Early Morning Train Contest Begins!

The mist from the morning rain rose like tiny clouds, blending with the smoke from the train. A conductor walked out onto the steps near the platform. Checked his watch. Jane wondered if it ticked with the same rhythm of her heart. Or of the too-small spike-heeled pumps she wore. The ones he'd chosen to match her red dress and the umbrella he carried over her head. In front of them, not by more than twenty steps, another couple--she in red, he in a trench coat matching Jane’s husband's--had made it to the car in the middle. The one they'd ride over the next week. Unless, of course ... She darted her eyes to the ornate door of the station, and the hair pulled tight in her chignon tugged. She winced. His hand, cinched around her arm, closed in tighter. "Look ahead," he said. "And don't even think about it."

Your turn!

Here are the rules:

1) enter by writing your own story to this painting. No more than 150 words. If your name does not automatically show up, please put your name at the bottom of your entry.

2) tell others. We want this to be a real contest.

3) this part of the contest is open for two weeks. 

4) mark your calendars and check back in two weeks. Once the voting begins, you call tell everyone you know and their brother to "vote for me!" Voting takes place by hitting "reply"under your writing and typing in the words "this one!"

5) then, check back a week later. I will announce the winner. If you win, it is up to YOU to notify me once I have announced the winner.

AND THE WINNER IS ...

Alan Daughterty!

Alan, contact me at PenNhnd@gmail.com ...

Your prize will be on its way!

Eva Marie Everson

Morning Light Writing Contest

Frederick Childe Hassam - Morning Light

Rebecca made a choice, every morning, to take the time to look at herself in the mirror and in the morning light. Not as harsh as at noon or as unforgiving as the evening's. She rose early each day, spent agonizing moments choosing just the right gown--Pink. He loved pink.--and then retreated to the quiet of her boudoir to sit near the window with its lacy curtains. To apply the expensive lotions (Oh, if he only knew how she'd sacrificed!), and to style her hair, drawing it up the way he liked it. With tendrils falling soft around her high cheekbones. All this for him. Only for him. But how much longer, she wondered, before the ministrations wouldn't matter? Before they wouldn't matter at all. c.Eva Marie Everson, 2013

Now it's your turn. And, I've finally figured out how to make this work. 

We'll take two weeks in which you can add your work, keeping it between 100 and 150 words. At the end of two weeks, I'll open the contest. Be sure to have your family and friends come to the site to vote for your work by REPLYING under your entry. All they have to do is say "This One" or "I like this one" or something close to it. We'll keep the contest open for one week.

NOTE: YOU ARE TO WRITE YOUR OWN STORY BASED ON THE PAINTING ABOVE. 

Remember, if you sign in anonymously, you will need to put your name, email etc. 

If your name is registering, please add some way that I can get in touch with you.

The winner will receive a gift card at the end of the contest.

Ready? Write!

Let's Do It Again!

In the dream, he waited at the end of a great hall. Marble walls, white and gleaming, lined with thick columns and arched windows where light streamed in, led the way. Overhead a canopy of alabaster artwork hung over me, catching my echoed steps. And then the water, crystal clear, casting shadows of blue, swept in, dividing me from my one true love. Or did it make the way? I swept up the skirt of my wedding gown, full with taffeta and satin, slipped my feet out of tiny slippers, and stepped into the coolness. He was now within eyesight, just beyond the crystal river, seated on the throne, waiting for his beloved. Waiting for me. Me. (Rev 22:1)

c Eva Marie Everson

Okay! Your turn! Keep it under 150-200 words!

Something New ... and Creative!

Lately I have found painting/prints on the internet and have "pinned" them to my Pinterest account. At Pinterest I am allowed to write about 90 to 100 words about whatever I have pinned. I began to see if I could write the "story" behind the painting/print. 

