Mom’s Favorite Reads eMagazine July 2021 by Mom’s Favorite Reads

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Gez Robinson’s Bramble Mice Interviewed by Sylva Fae ......................................................................................... 8

Mom’s Favorite Reads Author — Maressa Mortimer ....................................... 17

The Fire Temple of Baku, Azerbaijan (Ateshgah) by Ceri Bladen ................ 14

Bench of Dreams by Joy Margetts ........................................................................ 19

The Old Woman on the Bench by Nuala Sherry .............................................. 26 Martha’s Dilemma by Penny Luker ..................................................................... 36 Tears from Heaven by Chantal Bellehumeur .................................................... 40

Fragrant and Vibrant by Melanie P. Smith ........................................................ 44

Dramatic Skies by Sylva Fae ................................................................................. 65

Watching the World by Stan Phillips .................................................................. 18 Where are You Now by Stan Phillips .................................................................. 42 A Field of Wishes by Chantal Bellehumeur ...................................................... 46

Mom’s Favorite Reads Authors ............................................................................. 54

Legend of the Bone Sword by L. Millington (Age 14) .................................... 29

Genealogy: The Birth Certificate & the Blank Space by Hannah Howe ..... 22 Europe by Book by Hannah Howe ..................................................................... 38 Concerning Anger by Father Ian Maher ............................................................ 43 First Day Blues by Christine Larsen ................................................................... 47 Hurrah for Independent Bookshops by Wendy H. Jones .............................. 52 Patience in Flash Fiction Writing by Allison Symes ....................................... 56 - Flash Fiction Stories: Allison Symes, Joy Margetts, Adrian Czarnecki, Maressa Mortimer, Sylva Fae, and Melanie P. Smith ................................ 59 Heroines of SOE by Hannah Howe .................................................................... 62 International Tiger Day by Melanie P. Smith .................................................. 66

Mom’s Favorite Picnic - Soft Cinnamon Cookies by Ceri Bladen ....................................................... 30 - Zucchini with Yogurt Dill Sauce by Ronessa Aveela .................................. 31 - Rosebay Willowherb Cordial by Sylva Fae .................................................. 32 - Rhubarb Crisp by Val Tobin ............................................................................ 33

- Italian Pasta Salad by Melanie P. Smith ........................................................ 34

Hot Rod Todd Coloring Pages ............................................................................. 24 Black to Move—Supplied by Chess.com ........................................................... 35 Puzzles by Paul Godding ...................................................................................... 51 Word Search by Mom’s Favorite Reads ............................................................. 64

20% OFF First Book Promotion with the Fussy Librarian .............................. 66 Connections eMagazine ........................................................................................ 67

Gez Robinson’s Bramble Mice Interviewed by Sylva Fae The Mouse Family That Live By The Brambles Gez Robinson is a talented wildlife photographer from Yorkshire, England. For months I’ve been following the antics of his family of mice on Facebook, that live in an area of the garden dedicated to wildlife. The photos are stunning and show what characters wild mice are. Gez has kindly given Mom’s Favorite Reads permission to share some of his photos, and he explained how his bramble mice have become famous.

I entered a few photography competitions and was lucky to win a National Geographic Traveller Wildlife competition with an unusual image of a mute swan. I go out most days with my camera, normally to the Peak District – I think photography and nature is good for your mental health, even more so during this pandemic.

*****

Why did you start photographing the mice in your garden? In 2020, during the first lockdown when we couldn’t go out, I still needed my photography fix. I started to go up the garden we created for wildlife, to photograph the birds on the feeders, and that’s when I spotted a little mouse on the old decking. It was stood looking at a blackberry on the blackberry bush and just stood there whilst I took photos of it. My passion with the mouse family was born.

Tell me a bit about your background. I have been taking photos for many years. I worked part time as a wedding photographer, helping out a friend for a number of years but my main job has always been as a maintenance engineer – something I still do to this day. About 15 years ago I started taking wildlife photos. Wildlife has always been a passion of mine and I volunteer for Sheffield and Rotherham Wildlife Trust, helping with the various projects and surveys they do each year. -8-

messages on how this little family has helped them. They have especially entertained people living alone through the pandemic – some said my daily photos and videos helped them massively during the last year.

What prompted you to start the Facebook page? In the summer of 2020, after sharing images with my grandchildren, Noah and Minnie, via email (Noah and Minnie are pictured with Gez) they suggested setting up a Facebook page for the little mouse family and that is how it began.

Did you ever think your mouse families would become famous? The first few images with the mice and the blackberries went viral and I received amazing messages about how the mouse family photos and videos I was sharing were helping people through the pandemic.

One hospital even called them the ‘Covid Meeces’ and told of how the staff used to look out every day for new posts on Facebook before their ward visits. They’d take an iPad around the wards to show the patients the mouse photos to cheer them up too. Lots of people have sent me heart-warming -9-

Judging by the picture of the mouse on your boot, they've become quite tame? How do you manage to get such stunning close-up pictures? What photography equipment do you use?

What does your family think of your bramble mice? My grandchildren are a big part of this and they love the mouse family as much as I do. I have always tried to encourage my children and grandchildren to engage with nature, I think starting them engaging with nature at a young age, helps them in later life.

The local TV network, BBC Sheffield contacted me and did a little video of me and the grandchildren. That was nerve-racking, filming that, but since I did that for the BBC, it gave me the confidence to start doing daily mouse podcasts using my iPhone. The mice trust me now and I think they are used to my voice. I normally use a tele photo lens to get pictures but I am now using a 35mm close up lens, all because of the trust I have gained with them. The equipment I use is Fujifilm camera and lenses I own an XT4 and XT3 with various lenses.

You mention on the Facebook page that your father has Alzheimer’s disease, how has your little mouse family benefitted him? The mice have definitely helped my 83yr old father who suffers with Alzheimer’s and dementia. Whenever possible, I bring him to our house and he likes to sit up the garden watching the mice. They give him so much joy, one time he even walked the 2 ½ miles to the lane where we live – he couldn’t remember exactly where we lived, but luckily a neighbour recognised him and brought him to our house. All he wanted was to see the mice in the garden. I can tell you, my 84yr old mum wasn’t happy he had gone out on his own, but luckily all ended well.

People from the mouse page have also been very generous with Dad, making things for him to help with his Alzheimer’s, and one amazing lady from the Netherlands, did a painting of the mouse family. It now stands proud in a frame next to his chair in their living room. - 10 -

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The mice are obviously the stars but what else do you photograph? I still go out to the Peak District taking photos of other wildlife, but my photography passion is my mouse family.

Will you continue to document your bramble mice once the lockdowns are finally over? Now lockdown is easing, I will still continue to photograph the mouse family as long as they live in our garden, and keep posting photos and videos to the Facebook page. It’s amazing really, since starting the page in August 2020, just nine short months later, there are nearly 24,000 followers.

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Where can readers see more of your photos and videos? https://www.facebook.com/bramblemouse

***** When Gez said I could choose some photos, I had a dilemma – what to choose? They are all stunning. These are just a small selection of my favourites, so please hop over to the Facebook page, where you can see more, and also the bramble mice’s antics in Gez’s podcasts – they truly are delightful, and as many have said already, they’ve brought a daily smile during lockdown. Thank you, Gez Robinson. Copyright @ Gez Robinson for all photos featured in this article.

Sylva Fae is a married mum of three from Lancashire, England. She has spent twenty years teaching literacy to adults with learning difficulties and disabilities, and now works from home as a children’s writer and illustrator. Sylva has published several children’s books and also writes a blog, Sylvanian Ramblings. Her debut book, Rainbow Monsters won the Chanticleer Best in Category award. Discover more about Sylva on Mom’s Favorite Reads website: https://moms-favorite-reads.com/moms-authors/sylva-fae/ - 13 -

The Fire Temple of Baku, Azerbaijan by Ceri Bladen

(Ateshgah)

depicted as the most important symbol of purity. They believe fire represents the symbol of Ahura Mazda, which is why they appear to worship fire.

The Temple of Eternal Fire (Ateshgah) is located around 15kms from the centre of Buku in the suburb of Surakhany. The area of Surakhany is known for its unique natural phenomenon of burning gas outlets.

For a long time, Zoroastrians were the primary worshippers at the site (the region was, at the time, a part of the Persian Empire under Sasanian dynasty) before the area fell to Islamic invasion in the 7th century.

These ‘burning’ lands are the reason fire rituals date back to ancient times when it became the holy place of Zoroastrians. They built a place of sacrifice near these inextinguishable fires.

When the region came under the influence of Islam, although some Zoroastrian fled to other countries, they did not disappear completely from the area.

Zoroastrianism is one of the world's oldest continuously practiced religions, based on the teachings of the Iranian-speaking prophet Zoroaster. Zoroastrians believe in one God, called Ahura Masda. In the Avesta, the sacred book of Zoroastrianism, fire is

In the 17th and 18th century, Hindus and Sikhs started arriving into the area in larger numbers, due to trade along the Silk Road (Ipek Yolu) which connected trade routes from the Indian sub-continent

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to the West, through Central Asia. In Baku, itself, Indian merchants from the Multan region of Punjab controlled much of the commercial economy.

elements of all faiths. Most people believe they started construction in the Zoroastrian tradition, but it evolved into a predominately Hindu place of worship.

During this time, construction started on the temple, as it stands today. The structure is similar to caravanserais (travellers' inns) with pentagonal walls surrounding a courtyard. In the middle of the courtyard sits the altar, the centrepiece of the temple. The altar has a focal fire and four smaller flames on the rooftop corners of the pavilion. During this time, ascetic worshippers and pilgrims were welcome to stay in one of the small cells around the courtyard. Contributions from travellers helped finance the building of the temple.

Worship continued for centuries until the late 19th century when trade along the Silk Road declined. With its falloff, so the Indian population in Azerbaijan declined too, and the temple fell into disrepair. The flame burned naturally until 1969 until heavy exploitation of the natural gas reserves and rampant gas extraction by the Soviets emptied the reserves and the fire extinguished. The fuel for the fire, today, is fed from a gas pipeline, coming all the way from Baku.

There is much debate to whether they founded the temple as a Zoroastrian, Hindu or Sikh place of worship as the structure incorporates architectural

In 1975, they turned the temple into a museum and in 1998, UNESCO listed it as a World Heritage Site.

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*At time of writing this article (June 2020) it costs 4 manat to enter the temple (approx. £2, $2.30)

Ceri Bladen is a Welsh girl currently living in Turkey. In between looking after her husband, three children, street dogs , and a kindle of street cats, she manages to squeeze in time to write. She loves rromance, so most of her books contain elements of it, whether in the form of historical, contemporary, or fantasy. Discover more on Mom's Favorite Reads website: https://moms-favorite-reads.com/moms-authors/ceri-bladen

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Mom’s Favorite Reads Author Maressa Mortimer Living Vicariously through stories and ideas.

My name is Maressa, I’m married to Richard and live with our beautiful children in the Cotswolds, England. I homeschool our four (adopted) children, so some of the blogs under Life are inspired by this. Do subscribe to my newsletter to stay up to date, as there is a lot going on! I started writing May 2018, having been inspired by Sims Mobile stories. I played Sims Mobile with friends via a forum, and started writing short stories, almost like blogs, based on the antics of my little Sims. I found that I loved telling the stories, imagining their conversations, describing their actions. This made me look at life in a different way, so I started working on ‘proper’ stories. During November, which is NaNoWriMo or National Novel Writing Month, I wrote a story set in Crete. It was lovely writing about hot, sunny beaches and sticky baklava during a cold and wet November! I finished the story in January, then various other processes like editing happened, and it was finally released December 2019!

