I am honored and humbled to be named July Spotlight Author for Rave Reviews Book Club. #RRBC is the home of incredible readers and writers who adore the written word as much as I do. If you are an author and looking for the best support and camaraderie around, check us out and join the fun. You won’t regret it. I certainly have enjoyed by five years of membership.
Here is an excellent example of the support they continue to give me:
#RRBC, and especially our great president, Nonnie Jules, thank you so much for all you do for aspiring writers like me.
We made it to Friday, but before you start your weekend, please let me introduce you to Bernard Foong, a very-talented #RWISA author. He has a story to share with you today.
Vignettes Parisian
Vignettes
Parisian is a collection of four short stories about the Author’s past and
present experiences in the French City of Love and Romance, commonly known as
Paris.
Christian Dior
Couturier Du Reve
It is
impossible not to have a close encounter with fashion when I am in Paris. Even if
I had to wait in the freezing cold for an hour and a half to enter the Christian
Dior Couturier Du Reve (Christian Dior
Couturier of Dreams)exhibition
at the Musée des Arts Décoratifs (Museum
of Decorative Arts). My husband, Walter, and I were the
lucky few who arrived early before the museum opened its doors. The late
arrivals were banished to the back of the queue for a five hours wait before
admission was granted.
This
spectacular exhibition was worth the wait. Not only were the lives, times, and
accomplishments of Christian Dior, one of the great French couturier and his
successors well documented, the exquisite
fashions and well-thought-out displays were equally impressive.
Since
my first visit in 1966 to the French capital of romance, luxury, and fashion, my
love for Paris has never waned. Before I
left sunny Maui, I had designed and made a haute couture gold, silver, and
black embossed velvet fleur-de-lis patterned coat to wear during my recent holiday
in France. It was at this exhibition that I received compliments for my one-of-a-kind
creation.
A
stranger approached me at the exhibition to buy the coat off my back because he
loved what I wore. Perhaps I should be the next designer to take over the reins
for this resplendent Maison – The House of Dior. After all, I am a knowledgeable
and seasoned fashion designer who knows every aspect of the international fashion
industry.
Shopping In
Paris (Then & Now)
I am one of those blessed
individuals with a pair of discerning eyes and can detect items I wish to
purchase in cramped spaces on my crazy shopping sprees. It was in such a
circumstance that Walter and I found ourselves in the middle of the crowded shopping
Avenue, des Champs Elysées.
A sole of my shoe had divorced
itself from the body of my long-lasting suedes and left me to hobble around
Paris like a circus clown with flapping feet. I had to take immediate action to
remedy this unanticipated situation before the remainder of my footwear
disintegrated onto the wet and soggy ground, while my beloved, sniggered at my
fashion malfunction.
I remembered an amusing incident
that happened in 1969 at this boulevard. Back then, I was a bright-eyed and bushy-tailed
fashion student. Accompanying Moi was Count Mario, an accomplished Vogue
fashion photographer, Andy, my model-looking lover and Valet, and Sammy, a flamboyant
young fashionista. The four of us were shopping at the avenue, that drizzly day.
To elongate his petite stature beneath
his wide bell-bottom jeans, Sammy wore a pair of eight inches high platform
shoes. He also donned a fitted denim jacket over a sassy body-hugging bodysuit.
To complete his eccentric ensemble, his dyed cornflower yellow, emerald, and turquoise
hair flowed behind him like an exotic mane as our quartet floated down the street.
Eyes turned in our direction as we
trotted around Paris in style. Before I realized what had transpired, Sammy was
flat on the pavement. Colorful socks bounced around him like raptured pom-poms.
The lad had stuffed pairs of rolled-up socks inside his footwear so he could fit
his tiny feet into the platforms. He had stumbled on the wet and slippery
sidewalk.
Mario, wasted no time whipping out
his camera to capture this unanticipated fashion faux pas, while Andy and I
looked on in shock.
As if modeling for a Vogue fashion
shoot, the quick-witted Sam posed this way and that on the wet thoroughfare while
the photographer clicked away at the gaffe. A pedestrian circle had formed in
the middle of Avenue des Champs Elysées to witness this “fashion happening.” Advertently,
our friend had transformed an embarrassing situation into a photo-opt as the
applauding crowd showered the boy with accolades. By the time Sammy got on his
feet, he had saved his face with poise and grace.
The Magical Power of The Written Word
“Why are there beds located at
different corners of the bookstore?” I asked Monsieur Mercier, an
assistant at the Shakespeare & Company bookshop.
“The beds are available for writers
to stay a night in Paris for free,” the man
responded before he resumed, “ Are you a writer? Do you intend
to stay the night?”
Surprised by the man’s inquiries, I
evinced, “I am a writer. But no thank
you to the lodging offer.”
“What genre of books do you write,
Monsieur?” Mercier queried.
“I’m an autobiographer,” I replied.
“Because of its controversial and
provocative contents, my books are often classified under the Erotica genre.”
The bookseller questioned, “What are the titles of your books, and what
is the author’s name?”
“A HAREM BOY’S SAGA; A MEMOIR BY YOUNG. It’s a
five-book series,” I declared.
“I believe we have your books in
the store. Are the titles: INITIATION, UNBRIDLED, DEBAUCHERY, TURPITUDE, and
METANOIA?” he promulgated.
I nodded, delighted by his
information.
The Frenchman led me through a
series of narrow pathways covered with volumes and pamphlets of the written
word. When he finally extracted five volumes of my autobiography from a shelf,
my heart nearly leaped out of my chest.
“I read the series. What a
compelling teenage life you’ve led. I wish my school had a secret fraternity
program like yours,” the teller quipped smilingly.
He recommenced,
“Our store is a focal point of English literature in Paris. Anais Nin, Henry
Miller, and Richard Wright are frequent visitors. We also host literary
activities, like poetry readings, writers’ meetings, book readings, writing
festivals, literature festivals, photography workshops, writing groups, and
Sunday tea.
“Ms. Sylvia Whitman, the owner, might
invite you for a book reading at our store.”
“That will be splendid.
Unfortunately, my husband and I are in Paris for a short period. Maybe we can
arrange a book reading and signing session when we are in Paris again,” I proposed.
Monsieur Mercier and I had exchanged
contact information before I left the Shakespeare & Company bookshop.
Hopefully, during my next visit to Paree, I will get to meet Madam Sylvia
Whitman with a book reading and signing gig in place.
S.O.W. and
R.E.A.P.
Over the years, I have been asked
by many, “Why do you love Paris so
much?” My reply is always the same – S.O.W.
Although the Parisian cityscape has
changed over the years, these three alphabets continue to shadow my existence
whenever I am in or out of Paris. S.O.W. is also a reason Walter and I chose
France as our home away from home.
In the autumn of 1966, when the Simorgh
(one of my Arab patriarch’s private jet) touched down in Charles de Gaulle
airport, I had contracted the romance bug. Back then, the ebullient Moi,
an inquisitive teenager with a quest for adventure, was whisked to the Paris
Ritz Carlton in a luxurious Bentley by my host, Prince P. I had fallen
head-over-heels in love and in awe with both the prince, Andy, my then chaperone
and Valet, and Paris, the city of romance. That was before our entourage visited
the haute couture fashion Houses of Chanel, Dior, Ungaro, Givenchy, Yves Saint Laurent,
Patou, and the fancy eateries, such as Café de Flore, La Belle Époque, Maxim’s,
and last but by no means least, Le Folies Bergers. Back then, these infamous
Parisian establishments were places to go, to see and be seen. Nowadays, they are
tourist attractions.
Through
the subsequent years, I had accompanied many princes, princesses, sheiks,
sheikas, and their aristocratic Arabian entourages to the French capital. Most significantly,
this city of love and romance had taught me the art of Seduction(S), Originality (O), and Wit (W). Some may say that wittiness
is a congenital trait, but I purport it as a learned art of human
relationships. Whatever definition one chooses to use, I had returned to this
electrifying metropolis of S.O.W.; where I had sown many a wild oat. Now,
with my beloved husband in tow, I’m here to R.E.A.P. its rewards.
