Sometimes I think
Sometimes I think too much.
Some days
Some days I need
Some days I need your touch.
One day
One day I’ll know
One day I’ll know I’m just
Nothing to you
Nothing to you but dust.
I’m tossed
I’m tossed aside
I’m tossed aside by you
I know
I know this much
I know this much is true
This heart
This heart of mine
This heart of mine does break.
It’s gone
It’s gone no more
It’s gone, no more to take.



I’m trying something new to me. For my A-Z Blog Challenge, I’m challenging myself to write a young adult story. No promises since work and life keep me pretty busy and I’m the slowest writer I know. Keep in mind this is a work in progress, a first draft, subject to many changes. I’m not looking for critiques, nor am I looking for praise. Read it if you want. Comment or don’t. In any case, I hope you enjoy it.

Continued from previous post/chapter “Beginnings”

I nCever liked the notion that I was somehow special, someone more deserving than others to live. The summer of my eleventh year, I expressed this to my mentor as we cataloged artifacts brought to us by a Traveler.

“If the Author is able to control events, why not save all the baby girls? Why was I saved?” I struggled to keep the anger out of my voice, but I failed.

Brother Phinneas didn’t answer right away. Instead, he rubbed away the dirt that had settled on a broken piece of tile. His efforts uncovered a smooth, white surface etched with swirling lines of blue. The old man set it next to a small but growing pile of tiles of the same design.

Not sure that he heard me, I was about to repeat my question. But then he answered me with a question of his own. “What do you see when you look at this pile of broken tile pieces, Alistair?”

I followed his gaze to the rubble between us. “I see broken tiles that are similar to each other. They look like they were once part of something beautiful … maybe from one of the ruined towers in the south.”

“You have learned well. Indeed, these are from the south. The Traveler carried them all the way from the ruins of London.” Brother Phinneas picked up the small piece of tile he had cleaned moments before. “Suppose all he unearthed was this one small piece. Would we know what it was? That it was part of a larger design?”

I shook my head no.

He laid the tile on the table and placed another from the pile next to it. Then another. He continued to place the tiles until most of them were arranged next to the others. Then he said, “Come. Stand next to me and tell me what you see.”

I rose from my place across from him and stood by his side. Although there were gaps and missing parts, I saw that the delicate blue lines against the white had become the petals of a rose in full bloom. “It’s beautiful,” I whispered.

“It is. If we were to evaluate just one small piece of the broken tile, we would miss the big picture. Oftentimes, Alistair, we are allowed to see only a small piece of the Author’s grand design. The piece on its own makes no sense to our limited view. But in the Author’s time, the full picture will be revealed and we will understand.”

I continued to stare at the wispy blue rose until I felt Brother Phinneas’s calloused hand on my own. His voice was softer than it had been and he sounded a bit sad, which was unusual for him. “I am just a man, dear girl. I don’t have all the answers and cannot see the reasons why things happen they way they do. I just know there is a larger plan though we don’t know what it is.”

I understood what Brother Phinneas said, but it didn’t take away the guilt I felt for being allowed to live when so many others had not. The anger within me grew and without saying so to my mentor, who I was sure would not approve, I longed to make the Hadithites pay for what they had done and were continuing to do to my people.


I’m trying something new to me. For my A-Z Blog Challenge, I’m challenging myself to write a young adult story. No promises since work and life keep me pretty busy and I’m the slowest writer I know. Keep in mind this is a work in progress, a first draft, subject to many changes. I’m not looking for critiques, nor am I looking for praise. Read it if you want. Comment or don’t. In any case, I hope you enjoy it.

Continued from previous post/chapter “Allistair”

BI mentioned that the Brothers found me at the edge of an apple orchard. Whoever left me there must have cared about me, for I was wrapped warmly and placed in a location where the Brothers visited daily. There was nobody nearby when the Brothers found me, no indication of who I was or where I came from.

Brother Phinneas said there was never any question that they would take me in and raise me in the Brotherhood. The recently widowed sister of one of the Brothers moved into the caves with her young children to nurse me and take care of me until I was old enough to start my apprenticeship at the age of five.

The fact that I was a girl was known to only a few of the Brothers. With my name and my shaved head, nobody had reason to think I was anything but a boy. I dressed like the boys who had been taken in as apprentices. I learned to read and write like the boys of the Brotherhood. And I played with them as an equal during our free time.

Even I didn’t know I was different until I began my apprenticeship with Brother Phinneas. He and the Council decided it was time I knew how I came to them and why I must keep my gender a secret. Nobody could find out, lest word got to the villages that a girl child had survived the Purge. The king would offer a large sum of money to anyone who led his warriors to a girl born of a slave.

Late at night, when I lay awake looking into the darkness of my tiny room, I wondered who my parents were. Did they know I lived? Were they still alive? Was it my grieving mother who left me to be found by the Brothers?  Or maybe a midwife whose conscience wouldn’t allow her to follow the king’s orders?

