Reader Advisory: Mature language, imagery, mention of suicide ![]() Tired footsteps bounced off the steel stairway as they filed into the room with the rhythmic beat of a chain gang. It was the basement of a local church. The sign above the door read, “multi-purpose room.” She wondered what other purposes it served aside from offering morsels of unrealized hope to the emotional vagrants who now timidly approached the refreshment table. A carafe of stale coffee, with an aroma that reminded her of her father’s anger in childhood, and rock-hard bagels sat in tempted poses next to a stack of paper napkins and Styrofoam cups. She passed on the tainted nectar everyone else clamored for, and instead, grabbed a bottle of water from the iced cooler on the floor. Gradually, as though one false step might bring down the building, they moved to the circle of chairs, standing in awkward silence, waiting for someone with the courage, to sit first. What the hell. She sat, took a sip of water, and placed the bottle on the floor near the leg of her chair. The others took her lead and gingerly sat, carefully cradling steaming cups of security and rings of petrified confidence. “Welcome,” a white-collared man sang as he entered the room and sat in the only empty chair left in the circle. “I am so glad you all decided to come today. I want you to know that this is a safe space, and anything you share here today will not leave these walls. As you may have noticed, we don’t do the nametag thing, and you aren’t required to announce your name, profession, or any other personal details about yourselves… unless you want to.” He flashed a warm smile to the group, and took a sip from a bottle of water, which then landed gently on the floor. “Who would like to start?” There was an exceptionally long, oppressive silence. Cups moved from laps to lips. Some set their cups on the floor at their feet while they pulled small bites from their bagels. Hesitation hung in the space like branches from a willow tree, hovering in a gentle madness. “Anyone?” nudged the coordinator. A man in a tailored suit with mismatched socks pulled his cup from his mouth. His eyes fell to the floor as he studied the painted lines of a shuffleboard court, where they remained until he stopped speaking. “After we separated, I used to get excited about buying a house. It’s part of why I became a real estate agent. Every morning, I would get out of bed, take the dog outside, feed him, and then spend the next two hours drinking several cups of coffee, searching real estate websites, certain I would find my dream home.” As he continued, his shoulders got lost a little more into the fabric of his jacket. “I never wanted anything ostentatious, just something simple, small and manageable, brick construction – because long-term quality of life with zero maintenance is what’s most important. My house would have a yard for dogs to run in, a deck big enough for a barbeque grill, and a table big enough so my friends didn’t feel crowded… but they’d crowd around it anyway, just for fun.” A small smirk escaped his lips as he took another sip of the stale courage. “Never found it though, doubt I ever will. Not even with all the houses I show other people every week. Now, I just stare out the window, listening for the thunder, watching the rain turn to hail, if I’m lucky.” He let out a defeated sigh. “As I watch the storm, I imagine that the next gigantic gust of wind could rip the roof off the apartment building, decimating every brick and shingle; and I quietly curse myself for choosing to live on the first floor. But the storms never last long enough, and the damned rainbow always peeks its way through in the end. So, I just wait for the next one. But it’s all wasted time. Maybe it makes more sense to move to Kansas… go tornado hunting.” He sank back into his chair, straightened his tie on his chest, and worked hard to evaporate into the background. “Thank you for sharing,” said clergy man. The others in the circle nodded with averted eyes, grateful real estate guy removed the burden of going first. “That was a courageous start to tonight’s meeting. Who would like to share next?” “It was suffocating,” a woman in a pair of beige heels, tweed skirt, and white blouse whispered. Her hair was pulled back in a tortoiseshell comb clip, showing off small silver infinity hoops dangling from her ears. “My job never gives me any personal space, or privacy. I used to fantasize about the idea of living alone like a crack addict craves the next high.” She looked around the room, searching for sympathetic female eyes. Two sets looked back at her with gentle, silent encouragement. A third pair seemed to gaze right past her. “Not just daydreams… serious fantasies, you know, like sex on satin sheets kinds of fantasies.” One of the men snickered, hiding