It is my pleasure to welcome #RWISA and #RRBC author Jan Sikes to my page today to discuss her wonderful short stories. Enjoy.
Jan Sikes is an award-winning Texas author who has been called a wordsmith by her peers. She openly admits that she never set out in life to be an author. But she had a story to tell. Not just any story, but a true story that rivals any fiction creation. You simply can’t make this stuff up. It all happened. She chose to create fictitious characters to tell the story through, and they bring the intricately woven tale to life in an entertaining way. She released a series of music CDs to accompany the four biographical fiction books and then published a book of poetry and art to complete the story circle.
And now that the story is told, this author can’t find a way to put down the pen. She continues to write fiction and has published many short stories with a series of novels waiting in the wings. She is a member of Authors Marketing Guild, The Writer’s League of Texas, the RAVE REVIEWS BOOK CLUB (RRBC), the RAVE WRITER’S INT’L SOCIETY OF AUTHOR (RWISA), and sits on the RWISA Executive Council.
SOCIAL MEDIA:
Connect through Jan’s website: http://www.jansikes.com
Follow Jan on Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/AuthorJanSikesBooks
Follow Jan on Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/JanSikes3
War-torn drifter, Jack McClean is left with nothing but bad memories, scars, and a restless soul. When he stumbles upon a burning homestead, and an unconscious woman, beside the Clear Fork of the Brazos River, he stops to render aid. Grieving widow, Savannah Logan, sees no reason to live, and only wants to join her husband and children in their graves. But, Jack refuses to let her die. In saving her, he might somehow find redemption for himself and hope for a new tomorrow. Is it possible that both Jack and Savannah can find a new destiny in the changeable flow of the Brazos wind?
BOOK BLURB FOR BROTHER’S KEEPER:
Quentin Marks’ mother can only love one son, and from the day Rowdy was born, she makes Quentin, his little brother’s keeper. She demands that Quentin fix every problem for Rowdy and that he also protect him. The truth is, after a deadly snakebite, Quentin owes his very life to his little brother, a debt that will never be paid in full. Only now a man is dead, and once again, their mother calls on Quentin to make the problem go away and save Rowdy from prison. When is enough enough, and how much of his own life will Quentin Marks have to sacrifice?
TOUR GIVEAWAY:
(2) $10 Amazon gift cards. Leave a comment below for a chance to win!
Thank you for supporting this author. Jan wrote these short stories as entries into the RAVE REVIEWS BOOK CLUB’S90-Day ALPHA / OMEGA “Beginning to End” Short Story Writing Contest which she has won for the past two years.Jan is giving away (2) $10 Amazon gift cards to (2) lucky winners! For your chance to win, simply leave a comment below.If you’d like to schedule your own blog tour and have your books promoted in similar grand fashion, please click HERE.
I am pleased to announce that my latest novel, Carl Prescott and the Riddle of Satan’s Cube will be launched in Kindle and paperback versions on Tuesday, June 30, 2020. Please check out the cover and back cover story below. I am also providing a link to the Amazon page in case you want a sneak peek. I sincerely hope you will find it as action-packed and riveting as I did.
Carl Prescott has been spirited away to Limbo, an emptiness of lost souls where the gods bicker and fight, but will not admit their failure. Even in this terrible place, our hero encounters oddly familiar spirits. When Aida and Sylvia come to help, Satan, the true Lord of Limbo, expels them to seal his ultimate triumph over God.
Carl Prescott and Aida Whitehall arrive in yet another universe with even more similarities to their own. This universe is almost dead, so they better hurry. The Sun will explode in days, and if they cannot stop Satan before then, the Cycle of the Universes will end, and Limbo will be our only future. Fortunately, Lord Zed arrives in time to help.
Satan’s Cube is a nonstop action adventure spanning all of creation from the beginning of time through its end, and beyond. Once again, the future will be determined by Carl Prescott’s actions. He must resolve the Riddle of Satan’s Cube, or existence will end, and we will all be eternally enslaved by the Evil One.
This story offers a unique look into the origins of existence itself. Of course, it is a fantasy, but I hope you read and enjoy it. All the best!
GIVEAWAY: (2) Complete sets of the Billy Battles trilogy. For your chance to win one, please leave a comment below!
Q & A with Ron Yates (Part 3)
If you could have dinner with one person, dead or alive, who would it be and why?
Winston Churchill. He was brilliant, and I would hope that by the end of dinner, some of that brilliance would have rubbed off on me though I seriously doubt it.
What is one food you would never eat?
Monkey Brain Sushi (yes, it is a real dish in China, and I won’t tell you how it’s prepared). It is considered a cure for impotence (what isn’t?).
Another dish I will continue to eschew is Balut, which is a delicacy in The Philippines. It is fertilized chicken or duck eggs in which the developed embryo is boiled and eaten from the shell. Yum!
Which brings me to some advice an old Chicago Tribune copy editor named Spokely gave me when I was getting ready to leave Chicago for my first posting as a foreign correspondent. “You are going to places that serve strange food, and you will be tempted to say ‘no thank you,’ when it is offered. Don’t do that. It will be an insult to your host. When somebody offers you something to eat that looks or smells horrible, just remember Spokely’s Law: Everything tastes more or less like chicken.”
What were the last couple of movies you watched?
1917, Midway, Little Women, Bombshell, Joker, The Good Liar, and Harriet.
What was the scariest moment of your life?
