tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32547057337361905132024-03-13T16:30:20.814-07:00Walker's BlogDouglas Wickardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09401381903691271187noreply@blogger.comBlogger59125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3254705733736190513.post-16718991950596473482018-06-29T09:20:00.000-07:002018-06-29T09:20:43.063-07:00THE WANTING HOUR<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b><span style="background: white; color: #181818; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">ELLERY
WILLIAM FLYNN is dead!<br />
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</span></b><span style="background: white; color: #181818; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">The
sixty-seven year old author -- best known for penning the International
bestselling gay novel<b> <i>The Wanting Hour -- </i></b>was found dead
in his apartment early Christmas morning. His next-door neighbor, Mrs. Evelyn
Brando, discovered Mr. Flynn’s body while delivering her annual tray of
Christmastime sugar cookies.<b><br />
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</b>For over thirty years, Mr. Flynn had resided in the one-bedroom, fourth
floor walk-up, located on the corner of Grove and Hudson Street in the heart of
Greenwich Village. The downtown community gravely mourns the loss of Mr. Flynn,
warmly regarding him as their resident, literati treasure.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b><span style="background: white; color: #181818; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 107%;"><br />
</span></b><span style="background: white; color: #181818; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 107%;">He
was last seen enjoying a seasonal cocktail at Marie’s Crisis, a local watering
hole only a stone’s throw away from his residential building.<b><br />
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</b>Detectives from the Sixth Precinct are currently investigating the cause of
Mr. Flynn’s death.<b><br />
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</b>Mr. Flynn has no immediate family.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">RIP Ellery William Flynn.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>~ <i>If our life actually does flash before our eyes when we die,
then Ellery William Flynn’s deathbed is a joyful testament to the age-old adage.
Who would have imagined so much history could be reminisced in one enchanted evening,
especially on Christmas Eve? With the added assistance of a few imaginary
friends, Ellery dies peacefully in his bed and transcends this earthly plane.
What he leaves behind is a legacy of the written word, a proud journal of the gay
and lesbian community, and a searing tribute to a life well documented and
bravely lived. <o:p></o:p></i></b></span></div>
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It’s never too late for an awakening… <o:p></o:p></i></b></span></span></div>
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<br />Douglas Wickardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09401381903691271187noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3254705733736190513.post-50158691742608380712017-12-26T08:42:00.002-08:002017-12-26T08:42:18.637-08:00Excerpt from TRANSCENDENT<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Intimacy
<i>is</i> the gift. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">‘Performing’
intimacy for the assurance of procuring safety will fail. Always. The act will
tire, the facade will fade, and what you ‘get back’ from the deal will never be
enough.’ <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Your
worthiness becomes a bargaining chip, a loaded trigger targeted solely on the
street value of your objectified shelf life. Unless of course there’s money
involved, a bright and shiny professional future, a nice pre-nuptial wrapped up
in a neat and tidy bow waiting for you in a bank vault. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">A child…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">But even
with all of those winning compensations -- as safe and secure and as sound as they
all may seem – at some point, reverberations of falsity will echo through your
soul… ‘I sold out! I could have had more!’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Or not. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">As I
have written in the past, relationships at best are usury, worked at so
arduously in the beginning stages to create the coveted coupling, but in the
end, the picture of all that perfection crumbles and falls and the lack of true
intimacy separates the union. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Not
love. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Love is
the commodity traded and exchanged. Never confuse love with the true gift of
intimacy. Love is the service extended, the romantic bow, the lust-filled
evenings, the catchall phrase we use and abuse -- what we simply cannot get
enough of -- until that too ends, reversed without a moment’s notice, sometimes
without even a discussion, without mutual consent… without the love. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">What’s
left behind is a hollow exhibition, routine and staged and lonely. Those
committed to a relationship based exclusively on the art of performance will
eventually ‘perform’ outside the relationship. Acting out will become the
avenue of choice. The shadow self, the actor performing inside the union, the
intimate stranger beside you in your bed, will eventually drive him/herself
outside the restrictive gates of matrimony, and sprint toward autonomous freedom
and the opportunity to find their true self.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Douglas Wickardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09401381903691271187noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3254705733736190513.post-84942628218463339862017-11-09T11:15:00.002-08:002017-11-09T11:15:13.926-08:00MY WRITER IDENTITY. <div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 17.12px;">Sami Saxton is on a short hiatus.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 17.12px;">She did NOT arrive on Christmas Day, 2015 as promised. Sami is not ‘gone for good,’ but merely on a leave of absence. But in the spirit of transparency, I feel obliged to explain why?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 17.12px;">If anyone is even remotely interested…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 17.12px;">As a self-published, indie author, I felt it was important for my ‘emerging author brand’ to regiment myself to a strict time schedule -- a deadline so to speak -- and pump out two works of fiction each and every year. I am fortunate. I have two wonderful and engaging characters to draw ideas from... Sami Saxton and Dan Hammer. Trust me, they provide me with enough alter ego material and story lines to last, well, indefinitely. I hope. Then along came an idea last year to explore a new concept, <i>Aberrant</i>, my <i>Queer Diary Series</i>, and my clock twisted. In digging up the spiritual bedrock for Ellery Flynn -- my fictional sixty-seven year old aging author -- I began uprooting core foundations of my own beliefs, and the work took on a complex and completely different meaning for me, metamorphosing into what some call 'a labor of love.' </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 17.12px;">My deadline stalled.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 17.12px;">Whose deadline was I on anyway?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 17.12px;">I wasn’t signed to a major book publisher awaiting a lucrative financial advance once the pages were submitted. I hadn’t secured a upper echelon Manhattan editor who was calling me daily, inquiring about the work, my progress, preparing my manuscript for advance galley copies to be sent out to the media in hopes of garnering praise and adulation and book awards from top magazines and notable reviewers. Barnes & Nobel and all the tiny little independent bookstores across the country weren’t salivating to plop my current work into their NEW ARRIVAL bin, displaying the glitzy cover of my hardback copy in a snazzy larger-than-life book dump at the entrance to their stores, in the hope of capturing last minute compulsive sales. I wasn't a notable brand, a household name, or one of the coveted holiday release authors. Nope. That wasn’t me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 17.12px;">The truth was... I was on my own deadline.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="line-height: 17.12px;">A self-induced </span><span style="line-height: 17.12px;">time-frame</span><span style="line-height: 17.12px;"> dictated by me to cast more work into an already overburdened Amazon Universe and continue pushing-and-shoving my creative career up a steep mountain that might not need so much pushing.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 17.12px;">I digress…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 17.12px;">By doing the daily disciplined work on <i>Aberrant</i> and keeping up with my strict regimen, an act of transformation occurred. I suppose this is what all writers hope to accomplish at some point in their work, their career, to create an authentic voice that speaks to the reader with honesty and courage and humanity.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 17.12px;">In discovering Ellery William Flynn, I had inadvertently recovered a lost part of myself. In creating his past, I somehow tapped into my own. Once I completed <i>Aberrant,</i> (on time, I might add) how disappointing to publish my new fabulous work and find no public interest. My readers wanted my mysteries, my thrillers. They insisted I publish books on the ravages of cold-blooded serial killers, not an aging gay author awakening to life before his death. How depressing! </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 17.12px;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 17.12px;">I learnt this lesson with <i>Perfect</i>, my third book in the Sami Saxton series. I wanted Sami to have some respite after all the horrific things that had happened to her in her previous books. I mean, c’mon! So I weaved an element of romance into her story line. (Or rather, Sami insisted.) How fortunate to have a best friend like Drew to whisk her away on a transatlantic cruise to Italy and to be charmed, and seduced and courted by an Italian hunk. And... I might add, how deviously fun for me, as the author, to be the voyeuristic fly on the wall and take naughty dictation while Sami caroused and danced and flirted around his charismatic advances. OMG! My readers were distressed. Again! Why interrupt a good thriller with romance? Nobody cared. The book languished in lousy sales. Even <i>Kirkus</i> who offered <i>Perfect</i> a solid and favorable nod failed to deliver devout Sami readership.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 17.12px;">Therefore, in the middle of November, half way through the new Sami Saxton novel, I stopped. My computer sat dormant on my desk, the power turned off. I processed. I reflected. I sat back and thought about this new place I was currently occupying. I took a vacation to New Orleans over the Thanksgiving holiday. I ate and drank like southern royalty (and gained ten pounds) and witnessed a wonderful lesbian wedding. When I returned to Los Angeles, the same blank feeling persisted. Not entirely unwanted, I might add, just different. I wrote in my journal, numerous times, in an attempt to process, again, and try to understand my blankness of spirit. It wasn’t writer’s block I was plagued with; in fact, I had the next several chapters already plotted out in my head. I just didn’t think I wanted to write any more…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 17.12px;">So I stopped.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 17.12px;">And I took it all back… for me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="line-height: 17.12px;">I chose to not be on a schedule. I stopped the desperate hunger for sales and reviews, for precious nods and flirty winks from publishing companies or eager agents cooing over my work. I ceased the quandary over whether to advertise or not advertise, or to post an event on Goodreads or Facebook, or to be a part of, or enlist in a ‘specific other author event,’ giving away merchandise, and Kindles, and gift cards, in a bleak attempt to entice new readership to my webpage and sell one more copy of one more of my books. I stopped marketing and shelling out cash to an endless money trail of hope. The hope of believing in a dream -- my dream -- </span></span><i style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; line-height: 17.12px;">the </i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="line-height: 17.12px;">dream, and obviously a Universal dream, shared by most people with a working computer, half an idea, a fourth grade framework on how to structure a sentence, and the romantic notion of becoming a BESTSELLING AUTHOR. That dream scattered in the </span><span style="line-height: 17.12px;">zeitgeist</span><span style="line-height: 17.12px;"> across a vast Amazon Galaxy like fairy dust wanting nothing more than to sell books -- millions of books -- and become the next Gillian Flynn of </span></span><i style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; line-height: 17.12px;">Gone Girl</i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="line-height: 17.12px;"> fame.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 17.12px;">I get it!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 17.12px;">I remember my agent, the established and curmudgeonly one I acquired in NYC, the one who sold my first book to a publisher, had once said in an interview, “the most important advice I can give to any new writer is… get a full time job in a restaurant.” He wasn’t kidding. I remember reading that particular interview and being miffed. I had worked my entire life in executive positions in the hospitality industry, and, I was currently employed in an amazing job, a position I loved in fact, in a posh restaurant, but what I wanted was the option to option out! Turn my hobby into a career and my career into my hobby! </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 17.12px;">Right?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="line-height: 17.12px;">I stopped reading the endless success stories of how independent authors (you know who you are) who had come before me and sold MILLIONS upon MILLIONS of e-copies with their specific (pay me the money) secrets on how “You Too Can Do the Same!” How you too can become the next Amanda </span><span style="line-height: 17.12px;">Hocking</span><span style="line-height: 17.12px;"> or Colleen Hoover, or the Tracy Graves of the world, not to mention E. L. James, that crafty and cunning woman who turned her little nighttime sex blog into a lucrative association with major advances from a mega-six publishing house and a Hollywood production company. Lets face it, the gods of readership are slippery, if not fickle. Who knows what the next big ‘thing’ will be? It could be trolls, or vampires one year, YA fantasy the next, witches, or hell, even queers on </span><span style="line-height: 17.12px;">roller skates</span><span style="line-height: 17.12px;">!<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 17.12px;">I had to look into my soul, reevaluate my intentions, my motivation, and be completely honest with myself, not always an easy task. Before publishing my first book, I wrote for validation; the like me, love me, am I good enough?, pay me some attention, hear my voice, hear me roar… routine. After the release of A PERFECT HUSBAND, a dot of confidence took up residence where once only insecurity had resided. Where I once wrote only for the acceptance and approval of somebody, anybody, will you read my work, please?, now I was writing for myself. And I loved it! It fueled me! It invoked a passion inside me that was new and exciting and each day I woke with a hunger to get to my desk and create and build and ultimately conquer the publishing world. I enjoyed the trust, the inner assurance, the determination I experienced while listening to my characters dictate their unique voices and their solitary, sometime inhumane actions. It brought about a new and positive identity for me, an identity I had rarely felt before in my life, especially one so particular as this, and I reveled in the shimmering glow of my newest and obviously, soon-to-turn-lucrative passion.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 17.12px;">Bingo!<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 17.12px;">I am a writer.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 17.12px;">It is one of my many identities. To quit writing allowed me the opportunity to catch up with myself, to take a breath and understand the value of myself without writing, without the identity of wanting to be that particular brand <i>of</i> writer that I desired so doggedly, tattooed with blood on my heart and my monthly bank statements. It allowed me the necessary time off to feel the restless and urgent need <i>to get back to </i>writing. Again. To bring back the passion of what writing invoked in me in the first place, in my heart, the power of the words, the journey I committed to each time I set sail on a new blank screen and started typing away on that sea of white. But more importantly, it taught me about success, my own quiet success. It allowed me to do the work for the sheer love of writing. For the continuous and ongoing love of the characters --<i> my</i> characters -- the ones created by me, the ones I choose to write about. It stopped being for the vapid flight of fame, or the glory, or the reviews, or the constant emotional disappointment of not being relevant out there in a Universe overloaded in golden desires. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 17.12px;">Perhaps my writing ultimately brought out the many identities and facets of me. It brought me back to me, the good me, the autonomous me, with insight and maturity and enough hands-on-experience to allow this identity to remain a constant. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 17.12px;">Sami Saxton is smiling. So is Dan Hammer. Even Ellery Flynn. They all have some surprises up their sleeves in 2018…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 17.12px;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 17.12px;">For the time being, I am listening… and taking dictation</span>Douglas Wickardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09401381903691271187noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3254705733736190513.post-67406804113634778732016-11-27T14:15:00.001-08:002016-11-28T08:06:09.366-08:00AN EXCERPT FROM DEVIANT<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
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<span style="font-size: large;">DEVIANT</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The Queer Diary Series</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Book II</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Coming Christmas Eve 2016</span></div>
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<b style="font-size: x-large; text-indent: 0.5in;"> Ellery William Flynn </b></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large; text-indent: 0.5in;"> 12/14/1947 - 12/25/2014</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMbGHabctCo9f37uIJzOx20HvkZN7cWAlLnq0sOTopNa0GQYVpIrj8H8SAeXnst1DZjNG-pOHRzzssSRrfVG8BKVNtPi8BGf4Yn9VBVIvR6MuYwltRNziLpbjtRuSw2oFYfy2KrCvjqi7c/s1600/deviant-small2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMbGHabctCo9f37uIJzOx20HvkZN7cWAlLnq0sOTopNa0GQYVpIrj8H8SAeXnst1DZjNG-pOHRzzssSRrfVG8BKVNtPi8BGf4Yn9VBVIvR6MuYwltRNziLpbjtRuSw2oFYfy2KrCvjqi7c/s320/deviant-small2.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>I have and always have had a deep admiration,
a reverent appreciation and respect for all working relationships, be it gay, or straight, or any couple united
in the truest sense of the word love. To tether one’s heart and emotion to
another human being, forging a long-term ‘commitment of compromise’ is tough
work, an overwhelming and arduous task, a job many of us just weren’t cut
out for. <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>We compliment ourselves on
our earlier choices, a shining reflection of our approval rating standing before
us, our trophies, our skylines of ‘yes,’ our lookalike children posturing for ‘selfies,’
us growing up into our life with an inflated sense of our defeated accomplishments.
We live in our dreams and die with our hopes, our lifelong forever maybes. We ride
the conveyor belt of life silently, dictated by the job, the monotonous
routine of our monthly bills, the mortgage payment we missed, living above our
means but below our comfort level, preaching and praying and swearing about the country’s wavering and diminishing faith, while awakening our body to holy usury.
The routine of life becomes our life, until that too bottoms out. We
make do, we compromise, we create an affair to remember, a 3D movie memory
of what it felt like to be touched in that certain way, loved just like that
again. To have somebody/anybody handle us like an exquisite piece of fine chocolate,
tasted and savored and devoured in one sweet ravenous bite, the leftovers dripping
from our lips like hot syrupy body nectar. <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>We make peace, we piece it all together,
we accept our differences and deny our truth. We lie. But we stay in the
relationship. We make it work. We carry on. We may forget, but we will never
forgive all those who inflicted those little hurts, those petty injustices, those pain-filled cries screamed out into the velvet night sky, ‘what the FUCK was
I thinking?’ We bury all that too, somewhere. Where else would I go? What else
would I do? The best years of my life behind me, I’m here now, only for the
children.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>These examples I witnessed. <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>The scripts from my youth, savage. These
truths I heard recited, these conflicts I observed unresolved, the torment,
the storms, the hiding under the table, the covering of my ears so as not to
hear, the uncovering of my ears to hear too much. Silent and innocent, he is a very good boy, well behaved, subservient, an ardent observer, listening intently, unnoticed on the sidelines of life’s ugly
battlefield. <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>Hm.
<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>All these things, the foundation of
my life, the faulty building blocks of my rocky structure, the assimilation and
integration and deviant distractions created from the passionate mind of an
overly sensitive boy.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<o:p><span style="font-size: large;">Coming </span></o:p></div>
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<o:p><span style="font-size: large;">Christmas Eve, 2016</span></o:p></div>
Douglas Wickardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09401381903691271187noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3254705733736190513.post-78627653817836481802016-06-19T08:14:00.001-07:002016-07-23T09:37:24.728-07:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipNJ6Dqe8xfxcfzEyUrO8ps-GrfgmoQwtnMhGyvVMlT7pfnzo4fCKI0Ma8nR8scnxJ3EcIx5XIqrE8Um-FrWxt1i6T3I2dMNWwF-8DpfXjBbQ092j4A9fpZDJ8BYDmHmR97gMI5T7Re7KF/s1600/sami-a-perfect-wife+%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipNJ6Dqe8xfxcfzEyUrO8ps-GrfgmoQwtnMhGyvVMlT7pfnzo4fCKI0Ma8nR8scnxJ3EcIx5XIqrE8Um-FrWxt1i6T3I2dMNWwF-8DpfXjBbQ092j4A9fpZDJ8BYDmHmR97gMI5T7Re7KF/s400/sami-a-perfect-wife+%25281%2529.jpg" width="266" /></a></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><b>What would you do?</b></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><b>What choice would you make?<o:p></o:p></b></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><b>How far would you go to erase the past?<o:p></o:p></b></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">SMITTY FOWLER, (the Tri State Serial Killer) terrorized the rural
areas of NY, PA and NJ for years. During Fowler’s reign, six teenage girls were
killed, each one indoctrinated into his macabre collection of dead wives. Sami
Saxton made international news for single-handedly killing Smitty Fowler.
Jeanette, his wife, wasn’t so lucky. Recently diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis
and left alone to raise her daughter, Amanda, her options seemed limited. This
is her story…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">
She had written the suicide note before, many times… but had always
thrown it away. Sometimes she would take a match to the paper, and watch as it
slowly burned in the kitchen sink, the edges folding in on themselves, the
corners crumpling inward – the colors changing from lava red, to black, then
gray – before collapsing into its papery defeat.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">
Today would be different…<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">
Today would be a different story…<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><b>"We make up horrors to help us deal with the real ones." ~ Stephen King</b></span></i></div>
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<strong><i><span style="background: white; color: #181818; font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span></i></strong></div>
Douglas Wickardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09401381903691271187noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3254705733736190513.post-41819877926438161142016-02-21T12:14:00.003-08:002017-11-09T10:49:51.457-08:00A WRITER'S IDENTITY<div class="MsoNormal">
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 107%;">Sami Saxton is on a short hiatus. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 107%;">She did NOT arrive on Christmas Day, 2015 as promised.
Sami is not ‘gone for good,’ but merely on a leave of absence. But in the
spirit of transparency, I feel obliged to explain why? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 107%;">If anyone is even remotely interested…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 107%;">As a self-published, indie author, I felt it was
important for my ‘emerging author brand’ to regiment myself to a strict time schedule -- a deadline so to speak -- and pump out two works of fiction each and every year. I am
fortunate. I have two wonderful and engaging characters to draw ideas from... Sami
Saxton and Dan Hammer. Trust me, they provide me with enough alter ego material and story
lines to last, well, indefinitely. I hope. Then along came an idea last year to
explore a new concept, <i>Aberrant</i>, my <i>Queer Diary Series</i>, and my clock twisted.
In digging up the spiritual bedrock for Ellery Flynn -- my fictional sixty-seven
year old aging author -- I began uprooting core foundations of my own beliefs,
and the work took on a complex and completely different meaning for me, metamorphosing into what some call 'a labor of love.' </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 107%;">My deadline stalled. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 107%;">Whose deadline was I on anyway? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 107%;">I wasn’t signed to a major book publisher awaiting a lucrative
financial advance once the pages were submitted. I hadn’t secured a upper echelon Manhattan editor
who was calling me daily, inquiring about the work, my progress, preparing my
manuscript for advance galley copies to be sent out to the media in hopes of garnering
praise and adulation and book awards from top magazines and notable reviewers. Barnes
& Nobel and all the tiny little independent bookstores across the country weren’t
salivating to plop my current work into their NEW ARRIVAL bin, displaying the glitzy cover of my hardback copy in
a snazzy larger-than-life book dump at the entrance to their stores, in the hope of capturing last minute compulsive sales. I wasn't a notable brand, a household
name, or one of the coveted holiday release authors. Nope. That wasn’t me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 107%;">The truth was... I was on my own deadline. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="line-height: 107%;">A self-induced </span><span style="line-height: 17.12px;">time-frame</span><span style="line-height: 107%;"> dictated by me to cast more
work into an already overburdened Amazon Universe and continue pushing-and-shoving
my creative career up a steep mountain that might not need so much pushing. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 107%;">I digress…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 107%;">By doing the daily disciplined work on <i>Aberrant</i> and keeping up with my strict regimen,
an act of transformation occurred. I suppose this is what all writers
hope to accomplish at some point in their work, their career, to create an authentic voice that speaks to the reader with honesty and courage and humanity.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 107%;">In discovering Ellery William Flynn, I had
inadvertently recovered a lost part of myself. In creating his past, I somehow
tapped into my own. Once I completed <i>Aberrant,</i>
(on time, I might add) how disappointing to publish my new fabulous work and find no public
interest. My readers wanted my mysteries, my thrillers. They insisted I publish
books on the ravages of cold-blooded serial killers, not an aging gay author awakening
to life before his death. How depressing! </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 107%;">I learnt this lesson with <i>Perfect</i>, my third book in the Sami Saxton series. I wanted Sami to
have some respite after all the horrific things that had happened to her in her
previous books. I mean, c’mon! So I weaved an element of romance into her story line. (Or rather, Sami insisted.) How fortunate to have a best friend like Drew to whisk her away on a transatlantic cruise to Italy and to be charmed, and seduced and courted by an Italian hunk. And... I might add, how deviously fun for me, as the author, to be the
voyeuristic fly on the wall and take naughty dictation while Sami caroused
and danced and flirted around his charismatic advances. OMG! My readers were
distressed. Again! Why interrupt a good thriller with romance? Nobody cared.
