The soft buzz of conversation filled the warmly lit apartment as the sun dipped below the skyline of Milwaukee. Jake and Sam moved easily among their friends, hands full with drinks and snacks, laughter curling through the air like music. Their new apartment—sunlight-filtered, plant-filled, and lined with old brick and books—felt like home already, even though the last box had only just been unpacked that morning.

“I still can’t believe you two are actually living together,” Billy said, nudging Jake with a grin as he accepted a glass of wine.

“Well,” Jake said, exchanging a glance with Sam, “after falling in love on a beach vacation, the next logical step was clearly domestic bliss in a restored apartment building  in Walker’s Point.”

Sam laughed. “And honestly, I think we picked the perfect spot. Walker’s Point just feels like us—open, real, a little artsy, a little rough around the edges, but full of heart.”

Dominic, lounging on the edge of the couch, raised his glass of wine. “It’s the neighborhood with history. The LGBTQ+ soul of Milwaukee. You’ve got La Cage, Fluid, and Walker’s Pint just blocks away—and it’s not just bars. It’s the community. The energy. The fact that you can walk hand in hand without a second glance.”

“It wasn’t always like that,” Hal chimed in, leaning forward. “Remember Harbor View in the nineties? It was mostly just Second Street and a few brave spots surrounded by warehouses and train tracks.”

Mike nodded, setting down his drink. “And Bayview’s come a long way too. Queer-friendly brunches, vintage shops, rainbow flags in windows—everywhere you turn, it’s like the city’s been stitching our colors into the fabric of its soul.”

They all paused for a beat, the weight of history settling gently into the space.

Jake looked around the room, his voice quieter but still laced with gratitude. “And now here we are—June again. Pride Month. Can you believe the first Pride was just a year after Stonewall?”

“Fifty-five years ago,” Sam added. “June 28, 1969. The police raid at the Stonewall Inn. People had had enough. They pushed back. That night changed everything.”

“And now Pride is this whole beautiful, chaotic, loving celebration,” Dominic said. “But I still think of those early marches—no corporate floats, no glitter explosions. Just people with signs and hope. Risking everything for the right to exist.”

Hal raised his glass. “To the ones who came before us. To Stonewall. And to making sure their fight was not in vain.”

They clinked glasses.

The room, full of amber lamplight and soft jazz playing in the background, pulsed with connection. They shifted into stories—first kisses, coming out moments, first times in a gay bar.

“Oh god,” Billy groaned. “My first gay bar? I wore a vest. A vest. With nothing under it.”

Laughter exploded around the room.

“I was so nervous I ordered a Shirley Temple,” Mike confessed. “Didn’t even spike it.”

Hal wiped his eyes. “My first time out, I thought everyone would be watching me. Turns out, everyone was too busy dancing to care.”

Jake looked at Sam, who was curled up beside him now on the couch, hand resting lightly on his knee.

“First time I kissed this guy,” Jake said, “we were barefoot on the beach. Sand between our toes. I didn’t want the moment to end.”

“It didn’t,” Sam whispered. “It just got better.”

A quiet settled over them—comfortable and full. The kind of silence that comes when laughter has wrung itself dry and all that remains is love.

Dominic leaned back, sighing. “Chosen family. It’s everything, isn’t it?”

“It really is,” Jake said. “This—right here—is everything I ever dreamed of.”
​
Outside, the city lights flickered on. Pride flags hung from balconies. The hum of Walker’s Point—its long, storied, resilient pulse—beat on into the night.

“We are the laughter after the storm, the joy born of resistance.”  ~Unknown
~Wylddane

This image—bright with color, movement, joy—captures the very spirit of Pride. Hands held, smiles wide, bodies swaying to a rhythm born of freedom and love. It is a simple moment, but one that reverberates with the energy of generations. This is what Pride looks like. And this is what Pride feels like.

We have always been here. From ancient times to modern cities, we have loved, lived, danced, dreamed, and survived. In the shadows and in the spotlight, through silence and celebration. And we will always be here. Our existence is not a trend. Our lives are not a debate. Our love is not a phase. We are part of the human family—radiant, resilient, real—and we claim our right to live and love fully.

We are awesome.

