STORYTIME TAPESTRY

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

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Sept 30, 2005? 

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? We have reached a phenomenal stage of having 250 writers for Storytime Tapestry with the help of our latest writer all the way from India.?  We welcome Krishnakumar Ramya, I hope you will all send emails and make our newest writer feel at home.

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Christina Hymes is a very new writer for Storytime Tapestry, she is an excellent poem, the material is so raw and compelling.?  Her second piece He Hangs is based on the passing of a very good friend of hers who met committed suicide this past week.

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Please take the time to give your condolenses.

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Our writers work so hard to provide you with daily stories. Won??™t you take the time to write to them once in a while and tell them how much you appreciate their efforts??  Feedback is crucial for every writer.?  I know I am one myself.?  Some of my writers feel so dejected when no one in a membership of 1200 took the time to say I liked your story.?  All it takes is two minutes of your time, if you see a story or poem that particularly moved you, please write the author and say so.?  That sometimes is the motivation to give that particular writer the inspiration needed to continue to write the stories you all love.

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And now onto the good stuff??¦

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

My Old Porch Swing,

Norma Liles

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Memory takes me back to the days of when I lived at home with my parents and the times that I spent on our front porch in my favorite place, our front porch swing.

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For hours on end, I would fantasize about flying through the air as the swing took me on flights of fantasy.?  I would feel as though I were flying through the clouds on gossamer wings to a place of

enchantment and pleasure.?  My wild imagination would create images of other young friends who would go sailing through the clouds with hands held tight as we experienced whatever took our fancy.

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Often times, I would think that we were up in a air balloon which would allow us to view the countryside from a different perspective.

We would see men mowing their grass and see other young people delivering their daily newspapers, other children playing on their swing sets and Mothers hanging their laundry to dry on clothes lines.

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I recall one time as I was gearing up for another trip in fantasy when my swing was just taking off for another trip when as I was moving away from the porch, the swing's holding chain broke.? When the chain broke, the swing threw me off onto the porch and when I raised my head from where I had fallen, the swing came back and hit me on the head.?  To this day, I can feel the impact of the heavy homemade swing striking me dizzily on the back of my head.

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It goes without saying that this experience put me back into the world of reality.

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NormaLee Liles ?©

Norma Liles ?©

hoopla214 @yahoo.com

About Me:

Norma Liles is a retired data entryclerk/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 forStorytime Tapestry

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~**~**~? 

? C'est Magnifique

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Margo Fallis

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? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?  Marseilles, France's oldest city and one rich in history, mushrooms across the land to the Mediterranean Sea. Said to be home of the Children's Crusade in 1212 A.D., it is easy to imagine the thousands of waifs waiting to travel to the Holy Land, led by a small boy named Stephen of Cloys. Statues spread around the city remind us of its ancient times, where orphans, along with many adults, went in search of something better.

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? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?  Why I chose to spend a summer in Marseilles is still a mystery to me. I had my choice of several European cities; Avignon, Monte Carlo, Florence, Innsbruck, or Marseilles. I studied each area, but somehow the city in southern France lured me, entrapping me in its historical fingers and guiding me there. I made my decision, flew to Aeroport Marseille Provence, rented a car and drove to my demi-pension for a three month stay.

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? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?  I stood at the window, gazing out on the city. The buildings, at least in the old part of the city where I stayed, were all made from a light stone. My landlord told me the blocks were hauled from Arles. I longed to explore every alley, shop and cathedral and try to understand why I felt so at home here.

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? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?  On the first day of my journey, I stopped at an outdoor cafe, Le Fraise, which I later found out meant The Strawberry. At the urging of my waiter, Jacques, I tried the bouillabaisse. As I sipped the fish stew, I glanced at people walking by; that's when I saw her. I dropped my spoon. Overcome by her beauty, I pulled a wad of francs out of my pocket , dropped them on the table and rushed after her. Her golden hair, shining like strands of shimmering wheat, danced around her face as the breeze caressed them. She entered a news shop. I rushed into the florist next door, grabbing a bouquet of lilies, poppies and grape hyacinths, an unusual combination, yet it captured my eyes. When she came out of the shop with a paper stuffed under her arm, I walked up to her. "Pardon moi, madamoiselle, je m'appelle David." I handed her the bouquet. ???Pour vous.???

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? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?  She smiled and accepted my gift of color and fragrance. "Your French is horrible. I speak English. My name is Madeleine. Thank you for the lovely flowers. And to what do I owe this special gift?"

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? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?  I chuckled at her attempt at the English language. "This is my first day in Marseille and I've already seen the most amazing site in the city, you."

