Category Archives: Writer’s Rambles

Rambles and rumbles, tips and tricks, songs and suchas…this is where Parker posts pontifications.

The latest and greatest on top, the lastest and worstest on bottom.

 

A Drift of Quills – Five Spring Favorites

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What’s your favorite time of the year? Today we’re sharing our top five things we love about spring. See for yourself, and down below, check out the openers from Robin and Trish!

Parker Broaddus

Author of  A Hero’s Curse & Nightrage Rising

Follow along on Amazon

There’s a lot to love about spring on a farm, and of course there’s a lot of mud too.

Getting up and seeing the sun peek over the horizon is a favorite. All winter it has come up late, cold and weak in the pale sky – but as spring begins the sun comes up earlier, with a cheery glow that promises to make things grow. It just looks different in those spring sunrises. There’s more reds and deep oranges and I feel something stir as I hang out with my coffee cup and watch it come up over the hills.

Watching the grass struggle up where winter has laid the earth bare is a beautiful thing. Bald patches grow over, (I wish my hair would do that!). Brown spots turn green. And then the smell of that first cutting.

Lambs. Nuff said.

A breeze with a breath of warmth. After a long winter of cold wind, stepping out at 6am and feeling a breath of wind with a warmth behind it is life. It promises good things. Growing things.

Finally, I love the smell of fresh dirt, turned in the garden, or the smell of green fields, with a first spring rain. They both smell like growing green things, and that’s what the earth does best. As a farmer, I get a front row seat to the drama, and this act is one of the most dramatic.

Robin Lythgoe

Author of As the Crow Flies

Robin’s Website

 

How do I decide on only five best things about spring? That’s like asking me to choose favorite children! If that’s the way we’re going, I’ve decided to keep the twins as one unit. Or the triplets, as it were. So, nyah. As I write this, I’m actually watching the grass grow outside my window. So exciting! But…

Patricia Reding

Author of Oathtaker

Patricia’s Website

 

It might be difficult to mention only five, as spring may well be my favorite season, but here goes!

Temperatures. Of course, the season springs on us (see the pun there?) in mid-March, and ends in mid-June. In my neck of woods, that means that the average temperature goes from 39/22 (H/L) to 77/59 (H/L)…

There it is! What about you? What are your favorite things about spring? Drop me an email, send a picture, or comment below.

A Drift of Quills – Songbird

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Fiction is one of my favorite things to write. But as wild and fantastical as the stories may get, I love when they capture the essence of what is really real, and truly true.

Today, our little writer’s league has written a trio of fiction shorts. Let us know if we touched on the really real, and the truly true!

Parker Broaddus

Author of  A Hero’s Curse & Nightrage Rising

Follow along on Amazon

Songbird

Ichiro pulled the sharp wood carving knife across the complex design. A long, thin shaving fell to the ground, joining a pile that looked like a giant serving of hiyamugi noodles. The paper thin skin on the back of Ichiro’s hand stretched and flexed as he handled the carving knife, but he remained as steady as he had been when he started, fifty years ago. Perhaps more so now, as hot heads had long since turned grey, and quick passions had been tempered by unforgiving time.
“Jiji!” A tiny girl called from the front steps of the house across from Ichiro’s woodworking shop. “Jiji! Dinner!”
A tall willowy woman with dark hair and dark eyes came to the door. “Hana! Don’t yell at your great grandfather.” She gently encouraged the little girl down the stairs. “Go tell him dinner is hot.”
“I heard her!” Ichiro called. His hands continued their work. Rather than long, smooth strokes he now dipped and scalloped with a hooked blade. Scales appeared on the undulating dragon pattern.
“It looks like it could be alive, it’s so real.” Hana stood next to her great grandfather.
Ichiro smiled. “It will be, Magomusume.” He ran a gnarled finger along the dragon’s fine scales. “This one is named, ‘Ryu’.”
Hana grinned. “What does that mean?”
“‘Dragon,’ in Japanese.”
She nodded. “That’s a good name. Will Baba come back as a dragon?”
Ichiro paused. “She may. Or a songbird. I would bet on the songbird.”
Hana traced a finger along the tail of the dragon. “I heard Uncle Nobu came back as a possum. Which is like a giant rat.”
Ichiro touched the side of his nose. “It matched his pointy face and twitchy eyes in life,” he said conspiratorially.”
Hana laughed. She looked at the small house that stood on the workbench in the middle of the shop. “Is it almost finished? You’ve been working on it so long.”
Ichiro gazed at the structure that dominated most of the room. It was as big as a child’s playhouse – completely dwarfing the many small birdhouses in various states of construction around the shop. “I am afraid of finishing it, Little One.” He looked back at Hana. “What if she doesn’t like it?” He asked, a note of desperation in his voice.
Hana took his hand. “She’ll love it, Jiji.”
“How do you know? You never met her, Little One. How can you know if she’ll love it? If she’ll remember us? It has been many years.”
Hana looked back at the house. “You said that Mama is just like Baba. And I’m just like Mama. And I love it. So I’m sure that Baba will too. It’s very beautiful. I would live there.”
Ichiro sighed. “You’re right. I must put my fear aside. I have put it off for too long. We must place it in the garden so that she can visit us–if she would like.”
Hana laughed again. “Of course she would like to, Jiji! She loves us.” With that, she turned and ran back to the house.
Ichiro smiled. “Of course she would…” he repeated.

