Come Hell or High Water, by Paula B.

COME HELL OR HIGH WATER, by Paula B.
Critique by Robert L. Bacon

April 20, 2010

Hello Paula,

Obviously, only the full read of a manuscript can tell the true tale regarding the integrity of the work, but if your opening is indicative of the writing throughout the entire draft, COME HELL OR HIGH WATER will have strong appeal for Romance enthusiasts (whom, as you likely are aware, compose the largest single segment of the book-buying public).

Let me tell you what's good about what I read:  Your writing is crisp and the dialogue is rock solid.  The storyline is sound, and the characters--even in the short span of 3500 or so words--are developed at a quality level, and they engage the reader.  I already know a lot about Revis, Holly, and Amanda--and the most important aspect of this is that I want to learn more.  A whole lot more.  The early-stage captivation of the reader should be the goal of any good writer, and you have succeeded in fine fashion in achieving this.  And in the first ten pages you've set a spark to kindle a fire that won't take much to turn into a roaring blaze.   

As for my suggestions related to the first three pages I line-edited (the edited pages follow this narrative), these revisions have little if anything to do with your skill as a writer.  Every published author on this planet who I know of, except one--and I think this person is lying--freely admits to having his or her work professionally edited.

I placed in brackets and emboldened the syntax where I made changes, and in most cases I provided an explanation of why I did so.  I must tell you that a justification for every revision is not something I can take the time to provide in a normal line-edit for a client.  However, oHOwHoldlthese annotations will enable you to evaluate me and how my editing suggestions may or may not fit your thinking   This is important because editing is as much about the relationship with the author as it is about the manuscript.

Also, every-other-Tuesday I publish a free newsletter that focuses on topics which pertain to writing at a level which would appeal to the major royalty publishers.  You can subscribe to the newsletter by scrolling to the bottom of my home page at theperfectwrite.com.

My line edit of the first three pages follows, along with some closing comments at the end that are on a separate page.

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Come Hell or High Water

                                                               Chapter 1

  

     Revis Kirkland pitched his wife's overnight bag into the trunk of her car and shut it. 

     She put her purse on the seat, then looked up at him.  "Why are they all milling around?" she asked. 

     Revis glanced behind him.  One of his ranch hands was "holding up the fence" while another pretended to mend it.  Two more were standing outside their quarters. 

     "It's New Year's Eve, Holly.  They're waiting for you to get on outta here so the party can start."

     She huffed.  "Don't let them tear up my house again." 

     He met her gaze straight on.  "If you're so worried about it, stay home."

     "Clean up the mess," she hissed said.

     "We always do." 

     She eyed him up and down.  Then, he knew, solely for the benefit of their audience, she kissed him briefly.  [Your interest in maintaining POV is commendable, but the last sentence, in its current syntax, does not read evenly.  Please revise to something like: 

    She eyed him up and down.  Then she kissed him, but it was brief and he knew it was solely for the benefit of their audience.   He didn't return her kiss.

     She flashed him a "go to hell" look, got into the brand new 1958 pink Cadillac her daddy had bought her for Christmas, started it  and drove away.   He watched until the car disappeared in a dust cloud of its own making.  [It's okay for the reader to assume she started the car, since this is a normal attendant function to the main action and telling this is superfluous.  In the original next sentence--He watched until the car disappeared in the dust cloud--the use of "the" insinuates that the cloud dust already existed and not that her actions created it, hence "a" is the correct article and also the reason for the modifier I suggested:  "of it's own making.] 

     They rarely spoke to one another now – except to argue.  She stayed busy, though, thank goodness.  She'd recently bought a "boutique" (just to irritate her, Revis called it a dress shop) that catered to wealthy women.  She kept the roads hot between the ranch, her store, and her parents' mansion in the nearby city of Wichita Falls.  (I added a comma after "store," as I'm one of these people who like to see commas after each segment in a series, as I feel it helps to smooth out a read.)

     She didn't take those long trips with them [who is them? ] anymore though.  She'd learned her lesson about that.  [This last sentence also creates a POV shift to Holly, so you might want to think about reworking it too]

     Revis turned in time to see his life-long friend and foreman, Luke McKinney, carrying a huge pot into the kitchen. 

     "Come on, Boys, let's get this show on the road," Revis said and followed Luke inside. 

     The kitchen in the Kirkland home was huge, originally built to accommodate a crowd.  It had abundant cabinets and counter space, two large refrigerators, a deep freeze, two commercial size gas stoves with roomy ovens, and a walk-in pantry. 

     That crowd All of the hands ["Crowds" is used in consecutive paragraphs and in this instance who it applies to is unclear] only came in twice a year now, for a [changed "one"  to "a" because "one" is repeated in the next sentence] week in the spring and later for fall roundup.   Here's another way the sentence could look that might be crisper all the way around:

     All the hands only came in twice a year now--for a week in the spring and later for fall roundup.

     A long table down the middle of one end of the room seated up to ten people.  Another in the dining area could seat eight.  On those two occasions, Revis, Luke and the veteran hands took over the dining area.  The temporary hires stayed in the kitchen.

     Most days, only the single cowboys, Jones, Spence, Jake and Colt, [comma needed after Colt; this is a clause and not a series] ate here at the house.  The rest were married and lived in homes on Kirkland land.

     Revis didn't usually hire unmarried cowboys.  Most of them were more trouble than they were worth.  These four, however, had been with him several years now and proven themselves able, dependable, and loyal [Again, I prefer a comma after each element in a series.  In this instance, read fast, "dependable" and "loyal" without a comma run together for me as if they're one character trait and not two.]

     Revis enjoyed nights like this with the cowboys.  They brought laughter back to the house.  He missed that. 

     With his son, Travis, attending a private school in Austin, the place had grown way too quiet.

     Luke turned the fire on under his stew.  "When's she gonna be back?"

     Realizing Luke referred to Holly, Revis answered, "Who knows."  He claimed his place at the table by hanging his Stetson on the ladder back chair.  "Her daddy's having a big party."

     "Scooter went to town.  He won't be back 'til tomorrow," Luke said.  "His little ole wife's home madder than hell."

