Saturday, July 26, 2014

She Flies: A Poem to Honor the Bluebird

When shadows shift
When snow first falls
She sits alone:
A bluebird calls


The Branches sway
Winter's breeze so cold
Snow swirls to rain
Her distress unfolds

Shall she be brave;
Fly through the storms?
Night shadows twist
To horrid forms

How will she fare
When moonbeams flicker?
How will she dare
When sleet turns thicker?

Once more she cries
Though echoes fail
She bears her soul
On wings she'll sail

An eagle's span ...
She flies






Debby A.
Copyright, 2014 by Deborah L. Alten
photograph by Debbie McEachern

Friday, July 25, 2014

End of the Night




Drops of moonlight cascade from the world above.
Water reflects and turns into stardust.
It's the time of night when worlds collide and surrender to each other.


Her fingers trace the moonlight as the water parts, soothing her soul.
She drifts into the silver hues of the painted sky;
It is the end of her.

The night is now adrift, moonlight fades to dawn
A shower of silver stars deflect to the other side.
The memories of dreams caress the lesser light.

Dusty streaks of sunlight filter through curtains of autumn leaves,
Wafting on morning breezes.
She sings with the sparrow,
And laments with the coo of a mourning dove.

It's the time of day when worlds separate;
When the sun softly greets the horizon.
It is the end of her.

In the distance she hears the hum of city shrills,
Engines sputter to life on overcrowded streets. A siren screams.
And finally she whispers: …
"I don't exist here anymore."

Her light disconnects from this world,
She fades into day.
It is the end of her.


Creative Commons License
This work is licensed under a
Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International License.


Debby A.
First published
Deborah L. Alten, Yahoo Contributor Network
Dec 3, 2013

photo by MakeLessNoise
Wikimedia Commons

Friday, February 14, 2014

Dance Over Sea and Under Moon: An Elvin Romance

(A Valentine's Poem by Andy Poole)


The heavenly shroud lifted,
And the starry host peered down
At a dancer well-gifted
With nimble steps of renown.

Waves of cascading black hair
Skipped and swayed to the cadence
Of bangles round ankles bare
And the Sea’s hushed ambience.

No song sang she, only danced
To a secret song unsung,
Shared by he that she romanced,
Who danced, too, with silent tongue.

His sylvan hair moonlight caught
His sea-grey eyes knew one face
That moment, his only thought,
This jewel of elven-race.


copyright, 2014 by Andy Poole
image by Kimberly Lytle


Sunday, January 19, 2014

My "Speed Limit" Birthday and My Top Ten Most Wanted Birthday Gifts

Today I've reached that milestone. Apparently 55 is the speed limit birthday. Who knew? But that's what they're telling me on Facebook. It's going to be a very peaceful birthday--no party, no guests (just the dog), no presents and that's all right with me. I got to do 30 situps before the dog jumped me and decided we needed to run around in the garden. Ah, good times.

So in my quiet time I've decided to publish my Top Ten Most Wanted Birthday Gifts. This of course, will be the Not of This World List. LOL.


Top Ten BD Gifts

10. 50 lbs. of See's Candy (chocolate nuts and chews)
  9. Hummer !!! A big YELLOW one with a black stripe on the sides
  8. A Castle somewhere in England
  7. A summer cottage in England near a river
  6. A Cruise to anywhere
  5. A Trip to Italy
  4. To be a size 10 again
  3. To be debt free
  2. That all my friends send me $1
Here, I'll make it easy for you.

And Number 1. For my kids to be truly happy and to be extremely successful and to love God with all their heart because that will indeed bring true happiness and success.

*********

There you have it. I am truly blessed with wonderful friends, and an amazing family. We have come this far, but the journey has miles to go and I'm glad you're with me on this path.

ps: Don't forget number 2. Just sayin'!!!!


My Scripture for the new year is Psalms 121:

A song of ascents (or The Traveler's Psalm)

1 I lift up my eyes to the mountains—
where does my help come from?
2 My help comes from the Lord,
the Maker of heaven and earth.

3 He will not let your foot slip—
he who watches over you will not slumber;
4 indeed, he who watches over Israel
will neither slumber nor sleep.

5 The Lord watches over you—
the Lord is your shade at your right hand;
6 the sun will not harm you by day,
nor the moon by night.

7 The Lord will keep you from all harm—
he will watch over your life;
8 the Lord will watch over your coming and going
both now and forevermore.



Debby A.

Sunday, November 24, 2013

Flash Fiction: Ten Stories in One for Kindle Books, Just 99cents

THE GATEKEEPER'S PRELUDE

It’s cold this morning on Eámanë--a little unusual for this time of year, but not unexpected. Our realm, the last one before Heaven itself, has darkened. Eámanë has inched closer to the Ninth Gate, better known as Black Hole #32206445. 

Recently, a reddish mist has emerged from it and the Ninth Gate might open and swallow us whole. It hasn’t yet, but it is a tale worth writing about. After all, it's what I do: observe, protect (those who let us), and to write down the history of each planet, world, and universe. I am the Gatekeeper, one of 300. The scrolls of every world, even yours, is at the tip of my pen.

Of course, if we should sink into the Ninth Gate, all the tales we’ve written are lost. Therefore I shall leave some of the scrolls with you. Keep them safe, these tales of secret worlds. Some say, they might even contain the history of an alternative world that never was. We dare to differ.

