SPEAKING AS A WRITER # 3 – POETS BREAK THE LAWS AND GET AWAY WITH IT

| Sandra Pavloff Conner
photo courtesy of Kryciak @ pixabay.com

“Roses are red;
Violets are blue ….”

WAIT A MINUTE.  Roses come in scores of colors. And violets are … well … violet — not blue. In fact, both flowers come in a variety of colors. So what’s my point?

I’m not really complaining about the color of any one flower. I just got to thinking about that particularly well-known bit of verse, and about how we as poets really do feel we have our own kind of literary license. What is it about poets that makes them think they can write just anything they want to write as long as it rhymes and keeps the meter smooth and uninterrupted?  Well, I’ll tell you what it is about us:

We love words — the sounds of words — the rhythm of words — the music of words. And we love playing around with lots of different numbers of syllables. We love to hear consonants repeated, vowels repeated, digraphs repeated. And if we need to turn a sentence around backwards to get the right rhythm — or leave out a couple letters replaced by an apostrophe — or go beyond the norm with hyperbole — well, it’s all part of what we see as our job —— and to be honest —— it’s part of the FUN of writing poetry.

True poets follow rules of meter and rhyme and correct use of figurative language. But we also follow rules of emotion, yearning, and imagination.  So, yes, we do believe that it’s okay if we altar reality a bit here and there or say things backwards. If it helps make the poem touch a heart, grab the imagination, take the reader to another realm, or tickle his funny-bone, we figure we’ve done our job well.

And, personally, I think that’s why a poem can speak to readers in such unique ways. People don’t always realize it when they are reading a poem, but it’s those quirky kinds of things — those little excursions away from what is generally the “accepted” pattern — that has caused many a poem to grab a place in the reader’s mind and heart and stay there.

So okay. I decided to have a little fun with this subject and can now offer you a choice of poems that get to the real truth. I’ll post both of there here, and you can take your pick:

UNTRUSTWORTHY POETS

Roses are red?
Violets are blue?
I beg to differ;
It just isn’t true:

Roses are found in any color we choose.
I’ve seen them in yellows and oranges and blues.
Why, I’ve even seen them in ugly chartreuse!
And violets, I’ve learned, also vary in hue:
Yellow and pink, even white; it’s quite true.
So never trust a poet to tell you the truth.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

PURPOSE IN POEMS

Roses are red;
Violets are blue;
We don’t always stick
With only what’s true.
We’re looking for words
With meter and rhyme,
And if we can’t find them,
We might tend to whine.
So cut us some slack;
We’re doing our best.
If a poem gives you pleasure,
It passes the test.

VISITING FEET

| Sandra Pavloff Conner
photo courtesy of Gifennse @ pixabay.com

Almost all of my friends and family are sane people who wear their shoes inside their houses as well as outside. Unless, of course, their feet hurt; then that’s a different story. But there are those humans out there who have this absurd notion that people should remove their shoes as soon as they enter a building and go barefoot — or possibly sock-footed — while inside. A few switch to special shoes that are reserved only for “in-house” wear, and several even offer said shoes to visitors. (Although it’s beyond me why they think visitors would want to wear shoes worn by any number of other people they don’t even know.)

I really don’t know if these weird people are worried about getting their floors dirty or if they have some religious scruples — like being afraid of offending the god of flooring or something. But doesn’t it ever bother them when they use the bathroom (especially in homes with boys or men who often are not careful where they aim)? I mean, when they feel something wet on their socks or bare feet, do they not even wonder what that is???

Well, either way, suffice it to say that those people never have to worry about a visit from me. I just happened to be sitting quietly and thinking about this subject recently and decided to express myself poetically.

VISITING FEET

Remove my shoes? I don’t think so.
I go no place unshod.
When entering homes, I wipe my soles
Of dirt through which I’ve trod.

But if my host requires that I
Remove my own footwear,
I must reply, being stern but kind,
I won’t be visiting there.

Some will supply soft slippers worn
For walking through their home,
But why would I desire shoes worn
By others, some unknown?

So overall, it’s best to say,
When invitations come,
If I’m required to bare my toes,
I’ll choose to stay at home.

