The Bluebird Word

An Online Literary Journal for Poetry and Flash

Tag: hope

Image of author as young girl
Photo courtesy of author

Lucky Girl

1 April 2024 /

Nonfiction by Carol E. Anderson

It’s 1950. I’m three years old, standing in our backyard next to a patch of wildflowers as tall as I am. My tiny right fist peaks out from the sleeve of my oversized double-breasted coat with crisscrossing lapels. Chubby knees extend into sturdy legs that lead to small feet housed in white anklet socks and polished white tennis shoes. Whisps of blonde hair flow back in the wind. My bangs, short and choppy, look like I took the shears to them myself. Atop my head is a tiny woolen cap.

My face is turned up. Eyes squint as I smile at my mom with the camera—my gleeful expression punctuated by a slight suggestion of a dimple in my left cheek. I’m anticipating something wonderful. The zoo? The circus? A birthday party?

I’m unaware that by the end of my fifth year, my father will suffer a visual disability wrought by incompetent doctors. He will never work again. My mother, a secretary, will numb her fingers typing away in a tiny cubicle to support our family, working for a boss half as smart as she. I will wish her to be like all the other moms and stay at home, fix me snacks after school, and teach me how to ride a bike. My brother will withdraw into a world of thoughts and books. We will never be friends.

Standing on the lawn in my miniature peacoat, I don’t realize that by the time I’m fifteen, I’ll be rejected by the Baptist church for loving a woman. I’ll begin to understand the word hypocrite. I’ll believe my parents’ teachings of love, kindness, generosity, and fairness are principles everyone strives to live by—tenets issued by God. I won’t know these tenets have exclusionary clauses invisible to innocent eyes, that I will witness Christian fundamentalism grow in twisted power and gird its flocks to act with naked cruelty on the belief that difference is a sin.

I don’t realize that at the age of twenty-one, I’ll be outed by my college classmates, introducing terror into my daily life. I’ll be astonished that all my efforts to guard this secret are as useless as a sheet of transparent tissue paper.

I am unaware that at age twenty-six, in my attempt to be straight, my boyfriend will dump me on our six-week road trip to be with a woman he met at his brother’s wedding the week before—and he will not repay the $800 he owes me.

Looking up at the camera without knowledge of the need for hope, I don’t know that my father will die one month before my twenty-eighth birthday, and that I’ll survive—that I will remain wrapped in the shimmering cords of his love even decades after he’s gone.

I am unaware that at age thirty-two I’ll start my own business as an organizational consultant and will coach leaders to inspire people rather than control them—that this work will help me understand the complexity of human beings, and their scars.

I don’t know that on my fiftieth birthday I’ll start a non-profit called Rebellious Dreamers to lift up women to reclaim their dreams—that it will last twenty-five years and eventually fund microloans for women in the Democratic Republic of the Congo.

I don’t realize that when I turn fifty-four, I’ll meet my great love, each of us destined for the other, that knowing her will smooth the jagged edges of terror and loss, that we will build a home on nine acres of land surrounded by trees and be rich in our chosen family of friends.

Standing with my beloved, in our own garden now, I’m anticipating something wonderful.

Carol E. Anderson is a life coach whose passions are travel and photography. She holds a doctorate in spiritual studies, and an MFA in creative nonfiction. She is the author of You Can’t Buy Love Like That: Growing Up Gay in the Sixties. Carol lives in Ann Arbor, Michigan.

Photo by Michael Dziedzic on Unsplash

Buy the Fanciful Ones: A Tale of New Shoes

1 February 2024 /

Nonfiction by Melanie Faith

For over three years, I’ve gone almost nowhere to try to stay healthy. Thank you, Covid. (Eyeroll.) Although I’m short, my natural go-to is a flat shoe with a buckle or a sneaker, because they feel the best and are most practical (read: match with everything). Recently, I found a pair of burgundy mary janes with thick, ‘90s 2-inch chunky heels. This was my first time in years wearing heels, and I’d only ever worn the lower, chunkier heels (never spikes—the thin, pointy, rickety kind).

The price was right on these designer-label babies ($29.99) and just looking at the shiny upper razzle-dazzled me, so they went home with me. What did I learn from wearing them for the first time, attempting to break them in?

