The Bloggers Bash Blog Post Competition 2018: Mummy

Nothing like leaving things to the last minute, here’s my entry to The Bloggers Bash Blog Post Competition 2018  Closes at 23:59 tonight…sorry for the short warning!



She was one year younger than me, that shy, pretty woman with the floppy fringe and huge, blue eyes.  She burst on the scene with the light through her skirt, and all we could talk about was Lady Diana.

Lady Di.  That’s what my American friends called her.  I stayed up all night far away from home and watched the fairytale Princess marry her Prince Charming, while my grief for my husband, only one month buried, sat still for an hour or two.

A year is a long time when you’re young. Long enough for me to live again. London called and I watched the news of Princess Diana cradling her new-born prince as my unborn child moved inside me. Soon it would be my turn to hold my own little prince.

A twist and a turn took me back to America where I soaked up news from home. In the undisturbed space between the grocery shop and the school run, I savoured a Peppermint Patty and flipped through People Magazine, Diana’s life splashed across every page.

But something was wrong.

I pondered the photo of her sitting alone, pensive, on the diving board of a luxury yacht.  Our lives, though worlds apart, no different as mothers with fierce love for our children and both knowing that sometimes fairytales turn grim.

Yet joy reigns, undiminished, when London calls to celebrate. In May, bells will ring and crowds will cheer and Harry will kiss his bride. The little boy who walked behind his mother’s hearse, his letter meant only for her, now a man walking strong in the legacy of her undying love.

She was Princess Diana to the world, but to Harry, she will always be Mummy.





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Fire And Ice And Somerset Gin

Things have been busy at the Summerhouse lately, which is a good thing when it comes to writing and blogging, but not when two bungalows directly behind your newly purchased house go up in flames late one night, perilously close to your mother’s annex.  That kind of busy isn’t good.  Mercifully nobody was hurt and we coped with the scare in our usual British way by keeping calm and drinking tea.  It works, it really does.

Only a few days before, I had taken my youngest for lunch at the Goose Farm.  There weren’t a lot of geese around, but we noticed these two seemed quite keen on waddling around this caravan.  Probably thinking about their summer holidays.

Big Enough For Two
(c) Sherri Matthews

I would like to think about a summer holiday after our long winter.  On March 1st, ‘The Beast from the East’ met ‘Storm Emma’ sending a deluge of snow drifts, blizzards, freezing rain, ice and bitterly cold temperatures to the South West.

The day the storm hit, I was due to attend the funeral of a dear friend, tragically gone too soon.   Hubby took the day off to be with me, and we hoped to get home before the worst of the storm hit in the afternoon.

Eerily deserted at first, as we took things slowly on this major Dorset road…

Trying to Get Home
(c) Sherri Matthews

But minutes later, we joined the tail end of a traffic congestion that was going nowhere fast.  We must be a laughing-stock to the parts of the world used to snow for months on end, but when snow hits in the UK, all it takes is for one vehicle to come a cropper on the first slightest incline, and that’s it for the rest of us. No snow tyres or chains, and no ploughs or gritters able to get through.

With all roads linking to Somerset blocked, we turned around.  Just as well, as the BBC news next morning announced that hundreds ended up stranded overnight in their cars on those very roads.

We inched our way slowly along the now treacherously icy roads to a pub we know called the Baker’s Arms.  It took us three hours to travel a few miles, back to where we started.  Hubby dashed inside to ask the owner if he knew where we might find overnight accommodation, while I stayed in the car listening to freezing rain pelt our car like a hail of bullets…

View Through The Frozen Windshield
(c) Sherri Matthews

Thanks to the kindness of strangers at such times,  a member of staff called around for us, finding a local B&B with one room left, thanks to a cancellation.  And so we added to the group of stragglers gathered there, all strangers brought together by happenstance, inspiring one man to mutter something about an Agatha Christie Murder Mystery, as he climbed the stairs to his room.

A layer of ice which had formed on top of the snow, cracked beneath my boots as I walked across the car park, like the way the caramel topping of a crème brûlée snaps beneath the spoon and sinks into the creamy pudding beneath.  Except this was no desert and it ruined my suede boots.