The book languished in lousy sales. Even <i>Kirkus</i>
who offered <i>Perfect</i> a solid and
favorable nod failed to deliver devout Sami readership. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 107%;">Therefore, in the middle of November, half way through
the new Sami Saxton novel, I stopped. My computer sat dormant on my desk, the
power turned off. I processed. I reflected. I sat back and thought about this
new place I was currently occupying. I took a vacation to New Orleans over the
Thanksgiving holiday. I ate and drank like southern royalty (and gained ten
pounds) and witnessed a wonderful lesbian wedding. When I returned to Los
Angeles, the same blank feeling persisted. Not entirely unwanted, I might add, just
different. I wrote in my journal, numerous times, in an attempt to process, again,
and try to understand my blankness of spirit. It wasn’t writer’s block I was
plagued with; in fact, I had the next several chapters already plotted out in
my head. I just didn’t think I wanted to write any more…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 107%;">So I stopped. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 107%;">And I took it all back… for me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="line-height: 107%;">I chose to not be on a schedule. I stopped
the desperate hunger for sales and reviews, for precious nods and flirty winks
from publishing companies or eager agents cooing over my work. I ceased the quandary
over whether to advertise or not advertise, or to post an event on Goodreads or Facebook, or to be a
part of, or enlist in a ‘specific other author event,’ giving away merchandise, and Kindles, and
gift cards, in a bleak attempt to entice new readership to my webpage and sell one
more copy of one more of my books. I stopped marketing and shelling out cash to
an endless money trail of hope. The hope of believing in a dream -- my dream --
</span></span><i style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 107%;">the </i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="line-height: 107%;">dream, and obviously a Universal
dream, shared by most people with a working computer, half an idea, a fourth
grade framework on how to structure a sentence, and the romantic notion of becoming a
BESTSELLING AUTHOR. That dream scattered in the </span><span style="line-height: 17.12px;">zeitgeist</span><span style="line-height: 107%;"> across a vast Amazon
Galaxy like fairy dust wanting nothing more than to sell books -- millions of books -- and
become the next Gillian Flynn of </span></span><i style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 107%;">Gone
Girl</i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="line-height: 107%;"> fame.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 107%;">I get it! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 107%;">I remember my agent, the established and curmudgeonly one I acquired in NYC, the one who sold my first book to a publisher, had once said in an interview, “the most important advice I can give to any new writer
is… get a full time job in a restaurant.” He wasn’t kidding. I remember reading
that particular interview and being miffed. I had worked my entire life
in executive positions in the hospitality industry, and, I was currently employed in an amazing job, a position I loved in fact, in a posh restaurant, but what I wanted was the option to option out! Turn my
hobby into a career and my career into my hobby! </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 107%;">Right?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="line-height: 107%;">I stopped reading the endless success stories of how
independent authors (you know who you are) who had come before me and sold
MILLIONS upon MILLIONS of e-copies with their specific (pay me the money) secrets
on how “You Too Can Do the Same!” How you too can become the next Amanda </span><span style="line-height: 17.12px;">Hocking</span><span style="line-height: 107%;"> or Colleen Hoover, or the Tracy Graves of the world, not to mention
E. L. James, that crafty and cunning woman who turned her little nighttime sex
blog into a lucrative association with major advances from a mega-six publishing
house and a Hollywood production company. Lets face it, the gods of readership
are slippery, if not fickle. Who knows what the next big ‘thing’ will be? It
could be trolls, or vampires one year, YA fantasy the next, witches, or hell, even queers on </span><span style="line-height: 17.12px;">roller skates</span><span style="line-height: 107%;">!<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 107%;">I had to look into my soul, reevaluate my intentions, my motivation, and be completely honest
with myself, not always an easy task. Before publishing my first book, I wrote for
validation; the like me, love me, am I good enough?, pay me some attention, hear
my voice, hear me roar… routine. After the release of A PERFECT HUSBAND, a dot of confidence took up residence where once only insecurity had resided. Where I once
wrote only for the acceptance and approval of somebody, anybody, will you read my work, please?, now I was writing for myself. And I loved
it! It fueled me! It invoked a passion inside me that was new and exciting and
each day I woke with a hunger to get to my desk and create and build and ultimately
conquer the publishing world. I enjoyed the trust, the inner assurance, the determination I
experienced while listening to my characters dictate their unique voices and their solitary, sometime inhumane actions. It brought about a new and positive identity for me, an identity I had
rarely felt before in my life, especially one so particular as this, and I reveled in the shimmering glow of my newest
and obviously, soon-to-turn-lucrative passion. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 107%;">Bingo!<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 107%;">I am a writer.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 107%;">It is one of my many identities. To quit writing
allowed me the opportunity to catch up with myself, to take a breath and understand
the value of myself without writing, without the identity of wanting to be that
particular brand <i>of</i> writer that I
desired so doggedly, tattooed with blood on my heart and my monthly bank statements. It allowed me the necessary time off to feel
the restless and urgent need <i>to get back to </i>writing. Again. To bring back the passion of what writing invoked in me in the first place, in my heart, the
power of the words, the journey I committed to each time I set sail on a new
blank screen and started typing away on that sea of white. But more importantly, it
taught me about success, my own quiet success. It allowed me to do the work for
the sheer love of writing. For the continuous and ongoing love of the
characters --<i> my</i> characters -- the ones created by me, the ones I choose to write about. It stopped being for the vapid flight of fame, or the glory, or the reviews, or the constant emotional disappointment
of not being relevant out there in a Universe overloaded in golden desires. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 107%;">Perhaps my writing ultimately brought out the many identities and facets of
me. It brought me back to me, the good me, the autonomous me, with insight and maturity and enough hands-on-experience to allow this identity to remain a constant. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 107%;">Sami Saxton is smiling. So is Dan Hammer. Even Ellery
Flynn. They all have some surprises up their sleeves in 2018…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 107%;">For the time being, I
am listening… and taking dictation</span>Douglas Wickardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09401381903691271187noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3254705733736190513.post-33655201447175647602015-10-17T12:21:00.001-07:002015-10-17T12:21:18.753-07:00THE EXCERPT FROM A PERFECT WIFE<div class="title" style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 1.1; margin-bottom: 0.5em;">
<a href="https://www.goodreads.com/author_blog_posts/9244380-a-perfect-wife" style="color: #666600; text-decoration: none;">A PERFECT WIFE</a></div>
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<em><strong>"We make up horrors to help us cope with the real ones." Stephen King</strong> </em><br /><br /><br />jfowler@gmail.com<br />Thu 7/12/2014 5:23 PM<br />To: Benjie14@aol.com<br />Where r u? Benjie! I’ve been calling…texting, leaving messages on your cell phone!!! Wtf!<br /><br />jfowler@gmail.com<br />Thu 7/12/2014 5:23 PM<br />To: Benjie14@aol.com<br />I’m freaking out, Benjie! I’m a f*cking lunatic! I can’t do this anymore! I can’t take this shit! Call me! NOW!<br /><br />jfowler@gmail.com<br />Thu 7/12/2014 5:24 PM<br />To: Benjie14@aol.com<br />I’m nauseous. My body’s swollen. I can’t breathe. I feel like a f*cking blimp! I’ve taken all my meds…<br /><br />jfowler@gmail.com<br />Thu 7/12/2014 5:24 PM<br />To: Benjie14@aol.com<br />Amanda needs me. She needs more than I can give right now. She cries all the time! All the f*cking time! She’s crying right now! Dammit, Benjie, I need you…Benjie? C’mon, call me! Please.<br />Please…<br />Come take the baby before I do something stupid…I’m not in my right mind…<br /><br /><br /><br />7/12/2014 5:25 PM<br /><br />“Shhhh…shhhh…I’m here now…don’t cry. Shhhh. I’m here, little one. I’m here.”<br /><br />Jeanette leaned over the crib and began undressing her baby. Amanda had been restless, fidgety, but stopped fussing the moment she caught sight of her mother. First off came her white nightshirt, swimming with tiny pink flowers. Her mamma--God Bless, had bought the outfit as a first year birthday gift at that cute little baby store up in Matamoras. Jeanette folded the top neatly, feeling the softness of the fabric in between her fingers--crushed cotton, and placed it to the side. Next came the leggings, the ones with the padded feet and stretchy material the color of Day-Glo yellow. Way too bright! The top and bottom were a matching set, and already Amanda was growing out of it. At fourteen months, she was into everything, shuffling around on her hands and knees, taking first steps, standing up and falling backwards, crawling on the floor and collecting dust better than a Swifter. She checked her diaper—dry. Jeanette removed it as well and threw it into the wastebasket. She stroked Amanda’s hair off her forehead, and pushed soft brown locks away from her eyes.<br /><br />Jeanette covered her shoulder with a blanket from the crib, picked Amanda up and held her bare body close to her chest. She began rocking her back and forth, slowly, gently.<br /><br />“Shhh…shhhh. It’s all right, baby, I’m here now, I’m here with you…”<br /><br />Amanda’s hands moved inside Jeanette’s robe, probing, searching for Jeanette’s breast.<br /><br />“What’cha looking for?” Jeanette had continued breastfeeding Amanda long after the baby books had suggested her to stop. She enjoyed their bond, the togetherness it created between the two of them. Her doctor had warned her not to continue after she started back on her MS medications, but her breasts were so heavy, so full, that sometimes she needed Amanda to suckle them just to release the pressure.<br /><br />“Not now, baby. Not now.” She pushed her hand away. “Let me tell you the story about your daddy, okay…one last time. Would you like that?” Amanda’s hands began moving up and down, excitedly. Oh, and those eyes, colored with a shade of blue so bright and big and clear, it literally took Jeanette’s breath away. They seemed to sparkle from deep within with a sort of Divine inner light.<br /><br />“The seed of the devil created you, baby girl…did you know that? That’s right. The devil lives inside you, honey. Right there inside your chubby little belly…”<br /><br />She leaned Amanda forward, bowing her head down to the floor, and kissing her fat stomach. Jeanette made a blowing sound, wind flapped from between her lips. A smile lit up on Amanda’s face, exposing a few teeth with wide-open spaces: a Gerber smile. Chubby fingers danced in front of her mouth.<br /><br />“Your daddy…he was a beautiful monster. Beautiful. Mommy didn’t know that at the time, when she first married him, he was so, so handsome, and so, so quiet. Your daddy was one of the most handsome creatures your mommy had ever seen. Like an angel...” Jeanette talked about Smitty as if she were reading a children’s story, complete with ooohhs and ahhhhhs, soft purrs with trills.<br /><br />She looked at the clock. Time was ticking…tick tock, tick tock…<br /><br />“That must be why you’re so pretty. You have his face, honey, his features, his eyes--icy and blue and full of the devil. Let’s take a stroll to the bathroom. I have something I want to show you. A secret, <i>our </i>secret…”<br /><br />The apartment was substandard; a dingy, ramshackle, one-bedroom shit-sty situated on the outskirts of Milford right off Highway 209. A leaky roof dripped rainwater into a dented-up bucket on the back porch. The backyard was a muddy mess; the dirt dug up from a German shepherd Donna and Troy kept tied up to a chain all-day. The dog barked incessantly. White dirty foam gathered at the sides of his mouth from pulling his choker so damn hard.<br /><br />Her girlfriend was kind enough to let Jeanette crash at their house for the time being. The entire ordeal was putting a strain on Donna’s marriage though. She was a good friend--her best friend actually from high school, and of course, she had wanted to help Jeanette out. What else was she supposed to do? She couldn’t just put her out on the street, now could she? Not with a baby and all.<br /><br />Donna’s husband was a long haired, low-life who worked as an assistant manager at a Mexican joint over on Hartford Street. He had delusional dreams of being a rock star! Right! And Donna had started working part time again too, just a few days a week as a nurse’s assistant in an old folk’s home over in Port Jervis. Changing beds and cleaning bedpans. Oh, the stories Donna used to share about that smelly place…drinking beers and smoking cigarettes, the two of them sitting close together on Donna's beat up futon sofa after she got off work and waiting for Troy to stumble home.<br /><br /><i>The clock ticking…tick, tock, tick, tock… </i><br /><br />Donna was pregnant now, too. That’s why she went back to work. She wanted to save up a little extra cash for when the baby was born, that is, if her train wreck of a husband didn’t steal it all for beer, or loose it on the blackjack tables at the nearby Poconos casino.<br /><br />Their bathroom was a narrow, cramped, dark space that smelled of mold and damp rot. A brown colored stain ran a circular marathon inside the bathtub. The grout surrounding the yellow tile was black and old. A small window situated above the toilet was dressed in blue, chintzy, country-style curtains. Jeanette had tried, several times, to clean out that damn tub, but the ring stayed victorious. Not even Comet with extra strength scouring beads could help eliminate that funky buildup.<br /><br />Jeanette’s life had been a f*cking shit show since running away from Smitty and moving back home with her mamma and Benjie. Benjie was her drunk, deadbeat, couch potato of a brother who watched TV all day and drank super-sized Coors Light on the sofa. He would fall asleep and snore so loud he’d wake himself up. And all of it on their mamma's dime!<br /><br />Jeanette tried getting her life back together, considering everything she’d been through. And her mamma had helped out, as best she could, by babysitting and taking care of the little one. But once word started circulating around their small town about her ex-husband being Smitty Fowler--the infamous tri-county serial killer, and responsible for the deaths of six teenage girls in the area, well, it seemed as if overnight Jeanette became a piranha and her mamma a fugitive for harboring her. Her own family, her own skin and blood disowned her. Can you believe it?<br /><br /><i>“What kind of girl marries a serial killer?” </i><br /><br /><i>“Were you retarded or something?” </i><br /><br /><i>“What was your problem?” </i><br /><br />Graffiti, spray-painted across the front porch of her mamma's pristine white house: THE WIFE OF SERIAL KILLER SMITTY FOWLER LIVES HERE! The words spelled out in large explosive letters in paint the color of blood, just dripping with hate.<br />It was all too much for her mamma. She just couldn’t bear the stress. Her friends at work began to dwindle, just disappeared into thin air, and the community that once supported her, actually looked after her during one of the darkest periods of her life, (when her husband of thirty-four years died of a lingering bout of lung cancer) became intolerant, insensitive and nonexistent.<br /><br />It was a difficult day when her own mamma had to ask Jeanette to leave the house.<br /><br /><i>How? </i><br /><br /><i>Where? </i><br /><br /><i>On what? </i><br /><br /><i>Serial killer’s pension? </i><br /><br />Jeanette wasn’t working, not yet anyway, and her MS was flaring up like a wildfire from all the stress. The last thing Jeanette thought she would have to worry about was finding a job. Maybe she should have thought about that sooner.<br /><br />Jeanette took the easy way out. Why not? Quick money for her sordid story: I MARRIED A SERIAL KILLER! When the tabloid TV crews came sniffing around the area, offering Jeanette cold hard cash for her twisted tale, she went for it. The money was good--damn good in fact, but fleeting. The whole ordeal blew over quickly, like a summer thunderstorm. The video footage they filmed was hot one day--front-page fodder, movie-of-the-week material, and the next...cold as ice, the circus act was over, the carnival split town. As if the bloody thing never happened to begin with!<br /><br />Bye, bye…<br /><br />The folks in Jeanette's hometown didn’t much appreciate the press nosing around. They didn’t like the story of Smitty Fowler being brought up all over again, regurgitated like supper leftovers. Their sad faces paraded on TMZ and other local channels right alongside the nightly news. The homeroom picture of their sweet, darling Cassidy revisited on national TV; first, a side view, and then a front shot, those ringlets of strawberry-blonde curls falling over her soft, innocent shoulders. Their daughter abducted, held hostage and tortured by Fowler before brutally killing her and turning their sweet departed Cassidy into one of his teenage brides, adding her to his morbid collection of young wives at Highpoint Natural Park.<br /><br />The girl’s family reacted at first by sending hate mail. Then they started calling, constantly, coming so bold as to actually visit, defiantly stomping right up the front steps to her mamma's house, pounding on the front door and demanding Jeanette’s silence. Hadn’t the town been through enough? How could Jeanette make money--the devil’s money, that is, on something so grotesque, so hurtful, and so callous?<br /><br />Jeanette’s cell phone vibrated on the kitchen table. She looked down and noticed the caller ID, Roy. She waited for it to silence.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: normal;">Roy!</span><br />I thought I deleted him!</span><br /><br />Her mamma had even taken off work to help, using her vacation time to babysit while Jeanette went out searching for a job. The only thing she knew how to do was tend bar, which meant long hours standing on her feet, lifting and stocking heavy cases of beer and liquor, as well as flirting with all those red neck assholes for shitty quarter tips. What was she supposed to do?<br /><br />So, she accepted a position at a dive bar situated on the outskirts of town, a watering hole for the downtrodden, and met up with a guy by the name of Roy. At first, he seemed like a decent guy. He was recently divorced and hurting for some female company--a friend with benefits—a bootie call. It felt good, you know, the way he smiled, the way he warmed her heart by looking at her admiringly from across the bar. The seductive way he’d toss out a compliment right along with a flashy dollar tip. Even the sex was all right. Not tender or gentle or graceful like Smitty was, but at least he was a body--a man’s body--something warm and hairy who breathed heavy, who whispered nice things in her ears, and smelled of cheap cologne and musky armpits.<br /><br />Her mamma was not a happy camper, not in the least. Here she was giving up her evenings and hard-earned VK time to look after Amanda, and there goes Jeanette--her own daughter, out-and-about, gallivanting around town and hooking up with another no good son of a bitch. Add one more insult to her mamma's growing list of disappointments.<br /><br />It didn’t really matter. Roy and she had called it off after only a few weeks of being together. Well, Jeanette had called it off, or at least she had tried to. She neglected returning his phone calls, and acted disinterested whenever he’d plop his skinny ass down on one of the ratty bar stools. That greasy string of a ponytail he kept tied in the back of his head was really starting to annoy her.<br /><br />Roy turned out to be a drunk, mean-spirited and spiteful, and Jeanette wasn’t up for being his personal punching bag after he ingested a few shots of Johnny Walker. Some nights, she would go to bed in such agony, she would have to bury her body in ice packs, trying to freeze out the bruises, her disease, the sheer intensity of the pain. It felt--honest to god--as if her entire body was on fire, just set aflame, the blood circulating beneath her sensitive skin screaming out for mercy.<br /><br />There seemed no way out.<br /><br />And Lord, she tried.<br /><br />She had even registered for beautician school in Port Jervis, the next town over. Her mamma had cosigned on the bank loan to help make the tuition. Jeanette had always wanted to work in a good profession. Cutting hair and applying smelly permanents to the local “blue hairs” seemed like a decent, if not acceptable trade. The course stretched out for six-months and she had already started taking the classes, but even that came to an abrupt halt. It was difficult organizing proper transportation. She didn’t own a car, and her mamma worked the day shift. Carpooling with the other students back and forth became a logistics issue, a royal pain in the ass. Plus, the added expense of paying for morning day care was beginning to add up. And she flat-out refused to let Benjie babysit her baby girl, so she stopped going. Another disappointment added to her own list of personal failures.<br /><br />Jeanette rarely drank--a glass of white wine at dinner, a beer with Donna or at a barbecue. Nor was she the type to misuse drugs. But standing behind that bar for all those hours started taking a toll on her body. She began increasing the use of her prescription painkillers to help get her through the evenings. Add to that combination the medication she took for her MS, plus the tiny blue pill she swallowed first thing in the morning, every morning, to stop any attempt of a looming anxiety attack—well, by evening’s end, after a few shots of anejo tequila, the daily dosage of medications she ingested would flip anybody into an mind-altering state. Speeding home after her closing shift, driving her mamma's car, windows open, music blaring, flying high down the back roads, a local cop pulled her over and issued her a DUI. One long, sobering night spent in a smelly jail cell, along with a hefty fine, which of course, she couldn’t afford to pay (thank you, mamma! Again!) as well as the extra expense of needing to hire an attorney to fight her case in court.<br /><br />Give a girl a f*cking break…<br /><br />Jeanette leaned over the bathtub. She grazed a finger along the top of the water--warm, but not too hot. She had added bath beads mixed with Epsom salts, splurging on a large bag of it on her last trip to Shop Rite. The lingering scent of lavender with a just a hint of mint camouflaged the musky smell of bathroom mildew.<br /><br />Earlier, in the kitchen, she had crushed up a half tablet of Paxil, mixing it with a spoon of applesauce, and fed it to Amanda, who lapped it right up, opening and closing her mouth waiting for more. Within minutes, the drug was taking hold and making her sleepy. She kept yawning, wiping at her eyes, and dropping her head onto Jeanette’s shoulder like dead weight.<br /><br />Yes, this was the best solution…<br /><br />The only solution…<br /><br />As if…a voice had come to her from God answering all her prayers. All of them. It was no joke that Amanda did have the seed of the devil planted inside her. She would grow up to be like her father, a monster, a liar, a killer. It was better this way. The voices were talking to Jeanette more frequently now, advising her, telling her exactly what she must do…<br /><br /><em style="font-style: italic;">Careful, careful, Jeanette…</em><br /><br />A plan needed to be executed, and soon.<br /><br />She had thought about just offing herself. She knew Donna’s husband had a pistol hiding somewhere around the house. She had seen Donna venture into the hall closet off the living room, talking about it in case of an emergency. All she’d have to do is stick the short barrel into her mouth and pull the trigger…but then who would take care of Amanda? Who would know the family history? Who would be able to handle her demon child without Jeanette around to oversee, supervise and watch over her?<br /><br />No, this was the only answer. This was their only choice…<br /><br />Her robe fell to the floor by her feet. A few votive candles lined the sink, creating a chorus of flickering lights. Amanda’s cherub face lay heavy on Jeanette’s bosom; her breathing deep and restful. Earlier, Jeanette had swallowed the rest of the pills in the bottle, allowing her the good grace to forget to remember….anything. The world was becoming a blurry fog of no feeling.<br /><br />Weightlessness…<br /><br />Why couldn’t it all go back to the way it was? Why did that nosy bitch have to come around and ruin everything? Upset her love nest, her lovely state of denial, her lazy life of loneliness, where the only thing tormenting her at the time, was whether or not the women Smitty was having sex with were pretty. Prettier than her…enough for him to dump her, leave her for another healthier, vital, and younger girl…<br /><br />God knows, the last thing she ever thought Smitty was…was a killer, a monster, a menace to society.<br /><br />She stepped into the tub. A thin slick of water overflowed over the side and onto the bathroom floor. She didn’t care. She wouldn’t be around to clean it up. She and Amanda would be in flight somewhere, circling around overhead by the time Donna got home from work and discovered them. Amanda and she would be somewhere between here and there, a chosen purgatory, wherever that place might be.<br /><br /><em style="font-style: italic;">Benjie…</em><i> </i><br /><br />She lowered her body into the warmth. She felt the water covering her thighs, her stomach, her breasts…Amanda’s back, the yellowish-purple bruises on her forearms—reminders of Roy—that asshole!<br />Amanda flinched from the sudden shock of wet heat, but didn’t make a fuss, not even a whimper. Her hair was wet now and lay flat and matted against her tiny back as they sank lower. Jeanette forgot to put the music on.<br /><br />Damn!<br /><br />She had wanted music…Jackson Brown, the Pretender!<br /><br />Oh, well, next time, next lifetime…maybe.<br /><br />She lifted her feet up out of the water and positioned them against the tiles above the faucet. It would be swift and calculated, one big breath taken in through her nose upon going under. She expected a suspended moment of intense burning, a searing sharp pain, as if a knife was piercing through the gauzy fabric of her lungs, and then peace…<br /><br />Peace…<br /><br />She hoped Amanda and her would join in death at exactly the same moment, their hearts stopping…together.<br /><br />“Goodbye little girl, I have done all I can do. I have tried my very best to take care of you and love you…” She looked around the room one last time, the darkness settling in, the tiny flames flickering and hazy on the sink, the water soft and inviting, the scent of lavender hovering around and above them like sweet angels breath. She kissed the top of Amanda’s damp head, held her close to her bosom, locked her arms tight around the baby’s back, and sank below the water level…<br /><br /><br /><br /><em style="font-style: italic;">Nobody knows exactly what happens once a body starts the process of shutting down. However, there is a suspicion that when one dies, all the senses do not all go out at once, but rather one at a time. Slowly. Gradually, one loses their sense of touch, their taste, smell, their vision, and lastly…sound…</em><br /><br /><br />Through a long liquid tunnel comes thumping and banging, hard and strong and forceful!<br /><br />Jeanette preferred to ignore it; to pretend it wasn’t there…<br /><br /><em style="font-style: italic;">Go away…</em><br /><br /><em style="font-style: italic;">Go away…</em><br /><br />A broken window. Glass shattered; a muted explosion.<br /><br />The house filled with a lone scream, a muffled cry; shrieks of anguish moving toward her, in her direction, hysterical, running down the hallway, the clip, clop, of heavy booted footsteps…<br /><br /><br />Her lungs were already full.<br /><br />As planned, she had taken one full intake of water through her nose when she first submerged. Amanda fought, for a second, her body tensing up, spastic, clamoring for one last breath, the will to live so strong. Jeanette held on though, tight, her arms locked securely around her baby, keeping her down. Then Amanda went still--very still, so still Jeanette finally relaxed and released her, allowing her to float…away, a piece of wood, weightless, drifting in between her thighs toward the drain. Strands of hair stuck to Jeanette’s calves, a matted, sticky spider web.<br /><br />Commotion!<br /><br />Again, louder and frantic, more urgent, and then the rush of thick arms pushing through the barrier of water, grabbing at her body and pulling her up, up, up, and away from someplace distant; a white place, a soothing place, a place of blue warmth, of Universal acceptance and circular love… Somebody stole her, kidnapped her peace of mind, and dragged her dying, limp body from out of her liquid coffin, flipped her out of the tub, pulled her over the side, and flopped her onto the floor. A dead fish, bloated, and naked and slippery lying beside the grungy bathtub.<br /><br />Then a force so heavy crushed down upon her, pushing her chest in, forcing her to roll over onto her side. Water purged from her mouth and her nose like toxic bile…<br /><br />“What the f*ck are you doing? Are you f*cking out of your mind?” A voice cried out!<br /><br />Fingers intertwined into a fist heaved down upon her chest again, hard and fast and crazy! Water escaped from every possible orifice, an open spigot. Somebody was prying Jeanette’s mouth open and forcing her to gag from the sheer size of his fingers. To choke her, make her vomit, and heave up everything she had ever eaten from out of her stomach…<br /><br />And then…<br /><br />A watery gasp as clean air entered and circled around and into her chest cavity.<br /><br />Her body lifted up, up toward the sink, up toward a bearded man who reeked of alcohol—the sour odor of whiskey and stale cigarette smoke--and the blurry ceiling light centered above her, no longer soothing and white and calm, but jarring and dirty and confusing. Dead houseflies had littered the base of its tinted covering.<br /><br />Jeanette took in her first full breath of oxygen.<br /><br />Jeanette was alive…<br /><br /><br /><br />“What will we do?” Benjie paced back and forth in the living room, glancing at the clock hanging on the wall. His fingers pulled at his straggly beard, twisting it and twirling it, his voice was hoarse, desperate.<br /><br />Jeanette sat on the floor hunched up against the wall, her body cocooned in a scratchy blanket. Her bare feet and legs were up close to her chest. She was struggling to breathe in, to breathe out…<br /><br />Amanda was across from her, on the floor, wrapped up as well, her little girl, dead and dumped and discarded like garbage in a large, black plastic Glad bag.<br /><br />Jeanette’s throat hurt, the inside of her nose burned. Her chest and ribs were sore, bruised from the force of Benjie’s fist pressing down upon her. He stopped mid pace, “What time does Donna get home from work?” He was crying now. His nose was wet with tears; bubbles popped with mucous from out of his nostrils as he spoke. “Talk to me! What time does Donna get home from work?”<br /><br />Jeanette stared at the clock, that silly, stupid clock Donna bought at T.J. Maxx, cheap and tacky and tasteless. White trash! That’s all they were. White-f*cking-trash! She tried speaking through her swollen throat. She could barely swallow, let alone talk, her lungs were screaming with each attempted breath. Better for her to stay still, try not to breath, try to remain quiet and wait. It was all coming back to her now…<br /><br />Even with the Paxil, she couldn’t deny what was in front of her, what she remembered--her baby, pulled from the bathtub, dripping with water onto the floor and rolled up in a towel…<br /><br />“You asshole!” She sobbed. “Why did you save me? I wanted to die with her, my baby. I didn’t want to live, not without her.” A howl bellowed from somewhere so deep within her, a savage yell, a wild animal keening over her dead. “WHY THE F*CK DID YOU SAVE ME?” Tears fell down her cheek. “I hate you! I hate you, Benjie!”<br /><br />He moved over to her and crouched down, low enough to shove his face up to her. So close, she could feel his beard, the stubble tickling her, his putrid breath. “You can bellyache all you want, but right now little Sister, we have to come up with a plan. Otherwise, your sweet ass will be in jail tonight!” He grabbed hold of her arms and shook her. She flinched. “Listen to me and you listen real good…we don’t have all f*cking night! We need to do something with the baby, and we need to do it now! NOW! Do you hear me?” He held on tighter, his fists surrounded her upper arms. “Not later, not tomorrow, but tonight! Otherwise, kiss your sweet ass goodbye!”<br /><br />Jeanette stared across the room at the lumpy plastic bag.<br /><br />Tick-tock, tick-tock…the wall clock chimed 7 PM.<br /><br />“You need to get out of town, you can’t be here!” Benjie started pacing again, raking his hair, pulling at his beard.<br /><br />“Who’s that asshole you been hanging out with. You need to call him. You need to tell him to take you somewhere. I’ll get rid of the baby. I’ll bury her somewhere, someplace far away. I’ll tell the family you took Amanda with you. You need to do this, tonight! Otherwise, you’re in deep shit!”<br /><br />He walked over to the bag. He went to pick it up, but couldn’t. His body crumbled as he began to cry, sobbing.<br /><br />“Why are you helping me? I don’t care anymore. My life is shit. I don’t have anybody anymore. I don’t give a damn if I live or die.”<br /><br />“Get your ass up and make a phone call. We ain’t got much time.” He gathered strength, picked the bag up as if it contained toxic material and marched outside. The screen door banged and rattled as he exited. The front door to his truck opened and slammed shut. The fall of daylight surrounded them. Crickets sawed in angry protest. Heavy footsteps moved across the wooden front porch and around back to the shed. Jeannette waited, following the sounds, visualizing where Benjie was, what he was doing. That dog, that stupid f*cking dog barking, continuously, never stopping.<br /><br />Within minutes, tools hit the back bed of his truck, jarring, raking the bottom, and then the squeak of the screen door opening.<br /><br />“What the f*ck are you waiting for? We don’t have all night!”<br /><br />Jeanette tried standing. Her legs were weak, like jelly, like after a strenuous workout, wobbly. Her eyesight was foggy.<br /><br />“You need to be long gone when Donna gets home! You ain’t got much time, neither! Write her a note! Let her know I came over and broke the window. Tell her I needed to talk to you because…because I was upset you was leaving town. Let her know you took Amanda with you…”<br /><br />Jeanette leaned over onto her knees and pushed with her palms to get to a upright position. She felt dizzy.<br /><br />She stumbled into her bedroom and dressed quickly, a white shirt, some jeans, a navy P-coat. She slipped her boots on without socks and filled her backpack with a few pair of clean underwear, a fresh pair of jeans, some makeup. Her body was beginning to wake up, but she was stiff. Aching. The crib was reflected in the mirror. Amanda's crib. She turned away, gathered her hair in a ponytail and moved into the living room. She tried not to think. Only act. In the hallway closet, she reached up to the top shelf and searched along the edges with her fingers. There, in the back, was the pistol Donna had told her about, warned her about actually. She had never touched a firearm before, the feel of cool metal, the smallness of its size, the compactness of death fitting so neatly inside her hand. For a moment the idea of killing herself entered her thoughts, to shoot herself right there in the closet, but she heard Benjie’s voice…<br /><br />“C’mon, DAMMIT!”<br /><br />She stashed the gun in her backpack and rushed into the living room, took a piece of paper from a desk drawer and scribbled out a note to Donna. She doubted she would ever see her again, but she was only following orders now.<br /><br /><em style="font-style: italic;">Dear Donna,<br />Sorry for the mess…<br />Benjie came by, drunk, of course…I wouldn’t let him in, so he broke the window. I have to get out of here, Donna. I need to leave. I’m going batshit crazy. I’ve taken Amanda with me. Please don’t call the police. I’m fine. I just need some time to think about all this…my situation. About what I need to do next. Benjie told me he’s sorry about the window, he’ll pay for it come payday. He’ll be by tomorrow to talk to you. I don’t want to be a burden to you any longer.<br />Thanks for everything…<br />I love you,<br />Jeanette.</em><br /><br /><i>Get the book A PERFECT WIFE Christmas 2015!</i></div>
Douglas Wickardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09401381903691271187noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3254705733736190513.post-54103383754055735012015-05-14T08:11:00.000-07:002015-05-14T08:11:20.148-07:00ABERRANT ~ THE EXCERPT<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">ab·er·rant<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">ˈabərənt,əˈberənt/<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">adjective</span></i><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;">1.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">departing from an
accepted standard.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">synonyms:<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><a href="https://www.google.com/search?espv=2&biw=1600&bih=760&q=define+deviant&sa=X&ei=9clMVc_SB8qOyASisYDgBg&ved=0CB8Q_SowAA"><span style="color: #660099; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">deviant</span></a></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">, deviating, </span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><a href="https://www.google.com/search?espv=2&biw=1600&bih=760&q=define+divergent&sa=X&ei=9clMVc_SB8qOyASisYDgBg&ved=0CCAQ_SowAA"><span style="color: #660099; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">divergent</span></a></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">, </span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><a href="https://www.google.com/search?espv=2&biw=1600&bih=760&q=define+abnormal&sa=X&ei=9clMVc_SB8qOyASisYDgBg&ved=0CCEQ_SowAA"><span style="color: #660099; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">abnormal</span></a></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">, </span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><a href="https://www.google.com/search?espv=2&biw=1600&bih=760&q=define+atypical&sa=X&ei=9clMVc_SB8qOyASisYDgBg&ved=0CCIQ_SowAA"><span style="color: #660099; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">atypical</span></a></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">, </span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><a href="https://www.google.com/search?espv=2&biw=1600&bih=760&q=define+anomalous&sa=X&ei=9clMVc_SB8qOyASisYDgBg&ved=0CCMQ_SowAA"><span style="color: #660099; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">anomalous</span></a></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">, </span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><a href="https://www.google.com/search?espv=2&biw=1600&bih=760&q=define+irregular&sa=X&ei=9clMVc_SB8qOyASisYDgBg&ved=0CCQQ_SowAA"><span style="color: #660099; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">irregular</span></a></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">; <span style="color: #1122cc;">More</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Courier New";">o<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="background: #EEEEEE; color: #777777; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; text-transform: uppercase;">BIOLOGY</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">diverging from the normal type.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">"aberrant chromosomes"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">synonyms:<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><a href="https://www.google.com/search?espv=2&biw=1600&bih=760&q=define+deviant&sa=X&ei=9clMVc_SB8qOyASisYDgBg&ved=0CDIQ_SowAA"><span style="color: #660099; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">deviant</span></a></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">, deviating, </span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><a href="https://www.google.com/search?espv=2&biw=1600&bih=760&q=define+divergent&sa=X&ei=9clMVc_SB8qOyASisYDgBg&ved=0CDMQ_SowAA"><span style="color: #660099; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">divergent</span></a></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">, </span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><a href="https://www.google.com/search?espv=2&biw=1600&bih=760&q=define+abnormal&sa=X&ei=9clMVc_SB8qOyASisYDgBg&ved=0CDQQ_SowAA"><span style="color: #660099; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">abnormal</span></a></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">, </span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><a href="https://www.google.com/search?espv=2&biw=1600&bih=760&q=define+atypical&sa=X&ei=9clMVc_SB8qOyASisYDgBg&ved=0CDUQ_SowAA"><span style="color: #660099; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">atypical</span></a></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">, </span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><a href="https://www.google.com/search?espv=2&biw=1600&bih=760&q=define+anomalous&sa=X&ei=9clMVc_SB8qOyASisYDgBg&ved=0CDYQ_SowAA"><span style="color: #660099; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">anomalous</span></a></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">, </span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><a href="https://www.google.com/search?espv=2&biw=1600&bih=760&q=define+irregular&sa=X&ei=9clMVc_SB8qOyASisYDgBg&ved=0CDcQ_SowAA"><span style="color: #660099; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">irregular</span></a></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">;<span style="color: #1122cc;">More</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b style="line-height: 150%;"><i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span></i></b></div>
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<b style="line-height: 150%;"><i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“If
a man does not keep pace with his companions,</span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> perhaps it is because he hears a different
drummer. <o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Let
him step to the music which he hears, however measured or far away.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">~Thoreau<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b style="line-height: 150%;"><i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“I
embrace and love my feminine self.”</span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">~
Unknown aberrant male<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I have discovered my difference -- my
male-self -- my masculinity … <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I have discovered my penis. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I am five or six years old and running naked
through several rooms of our apartment, screaming, causing an uproar, all eyes
turning to watch as I scamper by them: my mother, my sisters, and one of her
woman friends. I am holding onto my new discovery -- my stiff appendage – my
cock. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">My dick is small but erect, proud and
defiant. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">My bare feet flap, flap, flap against the
wooden floor... <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">In the bathroom, I climb up onto the toilet
seat, huffing and puffing, my eyes tearing, my feet slipping against the cold
porcelain. I stand tall upon my throne; my feet spread wide, my chest puffed
out, my thoughts filled with childhood arrogance. My cock is projecting
straight out in front of me like a tiny pink dart, hard and at attention. I
scream out...loudly…to the crowd of women now assembled at the door. My voice
holds no restrictions…<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“I am a boy! I am a boy! See me!” <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<b><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">December
27, 2014<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Who’s
there?” A woman’s voice barks through the metal box, smoky and raspy, as nasally as a Long Island crawl.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Sixth
Precinct. Detective Straub and Detective Martin.” He checks the apartment
number written on the crumpled piece of paper with a gloved hand, then glances back
at the organized columns of messy handwritten names. “Are you Miss Brando?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“<i>Mrs</i>. Mrs. Brando. My husband’s gone.
Deceased. Hold on for a second; I’ll let you in.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The
detectives look at one another and shrug their shoulders. Detective Martin has
a navy-blue, thickly knitted scarf wound several times around her face. It
covers her entire mouth. Her eyes light up. She breathes through her nose, a
steady stream of cold air funneling out through her nostrils. A loud buzz
groans as Detective Straub shoves open the door, and they enter into a small,
heated vestibule. The annoying sound continues. They push through the next layer of protection and step into a carpeted foyer. In front of them, a narrow hallway leads to a
back apartment. A wooden stairway lumbers heavenward.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Up
here. On the fourth floor. There ain’t an elevator.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">They
peek up through layers of winding balustrade. A woman leans out over the
railing, a cigarette clinched in her fingers as they begin their ascent. They
round the corner of the third floor and hear locks unlatch. At the end of the
hallway, a door opens. Bright light saturates the entranceway. An old woman
appears, ethereal. She stops at the threshold and stands still, watching, as
the two turn the bend. Dressed in a loose-fitting white gown, she holds onto
the doorframe for support. Her hair is long, combed neatly, the color of snow.
It cascades over her bony collarbone, her thin frame and skinny arms. She is
barefoot. Her face is weathered like dried fruit, but sweet, innocent almost.
The officers stop.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Morning,”
the male detective says.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">She
remains, silent, observing them, a ghostly presence, as they pass by her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Bessie?”
