Tag: fiction

Book Review of Abbie Emmons’ Love Story: The Other World

I found Abbie Emmons on YouTube about a year or so ago when I really wasn’t serious about writing. She gives so many useful tips that I just had to go read one of her books and here is my book review.

This is my musical interpretation of her book.

This is a classic love story. Boy meets girl. They fall in love. Things happen to keep them apart but in the end… ? Well, you know?

So the protagonist is a girl names Orca. Yes, like the whale. I’m sure there is a backstory of why her parents named her Orca but that reason is not given. It is up to you as the reader to create that story in your mind.

I do want to talk about his cover art for the audio version of the story. I did listen to it instead of reading it myself. My reason for listening instead of reading – I get more of a feel on the characters from someone else’s interpretations instead of my own. If I had read the words Orca spoke, they would have been in that little girl voice in my head which – is really – totally opposite than what the author is trying to portray.

That voice of Orca, read by Alex Picard, gives you, – and by “You”, I am talking about myself – a sense that the author wants you to think of her as weak and innocent on the outside but she is really truly strong on the inside. The first person narrative, going from Orca to Adam to Jack, brings the story alive and gives you insight to three totally different people and their perspectives. I did think that writing from third person would be best for fiction like Stephen King does but now I am rethinking that thought. First person would be best.

Although this is a love story, it is also a journey. It takes you on a journey of “first.” It takes you on a journey of relationships and how they grow. It takes you on a journey of heartbreak. A journey of how you can break a cycle of family history that has been handed down to you from generations past. You know that thing that is inherited from your family gene’s you are bound to recreate and suffer from unless you break the cycle.

I would suggest listening over reading. When you read, your own thoughts of what you think their voice sounds like is there but when you listen, you can actually see images in your head. You can see their actions playing out like a movie. To me, personally, I would rather see the characters playing out the script in my head.

This book is full of plot twist and turns. It is definitely a page turner. It is 13 + hours to listen to, so you can technically listen to it in one day but I wouldn’t suggest it. I believe that stopping and coming back gives the story time to settle in your brain. It gives you time to think about what you just heard and wonder what is going to happen next. Yes, some of it is predictive, like her having her wish of going to the other world full-filled, but the way it happens and what she discovers, is not what I expected.

Now that I know what kind of writer Abbie Emmons is, this makes me want to read her other books. I want to write like her too. She brings her characters alive. She makes you wonder what happened to them. Is she going to write a follow up book called “The Other World: Part 2”? (I hope so.) She makes you care about her characters. They are so believable and could be real people. In the Abbie Universe, they are real. So Abbie, if you just happen to read this, please write a follow up book. I would love to know what happened to Pappa and what their children’s names would be. Would they also be named after sea creatures?

Exploring Dream Symbols: Past, Present, and Exits

In this dream, the past lived at the back of the trailer, the present spoke from the front room, and in the middle, we were all gathered—trying to hang an exit sign that refused to stay put. What does it mean when even the way out won’t hold steady?

Welcome to another Dream Analysis with ChatGPT.

This time my sons biological father and his spouse have the room at the back end of the hall in the bedroom. I don’t see them but I know they are there. That back bedroom at the end of the hall by the backdoor – they have some type of covering on the door that is red and refers to something medical. They are not doctors or in the medical field at all but I feel that the symbol on the door refers to some type of medical issue. And at the front lives a woman in a wheelchair and her husband. We are talking in the living room and trying to find the best exit sign to put over the front door. We are also talking about her job. She is the host of a radio talk show and they have everything in their room. Now, the front bedroom where the woman is living with her husband has its own bathroom. It is the master bedroom. Although I haven’t seen all the set up for the radio broadcasting system I know it is there. This woman has short brown hair and is skinny. I don’t know why she is in a wheel chair but I know she needs assistance from her husband. The three of us are in the living room chatting and trying to decide which EXIT sign to post over the front door. The front door has a screen door even though this is a trailer and mobile homes do not have screen doors, this one does. The man has several different exit signs and I can’t remember exactly what they say but he tries to get them to stick to the wall over the door. Some stickers are bigger than other. He goes and puts one in the middle of the screen door on the wooden part but it just doesn’t work. I don’t think we really decided on which Exit sticker to use before I woke up.

So here is an analysis for the dream from CHATGPT.

Dream Analysis: The Trailer, the Exit Signs, and the Voices Within

This dream is layered with symbols that reach into both your past and your present, pulling them into one space—the trailer. Trailers in dreams often represent impermanence, transition, or roots that are simple yet meaningful. They are humble shelters, but not meant to be permanent. The fact that this dream repeats in a trailer suggests that your subconscious sees this place as a meeting ground between different eras of your life.

