WELCOME TO THE #RRBC 2019 OCTOBER-WEEN BLOCK PARTY!

Hello, beautiful readers! Welcome to the Rave Reviews Book Club's October-Ween Book, Blog & Trailer Block Party! For the month of March, RRBC is promoting its authors at various blogs to share incredible authors with readers everywhere!

Today is my turn! By leaving a comment below, you will have an opportunity to win a prize!

UPDATE: Below are the winners for my giveaways! Thank you to all of you who left comments and shared my page with your friends. I appreciate your support. :-) You will be contacted soon about your prizes! Enjoy! :-)

Here is what I'm giving away:

*A free author spotlight on my blog
Balroop Singh

*Two free copies of The One Discovered
Forrest Stepnowski and Susanne Leist

*One free copy of one of the other books in the Chronicles of the Diasodz series - Nina Norstrom

# of winners for my stop: 4

For those of you who have not been introduced to my series yet, meet the Chronicles of the Diasodz. It is a young adult fantasy series with plot twists, difficult choices, and an ultimate battle between good and evil, where the souls of everyone are at risk!

Today, I'm going to share with you an interview with my character, Mel. When I first planned the series, Mel was going to be killed in The One Discovered. She was a means to an end, but Mel had much different plans. She kept nagging at me that she could be quite useful in the plot of future books, and with a little arm-twisting, Mel got her wish. I'm quite happy I listened to her because she became an integral part of the series. :-) Enjoy getting to know Mel a bit more.

Hi, Mel! Thanks for agreeing to this interview.

It's the least I could do since you didn't kill me. Then again, you didn't really have much of a choice in that one. My plan was brilliant.

Yes, it was. I will admit to that. Why don't we start with you telling our readers about your family growing up.

You're not wasting time going for the jugular today. Fine. I grew up with my mom, who was the most incredible mom anyone could ever ask for. I never got to know my father growing up because he left my mother before he even knew she was pregnant with me.

Why did he leave her?

He forgot about the great power of love when he realized his great love of power. He chose to become a demon and work for Damiana. 

So, he left your pregnant mother to become a servant of someone else?

Stupid, huh? (rolls eyes) Technically, he didn't know she was pregnant with me until it was too late, but whatever... He gave up all rights to me the moment he walked out of my mom's life. As for becoming a servant, he wasn't just any servant. He was the right-hand man for the queen of the Raizyns. He thought that would eventually get him the power he wanted. He should have known better than to have trusted someone who doesn't believe in the Goddess!

Could you help our readers understand who the Raizyns are?

Sure, though if they don't know, they haven't read your books yet, and that's a damn shame! Don't you go giving me that look, missy! I speak my mind, and you know it. (takes a breath) Anyway, the Raizyns are Diasodz who have chosen to foresaken our Goddess and pledge their loyalties to Lucifer. Basically, they're stupid. They are led by Drake, their king, and Damiana, their queen. Don't get me started on those two because I'll give away your whole story! I still can't believe you were going to kill me off in book one, but those two crazy-as-hell psychos made it to the last book.

Mel, relax. I thought you and I worked past that. So, where do you stand in this crowd? Are you a Diasodz or a Raizyn?

Diasodz, through and through. My momma didn't raise no fool! I just wish she didn't make so many bad decisions for herself. (sighs and shakes her head) I have always loved the Goddess, even when I had to pretend I didn't. I am not even upset with her for not blessing me with one of those sexy tattoos that hold powers to call.

Not even a little?

(pursing her lips) Well, maybe a little. I mean, Ar'ch's tattoos give him swords at his call. Angel's got blades, Rafe's got axes, and my Kai has those spears.  And don't get me started with that ever-so-sexy tattoo of a vine wrapping down Z's back! When she touches her tatt, and that spiked whip appears in her hands... (sighs) Maybe I am a little jealous, but overall, I feel blessed. Even without a power to call, I still have my powers to shape-shift into whatever form I want, and that comes in real handy. (smirks)

 You mentioned Kai.  How are things going with him?