Gripping story of faith and fear in a dystopian setting

https://bookgoodies.com/ a/B094JSPDJG

Macia Durus works hard to achieve a life of honour and prestige in her beloved Elabi.

https://bookgoodies.com/ a/B094JYH9DF

That made me think of more stories, so more books followed, as well as blogs, reviews and articles. I was even one of the speakers at an International Writing Summit, called Share Your Story Writing Summit 2021. You can listen to it here. (It’s an affiliate link, so I will get a percentage, which will allow me to buy new notebooks!) WEBSITE

https://vicarioushome.com/about/

Marieke is looking forward to spending some time with family and friends in The Netherlands.

https:// bookgoodies.com/a/ B0915Z8HHF

FACEBOOK

https://www.facebook.com/vicarioush.ome/ - 17 -

Martha has left everything she knows behind.

https:// bookgoodies.com/a/ B081S4VFV3

Watching the World by Stan Phillips The day, through my window, has lurked sullen. Gloomy

Sulking back at me like a petulant child on the verge of tears. And, if a day could be said to frown, then this has done just that. And summer wanders in tentatively this year. Like an unkept promise. One day glorious The next Autumnal. Untrustworthy as the kiss of a faithless lover. But the birds on the wing are not bothered, Neither are the leaves, still wet with overnight rain, bright upon the branches.

And abide. And like the birds and the leaves and the breeze,

And the breeze, shifting the clothes upon the line, could not care less that the sun does not shine down upon our days.

Patiently get on with life.

So I watch the world through my small patch of window,

Stan Phillips is a poet, musical podcast maker, part-time wannabe male model, and occasional stand up comedian. “I used to be a psychotherapist/counsellor when I had an honest job. I was born into prewar London, and attended 17 schools (my father believed they couldn’t hit a moving target) and I eventually finished up here in Ireland. Still wondering what I will be when I grow up — but enjoying writing my quirky poetry as I do so.” Discover more about Stan on Mom’s Favorite Reads website: https://moms-favorite-reads.com/moms-authors/stan-phillips - 18 -

Bench of Dreams by Joy Margetts I pull back the curtains and breathe in the view again. The wide horizon, clear azure blue skies resting calmly on deep slate blue sea. The lightest of mists shrouds the rows of receding mountains in their ever decreasing layers of blue greyness. Another glorious day, at least from my side of the window glass. The sun feels warm on my face but as I open the window a crack the air is cool. I look at the familiar scene before me. The sea laps on the shore and the seagulls screech and curlews cry plaintively. I can see it - it is still there, on the beach below me, a bench of sorts. It is, I think, what must be the remains of a fallen tree, that the sea has rolled powerfully up the stony incline until a large boulder stopped it in it’s tracks. It has been there for weeks. I suppose the sea will reclaim it at some point, but for now it has become a place where people stop, pause, sit, breathe, and dream.

distance of my window. I watch the dreamers as they sit on the bench of dreams. There is the solitary hunched figure in his grey coat and flat cap. He walks along this stretch of shoreline every day. His is a slow and steady pace. The little brown dog, his much more energetic companion, runs in large circles, barking and chasing the seabirds, but always aware of his master. He comes back every so often to check on the man, and when he sits on the bench, the dog comes and sits beside him leaning against his leg. What is that lone figure dreaming of, I imagine? Is he dreaming of the woman who used to walk at his side for all those years, her smile, her laugh, her hand in his? Is he dreaming of the grandchildren he has not seen for too many long months? Is he dreaming of their hugs and sloppy kisses, I wonder? Perhaps he is dreaming of when he can go to his social club again, or even just to the pub to share a pint and a table with another human being? Is he just dreaming of not being alone anymore? I watch as he fondles his dog, and then rises awkwardly to his feet, swaying slightly as he straightens his aged legs to continue his lonely walk.

Well I imagine they dream. Or at least I dream for them. They must be thinking of something as they sit there, and dreaming is good. Not the nightmares that shock you awake and trembling in the dark of night, but hope- filled dreams sparked by the sound of the sea and the warmth of the sun. So I watch them and enjoy their company from the safe - 19 -

There are the two youngsters who half walk, half run towards that bench, from opposite directions, meeting each other with an embrace, hesitant at first. They glance around to see if they are being observed before sharing a quick but passionate kiss. I look away, to give them that private moment, and when I look back they are sitting together on the bench, the girl leaning into him, his arm around her shoulders and his head cradling hers. What are those young lovers dreaming of I wonder? Are they dreaming of the day they can be together, in the same place, at the same time, all the time? Are they dreaming of when they can be in each other’s homes without fear of breaking rules, bursting bubbles, risking their loved ones? Perhaps they had wedding plans and their dreams are of the day they can say their vows to one another, with everyone they love all around them, celebrating together? Maybe distance keeps them apart, and this bench meeting is one stolen moment in many months. It feels clandestine somehow, as if they have broken a rule to be together. Perhaps they have. I won’t be telling anyone.

if it is a warm summer day. And she lets him get as wet as he wants, for as long as he wants. She sits, and I can almost see her relax her weight, sighing, onto that solid bench seat. I think she is enjoying the rest. I would never have let my children in the sea fully clothed, or if I had, I would have called them out before I got bored watching them. But she doesn’t seem bored or anxious at all. I think this is her place of refuge maybe, from the incessant need to keep her man-child occupied and happy. I am in awe of her patience. Perhaps she is dreaming of the day she can send him off again each day in that bright green taxi to the school he loves so much? Or maybe she is dreaming of a little holiday, of having someone come and stay in her home to care for her child for a few days - a now distanced relative perhaps? She may even be dreaming of another adult to share the responsibility, share the sorrows and joys, love her, and love her child. She may just be dreaming of an undisturbed night’s sleep! I find myself reaching out my hand towards her as if to pat her on the back, to tell her she is doing an amazing job and to be proud of herself, and of her son. But she doesn’t see me.

There is the single mum; I’ve seen her more than once. I think she is a mum, because she always has a solitary child with her. Only the child is the size of a grown man. He plays like a child, yells like a child, and she sits and watches him attentively. I watch as he wades into the sea in his bright yellow raincoat and chest high waders. He splashes and laughs as - 20 -

colour, cut and blow dry. I smiled in understanding.

Today I saw two women, around my age I would guess. They were walking together but also apart. Keeping the prescribed distance between them, even as they sat down – one at each end of the bench, but turned towards each other. One was fair haired and the other dark with grey roots obvious as she removed her woolly hat and ran her fingers through her tousled hair. I watched as they laughed, and the sound of that laugh reached my open window as the faintest of echoes, stirring my own memories. They sat for some time, just talking, and laughing, and then nodding more seriously. The sun was beginning to set before they moved from that place, reluctant to leave one another, to end their heart to heart. But eventually they stood, somewhat stiffly, and moved away together but still separate. I wondered if they shared the same dreams. Did they dream of the day that conversation could be had around a warm kitchen table with a mug of steaming coffee in their hands? Or extended even to include a meal, a glass or two of wine, their partners and friends joining them? Did they dream of walking together around shops and sharing smiles on unmasked faces; trying on clothes and laughing at the ridiculousness of tiny changing room cubicles? Did they dream of holidays abroad, laying next to one another on sun-warmed loungers by a sparkling clear pool, cocktails in hand? If nothing else they probably dreamt of a visit to the hairdresser, and the luxurious indulgence of a

The bench of dreams is a wonderful place. I like to think that tired out, washed smooth, chunk of tree, lodged between the stones of the beach below my window, has served a purpose in all these months of uncertainty and fear. I don’t know if the people who stop and sit there do dream, or if they do, what they dream. But my imagination fills in the gaps. Every one of those people has a story, and I may never know the truth of those, but I watch, and I observe, and I dream for them. Because dreams are good. Dreams are for when reality is a struggle. They give us something else to think on, to hope for, to believe it, to work towards, to focus our hearts and minds on. Dreams fill in the monotony of the ordinary, the accepted new norms, and they add colour to the dreariness of the grey that seems to surround us when life is tough. Dreams can become hope. And hope keeps us dreaming. So do I dream? I look at that bench every day, and yes I dream. I dream that one day I can leave here and walk briskly down to that beach. In my dream, I wander over and take my place on that solid piece of wood, and I sit looking out to sea. I can feel the breeze on my face and I can breathe deeply of that salty air. I listen and welcome the sounds of the seabirds, and the lapping of the waves, and as I turn my face to it’s warmth, I let the sun awaken me to life again.

Joy Margetts has loved writing for as long as she can remember. A retired nurse, mother of two, and a new grandparent, she also has a lifelong interest in history, and loves nothing better than visiting ancient monuments or burying herself in archive material. She was brought up in the South of England but for the last twenty five years has made her home on the beautiful North Wales coast. Her debut novel 'The Healing', a work of historic fiction, was published by Instant Apostle on 19 March 2021. Joy has also self published a short novella, 'The Beloved' as both a companion to 'The Healing', and as an easy to read standalone story, which is available on Amazon Kindle. More information on Joy and her writing, and her personal blog, can be found here www.joymargetts.com - 21 -

The Birth Certificate & the Blank Space by Hannah Howe The youngest of seven children, my 2 x great grandmother, Margaret Jones, was born on 15 October, 1871 in the village of Laleston, Glamorgan. Her parents, James and Margaret, had moved east from Carmarthen to Laleston to work on the land. Initially, Margaret found employment as a maid. Then she married coal miner Thomas Jones (in Wales it’s very common for a number of intertwining branches to carry the surname Jones). The couple moved to North Corneli where Thomas worked in the nearby newly opened Newlands Colliery. The couple had ten children and family legend states that each week when the working members of her family returned home from the coal mines Margaret told them to place their wages on the living room table so that she could control the finances.

As well as the psychological factor, it was important for the mother to identify the father so that she could receive maintenance for her child. The blank space on this birth certificate suggests that the father refused to acknowledge the child. That happened on occasion, but the mother could always challenge him. In Edward Robert’s case, the father remained anonymous. For what reason? Did he have something to hide?

In many respects, Thomas and Margaret were a typical working class couple. However, Margaret harboured a secret. When she left Laleston to begin her family with Thomas, she left behind a son, Edward Robert Jones.

The story, repeated throughout the generations, is that Margaret worked as a maid for John Picton Warlow in Laleston House, the ‘Big House’ in the village. That seems logical because in 1891 John Picton Warlow employed two housemaids along with a cook and a nurse. Furthermore, when Margaret moved to Corneli she named her home ‘Laleston House’.

Throughout his childhood, Edward Robert Jones lived in Laleston with his aunt and uncle. Born before Thomas and Margaret married, it’s clear that Edward Robert was not Thomas’ son. So, who was his father? The mystery deepens because the space on Edward Robert’s birth certificate for his father’s name was left blank.

Everything points to the family stories being true – Margaret worked for John Picton Warlow as a maid in Laleston House. But who was John Picton Warlow?

Margaret gave birth to Edward Robert out of wedlock, a scandalous thing for a woman to do in the Victorian era. Throughout my ancestry, I’ve discovered many pregnant brides and ‘shotgun weddings’. On every occasion, apart from this one, the father married the illegitimate child’s mother or at least acknowledged the child.

The son of Captain Thomas Warlow of the Bengal Engineers and Mary Prudence Ord, John Picton Warlow was born on 6 November 1837 in Allahabad, Uttar Pradesh, British India. When John was two years old his father died and the family returned to Britain. - 22 -

As a teenager, in 1854 John joined the East India Company in Madras, India. A successful career involving regular international travel followed. This included spells in India, South Africa and Turkey.

recorded that privileged Victorians took advantage of their servants. Did John take advantage of Margaret?