***

Hana danced around in a circle as Ichiro and Mari carefully lifted the house off the wooden cart and hefted it into place in the tree. Mari grunted and Ichiro’s thin arms shook. The wooden structure slid back and then settled into the branches, the dimensions perfect for the prepared spot. Mari puffed out her cheeks and brushed her hair out of her face. “That was heavy!” She put an arm around Ichiro and hugged him. She was taller than he was now–his back was bent, from many years crouched over his woodworking tools–a trade that had fed five children, two grandchildren and one great grandchild. “Not all at once though!” he would say.
“Now go,” Ichiro flapped his arms. “I have work to finish here.”
“I want to help!” Hana offered.
“Come on, Hana,” Mari took her daughter by the hand. “Jiji needs time to fix it just right. You can help later.” She tugged the little girl away from the tree and back through the long garden.
Ichiro fluttered around the little house, adjusting here, polishing there, nervous excitement mixing with anxious fear. “She was a songbird,” he muttered. He looked at the green leaves and the blue sky, just visible through the canopy. “A summer songbird.” He paused. “Natsumi. Summer. Beautiful summer.” He stepped back, a hand on his chest, sucking air in through his mouth. He stepped back again, then sat down clumsily against the cherry tree, his eyes on the house perched in the tree in front of him. “It’s ready, Natsumi. Anytime you’d like to visit.” His eyes fluttered. “I’ll be right here.”

***

Mari shook Ichiro. She felt the bone of his shoulder. He jerked his head up, his eyes bleary with sleep. “Natsumi?”
Mari smiled. “No, Jiji. It’s Mari–your granddaughter.”
His eyes focused. He scrunched his brows, confused. “But she was here.”
Mari put an arm around her grandfather and helped him up. “What do you mean, Jiji.”
The old man stood on shaky legs. He looked at Mari again. “You’re not her?” He blinked again. “I suppose not– but you look just like her.” He glanced at the tiny house, perched in the tree. Recognition flooded his face. “Ahhh…” He looked from the house to Mari and back. His back straightened. Strength returned to his legs and arms. He stood almost as tall as Mari. “I see.”
“What is it, Jiji?” Mari asked.
Ichiro’s face stretched into a wide grin. He laughed and wiped at his eyes. “Come,” he said to Mari. He shuffled toward the garden path. Mari kept her arm around him. He wrapped his thin arm around her shoulders, accepting the support.
“Did she like it?” Mari asked, tentative. “Did you speak to her?”
Ichiro nodded, then chuckled again. “She asked me what took so long.”

Robin Lythgoe

Author of As the Crow Flies

Robin’s Website

Luseya’s Dreams

The shadow creature was free again. If the fleeting shapes seen in the corners of her eyes weren’t enough to convince her, Luseya felt the thing in every laborious breath she drew. A weight had settled on her chest. It held her down every morning when she ought to have risen to greet the day. It burdened her with crushing exhaustion and its equally draining partner, sleeplessness—and its siblings were many: Apathy. Self-doubt. A spreading sea of melancholy. Everything took forever to do, and everything was wrong.

Over the years, the demon had grown cunning. It didn’t bolt free of its prison, it inched, and its insidious darkness crept over Luseya like a disease.

And it was getting stronger.

Patricia Reding

Author of Oathtaker

Patricia’s Website

 

Coming soon!

There it is! What about you? Do you have a short story you love? Want to share it? Drop me a line or leave a comment below!

 

A Drift of Quills – Bad Writing and First Drafts

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Today we’re sharing chapters or sections of our longer novels that might have been cut from the final draft. For those who haven’t read the full story, maybe this piques your interest – for those who have read the tale, here’s how it started…

And down below, check out the openers from Robin and Trish!

Parker Broaddus

Author of  A Hero’s Curse & Nightrage Rising

Follow along on Amazon

 

A Hero’s Curse, Excerpt from Chapter 1, First Draft

(Kitty and Essie are following the ancient pipeline that brings water out of the Valley of Fire to their farm. Their job is to find and report leaks…)

Something thumped. It sounded like Kitty walked into a rock while making fun of birds and lizards. I laughed out loud. “My, are you blind too?” I felt a damp spot on the pipe. “Here’s another one. It is not a bad one Kitty—just a joint.” I let go of the pipe and tapped the ground and the surrounding rock for a second. “Ok—I know where we are.”

“So do I,” said Kitty.

I smirked. “Nose still sore?” I grabbed for the pipe and set off again, one hand on the pipe, one persistently tapping away with my neatly whittled willow branch. Dad had carved the branch. He was always quietly making some little invention or device to make my life easier. The next few steps were quiet as Kitty thought of an appropriate comeback. I smiled at the unusual silence. “Cat got your tongue? Here’s one,” I said, feeling a small trickle coming from the pipe. I reached into a small leather bag around my waist and pulled out a small dab of pitch which I rubbed over the tiny hole. “There,” I said a minute later. “How does it look Kitty?’

Kitty jumped up on my shoulders in a smooth bound and examined the pipe. “Good job.” He jumped down again. “For a girl.”

