Out of the Garden - Part 20

This week's installment is the conclusion of our collaborative story written by Patti Hill. You can catch up with previous installments here.

Through the tangle of roots I supported Princess Orlagh as we moved toward the shimmer of light in the distance. As we moved closer, my spine straightened with a pop pop pop, strength surged into my legs and arms, and a surefootedness I hadn't experienced in decades made the travel seem more like a dance.

The princess pressed ahead, obviously feeling the power that came with moving toward home.

I stopped at the thought of home. I wiggled my toes in the rich earth without one echo of pain. I ran my hands over my face, now taut with rounded cheeks. The hair that water-falled over my shoulder was the polished mahogany of my youth. And yet, I turned back toward the chink in the rocks Callan had placed over the portal.

Home.

"Maeva," the princess said with snip, "I need help with this ragwort. My wing isn't ready for flight."

I stepped out into a world as familiar as my heartbeat--green and gray with a mist that caressed my skin. I looked up into the ragwort with its yellow windmill petals against a lightening sky. The princess could fly home on its stem, which grew as big around as my wrist.

"I haven't a knife," I told her.

"You're as forgetful as a mayfly, Maeva." She touched the stem with a finger and felled the plant. I cleared the plant of its leaves and blossoms and sliced a length for her to use as a flying stick. I stood in the debris of my work, happy with what I'd accomplished. I held out the stem to her.

She straddled the stem and looked over her shoulder at me. "Follow close behind," she said. "I haven't depended on a ragwort to fly since my wee days."

When I hesitated, she frowned. "You're coming, aren't you?"

The cord from Callan's earphones wouldn't hold Peta for long, and then I feared Callan would feel the full force of her wrath when I was the deserving one. And only I knew how to seal the portal. The few rocks Callan piled would only serve to point the way for Peta. Most importantly, when the time came, who would I pass my light to? There was no fae I loved quite so dearly as Callan.

As if she read my thoughts, the princess said, "We will tell stories of your sacrifice around campfires until the last fae has breath."

I curtsied deeply to my princess. "You think too highly of me, your highness." Staying meant youth for generations into the future, mischief among the humans, and the fellowship of the fae. But returning to my human home meant a fulfillment of the love commitment I'd made to Don, as real as any I'd ever made, and the protection of all I held dear in the world of the fae. "The portal must be closed from the other side. Any fae I could name would do the same."

The mist brightened and a breeze slit a hole to the sky, Donegal's bluest blue. From a distance the stuttering honk of the Brent geese sounded. The blousy frills of the wild roses bent and swayed. Above us a heron beat his wings and trailed his long legs like a rudder. I breathed in the deep earth scent of peat.. To leave once nearly ripped my heart out of my chest. To leave again?

"Maeva?"

"I must go." Before I could change my mind, I nodded my head and turned toward the portal. Returning through the roots, my energy sagged and my knees cracked with every step. I focused on the chink of light, pressing and willing myself to forget the land of the fae.

I pushed at the rocks closing the portal, but they didn't budge. I called out to Callan, hoping that with his new wings his hearing had grown more acute.

"Grandma, is that you?" I heard from the other side of the barrier.

"Open the portal! We've work to do!"

Outside the portal I took in the drama I'd left behind. Margaret was working at loosing Peta and apologizing profusely. Bree stood gape-mouthed, surely trying to adjust her belief that family was annoying and boring to what she had just seen. Everyone else must have left. All for the best.

As I grew back to my full stature, my knees fired signals of pain and my arms hung limp at my sides. My shoulders stooped forward. The portal had to be closed before Peta worked free. Turning toward the base of the tree, I struggled to remember the words that had only moments earlier played over and over in my head.

As seo go...?

Dearmad...?

From behind, Peta tackled me into the gladiolas. My right knee hit an exposed tree root and I screamed out. My face pressed into the flowers, their crushed flesh sending out a sweetness that seemed all wrong for what was happening.

Peta sat on my back, huffing and puffing from the exertion of laying me flat. My right knee throbbed, so I drew up my left knee and pushed against the ground to buck her off. For once my heft came in handy.

"Help me up, Callan!" To my surprise, Margaret moved more quickly to my side, pulling me to my feet.

Peta grabbed hold of my ankle, and Margaret couldn't keep me from falling again. There was nothing to do but close the portal from where I lay. "As seo go dtí go dearmad an ghrian a Shine, dún an sliocht seo!"

