I need less germs and more time... by J.S. Marlo

 

Undeniable Trait

is available now!

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J. S. Marlo's BWL Books

I meant to write about sports novels or oxymorons this month, but life got in the way in the form of a sick grandson. I'm the daycare back-up and I have been quite busy with my little guy recently. My daughter even asked me last night why she's paying for daycare since she brings him to me a lot. I reminded her that this year, she's paying to get his young immune system boosted by all the other sickly toddlers he's playing with LOLOL

I'm taking advantage of his nap to make this post. Since it's December, and snowy and cold in my neck of the wood, I'll leave you with an excerpt of "The Red Quilt", a heart-warming Christmas story.

Lana had feared it might distress Ruby to see her dragging an unconscious and bleeding Papili onto the living room sofa, but Chewy licking the muffin crumbs from her pretty unicorn shirt had caught the child’s undivided attention.

“Papili, can you hear me?” Short of a better name, Lana used Ruby’s nickname.

With the bump on his forehead, two black eyes, and a crooked nose, the man looked like he had lost a fight in a back alley. The dried blood she had wiped from his face had come exclusively from his broken nose, but she hadn’t ruled out a concussion or internal bleeding, yet.

His eyes fluttered. “Ru-Ruby...”

“Ruby is fine. She’s eating a muffin by the fireplace.” While she hadn’t determined his exact relationship with Ruby, Lana was pleased he remembered the little girl. “I’m Lana. Are you in pain?”

Through two narrow slits, he gazed at her with piercing dark eyes. “Yes...I...I saw something in the middle of the road. I tried to avoid it...” He winced as he spoke, but he didn’t struggle to breath. “Where am I?”

She forged her most reassuring smile. “You’re in the house across the ditch into which you rolled your vehicle. Can you tell me where it hurts?”

With his fingers, he patted every inch of his head. “I feel like someone took a swing at my face and hit a homerun.”

“Between you and me, it looks more like a grand slam,” she teased. Sensing a presence behind her, Lana looked over her shoulder. Ruby and Chewy had sneaked up on her. “Come here, sugar pie. Papili is awake and he wants to see you.”

The child approached the sofa and scrunched up her cute button nose. “You have lots of owies, Papili, but that’s okay.” She ran a hand down his cheek then kissed his chin. “You will feel better tomorrow.”

A chuckle escaped his mouth as he enveloped the little girl with a tender hug. “I’m already feeling better, munchkin. Were you scared?” Ruby bobbed her head against his shoulder. “It’s okay to be scared. I was scared too. Are you hurting anywhere?”

“No, but I’m still hungry.” The little girl turned a charming puppy face toward Lana. “Can I have another muffin? Pleeease?”

Laughter bubbled inside Lana’s chest. “The muffins are on the kitchen table, sugar pie.” Lana had moved the candles to the window ledge above the sink, out of reach of little hands. “You can go and eat as many as you want.”

A soft thank you floated in Ruby’s wake as she ran toward the kitchen with Chewy on her heels.

The man whose name Lana still didn’t know attempted to sit. “Was she injured?”

Lana gently but firmly pushed on his right shoulder, halting his efforts. “No. The straps over her shoulders were padded and the harness was tight.” When she had helped Ruby take off her coat, Lana had also examined her upper body for bruises but seen none. “You buckled her up properly, but unfortunately for you, your airbag didn’t deploy. Would it be okay if I undo your shirt and jeans so I can examine you?”

“Go ahead.” He sank back into the sofa. “Just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse, they actually did.”

You’re wrong. Things could have gotten even worse than they did. Lana parted his shirt in silence. One or both of them could have died tonight.

A bruise the width of his seat belt ran across his muscular chest from his left shoulder to below his right nipple, but the discoloration didn’t extend to his lower abdomen or hips. He only flinched when she touched the bruise, not when she palpated his chest or his abdomen.

“At this time, I don’t feel anything unusual or worrisome, but if your condition worsens instead of improving, you will need to go to the hospital.” She zipped his jeans then proceeded to button his shirt. “May I ask your name or what you were doing on a backroad in the middle of a blizzard after nightfall?”

