we had wings

This is an exceptional philosophical poem that is unique and bold. It gives a different view of the story of Eve, and gives it wings, blessings, and joy. Thank you Holly for a beautiful view of a time when we had wings.

House of Heart

Then, wisdom grew from fruit

and  time was a seedling.

All creatures spoke the same,

hymns of bats, the breath of horses.

We were winged and freedom

was etched on the soles of our feet.

Pathways in the earth and sky were known,

not charted.

Now we step naked into the blazing sun.

Bare  ourselves  to golden rivers and the

awesome tidal thunder.

Dali and The Garden of Eden

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Response to Evil: Revisited

This post, by Professor Charles F. French, is too important not to reblog. I too, am a Humanist and always speak the truth to people who rather hide under a basket, just hoping that their personal world won’t be involved, but it will, sooner than later.. There will be regrets, but regrets and blame will not change what has already happened.

charles french words reading and writing

Maledicus

Edmund Burke said, “The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing.” This issue is one of the central themes of my horror novels Maledicus: Investigative Paranormal Society Book I  and Gallows Hill: The Investigative Paranormal Society, Book 2 and is also one of the main issues that has faced humanity in the last one hundred years. From the consequences of millions slain in the Holocaust to one single person murdered on the streets of New York City while many watched and did nothing, humanity has been confronted with this dilemma. We see brutality, oppression, and bigotry towards others on an almost daily basis. When finding evil threatening others, what do we do? Do we ignore it and pretend that it is not there? Do we call authorities to try to handle the situation and hope they arrive in time? Or do we inject…

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Quote of the day

This quote, by Shelby Foote, is brilliant. Historians, writers, and authors do recreate history by their research or with their love of presenting history by bringing history to life.

M.C. Tuggle, Writer

Shelby Foote“The point I would make is that the novelist and the historian are seeking the same thing: the truth — not a different truth: the same truth — only they reach it, or try to reach it, by different routes. Whether the event took place in a world now gone to dust, preserved by documents and evaluated by scholarship, or in the imagination, preserved by memory and distilled by the creative process, they both want to tell us how it was: to re-create it, by their separate methods, and make it live again in the world around them.” Shelby Foote, author and historian

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Authors, Don’t Run From Social Media: 10 Tips to use it Efficiently and Avoid the “Cesspool.” – by Anne R. Allen…

Reblogged from: Chris The Story Reading Ape’s Blog! Thank you Chris for this very informative, insightful post regard today’s social media climate. Another great post from Anne R. Allen.

Chris The Story Reading Ape's Blog

A lot of writers are talking about quitting Twitter and Facebook (and FB’s subsidiary, Instagram) because social media has become a “cesspool.”

I hear you. Politicians, celebrities, and their mindless minions use social media to trash-talk and stir up negativity and chaos. Plus scammers and sadistic trolls lie in wait to pounce on the innocent and vulnerable.

It’s also terrifying how Facebook has been invading our privacy and offering us up as prey to enemy operatives, predatory advertisers, and malevolent click farmers.

On top of that, many marketing “experts” urge authors to waste precious writing time on pointless social media activity.

But giving up all social media because awful people are abusing it is like giving up your phone because of telemarketers and fake IRS scammers (who now make 50% of US phone calls.) Yeah, they are horrible. But there are ways to avoid them and you need your phone.

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World Book Day!

Following instructions: (1) Tidewater by Libby Hawker (one of my favorites) and one of my novels: Garrett’s Bones (one of my personal favorites). https://www.amazon.com/Garretts-Bones-Karen-DeMers-Dowdall-ebook/dp/B01M4MNOF0/

Garrett's Bones by [Dowdall, Karen DeMers]

charles french words reading and writing

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(https://pixabay.com)

April 23, 2019 is World Book Day, and that, in my opinion, is an extraordinary celebration!

Please take this moment to tell us about one of your  favorite books  and also to publicize your own book.

