Of Coffee, April Fools, Short Stories and Fathers

If you were having coffee with me I would say thank you for joining me, how have you been? I have been good cheers to the New Month, hello April what do you have in store for us? Good things I hope.

So did anyone play any good April Fools pranks on you or did you do the pranking?

I didn’t prank anyone but I did write a Very Short Story #VSS called April’s fool:

He used to be the court jester, till he clowned his way into queen April’s heart. No one ever called him King only April’s Fool….

For those who follow my twitterverse account @Beatonm5 you might have noticed I tweet a lot using that hashtag #VSS.. I have been asked many times what this means  it simply stands for a very short story. Twitter and its 140 characters per tweet makes you adept at the fine art of brevity of expression and challenges your creative skills to write a story. If you have a second you can find my #VSS tweets by clicking HERE. If you tweet micro-stories on twitter do let me know and I will check it out and if you haven’t you must try it, it’s also a good way to come up with writing ideas or a story to develop further, for those moments you think you have writer’s block.

If you were having coffee with me I would tell you I attended my first mass today. Before you look at me with that scandalous expression it was not my first mass but rather it was the first mass I have been to where the priest in attendance is a family member. He got ordained as a priest last year but time and circumstance had not made it possible for me to attend any of his services. It was quite weird, watching him, deliver sermons and perform sacred rites of communion with ease of someone who has been a priest all his life. It’s also weird how once, he was my young brother and now I call him Father, he looks older. He looks like someone you can confess your sins to, without being judged and expecting him to mete out a fair penance of Our Fathers and Hail Marys, someone who could officiate your wedding, baptise your little ones and when you laid there on your deathbed someone who would perfom the last rites and finally bury you and into the   hole ye goes… Someone you could call Father.

I remember attending his ordination ceremony officiated by an Apostolic nuncio who is the Pope’s emissary so it was quite an honour. The community decided to welcome him by bestowing upon him the gift of a totem, he was declared of the Moyo (Heart) Clan. I am fairly sure protocol was creatively circumvented and he accepted ever so graciously. He thanked the family for our generosity in letting go one of ours to a greater calling. The ordination of a priest, it feels bittersweet like part marriage and part funeral… Christ being the bridegroom: does that make the priest, the bride? but unlike a wedding you are not gaining in-laws as such, but losing your relation to the church … imagine calling your own son father I guess that’s why priest end up in parishes far from their home and family to prevent awkward encounters and broken hearts just like at any wedding.

If you were having coffee with me I would tell I just got my few seconds of fame from a YouTube video

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LcmwF7_6Ljo

where I got a shout out from Leeann who I featured on my blog The Girl In the Red Dress ( she has a YouTube channel and shares recipes with Conde a parrot I do believe) anyhow someone watched the clip and is now a new follower on my blog, I would have mentioned them by name but, they are internet shy, so I’ll just say I hope you read this wherever you are…

Cheers, April Showers and May Flowers

~B

PS speaking of pranks, and April I am still trying to figure out if this notice from the Zambia Police is real or not, if you do please tell me so…..

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Of Battle Of The Books

 

If you were having coffee with me……… we would be hosting a special guest author Candice Coates.

My dear friend Candice has two novels ready for publication Warden nor Nexus Gate 4037: The Animal.

She had an interesting dilemma of not knowing which one to get published first and so decided on an equally interesting concept of Battle of the Books where The Reader decides after reading teaser excerpts  from the books and completing a poll… the crowd favourite gets published first… sounds simple enough…

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We had an interesting chat with Candice about writing, books, battles and aliens grab a chair some coffee and join us……..

why a book battle?

The concept for the Battle of the Books came from my own indecision. First, neither Warden nor Nexus Gate 4037: The Animal are my first finished manuscripts, however, they are the strongest in my opinion. I chose to battle them because I was undecided about which should have the seat as my purchasable debut novel. The two tales are extremely different in character, but I recognize that the one published first may in fact set the tone for my audience. What better way to have the tone set than to have the audience decide.

-Whats in a name? How did you come up with the book titles ?

         Book titles are tricky things, aren’t they? I honestly believe that each tale named itself in a way. Whenever I think about either of them I think about them by the names they currently have. I’ve fooled around with other titles for Warden but nothing else seemed to fit. Nexus Gate is also titled ‘The Animal,’ since this book is a series, like Warden, but unlike Warden the story is told in a linear way. *SPOILER ALERT* Each additional title, like The Animal, is describing the character of Tucker John and where he is currently within his journey.