“Eli...Eli Sterling. I’m from Halifax. I got lost searching for a place to eat and spend the night. After the oven caught on fire and burned the kitchen last week, I wanted to take my granddaughter away from the renovations and give her a special Christmas.” Having to deal with a house fire two weeks before Christmas sucked, but it didn’t explain why he traveled alone with his granddaughter. “I’d booked a three-week holiday vacation at Lisa’s Bed and Breakfast, except when I got there earlier...let’s just say they did have my reservation.”

The owner of Lisa’s stopped accepting reservations when he died over the summer, so Eli couldn’t have booked a room unless the rumors Lana had heard were true. “The bed and breakfast closed permanently last August after the heirs of the estate contested the owner’s will, but there were rumors in the fall that someone was making money advertising fake getaways at Lisa’s. You didn’t pay upfront for the three weeks, did you?”

“If I paid for two weeks, the third one was free.” A long sigh deflated his chest. “I knew the deal was too good to be true. Now I’ve ruined her Christmas.” He placed his large hand over Lana’s. “Thank you for coming to our rescue. I couldn’t have lived with my conscience if something had happened to Ruby. I know I have no right to ask you this, but if you don’t mind us spending the night here, we’ll be out of your hair in the morning.”

Decades ago, she had become a nurse so she could heal people, but it didn’t shield her from the wrenching pain of losing the ones she loved. The Christmas season was a stark reminder of the worst day of her life.

She doubted the blizzard had brought them to her front step to lessen her loneliness over the holidays, but twist of fate or not, she couldn’t throw them out. “The storm is supposed to rage for forty-eight hours, Eli. The plow won’t clear the backroad until the storm is over. Your vehicle won’t be out of that ditch until a day or two after that, then good luck getting it repaired by the end of December. Like it or not, you and Ruby are stuck with me for Christmas, but make no mistakes, your stay won’t be free. Once you’re back on your feet, there are two cords of wood waiting to be chopped.”

The reflection of flames dancing on his face unveiled the ghost of a smile. “Yes, ma’am.”

~ * ~

The Red Quilt would make a nice stocking gift for Christmas. To buy, visit my publisher BWL or go to:

https://books2read.com/u/3yaRgp

Merry Christmas & Happy Holiday Season!

J. S. 

 

 

J. S. Marlo's Website

Coming in Early 2025: All in the Furry Family by Eileen O'Finlan

 

Click here for purchase information

I am delighted to announce that the second book in the Cat Tales series, All in the Furry Family, is scheduled for a February 2025 release. If you've read the first book, All the Furs and Feathers, you've met sister cats, Smokey and Autumn Amelia and their friends in Wild Whisker Ridge and Faunaburg. Now, join them for the wedding of the century when Abigail Fluffington marries their cousin, Greyson. That is if Abigail can stop being a bridezilla long enough to finalize the wedding plans.

On top of all the wedding chaos, Smokey is now Abigail's partner at Fluffington ArCATechture and Autumn Amelia is running Mama Cat's Kitchen in Oneness Park. It seems they've both achieved their dreams, but something odd is going on. Smokey is being stalked by two strange cats, and Autumn Amelia is running her paws off trying to juggle managing her own restaurant and bake two days a week for Furry's Confections. When Autumn meets her new neighbor, a handsome cat named Buster, and wants to spend more time with him, she knows something has to give. But what?

Join Smokey, Autumn Amelia, and all their furred and feathered friends as they try to navigate the many changes in their lives. Lots of new characters and loads of surprises await readers in All in the Furry Family Book 2 of the Cat Tales series.

Click here for purchase information

Santa and the Lumberjacks -- a somewhat tall tale

 

 

Since the holiday season is coming, I thought it would be fun to revisit those long ago holidays when gifts and food and holiday decorations were hand made. I still try to create handmade gifts for my children and grandchildren – everything from games and storybooks to body pillows and quilts. At one time, I would write short stories and incorporate them into the Christmas cards I sent to family and friends. As my holiday gift to you, here is one of those stories. Enjoy and happy holidays.

