Tag Archives: summer

Music Monday moves with Gregory Porter and The IN Crowd #jazz

It’s the last Monday before summer is over for another year. I’m not happy about the end of summer, but the weather should stay warm for a couple of more weeks.

A girlfriend told me about Gregory Porter, and this song (originally performed by Dobie Gray in 1964) is addictive and catchy. I didn’t want a somber end to my “summer music” series, so I chose this video, filled with warm, happy scenes. It reminds me of all the reasons why summer is my favorite season.

I hope you enjoy being part of the “In” Crowd.

Have a fun-filled, upbeat week,

~eden

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Music Monday moves with #summer songs #PrettyFlamingo

A couple of weeks ago, I rode a pretty flamingo on water.

Yes, you read that right.

Some people thought it was a swan, but I’m pretty sure it was a pink flamingo!

It’s all part of the fun of summertime. 🙂

Photo by D. Hall

Photo by D. Hall

Let’s hope the heat continues a bit longer before fall descends upon us.

Have a wonderful, warm week and enjoy “Pretty Flamingo” by Manfred Mann,

~eden

 

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Music Monday moves with #summer songs #VanMorrison

August is over, but summer is still with us for a few more weeks.

Let’s keep it going with some *summer* songs. They may or may not be familiar to you, but hopefully, they will stave off the cool weather for the rest of the month.

Enjoy Van Morrison and “Youth of 1000 Summers.”

Have a wonderful, warm week,

~eden

 

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95 Days ~ My story for @RBwood’s Sizzlin’ Summer #WordCountPodcast

You can also hear me read this story on: Episode #58 of R.B. Wood’s THE WORD COUNT PODCAST.

The prompt asked that we use the phrase:

“I was enjoying the summer holiday when…” 

I was in NYC when I wrote the majority of this story, sitting in Bryant Park with the sun on my face. I love the city, and no matter how long I stay, it’s not long enough.

The story is somewhat of a lament for how quickly time passes, especially in the city that never sleeps.

* * * *

I was enjoying the summer holiday when he showed up.

Well, he showed up would not be totally accurate.

He may have been a she, and neither really showed up in the traditional sense. I never saw a face or heard a voice. Like I said—it wasn’t a traditional relationship, and I knew that from the start. That was the allure, I suppose, but now that it’s over, the hard work begins.

I’m rambling, and I’m sorry if this comes off nonsensical. Some days, I feel like what happened was all in my imagination. Maybe I created the whole thing. It’s hard to know anymore. I only know I’m left wanting, though richer for the experience.

Let me take a step back to the beginning of summer when this all started. It was the oddest of meetings, and my heart was open, as it normally is. I’ve always considered that to be a strength, not a weakness. Despite growing more cautious over the years, I was never one to shy away from a mystery.

I’m a sucker for words. That’s why I chose to become a writer. My life is an open book in many ways, but I was stuck. Call it writer’s block or lack of inspiration. Call it a muse on vacation. Whatever it was, I was haunted that I might never write again.

I use words to expose who I am and to entice potential readers to connect to me. Though I’m aware I make myself a target for some odd people, I’ve never had any problems. With the amount of time I spend online, it’s inevitable to run into my share of … shall we say … eccentric people. The thing is, they don’t scare me. I’m good at weaning out the cons from the authentic.

And yet, I didn’t see this one coming.

I received the first poem on June 20th. I remember it well because it was a balmy evening—the beginning of summer. I was sitting at an outdoor café when a young boy approached me.

“Are you Julia?” he said.

I did not know him, thought it was too late for a boy of his age to be out on his own. “Yes, I am, and who are you?” I looked into his bright, blue eyes and immediately felt an odd familiarity. Was he the son of a friend?

“I have a something for you,” he said, handing me an envelope before he turned to walk away.

I searched for an adult near him and saw none. “Wait!” I said, staring at the non-descript paper in my hand. “Who is this from? Who are you?”

