Meara by Breana English

Meara

by Breana English

I met Meara O’Connell the summer I turned thirteen.
            The summer my mother put me on an airplane and never looked back.
            Dinner had been almost unbearable. The air around the table crackled like it does just before a thunderstorm while we sat in silence, picking at the mush on our plates avoiding each other’s eyes. I escaped outside as the storm broke behind me, my aunt’s voice rising above the rumble of my uncle’s.
            I wandered down the lane, past stone walls that looked a thousand years old, and sheep that stopped grazing to stare at me. Rubbing my arms, I trudged on.
            The end of the lane opened onto a lighthouse and the bay, leaden in the dusk. I picked my way across the pebbly beach, slippery with seaweed and slime.
            “Be careful you don’t fall.”
            I whirled around, and almost lost my footing. A girl, about my age or a little older, sat perched on a rock near the water, a large black dog lying guard at her feet. She wore a shabby grey dress, her dark hair swirling around her shoulders in the wind.
            “I startled you,” she said, more curious than apologetic.     

            “I didn’t know you were there.”
            “Are you new here?”
            “Yes.”
            “I thought so.” She nodded to herself, satisfied.
            “What’s your name?” I asked.
            “Meara. What’s yours?”
            “Amy. Can I pet him?”
            “Yes. His name is Hugh, and he’s very gentle. My da says he’s useless for such a big dog.”
“He’s beautiful.” I crouched down and buried my hands in his woolly fur. He sighed and rested his massive head on my leg.
            “Thank you.” Meara seemed pleased by the compliment. “You have a dog, don’t you?”
            “How did you know?”
            She shrugged. “I can tell.”
            “I had a dog. I had to leave him behind in New York. I’ll probably never see him again.” Tears pricked at my eyelids.
            “Oh. I’m sorry.”
            We both sat in silence, looking out at the clouds soaring across the sky. Meara reluctantly stood up and brushed off her dress.
            “I have to go, or Da will worry. But come back tomorrow night, please?” She reached out impulsively and squeezed my hands. “I think we’re going to be good friends.”
            I stood and watched Hugh plod after her until he had vanished in the darkness and she was just a pale smudge against the gloaming. 

            I came back the next, and the next, and the next, until the days blurred together. I loved Maera, and adored Hugh, and they loved me in return. They were the only ones who did.
            Maera didn’t attend school, and I never saw them in town. I asked her why once, but she just looked at me and laughed. I bit back the hurt. I couldn’t see why it was funny.  
            We met by the shore, caught between the sea and earth and sky. Hugh watched over us as we built castles in the clouds soaring across the bay, discovered jewels in the magical touch of the sea against the pebbles and planned adventures to far-away lands.
            One night the spring before I turned eighteen, I flew down to the shore clutching a crumpled envelope. A full scholarship to Georgetown. My golden ticket to freedom.
            A crimson sunset bled across the dark sapphire sky and sank slowly into the waves, but Meara and Hugh never appeared. I waited until the stars blazed out across the sky, and then dragged my feet home.
            They stayed away the next night too, and the night after that.
            Weeks went by. I wondered if something had happened to Maera, or Hugh, or her Da. But the town was small, and anything out of the ordinary was discussed until it was threadbare. She must not have wanted to come. I avoided the shore, and spent most of the time locked up in my attic room.
            I wandered down to the old churchyard the evening before I left for school. The sheep were used to me now, and paid no attention as I passed. I followed a hawk careening against the sky, until I was brought back to earth with a painful thump.
            Swearing softly, I looked down at the blood smearing across the cuts on my shin and the lichened gray rock. Great. Just great.  

            Then my heart stopped, and I dropped to my knees to trace the faded words engraved on it.
            Maera O’Connell, October 16^th, 1860- April 5^th, 1878.

# # #

The Gettysburg Sheraton by Bill Kemp

The Gettysburg Sheraton

by Bill Kemp

Historically, linens depart

like exhausted men.

They are stuffed into grey bags,

or bailed for rags into rail cars.

Or piled high in sky blue trucks,

to be washed by the minimally paid,

far away from where cannon preside,

row upon row;

as silent now as cotton bales.

They return uncounted,

a shrinkage of preshrunk sheets,

at the Sheraton.

The rooms, too, are taken.

By parents who,

while three sheets to the wind,

lie in do-not-disturb containment,

their heads pillowed against Picket’s Charge.

