Maryann Austin

When Dr. Phil posted this as his status, a few people had negative things to say about it.  I will not repeat them.  It would be the same as giving glory to the gunman.  I found this short poem comforting and I think it is worth sharing. Twas' 11 days before Christmas, around 9:38 when 20 beautiful children stormed through heaven's gate. their smiles were contagious, their laughter filled the air. they could hardly believe all the beauty they saw there. they were filled with such joy, they didn't know what to say. they remembered nothing of what had happened earlier that day. "where are we?" asked a little girl, as quiet as a mous e. "this is heaven." declared a small boy. "we're spending Christmas at God's house." when what to their wondering eyes did appear, but Jesus, their savior, the children gathered near. He looked at them and smiled, and they smiled just the same. then He opened His arms and He called them by name. and in th

My mother and father bought their first house on a handshake.  They were a young couple, in their twenties, and they seemed upstanding enough.  So two men shook hands, and a couple had their first home.  Both parties met their obligations and no one wound up ripped off, homeless, or securing a lawyer. Wow.  And this brings me to my subject.  What is happening to the world?  A few weeks ago my husband and I were at Kmart.  We had to pick up one of those inflatable beds for Thanksgiving company.  As we were leaving the parking lot, the car stopped near a lone form sitting on the curb in the middle of the cold lot.  It was a man, probably in his twenties, crouching and huddling to stay warm.  His hat was pulled down far enough, and his head hung low enough, that it was difficult to see his face--and it seemed he preferred it that way. As Bill approached him, he looked up.  His expression was, at the same time, conveying both hopelessness and what now ?  My husband is a kind man.

Least visible were the earth creatures.  One needed only to sweep back the leaves or lift a rock to see them.  But unless looked for, they went unnoticed.  The tiniest of these unseen creatures bore much of the work of the forest.  Little bugs and worms slowly ate their way through the biggest of trees, fallen or upright.  They found almost nothing inedible.  On what scavengers left behind, they would feast, turning dead animals and vegetation into nutrients which the forest would use again and again.  The ground was home to forms of life that most people shrink and recoil from.  Grubs and earthworms, snakes and salamanders slithered and crawled there.   Their slimy city bustled under the leaves, and even beneath the rock on which Jane and William sat.   Copperhead Snakes and Timber Rattlers made their homes here.   William seemed to have a gift for sensing the legless reptiles.  As a very young child, barely old enough to speak, he once warned his mother of an approaching Copperh

There will be a giveaway of Choking Butterflies available on Goodreads throughout the month of December.  Just click explore and go to giveaways on the drop down menu.  No catches, just a free book!  And with a cool old lady on the front!  Three free signed copies are available.   click to enter

Lackawanna is the word that the native peoples use to describe where two rivers meet.  About a hundred miles to the north and east of the camp at the natural bridge, the mighty Rappahannock meets the Rapidan.  And there, a Brigade of three hundred gathered under the starlight in a place called Hartwood Church, preparing for a long march northward. In this army, the Army of the Potomac, one would notice many more dark faces than would be found at the camp near the James River.  There were a great many Negroes fighting for the Union--and honorably so.  Some were born into freedom, and others had been slaves--and yet others were slaves who absconded from the south.  Wherever they came from, the Union Army welcomed them. They were one with their white northern brothers, fighting alongside and for the same cause.  All prayed to the same God as they marched in to battle.  And still, around the individual campfires at night, white and brown stayed separate.   Funny, because if you w

She loved to see her eyes because she loved the way they looked.  She loved the power that they held.  It was not out of insecurity or a need for reassurance that Jane committed this ritual.  It was out of pure thrill and enjoyment.  She knew that, with her eyes, she could elicit compliance, force intimidation, and very quickly convey excruciating disgust upon someone.  When not engaging in such an expression, the default setting of her gaze was nothingness. Pleased and satisfied with what she saw, Jane returned the mirror to the intended position, able to see what was behind her.  She cared little what was back there.  She cared little about what was before her.  She cared little about anything outside of her own skin or, really, what was beneath it.

