Hope for a Better Christmas

 When nothing else is left but hope

The gentle glow of the morning sun filtered through the moth-eaten curtains, dancing across Anna’s face and causing her to sneeze. She reached out lazily, pulling the covers up to her chin savoring the warmth that enveloped her. For a blissful moment, she allowed herself to let go of all worries and simply bask in the comfort of her bed. But as the outside world began to creep in, reality nudged at her perfect moment, threatening to shatter it with its demands.

***

Before the war, they lived in a comfortable two-story house in bustling Budapest. Michael, with his strong build, worked as a railroad engineer while Anna, petite yet fierce, was employed as a skilled seamstress. Together they raised two bright and lively children - Sammy, a curious six-year-old with sandy blonde hair, and Barbara, a sweet four-year-old with big blue eyes. But then, their idyllic life shattered. Michael was called to serve, and Anna spent her days hiding in the musty basement with their children, never knowing if each passing moment could be their last. The once vibrant city was now a shadow of its former self, fear and uncertainty filling every corner.

The grueling months of trying to stay alive took a toll on everyone. Looters quickly emptied the stores, offering food for jewelry and other valuables. The once friendly and helpful neighbors didn’t care for others anymore; they fought for every bite.

As the sun slowly rose on the desolate streets, Anna ventured out in search of anything edible to feed her starving children. The air was thick with the stench of decay and despair, and she felt a constant pang of fear gnawing at her insides.

Suddenly, she noticed her old neighbor across the street, sitting on the steps of his house, shoulders shaking as he sobbed uncontrollably. "They threw me out," he whimpered between gasping breaths. "My son said there's not enough food for us all, and I should just be on the street waiting to be hit by a bomb or jump under one of the tanks patrolling the streets. I have nowhere to go, maybe I should just…"

Hearing his words, Anna's heart ached with empathy. This man had always been kind to them, often surprising her children with small toys that brought joy to their difficult lives.

"There, there..." she consoled him gently, offering a comforting hug. "We don't have much ourselves, but you can stay with us."

While Anna went out in search of sustenance, John kept the children entertained with his animated storytelling. But when she returned with only a small sack of potatoes - exchanged for her last remaining possession, a simple ring - their future became even more uncertain.

"I don't have anything left," Anna cried tearfully. "What are we going to do now?"

John's voice was heavy with concern as he asked, "Have you heard anything from Michael?"

The woman shook her head, her eyes downcast. "Not since he left," she replied, her voice trembling. "I'm not even sure he's still alive."

Determination flickered across John's face as he made a decision. "I'll go over to my house tonight," he announced with conviction. "I was weak when I let him throw me out because I thought he was right. I lived a long life, and it was time for me to step out of the way. But you took me in and showed more kindness than my own flesh and blood. I'm going to beg him. If there is some of the gold I gave him, still left, he can't be so stone hearted to refuse to help your children."

But John's son had a heart of stone. His words reverberated in John’s mind like a sharp slap in the face. “Why are you still alive?” he shouted from behind the closed door, his voice laced with bitterness and resentment.

John could feel his heart clenched at the sound, knowing that their once close family had been torn apart.

“How could you be so cruel to your own father?” John's voice broke as he cried out in disbelief. His eyes were red and swollen from tears, his chest heaving with emotion. “I raised you and did everything I could for you. All I’m asking now is some of the gold I saved for hard times like this,” he begged, his voice cracking with desperation.

“That gold is mine! You’re old, you lived long enough. I have to feed my wife and kids.” His son’s voice was cold, unfeeling. “Why can’t you just do the right thing?”

John's heart ached as he shuffled across the deserted street, his sobs echoing through the empty buildings. He had never imagined that his own son would turn him away in his time of need. “My own son! My flesh and blood,” he whispered, tears streaming down his wrinkled cheeks.

Anna let the old man in through the back door and tried to console him. “We’ll get by, somehow,” she whispered, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder.

That night, they huddled close to each other in the dark basement, the air thick with fear and tension. They could hear explosions and gunfire outside, the sounds getting closer with each passing minute.

“That was very close,” Anna cried out in terror, hugging her children tightly to her chest.

“Momma, I’m scared!” Little Barbara screamed in fright as the building above them shook violently.

But despite their fear, they held onto each other tightly amidst the chaos of war raging outside.

“Shh…don’t be scared, munchkin, I’m here. We’ll be alright,” Anna cooed choking back her tears.

The bombing stopped around midnight, and the children fell into a restless sleep. Sammy trashed and whimpered in his sleep and Barbara clung to her mother.

John crept to the small, cloudy basement window at the first sign of dawn and looked out. “Anna!” he cried out. “My house…”

“What is it, John?” Anna asked, frightened.

“It’s gone! My house…the bomb that hit close last night,” the old man wept.

The streets were quiet when John went looking for his son and his family. He couldn’t find any sign of life, only rubble strewn around and a deep crater where the bomb hit the house. He searched for a long time, falling over broken bricks, and calling their names to no avail.

“They’re all dead,” he sobbed when giving up returned to Anna and her children. “The house he wanted so badly killed him.”

Just when all hope seemed lost, Anna's heart skipped a beat at the sound of a weak voice coming from the street and saw a crouched figure desperately trying to look inside. “Anna!” They heard a man’s voice. “Dear God, let them be alive.”

“Michael?” Anna jumped up and ran to the window. “Michael, is that you?”

“Yes, thank you, Lord! The children?”

“We’re all fine,” Anna sobbed, her heart bursting with joy. “I’ll open the back door,” she shouted and ran up the stairs.

As she hugged her husband tightly, Anna's breath caught in her throat when she noticed Michael's missing left arm. His uniform's sleeve hung empty, a painful reminder of the horrors of war. But in that moment of reunion and gratitude for their survival, it didn't matter - they were alive and together, and that was all that truly mattered.

“We were under attack and the medic couldn’t get there on time. He couldn’t save my arm…he had to cut it off and they discharged me,” he whispered.

“It doesn’t matter!” Anna cried out, smiling at him through tears. “You’re alive and you’re here. Come, the children will be so happy to see you.”

After they filled their stomachs with the food Michael had in his bag, they discussed the possibilities.

“The war is not going to end soon,” Michael said. “We have to leave the city.”

At those words, John's shoulders slumped, and sobs wracked his body. But deep down, he knew Michael was right - his family needed a place where they could truly be safe. A place where they wouldn't have to constantly fear for their lives.

