The Patchwork Imp.

A short story I wrote 11 years ago in response to a challenge using three different items, before my concussion and memory loss. I just ran across it. Thought I would share today, as it seems appropriate.
The Patchwork Imp

“This story takes place long, long ago in…”

         “It wasn’t that long ago.”

         “It was long enough ago that I can say it was long ago.”

         “But you said long, long, which would make it very long ago, and we both know it wasn’t that long ago.”

         “I am telling this story, and I can…”

         “I mean, really, if you say two longs together then it would make people think…TILLY!”


         “Stop that! Why are you banging your head on the table like that?”


         “Seriously, your nose will never be the same.”










         “Want some freshly cracked walnut?”

         “Tolly, you are the most insufferable so and so I know.” Tilly rubbed his forehead, brushing off walnut shell and gently touching his throbbing nose.

         “Are you going to get along with this story or what?” Tolly munched on a bit of walnut as he looked upon his brother with a bemused expression.

         “As I was saying, this story takes place a long, long time ago.” Tilly stared pointedly at Tolly, almost daring him to say something. Tolly held up both hands, palms facing Tilly, as if to say, “It’s all yours.”

         “And,” Tilly continued, “is called the ‘Imp in the Patchwork Quilt’.”

         “Oh, that was a long, long time ago. I thought you were going to tell a different story.”  Tolly smiled broadly at the exasperated look on his brother’s face.

         “If you are finished I shall now continue.”


The castle was placed some distance from the village, on a slight rise that could not really be called a hill, but those of the village of course always referred to it as such. With a storm cloud covered sky the castle was nearly invisible. Flashes of lightening revealed stark images of white stone walls and towers. The road leading from the majestic doors of the castle, down through the gate past the gatekeeper’s house, and on into the village was now a muddy mass. Any attempts to make passage this very late evening would be difficult.

The same lightening that lit up the walls of Dolain Castle also lit up the home of one not so much accustomed to the opulent surroundings of those residing in the castle. No, Bill Ogawaner, the local weaver, and his family had lived in their small cottage for many generations now. In fact, his family had lived in the village for so long the family of the castle had only asked that they provide one item per year to pay their taxes. The castle was filled with the best rugs and garments woven and sewn by the family. Their quality was known far and wide.

“Bill, it’s too dangerous. The walls, the tops are to sharp. They could pierce your flesh. Please, there must be another way.”  The woman was neither old nor young, but the strain of the moment was etched into her face as though a sculptor had formed a masterpiece of misery.

“This is the only way, Mary. If we don’t get it back, the Ogawaner family will lose its place and cease to exist here.  We must get it back.”

Mary knew there was no point in further discussion.  Once an Ogawaner made a decision there was no changing his mind. She moved to the window and stared out into the dark night, twisting the kerchief in her hands with worry.

For generations on end the Ogawaner family had been the weavers of the village, and that was now in danger if their mission failed this dark and dreary night. With each flash that blazed across the sky, she could see Dolain Castle in the distance.  If you had been standing next to her that night, at that window, you might have heard the words she whispered; “Please, Amanda, hurry back with good news.”


“Not much longer and all of the power that is rightfully mine will once again be within my grasp, and I owe it all to this colorful piece of cloth, and its decorative little figure.” The voice was youthful but filled with a maniacal menace.

         “Oooo…’maniacal menace’…good one.”

        “Thank you.”

        “Any time, Tilly, please continue.”

“Yes, sire.  It has been too long of an existence in this current state of… living.”  The tall, dignified man stood in the background, not imposing himself into his master’s cherished space.

“Horace, have you ever seen something so intriguing and so powerful all encompassed in one item?” The Duke barely touched the quilt hanging above the fireplace. His eyes focused on the broad-faced, pointy eared figure in the center. Its eyes were dark, matching the shaggy hair covering its head.

“Sire, I have witnessed many things in the employ of your father and grandfather. Intriguing and powerful tend to fall into the laps of your lineage.” Horace spoke with authority. After having worked for three generations of Dukes of Borog, he had earned the right to speak in a forthright manner.

“I know how you served them, Horace, but in all that time you could never have come across an Imp trapped inside of a patchwork quilt. With the next ray of sun to fall upon these delicate threads, my life will be become what it should be.” The glint in the young Duke Borog’s eyes was not contributed to the flames of the fire burning intensely within the room. No, this spark was one of greed.

“Yes sire, most assuredly so.” Horace had become bored with the repeated tirades of the young Duke in regards to the imp, the quilt, and his masters current state of affairs.

Detecting a hint of the exasperation in his servant’s voice, the Duke turned toward Horace. “Horace, it is best that you rememb—”

At that moment a loud blast from a bugle could be heard coming from outside. The Duke jumped, startled at the sound.  “Blasted! Insufferable poof, and at this time of the night.” The Duke stormed out of the door.

The carriage was magnificent, even in the rainy, muddy night. From the doorway of the gatehouse the Duke of Borog stared out at the sight of his cousin safe and dry inside the carriage.

“Hello, cousin! Be so kind as to open the gate for us to make our way through. There is an engagement in the village we are to attend and we really cannot bother with soiling our clothing in all of this mud, and neither can our driver.” The Earl of Dolain called out to his cousin.

“I am not your gate boy… cousin.”  The Duke stood firm in his resolve to not do the bidding of his lesser titled cousin, no matter the precariousness of his situation.

“Oh, come now, cousin. Do this one favor for your favorite, and most hospitable relation.” The Earl knew the Duke was in no position to make much of a resistance. Without the Earl, the younger noble would be without a home. Oh how far and hard the arrogant do fall.

The Duke felt a slight nudge as Horace moved past him in the doorway. Without rushing his steps or bending his head, the dignified servant made his way to the gate and opened it wide for the carriage to pass through.