The next morning we set off for home, but with ice warnings still in place.

A thick layer of ice on our car formed overnight, this is the view through the passenger side wing mirror
(c) Sherri Matthews

The snow drifts grew deeper as we got closer to Somerset…

Dorchester Road
(c) Sherri Matthews

We passed too many cars to count left stranded overnight…

Just a couple of the many stranded cars
(c)Sherri Matthews

The main road into town was not cleared as we had hoped, making it a challenge to find the best way home.

Deserted Somerset Town (c) Sherri Matthews

First stop, the supermarket for supplies, only to discover that the place had obviously fallen prey to a zombie invasion.  How else to explain the stripped bare shelves and no milk or bread or veggies or fruit or meat?

A scene from The Walking Dead in Winter? No, just a Somerset Supermarket Car Park                   (c) Sherri Matthews

And finally, we made it home.  Snow is beautiful – from the inside of a warm and cosy house with a fire blazing.

We thought that was it for our snow adventures for this year at least, but yesterday snowfall greeted us once again, a beautiful gift for our 12th wedding anniversary.  Happy to stay home with a glass or three of bubbly by the fire, what better way to celebrate? And of course, yet more snow photos…

(c) Sherri Matthews (not a real robin btw)

(c) Sherri Matthews

Poor snow laden Daffodils…hopefully they’ll recover (c) Sherri Matthews

Eddie wasn’t sure at all about the snow at first, having only experienced it a few times in his twelve years…

No…not at all sure. (c)Sherri Matthews

Hmmm..what is this white stuff anyway?
(c) Sherri Matthews

Okay, think I’m feeling a bit braver this time…
(c) Sherri Matthews

This isn’t too bad after all! Little Snow Panther on the prowl…
(c) Sherri Matthews

Knowing of the upcoming snow and our plans to stay home for our anniversary,  on Friday evening, hubby surprised me with a visit to a beautifully restored Jacobean Manor, Newton House.  Newton House is a bespoke Gin House, their speciality Newton House Gin distilled on the grounds using their homegrown botanicals and fresh spring water supply.  Usually only open for their periodic Gin & Jazz evenings, hubby contacted the lovely owner who reserved a table for two by the fire in the bar.

Newton House Gin with Fever Tree Tonic, fresh mint, capers, lime and lots of ice. Divine!
(c) Sherri Matthews

That’s the Spirit! Distilled in Somerset
(c) Sherri Matthews

Telling news was something I once did in a handwritten letter, as I did for years when I lived in California, long before we had email and blogs.  My friend, now sadly gone, would have loved the snow stories, but would have told me off for venturing out.  We kept in touch by letter through all the years I lived in America, her friendship never wavering, and now I have some of her letters to keep and remember her by.

Handwriting is on my mind, with Learning to Write as the subject of Irene’s Times Past Challenge last month.  Belonging to the tail-end Baby Boomer generation growing up in rural Suffolk, England,  cursive handwriting class was a weekly, standard lesson at my small village school, and my favourite.

I couldn’t wait to practice my looped letters and words with my prized Parker fountain pen with dark blue ink flowing through its fine, pointed nib.  Although each wooden desk had ink wells (and lots of carved graffiti from years gone by), they stayed dry, the ink in my fountain pen coming from small, plastic ink cartridges.  Saturday trips into town included a visit to WH Smiths to buy a box or two so that I wouldn’t run out.

Learning cursive handwriting, practising on lines in an exercise book, meant that for a time my handwriting was incredibly neat and legible, something I once took great pride in.  But not any more.  Like so many, I bemoan the modern state of my handwriting, so reliant now on typing.

I wonder if handwriting lessons helped improve my storytelling as well as my writing? This was my first ever ‘put together’ short story. A would be murder mystery of all things…
(c) Sherri Matthews

My only problem was as a leftie, I ended up with smudged ink along the left side of my hand and wrist no matter how hard I tried to avoid it. Then again, as I’ve often said, I was always the kid at the party with chocolate on my face…

Many years later, I don’t think learning to write by hand was a high priority in my children’s schools. When Eldest Son was in Junior High in California, we received a letter from the school advising that we should buy a computer for his schoolwork.  All parents received the same letter, stating that handwritten homework would no longer be acceptable, because most was illegible.

