So here we are, once again, for the 3rd edition/ episode of my love letter. It’s been a busy few weeks of editing, both with words and video, on my computer and on my hubby’s. In the mix of all that I had family visiting.

I thought, for this edition, I’d play a little on the spread and put my story first, podcast second, song from the archives last.

I was very challenged with my 3rd Act of my story. I couldn’t get it to the point where I felt like it was ready to share. Instead, I thought I’d share the first few chapters of my novel. It’s my wish that you will love these characters as much as I do.

The Adventures of Eliza Berry

The End in the Beginning - Chapter 1

The shape of conversation pulsates in harmony with this time-anchored island world. Almost everyone is lazily sprawled on the sand. The great expanse of azure blue ocean cracks laughter at their feet. What is a homecoming if not a time for celebration?
There are only three people not present on the beach. Sophie and Violet, Sweet’s wife and daughter, remain in the future. The real future, not a conceived or constricted time space like the one they occupy now. Then there’s Jack, who has gone inside to fetch drink orders. Nobody has noticed that he has been gone longer than expected. Nobody anticipates the coming atmospheric change. Nobody, not even Jack.

He whistles happily as he moves around the kitchen counter. Everyone is back together. The family they created when their own families could not offer safe harbor. The family that could withstand any hardship. The curated people where he knows he will forever belong. Today he feels more comfortable in his skin than he ever recalls.

Then it happens. The insignificant action. The accidental moment that will reverberate into worlds. The butterfly effect. He knocks Eliza’s notebook to the floor. She is forever scrawling things in her notebooks. He has never given it much thought before. She is a writer. It’s what writers do, isn’t it?

He can’t help but notice the date. It etches itself, like flashing neon, onto his retina. He reads a little, then a little more. Soon he is flipping maniacally through her book, checking dates, times, and journals against his memory. How could this be?

A confronting ache weighs down on his heart and compresses his lungs. His confusion throbs purple contusions through his temples. Saccharin coats his taste buds. The air smells of molding citrus fruit, and it’s all there, written in her notebook. Under today’s date.

He slams the pages shut. What does this mean? Something new begins crawling from the pit of his stomach toward the part of the brain where doubt, fear, guilt, and shame reside. It sloshes against his better thinking like acid reflux on the larynx. Fear escapes first, building tension in his nervous system. Doubt is on its heels. Guilt and shame follow as the double feature. Amongst it all, hiding in the aubergine shadows, is something he has not experienced before. Something not quite tangible.

A storm is rising. Summoned, it swells and tangles like a razor-wire tumbleweed crashing down a lonely highway. He grabs the notebook, leaving the ice-sweating drinks in his wake. Ominous bone-chilling clouds wail through his mortal flesh. The sky begins to churn as he and his transient madness blaze across the landscape. A veil is once again lifting between the jumpers’ and the leaf-blowers’ worlds. The lazy beach vibe cracks.

Jake and Sweets scurry to their feet to hold him back from his intended target. Their feet bury in the sand as they wrestle Jack’s raging body. Eliza cowers behind Big Jim, as do Vie and Talula.

“What the hell, Eliza!” He is frothing, waving the notebook in the air. “What sorcery is this? What have you done?” He folds himself into a ball. “What are we?” He tosses the notebook down toward her feet.

The men let go of their grip. Eliza moves to position herself on the sand with Jack, trying to soothe what has turned into sorrow.

“Oh, that.” Her voice is shaky. “I’m sorry. It was just an experiment. I guess I should have said something a while ago, but—”

“But?” he cuts in.

“But it was… well, it was fascinating. I can’t help that I’m so curious!”

He looks up into her eyes—those same eyes he has spent hours, days, months getting lost in. A hard, dull sensation creeps in like hoarfrost feathering icicles around his heart. His gaze turns into a glare.

Talula reaches for the notebook. Curiosity has taken over the rest of the group. She begins to read today’s journal entry aloud. It is specific, highly detailed, and clinical.

“Wow, Eliza. You’ve outdone yourself. I mean, your writing at Uni was next level, but this… this is puzzling and—” Talula trails off.

“Does anyone else have any critique, comment, or thought they’d like to share?” Eliza replies, defensive and sarcastic. “I didn’t share the writing because I didn’t know what to think. Although I at least thought you, Jack, of all people, would be less angry and maybe even a little more interested in solving the puzzle. What I mean is, it must be a puzzle, right? Most of the time I don’t even know what I’m writing. It just comes out of me. It’s like I’m in a sleep state. A trance. It took me quite some time before I realized I was writing events before they actually occurred.”