Pride Month is a celebration of that awesomeness. Of the beauty and strength found in simply being who we are. As Laverne Cox once said, “Who you are is beautiful and amazing.” Those words ring true now more than ever. Because in a world that so often tries to define us, box us in, or erase us—we rise. Proud. Bold. Joyful.

It hasn’t always been this way. There was a time when just being ourselves could cost us everything—our jobs, our homes, our families, even our lives. The journey from Stonewall to today has been one of courage and fire. Of standing up when it was dangerous. Of loving when it was forbidden. Of marching forward when it was easier to stay silent.

And still—there are forces today that would drag us backwards. Voices of hate that whisper, shout, and legislate against our right to exist. But we will not go quietly. We will not shrink or hide. We know who we are—and we know that we belong. As Harvey Milk so powerfully reminded us, “Hope will never be silent.”

So let’s dance in the streets and laugh with our friends. Let’s hold hands with the ones we love. Let’s wave our flags high and wide. Let’s celebrate this beautiful tapestry of identities, expressions, and stories that make up the LGBTQ+ community.

But let us also pause—to remember those who came before us, who walked so we could run. And to vow that those who come after us will find an even better world—a kinder world—because of what we do now.

Happy Pride Month.
​
You are beautiful.
You are worthy.
You are loved.
You are awesome.
🏳️‍🌈💃🕺

“To be yourself in a world that is constantly trying to make you something else is the greatest accomplishment.”
— Ralph Waldo Emerson

~Wylddane

Every one of us carries a mosaic of memories stitched together by the hands of our mothers. These are the stories we return to—the ones told around kitchen tables, in quiet moments of remembering, or through laughter that surprises us when we least expect it. Our mothers were gardeners of both soil and soul, bakers of bread and joy, keepers of tradition, and often the unexpected source of humor that caught us off guard and made life sparkle.

In honor of Mother’s Day, we (family and friends) have gathered together these short reflections to share—simple remembrances, rich with warmth, whimsy, and grace. In each one lives a different mother, yet somehow, in reading them, we recognize our own. This is a celebration of their spirit—how they lived, how they loved, and how, through our memories, they continue to guide and nourish us still.


1. A Christmas That Began in Her Heart
Christmastime belonged to Mom—it lived in her spirit, her voice, her sparkle. The moment Thanksgiving dishes were cleared, the carols began, echoing through the house as she transformed each room into a sanctuary of light and faith. She believed Christmas was sacred, and each twinkling ornament, every batch of cookies, was part of a larger celebration of love and devotion. "Xmas" was not welcome—how could anyone leave Christ out of His own day? To her, it wasn’t just a holiday—it was holy, and she made sure we all felt it.  ~Kitty

2. Garden Hat and Suppertime Greens
There she was—apron on, old gardening hat perched just so, walking the well-worn path to the garden. That hat was a permanent fixture, never replaced, its brim softened by years of sunlight and soil. She’d return with beans, radishes, and lettuce in her arms, gathered with quiet joy. Dinner tasted of earth and effort, always seasoned with a kind of humble pride. We remember her most clearly in that hat—alive in the ritual of growing and giving.  ~Peggy

3. Bread, Donuts, and Hay Bales
There wasn’t a single idle hour in her day. From garden rows to canning jars, from barn chores to tractor rides during hay baling, Mom was a whirlwind of capable, loving motion. Saturdays were sacred in their own right: the yeasty aroma of fresh bread filled the house, followed by the sweet, golden scent of donuts frying. She fed the family, the soul, and the land with equal passion—and she made it all seem like just another part of love.  ~Mary Ann

4. Thrashing Day Feasts and Family Glue
Mom’s cooking was the heartbeat of the home. Whether it was a pie cooling on the windowsill or a roast sizzling in the oven, her meals fed more than bellies—they anchored our lives. During thrashing season, she cooked for crowds with grace, turning homegrown meats and pantry staples into feasts of fellowship. Those days were full, and somehow simpler, rich with laughter and gratitude. Women like her—and our grandmothers—were the threads that wove families together.  ~Betty

5. Falling Rock and Roadtrip Legends
Every road sign became part of her traveling tale. “Falling Rock Ahead” wasn’t a warning—it was the name of a brave young warrior in her unfolding roadside epic. She stitched stories out of asphalt and syllables, and we rode along wide-eyed and giggling. She had the gift of weaving magic from the mundane—and yes, she was a master bullshitter, but in the most loving, hilarious way.  ~Rick