These pretty flowers are for any of you who were ever teased or bullied.   I have had technical trouble getting Choking Butterflies onto Barnes and Noble.  There must be some connection with the fact that I was bullied by a boy named Nook. I was in the sixth grade, standing at the bus stop one day, when I suddenly felt a horrible blow to my left temple.  It's funny how we can remember such things so vividly.  I remember which way I was looking, and I remember the way it felt as the softball slammed the side of my head.  Bam.  I went down.  And then I ran home crying.  My house was right across the street. This event must have influenced me in writing Choking Butterflies.  In Chapter Three,  Jane bullies another little girl on the bus. “You are ugly.  You are stupid.  No one likes you.”  It was a song that both girls knew well.  One detested it.  Jane would repeat this verse as long as necessary.   By the first repetition, Kimberly’s heart thumped in her chest.  By th

It was a number a years ago, when I was going through the horror of divorce, that I first realized the importance of keeping track of one’s angels.  I’m referring to the wingless ones who show up at just the right time. At times I kept an actual list.  It came in very handy, and I would often get it out and look at it to remind me that there were still people who cared in the world.  Sometimes absolute strangers wound up on this list, and I would pray that they would somehow be rewarded someday.  Today my angel list is no longer a physical one--but I am in the habit of taking note when such people enter my life, whether long term or for a split second. When I was a kid, the bus stop was right in front of my house.  Where my kids are being raised, it is not that way.  I know many people who travel a couple of miles to get their kids on the bus everyday.  Seems a small thing, right?  Well, throw in work and bad weather, and it becomes a hardship just making sure your child gets t

Journal Entry by a Mother During the Time of the Black Plague More travelers came today.  They clawed at our gates and pleaded for food, but we could not sacrifice our own , nor could we risk exposing ourselves to their wretched disease.  If we will ever be able to venture outside these walls, we do not know.  It is said that the sickness has afflicted most of the village, so we dare not leave nor let anyone in.  The thought of my own children suffering the same hideous fate that has befallen the others is intolerable.  This is why, though it may not seem in accordance with my Christian upbringing, I will continue to turn away and ignore the cries of my neighbors.  I believe that it is the Lord's Will that we escape this black death.  I thank Him each day that in this time of devastation and bereavement, when so much has been taken from so many, my greatest troubles are the fleas in the hair of my children. written when I was Maryann Sekulski The thing that made this

My next novel will be set during the Civil War.  Have to get into a different mindset.  Hey the hurricane was helpful in that respect.  Reminded of what it's like to live without electricity, heat, and running water.  

Yesterday I spoke to my mom on the phone.  She will be eighty years old next year.  When I was four years old, she was widowed and left to raise five of us. The youngest was two and the oldest was fifteen.  It was a challenging but colorful childhood with no father and a mom who struggled.  What else was she to do?  She cared enough to struggle.  Anyway, had a heartwarming conversation with her yesterday.  She expressed guilt over not having encouraged me more.  She told me that my writing transported her to another place (and she is very immobile these days).  She was impressed and felt sorry that she didn't really see whatever talent I had. I told her that I wouldn't have had my life any other way.  I told her that I made my own choices and that I wanted to live a life before writing.  And that is what I did.  I love my mom.

It's easy to make the mistake of blaming God for what men do.

Vivaldi Concerto no.3 in F Letting myself believe that he wrote this piece just for me. Someone knew that it would lift my spirits today. So fitting. "Autumn ". The colors get more beautiful each day.

Drove way into the mountains of WV today. A carpet of yellow and red as far as the eye could see. Over the Cacapon River. Curvy mountain roads that make me dizzy.

Its a sad day. A boy in my son's school was shot and killed last night. My heart goes out to his parents We live in a scary world.

The voice of the sea speaks to the soul. The touch of the sea is sensuous, enfolding the body in its soft, close embrace. --Kate Chopin. The Awakening

Humuhumunukunukuapuaa Now that's a great name.

wrote about kittens today, how they grab your wrist with a death grip then shave skin off your arm with their back legs--all this while looking absolutely cute as a button.