Tag Archives: children

Divide and Conquer

Divide and Conquer
Women’s rights has always been a hotly contested arena. As early as the late 1800s Theodore Roosevelt noted in his Harvard thesis that women should not face discrimination, yet that discrimination has continued to the present time. “Protection” of the “weaker sex” has often been cited as the reason for discriminatory laws and practices. In 1974 in San Francisco, I was turned down for several mechanics jobs for which I was otherwise qualified. When I demanded a reason from the owners of these shops, this is the reason several of them gave: men would be so angry that a woman “invaded” their working space that they might attack me, so it was for my own “protection” that I was not hired.
Even in the areas of sexual assault/rape that discrimination can clearly be seen—women are assaulted then blamed for being assaulted. Of course, that blame is couched in “protection” language—things like if she hadn’t been drunk, she would not have been assaulted—as if sobriety has even been true protection against rape.
I recently read a historic novel by Alex Westmore, Shiver Her Timbers (http://www.amazon.com/Shiver-Her-Timbers-Plundered-Chronicles-ebook/dp/B019453TOA). While historic novels—even about pirates—are usually not my reading genre, Westmore is an excellent writer who brings the era to life. One thing that I noted in the novel was the parallels between how Queen Elizabeth used clan in-fighting to create so much chaos that the Irish had fewer resources with which to fight England’s plans of invasion.
The same can be said for women in current history. The mainstream culture uses whatever differences they can find to drive a wedge between women, to decrease their solidarity in demanding their rights.
Yes, lesbians and transgender women do face discrimination not experienced by heterosexual women.
However, it is clear that ALL women face discrimination and violence. Religion seeks to deepen the divide between women. Preachers exhort their female constituents to discriminate against lesbian and transgender women in service, employment, housing, and even bathrooms/locker rooms. (Hmmm, does this sound suspiciously familiar? Anyone recall that previously preachers—and some of them still do it—preached that God had designated the black race to a subservient position to the white race? It wasn’t that long ago that bathrooms/locker rooms were designated White and Negro.) The lawmakers on state level do their part by passing discriminatory laws aimed at the LGBTQ communities and their access to employment, adoption rights, housing, and services, some as basic as being able to sit down at a lunch counter and eat lunch. (Does this sound familiar, anyone?)
While we argue about who got hurt the worst, the patriarchy sits back and cheers us on. As long as we fight against each other, we cannot create the united front needed to overcome and defeat discriminatory laws. Isn’t it time that women band together to force the issue of our basic human rights? The right to live, laugh, love, work, and to be free from violence.
I am proud to say that I am a feminist as well as a lesbian. I fight to gain recognition for ALL women– lesbian, transgender, and heterosexual.
Where do you stand?

All of my work features women working together to overcome great odds. Visit my Amazon page for great stories that feature strong women who make a difference! http://www.amazon.com/Aya-Walksfar/e/B00CMVAKKK

3 Things My Characters Taught Me

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Not long ago, I submitted Hard Road Home, a literary novel, to Writer’s Digest Self-Published Awards Contest. Though I did not win, the judge who read my work had this to say:
“…HARD ROAD HOME is, like its title, a hard read, simply because of its subject matter. When Cas’s grandfather dies, her life rapidly falls apart into a spiral of abusive adults, alcohol, drugs, etc. It’s certainly intense material, and Walksfar writes about it vividly—I only can hope that much of it didn’t come out of direct experience, but the vividness of the writing did make me wonder about that. The character of Cas is certainly compelling; it’s difficult not to root for a character who doesn’t crumble under the weight of such torment and abuse.” (23rd Annual Writer’s Digest Self-Published Book Awards)

In writing this book I drew from the experiences of children who had been subjected to horrendous abuse and still managed to overcome that adversity in order to pursue useful and, sometimes, heroic lives. The common denominator between those young people was that they never gave up; no matter how bad things seemed–they put on their big-girl pants and kept moving forward.

LESSON 1: Never give up!

