What will happen if I try;
To keep moving, to let fear pass me by?

Is each crunch of a leaf and every breeze that that blows, a sign that change is near, is just beneath my toes?

And is that change, that ever-moving goal, something to be scared of, something to befall?

No. It can’t be.

I can’t let it be fear, that forces me to stop and tells me doom is near.

Instead, I’ll move forward over the side of the path, because nothing can be worse than regret’s evil wrath.

I’ll peek over the side, that one that feels so steep, and know that I’ll survive, as long as it’s my own path to keep.

By: Casey Kuchler

Follow me on instagram @caseykwriter

I’m dreaming of fall, I feel it sneaking near.

Wishing for a cool breeze, but I’m in Florida, oh dear !

The decorations are golden with a tinge of warm glow,

Helping me breathe a little deeper, causing serenity to flow.

Pointed hat, porcelain witches are brought out from hiding,

Bringing with them bats and pumpkins; my favorite Halloween tidings.

The smell of the season wafts around me like a hug,

Cinnamon and nutmeg in a steaming, hot mug.

Squash as large as tires and round with a stem,

Get a happy or spooky face carved into them.

They say to love this season, makes me a basic kind of girl,

To that I say, “you’re right”, and then I turn with a twirl.

I need this time of year, the time for us all to give thanks.

This time, is the best time; it fills my love tank.

Is it possible for me to pour just one.

It is possible, isn’t it?

I can do it.

Just one.

Glug, glug, glug.

The buttery golden tone sparkles as the glass fills high.

To the middle is the correct amount, the amount I should pour, but my arm leads the way, pouring way more.

My lips touch the glass as I tip the cup up, just a tad. I don’t want to spill, I’m careful not to waste one drop. One dribble down the side would be just painful. Every morsel must make it into my mouth.

Instantly, a zing of excitement, my heart seems to skip a beat. The feeling is too good. It shouldn’t be like this, I know. Another big gulp and my limbs feel heavy. Everything seems to melt toward the ground, I release my body to gravity. Except the corners of my lips, they have a new shape, they twist upward.

Two more sips and it will be gone. Already? And then panic sets in. Just one glass, it isn’t enough.

Two will be perfect. I’ll just have two…

She’s not feeling so well anymore.

She used to run and skip and jump, but now,

she just poops on the floor

We think that she won’t be here much longer,

And we are getting kind of scared.

We have lots of questions that we want answered

So that we can be prepared.

So what happens to our doggy

after she passes away?

Well … we are definitely sad and

don’t really feel like we can play.

We hug each other and hold hands

We cry out lout and even get mad!

We feel confused

that we wont see our doggy again,

But there are some things we can think of

to help us understand.

We can believe that when a good doggy dies,

they get wings and fly up into the sky.

Maybe, they eat treats all day

and bounce around on fluffy clouds.

It’s nice to imagine them happy,

sniffing their friends and barking super loud.

We can even believe they turn into something new.

Like maybe our good girl Marlee is a caterpillar,

crawling around and eating plants too!

We can believe Marlee flew all the way to mars,

becoming a glowing, green alien,

exploring the universe and flying through stars.

Maybe our good doggies are on the moon

Or dance with us when we listen to a happy tune.

Maybe our doggies watch us, as we fly a colorful kite.

Maybe Marlee sleeps next to us, in our dreams late at night.

Sometimes we will be sad,

And Sad is okay to be.

Just remember that when they aren’t here,

We can still think about them, happily.

We can think about the funny times, like how Marlee rolled in the mud,

And like how she might be a new flower in the grass,

just growing from the bud.

We can think about the life we gave them,

and how we kept them safe.

But more importantly the life they gave us,

And the love they showed everyday.

Let’s tell our doggies THANK YOU for all the fun and silly times.

And get excited for the next doggy,

That will come into our lives!

Brynn enters the building and knows exactly where to go. Blood soaks into her favorite Janis Joplin t-shirt as she carries her heavy head under her left arm.

