Never Try To Out Dance A Natural- Part 1

A good friend of mine always says, or at least his poems say "Husbands don't dance." I sigh each time I hear this. Because it's true. My man danced before I became his wife. We were always running and then bumping into each other on the dance floor back in the day when we were just friends, and dating. I miss those days. Sigh.

Don't get me wrong, I am crazy about my husband the way he is. We are so well suited for each other, we never fight. Disagreements and mood elevated moments happen, but most of the time we share the most wonderful times together. So why am I so hell bent on getting him on the dance floor? It's in my blood.

Even recently a friend and I went to a local night club, on the 'Elderly night', and as I began to shake my grove thang, she said I had moves. It's then I tell people my grandmother must have had an affair with a Spanish Flamenco dancer. I can really move to most any music, but especially Latin music. Even my son has my dance gene. I was introduced to The Gypsy Kings around the late eighties and was hooked to Latin rhythm dancing. I could watch and mimic most moves.

I could not find their music in conventional stores so I set out to hit a few Latin places along a strip in Dallas, known as little Mexico. I thought maybe I could find some really good music to clean house too. Uh huh.

My son in tow, because I home schooled at that time, I parked and entered a strange world of la música. Strange? Because I did not speak one iota of Spanish. I relied on the fact they would speak English. I asked if they knew The Gypsy Kings. Three guys behind the counter chatted amongst themselves for a few minutes and then one of them produced a tape. Yes, a cassette tape. Then a dinosaur ran past the front window chasing a homeless guy.

The young man, well he is now in my memory, put the music tape into their stereo system and I began to recognize the tune and beats. But the three guys all were talking again, in Spanish and pointing behind me. Had the dinosaur broke through the door? No. I turned to see my son behind me swinging his hips and making a various degree of turns he had never displayed before. Huh? Okay, so now you get it, we like to dance.

My father was a dancer. Swing, fox trot, and country, like the old two step, not the line dancing of today. He taught me how to dance in our kitchen when I was growing up. When I was old enough to accompany them to the dance halls, I was hooked. I still miss ole Belle Starr off Central Expressway. The good ole days. I miss my twenty something knees.

When hubby and I met he told me a sad story of his attempts at country two-step. He would go out to a few of the places well known around town and the old Gilley's. When he saw a girl he thought was attractive he would ask her to dance. Often enough they would take a turn around the dance floor, but they would stop him and say "When you learn how to dance come back and ask." Then they would walk away. He is fine freestyle dancing. I say let your freak flag fly in that area.

Hubby and I usually only dance at weddings these days. Not on my side, well one cousins in Fort Worth, but mostly his side. He is the oldest of eight, but the last of them got married last October. Now we have to wait for the children of his mother's children to get married. Sigh.

You can believe I will be throwing my son, if he gets married, a grand party. If our knees survive another hundred years and these dinosaurs feel like getting out on the dance floor. You can bet I will savor every minute. Because, 'Old married men husbands could dance'.

My whole purpose of writing this started with a thought of my childhood after reading a Peanut post over at ShrinkingTheCamel.com, Shrewd As Snakes and Innocent As Doves. It reminded me of a time in music class, maybe more of an all around 'Artistic' class in the day (before funds were cut back in schools). I will continue this story in a few days.

My poet friend Pasquale misses his wife, and I think came up with his poem due to regret... 

If you are missing the weekly 'Poem Share' then click on these words, Make Friday Write, and join us...

Dreams Tell All

The Truth In Dreams

It was extremely hot on stage as I took my final bow. Makeup was running down my neck and into my eyes. I scan the audience and that is when I see something, her face. Months, even years had passed since I saw anything but a shell of my daughter's body. Her reddish brown hair cut into a bob with short bangs. She was wearing a green dress with white trim. I knew she had on the black shoes we dropped off at the crematorium. I knew she would have them on. She loved to go out dressed to the tee. A girl's girl she was: prim and proper.

She was opposite of her mother, of course. I was a tom-boy as far back as I could remember. Sure my mom would take or send us to church in a dress, but it was not me. I like shorts or pants, even if my mother had sewn them herself. Elastic waist band and all.

I was glad to see her. The intensity of her presence meant a lot. Especially to a mother whose daughter had died before her. Parents are supposed to leave this earth before their children. But it happens. Something devastating takes them away from us. We can only hope they did not suffer, or are in any great pain where they might be.

She was saying it was okay for me to do what I needed to do. She would be at my side until the day I die. Maybe there would be lapse of time before I needed her again. To sooth my pain she would come when I needed her.

See I had not seen her face in my dreams for a long time. Parents often have a hard time looking at photos, or even videos, because it is hard, at least for me. I am not sure I could ever look at any of that stuff again. But I began worrying that I might not remember what she looked like. I had doubted my details. The last time I saw her in person was when she had passed away. It was in the hospital. They had left her on the gurney in her hospital gown. Surprisingly she was neatly groomed. Right down to the hairstyle in my dream. The hospital staff allow the parents to visit before her body is removed.

Moving on, and because of my experiences with psychic abilities, I had not wanted to have her visit me shortly after her death in an spirit form. Could anyone handle that? Somehow I managed to ward anything such as that off for all these years. See I donated some of her much needed her body parts to be used by other children who might need them to live a better life; it made me afraid I would see her with no eyes or skin. Maybe zombie like. She wouldn't have wanted me to be afraid. I had seen her pulsing spirit in animals and in my recent client's daughter. I will write about that one day. Animals and children have experiences with spirits. I have heard its amazing.

