July 28, 2014
She traced her finger along the base of my scalp, right above the nape of my neck. I flinched. She said nothing, but the wordless condemnation blared out loud and clear in my head.
I should have known I couldn’t part my hair in a straight line. What was I thinking, putting my hair in pigtails?
My mother’s icy finger, still pointing and jeering at my pounding head, underlined the truth I already knew.
My pigtail attempt, like so many other efforts in my life, was a failure.
This one was written ten years ago, way back in middle school! I think Mini Maria was a little cheesy… đ
The King of Cheese by Maria Ferguson
This is a story about the King of Cheese. Thatâs why it is entitled âThe King of Cheese.â If it wasnât about the King of Cheese, I might have called it âUnicorn Pasturesâ or âA Day at School.â However, this story is about a king, a mouse, who rules over cheese (quite literally, in fact).
The assignment: write a story that somehow incorporates the fall of Rome.
It could have been a couple of pages long. I certainly don’t think it was intended to be longer than three or maybe four. I gave my teacher seven single-spaced pages. Eight, if you include the (not required) cover page. I dunno why, but I took the prompt and ran with it. I toyed with the idea of developing it into a book or writing a sequel story, but it never happened. Feast your eyes upon the historical fiction of junior high school Maria!
Note: I fought off my urge to edit, so it’s basically untouched since 7-8 years ago. Do let me know what you think of it, I’d love to hear your thoughts. I have several critiques for junior high Maria, but I’m going to hold off for now so I can hear what you think first.
Without bothering to remove his mud-smudged armor, Claudius stormed angrily into his tent and threw himself upon his cot. What had Aurelian been thinking? Aurelian, the leader and general of the rebel Roman army, had once again lost a battle against Rome due to his arrogance. How had it happened? Why had Aurelian let it happen? Claudius asked himself heatedly. But he knew perfectly well how and why they had been defeated.
The Capsule
Written circa 2006.
One morning, Marie Kaline woke up to her mother shaking her. âMarie! Wake up! Mitchell disappeared last night!â Mitchell was their next door neighbor.  It was only eight oâclock in the morning and already the day was disastrous. Marie gasped. âWhat happened?â she asked. âDo you know?â âNo,â her mother replied, âbut he was kidnapped…His mother just phoned. She wants us to go to their house. Now hurry and get dressed.â In a few minutes, Marie and Mrs. Kaline were on their way. Mitchellâs mother met them at the door. Her black hair, normally neat, was uncombed. Her cheerful face was now white with worry. Continue reading
Written in 5th/6th grade, this fictional short story is a chilling tale of  unashamed info-dumps, family dynamic stereotypes, and predictable…holy mother of  Martin THAT’s the ending?!
The assignment was to write a scary story, I believe. Hyperdetailed prologue notwithstanding, there was no part of the prompt  that required us to name every single one of our extraneous secondary characters.
THE GHOST SHIP
Prologue
Pete was the sixth child in a family of seven children. The three oldest kids, Matthew, Rob, and Katie were in high school and they were much too proud of it. They were very arrogant, and they would often pick on their younger siblings. The only one of his siblings that was actually nice to him was the fourth child in the family, Mark. His younger brother Teddy looked up to him, and Mary, the fifth child in the family, was completely indifferent to his existence. They would all often make fun of him.
***
Pete had an odd birthmark on the back of his left hand. It was pale and it almost seemed to shimmer at night, but in the morning, he was hardly able to see it. Sometimes it would seem large and perfectly round, sometimes it would seem rather thin and curved, and sometimes, even late at night, he wouldnât be able to see it at all. His older brothers teased him about it a lot, and he felt very resentful towards them. Continue reading
The second edition of Al(m)as is here! A heart-wrenching tale of sibling love in a broken family, Al(m)as explores the power of the imagination to overcome all obstacles.
I promise it’s a short story — less than half an hour to read, and in convenient PDF form to read on or offline on all devices. Read it by clicking the image on my blog’s right sidebar, or
READ IT RIGHT HERE:Â Al(m)as, 2nd edition
This project is very close to my heart and I’m looking for any and all kinds of critiques, as I mentioned when I first published it. If you read it, I’ll love you forever. If you read it AND give feedback, well, we might just have to get married or something.
READÂ MY STORY:Â Al(m)as
DA DA-DA-DA DAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA! [insert loud, obnoxious fanfare here]
Al(m)as has arrived!
Here is a promotional blurb from my Number 1 Fan:
I was glued to the story from the start.
A simple “fairy tale” story that the brother told over and over for various reasons — i.e., comfort, helping to fall asleep, hiding from the reality of their father’s addiction — turned into a powerful reality for the little girl who will not be held down.
The end gives a sense that she will thrive in life and be a inspiration to all who meet her in her future life. In spite of a tragic occurrence, the ending of this uplifting tale creates not despair, but optimism.
That, my friends, is a good story.
I swear, we were just minding our own business, having our Sunday stroll through Kennedy Park. Clara and me, holding hands, like we always do. I was on the right, she was on the left. Like always.
I don’t remember what we were talking about. Nothing important, just chatting. God, she’s beautiful, I remember thinking. I was so wrapped up in her presence, her being, her scent, I didn’t even see it coming.
*
It was a gorgeous day to walk in Kennedy. Spring was in the air: birds chirping, green leaves swaying in the breeze, kids running around laughing. The wind caressed my hair, Tom held my hand in his, and all was right in the world.
I smiled at the little old lady sitting on a park bench. She was knitting something red this time. We walked by her every Sunday. By now I felt like I knew her, even though we had never exchanged a word. She looked like such a dear, sweet woman, right up until the moment she lunged at my husband. I can’t imagine what came over her.
*
Click click, click click, click click, go my needles. Red rum, red rum, red rum. I grin. Funny. Glance up. That couple again. Happy. Woman smiles at me. Always smiles.
Man doesn’t smile. Dirty man. No smiles for old auntie. Red rum, red rum, red rum.
My needle finds its mark. Tears on man’s face. Good. Tears cleanse the soul. Red yarn the color of fresh blood. Yes. Red rum, red rum, red rum.
Writing 101, Day 9: A man and a woman walk through the park together, holding hands. They pass an old woman sitting on a bench. The old woman is knitting a small, red sweater. The man begins to cry. Write this scene.
Todayâs twist: write the scene from three different points of view: from the perspective of the man, then the woman, and finally the old woman.
New to this story? Read Part 1.
Patrick raced down the sidewalk, sweat trickling down his back. As he came within sight of his house he skidded to a halt. There, across the street, sat Nellie, playing in the flowers in their front yard.
New to this story? Read Part 1.
Patrick rubbed the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, leaving a smudge of bike grease above his right eyebrow. This was ridiculous. They had been at it for hours — the “quick” bike repair was proving to be anything but. He was opening his mouth to tell Mark he could not stay much longer when his cell phone rang. It was his father. Patrick grimaced and flipped his phone open.
Behold the Infinite 