I know you would say you love both equally but …. is there one you are secretly hoping gets picked and why?

         You are right I do love them equally, but if I had to be the ultimate deciding vote for which would be published first, I would go with Nexus Gate 4037: The Animal. The concepts within this story, the struggle with morality, the confrontation with racism/colorism and just about any other ‘ism’ are relevant now, and honestly, has been for a while. This story deals with these issues in a straight forward, way but does so in a manner that allows the reader to be aware of the struggle but enjoy the growth and the flow of the story. I think I subconsciously told the story as an allegory for the mindsets of today. We are living in a world of extremist; people who are extremely ignorant of reality either because they are sheltered or by choice, people who are extremely hateful because of fear or how they have been cultivated. No matter which side of the spectrum a person is on, both are rooted in a form of fear, and when fearful people are the decision makers, the results are without a doubt devastating. The backdrop of the Nexus Gate shows you what that could potentially look like if fear wins from either end of the spectrum.

In short, comparing the two, Warden is an awesome ride of action and adventure. Readers will enjoy it, they will fall in love with the characters and the worlds created. But Nexus Gate will make the reader think, cause them to be a bit more introspective about their own views and thoughts and how they deal with people who are on opposing ends.

what happens to the one that comes second???????

        Even second place is a winner here. The second place holder will also be published but not for at least six months after the winner has had time to shine. Even now the second place holder is gaining a following and that is a good thing.

Do you ever get surprised at the way the story turns out? or that’s impossible every scene and plot is meticulously planned out on some vision board

   I am often surprised at how my stories tell themselves. I may have one idea but find that my characters have another. When I write I view myself as a stenographer. I type what the characters tell me. There have been times with stories I was working on that I was writing a scene straight from scratch and found myself literally yelling at the computer at the character whose scene I was typing, calling them stupid and asking them why they were doing what they were doing. I was appalled at their behavior but I just kept typing. Now, I do write out the ‘synopsis’ if you will, when I first catch the seed of a story, then I will type scenes as they come even if they are not in order. In which case, I save them in a file and work on the manuscript and when the story weaves in the direction of a previously written scene, I add it in.

if you could go back in time, to when you first picked up a pen, or was it typewriter what would you tell yourself?

I would tell myself to just have fun, and not to overthink the process. But I would also tell myself that there is a lot of work ahead, that the first draft is just that, a first draft of many. I would also tell myself not to have thin skin that every story is not for everyone and that is okay. Be confident in the work you’ve made no matter the negative feedback or silence that may come. If you’ve done an honest labor of love, be proud of that and celebrate the achievement even if only one person reads it. Perhaps the story was for that one person alone, and that too, is okay.

Early Bird or Night Owl

I am a struggling night owl. I’d like to get to bed earlier. For me, that is before 1:30am…most times I am in bed closer to 4am. I can get up early though without much issue BUT I will need a nap for obvious reasons. In my adult years, I’ve found that naps are indeed a blessing from God. Lol.

Tea or Coffee

Tea always. Coffee on occasion, especially in cake or ice cream.

lastly…. If aliens from the future, light years from now were to come to earth why should you be the first person they see before they ask to be taken to “our leaders”

Well, I am very hospitable and I think I would give them a good impression of Earth people. I am also pretty good with linguistics so communication might be easier for me. Also, who’s to say I’m not the leader 😛

candice

BIO: Candice Coates is a fiction writer, jumping from genres ranging from Speculative Science Fiction and Fantasy to Comedic Clean Read Romance and Drama, all with touches of her Christian faith. She is a lover of Ireland, tea, and just about anything with pistachios. When not writing she is creating visual art with pen or paint, or she is creating new designs for her handmade polymer clay jewelry line, Shizen Brook. To read more of her work you can find her at her author site, candicecoates.wordpress.com or icameforthesoup.com. You can also find out more about her and how to stay connected by going to www.about.me/candicecoates

_ _

 

sticker.jpgThe battle of the books promo started on the 20th February and will run till the 25th of March pop by her site read a bit and vote wisely…..

~B

PS do hit us up and let us know what you think thanks a bunch…..

