STORYTIME TAPESTRY

The Newsletter devoted to spreading love and cultural awareness throughout the world

June 7, 2005

 Happy Birthday

I am very happy to introduce Sharif Khan as writer # 210 for Storytime Tapestry.   I find his work exceptional and I hope that you will encourage him to write much more.

A happy birthday wish is being send out for Erroll Woodward by his dear sister Kay Seefeldt and all of us at Storytime Tapestry.

Now on to the good stuff..........

Animal awareness series endorsed by Shiloh and Hank our mascots; all stories must receive their approval.

 This story is dedicated to Erroll Woodward. Kay Seefeldt??™s brother on the occasion of his birthday.

Gull Trouble

Kay Seefeldt

When island kids are released on the last day of the school, the
euphoria can be felt all the way to the mainland! Summer vacation
equals freedom! A time to be free like the ever-present, ravenous gulls
on outstretched wings keeping a watchful eye out for unguarded tidbits.

As a kid, the lazy, hazy days of summer seemed to stretch into
infinity. A gift of seventy-five precious days to do as I pleased.

My first mission was to head to the general store, a stone??™s throw from
our house. With one thin dime the fisherman or girl got a real
bargain...a length of green twine on a spool, two shiny black hooks -
that wouldn??™t be shiny for long, one lead sinker, and a summer of shear
pleasure.

Between tides, I??™d fit in baseball, tarzan swings, frog hunting,
marbles, and playing school. High tides found me a few yards from our
house on the end of my deceased grandfather??™s wharf.  I??™d be on the dry
end of a fishing line, with a baited hook dangling in the cold Atlantic
waters, awaiting the tug of a harbor pollack.

To me the wharf, at that time run by my uncle and dad, was the most
exciting place on our small island community. Fishermen selling their
lobster catch, wharf hands scrambling up or down the ladders, boat
engines roaring, gulls squawking overhead, and free bait for them and
me.  On rainy days, men would gather in the small shop. The wood stove
kept every body toasty warm while they told their ???fish stories.??? Best
of all, a glass case full candy bars offered its sweet contents in
exchange for a nickel.

Daddy showed me how to clean the fish and pickle them over night in
salt brine.  By deft use of a blade, I could cut the head off and gut
the fish in one precise movement. The next morning, I??™d match the fish
up by size and tie two together by their tails, or three if I had an
???odd fish out,??? to hang over the clothes line behind our house. My fish
were organized on the cloths line - smallest to largest. Then I??™d be
ready to catch another batch.

My hands perpetually smelled of fish perfume - enough to make any
tomboy proud.

Like a miser, I??™d count my horde every day. If flies were trying to
???blow my fish,??? I??™d pepper the gullet openings hoping to keep them from
using my fish as an incubator. These dried fish would taste mighty good
in the cold of winter with mashed potatoes and cream style corn. Some
would be summer treats.

Occasionally, I??™d discover I had several fish less than the day before
- some of the smallest would be missing. When I mentioned my loss of
fish, my brother said, ???Probably some hungry gull after a free meal.???

Determined to keep the gulls at bay, I tied several brown paper bags to
the clothes line in strategic locations, but still the smallest, driest
fish continued to disappear.

One afternoon, my tomboy intuition told me to check on my fish for
thieving gulls. There stood the ???gull,??? jackknife in hand, peeling the
skin off the driest of the fish. ???I am inspecting these to see if you
salted them correctly,??? he informed me as if he were an FDA agent.

In my eyes, no matter whatever my brother did was fine by me. No matter
what he told me, I swallowed his every word - hook, line and sinker.

You could say I was the gull-ible one.

And still am, where my brother is concerned.  He is loved as much today
as he was in years gone by, maybe even more, for adding such colorful
memories to my life.

?©Kay Seefeldt
6/4/05

Kay who lives in Maine enjoys writing stories about her family and
hopes to some day compile them into some sort of book for her children
and grandchildren.  This one is dedicated to her one and only brother
whose birthday is June 7th. (FYI: Flies "blowing the fish" means laying
eggs in them.)

