Monday, September 5, 2016
I have finally set up a site for promoting my current project, "In the Trenches". The site will serve to, not only promote my book, but to also seek out assistance and guidance during the process of getting it published. I've been writing for as long as I can remember and have found some success in getting published online, but this is new territory for me. I hope anyone who is interested enough in my writing to visit "Paint in in Words" will also visit "In the Trenches". I will need a lot of guidance to achieve this dream, but even more so, I will need support.
Saturday, May 7, 2016
Mother's Day
For
so many, Mother’s Day is just another small holiday to celebrate with cards and
gifts, but most women would prefer a few moments of undivided time with their
children than any gift money could buy.
I often work on Saturdays, so last year while seeing patients the
Saturday before Mother’s Day, I arrived at the home of an elderly lady I had
been seeing for months. I usually saved
her visit for the end of the day so I could stay a while and visit after
finishing her therapy. I knocked then
let myself in as I always did since she was unable to get from the hospital bed
in her living room to the front door. Two
large arrangements decorated the dining table, a stark contrast against the
dark paneled walls in the dimly lit room. The flowers were from her children—an
arrangement from each of them. My
patient wasn’t feeling well, so we did only a few exercises before I sat on the
floor beside her bed and leaned against the heavy, leather chair that was, as
usual, occupied by a scrappy, mixed breed dog of some sort. We spoke of the usual things at first—the weather
and her favorite TV show, Bonanza. Then,
I asked if she would tell me about her mother and share some childhood memories
with me. She closed her eyes for a
moment, and when she opened them, there was a spark of life I’d not seen there before. She told me about her “mammy”, who smelled
like Chanel No. 5 and oil paints on damp canvas boards. I heard about her parents’ love story and a privileged
childhood in a large family—one who gathered around the table for meals and
spent summer vacations traveling to places I’ve only read about in books. Then, she told of another love story—one that
made her pause often and stare past me as she visited memories too tender to
share. A happy couple posed from behind
a dusty glass frame on the wall beside the hospital bed. The black and white photo could not conceal
the sparkle in the young lady’s eyes. The
same eyes continued to stare past me now as the room fell silent. I took her small hand with both of mine and
squeezed.
“Thank you,” she
whispered, “for this gift—for listening.
It’s been so long since I’ve gotten one so nice.”
“But look at
those beautiful arrangements.” I pointed
to the table in the next room, but she just shook her head.
“Beautiful, yes,
but no different than every other arrangement I’ve ever gotten. And a stranger delivered them from the flower
shop. I’d rather one of my children show
up empty handed than a stranger with a dozen roses.”
“Yes,” I agreed, “and
I would give a year of my life for just one hour of sitting with my mother or
grandmothers like this again.”
“I know you
would,” she replied. “Tell me what you
miss the most. Let’s give them the gift
of remembering today.”
I miss so many
things about my mother, but it’s the small things-those often taken for granted
until they are gone-that I miss the most.
The sound of her voice saying my name. Hearing my own voice saying, “Mama”. She
had a sweet voice that was a snapshot of her essence, and she always held back
in a crowd yet drew people in. Mama
loved to laugh and surrounded herself with friends who brought out her playful
side. She didn’t keep a large circle of
friends but, instead, pulled those she called “friend” close and nurtured her
relationships with them. I would love to
have known what it felt like to be pulled into her tight circle—that place
where I could see past “mama” to “Marcia”, but she was gone before I reached
the age when this was likely to happen.
I missed something amazing, and I know this is true because all who
called her “friend” still call her “best friend” to this day, even though their
time without her has now surpassed the amount of time they had with her.
As a child, it was like magic to watch Mama transform from
“mother” to “daughter” when we reached that small white house in the woods,
surrounded by hydrangeas and cedar trees. She was Mama in the car, cigarette hanging
loosely from her fingers as she sang softly along with the radio. When we’d reach Stuttgart, her home town and
that magical place in Arkansas that was, to us, summer vacations and holidays
but to her still “home”, Mama would sit up a little straighter and begin
pointing out landmarks to her childhood memories. We already knew most of them since we heard
the stories any time she could talk Daddy into making a loop through town. Still, Vicki, Lori, and I would cross our
fingers in the back seat, hoping Daddy would turn left instead of following the
railroad tracks out of town and to the rocky back road to Mamaw and Papaw’s house. I remember what it felt like to turn onto
that gravel road—a right turn then immediately over the tracks. Music from the car radio was drowned out by
the popping and dragging of rocks underneath the car until we made the right
turn for the home stretch. The rocks
turned to dust and hung in a thick, brown cloud behind the car. When we finally turned into the driveway, Mama’s
excitement from the front seat was tangible, contagious. “Mama” became “daughter” as our grandparents
took her again into the fold. For the
next few days, she was different. Her
childlike voice became even sweeter when she talked with her daddy, and her
timid nature was replaced with the confidence of a woman secure in her position
as “only daughter” to doting parents and “beloved sister” to her three
brothers.
