In many ways, 2025 challenged me. There’s nothing like moving to a different country to upend what a person thinks she knows. Everything from doing laundry to driving or ordering food became both a struggle and an opportunity to learn and experience. In such times, perspective is everything. I wish I could say I kept a great attitude like the bunny from Zootopia, and sometimes I did, but often I found myself just tired and surly. My poor husband. He was going through the same life upheaval, and I wasn’t much help. 

It’s in hindsight that I see the good that I was just too overwhelmed to appreciate or notice at the time. 

Germany is a beautiful country. As I sit here writing, I’m looking out over the walking path and the thick trees behind my house. If you know anything about me, you know how much I love the forest. And Germany has a lot of forest. 

The fall colors have been vibrant and various. Deep ruby shows in the vines growing up the house at the end of the street. Bright yellow covers the hillsides, broken by the occasional orange or red and still lots of green. When we follow the walking path, some of the leaves are small splotches of color. Others are bigger than my hand. 

And that’s just talking about this fall. It doesn’t touch the deep, rolling green of summer or the flowers in the spring. Or the winter. I’ll talk about the Christmas Markets next year after I’ve had a chance to fully experience them, but when entire villages decorate and celebrate for weeks, I have to say, the Germans know how to keep the winter blues away. 

I could ramble about castles, museums, tunnels, and towers. I could rave about the slower pace of life and the gentle encouragement to be social. This could be a very long post. 

But there’s one thing that really stands out from this last year above the beauty of Germany and the adventure it is to live here. 

It’s a subtle thing, seen in the dance my husband and I do in the one-person kitchen while we’re cooking. Felt in the regular conversations we have about work, doctor appointments, and whatever weird thing the Writing Sidekick’s doing now. A thread woven through the small gestures. Prepping his lunch before he leaves for work or cooking my breakfast for me because the Sidekick’s sleeping on my lap. These are the everyday details that are easy to overlook, to take for granted and treat as normal. But they’re reflections of something deeper. 

And it’s always in hindsight that I see it. When we’re challenged. When we’re stretched and it’s hard to be kind. When I want to cry because somehow, my husband and I can’t seem to communicate. In the midst of it all, I know from experience that God’s working, but I can’t see it. Only afterwards can I look back and see the golden thread keeping us going and teaching us. God’s gentle hand carrying us through and, through the struggle, making us stronger. 

This isn’t the first trial my husband and I have faced, and it definitely won’t be the last. I sometimes dread them. But I also know, such trials are where we grow the most. Where our marriage becomes stronger. Because we keep trying, keep praying and trusting, we come out the other side even closer. 

I hope this is an encouragement. Struggles happen in relationships. Especially in marriages. Trust that those struggles in the end will form in you and your spouse something precious beyond description.

That’s what I’m thankful for this year. That’s how I’m blessed. And now, stronger and still growing, my husband and I can explore together and navigate the unknowns with just a tiny bit more grace.

Blessings,

P.S. December is a hiatus month for me. A time for family and reflection. May you have a wonderful Holiday Season, and I’ll see you in 2026.

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Gargoyles of Sergi (Originall Posted On 10/30/25)

Frost covers your horns where you sit in the spire work of the Sergi Cathedral. Another quiet night has passed as you guard your sacred home although you would never say that aloud. Speaking such things has power and inevitably brings chaos. 

But you can feel the peace in your bones, and you savor the sweet stillness. The organist is warming up inside, her music gently vibrating the stones. Her footprints in the frost on the flagstones below lead to the side door she entered by. Soon, those footprints and the frost on your horns will melt with the morning sun promised in the glow on the horizon. 

A contented hum comes from inside your stone chest. Its mirror sounds from the other corners of the cathedral where your siblings keep watch on their spires. 

“It’s been a quiet night, hasn’t it?” asks a bright, feminine voice at your elbow. 

You groan. “We don’t say such things aloud, Ana.”

“Ooops.” The tiny gargoyle ducks behind the spire to your right. Her club tail, however, still sticks out from its sandstone base like an added ornament. “I always forget that,” she whispers, peeking back out at you for forgiveness. 

You’re not even sure where she came from. Usually new gargoyles are commissioned by the priest and show up when the sculptor is ready to unveil him or her. Ana just appeared one morning about three weeks earlier. 

Refusing to let the comment ruin your peaceful morning, you close your eyes to enjoy the first rays of sunshine and smile. “All is—” 

The words die on your tongue as the sun disappears. Your eyes pop open to find the formerly clear horizon boiling with clouds. 

“Brace yourselves!” You shout and take your own advice by ducking behind the spire next to Ana. Unlike her, your larger body doesn’t fit and the roiling cloud bank hits your shoulders, wings, and sides. Your exposed tail curls down the side of the cathedral. Sharp ice chinks into the stone coils. 

You cringe but know it’s just the prelude. The ice giants will follow, bringing another heavy cloudbank with them. 