Mrs. Brando yells down from upstairs. “Go back inside. I’ll take care of it.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The
detectives turn as the woman closes the door.
Locks secure.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“That’s
Bessie. She’ll be 103 next month. Go figure.” Mrs. Brando waits at the top of
the stairs. She has a cropped, short haircut. Tiny spikes of dirty blonde hair shoot
up from her forehead like angry arrows. She takes the last full drag off her
cigarette, then grinds the butt into a glass ashtray sitting on the floor,
overflowing in a graveyard of ashes. “Hope you don’t mind me smoking?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“We were
given your name at the precinct.” The detective loosens some of his winter
wear; gloves, hat, his scarf. The hallway is hot. Sweat trickles down the nape
of his neck. “You’re the one who found him?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Christmas
Day. I always bring him cookies. I make ‘em every year. On Christmas Eve. It’s
a tradition. My husband, Marlon, used to love ‘em. So, before I go to mass in
the morning, I check in on him, you know, make sure he’s doing okay…”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“And...?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“That’s
when I found him.” She moves toward a door. “I have the key, just like he had a
copy of mine. We’re older. You never know. I used to have a cat. He would feed
him when I went to visit my son. My son lives with his wife now in
Connecticut.” She makes a “hoity-toity” signal with her finger. She rattles the
key in the lock. The door squeaks as it opens. “The cops came that day, after I
called it in. They didn’t say much. I tend to mind my own business.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The
three of them enter the apartment. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Did you
notice anything suspicious, strange guests, any noises?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“He was
a quiet man. We’ve been neighbors for over thirty years. He was a part of the
family, you know. If anything was out of the ordinary, I would have known it. Trust me.” She fumbles for another unfiltered cigarette from a crumpled pack
and lights up. “You don’t mind, do you?” She takes a deep inhale
as if it were life support.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The officers shake their heads. “What did he do?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Smoke
billows from her mouth and nose as she speaks. A few front teeth are missing.
“Well, at one time he was a very famous writer.” She whispers, “<i>Gay</i>. He was gay. Although, in all the
years we knew each other, I only saw him with one guy.” She points to a wall
lined with shelves, each one packed with stacks of books. “He wrote that novel…what’s
it called? My memory ain’t so good these days. Ah… <i>The Wanting Hour, </i>that’s it,<i> </i>that’s
the one…way back in the 70s. It was a big deal, a <i>big</i>
bestseller. <i>New York Times</i>…the whole enchilada!
He lived on money from that and his social security, like the rest of us. Rent
control, you know?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The
officers mosey over to the bookshelf. “Did you hear anything strange that
night?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“No, not
really. I was baking. I went to bed late, around midnight.” Another bottomless
drag off her cigarette. She leans against the wall and picks at a random piece
of tobacco stranded on the bottom of her lip. “A delivery… I remember he had a
delivery, later on in the night. I heard the buzzer. But that wasn’t unusual.
Chinese, probably. Other than that…nothing, some music, normal stuff…a shower.
He went to Marie’s Crisis earlier in the evening. I know that for a fact. I
said good-bye to him when he left. I was smokin’ out in the hallway. He
always hung out at that place. It’s close by, right down the street. All the
staff knows him. We’ve been there a few times with Bessie downstairs…” She
points her finger toward the floor. “She likes to sing, so, we take her there
for her birthday.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The
officers trudge through a slog of dirty, slushy snow to arrive at the basement
bar before official opening hours. They knock several times on the outside
window. Panes rattle. They stand beneath a dirty red-and-white metal awning. It
moans like a sick cow in the frigid wind. A blonde woman wearing an oversized
gray sweater comes into view. She has big brown eyes, a petite frame, and opens
the door out of breath, just a crack, not wanting a blast of winter to invade
the heated interior.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“May we
come in?” the detective asks. His teeth chatter as he speaks. The temperature
is plummeting along with the light of day. It fades a slow death between the
concrete parking structures located across the street on 7<sup>th</sup> Avenue.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The male
detective in front of her reminds her of an advertisement. The big, blue Michelin Man, the
cartoon character with puffy layers of clothing heaped upon him. “What can I
help you with?” She opens the door a bit wider. She peeks around the heft of
clothing to view another detective, a female, standing behind him, eyes staring
inquisitively. She has brown hair pulled back in a tight ponytail. Her cheeks
are olive colored. No makeup.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Sure,
sure. Come on in. It’s freezing out there.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">They
enter the tiny vestibule. The young girl locks the door behind them and
scurries down a rickety stairway, around a corner, and disappears.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">They
look at each other, perplexed, until the girl appears again at the bridge of the
stairs, waving them down.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Please,
please, come on down. It’s warmer down here.” Once again, she vanishes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">They
follow the steep stairway around a bend and into a dark dungeon, both surprised
by the small scope of the space. A field of twinkling, colorful lights hovers
right below the ceiling. A male bartender stocks beer behind a long wooden bar
pitched against the far wall. Bottles clang with his effort. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“So,
what can I help you with?” The girl massages her hands, vigorously, sparking
warmth, assuaging nerves.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The
detective glances at his notes. “I’m Detective Straub, and this is Detective
Martin. We’re from the Sixth Precinct and we have a few questions… You were
open on Christmas Eve, weren’t you?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Yes,
yes, of course. It’s one of our busiest nights. You want to sit down?” She
points at a few barstools pushed up under a high-top table. A red tablecloth
falls sloppily over the side. “A soda, maybe, something to drink?” She makes a
dash for the bar, catching the tablecloth as she flees. She fills two glasses
with water from a fountain gun and tosses the cloth into a mounting hamper.
“For some reason, Christmas Eve brings out the “singer” in people. We were slammed
that night. I’m Marie, the manager, by
the way.” She walks back toward the officers and places her offering on the
table.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Did you
happen to see this man?” The detective pulls a picture from his coat pocket and
shows the girl a black-and-white photo mounted inside a tarnished silver frame.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">The girl
recognizes him </span><span style="line-height: 24px;">immediately</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">. “Yes, of course. That’s Will. He’s a regular of ours. He comes
in all the time. Why? What happened to him?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“He’s
dead.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“What?”
She turns to the bar. “Zach...”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“He was
found dead in his apartment on Christmas morning.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">She
covers her mouth, processing the information. “Zach, Zach…” She moves to the
bar and interrupts the bartender’s routine. “Zach, Will’s dead.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Will
who?” He looks up.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“You
know…Will? The old guy who sits on the end there.” She points to an empty
barstool pushed against the brick wall.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Him? You’re
shitting me?” He stands up and puts his hands on his hips.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The
detectives walk to the bar. “No, he’s dead alright.” They pass over the photo.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“What
the hell happened? I just saw him the other night.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“That’s
why we’re here. We wanted to ask if either of you saw anything out of the
ordinary, anything different? Did he leave with somebody?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Will’s one
of our regulars. He comes in a lot.” Zach pushes a wave of unruly brown hair from
his eyes. He wears a ragged t-shirt with a small hole in front. A black vest
and white shirt occupy a hanger behind him. “He always has the same drink…a
Maker’s Mark Manhattan…as long as I’ve been working here. Wow. That sucks,
man.” He places the frame on the bar.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Horrible.”
The girl chimes in.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“So…nothing
strange? Nothing out of the ordinary?” Officer Straub leans into the bar. He
digests the place, the dirty, smeared mirror with the chiseled words, RIGHT OF
MAN. The bottles of booze lined up in front of the back mural. LIBERTÉ ÉGALITE
FRATERNITÉ! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“He
seemed fine. I mean, he’d been getting a little forgetful lately, but, no,
nothing I can remember. He comes in, has a few drinks, and leaves. I do
remember him trying to start up a conversation with a few people, but they were only interested in singing. That’s about it.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Detective
Straub hands him a business card. “I know this sounds really <i>CSI</i>, but if you <i>do</i> remember anything, give us a call.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Sure,
sure.” He does another hand rake through his hair.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The
detective takes the photo and begins moving toward the stairway. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Wait a
minute. There was something…”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The
officers turn. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“I
remember him wanting to buy a drink for somebody, and when I asked who it was
for, he said some kid who’d gone downstairs to the bathroom. He ordered a Jack
and Coke, a double, but the drink just sat there. The kid never came back.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br clear="all" style="mso-special-character: line-break; page-break-before: always;" />
</span>
<br />
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<br /></div>
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<b><i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Christmas
Eve, 2014<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“You
thought I brought you up here for sex?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">A cold
draft of wind swirls through the building’s hallway. The boy shuts the door. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Slam! </span></i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Locks
turn. Dead bolts secure.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Snow
melts from his tennis shoes, leaving an insignificant puddle of water on the
hardwood floor. He kicks at each heel without unlacing them. Tube socks, white,
damp, and stained leave a noticeable wet trail as he ventures further into the
living room. A restless wind howls outside. The apartment is warm and cozy. A still
life snapshot of age and time, years upon years of artful collection and
preserved memories. The boy casts off his light windbreaker, far too skimpy for
the raging winter outside, and flings it over an overstuffed armchair. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Well, didn’t
you?” The boy has a toned physique. Fit. Perhaps he played sports in high
school at one time, an athlete maybe.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">“This
apartment has been my sanctuary for over thirty years now. And, during that
time, only once did I bring a young lad up here </span></span><i style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">just</i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> for sex.” The old man suppresses a smile. Recollections
flicker. “And </span></span><i style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">he</i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> ended up staying
with me for three years... It was hardly </span></span><i style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">just</i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">
for sex. Now, </span><span style="line-height: 24px;">wouldn't</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> you say?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“When
was that?” The boy takes a seat on the sofa. The plump folds of fabric enfold
him. He rubs his hands over his arms to garner heat. The skimpy, short-sleeved
shirt he wears is sadly out of season as well.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">“Oh,
another lifetime now, it seems.” The old man goes to the fireplace and flicks on a
switch. The petrified logs neatly arranged on the hearth grow orange. They crackle
with heat. “The landlord, the </span></span><i style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">new</i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">
landlord that is, converted all these old fireplaces into gas heaters a few
years back. Yuck!” He reaches for an elongated Bic lighter and </span><span style="line-height: 24px;">inflames</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> two
long-stemmed candles secured in antique silver candelabras. “It gives the idea
of a fireplace, and, in this foul weather, it does offer up some heat.” He
takes a deep, purposeful breath. “It’s that smell I miss though–you know, the aroma of
real firewood burning. Ah! Yes! That’s all but forgotten.” <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“You got
anything to drink?” The boy looks around the apartment. Nerves trigger, a coiled
cricket about to jump.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The
living room has an entire wall lined with wooden shelves. Books of all sizes,
shapes, and color fill the space. Old, classic, well-worn volumes stand
upright, like soldiers at attention, one beside another, layer upon layer, some
used purposely as bookends. A nice-sized bedroom is off to the side, the door
slightly ajar. A Tiffany lamp casts a honey glow. A queen-sized bed rests
against a far wall. Fluffy pillows line a stately dark headboard and a
multi-colored quilt serves as a comforter. The boy strains his neck for a better
sightline. A wooden circular table with clawed feet and four matching chairs
sits near the only window in the main room. White shutters, now closed shut,
fill in its entire floor-to-ceiling frame.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Let me
see.” The man shuffles out of view. He disappears into a tiny kitchenette,
keeping his bulky winter coat on. The refrigerator door opens with a pop. Gray
shadows sway on the sidewall from the reflected light. His old feet are slow
and methodical, well-rehearsed on the tiled floors. Glasses clink from the
cabinet. The squeak of exertion from twisting the cork as the bottle opens.
Then, he’s back, standing before the boy and offering a glass.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Hope
you like <i>vino</i>. It’s all I have, I’m
afraid.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Fine.”
The boy sits quietly. He reaches for the glass, then tastes. The wine is cold,
clear and fruity, but not overly sweet. The man releases a huge sigh. He sits
in an overstuffed armchair, the color a faded burgundy. A reading lamp strains
its curvy metal neck around the back of the chair. Tightly crocheted off-white
doilies line the armrests in an attempt to arrest the frayed fabric edges. The
old man leans back and takes his first sip. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“So, why
don’t you tell me about yourself?” The man’s eyes are soft and translucent, the
light flickering from the candles dance inside them. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The boy
is anxious. He takes another quick gulp of wine. “Ah…what do you want to know?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">“There’s
really no need for you to be so nervous. You </span><span style="line-height: 24px;">aren't</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> a prisoner here. You are
free to go at your leisure, whenever you wish, if I make you so restless.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“No, no,
I’m fine. It’s just…well, usually, you know, it’s about the sex. I don’t
usually stick around.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">“Ha!
Well, I assure you, I don’t want sex from you, although, I must admit, you are
an attractive vessel. God, that sounds so crass! </span><span style="line-height: 24px;">Doesn't</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> it?” A devious chuckle
escapes. Dimples blossom on ruddy cheeks the color of pink roses. “So, with that
being said, you can relax now and breathe.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Okay…”
an awkward pause, “…then what <i>do</i> you
want?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The old
man rests for a second. He ponders the
question, massaging his forehead. “What do I want?” He tips the glass to his
mouth and takes another swallow. The fireplace crackles with fake intensity, like a cellophane candy wrapper opening and unfolding. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The boy
finishes the wine in one gulp. He wipes his mouth with a backhanded swipe.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“There’s
more in the refrigerator, if you like. Help yourself.” The old man slips out of
his overcoat. He leans forward, pulls his arm through the first sleeve and then
the next before patting the heavy, layered coat against the back of the chair.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Why do
you trust me? You’re old. I could hurt you. I could be dangerous.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">“True.
You could very well be all of those things. But you </span><span style="line-height: 24px;">aren't</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">. And you won’t.
Besides, you </span></span><i style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">did</i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> save my life
downstairs.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The boy
moves to the kitchen. He places the knife on the countertop. It brandishes a
heavy black handle. The tiny teeth on the blade are sharp and rusty. Given the
opportunity, this weapon could have inflicted serious damage on somebody or
something. It makes a thump as it hits the counter. The old man jumps in his
seat from the noise.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Sorry.”
The refrigerator is empty except for a few bottles of white wine, a Brita
filtered-water container, and leftover Chinese takeout. He grabs the bottle and
fills his glass to the rim. “You want more?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“No, no,
I’m fine.” The old man’s voice echoes with reverb from the next room.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The boy
grabs the glass and walks back into the living room. A full wall of
bookshelves, a built-in desk tucked perfectly underneath--messy with papers,
letters, notebooks, journals, a slew of piled up photographs; black and white,
sepia-colored snapshots, a life lived. Loose change; paper mostly, small
notes–single dollars and five-dollar bills--strewn about. A red-lacquered, tiny
chest filled with jewelry, the lid open, crammed with an assortment of watches,
cuff links, and expensive tie clips. Disheveled tchotchkes, thrown from swollen
pockets, a silver-and-gold hodgepodge without much notion of organization or
order. A typewriter, classic, non-electric, with a piece of paper left in the
cartridge. A few words lost on a sea of bone. Crumpled pieces of bond paper
scattered about the floor, crunched up, thrown away, a wastebasket drowning in
white. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">And
books, and more books, layer upon layer of every kind of book imaginable.
Lining the shelves and filling the space are paperbacks, hardbacks, first
editions, swollen leather covers, fanning out for miles, spread out across the
entire wall. “Have you read all these?” On the floor is an antique phonograph.
The boy moves carefully around its large horn speaker <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Most of
them.” He turns slightly to watch from his chair. It squeaks against the flooring.
“Why don’t we listen to some music? Do you know how to work one of those
contraptions?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The boy
analyzes the antique record player and laughs. “I don’t think so.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Okay,
let me do it then. Something festive, but not too Christmassy. I deplore Christmas
music.” He moves from his chair and pulls out an album from a bloated
collection, a vinyl, a 33-RPM. He slips the disc out of its sleeve and places
it on top of the felt-covered turntable. Layered on the spindle,
several records wait in queue, one on top of the other, continuous music,
uninterrupted melody. He flips a switch, places the needle on the record’s edge,
and waits for a moment while the scratchy wave produces an aria of music. “Ahh…that’s better.” Classical piano begins. It serenades the room, soft and slow, building
to a crescendo with a delicate mixture of strings and reedy wood instruments.
The old man moves back to his chair. He uses his hands in the air,
flamboyantly, like a conductor, phrasing the music with his fingers, lightly
humming the melody. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Do you
write?” The boy places his glass upon the desk by the typewriter and pulls out
one of the books.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Oh,
yes, when I was younger.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">He opens
the cover and flips through several pages, fanning the contents with his
fingers. “I love this author. We had to read him in school.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“And who
might that be?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Ellery
Flynn. He was required reading in the tenth grade. Our English teacher believed
in diversity.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Well,
yes, that author certainly was diverse, that’s for sure.” He chuckles. “If I’m
not mistaken, he wrote several novels. Which one are you looking at?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“<i>The Wanting Hour.”<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Ah…<i>The Wanting Hour</i>. Wonderful, haunting
book, a coming–of-age story of sorts, centered around a young homosexual male. That
was the last novel Flynn wrote, I think.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The boy scans
several more pages. A black and white photograph takes up the entire back flap.
The author sits in a chair, his hair longish and dark, shoulder length,
and his eyes twinkle with a certain familiarity. The boy studies the face.
“Wonder why?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“I
suppose, like most things in life, the muse abandoned him.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">“This
book changed my life… Wait a minute.” The boy looks over at the man, then back
to the picture. “Holy shit! This </span><span style="line-height: 24px;">isn't</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> you, is it?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The old
man stays as he is. He stares at the empty sofa across from him, at the framed artwork of Keith
Haring centered above it, several cartoon people the color of blue
and yellow and green shaking madly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">The boy moves
behind the old man. “You’re Ellery Flynn, </span><span style="line-height: 24px;">aren't</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> you?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Yes.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Holy
fucking shit! I can’t fucking believe it! Ellery Flynn!” He stomps his foot on
the floor.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Shhhh.
You’ll wake Bessie.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“I don’t
give a flying fuck. Who the fuck is Bessie? Wow! Man, this is freaking me out.”
He leans down by the side of the chair. He touches the old man’s arm. “Are you
really him, really?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“What
does it matter? Does it change anything?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“You <i>changed</i> my life!” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The old man
repositions himself in his chair. He leans back into the faded fabric. “Really?
I did all that? Why, for heaven’s sake?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“This is
the first book that made any sense to me. You know, about being different.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Different?”
The old man picks up his glass from the coffee table. He massages his bushy
eyebrow with an index finger. Hair sprouts, wiry mutants, shooting out in
different directions, like wild antennae in search of a signal.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Well,
it’s kind of embarrassing to talk about.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“I don’t
know what’s worse…being born different or living life trying to comprehend somebody
else’s asinine definition of normal. Personally, I think being normal is far
more embarrassing.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">The boy
walks to the desk and slips the book back into its tight slot. He claps his
hands several times to remove the dust, grabs his glass and positions himself
behind the old man’s chair. “</span><span style="line-height: 24px;">I've</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> done some pretty bad things in my life…things
I’m not proud of.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“None of
us are perfect.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The boy
leans down. He pushes his chest into the man’s back. Using his upper-body
weight, he leans into his shoulders, reaches his free arm around the man’s
throat and whispers into his ear. “No, seriously…” Heat emanates from the boy’s
face. So close, so, so close, the prickle of facial hair grazes his cheeks.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“What?
Did you kill somebody?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The boy
tightens his stranglehold. “I never killed anybody, but…”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“I’m
listening…”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">The boy
is suddenly up, energized, moving around the coffee table and flopping onto the
sofa. “Let’s just say </span><span style="line-height: 24px;">I've</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> done some things.” He stares across the coffee table at the man. He leans
forward. He has his arms tucked into his lap, studying the old man’s face. “You
are him! Shit!” He shakes his head. “You made my fucking Christmas, man! Ellery
Fucking Flynn. Damn!” A huge smile breaks out across his face. He bites at his
lower lip, glances around the apartment. “Wow! This is cool. Really fucking cool,
man.” He takes a deep breath. He listens to the classical music for a second. “I
like this shit. What is it?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Chopin.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br clear="all" style="mso-special-character: line-break; page-break-before: always;" />
</span>
<br />
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<i style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> <img border="0" src="file:///C:/Users/Waydgo/AppData/Local/Temp/msohtmlclip1/01/clip_image002.jpg" v:shapes="Picture_x0020_2" /></span></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Huntington, West Virginia. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">We traveled light, by train, on the
Chesapeake and Ohio Railway, the train tracks built alongside the muddy green
waters of the Guyandotte and Ohio River. We listened to the static sound of the
Shirelles sing <b>Baby it’s You</b> from a
beat-up, pocket-sized transistor radio.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">It was the summer before my sixteenth
birthday. Almost one year, exactly, before I would run away from home. We were
visiting family, distant cousins I think, kinfolk who were used to my mother
and her fleeting fits of drama with men. We arrived in the middle of a
scorching summer. We used ice cubes to cool us down while sitting in our seats.
The heat was stifling. We slid the frozen, slippery chips across the tops of
our forehead and chest, dropping the last blast of icy coldness into our mouths
at the very last second—just before it melted into nothingness. We kept the
windows open and listened to the monotonous sound of wheels churning, clicking,
and rattling beneath us. The breeze was hot and humid. We took turns standing,
catching the drafts of hot air with our wet spots in an attempt to keep
cool. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The station was familiar. A wide concrete
platform with wooden-slat beams painted forest green, the trim an off-white. We
had escaped here before. Our family--my sisters, my mama and I--had run away,
like fugitives, to this quiet place along the banks of the boggy river. Many
times. Tearing the family away, uprooting us in the middle of the night,
scooping us up from our warm beds, and from the clutches of those wastrel men, those
hairy beasts, all heated and horny and threatening mama in one way or another. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">West Virginia. </span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Our safety net.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">My cousin’s name was Edna. She was a widow
and lonely for our rambunctious company. She dressed in yellow kitchen aprons,
wore butterfly barrettes in her tightly curled hair and welcomed us into her
lovely home and her accepting family. She generously offered us a smorgasbord
of delicious food, (all cooked up by herself) a few nights of peaceful, rest-filled
sleep, and plenty of blue-sky sunshine. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">We water-rafted down the gray waters of the
Ohio River, us kids melting into the tops of inflated black tire tubes or
sneaking into the Camden Amusement Park to ride the wooden, rickety Big Dipper rollercoaster,
sometimes several times in a row, until we disembarked dizzy and drunk with
happiness. A mini vacation, sort of. We always looked forward to our visits, us
kids outside, producing sweat, while Edna and mama sat inside at the kitchen
table, drinking pots of coffee and spinning stories--invented ones or real, no
one knew, no one cared. It </span><span style="line-height: 24px;">didn't</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> really matter.<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">We slept in our cousins’ rooms. I was paired
with Gene, one year older than me, and my sisters were allowed to share one bedroom
all to themselves, (since they were getting older, entering their last years of
high school and dealing with growing pains and puberty.) The youngest of my
female cousins slept on the living-room sofa in order to make room. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Gene was a country boy, fair and strong with
blue eyes and a tanned body. He was an intimidating masculine presence, a tree
trunk of twisted muscles, blessed with God-given symmetry. My continual scrutinization
of him and my critical self-judgement of myself never added up to much resolution--skinny
frame, knobby knees and my soft, girlish personality. I had yet to come to
terms, or get a handle on a comfortable and/or succinct way to communicate with
boys my own age. The language exchanged between them was so different from
anything I’d ever known, learned about, or experienced with my feminine family
at home. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Gene was a handsome boy, though, mature beyond his
years and fine as the lacy silk sewn into Edna’s dresses. He reminded me of a
colorful peacock, strutting around; proud, tall, and full of country spit and
vinegar. The oldest of four kids, he assumed the role of husband, father, and
emotional rock to the family after his daddy, </span><span style="line-height: 24px;">Loyd</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">, passed away from a heart
attack. <o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Racing diesel-powered, homemade go-karts
around a circular patch of dusty dirt track in the back of the house, or shooting bb’s
at wild pigeons pecking at the street from his bedroom window, Gene, for some
reason, always accepted my difference, my specialness, my aberrant nature.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The family never knew. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I never told a soul. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Those hot summer nights, Gene and I rushing
barefoot from the bathroom, pushing each other’s bodies through the silent
hallways of the house to slip nude in between freshly bleached sheets, a sense
of urgency mounting in each of our steps. Lying there, naked, our shoulders burnt --
kissed by the sun of that day--and listening to each other’s rhythmic
breathing. Our bodies, a bundle of restlessness, a mounting swell of curiosity
and nerves and tingly energy. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Gene’s hand reaching first, out and over, and
across the landscape of sheets, slightly grazing my hip with the tip of his
finger, my body lifting up off the bed, levitating from the lightness,
the heat of his touch. All that pent-up tension stirring and growing stronger around
my stomach, a sensation so foreign, yet so satisfying and stimulating, my
breathing irregular, my heart pulsing with an unfamiliar beat. The weight of a
thousand restraints holding me back from something, supposedly, so wrong, yet
impossible to deny or stop. Me wanting to reach out as well, race my hand
across that expanse of space and fabric, to explore and discover Gene’s naked
flesh. To trace my fingers through that slight patch of hair sprouting upon his
chest, allow my tongue to follow the soft pleasure-trail of fur rambling down
his body, like a wild vine, below his belly button to his pubic patch. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">All the secret spaces of his body I had
viewed, inconspicuously, in the daylight hours, shifting my gaze so as not to
stare, so as not to get caught, so as not to face embarrassment or feel the burning
shame of my secret crush. Him standing there, shirtless, his t-shirt wrapped
tight around his thin waist, waving the white flag above his head for the race
to begin. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">A taste of cool water can overwhelm the
senses in times of serious drought. To be acknowledged and accepted into a fold
of masculine fraternity, no matter what the venue, can be a life-altering event.
Those nights in West Virginia, cradled in Gene’s muscular caress -- the noisy
crickets serenading us through the open window -- brought more insight into the
way men can love--could love--than any other introduction I would ever
experience. It meant much more to me than those awkward, backseat bus rides,
coming home from neighboring football games, and the spastic introduction to a “stinky finger” with a girl I hardly knew, nor cared to. Or the Boy Scout “circle
jerks,” where boys exposed themselves in ritualistic pubescent glory and shot
their wads like a “pitch it” toss, to see who could shoot the furthest.
Those incidences made more a mockery of my emerging sexuality rather than encourage
it to blossom, naturally, as it had in the sweet expression of intimacy I’d
shared with Gene in that West Virginia town. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Dare I say there was a tenderness present
between the two of us, a camaraderie of loving spirits, of secrets shared only between
the two of us and no one else? A quality I rarely experienced again, even later in
life, with a carousel of horny men offering casual sex as an illusion, a mask of
love, motivated more by lust than intimacy. As if together, in those stolen few
moments, Gene and I were able to hold on to a feeling so special, so infant in
its beginning stages, and so beautiful, we somehow knew our awakening could, would never last. That it, alone, in itself, would never sustain the ridicule and
scrutiny of a loveless, cruel, judgmental and hateful society. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Those memories with Gene would forever teach
me a new way of communicating with men, as shortsighted and superficial as that
may sound. If I </span><span style="line-height: 24px;">couldn't</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> be a part of their tribe, be one of them, an
equal partner in their masculine, selected fold, I could at least compete for
their attention, approval, and acceptance with sex. I could find a lost part
of my missing masculinity mirrored in those men, and communicate my lack of it with an
act as simple and forgettable as sex.<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Gene died early, like his daddy. Not quite
forty. Heart attack. He left behind him a wake of sorrow--three beautiful girls
and a loving, devoted, wife. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">ABERRANT</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Available for pre-purchase on Amazon.</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><i>Launch date: Labor Day 2015</i></span></div>
Douglas Wickardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09401381903691271187noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3254705733736190513.post-54154128976807214402015-03-15T10:50:00.000-07:002015-03-21T09:14:52.264-07:00ABERRANT <div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 107%;">ELLERY WILLIAM FLYNN is dead. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The
sixty-seven year old journalist and award-winning author of the International bestselling gay novel <i>The Wanting Hour,</i> was found unresponsive in his apartment early Christmas morning by his next-door neighbor Mrs. Evelyn Brando.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Mrs. Brando
discovered the body while delivering her annual tray of Christmastime sugar cookies.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 107%;">For over
thirty years, Mr. Flynn has resided in a fourth floor </span><span style="font-size: 21.3333339691162px; line-height: 22.8266677856445px;">walk-up, one-bedroom flat </span><span style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 107%;">located in the heart of Greenwich Village on the corner of Grove and Hudson, and is warmly regarded by his neighbors as a local "literati" treasure.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The elderly author
was last seen on Christmas Eve, enjoying a seasonal cocktail at a local watering hole, Marie’s
Crisis, just a stone’s throw away from his residential building.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Detectives
from the Sixth Precinct are currently investigating the case and cause of Mr. Flynn’s death.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Mr. Flynn
has no immediate family. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 107%;">~ The last thing Ellery Flynn expected
to encounter on the eve of his own death is a twenty-five year old transient
named Chance. What one magical evening conjures up between the two of them -- an
aging "</span><span style="font-size: 21.3333339691162px; line-height: 22.8266677856445px;">has-been"</span><span style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 107%;"> author and a young Midwestern stud -- will alter the course of their lives forever. What unfolds ... is a healing journey of transformation, invoking
the aberrant history of a bittersweet past, a lifelong fight to belong, and an endless quest for self-acceptance and love.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 107%;">It’s never
too late for an awakening … <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 107%;">ABERRANT</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The Queer
Diaries<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Book 1</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Excerpt coming Memorial Day 2015<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
ABERRANT will be available this LABOR DAY!<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
Douglas Wickardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09401381903691271187noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3254705733736190513.post-34165762759787098722014-09-21T20:53:00.001-07:002014-11-12T12:02:40.361-08:00PERFECT the EXCERPT<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<i><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Journal entry …<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<i><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">March 17, 2014<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;">
<i><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Branded on the
inside of my upper, inner thigh is an emotional tattoo that reads … “hopeless
romantic.” I know! Another tiny one located on my chest, closer to my heart,
reads … “practical pessimist.” They fight and bicker! A lot! I prefer the
middle one, the spread-out one situated on my safe zone, my stomach, (that not
so firm anymore, squishy-space) … it reads … “Retired! From love!” It acts like
my Switzerland … neutral, detached and heavily guarded. Hey, I maintain <b>some</b> boundaries. My Life! My rules! My
tattoos, dammit! Real or not real! And, I am not alone. A whole world out there
is hurting. Disappointed. Discouraged. Dejected. In everybody’s life, broken or
otherwise, there is a longing to love. Again. I feel it! I know it! I just
don’t know how to go about it … how to reconnect the dots, extract the hurt,
heal the scars, rearrange the tattooed lines and open up my closed borders …
enough …<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;">
<i><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Tomorrow, I leave
on a two-week vacation with Drew. I’m not sure why? I’m not even sure I’m ready.