     Irritation swept through Revis as he pushed up from his chair [The syntax, "He claimed his place at the table by hanging his Stetson on the ladder back chair," is a stated physical action involving Revis, so in this instance you would want to identify for the reader that Revis got up from the table, perhaps utilizing this movement to show his aggravation by indicating something such as he "pushed away" from the table] and he unplugged the coffee pot and rinsed it out.  { More than likely the two were together, Holly and Scooter.  He'd heard the rumors.  He'd seen the signs but he pretended he hadn't.  And he didn't want to talk about it.  He could never make Luke understand why he hadn't already, figuratively speaking at least, shot Scooter – and Holly.  He didn't fully understand it himself.  There had been a time when he certainly would have, but now, the fact that even though his wife was sleeping with one of his employees, this was only mildly irritating.  His marriage had ended years ago and Scooter Bannerman had had hadn't had anything to do with it.

[This is the end the line editing, but will give you a cursory idea of how this sort of activity on my part would apply to your material.]  My final remarks follow:

Paula, at this time I would not recommend a line edit, but it would be prudent to have a professional read your manuscript.  The reason for this is so the continuity of the entire story can be ascertained.  Areas such as developmental arcs, transitioning of syntax, overall pacing, and the strength of the plot need to be ascertained.  And if anything should need a little more work, you can complete the revision and then determine if a line edit is necessary.

The cost for a read and critique of your manuscript would be $1.00 per double-spaced page, with my page factored at 280 words.  This means you can divide your total word count by 280 to determine the cost.  I do require pages to be double spaced and numbered.  After your receive the critique, should you determine that a line edit is desirable, I will credit you the entire fee that you paid for the initial reading critique.

In closing, thank you for enabling me the opportunity to preview your work.  Whatever you decide to do or not do with regard to editing, your story appears to be a home run.  My proofreader, who says she hasn't read a good Romance in quite a while, read your opening and wanted to buy the book.  And that's no joke.

_____________________________________________

Here is Paula's complete opening chapter:

Come Hell or High Water

Chapter 1

    Revis Kirkland pitched his wife's overnight bag into the trunk of her car and shut it. 

    She put her purse on the seat, then looked up at him.  "Why are they all milling around?" she asked. 

    Revis glanced behind him.  One of his ranch hands was "holding up the fence" while another pretended to mend it.  Two more were standing outside their quarters. 

    "It's New Year's Eve, Holly.  They're waiting for you to get on outta here so the party can start."

    She huffed.  "Don't let them tear up my house again." 

    He met her gaze straight on.  "If you're so worried about it, stay home."

    "Clean up the mess."

    "We always do." 

    She eyed him up and down.  Then, he knew, solely for the benefit of their audience, she kissed him briefly.  He didn't return it.

    She flashed him a "go to hell" look, got into the brand new 1958 pink Cadillac her daddy had bought her for Christmas, and drove away.  He watched until the car disappeared in a dust cloud. 

    They rarely spoke to one another now – except to argue.  She stayed busy, though, thank goodness.  She'd recently bought a "boutique" (just to irritate her, Revis called it a dress shop) that catered to wealthy women.  She kept the roads hot between the ranch, her store, and her parents' mansion in the nearby city of Wichita Falls. 

    She didn't take those long trips with her parents anymore though.  He figured she'd learned her lesson about that. 

    Revis turned in time to see his life-long friend and foreman, Luke McKinney, carrying a huge pot into the kitchen. 

    "Come on, Boys, let's get this show on the road," Revis said and followed Luke inside. 

    The kitchen in the Kirkland home was huge, originally built to accommodate a crowd.  It had abundant cabinets and counter space, two large refrigerators, a deep freeze, two commercial size gas stoves with roomy ovens, and a walk-in pantry. 

    All the hands only came in twice a year now--for a week in the spring and later for fall roundup. 

    A long table down the middle of one end of the room seated up to ten people.  Another in the dining area could seat eight.  On those two occasions, Revis, Luke and the veteran hands took over the dining area.  The temporary hires stayed in the kitchen.

    Most days, only the single cowboys, Jones, Spence, Jake and Colt ate here at the house.  The rest were married and lived in homes on Kirkland land.

    Revis didn't usually hire unmarried cowboys.  Most of them were more trouble than they were worth.  These four, however, had been with him several years and proven themselves able, dependable, and loyal.

    Revis enjoyed nights like this with the cowboys.  They brought laughter back to the house.  He missed that. 

    With his son, Travis, attending a private school in Austin, the place had grown way too quiet.

    Luke turned the fire on under his stew.  "When's she gonna be back?"

    Realizing Luke referred to Holly, Revis answered, "Who knows."  He claimed his place at the table by hanging his Stetson on the ladder back chair.  "Her daddy's having a big party."

    "Scooter went to town.  He won't be back 'til tomorrow," Luke said.  "His little ole wife's home madder than hell."

    Irritation swept through Revis as he unplugged the coffee pot and rinsed it out.  More than likely the two were together, Holly and Scooter.  He'd heard the rumors.  He'd seen the signs but he pretended he hadn't.  And he didn't want to talk about it. He could never make Luke understand why he hadn't already, figuratively speaking at least, shot Scooter – and Holly.  He didn't fully understand it himself.  There had been a time when he certainly would have, but now, his wife was sleeping with one of his employees was only mildly irritating.  His marriage had ended years ago and Scooter Bannerman hadn’t had anything to do with it.

    Jones and Jake came through the door, each carrying a stack of folding chairs.

    "Do we need these in the kitchen or the living room?" Jake asked.

    "Just four in the kitchen," Revis answered plugging in the coffeemaker.

    "Boys'll be bringin' in the beer in a minute,” Luke said.  “Might help ya relax a little bit.  It's New Years' Eve for Christ's sake.  Have some fun."

    Revis spooned the grounds into the basket.  "I might drink one later – but that shit depresses me the next day."

    Luke laughed.  "Boss, it ain't the beer that depresses ya – it's your whole life!"

    "You got that right," Revis answered amiably although Luke's honesty rankled him sometimes.

    "Ya know, Son, there ain't many men married to a knockout gorgeous woman like Holly an' all they can find to do with her is fuss."

    "Well, if you think you can live with her, I'll move out and you can move in," Revis answered.  "However, it's not you she wants to torture, it's me."