John bowed his head and broke out in tears. “You’re right, Michael. Your family needs a safe place.”

“You’re coming with us,” Anna's voice wavered, but her determination was clear. “We’re now your family.”

With their meager belongings carefully packed into a hand-pulled wagon, they set out on their journey away from the city. The nights offered a brief respite, as they traveled quietly on foot with their children nestled atop the wagon, exhausted and believing this was all just a bad dream. But as dawn broke each day, reality set in once again.

The path ahead was treacherous - rocky terrain and winding roads leading them through thick forests and abandoned towns. They sought shelter wherever they could find it - under fallen tree branches or in dilapidated buildings, always on guard for any danger that may lurk nearby.

As they journeyed, they faced desperation at every turn - food was scarce and stores were closed, leaving them to scavenge what little sustenance they could find in the countryside. Each day brought new challenges and dangers, but they persevered with hopeful hearts set on finding a safe place for their family. The weight of uncertainty hung heavily in the air, but they held onto each other tightly, knowing that as long as they had each other, they could face whatever came their way.

Tucked away in the remote northeast corner of the country, they finally arrived at the small, mountainous village where Michael had spent his childhood. As they made their way through the quaint streets, curious faces peered out from behind curtains and doorways, watching their arrival with suspicion. When they came to a stop at the weathered gates of Michael's family home, six burly men charged towards them wielding pitchforks and axes.

"What business do you have here?" The man who appeared to be their leader barked, his stance defensive. "We don't need no strangers here. Move on!"

But Michael recognized his old classmate from school. "We're not strangers, Paul!" He called out. "It's me, Michael Varga. We were buddies back in elementary school. This is my parent's house."

There was a brief exchange of hushed whispers among the group of men before their leader spoke again. "We don't want you here, city boy! Especially now that you’re a cripple," He spat out the words with contempt. "You abandoned your hometown so stay out! We have enough mouths to feed as it is."

“What are we going to do?” Anna whispered, holding onto Michael’s arm. “We can’t fight them. They’re going to hurt us.”

“They’re hostile,” he whispered back. “My parents had a haunting lodge up in the mountain. We’ll find it.”

The small family was watched closely as they started moving, their steps heavy and hesitant. Michael took the lead, pulling the wagon with determination, while Anna and John pushed from behind with all their strength. Sammy and Barbara huddled together, whimpering softly as they clung to each other in fear, refusing to look at the group of men tracking their every move.

As the sun began to sink toward the horizon, casting an orange glow over the rugged landscape, they finally reached their destination - a decaying building with peeling paint and broken windows. The once vibrant garden that had been Michael's mother's pride and joy was now a tangle of overgrown weeds, a stark reminder of the passing of his beloved parents fifteen years ago. The air was thick with a sense of sadness and loss as they gazed upon the empty shell of what was once a thriving homestead.

They entered the small house in gratitude for the roof over their heads. The walls were weathered and cracked, with patches of peeling paint revealing the faded wood underneath. Outside, wild plants twisted and tangled around each other, a stark contrast to the once neatly cultivated garden.

Despite the wild overgrowth of vegetation surrounding the house, they still managed to find fruits, corn, and some vegetables that reseed themselves year after year.

“People in the village have probably forgotten about this place,” Anna pondered, her voice laced with unease. “Otherwise, they would’ve taken everything.”

Michael’s face grew serious as he replied, “Yes, more than likely...” He gently stroked his wife’s back. “And let’s keep it that way. This house is far enough from the village. They don’t need to know we’re here until we can learn more about the people who still live there. There are bad people everywhere, and I can’t protect you all with only one arm.” Tears welled up in his eyes as he thought of the danger they were in, but he quickly wiped them away and put on a brave face.

Anna wrapped her arms tightly around her husband, children, and the old man she learned to respect and love, tears streaming down her face. “We’ll get by,” she sobbed, holding onto her family.

Despite the harsh winter ahead, they persevered and were able to carefully pack away enough food to sustain them through the long months. Michael found the root cellar stocked with jars of pickled vegetables, bags of dried beans and lentils, and even some canned meats that Michael’s mother had wisely stowed away for emergencies. They also found hidden treasures in the basement. Bags of salt, sugar, and various spices would add flavor to their otherwise plain meals.

The children took part in the hard work and gathered wild berries in the woods with John. One day, they stumbled upon two scrawny hens and excitedly carried them home as if they were prized possessions.

“Mommy, mommy!” Sammy burst into the kitchen, his face beaming with pride. “Look what we found!”

“Oh, perhaps they ran away from the village,” Anna wondered.

“Or maybe they’re the grand chickens of my mom’s hen that escaped from the butcher knife when I was a kid.” Michael laughed.

Barbara eagerly chimed in, “Can we cook chicken soup?”

But Anna’s frown quickly put a halt to the little girl’s plans. “I think we better keep those hens,” she said thoughtfully. “They will lay eggs, and maybe I can use some corn flour to bake a cake for Christmas.” The mere thought of having something special to celebrate lifted everyone’s spirits and made all their hard work worth it.

***

Anna gazed at her husband lovingly. His chest was rising and falling in a steady rhythm as he lightly snored beside her. She smiled softly, thinking of all the struggles they had faced together - the rundown house with its leaking roof, the constant struggle to put enough food on the table for their growing children. But none of it could overpower the love she felt for her family. She knew they would get through this, as they always had before. With a sigh, she pushed aside the warm blanket, rose from the bed, and shivered when her bare feet touched the cold floor.

Reaching for her clothes, she quickly dressed, preparing herself for whatever challenges lay ahead. In the quiet of the kitchen, she took a moment to savor the peacefulness that surrounded her before beginning another day of hard work with unwavering determination.

As tears welled up in her eyes, she couldn’t help but think of her young children and husband, out in the forest every day collecting fallen branches in the snow to keep their home warm.

The fire was soon crackling in the wood stove, and Anna wasted no time in getting started on their usual breakfast: creamy grits. The smell of cooking corn filled the air as she stirred the pot with practiced hands. Despite the hardships they faced, she found solace in these small moments and felt grateful for the simple joys in life.

Suddenly, her heart started beating faster when she heard footsteps and stumping feet by the door. “It’s me.” She sighed in relief when she heard John’s voice.

“I didn’t hear you going out,” Anna said watching the old man as he dragged a small pine tree through the door.

“If my calculation is correct, today is Christmas Eve,” John smiled, his eyes misting over.