My newest literary novel, Beyond the Silence, also tackles serious issues in our culture: domestic violence, marital rape, depression, anorexia, and the unjust loss of one’s children. In this book, Barb Hensen comes to realize that in order to live one has to have the courage to dream.

LESSON 2: Find the courage to dream!

It isn’t only the protagonists in the literary novels that speak to me. In Run or Die, a mystery/thriller, Jaz Wheeler’s lover tells her that she needs to step beyond her current limiting circumstances.

LESSON 3: Become all that you can be!

There you have it–some of the wisdom of my protagonists.

To check out the full array of novels, go to: http://www.amazon.com/Aya-Walksfar/e/B00CMVAKKK

#Highway530: In Memoriam

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A TRIBUTE TO THOSE WE LOST AND THE FOUR LESSONS THEY LEFT BEHIND:
March 22, 2014 10:37 A.M.

Sorrow seemed to swallow us whole.

We came together–to search for an elusive miracle. We found that miracle in each other, and in the children who shouldered a burden that no child should ever have to lift. They came–from the young Cub Scouts who raised money to the children who helped serve food to the workers to the teenagers who stocked shelves.

In a community grieving, we found the first hint that

We came to accept that

Eventually, we realized

Four lessons grew from the soil of that tragedy:

Though life holds disappointments, broken dreams,and sorrow

This blog post is dedicated to the 43 people that were lost when the Highway 530 Mudslide took out the small community of Steel Head Drive and the surrounding area once known as Hazel, Washington.

Many of these image quotes can be found in Biker Granny’s Motorcycle Philosophy
http://www.amazon.com/Biker-Grannys-Motorcycle-Aya-Walksfar-ebook/dp/B019APE7W2

For photos taken during the search and rescue efforts after the slide:
http://www.seattletimes.com/news/highway-530-mudslide-east-of-arlington/

FROM THE FULL ARCHIVE OF THE EVERETT HERALD’S COVERAGE OF HIGHWAY 530 MUDSLIDE: CURRENT ISSUES FOR SURVIVORS AND VICTIMS OF SLIDE:
http://www.heraldnet.com/section/osomudslide
FEB. 26, 2016
Now, there will be no mudslide trial before mid-to-late September.King County Superior Court Judge Roger Rogoff changed the schedule in a Feb. 18 ruling that came after lawyers for Snohomish County, the state of Washington, and a timber company all said more time is necessary.The delay was opposed by lawyers representing the families of the 43 people who were killed and dozens of others who were injured in March 2014 when a wall of mud and trees raced across the Stillaguamish River valley.“It cannot be underscored more deeply at this stage that Plaintiffs deserve their day in court,” the lawyers wrote. “The trauma of survivors and surviving family members endures while this case is prolonged and remains unresolved.”

4 Things You MUST Remember!

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Life doesn’t always go according to plan and right on schedule! What can a person do? Whether you are fifteen or fifty-five, here’s a few suggestions from Biker Granny.

Even rivers sometimes get blocked, yet the water simply finds a way over, under, around, or through the obstacle. Be like a river. A waterfall is a river that has found a way over an obstacle. Some do it quietly; some do it with joyous abandon.
Flowers always smile after a rain–they lift their heads and rejoice in the sun. Rejoice in the moment, however, different it is than what you planned. Be like a flower.
In the face of adversity and difficulty, trees cling and thrive on mountainsides. Strong, tenacious, persistent. Be like a tree.
You are a child of Creator, and no matter how many plans fail to bear fruit, you are a wonderful part of creation. And you are worthy.

To read more of Biker Granny’s Motorcycle Philosophy, pick up your copy today! http://www.amazon.com/Biker-Grannys-Motorcycle-Aya-Walksfar-ebook/dp/B019APE7W2
If you’ve read Biker Granny’s Motorcycle Philosophy, please take a moment to review it!