"It's gone, Grandma. You did it. The portal is closed."

Peta's hot breath filled my ear. "You may have closed the portal, Maeva, but the boy's magic is fresh and powerful. Soon it will be mine."

One look at Callan's face, and I knew his hearing was as sharp as a fox. "Grandma?" he said, backing toward the house.

"What did she say?" Margaret demanded, putting a protective arm around Callan. But only I could save him. Only I knew--or once knew--how to unwing a fae to take her magic. I'd never done it, of course. But every fae studies the Book, reads the words of warfare with discomfort, hoping the knowledge is never needed, especially that you are not the offending fae who deserves banishment and worse.

Peta moved toward Callan and Margaret. Margaret stepped in front of her son. My heart swelled with pride and dread. She had no way of knowing what Peta intended to do. Losing his wings meant losing his magic, which meant a gradual fading of his light and life. I could not allow that to happen.

I pictured the opened Book and the candle illuminating the words written with the pigments of snails and flowers. I rolled onto my left hip to heft myself up.

"Mom, stay down!"

Peta turned to me. "I won't be stopped."

I closed my eyes to read the first line from the page. "Leathnaigh do sciatháin!" Wings be unfurled!

Peta's wings rose. Through their translucence the flowerbeds behind her seemed to bleed into a watercolors. She looked bigger, more menacing. As she stomped toward me, I closed my eyes again to read. The words blurred in my memory. I rose to my feet just as Peta came near. We stood toe to toe.

"Problems remembering, Maeva?"

"Yes, but I have no problem remembering the sisterhood of the fae, how we fought side by side to protect our home, and how we dispensed our mischief as partners in glee. You were my strongest ally. Is tumbling among the gladiolas how we want to end our days?"

Peta put her hands to my throat and squeezed. I willed myself not to panic. Magic was too distant a memory to save me now. I touched her forearms, rubbing as if to soothe, sending my thoughts back to the Peta I knew in the fae court.

Margaret stepped closer. "Mom, should I call the police?"

I met my daughter's gaze. I hoped she saw the calm in me, the unreasonable, desperate calm I called upon to face Peta. Margaret nodded but showed me that she had her cell phone ready.

I said for Peta's ears only, "Do you remember the time we wove straw into the farmer's beard, dodging his snores and stifling our giggles? Or the time I lowered the monbretia into the bucket, so you could climb out? You would have drowned."

Her grip loosened, but she countered, "I distracted the farmer's cat. You would have been bones and gristle if I hadn't called out."

"I held your hand as your da passed his light to you." Peta's wings sagged and she cried into my shoulder.

"Mother?" There were too many questions in Margaret's utterance to answer in that moment, so I simply told her that Peta would be leaving, and that we should put together leftovers for her journey home.

Margaret, Bree, and Callan stayed at the house until my scrapes and bruises healed. They peppered me with questions of my life among the fae and what waited for Callan if he chose to live among the fae. I even caught Bree checking for wings in the mirror.

"It's an odd business," I told her, "how these things get passed down. I haven't a clue why Callan and not you."

"What if Peta comes back when you're not around?" she said. "How can I protect Callan?"

I took her in my arms, the first time since her preteen years, and she didn't resist. "I've remembered more. I'll write everything out for you. I needed something to keep me busy. This ought to do it."

"I won't let you down, Grandma."

"I never dreamed you would."

I felt the space between her shoulder blades. "Boy fae mature faster than the girls. I wouldn't give up hope, not just yet."

Patti Hill is the author of six novels. You can learn all about them here. She's also a founding member of Novel Matters, which means she has five of the loveliest friends a woman could hope for.

Out of the Garden Part 19

Today's installment comes from Debbie Thomas.  (To read the story from the beginning click here.)

I dropped Hector and followed close on Peta's heels. Callan tried to block her way, but she elbowed him aside, saying, "Out of my way, boy."  She continued on into the living room, sniffing like a wolf after a scent.

"You can't hide her from me, I don't even know why you would try."  She opened the hall closet and stuck her nose into the winter coats.  She shut the door and turned the corner into the bathroom, her dark gaze sliding over every crevice large enough for a faerie to hide in.

"Peta," I said, drawing on all my courage.  "It's time for you to go.  I...I mean it.  Go. Now."

