Summer is slowly slipping away, but at least in the Midwest, family pools still offer a welcomed escape from the heat. If you're searching for a good poolside book, I have one for you. It is a collection of short stories by seven writers, each using a different genre for their story. Murder They Wrote features award-winning authors and edge-of-the-seat dramas.  

One of the writers, C.S. Boyack, is a friend from Idaho. His stories always bring a smile, because in his paranormal world, anything is possible. Even unlikely creatures such as a yak, speak. Really? Yes, really. And, to top it off, he writes great stories. Craig visits with us today to tell us about the anthology. Let's see what he has to say.​ 

​Obviously, this book is about murder, but it spans eras and sub-genres. I was invited, because they wanted a bit of science fiction included. 

The project was well thought out, because we had some assignments. This was to keep all the stories a bit unique. I had to pick a room, and a murder weapon. Makes perfect sense to me, because you don’t want seven stories about a crazed axe murderer. These were all supposed to be mysteries, so it wasn’t just a manhunt they wanted. We had to uncover some clues along the way.

​I set mine in a mini mansion and chose the library. This bit of science fiction involves more along the lines of my main character than any kind of time travel or space opera. I also chose poison as the murder weapon. This won’t spoil too much, because you still have to sort it all out along with Jason Fogg. 

Speaking of Jason, he was the result of a science fiction accident. He’s been with me for a long time, and you don’t have to read his previous stories to enjoy this one. If you like to delve a bit deeper, Jason has the ability to transform into fog. This allows him to disappear if he must, and to slip into places only insects could go. He has some limitations, but that only adds to the fun. 

Jason has a private detective business in the Seattle area. Perfect cover for someone with his foggy tendencies. The big question is, can Jason run interference for his client who’s been accused of murder. 

There are seven different stories in the collection, and I’ll let the blurb give you a taste of the others.
 
I hope some of your rabid fans will give it a chance. You may find a new favorite author.

There was huffing outside my home office window. Surely not a bear. My common first thought  after having seen one. The sound got louder, but I couldn't identify it. Then it dawned on me. A hot air balloon. They glide by our home often and sometimes the sound of the burners is clear. 

I ran outside and this is what I saw. A balloon had come down next to our home. 

The pilot explained that the wind had shifted and the street looked like a safe place to land. His riders, a young couple celebrating their first anniversary, thought it all very exciting. 

Soon the neighborhood arrived and all of us pulled on the ropes to hold the balloon down until the carrier truck arrived. Only later did we realize that not one of us wore a mask. 

There's nothing like an unexpected visitor to brighten the morning sun! 
​

Sometimes birthdays take us back through the years. We remember that which we thought we had forgotten. Today I share a bit about my past when I was much younger...

I confess to being a child of the Sixties. I know what it is like to dream big. I remember innocence, a time when I thought I could change the world. While a college student in San Francisco, I danced to the Grateful Dead in Golden Gate Park and the Doors at the Fillmore West. When my friends left for Vietnam and did not return, I marched with others to end the war. I carried a flower, offered a song, and followed Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.

Then the world turned upside down with three assassinations: President John F. Kennedy, Senator Robert F. Kennedy, and Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. The streets became angry with lost dreams.

More than fifty years have passed, and we are again facing a pivotal cultural shift. Some march with a cry for racial justice, others riot for unclear ideological ends. Buildings burn, businesses are destroyed, innocents are injured and some die. City streets are violently angry, but I’m not sure why.

When I was in my twenties, I stopped hoping. I had seen too much, felt even more. For years, I ignored Walter Cronkite and David Brinkley, because I didn’t trust what they had to say. As a student of psychology and an eventual counselor, I did a lot of soul searching. There were mountains to climb, rivers to cross and oceans to maneuver. I was not well-equipped to do any of these, but I tried.  

Rather than hopelessness, I feel helplessness these days. Not because of an ill-fated war or racism, rather because I realize that there is nothing I can do to turn the tide on senseless violence. I’m not an elected official. I’m not part of the Police Force or the National Guard. I’m just one of the many who shudders in disbelief at what I see in the streets, one of many who aches for those who have lost their livelihoods, one of the many who cries with the injured and all those who have lost loved ones. Yes, I am one of the quiet many who simply pray for peace.  
More than fifty years have passed since I was in my twenties. I remember the flower I carried and the songs I sang. Now I look at my three sons and daughter and wonder where the time has gone. I'm grateful for each of them. As well, I'm grateful for my beautiful grandchildren.  Together they remind me with their hugs and kisses that someday, yes someday, peace will reign. ♥

When I saw the photo, I imagined flying above the falls and mountains high. I felt the moist breeze and soared in the silence of the trees. My haiku...   
​

Author  Suzanne Burke  offers another photo prompt and invites readers to respond through prose or poetry. Her “Fiction in A Flash Challenge” image for this week is an old pier.