Nevertheless, the car arrives sharp, at 8 AM for JFK. I need some rules, some
hard fast directives to live by while I’m away. A contract, so to speak, a
commitment, something written down in black and white to remind me to keep
myself in check … okay here goes …<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="line-height: 150%; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-align: justify; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> 1)<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span></i><!--[endif]--><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Don’t
drink too much!<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-align: justify; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> 2)<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span></i><!--[endif]--><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Don’t
eat too much!<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-align: justify; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> 3)<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span></i><!--[endif]--><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Stay
out of trouble!<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-align: justify; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> 4)<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span></i><!--[endif]--><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Be
a good friend and companion to Drew! (After all, she bought me the trip)<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="line-height: 150%; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-align: justify; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> 5)<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span></i><!--[endif]--><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">DON’T
DRINK TOO MUCH!<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;">
<i><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I think that just
about does it. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;">
<i><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Whispering from
that small sacred space near my heart comes a farewell bon voyage … it sneaks
up on me …<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;">
<i><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I love you, Sami
Saxton!<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;">
<i><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Hmm …<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;">
<i><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I love you, too …<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;">
<i><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">XOXO <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<i><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br clear="all" style="mso-special-character: line-break; page-break-before: always;" />
</span></i>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 107%; margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<b><i><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 24.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Miami<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br clear="all" style="mso-special-character: line-break; page-break-before: always;" />
</span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;">
<b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">~*~<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The Celebrity
Reflection, a colossal, multi-tiered, uber-fancy cruise liner sits docked at
the massive International Port in Miami. Its image shimmers in the murky water like a
great white metallic shark. A floating Emerald City! Drew and I lounge,
uncomfortably, in one of their amphitheater-sized waiting areas,
anticipating the automated female voice to announce our alphabetical letter
to allow us to embark upon this recently christened floating monster. How Drew
convinced me this was a good idea goes to show how persuasive she can be. And give
immeasurable kudos to her astute manipulative nature. Hey, maybe she’s
right. The last three months since the arrest of Jerry, my ex-husband, and his
then current flame, Brenda Stokes, not to mention the death of Evie, or Claire,
or whoever that young woman pretended to be, did send me screaming, once again,
into a shell-shocked mess. I mean, c’mon! <i>Give
a girl a break! </i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> </span></i><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Drew
bought me the trip as a gift, a peace offering, which was completely
inappropriate since she <i>did </i>save my
life, for God’s sake. The memory alone of that horrific evening sends
anxiety rippling through my system like a crackling thunderbolt! But that’s behind
us, sitting here now, lounging in balmy Florida sunshine, (far away from a sub-zero,
artic wave sweeping from Canada and dumping several inches of pristine
snow on our beloved Gotham) and enjoying the slow sway of the towering palm
trees and cooling ourselves off with makeshift paper fans. <i>I wish they’d turn up the air conditioning.</i> Stowed away in one of
my bags is a full bottle of prescription Xanax and a <i>large, </i>litre-sized bottle of Grey Goose, well-packed and hidden
under layers of folded clothes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> <i>Some
things never change!</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> </span></i><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“You
want something to drink?” Drew asks.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> “I have my water. Thanks.” I tap the
top of one of my carry-ons. “Once we board this baby and get ourselves settled
in, you and I will partake in an <i>adult</i>
beverage.” I smile. Deviously. Drew cackles that infamous laugh I love so much
and looks away. Her eyes dart about the crowded lounge like a lizard
seeking a wayward fly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> Meanwhile, I’m unsure how I’ll handle
the boat, the small spaces, the cramped quarters, the rocky waters.
Claustrophobia, my newish best friend is annoyingly present, hiding in the
wings, anxiously awaiting a guest appearance. At any moment. Drew guaranteed
me, more than once, that cruising was like being afloat inside a gigantic,
luxury casino. <i>You hardly ever feel the
waves!</i> I mean, really! Who’s she kidding? We <i>are</i> talking the Atlantic Ocean! Not some lakeside county fair boat
ride. I came prepared though, to safeguard myself against the notion of being
sideswiped. I popped another Valium, (a peach-colored one) as we passed through
the organized network of gangplanks and dizzy, tangled corridors to arrive into
this lovely pre-boarding, unairconditioned loading zone.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> We are the next group, supposedly, to
cross over the metal gangway. Drew and I expectantly arrange our bags and
roll-ons in final preparation. Finally, the android voice drones out our
letter. We jump up, heave our fourteen-day wardrobe around yet another carpeted
corridor, and hurry up and wait.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> “Gum?” Drew pulls out a pack of
spearmint Trident and offers me a piece.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> “No, thanks.” I say, my eyes wondering,
my feet tired, my body lethargic from waiting. Patience is a virtue and not --
I’m sorry to admit -- one of mine.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> Like waiting in an airport queue, we
shimmy a few feet at a time, in zigzag patterns, around turns and bends and
inclined ramps. I glance across the railing to the other side, strain my eyes
for a split second and think I’m imagining things. I nudge Drew on the arm and
have her look in the same direction.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> “What?” She asks, an air of best-friend
annoyance riding bareback.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> “It can’t be.” My body drains of blood.
A chill enters the bottom of my feet, travels north and highjacks my
entire body. I might actually faint.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> Drew observes my obvious discomfort. Oh,
the look she gives me. Like I should just climb right into a coffin
instead of boarding this luxury cruise liner with her. “What? What’s wrong with
you? What?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .5in;">
<i><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Who let the parakeet out
of her cage?<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Is
that, over there ...?” I’m completely unnerved <i>and </i>unhinged. The good Doctor or somebody who looks exactly like
the identical twin of Thomas Mann is posing across the way, perusing literature
of some sort, completely unaware that we are standing less than ten feet away.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> “Who?” Drew quips. She takes off her
glasses and zooms in, a circling eagle ready to swoop down and destroy.
“Where?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> Leaning over the railing and
standing statuesque is a handsome man dressed in beige khaki slacks
and a short-sleeved, pink Ralph Loren Polo shirt. His chestnut brown hair is
flopped with stylish panache to one side. Thick-framed black eye glasses outline
his brooding eyes. He studies excursion leaflets as if there might be a
comprehensive test later.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> “Is that Thomas Mann?” I ask again,
sheepishly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> “Oh, God, Sami, you <i>are</i> losing it.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> “It is, isn’t it?” Now, I turn and
gawk.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> “Sami! That is NOT Thomas Mann.” Drew
consoles me. An aging twosome of lifelong cruisers stand behind us, too close
for comfort, and are obviously in a hurry to get to the free,
bigger-than-life-buffet. They continue nudging us to move forward, as if the
next few miniscule steps might make their journey go faster. I turn and
give a slight “excuse me” but they insist, pushing on, an air of
overt enthusiasm etched on their wrinkled faces.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> “That is <i>not</i> Thomas! You’re seeing things.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> “What?” I take another quick glance
across the populated network of metal grid work. She’s right. He looks in my direction
and casually removes his glasses. Embarrassed to be caught staring so intently,
I turn away, lean up against the railing and heave a huge sigh. Thomas Mann is
the last person I would ever want to see again. Ever. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> I think back. Even in my Valium-induced
haze, I distinctly remember the good doctor mentioning a cruise in one of my
terminal therapy sessions. I’m feeling territorial with Drew at the moment
and want to push full throttle through this massive crowd and get us safely
into our stateroom. The line moves at the speed of a pregnant turtle as I
shove Drew, lovingly, up the aisle.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> “Stop it,” Drew wails.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> A steel bridge connects us to the
interior of the ship. Several Officers dressed in stuffy white uniforms bearing
impressive gold aglets on their shoulders greet us and await our arrival. They
swipe passenger’s plastic entry cards, take passport size photographs and
process paperwork to a torrent of people gushing to enter this floating matrix.
We cross over a single lane, metal gangplank to the main check in. I take a
quick peek over the railing and instantly become dizzy. I didn’t realize how
high we were. We follow their directions, hand over our ID’s, passports,
paperwork, check in our luggage, and continue through the litany of
well-organized directives, necessary to embark on this alien craft perched
on the high sea like a bobbing bottle. I am pleasantly surprised at
the organizational skills of the crew. They swipe, photograph and check
in the mass of people in a matter of minutes and before I know it, we are
standing in the enormous belly of the boat, stranded in front of six large
elevators, three on either side of us. In the middle of the floor, emblazoned in
the polished off white tile, is a huge insignia of the ship’s name and its
celebratory first launch date.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> The elevator dings with expectant
arrival as a mass of seaworthy castaways take shelter in one of the large,
air-conditioned (<i>ahhhh …)</i> cars.
The scare of a Thomas Mann sighting squelched any personal phobias of riding
the elevator. The Valium helps. We stand, huddled together as the door swooshes
shut, ass-to-ass, packed -- a tin of sardines -- and are rocketed to the
eighth floor in a matter of seconds. Floor to ceiling windows overlook the
enormous inside workings of this sparkly, lit-up vessel. Drew pokes me in the
side, her face aglow with childish marvel and wonderment.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> “Isn’t it enchanting?” She sighs
breathlessly. Then, once again, she’s all business. “As soon as we get to
our room we’ll unpack, go to the spa first … we need to make appointments ...”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> Drew’s organizing, taking control,
self-assigned as my personalized event director. “Spa? How about a freaking
bar?” I say, laughing aloud, keeping things light, and attempting to be a good
friend, a good companion, and better company. Inwardly though, I’m wobbly. My
equilibrium is terribly off kilter and getting more apprehensive by the second,
crammed into this window-enclosed box without much standing room, pressed tight
against a brass rail harpooning my ass. The Valium is working on overtime,
trimming off the excess fat of my indulgent nerves, but a few randy
synapses are escaping the rowdy pack.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> We catapult ourselves out into the
hallway and make curious circles while searching for our stateroom number and
matching hallway to get us there. A tall, gangly African American man stands at
parade rest at the entrance to the corridor. He’s outfitted in a white,
starched Nehru-style jacket and has a surprised expression on his face as we
amble tentatively toward him. He must be one of the stewards assigned to this
floor, our personal butler, and/or caretaker. Several people walk right past
him, but Drew, knowing this game, shoves a fifty dollar bill into his palm
along with our room number. The whites of his eyes open wide. He grabs our
carry-on luggage and ushers us down a swirling carpeted corridor. His
accent is Jamaican. Large white teeth light up his brown face like a jack-o-lantern.
His body is wraith thin. (Skinnier than Drew’s) Trailing behind the both of
them, I notice his hair, mowed close to his oval head and decorated with
intricate shaved details artistically displayed around the edges. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> Our stateroom <i>is</i> wonderful. The Vista Suite. I take a hopeful, excited breath as
we turn the corner and enter. Two queen-sized beds, made up in expensive beige
sheets and warm fall-colored fabrics line the far wall. A sitting room off to
the side has a love seat sofa and a small dining room table with two comfortable
chairs. Glass sliding doors open to a private veranda and an okay sized patio.
A bigger than average bathroom is equipped with a whirlpool tub and
shower, deliciously deluxe and sanitarily spotless. I sit on the edge of one
of the beds and push myself up and down on the firm mattress. I have a
childlike need to dangle my legs over the side. Nice. I am pleasantly surprised
with the accommodations. Drew’s in a hurry, a busy bee needing nectar,
calculating our itinerary for every second we’re on board this vessel.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> “You go on ahead.” I say, meaning it.
“I brought a few projects I’m working on, plus magazines. I can easily
keep myself entertained.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re coming
with me. We need to make reservations at a few restaurants, ask for our own
separate table in the main dining room, get spa reservations … they have
lectures you know, and this cruise is hosting an art show direct from Florence
as one of the highlights. I’ve done my homework!” Her voice is quivering,
humming, as tireless and frantic as the wings on a hummingbird. I wonder if she
ever rests. It must be intense having to live inside that head of hers, all the
time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> “Okay, okay.” I’m a pushover. I start
unpacking, putting my things away. The Grey Goose, I stowed earlier in the deep
recesses of my under garments, I now lay sideways in the freezer. In the
refrigerator section underneath, is a generous mix of mini-bar goodies tempting
my just say “no” diet.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> “No worries there, ma’am. I can do that
for you.” The porter stands watching as Drew and I struggle with our luggage.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> “What’s your name?” I ask.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> “Delroy.” His voice has that Jamaican
swag to it, sweet, lyrical, and melodic. His fingers are long and bony with knobby
joints. He retrieves our suitcases delivered outside the room and rests them on
wooden racks.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> “Okay, Delroy. I hand the task to you.”
I stand back, grab a granny smith apple from the fruit bowl that was awaiting
us, sit on the comfortable sofa and wait for Drew, who is taking forever in the
bathroom. I miss Blue. I wish the cruise line permitted large dogs. They only
allowed small pets, yappy, high-octane pooches that yap, yap, yap! Incessantly!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> When Drew does decide to exit, she’s
changed clothes, applied a light dusting of makeup and smells intoxicating. A
cloud of the newest, most expensive perfume from Paris wafts out in a wave
before her. “Jesus, Drew. Really?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> She laughs that nervous giggle. God I
love this woman … sometimes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> “Let’s go! <i>On y va!</i>”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> Back in the hallway, I’m a
lightweight, a novice cruiser, following Drew’s militant determination to seize
and conquer. We march with fortitude toward the elevators, investigating each
corner, each crevice, sopping up every detail like thirsty sponges, digesting
the overwhelming and vast amount of information available. I turn back
toward the room and wave to Delroy, who is busy unloading the last of our two
weeks’ worth of baggage. Why I trust him, I don’t know. But hey, I’m going
along with the flow. He waves back and gives another tip-worthy smile. Meanwhile,
Drew is scrolling through the ship’s daily itinerary, turning pages faster than
a prodigy from the Evelyn Wood’s speed reading classes … planning, and
planning, and planning. I’m exhausted just watching her! Spin classes,
workouts, Yoga sessions, Palates, and two different pools. One, a large
salt-water soaking tub that careens back and forth with the boats natural sway
near the Aqua Spa (less kids, I’m down!) and the enormous, football field-sized
one situated on the ship’s outdoor deck on the fourteenth floor complete with
four Jacuzzi’s, (covered under the protective shield of rolling glass should
the weather turn wretched). We highjack a crowded elevator to the second level
where the colossal main dining room is located. A grand ballroom stairway has a
queue of people standing in line waiting for the Maître’d, a smarmy, short-ish
dude dressed in a pale, sand-colored suit with pant legs hemmed too short,
(awaiting a flood) to aid in their evening seating. Haggling, if you ask
me, with a wad of green thrown in on the side for covert bribing.
The boat is teaming with other food venues, offering a wide assortment of
world class dining, so, Drew and I ditch the line and scramble to each of the
other outlets located on the fourth and fifth level, and make our daily, hand-written
reservations just in case we get the urge for something different. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> Excursions?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> The boat is on its way to Florence,
Italy with the final destination of Rome. We have several, (seven, to be exact)
free “intensive” sea days while crossing the Atlantic; easy, restful, calming,
monotonous days, lazing around, anywhere, with a book, lying by the pool,
soaking up rays or making use of an assortment of on-board entertainment;
gambling, shopping or even taking in a late night show. Top-level comedians,
singers, and dancers all perform live on stage in an amphitheater bigger and
better than anything I’ve visited recently in the City. Drew’s right. It is
Vegas!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> Highlighted, as the “Main Event” on
this transatlantic voyage is the spectacular art show, “<b><i>Money and Beauty and the Bonfire
of the Vanities</i></b>,” direct from its Florence premiere at the Palazzo
Strozzi, proudly displaying Italy’s 15<sup>th</sup> Century artistic history.
We step around a roped-off, still under construction entryway, and peek inside
the cavernous space. The mere sight is worth the proverbial “<i>Ahhhh!</i>” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Designers
have covered the entire gallery floor in snow-white carpet. Construction
workers have draped sheets of heavy plastic over the space for protection,
awaiting the ceremonial unveiling. The curators have listed over 100 pieces
from the exhibit to stir up enthusiasm. Artists celebrated are Botticelli,
Michelangelo and Bento Angelico, to name a few, their names printed in formal
black lettering and shown in handsome frames on sturdy easels outside the entrance.
An auction will take place after the gala opening and period pieces will go on
sale to the highest bidder. A series of enrichment lectures go hand-in-hand
with the exhibition, spotlighting the history of the Medici family, their
fanciful banking history and their devoted patronage to the arts. Sculptures,
documents, books and artefacts -- the entire vast collection -- explores in
depth the patrons, economics and artists during a period now looked back on as
the “Golden Age.” One of the Medici heirs, (if there actually is one) is
supposedly teaching several of the classes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> Surprised by my adaptability, my
so-called sea legs, I’ve yet to feel seasick, anxious, or overly nervous. And,
to my credit and chagrin, without the aid of too many ingested pharmaceuticals.
Drew and I find ourselves back in the room for a quick catnap before an
aggressive loud speaker awakens us and prompts us to move to the outdoor deck
for a class in the Emergency Exit Plan indoctrination. The lecture, given by a
good-looking bloke with broad shoulders and a tight, white, tee shirt comes
complete with step by step instructions on the usage of our very own,
orange-colored life vests, dragged with us from under our beds, pulled over our
heads, and tightened securely around our waists. Once we understand the fine
art of inflation, the young man issues us a number and the location of the
lifeboat we’re to plunge into should the ship hit an iceberg or any other
emergency situation. I’m praying for a safe, sound, and relaxing trip.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> We journey like moles through the
hectic, busy, guest-friendly tunnels to the upper deck right at dusk, just as
the ship untethers its slip and sneaks its’ way to sea. Ribbons of salmon slash
across a burgeoning purple sky. Stars are budding and twinkling in the twilight.
It’s a humid, wet evening. Moisture laps at the sides of our faces. Sweat
glistens on our necks and the slight, arid breeze feels tender and good on our
bare shoulders. High-rise apartment buildings and condominium complexes
surrounding the harbor light up the waterway corridor like an airport runway.
The ship floats on a cloud in a steady slow progression toward the oceans mouth,
a bon voyage kiss before being devoured by an awaiting Atlantic. Family and
friends gather in layers, waving from the sidelines, huddled together on the
huge hanger of cracked concrete. White handkerchiefs move back and forth in the
salt-licked air.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> The Sunset Bar is open for business.
Situated at the front of the ship near a long orderly line of perfectly
straightened deck chairs, (on real, live grass!) we perch our asses on white,
toadstool-style seats and enjoy the spectacular view. The bartender, a jovial
black man wearing a wild, floral Hawaiian shirt, shakes up brand-name vodka in
plastic cups with lots of ice and tiny olives (my least favorite). We raise our
makeshift glasses and toast our upcoming days together, our transatlantic
excursion. Italy! <i>Ciao Bella!</i> And, of
course, our amazing, unwavering friendship, the absolute best in the whole
galaxy. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br clear="all" style="mso-special-character: line-break; page-break-before: always;" />
</span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 107%; margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;">
<b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">~*~<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">We dine that
evening in the lovely Murano Restaurant, one of several of the revered
five-star, independent epicurean eateries promoted on board the ship. We
sit at a table situated beside a ruler-row of circular port windows
peering out over the choppy waters of a turbulent, upset Atlantic. I’m amazed
at how still, how calm, the ship’s movement is. Outside, a rainstorm is
bludgeoning the wooden decks. Sheets of water slam and swirl against the boats
massive hull. Giant, jagged white tops break and roll on a tourmaline sea as
our floating hotel progresses smoothly forward.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I’m
enjoying my usual, a lovely frozen vodka martini (in the perfect “up” glass
with large, fat olives) waiting to consume a three course hedonistic feast
prepared by the Chef de Cuisine, who journeyed to our intimate table
to introduce himself and personally welcome us. A portly young man,
he's thick-bellied, with carrot-colored orange hair and a straggly, matching
beard. Tattoos scream out from his naked forearms. (Never trust a skinny Chef)
He wears a white, puffy Chef’s hat that towers to the arched ceiling and juggles
two tiny plates in his plump hands, and introduces Drew and I to his specific
amuse bush for the evening. Toasted sourdough garlic points topped with creamy
burrata mozzarella, a slice of salted speck and minced tarragon sprinkled ala
minute.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Delicious.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The
sommelier arrives with a select bottle of wine Drew picked out earlier. (On our
exhausting post-arrival, three hour ship crusade) Drew has tremendously good
taste, in most things, but particularly with <i>vino</i>. The lovely sommelier presents a handsome-shaped bottle of
Pinot Noir from Napa Valley. Even the delicate purple anemones dressing the
table tilt their buttercup sepals in acceptance. The young woman opens the
bottle with arty finesse, takes a sip of the wine from a garish spoon dangling
from around her neck, and pours the ruby mixture into large Burgundy
glasses. I twirl mine several times over the starched linen before raising my
glass and offering a toast. The steward, a gorgeous Latino woman with a high,
elegant forehead and a regal neckline, smiles and excuses herself.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Thank
you, Drew. Seriously. For being in my Life.” I clink my glass to hers. Crystal
sings. She gets teary-eyed as we take reverent tastes. I shake my head in
delightful appreciation. “Beautiful … the wine … and you.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“How
are you doing?” She places her glass on the table. “Really. It’s just you and
me now, kiddo.” She keeps her fingers wrapped around the base of her
goblet, a miniature life raft in this endless sea of emotion.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">It’s
my turn to get sensitive. “You’re seriously going to take me there, aren’t
you?” I grab at my napkin. I dab the corners of my eyes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Yep.”
She attempts a feeble smile. She reaches her hand out and touches mine.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> I sit for a gravid second. I ponder
the surreal couple of months I’ve lived through … and survived. The question ...<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The
restaurant stretches and yawns toward closing. The clank of empty bottles
hitting a trashcan somewhere behind me. Tables seated around us are finishing
with their desserts. A lone table beside us sits empty, a setting for one
guest prepared and mysteriously vacant throughout the evening. Michael,
the delightful Maître’d, (I make a point of knowing the service crew by
their first names, unlike Drew) had placed a RESERVED sign on it hours ago,
when we first arrived. A cappuccino machine hissing and coughing steam
reverts my attention back to Drew and her question.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The
answer …<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I
don’t have one. “Sad.” I say, breaking the awkward monotony of silence. “I’m just
really sad. The whole Jerry thing really took me for a loop. I mean, his women
friends … you know what? I’m a big girl, I get it! I learned early on how to
duck those grenades. Years ago! But the rest of it …” I shake my head at
the sordid details. My eyes well up, my throat swells, and my words trail off.
They stumble, and stagger, and fall off a steep, treacherous cliff I’ve
yet to travel, I’m not prepared for, and I still haven’t wrapped my head around.
Not entirely. I continue wanting to hide out, take shelter, and use the
proverbial “put my head in the sand” motif. Or, remedy the entire ordeal
with denial, my favorite form of avoidance I've mastered over the last few
years. For my self-protection. My safety. My survival.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Our
server rescues my troubled musings by delivering our first course. A baby red beet
salad served underneath organic green kale, wild arugula, heirloom tomatoes, and
red onions, splashed with a light lemon vinaigrette dressing. Piled art,
designed in exquisite layers, balanced in intricate leafy tiers on top of a
round bone-colored plate. Drew ordered the same thing. We sit in absolute
wonder until I grab my fork, dig in and rearrange the chef’s fanciful finesse.
“Oh, my God! This is divine!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Drew
and I can rummage and root through a forklift of information, and time
limits never seem to apply. Even after we’ve finished going through the muddle
of old, used, and outdated material, a brand new collection emerges and entices
our conversation forward. We can make each other laugh, or cry and stay
“besties” throughout, even when we both want to strangle each other and rip
each other’s eyes out. We move through the recent landmines of our lives, her
and Bob, their recent acquisition in Belize; a grand-sized hotel located on the
Southern tip of the Island. Then, the focus returns back to me, to
my on-again, off-again flirtation with a married man. Yes, Hutch. Who
else? We relate, retell, and maybe even rant. The many glasses of wine we’ve
ingested helps, it calms and soothes our sharp edges. Soon, we’re sodden, drunk
and exhausted, our eyes straining to stay open. We’re ready for our first
night’s sleep on board this massive moving hotel.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The
storm has ratcheted into a dramatic squall. Drew and I slump in our chairs,
sleepy and serene, without the least sense of danger. A searchlight towers over
the ship, funneling an intrusive high beam through the windows, interrupting
our syrupy, nostalgic mood. I point out the darting white shaft to Drew. It’s
disturbing and unsettling to not know what has warranted an actual helicopter,
hovering above us, combating the turbulent sky and using a high-powered
spotlight. I motion for our waiter who hurries to the table, concern etched on
his cocoa complexioned face.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Yes,
Madame. Can I get you something?” He removes dessert plates sitting in front of
us.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I
point out the window to the cone of light ferreting through a torrent of
hammering grey rain. “What is going on out there?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">He
moves closer to the window, leans over my shoulders and looks. “Oh, yes, there
was an emergency evacuation of an elderly woman in the main dining room this
evening. She had a heart attack or something. They are transporting her to the
nearest hospital.” His accent is pure Indian. I love the way he speaks, the
graceful rise and fall of his sentences. Soothing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">His
answer assuages my morbid curiosity. “Ah, thank you. Whew! Glad to know nothing's
wrong with the boat.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Drew
laughs. “Sami.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“What?”
I roll my tired, seafaring eyes. “Can you direct me to the restroom?” I ask the
young man.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“I
will show you.” He stands at brisk attention, while a chubby busboy outfitted
in a bright red vest runs circles around him, collecting plates from out of his
hands.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Standing
up, I gather my faulty bearings and follow him to the back of the restaurant.
“I’ll be right back.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> “I’m not going anywhere.” Drew takes
another swig from her glass and watches the drama unfold outside her window.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The
server escorts me through the well-appointed dining room -- soft, cozy-lit dens
of stained, wooden banquets with round curved corners -- through a tiny
passageway to a main thoroughfare. He points me toward the end of the hallway
and directs me to turn left. I’m tipsy, I admit it. The chaotic traveling from
New York; the volatile weather, the taxis and luggage, JFK, the hurry up
and wait, the hustle and bustle of boarding, the wine, the vodka … I lean up
against the wall for assisted support, arresting the slight sensation of vertigo,
a flash of blurred dizziness. For the first time since boarding, I’m aware of
the rocking, the gentle swell of the boat rising and falling beneath me.
I’m surprised at how empty the corridor is of fellow passengers. Drew and I are
notoriously late diners. We're New Yorkers! Our reservation wasn’t until 8:30
PM. With before dinner cocktails, a three-course tasting menu, complete with
wine parings selected special for each scrumptious dish, not to mention the
espressos, after dinner aperitifs … it must be well past 11:30 PM.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The
highlighted signs for the restrooms materialize as I round the corner. It seems
like an inordinate amount of trekking to use a toilet. The door opens as I
arrive and a woman exits. She flings a light peach colored shawl over her
shoulders and walks past me, leaving a healthy trail of sweet floral perfume in
her wake. I offer a friendly smile, but my kindness go unappreciated. I enter
the washroom, lock the door and relieve myself in one of the private stalls.
I’m suddenly nauseous and wondering if my current bout of wooziness is from the
rich food I consumed, or the slight current ebbing and flowing from under the
vessel. I wash my hands at the sink and look into the mirror. The months of
stress have taken its toll. I pull at the roots of my hair. Maybe I’ll try the
salon’s colorist. My regular, a Polish woman I’ve been using for years, was
unavailable before the trip. I smooth out my complexion, pinch at my cheeks, and
wet my lips with water from the faucet. I dry my hands on a small fluffy hand
towel, rolled up in a cute white log and stacked on the marble vanity. The room
smells of deodorizer, spa-like, cucumbers, citrus … fresh. This could all get
very addictive. I pitch the towel toward the wicker wastebasket, unlock
the door and exit.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<i><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I’ve been waiting for
you, Sami!<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br clear="all" style="mso-special-character: line-break; page-break-before: always;" />
</span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 107%; margin-bottom: 8.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;">
<b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">~ * ~<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Drew checked her
watch. Again. <i>Where the hell was she?</i>
She motioned the server over to the table. The restaurant was empty of diners.
They had been the last guests seated. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Yes,
ma’am?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Which
way did my friend go? It's been twenty minutes now.” Drew was nervous,
tapping the thin glass cover of her antique Cartier wristwatch. The perfect red
wine they had both adored, cooed over earlier … was now creating not-so-perfect
acid reflux. Not pretty. This was Sami’s first excursion at sea. It was easy
getting lost in a maze of tunnels inside the bowels one of these huge cruise
liners. “Oh, shit!” Drew stood up to leave.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> “Ma’am, would you mind signing?” He
had their paperwork ready.<br />
Drew leaned over to scribble her
initial on the check. The circus of lights outside their port windows had
quieted. She walked through the restaurant and stood in the entryway,
considering her options. Perhaps Sami returned to their stateroom. She walked
through the curvy, carpeted corridor, past an airy, open lounge. A hefty woman
wearing a tight-fitted, sequined gown sang <i>Don’t
It Make Your Brown Eye Blue </i>to a handful of late night drinkers. Couples
moved like drunken zombies, holding each other up on the lit up
rectangular dance floor. “Ding, ding, ding” echoed from the noisy casino, along
with a few rowdy laughs and “whooo hooo’s” as Drew passed by the entryway.
Outside, the rain continued beating the deck. She stopped for a quick second
and peered out a peephole.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Drew.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">That
voice. For a moment, she thought she was hearing things. Then again … <i>that </i>voice.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Drew,
over here.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Thomas
Mann sat alone at an empty bar situated in a secluded corner. Several
white barstools, George Jetson-style, sat forlorn around him. Tables languished
in the quartered-off lounge, complete with red velvet ropes and without the
companionship of lit candles. She didn’t recognize him. Not at first. He
wore a tuxedo, black and enticing. A bowtie was dressed expertly at his
neckline. He had slicked his hair back with gel and his eyes were as
captivating and enthralling as ever, hiding behind black eyeglasses. Drew
hesitated for a semi second, collected herself, and then walked over to where
he sat. The bartender, a short female with dirty blonde hair piled high on her
head gave a sigh and a weak smile. Hospitality was no longer her friend.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Can
I buy you a night cap?” He picked up his martini glass. A wastrel cherry sat at
the bottom of the vortex. He gestured a toast.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Last
call,” the bartender said, louder, annoyed that Thomas was offering
up drinks at her bar at this late juncture of the
evening.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Drew
looked about sheepishly. The last thing she wanted was Sami to walk headlong
into this scenario -- this mess of a mess -- and think that Thomas and she had
planned it. On purpose. An intended getaway, a sexual excursion, a lust-filled
liaison conjured up by Drew and Thomas on the down low. <i>Oh Jesus!</i> Her twat tingled and pulsed as
memories multiplied, flickered and danced. Her face flushed. He had to notice
her rapid breathing. Wings fluttering, a horny moth to his notorious
flame. The notion of Thomas Mann being on board this boat was so dangerous --
beyond dangerous -- on so many dangerous levels. So deliciously deceptive,
devious all most. The mere thought of him, here, the two of them together, out
to sea, well, the erotic images piling up on her and her pussy was like a
painful, cat-in-heat yearning. <i>Meow!<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“What
are you doing here? Jesus Christ! It was you. Sami thought she saw you. She
turned a new shade of pale this afternoon.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Sorry
to hear that. Free country. Expensive cruise. I’ve always wanted to see Italy.”
