Just so you know that Wake-Robin Ridge isn’t ONLY about the creepy moments, though there are definitely some of those, here’s an excerpt from Chapter 3.  Sarah Gray has recently quit her job as a librarian and moved from Florida to the North Carolina Mountains. This is shortly after moving into her new cabin, and she’s spent the morning unpacking and setting up house. Like me, Sarah often suffers from an excess of enthusiasm. 😀 Tomorrow, I’ll share one or two from Swamp  Ghosts…and maybe another poem, depending on how many posts come in from you guys!

Enjoy!

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…I lugged the empty boxes out to the front porch to be disposed of later, and decided I had earned a break. Fixing a cup of my favorite Earl Grey tea, I walked out my back door, and began a stroll around my property. It was pretty early yet, and the morning was surprisingly cool, at least by the standards of someone who knew what August in central Florida felt like. Walking down to the edge of the creek, I stopped in the deep green shade of a redbud tree, watching the way the rush of water slowed as it poured into one of the deeper pools. I wondered if there might be trout hiding in there, and for one, insane minute I pictured myself fishing for my dinner. Then I came back to reality.

As if, Sarah! It’s all you can do to swat a fly. You’d feel sorry for the fish and turn it loose, apologizing for interrupting its day.

I laughed at my foolishness, and continued to walk around the yard, taking note of how high the late summer grasses were. Might have to get a riding mower to handle the yard. And then there was all the overgrowth along the edge of the creek. Kudzu vines and wild blackberries had run amok. I’d definitely have to hire someone to clear that out at some point. But other than that, it was all perfect, with slow, sleepy bees bumbling among the wildflowers, and the sound of birdsong coming from the woods.

The online photos hadn’t lied. The cabin was lovely in its comfortable, solid simplicity, and the yard and garden, with its big, tilled beds, offered a chance to let my famous green thumb run wild. Well, okay, I didn’t really have a famous green thumb, having never owned a house with a garden, but I had always loved plants, and on this morning, I felt sure I could develop a garden that would be celebrated far and wide. Visions of sunflowers and roses, carrots and cabbages, and luscious pink and blue hydrangeas danced in my head.

Oh, I felt very lucky, all right. And filled with an optimism I hadn’t felt in ten years of cataloging endless mountains of manuscripts and dusty documents. But no more of that for me. Now, I was free to unleash the writer’s spirit I was sure had been caged deep within me all this time.

I’m going to put pen to paper—or fingertips to computer keys—and words are going to pour forth. I will send them out into the world to multiply, and become books. My words will be erudite, yet pithy. Evocative, but always grounded. Poetry presented as prose. Or maybe it would be prose presented as poetry. Heck, why not both? Who’s to stop me? Continue reading →