pdf version - Victor Rook

Transcription

Virginia
Authors
Book Sampler
Volume 1  Winter 2016

A Rook Communications Publication
Copyright © 2015 Rook Communications. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be
used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the publishers,
except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Individual stories are copyrighted by their respective authors and/or publishers and are included
within this compilation by permission.
Mailing address:
Rook Communications
P.O. Box 571
Manassas, VA 20108
Email: [email protected]
Website: http://victorrook.com/VABS
PRINT EDITION:
ISBN-10: 1519189036
ISBN-13: 978-1519189035
Ordering:
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Cover photo by Victor Rook. Snow-covered trees along a nature trail in Brentsville, Virginia.
W
elcome to the first issue of Virginia Authors Book Sampler (VABS). We are pleased to
present to you a wide variety of authors from different genres: alternative history,
memoir, horror, young adult, science fiction, poetry, and more. Here you can enjoy
excerpts from their published books and then choose which ones you'd like to read further.
We've made it easy—if you like a story, simply visit Amazon.com or the author's website to
purchase the full book. Or, if you have a smartphone, scan the QR code next to the cover of the
book you'd like to purchase with a QR code reader app. Shazam, you'll be whisked away to the
Amazon sales page for that book. Choose paperback or Kindle and make your purchase.
You can also help support this publication by advertising your business, products, or service in
the back pages. Issues of VABS are available for purchase on Amazon.com in print and Kindle
ebook, and on our website as a free pdf download. Visit us at http://victorrook.com/VABS for
details and links.
If you have any questions or comments, feel free to email me at [email protected].
Victor Rook
Editor-in-Chief
For Authors
For Readers
It only costs $25 to be featured in an issue of Enjoy excerpts from these wonderful literary
Virginia Authors Book Sampler, which includes works. If one or more interest you, simply visit
a print copy mailed to your Virginia address.
Amazon.com or the author's website to
purchase the full book in print or Kindle ebook.
Submit 2500 words of the first chapter(s) of
your published book along with a large book Fast Buy:
cover photo and large author photo to be If you have a smartphone, install a QR code
featured in a four-page spread. Include URL reader app and aim your phone at the QR code
links to the Amazon page for your book and on the first page of each story. It will instantly
your author website, and a 170-character author take you to the Amazon purchase page for that
bio that includes where in Virginia you live.
book. Choose paperback or Kindle and make
your purchase. Help support these writers!
Visit the link below for detailed submission
specifications and to pay to reserve your spot in
an upcoming issue. We look forward to
promoting your hard work!
http://victorrook.com/VABS
IN THIS ISSUE:
JADED (NIRVANA BOOK 1) by Kristy F. Gillespie................................................................... 4
Jade has spent her entire life within the confines of the eye-color-obsessed Nirvana commune.
She dreams of experiencing freedom, but travel to the Outside is forbidden. If she resolves to flee
and is caught, she'll be blinded. If she makes it, she may never see anything the same way.
PEOPLE WHO NEED TO DIE by Victor Rook .......................................................................... 8
The year is 2021 and people are fed up. The World Order Alliance allows "selective" homicides
to reduce the population. A few of the targets: bad drivers, obnoxious cell phone users, spammers,
litterbugs, horrible bosses, Black Friday shoppers, and more. Pulitzer prize-winning TV critic
Tom Shales describes these short stories as "Clever, funny, shocking, and cheerfully vindictive."
HITLER'S TIME MACHINE by Robert F. Dorr ....................................................................... 12
“This war will never end as long as both sides have time machines,” Barbara warned, “because
one side will always be able to travel back and checkmate the other.” To Adolf Hitler, the device
called Die Glocke is the wonder weapon that will win World War II for Nazi Germany. Others
see the time machine differently, among them Franklin D. Roosevelt and Heinrich Himmler.
OLD ROADS AND NEW EXITS by Tom Basham .................................................................... 16
Eddie took his life on the road 30 years ago, after the death of his father. He came home less and
less over the years and now he is coming home to bury his mother. The last thing she told him
was she had found the hidden family treasure. With a weak heart, a bad back and a little help
from the neighbor’s kid, he just might find something he never dreamed existed.
LOVE LIKE FALL by Antonia Kilday ....................................................................................... 20
A collection 14 years in the making, Antonia Kilday takes you on her journey of love. Her work
in Love like Fall reflects her experiences with falling in love, healing a broken heart, marriage,
passion, and vulnerability. She shares her writing with the world for the first time with the hope
of helping others to find comfort, peace, and kinship.
JUNIOR INQUISITOR (INQUISITOR BOOK 1) by Lincoln S. Farish.................................. 24
Brother Sebastian is halfway up a mountain in Vermont, hell-bent on interrogating an old woman
in a shack, when he gets the order to abandon his quest for personal vengeance. He has to find a
missing Inquisitor, or, more likely, his remains. If he’d known he would end up ass deep in
witches, werewolves, and ogres, and that this mission would jeopardize not only his sanity but
also his immortal soul, he never would’ve answered the damn phone.
MEMORY LAKE by Nancy S. Kyme ......................................................................................... 28
A tribute to the summer camp culture, a rebuttal to the mean-girl trend of this generation, and a
celebration of mother-daughter relationships and lasting friendships. This memoir reads like a
novel, inspires a connection to nature, and rejoices in those carefree days of summer.
BLINDED BY DECEPTION by Maria Yeager .......................................................................... 32
Follow along with Nikki as she struggles to deal with a narcissistic family for twenty-eight years.
This book will have you cheering as you witness a woman who loses everything and ends up
incredibly blessed and happier than she had ever imagined!
MESSAGES FROM NATURE by Patricia Daly-Lipe................................................................ 36
A collection of short stories about animals, trials at sea, and the evolutionary journey of man and
nature. It is my hope that this little tome will inspire the reader to feel and react to the beauty of
nature and animals and experience the invaluable life lessons that only Nature can teach.
WHO GETS TO NAME GRANDMA? by Carol Covin ............................................................ 40
Learn what Grandmas and Moms would like to say to each other when it comes to raising the
grandchildren. Grandmother of two, Carol L. Covin, interviewed 40 Moms and Grandmas to find
out. Enjoy this best-selling, hilarious, and practical book of advice for mothers and Grandmothers
as they navigate welcoming a newborn baby and learning how to be parents and grandparents.
ANABEL UNRAVELED by Amanda Romine Lynch ................................................................. 44
Anabel Martin’s world was destroyed the day her father was murdered. After spending seventeen
years of her life trapped on a Top Secret island in the South Pacific, she now finds herself in
Washington, DC in the care of her former politician brother and his unwelcoming wife. She is a
key witness in the investigation of her father's murder and the very existence of her former home.
HOLIDAY CONNECTIONS by F. Sharon Swope and Genilee Parente.................................... 48
A series of stories that explore how the days of the year we set aside for celebrations can tie
together family, friends and strangers. From the child who involves her neighbors in planning her
own funeral for Easter to the woman whose bump in the night on Halloween turns out to be a
family in need, these stories explore human connections using U.S. holidays as themes.
KINGSLEY by Carolyn O'Neal .................................................................................................... 52
Who can save the last boy on earth? 14-year-old Kingsley is too fat to wear swim trunks and too
poor to play golf. But when colony collapse disorder finishes off the bees and moves on to
anything with a Y-Chromosome, Kingsley has more to lose than video games and the attention of
petroleum heiress Amanda.
THE TOWER by Herrick Lyons .................................................................................................. 56
Unusual activity at a popular yet rustic resort in Duck, North Carolina, catches the eye of Jack
Sommerstag, known to his friends as "Sommers." Why would the U.S. Army be involved in the
water tower business? He returns from his vacation with his family to Washington, DC only to
find he's been terminated from the ad agency where he works. A political thriller ensues!
SPONSORS .............................................................................................................................. 60-61
BONUS: BOOK TITLE WORD SEARCH ............................................................................... 63
my eyes as a rush of crisp air caresses my
face.
“Jade, you could have turned down the
heat instead,” my mother says, turning the
thermostat dial left, toward the peeling blue
sticker. “Please close it.”
I roll up the window and press closer to
the passenger door, leaning my forehead
against the window.
“Are you feeling okay?” she asks. Without
even facing her, I’m certain the skin between
her eyebrows is wrinkled, her lips pursed.
“I’m fine.” Fine is the response I almost
always give— it’s easier that way.
“Here, sniff this.” She shoves a jar of
cream under my nose. I can’t tell if its
peppermint or eucalyptus since it has such a
potent scent of menthol.
“Rub some on your temples if you feel a
headache coming on.”
I dip my pinkie fingers in the small jar and
massage the cream around my temples. It feels
cool and tingly.
“Feel better?” She asks before my skin has
a chance to absorb it.
“Is there an herbal remedy for heartache?
If there is, I’ll smear the entire jar on my
chest.” I press a hand against my heart for
emphasis.
“Oh, sweetheart.” She sighs. “I know how
dreadful this is for you.” She laces her fingers
through mine. “The bond the two of you have
is like... flowers and bees.” She pauses, as if
debating what to say next. “You still have
your father and me. We’re here for you. And
we love you so much.”
I nod. I know how much my mother loves
me. She often says I’m the best part of her. As
for my father, I honestly don’t think that he
does. At times, he seems jealous of the close
relationship I have with my mother. And
envious of the bond I have with his mother,
Grandmother Ruby. When she dies, perhaps
the best part of me will too.
Jaded (Nirvana Book 1)
By Kristy Feltenberger Gillespie
Genre:
Young Adult
Pages: 218
Amazon.com and
kristyfgillespie.com
Chapter 1
January 10, 2012
M
y heart is frost bitten. The ache in my
chest is so pronounced it hurts to
breathe. I feel as if I’ve just sprinted 400
meters, in temperatures below freezing, with
my mouth wide open like a fish.
The surrounding withered tree limbs
resemble my Grandmother Ruby’s fifty-sixyear-old arms and legs. In November, the
month which unofficially welcomes winter in
Nirvana, she was diagnosed with terminal
cancer. It only took two months for this
disease to ravish her body to the point where
boney branches remind me of her.
I exhale slowly, and my breath fogs the
window. I have no desire to erase it because
the only view is a black canvas with endless
oak trees and a gravel road which leads to the
commune hospice. My grandmother is
expected to pass away any day or perhaps any
minute, so my parents and I are saying our
final goodbyes tonight.
The air in my father’s work truck is
stifling so I wind the window down. I close
4
VOLUME 1  WINTER 2016
“It’s not fair!” I exclaim. My once vibrant
Grandmother Ruby is like a red rose that was
plucked from their garden and quickly
discarded; well before the end of the season.
“Let’s be thankful for the time we had
with her,” my father says softly, which
contradicts his usually gruff tone.
I haven’t even had seventeen years with
her. I’m closer to my grandmother than with
anyone else in my small world, and yet she
won’t be there for me during my eye color
procedure, when I get married, or have
children. She won’t be there for anything.
My heart may never thaw.
Perhaps if we lived on the Outside, we’d
have more time. My father is convinced there
are cures for certain diseases beyond our
commune. In fact, he brought up the subject
this morning while I was eavesdropping in the
hallway. Usually I remain in bed until my
mother sprays a cloying scent in my bedroom
as a means to wake me. This morning
however, I was craving coffee more than five
extra minutes of sleep.
“What if they have the cure for cancer out
there, Jonquil?” my father asked.
“Royal, keep your voice down. You’ll
wake Jade,” my mother said.
“If our leaders weren’t obsessed with
intraocular operations and more concerned
with finding the cure for cancer, our life
expectancy would surely increase.” With each
word, his voice rose like the notes on a
musical scale.
“Not now, Royal, please.”
“If we don’t talk about these things now,
when will we?”
“Honestly, I’d prefer if we never do. It’s
just so unpleasant.”
“Of course you would. Then we won’t.”
He sighed.
“Good. What would you like for
breakfast?”
“I don’t know. Pancakes I guess.” His
voice dripped with resignation.
And just like that, the subject was
dropped. I’ve often wondered why eye color
matters so much in our commune. Like most
babies born in Nirvana, my natural eye color
is brown. Not hot chocolate brown or buttered
biscuit brown, but brown like the Crayola
crayon stuck in the original crayon box.
Fortunately in Nirvana, Virginia, artificial
trumps natural eye color because artificial eye
color determines who you marry and your
lifelong occupation. It even determines where
you’re buried, but I try not to think about that.
In our commune, children have green, orange
or purple eyes and adults have red, blue or
yellow eyes. Only Outsiders, people who live
in Nirvana but travel back and forth from the
Outside, retain their natural eye color.
However, there’s an exception to these rules;
commune members and/or Outsiders who
commit significant crimes are blinded.
Even though my current name and eye
color is Jade, both will change in six months,
when I turn seventeen years old. I’ll choose
my blue-eyed father’s life path of
winemaking, or my yellow-eyed mother’s life
path of teaching. There’s a third option, but
only the crazy, desperate people consider it.
My father makes a left turn on Samsara
Street. The mile long gravel path is aligned
with boxwood trees standing guard like green
ghosts. But of course, ghosts aren’t real. At
least that’s what we’re taught at the Academy.
Supposedly when someone dies their body
and spirit are buried together. And yet when
my Grandfather Navy passed away five years
ago, I sensed his spirit. I thought I was crazy
until Grandmother Ruby mentioned she had
actually seen his spirit. She said he looked the
same as the day he died except for a blue glow
which radiated from him. I only felt my
grandfather’s spirit once, but the experience
left me with a sense of hope. I wish I could
sense his presence now because all I feel is
5
Virginia Authors BOOK SAMPLER
“No sir,” my mother replies as I shake my
head. He nods.
Before we enter Samsara, we take turns
gazing into an iris scanner. I stand
approximately five inches from the camera
which takes a quick digital photo.
We walk single file up the narrow wooden
steps to the forth floor, Wing C, which is the
area that no one willingly treads. Wing A is
for intraocular operations, Wing B is the
hospital, Wing C is the hospice. The ground
floor includes the Center, where we have
weekly meetings, dining hall, library, parlor,
and living area for our commune leaders.
There’s an elevator but it's restricted to guards
and patients.
On Wing C, nurses shuffle quietly through
the hallway, each with various shades of red
eyes. Like a rainbow of reds.
“May I visit alone first?” I ask, a lump in
my throat rising.
“Of course, sweetheart,” my mother
squeezes my arm.
“Don’t upset her,” my father says. As if I
ever would.
I push the door gently and slip inside
Room 41. I hang my jacket on the coat rack,
tip- toe to the side of the twin bed, and gaze at
my grandmother.
Grandmother Ruby’s red-colored eyes are
like faded embers, in contrast to mine, which
are the shade of bright green gemstones.
“You brought your camera,” she says.
“Take a picture of us.”
I didn’t realize a camera was hanging from
my neck because I’m so used to its weight. I
feel almost naked without it. I’m sure my
mother feels the same way whenever there are
no flowers in her hair. My bulky jacket must
have hidden the camera from the guard. I’d be
punished severely if officials found out I had a
camera inside of Samsara. My father would
scold me, too. But since I have it, I might as
well take a final picture of my grandmother
numb.
At the end of the lane, my father parks the
truck in the lot behind Samsara. Before the
start of Nirvana, Samsara was the heart of a
5,500 acre tobacco plantation. The plantation
home was built in 1759, long before the start
of our commune which came to fruition in
1865.
With our shelter from the rest of the world
and limited technology, it may as well still be
the 18th century. Supposedly on the Outside,
people take phones with them everywhere. It’s
hard to imagine phones without cords. And
there are computers that spit out information
within seconds; and cures for diseases. But it
isn’t one-sided. The Outside is envious of our
advancements in ophthalmology. In fact they
trade oil for tidbits of information.
I feel hollow like the chocolate bunnies
my mother orders from the Outside. As if one
bite could cause me to crumble. As a result, I
thread my arm through hers as we approach
the back porch. We reach the first step as a
cold January rain descends.
“You just dodged the rain,” a guard
perched on a chair says. His eyes are a pale
blue.
My father nods. “Good evening sir.”
“Where are you headed?” The guard, who
is well over six feet tall, with bulging muscles
asks. In fact, all of the guards, male and
female, are all bulky like sacks of potatoes.
Perhaps they take an herb like bupleurum to
feed their muscles.
“Wing C,” my mother says.
“I’m sorry,” the guard says.
“Thank you, sir.” My father stretches his
arms like wings. The guard runs his hands
along my father’s arms, chest, back, and legs.
When he’s finished, he stands in front of my
mother and me.
“Celeste, the female guard, is on break. Do
you ladies have any prohibited items?” He
asks.
6
“Yes, but tell me the story again, please.”
No matter how many times she repeats this
particular story, I always enjoy hearing it. It
takes me back to a time when life was simple.
Back when my parents were happy, when
Grandfather Navy was alive, and when
Grandmother Ruby was healthy.
“Oh what a party it was. At least half the
commune was in your backyard. We grilled
hamburgers and hotdogs, but you’d only eat
the bun. We sang ‘Happy Birthday’ and
passed out chocolate cake. You scraped off all
the icing and threw away the cake. You get
those traits from your mother. Your father
always ate everything on his plate. Still does,
too.” She takes a wheezy breath. “Then you
tore into all of your gifts which were mostly
homemade clothing and wooden trinkets. You
pushed those aside, grabbed a stack of cups,
and handed them out to all the kids. You
collected
feathers,
rocks,
worms,
twigs…whatever you could find in the
backyard. When your party was over, all of
the other kids dutifully dumped out their cups
and went home. You, on the other hand, threw
a tantrum when your mother tried to take the
cup away from…” she stops to cough.
“Here, take a drink.” I offer her a cup of
water. Watching Grandmother sip from...
and me.
Half-heartedly, I hold the camera away
from our faces and snap a picture. When the
Polaroid pops out, I shake the picture until it
slowly comes to life. It’s out of habit that I
shake it; it’s not good for the photo.
“How do I look, Jade?” Her voice is so
low I lean in close to hear her.
“You look beautiful.”
“Don’t lie. Give it here.” A small smile
plays on her lips.
Reluctantly, I hand her the Polaroid
picture. She’s aged years in a few weeks.
Before she became sick, she would sit in front
of her vanity and brush her raven black hair at
least one hundred times. Then she would
meticulously paint her face.
“Where’s the red lipstick when I need it?”
She gazes at the picture for a moment, looking
so sad. “What will you label this one?”
I carry my camera to the coat hanger and
hide it beneath my coat. “Umm, how about
Sarcastic Broads?”
She laughs, which quickly turns into a
cough. She takes a sip of water. “That’s
perfect.” She places the photo on her meal tray
between an untouched tapioca pudding cup
and a bowl of chicken broth. “You’re so
talented. Promise me you’ll never give up on
photography.”
“I promise to give up breathing first,” I
reply which I immediately regret. It’s an
insensitive
comment
considering
my
grandmother is struggling to breathe. I redeem
myself by bringing up a topic that always
brings a smile to her face. “I still have the first
camera you and Grandfather gave me. It’s
gray and black with a rainbow stripe down the
middle.” In fact, I have a significant camera
collection with cameras of all shapes and
sizes.
“That old thing? Your grandfather gave it
to you on your fourth birthday! Do you
remember that party?”
Order on Amazon or kristyfgillespie.com to
continue reading this book.
Kristy lives in
Warrenton, Virginia
with her husband and
daughter. Gillespie is
a school librarian,
blogger, short story
and Young Adult
novel writer.
Kristy F. Gillespie
7
varieties. A few of the hybrids Agnes created
herself.
The four women and one man, whose
gardens preceded, shuffled daintily along the
walkways. Their heads swiveled left to right
like health inspectors in a restaurant kitchen.
They smiled and nodded as Agnes pointed out
the various specimens. All had the same thing
on their minds: this old lady has outdone us
again. It was the eighth annual neighborhood
garden tour in Lake Jackson, Virginia. And for
the fifth year in a row it was obvious who
would take home the prize.
"She couldn't have done all this herself,"
they'd whisper. And they were right. Her
husband, the tanned and spry sixty-five-yearold Albert Woodward, had done much of the
heavy work. But it was Agnes who spent
hours online and inside her test greenhouse to
create the incredible display.
Albert exited the back door with a tray of
cold beverages. All heads instantly shifted
toward him. This was the real reward, they
thought. Albert was one of those playboy
types, like a movie star who barely aged. His
jet-black hair had only minor streaks of gray
running through it, and it was all there. His
muscled chest pushed against the tight,
stretchy fabric of his blue pullover shirt, and
his immense thighs bulged under his tancolored shorts as if they'd tear through the
seams. His ocean-blue eyes and seductive
smile could make even the coldest person
swoon.