Peta paused and slowly pivoted.  She took a step toward me, and in spite of my resolve, I stepped back. Her look pinned me to the spot where she held me, squirming. "Poor Maeva," she said, finally. She looked me over like I was a specimen.  "You still don't remember, do you?"  She turned back to her search and said, almost to herself, "Dara.  Cait.  And that stupid Torin."  She glanced back over her shoulder to gauge my reaction.  "They made it so easy."

Members of the court.  Some of Princess Orlagh's inner circle.  A shooting pain blinded me and I pressed my fingertips into  my forehead.  I sagged against the wall until it subsided.  When I looked up, Peta was rifling through my bedroom. 

Callan caught my eye and slid his gaze toward the dresser.  It took a moment to find her.  Princess Orlagh was crouched by a bottle of Youth Dew with her wings folded as best she could.  The strong scent was potent enough to disguise her faerie musk.  Peta had her back to me and I motioned toward a blanket on the edge of the bed.  Callan licked his lips and nodded.

I stepped to the dresser and scooped up the Princess, carefully slipping her into my pocket.  Peta turned to see what I was doing and rage filled her.  She reached for me, but Callan threw the blanket over her head and tackled her to the floor.  I raced for the back door, throwing it open with one hand and protecting the Princess with the other.  Hector ran ahead of me to the tree with the exposed roots by the wall.  I looked over my shoulder, but saw no sign of Peta.  I could only pray she wouldn't hurt my grandson.

I carefully removed the Princess from my pocket and set her on the ground.  Her luster was dimming and I feared that she would be too weak to cross over.  Muffled scuffling could be heard inside the house, and the Princess lifted her eyes to the sound. 

"Brathadair."  Traitor.

 "Yes, she is.  I remember now.  Go,"  I urged her. 

She reached for my hand, and at her touch, I felt the queer sensation of shrinking.  The tree roots climbed twisted and dark above my head, the sword blades of grass past my ears.  Hector's feet and legs stood like silent columns just outside the portal.  From the corner of my eye, I saw iridescent shimmer from my shoulder blades. I felt light and airy as a sunbeam.  A wondrous feeling after years of pain and loneliness.

The screen door slammed and Callan ran up to us at the portal.  His speed and the sight of his enormous shoes and pumping legs overwhelmed me, but he stooped down when he approached us.

He looked at me.  Words failed us both. I touched his hand, feeling the loss of him already.  And gently from his shoulder blades, iridescent wings unfurled like a newly hatched butterfly.

Feeling the growth coursing through him, he turned his head this way and that trying to see the wings, reaching his hands around himself like a cat chasing its tail. 

An angry curse went up from the kitchen, and he said, "Go.  Go on.  We'll stall her."

"You and Hector.  There's more to him than meets the eye. Take care of your mom and Bree."  I blew him a kiss.  "Slan agat, my sweet Callan."

"Slan leat, Grandma,"  he answered, clearly surprising himself.

Callan piled rocks in front of the portal as the Princess and I moved deeper into the base of the roots toward an unexpected pinpoint of light.  I glanced back one last time when the screen door slammed.  Through a chink in the rocks, I saw Peta huffing and disheveled from her struggle with the blanket.  Her wrists were bound with the cords to the earbuds of Callan's IPod.

Out of the Garden part 18

This week's instalment comes from Catherine Leggitt

(To read the story from the beginning click here.)

Callan and I stared out the window at the commotion in the garden, which seemed to have escalated to a cacophony. Peta and Margaret, faces inches apart, gestured and ranted at one another, though I couldn’t make out their words.

The rest of the family resembled circling vultures.

“Looks like they need a referee.” The smirk in Callan’s eyes belied his serious tone.

Dare I leave The Her alone?

“Hurry.” Callan waved me out. “I’ll guard Her.”

From the bed, The Her beseeched. Get rid of them. The chest rattle now a snare drum. There wasn’t much time left.

Leaving Callan with The Her, I headed for the garden, Hector padding close behind. I pushed through the screen door, letting it pop-bang shut, and I spoke above the din. “What’s going on out here?”

Margaret bellowed. “Why should Peta make decisions about my mother?”

Her mother. Me. “What decisions?” My gaze bounced between them.

Margaret squeezed her lips shut.

Peta narrowed her eyes to slits, a familiar trick to keep me from reading her thoughts.

“Come on. Out with it.” The Her’s life depended on haste.

