Just an exciting update for those of you who follow my blog.  The anthology Times They Were a' Changing is available for purchase. Here's the ISBN numbers for those of you who wanted to purchase a copy. If you'll remember my story, "The September Wind" took first place in this contest back in March. I'm pretty excited about this book release! Yeah!
Print ISBN: 978-1-938314-04-9 Price: $16.95
E ISBN: 978-1-938314-10-0 Price: $9.95 - See more at: http://www.timestheywereachanging.com/publicity/

I took a memoir piece, re-vamped it, then fictionalized the characters and events to create this new story.  Fiction is still a bit of a challenge for me.  But I enjoy writing it. 

A GLIMPSE INTO THE HOURGLASS by Sara Etgen-Baker

The autumn winds hurried through the maple trees; their leaves began falling—some fast and some slow—swirling and twirling around Angela’s body until at last the leaves touched the ground.  It was the perfect leaf-kicking day, for the autumn sun burned brightly—like a flaming torch—igniting the colors in all of the leaves.    

So, Angela scurried through her grandfather’s yard—unable to resist crunching all the leaves with their apricot oranges, burgundy reds, tangerine yellows, and chocolate browns.  Then she dove into a soft bed of the dry, colorful maple leaves and lingered there absorbing the warmth of the midday sunshine and inhaling the intoxicating smell of the moist earth and the dried leaves. 

“Angela, stop your dawdlin’!” 

Angela looked up.  Her grandfather was standing over her with a rake in his hand. 

“It’s almost lunchtime.  Those leaves won’t rake themselves, you know.”  He handed Angela the rake.  “I need you to get those leaves raked so I can put them in the incinerator and burn them.”  He turned away and strode toward the back porch.  “I’m guessin’ you’re gettin’ a wee bit hungry by now.”

“Yes, Granddad, I am.”  Angela continued raking the leaves.

“Well then.  Come inside.  I suppose you’ll be needin’ some lunch before you finish rakin’ them leaves.”

  Angela threw down the rake and ran toward the back door, kicking more leaves along the way. 

            “Here’s your peanut butter and jelly sandwich—no jelly, right?”  He placed a plate and glass of milk on the kitchen counter. 

            “Right, Granddad.”  Angela giggled.  “Thanks.  It looks yummy.”

            “Sorry that’s all I have.  I just wasn’t expectin’ you till tomorrow.”  He stood up and grabbed a root beer from his refrigerator.  “You sleep okay last night, darlin’?” 

            Although his silent house had kept her awake, Angela replied, “Yes sir. I did,” followed by, “How ‘bout you?”

            “I’m old—I never sleep well,” he grumbled.  

            The house became still as they struggled with what to say to one another.  So they ate lunch in silence—a silence so thick Angela could feel it drape around her like an old shawl.  After lunch, she pulled it over her shoulders and plopped down into her grandmother’s chair suddenly aware of something else in the house—something different—a faint rustling, a soft presence of some sort.  She didn’t know what it was.     

Perhaps it was the scent of her grandmother’s lavender perfume that lingered in the rich tapestry fabric, stirring memories of when she sat in her grandmother’s lap reading a book or sharing apple cider.  She closed her eyes and remembered when the house was full of noise and her grandmother’s laughter.  Now, though, the house was empty, lifeless, and silent.     

He glanced up from reading his newspaper.  “Your grandmother loved sitting in that chair and watching her grandchildren.”

“I loved sitting in her lap when she sat in this chair.”  Angela watched his face.  “It still smells like her.”

“Yes, it does.”  He adjusted his glasses.  “Her memory kept me awake last night.”

 “The silence last night frightened me and kept me awake.” Angela choked back the tears.

He slowly raised one eyebrow and fumbled for words.  “Why…uh…uh…are you afraid of the silence?”

“Because the silence just makes me miss her more.” Angela wiped at her nose.

“I miss her too.”  He peered over his glasses.  “In the silence I hear her voice and feel her spirit rustling through the house.  In that silence, I don’t miss her as much.”  His chin trembled and his voice cracked.  “I’m terribly afraid I’ll lose her forever if I don’t keep the house silent.” 

He sighed and took a deep breath.  After another moment’s silence he left the room and returned with an hourglass in his hand.  “You know what the infinity symbol looks like, right?”

 

“Yes, Granddad, I do—like an eight lying on its side.”

“Yes.  But if you stand it up, the infinity symbol reminds me of an hourglass—like this one that belonged to your grandmother.”  He pulled his chair close to Angela, leaned forward, and said, “Glimpse into the hourglass at the grains of sand.”  He turned over the hourglass and tapped it. 

Angela stared at the hourglass—mesmerized by the tiny grains of sand as they trickled through the neck of the hourglass.    

“I’d like to think that each grain of sand represents a tiny piece of time—a memory we have of her.  And although the time we had with her was precious and fleeting, each memory brings us pleasure, warms our hearts, and keeps her spirit alive.”  He clutched the hourglass then turned it sideways so it resembled the infinity symbol.  “I’d also like to think that each grain of sand represents her infinite love for us.” 

A smile emerged on his face as he looked in Angela’s eyes.  “I want you to have her hourglass.  Always remember your grandmother’s love for you is imperishable and continues forever—it’s infinite like the infinity symbol.” 

