Mona wrote a novel in 2018
Hope from Stone is a powerful narrative, a character driven story with a lively plot. It has robust detail, believable exaggeration, humor, and strong dialogue.
It takes the protagonist through a process of developing a relationship with God, from trusting her intuition more than popular opinion.
​Hope from Stone identifies with modern pop culture by exploring spirituality, dysfunction, stress, and personal choice.
It is a Christian story that starts from the protagonist's secretive, flimsy, naïve perspective about her faith that evolves into a rock solid foundation of hope.
Hope from Stone provides MSers with much needed optimism and inspiration regardless of the condition of their health. Its an informative read for caregivers as well.
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A novel about girl in her 20’s living with MS.
Vigorous, independent, stubborn and sometimes difficult to get along with, 28-year-old Rozalind has Multiple Sclerosis.
Through endless appointments, she desperately searches for a cure while trying to make sense of her new condition.
Out of options, she moves home. As Roz becomes more despondent and isolated, her faithful dog, Deputy, is her main companion.
After her mother is unexpectedly faced with a serious illness of her own, Roz builds an inner life with her own growing awareness of God, and her world begins to change.
She moves from a cynical, fault-finding victim to a calm, secure, empowered woman of age.
This fictionalized memoir is an engaging story of courage and hope.
A novel about girl in her 20’s living with MS.
Vigorous, independent, stubborn and sometimes difficult to get along with, 28-year-old Rozalind has Multiple Sclerosis.
Through endless appointments, she desperately searches for a cure while trying to make sense of her new condition.
Out of options, she moves home. As Roz becomes more despondent and isolated, her faithful dog, Deputy, is her main companion.
After her mother is unexpectedly faced with a serious illness of her own, Roz builds an inner life with her own growing awareness of God, and her world begins to change.
She moves from a cynical, fault-finding victim to a calm, secure, empowered woman of age.
This fictionalized memoir is an engaging story of courage and hope.
Short Stories
The background is, I started writing or refining
short stories for make-work projects
for something positive to do
in the early days of MS
And I used them for larger body of works.
However here are some new stories
that never made it into any larger writings
that I still am still lifted up by.
Enjoy a glimpse into my past.
Short Story Audio CD's
I tried my hand
at recording a few
of my old stories. They brought back fond memories.
Heres one now.
The Mo's Mobile
read by Alisa Perry
The Velveteen Rabbit goes to Mexico November 2012 838 words
I was in a small Mexican village one Christmas and brought a few cellophane wrapped gifts to give away. One particular gift was a white bunchy stuffed rabbit holding some perfumed soaps and talc. I had it ear marked for Marlana, the wife of the local store owner I frequented. But it never made it.
On route, I always passed by this typical Mexican house. I was enclosed by a Mexican style fence and had a rough dry dirt yard, with the occasional hole dug by the family’s scrawny dog. This particular day the dining room doors were wide open showing a sparsely furnished interior, laundry hung low with toddler clothes on a make shift clothes line over the dusty ground. An adobe type wall and wrought iron fence closed in the generous backyard. The bottom part was a solid from the ground to 3 feet high, the top part had wrought iron spindles, black in color adding another 2 or 3 feet. The fence looked like a giant iguana with a spikey back.
A niña about 4 years, shoulder height to the bottom part, looked at me through the bars. She was holding something. Her baby sister went trotting off soon as I stopped. I had a closer look what she was holding. The four-year-old held a bunny–– a real live, dirty-white bunny––scruffy, skinny, and very greyed from the dust and dirt common to that climate under her arm. Bunny had a good attitude and didn't seem to mind the little girl playing with him, being tucked in her armpit, hanging and dangling, being wiggled and jiggled.
I gently put my hand through the wrought iron bars inviting myself to pet bunny. I was a white woman in tiny village, not a common site, and this little nina wasn’t quite sure if I could be trusted. But she slowly came closer and very shyly let me rub bunny's ears. Bunny was indeed scruffy and skinny, but docile.
After a few minutes of establishing that she knew no English and I knew no Spanish, we settled for a non-verbal exchange. Suddenly, I remembered the stuffed rabbit I had in my pack and how perfect it was for the moment.
I held up a just-a-moment finger, then bent over and wrestled with the cellophane. She didn’t need the soap or the talc. The little girl couldn't see over the wall part and could only hear the crinkling of bags and paper. She was a soft, quiet girl and interestedly waited.
When I stood up with a snow-white bunchy bunny the same size as her real bunny, her eyes widened and she lit up as much as her shyness would allow.
I jiggled and wiggled the stuffy in exactly the same way she had with her bunny. I pet my bunny’s long ears - then reached through the wrought iron and pet her bunny’s long ears. I tapped my bunny’s toes - twice on each paw, then reached through and tapped her bunny’s toes, twice on each paw. I touched mine’s nose and gently circled his eyes, then did the same for her rabbit. Lastly, I wiggled it’s tail, then stretched through and wiggled the dirty white tail. It was a little game that just happened.
By now the little niña’s eyes were saucers and she was riveted to the story unfolding in front of her. She had absolutely no inkling of what was going to happen next. Neither did I, but we both were mesmerized and stood a moment taking it in.
