In Celebration of Sisters #sisters #newrelease

In the world of sisters, there are joys – there are frustrations. There are happy moments – there are moments that make you want to pull your hair out. We’ve got too many of them – we don’t have enough of them. Sisterhood is full of amazing and diverse moments. In Celebration of Sisters is a new anthology with stories and poems from over forty writers reflecting on the fascinating world of sisterhood.

To give you a taste of what’s included in In Celebration of Sisters, here’s my own story – Not Two Peas in a Pod. I’d love to share more with you, but we only purchased first, one-time rights from the other authors, so in fairness to them, I’m not free to share them here. Here’s a bit about my sister – the many differences between us, yet we find as we get older, we’re not all that different after all.

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Not Two Peas in a Pod

“You may be as different as the sun and the moon, but the same blood flows through both your hearts. You need her, as she needs you.”

George R.R. Martin

 As different as night and day.

Just like two peas in a pod.

Both are clichés, which writers are advised not to use. Yet, one of the phrases describes my sister and me perfectly. I’ll give you a hint—it’s not the one that references a green vegetable.

Our lives growing up were rife with differences.

I was fair. She was dark.

I was quiet. She was—not.

I liked dogs. She liked cats.

I was afraid to talk to boys. She always had a string of admirers.

I lived with my nose in a book and loved school. She was smart, but she found school, especially the tests, more of a challenge.

I was the older sister, but more timid in nature. She, the youngest of three, with a brother sandwiched between us, learned early on how to bat those eyes and quiver that lower lip to get her way.

I had one friend at a time. She had a neighborhood full of friends.

 

Healthy vegetables of a certain color are only one of many differences between the two of us. I could live on them, especially the green ones. My sis? Not even. As few veggies as possible pass her lips. She may have an occasional salad. Maybe. Sometimes a helping of corn. But if the doctor told her she couldn’t eat another vegetable again, she’d be ecstatic with his verdict.

My favorite long-ago story is from when she was a little tyke. She was very young and I was just three years older, so neither of us truly remember the incident. We only know the tale from the family stories that get repeated through the years.

In those days (not quite back to the dinosaur era, but our children may claim differently), children were expected to eat what was put in front of them. The story opens with Sue (Susie back then) sitting at the kitchen table having a stare down with a noxious green vegetable she refused to eat.

Dad insisted. “Eat your peas.”

She plainly stated her refusal. “I ‘frow up.”

Dad, in his fatherly authority, persisted. “You will not. You will eat them.”

Sue finally complied. And then, promptly stood up and did as she’d promised.

Our birthday parties differed vastly, too. My parties were smaller events, with only a few friends, but Sue’s parties were quite different. I recall one of her birthdays when she was in fifth or sixth grade. This is one that our mother likes to bring up, now and then, to tease Sue about. Picture a garage full of grade school children standing around, packed elbow to elbow. In trying to keep the party manageable, and keep expenses lower, Mom made ten invitations for Sue to pass out to friends.

That created a situation for the young socialite. She had more than ten friends. So even though her invitations ran out, she kept inviting friends anyway. Fortunately for Mom, Sue shared this news with her before the day of the party. I can guarantee she was batting those big brown eyes furiously while she shared her dilemma about why she had to keep inviting people.

More than once well-meaning, but nosey, acquaintances asked Mom if Sue was adopted. Mom had the stretch marks and labor memories to prove otherwise.

As we grew up, our relationship changed. Not immediately. Certainly not as I entered High School and she was still in Junior High.

One year during this period, we lived in Arkansas and shared a bedroom. I spent a lot of time reading. As I laid on my bed engrossed in my book, Sue laid on her bed, across the room, surrounded by a small army of stuffed animals. Bored, she launched one at me. Then another. And another. One at a time, she kept it up, enjoying every moment, relishing every fling of her ammunition. She laughed as she watched the steam build behind my ears until I got so angry I grabbed my book and stomped out of the room.

Time passed. We ended up with a common adversary. We were back in California, and our brother, Butch, decided that he was our boss. He vowed to protect us—especially from the young boys in the neighborhood that began to hang around. He spied on us from the upstairs balcony—when he wasn’t annoying us by walking by and mussing the top of our hair.