🌙 Symbolism of the Trailer / Trailer Park

  • Trailer (Home on Wheels):
    A trailer isn’t permanent like a brick house—it moves, shifts, adapts. Dreaming of one can point to feeling unsettled, or living in a season where life feels temporary, like you’re “parked” but not yet “home.”
  • Trailer Park (Community):
    Trailer parks are tight-knit but also sometimes judged unfairly by society. Being back there might connect to feelings of belonging mixed with vulnerability, or revisiting a part of your past where resources were thin but bonds were strong.
  • “Back at” the Trailer:
    The word “back” matters—it suggests revisiting old ground. Could be your subconscious saying:
    • “There’s unfinished business here.”
    • “You’ve been here before emotionally—don’t forget what you learned last time.”
    • Or even: “Something in your present reminds you of those old roots.”

🔮 Possible Meanings

  1. Nostalgia / Roots
    The trailer could symbolize where you came from—reminding you to stay grounded, humble, or connected to your beginnings.
  2. Transition
    Since a trailer isn’t a permanent home, this dream could reflect you being in-between—like you’re preparing for a bigger move in life (spiritually, emotionally, even creatively).
  3. Safety vs. Fragility
    Trailers give shelter, but they can be easily damaged (storms, instability). This dream may mirror feeling safe yet knowing life can change quickly.

✨ Dream hack: Next time you find yourself back at the trailer in your dream, ask yourself “Who else is here with me? What’s outside the door?” That detail often unlocks the message.

The Back Bedroom – The Past and Hidden Matters

Your Son’s Biological Father + Husband in the Back Room

  • Back of the Hall = The Past. “Things at the back of a dream home usually represent history, memory, or “what you’ve left behind.” Their presence could be your subconscious acknowledging them as part of your son’s story, part of your life’s architecture—even if they live “in the past.”

In this dream, your son’s biological father and his partner occupy the back bedroom. You don’t see them, but you know they’re there—like shadows of the past who still exist in the architecture of your life, even if they no longer sit at the table. Their door is covered with something red that suggests a medical symbol. Though they are not doctors, this could point toward underlying issues—something about them or that relationship that has a connection to health, healing, or wounds that never fully healed. Red often represents urgency, blood, or something vital. This back room becomes the chamber of memory, holding unresolved connections and possible concerns that stay in the background of your subconscious.

The Front Bedroom – The Present and the Voice

👩‍🦽 The Woman in the Wheelchair + Her Husband in the Front Room

  • Front of the House = Present/Future. These are the people “you face first,” so they may symbolize your current life influences or aspects of yourself.
  • Wheelchair = limitation or resilience. This could mirror a part of you that feels restricted but still finds strength to keep going.
  • Her Husband = Support. Wherever there’s limitation, there’s also someone steady at her side—perhaps pointing to Eugene’s role in your life, steady and constant.

Her Job: Radio Talk Show Host

  • Radio = Voice, communication, broadcasting truth. This may symbolize your own creative voice—remember, you’re putting your own voice out into the world through YouTube, music, and stories.
  • Everything in their room = Resources, equipment, power. They “have everything,” almost like a reminder that you already carry what you need to share your own voice.

At the opposite end, the master bedroom, lives the woman in the wheelchair with her husband. This room represents the present and the part of yourself that is moving forward despite limitations. She is thin, short-haired, and needs support from her partner, but she is also a radio talk show host. That is powerful. The wheelchair shows restriction or dependence, but the radio symbolizes communication, broadcasting, and influence. This is the voice that reaches others—even from a place of limitation. She and her husband “have everything in their room” for her work, reminding you that even if parts of you feel restricted, you already have the tools you need to put your voice into the world. This clearly reflects your own creative life—the woman in the wheelchair may be a mirror of you: resilient, resourceful, and determined to keep speaking despite obstacles.

The Living Room – Integration

🛋️ The Living Room Conversations

  • Living Room = Public self. The space where we host others, where “life happens.” Having everyone together here is like your subconscious holding a family meeting between past, present, and future selves.
  • Exit Sign Discussion = Guidance, Direction, Escape. An exit sign is literally about finding the way out. Choosing the best one could be your dream saying, “It’s time to consider how you’ll move forward from something, but carefully, wisely.”

The living room is the heart of the dream. It is the public space, the “you” that meets others. Here, the past (back bedroom) and the present (front bedroom) come together, not in conflict, but in conversation. It is a council of sorts—your subconscious gathering different aspects of your life into one place to talk things over.

The Exit Signs – Which Way Out?

The central action is the search for the right EXIT sign to place above the door. Exit signs are about direction, clarity, and safety—finding the way forward, or the way out of confusion. The fact that there are several signs, in different sizes and shapes, suggests choices in your real life. Which path should you take? How do you make sure the way forward is clearly marked?

