True Inkling Memoirs

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True Inklings


I believe in magic. Not abracadabra magic, but the real kind.


The kind that settles in the bones and guides the hearts of those willing to listen and surrender to its ancient wisdom.


True Inklings is a blend of dark, spicy gumbo, sweet potato pie, and homemade wine. A mixture of  the best of two worlds––the hypnotic appeal of living way down yonder in New Orleans and the joie-de-vivre of Southwest Louisiana.


Both cultures, though mutually exclusive,  afforded me the means to put off converting my inner maiden into the completion of womanhood. While suffering the consequences, I also enjoyed a ride I could never have imagined.


Yes, I do believe in magic––the magic that transformed me––a silent, indifferent, yet unrelenting sacred power.


Work in Progress by

     Connie Hebert

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Winter Solstice 2018

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Pubescent Blues



The four of us knelt side-by-side. Momma, Daddy, my younger sister, Faye, and me. We attended Mass every Sunday at Holy Rosary Catholic Church, like clockwork. One particular time, though, I experienced an epiphany, but not of the Holy Ghost.


I was a ten-year-old girl in 1957, so I couldn't catch sight of the altar no matter how much I strained, nor could I understand the Latin the priest spoke. My knees hurt as I shifted from one to the other on the hard wooden kneelers. If I shuffled too much, Momma would shoot the Evil Eye, but Dad would encourage me with a wink and a smile.


Bored, I turned to people-watching. That's when I spotted the woman in front of me wearing a see-through blouse. My cheeks flushed  when I spied her bra under the sheer fabric. My eyes couldn't turn away. Cajun Catholics in Southwest Louisiana, lived by a strict moral code--especially regarding sex.


Despite temperatures above 100 degrees, wearing sleeveless blouses in church was a serious affront to God and a temptation to men. So, the Monseigneur stood at the  entrance and stopped any woman he deemed unfit and tied white cotton handerchiefs around the tops of their exposed arms.


So, I reasoned, letting your undergarment show must be an even bigger sin. The soft material of the lady's thin garment and the flow of the sleeves enchanted me. But would she burn in Hell?

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