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A Course in Miracles

My “niche” is A Course in Miracles: reflections and stories, both fiction and memoir (sometimes fictionalized).

I have started writing poems, also. They started as song lyrics (grateful for Suno.com) to go with my posts, though sometimes they stand alone.

Please join me and my Pay Subs (Sounds like “Pay Stubs,” ) in laughing uproariously at our crazy notions of what life means.

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Here’s the Main Attraction!

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Kitty Gets Hungry

Stays alive and well.

“Help, I’ve fallen; I can’t get up!”

Her LifeLine pendant, smashed under ample chest, can’t relay the call.

Breath, knocked-out as she went down—hard—rendered her voice a whisper.

She fades.

Waking, feels purring in her ear.

The vibrations soothe.

Senses wane again.

Consciousness ebbs, flows, no urgency—waves rolling into shore.

She senses light, then night, light again.

Nancy’s time ceases to exist.

Her body processes; her brain does not.

Paramedics arrive, late. (an understatement).

Kitty is alive and well, purring at her owner’s absent ear.

And empty sockets, missing lips.

Housedress, nudged up between the legs.

Song Lyrics

**Kitty is alive and well**

“Help, I’ve fallen; I can’t get up!”

Her LifeLine pendant, smashed under ample chest, can’t relay the call.

Breath, knocked-out as she went down—hard—rendered her voice a whisper.

She fades.

Waking, feels purring in her ear.

Kitty is alive and well,

Purring at her owner’s ear.

The vibrations soothe.

Senses wane again.

Consciousness ebbs, flows, no urgency—waves rolling into shore.

She senses light, then night, light again.

Kitty is alive and well,

Purring at her owner’s ear.

Nancy’s time ceases to exist.

Her body processes; her brain does not.

Paramedics arrive, late. (an understatement).

Kitty is alive and well,

Purring at her owner’s absent ear.

And empty sockets, missing lips.

Housedress, nudged up between the legs.

Kitty is alive and well,

Purring at her owner’s absent ear.

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Introductory Note: The inspiration for this post shot me right back to the front porch of my apartment house in Cedar Falls, Iowa (circa 1966):

Lioaurelia

Cold Hands

Cold hands Frozen mind Cool breeze Stuck in time Waiting here For him too Just waiting for it all To come unglued The silence isn’t quiet Your absence is louder The clock seems frozen Stuck every hour I walk around I bide my time Clean a thing or two Watch the clock wind Breakfast turns dinner It’s summer from winter The waiting is painful To see …

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a month ago · 4 likes · 1 comment · Lioaurelia

Ginny’s Waited Long Enough (Based on an actual incident, fictionalized.)

Dick’s late again. Ginny, waiting, cried.

Stomach twisted, she gulped,

Got an idea.

Quit sobbing.

Grabbing her keys, she rushed to her ‘54 Ford, praying it’d start.

She knew he was skating.

Not home? Go to the rink, get him.

Guy at gate’s not gonna let’er in:

“But, I gotta find my boyfriend.”

“Five minutes.”

Striding through entrance to flashing lights. Skaters flowing past,

To “Your Cheatin’ Heart,” ironically.

Adjusting to the noise’n’lights, she swept her eyes across the rink.

“You fake, redheaded bitch, daring to touch my guy again like at the pool?

“You’re dead.”

And, so was Dick.

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Tell the story your voice has been trying to write… not just about writing, but what it means to you. (Genre—double Drabble—fiction.)

Note from Ginny: OMG, this was hard to write! I couldn’t decide which way to go! At first I wrote a 750-word fictionalized memoir. That got it on the page at least. Finally I decided to do the drabble but had to do a Double Drabble to get the story across. There’s no way I’m gonna win, but I needed to tell it.

Brilliance is a love language. (Ginny is talking to Nancy.)

“I keep finding people I LOVE—thoroughly.

Most are half my age. Less.

They find me. In Dubuque classroom. Book groups. Craigslist ad for roommate, now Substack!”

“Uh huh.”

“To love, methinks, is to love. Full-stop.

“Oh wait, I gotta go visit Jeff.

He’ll be waiting. Can I call you back?”

(At the visiting booth) “Hey, Coach.”

(Sits on the other side of the partition, picks up the phone ) “Hi, Kid.”

“What’ve you been writing this month?”

“I’m writin’ horror; bet you can’t believe it! Di’n’ja get, ‘Shrieking Kathy?’”

“Naw, jail mail is slow. Prob’ly in the mailroom.”

“I wanna hear what you think. What’s pourin’ from you? I saw your Gatsby article in The Inmate. Knew you’d get published before me. Stunned me then—blushed when I handed back your work. Stuns me now.

(Face flushing): “I’ve been writing poetry again. I’ll send you some.”

A buzzer sounds.

(With a grin but near tears) “See ya next month.”