Sue and I banded together and started to grow closer. At least at home. Definitely not at High School, where I was an upperclassman, and she was just a young pup freshman.

We still had a lot of differences. I took all the Home Economics classes I could and loved every one of them. I learned to sew. Mom taught me how to knit and crochet. Meanwhile, Sue’s favorite method of hemming pants involved either a stapler or a roll of Scotch tape.

Gradually, year by year, we moved from a sister-only status to sisters and friends. Those differences between us seemed less important the older we got.

When Sue married and entered the motherhood game first, our roles flipped. She, now enjoying her moment in the older sister role, began to save toys and clothes from her two boys for my two younger ones.

Along the way, I became more confident and more social. Sue became—well, no, she didn’t become quieter. Never mind. I won’t go that far.

Once her children, now four in number, were older, she returned to school and got her college degree. She discovered she was smart. She could take tests and excel at school.

We’re still not two peas in a pod. But, through the years, we’ve discovered we truly are friends—not just sisters. We’ve learned that we do have one major thing in common. We share a heart. We come from the same roots, but we’re just two different plants growing in the same pot. We hold each other up, comfort and encourage each other, talk, and laugh. Together as sisters, we experience the trials and the joys of this earthly life together. I wouldn’t trade her in for all the gold on the planet.

Thank you for stopping by and reading this tale of two sisters. You can check out In Celebration of Sisters here:

Amazon Link for In Celebration of Sisters: https://www.amazon.com/dp/154828212X/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1510619064&sr=8-1&keywords=In+Celebration+of+Sisters

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Burn, Baby, Burn

BURN, BABY, BURN

On Fire new kindle.jpgCapable of creation and destruction, fire burns within us.

Behind the thick, black smoke of our lives, we blaze with our own unique flame.

While love compels some, others feed greed and lust into their hearths.

A tool for the deft hand, used with magic or as a weapon, but irresponsibility leaves deep burns and promises dreadful consequences.

 

ON FIRE brings to light twenty-six tales that explore this unpredictable yet beautiful element.

Handle with care.

Coming out 12.01.17!

 

Contact Information

Website: http://www.transmundanepress.com/

Blog: transmundanepressblog.wordpress.com

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/TransmundanePress/

Twitter: https://twitter.com/TransmundnePres

Newsletter sign up: http://eepurl.com/bYiL2r

 

Editors’ Bios:

burn1Alisha Costanzo is from a Syracuse suburb. She earned her MFA in creative writing from the University of Central Oklahoma, where she currently teaches English. She’s the author of BLOOD PHOENIX: REBIRTH, BLOOD PHOENIX: CLAIMED, LOVING RED, and BLOOD PHOENIX: IMPRINTED and is co-editor of DISTORTED, UNDERWATER, and AFTER THE HAPPILY EVER AFTER. LUCIFER’S DAUGHTER, her new novel, is its creation for a hopeful 2018 release. In the meantime, she will continue to corrupt young minds, rant about the government, and daydream about her all around nasty creatures.

 

burn2Having relocated from Northwest Florida’s lonesome roads and haunted swamps, Anthony S. Buoni now prowls the gas lamp lit streets of New Orleans, playing moonlight hide and seek in the Crescent City’s above ground cemeteries. Anthony is the author of Conversation Party, Bad Apple Bolero, as well as the editor to the Between There anthologies. His stories and articles have been featured in North Florida Noir and Waterfront Living. When not prowling, Anthony keeps it scary, writing dark fiction, editing, and watching horror movies. In his spare time, he DJs, plays music, and conjures other worldly creatures with tarot cards and dreams.

Visit our author pages to learn more about the contributors here.

Giveaway Links:

$25 Amazon gift card giveaway

 http://www.rafflecopter.com/rafl/display/5ea998ae8/?

Free Books! Join the VIP Launch Team

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Free Books!

Join Trisha’s VIP Launch Team and receive free books in exchange for honest reviews.

Your name will be in the acknowledgements of each book you help with. For the launch of each book, there will be drawings and goodies for each team member that participated in that launch. You’ll receive sneak peeks and excerpts from upcoming books. You’ll have news and cover reviews first. You’ll be part of a private Facebook group that will include launch team members only.

What’s involved in being a team member?