Girl, you are not going to get me to start telling people who have yet to invest in my life about my private affairs. Oh, hells no! Let them learn about all I went through to get him before asking me how we are doing. 

(laughs) Fair enough.

You know what you could do? You could write me one of those short novellas to share all that I'm up to with all these fine folk. Now, there's another one of my brilliant ideas!

Okay, Mel. I think we are done for today. I'm not getting you all riled up about how much attention you still feel you deserve.  Thanks for helping me share your world with our readers today.

You're welcome, but you won't be getting another one of these out of me until you write me my own little story. Just sayin'...


I hope you all enjoyed that little interview. Mel is not the main character of my series (shhh... don't tell her that!), but she truly was an integral part of it. This series started with a dream (which you can read about here) and grew a life of its own. I hope you are intrigued enough to take a chance and read it! Below is the blurb for the first book. Because it is a series, sharing the other book blurbs will give away the endings of each book, and I'd hate to spoil the plot twists for you. ;-)

How do you choose when both options have dire consequences?

Sofia is a 17 year old who is quite content with her life. She has a caring boyfriend who also just happens to be her best friend since birth. She has a loving mother. She is successfully completing her last year of high school and enjoys her part-time job. She can’t imagine wanting more from her life…until Ar’ch (pronounced Ar-rick) enters her dreams, sparking a burning flame inside of her that she can’t seem to extinguish nor does she want to.

Ar’ch is a Diasodz (Die-ah-sodz), a species created by the Goddess back when God created humans. Diasodz were made to heal and protect humans, but when the Diasodz turned their backs on helping humans and left Earth to live in their own world, the Goddess abandoned them. Since then, their powers and their very lives have been fading. A prophecy foretold that a young girl born on Earth would be the Diasodz’s savior. Ar’ch and his brother, Angel, travel to Earth to retrieve her and bring her back to their world before her death day in order to save their kind. Ar’ch knows the drill: find the target, capture her, and safely bring her home. But what happens when the target captures his dormant heart?

Choices create action. Actions have consequences. When faced with the truth, what choice will Sofia make? Will she be able to accept the consequences that follow?


Here are a couple of trailers about the series! Be forewarned, the second trailer goes into all of the books.

The One Discovered

The first four books

The series finale

Are you ready to start your journey into the world of the Diasodz? Your adventure begins now! Click here for The One Discovered!

If you have already read The One Discovered, you can find the links to the rest of the series below:

The One Enlightened

The One Betrayed

The One Revealed

The One Awakened

As a special treat for you (it is the month of Halloween, after all), The One Betrayed will be free for the next few days, so get your copy now! :-)

If you are new to my blog, I do hope you’ll take a minute to look around and if you like what you see, please follow me!

If you've enjoyed my stop, you should check out all of the other stops of this block party! RRBC knows how to throw a party, and there are still plenty of prizes to win! Check out the other stops here!

Thanks for visiting today, and I look forward to reading your comments below. Remember, you must leave a comment to win a prize! I won't complain if you share my post with others. Promise! ;-) 

Welcome to the "GRANDMOTHERS: A FORCE FOR GOOD" Blog Tour! @HealthMN1 @4WillsPub #RRBC #RWISA

Welcome, fabulous readers! As part of the "Grandmothers: A Force for Good" blog tour, I'd like to introduce you to Harriet Hodgson!

Harriet will be sharing with you some great advice for indie authors!

Before You Spend a Dollar on Self-Publishing

Hurray! You finished your book and want to sell it. Start by researching independent publishers. The company may describe itself as a “full service” company, but you pay for these services. Pass on publishers that make sweeping promises or use excessive flattery to lure you.

Ask about fees. Charges may include content editing, copy editing, proofreading, interior layout, front cover design, back cover design and sell copy. You may be required to pay for a specific number of printed copies. Be ready for surprises, such as being charged to rent the wooden pallets your books are stored on in the warehouse.

