The Trick-or-treaters are finally gone, and our wheelbarrow-filled-with-skulls-and-treats (do-it-yourself-virus-conscious) strategy seems to have worked well. But I just realized that the deadline is an hour away for the 10th annual Halloweensie Contest, and I actually wrote an entry for it!

So, in honor of Susan Hill’s tradition (and in hopes of qualifying for one of the amazing prizes donated for the cause of promoting children’s literature) I present a little story here for your perusal. I also invite you to hope over to https://susannahill.com/blog/ to submerge yourself in a world of creative responses to the challenge to write a story in 100 words or less that includes the three words “skeleton, creep, and mask” in any variation.

Too Much 

 “Too many leaves!” the old witch complains
 “And those caw-cawing crows creep louder than trains! 

 Leaves bury my toadstools. Noise hurts my ears,
 They’re ruining Halloween every year!”

 She conjures a spell in her rusty old kettle
 throwing in thorns and a handful of nettles.

 “Let’s turn them to pebbles, old Skeleton friend!
 Free those poor toadstools and let the noise end.

 I’ll get our masks, you stir while I go.”
 But Skeleton whispered her plot to the crows. 

 The birds flew away with their beaks full of leaves, 
 so the witch could enjoy her All Hallows Eve.

The Hallows

hallow (v.)

Old English halgian “to make holy, sanctify; to honor as holy, consecrate, ordain,” related to halig “holy,” from Proto-Germanic *hailagon (source also of Old Saxon helagon, Middle Dutch heligen, Old Norse helga), from PIE root *kailo- “whole, uninjured, of good omen” (see health). Used in Christian translations to render Latin sanctificare. Related: Hallowedhallowing.

hallow (n.)

“holy person, saint,” Old English haligahalga, from hallow (v.). Obsolete except in Halloween.


Thoughts on this 31st of October

We reflect on the eve of the hallows of old
as leaves flurry past us, red, yellow and gold

the words of John Lewis, who walked with the wind,
call out for justice to truly begin

 echoes of hallowed ones join in the chorus,
summoned for healing 
they gather before us  

Even as time forges furrows in my brow, Halloween calls forth the eternal child, conjuring magical nights of sweetness and pretend. While the trees shed for winter in these northern climes, summer is blooming in my other hemisphere. I may have mixed feelings about the nature of the holiday and its excesses and sugary hangovers, but autumn always rests easy at the heart of my soul.

This year, with the word particularly challenged, I find solace in the nearby woods, and turn again to some of the final words that John Lewis shared with the world before his passing in July.

Walking with the wind and letting the words of John Lewis sink in

PHOENIX – another pin on the wall

The unrelenting sound of construction has not ceased since the day Marisol first asked me about curses and enchantments. I hadn’t really paid much attention to all the building in the neighborhood, since I kept my radio tuned to an upbeat oldies station that masked the other noises. But that day, I turned off the radio to be able to hear her better. For some reason, I never turned it back on. The rhythms of construction have replaced the music that used to fill my office. From all sides come the buzz and clank, the banter of workers—but I digress. I am not here to recount the problems in the neighborhood, but to tell you something of Marisol’s story before my office is taken apart around me.

It was almost exactly a year ago when Marisol’s dark and downcast face suddenly moved out of the shadowed corners of my world right into its center. Her name had always made me think of girasol—Spanish for sunflower, from girar “to turn” and sol for “sun.” Marisol was anything but sunny back then.

… and for the rest of the story? 

pushpin map

mosey on down to Amarillo Bay

(picture borrowed from http://www.houzz.es/push-pin-travel-map?irs=US)

OUT OF THE HATBOX -a coming of age story

Rolling Hills Estates retirement community, July 1971

When Maggie noticed the coatrack inviting her to dance, she finally decided she’d been alone in the house too long. She had not slept well since Harold died. Nine months in a home empty of his presence had begun to play tricks with her senses. The cement of habits and routines, built over fifty years together, had started to crumble. Like stubborn blades of grass that reclaim abandoned highways, another self tugged from the shadows in the corners, from behind each frame.

For the rest of the story, visit Amarillo Bay…  

http://bit.ly/1q1sieOhats and boxes


The healing power of words

One of my short (very short) pieces was published in online journal Crack The Spine. “Curative Fiction: Cooley, Mothers, and Crises of Faith” was written in reaction to reading Martha Cooley’s “The Archivist”. It is not a book review, but more of a book response – a reflection on how it resonated and took on an added layer of meaning for me. The situations and conversations in the book reminded me of my mother, and looking back on the piece, I was struck by the fact I am now as old as she was when she died 20 years ago.  As serendipity would have it, I received the letter of acceptance on my mother’s birthday. 

It’s published at http://issuu.com/crackthespine/docs/issue_119 but it’s short enough to include it below

Reprinted from Crack the Spine, Issue 119, July 15, 2014



by k.m. huber

Atlanta 2005

Fifty years ago, my mother sat in a small room, trembling as she held her newborn baby. Years later, after several nervous breakdowns, she would describe the moment as an overwhelming fear of losing what she dared to love. She saw me as a casualty of that fear. Ten years ago, she mistook pneumonia for a bad cold and ignored it too long. A life of chain–smoking and a weak immune system complicated her recovery, and after two months in intensive care, she let go of this world. I still suspect that she wanted to catch up with my father, who had succumbed to cancer four months earlier. No matter that they had been divorced for 20 years; their lives had been interwoven in such a way that it made an odd kind of sense that she would join him in death. They had come to peace with each other.

A teacher of mine once said that books can save your life. He also liked to say that it is often the book that finds us, not the other way around. I have, indeed, encountered books that seemed to arrive as answers to unasked questions. They sometimes provided gentle reminders of things forgotten, nudges back toward a wandering path, and sometimes they challenged, hitting deep and sudden like an unexpected blast of cold wind. One such a blast swept over me recently while reading Martha Cooley’s The Archivist. When the librarian sends his wife into virtual exile to wrestle with her demons, I felt my mother reading over my shoulder, nodding her head knowingly. Cooley’s characters found refuge in music and poetry, in diaries and dissertations. In their need to write, I recognized a familiar need to exorcise demons by setting into a sea of paper. As we circumnavigate, we seek validation, we test ourselves and our feelings and our truths. Sometimes, we return to where we started, like Dorothy leaving Oz with new perspectives to color the world.

My mother wrote letters, many of which were to my grandmother and ended up in my filing cabinet with other mementos from both their lives. Both women were central to my life, and both had serious psychiatric issues.

Martha Cooley’s book took me back into a space I have not explored in a long while. Unable to put the book down, I took it to the gym with me and walked three miles more on the treadmill than I had planned, unable to stop reading. As the archivist struggled to frame the memories of his dead wife and her battles with faith and identity, I began to walk faster. As he began to relive that relationship through the student whose issues ran close to his own, I found myself breathless, my mother fast on my heels. Though the issues of Jewish identity that Cooley explores are distant from the world that my mother inhabited, the questioning of faith and identity hit home, striking deep into the unconscious regions that my mother still inhabits. Through Cooley’s pages, I heard her voice again with a new understanding.

A profound love of literature weaves through The Archivist as its characters search for answers through poetry and ideas, but an even more compelling undercurrent reaffirms the importance of human connections. Though he had failed as an ally in his wife’s troubled journey, the archivist finds redemption in being able to offer another seeker the Ariadne’s thread to return from her labyrinth of pain. He gives her the story that will help her to heal. In The Archivist, Martha Cooley gives me a story I needed as well.

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