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becoming a new creation in an age of turmoil

Within A Forest Dark

woman by Zs, flickr woman by Zs, flickr

Using one of my pen names, Quenby Larsen, I created a memoir style blog “How to be Alone.” I created the site over a year ago and this most recent post this past spring. In this and other posts, I explore my struggle with illness, but especially, mental illness, a struggle which seems to inevitably inform my fiction. May God bless you in your fight, whatever fight it might be, for all of us are engaged in something. I hope you will visit “How to be Alone.” Maybe it could be a comfort to you or someone you know. Maybe it could serve to show that really, we are none of us alone. Sincerely, Margaret

I’ll have to admit that recently, I haven’t been as comfortable spending time alone being quiet. I believe this largely has to do with midlife circumstances that are not all that unusual though…

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liquid asylum

Sometimes writing comes to readers at exactly the right time. This is one of those times.

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Ode To A Mother.

Mothers. I love them, too.

Kofi Amed's Blog

Queen in our eyes! 
Goddess in our hearts 
Alleviated fears ;Shaped behaviors 
Built careers ; Educated a nation 
Sang hymnals :Through the moments slowly.

She learned to live and love 
Unperturbed by failure unruffled by haste 
To rise in the midnight glory 
‭Unbounded by time ,Undimmed by hope.

She sang dirges in ceremonies 
boxed by pain raze with tears
Called on a God in heaven ! 
Pushed by problems unleashed by dreams

To wipe our tears and fails 
Charred by life’s harsh realities
Unbroken by woes strengthened in invocations 
Into our stubborn adolescent years 
The hectic times, the sick bed comforts 

I reminisce her brief scolding 
Refusing to go to school for no reason 
And all her exquisite wares I broke 
Can’t phantom the pain I caused her

But she never gave up on…

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I Confess, I’m a Spy

Fantastic! Hilarious! True. Makes me wish I’d written it!

See, there's this thing called biology...

shoephoneHideous little fact, but if you torture somebody long enough, they’ll
eventually tell you whatever they think you want to hear. Eventually
they’ll start confessing to things they haven’t even done. Spy-factoid.

In the face of internet spy accusations, I used to launch a rather pathetic
wail, “but I’m a real person!” Forget all that, from now on I’m just going
to run with it, embrace the idea. So, I confess, I’m a spy, like Agent 99 on
Get Smart. Sometimes they even let me use the shoe phone.

In truth, on the internet being accused of being a spy, an agent provocateur,
a subversive, a troll, a government agent, is a pretty routine thing. People can’t
see you and until they know you, they tend to perceive you as a threat. (Once they
know you, they REALLY perceive you as a threat, but I digress.) To make the whole

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How Art Thou Received? (a prayer for refugees)

Kimberly Townsend Palmer

How Art Thou Received? (a prayer for refugees)

Imagine: suddenly, without warning (because that is how war arrives) you are a war refugee! Simply running away from being murdered. And how are you received when you can finally stop running, when you are out of range of the guns, the bombs, the blood? No countries to take you. No one to feed you. You are a skeletal pawn in a skeletal game.

Embalmed corpses declare war on the living and fight for their “territory” against other embalmed corpses using armies of young people; embalmed corpses feeding on fresh, young blood.

I know something is very wrong, somewhere. It must be addressed, and addressed properly. Our prayer, our incantation, our spell to heal, must be more powerfully crafted, more distilled, more essential, than was the horrid spell we are trying to break: a tradition of might over right, strong but wrong…

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My Father is a Birdman

Within A Forest Dark

Processed with VSCOcam with b3 preset birdman by topinaris, flickr

My father is a birdman. By instinct the birds know him as a living man and not a statue and so they hover near his still, sitting frame, standing on their little bird legs, perching on his shoulders and knees, poking their heads into his pockets looking for seed.

My mother declared him petrified, useless. That was before she left him, she a bird herself flown from our little yellow kitchen of continuous spaghetti dinners and fried bologna sandwiches.

My father is quite an active man though as I grew I came to understand just not active in the direction desired by my mother. “Son,” he says to me, “Every bird in the city will be fed by sundown, he says, every bird will get their taste of my cones.” At night he coats pinecones with peanut butter and rolls them through birdseed.

He teaches me what…

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