Jack starts to grasp the allure and curious nature of her writing. He springs to his feet, takes the notebook back from Talula, and begins to fan himself with it while he paces. Something is brewing in his mind. An idea that causes a slightly sinister grin to cut across his face. His rage has subsided. The frost has melted.

“Let’s burn it,” he proclaims.

“What?! Why?” Eliza responds.

“Either we are real, or we are not. If we burn it and still exist after today, then—”

“Then you’ll get over your existential dread?” she inserts quickly.

“Yes. Yes, I will.” He looks at the others. “Anyone else have a better idea?”

It was decided. They would have a fabulous end-of-the-world bonfire: burn the book and tell each other’s eulogies at sunset. It seemed slightly dark and poetic. They are all in favor.

The next morning arrives in a somewhat lackluster turn of fate. They are, in fact, all very real with very real hangovers. By afternoon, when last night’s dullness on the brain lifts, Sweets says it’s time he returns to his wife and daughter. For a moment no one speaks.

“You’ve never taken any of us forward” Jake says while looking at the others.

“I mean, if you guys want to come with me? I’m sure that’d be fine with Sophie.” Sweets replies, trying to subdue his excitement. “Seems like, after last night, this is the perfect time to show you the future.”

They all nod and smile at each other. That same impulsive energy that had them burn the notebook, renewed their vigor of life and adventure.

Sweets opens the portal. It’s nothing like the portals that they were accustomed to. It was swift. Almost seamless. They take a few steps forward and land on a bustling sidewalk on Main Street.

“Dadda, Dadda”

“Violet!” Sweets reaches down and swings his little girl up into his arms, ribboned pigtails sailing behind her. He looks up to spot Sophie waving from a sidewalk cafe directly in front of them.

“What’s with the crowd at the bookstore?” Sweets asks as they arrive at the table.

Sophie smiles, but it isn’t that convincing. “Some overnight-success author is coming to sign autographs. I bought his book yesterday while they were getting ready for the event. I think y’all better sit down and brace yourselves.”

Glances are exchanged as they take their seats. She places the book in the middle of the table. ‘The Adventures of Eliza Berry by Jack Ward’ - they all look at Jack.

“I never, I wouldn’t even know how to begin” he retorts.

Their eyes shift to Eliza.

“I swear, I haven’t written a word, not one word!”

“Well, the author is coming today, maybe we should get the book signed? Whoever they are they’ll be less likely to know who I am so I’ll get in line.” Sophie answers as she gets up to walk over to the bookstore line. They all wait.

“You sensing anything Jack?” Jake inquires.

“No, if anything I think the jump forward has made me feel not quite in my body.”

“Dizzy?”

“No, just slightly not engaged. It’s as if I’m slightly behind my body. I’m sure it’s nothing.”

The author arrives and is scurried indoors. They can’t make out who it is. Jack and Eliza move to take Sophie’s place in line. As their feet cross the store’s threshold every sense is assaulted. There sitting at the table of honour the last person that either of them would have believed. Mr. Massachusetts, Eliza’s less than honourable ex-boyfriend. They move around the line to the side of the table.

“How?”

“Easily Eliza, some of your books were mixed in with my things. With a few edits it wasn’t difficult.” He lets out a weaponized laugh. “You’re not looking too well, Jack. Perhaps this time period isn’t agreeing with you, or maybe … you’re simply fading out of all existence.”

Eliza takes a quick glance at Jack. Then, with a fluid movement, she grabs his satchel, spins on her heels and she and Jack run for the door. She is already scribing notes at the back of his book. The universe tries obediently to bend to her will but glitches are occurring in real time.

Sweets pulls up in his car, but only room for one.

Uber pulls up, Jack jumps in.

The sky churns predictably.

They speed off just as Massachusetts appears on the street.

Macro and microcosms suspended in fracturing time-lines.

A portal opens but Jack’s car is t-boned.

Spinning out of control.

Eliza watches in disbelief,

then horror.