Inside the cathedral, the organist’s music stops.

Beside you, Ana shivers and actual tears flow down her stone face. “Not again. Not again,” she mutters. “I can’t do this again.” 

There’s no time to question what she’s talking about. “Go inside.” Ana’s face falls as you speak. “And protect the organist,” you finish. 

Instantly her face brightens like you handed her a flower and she zips off through the spires. 

That taken care of, you notice your siblings gathering to confront the oncoming cloudbank, their heavy wings creating their own wind down the face of the cathedral. You spread your wings to join them and then hesitate. 

The giants are often straightforward in their attacks, but not always. Sometimes that mass of clouds that precedes their advance hides different tactics. The last time that happened, they came up through the floor of the cathedral. 

One word from you and the force in the air will split in two to cover both areas, but if you’re wrong, that also weakens the defenders. 

Do you…

Join them in the air?

Or

Split the force?

Gargoyles of Sergi – Split the Force (Originally Posted 11/6/25)

“Half to me!” you holler at the airborne gargoyles. You don’t wait for them to respond before diving off the front of the cathedral. They’re a well-trained force and you know they’ll follow. 

Instead of using the updraft to carry you upward, you slant your wings to slice through the air. A moment before you hit the ground, you flare your wings and set your feet gently on the flagstones. A lot of the stones will probably be broken in the coming fight with the giants, but that doesn’t mean you want to add to the damage. 

Barely a second after you land, a dozen gargoyles do the same. No stones broken. 

“Spread out inside,” you order, and they scatter for the various cathedral doors. You and Lukus, a burly creature with tusks, go through the front. 

Stepping into the cathedral is always like stepping into sunshine after wandering the dark woods. There’s something warm and soul brightening about it. You wish you could pause to enjoy that sensation today, but there’s no time. 

You head straight down the center aisle. At the far end of the sanctuary steps lead up to the alter. Splitting those steps into three sections are more stairs that head downward to the ossuary below. If the giants plan to come through the floor, they’re likely to come up in the underground chamber and then up those steps. 

You’re only halfway there when something else boils up the stairs. 

Goblins. Dozens of green, ape like beasts with long pointed ears, multi-knuckled fingers, and a cackle to send shivers down your stone spine. They carry heavy clubs, axes, and flails. Weapons often used against gargoyles because of their breaking power on stone. Even still, one or two goblins aren’t a concern for a gargoyle, but dozens can do a lot of damage. 

Lukus gives a startled shout and rushes forward. You’re right behind him, already forming a plan on how to counter so many creatures. 

Fire’s one option, but that’s always a risk. Much of the cathedral’s ornamentation is wood, cloth, and other flammable materials. 

Speed and stealing a club might work better, but if you get too many creatures attacking at once, you might lose any advantage. 

Do you use…

Fire?

Or

Steal a Club?

Gargoyles of Sergi – Steal a Club (Originally Posted 11/13/25)

Although goblins fear fire, the chance of burning everything down isn’t one you want to take. There’s a thin goblin in the mob ahead who’s hauling a club twice her size. She must be new to this sort of thing because there’s no way she can swing the weapon. 

She must feel your gaze because she looks up and meets your eyes. You grin and roar. The sound shakes the cathedral’s solid pillars. 

Shrieking in terror, she drops the club and flees, climbing overtop her comrades to do so. That’s goblins for you. 

Retrieving the club, you wade into the mass of goblins alongside Lukus. The impact of your attack reverberates through the stone walls. Clubs and flails chip away at your shoulders and hips but you were made for this and you find yourself grinning as you send goblins flying with your stollen club and long sweeps of your tail. 

Then a shattering filled with delicate pieces and sharp edges washes over the sanctuary. You can barely force yourself to turn around to look. 

The gorgeous rose window that graced the front of the cathedral now opens into a jagged hole in the wall. Colorful pieces of glass dust the floor and rear seats like drops of sharp dew glittering in the torchlight. Through the hole above, a giant reaches his huge hand inside where a tiny goblin races to meet him, clutching something against his chest.

When he starts to climb the wall up toward the window, he drops a page and familiar flutters to the floor. It’s the scriptures. 

You roar. Those pages are painstakingly copied at the monastery on the mountain. It takes years to produce one copy and only a few cathedrals in the valley have them. You suspect you know where they’re taking the pages, but the storm alone might destroy them. 

You only get a step before other movement catches your attention. A group of six goblins are carrying a different trophy. Ana, hog tied and raised over their heads, is being carried out the side door. She’s a gargoyle. Made to withstand attacks and made to cause her own kind of destruction. But she’s also untried and you have no idea how capable she is. 

Do you go for…

The scriptures?

Or

Ana?

Gargoyle’s of Sergi – Save Ana (Originally Posted 11/20/25)

Ana twists and lurches, fighting the goblins carrying her. They stumble before regaining their feet and one of them thumps her with a club. A small chip of stone flies off her shoulder. 

