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It’s spring! and I thought my readers who garden would like to see a few lines from my new short story. It isn’t on my website yet, but it is available on Amazon.

Harpy and Julianne’s Tomato War
Janelle Meraz Hooper

AN EXCERPT- 1970, Lawton, Oklahoma…On a street in the older part of town, Harpy & Julianne, two gardening senior citizens, wage war over seemingly little things like roses and tomatoes. The trouble began with nineteen cats and prize roses and culminated with a dog named Killer, a racehorse named Moon Dancer, tomatoes, and lemon cake.

“…Everyone had a hustle in their bustle and the air pulsed with excitement when it was Tomato Festival time in Julianne’s hometown of Lawton, Oklahoma. A parade began the festivities that was followed with a tomato-growing competition, and canning competition. Vendors of every sort lined both sides of the streets and artists set up white tents for their art show in the park under the leafy trees. Near the picnic tables, all of the different organizations sold food to raise money for their clubs. The polka club sold sausages and sauerkraut; the Flamenco Club sold a Mexican plate with beans, rice, and enchiladas; The Mahjong Club sold a stir-fry dish served over white rice; and the Comanches sold fry bread. Live music ranging from classical to blue grass floated over the excitement, each style melding into the next.
On the outdoor stage, music teachers held their students’ yearly recitals in music, voice, and dance. Next, children would line up on the same stage to show off their skills in the Asian martial arts, wrestling, and baton twirling. The fun would culminate in a barbecue and a street dance when the sun went down and it cooled off. While the adults danced, a big movie screen showed cartoons for the kiddies, most of whom fell asleep with homemade ice cream all over their faces before Tom caught Jerry or the Roadrunner outwitted the Coyote.
Julianne especially liked the parade. Luckily, the floats and marching bands always lined up on “A” Avenue, right in front of her house, so she had a front row seat without leaving her porch. It seemed that every year at least one of the floats had some sort of mechanical crisis—usually a flat tire—or a decoration that failed to stay put—or a sound system that didn’t work. Each time, the men on the parade committee would descend upon the float that threatened to hold up the start of the parade in an old pickup. Its back was filled with all kinds of quick-fix items known to be useful from years of experience: hammers, saws, staplers, rope, wire, two by fours, and especially duct tape. As soon as the crew would fix one problem, another distress call would come in from another float. Every crisis and its resolution made for great entertainment for Julianne and the friends she invited to share her front porch.
They were a happy bunch and they’d all been friends for years. Belle had been one of Julianne’s bridesmaids. Trude and Vera were sisters who each brought their husbands every year. And, of course, there was always Joe. Joe had gone to high school with Julianne and they’d both gone on to graduate from Cameron University together. Of course, it was just Cameron College back then. The guest list was the same every year and every year Julianne sent out handwritten invitations to Potluck on the Porch! BYOP (Bring your own pot!)
Harpy, Julianne’s cranky next door neighbor, never joined Julianne and her friends even though he was always invited. He stayed inside his house with the windows and doors closed saying that all the racket the kids made interfered with his baseball game. The stubborn man didn’t have air conditioning, and Julianne wondered how he could stand the heat in his little house with the doors and windows shut tight. It had to be sweltering in there. Maybe he filled his bathtub with ice cubes from his fancy refrigerator and listened to the baseball game on the radio in his bathroom. But it didn’t really matter to Julianne what he did…or why. Harpy was just like that. He didn’t like kids. He didn’t like her friends. He didn’t like Julianne. He especially didn’t like her cats! Other than not liking Julianne because of her cats, the only other reason she could figure out for his hostility toward her was he didn’t like it when she wore her nightgown and robe on her back porch when she fed her cats in the morning. “You’re dragging your robe through the cats’ water!” he was known to shout from his back porch. Why did he care? Why on earth he went into such a tailspin over a little wet lace around the bottom of her robe she’d never understand…”

Available on Amazon Kindle. Suitable for all ages.

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My website: Janelle Meraz Hooper

Dear Readers,

I’ve expanded my short story, Old Joe’s Pink Cadillac, and made it available on Amazon. Note: This is one of the back stories for my Turtle Trilogy (A Three-Turtle Summer, As Brown As I Want: The Indianhead Diaries, and Custer & His Naked Ladies).

A few lines from Old Joe’s Pink Cadillac, expanded version…

“…Ben’s effort to see that Joe was well and had everything he needed was always appreciated by the old guy. He didn’t have a phone, so on hot nights, Ben would walk across the alley to say hello and make sure the old man had ice for his icebox. During the summer, ice and water could be lifesavers when temperatures in the Oklahoma town could be over a hundred or more in the daytime during the summer, and the town’s senior citizens were sometimes known to suffer from dehydration.
Most of the time, Ben’s offer to bring Joe some ice wasn’t needed because Joe had bought a block of ice after work and had hand-carried it all the way home. Upon Ben’s arrival, Joe would pull two bottles of beer out of his icebox, and he and Ben would go outside and sit on Elizabeth’s hood to cool off. There, in the dark, they’d listen to the crickets chirp, and the cats fight and hiss at each other on the Victorian’s porch. Sometimes, houses away, they’d hear a couple squabbling until they both decided it was too hot to fight.
Too hot to love.
Too hot to sleep.
Eventually, cats and people would quiet down for the night, and Ben and Joe would be left under a star-filled sky with only the crickets, lightning bugs, and a few mosquitoes for company…”

Amazon Kindle, suitable for NA (New Adult) & up.

Author’s note: I drew on my memories of growing up in an Oklahoma town for this story. About 35,000 people without the army at the time, and less than 8 miles from Fort Sill.

Also new on Amazon: Harpy & Julianne’s Tomato War, Kindle. Suitable for all ages.

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This is one of my favorite stories. Sadly, due to world events, it’s always timely…

Gets Tickled and the Fish Trap
From the book Free Pecan Pie and Other Chick Stories
Amazon-Paperback and Kindle.
Janelle Meraz Hooper
Free Pecan Pie and Other Chick Stories, Amazon

Downtown Tacoma, the year 2100…
The injured veteran took a crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket and checked the address. This was it: 2121 Pacific. He stepped back and surveyed the shiny, black glass that fronted the structure. There was no sign above the door. Who ever heard of a bus station with no sign?

He shrugged and entered the building. Instantly, he found himself in a Northwest Country Bus Station—a company that had been gone for years—with empty wooden benches for waiting passengers on one side and a 1950s style luncheonette, complete with chrome stools and plastic counter, on the other. Even the waitress wore a starched pink uniform with white trim on the sleeves and a flower folded from a printed handkerchief pinned over the pocket. She smiled at him and motioned for him to sit in the chair nearest the cash register. He noticed that every seat at the counter was filled, but no one was eating. Instead, they all seemed to be waiting for something.

Somehow, the young vet felt that he was part of the reason for their wait, although he couldn’t imagine why. Another strange thing: all of the other diner patrons were Indians. They smiled as if they knew him. When he looked around some more, he saw that the view out the plate glass window had changed from the busy Pacific Avenue to a view of Commencement Bay that was actually behind them.

The waitress said softly as she passed the veteran, “You’re next, Honey. You take care now.”

He heard a rattle above his head, then a loud, girlish giggle. Looking up, he saw a huge Indian fish trap, woven out of twigs. The Indian next to him cried out in delight when a live salmon fell from the huge basket onto the counter in front of him. There hadn’t been any salmon in Puget Sound for years. The Indian picked up his thrashing fish, put it under his arm, and left. The next Indian moved up to sit in his place.

When the first fish fell, the veteran was sucked up into the trap. Just then, another vet came hesitantly through the door. The waitress smiled at him and motioned for him to sit in the first chair by the cash register. The waitress said softly as she went past him, “You’re next, honey, you take care now.”

The Indian next to him smiled and shook his hand. “I am Running Water. And you are Pete.”

“How did you know?”

“We’ve been waiting for you.”

“Why am I here? Where am I going?”

“Up there.” Running Water looked toward the fish trap.

Just then, there was a rattle up above, and a huge fish fell down in front of Running Water. At the same time, the vet felt himself being pulled up toward the ceiling. With a friendly wave, the Indian picked up his fish, put it under his arm, and left.

The next Indian moved up. Another soldier came through the door and was seated.

Meanwhile, Pete found it slow going as the trap narrowed. He was surprised that he wasn’t in pain. At the top, his head bumped against the inside of the lid of an old iron pot-bellied stove. The lid rattled as Gets Tickled opened it. With no effort, she pulled Pete through the small hole into her kitchen that had a huge pile of live salmon in the corner.

“Who’s down there now?” she asked Pete. “Oh, it’s Rock’s Hard,” she said as she peeked through the hole. “He and his wife are alone now.” She picked up a smaller fish and threw it down. Rock’s Hard waved and called, “Thank you, Gets Tickled.” A loud giggle answered him. He picked up his fish and went home.

The vet that was leaving the bus station just as Pete came in was still in Gets Tickled’s kitchen. Both men felt themselves pulled toward the beach outside Gets Tickled’s front door.

“Hi, I’m Pete.” Pete said to his fellow vet.

“Good to know you. I’m Charley. Have you noticed your pain is gone? Mine is.”

“Yeah. When I first felt myself being pulled toward that contraption downstairs, I was sweatin’ it. I’ve been in constant pain for months and I thought that being pulled up to the ceiling was going to kill me, but I didn’t even feel it.”

“The trip didn’t hurt me either.” Charley agreed.

Check this out,” Pete said to Charley as they approached two new lounge chairs, “lounge chairs with our names printed on them—just like Hollywood.”

The two stretched out in the comfortable chairs and felt the warm sun soak into their skin. Their clothing changed to swimsuits.

“There’s quite a few of us here. I have a feeling we’re all veterans.” Charley said as he looked around the beach. “Maybe we should go over and introduce ourselves.”