behind averted eyes. Juvenile. “Go on,” comforted clergy man. “That idea of living every day without the frustration of someone else interfering with my time and energy… without any negative requirements of me... that burden… lifted.” She let go a wistful sigh, as if seeing an Adonis wraith. “I imagined life after my divorce perfectly… no more arguments, no more silent treatment, plenty of time and energy to grow my career, read thousands of books, sleep when I was tired, eat when I was hungry, and work out so much that I’d be in the kind of health my doctor planned for me. I’d have the confidence to file arrest warrants on my weaknesses and jail them for life.” Her voice became bolder, and her shoulders became stronger, but her eyes never connected with another living soul. Instead, she described the scene as she imagined it, as she watched it floating somewhere in the rafters. The two supportive women in the room followed her gaze, imagining it, too. “I’d find clarity in long moments of meditation. I’d banish the smallest parts of me, the most inconsequential pieces that could never fend for themselves… off to emotional boot camp… toughen them up… get them ready to take on the real world of possibility. Finally, I’d find eternal happiness.” She slumped back into her chair, her eyes once again staring into the putrid liquid coagulating inside the Styrofoam reservoir in her lap. “Now… I’m lonelier than I’ve ever been in my entire life, and I struggle with the simple day-to-day stuff, like eating and sleeping. I miss him, horribly. I cry in the shower… ugly cry. I let the weakness stretch out it’s kinks for those twenty minutes each day because if I don’t curtail it somehow, the loneliness and the solitude I was stupid enough to choose would turn me inside out… and some days, I have zero control, and it still does… turn me inside out. Fantasies aren’t truth… that’s why they call them that.” The supportive women turned their now tear-filled eyes into their own cups, searching for some reflection of a better ending, but knowing the pain of her failed fantasy. They’d had the same dream, or some version of it. And it failed for them, too. One of them was the next to speak. She was young, far too young, to be so horribly haunted. The woman wore a denim jacket, jeans with holes at the knees, muted teal sneakers, and a t-shirt proclaiming her devotion to The Eagles’ 2015 Farewell Tour… she doesn’t look that old. Her voice cracked just a little. Although she tried to mask it with her stage persona’s strength, she wasn’t as successful at pretending with this group. “The life of an exotic dancer isn’t easy, but I make it work… I guess. The money is good, and the hours are short. I work mostly late at night, when not much else is going on, anyway. I get to sleep in, subscribe to as many streaming services as I like. There are no heavy emotional commitments, and plenty of batteries to do what needs to be done.” The same juvenile snickered again and caught the eyes of everyone in the room this time. They would protect her from the sleaze, albeit silently. “Please go on, Miss; and let’s keep our opinions to ourselves, please. This is a safe space for everyone, remember?” chided the facilitator as he folded his hands in his lap and nodded his encouragement to the young woman. She inhaled slowly, and tried to pick up where she left off, punching her fists into the pockets of her jacket. “When that doesn’t work, there’s always brandy,” she quipped. “For four hours a day, I get to listen to music I enjoy, move around brainlessly in spandex and sparkles, and take a break from the reality of the existential crisis that lives deep inside life. It’s clear, I’ll never be more than this; I can accept that… but why? What’s the point? The lack of empty tables every night proves I’m not the only one asking the question.” She took another breath. “Still, I think I’d like to have that conversation every day with someone else… maybe find some different answers, or at the very least, we could find holes in the crisis big enough to climb out of it together. I think I’d like to try that, at least. And I’d like to try it with the person who used to be my person… again.” The room was quiet for a while. A few people took the opportunity to either throw away their trash or refill their cups. The paster, or priest, or whoever he was, allowed it without commentary. He understood that sometimes, people needed to take a break. When it was clear the meeting wasn’t over yet, the group mingled back to the circle of chairs. A few more moments of silence eavesdropped on the group. At last, a quiet, gentle, middle-aged man leaned in, forearms resting on his knees, hands clasped one over the other. He looked around the room. Expectant faces returned his glances. Although he was attractive… a simple beard, casual