#Reviews: The Good, Bad, and Ugly

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REVIEWS: The Good, Bad, and Ugly
Your opinion counts—especially with Independent Authors AKA #IndieAuthors—those of us who choose to write and to publish our own work. I read every review I receive, and I take them seriously. What the reader says matters to me.
What is even more important for the reader to understand is that reviews and word-of-mouth can make or break an Indie book. We swim, or drown, in an ocean of books.
Between 600,000 and 1 million new books are published every year. With limited advertising budgets and no large house to create “buzz” for us, we have to depend on rankings, especially rankings on Amazon, to have our books placed far enough toward the top of the queue that readers who are randomly searching–say ‘mystery’–will happen upon our books. Two ways to get good rankings on Amazon is to either sell a lot of books every day and/or amass at least twenty-five 4 and 5 star reviews.
Unfortunately, Indie authors also face the terrible monsters of the deep. Beneath the choppy waters of the ocean of books lurk Review Trolls. Here is a rare photo of a Review Troll, note the wide open mouth getting ready to gobble up a Indie Author:
Review trolls are people who purchase a book, keep it a day or two and then return the book without reading it. That person can now post an Amazon VERIFIED purchase review. The reviews that trolls publish are always meant to wreck an author’s ratings. Like black hat hackers, review trolls are about unnecessary destruction. Their ratings, however, will pull down the ranking of the book that they attack unless that book has enough 4 and 5 star ratings to successfully counterbalance the trolls’ attacks.
With the challenges involved in getting very busy people to write and post reviews and fending off troll attacks, Indie authors face advertisers who won’t even consider their book for their publications and email blasts unless the book has at least ten 4 and 5 star reviews on AMAZON! They don’t count Barnes and Noble or Smashwords reviews. Everyone knows that advertising is one way to get your book in front of a larger audience. Classic chicken and egg situation. Advertising could result in more reviews, but you can’t advertise with the really good advertisers without ten reviews.
You see, a reader’s opinion really does matter, especially to an Indie author. The next time you finish a book, please consider zipping over to Amazon and quickly posting an honest review.
For me, and for many Indie authors who put in incredibly long hours, we thank you!
AMAZON REVIEW EXCERPTS FROM READERS:
STREET HARVEST (SPECIAL CRIMES TEAM, SECOND BOOK. ALL BOOKS IN THIS SERIES CAN BE READ OUT OF SEQUENCE) Pat Rummenie says:
Everyone with a social conscience who also loves a good mystery should read this well written book.
OLD WOMAN GONE (SPECIAL CRIMES TEAM, THIRD BOOK) Amazon Customer says:
The mixture of police procedures and Native American spiritualism are needed to solve the crime and rescue the two women. The author knows the setting well and uses it to enhance the story.
BACKLASH! (SPECIAL CRIMES TEAM, FOURTH BOOK) Coppercreek says:
I love crime novels, and this really hit the spot.
RUN OR DIE (STAND-ALONG MYSTERY/THRILLER) KtHack8 says:
I highly recommend this to anyone who wants a story about life and finding the will to overcome adversity.
RUN OR DIE (STAND-ALONE MYSTERY/THRILLER) Denise Gayl says:
Thought provoking about the injustices of bigotry and racism, and the ray of sunshine that there are people “out there” willing to accept, love, and help others even though their lifestyles are unlike their own. Well done.
HARD ROAD HOME (LITERARY, COMING-OF-AGE) pwindsinspirations says:
This story brought out emotions in me I had hidden away. I, too, was abused and afraid to tell anyone for fear of only making it worse for myself….. I liked how it took me from despair to triumph and the way the writer brought that about.
HARD ROAD HOME (LITERARY, COMING-OF-AGE) Denise Gayl says:
A very good read. As a mother of 2 girls, the subject matter is a bit difficult at times. But, in the end, it shows that young women pitted against adversity through no fault of their own can come back strong and live good lives. Is thought provoking and makes me realize there is much that needs to be done in this society to help young people thrive.
THIS is why I write! Thank you, Readers! YOU are my inspiration!

