Raphael's Village

Be a part of the first writing contests at Raphael's Village. Contests with prizes! We have competition in our three professional categories -- The NEW New Curiosity Shoppe, Healing with Humor, and Quiet Contemplations. All contest submissions must be noted as such in the submission line (ex: Sub. for A Rose By Any Other Name - Name of your Poem), and must be received by Sunday, February 1st. Winners will be announced on Saturday, February 14th. Any writer may enter any or all of the contests, and multiple submissions in the same forum are allowed, but each must be submitted separately.

Another round of animal-related hilarity from one of our favorite humorists. The cat lovers on staff are doing their best not to be offended, but they're too busy giggling to get too upset. Humor Editor

Dog Limericks, by Steve Barber

Due to an unprecedented outpouring of public support and readership demand (thanks, Mom), I've decided to forge ahead with Dog Limericks. This is not without great personal sacrifice, I'll have you know. It took all kinds of time to find words that actually rhymed.

The things I do for my reader(s)!

A new story from a new contributor. We hope you enjoy this cautionary tale set in a world that is both far off and quite close at the same time. Fiction Editor

The Vow, by Heather Gregson

The exhausted and battered dragons gathered around the Sage at the waterfall clearing. The Sage was old and his face greying, his scales battle-worn and their color fading. "We must find a way to end this war. Our numbers are too few and I fear we will not survive much longer."

Mr. Winston's writings are from the heart during a time of addiction recovery. He is very candid in his feelings at the times and the activities he is not very proud of. This piece, The Homeless are the Slaves was written July 28, 1989, during a time when the homeless issues were hot points for our society. It hasn't gone away, but has been replaced by economy, ecology and global warming.

A soulful reminder for the reason for the Christmas season. Poetry Editor

How Small, by W.K. Everhart

The pain of a "big discovery" is lessened with a little humor and a lot of love. We hope you enjoy this gentle piece of humor...and we want to say that the editorial staff at Raphael's Village also "still believes". Humor Editor

Bittersweet Christmas Cookies, by Sherry Antonetti

Childhood is often described by adults as ideal. I cannot speak to this except to say perhaps they do not remember it clearly. Most of childhood involved the learning process that occurred after one got a skinned knee. Crawling did not get one where one wanted to go. Walking followed. Followed by falling. The world, one soon discovered, was not padded for one’s protection. Yet, we progressed onward, gaining a few calluses and coping techniques along the way that indicated our preferred method of problem solving, fight or flight.

On a quiet residential street, where people live their lives, you will find one. There are many of them - The House of Saying Goodbye - some for adults, some for children and even ones for beloved pets. It is a place where the living can go to bask in memories of their loved ones who died. It is a place where people can pay their last respects again, and again, returning to say goodbye as many times as they so desire.

It is different than a cemetery. The House of Saying Goodbye is more finite, more contained because it is a house - a building, an actual structure built lovingly by hands of the living. A cemetery has it's own purpose: the final resting place, the place where our bodies return to the earth, ashes to ashes, and dust to dust, an infinite cycle of nature and time. But The House of Saying Goodbye is different. It is the place where all of the things left behind end up. The deceased one's preferred sweat-worn baseball cap, his proudly framed college degree, her beloved doll with the fraying dress, his first pair of baby shoes, her favorite shade of eye shadow worn throughout her life. It is possible to leave these things at a cold gravestone in a cemetery, but the winds and rains of time will wear them away like the body of a loved one.

A foreshadow of our Valentine's Day contest comes from one of our favorite contributors. We hope you enjoy these haunting images as much as we do. Poetry Editor

Haunted Love, by W.K. Everhart

Mr. Winston's writings are from the heart during a time of addiction recovery. He is very candid in his feelings at the times and the activities he is not very proud of. Adults of the Future was written July 27, 1989 the day after Mr. Winston's birthday.

This is a particularly poignent poem from one of our favorite contributors, and we're honored to present it to our readers. Poetry Editor

On September 30th, 1996, my worst fear as a parent became a reality. I came home to find EMT's giving my daughter CPR on the corner across from my home. I was allowed the privilege of sharing her life for 10 years, 7 months, and 19 days. I used to give the hours and minutes.

A year later, I received an assignment in the poetry writing class I was taking. As I fretted over what to write about, I looked out my dining room door to the gallery of family pictures that hung just below the stairs and realized that in one of those pictures, my daughter was wearing the dress in which she was buried.

The Yellow Dress, by W.K. Everhart

This is a new non-fiction piece by one of our regular contributors. We hope you find it as moving and inspiring as we did. Fiction Editor

Courage Redefined, by Don Magin

Some years ago, my wife was a Special Education Nurse at a county elementary school that had a high percentage of handicapped students. As such, she became aware of a program called the Rainbow Games. The purpose of the Rainbow Games is to provide physically challenged youngsters a chance to compete in athletic events.

My wife promptly signed up as a volunteer nurse. Our younger son, Tim, and I signed up as well. Tim was a ‘buddy’ -- a volunteer assigned to an athlete to encourage them, provide physical and moral support, and administer the immediate reward of hugs for a job well done. My role was as timekeeper or scorer, depending on the type of competition.

Every participant there was a model of determination and eagerness, regardless of the event, which ranged from softball toss to sprints to wheelchair slalom. It was impossible not to admire every competitor. But one special young person rewrote my definition of the word courage.