When Horace turned back, after securing the gate, the door to the gatehouse was closed and the Duke was back inside, most likely before his newly acquired prize. A strange something came to the eye of Horace, a spark perhaps? If the young Duke had been there, he would not have noticed. He only observed what he wanted to see. Even if he had glimpsed the form he would not have known what to make of it. The Duke’s father and grandfather would have. They had seen Horace when he had felt his worth had been questioned. But it was not lost on everyone. The almost imperceptible black form eased away from the gatehouse and toward the village.


The Earl’s carriage rolled through the village, mud splattering in plumes from behind. “The carriage just passed, Bill.”

“She should not be long.” The weaver was preparing a bag with items he thought he would need. “Mary, have you seen my rope?”

“It’s holding up your pants, dear.”

“Hmm, okay then, explain where the digging spoon is.” Bill had a smirk on his face as he looked at his wife.

The hint of twinkle in his eyes did not escape her detection. “And why will you be needing the spoon?  It’s doubtful he has buried it, or do you plan to dig under the wall?”

“You never know what you need until you need it. I aim to be prepared.”

Suddenly they heard a flapping noise and looked down at the floor. There stood a black cat shaking its head, ridding itself of the rain covering its body. The flapping noise was its ears batting about from the shaking.

“Amanda! Dear me, you gave us a fright. Such a night and you all sneaky like.” Mary held her hand to her chest.

“Never mind her, what did you find out?” Bill was of a single minded nature this evening.

“Only the Duke and Horace are there. The quilt is hanging over the fire in the gatehouse.” The cat moved its small head back and forth as it spoke.

“Horace is really the only threat at all. The Duke is all puff,” Bill said.

“The Duke is more than that, father. He is unbalanced in the mind. I worry about your safety,” Amanda said to Bill.

         “Father? Now how could a cat be the daughter of a weaver? I mean the thought boggles the mind.”

        “Tolly, you have heard the story before. You know how it happened.”

        “How what happened?” Tolly was busy cracking walnuts and focusing on removing the bits of shell from the edible goody part. “Ever noticed how they look like brains? And they call it meat?”

        “Focus! You know how the cat could be Bill’s daughter.”

        “Come now Tilly, you know it’s all because of the Duke having—”

        “Tolly, hush or you will spoil it for them.”

        “Them who?”

        “The ones reading this.”

        “Oohhh… okay.”

        “All through?”

        “Of course. Waiting on you to get on with it.”

        Tilly looked at his brother, exasperated.


“We have no other choice,” began Bill, “if we want things back to normal… if you want to be a little girl again… we must get in there before dawn.”

Amanda gazed at her father, looking him up and down. “Father, I am concerned about you and the wall. I have no problem, in my present form, but you will face difficulties.”

“I may no longer be a young boy, leaping and bounding across the countryside, but I can still get around, young lady.” Amanda and Mary looked at each other. Bill was a large man. The rope was much needed in the assistance of keeping his pants up.

Amanda knew how stubborn the Ogawaner bloodline could be. She was one of them. “In that case, there is no use wasting time. Let us go now.” Amanda was ready to be a little girl again.


“Oh, yes—yes—yes—this is going to be the best, don’t you think so Horace?” Duke Borog rubbed his hands gleefully. The storm had passed, and stars could be seen in the night sky.

Horace had changed into dry clothes, and was preparing a hot drink to warm himself with. He looked upon the young Duke with a changed eye. He had respected the young man’s father and grandfather. They had been men of character and compassion. This one. He had dishonored the title and was close to ruining the family name beyond repair. “Sire, I believe this is the best thing to happen to you.” But it was his family’s duty to serve and guide the house of Borog.

“Look at that sky. It is destiny, I tell you. As soon as the sun breaks the horizon, I will be powerful once again.” Duke Borog’s attire would not have given anyone the image of power. He had changed for bed and he wore footed pajamas.

         “Wait a minute, Tilly. You are telling me that this grown up Duke wore footed pajamas to bed?”

         “Yes. Yes he did. As you already knew.”

         “Ooookay then.”

“Your cookies and milk sire.”

“Yay. I love the dinosaur shaped ones. There are dinosaur shaped ones, aren’t’ there?”


“Double yay!”


“Watch your step, woman.” Bill’s grouchy voice could be heard through the dripping branches as he, Mary, and Amanda made their way through the small woods that lay between the main road to the village and the gatehouse wall.

“Oh you are one to talk, you big footed clod.” Even though Mary knew her husband was only worried and a bit fearful, Mary was not in the mood to tolerate any of his complaining. She was soaked to the skin and mud was all in her shoes. “Dear me,” she thought, “What will the ladies say when they see these at tomorrow’s tea?”

Amanda didn’t like the rain either, but she was having an easier go of it than her parents. As a cat, she was a smaller and lighter, so didn’t sink into the mud. In fact, she was able to avoid the mud all together. There were some good things about being a cat; climbing through trees, seeing in the dark, and having no chores to do. Being a cat wasn’t all bad.

“Amanda, what do you see?” Her father had slowed, and become quiet as they had moved deeper into the woods.

“Footed pajamas.”


“The Duke wears footed pajamas.”

“Did you say footed pajamas?” Bill’s eyes widened.


“I am wondering if I should be surprised or not.”

“He isn’t exactly normal.”

“Yes, he is nothing like his father. The Duke was an honorable man. No one could ride a horse like him.”

“I doubt this one has ever even been on a horse.” Amanda stared into the side window from her tree branch. “He doesn’t like animals. Of any kind.”

“Hush you two.” Mary was nervous enough as it was without the thought of her noisy family alerting those in the gatehouse of their presence.

“Why worry about the Duke? He will likely be in bed soon and never listens to anything other than himself.” Amanda turned to look at her parents.

“It’s Horace I am concerned about. He is the smart one. He served the previous Dukes well.”

“We can wait until he turns in, Mary. Hopefully that will be soon.”

“First we must tackle the wall.” Mary focused on one task at a time.

Amanda looked at the gleaming white structure before her.  It was no problem for a cat, but for her immense father it would pose a problem.

