A Little About Me
I am an adventure seeking ponderer of the mysteries of the universe, writer of children's books (represented by Stephen Fraser of the Jennifer DeChiara Literary Agency), and lover of anything involving armor, archery, or swashbuckling.
MAY 4-5, 2019
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Holy Schlamoly – honored that my post “2 A.M.” was
Member Since 2007
© 2012 Donna Gwinnell Lambo Weidner
Punishment for ignoring said © is, at best, death by hanging from the tallest yardarm. Content may be shared for non-commercial use as long as credit is given to Donna Gwinnell Lambo-Weidner and linked to http://donnaweidner.com All photo, art, and media content that is not my own are for representational + non-commercial purposes. I do my best to give credit where it is due.
PORTS OF CALL
Category Archives: TRAVEL/PHOTO Themes
Until I was six, I thought Uncle Sally’s name was Who-Gives-A-Sh*t. Everyone called him that – the neighbors, the few friends he had, his business associates, the family – even his mother, my Nana. She’d hoped the label wouldda’ forced her caro … Continue reading
It’s somehow fitting. The sweeping square is shrouded in silence, but for the dime-size drops of rain slapping the neatly laid cobbled stones under my feet. The typically bustling quad is empty too, except for the line of bicycles strung … Continue reading
The only thing missing from the stone tower resting up against a craggy cliff side along the southern California coast is a sixty-foot silken braid trailing from the top window slit to the rocky beach below. Well, maybe the thick, … Continue reading
Winter Dissolving crystalline crust decomposing evaporating
Quimmer. Stranded. Separated from his pack. About as visible as a grain of sand stuck to the smooth side of a seashell, the dog stands on a slab of sea ice floating atop the placid waves of Scorsbysund. Four days ago, … Continue reading
“I’d rather be here, with you, than anywhere else in the world.” When the man in the mountain spoke, it wasn’t with words. A wave of warm air rippled across his furrowed forehead, crept over his craggy face, and burst … Continue reading
Clouds of steam rise from bubbling pits on the pocked landscape. It smells like Beelzebub is venting a batch of burned hard-boiled eggs from his sizzling subterranean scullery far below our hiking booted feet.