I laughed again, “You are obnoxious today! Well thanks anyway for inspecting the job, and well done…for a cat.” Kitty chuckled, which always sounded a bit like a cross between a purr and a cough. He usually didn’t stay mad at me for long. He complained it was hard to stay mad at me when I couldn’t see him put up his tail and stalk around looking moody. Then to Kitty’s extreme annoyance I would pull him into a hug and rub his belly, and the next thing he knew he couldn’t remember what he was mad about.

I got back home just a little before noon. Mom must have heard me coming because she was at the door by the time I got to the porch. Dad said she was the prettiest woman in the country. I knew Mom’s face by heart—I had memorized it with my hands. Mom’s face was beginning to be lined with fine wrinkles—she called them “laugh lines,” but she would clasp her hands in mine and she wouldn’t laugh. I could tell the unusual heat and the dry weather was withering more than our crops. I wished she could see her. Her voice was the loveliest voice I knew—but I could only barely remember seeing her face—a long time ago, before the curse.

“Any leaks today?” asked Mom. Her voice was soft and beautiful, but there was heaviness in it. She spoke less these days.

“Only a couple of small ones Mom,” I said.

“Come inside,” she sighed. “There’s milk and bread for your lunch.”

Kitty moved in on my heels and whispered, “Essie, I really didn’t mean it out on the water lines, you know that, right?”

I grinned, and whispered as I found my chair, “You big milk loving hypocrite.”

I could hear Mom walk to the stone basin in our kitchen, but she must have seen me whispering. “What’s funny?” Mom asked, “I could use a laugh myself.”

I tried to hide my grin and sopped up some milk with my bread. “It’s just Kitty Mom, he was making fun of me earlier—down by the water lines, but now that we are having lunch he’s sorry–of course—the big fraud.”

I heard Kitty stop licking the piece of milk soaked bread in front of him. “Traitor,” whispered Kitty.

Mom huffed. “How did he make fun of you?”

I hesitated. Mom didn’t like hearing about Kitty talking. She played along, but I knew she didn’t believe that Kitty could speak, and I felt she was getting a little impatient with what she called, “our game.”

“Just something about how I would be ‘running into rocks and things without him,’–same old nonsense.”

Mom let out breath, “but of course Kitty didn’t really say those things.”

I stopped eating. I could tell from Mom’s tone that she was both concerned and displeased, and that she probably had her arms crossed.
I shrugged, “He did say it; he talks to me all the time.”

Mom let out a short breath but I couldn’t tell what she was thinking. Was she angry, sad–did she think I was crazy? For the hundredth time that day I wished I could see.

“It’s true–you’ve always said I was special–and so is Kitty.” Kitty had stopped licking his bread. I could almost feel his eyes flicking between Mom and I. He swished his tail. “I can’t see anything but maybe I can hear things you can’t. Sometimes I hear singing too.”

Kitty coughed, “Maybe that’s enough Essie.”

“Of course dear,” said Mom in a gentle voice that surprised me. Then her dress rustled and she was gone. I took a milky crust and held it out to Kitty, about a foot to the left of my bowl where he had been. Nothing. I reached over to pet him with my other hand I bumped him drinking out of my bowl. “Kitty!”

I could imagine his guilty look as he picked his face up out of my bowl, and quietly moved back to his spot.  “Thanks,” he grunted.

“Now you’re a hypocrite and a thief?” I joked.

“And you’re crazy–talking to cats,” he whispered.

I heard Mom’s dress rustle back in and over to the basin in our kitchen. Kitty must have noticed Mom staring out the window over the sink. He hopped from the table to the counter and started relaying to me. “Somebody walking up the trail, dusty, stopping to lean on a staff, and staring at the fields,” he said. I perked up. Not many people came out this far unless it was specific to our farm. We lived at the very end of the valley, nestled against the old lava flow. The dirt was best here and we were closest to the water source, but many people said the Valley of Fire was cursed and dangerous. Most did not care to live this close to the razor sharp rocks and the monsters they hid.

“It’s a traveler,” Kitty said. “Long cloak, staff, crooked upper lip, no shave and looks to be what once was a green hat.” Kitty paused, then continued, “he could be a minstrel, but he’s a long way from town though.”

“Is it a minstrel Mom?” I asked, excited.

Mom started and I could feel her looking at me. After a seconds pause she said, “I don’t know Essie. It does look like he’s wearing a green hat, but I don’t see an instrument.” She paused, then walked briskly over to to me, guiding me out of my seat by my shoulders. “Go upstairs Essie, until we find out what he wants.”

 

(Read the first chapter for free, with “Tig” instead of “Kitty,” and much more, here.

Robin Lythgoe

Author of As the Crow Flies

Robin’s Website

 

Do you like to see deleted scenes that didn’t make it into the final version of your favorite books? You’re in luck. Up until I wrote Crow’s Nest, I … didn’t keep deleted scenes. I’m one of those people who like to clear the decks and get rid of rubbish (except, apparently, in my office, where I need it the most!), so once I had the Final Version, I threw away what I deemed was junk.

Only it’s… not?

I know, what?? An author friend freaked out and forced a course correction. I now have scenes…

Patricia Reding

Author of Oathtaker

Patricia’s Website

 

As the issue of cutting is directly related to editing broadly, I’m commenting on how removing text fits into that process in a general sense. (In the final edit of my first work, I cut roughly 80,000 words. Imagine that!)

