Official Blog of Kristy Gherlone

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Official Blog of Kristy Gherlone
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    • THE WILD

      Posted at 11:30 am by writergherlone, on August 14, 2018

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      Photo Credit: Sasha Fleming

       

      THE WILD

      by Kristy Gherlone

       

      Into a wild forest ragged and sharp,

      A tormented mind with thoughts so unsweet.

      Making her way to ascend the escarp,

      To hasten a day a future won’t meet.

      The air sweetened by raspberries and pine,

      Past crystal waters raging swiftly rushed,

      A small child traveled, unseen, not a sign,

      On that mountain, followed quietly hushed.

      Aloft, head laid stones, greened softly of moss,

      Ending a life of unbearable loss.

      And sun, beginning to set on the wild,

      Only then did she happen to see her poor child.

      The waning view of fir waves and lake,

      Morning will find neither one to awake.

       

      *No part of this poem may be copied or reproduced without permission from the author

      **Photo is the property of Sasha Fleming and may not be used without permission

       

       

      Posted in Uncategorized | 0 Comments | Tagged childloss, grief, loss, mountains, nature, parenting, poetry, sonnet, suffering, wilderness
    • The Long Dirt Road

      Posted at 1:42 am by writergherlone, on June 2, 2018

      *Some of the stories shared on this page will probably never be seen in the literary magazines.  However, I feel that they have some value and I’m glad to share them with you. “The Long Dirt Road” is the beginning of a series that appeared on my Facebook last year. These stories are about growing up in the Maine woods in a cabin at the lake without electricity or running water in the late 1970’s and early 80’s. Writing them brought me back to that time and I was able to re-capture some of the thrills and the challenges faced.  I hope you find some thrills in reading them. (the photo presented is an actual photo of me during that time)

      The Long Dirt Road

      Part One: A Story of Summer

      By Kristy Gherlone

       

      There’s a road that inhabits a fair amount of space in my mind. I call it forward whenever I need a smile. I close my eyes and suddenly it’s there. Long and narrow, wash boarded and potholed. When I was a child, it was as familiar to me as it was a mystery. While the road itself didn’t change, the scenery often did. I never knew what we might see as my dad and I drove along.

       

      Sometimes there were moose. They’d come crashing out of the woods, shaking their heads and twitching their ears, crazy from the black flies and heat. They’d stomp all gangly legged in front of us before turning to trot back in again. I felt bad for them. They were tormented by bugs in the summer, and up to their bellies in snow during the winter. I used to try and convince my dad to build houses for them to escape to.

       

      If we were lucky, there might be a black bear nibbling raspberries in the dusty bushes that lined the sides, but they were either shy or snobby. They didn’t care for company, and would bound off as soon as they heard us coming. To see one was a real treat.

       

      I’d scan obsessively for bull frogs all along that road. They’d sit in the puddles, snapping up flies. I could spot their glassy eyes protruding on the murky surface a mile away, but they would always dive under as we neared, sending ripples in their wake. They couldn’t hide from me. I’d go back later to collect them. Knee deep in mud catching frogs was my life!

       

      I remember rolling down the window on the gold Custom Deluxe truck.

      I used to poke my head out and breathe in the powerful, tangy scent of pines. To this day, that smell makes me happy in a way that can’t be duplicated. The stream that ran along most parts of the road rushed restlessly in the spring and trickled lazily in the fall. Its smell was both boggy and clean as we drove over it on the old splintered bridge. I used to dream about the fish I’d catch in there the next time I had the chance and then I’d hang out as far as I could and try to spit far enough to hit the water.

       

      I’d reach out when we came to the clusters of sapling trees and let the leaves tickle my palm. Every now and then I’d find a big one and tear it off.

      Dad would say, “You know what that is, don’t ya? It’s woodsman’s toilet paper!”

       

      I’d watch for the brown wooden sign that said ‘You are now entering Indian Purchase land.’ I used to envision a whole tribe of Native Americans coming out of the woods. Their bows and arrows would be poised and ready to stop us from going further.