He raised his empty martini glass for another toast. “You sure you don't
want that drink?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“No,
no, no! We just finished dinner.” Drew glanced around, scanning for Sami. <i>A cold shower</i>. She traced a finger on
the thin coating of ice lining the bar, an S.O.S. inscription. “You
haven’t seen her have you? Sami I mean?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Should
I have?” Thomas asked. He raised his manicured eyebrow and took the last slurp
of his Manhattan, licking the rim with his tongue and biting down on the
liquor infused cherry for added affect.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<i><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Damn, he looked good …<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Well,
have a good night, Thomas. Maybe we’ll see each other around campus. It’s a big
boat, maybe not …” Drew gave an insidious smile and moved past him. Her
leg brushed against his thigh. Tentatively. He grabbed her arm, too familiar,
too firmly -- way too friendly -- and yanked her back against him. Opening up
his legs, he positioned himself around her nothing body.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<i><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">… too good.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">His
breath felt hot against her neck, her skin, probing inside her ear. A sweet
whiff of bourbon. Spicy vermouth and that damn tangy scent of a popped Maraschino
cherry, it all lingered. “I wanted to apologize for ... well, the last
time we hooked up …”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Drew
tried moving away, but he had her trapped, a spider ensnared between his
muscular legs. And, she had to admit, she was enjoying the closeness of his
cunning web. His confidence, a personality trait she admired in him, in most
men, that is, tonight bristled with pompousness and
arrogance. “Apology unnecessary. It was fun … while it lasted, but it’s
over. Now, please let go! You’re hurting me!” He held on for a second longer,
long enough to make Drew uncomfortable, long enough to seek other
passengers, security; in the off chance she might need help, some
assistance. In the off chance ... she didn't.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Oh
… excuse me. Did I interrupt something?” A young woman tee tottered toward them
in stiletto-spiked heels over the airy carpet. Her voice warbled, as
if she just swallowed a singing canary. She wore a tight fitting black
dress accentuating a full rack of pumped-up tits and a tight, toned, curvaceous
body. Long auburn Rita Hayworth hair fell with fatigue in exhausted ringlets
over her bare, exposed shoulders and oh, so perfectly tanned back.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The
force of Thomas’s grip releasing Drew propelled her backwards a few steps.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Brandy,
Drew." Brevity in introductions. "Ah, Drew’s an … <i>old</i> acquaintance of mine.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The
woman parked her ass strategically into Thomas’s port. He responded attentively
by enfolding her with the right amount of buoyed protection; docked,
locked and slipped comfortably in between his thighs. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The
fucking bastard accented <i>old</i> for
effect!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Pleasure.”
Drew walked away, leaving a path of glittery resentment in her trail.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<i><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Brandy, she’s a fine
girl, what a good wife she would be …<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The
song resonated, accentuating Drew’s life, her age, her lack of sexual attention.
Action. Her aging port had become, and far too fleetingly, a sagging,
lackluster, rickety old fucking dock. That bon vivant sexual freedom she once
exhibited with vigorous, body-contorting enthusiasm in her
life was (and without proper warning) turning that corner into
the oblivion of invisibility. Drew tried keeping up. Tiresome laps,
treading water, panting and puffing around the pool’s inner edge, an
anxious little puppy waiting for a friendly smile, a gesture, a token of
masculine attention from a man, any man, any male who might offer her a
moment’s reprieve, a pat on the back, a rub on her belly. Let's face
it! Get laid. Ouch! The thought burned, battery acid on her soul. She
refused to look back at them…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<i><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">… but my love, my life
and my lady is the sea …<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The
boat took a sudden jolt. It tipped Drew off her unbalanced axis. She righted
herself and leaned against the back of a lounge chair situated with designer
panache near the elevators. Blood pooled on her forearm, a bright purple bruise
gathering attention beneath her pale, <i>older</i>
skin where the asshole had grabbed her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Bastard!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<i><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Sexy, fucking bastard!<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">How
could this happen? How could he have possibly known they were planning a
cruise, this cruise, with Sami? Shit!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The
elevator whooshed her to the eighth floor and within seconds, Drew was standing
outside their stateroom, knocking on the door before entering. God forbid,
Sami found her wayward self to the discotheque located on the tippy-top
landing, hooked up with an eligible, or maybe not so eligible man (Sami
wasn’t always so discerning) and craved private time on her own. Alone. They <i>were</i> on vacation!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<i><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Thomas!<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Sami?
Sami, are you in here?” She opened the door a slit. She peaked into the
well-lighted room, but it was empty. Except for the display of bathroom towels
folded to resemble monkeys dangling from the ceiling, the room was
just as they had left it. Both chimps hung from one arm and wore Drew and
Sami’s personal sunglasses. They seemed to laugh and jeer, and cackle at Drew
and her wicked ways as she slammed the door shut. At first, the sight
caught Drew off guard, but as she huffed and puffed back toward the elevator
she had to admit, the origami towel display was creatively amusing.
Delroy!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Where
the hell did she go?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Thank
God Thomas had vacated his ivory perch when Drew returned. The new age bar had
closed and was dark, candles extinguished. <i>Check
the restaurant?</i> Drew marched around the outer perimeter, a drill
sergeant on a mission. The wonderful wine buzz she attained earlier felt dowsed
by an array of clandestine meetings and missing-in-action besties. Even the
lounge was quiet. A uniformed attendant ran a wide push broom back and forth
across the wooden dance floor.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">She
entered back into the restaurant and followed the curvy wooden ledge to the
bar. The same man who’d assisted her earlier, what was his name? held an IPad
and made notations, tapping the screen softly every so often. “Sorry to
interrupt you … excuse me. My friend and I had dinner here earlier this
evening. Remember me? Did she happen to come back looking for me?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The
man gave Drew a bewildered expression, thought for a second and shook his head
“no.” He pulled another bottle from off the glass shelf and held it up to the
light.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.5in;">She
retraced Sami’s steps to the small passageway leading to a larger,
well-migrated main corridor and the restrooms. “Sami, are you in here?” Three
individual stalls lined the back wall, a small washbasin on the side. Drew
noticed a used hand towel thrown on the floor in the corner. She leaned over
and peeked underneath each stall. “SAMI!”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">PERFECT, </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">the new Sami Saxton novel is on </span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 32px;">presale</span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"> at Amazon for a Christmas Day delivery!</span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: large; line-height: 200%;">What a PERFECT gift! You don't want to miss what happens next!</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></span></div>
Douglas Wickardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09401381903691271187noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3254705733736190513.post-90811717556481819882014-06-15T10:49:00.001-07:002014-06-15T23:35:26.361-07:00THE REVIEW <div class="MsoNormal">
In review.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 12.0pt;">
I began writing this blog post
ranting about the prosecution of reviewers, you know, those people who feel
ambitious enough after reading your novel to actually sit down and draft a plus
(+) or minus (-) of your work and grade it accordingly with the STAR system. 5
stars being the ultimate in reader orgasm, 1 star being a miss fire, a pre
ejaculatory mess. I am not a veteran of the publishing world. As a career, I am
a writer in diapers. But, I have been doing this, writing that is, my entire
life. Collecting words, creating emotional relationships using fictional, made-up-in-my-head
characters, and, connecting those chosen words in a series of sentences or
fragments (in my case) to project a story forward through dramatic conflict. WRITING!
In the two years since the publication of my first novel A PERFECT
HUSBAND (by a publisher) I have been witness to a string of varied and random observations
from readers who felt obligated to write ‘a review.’ <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 12.0pt;">
The entire process takes me back (a
few years ago) to a period of my life living in NYC. At the time, the opinion of everybody else
regarding my writing seemed to matter more to me than my own. An insecure place
to balance. The potholes of traditional publishing we all know. The procuring
of a literary agent, (they like me!), the lengthy process of sending ‘the work’
out (they don’t!), the stalling, the waiting, the months on end hoping for
something, anything, a crumb, some feedback, a nod of waning approval. The tedious
reenactment of the familial rejection syndrome handed out ad nauseum, repeatedly.
Again. <i>When will it ever stop?</i> Then, a
decision by the actual one, who in the beginning ‘adored’ you, now, no longer
does. “It’s business, buckle up brave boy.” And, in a very, dramatic, draconian
voice denounces you and your work – your baby -- the novel you spent months
slaving over, giving birth to several years prior, in a horrific, painful, soul-wrenching
endless labor. Yeah, easy. <i>Right?</i> “Furthermore, the work has <i>nothing</i> of merit, or of any great
importance. It won’t sell,” and says to you, as an add on, an addendum, a
fucking P.S., “Go back to the drawing board and do something entirely different.”
<i>Argh!</i>
Publishing 101, in a nutshell. Five years of my life just flew by.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 12.0pt;">
Hello new world. Hello KINDLE.
We <i>now</i> live in a time of instant publishing
gratification. If YOU don’t like my work, then maybe the reading public -- the
hallowed mass of IPAD readers out there in the Universe who actually buy the
books -- will. (Or, #download it for #free on a #KDP #promotion) Thus, the real
story begins. The reviews trickle in. In the beginning, we receive the sparkly-shinny,
iridescent ones from those who love us; family and friends and maybe a few
adoring early fans. Some members of the clan are shocked to learn we can actually
write sentences to even form paragraphs, let alone create an actual story line!
With real, well…somewhat real characters, and move them quickly through a 400-page novel,
triggering a series of dramatic automatic reactions to either engage or totally
enrage them. WOW! We are a five-star sensation on Amazon. Our publishing
career looks brilliant! Masterful! Up there in the Amazon logarithms and soaring
into the stratosphere of those literary Super Stars shining brightly before us. We are now playing in
the big leagues. <i>Right?</i> And then,
some not so nice reviews begin infiltrating the perfect pod of our five star earthly
existence and deliver their one star, “this is crap” comments. I get it. <i>Really.</i> Writing <i>is</i> an art form. It’s creative. And publishing art in whatever form
will always enlist critique, from everybody. So, the first qualification of any
new artist venturing into the world of self-publishing must be a suit of armor.
If you want to play in the public arena of creativity, right alongside the big bad
boys, you had better protect yourself. Emotionally.
And, I can certainly live with the ‘it’s not my cup of tea, ‘or ‘it’s not what
I was expecting’ point of view. What I <i>do</i>
write may not be for everybody. Just saying. But then, there are the other reviews
-- you know – the ones that make me chuckle through my tears. We are writers,
yes, but we are also human, and not immune to the hurtful comments and remarks some
of these reviewers feel it is their god-given duty to sling our way. We <i>humans</i>, I think, are still a relatively
intelligent species, hopefully a sensitive breed, and a community of
kind-hearted people. <i>Aren't we?</i> I
mean, some of these reviewers are just plain rude. And angry. They take individual
offense to the writing, as if I wrote the book to offend them…personally.
Obviously, the writing hit a nerve, a core, some pulse of self-recognition hidden
dormant somewhere in their fragile infrastructure. What did I write to stir up
such irregular biorhythms of such extreme revolt? Such hatred? To such a degree
they feel propelled to bolt to their computer, sit down and list each of the many
offenses, one-by-one that affronted them. <i>Really?</i>
Or, would they prefer I just rewrite the book. For them. Filter the characterization and use less offensive language, less sexual content, more
Bambi, less Dionysus. <i>Hmmmm…</i> <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 12.0pt;">
As a writer and I say <i>that</i> with complete conviction, the craft
of writing cannot be marred by restlessness, insecurity, or heartless feedback.
The want or need to feed and/or fuel some youthful desire to be liked, or loved
or approved of by everybody is ludicrous and foolish. I for one, would rather riot
than revere, revolt than restrain, and unleash my characters raw, unmasked and into
the world in full ceremonial regalia. For in upheaval comes the unfiltered creation
of real life, real feeling and ultimately real human emotion. Give me a taste
of blood…not some vapid, descriptive drivel. Voice <i>is</i> everything. Confidence in one’s voice <i>the</i> key…it will always unlock <i>all</i>
the choices. I wrote it before, I say it
again, and I stand by it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now, just fucking GO for it!
<o:p></o:p></div>
Douglas Wickardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09401381903691271187noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3254705733736190513.post-56978662316184353032014-04-15T11:01:00.001-07:002014-05-30T13:33:06.101-07:00AN EXCERPT FROM NOTHING SACRED<br />
<div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: right;">
<div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Citadel
Mall<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Charleston,
South Carolina<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">June
14, 2007<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Thursday<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: .5in; text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">1<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> Choosing?<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> I love choosing.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> Having a choice is one of the
benefits I derive for this little hobby of mine. That and cleaning the
environment of filth. No, really, I have an unnatural sense of cleanliness. To
the point of being obsessive, some people might think. I’ll give you an example.
I carry razor blades on me to scrape off all those annoying pieces of sticky
paper plastered on everything; display boards, bathroom stalls, actually, anywhere
messy pigs migrate and have the incessant need to vandalize. Back before the neurotic
use of cell phones, I would even clean off public telephones. In case of an
emergency and I needed to use one, (God forbid) the phone had to be spotless. Bacteria
free and purely pristine. Some people look at me strangely. They stare. They think
I have a problem. I don’t. I just prefer it that way. Clean and tidy.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> No one assigned me this position. I
took it. Like most things in my life. Not to mention the fact that I really
enjoy getting what I want, when I want it. Better yet, that incredible high I
achieve in getting away with it. Kind of like playing God. That’s an added
bonus. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> A dividend.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> The mall is one of my favorite
places to hang out. To “choose” from, that is. It’s big and spacious with
plenty of people milling about, roaming in and out of brand-name stores,
spending all their hard-earned cash. I stay inconspicuous with all the foot
traffic. Not that you would notice anything different about me from the next
person. You wouldn’t. Trust me. Well, you might think I’m attractive. Give me a
second glance, a look, maybe even…choose me.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> I have my eye on a girl. I’ve been
watching her real close. Her boyfriend’s been calling her “Angie.” Of course, I
immediately think of Mick Jagger. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> “Angie, Angie, when will those
clouds all disappear…?”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> But, I’m running out of time,
checking my watch a little too frequently, waiting to make my move. I can’t
afford to be careless. Nobody can ever afford to be careless. Everything
according to plan. Just like the last time. They still haven’t found the body.
I doubt they ever will. That’s how good I am. That stupid slut never knew what
hit her.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> Beautiful, Angie… <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: .5in 148.5pt; text-align: justify;">
<a href="" name="_GoBack"></a><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> Her
boyfriend is walking in my direction. He bops toward me, a loaded spring in
each step. She follows close behind him like a dizzy puppy, texting on her cell
phone. Dainty, pretty fingers fly over the miniature keyboard in a heated
frenzy. They’re eating a disgusting pretzel, dipping it into some gooey orange
sauce and feeding it to one another. Taking pictures, laughing. Posting on
Facebook, or Twitter or some other social media outlet. How cute. I play cool
and continue sipping on my coffee. I don’t pay them the slightest bit of
attention. They sit down next to me on the wooden bench. Her arm brushes up
against me. Accidentally. I almost drop my Styrofoam cup. Her sweater is tight,
cottony; her nipples stand erect, playing hide-and-seek through the fabric. Her
jeans are faded, that “washed-a-thousand-times” blue. Sewn on her ass is a
patch. It reads: “DON’T GO THERE.” I can’t help but be offended, because that
is precisely what I did. I went there. And everybody else, too. Another year and
she’ll be ruined. A whore for sure.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: .5in 149.2pt; text-align: justify;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> “Sor-ry,” she coos with that sweet,
saccharine southern drawl.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: .5in 149.2pt; text-align: justify;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> I look the other way. I bite at my
upper lip.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: .5in 149.2pt; text-align: justify;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> I feel a tap on my shoulder. “Excuse
me, do you have the time?” Her boyfriend asks. They compete for the thickest
accent. She wins. Hands down. He looks like he just walked off the set of a
Steven Spielberg movie. You know the type. All American, wispy brown hair,
athletic. Already has facial hair. He wears braces to correct an overbite. Sewn
with confidence on the front of his athletic jersey is a capital "F.".
Does it stand for varsity football? Or “fucker?” I bet he has a nice, big cock.
Everything overdeveloped. Shows off in the shower after gym class giving less
fortunate boys a complex. Yeah, you definitely know the type.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: .5in 149.2pt; text-align: justify;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> I extend my arm in their direction,
advertising my expensive Rolex wristwatch. I graze my hand up against Angie…<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: .5in 149.2pt; text-align: justify;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> Beautiful Angie…<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: .5in 149.2pt; text-align: justify;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> I don’t speak. I just act polite and
smile.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: .5in 149.2pt; text-align: justify;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> He thanks me as they jump up and
leave their trash behind. That really pisses me off. Filthy pigs! I snatch up
the paper napkin coated with mustard or cheese and walk to the trashcan. I
don’t take my eyes off her. Not for one second. I pitch the pig’s trash in the
receptacle, take a hand sanitizer cloth from my pocket and follow them. Slowly.
Her walk attracts the attention of several people, predominately older men.
Their heads turn as she passes by. She is a looker. And to tell you the truth,
I don’t blame them. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> That’s why I chose her.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> I must act quickly now.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: .5in 149.2pt; text-align: justify;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> “Wait for me,” I hear him say as he
enters the men’s restroom.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> “No way! I’m coming with you.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: .5in 149.2pt; text-align: justify;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> Smart girl. But not smart enough.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: .5in 149.2pt; text-align: justify;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> She follows him into the bathroom. An
elderly man slowly exits using a cane. He shakes his head in disapproval before
disappearing into a sea of shoppers. I stand still. I wait for the right
moment. I pick up the latest bestseller at a Barnes & Noble Bookstore.
Interesting. I choose James Patterson. A romance novel. He’s changing genres. I
chuckle as I place the book back into its bin. I’m not an avid reader of the
genre. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> Her boyfriend exits the restroom and
positions himself as guard at the door. Such gallantry. After a few seconds,
she exits. She wipes her hands on her ass and pushes back light, curly hair
across her shoulders. It falls in perfect ringlets to her waist. They kiss and
grab at each other’s hands. Lovebirds. She must be what? All of thirteen. He
looks older, at least seventeen. And, I can tell Angie isn’t the first girl
he’s ruined. He has that cocky stride of a winner. A peacock practicing his
skills, perfecting his lines, sharpening his tool for the next young thing that
falls prey to his desires.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> It’s up to me now. I must save her
before he spoils her. Ruins her untouched excellence. I must be quick about it.
I hurry across the polished tile floor toward the main exit. I wave good-bye to
the pimply-faced barista at Starbucks who made me my coffee. My café latte.
See? Nobody knows. Nobody suspects. I pass by the miniature police station located
at the mall entrance. I smile at the nice black woman sitting behind the desk
browsing through a magazine. She nods her head in my direction.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> The glass doors open automatically.
A gentle, cool breeze invigorates me. I take advantage of the last hint of cold
weather and take a deep rejuvenating breath. The warmth from the sun surrenders
to dusk. Magenta ribbons streak across a pale blue sky.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: .5in 149.2pt; text-align: justify;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> I keep a keen eye on the two of them
as they stumble over each other’s hungry advances. They head down a row of
parked cars. He unlocks her side first. Always a gentleman. He has a jeep!<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: .5in 149.2pt; text-align: justify;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> He would have a jeep.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: .5in 149.2pt; text-align: justify;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> I quicken my pace two rows over,
grabbing at the bottom of my coat pocket for keys, checking over my shoulder
for fear I might lose them. I unlock the door to my rent-a-car and slide in. I
lower the window to dispel the heat. Engines turn over. I watch through the
tinted glass of my windshield. I remove my sunglasses to get a better view. No
obstructions.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> My plan is in place. On the
passenger seat beside me, positioned in plain view is my freedom. My tools,
encased in orderly fashion at the bottom of a small, nondescript wooden box. My
exquisite instruments. I run my hand over the top of the box. Folded neatly
beneath the box is the dress she will wear. The cotton smock, white like the
virgin she still is. It will soon turn red from the blood she will spill. For
her sins. My soul will then be cleansed. Then and only then.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> My small sacrifice.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: .5in 149.2pt; text-align: justify;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> I put the car in reverse and back
out of my tight parking space. Guiding the automatic gearshift into drive, I
turn the steering wheel in their direction.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: .5in 149.2pt; text-align: justify;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> The sacred ritual will take place at
sunset. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> You want to know why? I planned it
that way.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br clear="all" style="mso-special-character: line-break; page-break-before: always;" />
</span></i>
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<br /></div>
<div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">June
14, 2007<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Thursday
<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">6:22
PM<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">2<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> Every Thursday evening like clockwork, George Madden
chauffeured Edna into Charleston for her weekly prayer meeting. They left early,
while it was still light out cause George suffered from terrible night
blindness. He’d been to the doctor. But, what could the freakin’ doctor do for
night blindness? Edna complained. She hated driving. She hated just about
anything having to do with an automobile. Then again, Edna complained pretty
much about everything. Twenty-two years of marriage. <i>Martial</i> bliss, George called it. Oh well, he’d adjusted, or so he
kept telling himself. Anyway, about his night blindness. George took the usual
precautions. He turned down the rearview mirror to stop the oncoming glare,
drove on well-lit roads, and tried using streets with those sparkle-bumps on
the divider. What else? Oh yeah, he wore glasses. He damn well better. His
vision wasn’t so good any more.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> It was a stupid saying, but Edna said it anyway. “George,
ya’ got Coke bottles for glasses.” They kind of snickered, not because it was
funny, or anything, but because she’d been telling him that for some time now.
Kind of nostalgic. Even with all the precautions in place that night, nothing
was gonna prepare George’s old eyes for the sight they were about to behold.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> Edna and George lived about twenty miles outside
Charleston in a little community known as Goose Creek. It was a quiet place. Lots
of sprawling, two-level rental complexes equipped with tennis courts, swimming
pools and nicely manicured lawns. The developers wanted the tenants to feel
like they were getting something for their money. They enjoyed it all right.
Anyway, they were driving into the City, passing by the usual scenery – strip
malls, movie theaters and restaurants. George remembered Edna saying something
about wanting to try a new fast food joint that just recently popped up. A
movie star had opened up a whole slew of them. Edna sure enjoyed her movie
stars. She read all about them in those supermarket gossip magazines. <i>The Globe. The Enquirer.</i> George
remembered saying something like, “Yeah, yeah,” because Edna also loved eating.
Out. She used to be one hell of a cook back when the kids were home, but now
those pots and pans just hung above the stove and collected dust. Money flew
right out the window on a count of them eating out every night.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> George dropped Edna off at the church located on Meeting
Street, not far from the University. He pecked at her cheek and watched her
skedaddle across the concrete pavement to the entrance of The Circular Congregation
Church. Her big ass created tidal waves underneath her flowery, floor-length
skirt. It looked more like a tent to George. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> Oh Edna, when did you get to be
so…big?</span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> George was proud to mention, perhaps even brag a bit,
that he’d maintained<i> his</i> same weight since
being discharged from the military back in the late sixties.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> Seeing Edna’s large ass wiggle like a Jell-O mold got
George’s blood a going. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> George, why don’t you treat yourself
tonight and go out to that Pussy Place out on Old Towne Road?<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> Entrance was dirt-cheap. Besides, why not? Won’t be long
before George’s ass was seated in a booth at some chain restaurant watching
Edna stuff her fat face anyway.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> Oh, hell yeah, that’s what I’ll do!<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> Before George could count to three, that old Buick Regal
seemed to have a mind all its own and was steering itself right over Memorial
Bridge. Yep, tonight George was going in search of a little action.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> On the radio, George was listening to that song… <i>“If I can’t have you, I don’t want nobody
baby, if I can’t have you…”</i> …just singing along as he drove, having himself
one hell of a good time. It was getting darker though and Old Towne Road had a
stretch of highway up ahead that was pretty isolated. Hell, somebody could get
lost out here if they weren’t paying attention. There weren’t a lot of streetlights
either. Darkness was landing on George faster than a Boeing 747. He started
getting a little jumpy. He sat upright in his seat and adjusted his glasses. He
flicked down the rearview mirror and prayed for a speck of white, a dot of relief.
Some kind of light. Pink neon sure would be nice. What was the name of that
place? “Pink Pussy?” “Pussy Palace?”
Hell, he knew it had <i>pussy</i> in it. Off
the record, George didn’t want anybody getting the wrong idea. He didn’t do
this a lot. Not every day, anyway. He sometimes even missed a week or two. <i>Sometimes.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> A neon sign came blasting into view right in the nick of
time. A blessing. “Silk Stockings.” If he hadn’t come upon it soon, he was
about ready to do a U-turn and head right straight back to Edna. Mother. Guilt.
He hated it. But, forget about all that now. He was here! Soon he’d be lost in a
lush oasis of luscious smelling booty before he could count to ten.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> He parked the Buick in the rear, next to a reeking dipsey-dumpster.
Smelled like shit, but he preferred it. He didn’t like flashing his dirty
laundry around. Besides, it wasn’t nobody’s damn business anyway. He had yet to
witness somebody <i>he</i> knew out here. <i>Strange, huh?</i> And, if he did, what would
they have on him? Nothing! So fuck ‘em! That’s what George would say. <i>Whooo hooo!</i> George was in a mood
tonight! Watch out “Pussy Palace,” or whatever the hell the name was.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> He paid his money at the door and strolled cocksure into
the place like he owned it. In the background, the DJ Herb was talking shit, as
usual.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> “For your credit card, you can have a private lap-dance
with Candy Cane in the Champagne Lounge…”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> George liked Candy. She was nice and all, but for a
hundred bucks he wanted something more than a lap-dance. Besides, he played it
safe. He left all his credit cards at home. Just in case the urge fell upon
him. He got into trouble once with that. Never again. Instead, he moseyed up to
the bar.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> The bartender swiveled a bar napkin in front of him.
“How’s it goin’ George?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> A lot of really nice people worked here. Sonny was one of
them. “Can’t complain, can’t complain.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> “Usual?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> “Damn, you’re good. For somebody who don’t come in here a
whole hell of a lot, you sure do have a good memory.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> Sonny twisted open a miniature bottle of some
panther-piss vodka. He poured it into a tall glass. George didn’t pay for
premium. Why waste money on advertising? Sonny passed George a vodka and tonic.
No fruit.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> “It’s my business, George.” Sonny turned and headed to
the other end of the bar. It was a big bar, too, the size of a football field.
George turned his attention to the stage. He sure didn’t want to stare at
Sonny’s big ass. He saw enough of that at home.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> <i>Edna…<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Linda was
performing at the moment. All the girls working the place were stacked. George
whistled. He gave a holler. He wanted to let the girls know he was here. That he
was coming. He’d bet one of his monthly social security checks that every last
one of ‘em could go to New York City and dance on Broadway if they wanted to.
If the right person were to come in and discover them. He took a slurp of his
drink. The tonic tickled the straggly hairs in his nose. Sonny poured a good,
strong one. That was important to George. It took the edge off.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> “Hi, Georgie.” Sandra passed by. She brushed his crotch.
She was wearing a pink thong that slid all the way up her naked ass.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> "Whoa down there horsey.” He gave her a flick with his
finger. Sometimes the girls got a bit too forward. George didn’t like that. He
wanted to be the one in charge. In control. Let Georgie make the decisions for
a change. At least for tonight. All right, Sandra? She paid him no mind. She
went right on about her business, stopping every so often at a table to deposit
a beer or sit on somebody’s lap.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> George called out for Sonny and asked for some change.
Leaving a fifty-cent tip on the bar, George high-tailed it to the runway.
“Thanks, Sonny.” Sonny threw the change into an empty champagne bucket. It
jingled a lonely death as George moved to his favorite spot, right up close to
the stage. All the girls knew George, knew he was a good tipper. “Preferred
customer,” they called him. They all possessed a sixth sense about those who
carried the cash, the money, the green.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> Linda was moving like water. Not one ripple of fat on
her. So smooth the way she undulated in an out. Sweet motion. He took out a
single bill and folded it neatly in half. Linda got a whiff. She played all-seductive
in front of him, pursing her lips, touching her pussy, rubbing her nipples.
George’s pecker went petrified. Glad to know it still existed. <i>No shit!</i> Linda bent over backwards for
that blasted one-dollar bill. George passed her an extra buck for <i>that</i> move. She took the bill and stuck
it in her lacy garter, way up high on the inside of her leg. That beautiful tan
thigh. Then, she pivoted on spiked heels and took off after another sniff of
green. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> George checked out the competition. Some jerk started
smoking next to him. George hated smoke, the smell of it, the stench, the way
it stunk up his clothes. He picked up his drink and ambled back to the bar. He
could have one more cocktail. That was his limit. It was bad enough he had to
brush his teeth, spray Chloraseptic into his mouth and eat a pack of Tic-tacs
before picking up the beloved Edna. It was worth it. George hid it under the
front seat of the car. In all the years Edna and him had been married, Edna had
not once caught on. Not once. <i>Can you
believe it?</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> By the time George reached the bar, Sonny had already
poured another. They exchanged a few more pleasantries. George passed over his
empty, and this time handed Sonny a dollar tip. Sonny smiled. Everybody here
worked for the green. The booze was rushing fast to his head. He was feeling a
little hot, so he loosened up his collar. He spotted Sandra making her way
toward him. Now, he was ready.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> “Ready, Freddie?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> Sandra knew his name was George. She slayed him the way
she called him that, all cutesy and all. Like always, he followed her. She
walked down a tiny, dim hallway to the back of the club. It got darker as they
progressed. George took off his glasses. No night blindness here. He tagged
along down some stairs all the while watching Sandra’s ass shimmy. She had long
red hair that fell down over her shoulders. All the way to her butt. And, for
some damn reason, she always wore pink. Pink everything. Always. Never had
George ever seen Sandra dressed in any other color. Pink, pink, pink.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> Personally, George’s favorite color was blue.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> Sandra opened a door. Inside was another entrance. A sign
read: DO NOT ENTER.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> They entered. The cramped room had a single bed made up
with cheap white sheets and a wooden bedside table next to it. It reminded
George of Okinawa. When he was in the Army. The only light came from a red glob
floating around in a lava lamp. It oozed up-and-down as George sat on the cot. The
mattress squeaked with his weight. He knew the sounds of this bed. He’d memorized
the sounds of Sandra.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> She pulled a tiny embroidered square cushion out from
under the mattress and positioned it between George’s legs. His woody was
begging for a little Sandra attention about now. Unbuckling his belt, she
pulled at his zipper exposing George’s boxer shorts.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> “I like your undies, Freddie,” she whimpered.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> That was George’s cue. He leaned back. He watched the fan
move in slow motion on the ceiling. He felt the warmth of Sandra’s mouth. He
swallowed hard and stretched his arms back as far as they could go. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> Oh, Dear Lord, forgive me my
trespasses, as I forgive those…<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> “Relax, Georgie. You know I love giving you head.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> He fingered her soft hair. Thousands upon thousands of
baby-fine threads flowed down her naked back. Sweet, sweet movement. She
shifted her mouth and allowed her hands to move in tandem, up-and-down. George
got a little embarrassed. He’d like to think his pecker was hung as good as the
next guy, but honestly, it wasn’t. Sandra made him feel like it was though. She
sure must have one hell of an incredible imagination. That’s all George could
think. Sometimes, George fell in love with Sandra. Really. And often, more
times than he cared to admit, he fantasized Sandra actually fell in love with
him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> “Good boy, Georgie.” She gurgled.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> She felt George stiffen. Sandra knew the rules. She’d
somehow created them. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> Edna would never do this. <i>Never</i>. Never, never, never. Not in a million years. Edna didn’t do
much of anything these days. She complained a lot about her weight. <i>Daily.</i> How she was gonna go on another
diet. <i>Hourly. </i>How she needed to lose
weight. <i>She just never let up</i>. How
she wanted to get back into one of those old dresses hanging in the closet like
dead memories. That wasn’t ever going to happen. Never. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> <i>What about me?</i>
George asked. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> “I don’t worry about you, George.” That’s all she would
say. What the heck was that supposed to mean?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> George came. A wave of built up frustration released as
Sandra swallowed. George didn’t quite believe it himself, but for as long as
he’d been coming here (no pun intended) Sandra always finished the exact same
way. Every damn time. Somehow, George felt safe with Sandra. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> Afterwards, she would always say, “Yummy, Georgie. You’re
better than a facial.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> <i>Whatever that
meant. <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> George would chuckle, pass her a twenty, usually with a
five-dollar tip. Sandra would slowly stand up, push the cushion back under the
bed with her toe and hurry to the door. Before leaving, she’d turn around and
give that little girl smile, the one George loved so much.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> “See ya next week, Sugar.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> Then, she’d quietly slip out the door.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> George listened to the silence for a second. The groan of
the bed. The whirl of the fan moving overhead. It brought him back, crashing to
the floor like broken glass. Reality. Suddenly, there was Edna. Only Edna. Edna
waiting outside the church. Edna standing next to the palm trees on Meeting
Street. Edna eating an ice cream cone because he wasn’t there on time. Blaming
everything on George. Edna saying to George in that “Edna” way, “Have a good
time, George.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> George pulled up his pants, buckled his belt and left.
