Who I am and Why I am here.

This is my first assignment for Blogging 101/Zero to Hero. And of course I am late with it. So who am I? A procrastinator for one. A creative who is always pushing up to the deadline and rushing through things.

I am many things and this blog will have many things. My interests are multi faceted, so I can’t imagine having a blog that sticks to just one thing. Sometimes I will post about writing, because I am a blossoming writer. Sometimes there will be flash fiction, or something I am working on. Not so much about the process of writing, because I am still figuring that out myself and can’t advise anyone else on it.

My passion are horses. They inhabit such a large part of my life, that they will be making an appearance from time to time. Either as horse care posts, or just random observations on the industry in general.

This is my story. The story of Susan in all of it’s messiness, non linear glory. It is a story of being lost and found, of epic battles and sweeping vistas and mundane detritus of day to day livings. Ok, maybe not epic battles, and not huge sweeping vistas. But you get the idea.

Hopefully blogging will focus me.


Flash fiction challenge part 3

For those of you who are following along. Here is part 3 of the story I picked last week. I really like where is is going and hope someone picks it up next week so I can see how it ends.


And on to Part 3 of the challenge. This is a tough story to continue, but I had to give little Delmar some hope.

The first part is by Andy Decker with Mozette continuing it.

Part 1


Little Delmar played his fiddle and the clean lonely sound of it filled the house.

Momma called him scrawny with his skinny arms like the frame of a homemade kite and his shoulders that tilted in impossible ways.  That’s what caught him and held him back that night.

After momma tucked him under the quilt, he snuck outside through the kitchen door to go to the pond and try to catch something.  What he sought on these excursions varied; sometimes frogs, sometimes fireflies.  Once, he snuck out to see the box of still blind kittens on the other side of the carport, near the brick pile.

But that last time, momma’d locked the door and Little Delmar, forever so named, stuck his head and twisted his spine just so to go through the doggie door.  He’d done it before.  But momma heard him.

She grabbed the claw hammer from under her mattress and ran down the hall, her nightgown flapping like a great and terrible angel.  Delmar tried backing out and got his neck caught on the heavy plastic flap.  In the dark, momma threw the hammer and knocked a nice chunk of the boys’ skull out of place.



Part 2

Six months passed by and Little Delmer was confined to his wheelchair, forever staring.

The doctors told his mother he’d be a vegetable for life.

She felt so much guilt about what she had done she began to drink.

Her sadness could be heard from his bedroom at night as she’d drink herself to sleep, but it wasn’t that which bothered him.

It was her crying… it sounded like a howling coyote… and Delmer would mimic her softly as he laid in his specially-designed bed unable to sleep in the deep of night.

During the day, he was situated in front of the television with it going on all the children’s shows all day.

But he never watched it.

Delmer’s gaze would move slowly from the dancing figures on the screen to a box next to the mantle… his violin.

And he’d stare at it all day longingly…

…moving his fingertips in time with the music playing inside his head.

All day, Delmer would practice his violin in his head…

…while physically he couldn’t move a muscle.

He wanted to die…


The home health aids came in twice a week to help his mother care for him. They changed frequently, but one seemed to come back again and again with some consistency.

She was a large back woman with large spongy breasts that strained against her cheap polyester uniform. She often wore a worn grey cardigan that clashed with the tan of her uniform.

She would come and get Delmar into his special chair lifting his wasted body as easily as if he was a kitten. She would massage his legs and move his arms to help keep the muscles from becoming too atrophied and keep his hands from becoming more claw like than the already were.

And she talked to Delmar instead of around him as his mother and sisters did. She talked to him like he would answer her.  This made Delmar smile and even laugh sometimes though you could not tell from his stiff facial muscles.

The day it happened Flora was singing to Delmar and massaging his right arm. From the box by the mantel came a soft sound of a violin string being plucked.  Flora continued her massage as though it had not happened. But then there was another and another. And then one long soulful tone vibrating from the box.

Flash fiction Challenge: 200 words at a time part two

Chuck Wendig from Terrible minds has proposed an interesting challenge. It is a  5 part challenge in which everyone will write 200 words and continue someone else’s story. A little bit like a game of telephone. After everyone switches stories for 5 weeks who knows what the 1000 word result will have morphed into.

I missed the first week. But here is my continuation of  Heather Milne Johnson’s 200 words “The Corner” . Her words are the colored ones and mine follow. Hopefully someone will pick this up and continue it.

The cat stared at the corner of the bedroom. Her eyes were black disks with only a rim of yellow showing. She was stock still and it was creeping me out.

“Hey, Shadow!”

She didn’t respond, not even an ear flicker. As I watched her, goosebumps popping up on my arms, she moved. Rather, her fur moved. Her tail puffed out like a bottle brush and a ridge of fur rose up along her back, unfurling like a hoisted sail.

A low keening noise made my heart jump. A sound of fear, pain, and sadness, it was coming from Shadow. I’d never heard the cat make a noise other than a chirpy sort of meow or a raucous purr.

The keening continued, rising and lowering in pitch in an awful melody. I got out of bed, walked over to Shadow and knelt down. She ignored me, still staring into the corner. The keening got louder and her body vibrated with the effort of producing that ghastly noise. I lowered my head until it was on a level with hers, forcing myself to turn my head and look at the spot hypnotizing the cat.

And I saw what she saw.

The light from the street lamp across the way lit the corner with a bluish tint, highlighting the object of Shadow’s attention in the corner.

At first I thought it was a doll. It was propped up, stiffly leaning to one side.

I assumed it was a girl doll. It’s hair was standing out in all directions under an acorn cap worn low over her eyes. She wore a dress with a tight bodice and a flared skirt like a tutu. Looking closer I saw the skirt was made from the leaves of an oak tree. Her arms were bare as were her feet. She stood with a knitting needle in her hand the pointed end to the sky and the end braced against her foot. Her face was dirty and like all doll eyes her’s stared into nothing over my shoulder.

As I looked Shadow continued her keening

“Shadow. It’s just a doll. Look.” I said reaching out to pick the doll up.

The cat suddenly hissed and spit and backed up, while what I had thought was a doll lunged, knitting needle braced under her arm shrieking in a high-pitched tone. Her mouth opened displaying a set of serrated teeth.

our stories

A friend of mine was given some bad health news recently. Of course there are pills to try and some treatments that might help, but for today modern medicine doesn’t have a cure. What makes this worse is she watched a family member die of the same disease, so she knows what is coming. 

Like all of us she is busy. Her life is full of kids and work and just day to day “stuff” . Each day is packed full long into the evening and beyond. She is over worked and over tired 99% of the time, but then who among us is not. 


When she told me about her diagnosis she said that she was going to have to change her life. That from now on things would have to be different. Slower. No more late nights at work with a deadline after the kids were asleep. Stopping to smell the flowers, enjoy what she has and live each moment. 

In her words I heard the voices of others. Those who had talked to her soon after her diagnosis. Their prescriptions of how her life would be. The ones who gave her hope and a vision of her future. 


 But I also heard her new story. 


The story that once you tell it enough times becomes who you are. As she talked to various members of our barn family I heard minor variations, but the major themes stayed the same. She was reinventing herself in front of my eyes. Each retelling put more faith in the universe. 


 We reinvent ourselves with each telling of our stories. Even when it is not our own words.  The more times our story is told in the outside world the more true it becomes. 


I watched how with each telling came acceptance.