As a writer, I've enjoyed this exercise very much. How about you? Give yourself about 100 words (you can type in a .doc and then copy and paste in the comments below). What does this story tell you? (You can see my story in the caption)

Book Shop, she thought, was not necessarily a creative name for the store. But she walked in anyway, drew the musky dust into her nostrils, and ran her fingers along the crackling leather. When she came upon a title locked somewhere in her memory, she slid the book from its tight place, found a seat on an old churhc pew, and opened the volume with reverence. "Ah," she said, after reading the first few lines. "I remember you. I remember you so well." And then she read some more.
Copyright: Eva Marie Everson

The Power of One Word

I attended the Wellspring service in Winter Park last night. For a few minutes, earlier in the evening, I'd thought not to go. I'd had a long day. Fatigue wrapped itself around me. Not so much tired. Fatigued.

But, I thought, this is the season of Advent. What better time to go than Advent?

The chapel of First United Methodist Church in Winter Park,
FL where the Wellspring services take place each
month. 

So I went. I drove along the brick streets of Winter Park, enjoying the Christmas lights as my radio played holiday tunes. I parked. I went inside the chapel at the First Methodist Church of WP. I spent time with Jan Richardson and her husband, Garrison Doles, helping them to light the candles. I conversed with my new friend, Steve, whose last name I don't know ... not because I never asked, but because it doesn't matter. I see Steve only once a month and--it is in knowing his first name and in the breaking of bread together that we are connected. The name of Christ holds us together as brother and sister. And, I find that amazing. Amazing enough to not ask his last name.

I know so few of the people who gather at Wellspring by name. Yet, we are brothers and sisters by The Name above all names. Additional amazement.

Our responsive reading came from Isaiah 60. Left side goes first. Right side follows. The right side always seems to me to be the loudest.

I sit on the left. Near the front. So I can see.

Jan instructed us to "reflect" on what we'd just read. As I did, I circled with my purple-inked pen the word "then" in ...

Then you shall see and be radiant; your heart shall thrill and rejoice. 

THEN. 

I jotted these notes in the margin:

One day.
Then.
Not today, perhaps, for night's shadows have fallen already.
Then.
Only then.
Maybe tomorrow.

During this season when heaven and earth meet in thin places, as Jan so poetically puts it, what are you waiting on? Or, waiting for? What must take place before the then can occur?

And, as you wait, will you trust the One who came? Will you wait for His perfect timing? His perfect "then"?

Paper Memories

Funny how memories come.

Yesterday evening, I watched one of my favorite "classics," The Andy Griffith Show. In this episode, Andy gets the mail, which includes a magazine for Opie.

Probably Boy's Life, I thought.

Then I remembered the excitement each month when I received my American Girl magazine. And Mother's when she received McCall's and Good Housekeeping. 

In time, Mother receiving those magazines was as exciting for me as for her. I loved reading the articles, the short stories, and flipping through the glossy pages of fashion and beauty products.

One remembrance which always makes me laugh came one day when Mother had received her Good Housekeeping (or possibly McCall's). I had returned home from school, gotten my homework behind me and sat down in the family room to read the magazine. Mother worked at the stove, just over my left shoulder.

I came across a magazine about a hard-spoken-of topic (in those days). "Mother," I called to her, "what's homosexuality?"

A moment of silence was followed by, "Where'd you hear that word?"

"Your magazine," I said, holding it up with the pages fanned to the article.

I looked at her. She appeared resigned to answer and she did, but she wasn't happy about it.

What amazes me is this: I was a teenager. A teenager! And I didn't know.

I love my parents for protecting me. I wish I could have done the same ...

One of my favorite poems came from American Girl. In a sidebar the words:

How odd of God
to choose the Jews.

I didn't know what it meant, exactly. I didn't know anything much about Jews except that Jesus had been born into the faith of Judaism and that it was the root of mine, Christianity.

Years later the words came to mind when I found the poem in its entirety:

How odd of God
to choose the Jews,
but odder still
are those who choose
the Jewish God
but hate the Jews.

Now do yourself a favor: enlarge the magazine at the top right ... read the headlines. Amazing ...