Featured Book: Trash Tawkin

by Diane Cameron Elam

Bring the Trash Tawkin Project to Your Venue!

Would you like to host a one-of-a-kind eco-arts experience that inspires, educates, and entertains?

With the Trash Tawkin Project, youth will dive into a fun and imaginative world of recycling and self-expression. Together, we’ll build a creative, colorful “landfill” — the playful backdrop of the Trash Tawkin story — using recycled materials and set design to bring the characters to life.

Let young minds explore what it means to be reused, renewed, and reclaimed — just like the soda can, milk carton, crumpled newspaper, and broken mirror in the book.

Through storytelling, movement, and hands-on art, students will create a living stage for transformation, learning that even discarded things can shine again.

Perfect for:

• Schools
• Churches
• Homeschool groups
• Youth centers
• Community events

Let their imaginations run wild… and watch the landfill come alive!

The Last Rose

by Diane Cameron Elam

They say the roses once bloomed across the Earth,
red colors painting the land with peace and beauty.
But when greed grew louder than gratitude,
And waste replaced wonder,
The roses quietly withdrew,
Retreating to hidden places, waiting…

They left behind one voice,
A small girl with braided hair and ancient eyes,
To speak on their behalf.

And this is her message:

"We are not gone.
We are waiting.
Waiting for the hearts of humankind to soften again,
For kindness to bloom more than profit,
For hands to stop plucking beauty before it can grow.

When you remember how to care for each other,
And for the Earth we share,
The roses will return.

And with them, the world you long for.”

She is the last rose now—
A seed of hope,
A whisper of what could be again.

Fred & Felix -The Perfect Pet Caper

by Diane Cameron Elam

Fred the giraffe was tall, gentle, and very shy. Felix the hummingbird was tiny, bold, and very loud. Together, they were the best of friends.

At CityTown Zoo — a paradise without fences or cages —animals lived in style by choice. Fred loved green apples. Felix loved peppermint. Most days, Felix rode around in Fred’s ear, enjoying the view andthe breeze.
One morning, Felix spotted an ad in the CityTownChronicle: The Perfect Pet Contest — Winner gets a hot air balloon ride! Felix was excited. He wasn’t entering himself, of course —but he knew Fred was the perfect pet. There was just one problem: only a personcould submit the entry form.
But that wasn’t about to stop Felix.
With mischief in his heart and big plans in his wings, heset out to find a way to enter Fred into the contest… and maybe join him for aballoon ride, too.

And so began the caper.

The Trial of August the Oak Tree

by Diane Cameron

In the forests of Oklahoma stands a majestic 100-year-old oak tree named August, planted long ago by a young Osage girl named Asinka. She named him for the month he was planted — the eighth month, a time of growth and strength. Asinka confided in August throughout her youth, and when she became a mother and grandmother, she passed down his first acorns as a legacy of love and resilience.

But peace doesn't last forever.

Developers have set their sights on August’s forest, planning to clear the land in the name of progress. They see August as old and useless. But to the creatures of the forest, August is a father, a protector, a living memory.

That’s when Shakuru, Asinka’s grandson — now an elder himself — calls a Forest Council.

In a bold and imaginative twist, the animals put the city planners on trial. One by one, ten animal witnesses take the stand, defending August’s wisdom, kindness, and role in the balance of the forest. And finally, August speaks — delivering a powerful testimony that calls out greed, honors nature, and reminds humanity of its place within creation.

This is a story of resistance, legacy, and love for the Earth — a fable for our time.

Dear Diary, It’s Me, Bria (Letter 1)

Oh, I forgot to mention something. There’s this boy in my science class who likes me. He’s from the Republic of Benin in West Africa. I asked him what it’s like in Benin, and he said the waters are so clear you can see all the way to the bottom — and the shrimp are as big as birds! I smiled so big.

I think he might be rich because every day, a fancy car comes to pick him up. His chauffeur even opens the door for him. One time, I saw his mom — she looked just like a real African queen, wearing this long robe and a necklace that sparkled like treasure. I stared until my eyes burned.

I started wondering, could I ever go to Africa? Could I ever go anywhere?