      And then I’d see the tree that stood at the entrance to our turn-off. It meant we were almost to our destination. It was a gorgeous tree, towering well above the rest. Its leaves blazed orange before turning fiery red late in the season. I could hardly stay in my seat with all of the butterflies jumping around in my belly.

       

      In June that road seemed a thousand miles long! We could never get to the end fast enough, but only because it led to Summer’s treasure box. Camp!

       

      Three whole months of fishing, swimming, bike riding and frog catching fun. There would be games of monopoly, and log hopping around the cove. I’d blaze trails through the forest!  I’d sit on the big gray rock, high above the lake, and watch for shooting stars at night. The possibilities were as boundless as my energy.

       

      In late August that road seemed barely a mile. It went too quick! I was sure the very trip would ruin my life. Traveling south, it led back to town. School and dance lessons. Homework and bedtimes. Yuck!

       

      In reality, the road was no more than eight or ten miles, but I’ve traveled it so often it might now add up to a million.

       

      Of course, these days, I mostly travel it in my mind, but it’s definitely a road that’s worth the journey.

       

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      Posted in Uncategorized | 0 Comments | Tagged cabins, childhood, maine, nature, shortstory
    • Aloft

      Posted at 11:38 am by writergherlone, on April 3, 2018

       

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      Aloft

      by Kristy Gherlone

       

      The eagle watches the doe step cautiously into the fringes of the Klondike.

      He has been stalking her for days, waiting for a moment like this. The vastness of the terrain will give him an edge.

      He studies her with hunger and curiosity. These willowy beings dance about on earthbound legs that are as delicate as spring shoots. He knows from experience, however, that they only appear that way.  She will slice through him in seconds with those sharp hooves if she can. It is a risk he is willing to take. Starvation is all around him. It has been some time since he’s had fresh meat.

      The withering grassland comes to life with scattering creatures as the doe begins her passage.

      Chickadee’s chatter, seet seet,dee dee dee, before taking flight to hide among the brush.

      His attention is averted by a flash of white. A snowshoe hare darts in and out of a maze of burrows. He is tempted but bound by a greater purpose than himself.

      His focus sharpens as the doe stops to sniff around. The north winds would reveal much, but the air is as still as the frozen surface of the river.

      She is winter-weak and pregnant. Her coat is sparse and ragged. With the safety of the forest still in her midst, she proceeds, nibbling at bits of evergreen along the way.

      His talons retract, and he breaks away from the balsam to follow. His shadow spirits where the light touches the remaining snow.

      She senses his presence. Her nostrils flare, sending out wisps of smoke as she wheezes in the chilly, spring air. The white of her tail signals an alarm.

      He lands silently onto a Candlewood branch nearby. The bough dips under his weight before bouncing back in to place.

      She stomps a warning, her muscles twitching, as she decides whether to stay or to flee. The veins pulse in her neck.

      His stomach tightens as he breathes in the scent of adrenaline rich blood, but he must wait.

      Eventually, she relaxes again and wobbles over to a patch of grass. She paws at the earth and lies down. The bulging hulk of her middle heaves with contractions.

      The eagle regards the terrain. A lone coyote hides among the cedars. Careful, yet daring, he emerges. Without a pack, he will go into battle alone. He lowers his head and begins to advance. His lolling tongue drips with saliva as he zig-zags over the plain.

      The doe’s eyes widen as she realizes the danger. She bleats and tries to rise, but water gushes from her hindquarters. Her knees buckle, and she falls back to the ground.

      The coyote prances all around her, narrowing the gap with every rotation. He lashes out with snarled lips and bared teeth, taking nips wherever he finds purchase.

      She kicks, sending him backwards. Dust and debris fly into the air. Dazed but unbroken, he lies askew. He shakes his head, trying to regain composure before beginning again.

      The eagle descends. The tips of his wings brush the snow where he lands. He waits patiently in the shadows.