SKETCH OF A MURDER, Special Crimes Team, is FREE. Run over and grab your copy! http://www.amazon.com/Sketch-Murder-Special-Crimes-Team-ebook/dp/B00KU6AIPQ

To view my other titles go to: http://www.amazon.com/Aya-Walksfar/e/B00CMVAKKK

Death by Dog Ch. 1

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Death by Dog
Chapter 1
WEDNESDAY
When the cold rain stopped, the sun peeked through gray clouds and painted the horizon over Puget Sound in slashes of orange and red. Soda stepped out the door of the First Avenue bookstore as she brushed her thick chestnut hair away from her face. It fell in waves to the middle of her back. She dug a scrunchy out of the pocket of her faded jeans then fisted her hair and tied it so that it fell under the collar of her hoodie.
Mid-March in Seattle, Washington, breathed an early spring chill on the city. She flipped her hood up then zipped the sweatshirt and stuffed her hands in the pockets. Shoulders hunched, she walked briskly south. Before long, she left the restaurants and boutiques and shops that had pulled steel mesh across their entrances for the night and entered an industrial area that had seen better times. Warehouses and abandoned buildings with busted windows hulked in the darkening evening.
The sound of rough male voices drifted across the narrow street. Soda edged into the deeper shadow of a crumbling, brick building; its windows like blinded eyes stared blankly out on the littered street. Between the black jeans and the navy blue hoodie–pulled close around her pale face and with her white hands stuffed in her pockets–the shadows swallowed her form. Standing perfectly still, she listened as they drew closer. Eyes straining, she peered from her spot, trying to make out what swung between the two men.
A few street lamps–not yet vandalized–spilled watery yellow light on the dirty sidewalk and the green dumpster that squatted at the mouth of the alley across from where Soda hid. The men sauntered into the light. Soda squinted. Her heart pounded when she finally realized what they carried.
The body of a large dog hung between them as they made their way to the dumpster. They swung the body back and forth until enough momentum had built and then let go. The animal sailed over the edge of the dumpster and thumped into the trash. They pulled off their gloves and stuffed them in jacket pockets.
The hum of traffic from several streets away sang a muted song, but the men’s voices–harsh and loud–rode over the top of it. The shorter, thicker man dug under his jacket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He lit one and the ember glowed as he inhaled. Grey smoke drifted up toward the circle of lamp light, but disintegrated when a slight breeze puffed off Puget Sound. The breeze smelled of dead fish. “Damn, that was some sick bitch. Shortest fight I’ve ever seen.” Admiration sounded clear in his gravelly voice.
The taller, thinner man accepted a cigarette from the other man and lit it. “Short for damn sure. Only thing that bitch,” he jerked a thumb over his shoulder and toward the dumpster, “good for was a trainin’ fight. Can’t believe that other’n; not even two years old, yet. Man, I want me one of them dawgs.” He snorted a laugh.
A shiver ran up Soda’s spine. She pushed against the brick; the cold that seeped through her hoodie felt reassuring.
The shorter man shook his head. “In your dreams.” He finished his smoke then flicked the butt out into the street.
A cramp seized Soda’s calf muscle. Afraid any movement would draw their attention she clamped her teeth and pressed her lips together, willing herself not to move.
“What you think one of them dawg’s worth?” In imitation of the other man, the taller man flicked his cigarette butt out into the street. For a moment, he seemed to be looking straight at her and Soda thought her heart might stop.
The other man shook his head. “Way outta your league. I heard some of them cost as much as fifty big ones.”
The taller man shifted his attention to his companion and Soda sucked in a silent breath. “If I had me a dawg like that…”
The shorter man guffawed. “You wouldn’t know what to do with it. Them things are the devil’s own dogs. One of them would eat you up, bro. Come on. I’ll buy you a beer.”
They sauntered away into the dark created by busted street lights. Snatches of their words faded until only the hum of the traffic from nearby streets filled the air. A couple of minutes later, a truck roared. Soda shuffled to the edge of the cracked sidewalk and watched as a block north a large, dark colored pick up pulled into the street. She waited until she could no longer see the red of the taillights before she hustled across the potholed asphalt.
Hand on the dumpster side she let her head drop back until she stared up at the faded sky. “Why am I doing this? It’s not going to change anything. She’s dead, or they wouldn’t have thrown her away.” A lump swelled in her throat. She swallowed hard. Taking a deep breath, she tried to steel herself for what she knew lay in the garbage. With an exhale, she clambered up the side of the dumpster. Balanced on the inches-wide lip of cold metal, she stared down as the odor of rotted food wafted up to her. Pale light glinted off black plastic bags of garbage.
The dog had landed on top of several black bags. “You poor dog,” she said as tears quickened in her eyes. She readied to hop off the metal container then stopped. Holding her breath, she leaned forward. A faint movement caught her eyes.
Without hesitation, she dropped into the garbage and waded to the animal. One dark eye blinked slowly up at her. “Poor baby.” She eased down close to the dog. Papers rustled and a puff of something rancid reached her nose. She ignored it. Gently lifting the dog’s head, she scooted her legs underneath and laid the big head on her lap. A whine whispered from the dog. With light fingers, she stroked the dog’s face between gaping wounds. At least, the bleeding had stopped. A pink tongue slowly snaked out and rasped along Soda’s hand.
Even in the faded light from the street lamps, she could tell that the dog’s coat had once been a sable color, a mix of light brown and black hairs. Now a spray of drying and dried blood matted the fur with dark splotches. One of the muscled forelegs had been gashed and the muscle ripped open. The jagged point of bloodied bone jutted out of the skin. The dog had once been a beautiful animal with a well-built body that looked bigger than most German Shepherds that Soda had seen, but it was definitely a German Shepherd. She’d always loved the regal look of German Shepherd dogs.
Another shuddering breath pushed the dog’s ribs up and down. Soda swallowed back her tears as she recalled a lullaby that her mom had sung to her when she was young and had awakened from a bad dream. She petted the dog’s big head and stroked her side as she sang in a quavering, soft voice. Before she’d finished the song, the dog licked her hand once more, looked into Soda’s eyes and breathed her last.
Tears coasted down her cheeks as she wiggled out from under the dog’s head and laid it on a pillow of garbage. She reached out and stroked the still side. “Maybe you’ll see my mom when you cross the Rainbow Bridge, girl.” Jaw clenched, she struggled to her feet. With the sleeve of her hoodie, she scrubbed the tears away.
She had always loved dogs. Had one that had died a month before her mother died; a little dog shelter mutt, but Soda had loved Cindy. After her mother passed, she was glad that Cindy had died of old age first. She couldn’t have taken care of Cindy while she lived on the streets and she wouldn’t have left her dog alone with her abusive stepfather.
Fists knotted at her sides, she vowed that even though she was only a street kid she’d do something! She didn’t know what, but she would do something to stop those assholes from slaughtering any more dogs.