It’s wise to talk to an author who used the company. Was the author satisfied?  Did the company do what it promised? Is the book in bookstores?

Check the company’s titles and examine a few books. I’m amazed at how many good books have bad covers—artwork that detracts or misrepresents the content. Feel the paper. Is this a quality book? Audio books are on the rise. Find out if the publisher deals with audio books and how much you would need to invest. If you don’t put up any money your royalties will be much less.

Ask about royalty payment dates. The publisher may require you to reach a dollar amount in sales before you are paid. Some publishers charge a check processing fee. You can avoid this fee by arranging for electronic deposits to your bank account. Finally, determine how much you’re willing to spend to hold your book in your hands.

Harriet knows what's she talking about because she is the author of many books, including The Grandma Force! She has been a freelance writer for 38 years and is the author of thousands of print/online articles and 37 books. Hodgson is a member of the Association of Health Care Journalists and the Alliance of Independent Authors. She has appeared on more than 185 radio talk shows, including CBS Radio, and dozens of television stations, including CNN.  A popular speaker, she has given presentations at public health, Alzheimer’s, bereavement, and caregiving conferences. She lives in Rochester, Minnesota with her husband, John. Please visit www.harriethodgson.com for more information about this busy wife, mother, grandmother, caregiver, speaker, and author.

Purchase Links: Amazon paperback   https://amzn.to/31Kklgs

                           Amazon eBook   https://amzn.to/31FoUt5

                           Barnes and Noble paperback   http://bit.ly/2N28jLY

                           Barnes and Noble eBook   http://bit.ly/31GeWaj

                           IndieBound paperback   http://bit.ly.2TBRpol

To follow along with the rest of the tour, please visit Harriet Hodgson's author tour page on the 4WillsPublishing site.  If you'd like to book your own blog tour and have your book promoted in similar grand fashion, please click HERE.

Thanks for supporting this author and her work! :-)

Meet a RWISA Author - Beem Weeks!

Hi, beautiful readers! A couple of months ago, the Rave Writers - International Society of Authors (RWISA) hosted a showcase tour of many of their authors. I promoted many of them here, but I wasn't able to spotlight a few of them. So, I will be sharing these authors with you over the next several days.  I am a huge fan of these authors and hope that you will enjoy their newest works enough to look into some of their novels. :-) 

Meet Beem Weeks! Today, I will share with you his piece called "Dying for a Kiss."

Dying for a Kiss

           It’s like one of those stories you’d read about in Ripley’s Believe It or Not. I mean, who ever heard of anybody dying from a kiss? Seriously! But that’s what happened to me—well, except for the dying part. Two weeks in the hospital—that’s the souvenir I brought back from my spring break.

Okay, let me back up to the beginning.

My parents’ hushed words pierce the wall that separates their bedroom from mine. This particular conversation doesn’t warrant status as an argument, though. And believe me, I know what their arguments sound like—lots of yelling, and maybe an ashtray or a bowling trophy gets thrown by Mom. I guess I’d classify this one as just another log of disappointment tossed on the bonfire that engulfs our family—our collective lives.

Dad is a dreamer. The problem is, dreamers make promises they’ll eventually have to break. He’s also the sort of man who’ll spend his last five dollars on scratch-off lottery tickets instead of household necessities, like food, or gas—or our long-planned excursion to Disney World during spring break.

Dad’s the one who sets it in stone over breakfast in our kitchen—Dad, because Mom refuses to play the bad parent anymore.

“Sorry, kids,” he tells me and my sister, Amanda. “We just can’t afford Disney at this time.”

Amanda, being nearly two years older than me, carries a heavier burden of disappointment than I do. She’s had more time to gather her own collection of tales regarding broken promises, cancelled plans, and the jettisoned idea of ever being a normal, well-adjusted family.

