As the issue of cutting is directly related to editing broadly, I'm commenting on how removing text fits into that process in a general sense. (In the final edit of my first work, I cut roughly 80,000 words. Imagine that!)

Some cuts come easily. Unnecessary verbiage may be removed with a simple change from passive to active voice. In particular, I look for words like “was,” “were,” and “by,” for these changes. Also, phrases like “could feel,” become “felt.” Additional edits include “throw away” words like “really,” or “very” or “many,” or “small.”  On occasion, of course, a replacement in such an instance might require more words. For example, when I see meaningless descriptive word like “small” (which tells the reader little), I might instead use a comparative. That is, “the small, old hut…” might become “the quaint hut, rotting around the door from years of weathering …” 

Cutting words and phrases is relatively simple, but cutting whole portions can be painful. After spending long painstaking hours writing something, it’s hard to pull whole sections from a work. In Oathtaker, the original completed story included pages of a “history of the “world,” as it related to the people of interest. (While I could share portions of that here, for some reason I’m temporarily unable to access them on my computer.) Eventually, I cut that history because, even while some of my early test-readers appreciated the section, I felt it slowed the work down. (Sometimes I have to remind myself that today’s readers want writers to “cut to the chase,” unlike readers of ages past who seemed to enjoy the slower pace of a work, allowing them to lose themselves in the pages for a longer period.) The upside to this process comes when sections I’ve removed at one time, prove useful at a later time...

​Today we're sharing chapters or sections of our longer novels that might have been cut from the final draft. For those who haven't read the full story, maybe this piques your interest - for those who have read the tale, here's how it started...

A Hero's Curse, Excerpt from Chapter 1, First Draft

(Kitty and Essie are following the ancient pipeline that brings water out of the Valley of Fire to their farm. Their job is to find and report leaks...)

Something thumped. It sounded like Kitty walked into a rock while making fun of birds and lizards. I laughed out loud. “My, are you blind too?” I felt a damp spot on the pipe. “Here's another one. It is not a bad one Kitty—just a joint.” I let go of the pipe and tapped the ground and the surrounding rock for a second. “Ok—I know where we are.”

“So do I,” said Kitty.

I smirked. “Nose still sore?”

Do you like to see deleted scenes that didn’t make it into the final version of your favorite books? You’re in luck. Up until I wrote Crow’s Nest, I … didn’t keep deleted scenes. I’m one of those people who like to clear the decks and get rid of rubbish (except, apparently, in my office, where I need it the most!), so once I had the Final Version, I threw away what I deemed was junk.

Only it’s… not?
​
I know, what?? An author friend freaked out and forced a course correction. I now have scenes…

I love the holiday season! 

My family typically celebrates the holiday on Christmas Eve. The day starts with my preparing a few thick and hearty soups. Often I go for chicken wild rice with pancetta; ham and potato chowder; and either a chili or a tortilla soup. I make large batches of each, then send some home with each of the kids when the evening wraps up so that they can snack over the course of the next day or two. (Of course, I also keep some for my husband and me. Soup is such great comfort food.)

Once the soups are on and melding their great flavors, it’s a waiting game until our three children (and their families or significant others) arrive. Typically they show up mid-afternoon. The soups, along with fresh oven baked buns, are available for everyone to graze as the day goes on. I generally have some brie for my eldest and me (as it is a favorite of ours), an extraordinary Chicago mix popcorn from Candyland (unlike any other), and a variety of other snacks and treats. These days, the kids also bring goodies to add into the mix. Some years we also prepare grilled panini sandwiches with good salami, prosciutto, aged provolone, sweet red peppers, and nummy, salty Kalamata olives. (I think we should do that again this year, as I’m making myself hungry just thinking of them.)

Sometime in the late afternoon, as the sky begins to darken (we do live nearer the North Pole than I’d care to admit, after all), we gather round the tree to start opening our gifts. We grab an item for each person from under the tree, then take turns opening. Everyone oohs and ahhhs over each item. When that round is done, we repeat—until everything is unwrapped. While there are not all that many of us, the opening goes on for hours as we take our time to open, admire, converse, laugh, joke, and generally have fun together—pausing from time to time for a quick bowl of soup or some other treat.

