Tough Questions.

 

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Molly Serra

 

I am thrilled to be hosted  on a rocking site, The Manifest Station as a guest blogger.

Please click below to read my essay on caring for my niece Molly, after having been separated from her mother.

 

http://themanifeststation.net/2016/08/11/tough-questions/

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A Bedtime Story

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Wildsound Festival chose my story Night Swimming  to be read and recorded by a professional actor as part of their festival.

It’s like a free audio story – try listening before bed!

Night Swimming is a story from a novella I hope to share in the next few months, about the Donahues of Sonoma. A wacky family that might resemble my own family, albeit in Jersey.

In this story, a feisty character named Billy Donahue, fresh out of jail, is stealing a boat with the help of his reluctant daughter Meghan who is oh so close to getting her life together.

Below is the link as well as an interview of yours truly.

https://novelwritingfestival.com/2016/07/06/short-story-reading-night-swimming-by-joanell-serra/

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The Review review.

 

It is a new feeling for me, to be reviewed.

The mother of a professional actor, I know what it is like to rush to the papers the day after a show opens. (And so far, have a happy feeling!)

But as a writer that has not yet published a book, I’ve never been “reviewed” publicly.

Until now!

I was surprised and touched  to read this review of Limehawk, a magazine I was fortunate to be published in. The reviewer, Rashi Roghati, says this about my story:

Most of all, the issue starts wonderfully, with Joanell Serra’s “Alma Mater” alongside Karen B. Golightly’s photographs. Golightly’s images are eerie, green, urban dreamscape/hellscape photos, contrasting at first with the setting of Serra’s story: a near-death experience that takes place in what starts out as heaven. For the protagonist, this is a slightly askew version of her college days several decades ago at Rutgers alongside a pragmatic, now-dead roommate who we realize was her last true friend. The story goes reaches beyond cleverness to an examination of why even lives lived true to one’s self can seem to sag, to burst, in our loneliest moments.

Here is the link to the review.

http://www.thereviewreview.net/reviews/online-mag-focuses-health-culture-and-environment-lo

Thank you, Rashi, for your kind words.

Now back to the novel in progress!

 

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A Day in the Country.

 

dead-deer

 

To the deer that took her last breath on my property, then collapsed in the corner of the yard I never get to:

I’m sorry. I wish I had seen your body earlier, before it was stiff, your eyes still seeming awkwardly alive, staring at my bedroom window. Wish I could have saved you, though I have no idea how you died, or why. Only that your cold hoof rests on the bottom of the gate, as if begging for entrance.

To the woman who answers animal rescue calls for the County of Sonoma:

No, I did not kill the deer, nor did my dogs. And yes, I understand that it is my responsibility to have it disposed of, unless the deer happens to find its way to the street, in which case this is no longer my problem. No, I can’t lift the dead doe and toss in her in the street. Or I won’t.

To Frank, who advertises his animal abatement services on Google:

Thank you for saying your nephew would be right over. No, I agree, I shouldn’t let the dogs gnaw on her, she might be diseased. Do people actually toss the dead deer to their dogs while waiting for you?

To the dogs, a mother and her puppy, recently rescued by me and my persuasive children in a moment of insanity:

Get away from that gate. Get your nose off the poor dead girl’s paw. Do not gnaw.

To the deer who still lies on her side: 

Frank’s nephew is coming.

To Frank:

I’m sorry about your nephew. They can be unreliable at that age, I know. No problem, I can wait. I’m just sitting on the back deck watching her. No, I know I don’t have to. Yes, it is windy today, I can feel the chill right through the blanket I threw over my shoulders before I came out to yell at the dogs.

To the puppy:

Where is my other shoe?

To the deer:

I don’t know why I’m standing on the grass, ten feet from you, watching you like you might spring up at any moment. Why I am ignoring the dogs whining from inside the house where I’ve locked them, and not doing the chores that I listed on the back of an envelope. It feels decent, to be here with you. A witness. And I’m sad.  You look so young to die, like a doe just getting started. In the prime of her life.

Did you eat the ripe blackberries on Kenleigh Road last summer? Run unfettered in the fields that surround us? Tell me you at least had some sweetness in your short life, before coming to this unremarkable end. And how did you die? Why did you choose here, outside my window, on a very high hill, with views across the valley.

Then again, what a good spot you chose to die on. I’ll be back. I need to get a cup of tea.

To Frank:

It’s Ok. I’ll wait. Yes, traffic on 37 is always a bitch this time of day. Thanks for coming since your nephew is hung over.  No, I don’t know the Wilsons. I don’t really know the neighbors here .It’s a second home. A sheep? Mountain lions ate their sheep? Right down my street. Huh.