“Peta talked to Dr. Marigold.” Margaret blurted. “Aren’t doctors bound by confidentiality?”

They are, of course, but Peta had her ways, abilities Margaret knew nothing about. “And?” I said. “What did he say?”

“She said… he—,” Margaret teared up.

“Oh for granny’s sake,” Bree interrupted. “Peta wants to have you put into a nursing home.”

Hector hissed, then vaulted onto Peta, claws extended, completely deranged.

“Get this bloody beast off me.” She slapped at Hector with bony hands.

I wrenched Hector off of Peta, though it wasn’t easy. “He’s never done that before.” He relaxed in my arms.

Herb and Greta, my daughter’s in-laws, snatched up their belongings, mumbling about rabid animals. Klaus scurried after them. “Come along, children,” he called to his teenagers.

Margaret lingered to give me a hug. “Never mind, mother. We’ll sort this out later.”

Peta’s beady eyes probed the house. Nose in the air, she sniffed. “She’s inside. Don’t for a moment imagine I won’t find Her.”

Memories of Peta’s temper left me speechless.

With a hard look, my cousin flounced to the kitchen.

Callan stood behind the screen door, face ashen. “She’s gone.”

Catherine Leggitt is the author of the Christine Sterling Mysteries, PAYNE & MISERY, THE DUNN DEAL, and PARRISH THE THOUGHT published by Ellechor Publishing. A native Californian, Catherine raised two daughters, taught school, and cared for aging parents before retirement drove her to the keyboard. These days Catherine crafts suspenseful and convoluted plots—exploring God’s mysteries through fiction.

Out of the Garden - Part 16

By Guest Author Wendy Paine Miller
(catch up on the story here)

"I'm weak. Time has worn me down." Losing Don has chiseled the life from me.

Excuses flitted inside my brain like a fly bumping against a porch light. Reasons why the task would prove too difficult. Insurmountable obstacles. Years had stripped away my keen resourcefulness. My memory had faded like century-old ink.

Portals? How? Where? Without a thread of an idea how I might create one, my shoulders drooped and I sank lower on my bed. The Her poked at my leg from where she'd hidden beneath my bedcovers, twisting her facial features to communicate how urgent matters were.

Had I mumbled my fears aloud? Given the Her reason to doubt me? I cupped my hands to my face, then let them collapse against my cheeks, pushing fortitude back into me.

Callan tapped the door open just enough for me to see his frame, to see iPod earbuds dangling around his collarbone like a necklace. "You don't have to make honeycakes," he said. "I just miss your cooking." When my grandson stepped into the bedroom the floorboards groaned beneath his feet. "Why are you hiding out in here?"

"You all should leave now. I'm thinking."

"A dangerous thing to do alone for too long." Callan peered out the bedroom window and smiled upon seeing the gladiolas from the garden.

Of course! That's it! My cheeks tightened into a smile. That was where the best portals could be found. I'll try there first.

"Grandma?"

My head quaked, a familiar ache brimming in my chest. Callan's green eyes glimmered similarly to how Don's used to. I glanced down, ensuring the Her had well concealed herself beneath my rose-colored comforter. "Yes, Callan?"

"What is that?" He pointed to the lump. The Princess Her.

"What?"

A mischievous grin swept across Callan's face. "That glowing thing?" He stabbed his finger in the direction of the raised bedding.

At once the Her emitted a piercing shrill. Her gossamer hair had gotten coiled around a button affixed to my pillowcase. I wiggled the button, to no avail. The Princess shook and yanked, but nothing worked to free her. The Her's strident wails continued.

Callan's eyes dilated. He cocked his head, brows scrunched. "What's that noise?"

Did he see the Her? Hear the Her? Could my ally have been the one I least expected?

Wendy Paine Miller is a long-time friend of Novel Matters. She is the author of The Disappearing Key and her latest release, The Flower Girls.

Out of the Garden - Part 15

By guest author Sara Davison (catch up on the story here)

Whether or not there was a budding Fae among them, I needed to get rid of my family. Margaret considered my weekly trip to the podiatrist about as much excitement as my temperamental blood pressure could handle. She was unlikely to encourage me on my quest to find a portal to another world. 

And Peta, she could see far too much of the unseen for my liking. She always had. An icy breeze shivered across my bare arms and I pushed to my aching feet with a groan. Sweeping aside the white lace curtains, I stared at the tightly closed window. 