clothes, and a baseball cap with a faded logo… there wasn’t anything particularly exceptional about him. Still, he commanded their attention without being overbearing about it. Simple curiosity, maybe… “It’s interesting, don’t you think, where punishment finds us? It beats us up in the dark alleys that we defiantly walk because we aren’t smart enough to recognize that weakness is an armor, of sorts.” He paused, slightly bewildered by the circle’s attention. “No matter how many self-defense courses you take… no matter how proficient you become with your concealed carry permit… you eventually come to realize that Goliath fell not because he wasn’t strong enough to subdue the onslaught. It’s because David had people around him who constantly reminded him of the mistakes he made whenever he started thinking he had a handle on life.” The man sat back and shrugged his shoulders. “In the end, giants are always defeated because of a case of an over-active ego, not because their sword is rusty, or their combat skills are out of date. Still, we convince ourselves that being the giant is somehow better.” He shook his head in frustration. “It’s enough to mess with your head and make you do stupid stuff. Stuff you can never take back, and never repair. So, you end up screwed forever.” The circle nodded in agreement and connectivity. It was clear all of them felt exactly the same way but had no clue how to change any of it. It was, after all, why they’d found themselves together, drinking swill in a basement shuffleboard court. “That’s when the Suicide Hotline is a good resource…” the twelve-step crusader, chimed in. “For those moments when you feel like you are too weak, too alone, too egotistical, or feeling suffocated. It’s not a replacement for this group, but certainly, it’s a good place to turn… when you’re in the middle of a crisis, overwhelmed and maybe need a bit of compassion...” Every eye turned to their feet. No one wanted to think about that. Until that moment, she’d sat quietly, only half-listening, with her back against the metal folding chair, hands interlaced on her head. She noticed the rhythm of her heartbeat gently rocking her forward and back. Imperceptible to the others, and nearly so to her. She held her breath to make sure that’s really where the movement was coming from, and not some errant fault line tremor. It seemed impossible that she could feel it. During the last several months, she’d struggled to recognize that she even had a heart, let alone notice it beating. Huh; that’s different. It prompted her to speak. She drew herself back into the room. Her deep sigh echoed loudly off the cinderblock walls. “He’s got something, there…” The circle raised their heads in surprise. “Seriously. I was on that website the other day. They have all the information you could ever need. They even have a complete step-by-step organizational chart of what to do and in what order.” She ticked each item off on her fingers as she spoke. “You know, join a support group, slowly pull out of social engagements, write a will, write goodbye letters to the people you care about, find new housing for your pets, find a great vacation spot to… it’s like a blueprint. It’s really helpful.” Her face was filled with encouragement, as if she’d found the missing piece to their collective puzzle… that edge piece everyone searched for. “Um,” stammered the crusader. “That’s not what I meant…” His voice disappeared into the rafters. “And, if you do it just right, no one will be the wiser until it’s too late; so you’ll be able to finish your list uninterrupted. After all, who really cares? I mean, they all say they’ll be there – but what will they do, really? These are the same people who never warned you how horrible this would be, remember?” Her face was painted in a scowl of exasperation. No one returned any answers. She made eye contact with each person who’d spoken earlier. They didn’t realize she’d been paying attention; and truth be told, neither did she. “What, help you find a house where you feel comfortable and safe… discuss the existential questions that plague your sleep… fill the gaps of your alone time with something meaningful… enjoy sex without the expectation of performance anxiety… simply hold on to you while you cry yourself out without judgement or condescension?” She glanced around the circle again, waiting for an answer. None came. “Nope. They all talk a good game, but really, nothing ever happens. You’ll be surprised; really… that site’s got it all planned out for you. It’s practically idiot-proof.” “Ah, I think you misunderstood my suggestion…” the crusader tried again. “That’s not what its meant for…” His words were lost in the information dump now buzzing through the group. “The bonus,” she continued, holding up a finger, “when you’re gone, people will say some really