Well, I’m glad you know just where to go. See you soon.

To my husband, on the cell phone between meetings:

I forgot why we have a house in the country. Since we bought it we have had: a dead bird in the pool, an erupting septic tank, a broken dishwasher, clogged toilets, an enormous tree fall down on the deck, a lost tortoise, a gas leak, and, apparently, mountain lions. Yes, you can call me back later.

To my husband’s voice mail:

To be fair, we’ve also had a lot of fun. Fifty late dinners on warm summer nights, a party that ended with dancing so vigorous I threw out my hip, and many glasses of wine near the pool. A hundred hot tub moments. And four Christmas Eve’s. Sorry I was cranky. These mountain lion scares are real though. We have to keep an eye on the puppy.

To the deer who appears frozen and alone:

I’m sorry I can’t bury you. I tried to bury an animal here, just last winter.  I wanted my old dog’s body here with us. I wanted her spirit to breathe through the grass, her bones to feed the yellow flowers that bloom in late March.  I wanted to know my girl, my fuzzy dog-almost-a-bear with the enormous golden eyes, was still with me. But we found out, after four hours of fruitless digging, that you can’t dig a hole in rock.  The acres of land that surround us are deceiving, appearing to be fertile earth. They are actually rocks in disguise.  The hole, our attempt to dig a grave, is still there, the shovels abandoned on both sides. We took turns digging, then sitting and crying with our old girl, knowing she was about to die. Fuck, it’s cold out here.

To Frank, whose tattoos are so large and intricate that I am distracted for a minute from the purpose of your visit:

Thank you for coming. I’m glad to meet your surly nephew as well. I wish you hadn’t pointed out the “obvious” cause of the deer’s death, nor insisted I see the tiny fawn that was pushing its way from the mother womb when they apparently both succumbed to death. Thank you for explaining that most fawns are born in March, so this one was late, being almost May, which led to the untimely death of mother and baby.

I too am glad there are no maggots. An occupational hazard, I gather. Thanks for mentioning that.

No, I don’t have $125 in cash.

Really? You’re a retired San Francisco cop. Thirty five years on the force. I guess that fits. No, I never walk alone in that neighborhood at night. I hope to not need to call you again, but sure. I’ll take your card.

Yeah, I really don’t have cash like that in my pocket.

To the deer:

I wish Frank had been more gentle with you. I wish I’d buried you, even in a shallow grave, on the hill, where your ghost could emerge at night and run with the other ghost deer. Flirt with a translucent buck, raise your gossamer baby fawn. I feel I have done you a disservice, sweet, dead, doe.

To my dogs, the German Shephard mother and puppy who watch uneasily as the truck pulls away, the deer’s legs sticking out of the top of the flatbed:

I’m so glad you both survived the harrowing process of birth outside, in the wild. And that someone put you in their barn, for shelter. And that we came by a few weeks later and saw Cora, the skinny frightened Mama, nursing eight ravenous pups. And that I thought– we need to get you out of here, Mama.

To Cora:

Stop licking my face. I don’t know why I’m crying.

To the puppy:

Drop it. That’s my damn shoe.

 

 

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New Story in LimeHawk Journal

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The Limehawk Journal has published a story of mine online this week, called Alma Mater.

Rutgers friends beware, this is a quick sweet/sad story about life after death . . in New Brunswick, New Jersey!

Thanks to Limehawk for choosing this story.

Please click below to see the story, and tweet or share if you like it.

Enjoy! .

http://www.limehawk.org/journal

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When I Was Six.

 

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I emerged as a writer in 1971, age six, when I made the mistake of sharing with my mother a crumpled piece of paper with a few lines of prose.

The woods are quiet at night,

Except for one mouse, who scurries under the dry leaves . ..

It went on from there, describing my new found love for exploring the late night stillness in the thick woods behind our home.

“How do you know?” My mother asked me, stirring her milky tea. “What the woods are like at night?”

I closed my lips, firm.

I wouldn’t tell her that I escaped at night, out the kitchen door, while Johnny Carson blared in the den.  That if I skipped the second step off the back porch, and avoided the gravel driveway, they never heard me go.

“It’s a poem,” I explained. “It’s not real.”

A few weeks later, I stumbled, in an early Sunday morning stupor, to the breakfast table.  Strangely, the newspaper lie across my place at the table.

Being six, I moved it out of the way and poured my cereal into a chipped ceramic bowl, only dimly aware of my parents’ amusement.

“Look,” my mother insisted, “Look at the newspaper.”

In bold letters, on a page titled The Children’s Section, I noted my name.  My heart was an animal, scrambling around my chest. No.

“The Woods at Night” by Joanell Serra.