~~ Sincerely,
Ezra, 7th GateKeeper of Eámanë




Free Chapters
Beneath the Blight of Silver Moonlight
Light of the World: A Christmas Story
The Whisperer's Daughter


Monday, October 28, 2013

It's Halloween Flash Fiction Story Time: Mrs. Shackles' Pumpkin Patch



The ground beneath Lucy Shackles’ pumpkin patch was unusually hot and dry for Autumn. Lucy Shackles stomped her heels releasing pockets of foul air. “Small harvest,” she grumbled and picked up a handful of soil. “Need better fertilizer.”

When evening fell, vines shuddered, and earth’s groans ascended from the pumpkin patch; ghoulish giggles echoed into the night sky ’till a loud knock rattled Mrs. Shackles’ cottage. When she opened the door, a long shadow loomed onto her wooden floor.

“Hello, Mrs. Shackles.” A tall, thin boy stepped out of the darkness. His red hair too stringy; his head too big. “I’m Jack.” He shook off crumbs of dirt and wisps of mist. “Small crop this year.” Jack lifted his lantern.

“Just need one pumpkin.”

“Yes, and who shall I carve it for?”

“Lily.”

Jack crunched his eyebrows. “And Lily is …?”

“You’ll see in the morning.” Mrs. Shackles hurried Jack off her porch and watched him shuffle into the pumpkin patch.

When the sun rose, costumed children ran about in a sea of orange. Mrs. Shackles trudged through waves of little goblins, witches and elves and found Jack playing tag with them. “Jack! Did you carve a pumpkin for Lily?”

“Of course!” Jack pointed to a pumpkin, with two hollow eyes and a triangle nose, grinning a toothy smile.

“Well, that’s not scary at all. Kindda looks like you.”

Jack shrugged his shoulders.

At sunset, when all the children had gone, Mrs. Shackles and Jack sat on the steps of the porch.

“No Lily, Mrs. Shackles?” Jack tilted his head; apple cider dribbling from his lips. “Who is she anyhow?”

“Dr. Payne’s ten-year-old daughter. … Such a beautiful child. He claims she’s very clumsy. His way of explaining her bruises, cuts, and broken bones. ‘Lily crashed into a glass window,’ he says, ‘and fell out of it too.’”

“Dr. Payne?” Jack sighed. “ The dentist?”

Just then a shiny new sedan rolled into the driveway.

“Speak of the devil,” Lucy Shackles muttered.

The dentist, a husky man, opened the door and yanked out a little girl. She fell on her knees and cried, wiping blood from her nose. When she spotted the pumpkin patch, she held back the tears.


“Pumpkins!” She dusted herself off and stumbled into the pumpkin patch. “See Daddy, I didn’t make us late.”

Jack skipped toward her; Mrs. Shackles followed. “You must be Lily.”

With little scarred hands, Lily covered the bruise on her neck.

Dr. Payne cleared his throat. “We just came for a pumpkin, and we’ll be on our way.”

“That pumpkin?” Jack raised his eyebrows.

“Yes, we’ll take it.” The dentist reached for his wallet. “How much?”

“It’s not for sale.”

Lily bowed her head. “It’s not?”

Mrs. Shackles grabbed Lily’s hand. “Come inside, Lily. I’ve got a special pumpkin just for you, and some warm cider too.”


Alone in the pumpkin patch with Jack, Dr. Payne’s knees became very wobbly as Jack’s eyes lit up like flames and smiled a toothy smile.


By the time Lily and Mrs. Shackles walked through the door of the cottage, Jack’s pumpkin had tasted blood. Vines wrapped around Dr. Payne’s mouth so he couldn’t scream; around his neck so he couldn’t breathe; around his arms and legs so his bones would break. Then the ground imploded and swallowed him whole.

“Wait for me!” Jack picked up his lantern. “Bye, Mrs. Shackles! “twill be a better crop next year!” He leapt through the air and dove into the hungry soil.

Mrs. Shackles sang a happy tune as Jack’s ghoulish giggles faded away. “See you next year, Jack.”



Debby A.
aka Deborah L. Alten
pumpkin photograph by Aaron Jacoby

Read more Halloween haunts with Mrs. Shackles.



Creative Commons License
Mrs. Shackles' Pumpkin Patch by Deborah L. Alten is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

Tuesday, October 22, 2013

Halloween Flash Fiction: Mrs. Shackles' Cornfield

Lester Whittaker returned from a business trip a few days early. As he stepped off the bus he noticed old Mrs. Shackles' scarecrow. Lookin' kinnda scrawny. I could fix that for her. Anything to delay going home to Jaylan, his unfaithful wife. Not that he was any better.

He stepped into the cornfield where Mrs. Shackles worked and examined the stalks. "Hmm, no corn."

Mrs. Shackles wiped the sweat off her brow. "Lazy scarecrow."

"Easily fixed."

"I'll leave you to it then."

That's when Lester Whittaker lost sight of Mrs. Shackles and found a small table set for one-with a glass of purple juice and a slice of blackberry pie. His first bite was sweet. His first sip was quenching. He never had a second.



~~ Read More ...

Debby A.
 
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