endearing things about you and get a dopamine boost for their trouble. But you won’t hear any of it, so… no guilt.” She coddled a slight pause as she surveyed the circle again. She laced her hands back on top of her head, waiting for the movement she could no longer feel. “Really,” she shrugged, “it’s a win-win.” “She’s right!” real estate guy exclaimed. “I just pulled up the website on my phone.” The others pulled out their phones, wiggled their thumbs, and stared at their screens in a choreographed movement Bob Fosse would be proud of. “It’s all here, pretty simple. Thanks, this is really helpful.” Real estate guy stood and headed for the door, dropping his coffee cup in the trash on the way out. “But… that’s not what…” The crusader had lost them. He stood and watched helplessly as the circle disbanded and quickly marched out of the room, staring at their phones, excitedly whispering to each other as they compared notes about who had done what on the list so far. “You’re right,” she said over her shoulder as she collected her water bottle and followed them out the door. “It’s a really great resource.”
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About The Author: Adam Dompierre is a mystery author with a bachelor’s degree in psychology from the University of Michigan and a master’s degree in education from Augustana University. He has worked as a secondary English teacher since 2010.
Adam lives in northern Michigan with his fiancée Riley, their dog Pilot, and their cat Max. In his free time, he enjoys playing guitar and tennis, though not simultaneously. Title: Wild Bolts Electric Genre: Mystery Book Synopsis: Suspecting his best days are behind him, Victor Drake runs an out of the way detective agency that provides him with just enough to get by. But when James Chandler comes to him desperately seeking deliverance from a menacing stalker who seems to possess supernatural powers, Drake needs to recapture his mettle to take on the challenge of a lifetime. Though he initially regards the paranormal elements of the story as preposterous, Drake agrees to the job. A twisting investigation encircles James’ physicist girlfriend Claire Ventura, her mob associate father, and a highly-secretive program with connections to Claire’s university. There, a reluctant source warns Drake to abandon his pursuit or risk provoking the wrath of extraordinary forces. Overpowered but undaunted, Drake must rally his wits and resilience to discover the secret behind this fearsome adversary. With time and circumstance working against him, can he neutralize the threat before lives are lost? Find The Book Here: https://amzn.to/4695TS9 Discover Adam’s Website: https://www.adamdompierre.com/ YouTube: https://youtu.be/1rXmNZ1zEVc Spotify: https://tinyurl.com/yc4p8fu4 Listener Advisory: Mature language, situations, and drug use.
The views and opinions of the book and author featured in this episode are not necessarily representative of the views of the Indie Reads Aloud Podcast, its host, parent company, or affiliated authors and books. This episode includes advocacy of drug use in specific situations. The information provided is for educational and anecdotal purposes only and does not substitute for professional medical advice. Always consult with a qualified and licensed physician or other medical care provider and follow their advice regardless of anything shared in this episode. The Indie Reads Aloud podcast does not support nor advocate for illegal drug use of any kind. About The Author: Over 12 years ago, Angie Roullier chose to give cannabis a shot as a method of treatment for her CMT (Charcot Marie Tooth). Not only did she find that it greatly improved her quality of life, but she became wildly curious about how it worked and how it could help others. So, as Hunter S. Thompson recommended, she bought the ticket and took the ride and joined the cannabis industry. Over the years she has crossed paths with thousands of people looking to cannabis for help with physical, mental and/or emotional conditions. She has seen cannabis do wonders for so many of these people . . . and she has seen it do absolutely nothing for others. Cannabis is not for everyone. Cannabis is not a cure-all, a magic bullet, or the last medicine you'll ever take. But what it may have is the potential to help. Naturally. Title: Pot For The People Genre: Alternative Health Book Synopsis: Whether you call it marijuana, pot, weed, cannabis, or any of the dozens of other names, this ancient plant is here to stay. You may be all for it. You may be strongly against it. Or, you may have more questions than a four-year-old at bedtime. Angie Roullier has spent the last 12 years in the cannabis retail business, and she’s found that most people have very basic questions when it comes to cannabis and how it works in “real life.”