“I figured as much,” Amanda mumbles, dismissing herself from the table.

Dad tries to be sincere in his attempt to save spring break. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t go somewhere that’s almost as fun and exciting.”

When Dad speaks of somewhere, it’s usually a state-park campground in some far-flung forest up north.

Amanda hollers from the living room, “Just so you know, Daddy, I hate camping.”

I don’t hate camping—though it doesn’t exactly make my top-ten list of fun things to do.

*      *      *

A little backstory.

My parents met at a Beatles concert back in 1964. Mom claims love at first sight.

Dad, well, he’s been known to dispute her recollections on the subject. He’s fond of saying, “She had the hots for John Lennon, is all. I’m just the booby prize.”

Hippies, they were—and still are, even though it’s 1979 now. They only just recently (as in one year ago) got married—despite the fact that Amanda is almost fourteen and I’m already twelve. And though they’d both been college students when they met, neither has ever collected the degree they once intended to earn.

Mom works at the IGA as a cashier—minimum wage, with practically zero opportunity to advance into a higher tax bracket.

Dad? He’s dabbled in various occupations—sales, electronic repairs (TV’s mostly, maybe a few stereos), welding, landscaping, auto repair. Nothing ever really sticks for him, though. My grandfather (Mom’s dad) refers to my father as professionally unemployable. Granddad still blames him for making a mess of Mom’s life. They don’t speak, Dad and Grandpa.

Dad’s a good guy, though. He means well. He’s just not one for responsibilities.

So, anyway, the folded map of Michigan comes out, spread across the kitchen table. Mom eyes the places circled in red—those previous vacation spots. We’ve been all over the state: Silver Lake Sand Dunes, Traverse City during the cherry festival, Holland for Tulip Time. We even spent a few days on Mackinac Island three summers ago—though we didn’t stay at the Grand Hotel.

“It’s Andrew’s turn to choose,” Mom says, dropping the big decision in my hands.

Hiawatha National Forest had been my first choice the last time my turn came up. But Dad broke his foot, which cancelled our vacation that spring.

“The Upper Peninsula, it is,” Dad says.

Amanda despises me in this moment. “I told you I hate camping.”

*      *      *

Radio songs fill the van once we hit US 27 going north. The Bee Gees squawk about a tragedy twice before we’re even on the road for forty minutes.

“I hate that song,” Amanda complains.

Dad says, “Well, I like it.”

Mom tries to lighten the mood. “I spy with my little eye—”

“Please don’t!” Amanda begs. Without warning, she socks my shoulder, yells, “Slug bug red!”

“Ouch!” And just like that, it’s on. We’ll both of us be battered and bruised by the time we spy the top of the Mackinac Bridge.

“Slug bug green!” Thwack!

“Slug bug blue!” Thwack!

“Slug bug—oh, never mind. That’s not a VW.” Thwack!

“Hey! No fair!”

Blondie sings about her heart of glass and Amanda momentarily abandons our game—just long enough to sing the few lines she actually knows.

Many hours later, I’m the one who spots the top of the Mighty Mack! “I see the bridge,” I say, hoping it’ll irritate Amanda.

But in truth, she doesn’t mind losing this game. It’s not a thing to her anymore. She’ll leave us the day she turns eighteen—or even sooner, if she has her way. Grandpa promised to pay for her college, knowing my parents will never be able to afford it.

Evening spikes the sky with an orange-pink sunset by the time we find a campground inside Hiawatha. Dozens of tents and RV’s occupy the prime camping spots.

“Andrew and I will set up the tent,” Dad says, parking our van on the last vacant lot within sight. “You girls can get dinner ready.”

Kids—loud and rowdy, as Grandpa would say—run from lot to lot, chasing after somebody’s collie, darting across the road without so much as a glance in either direction.

“Too stupid to last long in this world,” Amanda says.

Mom gives her the eye. “They’re just kids, for crying out loud, Mandy.”  

