John Clark offering his maybe, almost, annual story prompts for your edification and pillaging. Feel free to choose one or more and create a story. In the past, I’ve turned a couple into books, and another into a long story. Who knows what might happen this time around. A few of these actually happened. Can you guess which ones?
1-Millie Folsom peeled a hard boiled egg, part of her usual morning routine, while gazing abstractedly out her kitchen window. Something had disturbed her sleep, but she couldn’t remember anything in her dreams that might have triggered her tired and uneasy state. She nearly dropped the egg when she spotted a large jagged home in the ice covering Simonton Pond. It was surrounded by an irregular swath of what looked like soot.
2-Precise was a word that fitted Eldora Millington perfectly. No one dared refer to her prized instrument as a fiddle. When someone foolishly did so, she corrected then in a voice that could terrify even the meanest schoolyard bully. It was a violin, thankyouverymuch, and she played it flawlessly, just like she disposed of the bodies her secret and extremely lucrative contract bound her to.
3-At the book sale a dark green volume had a yellowed slip of paper sticking out. “Go to page 76.” On it was an image that looked like a cross between a garden gnome and a leprechaun When it spoke, life changed in a heartbeat.
4-Al fumbled for his phone, eyes closed, head throbbing. Six months of sobriety gone. He hit his sponsor’s number. The call failed to go through, as did several more to friends. He tried them again, same result. The operator’s response chilled him. “Sir, you’re trying to call people in San Diego, California. Please add the correct area code.” Al braved the terrible wave of nausea as he stood and staggered to the window to see derelict trailers surrounded by dirty snow. Where the hell was he?
5-A voice in the darkness rang out, singing “Cockles and Mussels, Alive, Alive O.” Things got worse quickly.
6-Still, I remember it well, the year of abundant broccoli and unfettered foolishness
7-It was shortly after the first strange tree appeared that I noticed my early morning regulars weren’t showing up for coffee at the diner.
8-It was the day I realized why they were called sweat socks.
9-Gram tensed and looked at my grandfather before throwing the bubbling coffee pot through the kitchen window. “That’s the last I want to hear of it.”
10-”Political correctness in soda flavors, what the hell does that mean?” I asked. Maura raised one perfect eyebrow before saying, “You’ll soon see for yourself.
Two days later, at nine on a gloomy, overcast Saturday morning with thundershowers in the forecast, I was at home trying to work on a short story sent to me by a new client when I was struck by a wave of nostalgia. For once, this was not prompted by a memory of growing up in Lenape Hollow, but rather by the realization that it was the third Saturday in April and for the second year in a row I was going to miss seeing the Kenduskeag Stream Canoe Race on TV.
I’m absolutely savoring the stories in 
I finished Henry Wise’s debut novel, 
A VIOLENT MASTERPIECE
I am so excited about Ryan Lowell, a writer is based in South Portland by way of Bucksport. His debut novel FREIGHT coming out August 11. The blurb reads, “As a lone semi-truck makes its snowy way to the US-Canadian border, a series of vivid characters are inexorably drawn into a desperate, comedic, and murderous scheme to steal its precious cargo.” You can preorder yours 
I had a blast at the Seacoast Noir at the Bar hosted at the Kittery Dance Hall hosted by Zakariah Johnson. The highlight was when Carolyn Wilkins shared a song about murder that accompanied her historical mystery, MURDER AT THE WHAM BAM CLUB. If you haven’t been to events at the Kittery Dance Hall, I’d really encourage you to check the place out. I heard there is a delightful little bar nearby that serves up literary themed beverages. The event was a hit and Zakariah’s looking to plan another one in October.
The amazing Katie York hosted a Noir at the Bar at Kanù in Old Town to a standing room crowd. Local writers like Katie, Cory Magee, and Anne Britting Olson were there along with EK Sathue, Matt Cost, Zakariah Johnson, and yours truly. All the readers were amazing but Katie’s voice – her combination of dark humor and unexpected content – is always a treat. And the way she reads in front of a crowd. Take note of her name.