When the unwrapping is done and the kids are preparing to leave, we all remember (always at the last minute, it seems), to check everyone’s stockings for that one last gift for each person. Then the kids pack up their vehicles and off they go. Later—usually around 11:00 or so—I start a 1000-piece jigsaw puzzle. When finally relaxed (it takes me awhile to unwind) around 2:00 am, I make sure the caramel rolls that I’ll pop in the oven in the morning are slow rising in the fridge, and then head off to bed.

Christmas morning is chill. Over the past years, my husband and I have often spent the day alone. We have choices of places to go and people to see, but we seem to most enjoy the opportunity to relax in our own space.

I finish my jigsaw puzzle sometime in the mid afternoon, and nibble on soup as and when I please ...

The Christmas season here in the US is a time like no other. Folks don’t even wait until Halloween is over before they break out the holiday decor, crank up the jingle tunes, and start binging on holiday television shows.

Ack.

Please, no.
​
When I was a little girl…

First, I feel like my family and I are still young, and just starting out, so our traditions are fairly new, as far as traditions go. That said, there are definitely some things we have loved, and a couple we can’t stand.

Our family loves giving each other gifts. The childers love giving gifts. They also love receiving gifts.

What we don’t love is that frenzied, frantic, chaotic, ripping of presents open all at the same time in some kind of scene that looks more like a group of sharks going after a baby seal than it does Christmas morning. So we don’t do that.

This month we Quills are sharing what we think are some of the best things about the fall Season. Come, join us!

Please be sure to follow the links of my fellow Quills.

1. It’s time to start putting fires into the fireplace again. What a cozy environment! Of course, this means having the chimneysweep out, as well. My cleaning is scheduled and I can hardly wait to start my first fire of the season.

2. The changing colors. What is not to love about looking out and seeing God’s wondrous creation turn from fresh greens that have grown weary over the months, to golden yellows, fire-like oranges, and intense reds. The best part is looking up through the branches for a glimpse of the unique blue of an autumn sky. I always enjoy watching my island home change from week to week. 

3. October it a difficult month when it comes to “bills coming due.” In addition to the standard costs, there is the second half of the property tax to pay and my home insurance and one of my life insurance payments come due. This year I’m adding an unintended payment for my new double ovens. I would have hoped for more years out of the unit I purchased and installed when I revamped my kitchen a decade or so ago, but I’m told I actually got an unexpectedly long life out of them. So, while the cost is something I’m not thrilled to have to take on (in October of all months), I guess that’s life. The best part of the new unit though? French doors on the upper oven—which I’m sure I’ll appreciate more and more as the years go on. Oh, will that be nice! 

I’m excited about getting the new unit delivered and installed (particularly since I am currently without an oven at all), so that I can start filling the house with glorious fall scents once again, like those of baking bread among other things—which is another great thing about autumn. (Pictured above: my new ovens. Pictured here: one of my absolute favorite breads, which is my Pepper, Chili, Cumin, and Cheese, Bread. I've added the recipe for you at the end. Do enjoy.)

4. Thanksgiving. This might well be my favorite holiday of the year. Having a heart filled with gratitude acts as good insurance against all sorts of troubles, and this holiday is a good reminder to be grateful at all times. 

5. I already told the kids to start their holiday lists. Hopefully, they don’t share the same items with others who ask for lists from them, because I have a terrible habit of going down their lists and (barring something extraordinary!) ordering whatever they have there. (Somehow, they still seem surprised at the number of packages under the tree and at what's inside each when they start opening.) In truth, I don’t get much joy from going out in the cold to shop, so I do nearly all my shopping online these days. As the packages begin to arrive, I get to enjoy an extended holiday season. I even started a wish list of my own this year, to avoid that awkward moment when the kids ask me what’s on my list and I can’t think of a thing—because I am in need of nothing but to see them and to spend time with them. And that brings me to what is sure to be the best part of this holiday season—my first grandchild’s first Thanksgiving and Christmas. I am truly blessed.

