Michelle Tamiko Hardy

Each church has their own standards and leadership. I believe each church has a leader that will either lead them in the direction of being "MEGA" or not. Some pastors don't have vision and therefore, they are stagnant. Mega church, televangilist and the like are a unique breed and thus, not many to choose from.

I am currently reading "When Food is Love" by Geneen Roth. I can't put it down for some reason, but then when it's good,... Are you really expected to?

Interesting how you put it.

I was taken aback by the slight hint of cat urine in Mrs. Eels basement but honored at the same time. I took baby steps as I followed her down the stairs into his place where she would come and lurk at her beautiful things. The stairs didn’t creek or make any noise as old staircases would and they were clearly rotten or being eaten by the rats of my assumption. I don’t think the smell bothered Mrs. Eels because she never said ‘excuse the smell my dear.’ She never said it out of all the times she allowed me to be in the magical place of beautiful things. Mrs. Eels pulled a string that clicked when she pulls it and about 30 watts allowed us to see the fantasy and shine. Though things were dirty, I could see the gold trim on the tea cups and the elegant designs on the handles of each cup. Mrs. Eels allowed me to touch her magical and beautiful things. I began to wipe them with my thumb to make out the intricate pieces by rubbing it and not to blemish it but to see and feel the value as Mrs. Eels did with her human eye. I was not a connoisseur of magical and beautiful things. I would walk around the room looking and peeking into the corners of dust and value, getting value on my clothing and dirt in my throat. I found a small lamp that had a cheap brown cord attached. I searched for an outlet and the only one visible was covered with dust and rat hair. I used my shirt sleeve to wipe it off and I plugged the cheap in. With the lamp, I could see at 70 watts more magical and more beautiful things appeared. There were smells of Marie Antoinette, Bernadette Freedrick and Malor Curtue all of whom are dead people; disguised as the beautiful and the magical. There were broaches silver and rare. Alot of treasure and distinct application in each piece. Some so priceless, I dare not rub them with thumb or sleeve. I made my way in the circle to see the beautiful and it overwhelmed the space with abundance and a continuous ticking of a time piece I was sure to have belonged to a confederate or someone who resembled Custard. I fancied myself to view behind the stairs that made a circle and behind their were little rat droppings and in-between were ruby diamond earrings hanging from a nail. I flicked the earrings with a shaking wrist and eye. Mrs. Eels deep masculine voice summoned me to return for a sandwich and tea. She said for me to bring the Eleanor and Martha, which were tea cups I had favored while circling the Basement of Magical and Beautiful Things. I have favored them during a thumb. I did hurry to go back and retrieve them both, not matching, but like things favored and memorable they would be well received of the tea we drank. I settled them on my right and left hands carefully walking up the non creek, not turning the 30 watt off, expectant for another chance to thumb and wipe. So expectant. The top of the stair door open for the grand entrance of Elenor and Martha. I, personally, did not matter for only Elenor and Martha were of importance. I carried them both to the table where Mrs. Eels had placed two fine linen down, directing me with her snooty nose and eye as she spread the sandwiches. I placed them both so gently down. There was distilled water, a special cloth and I assumed to clean them. Mrs. Eels opened her mouth only as necessary and this was one of those times. She instructed me to first turn over each cup on its mouth where I would not drink and wipe the part that was of no use. Elenor, the first cup was gold lined, even on the bottom and strange. The real Elenor was not as refine with gold her bottom. I dipped the dusting towel in the distilled water and gently wiped Elenor’s bottom. Mrs. Eels instructing me to bend forward towards Elenor to look at the short neck and rub so gently to clean her. I stuck my neck out like an osterige to see and thumb. I then, on my own, began to rub the large outer mouth and looked at Mrs. Eels to get approval. She said nothing as I knew was silent approval. Mrs. Eels then instructed me with her eye rolling to turn Elenor over and pour distilled water into her, cleaning her of all dirt and rat hair. I raised the jug distilled and poured little into the mouth, then sopping it with my fine cloth. I poured for Martha in Mrs. Eels possession; she sopping Martha’s mouth. A whistle of tea ready and so good to hear the chime. Mrs. Eels had steeped without lemon, adding a few grains that looked like rat droppings, but I knew they were fine tea. Steeped just right I dare sip first to cool mine. I felt my cup of Elenor’s heat from the steam as it rose from cup to my nostrils, my spectacles fogging over. Mrs. Eels drank her Martha, hot, sipping expertly. I wanted so badly to appear very grown up but I was scared of the degree. Mrs. Eels could see I was anxious so she jested for me to get at cube of ice from what she called the North Pole (the freezer). I jumped up, bumping and shaking the table, spilling some of Elenor and Martha out on the table. This didn’t bother Mrs. Eels because tomorrow, Mrs. Eels will be dying. She will lay down to rest. Weeks later my father came to me, sharing Mrs. Eels had passed away as her days promised were only extended until that night before. In the coming weeks I spent my summer days in Mrs. Eels basement clicking the 30 watt and plugging in 70 watts, dusting the way I felt she would. I mourned Mrs. Eels by being allowed to go back and continue to value her magical and beautiful things. Some days I would sit in the presence of the 70 watt and think about how fortunate I was to rub my thumb and sleeve and touch the rat hair. I managed to spend the summer and an additional year of the days, returning to the 30 watt to keep Mrs. Eels in there. My click of the dirty string, stepping the non creek into Mrs. Eels heart. When I make my way to the 70 watt it was mundane over the year because I was least attracted to the 70 watt, but not to its surroundings. The wealth of the basement left me rich with the magical and the beautiful things but I did not get pleasure as much because all of the beautiful and magical were missing Mrs. Eels as I. Things began to look les mysterious and more resolved. It began to look like a place of leaving; a place of matrimony. Only a place where Mrs. Eels would marry her life and her joys together. Martha and Elenor were missing from Mrs. Eels basement of magical and beautiful things, so I ran up the non creek, gathered them from the counter where Mrs. Eels had last drank and left her pewter lipstick stain. I didn’t wipe it but smelled it. Martha smelled like Mrs. Eels and I would keep it that way. I did not run down the stairs passing the 30 watt. I walked so I would make no error in care for the best tea cups in all the world. I walked Elenor back to her original place and Martha to hers. I had not left my DNA on Elenor and would never intend to. I made a walk around the basement; returning to behind the staircase where the earrings were on the very same nail. They looked cleaner, more polished. Also on the nail was a note written in Mrs. Eels handwriting with a calligraphy pen. So elegant, it read, “I enjoyed my final days pending beautiful time with you, feeling magical with Martha and Elenor. We enjoyed the tea from the queen and water from the well of infinite happiness and much silence. You are the child who understood my most silent direction. I enjoyed my basement of magical and beautiful things. You are now the owner of the things and I love you. My spirit is the 30 watt, just as you contend, always clicking when you enter the room. We always clicked.