“Those spikes will be the largest obstacle.” Bill stared at the pointy topped wall.

“You can do it, Dad.” Amanda was always one for encouragement.

“Can we dig under the wall?” Mary knew her husband’s limitations.

“We do have the digging spoon.” Bill pulled out the black spoon.

“I don’t think we have the time it would take to dig with that.” Amanda looked at the tiny spoon with a lack of enthusiasm.

“Oh really?” Bill smiled and placed the spoon at the bottom of the wall. “Dig.”

“Whoa.” Amanda could not believe it. The spoon came to life and earth flew as if a whirlwind had blown in. It was not long before a large hole formed below the wall and Bill crawled through.

         “Digging spoon?  Tilly is this the same digging spoon fr—”

         “Tolly, hush. You spoil everything.”

“Well?” Bill rose to his feet on the other side of the wall and looked at Amanda. “They seem to only whitewash that side of the wall. The boards on this side are dried and almost brittle looking. Our pickets at home look far better.”

“This is no time to critique the Dukes whitewashing abilities. We need to hurry.” Mary called through the hole from the other side of the wall.

“Be careful, you could get a nasty splinter. Imagine the pain and agony that would be.”

Mary made her way under the wall. Her husband helped her to stand. “Now that the hard part is done, let’s get what we came for so we can once again look forward to a promising future. Together. As a family.”

“This way.” Amanda moved slowly toward a window with a faint light drifting from it. “I don’t see anyone.”

“Now to get inside.”

Amanda looked at her father and then the window, and then back at her father. The digging spoon couldn’t wedge her Bill through that entrance. “The front door is probably best, as the Duke and Horace sleep in the rooms at the rear of the gatehouse.”

Amanda leaped through the window and made her way quietly to the front door. It took some doing, what with having paws instead of hands, but she opened the door for her parents.

“I sure wish the Earl had left earlier. It will be sunrise soon.” Bill’s voice was a laughable attempt at a whisper. Anyone awake would have heard him. Even from outside.

“Dad, be quiet, you will wake them up.”

“OOOO, look, some nice pastry, and Horace even has the pot on for some coffee. Most considerate, it was a long journey.” Bill picked up one of the fruit filled pastries and took a bite. “mmmmm”

“Bill.” Mary punched her husband on the shoulder. “You are too loud.”

“I believe the rather robust fellow was just loud enough.” Amanda and Mary jumped and Bill froze with a bite of pastry at his lips. Horace had walked in.

“I suppose you are here for that?” Horace pointed to the Imp quilt above the fireplace.

Amanda jumped on a table and stared at Horace. “Yes we are. It belongs to us.”

“I imagine that depends on how you look at it. The Duke had it made, although I dare say the subject matter belongs to you.”  Amanda being able to speak didn’t seem to faze Horace at all.

“You know what awful things the Duke will do with it.”


“Oh, wonderful, it awakens.” Horace mumbled and rolled his eyes at the sound of the Duke’s voice.

“You know I want to be fresh for the sunrise. What is the meaning of this noise?”

“We have visitors, sire.”


That is when things really began to pick up. Everyone’s ears perked up, so to speak, well actually Amanda’s did perk up, as they heard the sound of morning, a rooster crowed.

“Horace, pull open the curtains.” The Duke grabbed the quilt from above the fireplace.

Somehow Horace bumped into Bill’s roped bound figure and fell. However, he still grabbed the curtain on the way down, and it fell with him.

“No!” Bill took the coffee and threw the hot liquid at the window.  As the sunlight hit the panes of glass, the brown liquid distorted the light so it was blocked from entering the room and falling on the quilt.

The Duke grabbed the quilt and started to run toward the door, but Amanda ran through his legs and tripped him. Mary jumped on him in the only offensive action she knew, utilizing her abundantly padded backside. The Duke let go of the quilt as Mary landed her weapon squarely in the middle of the Duke’s back. A great oomph of air was expelled from his body.

Bill was still trying to keep the sunlight from entering the room, while Mary attempted to climb to her feet. Amanda grabbed the quilt in her teeth and ran for the front door that still stood open. The Duke made to grab for her, but a boot slammed down on his hand.


“Pardon me, sire. I was trying to capture the little beast.” Amanda looked over her shoulder as she ran out the door. She would swear for years to come that Horace winked at her that day.

“Noooo!” The Duke’s voice was filled with agony. He could see the sunlight hit the quilt through the doorway.

The quilt glowed, and began to float in the air as Amanda released it. It began to spin, faster and faster. There was a flash of light so bright it hurt to look at it.

The quilt was gone and in its place floated a small Imp boy.

The Imp boy looked at Amanda. He turned his head one way, then the other. He floated down until he was nose to nose with the cat. “Amanda?”




“You do look funny like that.”

“Have you seen yourself?”

“Nope,” Adam, the Imp, began, “but I have been stuck on that wall the whole time. So how do we get out of this?”

“You have the power. You simply have to grant my wish. That was the spell on the quilt. Whoever was holding the quilt when the light of the sun hit it the first time on the The Day of the Saints would have their wish granted.”

“I still can’t understand why the Duke chose our family for that witch curse to make his plans work.”

“Adam!” Mary came running from the gatehouse, followed closely by Bill.

“Mother, Dad, nice to see you here as well.”

“Son we did our best to get you back.” Bill was almost teary eyed but fought it.

“Well, let’s be done with the wishing.” Adam was a practical young fellow. He had seen what had happened inside and was in no mood to be overly dramatic. He wanted things set right and was ready to be done with it.

“First, let the two of us talk a moment.” Amanda walked toward the fence away from their parents.

Bill and Mary could not hear what Amanda and her brother talked about, but they could see the smile spread across Adam’s broad face.

As Amanda and Adam walked back to their parents, both changed back into what they really were, Amanda, with her long raven hair and dark eyes, and Adam, her twin but with shorter hair and obviously a boy. Bill grabbed Amanda and hugged her, while Mary grabbed Adam and did the same. Over their parent’s shoulders Amanda and Adam smiled at one another. A cat eye winked at the broad Imp eye.

