Rebecca's PenThe creative works of R.E.W.

About R.E.W

I am author, artist, history buff, wishing to share these three passions of mine with anyone who cares to read this blog. The main drive between these three deep interests of mine is imagination.

History isn't just people and events in a dusty book. Writing isn't just words in a tome. Art isn't just random images in a photograph, sketch or painting. I'll give you examples of what they really are.

Another Month passed! You’ll be hearing a good deal more from me as summer draws upon us. Anyways, here are some of what I’ve been working on. Small samplings you’ll find below–I’ve been at work, even on the edge of school. This semester is wrapping up, and we may all hail the long months ahead of a breath of peace (for many of us, I hope).

“What do we do now?”

Karen’s voice was almost a wail. Elise blinked, running the tip of her tongue along her lips. In silence she surveyed the thick overhang of the foliage and branches, the heavy undergrowth almost suffocating.

Hannah’s grey-green eyes leveled with Elise’s—neither of them knew how to answer Karen’s question. Neither of them knew the answer, for that matter.

Clinging © R. E. Williams


{“To Uncle Charles Young at Lejeune Mount, Fairfax County, Virginia from Diana Wayland in La Louisiane, at the town of St. Louis}

November 16, 1808

. . . But I must ask about something else then—about Docia Perry, the Aphrodite of Albany, who you mentioned, but said little of. I do believe you have been thinking too little of her. Far too little! Why must you be so scant with your thoughts, that you keep from me the paragraphs that surely must be behind every word of ‘Miss Docia Perry is well in keeping with your cousin Phoebe . . .’ Don’t be stilted, pray!


“Ah,” he said over me, “You are a shy creature, tremendously shy and meek. You tremble here—what is your name?”

“Millicent,” I murmured, at last finding my voice, dismayed that he knew of my tremulousness.

“You don’t mind if I join you, Millicent? I find this veranda a pleasant spot.”

I contrived to shake my head, and at last looked up, to find him gazing, gazing with reflective expression just visible at his brows. Gazing at me, still yet, and I wondered if I imagined it, but something of gentleness had softened the severe features and sharp eyes, yet that I never thought then as tenderness.

For OYAN © R. E. Williams


The drama coach shrugged. “Mediocre. I guess it was just mediocre.” He coolly watched the dismayed Jennifer as her eyes widened and flashed with indignation.

“Mediocre?” she choked. “Is that all you can say?”

“So kill me.”

Jennifer opened her mouth, trembling from head to foot, her hands clenched. Then she turned on her heel and walked off the stage.

(A short story by R. E. Williams)


Ginny could not believe how many people believed in temporal existence. It was a tragedy, and she wanted to reach out, share with them the truth—the future of eternity, wherein abounding joy and peace could be found. But her tongue had become a clumsy thing in her mouth—her thoughts suddenly whirling and disorganized. She had the horrible feeling that if she tried to make conversation the discourse would fall pitifully flat. Yet, all around were the lost, anxious faces, passing, hurrying, thoughts and feelings turned inwards, their hope spanning only to the horizon they could see, the beyond a blank distance wherein nothing really mattered. For these people, the now and present only mattered.

(Six of Them–a novel in planning)


If there ever was a pyromaniac, he was one. It was uncanny, how he would mysteriously present a collection of pyrogenic materials in mere minutes, and then just as mysteriously, begin an inferno that would blaze like a medium-sized meteor. To impress the timid girls who drew close to the comforting firelight, away from the shadows of the jungle, Jim would dart about, flourishing a branch with the gold and crimson blazes at the end of it, the grey smoke curling to and fro, here and there, now swirling then zigzagging, in an amusing parade which he repeated each night, sometimes approaching one of the girls and offering her his torch. Once however, this ritual went awry. He was not careful in his flourishes, and the end of his stick just touched the ponytail of one of the lasses who sat nearby on a granite stone, and the air was at once filled with the strange scent of burning keratin. The poor girl screamed, for she realized what had just happened, and her neighbor frantically shoved her to the ground and beat her hair as she shrieked piteously.

(From another short story)


The family could not gather without launching into a full-fledged, heated debate regarding whether or not the president would exert his Marxist ideals and do away with the capitalist American society. These terms made eleven year old Virginia’s head spin. Yet, these discussions fascinated her in a way that her sister and cousins could not fathom. They pled with her to join them in the back bedroom, watching the television, but Virginia just shook her head. Oh, they could go on, but she would rather remain in the midst of this colloquy. Meditative, snide, rueful and passionate remarks shot here and there, to and fro.

“The president is crazy,” said Uncle Mike grimly, “the media is crazy—they’re practically bowing down to him.”

“Did you know,” said Aunt Genevieve, slapping both hands on the table for emphasis, “that he just passed a bill, to launch a project . . .” she paused, rolling her eyes, “to build tunnels beneath roads for turtles—for turtles to use so that they won’t get run over.”

“He’s an environmentalist,” returned Uncle Jack.

(Untitled Story)


“Amateur work,” the old publisher scoffed, flipping aside the clean manuscript with a weary air. “Impossible, miss. I’m sorry.”

Diana put on her most amiable manner. “Why, I suppose this company must have the highest standards,” she said lightly, “’Tis a pity that I had to trouble you. I must make haste, though. The other kindly gentleman wished to read a bit of the work. The hour! O, it is late!” And she snatched up the thick stack into her arms and rushed for the door.

“The other gentleman?” Mr. Silas had risen, eyeing Diana’s face beneath the bonnet rim keenly. “You mean Timothy Jameson on Main Street—Philadelphia Publishing House?”

“Why—why, yes!”

Diana turned about slowly, and nodded, smiling with serene archness at Mr. Silas. Something about her smile thawed him a bit, though he folded his arms with a grunt and drew his heavy eyebrows together in deliberation. “Well,” he mumbled rather begrudgingly, “What’s this? What’s this? What is your story called?”

“Saint Louis,” Diana replied, in a tone that implied the reproving question, “I suppose you haven’t glanced at the manuscript then?”

Strong Hearts © R. E. Williams


“If we’re going into interstellar space,” said Jack gravely, “We should say goodbye to everybody.” His words had an immediate sobering effect on the band of intrepid cousins. Madeline’s eyes widened and became glossy with woe.

“I don’t want to be an asroknot,” she whimpered, clinging onto Rosie’s hand. Rosie eyed her with contemptuous exasperation.

“Then go back inside and sit on Mom’s lap,” she snapped haughtily.

Madeline shook her head. “But ya’ll will leave me,” she protested. “And I won’t be able to find you.”

“Not for a hundred years or so. We’ll live in the spaceship till we’re gone and everybody on earth is dead. Then we’ll come back,” promised Jack, squirming with the thrilling prospect of it. He had seen enough sci-fi stellar movies to be informed on the subject of spaceship inhabitance, and he could not imagine a better way to live life. He never considered the tragic downsides of such an existence.

(Untitled Short Story)



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2 Responses to Maytime Bits

  1. Kayla says:

    Wow, those sound awesome Reb!!!

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