Mama says this is just temporary. That we’re gonna have our own place soon. She tells me to keep my chin up, to trust God, and to look for the good in things. So I do.

Like this morning — the dew on the grass looked like little diamonds. And yesterday, I saw a hummingbird flutter near our van. I swear it winked at me.

I’m really glad no one’s on the bus in the morning to see where I live. I like to sit alone and pretend I live somewhere else, somewhere with room to run and space to plant things.

The boy asked me where I live once. I got nervous and told him Cedar Hills — where all the fancy houses are. He kept asking me stuff, but I changed the subject. I don’t think he noticed. I hope not.

Oh! Before I go — I got the part! Not just any part — the lead role in the school play!

Sometimes, Diary… even when the world feels heavy, something good sneaks in like sunlight through a cracked window. And I guess that means I’ve just got to keep looking for the light.

Dear Diary, It’s Me, Bria (Letter 2)

Dear Diary,
There’s this lady who sits across the lot from us — near an old aqua blue Thunderbird that I don’t think has moved in forever. I’m not even sure it works. She never drives it. She just sits next to it like it’s a front porch and she’s waiting on something that’s late.

Every day around five, when the dinner wagon comes by, she does the same thing.

She sets out china.

Not paper plates or plastic forks — real, honest-to-goodness china. Cream-colored with little gold rings around the edges. She places them on top of wooden crates like they’re tables at a fancy restaurant, and she always wears these white gloves like she’s hosting a tea party for queens.

I think... maybe she used to be a doctor’s wife. Or someone who used to have a big house, maybe with a garden and a swing. But now, this lot is her backyard. And the china? It’s the only thing she brought with her.

She never says much. Just sips her orange juice from those same delicate cups and stares ahead like she's looking through a window nobody else can see.

But it’s her eyes that stay with me. They’re dark — really dark. No sparkles or flecks like most people’s. Just black, like deep water at night.

And when she has finished eating, she rinses each dish with bottled water, dries them slow, and tucks them gently into a pillowcase. She holds it like it’s something fragile... like a baby.

I think those dishes are the last pieces of her old life.

Sometimes I wonder what she used to be called — before she was the lady with the china. I have been praying for her.

Love,
Bria

Dear Diary, It’s Me, Bria (Letter 3)

It's been five days. No — six, I think. And the little gray kitten hasn’t come back.

She used to curl up under the back tire of our van, right where the sun hits in the evening. I’d save her tiny scraps from my lunch — a piece of chicken nugget, some bread crusts, even a little shredded cheese when I could sneak it. She purred like a soft motorboat and rubbed against my ankles like we were already best friends.

I called her Nyla. It means “winner” — I heard that once on a cartoon, and I liked how it sounded.

But now she’s just... gone. I’ve checked the lot every night. I crouch real low and whisper her name like a secret. I even hold out food in my hand like I used to. But all I hear are cars passing and sometimes a faraway siren.

Mama says animals have a way of finding where they belong. That maybe someone kind took her in.

I hope so. I hope she’s curled up on someone’s couch with a full belly and a name on a tag. Maybe someone brushes her fur and tells her she’s pretty. Maybe she doesn’t have to look around before she closes her eyes.

Sometimes, I think... that’s what everyone wants. A place to curl up. A place where your name belongs.

A real home.

Love,
Bria

Dear Diary, It’s Me, Bria (Letter 4)

I heard Mama crying last night. She tried to be quiet, but I still heard her.

I know grown-ups cry for all kinds of reasons — stress, fear, memories, maybe even dreams that feel too far away. And I know she didn’t want me to hear. But I did.

I almost went over to her side of the van. I wanted to tell her everything she always tells me — that we’re going to be okay, that God is watching, that we’re stronger than the storm. But I didn’t.

I stayed in my little corner, holding the blanket she gave me, and tried to be brave like she is.

Whatever made Mama cry… it made me cry too. Not loud. Not big. Just a tear or two that slid out because love is like that. When someone you love cries, your heart listens.

So I closed my eyes and whispered something to God. Not for me. For her.

Love,
Bria