You may wonder what happened to the Duke and Horace. Well, Amanda had not forgotten what Horace had done. Horace found himself living comfortably in a large hunting lodge amidst a beautiful forest, overlooking a lovely lake. His servant didn’t seem to remember much before waking up one morning and preparing his master’s breakfast, but he did know he was not fond of cats or quilts for some reason.

         “Very nice.”

         “Thank you, Tolly.”

         “You’re welcome, so how does it end?”

         “It ended.”


         “That was the ending.”

         “No prince?”


         “No wicked stepmother?”

         “Bill and Mary were happily married.”

         “Wait a minute, you mean to tell me that nothing else happens to them.”

         “Of course more happens as we all have stuff happen…”

         “Then tell it.”

         “It’s not part of the story.”

         “Come now, it must be.”

Tilly and Tolly went on and on as they always do; you may be able to hear the thuds on the table if you listen closely. As all of these stories seem to end with a common phrase, I will now end this one with… And they lived happily ever after.

© 2011- Ronovan Hester Copyright reserved. The author asserts his moral and legal rights over this work.


The Mad Strangler

The Mad Strangler



“Bill, what’s a wrangle?”

“It ain’t a what, woman, it means go make me dinner.”

“Mmhmm. You better call 911.”


“I’m not a wrangler.”


“But I am a strangler.”

I don’t know the age of some who might read this but in old westerns and the like, they would say “go wrangle up something to eat.” I suppose it had to do with those involed being wranglers, people who handled animals, those who herded cattle and horses. I guess they are what was once called the cowboy.

I rarely write anything other than poetry on this blog these days, but my first love is writing fiction, thus working on five books at once at the moment, and editing a romance for another author. But, when I saw the Weekend Writing Prompt by Sammi Cox of sammiscribbles blog was to use the word ‘WRANGLE’ and be exactly 33 words, this kind of came to met.

Weeknd Writing Prompt image Black Letters on white background.

Sammi’s challenge as well as other blogger’s challenges/prompts links are collected on the page at the top of this blog Challenges/Prompts from the Blogosphere.

Enter your email address to subscribe to this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.

© 2020 Ronovan Hester Copyright reserved. The author asserts his moral and legal rights over this work.

Thanks, Dad! – Flash Fiction

“Hey, did you see that show last night?”

“Which one?”

“Well, it was the only one worth watchin’. So classy. So luxurious. So loaded wi—”



“Do you know where the peanut butter is?”

Bill’s eyes narrowed in deep thought. “Yeah, I think it’s in the garage on the John Deere.”


“Hey, don’t judge me.”

“Thanks, Dad!”

“That’s more like it.”

“So what was this show? I thought you only watched ESPN and Fox?”

“Yeah. But, they don’t show stuff like this one. Let me tell you, you get to go inside thei—”



“Do you know where the jelly is?”

“Which one?”

“The strawberry, duh. Is there any other kind that matters?”

“Don’t get smart with me, girl. And I think it’s in the bedroom.”


“What did I ju—”

“Thanks, Dad.”

“Man, kids these days. No good snots.”

“So, what did you get to see?”

“Huh? See? Where?”

“The show.”

“Oh, in the bedroom and the shower.”

“What kind of show was this. Please tell me it was a home improvement show?”

“Nah, those guys have nothing on this—”


“In the camper!”

“Thanks, Dad.”

“Uh, did you guys just get back from a trip?”

“Yeah, how’d you know?”

“Well, you left the bread in the camper.”

“Bread? What bread?”

“For your daughter’s sandwich.”

“What sandwich?”

“What the? The peanut butter and jelly sandwich she’s making.”

Once again, Bill’s eyes narrowed in deep thought. And deeper. And still deeper. So deep this time, he came out speaking English with a funny accent.

He said, slapping his knee. “You don’t put strawberry jelly on a peanut butter sandwich, you dumb hick. You use mayonnaise.”

At this point, I shook my head, concerned the grinding gears inside might begin to seize from frustration.

“I gotcha. You’ll never believe it. It was hosted by Je—”

“Thanks, Dad. I found it.”

“I’m glad, princess. You believe what this hick thought you were doing. He thought you were making a peanut butter and strawberry jelly sandwich.”

“Mister, everyone knows you put mayonnaise on them.”

This is an attempt to use some of what our guest writer today, from Reedsy, Desiree Villena wrote in her article 5 Unexpected Ways to Ineject Humor Into Your Writing.

 © 2020 Ronovan Hester Copyright reserved. The author asserts his moral and legal rights over this work.

Go with the flow. #WQWWC

He hasn’t taken his eyes off me since I sat down. Even when he takes a drink his eyes stay on me over the rim of his glass. His Adam’s apple bobs above the open collar.

I try not to watch him. But his lips wet with the moist drink . . . and his pink tongue flicks out to lick a drop off his bottom lip.

His fingers dwarf the glass but hold it so gently.

I find myself linking my lips and taking my bottom lip in my teeth. His right eyebrow rises as he watches. His friends must wonder what he’s doing. He hasn’t said a word to them since I sat down.

“Smile at him, Linda,” Rebecca said.


She laughs. “Girl, smile at him so he knows he can come over or send a drink or something.”

I look at her. Amusement is in her eyes, wicked amusement. “Who are you talking about?”

“Mister Can’t-Take-His-Eyes-Off-You over there.”
I wave my hand at her. “No one sees me like that.”

“Linda, in that dress, looking like that, you need to get a clue. You’ve worked hard to be fit like that. And I know him from work. I’ve never seen him look at anyone before. He’s always been all business at work and only talks to his friends when he’s here. He must think you’re special.”

“You think so?”

“I’m saying it ain’t I?”

Rebecca isn’t the kind to lie to me.

“Well . . .”

“Oh ye of little faith,” she said.

“Old habits.

