Birds gliding gracefully.

Floating freely on the current.

Swimming their strokes across the air.

That’s what I thought of.

Until I looked closer.

Saw a different view.

I watched as the wind.

Tried to unseat her.

Shake her free.

But she hung on.

Found refuge.

Any port in a storm.

She chose me.

And while I could not cling to her.

I could do something.

I could shield her.

From the roaring winds.

She was…

So small and so delicate.

Gossamer wings.

Dainty proboscis.

Gently tapping over my skin.

I had only sweat to give her.

But my sweat is what she drank.

And when she had her fill.

When she’d had enough.

She allowed the wind take hold of her.

Let it carry her away.

And I saw then.

That the wind was not her enemy.

It was her friend.

I am earthbound.

I know only earthbound ways.

When the winds come.

When trees shake and my children tremble.

I do not trust the wind.

In those moments, it is my enemy.

And yet, there came a butterfly.

To teach me about the wind.

It unseats us all.

Tear away all that is nonessential.

Move us forward.

Always forward.

For  this, I am grateful

No wind is of service.

To those that are bound for nowhere.

The power of social media! I met the lovely Leisa Greene on Twitter, and have enjoyed following her  (@IndieItGal) and reading her blog over at Indie It Press (link below). I cannot wait to talk to her about her project Early Out, and whatever else meanders through what passes for my brain!

Leisa Greene didn’t start writing until much later in life. For years, her passion and escape was reading anything she could get her hands on from Nancy Drew to Anna Karenina. In her forties and single mother of three kids, she attended the University of Montana with full intentions of being an English literature major. Then she took a summer composition course that changed her life. With strong encouragement from the composition professor to write, her college education began to change paths. Leisa focused her writing in the creative non-fiction genre as well as playwriting. She spent two of her college years learning Gaelic (with a twitching eye) and focusing on Irish authors Samuel Beckett and James Joyce– including one semester working on The Gathering Project: A Collection of Irish Oral Histories. Leisa started her memoir Early Out, in an independent study course with the professor who originally encouraged her to write. She earned a B.A. in English, creative writing, and a minor in Irish studies in May of 2011 with her very proud family cheering her on.

With that major goal accomplished, Leisa began writing special interest stories online about Montana indie musicians with www.MakeItMissoula.com where her first story was published. From that job she received another, publishing an article about the Lou Erck family for the Montana Bluegrass Association, A Jamboree Family. The article was featured on Make It Missoula as well.

With her passion for indie artists growing, and a need for an author’s platform, she decided to build a website www.IndieItPress.com, which focuses on indie artists and hopefully gives back to other readers and artists as well. Some of her excerpts from Early Out can be found on Indie It Press.

Currently she continues to work on Early Out, work for a photography and publishing company, raise her daughter, and be a support for her two older sons, son-in-law, and father, as well as plan her upcoming wedding. Life for her is busy, full, and a gift.

He was a soldier in his life before.

Before time slowed.

Before the cataracts came.

Before he measured time in…

Meals.

Naps.

Faces he knew.

Faces he didn’t.

Always angry, they said.

He won’t listen.

He doesn’t care.

I disagreed.

I liked Sarge.

Admired his many tattoos.

From the old days.

His service days.

I learned what he had endured.

What he’d seen.

All that he had done for God and country.

Time.

I had too little of it.

Sarge had too much.

We tried for a happy medium.

Sarge and I.

Sixteen hours a day, two days a week.

It was all the time I had to give.

We made of it what we could.

My colleagues disliked Sarge.

He wouldn’t cooperate.

Time was to blame.

They had too little.

And he…

He just wanted someone to listen.

To see him again.

I was happy to listen and to see.

To learn about a life I’d never live.

My colleagues just wanted Sarge to get with the program.

Dance to their tune.

He refused.

Sarge hurt someone one day.

Tore the tendons in their wrist like paper.

Sent them screaming out of his room.

Running away.

Leaving him behind.

Despite his cataracts.

Sarge could see well enough.

It was what they refused to see he had a problem with.

He was more than a medical chart.

They treated him like less than a man.

I heard about it after the fact.

I only saw Sarge once after that.

Before he was transferred away.

And because I liked him.

Because I liked them.

I was caught in the middle.

It was the cataracts I thought of then.

And the cataracts I think of now.

Cataracts don’t blind.

They cloud.

Had my colleagues removed theirs.

