Watermelon Rain

My latest story, “Watermelon Rain,” has been published in the July 2017 issue of The Tishman Review.  Please go buy a copy today!

You can find the link to purchase at http://www.thetishmanreview.com/.

Update 6/19/2018:  “Watermelon Rain” has been nominated for The VERA award through Vestal Review (2017).  I am pleased to be considered, thank you!


The Smiling Bob Radio Show

I have been selected as a finalist for Gathering Storm Magazine’s upcoming issue.  They will be publishing my story, “The Smiling Bob Radio Show.”  Please check them out at http://www.gatheringstormmagazine.com/.


UPDATE:  Year 1, Issue 1 has now been published!  Please go to Gathering Storm’s website to see all of their fantastic fiction and art.

UPDATE 2:  6/19/18:  “The Smiling Bob Radio Show” has been nominated for Best Horror Short Story 2017 in The Preditors & Editors Readers’ Poll awards.  I’m thrilled to be nominated, thank you so much!

To Ensure the Holocaust is Remembered, Begin Teaching at a Young Age

I still remember the exact moment I learned the Holocaust was real.  I was in seventh grade, around twelve or thirteen years old, when my homeroom and Social Studies teacher Ms. S had us watch a movie titled Escape from Sobibor.

At the time, I didn’t know what a death camp was; I just knew that Hitler was the egotistical megalomaniac who started World War 2 and many people died because of him.  I had no idea of the depth of his atrocities until after the credits began to roll and Ms. S asked us to discuss what we had seen.  I can’t remember if I actually said anything or not.  Knowing me, I probably did.  I was a little chatterbox when I was young.  But what I remember to this day was the enraptured feeling I got watching the characters in the movie plotting and planning their escape from Sobibor.  The movie took me from the main characters’ arrival in Sobibor by train to the gas chambers and beyond.  It showed how the prisoners’ belongings were sorted, the piles of hair from the prisoners’ shaved heads and the gold that was pried out of dental fillings.  It gave a twelve year old like me the complete picture of something that should never be forgotten.

To this day, I thank Ms. S for giving me an invaluable education.

She educated me at a young age about one of the greatest atrocities in World History.

So, this week, on the 70th anniversary of Auschwitz’ liberation, I feel it’s not only important but also morally necessary to repeat a quote Winston Churchill is famous for repeating:  “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.”

I would like to go further and recommend everyone read Martin Greenfield’s fantastic article on Fox News .com:  http://www.foxnews.com/opinion/2015/01/27/auschwitz-anniversary-my-mother-grandmother-were-sent-to-left-my-father-and/.

I will join the many this week in saying never forget.

The Village Diva

Living in a small town is just one of those things you either love or hate. My town is one of those blink and miss sorts of places, where the cops only come out to meet their quotas at the end of the month. We have two pizza places, a Sunoco, two carpet stores, a library, a VFW, two churches, and an auto repair joint without any garages. The streets are lined with trees, the sidewalks are walkable with few holes and multiple cracks, and the houses have more than a tablespoon of width between them.

Its home to me, and I wouldn’t change it for anything in the world. One thing I can’t understand about living here, though, is how everyone knows my name. I mean, yes, I’ve been living in the same house for 27 years, but I don’t associate with my neighbors all that much. For budgetary reasons I live with my mother and stepfather, in a cute little Victorian on top of a hill, but they don’t have much to do with the neighbors either.

My mom had a stint on the village council, but that brought her notoriety not me.

My stepfather had problems with one of our former neighbors about their dog, but again, that was his dooh-dah, not mine.

Maybe it was the singing career I had when I was 11 that did it.

You see, my house is two doors down from one of those churches – it’s a magnificently built brick Methodist church with a concrete slab that looks like a stage in the front, and a handicapped ramp going up the side. I used to skate down it on my roller skates. For you young people, those are the skates with four wheels and two rows, not the inline ankle-breakers they have now. I’d go up and down that ramp, and sing my little heart out. At 11 years old, don’t all little girls want to be princesses and rock stars? I wanted to be Madonna. And I sang like it too.

Maybe there was a secret meeting of the town elders back then that my mom never told me about – and they said, “Look lady, you need to shut this kid up.”

It could have also been the BOSE stereo years later in my teenage years that did it. I used to play that lovely stereo system at an unhealthy decibel level.  But I’d like to think since the police were never called that it was probably the roller-skating princess rock star thing. That sounds like a much better explanation, doesn’t it?

Anyway, I find myself surprised and a little embarrassed when someone comes up and says they know me.  I’m just a writer who tries to mind her own (and everyone else’s) business. Why would you know who I am?  Then again, isn’t that the aim of every writer? Fame and notoriety?  Maybe not in my case.  I just want to make enough money to live on, and give some of it to charity. That’s surely not asking so much. I think my princess rock star days are over. The roller-skating diva days definitely are. If I were to try that today, my ankles would probably snap in protest before I even tied the laces, and my knees would undoubtedly bludgeon me in protest, if my hips and legs didn’t get there first.

So on behalf of writer, rock star, princess, roller-skating divas everywhere I begin this blog, as a place to document my writing, my life, and everything else in between. Follow me or not, but I promise to spice up your life at least a little with weird and sometimes fantastical tales and opinions that maybe are best left to the inner workings of what passes as my brain.