“What the hell is R.E.A.P.?” you ask.
I will explain:
R – Romance
continues to exist in this alluring Capital of Love; even amid an influx of
foreign refugees and political upheavals. Another series of stories, I will
narrate another time.
E – Elegance
in this sordid city of high culture is a trait Walter and I find irresistibly
seductive.
A – Authenticity
is historicity in this Center of Romance. And I am not referring to the faux
reproduction of the Las Vegas ‘Paris’ in Nevada, United States of America.
P – Paris
equals Sophistication, Originality, Wit, Romance, Elegance, and Authenticity.
But last and by no means least, this French capital is where Perfection
reigns supreme.
PARIS – Mon
Paree!
Bernard Foong (aka Young)
Thank you for supporting this member along the WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour today! We ask that if you have enjoyed this member’s writing, please visit their Author Page on the RWISA
site, where you can find more of their writing, along with their
contact and social media links, if they’ve turned you into a fan.
We ask that you also check out their books in the RWISA or RRBC
catalogs. Thanks, again for your support and we hope that you will
follow each member along this amazing tour of talent! Don’t forget to
click the link below to learn more about this author:
The days just seem to fly by. It is Thursday on the Join the Adventure blog, which means it is time to introduce you to yet another tremendous #RWISA author. Today’s guest is writer Ron Yates. Take it away, Ron!
Burning Out in Tokyo
By
Ronald E. Yates
Clayton Brandt
stood just behind the glass doors of the Ministry of International Trade and
Industry building waiting for a let-up in the storm that pummeled the hot Tokyo
pavement. Wisps of vapor rose into the air as the rain hit the warm ground.
He searched the eight-lane
boulevard in front of the MITI building for an empty taxi. He knew it could be a
long wait before an empty cab came down Sakurada-Dori. Thousands of bureaucrats
glutted Tokyo’s Kasumigaseki district, and whenever it rained, it seemed like
all of them wanted a taxi.
“Son of a
bitch!” he said, his words echoing through the lobby. Two middle-aged
Japanese bureaucrats standing nearby looked over at the tall foreigner. They understood
that English phrase.
Clayton grinned. “Ame-ga
futte imasu,” he said.
The two men looked
at one another and then back at Clayton as if to say: “Yes, we can see it is raining. But is that any excuse for such a
rude public outburst?”
Clayton sighed, opened
his umbrella, and stepped out into the downpour. He turned right and hurried through
the governmental heartland of Japan, maneuvering his 6-foot, 3-inch frame through
the crowded sidewalk glutted with black and gray umbrellas. Sometimes the edge
of an umbrella held by a much shorter Japanese man or woman slashed at his throat
or slapped against his face. Whenever it rained, and the umbrellas came out,
Clayton always felt Gulliveresque—like a giant trapped in a forest of
undulating toadstools.
He looked up at the
leaden April sky. The rain had drenched Tokyo for the past four days, covering
the ground with a pink and white patina of delicate sakura blossoms. A slow
rumble of thunder curled between the squat granite structures of Kasumigaseki.
Clayton looked at his watch. It was four-thirty and the evening traffic was already
crawling. He had hoped to get his story written and filed by six o’clock, but
the briefing about Japan’s angry reaction to Washington’s decision to bar the U.S.
government’s purchase of Japanese supercomputers had taken longer than usual.
The sky rumbled
again, and bolts of lightning streaked overhead. A taxi pulled up outside the
Ministry of Health and Welfare and was disgorging three Japanese bureaucrats in
dark blue suits. Clayton closed his umbrella and dashed for the cab splashing
through rivulets of water as he ran. The three men had barely climbed out
before Clayton bolted past them and into the rear seat. He gave the driver his destination,
closed his eyes, and rested his head on the seat back as the taxi inched its way
back into the gridlock.
Every so often, his
eyes opened just long enough to take in the somber Tokyo landscape. The perpetually
gray skies of Tokyo didn’t do his already sepulchral spirit any good. In fact, very
little seemed to buoy his disposition these days. He couldn’t help it. He felt depressed
and probably a bit too sorry for himself. A few hours before the MITI briefing,
he had suffered through another of those telephone “chats” with Max,
the foreign editor of Global News Service in London about expenses and the need
to cut back on costs.
“O.K., O.K. Max,”
Clayton had sighed bleakly into the phone. “I get the picture.”
The exchange ended
with Max suggesting that Clayton not be such a “cowboy.” A “cowboy?”
Why? Just because he was from Oxford, Kansas and not Oxford, England? It wasn’t
easy working for a bunch of Brits when you sounded more like Garth Brooks than
Sir Laurence Olivier. But he knew what Max meant.
Clayton was an
iconoclast in a profession that increasingly rewarded conformity rather than
individualism. Newspapers today all looked alike, loaded with the same
predictable stories about the same predictable events. It was rubber-stamp
journalism practiced by rubber-stamp editors who worked for rubber-stamp publishers
who worked for boards of directors who wanted twenty percent operating profit
margins above all else—quality journalism be damned.
He went over the notes he had hurriedly scribbled
during the MITI briefing, searching for the lead of his story. His pen
scratched heavy lines under the words “ill-conceived” and
“studying our response.” Then he stuffed the notebook back into his bag.
“It’s over,” Clayton thought to himself as he watched the snarl of cars
and trucks crawl along Uchibori-Dori through Kokyo-Gaien, the large plaza that
fronted the walled Imperial Palace. It was as if today he had been forced
finally to confront the inevitable mortality of his professional career; or at
least of his particular brand of journalism. He was writing the same boring
stories over and over again. Where was the challenge? The sense of
accomplishment?
Clayton exhaled and
gazed out the taxi window at the striated, ashen facades of drenched buildings.
They reminded him of the mascara-smudged faces of women weeping at a rainy graveside.
He closed his eyes
and nudged his mind away from the depressing Tokyo landscape. Soon it was obediently
shuffling through old images of another, more beguiling Asia. It was an Asia of
genial evenings spent beneath traveler palms; of graceful, colonial-era hotels
in Singapore and Malaysia with their chalky plaster facades and their broad
verandahs peppered with rattan settees and peacock chairs; of slowly turning
teakwood paddle fans that moved the heavy night air with just enough authority
to create a light breeze, but not enough to obliterate the sweet scent of
evening jasmine. THAT was the Asia he missed; the Orient of the past.
Yes, it was ending.
Clayton could feel it. It had been a good run . . . A good career. But now the
journey was ending, like a train that had roared through the night and was now
pulling into its last station. How many times had he almost gotten off only to
be lured back on by the promise of what lay ahead at the next stop? How many
times had he been disappointed by that decision? How many times had he been
rewarded? At first, the rewards outweighed the disappointments, but in recent
years, as he had grown older, the regrets seemed to have gained a definite
edge.
For one thing, the
passengers kept changing. And the conductors. And the engineers. But what did
he expect? Wasn’t that the way the world worked? What was it that Tennyson had written:
“The old order changeth, yielding
place to new?”
Clayton shuddered. Was
he the old order? Should he be yielding? Was he burned out?
Maybe he was becoming
the old order, Clayton thought. But he wasn’t burned out just yet. And if there
was any yielding to do, he wanted it on his own terms. The trouble was, the
gulf of time between his past glories and the imminence of the callow, computer
savvy handlers in the home office who controlled his destiny was becoming
almost unbridgeable.
Most of his career
predated cell phones and computers. For the computer literates at Global, his life’s
work might as well be stored on some remote database. As it was, he existed
only in yellowing newspaper clips, aging telexes, and letters of commendation
that were kept in his personal file back in London. And nobody bothered to look
at that stuff anymore.
It made no
difference, Clayton thought. In the mutable, evanescent province that modern
journalism had become, it was ancient history. Hell, HE was ancient history. He
was like a piece of old journalistic parchment—readable, but, unlike a
computer, much less utilitarian.