“This is the day the elevator decides to break?” She says, the words huffing from the head she cradled. She looks around, glad that she’s alone in the lobby, until her eyes land on the doorway to the stairwell. With fast feet, she makes her way across the bright, airy room and slides herself through the doorway. She sighs deeply as the door shuts behind her, she’s safe in here, no one around that might see the predicament she’s in.

Untamed strands of hair tickle her arm, giving her the creepy feeling of a spider crawling on her skin, so she reaches across her body to brush it down, pausing just for a moment on the steps. “Almost there, a few more floors.” She unenthusiastically cheers herself on.

The round, heavy basketball of a head seems to lead the way, eyes facing forward, taking in each step as she ascends. Her thoughts go to her poor mom who gave birth to this gigantic head and never let her forget it. Brynn now understands why her mother was always so bitter.

Thick heat that engulfs the stair well causes her chest to rise and fall at a rapid speed. Brynn feels a droplet, something wet landing and on the fuzz of her knuckle. The perfectly placed mascara, that she had spent too many minutes getting just right, mixes with the salty beads of sweat until thin black rivers form on her face. As vexed as she feels by the whole situation, she finds herself in, she still takes a moment to giggle at the way her unattached head, riding under her arm is becoming sweaty in the hot stairwell. “How strange.” She muses.

A distant slam of a door reverberates up the winding stairs, causing her to clench her head tightly and cower. She picks up speed, aware that any person, unfortunate enough to see this unholy sight might die of shock, and that’s the last thing she wants on her conscious today.

Brynn steps into the seventh-floor hallway whose ugly green carpets and yellow walls agitate her senses, and although she’s walked this path many times before and for the same reason, the harsh decor never gets any easier to take in. No matter how ugly, she does admit that the air-conditioned corridor is a welcomed reprieve to her sweaty brow and takes a deep breath, feeling her heart rate start to even out.

The tried-and-true desk clerk, Betty, gives a knowing wave and stands from her desk. Brynn walks quickly toward the entrance to the clinical doorway that leads to the back office, knowing that once she’s back there, she can finally relax and get this sorted out. Thankfully, the only other person in the waiting room is fully engaged on their phone and doesn’t look up to see Brynn, the headless woman.

Waiting patiently in exam room four, she sets the large, weighty head down on the thin paper that covers the table. It crinkles and scratches and the noise seems to fill the quiet room, until finally she is still, calm for the first time in what feels like an entire day.

“AGAIN?” Dr. Bond calls out, as she shuts the door to the examination room.

With a tablet in her hand, she taps furiously, glancing up with concern every so often.

“Hi Dr. Bond.” She greets, tentatively. Brynn’s fingers weave in and out of each other and she furiously taps her legs, trying anything to get out the nervous energy she feels.

Dr. Bond’s amber locks, normally long and draped over her shoulders, have been styled in the most perfect ballerina bun today, showing off her swan like neck, and making Brynn self-conscious about the state of her own unhinged hair. She rummages through her purse for the travel size brush that comes in handy on windy days or on days like today; when her head rolls off her body.

“What happened this time?” Dr. Bond asks Brynn, annoyance apparent.

“I swear Dr. Bond, I was so careful!” Brynn lies, knowing damn well that she was not careful. How else was she going to get to see her favorite doctor again. But now, she begins to regret her decisions exponentially. What was she thinking.

Dr. Bond adjusts her stethoscope and cocks her head to one side, bending down to meet Brynn’s eyes. Brynn’s headless body rests next to the head on the table, and it shifts on the paper, trying to get comfortable as Dr. Bond comes closer. The light shines directly into Brynn’s pupils, making her flinch and blink.

“Well, you’re lucky.” Dr. Bond announces, “There’s no brain damage.” She stands up straight, pulls on and snaps blue gloves over her porcelain hands, leaning closer to Brynn’s neck stump. Brynn can’t help but think what a shame it is to cover such a beautiful hand with those ugly, rubbery things. Dr. Bond leans over the headless neck and Brynn tenses up, feeling a sensation run from her toes all the way to her neck, even over to the tip of her unattached head. This happens every time they get this close.