The husband in the dream tries to place a sign on the screen door, but it doesn’t stick. A screen door on a trailer is unusual—it’s a boundary that allows visibility and air but still provides protection. Placing a sign here that won’t stay could symbolize the difficulty of marking your path when you’re still looking through layers, not yet stepping fully outside. The indecision—never quite choosing the sign before waking up—echoes a state of searching, weighing options, and knowing a decision is coming but not yet settled.

Putting It Together

This dream blends:

  • The Past (the unseen men in the back room, with their red door)
  • The Present (the woman with the voice, despite her wheelchair, fully equipped to broadcast)
  • The Crossroads (the exit signs at the living room door, undecided but pressing)

It’s a dream about integration and direction. You are gathering your history, your current challenges, and your creative voice into one space, trying to find the clearest way forward. The dream doesn’t give you the final answer—it hands you the question: Which path will I choose, and how will I light it clearly for myself and others?

🌌 Big Picture

This dream feels like a blending of:

  • Past relationships (back room)
  • Present limitations and resilience (front room)
  • Your current voice and creative work (radio host)
  • A search for clarity/direction (exit sign)

It’s as if your subconscious is staging a council meeting in the trailer, where different parts of your life—past, present, challenges, and potential—are gathered, trying to decide: “Where do we go next? How do we make sure the way out is lit clearly?”

✨ For Your Blog/Video Hook:
“This dream isn’t just about a trailer, or old connections, or even the woman with the radio show. It’s about choosing the right exit—about how we mark the way forward in life, with all of our past and present selves sitting in the same living room, watching.”

So now I am wondering “Why? Why this dream at this time? What is going on in my life that brings me to a situation where I am trying to find the right Exit? Is there an Exit? Why am I looking for an Exit? Those are the Big questions for me that I need to find out”

Experience the Wildest Live Script Reading Ever: Welcome to the Jungle – Axel Meets Weekend at Bernie’s

I stumbled across the ScullyPop YouTube channel recently, and their latest livestream, Welcome to the Jungle: Axel Meets Weekend at Bernie’s, was unlike anything I’ve watched before. From the moment the “Team Ska” skeletons danced across the screen, I knew this was going to be more than just another video — it was an experience.

A Wild Ride Through Rock and Ridiculousness

Sunday night, I stumbled into one of the most entertaining and creatively chaotic YouTube live events I’ve ever seen—and I’m still buzzing from it.

The mastermind behind it all? A man named ScullyPop, who hosted a live script reading of his original play: Welcome to the Jungle: Axel Meets Weekend at Bernie’s. Yes, you read that right. It’s exactly as wild as it sounds—and even better than I imagined.

I think I just found a new hobby that I would love to try. Meet Scully @ScullyPop. On his Youtube description this is what he wrote about his channel:

THE AUTHOR THAT READS TO YOU #1 LIVE READING SHOW ON THE PLANET! Stick around if you like books on tape with a twist, or you’d like your favorite story read to you out loud. If you would like to purchase my novels Dutch Coffee Shop, or Laissez les Bons Temp Rouler, the links are down below and in the description of all videos. If you would like to submit your story for reading, by emailing me the work you’re giving ScullyPop permission to narrate and publish it for commercial use. Outside this clause, you retain the rights to your work. If you would like to submit a request for a reading or dedication, or for business inquires, email me as well: Jayscullybooks@gmail.com #ScullyPop Connect with me on Twitter: http://Twitter.com/jayscullybooks #TheAuthorThatReadsToYou #Jayscullybooks Buckle up, it’s quite the ride, and we’ll see you on the other side. ScullyPop

The Setup: Live Voices, First-Time Readers, Pure Improv

The energy was lively, the script reading was full of personality, and the whole atmosphere felt like stepping into a living room filled with new friends. There’s something magical about watching people breathe life into a script together — the improv, the laughter, the way each voice adds its own rhythm and spark. It’s a reminder that creativity isn’t just about the finished product; it’s about the moments we share in the process.

ScullyPop brought together a group of voice actors who had never seen the script before. As he narrated the scenes, the cast read their lines live, doubling up on characters and reacting in real time. There were nine scenes, each more outrageous than the last, and the energy was electric.

Watching the script unfold on screen while hearing the cast discover it for the first time was pure magic. It felt like being part of an underground theater experiment—raw, unscripted, and totally hilarious.

🤘 The Plot: Axel Rose’s Second Death

The story? Axel Rose dies before a big concert, and the band—determined not to disappoint fans—decides to wire him up like a puppet and fake the show. One member lip-syncs while Axel’s lifeless body rocks out on strings.

It almost works… until the strings snap mid-performance, sending Axel crashing to the stage in what can only be described as his second death. It’s dark comedy at its finest, and I it was really enjoyable to listen to.