You’re charged with protecting the cathedral and its people. You’re not sure if that includes the other gargoyles but as the goblin raises his club again, you decide to interpret the oath that way. You veer away from the broken rose window, vault off the marble baptismal, and land directly behind the goblins carrying Ana.

The last two spin around to confront you with high pitched screams. That leaves four carrying Ana and they wobble under her stone weight. She starts to twist even harder. 

You roar back at the two confronting you. With a swing of the club, you smack the feet from beneath one and then catch the other with your tail. That leaves the others exposed. Taking advantage of the opening, you take out the next two in another tail-club combo. 

Ana hits the floor, still hog tied, as the front goblins shriek and scramble for the door alone. You let them go, standing over Ana as their companions also flee. 

Ana smiles a tentative thanks and then looks at the rose window over your shoulder. It’s already too late to retrieve the scriptures as that goblin just disappeared riding on the palm of the giant outside. 

Lukus follows them out, his heavy wings creating a gust of wind in the sanctuary as he tries to gain speed, and then the ice storm you can see through the window catches him in a sudden side gust. You hear his heavy grunt as he’s shoved the wrong way. 

“We just lost the scriptures,” Ana says, shrinking in on herself once she’s free of her bounds. 

“We’ll retrieve them,” you assure her, keeping your misgivings to yourself. You’re just about to ask about the organist when the woman peeks her head from beneath the alter. “Well done,” you tell Ana, nodding toward the woman, and the small garogyle lights up.

***

The mountain peaks rise in jagged vertical walls around you. The valley you stand in is the fifth location you’ve looked for the giants. But just like the last four trails, this one disappears on the rocky ground. 

Somehow, the ice giants have vanished. Their city is empty. The goblins who helped them have gone back to their regular forest village life, no sign of the scriptures or their allies. The mountain trails that usually bare the giants’ huge footprints show only old tracks. 

You want to slump, let your wings hang in dejection, but there are five other gargoyles with you, including Ana, and you refuse to let them see you lose hope. It’ll be six years before your cathedral can get a new set of scriptures. 

Six long years. 

“This is all my fault,” Ana says. “We’ve lost the scriptures for good.” 

“This is the giants’ fault,” you say again, holding your wings and chin high. “And we haven’t lost them until we give up. Now, tell me the first psalm.”

Ana and the others respond, reciting the psalm together as you continue down the path. Although the texts are gone, the words aren’t. Until a new copy is received or the old copy retrieved, you determine to remember. And you determine to keep looking. As you’ve learned over the years, protecting the cathedral and its people comes in many forms. 

The End

Yay! Not a bad way to finish this adventure. Thank you for joinging in the fun this last month. I always love to hear readers’ thoughts as they cast their votes each week.

Until then, many blessings,

P.S. If you enjoy adventure stories like this one, you can be a dragon in Discarded Dragons and Zap Dragon.

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Say How?

“What’s your name?” the vet asks as I make an appointment over the phone.

“Jennifer Zeiger,” I answer. I’m beyond relieved that she speaks English. German’s hard enough when I can’t see the other person’s face.

“Jennifer siga?” she asks. 

I frown. “Z-e-i-g-e-r.” I spell it out. 

“S.”

“Z.”

“Sorry, what?”

I thought in moving to Germany that it’d be easier to say and use our name. It’s German, after all, meaning “pointer” or “sign maker.” In the U.S., we often get extra letters added—an extra L is particularly common—and get all sorts of pronunciations.  

In Germany, we have different problems all together and the above example has become a regular occurrence. 

What I didn’t realize is that the German pronunciation is very different from the English and the alphabet has different names for the letters. “Zee” isn’t a letter in their alphabet. They call that letter “set” and it sounds like a “ts” not a hard “zzz”. 

It’s like doing brain acrobatics just to give my name over the phone. Healthy brain acrobatics that are probably making my thinking muscle stronger, but OWWW!

“Set-a-ee-geh-a-er.” I spell it out. 

“Ahh, tsIgah!” she says.

I face palm my forehead but internally am proud that I got it right enough for her to understand. “Ya,” I answer. “That’s correct.”

Blessings,

The post Say How? appeared first on Jennifer M Zeiger.

Not long ago, I had the opportunity to walk through the Catacombs in Paris. Those tunnels don’t need wendigos or ghosts to bring chills. Millions of people are buried there. The empty eye sockets of so many skulls demanded a quiet reverence that every breathing person felt. It spoke in the scuff of our feet and the hushed murmur of our voices. I learned as I walked that this was the burial of the poor. In the past, only the rich received their own graves. The poor received mass burials. And I wondered what their stories were. Who were these people holding up the city? How did they live? Would they even recognize the city above them? 

They ended up in this final resting place for two reasons. One was because the Paris cemeteries were overflowing, causing not only a stink, but also a major health issue. The largest cemetery in Paris housed over 2 million bodies alone. 