Had Sarge tried to see beyond his.

The clouds might have departed.

Calm skies appeared.

And maybe…

Maybe they would have played a little tune.

They could have seen one another at last.

They could have danced.

I am one of those extremely fortunate people who tends to get my evil little mitts on great new authors debut work first. I have read Julie’s first book, Running Home. I both loved and loathed it. While I loved the book, I loathe the fact I’m going to have to wait for the sequel. I have made this clear in no uncertain terms to Julie. Nonetheless, I’m so excited to be interviewing her! You can and SHOULD find Julie over at deadlyeverafter.com or on Twitter @HutchingsJulie

The Wildcard and Muscle of the Undead Duo, I did actually go to  college for my pay-free writing career.  Benefits include dress code of  sweatpants and all the time I need with my two toddler boys, hilarious husband and small Mexican dog.  I am currently seeking representation for my first Paranormal Thriller, Running Home, while working on  the sequel in the trilogy, Running Away, and am inches away from finishing a separate Urban Fantasy, The Animal. I still revel in all things Buffy, a sick need for exotic reptiles, karate, zombies of all shapes and sizes, and drinking more coffee than Juan Valdez and his donkey combined, if that donkey is allowed to drink coffee.  And wow, pizza.  Pizza and me, me and pizza.  Pizza and coffee, and a good vampire book.  There you go.

He darted forward with no restraint.

Not knowing, I suppose.

That restraint is usually best.

The illusion held for a moment.

And the pitiful human before him trembled a little.

It was the beauty, you see.

Beauty and sudden terror.

I had been standing there.

Watching nothing and everything at the same time.

When he appeared.

The vivid purple flower on my shirt drew him.

I did not see his approach.

He hung for a moment.

Examining me.

And I was so sure.

So sure.

I had failed his exam.

Until he darted forward.

Gently.

Tentatively.

Tapping my shirt with his beak.

He meant no harm.

Neither did I.

All terror left me.

Only wonder remained.

Wonder at such fleeting beauty.

Beauty is always transitory.

That’s what makes us remember it.

Sometimes, we forget.

In troubled times.

Terrible times.

So beauty will ambush us from time to time.

Remind us that it is there.

That we still have wonder buried deeply inside of us.

We can show and be shown compassion.

We do care.

We can love.

I have said before.

That the worst thing about wonder is that it wears off.

But I am wrong.

The world will not allow wonder to wear out.

It reminds us in the worst of times.

That there are better times.

Beautiful times.

Sometimes we see them.

Sometimes we create them.

And sometimes.

Sometimes, we are them.

I was fortunate enough to be interviewed by Casey last October. I enjoyed the interview so much, I just had to have Casey guest on my show for the mere opportunity to speak to him again!

Casey Ryan is the creator and host of the Cutting Room Floor talk-radio
podcast and blog. For the past 5 years, the show has sought to highlight
the works of independent entertainers of all types. A self-proclaimed
pop-culture addict, his film education consists of a lifetime of watching,
studying, and reading about movies. He holds a BA in Industrial Relations
and Economics as well as a diploma in Sciences. For the past 10 years he
has enjoyed a prolific career in corporate sales – often using his skills
to help his guests market their work on air. Casey was born and raised in
Montreal, Canada where he currently lives with his wife.

Twitter: https://twitter.com/cuttingroommrb
Show URL: http://www.talkshoe.com/tc/81947
Blog: http://cuttingroomfloorpodcast.blogspot.ca/
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/CuttingRoomMRB

A brutal attack.

A lone soldier.

A good husband.

Father of a two year old son.

He didn’t make it.

And I know.

On the day that he died.

He was looking forward to getting back.

To his home.

To family.

On Memorial Day.

It is him I will think of.

Him and…

All those others.

Men and women all over the world.

Who fight for what they deem right.

They have only their lives to give.

And give them they do.

I will think of his wife.

And his son.

And there will be.

A moment of silence.

For the soldiers.

And all their families.

They sacrifice, too.

For their soldiers who serve.

Without their bravery.

And their courage to let go.

Where would we be?

Oh, how I wish.

I wish that things were different.

That peace would last.

That our brothers and sisters.

Would not have to take up their arms.

It helps a little.

Just a little.

To know that.

Wherever our soldier is.

He is surrounded by his brothers and sisters.

Those who fell before him.

Who fought the good fight.