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? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?  She tossed her hair to the side. "I see. You are American. Why are you here? Holiday?"

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? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?  I boasted, telling her I'd come for three months. What I really wanted to tell her was that I wanted to spend every moment of those three months with her. "I am a writer. I came here for..." I searched for the right word, "for inspiration."

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? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?  "A writer? That is interesting. I work down the road. Would you like to come and see?" She sniffed the flowers, holding them to her nose for several seconds. The hyacinths matched the violet patches in her eyes.

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? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?  At that moment I would have followed her anywhere. "Yes, I'd like that."

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? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?  She led me down a narrow cobble-stoned street. "What is your name?"

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? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?  "Jacob." I kept silent, afraid I'd say something stupid, as I usually did.

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? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?  When we stopped in front of another restaurant, she said, "This is where I work, Jacob."

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? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?  I glanced at the name, The Dominique Claire, written in golden script above the large bay window. "Oh, you're a waitress?" I didn't care what she did for a living.

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? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?  "I own the restaurant. I named it The Dominique Claire, after ma mere. She died when I was a child. Ma papa raised me and my sister, Angelique. I love to cook. Would you like to come in? I will fix you a meal you will never forget." She opened the door.

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? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?  Though I wasn't that hungry after my sips of fish stew, I couldn't turn her offer down. "Of course." When I stepped inside, the aroma of roasting meat and potatoes invaded my senses.

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? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?  She led me to a table in the corner. The sun shone through the front window, but she'd seated me in the back, away from the bright beams streaming in. "I will have my chef prepare Alouette sans tetes, goat cheese salad and navettes. Would you like to try the house wine, Chateaux Bon Nuit? My father owns a vineyard deeper in Provence."

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? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?  I sat with my mouth agape, trying to absorb everything she'd said. "That sounds delicious." I wasn't sure what I'd ordered, but I knew I'd enjoy it.

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? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?  She disappeared into the kitchen and came back out a few minutes later with the lily bouquet in a crystal vase, which she placed on the table in front of me. "If you do not mind, I'll join you. I haven't eaten all day."

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? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?  "Wonderful." I saw my reflection in the vase. When she turned to talk to the waiter, I ran my fingers through my sandy brown hair, trying to smooth it out.

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? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?  When Albert brought our food, I watched with hunger as he put each plate down.?  The goat cheese salad had plump grape tomatoes mixed with leafy greens, sliced almonds, bits of fig and shredded carrot. A vinegarette dressing came with the salad, sitting in cup to the side. I drizzled the entire amount on my salad, as did Madeleine. When I took the first bite, I groaned with pleasure, licking the drops of dressing off my lips. "C'est fantastique." I gobbled the salad in a few bites.

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? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?  "You must be hungry, Jacob."

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? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?  For the first time I noticed her dimpled cheeks. Why did my name sound so dumb when she said it? "I suppose I must be, or else the food is just too good to resist."

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? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?  Albert set the main course down. Smoke sizzled from my platter. "Enjoy your Alouette sans tetes." He walked away.

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? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?  I looked at my meal. "Madeleine, doesn't tete mean head? Is this the head of some poor animal?" I rolled the steaming meat around with my fork.

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? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?  Madeleine burst out laughing. "Many foreigners react the same way. I've been accused of cooking songbirds. One madam said I had no right to bake larks. Actually it is only slices of beef wrapped around ground beef and served with sauce. It is not to worry. I am not cooking songbirds."

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? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?  Relief washed over me. "That's nice to know." I took a bite. "C'est magnifique!" Within minutes my plate was clean. I wanted to pick it up and lick off all the drippings, but controlled my animalistic desires.

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? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?  The piece-de-resistance was dessert. Flaky pastry, layered with a filling of plums, apricots, cherries and figs, sat in the middle of the plate, smothered with white buttery icing; pastel-colored sugar sprinkled across the top of the icing like a slivered rainbow. Next to the pastry were the navettes, boat-shaped biscuits, flavored and decorated with fresh orange blossoms. I couldn't resist and ate them, using my index finger to scrape the leftover crumbs up. I finished off the glass of wine and sat back, content and smiling.

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? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?  "Jacob, you make me laugh. I must get to work. I urge you to explore the docks today, since you are so near. Why don't you meet me tomorrow morning and I will show you around the flower market." Madeleine bent over and kissed me on the cheek.

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? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?  I did as she'd suggested and spent the day at the largest port in the Mediterranean. I thought once again of the Children's Crusade and how hundreds of children had been crammed into five ships and sailed off towards the Holy Land and a certain death.