Brother Phinneas told me not to wonder about such things too often. He claimed that no matter who wrapped me up and left me in the orchard, it was the will of the Author of the Book of Life that I be spared.







I’m trying something new to me. For my A-Z Blog Challenge, I’m challenging myself to write a young adult story. No promises since work and life keep me pretty busy and I’m the slowest writer I know. Keep in mind this is a work in progress, a first draft, subject to many changes. I’m not looking for critiques, nor am I looking for praise. Read it if you want. Comment or don’t. In any case, I hope you enjoy it.


That is the name the Brothers gave me when they found me wrapped in lambswool and lying in an old woven-grass basket in the ancient apple orchard at the edge of the forest. Brother Phinneas said it was a name of strength and good character. Defender of men, young Alistair. A fine name for a boy.

I’m a girl.

I am one of the few girls left since the purge placed upon my people. The Purge. The cleansing of all females born to slaves during the rule of King Fendrel. According to the Brothers, he wasn’t the first king to order the murder of an entire generation of baby boys or girls based on a prophecy.

With almost two hundred years’ history as slaves, my people had been waiting a long time for their deliverer—a woman, barely out of childhood, who was to come from the North. She was to free her people and rid the land of the Hadithites. I  often wondered if the prophecy was true. Why hadn’t she come yet? How long must my people suffer?

My people. Who are my people? In truth, I didn’t feel like a part of any people. I was raised with the Brothers and they were the only people I felt connected to. We share the same ancestors, though they are descendants of the Cumbrian Tribe.

The Brothers are the keepers of events—both past and yet to come. With lives dedicated to recording history and foretelling the future, they are among the few in the land who can read and write. And these skills had been taught to their young apprentices since the first fall of civilization.

Feared by the Hadithites because of their ability to bring curses and plagues upon the land, the Brotherhood had been left to their own devices. I never saw any of the Brothers cast out curses or plagues, and when I asked Brother Phinneas about it, his answer was almost as baffling as the idea itself.

“Knowledge, my dear Alistair. Knowledge is magic to the ignorant and power over the weak.” He chuckled quietly as he rolled the parchment he had been working on.

I sealed the writing dye and gave that some thought. “If the Brothers have power through their knowledge, why don’t they take care of the Hadithites themselves instead of waiting for a Northland woman to do it?”

Brother Phinneas was used my questions and never grew angry at what some of the other Brothers called impertinence. “Because it’s been written that a girl will lead the way. We cannot force the hand of the Author of Life. That tactic always ends in catastrophe. History is proof of that.”

“But how do you know the prophecies are true, Brother Phinneas?” I had asked this question before and knew what his answer would be, but I asked again, hoping this time the answer would work some magic and convince me.

The old man rubbed his shaved head, as he was in the habit of doing before saying something he was passionate about. “History, child. The prophecies have always come to pass; why would I doubt those that have yet to be fulfilled?”

I wished I had his faith.

Copyright 2016, Sara A. Jones/ES Oakes

So Happy to be a Part of This!

bite-sized offerings1Final
Cover Art by André Vazquez

Bite-Sized Offerings: Tales & Legends of the Zombie Apocalypse

I haven’t blogged for a while (surprise, surprise). My excuse? The same excuse most people have for not doing the things they enjoy—work. For me, that means editing and proofreading. That is a good thing…no, that’s a great thing. I enjoy doing what I do and I love the people I get to work with.

If you didn’t already know this, the independent author community is filled with some of the most generous, kind people I’ve met. Ever. Sure, there are a few bad apples in the barrel, just like in any community, but I won’t go there.

Tonight, I’m going to focus on some good ones…specifically, the ones who gave their time, creative talents, money, and support to a project designed to help a friend, whose daughter needs heart valve replacement surgery.

The friend: A supporter, provider of encouragement, friend, and promoter of many independent authors who write dystopian and post-apocalypse fiction. This beautiful woman goes out of her way to help others when needs arise. She has organized auctions, online fundraising, and gives financially when she can. She is a generous soul.

The reason: Emalee.
She is Mysti’s thirteen-year-old daughter. Em has an extra chromosome. That means she was born with Down Syndrome. Em has had several surgeries in her young life and will soon be going through one of the most important surgeries of them all. She needs her heart valve replaced. As we all know, not all medical expenses are covered through insurance. There are many expenses that those with a chronically ill child pay out-of-pocket: second and third opinions, specialists, travel…just to name a few.

Almost everyone needs help at some time in their life. This is one of those times for Mysti and her family.

The project: Bite-Sized Offerings: Tales & Legends of the Zombie Apocalypse

The Background: This all began from a casually tossed out idea on Facebook. I used my author page to start a conversation about zombie fiction for kids. I was lamenting the lack of good, age-appropriate zombie books for my sons and former students who love zombies. A friend and fellow author…we’ll call her Lori (cuz that’s her name) threw out the idea of putting together an anthology of zombie stories for kids.