They send their young to throw pebbles in the pool.

Slippery children carrying towels not meant to leave the room.

They run circles around danger.

The older boys do cannonballs.

The tween girls worry about how their bodies change,

or not,

while staying at the Sheraton

Gettysburg’s diorama goes unseen,

the ranger’s talk, unheard.

History is left for a cooler season.

Tomorrow they leave for Hershey.

Tonight, they dine at dusk in the cafeteria.

Chlorinated children lose their retainers,

and watch more HBO

than their parents have prescribed,

and try to imagine what else goes on between the sheets

at the Sheraton.

Announcing the WINNERS of our Writing Contests.

Congratulations to the WINNERS of our Writing Contests.

Poetry: The Gettysburg Sheraton, by Bill Kemp
Flash Fiction: Meara, by Breana English

The judges thoroughly enjoyed all of the entries, and the decision was not easy. Thank you to all who participated and helped to make our contest a success.

New Writing Contests!

The library where we meet is hosting two contests for writers as a fundraiser. This is a great opportunity to help a worthy cause, get recognition and win some money.

Here are the details:

The Library Place @ Pittsburgh Mills

Presents:

Two Writing Contests

Flash Fiction

750 words or less

Entry Fee: $5

Poetry

40 lines or less

Entry Fee: $5

Prize: $25 Amazon Gift Card to 1^st place winners in each category

Rules:

Choose and use 5 (or more) of the keywords below:

Careen                 Rustic

Compass              Sapphire

Dusk                     Sky

Linen                    Slippery

Pebbles                 Soaring 

Use:
Times New Roman font, 12 pt

Double-space

1 inch margins

DO NOT put your name on your entry.

Enclose a separate cover sheet with the following information:

Title of the entry/entries

Your name

E-mail address

Postmark by May 31, 2014

(Sorry, we are unable to accept electronic submissions or payments at this time.)

Enclose payment in form of check or money order, payable to:

The Library Place (CLAV)

540 Pittsburgh Mills Circle

Tarentum, PA 15084

Local writers may hand deliver their entries, and may pay with cash, check or money order.

Winners will be notified by e-mail during the first week of September.

Winning entries will be published on our webpage, Facebook page, and writers' group blog.

Non-winning entries and cover sheets will be destroyed to protect your work and identity

Website: Library Place at Pittsburgh Mills

Facebook: Library Place at Pittsburgh Mills

Writers’ Group Blog: Run of the Mills Writers

A Different Challenge for Writing Month

November's crisp cold air and snowfalls seem to lead writers into a frenzy because it's Nano writing month for novelists and play writers.  Now there is PiBold(Picture Book Idea Month).

The idea of PiBold is to create 30 concepts in 30 days.  Tara Lazar and a few other children writers thought up this idea because they wanted writers to have some picture book writing friendly fun.  PiBold heightens you creativity above and beyond nonsense needed to write a picture book.  Ideas can build upon other ideas to create you strongest and best stories.

This year I decided to participate in PiBold.  I logged on to Tara Lazar's website and took the pledge to write 30 ideas in 30 days.  Everything in on the honor system, and your ideas aren't shown or known to anyone which I like because no one can really steal your ideas.  Read the interesting blogs each day of November with giveaways of author signed books and artwork, critiques, and agents willing to take a look at your ideas.  Commented on the blogs, registered for the prizes, and at the end of the 30 days I took the pledge that I actually finished PiBold with 30 ideas for picture books.

 Now the real work begins.  If you're interested in Picture Book writing, next November you can sign up and join in on the fun at Tara's website www.taralazar.com.

by Jenifer McNamara

An Easy Introduction to Creative Writing

Have you ever wanted to try your hand at creative writing?

Here's an easy way to get started, to begin working that part of your brain. I'll give you a "Writing Prompt" here every month. You submit your best short short story-- no more than 500 words. 

That's it! No prizes, no critique, no pressure. 

Just a free-for-all storytelling session.

Are you ready to try? Here we go!

Writing Prompt #1: 

You're sitting in a library reading a book. You finish your book and close it. When you do this, you notice writing on the back of your hand. It's your own handwriting, though you have no memory of having written the message you find there.

Any ideas?

You have 500 words to tell us what's happening!