*      *      *

“Andy and Mandy,” the girl teases, laughing at our introductions. “That’s cute. Are you two twins or something?”

“Or something,” Amanda says.

Her name is Nora, this girl with short brown hair. Already fourteen—unlike Amanda, who still has another month. The tents across the street are her family’s—it’s their collie running wild.

“Five kids,” Nora says, answering my mother. “I’m the oldest. Three younger brothers and a baby sister.”

“Sounds kind of crowded, that many people in just two small tents,” I observe.

She looks right at me when I speak—like I’m really truly here, standing in front of her.

“You don’t know the half of it,” says Nora. “I asked if I could just stay home, sit out this vacation. That’s not happening anytime soon.”

*      *      *

Blue jean shorts and a red bikini top—that’s what Nora wears the following morning. And a pocket full of salt water taffy—which she gladly shares.

Mom’s not impressed. “Leaves little to the imagination,” she says, regarding Nora’s top.

“But you and Daddy used to skinny dip,” Amanda reminds her. “So how is that better?”

Mom’s hard gaze issues silent threats. Her words aren’t quite as harsh. “Aren’t you kids going boating?”

It’s not really a boat, this thing we rent; it’s more like a canoe—but only plastic. I sit in the rear, my paddle steering us toward the middle of the lake. Amanda has the other paddle, though she’s not really doing anything with it.

Nora sits in the middle—facing me!

I think Amanda is intimidated, not being the oldest for a change.

Nora talks—a lot. But I don’t mind. She tells us all about life back home in Detroit—well, the suburbs, really, a place called Royal Oak. She used to have a boyfriend, but he cheated on her. Her parents separated last year, intending to divorce, but her mom ended up pregnant.

“Amazing how an unborn baby can save a marriage,” Amanda says.

It’s after we bring the canoe in that Nora says, “Wanna go for a walk?”

Only, she’s not talking to Amanda. Amanda is already halfway back to our tent.

We end up in a picnic area near the lake, just me and Nora. She tells me more about herself, her family, what she intends for her future.

“You’re cute,” she says, sitting right beside me on a park bench.

My cheeks get hot, probably bright pink.

And she’s two years older than me, I think, as her lips press against mine.

My first kiss—well, first real kiss.

On her tongue I taste salt water taffy and excitement and all things possible.

What I don’t taste is the meningitis in her saliva.

Amanda intrudes, tells me lunch is being served at our tent.

*      *      *

It strikes without warning, leaving me confused, nauseated. Words tumble from my mouth, though I have no idea what I’m saying.

Mom’s hand finds my forehead. “He’s burning up,” she says. “We need to get this boy to a hospital.”

Only, I don’t hear it that way. What I hear is, “We need to get this boy a pretzel.”

“But I don’t like pretzels,” I mumble.

*      *      *

Two weeks later, I’m back home. It’s a blur, but my parents say I nearly died.

From a kiss!

Is that a Ripley’s story or what?

And what a kiss—totally worth dying for!

Well, almost dying.

If you have enjoyed this author's writing, please visit his Author Page on the RWISA site, where you can find more of his writing, along with contact and social media links, if you've been turned into a fan.

Also, check out his books in the RWISA or RRBC catalogs.  Thanks, again for your support!  Don't forget to click the link below to learn more about this author:

Beem Weeks' RWISA Author Page

Meet a RWISA Author - Jan Sikes!

Hi, beautiful readers! A couple of months ago, the Rave Writers - International Society of Authors (RWISA) hosted a showcase tour of many of their authors. I promoted many of them here, but I wasn't able to spotlight a few of them. So, I will be sharing these authors with you over the next several days.  I am a huge fan of these authors and hope that you will enjoy their newest works enough to look into some of their novels. :-) 

Meet Jan Sikes! Today, I will share with you her piece called "She Dances with a Memory."

SHE DANCES WITH A MEMORY

by JAN SIKES

           Gertrude McNabb placed a gnarled hand on her arthritic back as she bent over to take a chocolate cake from the oven. She inhaled the sweet aroma and put it on a rack to cool.