Jack disengages from his body.

worlds

imploding

fractals

screaming

black wet asphalt flashing red

beach sounds

watching Maman and Papa dancing in the moonlight

tumbling cold sterile pulsing fluorescent lights blinking black abyss

metal rolling on smooth steel cold as scalpels

the taste of blood

then

Nothing

— — —

“Jack Ward? Thanks for coming in.” The Doctor holds out his hand in that formal greeting manner.

“What happened doctor?” he replied without shaking it.

“Car accident. Sorry, the injuries were too severe.” He reached behind to the counter. “Here are his belongings.” He handed him some folded clothing, a small wooden box and a skeleton key. “Not sure if it’ll mean anything to you but his last words were, find Eliza Berry?”

fEELiN’ ZInE

Podcast Episode 3

This episode is a conversation with from Signal Drifter. He has many publications available on Substack and a Master Index to make following along super easy. From survival horror, other worlds, strange audio artifacts, satirical humour and poetry Joel writes what he finds on the thresholds. We cover a lot of territory in our chat. Please, go check out his offerings.

Video, photography, graphics and music by Jeremy Allen
Jeremy Allen

Another song from me and the archives

Guitar, Vocals and Song Lyrics by Julia Allen
Acoustic Guitar, Bass Guitar By Rich Pell

In Response …

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Lyric Sheet

Dark clouds rolling in
Over thunder trees’
I didn’t know what mourning looked like
Until my loss blocked my sight

It’s unknown territory
And I’m stumbling all the way
Rattling inside these catacombs
Of deaths caves

The questions are in flight
Sweeping down, haunting my thoughts
No answers are in sight
I have glimpsed but have no words
I am desperate to articulate
But no not how, I strum the strings
I write down thoughts
And of this carnage
A crumpled piece of paper

These are just the ramblings
Of a crazy woman
Turning her thoughts with pen and ink
Trying to find some sense

Of this brilliant disorder
Of this incredible pain
No one can tell you how you’ll journey this
Jagged terrain

Thanks for joining me and checking out my digital mixed-media love letter.
Coming up next, I sit down for a chat with

Until next time
XX’s Julia

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This episode is a conversation with from Loud Love.
He has 3 publications available on Substack:
Loud Love
The Unraveling
A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Carcosa

PLUS:
The Covers - where he plays recordings of himself singing covers
Another Song From Another Version of Me - where he shares some original music
There are also Short Stories, Letters From the Author, plus …
well, just go check his offerings, you won’t be disappointed. Promise.

Video animation, graphics and music by Jeremy Allen eye-mage.photoshelter.com

The Hanged Man

The Psychedelic Cowboy

a short story in 4 Acts

Act II

The unanswered pounding door is almost as tenacious as the 26 ounce pounding headache. Both have arrived before my full corporal consciousness. Perhaps, awakened by the stench of cheap whiskey and cigarettes. It’s a brutal collision of instant regret that’s hitting my olfactory system. Slowly, gingerly, I peel my face off the sticky Formica table top. The whiskey wants to revisit the mouth. I swallow and prop my head up with my hands. I am helplessly aware of the sound of someone trying different keys to open the door. It’s hard to miss with all the swearing going on. Maybe mixing mushrooms with whiskey wasn’t the brilliant idea that I thought it would be. Oh good, success, they found the right key. Was it only mushrooms and whiskey? There’s a whisper of something more, something else is lingering in the atmosphere that once could recall memory. Here’s a fine idea, let’s bring that cacophony of swearing closer to the man in agonising pain. My world tremors as she mounts the trailer stairs.

Stomp! Stomp! Stomp!

“You didn’t hear me?! You couldn’t just answer the fucking door?!” She eyed the table and the remains of last nights debauchery. “You fucking piece of shit! What a pathetic vacuous shell of a gone-by success! Did you even finish the revisions?!”

I knew I was going to step in it before the words even left my mouth. But, the words left my mouth before I had the wherewithal to stop them. My voice arrived the way my body felt. A gravel pit of raspy air leaking from a skin suit that was barely hanging on.

“Sweetheart, any chance you could bring your voice down a few decibels and go grab me a coffee. That’s a good girl”.