“Remember that Psych class we took, and we had to learn all those quotes?”

“One stuck with me; As your faith is strengthened you will find that there is no longer the need to have a sense of control, that things will flow as they will, and that you will flow with them, to your great delight and benefit.’ It was by a Professor of Psychiatry, Emmanuel Teney.”

“So you are saying, I should just go with the flow?”
Her eyes flick over my shoulder and then back to me. “Girl, I think I should be going with the flow right now. Good luck.” With that, she takes her purse and leaves the table.


I look up to see the man has moved from his table to mine.


“Would you mind if we left this place and got a coffee, maybe somewhere a little quieter? Maybe you know a place you like to go to. I mean, I hope Rebecca said I was okay.”

I look past him and see Rebecca not far away, nodding and waving me to leave.

“She gave you an okay. And I know a place, not far from here. It’s a book store that’s also a coffee shop.”

He smiles and I catch my breath. “I know the place. I go there every day at lunch, just to deflate from the work day, otherwise I wouldn’t make it to the end.”

“Then let’s go.”

He pulls my chair out as I stand. Then he holds out his arm and escorts me across the room. I look back and Rebecca is standing there with her hands together in front of her and grinning. She holds up her phone and mouths ‘Call Me’.

I wink.

The theme for this weeks Writer’s Quote Wednesday Writing Challenge, that I co-host with Colleen Chesebro of Silverthreading,com is Faith. Click HERE to see more entries based on the theme.

Enter your email address to subscribe to this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.


 © Copyright-All rights reserved by 2016

The Magic in Egg Sandwiches.

“It is spring, why is it so cold?” Cora asked.

I pressed against her back and slipped my arms around her shoulders, inhaling all the scents mingling together that were her. “Cora darling, it’s the first week of spring, as in closer to winter than summer. So,” I put my hands on her shoulders and turned her around, “I’m taking advantage of every chilly moment I can.” I kissed her gently. She had lips meant for that. Gentleness, not the macho movie kisses that bruised, although, there were moments for that as well. My eyes flared at the thought of last night.

Her nails softly scratched my shirt, sending electricity through my chest and beyond. “Mhmm. Do I look like I am complaining?” Her eyes almost closed and lips turned up at the corners, she knew I loved that look. I had started something and she meant for me to follow through to the finish.

I laughed and felt the vibrations in my chest. Her fingers increased their pressure. “No, and you would complain if you didn’t like it.”

“You got that right, bub.” Her emphatic nod of the head made her silky hair shimmer and slide across her cheeks. “And you are not complaining either.”

“Never,” I said.

“Even if you hated what I was doing?”

I brushed hair away from her face with my fingers. “Even then . . . maybe . . . well not really.” I smiled.

“Maybe I’m a witch, a wizard, and have you under a spell.” Her hands slid down and around my waist.

“In a way, I guess you are. There’s just some magic in truth and honesty and openness.” I squeezed her to me.

“Yep.” She leaned her head and shoulders back. “Well, honesty with respect thrown in. Like, if you made fun of my fondness for egg sandwiches I might not be so forgiving.”

I nodded. “I would never do that. I like them too. Besides, real magic in relationships means an absence of judgment of others, and that includes an obsession with egg sandwiches.”

“Good.” She rested her cheek against my chest.

“Speaking of egg sandwiches…” My hands began to drift.

“What about them?”

“I’m hungry.”

“Glenn, we just ate.”

“I didn’t say anything about food.”

Cora squealed as my hands stopped drifting.


Frank Ocean Magic QuoteWayne Dyer Relationship QuoteThis is the second time Cora and Glenn have showed up here on RW. Check out The Fortunate One, where Glenn meets Cora’s family for the first time . . .  and her ex-husband.

Colleen chose Magic for this weeks theme for her week of hosting our Writers Quote Wednesday Writing Challenge.

Amber Wake: Gabriel Falling on Amazon.

Amber Wake: Gabriel Falling Quote Image

Enter your email address to subscribe to this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.


 © Copyright-All rights reserved by 2016

The Library Date

The Library Date: A Flash Fiction Story

“Where you get that weave at?”

“Weave? Girl, you better hush. This ain’t no weave. I am all natural goddess.” I watched the two girls a few tables away. This was not going in a good direction.

“Girl, you the one better hush. Tellin’ me to hush. They got them so tight you can’t even blink. Go ahead and try. That is, if you can stop slappin’ your all ‘natural’ head long enough.”

“OOOOO, that was a burn for sure. She got her good with that one, Mac.”

I stood and put my backpack on my shoulder. “I’m out of here. They’re going to fight and I don’t want to be anywhere near it. Besides, I have a paper to research.”

My Italian-American baseball scholarship best friend wasn’t taking the hint that he should go too. “You go ahead. I’ll record anything that happens and post it. If it’s good, that is.”

“Don’t get caught in the middle of it or coach will eat you alive.”

He glanced away from the girls and up at me. “You worry too much. These are the last years we get to enjoy ourselves before being adults for real. Lighten up man. Find a girl. Go on a date. Kiss her. Do something. All books and no play makes Mac a depressed watch dog of a friend. Besides this is a girl fight. And you know what that means.” He put the sly smile on his face. Why did I choose him as my best friend?

I cast a last look toward the girls and saw the signs a fight was about to happen. Each was standing, had one hand on a hip, the other hand up with a finger working in the face of the other, and the head was going. I’d tried to do the head thing myself, for fun, but it was too painful. Men weren’t supposed to do that. Maybe it had something to do with women and their ability to look after children and families so well. They needed to see in all directions at the same time.

“See you later.” I zipped my jacket and headed away from anxiety central. There was always something going on here.

The air was crisp when I stepped outside the student center. Fall on campus was one of my favorite times. Light filtered through the orange and gold leaves and speckled the ground in front of me. Now where should I go?