“Good idea. Just let me rest here for a little bit first. I want to savor this body that for the first time since the war isn’t hurting me anywhere.”

Pete fell asleep and Charley watched him softly breathe in and out. While Pete slept, another man appeared. So did a new lounge chair with the name “Frank.” Charley shook his hand and said hello.

“What the hell am I doing here?” the befuddled man asked. “First I’m getting off a plane in the middle of a desert, the next thing I know, I’m going through some crazy fish basket in a bus station diner.”

“Were you on duty there?” Charley asked.

“Hell, no, I was there to pick up the body of my brother. He was killed in the desert war.”

“You went over there to pick him up? That’s unusual.”

“I know, but my mother has some kind of crazy idea that a man’s spirit is still alive for days after he dies, and she didn’t want my brother to be alone. She begged me to go pick him up.”

“Talk about being in the wrong place at the wrong time. You must have been pegged as a vet who fit the criteria of the rest of us.”

“What criteria is that?”

“I don’t know.” Charley admitted. “We’re hoping to find out more later on tonight.”

“Are we dead?”

“We’re not alive. I know that because I’m no longer in pain. Are we dead? Don’t know. Must be.”

“This, whatever it is, is a mistake. I’ve got to get back. I’m not dead. I’m not even sick!”

Pete looked over to see that the whole crowd was moving toward tables laden with food. He was famished.

“Let’s go eat. Maybe we’ll find some answers while we’re over there.” Charley said.

Pete opened his eyes, saw the newcomer, and leaned over and shook Frank’s hand. Nothing after today would surprise him; he supposed that the newcomer got there the same way he did.

“Pete, this is Frank. We need to see if we can get him back down through that fish basket. He’s here by mistake.”

“Frank, you must have a hell of a story. I can’t wait to hear it, but let’s eat first.”

It was a happy group of soldiers that gathered around the food-laden table. The whole scene was like something out of a 50s beach movie.

“Hey, here he is, back from the frozen level,” a man named John waved to a friend. “I told you you’d be back.”

“Damn, it was so cold there I almost got frostbite on my nose. But it was beautiful.”

He turned to Frank, Charley and Pete, and explained as he shook their hands and said a quick hello, “Hi, I’m George. I got permission to go to a winter level because I’d never seen snow when I was on earth, and I wanted to experience it. John warned me that I wouldn’t like it.”

“There’s different levels?” Pete asked. “Where are we anyway?”

“That’s a common question around here. The best we can figure, we’re in some kind of a holding pattern for vets. Maybe some kind of a dimension/purgatory kind of thing. None of us really knows.” John loaded his plate while he talked.

“How long have you guys been here?” Charley asked.

George shrugged. “It’s hard to tell. Maybe minutes. Maybe days. We’re not sure if they have time here.”

“That’s fine for the rest of us, but Frank is here by mistake. How do we get him back on earth?” Charley asked.

“I don’t know of anyone who has ever gone back. Sometimes, one of us switches to another level just for fun, like George.” John laughed. “Frank, can you remember how you got here?”

“I was slightly injured while I was in the desert, but I wasn’t a soldier. My brother was killed over there.” Frank’s eyes searched the beach for his brother.

“Is his brother here?” Charley asked John.

“No, you guys are the only new men here. He could be on another level.”

“If he’s not here and not on another level, I wonder why not?” Pete asked. “Aren’t we all soldiers?”

“Yes, but if you look around, there’s not enough of us to account for all the battle deaths. We think that there’s a common thread that brings us all here, but we don’t know for sure what it is.”

“Is it possible that there’s a level we don’t know about? A … er … lower one?” Pete quietly asked, glancing at Frank.

“Could be. For right now, let’s try to figure out how to get Frank back home,” John suggested.

“Any ideas?” Charley asked.

“There is a girl here who seems to be the hostess. Maybe she’ll help us out with Frank. Here she comes now.” John lifted his arm and waved over a young woman wearing a swimsuit with a baggy khaki shirt pulled over the top for modesty. “Hey, Lauren, can we talk to you for a minute?”

“Hey, Guys, what’s up? Not enough food?”

“No problem there,” the man joked as he surveyed the laden table. “We’ve got a stowaway here. This is Frank. He’s not a soldier. He wasn’t even injured.”

“Where were you?” Lauren asked Frank.

“I was in the desert, picking up my brother’s body. He was the soldier.”

“Do you remember anything?”

“I just remember that I picked up a little boy who was crying and helped him find his mother. All of a sudden, I was flying up into some sort of basket. I ended up here.”

“I’ll see what I can find out.” Lauren made a note on her clipboard.

“Have you seen my brother?” Frank asked Lauren.

“No, Frank, I haven’t. I’m sorry. Only a few vets come here.”

“What few is that?” Charley broke in to ask.

“Only soldiers who were trying to save someone else’s life. We have other levels with soldiers from the other sides of the battle lines. We keep you guys separate so you can get some rest.”

“We’re dead and we still can’t get along?” Charley asked.

“Dead? What makes you think you’re dead? You’re just moved to a different level, away from your real body, while you either go through difficult surgery or recover from a coma. Didn’t you see your medical charts behind your lounge chairs?” Lauren pointed to a pocket in the back of each chair. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here to greet all of you, but we ran into a problem down on earth, and I had to go back.”

Turning to Frank she said, “Let me check this out. I’ll get back to you.”

Sometime during the night Lauren gently shook Frank’s shoulder. “Wake up, Frank. You were right. This was a mistake. You’re going home.”

“That’s great. How?”

“I’m going to have to guide you back down the fish trap. After you end up in the bus station, you’ll be on your own. While I’m down there, I have a pickup to make. There’s an Arab boy who would be too frightened to make the trip by himself. I’ll hand deliver him to the Mid-Eastern level. He could be the boy you helped.”

“What did he do?”

“He stepped in front of his mother to protect her from gunfire.”

“Sounds like him. When will he be able to go home?”

“He won’t. At eight-thirty tomorrow morning the whole Mid-East will be gone. Some maniac will use nuclear weapons and misjudge their power. Palestine, Israel, Iran, Iraq—all of them—will be contaminated for thousands of years.”

“Isn’t God going to stop it?”

“I don’t think so. From what I hear, He’s had it with all of them.”

“That’s a story to take back home.”

“Sorry. You won’t remember this conversation or this place when you get back to earth.”

Lauren’s voice began to fade and Frank began to hear his wife’s voice plead as she shook his arm, “Frank, Frank! Are you okay?”

Frank opened his eyes to find he was stretched out on a sidewalk on Pacific Avenue surrounded by 911 medics. Had it all been a dream?

“Honey, what are you doing in this part of town? We were supposed to pick you up at the airport—and where did you get this big fish—isn’t it a salmon?” his curious wife asked.

Frank looked over and saw a huge salmon flapping around next to him on the sidewalk. “Honey, I swear, I’ve never seen that fish before in my life,” he said.

No one but Frank heard the girlish giggle that floated down between the office buildings. A big smile moved across his face, but he didn’t know why.

The end

Read the book- This story was originally published in my short story book, Free Pecan Pie and Other Chick Stories. Paperback and Kindle (etc.). Published by iUniverse. Suitable for YA and up.

My website: Janelle Meraz Hooper

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Free Pecan Pie on Amazon

From the Book Free Pecan Pie and Other Chick Stories Amazon-Paperback and Kindle. Published by iUniverse.

Christmas in the Antique District

Janelle Meraz Hooper

    Sandie opened the door to the basement closet of the antique store to get the artificial tree her boss had sent her after—and quickly shut it again. The tree was covered with rat droppings and, although the closet was dark at the back, she could hear movement that she was pretty sure wasn’t reindeer.
Oh, Lordy! What am I going to do?  Sandie thought. She needed her job, but her mind and body both rebelled at going anywhere near that disease-infested tree.
Looking for a way out, she ran over in her mind what her boss, Rodney, had said that morning as he descended the stairs from his apartment: “Today, we decorate for Christmas! When you get a chance, go down to the basement closet and get the tree!”
Well. There wasn’t much wiggle-room there, unless she got so busy that she couldn’t leave the shop floor to go downstairs. She knew that wasn’t likely.
“Where’s the tree?” Her boss asked when she came up empty-handed.
“I thought I heard customers up here,” she lied.
“Yeah, some coffee-sippers came in, but they left,” he said, as he took a big gulp of his rum and Coke.
“About the tree,” Sandie said hesitantly, “when I was taking it out, I saw it had rat droppings all over it, so I left it there.”
“Oh, just take the tree out and beat it on the sidewalk—they’ll come right off. It’ll look great when the lights are on it. It always does.”
What she had to do, Sandie decided, was distract her boss until the assistant manager, Laurie, came in. She was a friend and would be a lot more sympathetic to her qualms about getting rabies from a Christmas tree than Rodney was—she was sober. Sandi hoped Laurie came in soon; if she didn’t, it was going to be a long day. Luckily, Rodney discovered that his glass was empty, and he went back upstairs to his apartment to fill it.
For the rest of the day, Sandie sat on a platform at her hostess desk and watched the Christmas tapestry of the rich, poor, and homeless run up and down the Seattle sidewalks. The windows in the store ran from floor to ceiling, so she had a panoramic view of the trendy area filled with antique shops.