SPEAKING AS A WRITER # 2 – I’M COMMITTED TO ‘THE END’

| Sandra Pavloff Conner

Over the past decade, the publishing world has experienced an interesting, but, in my opinion, sad phenomenon. Almost all fiction authors and/or publishing houses have started leaving out the words “The End” on the last page of novels. It’s now become passe, and I guess in some minds, even unsophisticated to write those two iconic little words below the last paragraph of a story.

It’s sad. I’ve been an avid reader all my life. My earliest happy memories involve reading stories and having them read to me, and I started writing my own in elementary school. In fact, I wrote my first full-length play in the 6th grade. I get totally immersed in the books I read. I can pass hours and even go without food — even chocolate and coffee — once I get entrenched in a story. I live the experiences with the characters — laughing with them, crying with them, loving with them, fighting with them — and rejoicing in the final resolution of the climax in their favor. ( I do not read stories where the main character ends up defeated.)

But when I come to the end of those stories, I’m generally so much involved that I need closure in order to let them go and move on. Those two little words — “The End” — have always given me that. Now, many have been the times when I hated to see them come. I didn’t want the story to end, and I would have pushed those words forward for another twenty pages or so at least. But eventually, all good stories have to reach their resolution, and when they do, I’ve always found a quiet acceptance and even a serene pleasure in reading those words. I can’t begin to count the times I’ve leaned back after reading “The End,” closed my eyes, and taken a slow deep breath and relished the fact that all was resolved and every loose end securely tucked away.

Those two little words close a story and let me know that it’s all right to let those characters go and move on to the next story — the next adventure — the next romance — the next journey. Yes, I know that any reader of average intelligence is able to figure out that if there is no more text between the covers, then the story has come to an end. But that doesn’t satisfy me at all. Somehow, those two words typed onto the page just make the reading experience complete, and finishing a story without them is not the same. Perhaps I’m the only one who feels that way. I don’t know. It’s not a subject I discuss with other writers — or readers. But it’s something that touches me powerfully enough that I continue to type “The End” at the completion of every novel I write.

And I will continue to do so from now on. The publisher that I have worked with for years is in agreement with me, and, of course, any books that I publish through Amazon or Barnes & Noble don’t require my considering anyone else’s opinion. So whichever publishing route I use I am free to do as I please. And what pleases me is to be able to say to my readers  — in effect — “Well, now, we have come the distance together in this story; thank you for sharing it with me; I hope you’ve enjoyed it as much as I have; we’ve solved the problems for the hero and heroine, and they are satisfied and secure;  I’ve taken great care to leave you in a good place; All is well.”  And I can say all of that with the quintessential conclusion: ‘THE END.’

WEEKLY SMILE FOR 10/28/24

| Sandra Pavloff Conner


Oh, my goodness, it’s been so long since I have had time to participate in Trent’s Weekly Smile — or very much of anything else here on WordPress. I was just thinking about it today and wondering if he is still doing these posts. I was so glad to go into my Reader and find him there right close to the top.

So I took that as a sign that I need to jump in and participate this week. And I really do have something to smile about. It’s my smile.  No pun intended.

No kidding. I had a terrible amount of pain in my left jaw last week — sinuses, teeth, and gums — both top and bottom. Sometimes the pain felt like it was coming from my sinuses, but then it seemed to center around a tooth that had been crowned years ago. 

I called my dentist and asked if he could get me in for an emergency appointment. That was Friday, but he couldn’t work me in until Monday. The pain was so bad, I really prayed for relief — and even called my pastor to pray as well. And the pain did finally leave after just a few hours. Then I dithered about whether I should keep the emergency appointment. I finally decided that, since I was already scheduled to see him, I might as well go ahead.

When my dentist looked things over, he found a cavity at the edge of the crown — on the little bit of tooth that the crown was attached to.  Wow. That’s a bummer. But he was able to drill off that whole crown, fill my tooth, and put on a temporary crown until he could make a new permanent one.

But today — hallelujah! — I got my permanent crown. It looks and feels so good. I can eat normally, and I am smiling wide.  I had been really concerned, because the tooth is the one right beside my eye tooth, so if I had lost it, there would have been a very unsightly empty spot there, and that would have spoiled my smiles completely.