For a writer, it was horrendous dialogue. For everybody else, the poorest choice of words. Or, maybe it’s the other way around. Either way, it did not go over well. Of course, my words weren’t the only thing that I had failed to filter. My eyes may have looked up from their pitiful position and languished liberally at her long bare legs. In my reprehensible defence, her long bare legs were magnificent. Apparently, on this day, my eyes had no shame. They slithered up her golden smooth toned skin resting where the inner thighs and torso meet. There were words being shot my way but I had travelled this far. I continued past the hip and the tight curve of the waist to rest wistfully on her perfect breasts. Was it completely my fault? Yes, but I was swimming in personal collapse. I was without hope and she was back-lit and, beneath a black plunging lace top that came to the hem of her short shorts, I couldn’t help but see her perfect shape. Not many women could pull off that look matched with steel toed wellington boots. Please don’t ask me how I know that they are steel-toed. Suffice it to say, I didn’t just misstep. I crashed and burned! I will probably have to go to sensitivity training, again. I guess my Summer blond hair, blue eyed days have truly come to Autumn. I definitely earned that slap. I should have known the kick was a possibility. If only my eyes hadn’t been in control of my hand from reaching. I’m always overly optimistic. Still, the sight of her backside stomping away from me seemed somewhat worth it. I know, I’m out of line. Oh, but those short shorts with that round tight ass just giving the tiniest peek of cheek. I’m out of line, but not dead. I guess we’ll see how my day unfolds. My head is spinning, part drunken stupor part well earned slap. I sink back onto the abyss of the sticky Formica table top to await my verdict.

The next sexy bare legged short wearing person arrived with a full carafe of coffee and food.

“Sir, they tell me you’ve got yourself into a fine spot of trouble”. He sits himself across the table from me. Pouring us both a cup of coffee, he slides the window open and lights two smokes.

“Ah, shit”, I say taking a long deep drag, “it’s definitely worse than a spot of trouble if craft service has the time to sit down for a smoke and a coffee with me”. He nods in affirmation.

Bob is ex-military. He has seen the ravages of war up close and personal. He has no time for bullshit. That said, he is incredibly warm-hearted. He’s compassionate in a way that is rarely encountered. If you are in trouble, this is the man you want at your side. I knew full well how busy and long his days were. I sign his paycheck. Guilt was sliding in to slosh around in my stomach and brain.

“ Sorry Bob. So, who has you babysitting me?”

“That would be the Director, boss”.

“How much time do you figure I have until I have to deal with that shit storm?”

“Hard to say Sir. I am to radio in on Channel One when the carafe of coffee is empty.”

I nod. My brain is struggling to decide my next move. I don’t have anything written down but I do have it all playing out in cinematic glory in my minds eye. That wasn’t going to impress the director, or the executive producers who would have been made aware of the ‘situation’ at this point. I know full well how this looks. The crew would be placing bets on how long it would be before production pulls the plug. For the record, I’d love to get in on those odds. Just because something was green-lit didn’t mean it couldn’t be canned. I was pathetic. That part the trailer AD had definitely got right. I reach for my laptop as Bob hands me another smoke. C’mon brain, we can do this! Bob stands up. I thought he was going to leave me to work. Nope. He has his marching orders. He is not going to leave me unattended. I’ve earned that loss of trust. He begins to clean the gluttonous remains that is my trailer.

A hot sliced sandwich appears beside me with his insistence that I eat something. I’m not going to argue. Now, that sandwich, that was pure art. It was at least a couple inches of warm roast beef and smoked turkey, melted provolone, pickles, and all the fat that the toasted bread could absorb. Plus, because Bob knows me so well, a side of spicy ketchup for dipping. A few more hours, coffee, and cigarettes, and I somehow have something that resembles working pages. Huzzah! I was kinda, almost, winning. Now, it was apology time.

The desert is blazing hot. I can feel everyone’s eyes on me as Bob and I exit the trailer. Even with dark sunglasses on, the sun feels like it’s burning a hole in my retina.

“Sir, do you remember our first show together?”

“Ahh, yeah, I think I do? That must of been a good 25 to 30 years ago”

“Yeah, it was 28 years ago.”

“Time flies. All those shows.”

“And marriages, and children. Do you remember Harry the gaffer, then grip?”

“Harry, yeah, haven’t worked with him in a long while. He was the one
that wanted a son and kept having daughters, isn’t he?”

“That’s the one.”

“Did he ever get his son?”

“Nope. Gave up at six girls. His eldest daughter is in film.”

That sentence drops with an indescribable lead weight that reverberates with dread in my twisting mind. I stop mid-stride.

“Are you telling me?” yes, he was, “Oh god, when did I become a dirty old man?!”

“Brother, we all are. The trick is not to say or do anything to let them know.”