"Drinks?"
"Thank you!" the visitors said in unison as
their hands reached out and bumped into one
another.
"Thank you, darling." Albert lowered his
body and tilted his head so his wife could
plant a soft kiss on his cheek. "Everyone, you
know Albert?"
Five heads with beaming smiles
simultaneously nodded.
People Who Need To Die
By Victor Rook
Genre:
Satirical Horror Stories
Pages: 200
Amazon.com and
victorrook.com
"Terror Garden"
T
his year the theme was color, and
seventy-two-year-old Agnes Woodward
proved, once again, that she knew just the
right plants to cultivate at just the right time to
put on a good show. Tall purple irises lined
the walkway up to her front door, where large
pink peonies adorned both sides of the
entrance. Along the brick front, beds of yellow
daylilies mixed with blue salvia and snowwhite lily of the valley. Bushes of red hibiscus
mingled in the front yard with eye-popping
orange dahlias. And above, dish-plate-sized
white magnolia blooms unfurled against dark
green leaves like giant floating orbs.
Her backyard was equally impressive.
Pathways of perennials and annuals in all
colors curved around ornate stone sculptures
of mischievous cherubs and mythical gods. In
the center, a cascading waterfall supplied
frothy fresh water to a pool of giant orange,
white, and black-speckled coy. Even the shady
spots under the old oak tree in the far corner
bursted with color. Within the variegated
hostas were the brilliant purple, lime, maroon,
yellow, and pink leaves of various coleus
8
"I want to thank Albert for the tireless
work he put into the garden again this year."
"Oh baby, it's all your doing." Albert
draped his sinewy arm around his wife's
shoulder and pulled her close. Then he pecked
her cheek and quickly disappeared back into
the house. The visitors quietly sighed. It was
the last they'd see of him.
"You've done a marvelous job, Agnes."
"Yes," the others agreed.
"Where do you buy most of your plants?"
one asked. "Merrifield?"
"Oh no," Agnes responded. "They charge
way too much. I either create my own hybrids,
or purchase them on discount at Home
Depot."
"I see, that's very impressive."
"You're all welcome to some. I've potted
up a batch for each of you to take home."
It was customary at the end of the garden
tour for neighbors to engage in a plant
exchange. However, it was Agnes who always
went out of her way to pot up the most
promising specimens. Others simply tossed
their weakest plants into cracked pots with
worn-out soil. Plants that were probably meant
for the compost bin. But not Agnes. She
genuinely cared about the people around her,
and it showed in how she treated them. This
year she gave out vibrant coleus cuttings along
with pots brimming with a wonderful silver
grass.
"Put these two together and you'll have a
fabulous display."
After the tour, fifty-two-year-old Patricia
Livingston, who lived next door, reluctantly
handed Agnes the $100 gift certificate to
Terragotta, an online garden accessory store.
It was everyone's favorite place to shop for
unique items. And their prices were decent.
"Thank you so much. I'm going to put this
to good use. I can't wait to plan out for next
year."
Agnes mingled with her guests for the next
few minutes, all the while hearing her name
repeatedly whispered under envious breaths.
She knew why they really came—to see her
husband. They'd always ask how Albert was
doing when they caught her working alone in
the front yard. She also knew that some of
them had done some pretty bad things over the
years. Things that they thought she'd never
find out. But Agnes was well aware of what
went on around her. Secrets traveled
throughout the neighborhood like dandelion
seeds on a windy day. It was painful to realize
that those she did her best to befriend could be
so malicious.
But what hurt her most was how they
treated her after Albert died.
She had just finished preparing dinner—
Albert's favorite, oven-fried chicken—when
she heard a loud crash coming from the back
porch.
"Albert, is that you?" she said before
drying her hands with a kitchen towel and
opening the screen door. At the base of the
steps were large and small chips from clay
pots that led like a trail to where her husband
lay on his side. Agnes rushed to Albert just as
he rolled over and looked up at her with his
frightened blue eyes. His hands were clutching
his chest.
"Oh, dear Albert," she said while holding
onto his shoulder. "I need to get help." She
was about to go back inside for the phone
when Albert whispered for her to stay with
him.
"I want to thank you for making me the
happiest man," he said. "You always took care
of me, even when I went astray. You are a
very special woman. You're my apple
dumpling."
Agnes sat down at her husband's side and
caressed his thick black hair while he
peacefully passed away. It was as if he had
just fallen asleep, like the many times next to
9
her on the couch after watching a long movie
together. Or when they were younger and
stayed out late after sunset on the Maryland
beaches. Just like that. Within two hours the
ambulance came and took Albert away from
her, and Agnes sat at the dinner table alone. In
front of her was a spread of food prepared
with the same care she put into her garden—
oven-fried chicken breasts marinated in
buttermilk and cloves, homegrown roasted
potatoes, French-style green beans, freshly
baked dinner rolls, and for dessert, the
nickname that Albert gave to her after their
first date on May 4, 1971: apple dumplings.
The two had met in Baltimore, Maryland.
Agnes was working as a lab technician at a
biochemical company, and Albert had just
finished a four-year stint in the Navy. The
chemistry, Agnes would later joke because of
her job position, was there from the start. She
was 32, and Albert was 25.
Albert landed a job as a sales consultant
for the same company, and so they saw each
other often—except when he had to fly to
California, or Texas, or the Midwest for a
growers convention. His good looks and
charming personality quickly escalated him to
head of sales. The two bought a nice summer
home near the Eastern Shore, and it wasn't
unusual for them to spend their rare free time
walking the many beaches and boardwalks.
But when Ocean City expanded in the 1980s,
and summer tourists crowded the few
highways leading up to the waterfront, they
sold the home and moved to Annapolis,
Maryland. That's where Agnes honed her
interest in gardening.
She soon became a supporting member of
the Federated Garden Clubs of Maryland, and
over the years she achieved Master Gardener
status. In her spare time she also taught
horticulture classes at a few of the surrounding
universities. Albert took an interest in indoor
houseplants and outdoor container gardening
as well. It was a beautiful, symbiotic
relationship that blossomed more and more
each year. The thought of living without
Albert was unimaginable to Agnes.
Weeks went by after the funeral, and
although a few of the neighbors showed up at
the service, none of them reached out to
Agnes afterward to help her through her
immense grief. They looked at her like a weed
that surrounded a once-beautiful flower.
Something that needed to be plucked away as
soon as possible.
Her wonderful garden, which had been a
high-point
of
the
neighborhood—and
probably increased home values—fell into
disrepair. Flower heads, once vibrant with
color, drooped to the ground and turned a
crusty brown. Invasive weeds crept into the
flower beds and suffocated the ornate ground
covering, making the beds indistinguishable
from the rest of the yard. High winds brought
down small branches and twigs, which rotted
into the soil and attracted hordes of insects
and nesting rodents. Dead coy rose to the
surface of the back pond and wafted a fishy
stench throughout the neighborhood. A few of
the sculptures tumbled off their stone mounts
and smashed into oddly shaped pieces.
David's penis rested on the edge of the pond,
while his head, which now stared ominously
at the back of the house, rolled in the opposite
direction.
Agnes herself stayed inside most of the
time. If it weren't for someone occasionally
spotting her out for her mail, they might have
thought she had died as well. One neighbor
shouted from across the street one morning
that her yard was an eyesore to the
community. Agnes sent a focused stare over to
the woman, Heidi Cockstead, then turned and
slowly made her way back inside. After that
she waited until the cover of night to retrieve
her letters.
Six long years went by. The neighbors
10
waited, like cold-hearted hyenas on the watch,
to rid themselves of that old woman for good.
Realtors, professional house-flippers, and
independent home-renovation businesses
stuck pamphlets in her door. At one time the
county considered fining Agnes for unkempt
and potentially hazardous premises.
But then a young man mysteriously
showed up in the late spring of 2021, and the
neighbors couldn't take their eyes off him.
own properties. Anything to get closer to that
wonderful body. But before they could
summon the courage to approach the God of
Dairy Goodness, the job had been completed
and he disappeared.
Fencing now surrounded the entire
perimeter of Agnes' property. All that was
visible was a portion of the second floor of her
house. Occasionally, a figure could be seen
moving past an upstairs window. Perhaps
Agnes had slipped away in the night, or some
close relative moved her to a nursing home.
And then new owners had moved in and
would be renovating the place. Maybe, Emily
hoped and occasionally orgasmed over, the
new owner was the muscle boy! Whatever the
circumstances, the neighbors were grateful not
to have to look at that hideous yard anymore.
And then the unusual trucks arrived.
Cyan Botanicals was the name on the
magnetic sign attached to the white van that
arrived three days later. A curved green leaf
accentuated the logo. A box truck with
Mystery Aquatics painted on the side came
soon after. Two men unloaded heavy, round
containers. Next came Gracious Herbaceous,
followed by Carnivore Creations. Then there
were the mulch trucks, which made perfect
sense, arriving at the back gate and...
He wore tight black shorts that cupped his
firm ass and continued to mid-thigh, where a
white band bordered the taut material and his
lightly tanned skin. His shirtless torso revealed
a large chest, rolling abs, and arms thick as
boas. His short hair was dark and wavy, and
his face looked military: firm jaw, inset eyes,
and a sly smile. He looked like one of those
farm-boy wrestler types where hard work and
half a gallon of milk a day did a body good.
The sound of the hammer hitting nails
didn't bother the neighbors at all. It was their
cue to part the curtains, pull up a chair, and
watch God's finest creation at work. And it
began every day at nine o'clock sharp, and
ended roughly around four. The seven-foothigh wood fence started at the property line by
the street and gradually made its way around
Agnes' backyard. Every now and then the
muscled hunk would rest against the truck
tailgate, down a full bottle of water, and wipe
the sweat off his pecs with a T-shirt he never
wore. Then he'd lift another pallet-size fence
section overhead and carry it to where he left
off. His calves flexed and bulged as he
walked, and Rich Logan from across the way
dreamt about sniffing the black sneakers he
wore on his bare feet.
The fence erection continued for several
weeks, three weeks and two days to be exact,
Emily Pearson counted. She and the others
wondered who this young man was, and if
they could conjure up work for him on their
Order on Amazon or victorrook.com to
Victor lives in
Manassas, Virginia.
This is one of four
books he's published
since 2007. It has
appeared in the
Washington Post and
received praise from
TV critic Tom Shales.
Victor Rook
11
during the procedure he was losing some of it.
He had a name, of course, but they
addressed him in shorthand as Berta, drawing
from the phonetic term in his language for the
letter B. He wore his uniform because they
wanted him to but also because he wanted to.
After all, this was not a crime he was
embarked upon but a lawful act of war. He
carried a small der Beutel sack containing
toilet articles and ammunition in one hand. In
the other he grasped the rifle fitted with its
telescopic sight. They’d lowered the device
over his head and then brought it down to
enclose his entire body. The noise and the
peculiar smell surged around him and he was
transported instantaneously — belldropped,
was their term for it — into 1908, to this
narrow, boot-shaped, rock-strewn island with
patches of dense woods in New Brunswick off
the northeast coast of Canada. When he
landed, a yellow flash lit up the wooded area
for just a second or so at the treeline near the
rocky coast. The smell of sulfur tore at his
nostrils. They’d told him to expect noise, the
flash, the odor. They had not known that he
would experience a powerful inner fear.
You can do this, he told himself. They
chose you because you can do this.
He blinked. He was not physically ill.
They’d briefed him to expect no ill effects
from the journey and they’d been right about
that part.
He was at the treeline on the edge of a
pleasant little clump of woods looking down
on a summer cottage and on the marina
beyond. He would be able to see the occupant
of the cottage from here, he decided.
He’d practiced his next few steps a
hundred times. He hunkered down. High
above the woodline, the sun was a brilliant orb
in a clear sky with a slight breeze, exactly as
he’d been told it would be.
This looks like the perfect spot to set up
and shoot, he thought, marveling at his good
Hitler's Time Machine
By Robert F. Dorr
Genre:
Alternative History
Pages: 300
Amazon.com and
robertfdorr.com
Chapter 1
Campobello, Fundy Islands, New Brunswick,
Friday, August 14, 1908:
The dread lived inside him.
The summer day on this rocky island was
alive with insects, the sound of rustling leaves
and an uncharacteristic breeze that tasted cool
and wet. Had his focus not been impaired by
his irrational fear, he might have been quicker
to perceive what nature was doing around
him. But the living thing inside him, the dread
that almost defied any definition, was what
consumed him.
He was doing something that, in all of
human history, had been done just once
before. They’d selected him because he was
fearless, in the way that only the very young
and very strong can be fearless. He was young
and blond in an appealing way and he was
being eaten up on the inside.
The dread lived and festered, a peculiar
evil that fed upon itself, caused not by any
readily recognized danger but by the
unknown. He’d made a wager with himself
that he would remain calm but at every second
12
fortune. He checked the bolt-action and took
mock aim, squinting into the telescopic sight
at the broad open window on the side of the
summer cottage. Slowly, he eased himself to
the ground and wriggled into a prone shooting
position. He could not kill but he could
permanently disable, they'd told him.
Everything was going perfectly and his
movements were calm and deft, yet inside was
this evil thing that clawed at him and...
Clouds loomed. A freak afternoon
thunderstorm broke. They had thought about
the possibility of fog, so common on this
island, but they’d told him there was no
possibility of rain. You need sixteen minutes
of perfect sunlight, they’d told him over and
over. This was not supposed to happen. It
never rained here in the afternoon in August.
Now, a tremor shook him. The traveler
known as Berta, hunched over his rifle and felt
the dread overcome him. He was no longer in
control of the situation.
The first drops moistened his hair and
face.
“No!”
They’d said this could not happen.
“Kammler,” he said aloud.
His target would not be the one to be taken
down today, he realized. He would be. “This
is not fair,” he said to himself. “I did
everything exactly right.” He was going to die
now, he told himself, because Kammler’s
people had gotten the weather wrong.
because of his certainty that the lawman
disliked him. He was impatient to be finished.
The renter was an energetic and athletic
man. He loved sailing. He loved the outdoors.
But he also spent long hours inside the cottage
working on his stamp collection. During this
calm era in their lives — the calm before the
storm, the man would later call it — they
would spend every summer on this island and
his wife would give birth six times in six
years.
The man reeked of pedigree, of status, of
money. He was popular in many places but
some on this island resented his wealth and
stature. One who especially disliked the man
was the detective, who drew a modest salary
and could not afford to live on the island he
policed. These Ivy League, elitist Americans
squat on our land and throw money around
and think they own the place, thought the
detective. After several minutes discussing the
odd incident of the previous day, the detective
continued his account, resentful of the man
and struggling to remain businesslike.
“We have the remains of a man that have
somehow turned into a foul-smelling, wet,
thick pile of gray powder. The coroner says a
human body can’t deteriorate that way. It’s
impossible, the coroner said. But it happened.”
“I’ve never heard of such a thing,” said the
man. He was just twenty-six years old and in
addition to his unruffled calm he had a
presence that went beyond his money or his
status. It was said of him that he filled a room.
This was his personality, not his birthright.
“This was an intruder, right? This was
someone who meant to do us harm?”
“We know a man was there. He appeared
to come out of nowhere. His clothing and gear
are undamaged.”
“What could this possibly be about,
officer?”
“It’s ‘detective,’ sir, thank you very
much.” He accentuated the Canadian lilt on
Twenty-four hours later, a conversation was
ending inside the cottage Berta had been
preparing to shoot at. The lanky patrician
figure who’d rented the cottage for the
summer dominated the parlor of the house
where he was finishing a conversation with a
uniformed police detective. He hadn’t invited
the detective farther into the house and hadn’t
offered him a chance to sit down. The renter
was uncomfortable in the detective’s presence
13
the verb, to remind the tall man that this was
his turf and the man was a summer interloper.
“Detective.”
“Well, we don’t know what to think. He
had a very modern-looking rifle with a
telescopic sight. There have been telescopic
sights since before your Civil War but this one
has an especially modern look to it. And, he
had a kind of costume, or maybe a uniform,
and they’re both intact. The rifle has the word
‘Mauser’ engraved on its stock. That’s the
name of an arms manufacturer in Germany.
The costume has a pair of stylized lightning
bolts on the collar.” Perhaps as if to emphasize
that he was an equal to this uppity summer
American tourist, the detective added his little
joke: “And it’s nowhere near Halloween.”
Servants and babies were in the cottage
but the man’s wife was alone when she
brought a platter of tea and cakes to the parlor
where the detective was standing to leave. “I
don’t know if we’ll have time for that,
Eleanor,” the man said. “Stylized lighting
bolts? What could they represent? It doesn’t
mean anything to me, detective.”
“Well, sir, we are going to want to take
statements but not immediately. There is
something else we don’t get. Who do you
know that would like to harm you, sir?”
The detective watched the man rub his
face. For the first time, and wondering how
he’d missed it earlier, the detective noted the
Masonic ring on the man’s finger. For the first
time, the detective wondered if the two of
them might have something in common.
Perhaps this wealthy aristocratic American is
not so different from an everyday Canadian
detective after all, he thought.
“Sir?” the detective pressed.
“I don’t think a statement from me will
help much,” the man said. “None of this is
ringing a bell.”
It would be many years before the irony of
that utterance would register on the summer
visitor. The detective nodded as if to
recognize that the man expected him to leave
soon “And enemies, sir? Do you have
enemies?”
“I can’t think of who that might be. Harm
me? Who would want to harm me? And what
is the ‘something else’?”
“The rifle has a number engraved in the
metal on its stock,” the detective told Franklin
D. Roosevelt. “The number is 1-9-4-2. We
don’t know what it means.”
Chapter 2
Kent’s Doughnut Den, Boston, Massachusetts,
Friday, November 11, 1938:
A loud, fast rain poured almost horizontally
across the drenched, windswept streets of
Boston. She sat alone at a table by the
window, a cup of java steaming beside the
long yellow pad on which she drew something
that looked like a bell and inscribed neat,
careful mathematical equations beneath it.
“I see you’re busy but may I join you
anyway?”
She looked up. Rivulets of rainwater
seeped down the surface of the yellow slicker
he wore over his suit and tie. He was short,
florid and serious. His demeanor was both
friendly and ominous.
“I’m just taking my break here, sir. I’m
not a customer. I’m the night waitress. Mr.
and Mrs. Kent have been kind enough to let
me work here in the evening. I rent a room
from them, you see, and I’m in school.”
“Oh, I know, Miss Stafford. I have
something for you actually. It’s just a little
token.”
“You know who I—” Barbara Stafford
halted in mid-breath. She recognized him
now. This small, round, seemingly
kindhearted but intense figure was Harold
Hathaway, a tenured senior professor in the
14
physics department at the institute just down
the avenue. Sorority girls called him Hard-On
Hathaway because of his reputation of lusting
after female graduate students, almost always
to his inevitable success.
He came from Eastern Money, she
remembered. A real contrast to her, a smalltown girl working her way through college in
the middle of the worst economic depression
in history. Before finishing her break, she’d
been planning to finish her notes on her
radical — some claimed, crazy — doctoral
thesis on all-destroying phase transition,
specifically her position regarding Rule
Number One, and then to allow herself a
cigarette to celebrate a special occasion.
“I don’t feel I know you yet, Miss
Stafford, but I’m sure we can rectify that.”
“You don’t understand, Dr. Hathaway. I
work here. The Kents aren’t here this evening
and they’ve left me in charge” — Kitty, the
other waitress, had disappeared into the back
room and there were no other customers —
“and I’m studying for an exam on Monday,
right after this three-day holiday.”
His chair screeched on the floor as he slid
up side-by-side and leaned against her. He
smelled of moisture, mold and Lenthéric
Three Musketeers, which was the best-selling
men’s after-shave lotion that year. His hand
was on her skirt now. “I wanted to give you a
book as a gift,” he said. “It’s out in the car. I
even had it giftwrapped for you.”
“Professor, the other waitress is going to
be out here any minute.”
“I’m going to spoil my surprise.” He was
up close, grinning, so certain that he was in
control of this situation. “It’s the Viking first
edition of a famous work by H. G. Wells. I got
it just for you.”
As far as she could remember, they had
had a conversation only twice before, once in
a seminar and once in the hallway. “I’m
flattered,” she said. “I didn’t think anyone at
the school appreciated the direction my
research is taking.”
