Prose or Poetry? by Sharon Sherman

Beauty lies among these lines

  of equal measure, beat and rhyme,

spaced amid the tripping tongue,

  a true delight for everyone.


How foul the words that come to me,

  (for sure, that"s how it seems to be),

when writing deeds of nastiness,

  it claims the power to depress.


But when the words are light and airy,

  bespeaking acts of friends or fairy,

twinkles lie among the lines

  evoking smiles and fun, this time.


"Oh, Romeo, my Romeo!"

  My love has asked where doest thou go.

For romance has its own sweet song,

  to move the heart, so right, so wrong.


And if you read this little ditty

  looking for an unrhymed gritty,

you'll not be satisfied with these,

  these lines of thought that rhyme with ease.

Review of the "As You Wish" series by Mindy Klasky

If wishes could come true, what would you do?

Mindy Klasky takes us on a delightful ride as she leads us through the lives of three young women staged to answer this very question in her "As You Wish" series. 

In Act One, Wish One, Kira is a stage manager at a small town theater that has just closed it's doors.

Wishing In the Wings shows us Becca, who is a producer at an off-Broadway theater. Unfortunately, she was just jilted by her boyfriend. Who disappeared. With her life savings.

Erin no longer has a job, a boyfriend, or a place to call home in Wish Upon a Star.  Unless she can get the notice of the producers for the exciting remake of Romeo and Juliet, she may have to give up on her dream of acting.

With humor, spunk, and more than one wish, Ms Klasky's heroines find new beginnings in the strangest places and love just around the corner.

Read them.  They will keep you emotionally invested to the end.

Bob White by Dennis Perry

I’d never been hunting and I wasn’t hunting this time either. I’d tagged along my friend Jack and his dad and uncle out to the country for a day of pheasant hunting, but it was pheasant hunting observing.

Me and Jack at 14 had no guns. Good enough for me. Me and Jack were there to more or less watch Jack’s favorite companion, the family’s Springer spaniel, Bob White.

Jack’s dad, Mac, or Mr. Mac as kids called him, said Bob White was sort of unusual for a Springer as he was mostly white.   When he ran through a field, he bobbed up and down, so early on, so Mr. Mac said, he called him Bob White. Bird dog, pheasant dog.  

Who’d argue with Mr. Mac? Dog trainer by hobby or actually a second profession, first being auto mechanic. Everybody in town knew him, Mac, the mechanic. Fixed everybody’s car. Mac, the guy who also raised and trained dogs.  He had a full-time trainer on his property, which was called the dog farm by most people. The dogs were always referred to as Mac’s dogs, like the pro trainer didn’t exist.

So this one fall day Jack said c’mon along with us tomorrow, or some such thing, and I’d jumped at the chance.  We were going out to the country, which from our little town was about five miles, but sure seemed longer, figuring in so little traffic, even fewer people than our town, and all that quiet. 

We got out there – a place Mac said he’d come several times before.  Farmer’s land, he said. Gave him a couple dollars to let us roam.  Said we couldn’t go through the wire, where the corn had grown and where the gold stalks now stuck out, the wire separating the corn from the untended land.  Mac explained Bob White could get near the wire, flush out pheasants right on that fence border, as pheasants liked to hide on the ground.

We couldn’t see the other edge of the field, were told it ended at a distant tree line, this was maybe a half mile on non-scientific guess.  Couldn’t see the far edge in front of us, either.  The field went down gently to a road, so I guessed when we got there we’d know it. Turned out it wasn’t all that far, not a mile, for sure.  “Perfect hunting ground” Mac pronounced it.

He gave me and Jack gallon jugs of water, gave Jack a small canvas bag.  Called it a “kit” – had tweezers for pulling thorns out of Bob White’s paws, if -come, had some medicine and tape, also for Bob White.  “Can’t be held up by a dog comes up lame,” Mac smiled to us. Seemed to make sense, but there was no food or water for us, I noticed. Maybe in the car. 

Bob White was eager for the task, jumping up and down. Jack and me walked down to the far end – to the road – near the wire line, instructed by Mac.  “You boys can be blockers, me and Uncle Ted here, you see, are against the wind. Bob White’ll flush ‘em, they’ll see you guys and spook short, we can bag ‘em.”  That was the whole explanation. I’d have to see it in action.

