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.
Share the Joy of Reading with
Holy Schlamoly – honored that my post “2 A.M.” was
- NIGHTMARE ON UNTER DEN LINDEN – A Banned Books Week Tribute
- HEY, RAPUNZEL ~ SURF’S UP!
- KALAALLIT NUNAAT – Man In The Icicle
- THANK YOU, RICHARD PECK (April 5, 1934 – May 23, 2018)
- IN SEARCH OF A NEW ‘F’ WORD
- HOOD RIDING RED LITTLE – A Tale In Reverse
- AN AMUSING REALIZATION
- Check This Out: The Book Passage Children’s Writer’s Conference
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
Tag Archives: D.G.Lambo
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
Winter Dissolving crystalline crust decomposing evaporating
Certain words in the English language make me cringe. The short, staccato sound of them wrinkles my nose, puckers my lips, and stabs my ears. One of the two most wince-worthy in my book of offending words has recently sent … Continue reading
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.
One paper heart trimmed in frilly, white lace, One arrow, one promise of a sweet, warm embrace. Once it’s notched, drawn, and trained on a specific bullseye, Cupid first blows a kiss, and then lets it fly ~