Joy is a shoe that you won’t wear every day. As a telecommuter who still only goes out two or three times a week briefly on errands like the grocery store, these babies aren’t gonna get daily use. But who cares? Ever hear of the good plates? As in, family china handed down that only gets a Thanksgiving or Christmas or Easter place on the table? Do we like them any less for that? Hardly. They denote special care and the thought placed into the meal. These shoes denote something similar: care.

Know what you’re dealing with. Even chunky heels that disperse weight more evenly on the foot aren’t as comfortable as a flat boot or tennis shoe. Pick your places wisely. Ease into it if you have to. I wore mine around the kitchen as I made warmed-up tacos. Then I sat to eat. New shoes take a while to break in, and after a half hour, I felt done. I popped them off for stocking feet, the bones below my toes not exactly aching but calling for a break already.

Sometimes, playful and fun are worth it. It’s been a long, hard few years. Illness, the pandemic, wars, dramatic rises in costs. We’ve been bogged down and more than earned a treat, something that lights us up inside just looking at them, and these shoes do. Yeah, they had the same pair in my size in neutral black, but there was no contest: the oxblood glimmers and puts a smile on my face. They recall the ‘90s of my youth and the untold happinesses that could be around the corner now. They are a hopeful shoe. They also remind me of the kinds of shoes worn for flamenco dancing and tap dancing—two movements that surely bring a whirl to the dancers. Do I dance? Around the office for an audience of me, myself, and I. Does it bring me any less joy? Not even close!

Your frivolous something might not be shoes or something you buy at all. It might be taking a morning off to return to a hobby you’ve been meaning to do but that kept getting shoved aside for the day job and family functions. It might be getting your bike or skates or basketball or gym clothes out of storage and gearing up for some head-clearing exercise or a walk on your own around the block. Or letting your old digital or analog camera walk with you around the neighborhood.

These activities, like my shoes, give a person something to look forward to, no matter how near or far that might be. Investing in whimsy and in ourselves with just a little effort or money often lightens our moods and puts a spring back in our step. They are an engagement with the world and a reengagement with self. Priceless.

Melanie Faith is a night-owl writer and editor who likes to wear many hats, including as poet, photographer, professor, and tutor. Three of her craft books about writing were published by Vine Leaves Press in 2022. She enjoys ASMR videos, reading, and tiny houses. Learn more at https://melaniedfaith.com/.

Photo by MK Keffer

On the Mend

1 February 2024 /

Poetry by Andrew Shattuck McBride

Until we die our lives are on the mend.

Richard hugo

At the shoreline near the coffee shop,
someone has balanced shards of stone
tip to tip in ragged stacks, creating
a forest of stone above the water.

Under a bench, a pink pacifier, forgotten.
Further down the paved trail, a woman
gathers another woman who is weeping
into a fierce loving hug, murmurs comfort.

A curtain of rain cloud passes overhead,
and steady rain soaks us as I walk by.
Cherry trees are in bloom. Sodden
pink petals redeem pavement and lawn.

There are fewer discarded masks.
The rain, gentle, comforts like a hug.
I don’t hurry. I’m on my way home,
toward something resembling hope.

Andrew Shattuck McBride grew up in Volcano, Hawaiʻi, six miles from the summit of Kīlauea volcano. Based in Washington State, he is co-editor of For Love of Orcas (Wandering Aengus, 2019). His work appears in literary journals including Rattle, Clockhouse, and Crab Creek Review.

Photo by Thanuj Mathew on Unsplash

Summer’s End

1 February 2024 /

Nonfiction by Vicki Addesso

for Cathy

It’s now, this evening, and like this summer, I have grown older. Yes, summers grow old, and come to an end. On this last day of August, September’s eve, I sense autumn’s approach.

The mammoth sunflower growing all alone by the young maple tree in front of my house bobs its heavy head and sighs it seems to be getting dark earlier and earlier. It has never seen a summer before, does not know summer must end. Or that this is its last, its one and only. The bulbous center is bursting with fresh sunflower seeds, and come early morning I will watch the goldfinches come to pluck them out, and the bees indulge. The golden-yellow petals are many and flutter in the tiniest of breezes yet remain put. That stem, so thick and straight and tall, sways for the wind in storms and refuses to break. Before the flower at its top bloomed, I thought of Jack and his beanstalk. Could I climb the stem and find a giant in the clouds?