There have been several. One was during the evacuation of Saigon in 1975. The last day was chaos incarnate. Russian made 122mm rockets were slamming into buildings, 130mm mortars were hitting Tan Son Nhut airport, and the U.S. Embassy was surrounded by frantic South Vietnamese desperate to get out of the country because they had worked for the American military or some U.S. agency. The city was in full panic mode. Several of us made our way to the sprawling Defense Attaché Office building at Tan Son Nhut, and we were finally evacuated by a U.S. Marine CH-53 Sea Stallion helicopter. It was a relief until the door gunner told me later aboard the U.S.S. Okinawa that the pilot had to drop a flare to misdirect a S.A.M. -7 (surface to air missile).
Another was during the 1989 Tiananmen Square massacre when several Chinese students and I were pinned down near the square for 30 minutes or so by Chinese soldiers shooting in our direction. Several students near me were wounded, and we were helping them get to a doctor’s house nearby so he could treat them. I was convinced I was going to wind up dead in the square. Then suddenly, the shooting stopped, and I was able to get my Red and White bicycle that I had chained to a lamppost and peddle like crazy for the Jinhua Hotel where I was staying and from where I was filing my stories to the Tribune.
Another memorable moment was during the revolution in El Salvador when two German correspondents and I were stopped in our car near the town of Suchitoto by Communist guerillas. They put cloth bags put over our heads and forced us to kneel alongside the road. We were sure we were going to be executed. However, suddenly the “jefe” (leader) showed up and set us free. “Don’t kill journalists–unless they are armed,” he yelled at his troops. I was greatly relieved that I had left the Model 1911 Colt.45 pistol I had purchased a few days earlier back in the hotel in San Salvador. I believe it is still there.
Ahhh yes, the life of a foreign correspondent…never a dull moment. Nevertheless, I still believe I had the best job in the world, and I wouldn’t trade my career for anything.
What books have most influenced your life?
Scoop, by Evelyn Waugh; The Grapes of Wrath, John Steinbeck; The Quiet American, Graham Greene; Catcher in the Rye, J.D. Salinger; The Jewel in the Crown, Paul Scott; Kim, Rudyard Kipling; Huckleberry Finn, Samuel Clemons (Mark Twain); A Passage to India, E.M. Forster; Sister Carrie, Theodore Dreiser; The Naked and the Dead, Norman Mailer.
What do you do to unwind and relax?
What else? I read. I find that a good book helps me escape from my writing, which I need to do on occasion.
I have a couple, and they are both from Evelyn Waugh: “Feather-footed through the plashy fen passes the questing vole.” It is a line from Waugh’s book Scoop written by nature writer William Boot for the London Daily Beast just before he is mistaken for a famous foreign correspondent and sent off to the fictional African country of Ishmaelia to cover a war.
AND from Waugh’s book, Vile Bodies comes this great line: “I know very few young people, but it seems to me that they are all possessed with an almost fatal hunger for permanence.”
If it were mandatory for everyone to read three books, what books would you suggest?
Huckleberry Finn;Grapes of Wrath; Sister Carrie. Not only are these classics, but they are also beautiful stories about the human spirit, its resiliency and strength, and its deficiencies and weaknesses.
Is there ever a time when you feel like your work is truly finished and complete?
I don’t know if that ever happens. I do know that at some point, YOU MUST LET IT GO! Writing a book is a bit like rearing a child. Eventually, after you have imbued the child with as much of your worldly experience and wisdom as he or she can grasp and absorb, you have to allow your creation to encounter the world. It’s the same with books. Writers can fiddle with plots, characters, endings, and beginnings ad nauseam and never feel the book is finished. My advice–JUST FINISH THE DAMNED BOOK! Get over it and get the book out into the public domain. Readers will let you know if you have finished the book–and if they like it.
What is the biggest misconception beginning writers have about being published?
Probably that once you get a publishing contract, you are going to become a millionaire. I have published two books before Billy Battles with traditional publishers, and I am still in the hunt for my first million. The J. K. Rowling’s of the world are anomalies. However, thank God they do exist because it keeps the rest of us working our tails off in pursuit of that elusive kind of success. Now, I believe many writers write for the sheer joy we get from telling a good story–at least I do. The money is less of an incentive.
What would you like readers to gain from reading your books?
Because the Finding Billy Battles trilogy is historical fiction and is set in the 19th and early 20th Centuries, I would like readers to get a sense of the time and place of the story told in the three books. I would like them to have an appreciation of the way people lived, how they thought, and how they dealt with both adversity and triumph in a very different era. Finally, I would like readers to finish my trilogy and think to themselves: “Damn, I didn’t want that story to end!”
BOOK BLURB:
The Finding Billy Battles trilogy tells the story of a remarkable man who is born in 1860 and who dies in 1960. For decades Billy lives an improbable and staggering life of adventure, peril, transgression and redemption. Then Billy mysteriously disappears. For several decades his family has no idea where he is or what he is doing.
Finally, with his life coming to an end, Billy resurfaces in an old soldiers’ home in Leavenworth, Kansas. It is there, when he is 98 that he meets his 12-year-old great-grandson and bequeaths his journals and his other property to him — though he is not to receive them until he is much older.