This is great Troy. I love it.

There was this book called something like Things White People Do. I just happened to pick it up because of the title & it was funny.

I find that I am accustomed to reading a certain type of literature and even though I am not a fan of most fiction or romance, I tend to still buy it to support a writer. I put myself in their shoes. It is a work of their heart, their ingenius way of putting words on paper in their own way. I tend to write in "slang" initially when I'm trying to get my story down on paper but then when I go back and edit I will make what's typically known as "grammatically correct" edits. Instead of using "don't" I'll say do not. Instead of saying "can't" I'll say cannot. I recently purchased a book that I knew would not be my genre, but wanted to get an idea of another authors writing style and most of the writing was slang and street language which I am familiar with because I've lived that type of lifestyle in the past. I could barely finish reading the first page but I got through it. I'm still working on the book but it is very hard. I have been accustomed to reading instructional books and business books so this type of nonfiction drama is really painful for me. I know there is a story to read and it may take me long but the support of the author was my goal and not necessarily that I was interested in the contents.

This is a reminder to me that "if you think it so shall it be."

Eight women partner in the Secret Society of Women Writers (ssOww) to write a controversial, comical and enlightening book abou weight and body image. Add hit-man for hire, child abuse, race relationships, gender (LGBT), questionable parenting, rejection based on being skinny and acceptance based on fat is just a taste of what is in store for the readers of the intricate look at the lives of women who share everything, owning their truth. We invite you to read a sample chapter of the the book at http://www.fatracistbook.com and we would love for you to help us with a question we have. We are trying to pick the best title and be authentic about the context verses just using words for the title. There are alot of people are "racist" against themselves when it comes to weight and body image. Judging themselves and no one else is. The writers are taking a deep look at their own stories to help other women and men who have had these issues of self-defeat. Please take our 1-2 minute easy survey to help us pick the best title. http://www.surveymonkey.com/s/C5JGGKD . If you have any questions, feel free to email me.

One fine morning a little mouse named Beatrice got ready for church. She went to her closet to pull out her finest church shoes that were hammered together with a piece of wood from a couch, maybe it was birch. Beatrice searched for her only hat to go with the shoes. This is something she thought she would rarely lose. She found the shoes and now it was time to find the dress. It was tucked away in her closet with an elegantly well placed hole she had stitched with a hairtress. Beatrice slipped her little nylons on her small clawed feet. She only had one glove to cover her paw and it had a small stain but once she put it on, it looked fairly neat. Beatrice spit on her paw to tame her fur and style it with a dap of oil can grease. It made sense to her, she was going to praise God who let her have a new lease. As Beatrice exited her home, there stood her mother and her aunt waiting to go to church. Her mother’s left eyebrow went north and the eye stared her down in a lurk. Beatrice’s grandmother’s right eyebrow went south as she observed the scuffmarks on her shoes. She could hear the tisk-tisk in their voices before they even opened their mouths to issue their boo’s. Her mother and grandmother grabbed her by both of her arms and led her back inside. All they could see was that she was trying to take the family name for an embarrassing ride. God did not care what Beatrice had on that particular day. He had given Beatrice those clothes to wear, so she could come to church and pray. She had nothing on her back when she stumbled upon a pile of clothes left at her door, so she cooped them up and took them in to launder galore. There was a note attached that said, “Come as you are and I will bless you with more.”

This is clever and entertaining

This can be a great holiday poem and a picture on a postcard would be perfect. It's simple yet says so much. Like the wind going in & out from somewhere. Bringing in the good and taking out the bad. Well at least that's what I got from it...

This is a work in progress