There was a cold wind, and the street people leaned over their shopping carts that held all of their possessions to keep the sharp wind from biting their faces. One man had tied a rumpled Christmas ribbon to his cart. As a homeless woman hurried by with her basket piled so high with black plastic sacks that she couldn’t see over it, the wind blew open her scarf that was wrapped around her face, and exposed a black eye. One of the street people was in the middle of the street, poised as if to run a race. Puzzled, Sandie didn’t realize until the last second that he intended to ram, headfirst, into her store’s large window. It happened so fast; within seconds, he charged the shop window, and left Sandie with nothing to do but scream. The man’s head hit the glass full force, but the glass didn’t break. The impact shook the whole building, and Rodney leaned out of his apartment door to see what had happened.
“What was that noise?” he asked.
Just then, the man hit the window again. Didn’t he know how dangerous glass was? Chances were that he wouldn’t just cut his head, he could decapitate himself!
“Oh, that happens a lot this time of year,” Rodney nonchalantly said when he looked at the dazed man. As he turned to go back to his kitchen, he said, “It’s cold out. He’s trying to get arrested so he’ll have a warm place to sleep tonight. Don’t worry; he won’t break the window. It’s a special glass that wouldn’t break if he had a hammer. And don’t worry about him coming in here to keep warm while you’re alone. They all know they can’t come in here. I’ve taught them that much.”
Sandie’s heart was still thumping violently as the dazed man stumbled down the sidewalk in search of an easier window to break. All day she spent anxiously watching windows and doors: the window in case the street person returned, the front door so she could catch the assistant manager as soon as she got back from her furniture set-up, and the door to Rodney’s apartment. It had gotten very quiet upstairs. Apparently, he’d passed out for the afternoon.
There were few customers, so she had lots of time to think. What would she do if she had to go get that tree and beat it on the sidewalk in front of half of Seattle? She decided she had no options. She’d do it, if she had to; she needed the minimum-pay job. She wouldn’t be happy about it though. Once, she’d had a good middle-class life, but now she was on a long financial slide after a lengthy illness, and she dreaded the extra humiliation of having to beat that turd-infested tree on the sidewalk.
A few minutes before closing, Sandie gathered her things. The assistant manager came through the door just as she was putting on her coat.
“Laurie—we need to talk. Rodney wants me to put up the Christmas tree and it’s full of rat droppings.”
“Oh,” Laurie laughed, “he says that every year, and every year I go out and buy a tree out of petty cash and put it up. He never even notices that the tree is real. Don’t worry about it; I’ll pick one up tomorrow.”
On her way to her car, Sandie walked alongside some homeless people pushing their carts. She had a couple of bucks in her pocket, so she looked for the man who had tried to break the shop window, but she didn’t see him. Maybe he had succeeded in getting arrested. She hoped so. It was sure to get down to the twenties before the night was through.

She felt guilty that she’d been so upset over a silly tree. But who could say? Every homeless person started from some point in his life. Maybe that Christmas tree in the basement closet would have been her first step.

 This story and other holiday short stories can be found in my mixed media book, Free Pecan Pie and Other Chick Stories, paperback and Kindle. Suitable for YA and up, clean. Popular with teachers.  Published by iUniverse.

Merry Christmas! Janelle

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5.0 out of 5 stars-Best Yet!
September 16, 2011
Format: Kindle Edition
A romantic ribbon weaves its way through a latticework of exotic pets, jewelry, and Northwest cuisine including cherry pie! All of this against the backdrop of urban Seattle. Janelle Meraz Hooper’s sense of humor and descriptive dialogue keeps you smiling. Reggae describes what happens to snakes in Jamaica. ” …but whenever anyone finds one over deh, dem beat it until it’s so flat it’s halfway to being a belt.” The author also adds drama based on a Washington State natural disaster, making this love story her best yet!

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Lily lives on the third floor of The Zoo–an apartment building catering to tenants who have exotic pets. Lily doesn’t have a turtle or iguana, but she has Mike, her new boyfriend, who may be the most exotic pet of all! Humor, romance.  

Paperback & Kindle! Suitable for NA (New Adult) and up.

YouTube: Book trailer for Boogie, Boots, & Cherry Pie

To see the book on Amazon

Chapter 5. Goodnight, Princess Lily

 They ate at a restaurant on the waterfront that had served Northwest seafood since Bill Boeing launched his first airplane from Lake Union. Mike ordered a bucket of steamed clams, and Lily ordered crab cakes. It was late, so the dinner rush was over. Their main entrée arrived before they’d finished their appetizer of fried calamari.

Over dinner, Mike raised concerns over Lily’s bathroom guest. “That’s an awfully big snake. Big enough to be dangerous. What was his name?”

“Boogie. Velma likes to dance.”

“Where does he live?”

“On my floor, just around the corner.”

“Why do you think he went to your apartment?” he asked as he worked his way to the bottom of his bucket of clams. “You don’t have anything he could make a lunch out of—except you.”

“Very funny.”

“I’m serious,” Mike persisted. “I saw a television documentary on anacondas in the Amazon, and a huge snake watched a group of scientists walk through a shallow marsh and waited for several men to pass until a female scientist went by small enough for him to handle. When the woman passed him, it came up out of the water and grabbed her.” Mike pulled away from the table and gave Lily an appraising look. “What are you? About a size two?”

“Mike! You don’t seriously think Boogie is stalking me? Maybe he was really after my big green elephant, or the rabbit from next door.”

“I know it’s pretty far-fetched. But what else could be drawing him to your apartment?” he drummed his fingers on the tablecloth as he thought. “Tell me about that rabbit. Does he ever come over to your place?”

“Bomber?”

Mike interrupted her, “Are you kidding me? Boogie and Bomber?”

“Well, he leaves bunny bombs sometimes.”

“Okay. Go on,” Mike grinned.

“Well, Bomber visits frequently. He’s a sweet little creature. Other people have dust bunnies under their bed. I have the real thing. I buy those little peeled carrots for him at the grocery store.”

“Bingo! That rabbit’s scent must be all over your apartment. Boogie is using your flat as a hunting ground. Maybe he can’t get into the apartment where Bomber actually lives.”

“Probably not. There’s no cat flap at Barbara’s.”

“Cat flap?!” Mike almost screamed. “There’s a cat flap on your front door? Funny, I didn’t notice it.”

“Well, it’s been painted white to match the door. And it is blocked. At least it’s blocked enough so a cat can’t get in.”

“I bet a snake wouldn’t need as much room as a cat. I’d better look at it tonight. I don’t think your snake’s owner can be trusted to control her pet. It’s lucky for me Boogie doesn’t eat cherry pie.”

“You’re going to eat more pie?!”

“It’s okay,” Mike said with a devilish grin, “sooner or later I’ll work it off.”

Lily caught her breath, but said nothing. She wasn’t willing to open herself up to ridicule over her virginity in a conversation over an empty clam bucket. She had a late start getting into the dating scene to begin with, and just when she’d started college, she’d lost her mother, and then, her aunt. When most girls were sneaking boys into their dormitory rooms, Lily was struggling with the loss of her family and being homeless. For now, she’d keep her family history to herself.

When they got to the door of Lily’s apartment, the missing snake sign was off the door and a shaky Boots was standing guard.

“Good evening, Boots,” Lily said.

Mike stopped in place and waited expectantly for an explanation of the lizard’s name.

“The landlady is Jamaican and she says she’s just keeping him around until he’s big enough for her to make a pair of boots.” While she spoke, she picked a couple of hibiscus blooms from the plant by the door and tossed them to the big lizard as they passed by. Boots pounced on the blossoms like they were live prey.

“What else does he eat?” Mike wanted to know as he gave the creature a wide berth.

“Oh, he’s strictly a vegetarian. But he can get cranky and bite. He’s been more agitated than usual lately. I think Boogie has him spooked. He used to be the toughest kid on the block. Now, he’s got competition and I think he might feel threatened.”

“In a fight with a constrictor, which one would win?” Mike wondered.

Lily shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know. Boots might be the loser strictly because of his gentle personality. I don’t think he has the killer instinct of a snake. One of the tenants upstairs has a friend at the Woodland Park Zoo. He’s going to take him to lunch and see what he can find out.”

Mike looked at the cat flap and Lily put on tea and served the last of the pie. “What do you think, am I snake meat?” she asked Mike when he came into the kitchen.

“Lily, there’s no wooden frame on that flap. It’s closed on the top and bottom, but it’s loose around the sides. It looks like a homemade job, or else it’s very old.” Then, he asked, “Do you have any duct tape?” When Lily produced a roll from a kitchen drawer, he said, “I’m impressed. I never would have guessed someone as dainty as you would have duct tape in her kitchen drawer.”

Lily whispered, “I even have a hammer.” She heard a low, appreciative whistle in response.

Mike wrapped the silver tape around the cat flap opening several times. “It’s not pretty, but it’ll do until we come up with another solution.”

He started to sit down at the table, but he was still uneasy. He got up and started walking around the apartment. He looked in the closet, bathroom, and under the bed. “I don’t know how you can be so calm. I’m six feet, and a hundred and sixty pounds, and I’d be afraid to sleep here.”

“I think you’ve solved my problem, I’ll be okay now,” Lily said with false bravado.

“Maybe we should hang a Boogie bell over the flap, to announce the snake if he manages to wiggle in again,” he said with a laugh. “Have you got one in that drawer?” he asked, with a nod toward the drawer the duct tape was in.

“Fresh out,” Lily admitted.

There was one piece of pie left. When Lily offered it to Mike, he studied it carefully. He picked it up, turned it slowly around, and seemed to calculate its size. Then he looked up and asked, “Are you still a good girl?” When Lily nodded yes, he said with a laugh, “Then I’d better pass.”

When he left that night, he kissed Lily warmly and whispered in her ear, “Lily, I’m not a lech, but I’m not a monk, either.” Then, he winked and said, “Call me if you run out of duct tape.”

“I don’t have your number,” Lily said weakly.

“I left my card under your phone,” he said with a grin.

Lily abandoned her brave front once Mike was gone. Before she climbed into her bed, she searched the apartment again to double check for Boogie. He couldn’t be loose again already, she told herself. Velma wouldn’t be so careless when she knew she and the snake were so close to being evicted. Surely, she knew finding another snake-friendly apartment wouldn’t be easy. Still, she opened cupboard doors and rechecked her closets.