You’ll receive a digital copy of the book 3-4 weeks prior to publication. When the book is published and available, leave a review on Amazon, and Goodreads if you’re a member there. If you have a blog, hosting a guest post around the time of the release would be greatly appreciated. (It’s not necessary that you have a blog to be a member of the team.) At release time, share on social media. (Just once is okay. I don’t like flooding my page with numerous buy-my-book posts and I wouldn’t ask you to do it either.)

You don’t need to participate in every book that’s released. You can pick and choose which ones you’d like to be involved with. Here’s a list of some of the books scheduled for future release. There may be one or two short stories a month also – again, each is totally voluntary.

Grandma Jones’ Kitchen – October 2017

In Celebration of Sisters – November 2017

Every Day’s a Good Day: Remaining Positive in a Retail or Service Based Profession – January 2018

Mothers of Angels – March 2018

Embracing 60 – June 2018

A Spoonful of Sugar: A Daily Dose of Inspiration and Encouragement – October 2018

How do you get to be a Launch Team Member?

It’s easy. Send me a private message on Facebook, or email me at texastrishafaye@yahoo.com with a request to join the team.

Anna’s Butter Mold

Vintage Daze

When Mr. Campbell, owner of the town’s mercantile, asks Anna to bring in her butter for trade, Anna laments not having a butter mold. Mr. Campbell shows her a catalog that offers several nice molds, but husband Henry says they don’t have enough money. To Anna’s delight, Henry comes up with a solution.

A Mold Like No Other is a short story in my monthly newsletter, Back Story, written for the monthly theme – butter molds. You can read the whole issue here.

Want to receive Back Story in your inbox every month? Sign up here – it’s FREE.

Sit back and relax. Take a trip back in time and enjoy this monthly short story.

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A Mold Like No Other

Henry reined the horses to a stop in front of Campbell’s Mercantile. Setting the hand brake on the wagon, he hopped down to the slushy road and scurried around…

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Dear Arlie – bean

Dear Arlie is a fictional tale about five friends in their early 20’s, set in 1911. While fictional in nature, snippets about these real women have been taken from actual postcard correspondences between Pauline Washburn and Arlie Shinkle.

In Tuesday Tales, we write to a weekly word prompt. Once a month we write to a picture prompt. This week we’re writing to the prompt ‘bean.’

Return to TUESDAY TALES here, to read other fun tidbits of upcoming works.

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Typically at the community picnics at Old Settler’s Park Arlie was like the belle of the ball, traipsing back and forth amongst the different groups of families and friends. On this Fourth of July gathering though, she was more sedate than usual. She sat primly on the family’s woven blanket, legs tucked underneath her in a ladylike manner as she listened attentively to George. In between his ramblings, he’d stop to stuff his mouth with a huge bite of the fried chicken he was so anxious to get.

In these quiet pauses, Arlie’s mind would wander. What surprise does he have for me?

“Baked beans?” George’s words caught her unawares and she jerked to attention, almost knocking the pan of golden brown nuggets out of his hands.

“Oh, no…sorry. You caught me woolgathering.”

“About anything exciting?”

“No…not anything in particular…not really,” Arlie stammered. She didn’t want to admit that her thoughts were racing through her brain, trying to put together little bits of puzzle pieces in an attempt to figure out what his surprise was.

The family finished eating and passed their plates to Mother, who gathered the dirty dishes and utensils and placed them in the picnic hamper, along with the leftover food. Everyone lay back relaxing with full bellies and the summer sun beating down upon them.

William and Eddie wandered by and stopped to visit. “Hey, George…want to join us in a game of horseshoes?”

George turned to Arlie with a question in his eyes. “Do you mind?”

“Of course not. You go on. I’ll stay here in the shade and rest.”

After the men ambled off, Arlie’s mother looked her square in the eye. “Are you alright, dear?”

“Yes, Mother. I’m fine.”

“You’re so quiet today. You’re not being a little gadfly between all your friends.”

Arlie sighed and tried not to be disrespectful towards her mother. “Remember…Millie’s in Michigan. And Pauline’s moved. Only Alla’s here today. I haven’t seen where the Richardson’s are sitting, and it’s too muggy to go walking about in search of her.”

“Just asking, dear, to make sure nothing’s amiss.”