What Clayton needed
was another journalistic rush . . . A story he could get hold of and play like
a newly discovered Mozart piano concerto. He needed something . . . Not to
satisfy the yuppies back at Global, but to give him a reason to get back on the
train and to leave the station again.
The taxi slewed to
a stop like a wooden bathhouse sandal skidding
along a wet tile floor. Clayton looked up. They were in front of the Kawabata
Building.
“Kawabata Biru,
desu,” the driver announced.
Clayton fumbled in his
pocket, handed the driver a one thousand yen note, and waited for his change.
Then he bolted through the swirling Tokyo rain and put his shoulder against the
massive glass and steel doors of the Kawabata Building. Unlike most of Tokyo’s
modern structures, the Kawabata Building didn’t have sleek automatic glass
doors that hissed serpent-like and opened automatically at the approach of a
human being. It was a pre-war relic—an architectural throw-back with cracked
marble floors and a fading art deco interior that had somehow survived the
allied bombings.
The building’s
deteriorating facade, which was the color of dead autumn leaves, seemed to
glower at the world—like the rumpled brow of an angry old man. But the tumble-down
building had an undeniable individuality in a country that too often prized
sameness, and that was the reason Clayton liked it and had refused an offer to
move into one of the new glass and steel “smart buildings” that
soared over Tokyo’s Otemachi district.
He paused to talk
for a moment with the old woman who operated the small grocery and newsstand tucked
away in the corner of the lobby. From his many conversations with her, Clayton had
learned that the old woman had operated her little concession since 1938 and
knew the building’s history better than anybody.
She smiled as
Clayton’s towering frame bent toward her in one of those peculiar half bows
that Japanese make when they are in a hurry. Japanese could do it with a
certain grace; but not Clayton. When this big foreigner bowed, he always looked
like he was on the verge of crashing to the ground like a gingko tree struck by
lightning. Nevertheless, she liked this gaijin. Ordinarily, she merely tolerated
foreigners, but this one had a solitary charm. He was big, but not threatening;
assertive, but not arrogant.
“So, Oba-san, Genki
datta?” Clayton asked, combining the Japanese honorific for “grandmother” with
the less formal interrogative for “how are you?”
“Genki-yo,”
the old woman replied. Clayton picked up a package of Pocky chocolates and placed a one hundred yen coin in the old
woman’s hand.
“Sayonara,” Clayton
said as he turned and scuttled toward the bank of elevators.
“Sonna ni
hatarakanai ho ga ii desu!” the old woman called after him.
Clayton smiled and
nodded over his shoulder. The old woman was right. He was working too hard, and
where was it getting him? Back on a train to oblivion?
“Oh, get over it,” Clayton thought as the elevator door closed. “You’ve got a story to write. Feel sorry for
yourself AFTER you make your friggin’ deadline! Besides, what else do you know
how to do, you old hack! Burning out is not an option.”
The End
Thank you for supporting this member along the WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour today! We ask that if you have enjoyed this member’s writing, please visit their Author Page on the RWISA
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contact and social media links, if they’ve turned you into a fan.
We ask that you also check out their books in the RWISA or RRBC
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follow each member along this amazing tour of talent! Don’t forget to
click the link below to learn more about this author:
Happy Wednesday! It is a new day and we have another incredible #RWISA author taking the helm of the blog today. Karen Ingalls is here to make your day.
NATURE SPEAKS
Why
did my life spiral into darkness in a second? One minute I am married to my
soulmate, a mother to a beautiful daughter, and owner of a successful
bookstore. My friends asked me, “How do you have the perfect life? It is
so easy for you.” They were right. I had the perfect life.
My
husband was an engineer, and I opened a bookstore naming it Mile High
Books offering old and new books, coffee or tea. Leather chairs and
couches provided comfort to the patrons. Classical music played in the
background. I loved going to my store enjoying the smell of books, coffee, and
leather.
We
had our first and only child, Lynn who also loved classical music and dreamed
of being a ballet dancer.
One
Saturday morning, my life changed forever. I had awakened with a migraine
headache, which was intolerable. It was best if I stayed in a dark, quiet room
until the medication relieved the blinding pain.
My
husband, Miles volunteered to run the bookstore that fateful day. “Lynn and I
can manage the bookstore today. You stay home and take care of the headache.”
He leaned over and kissed me. “I love you,” were the last words I would hear
him say.
I
curled up, closed my eyes, and waited for the pain to go away.
A
pounding on the front door and the continuous ringing of the bell awakened me.
“This had better be important,” I muttered while staggering down the
stairs. Two police officers with grim looks were standing on the porch. I
collapsed when the words, fire, death, husband, daughter floated
around my confused mind.
My once
perfect life was unbearable with the memories of it everywhere. I sold
everything, bought a second-hand Volkswagen Beetle, and drove west with just
the clothes on my back and a photograph of Miles, Lynn and me. I didn’t
know where I was going, but I didn’t care.
The
small cabin in the foothills of Costa Mesa, California overlooking the Pacific
Ocean was my new residence. It was not a home. It was a place to sleep, eat and
try to escape from my past.
The
land was arid with brush, oak trees, scattered thistle weeds, and clay
soil. Every evening, I walked down a short path from the cabin to a flattened
area where I sat under a large oak tree and watched the sun dip into the ocean.
One day at dusk, I leaned against the tree, closed my eyes and dreamed
that Miles arms were around me while we watched Lynn ballet dance on a large
stage. I could hear the music of Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake.
When
I awoke there were two limbs embracing me, and leaves and acorns were swirling
around creating Tchaikovsky’s music. “Am I still dreaming?” The bark of
the trunk and the limbs was rough and uncomfortable. I squirmed and pulled at
the limbs. “What is happening? This is crazy.” I yelled for someone to help me,
but the only words I heard were not human.
Ginny,
you are a strong woman. Use your strength to get through this storm in your
life.
I
pulled the limbs off, jumped up, and looked around expecting to see
someone nearby. “Is anyone here?” I yelled again. Everything was quiet. A full
moon radiated light around me.
Staring
at the tree, I brushed my clothes, scratched my head, and said, “That was
quite a dream, but how did those limbs wrap around me?” I shook my head trying
to clear the confusion. “It was a beautiful dream of Miles and Lynn. I miss
them so much.” With the sleeve of my sweater I wiped the tears. “I’ve got to
get hold of myself. I’m losing my mind.”
The
voice said. That was not a dream. I am here to help you.
“Oh,
my God, I am going crazy. Trees don’t talk.”
Ginny,
you are not going crazy. All trees talk, but humans do not listen. Do you
remember your friend, Meredith who told you she talks to trees?
I
nodded. “How do you…?”
I
saw a friendly face of a kind, elderly man etched in the trunk. Every flora
and fauna communes with humans, but they are too busy or unbelieving to listen
and learn from us.
I
fell to my knees, grabbed a handful of soil, and watched it slowly stream out
of my clenched fist. “This was my life. Time was going by with no
troubles.” I opened my fist and let the soil out in one burst. “Then
everything changed. My life was never the same. It is now an empty hand.” I
sobbed and my whole body shook.
You
are strong. Your faith is like my roots: stretching wide and going deep.
The
limbs stretched out, wrapped around my shoulders and leaned me against the
trunk. Miles and Lynn are speaking to you through me.
Then
I heard them say, We love you and will always be with you. Follow your
heart.
The
limbs were gentle and comforting. The rough bark was now smooth. My tears dried
up, and I drifted into a deep and peaceful sleep.
The
warm and bright rays of the morning sun radiated through the tree’s canopy
bringing warmth to my body nestled against the oak tree. Standing up, I
stretched and looked out at the blue waters of the Pacific marveling at its
majesty and beauty. I smiled as the words follow your heart floated
around. “Wow! That was quite a dream.”
I
walked a few steps on the path back towards the cabin. I stopped and looked
back at the oak tree. “It might have all been a dream, but thank you.”