When she locked her patio doors, she heard some rustling in the big tree that grew alongside her building; she had an uneasy feeling, and scolded herself for becoming afraid of everything, even the killer squirrels in the trees.

She had crawled into bed and shut off the lights when suddenly she remembered Mike said he’d left his business card underneath her phone. She turned on her bedroom lamp and went into the living room.

When she picked up the phone, there was nothing there. She must have misunderstood him.

Disappointed, she crawled back into bed and turned off the lamp. Seconds later, she switched the lamp back on and looked under her bedroom phone. There it was. He must have put it there when he was checking to make sure Boogie hadn’t gotten back in. On the front of the card, he’d circled his home and mobile phone number. On the back, he’d written, “Call me anytime. Day or night. I mean it, Lily.”

She turned out the lamp and tried to go to sleep, but she couldn’t get comfortable. Her pillow was lumpy. She turned on her lamp one last time and lifted it up to see what was there. She found a bracelet box with another silk sack. Inside this one was a black-enameled silver-toned snake bracelet with red rhinestone eyes.

He might still be on the road. She dialed his mobile number. When he answered, he laughed.

“You found it.”

“I did. It’s wonderful. Thank you so much.”

“It’s not one of my pieces; it’s one of my competitor’s designs, but we’re friends. I thought you’d get a laugh out of it. You don’t have to wear it, it was just for fun.”

“I will wear it. It’s so cute,” then she shyly added, “and it’s from you.”

“I don’t suppose I can come back?” Mike teased.

“Sorry. I’m all out of cherry pie, anyway.”

“Next, I’m getting you a rhinestone chicken,” he said as he made playful chicken noises.

“Very funny. Good night, and thank you again.”

“Good night, Princess Lily.”

Oh! Never in her whole life had a man called her princess. Lily snuggled down deep in her blankets. She didn’t hear the surprised cry of a squirrel in the tree outside her window.

Honorable mention, 2014 Animals, Animals, Animals Book Contest, Wild Card category, NA (New Adult) & up. See more: www.JanelleMerazHooper.com

 Dear reader, I hope you enjoyed this chapter from Boogie, Boots, & Cherry Pie. If so, please consider tweeting it! Many thanks, Janelle

Paperback and Kindle. Published by CreateSpace. Suitable for New Adult and up. New Adult is the reader designation that comes after Young Adult; it’s fairly new.

I met one of my readers at Campbell Resort in
Washington State on Lake Chelan. 

Thanks for stopping by! Janelle

Happy Halloween to all of my writer friends!

This is a story about Wanda the Writer…          

            Wanda never went to the mailbox without her baseball bat. For every rejection she found, she gave the box one whack. Of course, this scared the bats that lived in the box’s belfry silly, but Wanda was always so angry she didn’t notice.

          Back inside her house, Wanda meticulously filed away each rejection. The rejected stories about gardening she kept neatly stacked under a leaky flowerpot. The children’s stories she filed in the bottom of her bird’s cage, and the novel rejections she filled at the bottom of her cat’s litter box.

          Wanda was especially chagrined at the rejection of her latest 500,000-word novel. What were they thinking? It had a plot and everything! Actually, it had several plots—it was about a gravedigger who was afraid of dirt.

          Other stories were rejected because they didn’t follow the required format. Format, smormat! So what if the stories weren’t double-spaced? So what if she used the Rave font instead of Times Roman? So what if she didn’t include a SASE? One story was returned because she didn’t put any postage on it. The nerve.

          They had to be punished. The whole lot. Publishers. Agents. Newspaper editors. All of them.

          The ticked witch went to her kitchen and whipped up a batch of special candy for the rejecters. She’d show them to have a little respect. She filled her black kettle with a recipe of special hard candies that turned into wiggling slugs when they were sucked on. After the candies were wrapped in Halloween paper, she put them into a tote bag and took off for New York. Thanks to her new 300 high-speed broom, she was able to zip in and out of each office without being seen.

          Back home, Wanda poured a glass of wine and lit the candle in her Halloween pumpkin. Then she turned on CNN and waited patiently for the story to break. Soon, all over the city, there were reports of people in the publishing businesses choking on slugs. Oh, they just choked a little—they didn’t die. And how those slugs loved to sing! When they were spat out, they stood up and sang in a perfect imitation of Aretha Franklin:

R-E-S-P-E-C-T! (Find out what it means to me…take care of TCB!)

          Wanda put out the cat and turned out the lights. Tomorrow, she’d start a new novel. This one would be really big.

Happy Halloween!

Janelle Meraz Hooper: Substack, Instagram, Twitter, Pinterest, Amazon, Barnes & Noble

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© 2007, Janelle Meraz Hooper.

Originally published in Free Pecan Pie and Other Chick Stories

Paperback & eBook

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New cover!
Boogie, Boots & Cherry Pie
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Amazon and others- paperback & Kindle- suitable for New Adult and up.
Janelle Meraz Hooper
See my other books and short stories: Janelle Meraz Hooper

When the great guy that Lily meets at her company’s St. Patrick’s Day party takes her home he discovers she lives at the Zoo, an apartment building that caters to tenants who have exotic pets. Unfortunately, one of the animals is missing and when Mike drops her off the first thing he sees is a sign on the front door:

Please Don’t Let Out The Snake!

While Lily is trying to figure out how Boogie, a big boa constrictor, is getting into her room, Mike, her new boyfriend, has his own problems. He’s a jewelry designer who is in danger of defaulting on a contract because all of his workers live on a flood plain and the river is rising. When it finally floods, everyone, including their pets, disappear without a trace. Suddenly, Mike isn’t worried about his business anymore. He’s worried about his workers and their families. Are they okay? Where could they be?

Filled with lively characters including: a Jamaican landlady, Reggae, whose traditional headdress holds her phone, iPod, and assorted office supplies; her boyfriend Mingo who thinks he doesn’t fit in; and Velma, a woman who collects snakes—big ones. Tension rises when Reggae and Lily begin to fear that Boogie is stalking Boots, Reggae’s pet iguana. 

Reader’s comment on Amazon

5.0 out of 5 starsBest Yet!
September 16, 2011
Format: Kindle Edition
A romantic ribbon weaves its way through a latticework of exotic pets, jewelry, and Northwest cuisine including cherry pie! All of this against the backdrop of urban Seattle. Janelle Meraz Hooper’s sense of humor and descriptive dialogue keeps you smiling. Reggae describes what hapens to snakes in Jamaica. ” …but whenever anyone finds one over deh, dem beat it until it’s so flat it’s halfway to being a belt.” The author also adds drama based on a Washington State natural disaster, making this love story her best yet!

______________________________________________________________________

Kindle and others. Also in paperback. Suitable for NA (New Adult) and up.

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Janelle Meraz Hooper is an award-winning writer originally from Oklahoma who now lives in Washington State.

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Thanks for stopping by! Janelle

See the book on Amazon

Free Pecan Pie and Other Chick Stories

Amazon and others-Paperback and Kindle. Suitable for New Adults and up. Published by iUniverse.

Janelle Meraz Hooper
See my other books and short stories: Janelle Meraz Hooper

Wanda, the Witless Witch of Boo! Cul-de-sac circled twice around her split-level home in an expensive neighborhood before she landed her broom on the roof. As always, she slid into her home through the air duct to the kitchen fan.
“Darn!” she cried as the blades sliced her black hat and ripped her hair. “I forgot to turn the fan off again.”
See why they call her witless?
Okay, she was a little addled. But beautiful. Blond, and petite, she bought all of her clothes at Hoardstrom’s and flew to LA every week to have her hair done at Chez Cher-Fawcett’s.
Stopping only to check her makeup in the mirror, she opened the sliding French doors and threw out the pot full of frogs, slugs, and spiders left over from her morning spells.
“Darn crows!” she cried as the black birds flew down from the trees and covered her yard. “Why is it all the crows in the neighborhood end up at my house?”
Trust me. She’ll never figure it out.
“Who’s at the door?” she’d call toward the front of the house whenever she heard a scratching noise on the porch. But no one was ever there. She’d been glad when her husband had agreed to fix the doorbell and had left one morning for the hardware store. That was over three years ago. He’d been working so hard on it that she hadn’t seen him since.
Each day she noticed the hole by the front door was a little bigger and the red and green wires from the doorbell were all over the porch, so she hoped he was getting close to finishing.
Each night, she tried to wait up for Clyde, but about twelve o’clock every night she’d get tired, so she’d put his supper on the table and go to bed without him. The next morning, his plate would be empty. The cat, that grew fatter and fatter, never seemed to miss Clyde. Wanda didn’t know why.
While Clyde was off at the hardware store buying a new doorbell, she kept plenty busy. All day long she ran back and forth, chasing the crows off the back deck, and answering the front door whenever she heard scratching. No one was ever there.
Wanda was getting lonely. Maybe, when she saw Clyde again, she’d tell him to forget the doorbell, board the hole up, and put up a doorknocker. Of course, then he would have to go to the hardware store to buy the knocker, so she was reticent to do that.
The beautiful witch got lonelier and lonelier. And witlesser and witlesser.
Wanda decided that she was too slow, and that was the reason she never saw anyone when she heard noises on the porch, so she began riding her broom down the seven steps to the front door. The problem with that was her broom was too fast, and she could never stop in time. Over and over, Wanda had to peel herself off the inside of her front door.
And so her life went. Year after year. The crows got noisier and noisier. She didn’t know why. The cat got fatter and fatter. The hole by the front door got bigger and bigger.
“When is that man going to finish?” she asked her fellow witches. “I swear, he’s slower than a dead June bug.”
Did I tell you yet that she was totally without wit? I think I did.
Finally, Wanda was at the end of her broom. She’d fix the doorbell herself. She knew nothing about electricity, but how hard could it be? The first thing to do was go to the hardware store and pick up some doorbell stuff. Maybe the women there had seen Clyde. Maybe they could tell him to come home and change clothes. He must be getting pretty ripe.
The women at the store pretended not to know Clyde, but Wanda wasn’t fooled. She knew they were trying to keep him all to themselves. After all, he was quite a catch, and a heck of a doorbell-fixer.
When she got back she got right to work. It started to rain so she decided to work from the inside (witches melt in the rain, you know). With her brand new sledgehammer she broke a hole in the inside wall. That’s when she discovered that, all those years, it wasn’t company at her front door. It was birds, nesting between the walls; they came and went through the hole left by the broken doorbell. The house quickly filled with black birds of all sizes. Flying. Diving. Squeaking. And making a mess on her orange wall-to-wall carpet.
Wanda closed the doors and windows and opened the fireplace insert doors so they could find their way out, but they were very comfortable inside and showed no inclination to leave. That’s because the birds were bats, and it was still light outside. Bats hate sunlight as much as witches hate rain.
Not that Wanda knew they were bats.
Say it with me: witless!
Finally, Wanda called a fellow witch for help. “Esmerelda? Get over here right away and help me get rid of some birds, will you? Somehow, they’ve gotten into the house.”
After Wanda cleared the house of bats she was a happy Witless Witch, and she knew things would be perfect once Clyde got home. And he would come home. After all, she was Wanda, the Witless Witch of Boo! Cul-de-sac. And quite a looker. How could he live without her?
And where was Clyde? At the hardware store, wandering around the parking lot, looking for his car. He’d completely forgotten that Wanda had dropped him off on her broom years ago.
Turns out, he was the perfect match for Wanda. Zero wit. None.