      She turns her attention to the birth. Gangly feet dangle precariously from her rump. She tugs at them with her teeth.

      The coyote rises.

      Light mist begins to fall. Beads of moisture collect on budded branches and spill over. Mixing with blood, they carve red rivers into the turf as they wash away. The air begins to move, sending wafts of flavor all around them.

      The coyote can wait no longer. The pads of his feet hit the ground, thumping in rhythm with beating hearts. He growls and lunges, striking her throat. His teeth clamp down and hold. The doe flips her body, trying shake him, but it does nothing more than hasten her demise. He tears through her neck. Her eyes fix on the horizon, looking toward something the eagle cannot see.

      The coyote raises his head and announces victory. He rips through her flesh, tossing out tufts of fur to get to the meat. Captured by the wind, they swirl through the air and alight into the sky.

      New life emerges into a motherless world. It squirms inside of a sack, trying to break free.

      Awkward upon landing, the eagle hops over to the bundle, casting a wary eye towards the coyote. He may rule the skies, but on earth he is merely a beggar.

      The coyote stops his feast. They stare at one another. A silent agreement passes between them.

      The eagle uses both beak and feet to open the pouch. Water oozes out, spilling the tiny fawn onto the grass. It blinks up at him and mewls, its gaze full of needful wanting. He cocks his head, reminded of his own young. Each newborn beast is so similar until they are polluted by age and circumstance.

      He leans in to take a whiff. It smells delicious.

      He snatches it and pushes off, using the currents to keep him aloft. The strength of his wings are tested under the weight of his wiggling bundle. He digs in, trying to maintain hold. The creature is silenced.

      His journey is long. On the distant horizon, where the mountain meets the sky and dark green hills erupt from the earth, waterfalls pause suspended, and the lakes are still mirrors of glass, he finds home. He has been gone a long time.

      He calls out, wheee hee. Wheee hee hee.

      His mate does not reply. He hears only the wind and the sound of his own voice echoing through the empty places in the valley.

      Wheee hee. He calls again.

      There is no movement as he nears. He lands to find the nest empty. Downy feathers whirl around in the breeze.

      He lays down the fawn and begins to feast. Tomorrow he must begin anew.

       

      **NO part of this story may be copied or reproduced with written consent from the author.

       

       

       

       

       

       

       

       

       

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      Posted in Uncategorized | 0 Comments | Tagged #newstory, amwriting, birds, coyotes, eagles, familyfriendly, fiction, hunting, nature, shortstory, wilderness, wildlifehabits, writing
    • Nest Egg

      Posted at 1:52 pm by writergherlone, on March 25, 2018

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      Nest Egg

      By Kristy Gherlone

       

      Every year when the earth decided it was time to flip over and get some color on the other side, the south wind got to missing the north so bad, she’d start crying and fill up the creeks and rivers with her sorrows.

      Then the north would get to missing the south, so they’d race towards one another and meet in the middle for a kiss so dizzying it would run the sea boats aground.

      The trees would get sappy about the whole ordeal and weep tears so sweet, the ground would open right up and swallow them whole. Eventually, it would turn green with sickness, and busting out of its bloomers, spew colors so bright they would melt what was left of the snow.

      The fish would get blue and start blubbering about being homesick. They’d swim up the fertile rivers to their old homesteads, running an uphill battle to raise a brood of kids to keep the loneliness at bay.

      Undoubtedly, all the commotion would ruffle a few feathers. The birds would decide it was time to get away from the whole soppy mess, high tail it out of there, and head to New England where things were a bit more conservative.

      Maribel was one of those, and one year she was just dusting with more anticipation than normal to leave.

      Over the winter she’d become quite vain, having overheard some tweets about how nicely she decorated her nests. She always did care a little too much about what others thought, but it got her to wondering about what treasures she’d find in the north. If the south had such beautiful things, the north was sure to have even better.

      She’d already acquired quite a few items and, reluctant to leave them behind, bartered with the trade winds to carry them up for her.