A
thistle plant with its purple flower in full bloom was further up the
path. I stopped. “You are beautiful, but your spikes are sharp.”
The
spikes turned inward. Do not let fear hold you back.
I
couldn’t believe what was happening. “Now I hear a flower talking to me. I am
going crazy.”
The
thistle plant swayed back and forth though there was no breeze. It bent forward
bringing its flower near my hands. Touch me and accept my gift of peace.
I
placed my hand on the purple flower and a deep sense of serenity swept over me.
For the first time since the deaths of my family I was at peace. I whispered
“Thank you.”
A
short distance from the cabin porch, I saw the white silken top of a trapdoor
spider’s home. I did not remember seeing it before and bent down to get a
closer look. The trapdoor opened and a dark spider poked his head out. I
stumbled as I tried to jump back.
The
spider was small and ugly with fine hairs covering its dark brown body. He was
frightening to look at, but his kind words put me at ease. You have
walked by many doors, but you didn’t open them.
“What
is going on? I am hallucinating with all these voices in my head.”
You
are not hallucinating. Your family is talking to you through the oak tree, the
thistle and me. The spider moved back into his home
and closed the trapdoor.
For
days I paced around the cabin, reliving each moment and the words about
strength, peace, and opportunities. I prayed and cried. I read about
mysticism and nature.
One
morning, I awoke and saw Miles and Lynn standing beside my bed. We will
always be with you in your heart. Let nature continue to teach you.
The
magnificent oak tree taught how to be strong of body, mind, and heart. Staying
healthy and opening my arms to others became my ways of living.
I
found beauty in my life and other people after removing my thorns of bitterness
and self-pity.
My
cabin was a trap shutting out people until I opened its doors and
made it a home and retreat center. I added rooms for guests to stay
and classrooms for teaching.
I
called my new endeavor Nature Speaks, helping people to commune
with and learn from all aspects of nature. When people open their hearts and
minds to nature there are opportunities for a richer life.
Thank you for supporting this member along the WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour today! We ask that if you have enjoyed this member’s writing, please visit their Author Page on the RWISA
site, where you can find more of their writing, along with their
contact and social media links, if they’ve turned you into a fan.
We ask that you also check out their books in the RWISA or RRBC
catalogs. Thanks, again for your support and we hope that you will
follow each member along this amazing tour of talent! Don’t forget to
click the link below to learn more about this author:
It is Tuesday on the Join the Adventure blog and time to hear from another great #RWISA author. Today, our guest is Suzanne Burke. The blog is yours, Suzanne.
THURSDAY’S CHILD
By
Suzanne Burke.
Copyright 2019.
She hadn’t really intended this to happen. Oh, sure,
she’d thought about it often enough, but thinking about something didn’t
make it a crime. A convergence of circumstances had prompted her choice. Regret
was such an outmoded commodity.
She checked her latex gloves fitted well, and flicked her
dark eyed gaze across to where Peter Cameron lay, still and silent. “You
brought this on yourself, Peter. Did you think me a complete fool?”
Carol moved across to the edge of the bed and stood over him.
She reached down and flicked the blonde hair back from his forehead, then gently
rested her hand there.
“You’re cold. Shall I fetch you a blanket?” Her laughter
soothed her.
The man’s eyes were now open, and Carol revelled in the fear
she witnessed in their blue depths. “Ah, there you are. How do you feel?”
She laughed again. “Oh, silly me. You can’t feel anything. Can you? Such
a handy little drug, and no taste I believe, especially in your malt whiskey.”
Peter Cameron’s blue eyes registered the words and Carol
watched on as he commanded his brain to activate his fingers, his arms. He had
no control of his voicebox. His brain refused to obey. He remained still.
“Oh, don’t fret so, darling. You’re not going to die … yet.
The paralysis will last just long enough for my needs. It’s all in the timing.
You need to helplessly contemplate what I may have in store for your immediate
future.”
Carol walked away from him, and headed for the bar,
whistling happily in anticipation. She placed his used glass and the bottle of
Glenfiddich into her handbag, then poured a stiff belt of burbon into a paper
cup, and seated herself comfortably on the sofa in the large living room and
admired afresh the warm ambience of her surroundings.
“The best that all my money could buy.” Her voice
brought her comfort.
She drained the cup and refilled it. When empty she crumpled
it and placed it alongside the other items now concealed in the bag.
The wall clock reaffirmed that she had an hour remaining
before company arrived. She nodded in satisfaction and rested.
With twenty minutes remaining she stood and checked on her
captive one more time. “Not long now.”
A low groan came from the bed.
Carol gently stroked his cheek. “Are you terrified, my
darling? Your eyes tell me you are. Good. That’s as it should be.”
Carol smiled in satisfaction and left the room, content to
wait this out for a few minutes. At exactly 11.02p.m she heard the front door
open and close again. A musical female voice called out, “Peter? Darling, where
are you?”
Carol listened carefully from her dark space in the hallway.
She held her breath as the woman came into view and she watched her enter the
master-bedroom in search of her lover.
“Waiting in bed for me, darling? That’s different. I thought
we were going to share a late supper.”
The woman sounded disappointed.
“He can be very disappointing. I agree.” Carol said
from the doorway.
The woman jumped in fright and managed to say “Oh, my God.
I’m not, that is, we aren’t, this isn’t.” She shut her mouth when her
frightened eyes took note that her lover’s wife was standing in front of her wearing
latex gloves and aiming a gun at her head.
“It isn’t what? An affair? Oh, please. Do you expect
me to believe that you’ve come here to my home every second Thursday at 11.00p.m
for 3 months to do something innocent? Go ahead, enlighten me. I’m a reasonable
woman. Convince me I don’t have a reason to hate you.”
“Please! I’m so sorry. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“Oh, no, Thursday’s Girl. It means everything. The others
meant nothing to him, therefore I ignored them. Ah, but you, you’re
different. Turn around, let me take a closer look at you.”
Carol walked across to the shaking woman and prodded her
with Peter’s handgun. “I said turn around.”
The younger woman nodded and hurriedly complied.
“He does love a tight ass. Long legs too. That’s always a
bonus.”
“He doesn’t care about me. It’s a … a fling.”
“Nice try.”
“I’ll end it and never see him again. I promise. I’m sorry,
please. Let me go.” The woman was sobbing now.
“Don’t you want to know how I know your special?”
The woman shook her head. “I’m not ….”
“Shut your stupid mouth and listen!” Carol barely controlled
her anger and shoved the nozzle of the Glock into her rival’s chest.
She drew a deep calming breath and lowered the gun slightly.
“I know, because he’s been happy. Happier than he’s been for many years.
The only thing that’s different in his life since the advent of his peculiar
behaviour is you!”
Carol fished inside the pocket of the coat she was wearing
and drew out a small velvet box. “He brought you this little diamond trinket
from Caliago. His jeweller of choice. It’s an engagement ring for you,
Thursday’s Girl. The ring size is smaller than mine, and besides I only wear
emeralds. My contact at the jewellers tells me it’s worth upwards of one
million dollars. I do hope it’s insured. Give me your hand. Let’s try it on for
size.”
The hand the woman held out was shaking. Carol nursed the
gun, and held out the jewellery box. “Now place it on your finger. Don’t be
stupid enough to flex your hand. Slide it on.”
The diamonds glistened as the ring slid into place perfectly.
“And lastly, should you think me presumptive, then don’t.
You see our darling Peter visited our attorney to get the ball rolling for
divorce proceedings. I can only wonder that he made such a stupid mistake. Our
attorney was the one I recommended twenty-years ago. He earns every cent
of the additional fees I pay him every month.”
Peter groaned again from the bed and his lover stood there
watching on, too afraid to move.
Carol smiled. “How tragic love is. How very sad that you
came here to end your relationship. Peter Cameron had never been denied anything
in his life. He couldn’t take the rejection. He apparently decided that if he
couldn’t have you, then nobody would.