The end

Wanda, The Witless Witch of Boo! Cul-de-sac, is one of the stories in my Free Pecan Pie and Other Chick Stories  mixed genre book. Published by iUniverse.

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Published by iUniverse.

How To Fight Big Hair
from Free Pecan Pie and Other Chick Stories
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When our children were young, I had a friend who told me it was time for her five-year-old son to go to school—she had taught him everything she could.
I looked at it this way: the teachers could teach my daughter all of that 3-R stuff—I was never good at it anyway. I could teach her about fine literature, art, the history of oriental carpets—and how to make tiny guest soaps in little plastic muffin pans with a microwave.
Okay, so all we did was buy the book with the soap recipes. We never actually got around to making the soap. The book is probably still on a bookshelf somewhere next to the ones on One Hundred Ways to Braid Your Hair and How to Have an Archaeological Dig in Your Own Basement.
When she was about eleven, we reached a point where she had her own ideas, so her father and I invented “mini-scholarships” that we tucked into her Christmas stocking. I think that most of the money went for sheet music, extra flute lessons, and Judy Blume books. Even with the scholarships, she still had plenty of time leftover for camping and fishing trips, cooking lessons, and documentaries on the educational television channels.
There did come a day, when she was a senior in high school, she said she’d learned all she could from me. It was time for her to move on. From what I could tell, she’d moved on to big hair, frosted eye shadow, and boys.
No! She couldn’t quit on me now, I still had so much to share with her! I was already looking into opera tickets, museum passes, and jazz concerts.
I was on the county art commission at the time. Each day, my mailbox was filled with colorful brochures from art galleries. I wanted to share them with her, but she was too busy curling her hair and talking to boys on the phone. Stacks of colorful pamphlets stacked up on the windowsill of her room. Unread. I knew they were unread because they were covered with dust. Any parent who knows her stuff can tell you that printed materials in a teenager’s room that are actually being read are covered in food crumbs.
Something had to be done fast. The stacks of art brochures were beginning to block out the light in her bedroom. Since the bedroom was already facing north, it got too little light to begin with. If one of us didn’t back down, she could be facing a health problem. Maybe I should start slipping vitamin D into her colas?
I noticed that, each morning, she got up early and sat cross-legged on the bathroom cabinet for at least thirty-minutes while she tortured and sprayed those straight locks into curls tight enough to last through outdoor gym class in the rain. There was only one curling iron, one electrical outlet, and one mirror. Desperation spawned inspiration. Maybe I could make that big hair work for me!
That night, I sat down and cut out each little picture from the brochures and taped them to the mirror right in front of where she sat to curl her hair. Some were beautiful. Some were funny. Some were just plain weird. Each day, after she went to bed, I put up new pictures. Each morning, she’d go into the bathroom and while the curling iron heated up, she’d take down the pictures—one by one. Over and over she asked me to put them someplace else. She never did catch on that they were just where I wanted them: in her way. Soon, the stack of art brochures on her windowsill was gone. Only the dust was left.
She’s older now. Styles have changed. The hair is much shorter and less time consuming. The garish eye shadow has been replaced with more subtle colors, and the boys have been narrowed down to two: a husband and a young son.
She really has moved on, but I’ve kept those pictures in a file. Someday I might use them again—when my grandson decides  he’s learned all he needs to know from me. I’m thinking I’ll glue them all over the backboard on his basketball hoop. Now if I can just figure out how to get up there—and back down without breaking my neck!

Free Pecan Pie and Other Chick Stories, Paperback & Kindle.  Illustration is not in the book….

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Custer & His Naked Ladies
A modern-day Western
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Paperback or Kindle. suitable for New Adult and up.
Published by iUniverse.

Review

This heartwarming, well-crafted story owes much of its charm and poignancy to the author’s ability to create relatable, sympathetic characters in believable situations. Friendships and family relationships are richly developed. Native American and Hispanic cultural details add texture and genuine Southwestern flavor. Relatable.

Check out my other books and stories! Janelle Meraz Hooper

Soap, a Comanche Indian, is fighting the mob to keep a casino off the reservation. Things are starting to get ugly…

15. Soap on a Box

“Mom, why did this resort fold?” Glory asked as they neared the picnic grounds in the old deserted resort not far from Pete’s. “It looks like it must have been a great place at one time.”

“I think there wasn’t a need for it after the war. Ft. Sill shrunk to almost nothing,” Grace answered as she sulked because she lost the race to the driver’s seat to Vera. Scrunched in the back with her feet straddled over a picnic basket, she shared the seat with Maxine and Glory. In the front seat, Pauline was afraid to look at her because she knew she wouldn’t be able to keep from laughing.

“I think it was also bad luck,” Vera said from the driver’s seat that she’d beaten Grace to. “On opening day, the swings that hung out over the lake were full of kids. Then one of them apparently jumped into the water and onto a snake. He lived, but after that, no one would go in the water.”

“Grace, did you know that Howard and Pete started their resorts at the same time?” Maxine asked. “The land was on the reservation, so it was free, and the two had great plans to build until they met in the middle, forming one big resort.”

“I didn’t know that,” Grace answered. She asked, “Why didn’t Pete expand on his own?”

“Well, again, there were no customers after the war. There was no use in trying to add rides and other attractions.”

“Mom! You could have been like another Epcot Center! Who owns this place now?”

“The bank, I guess,” Maxine said. “Howard disappeared. He owed everyone a lot of money. Some people think that he’s at the bottom of the lake. Vera, park over there next to Soap and Kiowa. It’s getting crowded and we don’t want to get boxed in. I’m so stressed, that right after the fireworks, I want to go back to the cabins and go to bed. Besides, if you get a call about Dan, we might want to leave early.”

“Have you heard anything lately?” Pauline asked her sister.

“Not a thing,” Vera answered.

The women set up their picnic at a table close to where the soapbox was. Every year, the city raised money for charities by letting citizens give speeches for a fee. In the past, speakers had good naturedly made fun of the city council, crabbed about the poor roads, and threatened to stop paying taxes if Washington didn’t stop wasting money on doo-dads like peanut subsidies. Since Oklahoma didn’t have a peanut crop, there wasn’t any support for the goober goodies, as they were known to the Oklahoma farmers.

This year promised to be a lot more interesting. Everyone expected a heated debate over the proposed Indian casino.

Vera and Maxine set up the picnic for the first meal. They’d be there until the fireworks were over later that night, so food would be shuffled in and out of the ice chests all day. Grace had invited Kiowa and Marshall to eat with them; naturally, Maxine was glad they were going to stay near their table to protect Soap. No one around them seemed to notice the guests that Grace and her table had were wearing uniforms. The men had been around town for so many years that everyone just accepted them as a natural part of the crowd at any community event. They did notice the mobsters. Glory wasn’t surprised that everyone gave them a wide berth, even with Kiowa and Marshall there.

The mobsters just sneered when they saw Soap, as if the fact that they’d failed to kill him was unsurprising and inconsequential. Glory’s hope of seeing them squirm was not to be fulfilled. At least, they weren’t two-faced enough to smile at Soap and the women as they set up their picnic table. Glory gave them credit for that. They would look at the women and Soap and shift their gun holsters under their suits with their arms. Their demeanor said that they had everything under control, and that Soap’s presence made no difference to them. Had they planned for Soap to be rescued before he drowned? No one would ever know, but Glory didn’t think so.

Right next to them, sat Frieda in a lawn chair. By her purse was a disposable ice chest and a grocery sack that looked like it was full of hastily purchased snacks. “Oh, dear, it looks like she’s brought enough food for the mobsters too,” Grace said, “how did she ever meet them?”

“I don’t know, but her being close to them is no accident,” Vera observed, “One of the mob’s cowboy hats is under her chair.”

“Mom, I’ve told you for years that woman is nuts. She’s going to fool around and get herself hurt,” Glory said. “I can’t believe she was greedy enough to hook up with the mob. If something bad happens, she has it coming.”

