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Entering Aunt May’s orchard required stealth, cunning and a bit of espionage. There were the guard dogs, Ares and Mars, the barbed wire, and the briers and brambles she had planted beside the metal fence as a further deterrent. Nobody dared enter her estate without prior notification. That’s what twelve years of reclusiveness can do to a person. What’s her story? Some people say she lost the love of her life two days before their wedding. Others say she had a nervous breakdown after losing her only child. Nobody really knows the mystery of lonely Aunt May except Aunt May. WORD COUNT: 100 |
Friday Fictioneers is a meme by Madison Woods
Now hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields
Hello folks! I find that having to sort through blogs for a review of a particular book amongst many other articles can be frustrating. Search engines can be of some help. Nonetheless I’ve decided to make a gallery where you can easily spot the covers of the books I’ve reviewed and subsequently, all the books I will review.
Take a ride around the block and let me know how it feels. I hope you enjoy the convenience of finding all my book reviews on a single page. Click here to view the page.
Also, I’d like you to rate my posts. More often than not, I get comments and likes from fellow bloggers, but a precious few actually take the time to click on those white stars just below each post to make them glow. My rating system is as follows:
- One star : Boring
- Two stars : Cliché
- Three stars : Satisfactory
- Four stars : Good
- Five stars: Excellent
The criterion for my ratings is last but one on the right sidebar, just above the Ad-free Blog sign and below the live traffic feed. Kindly refer to it if you can’t find this post later on. Cheers!
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She tried to focus on the painting, hoping that her tunnel vision will cause the parade of liquor to disappear altogether to the peripheral. Was it a Monet? Perhaps a Picasso or a Van Gogh? Random thoughts that reflected her meager knowledge of art; to keep her distracted. Of all the places to meet… Perhaps John wanted her to relapse. Impossible! It was either an innocent mistake on his part or she got the wrong address. Suddenly, the bell over the door jingled a Christmas melody. There he was, walking in ceremoniously. “Congratulations Martha,” he grinned. “You’ve passed the test. You’re now at the fifth step. I’m so proud of you.”
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Friday Fictioneers is a meme by Madison Woods
Now hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields
 “I know they’re sayin’ all sorta things about me out there, so it’s time I set the facts straight. This is what really happened. I just sat by quietly and watched her make Christmas ornaments. I didn’t touch nothing. Look at my paws. Am I capable o’ strummin’ a banjo? I don’t have opposable thumbs, for goodness’ sake. Maybe they mistook me for Puss ’n Boots… Naaaaah! That ain’t right. He ain’t even from this part o’ town. It’s all a conspiracy, I tell ya. And they got the songwriters in on it. Ask Dinah. She’ll tell ya the same story.” |
Friday Fictioneers is a meme by Madison Woods
Now hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields
Ermilia’s Picture it & Write.
This popular nursery rhyme is what came to mind when I saw this week’s picture.
How many of you know all five stanzas?
Twinkle, twinkle, little star,
How I wonder what you are.
Up above the world so high,
Like a diamond in the sky.
When the blazing sun is gone,
When he nothing shines upon,
Then you show your little light,
Twinkle, twinkle, all the night.
Then the traveller in the dark,
Thanks you for your tiny spark,
He could not see which way to go,
If you did not twinkle so.
In the dark blue sky you keep,
And often through my curtains peep,
For you never shut your eye,
’Till the sun is in the sky.
As your bright and tiny spark,
Lights the traveller in the dark.
Though I know not what you are,
Twinkle, twinkle, little star.
TRIVIA:
The lyrics are from an early 19th-century English poem, ”The Star” by Jane Taylor.
The poem was first published in 1806 in Rhymes for the Nursery, an anthology by Taylor and her sister Ann. (Courtesy: Wikipedia)
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In retrospect, his father had it easy. All he had to do was send a letter or postcard each month to let the family know which swamp or jungle his expedition had taken him. No rebuttals or instant interrogations. Marriage wasn’t complicated further by social networking and IMs. Forty years later, John smirked at fate’s twisted sense of humour. Here he was, caught in a battle of words on skype, explaining to Lily why collecting insects in the heart of Guam was more important than spending Christmas with his family. His father had it easy. The world had really shrunk. |