Shame the school didn’t offer to pay for said computer.

Or handwriting lessons.

We did get a computer, at great cost we could little afford. and shared it between all the family.  And so broke out war.   But that’s another story for the Summerhouse.






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Real Memoir Imaginary Flash And Not Your Typical Anthology

Summerhouse in Spring (c) Sherri Matthews

When I moved house last October, I said goodbye to my Summerhouse.  That is, to the wood and nails of it.  To the little wooden house painted blue , strung with pretty bunting and lights which no longer belongs to me.

My Summerhouse wasn’t just my writing space; over the years, it was home to a nest of bumble bees in the ground below, several spiders and their cobwebs spun in dusty corners, and a hedgehog who took up residence at the back.

I miss it, but I smile through my wistful nostalgia when I look at the photos, because I know that it is the virtual essence of the Summerhouse that remains.

My Summerhouse is imaginary now, a virtual meeting place, but it is no less real, filled with you, my lovely people.  A community created by the footprints you leave with your beautiful messages and cheery smiles from all parts of the world, no matter what the weather or the time, or the day.

In fact, it as real as Charli Mills, talented, authentic and beautiful author, blogger and my dear friend extraordinaire.  As real as the imaginary place called Carrot Ranch that she founded in 2014, and as real as the literary artists who gather there.

I met Charli soon after, galloping in on a cloud of dust from Somerset to the Wild West, intrigued by her weekly flash fiction prompts.

Charli collaborated with flash fiction writers from around the world and through Carrot Ranch, her vibrant, all-inclusive literary community, formed the Congress of Rough Writers,  of which I am proud to belong.

Four years since that first gallop – and several falls later – I am thrilled that several of my flashes and my essay, Memoir to Flash Fiction and Back Again, feature as part of a collection from four other memoirists in our newly published Anthology:

The Congress of the Rough Writers Flash Fiction Anthology Vol. 1.
Charli Mills, Series Editor, Publisher & Lead Buckaroo
Sarah Brentyn, Editor & Contributor

Available in digital and paperback direct from Book Baby or Amazon UK  Amazon US

We wrangled words and created stories from around the world.

‘ is an online literary community where writers can practice craft the way musicians jam. Vol. 1 includes the earliest writings by these global literary artists at Carrot Ranch. Just as Buffalo Bill Cody once showcased the world’s most daring riding, this anthology highlights the best literary feats from The Congress of Rough Writers.’

And today, I am honoured to announce the Summerhouse as host for this week’s Rough Writer Tour Around The World.

But how does a memoir writer like me (I don’t do fiction!) get to contribute to a flash fiction anthology? I chomped at the bit for the chance to express the many ways writing flash fiction has helped hone my memoir, as in this brief excerpt from my essay in the Anthology:

‘Memoir is truth, bringing the reader into the writer’s authentic experience.  Fiction takes us into worlds that the reader knows aren’t real allowing their imaginations to fly, but it still needs to be plausible.  With memoir, the reader knows the story is plausible (no matter how ‘far-fetched’ it might appear at times) because it actually happened.  Therein lies the challenge to reveal the truth without embellishment.  Many times I’ve written a flash that would seem to have nothing to do with my memoir, yet so often it reveals a dark and complicated aspect of my true story in new light, rejuvenating parts with ‘light bulb’ moments as I find a description, or a piece of dialogue or a reflective thought that I might otherwise have overlooked.’

And in this excerpt:

‘At other times, the flash takes a humorous turn, and sometimes my characters return for a mini-series.  Can this really be happening to me, a memoir writer?   This has been the biggest surprise of all.  Could these blocks of 99 word flashes, when put together, make up the outline of a more complete story?   Horror of horrors, I think.  This can’t be happening, can it?  After all, I can’t write fiction, remember.’

This is how I found my character Fred, the Hapless Werewolf.  I would never have dared splash such a story on the walls of the Summerhouse if not for flash fiction and the wonderful writing freedom it unleashed (and a few of you telling me you enjoyed it when I first published it here, thank you!). Here again is my first Fred flash:

Barking  – 99 Word Flash Fiction

“Mrs Barker?” enquired the policeman as Ethel’s bulk blocked the doorway.


