Storyfeather Year Five

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This week’s story will be posted soon. This is the anniversary post for Storyfeather’s fifth year!

The Year of S.T.E.A.M. is done! That was the theme for Storyfeather Year Five.  Science.  Technology. Engineering.  Arts.  Mathematics.   Year Five’s stories aimed to center around one of the aforementioned elements.  It was quite the challenge.

Also a challenge, keeping the bar for the artwork as high as I could manage after the visual upgrade the site received in Year Four.

Thank you to everyone who read even a single story. And if you liked or commented, thank you again. Thank you for your time and interest, and for being a part of Storyfeather, especially Year Five.

A lot happened in the fifth year stories. A cast and crew of middle school students put on an original play about cosmic heroes and deadly aliens.  A malfunctioning beauty product gave whole new meaning to the term “vanishing cream.”  An explorer got lost in a spatiotemporal anomaly that was once the treasure vault of an alien pirate.  And a woman started turning into a cartoon…

I’ve written over 250 stories now. And I’ve produced 52 podcast episodes (one for each story from Year One).  Year Five was a (sometimes delirious) struggle, but well worth it.  Storytelling is still my true love, still my destiny, still my path.

Year Six is on the horizon.  Here’s to seeing what stories will brew.  I hope you’ll come along.

I have stories to tell you.
Nila

The Monstrous Men of the Moors

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“The only gift you ever ask for is a story, the same story, year after year.”

Nisha grinned at her uncle.  “Well, I like the story, especially the way you tell it.”

“You, dearest niece, do not need flattery to win my heart.  But I like the sound of it nevertheless.  You shall have the story, of course.  But I’ve brought you something else this year as well.” He pulled the basket he’d set on the table closer.  Nisha had thought the basket was meant for one of her siblings.  He lifted the top.  “A gift,” he said, “as well as a burden.” Continue reading

The Eleventh Arm

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“It will change nothing.  I know this.  I didn’t do it out of defiance, or for justice, or even fame.  No one knows it is me.  And no one will know.  If they did, they would say it was unholy, what I’ve wrought.  They would say it was unnatural.  They would say it must be destroyed.  As it is, they are charmed at least, mildly amused, at least.  At best, they are cheered, enchanted, even inspired.  So perhaps in some way, I’ve done it for vengeance? No, that’s not right either.  No one should paint out of vengeance.  No, if you paint, you should paint out of love.”

I watched my friend sit back and take a sip.  Elna set down her cup and presented her hands to me, all eleven of them.  Continue reading

A Sewing Machine From 1919

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My daughter and I stared at the machine.

“I like that it’s black,” she said.  “And those designs are so cool.  There’s so much detail.  Why doesn’t ours look like this?  I might even use it if it looked like this.  Wait…”  She turned to me.  “Do you think it still works?”

I peered at the machine sitting on the kitchen table, the sewing machine that I had inherited from my grandmother almost fifteen years ago.  Long before Selma was born.  I hadn’t laid eyes on it in all that time (even the few times I’d moved, I’d kept it packed away or covered).  And before that, I’d never seen it at all.  Continue reading