 

Of A Cake For Every Season

guest Of A Cake For Every Season no rhyme or reason…….. By CatMac

If I were having coffee with you I’d bring a cake. I’d probably bake you a gingerbread which is my current go to recipe. It is a very simple cake but I love the stickiness of it, the unexpected spiciness of it, the buttery melt in your mouth richness of it. I would add some candles so it could be a belated birthday cake.

I would tell you that cakes and baking have always been very important for me. That I come from a long line of bakers and how proud I am that my daughter has followed in the tradition. We don’t make the same cakes though so she isn’t quite following in my floury footsteps. I’m a messy baker 😉

I would tell you how no sooner had my daughter got off the plane after an 8h flight at Christmas than she was in the kitchen baking cakes to take to her former teachers/my colleagues at school the next day. That’s my girl.

I would tell you about an Internet article I once read about an amazing lady who made a cake every day for a year and gave them all away. I would love to be that lady but am too lazy.

I would tell you that I used to prefer cooking to baking. I enjoyed the anarchy of combining any old ingredient and seasoning “to taste”. With age, I find the careful measuring out, sifting and combining of ingredients involved in baking to be satisfyingly soothing.
I would tell you that baking has long been a way for me to gauge my mental state. If I don’t bake, there’s a problem. However sometimes I can go into baking overdrive which isn’t necessarily a good sign either. This has recently been the case as I left a school where I’ve been teaching for five years and pupils who mean a great deal to me. I’ve been coming home from school and baking cakes for the next day’s farewell party and the next and the next…And that the slight saltiness in the cakes might not just have been from the butter.

I would tell you that baking has long been a way for me to share my Scottish culture. I was once asked to talk about my country by my daughter’s English teacher and baked over 100 pieces of shortbread to give to pupils. In over 30° C heat. And 80% humidity. The shortbread didn’t stay crisp and crunchy for long. The pupils didn’t seem to mind though.
the very best shortbread recipe

I would tell you how cakes have become an essential teaching tool for me. My first classes most years are “Show and Tell”s. I show a cake I’ve baked and tell my pupils how important baking is for me. I also tell them how lucky they are that I chose to talk about baking rather than walking. My smelly training shoes are a lot less appetising than my cakes. Then we have cake and juice. Sadly, none of my pupils has reciprocated with a “Show and Tell” cake. There have, however, been medals won at sporting competitions, necklaces bought by now dead grandmothers, bracelets gifted by older sisters now living overseas…..cakes break the ice.

I would tell you how I’ve run conversation classes for colleagues in schools where I’ve worked and brought in cake and coffee. In fact, I arrived in a new school a couple of weeks ago where I found some former colleagues who have fond memories of my cakes. And me, I hope.

I would tell you how one year I set myself the challenge of finding a cake for each literary work I taught. Our first novel dealt with the First World War “Regeneration” by Pat Barker. How better to convey the horror of trench warfare to my 16 yr olds than with….Trench Cake, I thought. It worked, the cake was not good. I explained to the teens that rationing, being in force in GB at this time, meant eggs were hard to get hold of so vinegar and baking soda were substituted as a raising agent. One boy told me that his mother baked like that and this brought it back to me that times are hard and I counted my blessings.How to bake a first world trench cake

Our next work was “King Lear” and I brought in an edible test for students…Eerie Eyeball Pops! And yes, they had read the play and recognised what scene the pops referred to.
eerie eyeball pops
I left these in the fridge to the last minute-30°C heat-and warned my pupils to let them reach room temperature before trying to eat them. A former pupil joined our class so I gave him one and he bit into it before I could warn him. Fortunately, his very expensive dental work held up.

Our last work was “Heart of Darkness” by Joseph Conrad and guess what? I serendipitously found a “Heart of Darkness” cake recipe. A delicious chocolate sponge with a ganache centre. Which I baked in a heart shaped mould, of course.
Heart of Darkness Recipe

I was disappointed this year to discover that all Hardy’s “Far From the Madding Crowd” inspired in me was….Shepherd’s Pie. I also drew a blank at Shaw’s “Saint Joan”. I had no idea what to bake but knew it would have to be burnt 😉

I would also tell you about a cake which I didn’t bake. I walk a lot and talk a lot. I met an old lady to chat with returning from my walk one day. I’d see her regularly pottering about in her garden and we’d have wonderful conversations. Do not ask me what about as she didn’t speak French and I didn’t speak Créole. But neither one of us believed in letting the language barrier get in the way of a good conversation. One day I saw lots of people outside her house on my way past and was happy for her that her family was visiting. I didn’t walk for a while and when next I passed by, her house was closed. I asked her neighbor where she was…only to learn that she had passed away. I had added her to my list of “lovely people to make cake for” and sadly didn’t find the time to do it. I will always regret this.