“There’s been an accident.  The driver thinks he might have hit a deer, but before he could check– he’s a vet – he thought he saw ‘something’ run into the woods.  An abandoned car nearby is registered to your husband.  Is he home?”

“Something…what do you mean?”

The policeman coughed into a balled fist.  “A man, but like a wolf. He said…”

“Gawd! It’s High Wycombe, not the bleedin’ Wild West.”

Later, Ethel heard howling. “Pipe down Fred,” she cackled from the bedroom window, “you’ll wake the neighbours.”


And this is how it all began:

Thirty writers began with 99 words and forged literary feats. Vol. 1 explores the literary art of flash fiction, beginning with the earliest compilations at Carrot Ranch and later pieces based on a new flash fiction prompt. This is not your typical anthology. It continues with longer stories extended from the original 99-word format and essays on how flash fiction supports memoir writing. Based on the experiences at Carrot Ranch, the concluding section of Vol. 1 offers tips to other groups interested in using the flash fiction format to build a literary community.’


Naturally, we’re delighted to receive our first
5-Star Review from Readers’ Favorite by Charles Remington:

“A fascinating book packed with bright ideas and worthwhile material. I was greatly entertained by the stories and essays and so taken with the idea that I thought I would give it a go with a 99-word review.

Stories of ninety-nine words, no more, no less, little gems from the Rough Writers of the Carrot Ranch. Like wild flowers in an early morning meadow glistening with dew and I, a butterfly or bee, flitting from bloom to bloom, immersing myself in a kaleidoscope of experiences which pass through my mind like an ever-changing dreamscape. Stories of love and loss, victory and defeat, struggle and gain from the pens of talented authors with backgrounds as diverse as their stories. A brilliant idea that has created an astounding anthology, one that you will return to time and again.”


Thank You Charli Mills for creating Carrot Ranch,
to you and my fellow Rough Writers for making
the publication of this beautiful Anthology possible.


* I’ll be back shortly with Summerhouse updates and blog visits, once again well overdue.  I’m on the back-hoof once again in this virtual space that is all too real!
Love Sherri x







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Raw Literature: Asperger’s, Voice and the Search for Identity

My guest post features at Carrot Ranch today. I’m honoured for the opportunity to write about a subject close to my heart and share my passion for increasing awareness of the impact of Asperger’s on Aspies and their families, in the hopes of a better understanding.

Carrot Ranch Literary Community

By Sherri Matthews

The first few pages of the children’s book, ‘Are you my Mother?’, both captivated and troubled me as a girl. The story tells of a baby bird who hatches while his mother is away from the nest looking for food.  The hatchling flies the nest to look for her, but he has no idea what either he nor his mother, looks like.  He asks everything from a kitten to a boat, ‘Are you my mother?’, but to no avail.  Then he starts to cry.

Thankfully, unlike the baby bird, I didn’t have to search for my mother. But I questioned my identity when, after my parent’s divorced and I no longer lived with my dad,  I was told to use my stepfather’s surname. In 1970’s Britain, I was the only one of my friends from a so-called broken home; I understood it was to save…

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Sixty Seconds’ Worth Of Distance Run

The sun disappeared taking last year with it, and I quietly prayed that this year would be better. Eyes straight, time to press on and write.  This is THE year, right?

Lyme Regis, Dorset, December 2017
(c) Sherri Matthews

The Summerhouse is five years old this month.  Five years of blogging, except I am not exactly prolific these days.  Five years since I scrawled out the first words of the first draft of my memoir and five years later, I am still writing.  But it’s too easy to think I’ve failed because I haven’t finished it. I forget what I have accomplished when the climb back up from each derailment is more protracted than the last.

A change of scene helps, so I’m told.

Perhaps a cottage in the English countryside…

Selworthy in Exmoor, West Somerset (c) Sherri Matthews

Or a spot by the Aegean sea where the cicadas strum to the rising heat and a lazy lunch awaits…

Crete (c) Sherri Matthews

Both would be nice, but I already have my change of scene in a room for an office in our new pad. It’s in need of some decorating and organising, but it’s my space.  It is a work in progress. Like my memoir.  Like me.