The other reason came from the infrastructure of Paris itself. The city is built primarily from limestone mined from below it. After a while, too much limestone had been removed and the city started sinking. So, they filled in the tunnels with waste rock from the mining process and with bones.

It struck me as sad that these people don’t even have head stones. That we know next to nothing about them. Maybe the message they pass on to the living is an honor in and of itself. A reminder of where we’ve been and that, beneath all the trappings of life, we all eventually come to rest as just bones. 

Some might find that morbid. I find it humbling and motivating. There’s a story of a monk who kept a real skull on his desk as a reminder of how fleeting our time on earth is. It gives perspective to all we do. For those of us who believe in God and scripture, we don’t view those bones as the last act. It’s only the changing of the page. But this act right now has purpose. And as I said about the monk, in perspective, our chance to fulfill that purpose is now. 

And I digress. I could run down that rabbit trail a lot farther, but I won’t. 

To honor the poor of the Catacombs, the “you” in the adventure last month is a street urchin. I originally began writing the story as though you entered the ossuary to play music for a recently past friend but, when I started writing that, things became too heavy and dark. So, I kept the poor aspect overall but changed the purpose to something a little less gloomy. 

The other seed that got woven into the adventure comes from a story of an illegal concert carried out amidst the bones in 1897. A group of amateur musicians snuck into the tunnels and played music such as Chopin’s Funeral March and Camille Saint-Saens’ Danse Macabre. The bones are eerie enough, but the idea of classical music carrying through the tunnels for miles…yup, chills.

As I think about all this, maybe the final earthly resting place for these millions of people isn’t so terrible after all. They fascinate people, presenting perspective, inspiration, and a touch of reality rarely seen. They offer something to millions of the living that a single headstone doesn’t. It’s a legacy spanning hundreds of years. Although we don’t know individual names, we know life is precious because of their exposed faces and eerie countenances. 

When my page turns, I can only hope for a fraction of that kind of legacy, but even if it’s just that the adventures help people enjoy reading, or that my musings encourage people to consider that there might be more beyond this life, that’s enough. 

Is yours enough?

Blessings,

Jennifer

The Unbelievable Story of the Paris Catacombs – I don’t always remember specifics well. This site was wonderful for refreshing my memory if you’re interested

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Ossuary Music (Originally Posted 9/18/25)

Torchlight flickers over the skulls, casting long shadows made from human bones. You should never have taken the bet—even the pillars are leering at you—but now you’re here, in the ossuary tunnels with your flute, trying to wipe the sweat from your palms. 

Just one song. That’s all you need to play. Alex waits back at the entrance. As long as he hears the sweet tones of your music, he’ll pay up, and you’ll have enough to buy shoes. 

You stretch your toes against the dirt, trying to remember the last time you wore shoes. It’d be mighty nice when the first freeze hits this month. 

But you have to make it that far to enjoy them and the bones aren’t the only thing in the ossuary. Besides the guards who roam the tunnels, you’ve heard the stories of the wendigo, an unnatural creature that stalks the bones in search of prey. There’s a reason the guards carry torches or lanterns as that’s the only thing that scares the creature. 

You can’t carry a light, though, as that would draw attention. 

Just one song. Then you’ll retrace your steps and never return. 

You sink farther into the dark alcove, press the flute to your lips, pull in an unsteady breath…and pause. 

Was that the scuff of a boot? 

You wait, holding your breath. When the sound doesn’t repeat, you raise the flute again but can’t quite shake a sense of foreboding.

Should you move? Find a different spot. A tremor runs through you. Moving farther into the ossuary isn’t appealing. 

Maybe you should just get the song over with and flee. Still listening, you haven’t caught another sound. Still that foreboding persists.

Do you…

Move?

Or

Play?

Ossuary Music – Play (Originally Posted 9/25/25)

You run your shaking fingers over the cold metal of the flute while listening. Its frets are as familiar as the ratty clothes you wear, and the feel offers a small bit of comfort. Whether you move or not, the foreboding turning your stomach to acid probably won’t go away. When the ossuary remains quiet for several minutes, you finally raise the flute to your lips and blow a soft, mellow note into the silence. 

It carries through the dry bones like the brush of silk over skin. Goose bumps cover your arms and legs as you feel the world around you breathe. The shake in your hands is almost too much to keep going but you’ve started now, and you’ll never get the nerve up again, so you add a second note and then lean into the tune of your favorite song, a haunting melody you sometimes hear floating from the cathedral’s halls. You have no idea what the song is called. You learned it by ear, repeating what you heard carried on the wind. 

And like always, the music draws you in. The grinning skulls fade, the cold against your feet no longer matters, and the fear that clutched you moments before is replaced by a warmth that flows from within. You shut your eyes, letting the music carry your fingers. 