I spun around and studied the princess. I hadn’t noticed until that moment how pale her skin was, how sunken her eyes. Not a breeze, then. It was coming for her. Had maybe crossed over already. I scooped up the shoebox and dumped the green shoes onto the bed.

The small blue cushion I pressed between my knees to keep my hips from aching at night was soft and fit perfectly into the box. “Here, Your Highness. Lie down. You need to rest.”

I lowered my hand to the bed and she lifted her chin and stepped gracefully onto my palm. Even from an arm’s length away, I heard the slight rattle in her chest as she drew in a breath. 

I laid her down gently and watched, my stomach tightening, as she curled onto her side. Her wounded wing drooped across her back like a shriveled leaf that could be wrenched from the tree at the slightest autumn wind. 

I had hoped to make honeycakes for Callan before everyone left, but there was no time. One way or another, I had to get rid of every last houseguest and make sure they really were gone.

Then our journey could begin.   

Sara Davison lives in central Ontario with her husband Michael and three children. Her favourite activities are drinking coffee - a running theme throughout her suspense novels - and making stuff up.

Out of the Garden - Part 14

by Sara Harrison

(Catch up on the story here)



I had to get Princess Orlagh home -- not just to Donegal, but across the border from the mortal world, into Faerie. Her Highness -- Yes, The Her was her proper from of address -- thought that part would be easier there. I wondered. Many portals had closed and were closing, I suspected, as the world modernized. And Orlagh had been stumbling around in the mortal world a long time; I had been marred to Don more than 40 years.

Transport in the mortal world would be extremely challenging. The aversion of the Fae to cold iron made travel either by car or plane next to impossible. The Her could not endure being encased in steel that way. Food would also be a problem as long as we were on this side of the border. Honey might work well enough as long as it was raw and unpasteurized -- I thanked the stars that the jar in my pantry was from the local farmers' market -- but it was not a real substitute for the true fairy food that could be found on the other side.

The best solution was to find or create a portal to Faerie as close to here as possible, then finish the journey to the King and Queen's court on the other side. But how could I succeed where my princess had failed? My magics were as arthritic as my feet. Peta surely had her own agenda. My family would never believe me. Search for a portal here, then journey to the court? Or attempt to get to Donegal, then hope that one of the old crossings we remembered was still open when we got there? I needed an ally.

The doorknob rattled again. "Grandma," Callan called again. "You promised me you'd always have honeycakes for me when I came to visit." My eyes widened. I had made that promise when he was eight years old. And indeed, I had always made little glazed shortbreads when he came to visit. Callan and Don could polish off an entire pan together in one sitting. But I hadn't baked this morning. "You promised. And now Mom won't even let me have dessert at home."

I remembered Peta's words. "You and I are the only living Faes in the family ... so far."

Sara Harrison is a lifelong lover of fantasy and fairy stories and delighted to be participating in “Out of the Garden.”  A mother of four, she writes, in the words of Anne Shirley, “living epistles.”  Her WIP is a Roman Republic inspired fantasy.

Out of the Garden - Part Thirteen

 By Patti Hill

(Catch up on the story here.)    

"Have we need of introductions?" the Princess said.

      Remembering is tricky, especially after not one, but two lifetimes. "I think . . ."

     “You’re remembering now, aren’t you?”

     I remembered all right—an early mist morning, and a giddy flight to the campsite of a lone human. Princess Orlagh led the way. We ladies in waiting followed nervous, but one does not argue with the next queen of the fae. Besides, I was curious about the humans I had glimpsed over the years, the large ones who lumbered across the sacred mounds. This one had pitched a tent and cooked his meals over a large fire, far from the nearest village.

    I sat on the bed, careful not to tumble the princess off her feet. “We got too close, we did. The net was covered in butterfly scales that tangled our wings. 'Twas terrible.” Our eyes met. “The jar, its terrifying smoothness, unlike anything we’d ever encountered. How could I forget such a thing?”

     The lumbering mortal was Don, out collecting butterfly specimens among the heather.

     Princess Orlagh stepped forward. “Maeve, you’ve lived your destiny.”

    Falling in love with Don had changed everything. It had certainly changed me. I learned his language and lived in his nectar-rich garden with Princess Orlagh and Peta. The princess eventually grew restless and left to find her way home. Peta and I stayed. We spent our evenings sharing stories of the fae with Don—the successions of queens, battles against our enemies, and, of course, love stories. 

