Winter 1974 or The Night The Moon Fell

The events in this story are true. On a cold winter night back in 1974 a group of kids  set out on a daring mission. To investigate the odd neighbors that have taken up residency in their neighborhood. I am the only one I know of that has written the tale.

 It was just your typical  weekend winter evening; at least that's what our parents thought! All the kids had just finished doing their supper chores, and were counting the minutes on the clock, for their 'normal' outdoor neighborhood rendevouz. They had decided after months of deliberations to finally investigate the old barn across the street from Timmy and Joannes' houses.    

That fall new neighbors had moved in across the street  from them.

 I was new to the neighborhood myself, we just moved in that summer.  I was a year older than the kids, and thought they were silly and not yet grown enough in their adoloscent behaviour. As usual I became more of an observer than a participant of foolish pranks. Child play I thought..

If I wasn't always being told that I needed to make new friends, I would have been content to just stay up in my room and read that night.

 Rumor had it, that the couple who had moved in down the street across from Timmy and Joanne, were witches! They told us they often heard loud chanting around midnight, and once saw the old man draped in a black cape and hood. So that fall, I spent my days sketching the old barn. It was a great old barn, who would guess that I was actually looking for traces of witchcraft? I guess I was hoping to find some kind of evidence I could report back on. No one would ever suspect me of doing nothing more than drawing.

 I only spied the man once. I didn't know what a witch was supposed to look like. I suppose he could've been a witch. He reminded me of Wolfman Jack; He had grey hair and a goatee, was fat around the middle and only "hurrumphed" when he saw me. Did witches hurrumph ? I always had the notion  that they could read your mind; like fortune tellers, reading tarrot cards. I wondered if he knew my reason for sketching the barn..

                                      ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 The kids always met in front of my house in the street. It took me awhile to figure out why. Next door to us was an empty lot. The street side and along our house were lined with tall pines, the lot itself slopped down toward the back of its small 1/4 acre. They used this spot to run and hide when they were afraid of being caught. Mostly so their parents would not see them on their way home from work, for sneaking out after being disciplined for some infraction and a weekends grounding.

 I hurried up to put away the last dish, grabbed my coat and mittens and wondered if I was going to be allowed to tag along. Being the voice of reason to all of the crazy stunts they wanted to pull, this was to be their most daring.

 It had to be tonight. For three months Joanne and Timmy both took turns studying the coming and going of the witches. This night they would not be home, they were sure of it. It was a Friday, and for the last few months they watched them leave around 4pm and return past midnight, each Friday night. Tonight had to be the last night they could go, before the Holidays took them to visit distant relatives. The weather was perfect for it. The snow had melted accept for the remaining snow banks, and would leave no traces of footprints..., just in case.  No one wanted to be caught, and certainly not by a witch! 

 While we waited outside in front of my house for the stragglers to show up, the boys started throwing snowballs. They were more like compacted rocks of water and ice. A few of them started throwing them over the enbankment onto the on-ramp of the highway that was just on the other side. I knew if I complained I was not going to get to go along, so I kept quiet. I knew too - that they were all scared to sneak into the barn that night, and figured it was all a part of them working up their courage. I was only hoping that no one would get hurt, when all of a sudden we heard "Splat", then what sounded like a large "Crack". Someone looked down to the ramp below and yelled.." RUN!"  I couldn't, I could not run. I was angry, I figured they just screwed up the whole evening.

 As I stood there watching the last kid in the group dissappear down the slope, protected in the shadows of the tall pines, the man in the car stopped me in the street. He wanted to know if I threw the snowball. I said I didn't...."I just got out here after hearing a comotion, and saw some kids running down the street"-I lied. I listened to the guy explain to me how he could have been killed, and off he went in the direction I told him I saw the kids running. I waited a bit till the car was out of sight, then I went into the empty lot looking for the kids, they were gone. I figured they must have all cut back behind my house and up the street towards Timmy's and Joannes. I went back up to the road to see if I could see them ... No one. They couldn't have gotten far.  

