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The One Tree
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Continue reading →: The One TreeThis story was first published in On the Premise, March 2013. I hope you enjoy it! Today I’m sharing something a little different than you’ve read before. This story is a fantasy story, based in the world I created in my first self-published book. I was fascinated with a story…
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Not everyone can play football
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Continue reading →: Not everyone can play football“I’ve never had a team with this record.” I sat across from our school’s Varsity football coach at a student conference meeting, staring dumbstruck at Coach as he tossed those unexpected words onto the table between us. Coach did double duty as Austin’s Strength and Conditioning teacher (the modern-day version…
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Band-Aids and Uncle Bill
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Continue reading →: Band-Aids and Uncle BillPhoto by Possessed Photography on Unsplash A curly blonde girl cradled a metal Band-aid box to her chest, and two tears slid down her cheeks. She peered into the heavy darkness of the small opening of the cave. A good place for a burial. The box was prepared with care,…
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Honorable Mention
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Continue reading →: Honorable MentionHonorable mention. Two words that could mean second place or not good enough for honor roll or even first place. It all depends on your perspective. My mother had fistfuls of purple ribbons from the 4-H fair and several first-place finishes at the state fair. My mother was a top-notch…
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Mom and Bugs
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Continue reading →: Mom and BugsA curly blonde head leaned over the vegetable-patterned fabric, feeding it carefully under the sewing machine foot. The hum of the machine wanting to be let loose, but the girl was too hesitant, having ripped out seam after seam. I gazed up at my mother for approval on the stitch.…
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Don’t Let Go
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Continue reading →: Don’t Let GoSparkles of light like diamonds skim across the still blue water. The sun is impossibly bright and the air unbelievably still. I don’t want to do this. I adjust the red life jacket crowding my face. I want to throw up. I am a pro when it comes to faking…
Hello,
I’m Merry
Born and raised in Nebraska, Merry Muhsman is a fantasy writer, a nonfiction writer, and a flash fiction writer. Merry lives on a farm with her husband and son, a dog and lots of cats.
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Recent posts
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Spiders: the final enemy in my mailbox. These are the stories of a Nebraska farmwife terrified of spiders. Her mission is to avoid getting the mail until the second frost. Her mission is to avoid spiders at all cost, seek out new ways to avoid them and to boldly never open the mailbox until winter.
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I’m going on sabbatical. Time frame is to be determined, but I’m done getting the mail from the mailbox. You see, there’s not just mail in my mailbox. There’s black creatures lurking in the mailbox, building their sticky sacks where their thousands of children live. And the worst part of these creatures? They jump. I
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Closed doors, open doors and waiting for that one “yes” I didn’t win, and that’s a good thing About a month ago, I learned I was honorable mention in a writing contest. When I got the news, I did the happy dance, jumped up and down like I was on a pogo stick and told
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There’s a movement that is becoming a bit troubling to me, and I’m not talking politics, AI or the future. I’ll let other bloggers talk about that. I’m talking about gratitude. Writing thank you notes is becoming a lost art, even just writing a note in general is rare. And nowhere is the absence of
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Fear cripples every living thing, but God shows us how to overcome. The north wind blew strong, bitter; the very chill that comes with the bite of snow. Winter was still showing her teeth no matter that it was officially five days into spring. The cats snuggled in their warm buildings with their bellies full.
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Finding reflection on Sunday with random musings… Sundays are a time for rest and reflection. They are also a time I choose to write. I could work on my novel. I could work on a short story or flash fiction story that has been nudging at me, but instead, I have a few random thoughts.
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The internet is ruining one of my favorite authors. This is not the first time. I was sitting in the physical therapist’s office, randomly scrolling through Twitter and came across a tell-all piece regarding Marion Zimmer Bradly. When I was a teenager, my aunt gifted me with “Mists of Avalon.” I remember my mom not
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She is 8, maybe 9. Her hair is blonde and curls up at her shoulders. She pushes her bangs out of her eyes, leaning forward to listen to the choir. She did not have a Christmas dress with sparkles or lace or black patent leather shoes. Her hair was not curled into long ringlets. She
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