The woman began to scream, and Carol laughed with pleasure.
“Oh, yes, scream. Go right ahead! We do love living out here. There’s a
righteous freedom in having no near neighbors.”
The woman was still sobbing as Carol sat next to Peter on
the bed and shot her three times in the chest. She calmly watched as the body
was flung backward by the impact and dropped to the floor.
Carol gazed down on her for long enough to see the faint
hold on life vacate her eyes.
Carol checked the spandex gloves, satisfied that they’d
worked as they should. She placed the weapon down for a moment as she removed
the other things that she’d need from the bureau.
Peter’s arm felt like a dead weight as she wrapped the tourniquet
around his upper bicep. The veins responded beautifully, and Carol inserted the
syringe and watched in fascination as her husband’s body jerked several times.
She watched him begin to foam at the mouth. She watched him die. “Heroin is so
deadly, if you don’t get the dosage just right. I believe it’s referred to as a
‘hot shot’.
She placed the Glock in his right hand and checked to ensure
the trajectory married up with the bullet’s impact on his dead companion. Carol
squeezed his fingers closed around the weapon with his finger on the trigger, then
let his arm drop and the gun lay loosely in the dead hand.
Carol stood back and admired her handiwork. Content now she
hurried outside.
She ran to her car secreted behind a tall stand of trees and
drove it into her driveway, behind the visitors Porche. She let the car idle
and punched in 911 on her iPhone.
“911. What is the nature of your emergency?”
“Please! Help me. I need help! Please!” The voice was
frantic.
“I’ll help you, Ma’am, but I need you to calm down. Please
tell me what is happening.”
“I heard a woman screaming! Then I think there were gunshots!
Now I can’t hear anything. Please! Please, I beg you, please hurry, I think my
husband is inside. Should I go in? I have to help him!”
“Please give me your address.”
Carol gave it.
“Do NOT enter the dwelling. Police and Paramedics are on the
way. Stay on the line with me. Are you close to the house?”
“I’m outside in the driveway.”
“Please move away from the property. Stay away from the
windows. They’re on their way.”
***
CNN breaking news.
“In breaking news! The body of United States Senator Peter
Cameron has been found at his home. A crime scene now exists. Early indications
from our sources indicate that another body has been found at the scene.
Murder/Suicide has not been ruled out.”
“Tragically it was the senator’s wife who made the grim
discovery. She is reported to be resting under sedation. In deep shock as these
events unfold. Police at this stage don’t believe that a third party was
involved in the tragedy.”
Carol listened to the excited broadcaster and smiled.
Then she settled down in her pristine hospital bed and
drifted off to a contented sleep.
#
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Well, that was more than a bit disturbing. Very well written, but pretty dark. Of course, I have written about worse things. Come back tomorrow and see who shows up!
It’s a new week on the blog, and we have another selection of wonderful #RWISA authors for you to meet. Today, the guest blog entry is from writer, Fiza Pathan. Take it away!
The Star Pupil’s Diary Entry by Fiza Pathan
Dear Diary,
I had a wonderful day at school today. I got a star and I’m
going to tell you all about it.
I’m eight years old, but I’m the tallest boy in the class. I,
and the other kids in my neighborhood, study at the school down the block. Actually,
our school was once something terrible; it was a disgusting Christian church,
something called “Catholic.” The school officials tore it down and made it into
a proper school for us kids.
So, I went to school today. I was the first one there so I
got the biggest teddy bear to do my training with. The kids who were late got
teddies that were way too small, the cheap ones that our soldiers stole from
the hands of fleeing Jewish kids before they shot them in the head.
My teacher made us do our practice training in the morning.
He handed us our daggers. We each checked with our fingers if they were sharp
enough. Since I was early to class, I got to demonstrate. I put the dagger on
the neck of the teddy and slit it the way my teacher had taught me to do. The
other students followed me, but I was the best at cutting off teddy’s head.
“The jugular,” my teacher scolded another student who was
cutting the wrong part of the teddy. “The jugular and do it slowly; it should make
them cry.”
After dagger practice was over, we all sat and singing
practice began. Singing is important; it touches souls and bring them closer to
God.
We sang the national anthem. Teacher said I was the best
singer and patted me on the head.
“Now, who knows a good English song, a hymn for our nation?”
our teacher asked.
Every kid was stumped. They knew plenty of English songs,
some of them were American. But you couldn’t sing those songs anymore. They
knew “If I Was Your Boyfriend” by that Justin Bieber nonbeliever and “That’s
What Makes You Beautiful” by One Direction, another group of nonbelievers—may
the devil plague them!
But no one knew a hymn in English to our cause. Not a single
kid. Well, everyone except me!
I raised my hand and teacher smiled.
He asked me to stand up and sing in place.
The other kids turned to look at me. They were jealous
because they were not as smart as me.
I put my hands behind my back and stood straight like I do
when singing the national anthem. I opened my mouth and began to sing:
We for the sake of Allah have
come under the banner,
We for the sake of our Caliph
have torn the world asunder;
We for the sake of our raped
sisters will kill the ones responsible,
We for the sake of our nation
will die, but not before we become incredible.
I didn’t know the meaning of raped, but daddy had taught me this song while we were fleeing
India to come here, to this land of milk and honey. Daddy taught me a lot of
songs and hymns as we fled India. We almost got caught, but our fake passports
worked. Daddy is so smart. He is now working as a soldier here.
“Bravo, my son,” my teacher said, and he shook my hand. The
other kids clapped, but some spat on the ground with disgust.
“Bravo, my son,” my teacher said again, holding me by the
shoulders and looking into my eyes. “You are a gem of a man already. You get a
star for this.”
And I did; a star made of metal shining like gold, the ones
soldiers put on their uniforms. I was so proud that I couldn’t stop smiling.
The teacher then said it was almost time for prayers, but before
that, did any of us kids know who we were deep in our hearts? Many kids
answered:
“We are Allah’s blessing in flesh.”
“We are the terror of the Westerners.”
“We are the protectors of our faith.”
“We are true worshippers of the almighty.”
But the teacher said all their answers were wrong. I knew
that too, because I knew the real answer. Teacher then asked me, “Tell me, son,
who are we?”
I smiled, fiddling with my gold star before answering: “We
are men who love death just as some people love their life; we are soldiers who
fight in the day and the night.”
My teacher clapped, and so did the other kids, except for
the ones who yet again spat on the floor and gave me angry looks.
We spent the rest of the day praying, going to the mosque
that was once a church. They called it Lutheran,
which sounds so ugly. I then came home, and here I am writing in this diary,
which Daddy gave me to record the fun time I’m having here in this new country,
the place where Allah truly lives with his beloved people.
I’m so happy to have earned my star. I’ll wear it tomorrow
to the next beheading on the main square of those bad men who were trying to
escape heaven, this place where we stay. I love beheadings. I take pictures of
it on my uncle’s cell phone. I love the blood, snapped bones, and torn veins
the best.
Tomorrow, our class will burn crosses at the beheading. I
will burn not a cross, but a small statue of Mary, mother of that prophet who
sinned against us. I’ve never burned her before, not because I haven’t gotten a
chance to do so, but because . . . her eyes, her eyes when they look at me are
funny.
Well, it’s time to go for prayers. I shall write later.
Yours always,
Alif Shifaq of the ISIS children brigade,
3 Bel Anif Mansion,
Sultan Saladin Road,
Raqqa,
ISIS Syria,
March 12, 2015.
*
After the fall of ISIS in Raqqa, an American soldier with
his entire team were on the ground for inspection purposes. It was the year
2017, and the whole city had been razed to the ground.
The American soldier’s name was Emmanuel, and as he walked
over the immense quantity of rubble, he spotted something.
It was a diary. A bit battered due to the bombing, but in
good shape.
The hand of a preteen was found holding a pen beside it. The
hand only. Not the rest of the body. The body had been incinerated.