There are so many things I love about fall. And it’s more than fall, really. It all starts with Indian Summer, my favorite time of the year.
Where I grew up in the high desert mountains of the West late August kicked off Indian Summer. The monsoon season would finally settle the dust that had hung in the air since March. Cool, crisp mornings refreshed the land and the soul. The days would be warm and, well, perfect, extending through the first part of October.

In truth, I cannot complain about not having enough room. After 30+ years of raising children, my husband and I are now alone in our home. While I would not use “large” as a word to describe it, even with children in the house we had significantly more room than my family of ten (Mom, Dad, and their eight daughters) had when I grew up. In those days, up to four shared a single bedroom, and there was but one bathroom for the entire clan. I’ve been blessed in that the circumstances in which I raised my children were significantly better—and yet, I was always at a loss for finding space for one thing in particular. That one thing was: me. 

A few years back, when we were down to a single child with us at home, I tried to claim some space on the main living level. I reasoned, since my husband had his own 40X60 outbuilding for all his hobbies, that so too, ought I have some space. I tried that for awhile, but it was too busy, as he came and went through my claimed space several times daily. About that time, my daughter-in-law came to stay with us for a year while her husband (my son) was deployed. After they put most of their things in storage, we moved her into our lower walkout level so that she would have her own study, bedroom, living space, kitchenette and bath. It was such a joy to have her! I wouldn’t change that opportunity for anything. But then, shortly after she left ... I decided to take the level over for myself.

My space is currently in a state of craziness—as I’m using it as a staging point for going through all sorts of things in storage (to determine what to give away, what might be worth selling, and what I may still need to store for my children, not all of whom have a place to call their own as yet). Even so, for the first time in many years, I now have space for my work and my writing, for relaxing and reading, where I can set out a yoga mat so that I can stop to use it as and when I choose, and possibly in the future, even to do some crafting. And when I need a break, I now step out to my own little patio to enjoy the garden I prepared there this year, and to watch the birds at the feeders. 

I’m enjoying having an area to call my own these days. What, you ask, is the best thing of all? That’s easy: limited interruptions.

How about you? Do you have space to call your own?

I am one of those wildly lucky people who can claim an entire room for her writing space. With a population of one at my house, the quiet and privacy isn’t important anymore, but there is something to be said for having space dedicated to one’s dream. If only the room was the right color…

​Scribblings, scritchings and scratchings.

My writing desk is situated in the study, against the far wall, just right for catching the morning sun. It's perhaps the one, sometimes, semi-quiet place in our small farmhouse complete with five kids. Other than the back corner of the hot water heater closet.

The Screaming Wilds spread far and wide, filled with centuries-old trees, the roots of which bulged above ground, ready to trip the weary or unwary. Meandering streams throughout poured into fetid marshes. At the center sat The Crushing Falls, through which flowed The Tears of Beasts, dark-magic infused waters that turned all that entered them from good, to evil. 

Storm and Tracer trudged through the Wilds, along with Beowulf, their trusty canine companion. 

As dusk settled, faint light peeked through the leafy canopy above, casting a purplish hue to objects below.

Storm, armed with her sword, Forge, along with her young brother, Tracer, who carried the Staff of Inverse Effect, made camp in a branch that stretched high above ground. Storm tied a rope around Tracer’s waist and then to a limb before securing another rope for herself.

“That should do it,” she said, tightening the last knot. 

“Are you sure the Stinklings won’t follow us up here?” Tracer asked, his voice worry-laden.

“Pretty sure.” She pulled hardtack from her pack.

“But Stank and his minions, Funk and Reek, are not far behind.”

“Not to mention Stench and Malador,” Storm added. “I saw them a short while ago.”

Tracer winced. “Those beasts will find us here,” he said. “They have keen hearing.”

“True, but they don’t like heights, so I expect they’ll camp below. At least, I hope so. I plan to creep back down later to listen in to their plans.”

“But how will we get out of here?” Tracer whispered.

Storm pointed. “See ahead there? That branch from that tree over there rests on this one. We’ll cross the water by following it and then make our way to the ground on the other side. And the trunk is moss covered, which should muffle any noise we make. Hopefully we’ll get a good head start before they hear us.”

“That’s why you sent Beowulf across when we started climbing!”