“Really, Mother. I’m fine and dandy.” Arlie paused and stroked her chin. “Besides, George has a surprise for later tonight and I’m trying to figure out what it is.”

Arlie tipped her head up in time to see her father trying to suppress a grin. “What? Father? Do you know anything about what George is planning?”

Arlie’s father coughed and wiped his hand across his mouth as if trying to wipe his expression away. “No…no…not a clue. Don’t know a thing about what the young fella has up his sleeve.”

Shaking her head in disgust, Arlie laid back on the blanket and closed her eyes. This is going to be the longest day in history.

But, after a short cat nap, and George returning all red and flushed to wake her, the day passed by quicker than she’d imagined. Neighbors stopped by to chat with one another. The mayor and his wife circulated among the crowd, passing out small flags to anyone who didn’t already have one. When everyone was getting hungry again, they dug out the pans of food and cleaned up the rest of it. And before she knew it, the evening sky was dimming, and the crowd was beginning to stir and get restless.

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George spoke to Arlie’s father. “Sir, may I whisk your daughter away to watch the fireworks from a special spot?”

Arlie’s father winked as he answered. “Naturally, son. Long as it’s not too secluded and private.”

George blushed and stood. “No, sir! It’s nothing like that. It’s a spot I discovered last year. At the edge of the park. And you can see the fireworks quite clearly. Not a tree nor a bush to hid them.” He glanced up at the towering oaks they were sheltered by as if to make a point. He held out a hand to help Arlie stand.

Arlie took his hand and felt her heart flutter at his touch. She felt flush at the thought of being alone with him at the edge of the park, just the two of them with no family and friends.

When they arrived at the location George led them to, he turned and apologized. “I’m sorry. I neglected to bring a throw to sit upon. I suppose we’ll have to stand and watch.” He glanced over to a rock overcropping at the top of a small ravine. “Unless you want to sit over on that boulder? Although it’s not much of a chair for a princess.”

“Oh, George, you know me. I’m not that prim and proper.” She waved her hand in the air as if brushing the thought away. “But you can scout it out and make sure there’s no snakes.”

Grabbing a small limb laying underneath a hickory tree behind them, George did his manly duty and pushed and prodded at all the nooks and crannies. Declaring the area free of vermin, he proceeded to grandly lay his white handkerchief out on the flattest part of the rock for Arlie to sit on. There the two sat, shoulder to shoulder, as the bangs started and the night air was filled with sparkling flashes of red, white, and blue.

They sat in awe, the flares in the night sky being much tamer than the sparks that were igniting in their bodies. As the grand finale lit up the valley in an explosion of light and color, George turned to Arlie and caressed her cheeks with his palms. “My sweet, sweet Arlie…would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

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Return to TUESDAY TALES here.

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Dear Arlie – bike

Dear Arlie is a fictional tale about five friends in their early 20’s, set in 1911. While fictional in nature, snippets about these real women have been taken from actual postcard correspondences between Pauline Washburn and Arlie Shinkle.

In Tuesday Tales, we write to a weekly word prompt. Once a month we write to a picture prompt. This week we’re writing to the prompt ‘bike.’

Return to TUESDAY TALES here, to read other fun tidbits of upcoming works.

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Arlie rushed to the front door and flung it open to reveal George standing on the covered porch.

He held his straw fedora in his hands, nervously twisting it in circles. “My, aren’t you a lovely vision for this fine Fourth of July?”

Arlie tucked a few strands of loose hair into her bun and primped. “Why, thank you, kind sir. And you are so handsome in your freshly pressed shirt and striking tie. Is it new?”

George shuffled his feet and dropped his head as if suddenly shy. “It is. Got it at John Campbell’s mercantile for our outing today.” He tipped his head up and raised his shoulders as if finding an inner well of courage. “Are you ready to go? I heard the band practicing on the way here. The parade should be starting soon.” He held out an elbow, ready to escort his girl.

“Let me grab my parasol and tell Mother that I’m leaving.” Arlie dashed back inside, leaving her guest standing on the wrap around porch in front of a wide open door.

George awkwardly stood, as if unsure whether to enter, stay where he was, or sit on the porch swing and wait. Before he could decide which plan of action to follow, Arlie appeared in the doorway, tucking an embroidered handkerchief in her waistband, a white lacy parasol dangling from her wrist. Taking his offered elbow, she slid a gloved hand into the bend and the two stepped down off the porch and headed towards Main Street.