“I’m going to clean it up now, you know the drill. Then I can reattach it. This might sting a little.” Dr. Bond says and Brynn watches as her plump pink lips part as each word escapes them.

The brownish red liquid has a strong smell and wafts into the air around Brynn’s nostrils. Dr. Bond dabs the sterilizing tonic onto the stump, and then onto the neck below the severed head, making sure all the open areas are well cleaned. Bombarded with the chemicals, Brynn’s nose begins to wiggle, and her eyes become glassy. With barely a moment’s notice, one strong sneeze causes Brynn’s head to rock forward and then back until it’s quickly tumbling off the examination table.

Moments stagger by, a slow-motion dance as both Dr. Bond and Brynn’s body lunge forward and catch the head before it lands on the hard, linoleum flooring, no doubt saving it from true damage. Their arms linger on each other’s, and they sigh in relief.

Dr. Bond notes a surprising shift from what she once felt about her patient as she feels tingles at the sensation of her arms on Brynn’s. She feels her lips tug upward into the slightest smile.

Arm in arm, cradling the head, their hearts begin to beat in unison, and pick up speed. Brynn, whose eyes gaze into those of Dr. Bond’s, starts to speak and the words come out dreamy and slow. “I’ve never seen those green speckles in your eyes,” she whispers.

And as if really seeing her for the first time, Dr. Bond ganders down at Brynn’s beautiful face and asks, “What are you doing after this?”

“Please,” he cries, eyes blurry and damp, “I’m hungry, please I need food.”

We walk hand in hand from the restaurant and I can’t help but marvel at his tiny, soft palm in mine.

I ordered him two different meals that he didn’t want because the food looked “gross.”

He’s the cutest thing, ginger hair and missing teeth. Only six years old, but something in his expression makes him seem wiser than his years; maybe it’s all he’s been through. After all, life’s not easy for a young boy with two loving parents. A boy that has friends, family, and sleeps in a safe house at night.

I am not distracted nor taken in by his begging. I glare at him, all patience leaving my body and scold him, “you had the chance to eat and you didn’t, so now you’ll have to wait.” Then, I offer him a banana that he doesn’t take, turning his nose up at the mere sight of the yellow fruit.

Later at home, I find the boy lying around and groaning. “Why is it so boring here? There is nothing to play with, no toys, no games-.”

“What about those?” I interrupt, gesturing to thirty -or- so toys scattered on the floor. “What do you call those?” I try to ignore him as I leave his bedroom stepping squarely onto a red Lego piece then tripping over his Nintendo Switch.

“Fu-,” I yell the half word, glancing back to see if he understood the curse that spewed from my lips. He did.

On the second day of summer break, I clean the dishes and pack a bag full of snacks and drinks. “Put shoes and socks on if you want to leave soon!” My shrill words echo down the hallway.

The boy did not want to put his shoes and socks on because doing so was “too boring” and he hated it.

“She should know I don’t want to put my shoes on, I said it fourteen times.” The boy whispers, but not softly enough to not be heard.

I gently remind him a couple more times that we need to put our shoes on and when I finally hit my breaking point, screaming loud enough for the neighbors two houses down to hear, the boy becomes upset.

“Why did you scream at me to put my shoes on? I was going to do it!”

On the third day of summer break, we cooled off in the car, air conditioning blasting at our red, sweaty faces. “I hate car rides, why did we even go anywhere, it’s so hot!” the boy cries. I stay quiet, listening to the griping cascading from his little toothless mouth,

“Why is it so hot in summer, we shouldn’t have left the house today.” I can’t respond, the traffic is horrendous and it’s a 40-minute drive back from the children’s museum and zoo. I’m trying not to be another crash on the five o’clock news.

It has been a long day and the boy becomes quiet at dinner. I watch as his chin falls to his chest then pops up again, over and over. I pick him up, his limp body heavy and awkward.