“Oh, I do. I do. I think sooner or later the
army will, too.”
“It’s only theoretical,” she said. “If we
could make the device work, I would hope it
would have many peaceful uses and never
become a weapon.”
“Peaceful uses? Of course. Yes. Peaceful
uses. Anyway, I am a fan of your work.”
“That is kind of you, sir.” She hoped the
“sir” would make a point about the age
difference between them. “But, professor, I
really must get back to work.”
“Finish your work and then join me, Miss
Stafford. Would you consider spending the
weekend with me in my pied-à-terre behind
the faculty center? You won’t be disappointed,
I can promise you that.”
Won’t be interrupted by your wife there,
either, she thought.
His right hand was on her right thigh, his
left hand going around her left shoulder. She
heard the rain outside and felt his breath. In
addition to a reputation as a lecher, he was
known, they said in the sororities, for
phenomenal staying power. At least that was
what Barbara had heard from members
although she was not a sorority member...
Order on Amazon or robertfdorr.com to
Robert lives in
Oakton, Virginia. An
author, Air Force
veteran, and retired
diplomat, he writes
on military topics.
His books and articles
span 60 years. This is
his first novel.
Robert F. Dorr
15
explore, but that wasn’t what this trip was
about. There was no way to feel good about
this.
Eddie decided to go at it like he would any
other job. Survey the landscape, develop a
plan and grind through it with as little pain as
possible.
Tomorrow would be the hardest part, but
all he had to do was survive. He was not in
charge. He was not managing this project.
Somebody else had to get the backhoe and dig
the hole next to Dad, and there would be
people to lower the box. He just had to get
through it. Nothing had to be said, nothing had
to be done. He loved his mom, and she knew
that. And he knew she loved him.
More than that, she got him. She
understood why he was the way that he was.
They had an understanding. They were family.
All they had left was each other, and they
knew that, and cherished that, and they would
always be… well. Now it was just Eddie.
For the past couple of decades his life had
been tethered to his mother. He’d traveled all
over the country for work, and the only
connection he kept was to her. This place, her
home - his childhood home - was the only
constant in his life.
He made it back less and less, and this
year he’d missed Christmas. She’d wanted
him home for Christmas. He had missed some
in the past, but it never felt right. There was
always work, and another new building to get
out of the ground. He had to be there to get it
done. Now, this had to be done.
“Sorry, Dad,” he whispered as he crested a
hill and could see the graveyard from the
interstate. “I should have been there.” He
clicked the turn signal and…
“Aw shit.”
EXIT CLOSED FOR REPAIRS. The sign
practically slapped him in the face.
Yeah, he should have taken the new exit,
but he did not have all the facts. He hated
Old Roads and New Exits
By Tom Basham
Genre:
Fiction
Pages: 336
Amazon.com and
tombasham.com
Chapter 1
NEW TRAFFIC PATTERN AHEAD – USE
CAUTION
E
ddie Evans smirked at the sign greeting
him. He had heard about Manassas
getting the new exit for years. How it was
needed and what a difference it would make.
They said it would help everybody. That’s
what the people with land near the new exit
claimed.
He stared down the new off-ramp as he
drove past, while the exit sign seemed to glare
back. This exit was the new kid in town. Eddie
knew they would have to get along, and
maybe once they got to know each other, but
not tonight.
It was a small victory, but those were the
only kind Eddie had left. He was going home
for the first time in two years, and he was
going to do it the same way he always did.
The way he used to for the past 30 years. Part
of him thought he might get lost taking the
new exit, with its bright and shiny retail
carnival beckoning him off the interstate. He
was curious, and there would be time to
16
being wrong and watching his plan fall apart.
Driving a rig like his, he found it best to stay
on familiar ground. Seven miles to the next
exit and he would just take Route 29 and come
back into town that way. Route 29 would be
fine. They couldn’t get rid of that, and they
couldn’t stop him from getting to his
destination. There was still a sliver of white
alongside the gas gauge needle. He got about
8 miles a gallon, so he would probably make
it. He squinted at the gauge. Where was that
white slice of safety? He chuckled at the
thought of running out of gas.
His rig, a 1974 Winnebago, would stick
out in this town like a turd in a punch bowl.
That brought a grin, thinking back to prom
night. Billy didn’t do it, but they thought he
did. Eddie dragged him in the wrestling room
after he passed out where they found him the
next morning. What a night…and – hold it
right there. See her, Mary. See her dress, the
face, the smile. Hold it, keep it, own it. That
was all he had left of her.
A flashing yellow light met him at the
bottom of the exit ramp, and two left turns got
him on Route 29 heading back north. He kept
the speed up going around the tight curve, and
he heard the familiar sound of something
skidding across the floor in the back. The
carburetor coughed, but he chose not to look
at the fuel gauge. The new exit would have
had gas, even at 2 a.m. Exits like those lived
to serve travelers of the night.
He could make it. Just needed to get to the
top of the next hill, and he could coast into the
7-11 where he used to sneak beer with his
buddies. They were all open 24 hours, right?
Still running strong, he popped over the hill
and slipped it into neutral to be safe. He
coasted toward the lighted canopy. Sure
enough, they were open, and the old boxy RV
rocked into the entrance and up to the gas
island.
“Damn it.”
The gas pumps were gone. He climbed out
and limped up to the door. His back let him
know that last five-hour stretch had been too
much.
“Convenience Mart.” The sign caught his
eye as he walked by. He checked his bearings;
the old church was across the street, and yep,
this was where the 7-11 was supposed to be.
Once inside he made a beeline to the cold
case. It was locked.
“Welcome to Virginia. I am home,” he
said. Some things had not changed, like
buying beer after midnight. Didn’t they fight a
war about this? Why couldn’t the Battle of
Manassas have included selling beer after
midnight? He grabbed a loaf of bread, a dozen
eggs and a package of ham.
“Will there be anything else, sir?” The
clerk did not bother to look up from his phone.
The staccato rhythm of his voice betrayed his
East India origin as much as the name on his
shirt.
“I guess not, uhm.” Eddie stared at the
name tag.
“Jimi, my name is Jimi.”
“Well, Jimi, I really need some gas, but
that does not seem possible.”
“The 7-11 at the new exit has gas.”
“I don’t think I am going to make another
mile, and I have about three to go. When did
the 7-11 move?”
“That was two years ago, and my brother
and I took over this store.”
Eddie pulled out his wallet and laid down
a 20 for the groceries. Jimi eyed the wad of
cash.
“If you have another 20, I might have
some gas in a can that we use for the
lawnmower.” Eddie gave up another 20.
“I’d go again for a six pack.”
Jimi shook his head and seemed to hate it
when he said, “I can’t do that, I am sorry. We
had an ABC violation once and they took our
license for three months.”
17
Eddie was pleased when he saw the 5gallon can, until Jimi handed it to him.
“I am sorry, sir. I thought it was full.”
Eddie weighed the can with his forearm and
figured it had maybe a gallon and a half.
“This will do me.”
“Just leave the can by the back door,” he
said and went back into the store.
Eddie poured in the gas. He was happy to
have it, even if it was over $10 a gallon. At his
age, a three-mile walk could cost him much
more than that. Between his back and his
heart, one of them would probably give out.
The gauge on both of them was pretty low too.
Still, he was pleased to get the gas, and he
would have been more pleased with a sixer,
but one tank at a time.
Eddie pulled back on the highway but kept
it nice and slow. There was no telling what
other changes may have been made, and he
was not going to miss another turn. Arriving
in the middle of the night would not attract
attention. His camper was something people
tended to gawk at. At least when it was
moving, he knew someone would not think it
had been abandoned and tow it away. The
dents, dings and scrapes over the years had
gotten infected and were now rusting wounds.
He kept it registered in Kentucky where they
did not require safety or emissions
inspections.
Underneath,
she
was
mechanically sound for the most part, but on
the outside she looked ready for the junkyard.
He pulled up in front of the house and
stopped. He thought he would feel something,
but he was just tired.
He usually parked on the street when he
came home to avoid clogging the driveway.
Had to make sure Mom could still get out, and
she always said she did not want that beast in
her driveway. This time it was not up to her,
so it would be the driveway.
Backing in was his move. Made it easy to
leave and people driving by would not stop to
read all the bumper stickers. He swung out in
the street, cut the wheel and looked in the
cracked mirror on the passenger side. Plenty
of room and back he went. As the front nose
cleared the street, the rig seemed to bog down.
“Transmission fluid,” he thought. When it
was low and in reverse, it slipped. He punched
it and the big rusty box glided back into
position.
That’s when it hit him. He was home. He
looked over at the dark empty house. It was
just a building, like a church when the people
are gone. Ranch style, one floor, with a small
covered porch perfect for a rocking chair.
Eddie’s father never made it that far, and his
mother would not sit out there alone. The yard
needed work, but the house looked good, like
it had been somebody’s home.
She should be right there, coming down
the lead walk. House coat flapping, arms
waving. He never heard the first few
sentences. He just let them sail right over the
bow. Didn’t matter what she said, at least not
to him, but she had to get it said. Her default
rants were always set back a few decades. He
would have loved to hear one of her go-to
routines again: “Why do you drive so late at
night?” or “Your dinner has been ready for
hours.” She always saw him as a 10-year-old
boy with skinned knees, dirt on his face and a
flat tire on his bike.
After he’d been home a few days, she
would get around to treating him like a man,
though by then she saw him as his father.
Eddie had stopped fighting that. It didn’t
matter what it meant to him, because that is
what she saw. And all she saw were the good
things. The strength, the determination, and
way the hair on the back of his neck curled up.
“I’m home, Mom,” he said, closing the
camper curtains with a gentle touch. There
was nobody left to sew them back together.
He touched the seam she had mended and
hoped the bond she had made would hold. He
18
brushed his teeth, looking into glassy eyes. He
clicked off the bathroom light and shuffled
back to the bed. He stepped slowly in the dark
and his toe nudged into something. He’d
known what it was when it careened across
the floor on the exit ramp. He picked it up and
put it in the sink.
“Goodnight, Buddy-ro.” The best traveling
companion a guy could ever have passed away
last fall, and Eddie could not get up the
courage to throw out the bowl. The old flopeared Beagle also took care of any food that
hit the floor, and he never complained about
Eddie’s singing. That bowl was all he had left
of him. Buddy used to have the run of the
place and rode shotgun all over the country.
Maybe it was the lack of alcohol, or the
proximity to home, but it all seeped into
Eddie’s dreams that first night. He used to
dream of his father all the time. Simple things,
like working on a car, fixing a fence or just
fishing. There were also elaborate dreams of
current times, with his father being there. His
Father was not really involved in the action,
but he was there, with Eddie like that’s where
he was supposed to be.
Eddie had the sense, in his dream, to
acknowledge the oddity of his father being
there. Dreams like this used to bother him –
affected him for days – but he had decided
they were a good thing. There was never a
confrontation, or issue to be resolved – Dad
was just there. Eddie knew it was all in his
head and nothing ethereal or fourth plane was
happening. His old man was in his head, his
dreams – in him. There was no denying that,
and once he became comfortable with this
fact, his father stopped showing up in his
dreams.
On this night, he dreamed of his mother,
over and over again. Simple things like her
taking him to the doctor and buying him a
milkshake at the Woolworth’s counter
afterwards. The look on her face when the
French toast hit the plate, though he always
called it “eggie bread.” The brown paper
school lunch bag when she handed it to him,
folded down twice at the top.
A dozen or more different dreams with
different things, and in each one, he was left
with the look on her face. The love, the trust,
the hands that were always there. He saw her
face, over and over again until he woke up.
“Okay, dreaming. I know, Mom, I know,”
he would say and roll over and go back to
sleep. Thirty minutes later it was the same
thing. The whole night was restless like that.
Chapter 2
B
y the time the sun came in through the
shredded curtains, Eddie had the kind of
headache reserved for double-digit beer
nights. When his feet hit the cold camper tile,
he let her have it.
“Alright, Mom, I am up. I’m gonna make
the bus. I’m gonna get to work on time today.
I’m here Mom, I am here.”
He looked at his scruffy beard in the
mirror and considered shaving it.
“What do you think, Mom, looks good
huh?”
He got the coffee going, two slices of...
Order on Amazon or tombasham.com to
Tom lives with his
wife in Nokesville,
Virginia. He is an
Engineer, Land
Surveyor and
Filmmaker who
writes in virtually all
forms of the written
word.
Tom Basham
19
I dream you, think you, breathe you
Making love as I move through the day
And you would cry if I could show you
But my words know no other way
Love Like Fall
By Antonia Kilday
Genre:
Poetry
I smile despite reality
I run despite fatigue
And your love has bred insanity
Dear God, I’m out of my league
Pages: 66
Ripping at the Seams
Amazon.com and
bleedingpoetry.com
I saw someone else’s life flash past
Felt my shoulders weaken
We rushed along- went way too fast
A rift that we have deepened
Out of My League
I won’t feel you warm right next to me
Who would ask about my day?
Consumed by what I said-so selfishly
I would stand by and let you walk away
Let me tell you this story
Before time whisks it away
And let me tell you that I’m sorry
If my emotions get in the way
I felt it loom while I dreamed last night
A sinking, fearsome dread
Are you okay? Is it alright?
You weren’t there, though we lied in bed
We were adrift out in obscurity
We had no rhythm, no pace
And with a sudden blast came harmony
So clearly I could see your face
I wanted to run and turn every stone
In search of what I already knew
Useless questions-a conversation on the phone
I didn’t know it was killing you
Your mouth is like a brand new flavor
Your heat like being born
And now my life is a blazing fervor
My heart no longer worn
I want to feel like this forever
An orgasmic, passionate storm
And I don’t mind the weather
I don’t care for grace or form
We tore down walls and trod new road
And losing reality we ripped our souls out
Demanding recompense-what I thought you
owed
You were drowning then in all your doubt
As if the world had slipped from sight
Your voice is the only sound
And I can’t tell day from night
When you’re my all around
And I just want to be here
With you beside me-with you inside me
In your living and your dying years
Our dreams, our screams, our family
20
But then who am I fooling?
I wanna be the stars
On a night sky I can roam upon
So you'll never see me in the same place every
time
Die off so you don't remember me
And I can be tranquil or torn apart knowing
you forgot me
Losing an essence of my power every time I
shed a tear in
memory of you
I wanna be the universe
So that although in distance so great,
I can still hold you in my arms
One way or another
Shield you, love you, hate you, want you
Telling myself that I always made the right
decision
In sending you away so harshly, so inhumanly
I wanna be you
To instill this burning passion that's
consuming me
To show you the darkness of the morning
The light of the darkness
And the something when all you feel is void
But I'm nothing
Empty in emptiness
Love songs gradually dying in my ears
Love poems losing meaning in my mind
Because you lied but you didn't
Because I'll never know
But I'll still love you
Always
What Can I Say
You should have told me it would be like this
While I’m the only one bordering insanity
You should have told me you would change
like this
Instead I just sit, waiting patiently
You should have said I’d cry so long
Before you’d let me in some more
You should have said that I was wrong
To make you my reason, my force, my core
You should have held back that time
When you let me taste the possibility
You should have paused to say that I’m
A glutton for rejection, for cruelty
You should have looked the other way
Before our eyes could meet
You should have asked me not to say
Those words that made my dying heart beat
You shouldn’t have been so wonderful
You should have been a bore
You should have kept that kiss – so magical
You should have held me, touched me, loved
me more
I Wanna Be the Moon
I wanna be the moon
Why not just a piece of it?
So I'll never feel inferior
So I'm just a light
Not a feeling heart
A lonely, dying heart
I wanna be the sun
Why not just a ray of it?
So I can turn away when you walk by
Or at least darken your complexion
So you're less recognizable
21
Spent and wearied, my skin still sweats
My body spilling, my back regrets
Your plunge, your surge, the wilder it gets
The smell of sex, of sweat, and cigarettes
My Sunshine
You paralyzed my chest that day
When I dreamt and walked in sunshine
Scratching my face, my hands, my toes away
When I breathed and lived in sunshine
Ice Cream Eyes
You took my heart and set it out to die
You stopped the world to tell a lie
Emboldened thief, you stole my sunshine
There goes my life again
Slipping like rain down the gutters in the curb
And your love fills me
You brought me death, to taste, to savor
When I laughed and hoped in sunshine
You spat my kiss for novel flavor
When I prayed and loved in sunshine
That smell on my fingertips
God, even weeks after having eaten breaded
shrimp
All I need now is your ice cream eyes
Cold before we meet in a smelly doorway
Like liquid butter in my palms when we do
And this is satisfying
The way a minute with you is
Even when twelve hours could have been the
switch of a
light
Piano in the background of me trying to sound
like someone
I'm not
In the attempt to be someone better
You took my love in its boundless charity
You mocked my gift, my joy, my rarity
Beloved thief, you are my sunshine
Sex, Sweat, and Cigarettes
I feel it deeper than you
I feel it creeping through
I run, take cover, too
And yet the fire burns anew
Take my hand now, take it quick
Broken windows, from a single brick
That kiss, you know it does the trick
To make me wallow, make me slick
Swirling, sliding every which way down
through sewage
I will be filtered
From the ants of tragedy I've never known
To rid my experience of things that never
happened
To prove to myself that I know your ice cream
eyes
Is it the shrimp or the pepper in the
breadcrumbs
You threw it first, you threw it last
No care, no matter, it’s in the past
Come walking to me, love, full mast
And blow my mind, my thighs cast
Pour it down and form a river
I’ll drink your love in savage rapture
And open wide, a cat burglar
I scream your name, my lover
I scream of fears I can't put into words
I writhe in pleasure I can only imagine
Living in a distracted realm of romantic
comedies and
22
Harlequin historicals
Reveries
I held you once a time ago
In a quiet summer reverie
I kissed your heart to let you know
You were everything I dreamed you'd be
If only to justify the cleanness of my existence
And that I'm shoveling dirt, tons of dirt
To show you that I know your ice cream eyes
To relentlessly make you see
To keep you blind
You really don't need to know
Why everything of and around me is a tornado
of water
Gathering power even from a puddle
Only to evaporate when your eyes don't melt
And in the twilight of an autumn day
We held each other warm and tight
Feeling things we could not say
A quiet love 'til morning's light
I swore I'd be alone forever
Embracing feelings that were untrue
And then we spent a day together
And all I saw and heard was you
Wanna taste your ice cream eyes
God, what flavor?
Chocolate, tomato, breaded shrimp
Amazing how I never imagined the day
Our lips would take their first kiss
And you could take my breath away
I never knew it could be as sweet as this
No Memory Decays
And now I sit in idle
And no one hears my screams
And away that dream of bridal
And non-existent now it seems
So good it feels just knowing you're there
However faraway
So good to imagine that no matter how or
where
I know, at least, your heart is here to stay
For beneath my nose has passed the dust
And through my eyes the sunshine rays
For all you did was so unjust
And despite; no memory of you decays
Order on Amazon or bleedingpoetry.com to
Your body still occupies that space
That through time is still my torture
You're before me still- your beautiful face
Floating in my mind- though I have no picture
Antonia lives in
Northern Virginia
with her family and
25 pets. She is a
cybersecurity
professional, artisan,
and poet for the last
19 years and
counting.
And now I live in folly
And I can't forget your skin
And our love has gone wholly
And I'm dreaming of what could have been
Antonia Kilday
23
wagon, fairly ubiquitous in this part of the
world. I was headed, mostly in second gear, to
an old shack where a crazy woman lived—the
end to my current quest.
I’d heard about a particular bit of
strangeness going on in the mountains when I
was in Burlington. My mission there had
turned nasty—two team members were still
recovering from burns. We’d been chasing a
witch, Cheryl, for weeks and finally caught
her while she was too busy sacrificing a fawn
to pay attention. Her guards, a pair of
magicked cats, were silently dispatched and
unable to warn her. The first she knew of our
presence was when flashbang grenades sailed
into the barn where she was performing her
haruspicy. Cheryl had kept the poor creature
alive while she gutted it and pulled out its
entrails in an attempt to find out what her
future held. When she was down and bound,
she was interrogated, and ratted out one of her
former coven mates. They had parted ways
just before we arrived. When it was done, the
team disbanded, and I went on the hunt.