HOLIDAY PLANS!

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May love and joy be with you and yours during the Holiday Season! –aya walksfar
In the spirit of #Christmas and the upcoming #holidays, I asked the members of the Special Crimes Team about their plans for the day.
–Lieutenant Williams and his wife, Dr. Irene Nelson will be playing Santa and Mrs. Claus at a hospital ward for children.

–Sergeant Nita Slowater and her fiancée, Dawn Samira, plan to help Grandma Merlie Greene host a family and coven get together during the holidays. They will be celebrating Winter Solstice on December 21 with drumming and chanting with Grandma Greene’s coven. On December 25, they will open presents and have Christmas dinner with family and friends who follow the traditions of Christianity. And finally, on December 26 they will begin the Kwanzaa celebrations, an African American tradition.
–Detective Frederick Albert: politely declined to share his plans.
–Detective Maizie O’Hara: will visit her #family and extended family where there will be a lot of singing, eating and gift giving starting on Christmas Eve (her and her girlfriends will be up all night wrapping last minute presents and eating cookies and waiting for Santa) and everyone will wander back to their own homes on the evening of December 25.
–Officer Juan Rodriquez: will visit his brother who is currently serving time for murder in Walla Walla.
–Officer Driscoll Mulder: will be hosting a Christmas Day feast for homeless gay and lesbian youths, “and any other homies who wanna show up” at his house.
–Ronald Arneau: will spend a quiet day with his mother.