So my weekly smile really is my SMILE.

To join in the fun of Trent’s Weekly Smile, just click the link.

SPEAKING AS A WRITER # 1 — IT ALL BEGINS WITH 26 LITTLE LETTERS

| Sandra Pavloff Conner

Welcome to the first installment of my series “Speaking As A Writer.”  I plan to post an article each week about writing — probably covering all kinds of territory: everything from general concepts to details of problems I’ve had getting a story to come together to explanations of how I came to write a particular story or poem in the first place. Several of the things I’ll share can probably be found elsewhere on this website from the past, because, after all, anything that’s really worth saying is worth saying at least twice or three times, right???

I will probably philosophize, maybe preach a little, no doubt make a few people mad, and most likely make fun of myself. But hopefully a lot of what I share will ring a bell — or strike a chord — with a few other writers out there — and maybe even a few readers as well. So let’s get started.

 

IT ALL BEGINS WITH 26 LITTLE LETTERS

There’s a quote floating around out there among writers and readers that says, “Every book you’ve ever read is just a different combination of 26 letters.” I don’t know where it came from originally. I’ve searched the Internet for a reference, but found none. However, I know that quote is true. And I’ve found myself thinking about that truth a great deal.

One particular morning, as I sat pondering on this quote, I thought back over all the books that I have written. Now, I’m not even thinking about books by others that I’ve read — the multiplied thousands of them. But considering just the books that I have written, I stand totally amazed at the vast differences in the subject matters, the characters, the environments, and the stories themselves that have all been created by using only these same 26 little letters.

I think I got particularly focused on language and its amazing power in the lives of human beings when I was working on book # 5  in The Smoky Mountain Series. The novel is titled  THIS FIRE IN MY HEART,  and in it I’m telling the story of a full-blooded Cherokee man who is very personally involved in a movement to restore the original Cherokee language to his people. While many of the elderly Cherokee still speak their native language, most of their children and certainly almost all of their grandchildren barely know and understand that language.

A major reason for that lack, of course, is the result of the U.S. government forcing thousands of American Indian children to leave their homes and families and attend boarding schools for years at which they were totally stripped of everything about their culture and their heritage. They were forced to use only the English language for all communication and were severely punished if they even spoke to each other in their native tongues. Naturally, that kind of treatment could easily and quickly eradicate an entire nation’s communication skills.

As I pondered these terrible events in history and worked them into the story where they needed to go for the sake of developing my main character, I thought anew about how powerful language really is. And how powerful words are. As a devout Christian and one who tries to write mostly for the sake of sharing Gospel truths through my work, I’m very well acquainted with the importance the Lord puts on words. In fact He comes right out and tells us in Proverbs 18:21 that “Death and life are in the power of the tongue.”

So our words have great power to effect others. And as a writer, I try to always be aware of that fact. I know that words have driven men to hateful, heinous acts against each other, and words have brought an end to wars and brought comfort and courage to thousands in times of need. I try to be aware that all my words carry some degree of power to affect others and even the atmosphere around me — for good or for bad.

I believe that the words I write are just as powerful as the words I speak aloud, so it’s my aim as an author to be the most responsible purveyor of words that I can possibly be. It’s a challenge, but it’s also a great adventure — taking 26 little letters and crafting them responsibly into brand new, life-sized people and their stories — or into messages that will change peoples lives for the better.

LOST POETRY SITE ~ NEW POETRY SITE

| Sandra Pavloff Conner

This post is mainly for those of you who have also been following me on my poetry site “Poetry by Ahyoka.”  I recently lost access to that site, due to a stupid glitch in the email that I used to create it. WordPress tried to help me get back into it, but all the ways they had available required me to have some kind of information or connections that I don’t have. (Technology: you gotta love it.)  Anyway, after a couple days of trying my best, I finally decided to just let it be. The site is still in existence, since I can’t even delete it without being able to get into it.  But, of course, I can’t post anything on it going forward either. Nor can I respond to any comments or communication.