Pot for the People is here to help you sort some of it out, with history, science, and stories from Roullier’s personal interactions with medical marijuana patients, vendors, shop owners, and scientists. Pot for the People also contains encouraging research conclusions about how cannabis works, how it doesn’t work, and potential harmful interactions. Find The Book: https://amzn.to/3zCNdxV Visit Angie’s Website: https://www.potforthepeople.co/ YouTube: https://youtu.be/9kWwPYgNC2E Spotify: https://shorturl.at/7hDWO Listener Advisories: Mature Situations; Trigger Warning for Suicide
About The Author: Joseph Williams is an author of science fiction, fantasy, literary fiction, and horror who has published ten novels, four short story collections, and one essay. He graduated from Wayne State University in 2012 with a Master's degree (M.A.) in Creative Writing. His work has been anthologized alongside New York Times Bestselling Authors and Stoker Award winners such as Clive Barker, Jonathan Maberry, Tim Waggoner, Harlan Ellison, and Jack Ketchum. He lives in Farmington Hills, Michigan with his wife and three daughters. Book Title: Hallelujah: Exegesis of a Father’s Suicide Note Genre: Literary Fiction Book Synopsis: Raffaela Schlotter's father has just told her that he planned to kill himself six years ago. He'd had it all planned out, even crafting a lengthy suicide note titled HALLELUJAH explaining the decision. The only thing that prevented his suicide was the death of Raffa's mother a few weeks before the date he'd chosen to end it all. Now, he expects Raffa to smile through a family vacation after he 's shared the contents of his suicide note. As Raffa, her father, and her sister travel the eastern shores of Michigan, Raffa dissects the note as well as the fiction of her mentally ill father in the form of epistles to her late mother. She tries to understand the impact her father's mental health has had on his faith, marriage, parenting, and writing, and how it all relates to her newly awakened depression. As she annotates the manuscript, she worries that her father is on the verge of another suicide attempt and struggles to help him before it's too late. Find The Book: https://amzn.to/3XTOWJo Visit Joseph Williams’ Website: https://www.josephwilliamsfiction.com/ YouTube: https://youtu.be/O22kahnjI58 Spotify: https://shorturl.at/hMRCw Listener Advisories: Violence
About The Author: Joseph Williams is an author of science fiction, fantasy, literary fiction, and horror who has published ten novels, four short story collections, and one essay. He graduated from Wayne State University in 2012 with a Master's degree (M.A.) in Creative Writing. His work has been anthologized alongside New York Times Bestselling Authors and Stoker Award winners such as Clive Barker, Jonathan Maberry, Tim Waggoner, Harlan Ellison, and Jack Ketchum. He lives in Farmington Hills, Michigan with his wife and three daughters. Book Title: Colt Genre: Science Fiction Book Synopsis: After years training as a soldier and theologian, Nurisarma has been chosen for sacred trials to determine whether he is worthy to become the immortal being known as Hidria: a holy warrior who carries out the will of the Divine Infinite in the human reality. Now, with a mysterious entity named Colt acting as both his guide and adversary for the vision-quest, Nuri must fight his way through demons, alien armies, and his own crises of faith to find God at the center of the universe. If he succeeds, he will be endowed with greater powers than any creature in the galaxy. If he fails, his life will be forfeit. His only salvation lies in discerning truth from illusion to attain his personal apocalypse, and that means deciding whether Colt is friend or foe. Find The Book: https://amzn.to/45RAtjd Visit Joseph Williams’ Website: https://www.josephwilliamsfiction.com/ YouTube: https://youtu.be/2MccdKel3Ik Spotify: https://shorturl.at/6beVq
About the Author: Nikki Mitchell is the award-winning American author of the Middle Grade Portal Fantasy trilogy, Eleanor Mason’s Literary Adventures, and The Magic Shoebox Adventures.