“I’ll be here. Where else would I be on visitor’s day?”

He turns to go, waiting for the guard.

Jeff leaves the women’s prison as Ginny’s led back to her cell.

The End

(Epilogue): Ginny got swept up in the “Me Too” movement, was arrested for contributing to the delinquency of a minor for the Notes written in Jeff’s journal and on his papers. She pled guilty, is spending 5 years in the Iowa Women’s Correctional Facility. Jeff has since turned 18; he can now visit her in prison.

Song Lyrics

**Brilliance is a love language.**

“I keep finding people I LOVE—thoroughly.

Most are half my age--Less.

They find me. In a Dubuque classroom. At a ook group. In a craigslist ad for a roommate. Now Substack.”

“Uh huh.”

“To love, methinks, is to love. Full-stop.

“Oh wait, I gotta go visit Jeff.

He’ll be waiting. Can I call you back?”

“Hey, Coach.”

“Hi, Kid.”

“What’ve you been writing this month?”

“I’m writin’ horror; bet you can’t believe it. Didn’t you get, ‘Shrieking Kathy?’”

“Naw, jail mail is slow. Prob’ly in the mailroom.”

“I wanna hear what you think.

What’s pourin’ from you?

I saw your Gatsby article in The Inmate.

Knew you’d get published before me.

You stunned me then—

blushed when I handed back your work.

You stun me now.

“I’ve been writing poetry again. I’ll send you some.”

A buzzer sounds.

**With a grin but near tears**

“See ya next month.”

“I’ll be here.

Where else would I be on visitor’s day?”

He turns to go, waiting for the guard.

Jeff leaves the women’s prison as Ginny is led back to her cell.

**Swept up in the Epstein scandal, she.

Was arrested and pled guilty for

adding to corruption of a minor, yeah

She’s doing time, she

Five years in a women’s prison, No

At 79.5, I discovered Substack. Delighted with it, the Writer Within me started pouring— like “rain in Southern California.” Every post elated me. I subbed other creators. Others subbed me. I got a paid sub! Such joy! I donated towards “Buy me a Coffee’s”

No “wages” (See “Wage Slave Chronicles” in an upcoming post) have ever thrilled me as other creators supporting my writing! I am no longer obliged to “earn a living.” NOTE: most of my income comes from SS, of course. But I get my “spending money” from YOU!

Just as thrilled to support others, I now pay out one-half of my substack intake to other writers. I know most of you are also paying back, or “paying forward,” too.

If you would like to join my other paid subs, I would so appreciate it, adding half of your subscription or donation to my “walking around” cash and the other half to more Substack creators. Just like “We all do better when we all do better,”1we all grow together when we all grow together.

Please join us if you can:

And when you aren’t able, I certainly get it. Your free subs, likes, restacks, comments, and recommendations are just as noticeable to the Almighty Algorithm. Supporting other creators in those ways is what brought me to 1000+ subscribers.

However you choose to add your support, or not, I send you all my best wishes.

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Now, on to our Horror Story Drabble:

Alligators, Swamps, and Walkers in the Boardwalk at Barataria Bayou Near NOLA

Two old friends from Cajun Country, Jed and Hep, are “talkin ‘bout” an incident at the Barataria Boardwalk a few days back: (Jed remembers the incident):

“J’ya hear ‘bout dat ‘gator-maulin’ ova t’by-yuh?”

“Mais yeah. Dat fella die?”

“Naw, prolly nevah walk ‘gin. No’ mebbe see.”

“Dem fella's a-wa-akin dat bo-adwa-ak lik’en t’wuz nuttin’. One, he foot slipt in t’mah-ray. Seen ‘im, me.

“He’s tryin’ to stay uprigh’.

“Awms a-flailin,’ skreechin’ ‘Hep me!’ Stoopid—hollrin’ jus’ give dem ‘gators notice.

“‘T com’d outta de watah fas.’ Snatcht dat leg ‘n’ drag ‘im in.

“Saw da blood ‘n’ run, me.

“I ‘ear’d hep ‘riv’d ‘n’ ‘e ony los’ da leg ‘n’ ‘n’eye—Don’na how ‘e los’ da eye, doh.”

Translation to so-called standard English

Did you hear about the gator maulin over to the bayou?

But yes, Did that fellow die?

Naw, probably never walk again. No maybe see.

Them fellers were walking that boardwalk like it was nothing. One, his foot slipt in the marais (Fr for swamp). I saw him.

He was trying to stay upright.

Arms flailing, screeching, “Help me!” Stupid—hollering just gives them gators notice.

It came out of the water fast, Snatched that leg and dragged him in.

I saw the blood and ran,

I heard help arrived and he only lost the leg and an eye. Don’t know hoe he lost the eye though.

She skittered from one foot to the other, up each wooden step.