SANTA AND THE LUMBERJACKS

A Somewhat Tall Tale 

            A very long, long time ago, before video games and 4-wheelers and even before television, families made each other gifts for Christmas out of what was available to them. Mothers would make patchwork quilts to keep the children warm at night, and fathers would carve animals and toy tops out of small chunks of wood. Children would take scraps of paper and make paper chains to hang around the house to give it a festive air. On Christmas morning, Santa would leave each child a peppermint stick and perhaps, if they were very good, an orange in their stocking.

            But then one year, word reached Santa that a late frost hit the orange orchards, destroying the blossoms and there would be no oranges. Santa didn’t know what he would do for the children he visited. As he walked home through the woods where he lived, he came across a group of lumberjacks, sitting by the side of the road in tears.

            Now Santa was a big, jolly man, but lumberjacks were an even heartier group, and Santa had often seen them felling trees with a single blow of an ax. The men were large enough that it only took one of them to hoist a tree onto a wagon, or toss it into the river to float downstream. So you can understand that seeing these huge men sniffling and wailing was a trifle upsetting for Santa.

            “What is wrong?” he asked the first man.

            “The forest has been sold; the mill shut down,” the man said. He jerked a hanky out of his pocket that was larger than a blanket and it landed on Santa, covering him from head to foot. As the lumberjack dabbed at his eyes with one corner, Santa struggled out from under the blue fleece.

            “What are we to do?” shouted another, stirring up such a wind it knocked Santa down and blew his hat right off his head where it landed in the snow.

            Santa was almost afraid to ask another question.

            “Are all of you lumberjacks? Can’t you find other work?”

            “I am the cook for the lumber company,” answered a man with a strange looking metal pot on his head where a cap would normally be. He held several spoons in one huge hand, and a mixing bowl in the other that was gigantic enough for Santa to use as a bathtub. Before Santa could say a word, yet another piped up.

            “And I am Patch, for I mend the clothes and tend the cuts for all the men who fell the trees.” Santa could certainly see how the man got his name, for his clothes were a patchwork of colors and patterns, and scraps of material stuck out of each and every one of his pockets.

            “Well, come along with me, and I will take you home where Mrs. Claus will feed you some supper.” Santa had a generous heart, and though he didn’t know how to find oranges for the children’s Christmas this year, he did know that Mrs. Claus would welcome these men into their home.

            Mrs. Claus had just baked bread and when she offered some to the hungry men, one lumberjack popped a whole loaf into his mouth as though it were a gumdrop. Her eyes widened and she hurriedly chopped another bushel of vegetables into the stew she was making. When it was ready, she scooped hearty portions into her biggest pots for the hungry lumberjacks, happy she had enough to feed them. But then they sat down on her chairs and the legs broke under each and every one of the huge men.

            Not wanting to be impolite, Mrs. Claus smiled and asked them very nicely, “Would you mind standing up to eat?”

            She then turned to Santa and whispered, “They can not stay here, for the beds are too small and by morning we would not have a lick of furniture left.”

            Santa said the lumberjacks could stay in the barn, but when they tried to go inside, only two of them would fit, and only after they had knocked out the stalls for the mules.

            “I will stay in the milk house,” Patch said, laying large boards on top of the milk cans to make a bed.

            “I will sleep in the tool shed,” said Cook, opening the door. Before Santa could say a word, he began throwing hoes and shovels, trowels and rakes out into the snow. Even empty, the shed was not large, and as Santa walked back to the house, he saw that Cook’s feet stuck out of the doorway. He would have to ask Mrs. Claus for an extra blanket.

* * *

            Santa woke up in the morning to an incredible amount of racket. It was usually very quiet in the woods where he and Mrs. Claus lived, and he couldn’t figure out what would make so much pounding, sawing, hammering and whirring noise.

