Mary Beth Writes

Writing fiction is the hardest thing I love to do.

If you like one of my stories please let me know.

There are no good writers without good readers.

A Fairy Tale for People who are Generous for No Good Reason that Anyone Can Understand.

Virginia swore under her breath as she kneaded, pounded, and rolled out her third batch of cinnamon rolls. The cat, startled by the racket, ran from the kitchen. Virginia stomped across her tiny kitchen to microwave the butter. She measured the cinnamon and sugar and then sprinkled it over the smeared melted butter with absolutely no patience for what she was doing.

Vivian Woke Up Drowning

Vivian woke up drowning. She came to the surface of dark and murmuring dreams with her arms grabbing through tangled sheets; her lungs straining towards breath.

Then, as every day, she remembered to open her eyes. A slant of light stabbed through the curtains into the dim green of her bedroom. She pulled up to sit on the edge of the bed, gathering the quilt around herself, pressing her hand to her wild heart.

The House in Blue River

 I wrote this years ago.  It is fiction, of course, although there were several big old wood Victorian mansions in my hometown of Ludington, Michigan. My grandfather had been a glazier during part of his life; he installed windows. He talked about a house they \ worked on where they found a secret room- there was some hidden way into it that was not a door. 


Two Handsome Farmers


     Swollen gray clouds dragged across the sky all day. The world was quiet, stuck in a gloomy swale between dawn and downpour.

          What was the moment that tipped the pewter pitcher of sky, that let the rain begin to flow?

          Whatever that tiny moment was, it had finally come. With a roar.  

Andy's Three Magical Tasks

The heavy castle door creaked as it slowly opened; the music fell to a low thrumming heartbeat. Andy moved his controllers slowly and carefully, easing closer, peering through the meager light of the flickering candelabra...


The screen went blank.

Andy blinked, and then looked up. His mother was standing next to him. The scowl on her round face made her look, to Andy, like the chubby elf-slayer on Morph-Over.

Lost in the Waubicon

Len wrote this story for a nephew who was a youngster at Boy Scout Camp at the time!

It was about eight o'clock when Casey Jones noticed that the Lumberjack Steam Train had dropped him off at the wrong stop.  It was that bad conductor, or maybe it was the other boy with red hair who said, "Hey, isn't this your stop?"  Anyway, there he was, all by himself on the crossing at PileDriver Road, with the old locomotive puffing out of sight.

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