    Luke took a full five seconds to get up the nerve to say, "Brought it on yourself."

    "And I paid dearly for it," Revis snapped back.

    "Yeah, Boy, you sure did."  Luke's voice had gone gentle now.

    When the coffee pot started percolating, Revis took plates from the cabinet and set them on the counter.  He took out all the silverware and laid the various utensils next to a stack of paper napkins.  He could feel Luke watching him.

    Without facing the foreman, Revis asked, "When you went to town yesterday, did you see him?”

    "I sure did.  Comin' outta the grocery store with his mama."

    Regret came suddenly and so strong it nearly snatched Revis' breath.  Ruby's words echoed in his mind.  ”Revis Kirkland, if you're not gonna marry me and be a full time daddy, then he don't even need to know who you are."

    "I bet he's growing like a weed," Revis said softly.

    "Well – not really," Luke said.  "He's a scrawny little grasshopper – jist like you was when you was a little 'un.  Looks more like ya ever time I see 'im."

    "It's strange," Revis said quietly.  "How you can run into someone you haven't seen in years – and that chance meeting changes your whole life.”  He paused for a moment, then continued.  “Then she just walks back out – and you hardly ever see her anymore."  He gathered two sets of salt and peppershakers from the pantry and set them on the table. 

    "You ain't still carryin' a torch for her, are ya?"

    "No."  Revis took a moment to deal with the feelings of compunction before speaking again.  "But I would like to get to know my kid."

    Two of the hands walked through the kitchen to the living room. 

    "Where's that cornbread?" Luke asked.  "And who was cookin' the peas?"

    "On the way," one of them answered. 

    Revis opened the refrigerator and began setting out various seasonings.  Luke glanced at him then continued stirring his concoction.

    "Do you and Holly ever – you know – do it – anymore?"

    Shocked, Revis looked around.  The room was empty except for Luke and himself.  "That's none of your damned business!" he growled. 

    Luke responded by being silent for a spell, stirring his stew quietly.  "You might be settlin' in with this situation more than you should.  Travis is gettin' to the age he'll make up his own mind about what happened between you and Ruby – one way or another – and you and Holly should start thinkin' about puttin' all that behind ya and gettin' on with your lives – whether it’s with each other or someone else.”

    Revis didn't comment.  He could hear the guys setting up card tables in the den.  "Is he gonna let us play pool?" someone asked.

    Revis smiled to himself when Jones, the youngest of them answered sheepishly.  "He said we could if we promise not to get in another fight."

    Revis had nightmares about last New Year's Eve.  Cost him a pretty penny.  Several of them had had way too much to drink, got in a fight over a pool game, broke the picture window, two cue sticks, three noses, and worst of all, several of Holly's expensive knick-knacks.  He'd put all her stuff away this year, though – and laid some new rules – like eating before drinking.  Nothing curbed a drunk better than a full stomach. 

    Having a party here at the ranch still seemed a better option than having to drive all over Kingdom Come looking for them, bailing some of them out of jail to get them back on the job the next day.

    "What time is the band suppose to start?" Jake asked, holding the kitchen door open for his younger brother Spence, who carried three cases of beer. 

    "Nine o'clock," Revis answered.

    Colt came in behind  the brothers with a large pan of cornbread.

    Hearing the familiar click and spew of a beer can opening, Revis turned and snatched the brew out of Spence's hand.  "Not one drink until you've had dinner, Son," he said.

    "I was gonna drink it with my meal."

    Revis laughed.  "You'll drink tea or coffee with your meal – and the food is ready – so load up."

    Luke handed the boy a plate. 

    "Food ruins my buzz," the kid mumbled.

    Revis winked at Luke.  "That's sort of the point, Spence.  I don't want to have to replace my picture window again tomorrow."

    "I didn't do that!"

    "I don't know who did it, but we're not gonna have a repeat of last year, so sit down and start grazin'."

    Spence did as he was told, as usual. 

    One by one they drifted in.  Revis watched to make sure they all ate plenty.  Sometimes he tired of playing nursemaid to the hell-raisers among them, until it came time to work cattle – then he was thankful for each and every one.  They were some the best cowboys in the state of Texas.  They all took great pride in their work and in working for the Kirkland Ranch.  And that was something Revis depended on – their loyalty to him and their dedication to the well being of his land, his livestock and his family.

    After they'd finished eating, they pushed back their chairs but didn't move away from the table.  Revis washed the dishes, Luke dried while they listened and laughed at the newest "it's so dry" jokes that had become popular because of the drought.

    In a moment, after he'd put away the last fork, Luke barked, "All right, let's play poker!"

    By eight o'clock, Revis had won all Luke's money, and his best horse and saddle.  He'd managed to lose it all back to Luke by nine o'clock when the band arrived. 

    All the hands scrambled to help bring in the instruments.  Revis busied himself putting away the portable tables so those who wanted to could dance. 

    A few people from town would come out, so he'd closed all the bedroom doors.  He knew, though, that if someone got desperate, that wouldn't stop them.  Something about that made him feel … lonely. 

    Where had his passion gone?  He was only thirty-nine years old, but times like tonight, surrounded by all this young male energy, he felt like the oldest man in the world.

    Glancing up, Revis saw a familiar pretty face.  Amanda Bellah, Luke's daughter.  His heart did a flip-flop. 

    "Hey," he said.

    When she saw him she grinned.  Both dimples showed.  Her beautiful gray eyes sparkled with mischief.  "Hey, Revis!  Show me yours, and I'll show you mine."

    He laughed at a brief memory of the two of them, just youngsters hiding in the well house.  "You've already seen it," he teased in return.  "Your dad didn't tell me you'd be here."

    "Surprised him, too," she said.

    Revis felt awkward.  There had been a time when he and Amanda could sit and talk for hours.  Something had changed the past couple of years.  Now every time he saw her, his heart did that zinging thing, making him feel guilty and uncomfortable. 

    She wasn't pretty in the same way as Holly.  Amanda had a natural look, shoulder length curly dark hair, very little makeup, no fancy clothes.  She always wore Levis, usually with a baggy shirt that hid her curves.