Years later, the great-grandson finally reads the journals and fashions a three volume trilogy that tells of his great-grandfather’s audacious life in the old west, as well as his journeys to the Far East of the 1890s—including French Indochina and The Philippines—and finally, in the early 20th century, to Europe and Latin America where his adventures and predicaments continue. One thing readers can be sure of, wherever Billy Battles goes trouble is not far behind.
AUTHOR BIO:
Ronald E. Yates is a multi-award winning author of historical fiction and action/adventure novels, including the popular and highly-acclaimed Finding Billy Battles trilogy. His extraordinarily accurate books have captivated fans around the world who applaud his ability to blend fact and fiction.
Ron is a former foreign correspondent for the Chicago Tribune and Professor Emeritus of Journalism at the University of Illinois where he was also the Dean of the College of Media.
The Lost Years of Billy Battles is the final book in the trilogy and recently won the Independent Press Award’s 2020 Distinguished Favorites Award. In 2019 it also won Best Overall Book of the year and the Grand Prize in the Goethe Historical Fiction Category from Chanticleer International Book Awards as well as a Book Excellence Award and a New Apple Award. The second book in the trilogy, The Improbable Journeys of Billy Battles, was published in June 2016. It won the 2017 KCT International Literary Award and the New Apple Award in the Action/Adventure category. The first book in the trilogy, “Finding Billy Battles,” was published in 2014 and won a Book Excellence Award and Laramie Award from Chanticleer International Book Awards.
As a professional journalist, Ron lived and worked in Japan, Southeast Asia, and both Central and South America where he covered several history-making events including the fall of South Vietnam and Cambodia; the Tiananmen Square massacre in Beijing; and wars and revolutions in Afghanistan, the Philippines, Nicaragua, El Salvador and Guatemala, among other places. His work as a foreign correspondent earned him several awards including three Pulitzer Prize nominations.
Ron is a frequent speaker about the media, international affairs, and writing. He is a Vietnam era veteran of the U.S. Army Security Agency and lives just north of San Diego in Southern California’s wine country.
To follow along with the rest of the tour, please visit the author’s tour page on the 4WillsPublishing site. If you’d like to schedule your own blog tour and have your book promoted in similar grand fashion, please click HERE. Thanks for supporting this author and his work!
Congratulations and best wishes to #RWISA author Harriet Hodgson, winner of the 2019 KCT International Literary Awards Contest, and author of:
Please check out her amazing writing and spread the word about her talent.
HARRIET HODGSON BIO
Rochester, Minnesota resident Harriet Hodgson has been a freelance writer for 38 years, is the author of thousands of articles, and 36 books. She has a BS from Wheelock College in Boston, an MA from the University of Minnesota, and additional graduate training.
Hodgson is a member of the Association of Health Care Journalists and the Alliance of Independent Authors (ALLi). She is a contributing writer for the Open to Hope Foundation, The Grief Toolbox, and The Caregiver Space websites. Visit www.thecaregiverspace.org/authors/hhodgson to read her articles.
Hodgson has appeared on more than 185 talk radio shows, including CBS Radio, dozens of television stations, including CNN, and dozens of blog talk radio programs. A popular guest, she has given presentations at public health, Alzheimer’s, bereavement, and caregiving conferences.
Her recent work is based on Hodgson’s 21 years as a family caregiver. She was her mother’s family caregiver for nine years, her twin grandchildren’s guardian and caregiver for seven years, and is in her fifth year as her disabled husband’s caregiver. Visit Harriet’s RRBC Author Page to find out more about this busy wife, grandmother, caregiver, and author, as well as more information on her many other books listed in the RRBC catalog.
***
BOOK BLURB
If you are a grandparent raising your grandchildren, help has arrived.
According to the US Census Bureau, more than 10% of all grandparents in the nation are raising their grandkids, and the number is going up. You may be one of the millions of these grandparents and it’s a role you never expected. Willing as you are to assume this role, you have some questions. How will I find the energy for this? Is my grandchild normal? What if I “blow it?” Each day, you look for ways to make life easier.
This book will:
•Help ease your worries and guilt; •Offer tips for creating a grandfamily; •Give methods for improving grandparent-grandchild communication; •Suggest ideas for how you can connect with your grandchild’s school; •Provide child development information; •Recommend approaches to help your grandchild set goals; •Stress the importance of having fun together; •Offer ideas of how to foster your grandchild’s hopes and dreams.
So, You’re Raising Your Grandkids blends Harriet Hodgson’s wise and moving grandparenting story with recent research and findings. It shares her 21 years of caregiving experience, including seven years of raising her twin grandkids. Each chapter ends with What Works, proven tips for grandparents raising grandkids.
At the end, you’ll cheer for all the loving grandparents—including you—who are putting grandchildren first.
Just a few thoughts to whet your whistle if you’re looking for a compelling love/hate, angels versus demons kind of novel. Still on sale through the end of May.
Every new tale is a discovery of new possibilities buried in the depths of my psyche. While Demon Queen is a fast-paced action adventure, it is also a journey of growth for our hero, Carl Sandberg Prescott. While the entire series is filled with paranormal action and spirituality, those aspects really dominate this book.
Sleeping One, book one, was primarily about Carl, his friends, the teachers, and the relationships among them. Carl does realize the potential of his talent, and that those abilities are linked to the Divine, but he does not come face to face with God until the last pages of the story.