6. The Pool, Tonga, and a Moment of Joy
It was an ordinary summer day at the Mountain House home—until it wasn’t. Without a word, Mom left the kitchen table mid-lunch and moments later we heard the unmistakable splash of a body meeting water. She had cannonballed into the saltwater pool, hair still pinned, in her swimming suit, laughter in her wake. That pool, with its gentle waterfall, transported her to memories of Tonga, and in one spontaneous leap, she brought joy alive for all of us.  ~Dave

7. Augusta, the Wind, and Laughter
Mom didn’t like her middle name—Augusta—and we’d tease her with it just to hear her playful groan and see her roll her eyes. It always ended in laughter. But nothing compares to the wind story. On a stormy evening, as the family sat watching TV, she stepped outside mid-dishes and let nature—and herself—rip. When she came back in, she announced matter-of-factly, “The wind seems to be picking up.” Her timing, her dry wit, and our shocked silence turned to explosive laughter. It’s a moment seared in memory, hilarious, human, and so beautifully her.  ~Wylddane


And so, with these stories woven together like a well-loved quilt, we honor the mothers who shaped our lives—not only with their hands, but with their hearts. They taught us how to laugh, how to care, how to carry on, and how to cherish the smallest things—a warm loaf of bread, a garden hat, a spontaneous splash in the pool, a well-timed joke on a windy night.

To all the mothers—whether with us in presence or in memory—this is for you.

You are remembered. You are celebrated. You are loved.
​
Dedicated with gratitude to all mothers—ours, yours, and the great tapestry of women whose love endures across generations.

~Wylddane



​

The skies darkened without warning, turning an afternoon of walnut wine and reading into an eerie twilight. Outside the mighty ancient oak tree where Nutty and Whiskers made their cozy home, the wind howled through the treetops like a wild, unbridled spirit. Rain fell in heavy sheets, slamming against the round windows and trickling through the smallest cracks in the bark. Thunder boomed and lightning flashed, illuminating the forest in brief, ghostly snapshots.

Nature, in her untamed form, made herself known—loudly.

Inside, Nutty wrapped himself in a thick scarf while Whiskers lit the beeswax candles along their shelves. The warm, golden glow danced across their acorn jars and stacks of mushroom loaves, casting soft shadows on the earthen walls. “It’s a wild one,” Nutty whispered, his voice nearly lost to a roar of wind outside.

A tornado had touched down in a village not far away. Even in their forest, mighty trees had been toppled like matchsticks. Their friend the great white pine, home to the owl family, had fallen with a crack that echoed through the forest like the end of an era.

For a long while, silence returned—an eerie, heavy silence, soaked in uncertainty. And then came the conversations. Soft voices, the clinking of lantern being lit, the rustling of warm blankets. Nutty and Whiskers waited, quietly, calmly, with flickering candlelight and comforting words.

When morning came, the storm had passed.

They stood side by side at the window, paws resting on the sill, gazing at the changed forest. The once-proud canopy had gaps. Bent branches lay across the forest floor. But slowly, movement returned. From underground burrows came the rabbit families and the chipmunks, safe and thankful. From hollows and brush crept those who had weathered the storm.

And then—helping hands. Offers to clear paths, to rebuild nests, to open homes.

Nutty and Whiskers welcomed the owl family with open arms—or rather, with fluffed tails and warm nut porridge. The owls settled into spare rooms carved into the inner trunk. The robin families were given soft nests by the fireplace, the wrens a perch on the bookshelf, and the orioles tucked into cozy hollows lined with moss and feathers.

The forest, once a scattered symphony of separate songs, now hummed together in harmony.

That night, after the guests had been tucked in and the last candle flickered low, Nutty and Whiskers sat side by side near the fire, paws wrapped around warm mugs of pine-needle tea. Outside, the rain had ceased and the forest lay in hush, softened by moonlight and mist. Inside, the mighty oak tree hummed with gentle breath—of owls sleeping, robins murmuring in dreams, chipmunks curled into each other in newfound nests.