With that bit of wisdom he pat me on the back and left me to plead insanity and pray for mercy at the AD trailer. By some trick of fate, pity was taken upon me. I hand in the revisions and make my way to the hair & make-up trailer to get ready for this evenings shoot.

[FADE IN - Wide shot - 4 hooded men heave a man, strapped upside down on a crossbar with a noose around his neck, upright. The sun is almost at the setting point. Camera zooms in. Raise camera, tracking his full body to aerial shot showing the pit of snakes at the base of crossbar. Hooded men leave. Darkness encroaches]

Another song from me and the archives

Guitar, Vocals and Song Lyrics by Julia Allen

Silence

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I struggle with my angels
I struggle with my demons too
I struggle with an existentialist God
And I struggle with the silence we share

I had you put up on a pedestal
I built it up oh so high
I built it with all your silent words
Filled them in with words of mine

Silence is just silence
Without a voice
the words are never heard
Silence is just silence
It’s not golden
you won’t find any hidden treasure

The silence screams all around me
It wraps me in its hollow glare
I feed it my strength and my courage
And the silence
Just feeds me fear

I struggle with my angels
I struggle with my devils too
I struggle with an existentialist God
Mostly I struggle with the silence we share

Thanks for checking out my digital mixed-media love letter

On the next podcast I have who creates immersive audio fiction and so much more! Go check out his worlds and join us for next weeks chat.
Julia XX’s

First up is the podcast.
A great conversation with from Woman at the Edge of the Woods. Since our conversation she has published and released her book:
Edge of the Woods: A Memoir of Fire and Second Becoming

Bookshop.org

Amazon Paperback

Edge of the Woods E-Book

The Hanged Man

a short story in 4 Acts
Act 1

Between the mundane and chaotic worlds lies a razor-thin tightrope defining the border. This is where you have unwittingly travelled. The muse is the doorway to suffering.

Vengeful.

Ruthless.

Maddening.

To tango with the muse is to tango with untold pain, anguish and death. Not corporal death, that would lose its appeal too swiftly. This is a far more intimate death. This is the death that calls all hope, faith and belief into question. The death of self. The muse loves torture. But, if you survive your encounter, unimaginable worlds are revealed. Life flows. You become the force that carves reality to your command. The muse is now your ally.
Momentarily.

You’ve been warned.

I crossed the threshold without choice. I have witnessed his desires reshape reality. To find passages through the impenetrable. Rewrite rules to fit his narrative. He is like these shifting desert sands. He is motion. The desert, his cathedral. Yet, here he is hung upside down on a crossbar over a pit of snakes with a noose around his neck. Why has he gone to such a tremendous effort to get my attention? I don’t require dramatics. It is night. The desert is cold. He has stolen me into a world of deep clairvoyance,
mysticism and dark chaos magic. Forever, we have been caught in this tidal grip.
I cloak myself in the shadows. Hidden from his awareness, for now.

The eternal, too, is present. We can both sense it. I try to deny it but I can feel the quiver making the hair on the back of my neck stand erect. The eternal is never too far from this particular prize creation. Let me be clear, I am not referring to God. That is something altogether different. The eternal is a raging ember that never dims. A light so blinding it creates a terrifying darkness in its wake. The presence is that gnawing sensation everyone pretends they can’t feel. A deep breathing presence that ripples thunder below the foundation of everything. The one everyone pretends doesn’t exist? Isn’t real? Oh, it’s real. It’s unavoidable.
It permeates every living cell.
It’s primordial.

I want to run screaming from the shadows. From this biting transcendental nightmare. Instead, I am frozen. I watch as he curses and spits at his predicament. He curses and spits at me for hiding, when he knows I am in the shadows shivering. I don’t need or want his charm. That is but a spark. Reluctantly, before I perish from the cold, I finally step forward into his eye-line. He softens his gaze. With a snap of his fingers he lights the encroaching darkness with a bonfire that encircles us. I take another step forward. Then, somehow, we are sitting beside each other atop the crossbar. His powers are finding their way back to his command. A parade of spectres begin to drift below. He is not happy at the sight of this carnival. This inventory of all the things he’d rather deny.
The ghosts of failure, doubt, shame, missed moments, nightmares, and illusions.