“That’s right. As we've discovered, he’s immune from the troubling waters here.”

“And if we don’t make it across before the Stinklings?”

She grinned. “They hate water even more than they hate heights.”

“Ahhh! So they’ll have to climb and cross behind us!” Tracer exclaimed. “That’s brilliant.”

“Shhhh, now,” Storm cautioned, “I hear them below.”

“But what about this?” Tracer whispered, raising the Staff of Inverse Effect.

“Tie it to your belt.” After he’d done as bidden, Storm handed him some hardtack. “Eat up,” she said before taking a bite from her own. True to its name, it was indeed hard. Worse, it tasted like a rusty nail and left a gritty feeling in her mouth. 

“Get some rest now,” Storm said.

Within minutes, Tracer drooled, deep in sleep. Storm chuckled at the sight, then quietly made her way back down the tree so that she might hear what the Stinklings had to say. 

Several hours later, buoyed with new insight, Storm returned to Tracer’s side. 

“Get up,” she whispered, nudging him.

The two set off, cautiously crawling from branch to branch, before making their way back to ground on the opposite bank. The Stinklings, having discovered the siblings’ escape plan, followed—precisely as Storm had predicted.

“We need to hurry!” she exclaimed as her feet touched ground.

“Yes. Let’s go home!” Tracer agreed.

“No.” Pausing to scratch Beowulf between his ears, Storm grinned. “I’ve a better plan. Come on! We’ll head for the Crushing Narrows.” She sprinted forward, but Tracer, chasing behind, caught her arm to stop her. 

“But we’d be trapped!” he cried.

“I’ve got a plan,” Storm said. She leaned in and whispered in Tracer’s ear, then pulled back to find him grinning back at her as he situated the Staff of Inverse Effect more comfortably on his belt.

Once more, the two set off. 

Soon, the siblings neared the Crushing Narrows. Sounds of splashing water filled the air.

“There!” Storm exclaimed as she neared the edge of a rock jutting out over the water.

Tracer followed, looked down, and then turned back. “Are you sure?” he asked, looking intently into his sister’s eyes.

“I think.” She shrugged. “But just imagine! This could finally end our problems with the Stinklings!”

“And if you’re wrong?”

“You don’t have to follow, Tracer. We could find you a hiding place—if we act quickly.”

“No, I’m with you. I’d never find my way back home alone anyway.”

Soon, the sounds of breaking sticks and grunting Stinklings reached the siblings as the beasts neared.

“Here they come!” Storm cried. “Now wait until I give you the word. We want them all to follow!” After placing Tracer before her on the rock’s edge, he once more, fussed with the Staff.

“Ready?” Storm asked as the five Stinklings started lumbering up the rock. 

“Ready!” Tracer said.

“Now!”

Tracer raised the Staff of Inverse Effect and then threw it into the water. The second it hit the surface, he jumped. Behind him came Beowulf, then Storm—and then the five Stinklings.

As the Staff hit the pooled Tears of Beasts below, its magic took effect. Instantly, the murky, evil-infested waters became crystal clear.

Storm made her way back to the surface. Then, “Look!” she exclaimed, pointing.

The five former Stinklings stood before the siblings, each returned to his human form. Each examined his hands and fingers, then those of his fellows.

“The curse is lifted!” Stank exclaimed. “But these are the very waters that turned us into those horrible creatures! It’s why we’ve feared water ever since. But—what happened?”

Tracer dove under the water, only to return seconds later, holding high, the Staff of Inverse Effect. “Simple,” he said. “Storm heard you talking last night about how it was evil magic that infested these waters, how it had turned you all into Stinklings—and how you intended we would join your ranks. All we had to do was get this Staff here to change the water’s magic—to inverse its evil—to good!”

“Over there,” Teddy pointed with the gnarled stick he was holding like a staff. “They’re probably hiding in the shadows – they don’t like the sun.”

Lena wasn’t sure if Teddy truly believed in goblins, or if it was just his highly active imagination embracing the game as completely real.

​“Knock it off, Ted.” She tried to sound tough, like an older sister should sound. “Let’s just find the temple already.”