 I walked up the street and peered through backyards, still I could not see them. I continued onward,  stopped at Joannes and Timmy's street, no sign of them there. Perhaps they went to the end of our street up the hill at the dead-end, and slipped through the chainlink fence at the Old Ball and Chain, an old steel foundry, where Jack and I found the skeleton of a cat completely intact, the weekend before.

Still no sign of them.

So they managed to find a way to exclude me after all. I decided to go home...Screw them!

                               ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 I was halfway home when I thought I heard them..But then maybe it was the wind..I stopped to listen again. Was that Jack? It sounded like a scream. At that very moment the wind picked up  and a bright light appeared across the street over the overpass. What the Hell was that! As it got brighter, it got closer. Was it an unidentified flying object?  I was frozen in place, mesmerized by it's luminosity. It appeared as if the Moon had just fallen out of the sky. It was as large as the moon, full and white like the moon, and just hung suspended for what seemed an eternity. Then the winds began to howl and I thought I heard another scream. Then as suddenly as the moon fell, it disappeared. Was I just seeing things? Were those screams I heard?

It was time to go. 

 Everyone was watching television when I got in. "Where's Jack" they asked. "She's over Joanne's house."   (My second lie tonight.)

 I told them I was going to bed to read. Sitting on my bed looking out my window I hoped to see the Moon drop again. I hoped to see Jack come walking home too. It started snowing softly, and I hoped the kids had not gotten caught. I was close to falling asleep when she finally came up to bed.

 "So what did you see?" I asked.  She didn't want to talk about it. I pleaded, "did you get caught?" (She wasn't herself,  for that I was sure.) 

 She said she didn't remember much; there was a pentagram in the middle of the floor and candles burning. Then a bright white light that blinded her, and she remembered screaming...That's all she would tell me. That's all she said she could remember. 

 In the morning we awoke to a fresh blanket of snow. The skeleton cat at the Old Ball and Chain would be forgotten, footprints  would be erased by the plow, and all traces of last night would become faded memories.....accept mine.

Copyright  1-19-12  Jackie Summers

My Nightmare

 I decided to go to England and visit Mike. Things were going well, until.....

   (For the first part, one week is too long of a visit..In England...)

  Mike was his normal self, well to mean he was not manic the first few days, however after 3 days of trying to remain sober you could see his need for alcohol increasingly becoming more apparent. I suggested to help ease his anxiety that he should invite some friends over. Not realizing he did not have the financial means to throw a party,  we decided to take the car and visit some of his friends. (Assuming we were dropping him off to see someone about some cash he was owed.) We waited outside in the car. However he was gone a very long time, thus we thought we should check on him. We had to back the car up as we had to park some distance away on a very narrow street atop a very high hill. ( of course this is supposed to paint a picture setting the scene for a downward descent for the rest of the dream)

The women driving the car was not Marge , but a very old lady, possibly his elderly neighbor, but she never reappears in the dream. The car is very small, and I remember how amazed I was that she could drive, and to drive backwards at that. As like most older people she could barely see over the steering wheel.

Well we found Mike standing outside with some truly odd looking people, he looked agitated but also a hint of being pleased with himself. ( if one could be both )

And he got back into the car with this very odd looking character..to describe this man ; very frightening..he was tall and thin with long hair, menacing eyes and wrinkled clothing. His manner of dress was dirty black dungarees and a black worn out tee-shirt , sporting an old  worn out black leather jacket, and scuffed black leather boots. 

Not at all the type of character I would find myself in company with. I decided that this was going to be one interesting party.

We arrived back at Mikes and were awaiting the arrival of some of his friends, when I started noticing my surroundings. I had not been paying much attention upon my visit, as I was not interested in what he owned, but more interested in seeing him.

To set the scene: I remember visiting Mike from the front of his apartment, whereas I never saw the full 3 floors of his flat. This time we entered from the back at the bottom level.  It was very dimly lit, but you could manage to see the interior had a cellar pub  quality  about it. Part hand- hewn beams and stone walls. Upon passing under a large hewn- beam to a flight of stairs, the passage rather narrow and steep, I notice for the first time Mikes shoes; A very narrow wing point toe of soft brown leather with an ankle height, containing only 4 eyelet laces. The type you may envision of days ago , worn for the mud laden streets in England. A true pedlar's shoe. I thought they suited him well for his thin frame.