It was no one thing Cheryl had said, but
the tone, and a few subtle clues, that made me
think I’d finally located the bitch who’d
destroyed my life. She gave me the general
area and a poor physical description, but that
was about it. I needed more information, a
precise location, and some proof. Years ago, I
could’ve gone to the town paper and dug up
dirt on the locals and anyone or anything
peculiar. These days, serious journalists didn’t
report on aberrant behavior unless there were
bodies involved, or children. The internet was
a great research tool, if you had a specific
query or a week to cull all the extraneous
information. There were also limits with an
internet search—not everything was online.
There were lots of important historical records
rotting away in basements and warehouses all
over the country. Unable to quickly find what
I needed, I’d gone to the oldest source of
Junior Inquisitor (Inquisitor Book 1)
By Lincoln S. Farish
Genre:
Sci-Fi/Fantasy
Pages: 248
Amazon.com and
smashwords.com
Chapter 1
R
evenge was simple. Pure. You had
purpose and clarity. Phone calls…they
complicated life. Had I known what was going
to happen, I’d never have answered the damn
thing.
I was driving up a ridge in the Green
Mountains of Vermont. Now that the morning
mist had finally burned away, the mountains
towered over me. Leafy green rose up to meet
wispy clouds and an eye-scorching blue sky.
The early morning chill was gone, and I’d
rolled down the windows. For a moment, just
a second, I forgot and got ready to stop and
admire the view, maybe take a picture for—
The familiar ache gnawed at my stomach.
Sarah. Would I ever get used to not being able
to share things with her?
My car chugged up a twisted, poorlymaintained dirt and gravel forestry road the
width of a fat donkey. Quickly built back in
the 1930s as a make-work program, it had
long since been abandoned and mostly led to
make-out spots for local teenagers. Still, the
twists and turns were no problem for my
“undercover” car, a mud-brown Volvo station
24
information known to man: the local bar.
Like all natives speaking to a stranger,
they were hesitant at first. They didn’t know
me, didn’t know what I really wanted. I
might’ve been a developer ready to buy up
land and invite hordes of New Yorkers to
despoil their tranquil village. Worse, I
could’ve been a criminal, preparing to steal
the town’s prize-winning cheddar wheel—
which actually happened in 1964.
Getting the information took guile,
cunning, and a hundred dollar bar tab. I told
them I was hunting down ghost stories and
haunted locations for a college class. My
cover wasn’t questioned after the free beer
started flowing.
Several pitchers later, I’d learned that the
crazy woman had come into town on foot
about nine months ago. She’d bought a gallon
of iced tea in the local store, drank it in about
three gulps, and walked out of town, glaring at
anyone who even dared look her way. The
natives’ instinct for self-preservation had
kicked in, and she was left alone.
The next thing anyone knew, she’d moved
into a formerly abandoned cabin up in forestry
land. She was trespassing, but no one
complained, so the sheriff let her be. About a
month later, hunters and hikers started to
report weird stuff around her cabin. The
deputy who went up to look found nothing,
and most everyone ignored it, figuring the
hunters had too much beer while waiting for
deer. Still, the stories kept coming. The cabin
was near an old cemetery where a large family
that had died out in the 1850s was buried,
which only added to the aura of spookiness.
Of course, with the beer flowing and the
tendency of locals to tell tourists tall tales, I
gathered up several unnecessary stories—
about hunting and fishing, the time the town
hall burned down, the great cheese wheel
theft, and a few carefully couched stories
about hunters and hikers either not returning
or hearing strange noises on the mountain. I
wasn’t convinced the woman was to blame,
but it was the best lead I’d had in five months.
And if there was the slightest chance it would
get me my vengeance, I had to take it.
I was halfway up the mountain, ready to
get my answers, when I got the call that ruined
my day.
“Sebastian, I need you to go to
Providence,” Brother Otto said when I
answered my phone.
I probably should’ve turned the damn
thing off. Still, I’d made the bargain, said the
vows, and had a job to do. As much as I hate
it, as much as parts of what I do gnaw at my
soul, I do believe it’s right, both in my eyes
and God’s. I save lives. Sometimes.
“What’s up?” I asked, trying to sound
upbeat while thinking, Crap. I hate
Providence, and my mentor knows that. It’s a
small town full of small people, bitter because
they don’t live in New Jersey.
“Brother James, the field Inquisitor for
Providence, has missed his last two checkins.” A field Inquisitor in residence is
supposed to check in twice a month unless
attached to a monastery or in a priory. When
on assignment, they need to check in
weekly—supposedly to allow for the
possibility of rescue if problems arise. Really,
the best they can hope for is a retribution
strike and decent burial. When things go
wrong for Inquisitors, they tend to die, or wish
they had.
“Crap,” I said. “Can anyone else do it? I’m
in Vermont, working on my side project. I’ve
got an interesting lead.”
“Sebastian, it’s been three years since she
died,” he said, his voice tinged with sadness.
“I’ve got to know. I…I need to...” My
voice broke. Dammit, I needed this. I had to
make her pay for what she did to my wife.
Then I could move on, find a new way.
His voice came back stern. “I know, but
25
one of the Brethren is missing. He could be
hurt, or hiding, or dead. Your private vendetta
comes in a distant second.”
He was right, of course, but I hated to stop
what I was doing. Especially to go to my least
favorite town in New England.
“I’m on my way,” I said, trying not to
sound like I was whining.
“Good. Give me everything you’ve found
so far, and I’ll have Simon check it out. And
before you ask, no, he can’t go to Providence
instead.”
“Simon? What happened to Ralph? I
thought he was the roamer for this area.” I’d
worked with Brother Ralph Q. a few times in
the past. He’d come to New England from our
Missouri monastery. A short guy with light
brown eyes and male-pattern baldness, he had
a knack for mimicking any accent he heard.
The only issues I had with him were that he
didn’t like baseball and he always won at
poker.
There was silence on the other end.
“Damn,” I said. “Where?”
“He was in Bangor,” said Brother Otto,
“running down a lead. The Pack, an outlaw
motorcycle club, killed him. Gunned him
down in broad daylight, but they were wearing
helmets so everyone knows who did it, but no
one can ID the shooters. Maybe they thought
he was checking on their club, or maybe they
were just high and felt like killing. They run a
lot of meth in that area.”
“So what are we going to do about it?” I
asked.
“We aren’t going to do anything. You are
going to Providence. Focus on the task at
hand.”
“Yes, Brother.” His tone made it clear
there wasn’t going to be any debate on this.
I was pretty sure The Pack was going to
regret its actions in the not-too-distant-future.
We wouldn’t storm the club, guns blazing, and
mow down everyone inside, but there were a
lot of other ways to end them. Maybe use a
couple of cloned cellphones to threaten a few
Federal judges in their name or tip off the
DEA to their next drug run. The subtle way
really was better, but, personally, I’d have
preferred them to know who they’d messed
with and why their actions were fatal.
“Those details?” Brother Otto prompted.
“I’ll have Simon check them out. Promise.”
I relayed everything I’d learned.
Otto digested this for a minute. “Kinda
thin, don’t you think? Sounds like a scrub, and
that’s not the kind that murdered your wife.”
My knuckles on the hand gripping the
steering wheel popped and the plastic of my
phone creaked. “Well, what else am I going to
do? Forget about it?”
He met my anger with a cold, direct tone.
“No. What you’re going to do is your duty.
There’s a reason God’s against vengeance. It
eats a man up, makes him do stupid things,
forsake his friends and family. Get bitter. Can
you afford to make stupid mistakes? Can you
turn away from the Brethren?”
A cold wash of reason flooded my body. If
the Brethren hadn’t taken me in and trained
me, I would’ve still been rotting in prison or
dead, never knowing why.
Otto continued, “God willing, we’ll find
her, and you’ll be able to put this behind you,
but only if He’s willing, and now is not the
time or place.” He paused for a moment.
“Sebastian, I’ll have Simon check it out, but
you’ve got to get your head right. If you let it
distract you, it’ll kill you.”
I was silent for a long time, trying to calm
down. I knew he was concerned, and what
he’d said was true, but dammit, I couldn’t let
go. Not yet. I was close. This time I was sure.
A part of me wanted to chuck the phone and
keep going. I shook my head and tamped
down my rage.
“Everything will be revealed to you in the
fullness of time. You know that.”
26
“I know, Brother Otto. It’s just…I miss
her so much. It was different when I was
training. I didn’t have to face it, but now…”
My eyes burned with frustration.
“Sebastian, you have to take adversity and
learn from it, become stronger. If you let your
feelings control you, your enemies have won.
They dictate your actions. You give up free
will, and you’ll spiral down.”
“I know,” I said, not really wanting to
listen. Hanging up was tempting, but not
really an option.
“You have her music, you have your
memories, and you know she loved you and
still does. Keep that. Treasure it. Don’t let
them take away your love in a blind desire for
vengeance.”
I was half-convinced. What he said was
right—I was becoming obsessed. But part of
me wanted blood. And this conversation hurt.
“I’m sorry. Give me the details.”
“You’ll be meeting a guy named Nikolay.
Mid-fifties. Big. Russian, and he looks it.
Code word is ‘Sanctus.’” He gave me the
address and a few simple directions then
offered to pray for me. “Check in with me or
the service once you get settled. And be
careful, something’s not right.”
With my head bent, I hung up the phone
and looked for a spot to turn around. It took
me another thirty minutes—moving toward
answers, where the darker side beckoned—to
find a place to reverse course. Duty and desire
warred within me, but in the end, duty won
out, and I headed south, bitching every mile of
the way.
Clouds replaced the sunshine, and the sky
grew leaden. The drive was long and
monotonous, so naturally I took the
opportunity to torment myself with the past. I
pictured my wife playing her cello, her long
red hair framing her impish grin. The swell of
her belly as our child grew inside her. I
remembered enjoying my job as a research
chemist. The fun I had looking for old
alchemy books. The thrill of trying to crack
codes and understand experiments. Did they
have a modern application, or were they just
the ramblings of a mercury-poisoned mind? It
had been a good life, a happy one, destroyed
for a freaking book.
Chapter 2
couldn’t keep myself from grimacing as I
hit the city limits. I have no idea why I hate
Providence. Maybe it’s the time I got sick
from eating too much ice cream at the
Newport Creamery. Maybe it’s the whole
squalid look of the town, like it’s perpetually
stuck in poverty and the people like it that
way. Perhaps it’s the residents and that cloud
of sloppy inferiority they bring with them
everywhere they go. I don’t know, and I really
didn’t care. I just wanted to get the hell out of
there and back on her trail.
A little after sundown, I drove past the
auto repair garage where our safe house was
located. I’d never been to the garage before,
but I’d heard a few stories about it, none of
which described the area as pleasant. Any
time you go somewhere new, you want to do
an initial recon. Where are the escape routes...
I
Order on Amazon or smashwords.com to
Lincoln currently
resides in the
Commonwealth of
Virginia with his
lovely wife, little girl,
and Calvin the Helper
Dog. A storyteller
since he was a child,
Lincoln is an Army
Reservist.
Lincoln S. Farish
27
truck stop and panoramic views. A strong
wind buffeted the car, and cool rain pelted the
windshield from low-hanging clouds. I
gripped the steering wheel and squinted into
the blurry freeway. Suddenly, it didn't seem
like summer. Up ahead, a tractor-trailer
merged into my lane. I flicked my turn signal
and switched to the left. My skin prickled
from a flush of adrenaline as this giant hunk of
metal gained speed, forcing its entry. I floored
the accelerator to clear well ahead.
"There's a wide sandy beach." My
daughter sounded indifferent, though her
green eyes danced excitedly. "And...you
cannot see the other side," she added before
plopping the candy into her mouth.
"It's that big?" Katie marveled from
behind my headrest. She leaned into the front
as if able to see it from three states over. "I've
never been west of Pennsylvania."
"Me either." Angela bounced next to her,
raising her arms in a yawn. Her lively brown
eyes scanned the instrument panel. "It is eight
o'clock," she announced. "We've slept three
hours."
"I could sleep eight more," my daughter
groaned.
Speeding well ahead of the truck's
downhill charge, I settled into the right lane,
cleared my windshield, and posed the question
I'd been waiting to ask for hours, "Did you
stay up all night?"
Their gritty laughter confirmed it, and
explained why they had promptly fallen
asleep after boarding the car in early
darkness.
"We watched some movies and talked to
our friends on the phone," my daughter said.
I nodded at these benign activities.
"Angela had to spend every last minute
with her boyfriend," Katie said.
I stiffened at the prospect of late-night
visitors.
"On the phone," my daughter clarified.
Memory Lake
By Nancy S. Kyme
Genre:
Memoir
Pages: 448
Amazon.com and
nancyskyme.com
One: A Captive Audience
"WILL THERE BE critters in this lake?"
Angela asked. She shifted around in the
backseat unfolding her long legs. Her morning
voice, scratchy from a late night, nudged my
concentration from the outside road.
Katie sat beside her and rummaged
through the dividing heap of pillows, fashion
magazines, purses, and snacks. "Yeah, I can't
stand jellyfish, crabs, or seaweed." Her sleepy
voice drifted through the car.
My daughter recognized the rustle of
candy wrappers and turned from the front seat.
She stretched a hand toward her two best
friends.
"This is not a healthy breakfast," Angela
playfully admonished.
"So, here's an orange." Katie smirked,
setting a brightly wrapped confection into my
daughter's open palm.
"No critters!" I answered from the driver's
seat. At seventy miles per hour we sped across
the smooth, reddish asphalt cutting a wide
swath over Keyser Pass, so named by West
Virginia's green information sign. This barren
summit, high above the tree line, boasted a
28
"And we packed," Angela said, sending
sharp accusing looks at both her friends for
revealing anything about her love life to an
adult.
"Don't you mean repacked?" I hinted.
Again, their chuckles reinforced my
assumption.
"How long have you had my light-blue
hoodie?" Angela asked her backseat
companion. "It was a birthday present
sophomore year. We're going to be seniors and
I haven't worn it once."
"Well, it's in your bag now," Katie said.
"You should be happy because it got a lot of
compliments. People said it matches my
eyes."
"You guys." I shook my head, recalling
Sunday-night deliveries of neatly folded tops,
skirts, or pants. My daughter, KT, as everyone
calls her, using first and last initials to set her
apart from all other Katies in her class, often
coerced her older brother into running out for ice
cream so she could make a similar drop. I
imagined a nightlong swap-fest had occurred
to redistribute the mutually favored clothing
among the respective owners.
Then again, maybe they had slipped out
during the midnight hours of my innocent
slumber to join a party somewhere, drinking and
smoking until dawn, so Angela could say goodbye to her boyfriend in person.
I sized them up, especially my daughter, and
sniffed the air for a whiff of fermentation or the
scent of nicotine. I searched their faces for
discomfort from nausea and headaches. I had a
notion they might be as wild and troublesome as I
had been at their age. The idea gripped me at
times, tainting my perspective, and jarring me
from the role of trusting parent. However, this
time I could not verify my suspicions. Their tired
eyes and hoarse voices justified either scenario.
So I decided against a confrontation.
"About this lake..." Katie's voice rose from
the backseat, prompting a return to Angela's
original question.
"Lake Michigan is one of the Great Lakes," I
broke in. "KT, why don't you show them the
atlas?" I cast my daughter a curious look,
wondering if she would brush me off. She knew
our travel plans but Angela and Katie hadn't cared
until now. They had tagged along at the last
minute, eager to go anywhere, to escape their
summer jobs. I rushed to enlighten them before
the moment waned.
KT rolled her eyes and sighed. She would
make the effort, I knew from experience, though
not enthusiastically. So I envisioned a
compromise. "Hold out your right hand," I said.
To my delight she raised her hand like a traffic
cop. I brushed my finger against her pinkie. "We
are going there!"
Angela's ribald laughter and Katie's
embarrassed snicker proved they misunderstood
my attempt to use KT's hand as a map. Anyone
from Michigan would have known exactly what I
meant.
"And we live here?" Angela struggled to be
serious as she jabbed KT's palm. My daughter
wrapped her hand around Angela's finger and
pulled. They giggled heartily at my expense.
"If you could see a map," I said, "you'd
understand it looks like a hand."
"Hang on," my daughter kindly rescued me.
She reached under her seat and retrieved the atlas.
After fumbling through each state, pausing
momentarily on our home state of Virginia, she
turned it vertically and displayed the two-page
spread. "Now pay attention, children," she
mocked.
"See how Lower Michigan resembles a giant
mitten surrounded by blue?" I coaxed. "You have
to look past the detail of roads, cities, and inland
lakes." I pointed to a coastal area where chocolate
brown met royal blue. "We are going here, along
the pinkie."
"Mom, I got it," KT said, shifting from me.
She placed a finger where I had pointed. "This is
where we are going."
29
My eyes returned to the road, and I scowled at
the map's limitations. A bunch of geographic lines
and bold colors could never depict the shoreline's
simple beauty. Not even a well-crafted painting, a
photograph, or an eloquent poem would do. One
had to see it in person. And I, who had spent five
youthful summers along that chart of blue and
brown, wanted my companions to understand
how profoundly it had impacted my life. It was
there I had learned to soar beyond limitations,
dream the future, and gain the strength to carry it
out.
Now, thirty years later, it seemed I had come
to the end of those dreams. My mom had died,
and I faced the future from a precipice of fear and
grief. Same as then, ripples of change invaded my
complacent life, forcing me to grow without her.
Somehow, I believed this trip would get me
around it, through it, or over it, by showing me
what I had lost.
I could never say this aloud. So, I held quiet,
remaining grateful to have my daughter and her
friends along. They emboldened me, giving me
the courage to make this journey.
"What's that big piece of land up there?"
Angela pointed. She bent toward KT,
thoughtfully cupping her chin. "Is that Canada?"
"No, it's Michigan," KT said, taking a closer
look for herself "It's the Upper Peninsula.
Everyone calls it the 'U.P.' Right, Mom?" She
flashed the map in my direction.
"Right," I said. "And it looks like a glove." I
turned my hand on its side to demonstrate.
"The Great Lakes have freshwater, no salt,"
my daughter proudly emphasized. "No shells
either. That's one thing I miss from the ocean. But
there are really cool fossils to find along the
beach." A melancholy expression darkened her
youthful face, and I wondered at its meaning, for
she also had spent a fair amount of time along the
shores of Lake Michigan.
She closed the atlas and dropped it to the
floor. She whirled to face her friends. Shining
brown hair fell across her cheek as she flourished
a palm, expecting another piece of candy.
"The Great Lakes are unique," I said. "They
are the longest freshwater shoreline in the world.
I've seen plenty of man-made lakes, but they are
not the same. Even the ocean, amazing as it is,
can't stack up. The salt gets in your mouth, and
the sand sticks to your skin and clothing. Plus, it
has jellyfish, barracudas, and sharks!"
"How do they make a man-made lake?" Katie
asked.
"The Army Corps of Engineers builds a
dam," I replied, peeking through my rearview
mirror. Seeing her perplexed expression, I added,
"They divert the flow of rivers and streams,
creating one huge flood that turns into a
permanent lake. Entire towns are lost forever.
Think of it, old farmhouses entombed in the deep
like ghostly sunken ships, their treasured
memories lost forever. Fish swim through
dilapidated doors and windows as layers of silt
gather on a kitchen counter, once tenderly cared
for, where a family used to gather."
"That's creepy," Angela said as she snatched
the bag of candy from Katie.
"Once the lake is formed, its shorelines are
abrupt drop-offs. Mature trees crowd the bank.
You rarely find a sandy beach, mostly dirt, and
the bottoms are mucky. Besides, who knows what
you might step on!" I sneered. "The Great Lakes
were formed by glaciers. They have firm clear
bottoms. You'll see the difference when we get to
Ohio this afternoon. If we beat the rain, Chip will
take us out on his boat. He lives on a man-made
lake." I clamped my mouth shut, determined to
say no more; hoping my answer had not been too
long.
"Day after tomorrow we'll see Lake
Michigan." My daughter bestowed an alluring
smile upon the backseat.
"Class dismissed," Angela concluded, and I
caught sight of the other Katie knuckling her arm
for more candy. "You pig!" Angela chided,
though she offered a yellow square.
We rounded another curve, steeper than the
30
last, and I braked in slow, cautious spurts. Already
the outside air felt warmer as we descended back
into summer.
My daughter impatiently slapped her bare feet
along the dashboard. "How much longer?" she
asked.
"Five hours left for today." I rotated my
shoulders into my backrest, mentally coaching
myself to sit up straight. Days of driving lay
ahead, and I couldn't afford any strained muscles.