I told Tony I needed to research so I could get away from the mayhem, but I did need to get that paper done. I couldn’t afford to burn the one lowest grade drop Dr. Goddard gave us for the semester. With two tests left before finals, I needed to do my best on something I had complete control over, just in case. I did not want to lose my 4.0. That meant, library time, and my date.

An hour passed with my head bent over a book. I loved history, a lot, but I wasn’t sure why I needed to know that old Louis didn’t want to conceive with Marie Antoinette, and her brothers showed up to get him drunk and circumcise him. Okay, so I know why I needed to know, but after almost four years of study, the details were beginning to play on my nerves. But the class was better than the Bosnia & Serbian class last semester. I never wanted to know the exact details of impaling and now I would never forget them. The guy Dracula was based on was one sick puppy.

My neck and back felt the pain of study or maybe I was having a sympathy pain in the neck for old Marie. Rotating my head to relieve some of the pain, a flash of silver caught my attention. The real reason I was in the library sat one table in front of me.

I didn’t know her name, was too scared to ask. She arrived every day at this time, sat at that table, and studied. She was beautiful, brainy, and real. But she was unreal at the same time. The necklace she wore seemed to signal me of her presence every time. I wasn’t even sure how the light reflected off it, but I was happy it did. That reflection had caught my eye that first time last semester.

Her hair was that dark brown so dark it looked black, and she was the most delicate looking creature I’d ever seen. But there was something strong about the look in her eyes as she read, and the way she sat. The way she moved between book and paper and drinking her bottle of water told of her determination and intelligence. I’d never seen her with anything other than water to drink. That must explain her skin.

Her head moved and I looked back down at my book. She almost caught me. My ears were beginning to burn. I hope she didn’t notice. If she did then she would know I had been staring at her.


Why doesn’t he talk to me? Does he not like me? Is it because I’m not from here? Americans can be so weird sometimes. I’ve been here every day since I saw him that time. Maybe I’m not pretty enough or he thinks I study so much because I’m not smart enough. Couldn’t he just say hello once? It must be warm in here, his neck and face are flushing. He should take that jacket off.

The Library Date: Flash FictionFor my Friday Fiction Prompt Challenge.

(For those who may wonder if I am trying to stereotype people during the beginning exchange, just ask women who have a weave done what happens. They have to have it done tightly so it lasts and you can’t scratch your head at that point so you pat your head to stop it from itching. If looks funny because if you don’t know what’s going on it looks like they are slapping themselves.)

Ronovan Hester is an author, with his debut historical adventure novel Amber Wake: Gabriel Falling due out in December of 2015. He shares his life as an amnesiac and Chronic Pain sufferer through his blog His love of poetry, authors and community through his online world has lead to a growing Weekly Haiku Challenge, a Weekly Friday Fiction Prompt Challenge, and the creation of a site dedicated to book reviews, interviews and author resources known as

Enter your email address to subscribe to this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.


 © Copyright-All rights reserved by 2015

In Search of Life #FlashFiction

“You’re such a liar.”

“Shut up. You have NO idea what you’re talking about.” I didn’t care if he did or not, but I wasn’t in the mood for anything he had to say right now.

There was only one problem with that. “That empty hole in your chest, the cold-hollow ache in your bones like a cancer…you know what it is.”  He just never knows when to shut up and didn’t give a crap about my moods.

“This is none of your business, so for the last time shut it.” If I clenched my teeth any tighter they would break.

“This is just as much mine as yours. I’m just not the coward here who’s afraid to admit the truth.”  I hated him. I wasn’t a coward, I just didn’t want to hurt again. I didn’t want the tidal waves to come pounding back in where her love had left from me.

“Ever think about what-ifs?” I didn’t expect or wait for an answer. “I live on them. They are my protein that keep me alive.”

“I know that, Walker. You think that’s news to me? You think I don’t know about your every feeling of dread at every wasted second without her?” If anyone would know it was him.

“I’m tired. This tornado of emotions I live, not knowing when the next moment will be…it hurts.”

“Which hurts worse…pain of never knowing or the pain after the joy of having her for those few brief moments? That is what you need to decide.”

“I already made my decision. Don’t you know that, Mr. Know-Everything? Would I be like this if I hadn’t? Do you think I could live without her…even if having her is for only minutes at a time?” I hated him. Why couldn’t he let me wallow in my self pity?

“I know all of that. I’m here to keep reminding you of it…lest you forget it.” I slammed the notebook shut.


I stared at those words on the cover–words I had been reading for years.

Gripping the notebook in both hands, I tore it in half with only the binding keeping the two pieces together. The small trash can beside the hotel bed rattled and rocked from the fall of the notebook into it.

I didn’t want to read any more.

Walker: In Search of Life by Ronovan

(Tales from my drafts folder. I rarely share my fiction. I know good writing when I see it. But with limited computer abilities right now I thought I would show you why I review books and do interviews.)

© Copyright-All rights reserved by 2015

A Cry For Help Ignored.

Christian Flash Weekly Event #40 From Christian Weekly.

A Flash Fiction Challenge.

Prompt and Word Limits for Event #40
Length: 1-150 words
Prompt: John 11:35 (KJV)
Jesus wept.


“I’m so confused,” Charlie said.

“Sup, man?” I asked.

“Dude, I just don’t know anymore. Parents have been dogging me about everything. I don’t think I can take it much longer.” His hands kept clenching and unclenching.

“Not a problem, man. You know all parents are like that. They just trying to get to you. Maybe trying to help too, in their own weird way.” I laughed a little, hoping to lighten the mood.

“It ain’t funny. You know I ain’t going to put up with it much longer. I can’t take it. I gotta do something.”

I knew he wasn’t joking. “Dude, just chill til tomorrow. I gotta go now, but text me later, okay?”

“Sure, man. Yeah.”

In the car Mom could tell I was upset. “What’s wrong Jeremy?”

“Nothing, Mom.”

“We have to be at church early before Youth Group tonight, so we’re going to just run through somewhere for fast food, okay?”

“Sure, Mom.”

Jesus wept.