 At least the stair's passage was more lit up, and I followed him to the second landing. There we entered a room also a dimly lit, yet brighter than the first. This room; the walls were dark, and hanging on them some unusual tools. (Tools of his trade I was to later learn.) The furnishings were sparse and low to the floor; a red cushioned ottoman and some chairs, and lots of clear plastic, gathered as curtains draping the entry to other doorways. In the center was this amazing coffee table handmade by Mike..It was glass top mixed with some intricate carvings of natural stone that had a purple mica look, shimmery under the faint light.

We were seated as Mike went off to fetch some drinks, as we waited for his guests to arrive. I didnt speak to the menacing man in black, too afraid , but also more interested in trying to figure out the odd implements hanging on the walls. I was just thinking that lots of men collect tools of various sorts and display them as art, when his guests started arriving.

There was a beautiful redhead, nameless of course , as they all were to me, and 2 brunettes and a blonde. So far only women..I assumed they were friend's of Marge. Then one gangly looking man arriving 20 minutes later, also nameless.

 Music was playing loudly  and I could not make out any of the conversations, but I politely nodded as if I heard. When all of a sudden bursts of anger broke out, and a fight ensued, breaking Mike's beautiful coffee table. I decided to make a quick exit, and going back down the stairs I found this girl sitting on the lower step. I asked her who she was and she said she was a tenant of Mike's and lived on the upper floor behind the plastic that led to another flat. She looked frightened and unable to move. I asked her if there was a bathroom I could use down in the pub like room and she led the way . It was just a small cubicle, but I was able to see on my way there that the first floor room contained an overly large sink, and some more of the same tools and plastic sheathing. Here the sheathing draped the walls and floor in one corner, and  a very large wooden table, also of hand-hewn  lumber. I thought perhaps Mike liked to carve as a hobby and the tools I had seen were the same ones he used to make that beautiful coffee table, that now lay ruined. 

  Feeling bad and kind of responsible suggesting he invite friends over, I gathered my courage to go back up and tell Mike I was sorry. I was not alone on this trip as Jeff was with me, (however he only appears in my dream on a few occasions). The look I saw in Mike was oddly haunting; Menacing but calm, purposeful , the look of a smiling maniac. I thought, shit!  I need to reassure him that I will make this right. I'll get the table fixed , and told Jeff we should go look for materials now.

Mike only grinned, and said that would be fine.

 So we left the party leaving behind the other guests in search of materials for a new coffee table, and Jeff berating me for wanting to come to England in the first place.

We arrived back at Mikes the following day, and decided to use the back entrance as we did not want to bring heavy loads of rock into his home, which I may add looked nothing like the other two rooms of his flat. Those rooms were bright  and nicely furnished. Obviously the other two rooms were where he would have friends over to party and hide his creative passion for his hobby; shut off from the sounds of hammering, or chiseling stone.

  Upon reaching the back entrance we ran into Marge, she was carrying out large bags of the same clear plastic sheathing, rolled tightly and stuffed into larger bags. She said Mike would be out to help us unload the stone as soon as he finished up. I assumed she meant washing up, as it appeared she was taking out the broken table, and it looked like blood was on the plastic. I was thinking he must have cut himself trying to discard the shards of glass. She must not have heard me ask if he was ok, as she said she had to run or she would be late for work.

  We were unloading stone when Mike appeared, he must have been in the shower as his hair was wet, yet he still had that odd look about him. I cautioned Jeff to be careful about  the manner in which he would converse with Mike, as I didn't want him to become agitated, and proceeded to ask Mike where he wanted us to put the stone.  He said just leave it on the bottom floor, pointing near the large table I had seen yesterday. As I was rising from placing the first few pieces of stone on the floor, I was startled by the menacing man in black. I thought it was odd he would have remained after the party, and to not show him I was frightened I asked him his name, apologizing for having such a bad memory for names.

 I dont think I heard nor would I have remembered, for at that same time I overheard Jeff asking Mike if the materials were similar to the ones he previously used, and wanted to know if he could see the broken pieces. 