Quietly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> He stumbled, sex-drunk and light-headed through the
narrow corridor, back up the stairs and into the smoke-filled, pink neon-lit
room. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> <i>Yeah, I guess I
did, Edna. I had a real nice time.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“See ya’ next
week, George.” Sonny waved good-bye.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> A lot of <i>really</i>
nice people worked here. George smiled back. “You too, Sonny. You’ve got one
hell of a memory.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> George had to be honest with himself. Each time he left
“Silk Stockings,” he felt a sense of loss, some loneliness. Like a big black
cloud pissed on him or something. He didn’t quite understand why he felt that
way, he just did. He thought it might have something to do with his life. The
way things were right now. The way things had turned out for him. And Edna. For
a few minutes inside, George got a chance to escape. Pretend. Be somebody else.
Somebody different. Then George wondered, what’s so bad about <i>your</i> life? He could certainly have it a
hell of a lot worse.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> He opened the car door and retrieved his oral douche kit
from under the seat. He went about the routine of cleaning and spraying and
disinfecting his mouth. There. All better. He smiled at himself in the mirror. He
put his glasses on, turned over the ignition and before he knew it, he was
headed back to Meeting Street. Back to Charleston. Back to Edna.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> As George was driving on Old Towne Road, all those sour thoughts
swimming around in his head like pregnant tadpoles, he wasn’t really paying
much attention to the fact it was pitch black out. The road in front of him was
looking more like a long piece of spent charcoal than a lit up landing strip. A
speeding car approached from behind without warning, right up on his ass, nearly
blinding him. “Son of a bitch!” George honked his horn several times until the
asshole swerved fast around him. George’s heart was racing. His thoughts were
jumpy. He readjusted his glasses on his nose. He squinted into the windshield to
get a notion of where the road was turning when he saw it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> On either side of him were large trees. Plantation oaks,
Edna called them. He didn’t care what the hell they were called, the mere
presence of them was making him nervous. Spanish moss dripped like cobwebs from
their branches. It reminded George of witch’s fingers. Being out here, right
now, was downright spooky. Gave him the creepers. All those darting shadows
were starting to play tricks with his head. He pulled off to the side of the
road. There wasn’t much of a shoulder. The car sat parked on some high grass
and low-growing weeds. A choir of crickets and frogs serenaded him out the
window. Swamps were out there. He must have taken a wrong turn. “Dammit!” He
took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. He looked in the rearview mirror.
Nothing. Just a flea market full of blackness. Was it his imagination or was he
feeling more drunk than usual tonight? Maybe it was his medications. He would have
a talk with his doctor. Maybe he should just turn his ass around and call Edna
from that gas station a ways back. Edna kept tabs on their only cell phone. There
<i>was</i> a gas station, wasn’t there? Yeah,
right. What would he say to her? What would he tell her? Edna, honey, listen,
I’m running a bit late… <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> Shit!<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> Then George caught sight of it again. The first time he
tried to ignore it. But he couldn’t the second. A white thing kept darting in and
out from behind the tree line. <i>What in
Sam hell?</i> He tried to focus, cussing at his night blindness, straining to
see more clearly. He wasn’t usually frightened, but this was making the hairs
on the back of his neck sing “Dixie.” For a second George thought it might be
one of those alien abductions. Edna and him had watched repeats of that show
every once and a while. What was it called? <i>Strange
Planet</i>. He glanced at the blue-black sky. Stars and constellations and even
more stars and constellations. From grade school, he located the Big Dipper.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> He put his attention back to the woods. Pure black. He
must have been seeing things. He wiped the sweat from off his forehead with a
handkerchief. Thank you, Lord. Out there in the murky distance, the only thing
he saw now were miles and miles of trees. And his overactive imagination. Then,
it reappeared. Again. Like Tinker Bell from Disney. Instead of it flitting
around, this sprite, or whatever the hell it was, would just fall down, only to
get right back up, and fall right back down again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> “Jesus, mother of God!” George screamed into the
windshield, his face pressed into the glass. “It’s a person. Holy fuck.
Somebody’s in trouble.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> He scrambled to grab the emergency flashlight from under
the seat. In the process, he upset his toothbrush and Thursday night
paraphernalia kit. “Shit. Piss. Damn.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> He opened the car door, knelt down on the gravel road and
rummaged through the under guts of the seat. There. Finally. He grabbed the
flashlight, checked to make sure it was working and took off. He leaped over
the ditch filled with muddy water and briar weeds. He left the car door wide
open. With the inside light on, he’d be able to find his way back.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> George had never been one of those sporting kind of guys,
but tonight, he did some mighty fancy footwork. He ran like a motherfucker
until his sides ached, his heart was pounding. A cool mist had settled over the
field. His boots were wet and soggy and heavy. George felt invigorated. Like he
did during tactical maneuvers. When he was young and fit and back in the Army.
When he had a job. A purpose. A mission. Something other than driving Edna around
to a different restaurant every damn night.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> The light from his flashlight cut through the low-hanging
trees like a hacksaw. It poked and prodded at the black curtain of forest. He
didn’t care. He wasn’t scared. He continued running, moving in the direction of
that fallen white thing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> It was down when he got there, like a deer or a wounded
animal. It was hard to tell if it was a boy or a girl until he flashed the
light on it. Tiny toes had polish on ‘em. Red nail polish. She wore a bathrobe.
Not terrycloth like a towel, but white and cottony and long. It covered most of
her body. The bottom half, down by her feet was purple-red in color. The moonlight
overhead made it appear crimson. Like a rainbow. He turned and vomited. He
excused himself, wiped off his mouth with his sleeve and bent over her. He
touched her shoulder and waited for a response. Nothing. He turned her over. He
wiped the mud from off her face. Lord, there was an emptiness there. A
horrible, horrible emptiness. He shone his light into her eyes. Nothing. He remembered
from the military to check to see if the pupils got bigger, or smaller.
Dilated. But, they didn’t. Oh, God, give him strength. Her hair was hanging
down over her face and shoulders, a tangled, sweaty mess. He could barely make
out the face. He pushed her hair back. It was a girl all right, a young one
too, no older than twelve, thirteen tops. What should he do? He felt for a
pulse. He put his head down close to her chest and listened for breathing. She
was, but just barely. Her pulse was weak, a fragile thread, sprinting at a
hummingbird’s frantic pace. He needed to get this girl to a hospital. Lickity-split.
He picked her up and slung her over his shoulder. She was light, not even a
hundred pounds. He started running. He could feel the jolt of adrenaline kick
his ass as he headed back toward the car. He could barely see the glow from the
inside light. Thank God, he left it on.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> Edna would be waiting. Edna <i>was</i> waiting. What was he to do about Edna? He fought his way across
the field through the tall grass. Briars stuck to his pants. His ankles. They
stabbed at his skin. He could smell blood. And stale urine. He wanted to throw
up again. But he kept running, trying not to think about it. How would he feel
if this was his baby girl?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> When he arrived back to his car, he would drive like a
banshee to the nearest hospital in Charleston. With or without his damn night
blindness. He would deliver this little girl close to where Edna was. He would
tell the doctors exactly what happened. Every last detail. Everything. How he
found this poor girl in a field off Old Towne Road. He would explain it all. He
would. He would tell them he was on his way back from…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> Oh, hell…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;"> Almost everything</span></i><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">.</span>
</div>
<i style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span></i></div>
Douglas Wickardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09401381903691271187noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3254705733736190513.post-82073990480655615422014-03-05T09:55:00.000-08:002014-03-05T09:55:11.516-08:00<br />
<h1 style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">NOTHING SACRED</span><i><o:p></o:p></i></h1>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>DOUGLAS WICKARD</b></div>
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<br /></div>
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A sacred practice…</div>
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A rite of passage…</div>
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A ritual ceremony
passed down from generation to generation.</div>
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One hundred million
of the world’s women are currently affected by this brutal act.</div>
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<br /></div>
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“In her bestselling 1992 novel, <b>Possessing the Secret
of Joy</b>, Alice Walker opened a painful door to the attention of the reading
public…”</div>
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<br /></div>
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In my new controversial
novel NOTHING SACRED, a psychological thriller set against the backdrop of
contemporary Charleston, South Carolina… this vicious act comes home. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Traumatized by the recent separation from his family, and
ricocheting back after the untimely death of his partner, Detective Dan Hammer
of the Charleston Police Department investigates the bizarre case surrounding a
local teenage girl, found half-dead, stumbling along Old Towne Road after dark.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Dr. Sydia Garrison, fifth year surgical resident at The
Medical University of South Carolina performs the emergency surgery that saves
the young girl’s life. The case quickly turns sour when a second victim is
discovered, tied-up in ritualized fashion and not nearly so lucky. The sleepy
town of Charleston is about to be put on the map. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Harry Wright’s plan for an
early retirement from Quantico, Virginia’s FBI Behavioral Science Unit falls on
deaf ears as he undertakes one of his most challenging cases. After a life-long
career of profiling serial killers, Harry is forced to leave his wife’s
bedside, suffering life’s greatest killer; terminal cancer. The one murderer
Harry can’t contain.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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In Charleston, a task
force is formed. “The Mutilator,” as dubbed by the press attracts national,
frenzied attention when the dreaded news arrives: another girl is missing.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Together, Hammer and
Wright piece together a scenario of horror, one that appears to be the work of a
psychotic, sadistic killer. What emerges is the result of a deep-rooted psychological scar, buried dormant, cross continents and time, back thirty
years ago to a small village outside Dakar, Africa, where a small girl and her
mother were left abandoned to die. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText3">
<i>Is there <b>nothing sacred?</b> <o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b>**WARNING**</b></div>
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NOTHING SACRED
contains graphic descriptions that may be offensive to some readers. </div>
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Parental
discretion is advised.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">5.15.14</span></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
Douglas Wickardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09401381903691271187noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3254705733736190513.post-4366959293522135072014-02-19T11:08:00.001-08:002014-02-19T11:08:37.042-08:00Up Close & Personal with DANA GRIFFIN Author of COERCED and THE COVER UP<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> I am so excited today to have Dana Griffin on my blogsite. Dana is the author of two chilling novels THE COVER UP and COERCED which I completely enjoyed reading. I've put together a few questions so we can get to know Dana and his writing a bit better. Here's Dana Griffin!</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: large;">1.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">
</span><!--[endif]--><i>Writers. Authors. Creative spirits. Why do we do
it? Why write?</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Do the questions get any easier as
we go along? Hmmm… I can’t speak for other writers/authors, but sometimes feel
I am a medium that creative spirits chose to tell their story. I never grew out
of that game we played as children called, “Let’s pretend.” Writing satisfies
that need to continue acting out my fantasies. Or, the fantasies my muse surfaces
in my head. </span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: large;">2.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">
</span><!--[endif]--><i>Kyle Masters. Your protagonist in your first two
novels THE COVER UP & COERCED. Who is he and how did he come about? How much
of Kyle Masters is really you?</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Hang on. That’s three questions at
the same time. I guess the questions don’t get easier. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">In <i>The Cover-Up</i>, Kyle’s marriage of sixteen years has begun to coast
along with no surprises or romance. His teenage son has a life that seldom
interacts with his father’s. So Kyle buries himself in his work hoping to find
the satisfaction he’s missing in his personal life.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Kyle can’t accept evidence that
points to corruption affecting the safety of airline flights. In Kyle’s case, he
has to take matters into his own hands because others want to bury their
corruption. Because of what he experiences in both books, Kyle learns to
appreciate and cherish those close to him.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Kyle and I are similar in that we
both abhor influential individuals or organizations that feel they’re above the
law or common decency. We both can immerse ourselves into our work and ignore
the people in our lives. We both try to see the good in people and lifeand
enjoy humor in our lives. I used to have a job similar to Kyle’s. Where we
differ is Kyle is more tenacious than I am.</span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: large;">3.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">
</span><!--[endif]--><i>As a professional pilot for many years, you
obviously have experience in the world you write about. Where do your ideas
come from? Actual scenarios? Fabrication?
</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Psst… Don’t tell anyone, but
they’re real life experiences that have happened to me. Just kidding.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Prior to writing <i>The Cover-Up</i>, I had a routine check by
an FAA inspector who didn’t say much while observing my flight. During the
flight I wondered what he’d do if I made a decision he disagreed with and
voiced his opinion. What if I followed his advice and it caused an accident.
What would the FAA do? I ran with that idea and <i>The Cover-Up</i> came into being.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">In January of 2014 the U.S. airlines
will have to adhere to new rules governing flight crew duty and rest that came
about because of the Colgan Airlines accident in Buffalo, NY. The airlines and
their lobby group, Airlines for America, fought hard to oppose a rule change. I
ruminated on just how far they’d go to prevent the change if there was another
incident or accident in which crew fatigue was a contributing factor. Thus, <i>Coerced</i> was born.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">So, the short answer is my ideas
are fabrication based on industry knowledge that I’ve blown up for literary
fun.</span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: large;">4.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">
</span><!--[endif]--><i>For some reason, people want to know… your
habitat...your writerly habits?</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Don’t touch anything on my mess of
a desk. It may look like chaos, but I know where everything is.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I like to write with popular music
playing for the first draft. During the editing process, I need quiet so I can
hear the words in my head. My wife reads a lot of the story aloud to me so I can
hear the flow of the words I might miss if reading on my own. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Since I travel <i>a lot</i>, I write in hotel rooms, or in the
terminal between flights. During Coerced, I wrote some of the first draft
longhand while riding as a passenger on flights. I find writing longhand
cumbersome, but I can put actual words to a scene in my head rather than
waiting when I can type it. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">When home I try to write in the morning.
When I’m traveling, I sit at my laptop whenever I’m not flying.</span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: large;">5.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">
</span><!--[endif]--><i>Self-promotion, marketing and selling books.
What’s your approach?</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">This is the part of being an
author I love/hate. I’d prefer to spend my time dabbling at another story,
instead of tweeting or posting on Facebook, or looking for another group
that’ll promote or review my books. Yet at the same time, I’ve become
acquainted with people, such as you, who I wouldn’t have if I didn’t
self-promote on social media.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">To answer the question, I really
don’t have an approach. I tweet my books, and those of supportive authors, on
Twitter and Facebook and post reviews of books I’ve read on my website and
Goodreads. I took a break while finishing <i>Coerced</i>,
but I post on my website interviews of characters from novels I’ve enjoyed. I
hope the reader of the interview might discover my books that way. Look for an
interview of Sami Saxton soon.</span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: large;">6.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">
</span><!--[endif]--><i>Share your writerly dreams?</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The ultimate dream is every
airport book store I walk into I’ll see my books on their shelves. </span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: large;">7.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">
</span><!--[endif]-->I<i>f you could describe your creative writing in
four words, what would those words be?</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Only four? Sheez! Vibrant, thought-provoking,
engrossing, I-wish-as-good-as-Douglas-Wickard’s. (<i>Thank you for that!</i>) Does the last word count as
one since it was hyphenated? </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Drumming fingers.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Fun, engaging, exciting, worthwhile. (<i>I agree with all those!)</i></span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: large;">8.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> <i>
</i></span><!--[endif]--><i>As indie authors, we self-publish and wait…what
do you wait for?</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The royalty payment. No,
seriously, to hear someone read my story and enjoyed it.</span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: large;">9.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">
</span><!--[endif]--><i>The editing process. When do you know the book
is finished?</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Are they ever finished? Isn’t
there always a better way to write a sentence, or align a plot point that could
be emphasized better, or show characters’ personality in a more illuminating
way? </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">When I’ve brought the plot to a
logical conclusion, the sentences are worded correctly, and I’m debating if a
character should frown, or quirk an eyebrow, then it is done.</span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: large;">10.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">
</span><!--[endif]--><i>What’s next?</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I’ve begun <a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=3254705733736190513" name="_GoBack"></a>the
research for another novel that will have an airline accident Kyle and Lori will
investigate. The parties involved (the airline, the FAA, the aircraft
manufacturer) try to limit their portion of the cause by exposing the other
parties’ culpability. The working title is, <i>A
Calamity</i>. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Thank you, Douglas. I appreciate the opportunity to tell
others about my books and writing process. Readers of your blog can find out
more about me at my website:dana-griffin.com. Or follow me on Twitter: <a href="https://twitter.com/DanaGriffin97">https://twitter.com/DanaGriffin97</a>or
friend me on Facebook: <a href="https://www.facebook.com/dana.griffin.311">https://www.facebook.com/dana.griffin.311</a>.
My books can be purchased at Amazon: <a href="http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_ss_i_1_7/181-0634506-2293737?url=search-alias%3Dstripbooks&field-keywords=dana+griffin&sprefix=Dana+gr%2Cstripbooks%2C240">http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_ss_i_1_7/181-0634506-2293737?url=search-alias%3Dstripbooks&field-keywords=dana+griffin&sprefix=Dana+gr%2Cstripbooks%2C240</a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>Dana, thank you. All the best to you and to your success. I can't wait to see your books at every airport as well. I tried uploading some photos of your books and a photo of you, but for some reason it wouldn't upload, so folks, please use the links above. </i></span></div>
Douglas Wickardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09401381903691271187noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3254705733736190513.post-43764220779240704072013-12-10T08:44:00.000-08:002013-12-10T10:04:49.891-08:00I'LL PASS! Nostalgia is an expensive commodity in publishing.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
A few years back, I ran into Pavilions, a supermarket chain
located in Los Angeles to pick up a bottle of wine to take to a friend’s house
for dinner. At the checkout counter on display were books; current, hard back,
name-brand, bestselling authors. You know, the space usually reserved for randy,
tawdry, name-calling tabloids was now sporting novels. <i>Interesting!</i> A top-selling author I followed was among the writers
showcased. I grabbed MY copy immediately, thankful there was still one left and
held it protectively in my arms, not wanting to soil the beautiful jacket cover
by placing it on the conveyer belt. I’d been reading <i>this</i> author for years, since her first novel skyrocketed into the
literary super-stardom forefront. I’d followed her complete series. I grew to
love her characters, her stories, the settings, wondering where she would take
her cast and the plot next. Her books became comfort food for my eyes, and my world.
I would submerge myself for hours in her vivid passages and be transported,
quite literally to another place, another time, another realm…<i>ahhh</i>, the power and beauty of the
written word. Then, something shifted.
Either I lost interest, got bored, or my reading style changed…whatever occurred,
I stopped reading. But, that feeling, that magic, that sensory memory remained
intact. All those rich, intoxicating places I’d been catapulted to in my past continued
to surface each time I saw her name, BOLDLY spelled-out on her new jacket cover,
her new release. And each time, I gobbled up my copy, compulsively shelling out
good hard cash for a visit to nostalgia.
I’d get cozy in my reading chair and prepare myself to once again be
devoured by the words…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>and stop reading…<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I think I got to page 25 with <i>that</i> book. Similar best-selling
author’s line my shelves now, hardback editions purchased, started and put down.
The books became more a coffee table
decoration than entertainment. Dog-eared flaps turned over, a reminder of the last
page I visited. All of them…unread. Nostalgia
is an expensive commodity in publishing. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, with the brewing anticipation of yet one more highly-awaited
novel coming from another decorated, best-selling veteran (the current darling
of the literary world), I too sat, hungry, waiting, salivating for its imminent
release. Even though, her massive, historic, highly publicized debut sat
unread, a relic in hard back, left forgotten in some musty basement where I once
resided years ago. At the time I felt weird. Why couldn’t I finish what I
started? What was wrong with me? Obviously, I was inferior, unable to keep up
with a book that held New York City’s literary circles hostage. But alas, I was
a kid then, on a mission, in a hurry going nowhere, preferring hard-impact
aerobics to flexible, versatile yoga. Now, my pace, as well as my age had slowed
down. Now, I was ready. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The saving grace of Kindle – eBooks. I can download a
sample. So, with heightened curiosity I waited, expectant, treading water in
the pre-publishing press wave, awaiting delivery into my steadfast Amazon device.
I began reading, at lunch actually, and got lost, immediately in the reverie of
her words, her well-crafted sentences, the descriptive passages… yes, yes,
yes…this is it! <i>Finally!</i> Several shake my head moments. The stunning landscape of her
creative vision, her feelings, and her thoughts...inspiring. Captivating. The description was so evocative,
so real, so raw, <i>so there</i>. Then, something
strange occurred. Again. The very thing I was admiring, (relishing in fact) the
element I’d been completely taken over by was now tying me down, restricting
me, keeping me a prisoner. I couldn’t
get to the next paragraph without re-reading. The book was written so precisely,
each minuscule second displayed photographically on the page to the point I
began questioning…really? Do I need to know that? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I made it to the end. Of the sample. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But this time…I’ll pass! <o:p></o:p></div>
Douglas Wickardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09401381903691271187noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3254705733736190513.post-62063411380523124462013-10-29T06:31:00.003-07:002013-12-02T08:07:51.094-08:00AN EXCERPT FROM ENCOUNTER<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">*** EXCERPT FROM ENCOUNTER ***</span></div>
<br />
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Chicago, Illinois<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.0pt; text-align: right;">
June 28, 2010<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.0pt; text-align: right;">
7:45 AM<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"> “C’mon you guys, let’s go!” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"> Rhonda raced around the high-rise
apartment picking up clutter left over from the night before. Bristol and Sammy
were suspiciously quiet, for a change, sequestered in their separate bedrooms,
supposedly getting ready for school – a summer program -- conveniently located
around the corner off State Street at the Holy Name Cathedral. The television was
on; CNN was broadcasting loudly from the kitchen. A bearded newsman was
reporting from New Orleans. Hurricane Alex was wrecking havoc on the Louisiana
coastline. He stood, drenched, dripping with water, holding a microphone under
the flimsy shelter of an </span><span style="line-height: 18px;">over-sized</span><span style="line-height: 115%;"> yellow tarp. Rhonda glanced outside. The
eerie storm warnings in effect until after midnight the night before had
miraculously blown over. But, you never knew, the Windy City was a chameleon. One
minute the weather could be sunny and serene, a Photoshop image of perfection,
and the next, an ice surge could migrate from northern Canada and play severe
damage to the City.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"> “Okay, you two, I <i>am</i> not going to tell you again.” She checked for messages, a text...an
email. Nothing. She hadn’t heard a peep from Alex. Not since last evening. <i>Strange</i>. He had to be up. She checked
the clock, a two hour time difference in California. His itinerary for the day was
full, jam-packed; one executive meeting after another, one more significant
than the next: career making opportunities, introductions, presentations, all
of which needed his input, his support…<i>him</i>.
This wasn’t like Alex. Alex awoke early,
hours before, nervous, apprehensive, practicing his speech, organizing his
work, buffing his shoes, his suit, choosing the right tie; the perfect match.
Alex <i>was</i> immaculate…sometimes, too
much so.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"> Bristol ran into the living room. Her long,
blonde hair was pulled back loosely in a ponytail. Rhonda watched on in
amazement. <i>Unbelievable how they grow up
so quickly.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"> “Grab your jacket. It’s chilly outside.
Sammy, come on!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"> Sammy slammed the door to his room and
strolled cocksure into the living room. He carried a backpack over his
shoulder. He wasn’t amused at having to get up so early, even if it were his
idea to register for the school’s summer activities. The handle of his tennis
racket jetted out the top of his bag. He snatched an apple from the counter as
he passed by. “Okay, okay.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"> Rhonda took one last look around the
apartment before closing and locking the door. The elevator took forever, stopping
at each floor. She leaned over and secured Bristol’s jacket tight around her
neck. Bristol was eight years old and prone to strep throat. The slightest
breeze could catapult her into a high fever and swollen glands. Rhonda took
extra precautions. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"> The school was close by, right around the
corner from their apartment complex. She would take them over, drop them off,
and then mosey over to the Starbucks on State Street and have herself a latte,
a clandestine moment just for herself.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"> A mass of morning tenants exited the
elevator in front of them as they waited, patiently. Then, they hurried around
the corner to the lobby. Dennis, the morning door attendant, stood watch. He
sat like a Mayor behind the imposing circular desk. "Doesn't feel much
like summer out there today, Mrs. Kitas." His voice was deep, bass, sweet
with soul. They pushed through the
revolving glass doors onto Superior Street.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"> “Thanks, Dennis.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"> Outside, Rhonda nudged Bristol and Sammy
toward the intersection at State Street. It <i>was</i>
chilly. The weather felt more like fall than summer. The air had that fresh,
clean, crisp, burnt-leaves sort of smell. A welcome change before the
sweltering layer of humidity descended upon the City, and the hot heat of
summer arrived. She held both of their
hands at the streetlight; a habit practiced early on since they were children.
Sammy pulled away. God forbid one of his friends should catch him holding onto
his mother’s hand.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"> “I don’t bite.” Rhonda inwardly smiled. At
twelve, he <i>was</i> becoming quite the
man. Tall, like his father, with, thick, wavy, sand-colored hair that fell
poised, naturally, to perfection. And that smile. God, he could light up a room,
from any angle. He was definitely a looker. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"> “Mom, I’m almost thirteen. I don’t need to
hold on to your hand anymore.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"> “Oh, excuse me, Mister Man!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"> Bristol was perfectly content in holding on.
Firmly. She enjoyed watching Sammy act out his impending adolescence, being the
older, tough guy. She preferred residing in that in-between stage, no longer the
baby, but also not a grown up, ready to take on the world and the
responsibilities that came with it. She wanted to continue to believe in magic;
that whimsical element called fantasy, where </span><span style="line-height: 18px;">fairy tales</span><span style="line-height: 115%;"> do exist and actually
do come true. </span><i style="line-height: 115%;">Enchantment</i><span style="line-height: 115%;">!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"> Past the statuesque church, finally
finished from all of its exhausting renovations, they ran around the corner to
Chicago Street. Sammy recognized a friend waiting outside and waved. He turned to
Rhonda for a look of approval. <i>Please</i>,
<i>Mom?</i>
Still not quite the man. He still required a sense of direction, a
reassuring nod from his mom saying, “it’s okay.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"> “Go,” she insisted. “Have fun. I’ll see you
in a couple hours.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"> Sammy took off running, a </span><span style="line-height: 18px;">new found</span><span style="line-height: 115%;"> pep in
his step.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"> “Okay, you,” Rhonda bent down and connected
with Bristol face-to-face. “You have a great time today, you hear? Bring me
back something amazing from your art class. I’ll frame it. Okay?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"> “But, what do you want, so I know?” Bristol
wiped her nose with the end of her sleeve.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"> “Surprise me. And, by the way, you did an
awesome job with your hair this morning. <i>Tres,
tres chic.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"> “Thanks, Mom.” Bristol turned and skipped
toward the entrance. Her pony-tail swayed to-and-fro in the nippy air. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"> Rhonda turned toward Superior Street, the
congested intersection of Chicago and State. Busses passed by; the insides cramped
like canned fish with early morning commuters. Foot pedestrians waited at
traffic lights; taxicabs honked and blared, scouring for random fares. Rhonda
took a deep breath. She checked her cell phone. This was weird. It was eight in
the morning and still no word from Alex. Not even a text message. In the
fifteen years they’d been married, Alex had never forgotten to call her,
particularly before an important meeting like NBC. She pulled up his cell phone
number and pressed enter. <i>Voice message.</i> “Hey, it’s your wife.
It’s nine o’clock here in Chi-town. Where are you? I thought you were going to
call me? Oh well, good luck this morning. Give me a holler when you get a
minute. Love you.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"> And, she did. Love at first sight sort of
thing. They’d met in college. Alex was nerdy, a good-looking marketing major
and her, a goody-two-shoes from Wisconsin studying for a degree in art. Art
history to be precise? With her white, porcelain skin, a face full of freckles that tap-danced across her cute, upturned nose, and a mop of strawberry-blonde
hair, they quickly connected, got together and became an item. Chicago was
clean; a Midwest City not quite as intimidating as Manhattan or San Francisco,
so they made the decision to put roots down. They shared similar aspirations:
make enough money, high-tail it to the suburbs, purchase a house, raise a
family, thrive. Alex’s career took off, like gangbusters, while Rhonda’s
stalled. She got pregnant with Sammy and never saw the inside of another
lecture hall. Although, she did stay active by visiting the diverse and
eclectic art shows that circulated through the City.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"> Rhonda ended the call, deposited her cell
phone back into her coat pocket and crossed Chicago Street. The small, brick-paved
courtyard of Starbucks came into view as she turned the corner. A few tables
were available outside as she pushed through the squeaky fence, entered the busy
store and took her place in line. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"> “What can I get you?” the male counter
person asked. “Usual?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"> <i>God,
was she that predictable?<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"> Slightly embarrassed by her own rigid,
day-in and day-out routine, Rhonda answered, “Why not?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"> He smiled back, his teeth enormous. Braces
filled his entire mouth. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"> She strayed from the counter, perusing various
brand-name items on discount, arranged on shelves in overly-organized fashion. She positioned herself close to the pickup area. Within seconds, a pair
of masculine arms slinked around her waist and pulled her in close. A moment of
divine weakness -- </span><i style="line-height: 115%;">should she or
shouldn’t she?</i><span style="line-height: 115%;"> And then that unanimous feeling of letting go. She grabbed hold of the grip snaking around
her sides. Short, prickly </span><span style="line-height: 18px;">stubble</span><span style="line-height: 115%;"> of a beard tickled at her neck; soft lips
nibbled. Wet intoxicating kisses.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"> “Right on time,” the voice cooed. He turned
Rhonda around, and they kissed. His
tongue entered her mouth, probing, searching, revisiting known territory. A few
people waiting next to them took offense.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"> Jake was Rhonda’s friend with benefits. Okay,
so the sex with Alex had died. Dried up. She wondered about Alex, his
sexuality. </span><i style="line-height: 115%;">Did he still find her
attractive?</i><span style="line-height: 115%;"> How many nights could they go over the same tedious topics, ad
nauseam, to come up with the same monotonous answers? The same boring retorts.