Neither could I allow my passengers a turn at the
wheel given such high speeds, large trucks, and
abrupt guardrails, though they all had licenses.
One wrong move could be deadly. My mother's
accident had proved it.
"Mrs. Taylor," Katie garbled from behind me,
her mouth full of goo. "Why are we going? Is this
some kind of reunion for you?"
"Yes it is!" I exclaimed. My daughter's
horrified expression caused me to regret such an
overzealous reply. I was learning this was not
cool and could turn a teenager away from the very
thing one wanted to promote. I took a deep breath,
lowered my voice, and said, "I used to go to camp
in northern Michigan for seven weeks at a time."
"Seven weeks!" Both girls chimed from the
backseat.
"I had best friends from all over. We were as
close as you three, but there were nine of us."
"Nine!" they repeated. Even my daughter
joined their surprise.
"How could you be best friends with that
many girls?" Angela demanded. "Didn't you
fight?"
"No. There was a counselor I didn't get along
with," I laughed. "But my friends and I never
fought. Maybe it was the combination of our
personalities and the atmosphere."
"I just can't picture it," Angela said, shrugging
into her seat, resting an elbow on a stack of
magazines and the near-naked body of a teenage
model. The catchy headlines referred to pages of
advice on how to gain sex appeal and win boys.
They made the idea of guileless female friendship
implausible. But I knew it was possible as the
photographic image of nine fresh faces popped
into my mind and came alive beneath a bright
sky. Outfitted in a mix of pajamas and street
clothes, our arms flung haphazardly around each
other, we perched on a driftwood log and
hammed it up for the camera. Cindy towered in
the middle, smiling secretively beneath a floppy
hat, while Nancy directed us to "be serious" as she
held peace signs behind our heads. Lori's ginger
bangs peaked from beneath a baby-doll hat, and
Susie whooped wildly, waving a towel. Tori held
a coquettish dance pose, spouting witty remarks
and cracking us up, while Christie anchored our
stance and cheered for us to "hold the pose."
Sandwiched between Sarah, the heart of our
group, and Mary, sensibly perched on the end, a
younger image of me spouted a nonstop narrative
for the campers who eagerly snapped our picture.
All we ever needed to know about each other
we had learned in our first welcoming smiles, and
years of laughter cemented the bonds. Camp had
let us become our true selves, without pretense.
For me, it set the course of my life.
Two: Two Camps
"ARE ALL NINE of you coming to the
reunion?" KT asked...
Order on Amazon or nancyskyme.com to
Nancy is a military
wife from Lake
Ridge, Virginia. This
is her debut novel,
which won first place
in the Inspiration
category of the 2012
Next Generation
Indie Book Award.
Nancy S. Kyme
31
stretching her arms high above her head, she
stood up but quickly realized she couldn’t feel
her right leg. Within a split second, she
grabbed onto the side of the nightstand to help
balance herself while grabbing her thigh with
her other hand.
“What the heck?” she thought to herself.
After she rubbed her leg for a few minutes,
she realized she could feel it underneath the
bottom part of her silky blue pajamas.
“Well, it’s not tingling like it’s asleep or
anything,” she thought as her heart raced in
her chest.
She decided to try to walk a couple of
steps to the dresser, but with the first step, she
nearly fell down because of the excruciating
pain in her right leg. She almost screamed as
what felt like a lightning bolt shot from her
hip to her foot. She quickly shifted her weight
to her left leg and hopped until she reached the
dresser. Accidentally knocking over a picture,
she woke Justin. He rolled over, sat up in bed,
and looked intently in her direction.
“What’s wrong?” he said quietly with his
eyes half open.
“I don’t know. My right leg gave out on
me when I got out of bed. I can’t put any
pressure on it.”
She stood there for a few minutes and
rubbed the side of her hurt leg, surprised as to
what just happened. Justin slid out of bed,
turned on the light and came over to her.
Although he looked worried, he remained
quiet. Nikki decided to slowly test her right
leg by putting a little bit of pressure on it
while Justin watched.
“It’s not giving out on me like it did when
I first got out of bed, but it really hurts. That
was scary, Justin.”
“Can you try to walk again?”
Gingerly, Nikki put all her weight on her
right leg and quickly shifted to her left leg
because of the tenderness. She walked with
great difficulty toward the bathroom,
Blinded by Deception
By Maria Yeager
Genre:
Fiction
Pages: 404
Amazon.com and
mariayeager.com
“Hear my prayer, O Lord; let my cry for help
come to you. Do not hide your face from me
when I am in distress. Turn your ear to me;
when I call, answer me quickly.”
Psalm 102:1-2
“Uuugghhh….is it 5:00 already?” Nikki
thought to herself as she rolled over and
pulled the purple down comforter over her
cold shoulders. It was just too early, and she
was warm and snug in her bed. She began to
doze off when that screeching noise jolted her
awake again.
“Come on, get up,” Justin said while
shaking her arm. Justin knew Nikki was not a
morning person. It was common for her alarm
to go off three or four times before she would
get up.
Nikki grumbled, rolled over, reached up
and turned off the alarm as Justin flopped over
and went back to sleep. She sighed, threw her
legs over the side of the bed and hesitantly
pushed herself to a sitting position. She slowly
opened her heavy eyes and then closed them
again. Sitting there with her eyes closed, she
reviewed the day’s scheduled activities.
Rolling her head from side to side and
32
grumbling and almost doubling over with
discomfort each time she put pressure on the
leg.
“You should definitely go back to the
chiropractor. Are you going to work today?”
And there it was. That worried look on
Justin’s face may not have been concern at all.
He always expected Nikki to work even when
she was sick. She had a long history of
medical issues, from appendicitis to
endometriosis to back and knee problems.
“Justin, you know about my back
problems. My leg just gave out from
underneath me, and you still expect me to go
to work? I can barely walk! How am I
supposed to drive?”
“But you are walking. You probably just
slept wrong, and your leg went to sleep.”
“I’m not going to work. I need to get this
checked out by a doctor.”
“Don’t go to the regular doctor. They will
give you a pill or try to get you to have
surgery. Just go back to the chiropractor.”
Without saying a word, Nikki limped to
the bathroom alone. Shaking her head, she
tried to figure out why Justin was so
unfeeling. Tears rolled down her cheeks,
partly because of the pain and partly because
of Justin’s attitude toward her. He could see
that she was in pain, but sympathy for others
was not one of Justin’s strengths. His number
one concern was how much money he could
make, not helping others in need. Although
she wanted Justin’s sympathy, she knew she
wouldn’t get it. Her bout with endometriosis
proved that point. Wiping the tears from her
eyes, she limped her way back into the
bedroom. Justin stood in the walk-in closet as
he picked out clothes to wear that day.
“Justin, would you please help by calling
work for me? I can’t get to the phone.”
As he thumbed through his clothes, he
didn’t even turn around to look at her. As he
pulled out a blue coat to match his khaki
pants, he continued to talk to her as if she was
a business partner instead of his wife.
“I’ve got a meeting early this morning,
and I’ve got a bunch of calls to make before it.
I’m not sure if I will have the time, and I
might forget by the time I get out of the
shower.”
“Whatever, Justin. I’ll take care of it,”
Nikki said after letting out a big sigh. She
didn’t have it in her to argue with him.
Justin turned around and walked out of the
bedroom. Nikki sat on the edge of the bed
feeling hurt and helpless. She lay back on her
pillow and wiped the tears from her eyes.
This had not been the first time Justin had
acted like this. As Nikki lay on her bed
waiting to call the doctor, she thought about
her marriage.
“What happened?” she thought. “How
could I not have seen this early in the
marriage? Why do I let him treat me like
this?”
She knew the answer. Nikki, a very strong
Christian woman, never considered divorce an
option. She was in this for the long haul, no
matter how much of a jerk Justin could be at
times. Her belief in God was so strong that she
was willing to put up with Justin’s selfish
behavior. At times, she would get frustrated
and yell back at him, but Justin was a master
manipulator and would always somehow twist
the argument around so that Nikki ended up
taking the blame. She closed her eyes and
began to think about her past with Justin.
***
Nikki and Justin met in the small town of
Commerce, Georgia. Although Nikki was
originally from St. Louis, Missouri, she
moved to Commerce after receiving a job
offer in Athens. She had graduated from
Kansas State University with a degree in
Finance, and she was excited to move to a
33
new area and meet new people. She met Justin
at the gym in Commerce, and they quickly
became friends. They married two years later.
Justin’s family appeared to be a very close
knit group. They loved to spend as much time
together as possible. Justin’s mom, Martha,
was an extremely friendly and charming
woman, and she always liked to have a good
time. She was known to play practical jokes
on her family and friends. She loved to shop,
and she was known for always having
something for her kids and grandkids each
time she saw them.
Justin’s father, Jim, was a very quiet and
laid back fellow. He adored his wife, and he
would always do whatever she wanted him to
do. Nikki admired Jim for the way he treated
Martha, and she thought he was an excellent
role model for his sons. He was actively
involved in the Presbyterian Church, and he
loved to teach Bible Study. Many times, Nikki
would watch as he read the Bible alone in
their living room.
Nikki enjoyed living in Commerce, but
she missed her family desperately in St. Louis.
Her mom, Mary, was a very likable and hardworking woman who always tried to make
others happy. She was incredibly strong as she
did not have an easy life growing up. Her
family was very close and loving, but they
were also quite poor. She had learned to
sacrifice at a very young age, and this
continued into adulthood as she continued to
sacrifice for the sake of her children. Nikki’s
father, Frank, was a very hard-working man
who strongly believed that his children needed
to learn the value of the dollar from a very
young age. Nikki and her siblings, Scott and
Jamie, worked from the time they were
sixteen years old. They all paid for the
majority of their college educations, and they
were not given handouts. All three kids
developed a realistic sense of the value of
money and a deep sense of responsibility for
their actions.
Shortly after they were married, Justin and
his family decided to take Nikki out to eat at
Applebee’s for her thirtieth birthday. Jim had
the usual country fried steak and mashed
potatoes, and Nikki always wondered why he
didn’t order anything different. But that was
just him, and she just giggled to herself each
and every time he ordered it.
Mike, Justin’s brother, and his family also
showed up for the celebration dinner. Mike
and Justin were not very close because they
didn’t have anything in common. Justin
graduated from the University of Georgia and
held a management position while Mike, a
high school graduate, was a plumber. The two
of them hung out with entirely different
crowds, and they didn’t look or act like
siblings at all. Mike was married to Sherry, a
girl he dated in high school. Sherry became
pregnant rather quickly, so she never finished
high school. Their first child was Ryan, and he
was adorable as a little boy. He had blue eyes
and blond hair, and the family was just crazy
about him. A few years later, Sean was born.
With deep brown eyes and blond hair, he was
a little more hard-headed than Ryan and
wasn’t quite as easy to control. As the years
went by, Martha seemed to show most of her
affection to Ryan, and Nikki noticed that Sean
was quite often ignored. Martha tried to keep
the family together no matter what, and she
did a pretty good job of it early on.
Ryan, who was seven years old, ordered a
hamburger and French fries while Sean
ordered pizza. Both kids were happy that
night. They joked around all during dinner,
and not one person complained or frowned.
This was one of the happiest memories Nikki
had of Justin and his family. As they left the
restaurant, Martha suggested that they go and
get an ice cream to celebrate Nikki’s birthday.
“I don’t have time for that,” Justin
retorted.
34
“What? What do you mean?” responded
Martha.
“I’ve got too much to do. I need to get
home,” replied Justin. He was working
toward his doctorate, and he had to finish his
homework.
Nikki’s feelings were so hurt. He knew it
was her birthday. Why didn’t he work his
schedule around this? She smiled sheepishly
and acted like it didn’t bother her. Martha
pulled Justin aside.
“This is her birthday. What are you doing?
Go and get an ice cream,” she said quietly to
Justin.
Justin rolled his eyes.
“Justin, this is your wife. You can sacrifice
thirty minutes to go and get an ice cream.”
“All right,” he said hesitantly. Justin
sighed as they turned back toward the group.
“We’re all going for ice cream!” Martha
announced to the group.
“Yay!!” yelled Ryan and Sean. They
jumped up and down with their little hands
and arms waving high above their heads, and
they ran to the car as fast as they could.
“Slow down! Watch for cars!” shrieked
Sherry.
As everyone went to their separate cars,
Nikki tried to remain positive even though her
feelings were hurt. She was happy that
Justin’s family wanted to get ice cream to
celebrate, but
Justin’s attitude was
disappointing. Even though Justin didn’t say
anything to her in the car, Nikki felt like she
should try to lighten the mood a little bit.
“It was a really nice dinner, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah, it was good.”
“The kids were so much fun tonight, too!
Ryan had me cracking up!”
“Yeah, they were funny.”
“Justin, if you don’t want to get ice cream,
let’s just go home. I hate the feeling that I’m
dragging you somewhere that you don’t want
to go.”
“No, it’s fine. I just have a lot to do for
school, but I’ll get it done somehow. We’re
almost to the ice cream parlor anyway.”
Nikki didn’t know how to respond.
Nothing else was said until they met up with
the rest of the group. The kids jumped up and
down with boundless energy, and this brought
a smile back to Nikki’s face.
***
Nikki opened her eyes. It was finally time to
make some phone calls. She mustered up all
her strength and stumbled over to the phone
on the other side of the room.
“Unconditional love doesn't mean you have
to unconditionally accept bad behavior.”
Unknown
“Dr. Jacquez's office. How may I help you?”
“Yeah, hi. This is Nikki Redding. I need to
make an appointment with Dr. Jacquez today
if possible. I've seen her for lower back issues
before, and this morning my right leg gave
out.”
“Oh no. Are you having any pain?”
“Yes, terrible pain down my back and in
my right leg.”
Order on Amazon or mariayeager.com to
Maria lives in
Haymarket, Virginia.
The idea for this book
came from events she
witnessed in her own
life. She writes
mostly on her own
personal experiences
and is focused on
helping others.
Maria Yeager
35
stool and sent it to a laboratory. This was on
Friday. By the end of the following week, I
had not heard from the vet so I called. They
had forgotten to send the sample they said.
Messages from Nature
By Patricia Daly-Lipe
Genre:
Nature Stories
Pages: 171
Amazon.com and
literarylady.com
How Do We Measure Intelligence?
R
ecently, I overheard someone comparing
dogs to people. Their methodology of
comparison used intelligence as the factor. My
question then is how do you measure or define
intelligence? Does compassion or empathy fit
into this equation?
The other day, I heard a poignant tale. An
older man was in the hospital and dying. His
family received permission to have his
companion dog allowed in the room for a last
visit. The dog was ushered in and the door
was closed. Fifteen minutes later, the family
came back, opened the door expecting to
escort the dog out. The patient was still in his
bed. His arm was around his dog who had
jumped onto the bed. The man was dead and
his faithful dog had died beside him.
Empathy and compassion.
Sweet William was my wonderful, faithful
companion. An English black and white
cocker, he was my shadow. One day, I noticed
his stool was white. I made an appointment
with the vet but, at the last minute, was not
able to take him. My daughter took William to
the doctor instead. They took a sample of the
Besides, the lab was closed for the
weekend but no worry. William seemed fine
now, didn’t he? At that point he did. However,
we had a trip to take. I had rented a U-Haul
truck to deliver some furniture to my father’s
house in North Carolina. It was a long drive
from Charlottesville, Virginia, to Spruce Pine,
North Carolina. Of course, Sweet William was
coming, but I also took along my daughter’s
Doberman. The whole drive down, William
cuddled next to me on the seat. The Dobie
stayed on the floor. We stopped twice at rest
stops. Both times, William drank an entire
bowl of water and seemed unwilling to saunter
around the dog parks.
We arrived late, leaving the unloading
until morning. William normally slept at the
foot of my bed. That night, he chose not to
and let the Dobie take his spot. In the
36
morning, I woke up with a start. Something
was wrong. I looked across the room and there
was Sweet William leaning strangely against
the wall. His eyes looked dazed so I
approached him very quietly and slowly,
afraid of frightening him. He was postured as
if being tied against the wall, almost rigid. Not
a comfortable position. When I reached out to
pat his side, he cringed. Immediately I knew
he was in pain. I called the vet and got his
emergency number. He would meet us at the
clinic.
The Doberman was left at the house while
I ran across the street to borrow the neighbor’s
car to take William. Taking the U-Haul would
have been impossible since it was still
unpacked and the cab was far too high for a
pup in pain. Coming down the neighbor’s
walkway, there was William walking very
slowly up the hill just to be with me. It was
painful to watch. He would not let me carry
him. It was difficult getting him into the car,
but somehow I did as the tears welled up in
my eyes. Fortunately, the veterinary hospital
was close. We arrived in minutes. William
was immediately placed on the operating table
and a tube was put in his side. He was
dehydrated and in severe pain. The doctor said
he could not determine the cause of his
problem until the pain was under control. He
had more to say but I did not hear him. I was
focused on my brave little man lying on the
cold steel table. He asked that William be left
with him for the day and possibly the night so
that he could do some tests. I had no choice. I
went home to the Dobie and made myself
busy unpacking the truck. In the afternoon, I
made a visit to the vet. William was in a cage
with an IV attached to his side. I spent about
an hour on my knees talking to him through
the bars. His sweet eyes focused on me and
almost shifted back and forth as if to say, “I’m
all right. Please don’t worry.” The other dogs
in the clinic were respectfully silent. That
evening, my son and a friend came from
college to help unload the truck. We had no
food in the house so we stopped to have pizza
and then went to the hospital. It was locked.
No visits possible with William until morning.
The boys chose sleeping bags to sleep by
the fire in the living room. I retired to the
bedroom with Jessie, the Dobie. The vet was
supposed to call if there was any change when
he went that night to check the animals.
Nevertheless, even with Jessie at the foot of
my bed, I found it very hard to go to sleep.
The lights were off leaving only flickers from
the fire reflecting on the walls leading to the
living room. Just as I was dozing off, Jessie
leaped off the bed. She dashed into the living
room and raced from one end to the other
waking up the boys and terrifying me. Then,
just as sudden, she came back to my room,
jumped on the foot of the bed, curled up, and
immediately fell fast asleep! Within seconds,
the telephone rang. It was the veterinarian.
William had just passed away.
When I told the doctor about Jesse’s
performance, he replied that he had heard of
this kind of thing happening before. “You
see,” he said, “William just passed over to say
goodbye.”
The autopsy revealed that indeed the white
stool had been a warning, though probably too
late to do anything. The liver and kidney were
practically non-existent. It was amazing he
had lasted this long. We suspect he had raided
a trash can in our Charlottesville
neighborhood and a poison had been part of
its contents. This poison had slowly eaten
away his insides.
With the boys’ help, we dug a grave on the
hillside below the house. It was a lovely
setting with overhanging trees and flowering
bushes all around and a vista of the mountain
peaks in the distance.
Although William’s body is buried in
North Carolina’s Blue Ridge, we know his
37
soul has moved on. Perhaps he’ll come live
with me again, but as another dog.
Fortunately, she had not gone that far. My son
found her hiding under some bushes close to
the house. She was bleeding and upon closer
examination, we found her right hind leg at an
unnatural angle. Carefully, we placed her in
the car and drove to the vet.
When my children were young, we
inherited a little pup named Suzie-Q. Soon
after coming into our family, she lost one leg
in an automobile accident. We called her our
three-legged wonder.
It all began when I was shopping near our
home in Rolling Hills, California, on the Palos
Verdes Peninsula just west and south of Los
Angeles. It was summertime and the shopping
area was packed with mothers and their
children. With few parking spots near the
grocery store, I chose to leave my car a block
away in a shaded area. After making my
purchases and loading them into the car, I saw
a couple of kids walking a darling little puppy
along the grassy area under the trees next to
my car. Not able to resist a pat—after seeking
permission of course—I asked the children to
tell me about their dog. She was being
sheltered at a veterinary hospital, they said.
They had found the pup but because they lived
in an apartment, they couldn’t keep her. While
they tried to locate a permanent home, the
veterinary clinic agreed to board her for a
minimal fee. We had two dogs at the time, but
one look at this brave little face and I couldn’t
help but put her in the back seat of our car and
take her home.
Bigger and more robust, never-the-less,
the other dogs immediately respected her; in
fact, Suzie-Q became the leader of the pack.
Then one day, she disappeared. Frantic, I ran
down our driveway to the street fearing the
worst. She was nowhere to be found. I knew
she would not run away since she had become
an integral part of our family. Once loyal,
such a dog remains loyal. As for Suzy-Q,
fidelity and devotion were her middle names.