Once upon a time, frightening memories haunted the lovely Gilda Bolt. For some time, she found them too fearful to face, but eventually, she grew weary of spending one restless night after another. And thus she surmised that she must do something. She must admit her past transgressions, offer her apologies, and if possible, make amends. Moreover, she must do so post haste.

On awakening one cold morning, Gilda donned her slippers before heading to her kitchen. Mere coals remained in the range, so she fed it some well-dried oak. Stepping back, she momentarily allowed the flames to mesmerize her as they licked at the logs’ edges. 

While her fire grew, Gilda collected ingredients in a saucepan she set on the burner: oats, milk, water, salt, and a dash of cinnamon. Soon, the mixture came to a boil and as Gilda soaked in the heat, it gradually thickened. 

“Mmmm,” she inhaled its sweet scent.

Gilda dished her oatmeal into a bowl, drizzled honey over it, and then sat in her long lost father’s old and none-too-comfortable kitchen chair, to eat. Sadly, having missed dinner the evening before, she was so hungry that she tasted her breakfast too soon.

“Oooh! Oooh! Hot, hot, hot!” she cried as she dropped her spoon to grab a nearby pitcher of water for a drink. Then, sighing, she glanced out the window to find snow falling.

Today is the day, she determined. Today I shall journey into the forest, face my past, and hopefully, put my guilt aside for all time. It is time. I needs must dress in layers and brave the cold, but go, I shall.

Gilda checked her closet, took her time to find her warmest skirt and sweater, and dressed. Then she returned to the kitchen, cautioning herself against further stalling. 

She took a mouthful of her oatmeal, and then dropped her spoon once more.  

“Now it’s too cold?” She sighed. “Well, that’s what I get for taking so long to decide what to wear,” she muttered. She returned her oatmeal back to the pot, reheated it, then sat once more to eat.

“Mmmm,” she practically moaned in contentment, “just right.” 

Finally through with her breakfast, Gilda retrieved her boots from their perch near the front door. This time, she decided she would forgo use of her father’s hard old chair, as it had been bad enough to breakfast there. Instead, she headed to her mother’s well-worn reading rocker. Unfortunately, when she sat, she sunk in so deeply that she was unable to get her boots on. 

She pulled herself back up and headed for the only other chair she owned.

“Ahhh! This is better,” she said. 

After donning her boots, Gilda returned to the front door where her outdoor gear hung on a nearby hook. She put on her warmest coat—a long red one—and accessorized with a matching fur scarf and hat. After glancing into a mirror and finding the results satisfactory, she set off.

It was a cold day, but not a terribly blustery one, and for that, Gilda was grateful. Still, she had a long way to go. 

Hours later, as midday came and went, and as she tired, Gilda found herself daydreaming about taking a nap on returning home. She smiled, grateful that she’d finally rid herself of her father’s old straw mattress. After years of wear, it had become too compacted. She tried her mother’s down one after that, but like Mumsy’s chair, it was far too soft for Gilda’s comfort. And so, for the first time ever, Gilda had purchased a new mattress for herself. Ever since, on days like this, she found herself grateful to have a warm bed to return to—one that was just right for her. 

As she neared her destination, Gilda’s thoughts wandered back to that day, so many years ago. I was just a child, she thought. Still, I should have known better. I should never have trespassed, never have taken or used what belonged to another. 

In that precise instant, Gilda came to a halt, as before her stood a massive bear, and behind him, the cottage she had been seeking.

“Who dares trespass?” the bear growled.

Initially, Gilda struggled to find words, but eventually she said, her voice shaking, “I do, kind bear.”

“We bears are not keen to trust others, he said, “as strangers have treated us poorly in the past. What brings you here?”

Gilda looked closely at the bear. Her eyes narrowed. Then, This could be it, she thought. This could be my moment. I’ve come for just this! 

“Well?” the bear prodded.

“I— That is— Excuse me kind bear, but have you lived here long?” She pointed at the cottage.

The bear growled. “Since I was just a wee one, yes.”