John married three times and fathered at least twelve children. In 1865, a year after the death of his first wife, Josephine, John suffered a breakdown while in India and returned to Britain where he stayed with his cousin, Miss Turbervill, at Ewenny Priory. The Turbervill’s have a long lineage in Glamorgan dating back to medieval times and they are, incidentally, my direct ancestors. In 1891, John inherited the Turbervill Estate of Ewenny Priory and changed his name to PictonTurbervill. He served as High Sheriff of Glamorgan and as a Justice of the Peace. It’s often been

During the time Margaret worked for John, he lost his second wife, Eleanor. However, by the time Margaret gave birth to Edward Robert, John had married his third wife, Caroline. Would a husband cheat on his new wife? Margaret died in 1945 and the gossip within my family, amongst ancestors who knew her, suggests that Edward Robert’s father resided at Laleston House in Laleston. If John was not the father, is there another candidate? All the servants at the ‘Big House’ in Laleston were female, so that leaves John’s three of age sons, one of whom was named Robert…

Hannah Howe is the author of the Sam Smith Mystery Series, the Ann's War Mystery Series and the #1 international bestseller Saving Grace. Hannah's books are published by Goylake Publishing and distributed through Gardners Books to over 300 outlets worldwide. Her books are available in print, as eBooks and audiobooks, and are being translated into ten languages. Discover more on Mom's Favorite Reads website: https://moms-favorite-reads.com/moms-authors/hannah-howe

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Coloring Page By Adrian Czarnecki Though I love dreaming up and putting together my Siberian Husky themed children’s illustrated picture story books, Adventures of Hot Rod Todd, I don’t think of myself as an ‘author’ or as a ‘writer’. ‘Story teller’ sounds better. My books are so dependent upon the illustrations. That’s where illustrator Cameo Anderson http:// www.cameoanderson.com/ comes in. Cameo really can see into my mind’s eye interpreting my often rambling page descriptions into works of art; there’s a saying, “A picture is worth a thousand words” and with a children’s book that is so important and Cameo nails it every time and then some. So, for your enjoyment, here is a page from the Coloring Book featuring some of the characters and scenes from the books.

Coloring Book FREE PDF download available via website www.adventuresofhotrodtodd.com

Adrian S. Czarnecki is a semi-retired writer of Siberian Husky oriented children’s books based on an actual litter of 6 puppies born to his Dam Empress Maya and Sire Damien Czar on March 14th 2019. Born in Huddersfield, England, Adrian has travelled the world extensively pursuing careers in journalism, photography, PR / Marketing as well as print and sales. Adrian now lives in Idaho, USA with his wife Meta and their Siberian Huskies who keep them on their toes. - 24 -

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The Old Woman on the Bench by N. Sherry It was in early spring when Morag Wilson passed away. Her only known relative was her daughter, Kate. Morag had worked in the medical profession all of her working life. Kate would be the first to acknowledge that the widely held perception that medical personnel made the worst patients was in the most cases found to be true. However, she had loved her mother and had lavished attention on her, answering her every whimsical demand. She was now carrying out her mother’s final demand. Kate could never in her wildest dreams have foreseen the difficulties she would have in carrying out her mother’s dying wish. Or the journey that it would take her on. And the terrible secret that the journey would reveal. Her mother had certainly been demanding and an emotionally draining person for as long as Kate could recall. But during the latter stages of her illness, she had become almost like a cold-hearted stranger. Kate was sitting beside her mother’s bed when her mother had turned her head to meet Kate’s eye’s, soft from unshed tears. However, Morag’s eyes were bright and seemed to look straight through her. Her voice was barely audible as she spoke to Kate.

“Kate, I want you to give me your word?” she had asked. And Kate had given her word. “What I want you to do is simple.” Simple and Morag did not belong in the same breath, Kate mused. “After my death, when you have some time to

spare.” Her mother’s breathing was shallow and Kate had leaned closer. “I want you to go to Ochiltree, in Strathclyde.” Her mother fell silent for a while lost in her memories, a faraway look in her eyes. “It is a beautiful little hamlet. You know, I once lived close to there,” she whispered. As an after thought she added. “You will have no problem finding it.” Her eyes had taken on a gleam of an inner light from some distant memory. “When you get there, you must find the little babbling brook that runs under the small stone bridge, it meanders along a walkway.” Her mother had become silent again. Her eyes closed a smile on her face. Kate watched her mother’s changing expressions and could only imagine that she was reviewing pleasant memories. “It is there you must scatter my ashes.” She had opened her eyes and was staring at Kate. “There is just one thing more. The blue check coat.” “Bring it with you, and hand it into the local charity shop on the main street.” A mischievous glint had flashed across her eyes for just a moment. “Why did you keep that coat?” Kate asked. “You never wore it.” “I did once, and once only, you wouldn’t remember.” “Why only the once? You kept it?” - 26 -

A pleasant looking young girl was on duty at the check out and while paying for the magazine she had chosen; Kate made her enquiries, however, the reply was disappointing. “I am sorry I am not from around here.” The young girl replied. Kate turned to leave and the girl followed her to the door. “I think, perhaps she may know.” She said, inclining her head in the direction of a lonely figure. The woman was sitting on a bench beneath the overhanging branches, of an ancient looking tree. Probably the same tree this place got its name from, Kate thought.

The man I loved, he loved someone else.” Her mother closed her eyes. “Now it has a wrong to put right.” She gripped Kate’s hand with a strength Kate didn’t realise she still had. “Promise me now, someone must remember, I never meant to keep….” Her grip loosened and her hand fell away, the light faded from her eyes her mother had gone.

“She is always there.” The girl added. “Yes, she might know. I think her name is May. I overheard a customer speaking about her.”

“Thank you. Will it be all right if I leave my car here?” Kate asked.

She had asked and Kate had promised.

“Yes, your car will be ok there.” The girl replied.

Kate had asked and been granted time from her job to carry out her mother’s dying wish. She had rented a small car and made the long journey to Strathclyde. She had driven there on the busy northern motorway. Seeing the sign for Ochiltree, she had followed it and reached her destination.

Opening the boot, of her car, Kate took out a bag and inside it was the blue check coat. She hadn’t seen any charity shop. And it looked as though the old woman could be doing with some charity. What better to do with the coat than give it to her, Kate thought?

Looking around there was nothing she could recognise from her mother’s description. This place was not a little hamlet but a bustling town. Kate knew she had the right place, there were no two places with similar names. She had found an old map in her mother’s belongings with it clearly marked out. Yes, this definitely was Ochiltree.

Kate made her way over to where the lonely figure was sitting, placed the magazine on the seat, and sat down. Without looking in Kate’s direction the old woman spoke. “Please don’t sit there.” Kate was surprised by the articulated tones of the woman’s voice, while she recognised it was laden with sadness. Looking closer at the woman, she noticed she was not much older than her late mother. Only her face was lined and her eyes sad. Kate stood up.

Yes, she was in the right place, just the wrong time. The boom times had reached Ochiltree before her. The little brook was dried up and a motorway now sped along where the bridge and walkway must have been. Kate looked around in dismay, before making her way to the big service station. It was always a good place to make direction enquiries.

“I am sorry, but I was told that you may be able to help me?” Kate said. “I am looking for the little stone bridge and the stream that flowed under it?” - 27 -

woman had psychological problems and she didn’t want to be seen talking with her. The woman continued to talk as though to her self.

Kate was not sure if the woman had heard her. If she had, she didn’t answer her, for a short while. “I just can’t let you sit there. If my daughter came back and saw me sitting with a stranger, she might think I had forgotten her.” The woman explained.

“We were sitting here on this exact spot. They were going to do away with it you know, when they ran the motorway through here, but I convinced them to leave it.”

“Your daughter, is she in one of the shops?” Kate asked. The old woman turned towards Kate.

There was such a sad faraway look on her face and a tear crept down her cheek.

“Have you children?” she asked Kate. “No, I don’t.” Kate replied.

“A lady joined us. She took Catherine to throw pebbles in the stream, and my baby has never come back.” A loud sob shook the woman’s frail frame, as she said.

“Well, I had. My baby girl and I were sitting here thirty years ago this Sunday.” She peered closer at Kate. “My Catherine is beautiful. She has eyes like yours, lovely dark brown like her fathers.”

“The woman wore a bright blue, check coat.”

Kate lowered her head and looked furtively around her. She might be lost in this strange town, but this

Kate clutched the bag she was still holding tightly to her bosom, while she remained frozen to the spot.

I am a writer in several genres. I love stories and am always thinking about the next journey in creating a life and world for what is still an undeveloped plot and personnel. I am also a Holistic therapist in several disciplines. I am a life coach and counselor in Mindfulness, Druidism, Shamanic, and some other disciplines. Enjoy my stories Nuala - 28 -

Legend of the Bone Sword Submitted by Poppy Flynn Written by L. Millington Age 14

An Unsolved Mystery Story in 100 words. The CCTV footage being played flickers and glitches, but I can see the bone sword is there one moment and gone the next. My immediate reaction is that someone has doctored the tape. That’s usually what happens in these scenarios. Except there’s one problem with that… the set of footprints which appear in one frame and are gone in the next, along with the sword. Normally a set of footprints would be a clue. Just one problem. They aren’t human. Well, they are, but not living. These are skeleton prints… My name is Gyro Steel, and this is my investigation.

- 29 -

Mom’s Favorite Picnic Recipes Mom’s Favorite Authors July is the perfect month for picnics in the sun. Here is a selection of recipes from around the world, some are quick and easy, some need time to prepare, but all of them are delicious. Why not try something a little different for your next summer picnic?

Soft, Cinnamon Cookies By Ceri Bladen

Who does not like a cookie with a cup of tea? Ingredients • • • • • • • • • •

160g sugar* 60g softened butter ¼ tsp vanilla 1 large egg 240g plain flour ¾ tsp cream of tartar ½ tsp bicarb of soda ½ tsp salt ¼ tsp cinnamon For the coating: 1 ½ tbsp sugar and 1tlsp cinnamon

Method • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

Cream the softened butter with the sugar and vanilla Add egg Mix well Sift remaining dry ingredients (in two or three batches Make into a ball of dough Place into fridge to chill (at least 45 mins) While chilling, turn oven on: 170c/GM 3 Mix coating (sugar and cinnamon) on a plate Roll dough into walnut-sized pieces Roll in coating Place apart on baking tray (they spread) Cook for 10-13 mins (they will still look pale) Allow to cool on tray before placing on cooling rack Enjoy

**These, while delicious, are high in sugar and should only be consumed as a treat. - 30 -

Zucchini with Yogurt-dill Sauce

Prepare Dill Mixture

By Ronesa Aveela

•

Recipe from Aveela’s cookbook Mediterranean and Bulgarian Cuisine. •

Bulgaria produces more than 100 varieties of yogurt. Not only is it eaten plain, it’s used when cooking or preparing many dishes. It’s no wonder, since yogurt was invented by the Thracians, a fact about which Bulgarians are proud. From a cold drink during the summer to a hot lunch, yogurt is certain to be an ingredient.

•

Prepare Zucchini • • •

INGREDIENTS • • • • • • • •

In a small bowl, whisk together the yogurt, dill, garlic, and lemon juice. If necessary, add a few drops of water to make the mixture of pourable consistency. Season to taste with salt and a pinch of black pepper. Set aside.

Kosher salt Freshly ground black pepper 1 pound zucchini 1 teaspoon olive oil 1/2 cup plain yogurt 2 teaspoons chopped fresh dill 1 small clove garlic, grated 1/2 teaspoon lemon juice

Trim the ends off the zucchini and cut it into thin slices or strips (circles or long strips). Toss with olive oil, salt, and pepper. Place the zucchini in an oven-proof skillet or pan and broil, flipping occasionally, about 10 minutes until slightly charred and tender, but not mushy.

Final Steps: Remove from broiler. Serve zucchini warm or chilled, covered or dipped in the yogurt-dill sauce. Alternatives: If you want a richer taste, coat the zucchini with flour. Place the pieces (circles or strips) into a frying pan with about a half inch of heated oil. Fry the zucchini pieces until they are golden brown and crispy. In the summer, you can use a grill instead.

DIRECTIONS

Cook under broiler.

Perfect for a hot summer’s lunch.

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Rosebay Willowherb Cordial

By Sylva

Fae

While out wandering in the English countryside, rosebay willowherb (also called fireweed) is a familiar sight. Its deep magenta flowers on tall stems stand out well against the leafy greens, and it’s quite easy to identify. As with all wild edibles, only harvest what you need taking just a few from each area so as not to deprive the bees and local wildlife of their meal. This is a recipe in two parts that creates a honey-like syrup and a cordial. Ingredients – the syrup •

1 ½ cups – Rosebay willowherb flowers and buds - strip them from the stems. Avoid the bits below the flowers as they are bitter.