      And so it was that, after settling in for the long summer ahead, while the other members of her flock were gathering seeds and soft nesting materials, Maribel was out shopping. She had a keen eye and managed to amass quite a clutch of goods.

      She found strings of shiny silver, tufts of powder blue rope, beads, smooth rocks, and colorful wrappers. Tucking them gently into her beak, she carried them home and laid them out to admire before arranging them attractively around her home.  Her nest wasn’t comfortable, nor was it warm, but it was pretty. Surely everyone would be jealous. She sat waiting for them to notice, but they were too busy raising their young to care.

      Unfortunately, the only ones that did pay her any mind were the black hooded thieves who’d come stealing in all hours of the day. They had eyes for shiny things too, and were either too lazy or cheap to get their own stuff, and so preferred to peck and choose from Maribel’s collection.  She kept guard, working herself into a frazzle, as she’d heard they could be quite murderous.

      Unwilling to go out on a limb and leave her wealth for even a second, Maribel grew thin and tired. She started to doubt she’d have enough energy to make the trip back south.

      When Mother Nature began to blush, right before she undressed for the season, Maribel, as small minded as she was, realized that she had a problem. Glittery things were great to look at, but they couldn’t feed you. And while she took a lot of pleasure in counting and re-counting her hoard, it didn’t do a lot towards keeping her warm.

      She gave her precious valuables one last wistful look before taking flight in search for food.   It was scarce by that time, but she managed to scrape enough together. She nibbled until she was able to find the strength to catch the last warm breeze streaming to the south. She vowed never to let vanity get in the way again.

      She caught up to some others, who were already in deep conversation and didn’t notice her arrival. “Have you seen Maribel lately? She’s lost so much weight! I wish I could have a figure like that. I’m so jealous.”

       

       

       

       

       

       

       

       

       

      Posted in #prose, nature, shortstory, Uncategorized | 0 Comments | Tagged #newstory, #prose, nature
    • The Falls

      Posted at 1:39 pm by writergherlone, on January 9, 2018

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      *No Part of this story may be published or reproduced without the written consent of the author

      **This story was originally published by Wild Women’s Medicine Circle Journal. To see this story and  similar works in print, visit Wild Women’s Medicine Circle Journal Blogspot. You may also order on Amazon.

      The Falls

      by Kristy Gherlone

       

       

      She pauses to listen halfway into the ascent.

      The forest speaks to her in a language that is not at all foreign. She has grown accustomed to its dialect, but on this day, she cannot trust her own ears. They have been poisoned by hateful words.

      She is alone. The solitude amplifies the words. Foraging squirrels sound like approaching demons. Dark thoughts fill her head.

      Her heart beats out a rhythm of warning. The partridge drum in succession, alerting to a battle that is not their own. There is danger here. There is danger everywhere, but rarely here. She finds solace in the dark places of the wild. Perhaps it is she that is the danger.

      The world sways. She drops down and covers her head. Her throat draws in shallow gulps and her hands grow numb. The still air comes to life. The trees sway back and forth in a violent dance. Dust devils swirl into the valley, scattering dead leaves and bending branches as they whistle through the pines. “Go back,” they howl. “It’s not too late.”

      She buries her face into the pulpy green moss and waits, her breath hitching. The wind subsides as does the imminence. It becomes stifling, threatening to suffocate her where she rests. She’d let it happen, but she wants the final say.

      She jumps up and begins again, ignoring the feeling that she may have gone too far. Today there will be no such thing as too far.

      The trail is steep and tricky. Her legs are weak, but she keeps moving. Keeps climbing.

      The low shooshing of the falls finally touches her ears.

      Painfully she gasps, breathing in the enveloping fragrance of the forest. Tangy pine and damp earth fill her nose, washing out the scent of her own perspiration.

      She turns to look out over the vastness. Fir waves sweep through, gathering among the tree tops. They resemble an old quilt. She is reminded of her grandmother.

