Book reviews are vital to indie authors, so I was thrilled to read this amazing review for Flowers and Ash on Instagram by Grace Jackson. Please feel free to tag me in your own reviews, social media pictures, or posts about Flowers and Ash on Instagram, Facebook, Twitter or other social media platforms where I hang out. I love hearing from you!
Brenda Baker’s “Flowers and Ash” is a very tragic and captivating read. The story is that of a town which has a twisted and untouched (for a quite long time) history, named Stonebridge. When one day a woman doesn’t return home, her daughter Lisette panics and goes utterly broken. Even after nine years, she is unable to get past the pain. But the problem was that this vanishing was not the only one. More took place and the whole town was frightened of who might be next and whether it would ever stop. Lisette takes upon herself the goal of solving this mystery and bringing out the culprit. What does she have to put at stake in this mission of hers? The book is worth your time and effort.
The book is not very long. It can be read in two sittings quite easily. I finished it in one go because of its ability to grab a reader’s attention. I was stuck to it from the very second chapter as the crooked nature of the town was getting revealed and the story’s pace began to take shape. I was immersed in the story till the end. The end is a pathbreaker. I was not expecting that ending to such a twisted story. The moral of the story, according to me, is “Sometimes it’s right in front of our eyes.” The characters are one of a kind. With each one having its unique set of traits and specialties, they add to the crispiness of the story. The more I dived deeper, the more my anticipation rose. Loved it.
For readers of traumatic experiences and fictional plots, this book is a very good fit. I would also recommend this book to those who like to read and explore new imaginative and mysterious stories. This story will leave a creative impact on any reader’s mind. Happy reading folks!
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In loving memory of our beautiful mother.
Our light in the sea of ages,
your hand showed us the way
through the storms and clear waters.
Accordion Angel
In heaven you play for the angels who dance on heaven's floor.
The angels we lost too soon by your side. Together again, for we lost one more.
One step and two. The three step underway with the angels, keeping step now too.
Your smile shoots once more across the horizon. A beacon of light in the early morning fog.
And the accordion plays one more waltz. This song for you, Mom. Forever with love.
The love you keep up high. For heaven called one more angel to his kingdom.
The accordion drifting in the early morning fog past heaven's gate where locks are no more.
And the music in your soul of resounding might plays from above.
A beautiful poem my aunt Emily wrote for Mom.
A beautiful video my sister Beth created for Mom. In the video, my sister shares the many photos she gathered of Mom with family and friends.
Mom shared her love of music with family and friends for as long as I can remember. And although Mom left her life as a radio DJ behind when she moved to Alberta, her deep love of music could never be dampened. Whenever you visited Mom, you were greeted by the musical sounds of Newfoundland and Mom’s ever-bright smile. Mom loved Newfoundland music and the accordion in particular, introducing the music of her home province to her friends in Alberta, the province she came to call home.
If you click on the butterfly below, it will bring you to the radio interview where my sister Bernice shares memories of Mom during her time as a radio DJ in my home town of Labrador City.
Forever in our hearts. Forever loved. Forever with us.
Once upon a time in a far, faraway land there lived two little princesses. Princess Marjorie and Princess Sylvia lived in a castle with their mommy the queen and their daddy the king. Berry the magical strawberry cow lived in a house near the castle.
Princess Marjorie and Princess Sylvia loved strawberry milk. So Berry made sure to give them a glass every day. Our two little princesses loved visiting Berry’s tiny house in the mornings.
Berry the magical cow was not like the other cows who lived at the castle. Berry was much smaller than all the other cows and preferred to stand upright. She also loved to play dress up with Princess Marjorie and Princess Sylvia.
Princess Marjorie, Princess Sylvia and Berry spent each morning playing games and laughing at each other’s jokes. Princess Marjorie and Princess Sylvia loved Berry and could not wish for a better friend in all the land.
On a sunny morning in the middle of another busy growing season, our two little princesses were skipping to Berry’s house. Princess Marjorie and Princess Sylvia practiced telling each other the jokes they wanted to tell their best friend.
“What did the black cat say to the sheep?” said Princess Marjorie.
Princess Sylvia stopped to think. When several moments had passed, she shook her head. “What did the black cat say?” Princess Sylvia said at last.
“Meow, meow, the black cat said to the sheep,” said Princess Marjorie with a giggle. “Meow, meow. Cause that be what cats say.”
“I have one too,” said Princess Sylvia. “Why did the black cat come home with four green shoes?”
It was Princess Marjorie’s turn to stop and think. Then like her little sister, Princess Marjorie shook her head. “I give up. Why did the black cat come home with four green shoes?”
“Because the shoemaker ran out of brown shoes,” said Princess Sylvia.
The two little princesses laughed merrily and skipped all the way to Berry’s house. Berry always waited at the door for her two best friends. But Berry was not at the door this morning when they skipped past the apple tree. The two little princesses looked at each other in surprise.
Princess Marjorie and Princess Sylvia could not remember a single morning that Berry did not smile and wave to them from her doorway. No matter the weather, Berry was always waiting. Was Berry ill? The two little princesses ran to Berry’s tiny house. If Berry was sick, they would care for her and get her some fresh hay and carrots.
The kitchen inside Berry’s house was empty. Princess Marjorie and Princess Sylvia hurried to the bedroom next. But it too was empty. Our two little princesses looked at each other in confusion. Where could Berry be?
“Maybe she went to the market to buy some candles,” Princess Sylvia said hopefully. “Berry has just three candles left. And Berry loves candles.”
So Princess Marjorie and Princess Sylvia ran to get their horses from the stable. Then the two little princesses galloped all the way to the candlemaker’s shop in market square. Once inside the shop, our two little princesses looked to see if Berry was anywhere in sight.
But save for an elderly woman in a green dress, the shop was empty. Princess Marjorie and Princess Sylvia hurried over to the candlemaker. Mr. Waxler was making a small yellow candle. He smiled at the two little princesses.
“Please, kind sir. Have ye seen our friend, Berry?” Princess Marjorie asked the candlemaker.
Mr. Waxler shook his head. “I made five red candles especially for Berry. Red reminds her of strawberries. I was expecting her this morning, but she has yet to pick them up. I’ve never known Berry to be late.”
Princess Marjorie and Princess Sylvia thanked the kind candlemaker and hurried back to their horses.
“Where else might Berry go?” Princess Sylvia asked her sister.
The two little princesses thought for a moment. Princess Sylvia then looked at Princess Marjorie with the brightest of smiles. “Berry wanted to make strawberry tartes for our walk tomorrow. Maybe she went to see the miller for more flour.”