“Off to bed.” I whisper, softly kissing his sweet, freckled cheek.

Suddenly, the boy opens his eyes, wide like an owl. “I’m not tired!” I don’t argue, instead I place him back in his dinner chair. “Eat your dinner.” I say calmly as I shovel some mashed potatoes into my mouth.

“But I’m too tired to eat.” The boy whines.

The next day, a wide smile shines on my face as I enroll the boy in summer camp.

“Well, how does it feel to be a part of the club?” My husband asked, his gallows humor a defense mechanism that he built so forcefully after losing his own dad.

“What club?” I asked as he pulled me in and wrapped my head with his arm.

“The Dead Parent Club.” He said and I could feel his thin smile fading as he hugged me in closer.

To be a member of this exclusive club, you need only a couple things:

1. Your mom dead
2. Your dad dead

I feel lucky in a way. Lucky that I didn’t lose my mom when I was too young or going through the hardest part of my life. I got to learn everything from her. How to drive, how to do my hair and nails. How to sing. How to be confident.

When she died I was 33 years old, about a year and a half ago. We think we don’t need our parents anymore when we get older and maybe in a way that’s true.

I think about all the girls who lost their mom’s to cancer before they got a chance to think they didn’t need them anymore. Before they felt like they could maybe live a life without them.

Until I lost her, I didn’t realize how much I called her, thought of her, wanted to tell her something dumb. I didn’t realize how many times a day I needed to ask her how to do something. I didn’t know that my whole entire existence revolved around this one person. Good and bad.

I also never thought I would start to forget the way she smelled or the sound of her voice. Not completely, no, but enough to make the fear of that loss overwhelm certain moments of my day.

I wasn’t so nice to my mom before she died, not all the time anyway and I relive those moments too often. I didn’t know she was dying, maybe she didn’t either, until it was too late.

I wanted her to fight harder. I needed her to be stronger. I wished she had taken control and said to me “don’t worry about a thing, I got this.”

I know now that she was just a person, doing her best.

So to the others out there in this exclusive club, I see you. I see your shame, guilt, happiness and gratefulness. I see your fear and your pain and your blind outrage. I see you, my fellow club member.

Today, I got my sixth email from a literary agent, kindly letting me know that they will NOT be working with me for my debut thriller novel. I’ve also just learned that for the third time, I have not been on any short or long lists for a writing competitions that I have entered.

In March of 2023, I finally sat down and began my journey to authorship. And wow it’s been a doozy. I wrote my novel in about four months; it was like I couldn’t get it out fast enough. I had always wanted to be an author and over the years I’ve consumed too many thrillers and true crime stories. I’ve dabbled in children’s books, and I truely hope that my little stories will find a home of their own one day.

But then the next part came: What do I do with this 60, 000 word manuscript?

I think I had to ask myself: What do I want?

1. I want to be a published author.
2. I want to see my book in stores/online
3. I want my kids to be able to say that their mom is brave enough to TRY.

As I read about the different forms of publication, I decided that for me, I would be mad at myself if I didn’t at least try to throw my manuscript at a few agents and see what I got back.

SO BEGAN THE QUERYING PROCESS — aka — The PROCESS from HELL

I consumed a ridiculous amount of information about this dreaded query letter process and began to write one. Draft number 98 went out and I still didn’t love what I wrote: Why? Because I felt stifled and stuck: You can only use so many words in the letter to describe the entire feeling and plot of your book. The letter is supposed to be a pitch, a sales tool and believe me, I felt like a real tool when I wrote it.

So then I did it, Submit!

Crickets chirped….

From all my research as a newbie, I’ve learned that some agents don’t even have the time to email you back. Other writers might go months without receiving so much as a “no thanks” or any other reply. You either have to reach back out and gently remind the agent that you’ve sent them a manuscript OR you just know that you didn’t cut it.