She tried to understand. But, it was frustrating for her, and equally
debilitating for Alex. He would answer the </span><span style="line-height: 18px;">incrimination's</span><span style="line-height: 115%;"> the same way, always
-- the stress, the job, the hours -- whatever. Rhonda was bored. Deprived. Sexually
abandoned. She felt unattractive to the point of seeking out a shrink. On the
down low. She would get answers from somebody, come hell or high water.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"> “Rhonda! Latte, skim milk with a maple
scone.” The clerk yelled out. In all the heated excitement, she hadn’t noticed
the guy’s nose ring. Or, the large, circular, black holes; the size of copper
pennies, punched out of each of his earlobes. <i>Ouch!</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"> Rhonda slipped away from Jake’s grip and
fetched her items. “You want something?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"> “You."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"> Damn, he knew all the right things to say,
especially to a sexually denied woman. She smiled coquettishly and collected
her things at the counter. “Thanks.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"> “Let’s get the fuck out of here.” Jake
lived around the corner on Chestnut Street in a one-bedroom pied-a-terre
located on the second floor of a walk-up apartment building. Rhonda’s new
holding pen for adultery. Time was nonexistent. He helped her with her goodies,
pulled her, carefree and somewhat guilty from the store and allowed her to
cuddle up beside him as they ran the few blocks to his place.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"> She had met Jake at <i>that</i> Starbucks, sitting at <i>that</i>
patio, reading the New York Times and, for the record, minding her own business.
She didn’t pay him much attention. Not at first. Why should she? He was years
younger, a baby. But, he protested. Persisted. And, sooner than she would care
to admit, he'd led her down the cougar, primrose path of infidelity. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"> Jake’s body was muscular. He had a
swimmer’s, lean build, not overly worked-out but smooth, slender, and
deliciously sensuous. His dark, moody eyes and his brown curly, longish hair, was
so, so different from Alex.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"> His skin was dark, Moroccan cocoa, and his
body had an ever-so-slight scent to it, sexy, manly, like ripe musky
fruit. He couldn’t be more than thirty.
And, she refused to ask his age out of sheer embarrassment that he might even
be younger. His fingers were mid-western, farmer-thick, and his torso was bare,
without a stalk of hair. She wondered if he shaved. <i>Could a body be so hairless?</i> Hers had more hair on it than his. He
indulged Rhonda, spoiled her shamelessly with an electrical surge of sexual
attention she’d been craving, starved for. He allowed her to feel once again
the finer details of being a woman; waxing, shaving her legs, exercising at the
apartment complex’s gymnasium. The Stairmaster had become her new best friend,
huffing-and-puffing before noon, at least three times a week, as well as the occasional
Pilate’s class. Somebody, thank God, was finally paying attention to her, and
damn, it felt good. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"> They laughed and giggled up the two flight
of stairs, keys out and ready. They tumbled like drunken sailors into the
undersized living room. His pants were unbuckled and had fallen around his
ankles as they entered. He shuffled into the adjoining bedroom. Rhonda set her
coffee cup and scone down on the floor. She unbuttoned her blouse, flung her
jacket on the only chair in the room, and left a trail of disrobed clothes to
his perfectly made bed. Morning sunlight filtered in through open blinds covered
in sheer red, (<i>whore red</i>)
curtains. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"> <i>Sexy!
<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"> She stood in front of him, nude, witnessing
his nakedness. She was wet with excitement. <i>Jesus!</i>
Absolutely mad for him. He unbuttoned
her jeans and helped slide them down over her hips, collecting her nothing
thong with his thumb in the process. He bent over and allowed her to hold onto
his back as she stepped free from each leg. Then, he reached behind her and
with such ease, such grace, he lifted her onto the bed. He began tasting and
licking, teasing, and exploring. In the background, soft, jazz played. A sultry
saxophone serenaded.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"> Rhonda was beside herself with pleasure and
extreme guilt. She would allow herself this one happy diversion, this one act
of betrayal. Obviously, she loved Alex, adored him, and wanted to be with him,
absolutely. Forever. What she didn’t want was to grow older and experience one
more year without sex. Any sex. It caused anguish. Such torment. Her new,
expensive therapist was the first one to organize Rhonda’s thoughts. The positives
and the negatives divided into two symmetrical blame free columns. Alex <i>was</i> the perfect husband, a generous
provider, a wonderful man and a fantastic father. True or false? True, of
course. Could she, would she, divorce Alex just because the sex between them
sucked?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"> “Yes, yes, oh my God,” she screamed out.
Jake buried his tongue deep into her center. He was definitely practiced,
educated in the fine art of cunnilingus.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"> No, she didn’t want a divorce. Of, course
not. But, she would have some fun on her own. She was sure Alex was enjoying
his own secret amusement, whatever <i>that</i>
was.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"> Rhonda was on top now, straddling Jake. He
massaged her breasts; every so often lifting his head, slightly from the pillow
to suck on one of her extended nipples. His toes would flex; his legs tense, and
then relax as she lowered herself down upon him. He was the perfect size, not
too large, but not too small and completely and utterly giving. He <i>wanted</i> to pleasure her. Giving Rhonda
satisfaction seemed to give him fulfillment, at least, she hoped so. He was
smiling when they came. Together. The sensation of his cock pulsating thick
inside her made her come instantly. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="line-height: 115%;">
What a turn on! <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"> They remained in that satiated, heated state
until his hardness softened, and squirmed free. She rolled off and lay beside
him. A ceiling fan twirled, ticked above them. She held onto this young man’s
body. Reaching over for a kiss, he positioned his arm around her shoulder.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"> <i>She
could fall asleep like this... <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"> Then, the jarring noise of her cell
phone. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"> “Jesus. Probably Alex.” Rhonda jumped up
from the bed and ran down the hallway to collect her coat, which had fallen on
the floor. She grabbed her mobile, looked at the number. <i>415 area code</i>. Okay, San Francisco. “Hello, this is Rhonda,” she
said, out of breath, flushed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"> “Mrs. Kitas?” A male voice asked. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"> “Yes.” A worried look came over her face.
“How can I help you?” She turned her nakedness away from Jake, who was now
sitting up on one elbow watching, listening.
His body was on display, a prime piece of exquisite, human, masculine
art.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"> “Mrs. Kitas, this is Dennis Plumber from
NBC. Have you heard from your husband this morning? He hasn’t shown up for his
nine o’clock meeting.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;">* * *</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"> Back at the apartment, Rhonda took a moment
to regroup. Process. She needed space, some privacy, some down-time to think
about this new situation dumped into her lap. She needed to at least <i>try</i> to make some sort of sense out of
it. Luckily, she had a few hours before needing to pick up Sammy and Bristol.
First things first. Don’t panic! A simple phone call to Alex would clear this
whole mess up, lickety-split. Perhaps he’d overslept, which was completely
unlike him, Alex being the early riser in the family. She rolled through the
contacts on her cell phone until landing on ICE (In Case of Emergency) and
pushed CALL. Several seconds passed by before the phone connected. Four rings
then Alex’s familiar voice, baritone, grounded, sturdy. Comfortable. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"> <i>Alex,
where the fuck are you? <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"> In the shower, Rhonda systematically
rehashed each second they’d last spent together. She went over the details,
raking for facts, compiling a mental agenda, logging the events of their last
day. Sunday morning, the usual, routines like coffee, the Chicago Tribune,
breakfast with the children, packing. All, very ordinary, mundane, every day
sorts of things. She did remember asking him why he needed to leave so early when
his meetings didn’t start until Monday? Why not hop a plane later that evening?
His response was typical Alex. He needed time to organize his paperwork,
prepare. Again, Nothing out of the ordinary. At least, not for Alex.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"> Rhonda visualized him; sitting on their
bed, watching him stow the neatly pressed shirts, his ties, socks, the new
shoes they’d just purchased for good luck at Neiman Marcus, the Brooks Brother
suit. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"> Drying off, a tinge of guilt resurfaced.
Her sexual liaison with Jake, the carefree sex, the feel of Jake's hands firm upon
her breasts; gentle but rough, so in tune with her body, her needs. It was all
still so fresh, so yummy, so steamy, so tantalizing, a dizzy, blurry memory.
Her clumsy, guilt-ridden attempt to scrub away his scent in the shower was futile.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"> In the living room, she looked out the
sliding glass doors onto their wide terrace, the breathtaking view of Chicago
planted in front of her like a Hollywood backdrop. She'd wanted, asked, pleaded
for, in fact, a higher floor. But, Alex remained steadfast, preferring the
lower levels. They compromised, the big "C" on 18. They were good
together. They balanced each other out; her weaknesses, his strengths. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"> In Alex’s office, she sat at his desk. She
swiveled back-and-forth in his worn leather chair. She viewed with envy his
immaculate organization. Everything arranged perfectly in its own individual
spot. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"> Virgo! <i>Everything
has a place; every place has a thing!</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"> She
rifled through several ledgers scouring for a clue, a hint, some evidence,
anything. She opened his laptop. The icon located dead center on the screen
with his name neatly printed beneath it. <i>Password?</i>
No idea. She opened the drawers, pulled out papers, files.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"> <i>Nothing.</i>
She walked to the closet, separated the doors, the shelves used for storage,
paper, toner, ink cartridges, all displayed neatly, meticulously, labels facing
forward, everything in order.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="line-height: 115%;">
Oh, Alex… <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"> She grabbed her cell phone in the living
room, scrolled to the Google landing page and typed in the Fairmont Hotel
located in San Francisco. The webpage loaded within seconds showing the iconic
building </span><span style="line-height: 18px;">located</span><span style="line-height: 115%;"> at the corner of Mason Street and right below it, the number
for reservations. She pressed the local listing. She didn't want to get lost in
some international Fairmont answering pool and have to wait for yet one more
redirection.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"> “Good morning. Could you please connect me
to Alex Kitas’s room? Yes, thank you, I’ll hold.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"> She looked around their spacious apartment.
She was scared. Lonely. Alone. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"> <i>Where
was he? <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"> The operator connected her. After several rings, an automated voice
alerted her that the guest she was trying to contact was not available. If she
wanted to leave a message, she could.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"> She hung up and immediately redialed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"> “Yes, hi, this is Rhonda Kitas, again, Alex
Kitas’s wife. You just connected me to his room; I think it was you. Anyway,
he’s not there. I have a funny question to ask. Has anybody at the front desk
seen Mr. Kitas this morning? His work just called saying he hasn’t shown up,
and I’m beginning to get a little worried. Yes, I’ll hold. Thank you.” She
began biting the nail of her index finger, a bad habit she’d dropped years ago.
This was <i>so</i> not Alex. As disconnected as they were sexually, they were still a team,
partners, swans for life in this dance called marriage. Or, so she thought. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"> “Hi, yes. Last night? Okay. Did anybody
witness him coming back to the hotel? When is he due to checkout? Tomorrow.
Okay, thank you.” She ended the call and flopped onto their overstuffed sofa.
Her mind was racing. Panic was slowly setting in, taking up residence. She
pressed Alex’s cell phone number, again. The familiar rings, his voice.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"> “Alex, you are fucking scaring me right
now! Please pick up. Where are you? Your job is calling, and I’m a basket
case.” She ended the call and glanced around the living room. Time. She needed
time to know what to do. Should she call the police? Missing persons? Jesus.
Her stomach churned, gurgled. She peeked at the wall clock hanging in the
dining room. It was almost two. She hadn’t eaten a thing. Not even that fucking
scone left forgotten on Jake’s floor.
Right now, her appetite seemed the least of her worries.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"> Once again, she opened her phone and began
texting a message. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"> <i>Alex,
please, I’m worried. Call me immediately!
<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"> Maybe he <i>was</i> leaving her. Maybe he found
out about Jake. <i>But how?</i> And, why
wouldn’t he mention it to her. Some things you don’t reveal. <i>Can’t!</i> Some things are better left
unsaid. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"> <i>Oh,
by the way, honey, I got laid by this young, hot Moroccan stud! <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"> Yeah, not the sort of thing you bring up to
your husband of fifteen years. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"> Even though Rhonda wasn’t on the best of
terms with Alex’s parents she thought she’d better reach out to them. They
lived in Downers Grove, a suburb of Chicago. Alex might have called them to say
he was leaving her, their life together, the children. She didn’t know. She needed answers. Rhonda
was not one to live with indecisiveness easily, even if the news wasn’t what
she wanted to hear, or expected. A direct “yes” or “no” worked perfectly fine.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"> “Hi, Jean, it’s Rhonda. Yes, the children
are fine, thanks for asking…listen, I’m calling because Alex went to San
Francisco on some business yesterday and this morning I received a call from
his work saying he hadn’t shown up. I was wondering if maybe you’d heard
something from him.” She ran fingers through her wet, curly hair. “Hmmmm. Okay. Well, if you do hear something, let me
know.” Pause. “I’m sure it’s nothing to get alarmed about, Jean. Just thought
you might know something. Thanks.” She flung her phone on the sofa and walked
into their bedroom. She threw her robe on the bed and began dressing. She
opened the closet and grabbed a pair of slacks. She noticed her suitcase
perched on the top shelf, stored away. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="line-height: 115%;">
Their trip to Bermuda together, the last time she packed it, the family
vacation. Atlantis! </span><span style="line-height: 18px;">Water slides</span><span style="line-height: 115%;"> and mermaids… </span></i><span style="line-height: 115%;">She pulled open the top drawer of her
dresser and reached for a sweater, gray, soft, easy. Again, she glanced at the
black stow away. It taunted her. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"> She closed the door and went into the
living room. Her cell phone on the table began buzzing. <i>Finally!</i> She ran to it, tapped the screen to read who the message
was from. It was a text from Jake, confidential, secret. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"> <i>Thanks
for the Scone. Hope we can meet again for coffee. Real soon.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"> Her thoughts were so far away from Jake at
this moment. She didn’t even respond. In the past, she would have answered,
immediately, a short, cute, flirtatious line…some playful banter. Now, her thoughts were on her children, her
chaotic life, her missing-in-action husband. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"> Rhonda made a Google search for American
Airlines. She pressed CALL.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"> An automated answering system guided her
through an obstacle course of choices before she reached the voice of a real
live human being. The man answered,
expectantly. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"> “I’d like to book a flight, please, from
Chicago." Pause. "San
Francisco."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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Douglas Wickardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09401381903691271187noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3254705733736190513.post-61578867239069630142013-10-04T22:51:00.000-07:002013-10-04T23:03:23.866-07:00SUCCUBUS - HALLOWEENPALOOZA WICKARD STYLE!<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">…it was only <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">one</i>
glass, one <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">large </i>Bordeaux<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>glass of red Sangria, sweet, and fruity,
and full of tiny chunks of orange, lemon, and ripe green apple. Surely, one
glass off Sangria could NOT have provoked those feelings – hallucinated <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that</i> touch, those cold, bony fingers,
moving surely, bit by bit, as if planned,</span><a href="http://www.blogger.com/null" name="_GoBack"></a><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> driven almost, up
my naked legs, wanting, searching as if in need of something, somebody to hold
onto. Trust me, I was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not </i>under the
influence of alcohol. Not to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that</i>
degree, anyway. Not to the legal level of intoxication to have created <em>those</em> kind of delusions?
</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Never!</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I was new. New to the City. New to Los Angeles. New to my
job -- that monotonous, repetitious, clock in-and-clock out profession --
standing at my large, white, counter, located in the basement of that
huge metropolitan hospital, without windows, centrifuging, swirling, tipping and
twirling, vial-after-vial of blood, and blood, and more blood. Wearing my white,
starched laboratory jacket (very Dr. Kildare), notating results, entering
‘within normal limits’, documenting my ‘two cents’ onto lab chits, and lab reports,
and lab results…ad nauseum. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Argh!</i> </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Francine warned me. From the beginning. My longtime friend
from Ventura. She entered the apartment tentative, hesitantly and instantly began
twitching. Me, dragging her, pulling her further into the living room, excited
beyond words at sharing my first apartment in Los Angeles with her. She urged
me, pleaded, please…“before you move into this place, please, please,
please…clear out the energy of the spirit who lives here. A woman is trapped in this hellish purgatory, and she's unable to let go…” </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">What?</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I scoffed, I laughed, I made fun of her ridiculous premonitions.
Francine could be dramatic! Very! She proclaimed herself a ‘witch.’ A good witch, of
course, but nevertheless. She performed séances with candles positioned circularly
around us. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She channeled spirits forth.
Frames rattled, pictures fell, and candles extinguished themselves without the benefit
of a breath or a wind or the barest of breezes. She flirted, (far too much, for my
taste) with Mr. Ouija Board, sniffing out answers, searching affirmations, and digging
up assents. She was meticulous, a divine creature, with a hard, soft spot for
black men, a nurturer’s soul for bruised fruit, particularly angels with broken
wings, yet she lacked that same love and grace she gave so freely to others, toward
herself. Francine’s lips were large and plump and outlined in black. Perfectly. She
colored well within the lines using a bevy of robust fall colors: brown, burnt orange,
deep-set purple, and red. She smelled of the exotic, a flower out of place, a
bit of jasmine, sage, a torrent of musk skillfully entertwined so as not to suspect…what?
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">loved</i> the apartment.
At first sight. Well, actually it was only a studio. The Russian elderly
renting the space roamed the grounds wearing humongous pink curlers, piled high,
tucked tightly under a restrictive band of a flimsy black hairnet. She wore
slippers, I recall, the color being white. They were fluffy, always clean, with
a band of cotton stretched across the arch of her porcelain-white foot. Each
time she took a step, they would slosh. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Slush,
slosh, slush, slosh…</i> Her smile was welcoming. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Contagious. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In addition, the price was right! </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I took it! </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The studio was unfurnished and barren. Recently renovated, it
had nice, shiny, hardwood floors and nostalgic crown molding connecting the
high, loft like beam ceilings. California sunlight drenched the room, bleeding in
from the large floor-to-ceiling windows. Freshly painted a bone-color, the
space was immaculate and smelled of Mr. Clean. My possessions were
few. Blankets, a few flattened pillows, a sleeping bag (one I purchased at the
Navy exchange in Port Hueneme) and some sheets, all neatly organized and piled in
layers against the wall. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Slightly woozy, a bit fuzzy that night, but not drunk --<em>I
was NOT wasted!</em> – I climbed the several stairs, the outside cement stairwell lining the three-story house. I went through my evening rituals, as usual. I <em>was</em> militarily trained, used to a routine; the brushing of
my teeth, the flush of the toilet, the lying down of my sleeping bag in the main
room creating a cushiony foundation against the hard wooden surface of the
floor. Next, several layers of sheets; sheets collected and bought on the cheap
from fast, quick Latino shops around the area, and finally my blankets. My
pillows, the ones I took from base had been with me for years, my companions, always
there, alongside me. Okay, I admit it, my security blanket. I negotiated a
comfortable position, one pillow tucked firmly between my legs, and gazed out
the curtain less windows at a twinkling Hollywood. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">My</i> Hollywood. My new home. A kaleidoscope of stars and colors and hopeful dreams
blended in the street sounds below, the distant whine of a hemorrhaged siren jackknifed my reverie.
The jagged limbs from a Maple tree scratched against the surface of one of the
giant windows. I ignored it, I ignored it all and slid into a comfortable light sleep...</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Then…a stirring. Different. Unsettling. The rustling of
blankets, sheets being raised, fanned and pushed off me, to the side. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I woke up. I took a moment, a brief second to
do an assessment, feel, hear… <em>where am I? Is this really
happening? Did somebody break in?</em> Then, the touch, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that</i> touch, those fingers, those cold, bony appendages working,
scratching their way, clawing up my ankles to my calves and then digging into my back thighs. Definitely,
this was happening. I was frozen. A panic set in. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">My mind leapt for answers. Francine! Francine pleading,
saying, loudly, proprietarily with force: “Spirit, be gone!” three times, sequentially.
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Spirit, be gone! Spirit, be gone!”</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">By now, the covers and cheap blankets were off me, bunched together at my sides. My
buttocks and lower back were completely exposed. I knew I had to stand. I knew
I had to unlock the grip this thing had upon me. I raised myself to my elbows
and crawled, military style forward until I felt the cold comfort of the wooden
floor. It sobered me up. Quickly. Next, I thrashed my legs, as if in a spasm,
eliminating any hold this creature had. The wails, the cries, the
muted screams writhing in anguish below me as I stood, naked with only my
t-shirt and underwear and screamed out into the night sky… “Spirit,
be gone! Spirit, be gone! Spirit, be gone!” Instantly, the three windows unlatched
and opened. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">A Twilight Zone moment.</i> Night
air flooded the space, whirling around my body, circling the room, freezing my
senses. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I dressed quickly. I ran down the cement steps, two at a
time. I couldn’t get to my car fast enough. I drove to my friend’s apartment,
the one who had earlier shared Sangria with me, and pounded on her door. She
sat, mesmerized while I told her the details of my story. I slept that night,
at her place, on her sofa. Awake. Aware. Unable to go to sleep. She kept the
heat on, even during the summer months. I remember uncovering myself, but then
pulling the blankets back tight, close around my neck. To this day, I rarely go
uncovered. The thought still scares me. Petrifies me, actually.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I moved from that apartment several weeks later. As I
carried my few belongings to the car, the landlord caught up with me and asked
why? with a look of genuine concern on her face. I asked only one question. “What’s
the history of that space?” She told me the truth. She told me of an elderly
woman in her 80’s who had lived in the house most of her life, for many years with
her husband. He died. She committed suicide in my apartment, which at the time was
the attic. Her husband’s belt had been tied securely around her throat. She
stood on a chair. She attached the belt to a makeshift bar and dropped. All she
would have had to do to save her life…was stand up. But, she chose, not to. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Spirit, be gone!”</span></div>
Douglas Wickardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09401381903691271187noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3254705733736190513.post-86543927830955118762013-08-17T06:37:00.000-07:002013-08-24T07:24:51.833-07:00<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"><u>EN<span style="color: red;">COUNT</span>ER</u></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><em>coming</em> OCTOBER 31!</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="background-color: white;">HALLOWEEN!</span></span></div>
<br />
<br />
You know him...<br />
<em>known</em> him.<br />
You met in college... you were sweethearts, lovers... remember?<br />
He wasn't your first...<br />
But you vowed he'd be your last.<br />
For over fifteen years you've been married <i>to</i> him...<br />
had children <i>by</i> him...<br />
created a life together <i>with</i> him...<br />
Then...<br />
he takes a business trip.<br />
Nothing unusual. <br />
A normal occurrence for his profession... <br />
The problem is...<br />
he doesn't return...<br />
<i></i><br />
<i>EVER!</i><br />
<i><br /></i><br />
* * *<br />
<br />
San Francisco<br />
2010<br />
Five men.<br />
All mysteriously disappear.<br />
No clues...<br />
no ransom notes...<br />
no bodies...<br />
All vanished... without a trace.<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span> <br />
<span style="font-size: large;">EN<span style="color: red;">COUNT</span>ER</span><br />
<i>Are you available tonight... for a thriller?</i><br />
<i><br /></i><br />
<i>copyright douglaswickardbooks.com</i><br />
<i>check out A PERFECT HUSBAND anywhere ebooks are sold</i><br />
<em>check out A PERFECT SETUP exclusively on Amazon the sequel to A PERFECT HUSBAND</em>Douglas Wickardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09401381903691271187noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3254705733736190513.post-23616127482445093512013-07-28T23:40:00.000-07:002013-08-06T06:56:59.333-07:00BOOK LAUNCH: A PERFECT SETUP the SAMI SAXTON sequel arriving AUGUST 15, 2013<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<em><strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> A moment of weakness...</span></strong></em></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em><strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> an afternoon of passion...</span></strong></em></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em><strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></strong></em></div>
<em><strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></strong></em><br />
<em><strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></strong></em><br />
<em><strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF8H67UuP_aZloIVaALMknxE55jXhpSk-c3K70kw2TXvzwsj4a7YktzT5Kw3YtFbl1v4iOA7QNlfejMzlU9KRw8bTDQwp-NDdl3k7orzACMv88tgQXkJQV0ZxvqsnmEINEe-0EryJCU1tW/s1600/perfect-setup-high-res.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF8H67UuP_aZloIVaALMknxE55jXhpSk-c3K70kw2TXvzwsj4a7YktzT5Kw3YtFbl1v4iOA7QNlfejMzlU9KRw8bTDQwp-NDdl3k7orzACMv88tgQXkJQV0ZxvqsnmEINEe-0EryJCU1tW/s320/perfect-setup-high-res.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
...a brutal murder hits close to home...</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The explosive sequel to A PERFECT HUSBAND</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Arriving exclusively on Amazon August 15!</div>
</span><div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
</strong><div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
</em><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em><span style="font-family: Georgia;"> ~Early praise for A PERFECT SETUP</span></em></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "MS Mincho"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><strong>★★★★★</strong></span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";"> </span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">A PERFECT SETUP "It is a positive
relief to read a sequel where the heroine doesn't bounce back happy & into
the fray." <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></i><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">A PERFECT SETUP "...the final scene left me wanting more,
needing to know. And, therein lies, for me, its brilliance." <o:p></o:p></span></i><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">"...Wickard delves into the sordid reality and excitement of
affairs, domination, submission, & abuse." A PERFECT SETUP <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">"The novel does not shrink from confronting the realities of
trauma and PTSS."<o:p></o:p></span></i><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "MS Mincho"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><strong></strong></span></i><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "MS Mincho"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><strong>★★★★★</strong></span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"> "Certainly equal to and in my
opinion even superior to its predecessor <o:p></o:p></span></i><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">A PERFECT HUSBAND</span></i><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span></i><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p>"...<strong>Masterful.</strong> <strong>★★★★★ <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span></i></strong>Douglas Wickard does it again!" Penelope Childs</o:p></span></i><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span></i><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">"...the return of characters who've become old friends; the
meeting of new ones we wouldn't want as enemies."<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>5* Amazon Reviewer <o:p></o:p></span></i><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><strong>Sami's back! And this time it's personal!</strong></span></div>
<br />
The <em>New York Times, Daily News</em> and <em>New York Post</em> hailed her a hero.<br />
<br />
Samantha Saxton, better known as Sami "owned the night," they reported. She was the victor, the quiet champion, the anti-heroine single-handedly destroying the career of a lethal serial killer stalking the tri-state area of New York, New Jersey and Pennsylvania for six unremitting years. The disappearance of six teenage girls and the horrific details of their deaths received national, frenzied attention and Sami Saxton became the unlikely poster woman in all the coverage.<br />
<br />
Sami's attempt to find a quieter, less hectic life by moving to the cabin her deceased father built years ago in the remote township of Montique, New Jersey didn't turn out quite the way she expected.<br />
<br />
Returning to the City, Sami purchases a spacious, fifth floor, open-airy, glass-walled condominium on the Upper West Side overlooking the Hudson River. Another new start!<br />
<br />
But<em>, that</em> night continues to haunt her...in her dreams and in her life. The nightmares persist, vivid, ongoing and relentless. Posttraumatic stress syndrome paralyzes her. Anxiety attacks intensify and not even prescription pain killers can relieve her anquish.<br />
<br />
Then, the unthinkable occurs. A young, female model is found brutally murdered in a midtown hotel, and Jerry Saxton, Sami's ex-husband, is taken into custody for the heinous crime.<br />
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<strong>TRUST NO ONE!</strong></div>
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<em>~Praise for A PERFECT HUSBAND </em><em></em></div>
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<em>"Smitty refers to his smile as his "greatest weapon," and that's ultimately what makes him so terryifying. His starting point for murder is not a brutal act, but a genial expression. Assertive characters with distinct backgrounds provide a solid foundation for the story of a killer on the hunt ." ~KIRKUS BOOK REVIEW </em></div>
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<em>"Up there with Jonathan Kellerman..." Amazon Reviewer Fleur Smithwick</em></div>
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<em>"A killer performance." Fredericke Brooke author of DOING MAX VINYL and ZOMBIE CANDY</em></div>
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<em>"...not since SIDNEY SHELDON has an author captivated me so..." Amazon reviewer</em></div>
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<em>"One of the most suspenseful books I've read this year." Nancy Silk</em></div>
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<em>"The words truly paint a picture." Jaimie J.</em></div>
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<em>"Could not put this book down." A. King</em></div>
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<strong><em><span style="font-family: Georgia;"></span></em></strong><br />Douglas Wickardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09401381903691271187noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3254705733736190513.post-16785860896308810722013-07-18T08:42:00.002-07:002013-07-18T08:42:51.786-07:00Up close & personal with writer CATHERINE ASTOLFO <span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">A special treat for my blog readers.</span></span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">CATHERINE ASTOLFO </span></span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">is here in Los Angeles discussing her new bestselling novel </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">SWEET KAROLINE</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span><br />
<span style="clear: right; float: right; font-family: Verdana; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" src="http://d202m5krfqbpi5.cloudfront.net/authors/1362523353p8/852970.jpg" style="max-width: 625px;" /></span><span style="font-size: large;">I was fortunate to be one of the first readers of SWEET KAROLINE. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<strong><em><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">"In
Catherine Astolfo's chilling new novel Sweet Karoline</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">,
things aren't always as they seem. Anne, the multifaceted anti-heroine in this
noir tale takes a fateful journey into her forgotten past, uncovering the
painful roots of her childhood. While furrowing for answers, a mystery unfolds,
truths swirl to the surface, a heinous murder occurs. Who's the killer? Caught
in a tangled web of greed, lies and deceit Anne must come to terms with her
past, present and future, and the bleak realization that those we hold close may
be the last ones to trust. Compelling, visually descriptive, deftly
delivered…Catherine Astolfo's got the goods!"</span></span></em></strong><br />
<strong><em><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"></span></em></strong><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">So welcome, Cathy. Nice to have you back in sunny California. Even though we met breifly, it </span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: small; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">was a pleasure sharing wine and good conversation. Let's get right down to the questions:</span> </span><!--EndFragment--><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: Times;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Times;">•</span><span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><span style="font-family: Times;"><i>Sweet Karoline</i> is a confident novel. Your
creative voice is strong. There is something new, something different working
here. Can you explain it?</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: large;">That’s a great question, something I have been
mulling over ever since I began <i>Sweet Karoline</i>. The answer is kind of
complicated. When I started SK, my main characters, Anne and Karoline, were
enigmas. I seriously couldn’t decide if they were good or bad “girls”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then my publisher asked me if I could make <i>Sweet
Karoline</i> part of the Emily Taylor series (you know, to help with that
branding thing – important to marketing). I told her I’d give it a try. Months
later, Anne and Karoline were still rebelling. Finally, I let Imajin Books know
that SK would just have to be a standalone. Thank goodness, they understood.
And then – I let go! I allowed my subconscious to take over. No Editor sitting
on my shoulder, no solid outline – just a flow of thoughts and emotions and
experiences. It was the best feeling ever. Plus I think it has changed my
writing forever. I am going to be less rigid, planned and perfectionist in my
writing from now on (at least during the creative flow part).</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: Times;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Times;">•</span><span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><span style="font-family: Times;">What gave you the idea for <i>Sweet Karoline</i>?
What triggered your imagination to weave <i>this</i> story?</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; tab-stops: 11.0pt .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: large;">My Emily Taylor series has some elements that are
found in <i>Sweet Karoline</i>, namely the native influence, small town Ontario
settings and complicated relationships. I wanted to write a story based on my
children’s heritage. My kids are part black, part white, and part Native, with
an undocumented connection to Joseph Brant. The combination of my own
descendents and my children’s paternal family was just too weird to resist.