 Mike escorted him upstairs, as the man in black helped me to bring in the glass Mike would use to top off the table. No sooner done, I rushed upstairs to see Jeff bent over, chisel in hand,  attempting to carve a piece of stone we found to replace the broken piece, when Mike let out a sneering hiss, and the man in black started up a chainsaw from behind me. At that exact moment I saw the terror in Jeff's eyes, and knew with sudden realization what was about to happen next .  As Jeff struggled with Mike, I managed to dodge the chainsaw, and I fled back down the stairs and outside with heart racing and realizing that I should have been more attentive to the mental image of Marge with those bloodied bags. The frightened girl on the stairway, the tools that were hung on the walls; Trophies for earlier carvings. They were not for stone, but for Mikes manic personality. 
I could not find the keys and struggled to open the car door, but too late.  Mike, and the man in black were too close, frightened to run any further, my nightmare ended.

2-16-11 copyright

Mismatched

There is a pile of mismatched gloves,
scarves and various hats,
And in the pile
amidst them all, 
a mysterious cozy cat.

LOVEFIELD

Lovefield combines the elements of HORROR, SUSPENSE, and DRAMA to create a story that takes the audience on a roller coaster ride of emotions.                                                                             

My friend Ron posted this video, and I felt it should be posted here. As a poet and short story writer, I felt this video was a great story. Grab your popcorn and enjoy. Though you will not need more than one handful. I did say; "Short Story.

You Must Be California Dreaming

There is no sunshine in this soul,

There is no California gold,

There is no sunshine in this soul,

And I have no place, to call my own.

And I have seen the streets of despair,

the young and the old, they all live there.

The souls of homeless pushing carts,

sleeping in the city parks,

they come here from the cold,

Streets, all paved of stone.

Highrise Banks  and Shopping Malls,

line their pockets from us all.

While children hunger in these streets,

this golden land of opportunity.

And I will never call this place, my home.

There is no sunshine in this soul,

There is no California gold,

There is no sunshine in this soul,

And I have no place, to call my own.

California - Gold Dust to Star Dust

This city of gold, 

all covered in grime,

polished in brochures

and history of time. 

This urban legend

Hollywood and Vine,

Is only a picture

produced for your dime. 

The silver screen romance,

a split second frame,

makes it look so inviting, 

tis really a shame.

For only in movies 

does it look so sublime,

this city of gold

is just urbanized crime.

Willowswitch

We had a weeping willow, 
a haven for sun drenched days. 
A place to play and hide, 
a refuge for childhood ways. 
But never did she love me more 
than when mother was upset, 
for in her hand a loving switch, 
Of this we surely wept.

Serenity

copyright: Jackie Summers

Photo: google

Winter Snow

Blinded by your radiant glow

reflecting off your cold wet snow,

Winter you arrived here late,

and in your wake a flurry make.

To this gift I did awake,

two inches more, give or take.

1-20-12

The Bullies

Walking home a mile from school was always an adventure. Somedays I found myself cutting through swamp bogs, and hoping I would not get lost. Swamps can be very tricky to navigate around. I always tried to keep my eyes and ears to the road, yet there were places that took me deeper into the wood and away from civilisation. Once I realized I made it past the white house, the last landmark from the roads edge, I would start looking for the hill. A small incline of tall grass and scrub, that would take me back out to the road and far enough from the bend in the road , that if the bullies were waiting at the "Rock" could not see me. Once my feet touched the pavement, I would sing. Yes, sing. I was lousy with remembering songs and had no trouble making up verses. One that I liked was made up of bits and pieces of other songs, and it always started out with "Oh' What a Beautiful Day", and always made me smile. As if the reason for this song had nothing to do with a gang, waiting at the "Rock" for me.

The "Rock" as it was called, was a boulder no bigger than 2-3 ft wide or tall. But to me it was much larger than that. Larger still, when an unruly gang of neighboring bullies found it their spot. It sat tucked away just around the corner, atop the steepest quarter mile hill that nearly killed any kid who had to climb it. A great spot for bullies. No kid could run fast enough away from them after climbing that hill. It was the same spot we once found my sister's bike, a twisted scrap of spokes, tires and blue paint, hanging in the tree above the Rock's outpost. A sign of what they would do to us, if they wanted to.