I considered just forgetting about a separate site for poems. I have several other sites for various purposes — ministry, art, my college writing classes, etc. — but, somehow, it didn’t seem right to shut down the poetry site for good, especially since I had some followers on there who don’t connect with me anywhere else online. So I took a deep breath and plunged back into this technological jungle. I now have a brand new poetry site called “Poems by Ahyoka.” Generally, the poems I post here eventually end up there, but I also sometimes write poetry there that never gets to this space. So if you’ve been one of my followers on the old site —  or you’re just a poetry lover — please come on over to “Poems by Ahyoka,” and join me there as well.

A Few Seasonal Poems

| Sandra Pavloff Conner

As most of my followers know, I love, love, love fall!  And last week I was in a poetic mood so decided to whip up a few bits of verse in the form of haiku and cinquain. Hope you all enjoy them.

OCTOBER HAIKU

October is here.
My favorite month at last!
Delight to my soul.

OCTOBER CINQUAIN

At last — 
October’s here!
Wind-driven, burnished leaves–
Jewels against crystal blue skies.
Gorgeous!

AUTUMN HAIKU

Autumn has glory
That outshines other seasons.
My soul’s fav’rite time.

MORE WEE-HOURS HAIKU

| Sandra Pavloff Conner


Well, friends, once more I was wide awake between the hours of 2:00 and 5:00 this morning. So I figured, why not write some more haiku and share it with all of you. Hope it adds a lift to your day.

 

# 1 – DAYDREAMING

I am daydreaming:
Longing for blue-hazed mountains;
My heart begs to go.

 

#2 – SHIFTING SEASONS

September rain bathes
Fallen leaves of gold and brown.
Autumn’s slipping in.

 

#3 – FAITH’S CHALLENGE

My soul is distressed;
My body then follows suit.
My faith must take charge!

HAIKU IN THE WEE HOURS

| Sandra Pavloff Conner

I found myself wide awake in the wee hours of this morning, and couldn’t seem to settle enough to get back to sleep. So I started thinking about how much fun it is to write haiku. From that thought I moved on to pick up a pen and notebook and let the words flow.  Now it seems like a good idea to share with all of you the two poems I wrote in those wee hours. Hope you enjoy them.

MY SUMMER GARDEN

My summer garden:
Birthplace of life’s sweetest scents;
My soul’s resting place.

PEACE, BE STILL!

Troubled waters roil.
I need the Waterwalker
To quiet this storm.

DON’T FORGET THE COFFEE – DAY 3

| Sandra Pavloff Conner
photo courtesy of Ludmila_ph @ pixabay.com

I realize I’m lagging in moving forward with this new coffee series. I’ve had tons of stuff going on over the past couple months, and just never could find enough time, energy, and creativity all at the same time to get back to blogging with any regularity. But I’m on it again today. Hopefully, I can stick with it a little better over the next couple weeks at least. Anyway, let’s focus on some coffee now.

I thought today I’d talk to you about dunking.   It probably isn’t considered good manners in any culture to take a piece of food in your hand and stick it into your cup of coffee until it gets soggy — and then slurp it into your mouth — possibly even dripping some coffee down your chin at the same time. 🙂  But I’ve done it since I was a kid,  and I love it. (Well, not the part about the coffee dripping down my chin.)

Some of my favorite memories from childhood involve times when my grandmother,  my mom, my sister and I went to another town very early on several Saturday mornings to visit my mom’s sister and her four kids. Grandma always bought a big box of doughnuts, and my aunt brewed a pot of coffee. We all sat around the table with cups of coffee, ready for dunking. Now, of course, we kids all had cups half full of a brew that was made up of about one half coffee and one half milk and sugar.

But those were such special times. And every once in a while, when I’m missing my family, I think back to those Saturday mornings. And sometimes I go out and buy myself some doughnuts just to sit and dunk them in my coffee while I sit and remember how happy we all were to be together enjoying that treat.