The speeches wouldn’t start until nightfall when it cooled off, but groups for and against the casino were already forming around tubs of iced beer. Although it was hot, the adult men wore shirts; only the young boys were shirtless. Glory smiled at the sight of the men in their pressed, short sleeved cotton shirts. There was something respectful about their not sitting shirtless at the tables, as if they’d been raised by a Southern nanny. By contrast, the mafia formed an uncomfortable, over-dressed third group in striped suits and western shirts, and stood cockily around the soapbox. They’d mumble at each other, then sneer.
Mumble, sneer.

Mumble, sneer.

Vera casually observed the tribe from New York, “They look awfully smug, don’t they? I wonder what they’re up to?”

“I think they’re trying to intimidate us. And, you know, this is the first time they’ve seen us up close. Maybe they’re sizing us up,” Maxine said.

The women all put their purses on top of the table and raised their eyebrows at the men. The men looked at the flowered purses, then at each other. Puzzled, they shrugged their shoulders. Lordy, Glory thought, this could get ugly. These women had no idea what they would be getting into if a fight started. Glory did. She’d seen the fights between the students and policemen during the peace rallies when she was in college. Many times, she feared the police force might lose it and start firing at the students. It had happened before, at other colleges. If she could have thrown all the women into the car and headed back to Pete’s, she would have. As if they’d go and leave Soap. Well, then, she thought, if she could get Soap to leave, the women would follow.

“Soap, this doesn’t look good. Help me get the girls back to the resort, okay?”

“I can’t leave now, Glory. I could get Kiowa to run you girls home, but I think that we’re safer here, out in the open.”

“Fine. Let’s have a good old-fashioned gunfight and kill everybody.” Glory ignored Soap’s hurt look and turned to join the women.

She looked around and saw the tension rise like stink in the bottom of a boat. More and more people were showing up and Glory tried to guess which camp they’d fall into: pro or con casino?

Soap was looking over the crowd too, most likely trying to gage which way it would go after he spoke on the soapbox. Then he went over to a young Indian woman that Glory figured must be Pony On Fire. Wow! She’s stacked! Glory couldn’t help but notice. She looked down at her own modest bust line and almost groaned out loud. The man next to Pony on Fire had to be Charlie Breaks His Foot. Glory noticed he was nervous and kept pulling handwritten notes out of his pocket to study them.

“Mom, this is looking dangerous. Let’s get you and the girls out of here. Kiowa and I will take care of Soap.”

The women were stunned. “Leave Soap?” Maxine asked.

“Glory, I can’t help Dan,” Vera said. “I have no control over his well-being. But I sure as hell can support Soap. I’m so angry with these hoodlums that I’d pull out my gun and shoot them all at the drop of a tortilla.”

“Glory, have a glass of wine and relax,” Grace said.

“Oh, good, Mom. Let’s all get drunk. That’ll improve our aim.”

“I said you have a glass of wine. We’re okay. Aren’t we girls?”

“I’m okay, but a glass of wine might improve my disposition. Pass it over, Glory. Shall I pour you one?” Vera said as she picked up her glass.

“No thanks, Auntie. Maybe later.”

Lunch looked good, if a little eclectic. Vera brought her taco salad and Chex mix. Maxine had fried chicken and made cornbread. Grace had made a fresh fruit salad and cookies made with the wild pecans the women had swiped from the trees surrounding the church parking lot. Pauline brought a fresh stack of flour tortillas and homemade salsa. Soap put hamburger patties and kielbasa on the grill. Glory, who’d never been much of a cook, had swung by the grocery store and bought everyone’s favorite chips: Cheetos for Grace, potato chips for Vera, and Chili Fritos for Pauline. The women viewed the chips as expensive, and seldom purchased them for themselves, so they looked upon them as a real treat. Glory supposed their frugal shopping habits had to be a throwback to the times when they had little, before Grace’s shirt factory, because money hadn’t been tight for any of them for years. Every inch of table space was filled with plates of food. The empty spaces between the plates were filled in with deviled eggs and jars of watermelon pickles. Even so, no one at their table was eating very much.

Glory noticed that when Grace walked down to look at the water, one of the policemen just happened to be going in the same direction. When she came back, he came back.

Crowds formed for pie and watermelon contests, but no one at the women’s table was really in the mood. Glory didn’t even bother to go over when they sliced the watermelons. The women must have missed the buffalo-chip throwing contest because there was no activity in that area at all.

A group arrived and started arranging folding chairs into a circle. Glory hadn’t remembered the paper saying anything about a powwow, but they were often spontaneous.

She looked around the crowd to see if any of her old friends were there. She noticed the VFW table that was dressed in a red and white-checkered tablecloth with a canopy over it and little American flags running down the center. The sign hanging from the canopy said, “Our Comanche Veterans.” All of the men were wearing new straw hats with little American flags sticking out of the headbands. She spotted Marguerite, in her big straw hat, sitting at the next table. She was chatting with Charles Chibitty, one of the last remaining Comanche Code Talkers. Glory waved at Marguerite, grabbed a can of pop, and headed toward her table.

Glory wondered why more people didn’t know that the area had earthquakes, some of them had measured 5.0 on the Richter scale. It was every bit as likely that the cracked foundations in the area were due to tremors of a natural kind. But every time the ground shook, Lawtonians sent the bill for their foundation repairs to Ft. Sill.

The last speaker before the speeches addressed the casino issue was Pony on Fire. She told the crowd about the new Our Comanche Dictionary that was on sale by the tribe and urged that everyone buy at least one copy for each household. Pointing to a table stacked high with books, she urged Comanches to learn their tribe’s language and teach it to their children. It could start with just one word at a time at the breakfast table each morning, she suggested. As she stepped off the soapbox, she said she was off in search of a piece of ohape. Then she leaned back into the microphone and said, “In case you don’t have your dictionary yet, that’s yellow watermelon.” The crowd laughed as she melted into the crowd.

Chuck picked up the microphone and said, “Folks, I’ve been looking at that dictionary, and the Comanches have a word for just about everything. For instance, they have a word for Republican that means eagle white man, and a word for Democrat that means rooster-white-man. I think we could all use a copy, especially this time of year with elections coming up in the state. The crowd laughed, and more than a few looked over at the table stacked with books. “Now folks, Riding Wagon has a few words to say,” Chuck handed him the microphone and the crowd grew closer. Glory didn’t know which man to watch, Riding Wagon or Soap.

Suddenly, Soap turned and walked back to stand by Glory.

“What’s up?” Glory asked.

“They warned me that I should be thinking about my family, not just myself.”

“That’s pretty blunt. Did they say what they’ll do if you do speak?”

“No, but I’m going to alert Kiowa to get all of you out of here as soon as the speeches are over.”

“If you can find him. He’s gone.”

They both looked around, but couldn’t see either one of the law enforcement officers. Soap just shrugged, as if he didn’t need them anyway.

Riding Wagon began to speak with a shaking voice, “Ha maruawe.” The man said as he raised his hand in the traditional Indian greeting. “I am Walter. Some people call me Riding Wagon. I am Comanche. I am also the Comanche Tribal Chairman. I’m here to say a few words about the casino.” He looked around at the crowd and, hesitantly, started talking. “I’ve been a big disappointment to the white man. First, I refused to farm and fought for the right to hunt buffalo. So they killed all the buffalo.”

War whoops pierced the night air and chills ran up and down Glory’s spine. She had never gotten used to the war whoops that punctuated the air whenever Indians got together.

“Next, I refused to send my children away to a white school. I kept my kids at home and kept our language and traditions.”

More war whoops. Some of the Indian women joined in with their calls.
“Some of the white women were shocked when I decided to leave the reservation and move my wife and kids to town, next door to them, so I could enroll my children in the local whites’ school.” He shrugged his shoulders. “What else was I to do? I wanted the best for my children.”
The war whoops grew louder. Indians were moving towards the soapbox, mumbling agreement with every utterance from Riding Wagon.

“Like I say, I’ve been a big disappointment. I want to feed and clothe my family the same as the white man next door. I want to be able to take my kids to the doctor when they get sick. This is what a man does. What a good husband and father does.

“But how can I do these things? How do I pay for the things my family needs when there are no jobs for me here?” Riding Wagon turned toward the mob members. “Now, here comes an opportunity to make a little money, and the city fathers say, ‘No. Don’t build a casino. It’s not the right way to go.’ Which is the right way to go? A casino would make jobs and give us security. It would make us proud again.” His voice cracked and he swallowed his tears. He looked at Soap and pleaded, “All I want to do, Soap, is feed and clothe my family. I’m not looking for a fancy car or a swimming pool in my backyard.” He repeated tearfully, “A man has to be able to take care of his family.” Riding Wagon was so upset he almost crumbled when he stepped off the soapbox. Chuck was so busy wiping his leaky eyes that he forgot to tell him how much money he owed, and the tearful man melted back into the crowd. The mobsters were grinning at each other.

Chuck called, “Soap?”

“That’s a tough act to follow, Soap,” Glory said.

“Damn it to hell,” Soap said under his breath as he walked to the soapbox.

When he stepped up to the box, he reached into his pocket and gave Chuck a twenty dollar bill. “Chuck, you forgot to collect for that last speech, and it was a twenty dollar speech if I ever heard one.”

Soap stepped up on the soapbox and took a breath as he looked around at the crowd. “Ha Maruawe,” Soap said as he halfheartedly raised his hand. “Folks, I’m a Comanche and a lawyer. Everyone calls me Soap. A lot of you know by now that I’m running for tribal chairman. Riding Wagon is a friend of mine. He’ll always be a friend of mine even though we happen to disagree right now.

“I know we need a lot of things. We need food, jobs, education, medical care. A lot of things. Maybe we can get all that with a casino. That would be good.

