Halcyon Days


I was born in the age of dinosaurs—1953—the last of seven children raised and loved by Tom and Agnes Workman. Yep, I was the spoiled baby of the family.

My siblings and I grew up on a 180 acre farm/ranch way out in the country. We lived in an old house where the only sources of heat was a fireplace in the living room and a wood cook stove in the kitchen. All the bedrooms were unheated. You wanted warmth when the snow was ass-deep, you stayed in the kitchen or pret ‘near inside the fireplace. And the bathroom . . . well, it was a rickety outhouse way down past the garden spot. I remember running barefoot to it in the dead of winter. I was tougher back then. Continue reading

A Hard Row To Hoe | Update


An update on Barbie Dolls And Ribs–

Today, after giving it considerable thought, I unpublished “Barbie Dolls And Ribs” from KDP. I don’t know how long it will take for it not to be shown on Amazon, but at least it is now unavailable for purchase. There were a few reasons I did this, the main one being I thought the story too short for the price, which was ninety-nine cents, the least amount Amazon would allow me to charge. Continue reading



I like what I see

When I look in your eyes

When you look at me.


I like what I smell

When I’m wrapped in your arms

Ensnarled in your spell.


I like what I hear

When you whisper my name

Soft lips brushing my ear.


I like what I touch

When our legs entwine

And our hungry hands clutch.


I like what I taste

When my tongue strokes your flesh

In a kiss far from chaste.


All these things now are gone

Love washed away

Into the dark sea of dawn . . .



Pearls Before Swine…Published


I have been busy, busy, busy–in between bouts of illness. First up was a stomach virus that laid me low for over a week. Then a pulled back muscle, which I tried to work through, that kept me off my computer and on a heating pad when I wasn’t at my day job. Then a few days ago, (back pain finally improving, but not gone) I was hit with a urinary tract infection. Needles to say, the last few weeks have not been pleasant. I told a friend of an old wives’ tale popular here in the South, that states: “Bad things happen in threes”. I’ve gotten my three in; hopefully, I’m safe for a while. Continue reading

Black Is…


Black is…

The color of the ocean floor

The color of the deepest well

The color of a witch’s cat

The color of a lover’s spell


Black is…

The color of infinity

The color of a new-moon night

The color of secrecy

The color of a dream that never takes flight


Black is…

The color of a broken heart

The color of a demented mind

The color of an empty life

The color left behind


Black is…

The color I breathe

The color I see

The color I taste

The color that owns me


For black is…




A Leap of Faith



I am exhausted! My brain hurts!

And here is the reason why—

Yesterday I took a leap of faith: I became an indie author. Through KDP, I published a short story titled: “Saving Grace”. Let me tell you, it was no easy task. Lord knows how many hoops I jumped through—some I caught my feet on and fell through. Finally, I overcame the many obstacles littering the path of this poor, computer-challenged woman and got my story out there. My head killed me for two days, but I did it! And now that I have accomplished the deed, the next time will be far easier—I hope.

This was my first foray into the Indie World, but it won’t be my last. I wish I had taken Tom Benson’s (A prolific indie author, fellow blogger and friend.) advice months ago, and had taken matters into my own hands. Instead, I spent an entire year querying literary agents who, if you aren’t already well-known in some way, don’t seem at all interested in reading the work of new writers. I queried thirty-one agents regarding my novel, Quoth The Raven, and if I received any sort or response at all, it was a form rejection.

And to be honest, I think my book deserved better than that.

Right now, Quoth The Raven is in my editor’s—David Burton at Economy Edits—hands. I didn’t think it would hurt to have an unbiased set of eyes look it over, suggest any needed changes, and look at grammar, typos and such. From what he has done so far, I’m so glad I decided to let him have a go at chopping up my “baby” before I published. A little blood is being spattered in the process, but it is worth it. Soon I’ll be plowing back through my manuscript for the umpteenth time, but I want it to be as pretty a baby as I can make it before I introduce it to the public.

According to an article I read a while back in The Huffington Post, indie authors will capture fifty percent of the eBook market by 2020—if not sooner. I might as well hitch up my horses and go along for the ride. Who knows where it might take me? One thing I do know for sure: I’ll never know unless I try.

You can purchase “Saving Grace” in the U. S. Here

Or in the U. K. Here


Inside My Head


Nowhere is safe—

I’ve heard it said.

One place is safe:

Inside my head.

There no one can touch.

There no one can hurt.

There I am a rock,

Solid, hard—I refuse to burst.

Half a century of walls

Erected, plastered, pasted, glued

Hold the pieces of me together

Never to be moved.

Do not look for a door,

No opening can be found.

Ironclad, it shelters an innocent child

Who built her safe place around

A fragile mind,

A chaste heart,

Protected from the monsters

Who gleefully tore her apart.