As a former youth pastor I tried so hard to show my kids how to reach out to others, how to share their faith, how to talk to people, how to simply invite someone to the Youth Group on Wednesdays to have some fun and ease into church. It was a frustrating time. We even went out and visited people in the hopes of making a connection. But it was difficult when the Youth didn’t know where their friends lived. But we still tried. Tuesdays we would load up the van and go visiting and Wednesdays we would gather for our studies and activities.

It wasn’t just about more kids in church that was my biggest concern. It was about helping them. I knew there were dozens, hundreds of kids out there needing help. But with a church body that wasn’t as a whole as concerned about young people, the lack of empathy was absorbed by the youth themselves. Yes, there are many who care but too many that don’t.





RonovanWrites on Facebook

Enter your email address to subscribe to this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.

© Copyright-All rights reserved by 2015



A beauty so high.

Stoneworth didn’t give a fig about life. As far as he was concerned it could end in a breath and that would be just fine with him. He had lived long enough and life was a bunch of bull. Every step he took he stepped in a big pile of a reminder of it.

“Mr. Stoneworth, may I have your autograph, please,” said the young girl.

Stoneworth looked at the book and pen offered. Gritting his teeth he put on his best fake grin and signed one of his somehow formulaic but popular mysteries. If he thought it all was crap then why did he care if the girl was happy or not? Perhaps he didn’t want it to be all bad, maybe he wanted a sign of something good. Or maybe he wanted to pay bills until the crap buried him.

He left the tip on the table and then the cafe behind. His burger was not even half eaten. It was not a normal bull day.

It was worse. It was like rodeo week and he was the head scooper.

He should have stayed home and eaten the frozen Chinese dinner. It would match the frozen ears he had from the early winter wind. His work was now going to suck the rest of the day and night and he was going to be hungry. Any flow of plot he had was gone. And he had a deadline. Ten days or death would be knocking at his door. Either death or his agent. They looked about the same.

His apartment smelled like burnt hot chocolate, not coffee. He had tried the stuff but couldn’t drink it until it had enough milk, sugar and chocolate syrup in it to taste like hot chocolate. Why waste the time and the money? Just cut out the middle men.

He looked at the wall thermostat and the screwed on lock box. Freaking landlord. 65 degrees. He left his coat on and turned the small electric heater on. He let it oscillate just to have some noise in the place.

Even though he knew his purpose of the day was ruined he sat down at the laptop anyway. The 1 appeared at the top of one tab of the many opened in his browser for research on ancient Central American civilizations. His thoughts improved with hope.

He had mail. The list of songs were long and not quite his usual fare but he listened. She had sent them. He didn’t listen to much music. It caused headaches. But from her, the headaches didn’t happen. They inspired him.

My beauty has given a gift to me

One I don’t often have time to take

It could not be more sweet and dear

Unless the music her own fingers did make

How is one so beautiful

How is she in my life

If by chance life did change


He looked up at the ghastly form approaching. He stared through it. Why would it not leave him be? The ghost of a past that was no longer his. All he wanted was the now, the reality of what is.

He did not need what was the never was. He closed his eyes and pressed his hands together until his fingers turned white. The music started again in his ears.

“Worthless! Invalid!”

Stoneworth moved his hands to his ears and pressed hard. Forcing the music in. Driving the hate away.

The pain seared through his brain and down his spine. Cackling laughter reached his now unprotected ears. He slowly sank to the floor unable to control his movements. His body arched as spasms began.




He shut his eyes tight. Focus on her eyes, those brown eyes, focus. The cackling continued. The pain continued. But suddenly he did not care. He felt warmth touch his skin. A smile crossed his face. It didn’t matter. There was a light he could see now for the first time. And music. He was climbing higher and higher. His dream was there, higher than he had ever been before. A beauty like he would never witness again.


“What happened?”

“I don’t know officer. I came in when he missed his deadline for a book he was writing and found him.”

“Did you turn that heater on?”

“No officer. It was already going. I moved it away from his face though. It was really close.”

“Well, it looks like a heart attack.”

“He always said that’s how he would go.”

“Well, this looks like another case he solved before he ever got a chance to write it.”



Enter your email address to subscribe to this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.

© Copyright-All rights reserved by 2014

The Spunky & The Pumpkin Meet.

For those of you who have never met My Pal Spunky, let me introduce you to him.

My little white tiger.Spunky, the little white tiger was the first of his siblings to do everything and without a fear in his snowy pure heart. And thus was born a name.

He learned many things along the way, one of which was taught him by his mother Kitty.

Gray cat with glow in the dark green eyes.You know what you taught him Kitty. Kitty helped me during my early months after my fall in my home. I assure you, she is much more intelligent than this picture would imply.

What did she teach Spunky?

Kat-fuThe art of Cat-Fu.

Kitty In ReposeMomma did not say knock her out, Spunky. but Spunky was trained to face any challenge or surprise encounter that came before him.

Then one day Spunky was roused from his resting slumber.

Spunky_In_Chair.jpgSpunky had never seen the inside of a pumpkin before, let alone one with a light emitting from it. And Spunky, having earned his name decided to investigate.

spunky_pumpkin1 A simple touch and glimpse did not suffice his cattious curiosity. Therefore, he decided to investigate further.

spunky_pumpkin2Exactly what he saw or heard that day no one knows, but from the expression on his face, it must have been something eye opening.

spunky_pumpkin3Not long afterwards, later that evening a mysterious image appeared on the carved tree of the pumpkin, looking oddly enough like a cat with a wizards hat. Striped tail and all.


Enter your email address to subscribe to this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.

2014 © Copyright-All rights reserved by


My Thirst For You

An excerpt from a novel I am currently revising. The words are those of the leading man writing to the woman he loves during a low point.  I am finally embracing writing Romance and Love that I have been avoiding writing in novel form for so long. The book was written last year, but has been marinating since then. Now I am ready to make a go of it. Wish me well on this journey.