Eyes bulging, visage ragged. Hair, scrambled at the temples, tried making it to the top before she could.

Jeans, ripped at the pocket seam, hung off her skinny hips. Shirttails, torn and dirty, flapped around her waist. Shoelace untied, tripped her, screaming up the last step.

She caught herself and stayed upright. Then whipped her head around, dark curls straightened by the force of the turn. Was that the rumbling of a beast echoing down below? Or her imagination affecting my own delusional tendency?

“Shared hysteria,” Dr. Warner called it the last time it happened.

Kathy, gasping for breath, staggered, stupified, her arms thrashing around in front of me.

I grabbed one flailing arm with my gloved hands, making sure she couldn’t bite me as she had one time before. She struggled against me, wanting to free herself so she could run again.

Holding tight, avoiding her snarling teeth, I stood still, breathing as she breathed, slowly taking longer breaths as I’d been taught. Picturing both herself and me coming down from panic.

And, soon we did. Exhausted from being terrified, and from the work of breathing out the horror, Kathy finally slumped against me. She let me lead her to a chair.

Jenny, our foster sibling, had come down from upstairs; she brought some water, and Kathy sipped.

“Oh, it seemed so real!” “I must quit going down there no matter what I need.”

“We’ll bring everything up here so you don’t think you have to go down there by yourself,” I suggested.

“Mrs. Bartles won’t care,” Jenny ventured.

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“And, I think we may need to start seeing Dr. Warner more than once a week for awhile,” I looked to both Kathy and Jenny for agreement to our plan.

“What shall we tell Mrs. Bartles when she gets home?” Jenny asked while she patted Kathy’s now quiet curls?

“Well, there’s no damage, not even stuff scattered around. Shall we just keep it to ourselves and not worry her for now?”

“I’m okay with that; I feel like such a fool.” whimpered Kathy.

“Just stop that now; you know it’s not your fault,” chided Jenny. “PTSD is PTSD.”

“Well, I’m exhausted,” I realized, “Let’s get up to bed.”

Kathy stood up, pushed in the chair, and took water with her.”
Jenny followed. I brought up the rear, turning out the lights and leaving the stovetop light for Mrs. Bartles.

My foster sisters were well up the stairs before I realized I was hearing that low beastly rumble echoing down below again.

Song Lyrics

Shrieking up the basement stairs, red mouth split with fear

Wooden steps remember every breath we leave down here

Eyes too wide for daylight, hair racing her own head

Something down below us won’t admit that it is dead

Shared hysteria, the doctor’s word like rust

I hold her like a lifeline, like I’m holding back the dust

Teeth snapping at the air, I match her breath with mine

Counting down the terror, stretching seconds into time

Water on her lips now, quiet curls collapse

We swear we won’t go back there, seal the floorboards, lock the past

Lights are low, the house asleep, safety almost won

Then the basement starts to breathing—Oh My God, it isn’t done!

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Mary (12) screeched, “Get it offa me!”

Ray (9) giggling, sprayed again, made Mary cringe, smack his face.

Malathion, ignoring fighting kids, hied itself onto skin, sneaked past barriers to inner sites. Malevolent antagonist, child-hating enemy, joined corpuscles, rode bloodstream waves.

Knowing it was vicious foe, set to destruction of cells, genes, and DNA. The damage, hid for decades—finally, erupted—cancer cells, tumors invading liver and pancreas.

Got both the kids, killed them victoriously, agonizingly before their families. Ray, 35, Mary, 79.

Malathion, “bad” in its very name, still used, triumphantly poisoning farmworkers, including children, across the globe.

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Queries:

1. Did you grow up breathing in or getting herbicides and pesticides on your skin? Any adverse effects you know of?

2. One of my sisters, raised her five kids in an industrialized neighborhood. The train tracks ran daily and nightly right behind her house. Two of her daughters died each at age 38, each with two kinds of cancer—one had uterine and colo-rectal cancer. The other had thyroid and lung cancer. (She didn’t smoke, did grow up with some 2nd hand smoke.) Why so much cancer?

3. Do you or people you know work at jobs handling herbicides and pesticides on a regular basis? Farm work, pest extermination (ants, cockroaches, bedbugs, mice, rats).

4. How about sun exposure? My mother died at age 63 of melanoma. She didn’t get lots of exposure to sun, but she had a fair complexion. The lesion that began the cancer was never found. Might have been inside one of her orifices. If it wasn’t sun exposure might it have been chemicals? Or living with my smoking dad for 40 years?

5. One of my brothers had chronic, obstructive, pulmonary disease (COPD), BUT he also contracted leukemia. He did smoke some; he also worked on the farm for 18 years being exposed to herbicides and pesticides. Was it one or the other? Or a deadly combination of them all?

6. Let us know what your experience has been with environmental contamination and pollution—I bet we have a supportive cohort here on substack.

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