“Oh, John,” Anna hugged the old man.

John cleared his throat and wiped his eyes. “The war destroyed my family, but I still don’t know why, fate let me survive. Let’s make the best of the time I have left. The children need a Christmas tree to restore some normalcy in their lives.”

As the sun rose over the frosty forest, Sammy and Barbara eagerly put on their hats and gloves to venture out into the winter wonderland surrounding their home. They strode through the fresh snow, their breaths creating puffs of white in the crisp air, collecting pinecones along the way.

The children's excitement was contagious as they returned home, bringing their treasures with them to decorate the tree. With each pinecone, small apples, and cutout snowflakes from old paper placed carefully on the branches, they sang Christmas Carols with joy and enthusiasm. Meanwhile, Anna busied herself in the kitchen, the scent of warm spices and freshly baked rabbit, pumpkin, and potatoes filling the cozy house.

Finally, after dinner, the family gathered around to enjoy the long-awaited cake together. Each bite was savored, the sweetness of the treat matched only by the love shared between them.

When Christmas morning arrived, the children's eyes widened with delight at the sight of presents waiting for them under the tree. John had spent hours carving intricate animal figurines from softwood, while Michael had crafted snowshoes for them. And Anna, always resourceful, had discovered a bundle of wool yarn hidden away by her mother-in-law long ago, using it to knit cozy scarves and hats for her beloved children.

Although fate had thrown many life-altering challenges at them, they never lost hope for peace and a better future. 

Erika M Szabo

https://authorerikamszabo.com

Erika loves to dance to her own tunes and follow her dreams, introducing her story-writing skills and her books that are based on creative imagination with themes such as magical realism, alternate history, urban fantasy, cozy mystery, sweet romance, and supernatural stories. Her children’s stories are informative, and educational, and deliver moral values in a non-preachy way.

Let Them Be Children

 Reading digital versus printed books

During a visit with my friend and her eight-year-old daughter, I had an idea. Her mother mentioned that she had a Kindle app, so I decided to gift one of my bilingual children's books to her. The little girl glanced up from playing a game on her iPad when I told her about the book but then went back to scrolling through the screen. She politely said thank you as she opened her Kindle app and skimmed through the digital pages. However, when I handed her the same book in paperback form, her face lit up with excitement. She quickly flipped through the pages, admiring the colorful illustrations, and then put her iPad aside to fully focus on reading the paperback book.

The number of children reading physical books has decreased in recent years. What impact does this trend have?

Many students think they are better readers when using screens. Their belief is rooted in the fact that they can read faster on a screen. However, this speed is achieved through scrolling, word spotting, skimming, and scanning, rather than deep reading. This means it is essential to develop strong print reading skills and then adapt them for digital screens.

The journey toward reading begins long before formal instruction. Physical books are the most beneficial for young children, followed by audio resources, with digital reading coming in last. This is because of a complex balance at play here. On one hand, tablets and other devices may be more enticing to young readers, but on the other hand, they promote passive engagement. It's like a double-edged sword: while technology taps into our innate novelty reflex as humans, this can be detrimental to a child's development as it hinders their ability to focus. Instead of fostering concentration and learning, they become accustomed to distractions and fleeting novelty.

After the child closes the screen, the most frequently uttered words are "I'm bored." Why is that? Because they have been overly stimulated. Up until age five, excessive screen time can actually hinder a child's ability to focus their attention on tasks. It has become evident that technology use during these formative years can lead to the opposite outcome of what we desire for children in terms of attention and concentration.

Let children use their imagination

Allow children to be children, to play, read, and use their creativity, while teaching them important morals. Do not expect them to act like mini-adults who can make life-changing choices at such a young age. Let them have fun pretending to be superheroes, mermaids, or animals, but remind them that it is all make-believe. They will outgrow this phase soon enough. Until then, let them believe in Santa and enjoy their childhood innocence.

My children's stories are about acceptance, friendship, family, and moral values such as accepting people with disabilities, dealing with bullies, and not judging others before getting to know them.

Erika M Szabo

https://authorerikamszabo.com

Erika loves to dance to her own tunes and follow her dreams, introducing her story-writing skills and her books that are based on creative imagination with themes such as magical realism, alternate history, urban fantasy, cozy mystery, sweet romance, and supernatural stories. Her children’s stories are informative and educational and deliver moral values in a non-preachy way.

A Baker House Christmas

A short story by Robert Allen Lupton 

Story cover by Erika M Szabo

Christmas didn’t come early to the Baker Orphanage on 12th Street during the Great Depression. It hadn’t come at all during the three years I’d lived there. Freddie was the oldest, he'd had been there the longest, and he said that he didn’t remember a Christmas Tree or even a special meal.

I guessed that most folks were too busy being hungry themselves to worry about a couple dozen kids, but I didn’t figure that Santa Claus was one of them. It seemed to me that he was too fat and too jolly to be hungry. Mabel had a book about Santa Claus that she’d brought with her after smallpox took her parents. Santa had plenty of food and mountains of candy.

I asked to read it the December when I was ten. She carefully removed the old newspapers she kept the book wrapped in. “You can, Max, but wash your hands. Don’t take it outside. Don’t believe everything you read. The book says that Santa brings presents to every child in the world on Christmas Eve. He doesn’t, at least not to kids like us.”

I read it twice. It wasn’t right that Santa didn’t bring us stuff. We needed Christmas worse than anyone I knew. The rest of the kids at Baum Elementary wore new clothes every January. New bicycles were on the bike racks and new gloves and bats were on the playgrounds. I decided that enough was enough.

It was the week after Thanksgiving, not that I had anything to be thankful for and I recruited two other orphans who were members of our secret club, the Baker House Irregulars. Mabel had told us about Sherlock Holmes and the kids who helped him, the Baker Street Irregulars. Eight of us who were nine and ten years old adopted the name and swore great oaths to protect each other. Besides Mabel and me, there were three other boys and three girls, Danny, Ray, Dolores, Janey, Bobby, and Audrey. So far, the only thing we’d done was to convince the older kids that if they picked on one of us, they had to deal with all of us.

Anyway, Danny, Bobby, and I confronted Carl Richardson after school by the bike rack. “Carl, that’s a nice Schwinn bicycle. Where’d you get it?”

“None of your beeswax, Max, but I got it for Christmas last year. Got a catcher’s mitt, too. Just what I wanted.”

“So, how did Santa Clause know what you wanted?”