•

1 cup – Sugar

•

1 ½ cups – Water

•

1 tbsp – Lemon juice (add zest if you like it tangy)

Instructions

1. Shake the flowers to remove any bugs, then swirl them in a bowl of water to wash them. Strain the clean flowers. 2. Put the water and sugar into a saucepan and bring to the boil. 3. Once boiling, add the flowers and lemon juice. The lemon increases the intensity of the colour. Boil for 10 – 15 minutes, or until the colour has drained from the flowers. 4. Strain the thin syrup into a clean pan (using muslin / jam bag / coffee filter) and allow to cool. This is the base for your cordial – just add iced water depending on how strong you want it. You can use this as a base for lemonade by adding ½ a cup of rosebay willowherb syrup to ½ a cup of fresh lemon juice and 1 ½ cups of water. If you want a longer lasting syrup, follow the instructions above but continue to boil the mixture after you strain it. The longer you boil, the thicker it will become. It tastes delicious drizzled over natural yoghurt, or it can be diluted as above to make a refreshing cordial.

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Preparation

1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit. 2. Spread rhubarb in 8in.x8in.x2in square ungreased baking dish. 3. Sprinkle salt over rhubarb. 4. Mix sugar, flour, and cinnamon together in a medium-sized bowl. 5. Cut in the butter until the mixture is crumbly. 6. Sprinkle the mixture over the rhubarb in the pan. 7. Bake 40 to 50 minutes. It’s done when the rhubarb is tender and the topping is golden brown. 8. Serve warm. If desired, top each serving with a scoop of ice cream.

Summery Rhubarb Crisp by Val Tobin

Refrigerate unused portions. It tastes great cold, too. I’ve sometimes mixed in apples or strawberries if I don’t have four cups of rhubarb. Adjust the sugar to taste.

We have rhubarb growing in our garden and end up with huge harvests throughout the summer. We start picking it in May, and the plants keep us in tasty rhubarby treats for months to come. This recipe for rhubarb crisp is one I use frequently, not only because it tastes great, but also because it uses up four cups of rhubarb and is quick and simple to throw together Ingredients •

4 cups of rhubarb, chopped into small pieces

•

½ teaspoon of salt

•

1.25 to 2 cups of sugar (depending on how sour the rhubarb is)

•

¾ cup of all-purpose flour

•

1 tsp ground cinnamon

•

1/3 cup of butter, softened - 33 -

Prepare pasta according to package directions. Rinse and pour into large bowl. Add tomatoes, olives, peas, cheese and dressing. Mix well and chill for one hour.

Italian Pasta Salad By Melanie P. Smith

The thing I love about this recipe is the versatility. If you don’t like peas, use frozen corn or fresh broccoli. Don’t like Mozzarella cheese? Use Feta instead. I typically use Rotini pasta, but you can also use Bow tie or Penne. Ingredients •

1 (16 oz) pkg. Pasta

•

1 pkg. Cherry Tomatoes (Washed)

•

2 (2.25 oz) Cans of Sliced Olives

•

1 (10 oz) pkg Frozen Peas

•

1 pkg. Mozzarella Cheese (Cubed)

•

1 bottle of Italian Salad Dressing (I use Newman’s Own Family Recipe)

•

Garnish with fresh basil leaves (optional)

- 34 -

Chess Supplied by Chess.Com Black to move. How can you win material in this position?

Supplied by https://chess.com the #1 chess website. Used with permission. For more chess puzzles please visit https://chess.com You can find answers for this activity on the Mom’s Favorite Reads website here: https://moms-favorite-reads.com/magazines/activities/ - 35 -

Martha’s Dilemma by Penny Luker The small, stone church was off the beaten track, at the top of a gently sloping hill. It was damp, with broken roof tiles and a couple of the smaller windows were patched up with card and plastic. The new part-time vicar, Reverend Beecham, had lost his enthusiasm or maybe his faith, and showed little interest in either the church or the village it served. Martha tried her best to brighten the place up. She’d cleaned and sprayed air freshener to mask the damp odour; then she placed the recently bought, bright yellow chrysanthemums into the flower holders. She felt there was no excuse, not to make St Joseph's a welcoming place, even if the congregation was often limited to five, frail octogenarians. Idly she wondered what would happen to the church when they were all gone. Perhaps Martha had taken longer than usual cleaning the building, as twilight had turned to darkness and the churchyard only had one light at its entrance. She had no reason to rush home and liked to keep herself busy. It helped her cope with life’s challenges. She stuffed the large key into her oversized handbag and retrieved her tiny torch. One thing that could be said about Martha was she was always prepared. The torch’s beam made a misty yellow circle on the ground in front of her, as she made her way towards the entrance. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a black shape on the ground. She shone the dim light onto it and recognised, almost immediately, Reverend Beecham’s body. He was face down on the grass but his head was turned sideways; the back of which was caved in, and a pool of blood seeped into the earth. Martha found she was holding her breath as she stooped down to check his pulse, but she couldn’t find any. She reached into her bag for her large digit phone, when she heard footsteps. It wasn’t clear whether the footsteps were coming towards her or not, but she decided to run, which was not an easy task, even for a spritely eighty-one year old. Soon the churchyard was filled with police, tape and lights.

Martha opened up the building and was sitting on the pew at the back. She was fingering a silver button in her pocket, rolling it round and round. It was smooth at the back and had an anchor on the front. It distracted her while she waited to be interviewed. ‘How ironical that the place was now so busy, when it was nearly empty while Reverend Beecham was alive?’ she thought and almost smiled. P.C. Katy Campbell came and joined her and asked all sorts of questions. ‘When was the last time you saw Reverend Beecham?’ she said. ‘It must’ve been around five, but he was keen to get off and I hadn’t finished my work.’ ‘Was it normal for him to leave you in the church, alone?’ ‘Quite normal. I spent more time here than he did.’ ‘Are you employed by the church?’ ‘No, I’m a long serving volunteer. Must be nearly thirty years I’ve worked here.’ ‘And did you have your own key?’ ‘Yes, he and I both have one and I think there’s a spare, somewhere,’ replied Martha. ‘Would you say he was a popular man? Did he have any enemies that you know of?’ ‘Well popular isn’t quite the word I’d use. I think somewhere along the line he’d lost his mojo. Perhaps I might describe him as a bit depressed, not that he ever said anything to me,’ said Martha. - 36 -

‘Most people didn’t really like him, but I don’t know of anyone who hated him.’ By the time she’d finished answering all the questions she felt exhausted and was pleased to be taken home. Reverend Beecham hadn’t been a kind man. He’d seemed bitter about being moved suddenly from his previous parish, although nobody at St Joseph’s knew why he’d been transferred to them. He was absent from most of the village events where he’d be expected to attend, and services, when he remembered to turn up, were delivered in a dull, flat voice.

told them Reverend Beecham wasn’t popular, not like the lovely Reverend Harris, who’d preceded him. She should’ve told them about Tracy’s problems, but then maybe they wouldn’t come out, and why should Tracy be burdened with questions with all she was going through?

The only time he’d shown any enthusiasm for life was when Tracy Townsend’s husband had died. Reverend Beecham was round there every day, offering help and support. His attentiveness had surprised and irritated Martha. Surely he didn’t think a grieving widow in her thirties would be interested in a sloppy, balding man in his fifties? Tracy was extremely vulnerable and suffering not only from grief, but shock. The situation went on for several weeks until one day, Tracy’s son, Tony, came home from school and found his mother chucking the Reverend out of their house. Martha had never seen Tony so angry. He was usually a quiet, studious boy, who wouldn’t say boo to a goose, but that afternoon, he actually chased the Reverend away from the house. In due course Tracy made a formal complaint to the Bishop about Reverend Beecham’s inappropriate behaviour, but nothing had been heard about that since. Maybe the Bishop was looking for another ‘out of the way’ living to ship him off to.

More concerning was the button. She’d picked it up from the scene of crime. She’d recognised it immediately because she’d bought the set of them at a second-hand stall at the church fete, last year. She’d bought them for two pounds because nobody had realised they were real silver. Martha had sewn them onto her grandson’s latest coat and he’d been so pleased with them. She placed the button on the table and looked at it closely. Then she washed it in a solution of bleach, rinsed it, dried it and placed it in her button box, which contained hundreds of other buttons. Tomorrow she’d slip round to his house and sew it on again.

No-one could expect her to shop her own grandson. Tony was such a gentle young man. He’d just lost his dad and had witnessed that creep try it on with his mother at a time of extreme grief. Obviously Martha thought murder was wrong, but Tony was only fifteen and had his whole life ahead of him.

Once on her own, Martha began to wonder if she should’ve said more. She hadn’t told any lies, but she hadn’t told them everything she knew. She’d

Penny Luker is a writer and artist from Cheshire. She writes novels, short stories and poetry for adults, and also writes children’s stories. You can find her work at www.pennyluker.wordpress.com or author.to/PennyLuker

- 37 -

Europe by Book by Hannah Howe The Story of Greece and Rome by Tony Spawforth The extraordinary story of the intermingled civilizations of ancient Greece and Rome, spanning more than six millennia from the late Bronze Age to the seventh century. The magnificent civilization created by the ancient Greeks and Romans is the greatest legacy of the classical world. However, narratives about the “civilized” Greek and Roman empires resisting the barbarians at the gate are far from accurate. Tony Spawforth, an esteemed scholar, author, and media contributor, follows the thread of civilization through more than six millennia of history. His story reveals that Greek and Roman civilization, to varying degrees, was supremely and surprisingly receptive to external influences, particularly from the East. From the rise of the Mycenaean world of the sixteenth century B.C., Spawforth traces a path through the ancient Aegean to the zenith of the Hellenic state and the rise of the Roman empire, the coming of Christianity and the consequences of the first caliphate. Deeply informed, provocative, and entirely fresh, this is the first and only accessible work that tells the extraordinary story of the classical world in its entirety.

https://books2read.com/u/mKDww9

- 38 -

The Boys In The Boat: An Epic Journey to the Heart of Hitler’s Berlin by Daniel James Brown Cast aside by his family at an early age, abandoned and left to fend for himself in the woods of Washington State, young Joe Rantz turns to rowing as a way of escaping his past. What follows is an extraordinary journey, as Joe and eight other working-class boys exchange the sweat and dust of life in 1930s America for the promise of glory at the heart of Hitler’s Berlin. Stroke by stroke, a remarkable young man strives to regain his shattered selfregard, to dare again to trust in others – and to find his way back home. Told against the backdrop of the Great Depression, Daniel James Brown’s The Boys in the Boat is narrative non-fiction of the first order; a personal story full of lyricism and unexpected beauty that rises above the grand sweep of history, and captures instead the purest essence of what it means to be alive.

https://books2read.com/u/31GqD7

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Tears From Heaven by Chantal Bellehumeur A short memoir by Chantal Bellehumeur (In loving memory of Gilles Bellehumeur 19282013)

My paternal grandfather passed away on July 6, 2013. When I learned the news, I felt sad but also somewhat relieved because I witnessed him suffering from his cancer. Although I grieved, I knew he was no longer in pain so it gave me peace of mind. Even though I was never religious like him, I imagined my beloved grand-papa looking down on me as well as the rest of his family from heaven. I needed to believe there was life after death. I wanted to write something heartfelt to read at the funeral, even though I hate public speaking, but found myself unable to compose anything about my grandfather. It was quite frustrating for me because I love writing and felt like I was letting him down.

the general public were fictional stories so figured it might be part of the problem. Even though I often used real life as the base for my writing, I was accustomed to inventing stories rather than sticking to facts.

My head is usually filled with ideas. Even when I don't have much of a story to begin with, words generally start pouring out of me the second I pick up a pen and paper or start typing. I often find it difficult to stop elaborating and embellishing stories.