I remember one particular day walking home from school, the bullies left their post and approached us at the crest of the hill. My brother was the youngest of us three girls and only in kindergarten, we were carrying home a gallon of milk that my mother asked us to pick up from the little Mom and Pop store at the bottom of the hill. At first they demanded money. I told them we had none. So they surrounded my brother and started teasing him. Of course they also started on my eldest sister, and started pushing her around. I remember getting so angry I wanted to kill the lot of them. They wanted my brother to spit on us. When he wouldn't do it, they pushed him to the ground and forced his face into the pavement and demanded he kiss it. I pulled him up from their clutches, threw the milk on them, and the three of us girls encircled our brother, and with heads held high continued to walk home past them, and their rock.

Yes, we were the kids that were picked on. I don't know of any other victims of theirs. I didn't even know who some of them were. Not that it mattered. They were bullies, and that's all the name they needed. A few of them were much older than us, and I thought that was rather queer in itself.

We avoided walking home alone after that for weeks, and found other ways to get home. We cut through neighboring streets, peoples yards we didn't know, up hills , through woods, and more swamps. Sometimes not getting home till almost dark. When I say, I knew the woods like the back of my hand, I wasn't kidding.

No one really knows why we became their target. Lots of times we discussed it. Of course my eldest sister thinks it was her fault for crying in school when she was only six, in fear of losing my Father to experimental open heart surgery. Back in the early Sixties it had only been performed five times. My father was the sixth person to undergo the procedure, and we were all told he may not live through it. How could crying be her fault?

Another time, my parents were visiting with neighbors just up the knoll. They felt we were safe enough at home and close enough as not to be concerned about our being alone. There was no reason for them to think otherwise. As the hour passed, we were sitting down in the living room watching television when a rock was thrown through the window. Another bully, from the same group from the Rock must have been watching from the enbankment behind the house. I remember getting everyone to sit on the floor away from the window, as I grabbed a very large kitchen knife. The look I got was one of fear, and awe. What was I supposed to do? I was just as scared as they were, but damn if I wasn't ready for a fight. I would've done my best protecting my siblings, and inflicting as much pain as I could, if not for anything more than leaving a blood trail. We managed to get a call out and my parents were home within minutes. There was a search of the neighborhood and one hoodlum later, but no proof that he was the culprit, yet everyone knew.

I knew 'this bully' from the "Rock." He was the same age as my older sister. I occasionally played with his younger sisters, though not often. I didn't care much for their family, but there were not many girls in my neighborhood to play with. I knew now, why we were the victims of bullying. These kids came from a broken home; their mother was an alcoholic, the boys lived in an unfinished attic with mattresses on the floor and clothes strewn about. A father who worked late, and always barked at his wife when he got home from work, leaving every kid to run in fear whenever we saw his car pull up.
It was this woman who I realized was the bane of my shortcuts through bramble and field.
I was playing with her daughter outdoors one day when she approached me with the oddest question.."How is it your father does not work, but you can afford a swimming pool and house?" Was she serious? Why would she be asking me? I was just a kid, and that was an adult question.
It all became clear to me at that moment why we were bullied. I replied with; " I guess we save our pennies." Then ran home to tell my mother.

Jealousy or envy, is a dangerous thing. Ignorance is another. I spent the rest of that evening gazing out my bedroom window, playing out in my mind what it must have been like growing up in their household. Mine, was not in my opinion considered normal, yet I was not a bully. What made a bully? I decided it was the adults that created them.

From these early years, I have become keen to bullies. I cringe when I encounter them. But not in a way you would think. I love it when they want to engage me. And I love it, knowing that they remind me of who I am.

1-15-12

(Found on a fortune cookie):
Example is not the main thing in influencing other's. It is the only thing.





To learn more about what's being done to teach our children how to defend themselves against bullies, click here.
Click here.

Brave Innocence

Know what I miss?