2014 © Copyright-All rights

Lemon Squares and Stupid Boys

Lemon Squares and Stupid Boys

by: Ronovan

 Lemon Squares

“What’s wrong, Becky?”

“I don’t get it, Jonesy.” I kept my eyes on the people across the street. “Why would Old Chubs kick Mrs. P out? She’s lived here longer than anyone else.” 

“Your dad said her sons won’t help her pay the rent since Mr. P died.”

“Ugh! Boys are so stupid and mean!” 

“Really?” Jonesy asked. 

I glared at him. “You don’t count. You know what I mean.” 

Brown eyes stared at me.

“Besides, who is going to make us lemon squares now? Mom can’t make them. She pretty much sucks at those.” I thought for a moment. I thought so hard my brain hurt. “Wait! Maybe she could sell lemon squares and make money for rent.” I jumped up.

“Sit down, Becky,” Jonesy said. “It’s too late. They’re bringing her out now.” 

I watched a policeman help Mrs. P down the steps. Chubs stood on the sidewalk, and looked up at the window of the apartment. The flowerbox was full and overflowing with purple and yellow somethings. 

“I hate him,” I said. 

“Hate’s one of the biggest little words there is.” 

“Hush up, Jonesy.” I wasn’t in the mood to hear what was right and wrong. I knew people had to pay bills and stuff, I just hated that her sons were so stupid. Six sons and they couldn’t put in a little each to help her with bills? “She did all the nasty stuff for them when they were babies. They should do something.” 

The door opened behind us. “Becky, it’s time for lunch.” I looked up at Mom. She glanced at Chubs and frowned. “Make sure to clean Jonesy’s feet off before he comes in and hang his leash up. You keep throwing it on the floor. He’s yours remember, so you have to do things right.” Mom closed the door.

I looked down and scratched Jonesy’s golden head. “You better take care of me when I get older, Jonesy or no more hotdogs for snacks when Mom isn’t looking.” 

Jonesy licked my face. “Eww … Jonesy, I know where that tongues been!”


© Copyright-All rights reserved-RonovanWrites© 25, 2014.

Bus Stop Stories: Society Killin’ Villain (A Poem And Commentary)

Bus Stop

You think you know it

What is this neighborhood

But the truth is for real

A truth you’ve never understood


There isn’t any violence

We got no old age attacks

Young men wear jeans

And old ones Armani slacks


You keep just keep on talking

About crime you don’t know

Bring all your cameras in here

Faking like a reality show


You’re not from here

Don’t talk like you know me

Your style is so weak

You have to steal creativity


Take no offense

At what I’m deliverin’

Cause you’re just the most recent

Of society killin’ villain


You come in here

Trying to make us look bad

When all you ever do

Is play up to some cheap trending fad


Who’s the real big man

When it comes to society

The man who spreads lies

Or the one with integrity


We may not all have

All the things that you’ve got

But where I’m from

We choose what we’ve not


See those two oldies

Those walking over there

When I was born

They gave my mom a high chair


That man over there

He just lost his wife

But you know what

We keep helping him with life


This is our home

Not some TV stereotypes

It takes all kinds

Even some like you lowlifes


So take your cameras

And your promises

Then move your behinds

Off our premises


The film crew didn’t really know what to do at that point as Rod finished. The crowd that had gathered was cheering and that seemed to give the crew a clue. They and their slum dressed star slipped away as the bus started to slow down. Rod was a hero. A hero in our small block of the town.

Bus Stop Stories: Crumpled Fedora

Rod and Emerile were laughing. Rod nodded, I returned with a weak smile. He picked it up quickly.

The figure next to me held the brim of a fedora slowly twisting it out of shape. Rod elbowed Emerile. Both went silent staring up the street as if looking for the bus.

Fingers squeezed into fists around the felt. They trembled as they settled upon his knees.

An occasional sigh was cut off by choking sounds. He placed the fedora snuggly over his knee and gently took his left hand in his right. His thumb barely touched the ring on his finger as if afraid it would break.

People became silent as they walked up. The hiss of airbrakes signaled the arrival of the bus. The man stood up and put on the crumpled brimmed fedora.

Rod and Emerile stood to one side and others did the same. The man nodded. The dark black suit climbed into the bus revealing a glimpse of navy blue socks.

© 2014-2020 Ronovan Hester Copyright reserved. The author asserts his moral and legal rights over this work.

Bus Stop Stories: Margaret and Martin, Lessons Learned.

Never drive in a big city. You’ll miss too many lessons learned.

Several cultures intersect at the bus stop outside my apartment building, making for interesting observations. Margaret and Martin are a perfect example. 50 years of marriage. There’s great wisdom in those years.

“Martin, I think we should get one.”

“Eh… I don’t think so.”

“But we need one.”

“No, no, we’re fine.”

“How can you say that?”

“Haven’t needed one so far.”

“So you say.” Margaret crossed her arms around her purse and stared at the cracked pavement in front of her. Martin sitting next to her stared into the distance, his lips mouthing words. “Three, two, one…”

“But dear, just think how much better off we would be. All the other girls are getting them. Why, even Phil is getting Florence one.” Margaret thought mentioning one of his buddies might help convince him.

“Phil’s an idiot.”

“Now is that any way to talk? Seriously, he is one of your best friends.”

“Every group needs an idiot in the bunch.”


Martin continued to stare straight ahead. He’d won the battle. A few months ago he’d told me that over the 50 plus years they’d been together he’d learned two secrets to a successful marriage. Know when to be quiet. And never smile when you argue with your spouse, and definitely not when you win.

Their bus arrived, they stood as the door stopped in front of them, Martin holding Margaret’s arm as she stepped onto the bus, and him following behind with their fare. I didn’t know what Margaret thought they needed, but I knew if it had been something special or needed Martin would have caved. Martin chose his battles. Lesson learned at the bus stop.

© 2014-2020 Ronovan Hester Copyright reserved. The author asserts his moral and legal rights over this work.