🧠 The Future: AI Meets Improv

One of the participants mentioned they’re planning to take the recorded dialogue and turn it into an AI-generated video. That’s next-level storytelling—blending live improv, satire, and tech in a way I’ve never seen before.

🙋‍♀️ Why I’m Hooked—and Hoping to Join Next Time

I found myself not just watching, but imagining being part of it — jumping in for a future reading, lending my own voice to the mix, and seeing where the story takes us. This kind of format isn’t just entertainment; it’s a doorway to connection. It’s a way to meet people not by small talk, but by creating something together.

This wasn’t just a show. It was a community experience, and I’m already looking forward to the next one. I’d love to be part of it—to lend my voice, dive into a script blind, and join the madness.

ScullyPop’s concept is unique, bold, and refreshingly fun. It takes storytelling to a whole new level, and I’m here for it.

If you’re into rock nostalgia, twisted humor, and creative chaos, do yourself a favor and check out the video: 👉 Watch “Welcome to the Jungle: Axel Meets Weekend at Bernie’s” on YouTube

Sweats and cotton t-shirt

Daily writing prompt
If you were forced to wear one outfit over and over again, what would it be?
View all responses

I would wear sweats because they don’t cut me off at the waist so if I eat to much and my stomach hurts, it won’t be as painful. A cotton tee because I love loose fitting clothing. I hate to be confined and flowing shirts are even better.

But the real reason I am hear this morning is to share some more information. As you know I have been creating music in Suno from public domain poetry. I love to find poetry that is not widely known or taught in schools and make them even better by setting them to unforgettable music.

The following poem by Mary Ann H. T. Bigelow called She Slumbers Still. This poem is about loss of a loved one, how nature still goes on even when we grieve, about hope of reunion and faith-filled yearning. I did add a chorus to tie the verses together. Only 3 people have actually listened to it and one of those would be my dear old hubby. So if you have a minute, would you listen to this song. I put the lyrics below incase you would just like to read them. 

[Verse 1]
On a midsummer's eve she lay down to sleep,
Wearied and toil-worn the maiden was then;
How deep was that slumber, how quiet that rest,
'Twas the sleep from which no one awakens again.

[Verse 2]
Morn returned in its freshness, and flowers that she loved
In beauty and fragrance were blooming around;
The birds caroled sweetly the whole live-long day,
But that strange mystic sleep all her senses had bound.

[Chorus]
She slumbers still beneath the sod,
The world moves on, the trees applaud.
But no spring bloom, no robin’s trill,
Can break her rest—she slumbers still.

[Verse 3]
Day followed day until summer was gone,
And autumn still found her alone and asleep;
Stern winter soon followed, but its loud blasts and shrill,
Were powerless to rouse her from slumber so deep.

[Verse 4]
Again spring returns, and all nature revives,
And birds fill the groves with their music again;
But the eyes and the ears of that loved one are closed,
And on her these rich treasures are lavished in vain.

[Verse 5]
Unheeded by her the winter snow falls,
Its beautiful garment spring puts on in vain;
Many summers the birds her sad requiem have sung,
But to sound of sweet music she'll never wake again.

[Chorus]
She slumbers still beneath the sod,
The world moves on, the trees applaud.
But no spring bloom, no robin’s trill,
Can break her rest—she slumbers still.

[Verse 6]
There is but one voice that deep slumber can break,
'Tis the same one that loudly called, "Lazarus, come forth!"
At the sound of that voice all the dead shall arise,
And before God shall stand all the nations on earth.

[Chorus]
She slumbers still beneath the sod,
The world moves on, the trees applaud.
But no spring bloom, no robin’s trill,
Can break her rest—she slumbers still.

[Verse 7]
Then shall this dear one, our first born, awake,
Her mortal put on immortality then;
And oh! blissful thought, that we once more may meet
In that home where's no parting, death, sorrow, or pain.

Embracing Joy: The Yard Sale Queen’s Legacy

My legacy?

I want to be remembered as the woman who proved you don’t need a gold card to live a golden life. I turned folding tables into treasure chests and early Saturday mornings into royal processions.

That joy doesn’t come with a price tag. That beauty lives in chipped paint, mismatched mugs, and stories passed hand to hand. That hustle, heart, and humor can make anything feel like home.

I hope people say.

“She didn’t just hunt for bargains-she hunted for meaning in the things others left behind. and baby, she found it.”

I want to be the reason someone pulls over for a yard sale sign – not just for the deals, but for the hope that something wonderful is waiting.

THE YARD SALE QUEEN’s LEGACY

by the Queen, with love (and a little glitter)

I wasn't crowned with diamonds bright,
But with sunhats worn and morning light.
My kingdom stretched from street to street,
Where folding tables kissed my feet.

