. A small child’s memories, though often faded and obscure, will linger-on. A mother’s smiling face as she offers a tender hug and smothering of kisses, little pats on the head with words of praise and encouragement, and good times: frivolous, silly moments with unrestrained laughter from a truth-or-dare game, playing hide-and-seek or tag with a sibling—running at a fast pitter-patter while dodging the tagger....more

Spilled Milk, Broken Vases… continues “A Recipe for Mirth in the Rain”

Though it was late and their Mamá and Papá were long-ago fast asleep, Dulcenia and her brothers, Mayo and little Fredo, couldn’t and wouldn’t give in to sleep. Because the sound of loud, continual thunder, beating rain, and thrashing winds, was tonight the opposite of a lullaby to their tender ears, not to mention irresistible to a child’s playful nature and wild imagination.   “Ah, stars above that tell time  Days of magic and allure...more

Spilled Milk, Broken Vases… continues “The Letter in the Hope Chest”

As I look out of my window, relishing the pouring rain, and listen to the loud, loud thunder, and watch the lightning race across the dark—ominous skies—I see the beauty, nonetheless, in spite of the terrifying awesomeness of just one of God’s perfect designs—an amazing dance performance of nature that truly thrills my heart. Winter is my choice of seasons; the added chilling winds threatening to knock down even the largest people, right on their fannies, when met with heavy, mighty gusts of winds, none stand a chance against it....more

Spilled Milk, Broken Vases… continues “The Hope Chest” part 2

My dearest Mayo: I don’t know why now, after all these years, but I was remembering the day you enticed and persuaded me and Little Fredo to follow you outside to Senor Viejo’s trees and steal the most delicious mangoes that I  would ever eat—but then everything does seem to taste that much better when it is forbidden....more

Finish Line!

It feels great to have finished a novel that I’ve been working on for a very long time. I appreciate all of the encouragement my readers and writing friends have given me through this blog and on the social networking sites. I didn’t write this particular book with a publisher in mind, so I’m not sure what is going to happen, but I have a ton of faith that, God-willing, this book will be in your hands someday.  Writing this book was so hard. I wanted the process to challenge me and test my skill as writer and I feel like it did....more

Spilled Milk, Broken Vases… (continues) “The Hope Chest”

“Children are bright jewels,   A glowing light in my heart,   A crown on my head.” She leans over the chest and scans to the very bottom, peering with eager eyes and anticipation, inquisitive and searching. She explores through this secret chest, and with infinite reverence touches and lifts a forgotten memento: a fading photograph of their five children playing in the sand in Monterey’s white, sandy beaches, on a breezy, though sunny, summer day....more