So I called my children and we organized a
search all over the grounds which included a
steep hillside sloping down to a canyon.
The leg had to be amputated. Apparently,
Suzy-Q had been hit by a car, had made her
way back up the steep driveway, was able to
hobble to the garden behind the house and had
curled up to die under the bush. I don’t know
why she didn’t come to us for help, but we
were all glad we found her in time.
After surgery, she came home and spent a
week living in the confined area of my
bathroom before she was able to return to the
pack.
For years she played with her canine
companions and my children. She followed us
when we rode the horses on the trails and was
always included in any and all family
functions. Her infirmity was never a
hindrance. She learned to adjust her weight so
the three legs could balance and kept up with
her four legged and two legged pals. Our little
wonder pup outlived both the other dogs.
When it was her time to leave us, I was
holding her in my arms.
It happened one late afternoon. I had come
home close to dinner time after spending
hours tending to one of our horses. At the foot
of the stairs, I found our little miss lying on
38
the floor. But she wasn’t resting. Something
was wrong. Her breathing was erratic as she
struggled for each breath. When I called to her
and she couldn’t get up, I knew we had a
problem. I had my daughter telephone the vet.
We bundled Suzy-Q up and hurried to the
hospital. Our doctor had agreed to meet us
there since it was after hours and the hospital
was closed. Suzie-Q was still gasping for
breath but otherwise appeared peaceful as I
embraced her on my lap and my daughter
drove. After rushing us into the operating
room and placing Suzy-Q on the operating
table, the doctor left to get an oxygen tent. I
held her little body pleading with her, “Don’t
leave us yet, sweet Suzie.” The doctor had
said Suzie-Q’s lungs were filled with liquid.
Then something happened. It wasn’t the
movement. It wasn’t her eyes that told me.
Something ephemeral escaped, like a mist. It
floated out of Suzy-Q and up to the right
disappearing in the darkness of the ceiling.
Though her limbs still moved, I knew. Suzy-Q
had left us.
“Don’t bother with the oxygen,” I called
out to the doctor, my voice cracking with
grief. She came back into the room, examined
my brave little lady and confirmed my
diagnosis.
So, how do we measure intelligence?
Empathy, compassion, endurance, and loyalty.
With such standards, do you think people can
measure up to dogs?
mince his words even if this is a translation).
"Il s'est enfui de la cage. C'est pas possible ça!
On a d’autre chose à faire!" he yelled through
the speaker. And with a sigh, "Ah! ces
Americains!" he hung up.
When I left Washington, it was ostensibly
to have a little vacation in Europe. Christian
was placed in a kennel. But after several
weeks in Paris, I decided to totally immerse
myself in the French lifestyle for a year. I
rented an apartment in Sèvre and sent for my
companion, Christian.
There was a large screened-in area, like a
huge cage, at Orly airport containing
unclaimed boxes and baggage and today, one
frightened young German Shepherd. When I
called him, Christian ran up to me, tail
wagging and tongue licking and so loving and
grateful for my presence that it really made
the airport stewards look foolish. These big
Frenchmen had not dared to enter the ‘cage’
and many irate passengers were impatiently
waiting for their bags.
I did not realize it then, but my entire stay
in Europe would revolve around this young
pup. It was the beginning of a series of
adventures I have had throughout the years,
always involving a pet.
Christian came home to my apartment...
Order on Amazon or literarylady.com to
Patricia lives in
Haymarket, Virginia.
She is an awardwinning writer of
seven books. The
cover art for
Messages from
Nature is from her
own painting.
CHRISTIAN
T
he telephone rang in that seesaw
aggravating and piercing way only
French telephones can sound. It was five AM.
I rolled over, picked up the receiver, mumbled
"Oui," and a frantic male voice screamed at
me. Come at once, he said. "Venez vite! Il n'y
a pas une minute à perdre!" The "animal" was
loose. Everyone was "terrorized" (he did not
Patricia Daly-Lipe
39
that I had found just the right name for my
new station, he and his wife were crushed, as I
quickly saw by the shocked looks on their
faces. Her grandparents had all died before
she was old enough to know them and her
parents had both died within a year of their
marriage. My son stammered, “You will be
our child’s only Grandmother. We thought
you’d be honored.” Well, of course, I am.
And, that settled it. Grandma it is.
I know of many families that wait until a
child mangles the words Grandma and
Grandpa and sets the pet name as Gamma,
Gammy, Gam Gam, Paw Paw, Gamps or
some such version that belongs to the first
child who says it and the rest then learn it. It is
an affectionate bond between grandparents
and grandchildren. One woman told me the
first grandchild in her family was dyslexic, so
Grandma came out Mugga. The grandmother
didn’t really like it, but all the grandchildren
that came after adopted it.
Others rely on cultural traditions for
names: Nonnee or Nonna (Italian), Abuela
(Spanish), Baba (Serbian), Bube (Yiddish),
Lola (Phillipino). A young grandmother
recently told me she is “Baba,” because she
was always singing “Ba-ba-ba…Ba-barbara
Ann” when her grandchildren were visiting.
French-speaking Eleanor Roosevelt asked
her grandchildren to call her Grandmère, also
the title of a book about her, by her grandson,
David. A recent survey suggests Nana is the
most common choice, followed by Grandma
and MeMaw.
In my own family, we used Grandma and
Grandpa Last Name for two grandparents and
Grandma First Name for the third. Grandma
First Name, I found out as an adult, was my
grandfather’s second wife, some years after
the death of his first. She never had any
children and didn’t like the idea of being
called Grandma. She wanted us to call her by
her first name. My mother thought this was
Who Gets to Name Grandma?
By Carol Covin
Genre:
Grandparenting
Pages: 126
Amazon.com and
newgrandmas.com
Who Gets to Name Grandma?
“I have a friend who is the second child in her
family, but had the first grandchildren. She
got very upset when her older sister later
insisted on letting her child pick names for the
grandparents and then demanded that my
friend’s children change.” -New mother
So, who picks? The grandparents? The
parents? The children? Is there really a right to
the original birth order of the siblings, even if
the birth order of the grandchildren is
different?
I imagined that I was a very younglooking Grandmother when my children both
announced they were expecting. Friends
flattered me by agreeing. So, the question
became if I look and feel too young for the
old, wrinkled, stooped, gray-haired, rockingchaired, knitting image we all assume goes
with our culture and our own memories of our
Grandmothers, then, what should I call
myself?
One friend came up with the name “Glamma”, short for Glamorous Grandmother. I
loved it! When I announced to one of my sons
40
disrespectful, so they compromised on
Grandma First Name.
Some shorten this convention to Grandma
First Letter of First Name, as in Grandma-O.
A friend came up with G-Mom, which I think
captures her impish spirit. A young woman
recently told me her Grandmothers were
“Rick-Rick” and Other Grandma. Rick-Rick
being the closest she could come to
pronouncing cigarette. The grandmother of 8year-old twins told me she is “Grammy.” A
singer, she says, “This is probably the closest
I’ll get to a Grammy award.”
Another mother told me that in her family
the first grandchild was deaf, so signed
Grandmother and the next grandchild
continued the use of Grandmother. Later
grandchildren followed the common Southern
tradition of Memaw. Grandma still signs
Christmas tags with the appropriate
designation. Another Grandmother told me
recently that she has a blended family, so
natural and stepchildren’s children have all
come up with different names for her.
There are few other relationships where a
name is so open to discussion and negotiation
as that of what to call the grandparents. It is
not a legal designation, but one of love. But,
perhaps it is also one of power, as power shifts
from one generation to another, or even within
generations. Recognizing that power play may
help shift the discussion back to love
Children learn quickly that people have
more than one name. Adults have one name
for each other, another for their children to
use, and another more formal name.
Relationship names are part of a child’s world
from the very beginning. They will call their
Grandmother whatever they are encouraged to
– and, she will come whenever her precious
grandchildren call.
Now You Choose to Move Three
Time Zones Away!
“Why did she have to pick this time to
move?!” -Grandmother of a three-month-old
“OK. It was probably his job. Or, to be
near his family. Or, maybe she really does not
want me to be close by when she is raising my
grandchild. I loved it when they lived near by,
but, now, just when I have my first grandbaby,
that’s when they move?!”
Sometimes life is not fair. And, we have to
adjust. Are you really afraid she doesn’t want
you to help raise that grandchild? Are you
really too overpowering for her new mother
instincts? It hurts not to have grandbabies
close by. We must be hard-wired to want to
help take care of them. And, there really is no
substitute for their physical presence.
Plus, we have all this wisdom to share.
And, we want to be part of their lives growing
41
up. A second home. Another trusted adult. An
extended family of love. My husband talks
about how he used to eat lunch at his
grandmother’s home, walking distance from
his own and from his school. Then, later,
when she needed not to be left alone anymore,
he often spent the night. An object lesson in
taking responsibility for your family. Learned
so easily and naturally as a child. How can we
pass this on to grandchildren three time zones
away?
I sympathize with this grandmother. I have
one grandchild near and one grandchild far.
We try to get the cousins together a couple of
times a year. I treasure the unexpected treats
of being asked to baby-sit overnight. But, we
also keep each child one week in the summer
when day care is closed. And, the far
grandchild’s mother, an avid photographer,
keeps current photos posted on a web site for
us to revel in as we follow our
granddaughter’s travels, her parties, her daily
discoveries, her moods.
to your grandchild when they arrive, just to
put you in their mind. I read of one
grandmother who bought two sets of books,
sent one to her granddaughter and kept one to
read to her over the phone. Skype, a webbased long-distance phone service, can ease
the cost of calling. Webcams provide real-time
video conferencing on your home computer.
Apple’s web camera is built in.
I started a tradition of creating books
around yearly themes like Hats! Feet! Balls!
They include photos of everyone in the
family. In the early years, they were ignored.
But, I decided to make a copy for myself so I
could read them to grandchildren when they
visited. As it happens, distant cousins have
reported this helps them feel connected too.
The books also include old family photos,
recycled instead of being relegated to a oncein-a-generation viewing when they are passed
on. $1 at Wal-Mart for 36 photo slots. You’ll
want to keep one in your purse.
Granny-Guru’s Grains of Wisdom: Distant
grandparenting requires more work and
creative connections. But, you are still their
Grandma – an honored and cherished role.
Define what that means in your family.
Help the Mom, Not the Baby
“Don’t be a house guest. When you visit,
don’t expect her to cook for you. Let her
parent your grandchild. You help the Mom.” Mother of five-year-old, three-year-old and 9month-old
You can hardly talk to an infant on the
telephone. So, what do distant grandparents
do? Ask for pictures, sure. Videos can be
emailed from phones right to your computer.
Mothers these days are as likely to have a blog
as not. Photo sites like Flickr or Shutterfly,
where photos can be shared, are easy to use.
Grandparents can be added to the invited
visitors’ list, so the photos won’t be public.
It’s not what we’re used to, but I wouldn’t
wait for a letter, hand-written by a Mom
who’s busy raising that beautiful grandchild.
But, mail works the other direction, too.
Postcards, notes and cards that Mom can read
This Mom has experience with help from
grandmothers after the babies are born. All the
grandparents
are
distant.
Her
own
grandparents were already gone when she was
growing up. She wants her children to have a
good relationship with their grandparents.
She has read about other mothers on
mothering forums choosing to wait three
months before they allow grandparents to
visit. But, she knows how much grandparents
want to see that new baby and how hard it
would be to wait. So, she tries to
42
accommodate.
My own mother-in-law visited when our
second son was a newborn. She vacuumed
carpets and cleaned kitchen cabinets. And, I
was really grateful. She did it without an
attitude. She did not accuse me with sighs,
looks, or comments about my not having
vacuumed in awhile or not having cleaned out
the cabinets. Rather, she took them on as tasks
that would be helpful, not intrusive. She
taught me that bay leaves set down on shelves
keep roaches out. Who knew? I didn’t think I
had any, but it was nice to have clean cabinets
smelling like bay leaves.
But, mostly, she was there when I started
to nurse. Anyone who nurses knows the first
couple of weeks there is aching. But, a wet,
warm washcloth works wonders. Since this
was my first time nursing, such a common
sense remedy, offered at just the right
moment, was gratefully accepted.
There are so many ways to help.
Showering attention on older children, who
might be missing some of Mom’s attention as
she tends to the new baby. Laundry. Cooking.
Especially treats for Mom and Dad. Freezing
and labeling meals to be eaten when you’re
gone, if you know what they like. Cleaning.
Errands.
Picking
up
announcements.
Addressing them. Mending? Do people still
sew on buttons? Answering the door if
neighbors visit. Walking the dog. I once
thought getting a puppy when I was home
with a new baby would be a good idea. Wiser
heads prevailed.
Mom is sleeping, eating, nursing. There is
not much time to dress, never mind entertain.
A new mother once chastised me, “You didn’t
tell me I wouldn’t have time to brush my
teeth!” Cleaning waits for helpful hands or a
baby that sleeps through the night.
And, what about the Dad? What treat
would make his new life less stressful?
Conversations about when he or his wife were
children? Stories changing generational
hands? Respectful, curious questions about
how things have changed in the child-rearing
world? That might inform later discussions
about how you used to do it and why they’re
not doing it that way.
My mother-in-law understood this
woman’s advice without training. She
pampered me. I pampered the baby. Happy
visit.
I Might Not Know What I’m Doing,
But I’m Learning
“I am the Mother. They are my children.”
-Mother of three, two years apart
Boomer parents were likely to use their
own and their friends’ experience to gauge
normal boundaries of behavior, and read lots
of books. Today’s parents will check the
Internet to find out what’s normal. Fast,
efficient, reliable for many things, it puts
child-rearing questions to rest quickly. And,
they will read lots of books.
If they’re still not sure, they’re likely to
pose a question to peers in an online forum.
They don’t have to wait for play dates or...
Order on Amazon or newgrandmas.com to
A former software
engineer, Carol lives
in Bristow, Virginia,
with a sledding hill
and a creek. Her two
sons and their wives
have given her a
grandson and
granddaughter.
Carol Covin
43
he turned and said, “Meet me downstairs in
five minutes, okay?”
He paused at the door. “You know, there
are ways around this, Anabel. It’s not too
late.”
I rounded on him. “If you suggest that ever
again, I’ll tell everyone. Those will be the first
words out of my mouth, Sam. I promise you.”
“Take it easy,” he soothed. “I just wanted
to remind you . . .”
I gave him a stiff nod, and he exited the
room.
My name is Anabel Martin, and I ruined
my brother’s life.
The fact that Sam is treating me with such
tenderness is wreaking havoc on my sense of
right and wrong, and truthfully, if I were in his
position, I don’t think I would be behaving as
wonderfully to him as he is me.
But then again, my brother is almost a
saint, whereas I have a dark spot on my soul.
I sat down on my bed that wasn’t really
mine and stared at my shoes. They were some
designer, Steve Madden, I guess. I had never
bought my own clothes and proved to be a
horror to my sister-in-law, who had been
forced to spend time with me and fix me up
with a wardrobe. Taking me shopping was the
only thing that we had done together since I
moved in with her and Sam, and I hadn’t
impressed her when I informed her that I did
not know the difference between Calvin Klein
and Ralph Lauren. When we had finally
settled on the Gap, she had thrown her hands
up in disgust and waited outside until I called
her, needing the credit card.
She doesn’t like me. I haven’t been
allowed outside much because nobody likes
me due to the fact that I am the sole reason
that my brother resigned from office. So far,
my social interactions have included him, my
sister-in-law, and the rotating bodyguards who
all look the same and barely acknowledge me.
Sometimes I see my doctor, but he has to
Anabel Unraveled
By Amanda Romine Lynch
Genre:
Mystery/Suspense
Pages: 384
Amazon.com and
amandarominelynch.com
Chapter 1: Anabel
My name is Anabel Martin, and I am an
orphan.
I can’t say that. I shook my head and
sighed, pivoting slowly in front of the mirror,
taking in my hair, my legs, my dress. My blue
eyes looked sullen in the mirror, and I
wondered if nineteen was too old to be
considered an orphan. Does it count if you’ve
never known your mother, and your father
was emotionally unavailable for your whole
life?
“Stand up straight,” I heard a voice say
from behind me. I closed my eyes, ready for
the lecture.
I turned and grimaced at my brother, Sam,
who is more than twice my age. He studied
me, taking in everything about my
appearance. Being next to him, all stylish in
his suit with his well-groomed hair, made me
and my obnoxious curls feel wild and savage.
“Standing up straight isn’t going to hide it,
Sam.”
“No, but it’s the best we can do for now.”
He came and kissed my forehead, and pulled
me into a hug. “It will be okay, sweetie.” Then
44
make house calls, so those times are rare.
My name is Anabel Martin, and I am very
much alone.
Alexis barged in. She’s beautiful—
gorgeous, really—and like my brother, also
twice my age. She stared at me, judging, and
then said, “You look okay, but you need some
makeup.”
“I don’t know how to put it on,” I
mumbled.
She let out a frustrated noise which was a
cross between a groan and a wail, and
immediately attacked me with powder and eye
shadow. I tolerated this invasion as best I
could, but when she tried to assault me with
an eyelash curler I pushed her away. “It’s too
much.”
“Everyone does this, Anabel,” she
snapped. “You’re ready. Grab your coat and
go with Sam.”
I glared back at her. “I think it’s ridiculous
you are making me wear a trench coat in
September.”
“Deal with it,” she sniffed, and turned on
her heel and headed toward the door. She
paused to look at me and say, “Watch what
you say, and whatever you do—”
“Do not talk to Jared Sorensen,” I
chorused with her. “As if I’d forgotten.”
She nodded. “You don’t want to hurt your
brother any more than you already have, do
you?”
“No, Alexis.” I pulled the green coat
around me.
“Have a good day then,” she said crisply.
“Yes, Alexis.” I wondered if she caught
the edge of sarcasm, but she nodded her
blonde head and left.
My name is Anabel Martin, and I hate my
life.
I made my way down the stairs and Sam
shot me a warm smile of approval. “You look
lovely.”
“Alexis fixed me,” I announced. Flanked
by Nate and Henry and their earpieces, we
walked down the steps and got into the
Lincoln Town Car.
The ride to the Capitol Building was a
blur. It consisted of me staring at my shoes
and my brother clearing his throat. Finally he
began, “Look, Annie—”
“I know what you’re going to say,” I
closed my eyes.
“I’m your brother, I have to.”
“I wish you wouldn’t.” Maybe if I keep
my eyes closed, this will go away.
“Try not to talk to him,” he cautioned.
“Nobody has gotten wind of what happened
with you two yet, and I want to keep that
under wraps as long as we can.”
I opened my eyes and nodded, trying to
keep my face as impassive as possible, even
though my brother was lying. There were all
sorts of rumors flying about the two of us. I
stared out the window and swore to myself
that I was not going to cry, because crying
would probably result in Sam causing some
sort of physical harm to Jared, and with his
temper, that could include anything from
punching him to disemboweling him. While
that would be slightly entertaining to watch, it
probably wouldn’t be good for PR.
My name is Anabel Martin, and I am very
bad for PR.
“So what are you going to say?” he asked,
pulling me from my thoughts.
I managed a thin smile. “It’s all I’ve been
thinking about this morning. I guess it will just
come.”
The car sidled up in front of the Capitol
Building. There were a million people there,
with their eyes, cameras, and microphones all
trained on our car. I looked at Sam, stricken.
“You promised we would have a quiet
entrance.”
He sighed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want you to
worry. We’ll do this quick, okay? I just need
you to put in an appearance and look normal.
45
Look Annie, the rumors are that you aren’t
okay, and I just need you to smile at the
cameras and play the game for me a little,
please?”
I stared at him. Sam was the consummate
politician: he always had a smile and a wave
for the crowds, despite any inner turmoil. I
was not similarly gifted. Still, I’d do just about
anything for him—so I composed my face and
nodded.
Sam looked at Nate, who muttered
something into his mouthpiece and opened the
door. I stepped out into the bright sunlight and
immediately was mobbed. Desperately
clutching Sam’s arm, we walked through the
masses of press people and TV cameras, and I
smiled like a doll and ignored the barrage of
questions bombarding us from every direction.
I had no idea what anyone said to me, I merely
gave the big plastic grin and stared straight
ahead. I had to give Nate and Henry credit;
somehow they navigated us through the mob
in one piece. The hearing was thankfully
closed to the press, and when the doors were
shut behind us, I stared at my brother in
disbelief. “Do you have to deal with this every
day?”