So the new year rolled in and I set to work, and then a friendship from long ago rolled in, though I knew she had never left. Threaded throughout my memoir, she was there at the start, stood firm at the end and is with me still.

We reminisced of the times we sat up all night drinking Bacardi and Coke reciting Rudyard Kipling’s ‘If’ until we knew it by heart, word for word, pondering its mighty value against our flighty aspirations…

‘If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;
If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster,
And treat those two impostors just the same;…

…If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!’

We planned a road trip across America by Greyhound bus when we were eighteen, before the ‘gap year’ was invented.  My friend reminded me of all the poems I had written and read out to her and of the reams of letters I sent her from America.  My Lord, she must have been bored stiff!

I got my trip across America, but it wasn’t what I planned and it wasn’t with my friend.

And there lies the story.

So now to complete my memoir and cling to blogging for all it’s worth, and what better way to begin than with a return to Irene Waters’ Times Past prompt which for January is:

High School Graduation

Writing as a tail-end Baby Boomer growing up in rural Suffolk, England, my high school graduation experience was non-existent.  There was no such thing for school leavers: only university students graduated with tasselled hats, long gowns and degrees.  My last day of school in the early summer of 1976 consisted of getting signed out by each of my teachers, a hurried handshake and a mumbled ‘good luck’.   My friends and I then faced two nerve-wracking months for our ‘O’ Level exam results.  That was it.

But if my high school graduation was non-existent, Eldest Son’s was filled with pomp and ceremony and endless speeches beneath the baking Californian sun.

American High School Graduation
(c) Sherri Matthews

My son was three when we left England for America, and he spent his entire grade school education there.  I was glad for the celebrations that made up such a large part of his and his siblings’ American school experience. Mine felt more like boot camp in comparison.

Although I was grateful for my maths teacher who turned up on Friday for double last period dressed in tweed and armed with a projector and slides of his safaris in Africa.  Anything was better than maths.

My son wasn’t too enamoured with all the fuss around graduating with a high school diploma, but on the day, he had a great time with his friends.

High School Graduation. Eldest Son second from left.
(c) Sherri Matthews

A graduation party supervised by parents and teachers followed.  ‘Safe and Sober’ was the theme.   I had to laugh.  Safe, hopefully, but sober?  At eighteen? Being a Brit, I didn’t know anybody at eighteen who stayed sober at a party.  But never mind the American legal drinking age, after what happened at the little party I held for him at home, I’m sure it was the beer keg at his friend’s party afterwards that he most looked forward to.

Our lumbering black Lab, a totally loveable Scooby Doo of a dog, managed somehow to break a water pipe at the side of the house while gallivanting around the garden.  Water gushed out of the ground, flooding our patio and turned our grass into a mud pit.  EH (ex husband) spent the rest of the evening trying to fix it and had to turn off the water.  Meaning we had a house full of guests with no running water or working toilet.

That night, after everyone had left or gone to bed,  I found a bottle half full of champagne in the kitchen and I sat on the sofa and polished it off. I pondered what family life would be like once my son left home for college in a few months.  And I wondered where the last eighteen years had gone.

I wished I could have had them all over again, hoping I had made the most of every distance run, my days with my son.   I had a good cry and then looked to the years ahead, and I resolved not to waste a single minute of all that was to come, unforgiving or otherwise.









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Winner of Flash Fiction Contest #7

At last! I’m thrilled to announce the winner of my Murderous Musings Flash Fiction Rodeo Contest #7. Fantastic flashes, all thirty-two of them a deviously delicious read. And the winner is…Marjorie Mallon! Huge congratulations Marje!

I’m also hugely excited to announce the publication of The Congress of Rough Writers: Flash Fiction Anthology Vol. I available here (universal link). I’m truly honoured to have several flashes and an essay feature among so many accomplished and talented writers.

Thank you so much, dear friends, for your support of Carrot Ranch’s first ever Rodeo and my first ever writing contest. I’ve enjoyed every minute of it and the ride ain’t over yet, with Charli’s announcement of her TUFF contest next week and the ‘Best of Show’ overall winner announcement on January 2nd!