The lonely sunflower, from leftover seeds I dropped next to the baby tree after running out of room in the backyard gardens. Only this one of the dozen or so seeds casually tossed into the dirt grew. The backyard has many other sunflowers, autumn beauties and sunspots and Little Beckas that had bloomed a couple of weeks earlier. Some are still vibrant, others wilting. They will not wither in loneliness; they have one another. But that sunflower out in front of the house, it rips at my heart, knows nothing of its fate. Its single solitary life that will fade as this summer ends. Trees, shrubs, other plants and other creatures share a world in our front yard and have more, some many, summers ahead of them. No worries, sweet sunflower, I whisper through the window screen. After the crispness of fall, the cold of winter, the promise of spring, I will plant more seeds. Summer will return. There will be sunflowers again.

What is this evening for me? It’s crickets. Their sounds fill late summer nights. It is leaving the bedroom curtains open as the sky darkens. Sitting in my quiet room with no lamp lit, listening, watching the light leave. It’s letting the emotions of memories set butterflies to flutter in my belly and goosebumps to rise on my skin. Letting my mind wander and visions to appear. Suddenly I am a child again. Chasing fireflies. Air on so much of my skin, warm, the breeze soft. Swatting at the mosquito on my elbow, sweating, and not caring. Looking back at the house I grew up in, I see the porch light come on. Tilting my head back to glance at the sky, I get dizzy with the sensation of falling up instead of down. Then my mother’s voice calling me inside. I am young but I know it must end.

When did I realize, at what age, did I learn of endings? As a baby, did I notice that the cold of March — the month of my birth —began lifting? That the sun stayed longer, warming my face as my mother pushed me in a stroller? Then, the heat of summer. The slow creeping back of early sunsets. A chill in the air. My first winter. Was I two years old, three, or four when I knew things would come to an end?

When did Eve, that second of the first two human beings, realize that everything was changing? For the first time, one season flowed into another, and nothing was sure any longer. Already banished from the paradise of the Garden of Eden, she now witnessed the utter destruction of all that was familiar. Was she frightened? Or was she too busy to notice? Being mother to the entire human race certainly must have kept her busy.

So amusing how I, and others, even after years of watching our star come and go, shift in the sky, making us alter our clocks, still say, Wow, it’s getting dark so early now, as if it’s something new. As if we were children. As if it were the first time. As if we were sunflowers.

And so, it will happen again, just as it has every year, all the years of my life — the end. These edges of the seasons are my favorite time. The end slides into a beginning. For the time being.

Now I sit, at my desk, the open window in front of me. It is dark outside. The screen of my computer bright. The crickets singing their song of summer’s old age, the sound of it so familiar. The sound of longing. Realization and acceptance. It is the song of ending, reverberating through space and time. It is falling upwards and flying away.

Vicki Addesso is co-author of the collaborative memoir Still Here Thinking of You~A Second Chance With Our Mothers (Big Table Publishing, 2013). Publishing credits include: Gravel Magazine, Barren Magazine, The Writer, Sleet Magazine, Dorothy Parker’s Ashes, and more. She was nominated for a 2023 Pushcart Prize.

Photo by Alex Keda on Unsplash

Julia and Chang

27 June 2023 /

Fiction by Brett Scott

And here’s the opening, the opportunity you’ve been waiting for, Julia told herself, looking in Chang’s direction, who now sat alone on the other side of the garden. His assistant, after seeing him to a comfortable spot and getting all of his various affairs in order, had promptly left him unattended, which was a rarity as far as Julia had seen this week. Although she and Chang had known each other as children, he was eventually transferred to California, leaving the two out of touch. Chang was famous now, and far too good for her, as far as Julia was concerned. In truth, his success was somewhat more modest than she understood, but his image did grace screens and billboards across the country. He had returned to Omaha just a handful of times on his promotional tours, and Julia had finally worked herself up to trying to reconnect with him on his present trip.

The garden was Julia’s favorite place. In the middle of a bustling and chaotic world, she had only this small piece of paradise. The sunlight, filtered through the shade of the lofty trees, gave her body comfort, and the sound of the softly trickling stream gave her spirit peace. And although she couldn’t believe he had started showing up there out of the blue that week, she was overcome with excitement to see him again. Just do it, Julia. It’s now or never, she encouraged herself, standing up from her spot beside the stone wall.