Demon Queen, book two, begins with the surprising discovery of a medieval castle buried beneath the school. There Carl learns that an ancient demonic cult in Eastern Europe was led by Sylvia, a daughter of Lucifer. Now, she is poised to come back and rebuild her empire on Earth. Stopping her attempt is the challenge that animates the rest of the story. If you know my crazy mind, you understand that I could never make a story that simple, but no spoilers today. Here are my favorite new concepts that make the story more intriguing and hopefully fun:
The Crossroads of Existence
The spirits of the departed are led here by Death via the Ornate Bridge. Here they are judged and then sent down the Plain Bridge to Heaven or Hell, and eventually back to another life. There is another bridge on the Crossroads, which is my personal favorite creation.
Reincarnation
Traveling from one life to the next necessitates reincarnation. It is Carl’s previous lives with the Demon Queen that makes this story more fascinating and complex. Love that!
The Rope Bridge
While the Ornate and Plain bridges lead from and to life, the Rope Bridge leads to “none-of-the-above.” I have studied many religions and have a special fondness for Buddhism. Successfully crossing the Rope Bridge allows a spirit to escape the cycle of life after life, but also so much more. Much of the activity in Demon Queen occurs on the Rope Bridge, but again, no spoilers. It should be no surprise that this bridge appears again in books three and four.
The Rope Bridge Society
All who successfully cross the Rope Bridge become members of the society. Hint, there are very few members.
The Three Aspects of God
Emmanuel, Lucifer, and Death. Carl Prescott’s relationship with each is a key element of the story. They know Sylvia’s plan could destroy the universe, so they are eager to help.
The Truth of Existence and the Three Aspects of God.
This knowledge can only be gained at the end of the Rope Bridge.
The Cycle of Universes
This one was easy. Science cannot tell us what happened before the Big Bang or what will happen after the Big Freeze. That gives me a free hand! I have studied astronomy and have a keen interest in cosmology and astrophysics. Problem solved. In fact, Carl travels with Emmanuel and Lucifer to the previous universe in Demon Queen. The Cycle of Universes is a very key element in book four, Satan’s Cube.
If you choose to read Demon Queen, by all means let me know what you thought. Of course, as an #INDIE author, reviews are like gold to me. All the best!
By Friday, I doubted that I would even be part of this event. I’m sure many of you noticed that I kept moving others ahead of me and ahead of me, until I ran out of members to move – as I struggled with finding the time in my schedule to write something. As of this morning, I had finally decided that I just wasn’t going to be able to participate, as again, I saw no opening in my schedule that would allow it.
Then, I got a phone call at 7:37 this evening from a friend, sharing that her relative had just attempted suicide due to his personal struggles since the arrival of COVID19. He had lost his job, had received an eviction notice, and saw no clear path to anything remotely close to “better” while the Coronavirus lingered. That conversation forced me to sit down at my desk just as soon as I hung up the phone. What you will find below may not be that great, but it’s what my heart rolled out in the final hour.
***
And So, I Believed
We are living through what is possibly the most trying time in many of our lives. We are a world on lock-down, and though there are those of us who are living a bit more comfortably than others during this pandemic, many in the world are suffering.
Some of us are not concerned with how our mortgages and car notes will get paid. Some of us aren’t concerned with where our next meal will come from, or, if we’ll have to suffer through another night filled with tears streaming down the faces of our hungry children, along with our own tears of helplessness.
For those who suffer with mental illness, their situations are creating a new wave of crisis, as many who see no way out, are, out of fear and desperation, turning to suicide.
My heart breaks for these innocents in this war.
***
It’s quiet.
I’m afraid?. ?
I’ve been locked up inside for so long, I don’t know my nights from my days.
It’s lonely.
I’m scared.
There’s no place to hide, ?and ?no other place to go?, ?because it’s everywhere.
I need to make a run
?…?just out to the store
…but, I’m not even sure
…it’s safe to open my door.
It’s in the air ?we breathe?
?…?on everything that we touch
I never realized ?until now?
?…?I needed people so much?. ?
I’ve no medical insurance
…so, I mustn’t get sick?. ?
My stomach is growling???
?…?but, it will soon quit?. ?
I’ll just stay inside for now.
I do need my meds
…to kill the voices in my head.
They’ve never been this loud before.
A little knock at the door
…would really help right now.
It’s ?too ?quiet.
I’m ?so ?afraid.
I open my wallet and remember…
I haven’t even gotten paid.
What will I do?
?How will I survive?
I don’t even know if it’s worth staying alive.
And, what will I eat?
What about the heat?
I know that it’s summer
…and it’s supposed to be hot
…but?, ?this thing has me terrified
…all tied up in knots.
?So, I strangely shiver as if it is cold.
While parts of the world move, my life is on hold. ?
Under the covers
…the only place I feel safe.
Oh, how I wish
…to feel the sun on my face.
How will I ?cover?
…the rent that is due?
My landlord’s expecting
…to be paid at two.
Some understand
…but others not
My luck ran out
…with the landlord I got.
“I’ve got a family to feed – you’ve only got you.”
He does not ?see? that only me has to eat, too.
I don’t have the rent, dear Lord.
What will I do?
Where will I go?
I need a sign
…because I just don’t know.
How long will this crisis last?
No one knows for sure.
I’m afraid? of my thoughts?.
How much more can I endure?
I just don’t know.
My mind is racing
…it just won’t stop.
Please slow it down, Lord
…these thoughts are just not – to your liking.
I cover my mouth
A cough escapes.
?I d?rift over to the window
…and pull back the drapes.