Too late.

He weaved his small body between tables of the crowded café and disappeared into the night. I got up to look for him, astonished that I lost sight of him so quickly. I asked patrons nearby at the edge of the restaurant where he went, but no one could give me a definitive answer.

That first poem read:

Summer is officially begun

So this will be my number one

I spread love and hope and grace

No matter the time or place

Do not seek to find the answers

In life we are but mere dancers

We jump, we twirl, we bow

The time to live is now

 

And so it began …

 

Poems showed up mysteriously for me daily after that. The language was never aggressive. The writer wasn’t the best poet but he wasn’t the worst. I say he, but it could’ve been a she. I just don’t know. At times, the poems rhymed, but most of them did not. Many of them were just a few lines. The only thing they had in common was each one was numbered.

Strangers delivered many of the envelopes, and none of these so-called couriers ever disclosed information about the sender. I found some poems left for me at my place of work. Only one was found at my house. It scared me, even though I suspect this person had been tracking my whereabouts from the start.

When I found the letter in my home mailbox, my mind immediately conjured up the negative, but I rationalized if he or she wanted to harm me, they would have done so by now.

The next day, as I sat in the park desperately trying to kick start my manuscript, a stranger delivered an envelope to me. I had grown accustomed to this crazy, strange occurrence. I simply accepted the envelope and said, “Thank you.”

It was a peaceful afternoon, and aside from a few kids running in the distance, the park was quiet. A cool breeze replaced the humidity in the air. I tore open the envelope to read poem number ninety-five.

As a new season begins

An old one must end

Ninety-five days

From Solstice to Equinox

Summer is closing

And so must I

May my last words

Be the start of your next ones

A slow smile of realization crossed my face. I picked up my pen and stared at the blank lines on my notepad, determined to break through.

Thank you for reading.

Feel free to leave a comment or question. Feedback, whether good or bad is always welcome.

~eden

**

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Filed under Short Stories & Poetry

Guest Blogger – Draven Ames

Draven Ames is an author who writes in the horror genre. We’ve crossed paths over the blogosphere and social networks, and I’ve grown very fond of his support, kind words of encouragement, and writing style. Earlier this month, he invited me to write a horror story for his blog, and today, I’m happy to return the favor and ask him to write something for mine.

Please welcome the talented, Draven Ames, and enjoy his heartwarming post about summer—on this first day of summer.

Eden

*  *  *  *

I love summertime with my children. They get to have friends over and go swimming nearly every single day. All the neighborhood children like to hang out, playing games with them as the parents ask how we deal with so many. The answer is simple.

We get to create memories with our kids.

Everyone tells their friends about the great time they had at the lake, or the time they had a big birthday party. Everyone remembers their best summer ever. We just try to make sure that their favorite summer happens every year. Each new spring comes just before a new chance to one-up ourselves from the previous year.

The kids love it. They are down at the pool like fish. They create friendships that will last them until they are our age. They are building their lives right now and we, as authors, have a chance to co-write those chapters.

And with all these new friendships, they aren’t trying so hard at school to create popularity. We are hoping all this playing, having their friends over a lot, will help keep them away from the drugs that are so rampant in Portland. There is an 80% poverty rate at their school, and we have met our share of druggy parents. A lot of kids have it pretty bad and can use the fun in their summer, away from the drama they have at home.

Children are our legacy. They are so much more than the books we write for immortality.

So that is what our summer is like here. Needless to say, there is a lot less writing going on.

*  *  *  *

Draven Ames is a full-time Dad and ex-paratrooper.

His yet to be published, supernatural, horror novel, Bullets ‘Til Midnight received an excellent advance review from HorrorNews.net. Look for more from this incredible author in the near future.

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Draven would love to hear from you!

What do you do for summer? What are your plans? Do you fish, camp or go to concerts? What is your favorite time of the year and why? What is your legacy?

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