Whiskers spoke first, his voice hushed but thoughtful. “Funny, isn’t it? How one storm can scatter so much... and yet pull us all closer.”

Nutty nodded slowly. “It makes you think,” he said. “We’re all different. Different homes. Different songs. Different ways of living. But when something big happens—something wild and frightening—we come together without a second thought.”

They sat in silence for a moment, the fire casting a soft amber glow across their fur.

“Maybe,” Whiskers whispered, “we’re not just neighbors in a forest. Maybe we’re all part of something bigger.”

Nutty smiled at that. “A community... a kind of living, breathing family,” he said. “And even though we each have our own dreams—building a new home, gathering the perfect nut, writing a poem, raising a family—none of us really thrives alone. We rise together. We succeed together.”

The thought settled into the room like a warm blanket. For in their hearts, they knew a simple truth: the vast majority of creatures—no matter how small or shy or different—carry within them a spirit of kindness. A giving heart. A willingness to help. And in times of need, those hearts light the way forward.

The storm had shaken their world, but it had also revealed its strength.

Togetherness.

Resilience.

Hope.
​
And so, as sleep finally overtook them, Nutty and Whiskers drifted off not with fear or sadness, but with a sense of purpose and peace. They knew that life would go on—trees would grow again, homes would be rebuilt, laughter would return. And as long as they remembered that they were all in it together, this forest, this life, this magnificent journey—they would always find their way through.

~Wylddane

(Image and Text Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)

Jake and Sam walked side by side along the shoreline, their bare feet sinking into the soft sand, feeling the warmth of the sun wrapping around them like a final embrace. The ocean stretched out endlessly ahead, its waves a quiet backdrop to the deep silence between them. For the past week, they had shared so much — laughter that had come easily, stories they had told each other from places deep within, and moments of vulnerability that had made them feel like they were not just partners, but true companions. They had spent the days getting to know each other in ways they hadn’t anticipated — mentally, spiritually, even intimately.

Conversations had flowed like the tides, from lighthearted musings about the world to deeper talks about dreams, fears, and everything in between. It felt like every moment had been building to this one, a connection that was no longer just surface-deep but something richer, more exciting, more real.

Sam glanced over at Jake, his eyes softened by the fading light. “I never thought a week could feel like a lifetime,” he said, his voice almost reverent. 

Jake looked back at him, his smile warm and steady. “I feel that, too,” he murmured. “It’s like we’ve crossed some line together… like this is just the beginning of something even more incredible.”

The gentle sea breeze comforted them, but it was the closeness between them — that quiet understanding — that was the most palpable. The laughter, the shared stories, the moments of quiet comfort in each other's presence had all woven their hearts closer. They weren’t just sharing a vacation; they were building a life together, one step, one conversation at a time.

Tonight, they had planned to make the most of their last evening — a night they would never forget, filled with love and memory. Tomorrow, they would return to the city, to the routine and responsibilities that awaited them, but nothing would ever feel the same. They had found something new, something deep.

Sam stopped walking and turned to face Jake, his expression serious but filled with affection. “Let’s make tonight unforgettable,” he said softly. “Let’s seal this… this thing we’ve started. So we’ll have it, always.”

Jake nodded, his heart full. He reached out and gently brushed his thumb across Sam’s cheek, feeling the warmth of his skin. “I already know it will be,” he whispered. “You’ve already made it unforgettable.”

They lingered on the beach until the stars dusted the sky silver. Then, hand in hand, they made their way to a small beachside restaurant — a cozy, lantern-lit place perched above the dunes. They ate fresh seafood and toasted each other with glasses of wine, their laughter carrying into the night air. Beneath the soft hum of conversation and clinking glasses, an undercurrent of something deeper stirred between them — an electricity, a yearning that neither wanted to put into words.

As the sun finally dipped below the horizon and the stars took command of the sky, they wandered back to the cabin — a small, weathered place tucked behind dunes and sea grass — feeling the kind of closeness that didn't need words.

Inside, they moved without speaking. Jake touched Sam’s arm lightly, guiding him closer, and Sam came willingly, resting his forehead against Jake’s. For a moment, they simply breathed together, the night air cool on their skin, their hearts beating in unspoken rhythm.