Unlocking the locks
…one by one
I can hear the calling ?
?…?not a voice?, ?but a gun.
?No, too noisy, I think.
And what if I miss?
I’m already afraid to even consider this.
Now, it’s a voice – louder – more clear
Almost a shout – deep in my ear.
“Come closer to me.
Look, I’m down here.”
Five stories below me
Cars rush?ing? by
?I hear the voice again?
“?C’mon, you can fly.”
I look back over my shoulder
As my landlord knocks
Then I glance at the wall
…it’s straight two o’clock.
“Why are you hesitant? There’s only pain here for you.
There’s nobody to help, so, what will you do?
The world is on lockdown, but you can be free.
Do not wait another second; come and join me!
You see, I am free – down here.
And don’t forget, you can fly.”
?And so, I believed.
***
To everyone reading this who might be struggling with thoughts in their head, that under normal circumstances wouldn’t make sense, yet, they seem to make sense in the moment, what you should always remember is that the devil is alive and well, and sometimes looks and sounds just like you and me. {And of course, he wants you to join him…in hell.}
Fight those voices that encourage you to harm yourself and others.
If you were not born a bird or created in the likeness of some type of aircraft, listen to ME – you cannot fly.
Thank you for supporting today’s RWISA author along the RWISA “RISE-UP” Blog Tour! To follow along with the rest of the tour, please visit the main RWISA“RISE-UP” Blog Tour page on the RWISA site. For a chance to win a bundle of15 e-books along with a $5 Amazon gift card, please leave a comment on the main RWISA“RISE-UP”Blog Tour page! Once you’re there, it would be nice to also leave the author a personal note on their dedicated tour page, as well. Thank you, and good luck!
I miss my Mom’s quirks. Her superstitions, for instance.
“Don’t you dare put your shoes on that table,” she would say. She wasn’t talking about putting shoe-clad feet on the coffee table. She didn’t want anyone putting a shoebox containing new shoes on a table—any table. Such an action could have dire consequences. That box must be placed on the floor. Period.
No one in our house would have dared leave a wet umbrella open to dry inside the house. That would have, according to Mom, invited disaster. And if you left the house by the front door, you had better return that way. If not, who knew what tragedy might befall you?
Now, when I walk my dog through the woods and take a shortcut home, I double around the house to reenter through the same door. I can still hear her voice, warning me. I leave that dripping umbrella on the porch. I place that shoebox on the floor. Because my mother—she’s a deep, tenacious part of me.
I miss so many things about her—her funny remarks, her kindnesses, her soft voice. I say things to my daughter and think, there is my mother talking. She blurted the funniest things sometimes, and Dad, my brothers, and I sometimes teased her about it. One source of our amusement was her habit of mixing up common clichés. “Sit down, let’s chew the breeze,” my mom would say. Or, “It’s six of one, a dozen of the other.” When we’d laugh, she’d look confused until she realized what she had said. Then, she’d laugh along. She was the inspiration for the mother in two of my short stories, where the mother’s sayings always came out wrong.
I miss having Mom to lean on. One difficult year, I had to take a leave of absence from work. A new house, a demanding job, a young daughter, night school to earn a degree—it was suddenly all too much for me, and I couldn’t seem to stop crying. One morning, as I sat feeling sorry for myself, I heard a knock at my door. There was Mom, smiling, bearing homemade muffins for us to share. She settled me at the kitchen table. “Now, don’t you cry anymore,” she said. “It will all work out.” She made me a cup of tea and brought it to me. “This is nice,” she said. “Isn’t it? Just us girls.”
What I would give to have a cup of tea with her now. To let her know how much that meant to me.
Mom was a shy and quiet woman, but she had courage and a steely spine when it came to her family. Her courage showed when, during World War II, she packed a suitcase and took her baby daughter (me) three-thousand miles across the country, by train and bus, to be with my father while he was stationed on the west coast. She stayed there, making a home for us until the war was over.
She showed that courage when she won her first battle with cancer. She never told either of my recently married brothers how ill she was, not wanting to worry them. She told them she had “a little procedure.” When her health returned, it was as if it never happened. She never spoke of it.
But cancer struck again, a different one this time, more deadly.
And this is the memory that breaks my heart. She was in the hospital after exploratory surgery and a terrible prognosis. I went to visit, pulling my chair close to her bed to hear her quiet voice. Her eyes stretched wide and she grasped my hand in hers.
“I’m so scared,” she said.
She died nine months later. That January, the doctors had “given” her three months to live. But she was determined to live until her fortieth wedding anniversary on September 20th.
The afternoon she died, my father, my brothers and I were gathered around her bedside. She asked my father, “Bud, is today our anniversary?” She was suffering and my father couldn’t bear to watch it go on. It was September 19th, a day too early.
He pulled her close and embraced her for the last time. He knew what he had to do.
Thank you for supporting today’s RWISA author along the RWISA “RISE-UP” Blog Tour! To follow along with the rest of the tour, please visit the main RWISA“RISE-UP” Blog Tour page on the RWISA site. For a chance to win a bundle of15 e-books along with a $5 Amazon gift card, please leave a comment on the main RWISA“RISE-UP”Blog Tour page! Once you’re there, it would be nice to also leave the author a personal note on their dedicated tour page, as well. Thank you, and good luck!