      Her eyes turn upwards. The sky is azure so high aloft, like an ocean to dive through. A passage to heaven.

      Will there be a heaven for me? She wonders.

      She closes her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she whispers into the valley.

      The tears come and spill over onto the scree. “I’m tired,” she says, “just tired.”

      Her shoulders shake as she turns her back on the landscape one last time.

      The mountain comforts her with a lullaby. It sends her the songs of the warblers and thrushes. Cicadas awaken, their high-pitched rubbings echo through the land.

      She steps back onto the trail and makes the final push to the top. To the falls.

      She can fully hear them now. Thunderous and booming, they drown away any lingering doubts.

      The sight of them quiets her like nothing ever could. They are familiar. She has drawn on their image continually. She always knew it would end like this.

      On the edge, a buck drinks from the pools. He senses her presence. His head snaps up. Water cascades from his antlers. They stare at one another, neither of them ready to speak first.

      “I..” she begins.

      The deer’s eyes widen. His nostrils flare. He stomps an accusation before taking flight into the brush.

      She feels guilty, but has made up her mind.

      She sits on a boulder and removes her pack. Cool mist sprays her cheeks as the water roars down the towering gray columns.

      She unzips the top and fishes around until she finds the medicine bottle. She unscrews the lid and examines the contents. She has been saving for a long time. Countless nights of torture so she could have such a moment.

      She dumps the entirety into her hand and pops the fistful into her mouth.

      She waits, hoping for quick relief. She does not wish for a final showing of her life. Her anxiety riddled brain has already replayed it many times.

      She stares at the water. A trout flips half in and half out of the shallows. Its red underbelly heaves as it sucks air. She slides down the rock and goes to release it. A final act of kindness.  She stands at the bank and watches it swim away.

      A warm and heavy feeling rushes into her chest. Soon it will make its way through her veins and settle inside of her head.

      She sits right there on the shore.

      “Samantha!” A voice pierces the uproarious motion.

      Startled, she whips around. The movement makes her dizzy, but she sees his form through the haze. He beckons to her with outstretched hands. Her heart soars.

      “I’m sorry,” he mouths.

      “I am, too,” she mouths back.

      She gets up and dives into the chute.

      End

       

       

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      Posted in Uncategorized | 0 Comments | Tagged depression, despair, desperation, flashfiction, nature, solitude
    • Sunfish Type of Gal

      Posted at 1:16 pm by writergherlone, on August 26, 2017

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      Sunfish Type Of Gal

      by Kristy Gherlone

      Living in the woods, like I did for many years, I found myself a frequent observer of nature. There was really no way to avoid it because once I stepped outside our brown, boxy camp, I was as much a part of my surroundings as they were of me. The sights and smells left imprints on my psyche and I learned lessons that will stay with me forever.

      Our lake and the surrounding forest held many fascinations. There were giant snapping turtles lurking around in the cove. Fish and baby duck stealing monsters that would poke their muddy green heads out of the water and skulk around brooding. I swore they were stalking me. Just waiting for me to dip a toe in so they could bite it off.

      There were several mating pairs of loons. The calls they made through the night could be both a comfort and a fright. Their cries lulled me to sleep as I lay on the swinging bed my dad made for me in the cozy loft. However, if I was awoken in the middle of the night, they sounded like ghosts! Eerie wails of long dead woodsmen that would haunt my dreams if I was able to get back to sleep.

      When I looked through the binoculars from the screened front porch, which I often did, I could spy bull moose on the far shore. Their giant antlered heads would be all the way underwater chomping on aquatic plants. Just when I thought they’d surely die of suffocation, they’d emerge.  Lily pads dangled like Christmas ornaments from their velvety racks.