I used to watch Mama with my grandmother, Vera, and wonder,
again, if the friendship between them happened to every mother and daughter at
a certain age. They laughed at the same
things and each knew what the other needed before she had a chance to voice
it. They were playful together and even
more playful when my aunts were also with them—calling each other by nicknames
and turning a simple dinner preparation into a party that ebbed and flowed with
the cadence of each new song drifting from the small brown clock radio on the
kitchen table. The best way to describe
my grandmother would be to take everything that Mama was and turn it inside out. Vera was vivacious and forever young as her
body moved to the beat of a song and her mind drifted often to dreams just on
the outer borders of her reality. She
spoke what was on her mind and carried herself with confidence. She was tanned legs that ended in bare feet
and painted toe nails. She was always
put together and kept her home the same way.
On the surface, she was smoothed out and tucked in, but beneath, she was
a free spirit and often unpredictable.
In many ways, I related to her more than I did Mama or anyone else,
except for one special lady who I also called Mamaw—my daddy’s mother.
My grandmother, Vira, was a blueprint for what I would one
day become. I’m not an exact replica of
her because she was certainly an original.
The similarities were there, however, in the fine corners and slopes of
the early framework. Then, as maturity
put its finishing touches on me, I could look at Mamaw Vira and see myself. This wasn’t a physical resemblance but a spiritual
one that allowed us to both perceive the world and express ourselves in the
same way. Vira didn’t just live
life. She experienced it, receiving each
day as a new adventure, a venue to play in, or a new story to write. Thoughts
flowed through her pen onto the page, arranging themselves into stanzas,
lyrical snapshots of her past and descriptive illustrations of her future dreams. She had a huge presence about her, and,
though she loved being with people, she wasn’t afraid to be alone. Playing had
nothing to do with age because age was of no concern to her. One of the greatest
gifts I have given my children is permission to play at any age. I was given the same gift by Daddy, who received
it from my grandmother, as did all of his siblings. Vira found ways to enjoy all of life’s little
moments and knew how to bask in the afterglow of them, filling the pages of her
notebooks and the hearts of all who would relive the moments through her
words.
It was getting
dark by the time I told my sweet patient goodbye and started my drive
home. I’d always enjoyed the long drive
home for the time it gave me to think about the day. I thought about each blessing I was able to
give and all that I’d gotten in return.
I pondered the things that didn’t quite work for my patients and how I
could improve on them next time. On this
day, however, I thought only about my last patient and wondered what Mother’s
Day would look like for her this year.
Would she be alone with her memories?
No, I decided. She could never be
alone with them, any more than I could have been alone on that drive home. Once again, I’d gone into a home to serve and
left with as much as I’d given. She’d
invited me to share memories, to give my mother and grandmothers the gift of
remembering, but she’d known all along that I would be the one receiving that
gift. It would be the last evening I’d
sit on the floor beside that hospital bed, scrappy dog breathing down my neck, telling
stories and listening. My friend no
longer needs me to listen—she is with those who put that sparkle in her
eyes. My gift to her this year is
remembering, and once again, I will get as much from it as I give.
Monday, March 21, 2016
Black
It was evening on a day when everything
just felt right. I was in the back of a parked truck in our driveway with my
two sisters, Vicki and Lori. Like most times when we played with Lori, Vicki
and I were more than willing to go along with the games she made up for us. This time, we were playing “One Tin Soldier”.
We spent an hour memorizing the song then sang it together over and over while acting
out the lyrics. Lori was the leader, and I was eager to please her. It was
easy, however, to get distracted with Vicki constantly pecking me on the arm to
get my attention—always to show me the current color of her new mood ring.