     First, we lost our wings. It was no longer safe for us to live outside. Don brought us into the house, where Peta and I lived in an unnatural world and invented new lives for ourselves. And then we grew. Our dresses pinched and laces popped. Don provided dolls’ clothes, which only fit for a day or two before we needed something larger.

   It was his kindness that grew my love, and, probably, my body. I learned later that Peta’s growth mirrored mine for the very same reason. But Don chose me.

     “What now?” I asked.

     “I need to go back. That’s why I’ve come. I can’t make it on my own. I’ve tried. The winds of the large ocean are too powerful, and I’ve failed at finding a portal in this land. And now, with a wounded wing…” She spoke in the ancient tongue.

     “Back to Donegal?” I answered in the same language, surprising myself.

     “The throne sings to me, Maeve.”

     My whole family sat outside my bedroom window, probably thinking I needed testing for Alzheimer’s and knowing absolutely nothing of my fae past. “My family, what will I tell them?”

     “I suppose you’ll tell them to get out of the house, that you’re taking a holiday.” She was impatient with my mortals, and thought of me only as what I had once been. To her, my family was the fae.  

     She made it sound so easy, so royal. “What about Peta? She knows you’re here.”

     “Peta has broken the sacred code. She no longer belongs to us. She will try to follow, but the survival of the fae depends on keeping her in the land of the mortals.”

     Princess Orlagh could have commanded me to take her back to Donegal, but she’d never been that kind of princess. And she knew nothing of the TSA and arthritic feet. “I will get you back to Donegal.”

Patti is the author of six published novels, all of which have a touch of whimsy--Like a Watered Garden, Always Green, In Every Flower, The Queen of Sleepy Eye, Seeing Things, and Goodness and Mercy. She is one of the six original founders of Novel Matters. After writing stories, she loves to teach. And eat Mexican food. 

Many thanks to my editor, Bonnie!

Out of the Garden - Part Twelve

by Heidi Dru Kortman

(Catch up on the story here.)

“Hector,” I muttered, lest Peta overhear. “Where did you put the Her?” He hadn’t behaved like this since he was a six-month-old kitten. Then, he’d made off with Bree’s doll, “Soo-Z Sprite,” though it looked nothing like a sprite to me, and I’d had plenty of experience dealing with the real ones.

So long ago—I’d set much aside to marry Don. And nearly forgotten.

Hector rolled onto his back, stretching one paw to bat the bedspread fringe. Then the cat sat with his back to me and washed.

“If you’ve left the Her behind the living room sofa, Peta will take her.”

 He hissed.

“Cat, I dislike Peta myself. She took Don from me once, and I won’t give the Her away. Bring Her to me now, before she gets thirsty again.”

“Tá mé anseo.” The Her stepped between the bedspread fringes, climbed the chenille fabric, and walked to the far end of the shoe box, where she crossed her arms on the edge. “Tá mé anseo, I am here.”  Whispery, like wind in tall grass, the síog’s voice I heard carried a hint of annoyance.

“I regret needing to move you from pillar to post. Peta is persistent.”

As the Her cocked her head, obviously considering my words like any person would, the door knob rattled hard. That had to be my grandson. “Callan, stop that,” I said.

“Gran, where are the sweets?”

“The price was too expensive.” I tipped one of my throw pillows, and gestured the Her to hide in the cavernous space. The Her sprinted from the shoe box and ducked into the sheltering darkness. 

I heard Callan stomp away. Spoiled child.

I lifted the throw pillow, grinning. “Dia dhuit. Hello,” I said as the síog emerged. “Peta believes you’re a French fae, but you’re speaking Gaelic.” Neachtar, the word this síog had whispered, rolled back time to my years in a Donegal village.

Nodding, she braided her hair. “Dia dhuit. Sive Orlagh is ainim dom.”

“A hundred thousand welcomes, Princess Orlagh. Maeve is ainim dom.”

Thank you, Heidi!

Heidi Dru Kortman, CWG Apprentice graduate and ACFW member since 2004, has devotionals, and poetry in Breaking Barriers, Disability Concerns, Christian Reformed Church in North America, a devotional in One Year Life Verse Devotional, Tyndale October 2007, a short story in Harpstring, vol. 1, issue 2 Written World Communications. She writes flash fiction on AvenirEclectia.com. She is also an active member of Toastmasters International.