He turns to face me. Our eyes lock in. His magic has found us a way out. The song is first hidden by the hissing snakes beneath. Or maybe, it’s cloaked under my own fear. I don’t want it to be true. Its volume insists. He places my hand in his, smiles, and gently pulls me backward. Tumbling down toward the pit of snakes. Toward the Sirens song. Out of his desert landscape and into my oceanic abyss. Water engulfs us. The maelstrom drags us under. There is another sound. A pounding from an unanswered door, but we are already in this perilous churning grip of a raging sea. Death is the only way now.
The only way to be reborn.

________

Here’s another song from me and the archives.
Guitar, Vocals and Song Lyrics by Julia Allen

Letter To Zelda

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Lyric Sheet

Listen to the rain
Fall against my window
Sit in bed at noon
Listening to the traffic hiss by
Sip my tea
Write a few words in my book
Thoughts come and go
Some are lost in daydreams
Pages seem so empty today

And time, it’s not my friend today
It taunts and it teases
Like a schoolyard bully
Dreams should settle just to be dreamt
‘Cause this old body no longer wants to attempt

But I feel the push
Knocking down my door
When these songs come on
Like a sickness, like a flu
And her I am, tied to paper and pen
Until the words and music
Fill the air I breathe
Fill this empty page

And time, it’s not my friend today
It taunts and it teases
Like a schoolyard bully
Dreams should settle just to be dreamt
‘Cause this old body no longer wants to attempt

I received your letter today
I just had to laugh
Thousands of miles between us
And we’re having the same day
The same rain

I hope you enjoyed this 1st Edition of fEELiN’ ZInE

On my next podcast I have the Author of Loud Love, The Unravelling,
and his latest A Funny Thing Happened On The Way To Carcosa
sit down for a great talk about the universe.

Plus, I still have a few more songs from my vault to share.

Plus, I’m adding a shout-out section!

*On that note: if there are any angel$ in the cheering section
had a computer death.

Thanks for checking out my digital mixed-media love letter,
Julia XX’s

1. Feelin’ Zine

2. Studio Shenanigans

3. Chaos Canvas

4. Mischief Makers

5. Mayhem Muses

we found ourselves in a tie between

1. Feelin’ Zine

2. Chaos Canvas

and I mentioned that Mayhem Muses was coming up the rear … so of course there was a vote for “Coming Up The Rear”! Thanks goes out to
Also, an honourable mention goes out to for suggesting WORLD in front of any of the names. I’m still thinking about that one.

In the end fEELiN’ ZInE became the clear winner! [Insert applause]

What you will find coming into your inbox? Part zine, part mixed-tape, part podcast with guest creators. So, come on in if you like your wonder a little haunted, your creativity analogue-warm, and your stories unafraid of the dark. Here we share the slow burn magic that simmers beneath ordinary life. We are reaching for those 3 AM handwritten notes that are barely legible in the light of the day. The glitchy soundtrack with that warm cult-classic B-side vibe. You know the kind … the one that echoes the wild edges of being human.

Here’s one from me that is celebrating it’s 25th year recording!
Insomnia

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Leave on REPEAT.

Join me for written dispatches, audiobook-style readings, and podcast conversations with fellow dreamers.

If you are interested in sharing a song, photo, joke, or maybe having a sit down to talk about the quiet transmissions from that other worldly in-between space … please reach out.

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This was not the first magical story that I wrote. Nor was it the story that I thought I would begin with. The story, however, had its own plan. The first story, The Witches, had no story arc and very little character research. It just came to me. Sometimes in bits and bites, other times in a flurry. The women in this story represent the different stages of womanhood. They all have Saturn active in their lives. They are the archetypes for Maiden, Mother and Crone. The second story, The Wand Maker, came first as the name. Then I began research for the characters, location, back story. Still no story arc. Still no story. Years seem to pass while the stories remained unfinished and untold. Seemingly, out of the blue, it dawned on me that the stories were actually one story. I had no idea how their paths would braid together. I still had no idea of how these characters would meet and what kind of adventure they would encounter. Another flash. The main Witch would narrate the stories. Great! More months past with me not knowing how to meld these stories. Another flash. I pulled out my oracle cards and shuffled for my story arc. It was brilliant! It was magical! The cards unfolded in a way I would have never thought possible. I now have my story arc.

This is my introduction to you of my magical idea. The idea is that the written portion moving forward will be the story from a behind the scenes creator viewpoint. The podcast is me reading the actual story.

I invite you to come on this journey as it unfolds.