Today's Queue Stories
~**~**~**~

  Bad Karma

by Sharif Khan

John, with an outward smile and an inward, troubled conscience, raised his glass of Sandeman port to a toast made in honor of his recent promotion and upcoming New Year??™s wedding anniversary in Morocco.

Downing his sixth glass of port and taking a few puffs from his Monte Cristo, his left arm resting on the delicate, bare shoulders of his beautiful wife, Natalie, John tried in vain to wash out that vague,empty feeling of inner dread that something terrible lay inside him. What exactly that was, he did not know, but it was a heavy feeling he carried with him since his youth. And that voice, that wretched voice that haunted him all his life, a faint whisper in his heart, returned,
???You??™re guilty, you??™re guilty??¦.g-u-i-l-tyyyyyyyyyyyyyy.??™ Sitting there among a small group of friends, in a Toronto restaurant overlooking the night lights of Lake Ontario down below, John smiled absently, his head still buzzing, while his soul ached with that dull, persistent pain.

A gruff looking man in a heavy, black, wool knitted sweater, wearing oversized black-rimmed designer Versace eyeglasses sat across from John. The man, in his fifties, a producer friend of Natalie??™s from New York, was swirling a glass of scotch with one of his big craggy hands. He
seemed to have been, not too discreetly, studying John, in between conversations with his friends. He noticed John looking in his direction and quickly leaned forward, taking a swig of his scotch.

???Have you ever thought of getting back into acting,??? said the producer. His pale-blue eyes, unnaturally enlarged by his thick lenses, pierced into John. It sounded more like a statement than a question.

John was a bit startled by his directness. After a moment??™s pause, he was about to answer when the producer interrupted him, ???We??™ll be shooting a film here in Toronto, and we??™re casting for a scene where an American businessman chokes to death.??? Wild tufts of scraggly, grey hair
were flying all over the producer??™s balding head as he stuck his large, red puckered nose a couple inches from John??™s face. ???I think you might fit the part.???

He wasn??™t sure if he was mocking him or serious, but John felt uneasy. Did the producer know about his secret? Could he hear that faint whisper inside him? John suffered an uncomfortable laugh to mask the bitterness and irony he felt.  He felt as if he had been choking all his life.
Choking from the maddening voices of vacuous guilt and accusation that plagued him. Struggling and grasping for understanding, but always coming short, his own voice suffocated. It wouldn??™t be too much of a stretch playing the part, he thought.

???I can do that,??? he grinned mockingly, matching the producer??™s chutzpa.

Instantly John started coughing violently. He grabbed his throat with both hands as he desperately gasped for air, his face turning flush red. He carried on the act a bit further by trying to mouth the words, ???help me, I??™m choking!??™ while sliding off his chair and placing himself on the
ledge of the window beside him. Looking to his amused audience, his hands still on his throat, he feigned death, rolled up his eyes, and crumpled into a heap.

There were loud guffaws, applause, and cheers from the group as John, straight-faced, got up, sat back down, and crossed his arms, staring steely at the producer. John was secretly hoping he??™d hear you got the part! 

Instead, the tough producer just shook his head, laughed, and shrugged,
???Always the comedian.???

He raised his glass of scotch and made a toast, ???To John, the comedian!??? Outstretched hands with drinks joined in, and the tinkering of glasses echoed out into the foyer. 

Natalie looked at John with her stunning emerald green eyes. Graceful lines, ever so subtly, curled upwards at the corners of her sensuous lips.

???Don??™t give up your day job, silly,??? she giggled, in her slight French accent, as she leaned softly on his shoulder.

The party, with its clamoring of forks and knives, another round of drinks, misty cigar smoke rising slowly from the ashtrays, and senseless conversations, continued.

At forty, John was a wealthy man and happily in love, yet far from happy. Always he felt some dark impending doom about to envelop him. He felt a chasm in his soul, an unresolved conflict that would one day overtake him with a horrible fate and reveal the monster that he was.