As for the Summerhouse, thanks so much for hanging with me through all weathers. Maybe I’ll find Sweet Robin soon and when I do, I’ll tell you all about it. But until then, I wish you all the merriest of greetings for this wonderful festive season. And my hope and prayer for 2018: Keep the dream alive; hold fast and write like the wind.

Happy Christmas!

Love Sherri xxx

Carrot Ranch Literary Community

Murderous Musings Winner at Carrot Ranch @Charli_MillsMurderous Musings

By Sherri Matthews

When I set my Murderous Musing’s prompt for Charli’s Flash Fiction Rodeo, I expected a few good folk to turn bad, but not thirty-two of them. And what a deliciously devious lot they are! Thank you so much to all who entered; my esteemed judges and I read wide-eyed and suitably horrified through a disturbingly chilling collection exploring the dark side of the Rodeo.

Some had us baying for the same sweet revenge, such was the pain of the story.  With others, we pondered the tragic price of a seething jealousy, bitter resentment and an all-consuming rage.  One or two gave a chuckle, clever in the twist at the end.  We enjoyed every flash and it was a close call, but we agreed our overall winner is Mr Blamey by Marjorie Mallon.

Mr Blamey by Marjorie Mallon

Mr Blamey had no first name. He had…

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Brown Paper Sealing Wax And Vintage All The Way

Every Christmas, my present from Granny arrived by post in plenty of time for the big day,  its yearly arrival creating one of my fondest childhood memories.

But it wasn’t so much what was inside the parcel that made me so eager (and don’t get me wrong, Granny had a knack for finding the sweetest little books which I adored,  including the tiny Observer’s Book of Birds which turned me into a Bird Twitcher of sorts – serious bird watcher, I should say or, at least, so far as a ten-year old with toy binoculars can pretend to be – and would probably be a collector’s item today), but rather the parcel itself.

This is because Granny’s parcels were always wrapped in shiny, brown paper and tied up with string, the small, tight knot held firmly in place by a blob of dark red sealing wax. The centre held an image, smooth and flat and probably Granny’s initials, from her personal sealing wax stamp.  More than anything, it was that blob of wax that fascinated me.

Strange, I  know. But if I was a strange child, then I’m even stranger as an adult: I could barely contain my excitement when I found this little treasure at our local garden centre last week  in the ‘vintage’ toy section of its Christmas display…

A Post Office set! I had one of these and oh the fun I had playing office with the miniature notepads, parcels and labels, and, of course, the rubber stamp.  Not quite up to Granny’s sealing wax standard, but it would have to do.  And it must have done, as many years later, I got a job at the Post Officer working behind the counter with stamps a-plenty. Had to go away for a six week training course and everything.

I wonder if children today are interested in such a game with so much else to amuse.  Perhaps my ‘vintage’ generation has more to offer than we think. Back then, I knew one thing for sure:  how much I coveted Granny’s sealing wax stamp kit.   It seemed quite magical to me, and she was the only one I’ve ever known who had one.

A different kind of vintage attracted the kids at the garden centre, with a lot more excitement garnered around the Game of Thrones display than the Post Office game.  No surprise there. And it’s always nice to bump into Jon Snow.

Many Christmases have come and gone since Granny sent her last parcel.   Today I take in brown cardboard parcels ordered on the internet and not a piece of string, never mind a blob of wax, in sight. I wonder if Granny would have gone for the convenience of online shopping given half a chance? It wouldn’t have surprised me if she had; Granny had her traditions, but she took to modern advances with gusto if it meant an improvement on what she knew.

But how wonderful it would be to open the door and find the postman holding one of Granny’s brown paper parcels sealed with wax just one more time…

I received books as gifts throughout my childhood, all read avidly. Many I no longer have, but I came across this little pile while recently unpacking after our house move. An eclectic mix from my generation growing up in the 60’s and 70’s that has travelled with me a few times across the shining sea…

Peppermints in the Parlor is Eldest Son’s, one his childhood favourites and read together countless times, but the others are mine from days gone by.  I had forgotten about Peter Pan and Wendy, the book at the bottom.  It’s inscribed inside ‘To darling Sherri, with lots of love from Auntie Peggy’.  She was Dad’s older sister, someone I last saw when I was a teenager.