A squeaky noise appeared behind them, accompanied by a soft scrunching sound. Both George and Arlie turned their heads to look and saw Arlie’s neighbor on a bike soon to overtake them.

Arlie squealed with delight. “Look at Mrs. Henderson go!”

George chuckled as he watched the woman ride past them, her eyes intent on the road and never veering towards the pedestrians. “Bet the whole population of Ellwsorth will be in attendance today.”

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By the time they’d reached the downtown of their small community, Arlie already had her parasol open and was shading them both. Heat waves shimmered off of roofs and surfaces. Dust from the foot traffic billowed around the crowd, but everyone was so caught up in the excitement, that the heat didn’t slow anyone down.

A drum cadence announced the start of the parade and those mingling in the middle of the street quickly moved to the sides, clearing the way for the uniformed drum crew. A vendor passed along behind the crowd hawking his wares. “Flags here. Get your flags here. A penny a piece.”

George dug in this pocket and handed the stubble-faced man two pennies. He and Arlie now had a flag in hand to wave with the other observers. Three motor cars followed, with billowing drapes of red, white and blue festooning each vehicle. The local suffragettes followed at the tail end, waving flags high above their heads, while two women on each side of the group handed out flyers to the crowd lining the street.

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Arlie frowned as they passed by. “How I wish Millie were here for the fun today. It’s just not fair that her father spirited them away to Michigan. She’s always been here for the festivities. And Pauline too. This is the second year she’s missed. I wish she hadn’t moved all the way to Los Angeles.”

“Do you ever hear from her?”

“From Pauline?” Arlie waited for George’s nod of agreement before continuing. “Yes. A postcard now and then. Not often enough. But several times a year. We were so close for so many years. She’d often take the train down from Bloomington and join us at Old Settler’s Park for different events. Now our little group this year is down to me and Alla.”

“And me,” George reminded her.

Arlie patted his shoulder in reassurance. “Yes, dear George. You too. The best part of the day.”

He grinned slyly. “Maybe before the day is over, I can make it even better for you.”

“Better? Come now, dear man. How could that be? Do tell.” Arlie pursed her lips in a pout.

“Tell? And ruin the surprise? That would never do. You’ll just have to wait for the fireworks to find out.”

“Not find out till the fireworks? But that’s hours and hours away!”

The crowd began dispersing and moving down the street towards the park. George, the ever perfect gentleman, held out his arm to guide Arlie along. “My sweet Arlie. You’ll just have to wait in suspense. Now, let’s join the others at the picnic, lest they think I’m hogging you all to myself for the whole day. Much as I’d love to do that.”

“Give a little hint at least?”

George stopped and turned to look her square in the eye. “A hint? Hmmmm…fireworks and the desire of my heart…a lover’s moon…Arlie Shinkle on my arm…”

George Noble Paxton. That does not constitute a hint.”

“Then I suppose you’ll just have to wait. Let’s go eat. I’m famished and my stomach has been rumbling for some of your Cook’s delicious fried chicken.”

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Return to TUESDAY TALES here.

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Dear Arlie – picture prompt

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Dear Arlie is a fictional tale about five friends in their early 20’s, set in 1911. While fictional in nature, snippets about these real women have been taken from actual postcard correspondences between Pauline Washburn and Arlie Shinkle.

In Tuesday Tales, we write to a weekly word prompt. Once a month we write to a picture prompt. This week we’re writing to a picture prompt. There’s three photos to choose from. This is the one I chose.

Return to TUESDAY TALES here, to read other fun tidbits of upcoming works.

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With the long walk, the heat of the day and the water play, exhaustion settled in around the group of friends bringing the siren sound of slumber. Millie and Alla ambled back towards the blanket. Soon drooping eyelids proved that the others were ready to join William and Eddie, who were still dozing.

Arlie stood and nudged the two sleepers with a bare foot. “C’mon, let’s head back home. I have no intention of falling asleep out here where an insect is sure to fly in my open mouth.”

The boys sat up and stretched while the girls began packing up the food. On the walk back, the six weren’t as chatty or animated as they’d been on the way to the meadow. The three girls traipsed on ahead with the three boys lagging behind.