Princess Marjorie and Princess Sylvia always passed by the mill on their way to town. It was the only building alongside the river outside of Longbridge. Without a moment’s delay, our two little princesses rode to the mill.
Princess Marjorie and Princess Sylvia tied their horses to a nearby tree and hurried inside the mill. Neither Princess Marjorie nor Princess Sylvia knew what the miller looked like, so they asked a kind-looking woman. The kind woman brought them to where the miller was filling a large sack with flour. Princess Sylvia asked the miller if he had seen their friend.
“Berry was here just after dawn. She picked up her sack of flour and left straight away. I hope ye find her well,” said the miller.
Princess Marjorie and Princess Sylvia thanked the kind miller and went to retrieve their horses once more.
The two little princesses were untying their horses when Princess Marjorie spotted Berry’s hat and sack of flour next to the river. Berry loved her blue hat and never left home without it. Our two little princesses ran down to the river. Princess Sylvia picked up the hat and studied it in bewilderment.
“Berry would never leave her hat behind,” said Princess Marjorie.
The two little princesses searched the river for Berry. A dark blue fish rose from the water in front of them. Upon the fish’s head, there was a silver horn. Princess Marjorie and Princess Sylvia had never seen such a big or strange-looking fish before.
“Pleased to meet ye,” said the blue fish with green eyes. “My name be Junara.”
Princess Marjorie and Princess Sylvia stared in surprise. They had never met a talking fish before. Truth be told as it must, our two little princesses didn’t know fish could speak at all.
“What may I call ye,” asked Junara next.
Princess Marjorie and Princess Sylvia introduced themselves and asked Junara if she had seen a magical strawberry cow who could also talk.
Junara nodded her head. “Your friend was taken by the river monster. He will present your friend as a gift to his daughter. But fear not. I gave your friend magical lungs to breathe underwater.”
The two little princesses stared in despair, for Berry was their best friend in all the land. And Berry was a cow. She wasn’t a fish. Cows lived on farms and castle grounds. Cows didn’t live in rivers. Cows had legs. And last our two little princesses checked, cows didn’t have fins.
“Please, Miss Junara,” implored Princess Sylvia. “Can you help us rescue our friend from the river monster?”
Junara looked at the two little princesses for a moment. “I will need a gift from each of ye for the monster’s daughter in exchange for your friend,” said she at last.
Princess Marjorie and Princess Sylvia nodded happily and went to find their gifts for the monster’s daughter. They returned shortly thereafter with one gift each. Princess Marjorie’s hands overflowed with freshly picked elderberries. Princess Sylvia held up her crown for presentation.
Junara glanced at the gifts and shook her head in disapproval. “River monsters have no use for elderberries and crowns. They are already kings and queens of the rivers.”
Our two little princesses thus rode back to the castle at full gallop. Inside the castle, they spotted their parents. The king and queen were leaving for Starbridge. Princess Marjorie and Princess Sylvia were not permitted to leave the castle without Berry. But Berry was in trouble and needed their help.
So our two little princesses said their farewells before the king and queen could ask any questions, then ran to their chamber fast as their feet would go. Princess Marjorie found her favourite book and tucked it inside her leather pouch. Princess Sylvia hugged her favourite doll before placing it inside her pouch.
Upon their return to the river, Junara smiled in approval. “I see the value of each gift in your eyes, little ones. It shines bright as the sun above. Now I see the true value of your friend. The monster’s daughter will be pleased with such worthy gifts.”
Princess Marjorie and Princess Sylvia placed their pouches over Junara’s horn. Junara swam upstream and disappeared. Our two little princesses waited by the river. And then they waited some more.
Then, after what seemed like days, Junara suddenly appeared with Berry swimming happily beside her. Berry waved to Princess Marjorie and Princess Sylvia, then swam past Junara fast as she could. Berry climbed onto the riverbank and shook herself dry.
Our two little princesses ran to hug Berry. To Princess Marjorie and Princess Sylvia, Berry’s friendship was worth more than a thousand pretty gifts. And no gift more precious could ever replace their best friend in all the land. For Princess Marjorie and Princess Sylvia loved Berry with all their heart.
A story for Marjorie and Sylvia, my two bright and beautiful little princesses.
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I recently created my first media kit, which got me thinking about the ideas or themes within Flowers and Ash. Every story has a theme embedded somewhere below the surface. I would venture to add that most novel-length stories have several themes, some more prominent or obvious than others. Flowers and Ash is no exception. As the author, I can definitively say it has its share of themes – all open to interpretation by the reader based on their personal experience.
Some of the themes within Flowers and Ash are intentional, meaning that I started writing with a desire to explore those ideas. Other themes emerged as I wrote. When I started writing the first draft, I wanted to tell the story of a young woman who sets out to solve a mystery. I created a quasi-medieval fantasy world for that mystery to take place. Next thing I knew, Lisette was embarking on a quest with her loyal band of friends.
By the end of my first draft, Flowers and Ash had grown into a coming-of-age story featuring magic, a talking oak tree, imaginary creatures, and our sword-wielding band of friends. Lisette’s quest for truth had transformed into more than she could’ve ever imagined. A quest for truth had become a journey of discovery: some enchanting, some downright maddening, and some the stuff of nightmares.
Lisette’s outward journey acts as a road map for her journey of self-discovery. As Lisette struggles to understand all that she learns on her quest, she must also struggle with her own truth and find the courage to not only accept that truth but embrace it. The two are inseparable with each path along the way guiding the other. Unknown to Lisette, when she leaves her hometown to uncover what happened to her mother and the others who vanished, she also embarks on what will become a life-changing rite of passage to adulthood.
Flowers and Ash is told from Lisette’s point of view. So when the story begins, the reader sees Wrunwicks and its world through Lisette’s sharp mind, keen sense of justice, and innocence. Then as Lisette travels throughout Wrunwicks, her view of the world opens up, widening and evolving alongside the miles. As her constant companion, the reader’s lens onto Wrunwicks reflects that evolution and loss of innocence. The reader is also witness to Lisette’s newly discovered strength, determination, and personal growth. That being said, Lisette was born with a stubbornness and courage that shine through from the beginning. Mind you, Lisette would be the first to disagree.
In the scene below from chapter three, Lisette is still home. Her stepmom had just told her father about Lisette’s plan to leave in search of answers. After hearing her father’s thoughts on the matter, Lisette considers the flowers given to her stepmom many years ago.
Lisette looked around their kitchen. It was as unassuming as her stepmom. She paused. Her eyes settled on a shelf over the salt meat barrel. Nora’s most prized possessions were still the flowers she had picked for her as a child, kept in a wooden box for safekeeping. Smiling at the memory of Nora placing one of the flowers inside its new home, Lisette took in the faces of her parents. And like the flowers in their box, the image of her parents sitting by the fire would last forever inside her heart.