Last year in my Christmas post, I linked to books newly published by debut author friends, but this year, I’m way out of the loop. The aftermath of a house move and taking care of other ‘stuff’ remains all-consuming, but I do know of one book recently published which I would very much like to share with you:

Author D G Kaye (blogger and friend Debby Gies), through her own trials, has very recently launched her latest labour of love, her May/December memoir: Twenty Years: After “I Do”

Through ‘Reflections on Love and Changes Through Ageing‘, Debby shares her unique and inspirational stories from her twenty year marriage to a man two decades older than she:

‘In this personal accounting, D.G. Kaye shares the insights and wisdom she has accrued through twenty years of keeping her marriage strong and thriving despite the everyday changes and challenges of aging. Kaye reveals how a little creative planning, acceptance, and unconditional love can create a bond no obstacle will break. Kaye’s stories are informative, inspiring, and a testament to love eclipsing all when two people understand, respect, and honor their vows. She adds that a daily sprinkling of laughter is a staple in nourishing a healthy marriage.

Twenty years began with a promise. As Kaye recounts what transpired within that time, she shows that true love has no limits, even when one spouse ages ahead of the other.’

Debby’s beautiful book, inside and out (like the lady herself) is available here (Amazon’s universal link for all countries).

Next Tuesday 19 December, I’ll announce, with great excitement, the winner of my Murderous Musings Flash Fiction Rodeo Contest.  And the Summerhouse gets to proudly display its first ever Flash Fiction Rodeo Badge!

And more huge excitement on the way with the imminent release of Carrot Ranch’s very first Flash Fiction Anthology! I’ll re-blog Charli’s announcement post when the news breaks and then Happy Christmas!

Despite my dismal attempts at visiting blogs, thank you again so much to those of you who still visit the Summerhouse, virtual or otherwise.  Thank you for understanding my lack of visits. Much of what I want to achieve personally, on and offline, sits on the back burner for now; keeping up with any social media is pretty difficult, making me a rubbish online friend.  But I do not want to disappear and I have great hope that things will start to ease soon. I am optimistic, if nothing else.

One more thing, in case you wondered: that little red tin on top of the books in my photograph? It’s a button tin.  Because everyone needs a tin for their buttons…right?








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Flash Fiction Rodeo Contest #8

This is it, the last ride of the Rodeo! TUFF: The Ultimate Flash Fiction by Charli Mills, Lead Buckroo, is live at Carrot Ranch!

A brief intro: ‘TUFF delivers your elixir. Yes, it’s called TUFF, a play on the acronym and the idea that it’s a tough challenge. It’s five steps, five flash fictions! Yet, it is a tool, a gift to you that you will understand because it will resonate with what writing flash fiction has already taught you.’

If you’re ready to write five flash fictions in one, then this is the contest for you. Deadline 11:59 EST November 6, winner announced December 26. As always, full details below, no entry fee and a cash prize!

This is the last of my reblogs for the Rodeo, which also lists all the dates for the winning announcements for all 8 contests. My ‘Murderous Musings’ winner will be announced on December 19, here and at Carrot Ranch.

I’ll be back here as soon as I come up for some air from the packing boxes and look forward to those long promised visits. And good luck to everyone ink deep in NaNoWriMo. It’s time to ride and write like the wind!

Carrot Ranch Literary Community

TUFF: The Ultimate Flash Fiction

by Charli Mills

What if I told you that writing flash fiction will get you to where you want to be? Would you scoff, or consider the possibility? Would you think I’m handing you a magic elixir? Ah, an elixir. Let’s pause a moment and talk about the hero’s journey.

If you answered the call to participate in the Flash Fiction Rodeo this past month, you answered the same call every hero hears: the one the hero reluctantly answers. We think of heroes as Thor or Wonder Woman. Yet, the hero’s journey calls to us all. Winnie the Pooh and Frodo and Mary Tyler Moore are all heroes. It’s about the path:

  1. The call: the opening scene in which the hero is called out of the ordinary world.
  2. The test: the story develops conflict through tests, challenges, temptations, allies and enemies.
  3. The cave

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Halloween Music And A Homecoming

In February, we put our house up for sale.  Nine months later and four weeks at the Goose Farm, we moved into our new home last week.