A spike of ice against your cheek halts your playing and your eyes snap open. Figures of opaque gray have joined you in the alcove. They remind you of clothes washed too many times. Thin, threadbare, and falling apart into whisps of gray mist. One in particular, a girl of maybe fifteen, has her hand still raised towards you. It was her icy touch against your skin. 

A sight beyond them—or rather through their transparent bodies—pushes a different cold, a terrified, heart clenching cold, into your chest. The long-limbed, salivating wendigo shuffles around the hall outside your alcove, its head swinging left and right like it’s scenting for prey. It growls in frustration, sending shivers down your spine.

The ghosts begin to fade back into the bones in the silence and as they disappear, the wendigo draws closer, its nostrils flaring with your scent. 

Did the ghosts keep you hidden? Was it your music that drew them out? It’s a guess, but you’re tempted to start playing again. Except…you touch your cheek where it feels brittle and ice crystals melt against your fingers. 

Apparently, their touch freezes your skin. You franticly search for another option. There’s a tiny gap between the top of the bones and the ceiling. You eye the space, wondering if you can crawl overtop. 

Do you…

Play again?

Or

Crawl Over the Bones?

Ossuary Music – Play Again (Originally Posted 10/2/25)

The wendigo lets out a huffing grunt of excitement and shuffles closer to your alcove. With him comes a blast of howling wind that sends shards of broken bones whirling in circles. Some of them cut your skin and trickles of blood leak from your arms. 

You’re shaking so badly that it’s hard to raise the flute again, much less settle your fingers over the frets, but it’s better than trying to climb on top of the bones to escape. You blow a tentative breath of air over the mouthpiece, and your wispy note gets lost in the wind. 

Trying again, you close your eyes and picture the morning sun over the cathedral and the music that wakes you each morning as the pianist practices. The song that comes to mind begins to play from your flute. At first it’s tentative and instantly lost in the howl. Then it becomes more firm, like the music picks up a shield and pushes back.

You’re not sure when the ghosts return as you keep your eyes shut, but you can feel them in the frigid air against your skin. You continue playing because you can also feel the wind still pushing and hear the howl of frustration from the monster at your door. 

The metal of the flute becomes painful against your skin. Then the pain turns numb, and you know you can’t play much longer because you’re losing the feel of the flute in your hands.

 Then suddenly, the pressure against your music vanishes and the melody flows freely through the ossuary. You stop playing and open your eyes, breaking the frost that’s formed on your lashes. You find the young ghost girl standing in front of you, her eyes strangely alive against the vague gray of her form. 

Her hands are halfway to your face like you caught her just before she touched you. Dropping her hands, she instead insistently points in the direction that would lead you deeper into the ossuary. Curiosity alone makes it tempting to follow but as she starts to fade, she appears angry that you’re not moving already.

She rushes you just before she fades completely and a gust of icy wind washes your skin in goosebumps. You duck, but then she’s gone and you’re alone again. As you consider, faint sounds come from deeper in the bones. Guards or wendigo? You’ve no way of knowing.

Follow her or leave? You’ve played your music and there’s no way Alex didn’t hear. At this point, all you need to do is get out and collect your reward.

Do you…

Follow the Ghost’s Direction?

Or

Head for the Exit?

Ossuary Music – Follow the Ghost’s Direction (Originally Posted 10/9/25)

Curiosity wins out over the warnings in your head, and you tuck the flute into the soft carry case that’s slung over your shoulder before following the tunnel farther into the ossuary. Even Alex, the one who dared you to play music amidst the bones, would call you crazy. 

Sounds carry through the tunnel, as dry as the skulls around you. The scrape of dragging feet on the dusty floor, the brittle crunch of bones, sometimes the whisper of what may be voices. Goose bumps cover your skin. 

Up ahead, the tunnel T’s and you begin to wonder why the ghost girl pointed you this way. The only signage is a set of letters and numbers etched into a brick that’s tucked into the wall of bones directly ahead. You’re squinting in the dim light, hoping to decipher it, when there’s a gust of frigid wind that pushes you from the side.

You stumble, bracing for impact with the wall of skulls, but instead, you fall right through them, feeling the brush of what feels like a frosted curtain. 

“Ha!” someone shouts. “Just in time!” 

When you look past your raised arms, you see the ghost girl. Except she’s as solid as the bones and pointing behind you. 

Following the direction of her finger, you find yourself face-to-face with the drooling visage of the wendigo. His wide nostrils flare in both excitement and frustration. He throws his head back and howls, his foul breath fanning your face. 

You scream, stumbling backward. 

“It’s okay,” the girl says. “He can’t see you here.”

As if to emphasize her point, the monster flops onto all fours and starts snuffling at the ground and the wall where you disappeared. Then, flustered, it shakes its head and ambles away.

“Where’s here?” you ask, realizing you’re standing chest deep in bones and are surrounded by other people. You vaguely want to say they were ghosts when you played earlier.  

