Hello Fellow Art Lovers! Hope you can join me at the Ferocious Feelings show on the 24th. Looks like it will be a great event- and a lot of fun! I will be displaying four of my creative journals; each is a unique work of art, and a perfect container for YOUR ferocious feelings! I start with a blank journal or sketchbook and collage the front and back covers; then add writing prompts, inspirational quotes, or whatever else strikes my fancy. Come check it out!

The most exciting aspect of the show for me is that I will be doing live writing in front of a crowd, and may have a chance to read my work as well. I'll unleash my own ferocious inner writer, and supply an adoring public with red-hot writing on the spot, in the best improv tradition. See you there!!!

Lushly, Juicily Yours,

Molly Childers

Creativity- Blossom and Bloom!

Hollyhock Bud

Photograph by Charles Childers

This time of year is rich with wildflowers and rain. I plucked this hollyhock bud from a bush taller than I am, at nearby Haviland Lake. I wanted to share this picture with you today to remind you that all creative projects start as a seed; my new story, "A Phone Call," which you'll soon be seeing here, is a bud not yet unfurled. I have planted the seed; the idea is growing, but I haven't yet committed it to paper.

Given sunshine and love and plenty of water, the dream-seeds you plant today will thrive in their own time. Take the time to nurture one of your budding projects with a little sun, fresh water, or whatever it needs to grow. Let the light of your inspiration shine down! Let the Fount of the Muses flow freely over all the flowers in your creative garden! Dance barefoot in the mud and feel it squish between your toes! Sow your dream-seeds wherever you find fertile ground.

"The Hitchhiker: An Unlikely Love Story" - Part III

"Are you an angel?" I ask.

But he only laughs, rocking back on his heels. "No."

"A ghost? I did, I did hit you! Shit..."

"I'm fine. I heard your horn and got out of the way. It was close, but your car never touched me. You hit a tree. I'm not an angel, or a ghost. I'm just me," he insists. "Are you sure you're all right? Did you hit your head?"

"No. I mean, my lip. I think I'm okay. Just shook up." I am suddenly claustrophobic. "Let me out. I want to see what I did to my car." Thinking that if i can see where it hit the tree, I'll be able to believe I didn't hit him. I'm still not quite convinced. I can feel that thud, deep down in my body. I can hear it. I will always hear it, feel it, until I see concrete evidence that I hit a tree instead of a hitchhiker. I want to touch him, make sure he's real, but this seems forward, and all wrong. I don't want him to get the wrong idea...or maybe I do.

I claw at the seat-belt and finally get if off of me. My ribs are sore from the pressure, and I slide out from under the wheel and stand shakily, bracing myself against the car. The shoulder of the road is all torn up here. Unsteady in my heels. I have to know. I hurry to the front bumper and look at the dent there in horror. James is gonna be super-pissed, I think, and then I remember I'm angry at him and think, Fuck him. He's the least of my worries right now.

The bumper is hanging by a thread, at a weird angle, like it wants to fall off. "Fuck." I bend to touch the dent gingerly with my fingers. The tree I hit is only a few inches away. I know it's the one I hit because there's a little scrape at the base of the trunk; a scar; a smear of silver paint against the bark.

My fingers trace the little scar on the rough hide of the tree. I fall to my knees in the rain. I praise the Goddess, God, Jesus, Allah, Buddha, and whoever else might be listening. I am insanely grateful for that tree; that silver smear of paint. I raise my face to the sky. Icy rain pours down. "A tree! It was a fucking tree! Not him...Oh, thank you, thank you..." I pray ecstatically, giving thanks to the Goddess on my knees in the mud, with the rain in my face.

An unknown amount of time and tears later, he is beside me, putting his heavy jacket around my shoulders. "You'll freeze out here; you're going to catch a cold, or something. Come on." He helps me to my feet and we walk back to the car. The motor is running again, and the heater is on full blast. I wonder, again, if he is some sort of angel. Mud trickles down my legs and into my ruined shoes. I shiver; look around for my purse, light a cigarette and offer him one. I sit there for a minute with my purse on my lap, while he stands awkwardly by the door, letting in the rain and cold air. I realize he's waiting for me to say something and so I ask him if he needs a ride somewhere.

"I don't think you should drive anywhere like this. You might have a concussion."

"Get in. Get in. I'm okay, I just need a minute." He comes around the front of the car, bathing in the headlight's golden glow. Tight blue jeans, so wet they almost look black, and a thin T-shirt that said, The Replacements. He's tall, well-built, with broad shoulders and a strong, stubborn jaw. Dark wet curls hang in his face as he crosses through the path of light the highbeams cut through the rain. He slicks them back with one hand, squeezing out a handful of rain, and then gets in the car.