    Tonight, though, she had on a bright colored western blouse tucked in to snug jeans and he could see that she was one hundred percent woman.  His imagination caused warmth to spread through him, just looking at her. 

    "Are you and your dad still fussing?" he asked.

    "We aren't fussing.  He wanted to keep Andy when I work – but it's just too far out here to come and get her when I get off."

    "Where is she tonight?"

    "She's at the sitter's.  I was afraid it would get too rowdy for an eight year old."

    Looking around she held up the male end of an extension cord. 

    "There's an outlet," he said and pointed.

    "Will Mrs. K be joining us?" she asked as she knelt and pushed in the plug.

    "No – she's gone to Wichita.  Her parents are having a big to do."

    "Why didn't you go with her?"

    He chuckled.  "After last year, I figured I'd better hang around here and keep an eye on things.  So, who did you come with?"

    She laughed and her dimples showed again.  "The band, Revis.  I'm with the band."

    "Oh."  He experienced one of those stupid feeling moments that came real often, now, when she was around.

    "Seen my kid?" he asked.

    "Not recently.  He was coming home with Andy a couple of times a week there for a while but we don't see much of him since Ruby got married."

    She motioned toward the living room.  "I'd better get on in there." 

    As she started off, he said, "You look nice."

    She curtsied.  "Bought them at your wife's fancy boo-teke."

    He laughed.  "Liar." He knew she wouldn't be caught dead in Holly's top-drawer store. 

    She grinned and walked away.  When the music began, Revis found an empty space out of the light and leaned against the wall to watch her.

    Like Revis, Amanda was born on this ranch.  They'd played together as youngsters, discovered the difference between boys and girls.  They'd been best friends up until her parents divorced.  She was twelve when she moved away with her mother.   

    Three years ago, she'd moved back to Burkburnett with a new last name and a five-year-old daughter. 

    She'd bought a few acres of land near Burk, had a horse of her own and boarded a couple more to help make ends meet. 

    She taught piano lessons during the day and at night, she played the fiddle in the band at the Cottonwood Lounge in Wichita Falls. 

    Revis admired many things about Amanda, her energy and independence in particular.  There wasn't much she couldn't do and she never hesitated to do whatever needed to be done.  Unlike Holly, she understood and accepted the complexities and sacrifices of ranch life.

    Tucking the violin under her chin, she made it whine like a lonely faraway train, then she and the other musicians launched into “The Orange Blossom Special”. 

    Revis watched, fascinated.  Her entire body was in motion.  Her feet tapped, first one then the other, sometimes both as she put her heart and soul into the music. 

    It wasn't long before perspiration gleamed on her forehead.  Her soft dark hair turned to shiny damp ringlets that bounced against her face keeping time with the quick movements of her hand as she drew the bow across the strings. 

    She seemed to be in her own world.  Several times, he thought she caught his eye and he'd look away.  But as soon as she redirected her gaze, his went back to her. 

    He was so mesmerized, he didn't notice Luke standing next to him.

    "Son, you ought to go find something else to do."  He offered Revis his house keys.

    Irritated by the intrusion, Revis snapped at him. ”Did I appoint you my guard dog?"

    "No – you didn't – but that's my daughter you're watching like you ain't et in a month o' Sundays – so go find something else to do."

    Revis knew Luke was right.  Feeling frustrated, embarrassed and cheated, he snatched the keys, pulled on his coat and went out.

*  *  *

    What’s that all about? Amanda wondered as she watched the exchange between Revis and her dad.  Clearly Revis was irritated as he grabbed the keys Luke dangled in his face.  She felt a mixture of relief and disappointment.

    Adding a long train whistle with her violin brought on the odd sensation of expressing her anguish.  The upbeat notes that followed did little to raise her spirits.

    She wouldn’t have thought in a million years that if she came back here she’d fall in love with Revis. 

    Sure, she’d loved him when she was three because he could hoist her up to steal cookies off the counter.  She’d loved him when she was eight because he taught her how to get on a horse without any help, and then how to stay on.

    She’d loved him because he could talk her mother into letting her do many of the things Mama considered “too dangerous for girls” like riding horses bareback and playing baseball with him and his friends.

    And she’d loved him when she was ten because he whipped Ken Logan’s ass for pulling her hair.

    Then her older sister, Sara, was killed, and her grief stricken parents divorced.  Amanda was forced into a brand new world far from her dad and Revis and the ranch that she knew and loved.  

    Although she’d never had another friend like Revis, he wasn’t the reason she’d moved back here. 

    She wanted to raise her daughter in a less restricted environment.  She wanted Andy to have the freedom to roam and explore her world.  She wanted her daughter to learn to rely on herself, to grow up strong and confident.  And she wanted Andy to know her grandfather.

    None of that was possible living under her mother’s roof.  So she’d packed everything she owned in her car and headed back to Texas.

    Twenty-two years dims one’s memories, and although common sense assured her Revis had grown up, just as she had, she had never been able to picture him as an adult.

    It came as quite a surprise that the plain boy she’d known so well as a child had turned into one of the most attractive men she’d ever seen. 

    With straight black hair, ebony eyes and deeply tanned skin, he was exceptionally handsome.  His features were strong and rugged.  He was tall and as straight as an arrow, slender yet powerful.  There was something exciting about him, something challenging.  He was one of those men comfortable with who he was and what he was about. 

    And when he looked at her, she felt all giddy and nervous inside. 

    She reminded herself often that he was not available.  Knowing, however, that his marriage had serious problems gave her hope – but she had to keep that hidden from her father.  He wouldn’t approve at all.

    Taking a deep breath she added the last train whistle and the song ended to a cheering audience.

*  *  *

    Revis spent the next three hours playing with the four dogs, and wandering between Luke's neatly kept house and the barns.  He checked the water levels in the two wells, made sure all the troughs were full.  With this accursed drought lingering on, they'd all learned to keep a constant vigil everywhere they went.  He finally settled down in Luke's favorite chair and picked up the foreman's newest western novel.  He couldn't concentrate on the story, though, and found himself wondering why in the world Holly had picked Scooter. 