I miss chasing fireflies that my mother would let me keep in a jar, when I was no bigger than a grasshopper playing in the tall fields of grass. And the crickets  I would hunt for by the shrill of their chirp. And the sound the tree frog makes on a hot summer day.  

I miss the warm summer evenings when our mother's would lather us in bug spray, and we didn't worry about  pesticides that could cause illnesses, nor would we have worried about the bug bites and tick bites and all the creepy crawlers . No, and I was in love with the warm night air and the sweet aroma of clover, the shooting stars, and laughter and song as family would gather round the old stone fireplace singing songs like "Goodnight Irene", and  listening about the tales of my ancestors and visiting with cousins I wouldn't see for another whole year. Sweet childhood memories. 

So innocent and young were we then. How time has aged us, and time has made scapegoats out of us all. 

Our world is supposed to improve, or so we thought. The harder we try to make it safe, the less freedom children have today. And so where have all the those enchanted evenings gone? How comfortable are we letting our children roam the streets in our own neighborhoods, to explore the little patch of woods behind our homes? I remember mine..I revisited them once , years ago, many years older. They were not as big as I remembered them. Perhaps because there now sat newer homes that changed my landscape. The places I could hide and be alone to explore. Not just the little swampy bog I learned to ice skate on, which by the way never really freezes over. But here were enough trees to grab onto while you practiced gliding from one tree to the next, and bravely going places deeper into the wood as to not hear Mother's calling voice.

Here is where I learned about myself. Independence for me has always taken me into the wood. I guess I imagined myself to be a pioneer, that or too many Fess Parker shows on a Sunday night. Oh yes, I once told my Mother I was going to run off into the wood and look for Daniel Boone. So she gathered a stick and tied a foursquare hankie to it with my lunch inside and asked me if I would be home before dark. I did consider staying overnight, and I was 5. I was more afraid my mother would get lost looking for me than the other way round. I knew those woods blindfolded,  well just about. Today they are gone, given rise to condominiums and the copycat homes of some quick rich developer, alongside the greed of city and  glutenous revenues.

And my landscape, the one that I will cherish and return to, although not original is buried deep within who I am. Forever forging, striving for that inner peace. The tranquil adobe of nature from the hard realities of a grown up world. Where the only sting or prickly nettles I need encounter will come from wandering blindly into the wood and following it's path back home.... I'll need to bring a jar.

The Volumes

Two Volumes waiting to be read, sat upon the mantle shelf.

Would it be Stevenson or Emerson,

which one would win out?

I took both down, blew the dust off the pages edge,

inspected the worn leather, and foxing stains within.

Gifts from my son, from his favorite shop,

Curiosities and Memories were our favored jaunts.

Heavy were the volumes

For "All their Works" were there;

every written verse, 

every thrilling tale!

Purposely I browsed each one,

(it just was not fair)

that I should have to decide the fate

of the author's I held dear.

So I placed once more upon the shelf,

both volumes side by side,

and even though they were not read,

I'll cherish most -this special gift,

than any word inside.

For William

5-29-11

Destiny

Some say it was Destiny that took the Reaper's soul that fateful evening, under the glow of a silver moon. It was twenty five years ago today, the anniversary  of this small hamlet, and a new beginning for Destiny.

Twenty five guests were invited to the festivities, one guest for each year. Invitations prepared in advance, each invitation carefully chiseled, the name of each guest with the date clearly visible. They were to meet behind the church, it was all set in stone. All twenty five would be there.  

Destiny was great at throwing parties, but this was to be her best yet. The excitement was growing, the air was crisp with the smells of autumn, splashes of yellow, copper, and brown littered the streets, and swirls of color danced in spiral columns around the stones, behind the church vestry.

I should not have been there. I was an uninvited guest. But I came to see for myself. I had heard of Destiny and her parties, and this being her 25th anniversary, I didn't want to miss it.

At first I thought I had the date wrong, where were they? Then slowly, under the evening light, behind the stones they came. Casting their shadows under the silver moon, like vapors dancing in the dark, playing hide n seek amongst the stones.

Then I heard them- or was it the wind? 

They were singing;

Destiny, Destiny,

gather round your kin,

delight in the harvest,

and sing to her men.