I chased no riches, owned no malls,
But found my gold in garage walls.
A faded doll, a vinyl tune—
A tea cup shaped like a crescent moon.

I built a life from stories tossed,
Gave value back to what seemed lost.
And every coin I chose to spend
Revived a dream, reclaimed a friend.

Let them say I ruled with flair—
With lipstick, laughs, and windswept hair.
I taught that joy, not price, defines
The treasures tucked in others’ finds.

So when I'm gone, don’t hang your head—
Just throw a sale and shop instead.
Play funky beats, bring out the snacks—
And toast the Queen who lived with clap-backs.

A throne of crates, my crown of grace—
And bargains left in every place.
A legacy of laughter, keen—
That’s the mark of a Yard Sale Queen.

From Dreams to Tragedy: Remembering Tammy’s Story

Here is the real story. Names were altered except for Tammy’s.

If you would like to listen to this story, click on this video down below.

At the nearby nursing home, we were both enrolled in a CNA course. Their free training program to become a certified nursing assistant would last eight weeks. That’s where I met Tammy.

I envied her. She was tall, blond and gorgeous. She gave off the impression of being well-organized.

Around 10:30 one morning, Mrs. Rogers gave us our customary break. Tammy stayed with me as the other girls walked outside to smoke. She wore one-inch heels (not that she required them), matching trousers, and a soft pink shirt. She pulled her golden hair high into a tidy bun. She never overdid it and always looked put together. She carried herself confidently, or so I thought.

 “Would it be possible for us to speak alone?’ She trembled when she spoke. Fighting tears.

“My father hates me, and I think I was adopted.”  She cried.  “I don’t look nothing like my parents.”

I was at a loss for words. All that came out was “Oh my.”

“For this job, I asked my mom for my birth certificate, but she refused to give it to me.” She lowered her head and really broke down.

She described to me how she was treated like an outcast by her family. Her father paid her no attention. Two of her children lived with their fathers. The other two with her parents. Her calls went unanswered, even by her closest sibling. It seemed as though she had no one.

All that external beauty vanished as she spoke. I saw her soul – wounded and shattered. At the age of 23, I was clueless about how to console her. So I just sat listening.

After three weeks or so, Tammy invited Miranda, another girl, to hang out after class on a Friday. Miranda drove us home in her pickup truck. Tammy and Miranda’s sister, Sherry, rode in the back, while I sat with her in the front. The home roads meandered through steep slopes and curves. Miranda drove at a casual 80 miles per hour, as if she were racing. I held on to the door rigidly.

Tammy, meanwhile, was standing on the truck’s bed, joking, shouting, and laughing while waving to strangers in their yards. She did not fear anything.

We eventually got to her place. We chatted and laughed late into the night. Tammy had abandoned the program that following Monday. I don’t know exactly what happened, but I continued with the program.

A few weeks later, I happened to see her while at a neighbor’s house. She was on her way across the freeway to the mailbox. On the dusty road where we both resided, I waited for her.

“How are you?” I inquired.

“I’m doing well. How about you?”

I said, “Good, good,” and then I stopped. “Hey, I wanted to tell you about that day those girls from the nursing home gave us a ride home.”

“Yeah?”

“Did you know Miranda was driving eighty miles an hour?”

“Really?” Her gaze expanded. “I could have been killed.” 

 I gave a nod. “But neither of them finished, so I don’t expect them to come back.”

Tammy grinned. “Well, I have some positive news. I called one of those psychic hotlines. She told me that I would meet a tall, dark stranger before Christmas. Given my boyfriend’s black hair and other features, I believe it to be Tom. Perhaps we will soon tie the knot.”

“That’s fantastic,” I smiled. “I’m glad for you.”

After a quick hug, she walked back down the gravel road to her house.

Christmas hadn’t arrived yet. It was just a December day that was abnormally warm. I was preparing to go to work, dressed in my whites. While my brother and his friend Robert changed the oil in his car, I sat on the couch, smoked, and looked out the front window.

“Hi!” my brother exclaimed.

I watched Tammy’s red Cavalier zoom by in slow motion. As usual, she waved her arm out the window.

After extinguishing my cigarette, I turned, and suddenly there was a crash.

“Holy crap!” Robert shouted. “She was struck! She was struck!

“She got hit! She got hit!”  My brother yelled.

I ran outside and sped towards the highway, trying not to lose my breath. Already, cars were backing up. In an attempt to free her, my brother and Robert had opened the passenger side of her vehicle.

The small automobile was forced into the ditch after an RV crashed into the driver’s side. The grass was littered with white envelopes and mailboxes.

“I didn’t see her,” the RV’s driver repeated and paced.