What are your plans for Christmas Day? Would love to hear.
Be sure to fill those stockings with BOOKS!
EIGHT of my EBOOKS on SALE at Amazon for 99 cents and two are FREE! Visit me at http://www.amazon.com/Aya-tsi-scuceblu-Walksfar/e/B00CMVAKKK

Though we are all hyper-aware of the needs of others during the holiday seasons, many food banks and other helping organizations that receive many donations of food, volunteer hours and other necessary items during the holidays, often limp along barely able to keep their doors open to needy people during the rest of the year. So, please, give during the holiday season, but don’t forget to give during the rest of the year, too. Thank you.
Christmas tree and boy photo courtesy of: Petr Kratochvil, http://www.all-free-downloads.com
Candle lite evening photo courtesy of: Geralt, http://www.all-free-downloads.com
Christmas tree with lights photo courtesy of: Anna Langova, http://www.all-free-downloads.com

The Little Angel Who Couldn’t Sing: A Family #Christmas Story

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Be the Light in the Dark this Holiday Season.
The Little #Angel Who Couldn’t Sing: A #Family Christmas Story
Written by Betty Matney Edited by Aya Walksfar
Little Angel huddled, shivering and sobbing, in the shadow of a large bank of dirty clouds outside of Heaven’s Gate. Gusts of cold north wind tugged at his mud-spattered robe and tangled the feathers of his wings, forcing him to burrow deeper into his hiding place. He knew he should get up and go home, but he couldn’t face his friends. If it didn’t get any colder, he’d sneak home after dark.
Suddenly, he stopped crying and raised his head to listen. Voices drifted across the clouds. He curled into a tighter ball and lay very still. He didn’t want any of the angels to find him.
A deep voice spoke briskly. “I tell you I heard someone crying.”
There was a mumbled response he couldn’t hear very well.
Even closer this time, the deep voice said, “I know how happy everyone is, but I also know crying when I hear it.”
Whoever it was they were nearly at his bank of clouds. He covered his head with his wings and held his breath.
Big feet shuffled to a stop. “What do we have here?”
Little Angel slowly raised his head and peeked over the edge of his wing. His blue eyes popped wide. God Himself stood looking down at him.
Holding his long, gray, wind-tossed hair out of His eyes with one hand, He bent over and held His other hand out to the little angel. “Come out of there, little one.”
He lowered his wing and God pulled him out of his hole. He stood there, robe wrinkled and dirty, gold halo tilted over his right ear, eyes cast down. God knelt on one knee. With a finger under his chin, He lifted his face. “How old are you, little one?”
Little Angel mumbled, “Seven years old, Sir.”
“On the day when joy is almost tearing this old place apart, why are you down here alone and crying?” Gently, He wiped the tears away with the end of the green sash wrapped around His waist.
Little Angel bit his trembling lower lip to keep from crying again.
God twisted His head around and looked up at the other adult angel. “Aren’t all the angels practicing their singing for the performance tonight?”
The other angel looked flustered. “Yes, Sir. They are supposed to be, Sir.”
God turned His kindly eyes on the little angel. “Does that have something to do with why you’re crying?”
Tears filled Little Angel’s eyes as he nodded. “I…I can’t…” He sniffled and wiped his nose with the sleeve of his robe. “I can’t sing!” Tears spilled down his cheeks. “The chorus master said I can’t carry a tune. I should just fly around and hum, but I shouldn’t hum too loud.” He threw his arm across his face and wailed into his sleeve. “I don’t want to just hum! I want to do something important like everyone else!”
God sighed and pushed to His feet. He patted the little angel on the head. “Of course, you do.”
He dropped his arm and stared up at God. God stood there stroking His thick, white beard. Finally, God smiled. He reached over and plucked a few pieces of dirty cloud from the little angel’s red curls. “You go get cleaned up and meet me at the Pearly Gates in an hour.”
As he took off running, God shouted, “And straighten up that halo!”