Sanford Emerson, husband of Kaitlyn Dunnett/Kathy Lynn Emerson has had a new mystery novel published in e-book and paperback formats. Here’s the cover copy:
She moved to Chicago and (in three years) worked her way up to the Main Stage of Second City – one of the premiere comedy sketch venues in USA.
Now, Lil’s back living in LA, she performed at UCB (Upright Citizens Brigade). UCB is ALL improv (not written sketches that you memorize and then might jump off from), so it’s about knowing the technique of how to get a beginning, middle and end and making a cohesive piece of comedy that will hold together just using your chops and thinking on your feet.
I’ve met a lot of her ‘comedy’ friends and, off-stage, they are a very serious bunch. They work their asses off and commit to an insane writing schedule. They’re writing/observing/working on ideas all the time, ‘cause comedy and sketches can be ephemeral – if they are topical, they may only live in one performance, if they are more based on ebbs and flows and oddities of humankind, they can last longer and be tweaked and repeated. But you always want to give the audience “the new” –
This April trip was planned so we (hubby and I) could see the next installment of this play – it was wild fun with live “foley” (sound effects), a theatre of 200 which was sold-out (which is good because she wrote it with another person and they produced it too and thus get a cut of the house – a mini-mini-mini-ka-ching).
Brenda Buchanan sets her novels and short stories in Maine. Her three-book Joe Gale series features a contemporary newspaper reporter with old-school style who covers the courts and crime beat at the fictional Portland Daily Chronicle. Brenda’s short story, “Means, Motive, and Opportunity,” was included in the anthology Bloodroot: Best New England Crime Stories 2021 and received an honorable mention in Best American Mystery and Suspense 2022. A short story called “Cape Jewell,” was published in Snakeberry: Best New England Crime Stories 2025, and another short story “Crime of Devotion” will be published next month in Murder Most Senior, an anthology presented by Jacqueline Winspear in association with the Malice Domestic conference.
I am not exaggerating when I say this has been the coldest, windiest winter I can remember. That’s saying a lot, given that in the 2007-2008 snow season, over 200” of white stuff fell in my backyard. Don’t believe me? Even the squirrels prayed for a respite. We didn’t have much snow this year, enough to keep the snow-dependent industries happy, but the wind! Oh, my. Twice I chased my wheeled garbage bin down Route 11 when the wind whipped it from my hand. Another time, the wind took my shovel and sent it flying like a kite into the woods when I was on the upswing. Note to self -next life, have kids. Let them handle these tasks. I’m not complaining, though. It’s the price we pay for the clear blue skies that complement our snowy landscape. That’s winter.
March in Maine is the cruelest month. Doesn’t matter if it comes in like a lion or a lamb, it’s going to hurt you. Big time. The entire month is a plot hatched by Mother Nature to make us earn the soft breezes of spring. Temperatures range from 50 above to 10 below zero, often in one day. Morning snow turns to rain in the afternoon and ice overnight. We live on a hill. I’ve worn the back out of more than one pair of jeans by losing my footing with the first step into the dooryard and scooting halfway down the driveway and finding a landing site. Getting back up the hill is even more amusing. It’s the time of year when I long for any colors other than white and gray.
The previous owners planted bougainvillea around the pool fence. The colors are magnificent, but the plants have long, sharp thorns, and no one ever included our house on the annual senior graduation pool walk bacchanal.
The previous owners also planted the oleander. Gotta wonder what they were thinking. The entire plant, from roots to leaves to flowers, is toxic. In the 1950s, Florida planted them on highway medians. Pretty, but deadly.
We think the birds planted the honeysuckle in the live oak. It blooms in January. This one was right outside our bedroom, and the scent was amazing. I’m deathly allergic to bees, and bees flock to honeysuckle, but honeybees don’t sting so we got along quite well.