A few months after my grandfather's funeral, I was suddenly hit with a stroke of inspiration. I was writing family oriented short stories for an online magazine associated with the local newspaper, each one with the same characters, and decided to write something in memory of my grandfather.

Writing has always been therapeutic for me, yet I couldn’t find the right words to express my emotions; not even for myself.

I based the main character's grandfather on my own, and included a few memories of him.

I suppose every writer experiences writer's block at some point.

I made a point of mentioning how emotional the main character’s grandfather was, along with his habit of tearing up whenever he became overjoyed. My own grandfather always needed facial tissues at special events such as weddings and anniversary

I had a lot to say in regards to my grandfather and how much he would be missed, yet couldn't get any of it down. At the time, the only things I wrote for

- 40 -

call for any rain. It was accompanied by a beautiful rainbow. I believed my grandfather somehow read the story and was touched which made him start crying happy tears just like he used to do when he was alive. I imagined he was proud of me, and began tearing up while walking home from the bus stop after work. As the tears rolled down my cheeks and mixed with the light raindrops delicately falling on me, I felt comforted. That day, I concluded there was definitely life after death and my grandfather really was watching over me.

celebrations. Happy tears would also form whenever his grandchildren sang, danced, or played an instrument. I used all that to create my story. Even the funeral in my fictional story was similar to the one I attended in real life. It was my first, never having experienced the loss of a loved one before. I did my best to be strong and remain composed for my grandmother and father’s sake, wanting to support them emotionally. In doing so, I must have subconsciously put my feelings on hold. When tears tried sneaking out, I held them in for the most part.

I’ve come to believe my grandfather became my guardian angel. I feel spiritually guided.

As I typed my story, I found myself crying often. Finally allowing the tears to flow naturally, I was now the one who needed facial tissues.

Note: “Rest in Peace” was originally published in The Suburban’s online magazine on November 22, 2013. The short story can also be found in the book “Emily-A Compilation of Short Stories” which is available to purchase as a paperback or Kindle on Amazon. It contains all twelve stories in the series.

I entitled my work of fiction “Rest in Peace" and dedicated it to my grandfather. On the date the story was published, there was a sunshower in the evening even though the weather forecast didn’t

Chantal Bellehumeur is a Canadian author born in 1981. She has 18 published books of various genres as well as numerous short stories, memoirs, poems and articles featured in compilation books, eMagazines, plus a local newspaper. For a complete list of publications, including free reads, visit the following website: author-chantal-bellehumeur.webnode.com/ - 41 -

Where Are You Now? by Stan Phillips You were walking through the trees with blossoms, scented like the dawn, a carpet beneath your feet. A wild and free vagabond child you were that once upon a time day, long lost upon the contrary ebb and flow of the years. Like a flower you walked amid the floral wonder of the morning in your summer frock, the colour of sunshine. And your eyes reflected the glory of the day, so bright did they shine. You stood awhile to peer at the miracle of cobwebs strung like necklaces, small ephemeral jewels, upon the fragile wild rose bushes. And breathed in the smell of that one unique and unrepeatable day. Laughed and danced in the clearing amongst flowers and weeds, without knowing which was which, or needing to, so lost you were in the glory of creation. And lost you became as days tumbled down. And years rolled heavy away into dust clad memory. Lost to me you are now. Child of long ago and far away. My child. Remembered as you were on that one shining, gone, and diamond studded day, that sparkles still in a fading memory. My child. Grown and gone now. And I wonder where you went? My child, and all the other millions of bright and gleaming new lives that trembled once on the brink of forever. Before you all grew up. And went away. Will you tell me where you are now?

Concerning Anger by Father Ian Maher Not all of Jesus’ teaching is easy to hear, not least because he so often challenges us about how we live out our daily lives. Sometimes his deliberate exaggerations of a point serve to drive the message home and confronting us with how we might best deal with the matter of anger. Now I think it is important to say that anger itself is an emotion that is not necessarily a negative force. For example, it can be a motivation to confront and challenge injustice, the fuel for getting things done. Jesus himself knew anger when he overturned the tables of the Temple money-changers who were exploiting the poor. He also spoke out forcibly and with anger against the hypocrisy of some of the religious leaders whom he encountered.

Jesus over-emphasises the danger of anger and how easily it can get out of control. He speaks of judgement if we allow our anger to diminish the humanity of another person, disparaging them with insulting words.

Anger is not a sin. We know this because Jesus was the sinless one. As with temptation, anger is something that we all experience at various times in life, and therefore it is worth reflecting on how we deal with it. As I mentioned, if it is a catalyst to help bring about positive change, such anger is a positive force. Anger about the state of the planet and the climate crisis may be the reason for getting involved with environmental concerns; anger about the fact of so many people sleeping rough could be an encouragement to become involved in local homelessness initiatives; anger about the mistreatment of asylum seekers and refugees might be the prompt to campaign on their behalf. Those are just some examples of anger directed positively. The flip side of anger, however, can be hugely destructive in our relationships and to our personal wellbeing. This happens when it gets out of proportion and takes on a life of its own. In his teachings,

If we are not careful, the flame of what might well be a righteous anger in response to someone’s behaviour can turn into a raging and all-consuming fire, damaging all concerned. Jesus reminds us of the importance to not lose sight of the need to always be on the lookout for reconciliation; to let go of our anger once we have recognised it and not allow it to take hold in us like a cancer. Never letting the sun go down on our anger might not always be possible, but it is certainly a good aspiration. So, perhaps, a message to take away from this article is that anger can be a force that helps bring about positive change if it is generated in response to injustice; it can also be a devastating force that can quickly get out of hand, harming those around us as well as ourselves, if we allow it to continue unchecked. May we reflect on how we acknowledge, face up to, and manage the anger that life sometimes sparks in us.

I am a priest and minor canon at Sheffield Cathedral. My last post prior to retirement from stipendiary ministry was as the Multifaith Chaplaincy Co-ordinator and Anglican Chaplain at Sheffield Hallam University, where I worked for 12 years. https://imaherblog.wordpress.com/ Twitter @IanMaher7 - 43 -

Fragrant and Vibrant by Melanie P. Smith

- 44 -

https://moms-favorite-reads.com/moms-authors/melanie-p-smith/

- 45 -

The Field of Wishes by Chantal Bellehumeur "I'll share a secret if you promise not to tell," whispered the timid little girl named Annabelle. The puppy looked at his owner quizzically, then wagging his tail, he pawed at her playfully. "If you cross the main street and walk through the green park..."

All the seeds will travel to a faraway land,

Annabelle was interrupted by a loud bark.

If you are lucky the pixie will grant your wish,

"Quiet now Buddy boy, I am trying to talk.

by giving the traveling seed a magical kiss.”

and a pixie might catch one with her tiny hand.

I'll get your leash; can you please listen while we walk?" When they reached the green park, the girl pointed and said:

The girl sat down by her puppy, who licked her face. She returned the affection with a big embrace.

"We'll go over the hill and past the flower bed."

“You probably think I am being quite silly,

but I swear that's how I was gifted you Buddy.

The girl took the time to smell the lovely flowers,

Mom and dad said no when I requested a dog,

then brought her best friend to a large field of clovers.

up until I made my wish sitting on that log.

They ran through the field and into a small forest,

I discovered the field of wishes in a dream,

stopping beside a stream for a short while to rest.

then followed the instructions and we're now a team."

"Do you see all the dandelions over there? They're special, but not many people are aware." Annabelle made double sure no one was around, and spoke in her dog's ear, barely making a sound. "Venture in the large field during the month of May, when the wind blows from the South and the clouds are grey. Find the white flowers people usually see as weeds, close your eyes and make a wish, then blow on the seeds.

First Day Blues by Christine Larsen My nose crinkles involuntarily even today… Who could ever forget having to clean down the herringbone dairy BEFORE we could milk? AND remove the offending feed. All those compact little piles of pellets and grain I’d carefully lined up in the long open trough, exactly where our girls’ heads would be. Uhrr… incoming lesson! You feed the beasties AFTER they have walked in and shuffled, and snuffled, and arranged themselves… and ‘pooped’ again. NOT before! We were up for the challenge of leasing a dairy farm and milking twice a day… especially following the woeful efforts of the temporary dairyman — a sheep farmer. “So what’s wrong with a sheep farmer milking cows?” you ask. Well-ll…

It’s true. No job for the faint-hearted with all those enormous heads and poppy eyes staring fearfully at you. Some wanted to sniff and taste you with great snake-like tongues as rough as sandpaper. Others rolled their eyes, laid back their ears, and tossed their heads in disgust. Much head-swinging and foot -stamping took place as they tried in vain to withhold their milk.

For starters, this reluctant milker rounded up the cows twice a day with his trusty working dogs, and his equally 'old faithful' utility. Hard to tell which moved the cows faster - the incessant yapping, or the combined roar of the vehicle’s motor and beeping of its horn as it belched great clouds of stinking smoke. He appeared delighted with his highly successful method (to him) of herding the girls into the dairy in the shortest time known to man. As spectators, there to ‘learn the ropes’, we were unimpressed by the quantity of milk spread over the paddock by the swinging udders of the sprinters. Maybe we knew zilch about milking cows, but it didn’t take an Einstein to figure this was all wrong.

On this first dairying day we’d graciously refused all offers of help with the confident air of two old hands at this milking ‘gig’. It was ironic, in retrospect. Kanute and I are scrupulously honest, always… and yet, on this subject, we blatantly lied and deceived everyone around us so none should witness our quivering interiors and glowing ‘L’ plates. “That trusty sheep farmer actually did us a massive favour,” I say, full of confidence now, all these decades later. We both remember, only too clearly, our sincere and steadfast belief that nothing we could do would upset the girls more than that sheepish dairyman.

“Even as city slickers,” Kanute says, shaking his head in disbelief, “we learnt how to handle our big girls successfully for the next ten years!” He pauses, tightens his lips and shakes his head, still in disbelief. “For the next ten years! Who’d have thought, hey?”

And then I set up their feed in the troughs… - 47 -

eating. And the monumental pile-up began, with pushing and shoving like a mob scene at the opening of a department store sale. Soon, there were cows in the engine room - and the milk room around the huge refrigerated milk vat. Some went down the steps into ‘our’ pit; two wedged themselves impossibly tight between the tail rail and the trough; and another tried to jump over the feed trough, straddling it instead, totally unable to make her way forward or back. And they didn’t ‘cry us a river’, they pooped it instead.

******** On this first day of milking, Kanute and I had gone out on foot to bring the cows in, guessing it required one human in front for them to follow, and one behind, encouraging forward impetus. We bravely believed cows that a sheep farmer had herded with his over-enthusiastic dogs would respond in amazingly docile style to quiet, firm encouragement by humans ‘on foot’. They would follow, gratefully and calmly moving into whatever position or place you desired. Right?

“And we thought we were nervous before our maiden milking began.” I can’t help a wry smile and a shake of my head, recollecting how sure we’d been our bravado could overcome anything. Ha! Our stomachs and nervous systems closely resembled jellyfish status as we tried to restore order to the incredible chaos.

Kanute clears his throat. “Actually, NO-o-o… Our girls responded much differently.” He’s right. The drippy dames stopped everything to stare wide-eyed; poop; turn around and start following us (cows are SO curious); poop some more; finally move together (in the wrong direction); and for good luck, poop again. But at last they were in the concrete holding yard with the iron swing gate firmly chained behind them. With a press of a button, the milking machine sprung into action and finally we had ‘all systems go’.

“Just had to let them all back out into the dirt yard,” says Kanute. His eyes narrow and his top lip curls. And my nose crinkles involuntarily. Who could forget having to clean down the dairy before we could even continue, plus hastily removing the offending feed from the troughs?

**Author’s Note: I know I told you this last month, but for those who missed that one, here is THE next disaster of that ‘quaker/cracker’ that was our first-ever milking—

Another learning curve! You feed them AFTER they have walked in and shuffled and arranged themselves and pooped again.