Emmanuel lifted the diary and dusted it. He took it along
with him, jumping over a pile of dusty teddy bears with their throats cut.
“City of the dead,” Emmanuel intoned, as he opened the diary
to read. The first thing he read was an inscription in black ink from a
fountain pen. It was done in calligraphy—skillfully done.
We are men who love
death just as you love your life,
We are the soldiers
who fight in the day and the night.
Emmanuel sighed and turned a page.
***
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Well, that was both poignant and horrifying at the same time. Please come back tomorrow and discover another fabulous author courtesy of #RWISA and #RRBC.
Welcome to Friday. I hope you have a great weekend. To start it off, I turn my blog over to talented #RWISA author, Beem Weeks, who has some wonderful words for us.
Dying for a Kiss
It’s like one of those
stories you’d read about in Ripley’s
Believe It or Not. I mean, who ever heard of anybody dying from a kiss?
Seriously! But that’s what happened to me—well, except for the dying part. Two
weeks in the hospital—that’s the souvenir I brought back from my
spring break.
Okay,
let me back up to the beginning.
My
parents’ hushed words pierce the wall that separates their bedroom from mine.
This particular conversation doesn’t warrant status as an argument, though. And
believe me, I know what their arguments sound like—lots of yelling, and
maybe an ashtray or a bowling trophy gets thrown by Mom. I guess I’d classify
this one as just another log of disappointment tossed on the bonfire that
engulfs our family—our collective lives.
Dad
is a dreamer. The problem is, dreamers make promises they’ll eventually have to
break. He’s also the sort of man who’ll spend his last five dollars on
scratch-off lottery tickets instead of household necessities, like food, or
gas—or our long-planned excursion to Disney World during spring break.
Dad’s
the one who sets it in stone over breakfast in our kitchen—Dad, because Mom
refuses to play the bad parent anymore.
“Sorry,
kids,” he tells me and my sister, Amanda. “We just can’t afford Disney at this
time.”
Amanda,
being nearly two years older than me, carries a heavier burden of
disappointment than I do. She’s had more time to gather her own collection of
tales regarding broken promises, cancelled plans, and the jettisoned idea of
ever being a normal, well-adjusted family.
“I
figured as much,” Amanda mumbles, dismissing herself from the table.
Dad
tries to be sincere in his attempt to save spring break. “But that doesn’t mean
we can’t go somewhere that’s almost
as fun and exciting.”
When
Dad speaks of somewhere, it’s usually
a state-park campground in some far-flung forest up north.
Amanda
hollers from the living room, “Just so you know, Daddy, I hate camping.”
I
don’t hate camping—though it doesn’t exactly make my top-ten list of fun things
to do.
* * *
A
little backstory.
My
parents met at a Beatles concert back in 1964. Mom claims love at first sight.
Dad,
well, he’s been known to dispute her recollections on the subject. He’s fond of
saying, “She had the hots for John Lennon, is all. I’m just the booby prize.”
Hippies,
they were—and still are, even though it’s 1979 now. They only just recently (as
in one year ago) got married—despite the fact that Amanda is almost fourteen
and I’m already twelve. And though they’d both been college students when they
met, neither has ever collected the degree they once intended to earn.
Mom
works at the IGA as a cashier—minimum wage, with practically zero opportunity
to advance into a higher tax bracket.
Dad?
He’s dabbled in various occupations—sales, electronic repairs (TV’s mostly,
maybe a few stereos), welding, landscaping, auto repair. Nothing ever really
sticks for him, though. My grandfather (Mom’s dad) refers to my father as
professionally unemployable. Granddad still blames him for making a mess of
Mom’s life. They don’t speak, Dad and Grandpa.
Dad’s
a good guy, though. He means well. He’s just not one for responsibilities.
So,
anyway, the folded map of Michigan comes out, spread across the kitchen table.
Mom eyes the places circled in red—those previous vacation spots. We’ve been
all over the state: Silver Lake Sand Dunes, Traverse City during the cherry
festival, Holland for Tulip Time. We even spent a few days on Mackinac Island
three summers ago—though we didn’t stay at the Grand Hotel.
“It’s
Andrew’s turn to choose,” Mom says, dropping the big decision in my
hands.
Hiawatha
National Forest had been my first choice the last time my turn came up. But Dad
broke his foot, which cancelled our vacation that spring.
“The
Upper Peninsula, it is,” Dad says.
Amanda
despises me in this moment. “I told you I hate
camping.”
* * *
Radio
songs fill the van once we hit US 27 going north. The Bee Gees squawk about a tragedy
twice before we’re even on the road for forty minutes.
“I
hate that song,” Amanda complains.
Dad
says, “Well, I like it.”
Mom
tries to lighten the mood. “I spy with my little eye—”
“Please
don’t!” Amanda begs. Without warning, she socks my shoulder, yells, “Slug bug
red!”
“Ouch!”
And just like that, it’s on. We’ll both of us be battered and bruised by the
time we spy the top of the Mackinac Bridge.
“Slug
bug green!” Thwack!
“Slug
bug blue!” Thwack!
“Slug
bug—oh, never mind. That’s not a VW.” Thwack!
“Hey! No fair!”
Blondie
sings about her heart of glass and Amanda momentarily abandons our game—just
long enough to sing the few lines she actually knows.
Many
hours later, I’m the one who spots the top of the Mighty Mack! “I see the
bridge,” I say, hoping it’ll irritate Amanda.
But
in truth, she doesn’t mind losing this game. It’s not a thing to her anymore.
She’ll leave us the day she turns eighteen—or even sooner, if she has her
way. Grandpa promised to pay for her college, knowing my parents will never be
able to afford it.
Evening
spikes the sky with an orange-pink sunset by the time we find a campground
inside Hiawatha. Dozens of tents and RV’s occupy the prime camping spots.
“Andrew
and I will set up the tent,” Dad says, parking our van on the last vacant lot
within sight. “You girls can get dinner ready.”
Kids—loud
and rowdy, as Grandpa would say—run from lot to lot, chasing after somebody’s
collie, darting across the road without so much as a glance in either
direction.
“Too
stupid to last long in this world,” Amanda says.
Mom
gives her the eye. “They’re just kids, for crying out loud, Mandy.”
* * *
“Andy
and Mandy,” the girl teases, laughing at our introductions. “That’s cute. Are
you two twins or something?”
“Or
something,” Amanda says.
Her
name is Nora, this girl with short brown hair. Already fourteen—unlike Amanda,
who still has another month. The tents across the street are her family’s—it’s
their collie running wild.
“Five
kids,” Nora says, answering my mother. “I’m the oldest. Three younger brothers
and a baby sister.”
“Sounds
kind of crowded, that many people in just two small tents,” I observe.
She
looks right at me when I speak—like I’m really truly here, standing in front of
her.
“You
don’t know the half of it,” says Nora. “I asked if I could just stay home, sit out
this vacation. That’s not happening anytime soon.”
* * *
Blue
jean shorts and a red bikini top—that’s what Nora wears the following morning.
And a pocket full of salt water taffy—which she gladly shares.
Mom’s
not impressed. “Leaves little to the imagination,” she says, regarding Nora’s
top.
“But
you and Daddy used to skinny dip,” Amanda reminds her. “So how is that better?”
Mom’s
hard gaze issues silent threats. Her words aren’t quite as harsh. “Aren’t you
kids going boating?”
It’s
not really a boat, this thing we rent; it’s more like a canoe—but only plastic.
I sit in the rear, my paddle steering us toward the middle of the lake. Amanda
has the other paddle, though she’s not really doing anything with it.
Nora
sits in the middle—facing me!
I
think Amanda is intimidated, not being the oldest for a change.
Nora
talks—a lot. But I don’t mind. She tells us all about life back home in Detroit—well,
the suburbs, really, a place called Royal Oak. She used to have a boyfriend,
but he cheated on her. Her parents separated last year, intending to divorce,
but her mom ended up pregnant.