He was handsome and athletic, of average height, with jet black hair and a pale olive complexion. The dark rings around his black sunken eyes, and his receding hair line and emerging baldness, were generally overlooked due to his matinee-idol good looks. He had a disarming charm
and sophistication about him that masked a quiet intensity and aggressiveness that people found uncomfortable.

His father, Mr. Santorelli, a first generation Italian, was a wealthy business tycoon who owned a lucrative janitorial commercial cleaning empire that sprawled across two continents. Naturally, Mr. Santorelli wanted his only son to join the family business. John, on the other hand, had tried everything in his power to escape his father??™s influence and reach, but could not break free ??“ it was destined in his blood.

John had graduated from prestigious Queen??™s University with a Bachelor of Commerce, because his father agreed to finance his education only if he chose a ???practical??™ profession. But instead of pursuing his MBA, John studied drama with the high hopes of becoming a professional actor. He
tried several stints, acting in local theatres, working as an extra in television commercials, and getting bit parts in B films, while going through a string of dead end jobs that barely paid the rent. Nothing panned out.

The stars shone brightly on John, as they did on everyone, but luck was not on his side. He lacked the will and determination to pursue his dreams. In part, he felt it was due to that damned voice that kept reminding him that there was something wrong. Almost every night, within the abyss of his darkest hour, a murky shadow would emerge and point an accusing finger at him, whispering the demonic curse: ???you??™re guilty, you??™re guilty??¦.g-u-i-l-tyyyyyyyyyyyyy.??™

Broken in spirit and out of money, he crawled back to his father and asked for a job, utterly humiliated by the experience. He had always loathed his father??™s ruthless ambition. Although Mr. Santorelli was a hard worker, rumor had it that he got most of the large contracts through bribery and under the table payoffs to key individuals as ???incentives??™ for doing business with the Santorellis. 

The rumor was confirmed within the first couple of months into his new position when the purchasing manager of a very large commercial building asked John, what the ???incentives??™ were for doing business. To which John replied there were no ???incentives??™ save the Santorelli name and the terms of the contract. That very same day the purchasing manager made one phone call to Mr. Santorelli. Incentives were arranged, and the contract tendered. Mr. Santorelli was furious at the naivet?© of his son, and called him at once into his office.

???Listen,??? Mr. Santorelli said sternly, ???There??™s the fairy tale world you can go back to where things ought to be. And then there??™s the real world, where things are the way they are! It??™s your choice.???

John stared coldly at his father. Mr. Santorelli did not flinch, and his trademark hard, ruthless stare hit John like a ton of bricks. John was the first to blink, and upon seeing his father??™s deathly stare still fixed on him, he lowered his eyes. Not a word was said. His face flushed, his chin shaking uncontrollably, furious at his own weakness and at the sight of his father??™s gloating eyes, John stormed out and slammed the door behind him. From that day forward he became his
father??™s lackey.

Although the janitorial business was dreadfully dull for his intellectual sensibilities and left a bitter, empty shell inside, John became a millionaire in just three years by observing the rules of the ???real world.??™ A short time after, he met and married the woman of his dreams. She was a French born model turned actress, and at least now he could live vicariously through her.

John sat there in a daze, his thoughts slowly returning to the party at hand. Numb from drink, he stared vacantly at nothing in particular. Things were taking a turn for the better he thought sarcastically; due to his recent promotion as Vice President, within a couple years he??™d be
a millionaire ten times over, and maybe he??™d be able to buy-out the devil himself.

The party was still in full swing as fast acid jazz played in the background. The heady atmosphere, with its thick smoke and all the sounds melding into a dizzying frenzy of meaningless buzzing, became stifling and unbearable for John.  He got up abruptly, indicating the party was over for him.

???Where are you going, old sport???? called a voice in the smoky haze. 
???It??™s getting late. We must get going. I need a bit of fresh air,??? John mouthed as he helped Natalie with her cream cashmere overcoat.