Everything appeared to be in perfect readiness… except! The first cow entering the dairy stopped at the first pile of feed in the long trough and started

- 48 -

“Oh my. Do you remember her shallow breathing? Such short little puffs.” Tears well in my eyes as I relive the fear. We were sure we were about to lose her.

******** At last, there we were calmly milking our cows, until a flurry of sounds sent us into panic mode. First, the blaring air-horn of a milk tanker resounded through the dairy, almost drowning out the chugging, hissing milking machine. Seconds later, a squeal of brakes, frantic yelping, and a sickening thump, followed by a stranger racing into the dairy… face red and flustered, voice loud and harsh with distress.

They say your life rushes before your eyes when you’re drowning, and when I saw she was still breathing, and we carried her into the dairy’s milk room, memories flooded my mind of the first moment I saw her. Ugly as… in her umbilical sac. Adopting the role of midwife assisting my darling far-too-young dog giving birth to eight near-lifeless puppies, I cleared Gypsy’s mouth and tickled her nose with a dry stalk of grass to make her sneeze and take her first breath of life. There was never a doubt which puppy we would keep when the painful time came for the rest to be weaned. Gypsy had stolen my heart from that Day One. We pledged ourselves to each other until death us should part.

“Jeez… come quickly! I’ve just hit your dog! I think I might’ve killed her!” And as he turned, he shouted over his shoulder, “She MIGHT still be alive… but I think it’s pretty bad.” Couldn’t be one of our dogs? We had carefully tied mother and daughter up back at the house, where they were safe… weren’t they? My world stopped turning, fear buzzing painfully in my ears, drowning out even the pulsing rhythm of the noisy milking machine. The briefest moment of numbing shock preceded a flurry of furious action as Kanute quickly whipped the milking cups off. Did our hearts or feet race faster out to the roadside where our precious dog lay frighteningly still on the grass where she’d been tossed like an empty paper bag?

On this first milking day, we thought that day had arrived, as we gently lifted her onto a pile of hessian bags and saw the pads of her paws torn almost completely away. So many cuts, grazes, and large bald patches were already weeping badly where the road gravel had ripped her fur away. She could barely move her limbs or lift her head, although her body trembled uncontrollably. Poor love. Her tail thumped constantly as she whimpered, telling me of her fear and pain. Alarmingly, blood trickled from the side of her mouth. - 49 -

“We thought it meant internal injuries,” I say. “Remember how distraught we were?” “Do I ever! Imagined the worst... both of us.” Thankfully, it turned out to be no more sinister than her teeth having lacerated the inside of one cheek. Amazingly, this nightmare ended with no broken bones, no internal injuries. Dazed and ‘shocky’, the constant pulsating rhythm of the milk, whooshing and squirting into the milk vat comforted her, as did our constant vigil between the dairy and the milk room to check her progress and comfort her between ‘runs’ of cows. Poor Gypsy. She’d understood the need for a wide detour around those gargantuan beasts, but this took her onto the dirt road alongside our dairy. She did not understand the dangers of roads and traffic. Her only experience was the extra long driveway in to her birthplace, the farmhouse in faraway Western Australia. The traffic on our new dairy farm road was sparse but fast, swerving for nothing smaller than a stock truck or another milk-tanker. Our sore and sorry girl had difficulty walking for some days, but soon made a complete recovery. Many years later, arthritis would remind us of her old war wounds. After this drama, Gypsy climbed and conquered each seemingly insurmountable wall for 17 years (or 100 human variety), surviving comfortably through two strokes and a couple more minor accidents.

They were certainly ‘testing times’, but as promised, ‘what didn’t kill us, definitely made us stronger.’ In fact, strong enough to survive a decade of dairy farming.

Christine is an Australian in the middle of her seventh decade - a writer, farmer, wife, mother, grandmother - now on their retirement farm, and returning from an absence to reignite her works. Christine’s three main genres are - Memoirs - of growing up in the 1950's in Australia, of farming, and of treasured collections. Children's Stories - mostly for middle-school age readers, but also excellent read aloud stories by parents, siblings, grandparents, babysitters, teachers. Short stories + Flash-fiction (and non-fiction) Collections - a range of almost every genre, encompassing every emotion from humour to deepest sadness.

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Paul’s Puzzles By Paul Godding The Main Challenge Today’s task is to arrive at the target number Here’s a mini-Mathelona challenge where you must place the eight digits 0, 1, 1, 2, 2, 2,3 and 4 into the eight gaps so both lines work out arithmetically:

The 7puzzle Challenge The playing board of the 7puzzle game is a 7-by-7 grid of 49 different numbers, ranging from 2 up to 84. The 4th & 6th rows contain the following fourteen numbers:

◯ + ◯ = 4 = ◯ × ◯ ◯ – ◯ = 2 = ◯ ÷ ◯

3 5 10 12 18 20 32 33 35 44 49 54 56 60

The Lagrange Challenge Lagrange’s Four-Square Theorem states that every integer can be made by adding up to four square numbers. For example, 7 can be made by 2²+1²+1²+1² (4+1+1+1). Show how you can make 162, in THIRTEEN different ways, when using Lagrange’s Theorem.

The Mathematically Possible Challenge Using the three digits 3, 5 and 8 once each, with + – × ÷ available, which TWO numbers is it possible to make from the list below? 1 #CubeNumbers

Which two numbers, when each is divided by 6, also appear on the list?

The Target Challenge Can you arrive at 162 by inserting 2, 3, 9 and 12 into the gaps on each line? • •

125

◯×◯×(◯–◯) = 162 ◯³×(◯×◯–◯) = 162 ***

Solutions: http://7puzzleblog.com/answers/ Hello, my name is Paul Godding. I am a full-time professional private maths tutor based in the south-east of Wales who delivers face-to-face tuition locally as well as online tuition to students globally. It would be lovely to hear from you, so feel free to click paul@7puzzle.com if you wish to secure maths tuition for you or your child. Alternatively, you can ring/message/WhatsApp me from anywhere in the world:

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Hurrah for Independent Bookshops by Wendy H. Jones As I write this, it is Independent Bookshop Week, an important event in the bookshop calendar. This year it is even more crucial, given the pandemic and the fact that all bookshops had to close during the lockdowns. Even now the effects are being felt as social distancing limits the numbers in store at one time and event numbers are limited. This has repercussions not only for the industry but for the reader. During lockdown, while libraries and bookshops were closed, readers could still buy books in supermarkets. Now, this is not a political post, and I am glad there were still options, but, again, this has also had implications for the readers. The first and most obvious implication is choice was limited as the supermarkets cannot carry the same volume of books. Their key purpose is to sell groceries. The books are a feel-good factor so that customers are happier and more likely to spend more on groceries. However, I still applaud them for selling books and encouraging people to read. So why support and use bookshops, independent or otherwise? The answer is simple, bookshops provide services way beyond merely selling books. Booksellers are passionate about books and reading and know their stock intimately. If you pop in and can’t quite find the book you want, they can always help. If you’re not sure what you want to read, they can ask questions and advise you. If you don’t know quite what book you should buy for Uncle Joe’s birthday, again, they can ask a few questions about your dear old uncle, and you’ll leave clutching the perfect book. The same goes for any age group because they know everything there is to know about books.

I know my local bookshops and their owners and managers well and have built up a relationship with them. When I go in, they will advise me of new books that have been released and which of them will appeal to me. I have even gone to the till to buy a book and they have told me I already bought it. When, as an author, I release a new book, they hold launch events for me. I’ve done book signings and afternoon teas and children’s events. Booksellers know exactly the type of event that would appeal to their customers and will work with me to put it on.

- 52 -

As things begin to open up, I am, once more, able to do author events and for Independent Bookshop Week. In fact, this week I am doing a children’s event at GLO Bookshop in Motherwell. I am looking forward to meeting readers but more importantly, I am looking forward to supporting bookshops again. So many have closed their doors for good during this pandemic which is a tragedy. I want to do everything I can to support them. So, my plea to you is visit your local Independent Bookshop. Talk to the staff, browse, and leave with a fabulous book to read. Let’s help bookshops keep their doors open.

I would like to finish by giving a shoutout to the amazing bookstores near me. So here’s to: The Bookhouse in Broughty Ferry, Dundee. Waterstones in Dundee. Barnabas Christian Bookshop in Dundee. This will be opening soon and I am thrilled. Glo Bookshop, Motherwell. Everyone who works in these shops is amazing. You will find out your own local bookshop is also amazing. Oh, and if you can’t get there, phone them up – they will help you find just the right book and post it out to you. So, have fun reading.

Wendy H. Jones is the award winning, international best-selling author of the DI Shona McKenzie Mysteries, Cass Claymore Investigates Mysteries, Fergus and Flora Mysteries, Bertie the Buffalo children’s books and the Writing Matters books for writers. She is also a writing and marketing coach and the President of the Scottish Association of Writers. As copy editor for Mom’s, she works hard to ensure content is appropriate and free of grammatical and spelling errors. You can learn more about Wendy on her website: https://www.wendyhjones.com/

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July Book Releases by Mom’s Favorite Authors A Problem Shared – Why I Wrote a Children’s Book About Trust Issues By Emma Sandford Unfortunately, like a lot of people, I’ve had a traumatic past. I’ve experienced abuse at the hands of others, and this has had a lasting effect on me. It has made it hard for me to trust people and has caused me to push them away. This is sadly a common issue for so many people of all ages, and thankfully there is support available in various forms, from professional therapy to just confiding in someone close.

Book Links https://theproblemwithpoppy.co.uk/product/theproblem-with-poppy/

However, it’s not always easy to open up to others and talk about trauma if it’s too raw or complex, especially if you’re a child – which is why I decided to try and write a children’s book on the subject. I figured this could be my way of helping children who may struggle to make friends or communicate with others due to trust issues and/or past traumas. I also thought that it would be a good tool for the adult who is trying to help the child, be it a parent, carer or counsellor, because the book can bring out issues in a subtle way and may encourage the child to talk.

https://www.amazon.com/Problem-PoppySumatran-Trilogy-ebook/dp/B095XF3RK5/ So the premise of the book was a porcupine that acts defensively due to her traumatic past. She struggles to make friends because she always scares them off. When she does the same with her new friend Rory the tiger cub, she decides enough is enough and she resolves to overcome her fear and make a friend. In a quite dramatic event, we see just how much she values his friendship, and Poppy herself realises how brave she is, despite the trauma that used to hold her back.

It wasn’t long before I hit on an idea for the book’s story. I pondered what type of animal would best represent defensiveness, and two options occurred to be – the pufferfish and the porcupine. Both have a very visible strategy of protecting themselves when they feel threatened – the pufferfish puffs itself up to look larger, and the porcupine’s quills all stand up so that it looks spiky and dangerous. I quickly settled on a porcupine because, well, they’re cuter and the pufferfish has already made an appearance in Finding Nemo.

I hope that children enjoy the story in general, and if it helps just one reader in some way, even if it just serves as a starting point for them to open up, I will be one happy author. I am already working on another book set in the same rainforest, this time about a rhinoceros that has low self-confidence and body image issues, and hope to publish it by the end of December. - 54 -

The Problem With Poppy Poppy the porcupine has always wanted to make a friend, but her defensive nature prevents her. When a young tiger cub stumbles upon her one day in the rainforest, she reacts badly and scares him away. Determined to change her ways, she sets out to find him, but little does she know that the tiger cub is about to have a problem of his own. In the face of danger, will Poppy find a way to save the day?

About the author Emma Sandford is a Liverpool-born author and businesswoman based in Cheshire. For many years, she has wanted to write a children’s book that draws on her own experiences and helps young children overcome personal issues.

https://bookgoodies.com/a/B09581HP6Q

Earl Cavendish – A Regency Romance By Ceri Bladen Regency England, 1811

Emma is planning on writing more books in the future that have similar important messages for youngsters.

"It was easier to be afraid of the man, than be afraid of her true feelings for him."

***

When Miss Margaret Howard is asked by her cousin, Elizabeth, to masquerade as her, she finds herself in a dilemma. After all, she loves Elizabeth too much to see her reputation destroyed by merely missing a visit. But did she want to risk running into Elizabeth's betrothed, the Earl?

