This year, in March, the world has put on hold. COVID-19 has caused a huge pause in our everyday life. We are on social distancing. Families and friends are separated unless they live in the same household, of course. Instead of strengthening our connections, friendships, and bonds, the dangerous virus forces us to separate.
We can’t meet, we can’t go shopping, hang out in the sun, enjoy spring… We cannot go to church, and even though the strict instruction to stay at home is not followed by far too many people… and the unexplainable grocery-hoarding some people are practicing make that time for the reasonable people very difficult.
But soon, it will be Easter, and I am not going to let this just fall under the table. I will be home, yes…. I will be all by myself, yes… but I will remember the basics of this holiday. That’s how I grew up. I will remember, I will pray, and I will be grateful for the man who sacrificed Himself on the cross – for me… for all of us.
Kristen Lamb, one of my very favorite bloggers whose wisdom and helpful educational blog I appreciate very much, published an amazing post about writers and the Holidays. Thanks so much, Kristen!
It’s the holiday season, and this is a tough time for most people. For, writers, it’s peace hell on Earth, largely—though not entirely—due to the whole ‘having to wear pants’ thing.
We authors, historically, have been a misunderstood group of people.
Burned as witches. No holiday there. Survival rate after a political coup? Close to zero. Odds of being shot? Pretty much hundred percent, which correlates closely with odds of keeping mouth shut #FunFact.
Friends and loved ones still invite us to holiday gatherings. Sadly, no ‘burned at stake’ or ‘firing squad’ option. Those require pants, but less talking and no prerequisite to bring some dumb@$$ ‘White Elephant’ gift and a nut-free appetizer.
*makes note to hunt down and murder person who invented ‘White Elephant’ game’*
*Why is the elephant white and not pink?*
*makes note to google that later*
*makes note to put that in novel and kill it*
*along with the person who invented it*
Where was I? Oh yes, holiday stuff. Writers. Why writers should be able to qualify for service animals every year. Holiday honey badgers that bite.
Labor Day, the first Monday in September, is a creation of the labor movement and is dedicated to the social and economic achievements of American workers. It constitutes a yearly national tribute to the contributions workers have made to the strength, prosperity, and well-being of our country.
Okay gang, the big day is drawing near and you still want to get a few more gifts but don’t know what to buy, or don’t want to go out into the stores which have already pulled down half of their displays and are lining up Spring stuff. What to do, what to do… how about giving someone a good book to read on their Kindle? It’s fast, easy, and you can have it delivered on Christmas Day and know it will arrive on time…
Didn’t know you could do this? Neither did I for the longest time. I only found out a couple of years ago when we released “The Vampyre Blogs – Coming Home”. I found myself rewarding some of our beta-readers with a free copy of the finished product in whatever form they wished (trade paperback, Kindle, PDF). Most requested a signed trade paperback, but a couple…
Please respect each authors’ and poets’ copyright. The rights remain with the writers. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without expressed and written permission from each of the poems author’s is strictly prohibited and violates copyright laws in the country you are reading this work in as well as in the country you are trying to re-publish this work in. – Aurora Jean Alexander
From beneath the earth a sound appears.
like the sound of finger’s frantic movement,
confined under the ground for countless years
rest the souls of those in endless torment.
On one special day on the midnight chime
their spirits are released from death’s dark hold
they may rise again for one last time
and wreak their vengeance on all they behold.
The putrid bodies stripped of flesh and hair
their bones bleached white by cold, dank soil
as they lie shrouded in wood coffins bare
trailing mildewed ribbons of skin like oil.
For just one night their souls are free
then condemned to rest for eternity