Children's Poem: "Teaching Grampa to Selfie"

Teaching Grampa to Selfie

This week, I made a comment on my Facebook page and mentioned that I've seen a few selfies where you can see right up someone's nostrils, including their creepy nose hairs.

My writing friend, Rusty Daily, saw the comment and decided we should co-write a funny children's poem about it (we've co-written children's poetry for years).

One of us writes a few lines, then the other one, and the poem continues to go back and forth as many times as it takes, until the poem is finished to our satisfaction.

Teaching Grampa to Selfie

a Poem, by Rusty Daily and CJ Heck

I taught my old grampa to selfie
(but I've got to teach him agin).
He never aimed my new camera
so none of the pictures were him!

The first time he clicked it, he broke it.
It made such an awful loud sound,
whizzes and whirrs and then buzzing.
(it was sad to see grampa frown).

I waited and watched as they fixed it.
The man in the shop shook his head.
"What IDIOT broke this poor camera?"
Was all that the grouchy man said.

I tried for way over an hour
for grampa to just click and smile.
(Learning my grampa to selfie
is sure going to take me awhile).

When we finally got a good picture
his nose hairs were all sticking out.
I guess grampas aren't s'posed to take selfies ...
so I'm done here -- Over and Out!

Rusty and Kathleen Daily

Thank you, Rusty-friend! 
~Big hugs, CJ







“A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write.” ~CJ Heck

I Remember Autumn ..

The Autumn Leaves

Autumn is (almost) here. What a wonderful time of the year!

Temperatures drop at night, making sleep more comfortable and the days turn cooler and less humid.

Leaves cover the ground in varying shades and those that can, will be nearly nude again, even here in Florida.

This time of year I get pleasantly caught up in all of the things I love most about fall.

As a child, I loved the leaves. I remember building houses and forts, then playing hide-and-seek in the noisy piles that had been the walls.  But what I remember most was the pungent scent as they burned after daddy raked and then ceremoniously lit the piles with a match -- something the powers-that-be sadly don't allow these days.

There was apple picking at the orchard and choosing the perfect pumpkins for carving, and drinking apple cider from little paper cups while you waited for mom, or dad, to pay for your special finds.

My Hometown County Fair

And who can forget the county fair? In my hometown, small as it was, they even closed school for an entire week because of the fair.

I loved going on the rides, playing the games on both sides of the midway, and (ugh) the animal barns with the hold-your-nose smell of manure that followed you everywhere, all day long.

I'll never forget the sweet smell of cotton candy and I loved watching the guy behind the glass as he turned the white paper cone around and around along the edge of the silver vat and, miraculously, the cotton candy slowly grew on the paper cone into a huge pastel cloud -- and you just had to have some.

My favorite fair treat was the thick, long french fries you squirted vinegar on and ate with your fingers. Those fries to this day are my yardstick for measuring a really tasty french fry.

The coup de gras of autumn was always the haunted house, which was set up in one of the barns after the fair was over.  Ghosts! Werewolves! Dracula hiding in a closed coffin that suddenly popped open, just as you walked by!

Monsters in the Haunted House

Every autumn, I counted the days until the haunted house would open.

I remember walking through the doorway, my adrenalin pumping, heart racing, and my mind silently screaming ...

"Go ahead, scare me! Scare the living daylight right out of me!"

... and it always did.



“A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write.” ~CJ Heck

Happy Birthday: by Mike Dooley

Birthday Flowers!

Happy Birrrrthday to Youuuu,
Happy Birrrrthday to Youuuu,
Happy Birrrrthday Dear CJ,
Happy Birrrrthday to Youuuu!

A few years back, not so long ago, heaven and earth erupted into a major celebration with the news of your impending adventure into this very time and space.

You see, someone like CJ Heck doesn't come along all that often. In fact, there's never been a single one like you, nor is there ever ANY possibility that another will come again. 

You're an Angel among us. Someone, whose eyes see what no others will EVER see, whose ears hear what no others will EVER hear, and whose perspective and feelings will NEVER, ever be duplicated. Without YOU, the Universe, and ALL THAT IS, would be sadly less than it is.

Quite simply:

You're the kind of person, CJ,
Who's hard to forget,
A one-in-a-million
To the people you've met.
Your friends are as varied
As the places you go,
And they all want to tell you
In case you don't know:
That you make a big difference
In the lives that you touch,
By taking so little
And giving so much!

CJ, you are so AWESOME! For your birthday, friends and angels from every corner of the Universe, including buddies you didn't know you had, will be with you to wish you the HAPPIEST of days and an exciting new year in time and space. You won't be alone!

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, CJ!

Mike Dooley
Orlando, Florida

P.S. This is going to be YOUR year!! 

**Thank you, Mike! ~CJ

“A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write.” ~CJ Heck

Why Do Writers ... Write?

A Writer ... Writing

No one is asking, let alone demanding, that you write. The world is not waiting with bated breath for your article. 

Whether or not you get a single word on paper, the sun will rise, the earth will spin, the universe will expand. Writing is forever and always a choice - your choice. ~Beth Mende Conny


That is an interesting quote by Ms. Conny, and it's so true.  Nothing in the world will change if I write, or don't write. Writing is a choice, but it's a most interesting choice.

I decided to ask a group of writers why they write.  What I found was that their reasons for writing were as varied as the number of writers I asked:

Some write because it's their job. That's what they're paid to do. 

Some write because it's a hobby and something they enjoy doing. 

Some write because it's a challenge, maybe through a writing community, or a teacher in school. 

Some write because they're in love and they want to express their innermost feelings. 

Some write because it's a driving compulsion, a mental lava flow, if you will.  [I'm assuming this is the category the prolific Steven King falls into]. 