Some cuts come easily. Unnecessary verbiage may be removed with a simple change from passive to active voice. In particular …

There it is! What about you? Do you have a first draft or a scene that never made it to the final story? Why did you cut it? Drop me a line or leave a comment below!

 

A Drift of Quills – Christmas Traditions

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What are your favorite Christmas traditions? Things you absolutely love? What about the traditions you could do without? Is ‘loathe‘ too strong a word? (I’m looking at you, fruitcake…) See for yourself, and down below, check out the openers from Robin and Trish!

Parker Broaddus

Author of  A Hero’s Curse & Nightrage Rising

Follow along on Amazon

First, I feel like my family and I are still young, and just starting out, so our traditions are fairly new, as far as traditions go. That said, there are definitely some things we have loved, and a couple we can’t stand.

Our family loves giving each other gifts. The childers love giving gifts. They also love receiving gifts.

What we don’t love is that frenzied, frantic, chaotic, ripping of presents open all at the same time in some kind of scene that looks more like a group of sharks going after a baby seal than it does Christmas morning. So we don’t do that.

We open gifts on Christmas eve, after supper. We read a section of Luke on the birth of Christ, and then take turns unwrapping presents. The youngest goes first, who then picks out a present for the next in line, who picks out a present for the next, and so on. We get to enjoy watching each other open the wrapping paper, and the one receiving has (at least a little) time to appreciate the gift they’ve been given. Time for gratitude.

There’s only so much chaos you can reign in with five childers, but it helps.

Christmas morning is another special time. The stockings have been filled overnight by St. Nicholas. Oranges, chocolates, nuts, and small treasures peak out of the top of each stocking. As each sleepy headed kid comes out of their room they can pull down their stocking and explore their treasures. Then it’s off to church for Christmas morning service, and then a quiet day where we get to embrace the Peace, and Joy, and Light that has come into the world, and into our home.

Robin Lythgoe

Author of As the Crow Flies

Robin’s Website

 

The Christmas season here in the US is a time like no other. Folks don’t even wait until Halloween is over before they break out the holiday decor, crank up the jingle tunes, and start binging on holiday television shows.

Ack.

Please, no.

When I was a little girl…

Patricia Reding

Author of Oathtaker

Patricia’s Website

 

My family typically celebrates the holiday on Christmas Eve. The day starts with my preparing a few thick and hearty soups. Often I go for chicken wild rice with pancetta; ham and potato chowder; and either a chili or a tortilla soup. I make large batches of each, then send some home with each of the kids when the evening wraps up so that they can snack over the course of the next day or two.

There it is! What about you? What are your love em’ or hate em’ traditions? Drop me an email, send a picture, or comment below.

A Drift of Quills – The McGalliard Street Gate, (a teaser)

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Thanksgiving is coming up in just a few days! Will you see family and friends? What are you most thankful for this year? Our writerly fellowship has penned short stories spun from a single picture today, chosen by Robin.

Mikey, introduced in the story below, is very thankful that he hasn’t been eaten by a dinosaur, (yet). And down below, check out the openers from Robin and Trish!

Parker Broaddus

Author of  A Hero’s Curse & Nightrage Rising

Follow along on Amazon

The McGalliard Street Gate, (a teaser)

Mikey forced his way through a tangle of fronds that grabbed at his clothes and the canvas bag slung over his shoulder, trying to keep Doc’s back in view at all times. Doc stopped.

“Shhhhh.”

Mikey frowned. Easier said than done. Doc put his hand up and made a claw with one finger. Then pointed off to the left before continuing through the undergrowth. Mikey didn’t know exactly what Doc was saying but he felt like he caught the general implication. Something dangerous off that way. Got it. Mikey nodded. Something with claws or teeth. That had been a recurring theme ever since Mikey had been the unsuspecting victim of some kind of dimension displacement in that abandoned warehouse alley and sucked him through to this crazy jungle. He’d been a normal, nerdy, slightly bored, twelve-year-old kid taking a shortcut off McGalliard Street on his way home from school in Orlando one minute, and the next he was being introduced to the very real fact that velociraptors like to hunt at dusk and dawn. By a group of survivors who had also been displaced in that alley over the past few weeks and months. It was beyond weird.

Doc pulled him back to the present by stopping so abruptly Mikey almost ran into him. Mikey peered around him to see what had caused a halt. The jungle ended where a chasm opened up in front of them, with the nicest bridge Mikey had seen in this place stretched across the canyon. Woven rope and boards had been strung and crisscrossed and cleverly sunk into the rock, giving the bridge a sense of permance. A breath of fresh air moved the tops of the trees and made the structure sway.

“Wow,” Mikey breathed. “You built this?”

Doc didn’t respond. Mikey looked up to see him tugging thoughtfully at his wiry, brown and stained beard. “Nope.” He said it softly. Like a secret.

“You mean you didn’t build it?”

“Nope,” he grunted. “Found it. Just like this.”

The implications made Mikey dizzy. “So…”

Doc looked at Mikey, offering nothing. Mikey plucked at one of the ropes strung across the gorge. “Somebody else…built it?”

Doc shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine.” He gazed again at the rope bridge. “I haven’t found anybody else out here, besides us.” He waved a hand that included the group back at the camp. “Haven’t found any other sign of civilization. No tracks. Nothin’. I don’t know if this bridge is a part of the displacement, like maybe it got pulled through somehow, or if somebody got sucked through way before us and built it here. I don’t know. And not knowin’…not knowin’ anything about where it all started…in that alley…that makes it all the less likely we can get out of here. Especially with nobody lookin’ on the other side.”