As Gilda took in a deep and cleansing breath of frosty air, she stood tall with gathered courage. Then, “I thought so!” she said. “You see, I’ve come to apologize for having trespassed into your home some years ago. I believe you were just a wee baby bear at the time, but perhaps you remember me? I ate your food and I made myself to home. I tried your chairs and your beds. Why, I even napped! Then, when you and your Papa and Mama returned, I ran away in fear. But now I’ve grown, you see, and I want to apologize for having trespassed. It was wrong of me. Ever since, I have suffered the pangs of guilt. But today, I am taking responsibility for my actions.” She paused, then added, “Do you remember me at all? Of course, my hair is longer now, and it is darker, and I—”

The bear moved closer, interrupting her story. He reached his paws out to her, leaned in, and sniffed. Then, “Goldilocks,” he said, “is it really you?”
​

The still air echoed the calm before a storm. Yeysharov Valamyr paused atop a ridge, leaning on his spear while he caught his breath. He’d been at this too long already. Rumor placed the witch in this area, but he’d found no sign.

​He gripped the haft of his spear, the other hand going to his protective charms. One touching the skin of his chest, one on either wrist, and five more worked into his thick fur collar. The other men mocked his caution, but they feared him, too. And well they should—they’d seen the results of the witch’s curse…

1. Grandbaby. The top of my list right now has to be the grandbaby that I am awaiting. She, due in August, will be my first. I am beyond elated!

2. Children Meeting Goals. Great joy comes when your children meet their goals at any stage in life. My middle child will graduate with her dual Masters degrees from the University of Pittsburgh this spring and will then begin in her new position with the Mayo system. No one could be more deserving of the success she is experiencing, and I could not be more proud of her!

3. Family Get-togethers. Like most families, we find it hard to find time to gather. Recently, my son returned from another year of deployment overseas, and my middle child has been living out of state. We did manage to get together for Christmas 2020, and I now look forward to more opportunities when my daughter moves back to the area this summer.

4. My Island Home. I live on an island on the Mississippi along with a couple hundred other island residents. When people ask me about the island, I tell them that there are two kinds of people they might find here any given time: those who live here—and those who wish they did. It is a special place, indeed. (Here's a pic from the island.)

5. Completing a WIP. There’s not much more to be said on this one. Finishing up any writing project—even one as small as this for a blog post—is something to celebrate.

6. Watching a Snowfall. I truly think that every season on the island is more beautiful than the one that came before. Watching a snowfall from inside, while home, is one of the simple joys of life. With spring comes the greening that starts low in the woods at the back of my place and slowly grows upward. In summer, it is a joy to walk down to the river and watch kayaks float by, or to wave at passing bicyclists that seem to grow wings as they make their way around the island. Finally, fall brings the glorious colors of that season in abundance. What joy!

7. Picking a Great Gift. Gift giving is an art. For me, few joys are greater than choosing something for someone that brings them happiness. (Here's a pic of a snowfall from home.)

8. Tax Season Ending. This one is worth some explaining. You see, at tax time I am responsible for, or assist in the preparation of, returns for four trusts (NO—none of them are for me or anyone in my family—unfortunately); my personal return for my husband and I (which includes separate schedules for his proprietorship, my writing “business,” and for details regarding a trust for which I am trustee; and another separate corporate business return. (I think this will be the first year that I’m not also preparing returns for any children.) All this is to say that when I’ve done what I need to collect the details for my returns each year, I quite literally (honestly!) jump for joy.

9. A Great Read. There really is not much more to say here. Don’t you agree?

10. Blue Hair. My hair has mostly grayed, so when I’m feeling like I want to make a statement, I like putting some blue bits in it. With Covid shutdowns, I’ve been out few times in the past year, and thus, have had little reason to do this. Oh, but I am hoping, before long, to schedule an appointment to go blue once more ...

There you have it. The first ten happy things that came to my mind. What makes YOU happy?

Some say it doesn’t exist.

But they are wrong.

It does. It does.  

“It does!” Nellie cried, as though repeating her mantra, whether in her mind, or verbally, would make it so. 

She pulled her boots on, then wriggled her toes, testing the fit. “And now for my goggles,” she mumbled, as she donned them. She placed them over her eyes for a moment, adjusted them for a perfect fit, then slid them back up to rest on her forehead.