And some write because they're uncomfortable with the words banging and clanging aimlessly inside. They have to write and get the words out. 

The one response that was universal was, the serious 'writers' write for the sheer love of writing.

It's a given that all writers want to be good.  But the dedicated writers, the real writers, want to be so unique, as to be able to write one thought, one idea, one poem, one story -- at least one thing -- in such a new and wonderful way that they'll be remembered for it, long after they're gone.

Like Anais Nin once said, (and I love it):

"The role of a writer is not to say what we all can say, but what we are unable to say."

As for me, I write because I love writing. It doesn't matter whether I'm writing poetry for adults, children, short stories, essays, one of my blogs, or a love letter to Robert. I write because it's an addiction and a hobby.  I write to leave something of me behind; something that I hope is good; something so new, so unique and so different that my children's children's children will read it some day, smile, and then say,

"That was my grandmother -- she wrote that.  She sure was a character.  How I wish I could have known her ..."

Please tell me, why do YOU write?

Hugs from me to you,
CJ


“A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write.” ~CJ Heck

Flash Fiction Horror: Terror on Hilltop Drive

by CJ Heck

Home alone, the sound of breaking glass wrenched Maggie from sleep. 

Waiting, listening, afraid to breathe, her heartbeats mingled with a wooden creak as someone climbed the stairs in the hallway.

Her door was open, she thought.  Oh my God!  The door was open!

Icy tendrils of fear prickled the nape of her neck, yanking the wisps of hair and standing them on end. 

Perspiration beaded her forehead and neck, the little runnels slipping down between her breasts, soaking the front of her nightgown. 

Suddenly a shot rang out in the darkness.  The bold flash was all at once blinding. Her ears were stunned to silence and a scream tore from her throat. 

She waited in the hushed gloom, her eyes again adjusting to the night. 

The smell of burnt gunpowder and blood filled the air and it was nauseating.

Afraid of the dark, but more afraid of turning on a light, she picked up the phone and dialed. 

“Nine-One-One. What is your emergency?”

“1010 Hilltop Drive. Help me!  I’ve just shot an intruder. Hurry!  Please hurry!”

Smoke clung to her like a shroud, its gray wisps still rising from the trembling .38 as Maggie crept through the doorway and into the hall to wait ...


[From the Book, "Bits and Pieces", by CJ Heck] 


“A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write.” ~CJ Heck

Just Passing Through: The Stranger

Marlborough Man

“Magnetism:  one of the Six Fundamental Forces of the Universe, with the other five being Gravity, Duct Tape, Whining, Remote Control, and The Force That Pulls Dogs Toward The Groins Of Strangers.” ~Dave Barry

A Short Story

by CJ Heck


People who know me know I’m well-grounded, practical, fairly logical, painfully honest, and I don’t believe in love at first sight. However, I do believe in something at first sight -- but wait, I’ll tell you what happened. You decide.

I find it interesting, what our senses can pull out of the recesses of our mind into the now, with a smell, a taste, even a sound we heard a long time ago. Something, anything, can be recalled and relived, as though it happened only minutes ago.

There’s a whole day like that and it lingers, hidden in my mind, until my senses suddenly bring it up and out.

I can still taste the gritty dust the wind blew across my face on a sweltering summer’s day; still hear the ding-ding-ding at the old-fashioned red and white gas pumps, as someone filled their tank, and I can still smell the mingled aromas of diesel and gas.

As I recall, it was the middle of August, during what we called 'the dog days of summer'. It was stinking hot. I was on a road trip to nowhere in particular, just going from here to there, and taking a few days to do it.

I had stopped for gas and an orange soda at a truck stop somewhere along a two-lane road. I remember the hot wind blowing dust, and it was gritty, and it covered everything that got in its way.

Not ready to get back inside the steamy car, I sat on a large rock under the only tree I could find, savoring the ice cold soda and mopping the sweat and grime from my face and neck with a wet paper towel from the ladies room.

I remember hearing door hinges whining in protest and as I glanced up, I saw a man, a perfect stranger, climbing out of an old blue pickup parked to the side of the gas pumps.

He was walking straight towards me, wearing run-down leather boots and the wind was ruffling his sandy blond hair. Even now, I’m not sure why I was so mesmerized by the sight of him, but I was.

I can still see him walking.  He was tall and wiry, with long legs moving him along in a slow, bowlegged stride that literally reinvented the swagger. It was pure poetry.

As he got closer, I saw a tanned face road mapped with lines, and he was squinting at me through ice-blue eyes.

When he caught me staring, he touched a finger to the hat cocked to one side, threw me a wink, a quick nod, and then a crooked smile. “Maaa’am.” That’s all he said, but it was enough. I had heard his Texas drawl.

I’m embarrassed to admit it, but when he passed by, my eyes were drawn to the back of those tight worn jeans and the perfect butt that filled them.  Lord, I hope my mouth was closed.

It wasn’t that he was Marlboro-Man handsome.  What he did have was a rugged muscular look, one that hinted of riding horses, squinting into the sun all day and sleeping under the stars at night. It was all of that, and being perfectly packaged in tight jeans and a blue plaid shirt with pearl snaps and rolled up sleeves.

My emotions ran high that afternoon so long ago. Maybe it was the love I had for westerns as a child, maybe his Texan drawl -- I guess I'll never really know.  The only thing that ever passed between us was a wink, a nod, and a crooked smile.

But I’ll never forget the day when I fell --- not in love, but definitely something, by the side of the road with a man I never met ... someone just passing through.



"A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write." ~CJ Heck

Inspiration: The Golden Gate ...

Golden Gate Garden

I was having my coffee this morning and trying to decide what to write about.

To be honest, I was actually waiting for my muse.  She gives me my inspiration, but I've noticed the older I get, the more she tends to sleep in ...