For five of those weeks, my cat Eddie had to stay in a cattery.  The owner there could not have been kinder and more lovely.  She made sure my boy, who is eleven years old and has never been away from home before, was well looked after.   I visited regularly which helped, although it broke my heart as time went on having to say goodbye to the sound of his plaintive meows.

I collected him yesterday, and as you can see, he’s already settling in on his familiar spot…and a quiet Halloween for him this year…

Thank you again to all of you who have shown such amazing support for the Flash Fiction Rodeo running at Carrot Ranch.  I was thrilled to host my Murderous Musings contest last week. For those of you sitting on the fence, you still have until EST 11:59pm tonight to enter! Judges Hugh Mike and I can’t wait to read all your deliciously devious entries.

I’ll reblog Charli’s Ultimate Flash Fiction Challenge after this.  Her final Contest #8 at the Rodeo is a corker.

Sharing emails about the contest (and again, thanks so much to Hugh and Charli for stepping in at the Ranch while I was otherwise assailed by packing boxes), I let Hugh know we had moved. I told him about a photo I had taken on the last day as I stood at the top of the stairs for a moment, wrapped in the silence a house holds in that strange space between hello and goodbye.

Sunshine blazed into the hallway below through the partly open front door.  Minutes after I took this photo, we walked outside, handed over the keys to the new owners and drove away, not looking back. I promised Hugh I would post the photo to mark the beginning of a new chapter…

And that was that.  Now to new things and hopefully some kind of blogging and writing through the unpacking madness, ha.

Meanwhile, here’s a special treat for you: A fantastic collaboration on the Halloween Theme song between two of my favourite and talented musicians, Liam John Norton and Nick Estrada.  I’ve shared Nick’s music here from time to time.  That’s him (yep, my boy…!) on guitars.  Enjoy…

Happy Halloween!


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Flash Fiction Rodeo Contest #7

Wouldn’t you know it. The same week I host Flash Fiction Rodeo Contest #7 over at Carrot Ranch, I move house. It was supposed to happen in July, but how else to keep up with my broken record/cliché fashion Summerhouse phrase, Better Late Than Never?

But more on that later, because today, I’m thrilled to reblog Murderous Musings: When Good Folk Turn Bad at the Rodeo.

Wicked wranglings of the heart?  Great. You’ve got until 11.59 EST 31 October to write a 109 word flash fiction weaving a murderous vibe through an everyday setting.  A shock twist wins bonus points. As always it’s free entry with a cash prize. Read on for all devious and dastardly contest details.

Huge thanks to Hugh Roberts and Charli Mills for holding down the fort in my absence (this in haste).  And huge apologies to D Avery for dropping the ball and not re–blogging her Bucking Bull Go-Round Flash Fiction Rodeo Contest #6, but there’s still time to enter if you gallop over today:

Judges Hugh, Mike and I can’t wait to read your murderous musings and really hope you’ll join us. And look out for the final Flash Fiction Rodeo Contest #8 live next Tuesday with Charli Mills’ ‘The Ultimate Flash Fiction’.

Have fun everyone, see you soon and remember, watch your back for this one: you never know who might be lurking in the shadows at the Rodeo…

Carrot Ranch Literary Community

Murderous Musings:

When Good Folk Turn Bad At The Rodeo

By Sherri Matthews

Saddle up, tighten your reins and pull on your riding boots. And while you’re about it, watch your back, because wicked wranglings are afoot at the Rodeo. Western or English? Doesn’t matter. Thrown off a few times? Never mind. Devious, deadly or just plain dangerous, it’s time for some murderous musings.

Long fascinated with the dark side of the human heart, I read a lot of True Crime. Not for the gory details, neither for the whodunit: I want to understand the why.

As a memoir writer, I need to explore the true motives driving the story. I wonder how many of us ask ourselves, if truly honest, what might we be capable of if pushed too far? What would be our not so perfect storm?

But it never occurred to me that I could explore this…

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