“Can’t shoot a hen,” Jack told me walking down the line.  “Gotta get the males, the ringnecks.”  I guessed a hen was a female, I suppose I should’ve known.  

“Hope the hunters spot the difference,” I said, hoping to sound knowledgeable. 

Jack, dark haired, several inches shorter than me, laughed. “They been doing it since ‘fore I was born, you too.” As he was smaller than me, this made him seem even younger.

We crossed a ditch, stood in the dirt road.  Road didn’t look much used. 

Before long Bob White came, well, bobbing through the taller crunchy field grass, right along the wire by the corn.  We hadn’t seen any pheasants come flying up.  Bad day for Bob White, I asked Jack, who assumed the role of the veteran hunter.  Birds’r a little deeper probably he said through a squint, though the sun was away from where he faced. I remained silent and Jack didn’t mind, the rest of the morning.

Bob White had come near us, scouted the ditch to our front, all along that north-south half mile stretch.  We moved with him, the dog actually ahead of us, the hunters probably not happy about it.  But maybe not; they never said, even later after the bad stuff.

Mac and Uncle Ted were quite a ways behind, something I never figured on, I don’t know why.  Mainly I thought if Bob White got a bird out then we could get shot, unintentional, and said as much.  Jack said no, they get ‘em in the air, then Bob White’ll go pick ‘em up.  He’s the best, that Bob White. Trained so as not to damage’em.  

The day was so clear, such blue sky, the early afternoon – still no birds bagged but Bob White had roused two of them out of hiding, near that far tree line – too far for a shot according to Mac when we somehow joined up. The pheasants had flown directly away  low over the tree line.

By mid-afternoon, Bob White had gone up and down that field a bunch of times after that first trip around the rough perimeter. We’d started at the top of the rise, a small bluff.  Where we were, down by the road, we had to move back up the rise, that was the pattern. Now the sun was pretty much at that time of day where everything looks gold, even the people.

Bob White’d had his water, then took off again, me and Jack set out to the “start” end again, as blockers.  I’d seen during the water break how Jack and Bob White just had this affection.  Best pals. Somehow it made me feel good, one of the best sights ever. 

Me and Jack, now getting near the top, could see Mac and Uncle Ted way back, the gold field haloed them and their fronts looked dark, the sun was angling just slightly further west after that water break. 

Not much later, Jack looked puzzled, gazing the field. I didn’t notice anything.  “Bob White’s not moving good,” he pronounced.  “Something’s wrong.  I’m going to find out what.”  I raised my voice that Bob White was probably just tired, but might as well have told it to the wind. Jack thrashed his way through the rough field, me a bit behind. Bob White was about a hundred yards ahead, picking his way. 

Mac and Uncle Ted shouted from far back, Jack get away.  I thought, maybe something happens Jack’ll get shot. 

Jack got to Bob White, I trailed in.  Jack didn’t want me to see his tears. Did anyway, turned my head. Bob White was whimpering, favoring a leg.  The hunters got there, sort of mad, sort of concerned.  I couldn’t judge which was most. 

Seems after a lot of discussion Bob White must’ve stepped in a hole, the left foreleg was probably busted, tape from the kit maybe helped, but the hunt I figured was over. Bob White was laying on the ground, no desire to move. We were there a long while, Mac and Uncle Ted doing about all the talking. I was surprised when they decided to keep going on. 

We go without the dog, Mac ordered, and he and Ted started back down the gentle rise.  Me and Jack stood with Bob White. Well, we ain’t leaving him, Jack said. No of course shot back Mac. You stay or you bring ‘im. So Jack picked up Bob White, carried him.  Soon we were catching up with the hunters, and Mac growled back, something about me and Jack and the noise.

I didn’t know why we were still hunting, but I guess these things don’t have time limits, except for daylight, which was about an hour and half left I figured.  I was thinking of the dog, of pain.