I ran out of imagination so squeezed the stuffy through the wrought iron bars, and gestured a gift for her. She gingerly took it while at the same time, mouthed “Gracias” hardly believing it was really happening.
The rabbits and their contrast of whites were stark. They were exactly the same size, except one skinny, one fat, one grey and one white. She looked at it only for a moment before securely tucking it under her other arm. She was motionless, and we both stood there a moment not knowing what to do next. I could sense she really wanted to put her real bunny down and have a good look at the new one, but now wasn’t the time.
I bent to collect my things so she could examine her new treasure in private. With the real bunny still tucked under one arm, and the stuffy under the other, there were four back feet dangling. It was hard to tell them apart, except for their color.
I started walking and she slowly, delicately walked me to the very last inch of her fenced yard and watched until I was clean out of sight. The universal language of a thankful heart.
I stole a glance back just in time to see her tear off I’m sure to go show her mom and baby sister in the far background.
Not a word was exchanged, but so much was said.
A Tribute to John Hawkes 2018 1055 words
I hated the way people treated him. Even though alcohol leeched any shred of dignity out of him, others didn’t have to contribute to that loss. No one took him seriously, as if he wasn’t a real human being.
In my view there was no excuse to treat him any different than we did when he was a young, vibrant, good-time-Charlie who would musically entertain us. Just because his outsides became heavily disheveled there was still, and always had been, a core of heart, mercy and compassion inside. Sadly not many did not see it, instead choosing to vehemently discredit what they could see. So over time, worthlessness seeped in while alcohol drained any dignity out of him, threatening to snuff out any flicker of goodness left. But it would be years before that would happen.
No one would share in his government Christmas Hamper. His request to share it with us, his opportunity to give back got blown off and he was boosted out the door with his hamper until January.
Mom met him in a want ad looking for a companion to drive across Canada one Christmas when I was living in Halifax (which is another story). And they hit it off over that first beer in the pub. John was always up for a laugh and was quick with his New Brunswick quips. And Mom always liked to be entertained having a few funny bones herself. They both smoked like chimneys so I always pictured them barreling down the highway with great white clouds billowing out the car windows with a beer between their legs. The image reminded me of the 1970’s Cheech and Chong movie.
After the trip, they remain friends. Good friends. I think even lovers at one point. But unfortunately I suspect his addiction to alcohol won out over any kind of romantic interest.
John was musical having taught himself to play by ear. Mom bought him a brand new shiny banjo. No easy feat on a single parents assembly line wages. But that was the kind lady she was. If she saw potential for someone, she was quick to do what it took to manifest it. However, in the end it didn’t go much further than living room busking for alcohol. We’d listen to him pick, strum and sing for us with a case of beer or two.
Mom was also instrumental in other important areas of his life. Like convincing him to buy himself a trailer, a real home, something he could still afford with the alcohol problem he had and have a place his growing children could come to visit. And she helped him set up a child support payment plan with the ex-wife so he could look the world in the eye.
But the hard drinking set in again. He lost the trailer, as well as many jobs and pawned his banjo. He lived in his camper on various construction work sites for several years. I well remember bringing my friends to party with him on summer weekends on commercial sites thinking it was a terrific novelty.
So despite the rough exterior, John always had a heart of gold. He couldn’t say no if the request was genuine. He once helped my illegal immigrant boyfriend cross the border back into Canada and housed him for several months. Then when cancer struck Mom it was John who moved in with her and became her caregiver.
John didn’t have a place to live and mom needed help and so family felt it was a win-win situation. Booze had pretty much taken over his life by that point, while cancer took over Mom’s. But she too didn’t treat him very well, thinking only of herself and him being in the way. And others agreed with her citing he was just an alcoholic and it was time he moved on. It wasn’t their fault he didn’t have anywhere to go. He was good enough to take care of her for a year but he wasn’t good enough to require our compassion. My heart ached for him.
Six months later when mom died he was invited to the funeral but didn’t come. He told us he didn’t have a pair of decent pants to wear. And myself not having a say couldn’t help choosing instead to put our surviving family first. But I always regretted that decision. I hated the way people treated him.
Heads would bob in agreement at the fact he wasn’t eligible for a lung transplant because he wouldn’t quit smoking. Or offer to buy him a suitable pair of pants to attend Mom’s service. The family sold her old car thinking the five hundred bucks was worth more than a thank you gift ‘because he’d just drink it away anyhow.’ Nobody gave a rat’s ass about John.
In my regret and compassion, I gave him my old car when I replaced it several years later. Which he ecstatically jumped on, trekking all the way to Vancouver from the island to pick it up. He spent the night and we had a nice dinner. I took him to Mom’s gravesite and we a had a genuine hug. It wasn’t long before he sold it getting $1200 and called to tell me. I was so thankful I remained in touch with him once a year to say hi and see how he was doing. I was not the least bit disappointed over the car knowing he was being his best self and I celebrated the fact he could tell me with no fear of repercussion.