Of course, my coffee today is a little different from what it was back then.  I stopped using sugar in my coffee about the time I got out of college, but I still used milk until one day when I was teaching high school and got really nauseous. I knew I had to get something to settle my stomach quickly, so during the 3 minute break between classes, I rushed down to the cafeteria to see what might be available. The lady in charge had just brewed a fresh pot of coffee, and it smelled so good. Suddenly I felt that if I sipped a little hot coffee with nothing else in it, that would help my stomach. And to my surprise, it did the trick. Just a few sips of the black coffee totally settled my stomach, and I have never added milk or anything else to my coffee since then. 

Once in a great while, I will try some specialty coffee that has a lot of flavored cream or syrup — just to  have a different experience — but those times are rare, and I usually end up disappointed in how it tastes after all.

But now back to dunking: I have never outgrown the desire to dunk things in my coffee. Cookies, of course, top the list of dunkables, along with doughnuts. But I also like to dunk my toast in my coffee as well.  Occasionally, I dunk crackers, and I remember a time or two when I dunked my chocolate fudge in my coffee. Mmmmmmm!!!.  When my mom was alive and we could be together on Christmas Eve, she and I made it a habit to have some of her homemade fudge and coffee for breakfast every Christmas Eve. What fun.

And, of course, it’s so many of those special family memories that make coffee a comfort food for me. I’m sure that’s a good part of the reason I love coffee so much and want to drink it every day. And I’m grateful that I can drink it without any negative effects. I can even drink it right before going to bed. In fact, some nights when I wake up in the middle of the night and can’t get back to sleep, I can drink a cup of coffee and get all relaxed and settled enough to get to sleep again. And, of course, if I’m really wide awake, grabbing a couple chocolate chip cookies and dunking them rounds off those midnight snacks perfectly.

I hope everyone reading this article has had the joy of dunking goodies in their coffee. But if you have not, be sure you try it before the day’s over. You won’t be sorry.  But be sure and keep a napkin handy for your chin.  🙂

I DON’T FEEL LIKE AN OVERCOMER — VIDEO MESSAGE

| Sandra Pavloff Conner

Are you feeling a little discouraged lately with all the battles of life? Visit my ministry YouTube channel and get a lift from my latest message.

meet the men who made the series

| Sandra Pavloff Conner

 

The Great Smoky Mountains: That unique region where Tennessee and North Caroline meet and the ‘Smokies’ beckon to the soul of a man to come and lose himself and his troubles in the beauty and tapestry of these compelling mountains. In this delightful setting, six men experience a love that changes their lives forever. Some of them know the Lord as their story begins, and some of them do not. Those who do know Him learn how to trust Him even more, and those who do not know Him come face-to-face with a God whose love they can’t refuse. Read the little descriptions below to get to know the men who made the series.

Book 1: SET FREE TO LOVE is the story of private detective MADDISON HOLT, who is on the most important journey of his life: It is a journey from grief, guilt, self-incrimination, & an inability to love – to a place where he can be set free from those bondages and finally give himself to loving and being loved. But when an assassin’s bullet threatens to cut his life short, he finds that he must also help the woman he loves to push aside her own fears and take a chance on loving him.

Book 2: CAMERON’S RIB is the story of PASTOR CAMERON MCDANIELS. After several years on the mission field, he now serves Prince of Peace Church in Gatlinburg, Tennessee. He is a dedicated servant of God, and he is also a man in love – with a woman who is too hurt and confused by a traumatic loss to even consider loving him. He’s depended on God’s Word to fight his battles and win them throughout his life of ministry. Now he must learn how to use that Word to help him win the love of the woman he believes is supposed to become his wife. But in the meantime, he must find a way to save her life.

Book 3: REPARIED BY LOVE introduces us to LIONEL BUTLER who is convinced he will never believe in God. Due to much grief and serious issues with unforgiveness in his heart, Lionel finds himself sorely tried when he meets and falls in love with Kana Wallace, a devout Christian, who cannot allow herself to enter into a relationship with him. His feelings for her gradually bring him to the place of questioning his own resistance to God and to finally seeking answers that may require him to let go of his grief, anger, and bitterness. He struggles to find his own way to God and then to help a father he’s hated all his life to do the same.