Millie eased up to Arlie and spoke softly in her ear. “So? What did you two talk about?”

Arlie answered with a Cheshire cat grin. “Not much important. But – he’s going to stop by Tuesday morning and walk me to the picnic.”

No matter how much Millie prodded and pleaded, Arlie didn’t add any further information.

The next two days a restless Arlie wandered the house. Her mother finally snapped at her. “Will you go in the kitchen and help Cook? You’re pacing is about to give me a case of the vapors.”

The minutes ticked by on the grandfather clock hanging on the foyer wall, with resonate gongs sounding every hour. Finally, the sun was breaking on a hot and humid Fourth of July day. Arlie stayed upstairs so she wouldn’t be called into helping with the picnic preparations. But her door remained open so she could listen.

Just as the clock finished chiming eight o’clock, Arlie heard a loud knocking on the oak door. Her feet flew down the stairs, her hand barely brushing the polished walnut hand rail.

 

Return to TUESDAY TALES here.

Return to MY WEBSITE here.

Fargo Women Plot and Plan

Inside This Writer's Mind

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Fargo Women Plot and Plan
A Vintage Daze Short Story

By Trisha Faye

AMAZON LINK:

SUMMARY

The women of Fargo, Texas band together to create a church cookbook. Even though 1935 was a difficult year for most of the country, the women are determined. Extreme heat, drought, dust storms – they are nothing compared to the wake of women on a mission. But will the force of the worst dust storm in history derail the women’s project? Take a step back in time in this Vintage Daze Short Story. This historical fiction is inspired by actual women and their ‘How We Cook Down on the Farm’ cookbook created for the Fargo Baptist Church.

Seventeen recipes from the 1935 cookbook are included with this short story.

EXCERPT:

Maude stood in the doorway, hesitant, as every seat was full. She looked around the room, feeling a little out of place. Doilies filled…

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Dear Arlie – business

Dear Arlie is a fictional tale about five friends in their early 20’s, set in 1911. While fictional in nature, snippets about these real women have been taken from actual postcard correspondences between Pauline Washburn and Arlie Shinkle.

In Tuesday Tales, we write to a weekly word prompt. Once a month we write to a picture prompt. This week we’re writing to the prompt ‘box.’

Return to TUESDAY TALES here, to read other fun tidbits of upcoming works.

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The small group finally arrived at the meadow, their journey slowed by the joking and lollygagging along the way. As they headed towards the small corpse of trees where they typically laid out the picnic blanket when they came to the creek to play and cool off, Arlie spoke up. “I’m so excited about the picnic and fireworks this year.” She tried to suppress a widening grin. “I even have a new frock to wear for the Fourth. It’s got huge blousey sleeves with a fun red, white, and blue trim.”

George looked in her direction and winked. “I’m looking…”

Before he could finish his thought, Millie butted in. “I won’t be there this year. I’m going to miss it.” She pursed her lips in a pout.

Arlie stopped and spun around. “You won’t be there? But why ever not? You’re always part of our little gathering. You, me, Alla – and Pauline before she moved. You have to be there!” Arlie gestured emphatically as if the waving of her hands in the air would make it so. She paused and scrunched her eyes, little lines around the corners emphasizing her worried look. “But what about the flyers? I thought you were going to help your mother and her friends pass out the flyers we folded the other afternoon. The ones advocating our right as women to vote.”

“Father’s being a beast. He took some time off from the bank. We’re going to motor up to Michigan on Monday.” Millie frowned and stuck out her tongue. “For the whole month! Imagine! What am I to do up there for the whole month with no friends? Although – it is awfully strange that he’d come up with this grand idea so suddenly. Almost as if he’s out to foil Mother’s plan to participate with the suffrage group.”

Quiet Alla spoke up from the rear. “Michigan? Why there? You have family there?”

Although Millie’s tongue returned to its proper place, the frowny pout remained planted on her face. “No family. Father says one of his business associates told him of an Inn that’s a wonderful place to holiday at. Sauble Inn, if I recollect. There’s supposed to be a grand lake with rowing and fishing. I imagine Father will be planted behind the end of a pole for most the days. It shall be dreadful. I know I’ll pine away from loneliness.”