She is a native of the Upper Peninsula of Michigan and lives there with her husband, two children, two rabbits, three cats, and dog. She is a proud member of the Upper Peninsula Publishers and Authors Association (UPPAA). As a mom of s child with ADHD and a sensory processing disorder (SPD), she continues to write fantasy tales with disabled characters, and characters with ADHD, anxiety, and Autism. Title: Ellie and the Midwest Goodbye Genre: Children’s Book Synopsis: Midwest goodbyes are tricky. They last forever and when you think you have escaped, there’s always one last hug, one last quick story, and one more family member your dad wants to talk to. Find The Book: https://amzn.to/465zCLD Visit Nikki’s Website: https://beacons.ai/nikki_mitchell YouTube: https://youtu.be/SXZCVNnA5P4 Spotify: https://shorturl.at/cEOHd About The Author: Mark McCraw has spent more than a decade in education working with children and students of all ages from infants through college students. He is an Air Force/Air Force Reserves Disabled Veteran. He is a father of four adult children and a grandfather of nine grandchildren. He currently lives in Oklahoma.
Mark is a member of the Oklahoma Literacy Association (OLA), American Library Association (ALA), Korea Defense Veterans Association (KDVA), and the Disabled American Veterans (DAV) as a Jr. Vice Commander. Title: It Happens! Genre: Children’s Book Synopsis: Adults are always having children try different vegetables and fruits. Nicoli explores his journey to decide if he really likes pickles. There has been much debate on whether it is a vegetable or a fruit. This is your chance to discover in which category, either vegetable or fruit, the pickle is classified. But do not forget to focus on his journey in elementary with this food item that will make you laugh and pique your interest as well as your imagination. Find The Book: https://amzn.to/4cHpnzm Visit Mark’s Website: https://www.markmccraw.com/ YouTube: https://youtu.be/ec4WRfIW6pE Spotify: https://shorturl.at/qbFhO ![]() There is something magical about being near big water. I first felt it when I was a child. My family would team up with my aunt, uncle, and cousins, and hit the road together for two weeks every summer. We usually ended up someplace near Tawas, Thunder Bay, or Alpena (all on Lake Huron); Luddington, Manistee, or Traverse City (all on Lake Michigan); or Mackinac Island, and Iron River (on Lake Superior). The goal was always big water, lots of time outside, and extremely limited city contact. My father usually rented one cabin, my uncle another; but always right next door, or a quick walk down a wooded path. This gave the kids (five of us until I was eight, six after that) someone other than siblings to play with, which usually reduced the arguments. The arrangement also gave the adults a foursome for cards – usually Bridge, Hearts, or Euchre. Each year held different memories, the strongest were rooted in sleeping arrangements or the water. This is where I got my love for knotty pine cabins. Some of my best childhood memories are associated with forests, water, and knotty pine cabins. Come to think of it, some of my best adult memories are, too. One year, we had matching cabins side-by-side, and for reasons I cannot explain today, we pretended my brother had lumbago, and the rest of us were medical geniuses; and the only cure was Capt’n Crunch cereal (don’t ask). That was the year my sister (four years older than me) swam out to the island, and me, my dad, and brother trolled behind in the rowboat to make sure she didn’t drown. It’s also the same year my brother was attacked by a ferocious gaggle of geese. I thought it just reward for putting snakes in my bed. Another year, we all shared a large house together. It was the year Nixon resigned. We were forced to listen to the press conference on the radio (my dad said it was history in the making). We kids slept in sleeping bags on folding camper’s cots that lined a big room with floor-to-ceiling windows on three sides. The room was covered in a multi-colored, corrugated roof. The thunderstorm that came through during our second night flashed bright colors and rumbled spectacular percussion throughout the space. That was one of my top ten favorite vacations ever… just because of that storm. As we grew older, we became a family of sailors, taking out small watercraft wherever we could, and learning that the water had “rules of the road,” and one should always keep land in sight. The best rule of thumb: if you can’t swim to it, don’t go out any farther because you never know when the