Okay, I pecked her couple of times too. The rings were so amazing, and mine had
stayed a brilliant blue the entire day. Blue meant that I was happy. Still, I
felt a bit cheated when it didn’t change colors often the way theirs did. At
least mine was stuck on blue and not black, the color that revealed anger or
fear. We must have acted out “One Tin Soldier” twenty times before Mama called
us in to eat dinner. It was hard to go inside with the strong, warm breeze just
now blowing in, adding to the drama of our little plays. We were having pizza
for dinner, though, and pizza was as good a reason as any to stop playing and
go inside. Vicki and
Lori tumbled from the side of the truck bed and started racing each other just
as I stepped over the tailgate, pausing long enough to take a quick glance at
my ring. A light green color hung onto the edges of the blue, and I had to
reign in my joy for fear of chasing the new color away.
Mama was just taking the second pizza from the oven when I made it inside. My grandmother, her Mama, was bustling around the house like she always did. I raced Vicki to the bathroom to wash up for dinner while Lori lingered in the kitchen to sneak a pepperoni from one of the pizzas. Just as I pulled the towel from the rack to dry my hands, I heard her scream.
“Mama!”
Then, Mama’s usually-calm voice, now laced with fear, cried,
“Mama, come here—quick!”
Vicki and I ran from the bathroom to see what was happening just as our grandmother made it to the patio door and screamed.
Mama was just taking the second pizza from the oven when I made it inside. My grandmother, her Mama, was bustling around the house like she always did. I raced Vicki to the bathroom to wash up for dinner while Lori lingered in the kitchen to sneak a pepperoni from one of the pizzas. Just as I pulled the towel from the rack to dry my hands, I heard her scream.
“Mama!”
Then, Mama’s usually-calm voice, now laced with fear, cried,
“Mama, come here—quick!”
Vicki and I ran from the bathroom to see what was happening just as our grandmother made it to the patio door and screamed.
“Mama! Where are you?” My great-grandmother was the oldest of us all—four generations of women with no men to protect us from the monster outside our patio door. Daddy was away, working on the pipeline in Alaska. Had I made it to the window, I would have broken the chain. I would have called out, “Daddy!”
My grandmother pulled us all into a tight huddle in the middle of the dining room, like football players planning our next move. I tried to hear what the adults were saying but could hear nothing over the loud roaring in my ears. It was a deep sound that I could feel as well as hear. It grew louder in direct proportion to my fear until I could feel nothing else. Just when I thought we would stand clinging to one another until we were killed by something I didn’t even have a name for yet, my grandmother began tipping over chairs in the living room and pushing us beneath them, as if mere pieces of furniture could save us. My great-grandmother stood, pressed into a corner across the room, unable to get to the floor. I was trying to make eye contact with her when the air was suddenly sucked from the room and everything went black. I feared it would be the last time I would ever see her alive. Now, in total darkness, I tried to picture what the approaching monster must look like, but the image of Mama’s terrified face was all I could imagine. The roaring in my ears was now a living, breathing thing, passing over us. Still, I could hear my grandmother pray and Lori, whose only knowledge of tornadoes came from years of watching “The Wizard of Oz”, cry out,
“Mama, is our house in the air?”
The roaring finally stopped and was replaced with an eerie silence. I thought for a moment that we must be the only people on earth still alive—until the neighbors were screaming and pounding on our front door, jammed from the strong suction of the tornado as it passed. Someone eventually kicked the door in, and Mama ran to our linen closet to grab sheets and blankets for the cold, bleeding neighbors. My sisters and I were moved into Lori’s room where we sat huddled together until the cries from the living room stopped and everything went silent again. I should have been comforted by the fact that it was over, but all I felt was confusion from the knowledge that there were things in the world larger than the safety of our home—things that could bring terror into the faces of those who were not supposed to be afraid. Our uncle, who had shown up to make sure we were okay, entered the room. A thin ray from his flashlight brushed past us then returned and rested. Tightly clasped hands were still in prayer on my lap, and my mood ring displayed its new color proudly. My eyes snapped shut. I didn’t want to see the color for fear that my desire for it had caused the storm. Still, the image of what my eyes were too quick to miss burned behind closed lids. The brilliant blue was gone, replaced with the boldest black I’d ever seen.
Thursday, October 29, 2015
Whitesboro Writing Group accepted/compiled Halloween related stories from various authors and published them in an ebook, which released on Amazon 10/28. I have two stories in the book--"The Last Thorn" and "Dare" are the titles. I can't post a direct link to the stories due to contract rights, but here is a link to the book. I know it isn't "my" book and doesn't have my name on the front cover, but it's one step closer to the goal of having my own book completed and published. Exciting :)
Wednesday, July 15, 2015
Bunbury Magazine/The Last Petal
First Suspense Story Published
This is an extension of "Green Haze"
The sable horizon reluctantly releases the magnificent
harvest moon, and a mantle of darkness falls from a lone car as it creeps along
an isolated road. Shadows slip from the
two silhouettes inside to reveal sun-kissed skin over young, beautiful
bodies. A subtle glow from the dash covers
everything in green velvet.