      Often, I’d take to the forest. I’d wander off, far enough away from the camp that I couldn’t see it, but not far enough so that I couldn’t still smell the wood smoke puffing from the chimney. Just past the pines, through the birches and over the rows of enormous rocks left behind by glaciers, there was a clearing that held a bog. In mid-summer, it was lush and full of green plant life. Yellow lily flowers opened on the surface during the day and clammed shut at night. There were frogs in there, but they were hard to catch. The water was deep and the bottom was too squishy. I once got my shoe stuck in the muck and I never did find it. It’s probably still there to this day.

      If ever I got too bored, I’d head back down to the lake. I’d lay on my belly, draped over the faded and warped pine dock, peek into the shallow water, and look for sunfish nests. They were easy to spot. They’d be the only clean areas dotting the pulpy, dark bottom.
      The female fish crafted large, round circles of sand that looked like the sunshine had come out on a rainy day down there. They were interesting, and I learned a thing or two in all those years of watching.

      Sunfish girls were jealous and possessive. They didn’t like outsiders, and everything and everybody that wasn’t like them was a threat that should be run off quickly. They had an inherent need to protect what they felt was theirs. They’d socialize with their own kind only. The yellow perch, all tiger striped and sleek, would sneak in and try to play with them, but the sunfish wouldn’t have it. They’d chase them off, pecking at them viciously and swishing their tails to shoo them away. I felt bad for the perch as they swam away looking very dejected.

      The sunfish were industrious, spending hours cleaning their own houses. Picking up and spitting out what didn’t belong. I’d test them by dropping tiny stones in the middle of their order. They’d pick them up and move them out immediately. In my often, curious youth, tragedy would occur on occasion. Larger stones would slip from my fingers and go splashing down into their lairs. In no time at all, other sun fish would be called in to help. Everyone would work together to restore what was lost, if it could be (sorry!) As soon as it was done though, everyone would be booted out again.  It seemed they mostly only wanted company when it was to their benefit.

      Sunfish were pretty. Purple finned and red bellied beauties. They had nothing to be jealous about, but it seemed they couldn’t help it. Sometimes they would school up and swim together. They appeared cordial enough to each other, but God forbid if one tried to take something another wanted!

      I’ve known some girls like sunfish in my lifetime. I’m sure you have too. I’ve been on the receiving end of the shoo away from time to time, and it hurt, but I always tried to apply my nature observations for comfort. People really aren’t so different, after all.

      I learned, by watching the fish as much as I did, that they were too self- centered to give you a second thought just as soon as you were out of sight (or threat zone). Their thoughts always turned back to themselves and their needs. I like that. It means less gossip!

      I learned that they often end up alone, living a sad and lonely life, while the others are out having a blast.

      While few other fish are as pretty, looks don’t mean anything if you aren’t fun to be around. There are definitely cooler fish in the lake to hang with!

       

      Posted in Uncategorized | 0 Comments | Tagged camp, familyfriendly, fish, nature, shortstory, sunfish
    • Mother Earth

      Posted at 6:14 pm by writergherlone, on August 3, 2017

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      Mother Earth

      Micro fiction by Kristy Gherlone

       

      Pleased with what she had created, Mother Earth wanted to rest for a while and admire her beautiful children.

      They climbed all over her, showering her face with sweet-scented kisses, so happy to have her near. She sang lullabies to settle them as they clamored for a place closest to her heart.

      “No need to fight, dear ones,” she whispered.  “You ARE my heart.”

       

      Posted in Uncategorized | 0 Comments | Tagged childfriendly, earth, microfiction, nature, shortstory
    • Introducing Sassafras!

      Posted at 12:16 pm by writergherlone, on July 7, 2017

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      I’m not sure of how serious a venture this is, but I do enjoy writing small stories about my duck, Sassafras. 

      She is a willing participant and has been very popular on Facebook! I hope you find these occasional small stories enjoyable as well.

      Sassafras and…

      Home Is Where The Love IS

      by Kristy Gherlone

       

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      “Mama, I have a question. Does everyone live in a house like ours?” Sassafras asked one spring morning.

      “Goodness, no,” her mama answered. “There are many different types of houses. Let’s take a walk around and see what we find.”