“Easy, Stupido. You go down to Bamberger’s Department Store. Santa works there on weekends. You sit on his lap, tell him what you want, and if you’ve been good, he leaves it under your Christmas tree. Easy peasy!”

Danny’s eyes lit up for a moment, but then he asked, “Carl, what if we don’t have a Christmas tree?”

“Everyone has a Christmas tree. Now leave me alone. I'm late for piano practice.’

I called a meeting that night after lights-out at the orphanage. The eight of us gathered in the workroom. No one would ever think that kids would hide in a workroom. I told the Irregulars what we’d learned from Carl.

Bobby said, “This isn’t going to be that hard. We'll sneak out on Saturday and go to Bamberger’s. We’ll tell Santa what we want for Christmas. I figure the reason we don’t get no presents is because we haven’t been asking for them.”

Dolores shook her head. “You said he leaves presents under a Christmas tree. We don’t have a tree.”

“We can ask Santa for a tree or we can make our own. The boys can cut down a little tree and we can make ornaments out of paper and tin cans.” Mabel replied.

“Good plan,” I said. “Saturday morning we’ll get up early and finish our chores. We’ll tell the staff, especially that nosey Miss Blaine, that we’re going to the park. It’s only a half mile from Bamberger’s. If we hurry, we can tell Santa what we want and be back in time for lunch.”

Saturday morning came and the Baker House Irregulars were up at dawn, sweeping, washing, dusting, and picking up trash. Miss Blaine was suspicious of our newly found commitment to cleanliness, but she decided not to question a good thing. Right at ten o’clock, Audrey, the youngest Irregular, said, “Miss Blaine, we’ve finished the chores. May we go to the playground at Redbud Park. We’ll be back for lunch.

Miss Blaine, harried by her responsibilities, wasn’t averse to having a group of children out from underfoot for a couple of hours. She shifted the crying infant she held from one arm to the other and wrinkled her nose at the smell.

“Certainly. Don’t fight with the other children and don’t be late for lunch. Mable, change this diaper and put her in her crib. Max, you’re the oldest and you’re in charge. I don’t want to hear about any problems. You don’t want me to get the paddle.”

I said, “Yes, Miss Blain. I mean no, Miss Blain. No problems. We’ll be good.”

Mabel took the baby from Miss Blain. “Max, wait for me by the sidewalk. I’ll hurry.” She hurried upstairs to the infants’ room and the rest of us trooped out the door and waited on the sidewalk.

The morning was off to a good start, but things went downhill after that. It was one of the worst days of my life, and growing up in a small-town orphanage was a life filled with bad days. My first memory of that morning was how cold I was. The north wind carried the first bluster of winter. None of us wore good coats and there weren’t two mittens to share amongst us. I stamped my feet to keep warm. I hoped it didn’t rain because the soles of my oversized shoes were mostly newspaper I’d stuffed inside. Hand-me-down clothes are often threadbare and mine were no exception. We all faced away from the wind like cattle and huddled like sheep to keep warm.

Mable came soon enough. Janey asked, “What’s the baby’s name?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t ask. There’s no point. You know that, unlike us, infants get adopted right away. The baby could be in a home with a Christmas tree before we have lunch.”

“That’s not fair,” complained Bobby,

I just shook my head. “Bobby, you know things don’t have to be fair.”

“Yeah, but I don’t have to like it.”

“No, you don’t, but you do have to live with it.”

I’d swear that it was uphill and into the wind all the way to Bamberger’s and back. I know that isn’t possible, but my ears burned, and my nose ran. I kept my hands in my armpits to keep them warm.

We walked in the front door of the department store and luxuriated in the heat. My fingers and toes still tingle remembering how good it felt. Mabel pointed to a sign with an arrow. It said Santa. She didn’t have to say a word. We followed her down aisles festooned with more clothing, toys, appliances, and tools that I thought existed in the whole world.

Santa was seated on a throne and behind him were a million bicycles. A red rope looped between candy canes and four people dressed like elves directed traffic. We joined the line behind the other children.

When it came Mabel’s turn, an elf said, “I don’t see your parents. Where are they?”

“They’re not here. I came with my friends.”

“I’m sorry, young lady, but no one may see Santa Claus unless they’re accompanied by a parent.”

Tears welled up in her eyes. “I’m an orphan. Please, I just want to see Santa.”

“Again, I’m sorry. Store policy, you understand. I’ll be fired if I let you through. Have an adult from the orphanage come with you.”

Mabel crossed her arms. “I’m not moving until I talk to Santa.”

The rest of us crossed our arms defiantly. The elf yelled for security. I knew it wouldn’t end well and it didn’t. Worst day ever.

Four men arrived quickly. The elf explained the problem. A man said, “You kids can walk to the door, or we can carry you, but either way you’re leaving. Children your age aren’t even allowed in the store without adult supervision.”

There’s defiant and there’s stupid. I didn’t see any reason to get thrown out and then get paddled at the orphanage. “Mabel, let’s go. We’ll ask Miss Blain to come back with us.”

“She won’t. You know that, Max.”

“She probably won’t, but we aren’t going to win this. Let’s just go.”

She nodded, held her head up, and led the rest of us toward the door. I looked back. Santa was busy talking to a little girl. I don’t think he ever knew we were there. Audry and Bobby cried on the way to the orphanage. The store had called Miss Blain, and she was standing on the front porch with her paddle in hand. Like I said, worst day ever.

A couple of weeks later, Ray sat down at breakfast. “I’m mad. I’ve thought about it and I’m mad. We may be second-class citizens, but that doesn’t mean people should treat us that way. Just because we wear old worn-out clothes doesn’t make us bad people. We need Santa more than any other kids in town. If we don’t do something about it, it means that they’re right to treat us that way.”

Bobby swallowed a bite of overcooked powdered eggs. “Yeah, so what are we gonna do?”

“If we can’t have Santa, no one can. We’re gonna kidnap him. If we don’t get Christmas, nobody gets Christmas.”

“How are we gonna do that?” said Audrey. He’s an adult and we’re kids. We’ll just get in trouble again.”

“I’ve got a plan. The city parks the rubbish carts just down the street from Bamberger’s. We’ll steal a cart. We’ll wait outside the department store until it closes. When Santa comes out, we distract him, push him in the cart, and wheel him off. Eight of us can hold him down and tie him up. We’ll hide him in the barn, tell him what we want for Christmas, and won’t let him loose until he promises.”