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? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?  Ideas for stories marched through my mind. I sauntered back to the pension and spent the rest of the day writing.

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? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?  Every morning I met Madeleine and she showed me the sights and sounds of this amazing city. Every afternoon I spent in my room, inspired by dozens of thoughts and dreams. By the end of summer I'd finished my book. The night before I headed home I printed off a copy and as the evening sun lowered, filling the sky with crimson radiance, I walked down to The Dominique Claire. Madeleine saw me, grabbed me by the arm and led me into the back room. "Well, Jacob, you are finished? Does this mean you are leaving?"

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? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?  I felt emotion bubbling to the surface. I knew the day would come too soon, but now that I stood in front of this woman who'd given me illumination and an awakening of my inner core, I found it difficult to speak. Instead I handed her a copy of the book.

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? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?  She turned the first page and read. "This book is dedicated to Madeleine Beauchamp, whose selfless soul helped me on my journey of self discovery. Thank you, Madeleine." When she finished, she allowed the tears to flow. "Jacob, thank you. It was my pleasure. You are my dear friend."

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? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?  I held her and together we cried. Though we'd never even kissed during the three months that we'd known each other, we were soul mates, friends forever, a bond without end. I kissed her cheek and squeezed her hand. "I'm leaving in the morning. This is for you. Je t'aime, ma chere, mon amie."

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? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?  I walked back to the pension for the last time, watching pairs of lovers walking hand in hand. My gaze wandered to each building and I marveled at the architecture. The aroma of fish stew emanated from all the waterfront cafes, mingled with cafe au lait and sweet pastries. I'd had the greatest adventure of my life and I hoped it wasn't over yet. Madeleine had my home address. I flew home the next morning hoping that some day she'd pay me a visit and allow me to show her amazing things and inspire her to something great. I thought about home and realized that I now had two homes, Marseilles and Atlanta, Georgia. My new book, ???A Crusader's Dream???, comes out in April of next year.

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Margo Fallis
margofallis @ yahoo. net

Margo Fallis, born in Scotland, spends a lot of her time traveling. Most of her
stories come from experiences she's encountered during a journey somewhere.
Margo started writing at age 10, when she wrote a play for her 5th grade class in California. Writing for children is her number one love, but she also loves to write short stories and is working on three novels. Margo is the mother of five children, seven grandchildren, and is married to Thom, the love of her life.
They live in Atlanta, Georgia.

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ValueSpeak

A Weekly Column

By Joseph Walker

valuespeak@msn.com

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A LESSON IN HONESTY

? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?  The situation looked familiar even if the faces didn??™t.

? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?  A father and his 6- or 7-year-old son were sitting in their parked car outside a convenience store I had just patronized, engaged in a serious conversation.?  Well, actually, the father was talking ??“ the boy was listening.?  I didn??™t know them, but I knew what was going on.?  One look at the little boy??™s face told me everything I needed to know.?  I had seen the look before ??“ heck, I had WORN that look before ??“ and I just couldn??™t help smiling.

? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?  Not that there was anything funny about the situation.?  Actually, something like what was going on can be pretty dangerous if it isn??™t handled correctly.?  But this boy??™s father clearly was doing the right thing.?  He was talking earnestly, but no angrily, to his son.?  There were no tears, although it looked as though it wouldn??™t take much to push a few out of the lad.?  I couldn??™t hear their conversation, but I could follow it almost word-for-word, and I knew what was coming.?  I slide into my car, but instead of driving off, I sort of hung around to watch a lesson in honesty.

? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?  My guess was that they were waiting for a moment when the store would be free of customers.?  Sure enough, when that moment came the boy and his dad got out of their car and walked into the store.?  The boy walked slowly, his head bowed, his eyes cast downward.?  In his hands was a small box or something ??“ I couldn??™t see it clearly, but I imagined it was candy or gum.?  Inside the store, the father said something to the woman behind the counter.?  She nodded, then turned her attention to the boy as the father stepped back and gently nudged him forward.

? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?  The child hesitated.?  His father bent and whispered something in his ear, and then stood beside him with a hand on his shoulder.?  The boy spoke, his head still bowed and his eyes still focused on the counter in front of him.?  Then he held out the box to the clerk.

? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?  The woman behind the counter played her part beautifully.?  It was a stellar performance in the category of Salesperson Trying to Help a Parent Teach His Kid Something Important.?  She looked at the boy sternly, but not too sternly.?  She took the box and spoke to him for a moment, but not too long.?  Then she smiled kindly, but not too kindly, and the boy and his dad turned and left the store together.

? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?  Relief was clearly etched on the boy??™s face as he hustled around the car to get in on the passenger side.?  For the first time, I could detect a trace of a smile curling the corners of his lips.?  The dad??™s face wasn??™t quite as easy to read, but it didn??™t matter.?  I knew what he was feeling ??“ disappointment and pride, discouragement and peace, anger and love, fear and hope.

? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?  The man pulled his door closed, hesitated, and then started the car.?  He was about to slip it into gear when I saw him look across the front seat at his son.?  He smiled, and through the light fog that was gathering on the back window of his car I could see his mouth form the words: ???I??™m proud of you, Son.?  You did the right thing.????  The boy launched himself across the seat and threw his arms around his father??™s neck, and the father wrapped his arms around his son.

? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?  At this point, I began to feel like I was intruding on something very special and very private, so I pulled away from the convenience store.?  Still, I can??™t help but wonder what happened next.?  Did they go out to get some ice cream together??  Did the experience help to weld a tighter bond between father and son??  Had the boy really learned this important and well-taught lesson in honesty, and would he go on to lead a happy, productive and crime-free life?

? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?  Who knows??  Who EVER knows when it comes to teaching our kids??  Some stuff connects and makes a positive difference in their lives, and some stuff doesn??™t.?  The important thing, as far as parents are concerned, is that we at least try to teach those meaningful life lessons when the situation presents itself ??“ whether or not the situation itself is familiar.

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Poetry Section

~**~**~

Dream Catcher!

Krishnakumar Ramya

Tired, unslept eyes gaze at the rising sun,
not a flicker of emotion passes through them.
The only purpose of day for them
is to lead into long, endless nights

Dreams are not a part of his existence
Dreams do not come to him.
He lives in a world of oblivion,
which is beyond any emotions or feelings.

The walls he has built around him
make even the morning rays of the sun
impassable

The child in him struggles to come out once in a
while,
come out and play with the myriad colors that the
dreams represent
But the child is so brutally conquered and buried deep
down that there is hardly any life left in it.

Dreams, the stepping stone of one's future,
the compass that gives direction to one's life,
the hand that guides one through every hurdle,
the foundation stone on which hope is built,
took him to the pinnacle,
and plunged him in to nihility.

People chase dreams that are in sight and can be made
in to a reality
He chased a dream that was so far beyond that it led
him in to a world of nothingness

Now he lives in a dreamless world,
waiting for long endless nights,
so that he can find solace in the darkness,
in the murkiness.

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ramya_krishna_kumar@yahoo.com

I am from India and currently working as a Marketing Researcher at George Brown College in Toronto. I love to write and intend to pursue it very seriously.

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? ~**~**~

Rain

Christina Hymes

The rain falls like tear drops
on a hot sunny day.
Falling from my face,
taking a hard fall on the
black top street.

Steam rises humidifying my lungs.
I breathe in and out.
Mist forms droplets on my eye lashes,
and the sun releases a rainbow.
Sitting on the street corner,
hand in hand, remininscing
on the past view weeks.

The challenges we have over come.
My head in the crest of your shoulder,
eyes gazing forward, both knowing
we can handle anything that comes our way

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? ~**~**~

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He hangs
Christina Hymes
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The rope hung from a doorway.
The white flag was raised higher.
A grim face stared out to the unknown
Feet not reaching the floor, head tilted.
Not up towards the light fixture but down
To the burgundy and green carpet
Stained with years of cold memories
and salted tears from distant eyes.

He wanders in limbo deciding his way
while the gravesite gathers the dust of mourners.
Spoken words float past not understood
I wonder if he would be standing here,
if instead of him that were me.

I wish it were me instead of him,
My dark days are looming far overhead.
My white flag is raised, I long to surrender.
But a knot is at my throat and fingers quiver.
I can't do it, I can't deliver.

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Christina Hymes
CDRC Marketing Assistant
hymc0001@unf.edu

Christina Hymes was born in Bethesda, Maryland on March 4th, 1986. She grew up
with her older sister, twin, and younger sister. In 2002, the family moved to Jacksonville Florida where upon she finished high school in 2004, eight in her
class.
She now attends the University of North Florida and will be majoring in
Nursing and minoring in English. Christina writes on her free time. Her work
is a collaboration of poems that deal with her life and the events around her.

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Writers Feedback

? I just love Betsy's story of Ms. Reeth, well I love all happy ending pet stories. I've known her since high school as a smart and very kind girl.
Thanks
Mark Crider