Who gave the only thing they had to give.

So that their loved ones might live.

They will comfort him now.

And we will live.

And live well.

Knowing that for those they love.

Our soldiers will sacrifice.

I must admit, having read David’s extraordinary work, I’ve been looking forward to welcoming him to the show for a chat since the moment I booked him for an appearance on Lydia’s Literary Lowdown. Let the talk begin! You can…and should, find David on Twitter @DavidBeeson2 or on his blog right here:

http://davidbeesonrandomviews.blogspot.com/

Thirty years working for small companies, middle-sized companies, large companies, in Britain, in France, in Germany, owned by larger than life owners or anonymous shareholders from Europe, the States, even in one glorious, technicolor experience, by a larger-than life South African, have deeply ingrained in me a sense of what makes business tick, what makes it lurch along or fall, what makes it create or destroy.

Again and again, I’ve been the enthralled if not appalled spectator of the loyalties, noble and corrupt, the betrayals, the manipulations, the subversions that mark the relationships between the men and women whose work drives businesses or whose leadership takes them to success or failure. I’ve seen that the failures, personal or corporate, far outnumber the successes. And I’ve been the victim or the beneficiary of both – and much more often the victim.

But way back before all this started, I’d been a student of language – above all French and Italian – and of great novels written in a number of them, to say nothing of my own. And in all that 30 years of experience of rough and tumble of business, I’ve always felt there was material here to turn into novels not yet written, novels that might speak to people out there precisely because they talk about experiences they recognise as their own.

Does the formula work? I don’t know. The first attempt is nearly ready for release, the second is far advanced. There will come a time when I have screw up my courage and let them go and see where they take me. And all my experience of watching heights scaled and depths plunged will, at that stage, no doubt be more than ever necessary to me

Children were laughing and learning.

The day the sirens called.

And there were wise eyes, so discerning.

Who calmly moved them through the hall.

The sirens wailed and shepherds vowed.

To mind the flock they led.

Despite the whirling, maddened clouds.

Down the halls they sped.

A great train was heard that day.

Came roaring through the sky.

And now we have to face the grey.

No rhyme nor reason why.

Our shepherds were the teachers.

Brave, kind, and true.

While their charges cowered.

They vowed to see them through.

And see them through they did, although.

They couldn’t save them all.

Their bodies were all they had to use.

To form protective walls.

I’m thankful for the children saved.

And so sad for those we lost.

But I’ll try to find some comfort.

Try not to count the cost.

One thing I know is certain.

They held the children ’til the last.

They did not shake or shudder.

They held the children fast.

Rescuers went to look today.

Through the ruins they’ll roam.

Hoping for a cry, a call.

The faint sound of a groan.

Meanwhile, I think of teachers.

Their bravery and their love.

Of all the ways they found to save.

Below and above.

It’s their courage I admire.

They, the first to roam.

They are heroes to whom we owe our thanks.

For leading their students home.

Mr. Rose.

That is what I’ll call him.

I don’t remember his name for a reason.

I was new.

I was nervous.

My first job in a hospital.

I wanted to do well.

And to ensure I did, a trainer was appointed to watch me.

That was how I met Mr. Rose.

Awkward situation for us both.

He was used to caring for himself.

I was used to caring for others.

Eyes were on us both.

My eyes on him.

Other eyes on me.

Such dignity.

That’s what I remember.

It couldn’t have been easy.

A stranger greets you.

Brushes your teeth.

Shaves you.

Bathes you.

His sense of humor.

I remember that, too.

We joked back and forth.

Eased those tensions.

The tensions that arise.

When a stranger does for you.

What you can no longer do for yourself.

I left with a noticeable lift in my step.

The other set of eyes had watched.

Commented.

Approved.

But Mr. Rose was more important.

His sweetness.

As sweetness so often does.

Had lightened my step.

Lifted my heart.

I looked in on Mr. Rose as often as I could that day.

We joked every time.

The next day his room was the first I visited.

I was bringing him his breakfast.

But Mr. Rose…

Mr. Rose was no longer there.

Only an empty shell remained.

One day was all I had with Mr. Rose.

One day.

It wasn’t enough.

But it had to be.

The quality of a thing.

Is vastly more important than the quantity.

I moved onto other patients.

You’ve read about them here.

Their names you know.

His, I don’t.

And so he is Mr. Rose.

A man who by any other name.

Would still be as sweet.