 Planting Bulbs or... I Hate Winter by Julie Carpenter This is an old piece, written when I lived on a little farm in Fayetteville, TN. I now live in Atlanta with a much smaller yard and somehow I planted my bulbs even later this year - in January. Some things never change. This is hope. Fat at the bottom. Pointed and slender at the top. The bulb is wrapped in onion skin and a little bit dirty. I am angry at it. “I don’t believe in Spring any more,” I tell it. I look around as if to prove my point; the trees are bare and somehow an old paper cup has escaped the trash can and is slowly dissolving into the lawn next to the bed where the bulbs will spend the winter. The crepe myrtles reach frantically skyward with their bare rust colored arms, as if they died of fright. That misshapen red bud that has to lean away from the clutch of the cedars just to breathe is bare as well; grabbing my hat with its skeleton hands whenever I walk past it to go to the barn. The leaves are morphing into dirt under the naked trees or becoming paper shadows of themselves. It is, of course, cold. Barely above freezing. The universe conspires to make sure the only days I can plant bulbs are either cold or wet….and always, always windy. It's December. Two days after Christmas.
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 Photo courtesy Briianvision Dream Writing by Julie Carpenter I have a vivid dream life that sometimes crosses over into my writing. Of course, many times, dreams die with the light, cracking into dust and scattering. Poof! I’m no longer running in place through a field of skulls while zombies fling lime Jell-O bombs at my head or sweating through an interview with FBI agents in the guise of talking dogs, or whatever was happening in those immediately forgotten visions. Vanished nightmares disappear into a miasma of never-was. Just as well. But sometimes I have dreams that follow me into the waking world, hanging on in the light, refusing to dissipate, some lucid as the full moon behind inky tree branches, some hiding around corners and only jumping at me when triggered by an object, a word, or a scent. Those detailed dreams I sometimes put into words and stories. Dreams seem safer pinned in ink to a page. Is this cruel? I can’t tell but I reserve the right to defend myself.  Announcements and Apolgies Sacred Chickens Staff Hello Chicks and Chickens and all you groovy birds who read our blog! You will have noticed that we have been posting a bit less recently. Why? It’s not because we don’t love you. Julie is writing a novel and is right (or write) in the middle of the knottiest part of tearing apart Hell. Trust me, that last sentence will make sense when you read the book. Jarad is in the midst of a new temporary job, a hunt for a permanent job and a move. By the way, he’s up for some freelance writing and content creation. You can hit him up at jaradsacredchicken@gmail.com.  Two Book Reviews by Julie Carpenter We would like to introduce our readers to two books by author Cynthia C. Huijgens, The Boy Between Worlds: The Cabinet of Curiosities, a middle grade book that helps readers unlock a world of magic and history, and Polar Bear and the UFO, an illustrated children’s’ book with a whimsical and beautifully rendered combination of the Artic and Outer Space!
 Mourning a Garden by Julie Carpenter I wrote this piece after leaving my little farmhouse in Fayetteville, TN. I spent a brief time living in a condo and missing my garden terribly. I now have a new garden and new thoughts but I thought I'd go back to this moment for a minute and reflect on losing a part of myself and moving on. My garden now consists of a table full of house plants I saved from the little farm in Fayetteville, TN. By way of confession, I actually bought a few more plants, a pot of primroses and a tiny orchid, regardless that there is no more room for them in this little place. Soon we’ll be forced to wear potted plants as hats. Crow has already attempted to use one as a litter box. |
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