Slowly and nervously making her way across the garden, she watched as some of the passersby took notice of Chang. This was normal for him, she thought. As they smiled and pointed, he simply nodded back politely and resumed his business. Steadily, in only the time it took for her to advance, Chang’s number of gawkers increased to the proportion of a small crowd. Chang remained ever stoic, even as the cluster began pulling out their phones and pointing their cameras toward him.

Chang, peering subtly around the garden in hopes of catching a glimpse of his assistant’s return, instead noticed Julia, who now stood only several yards away beneath the shade of a pine tree. They smiled at each other, and Julia thought she saw his face warm with the spark of recognition. But just as quickly, Chang bowed his head politely, yet indiscriminately, toward her and then resumed anxiously scanning the grounds for his assistant. Discouraged, but not defeated, Julia approached Chang.

“Chang! I—It’s me, Julia.” Again, Chang looked in her direction, but his expression was vague and empty, as though he hadn’t heard her speak at all. Julia swallowed hard and spoke again. “I’m sorry. You might not remember, but we were friends a long time ago… Do you remember? We used to play in this garden. Chang?” Chang stood up and gazed deep into Julia’s eyes. A look crossed him as though he was about to reply. Instead, and without forewarning, he softly tumbled down onto the grass in front of her. “Chang?” Rolling onto his back, belly in the air, he turned his head away from Julia and back towards the direction in which he last saw his assistant. Tears began creeping into Julia’s eyes, but she did her very best to blink them away. “Anyway, Chang, it was nice to see you… And I’m sorry if I’ve bothered you.”

As she walked back towards the pine tree with her head down, she turned to get one last look at Chang. Still lying on his back, he was now grabbing fallen leaves from the ground and tossing them in the air to playfully enjoy their descent. He’s changed so much and yet not at all, she thought—the tears finally breaching from both eyes and rolling down her cheeks. Then, from high atop the stone retaining wall, Julia heard a young girl shout.

“Look, they’re bringing out the food!”

“That’s right, Addie. And what do pandas eat?” The girl’s mother responded.

“Bamboo!” Several of the children shouted in unison, having just learned this fact from the tour guide. The families watched as the enclosure door opened and Chang’s attendant emerged carrying a bundle of bamboo stalks. Chang urgently leapt upward and embraced his attendant with joy, almost knocking the poor teenage boy to the grass. The boy laughed as he surrendered some of the bamboo to Chang, who couldn’t get to work eating it fast enough. Grabbing the remaining stalks, the boy then came up to Julia, who was now lying sullenly in her spot on the other side of the enclosure.

“There there, big girl… He’ll come around one of these days,” he assured her, patting the top of her head and laying the bamboo before her on the rocks. Julia watched as the attendant crossed back through the garden, stopping only to rub Chang’s belly and then exiting through the same door in which he entered. She looked at Chang as he happily munched away, and then up to the families on the ledge, who laughed as they held out their phones—some of the children were doing their very best Chang impressions. Julia laid her head back down on the rock and closed her eyes, hoping the day would just end.

Brett Scott is a writer from the Kansas City area.

Photo by Greg Rosenke on Unsplash

Hope like Sunlight

18 May 2023 /

Poetry by Stacie Eirich

          for Sadie

Sunlight rushes in a brand new day, heart lifting
with hope in the knowledge
of a day without clinic appointments, a day to play and create, a day
with no expectations, no decisions, a day to just be.

Slip into the slowness of the hour, sip a latte and leave the phone
tucked away. Let a breath out and listen, listen to the stillness
of the morning, watch the way the breath
rises and falls, contracts and expands.

Her beside me, wrapped in blankets, still asleep, face pressed
against the pillow, a soft whirring of breath reaching me.
I light a small lamp and dress quietly, wanting
to let her rest.

Outside, the day brightens with a promise that meets
my fledgling heart: today will be easier, today will be ours
to make and hold light in.

I stretch my fingers towards the sky, bending left, then right —
fingers open to the window, open to the light.

Behind me my daughter shifts, blankets rustling.
I turn to see her waking, eyes meeting mine
with the sun, morning written on her face
like the light, vivid, beaming—hopeful.

Eyes holding hope
like sunlight, face shining brilliant
as stars. She greets me softly, her voice keeping mine
in tenderness, her heart holding mine
steadily beside her: rising, rising.