“But if we did get all of those things, we’d also get a lot more. We’d get the crime syndicate. That could be bad. There are some of them over there,” he pointed to the mob. “You’ve probably seen them in their black limousine with the black windows riding around town. I hope you didn’t think that was me!” There was only a slight, nervous laughter in the crowd. Soap’s joke had bombed. He took a quick breath and pressed on, “The problem with the casino is that, along with the syndicate, comes crime, drugs, and other illegal activities. I’ve researched other casinos on tribal lands and I’ve found that when the syndicate moves in, drug use and alcoholism goes up. Taxes go up in the surrounding towns, including property taxes. They have to, to support the extra law enforcement and fire protection that a casino requires. Somebody has to pay for those extra services.” The crowd became quiet, and Soap continued, “I’ve seen the contract they want us to sign. They’re loaning us the money to build the casino at forty percent interest, plus a big piece of our monthly take. The contract says we have to pay back that money every month right on time, or there will be heavy penalties. What happens if there’s some trouble and Fort Sill and the Altus Air Force Base put our casino off-limits to soldiers and airmen?” The crowd gasped. “It could happen. The government could make our casino off-limits if just one soldier complained about losing money. We’ve seen that happen before to local watering holes. The loss of military customers makes a big impact on the bottom line of any business around here. If it happened to us, we’d still have to make that payment on the building loan even if we weren’t bringing in the money. Our tribes could be bankrupt in a matter of months. Then the mob would own the casino outright. On our land. So when it’s all said and done, will we be better off? I don’t think so.” Soap began making eye contact with the Indian women in the crowd. “And what kind of an example will we be setting for our youth? We’ll be showing them that the end justifies the means. That by turning our backs on what’s right, we condone what’s wrong.

“Mabel,” Soap said, picking a Comanche woman out of the crowd, “how will you feel when your grandchildren start drinking? Maybe start taking drugs? Is any amount of money worth that?” Soap pointed out another woman in the crowd. “Washka! You’re raising three boys. Do you want them working in a casino?” Soap called out, looking in another direction, “Cynthia Lyn, you have two girls. Do you want them selling drinks in a cocktail lounge? Is this the kind of life we want them to have? There’s a lot to be done to improve the lives of our tribal members, but this isn’t the way to go, my friends.

“Before I step down, I’d like to introduce our distinguished tribe from the East Coast so you can get to know them: “Harry Stone. Wave Harry, so the folks will see you. Harry did ten years for a bank robbery. Two tellers were killed. Now, Harry didn’t kill them. Some other guy did that, but he was there.

“Mel Stanley. You spent time for being caught with a lot of money and a car full of drugs—three doors down from an elementary school. Wave, Mel, the crowd wants to get to know you.

“And Monk, I haven’t forgotten you, you’re such a sweetheart. You fire-bombed a hamburger joint where some of your rivals were eating. Problem was, there was also a little league baseball team in there having a celebration dinner. Some celebration huh?

“Thanks for shooting up the cars in our apartment building,” Soap continued, “some of those bullets almost pierced Grace’s living room.” He turned again to the crowd, “You all remember Grace? She gave a lot of you jobs when she had her shirt factory. Now, the mob wants to force her to put the casino on her land.” A murmur ran through the crowd and a lot of hands shot up to wave at Grace.

“We don’t need these guys. And we don’t need their casino. We can take care of our families another way. Okay,” Soap admitted, “we’ve been passive too long. Let’s elect an aggressive tribal council and go for government grants, scholarships, health care, and more jobs. Now, we’re not voting tonight, but we can make ourselves heard.

“Do we have any Chippewa here?” he asked. A group hollered. “Any Cherokee?” another holler. Any Kickapoo?” It was silent. “Come on now, this is the end of the Trail of Tears, we must have 113 tribes here. There’s bound to be a few Kickapoos left.” Still silence. “Okay, maybe they’re all out on a buffalo hunt. How about Kiowas?” A loud holler went up. “Comanches?” The loudest, most bloodthirsty war whoops erupted from the crowd.

Glory looked around. Accustomed to war whoops at parades and in bars, the locals didn’t flinch, but the mob was shaken. They’d obviously grown up on the same Western movies that every American had. Movies that portrayed Indians as being bloodthirsty killers.

“My fellow Indians, we urge our children to make us proud of them. It’s time we made them proud! We are all tribes, but we are one—Indian!” With that Soap let out a chilling war whoop that was answered in kind.
As Soap left, the crowd stood and clapped. He put several bills in the kitty. As he left the soapbox area, a protective circle of state police came out of the crowd and formed a circle around him. That’s where Kiowa went, Glory thought. To call in reinforcements.

The rest of the speeches were forgotten. The crowd turned to go back to their tables, but they were pulled back to the soapbox by Monk, who swaggered up to the front of the crowd and grabbed the microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen,” the man sneered as he took some papers out of his inside suit pocket. Startled, the crowd turned to look at the surprise speaker. The crowd gasped when they heard him read, “You are on private property. Please vacate the new building site of the Silver Buffalo Casino immediately.” As he stepped down from the box, he sarcastically threw a quarter in the pot.

Glory looked around for the local banker, but he wasn’t anywhere in the crowd. He had unloaded a piece of property that had been a yoke around the bank’s neck for years but hadn’t had the balls to come to the picnic and face the townspeople. The coward.

The state and local police stood by helplessly as the crowd hastily packed their picnic gear and headed for their cars. As Glory and the rest of the women followed the crowd to the parking area, she took one look back at the empty soapbox. It looked sad, as if knew it had been used inappropriately. The red, white, and blue holiday bunting that had decorated it was tattered and sagging onto the dirt. The last thing she saw before she turned toward the car was Frieda playfully wearing one of the mob’s cowboy hats.

“Somebody needs to be slapped,” Glory muttered underneath her breath.

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The Slum Resort on Amazon

Amazon and others. PB & Kindle. Suitable for New Adults and up.
My book site: Janelle Meraz Hooper

…Henry arrived at the ramshackle trailer park in the middle of the night, thinking no one would notice he was being dropped off by a limousine. They noticed. The other tenants, all connected by recycled CBs, were awakened by the sound of an expensive engine purring outside the manager’s door. They whispered into their microphones to each other: “Who was he?” “Why was he here?” “What did he want from Rodella?”
The next morning, without introductions, Henry was seen fly-fishing in the lake as if he’d been there all along. When he wasn’t fishing, he was inside his broken-down trailer with the curtains pulled running his corporate office on his laptop computer he kept hidden. He deleted his personal messages like the one from his ex-wife as soon as he read it. After he hit the delete button, he realized she hadn’t asked him where he was, or what he was doing. Not even a meaningless inquiry about his health. He never asked her about her health. The answer was always too boring. She was well. Spectacular. Well into her sixties, she was still statuesque and able to beat most comers in tennis at the country club. He’d heard through the grapevine the guy she was seeing in California was a real hunk, tanned, personable, and athletic. The complete opposite from him. Good for her. He was happy she had what she had with whomever she had it with. Angela had always liked good weather and good men; she was in the perfect spot to find both…

The Slum Resort was an honorable mention in the 2013 Great Northwest Book Festival. It’s a novella about senior poverty told with humor and heart. Kindle, $2.99 USD.
I wrote this book because I was so saddened by senior citizens who were caught up in the economic mess and were suffering even though they had worked hard all their lives. There are a lot of them! humor/suspense. Suitable for ages YA and up.

Janelle

www.amazon.com/author/janellehooper My Amazon author page

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There’s a Mouse in the House!
Amazon-Kindle, Worldreader
Janelle M. Hooper & Jacob N. Studebaker
There’s a Mouse in the House!  on Amazon
OVER 15,000 VIEWS ON YOUTUBE!

Jamaica and Jupiter
Chapter 1. A pretty good life

      A few lines…

This is a story about birds. Three birds to be exact: a little green parrot named Jamaica, a yellow cockatiel named KoKoMo, and a big black crow named Jupiter. Little Jamaica and KoKoMo lived in a nice warm home, with lights, a color TV, and lots of music. Their gourmet birdseed came from a nearby pet shop, and they regularly received treats from the kitchen.  Jamaica and KoKoMo loved the treats! They especially liked the bites of Brussels sprouts, baked potato and bread. Sometimes, they even got a bite of pizza!  In short, life was good. Even the house cat, Okra, was nice to them. Actually, Okra was nice to them partly because he was terrified of the sound that the bird’s wings made when they flew.  Flap! Flap! Flap! He couldn’t figure out why it was necessary for them to do that. They didn’t see him flying all over the place, did they? No. He kept all four of his paws on the ground. Like a cat should. And a bird should. At least inside birds.

Available on Kindle. $1.99 USD. Suitable to be read to toddlers ages 2-6.

Hello! My new novella has just been released on Kindle. Give it a look; I think you’ll like it! Janelle

The Slum Resort, a novella
 Janelle Meraz Hooper

 Back cover…

 Maggie, close to retirement, has lost her home and almost everything else because of an alcoholic husband and a reckless son. She lands in Mountain High Resort, the only place she can afford. She quickly dubs the collection of old campers and trailers that nestle next to a pristine lake The Slum Resort. She finds lots of company in others who have also worked hard all of their lives and have lost everything due to a fatal financial misstep at the last minute. Her list of friends is short: Stella, a former librarian; E-Z, who lost everything when he and his fellow employees tried to save their failing airline; Henry, a mysterious tenant who showed up in the middle of the night; and Breaking News, an Indian from a coastal reservation who works with urban Indians and makes jewelry on the side. Until the very end the isolated group thinks their main enemy is Rodella, the cigar-smoking resort manager, who sells stale-dated hamburger at the resort’s store. Little do they know that one of their own is plotting to destroy all of their lives. A novella with humor and heart.

