Writing: Why did the Owl Hoot?

Image by Chräcker Heller from Pixabay


To hoot, or not to hoot, that is the question:
For to hoot is to speak in hopes of being heard,
To not is silence amongst the trees,
Meditating upon the moon and the leaves.
If perchance I see a friend, a hoot would surely invite them in,
Whereas a foe might seek me out
Only to harass, harangue, and steal my house.
So, I perch wide-eyed in my hollow oak,
Prudence shepherding my unspoken note,
Equivocating on whether to hoot or not.

A snap, a twig, a scurrying in the night,
My dinner moves cautiously out of sight.
Unaware of my presence and eyes so bright,
Nor of my taste for furry gray mice.
I swoop, I dive, I see my mark.
I reach, I grab, I clasp thin air.
I sit, I frown, no wages for work,
I’ll go hungry this night, my soul in despair.

“Well… Hoot.”

Writing: Floating

Photo by NASA on Unsplash

My first trip to the International Space Station would be my last. Not because I wasn’t qualified or because I was planning to retire. No. This would be my last mission because I had failed to securely fasten the tether that anchored me to the station, and for the past thirty minutes, I had been drifting away. The station, now no more than a dot in the distance, would soon pass beyond the horizon of Earth, and I would float in this blackness forever.

“Robert? Colonel, this is ground control; we are working to….”

Click.

I turned off my communications link. I had approximately thirty-two minutes before I was out of oxygen. No matter what they were working to do, it would not change my fate. I choose to enter the Greater Silence while listening in this lesser one. Perhaps I may hear the door between the two snicking open.

Anthology: Prose Colored Glasses

Prose Colored Glasses, the anthology from Enid Writers Club celebrating 100 years, is now available for Kindle on Amazon. It will soon be available in paperback as well. My short story, Ciao, is included. Purchase a copy to read short stories and poems from some of Enid’s best authors.

Fiction: The Death of Fr. Anthony Savel

A few months back I joined the Enid Writers’ Club. It has really provided some motivation and encouragement for the writing of the next Fr. Anthony novel. As part of each meeting, there is a Roll Call where each member reads a piece of 150 words or less based on a given topic prompt. The prompt for this month: Have one of your characters or poems give you writing advice. Everyone reads and everyone votes. This month I tied for the prize and I’m beaming like a little kid who won the hot dog eating contest.


Photo by Joe Calata on Unsplash

Father Anthony climbed the stairs to the top of the bell tower, more than a hundred feet up.  The wall surrounding the uppermost landing was only eighteen inches, so he always stood at a safe distance.

“Hey, what are we doing up here?”

Unbeknownst to Father Anthony, Elvis, the custodian had eaten his lunch on the landing and had accidentally left a banana peel lying directly in Father Anthony’s path.  Had Father Anthony been more observant, he would have seen it and been more careful.

“What do you mean, ‘More observant’?  I see it.  It’s right there.”

Father Anthony took the last step of his life.

“Wait!  What do you mean the last step of my life?!  Look!  Is this about the plot hole in the last chapter?  I can fix that. I’m your main character!  You can’t kill me.”

He slipped. He fell.

“You son of aaaaaaaa…..”

He died.


Fear not. Fr. Anthony is a bit fluffy these days and simply bounced around, eventually landing on his feet.