My Writing

Hi!!! I've had some new friends and acquaintances interested in my writing, so I thought I would make it easier to find. You can now run ME on the internet and find me!! WhooHoo!! Me, Sandy S--chair--er.
.
Anyway, in addition to my anthology of flash fiction ABC 123 which is still available for $10 plus $2 for mailing, see the cover and ordering info in a previous blog.

I still have an anthology still on Fear of Writing e-book site...link to Fear of Writing is on the side bar under my profile and picture.
.
My e-book is called Once Upon a Blue Moon, click here ---->
http://www.fearofwriting.com/bookstore.htm#BlueMoon
.
Also on www.fearofwriting.com I have a story in the free anthology of the Santa Fe Fear of writing group called The Devil's Darning Needle (an old name for a dragonfly.)

My story is entitled A Thousand Years Ago, the last story in the e-book. Get a free download and see how great e-books are!!! Click here-----> http://www.fearofwriting.com/bookstore.htm#DevilsDarningNeedle
.
And, I am breaking into the romance field and have an e-book coming out in Aug. on Silk's Vault under my pen name. It's a spicy romance which isn't everyone's cup of tea, in fact, you have to be over 18 to access the site. But it's entitled Forever Marian.
.
For your reading pleasure, I thought I would add one of my flash fiction stories here for you to read. Enjoy!!!!
.
Read an Excerpt from ABC 123: Five Rainy Weeks by Sandy Schairer

“My lord,” I muttered. I’d never seen Reverend Kirby cry before. Except at a funeral. And that was his own mother’s funeral. “Reverend, are you okay?”
.
Rev. Kirby, the new minister in Webster, Iowa, swing around, swiping his eyes with a Kleenex. “Oh, Miriam,” he groaned.
.
I’m church secretary. Been here longer than Rev. Kirby’d been alive. I raised my brows in a "Yes?” gesture.
.
“I feel so terrible. It’s this rain. It just goes on. And on. And on. It’s my fault. I feel so guilty for praying for rain last Spring.” His voice cracked with a suppressed sob. “What’s it been? A month. Two months!? If I were Noah, I would have been instructed to build an ark by now.”
.
It’d been raining day after dreary day for weeks. People all over town’d been falling victim to SAD—Seasonal Affective Disorder--the depression caused by clouds and wet and dark. I could barely stave it off myself.
.
The Reverend was barely keeping up with the prayer list and visiting the sick and crazy, until today, when he cracked.
.
I put his rain hat on his head, his raincoat around his shoulders. It was still wet from when he’d come to the office this dark, dank Wednesday morning. I lead him to my car under my umbrella and drove him home.
.
I knocked on the door out of deference to his wife, Mrs. Reverend Kirby, Reba. Rebecca really. She answered the bell with what I can’t help but describe as a delighted yelp.
.
“Hi! Walter! And Mrs. Bellamy! Come in, come in. What are you doing here?” she demanded with relish.
.
“I live here, Reba,” Rev. Kirby said flatly as if it were a stupid question. He sounded on the verge of tears again.
.
“Oh, what’s the matter?” Mrs. Kirby fairly sang. She was grinning, laughing, dancing around (or was it staggering?) Trying not to spill the martini she held in her right hand or drop the cigarette in her left.
.
I blinked, kept silent, and backed out the door. I’d let the Kirby’s handle this. I went back to my car in the rain, drove back to the church on deserted streets. Nary a car on the streets but mine. Roads were flooded, nearly impassable. So were yards and fields. Soggy cattle watched me drive-by as if it were all my fault.
.
Once in the church office I turned on every light, lamp, and overhead florescent I could find. Even the broken lamps that were stuck in the closet without shades, the ones that still had bulbs.
.
The phone rang again and again. I made a list of prayer requests for the Reverend. During a short lull in the calls, I placed a call to my psychic advisor. As I suspected, she predicted more rain in the near future. I thanked her (though God knows why) and hung up.
.
I then placed a call to the weatherman at Channel 13. I begged him to report a clearing in the next few days or at least a let-up. He reminded me he didn’t make the weather, he merely reported it. With a long sigh, he hung up before I could explain how even an incorrect weather report would cheer people if only for a few days. Heck.
.
I saw then I had no choice, I had to call Beulah my psychic advisor again. I promised her the moon if she’d only cast a spell to stop this damnable rain. The town was out of control. Schools were closed. Sheep were up to their necks in water. For all I knew their wool was shrunken beyond hope. The cows were more than knee deep in water. Even Rev. Kirby was crying. Please could she do something? Please? Change the clouds into spun sugar, or the rain drops to frogs, for gosh sakes? I’d take out a bank loan to pay her, just name her price. I’d even rob the bank to pay her, I’d be that grateful.
.
She said, “Forget it,” and promised to do something. I could hear a strange grin in her voice. That night there was a thunderstorm complete with lightening. And three tornados. The next day the governor called for complete evacuation.
.
Oh well, mysterious ways and all.
~~
.
Meet the Author: Sandy Schairer started writing at age five when she had to ask her Grandma how to spell all the words. She’s a member of SouthWest Writers, The Land of Enchantment Romance Authors, and the Association for Research and Enlightenment. Sandy won the SWW Parris Award in 2004. She received her Ph.D. in Metaphysics in April of 2005 from American Institute of Holistic Theology. She lives in the east mountains near Albuquerque with her husband of 17-years, Ed-the-Woodworker—Custom Cabinets and Fine Furnishings.
.
Love and Hugs, Sandy : )