Mikey cleared his throat. “Actually, I do think somebody knows.”

Doc looked at him sharpley. “You’re saying somebody may know where to look for you? Somebody in your family? They would know to search the alley?” His mouth set in a grim line. “That would make you unique here. If anyone is looking for the rest of us–and that’s no guarantee–they wouldn’t have any reason to look near that warehouse complex, much less the alley. We’re loners. Runaways. Drifters. Wallflowers. Misfits.” Doc shifted the coil of vine-made-rope on his shoulder and looked at Mikey again. Something glimmered in his eye. “You’re sure?”

Mikey nodded, slow. “Yeah.” Then he nodded again, firmer. “Definitely. It may take some time, but he’ll figure it out. He’s…like a detective. It can be annoying if you live with him. But he’s good. Really good.” Mikey let out a shaky breath, but he knew it what he said was true. “He’ll find the McGalliard Street gate.”

“Who’s ‘he,’? Your dad?”

Mikey shook his head. “My younger brother. Lucas.”

Robin Lythgoe

Author of As the Crow Flies

Robin’s Website

 

Bridge to Hope

The rope and plank bridge strung across the canyon looked like any other of a score of such structures the Dog had seen in his journeys. It swayed violently, victim of the wind dragged down the steep, rocky canyon by the setting sun. Shadow devoured the depths and crept up the far wall. On this side, the last rays of light saturated the greens of pines, mountain ash, and oak. Vivid purplish-red flowers peppered great swathes at their feet.

Beautiful.

Harsh.

Solitary.

Incongruously, hope waited on the other side of that fragile passage.

Patricia Reding

Author of Oathtaker

Patricia’s Website

 

Coming soon…

There it is! What did you like? What stories are you working on? What would you have written about if you saw that bridge? Drop me an email, send a picture, or comment below.

A Drift of Quills – Five Fall Favorites

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What’s your favorite time of the year? Today we’re sharing our top five things we love about fall. See for yourself, and down below, check out the openers from Robin and Trish!

Parker Broaddus

Author of  A Hero’s Curse & Nightrage Rising

Follow along on Amazon

There are so many things I love about fall. And it’s more than fall, really. It all starts with Indian Summer, my favorite time of the year.

Where I grew up in the high desert mountains of the West, late August kicked off Indian Summer. The monsoon season would finally settle the dust that had hung in the air since March. Cool, crisp mornings refreshed the land and the soul. The days would be warm and, well, perfect, extending through the first part of October.

Here in central Kentucky, I’ve found a similar experience. The long hot days start to shift. It’s subtle at first, barely noticeable in the early morning, but soon enough a light jacket is hanging on the nail by the door for first light chores.

The smells that accompany the time of the year are a combination of nostalgia, anticipation and real time enjoyment. Smoke from the woodstove. Apple cider on the stove. Anything baking. Even the sharp, crisp smell of the air and fallen leaves.

There are the activities that extend into the cold of winter: reading more in the dark mornings and long evenings. Watching movies together. Playing board games. Building Legos. And writing. Naturally.

And last, along with the feel of the air, the smells, and the activities, Fall brings a certain anticipation, which is a glorious thing in and of itself. Of course there’s looking forward to Thanksgiving. And then Christmas. But there’s also birthdays. Our family has 5 birthdays out of 7 between September and January.

And it’s that anticipation of goodness that wraps the whole season in beautiful color and ties it with a bow – because as much as I love the moment now, and the smell of cider and smoke and fallen leaves, I know there’s much, much, more to come.

Robin Lythgoe

Author of As the Crow Flies

Robin’s Website

 

Coming soon…

Patricia Reding

Author of Oathtaker

Patricia’s Website

 

Autumn is a lovely time of year. In my neck of the woods, it’s also that time when we prepare ourselves mentally and physically for the bitter cold months to come. As the temps begin to fall and the nights grow colder, we add more layers of clothing, turn the thermostat up—and attend to some of our favorite things about this time of year. Here are five of mine …

There it is! What about you? What are your favorite things about fall? Drop me an email, send a picture, or comment below.

A Drift of Quills – The Old Writing Desk

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Are you a writer? Where do you write? What does it look like? What makes that particular spot special? That’s the topic of this month’s scribblings. See for yourself, and down below, check out the openers from Robin and Trish!

Parker Broaddus

Author of  A Hero’s Curse & Nightrage Rising

Follow along on Amazon

 

Scribblings, scritchings and scratchings.

My writing desk is situated in the study, against the far wall, just right for catching the morning sun. It’s perhaps the one, sometimes, semi-quiet place in our small farmhouse complete with five kids. Other than the back corner of the hot water heater closet. I’ve only been able to use the space once or twice in its current location – ever since our move nine months ago I’ve been tromping around in Wellingtons with a hammer in hand upfitting and building and renovating. Bringing the farm back to life. Building a cottage on the place to host guests. But all of that is wrapping up. And now, as we wade into September in earnest, I’ve finally got one eye on my writing desk.

The desk itself is an older one, refinished and painted, stuffed with paperwork and notes, pens and checkbooks, and surrounded on both sides by books. Of course. Small treasures are tucked away on shelves. Items of no real value, but they remind me of histories, people, and places.