    Scooter and his wife, Becky, had seemed like a happy couple when they first hired on four or five years ago.  Revis let them have the two-bedroom house in the five thousand acre Ludlow pasture adjacent to the larger Duncan, northwest of Burkburnett.  Scooter tended to the new Black Angus herd.

    Becky was pregnant with their first child.  After some complications with the pregnancy, the doctor had ordered her to stay in bed.  Scooter ordered her to stay in bed, but every time he turned around she was up on her feet again, tending to Scooter's every need. 

    The baby boy was born sickly and died six months later.  .

    Everyone who worked on the ranch seemed like part of the family to Revis, and that included Scooter and Becky, so tiny little Bailey Martin Bannerman was laid to rest beside Luke's oldest daughter, Sarah, in the Kirkland family cemetery.

    And that's when Scooter started drinking – and seeing other women.  Holly wasn't the first.  She was just the most recent, just as Scooter was for her.

    Scooter was by far one of the best cowboys ever to work on the Kirkland Ranch.  At twenty-five, he had an air of confidence not seen in many men.  Revis had always liked that about Scoot.  Revis had even thought the kid might eventually take Luke's place.  That wouldn't happen now.  The ranch couldn't have a foreman who wasn't completely trustworthy.

    Revis had considered intervening for Becky's sake, but how would he go about it?  He wasn't willing to fire Scoot.  That would be like pitching the ranch and Becky out of the frying pan and into the fire.  Wouldn't it?  Surely the best thing to do was nothing.  Just let it run its course and hope it would be a short one – like all the others.

    After midnight, after all the ya-hoo's and yee-ha's had died down, and surely to God all the kissing was over, Revis walked toward the house. 

    The band was loading up. 

    He leaned against one of the hundred-year-old oaks that shaded the entire front yard in summer and watched Amanda move between the house and her car.  He wondered who had kissed her when the New Year tolled.

    He watched her hug her father, get into her car and drive away.  He watched the lights of her vehicle until they disappeared in the distance.

    A deep and powerful loneliness settle in.  Damn it to hell!  What was the use in living if you had no passion?  Maybe he should get a divorce now.  Maybe he wasn't too old and set in his ways to – to do what?  Fall in love again?  Find something to laugh about?  Find someone to laugh with -- again? 

    He straightened and continued on to the house. 

    Luke and the four hands were already cleaning up.  Revis picked up several bags of trash and headed out to the burn barrel.

___________________________________________
Robert L. Bacon
theperfectwrite.com

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SKETCHES, Critique by Robert L. Bacon

SKETCHES                                                                           Page 1 of 3 
Critique by Robert l. Bacon

May 24, 2010

Hello Darryl.

I don't know if you researched this prior to beginning work on SKETCHES, but the publishing world seems to have a special affinity for novels that involve art, as in painting and its subsets.  Yet there has not been a lot of material written with an art plotline, at least that I'm aware of.  What I do know about began with David Ramus' success in 1995 with THE THIEF OF LIGHT. 

I lived in Atlanta at the time, and Ramus was a Buckhead art dealer who went out of business because of shenanigans he was purportedly involved in.  He decided to take a creative writing course at Emory, and then wrote a book about the art industry by the title I just mentioned.  Larry Ashmead, who was head of Harper Collins back then, bought the book for $1,000,000, to my knowledge the most ever paid up to that time for a novel by an unpublished writer.  Agent Molly Friedrich handled the deal, and if you get SKETCHES in order, she is who I suggest you query first (she is one of the very few ultra high-end agents who still accepts unsolicited queries). 

But based on the opening chapter you sent me, I respectfully suggest that you consider working on the areas I'll be discussing.  However, before I begin my critique, my standard disclaimer:  I'm certain, like all writers, you at times can get too close to your work and things slip by that you would easily pick up in someone else's material.  Happens to me all the time.  Second, this might've been an early draft and you were just testing the waters.  Or, you could feel the plot is so strong that you didn't need to be quite as careful as you would be in other situations.  Whatever.

I checked your bio and noticed you majored in journalism and that you're also an attorney.  You don't have attorney's disease, in that you draft doesn’t read like a legal brief.  (Over the years many attorneys have attended my writing workshops, and seldom do I get one who can write creatively.  I'm still waiting for the next Grisham, Turow, or Baldacci to walk through the door).  But you do suffer from one aspect of what I call journalist's syndrome, and this is the clipped sentence.  Once in a while it works, and while some might consider the technique to be stylistic, incomplete sentences tend to drive people crazy if they appear throughout a narrative.  When you read my line edit of your work, you can compare it with what you sent me and make your own decision as to which makes the most sense solely from the perspective or readability.  I also strongly suggest you use more standard connectives:  and, but, however, yet, and so on, to make your prose read with more rhythm and better overall pitch.

Next on the list, please use transitioning elements whenever possible.  When the action in a paragraph ends or begins too abruptly, this makes for choppy text that jars the reader.  I added transition words or phrases in several spots for you to consider, but this particular "naked" line of yours that begins a new paragraph illustrates my point:  It was time to sketch Morgan James.  I added this sentence to precede it:  Miko sat back and took a deep breath.  Miko needs to do something to set up her action, which is sketching James, and quite poignant considering the circumstances.  Her sitting back and taking a deep breath is certainly not the best thing she could do, but some activity has to take place to transition what is about to occur.  The same as

SKETCHES                                                                           Page 2 of 3
Critique by Robert l. Bacon

May 24, 2010

James hunching over the table in another scene.  Something has to happen to enable this action to seamlessly mesh with the paragraph that preceded this activity.  If you go to the Articles Page on my web site at theperfectwrite.com, you can scroll through the articles for one I wrote on transitioning.  It might provide you with some ideas on this very important writing element.

Material that follows other material should not contradict, even by the subtlest of nuance, what it succeeds.  Please consider these lines:  ....he turned to cast those eyes in the direction of the twelve men and women who would decide his fate----they were to remain sequestered for the duration of the trial and their identities kept secret….  I understand what you are implying, but you have James looking at the jurors, and then the reader is told they are being sequestered.  I had to read the paragraph several times.  Most readers won't be as patient.  You will see my suggestion for a revision, and you can decide for yourself if this line would benefit from a touch up.

