Alice Beckett asked me if I ever saw Jesus Christ. I told her I did not. She said she saw him recently at the foot of her bed. I want to believe it is Jesus, she said. But then I wonder. I asked her what he looked like and she said he had magnificent height and very light features, delicate like snow,  chiseled features, and aquamarine eyes like the Caspian Sea, she said.That sounds too perfect, I told her. Jesus was dark skinned with dark features and he was short. She looked away from me then and was quiet. I said I was not sure about these things. She then went on about the size of the Caspian Sea and how they determined that the hummocks are to blame for the scratch marks on the floor. I wonder if he’s sending me a message. That was last week. Now she sleeps, probably sedated. She is too young to be disregarded. But I keep silent. I know they are tricky and could use it against me like ammunition.


Essay accepted et al

I was thrilled to hear Education Week accepted my essay for a January 20th publication in  issue #18.  I submitted it back in October and forgot about it. Hopefully, the topic will spur some healthy discussion on  a national level related to special education, discerning teens, and the need to include an exit plan, if possible, before high school.

And then there is my fiction”Until I was Bone”which is forthcoming. I’m honored to have a second story (first being “Voices”)  picked up by Brent Armour, Editor in Chief of HelloHorror, for a January publication.  I’m naturally intrigued and drawn into the psychological, eerie aspects of people/characters and  atmosphere and it finds its way into my writing, inadvertently at times (if that makes sense).

Nice start to ring in the new year (as far as publications are concerned).

Stuck in a quagmire with novel

Now, I’m researching plausibility theory. A part of me feels like I need to move forward,  but I am stalled, tweaking, endlessly, to the introduction, back to the middle, then to the end, then back and forth, and now the introduction, tweaking the opening lines more, because I decided to go for a slightly different tone that has become more the flavor. Simone De Beauvoir. She intrudes because she has integrated into the character’s mind, into the essence of the novel. I wasn’t going for this extreme of feminism, but sometimes the work draws a breath, takes a hold and informs the author in ways that are mysteriously profound.  The problem is I’ve got too many obstacles, impediments I’m trying to circumvent. But maybe I shouldn’t be. De Beauvoir is in my head, at each step. And in these moments I feel like I want to think logically rather than ambiguously or mysteriously. I want a plan, but I don’t exactly have one. De Beauvoir suggests men plan accordingly, set goals and reach them in purposeful ways. Men transcend, so that even if they should at one point get stuck in the quagmire, they are more likely to free themselves and continue on. As for the female, “Her desire, as we have seen, is much more ambiguous:  she wishes, in a contradictory fashion, to have this transcendence, which is to suppose that she at once respects it and denies it, that she intends at once to throw herself into it and keep it within herself.”  If I could attain transcending, maybe I have and don’t know it,  I could ignore the minor details, unmoor my mind of the messy, the plausibility theory. Maybe not.  I am not a pure feminist myself insomuch as I am a female and aware of my gender and the idiosyncrasies and frailties associated with it.

‘Nightmare’ and ‘The Fall’ by Eleanor Hooker




A cobalt night in blue relief
and the hunt begins.
The green grass black
and the talking baby frightens me.
Bug eyed horrors hover in
our shadows, lingering, carnivorous.
Wailing now to let him stay,
He stumbles after, the talking baby.
Drop under the yickety yackety
picket fence. A treacherous fork
in the road. I know well the dangers.
Where I go the baby follows. I urge him
back to the black green grass, behind the
 yickety yackety picket fence.
“You’ll be safer there” I promise.
He crawls back under with pleas
to follow. We neither saw the pit
that he fell in, in velvet silence. A
small hand held the edge but
slipped away beneath my grip.
A cobalt night in blue relief and
And the hunt begins.

Nightmare is © Eleanor Hooker

First published in The Stinging Fly and subsequently The Shadow Owner’s Companion


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