Having now used the space (twice now!), I can attest to its appropriateness as a writing corner. I was able to sit down to type out a few words, only to get distracted by something I needed to look up on Amazon, look out the window and note that I needed to mow grass, go get more coffee, respond to hollering in the other room, come back, try to pick up my place in the paragraph, check my email (nothing new), review my sticky note to-do list, strum a minute on my guitar, realize with a shock how much time I’d already spent piddling around at nothing, and then ultimately push through the tiny bit of writing I had assigned myself.

My review: it’s a fine corner that works beautifully as advertised. If there is any shortcoming, it has more to do with user error than functional design.

The window looks out at a pastoral view that’s like something out of a magazine. I don’t think it has really sunk in that we live here now. I feel like I’m in a movie, watching someone else. It’s been too much to soak in – too much to even appreciate all at once.

So my hope is to appreciate it slowly. Over the days, and months, and years.

 

Robin Lythgoe

Author of As the Crow Flies

Robin’s Website

 

I am one of those wildly lucky people who can claim an entire room for her writing space. With a population of one at my house, the quiet and privacy isn’t important anymore, but there is something to be said for having space dedicated to one’s dream. If only the room was the right color…

Patricia Reding

Author of Oathtaker

Patricia’s Website

 

In truth, I cannot complain about not having enough room. After 30+ years of raising children, my husband and I are now alone in our home. While I would not use “large” as a word to describe it, even with children in the house we had significantly more room than my family of ten (Mom, Dad, and their eight daughters) had when I grew up. In those days, up to four shared a single bedroom, and there was but one bathroom for the entire clan. I’ve been blessed in that the circumstances in which I raised my children were significantly better—and yet, I was always at a loss for finding space for one thing in particular. That one thing was: me.

There it is! What about you? Do you have a spot that’s special? Drop me an email, send a picture, or comment below

 

A Drift of Quills – The Elemental Temple

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Short stories, fantastic tales, spun from a single picture. It’s flash fiction month! Our picture is colorful, detailed and fun! See what you think!

And down below, check out the openers from Robin and Trish!

Parker Broaddus

Author of  A Hero’s Curse & Nightrage Rising

Follow along on Amazon

 

The Elemental Temple

“Over there,” Teddy pointed with the gnarled stick he was holding like a staff. “They’re probably hiding in the shadows – they don’t like the sun.”

Lena wasn’t sure if Teddy truly believed in goblins, or if it was just his highly active imagination embracing the game as completely real.
“Knock it off, Ted.” She tried to sound tough, like an older sister should sound. “Let’s just find the temple already.”

She didn’t do games like this with her little brother. Ever. But when he asked her to play this morning he had been so earnest, almost desperate, and he had been decked out in his medieval festival costume. He’d even strapped some sort of a saddle on Bear, their dog, who was, well, the size of a bear. And when he held out her old roller skating knee pads and a wooden sword, she caved. It was the middle of summer after all, and she was bored.

At first, as they pushed into the woods that bordered their backyard, she had encouraged the play acting. When Teddy suggested they find one of the lost elemental temples, she had grinned and joked about goblins. Teddy looked troubled for a second, but recovered. “But not too many,” he muttered, “and they don’t like the light.”

Lena laughed and pat Bear’s giant shoulder. “I’m sure Bear can handle anything this forest throws at us.”

Teddy grinned. “Oh, yeah. Good. That’s good.”

The noises from the suburban neighborhood faded, with only the sounds of birds chirping and leaves rustling in the trees overhead. Twigs snapped underneath their feet, and a kind of green twilight settled over them. Up one ridge and then down another, the forest subtly changed. It felt older. Quieter. Lena thought the trees themselves stopped their whispering to watch the trespassers. She shivered, and looked for something to say to break the silence. “So, what about trolls and–” Teddy brought the end of his stick down on her foot. She stopped mid sentence, “Ow! Ted that hurt!”

He held a finger up to his lips. “You can’t say stuff like that Len–that’s part of the rules.”

“What rules?” Lena huffed. She looked at her foot. That would probably leave a bruise. She wouldn’t be able to wear sandals for a week!

“You just can’t…” Teddy shuffled awkwardly. “You can’t call the names here.”

“Call what names?” Lena was actually getting angry now. She pulled off her shoe and looked at the red spot.

“They turn real if you call the name of it.”

Lena turned to look at him, her face a combination of frustration and puzzlement. Teddy was close to tears. Her aggravation quickly evaporated. “What are you saying Ted? I don’t understand the game.”

Teddy shuffled his feet. “Sorry about hitting your foot. It’s just,” he paused and took a deep breath. “It’s not exactly a game.”

Lena raised her eyebrows.

“I mean, it is a game,” he twisted his staff nervously. “At least, it was a game. But it’s real too.” He looked down again.

“I still don’t get it,” Lena said in a dry voice. “Talk to me like I’m eight.”

Teddy whipped his head back up. “Hey. I’m eight.”

Lena flashed a sarcastic grin at him. “Exactly.”

“Fine.” He shrugged. “I started playing the game a while back. Just by myself. Remember that old gemstone that Mom gave me?”

“Yeah – the emerald one from the dig? I thought you lost that.”

“I did,” he flapped his hand impatiently. “I’ve been looking for it ever since. That’s the elemental temple.”