Flowers and Ash (p. 31)
The reference to the flowers was intentional. Although I didn’t realize Flowers and Ash would grow into a coming-of-age story, I did know Lisette would need to undergo a transformation to do what she needed by the last chapter. While staying home might have kept Lisette safe like the flowers inside their wooden box, it’s the struggles she’ll face on her journey that will help our heroine grow into the woman she is to become. Like her beloved wildflowers, Lisette will need the freedom to reach for the sun. Only then will she be able to achieve her full potential and overcome the challenges before her. Only then can she own her truth.
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Once upon a time, in a town not far from this one, there lived a young maiden with dark brown hair and eyes prone to sorrow. The young maiden was named after her mother, Ella, whom she missed with all her heart. Mrs. Whiterling passed twelve years ago when Ella was only seven.
When his wife died of fever, Mr. Whiterling married a widow with two daughters of her own, aged ten and twelve. Mr. Whiterling reasoned it would be good for Ella to have two sisters and a woman to take her mother’s place. Mr. Whiterling knew nothing about raising a daughter, and so he trusted his decision as wise and best for everyone.
The new Mrs. Whiterling embraced the life of a trader’s wife and the comforts such a life could afford. While Mr. Whiterling travelled to the distant towns of Wrunwicks, Mrs. Whiterling quickly learned how to make use of her stepdaughter, citing the need for Ella to learn the skills of a wife.
“Better to start too young than too old, ” Mrs. Whiterling had once said to her new husband.
Trusting his wife’s experience in such matters, Mr. Whiterling had simply nodded in agreement and smiled proudly as he watched his daughter stir the evening’s pottage. His wife knew best how to raise their daughters.
Twelve years later, Ella had learned to cook the finest pottage and all her family’s favourite foods. So much so that Mrs. Whiterling let the undercook go, offering his services to their lord, who was kind and thus happy to oblige his dear friends.
Over the years, Ella had learned many other skills as well. Before starting her chores, Ella rose every morning with the first bell to clear the ashes from each fireplace. And every morning, she was rewarded by a smile from Mabel, the tottering head servant. Mabel affectionately nicknamed Mrs. Whiterling’s youngest daughter Cinderella. Mrs. Whiterling and Cinderella’s stepsisters liked the nickname straight away, though with more scorn than affection, truth be known. Mrs. Whiterling and her daughters liked to save the virtues for times of need. A fact that caused great pain for their Divine Mother, who loved all Wrunwickers.
But Cinderella had long accepted the shortcomings of her stepmother and stepsisters. She liked her nickname despite their scorn. She liked Mabel too and learned all that she knew from the kind-hearted woman. Cinderella pretended to be happy with the endless chores for her father, the person she loved most apart from her mother. So she put on her smile every morning with her dress.
Cinderella was sweeping the kitchen floor one morning when a loud knock sounded at the door. She ran to open the door, where a young man waited with a note in his hand from Lord Agmire. Cinderella thanked the messenger and hurried to the great hall. The note was addressed to her parents.
Mrs. Whiterling lay down her knife when Cinderella entered the hall. “I’m not to be disturbed during breakfast. Ye know this, Cinderella.”
“My apologies, Mother, but the note be addressed to ye and Father. It bears the crest of Lord Agmire.” Cinderella passed her stepmother the note and waited.
Mrs. Whiterling tore open the note and read with ever-widening eyes. “Lord Agmire is having a ball for his son. Our young lord seeks a bride-to-be, and Lord Agmire invites us to attend.” She smiled at her two oldest daughters. “Ye’ll need new gowns made of the finest silk. It won’t do to arrive in rags at the grand ball. The future lady of Mythbridge must dress the part.”
“Am I to attend as well?” asked Cinderella. She had seen their dashing young lord on a few occasions and knew him to be kind and juste.
Upon hearing Cinderella’s question, the two stepsisters laughed so hard they nearly wept. Mrs. Whiterling stared at Cinderella in what looked suspiciously close to shock. The woman’s face was stone white. Cinderella wondered if her stepmother had suddenly grown ill.
“I can’t possibly take ye, Cinderella,” said Mrs. Whiterling. “I shudder to think what Lord Agmire might think if I arrived at the ball with ye dressed in rags and smelling like the day’s cinder. He might think me mad, or worse still, he might throw us out onto the street. Have ye stopped to think what that might do to your poor father? His health isn’t what it used to be.”
Cinderella wanted to weep upon hearing her stepmother’s words, but she put on her bravest face. “Please forgive my foolish lips, Mother. I too want what be best for our family. “
Later that day, Cinderella snuck out to visit her mother’s tree. She still remembered the day her father planted it as though it were yesterday. Today, Cinderella asked her mother for strength as she always did. But today, she also asked her mother for guidance. A bright yellow flower fell from the tree and landed in Cinderella’s hand. Cinderella beheld the flower in her hand and tried to understand its meaning. She knew the flower was from her mother and held it close until she could find a place to hide it from her stepmother and stepsisters.
Cinderella received a flower during each visit after that. On the day of the grand ball, Cinderella visited her mother once more and received yet another flower. She hid the flower inside the chest beneath her bed. She now had twelve flowers.
After Cinderella’s stepmother and stepsisters left for the ball, she snuck out to the stables to gaze up at the stars undisturbed. A fairy suddenly appeared with four twigs in her hand. Cinderella stared in surprise and stepped back from the window, for she had never seen a fairy before. The fairy flew in and stopped midair.
“I was your mother’s friend for many years, Cinderella. I watched her grow from childhood to motherhood,” said the tiny fairy. “Before her passing, your mother asked that I watch over ye but to never interfere unless my help was needed. Your mother then said to watch the flowers. When the flowers fell I would know it was her by their number. A flower a day for each year of her passing. I heard of the ball and know that your stepmother has forbidden ye to go. I believe your mother has a different wish for ye.” The fairy then flew over and gave Cinderella two of the twigs.
Cinderella looked at the twigs in her hand. “What am I to do with these? Should I keep them?”
“The twigs belonged to your mother’s tree. Place one in each shoe,” said the fairy.
Cinderella did as the fairy said and stuck the twigs upright inside her shoes. She looked to the fairy once more and waited.
“The twigs know your mother’s wish for ye. I’ve given each twig the power to fulfill that wish,” said the fairy with a bright smile.
