Let the Season Begin


“Dashing through the snow” We all know the words to the populat carol. Many of us have fond memories and traditions for this time of year. Jack Frost has forgotten this.

Over the years he has become a bitter being who has forgotten why he celebrates the season. For us mortals, that bitterness can have devastating effects.

Giving a young Jack Frost the chance to remember is the premise behind a new holiday classic, Spirit of Winter.

Spirit of Winter Cover_FRONT

To give you a better idea here is a bit more of an idea for you to ponder.

The entrapment of his sister’s spirit has caused Jack Frost to forget what it means to play; thus causing bitterly cold winters.

Santa Claus, Mother Nature, and Father Time conspire to show Jack the meaning of winter once more. To accomplish this they turn him, and by extension themselves, into children. Will learning to play again bring Noelle Frost back?

Will Jack remember his sister’s spirit or will winter become frigid and inhospitable for the rest of time?

Keep in mind that the paper back form of Spirit of Winter is printed in the double spaced format so that people with reading disabilities may enjoy the story as well. This includes dyslexia.

As always,




A Memory


I came accross this prompt “What is a memory?” We could interpret this many ways. Does a memory mean something different to you?

We all have struggles that we face and this is just one. This is the first time I have put this particular memory to paper. For some reason I feel better about the situation now that I have seen it in black and white. How many struggles do you face? How many do you remember facing?

Do you have positive memories you would like to share? Or a story in particular? If so, feel free to comment. And remember,

Happy Reading


Memory is a funny thing. It can simultaneously take you back to your worst day and your best. It can pinpoint where childhood ends. There are times that you can smell every little detail of a day. I have a day such as that…

It was mid to late September 1993. It was a comfortable indian summer night. My parents had been arguing for days and my dad had taken a walk earlier that morning. I watched him leave from the upstairs window, with his duffle bag in hand. He had told me to go upstairs because he didn’t want me to see him go. This wasn’t the first time he had pulled this stunt.

My mom and aunt had just smoked their drug of choice as my siblings and I sat watching a rerun of the X-Files premier. There was a knock at the door. The rail thin form of my mom said, “Rosey, answer the door.”

Shrugging my shoulders I looked out the cracked front window. “Mom, it’s grandpa. And the cops are with him,” I told her with a hint of sorrow in my teenaged voice.

“See what your father did this time,” mom demanded as she slunk off to the bathroom.

Shrugging my shoulders at the inevitable reply from her I opened our creaky front door and stepped onto the rickety screened porch that was attached by a miracle. “Grandpa, what did dad do this time,” I sighed resignedly.

Grandpa’s aged features looked older than I had ever seen him and the cop at his side shook his head. Grandpa’s deep voice was heavy with tears as he ordered, “Rosey, I don’t care what you have to do, but I need you to get your mom out here now.”

This wasn’t the first time I had seen Grandpa angry, but it was the first time I had ever seen tears in that stubborn old man’s eyes. “Okay,” I answered as I nodded my head.

I went back into that little ramshackle house with its paper thin walls and walked to the bathroom where my mom was sitting on a pile of laundry that needed to be done. “Mom,” I began, “Grandpa says he needs to talk to you, now.”

Her dark, stringy hair shook with her head as I reach out and pulled her to her feet. I slowly forced her to walk to the door. Opening that creaky door I stepped onto the porch with her. I had every intention of standing by her side while she decided what to do with the current mess my dad had gotten himself into. That was no to be as I was told to go back inside and watch t.v..

After I sat back down it wasn’t but a few minutes before I heard my mom scream, “NOOOOO!”

The four of us siblings looked at each other and then at my aunt. She got up and went outside. Barely a few minutes later I heard my aunt yell, at the top of her lungs, “Are you happy now, you bitch! He’s dead!”

We sat there not understanding. Eventually we all went to bed in that house with its paper thin walls.

The next morning we found out the truth. Our dad had been murdered and my aunt had screamed at a neighbor that my dad often feuded with.

I was thirteen year’s old at the time and my world had ended. Today, twenty – two years later that day is but a sad memory in my life. I can remember the talk we had the day before he died and I can still see what he looked like in his coffin. I can still see the chunk of skin missing from his cheek. All of this I can still see and more.

Today I try to focus on the good memories in hopes that someday, the pain of that dreadful day will fade a bit more.

‘Tis the Season



We all know the holidays are upon us once more. Have you started decorating yet, or are you already done? What are you doing and who are you spending time with? Do you like to read? Need a book to gift?

How about one that reminds us that there is a reason for the season? Spirit of Winter is just such a book.

The winter beings have decided that Jack Frost has become too bitter. Towards that end they decided that he needs to remember the most important reason that winter is around. To do that though, Jack needs to learn one major lesson – to play.

Will this work? Will Jack Frost’s icy point of view thaw?

Find out in Spirit of Winter.

Remember the physical print copy is printed in double space format in order for people with reading disabilities to have an easier time enjoying the story. This includes people with dyslexia (something my husband will attest to). As Always,

Happy Reading

What is a Feather?


It’s amazing what a feather can do. It’s as light as air and yet can lift a bird off the ground. It can blow in the wind yet make soft pillows and mattresses. It can tickle yet make a mess when they fall to the ground. They can be used to make fans or clothes. Mythology has even used feathers to make man fly. They can be used to send secret messages or be used to write.

Of all of these I prefer the history of writing with them. Quills are a wonderful tool in the writer’s profession. Not only are they pretty to look at, but practical tool. As long as they are clean a quill is safer to chew on than a Bic pen. No writing is quite as elegant as what comes from a quill.

The ink that flows from a quill’s nib is more unique as you watch its colors dry. I feather quill literally allows us to create the new worlds that we love. What other tool, I ask you, has that power?

What Does November Mean To You?


 Describe November

To me November is crisp leaves of red and gold. It is the time when chill winds harrow colder seasons. A roaring fire and the promise of seeing long absent friends and family.

November is when seasons change and we meet the flu bug head on. When noses start to sniffle and icicles start to form.

November is visiting friends and family who willingly share what they have with you. November is when Nature calls us all home.