???Have fun at your wedding anniversary in Morocco! Happy New Year??™s!??? another voice rang out behind him.

Natalie and John stepped out into the cold, crisp night air, and went for a walk along the harbor front, arm in arm.  As they approached the pier, Natalie noticed something magnificent upon the moonlit waters, and her eyes lit up.

???Oh look!??? she pointed out. 

Two swans lay floating on the shimmering lake with their heads buried in their fluffy white feathers, looking like billowing swirls of cool whip in a black cup of coffee. John stooped to the ground and crushed some snow in his hand.

???Don??™t, their sleeping!??? she protested.

He hurled the snowball at one of the swans, but barely missed as it plopped into the lake with a splash, just between the two swans. Instantly both swans lifted their long graceful necks, revealing their full majesty with their mascara black eyes and bright orange beaks. One of them reached hungrily for the floating snowball but then turned away.

???You missed, silly! It??™s a good thing you didn??™t hit the poor thing,??? she giggled.

They continued walking in silence, entranced by the bright silvery glow of the moon and alluring sounds of the lapping waves.

???You won??™t find any swans in Marrakech,??? she said, gently lifting her eyes to his.

He kissed her.

They made love that night at his waterfront condo. Between the red satin sheets and her embrace, the orange glow from the hearth warming his bones, John fell into a deep sleep??¦

A little boy of eight sat in the sallow shade of his porch, away from the bright scorching sun, petting his grey cat, Ashley. As he stroked her soft fur, he looked directly into her emerald green eyes for a moment too long and saw his own distorted reflection. He saw his own eyes staring back at him, and he became filled with hate.

He took the cat outside in the blinding sun to the side of the house, and let loose his fury. If he couldn??™t destroy himself, he would destroy her. He grabbed the cat by the tail and swung her round and round, and let go. The cat smashed into the wall with a crack. The cat??™s skull had
fractured, and her forebrains spilled out as the white stone wall was
sprayed with crimson red.

The boy at first was exhilarated from the sensation of death and the loud sound of the ???crack.??™ Yet at the very same time, he knew that something inside him had cracked. He felt for the first time an inner horror he could not describe with words nor care to explore. And so he thought he could forget. But when he looked up and saw the word ???Murderer??™ scrawled in hot blood across the wall, a new terror struck him, and he knew he would never forget??¦

John jolted out of bed, sweating and shaking.

???Honey, what??™s wrong? Are you okay???? whispered Natalie in a heavy, breathy voice.

???Just a bad dream,??? he said. ???I??™ll forget about it in the morning.???

But who was he kidding? He knew now that he was that little boy. For the first time in thirty two years he understood what he was guilty of, and realized, the nightmare would never end.

John took a couple sips from his glass of Alka-Seltzer to nurse his pounding headache. Natalie had gone out shopping on her own. His hands were shaking, and he was all nerves. The ticking of the second hand clock in the kitchen was driving him crazy.

It was already 12 o??™clock, and he was getting hungry. He decided to cook the Northern Pike that had been left out to thaw overnight, instead of waiting for Natalie to return. John pan-fried the fish whole in butter and garlic, and served it with rice pilaf, a touch of parsley, and a sprinkling of lemon.

He sat there for a long time staring at the narrow pike head, a pale white film covering its dark, glistening eyes ??“ its sharp jaws wide-open. It knew his secret. With his fork and knife, he dismembered
the head and deposited it in the garbage. He began to eat. The fish, with its warm butter and garlic seasoning, nourished and comforted him. It was bony, but delightful, and he skillfully separated the bones in his mouth as he ate.

There was a ruffling sound outside the condo. A key turned in the lock. It was Natalie.

???Surprise! Look what I picked up at the pet store. It??™s sooo adorable,??? she said excitedly, holding on to a medium size grey cat, while designer shopping bags hung from both her arms. ???You  won??™t believe it John! She??™s got the same color as my eyes!???
The cat dropped silently onto the white marble floor and ran towards him.