Jack was tired after carrying Bob White a few hundred yards. “You guys are a sorry sight,” Mac informed. Jack was dribbling water from my jug into Bob White’s mouth. I wondered if the dog was going to die, then pushed the thought out. Geez, he was okay, everything’d be ok. I was being a fool, more concerned for Jack, who was Bob White, the two were one in that field right then.  Jack said Bob White’d patch up fine. Said it more than once or twice. 

Uncle Ted said give me the dog, he’d carry.   You boys get down the end of the field by that ditch, you’re pretty slow he grumbled. 

We did, it was about where we’d first gone early on. 

We couldn’t see the hunters, but heard a shot. Me and Jack were pretty far from it, It sounded from over by the tree line, near where we’d just been. They must’ve got one out. I figured Mac probably bagged it, if Uncle Ted was carrying Bob White. Couldn’t tell. I noticed I hadn’t seen a bird, guessed we were pretty far away.

Mac appeared a couple minutes later.  You guys get on over to the wire by the corn, start back up.  He and Uncle Ted would be ahead of us, or the side, we would sort of be like Bob White now. We hunted about another hour. Never heard another shot, never saw another pheasant. Couldn’t hardly see the hunters, for that matter. 

We got back, making a big “L”- shaped walk on up the rise, way behind the hunters by this time. Mac was there at the top, fixing up the guns and ammo into some cases and little boxes.

Jack at first was sort of smiling, “Heard the shot back there, get a bird?” or some such, then the deep furrowed frown.  “Where”s Bob White?” he demanded from Mac.

Mac turned toward the car. I figured Bob White was there, as Uncle Ted was. Uncle Ted had a blank face, looked wrong, like somebody told him to have a blank face. Get into the car he said.  The car was about 50 yards from us.   

“Can’t let a dog hold up a hunt,” Mr. Mac ruled.  “Hunting dog can’t hunt, better off not being a dog,’ he finalized. He spat. Looked away. Especially from Jack.

Comes a time people have to accept life’s evils showing up. Can’t really prepare for them, even if you try. What I’ve learned, they usually chunk in a little here and there, give people time to think, to adjust. Shouldn’t have to take all the evil in one big chunk like Jack. Especially at fourteen, my opinion.  No evil could ever try to compete with this, couldn’t be the topper. Jack could laugh if it tried. I guess that could be consolation if he was to think about it.  He wouldn’t see it that way if it was explained. Then or now.  Me neither, likely. 

I don't remember riding home that day.

Jack's still my friend. I never saw Mac after that day, I assume he's died by now. All this was fifty years from this past Monday.

My friend, Dennis Perry, sent this to me in an email, saying, "Put together a little story for you. I sort of like it. Let me know what you think."

I think Dennis has a very clear voice when he writes. I'm there in the story whether I want to be or not. And, at times, I didn't want to be. It is so moving, so sad, yet life goes on. . .

Review of The Infinite Series by L. E. Waters

Review of The Infinite Series by L. E. Waters

Currently, there are three books to this series, Infinite Sacrifice, Infinite Loss, and Infinite Devotion. Hopefully, soon to be four with Infinite Faith.

The premise of Ms. Waters books are part metaphysical, part historical, and completely entertaining as this fictional account of one person's voyage to the afterworld weaves a story of incarnations both illuminating and heart-rending. 

At the beginning of Infinite Sacrifice, the lead character has just died. She finds herself relaxing on a beach chair with her guide. She is anxious to see her dear friends, only to find that she must first reacquaint herself with her previous lives. And therein lies the excitement that Ms. Waters has brought to these stories. Each life story, complete in itself, is totally gripping and fascinating to watch in your mind's eye. Discovering the characters as they are reincarnated in each life adds mystery and skill, while immersing you in the current life - until you forget - there is a larger story. 

As each book ends, the character finds there is a pattern to these lives that must be understood. 

Ms. Waters has done an excellent job of developing both the characters and the plot so you beg for more. I know I did.

When you have finished reading the first three books, go to her website, www.infiniteseries.net and sign up for her notice on the next installment in the series.  Then find another good book to take your mind off of the waiting!

I, Eye, Aye by Sharon Sherman  2015

What's in an eye? Aye, I'll tell you!