Maybe I could write about something I remember from my childhood.  Most of my writing does have its roots deep in my childhood.

I remember having so many questions about the world and its workings, and all the different ways everything around me touched my life. It was such a carefree time then, full of make-believe and pretending, and anything and everything could be an adventure.

I remember when I was six, we had an elderly neighbor, Mrs. Tucker.  She lived all by herself in a huge old Victorian house, three doors down from ours. Her house had these pretty scrolled designs up where both sides of the roof slanted down and her front porch was filled with huge feathery ferns in hanging pots all along the wide railing. Her porch was further dressed up with white wicker chairs, a couch, and two glass-topped wicker tables.

I liked Mrs. Tucker, and her beautiful house, but oh, how I loved her back yard.  If there was a paradise, this was how I always imagined it would look.

Her back yard was entirely fenced in by an old white wooden fence.  There was a gate right in the center with a brass latch and hinges that glowed bright yellow when the sun shined on it -- I called it The Golden Gate.

You could barely see the fence, because of a huge rose bush that climbed up and over, almost covering it. And oh the scent!  I remember the sweet scent, even now, because it followed me everywhere.  So did the smell of her enormous lilac bushes that, to this small girl, seemed to reach up to the sky.

In the center of Mrs. Tucker's yard was a pond with the biggest gold fish I had ever seen. There was a small fountain on one side, too, and I loved hearing the peaceful trickling of the falling water. The pond was carefully outlined by different sizes of rocks and all sorts of plants and flowers were intertwined among the rocks.

At the back left corner of her yard, there was an old apple tree. From it's trunk at a right angle, grew one long straight-as-a-rail branch. There Mrs. Tucker had hung a wooden porch swing.  It had a padded seat with flowered pillows -- and this is where the magic was, for me.

I loved to sit in the swing, listen to the water, breathe in the flowers, and let my imagination soar. It was as though Mrs. Tucker's house didn't exist at all, only the magic of The Golden Gate garden.  There, I knew anything was possible, because time stood perfectly still.

Well, at least until mama called me home for dinner ...

“A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write.” ~CJ Heck

The Cookie Jar Adventure

Raiding the Cookie Jar

I grew up in the days when the Nickels Bread truck would make home deliveries every Saturday morning. The bread man always seemed to come at the perfect time, too. The cartoons were on TV, we kids were up, and mommy and daddy weren't ...

All six of us would meet the driver at the door, our mouths watering, deciding what and how much to choose, from his huge tray of baked goods.

Donuts were always a favorite and it didn't matter what kind, although my favorite was always the creme sticks.

We knew daddy loved pecan rolls, so we always got a package of those for him -- lucky for dad, we didn't care for the nuts on top.

Now days, bread trucks and Saturday morning deliveries are a thing of the past and children don't even realize what they are missing.

But I'd be willing to bet there are a few who wake up before mommy and daddy and they secretly raid the cookie jar ...

The Cookie Jar

A Preschool Adventure
by CJ Heck

Wakey-wakey from our beds,
thoughts of cookies in our heads.

Mom's and Daddy's eyes are closed.
(They are sleeping. They won't know).

Hurry-hurry, on the double!
If they wake, we'll be in trouble!

Blankies, pillows, on the floor.
Squeaky-squeaky goes the door.

Shhh, shhh, tippy-toe.
To the kitchen we will go.

Sneaky-sneaky down the hall,
bare feet creeping 'long the wall.

C'mon, Sissy, it's not far,
there it is, the cookie jar!

I can't reach it, I'm too small.
Let's get a chair to make us tall.

Shuffle-shuffle, scooty chair,
pushy-pushy, almost there.

Clinky-clinky goes the top,
hold it tight, or it will drop!

Giggle, giggle, tee-hee-hee,
two for YOU, and two for ME.

Uh oh, Sissy, turn around ...
Mom and Daddy. We've been found.

Peeky-peeky, Mom and Dad,
are you angry? Are you mad?

Whisper-whisper, over there ...
they want to know if we will share!

“A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write.” ~CJ Heck

So, You Want to be Published ...

Getting Published - Having a Book With Our Name on the Front

Where to Begin:

Writers often ask me where they should start in trying to get their manuscript published.

I always tell them, I am no expert. I used the hunt-and-peck method, because I didn't know how to begin, who to ask, or where I should start. But I am glad to share a few things I learned by trial and error to get you started.

One of the first things I always suggest is, get your work (and your name) out there.  Join some writer groups and communities online and post your work.  And if you ever hope to be published, for heaven's sake, use your own name.

If you hope to sell your books someday, you want your work, and your name, to be recognized.  How else will anyone know what you’ve written?

The web is full of excellent writing by cutsie pen names like “fluffy kitten” or “Pearl Onion”, but it isn’t professional, or wise, especially if they ever want to publish under their real name at some point.  No one will know who they are ...

There are many writing communities online, but a few of my favorite ones are Authors Den (fiction, non-fiction, essays, articles, poetry), PoemHunter (poems, lyrics), and the Arcanum Café (mostly poetry).

Most offer critiquing of your work by other writers, with helpful suggestions as to how to make necessary changes. Of course, you should also read and critique the work of other writers, in return. I’ve read some excellent writing through these communities and I’ve also made some lasting friendships.

Another step that will get your work and your name noticed: create a website to showcase your work. There are many sites online that offer to host free websites. Often they have different looks and designs to pick from and, with a few choices on your part, your site will be up and running in just a few minutes.

Once you have your website set up, submit the URL to search engines, link it to a blog you may have, or put the link to it on your page in communities like Facebook. Again, you want to gain as much visibility for you and your work as you can.