So when I got my first rejection, I felt fortunate that at least I can cross that one off my list, instead of waiting around wondering if my email got lost in their spam.

I didn’t feel so fortunate after my fourth rejection, fifth, and sixth.

I feel strangely about this whole process, I really do. In listening to podcasts, agent videos and reading blogs that break down the querying process, what I’ve come to learn is that the whole system is quite…HMM (what is a nice way of putting this?) ODD.

This is what I mean:

• You must follow the instructions on each agents submissions page, to the T. And just to make it interesting and exciting, they are all completely different. With the eight or nine that I sent out, only two submissions were in a similar format.
• Who are you trying to work with? You must know something about the agent so that they know that you didn’t just pick their name out of a hat. But, they don’t like it if you get too personal. To this I say, “UH-OH. I swear I didn’t just “like” 17 of your posts on social media.” And really pick the right agent for YOU. But to this I say, “But I want to be published and any agent is better than no agent when you’re new, right?” I did pick lots of agents to query, and I didn’t know most of them. Maybe I recognized an author they rep’d or a book they were involved with, but for the most part, I think I just really believe in my manuscript to the point of self destruction.
• You need to know your market, and what books are similar to yours to compare them to. To this I say: “But I’m a creative writer, not a marketing major.” To an extent, I understand who my writing would resonate with, but on the other hand, I HAVE NO CLUE ABOUT THE PUBLISHING INDUSTRY.

With all that said, I feel lucky and proud of how much I’ve learned about the process. I can say that I’ve tried!

I don’t know for sure if this process is for me. There are many routes to publication and I’ll be excited to get there by whatever path works for me at the time. I truly hope that sharing my mistakes, my failures will resonate with all you fellow impatient creatives out there.

I know I still have a lot to learn. But writing, being creative, relating to people through stories and story telling, that is where I want to be!

Can you relate to this?

“I am positively magic!” the freckled girl said.

I make good things happen, with just the flick of my head!

“What is positivity?” You might ask

Let me give you a hint, and maybe a task.

Positivity comes in all shapes and sizes,

When we least expect it, it can surprise us.

So when you are having such a very bad day,

Positivity and a laugh can magic that away.

Here’s what to do, are you listening to me?

Lean in a little closer, and I’ll give you the key!

When your lips do not smile, when your heart says, “OH NO”

Shake your hips side to side and tell the bad vibes to, “GO!”

“Go away you sad thoughts, go far and go wide!

I’m positively magic, you step aside!”

Lift your arms way up high and wiggle your fingers around,

This magic is positive to get rid of your frown.

See now you have done it because you are magic too.

Anytime there is sadness, YOU will know what to do.

Positivity is a dance, maybe even a song,

Positivity is your smile, so big and so strong.

All about ISBN’s

Never in a million years, did I think that I would one day write words about those silly little numbers that rest so delicately, so quizzically on the back of my all my favorite books. But here I am. **She sighs

I wrote a book, well a manuscript and as I research how to get the file from my computer and onto pages for someone to buy and read, ISBN number came up in my search.

“You don’t need them.” Some sources say

“Yes you do, if you want your book to be in libraries.” Another barked.

Well none of that really happened but that’s how it felt, reading all the confusing and conflicting information about those sly numbers.

So lets do this, lets learn. I promise not to hurt you with boredom.

Some quick facts:

1. They are on the back of the book
2. Normally 10 to 13 digits long (before 2007 10 digits, after that, 13 digits… think how many we’ll need in 2045 …)
3. In America, the land of the fre-e, the ISBN numbers are NOT FREE, at all! You must purchase them at a hefty rate and each title needs it’s own. UGH, I know!

YOU TRICKY NUMBERS, YOU!

Anyone still with me? I, for one, thought that knowing this was a very cool thing. And maybe if you’re not planning on writing a book and selling it one day, this would be information that you don’t need.

But I will say, when I pick up my next read, I won’t be able to resist the urge to flip it over and give those numbers a little wink that says, “I know you, baby. I see you and I know you.”