He smiled at me, and it was genuine.
“Well, one of the perks of resigning from
office is not as many people are interested in
me anymore.”
“I disagree,” I rejoined, mirroring his
smile.
My name is Anabel Martin, and I am a
phony.
“Excuse me for one second, okay?” I
nodded at him, and he moved to talk to some
guy in the back of the room. It was pretty
much like the hearing rooms I had seen on
TV: an empty table above all the others for the
members of Congress, benches much like in a
courtroom, and two tables in the front for
testimony. I meandered down the aisle,
looking at the chairs, the random people, until
my eyes fell upon a familiar face, one that I
hadn’t seen in a long time.
She was sitting at a table in the front of the
room, her long purple skirt falling demurely
around her ankles. Her red hair was starting to
go gray, I noticed. She looked soft, womanly,
motherly, and I wanted nothing more than to
throw my head onto her lap and cry my eyes
out.
She was Marilyn Jessamyn, my nanny,
governess, babysitter, and the closest thing to
a mother that I had ever had. Her hazel eyes
smiled up at me. “Anabel?”
“Miss Marilyn!” I shrieked, causing
everyone else in the room to turn their heads
and stare. But I didn’t care. As she stood up, I
sprang into her arms. “I’m so happy to see
you!”
“Sweetheart, you don’t need to call me
‘Miss Marilyn’ anymore.” There were tears
welling in her eyes. “You look gorgeous.”
I smiled. “You’re just saying that. It’s very
kind of you to lie.”
“No, I’m serious. You’re practically
glowing, you look so lovely!” Although I
stood a bit taller than she, she reached up and
smoothed my hair. “I guess DC life is suiting
you, huh?”
“I’m sorry I haven’t been in contact with
you,” I lamented. “I haven’t been allowed to
talk to anyone. Sam and Alexis and all of their
legal team are petrified I am going to say
something wrong.”
She frowned. “What could you possibly
say?”
A lot, actually, but I feigned innocence. “I
don’t know, but every word that does come
out of my mouth makes Alexis glare at Sam
and hurl angry French curse words at me.”
“Oh, my,” she said, with laughter in her
eyes.
“I wish I was making that up, I really do.”
I beamed at her. “It’s incredible to see you!
I’m surprised you are here though, they
46
weren’t letting in anyone but those of us
testifying and immediate family—” And then
it dawned on me. “You’re here with Charlie,
aren’t you?”
“Oh honey, I wanted to tell you.” She
extended her hand, and I saw the thin gold
band. “We got married!”
“That’s wonderful,” I managed, hugging
her again. “Where is Charlie?”
“Right here,” he said, coming up next to
her. “Hello, Anabel.”
“Hi Charlie,” I said, feeling shy. “It’s been
a long time?” It came out as a question. I
hadn’t meant it to.
He pulled me to him, but I still felt
awkward. I stepped back and offered, “I’m
sorry, I don’t know what’s wrong with me.
I’m really, really happy for the two of you.”
The both grinned lovingly at each other,
and I was then spared from further discomfort
by one of Sam’s many lawyers touching my
elbow. “Miss Martin? They want you to sit
over here.”
I smiled at the two of them, hoping it
didn’t look as fake as it felt, and followed Mr.
Benson over to one of the tables in the front.
He seated me next to Sam, who touched my
arm. “Are you okay?”
“Marilyn and Charlie got married,” I told
him.
“How do you feel about that?”
“Are you my shrink now? I feel great
about it. Fantastic. My father just died, why
don’t we talk about that next?”
Sam looked hurt, and I instantly regretted
it. “I’m sorry. I’m just on edge.” I slumped
back into my chair. “Please tell me that we’re
not sitting anywhere near that vile Jared
Sorensen.”
“I missed you too, Anabel.”
Open mouth, insert foot.
“Get away from her, Sorensen,” snapped
Sam, rising from his chair.
“Back off, Sam,” he said silkily. “I have
no interest in upsetting your little sister.” He
backed away and took a seat at the farthest
end of the table. I tried to not look at him, but
through many furtive glances I couldn’t help
but take in his perfectly styled blonde hair,
cool manner, and the suit that made him even
better-looking than normal. My heart skipped
a beat, and I scowled inwardly at myself. Now
was not the time to lose my head. I’d lost
enough to this man already. From then on, I
kept my eyes focused on the floor, trying to
calm the unsettling rage that was burning in
my stomach.
My name is Anabel Martin, and I want
Jared Sorensen to die.
A few more strangers wandered in, and
then the members of Congress filed into their
seats. Forgetting my resolve, I shot a sidelong
glance at Jared, which he seemed to notice as
he turned straightaway to focus on me. I
averted my eyes and pretended to be
concentrating
on
the
table
when
Congresswoman Fischer brought the hearing
to order.
There was a moment of tenuous silence,
and then she began, “Ladies and gentlemen,
welcome. So that we are all clear, these
hearings are to discuss the murder of...
Order on Amazon or
amandarominelynch.com to continue
reading this book.
Amanda is a writer,
blogger, and lover of
sushi and books. She
lives in Aldie,
Virginia, with her
husband and three
beautiful boys, where
she’s always looking
for her next
adventure.
Amanda R. Lynch
47
John sighed deeply and put his head in his
hands, feeling again the despair that doubting
God’s motives brought. He knew that He had
much more on his mind than one small town,
but why were things so bleak?
John knew that part of his job was to feel
this concern for his congregation and his
town. It was easy to worry about them, but
difficult on his heart and his faith. The
economic collapse had hit Sanderson harder
than most places. The town’s main financial
backbone – a garment-making factory – had
gone out of business, leaving most families
with an unemployed father, mother or both.
Just six years ago, the town’s central
business district had been thriving, along with
the factory, which produced, with great pride,
the world famous Sanderson line of high
quality winter coats. The owner of the
business, the matriarch of a family who had
never lived here, but who had chosen
Sanderson for its location near the city, had
died after a long battle with cancer. The
woman’s children seemed to lose their
enthusiasm for the Sanderson quality image
and eventually sold out to a large clothing
company that immediately began looking for
cost cuts.
When the new company announced it was
moving production overseas, the town was
shocked – the factory had been here for three
decades. No one was prepared for the slow
death that followed as people ran out of
money, stores closed their doors, and the
younger generation began to move away.
The hundred-year-old church that John
headed had dwindled from a full house on
Sundays down to 20 to 30 people each week.
John had received a letter from the main office
announcing that his beloved church would no
longer receive home office support as of
January 30. He’d gotten the letter nearly two
weeks ago, but John couldn’t bring himself to
tell his parishioners. He would be forced by
Holiday Connections
By F. Sharon Swope and Genilee Parente
Genre:
Short Stories
Pages: 254
Amazon.com and
swopeparente.com
"Keep the Doors Open" (Christmas)
For a community to be whole and healthy, it
must be based on people’s love and concern
for each other. — Millard Fuller, founder of
Habitat for Humanity
J
ohn Corrigan sat in the alcove along the
eastern side of his church. It was usually a
place of inspiration for the minister – the place
where the sun fell just right in the morning
through the colorful glass. This was where his
heart opened to God; where the words for
Sunday’s sermon always popped into his head.
Most Mondays, he began his work week in
this spot planning what he would do for his
community and congregation.
But it was Monday night. There was no
sunshine, and he’d felt no inspiration today,
only emptiness. Tonight, his mind wouldn’t
leave its focus on failures – the congregation’s
failure to pick itself up from hardship and
move on; his own failure as their minister to
inspire them to take action; and God’s failure
to hear the prayers sent from this struggling
town and this church’s poverty-stricken
congregation.
48
Christmas to tell the few attendees that
remained that their church would probably be
closing its doors the following month.
John bowed his head and closed his eyes.
“Tell me what to do, God. I know there is
no challenge that faith can’t conquer, but I
can’t seem to find that faith within myself.
The young man I was, that new pastor so full
of passion, seems to have gotten old, dusty
and ineffective. If I’ve lost my faith, how can I
be of any help to my congregation?”
John hugged his body and let a small sob
escape. He sat for a long time, letting the
occasional tear fall and rocking his weary
body back and forth. Finally, he got up,
walked to the altar and knelt to give a final
goodnight to his God. Instead, he could only
whisper, “Please, my Lord… send us a
miracle.”
He felt no comfort. John looked up at the
cross lit softly behind the altar, staring at it for
so long, his eyes began to see things: three
crosses – the middle one, the source of the
light, would be where Jesus’ body had hung,
John thought.
He shook his head to clear the vision and
rose, feeling his years in creaky knees and
shoulders.
When he turned to leave and lock up for
the night, he spotted a small girl in the back
row, her body reposed in prayer on the pews’
kneeling pads. He walked towards her,
realizing as he got closer she was not really a
girl, but a very small, thin woman. Her dress
was ragged and too big. When he got to her
side, he touched her gently on the shoulder,
which caused her to jerk as if she’d been
asleep.
He leaned over and said softly, “I’m afraid
you will have to leave. I’m about to lock up
the church for the night.”
The woman looked confused, then miffed.
“Lock up the church?” she cried. “I thought
churches were supposed to be open so that a
person could always find a place to be nearer
to God!”
John’s face colored as he stammered an
explanation, “We can’t really leave it open,
ma’am. We have to keep it safe from street
people and criminals.”
“You mean keep it safe from those who
really need God?” she said, her voice shaky
with emotion.
“Well I … I g-g-guess you’re right. But
I’ve been locking it up every night for many
years,”
John
stammered.
“It’s
my
responsibility to keep it safe for God.”
The woman now looked at him with scorn.
“Why would God care if someone stole a
hymn book or rested his or her weary head on
a pew?” the woman asked.
John had no answer. The woman was
right. He’d just never thought of it that way.
He’d kept the church locked not for God, but
for the people that expected him to safeguard
their community property. But the church, as
safe as he’d kept it, had not done much lately
for the people outside its doors.
John was simply too tired to argue. The
church doors would not be locked for the
night. In fact, he needed to lend this woman
some comfort.
“If you’re tired,” John said to the woman,
who had resumed her praying, “There’s a cot
in my office you can use tonight. I keep it
there for naps in the afternoon.”
With that statement, he left the woman
alone to her thoughts. He wasn’t really
comfortable leaving the doors unlocked, but
John would leave the church in the hands of
God this night as he sought sleep and rest in
the parsonage next door.
A night of rest was not what he got. John
tossed and turned, sleeping fitfully and
struggling with his thoughts. By 6 a.m., he
was relieved that it was time to get up and get
dressed. Setting the coffee pot to brew, he
rushed to the church, up the aisles and towards
49
the side where his office was, stopping just
outside to check the box where people left
money for the needy. The few donations that
had been collected in the last week remained
in place. When he opened the office door, he
heard, “Everything still there?” The woman
was sitting on the made-up cot and had
obviously heard the drop of the box lid.
He nodded his head, embarrassed that he’d
been caught. “I didn’t mean to wake you,” he
said softly.
“I’ve been awake,” she said.
“Are you hungry?” he asked. “Would you
like some coffee?”
“I’m not a beggar, nor a thief,” she replied,
rising as if to leave.
He turned away, defeated by her anger.
But he added over his shoulder, “Well, I’m
hungry and I’m going next door to my home
to get some breakfast. I’d very much enjoy
your company if you’d care to join me.”
He opened the other office door, which led
to the outside, went down the steps and began
to walk at a slow pace back to the parsonage.
When he was halfway across the lawn, he
heard her close the office door and follow.
John reached his kitchen, poured two cups
of coffee, and set one down on the table next
to an empty chair. Without speaking, he began
to fix scrambled eggs and toast, eventually
setting a full plate and fork in front of the
woman. He felt her eyes on his back the entire
time. He grabbed his own plate, loaded it with
eggs and sat across from her, still not saying a
word. She picked up a fork and began to eat.
When John was done, he sat back,
contemplating how he should counsel this
woman. A glance from her as she finished the
last bite silenced him before he could begin.
He had nothing to give. When the last sip of
her coffee was gone, she got up from the table
and said simply, “Thank you.”
He rose, then, and took her hand.
“I should thank you instead,” he said. “It’s
strange how sometimes we know deep down
that something as simple as a locked door to a
church is wrong, but it takes someone else to
break us of the habits we establish for the sake
of feeling safe.”
She nodded her head in agreement. “We
all need to listen more carefully to God and
not rely on headlines and people’s complaints
to make our decisions. God will tell us what is
right if we just hear what he’s saying once in a
while.”
He smiled then, and she smiled in
response.
“Your faith seems to be very strong,” he
said, dropping her hand. “I thought mine was,
too, but it seems to be faltering right now.
Things are rough for the town, the people and
the church.”
She seemed to gather her thoughts before
speaking.
“Sometimes,” she said, “those rough times
are what we need to wake up. They make us
realize how right the simple things in life can
feel. Just sitting and thinking about our
problems doesn’t help much. God helps those
who help themselves.”
She turned, opened the kitchen door and
left.
Later that day, John stood with his back to
his favorite alcove and let his eyes wander
around his beloved church, half expecting to
see the thin woman. All he saw was a church
with worn pews and furnishings. John
retreated to the alcove to pray.
“What can I do to make things more
bearable for my congregation?” he asked
aloud.
“Well, you could make the church at least
look cheerful.”
John’s head popped up. It wasn’t a
woman’s voice this time, but an older man –
large and broad and slightly overweight. The
man stood at the hall entrance to the alcove.
His long gray beard hid most of his face, but
50
hand clutching his staff. “Pitiful,” he thought
and set the worn manger scene aside.
The very next day, the repairman was
back, dragging a tree behind him. The two
men struggled with the too big tree and finally
decided the place it fit best was the left side of
the altar where it could be seen by all but was
out of the way of the communion service. “It’s
lovely,” John exclaimed, dusting his clothes
off and rubbing the dirt from his palms. “How
can we thank you enough?”
“I did my part,” the man said. “The
trimmings are up to you.” And with that, the
man left John alone with his thoughts.
That Sunday, instead of telling his
congregation about the closing of the church,
John gave his sermon on what a community
can do if it sets its mind to achieving a goal.
He kept seeing people glance towards the
huge empty tree standing at the preacher’s
side. At the end of the sermon, John explained
his idea.
“We are starting a tree of hope for own
town,” John said. “I want every one of you to
bring in a special decoration for this tree.
Nothing elaborate, just a bulb from your own
tree or something you’ve made with your own
hands – an ornament that has meaning for...
John was fairly certain he had never been a
congregation member.
“Cheerful?” John asked the man.
“Well at least a little merry. It’s two weeks
before Christmas and you don’t even have a
tree with lights. Why aren’t you celebrating
Jesus’ birth?” the man asked. He stood there,
holding a hat in his hands, shifting from foot
to foot. John was puzzled why the man was
here until he saw the company logo on the
man’s shirt and realized he was the heating
repairman he had called.
“We barely have enough money to have
you fix our furnace, much less enough for a
tree and lights,” John said with a deep sigh.
“Then do it without money. I don’t think
God cares how fancy the celebration is.” The
man paused to think, then looked around the
church and back at John. “I’ll tell you what,
I’ll get you started. I have a lovely fir tree in
my back yard that should really come down.
I’ll donate it to this church.”
“But we have no decorations!” John said.
“The last of them were broken last year by
some teenagers.”
The man shrugged his shoulders. “Then
ask people for them.” He turned and left to get
his toolkit.
John sat down. “Is it really that simple?”
he wondered aloud, remembering back to his
early years when the church held a midnight
mass each season that inspired the
congregation and got the children excited
about the wonder of Christmas and what it
really was. How long had it been since he’d
felt the spirit of the holidays?
While the heating repairman worked, John
went down to the church basement and
searched through the boxes stored there. All
he could find was a carton of wide red ribbon,
a rusty tree stand, and a worn-looking manger
scene. He brought it all upstairs. The baby
Jesus had turned gray. Mary’s gown was
almost black and Joseph had only half a left
Order on Amazon or swopeparente.com to
F. Sharon Swope
(former newspaper
columnist) and
Genilee Parente
(freelance writer) live
in the Woodbridge
area of Virginia.
Holiday Connections
is their first book of
short stories.
F. Sharon Swope &
Genilee Parente
51
could call themselves anything they wanted.
Amanda wasn’t as beautiful as her mother
but that didn’t matter to Kingsley. Amanda
was everything. Smart, rich, brave, and she
was his best friend. Her long, black hair was
pulled back in a messy ponytail and she
always wore dirty riding boots, even when she
was helping her priggish father search for fish
and frogs in the muggy woods.
Kingsley was a nobody, just the
overweight son of a missing dad and an
overbearing mom. He hunkered in the back
seat of the car, next to a large box filled with
work gloves, water-testing kits and empty
bottles. He figured Andrés had brought the
Prius to impress any eco-friends he might
encounter, leaving his BMW back at the
Sutherland mansion.
“How do you know if a frog has turned
gay?” Kingsley asked, which made Amanda
giggle. Kingsley felt a surge. Nothing was
better than hearing Amanda laugh.
“They’re not turning gay,” Andrés said as
he maneuvered the car down the gravel roads.
“Isn’t that what we’re looking for? Gay
frogs?”
“No,” Andrés said. “We’re testing the
water. Frog populations are being devastated
by a host of man-made toxins. Petroleum,
pesticides, and herbicides. Atrazine, for
instance, is an herbicide popular among the
large corn producers. I read a study that
claimed atrazine emasculated 75 percent of
exposed male frogs and turned 10 percent into
females.”
Kingsley fidgeted with his extra-large tshirt, pulling it down over his lap.
“It parallels what’s happening to alligator
populations,” Andrés said. “In some Florida
lakes, alligator genitalia are one-third the size
of what they used to be. Their reproduction
rate is almost down to zero. Petroleum-based
chemicals mimic estrogen and block
testosterone, permanently damaging the
Kingsley
By Carolyn O'Neal
Genre:
Science Fiction
Pages: 266
Amazon.com and
authorcarolynoneal.com
Chapter 1: Kingsley
G
nats swarmed, and thick poison-ivy vines
smothered the street signs. The
thermometer on the dashboard registered onehundred-and-one degrees. July in the dense,
humid forests of eastern Virginia was like a
jungle to thirteen-year-old Kingsley Smith. He
dreaded getting out of Andrés Santos’ airconditioned Prius. He’d stink worse than the
Sutherland stables. He didn’t know why
Andrés had to pick the hottest day of the year
to search for dead fish and gay frogs in some
backwoods stream near Williamsburg. Yes,
Kingsley was worried about the fish dying,
and yes, he was curious about the frogs
turning gay. But those weren’t the reasons he
volunteered to help Andrés. He volunteered
because of Amanda.
Amanda Santos Sutherland. She had told
Kingsley years ago that her last name, Santos
Sutherland, translated roughly into Saint from
the Southland in Spanish and Scottish. She
told him it reflected her parents’ heritage and
it was Spanish tradition to put the mother’s
maiden name at the end. Kingsley didn’t
know if that was true or not. Rich people
52
development of male fetuses. Scientists have
found abnormalities of their testis and smaller
penis size.”
Kingsley scowled. What sort of pervert
measures alligator dicks for a living?
“How close are we, Niña?” Andrés asked.
Andrés usually called Amanda Niña, which
Kingsley discovered after a meandering and
occasionally pornographic internet search
meant girl in Spanish.
Amanda read aloud the directions from her
phone. “Ten miles west of Williamsburg, near
the Chickahominy Riverfront Park.” She
scrolled down. “It’s called Methoataske
Creek. That means turtle laying eggs in
Shawnee.”
Kingsley wasn’t listening. He was
studying the back of her slender, light-brown
neck, wondering if she wore anything under
her skimpy ocean blue tank top—the
crisscross in the back suggested not—when
she suddenly turned around to face him.
“Maybe we’ll find some turtles,” she said.
Kingsley blushed and pulled his t-shirt to
his knees. “Hope so,” he mumbled.
He and Amanda had met when they were
both ten years old, right after Kingsley’s
mother started taking care of Amanda’s
grandmother, Leslie Sutherland. They’d sit
side by side in the back of Mrs. Sutherland’s
handicapped-accessible van, and he’d show
her tricks his friend Billy Jackson had taught
him. He’d turn his eyelids inside out, and
Amanda would squeal. He’d roll his eyeballs
up until only the whites showed, and Amanda
would laugh. Now, almost four years later,
Kingsley couldn’t think of anything to say that
wouldn’t sound idiotic. He rubbed the back of
his neck. Worrying about malformed alligator
dicks and how to impress the girl he loved had
given him a headache.