John??™s heart leapt. He became deathly pale, and began choking on a fish bone as he gulped and inhaled at the same time. He grabbed his throat with both hands as his eyes turned blood shot.

???Oh honey, don??™t be silly,??? she giggled and went into the bedroom to put her shopping bags away.

The cat was now at his feet, and she jumped on his lap. Wide-eyed with terror, John let out a pathetic, muffled scream, and in a frightful panic fell off his chair and landed heavily on the floor, head first ??“ with a crack. A single vein chord swelled up in his forehead and began beating like a war drum as he turned blue.

Natalie came back to find his lifeless body splayed on the kitchen floor.

???What are you trying to prove, John???? she asked. A deep maternal instinct kicked in as she sat down beside him and gently caressed his hair. He??™s just a lonely boy hungering for attention, love, and affection she thought.

The cat licked off the tiny morsels of fish clinging to the corner of his mouth and curled up beside him. With her emerald green eyes she looked into John??™s empty pools of black and saw only her own reflection. She rubbed her head against his neck and began to purr.

Bio

Sharif Khan is a professional speaker and author of ???Psychology of the Hero Soul,??? an inspirational book on awakening the Hero within and developing people??™s leadership potential. You can reach him at sharif@herosoul.com or by visiting http://www.herosoul.com

Sharif provides inspirational keynotes and leadership development workshops that energize, educate, and empower. To book Sharif as a speaker for your next event call: (416) 417-1259.

~**~**~

THE LITTLE KNITTER

Sharon Bryant

This little girl walked into the shop today.  I was knitting.  She walks up to my table, and says, "I see you knit too."  I looked at her and wondered how a kid so young even knew the difference between knitting and crocheting, because I've never met anyone here who knits.....until today. 

I looked at her and said, "Yes, I'm knitting."  She replied, "I knit too."  I asked if her mom taught her how and she said no, she had a class in school that taught her.  I said, "How old are you?"  "Eight," she said.

She then told me she made pot holders and scarves.  I said, "Can you purl?"  She said, "Nope, no one taught me that yet."

She asked me, "Can you make sweaters?"  "I sure can," I replied.  She said, "I wish I could learn how to make a sweater."

Her parents and two younger brothers are in the park and have been all summer.  They moved to this area months back when her dad was transferred from Miss. here.  They're living in their RV until they find a house.  The mom comes in the shop frequently and gets fudge and candy and ice cream for the kids.

So the dad walks in about this time, and I said, "Where's your wife?"  He said, "She's not feeling well, she's lying down in the RV."  I said, "Probably the flu, everyone's getting it."

When suddenly the little girl says,....."Uh, uh, she's not got the flu."  I looked at the little girl and she said, "but she IS sick."  I said, "Oh, ok, tell her I hope she feels better soon."

She said, "She's gonna be sick for a little bit yet."  I looked at her, saw her grin, and said, "Hmmm, how do you know that?"  She said, (holding her hands out wide) "Cuz she's gonna have a baby!!"  I looked at the dad and he looked at the girl, and said, "WHAT?"

The girl said, "Yep, and it's a BOY!"  The dad looked shocked and said, "WHAT ARE YOU SAYING?"  And I'm totally confused at this point..........so I look at the dad and said, "Excuse me, we need to talk.........your daughter is 8 years old, SHE knows your WIFE is pregnant and you DON'T know?"

And then he started laughing.  And the girl started giggling.  And I looked at both of them and said, "I've been had."

The dad laughed and said, "She really is pregnant, she's due May 1."

The girl looks up at me and said, "Yep, and we can't ever get a girl, all we get is boys!"

I said, "Well, you're a girl, so you got one at least."  She replied, "Yep, but I want a sister, I don't want anymore brothers!"

And I went on knitting and laughing as they walked out the door.

(But Tuesday,  this little girl and I are going to knit together and I'm going to teach her how to purl.......maybe I can show her how to make a pair of booties as a surprise for her mom.  I've got a lot of extra baby and regular yarn at my house.........maybe enough to make one little girl's sweater, if I get time.

