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Capturing Life with Ink: A Guide to Journaling by Sarah Kolster (February Author of the Month)

I first began keeping a journal when I was ten years old. My older sister had given me her old battered notebook that she had used for her math problems, and I had decided to take it and jot down my thoughts in the remaining blank pages. I was not a good speller and I found myself illustrating my point — in the most literal sense of the word — more often than actually writing it out. I had an ache to write about what was happening around me — perhaps I was a bit of a busybody when I was ten, but I found the actions and conversations of other people most entertaining, and I enjoyed the surreptitious delight of recording them in secret and with my own perspective on the subject. As I matured, I became a better speller and less of a busybody. When I was fourteen, my family started calling me the “Family Chronicler” because I recorded so many details on current local events that you could ask me what Mrs. Blackburn served for dessert three years ago at her son’s friend’s high...
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The Tale of Corlo by Mastin Barry (Author of the Month)

  The plain of Estelech lies between the river Nonn, in the east, and the river Thyn, in the west. To the south lie the mountains of Calad, and to the north the mountains of Minothir. In this land dwelt many birds and beasts, but few men dwelt there. Scattered clans or tribes, nomadic peoples and wanderers. In lands far to the south, a kingdom was founded by those who came from beyond the Western Sea. The name of this realm was Caldemar. Upon a time, king Kyartin of Caldemar sent forth his emissaries into the north to spy out the plains and hill country, and find suitable lands where folk might come to dwell. Of these emissaries the most renowned was Carnvas, son of Beronthir, who traveled the length of the river Nonn and settled with his people beyond the mountains of Minothir.  Here was the northern sea, and from the colonies thus founded ships put out and sailed west along the coast, until at length the land bent south, and following the coast the mariners came at last...

L’accouchement: Éclampsie by Esther Barry (Author of the Month)

  In the morning before the heat set in, I stopped by Maternity to see if I could be of any help with check-ups or deliveries. Maman Lilliane was working that day and it was pretty slow – there was only one lady in labor at the time. Maman Lilliane is a short and fat lady with a hot temper. She looks and sounds angry most of the time. Although I wished it was one of the other nurses on duty, I am not afraid of her moods so I asked her if I could stay and deliver the baby and she said I could. The woman in Maternity was laboring on the delivery bed with the broken footrest. The other one is empty. Why does she not lay on it? I prepared the baby’s things – knitted sweater, pants, hat and booties, blanket and I checked the betadine jar to make sure there was string to tie the cord. We use thick sutures, or the cuffs of gloves soaked in betadine because cord clamps are scarce. Maman Lilliane seemed to think that the woman was nearing delivery, so she wanted me to put on sterile glov...

Christmas Rhymes by Shepherd Barry

    A Christmas Preamble Gingerbread winds and sugar'd snows Are nice; And far better than ice Roasted ham and candied days, In so many ways, you know, So it goes. Savory times and eggnog songs Are sweet; And 'tis pleasant to meet Cinnamon nutmeg and cloves, Merriment, cider in droves,- They belong. Fresh baking pies and justice sweet Are rad; And 'tis well to be glad For the gifts of Life and Time, Cookies, air fresh, cheer sublime, And for meat. Exciting books and movies fun- A blast; Before the season's past, Candles, soft music, scent of pine, A mug of cocoa,- oh, that's fine,  -'Amble done. Old Saint Nick knows I'm no saint, I wasn't before and I still ain't, But he knows the key to Christmastime  Sometimes lies within a rhyme, A mug of cider, a cup of cheer, A siesta from questions like, "Why am I here?" The beauty of snows, Christmas break grows, So it goes. Christmas Rhyme Candy-can...

Pie on Friday the 13 by Hannah Barry

  While I was home for my brother’s wedding there was a fundraiser event at the international school where I was teaching that year. One of the activities involved pies. The students could buy tickets to put into a bucket with a teacher's name on it, and then on the day of the event one name would be drawn from each bucket, and the student whose name was drawn would get to throw a pie at that teacher. I was glad to miss out, but a couple of the 7th grade girls were disappointed that I was not going to make it.  One day after chapel “Ida” and “Caddie” expressed their deep disappointment that I wouldn’t be there for it. “Miss Barry, do you have to miss it? We really want there to be a bucket with your name on it.” “You can just throw pies at the other teachers, why does it have to be me?” “Yes, but we especially wanted you.” “If you really, really especially want to throw a pie at me … You can just ask me sometime. Maybe I’ll say yes.” Perhaps I expected them to just...

The War Chief and the Halfbreed by Mastin Barry (originally shared August 2019)

        We were four mighty watchful men, riding through the Bighorn Basin, and we had already each had our fare share in Indian battles. Cal lead the way, as always, followed by Slim, then myself, with my faithful dog Fang trotting along side, and finally John Shane, bringing up the rear. I was perceptive enough to see the obvious sign: A broken twig, a hoof print in the muddy ground, or the cawing of a startled crow away in the woods. They were trailing us alright, or possibly fixing to dry-gulch us, but we were strung out in a long line, we had our eyes wide, our ears open, and the Sioux should have known by now, that we wouldn’t kill easy. Not with Cal’s place so close, not with safety so near, would we die easy, not at all.     The country was rolling and mild, compared to the Owl Creek and Bridger mountains, or even the Wind River Canyon. A man could run cattle in this country. It was a mite rougher than the plains of Kansas and Dakota, but ...

You Get What you Pay For by Anna Pinkerton (originally shared March 2020)

 We first met Ronda online, but regardless, something about her just seemed right.  One weekend several Januaries ago, we drove up to Denver and located Ronda’s address (with some trepidation, as one always does when Craigslist dealing). But the neighborhood seemed decent as did the perspective seller. We looked her over carefully hoping that the good price didn’t hide a lemon. But with some hurried consultation, we decided that she was the one for us.   After handing over 2,400 in cash, which we had procured in increments of 200 (because that’s all the ATM would deliver), we became the proud owners of a 2002 Honda Civic with Manual Transmission. I do not know if she had a previous name, but soon after she came to us, we christened her Ronda the Honda or just Ronda for short. She was named in part for Ronda Rousey (the professional wrestler) and in part because the name just stuck. Either way she has certainly lived up to it. Because Ronda lived in Colorado, I imagine her...