I saw her body lying on the ground. In an attempt to console her, Tom’s father knelt next to her. Her golden hair matted crimson. Her little body was broken and trembling. Her eyes never opened.

I went cold. That could have been me. She was just 29.

Wake up. Wake up.

Paramedics arrived. A chopper touched down. They flew her away. I never saw her again.

I stood there contemplating. Drained. She met her tall, dark stranger, I believe.

This is a real tale. Every name was altered, with the exception of Tammy’s. She had an incredible amount of potential and was authentic. She had an ambition of working in a trauma unit at a hospital.

Now, the dream seems tragically fitting.

I’ve carried this with me for years. I regret not having done more. When she most needed hope, I wish I had prayed with her, shared my faith, and introduced her to Jesus. Being young and recently baptized, I was unsure of how to proceed.

However, I have prayed to God for forgiveness. Don’t wait if you ever find yourself with someone who is lost. Speak up. Say a prayer. Share the truth.

You could be their only hope.

Understanding the Check Engine Light: Causes and Solutions

So, I become depressed when I see the dashboard check engine light. Why? I’ve experienced a lot of car breakdowns over the years, which depresses me.

Some of the reasons include

  1. Loose or Faulty Gas Cap – that is true for older vehicles, but new vehicles don’t have gas caps anymore.
  2. Faulty Oxygen Sensor (O2 Sensor) – These sensors tattle on your engine when the air-fuel mixture just ain’t right.
  3. Bad Catalytic Converter – Without it, your vehicle is basically a mobile polluter.
  4. Failing Spark Plugs or Wires – No Spark? No vroom. Just sadness and misfires.
  5. Mass Airflow Sensor Malfunction (MAF Sensor) – It measures air coming in. When it’s confused, so is your engine.
  6. Bad Ignition Coil – The middleman between the batter and the spark plugs.. when he calls in sick, things go south.
  7. Vacuum leak—those tiny little hose cracks = BIG dramatic engine light show.
  8. Dead or Dying Battery?— A weak battery can freak out your car’s computer faster than a squirrel in traffic.
  9. Bad EGR Valve (Exhaust Gas Recirculation)—It helps reduce emissions… and apparently your sanity when it fails.
  10. Dirty or Clogged Fuel Injectors – Think of them as the tiny baristas for your engine. No coffee = No gas.
  11. Thermostat Malfunction—Too hot? Too cold? YOur engine just wants to be Goldilocks perfect.
  12. Transmission issues – Sometimes, engine lights double as warning lights for slipping gears or failing sensors.
  13. Worn Timing Belt – Tick-Tock, the rubber clock… and if it snaps, oh honey, catastrophic.
  14. Bad PCV Valve (Positive Crankcase Ventilation)— If it’s clogged, your engine basically starts choking on its own fumes.
  15. Software or Computer Glitches – Even cars have their “Have you tried turning it off and back on again?” moments.
  16. AND The Big ONE! The why I am writing this blog post Moment! It is PO325 – Knock Sensor 1 Circuit. In plain English – Your car’s brain thinks the knock sensor isn’t doing its job right. The Knock Sensor is like a tiny microphone bolted to your engine block. It listens for tiny knocks or pings (which happen when combustion inside the cylinders isn’t smooth, like a badly timed fireworks show.) If it hears knocking, it tells the computer, “Hey, back off the timing a little! Things are getting rough in here!” When does it fail? Well, your engine can run with bad timing because the computer isn’t being warned about knocking, and you might hear ticking, pinging, rattling or just feel a loss of power. Sometimes, you won’t feel much at all – but left alone, it can cause real engine damage.
The Knock sensor fell asleep at its post,
so the engine pings like a haunted ghost,
and though it tries to sing along,
the rhythm and timing are all wrong.

What causes PO325? 1. A dead or dying knock sensor, damaged wiring or loose connector to the sensor, and sometimes even engine sludge or build-up affecting the sensor’s ability to “hear”.

How to fix it? Usually means replacing the knock sensor, but the mechanic might recommend checking/fixing the wiring harness too if it looks crispy or chewed up.

You can change it yourself if you’re feeling do-it-yourself today, but it will be a bit more work because, like my husband’s Silverado, that sucker is concealed beneath the intake manifold. The sad trombone “Womp womp” is sounded.

My husband’s truck engine light turned on this morning as we were leaving for work, which is why I am revealing all of this. There is this “S” curve that goes down into the curve. His 2019 Silverado had a problem gaining power going up the hill this morning, and then “Boom!” the check engine light turned RED. Normally, our vehicles don’t have issues.