I chugged the pretend orange juice. “Ray, that has to be the stupidest idea I’ve ever heard. I’m in. Let’s do it.”

***

December 24th and the Baker House Irregulars had a mission. We snuck out right after dark and braved the cold. Bobby and Janey went to get an empty rubbish cart. Dolores and Bobby fetched ropes from the barn and the rest of us went straight to Bamberger’s to wait for Santa.

The eight of us were hiding together when the security guard unlocked the door and Santa walked out. Santa said, “Have a good night, Jimmy. I need to be on my way. I’ve got reindeer to feed and a sleigh to load. I need to start delivering presents.”

Jimmy laughed, “Sure thing. Don’t forget me. I need a new percolator and a couple of pounds of coffee.”

Santa nodded. “I’ll see what I can do.”

We put our plan into action. Delores sat on the sidewalk with a broken doll in her hands. She cried. Santa stopped and said, “What’s the matter, honey?”

She held up the doll, the body in one hand and the one-eyed head in the other. “She hurts.”

“Where are your parents?”

Delores cried louder, stood, and shoved the pieces at Santa. He did what most people would have done, he took them.

Delores wrapped her arms around his knees, I jumped on his back and pulled his stocking hat down over his face. Ray wheeled the garbage cart in front of him. Delores moved away and I dropped off his back. It took six of us to lift and dump him head-first into the cart. All eight of us wheeled the cart down the street.

Santa’s feet kicked in the air for the first few minutes, but then they stopped. Janey whispered, “He’s stopped fighting. Did we kill him?”

Mabel snorted. “You can’t kill Santa Clause. He’s magic.”

The lights were out at the orphanage when we wheeled Santa into the barn. We lit three candles and tied Santa’s feet so that he couldn’t run. We tipped the cart onto its side and dragged him out. The girls sat on him while Bobby and Ray tied his hands. We propped him up. Ray said, “Don’t yell. If you yell, we’ll stuff a rag in your mouth.”

Santa smirked. “To what do I owe the honor.”

“This is a kidnapping,” said Mabel. “We’re holding Christmas hostage. You have to pay a ransom.”

Santa didn’t even try to free himself. “What ransom?”

“We’re orphans. They wouldn’t let us talk to you at the store because we don’t have parents. We know that if we don’t tell you what we want for Christmas, then we don’t get a Christmas. The ransom is that we’re gonna tell you what we want and you’re gonna promise to bring it to us. Deal.”

“I could lie and say deal, but I’m just a department store Santa.”

“You saying that you’re not really Santa Claus.”

“Not exactly. Every man who dresses as Santa Claus and keeps Christmas in his heart is a real Santa.”

Ray held a candle near Santa’s face. ‘You’re the only Santa we’ve got. Listen, the first thing we want is a Christmas tree. I want a bicycle, a good one, a Schwinn.”

Audry went next. Santa patiently listened to each of us. His appearance changed as he listened. His eyes were brighter. His beard sparkled like it was covered with glitter and his cheeks grew redder.

I went last and wished for new shoes and a bicycle. Then I said, “There are another dozen kids at the Baker House. They deserve Christmas too. I don’t know what they want, but the real Santa will know. Bring them presents and bring something for Miss Blain. She’d be nicer if she was happier.”

“And what if I can’t bring presents to everyone?”

I was afraid he’d say something like that. “Well, in that case, don’t bring me anything. Bring presents for the other kids.”

“My goodness, an unselfish wish for Christmas. That changes things. It’s time for you to let me go. Christmas is waiting and whether I’m the real Santa Claus or only his helper, I can’t give anyone presents if I’m tied up inside a barn.”

Mabel crossed her arms. “We’ve done everything we can. They’ll probably lock us up tomorrow but let him go.”

Santa quivered and the ropes fell away. He looked different. His eyes twinkled like stars, and his beard became neater, better combed, and it glittered in the light. He stood up straight. His red felt suit became velvet and the cotton cuffs and accents changed to ermine fur. His buttons and belt buckle were no longer badly painted celluloid, they were polished brass. His worn boots were polished so brightly that I could see the candlelight dancing in them.

He laughed. “I’m starting late. You’ve delayed me. I assume that the eight you are willing to help me make up for the lost time.”

Mabel spoke in a whisper. “You’re different. Are you the real Santa Claus? What happened to the Santa from Bamberger’s?”

“Like he said, young lady. Every man who dresses as Santa can be the real Santa if his heart is in the right place. Max’s wish was the crowning touch, and here I am. Are you going to help me or not?”

We not only agreed to help, we begged to do so. Audry whined, “There’s no sleigh.”

Santa waved at the garbage cart and the air filled with sparkling dust. A beautiful sleigh stood where the garbage cart had been. “I’ve got a sleigh. What I don’t have is reindeer. I need eight reindeer and there are eight of you. Are you willing to be my reindeer for one Christmas Eve?”

Janey asked, “Will I remember being a reindeer? Will it hurt"”

“Yes. Dear, for the rest of your life, and no, no it won't hurt.”

“Yes, please. What do I have to do?”

“Once you’ve become reindeer, you’ll pull my sleigh. I’ll magically attach the harnesses and reins. I’ll use the reins to tell you what to do.”

Bobby stood in front of the sleigh. “I’ve never been a reindeer. I don’t know how to obey commands from reins.”

Santa laughed again and this time it was a full belly laugh. “Donkeys and oxen can learn how to pull a cart. You look smarter than a donkey. You’ll be fine. Okay, now, everyone join Bobby in front of the sleigh.”

Quicker than it takes to say it, we were reindeer. The world was different. The smell of an owl’s nest with two owlets exploded in my nose. The other reindeer each had its distinct scent. Mabel smelled in charge and Audry smelled afraid. Santa smelled like cinnamon, cloves, and vanilla, with a hint of Prince Edward pipe tobacco.

It was quiet and noisy at the same time. The impatient shuffling steps from my fellow reindeer rang on the floor as clear as a church bell. Santa’s velvet suit slithered when he raised or lowered his arms. Mice scampered inside the walls. I sniffed the sleigh, and it didn’t smell like the garbage cart, it smelled like cookies fresh from the oven. I liked being a reindeer.

I turned my head to talk to Mabel, but I couldn't speak. The best I could muster was a neigh, a whinny, and then a snort. Mabel snorted back.