Okay, you’ve posted your work at writing communities and you have a website, or blog. And you’re getting some excellent feedback from both. Now it’s time to decide if this is enough for you.

Are you satisfied, merely having a nice following, or do you still want to be published so bad that you can taste it?

If you answered 'yes' to the above question, then the next step is to go to a bookstore either in your community, or online. Invest in a copy of the Writer’s Digest book that applies to the particular type of work you do.

You’ll find Writer’s Digest books for poetry, fiction and non-fiction, memoirs, and so on. They also have one for children’s writers and illustrators. These books come out once a year and they will be like a Bible to you for facts and information, i.e., where and how to send your work to magazines, periodicals and publishers.

When it comes to submitting your manuscript to publishers, be careful. Always read their rules for submissions. Each publisher is specific in how they want to be approached by writers.

Some only want agented material, so you'll have to forgo those, unless you want to take the time to try and get an agent. (There are Writers Digest books geared to getting an agent, as well).

Some publishers will only accept exclusive manuscript submissions. This means you send your manuscript only to them and then wait for them to either accept, or reject, your work for publication. It can take anywhere from three to six months to hear back from them … and there are some cases where it takes even longer … and still other cases where you won’t hear back -- at all.

There are also a few who require you to submit a query letter first.  If they are interested in hearing more, based on what you said in your query, they will invite you to send your manuscript.

Here’s a little heads up about manuscripts and submissions:

Never send your original manuscript, only a copy.
Always make sure it’s spell-checked.
Always double space.
Put the word count in the top right corner.
If the publisher says no staples … they mean no staples. Use a clip.
Always include a SASE (self-addressed stamped envelope), or you will never hear from them.

Nothing will get your precious manuscript trashed faster than sloppy work, spelling errors, and not following their rules. Again, each publisher is very specific with their submission guidelines.  Refer to your Writers Digest book (your submission Bible) for every publisher you send to.

The competition is fierce these days. Publishers can have three-foot piles of manuscript submissions, sometimes monthly. Believe me, I’ve seen the piles.

They get so many manuscripts, they can afford to be picky. But don’t worry, most of the information you’ll need is explained somewhere in the Writers Digest book you buy. There are also interesting articles and interviews peppered throughout, so you actually gain a lot by buying a copy.

I’ve left one of the most important steps until last. Edit, edit, edit.

Cut out all unnecessary dialogue, adjectives, adverbs, pronouns, anything not crucial to the story, as well as any obvious fillers.  Read your manuscript out loud. See how it sounds. Edit.

Read it out loud to others and get their opinions. Edit again.

When you’ve edited, edit again, and then again.  Read it aloud to yourself and others one last time, before taking it to the post office.

I know this seems extreme, but if you don't tighten it up, be assured, their editors will -- and your finished book might not end up the way you want it to be.

That’s about it. I’m sure I’ve forgotten a few things worth mentioning, but at least you have a guide to getting started. If you have any questions, you can always email me. I will be happy to help in any way I can.

Just one more thing.  If you're like me, you'll get a pile of rejections, before you get that one 'yes', but that’s okay!  Don't take it personally -- if you joined those writing communities I mentioned above, you will be somewhat used to having your work scrutinized.

But also keep in mind that a rejection might only mean that what you sent to that particular publisher on that particular day wasn't what they were looking for at that particular time.  You may have sent the ultimate best story about a little purple duck, when they were looking for one about a green pony.  They never tell you.

You can't wear your feelings on your sleeve.  Be persistent and persevere.  Remember, it only takes one 'yes' and you’re published.

I wish you success!

Writers Digest Books at Amazon

Email CJ


See also:
Publishers, A Rant ...


“A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write.” ~CJ Heck

The Stew: My Story

CJ and Roommate, Chris

by CJ Heck

Saying goodbye to the last of the first class passengers as they deplaned had become methodical.

It was the middle of the night, my feet hurt, I was tired and trying my best not to sound sing-song with my goodbyes. Keeping focused was difficult. My thoughts were wandering elsewhere.

It was the last night of my nonstop coast-to-coast run for the month. This flight had been long and difficult. For one thing, the passengers had had way too much to drink and they'd become overly rowdy.

We'd been forced to take a two-hour layover at O’Hare so the ground crew could repair an engine problem. As an apology for the delay (and with the best of intentions), the captain instructed us to open the bar, once we were back in the air.

I was really looking forward to my four days off, before the next cycle, when it would begin again for another month. One good thing, the next month my flights would get me home at a decent hour -- no more 2:00 a.m. arrivals, feeling totally used up and washed out.

I had made plans the day before to join my three roommates for a bicycle ride on Angel Island on my first day off. We had done this several times before and it was one of our favorite weekend haunts ... oh, I just remembered, I have to buy the sourdough bread. The other girls were bringing the wine, cheese, and a blanket to sit on.

How I loved San Francisco. It was beginning of the 70's and hippies were still hanging out on downtown corners with their beads and music, wearing bright flower garlands in their hair.

I loved the quaint cable cars that clacked up and down the busy, steeply-angled streets. It was local custom that each conductor composed a special beat, which he always played on the bell of his cable car. Each became known by his own unique beat, and the more complicated it was, the better -- my favorite was the cable car that went to The Cannery and Ghirradelli Square. That conductor rang an awesome mean beat on his bell and his cable car was always packed with regulars and tourists.

Half Moon Bay

On Sunday, we were going to Half Moon Bay to soak up some rays on the warm sand. There was never a lack of things to do in San Francisco, only a lack of time in which to do them.

I remember thinking, "Finally, the coach section and then we’re through."

More smiles, more good-byes, although I was acutely aware I had lost the battle to sing-song halfway through first class. My smile felt as though it was bordering on an all out grimace, but I was almost done and then I would head for home.