            When he went outside to see, he found the lumberjacks all at work. They had cut down trees (only the dead ones as they were environmentally friendly), shaved off the bark and were whittling dolls and hobbyhorses, toy trains and soldiers. Patch was sewing little clothes for the dolls, and Cook had taken apart a mop and was using the string to make manes for the hobbyhorses.

            One of the lumberjacks, the tallest and widest of them all, blushed as he explained the noise to Santa. “You were so kind to give us food and a place to sleep. We heard you tell Mrs. Claus there would be no oranges for the children this year, so we decided to make them toys instead.”

            “Why that is very nice of you,” Santa replied, “but you have made so many.” He looked around the barn, where dolls and toy soldiers sat in neat rows all along the hayloft. The hobbyhorses were lined up along one wall, their faces comical as one lumberjack painted on eyes and smiles. Though the lumberjacks were very large and two of them barely fit in the barn, they had made all the toys just the right size for children.

            “Ouch,” Patch cried when he forgot and stood up straight, his head poking a hole right through the roof.

            “I think we are going to have to build a bigger workshop,” Santa stated. “One where you will not have to walk on your knees or sleep with your feet sticking out the door.”

            Not only did the lumberjacks make toys and trains and hobby horses, they quickly built Santa a huge building tall enough so all four could work inside and no one banged their head on the roof. And thus began Santa’s Workshop.

* * *

            Christmas Eve came with a new layer of snow all over everything to make the landscape white and glittering.

            “I’ve made you a new coat to keep you warm,” Mrs. Claus said, holding it up for Santa. “But Patch used all my material, and even cut up the blanket for the toy soldiers’ coats, and so I had only this red fur to use.”

            Of course, Santa wasn’t about to tell Mrs. Claus that he didn’t look good in red, so he allowed her to help him into the coat, buckling a wide black belt around his middle to keep it closed.

            The lumberjacks put all the toys into gigantic bags and loaded them onto Santa’s wagon. Then they hitched the mules to the harness. They stood beside Mrs. Claus and waved, their huge hands causing the new snow to flurry about so much they couldn’t see Santa as he drove out of sight.

Mrs. Clause only hoped he would not drive the mules right off the road, for not only was there no light to brighten the way, but Bessie, one of the mules, was blind in one eye and really shouldn’t be out late at night. Thankfully, Santa only went to the neighboring villages and farms, always getting home before dawn.

* * *

            Sleepy and tired from his night on the road, Santa unhitched the mules and put them to bed in the barn. He dragged his bag of leftover toys behind him as he walked to the house, hoping Mrs. Claus would have a hot breakfast waiting for him.

            When he opened the door, it was to find Mrs. Claus crying, her apron full of tears and the floor awash with puddles.

            “What has happened?” he asked, dropping his bag into the corner.

            “They reopened the mill so the lumberjacks have left!” she wailed.

“But you didn’t care for the fact they broke your chairs and cut up your blankets and that Patch put a hole in the roof of the barn with his head.”

            “I know, and they ruined the tools when they tossed them out into the snow,” she added to the list of grievances against the lumberjacks.

            “Then why are you crying now that they have gone?” Santa shook his head.

            “How will we make toys for the children next year?”

            “Well, perhaps I will have to get apples if the orange trees fail again,” Santa said with a sigh.

            “We can help.”

Santa thought Mrs. Claus had spoken, though the words were much higher than her sweet voice. “I know you will, dear,” he replied, patting her on the shoulder.

            “I didn’t say anything. I thought you had spoken,” she told him.

            “Let us out. We want to help.” A thumping sound came from the corner, and when Santa turned, he saw his bag wiggling and bumping all over the floor.

            “What on earth?” Mrs. Claus asked.

            “The lumberjacks made so many dolls and soldiers, I had some left over,” Santa replied as he carefully approached the squirming, jumping bag. He pulled the tie that kept it closed. Out tumbled the dolls in their patchwork dresses and the soldiers in their blanket uniforms, all talking at once.

            “We should make more trains and bicycles to ride on.”

“And doll houses to live in.”

“And games to play like checkers and dominoes.”