The girl, high on Halloween candy and left
over adrenaline, anticipates the rush of air, heavy with cotton and warm dirt,
as she leans toward the open window. The boy settles deeper into his seat
and lowers the wheel, tapping out a rhythm as he watches her arm ride the night
air. She sings her own lyrics to the song, cutting her eyes over to see
if he approves. The boy laughs at her through a haze of green darkness, warm
air, and music.
The rest of the world sleeps.
“Where are we going?” she mutters, barely
audible above the music.
He only looks at her and laughs, a low, growling sound
that blends with the grinding bass melody of the song. She closes her eyes,
seemingly unaware that she’s received no answer.
So trusting.
He clenches the steering wheel tighter and glances over
at the girl. He has allowed himself to get too close to this one. Her blond hair, stiff with hairspray and
already tangled, whips back and forth in the wind. As the car slows to a
near stop, the hair settles across her face, leaving only her lips exposed.
With one eye on the dark road ahead, the boy leans over until he can feel
warm air escape the small opening of her lips. It smells sweet, yet
stale, like the last petal that clings to a rose. So vulnerable. He feels
himself stir with excitement then retreats.
His usual anticipation is cloaked in dread, and his mind scrambles to
make sense of the deception.
She is no different
than the others.
He pulls into a nearly invisible gap in the
trees just moments after the landscape changes from open cotton fields to thick
woods. The girl sits up suddenly, a bit
confused yet excited for a new adventure.
“What are we doing here?” She pulls her hair back and secures it with a
band from her wrist. “Eww, is it another
haunted house? I don’t know—that last
one was too real.”
“Be patient,” the boy replies, reaching over
and pushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. They pass an opening in the thick cover of
trees, and his heart quickens at the sight of a small mound of loose dirt in
the otherwise flat ground of the enclosure. New grass has begun to cover
it, but he still catches a glimpse of faded red petals beneath the new
sprigs. He glances down at a single rose
on the seat between them, and a fresh wave of courage and excitement wells up. He leans in to whisper, “I promise you will
love this.” Soft, tender petals brush
the tips of his fingers just as a single thorn pierces the palm of his
hand.
Wednesday, June 17, 2015
Regret--Published at Estuary Magazine
Regret
Regret
It was only a small gap in the trees that
separated us from the open field on the other side. A halo of light hung inches above the top of
the tree line, undulating to the irregular beat of music blasting from every
direction and ricocheting before finally clashing somewhere in the middle. Warm, sweet air brushed past me, propelled by
something just behind the trees. The
soft earth surrendered underneath my feet and wrapped around my new shoes, the
hay put out to control it already trampled and buried beneath the thick
sludge. As we neared the entrance, I thought about the regret I’d felt the last
time I passed through the opening in the trees, headed back to the car with an
oversized pink elephant stuffed under my arm and a cheap KISS mirror in my back
pocket. Neither one was able to serve as
a ransom for the one thing I didn’t have-the satisfaction of knowing I'd
conquered my fear.
I won’t chicken out this year.
I felt like Alice in Wonderland as I stepped
through the gap in the trees-teetering between excitement and fear.
“Watch where you’re stepping,” Mama’s voice
shot past me a moment too late as I tripped over one of the many black cables
spread out on the ground, running from large trucks where generators roared,
drowning out the music and screams as we passed. I scanned the crowd through
gaps in the lines and between rides as they spun and jerked around me, but I
couldn’t find what I was searching for. Tired
workers beckoned to the crowd with promises of cheap toys and even cheaper
compliments. Teenagers walked arm in arm
with new love, pretending their parents weren’t keeping a close eye on them
from the other side of the crowd. Mobile
food booths plastered with bright, weathered signs advertising funnel cakes and
corn dogs ran through the middle of the rides and games. Lines ran from each of them like spokes on a
wheel. I reached up and pulled on Daddy’s
shirt.
“Daddy, can I ride on your shoulders?”
“No, Sherri, why can’t you just walk with
your sisters?” he replied.