The night was coming to a close and the crowd had been entertained, time for me to come out of my guise, so she revealed herself. How do I interpret the whole dream? My feelings? Anelisa wants me to be myself, to relax and begin to enjoy my life. Sure things have drastically changed for the better, but I was having a hard time. My client’s daughter was dying from a similar heart disease, and I knew it from the first day we met. Years would go by as I was reliving my own daughter’s death again. Her mother was going through what I had already been through, and I was supposed to be a support system for their family? I barely had a support group myself.

In many ways working with their family did me move to a higher healing ground. I did begin to relax. My biggest loss outside of Anelisa's death was my happiness had disappeared, and I wanted to find it again. She was telling me things were going to be alright. She smiled at me in a way a mother smiles at their own children, in a way unconditional love would shine through. Like when women become pregnant, they have this glow. It never leaves a mother.

Next thing I know Anelisa and I are at home together (still in dream state). My new home in the north east. We go to sleep right next to each other. The next morning we woke up and I made breakfast for her step-dad and brother. When they come into the room I say Hey, look who came to see us! Both look at me like I was crazy. I hug my daughter and say, See she is right here. Everything is going to be alright!

Afterward, I woke up with such a strong feeling she had been right next to me. Through the whole night I could feel her. They say when an arm is damaged or removed the body still feels the limb as if it was still intact. And because this was a dream, a meaningful dream, a bond which could never be severed had begun between Anjali's mom and I. We don't share the same spiritual beliefs, but we both feel the girls are in a better place.

The harness of sadness was loose and I began writing again; it was a kind of freedom which I had not experienced in a long time. I do strongly believe our spirit speaks truth in dreams.


This is a little writing practice. Get the mind going...while I hear thunder and lightening outside...and for those of you who know me, a true story. - E. Stelling, 2011

What Do You Have To Say

Let's do something different over here...since I am so deep into writing, and have not been inspired to post here.

What does this picture say to you?

Does it imply something missing?

What is missing from this picture?

Do titles imply what will take place in a story?

Write a short paragraph about what you first thought, or what you think fits...

Here is mine...

Dead Town, USA

The streets were hot and why hadn't we seen any people. We had been walking around for two hours, and there was no historic jail house to be seen. Jacob insisted we stop in this god forsaken town so he could visit a place mentioned in his stupid guide book. I wanted to throw that damn book out the window five towns back. It was bad enough the mountains kept our wireless phones and electronic pads from working, but now tired and hungry we hadn't seen a good place to rest in miles. The town was not only deserted, but every building looked dry, dusty and colorless. Like an old movie. This restaurant was on the last street we had turned. And there it was, a bright neon string of lights flashing 'Open'.  

Thank goodness. There were three tables but no chairs out front, so I walked through the swinging door to check out the menu. Jacob and I hadn't spoken the whole trek, at least after I yelled at him before leaving the car. So I didn't bother even asking him if this was okay. A good look at their bar told me something cold and refreshing was due. Maybe the waitstaff could recommend a good hotel for the night. Now that I think about it, I could eat a horse. I hope the stove is big enough. It was then I turn around and realize Jacob never followed me in.



Maybe write what happens afterward...

Have fun...and I will tell you what did happen in a few days...

Strange, Disturbing, and Fun

Or at least I hope you find this fun. I have a new website that will go up before Halloween, Zombiepoetry.com. Yay! Since I am writing a trilogy called, no wait, I will not let that cat out of the bag yet, but I will share a few fun things I just wrote. A poem for the site, and a recipe from the Gourmet Zombie Eats Cookbook, yes recipes for zombies! I know Toon will like this, and hopefully others.

I have hired a graphic designer to begin helping me create my website and book details!

It will grow on you like a second set of rotting skin...yes, I made that bad joke! But it will. I prefer Vamps, but they will be in the books as well. Secrets you will have to find when you order my book and read it!



Much of this is still in revision stage (and totally bogus as far as recipes goes, all in fun and adapted from real recipes of beef, chicken, pork, and or fish, I am not trying to turn anyone into a cannibal, or a zombie), and in the process of being copyrighted. Let me know what you think, any ideas to improve...and its all in fun!

(content of poem and recipe removed for revision and publication)

Materials in this post may not be copied or borrowed by any persons without the authors permission!

Submissions are now open for what we are calling 'Z-composition Magazine @ ZombiePoetry.com'. We are looking for obscure, necro-style, sci-fi, dream like, horror, dark, comedy, mainstream, all/most styles and humorous. We want you to stretch yourself in what you see. This will be a quarterly on-line publication and each quarter publishing 3 to 7 poets and writers; 2 artist and photographers will be chosen to represent Z-composition each quarter, or we may publish more if they are outstandingly good. You may send in 3 to 5 submissions each quarter, and zombie content not required. We also do not care what you do in your real job, or if this is your real job, just send us your best stuff. elizabeth@cookappeal.com

Submission amounts and deadlines are subject to change as we move forward. (We as in I have 2 editors, 1 pending so far) If you are interested in working on Z-composition Magazine on a volunteer basis please contact me at elizabeth@cookappeal.com.