Author Links https://twitter.com/ESandfordAuthor

When her cousin's true reason for not going is revealed--and assurances that the Earl is in France-Margaret feels she has no choice. Setting off for Bedford to spend time with Viscountess Burberry, worried that their ruse will be discovered, she begins her pretence -- until the worst thing that could happen, happens… The arrival of Elizabeth's betrothed; the dour and intimidating Earl Christopher Cavendish! This book is a story of secrets, games, loyalties and romance.

- 55 -

Patience in Flash Fiction Writing by Allison Symes Given flash fiction is so short, is patience necessary? Surely you just dash off a couple of hundred words and send it off to a publisher or put it on your website. Hmm… no! Patience does pay off because flash fiction is precision writing. It takes time to get that right.

out the basics of what I need to know to be able to write the story up at all. For another, it also means I am far less likely to go off at an interesting but unhelpful tangent (and I suspect most writers have been there more times than they might care to admit).

One of the things I love most about flash fiction writing is I can set my characters whenever and wherever I want - and I do. I’ve always loved inventing people and long thought this was the best aspect to any story telling so this is win-win for me. As there is no room for much description, flash stories have to be character led so I outline what I need to know about “my people” (or other species of choice) before I write their stories up.

So I’ve got my character(s) lined up, now what do I do with them? Give them a decent plot line of course but often the character can dictate the plots they are likely to be in. So in outlining my characters I have often got them and my story structure in place in one “hit”.

And this is where the patience comes in. I have found patience at the outlining stage of writing saves me a lot of editing grief later. For one thing, there are no plot holes as I’ve already worked

So again time and patience exercised at this point pays off. I have rushed straight into a story twice in my time. Twice I abandoned stories. Definitely not a coincidence that. I found I just hadn’t thought my characters through well enough and I boxed myself into a frankly boring corner so the only thing to do - 56 -

Patience While the light lasted, danger abated, but then that was always the way of things, wasn’t it? The creature cursed. Her prey seemed to have endless ways of keeping that light going. Neither did she like the look of what she’d heard them call fire. The moment the light was out she’d have them though. They’d been drinking. She just needed one of them to be careless and extinguish that light and then she and her offspring would be well fed for a good week. Why couldn’t the humans co-operate? It wasn’t as if she asked for much. If she couldn’t have their livestock, and they’d taken huge precautions to protect them (she really did not like the creatures with the growls and the teeth), she’d have to feed on the humans themselves. What other option was there? The likes of her were never going to turn veggie.

was go back to basics and take the time to outline a character properly and do the job properly.

I look at character name, character type (they don’t have to be human either), mood of story, and theme of story to help me get my people right.

Ends Allison Symes - 2021

Mind you, I don’t always know the name of a character when I start out so I use “it” for the time being. As I draft a story either a suitable name will come to mind, I’ll note it and put it in later, or I decide to leave my character as an “it”.

This can work well for my darker stories. An “it” can be far more scary than a named character and you can get your readers wondering what exactly “it” is. For example, in my story Patience, which I hope will make it into my next collection, I deliberately don’t spell out what the creature is as I want your imaginations to go into overdrive on it!

So patience is a writing virtue as well then. It has taken me a long time to realise this, which is perhaps ironic, but it is good I know this now! I don’t plot everything out in advance either. I’ve learned I have to give myself navigation room as I draft my story but I do know who my character is, what their major trait is, and I usually have an idea of how the ending is going to be. Sometimes better ideas come along as I draft so I make a note of them and come back to them later. - 57 -

I’ve found it pays to put those ideas aside and look at them in the cold light of day to assess properly whether they were as good as I thought they were. Sometimes they are, sometimes I wonder what I was thinking of, coming up with that! But again being patient with yourself and giving yourself the time to assess properly pays. In the flurry of creativity, it can be hard to make yourself slow down and take time out like that. All I can say is it works and not just for flash fiction. Patience is a wonderful theme to write to as well because it is open. You can show patience being demonstrated in your characters or, conversely, show what the lack of it does for them. There is potential for tragedy and comedy here. I hope you have fun writing to the theme.

Website: https://allisonsymescollectedworks.com/ Books: http://author.to/AllisonSymesAuthorCent. Her Youtube channel, with book trailers and story videos, is at https://www.youtube.com/channel/ UCPCiePD4p_vWp4bz2d80SJA/ With her non-fiction hat on, Allison blogs for online magazine, Chandler’s Ford Today, often on topics of interest to writers. Her weekly column can be found at http://chandlersfordtoday.co.uk/author/ allison-symes/ Allison also blogs for Authors Electric and More Than Writers, the blog spot for the Association of Christian Writers.

Allison Symes, who loves reading and writing quirky fiction, is published by Chapeltown Books, CafeLit, and Bridge House Publishing. Her flash fiction collections, Tripping The Flash Fantastic and From Light to Dark and Back Again are out in Kindle and paperback. She has been a winner of the Waterloo Arts Festival writing competition three years in a row where the brief was to write to a set theme to a 1000 words maximum.

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Patience

Patience By Joy Margetts

Usually I sat quietly in a corner amidst the maelstrom and watched my mother play referee, a fixed smile on her face.

‘It takes patience, Son,’ Dad said, as he cast the fishing line out once more.

‘Mum’s family are loud,’ I said suddenly. ‘Yes,’ Dad grinned. ‘It takes patience, Son!’

I was bored, but I didn’t say so. He always disappeared with his fishing gear on a Sunday afternoon. This was the first time he had allowed me to come. Sunday afternoons were when my Mum’s sisters came to visit, with six children between them, all girls.

- 59 -

began looking forward, waiting patiently. Within a week, an edge had grown, and I began breathing faster each time I heard the hum of tires. The day came where the wheels swerved, my sides crumbling ever so slightly. My mission firmly in place, I gritted my teeth as each dust cloud descended. This was my destiny. Soon, there would be fewer cars and I secretly hoped that a beautiful flower or plant would be given to me. Growth comes to those who wait. Occasionally, my sleep was interrupted by a vicious knock. Those startled me, but I smirked in the dark, knowing that the person waking me would have been equally shocked. It was all for a good cause and every day counted. I grew steadily and each collision had some effect. I started to see the faces of the people seconds before connecting with me, and it filled me with satisfaction. I wished I could reach out, stop them from avoiding me and fulfil my mission. Days crumbled into weeks and my patience with it. I started averting my eyes as the anger on people’s faces no longer felt part of my calling.

Patience By Adrian Czarnecki Used to drive me crazy. I was forever being lectured about patience. Patience this, patience that aaaaaargh I’m really losing my patience. And then, and then I met her ......... omg not only was she stunningly beautiful, equally enigmatic as she was charismatic, she was tolerant, understood my ideosyncrasies, loved me beyond belief without question even to the point of letting me think I was the boss when all along, well along along I knew deep down she was the boss, my rock and mmmm, quite simply she had the patience of a Saint.

Seeing a raised fist at me seconds before a third edge was added to my shape brought clarity. Maybe it wasn’t up to me to change the world. Maybe I should be content with maximising my impact. Knowing what might come soon, I knew time was short. I no longer smiled in satisfaction after each thud. I narrowed my eyes instead, not because of the grit and dust raining down on me, but because I hoped there would be lasting damage to at least one wheel if not two.

Growth By Maressa Mortimer It started with a knock. Granted, it was a hard one and I groaned as part of me disappeared, but once I realised the consequences of that one incident, I forgot the impact itself. Soon the next came, and I

Until I woke up one morning, a yellow ring around me. My heart sank. My time would be up soon. No flowers for me. Not even a cake. I eagerly looked down the road, watching for black wheels to come closer. The yellow ring made me conspicuous, and that day there was only one connection. I didn’t give up hope. I could still grow and change the course for at least one person. Until the workmen came, filling me, stamping on me, the heat of new tarmac unbearable, choking me, my hopes of forcing wheels off the road smoothed away. My aspirations as a pothole unfulfilled.

- 60 -

Just a few more minutes then I'll have to go down and face them. Timeout really does work, I feel much calmer now and ready to deal with whatever ordeals lie ahead. Ah well, deep breath, one...two...three... Happy face back on. I suppose it's time to go back to being the perfect patient parent!

The Naughty Step By Sylva Fae

I'm on the naughty step again! I didn't mean to shout but they were bugging me. They'd been bugging me all morning, and nobody cares! One minute punishment for each year of my age, that’s the rule, isn’t it? I’m not sure I’ll last that long!

Perfect Moment By Melanie P. Smith

It's so unfair! I mean, it’s not even my mess all over the floor - I didn't knock over the box of Lego, and it wasn't me who crushed cake crumbs into the new rug.

The bright sun slowly makes its way across the clear blue sky inching lower as it travels further west. A slight haze floats above the serene greenish blue surface of the lake. The sizzling air mixes with cool water, evaporating off the surface.

They were being particularly horrible today, and to be honest, I’d rather be here than downstairs right now. Here is tidy and peaceful. It's a mess down there, let them deal with it for once! Let them sweep up the glitter sparkling on the rug. Let them mop up the spilt cup of juice that's slowly trickling under the sofa, they haven't even noticed it. They won't though…

I continue to sit, silently waiting for just the right moment. Seconds tick by, one minute turns into five. I shift, trying to settle into a more comfortable position. Dirt and tiny rocks stick to the side of my leg. I casually flick them away as I continue to watch and wait. Tiny gnats circle, flies buzz next to my ear, and a huge mosquito tickles the soft hair on my left arm. I try to ignore them and focus on my goal, silently watching and waiting.

I’d tell them to clear up the mess, but nobody listens to me - until I shout. I don’t like shouting. Shouting is what put me on the naughty step.

Finally, the moment I’ve been longing for has arrived. The sun settles gently behind the rolling hills. Smiling, I lift my camera, check the controls one last time, and settle it gently in place. My eyes adapt to the tiny lens. I adjust the zoom, check the focus, and lightly press the button. Now for the moment of truth — did I capture it, or miss it completely? As the image fills the display, I smile. Once again, I’ve captured that perfect moment.

I can hear them yelling at each other, occasionally my name is called, repeated - over and over. I delight in ignoring them for once. I can see them clearly but I'm invisible to them on the naughty step. I watch as cushions get thrown, they sparkle with the glitter from the rug and actually, it looks quite pretty from up here. - 61 -

Heroines of SOE by Hannah Howe

Nancy Wake Nancy Grace Augusta Wake was born on 30 August 1912 in Wellington, New Zealand. Two years later, her family relocated to Sydney, Australia. Nancy was very fond of her father. However, he returned to New Zealand leaving his wife and six children in Sydney. The separation ensured that Nancy endured a difficult childhood and aged sixteen she ran away from home. At first, she worked as a nurse. Then a legacy from a relative enabled her to travel to New York, London and Paris, where she reinvented herself as a journalist. In 1937, Nancy met wealthy French industrialist Henri Edmond Fiocca, whom she married on 30 November 1939. The couple lived in Marseille and were there when the Germans invaded. Never a passive person, Nancy responded by becoming an ambulance driver. Then, after the fall of France in 1940, she joined an escape network known as the Pat O’Leary Line. The Gestapo pursued members of the Line and because of Nancy’s ability to elude capture they named her the ‘White Mouse’. In November 1942, the Nazis occupied Vichy France, increasing the danger for Nancy and members of the escape line. When a traitor betrayed the network, she had no option but to flee France. Her husband, Henri Fiocca, decided to stay in Marseille. Although Nancy loved Henri, he was known for his affairs and the couple parted on the tacit understanding that neither party would remain faithful. Their relationship was an unconventional one and, personally, I believe that’s why fictional accounts

of Nancy’s life have failed to capture the public’s imagination. Indeed, she was unimpressed with a well-made biopic released in her lifetime because she felt it focused on her relationship with Henri and not on her amazing wartime exploits. The Gestapo captured Henri and murdered him. Although she suspected, Nancy didn’t learn of Henri’s fate until after the Allies had liberated France. The news devastated her and although she later remarried she lived with that sadness for the rest of her long life. After escaping to Britain, Nancy joined the Special Operations Executive. Vera Atkins, a mother hen to the female members of the SOE, described Nancy as, “A real Australian bombshell. Tremendous vitality, flashing eyes. Everything she did, she did well.” Her intelligence record noted her “cheerful spirit and strength of character.” While M.R.D. Foot, the official historian of the SOE, said, “Her irrepressible, infectious, high spirits were a joy to everyone who worked with her.” During the night of 29–30 April 1944, Nancy parachuted into Auvergne, France as a member of a three-person team. The team liaised with the Resistance, which often tried Nancy’s patience because of internal bickering and local politics. Nancy’s duties included surveying, collecting arms and money from parachute drops, training the local - 62 -

norm. She possessed a heart of gold, and nerves of steel.