Please do both, and then reblog or tweet this post! That way, many can see your writing.

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(https://pixabay.com)

One of my favorite books is The Lord Of The Rings by J. R. R. Tolkien.

Here are my books:

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Dark Cold Water

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

This is a reblog from February 28th, 2015 and it is something I wrote years ago, it is loosely based on a true story. 

The Indian summer began like any other when I was twelve years old growing up in the small colonial era farming community of Granby, Connecticut. The last fields of the summer harvest had been shorn of their corn, alfalfa, hay, and tobacco. The wet smell of fresh cut hay filled the air as well as the mingling aroma of tobacco fields that now lay bare of their crops. The large tobacco leafs would hang neatly from wooden poles to dry underneath white-sheeted tents. The smell of tobacco, sweet and pungent, hung in the air. It was a grown-up smell, a smell of intimacy and secret goings-on. My cousin Garrett and I would sometimes sneak up behind the white-sheeted tents and listen. Giggles, laughter, and strange noises were not unfamiliar sounds to our ears as we listened. More than tobacco leafs nestled under the white-sheeted tents.

Not far from the tobacco field was an ancient apple orchard that looked like something out of a wicked fairy tale. Walking through its darkly gnarled wood was a rite-of-passage experience for anyone under the age of twelve. To this day memories of Canton road, where I grew up, float across my senses.  I envision its tar paved darkness as it crosses over Salmon Brook, cuts through McLean’s game preserve, wanders by weird old Stewart Duncan’s farm, and the said-to-be-haunted Sperry colonial homestead. Canton Road weaves it way over-laying the swell of land occupied for ten thousand years by the indigenous people like the Massaco Indians who were a part of the Algonquian tribes. Evidence of their habitation is still visible by those who know what to look for.

Spirit Pond is one of those places. There are sightings by the locals of ghost warriors that still drink the dark cold waters of Spirit Pond and are not as rare as one would like to believe. Spirit Pond is a large spring fed body of water surrounded by tall reeds and weeping willows. Its dark cold water and deep recesses still hold untold secrets as well as the body of Minnie Brogan. My rather strange cousin Garrett was drawn to the story of Minnie Brogan and I followed suit. Young Minnie Brogan lived in a small dwelling at the edge of Spirit Pond in 1680 not far from our home in the Salmon Brook Settlement.  She was said to have met with a ghastly end. It is a haunting legend of sorts and the story appears in the town’s tourist pamphlets as a way of advertising its colonial history to visitors.

It was said that young Minnie Brogan lived a solitary existence in her meager dwelling on the edge of Spirit Pond and tended a few chickens and a vegetable garden. She also grew medicinal herbs. In colonial times, a female living alone who also concocted remedies was sure to raise suspicions of witchcraft. Yet, Garrett and I doubted this explanation and we would often sit by the edge of Spirit Pond trying to envision that long ago crime. Minnie Brogan was dragged from her thatched hut. She was bound by her hands and feet and thrown into the spring fed pond. We wondered how scared she must have been as she slowly sank into Spirit Pond’s cold dark waters. I personally believe there was more to it than just medicinal herbs. Minnie was young, alone, and was said to be hauntingly beautiful. She was accused of conjugating with evil forces. As a six grader, I had no idea someone could actually be murdered for not knowing how to conjugate a verb (although there were times I was sure by teacher at thought of it).

So, it was in winter when Spirit Pond was frozen-over that Garrett and I would go ice skating and just as often we would look to see if Minnie Brogan’s ghostly apparition would rise up from the ice. Although we never actually saw her ghostly-self rise from the pond, we imagined what she would look like if she did. I wonder about Minnie Brogan’s secret hopes and dreams that vanished into the dark cold waters of Spirit Pond one nefarious moonless night long ago. Sometimes I even imagine I can feel her presence as I dip by fingers into the waters of Spirit Pond. It is though the earth remembers her and still holds her secret longings. I, too, will always remember Minnie Brogan.