Characters abound on both sides. So I took a little bit of the history,
romance, tragedy and twisted relationships, added a whole lot of imagination,
and out came this story.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: Times;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> <span style="font-family: Times;">•</span><span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"></span>
</span></span></span><span style="font-family: Times;"><i>Sweet Karoline</i> is a one-off, not part of
your ET series. Do you prefer writing a continuing character or one-off’s?</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times;"><span style="font-size: large;">For the longest time, I wondered if I could actually
write a book without Emily Taylor in it. I thought I’d be in mourning for a
long time. Not that I killed Emily or anything, but I did say the fourth book
was her last. In some ways, I think I want to leave her alone, happily ever
after so to speak. Now that I’ve finished one standalone, there are a whole bunch
of others seeking my attention. So I honestly don’t think I’ll write another
series. That doesn’t necessarily make my publisher happy re promotion and
branding – but I guess the brand will just have to be <i>me</i> LOL.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
<o:p><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: large;"> </span></o:p><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: Times;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Times;">•</span><span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><span style="font-family: Times;">How much research do you do for one of your
novels?</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: large;">I’m not that fond of research to be honest, but it’s
a fact of life. Everything I write needs some kind of fact behind it. For
instance, when I was writing <i>The Bridgeman</i>, I realized I had to know
something about lift bridges. If I can go out and look at something, I do. I
headed to Merrickville and studied their locks and the lift bridge. For the
rest of my books, I’ve had to research wrongful convictions (<i>Seventh Fire</i>),
Ojibwa philosophy (<i>Victim</i>) and legends, puppy mills (<i>The Bridgeman</i>),
gold mines, the law in small town Ontario (<i>Legacy</i>)…you name it. However,
I always caution my readers that I adhere to the old adage, “Never let the
facts get in the way of a good story.” Although the research has been done, I
often manipulate the details for my own purposes. For <i>Sweet Karoline</i> I
even got to travel to Los Angeles and meet one of my favorite writers, Douglas
Wickard.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: Times;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Times;">•</span><span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><span style="font-family: Times;">Do you use real people when you create
characters for your novels?</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: large;">I do – sort of. I think my characters are amalgams. A
little bit me, some people I’ve known in the past (or present), characters I’ve
read about in newspapers, someone I met in passing. I put all of that together,
mix it all up, and make somebody entirely new. Also, I find names in the
obituaries. I put different first with different surnames and so on. Part real,
part fiction!</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"></span> </div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: Times;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Times;">•</span><span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><span style="font-family: Times;">Let’s talk about sex! Are you comfortable
writing sex scenes?</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: large;">I probably shouldn’t admit this, but I LOVE writing
sex scenes. It’s my daughter, who’s always my first reader, who gets very
uncomfortable! This is what one of my reviewers said about the sex scenes in <i>Sweet
Karoline</i>, “<i>The novel hits its heights as the best lovemaking scenes and
the ones that are just 'rocks off' sex as any I've read. The writing jumps off
the page. The main character is real, frail, strong, seeking, manipulative,
scared and secretive</i>.” I really, really like that blurb, I must say. I
think I do have the most fun with the characters during a sex scene. That’s
when they’re naked, not just in body, but vulnerable to either be loved or
used. Sometimes that’s when you can take a peek into their true natures.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"></span> </div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: Times;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Times;">•</span><span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><span style="font-family: Times;">I felt your ET series maintained a certain
safety, a bit of you holding back. <i>Sweet Karoline</i> does not, in my
opinion. It felt visceral, raw, edgy. Noir. Do you notice the difference? Was
the writing process different for you?</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: large;">You are so right. I think because Emily is a school
Principal, there’s a certain expectation that she won’t be entirely off the
wall. Since she is integral to the books, she held me back a bit, I think
(sorry, Em, but it’s true). Plus Emily is under a certain constraint throughout
the novels. Her life didn’t turn out the way she wanted it to, and she has to
hold back a lot of secrets. The writing process was quite different with <i>Sweet
Karoline</i>. Far more stream-of-consciousness than with the Emily’s. The
visceral parts were the best, when I could <i>feel</i> what Anne was
experiencing. Honestly, if I could write like that every minute of the day, I’d
be in heaven. It was a terrific experience. I hope I can continue to apply that
process to the next and the next.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"></span> </div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: Times;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Times;">•</span><span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><span style="font-family: Times;">We often are asked what our writing process
is…but I would like to know how you tackle the editing process. The rewriting.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: large;">I’m a bit of an obsessive editor. I think it’s the
bane of all ex-school teachers that we notice grammar and spelling errors. I
have to admit that I edit as I go. Not so much with <i>Sweet Karoline</i>,
however – and that was a good thing. Maybe I’m finally old enough or have been
retired long enough to let go of that. Sometimes when I can’t get going on the
manuscript, I allow myself to spend a few minutes editing. Believe it or not,
that can get the muse flowing again. I reread a section that’s particularly
good and all of a sudden, I’m off again. Once I get my Beta reader responses, I
rewrite according to their suggestions. I don’t keep every suggestion, but if
more than one person points out a flaw, I seriously consider changing the
passage. I don’t know about you, but I could probably rewrite until the story
disappears. At some point, I have to say: OK, done. Now on to the publisher and
professional editors. Usually, if I’ve done my job well and followed my beta
readers’ advice, I don’t have a lot of rewriting to do at that stage.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"></span> </div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: Times;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Times;">•</span><span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><span style="font-family: Times;">Waiting for Beta reader’s responses can keep us
in an altered, anxious state. How do you choose your Beta reader’s and how do
you use their feedback? </span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: large;">I am so very lucky with my Beta readers. I have seven
of them. Four are all retired teachers; one is a former book editor; one is my
daughter and one my daughter-in-law. The last two are in the film industry and
have read hundreds of scripts. The former are extremely good with the mechanics
of the novel. But they’re also all voracious readers. So they can tell me about
consistency of character or setting and words or phrases that are out of place
or jarring. I listen to them very carefully and often make the changes they
suggest, particularly if several of them make a note of it. </span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"></span> </div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: Times;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Times;">•</span><span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><span style="font-family: Times;">What’s next?</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: large;">I’m working on two books. One is a young adult
mystery novel. The second, an adult mystery, is a “black comedy”. Right now I’m
calling the adult book a cozy, but it’s probably a bit edgier than that. Next,
I think I’ll be writing a general fiction novel about a couple of generations
of women. It’s germinated, but I’m still not sure if I should throw in a
mysterious death. I’ve also got two anthologies of short stories coming out
around Christmas. Obsessed? Ya think? </span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; tab-stops: 11.0pt .5in;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: large;"></span></o:p> </div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; tab-stops: 11.0pt .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: large;">Find out all about Catherine’s books at her website: </span><a href="http://www.catherineastolfo.com/"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times;"><span style="color: blue; font-size: large;">www.catherineastolfo.com</span></span></a><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: large;">.
You can join her on lots of social media there, too.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: large;">BUY THE BOOK:</span><br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Sweet-Karoline-ebook/dp/B00DUIDMKO/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1374161709&sr=8-1&keywords=sweet+Karoline">http://www.amazon.com/Sweet-Karoline-ebook/dp/B00DUIDMKO/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1374161709&sr=8-1&keywords=sweet+Karoline</a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.ca/Sweet-Karoline-ebook/dp/B00DUIDMKO/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1374161798&sr=8-1&keywords=sweet+karoline">http://www.amazon.ca/Sweet-Karoline-ebook/dp/B00DUIDMKO/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1374161798&sr=8-1&keywords=sweet+karoline</a><br />
<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: large;">Thanks for the chat, Cathy. Looking forward to seeing you again, real soon.</span></div>
Douglas Wickardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09401381903691271187noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3254705733736190513.post-37081775177578186802013-05-14T16:53:00.003-07:002013-06-19T08:26:52.508-07:00<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<o:p>
</o:p><br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<strong><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><u><span style="font-size: 18pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">A PERFECT SETUP</span></u><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></strong></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">DOUGLAS WICKARD</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<span><em><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">A<strong> moment of
weakness…an afternoon of passion…a brutal murder hits close to home…<o:p></o:p></strong></span></em></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><span><strong><em><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">The explosive sequel
to A PERFECT HUSBAND.<o:p></o:p></span></em></strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<span><strong><em><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Praise for A PERFECT
HUSBAND<o:p></o:p></span></em></strong></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span><em>“…Somebody
might ask me what it was about this book why I couldn’t put it down. Boy, isn’t
that the million dollar question that all writers and publishers would like to
know. In this case, the words flowed. There weren’t grammatical, technical or
formatting mistakes that made me stop in my tracks. I didn’t want to re-write a
section. As a writer and editor, it’s very difficult for me to read novels
because I always want to fix them. I want to edit, to re-write, but this was
not the case and that in itself was a joy for me.<o:p></o:p></em></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span><em>I
also liked the characters. Mostly Sami. There was something endearing and
actually humorous about her. I could envision her, I felt like I was in her
head, she was written clearly and succinctly, and you were on her side. You rooted
for her. When she was in danger, you’d find yourself telling her to, “Watch
out!”<o:p></o:p></em></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span><em>I
became involved in the story, it took me away to the world of Sami Saxton for 2
days and I thank the author Douglas Wickard for transporting me to her world
where it was intriguing, thrillingly horrific, humorous at times, and most of
all, entertaining. Oh, and for the next Douglas Wickard novel, I won’t read the
sample first; I’ll go straight to “Buy this book.” <o:p></o:p></em></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span><em>…Bestselling
author Catherine Burr<o:p></o:p></em></span></div>
<br />
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<em><span>“…Smitty refers to his smile as his
“greatest weapon,” and that’s ultimately what makes him so terrifying. His
starting point for murder is not a brutal act, but a genial expression.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></em></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span><em>Assertive
characters with distinct backgrounds provide a solid foundation for the story
of a killer on the hunt.<o:p></o:p></em></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span><em>…KIRKUS
Book Review<o:p></o:p></em></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span><em>“Up
there with Jonathan Kellerman…” …Fluerwick Smith<o:p></o:p></em></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span><em>“A
killer performance.” …Frederick Brooke author of DOING MAX VINYL & ZOMBIE
CANDY.<o:p></o:p></em></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span><em>“…psychological
suspense at its best!” …Marla Madison author of SHE’S NOT THERE.<o:p></o:p></em></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span><em>“One
of the most suspenseful novels I’ve read this year.” …Nancy of Utah <o:p></o:p></em></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span><em>“The
words truly paint a picture.” …Jamie J.<o:p></o:p></em></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span><em>“Could
not put this book down…” …A. King.<o:p></o:p></em></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The
<em>New York Times</em>, <em>Daily News</em> and <em>New York Post</em> all hailed
her a hero! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Samantha
Saxton, better known as Sami ‘owned the night,’ they reported. She was the
victor, the quiet champion, the anti-heroine single-handedly destroying the
career of a lethal serial killer stalking the tri-state area of New York, New
Jersey and Pennsylvania for six unremitting years. The disappearance of six
teenage girls and the horrific details of their deaths received national,
frenzied attention and Sami Saxton became the unlikely poster woman in all the
coverage.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Sami’s
attempt to find a quieter, less hectic life by moving to the cabin her deceased
father built years ago in the remote urban township of Montague, New Jersey
didn’t turn out quite the way she intended. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Returning
to the City, Sami purchases a spacious, fifth floor, open-airy, glass-walled
condominium on the Upper West Side overlooking the Hudson River…<em>another</em>
new start!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">But,
<em>that</em> night continues to haunt her...in her dreams and in her life. The
nightmares persist, vivid, ongoing and relentless. Posttraumatic stress
syndrome paralyzes her, keeping her a prisoner in her newly renovated home. The
anxiety attacks intensify and not even prescription painkillers are relieving
the anguish.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Then,
the unthinkable occurs. A young, female model is found brutally murdered in a
midtown hotel. And, Jerry Saxton, Sami’s ex-husband, married for over twenty
two years, is taken into custody for the heinous crime. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">TRUST NO ONE!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<span><em>A PERFECT SETUP</em>…you
do NOT want to miss what happens next!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
</div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><o:p> </o:p></i></b></div>
Douglas Wickardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09401381903691271187noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3254705733736190513.post-86404989633641849832012-12-16T11:05:00.001-08:002012-12-16T11:05:41.038-08:00REPRISE A DEDICATION TO TEACHERSI write thrillers.<br /><br />I write about normal, everyday people forced into
unlikely situations to overcome personal tragedies: painful divorces, addiction,
mid-life crisis...even serial killers.<br /><br />I have been known to travel to
some pretty dark places to provide conflict for these characters. <br /><br />Just
ask SAMI SAXTON, my flawed, anti-heroine in A PERFECT HUSBAND...and soon to be
released A PERFECT SETUP.<br /><br />Readers ask me, "how do I go there?"<br /><br />I
smile.<br /><br />I was raised in a small town in Ohio.<br /><br />I was born into a
family of women. Probably one of the reasons I gravitate to writing strong
female characters. My father was absent. My mother was a single, twice-divorced
woman trying to juggle six children on monthly alimony payments -- whether the
checks arrived or not. Life was chaotic, unsafe and over-the-top. I was always
one-step away from a foster home. My security and sanity was kept, just barely,
by several 'angels' in my young life. An unknown woman (to this day, I still
have no idea who she was) paid my yearly YMCA membership. I submerged myself in
physical activities which kept me away from home and exhausted.<br /><br />And...
the library. There I was, sneaking my precocious, adolescent self past
the elderly librarian through the cranky turnstile into the glorious world of
adult fiction. Freedom. At last. Until I got caught. With money I earned from my
paper route, I joined the Double-Day-Book-Club. <em>Remember when you could buy
six books for a penny?</em> The excitement I felt, adrenaline-
filled anticipation running home after school, looking forward to that little
brown packaged box filled with my personal, private literary choices. To this
day it still makes me grin. <em>(Still makes it difficult to read from a
Kindle!)</em><br /><br />... CATCH-22, MIDNIGHT COWBOY, VALLEY OF THE DOLLS... these
were some of the titles I purchased and devoured well before I hit the seventh
grade. (<em>Precocious, I did say that!</em>) Those books, among others
catapulted me into exotic worlds and make-shift lives where words expressed on
paper allowed a portal for my escape. A place to hide where I secretly read,
viewed and related to other people's troubles far away from my own. <br /><br />I
was a sensitive boy, inward and not overly confident. I had few friends and even
though I was well-liked in school, I was far from popular. My attempts at
masculine imitation were futile. I <em>was </em>the one-off, the left-of-center,
always trying to find that place to fit in, belong...a home.<br /><br />I
expressed my hidden self, that secretive part of me with words. My voice, full
of emotional angst and pubescent longing -- rage -- found a quiet resting place
on the page. And, my 10th grade English teacher nurtured that innocent
discovery. For whatever reason, she took an interest in my poetry. (<em>I
know...poetry?)</em> Her attention to my writing instilled an inner confidence
in me, a willingness to continue, a way to move past my fears. An avalanche of
emotions gushed forth, an outpouring of feelings experienced -- past, present
and future. For once, I was able to represent myself without intimidation or
embarrassment or shame. Pain became a metaphor, new but interestingly mysterious
and useable.<br /><br />Through some difficult patches in high school <em>this
</em>teacher also became a friend. She allowed me to sign hall passes, forging
her name when anxiety grew too great to arrive to school on time, or when the
pressures of my seemingly overwhelming life bogged me down to a complete,
sloggy hault. There was even a time when a group of us shared pizza at her
upstairs, quaint apartment. I remember her nestled, guru style before us,
leaning against tie-dyed covered furniture wearing a 60's collared shirt and
exhibiting <em>hip</em>! The color was turquoise.<br /><br />My gratitude will
always be to my 10th grade English teacher. <br /><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<strong>Teachers DO make a
difference.</strong></div>
<br />On graduation day, before I left for the Navy,
this specific teacher gave me a gift, a book called THE PROPHET by Kahlil
Gibran. Inside was a note, now framed in my home. She wrote: <br /> <em>
</em><br /><em>'Doug, you have a definite talent for writing. Your style is
simple. This is important because wordiness sometimes conceals all the meaning.
Truth does not need embellishment. Life should be simple ~ simply
beautiful...'</em><br /><br />I will always have a deep appreciation for this
teacher. She gave my dream wings... my words flight...<br /><br />Thank you...to all
the teachers who have touched their student's lives in ways they may never
know.<br />Thank you...from the bottom of my heart, <strong>PATSY GRIMM</strong>,
my 10th grade English teacher for always believing in my true, authentic self.
But, more importantly my...voice.<br /><br />My next book, Patsy will be dedicated
to you!<br /><br />Much love,<br /><br />Douglas Douglas Wickardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09401381903691271187noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3254705733736190513.post-83120076482991124292012-08-26T13:13:00.000-07:002012-08-28T11:43:33.910-07:00THE AWAKENING<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Frequently, I am asked the question, ‘where did you get the
title for your debut novel?’ And, my answer is always the same: my agent. A
PERFECT HUSBAND was his suggestion and I immediately changed the title. When
Sami became a popular fictional character, the prompt came to create a sequel, and
naturally, the PERFECT series came into existence. Now, I take the inference
far more personal, perfection being an Everest, the Zenith in a never-ending
cycle to achieve that critical state and the nose-dive crash into personal
suffering that can certainly follow if not performing up to par.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Is failure an option? Was it ever?</div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p>Or, is it part of our societal culture to always be winners?
What if we were only average? What if we didn’t stand out? Make a name for
ourselves? Be somebody. I have been burdened with the lifelong weight of
wanting to be somebody…other than myself. What information chip was inserted into
my brain giving me the impression that just being me, was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not</i> enough?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Am I the only
one? </div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I no longer blame my mother. Her reckless actions, the tools
she used to raise her children were a byproduct of her youth -- turbulent,
volatile and full of loss. Nevertheless, the message somehow got through and
the process of awakening into my Divine Life has been a constant effort.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There have been times when ‘things fell
apart,’ the ground shifted, my security, safety and livelihood was threatened.
And, my immediate response – panic! I cannot be perceived as a failure, I can’t
look bad. What if somebody hears? Sees? How will I ever live with myself?
Precisely. How DID I ever live with myself? At any cost, I protected THE image.
</div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
The plot thickens.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
This awakening comes at a major turning point. Chasing
personal demons the last eight months has been a testament to my endurance;
emotionally, spiritually, mentally and physically. Grappling with the bottom
rung of my unsavory behaviors, all the tedious ways I avoided the salty in
between -- image versus worthlessness. What a colossal amount of energy <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that</i> took. The unconscious cycle of my
wretched attacks to try harder, get more, be better was a non-stop, monotonous
campaign.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The dichotomous nature of my
psyche so enmeshed in polar opposite thinking I never had an opportunity to
come up for air. Take a breath. The price of losing…far too great. It would be
the total and irrevocable loss of me -- whoever <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that </i>me was. And, the greater question, who was watching anyway?</div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
My investigation into the nooks and crannies of my existence
became a quest, my mission. And, the allowance of one small emotion created an
avalanche of change: compassion. I began seeing myself compassionately for the
first time, which allowed a greater opportunity to see the world more
compassionately. Then gratitude slipped into the mix. I began not wanting to
numb-out my existence; instead, I wanted to feel my Life more intensely. I
wanted to lean into the painful dualities that caused so much of my internal
indignation. I allowed myself permission to FAIL. I gave myself a break! I let
go! I began not judging myself so harshly by book rankings, the amount of money
I made, or how much cash was left in the bank after payday. I began a heartfelt
discussion with that needy neurosis that blanketed my Life with vicious
self-talk. I opened myself up to a different set of parameters that allowed conversation,
and should an attack begin, I could let go, take a deep breath and look leisurely
at the big blue sky.</div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Of course, these cathartic change-of-Life events always
happen at a precipice. When the world left behind is of the old, and the newness
up front, full of the unknown.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When work
is ending and times are unstable and the ground beneath me has a quivering Richter
scale lurking…threatening.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even in this,
I feel an AWAKENING. A growing up. A new platform in which to take this last
chapter. My journey from hell to this place, this unstable, unsure, unsafe position
feels infinitely better than the self-created duality I manifested. I would be
lying to say there is no fear – of course, there is – it’s the unknown, but I
am optimistic, not nostalgic…in a curious way, reborn. Now, it’s about
patience. It’s all working. I will step into this new Life, again, without so
much baggage, and what carry-on I do take with me, I can handle. I have such
gratitude for this moment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>FREEDOM. This
awakening to awareness is a blessing, a feeling of weightlessness – the voice
of the child walking toward a horizon looking to the light. THIS IS IN ME! <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s okay to fail. Fail big, even. For once, it’s
okay to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">be</i> me…TO BE ENOUGH! </div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Certainly not…perfect!</div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">
</span><br />
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<o:p> </o:p></div>
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</span></span><br />Douglas Wickardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09401381903691271187noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3254705733736190513.post-72811687503873691462012-07-11T14:22:00.000-07:002012-07-11T14:22:17.326-07:00THE END OF A 30 YEAR RELATIONSHIP<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Right
from the get-go, I was blindsided by the attraction, seduced into a cozy,
symbiotic relationship. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">The
shy, approval-seeking young man with choirboy politeness transformed, magically
into a fun, cocksure, sexy bad-boy! Intoxicated by this new, renegade,
‘don’t-give-a-damn’ attitude, I flung myself, at quick-speed velocity into the
fire. Several times, throughout the rocky liaison, I pledged separation. On a
trial basis. But, the mere thought of saying good-bye sent chills of expectant loss
so intense I’d hurry back, dismissing any crazy ideas of parting. My Life developed
into a comfortable dependency and denial -- my annoying, arrogant friend – cemented
our bond of lifelong togetherness. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Now,
after 30 years of faithful, reckless devotion, I am ending my relationship with
Alcohol.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">The
long good-bye accompanies intense sadness and loss. Who am I without my loyal
companion, my liquidly soul mate? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
comparison to a lover is provocative yet interestingly accurate. What began as
nonchalant flirtation at the age of twenty-six blossomed into a lifelong
burdensome secret? Even my marriage, with its untimely ending and ultimate divorce
seemed easier to handle. The emotional pain experienced over the loss and
separation of a liquid heart far exceeded the damage endured by the abandonment
of a beating one. Alcohol was there, available and eager for my affection,
offering me that slight rush, that enigmatic ‘click,’ and finally that
pistol-ready release into the gallows of uninhibited darkness. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">I
would never allow myself the privilege of hitting ‘rock bottom,’ as twelve-step
programs refer to that identifiable moment when addiction crushes the human
spirit making a Life no longer able or willing to continue living in such a
wretched state. Nope, not me. I performed <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">my</i>
role perfectly. <em>Always.</em> I never lost a job, never arrived late, never lost time
at work, never, never, never… admitted my vice and called myself an alcoholic.
<em>Me?</em> Heaven’s no. I was above all that. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Was
I what ‘they’ refer to as a functioning…one? Probably. My defense mechanisms --
state-of-the- art artillery – buried deep in my structured unconscious guarded
the lurking monster. Did I want to admit it? No. Of course not. I teased with
it for years, danced like Nureyev around the topic, avoiding all truth and any inevitable
confrontation. Instead, I looked forward to that next chilled martini glass,
that salty rim of a margarita, knowing the forgetful ‘click’ was only a few icy
sips away. Deceptively delicious, indeed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">
I scrambled headlong into the arena of my self-destruction. What was left,
after the effects of Alcohol wore off was regret, a letdown, loss of integrity,
respect and, let’s not forget, shame. Instead of pondering these feelings, I
sprinted like a world-class athlete back to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">its</i>
solace. Alone, I could bury myself in its languid grip, wait expectantly for its
recognizable take-off, hover dangerously overhead circling for deliverance and
then, with reckless abandon, plunge myself into the absent abyss, that surly void
where perfection failed to exist. The lack of calculated awareness allowed me a
defiant, proud and defensive posture, a cover up to continue the abuse -- a slow-suicidal
routine as scheduled and relaxed as drawing an evening bath. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Alcohol
had no agenda. I was the taskmaster playing the slots, unable to balance my
odds, eager to lose myself in the bells-and-whistle payoff -- I thought -- a
win-win situation. I lost, of course. Years later, I realized the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">odds </i>were never in my favor. Are they
ever in self-delusion? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">I
have been given, by grace, the elegant choice to surrender my need. I am in deep
gratitude for this option, this awakening into mindful awareness. As Sami
Saxton expressed candidly in A PERFECT HUSBAND: <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“But
those days are over. Too much drama, too many lost days, and too many missed
opportunities catapulted me into soberness. A shaky sobriety. One, I fight
daily. One, I often lose. I’m aware of the symptoms, what sets me off. And I
try, like hell, to heed the warning signs.”</i> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">I
find Sami’s admission honorable. Honest. I too, will fight the good fight for
the rest of my Life. I refuse to go back. My path is forward, my direction clear,
my intention for the future…to heal. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">All
in good time. All in good time…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">“…the ideal spiritual journey needs
the balance of ‘gloriousness’ and ‘wretchedness.’ If it were all glory, just
one success after another, we’d get extremely arrogant and be completely out of
touch with human suffering. On the other hand, if it were all wretchedness and
we never had any insights, and never experienced joy or inspiration, then we’d
get so discouraged that we’d give up. So, what’s needed is balance. But as a
species, we tend to overemphasize the wretchedness.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Chogyam
Trungpa<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<br /></div>Douglas Wickardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09401381903691271187noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3254705733736190513.post-76910397574033622882012-06-03T21:04:00.000-07:002012-06-29T20:54:19.559-07:0010 TRUTHS: A Personal Journey to Gratitude<br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">TRUTH ONE: I have never been a religious person.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Uncle Conrad was a Reverend at the
United Church of Christ, a nondescript chapel located at the north end of my
small town. At the age of five, my mother sat me down and asked, point blank, “do
you want to go to church?”<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I answered back, defiantly, “no!”<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">There was a reason for her deliberate
inquisition. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Routinely, I would un-shackle my wrists from her constrictor grip
and run, like a hellcat, up-and-down the carpeted aisle, screaming and giggling
and pulling my pants down, reveling in the wave of laughter the congregation
awarded me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Uncle Conrad prayed for heavenly
patience.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> His prayers...were a</span>nswered.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">So, on Sunday mornings, my sister’s
and I would high-tail it to the living room, jump up on our old, worn davenport and
watch, with curious fascination, the tiers of our quaint community promenade themselves
down Center Street past our front window. Dressed in their finest wares, they offered
themselves, once a week, before their altered God and doled out a healthy dose
of allegiance.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">TRUTH
TWO: I never felt it.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">In the
Navy – at the naive age of seventeen, while studying medical technology in the
frigid, sub-climates of Great Lakes, Illinois, I found baptism. By choice, I
enlisted into a reverential pool of Presbyterian devotees. They offered a welcome
sense of safety, a feeling of security and a sacred sanctuary of learned
devotion. Should I carry through with my quest and follow their mission of
trust, our circle of worship would guide me, hand-held into the shallow, cool
water of initiation. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I, too, had a chance at redemption. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I, too,
could find God. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">TRUTH
THREE: I never did. Or, quite possibly, God never found me.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I kept
waiting for an answer, a feeling, a pulse of recognition. I imagined <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">my</i> God would respond like a warm wave, a
tsunami of calm showering serenity over me and my Life like a light dusting of snow, allowing forward
advancement in abundance, clarity, unwavering faith, and, of course...lots and lots of self-love. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">A ‘happy
ending’ was sure to follow. I was certain!</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">TRUTH
FOUR: <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It didn’t happen.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">With or
without my weekly dosage of religious doctrine, my ‘free will’ to make
different, more reckless choices took over. And won. My core beliefs, adopted,
digested and processed early on from an unstable upbringing had already achieved full
download status, perculating in my pre-adolescent, <em>uber</em>-sensitive system. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I was
at a spiritual stalemate. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was running,
again, like a hellcat down the carpeted aisles of my past, numbing, quite successfully my present, and focusing, far too
much on an unrealistic future, a perfect setup for failure. At that time, it was
far more fun abandoning those renegade thoughts than receiving any sort of blessed
delivery. Youth is blind to the cachophony of warning signals.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Once again, I found
myself in a quandary. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Not only was I battling the conflicted views of my own
self worthiness, but now, I was balancing the judgmental badgering of religious dogma, adding
additional fuel to the preverbal flame. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Good versus Evil.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sinner versus Saint.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Perfection versus Imperfection. Worthy versus
Unworthy.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">TRUTH
FIVE: I gave up. My attempted profession at sainthood squelched. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">TRUTH
SIX: God wasn’t answering.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">REMEDY: I found
therapy.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">For
years, while living in New York City, I attempted psychoanalysis. It too, proved
empty and vague. And expensive. Without the underpinnings of a solid spiritual
foundation hovering beneath me like a fall-net, my weekly meetings with Patience, (I know, go figure)
my therapist were more about camouflaging my hidden self than engaging in honest, revelatory
exposition. It wasn’t until I caught my beloved Patience reading a magazine article
during one of my sessions that I confronted her – and quit! Seven years into it! Patience IS a virtue! <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<br />
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">TRUTH
SEVEN: I guess I didn’t work the program. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">It was
a time of wild, inhibition; a wacky, twisted period of reckless empowerment. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I acted out self-destructive behaviors affirmatively in an
effort to ‘find myself.’<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Honestly, at
that time, I’m not even sure I knew my acts of entitlement were destructive. Compulsive? Perhaps. But they succeeded, brilliantly in anesthetizing my pain, any pain, a growing pain that came from a divided self desperately searching for a light. Did these mind-altering acts
serve me? Or, were they merely a path leading me further away from the person I
longed to be, get closer to, become better acquainted with? </span></span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">TRUTH EIGHT:
Unfortunately, that time of my Life...lasted far too long.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Then, I was
led by accident to an introduction into the magical qualities of gratitude.
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">My Life
took a strange and familiar hold. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">TRUTH NINE:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>A different kind of reverent peace embraced me.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">No
longer did I need.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">"Gratitude unlocks the fullness of life. It turns
what we have into enough, and more. It turns denial into acceptance, chaos to
order, confusion to clarity. It can turn a meal into a feast, a house into a
home, a stranger into a friend."</span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> <br />
</span></i><a href="http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/quotes/m/melodybeat177949.html"><b><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: #0000cc; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">Melody Beattie</span></i></b></a><b><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></i></b><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
<br />
</span></i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I am in sincere gratitude for this fateful discovery
and find reasons daily to offer thanks... <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Wingdings; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Wingdings; mso-fareast-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> ~ </span>grateful for my
health. I have lived a blessed life without illness.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Gratitude</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"> ~ g</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">rateful for my creative talent. In
connecting with my artistic energy, I connect with a higher vibration of
Divine creativity. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Gratitude</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"> ~ </span><span style="font-family: Wingdings; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Wingdings; mso-fareast-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">grateful for my work. A renewed faith
that I will sustain myself and earn a living in the workforce, be it writing or other.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Gratitude</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"> ~ </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">grateful for cultivating a community
of like-minded, imaginative individuals invested in giving back, earning trust,
loyalty and experiencing a sense of joyful camaraderie around and about the written word.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Gratitude</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"> ~ </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">grateful for the opportunity to love and be loved.
Lovers, past and present -- for one -- putting up with me. But, more
importantly, showing me a mirror of myself. The necessity to grow beyond my human self and <em>see</em> me...through your eyes -- warts and all!</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Gratitude<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">TRUTH
TEN:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> T</span>he most important truth of
all. A profound ‘thank you’ to you! Thank you, thank you, thank you! My journey
here, today, my path to GRATITUDE would not be complete without you.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Complete
and utter GRATITUDE!</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">LOVE,</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Douglas</span>Douglas Wickardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09401381903691271187noreply@blogger.com8