I would tell you that I usually give photocopies of my recipes with my cakes. I like to think that in years to come, when I’ve left this beautiful Caribbean island behind and perhaps even shrugged off this mortal coil, a former pupil will bake one of my recipes for their child or grandchild and tell the story of a Scottish teacher who baked. Wouldn’t that be the most beautiful way to be remembered?

I would thank you for inviting me for coffee and we’d eat our cake, at last. I’d apologise and comment that my cake really wasn’t as good as usual and I wasn’t sure what went wrong. We’d both agree that the world would be a much better place if only more people sat down to tell stories, drink coffee and eat cake together…..

Bio: Catmac

Baker of cakes, devourer of books, walker, talker, petter of cats and dogs and alleged teacher of English. I live with my concierge of a cat in the French West Indies. I would like to thank the lovely Beaton for inviting me to drink coffee with him
Cat.jpg

 

 

~B

Thank you CatMac☻☺♥ you can find her Twitter

Of all the cakes The Heart  of Darkness cake is the most poetic…

I only just discovered her Birthday was a day before mine .. Happy belated birthday, better late than never and never late the better….. 

if we were having coffee we would be having a birthday cake ♥☻ because what are birthdays but an excuse to eat cake

Of FITTING

guest

Fitting by Josie Mills

You and Me
walking down the beach
just after dawn

The old people
walk up the beach into old age
you say
while we walk the other way
eternally young
eternally holding the hour
of walking down the beach
just after dawn

A woman
wrinkled dark and beautiful from the sun
picks up trash
you bend pick up some plastic
put it in her bag
and rinse your hands in the sea

You smile and greet each passerby
while I keep within our world together
and the evolution of beach animals
marks on the sand

You dart and chatter
while I walk quiet and straight
content just to have your hand
so fitting in mine

♥♥♥♥♥

Bio:
I’m Josie Mills, and I’ve been writing poetry since I was around 10 years old. I have a degree in creative writing with a focus on poetry writing. I teach writing now at a community college. I’ve had poems published in the journals Snakeskin and Mantis among others.I live in Denver, Colorado, with my husband, two sons, and our cat Moe :-). I write the blog Open Mind Fashion (OMF) for fun: http://www.openmindfashion.com or http://www.facebook.com/openmindfashion

OMF.jpg

 

~B

..and it happens to be her birthday today, Happy BIRTHDAY ♥♥♥ she wrote this piece awhile ago and I felt it had that je ne sais quois  for a birthday month and also February month of love ♥♥♥♥♥ 

also find her on Twitter for an interesting look at fashion tips for people without a closet full of money…

PS forever young ☻☺ 

Of Words and Red Dresses

Guest Post: Leeanna Lazenby

guest

The Importance Of Words And Red Dresses

Late at night, I laze about in a red lace dress pretending to be a diva and often take a stroll through my Twitter feed to see the latest poetry written by my online acquaintances. Okay, I don’t really wear such a glamorous outfit at all times but I do appreciate reading the talented words of many phenomenal people… and perhaps I should appreciate red dresses more than what I actually do. You will understand why I say this in a moment.

First, I must mention that I am sometimes lucky enough to stumble across Twitterers (as my Mother likes to call us) who have travelled across oceans to meet each other. They record their love affair or journey of meeting up through an exchange of one hundred and forty characters. The funny thing is, we have all done it. Most of us who are part of this tight-knit poetic community have connected with people from across the world in an uncanny, unexpected way. I, personally, have been blessed to find companions all over the place but there is one particular agonizing story that I have been longing to release and share. I was originally going to give the following account via Twitter but prolonged making it public as I was afraid that it could potentially bring my friend harm. I am not sure that I will ever be able to describe her extraordinary light in true form but I was then offered the opportunity to guest feature on this blog.

For this, I am very thankful as I now have a beautiful space to dedicate something to my lost soul sister. Thank you. As you read her tale, please know that I think of her daily.