Submitted by Laura Lovic-Lindsay

My Time in Writer’s Heaven

I never thought I’d have the chance to attend a Highlights Foundation Workshop. They are expensive. But after someone told me about their scholarship program, I decided to apply for one to attend the Writing for the Educational Market workshop. In January I filled out the necessary forms and submitted them with two writing samples and a hopeful prayer. In February, I received a very generous scholarship! Now all I had to do was wait for June.

Finally, the long awaited day arrived. I was 96% excited about my opportunity... and 4% nervous about making the 5 ½ hour drive on my own, from my home outside of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania to Boyds Mills in the Poconos. With the GPS programmed, my suitcase and laptop loaded in the trunk, and the small cooler sitting beside me on the passenger seat of my little van, I bravely backed out of my driveway. I was on my way!

Once I got on the highway and put my full trust in the GPS, I enjoyed the ride. The weather was great and the scenery beautiful. Up and down the mountains I rode. I felt strong and self reliant, and had a lot of time to think along the way. Then, I saw a sign for DuBois and started to cry. It made me think of my Dad and all of the driving he did as a traveling salesman. I felt close to him as I saw the names of the many small towns he talked about at our dinner table. Now in my 60’s, I understood how hard he worked to provide the good life for my family.

After leaving the interstate I wove my way through small towns and followed windy roads that cut through lush green fields.  I passed lots of cows watching me and laconically chewing…always chewing. Soon I heard the words “you have arrived at your destination” from the GPS.  I did it, I thought to myself proudly as I looked up the long driveway and saw The Barn at Boyds Mills standing in the sun. I breathed a great sigh of relief.

I slowly pulled up the long driveway and took it all in. I saw the small individual cabins waiting for our arrival. I couldn’t wait to find mine and see the sign with my name on it hanging in the window. I followed the winding gravel path to the cabins. Mine was at the end of a long circle of cabins. It sat on the edge of the woods. This city girl was staying in the country. I looked for my name. There is was!  

I walked onto the screened porch and saw the key waiting in the doorknob. I opened the door and took it all in. It was charming…it was roomy…it had shelves of books and a comfortable chair to read them in…it had a kitchenette …and it was all mine for the next four days! I settled in immediately, hanging up my clothes, putting my toiletries in the bathroom, and setting up my computer.

At 5:30 sixteen women of all ages, backgrounds and professions gathered to meet each other and share appetizers and wine on the Barn’s beautiful stone patio. Wearing our nametags, we were able to put names and faces together immediately. The one thing we had in common was our love of writing. We ate the first of many delicious meals together around round tables.  We ate and talked and laughed. After dinner, we moved to long tables in a part of the barn that was flanked by large windows overlooking a beautiful wooded area.

After playing an icebreaker, we got down to business. The presenters, Jan Fields and Paula Morrow, dove right into the subject of writing for the educational market. This workshop was crammed with valuable information and interesting discussions. For the next three days, we only came up for air to share meals, sleep, read, research and write. The workshop sessions sped by too quickly. Pencils flew and fingers danced across keyboards while we took notes, trying to remember all of the valuable information. The presenters gave us handouts and emailed us links to all of the sites we would want to explore for more information. We asked question after question, and they patiently gave us answer after answer. By the third day, my brain was like an already soaked sponge trying to absorb more water. So, I used my break before dinner to read a middle grade novel in the solitude of my room. It was just what I needed. With my brain rested, I was ready for our evening session.

On the last morning we met for our final session. When it was finished, many of us were torn. On one hand, we were ready to return home to our families, homes, and lives. On the other hand, even though our brains were “stuffed”, we still wanted more. But there was no choice to make, because this amazing workshop was over.

My time in writer’s heaven had come to an end. I packed my belongings, took my name out of my cabin window, wrote a message in the guest book for the next lucky person in cabin #20, and went to the barn to share one last delicious meal. I chewed slowly, but at the same time jiggled my knee impatiently. Though one foot was planted here in Boyds Mills, the other was moving towards home and my wonderfully ordinary life waiting there for me. With the GPS programmed, my suitcase and laptop loaded in the trunk, and the small cooler sitting beside me on the passenger seat of my little van, I pulled down the long driveway. With a new found excitement about my writing, I was on my way home!

by Audrey Smith McLaughlin

Audrey McLaughlin lives outside of Pittsburgh, PA with her husband Tom. She retired after working 27 years in Early Childhood Education. She enjoys writing and sharing what she has learned from working with young children, their families, and her personal life experiences. You can contact her at audreylengyel@comcast.net .