Thank the horn plenty,

partake of the fruit,

behind the church vestry 

under the moon.

And then they saw me!

I ran- the wind in my hair, leaves swirling in the air.

Their voices singing;

Outsider, Outsider,

winter draws near,

but hell and the graveyard, is all you'll need here.

Run Reaper run,

and reap what you sow,

Destiny will follow, or didn't you know?

And then I saw it!

The words clearly written ; Destiny : population none.

Copyright 7-30-11

When Fences Make Good Neighbors

A wild fence line cannot keep these daisies from trespassing.

Click to view full screen

She Loves Me

Even the wildflowers are full of inspirational beauty

Click to view full screen

My Neighbor

I am surrounded by Field and Wood

Click on pic to view full screen

My View From the Knoll

My view of Mount Chase and Mount Kahtadin

click on pic to view full screen

Maine

I love taking Photos of the clouds in Maine. You can see for miles atop the the hill I summer on. An endless vista of sky, fields, trees, and mountain ridges .

Click on the pick for full screen.

Pandemonium In The Heavens

Thunderous dark and foreboding,
A crack and bolt for the few,
No chariots or ball of fire,
Not one flame of love for you.

The earth did not rise to meet heaven,
No cupids, with wings for a view,
No love tipped arrow shot skyward,
No name in a contrail of blue.

But Nebulous, he was a flying,
All roiled and poisoned with lust,
That the devil himself had to wonder,
What crimes of love were unjust...


Jackie 

5-31-11  

Sky Bird

I recently had the pleasure of being Interviewed

TAEM interview with Poet Jackie Summers

TAEM- The Arts and Entertainment Magazine has grown and we have branched out and encompassed many fields of Entertainment and Literature. Our interviews have ranged from well known authors and actors, producers and directors, and rock stars and entertainers. We now have the pleasure of introducing poet Jackie Summers to all of our readers. Jackie, I understand that you have taken your pen name in memory of your sister. Can you tell us something about her and why you felt compelled to do so?
JS- First, may I express my sincere gratitude to your publication for having me as your guest. It has been a very  exciting year for me. I have lot’s of people to be thankful for in their continuing support of my work. The reason I have dedicated my work using my sister’s name was because when I first started writing, I wanted to tell her story. I have always felt there was a mystery surrounding her death. Jackie was a very spirited young women. She left Massachusetts with two very young children to escape an abusive relationship that almost cost them their lives. In the few times she came home, she drove cross country alone, to see family. During her years in Washington, she was an assistant fly fishing river guide, and a rock hound. She collected rocks and polished them by hand. She also was the first woman I know of in my family to mine gold in Alaska.
TAEM- We found your poetry very moving. Your poems are soft, yet full of emotion. What is the general landscape that makes up the background of your poetry?
JS- I just want to say thank you for that wonderful compliment in describing my poetry. I write because for me it is cathartic. Sometimes I prefer to say it is my muse that is doing all the writing. I usually have no control over the finished product. I sometimes start out with particular thought and the beginning of a sentence, and find later what has been written was not intentional to my first thought.
TAEM- Recently you appeared in the United Kingdom during the Open Mic Night of one of our web partners, ’42′. You are touted as the first international guest to do so. How were you welcomed at the event, and tell us about your experience with ’42′?
JS- It was quite serendipitous actually. I had a small group of friends on face-book that were all poets and writers. I was very shy at first to share my work, eventually I opened a few of my notes to friends and that was when Glenn James and his wife Angela came across my work. I was invited to share my work at one of their venues and I explained that I lived in the states. Glenn was so kind to find Fergus McGonigal to read a few selections that I presented.  After the reading, I was thrilled to see that my work was also mentioned in another publication touting me as the first international poet to have my work read at their 42 venue. Glenn and Angela are such wonderful people. They have been very supportive of my work and have been a  positive influence in my writing career. I have found a close family kinship with all the contributors of 42. They are a marvelous group of people to be involved with.
TAEM- How nervous were you as you prepared for the show?
JS- Extremely nervous. I have never read my own work, and did not know if Fergus would know how to read me.
TAEM- It must have been exciting for you. How pleased were you at the way things turned out?
JS- My fears were put to rest with all the wonderful glowing comments I received. I never should have doubted Fergus. His work has been described as having a wry sense of humor, whereas my work is emotional.
TAEM- You have submitted your poetry to us just recently and we understand that you are also known for your short stories. What are the themes behind some of this work, and is anything related to real life experiences that you have had?
JS-I would say that most of the themes behind my work is taken from real life experiences. Write what you know, I try to remember that thought as much as possible in my writing. When my stories are based on more fictional characters, I try to remember the stories my grandmother would recite to us as children. She was a great story teller  of all the reasons a child felt the need to look under their beds.
TAEM- Jackie you hail from Massachusetts and have a summer camp in Maine where you practice some of your other hobbies. Please describe these and tell us how they affect your writing.
JS- Since the time I was a child I have been drawn to the woods. It is a haven of solace for me from the hard scrabble of life. Whether I am skirting the back roads for wildlife, or leisurely leafing through a book,  painting or photography, it becomes an opportunity for me to reflect. When I look into the pitch dark, on an endless sea of stars at night, one realizes just how insignificant we are in the vast space of our world. For every star I gaze upon, I know there are stories in them, your stories.
TAEM- Jackie we want to thank you for your time in this interview with The Arts and Entertainment Magazine and look forward to hearing more from you in the future. I know that our readership has enjoyed your poetry and we want to wish you luck in all that you do.
TAEM
It’s been my pleasure.
- Jackie