No comfort for this little child

For no one can enter this castle deep.

All alone, forever alone,

In the dark, she sits there yet and weeps.



Is That All There Is?

Immagine salvata con i settaggi inclusi.

I stood out on the front porch, staring up at the night sky into the reddish-blue face of the end of the world.

Inside, my family and a large group of their friends drank and laughed and danced to old songs, some I remembered hearing, some I didn’t. Upstairs, my two little brothers and the younger kids of the partiers’ slept—with a little help from Benadryl—blissfully unaware of the fact they’d never wake up.

In the valley below, the town was lit up like the Fourth of July, which was now a month past. The warm breeze carried the faint sounds of music and laughter up the steep hillside to my family’s summer home.

Was the whole world celebrating?

I remembered when the president had made the solemn announcement a few months ago that the comet, Delaroche, (so named for its discoverer) was on a collision course with Earth, but not to worry, all the countries with nuclear capabilities would launch their missiles at Delaroche when it was close enough, and would either destroy it or divert it from its current course. That hadn’t happened. The firing of the entire world’s nuclear arsenal had only slightly altered its path. Now instead of a direct hit, we would receive only a glancing blow; but that glancing blow would wipe out every living thing on Earth.
Continue reading

The Forest For The Trees


Brizzle saw the Things first and alerted the rest of the cluster. I had heard about the Things, but had never seen one. Soon I would. I wondered if I would survive it.

Twink brushed against me. “Will they kill us, Faust?”

The agitation of the cluster vibrated throughout me like the passing of the furry, horned ones. Everyone was scared. Everyone wondered if the stories we had been told when we were saps were true and not just made-up. “You behave now, or the evil Things will get you,” the old ones had threatened.

“The Things will not harm you,” I said to Twink.

A flurry of movement accompanied a ragged cackle. “Do not lie to the sap.” Old Clartha shook a withered, brown limb at me. “They will kill every last one of us–given enough time.”

Twink shook. The other little saps nearby trembled as well.

“Do not pay any attention to her,” I said. “The sky-fire affected her mind.”

Old Clartha’s good side swayed toward me. “I might be old and half-dead, but I have not forgotten what was told to me by my mother-tree, and her mother-tree before her, and farther back still.”

Twink asked, “What did she tell you?” Her question was echoed over and over by all the younger ones in the cluster. Saps were so curious; they always wanted to know the whys and wherefores of everything.

Clartha straightened her trunk as much as she was able. She rustled her leaves. The saps quieted.

“Many, many sun-cycles ago, so many that all who were alive then have returned to the root-source, a cold, white hush fell over the world,” Clartha said. “And out of this hush, the Things came into existence. They were cold inside like the hush that had sprouted them. They cared not about the root-source and all that it nourished. All they cared about were themselves.”

Twink shivered. “What happened then?”
Continue reading



It was such a tiny thing, a speck of a thing, all alone in a soup of darkness. And it was hungry, so very hungry. All it had known in its short life had been this terrible, gnawing emptiness.

Emptiness inside. Emptiness outside.

All it knew was that it existed. Beyond that, nothing more.


It sensed something outside itself, and this something murmured: Open your mouth, little one.

And for the first time, it realized it had a mouth and what it was for.

Its mouth opened, and nourishment was placed inside. The emptiness subsided; warmth suffused its being. And it didn’t feel quite so tiny anymore.

The nebulous veil parted, revealing a lucent blackness dotted with stellular pinpoints—it now knew of the existence of dark and light.


Again the something returned, and this time it saw the vague shape of that something, a smudge of darkness almost indistinguishable from the burnished blackness. It knew what to do without being told: it opened its mouth. A flood of melodious taste sang throughout its form.

Heat throbbed. Clarity intensified. It grew.

Its surroundings shimmered, sharpened in focus. The specks of light brightened, winked inside masses that eddied and swirled, their myriad colors fascinating. Excitement welling up inside, it stirred. Powdery gray puffed up, obscuring its sight—I see!—then slowly, ever so slowly, drifted down upon and around it.


It felt the rush of wind—it was learning so much, so fast—and again the something appeared. Its mouth opened eagerly.

Shattering brilliance burst upon its tongue, flavors of purple, red, and gold. And it remembered! The beginning. The fiery end. The thousand years in between.

Fly, Sacred One…crooned the Something that was everywhere and nowhere.

August head held high, it spread its majestic wings and took flight.

Ahead lay a ball of crystalline blue. The Phoenix’s heart rejoiced as it soared through the star-studded blackness toward it.


Job 29:18—

                                                                     “Then I thought, ‘I shall die in my nest, and I shall multiply my days like the Phoenix.’”

(The translation of the Hebrew word “khol” has two meanings; most say “sand”, but it can also be translated as “phoenix bird”.)