Angela took the hourglass and sniffed back the tears; then they embraced and waited—waited until

the comforting lilt of her grandmother’s spirit surrounded them filling the silence.

Wisdom From An Old Scribe

Just sharing another piece that I submitted to Tiny Lights. http://www.tiny-lights.com/ This piece answers the prompt "Who Controls Your Writing."  Enjoy

WISDOM FROM AN ANCIENT SCRIBE by Sara Etgen-Baker

In a land called Álfheimer, there once lived a young elfin scribe known as Olwȅ Nénharma.  Now it happened one day while walking through the Bodhi Woods that he came upon an old scribe. 

Lord Carnesȉr, some 90+ years old, sat feebly on the stump of an orange blossom tree.  The old scribe didn’t move—he sat with his head down staring at his hands.  Olwȅ sat down beside him, but the old scribe didn’t even acknowledge his presence. 

 

Although Olwȅ didn’t want to disturb the old scribe, he wondered if the old scribe was okay. So he asked, “Be you okay, Lord Carnesȉr?” 

Lord Carnesȉr raised his head, took a sip of lisyul, and smiled.  “I be fine young scribe.  Bless you for asking.”  

“I don’t mean to disturb you, sir.”  The young scribe leaned toward him.  “But I was wondering who controls my writing?  It’s a mystery to me.” 

“Now that’s a bit of a puzzle you see.  For the act of writing is left to you and me.”  Lord Carnesȉr rubbed his chin.  “But there’s really no mystery.  You simply have a responsibility.”  

 “But, sir, my family doesn’t understand.”  Olwȅ kicked a rock with his toe.  “They want me to take up the traditional Elfin ways.  And my friends—well, uh….they just want me to sing and dance.  I feel all alone.

“What you feel is not an uncommon scribal plight.  Do not fret over the ways of the Elfin World.”  Lord Carnesȉr patted Olwȅ’s leg.  “You’ve been given a gift—a talent so rare that you won’t fit in anywhere.”

“What about the villagers, my readers?” Olwȅ clutched his body.  “And what about the Sȇregon Council of Editors?” 

Lord Carnesȉr leaned back and looked Olwȅ straight in the eyes.  “Villagers will criticize you.   Yes, the leaders of the Sȇregon Council will editorialize you.” 

“But take heart.  Love your craft.  Learn how to tell stories.  Love the act of writing.  Don’t let others dissuade you from your path, young scribe.  Write because you want to write.”

So, according to Lord Carnesȉr who controls my writing?  I do.  Anon

Occasionally, you may find Sara Etgen-Baker talking with the wise Lord Carnesȉr while walking through the woods near her home.  If you don’t find her there, you may visit her at http://saraetgenbaker.blogspot.com/

The Magic Pen

I originally wrote this piece in response to one of the monthly prompts at Tiny-Lights--a monthly writer's exchange.  This was a fun piece that I wanted to share. 

THE MAGIC PEN—A FAIRY TALE FOR WRITERS by Sara Etgen-Baker

Once upon a time there lived a gifted princess named Rizan who wrote and spun stories into gold. Now it happened that she opened the mail one day and discovered a rejection letter; she sat at her computer and cried, fearing her gift was gone.

Then Rizan looked out the window of her condo and thought to herself, "The sunset is so beautiful; I think I'll take a stroll along the trails near the creek."

However, darkness quickly fell, and she suddenly found herself lost and alone—deep inside the dark, urban wilderness not knowing what to do. So, Rizan decided to follow the moonlight, hoping it would guide her safely back home. She crossed a small wooden bridge, but all at once an ugly hunchback gnome jumped over the edge, startling poor Rizan.

"Sorry me startled you," the gnome replied, "Yfel's me name. Who might ‘cha be?" he inquired.

"My name's Rizan," the princess answered.

"What brings you out alone into the cold on this wintery evening?" Yfel asked.

"I took a stroll to clear my head hoping to renew my gift of creativity. Now, I seem to have lost my way home."

"Ah, I see…well…tonight's your lucky night, for I have just the thing for you. It's a magic pen. It will bring back your gift. Would ‘cha like to see it?"

"Sure," the princess innocently responded.

Then Yfel handed Rizan the pen, and she ran back to her condo eager to try the new pen. All at once, the point pricked the palm of her hand releasing a paralyzing poison; Rizan fell to the floor where she slumbered until sunrise. The sunbeams woke her.  But, alas, she was still paralyzed.

Soon, a delicately-winged fairy named Gignere slid down a sunbeam onto Rizan's shoulder and said, "I see the evil Yfel tempted you with his magic pen and cast a spell on you."

Then, Gignere waved her magic wand saying, "Be gone paralyzing poison."

With that, the numbness slowly left Rizan's body; she stood up and said, "Thank you, gentle Gignere, for rescuing me from Yfel's evil spell! What about my gift? Is there nothing you can do to rescue it?" Rizan blurted.

Gignere answered, "There's nothing more I can do. Do not let an evil, outside source take it away from you.   Remember writing is your gift and always dwells inside of you."

With that, Gignere smiled and flitted away climbing upon a sunbeam as it floated into the sunrise.

And from that day on, Rizan wrote happily ever after never doubting her gift of creativity.