Bernard, a Very Brave Bear

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teddybear

By M.P. Witwer

Max was excited. Bubbie was coming over, and Mommy said she was bringing a surprise for him! He could barely wait to find out what it might be.

He thought hard. Maybe it would be a toy truck or a new ball — or maybe even some Legos. Whatever it was, Max knew it would be great, because Bubbie always picked the best presents.

After what seemed like hours and hours, Max finally heard someone climbing the steps. It had to be Bubbie! He ran to the front hall but waited for Mommy to open the door, just as she had taught him.

“Bubbieeeee!” he squealed, bouncing over to his grandmother as soon as she stepped inside. Setting down her purse and the big box she was carrying, she scooped Max up in a hug. This was the best part, because Max liked hugs from Bubbie more than anything else. He felt safe and protected in her arms, and now snuggled against her, for the moment forgetting any thoughts of what she had brought him.

“How’s my favorite grandchild today?” she asked, tousling his already messy hair.

As he always did, Max giggled at the question. He had to be Bubbie’s favorite, since he was her only grandchild.

She lowered him to the floor, then picked up the box. Max studied it with renewed curiosity. It was bigger than a toy truck, not the right shape for a ball, and didn’t rattle like Legos. His excitement started to bubble up again.

“Let’s sit on the couch,” Bubbie suggested. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet.” Continue reading →

Book Brief: ‘Writer’s Block’

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“Writer’s Block,” an award-winning short story by M.P. Witwer, is available as an ebook published by Select Stories. The story follows a noted writer who hits the wall with her current project and heads to the beach to concentrate on her work, but instead finds an endearing distraction or two. It has been called “magnificently well-crafted,” “clever,” “a charming story, very original and creative” and “a wonderful read.”

Title: Writer’s Block: A Short Tale of Seaside Serendipity
Author: M.P. Witwer
Length: Approximately 4,500 words

Always free at Apple iBooks, Barnes & Noble Nook Books, Kobo, and Smashwords. Also available at Amazon Kindle Store (as well as all international Amazon sites), and with subscription at Scribd.

The Raft

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Listen to an audio version of The Raft

By Cecilia Rogers

“I can’t!” My voice, high and strident, carries out across the water.

“Sure you can; come on, try.” My sister’s voice, low and calm, comes to me clearly.

“No, I can’t.”

“But you did last year.”

Last year. Perhaps. But this is now, and I know I cannot do it. I don’t answer her.

“Come on, just try.”

Still no answer.

“Do you want me to come and get you?”

My teeth are chattering together with the cold, so I nod, and watch as she swims toward me.

I am standing in the water, and when I look down my feet seem to be very close to the surface. There are little minnows swimming around — the other kids say that they nibble on your toes, but I don’t believe it. I’ve never felt them do that.

It is the first morning of our summer vacation, which we spend every year at the cottage. We got up early this morning, my older sister and me, in order to go swimming. While everyone else slept, we put on our bathing suits, found some towels and went outside. We didn’t bother eating any breakfast, but went straight down to the lake.

When we got there she dove in; she just went in and started swimming. I put one foot in, and when it was numb with cold, the other one. Moving by slow degrees, I am now just up to my knees, and shivering. Continue reading →

Déjà View

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By M.P. Witwer

After experiencing the scene again and again in his dreams, those awful nightmares that drew him here to Times Square, Evan knows every detail before it happens.

A flag twisted by the wind is about to tear free of its anchor and sail away. The Diet Coke ad will morph into a pitch for regular Coke. Someone wearing a red coat on the steps ahead is going to trip but not fall. And at precisely 2:17 p.m., a girl will plummet from the tower.

Quickening his pace, he steals a glance at his watch. He has less than a minute to prevent her death. But how? The dreams haven’t revealed that piece of information.

As he sprints toward an unknown destiny, the events unfold on cue. The flag whips violently. The giant screen changes from white to red. His vision sweeps toward the red coat, but the lettering on the base of the intervening monument catches his eye and stops him short — “Father Duffy,” it reads.

He closes his eyes, envisioning the familiar image. The statue in the dreams depicted another World War I hero, Sergeant York, he’s absolutely certain. If the nightmares had been wrong about that…

Evan looks around, taking in everything. The woman in red glides down the steps without stumbling. The flag miraculously hangs on by a thread. No girl has fallen.

He checks his watch. 2:19. Feeling a mixture of relief and foolishness, he walks away. Time to go home to Kansas.

* * *
This piece was written for and ultimately won a weekly Indies Unlimited flash fiction contest. Please see the original post for details of the challenge and the photo prompt referenced in the story: Flash Fiction Challenge: Déjà View

Anytime Is Time to Read

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“The time to read is any time: no apparatus, no appointment of time and place, is necessary. It is the only art which can be practiced at any hour of the day or night, whenever the time and inclination comes, that is your time for reading; in joy or sorrow, health or illness.”
~ Holbrook Jackson

 

Perfectly Imperfect

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lotion-stand

My lotion stand, may it rest in pieces.

 

By M.P. Witwer

Even though I don’t consider myself to be a perfectionist, I’ve learned that others hold a different view. My daughter has admonished me for it, my mother has teased me about it, and when the instructor of my clay class said there’s one in every group, all eyes turned toward me.

Two things should be pointed out from the start: 1. This tendency, which I will grudgingly admit may (does) indeed exist, extends only to professional and creative endeavors (as those who have observed my housekeeping efforts may attest); and 2. I do not hold anyone else to such exacting standards. Really, I don’t even expect perfection from myself, but it usually is my goal.

Armed with this knowledge, I have been proactively pursuing a plan to pocket my penchant for perfection. I’m also attempting to alleviate alliteration, but that’s another story.

It was with my perfectionism-reducing agenda in mind that I set out recently to make a ceramic tray for a lotion dispenser. I had a rough notion of what I wanted to do, but didn’t take any measurements or create a template for the project. My idea was to craft a rectangular tile with a circular indentation at one end for the base of the bottle to sit in, while the spout perched over the tray so any drips would wind up on the lotion stand and not on the bathroom counter. It didn’t need to be perfect, just functional. Continue reading →

If Ignorance is Bliss…

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DSC03392

By Cecilia Rogers

A few years ago, the first day of June had ushered in a heat wave that, as it turned out, would last for three months. No one knew it then of course, which was just as well. We all struggled through the hot, muggy days, shuttling back and forth from air-conditioned homes to air-conditioned workplaces, usually by means of air-conditioned transportation. It was supposed to be the best time of year and we were all trapped inside, trying to escape the heat. Casual conversations were peppered with endlessly repeated clichés as to how hot it was, how unusual a June heat wave was and variations on, Wow if it’s like this now what’s it gonna be like in mid-August! Repetitive though they were, those comments didn’t get to me. What got to me was that before long the refrain had shifted to the irritating inanity uttered by would-be comedians: Hot enough for ya, Marissa? Usually it was accompanied by a braying guffaw that no self-respecting donkey would ever produce and a hearty slap on the back, as though it were all just good fun and shouldn’t be taken too seriously.

When on a Monday in the middle of the month I had heard that from three different people before 10:30, I felt as though the day couldn’t get any worse: I was mistaken, as a mere ten minutes later it did. Continue reading →