A young woman always shows her sunny disposition. Words that Arlie’s mother frequently admonished her with came floating through her mind to haunt her. And, although she was slightly concerned about how it appeared that Millie’s father was attempting to sabotage his wife’s activism activities, thoughts of spending time with George crowded out her other concerns. “Well, if there’s rowing that should be delightful.”

“I suppose. At least it shall be cooler up there,” Millie conceded.

Arlie turned and began walking again towards the shaded glen. “Speaking of cooler, let’s sit down the blanket and basket and go cool our feet first before we eat.”

dear arlie_wading1.jpgThe rest followed and soon all six were down at the creek removing shoes and socks. The three boys were slowed as they rolled up pants legs, while the three girls simply picked up the edges of their skirts and were wading about in the ankle deep creek.

George was the first of the boys in the water, trousers up about his knees and hat still in place. He made his way towards Arlie.

Arlie giggled and kicked up a foot, splashing water in his direction.

“Arlie Shinkle…” he started in protest, then chuckled and splashed a handful of water back towards her. “You better behave, or I’ll get even at the fireworks.”

dear arlie_wading2.jpg“Now just how will you get even then? There’s not a bit of water about at the park.”

“No, no water. But there’s watermelon – and cold drinks. You just never know, my sweet girl.” His eyes twinkled as he teased her.

After an hour splashing about, the friends returned to the picnic area, cooled and refreshed. They dug into the hamper with relish, eating as if it were their first meal in a week. Full and replete, they lounged on the plaid, woven blanket. William and Eddie soon snored away, their heads propped up on their rolled up jackets. Arlie and George spoke quietly to one another, seated next to each other at the far corner. Millie and Alla, wanting to give their friend a little private time with her beau, grabbed their cameras and headed back down to the stream.

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Return to TUESDAY TALES here.

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Dear Arlie – box

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Dear Arlie is a fictional tale about five friends in their early 20’s, set in 1911. While fictional in nature, snippets about these real women have been taken from actual postcard correspondences between Pauline Washburn and Arlie Shinkle.

In Tuesday Tales, we write to a weekly word prompt. Once a month we write to a picture prompt. This week we’re writing to the prompt ‘box.’

Return to TUESDAY TALES here, to read other fun tidbits of upcoming works.

 

dear arlie_3 friends on the fence.jpg

 

Although the heat was rising, it didn’t slow the group of six friends down. They were on a mission to reach the cool shade of grove of trees lining the meadow. Only the girl’s silliness gave them occasional pause, as they stopped along the way when their giggles overcame them as they frolicked in front of the camera lens.

Millie took the camera from around her neck and held it out. “George, come get the camera and take a photograph of us girls.”

“I don’t know how to use that new-fangled contraption. Last time I shot a photograph it was still the old box type.”

“You can do it. It’s a snap. Come here, I’ll show you what to do.”

After a two minute instruction on the workings of the Kodak, George seemed satisfied that he could operate the device. “Besides,” he countered, “if you two girls can do it, then a strapping fellow such as I should be able to.”

Arlie snickered. “It’s not the brawn that will take a good photograph. It’s the brains that matter for this.”

George looked up at Arlie with a twinkle in his eye. “Then I guess I’ve got the brains too. After all, I’ve got enough smarts to know that I want you for my girl.”

A hot blush rose from Arlie’s neck and tainted her cheeks scarlet. She opened her mouth, but not a word came out.

“What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?” George teased.

Alla’s raised voice from behind them shattered the moment. “Come on you two. Arlie, get over here with Millie and I so George can take our picture.”

Reluctantly Arlie turned to go join her two friends. She rather would have stayed and pursued the conversation with George. A Cheshire grin lit up her face as they posed for the camera.

He likes me! He wants me for his girl!

As she settled in on a wooden step between Millie and Alla, Millie rose up and started acting like she was going to climb over the makeshift ladder contraption set over the barbed wire fence.

Arlie’s grin widened, even though she tried to sound outraged. “Millicent Arnold! What in the world. Get back down here before you show those young men more than they need to see. Sit down properly so George can get a good shot of us.”

The click of the camera echoed across the space and the girls knew that Millie’s shenanigans were captured on celluloid. “I get this one. It’s my birthday so I get this picture to put in my scrapbook.”

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