We stayed in touch over the years. He far out lived Mom which shocked those who wrote him off. It was always an effort to track him down but always well worth the effort. He was always so pleased to hear from me or that I’d take the time. We’d catch up on our latest adventures, health, family and otherwise. We said our goodbyes until the next year.
But I’m afraid I missed that next year and was so saddened the next time I called to find out he passed away a year earlier.
I lit a candle to help light his way. Just like he did for the many that couldn’t or wouldn’t recognize him as light.
Egbert’s Free Spirit 1992 Revised 2014 1092 word count
There was always a big painting in the bottom bay window of the old dilapidated cedar shake house on east beach. I had always intended on stopping in to see if there were more or who lived there.
I was on my ten speed one bright spring morning when I decided today was the day. I hammered on the door, assuming most of the activity of the house took place upstairs. A little, scrawny old man opened the door and I nervously rattled out I liked the painting in the window and asked if there were more. He said sure there were more, and led me in.
I looked back at my bike, worried about it being left out on the main drag, so he motioned me to bring it in. Bring it in? I wheeled it in the hallway, and what a place! It was stinking, old, dark, dirty and dilapidated. He was busy eyeing up my bike as I was admiring that magnificent painting I learned he had done. He was an artist from Holland. A rather eccentric one at that. Egbert was his name. He motioned me to follow him, while asking questions about my bike - as I was asking him about his paintings. Tit for tat metered questions. We went upstairs to a full fledged dump. I bet it was months, if ever, since it had been cleaned. Old broken furniture, stacks of papers, magazines, and hundreds of dirty dishes and I mean hundreds. Two whole rooms full. There was a putrid smell but I accustomed myself to that. (Later I was to learn he ate garlic like apples which contributed immensely to the odor). Admist all the junk, there was probably 50 beautifully rendered paintings hung on every square inch of the wall space. Large, small, people, kids, landscapes, seascapes, framed, unframed. All magnificently mastered in painterly fashion. He certainly was an accomplished artist but seemed to pay no mind to his talent or his surroundings, and was more interested in this visitor and her bike downstairs.
After carefully looking at every piece, and taking in his fabulous talent, I commented on one. “One of my son’s playmate” he said. A boy aged 8 or so, crouching looking at something. Magnificent. I asked questions about himself and he answered that he came from Holland, was an artist all his life, and the display of work on the walls were visuals of his life, some professionally framed from gallery shows, other not. He was maybe 80 years old and his wife had died. He had one son “out there”.
Egbert had questions about my bike upon walking me out: Did all the gears work? How did the brakes handle? Was the seat comfortable. Was it heavy? We passed by a closed door and he opened it. I was shocked. I thought the upstairs was enough. Before my eyes was Mt. Shasta of wrecked bikes and bike parts. A stacked-to-the-ceiling pile of twisted metal and various bike components. He said my bike wasn’t very good for me and to come back the next day and he would have a better one. He proceeded to tell me he was the family’s bicycle boy when he was growing up. His job in the family was to maintain everyone’s bicycle in the large Dutch family in Holland. He still rode himself. Anyhow, we shook hands on the pleasure of meeting, and agreed I’d be back the next day and would go on a bike ride.
That was the first of many enjoyable meanders.
When I arrived the next morning Egbert had a girls aluminum 10 speed bike cobbled together from his mountain of mangled parts. The handle bars were made of old antenna pipe, the aluminum girls frame had a Sears logo with Free Spirit decaled on it, (for which it was forever known as). The seat had a softer better contoured shape. I sat on it wowed, and he adjusted it with my toes just touching the ground. Because he was an artist he knew the anatomy intrinsically, the mechanics between men and women, and adjusted the seat impeccably, not only height but depth and angle. We traded bikes for good and sealed the deal with a handshake. He told he it came with a lifetime warranty - his life, not the life of the bike. We both chuckled.
Off we rode down to Peace Arch Park and both border crossings, along Zero Ave running along side the US border. We meandered up and down hidden streets and shaded woods. Through the Reserve, over busy streets and highways to quieter backroads. Up hills and down hills, through farmlands and fields, we rode a couple of hours. He knew the most perfect places to tool around.
We met that whole summer for bike rides. I tried at first to help tidy his life style, as he evaluated some of my art. But it was a no win situation – I was truly a Sunday dabbler painter compared to his highly disciplined craft, while his lifestyle was much too familiar and comfortable to be tangled with. We settled quite happily for our outdoor adventures, stopping at a fruit stand or park picnic table for a break.
One particular day, we were ending our ride down the very long hill clipping along pretty fast. Him in front of me, the wind blowing through my hair, the sea air in my lungs. I closed my eyes for the briefest moment and titled my head to the sky. When I opened my eyes and looked ahead, Egbert was at a full stop. Knowing I’d plow right into him, a few angry cusses trailed behind me before we piled up. Once untangled Egbert stood up with the proudest grin ear to ear and produced a wafer thin quarter between his pointer finger and thumb. I couldn’t believe it, a major crash three houses from home for a quarter!! I didn’t know whether to throttle him or hug him.
But that was Egbert, a free spirit, who ticked a little different.
Which some call eccentric.