The Magic of Bubbles

July 31, 2015October 21, 2016 / Sheila McIntrye Good, Author / 4 Comments

Photo Courtesy of Pinterest

Miranda wiped the sweat from his small bony brow, cringing with each labored rattle as if she were the one struggling to breathe.

She prayed to God to give him strength as his birdlike chest played sonorous vibrations against her hand.

He turned away from the nebulizer, “I can’t.”

She pulled the bottle with its tiny wand from her purse, and began to blow filling the room with translucent, glistening shells of hope.

His eyes fluttered open in childish wonderment as she lifted him, lowered the wand and watched his breath growing stronger with each magical blow.

Why I Write

July 27, 2015June 25, 2016 / Sheila McIntrye Good, Author / 13 Comments

Chuck Wendig’s FLASH FICTION WRITING CHALLENGE: WHY I WRITE

Photo Courtesy of humintell.com

As long as I can remember, I loved putting words to paper, expanding on the great mysteries or the miseries of my young life. It was a way to get my point across without being shushed.

Introduction to the magic of words came early for me, as my mother was a voracious reader. She belonged to more than one book-of-the-month-club and even as young children, we were fortunate she passed the books to us, without censorship.

In between those many pages, I met a world of different people. Their words painted vivid pictures and gave breath to the hopes, fears, and dreams of a girl. In spite of her love of the written word, my mom repeatedly warned me, “Don’t ever put anything in writing; you don’t want others to see.” Perhaps mom’s voice was the words from her books.

It would come later as a young, naïve girl before I understood the damage others could do when words are misconstrued, distorted, taken out of context or endure the deep cut of betrayal. I learned the hard way and after that hid my words away.

I’m an average woman, professional in background, a mother, grandmother, wife, friend, and a writer. I write now because I have a voice, and I can.

I write for catharsis, a purging of past sins, regrets, hopes, and dreams.
I write to share what knowledge and experiences I’ve acquired with those I love, hopeful they’ll be spared a wrong turn or learn the joy of sunny days.
I write to voice my opinion, my values, the very things I believe make the world, and us better people.
I write not that, in the end, my singular voice matters more than others do, or will move mountains, but perhaps, it will become one of many and create a chorus of positive change.
I write to expand my imagination and free my demons; we all have them.
I write to bring pleasure and encourage others to stretch their word wings, tell stories, real or imagined.
I write to leave a legacy to those I leave behind. Egotistical perhaps, but I want to surprise them. “That was mom? Sheila? She did that?” I don’t want to be forgotten or remembered only in faded photos or as the name on a bronze marker.

I write because I believe words have power. The power to move people, change them and change the world. After years of writing by a stream in a cow pasture, hiding my words from the world, between the pages of a worn-down journal, I have found my voice, and so I write.

Scarred Innocence

July 17, 2015October 21, 2016 / Sheila McIntrye Good, Author / 2 Comments

Photo courtesy of: writemyessayonline.com & Goggle

My 500Word Challenge: Write about ignorance. Tap that part in all of us that remembers what it was like to be innocent.

You don’t have many places to hide when you’re crammed into a three-bedroom house filled with six kids, one hyper-emotional mother, and an obnoxious stepfather. It takes creativity to find your own secret garden, so to speak.

At eleven, full of imagination and an innocent view of the world, I found mine in the cow pasture a quarter-mile from my house. The sloping hills, dotted black, and white, beckoned me like candy on Halloween. The barbed wire fence became a minor obstacle to scale.

Finding time alone to explore was the tricky part. I had to deal with younger siblings wanting to be the center of attention, homework, and chores, then dodging mom. At the first opportunity, I’d slip out the back door, run over the hill, and climb the barbed wire fence into another world.

The cows, covered in splotches, were fascinating. They had the most beautiful eyes I’d ever seen. It was as if they could see into my soul. Intrigued with this interloper, they paused, chewing cud and waited for me to scale the barrier and join them on the other side. Talking to the cows came easy and boy did I talk.

I told them about my first crush and getting caught shooting spit balls at my teacher. I complained about mom. She seemed blind most of the time. And I gave them all the details about becoming a woman (that’s what my sisters told me happened). To me, it all seemed a bit messy and inconvenient, even if, for reasons known only to God, I felt the swell of pride.

I received the scar, one day, in the middle of my visit. Deep within the pasture, I sat underneath the shade of tall oak trees, the trickle of water as our background symphony, and read to my spotted friends from my journal.

I didn’t hear his footfalls in the tall weeds, but the skittering of nervous feet and snorting, as if in protest, raised my awareness and I turned. He stood a few feet from the tree line staring at me. I knew him by name, only. He was older than I and lived in a shack not far from our house.

The wind stilled and the water’s symphony faded into the background as the sound of my pounding heart took its place. I was in trouble; not for being in the pasture, but for being alone with him and the way, he looked at me. Far down in the field, I was out of sight and earshot from everyone. No one would hear me scream.

The cows, uneasy, stood a short distance from me. My heart beat faster against my ribs as he walked closer. When the cows shuffled their feet, he stopped, shoved his hands in his pockets, and watched as I sidestepped into the middle of my four-legged friends.

“Mom’s calling me,” I said, turning my back and running. I scrambled up the hill, through the thick grass, dropping my pencil as I leapt onto the fence. My shorts caught on the barbs cutting into my leg as I pulled free and ran toward the safety of home, blood streaking my leg.

It was my last excursion into the cow pasture. I understood the risks I had taken, but the danger of climbing the fence had never been from my four-legged friends. The barbed wire may have scarred my leg, but discovering my tiny space in the world wasn’t safe robbed me of my friends and scarred my innocence.