“Amazing
how an unborn baby can save a marriage,” Amanda says.
It’s
after we bring the canoe in that Nora says, “Wanna go for a walk?”
Only,
she’s not talking to Amanda. Amanda is already halfway back to our tent.
We
end up in a picnic area near the lake, just me and Nora. She tells me more
about herself, her family, what she intends for her future.
“You’re
cute,” she says, sitting right beside me on a park bench.
My
cheeks get hot, probably bright pink.
And
she’s two years older than me, I think, as her lips
press against mine.
My
first kiss—well, first real kiss.
On
her tongue I taste salt water taffy and excitement and all things possible.
What
I don’t taste is the meningitis in her saliva.
Amanda
intrudes, tells me lunch is being served at our tent.
* * *
It
strikes without warning, leaving me confused, nauseated. Words tumble from my
mouth, though I have no idea what I’m saying.
Mom’s
hand finds my forehead. “He’s burning up,” she says. “We need to get this boy
to a hospital.”
Only,
I don’t hear it that way. What I hear is, “We need to get this boy a pretzel.”
“But
I don’t like pretzels,” I mumble.
* * *
Two
weeks later, I’m back home. It’s a blur, but my parents say I nearly died.
From
a kiss!
Is
that a Ripley’s story or what?
And
what a kiss—totally worth dying for!
Well,
almost dying.
Thank you for supporting this member along the WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour today! We ask that if you have enjoyed this member’s writing, please visit their Author Page on the RWISA site, where you can find more of their writing, along with their contact and social media links, if they’ve turned you into a fan.
We ask that you also check out their books in the RWISA or RRBC catalogs. Thanks, again, for your support and we hope that you will follow each member along this amazing tour of talent! Don’t forget to click the link below to learn more about this author:
Welcome to Thursday on the blog. Today, I turn my page over to awesome #RWISA author, Jan Sikes. Let us see what goodies she has for us today.
SHE DANCES WITH A MEMORY
JAN SIKES
Gertrude
McNabb placed a gnarled hand on her arthritic back as she bent over to take a
chocolate cake from the oven. She inhaled the sweet aroma and put it on a rack
to cool.
A black-and-white photograph of a
dark-haired man with twinkling eyes sat nearby on the cabinet. This is for
you, Hiram. I didnt forget it was your birthday. Its your favorite. Ill always
remember how your face would light up when I baked this special recipe for you.
Gertrude picked up the framed snapshot,
held it against her heart, and shuffled into the living room.
We might as well make use of the time
while I wait for your cake to cool. Then Ill frost it with your favorite
French vanilla icing. The kids, grandkids, and great-grandkids are all going to
be here in a couple of hours, and it will be nothing but pure chaos, she said.
The mahogany stereo cabinet from the
1960s occupied the same spot in the living room that it had since the day Hiram
McNabb brought it home as a Christmas surprise. Theyd spent many happy days
and nights listening to record albums. Hiram
never tried to hide the fact that he adored Rosemary Clooney. But, not
Gertrude. For her, it was ol Blue Eyes himself that got her blood going.
Oh, the wonderful and countless hours
theyd waltzed away across the living room floor to the beautiful music that
wafted out of those state-of-the-art stereo speakers.
She adjusted her glasses and thumbed
through a stack of record albums. It seemed to take forever nowadays to do even
the simplest task. She pulled out a favorite and held it up in front of the
photo shed perched on the coffee table. Since its your birthday, my dear,
and such a special occasion, how about Nat King Cole?
Her fingers, once nimble and efficient,
struggled to remove the round disc from its package.
Remember how this one caught my eye in the
record store, but we didnt buy it? She chuckled. And then you brought it
home the very next day. She blew out a sigh.
Once she had the disk secured on the
turntable, she took the pins from her silver hair, and it tumbled down her
back.
She clicked on the stereo and waited
until the tiny red light turned green, then gently placed the needle onto the
black groove.
Then with a great flourish, she picked
up the photo and held her arms out for her imaginary dance partner.
Even though she hardly moved from the
spot where she stood, with her eyes closed, she was transported back in time, back
to days of youth when it had been impossible to imagine ever growing old.
It was fascination, I know, seeing you
alone with the moonlight above, Nat King Cole sang.
A smile graced her lips.
She whispered, Hiram Edward McNabb, you
swept me off my feet the first time I saw you. You were so handsome in your
Army uniform. Ill never forget that night at the county fair. My older brother
and sister took me, and since they wanted to stick around for the dance, I got to
stay with them.
She paused and steadied herself.
You asked me to dance and didnt let me
sit down one time the whole night. She giggled. From then on, I knew we were
meant to be together. Id always hated my name, and you agreed that Gertrude
sounded like an old lady, so you called me by my middle name. I was your Rose.
Memories swirled around in her mind.
Sweet remembrances of laughter, of falling in love and of daring to live the
fullest life imaginable flew by the way scenes from a movie might do.
No, they hadnt been wealthy, but Hiram
made a decent living for them, and they always had what they needed. However,
it was his steadfast love for her, for life, and the music they embraced that
kept her excited and happy for over sixty years.
As impossible as it seemed, hed now been
gone over two years. Never a day passed that she didnt carry on a conversation
with him. It started with a good morning greeting and ended with a good night
declaration of love.
Sometimes, she could swear that he answered
her.
The needle reached the end of the record.
She set the photo back down and focused her attention on choosing another album.
Rosie.
She turned around. Hiram?
No one was there. Then she heard it
again. Was she going daft?
Well, Ive certainly let my imagination
get the best of me. I guess thats what happens to old ladies when theyre
alone too long.
As she reached for her favorite Frank
Sinatra album, a hand brushed against hers.
Now she was sure she was losing what little
bit of sensibility she had left.
When she was a child, her relatives
shared stories about spirit visits from beyond the veil. To her, it was nothing
more than hogwash and products of overactive imaginations. After all, what did
old folks know?
As hard as it was to admit, she might
have been wrong about that, and a little hasty to judge. Perhaps Hiram had
shown up to celebrate his birthday.
Whatever it was, she would enjoy it and
soak up every moment, even if it wasnt real. She could make it true in her
mind.
With Frank Sinatra crooning a love song,
she reached again for the photo but instead, chose to leave it sitting and
simply held out her wrinkled and trembling arms.
Her feet moved, and she twirled just
like shed done thousands of times before. She threw back her head and laughed.
She was twenty again, as Hiram swept her across the big wooden dance floor inside
the SPJST Hall.
Song after song played, and still, they
danced, they laughed, and they kissed.
Then the record reached an end and she
was met with deafening silence. She opened her eyes, surprised to find that she
stood in the same spot where shed been. She truly had been waltzing and
twirling with Hiram.
Im tired now, my love. She moved
toward her easy chair. I just need to rest awhile.
Perhaps one day before long, shed be waltzing
again with her sweetheart for the remainder of eternity. But for now, she had
the memories, and shed continue to dance with them until that day came.
She reached for the photo and pressed it
to her heart.
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It’s Wednesday here on the Join the Adventure blog, and I am proud to present yet another wonderful #RWISA writer, Mary Adler, who joins us to share this wonderful bit of poetic art. Take it away, Mary.
BLACK NOTES BEAT
I have studied and observed crows
for years, and the more I’ve learned about them, the more I admire their
complex family and flock relationships. They are intelligent, create and use
tools, and they teach their skills to other crows. As Rev. Henry Ward Beecher
said, “If men had wings and bore black feathers, few of them would be clever
enough to be crows.”
Over the years, I have told my
family and friends more than they ever wanted to know about crows. One person
said, after hearing the stories I told about them, that she stopped trying to
run crows down with her car. (There is so much wrong with that statement, that
I don’t know where to begin.)
During the non-nesting period of the
year, crows gather at night to roost together, sometimes in flocks of
thousands. They are stealthy and take a roundabout way to the roosting place.
They have good reason to be wary. For decades, humans have killed them, even
dynamiting their roosting places at night.