Maquis and engaging in sabotage. Setbacks occurred, which forced the Resistance and SOE into retreat. During one desperate episode, Nancy cycled 500 kilometres through enemy territory in 72 hours in search of a wireless, a feat she later recalled with justified pride.

Seeking a new challenge, Nancy returned to Britain where she worked as an intelligence officer at the Air Ministry in Whitehall. In December 1957 she married RAF officer, John Forward. In the early 1960s, the couple relocated to Australia where Nancy resumed her interest in politics.

Nancy participated in attacks on Nazi convoys. She also took part in defensive actions when the Nazis attacked the Resistance. Her main tasks were centred on organising the Maquis and distributing money and arms. Nevertheless, Nancy was active in all aspects of Resistance work and she killed several members of the Gestapo including a sentry with her bare hands. During a television interview in the 1990s, she described the incident. “They’d taught this judo-chop stuff with the flat of the hand at SOE, and I practised away at it. But this was the only time I used it –whack – and it killed him all right. I was really surprised.”

In 1985, Nancy published her autobiography, The White Mouse. John Forward died on 19 August 1997 and in 2001 Nancy moved again, returning to London. She became a resident at the Stafford Hotel in St. James’ Place, near Piccadilly before ending her days at the Royal Star and Garter Home for Disabled Ex-Service Men and Women. Nancy died on 7 August 2011, aged 98, at Kingston Hospital. Her ashes were scattered near the village of Verneix, at Montluçon, central France. Is my character Eve Beringar based on Nancy Wake? Yes, to some extent, but the overall answer is ‘no’. Eve is a composite character based on the lives and exploits of twenty-one SOE agents. I did consider writing about Nancy Wake. However, I felt that aspects of her relationship with her husband, Henri Fiocca, did not translate well into my fiction.

After the liberation of France, Nancy returned to Britain. She mourned Henri then set about the next phase of her life, which included a return to Australia where in 1949 she stood as a Liberal candidate in the federal election running against the deputy prime minister. She achieved a thirteen percent swing, but narrowly lost the vote – 53% to 47%. In 1951, Nancy tried again and came within 250 votes of success.

Nancy Wake was an unconventional woman fighting an unconventional war. She was a remarkable woman, a true force of nature and undoubtedly one of the greatest heroines of the Special Operations Executive.

Nancy was a liberal in the widest sense. She was sympathetic towards homosexual members of the SOE at a time when hostility and prejudice were the

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Word Search By Mom’s Favorite Reads

You can find the answers for this activity on the Mom’s Favorite Reads website here: https://moms-favorite-reads.com/magazines/activities/ - 64 -

https://moms-favorite-reads.com/moms-authors/sylva-fae/

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International Tiger Day by Melanie P. Smith

July 29th

DID YOU KNOW?

Cover design created to honor International Tiger Day International Tiger Day was established to raise awareness for tiger conservation and protection. The goal is to promote a global system that will protect the natural habitats of these ‘big cats’ and raise public awareness and support. One hundred years ago, an estimated 100,000 tigers roamed the earth. Today, experts estimate that fewer than 4,000 exist in the wild. In 2010, a Tiger Summit was held to address the sharp decline in the number of wild tigers. At that time International Tiger Day was also established. Participants recognized that poachers, modernization of wilderness areas, and dwindling habitat left the species on the brink of extinction. Participants left the summit with a goal of doubling the population by 2022. Tigers are considered “umbrella species’, meaning conserving the tiger population also saves many other species as well. As a result of protecting the tigers and establishing sanctuaries across India elephants, rhinoceros and lions have also flourished.

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Tigers are the largest cat species in the world. Siberian tigers weigh up to 660 pounds.

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At top speed, tigers can run nearly 40 MPH

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Tigers are always migrating. Their territory can be as large as 386 square miles.

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An adult tiger consumes up to 88 pounds of meat in one meal.

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The average lifespan of a tiger is 10-15 years in the wild

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Most cats don’t like water but tigers are powerful swimmers. They actually swim great distances to cross rivers. Young tigers often play in the water and adults lounge in streams and lakes to stay cool on hot days.

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Tigers are the only cats that are entirely striped. If shaved, their skin has the same identical stripes as their fur.

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Tigers do not meow, they growl, hiss and moan.

We are excited to announce that Goylake Publishing has teamed-up with the Fussy Librarian and in partnership we are offering you 20% off your first book promotion with the Fussy Librarian. To qualify for this promotion, your book must be either permafree or listed free during a special offer.

In our experience, the Fussy Librarian is the best book promoter in the business. When we promote with him, our free books always reach the top five of Amazon’s genre charts, most often they reach the top three. We promote with the Fussy Librarian every month and will continue to do so into the foreseeable future. Prices start from as low as $15, minus our special discount of 20%. Click here: https://authors.thefussylibrarian.com/?ref=goylake for full details. And, at the checkout, be sure to enter this code: goylake20 to claim your 20% discount. Thank you for your interest. And good luck with your promotion! - 66 -

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The August issue of Connections eMagazine is dedicated to the winners of our annual Reader’s Choice Awards. We had some amazing books from some talented authors. Be sure to stop by our website and vote for your favorite.

Marketing seems to be one of those areas that every author struggles with. It’s the same struggle companies world-wide have been dealing with for decades. How do I get my product in front of my target audience? Connections eMagazine can help. The publication is free to readers, bloggers and to authors looking for a little extra exposure. Visit our website for details. https://melaniepsmith.com/

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Connections eMagazine is a FREE quarterly publication founded by authors Melanie P. Smith and Rhoda D’Ettore. It is currently produced entirely by Editor, Melanie P. Smith. Over the years, the magazine has evolved and it now features promos, freebies, blog articles, and short stories in every issue.

Discover more about Connections eMagazine on their website here: https://melaniepsmith.com/emagazine-landing/ - 67 -

Editor In Chief—Hannah Howe The Editor-in-Chief is the key figure in every publication. Hannah Howe works closely with the editorial staff to ensure the success of each publication. She is the author of the Sam Smith Mystery Series, the Ann’s War Mystery Series and Saving Grace. Get to know more about Hannah, her projects and her work on Mom’s Favorite Reads website here: https://moms-favorite-reads.com/moms-authors/hannah-howe/

Executive Editor | Graphic Designer—Melanie P. Smith The Executive Editor / Graphic Designer is responsible for developing the layout and design of MFR eMagazine. She also works hard to create new covers each month that captures the essence of each publication. In addition to the editorial staff of Mom’s Favorite Reads, Melanie P. Smith also produces Connections eMagazine. She is a multi-genre author of Criminal Suspense, Police Procedural, Paranormal and Romance novels. Get to know more about Melanie, her projects, and her work on Mom’s Favorite Reads website here: https://moms-favorite-reads.com/moms-authors/melanie-p-smith/

Managing Editor, Art Director & Proofreader —Sylva Fae Our Managing Editor oversees the physical content of the magazine and coordinates the production schedule. She administers the day-to-day operations of the publication, manages submissions, sets realistic schedules and organizes each edition of the magazine. Sylva is is responsible for the amazing graphics that appear throughout the publication each month. She works hard to ensure the images capture the spirit and message our author's convey in their articles and stories. In addition, As Copy Editor, Sylva works hard behind the scenes to correct any grammatical, typos and spelling errors throughout the magazine. Sylva Fae—Mum of three, fairy woodland owner, and author of children’s books. https://moms-favorite-reads.com/moms-authors/sylva-fae/

Copy Editors / Proofreaders — Wendy H. Jones and Sheena MacLead Our Copy Editors for Mom’s work hard to ensure content is appropriate and free of grammatical and spelling errors. Wendy H. Jones is the award winning, international best-selling author of the DI Shona McKenzie Mysteries, Cass Claymore Investigates Mysteries, Fergus and Flora Mysteries, Bertie the Buffalo children’s books and the Writing Matters books for writers. She is also a writing and marketing coach and the President of the Scottish Association of Writers. You can learn more about Wendy on her website: https://www.wendyhjones.com/

Sheena Macleod lectured at the University of Dundee, where she gained her PhD. She now lives in a seaside town in Scotland. Reign of the Marionettes is her first novel. She is currently working on two additional books: Tears of Strathnaver and Women of Courage—A Forgotten Figure—Frances Connolly. You can learn more about Sheena on her website: https://www.sheenas-books.co.uk/

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Feature Editor—T.E, Hodden As Feature Editor T.E. Hodden works diligently to provide content that is interesting, informative and professional. He is a trained engineer and a life-long fan of comic books, Sci-Fi, myths, legends and history. Get to know more about TE Hodden on Mom’s Favorite Reads website here: https://moms-favorite-reads.com/moms-authors/t-e-hodden/

Marketing Director—Grant Leishman Our Marketing Director, Grant Leishman, oversees marketing campaigns and social media engagement for our magazine. After an exciting career in accounting and journalism, he now focuses on his true calling—writing. Get to know more about Grant on Mom’s Favorite Reads website here: https://moms-favorite-reads.com/moms-authors/grant-leishman/

Young Writer Content Editor—Poppy Flynn Poppy Flynn works hard each month to generate ideas, proofread submitted content, and provide stories, articles, poems and other pieces that are creative and relevant from young writers around the world. Get to know more about our Young Writer Content Editor on Mom’s Favorite Reads website here: https://moms-favorite-reads.com/moms-authors/poppy-flynn/

General Content Writers Our Content Writers are freelance authors who contribute articles, short stories, etc. to the eMagazine on a regular basis. They work hard to make our magazine interesting and professional. Get to know our Content Writers on Mom’s Favorite Reads website here: Val Tobin — https://moms-favorite-reads.com/moms-authors/val-tobin/ Stan Phillips — https://moms-favorite-reads.com/moms-authors/stan-phillips/ Father Ian Maher — https://imaherblog.wordpress.com/

Mom’s Favorite Reads eMagazine July 2021

Articles inside

Connections eMagazine

Heroines of SOE by Hannah Howe

Maressa Mortimer, Sylva Fae, and Melanie P. Smith

Patience in Flash Fiction Writing by Allison Symes

Mom’s Favorite Reads Authors

A Field of Wishes by Chantal Bellehumeur

First Day Blues by Christine Larsen

Puzzles by Paul Godding

Hurrah for Independent Bookshops by Wendy H. Jones

Concerning Anger by Father Ian Maher

Where are You Now by Stan Phillips

Tears from Heaven by Chantal Bellehumeur

Rosebay Willowherb Cordial by Sylva Fae

Black to Move—Supplied by Chess.com

Martha’s Dilemma by Penny Luker

Europe by Book by Hannah Howe

Rhubarb Crisp by Val Tobin

Zucchini with Yogurt Dill Sauce by Ronessa Aveela

Legend of the Bone Sword by L. Millington (Age 14

Soft Cinnamon Cookies by Ceri Bladen

The Fire Temple of Baku, Azerbaijan (Ateshgah) by Ceri Bladen

Hot Rod Todd Coloring Pages

Genealogy: The Birth Certificate & the Blank Space by Hannah Howe

Bench of Dreams by Joy Margetts

Watching the World by Stan Phillips

Interviewed by Sylva Fae