Oh, how I hate that pesky light. So many vehicles and so many troubles. His Silverado has 102,000 miles now. He has driven the heck out of that truck. I just pray that this doesn’t turn into an “Old Blue.” If you have listened to any of my songs, you probably hear my lyrics where I mention her. She is a 1984 GMC Sierra. She was old when we got her in the mid 1990’s but I’ll tell you one thing – she hauled a lot of yardsale stuff and made us a lot of money.

I think trucks can have personalities too. Old Blue was a gas guzzler. She had two tanks that only held about 12 gallons on each side. We were lucky if we got 10 miles to the gallon. And she seemed to know when we were going to come into money. Every year at tax time, that refund check was spent on her. If he got a bonus at work, that money was spent on her. But the one thing I am thankful for is -she didn’t break down when we were far from home.

Yup, she hauled a lot of stuff and now, the Silverado has become the New Old Blue except she’s dark gray. I just hope that these inanimate objects, to us that is, can’t talk to each other. Silver does get parked about 20 feet away from Old Blue everyday so may, I hope and pray, that Old Blue hasn’t rubbed off on her.

The Time Machine

The Time Machine Lyrics ~ written by Lisa Sanders, created using Suno ai

Tick, tock, gears in motion,

Hidden key, secret notion.

Antique sale, they didn’t see,

What this dusty box could really be.

Wrapped my arms around my father tight,

Wish I’d told him more before he said goodnight.

All the time I wasted, words left unsaid,

Going back in time, thinking about that woodshed.

Tick, tock, turn the dial,

Found a time machine buried in the pile.

They didn’t know what they had in their hands,

But I dusted it off, now I’m making my stand.

One hidden key set the whole thing in motion,

I’m racing through time with a heart full of devotion.

Henry hauled the wrecks, knew the roads by name,

Tried to teach me, but I played a different game.

Wish I’d learned how to drive that bulldozer,

Going back in time so I’m not somebody’s gopher.

Tick, tock, turn the dial,

Found a time machine buried in the pile.

They didn’t know what they had in their hands,

But I dusted it off, now I’m making my stand.

One hidden key set the whole thing in motion,

I’m racing through time with a heart full of devotion.

If I could have found you sooner on this winding road,

We’d have more years before the clocks got old.

Every laugh, every kiss, every dream in your eyes,

I’d give you forever if time could rewind.

Tick, tock, turn the dial,

Found a time machine buried in the pile.

They didn’t know what they had in their hands,

But I dusted it off, now I’m making my stand.

One hidden key set the whole thing in motion,

I’m racing through time with a heart full of devotion.

Tick, tock, gears slow down,

My Future’s waiting, and I’m homebound.

No more running, no disguise,

The past is gone, but love never dies.

Love will never die.

So here is the meaning behind the song.

Verse 1 is about the bond between a father and a son. Namely, between my husband, Eugene, and his father. His father passed away back in 1997. There was a lot of unspoken words between them. Lets just say – their relationship was not good. His father did a lot of things that he did not agree with and we will leave it at that because that is not my story to tell.

Verse 2 was about Henry. Henry was a father figure to Eugene when he was a teenager. Henry took him under his wing and treated him like his son. He had a very good relationship with Henry but, being a teenage boy, he had other things on his mind. He did not take advantage of opportunities that presented itself.

Verse 3 is about the relationship he has with me. We have been married going on 32 years. We only got together after both of us divorced. My story, I can tell and you will probably hear more about it as time goes on. Eugene doesn’t mind if I tell the story he had with his ex wife – that is free game.

So, although he hasn’t found that time machine in an antique estate sale yet. It is something that could possible happen. You know how you open a box full of memories. There will be old pictures possible love letters or postcards? Well, this is kind of like that. The key is about love. Love opens a box of memories. I put that idea with three things that happened in the past. I hope that you can relate to this song in some way, shape or form.

With that being said ~ Suck it up, Buttercup!

The Haunted House That Inspired My Song

Whispers in the Walls by Lisa Sanders

As an adolescent, I lived in a house that seemed to have its own life. From the creaks in the floorboards to the strange sounds that resonated down the halls, it constantly felt like something—or someone—was watching me. These bizarre incidents lingered with me long after I left the house, and I realized that the memories of that location would haunt my creative soul indefinitely. That unsettling inspiration eventually became the basis for a song I wrote, one that captures the feelings, terror, and mystery I felt all those years before.

When I started writing the song’s lyrics, I intended to convey the spooky feelings I had as a young girl in that haunted house. The atmosphere of terror and disorientation I experienced, the shadows that appeared to dance just out of sight, and the sense of helplessness in the face of something far stronger than myself are all reflected in the song. It seemed alive, full of unspoken tales and mysteries, and it wasn’t just a house. Here’s a sneak peek at the lyrics inspired by these feelings.