The girl looks at her toes, guilt writ large on her face. 

“May as well fess up, Jess,” an older man says. 

She shoots him an angry glare, but there’s no real heat in it. 

“Here’s death…kind of?” she says. 

“I’m dead?” 

“Yup. But now you can help us.” At this, Jess lights up and grabs your arm. “You can help us now!” 

You feel like the news that you’re dead should chill you but oddly, your body doesn’t seem to feel much. There’s a light pressure from the bones and Jess’s fingers where she’s holding your arm, but no chill. 

“Ya gotta explain that, Jess,” another ghost sighs in exasperation. “You can’t just expect a person to understand when you pulled them into the bones!”

Jess harrumphs but then begins to explain. “We protect people, you see. The wendigos—yes, plural monsters—they’re yeek.” She shudders. “So, we push them away. But it’s hard. So terribly hard, to be present on that side.” She gestures at where the wendigo stood moments before. “But your music, it makes it easier.”

It’s a lot to process. No one but Jess complains when you sit down on the spot. So many questions! Will your music work when you’re dead? Where did your body go?

***

A day later finds you standing in the same alcove you played music in before, watching Alex search for you. Warmth actually fills you that he’s come looking. But you wish he wasn’t the first one you get to try playing music to protect. 

It’s a wish that won’t go answered, however, because the wendigo already has his scent. As Alex straightens from inspecting the bone shards on the floor, the monster ambles its shuffling way into the alcove behind him. 

You raise your flute and begin to play. 

And Jess and the others go to work. At least this time, you can’t feel the cold, and as Jess’s group pushes back against the monster, you know Alex will make it out alive. 

The End

EEEK! You found the death ending.

When I first started writing these, I decided to always include one death ending in honor of the Choose Your Own Adventure books that I grew up with. Sometimes they’re just sad or sometimes I add a bit of heroism but, this time, I wanted to play with the idea that maybe death wasn’t the fade-to-black end that it usually is for the story. I’d be curious to hear your thoughts on how this ending played out.

Thanks for joining this adventure! Hope to see you next week.

Blessings,

The post Ossuary Music appeared first on Jennifer M Zeiger.

Otherwise, let’s jump right in and see if she finds her darker half =)

Amari’s Shadow Part 2

Amari skidded to a halt halfway to the cellar door at the back. She’d crossed Ms. Mavery a time or two and didn’t wish to repeat the folly. 

“I think my shadow’s down there,” she said bluntly. 

Ms. Mavery snorted. “Your shadow? Dearie, it’s dark down there. Your shadow isn’t there.”

“But it’s not with me either!” Amari pointed around herself as proof. 

Ms. Mavery’s cheeks sucked in, hollowing out her face even more than usual as she leaned on her cane. “You’re not going to give me peace until you check, are you?”

“No, ma’am.” Amari tried to look sweet like some of the other kids. They somehow always left the tavern with a treat in hand. She rarely left without a stinging backside. But she and Ms. Mavery had come to a kind of truce over the last year and this was the first time she’d darkened the door of the tavern since Winter Tide. 

“Fine,” Ms. Mavery flicked a hand, “but touch nothing beyond the lantern.” 

Amari grinned and scampered for the cellar door. Lantern in hand, she slowed down for the cut stone steps. The cellar always smelled musty and the footing liked to trip her up due to the warn groove down the center of the stairs. 

Reaching the floor, she raised the lantern high and whispered, “Shadow Row, you down here?” It hated the nickname but would usually protest its use, which would reveal its location. Silence answered her. 

Amari moved into the shelves of pickled beets and canned peaches, calling softly again. It never did to shout in the cellar. Everything inside lived in quiet, and the bottles sometimes got frosty if you disturbed them. As it was, a few pickled eggs eyed her from the top shelf. 

She hurried past, calling again once she entered the next aisle full of crates and potatoes. 

Thirty minutes of looking produced no shadow. 

Dejected, Amari emerged from the cellar to return Ms. Mavery’s lantern. “Told you no shadow’s hiding down there.” Ms. Mavery snuffed the lantern. 

“Lots of shadows,” Amari mumbled. “Beet shadows and potato shadows, even egg shadows. Just no Amari ones.”

Ms. Mavery paused and tapped her cane on the floor. “Shadows need light, Dearie. You’re sniffing in the wrong place.”

Ameri left, shuffling her feet in the dust as she wandered the street, then the path into the hills, and then picked up a bit of mud as she approached the pond the river fed into. All around the village was desert except for here where the mountains fed a river and the river fed a pond which in turn fed a patch of sad plants just trying to survive.

The mud squished over the leather of her sandals and into her toes, its cold seeping into her skin. Azor wasn’t wrong. The water from the mountains was cold. Lifting her head, she caught movement out on the pond. 