As I looked at the photo, I imagined dancing on the pier with a lover and then returning at a much later date alone. The image carries sadness for me and the movement of time. I tried to capture those sentiments in my poem. 
 ​

I was driving an old U-Haul truck from Davis, California to Irvine going south on Interstate 5, when things went terribly wrong.

Packed with everything I owned, the truck lumbered up and down hills until it found its pace in the San Joaquin Valley. A few hours into the journey, I felt rather good about myself. I had just accepted a new position in Irvine, and it seemed that everything was working out perfectly. I had sold my home and found another, and soon I would be living within an easy drive to family.

All was well until the truck’s warning lights flashed and steam started rising from the hood.

My usual response to any car problem was to call my dad. But I didn’t want to do that. I knew what he would say. After a barely audible mumble, he’d ask. “You didn’t bring water?!” In my defense, I didn't know that Bakersfield is hot, very hot, in July. A phone call would mean a confession, and I was too proud to admit that I simply had forgotten to bring water. I quickly pulled over to a nearby rest stop.

While steam hissed from the radiator, I paced and fought back all the nasty things I wanted to say to the U-Haul guy who assigned me the truck. Beads of sweat quickly evaporated in the 115 degree temperature and I was miserable. I spun around to look for shade and noticed a water fountain. An answer to prayer? I looked in the cab for a container and found none. I checked the trash bins, but they were recently emptied. Then it hit me, I had no way to carry water.

I was nursing my despair on the curbside when an older couple drove into the parking spot next to my truck. Seeing my distress, the gentleman came over and asked if I needed help.

I started to explain my drama, how I was peacefully driving down the freeway when the warning lights went off and then and then… I paused. I realized that the gentleman’s eyes had glazed. I quickly responded, “Yes, sir, I need help.”

He walked back to his car and returned with a gallon of water. “You know ma’am, you should always travel with water.” I nodded and thought of dad. This was a lesson I would never forget.   
The couple disappeared for a few minutes and then returned to their car. Before leaving, the elderly gentleman explained what I needed to do after the steam subsided and wished me well. I thanked him profusely for his help and especially for the gallon of water.

I thought of this roadside encounter as I watched the news this morning. With all the chaos and noise that surrounds us, it is easy to forget the goodness of people. I’ve often wondered about the kind Black gentleman who came to my aid that summer day. Could he have been an angel?  

Author  Suzanne Burke  offers a weekly photo prompt and invites readers to respond through prose or poetry. Her “Fiction in A Flash Challenge” image for this week is a lighthouse. If you'd like to join in the fun, just click on her name and you'll be taken to her website. There you'll find instructions and encouragement. 

As I studied the prompt, I thought of storms at sea and sailors helped to safety. Then I thought of you and me, finding our way through a squall of threats and conspiracies. Not so surprisingly, I found hope in the one Light that is never dimmed completely.  

​I hope you enjoy my Haiku contribution: 
​

The Fourth of July was a favorite holiday of my parents. Both of them proudly served during WWII, mom as a "Rosie the Riveter", dad in the Navy. They were modest people and rarely talked about their experience, but their respect for our country was apparent. Like many in the Fifties, they had little but gave everything. They lived their truth and it became mine. 

No matter where we live, we have traveled through sorrows and joys to arrive at this one defining moment. With fireworks blasting and riots threatening, we hope and pray for a tomorrow that unites and does not divide. So it is that in the midst of confusion and violence, I pause and offer thanksgiving to all who serve.

Thank you - to my husband and brother and brother-in-laws for their service during Vietnam. Thank you - to all my cousins and nephews who serve or have served in the Middle East. Thank you - to my nephew in the Border Patrol and to my nephews who serve or have served in the police force. Thank you - to all those in my extended family who are or were in the medical profession. Thank you - to those teachers in the family who are trying to make a difference.

Thank you - to all near and far who have withstood hardship, embraced sacrifice, and held tight to hope - for our country, for our families, and for our tomorrows. 

Author Suzanne Burke provides a weekly “Fiction in A Flash Challenge!” prompt and invites interested folks to respond. This week's image is of a father and his baby. If you are interested, please go to her website for details and suggestions. 

My contribution is a Haiku poem, a 3-lined poem characterized by 17 syllables. When I saw the photo, a song began playing over and over in my thoughts. My dad would sing this song and perhaps your father did as well. It begins: Hush little baby, don’t say a word; Papa’s gonna buy you a mockingbird...  
 