Slowly, carefully, they undressed each other — not with urgency, but with reverence. Jake slid his fingers beneath Sam’s shirt, feeling the warmth of him, the strength and tenderness all at once. Sam answered by tracing his hands along Jake’s ribs, his touch feather-light but leaving shivers in its wake.

When they finally lay down together, the world outside fell away.

Jake cradled Sam against him, their legs tangled under the thin blanket. He ran his hand along Sam’s back, feeling every curve and dip, the steady rise and fall of his breathing. Sam stroked Jake’s hair, his fingertips moving in slow, loving circles against his scalp, like memorizing him by touch.

Their kisses were deep and soft, mouths finding each other again and again, never in a rush. Sometimes their lips barely brushed; other times, they pressed harder, tasting, exploring. It wasn’t about hunger. It was about being known — fully, fearlessly, tenderly.

In the quiet hours of the night, they shifted, curled closer, fitting together like they had always belonged this way. Fingers drifted along arms, along spines, over heartbeats. The soft creak of the bed, the whisper of their skin meeting, and the deep, contented sighs were the only sounds.

They held each other until sleep took them — not separately, but as one.

Outside, the ocean sang them a lullaby, and the stars kept watch.

Dawn crept through the curtained windows, painting the cabin in soft pink and gold. Sam stirred first, his eyelashes fluttering open as he felt the warmth of Jake’s arms around him. They lay tangled together on the bed, limbs intertwined, hearts still beating in that slow, whisper-soft rhythm they had discovered. Sam tilted his head, brushing a strand of hair across Jake’s forehead, and Jake smiled sleepily, eyes still half-closed.

The scent of salt and pine drifted in on the gentle breeze through a cracked window. Sam slid out from beneath the blanket and padded across the wooden floor to a small coffee maker on the counter. He poured two mugs of steaming coffee and carried them back to the bed like a gift. Jake sat up, pulling Sam close, and pressed his lips to Sam’s temple as he accepted a mug.

They sipped the coffee together, shoulders touching, gazing out at the rising sun just visible above the dunes. Neither spoke; words felt unnecessary in the golden hush of the morning. Instead, they shared quiet smiles and soft kisses—first on lips, then drifting to the neck and collarbone. Fingers traced familiar paths on bare skin, memorizing again in the gentle light what they had learned in the night’s embrace.
​
When they finally rose, still wrapped in the glow of dawn, they dressed slowly, sharing jokes and laughter as sunlight pooled around them. The world awaited beyond the cabin door, but right then, it was just Jake and Sam, the echoes of the night still warm in their blood and the promise of today waiting in every ray of morning light.

~Wylddane

Nutty & Whiskers’ Easter Surprise

It was the night before Easter in the heart of the forest, and twilight had begun to sprinkle a soft lavender haze across the sky. Nutty & Whiskers were lounging on their favorite mossy stump outside their cozy home in the ancient oak tree, gazing up at the stars just beginning to twinkle.

Suddenly, Nutty sat up with a start.

“Oh no! We forgot Easter baskets for our friends!”

Whiskers gasped. “How could we forget? The red squirrels, the flying squirrels, the otters, the rabbits, the chipmunks… We have so many friends!”

Without another word, the two best friends sprang into action. They scampered through the twilight forest, collecting the largest acorns they could find. Whiskers cleverly twisted off the caps, revealing smooth, egg-shaped treasures beneath. “They look just like Easter eggs!” he beamed.

Back in their little kitchen nook, with bowls of natural berry and beet dyes, flower petal paints, and a few secret recipes passed down from Great Aunt Willowtail, they dipped and decorated the acorns in splendid hues—turquoise, rose, goldenrod, and lavender, each one shining with love.

They lined tiny woven twig baskets with soft moss and filled them with their rainbow-colored acorns. They added gourmet seeds, dried wild strawberries, and just a sprinkle of crushed hazelnut—because what’s Easter without a treat?

By the time the moon had arched high above the treetops, they had assembled beautiful baskets for every friend in the forest. Exhausted but giggling, Nutty & Whiskers curled up in their leafy bed, dreaming of dawn.

At first light, they were up again, full of cheer. The forest was quiet and kissed with dew as they tiptoed from burrow to hollow, from den to nest, gently setting each basket at their friends’ front doors.