"I looked at the dent. I think you could probably drive it like it is. The tires are fine, and you're not stuck," he says. I don't know what to say, so I say thank you. That sounds stupid, but I can't think of what else to do. "Do you have far to go?" He asks me, realizing that if he wants a conversation, he'll have to be the one to make it happen.

"I was on my way home. Literally. My house is, like, a mile away. This is so stupid! Fuck!" I bang my hand on the steering wheel, and light another cig.

"You okay?"

"Yeah. Great." I put the car in gear for a test run along the shoulder. It rolls obediently forward, reluctant to leave the muddy ruts I'm stuck in. I give it a little gas and look over at him, grinning in delight. "Shit! It works!" I laugh wildly. "I thought it was totally fucked from looking at it, but it's fine." He grins and I ask him, "Are you sure you're not an angel? You just answered prayers I didn't even know I was praying."

"I'm sure," he tells me, and smiles. He's got killer green eyes and a wide white smile.

"I'm Callie."

"Michael. Michael Rosen."

"And what are you doing out in the rain, Michael?" I ask. "Don't tell me you're just out for a walk. I mean...do you need a ride somewhere?" My hands are shaky on the wheel, and I don't exactly feel qualified to play chauffeur, but I feel indebted to him.

"I"m trying to get to Silverton tonight. I had a fight with someone and I was so pissed I just left," he says. "And I'm not planning on going back."

"Oh. I'm sorry. Was it your girlfriend?" I ask, and then ask myself why I even care. I notice he isn't wearing a wedding ring, so maybe he isn't married. Or maybe he is. Either way, it's none of my business. "I- I don't mean to pry. I'm not usually so forward, I-" I fumble with my words, embarrassed.

"No, it's fine. I don't mind. It wasn't my girlfriend. I don't have a girlfriend."

"Oh. Your wife?" I try to say this lightly. but it falls flat.

He laughs. "I'm not married. Do I look married?" I laugh too.

"Not really." I venture a final guess. "Your boyfriend?" I say weakly.

"No! I'm not gay." Thank you, God. "Do I look gay?" he asks, as a joke.

"No!" Mortification sets in. In the early stages it feels like heartburn. You can die of it if you're not careful. I vow to stop saying embarrassing things, and then I can't think of anything to say. He laughs at the look on my face, but not mean. I try to laugh too.

Then he says, "Will you promise not to laugh if I tell you the truth?"

"I promise."

"I'm visiting my mother. I'm on summer break, and we have a vacation home in Durango. I don't know anyone; I just got here yesterday. We had a fight. She can be very...controlling. To the point of insanity. She started pulling her usual shit and, I don't know, I left. I just left. I walked right out the front door. I wasn't fighting with my girlfriend. I don't even have a girlfriend. I was fighting with my mother." He laughs, then says, "If you want to throw me out of your car right now, I won't blame you one bit. I'm completely pathetic. And I'm getting your upholstery all wet."

"Fuck the upholstery," I say. "Look. How old are you?" Are you running away from home? Please tell me I'm not helping a minor run away from home, I think.

"I'm twenty-three. Why?"

"Just...if you're a minor, I have to report runaways... I'm a social worker. That means I'm a mandated reporter, so it's my job to go to the cops if I see a minor in danger. But you're obviously fine, and...of legal age, so...that's great." I stumble over my words, and he nods like he understands.

"Yeah."

"So...uh...I would love to give you a ride, wherever you want to go, but...I don't think I should be driving just now," I say all of a sudden. "I'm afraid to take this thing up in the mountains, the way it is. If we broke down, we'd be sleeping in this fucker," I say. He agrees that this would be a less than ideal scenario. "Look, there's a bar a couple of miles past my place. They're open late. I could take you there, if you want to try and catch a ride to Silverton. Or..."

"Or...?" he asks, cocking his head, grinning.

"Or...well, if you wanted to. If you needed. A place to stay, I mean. I have a guest room..." I say, and let my words trail off meaningfully.

"A guest room. And what would your husband think of you bringing home a guest?"

"I think, fuck what he thinks. It doesn't matter what James thinks anymore because I am divorcing his sorry ass as soon as I can find a lawyer. We're separated. As of tonight," I explain. Michael nods like he understands all about divorce- and maybe he does. "You're not married, are you?" I ask, just to make sure.

He barks out a short humorless laugh. "Uh, no."

"You ever been married?"

"No." That's good. That's real good, I think. I don't know why I think this.

Wait- that's a lie. I do know why. It's the same reason I felt relieved when he told me he didn't have a girlfriend. I want him to be single, so I can have him all to myself.

This excerpt from "The Hitchhiker: An Unlikely Love Story" is an original work of fiction by Molly Anderson- Childers. Copyright 2009.