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      “I think I found a house!” Sassafras called out excitedly. “At least it looks something like a house, but it’s very small.”

      “Right you are!” Sassafras’s mother said. “That is the chickadees house.”

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      “I found another, but this one is blue!”

      “Very good! That is where the thrushes live.”

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      “What about this, Sassafras? Do you think this could be a house?” Her mama asked.

      “Hmm,” Sassafras pondered, looking at the big pile of sticks. I didn’t look like any house she had ever seen. “I’m not sure.”

      “It is.” Her mama said. “This house belongs to a raccoon. Some creatures use leaves, sticks, and mud to make their homes.”

      Sassafras wrinkled her nose. “That doesn’t sound very comfortable.”

      “Well, I’m sure they think so,” her mama laughed.

       

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      “I know this is a house!” Sassafras exclaimed proudly. “I’ve seen Mrs. Robin sleeping here.”

      “Great job, Sassy! You are right! You have found the Robin’s house.”

      “When her eggs hatch, maybe Mrs. Robin will let me babysit,” Sassafras giggled.

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      “There is a hole in the ground. Could something live here?” Sassafras asked.

      “Watch for a moment and see if anything comes out,” her mama said.

      Sassafras stood over the hole and waited. “Ants!” She cried. “I think this is an ants house!”

      “Very good, Sassafras!”

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      “I found our house again!” Sassafras cried. “I like it the best.”

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      “Just remember, Sassafras…It doesn’t matter where you live as long as you are loved.”

      Posted in Uncategorized | 3 Comments | Tagged childrensstory, ducks, education, familyfriendly, fiction, nature, pekin, picturebook, shortstory
    • Jericho

      Posted at 9:49 am by writergherlone, on July 5, 2017

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      Jericho

      By Kristy Gherlone

       

      I spend a lot of time talking and writing about my home state of Maine, so out of fairness to the place I actually live now, I thought I would write about a fantastic adventure here in New Hampshire.

      Jericho Mountain State Park is just about my most favorite thing here. It’s only two hours from home, but miles away in terms of ambience. You can get there a couple of different ways, either from the town of Gorham New Hampshire or from Berlin, NH. Each town offers a range of accommodations, and I have found the people there welcoming and accommodating. No matter where you stay, or how you choose to enter Jericho, however, you’ll not be hiking, or driving… you’ll be riding an ATV!

      *I’m definitely not a travel blogger, and I don’t sell vacations, but I always have the time of my life here, so I thought I would share.

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      People come from all over the world to ride the trails there. Both towns allow the riding of ATV’s on the public road ways, so you can ride right down the main streets and park in front of any restaurant or store and even park in front of your hotel!

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      The towns are connected by a trail so you can skip from one town to the other, but be sure to stop to see the waterfall along the way!

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      The park itself, is vast and diverse. The terrain can range from easy, to what the park classifies as black diamond trails. ( very difficult and dangerous) The main speed limit is 25 on most trails, but you won’t be able to go that fast in quite a few places.

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      *This is the exit to one of the black diamond trails that my husband tried. I opted out, as I’ve had recent surgery and the trail is riddled with large boulders, steep drops and dangerous terrain throughout.

      Jericho is a gorgeous park, rugged and wild, with a lot of the same sights and smells of my own home state. The flora and fauna are abundant. We’ve seen moose, and deer, which is surprising if you consider how noisy ATV’s actually are. You’d think the animals would be scared away, but they don’t seem to mind.  If you take some time to look around in the mud, you can find the tracks of coyote, and all sorts of creatures.

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      *Fresh moose print. We didn’t miss her by much

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      *Moose droppings (definitely not fresh)

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      When I enter the forest there, tangy pine and wild flowers perfume the air in a way that completely envelops the senses.  The sights take my breath away. The mountain range is deep and layered. Though I try, I’ll never be able to capture the beauty with a camera. You’d actually have to stand there and take it all in yourself. Mount Washington hails in the distance and is only about a twenty minute drive from Gorham.