Santa and Mrs. Claus were so surprised, they fell into the only two chairs not broken by the lumberjacks. The small dolls and soldiers, so very different from the huge lumbering men who had been there just the night before, laughed and chattered happily.

“Well, we won’t have to worry about anyone putting a hole in the roof with their head, now will we?” Mrs. Claus asked.

“And even though there are many more of them, I don’t suppose they will eat as much as the lumberjacks, will they?” Santa said as he watched the dolls and soldiers merrily dance around the room, still talking excitedly about all the toys they wanted to make.

“If you make so many trains and bikes and games and doll houses, how will I ever get them all delivered?” Santa asked. “I went as far and wide as I could with my wagon and mules, and still, I had all of you left over.”

The dolls looked at the soldiers, and they all giggled.

“I think we had better go outside for this,” said one soldier with red painted cheeks and a button nose.

The soldiers dragged Santa’s bag out into the yard. The dolls grabbed Santa and Mrs. Claus by the hands and pulled and pushed them out onto the porch. It was just before dawn and the glint of new fallen snow made everything glitter and twinkle like a fairyland.

“Hurry, before it’s too late,” one of the dolls said. “The magic is almost over.”

As Santa watched, two soldiers held the bag open and another went inside. He could hear whispers and neighs and all kinds of noise as the bag jumped around and looked like it was alive.

“Here they come!” a muffled voice hollered from deep inside the bag.

The head of one hobbyhorse poked out of the bag, followed by another and another. Where once they had only a stick for a body, now they had four legs. As they emerged and stood wobbling in the snow, they grew and grew and sprouted beautiful antlers on their heads.

“Why, you’re reindeer!” Santa exclaimed.

One of the reindeer, whose nose was painted bright red, nodded, the bells on his antlers jingling merrily.

“We can fly, too,” said one. “We’ll make sure you’re on time to each and every child’s house on Christmas Eve, delivering all the toys made by your…” The reindeer looked curiously at the toys.

“We’re dolls.”

“We’re soldiers.”

“Hmm, we can’t keep calling you that,” Santa said. “Let’s see. There are eleven of you.”

“Elvens,” repeated one of the baby dolls who was just learning to talk.

“That’s it!” Santa exclaimed, his belly shaking with his laughter. “We’ll call you elves!”

So the story is told that thanks to the huge and hearty lumberjacks, Santa now has a workshop and a merry group of elves to help him make toys every year. And with the speed of the magical reindeer, Santa has time to deliver all those toys to good girls and boys all over the world.

If you love holiday stories, I invite you to visit my page at Books We Love at https://bwlpublishing.ca/baldwin-barbara/ where I have three of them waiting for your reading pleasure. “If Wishes Were Magic”, “Always Believe” and “Snowflakes and Kisses” are all available in both ebook and print.

Barbara Baldwin

www.authorsden.com/barbarajbaldwin

www.amazon.com/author/barbarabaldwin

Dancing Mary: A Tale of Jealousy, Ghosts, and the Unforgiving Wilderness

 

For Jay Lang Books click the link

https://bookswelove.net/lang-jay/

Dancing Mary: A Tale of Jealousy, Ghosts, and the Unforgiving Wilderness

As I sit at my desk, the Winter wind pushing against the window, I find myself deep in the world I’m creating—a world that blends the harsh cold of British Columbia’s wilderness with the supernatural. I’m currently penning my novel, Dancing Mary, for the Canadian Mystery Paranormal series, and the story’s roots run deep into the foggy history of Vancouver Island.

It all began when I stumbled across an obscure account in the historical papers of BC. The year was the mid-1800s, and the first European settlers had just made their way to Comox, a place as harsh and unforgiving as it was beautiful. These settlers arrived in a land that was foreign, cold, and wild. Armed only with hand tools, they began to carve out their existence, using the massive trees that surrounded them to build rudimentary camps against the elements.

But as often happens in stories of the past, it's the people who shape the course of history, and in this case, one particular settler, Lawrence Cummings, would forever change the fate of those who called this land home.