The fear in icy tendrils prickled the nape of my neck as I walked through the all but deserted parking lot. I chose to ignore the feeling, chalking it up to the hour and being drag-my-butt tired from the long flight. The engine problem at O'Hare had added two hours and it was now 4:30 in the morning -- no wonder I was dragging and feeling hinky.

As always, walking through the lot, I marveled at how the dew crystallized on the hoods of the few remaining cars, creating a twinkling diamond field under the bright lights of the parking lot.

Odd, I thought, this feeling. That night was no different from any other late night flight. I was always tired after, but I usually felt almost rejuvenated by being earthbound and heading home -- and my four days off.

To speed the mindless walk to my car, I thought about the goings on of yet another red eye special, although special was way too nice a word. The work was grueling and the hours long that a flight attendant spent on her feet babysitting jet loads of bored passengers who were anxious, themselves to be home.

Trans World Airlines Logo

I really loved my job with Trans World Airlines, aka TWA. It’s what I had wanted to do for as long as I could remember. Oh, there were parts of it that rankled, the wandering hands of the crew for instance, but easy enough to fend off, if you knew how.

I grinned as I thought about their almost universal arrogance and well-used line, “So, sweetie, what did YOU do before joining us in the air?”

With smug satisfaction, I recalled my latest comeback, just that evening, “I was a stock car driver, sir. A damned good one, too.” Another favorite I often used, "I was a lady wrestler, sir, usually in mud or jello."

Usually, a knife-sharp comment, a demure smile and the ever popular batted eyelashes were all that was needed to deflate even the most amorous jerk, mid-grope.

Yet passengers could be even worse. I wish I had a dollar for every time I asked, “And you, sir? What can I get you?  Coffee, tea, milk, a cocktail?” only to hear the way-too-familiar response:

“I’ll take you, little lady! Har de har har.” Then he would give a “see-what-a-big-man-I-am” nod to his seatmates. I tried never to dignify the remarks with an answer and, instead, gave them a well-practiced smile which said, ”Oh, you clever man, you.”

After flying for awhile, you discovered there were ways of getting even, with even the biggest big-shot. Devious? Maybe. Necessary? Abso-friggin-lutely.

“Oops! Oh my! I’m so sorry, sir! It must have been the turbulence. Let me get you a few napkins so you can wipe that wine (cola, tomato juice, hot coffee) off of your nice trousers.”

Or that night, I had picked up a dinner tray from a playboy type and found a room key to the Fairmont Hotel and a one-hundred dollar bill tucked under his used napkin. DUH. As if I would ever be so stupid. For the most part though, those kinds of passengers were the exception, rather than the rule.

To me, the irony was obvious, at least back in those days when hijackings to Cuba were always in the news. At the very first sign of a problem, the bad apples were always the first, and loudest, to bombard the flight attendants with pleas for help in getting off the plane. We were suddenly promoted to angels of the skies,where only moments before, we had been treated like flying call girls. Ah, yes, the glamorous life of a flight attendant ...

It sure was different from the Brady Bunch family in which I was raised. San Francisco seemed like the perfect place to be back then. It also seemed like the perfect place to heal, after I buried my new husband -- and my rose-colored glasses -- the year before. Doug had been an army combat medic and one of the casualties of war in Vietnam. I had been only twenty then, and devastated.

After nearly a year, with love and the best of intentions, my family told me they believed the best thing for me was to get back into some semblance of life.

So, with my family's encouragement, I wrote a letter to TWA and then flew to Kansas City for interviews. I was accepted.  Two weeks later, I boarded another plane, this time to their training academy for six weeks in Kansas City. After graduation, I found myself in the most sought after domicile in the whole TWA family.

Walking through the lot, I shivered. Strange that I should again feel ice-cold terror prickling, interrupting the after-flight mind ramblings that were the norm.

"Jeez oh man, this is nuts," I thought, as the razor sharp panic again snaked up my spine and sunk its teeth in. Again I ignored the inner voice. It was more than a whisper, but it wasn’t yet at Defcon One.

CJ and "Alfie"

I couldn’t have seen from that distance the broken glass twinkling on the pavement below the driver’s window of my car.

I would have been horrified to see the long thin slice cut through the rag top of my most prized possession, a little red Alpha Romeo. "Alfie" was an older model, but it had been a present to myself, and I treated that car like it was a long awaited child.

I also couldn’t have sensed HIM from that distance, but the little voice down inside me had, and it had at once spoken. Then a second time, and then again, but I still failed to listen.

But he was there, all right. He was hidey-holed and waiting like a creepy spider ready to bite. His mind was filled with who knows what feral thoughts and his crotch was bulging with a sick anticipation.

The comings and goings in the lot had been followed under the comforting cover of night, his trusted friend. He had watched my routine and he knew it well. He watched, planned, and waited. He really didn’t care who’s thighs he got to part. He had merely learned my routine. His mind erupted like a boil as he sat and waited for the red eye special that night, while a sick smile played across his face.

Suddenly, the fear was overwhelming, like the static in the air when lightning is about to strike. This time, just as I opened the car door, I heard my little voice inside booming like God’s own thunder.

He came at me then with a punch to the face. He held a knife between us in his other hand like an amulet for good luck. His rage for all women let loose and he demanded “Put out, stew, you fuckin' bitch!” There were more punches, more yelling. "Shuddup, bitch! I'm gonna fuck you up good!"

I never really heard the rest of his words. I never actually felt the punches, because that’s when my mind took flight. Mind curdling screams rang out into the night, one scream on top of another, and another. I didn’t realize, but they were mine.

”The screaming is what saved her ass”, the officer said later down at the station. The screaming, and that elderly couple who found her walking, still screaming, right down the center of a busy two-lane with cars whizzing by in both directions."