Chaos Reigns

We're moving! We found a lovely little victorian in durango and can't wait to move in! Yay! Soon I will be within walking distance to downtown and I can park my clunker! Woo-hoo! I may not be posting as frequently during this period of transition, readers, and I know you'll miss me! Rest assured I will be missing you, and writing as frequently as I can to keep you in the loop. Going to post a third excerpt from "The Hitchhiker: An Unlikely Love Story" tonight for your fictional delectation... Sweet dreams and delicious nightmares, until we meet again!

-Molly

"The Hitchhiker: An Unlikely Love Story" Part II

Cold wind on my face. Raindrops fall on my hot, bruised lips like tears. I smell mud and rain; something sweet and green. A hand- not my hand- on my shoulder.

"Oh fuck oh fuck..." his voice is trembling. Whatever he's seen, whatever it was, it must have been awful. He sounds so scared. "Are you all right? Say something," he begs. I don't know him. I would remember this voice, this warm hand. I do not know him. I look into his face, confused. Is he talking to me?

He's looking into my eyes, worried. He shakes my shoulder gently. "Hey...are you hurt?"

"What the fuck just happened?" My voice is rough and dusty. My tongue feels thick and foreign in my mouth. "Jesus." My voice is not my own. Disoriented, I look down at my hands. Red lacquered nails, long skinny fingers, wedding ring. They, at least, are familiar. I flex my fingers, absorbed by the sight of them moving along so obediently.

"Are you hurt?" he asks. Who is this guy? Why is he asking so many questions? I don't know him...do I?

"My face... I split my lip, I think." I lift one shaky hand to my poor, wounded mouth. It comes away slick and bloody, but all my teeth seem fine. The blood isn't much, but it's enought o turn my stomach. My lip feels too hot, too fat. It's already starting to swell. Shit.

"Your car went off the road. You hit a tree," he tells me, looking concerned. "Are you okay? Tell me where it hurts." His voice is gentle.

"My heart," I tell him. "I think it's broken. My husband...he's cheating on me again. We had a fight. Fucking bastard. Is he here?" I ask, confused.

"No. There was no one else in the car with you," he says, receiving the news of James' infidelity with a calm nod and a sorrowful smile. "Anything else? I could try to call an ambulance, if-"

"They can't help me. There's no cure for what I've got," I say in my strange new voice. It sounds harsh, streetwise. I like it. I light a cigarette, blow out smoke.

"Are you injured? Besides your heart?" he asks me, crouching down beside the open doot of the car to look at me more closely. I can see his dark curls, wet with rain; his soaked leather jacket, his sweet face.

Something about his face...so familiar...what is it? I know I've seen him before... somewhere...but where? And then I remember...

James' phone call comes just as I'm leaving work. He won't be home tonight, he says. So sorry. Poker night with the guys, over at Ray's house. Says he'll just crash there so he don't have to drive home drunk. And then I know. It's starting again. Motherfucker. The lies, the cheating. He's got another girlfriend, I know it. My guts know it even though my head doesn't want to believe he'd do it again.

"You pig!" I say, disgusted. "If you don't come home tonight, don't bother coming home at all."

"But, baby-" James says, trying to sweet-talk me.

"You bastard, fuck you. I'll see you at home."

"I can't," he says. "I already told Ray-"

"Bullshit. Come home. We need to talk," I tell him.

"Callie, I'll talk to you all you want tomorrow, but you're too upset right now. You're not making any sense-"

"Upset? I'm upset? Upset is for when I break a fingernail, James. This is a whole different ballpark!"

"Callie...honey...what's the big deal? It's just a night out with the guys."

"Oh you fucking liar. You know what, forget it. Don't come home tonight. Don't come home at all. Have fun with your new girlfriend, asshole."

"Callie, what-"

"I know what you're doing, James. I'm not a fucking idiot."

"You're completely paranoid," he says, sounding shaky. I busted him. I know it, and he knows it, too.

"I'm not paranoid, I'm right. I'll see you in divorce court, you prick." I hang up. I refuse to cry and smoke a cigarette instead. It will kill me to cry over James again, and so I bite my tears back and get in the car. It's raining. I leave town, and it starts to rain harder. We live up in the mountains, and the highway's always deserted this time of night. I pass a few cars heading back towards city limits, and then no one. The road is empty, a black void... and then I see the hitchhiker.

I remember it all; the puddle, the wild loopy skid; his white face looking back over his shoulder. A final, mortal thud. "Oh fuck." I am absolutely convinced that he must be dead. And if he's dead, I'm either seeing his ghost, or I'm dead, too. "I... did I hit you?" I ask him, for this boy bears the same face as the one in my memory. "Are you an angel?"