Little Angel skidded to a halt in front of God, jolting his halo into a tilt over his right ear.
God reached over and straightened it up. “You look much better, except you seemed to have missed a few spots on your face.” God ran a thumb over the little angel’s cheeks.
He giggled. “Those are freckles.”
God smiled. “Ah, so they are.”
Little Angel fidgeted.
God chuckled. “Anxious to find out what you’re doing. Frankly,” God’s Voice got very serious. “I don’t know how we overlooked this task. It is very important.”
He lifted his chin and drew his shoulders back.
“Do you have your sack of stardust?”
He nodded and lifted the small, red velvet sack hanging from the robe’s tie.
God leaned over and whispered in the little angel’s ear.
Little Angel’s wings drooped. “The donkey? That’s a dumb job.”
God frowned. “Remember who the donkey is carrying, but the donkey is small. It is important that he have some help with his burden. Will you help him?”
He looked up at God with wide eyes. “Yes, sir.” Little Angel took off running towards a hole in the clouds that would let him drop to earth quickly. Just as he was diving through, God yelled, “And straighten up that halo!”

Little Angel stood on the side of the road leading to Bethlehem. Overhead a zillion stars shone, but down here it was dark and cold. He shivered and pulled his wings around himself.
From around a curve in the road the sound of hooves clip-clopped along the frozen ground. The small donkey staggered a few steps before he caught himself. A woman, wrapped in a blue cape, rode the small creature while a man with a staff walked beside them. The man walked slowly, now and then patting the donkey’s short neck. “What a brave little beast you are.”
The donkey’s winter coat was long and fuzzy and very black. Patches of white hair that matched the hair on its belly filled its long ears. It was young, not much more than a baby, really. And so tired that sometimes its nose dragged the ground.
As the three drew alongside Little Angel, the donkey stopped. The man rubbed its ears and stood beside it.
Little Angel walked over and placed a hand on its halter. The donkey’s big dark eyes lifted to him and then it groaned. “I don’t know how much longer I can go on.”
“I will help you.” Little Angel took the red sack from his belt and knelt. He dipped his fingertips inside. When he took them out, they shone with silvery powder. He swiftly rubbed all four hooves with the silvery powder. “Take a few steps and see if that helps. Bethlehem is just over that hill.” He pointed towards a small hill in the distance.
The donkey nodded. “I’ll try.” As he stepped forward, he added, “Your halo is crooked.”
He straightened up his halo as the donkey took the first short, slow steps. He twitched his long ears then gave a joyful bray. “My feet don’t hurt!”
Little Angel jogged next to the trotting donkey as it nimbly skirted the frozen puddles along the road. Very soon they reached Bethlehem. Little Angel waited beside the donkey as the man inquired for a room at inn after inn. Every place was full until finally only one inn was left. The man sagged with fatigue as he walked to the last door.
The donkey sighed as the man stood talking to the landlord. “I need something to eat and some water and a place to rest pretty soon. My feet are hurting again.”
Little Angel hugged the donkey. “I’m sure this is the place we are to stop. There’s a stable out back.”
He turned and looked at the woman sitting quietly on the donkey. Body bent with tiredness, she sagged as if she could barely stay seated. He was really glad she hadn’t had to walk. Turning, he gave the donkey another hug. “You are so brave and good,” he whispered to the donkey.
The donkey raised its black nose to Little Angel’s ear. “The woman’s going to have a baby. I didn’t think she could walk very far, so I had to try to keep walking for her.” The donkey sighed. “Did you know about the baby?”
He scratched the donkey’s ear. “Yes, I knew about the baby.”
When the man returned, he led the donkey to the stable behind the inn. He helped the woman off and spread his own cloak over her as she lay down on a pile of straw. After she was settled, he took the donkey into another stall to feed and water the animal before returning to the woman, his wife.
Little Angel sat in the corner of the stall as the donkey ate and then tucked its legs under it and lay down. “Don’t sleep too soundly,” he cautioned. “The celebration will be starting soon.”
He had just finished speaking when a baby cried. He rushed to the wall and peeked through the space between two boards. Eyes wide, he watched as the man wrapped the baby in a warm blanket and laid it in the manger next to where the woman lay. The man stood between the manger and the woman, smiling first at one and then at the other. The woman’s face shone with happiness as she gazed at her husband and then at the Infant Boy.
The donkey stood next to Little Angel, staring through the crack. “She’s had her baby.”
From far away and above them, singing drifted on the air. The donkey looked up. “What’s that?”
A grin stretched Little Angel’s face as he, too, looked up. “Those are the angels singing to the shepherds out in the hills. They are telling them to come to the stable and behold the Child that was born.”
He dropped his eyes to the donkey. “I have to leave now.”
The donkey nodded. “Thank you. I don’t know if I could have made it all this way by myself.”
He gave the donkey a warm hug around its shaggy neck. “Everyone needs help sometimes.”
As he flew upwards, the donkey called, “Hey! Your halo is….”
He raised both hands and straightened his halo as he flew into the night. In the distance, he heard the final chorus and, all alone, Little Angel began to hum. As he flew higher, his humming grew louder until, unable to contain his joy, he burst into song. In a loud, happy voice, and slightly off-key, he added his own heavenly welcome to the Baby lying in the manger.