I am delighted to be a guest of author Jill Weatherholt on her lovely site today. Each Friday she posts the responses of guest writers to her Would You Rather questions. For instance, Would you rather live in an amusement park or a zoo?  Come join in the fun by  clicking the Would You Rather link above. You'll see why Jill is Love Inspired. ♥

This week Author Suzanne Burke uses a photo of a marionette for her "Fiction in A Flash Challenge." If you are interested, please go to her website for details and suggestions. 

My contribution is a Tanka poem, a 31 syllable poem known for its five lines of 5-7-5-7-7 syllables. The photo prompt is the figure in the bottom left corner.
​

This Sunday is Father's Day, and I've decided to share a personal story about my dad. Through him, I learned much about life. I suspect you can say the same. To all fathers, thank you and Happy Father's Day.


It was just after 6:30 A.M. when the school bus arrived. My sisters and brothers had already climbed aboard when mom asked me to stay behind. She didn’t feel right and thought she might be going into labor.

Dad was in the fields working, and she did not have a way to reach him, so she asked me to drive her to the doctor’s office. Dad had taught me to drive a stick shift dune buggy a year earlier when I was just twelve years old. He believed I was mature enough and said I should know how to drive – just in case. This was one of those just in case moments.

I drove the old Pontiac station wagon twelve miles into town to the doctor’s office. But mom no sooner went into his office, than she came out and said we had to go to the hospital. The urgency in her voice scared me, and I knew something was terribly wrong.

When we got back into the car, mom started crying. I had never seen her breakdown as she did. I asked what was wrong and she haltingly explained that the baby might not be alive.

When we arrived at the hospital, a medical team took mom behind closed doors. I stood there a while not knowing what to do, and then realized that there was nothing more for me. I was a child in an adult world.

I drove home alone, past fields of cotton and sugar beets, past the cattle feedlots, past the lake where we liked to swim. I barely noticed my surroundings or the speed at which I drove. Mom’s tears had left me with my own.

Dad rushed to the side of the car when I drove into the yard. “Is mom okay?” he asked. I was crying so hard, I couldn’t speak. Finally, dad told me firmly to calm down and answer him, “Is mom okay?”

“She’s okay,” I muttered, “but I don’t think the baby is.”

Dad’s face tightened at those words, and he told me that I had done a good job. He asked me to go in the house and take care of my six younger siblings, then he left for town.

I did not tell dad the real reason for my tears, not then. I waited to later, to when dad had returned with the awful news and was sitting alone in the darkness. I asked if I could tell him a terrible secret, and he said yes. I told him about my scary dreams, the ones in which the baby was born dead. I cried as I spoke and told him I was afraid my nightmares had caused this tragedy.

Dad listened intently to what I was saying and then told me that he, too, had the same dreams.

When he shared this with me, I was relieved for then I no longer felt that it was my fault. A huge weight lifted and with it my tears.

Some fifty years later, I told a friend about this incident, about how dad and I had the same dreams. He smiled at the end of the story and said, “As only a loving father could say to his young daughter.”

At first, I did not understand what he meant and asked him about it. He simply repeated his words, “As only a loving father could say to his young daughter.” And then I knew. Dad told me that he had the same dreams, because he did not want me to carry the burden.

My dad was not one to say, “I love you,” in fact, I only remember him saying those words once to me. But over time, I came to realize that his life was his I love you. And he gave that life to those he loved every day. 

Over these long months of watching network stations relay the dire news of rising numbers of COVID deaths, our global financial collapse, police brutality and riots across the United States, as well as the deepening political divides, my husband and I have given up on the news. It isn't that the "facts" aren't facts, although we question everything, rather, it is that HOPE beckons us elsewhere. 

At daybreak, I take a long meditative walk. Only birds and rabbits accompanying me. The glory of sunrise fills my heart with extraordinary peace and prayer follows naturally. I deeply believe we will get through this, whatever "this" might be. 

In the evening, my husband and I often watch inspirational films. Three of these films I share with you today. You may have seen them, but if not, I've attached Trailers for you to consider. I'm not going to explain the stories, that wouldn't be fair to you, but I will make brief comments about each.  

The first movie is The Shack. This is a beautiful, spiritual film. If you've ever struggled with forgiving someone, I strongly recommend it. I found its message on forgiveness to be extraordinary. 

The second is NOBLE. This movie is based on a true story, and what a story it is. Against all odds, a woman makes miracles happen. It affirms that each of us can do so much. 

The third movie is EDIE. A very clear message from this movie is that it is never too late to pursue your dreams. 

Enjoy.....
​