Short Stories of Humor & Hope

Welcome to my Blog, The Chronicles of Erica!

I've led an interesting life. Often, I find myself going "off-script." Usually, this is when the good stuff happens. It's the moments when I'm being lifted out of the Grand Canyon in a glass-bottom helicopter, watching in awe as an angel in a biker gang's clothes guides me safely out of a dangerous flash mob, or communing with a blue heron at the side of a windy lake, when I think to myself, "This will make a great story."

You will find these moments and more in my collection of short stories called The Chronicles of Erica. I'm inviting you to take a peek into the interesting life of a regular gal like me. Enjoy, laugh, shake your head, but please, try not to judge.

Featured Story

A blue heron standing at the edge of a peaceful lake

Lessons From a Blue Heron

I arrived at the lake in the afternoon under a cloudless sapphire September sky. When I opened the minivan door, a blast of brisk air hit my face. The wind was howling and constant. I spied white-capped wavelets on the water and sailboats in full sail scattered around the lake. I shivered, pulled a sweatshirt out of my bag in the back, patted my scuffed-up nine-foot kayak, and reconnoitered the area. The lake was shaped like a boomerang, with three sides and the dock in the middle of the blustery chaos. The wind was hammering the two sections of the lake to my left and hitting the dock full throttle. To my right, the third arm was long and skinny, with ample trees to buffer the wind. Looked inviting, but I was no fool. As tempting as it was to enjoy the free ride while the wind pushed me down the length of the lake, I knew I'd have to get back to the dock under my own paddling power.

Not being the most well-versed in nautical arts nor fully educated on wind and water patterns, I decided to sit a while and watch what others were doing before heading out on the choppy water. Apart from the sailors in the little boats, no one knew what they were doing. There were kayakers stranded at the far end of the waterway, congregating in little groups, and parents in rowboats, clearly overwhelmed by the enormous effort to row their offspring back to shore. Determined to have a better outcome, I sat on a picnic blanket for an hour, studying the current and planning my route.

Despite my first hesitation, I decided I would launch from the dock and let the current take me to the lake's end on my right. Then, I'd cross the pond at its skinniest point and hug the tree line on the far side, hoping the trees would block most of the wind. Once past the dock on the opposite shore, I'd venture out from the haven of the treed shoreline and let the wind push me across the water, delivering me to the dock like a letter slipped into a mailbox. Simple.