Santa hopped in the sleigh, snapped his fingers, and the interconnected harnesses comfortably attached us to each other and the sleigh. The harness was black leather and trimmed with hundreds of small gold jingle bells. We were harnessed two by two. Santa wiggled the reins gently and said, “Showtime! Out the door and into the sky. We’ve got places to go.”

A quick gust of wind swirled through the barn, the candles went out and the door popped open. My feet were in the air before I was outside. I never touched the ground again until morning.

I never got over that night. I loved to fly. It’s the reason that I joined the Army Air Corps right at the end of World War Two. So did Mabel. I flew fighters and Mabel became a WASP. She delivered aircraft all over Europe, but women weren’t allowed to fly missions. One Christmas Eve, I was shot down near Antwerp. She stole a Grumman Hellcat, flew it across the English Channel, and landed it on a dirt road. I have no idea how she found me, but she did. That’s a story for another time. She likes to tell it to our three kids on Christmas mornings.

It was only one night, but it seemed to last forever. We made an amazingly quick tour of the United States. Niagara Falls was beautiful, and Washington DC was brighter than a sack of new pennies. Santa brought us in low enough over New Orleans that we could hear the music from the French Quarter. Those people never sleep.

We circled Big Ben and the Eiffel Tower. Paris gleamed in the moonlight. Germany was busy, smoke billowed from the factories, and the trains rushed from town to town. Santa did a splash and dash on the Danube. We flew so low that the sled’s runners and our feet just touched the top of the river. Beautiful.

We didn’t land anywhere, and Santa didn’t go from door to door, well I should say that he didn’t go from chimney to chimney. Every few minutes, another sleigh and another Santa flew up from the ground. Our Santa and the new Santa greeted each other and then our Santa tossed a sack to the new Santa. The sack grew bigger before it landed in the other sled. No matter how fast we flew, Santa never missed a toss.

He lit his pipe, puffed a couple of times, and said, “Maxie, I know what you’re thinking. You’re wondering if I’m the real Santa Claus, then who are all these other men dressed like me riding in other reindeer-driven sleighs? Well, Maxie, the world is a big place, and it gets bigger every year. Three hundred years ago, I could do this by myself. Remember when the Bamberger Santa, he’s actually Mr. Campbell from the hardware department, said, ‘Everyman who wears the suit and has Christmas in his heart can be the real Santa.’ That’s mostly true, but not every one of them every year. I choose the ones I need and deputize them, you might say. Like the eight of you, they’re my helpers for the night. Only some of them will remember being Santa Claus, but even those who don’t will remember it as the best Christmas they’ve ever had. I think of them as subordinate Clauses.”

I snorted twice and chuffed once. “Take it easy,” Santa chuckled. “I promised you that you’d remember tonight, and you will. Now, full speed, please. Russia is waiting.”

The night was an endless stream of glistening minarets, sparkling mosques, castles, hovels, stair-stepped pagodas, temples, city streets, and country roads. A fleet of outrigger canoes raced us in Polynesia for a few brief seconds as we island-hopped across the Pacific.  Santa sped under the almost completed Golden Gate Bridge in San Franciso, met three more subordinate Clauses over Chicago, and then said, “That’s the last stop. Only a few minutes to dawn and you need to be in bed before Miss Blain wakes up.”

I shook my head and said neigh. Santa laughed. “Maxie, Christmas comes when it comes, ready or not, and it ends when it ends. The night is over. Thank you for your help and Merry Christmas.”

Suddenly I wasn’t a reindeer anymore. I was Max, the orphan, and I was falling. I’d had falling dreams before and always woke up just before I hit the ground. This one ended the same way and I jerked myself upright with my fists clenched. I was in my bed in the boy’s dormitory at the orphanage. It was cold and the soft pinkish–gray light of dawn dimly lit the room through the frost-covered windows.

I was upset, thinking my Christmas Eve adventure had only been a dream. I glanced around and everyone was still asleep except Bobby, Ray, and Danny. Danny had tears in his eyes. He mumbled, “Did I just dream about being a reindeer and helping Santa Claus?”

Mabel answered from the open doorway. “No, it was real. Look!” She opened her hand, and she held a small gold jingle bell.

I unclenched my fists. I had a jingle bell in one hand. All of us did. The bells were heavy.

“Tree,” said Bobby. “There has to be a tree.”

The eight of us tiptoed downstairs. No reason to wake up Miss Blain until we had to.

The big front room was the same as it always was. No tree and no presents, but Miss Blain was already up. She held the front door open. Mr. Campbell and two other men carried the Christmas tree from Bamberger’s into the orphanage. “Merry Christmas, kids. We didn’t need the tree after Christmas Eve, and I asked Mr. Bamberger if I could bring it here. Where should we put it?”

Mabel ran to the picture window and shouted, “Here, please put it here. When people go by, they’ll see that we have a Christmas tree.”

Mr. Campbell smiled and said, “That’s not all. It was a slow Christmas season. The truck is filled with bicycles, gloves, dolls, toys, sweaters, shoes, and maybe a ton of Christmas candy. You’d be doing me a favor if I could leave it all here. If that’s okay, you can help unload the truck while I get the tree set up.”

He didn’t have to tell us twice. We were out the door like a herd of hungry reindeer.

Christmas was wonderful. Miss Blain was cheerful, and she let Mabel take charge of passing out the presents. It turned out that there was exactly the right amount of everything for every child at the orphanage to get exactly what they wanted.

Mr. Campbell stayed almost all day with us. He assembled bicycles, played catch, and taught the young boys how to spin a top and shoot marbles. He and Miss Blain kept sneaking little glances at each other. Maybe Miss Blain would get what she wanted for Christmas too.

Before noon, Mabel handed out the last doll and gave Freddie, the oldest orphan, the last pair of shoes, which were exactly the right size.

Mr. Campbell took a final sip of coffee and stood up. “I’m completely tuckered out. I need to get the truck back to the store and there’s a garbage cart in the yard. Any idea how that got there?”

I answered for all of us. “No sir, but we’ll push it back to where it belongs.”

“Thank you. There’s nothing like doing good deeds, especially on Christmas.”

“We should thank you. We didn’t think we’d be getting any Christmas. Santa Claus gets really busy.”

Mabel started to speak, but all that came out was a neigh and a chuff. Audry whinnied and so did Ray.

Mr. Campbell smiled and winked at me. He reached into one pocket, took out a single gold jingle bell, and held it out. “I think this fell off the Christmas tree. You’re right about one thing. Santa’s a busy man. It’s good when folks can pitch in and help him out. Good help can be hard to find.”