This excerpt from "The Hitchhiker: An Unlikely Love Story" is an original work of fiction by Molly Anderson-Childers. Copyright 2009. All rights reserved by the author.

Excerpt from "The Swan Maidens"

I fly with my sisters to a lonely lake deep in the forest. We go there to bathe at sunrise and sunset, when the golden light reveals that we are not merely swans; not entirely- rather, we are women with a secret. When we remove our golden necklaces and feather robes, and hang them from the oak trees that crouch low beside the water, it is clear that we are not only swans, but lovely golden-haired maidens under an enchantment.

Many years ago, our father- a stupid, if handsome, man- had angered a witch. Some stories say he tried to cheat her out of a few extra sous when selling a cow to her at market. Others maintain that he had spurned her affections in favor of a village girl- our mother. Whatever the reason, whatever the excuse, cursed is cursed. We were doomed to live a half-life, the seven of us sisters. During the day, we appeared to the world as swans, with long graceful necks and snowy feathers. We swam and learned to fly, to look for food with the other birds. But when the sun went down, we made our way to a lonely lake or pond to ready ourselves for the night. It was only after sunset that we were able to return to our human forms, removing the enchanted necklaces and cloaks that imprisoned us from dawn until dusk.

Some nights, we went home to our parents, but these reunions were always teary and exhausting, and we could not stay there long without causing harsh words between our parents about whose fault it was that their lovely daughters had been turned into birds. As we grew older, we took to staying away from our family's sad little farm. We built a hut in the woods, far from the village, and set up housekeeping there.

We had begun life as normal human girls, you see. The witch's kindness-or her cruelty- had cursed us to a half-life, with one foot in the world of the humans, and one in the world of the birds. We could never mate, nor bear children- for who would have us? None of the boys in the village wished to court a girl who spent her days as a bird. The very idea was laughable. If they happened to see us out at night, walking the streets of the village, they threw rocks and hurled insults. Their cruel words hurt worse than any stone that ever bruised my flesh...

This story is an original work of fiction by Molly Anderson-Childers. Copyright 2009. Use of this work, in whole or in part, is not permitted without written consent by the author.

This story was inspired by my recent researches into the Swan Maidens of Scandinavian and German lore; most notably, the Wunschelwybere of Germany. While writing an article for Creativity Portal about the Muses of the Air, I came across the strange story of the Swan Maidens and knew I had to explore further, with a story of my own.

Excerpt from "The Hitchhiker: An Unlikely Love Story"

I am driving home in the rain when I see the hitchhiker. Visibility's shit- sheets of rain slash at the car, obscuring him from view until the last second, and then he appears amongst the trees, trudging along the shoulder of the highway. He's hunched over, hands in the pockets of his black leather jacket. He doesn't even bother to put out his thumb as my car approaches- looks like he's given up on finding a ride tonight. His hopeless trudge- head down, hands in pockets- hurts me somehow, in the place my heart used to be.

Jesus, I think. He's just a kid. He looks like he's cold...

I'm wondering if I should stop and offer him a ride when the car hits a puddle and starts to slide. Hydroplaning. That feeling in my stomach like being at the top of a roller-coaster, right before the drop. My battered Ford Taurus loops crazily across the skittery surface of the road. I haul on the steering wheel, try to steer out of the skid. The passenger-side tires drop off the pavement and sink into the mud and gravel of the soft shoulder, where the kid was walking only a second ago.

Where is he? Where is he? I don't want to hit him. Can't see...

The steering wheel twists in my hands like something alive. I'm screaming, cursing, honking the horn, slamming on the brakes- all at once. All of a sudden, I see the surprised white O of his face in the headlights' glare. He sees me, sees the car, turns to run. I twist the wheel in one last effort to stop this terrible, terrible thing from happening. The car responds, but too late. Too late. I feel the bumper strike something solid and my face slams into the steering wheel, splitting my lip open. My seatbelt snaps, locking into place across my chest, my lap. It hurts, it hurts- not like a slap but like a bear hug, squeezing me too tight.

The world fades out in a shimmering wave of silver and blue. I ache inside. He was just a kid, I think, with a tearing sense of regret. And then everything goes grey, then black. I surrender to the void, feeling the hot sticky blood run down my face.


This post is an excerpt "The Hitchhiker: An Unlikely Love Story." Stay tuned for more of this story- and others- at http://www.addictivefiction.blogspot.com
"The Hitchhiker: An Unlikely Love Story" is an original work of fiction by Molly Anderson- Childers. All rights reserved by author. Copyright 2009.
If you are an agent or editor wishing to connect with Ms. Anderson-Childers regarding representation or publication of this work, please send an email to stealingplums@yahoo.com.