Thank God, they stopped and convinced me to get in their car for a ride to the police station. The couple was still there, too. I could see them sitting on a bench by the wall in the long hallway, wringing their hands, waiting to see if there was anything else they could do. I remember hugging them as I was leaving, wishing my mom and dad were there.

As for me, when anyone asked, all I could remember was having feet like lead and being unable to move, completely frozen to the twinkling pavement. Imagine that. Even through it all, I remember seeing the twinkling glass on the pavement.

Now, in looking back, it had been like some bizarre one-act comedy. One actor screaming like a lovesick concert fan, the other, a boxer punching a dummy in the ring, like some eerie, Mexican standoff. Which one would break first and run?

Thank God, it was the sinister star of the play. He had lost all interest in the crazed screaming woman. He ran, his legs like pistons pumping, propelling him towards whatever hell hole he called home that night.

They never did catch him -- oh, I really didn’t think they would. I wasn’t able to tell the authorities much. I walked into the airline terminal the next day, though, and quit on the spot, wearing my cuts and bruises like my husband’s medals from Nam.

I did feel the punches that day, and somehow, I knew it would never be the same again. The girl-next-door flight attendant bubble I had strived so hard for had burst out there in that nearly deserted parking lot, amidst the dewy diamond fields and the twinkles on the pavement.

“A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write.” ~CJ Heck

If Love Had Not Called Me

If Love Had Not Called Me

by Robert S. Cosmar

To CJ:

I would never have known you, 

if love had not called me. 

The mystery between us 

would be forever unsolved.

Like strangers never to meet, 

my life would have been empty 

of all joy without you.

An outcast to my own heart, 

I would have been 

as one who was banished 

from the kingdom of love 

and left unfulfilled.

You have completed me. 

You brought my love 

out where I can see it 

and made me the man 

I was meant to become.

Yours forever,

Robert

[Robert Cosmar is a published writer, blogger, astrologer, and the Author of four books which focus on Awareness.]

“A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write.” ~CJ Heck

A Child and a Mirror

Have you ever watched a toddler in front of a mirror?  It kinda' reminds me of my cat, Sidney, when he sees a sunbeam.  He just can't resist it.

Sidney can be running full-tilt through the living room and the minute he steps into a sunbeam, Wham!  It's like someone shot him.  He drops down, washes his face, stretches, gets all comfy and falls asleep -- in the sunbeam.

Now, if you want to keep a toddler entertained for more than a few minutes, stand him (or her) in front of a full-length mirror.  Be sure to have your camera ready, because you're in for some fun.  I tried it with my grandson while I was babysitting and it was priceless.

His first glance at the mirror was a little like he was making a new friend.  There was the tentative first look at the 'other child'.  Then he gave him a shy smile.  When the smile was returned, and feeling a little bolder, he went for the basic wave, which also was returned.

Next, he turned his back and peeked over his shoulder.  When the new friend copied him, he smiled again, and bravely stuck out his tongue.  Then, a kiss.

Once the 'introduction period' was over, he made a whole bunch of "can you do this?" moves.  Each was copied, (of course), which brought even more complicated face-pulling and body contortions.  It didn't take long before the two were 'best friends'.

From then on, it got sillier and sillier: somersaults, jumping up and down, rolling this way and that, lifting the shirt to compare belly buttons, and well, you'll just have to trust me.  Try it and see for yourself.

For me, the icing on the cake was the infectious laughter.  I'm happy to report the experiment was successful and all captured on film.

Now, I think my next project to watch in the mirror will be Robert, while he's shaving ...

“A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write.” ~CJ Heck

The Burning Letter

Table in the Foyer

The Burning Letter

Wading through morning's harvest 

of the mail reaped the usual 

bills, flyers and junk ads. 

Then I spotted 

the familiar lazy scrawl 

on the table before me. 

After all these years ... 

a pearl among the cow pies. 

I marveled at how the letter felt, 

tucked into the pocket 

of my blue jeans, 

first halved, then quartered, 

where misbehaving hands and mind 

won't breach ceremonial rules, 

not to touch 

or want to open it. 

I was unable to ignore the letter 

or throw it away. 

I'm not sure how long 

I walked around with it there. 

I only know 

it began to burn and blister 

and it scorched my self-control. 

It was not until I saw the jeans 

in the washer, letter and all, 

twisting and turning 

in the soapy water 

that I was even aware 

of what I'd done

just to find some peace. 

(From the Book, Anatomy of a Poet)

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“A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write.” ~CJ Heck

Me and Rusty Daily: Poems

I'm lucky to have a grownup friend who, like me, also likes to get into a child's mind and write how they think. 

Rusty Daily

His name is Rusty Daily and, while I've never met Rusty in person, he is a good friend.

  

Rusty and I have written many poems together just like this: He'll write a few lines and email them to me. Then I read what he wrote, (and usually I laugh), then add a couple of lines of my own, email it back to him, and it goes back and forth, until a poem is born. 

It's fun! The biggest challenge about co-writing is coming up with the title!

Here are a couple of my favorites! Thank you, Rusty-friend!

All By Myself

by Rusty and CJ

I gotta play by myself today
'cause Mommy is cleaning and mopping.
Then she’ll be calling a sitter
for when she goes grocery shopping.

The sitter, well she’s really boring.
She’s always on the dumb phone,
or painting her nails, or combing her hair,
so I guess I’ll be playing alone …

I think I will get out my play dough
and make a spaghetti pie.
Or maybe, I'll feed all my dollies
so they won't be fussy and cry.

At two, I’ll watch my TV shows.
Till then, I'll build with my blocks.
When I'm done, I'll pick them all up
IF they'll go back in the box.