Though I am not Christian, I post this story every year to honor my friend and Elder Betty Matney who Journeyed to the Other Side years ago. I know she would want to share her story will all of you; and since she Gifted it to me, I will say the words she would say–
Share this story with anyone you choose to share it with; make copies and give them to others, but please give attribution to Betty Matney.
With the holidays upon us, remember that books make GREAT gifts! This year why not give a book that can be read over and over? Biker Granny’s Motorcycle Philosophy is a book your family and friends will read and re-read. You can find the ebook copy at http://www.amazon.com/Biker-Grannys-Motorcycle-Aya-Walksfar-ebook/dp/B019APE7W2
And the print book is available here: http://www.amazon.com/Biker-Grannys-Motorcycle-Aya-Walksfar/dp/1505829690

A GIFT TO MY READERS

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IF ANY OF THESE LINKS DO NOT FUNCTION OR IF THE PRICES AT ANY OF THESE RETAILERS ARE DIFFERENT, PLEASE CONTACT ME WITH RETAILER, LINK USED, PRICE, OR OTHER PROBLEM EXPERIENCED. YOU CAN REACH ME AT ayawalksfar@gmail.com Thanks! Have a GREAT READ!

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STREET HARVEST, BOOK 2, SPECIAL CRIMES TEAM WILL BE FREE ON AMAZON UNTIL DECEMBER 7TH! GRAB YOUR COPY NOW!
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00KVREDIC
Human traffickers abduct children to feed a 35 BILLION DOLLAR PER YEAR industry. Children are raped, sodomized, tortured, murdered.
IN the United States, a child goes missing every 40 SECONDS. STREET HARVEST is their story.
What do the bodies of two young children have in common with the murders of two adult men?
Eleanor Hasting, a black bookstore owner and child advocate, knows these killings are linked. She must convince Lieutenant Michael Williams, head of the Special Crimes Team.
Psychic Jaimie Wolfwalker, is prepared to do whatever it takes to locate and rescue the missing street children. The law be damned. Jaimie’s attitude and methods place her on a collision course with Sergeant Nita Slowater, second-in-command of the Special Crimes Team.
Four dedicated people struggle to come to terms with each other in their desperate search for clues. Every day brings more missing children, more young bodies. Can they stop the monsters before another child disappears?

Aya Walksfar, Author

Hard hitting, in-the-news murder mysteries

Tag Archives: children

Divide and Conquer

3 Things My Characters Taught Me

#Highway530: In Memoriam

4 Things You MUST Remember!

#Reviews: The Good, Bad, and Ugly

Death by Dog Ch. 1

HOLIDAY PLANS!

The Little Angel Who Couldn’t Sing: A Family #Christmas Story

A GIFT TO MY READERS

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