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Wednesday, May 31, 2017


These are opinions from our favorite (that's debatable) politicians on why the chicken crossed the road:

Why Did the Chicken Cross the Road?

DONALD TRUMP: We will build a big wall to keep illegal chickens from crossing the road. We will have a door for legal chickens.
JOHN KERRY: We will trust the chicken to tell us whether it crossed the road or not.
CHRIS CHRISTIE: We need to waterboard that chicken to find out why it crossed the road.
RAND PAUL: It's none of our business why the chicken crossed the road.
NANCY PELOSI: We will have to wait until the chicken crosses the road to see what it says.
CARLY FIORINA: Hillary Clinton lied about why the chicken crossed the road.
BRIAN WILLIAMS: I crossed the road with the chicken.
BEN CARSON: This isn't brain surgery... It wanted grain.
SARAH PALIN: The chicken crossed the road because, gosh-darn it, he's a maverick!
BARACK OBAMA: Let me be perfectly clear, if the chickens like their eggs they can keep their eggs.
No chicken will be required to cross the road to surrender her eggs. Period.
HILLARY CLINTON: What difference does it make why the chicken crossed the road?
GEORGE W. BUSH: We don't really care why the chicken crossed the road.
We just want to know if the chicken is on our side of the road or not.
The chicken is either with us or against us. There is no middle ground here.
BILL CLINTON: I did not cross the road with that chicken.
BERNIE SANDERS: That little chicken will pay 80% income taxes no matter what side of the road it's on.
He's got to help finance free college even for those that just want a four year vacation.
AL GORE: I invented the chicken.

Saturday, April 29, 2017

#BookGiveAway at Goodreads

I'm doing a book giveaway. The anthology is called 
The Power of Forgiveness: A Collection of Short Stories. 
Thank you for your interest! 

Friday, April 14, 2017

Story of the Week: I Chose the Best of the Litter~Tales2Inspire Garnet Collection


Featured on Tales2Inspire

I Chose the Best of the Litter

Can love be wrapped in fur, have green eyes and claws?

When Glenda returned home after a day at work, at first she just stood in the doorway with a big smile on her face. Then she pulled back her jean shirt and the cat’s little head popped out. Bob just covered his eyes and wailed, “Oh, no!” They called their new kitty Rambo. 

Read this and other great stories of animals who came into people's lives to give the gift of love. Grab yourself a copy at Amazon Kindle

The Power of Forgiveness: A Collection of Short Stories

Hot off the press!  #AmWriting flash #Fiction - some stories based on true life events.

From the authors of Writes 750 at Goodreads comes an anthology that is now published at Amazon in time for Easter: The Power of Forgiveness

Edited & published by Stephanie Baskerville; edited and cover art by Glenda Reynolds; edited and conception by David Russell. We would appreciate some book reviews for this and if you could share with your friends, family, and church groups.

Saturday, March 4, 2017

Sunday, January 22, 2017


One can learn a lot by reading advise from other people. But it always remains just that: advise from other people. To become a serious writer, we have to know our own minds and learn to listen to what we know to be true, for us, regardless of what anyone else might think or say.

No one else can tell you what you need to know when it comes to emotion. No one else can chart the terrain of your subconscious, your belief systems, or your dreams: the beautiful and totally unique irrationality that belongs only to you.

This is the stuff that comes out in the writing of great fiction. The character who is deeply unlikable. The plot that doesn’t seem to make any sense. The ending that doesn’t wrap up all the loose threads.

The first page that holds out a quiet but expectant hand, inviting in the curious reader softly, slowly, as so many works of brilliant fiction have done throughout the decades—without relying on Reality TV promo tactics to hustle in spectators who really couldn’t give a *BLEEP*.

This is what writing great fiction is actually like: It’s hard and confusing and there is no map. There is no method that will help you circumnavigate all the dark, festering places in your psyche that you don’t want to see. You won’t come out on the other side with all the answers, or even with any answers at all.

But the journey into the underworld is worth it. It’s always worth it. That’s why writers keep doing it. Because, deep in the most secret parts of our heart, we know we can do nothing else.
by Lauren Sapala. Lauren is a writing coach who specializes in personal growth and artistic development for introverted intuitive writers.

Saturday, January 14, 2017

A Poem: Whistling in Heaven

This was written by my great-grandmother

T’was late in the autumn of ‘40,
we have come from our far eastern home
just in season time to build us a cabin
e’re the cold of winter should come.

We lived all the while in the wagon 
so husband was clearing the place
where the house should stand in the clearing
and building, it took many days.

So that our heads were scarce sheltered
in under its roof  'till our store
of provision was almost exhausted;
and husband must journey for more.

Well, husband just kissed me and started
I could scarcely suppress a deep groan
at the thought of remaining with baby
so long in the house all alone.

For, my dear, I was childish and timid; 
and brave ones might well have feared.
For the wild wolves were often heard howling
and savages sometimes appeared.

When evening came with its shadows
to hide every ray of light,
I hung up a quilt by the window
and was almost dead with a fright.

I kneeled by the side of the cradle
scarce daring to draw a full breath
lest the baby should wake and its crying
should bring us a terrible death.

There I knelt till late in the evening
and scarcely an inch had I stirred
when suddenly, far in the distance,
the sound of whistling I heard.

I started up dreadfully frightened
for fear t’was an Indian’s call
And then very soon I remembered
the Redman ne’er whistles at all.

And when I was sure t’was a white man
I thought were he coming for ill
he’d surely approach with more caution
would come without warning and still.

The sound coming nearer and nearer
took the form of a tune light and gay;
and I knew I needn’t fear evil 
from one who could whistle that way.

Very soon I heard footsteps approaching
then came a peculiar dull thump
as if someone was heavily striking
an ax in the top of a stump.

And then in another brief moment
there came a light tap on our door.
When quickly I undid the fastening
and in stepped a boy before me.

There was neither a question or answer
or neither had time to speak.
I just threw my glad arms around him
and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

I started back scared at my boldness
but he only smiled at my fright.
Said, "I’m your neighbor’s boy, Aleck
came to tarry with you through the night".

We saw your husband go Eastward
and made up our minds where he’d gone
I said to the rest of my people,
"That woman is there all alone".

I venture she’s dreadfully lonesome;
and though she may have no great fear
I venture she’d feel a bit safer, 
if only a boy were but near.

So, taking my ax on my shoulder
for fear that a savage might stray
across my path and need scalping,
I started right down this way.

And coming in sight of your cabin
and thinking to save you alarm
I whistled a tune just to show you
I didn’t intend any harm.

So, here I am at your service
But if you don’t want me to stay,
all you have to do is to say so
and shouldering my ax, I’ll a’way.

I dropped in a chair and near fainted
at the thought of him leaving me then
His eyes gave a knowing bright twinkle
as he said "I guess I’ll remain."

Then, I just sat there and told him
how terribly frightened I’d been
How his face was to me the most welcome
of any I ever had seen.

Then I lay down with the baby
and slept the blessed night through
For I felt I was safe from all danger
near such a brave young fellow and true.

And now, my kind friends, do you wonder
since such a good reason I’ve given
why I shan’t care for the music
unless there is whistling in heaven?

Yes, often I’ve said so in earnest
and now what I’ve said I’ll repeat
that unless there was whistling in Heaven,
its music will not be complete.