I reached into my pocket, took out my gold jingle bell, and showed it to Mr. Campbell. I winked back at him. “Yes, sir. Sometimes it’s hard to find good help. Merry Christmas.”

Robert Allen Lupton

https://robertallenlupton.blogspot.com

Robert Allen Lupton is retired and lives in New Mexico. He has three novels, seven short story collections, and three edited anthologies available in print and audio versions. Over 2000 of his Edgar Rice Burroughs themed drabbles and articles are located on erbzine.com

The Ominous Sound of Stiletto Heels

When she walked by, an icy chill filled the air

Sara, a sixteen-year-old brunette with an athletic physique, was a new student at Hillcrest Boarding School. She was unhappy to leave her friends behind, but her father insisted on moving her to a more prestigious school. “The last two years are most critical before continuing your education,” he said. “And Hillcrest is the finest. Nearly all of their students get into reputable universities.”

Her parents were impressed by Madame Chloe, the school principal, especially her mother who embraced her role as a socialite in high society circles. At their meeting, Madame Chloe dressed impeccably in expensive and fashionable name-brand outfits, and the way she presented herself and the school's achievements instantly won them over.

At first, Sara found the principal charming as well. However, as the conversation progressed, the way Madame Chloe’s eyes darted to her and scanned her entire body, made her uncomfortable. Despite the flashing of those dark brown eyes only lasting for a split second, Sara sensed something sinister behind the pleasant exterior of the woman’s lovely smile, pristine clothes, manicured nails, and flawless hairstyle.

Sara always listened to her gut feelings and begged her parents not to make her change schools, but her parents, visibly mesmerized by the principal’s performance, made their final decision despite Sara's weak objections. “You know nothing about life! Gut feelings are not reliable,” her mother shouted. “The school’s reputation is impeccable. You’re going to be a student there, and that's final.”

Sara gave in and hesitantly accepted her parents' decision and moved into her new school's dorm at Hillcrest. Knowing that every school has its social hierarchy, she thought she would need some time to fit in and catch up. However, it soon became apparent that this school was different from others.

There was no hierarchy among teachers or students. There were subordinates and only one top dog: the principal and history professor, Madame Chloe. Her authority and dominance were obvious as she walked in her signature bright red stiletto-heel shoes, her cold eyes darting from student to student. The sound of those heels in the hallways would quiet the students and even the fellow teachers. When she walked past, a chill filled the air. Her presence commanded fear and obedience from everyone around her. Sara couldn't help but wonder what it must be like to have that kind of authority and influence over so many people.

Madame Chloe ruled with an iron fist and Sara soon heard rumors that her physical fist brutally broke several bones over the years. Students had no one to report the physical abuse to, and unfortunately, by the time they were allowed to see their parents, their injuries had healed. Because of the school's reputation and the highly respected principal's words against the students, people dismissed the complaints as childish rumors. The injured students had no proof.

Although Sara had a hard time keeping her rebellious nature under control, she kept quiet while keeping her eyes and ears open. Until… about two weeks into the school year, she stood by her locker across from Madame Chloe's office when she saw her classmate, a petite blonde girl staggering out of the room. Vera sobbed pressing her hand to her side, visibly in pain.

Sara followed her into the bathroom, where two girls stood by the sink and hugged the crying girl.

“You’ll be alright,” Kate, a dark-skinned statuesque girl whispered, wiping Vera’s tears.

“I can’t take it anymore!” Vera cried. “This was the third time this week and she didn’t even tell me why I deserved such a harsh punishment. My leg is still bruised where she kicked me two days ago.” She rolled down her knee-high socks. She gasped and stood up, her face contorting in pain. She held her side. “I think she broke my ribs this time,” she sobbed.

Mary, a plump redhead, huffed. “She’s a cruel sadist! She yanked my hair so hard yesterday that she pulled out a strand and my scalp bled all afternoon. All because when the monster said, ‘eyes on your books’ I looked at Vera.”

“Why doesn't anyone do something about this?” Sara asked, closely watching the group's reaction.

“What can we do? We can’t prove anything,” Kate shrugged despairingly, tears flowing down her cheeks. “Nobody believes us, not even our parents.”

“What about the teachers?” Sara questioned.

Mary shook her curly hair. “They know what’s happening but are too scared to say anything. The only teacher who was brave enough to gather evidence against this monster disappeared before you got here.”

“What do you mean by disappeared? Did she leave school?” Sara asked. The three girls seemed to sense Sarah’s authoritative yet compassionate nature and opened up.

“Oh, no,” Kate shivered and said, “Miss Clara was in my room that night, taking pictures of my bruised ribs and listened to the tape I recorded on the small device she gave me. I hid the recorder in my underwear and turned it on when I was ordered to Madame Chloe’s room. She beat me so badly that day... the more I screamed and begged her to stop, the more she hit me. Just remembering her face, how much she enjoyed watching me wiggle in pain, and the obscenities coming out of her painted mouth, makes me nauseous.”

Read the full story in the book: 

https://books2read.com/u/m27NQd

What if you think the known world isn’t strange enough? Embark on a journey that pushes the boundaries, challenges your perception, and questions reason, logic, and established beliefs.

Book Sunday December 1

 We have a wide selection for you today

Hope you had a wonderful Thanksgiving, now cozy up on the comfortable couch and enjoy some good stories.

Historical suspense The past will hunt them until they break the family curse	Crime suspense She finds out that monsters are real. Can she escape her cruel fate?
Medical mystery Her asthma is cured but at what cost?	Cozy Mystery When her sister-in-law is kidnapped, Emma puts her life on hold

Young adult fiction A young girl trust into the realm of the Vestal Virgins to save Rome	Young adult fantasy A potion made out of jealousy puts her love into a coma. Can he be saved?
Science fiction Kathy Masters never expected to journey to the stars	Sci-fi romance Transported to the past, she must decide to stay or find her way back
Will the two halves of the heart pendant find each other? SEE MORE	He lost her soulmate, but can he find her in another dimension? SEE MORE
Cayman's island is hiding a secret from tourists. Some check in but don't check out. SEE MORE Historical fantasy The demonic force that’s cursed the Dyer family for generations has returned even stronger	Legend of the family Dyer Historical paranormal fiction  Historical fantasy Dark family secrets are revealed, temptation is embraced and the circle of life is renewed

Dark fantasy SEE THE BOOK	Dark fantasy SEE THE BOOK
Dark fantasy SEE THE BOOK	Halloween edition SEE THE BOOK

Visual learning SEE MORE

learning sign language SEE MORE

Sibling rivalry SEE MORE

Friendship, disability SEE MORE

Southern Maryland’s Moll Dyer

Moll Dyer's Rock 

Photo credit

My “home zone” is Southern Maryland, which has been described by many as one of the most haunted areas in the country. Many tales have been shared around childhood campfires over the years. Stories that sent shivers down my spine even as flickering flames lent warmth to the telling.

