Psychological Suspense, Travel, Romance, Erotica, Paranormal - Stories, Poetry, and Excerpts
Read never before published stories and excerpts from J. Sharland’s novels including the fact-based-fiction suspense travel thriller Under the Umbrella of Paradise, the paranormal psychological suspense novel Shadows of the Ripples, and the suspense travel horror novel The RV Park.
Follow J. Sharland’s blogs at medium.com/jsharlandday or substack.com/@jsharlandday to stay up-to-date on her newest writing and publications.
I Found a Brown Paper Sack Left Behind in a Public Restroom (What To Do?)
While I stood all alone to wash my hands
I noticed a lone paper sack.
It had no identifying brands,
And the top was neatly folded back.
Mmmmm! I hummed, as I wondered what to do.
Do I take a peek out of curiosity?
I still wouldn’t know who it belonged to,
But would that be important to me?
What’s with Mother Nature?
Mother Nature has many forms of paybacks,
It's not just twisters or hurricanes.
There're volcanos, earthquakes, and big damned cracks,
Does she want no one to remain?
The Over-Fifty Class Reunion (And the Lessons That I Learned)
As we grew older, school friends scattered,
Promises to stay close no longer mattered,
‘Cause, I was the first one to move.
With that distance we grew apart and changed,
Our thoughts, perceptions, directions that ranged,
From marriage, college with career, or both.
If I Were A Whirl of Wind (A Poem Told From A Humble Tornado’s Perspective)
I was spawned, one stormy day,
When my mother decided to play
Somewhere along Tornado Alley.
She bumped into my dad,
Spawned me, and I was glad,
And they gave me the name of Sally.
The Beauty and the Bleakness of Early Spring
We left the tropics at the end of March,
Lush greenness embedded in our minds.
The swaying palms and the flowering shrubs
Showing colors of all kinds.
As we traveled north the colors changed,
From Kelly Green to Forest.
Higher elevations brought changes as we drove,
We began seeing branches at their barest.
My Fascination with the Howler Monkey
The Howler Monkey, how they cry!
With their screaming growls racing through the sky,
Like a charge from the light brigade.
The sound is very loud,
And they seem pretty proud,
Of the fact that they can be heard for miles.
The Saga of a Spider’s Web
Some friends walked by our garden gate and stopped to exclaim,
“Come look at this spider’s web!” Their tone had no disdain.
A fascinating spectacle, of that, there was no doubt.
The spider had made a great big edge and began to fill it out.
The Pouring Rain
Rain, rain won’t go away,
And will be back another day.
Our roof has large leaks galore,
Especially when the heavens pour.
Its great big heart out
To give us more
Moisture,
The soil a drink,
The lakes to restore,
Levels of their normal reserves.
Forever Blowing Bubbles (A Hope for Our World)
What is it we seek,
When the world looks so bleak,
With all the hatred, chaos and strife?
I seek to be like a bubble we blow,
That can put on a great show,
As it meanders and changes...like life.
If Only (I Had Practiced My Guitar and Singing)
If only I had practiced my beloved guitar,
After learning the cords, I coulda been a big star.
But I would only strum,
Making up songs with a hum.
When the mood hit every now and then.
I Love to Touch You
Touch. Such a simple yet powerful action.
Not a poke or prod. Those have negative connotations and effects. They are to get attention and are harder. Who wants to be poked?
A touch is softer. It can say, “Hello, dear friend. It’s so good to see you!”
Or it can say, “Hi, my love!”
Or it can say, “You are so special!”
Life and the Pitfalls of the Dreaded Saturation Point
When does a traveler get tired of traveling?
When does a writer get tired of writing?
When does a doer of anything get tired of doing anything
they love?
A Silly Poem about the Massive Flock of Grus Grus
A big damn bird flew in front of our car,
As we drove down the road to Seville (Sayveea).
It landed in a field but was too far
To see what it might be-a.
Was it a giant bird or small plane?
I chuckled to myself.
That thought was silly and quite inane
Yet I knew it was no elf.
From a Flu Bug to Infection — What an Ugly Misdirection
The Doctor said, “Alas, but no,
The flu should now be done.
I suspect that it has slowly turned
Into an in-fec-ti-on.
For the next six days, you’ll need a shot
In your fleshy bum
As you wait to see what transpires -
You might want a shot of rum.”
The Dastardly Flu Bug and How I Began to Kill It
Seven days ago, I woke up in the night with some powerful shivers
I felt I was riding an iceberg down many long rivers.
I was so cold my teeth chattered uncontrollably
And my body was shaking so bad I could hardly see.
What the hell, I thought, as the rapids grew worse
The Feast, the Farmer’s Daughter, and Her Big Surprise
The feast we held was for our friend’s return
To our tropical home in wintertime, no fires to burn.
We go up north mid-spring, too hot here in the summer
We come back at winter; cause staying North’d be a bummer.
Our celebration of their return was going to be sublime
For we all felt the bliss in this wondrous tropical clime.
We had our table all set up with salad, lasagna and meat.
The smells were so darn good we wanted to plop in our seats.
Love and Loss
I loved.
An unplanned happening
Of my heart, soul and being.
I didn’t mean for it to happen;
It was something just for fun.
But it happened,
Slowly,
Gradually,
Fully.
Ode to the Palapero
What is a palapero? One might ask.
A builder of palapas honed for the task.
But what is a palapa, they then say.
An open-sided dwelling in which to play.
A roof that is thatched with dried palm leaves
Or grasses that are bundled in small, dried sheaves.
The Dance of the Candlestick Flower
From my window I did see,
Movements, peeking erratic-ally.
Who is looking in at me?
Someone that should not be?
I feared to seek
The one to sneak
and take a peek
To be a freak
Or too meek
To meet one as chic
As I am thought to be.
Moon Magic
Asking the dusky midnight
With full moon shadows
The dark-lightness is seen with tugs
Of days gone by,
Nostalgic days,
Loving days,
Precious days,
Ne’er to live again,
Only to capture anew.