“Okay. So we’re pretending that the emerald gemstone Mom gave you is a temple, and we’re looking for it.”

“Right, that’s how it started. I mean that’s what I pretended at first. And stuff was pretty normal, but then it all started to get…well…real. Like the woods.” He waved a hand a the huge trees surrounding them.

“What do you mean?” Lena felt a weird tickle up her spine.

Teddy looked down at the ground and kicked at some leaves. “Promise you won’t laugh?”

“Yes!” Lena snapped, impatient.

Teddy glanced up. “I think the gemstone actually turned into the temple. Like, planted itself or something.”

Lena snorted, but Teddy stayed completely serious. He put a hand in Bear’s deep fur and kept talking. “And then, whenever I would pretend that there were–” he paused and looked around. “Other things…creatures and stuff…they started being out here too.”

“Other things?” Lena asked, arching an eyebrow.

“Like…goblins and stuff.”

A branch broke some ways off in the woods. Something thumped off in the undergrowth. Lena scanned the trees and rocky trail before looking back at Teddy. “Deer?”

Teddy shook his head.

“Really, Ted? You don’t expect me to believe that, do you? You can’t scare me, I’m twelve!”

“The more you talk about it–the more you name it–the more real it becomes.”

Lena frowned at him, but Teddy stayed serious. “So now what?”

Teddy folded his arms across his chest and took a deep breath. “We need to find the temple. I think that’s what’s giving power to this new world. I’ve been out here a lot, looking, but every time it keeps getting more–dangerous.”

Lena rolled her eyes. “Fine. So, the same game we were playing at the beginning.”

Teddy grabbed her arm. “Just don’t name anything bad. That’s the most important rule.”

Lena pulled herself away. “Okay. I won’t name goblins or trolls or werewolves or…” Teddy’s face had gone white. “Fine, whatever. I’m sorry Ted.”

He shook his head, unable to speak. Lena puffed her cheeks out. “Maybe we should just stop this game and go home.”

Teddy pointed past her with his staff. Lena glanced back in the direction he was pointing, the direction toward home. What she had assumed was a boulder was standing on stumpy legs as big as tree trunks, leering down the trail at them. Its black eyes glittered. Another lumpy creature stood up behind the first, even taller.

“See?” Teddy whispered. “You made it real.”

Lena’s hand found Teddy’s. “Ted…” Her voice wavered. “What’s that?”

Bear growled.  Teddy gulped, choked, and tried again. “It’s between us and home.” He squeezed Lena’s hand. “We have to find the temple this time.”

Robin Lythgoe

Author of As the Crow Flies

Robin’s Website

 

Hazu Hotfoot and the Orb of Orgrad

“We’re here.” Hazu peered over a moss-covered pile of rocks, eyes narrowed. A thundering roar filled the space beneath the towering trees. Gnarled, humped roots rose far over the goblin’s head.

“Can you see the orb?” Pint-sized Morsel rubbed his hands together in anticipation.

Hazu grunted. “Nah. Too much water.”

“Lemme look.” With a shove and a wiggle, he moved up beside her. “Wouldja lookit that…”

Patricia Reding

Author of Oathtaker

Patricia’s Website

 

The Screaming Wilds

by Patricia Reding

Copyright Patricia Reding 2021

The Screaming Wilds spread far and wide, filled with centuries-old trees, the roots of which bulged above ground, ready to trip the weary or unwary. Meandering streams throughout poured into fetid marshes. At the center sat The Crushing Falls, through which flowed The Tears of Beasts, dark-magic infused waters that turned all that entered them from good, to evil.

Storm and Tracer trudged through the Wilds, along with Beowulf, their trusty canine companion.

There it is! Up top you read a flash fiction that was great fun for me, but what about you? What tale would you have spun from the picture above? Drop me an email or comment below

 

A Drift of Quills – What Can’t You Go Without?

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What would be the hardest thing for you to give up?

This month my fellow writers and I are tackling the question of what would be the hardest thing for us to give up, and why? Would it be food? Social media? Gadgets? Coffee? Chocolate?!

Parker Broaddus

Author of  A Hero’s Curse & Nightrage Rising

Follow along on Amazon

Things I Can’t Live Without

For myself, I strive to live in a way that I don’t depend on something in a way that I, “can’t live without it.” Except my lovely wife. 🙂

And then there are a lot of things I could do without. I like traveling light. I could do without social media. Or television and YouTube and all of it really. I could go without gadgets and gizmos.

That said – there are several things I use daily that help me function well. Things that compliment my routine, promote healthy habits, and keep me aiming toward my goals. Some of these are so a part of my pattern of living, they would be really, (really), hard to let go. I’ll name three.

1. Morning coffee routine. There, I said it. Might as well get that out of the way first. My wakeup call is the sunrise that hits our East facing window first thing in the morning. (In the winter it’s a soft light that fades up in our room). No loud or annoying alarms. Then I have a well established pattern that includes going out and walking the farm and doing the first round of feeding chores – cows, goats, chickens, etc. And it ends in a French press coffee. It all takes about 20-30 minutes, and it’s really good. Take that French press coffee away and it feels like I’m trying to function without a limb. Can I do it? Sure. But it’s not as easy or fun.