No sooner had the fairy finished speaking when Cinderella found herself surrounded by thin swirls of yellow light. Within moments, her tattered dress transformed into a yellow gown of velvet and silk. Twas a gown like none she had ever worn. The sleeves nearly touched the ground in back. And the entire gown was trimmed with delicate blue flowers stitched onto the snow-white silk. A rope of thick silver encircled her waist and stopped mere inches above her feet. The twigs in her shoes then stretched around her ankles and transformed into a pair of silk slippers to match her gown. The slippers twinkled in the dark.
“Ye look like a princess,” said the fairy, admiring Cinderella. “Each slipper reflects the hope that shines in your heart. They can never be destroyed while hope remains.” The fairy flew over and gave Cinderella the second last twig with two long buds near the tip. “I almost forgot. We can’t have ye going to the ball with your hair like that. Place the twig behind your ear.”
Cinderella did as she was told. The twig began to glow a soft yellow and jumped to the back of Cinderella’s head. She felt the twig twisting itself around her hair. When Cinderella reached back, she discovered the twig had turned to silk.
The fairy smiled once more. “Ye’ll need a ride to the manor,” said she and whistled softly.
In through the door came a pardela with the gentlest of green eyes. A saddle covered in blue flowers peeked out from a magnificent set of wings. “I will be your ride to the grand ball,” said he without introduction. “Fear not, Cinderella. I will get ye home before your stepmother be any the wiser.”
Cinderella stared in surprise and stepped back, for she had never seen a pardela before. What strange and wondrous adventure was this? “Perhaps tis a dream,” she thought and shook her head.
“Goodness me,” said the fairy. “I’m getting more forgetful than a babbling brook.” She flew over and placed the last twig on the pardela’s saddle.
Within moments, thin swirls of yellow light surrounded the pardela. Moments later still, the pardela had transformed into a black horse with a pale yellow mane and tail.
“Beware the last bell,” said the fairy. “Ye’ll need to leave before the first chimes. Your belt will begin to swing when the last bell draws near.”
Cinderella looked down at her belt, then looked back at the fairy. “How will it know?”
“Your mother wills it so. Do ye trust your mother, Cinderella of Mythbridge?” asked the fairy.
When Cinderella nodded, the horse turned to her. “Time to leave while the night be still young,” said he with hurried breath.
Cinderella climbed onto the saddle and gripped the reigns. The flowers that covered the seat were softer than her bed. The horse said farewell to the still-smiling fairy and made his way to the manor at fast trot.
Arrived at the manor, Cinderella entered the great hall with its lofty ceilings and even loftier guests. She knew nothing of fine manners or fine clothes and hoped she would not ruin her fine gown. Now at the ball, Cinderella knew not what to do next. She stood admiring the dancers when their dashing young lord approached. He introduced himself as Frerik, the lord’s son, and asked Cinderella to dance.
“All are familiar with your name and kindness, my lord,” said Cinderella and bowed. She neglected to introduce herself, but Lord Frerik seemed not to notice her poor manners.
Lord Frerik asked Cinderella to dance many times throughout the night and ignored the other maidens hoping to gain his favour. Cinderella’s stepsisters failed to recognize the beautiful maiden in her yellow gown and silk-woven hair. Envy had stolen their sight. As for Mrs. Whiterling? She rarely saw past her own nose, suffering as it were from nosticulus, and tonight was no exception.
Cinderella was dancing once more with the dashing young lord when her belt began to sway. Soon as they finished dancing, Cinderella thanked Lord Frerik for his generous hospitality and bid him a very good night. Before Lord Frerik could speak even a word, Cinderella had already disappeared among the guests. Lord Frerik spotted Cinderella hurrying out the door and squeezed his way through the crowd. But when he made his way to the courtyard, Cinderella was gone. All that remained was a tiny slipper.
Unknown to Lord Frerik, Cinderella was already halfway home. When she reached the stables built so long ago by her great-grandfather, the fairy was still there. She commended Cinderella on her swift return, then frowned in dismay.
“It seems ye lost a slipper in your haste. The slippers are yours to keep, but one shall have to suffice. For what be done cannot be undone.”
And for the first time, Cinderella noticed her bare foot. She was about to apologize when thin swirls of yellow light surrounded her. Within three blinks of an eye, Cinderella was back in her tattered dress. The twig from her hair lay on the ground next to the pardela’s, who had also transformed back to his original form. Cinderella still wore the silk slipper while her left foot remained bare. She dismounted, collected both twigs and handed them to the fairy.
The fairy thanked Cinderella and said the twigs would be buried next to her mother’s tree from whence they came. The fairy and pardela then took their leave. Cinderella hid the slipper beneath her dress and snuck back to her room just as the last bell began to chime.
The next day, the lord’s steward posted a notice in search of the beautiful maiden with dark brown hair, the finest yellow gown and lost slipper of yellow and blue. Word of the notice quickly spread throughout the town. People spoke of the maiden who had cast a spell upon the young lord. The people feared for their young lord’s enchanted heart. Perhaps another fair maiden could break the spell.
So every maiden in Mythbridge searched for her yellow and blue slippers, should one have gone missing – for hope was a curious thing with a mind of its own. And every maiden in Mythbridge had her mind fixed on becoming the next lady of Mythbridge.
Two days after the notice was posted, Cinderella’s oldest stepsister squealed with the utmost delight. She waved a yellow and blue slipper for all to see. The matching slipper was neither high nor low. It was in fact nowhere to be found.
The stepsister changed into one of her finest yellow gowns and left for the manor at full gallop. She returned some time later, flung her slipper into the fire and watched it burn. She told her mother the trip had been a fruitless use of her time.
“Lord Frerik will surely perish from a broken heart. No maiden could ever wear such a silly slipper. Yet Lord Frerik holds it like a precious jewel,” said the stepdaughter next. “It had no opening and was crumpled like an old shoe.”
Cinderella smiled to herself. The slipper did not belong to her stepsister with a heart born too hard to break. Cinderella had three more days to wait until market day. Until then, she would hold her tongue. But not a day more.
On market day, Cinderella waited until her stepmother and stepsisters left, cleaned her face and pulled down her hood far as she could. She then rode to the manor, careful to avoid the main streets as she made her way to the outskirts of town.
Lord Frerik sat in the great hall with his parents. In his hand, the yellow and blue slipper waited for its owner. Cinderella introduced herself and explained to the dashing young lord about her lost slipper. She apologized for leaving the ball so abruptly, citing the need to be home before the last bell. Lord Agmire nodded his approval of her sound wisdom.
The young lord gave Cinderella her slipper. “Many have mistaken the slipper for theirs and mistook me for blind. But my eyes tell me it belongs to ye.”
The slipper unfurled in Cinderella’s hand. She removed the other slipper from her pouch and replaced her grimy shoes with the slippers. She looked down at her twinkling feet. The slippers were a gift from her mother, and she would treasure them always.
“Never have I laid eyes on a maiden so fair as ye,” said Lord Frerik. “When I saw ye at the ball, I knew we were meant to wed. If it pleases ye, Cinderella, we will marry on the day of your twenty-fifth birthday.”
Cinderella smiled at the dashing young lord. “Nothing would please me more, for I have loved ye from the moment I first saw ye.”
With that, Lord Agmire and Lady Kitura invited their future daughter to stay for breakfast. Cinderella gladly accepted their gracious invitation.
When Cinderella shared the news with her family, Mrs. Whiterling hugged her stepdaughter and ordered their cook to prepare a special feast in celebration. And from that day forward, Mrs. Whiterling treated her stepdaughter with love and affection. After all, Cinderella was the next lady of Mythbridge, the daughter she had always wanted.
As for Cinderella, she learned to forgive her family, turned to face the sun and married her dashing young lord. On her feet, Cinderella wore the slippers of yellow and blue. She continued to visit her mother’s tree throughout the years. But not a single flower fell from its branches, for Cinderella was happy at last. And her mother’s wish was at last fulfilled.
***
Author’s Note: The story of Cinderella is referenced in Flowers and Ash on a few separate occasions. This is the story known to Wrunwickers. In this version, which was adapted for the people of Wrunwicks, the author includes a pardela. Pardelas resemble black panthers, but pardelas are taller and bigger with a large set of wings. The legendary animal was well known to the people of Wrunwicks. And in Wrunwicks, no one could marry before their twenty-fifth birthday. So Lord Frerik’s proposal was in accordance with the king’s law.
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To celebrate the completion of my fantasy manuscript, I went online to ask for possible book-related questions that I could organize into a blog post. I had no idea how or if it would work, so I crossed my fingers and waited.
Let’s just say the exercise was less successful than hoped. Kinda hard to ask questions about something you have no information about, whatsoever. That’s on me. Note to self: Stay in touch with people. Keep them in the loop—jeesh, girl. Get with the freaking program. (Don’t worry. I never listen to my inner critic, but she still likes to butt in sometimes.)
Ignoring Miss Bossy, I went back to the drawing board in search of questions that I could answer and maybe have a little fun in the process. I ended up finding more questions than I could ever answer in a blog post. The hardest part was choosing which questions to include.
I narrowed my choices down to the baker’s dozen. I should probably mention that none of the following questions are book-related. Cause you know, sometimes we just need to hang out (or above like Ginger), relax and take a moment to smell the flowers (or coffee like me).
I’d also love to read your answer(s) if you feel like sharing. And in case you do (needy alert), don’t forget to tag me on your blog or social media. Or, feel free to share in the comments section. 😉
My Baker’s Dozen
What are some of your Pavlovian responses? Coffee and carbs!!! Did they say coffee?
What song do you feel compelled to sing along with when you hear it, even if you don’t totally know all the words? We Will Rock You by Queen. And now you’re singing along. Am I right or am I right?
What’s the weirdest thing about modern life that people just accept as normal? Social media. Our phones get out more than we do, globetrotting from post to post to post and back around they go. No wonder our phones wear over time.
What word do you always mispronounce? Ubiquitous. I trip over the third syllable, pick up an extra one along the way and add it to the fourth.
Where’s the line between soup and cereal? Pepper. Banned by the Worldwide Association of Fruit Loops, or WAFL for short.
What would be the most unsettling thing to keep occasionally finding around your house? Unidentified socks. Did someone put a sign on our house, visible only to lost socks?
What’s better broken than whole? Eggs. Useless fact: I love fried egg sandwiches with lettuce and tomato.
What question would you like to ask a time traveller from 200 years in the future? Need some company?
If someone narrated your life, who would you want to be the narrator? Sam Elliott – that voice!
What’s the longest rabbit hole you’ve been down? Writing my first full-length story. It became my home away from home. At some point, I painted the walls, decorated to my heart’s content, and settled in for the long haul. I even added a couple of new rooms. Fellow booklovers will be pleased to know that I included a bookcase. Not to toot my own horn, but the place turned out pretty good, I must say. The rabbits have come to accept me and I pay the caretaker in carrots. It works.
What word is a lot of fun to say? Swish swished Swishy Swishes, said Ginger the cat. And now you know.
If magic was real, what spell would you try to learn first? How to induce sleep. I could buy some more carrots.
In the past people were buried with the items they would need in the afterlife, what would you want buried with you so you could use it in the afterlife? A laptop or notebook and pencil.
March arrived without fuss or fanfare. A welcome change after the incessant winds of February. The people of 10th Park trailed out to watch the sunrise, their boots still holding up after years of wear. As they trudged past the remnants of a world gone mad, the new curtain of snow promised them a second chance.
But the people of 10th Park were tired of promises. Turning a dim eye to the snow, they gathered round the nearest drum to warm their hands and spirit. Another day of waiting. Another day of inescapable hope.
Two miles west across the river, Aster Noles awoke with the sun like every morning since childhood. And just as she had done then, Aster watched the steady smoke push upward, defying the odds for one more day – plus tomorrow, she added under her breath. She had long since learned the value of time. And with spring just around the corner, the snow would soon be an unfortunate memory.
For the lucky few, spring was a time of renewal. But for Aster, the encroaching season renewed her worse fear. If she was right, the first floor would be destroyed. Aster closed her eyes against the thought. She couldn’t afford to test fate again. She had already poured her dreams into 913 Merable Street.
The hall light blinked in rapid succession. Less intrusive than their prototype, the light paused for five seconds before resuming its command. Aster ran to type in her password. The lock clicked open with eight minutes to spare. Despite six years of practice, the light still made her heart do a triple backflip. Wide awake now, she watered the flowers and jumped into the shower.
***
Her shift at Twisted Beans over, Aster worked on the first section while a few of the other tenants watched from a safe distance. She knew how strange it must look to them. She also knew it was impossible to reach them. They lived in separate worlds blithely stacked on top of each other. And for all its many achievements, technology had yet to close the distance.
At last, she managed to loosen the first bits of paint from the wall. Evolution had not favoured the first-floor tenants. But maybe – just maybe, they would survive. In any case, she owed it to herself, the first-floor tenants and those waiting to at least try, no matter how implausible her success. Or how impossible it was for them to understand. Hell, even she didn’t understand it – not entirely.
After the last floods, their super argued the damage was due to the neglect of first-floor tenants. If found guilty, it would’ve meant an unforgivable breach of their contracts. Fortunately, the landlord saw the break during a walk with his girlfriend, ordered a contractor and some paint, then let them off with a warning about accusing the super of neglect.
Some first-floor tenants speculated the landlord had only wanted to impress his girlfriend. No one knew for sure. And no one cared. Mr. Dippins was known to be a ladies’ man. It was an accepted cliché among the first-floor tenants. Was he a man of reason too? She might’ve come from 10th Park, but that didn’t mean she was simple, contrary to popular belief. Aster waved to Mr. Silies in a gesture of goodwill.
“What do you suppose she’s doing?” Mr. Silies asked from his podium.
Mr. Harald puffed his chest. “I only pay heed to the turkey on my plate.”
“Do you think we should notify the super?” Mrs. Preening eyed the woman in alarm.
“She’ll tire before long,” Mr. Grimly said. “No one breaks their contract.”
Saturday, March 4
Upper-floor tenants held onto their thoughts while a crowd of onlookers huddled for warmth. The crowd appeared harmless enough: a series of men and women stopping to inquire about the woman scraping a wall in the cold and snow. Satisfied with the answer, most nodded and went about their lives.
Though many stayed for further deliberation and, more notably, to articulate their learned opinion. Thanks to its ongoing expansion, the building had tripled in length and gained two new floors. But the young woman was hard to ignore with her scraper, coat that had seen better years, and sugary bubblegum hair. The crowd swapped noble theories about mental illness, poverty and the growing number of parks.
Seemingly deaf to the ruckus, Aster pushed westward. Theories were of no value from where she stood. She needed a roof over her head.
Unable to ignore his mounting concern, John approached the wall with his scraper in hand. He wanted to know why Aster thought it necessary to strip away perfectly good paint. Like all things it seemed these days, the paint would not have been cheap.
And he’d known Aster since before her parents moved. Frugal to a fault, some might say. He had never known her to throw anything away, not even the scraps of material inside her junk drawer, filled with countless artifacts waiting to be recycled. John peeked at the upper-floor tenants. They looked uninterested in the scene before them. He didn’t buy it.
Next, he studied his friend and neighbour from apartment 134. At twenty-six, she already possessed more courage than he ever would. She wasn’t a woman to be dismissed, by him or anyone else. “Why are you wasting your time on this, Aster?” he asked quietly. “It’s freezing out.”
Aster paused to look at John. “You’ll think I threw my marbles out with last week’s garbage. Maybe I did. But I see no other way.”
John pushed back his tuque. “Have I ever given you a reason to doubt these ears?”
“Remember the crack on the side of the building?”
“How can I forget? I dreaded spring for the two years it took Mr. Dippins to fix it. Remember that second year? I had to camp out on your couch for three days while they fixed the damage.”
Aster’s scraper faltered for a second. She glanced toward the smoke. Its ever-changing form steadied her resolve. “I noticed the weeds taking over the foundation last summer. And now lately, I’ve been noticing a stench in my bathroom.”
John recalled the mildew in his own bathroom. He let it slide until the tub started draining twice as slow and the toilet needed two flushes instead of one. The super promised he’d take a look. But as usual, their super was too busy with other maintenance.
“Did you mention it to Busy?” John ripped off a piece of red paint and threw it on last night’s snow. To his overactive imagination, the discarded paint looked like fresh blood.
“He said it was at the top of his list and asked what scraping paint had to with it. I told him it’s everyone’s job to keep our building safe and in good repair for all of us. So if there’s a problem, it needs to be fixed. And with spring on the way, I’m afraid the first floor will be ruined beyond repair this time. He then told me to leave it to those better qualified to deal with such matters.” Aster tightened her grip around the scraper. “I’m tired of waiting for him to do something. This is our building too. Someone has to listen. If we lose our place on the list, we’ll never get another chance.”
“Once a jerk, always a jerk. I can see why the landlord likes him. He never disappoints.” And with that, John put his scraper to the wall.
Sunday, March 5
Just before 10 a.m., a group of first-floor tenants joined Aster with their scrapers and went to work on the left side wall, including tenants from the new wing. They too had noticed some plumbing issues and, like Aster, didn’t want to spend their time mopping up water, or worse. Nor did they want to piss off the super again. None of them did.
So as the snow ceded to the sun, friends and family scraped away at the paint. If there was another crack somewhere inside the wall, they’d find it and force the super to fix it. At the very least, they’d force him to bring it to the landlord’s attention.
Whiskey Glasses
Over the days that followed, tenants from the upper floors began to grumble about the first-floor tenants debasing their property. They paid top dollar for their spacious apartments with windows overlooking the river and surrounding trees. They had not paid to look at paint chips. They paid others to look at paint chips for them.
A few tenants from the first floor posed next to their idols from the upper floors. It was a symbolic gesture. But the suitably appalled first-floor tenants felt special by proxy. The upper-floor tenants, or UFs as they were often called, paid them well to assist the caretakers, expanding their wallets and their connections with each paint chip let loose on the tenants. And by the same token, didn’t they all share the same building and the same contract? Who in their right mind wanted to look at dirty paint chips?
***
As spring drew near and the group outside the old building on Merable Street continued to grow along with the neverending pile of paint chips, the anger from the UFs grew accordingly. The anger spread throughout the upper floors, and into the halls until finally, it reached the super.
Sunday, March 19
Busy invited his guests into the living room, pleased he had insisted that Myra polish every surface until it sparkled. He’d been expecting their visit for the past week and quickly offered them drinks from a bottle kept for moments like this.
The UFs were people of action, rarely second-guessing themselves. Busy saw their clarity of purpose in the mirror every morning, awarding him a sense of kinship.
Mr. Harald sampled the whiskey and nodded his approval. “The first-floor tenants need to go,” he declared with his father’s gold. “Spring’ll be here tomorrow, and I need my walks.”
“What would you have me do? They signed their contracts.” Busy gazed at his favourite painting: Expectation by Richard Oelze. He spotted the reproduction during a vacation to North Central and fell in love with its grey sky brooding over the landscape. He never married, but the painting taught him love was possible. How long did it take to complete? He never did find the answer – not that it mattered. Busy lauded the painter’s singular vision. The time spent was irrelevant.
“Well?” Mrs. Preening looked Busy in his one good eye. She didn’t like him much, but she had to admit the little toad cleaned up nicely. “This spectacle has gone on long enough. My patience grows thinner by the day.”
Mr. Grimly moved away from the window. “My dear friend is right. It’s time to bring down the curtain.”
“It goes without saying that our contracts are second to none,” Mr. Silies pronounced gravely. “We can’t compare diamonds to peanuts, now can we?”
Busy puffed his chest in the familiar act of solidarity. “I’ll speak to Mr. Dippins and make him understand the calamity of your situation. You can leave this debacle in my careful hands. I won’t let you down.”
“You, my friend, are an army of one.” Mr. Grimly took a sip of his whiskey. “And a knowledgeable host. You’ve never failed us before. I don’t expect it’ll be any different this time.”
Busy mustered a sheepish grin. “I’m here to serve our tenants.”
***
The elevator stopped on the twelfth floor. Mark waited to escort him with his chest puffed. Busy puffed his chest in rousing response, their only exchange in the eight years they’d been meeting outside the elevator. Busy thought he detected a smile in the eyes of his comrade, although he couldn’t be sure. Mark had an unwavering poker face. A useful skill for a man in his position.
Inside Mr. Dippins’ lavish office, Busy admired the expensive decor as was his custom. And once again, he promised himself the office. Above all else, Busy admired rank.
“Reports have reached me the tenants are unhappy,” Mr. Dippins said from his oak desk. He gestured for his third in command to take a seat.
Busy shifted his eyes away from the piano. During his first visit to the penthouse, he mistook the piano for a sentimental eyesore, and Busy left sentiment to those who could afford little else. Mr. Dippins, on the other hand, could afford a piano for every building he owned.
When questioned, Mr. Dippins had said the piano belonged to his great-grandfather. Busy preferred facts to music, but wanting to appear interested, he asked if his boss could play. In a rare show of cordiality, Mr. Dippins laughed before admitting he had learned one song, then grew bored and moved on to more exciting things like baseball. But the ladies seemed to like it, so he kept the relic to charm their sensibilities in affairs of the heart and business.
Hearing the conspicuous drum of impatience from across the desk, Busy went straight for the jugular. “The UFs beseech you to get rid of the first-floor tenants.” Busy puffed his chest. “As you know, the new building is set to open this summer, so the mess outside couldn’t happen at a worse time. If the UFs think we’re violating their contracts, they may seek more fitting arrangements.”
“All reasonable and fair contracts. It protects everyone. I, myself, signed one in good faith. However, as I look down at the growing numbers chipping away at our historical building, I can’t help but wonder if the first-floor tenants have taken leave of their senses. And now the land wardens are barking about all the damn paint chips. Have you asked them to stop and return to their apartments? Did you explain how it defaces our building, stresses the other tenants, and therefore breaks the terms of their contract?”
“I did. But they insist there’s a problem with the piping and maybe the walls. At any rate, I didn’t want to argue with them. An emotional lot as you know. They claim to be fulfilling the terms of their contracts by protecting the building.”
“Yes, well, I see no other option than to terminate their contracts at this point. We can’t stand by while the other tenants grow increasingly stressed and upset. Our reputation already took a blow to the knees. But if the UFs were to move, the optics could ruin us. Not to mention the loss in revenue. Where the hell do they think the new first-floor apartments came from? If only snowflakes were money.”
“There still wouldn’t be enough sense to go around.” Busy shook his head in disgust. But it did make his job easier. “Where will they go?”
“They should’ve thought of that before taking scrapers to the building. The paint is less than a year old, for Pete’s sake. We can’t have tenants breaking their contracts while so many wait in the cold. I trust you’ll inform them as soon as possible?”
***
Busy studied his painting from across the living room. The trees reminded him of Mr. Dippins’ desk. It would be his desk someday. He leaned back in his favourite chair to savour the image. The soft leather was a far cry from the canvas walls of his youth. His parents would’ve been proud. They always said he was too smart for the first floor. Busy smiled in satisfaction.
Tomorrow was the first day of spring, and the first-floor tenants would rejoin the homeless waiting for their chance. But the terms were clear. Instated after the housing collapse, the contract guaranteed a fixed rental fee for all first-floor tenants. And it guaranteed everyone’s right to enjoy a safe and healthy living space.
As always, the UFs would want to pay their respect with more than a string of empty words. Today had brought him closer to the twelfth floor than the last three years combined. Busy glanced at his pocket watch: 11:10. Five more minutes until he called it a day. He never stayed up until the 12 o’clock curfew. A man needed his sleep. And today had proven more exciting than most.
***
He brushed his teeth for exactly two minutes, flushed the toilet twice, then once more for good measure. Out with the old and in with the new, his father used to say. Pleased with the fruits of his labour, Busy turned off the hall light and thanked Aster for her sacrifice. She would never know, but her naive heart had secured his future.
For his final act of the day, Busy placed his watch on the nightstand. A gift from the Grimleys in 2042, he kept it close as a reminder of his loyalties. The UFs never forgot their friends. He cracked another smile. Under the bed, a cockroach scurried to safety.
The Hands of Time
The wind snapped at the trees on the feathered tail of a northwester. At 913 Merable Street, the windows rattled, while locked safe in her bed, Aster counted back to the lost and found.
Humming to the telltale ticking of a new moon, the last sheep paddled to where Aster spun round and round the tent.
“Hello there,” the last sheep hailed upon coming ashore. He pulled his canoe onto the riverbank and straightened his shirt.
Aster stopped to smile at him. “Want to help me?” She picked up a scraper from years past and pointed to a red wall. “No one will mind so long as we don’t wake them.”
“Perhaps during our next visit,” the last sheep replied. “Would you like to go for a walk instead?”
“Will it be scary?”
“No nightmares tonight,” the last sheep said gently, wanting to comfort his young guest. She had already seen too many of those. He took her by the hand. It was time.
***
Chomping at the air, Busy dreamt of laboured skies. Beneath the slow-marching clouds, a proud legion of men and women gazed into the abyss. To his right, a lone woman stood with her back against the spectacle.
What was she staring at? Busy turned atop his minute hand to inspect the plain-dressed woman, whose only embellishment were two pink flowers. He tried shaking the hand on which stood his consequence. Then he shook it some more. But like the crowd, he could not turn away.
Hi, everyone. I finally finished my manuscript. Yup, you read that correctly. I finished my manuscript! Well – technically, I typed “The End” last August, but that first draft was in pretty rough shape, let me tell ya. Fast forward a year, and I’m working on the final edit. It’s a long road to publication with plenty of twists and turns – and of course, a few bumps for good measure. I have about eighty pages left to go this time around. The countdown usually begins when I near the last thirty pages. I’m almost there.
It’s been a slow process filled with research (lots and lots of research), self-doubt, missteps, along with a few falls backwards – and some forward, with each hurdle inching me closer to the finish line. Between one set of edits, I ended up outlining a sequel and writing the first chapter. It’s waiting patiently until I’m ready to start the next great adventure.