Stacie Eirich is a mother of two, poet & singer. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Cantos Literary Journal, The Healing Muse & Remington Review, among others. She is currently living in Memphis, TN, caring for her daughter through cancer treatments at St. Jude Children’s Research Hospital. www.stacieeirich.com

Photo by Caro Rue on Unsplash

Bellflower

30 March 2023 /

Poetry by Charlene Stegman Moskal

for Barnett

You were a surprise—
planted in early spring

in soil too dry
to hold the essence of you,

but there you were
digging in

like the Bellflower
that has ridden the wind,

dropped gently or tumbled
into a dark, moist, earth-spiced bed

to carry the generations
that shaped its destiny

to grow , bloom, offer itself
to the world as a spark of color,

royal purple heralding the summer
against a background green as hope.

And here you are,
my own unexpected Bellflower

just when I was sure
the field had gone fallow.

Charlene Stegman Moskal is a Teaching Artist for the Las Vegas Poetry Promise Organization. She is published in numerous anthologies, print magazines and online. Her chapbooks are One Bare Foot (Zeitgeist Press), Leavings from My Table (Finishing Line Press) with a third from Kelsay Books in Fall 2023.

photography of red string lights hanging on green trees
Photo by Irina Iriser on Pexels.com

In Deep December

1 December 2022 /
Special Selection for the 2022/2023 Winter Holiday Issue

Fiction by Zan Bockes

When Jo got home from the hospital where her husband lay comatose, the house blazed with Christmas decorations he’d put up and connected to a timer just after Thanksgiving. Every evening since, the reindeer and sleigh on the roof lit up automatically. The large plastic Santa loomed above the icy shingles, and a series of inflatable candy canes danced across the snow-covered yard. Cheery elves rocked back and forth and a red-nosed reindeer turned its face slowly side to side. The crèche radiated a soft yellow, the three wise men and animals peacefully gathered in the rough wooden enclosure.

Merrill spent weeks ahead of time positioning ladders and climbing on the roof, hanging looping strands of colored bulbs around the gutters and windows. When it was all done, when the cords connected and electricity surged through every circuit, the three-bedroom split level leaped from darkness like the Big Bang. Neighbors gathered for the event, and their cul-de-sac overflowed with cars driving by in a long line to observe the spectacle.

Jo again resolved to hire the teenaged boy next door to take it all down as soon as possible—the gaiety seemed false and irreverent with Merrill strung with tubes and wires that ironically mirrored the display at their house.

Three days ago, the surgeon removed a blood clot from Merrill’s aorta and replaced it with a stent, a tiny mesh cylinder to keep the artery open and blood flowing. Jo related the details to their son, who would fly in with his wife and three young children the next day. The thought of noise and commotion drained her. She hadn’t had time for baking or shopping for presents, every spare moment taken up by visits with Merrill.

Once inside, Jo took off her coat and hung it in the hall closet. She heated up a cup of milk in the microwave and turned out the hall light, sinking into an easy chair with her head against the lace doily on the back. The lights in the juniper bush outside flashed in random sequences, casting shadows of branches and needles across the ceiling.

This might be Merrill’s last Christmas, she thought. No more festivities and decorations, laughter and singing. No one to lie next to when the night grew deep and sleep descended.

Perhaps she could ask God politely for a reprieve. It seemed important not to be too demanding or greedy. Just one more year to watch the grandchildren grow, to pay off the house…

She tried to picture the vague deity she hesitantly worshipped. She saw an old man, rigid, gray-bearded, and unlikely to bestow favors, especially to those who otherwise rarely consulted Him. From the clouds above, He orchestrated all that happened on Earth and punished those who questioned His power. But she doubted He would answer her request, or that a prayer could make any difference in the outcome.

Through the frost-feathered glass, the scene in the front yard blazed across the deep snow. The plastic baby Jesus in his bed of fresh straw glowed like an oracle.

The wind was picking up. The tinfoil star on top of the crèche shivered. The colored bulbs winked on their frozen wires, ticking against the windows.

Jo stared absently at the doll’s swaddled body. A curious shadow drifted back and forth across its face, and as she tried to identify its source, the scene suddenly went black. Jo blinked against the darkness. Maybe a fuse had blown. She thought of opening the fuse box, but she knew nothing about what was inside. That had always been Merrill’s territory.