The tone of anxiety is established in verse 1 with the fear of being awakened by whispering in the middle of the night. I can still recall those times when I was lying in bed, hearing unreal sounds yet feeling them with all of my senses. It seems as though there is no way out because of the walls crowding in and the shadows moving on their own. I was surrounded by fear like a thick blanket, and I never really got over it.

Verse 2 describes the sensation of being followed by someone invisible. The echoes of footsteps in the corridor, a cold sensation running down your spine as if someone—or something—was present but you couldn’t see it. I always felt watched, as if the walls themselves had eyes, and the scariest aspect was not knowing what would happen if I slipped up.

The Chorus is the heart of the song, in which I ponder on the house’s unwavering grip on me. It wasn’t just a haunted house in a creepy, mythical sense; it was an actual location with ghosts of twilight and gray. The wails and screams of the past appeared to reverberate in the air, as if the house was playing a game with me that I could never win. It seemed like I was stuck in a chess game, where I was always the pawn, helpless and inconsequential.

Verse 3 introduces the tangible manifestations of the haunting: rattling windows, slamming doors, and the unending darkness. I felt like there was nowhere to escape or hide. Those icy, invisible hands reaching from the bottom and the words pleading for more made me feel helpless and insignificant. The home seemed to be demanding my attention, drawing me into its twisted embrace.

Verse 4 depicts a rising sensation of imprisonment. Every corner held a fresh horror and a new secret. The thump of my heartbeat as I attempted to navigate the house served as a continual reminder that I was always on edge, racing against time and terror. But no matter where I turned, I couldn’t get away from the house’s merciless grasp; it was always in charge.

The Outro adds to the eerie mood, with flickering flames and murmurs twisting inside my dreams. This is where I consider the thought that the house wields power over me, locking me in an eternal loop. It reigns supreme in my memory, a place I can never leave, no matter how much time passes. It’s the ultimate twist, the house’s unbreakable grip on me, and it feels like it’ll never let go.

When I look back, I understand that those scary situations, although leaving me rattled, inspired something creative and long-lasting. This music allows me to process my concerns, transforming what was previously a source of anxiety into something artistic. It reminds me that even the most traumatic situations can shape who we are today.

So, while the mansion previously held me captive in dread, it now has a special place in my heart because it inspired my song. And, in some ways, it has finally allowed me to change roles—no longer the pawn, but the one who gets to tell the story.

A Dance with a Stranger

 A Dance with a Stranger

 

The flashing lights danced on the checkered floor, pulsating with every beat of the music. The rhythm coursed through my body as though I was part of the song. People flickered like colored ghosts—red, blue, purple, white, yellow—disappearing into darkness when the beat stopped. A new pulse ignited an uproar, shaking the crowd into a frenzy. Bright dots shimmered and darted across the incandescent floor squares, chasing the pounding rhythm.

Making my way through the dance floor to our table, I caught sight of him sitting at a crowded table, talking but watching me. I smiled slightly and veered left to join my party. My newlywed husband of three months was dancing in the middle of a group of women, throwing 70s-style moves that no one uses anymore. I smirked at his foolishness, lifted my drink from the table, and took a long sip.

“What are you drinking?” a voice yelled over my shoulder. Turning, I saw the man from the table—pink lips under a finely trimmed mustache.

“Sex on the beach,” I said, cheeks burning as he turned and walked toward the bar. His gait had an effortless charm. When he returned, he handed me a drink and sat beside me.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“Sex on the beach,” he said with a grin. His dark brown eyes met mine, framed by slightly curly black hair. Before I could ask his name, he leaned closer. “Wanna dance?” he asked as the music shifted.

We hit the dance floor, the groove fast and exhilarating. There was no need for touching; our steps spoke louder. I had to look up to see his face. His mustache curved downward at the edges, and his chin, slightly pointy, was softened by a hint of stubble. His uniform—a pressed navy blue shirt and straight-legged pants adorned with shiny brass—hinted at his military rank. His eyes never left mine. As the music slowed, he took my hands, pulling me closer. The couples around us clung together, swaying to the soft melody.

“What’s your name?” he finally asked.

“Carol,” I replied. “And yours?”

He tapped the name tag above his breast pocket. We danced until the music changed again, transitioning back to the high-energy beat. Time blurred as we moved together. 

When the night ended, he walked me back to my seat. My husband approached, kissed my cheek, and the man disappeared into the crowd without a word.

As we left, I couldn’t shake the feeling I’d met the man of my dreams—tall, dark, handsome, and in uniform. A stranger from out of town who, for one night, felt like destiny. 

The next day, my girlfriend told me he’d returned to the nightclub and asked about me. His name, etched on his uniform, stayed with me, unforgettable. But I never acted on my impulses. That moment faded, like the music, leaving only a bittersweet memory of what could have been.