Book 4: JONAH’S SONG is the story of PROFESSOR JONAH MCDANIELS, handsome, reclusive violinist/conductor. He is used to girls in his college classes having a crush on him. But he has never felt anything in return until he meets Valentina Rosswell. Even then, he pushes his feelings aside, knowing there are too many barriers to a personal relationship between them. But when he meets her again seven years later and realizes that what he felt for a college girl has matured – just as the girl has matured into a beautiful, desirable woman – he still does his best to resist falling in love. Focusing on everything from his age to his very formal, even stuffy personality, he considers himself totally unacceptable as a lover and a husband for Valentina. His serious injuries from a plane crash further insure his feelings of inadequacy. The Lord must use some strong words and even stronger love – and the delightful story of Ruth and Boaz – to knock some sense into Jonah’s hard head.

Book 5: THIS FIRE IN MY HEART introduces THOMAS BLAZE OF GOD ROSS. Full-blooded Cherokee, Blaze is a master craftsman, in wood, leather, and metal. He runs a large craft and trade center in Cherokee, NC, and he spends a good deal of his time sharing the Gospel, both in his home area and across the country as the Lord leads. His love for his native people and all they have suffered is a primary force in his life as he works to help renew understanding of the Cherokee language and artisan crafts. His love for Joy McDaniels, who knows virtually nothing of Cherokee history or culture causes him to struggle. Joy’s feelings of being inadequate as the wife he will need stands in the way of Blaze’s having the desire of his heart. He must learn to let go of his own understanding and lean on the Lord’s counsel in order to prove to Joy that she is the one the Lord has had in mind for him all along.

Book 6: GRACE FOR ATTICUS brings us into the life of DR. ATTICUS ST. JOHN, abortionist. Originally proud of his work and the important help he feels he offers his patients, Atticus has his whole life turned upside down by a beautiful Cherokee woman who loves God and denies Atticus’ right to terminate the lives of unborn babies. Atticus has never believed in God, but he does believe in love, and he cannot restrain his own heart from falling in love with Grace. But her unflinching dedication to God and His hatred of abortion rocks Atticus’ world as nothing else ever has. As he learns to love Grace, he has to recognize that He must face the question of God with an honest heart. But in the midst of his searching, he comes face-to-face with a life-threatening emergency that tries, not only his medical skill, but his very soul – and throws him headlong into spiritual truths that will change him forever.

All books in the series are available in paperback or digital from Amazon.

Book 6: GRACE FOR ATTICUS  — Digital Version — is on a special introductory sale until the end of May for $0.99

Get your copy HERE.

BOOK # 6 IS HERE: ‘GRACE FOR ATTICUS’

| Sandra Pavloff Conner

 

Great News: Book # 6 in The Smoky Mountain Series is now on the market.
GRACE FOR ATTICUS is another inspirational story that continues the series, introducing brand new characters as well as welcoming visits from some who have been part of the series from the first two books.

SYNOPSIS:

Dr. Atticus St. John owns two abortion clinics and is building a third. He has never considered abortion as anything other than a service he offers women who find themselves in an unwanted pregnancy. He does not know the Lord so has no spiritual foundations from which to judge his work.

However, when he crosses paths with Grace Ross, whose total commitment to Jesus Christ compels her to fight against the ever-growing practice of abortion, Atticus comes face-to-face with the reality of God and a spiritual realm he never knew existed.

Sparks fly between them as they confront each other over Atticus’ work. But in the midst of that battle, another kind of spark ignites in their hearts. And, suddenly, two unlikely lovers find themselves struggling desperately to find answers that only God can give them.

E-BOOK ON INTRODUCTORY SALE – THIS WEEK ONLY – $0.99
PAPERBACK — $9.95
GET YOUR COPY FROM AMAZON

EXCERPT:

The glass front door of Tsalagi Craft and Trade Center flew open, the bell at the top of the door jangling so hard it sounded like an alarm. Grace Walela Ross looked up from the accounting work she was doing at the desk in the back left corner of the store. Her black hair, cut in short tousled layers accented her sable eyes and her bronze Cherokee skin. She rose to her full height of five feet, seven inches, and although she was quite delightful to look at as she stood behind her desk, the man stomping his way toward her had such fire in his eyes, it was unlikely he had taken time to notice.