42 - Open Mic Night (Gothic, Horror, Sci-Fi & Fantasy)

‎42 - Open Mic Night (Gothic, Horror, Sci-Fi & Fantasy) 
Archived from August notes 2011 
Since this event 42 has opened more venues in the Midlands. They also are now partnered with TAEM formerly Eerie Digest.

A wonderful, fragrant and poignant contribution by Jackie to 42 this week, read by our own irrepressible Fergus! Many , many thanks Jackie, it was wonderful! Please feel free to contribute whenever you like, and to any writers overseas or elsewhere in the UK if you would like to take part, just get in touch!

 
            Fergus reading my poetry at Open Mic Night At 42

                          I'm On Top Of The world! Thank you 42! And Thank you Fergus!

42 - Open Mic Night (Gothic, Horror, Sci-Fi & Fantasy)

On Wednesday this week we held one of the most fantastic "42" nights we have staged since we started. We are both really proud that 42 has always attracted so may truly talented people, but we even saw our first international contribution form wordsmith extraordinatre @Jackie Summers! We were overrun with new support, and as ever saw the sterling and invaluable support of Worcester Music Worcestershire Film Festival. 

Genres covered at "42"

by 42 - Open Mic Night (Gothic, Horror, Sci-Fi & Fantasy) on Wednesday, April 20, 2011 at 2:06am

The open mic event "42" is designed to be a performance platform for writers, performers, poets, comedians and satirists with a passion for genre subjects.

The events now well known founding four themes are Gothic, Horror, Fantasy and Sci-Fi, but this list is neither excusive or exhaustive, and the event welcomes contributions from a huge spectrum of genre work.  As a guide, here are some of the themes "42" embraces:

Gothic, Horror, Sci-Fi and Fantasy, Steam Punk, Alternative Reality, Alternative Timeline,  Pagan themes, Lost Civilisation scenarios, Dungens and Dragon or sorcery themes, Alien conspiracey/Abduction/invasion scenarios, scenarios about ancient cults or religions, (Either contemporaneously or due to them surviving in some sinister aspect into modern life), Thriller writing, Ghost stories, Film Noir, and of course comedy takes on all of the above.  We encourage writers penning works related to established shows or franchises such as Doctor Who or Star Trek on the proviso that they acknowledge the makers copyright, (the BBC, etc), and that their works are fan produced.

The night is a voice for performers, and we advise everyone taking part to copyright their work in the conventional way before performing, to protect their copyright.
  

 

Wednesday August 31 2011 :The Bouquet- The Locket- Serenity- Pandemonium In The Heavens- The Volumes- Willow (Poetry)- Brave Innocence (Prose).