I only
stared at him, knowing that was all it would take for him to cave. In one swift movement, he grabbed me from
behind and raised me above his head, settling me onto his shoulders. Almost instinctively, I hooked my feet behind
his back and grabbed the top of his head to steady myself. That’s when I saw it-right past the rainbow
colored tent covering rows of fish bowls. Bonnie, a girl from my class, saw me
and held up an arm. Dangling from her
clinched fist was a plastic bag full of water.
Inside, an unfortunate gold fish slammed against the sides of the bag as
she waved. I waved back as I looked over
her head-just in time to see the circle of brightly colored horses, each
suspended from its own golden pole, come to a stop.
My arms relaxed and, while my hands began to
move to Daddy’s shoulders, my feet slid apart to hang loosely at his
sides. Sensing my shift in position, Daddy
reached underneath my arms and once again raised me above his head-this time to
plant my feet on the ground. Fear
enticed me to stay, but regret begged me to go.
My nails cut into the palms of my hands as I clenched my fists tightly and
ran-leaving both fear and regret behind.
I could feel Daddy chasing after me but couldn’t hear him calling. I heard nothing but my own voice repeating the same three words over
and over to the rhythm of the haunting pipe organ music as I ran toward it.
It is time.
It is time.
It is time.
Wednesday, November 19, 2014
First Triptych Published
My first triptych,Green Haze, was published at Matterpress.
Green Haze
by Sherri Ellerman
Sherri Ellerman is an Occupational Therapist who spends her free time writing. She has had flash fiction stories published in River and South Review, Estuary, and 50-Word Story. Her article, “Five Steps to Consider in Romance Fiction”, was published at “Write Well, Write to Sell”, and her essay and podcast titled, “One”, was featured at “This I Believe”. She is the flash fiction editor for Liquid Imagination, a literary magazine.
Tuesday, September 9, 2014
This I Believe Podcast
Podcast as featured on Stitcher radio station.
4 days ago · 6 minutes
As a child, Sherri Ellerman recalls her mother being worried about her age and living in fear of growing older. However, when her mother died at the age of 36, Ellerman realized that it isn't the number of days or months or years of life that matter.
Monday, September 8, 2014
Essay of the Week/Podcast
My essay that appeared at "This I Believe" has been chosen as Essay of the Week, along with a podcast that was featured on the This I Believe podcast station on September 8.
One
This I Believe
One
Sherri Ellerman - Monroe, Louisiana
As heard on the This I Believe podcast, September 8, 2014
As a child, Sherri Ellerman recalls her mother being worried about her age and living in fear of growing older. However, when her mother died at the age of 36, Ellerman realized that it isn't the number of days or months or years of life that matter. What matters is the one life we have to live.
Tuesday, September 2, 2014
Brown Paper Bag
I am compiling a group of stories centered around my experiences in the field of home health. Of course, I won't use real names or details that would break confidentiality. Today, the first piece, Brown Paper Bag, was published in Estuary Literary Magazine. I'm not sure when I will have enough stories to put together the book, but I will submit pieces here and there until I do.
I can't do a direct link to this one. It's in issue three under "Story Corner".
I can't do a direct link to this one. It's in issue three under "Story Corner".
Brown
Paper Bag
I’d been worried about the home health visit
since the moment I received the phone call asking if I could add the patient to
my case load. I had never been choosy
about which patients to take but was anxious about going to this particular area
alone. I pulled the clipboard from my
bag and checked the address, scanning the road signs as I did. Just when I started thinking I must have
missed the road, I spotted the faded green sign. Only three of the letters were visible from
behind a thick vine that ran along a chain link fence then up the pole, before
wrapping itself around the sign. Two
half-deflated helium balloons hung from a ripped poster board secured to the
fence. Big, boxy letters in neon red and
purple announced,
“Birthday Par…”
My mind was busy filling in what was missing from the
ripped poster as I made the right turn onto Pink Street.
Dirt driveways
running through clusters of rusty mailboxes opened up to randomly placed mobile
homes positioned in all directions, the back yard of one running into the front
yard of the next. There was nothing to
assign any of them to the addresses on the sides of the mailboxes. The tree line bordering the road opened up to
reveal rows of identical white-framed houses.
The yards were bordered by chain linked fences or picket fences missing
every other section. Broken-down cars
littered every other yard. The missing
tires served as flower bed borders, leaned against rusty tin auto shops, or
rested on top of trash piles. An
abandoned couch sat in the yard of the last white house in the row. In front of it was an electric fan on a long,
beaten coffee table. A cord ran from the
fan to an orange electric cord that disappeared into a cracked window on the
side of the house.