A black-and-white photograph of a dark-haired man with twinkling eyes sat nearby on the cabinet. “This is for you, Hiram. I didn’t forget it was your birthday. It’s your favorite. I’ll always remember how your face would light up when I baked this special recipe for you.”

Gertrude picked up the framed snapshot, held it against her heart, and shuffled into the living room.

“We might as well make use of the time while I wait for your cake to cool. Then I’ll frost it with your favorite French vanilla icing. The kids, grandkids, and great-grandkids are all going to be here in a couple of hours, and it will be nothing but pure chaos,” she said.

The mahogany stereo cabinet from the 1960s occupied the same spot in the living room that it had since the day Hiram McNabb brought it home as a Christmas surprise. They’d spent many happy days and nights listening to record albums.  Hiram never tried to hide the fact that he adored Rosemary Clooney. But, not Gertrude. For her, it was ol’ Blue Eyes himself that got her blood going.

Oh, the wonderful and countless hours they’d waltzed away across the living room floor to the beautiful music that wafted out of those state-of-the-art stereo speakers.

She adjusted her glasses and thumbed through a stack of record albums. It seemed to take forever nowadays to do even the simplest task. She pulled out a favorite and held it up in front of the photo she’d perched on the coffee table. “Since it’s your birthday, my dear, and such a special occasion, how about Nat King Cole?”

Her fingers, once nimble and efficient, struggled to remove the round disc from its package.

“Remember how this one caught my eye in the record store, but we didn’t buy it?” She chuckled. “And then you brought it home the very next day.” She blew out a sigh.  

Once she had the disk secured on the turntable, she took the pins from her silver hair, and it tumbled down her back.

She clicked on the stereo and waited until the tiny red light turned green, then gently placed the needle onto the black groove.

Then with a great flourish, she picked up the photo and held her arms out for her imaginary dance partner.

Even though she hardly moved from the spot where she stood, with her eyes closed, she was transported back in time, back to days of youth when it had been impossible to imagine ever growing old.

“It was fascination, I know, seeing you alone with the moonlight above,” Nat King Cole sang.

A smile graced her lips.

She whispered, “Hiram Edward McNabb, you swept me off my feet the first time I saw you. You were so handsome in your Army uniform. I’ll never forget that night at the county fair. My older brother and sister took me, and since they wanted to stick around for the dance, I got to stay with them.”

She paused and steadied herself.

“You asked me to dance and didn’t let me sit down one time the whole night.” She giggled. “From then on, I knew we were meant to be together. I’d always hated my name, and you agreed that Gertrude sounded like an old lady, so you called me by my middle name. I was your Rose.”

Memories swirled around in her mind. Sweet remembrances of laughter, of falling in love and of daring to live the fullest life imaginable flew by the way scenes from a movie might do.

No, they hadn’t been wealthy, but Hiram made a decent living for them, and they always had what they needed. However, it was his steadfast love for her, for life, and the music they embraced that kept her excited and happy for over sixty years.  

As impossible as it seemed, he’d now been gone over two years. Never a day passed that she didn’t carry on a conversation with him. It started with a good morning greeting and ended with a good night declaration of love.

Sometimes, she could swear that he answered her.

The needle reached the end of the record. She set the photo back down and focused her attention on choosing another album.

“Rosie.”

She turned around. “Hiram?”

No one was there. Then she heard it again. Was she going daft?

“Well, I’ve certainly let my imagination get the best of me. I guess that’s what happens to old ladies when they’re alone too long.”

As she reached for her favorite Frank Sinatra album, a hand brushed against hers.

Now she was sure she was losing what little bit of sensibility she had left.

When she was a child, her relatives shared stories about spirit visits from beyond the veil. To her, it was nothing more than hogwash and products of overactive imaginations. After all, what did old folks know?