2. Pocketknife. I’ve carried a pocketknife for most of my life. It’s small, sharp, and practical. I use it daily. Oftentimes multiple times a day. It doubles as a screwdriver, a wedge, a lockpick, a tiny hammer, a splinter picker, or any number of other uses.

3. When I’m working on building or construction or just a small project, I have a favorite hammer and tape measure. I actually have a special tool box with all my favorite tools, down to a favorite pencil. To lose that bucket would be like losing a friend. A short, very silent friend, but a friend nonetheless.

There are other things I use daily that help me function well. Unfortunately my phone is one of those. I also drink a lot of water. I have a favorite toothpaste, a favorite soap, and favorite clothes. Take those away and things can be more difficult. Even chaotic. So I’m thankful for what I’ve been given.

Robin Lythgoe

Author of As the Crow Flies

Robin’s Website

Giving something up? This sounds like it requires some seriously Deep Thinking. Alas, you’re reading the wrong person. The first several things that popped into my head were definitely not serious. Shall I give you some examples? They might be worth a snicker…

Patricia Reding

Author of Oathtaker

Patricia’s Website

 

…Insert…

What about you? What would you hate to give up? Let me know in the comments below, and share with your friends!

 

A Drift of Quills – 10 Things That Make You Happy

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Spring is here! It’s Holy Week, and Easter is upon us! What a beautiful time to ruminate on those things that bring us joy! Our topic this time around is 10 things that make you happy. Check it out!

Parker Broaddus

Author of  A Hero’s Curse & Nightrage Rising

Follow along on Amazon

Stop. It’s Happy Time. Can’t Touch This.

As I alluded to in the intro, when it comes to joy and happiness, the fact that it’s springtime and Easter are going to be somewhere on the list. With that, I’ll jump right in – ordered according to how they came to mind, as opposed to a hierarchy of importance.

  1. I have so enjoyed getting to watch movies and shows with my wife and kiddos this winter. We have gotten to participate in some amazing stories, some of which I grew up with and am finally getting to share with them! (I’m looking at you, Star Wars: A New Hope). I found unexpected delight in getting to dive into a story with the kids, and interestingly, was able to appreciate the story in a way I hadn’t before. That was cool. A sampling of the kind of thing I’m talking about: we’ve been reading Little House on the Prairie, Hank the Cowdog, and Nancy Drew. We’ve seen Home Alone, The Court Jester, lots of old Disney movies, (Robin Hood! The Lion King!), the 1977 version of The Hobbit, The Lord of the Rings series, and more.
  2. The weather. Every day with blue skies and white puffy clouds hanging high over our green, rolling pastureland feels like nothing more than a miraculous gift after winter. Every daffodil is like finding water on Mars. Getting to take off the heavy coats and soak up warm sunshine feels like coming out of a tomb. Which brings me to…
  3. Easter. And Christmas. I love these two holy days, and the days and weeks surrounding them. They are special times of the year that are sure to make my list of happiness, in large part because it brings me back to the source of joy itself.
  4. Holidays in general. The 4th of July. Thanksgiving. Birthdays. It’s lovely to get to pause our work and full schedules to share time with friends and family.
  5. Food. Good food. This is a fun one, as we often participate in this one about three times a day.
  6. Morning coffee. I do a French press, and there is something delightful about that first sip of coffee in the day. I limit myself to my morning brew, which comes to about two cups of coffee. That’s happiness in a cup.
  7. Morning routine. I love a good routine. I’m still trying to hammer it out here after the move, but when it works, it sings. I roll out of bed without an alarm (that’s not really true – I have five alarm clocks, which we have given names and feed daily), and then I putter out, do my routine, sit for a few minutes in our living room and watch the eastern hills for the sunrise with our two-year-old Half-Pint. About that time the water boils and whistles and I start the French press…now that doesn’t happen every day, but when it does, it’s a gift.
  8. Green pastures, rolling hills, board fences, old barns, happy animals and…well, I guess our farm kindof captures this one. Farming.
  9. Spending time with dear friends–over a pint, or a pipe–talking about family, faith, life, or nothing much at all.
  10. A job well done. I do a lot of projects, some smaller, and some larger building and construction jobs. There is something deeply satisfying about stepping back and seeing something that is well made and beautiful. I suppose I could say the same about writing. I do enjoy writing, and there is something fulfilling as I sit back and see a well crafted sentence, chapter, or manuscript.

Ahhh…Happiness.

 

Robin Lythgoe

Author of As the Crow Flies

Robin’s Website

Thinking of this topic had me humming Julie Andrews songs. Just a Spoonful of Sugar. My Favorite Things. Whistle a Happy Tune. (Am I dating myself? And can you tell I used to watch a lot of musicals?) Happy things—happy thoughts—are like magic. You hold them for a little while, think about how they make you feel and…

Patricia Reding

Author of Oathtaker

Patricia’s Website

 

… I believe that finding joy and expressing gratitude are two of the most important things we can do for our health—physical and mental. So . . . I am grateful for moments like:

1. Grandbaby. The top of my list right now has to be the grandbaby that I am awaiting. She, due in August, will be my first. I am beyond elated!

2. Children Meeting Goals. Great joy comes when your children meet their goals at any stage in life. My middle child will graduate with her dual Masters degrees from the University of Pittsburgh this spring and will then begin in her new position with the Mayo system. No one could be more deserving of the success she is experiencing, and I could not be more proud of her.

So, what’s on your top ten list?