They say the day Aunt Frankie married Uncle Sally was a day that would live in infamy. I’d learned Franklin D. Roosevelt said that when Pearl Harbor was bombed, but no, most of the family, actually, only the uncles, would whistle, smack their wine stained lips, and speculate over the reasons as to why a raven-haired bombshell like Francine Odessa would be interested in a stunad* like Uncle Sally. As for the women in the house? They’d wink at one another.
Uncle Sally might not have been the brightest bulb in the Murano Glass chandelier my Nana had sent specially from Italy as a wedding gift for her caro Salvatore and his gabbagool bride (Nana’s words, not mine), but to Aunt Frankie, Continue reading
Because our minds are not confined to the constraints of our craniums, a ride down the rabbit hole can be endless with its twists and turns, zigs and zags, steep climbs, and plummeting tumbles into a time-sucking abyss. You’re familiar with it, I’m sure.
She stands facing the pale, windswept bay, tall and erect as the ancient redwoods poking through the shroud of fog folding over the mountain range behind her. They loom in the distance like a pack of protective brothers, chanting in the blustering gale, You’re not alone. We’ve got your back. 
Extreme weather boots.
Alice Wetherby Pimms physically felt time pass in the coursing of her blood for as long as she could remember. Every second -tick, tick, tick- was like an invasion of needle-nosed imps nipping at the underside of her plump flesh.
As writers, we all have our favorite writing methods. For instance, some swear by Scrivener, while others write in Word or Google docs. Some prefer to draft longhand, using colorful gel pens and notebooks.
If I were a simple love poem
Donna Gwinnell Lambo-Weidner 