Have you ever lost someone? The pain is unimaginable, ripping through you like an express train. But what if you lost that person again and again? The agony of the loss knocks you off your feet until you’re numb. That’s what it’s like when you lose someone to dementia.
My mom was my best friend.
She was my shoulder to cry on, and I told her everything. On summer mornings, she’d lie in bed thinking, so I’d hop in next to her and we’d talk about everything or nothing at all. She was there to hold me when I lost my first love and to celebrate with me when I found my last. We spent an entire summer planning my wedding and finding ways to keep the costs within my measly teacher salary. Rummaging through bargain bins at the Christmas Tree Shop, we found the perfect, gold-trimmed ribbon to don the pews at the church.
After I was married, I moved to Colorado and being two thousand miles apart put a dent in both of our souls. But, she was there when my babies were born, helping me figure out the tasks of new mother for the few weeks she was able to be away from home. She was always there, even if it had to be over the telephone wires.
Until she wasn’t.
It started off slowly—spoiled milk in the refrigerator, aluminum foil in the microwave, and accusing my uncle of leaving tiny, recording devices under her couch. She’s getting forgetful with age…paranoid. That’s what I told myself.
But then things weren’t so small. When my mom and dad finally moved to Colorado, she and my brother took separate cars to church one night. Matt followed my mom back to their house but instead of turning down their road, my mom went straight. I received the phone call from Matt frantic, explaining the situation.
“Why didn’t you follow her?” I thought it was a reasonable question.
“I don’t know?”
I lived an hour and a half away, and it was eight o’clock at night. Pulling on my coat, I waited by the phone. There was no way I’d be able to find my mom in a city at night, though I’d search all night if I had to. Before leaving out the door, I called Matt one last time. Why wasn’t he searching?
A pair of headlights turned up our driveway. Impossible. We lived in a housing development in the country littered with dirt roads and deer. I rushed down the stairs to greet my mother. Tears streamed down her cheeks, and her whole body shook as she melted into my arms.
“He left me,” she sobbed. “I found a road that I recognized that went to your house, and I kept going.”
I wrapped her in a blanket and lay next to her on the bed in the spare room, her body heaving as she fell asleep.
As time went on, the incidents became more frequent. My parents moved back to New Hampshire because Dad couldn’t handle the altitude. My sister insisted they live in a retirement community. My mom didn’t like the price tag, so six months later she found an apartment in the town I grew up in. I was their telephone caregiver, calling every day on my way to work.
That summer when we visited, it was becoming more and more apparent that Mom couldn’t care for Dad, who was eighteen years her senior. He fell a couple of times, and she called the ambulance because she couldn’t lift him. Being there, I learned it was because he was malnourished and dehydrated. A local independent living facility provided them with at least two meals a day, and they could make friends. It worked for a while. Mom accused the maids of stealing her things, but it was her paranoia setting in again.
But then Dad got sick.
My mom insisted on coming to live with us. It was always how I imagined things would be. When Dad passed away, Mom would come live with us and help me with my children. But Dad wasn’t gone yet.
She insisted.
We moved her out to Colorado, and she lived with us. Frequent plane trips to New Hampshire drained my bank account. She missed him and in less than a year she wanted to move back. Things were different now. We hid her car keys, we arranged for her to go to a local senior center while we were at work, and she became severely combative.
For three years, my mother lived with us as I lost her day after day. At times, it felt like she ripped my heart out and stomped on it. I lashed out at her in my own frustration one day when she helped me clean out a closet. I missed our conversations, our comradeship and the love we’d always shared. It was as if someone reached down to Earth, snatched my mother and replaced her with a stranger. After three years, my husband and I made the decision to place her in a nursing home on a memory care unit.
I lost her again.
It was the most difficult thing I’ve done in my entire life, but I had to do it for her safety. Mom would get angry with me for no reason at all and storm out of the house. My husband followed her in the car until he could coax her inside. Her leaving also saved our marriage. The strain and stress it put on us those three years isn’t something I would want anyone to go through.
Have you ever lost someone? I lose my mom everyday, but it’s not as painful now. When you lose someone to dementia, at least for me, it’s like you’re going through the pain of losing someone suddenly again and again over many years. At some point, the pain numbs because it has to, or the stress will eat you alive. I love my mother, but the disease has stolen precious years of her life. It’s in the small glimmers of her spirit—a smile, an mischievous eye aimed at my husband, a hug from recognition—that I find hope that someday we can be together fully again.
Thank you for supporting today’s RWISA author along the RWISA “RISE-UP” Blog Tour! To follow along with the rest of the tour, please visit the main RWISA“RISE-UP” Blog Tour page on the RWISA site. For a chance to win a bundle of15 e-books along with a $5 Amazon gift card, please leave a comment on the main RWISA“RISE-UP”Blog Tour page! Once you’re there, it would be nice to also leave the author a personal note on their dedicated tour page, as well. Thank you, and good luck!
Able to fight harder against viruses and diseases,
Our minds would be calm and serene,
Our spirit would be at peace and
In harmony with the world.
What if we cared about our planet,
Sharing the earth with
Its other living inhabitants,
Making small sacrifices
So our planet can grow and prosper
Alongside us?
If only we had not been so selfish in our ways
And had made the necessary changes
To allow our planet to heal,
Our forests would flourish
And shelter our animals,
Our oceans would provide life and enjoyment,
And our air would be clear and breathable.
What if we changed our ways?