As hard as it was to admit, she might have been wrong about that, and a little hasty to judge. Perhaps Hiram had shown up to celebrate his birthday.

Whatever it was, she would enjoy it and soak up every moment, even if it wasn’t real. She could make it true in her mind.

With Frank Sinatra crooning a love song, she reached again for the photo but instead, chose to leave it sitting and simply held out her wrinkled and trembling arms.

Her feet moved, and she twirled just like she’d done thousands of times before. She threw back her head and laughed. She was twenty again, as Hiram swept her across the big wooden dance floor inside the SPJST Hall.

Song after song played, and still, they danced, they laughed, and they kissed.

Then the record reached an end and she was met with deafening silence. She opened her eyes, surprised to find that she stood in the same spot where she’d been. She truly had been waltzing and twirling with Hiram.

“I’m tired now, my love.” She moved toward her easy chair. “I just need to rest awhile.”

Perhaps one day before long, she’d be waltzing again with her sweetheart for the remainder of eternity. But for now, she had the memories, and she’d continue to dance with them until that day came.

She reached for the photo and pressed it to her heart.

Her eyes drifted shut, and she smiled. 

If you have enjoyed this author's writing, please visit her Author Page on the RWISA site, where you can find more of her writing, along with contact and social media links, if you've been turned into a fan.

Also, check out her books in the RWISA or RRBC catalogs.  Thanks, again for your support!  Don't forget to click the link below to learn more about this author:

Jan Sikes' RWISA Author Page

Meet a RWISA Author - Mary Adler!

Hi, beautiful readers! A couple of months ago, the Rave Writers - International Society of Authors (RWISA) hosted a showcase tour of many of their authors. I promoted many of them here, but I wasn't able to spotlight a few of them. So, I will be sharing these authors with you over the next several days.  I am a huge fan of these authors and hope that you will enjoy their newest works enough to look into some of their novels. :-) 

Meet Mary Adler! Today, I will share with you her poem called "Black Notes Beat."

BLACK NOTES BEAT

I have studied and observed crows for years, and the more I’ve learned about them, the more I admire their complex family and flock relationships. They are intelligent, create and use tools, and they teach their skills to other crows. As Rev. Henry Ward Beecher said, “If men had wings and bore black feathers, few of them would be clever enough to be crows.”

Over the years, I have told my family and friends more than they ever wanted to know about crows. One person said, after hearing the stories I told about them, that she stopped trying to run crows down with her car. (There is so much wrong with that statement, that I don’t know where to begin.)

During the non-nesting period of the year, crows gather at night to roost together, sometimes in flocks of thousands. They are stealthy and take a roundabout way to the roosting place. They have good reason to be wary. For decades, humans have killed them, even dynamiting their roosting places at night.

Like many natural creatures, they are good and bad, depending on your viewpoint, and not everyone appreciates their beauty. But I love to watch them streaming across the sky--one small group after another--as they return from foraging to join the flock. When they are together, those who have found a safe source of food will tell the others where it is. They share, but only within their own flock.

One evening, after watching them move across the sky, I wrote this:

Black Notes Beat

Black notes beat

Unfurling dusk

                Across the bruising sky.

Quarter notes, half notes

Rise and fall.

Whole notes

        Rest on treetops.

An arpeggio of eighth notes

        Silently swirls,

Scribing a nocturne

in the fading light.

Softly they spill

        to the nighttime roost:

Rustling,

        murmuring,

                settling,

                        hushed.

Now the still moment,

the last note fading,

No bows, no curtsies,

No fear of reviews.

They need no applause to perform their works.

Mary Adler

If you have enjoyed this author's writing, please visit her Author Page on the RWISA site, where you can find more of her writing, along with contact and social media links, if you've been turned into a fan.

Also, check out her books in the RWISA or RRBC catalogs.  Thanks, again for your support!  Don't forget to click the link below to learn more about this author:

Mary Adler's RWISA Author Page