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      Miles of riding takes you through the park. There are maps at each junction that give you the layout and direct you to off-shoot trails that thrill.

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      There are many twists and turns along the way. The road will rattle your teeth, jiggle your insides, and fling mud all over you, but it’s exhilarating!

       

      There is a warming hut that is open year round for viewing, but is there mainly for the winter snowmobilers. The view from the door-step is astounding!

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      And on top of a rise, there are wind mills. Five of them, if I remember right. They sit high up on a hill, their blades causing shadows across the landscape as they rotate as quietly as a whisper.

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      Bridges cross over rushing streams and stagnant bogs. I know there must be a trout or two hanging out in there, so next time, I intend to bring my fishing pole!

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      After our two days of riding, I was absolutely exhausted. I may have taken on too much, but to me, it’s like eating an entire cake. It’s bad for you, but so hard to resist! My body is still feeling it two days later!

      We went back into town, cleaned the mud off our faces, took some ibuprofen, changed, and debated about where to eat for dinner. As it turns out, Gorham was hosting a carnival!

      It has been a few years since I’ve been to a small town carnival. In my home town, when I was a child, one would come every year in April. It always gave me a thrill.

      We decided, all at once, to grab some dinner at the fair and then I just had to ride one ride. The one I always chose when I was a kid…The Scrambler! Not quite as exciting as I remember, but fun just the same.

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      Anyway, it was a great trip. If you are ever up this way, I would highly recommend it!

       

       

      Posted in Uncategorized | 0 Comments | Tagged atv, fun, Jericho, nature, newhampshire, riding, statepark, trails
    • The Rain Maker

      Posted at 3:37 pm by writergherlone, on June 22, 2017

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      *This story did make the literary pages! It was published by the The Squawk Back and appeared in edition 167 on March 19, 2017. 

      The Rain Maker

      by Kristy Gherlone

      The Rain Maker hears their cries long before she comes sweeping in to pass judgment. She hears it in the deafening stillness of the water. The creatures within lay in wait for her presence, listening in painful silence, praying for a miracle as the muddy depths suck them in and swallow them whole.

       

      Rivers and streams pause suspended, then shrink away as if chased by demons, hiding behind rocks and sinking in holes, their miserable tears devoured by the sun-cracked shores.

       

      She hears it in the crackling discomfort of the forest, assaulted by the hot wind’s laughing breath as it takes reign, snapping brittle branches and sending them crashing to the ground onto the splintering roots. Dry leaves toss and turn trying to find comfort in their stifling beds.

       

      The tree birds whistle as though their beaks are full of crackers, their calls become parched cackles that scream warnings below. They scatter in flight, running from gray ghosts born of tossed embers that shield the sun and choke their eyes.

       

      The Rain Maker moves in closer, growing heavy with sorrow. Creatures cry out for comfort, their tongues swollen with thirst. Tendrils reach for her, winnowing upwards for a taste of her relief. She knows she is being spiteful, withholding; but drought is making the rules. She fights with him, throwing cooling droplets that tease but he sends dusty swirls through the air that snuff out her moisture. He holds her back for only he can hear what whispers from beneath the earth and inside the decaying willows.

       

      Soft wails of release from long hidden prisoners, spilled seeds and locked treasures deep in the ground, denied of light from their ancestors: they’ve been patient, just waiting for release, begging for the fire The Rain Maker steals.

       

      Drought nurtures the flames that sweep through and open the land. The wind howls wickedly as she helps spread its demise, but some things must die so that others might live. Bringing new life that springs from the ashes and fulfilling promises broken each time The Rain Maker wept.

       

      His score harshly settled, the wounds deep and raw, drought takes leave when the captives emerge.

       

      The Rain Maker sweeps in with maternal bliss and offers the forest a Rain Maker’s kiss.

       

       

       

      Posted in Uncategorized | 0 Comments | Tagged #prose, birds, drought, familyfriendly, fiction, nature, rain
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