If only we could do something
To stop this downward spiral of catastrophes
That we have created.
We can.
We should.
We must.
When RWISA asked its members to consider the new world we are now living in, they wanted us to consider what we would have done differently to better the situation we are currently in. This led me to think about foresight and hindsight. We all have the ability to pause and wonder what the world could be if we choose to make the hard choices and work toward a better world. Similarly, once the catastrophe has happened, we can look back and realize what we did wrong.
So, I created this poem. Choose to read it line by line or read the left side in its entirety and then go back and read the right side. Either way works! ?
So often, our leaders look back and say, “Oops!” and then just keep trudging along without righting their wrongs. We, as citizens, do the same. We have become quite comfortable in our spoiled lives. We, as a society, focus on individualism instead of community. We live in a bubble that is only concerned with how enjoyable our own little world is, forgetting that we do not live in isolation. We ignore the pleas of others to help the planet/hungry/homeless/poor because that would mean putting effort or perhaps making sacrifices, and who wants to give up the luxuries that they have become accustomed to?
Can anyone still doubt that humans and our ways have hurt our environment and will continue to hurt our planet unless we make serious changes to our ways of life? How many businesses are realizing that their workers can actually do their jobs from home? That one change can cut back on car emissions, stress, and other pollutions. I don’t have all the solutions, but maybe it’s time that we, as a society, start to use our foresight to change our world for the better.
Thank you for supporting today’s RWISA author along the RWISA “RISE-UP” Blog Tour! To follow along with the rest of the tour, please visit the main RWISA“RISE-UP” Blog Tour page on the RWISA site. For a chance to win a bundle of15 e-books along with a $5 Amazon gift card, please leave a comment on the main RWISA“RISE-UP”Blog Tour page! Once you’re there, it would be nice to also leave the author a personal note on their dedicated tour page, as well. Thank you, and good luck!
Darkness swallowed dormitory B49. The lights had been extinguished an hour before at 8 pm. Stevie listened for the rhythmic breathing from the cots, aligned with military precision, one metre apart. Twenty beds, divided into two rows, sat on opposite sides of a red painted aisle. Identical grey bedding topped each hard mattress. The sheets were starched so stiff they were difficult to tuck under the corners, and the pillow was as unyielding as set concrete, but its worst feature was the coarseness of the blanket’s weave that threatened splinters.
Controlling his breathing into an even flow, he opened his thoughts to the ones forbidden by the masters. Silently, he recited his litany of self, as he had every night for the past five years.
“I am more than the number B49-17.
My name is Stevie Robinson, my birthday is the 11th March, and I’m 12 years old.
My father’s name is Mark.
My mother’s name is Katie.
My sister’s name is Jenny.
My family existed.
I vow to always remember our life together before the invasion.”
Tears gathered, but he was careful not to snuffle aloud. The cameras and microphones embedded in the walls monitored any transgressions every minute of every day.
Further, up the row, bed springs creaked as B49-3 tossed in his sleep, deep in the throes of another recurring nightmare. The silence shattered. His roommate screeched into the blackness, “Mama!”
Heart palpitating, Stevie squeezed his eyes closed, stilled his body, and faked sleep. Moments later, boots thundered into the dormitory, followed by scuffling sounds as the offending boy was dragged out his bed and marched away. The doors crashed shut, muffling the boy’s protests. Stevie had witnessed numerous night raids, so he knew to remain frozen.
A torch button snapped on, then measured boot steps resonated on the wooden floor boards. Three paces. A pause. Stevie imagined the torchlight scanning over the statue-like faces. A few paces at a time the master inspected the dormitory until he halted by Stevie’s cot. The smell of leather polish ripened the air. Stevie focused on breathing. In and out. In and out. No twitches. Feigning sleep. Early into his captivity he’d learned the harsh consequences of non-conformity.
Finally, the boots trod away. Before he exited the master intoned, “The Leader watches over you all.”
***
Clad in identical uniforms, the boys from B49 trooped into the instruction room, their orderly line pausing as each boy bowed before saluting the oversized portrait of the Leader. A shadow of crew cut hair, a creased forehead, lips thinned into a disapproving line, and demon eyes bored out of the frame as if tracking each boy’s movements. The identical image dominated the boys’ access zones: the dormitory, the canteen, the corridors, and the ablution’s block. The Leader’s face had become more familiar than Stevie’s own. It had been five years since he’d seen his reflection in a mirror.
Without a murmur the boys filed to their designated desk and stood beside their seat. Stevie glanced at the empty space allotted to B49-3. A sickly sensation puckered in his stomach but it wasn’t due to the beige mash the servers had dished up for breakfast. Years ago, his taste buds had withered away as he learned to chew the gluey texture for its sustenance value. Refusal to eat resulted in ejection, and reassignment to the intensive reprogramming wing. For boys who cried out in the night, the punishment was the same. None ever returned, and within days a different boy would be slotted into their place, and assigned their numerical identification. The Leader’s message clearly delivered. They were expendable cogs in the Leader’s war machine, merely insignificant numbers. Individuals didn’t exist.
Head straight, eyes forward, Stevie snapped to attention as the master strode into the room. “Be seated.”
Chairs scraped across the floor boards in synchronised motion. The master’s laser gaze scanned above the boys’ heads. “It seems a reminder is necessary. Our lesson will focus on our basic principles until the Leader is satisfied that B49 understands their function.”