They had just delivered the last basket to the rabbit family when a rustling sound caught their ears.

“Surprise!” cried a familiar voice.

Nutty & Whiskers turned—and there, wearing a flower crown and hopping with glee, was one of the young bunnies from the rabbit family… dressed as the Easter Bunny!

Everyone burst into laughter. The bunny's long ears flopped playfully as she handed them each a tiny pastel-colored pebble candy wrapped in petals. Hugs were shared, and giggles echoed among the trees. It was a magical, joyful moment—the kind that fills the heart and makes you forget all your worries.

After their morning adventure, Nutty & Whiskers returned home to their tree in the sky. They settled into their squirrel-sized outdoor chairs, tails curled and noses twitching with contentment. The sun was beginning to set, casting golden light through the treetops.

“Do you think they liked them?” Nutty asked, watching a robin sail overhead.

Whiskers smiled softly. “I think they felt loved.”

As the sky deepened into dusky pink and stars blinked to life once more, a gentle peace settled over the ancient oak. They sat in silence, wrapped in the stillness, reflecting on the beauty of the day.

They had remembered something important—that joy multiplies when shared, that kindness ripples outward, and that sometimes the most meaningful moments come from unexpected last-minute ideas.

“Loving your neighbor as yourself,” murmured Nutty.

“Compassion,” whispered Whiskers.

“Humility... grace... forgiveness,” Nutty added.

“And knowing we’re all part of something bigger,” Whiskers finished, gazing up at the starlit sky.

The forest held its breath in stillness, as if the very trees agreed.
​
And so ended their Easter Sunday—not with fireworks or grand fanfare, but with soft smiles, grateful hearts, and the comforting knowledge that love, indeed, is the truest gift of all.

~Wylddane

(Text & Image Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)

"The Grave-Marker River"

The St. Croix River—so named by the white men who charted their maps and named what had already been named—was far older than any settler could have imagined. Long before logging saws pierced the silence, before canoe paddles dipped into its dark, reflective waters, before even the first moccasin brushed its mossy banks, the river had already lived a thousand lifetimes. The Ojibwe called it Jiibayaatigo-ziibi--The Grave Marker River. To them, it wasn’t just water carving through land; it was spirit, memory, and witness.

By the time Doug, Wayne, and John arrived with their sleeping bags, hot dogs, and the careless joy of being fourteen, the moon was already rising. It was full and round, casting silver light upon the black, mirror-like water. They had hiked in half a mile from the trailhead, finding a soft bend where the trees leaned in as though to whisper secrets to the river.

The boys gathered wood and lit a fire. Sparks drifted into the sky like tiny spirits returning home. They laughed—loudly—over half-burned marshmallows, teased each other about who might snore the loudest, and traded stories about friends, families, teachers, and summer plans. None of them noticed how the trees had grown quieter around them, how the wind had settled into something heavier, almost watchful.

The fire crackled as sleep took them one by one. The moon climbed higher.

Doug was the first to stir. Not from noise—but from a knowing. He blinked at the sky, then at the fire still alive with embers. Something was… off.

A whisper in the trees.

Wayne awoke next, then John. All three sat up, their laughter long gone. They huddled close, instinctively drawing together, their eyes scanning the woods around them.

Then they began to see them.

At first, the figures were shadows at the edge of the trees. But as the boys stared—really looked, with something deeper than just their eyes—the shadows took form. There were women in deerskin dresses, braided hair catching moonlight like strands of silver. Children, barefoot, running silently between the trunks. Warriors with stern, unreadable faces. White men in long coats and wide-brimmed hats. Lumbermen with axes on their shoulders. A trapper crouched beside the river, tending to something unseen.

The boys said nothing, but their eyes were wide. They didn’t need to speak. The fire held them like an island, flickering, alive.

The ghosts moved not like intruders, but like memories caught in a loop. Their lips moved without sound, yet the boys heard. Not with ears—but deep inside, like feelings given shape.

The Ojibwe warriors told of battles fought not for conquest, but for survival. Of dances and births and sacred trees. The settlers told of long winters, lost children, and fleeting joys. The lumbermen, drunk on industry, spoke of clearcut hillsides, rivers choked with sawdust, and regrets that came too late.