A few lines… After Henry had deleted his ex-wife’s email, it occurred to him she hadn’t even asked him where he was. It was clear she had no interest in him, his whereabouts, or his activities. Not even a polite, meaningless inquiry about his health. He never asked her about her health. The answer was always too boring. She was well. Spectacular. Well into her sixties, she was still statuesque and able to beat most comers in tennis games at the country club. Good for her. He was happy she had what she wanted with whomever she had it with. He’d heard through the grapevine that the guy she was seeing in California was a real hunk, tanned, personable, strong, and athletic. The complete opposite from him. Angela had always liked good weather and good men; she was in the perfect spot to find both…on Kindle and i-Pad, $ 2.99 USD (soon on Nook and Kobo). Honorable mention, The Great Northwest Book Festival.

See my other books and short stories!

]]> https://janellemerazhooperauthor.com/the-slum-resort/the-slum-resort-is-here/feed 0 https://janellemerazhooperauthor.com/sanyo-hatchet/sanyo-and-hatchet-a-halloween-story https://janellemerazhooperauthor.com/sanyo-hatchet/sanyo-and-hatchet-a-halloween-story#respond Fri, 26 Oct 2012 16:08:37 +0000 https://janellemerazhooperauthor.com/?p=245 Continue reading →]]> Happy Halloween! This is my favorite Halloween story!

Sanyo and Hatchet
Janelle Meraz Hooper

     Sanyo was warned not to make eye contact with the big black jungle crows that roamed the streets of downtown Tokyo… They were not ordinary crows, but huge birds with wingspans of over three feet who flew in large intimidating gangs, tipped over garbage cans, and viciously attacked people they didn’t like who made direct eye contact with them. Hostile and vindictive, the mean-tempered birds were said to never forget a face.

Sanyo, six-years-old, didn’t believe the warnings. They were just birds. From her upstairs bedroom window on the top floor of a deluxe, high-rise condominium, she watched them as they cawed and chased passersby on the busy Tokyo street below. She didn’t think the birds were dangerous, just bad mannered.

One day, Neko, Sanyo’s nanny, put a tray of tea and cookies on Sanyo’s play table and softly closed the door behind her. The young child had dressed herself in her best ceremonial kimono, hoping to have tea with her mother. Sadly, she realized she again would have afternoon tea alone in her bedroom; her mother was still at the office. As she had so many times before, Sanyo lined up all of her beautiful dolls at her tea table and poured tea into tiny china cups. She would have tea with her friends. Her only friends.  Neko wouldn’t let her play with the other children in the condominium. It was easier to just keep her in her room.

Uneasy, Sanyo looked up to see one of the crows on her windowsill. Surprised at how large the bird looked close-up, she forgot the warnings from her parents and made direct eye contact with him. The bird stared back. Sanyo thought he must want the cookie, so she opened the window just wide enough to stick it out. The crow rudely yanked the snack out of her hand and swallowed it whole, then forced his way into her room.

Angry and jealous that Sanyo had so many beautiful things, he flew right for her beloved dolls. With a methodical hatefulness, he marched over their laps and plucked the eyes from each one. Each time he moved to a new doll, he looked back at the stunned child who stood paralyzed with fear on the other side of the room. When there were no eyes left to pluck, the crow made a swing past Sanyo’s face and stabbed his hatchet beak toward her eyes.  It was a warning: Sanyo had better not ever cross him. He departed through the still open window with a string of caws that ricocheted between the buildings and shot down the street. The other crows answered its call, and soon the sky was black with the crow and its friends. Sanyo ran to her dolls, but there was nothing to be done. The bird’s beak had crushed each eyeball into powder.

The next day, Hatchet, as Sanyo had begun to call him, was back on the windowsill.  The small child, alone again, turned her back to him as she served tea to her dolls and nervously ate her cookie.  The crow became more and more angry and threatening as he cawed.  Sanyo was too terrified to look at the bird.  As Hatchet repeatedly stabbed at the glass with his giant bill, she quietly served her sightless dolls another cup of tea.

To make sure the crow never got into the house again, Sanyo got up before the sun rose each day and rushed around the house to make sure all of the windows were shut tight and locked. She was on her own; both of her parents worked, and they were tired when they got home at night. She knew they’d have no patience to listen to her story about Hatchet. Her nanny, who was also the cook, kept to her kitchen most of the time. She had scant interest in Sanyo when she was happy. She’d have even less interest in Sanyo if she had a problem.

Then, one day, Sanyo had to go downstairs for her cookies and tea. Neko halfheartedly apologized for not bringing it up to her, and said she was busy making a special meal for her parents who had been working very hard. The table was so heavily laden with platters full of all kinds of noodles, rice dishes, sushi, intricately cut vegetables, and exotic fruits that Sanyo couldn’t see the countertop.

Too late, she noticed a high window above the cabinets whose curtains blew in the breeze. Neko had opened the window! Sanyo ran for the long crank that was used to shut it, but she was too late. Hatchet flew in with a loud caw and landed on the kitchen counter right on top of the platter of fancy sushi. Neko dropped her knife, screamed, and ran from the kitchen with her arms flailing. She never so much as looked back at Sanyo, who sat frozen in her chair.

As the crow stomped over the elaborate dishes with his grimy, gnarled feet, he never took his eyes off Sanyo’s cookie. Sanyo was so frightened she lost her grip on the treat and it rolled over to the edge of the big double sink and fell in. Caught up in the chase, the crow flew after it, his big black claws slid around on the shiny sink interior as he tried in vain to catch the rolling cookie. Hatchet didn’t stop his pursuit when the cookie spun and slid into the garbage disposal. He barely paused before he stretched out his long neck and went right into the disposal after it. Sanyo saw her chance. With lightning speed, she reached over and flipped on the switch to the appliance. Her eyes widened when she heard one surprised shriek as the blades ground the crow’s beak into a fine powder not unlike her dolls’ eyes. When the giant bird was finally able to withdraw his body and flap headless around the kitchen, he spewed blood, guts, and loose feathers all over Neko’s special dinner.

Sanyo was about to hop down from her chair and run to her room when something in the sink caught her eye. There among the blood and feathers was an egg that Hatchet had carried. She was a mother! Sanyo knew she couldn’t chance another Hatchet. She nudged the egg into the disposal with a wooden spoon and once again, flipped the switch on the wall. Now she would never have to fear another Hatchet. It was over.

Still stunned, she turned her back on the mess and calmly went upstairs; she left her cowardly nanny to clean up the bloody feathers and bones. Halfway up the stairs, the shock began to wear off, and a suddenly confident Sanyo went to her room to pack up her dolls in a cardboard box. Her parents would surely buy her new ones—and get her a new nanny.

When she opened the door to her room she was met with seven pairs of black eyes that stared at her from her windowsill. Eyes filled with pure hate.  A cold chill ran down her back as she realized they knew.

Knew about Hatchet.

Knew about the disposal.

Knew about the egg.

By their stares she could tell that they wouldn’t rest until they got even. Sadly, Sanyo realized it was not over after all. That night, she lay sleepless in her bed and shivered with fear as she listened to the crows as they ripped through the shingles on the roof above her room.

Rrrr-ip, rrr-ip, rrr-ip…

       not the end

Janelle Meraz Hooper writes in several genres (She is also the playwright of Geronimo, Life on the Reservation).

See her work here:

http://www.janellehooper.com

www.JanelleMerazHooper.com

Amazon- Kindle. Worldreader favorite.

See the book on Amazon

There’s a Mouse in the House!
 Janelle M. Hooper, Jacob N. Studebaker
Illustrations by Sherri Bails

Pull a toddler onto your lap—or tuck it into bed—and share a tale about a house that has a mouse problem (There’s a Mouse in the House!), a gooseberry-gobbling pheasant (George, the Great Green Gooseberry Gobbler), and a cat named Ribbons who gets into trouble with a Christmas tree (Ribbons at Christmas). I’ve broken up the story about Jamaica and Jupiter (Jamaica and Jupiter) into shorter chapter stories so that the friendship between the “outside” bird and the “inside” bird can develop over time. The love of words is one of the greatest gifts we can give our children.

“Once you learn to read, you will be forever free.”  Frederick Douglas

See my other books and short stories!

www.JanelleMerazHooper.com

Amazon- Purchase on Kindle.

How exciting! My little children’s book is going to Uganda! It’ll most likely be there before it gets on Kindle (It’s in a publisher’s queue at the moment). Look for it on Kindle and iPad…or take a fast trip to Uganda! .99-cents USD. (text by Janelle M. Hooper and Jacob N. Studebaker–illustrations by Sherri Bails)

www.JanelleMerazHooper.com

See the book on Amazon!
A light, humorous romance, suitable for New Adult and up.

There are two kinds of snakes. Snakes in books and snakes in real life.

For instance, the python in the news this week that attacked a one-year-old boy while he slept in Illinois was a real snake. Nothing funny about that.

The Internet is full of real-life snakes showing up in people’s homes. Need I say they were not invited? Just to be clear let me say not all of these snakes are invading homes in jungle climates. A lot of these visitors are escaped pets showing up in apartments right here in The United States.

In Boogie, Boots, & Cherry Pie, I based my snake, Boogie, on a real snake I read about in the newspaper many years ago. This huge snake was actually traveling from apartment to apartment via the toilets! A real-life snake! But when I based my snake, Boogie, on him, he became a book snake.

What’s the difference? I guess a book snake—especially one who is dropped into the middle of a romance—isn’t as scary as a real-life snake. Writing a romance against a backdrop of exotic pets like snakes, iguanas, parrots, and turtles may not have been the smartest thing I’ve ever done market-wise. But I’m happy with the result and I think you will be too if you read it. Will I ever write another romance with a big snake? No! There will be no Boogie 2! But it was fun while it lasted!

www.JanelleMerazHooper.com

I have other books on my site if you decide snakes–real or book–are not for you…(: