We Didn't Mean to Fall in Love

New article published in The Next Chapter of the East Texas Writers Guild. It's a canine-human love story for all those dog lovers.

Is there a dog who has meant everything to you?  Is she just "the living end?"

Do you mean everything to your dog? <3

Bridges

Bridges - 2016 Anthology: Selected works by the East Texas Writers Guild is now on sale through Amazon. 

This is a 374 page book by selected writers of the Guild. It has the most consistently good work of any anthology I've run into. I'm not saying that because I'm one of the authors. I'm saying that because the selection committee found authors who produce good quality work. It is as simple and as difficult as that. 

Unlike many anthologies (I'm not generally a fan of anthologies) there is a thread of quality that runs through it. There is no OMG this is so horrible selection nor is there a Pulitzer prize winner. What it offers is good, solid writing.

All of it. 

How do I know? I  read it.  Slowly. I've taken time to reflect on the quality of the writing. I was surprised at how good it was. I just met these folks a year ago. I didn't know them from Adam except as people who, like me, write. 

The children's stories are entertaining. The poetry (again, I'm not a huge fan of poetry) is surprisingly good. It contains fiction, non-fiction, poetry, and memoir. Everything from science fiction to stories about a child's imaginary worm friend. I love that children's story! 

This is a book that should be sold in airports. You can read complete stories on short hops or several on longer flights. It is a beach book. A nighttime book. A book to share with children or grandchildren. It is a book to give for a birthday to a friend who loves short stories. 

The quality of the printing and cover design is excellent. 

I wish there was a Kindle version. There is not. Maybe next year. 

Post-apocalyptic Visions

I peer through the blinds, like others of my species. We and our companion animals have retreated inside. The droids are here. Again

My dog whines and her body shakes in reaction to the sounds of the mechs as blades hack through vegetation, gathering in the harvest. A large ginger cat crouches under a low bush. Maybe he will be safe. If not, there's a plastic box on the second story landing to hide in. His eyes glitter at me as if wondering if I'd open the door for him. I would since he's never attacked my dog. Instead, he crouches farther back. The droning machine moves past and the danger passes.

A large blowing machine moves in next, but it is pointless. Droids don't recognize that the heavy

rains last night have left everything sodden. It is nearly impossible to move cut material into windrows. Before long another droid arrives, hacking at woody vegetation, toothed blades scissoring together. The cat takes flight, vanishing up a rotting metal stairway.

I peer out again to see branches being piled up as if for a bonfire. What the branches will be used for I don't know. Kindling? Do droids use kindling? They are not sufficient for building. Or will the creatures with hooded capes reminiscent of Jarwa use them for some purpose?

Rain arrives again in a fine mist and still the droids move deliberately, leaving deep black furrows in the thick ground vegetation. From prior history, I know the scars will heal, but the ground will have ridges. "Ruffles have ridges," I say to no one in particular and turn away from the blinds.

Tatooine? Nah, too much vegetation. Endor, home of the Ewoks? Or is it the gardening crew back for their weekly visit? 

Life and Disjunction

Life and disjunction. Nothing seems to hang together the way it should. Or could. While some of the players remain the same - parents, siblings, peripheral relatives, kids and grandkids - there is a distinctly disjunctive theme to life. My life, at any rate.

I've lived thither and yon, sometimes at the needs of a parental unit - as my daughter now refers to the individuals who give rise to and raise children - and sometimes at my own needs or whims. I'm no longer sure which is which - the need or the whim. Is it wanderlust or the absolute need to relocate for some truly viable reason? A job. An educational institution. A marriage. Career advancement. Running away from home - perhaps this is whimsy, although it might also be survival.

What is disjunctive in life gives rise to that which we end up dwelling upon with intimates, therapists, spiritual counselors, and others. It is what propels me to write, to figure out the why, the what next, the what would have happened if, the how things could have been different.

What is it that brings you to place pen to paper? Fingers to keyboard? Or perhaps an eye to the lens in order to capture some moment in a visual mode? Is it the bits of life that don't fit together easily? Those bits that flow smoothly like a slow moving river? A few years ago I caught this young enjoying the warm July day at Castle Island Park in South Boston. Is there a disjunction between his activities or a smooth flow? We never spoke. I wonder - a cell phone to take a call from a friend, take a photo of his kite, or because he didn't want to fly a kite and is sneaking in a call while a parent isn't looking?

It will always be a mystery and the picture will always be open to interpretation.