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1 Apr


Into the woods, save for the trees

I see the ocean beyond the breeze

Hear the waves as they rush the shore

I am only moments, from the Lord

Can you feel the mist kiss your face

Taste the salt against your lips as lace

Feel the warmth caress your flesh

See the pink upon your breasts

Raise your hands to God above

Hear the call of doves in love

Close your eyes and know you’re done

Home is heaven where there is love

This is the time, it has finally come

You have walked the path known to none

– Tadalena

01 April 2014



6 Dec

#fridayfictioneers via rochelle – 12/06

December 5, 2013

Every Wednesday Romero Wisoff-Fields posts a picture prompt challenging writers to create a 100-word story, poem, or whatever works for you.  After posting your work on your blog,  go back to her site and add your link on her Friday Fictioneers post.  Place.  Page.

Rochelle Wisoff-Fields-Addicted to Purple

Photo Copyright :  Trespass – Randy Maize

“Mommy, do you think I can go out to play?”

“Not today, little one.  It looks like rain.”

“But rain is fun.”

“Not today.  You might catch a cold.”

“But colds are nice too.”

“They are?”


The sweet smell of rain filters in as small droplets begin to hit the planks of wood shielding the windows.


“Yes mamma.”

“Why are colds nice?”

“Because when I get a cold you tell me stories, give me warm milk, and sing songs.”


“Can I go out tomorrow?”

“We’ll see.”

“I hope tomorrow comes soon.”

“You do?”

“Yes, mommy, I do.”


22 May

Photo Copyright – Danny Bowman

By Tadalena Warner

“Pick up, pick up, pick up!”


“Gloria, you won’t believe this, but I found it!”

“Found what?”

“I found it, you know the it we’ve been looking for.”

“You said that last time and it turn out to be nothing more than a porthole to the sales department at Sears and Roebuck no less.”

“I’m telling you, it’s the it we’ve been looking for.  Get the guys and meet me at the corner of 5th and Madison.”

2hrs later

“What took you so long?”


“Never mind, it doesn’t matter.  Where are the others?”




Picture It & Write

20 May

Picture It and Write 

By Tadalena Warner


Beverly and Alex have just finished an amazing steak dinner at the best bistro this side of Fitzwilliam, New Hampshire.  Upon returning to the cam

p, Alex announces he needs to return to town before the corner store closes.
“Okay” she says, kissing him through the car window.  “I’ll be here.  I love you.”“I’ll be right back, honey,” he says, before giving her a kiss.

“I love you too”

Walking through the house, she snatches a book before heading onto the porch overhanging the pond. Beverly heads straight through the left gate and onto the deck.  It’s late April and the weather is unnaturally warm for this time of year.  Disrobing her red wool overcoat, she lays it out before lying down.

He pours milk into her tea before even asking.  Little did she know, he laced it with oleander from the shrubs out back.  His years as an arborist gave him a fountain of knowledge.  In the right hands in an opportune moment, it could manifest a perfect crime.  This was such a moment.  Harold had grown tired of his wife’s constant nagging to have a baby.  He had his children with his first wife and did not want more, but within his courtship of wife number two, he neglected to make this little piece of knowledge known.  Had he told her, she would not have married him, let alone sleep with him before their wedding.  That was four years ago, and Rebecca’s growing impatience had taken its toll on her, him, and their marriage.  It didn’t help that Steven was laid-off from his long standing position as an air traffic controller or that he began not one, but two affairs from his wife’s tennis club.

“Here, sweetheart, try this new tea I found online.”  He said; handing her the rose teacup trimmed in gold.  It was part of her favorite tea set, given to her by her grandmother on their wedding day.

“But …” Was all she could get out before he poured the milk.  “Honey, you know I’m lactose-intolerant.”

“That’s why I used coconut-milk, babe.  It tastes a bit different from the original recipe, but it’s still good.”  Raising his own cup to his mouth, he motions Rebecca to do the same.  She’s hesitant, but goes ahead.  Harold is forever bringing her morsels of this and that for her to sample since he was laid-off.  He fancies himself a virtual Jacque Pepin or Alton Brown.  If it’s not a new hybrid of vegetable he’s grown in the garden, it’s an exotic dish from Zimbabwe or New Delhi.  He once order camel hoof from Quatar for a makeshift romantic dinner in their backyard.  However, this was not a time for romance.  This was the last straw to a very tiring and exhausting eight months of making excuse after excuse for why it was not a good time to have a baby.