Then there is this:  ….the most wanted poster in every post office and federal building across the country.  Yet in the next paragraph you write that a tourist in the foreign city of Ibiza turns James in.  I suggested this revision:  not only across the country but around the world.   

Be careful with repeating statements.  Carrie would be an interesting subject for Miko to draw and paint, is followed in the next paragraph with, This drawing would not be for the media, but rather for Miko's own consumption as material to paint someday.  Also, I would be reticent about telling an action and then showing it for the reader, such as:  ….the recognition of himself was obvious.  Wide smile, wide eyed, he turned to his mother….  Your latter exposition shows the little boy's reaction quite well.  The reader doesn't need to be told what to expect via the sentence preceding it.

Also, while you can't and wouldn't want to do anything with the extensive use of the word sketches, be cognizant of words or their derivatives that repeat in close proximity to one another and which aren’t provided as an exact match for effect; i.e., straight and straight, wide and wide, etc.  In the same vein, watch for repeated words that stand out, such as "collagen."  This sort of "loud" identifier works only once per story unless it's an integral aspect of the plotline, such as the aforementioned sketches.

You might want to trim the adverbs from your narrative and substitute action verbs.  An example of this is when you wrote:  Miko moved uneasily in her seat.  I suggested:  Miko squirmed in her seat.  You can come up with whatever you prefer, but squirmed serves the purpose of showing the reader what Miko's uneasy movement happened to be.  Adverbs are often considered a sign of lazy writing, which I'm not implying applies to you, but this is how their usage is viewed in many literary quarters.  Simply, leave adverbs for Romance writers.
 

SKETCHES                                                                               Page 3 of 3
Critique by Robert l. Bacon

May 24, 2010

In the second to last paragraph, which involves the little boy and Miko's sketch of him, you refer to "the" woman sitting to his right, and to him as "her" little boy.  Since there is no prior clear identity established for the little boy for the reader, the indefinite article "a" should be used and not the definitive article "the."  It also follows that the woman could not claim the child as "her" little boy, since the child's parentage likewise has never been established.  Via the pronoun "her," however subtle it might be, this also creates a POV shift.  You had another POV shift in the fourth paragraph from the bottom of the second page:  He obviously felt her stares.  POV shifts can be tough to catch, but they need to be ferreted out.  You'll see how I revised the latter from James' POV to Miko's.

There were a substantial number of instances when the past perfect verb tense was necessary.  I emboldened the changes in the raw revision that precedes the clean draft (both drafts follow this critique).  These oversights generally occur when a writer changes or shifts a clause and then only sees what was written previously.  We all have this gremlin to deal with, but please try to be on the lookout for syntax in which a "had" or "have" is required to indicate a past event prior to another definite past period of time.

The most important element you have to pay attention to is punctuation.  You certainly know how to use commas, and that double and triple em dashes don’t belong in your narrative (like the triple em dash I used in the second paragraph on the second page of this critique to indicate a string of missing words).  And I'm positive you're aware that a quotation mark goes outside a period or comma in all but unusual circumstances, none of which occurred with what you sent me.  So I'm going to revert to my earlier comment and assume this was a very early draft and you just wanted to get me to look at it, which is fine, but if you desire having SKETCHES considered by a major royalty publisher, I think you'll want to pay attention to each of the issues I've identified.

If you would like me to work with you during this developmental process, let me know.  I'll be happy to read your entire draft and provide you with a formal critique that will tell you what I feel you will need to do to get your manuscript in order.  You can then decide if you would like me to work with you from a line-editing perspective.  Whatever you decide, you've got a premise that has diamond dust sprinkled on its edges, and this is the reason I spent so much time on this critique (and line edit).  So please don't give SKETCHES short shrift.  If you don't like my suggestions, find another editor, but work with someone you respect who knows what he or she is doing and understands the current state of the publishing industry at the major levels.  

As I stated earlier, both the rough and clean revisions of your draft follow this critique.

Regards, and best of luck with SKETCHES.

Robert L. (Rob) Bacon, Founder

The Perfect Write®

_______________________________________________________

SKETCHES

By Darryl H.

            Miko studied the face, which was pocked and craggy, like a meteorite-peppered moon. That face, a roadmap to death, and the incredible carnage he had brought with it, appeared just as she’d drawn him. Carrie Santana, his victim, and the only one that who had gotten away, should be given all the credit. Her horrific description had helped Miko to draw portray the man as the monster he really was.

            This was the first time she’d actually laid her eyes on seen him in person. Her drawing not only captured his physical likeness, but the evil in his face had been apparent on the sketch pad. It was something she felt. Beyond the usual five senses, like that third eye kind of stuff mystics talk about. Clairvoyance.

            Carrie’s words had guided Miko’s hand. She remembered how the young woman’s body trembled as she described those eyes. “Mirrored the devil’s own,” she'd told Miko.

            Now, months later, she was looking at the back of his head, or an occasional view of his profile whenever he turned to cast those eyes of his in the direction of the twelve men and women who would decide his fate. Miko quickly drew an outline of the defendant and his three lawyers. She sketched the prosecutors, the judge, and the bailiff; but not the jurors, They were to remain sequestered for the duration of the trial and their identities kept secret. whose identities were to be kept secret.

            Judge Straum’s order, "No cameras allowed!” had placed Miko there in the courtroom, where she was drawing courtroom illustrations for all of the media people.  This work paid her a modest income--but certainly not as much as she once made as a detective and a police sketch artist for the Atlanta Police Department.

            Her fall from grace enabled her to work only a few days a month, sketching courtroom scenes from Atlanta to LA--and everywhere in between--and selling her drawings to television and the AP to earn enough money to pay her bills. After that she was free to create art, collect art, and appraise art; for Miko it was all about the art.

            Her studio was her sanctuary, the lab where she’d sometimes authenticate or refute a painting brought in by some novice collector. Part historian, part forensics

Page 2

investigator, Miko knew a real Basquat or Jacob Lawrence or Charles White from a copy.  Her art history studies at the Sorbonne in Paris made her a rising expert in the area of forensic authentication and the verification of art and objects d'art or FAVA. Miko was as passionate about verifying an artistic treasure once lost in obscurity as she was about uncovering a counterfeit work of art. And there were a lot of pieces like the latter that were out there.