All night, the forest shared its stories. The river glimmered with reflected faces, some stern, some sorrowful, some content.

Doug, Wayne, and John listened—silent, wide-eyed, reverent. None of them knew why they were seeing this, only that it was real. And that it was meant for them.

As dawn broke, the ghosts faded like mist, one by one dissolving into trees, into river, into air.

When the sun rose above the pines, the woods looked the same as they had the evening before. Birds chirped. The river flowed. The campfire, now just ashes, let out a soft curl of smoke.

But the boys were changed.

They packed in silence. Not out of fear—but respect. They didn't speak of what they saw, not then. Not for years. But they would all remember. They would carry it.

Because some people are blind to the old world. Not by fault—but by forgetting.

But some... some still see.
​
And Jiibayaatigo-ziibi, the Grave Marker River, remembers them all.

~Wylddane

Nutty stretched and yawned, feeling the warmth of their cozy home in the mighty oak tree. He blinked his eyes open, expecting to see golden morning light streaming through the window. Today was going to be a fine spring day—perfect for working on their garden. He could already picture himself and Whiskers digging in the soft earth, planting rows of delicious treats for the coming season.

But when he glanced out the window, his heart sank. Snow! Fat, fluffy snowflakes drifted down, covering the ground in a fresh, white blanket.

"Oh, whiskers and tails!" Nutty groaned, flopping dramatically onto his chair. "I was all ready to work on the garden today! Why does spring always play tricks on us?"

Whiskers, who had just tumbled out of bed, padded over and peered outside. "Well, it is beautiful," he said with a smile. "Maybe it’s not the day we expected, but let’s at least go take a look around."

Still grumbling, Nutty tugged on his scarf and followed Whiskers out the door. The cold air nipped at their noses, and their paws crunched through the fresh snow as they stepped outside. Everything was covered in a glistening layer of white—so much for digging in the dirt today!

Just as Nutty was about to lament their ruined plans again, something soft and cold smacked Whiskers right on the head.

PLOP!

He gasped in surprise, shaking off the snow. "What in the—"

A mischievous chuckle echoed from behind a tree. Mr. Otter peeked out, a playful glint in his eye. "Oops! My aim must be off!"

Before Whiskers could respond, another snowball came flying through the air, landing right at Nutty’s feet. A chorus of giggles rang out from behind the bushes. The Rabbits!

Nutty narrowed his eyes, then grinned. "Oh, it’s on!"

He scooped up a handful of snow, quickly forming a snowball, and hurled it toward Mr. Otter, who barely dodged in time. Within moments, snowballs were flying in all directions as the whole neighborhood joined in. The Otters, the Rabbits, the Chipmunks, and the Snow Geese—everyone scampered, dodged, and flung snow, filling the air with laughter and happy shrieks.

Nutty forgot all about his garden as he and Whiskers dove behind a log, breathless from running and throwing. "I think we’ve been ambushed!" Whiskers giggled, shaking the snow from his fur. "Time to rally!"

The battle raged on until, at last, everyone collapsed in the snow, panting and laughing. As Nutty caught his breath, something small and purple caught his eye. He scrambled up and brushed the snow aside, revealing a delicate crocus pushing its way through the snow.

"Whiskers, look!" he called. "A sign that spring really is coming!"

Whiskers knelt beside him, his eyes shining. "It’s beautiful. And you know what? Today turned out to be just as wonderful as we hoped—even without the garden."

That evening, Nutty and Whiskers curled up in their comfy chairs, acorn tea warming their paws, as a fire crackled in their little acorn-shaped wood stove. The scent of burning oak filled their home, wrapping them in a snug cocoon.

Nutty sighed, a happy smile on his face. "You were right, Whiskers. We lived in the moment today. And even though it wasn’t what we planned, it was still the best day ever."

Whiskers clinked his teacup against his. "To unexpected joys and snowball fights."

Outside, the crocus stood tall amidst the snow, a promise that spring was on its way.

~Wylddane

(Text and Image Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)

The full moon hung luminous in the velvet sky, casting its silver glow over the still waters of the lake. Reflected upon the surface, it shimmered like a dream, rippling with the quiet breath of the night. The forest stood in reverent silence, tall pines and ancient oaks framing the scene, their branches whispering in the faintest breeze.