A small dot in
the road ahead grew larger as I drove slowly toward it. It evolved into a middle-aged man with his
head bowed as he walked along the jagged pavement along the side of the
road. In his left hand, he carried a small
brown bag that was twisted at the top, probably around a bottle that was
contained within. A 12-pack of toilet
paper hung from underneath his right arm.
I slowed the car to a near stop, but when it didn’t look as if the man
would look back, I pulled up slowly beside him.
I ripped the bottom from the first sheet of paper on the clipboard, quickly
jotted down my patient’s name, and leaned across the passenger seat to hold the
piece of paper out the cracked window.
When the man stopped, I waited for him to look up. When he didn’t, I spoke,
“Excuse me, sir,
but could you tell me if this man lives on your street?” I asked hesitantly.
“Of course,” the
man answered as he glanced at the name then finally lifted his eyes and met
mine. “He certainly does. Follow me.”
I let the car coast, allowing the man to ease back ahead
of me. He cast his eyes down to the
ground and continued walking.
The street was
quiet except for the occasional passer-by and a dog that barked in the distance
in regular ten-second intervals. Wavy
lines of heat hung just inches above the black pavement. In moments, they were swallowed by clouds of
steam as the first drops of rain began to fall.
I inhaled deeply as the air circulated through the open windows. The man pulled the paper bag nearer and sat
the toilet paper down as he reached back and pulled a hood from the flimsy gray
jacket over his head. He gathered the
tissue and continued walking. I pressed
the gas with plans of catching up to the man and offering a ride, but when I
saw him pull the bag even closer, my heart hardened against him for what I knew
must be inside. The man stopped abruptly
and looked back at me, nodding toward the next house on the left. I waved, mouthing a “thank you”, and prepared
to pull into my patient’s drive. As I
gave the dingy white- framed house and surrounding yard a visual inspection, I
heard the squeals of children and the creaking springs of a screen door,
followed by a loud pop as the door snapped back into place. Three dirty, but beautiful, children ran down
the front steps, into the rain, and straight toward me. I waved them back as I prepared to pull in
between the two vehicles already in the small drive in front of the house.
As I opened the door to
greet the children, the first one ran right past me. The rest of them followed close behind, each
one screaming separately one word that ran together in coherency.
“Daddy!”
What?
I must have missed my patient out by the
road, perhaps checking the mail or trying to get in from the rain.
I glanced back toward the road just in time to see all
three children attempting to jump into the man’s arms. He dropped the 12-pack of toilet paper and
held his right hand out, palm up, as if to tell them to do the same. With a toothy grin, the man untwisted the top
of the brown paper bag and reached inside.
He rummaged around until the children began laughing and urging him to
hurry, then pulled out a handful of candy and dropped a couple of pieces into
each one of their open hands. He
continued this process until the last of the candy was distributed then wadded
up the bag and crammed it into his pocket.
He then stooped to pick up the toilet paper one last time before
following the children into his home, stopping only to glance back and wave me
forward with his now empty left hand.
Monday, September 1, 2014
First 50-Word Story
One of the men on my peer review site challenged everyone to write a 50-word story as an exercise in brevity. It was one of the hardest things I have ever written-trying to fit a middle, beginning, and end all into only fifty words. I submitted the resulting piece, Womb, to 50-Word Stories, and they chose to publish it.
Search for:
SHERRI ELLERMAN: Womb
Pressure squeezes me to the rhythm of her
heartbeat.
The warm fluid around me turns metallic and
rushes past, pulling. I fight to stay until my body relaxes against smooth,
strong walls.
I gasp as the womb releases me. My chest
swells then releases the agony.
The silence is gone.
Sherri Ellerman is an Occupational Therapist
who spends her free time writing short fiction and poetry. She has had a flash
fiction story published in River and South Review, a literary
journal. Her article “Five Steps to Consider in Romance Fiction” was published
atWrite Well, Write to Sell in July 2014. She is the Flash Fiction
editor for Liquid Imagination, an online literary magazine.
Friday, August 29, 2014
First Interview
My interview as Flash Fiction editor for Liquid Imagination.
http://sixquestionsfor.blogspot.com/2014/08/six-questions-for-sherri-ellerman-flash.html#comment-form
http://sixquestionsfor.blogspot.com/2014/08/six-questions-for-sherri-ellerman-flash.html#comment-form
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