“I understand you’re the one responsible for this trash,” he said, slamming a copy of The Sword newspaper down on top of the desk.

“I’m the editor of the paper, if that’s what you mean,” Grace replied, standing straight and looking him in the eye. He was a good six inches taller than she was, and all powerful, barely restrained muscle. She felt only slightly intimidated, but had no intention of letting fear have a place.

“Do you have a problem with something in this week’s issue, Mr. … ?”

“A problem? No, I don’t have a problem. I have a legitimate complaint against your libelous excuse for journalism. You’re the one who has the problem, Ms. – ” He stopped and glanced at the masthead of the paper to double-check her name. “Ms. Grace Walela Ross! Because unless you print an immediate retraction – and on the front page – you’re going to court and pay through the nose.”

“And just what exactly are you referring to as libelous, Mr. Whoever-You-Are?”

“St. John.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Atticus St. John. Doctor St. John to you.”

“Oh, I see.”

“I don’t think you do see, Ms. Ross. I don’t think you even try to see the whole picture. You’re so focused on your own personal rant that you don’t care how distorted you make your articles.”

Some kind of righteous anger mixed with personal hurt rose up in Grace. She rounded the desk and advanced toward him until she stood mere inches away. “I never distort my articles! How dare you come stomping in here and speak such lies!”

“Me speaking lies! You have the gall to accuse me after you’ve written and printed this hideous excuse for journalism?! You should be tarred and feathered!”

Grace’s head almost buzzed with the anger she felt. She prided herself in all the effort she put into being sure of her facts, even down to the exact spelling of every single name she used. And she was always hard on herself to make sure she’d used proper restraint before assigning responsibility and fault to anyone in her articles.

Such an attack as this on her character as a credible journalist was more than she could bear, and before she could even think about what she was going to do, she spit in his face. Instantly, the shock of what she had done hit her so forcefully that she gasped, and her hand flew to cover her mouth. Her eyes, wide with the horror of her actions, locked onto his.

But her shock was nothing compared to his. Followed by a new level of anger. “Why you little savage!” he said, grasping her by the shoulders and, without thinking, pushing her backwards against the desk, and pinning her there with his own body. Grace put up her hands against his chest in an instinctive defense, but he was much more powerful than she. Her eyes focused on his shoulders now, and her self-defense training came to mind, but for some reason, she felt a kind of dazed lack of energy to inflict any kind of retaliation.

He wasn’t sure what he’d intended when he’d grabbed her, but was responding to some primal need in him to exact revenge for such humiliation and put her in her place somehow. He fought within himself over whether to spit in her face as well or kiss her forcefully enough to prove his mastery over her.

He had decided on the ruthless kiss when, suddenly, her eyes met his again and held him with a look that said she knew he was in control, but she wouldn’t even consider backing down. There was something so pure in her eyes – an assurance of being in the right – something that pulled on him to side with her unflinching commitment to what she believed – that his own thoughts came crashing to a full stop.

In response, he gradually leaned forward almost touching her lips in what would have been an entirely different kind of kiss, but he caught himself just in time. He pulled back slowly and heard himself say in a tone of disbelief, “Grace? … You’re name is Grace? And if I’m not mistaken, your middle name is the Cherokee word for Hummingbird, is it not?”

Grace was silent with surprise at the sudden change in him, and she just nodded. He laughed softly then. “What a mistake your poor parents made. You most definitely are not a hummingbird. In fact I’d say you’re more like a she-bear – defending her domain – a spitting bear in fact,” he added, taking his right hand from her shoulder and wiping his cheek where her spittle had landed. He quickly grasped her shoulder again, but couldn’t hold back more laughter.

The laughter was genuine, but he was having a hard time understanding everything else he was feeling. Something powerful had passed between them in those moments – something so elemental he couldn’t put a name to it, but it pulled on him and caused him to want to stay close to her. A ridiculous feeling since she represented everything he had to fight against in order to carry out his own work – work that he believed in and had labored hard to be able to accomplish.
He finally released her and stepped back, glancing toward the floor and running his hand through his hair in a frustrated manner. But he looked right at her again and spoke in a disgruntled tone. “Never mind. I don’t really have time to bother with you.”