Cummings, a man of ill repute with a notorious temper, crossed paths with a beautiful Native girl who caught the attention of many of the settlers. Her name was Mary, and her beauty was as captivating as it was dangerous, drawing the gaze of men in a place where nothing came easily.

The settlers whispered, and the jealousy of Lawrence Cummings simmered beneath the surface. It wasn’t long before his emotions boiled over in a fit of rage. One fateful night, under the dim light of a flickering candle, Lawrence took the life of the girl who had captivated so many hearts. In his jealousy, he silenced her forever, but in doing so, he ignited something darker and far more sinister than he could have ever anticipated.

Now, Dancing Mary isn’t just a story about tragic love. It’s a journey into the eerie unknown, where the boundaries between the living and the dead are paper-thin. Because, you see, some souls don’t rest easily. Mary’s spirit, broken by the injustice of her untimely death, lingers in the cold, dark corners of the forest where she once danced. The settlers who lived to tell the tale spoke of her ghost—dancing in the moonlight, her presence as haunting as the winds that whip through the trees.

As I write, I can feel the weight of the past pressing down. The rawness of the land, the bitterness of betrayal, and the eerie whispers of a ghost whose memory refuses to fade are all coming together to create something that will leave readers with a sense of unease and fascination.

So, stay tuned. If you enjoy tales where the past and the supernatural collide in a dance of mystery, you won’t want to miss Dancing Mary. It's a story born from history, steeped in the paranormal, and wrapped in suspense. I can’t wait to share this dark, chilling journey with you all.

😊 Jay 

jaylang.ca

Time: Screw the Bastard by Byron Fry

 

 Time: Screw the Bastard

 

 

   As a species, humans are nothing if not overly preoccupied with age. Some of us buy into the latest gadget, product or fad being lauded as a savior against the inevitable; some of us handle it in healthier, more active and natural ways. But at some level or other, we all have that nagging clock loudly reverberating around the back of our theater. It alters the performance of everyday goings on up in our attic, as it counts down the seconds before the arrival of what Eliot called The Eternal Footman.

     This has long been on my mind, even as a young man, not because I'm obsessed or unhealthy or overly morbid, but because I've spent my adult life in the Southern California entertainment industry. It's is an oddly surreal culture, in that we're conditioned to think that we have to be ageless. And I guess if somebody meets with the right level of success, they are--to the zeitgeist at any rate, in the same way that they're quickly forgotten if they don't achieve that success--but if we get visibly old, especially women, the phone tends to stop ringing. So hereabouts at least, it's not a baseless concern. And most of us are smart enough to know how stupid that is, and resent the vapid aesthetic that devalues the most experienced sector of the creative workforce. And of course, the entertainment industry isn't the only culture on Earth where this errant thinking holds sway.

     I'm a staunch functionalist at heart, so it's not actually as big a thing to me as it is to many around me. As I see it, those who would be concerned about age--as opposed to caring about what someone brings to the table professionally, or as a human--don't have the right mindset to work with me professionally or to be on my cloud, anyway.

     But whether viewed from inside or outside the plastic capsule of Hollywood, this stigma about getting older is a bad path: it makes us compare ourselves to who we used to be. And this focuses our energy 180 degrees in the wrong direction.

     I had an illuminating conversation with a good buddy one night when I was living in Mammoth Lakes, and the subject turned to this. My promo headshot was dated and I needed a new one, but I was concerned about not looking as young as I had used to. I'll never forget he said:

     "Ah, no, my man...that's not how it works, here's how aging works: It's not that you're older than you were yesterday. It's that you're younger than you'll be tomorrow."

     This simple sentence rocked me back on my heels, and has been my guiding tenet about the aging process ever since. Thus I herein impart it unto you, in hopes that it has the same effect on your efforts and life as it does on mine, namely:

     Get out and do it now. Do everything you can, every day, with whatever you've got. Pursue your time, don't be chased by it. The life you live--this incredible, mind-boggling thing that is existence as a living, thinking organism--will be fuller, and more fun. You can trust the Eternal Footman to be here on his own time.

     Until then, screw the bastard...and screw father time, too.