Sharon Bryant

1946 @bellsouth.net

About Me:

 I am Sharon Bryant, 59 years old and reside in Alabama.

I lost my child in 1977 when he was five and I write
articles on bereavement often.

I am a chocolate/candy maker and also a wood crafter and knitter.

I am married to a wonderful man, and have two remaining children, a daughter 25,
Amy, and a second son, Randy, age 22.

My main goal in life is to help those who
have lost a child. My website is: www.angelsremembered.tk

Poetry Section

~**~**~

Love??™s Reply

Robert White 

I come with the sun in the morning

To touch and caress your face

To look in your eyes so demurely

To moisten the dryness away.

I gaze with fervour upon you

With heart open, and clean hands.

To behold you and then, to hold you

To devote and start a new day.

Your eyes gleam out with shimmers

Of light and joy so dreamlike

Like rainbows draped o??™er the horizon

To sweep the dimness away.

I come with a dream to embrace you

To bless you beyond your desire

And life will breathe out in the morning

To love in the newness of day.

Robert White
poeticrob@hotmail.com

About Me:
I'm a christian, 47 years of age, divorced with
2 children - Rachel who's studying to become a
nurse and Jonathan [Jonno] who is fast growing
into a fine young man.

I'm interested in writing - since early 2003
anyway, and have now written over 20 poems, 6
or so songs, a couple of short stories and some
other works. I love music and would love to write
songs with meaning touching on all parts of life,
from love to grief, from death to new life, from
Australia to the world. You could say that I see
the world now in ways I hadn't noticed when I was
younger and I want to leave a legacy which will
bless and build up others.
**********

~**~**~

A Touch Of Kindness

Dianna Doles Petry

Each day, I try to fill her world with kindness,
I try to forget that her memory is nearly gone now.
I help her to find a laugh by dancing with a doll,
I do it faithfully, as though I've taken a vow.

Somehow she got lost within her own soul,
There is no set beginning or ending to her days.
Her hair is gray, her steps are slow now,
I look at her and it touches my heart in so many ways.

A few moments of kindness is all that I can give her,
Sometimes it feels like I'm letting her down.
I wish we could go shopping together,
Or she would want one more night out on the town.

Those things just don't matter to her anymore,
Not when she exists in her own realm of living.
I know she didn't mean to forget simple things in our lives,
She used to be so very thoughtful and giving.

She has stumbled and is falling like a sunset,
Gradually fading out of view and leaving things dark.
She is what's left of a life built around her children,
That's the way she managed to make her mark.

I pray that she slips off to sleep quietly,
That in her slumber she will draw a final breath of life.
She can leave the darkness that is closing in around her,
To go be with the man that chose her for his wife.

One final touch of kindness, it seems so little to ask,
Even though we have no choice with our fate.
I will stand by her until it's over, no matter how long it takes,
Knowing that she is headed towards Heaven's gates.

Dianna Doles Petry

?©2005

Dianna59@charter.net

Proud founder of:
Women With A Unique Soul
www.womenwithauniquesoul.com
Webmaster of Short Stories
http://diannapetry.tripod.com
Webmaster of Poetry From Life
http://www.geocities.com/diannawv/
Poems By Dianna
http://members.tripod.com/~poemsbydianna/PoetryofLife.html

 ~**~

Wondering

Norma Liles

I wonder what would happen
If for some reason beyond my mind
I'd find you lost and lonely
Upon a foreign soil.

I wonder if you'd recognize
My cares have been on time
For you have been so dear to me
So stay and share some time.

We'll walk through garden's paths
We'll sing each other's songs
We'll travel back in memory
We'll catch a glimpse of heaven.

So know that you are special
Such a special friend of mine
Take care avoid all pitfalls
My dear friend of mine!

Norma Liles ?©

Norma Liles ?©

hoopla214 @yahoo.com

About Me:

Norma Liles is a retired data entry
clerk/supervisor who lives in Ohio. Her hobbies
are: writing poetry and stories, reading,
her family, living for Jesus and
her use of her computer. Her ambition is
to add pleasure to those who read her
writings as well as sharing her faith.