Climbing into the cabin, she grinned. Flying is almost as good as what I seek, she thought in anticipation of her coming venture.

She started her engine, pausing to listen to its purr, pulled her goggles back down over her eyes, and then started off. As her speed grew, each clump of grass, each rock strewn about on the runway, caused a jolt to her spine. 

Nellie gave her engine even more throttle, then braced herself as her wheels lifted.

“It does exist. It does!” she exclaimed, before bursting into giggles, exuberant over her successful take-off. 

For some time, Nellie glided through the air, watching below for signs that she neared her destination. From this vantage, she easily identified wildlife roaming the savannah below. Giraburrows, tall, furry, long-necked, four-legged creatures that liked to tunnel below ground, lifted their heads to the treetops to watch as she flew by. Meanwhile, monkions, carnivorous creatures that swung from limb to limb in search of food, jabbered amongst themselves in the treetops. A band of hyilla, dog-like creatures that beat their chests as a means to scare away potential predators, skittered off into a field of tall grass.

“There!" Nellie cried, on sight of a run down shed that she knew served as a safe place for someone caught in the wilderness when his jeep ran out of gas, or perhaps following his unexpected encounter with a pride of elemoose . . .

She thought back to the radio message she’d received earlier that morning from Dr. Eliza Hester, whom Nellie had assisted on numerous past occasions. The good doctor had spent years on her mission to find the origin of magic. She swore, following her last venture out, that she was very close, indeed! Nellie anxiously looked forward to learning what Dr. Hester may have discovered. 

After lowering her altitude, Nellie took a final circle around, then committed to her landing. Having practiced her methods of late, this landing was perhaps her best of all time.

The moment her wheels went still, she jumped from the cabin to greet Dr. Hester, who had run to meet her.

“Well?” Nellie asked.

“I believe I’ve done it at last!” the doctor cried.

“Tell me!” Nellie urged.

“I will. I will! But . . .”

“Yes?”

“I am ever so hungry, and I’m out of foodstuffs here, and . . .”

“Say no more.” Nellie turned back and climbed aboard. Then, gesturing to the back seat, she invited the good doctor to join her.

“I’m sorry to trouble you,” Doctor Hester said as she settled in and buckled up.

“It’s no trouble at all." Nellie started her engine. Then, "Here we go!” she added as, once more, she donned her goggles.

No sooner were they airborne, than Nellie thought she heard something. She turned her engines off so she might concentrate more closely as she glided through the air in silence.

“Nellie!”

“Nellie!”

Catching a glimpse behind, confirming it was not the good doctor who called her, Nellie turned forward once more.

“Nellie!”

“Yes?”

“It’s time for lunch!”

There was no longer any question. In truth, Nellie would recognize that voice, her mother's voice, anywhere.

She landed her flying machine, hopped out, and then ran to the kitchen.

“Here I am,” she called.

“What have you been doing?” Mother asked.

“Just playin'.”

“I see,” Mother said with a grin. “You have indeed discovered the value of your imagination. It is truly magic. Is it not?”

People don’t talk about it, probably because they don’t remember, but being eight is the hardest age. Even harder than being a junker. Or an evaporative farmer, or whatever we are now.
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I guess it didn’t start right when I turned eight. So maybe it’s eight and a half. (Turning seven was even awesomer, ’cause that’s when I got my goggles, and my nickname, “Gogs.”) Even so, turning eight was pretty good . . .

Robin Lythgoe and I, along with one other, started A Drift of Quills back in 2013. Some time later, one of our team members stepped away, after which we added the marvelous P.S. Broaddus.

Only for two different months over seven years, have we Quills had no post whatsoever. One of those months was January 2021. For a variety of personal reasons, we were forced to take a temporary hiatus. But we will be back in February with our latest flash fiction stories, which I am sure you will not want to miss! So stay tuned.

It's time for another (short!) article with my friendly neighborhood Quills. The subject? Christmas. Wonderful, right? Five minutes into it and I found myself in an unusually grumpy, Grinch-like mood. Half an hour later, still stewing, I thought about backing out. Reluctantly, I sat down to apply myself to a little "free-writing." One of the wonderful things about free-writing is how it sparks ideas and memories…