wind might die, and you’ll be “three sheets to the wind and dead in the water.” Have you ever noticed; sailors have tremendously inventive, fun, and colorful language… that’s part of why I loved sailing so much. That, and the peace. Big water can be dangerous, but time near or on it can also be the calmest moments you’ll ever experience. I grew up with the understanding and belief that the world doesn’t get much better than time with a good book, a gentle breeze, rolling waves, and the soft flap of a sail as it catches a gust every now and then. And so, when I was in Muskegon for a few days recently, one of the goals was to spend as much time as I could near the big water of Lake Michigan. It’s been several years since I’ve walked those sands, felt those breezes, and inhaled that air… it felt good; like coming home to a childhood I thought was lost. Although I loved it, sailing Lake St. Clair just isn’t the same. ![]() One thing I never got to do as a child was walk to the end of Pere Marquette’s boardwalk. So this time, I did. I’ve always been fascinated by lighthouses – especially those with Keepers. Still, automated lights are just as strong a beacon of imagination for me. Being so close, I had to visit. I was grateful an author friend, Ingar Rudholm, recommended a restaurant right on the beach, “The Deck.” It was perfect. Good food, warm breezes, and a band that was so loud, I didn’t feel guilty putting some distance between me and the throng out having a good time on a warm summer’s night. I didn’t realize how much I forgot until I stood at the end of the boardwalk in the shadow of the Light, feet splashed by the bold, beautiful, waves. I forgot how amazing big water is. I forgot how the wind teases your balance… tests your resolve… tussles your hair… and flutters through the thoughts inside your brain. I forgot how the warm sand plays between your fingertips when you pretend you’re an artist. It’s warm and soothing in that same way a kitten’s tongue feels when it licks your nose. I forgot how big water smells so uniquely different from smaller waters… like tears meeting with the afternoon breeze on the day you met your first puppy. I forgot how the sun kisses the horizon at night and convinces you the earth’s edge is right there. Even though it was a deception, it was soft and gentle. I forgot how with each degree the sun lilted closer to its goodbye, the sound of the waves reverberating against the beach changed half an octave, suspended in an almost silence – but not quite. It was like being reunited with a lover who promised they’d always be there after you left… and still was. It was like being reminded that nature doesn’t make mistakes, and maybe, just maybe, you belong, after all. As I sat on the sand, watching the sun exit stage left, I noticed a Catamaran moored on the beach. It was tethered to a post and anchored tight the way light aircraft are protected at small airports without hangars. Her hull and mainmast shimmered silver-grey and she had a dark blue tramp and boom. The echo of the water lapping against her hull called out to me… “I want to sail. Please, won’t you release me from these lines… Take away the anchor… Let me go with the wind!” Her voice was small, I’m sure no one else heard it. Still, I heard her. She was crying for the freedom and escape of the big water. I couldn’t help but feel my own broken heart yearning to sail the winds with her. Seeing her so filled with angst made me sad. ![]() The memory of a little bit of wisdom I learned in high school came back to me with foghorn insistence… “A ship in a harbor is safe, but that’s not what ships were built for.” The sky became streaked with the gold hues of sunset, and I assured the little Cat that soon, her people would be back, and they would fly her across the waves with the careless abandon she so loved. She just needed to be patient. She scoffed then. And I felt that, too. I’ve never been good at waiting to spend time in the company of those I love, either. Waves, winds, or humans. As the night came to a close, and the air grew cooler, I was thankful that I’d remembered a sweatshirt, and also to take those few hours to be completely alone with the water. I remembered what I forgot. I reminded myself of those things that I’d lost sight of for a time. I enjoyed moving in slow motion, sitting alone, listening to the world without all its distractions. I will visit the big water more this year. There are lighthouses to visit, sands to play in, winds to embrace, and boats to comfort. And throughout the summer, I might just discover more things that I forgot.