I must have been in my I-can-conquer-the-world mode, because I thought it sounded like a great idea. But only if the money—assuming the book would sell—went to a kid-related charity. But which one? Who would be the beneficiary of our vast wealth? Who could use a whopping five bucks?

Lori suggested Mysti. It was one of those moments when you say, “Of course! Why didn’t I think of that?” Emalee and her brother, Mason, love zombies. It was meant to be.

Then I put it on the back burner. Exit: I-can-conquer-the-world-and-everyone-in-it mode; Enter: I-want-to-hide-from-the-world-and-live-in-a-dark-cave mode. 

Fortunately, Lori, a dynamo of a woman, wouldn’t let it go. She got the ball rolling and I got excited about it again. I envision it like this: Lori packed a fistful of ice, rolled it over one author, who said, “Heck ya! I want to be a part of this!” She grazed it past another author, who also said yes! Those authors rolled the ball over more authors who wanted to help Mysti. And it grew. It…ready for this?…it snowballed. I’m a So Cal native; humor me while I talk about something I know nothing about.

Before we knew what was happening, more authors stepped up, wanting to be a part. Why? Mysti; that’s why. 

I’ll spare you all the wonderful details…the contracts, the editing, deciding on a title, working with the cover artist, etc. The bottom line is, we ended up with thirty-four awesome zombie stories. Each one is unique. All of them are appropriate for middle school-aged kids. The quality of the stories make the book appealing to all fans of zombie fiction.

All profit goes to Mysti to help with Emalee’s health- and surgery-related expenses.

The contributors:  From three different countries, all different backgrounds, and with different takes on the zombie apocalypse. One common goal: to help a mutual friend in need.

W.J. LundyShawn ChesserArmand RosamiliaTed NultyMichael RobertsonHeath StallcupSaul TanpepperMike EvansBrian ParkerJ. RudolphT.W. PiperbrookVeronica SmithJack WallenA.R. ShawJohn Gregory HancockWilliam AllenMichelle BryanP Mark DeBryanS.G. LeeJames DeanShannon WaltersShaun PhelpsJoseph CautilliMarisha CautilliEdward P CardilloAdrianne LemkeToni L.H BoughtonH.J. HarryJeffrey ClareChris BosticRich BakerCedric NyeGreg P. FerrellAllen GamboaLori FontanezE.S. OakesAndrew KishTorchbearer Editing Services

Z is for ZaniLa

Z is for ZaniLa

The ZaniLa Rhyme is a form created by Laura Lamarca. It has 4 lines in each stanza.
The rhyme scheme ABCB; the syllable count is 9/7/9/9.
Line 3 contains an internal rhyme and is repeated but switch alternately with each stanza.
It has a minimum of 3 stanzas. 

Steel Like You

I see the steel bars on the window
and there are locks on the door
I hold the key and I can be free
but do I want to give any more?

What is left unsaid, others will claim
and what I can’t give, you steal
I can be free and I hold the key
but is it too late for us to heal?

A generous heart that is tender
bound in a soul that is true
I hold the key and I can be free
but I never want to be like you.

V is for Villanelle

A Villanelle is a nineteen-line poem. The rhyming scheme is aba aba aba aba aba abaa.

The first and the third lines in the first stanza repeat throughout the poem. Both lines appear in the last two lines.
(Source: Shadow Poetry

**After writing this, I decided I don’t like this style poem. Maybe it’s that I’m not doing it right, but it’s very cumbersome to me**

We All Fall Down

We all fall down, our souls to bare
We sang of ashes and hit the ground
Take my hand; I’ll meet you there

A child’s game we used to share
But ashes fall and they make no sound
We all fall down, our souls to bare

What must I do to show I care?
For in the ashes I, too, have drowned
Take my hand; I’ll meet you there

We played with songs of ladies fair
Along with ashes, bridges are bound
We all fall down, our souls to bare

When you need to come up for air
From ashes and rubble all around
Take my hand; I’ll meet you there

You look for peace upon your lair
Among these ashes I will be found
We all fall down, our souls to bare
Take my hand; I’ll meet you there


Ring around the rosie
a pocket full of posie
ashes, ashes
we all fall down.


London Bridge is falling down
falling down
falling down
London Bridge is falling down
My fair lady

H is for Huckleberry Haiku

H is for Huckleberry Haiku

Photo courtesy of my aunt & uncle who live in Spokane. They sent this to me last summer to torment me.
Photo courtesy of my aunt & uncle who live in Spokane. They sent this to me last summer to torment me.

For the letter H last year, my post was called “H is for Horizon Haiku.” I figured I’d do another haiku, but
I’d switch the object of the little poem to my favorite berries. I love huckleberries, but sadly, I live in an area where they do not grow.

Huckleberry Haiku

The taste of summer
bursting out from shades of blue
lingers on my lips