“Shadow Row?” she called softly. Nothing responded. The pond sat still as a frightened toad. But she’d seen something. Inching closer, she peeked through the leaves of a baby date tree that overhung the water. Nothing but the tree’s shadow there. 

Inching closer, she dipped a toe into the water. Small ripples radiated out from her, disturbing the placid surface until they reached the shadows from the overhanging plants. 

“Uck!” Someone yucked up gray matter into the water.

Amari grinned. She tapped the surface again and her shadow skittered out from under a nearby fern. It launched itself up onto the mud and lay there. Amari felt its glower. 

No matter. She knew how to brighten its day. “Hi, Shadow Row,” she greeted it. “Want to join me for some ice cream?” 

The End

Thanks for stopping by for some fun! Next week we have a brand new adventure starting. Just like it’s been far too long since I posted a story, it’s been waaaay too long since we explored an adventure. Hope to see you then

Blessings,

The post Amari’s Shadow Part 2 appeared first on Jennifer M Zeiger.

Amari’s Shadow Part One

The haze wasn’t what bothered Amari the most. True, it turned the sun to an orange orb in the sky that cast a sullen hue over the world but that was an impersonal thing, a generalized thing that affected everyone. 

What bothered Amari was she hadn’t seen her shadow in three days, and she was fairly sure it’d run away in protest. For as long as Amari could remember, her shadow walked with her, sat with her, even danced with her, but now it was nowhere to be seen. 

She missed its unique form of pessimism. When she wanted to play in the river, it clung to the dry sands higher on the riverbank because the motion of the water made it sick. It literally threw up gray matter the one time she coaxed it away from the shore. 

Amari glanced at the orange orb of the sun. The only thing her shadow hated more than water was heat. As the temperatures rose, the air wavered, and Amari had noticed her shadow trying to cower in the shade because, just like the motion of the water, the haze also made it sick.

Amari shook her head. She’d never encountered another shadow who got motion sick off anything that made it waver.

It was time to find her shadow. Tying her long hair back with a ribbon, she covered her head with her silk scarf to protect from the heat and stepped onto the dusty road heading for the ice parlor. Her shadow was protesting the heat. What better place for it to hide? 

As she walked, others shot suspicious looks her way. It was noticeable that no companion stretched long at her side when everyone else trailed one in their wake. She tried not to be salty about it. Their shadows refused to play or dance, so they could eye her all day for all she cared. Her shadow was better… when it wasn’t pulling an attitude. 

As soon as she saw the parlor, she knew her shadow wasn’t there. Didn’t even need to step inside. Couldn’t, actually, as the place was so packed that the shadows were lost to the hubbub of their people. 

Huffing, Amari turned away and eyed the street. Where else would it go? 

“Lost, Amari?” Azor, the cobbler, hollered from his shaded stall. 

“Only half,” she replied. 

He gave her a knowing smile. Azor was one of the few people who never treated her strangely. “What half is missing?” 

“The darker half. Where besides the ice parlor would be cold?” 

“Cold?” he didn’t scoff but pulled at his beard in serious thought. “The river’s water would be cold. It’s snow fed from the mountains.”

“Water makes my darker half sick. Where else?” 

Again, Azor pulled on his beard. “Ms. Mavery’s cellar!” he exclaimed. “Not only cool, but also dark. Maybe a good place to hide, no?” 

“Just so!” Amari agreed and took off for the far end of the village where the tavern bordered the sands of the Obihan desert. Buried below its stone walls was the village’s only deep cellar. The perfect place for a person’s shadow to hide from the heat. 

The doors of the tavern creaked as she shoved through them into the dim interior. “Ms. Mavery!” Amari hollered. “Ms. Mavery! I need a look in your cellar!”

“You what now?” The withered Ms. Mavery peeked up from where she knelt behind the bar putting away drinking glasses. “You don’t need a thing in my cellar.” 

Amari skidded to a halt halfway to the cellar door at the back. She’d crossed Ms. Mavery a time or two and didn’t wish to repeat the folly… 

To Be Continued Next Thursday

Thanks for stopping by! We’ll return next week with the rest of the Amari’s Shadow story. Hope to see you then

Blessings,

The post Amari’s Shadow Part 1 appeared first on Jennifer M Zeiger.

Every time we move, I shift from day-to-day life into full on moving and adjustment mode. Sometimes I bounce back quickly, but other times, it takes months to find the new normal. Germany has been that on steroids. As many of you have seen, even my posts have reflected my off-kilter balance. 

But I love writing, and it does eventually draw me back into the familiar arena. As I wrote last week, writing is always my attempt to do hard things, to be in the arena instead of the spectator in the stands. Part of the dust and sweat that comes with it is that every story tests me in different ways. I’ve yet to write a book the same way as I wrote one previously. 

And that stands especially true for Hidden Mythics III (HMIII), my current Work-in-Progress. I’m a linear thinker. Some writers work on a book in big scenes, not writing from start to finish but putting together the story in pieces like a puzzle. This terrifies me because so much in later scenes relies on what came before. I’m scared I’ll miss details if I don’t write in a straight line. 