He turned away from her and started for the door, but just before he pulled the door open, he turned and almost spat out the words, “Just be careful, my little Spitting-Bear. The next victim of your irresponsible journalism may not be as willing to forego exacting his vengeance.” And with those words he walked through the door and almost stomped down the street.

Grace still leaned against the desk, almost as if she needed its support. Her adrenaline was rushing, and she knew she’d been frightened a little by the encounter, but there was something else involved that she couldn’t identify. She realized with a quickening of her breath that she actually wished he had followed through on his actions and kissed her. She shook her head in disbelief now and finally pushed herself away from the desk, making her way around it, where she sat down in the chair again. She closed her eyes and relived the whole experience.

In the heat of the moment, she hadn’t been conscious of noting his appearance, but now, in her memory’s eye, she saw again the strength that showed in the muscles of his arms and chest even beneath the fabric of his long-sleeved dress shirt. His hair was sandy brown and had been tousled by the breeze. She saw again the firm jaw, and the olive green eyes – eyes that kindled with his barely restrained temper as they bored into hers. She felt a stirring inside as she remembered those eyes – and the way his body felt barely touching hers. Suddenly, she shook herself lightly, trying to escape those memories and clear her head.

Everything about the man was the antithesis of her beliefs and agenda for her own life. How could she have wanted to kiss him – to stay in a place where she was touching him and looking steadily into his eyes? She leaned back in the chair with a huge sigh. Everything was quiet now, and she just sat, waiting, hoping her thoughts would clear and her day would get back to normal somehow.

She heard the bell again, but at a normal volume this time, and when she glanced toward the door she saw her brother Blaze heading her way. “Hey, Sis, I read your article this morning.”
Grace looked up at him as he stood now in front of the desk, but she seemed to be having trouble focusing.

“Is something wrong, Hon.” he asked, concern in his eyes now.

Grace really looked at him then, finally focusing, and shook her head again slightly, as if still trying to clear it. “No, not really. I guess I’m just a little dazed after having a confrontation with Dr. St. John.”

“St. John? As in the man you wrote about in the front page article?” Grace nodded her head and, to Blaze’s relief, her impish grin kicked in, and he felt reassured that she was her old self.
“What happened?”

Grace told him how Dr. St. John had stormed into the store and accused her of being irresponsible in her journalism and of telling lies, and how he’d threatened to sue if she didn’t print a retraction of her accusations.”

“I guess you set him straight, didn’t you?”

“Well … about that.” Grace said and started to squirm a little in her chair.

Blaze was intrigued by that move, because his little sister was generally straight-forward and outspoken with everyone, so he just stood there and looked at her intently until she glanced away and then, finally, looked back at him.

“Hummingbird, why do I feel that there’s something you should tell me, but you don’t want to? What really did happen?”

END OF EXCERPT

DON’T FORGET THE COFFEE SERIES – DAY 2

| Sandra Pavloff Conner

For Day 2 of my new coffee series, I had intended to post something in prose, but I found myself reading through another coffee poem that I wrote several  years ago. As I read it, I was tempted to add some more thoughts to it, so I did. And since it is now a new poem — sort of — I decided to go with verse again today.

NO NEED FOR FALDEROL

I joined the queue outside the door,
Just after 6:00 a.m.
The morning sun had chased the fog,
But warmth was pretty thin.

My breath formed steam each time I spoke,
And pockets warmed my hands.
I yearned for coffee, hot and strong,
A large cup was my plan.

We inched along with moderate speed,
And soon I stood inside.
The fresh aroma brought a smile;
It’s tantalizing tide
Mingled with the cozy sounds
Of orders glorified:

Venti Frappucino – Tall
Mocha Latte – Grande.
Americano, Cappucinno,
Really, there’s no end.

At last, I stood before the bar;
The young barista frowned.
He know I’d order coffee – plain.
No whip, no froth — just brown.

I hate to disappoint him so;
He’s quite sweet after all.
But coffee is its own reward;
No need for folderol.

I’m all for staying true to form — 
A purist through and through.
The best coffee experience:
Unadulterated brew.