My writings have been published on Starfish,
Driftwood, Sandollar, Morning Spirit Lift,
www.poetry.com, PrayerofGod, Jan Karon's
newsletter, American Poetry Writer's league,
Lucy's Inspiration, Faithful Hope reading room,
Poetry of Today publishing, Hope in Him,
Bonnie's Place, America will remember and
News Moose. Finally senior writer for
Storytime Tapestry. 

Writers Feedback

I just read the ingenious story by Tink and Poo of the Mississippi Grandaddy catfish and it was amazing and with such touching humor yet reality.  Thanks again Bill Walker!  Blessings, Sharlett Hunt

I really enjoyed Karin Janin??™s  story. My bio-dad was in an orphange for a few years and then his father, my grandfather came and got him. His mother had died of TB. Back when my father was a little boy a lot of people were dying from TB.

Veronica

By the way Happy Birthday, Karin

Hi Kath, (bathed In Tears)

This poem was just awesome. i'm wiping the tears from my own eyes!

Great job, but how sad that you had to write it. josey sounds like she was a real angel here on earth.

Love,

Kath Whirity

Dear Sharlette,

I too believe you are full of wonderful stories to share with us...congrats on being a survivor not a quitter...another survivor I may never be a lighthouse for the Lord but I can be a candle...God bless and hugs leona

Clara's story, My Amish Dog, tickled my funny bone. Yet, it also reawakened how it felt when my Smidgy dog shunned me for leaving him for a week end. I'm ever so grateful he doesn't hold grudges as long as Onyx!

Bill Walker's story, Thorns, as usual got me to thinking. He is so insightful. I enjoy reading his stories so I can gather more gems of wisdom.

Sandra Woodward

Sharon's story, God Seems To Know, is such a wonderful reminder of how our Heavenly Father, takes such awesome care of us.

Sandra Woodward

I enjoyed Sharlett's story, The Dance Class, very much. She inspires others with her writings. I bet before all is said an done, Sharlett will be dancing with the best of them. Way to go, Sharlett!

Sandra Woodward

Kathleen's poem, Bathed In Tears, was so beautifully sad. A wonderful poem.
Sandra Woodward

Joseph's writing, Not Perfect, is perfect. It reminds us not to be too hard on ourselves. God is not finished with us yet. Thanks, Joe, for another wonderfully spiritual packed piece of writing.

Sandra Woodward

Richard's story, I Thought I had It All Figured Out, brought a smile to my face. A great reminder, If it aint broke don't fix it! LOL Keep up the good work, Richard...by the way, I didn't spot any misspelled words!

Sandra Woodward

Sherri's "Otter Magic" in honor of her father was a
wonderful piece. What a precious memory. --Kay

Prayer Requests and Updates

Dr. Hura wants to get another xray done as soon as possible, there is an xray they can do to see if the nodules in the thyroid are functioning properly, if they are he isn't going to do a biopsy and if they are not functioning properly he will do a needle biopsy. I am waiting for his office to call for when the test is scheduled. So I don't know any more than I did before.

SENIOR WRITERS

Agee, Vance;  Apted, Violet;  Baker, Kathy;  Batt, Al;  Berry, Nell;

Boda, Ginger;  Bryant, Sharon;  Buhagiar, Victor; Cassady, B.J.;  Crider, Mark; 

Deming, Barb; Goodier, Steve;  Harris, Kathy Anne; Hunt, Sharlette; 

Jacobson, Gary;  Kiser, Roger Dean; Kerens, Claudia; Jenkins, Pamela;

Liles, Norma;  Mazzella, Joe; Ojeigbe, Georgewaters;

  Petry, Dianna Doles; Roberts, Susan;  Shaw, Bob; Sims, Richard; Swarner, Ken; Vaknin, Sam;

Walker, Bill;  Walker, Joe; Warner, Gorden K;

Whirity, Kathy;  White, Robert;

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