About The Author: Jessica K. Foster writes funny, heartfelt Young Adult Contemporary fiction with a dash of romance. She is a middle school Language Arts teacher with a penchant for hot tea and romantic beach reads. Jessica lives in West Michigan with her husband, two boys, and their ragtag crew of rescue animals. Find her at jessicakfoster.com where all her socials are also linked.
Title: Andy and the Summer of Something Genre: YA Romance Book Synopsis: It's been a year since Andy Stevens attended leadership camp and changed her whole perspective. Now, she’s back at camp Follow the Leader as a counselor with the optimistic goal of helping campers just like she was: timid, withdrawn, and in need of a confidence injection. She’s even brought along her new boyfriend Eric. But when she arrives to find Lucas from last summer waiting for her, her plans are thrown into a tailspin. Lucas helps her to lead a wild pack of extroverted campers, but he has an ulterior motive: to win Andy back. Now she’s torn between the boy who stole her heart and the boy who is trying to fix it. Find The Book: https://amzn.to/4eE5qew Visit Jessica K. Foster’s website page: www.jessicakfoster.com YouTube: https://youtu.be/YfVuZIdPyh0 Spotify: https://tinyurl.com/4t4c3k5s About The Author: Gertrude Daly is an experienced writer and blogger. In her day job, Gertrude writes operation and maintenance manuals for a materials handling company. The company creates automated guided vehicles (AGVs) used in factories and warehouses to move goods.
In her free time, Gertrude runs Gert’s Royals, a blog about European Monarchies. Gertrude is also the co-author of two books on Plain English Medical Writing: Plain English for Doctor and Other Medical Scientists (Oxford University Press, 2017) and Diagnosing and Treating Medicus Incomprehensibilis (Oxford University Press, 2018). Gertrude has also contributed some short stories to her writing group’s annual anthologies. Title: Denizens of the Deep Featured Selection: Zestal's Landing Genre: Poem and Short Story Anthology Book Synopsis: Denizens of the Deep is an anthology exploring what may be living – or hiding – in the darkness of deep water. Ranging from historical fiction to fantasy to science fiction, twenty-one authors take you beneath the wave to discover the secrets of those who dwell there. A woman follows her husband into the sea to the cave of a siren. A scientist looks to the ocean for the secret of immortality. Divers run into unexpected finds under the waves. Underwater cities struggle to keep the water out. Mermaid treasures are lost and found, and so too are souls. Featuring poems, flash fiction, short stories, and illustrations, these twenty-nine tales will introduce you to the wonders – and dangers – of the deep. Contributors include: Victoria Williams, Elaine J Fisher, Tina Porubsky, Gertrude Daly, Tauna Sonne Le Mare, Jennifer Smith, N. Frances Moritz, Tim Yao, Bevan Das, Debra Kollar, Mary O'Brien Glatz, Liz SanFilippo Hall, Dawn DeLaura Vogelsberg, Sherry Linker, Jennifer Stasinopoulos, Susan Ekins, Karen Stumm Limbrick, Nikki Green, Annerose Walz, Gwen Tolios, J.M. Guilfoyle. This is the fourteenth anthology produced by The Writing Journey, a Chicago-based writers group dedicated to helping authors write, improve, network, and grow. Find The Book: https://amzn.to/3zt86f5 Visit Gertrude’s Website: https://gertrudedaly.com/ Check out Gertrude’s Writing Group: https://writingjourney.org/ YouTube: https://youtu.be/epyspWenP_w Spotify: https://tinyurl.com/3hzxjkdd |
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