With a nip and a tuck, it can change your whole view.

Most people 'cept me generally have two.

It's been said they're the windows straight to the soul,

one ruse of many, so I am told.

I use mine to admire the natural beauty

of wind, sea, and sky. That is my duty!

Billy here cries when onions he chops.

Or when a fine plate he covets, he drops.

Grumpy here frowns, his eyes all ablaze

when Benji has stole his last donut glazed.

Benji lies down, his eyes looking up

to see if we've noticed his quiet hiccup.

Murphy's eyes crinkle with merry and mirth

to see his fair home, this side of Perth.

McDougal, he flops when he's down in his cups,

eyes all glazed over, cut off from his sups.

Mary stands hearty, she's one of the guys.

Her love for us surely comes straight from those eyes.

When all's said and done, the 'ayes' have it now.

If you look in each eye, they go down with a bow.

Poverty by Elsie Lois Kolbasa

"The state of being poor or without competent subsistence" is the general definition given by the dictionary. To someone who has lived in such a state, it is much more than second hand clothes and an empty stomach.

Migrant workers who go from farm to farm to gather the crops at harvest time, live under these substandard conditions. So does the share cropper in the Appalachian area who moves from farm to farm to till the soil for the land owners. Some land owners give two-thirds of a crop a share cropper raises on his land, and some give only half of the crop. If the land is in poor condition and does not yield a good crop, he could end up with less from the land owner who gives two-thirds of the crop.

There is also the house to consider, as the sharecropper has to live in whatever house the land owner has to offer. The house that has broken windows and loose floor boards and no doors between the rooms means a drafty, cold house in the winter. So the share cropper moves from farm to farm in search of more food from the crops and a better house for his family.

Moving year after year is wear and tear on the already meager furnishings. It constantly uproots the family and changes the children from school to school. Adjustments to the new teacher and classmates are made more difficult with the shabby clothes and bare feet, and the laughter and snickers of the other children.

There are the times of sickness when there is not any way to go for a doctor, or any money to pay him. So the family turns to home remedies such as castor oil, turpentine, catnip tea, kerosine oil, and sulfur and molasses. Sometimes, the remedy is worse than the sickness. For example, kerosine oil for the sore throat, which can make one so violently ill, the sore throat is forgotten.

There are the times when the home remedies fail to work and the doctor gets there too late. A beautiful little baby is claimed by death, and is laid out in a rough hand-made coffin of one-inch boards and two-by-fours covered in a remnant of satin. The helpless, empty feeling that washes over the body after such an ordeal is never forgotten.

Poverty is something more than an empty stomach to those who have to live in it.


Elsie Lois Kolbasa, or Lois Kolbasa, or Elsie Lois Rice is my mother.  She was born and raised in the Appalacian Mountains of North Carolina. She told stories of growing up there and in her later years, courtesy of a writing class at the local college, put some of those stories to paper. This is one of those stories. For her dad was a sharecropper and her youngest brother, William, died within days of his birth.

Twas the Day Before Christmas by Sharon Sherman

Twas the day before Christmas, the house was a mess.

My hair was all frizzy, this must be a test.


My husband's still sleeping, I just didn't care.

I tripped on a truck and flew up in the air.


On doll shoes, on marbles, on tea sets and crayons.

On blankies, on Legos, so much to lay on.


I dropped on them all like a mother of four.

I'll not have another, by God, this I swore.


I stomped to their bedroom by this time a fright,

swung open the door. What I saw wasn't right.


No clothes on the floor, no shoes in the bed.

No baseballs or footballs. Just neatness instead.


Away from the room, I flew down the hall,

threw open a door and gasped at it all!


Their t-shirts were folded and placed on a shelf.

Ribbons and bows they'd collected themselves.


One more I would try as I crept down the hall

and opened the door, making sense of it all.


One grinning husband, so handsome, so bright,

"We waited until you had gone nighty-night."


I brushed my sore elbow and smoothed out my jeans.

The spirit of Christmas was here, so it seemed.


Life is a gift that always surprises.

It twists and it turns. It brings many crises.


But when you're not looking too closely it brings

the love of a family. The sweetest of things.