Once upon a time but not too long ago, I opened a poetry account on Twitter as a way of recording snippets of my creativity. Naturally, I began to network and follow other like-minded individuals.

One day, a girl sent me a message and we exchanged a few words. We started to correspond frequently and eventually switched to emailing so that we could have more elaborate conversations. She was from Egypt and I, London. We were the same age so we could easily talk about boys, celebrities, fashion and life plans but it became much deeper too. We had lengthy discussions about the Higgs Boson experiments, scientific theories and philosophical viewpoints. We were unbelievably similar in countless ways but incredibly different for one catastrophic reason. She was oppressed whereas I had my freedom.  I could make my own choices in life. I was able to work, study, socialise and have friends. She, on the other hand, was confined to being kept at home by her extremely strict parents. They tracked her phone, did not let her have a bank account and withheld her passport in case she tried to leave for a better life. She was subjected to countless physical beatings and verbal insults on many occasions. She was not even able to take a walk since the city in which she lived was suffering from rioting, protests and violence. There was a lot of division between the inhabitants so it was dangerous to go out alone. She wanted to be herself but she was treated as an outcast by her family as they did not understand her personality or attributes.

This resulted in us having to communicate in secret. Sometimes, I would not hear from her for weeks on end but she would Skype/email as soon as she was able to. Her family did not want her to have a friendship with a “westerner” in case I was secretly a male and even when she showed them my photograph, they did not trust her to be telling the truth. They told her that a poet would corrupt her. I was a sinner for being creative. She was a sinner for associating with me.

Over time, she gathered money by any method that she could and kept it hidden. At one point, she managed to have an anonymous poetry book published on Amazon and was earning money through advertising via the online edition of her masterpiece. Her words were magnificent. She wrote in extravagant detail about mermaids and sea creatures without any hints of the daily struggles that she had to put up with in her own reality. She was planning to fight for her emancipation and have the life that she deserved. She was going to flee.

But then it happened. She could not see a way out and she became depressed. Hope left her. We spoke every night on a messenger and I tried to raise her spirits or at least restore her faith but she could not cope with what she had to experience. She attempted suicide. Not once but six times. Yes, six. They put her on medication and locked her away for months. I heard nothing. I thought she was dead.

Then, one day, I received a message from her. She told me that she was okay and that she had been sectioned in a mental institution for the entire duration of her absence. They were releasing her on the condition that she carried on taking the pills. She agreed but I know that she probably never swallowed them. You see, there was never anything wrong with her. The people at fault were her family and those around her. She was a creative type in a life where expression was forbidden.

She used to tell me every day how a woman like her could never be free in her world. It was wrong for her to be filled with passion. Can you even begin to imagine what that would feel like? She could not write, she could not take a walk in the park, she could not do any of the simple things that I took for granted. The most basic thing that she longed for was to be able to wear a red dress because I had one on in my photograph. In fact, I had one on in all of my photographs. She used to imagine that she was going to buy one from the shopping mall and have a collection of vivid lipsticks to match. She would joke that we would, one day, walk around London together and be the “red pair” without having to worry about what anyone thought of us.

She ended her email to me by explaining that my messages had kept her balanced throughout many of her traumatic experiences. She said that she had read my poetry every day and cherished the stories that we had shared with each other in our emails. She was very thankful that I gave her a sense of “normality” because we had our companionship. Her final statement to me exclaimed that my words filled with support/friendship could not have a value put upon them and that it was those very words that saved her life.

This was over two years ago now and I have not had any correspondence with her since. I have tried contacting her but her phone is disconnected, her Twitter is deactivated, her Skype account is permanently offline and the emails bounce back. I do not know what happened to her but she made me promise that if ever she disappeared, I would tell her story and be the voice that she never had. I cannot do her justice with my words but all I can say is this:

“There is a girl, location unknown, who writes of magical creatures and believes in freedom. She is one of many that is misunderstood but despite her sufferings, she is a strong person. Her mind is filled with creativity whilst her tongue whispers stories from her hushed dreams. And somewhere, in the depths of her beautiful imagination, she walks freely… swaying elegantly in her sparkling red dress.

I am forever thankful for all of the lessons, laughter and wisdom that came from this remarkable girl. Who knew that a mere poem on a social media outlet would bring such a wonderful person in to my life. She enriched me with a friendship beyond description.