Maybe my secret friend and I
will draw a picture or two
with all my favorite crayons,
'specially the red green and blue.

I really like my toys and games
and my other good stuff … but gee,
I think ALL playing is funner
when my Mommy is here beside me.

Tattle Telling

by Rusty and CJ

Little sister is a pain.
She makes me so darn mad!
She does this little sister stuff
that's always silly and bad.

Like at supper tonight,
she hated her meat
and after chewing it up,
she spit it at me.

When mom wasn't looking,
she flipped peas in the air.
They were all over the floor,
even some in my hair.

I yelled to my mom
and I yelled to my dad.
I said Sissy was naughty
and being real bad

but I'm the one sitting
all alone in a corner
like that silly old guy,
Little Jack Horner.

Mom put me here
in a stupid time out,
'cause Sissy was crying
and starting to pout.

She said I teased her,
then she started yelling,
and like dumb little girls,
she started tattle telling.

She told mom and dad
that I said she was fat,
that I called her a stinker
and a spoiled little brat.

I showed them the stuff,
like the peas in my hair,
and the yucky chewed meat
that was still on my chair.

but I'm still in the corner
and I guess I should be,
'cause I shouldn't have said
all those things to Sissy.

I agreed I am older,
wiped the peas off my chin,
and told Sissy I'm sorry.
Geez, big brothers can't win!

We have to keep Sissy ...
she's their pride and joy,
but I wish they'd just bring me
a new baby ... a boy.

"A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write." ~CJ Heck

Preschool Short Story: The Little Umbrella

A Town Like Your Town

by CJ Heck

I know a little town like your town. It has a little main street just like a lot of main streets, and a little store not too different from a lot of little stores.

The owner of the store was a kind and gentle man named Pop Starr. Pop was a good man, and all the people in the little town knew and loved him.

Pop's little store had a lot of things on a lot of shelves for people to buy. This is a story about one very special thing in Pop's store.

In the back of his little store, Pop had built a special little room just for toys. Boys and girls loved going into the little toy room. They gazed in awe and wonder at all the colorful toys on the shelves that reached all the way up to forever -- well, almost, but not exactly.

The children spent many hours wishing for the things they saw in Pop's little toy room. Even Santa Claus had heard about the little toy room, in the little store, on the little street, in the little town.

Now, I told you that, so I could tell you this ...

Way up high on the top shelf in the toy room was a little umbrella. The umbrella had been there for such a long time, maybe forever ... but it had been there so long that it was covered by a thick layer of dust. It was a sad umbrella and it was also very lonely.

Every day, the little umbrella looked down from its shelf at the toys in the toy room. It had never seen such wonderful colors!

How it wished it could be so bright and so beautiful. What a joy it would be to wear one of the colors it saw on the spinning tops, the rubber balls, and the bright red fire engines!

The little umbrella wanted to be like the airplanes the children played with in Pop's little toy room, zooming up-down-up and high into the sky. It would be so exciting to feel the wind blowing above and below its wings.

What a wonderful thing to be -- what an important job to have!

The little umbrella felt so alone on its shelf. It longed to be held and loved, just like one of the pretty dolls the little girls hugged and talked to in Pop's toy room.

What a wonderful thing to be! What an important job to have!

Hour after hour, day after day, year after year, it watched all of the children come into the little toy room to play with the toys. The little umbrella dreamed that someday it, too, would be needed just like the people needed old Pop Starr who owned the little store, on the little street, in the little town.

Now, I told you that, so I could tell you this ...

The Storm Cloud

One day, a huge and terrible storm cloud came. It kept the sun from shining on the little town and outside, it became very dark.  

A horrible wind began to blow and the rain came down hard and everything it touched was soaked.

The storm brought thunder with its powerful booms and lightning that lit up the sky forever -- well, almost, but not exactly.

Pop stood and watched it all happen from the little window in his little store on the little street in the little town.

Suddenly, the door opened and the little bell hanging above it jingled. A woman rushed into the store holding the hand of a small child. Both of them were out of breath and both were soaked from the falling rain.

Now, old Pop knew just about everyone who lived in the little town, but he didn't know the woman and her small child. He welcomed them in out of the storm with his kind and gentle smile, a warm hello, and two warm and dry towels.

Holding hands

The woman told Pop that her car had run out of gas just down the street from his store. They walked to the gas station, filled their gas can, and they were on their way back to the car when the storm began.

She told him they were glad to find Pop's store, but they were in a hurry to get home to their own little street in another little town far, far away from here.

Now, I told you that, so I could tell you this ...

Kind old Pop scratched his head and thought for a minute. Then, with a big smile, he walked to the back and into the little toy room of the little store on the little street in the little town.

From the top step on his ladder, Pop reached high up to the very top shelf and searched around with his fingers. He finally found exactly what he was looking for.  Pop brought down the little umbrella.

He brushed off the years of dust and, with a twinkle in his eye, took his gift to the woman and her small child.
The joy in giving and the joy in receiving went around and around. Everyone was happy.

The woman and her small child thanked Pop for his kindness. Then they said goodbye to the kind and gentle man in the little store on the little street in the little town. Then they stepped back outside into the wind and the rain and opened the little umbrella.

Now, I told you that, so I could tell you this ...

The little umbrella was so surprised! It had left its lonely home high on the top shelf in the little toy room! It felt so needed.

"OH MY!" Cried the small child. "What a beautiful umbrella! Mommy, it has every color in the world!"

Happy Little Umbrella

"Could it be true?" Wondered the little umbrella.

Then, finally able to see himself without the thick layer of dust, he exclaimed, "Green, blue, red, purple, orange, yellow! Oh my!  Just look at my colors! I am as beautiful as all of the toys in the little toy room!"