            In fact, she was looking forward to meeting with a prospective client that evening. A man had called her after reading an ad for her appraisal services on Craigslist. Like most, he had given limited information and just wanted her to see the work, without any pre-determinations or thoughts.

            Miko returned from her preoccupation. She focused on her subjects sitting in the courtroom, beginning with Carrie Santana, whom the local press had labeled as “the lone survivor." Her identity, like that of the murdered victims, had been stripped away by the media, as meticulously as the person who had killed the women had stripped away their clothing. 

Carrie was young and pretty, like the other women who had become known simply as “victims." She had an oval face that was devoid of any hard angles which "life" had started to bring to Miko’s countenance. Carrie would be an interesting subject for Miko to draw and later paint.

She went to work, with lead pencils, on the sketchpad that she balanced on her lap, while hoping to catch the young woman’s expression when she could be both vulnerable and stoic at the same time. This drawing was not for the media, but rather for Miko’s personal consumption, perhaps as material for a painting someday.

She continued her sketch of Carrie, who didn’t seem to notice Miko’s hurried movements. The young woman seemed to be absorbed in the court proceedings, probably recalling her own experience with the monster and her testimony that was highlighted by her tearful statement on cross-examination: “No, I can’t say beyond a doubt that the defendant was my assailant! I was blindfolded much of the time! He had his face covered when he put me in the gas chamber!”

            Carrie’s silent contemplation for the moment was a good time to capture her on paper. Miko drew in Carrie’s full, rose petal lips, narrow chin, and her delicate, equine-like neck. Next came the hair that was pulled straight back with a slight and natural wave rising across her otherwise straight hair.

            Finally, Miko approached Carrie’s anomalous eyes: one blue, the other brown, like there had been a tug of war between the genes passed on to her from each side of her racial divide. The end result was obviously a stalemate, where for which neither the Caucasian-American nor the African-American aspects of her heritage completely dominated the other. Miko would later match Carrie’s eye colors along with her cream-colored skin, that which held a hint of brown.

            Miko took a deep breath.  It was time to sketch Morgan James.

Page 3

        She sketched an outline of his profile with a graphite pencil. Later she’d fill it in with colors, wash the illustration board in deep, dark blue hues to match his Armani suit, and mix orange and brown for copper. Then splash that on his face and hands for that Euro-trash look--an obvious aftereffect of his lounging at various places around along the Mediterranean or the French Rivera while Interpol and the FBI frantically worked to track him down. With three murders to his credit, and probably at least one more while he was on the lam, had it not been for Carrie getting away, Miko probably wouldn’t have been be in a courtroom drawing his image this day.

            His physical appearance had been altered by a surgeon’s knife since she'd first sketched him almost eighteen months earlier. Some doctor in St. Tropez had done a pretty good job on James.  Heightened cheekbones and collagen-filled lips, to go along with blonde hair and prophylactic eyeglasses, would have fooled most people. But when the APD displayed his photo array, his victim picked him out of from six other men. She said it was his eyes, and said she’d never forget his eyes, and that Miko had drawn them like as perfectly as if she had been the one who’d been gassed, stretched, tormented and left for dead.

            She Miko kept sketching and thinking, her eyes trained on him mostly. He obviously must have felt her stares, she thought, as he stole a quick glance in her direction and smiled without showing any teeth. She didn’t respond; just kept sketching.

            Morgan James hunched over the defense table and used his arms and hands to hide whatever he was writing. His shoulders shook in short, unnatural jerks, and Miko could only assume that he was laughing.  Then she saw that he was.

            Sick bastard, she thought.

            Humor was the incongruent measure of this serial killer's audacious posture. With James' freedom and probably his life on the line, she wondered what was so funny. Somehow she knew she’d find out.

            He shifted in his chair slightly, enough so that Miko could see that his profile again, then he held up the paper on which he had been writing.  She could see make out a drawing of something that looked like a woman. Stick figure with disproportionately large breasts. Wild hair.

            It was supposed to be her.

            Miko moved uneasily squirmed in her seat. She wondered if Morgan James knew that her rendering of him became was on the Most Wanted posters in every post offices and federal buildings across the country and around the world. It was a different kind of gallery, her artwork displayed for function and not as an for aesthetics.

            A telephone call to the local police in Ibiza from a tourist on vacation had led to Morgan James’ arrest. The caller, from upstate New York, said he'd had drinks with an American, and he but didn’t understand why he couldn’t stop looking into the man’s eyes. Those eyes, like black tar from some prehistoric pagan death pit, had an unshakeable familiarity. He, the tourist, was an art collector. He remembered the poster. Said that was real art.

            The caller wasn’t exactly enamored with James’ Neo-Nazi ideation ideology, and this was further motivation for turning him in. When the authorities searched his home, they found some confirmation of his fascination with The Third Reich, but those who knew him said he was only a collector of memorabilia, and nothing more. Besides, his estranged wife was from Uganda

            Yet since all of the his victims were African-American women, the prosecutors used were using race as his motive, even though an his African negro wife seemed to betray the notion that it color was the reason for James’ killing spree. And his defense attorneys made certain that the jury and everyone in the city knew--not only was there no DNA to link him to these horrific events crimes--there was also no reason logical explanation.

            Miko felt a pair of eyes coming from nearby glanced at someone who was staring in her direction from nearby in the galley. He was looking at her drawing board and the images she’d put on the paper. He smiled, and in a near whisper said asked her, “Can you draw me?”

            She nodded and put up one finger, as if to say give me a minute. She drew quickly. His large expressive eyes, brown like chocolate wafers, were easy to draw sketch. She drew displayed them like she was drawing two almonds, set wide apart, then colored in his brown pupils, adding a round face, puffy cheeks, button nose, lips full like a  the collagen enhanced starlet’s on the big screen; but natural in his case, all topped off by black ringlets the texture of wool and coarse wire.

            Miko finished the sketch drawing in less than three minutes, tore it off the drawing pad and handed it to the little boy. His recognition of himself was obvious. Wide eyed, he smiled and turned to the a woman sitting to his right and showed her the artist’s rendition of his physical essence. She looked at Miko and smiled along with her little boy.