Thanks to our poetry, two girls from opposite lives were connected and intertwined in a way that seemed impossible. You never know the power that your words will bring.

After looking over this, I would like to add that she is unaware of the impact she has had on my life. She always spoke of being courageous and having strength. She used to tell me, in her own way, that anything is possible and we have to follow our dreams. I can attribute many leaps of faith to her friendship and I only hope that she is out there somewhere experiencing her own slice of freedom.

—–

By Leeanna Lazenby

(Poet with the parrot and the red dress collection.)

***Please note*** I am aware that her individual circumstances are not a reflection of life in Egypt in any particular way. You could be anywhere in the world and experience a very strict family/upbringing. The mention of where she lived was entirely for context to highlight how we connected despite the distance between us.

Poet in The Red Dress.jpg

Lady in Red

Bio:

“Leeanna is a lover of taking bits and bobs from her head, dreaming of poems and making them in to tiddly chunks of art. Put them all together and you may just have a picture of what’s going on up in there.”

Leeanna wants to say a big thanks to @Beatonm5 for the opportunity to write on his blog. Thank you!


Thank you Leeanna it has been a pleasure having you, and thank you for sharing your story, words alone are not important its also having someone, to take a moment to listen…. When I have a story to tell that’s all I ask for, a listener.

Leeanna and her parrot can be found on the Twitterverse, tweeting poetry  @24LoveHeart24

~B

 

Of A Blessed Woman

A Guest Post 

I Am Blessed Woman by Raquel

I am a blessed woman,
not because am good,
but because am loved by the perfect  one.
The one who brings out the best in me.
He loved me in my imperfections and brought out the best in me.
He sets a stage before me and made me the star of it.
His love is so electrifying.
It brings out that which He has deposited in me, it flows like rivers of living Waters.
I am blessed not because I have all the riches in the world,
but am loved by the one who owns it all.
All I need do is ask.
Am blessed because I have a lover Whose name move mountains,
Whose words create things.
He is majestic, so powerful, second to none.
Nothing compares to Him.
Who can make come to pass when He commanded it not.
The seas bow before Him,
the storms obey His command,
the dead rise at the mention of His name,
Oh how blessed am l.
It is a celestial blessing,
a bless compared to none.
I love you lover of my soul JESUS.
I am a blessed woman because you made me.

I am blessed.jpg guest

A guest post by the blessed Raquel who featured on my last coffee chat Mused by a stranger. Funny story she says she is a little shy to share anything about herself to strangers but I say watch this space……..

~B

 

 

Of Coffee with Cat

tea

If you were having coffee with me I would say congratulations for making it to the New Year, the festive season is now over and we return to our regular scheduled programming.

If you were having coffee with me I would ask you how your New Year’s resolutions are going, if any.

If you were having coffee with me I would introduce a Guest Blogger for my first ever Guest Post, and a step towards my Blogging Resolutions for 2017.

guest

Hello world meet Cat

Friendly Fire ~ A Poem by Cat

In the dark recesses of my mind
I sit
No stars are shining here
The lights have gone off
The fire down to embers
Will I still like a phoenix rise
From these ashes

My heart still beats
And feels
I don’t know how
With all that patching together
It’s broken
But still works somehow

I thought I was learning to laugh
But they said it’s all wrong
It comes across wrong
Doesn’t look like what they know
And so it isn’t love
They threw it at my feet

In the dark recesses of my mind
My tear ducts are constipated
Or the rivers behind my eyeballs
Have finally dried
Like the prayers that refuse to rise
From my chapped lips
How come I cannot pray

They said my eyes hide daggers
My smile a caricature
My words bring death
And the language of my body holds a threat
Even when my arms are uncrossed
There’s still a weapon in the folds of my clothes

Tonight confusion and pain lie with me
At least I’m not alone
Is that the way of it?
Even the layers of years of pain
Can’t keep the cold out

The bee stings hard
Yet it also makes honey so sweet
May this bitterness
Make me sweet
I guess this is a prayer
And maybe
Just maybe
A listening ear will hear.

Bio: Cat is finding it hard to roar right now and so a miaow is all she has. Darkness pays her a visit now and then. You can find more of her words at catkai and she welcomes exchange of said words.

Cat

Thank you for reading and do pay her a visit

~B

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