Lies. Propaganda. Brain-washing. A turmoil of thoughts swirled through Stevie’s brain, but he kept his expression bland and his body language submissive.
Do. Not. Attract. Attention.
The master picked up a cane and whacked it against a board, directing the group’s focus to the three sentences printed in regulation white chalk.
“Recite together.” He traced the written words with the tip of his cane.
Obedience—Leader knows best.
Conformity—Leader made everyone equal.
Conception—Leader created each of us for his divine purpose.
The taps acted as a metronome commanding repetition until their voices sounded like they’d gargled gravel.
“Halt.” The master consulted the clock on the back wall. “Proceed outside for drill instruction. Convene back here in one hour. The Leader watches over you all.”
***
Under the direction of another master, the boys marched around the quadrangle in orderly lines under an overcast sky. Beneath his cap, Stevie swept his gaze around his surroundings. Windowless concrete high-risers towered around the compound, each one housing identical dormitories. Electrified barbed wire fences and fortified watchtowers incarcerated the thousands of boys within the indoctrination camp. Overhead, a drone buzzed, surveying the sea of uniforms for any sign of non-conformity.
A mine field separated a squat building from the rest of the compound. It accommodated the reprogramming centre. The only entrance was via a rusty metal door. Stevie’s nostrils twitched, the air tainted by the black smoke belching out of the stack of soot-stained chimneys on its roof. The air stunk like burnt barbecued ribs. The boys’ route included parading past the centre’s outside gallows platform. Relief flooded Stevie when he spied the empty nooses. A brief respite as today, they wouldn’t be forced to stop and stand to attention, witnessing the distorted faces of those who broke the Leader’s rules.
For years, he’d shared a room with B49-3. They’d eaten, washed, and marched to the same regimented routine day-in and day-out. He shuddered to think of what the other boy was suffering inside the bowels of the centre. Trained sadists, the masters displayed no capacity for compassion.
Behind him, a voice whispered, “His name is Tom.”
Heart thumping, Stevie’s foot fumbled the next step. He didn’t dare turn his head and acknowledge B49-18’s forbidden comment.
From the front of the line the master roared. “Keep in time.” The cane whacked on the concrete. “Left, right, left.”
The path turned sharply by the outer fence. A flash of purple and yellow caught Stevie’s attention. A lone pansy grew between the cracks in the pavement. He risked peeking at the master before stooping down and plucking up the flower. Careful not to crush its petals he tucked his stolen prize up his jacket sleeve. A tidal wave of adrenaline coursed through his veins; he hardly believed he had dared to jeopardize his life for a pansy.
No outcry ensued and he concentrated on keeping the rhythm. Sometimes the authorities planted informants among the dormitories. Boys who traded secrets for extra rations. He could not afford to slacken his guard.
***
The clock hand ticked over to 8 pm, and the dormitory plunged into darkness. Stevie waited ages before rolling onto his stomach. He extracted the flower from his pillow case and brushed the petals across his nose. The floral bouquet reminded him of the tubs of pansies his mom had grown on their porch. After gardening, the pansy fragrance lingered on her skin.
Memories cascaded like a broken dam. Blowing candles out on a chocolate frosted banana cake. Giggling with his younger sister as their dad spun them around in circles on the back lawn. Wet kisses from his puppy, Sparky. Rainbow lights flashing on the Christmas tree. His mom reading him a bedtime story before pressing a goodnight kiss on his forehead. “Sweat dreams, son.”
He smothered a sigh with the pillow. Silently, he recited the words that kept him sane.
“I am more than the number B49-17.
My name is Stevie Robinson, my birthday is the 11th March, and I’m 12 years old.
My father’s name is Mark.
My mother’s name is Katie.
My sister’s name is Jenny.
My family existed.
I vow to always remember our life together before the invasion.”
Stevie swallowed the flower, destroying the incriminating evidence. He added to his mantra. “The Leader watches us, but I’m watching back. In my heart, I will never follow the Leader.”
Thank you for supporting today’s RWISA author along the RWISA “RISE-UP” Blog Tour! To follow along with the rest of the tour, please visit the main RWISA“RISE-UP” Blog Tour page on the RWISA site. For a chance to win a bundle of15 e-books along with a $5 Amazon gift card, please leave a comment on the main RWISA“RISE-UP”Blog Tour page! Once you’re there, it would be nice to also leave the author a personal note on their dedicated tour page, as well. Thank you, and good luck!
To provide the best experiences, we use technologies like cookies to store and/or access device information. Consenting to these technologies will allow us to process data such as browsing behavior or unique IDs on this site. Not consenting or withdrawing consent, may adversely affect certain features and functions.
Functional
Always active
The technical storage or access is strictly necessary for the legitimate purpose of enabling the use of a specific service explicitly requested by the subscriber or user, or for the sole purpose of carrying out the transmission of a communication over an electronic communications network.
Preferences
The technical storage or access is necessary for the legitimate purpose of storing preferences that are not requested by the subscriber or user.
Statistics
The technical storage or access that is used exclusively for statistical purposes.The technical storage or access that is used exclusively for anonymous statistical purposes. Without a subpoena, voluntary compliance on the part of your Internet Service Provider, or additional records from a third party, information stored or retrieved for this purpose alone cannot usually be used to identify you.
Marketing
The technical storage or access is required to create user profiles to send advertising, or to track the user on a website or across several websites for similar marketing purposes.
