Nancy Ann Creed

  A poem from the book Echoes and Whispers books2read.com/u/bO0zDK

  I will be writing a series of blog posts about my experiences at the Ron Clark Academy (RCA), documenting this transformative professional development journey. Part 1 Traveling to Atlanta This trip marks a significant personal milestone, as it is the first time I have traveled by air since before September 11, 2001. The experience felt somewhat surreal; even the airline check-in agents expressed surprise when they realized how long it had been since my last flight. Over the years, the rising cost of air travel had made it a luxury that simply wasn't a regular part of my life. Consequently, this journey served as my formal introduction to modern TSA procedures. Being unfamiliar with the current strict regulations regarding liquid sizes, I unfortunately had to surrender my lotion at security. Despite this minor setback, the overall travel experience was positive and smooth. I am fortunate to be traveling to the Ron Clark Academy thanks to a generous scholarship provide...

    Photo by Alexander Zvir on Pexels.com The Unbreakable Bonds of Family: A Poetic Reflection The heart's vast, inexplicable room Knows no boundary, feels no gloom, Refuses to tally "by blood" or not, Or ledger a love that can't be bought. It scorns the line, the legal draw, In the deep, emotional valley of awe. For a lifetime, this house was the core, The table as full as the love I bore. I was the anchor in a whirlwind wide, A universe where eleven reside. From my body sprang three, a simple truth, But all eleven are mine, from age to youth. Yet a cruel, invisible wall now starts to rise, Built of "stay away," and "move on" lies. A denial of all I’ve fiercely done, As if this life-love could be undone, Commanded to vanish like dust on the wind, A heart-breaking suggestion, absurdly pinned. They demand a silence, my place declared gone, Insist my role is over, my duty withdrawn. But the only sound now in the empty space, Wher...

 If you love dark fantasy with a haunting touch of the paranormal, then listen closely—the gates to the enigmatic Shadow Realm are officially wide open, and an adventure awaits you! 🌑✨ I am absolutely thrilled and ecstatic to announce that my complete series, The Shadow Realm Chronicles , is a featured part of the massive Smashwords Read an Ebook Week sale! This is your golden opportunity to immerse yourself in a world brimming with ancient secrets, powerful magic, and compelling, flawed characters. Whether you're: Meeting Maeve for the very first time and beginning her perilous journey from the start, or Catching up on the latest twists and turns before the highly anticipated final book, Carillon , officially drops tomorrow, March 1st — ...now is unequivocally the perfect and most affordable time to dive headfirst into the gripping narrative. Prepare to lose yourself in a story where shadows hold more than just darkness and every choice has a supernatural con...

I must strongly object to the pervasive and deeply problematic use of militaristic metaphors when discussing cancer and the individuals affected by it. Phrases that have become deeply ingrained in our cultural lexicon—"They are a cancer survivor," "They lost their battle," or "They won their battle"—carry a harmful and often painful subtext. This war-like language, framing a biological process as a personal combat, inevitably implies that the outcome—survival or death—is purely a result of the individual’s effort, willpower, or "fighting spirit." This is not a purely academic critique; it is profoundly personal. My mother was diagnosed with Ovarian cancer, and she passed away when I was just eleven years old. To this day, every time I hear this kind of terminology used, I feel a visceral, sickening dread. The devastating implication embedded in these phrases suggests that to say someone "lost the battle" can be interpreted as meaning my...

  Photo by Unseen Studio on Unsplash Crafting Stories: A Decade of Passion The ink is a pulse, a rhythmic beat, Where worlds are born and shadows meet. For ten long years, the stories have grown, In quiet rooms and the great unknown— From the dark of the woods to the stars above, Built with a decade of labor and love. There is a lightning strike in the chest When a character finally stands the test, When a sentence clicks like a skeleton key And the soul of the book is finally free. I know these bones, I know they are strong, I’ve carried these voices for far too long. But the silence is heavy, a vast, open sea, Between the heart of the book and the eyes that should see. I’ve woven the magic, I’ve mapped out the stars, I’ve bled on the pages and counted the scars. I stand at the window, my hands on the glass, Watching the world and the witnesses pass. "Look here," I whisper, "the bridge is now built, Full of wonder and terror, of glory and guilt." ...