My poem was printed in exactly the same words I had scribbled on the wrinkled notebook paper, foolishly left in my mother’s possession.

My mother, my mentor, my agent.

The taste of betrayal destroyed my Cheerios.  I added more sugar, and looked away, unable to meet my parents’ expectant gazes.

“Aren’t you excited?” My mother finally said. “Everyone will see your poem! You’re a published writer.”

There was no need to answer. My mortification was apparent in my salty tears

My poems were like secrets, carefully tended, shared only with the select few I trusted.

I had been outed.

On Monday morning, my teacher greeted me with a copy of the paper under her arm and I plan: I would walk to every classroom, and read my poem out loud to them. From Kindergarten to fifth grade.

“We’re so proud of you,” she said.  She had skin that bagged slightly at each elbow, and a profusion of freckles on her long face. She was so old she had taught all my siblings before me, and was always kind. I could not refuse Mrs. Mulcahey.

We started in Kindergarten.  The restless children, only a year younger, had the brains of puppies. Their legs folded like sweaty sausages as they sat cross legged to listen, picking noses and poking one another. One boy in particular chewed on a pencil, devouring it while I read. Newsprint stained my fingers black.  Nausea crept up my throat, and I spoke so quietly the teacher had to take over for me.

We moved on, a reluctant fifth grader dragging me from room to room, my scuffed brown loafers following her down the antiseptic scented hallway.

By the time we finished the second graders, my voice had become calmer, steadier. I was almost robotic,  determined to survive.

I didn’t reach the fifth grade until well past my snack time, and my stomach rumbled as a boy shot spit balls at me through a straw, and the girls tossed their long hair on the desk, like shiny rugs. I ignored the preening and eye rolling. A pro by now, I cleared my throat, introduced myself, and read my poem.

The woods are quiet at night,

Except for one mouse, who scurries under the dry leaves . ..

If I closed my eyes I could be there, my favorite spot where the grass gave way to tall oak trees, where the scent of raspberries drifted in the summer time, and the moon fell upon the path like a silver lantern. My bare feet found their way across the wet grass, to the moist path, to peace.

My poem didn’t do it justice, I thought. I couldn’t find the right words to tell the world about my magical place.  I considered better vocabulary, as I followed my guide back to my classroom, words that might evoke the beauty these woods at night deserved: illumination, crackle, pine boughs. I forgot my mortification as I planned the next poem.

A moist earthy walk, amongst the towering pines? The piercing gaze of a moon lit owl?  I wondered if I might try my hand at alliteration.

I was a reluctant, redeemed, and reverent writer.

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On babies and world wide mangers.

 

Child and mother refugee

 

This is isn’t a religious rant.

I can’t imagine the gumption of  telling anyone what to believe, in this time of indiscriminate turmoil.

Although, as we watch our waters recede,  fires rise up and the sea  swallowing up  entire islands, we have the makings of an excellent addition to the book of Revelations. If one was inclined to write new biblical chapters.I’m not.

And this is not a rant on the materialism of the Western world, or an environmental  cry to melt all the arms we’ve built in the last year and turn them into windmills.  But my mind goes there, late at night in my worry festival.

But rather  this is just a note of wonder.

It hits me every year, not unlike a revelation from the starry sky. Despite the parking lot hoopla and traffic jams. Between  the forced chatter on the elevators and the lonesome sound of the Salvation Army bells on wet nights, I note:

This seasonal hysteria  is  based on the birth of a child.

And whether you believe there was anything special about that child, that divinity is a gift bestowed on one woman’s womb or a drop of water sprinkled on every one, the story is a compelling one.

A woman carrying a seed of hope. A family seeking sanctuary. A revolution born in a rundown stable.

Stranger things have happened, from babes born on farms from Chile to the Ukraine, from women giving birth in the Dubai slums  to the shanties in Cape Town.

Every child is a seed of hope. Every mother feels the miraculous nature and heavy responsibility of ushering a citizen into the world. Every family seeks  solace at some point in their journey.

This story is universal.

Every day we struggle to keep the door of our hearts open, a light on in the inn.

Every Christmas is a chance to see our reflection in the shiny windows, and note our part in the drama the world plays out, day after day ,year after year.

Are we willing to have our hopes pinned to a child, born in difficult circumstances, somewhere?

It’s a terribly vulnerable position to trust a babe to someday save us.

But an even worse one if we won’t let the child in.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A few notes:

Children Apprehended crossing the southwest border alone (unaccompanied minors) this year: 10,588.

Syrian Children living as refugees:  2 million

Children seeking asylum in Europe: 700 per day.

Unicef estimates 30 million children are “on the run” world wide.

 

Site to learn more: https://www.hrw.org/topic/childrens-rights/refugees-and-migrants

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