I’m already packed and rearing to go. But first things first, which brings me back to my current manuscript. After a one-month break to let the manuscript sit for a while, I returned to the story with a fresh set of eyes. I’m happy with my progress, but the last edit is painstakingly slow. It has to be if I’m to get it right, or as right as I possibly can. The degree of concentration needed means it can also be exhausting at times – not gonna lie. So I snuck in an extra long coffee break to recharge my batteries and wrote a poem – cause you know, why not. Since I recently created an account on TikTok, I figured what the hay and created a video to share my poetic efforts. I also figured I’d share with you amazing folks. 🙂 I’ve never included a TikTok video in a post before, so please let me know if it’s not showing up for you. I’m still testing the waters.
I’m hoping to share further updates on my manuscript soon, provided there’s progress worth sharing. Fingers crossed.🤞 Until next time, be kind to yourself. You’re worth it. ✨ As always, feel free to drop me a line in the comments!
I thought I’d start this post with the above quick note. I haven’t been doing much writing as of late and I’m beginning to feel the side-effects. Writing connects me to myself and the world around me. It’s how I process information and organize my thoughts into something that resembles coherence, or something close enough. I’m not one to nit pick.
Speaking of writing, I’m booked the next two weeks for an English teacher at my local high school. I must admit that I’m looking forward to it. I mean, what’s not to like? I’ll be surrounded by stories and sharing my passion for the written word with students.
It will most likely keep me very busy, but that’s fine by me. I discovered at some point that the busier I am, the more I accomplish in general. During those two weeks, I also plan to start writing in earnest again. The blank page is calling my name. And if I don’t respond soon, that blank page will just get louder until it becomes an unstoppable roar. I prefer the sound of music streaming from my earbuds, thank you.
Instead of writing lately, I’ve been pursuing other love interests like curating my playlists on Spotify and reading. To that end, I decided to see how the king of writing himself does it. I’m referring to Stephen King, of course. Let me tell ya, Mr. King can write without wasting a single word. I can definitely see why he has such a wide readership. I also love the writing styles of John Steinbeck and Ernest Hemingway. The three of them have a seemingly effortless storytelling technique – the mark of any great writer in my not so humble opinion.
As for me, I know that I’ll never be able to hold even the teeniest of candles next to authors of such high caliber. But that doesn’t mean I can’t keep aiming for the stars. I’m a firm believer that practice makes us better – not perfect, because perfection is an impossible pursuit.
I may have mentioned this before, but when I went back to read over the beginning of Becky’s story, I came across a lot of technical errors which I’ve since corrected. Although I’ve left the blog posts as they are in their unmistakable and glorious imperfection – kinda like all my blog posts. In the words of Popeye, I am who I am. I don’t mind admitting that I’m still learning the craft of writing. Knowing me, I’ll still be learning and making mistakes twenty years from now. Although I’m hoping not to be making as many mistakes by then haha. 😉
I’ll tell you what I haven’t been doing in the place of writing, which is promoting my little known poetry book. I don’t much like beating people over the head with it or shouting at the top of my lungs. In other words, my marketing skills leave a lot to be desired.
So every purple or blue moon, I throw out a quick tweet or mention on social media before retreating back into author obscurity. Right or wrong – and mostly wrong – I figure if people want to read my book, they will whether I shout at them or not. Besides, who wants to read a book with someone shouting in the background? Not me, that’s for sure.
As I right this post, I’m remembering that I haven’t filled out a certain author spotlight yet. Is it just me, or does our list of round-to-its get longer as we get older? At the rate I’m going, I’ll need lists for my lists in a few years. However, there’s no point in worrying about it for now. Que será, será as the song goes. Incidentally, I’m listening to my newly created New Age/Native American music playlist while writing this post – my favorite kind of list.
Well, I think that’s enough for this Sunday’s post – considering it’s light on content and heavy on the rambling. Wishing you a happy Sunday and inspired week ahead! Until next time, be kind to yourself. You’re worth it!✨
💀The skeletons on my street
dance beneath a full moon
as werewolves howl and gather round
to celebrate their favorite night.
🎃Halloween is here!🎃
Witches brew sticky potions
simmering in cauldrons
👻while ghosts and goblins
wait their share.
“Achoo!” went the tooth fairy.
👹Scary monsters and silly ones too👺
ring spooky doorbells
in their quest for candy🍬
and other sweet treats.
“Brains!” said the zombie.
🤠Cowboys and cowgirls alike load
their most prized loot in pumpkins🍫
alongside pirates and vampires – for on this night,
the scariest of nights, monsters, goblins and the like roam free!
“Boo!” said the ghost.
🎃🎃🎃🎃🎃🎃🎃
Happy Halloween! If you’re like me, you’ll be enjoying the treats along with the trick-or-treaters this evening. Here the trick-or-treaters will be roaming along white streets and around tall snowbanks.
An early winter has already covered our tiny community with a thick blanket of snow. But you can’t stop those ghastly ghosts, goblins, and all the other Halloween creatures from celebrating the scariest night of the year!
A Quick Dose of Halloween Humor
Why is the Boogeyman always invited to Halloween parties? Because he can boogey!😹
What were the ghosts dancing to? Soul music, of course!
What happened when one ghost asked for a whiskey? The bartender said “Sorry sir, we don’t serve spirits here.”
What did the zombie order? That’s a no-brainer. A shot of To-Kill-YA! What else?
What did the zombie say to his date? I just love a woman with BRAAAINS!
What kind of music did the mummies like most at the party? Wrap music! It’s how they roll.
What was the monster’s favorite song of the night? Monster Mash – no dah!
What did the werewolf play on the jukebox? Dancing in the Moonlight. Admit it – you weren’t expecting that, now were you? But he was feeling a little warm and fuzzy as he reminisced about the good old days.
Why didn’t the skeleton dance at the Halloween party? He had no body to dance with.🙀
What did the vampire sing before the night was over? Bad to the Bone. He fancied himself a lady killer.
Except for my own two, the jokes were curated from this fun site. I tweaked a few for the purpose of this post.
In celebration of Halloween last year, I wrote Murder on Birch Street. It’sa flash fiction story that features Max, the family dog. It also represents my first attempt at flash fiction. Please feel free to check it out. 😉
And as you know, I love music. So, I thought I’d share some spooky (and some not so spooky) music with you to help celebrate this Halloween. From what I can tell, you need to listen on Spotify to hear the full playlist – which means that I just learned something new. Until next time, be kind to yourself. You’re worth it!
Brenda Baker 
Your comments give me reason to smile✨