Sotterly Plantation and Greenwell State Park are the source of many of these stories. Ghostly nuns, deceased soldiers of bygone eras and victims of not so accidental deaths are said to roam the buildings’ halls and surrounding fields. A short jaunt up the road (as the crow flies) is the site of the “blue dog” haunting where a mysterious ethereal canine is said to guard the remains of his murdered master as he has for centuries. Add in Point Lookout where the Union held Confederate prisoners in conditions that made Andersonville look like an island vacation and you can see why the area has the reputation it does.

Naturally, having grown up with these legends, they are in one manner or another, incorporated into my writing. None stir my imagination like the story of Moll Dyer, however, an accused witch from the late 1600s.   

Although the historical proof of her existence is minimal, we have a local county road named after her, and likewise a small stream. There’s the rock purported to be where she breathed her last. Most researchers miss the colonial letter describing her “countenance” in an unfavorable manner, but we’re mostly left with legends. Oral tradition- once the only historical record, and the basis of the old truism “where there’s smoke, there’s fire. How apt is that for a tale of this nature?

Although there are some small deviations to the legend, most oral traditions agree: Moll was an herbal healer and hermit. Most state her origin was Ireland, although she likely arrived on a passenger ship from England. She arrived on our shores single and unaccompanied and never married. She preferred the company of the Native Americans to her European neighbors. She dressed in a manner of lost affluence (threadbare clothes originally made from the finest materials). She froze to death on the coldest night of 1697 after a citizen’s mob burned her small cabin to the ground believing her a witch and the source of a blight on the land. She was found days later, draped over a large rock with one hand raised to the heavens. Some say in prayer; others say to curse the local citizenry. She was discovered by a young lad in search of his missing cow.

So then, who was Moll Dyer? I won’t fabricate a correlation between any segment of the legend and other past lives lived here. It’s unnecessary to make her story more real. Her tragedy speaks to its own truth and …perhaps that’s enough. My answer to the question is Moll’s truth, even if intangible. Moll Dyer is everyone who’s faced injustice or been mocked for being different; those scorned for their beliefs and tormented for living a life true to themselves. She is anyone condemned at the court of public opinion and castigated for their lack of popularity or political correctness. She’s the embodiment of Sarah Goode of Salem fame, Anne Frank, John the Baptist, Joan of Arc, Anne Boleyn, Rosa Parks and…well, the list goes on! Moll, the accused witch, could be the patron saint of them all.

I believe Moll Dyer would be proud of her legacy, and that she’d feel some measure of peace and exoneration from the tales being told of her today. She was once used as a cautionary tale- a warning to little children to behave, but no longer. Now we remember Moll whenever we’re bullied, accused without cause or feeling friendless. Perhaps she gives us a twinge of conscience when we are the ones doing the bullying? It warms my heart to think that some good is our final inheritance from the tragedy of Moll Dyer.

David W. Thompson

​https://www.david-w-thompson.com

David is a multiple award-winning author, Army veteran, and graduate of UMUC. He’s a multi-genre writer, and a member of the Horror Writers' Association, and the Science Fiction & Fantasy Writers Association. When not writing, Dave enjoys family, kayaking, fishing, hiking, hunting, winemaking, and woodcarving.

Who Are You?

 Positive versus Negative Attitude

Having a positive attitude means focusing on the good in people, situations, and events instead of dwelling on the bad. For instance, even when facing a string of unfortunate events, one might still remain nice and cheerful with others saying, "Have a great day" while the negative person replies with a bitter "What's so good about it?"

A negative attitude is when someone chooses to focus on the negative aspects of people, situations, events, etc. rather than acknowledging the good. For instance, even if a person has abundant power, wealth, and influence with exceptional luck, if they still find reasons to complain and rant, it shows a clear example of a negative attitude.

Gratitude is a powerful and uncomplicated feeling that encompasses being thankful and appreciative of the good things in life. It entails acknowledging and valuing the kindness, support, or positive moments one has experienced through others or from life itself. Gratitude brings a sense of warmth and appreciation that can uplift one's spirits, strengthen relationships, and improve overall well-being. It's like an emotional expression of gratitude that serves as a reminder of all the positive aspects of life, even during difficult

Being thankful is a strong emotion that can positively impact our lives in numerous ways. Showing gratitude and nurturing it within ourselves has been connected to heightened levels of joy, enhanced physical wellness, improved mental state, increased self-worth, and overall satisfaction with life.

Scientifically proven benefits of being thankful: 

• Being thankful allows for more opportunities to form relationships.
• Gratitude has a positive effect on physical health.
• Expressing gratitude can improve overall psychological well-being.
• Feeling grateful increases empathy and decreases aggressive behavior.
• Individuals who practice gratitude tend to sleep better.
• Having an attitude of gratitude can enhance self-esteem.
• Gratefulness is linked to greater mental resilience.

Limiting beliefs can hold a person back and create unnecessary boundaries around their self-worth. When these negative beliefs are prevalent, individuals may find themselves feeling trapped in their comfort zone or settling for less than they deserve. 

Negative: I'm going to fail no matter how hard I try, so why even try?

Positive: I might fail, but what if I fail? I can learn from it.

Negative: I always fall short of my goals despite my best efforts.

Positive: I consistently give my all toward achieving my goals.

Negative: I have already given it my all. There is nothing else I can do.

Positive: I gave it my best effort, but there is always room for improvement. How can I continue to improve?

References: my psychology studies and decades of nursing experience.

Erika M Szabo

https://authorerikamszabo.com

Erika loves to dance to her own tunes and follow her dreams, introducing her story-writing skills and her books that are based on creative imagination with themes such as magical realism, alternate history, urban fantasy, cozy mystery, sweet romance, and supernatural stories. Her children’s stories are informative, and educational, and deliver moral values in a non-preachy way.