Like many natural creatures, they
are good and bad, depending on your viewpoint, and not everyone appreciates
their beauty. But I love to watch them streaming across the sky–one small
group after another–as they return from foraging to join the flock. When they
are together, those who have found a safe source of food will tell the others
where it is. They share, but only within their own flock.
One evening, after watching them
move across the sky, I wrote this:
Black
Notes Beat
Black notes beat
Unfurling dusk
Across the bruising sky.
Quarter
notes, half notes
Rise and fall.
Whole
notes
Rest on treetops.
An
arpeggio of eighth notes
Silently swirls,
Scribing
a nocturne
in the fading light.
Softly
they spill
to the nighttime roost:
Rustling,
murmuring,
settling,
hushed.
Now
the still moment,
the last note fading,
No
bows, no curtsies,
No fear of reviews.
They
need no applause to perform their works.
Mary Adler
“SHADOWED BY DEATH” by Mary Adler Blurb:San
Francisco, 1944. Sophia Nirenska, a Polish resistance fighter who
survived the Warsaw ghetto uprising, finds safety in California until
someone tries to kill her. She insists political enemies want to silence
her, but homicide detective Oliver Wright, on medical leave from the
Marines, believes the motive is more personal. He and his German
shepherd, Harley, try to protect Sophia, but she insists on doing things
her own way—a dangerous decision.
Oliver
guards Sophia as they travel from an Italian cafe in Richmond to
communist chicken farmers in Petaluma where her impetuous actions put
them both in mortal danger.
When
Oliver rescues a girl and her dog who are running for their lives, he
discovers the dark secret at the heart of the threat to Sophia, a secret
with its roots in Poland. When he does, he is forced to choose between
enforcing the law as he knows it and jeopardizing Sophia or accepting a
rougher kind of justice.
Shadowed
by Death accurately portrays the fears and troubles of the communities
of northern California as they bear the burdens of World War II and
celebrate the gift of finding family among strangers.
Thank you for supporting this member along the WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour today! We ask that if you have enjoyed this member’s writing, please visit their Author Page on the RWISA site, where you can find more of their writing, along with their contact and social media links, if they’ve turned you into a fan.
We ask that you also check out their books in the RWISA or RRBC catalogs. Thanks, again, for your support and we hope that you will follow each member along this amazing tour of talent! Don’t forget to click the link below to learn more about this author:
Are you ready for another awesome bit of literary art from a #RWISA author? Yes! Great. Today our guest blog posting is from Wendy Scott. Take it away, Wendy.
The Awakening by Wendy Scott
Evarna gazed at the
tinker’s sleeping form and resisted the urge to trail her fingertips through
Rick’s locks. For both their sakes she had to leave now before he awoke. They
lived in contrasting worlds; he roamed the forest with a free spirit, but as an
aristocrat’s bastard, she battled the protocols and restrictions of the Baron’s
Court. As satisfying as this romantic interlude had been, she must be on her
way.
The chill of the morning
air vanquished the warmth she’d experienced in his arms as she eased out of the
feather quilt. She untangled her discarded
clothes from his and slipped into them. Last night they’d been shed as the
lovers had fumbled toward the bed in a lip-locked embrace.
The wagon’s interior was
a treasure trove, and she wished she had more time to explore. The shelves
jammed with instruments, jostled scrolls, and jars filled with curious items
drew her gaze. On the window ledge two doll-sized chairs nestled a miniature
table. Evarna’s hand hovered
close to a silver harp, itching
to touch the strings, but she lowered her
hand before her fingers betrayed her. What nonsense. A tone-deaf goose
possessed more musical ability than she did. Rick wouldn’t appreciate being
woken by the sound of mutilated chords.
His abode hinted at
depths of character she wanted to delve deeper into. For a moment she lingered at the door and glanced back at his
tousled hair. The urge to dive back under the covers and cuddle up against his muscular length
was almost more than she could control. Instead, she averted her gaze and whispered, “Farewell,
Tinkerman.”
Sighing, she stepped
outside. Tail thumping erupted from between the wheels, pinpointing where
Stitch had spent the night. Usually, her dog made a fuss about always bedding down next to her. She felt a blush bloom on her cheeks.
Last evening she hadn’t given her furry friend a moment’s thought after the
tinker’s first kiss.
A moist tongue licked
her hand, and the dog leaned against her legs as she stroked his fur. She kept
her voice low. “Hey, boy. Time to go home.”
Stitch stalked over to
the fire pit and stared into the suspended pot. Evarna chuckled and fed him the
remains of yesterday’s stew.
“Not feeding you.
Now, that’s something you would not easily forgive.”
***
The sound of horse
hooves drifted off into the distance. Rick’s eyelids snapped upwards, and he bounded out of bed. He
hummed as he gathered up his clothing and tossed them on the mussed up bed,
ignoring the tapping sounds emanating from the small window above the door.
Naked, he jerked the
door open, streaked across the
camp, and plunged into the lake. The surface churned into a maelstrom of white
water as he re-emerged onto the shore. Huffing, he sprinted back into the
wagon, his breaths trailing him like mist.
Two small, winged
creatures swooped and followed him through the ajar door. Their tiny wings
shimmered like rainbows as they swirled around his head before landing on his
pillow. Twin pixie expressions
peered up at him, their violet eyes gleaming with mischief. Golden hair framed
identical faces and the easiest way to tell them apart was by the colour of
their gowns. Yasmin favoured pastel pink, while her sister, Jasmin, wore lavender to compliment her eyes.
“Hrumph! You shut
us out.” Yasmin pinched her nose. “We had to snuggle up to a smelly
dog to keep warm. Now you’ve got yourself a lady friend, you think you can
ignore us as if we’re not good enough company anymore.”
“I don’t understand what you see in her.”
Jasmin crossed her arms and glared up at him. “She doesn’t even have
wings!”
Elbowing her sibling out
of the way, Yasmin flicked her hair so wildly it swept over and covered her
face. From beneath the cloud of hair came a muffled voice, “I thought
you’d prefer blondes.”
Rick grinned down at the
pair of outraged pixies, drawn up to their full height of six inches. “And
pray be, how was a poor fellow supposed to choose between two such lovely
ladies as yourselves?”
The sisters clasped hands. “He’s got a point there; we could never let a mere gyp come
between us.”
“The tinker is lucky that we give him
the time of day. Fancy him thinking he’d be acceptable to either of us.”
Rick shook his head,
showering the pixies with droplets of the water. They both squealed and
scurried backward.
“Stop mucking around and put some clothes on
for goddess-sake.” Jasmin wrung the water from her gown.
After a token pass with
a towel Rick grabbed his pants
and began dressing. “Evarna is the one I’ve been searching for. The
prophecy foretold her arrival.”
“How can you be
sure she’s the one?” Jasmin waggled her finger.
He placed a hand on his
chest. “Her magic awakened my heart. So we must gather all the fairy folk
we can and march for Carnavalla.”
Yasmin plucked a dog
hair from her dress and brandished it like a sword. “And how do you expect
we’ll find the lost city of the Gypnees? Legend says it disappeared hundreds of
years ago.”
“Carnavalla was hidden from mortals on
purpose, it’s only sleeping and I’ve several
gyp tricks I haven’t shared with you.”
Rick frowned.
“Unfortunately, Evarna’s in for a few magical surprises. I’m going to have
some explaining to do when we next meet. I hope my future wife is the forgiving
type.”
Yasmin arched her brow.
“But does she love you?”
“Of course she
does, she just doesn’t know it yet.”
Thank you for supporting this member along the WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour today! We ask that if you have enjoyed this member’s writing, please visit their Author Page on the RWISA site, where you can find more of their writing, along with their contact and social media links, if they’ve turned you into a fan.
We ask that you also check out their books in the RWISA or RRBC catalogs. Thanks, again, for your support and we hope that you will follow each member along this amazing tour of talent! Don’t forget to click the link below to learn more about this author:
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