“Here we are,” Andrés said as he pulled
into an unpaved parking lot bordering a deep
woods. He stopped the car and passed out
gloves, giant black plastic garbage bags and
heavy-duty shears. Andrés carried the box of
empty bottles and water-test kits. “Follow
me,” he said to Kingsley and Amanda as he
headed into the forest.
“What are you testing for?” Amanda asked
as she and Kingsley followed.
“Bacteria, mercury, pesticides, lead,
nitrates, BPA, DEHP.” Andrés pushed aside
low-hanging vines and waved away
mosquitoes.
The humidity was relentless, and insects
swarmed every inch of exposed skin. “We
should have brought some OFF,” Kingsley
grumbled, swatting away clouds of insects.
Ahead, on the ground and tangled up with
weeds, were several broken wooden boxes,
each containing horizontal slats. “Looks like
abandoned beehives,” Andrés said. “Someone
dumped them here.”
Amanda ran ahead and pulled out one of
the horizontal slats. It was filled with small,
hexagonal-shaped cells. She pried the
shriveled cap off one of the cells with her
thumbnail uncovering the desiccated pupa
inside. “Colony collapse disorder,” she said,
looking up at her father. “Right, Daddy? The
workers disappear, leaving the queens and
babies to starve.”
“Looks like it, Niña,” Andrés said. “That’s
why we need to test the water. Too much
pollution and pesticide. It destroyed their
immune system and left them vulnerable to
parasites and disease.”
“Einstein said that if the bees disappeared,
man would soon follow,” Amanda said.
“That’s an urban legend,” Andrés
countered. “He never said that.”
“Maybe it was Mr. Spock,” Kingsley
offered grimly. “I get those two confused.”
They continued through the woods until
Andrés came to a small, shoulder-high tree
with feathery leaves. He broke off a leaf and
53
handed it to Kingsley. “Take a sniff.” It
smelled like burnt peanut butter. “Ailanthus
altissima,” Andrés said. “Also known as the
Tree-of-Heaven.” He turned to Amanda,
“Niña, go back to the car and bring me a
couple of shovels. I want you two to dig it
up.”
“In this heat?” Kingsley shooed away
sweat bees obsessively circling his head.
“Why do we have to dig it up?”
“Ailanthus altissima is an invasive species,
very nasty,” Andrés said. “It doesn’t provide
anything edible for wildlife, no nuts or seeds,
and it emits a poison that kills the roots of
native trees.”
Without saying a word, Amanda ran back
to the car while Andrés headed deeper into the
forest. Birds sang and squirrels chirped.
Dragonflies zigzagged and butterflies floated.
Something was constantly buzzing. Kingsley
nervously looked around. He’d never gone
camping. Never hiked in the woods before.
Never climbed a tree. None of his guy friends
had either. He hoped bears couldn’t smell the
sausage and eggs he’d eaten for breakfast. He
didn’t know what to do if he saw a bear.
“Amanda,” he called, trying to hide his fear.
No one answered. “Amanda, where are you?
Need any help?”
He heard a rustle and tensed. Amanda
reappeared, carrying two shovels. “Here,” she
said, handing one of the shovels to Kingsley.
She began digging around the small ailanthus
tree but the roots were connected to a long
series of other ailanthus trees, small and large,
winding through the woods like prisoners on a
chain gang. Amanda threw down her shovel
and wiped the perspiration off her forehead.
“There’s a million of them. This is
impossible.”
Kingsley didn’t give up. He cut the
tangled roots with the shears, and then dug
into the dirt, using his sizable bulk to bring up
the stubborn roots. Amanda smiled. “You’re
good at this,” she said. Kingsley grinned and
kept pounding at the roots, sure he’d sweated
away at least ten pounds by the time he’d dug
up the tap root. He hoped so at least. Amanda
pulled a water bottle from her backpack.
“You’ve earned this,” she said.
“Thanks,” Kingsley said, breathing hard.
He felt like a man, not just a pale, fat boy the
bullies at his middle school had nicknamed
beluga whale. He cocked his head, throwing
back his wet bangs, and leaned on the shovel.
“Maybe we could do this more often, you
know, help your dad dig up killer trees.”
Amanda laughed. “Killer trees, that’s
funny.”
Kingsley held his shovel like a sword,
ready to attack. Amanda pretended hers was a
rifle. It felt like old times, the two of them,
side-by-side.
Andrés reappeared from the woods,
breathless. “Niña! Kingsley! Come and look at
this!” He hurriedly led them through the
woods, and the landscape changed.
Disposable diapers, plastic shampoo
bottles, empty makeup compacts and everyday
trash littered the ground. Cracked gallon jugs
of bleach, open bottles of weed killer and
rusted cans of pesticide leaked into the stream.
Plastic grocery bags and partially deflated
Mylar balloons, with still-bright Get Well
Soon messages on them, billowed in the trees
like misshapen heads. Methoataske Creek
didn’t smell like fresh water running over
clean rocks, it smelled like rotten eggs and
petroleum.
Amanda waved her arms in disgust.
“People buy all this junk and then just throw it
out. No one cares anymore.”
“What’s that awful stink?” Kingsley
asked.
“Sewage,” Andrés said. “Probably from a
leaking septic tank or drain field. I don’t think
there’re any sewage treatment plants nearby.”
He pushed aside a pile of leaves with his boot,
54
uncovering old cans of motor oil. “Someone’s
been dumping here for a while, and it’s a
damn shame. One gallon of motor oil can
contaminate a million gallons of fresh water.”
He knelt and took a handful of mud. Black oil
ran between his fingers. “Neglect and abuse,
the real horsemen of the apocalypse.” He
dropped the mud and wiped off his hands. He
stood and jumped over the stream, using a
large rock as a stepping stone, beckoning
Amanda and Kingsley to follow. “Take a look
at this.” They hopped over the stream and
squatted beside Andrés. On a pile of wet
leaves was a small brown-and-yellow box
turtle, about the size of Kingsley’s closed fist.
The turtle didn’t move when Andrés picked
him up. His head flopped to the side.
“He’s so cute,” Amanda cooed.
“He’s sick,” Andrés said. “He should be
fighting to get away, or at least hiding in his
shell.” Andrés brushed a dead leaf off the
turtle’s small head. “Look at this.” A pink
bulge the size of an English pea poked up
from the back of the turtle’s head. “I read
about this in the Journal of Ecology. It’s
another sex-linked disease.”
“Like what’s happening to the frogs and
alligators?” Kingsley asked, wondering if the
turtle had shrunken privates.
Andrés nodded. “And what’s happening to
the honeybees. But this is a new disease,
Kingsley. It causes brain tumors and no one
knows why.”
“That’s horrible,” Amanda said. She
petted the turtle’s round shell. “Poor little guy.
Daddy, is that why mom’s stallion is sick? Do
you think the stallion and the turtle have the
same disease?”
Andrés winced and rubbed the back of his
head. “I hope not, Niña. That would mean it’s
moved up to mammals.” He returned to the
other side of the stream and placed the turtle
in the box with the water testing kits. “I’ll take
him to the wildlife center.”
Chapter 2: Turning Fourteen
T
he Sutherland Estate overlooked the York
River in eastern Virginia, on a cliff
composed of a hard clay called marlstone.
Because of this, someone in Sutherland family
history decided to name the estate Marlbank.
Kingsley and his mother had arrived in
Virginia almost four years earlier from New
Orleans when Kingsley was ten years old. His
mother was desperate for work and a place to
live, and Marlbank provided both. The
northwest border of the estate abutted the
Colonial National Park, location of the historic
Yorktown battlefield. When Kingsley was
younger, he and Amanda would slip under the
guardrails and explore the battlefield.
Kingsley loved playing in the grass-covered
trenches and on the antique cannons. Amanda
read the historical marker aloud, “In the fall of
1781, General George Washington, with allied
American and French forces, besieged
General Charles Lord Cornwallis’s British
army.” Kingsley and Amanda hid in the
trenches, sticks standing in for colonial
muskets, and battled the battery of cannons
chained beside the trenches like rows of
performing tigers. Kingsley climbed the...
Order on Amazon or
authorcarolynoneal.com to continue
reading this book.
Carolyn is an author
and environmentalist
from Charlottesville,
Virginia. Her short
story Silent Grace
won The Hook’s
short story contest.
Kingsley is her first
novel.
Carolyn O'Neal
55
looking black six inch silencer screwed into its
barrel. The man had the gun aimed directly at
Morrison’s chest.
Morrison threw up his hands. “Don’t
shoot. Take anything you want, but please
don’t shoot. Pleeeeeeze!”
He watched in horror as the man slowly
squeezed the trigger.
His instincts told him to run—he turned
and began to sprint down the sidewalk. He felt
like he was moving in slow motion or worst
yet, like he was under water.
PFLOPP! PFLOPP!
Two bullets ripped into his back. His last
sensation was the feeling that a huge fist had
knocked all of the air out of his lungs.
Tim Morrison was dead before he hit the
pavement.
The Tower
By Herrick Lyons
Genre:
Thriller/Suspense
Pages: 374
Amazon.com and
herricklyons.net
One
•••
THE NEW RED Honda Accord was stopped
for a red light at the intersection of Connecticut Avenue and L Street. It was seven-thirty in
the evening and the Washington DC summer
rush hour traffic was nearly over.
Tim Morrison tapped his fingers on the
steering wheel to the soft beat of Phil
Collins’s In the Air Tonight. The music filled
the car from the Honda’s Bose speakers. He
didn’t notice the black Camaro as it pulled up
behind him. Suddenly the Camaro rudely
slapped his rear bumper and Morrison was
thrown back in his seat and then forward
against the steering wheel.
Without thinking, he leapt out of the car to
survey the damage to his newly-prized possession. Normally he would’ve thought twice
about getting out of his car in any other part of
DC, but this was the business district of the
city.
He realized his mistake almost immediately. A man from the passenger side of the
Camaro was running toward his open door.
The driver was also out of the car and in his
hand he held 9mm Beretta with a mean-
IT WAS THE SECOND dreary morning that
Sommers had spent at the beach with his
family. He had never objected to his nickname
for his surname Jack Sommerstag since he
received it from a girlfriend in high school.
And it fit him like a comfortable shirt.
He awoke in a strange bed—in a strange
bedroom—in a beach house that smelled of
mildew and ocean. He could hear the light
misting rain that would be just enough to keep
Jenny and their two kids off the beach for the
day.
Still half-asleep, with his eyes closed he
ran through the alternatives. She could take
them shopping to the outlet mall in Nags Head
or find an indoor spot like a movie theater that
would keep their minds off the lack of sand
and surf. After all, this was Duck, and to do
anything halfway exciting you had to drive to
Nags Head or some place further down the
coast. Up the coast was Corolla, but that was
just more beach and hardly any stores.
Sommers stretched, swung his stiff legs
56
over the side of the bed and padded into the
kitchen—following the aroma of fresh coffee.
Jenny was standing near the linoleum-top
dinette table, which the owner had probably
considered it quite practical, when it was
purchased. She had poured him a cup when
she heard the wooden floors creaking in their
bedroom.
Jenny’s thirty-six years had been good to
her. She had kept her figure after having the
two children. Her hair was short and perky, as
Sommers liked to say. Light brown with a
touch of honey in it. Colored naturally by
hours spent in the sun, while reading books
and watching the kids play on the beach. She
had graduated from Loyola University in New
Orleans with a degree in Home Economics.
Jenny and Sommers would celebrate their
eleventh anniversary this September. Now it
was July and this was their yearly hallowed
vacation.
“Want some breakfast?” Jenny asked, in a
far too chipper way for Sommers.
“No, it’s too close to lunch time. Where
are the kids?” He asked, not really caring or
worried.
“They’re next door playing with their
cousins.”
This, after all, was also a family reunion of
sorts. Jenny and her sister, Beth, had started
these annual beach trips for both families after
her mother died of cancer three years before.
Sommers knew she was making sure the
family stayed together. Her dad, in his eightysecond year, was not up to these yearly
gatherings. He had stopped coming with them
last year. A single rainy day with four
screaming and bored kids would probably put
him over the edge anyway. Dinner twice a
month at his house was enough of a strain on
him.
Sommers on the other hand was an
orphan. Both of his parents had been killed
when he was only four, in a head-on collision
with a car driven by a small-time thief running
from a robbery. The thief was charged with
manslaughter because he was only sixteen
years old and had no priors.
Sommers had put himself through college
and made the Dean’s List three out of his four
years at the University of Maryland. He had
majored in Journalism and minored in
Communications. After graduation, he went to
work for a small ad agency, McGraw
Advertising Design. The company had grown,
and he liked the future he saw there. Now
forty and at the prime of his career, he felt like
he was a key-player in the agency and the sky
was the limit.
His hair was getting a little thin on top.
Being in advertising, he knew that growing a
beard would give him character and draw
attention away from his head. So he had last
year. After all, he thought, Jenny looked too
young for a bald-headed husband.
“What’s on the agenda today?” he asked,
hoping he wasn’t included. He had looked
forward to vegetating on the porch with his
latest book.
“Well, I thought I’d see if Beth and our
two broods would like to go to the Food Lion.
That should give the kids something to do.
Besides, I need some things for tonight’s
dinner.”
The evening’s dinner for both families
would be at their beach house tonight, and
Jenny would make her famous vegetarian
Lasagna. The families each alternated fixing
dinner for the whole group.
“Honey, that won’t make up for an entire
day of rain. Why don’t you take them to that
new water-park in Nags Head?” He was
determined to get some peace and quiet.
“Because it’s raining, silly!” she
laughingly replied.
“As long as there’s no lightening, a little
drizzle won’t get them any wetter. Besides,
they need to blow off some steam or we’ll pay
57
later.” Sommers was serious, but he knew
Jenny was scared to death of thunderstorms.
Even if there was no lightening, she was still
edgy.
After calling Beth, Jenny found that her
sister didn’t really want to trudge around in
the rain. Beth’s husband Larry had left the day
before, because of some computer disaster at
work. And Sommers didn’t mind. He got
along with Beth better than he did with her
husband. Something about computers and
advertising that didn’t mix.
Jenny asked Beth to send Joey and Cindy
home for lunch. Beth didn’t argue, because
out of their boredom, all four children were
beginning to snap at each other.
Beth was the youngest of the two sisters,
but only by one year. The standing joke
between them was, how could mom and dad
have been in such a hurry to have them, and
then stop having children altogether? Each
with two children of their own, they now
knew the answer.
Cabin fever at the beach is like cabin fever
anywhere. Except, maybe worse. There’s
supposed to be warm sun and cool surf, and
beach houses are not meant for long indoor
stays.
Jenny smiled to herself. She knew that
Sommers just wanted to sit on the little porch
outside their bedroom and read his book. He
hated sitting on the beach and sunbathing,
finding that it was unproductive and boring.
“We’ll do something that won’t interfere
with your reading” Jenny said smiling.
Acting hurt, but not too badly offended,
Sommers replied, “This is the only time I
enjoy just reading and sitting around. If we
were at home there’d be something that
needed fixing or cleaning.”
“I know dear. And that’s why we’re here.
So relax and enjoy your book.” She knew
Sommers would be cranky if he came along.
And she didn’t need three cranky kids.
AFTER THE THIRD car door slammed,
Sommers knew that Jenny, Joey and Cindy
were all in the car. He heard the gravel crunch
under the wheels as their blue Saab left the
beach house driveway.
Settling down into one of the two white
wicker chairs on the porch, he opened his
book to the author’s notes. This was a mystery
dealing with attorneys. Since Sommers had a
love-hate relationship with lawyers in general,
this was a perfect book for him.
After an hour of reading, Sommers
decided to get up and stretch. His throat was
dry and he had the beginnings of a headache.
Probably from reading with forty-year-old
eyes. Something cold to drink would be good.
There was a clean plastic cup on the
counter with some restaurant’s name in funny
letters stenciled on it. He picked up the cup
and walked to the refrigerator. He opened the
freezer door for ice and threw several cubes
into the cup. Next he opened the fridge, not
really knowing what he wanted. He spotted a
half gallon of Jenny’s spring water and some
day-old iced tea. He let the door swing shut
and turned to the tap on the sink and ran water
into the cup. The first sip turned into a spitting
stream of water. “God,” he thought, “this
water tastes like crap.”
It’s true that tap water at the beach is not
very good, even at its best. Most of the rental
houses on Duck had water purifiers that were
added by their owners in the late eighties, and
this house was in definite need of one.
Sommers poured the rest of the water
down the drain and filled the cup with the dayold tea. There was a bottle of aspirin on the
counter. He emptied three tablets into his hand
and threw them into his mouth. The tea was
strong but it got the pills down.
He returned to the porch and picked up his
book. As he looked out over the Sound, he
noticed a green water tower blocking part of
58
his view. The tower had always been there,
but it hadn’t really meant anything to him
until his bout with the tap water. Now it gave
new meaning to the words bad taste.
He sat back down and opened the book. It
wasn’t very good, and he had made a point to
buy the expensive hard-cover version because
the print was larger. Larger print, even though
he didn’t need glasses, was much easier to
read. Even if his headache contradicted the
thought.
He remembered seeing a sign for a public
library on the Route 158 Bypass in Currituck.
A library would let him browse at his own
pace and find a good novel. Not one that had a
lot of hype on the back of a fancy raised-color
cover. Definitely not like the one in his hand.
He went into the bedroom and slipped out
of his lime green swim trunks. He grabbed a
pair of shorts from a dresser drawer. Then he
threw on yesterday’s madras shirt, a pair of
crumpled khaki slacks, and his five-year-old
docksiders—thinking to himself—getting
dressed-up at the beach meant adding socks to
his wardrobe.
with the kids and met her sister for the first
week. He came down on the Tuesday of the
second week. Actually, Sommers didn’t mind
the drive by himself. It gave him time to clear
the cobwebs out of his head, and it also gave
them two cars at the beach. Which also gave
him a little extra freedom. Sommers really
enjoyed his solo drives, exploring Nags Head
and the nearby towns. Duck was small, and it
became less of a challenge every time he went
for a drive.
Once in the library, Sommers realized that
he hadn’t been inside one in years. There was
a gray-haired man sitting behind one of those
caramel-colored oak desks that reminded him
of the furniture you see in schools. Except for
the man, the place was empty. Probably
because of the rain, he thought to himself.
Sommers walked over to the desk. “Do
you have any books by Peter Miles?”
“Nope,” replied the librarian. “He’s too
new, and his first three books are still on the
best-seller list.”
Sommers noticed a water fountain next to
a door marked OFFICE. “Is that beach water
in the drinking fountain?”
The librarian looked up and then over at
the fountain. “No, it’s city water. You’re in
Currituck County.”
THE LIBRARY was built only for utilitarian
purposes. With its cinder-block walls painted
municipal green and its flat roof, it looked
dreary in the now pouring rain. Sommers
jumped out of the car banging his knee on the
door of the little red Ford Fiesta. This was his
car, since Jenny wouldn’t drive stick shift.
Although it was small, the car reminded
Sommers of a little red Austin-Healey Sprite
he’d had in college. If he could have taken off
for the full two weeks that he and Jenny had
rented the cottage for, they would all have
come in the Saab. But Sommers’ ad agency
was pitching VISTA Technologies, the largest
defense contractor in the free world—hell the
world.
He had been informed that two weeks off
were out of the question. So Jenny came down
Order on Amazon or herricklyons.net to
Herrick Lyons, aka
Don Sparkman, lives
in Bristow, Virginia.
He has also written a
best-selling book for
designers called
Selling Graphic &
Web Design. This is
his third political
thriller.
Herrick Lyons
59
60
61
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62
BOOK TITLE WORD SEARCH (Vol. 1)
E
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PEOPLE WHO NEED TO DIE
HITLERS TIME MACHINE
OLD ROADS AND NEW EXITS
LOVE LIKE FALL
JUNIOR INQUISITOR
MEMORY LAKE
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BLINDED BY DECEPTION
MESSAGES FROM NATURE
ANABEL UNRAVELED
WHO GETS TO NAME GRANDMA
HOLIDAY CONNECTIONS
KINGSLEY
THE TOWER
One of the titles is missing. Which one is it? _____________________
63

pdf version - Victor Rook

Transcription

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