HMIII has defied this way of thinking. I attempted to start it by writing the opening as I usually do. Nothing came. I tried to outline. It kind of worked, but I still have no idea how the large pieces connect to the small bits. 

Frustration drove me to write the large scenes that were rolling around in my head. And now I’m writing HMIII like the above-mentioned puzzle. So far, it’s working, but only time will tell if I can tie together all the details. 

Either way, I’m in the arena, again learning something new. =)

Blessings,

Jennifer

P.S. If you’re not familiar with the Hidden Mythics series, you can check out Books 1 and 2, Quaking Soul and Theos Rising, here.

The post My Current Arena appeared first on Jennifer M Zeiger.

It is, unfortunately, actual ruins and the seating was torn out during the Middle Ages for other construction, leaving behind grassy slopes that hint at the indentation of the tiered seating. The area is big enough to house around twenty thousand spectators.

Although the structure isn’t fully there, the feel and idea of the place still is. We were able to walk down into the cellar below the arena floor and see the lift technology the Romans used to change obstacles and scenery in the arena. The drainage system still drains mountain water and precipitation all year round. The cells, or carcer, still stand where the cages for animals surrounded the sands. 

I stood in the middle of the arena and let my imagination run. Movies like Gladiator definitely gave me something to build off of but it’s different standing on the ground where they actually fought. It brings a quote to mind, one I’ve mentioned before but I don’t think I’ve actually posted in whole. It’s called Man in the Area, and was part of a speech given by Theodore Roosevelt:

“It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.”

Although I could picture stories and scenes while standing on the sand in the amphitheater, envision the dented swords and throwing nets, the angry lions and bloodied slaves, contrasting strongly with the plays and the religious festivals also held there, this stuck with me more. 

The day was warm, but I knew it could be hot, unbearably so until the sweat would trickle down my temples and spine. Visitors’ voices echoed, both subdued and carrying, due to the acrostics that work despite the place being in ruins.

I felt small. 

It struck me that this is true many times when I strive for something. The environment feels against me and sweat will trickle with my effort. Noise will attempt to distract me. And overall, I’ll feel small as I strive to achieve something. 

Every time I write a novel, I’m in the arena. It tests me. It’s uncomfortable and I’m easily distracted. I never feel up to the task. But time and again I find the effort worth the toil. For the Gladiators, sadly, the reward was death or survival and not much in between. For us, it’s different. Even if we don’t achieve the heights we want, we can still walk away knowing we tried. The sweat and dust and blood are our victory regardless of the outcome. 

Right now, I’m working on Hidden Mythics III. That’s my arena. What’s yours?

Blessings,

Jennifer 

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Last week I wrote about the Trier Basilica but when we visited the city, we stopped by the Kaiserthermen, or Imperial Baths, first. This might have been the wrong order. I didn’t realize the baths were built to support Constantine’s move to the area until after touring the throne room. Regardless, the heating system below the Basilica is a small-scale version of what exists below the Kaiserthermen. It’s an impressive underground network of tunnels that weren’t finished for their initial purpose because Constantine shifted his political activities east midway through construction. My brain stumbles over that whole concept. So much invested only to be abandoned. The same thing happened to the Basilica. 

Anyway, above ground, the ruins look mostly like a rounded, many-arched-windowed wall with a wide field in front of it. I was prepared for lots of reading about what used to be there and not much seeing. What I didn’t realize was that much of the underground structure still exists. The farther we wandered, the more we got to see. My shift in world view that I’ve talked about in past posts involves the reality that the Imperial Romans didn’t know how to build small when it came to something the emperor wanted. I knew this…yet I didn’t have a concrete thing to attach my understanding to.

The Imperial Bath’s Layout

The Imperial Bath consisted mainly of three large pools. The first was a cold bath that would be used after cleaning with oil. The next was a warm bath that was an in-between level before heading inward to the apse that held the hot bath that came last. The heating system hid belowground in the tunnels I spoke of earlier. Boilers sat in chambers called hypocaustum and they heated steam that ran through pipes below the pools. 

All of this was paired with a field on the far end from the hot pool in which sporting events could be held. I would never have placed the two things together, but that’s what’s there. A walled field right next to the baths. 

The fantasy writer in me sees secret meetings in the underbelly of the baths with two spies sweating in the humid heat of the dark tunnels. A man working the boiler spotting an unusual figure who doesn’t belong. Or above ground, politics being hashed out in the steam of the heated pool, the principles just as murky as the air. Or an assassination attempt during a sporting event being held in the field just out front of the cold baths. Very public but also very confusing and possibly embarrassing as half the people running in the confusion afterward are naked. 

Sooo many story possibilities! Little nuggets to tuck away for later use. 

Blessings,

Jennifer

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