Or perhaps a transformer in the neighborhood had lost power. But the Reynolds’ Christmas tree across the way still reflected its colored lights in the ice rutted street.

Maybe the wind was responsible—a power line was down, lying like a snake in the back yard, electrocuting any live animal that ventured near. She thought of stepping out into the electric snow, her charred body sizzling under the bulbous yellow moon.

Next door, the streetlight still shone, snowflakes circling through its illuminated cone. The cuckoo clock on the piano whistled twelve times.

Jo tried to resist the idea that God’s hand descended from the heavens, compelling her to repent or submit. She didn’t believe in omens, really. But she whispered a clumsy prayer nevertheless. “Please, God. Help me…”

Wind buffeted the house, driving snowflakes against the windows. Jo’s hands trembled as she felt for the lamp beside her chair. As she turned the switch, she recalled the timer Merrill had set to extinguish all the Christmas lights at midnight.

Oh, she thought.

Zan Bockes (pronounced “Bacchus”) earned an MFA in Creative Writing from the University of Montana. Her work appears in numerous publications, and she has had four Pushcart Prize nominations. Her first poetry collection, Caught in Passing, was released in 2013. Another collection, Alibi for Stolen Light, appeared in 2018.

black withered tree surounded by body of water
Photo by Kyle Roxas on Pexels.com

Pilgrim

19 June 2022 /

Poetry by Rob Lowe

I like clocks, and books, and music,
Things which structure the way forward,
Are signposts and dwelling places.

Map-reading living is my hobby;
But exploring the nature of being
Requires a compass of faith.

I am waterproofed with hope,
My thoughts are warm but breathable;
I am well-equipped for the journey.

And when at last the sun goes down
After a walk through mountain terrain,
I pitch a tent of morality.

I have no home, nor family,
My friends are birds and beasts and trees;
They talk to me nightly.

I saw a harvest once, of people,
Crowded on a plain below;
And in the midst there was a steeple

And what tolled from its Sunday bell?
There is no lasting peace until
Religion consists of poetry.

Rob Lowe has written privately for many years, but only lately started submitting pieces for publication. Typical work can be found in recent issues of Lucent Dreaming, Libretto, Seventh Quarry, Aromatica Poetica, and some anthologies. He lives in Milton Keynes in the U.K.

brown farm gate and green grass field
Photo by Chanita Sykes on Pexels.com

At Dawn Where Two Worlds Meet

12 March 2022 /

Nonfiction by Hope Nisly

The breeze at dawn has secrets to tell you.
Don’t go back to sleep.
-Rumi

The light of early morning is magic, pure and simple and full of possibility. I believe this, even when I am rudely jolted awake by the ring of my phone and it is barely light out. A voice asks, “Can you be ready in five minutes? I’ll pick you up. I want to show you something.” Because the voice belongs to the quietest of my five brothers, the one who seldom displays strong emotion or succumbs to any hint of urgency, I respond quickly and without a clue of what might be coming.

Now here we stand quietly at the fence row of a neighbor’s farm. We are looking out over a convocation of bald eagles, at minimum forty, that landed in a field newly-covered with the aromatic debris from a farmer’s barnyard. I take a deep breath and hold it, as if any movement or sound might obliterate the tranquility of this early morning tableau.

In several weeks, this field will be covered with green shoots pushing up through the rich, muck-covered soil. This morning, however, it is covered only with majestic birds that swoop and peck at the dung, hunting for a mischief of mice or a labor of voles too slow to evade their talons of death. The eagles, so recently snatched back from the edge of extinction, ignore our curiosity.

In the pink glow of the rising sun, our shoes damp with dew, all hints of our political differences have faded into the shadows of this flood of early light.

Words are superfluous in this light. Side-by-side, we stand in silence and solidarity and hope, basking in this breath-taking view of these birds of prey. I am content to stand quietly in the lengthy early-morning shadow cast by my brother, this quiet man whose soul is full of love for all living things, who wants to share this with me just because I am; just because he is; just because we are.

Hope Nisly is a retired librarian living in Reedley, California where she gets up early to catch the full moon going down and watch the sun rising in its wake. Her writing has appeared in Mojave River Review, Fredericksburg Literary and Arts Review, and Persimmon Tree. Her stories have aired on Valley Writers Read, a program of the local NPR-affiliate station.

© 2024 The Bluebird Word

Theme by Anders Noren — Up ↑