A young man stood at the water’s edge, his gaze lifted toward the moon. The world stretched before him, infinite and unknowable. He was young—so much life yet unlived, so many paths yet untrodden. And yet, on this night, he felt the pull of something beyond himself, something vast and eternal. The moonlight bathed his face in pale radiance, and he hummed softly, almost without thought, the words of an old, haunting melody:

“Silvery moon in the velvet sky Your light shines far in the heavens Over the world, wandering Gazing in human dwellings...”

The song wove through his thoughts, the melody carrying his unspoken questions into the night. Would he find love? Would he know true fulfillment? Would the road ahead lead him to the completeness he yearned for? He did not know. But he knew, as he stood beneath the vast night sky, that he was not alone in such wonderings. Countless others had stood where he stood, searching the heavens for answers, offering their wishes to the moon.

He took a slow breath, feeling the night air cool against his skin, and in that moment, something within him shifted. The silver light was not just around him—it was within him. He could feel it, pulsing like a quiet fire, illuminating the spaces in his soul that had long been waiting for such a night as this. It was more than a wish—it was an awakening, a reminder that he was a part of this great, luminous world, woven into the fabric of something vast and beautiful.

The breeze stirred, carrying with it the scent of pine and earth, and in that whisper of air, he felt the presence of something unseen—an energy, a quiet magic, the universe breathing alongside him. The moon, timeless and knowing, seemed to listen, seemed to understand. He closed his eyes and let its radiance settle within him, filling him with the quiet certainty that he was exactly where he was meant to be.

And as he stood there, drawing the vibrancy of the glowing moon into his soul, he understood that the magic he longed for had been with him all along. It was in the night, in the shimmering water, in the hush of the trees. It was in the very act of being alive, of feeling deeply, of standing beneath the stars with his heart open to possibility.

When he finally turned from the lake, he carried the moonlight with him, not as a wish unanswered, but as a promise—a quiet knowing that whatever came next, the magic of this night would remain within him, guiding him forward into the unknown.
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~Wylddane

(Image & Text Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)

A dear friend has recently discovered the joy of making and baking bread. He has shared stories and photos of his accomplishments—rolls of various kinds, whole wheat loaves, baguettes, sourdough, rustic breads. His enthusiasm and achievements bring back memories of my mother, who was an excellent bread maker and baker. She learned from her mother, using a wood stove fueled with firewood. To this day, I marvel at how they maintained the right temperatures.

They crafted these breads without recipes or measuring cups, relying instead on sight, touch, and taste. It was a labor of love, a necessity, and in its own way, a form of art. Each loaf, roll, and twist was a masterpiece of taste and perfection.

Baking was also therapy. In the quiet of the kitchen, sometimes in the stillness of the early morning hours, she would measure and mix, knead and shape, bake and savor the aromas filling the house. The act of baking brought her peace and clarity, a simplification of life down to its basics, making problems seem clearer and more manageable.

As a child, I could always tell when my mother had a restless night. When I emerged from my room in the morning and wandered into the kitchen, I would be greeted by the sight and smell of freshly baked bread. And on those mornings, she would do something special for me—take scraps of dough, fry them in lard or butter, and serve them hot with her homemade jams. Strawberry, raspberry, chokecherry jelly, peach preserves—whatever was available.

To this day, I savor the memories of those mornings, the warmth of the kitchen, the scent of fresh bread, and the love infused in every bite.

Mom, I miss you to this day. These memories of you are alive in my thoughts and heart. There is so much I have to tell you... need to tell you. Yet somehow, I suspect you may already know?

And is there not a good metaphysical lesson in baking bread? We are both the breadmaker and the bread itself. We add, we savor, we create. And we are also ourselves added to, kneaded, shaped by life... yet are we ever really finished? Life, like dough, is ever-evolving. It is stretched, folded, and left to rise in the warmth of experience. Sometimes, we are placed into the heat of trials, yet from that fire, we emerge changed—crisp on the outside, soft and nourishing within. Each moment, each challenge, each joy adds another layer to who we are, just as each ingredient shapes the final loaf. And like bread shared at the table, our lives are meant to be given, savored, and appreciated, nourishing those around us with the love and wisdom we cultivate along the way.

~Wylddane

(Image & Text Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)