As the little umbrella was opened, it went up, Up, UP! The wind rushed across and over and  under!  It was such a wonderful feeling! The little umbrella thought, "Oh my! I'm feeling just like the airplanes in the little toy room!"

Then, just when the little umbrella thought it couldn't possibly be any happier, the very BEST thing happened. It felt love and a need to protect the mother and the small child who were holding onto its handle.

The little umbrella knew it was keeping the rain off of them and it felt proud. It was a wonderful feeling.

This was an important thing to be! This was a very special job to have!

So, the little umbrella from high on the top shelf in the little toy room, in the little store, on the little street, in the little town was very happy -- not almost, but exactly.

Now, I told you that, so I could tell you this ...

The little umbrella had learned something very important. It didn't have to wish to be anyone else. It was already perfect ... just the way it was.


"A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write." ~CJ Heck

The Fall of Life

Life is what we make it ... 

A Short Story
by CJ Heck 

Anna was signing a birthday card for her oldest daughter at the kitchen table and enjoying a late morning cup of coffee. 

The card was lovely with a beautiful verse. She had spent a lot of time in the card store yesterday, crying over the sad ones, laughing at the silly ones, until she finally found the right one, the card that captured her sentiments exactly. 

This was truly the perfect card, all about motherly love, and the pride she felt in the woman and mother Chelsea had become. Then something suddenly occurred to her -- Chelsea was turning thirty-eight.

Then a thought caught Anna by surprise, like a sucker-punch -- not that Chelsea would be thirty-eight. No. It was more than that. Anna was exactly twenty years older than her daughter, which meant that Anna would be fifty-eight this year. 

I'm now in the fall of my life, Anna thought … how the hell did I get here so quickly? Wasn’t it just yesterday that I was young and crouched at life's starting gate, waiting for the race to begin, with all of my plans and my hopes and dreams stretched out before me? 

Wasn't it just yesterday that we were awaiting the arrival of our first-born, Chelsea? Anna's thoughts turned melancholy and they reached back, just for a while.

As a child, she remembered looking up at her grandparents and feeling such awe. These were her daddy's parents. Back then, she had thought they must be as old as the trees. Their hair was snow white and they always came with bottles of pills, which they lined up in a long row on the kitchen counter top.  

Being so old, she had thought, they were probably very wise, too, so she always listened closely to what Grampa shared. He told her stories about what it was like when he was a little boy and there were more horses on the streets than there were cars. He said they didn't have TV's back then. 

They read books and played games at the kitchen table when it rained, and when it was sunny, they played fun outside games, or climbed trees, or went swimming in the pond. She remembered the wonderful way grampa explained things so she could almost see everything he was describing, just through his words.

Yes, Anna thought, they were old, but I adored them and I saw them through eyes full of love. I loved hearing all the stories about when they were young. I remember going for ice cream cones at the dairy store with them, and hearing grandma hum while she baked pies -- and grampa puffing on his curved pipe that smelled so pungent and good. 

Then another sobering thought hit Anna. I am now older than these wonderful grandparents were when they passed away.  Oh, how I miss them, and suddenly she realized something. She wanted to be just like them.

Time moves so quickly. No, not in our youth. Then, time only gently pushes us forward towards the finish line and we hardly notice time at all. Then, slowly at first, then faster, life grows full and gets busy and things change. Where time used to stop us in our tracks, we suddenly learn just how fast it really goes -- like the thirty-eighth birthday of a child.  

Here in the fall of my life, time has simply caught me off guard. I have a few regrets, Anna thought. There are things I wish I hadn’t done, things I should have done, and things I wish I had done differently. But there are the many wonderful things that I’m happy to have done and glad that I had the chance to do.

Anna took another sip of her coffee, which had turned ice cold in her cup. I don’t know how long my fall will last, and I certainly have no promises that I will ever see winter, but I do know I've enjoyed a full life ... and damn it, it’s not over yet! 

I’m going to treat every day from now on with renewed appreciation. There are things I still want to accomplish, dreams that can still come true and children and grandchildren to hug and tell my stories to, and I'm fortunate to have a wonderful husband in my life to share it all with.

Anna remembered something her mother used to say, "Life is a gift, baby girl. How we live it is our gift to ourselves." Now that saying makes perfect sense, she thought, with a silent thank you to her mother. 

She decided to pour another cup of coffee, call her daughter, and then start opening more of her gift ... 





(from the book, "Bits and Pieces")

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A Short-Short Story: Mr. Beggar Man

Mr. Beggar Man

by CJ Heck

Mr. Beggar Man, you were such a gentle soul.  

Each day, you were dressed exactly the same -- a stained red plaid shirt, brown felt hat speckled with bird poop, and saggy-baggy pants that stopped just above two heelless shoes with holes that were see-through to feet with no socks.

So many mornings I walked by your corner, sometimes
putting money in your cup, if only to borrow one of your smiles when I had none left of my own. 

Somehow, I always knew that the smile you gave me would be the one that found those I had only misplaced for a while.

Countless times we shared a lunch together, as you did with so many others.  Sometimes, I brought you hot soup and coffee from the deli across the street.  Other times, you shared half of my tuna sandwich from home.  

You, in return, shared your wooden pallet to sit on, but never once a conversation. And all the while, you never missed a beat as you continued to pass out your glorious smile to everyone who glanced your way as they hurried by.

I've often wondered, what happened in your life to make you take up residence on that corner -- only to die cold and alone?  

I'm saddened to know the smiles you apportioned to countless others were your only living legacy.

I wish I could somehow tell you, you are missed by many, even the shopkeepers who so often shooed you away.  I hope you knew what your smile meant to me ... and I regret I never even knew your name.

[from the book, "Bits and Pieces of a Writer's Soul"]

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"A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write." ~CJ Heck