            Morgan James was taking it all in, as well, watching Miko intently with his deadened eyes and almost prosthetically enhanced face, except there was no little-boy smile.

__________________________________________________

SKETCHES

By Darryl H.

            Miko studied the face. It was pocked and craggy, like a meteorite-peppered moon. That face, a roadmap to death, and the incredible carnage brought with it, appeared just as she’d drawn him. Carrie Santana, his victim, and the only one who had gotten away, should be given all the credit. Her horrific description had helped Miko portray the man as the monster he really was.

            This was the first time she’d actually seen him in person. Yet her original drawing had not only captured his physical likeness, but the evil in his face had come to life on her sketch pad. It was something she had felt, beyond the usual five senses, like the third eye kind of stuff that mystics talk about.

            Carrie’s words had guided Miko’s hand. She remembered how the young woman’s body had trembled as she described those eyes. “Mirrored the devil’s own,” she'd told Miko.

            Now, months later, she was looking at the back of his head, or an occasional view of his profile whenever he turned to cast those eyes of his in the direction of the twelve men and women who would decide his fate. Miko quickly drew an outline of the defendant and his three lawyers. She sketched the prosecutors, the judge, and the bailiff too; but not the jurors, whose identities were to be kept secret.

            Judge Straum’s order, "No cameras allowed!” had placed Miko in the courtroom, where she was drawing courtroom illustrations for the media.  This work paid her a modest income--but certainly not as much as she once made as a detective and sketch artist for the Atlanta Police Department.

            Her fall from grace only enabled her to work a few days a month, sketching courtroom scenes from Atlanta to LA--and everywhere in between--and selling her drawings to television and the press to earn enough money to pay her bills. After that she was free to create art, collect art, and appraise art; for Miko it was all about the art.

            Her studio was her sanctuary, the lab where she’d sometimes authenticate or refute a painting brought in by some novice collector. Part historian, part forensics investigator, Miko knew a real Basquat or Lawrence or White from a forgery.

Page 2

Her art history studies at the Sorbonne in Paris had established her a rising expert in the area of forensic authentication and the verification of objects d'art. Miko was as passionate about verifying an artistic treasure lost in obscurity as she was about uncovering a counterfeit. And there were a lot of pieces like the latter that were out there.

            She was looking forward to meeting with a prospective client that evening. A man who had called her after reading an ad for her appraisal services on Craigslist. Like most, he provided limited information and indicated he wanted her to see the work without being influenced in any way.

            Miko returned from her preoccupation. She focused on her subjects sitting in the courtroom, beginning with Carrie Santana, whom the local press had labeled “the lone survivor." Her identity, like that of the murdered victims, had been stripped away by the media as meticulously as the killer had stripped away each woman's clothing. 

            Carrie was an interesting subject for her to draw. She was young and pretty, the same as the other women who had become known simply as “victims." She had an oval face that was devoid of any hard angles which "life" had started to bring to Miko’s countenance.

With lead pencils Miko went to work on the sketchpad she balanced on her lap, hoping to catch the young woman’s expression when she could be both vulnerable and stoic at the same time. This drawing was not for the media, but rather for her personal collection, perhaps as material for a painting someday.

She continued her sketch of Carrie, who didn’t seem to notice Miko’s hurried movements. The young woman seemed to be absorbed in the court proceedings, probably recalling her own experience with the monster and her testimony that was highlighted by her tearful statement on cross-examination: “No, I can’t say beyond a doubt that the defendant was my assailant! I was blindfolded much of the time! He had his face covered when he put me in the gas chamber!”

            Carrie’s silent contemplation provided a good time to capture her on paper. Miko drew in Carrie’s full, rose petal lips, narrowed chin, and her delicate, equine-like neck. Next came the hair, which was pulled back with a slight and natural wave rising across the otherwise flat lines.

            Finally, Miko approached Carrie’s anomalous eyes: one blue, the other brown, like there had been a tug of war between the genes passed on to her from each side of her racial divide. The end result was obviously a stalemate, for which neither the Caucasian-American nor the African-American aspects of her heritage dominated the other. Miko would later highlight Carrie’s eye colors so they accented her cream-colored skin, which held a hint of brown.

            Miko sat back and took a deep breath.  It was time to sketch Morgan James.

Page 3

            She drew an outline of his profile with a graphite pencil. Later she’d fill it in with colors, wash the illustration board in deep, dark blue hues to match his Armani suit, and mix orange and brown for copper. Then splash it on his face and hands for that Euro-trash look--an obvious aftereffect of his lounging at various places along the Mediterranean or the French Rivera while Interpol and the FBI were working frantically to track him down. With three murders to his credit, and probably at least one more while he was on the lam, had it not been for Carrie getting away, Miko probably wouldn’t be in a courtroom drawing his image on this day.

            His physical appearance had been altered by a surgeon’s knife since she'd first sketched him almost eighteen months earlier. Some doctor in St. Tropez had done a pretty good job on James.  Heightened cheekbones and collagen-filled lips, to go along with blonde hair and prophylactic eyeglasses, would have fooled most people. But when the APD displayed his photo array, Carrie had picked him from a group of six other men. She said it was his eyes, and that she’d never forget his eyes, and Miko had drawn them as perfectly as if she had been the one who’d been tormented, stretched, gassed, and left for dead.

            Miko kept sketching and thinking, occasionally concentrating hard on the back of his head. He must have felt her stares, she thought, because a couple of times he stole a quick glance in her direction and smiled without showing any teeth. She didn’t respond; just kept sketching.

            A short while later Morgan James hunched over the defense table and used his arms and hands to hide something he'd been writing. His shoulders shook in short, unnatural jerks, and Miko could only assume he was laughing.  Then she saw that he was.

            Sick bastard, she thought.

            Humor was just one of many incongruent measures of this serial killer's audacious posture. With James' freedom, and probably his life on the line, she wondered what could be so funny. Somehow she knew she’d find out.

            He shifted in his chair, just enough so that Miko could see his profile again, then he held up the paper with his handiwork on it.  She could make out a drawing of something that looked like a woman. Stick figure with disproportionately large breasts. Wild hair.

            It was supposed to be her.

            Miko squirmed in her seat. She wondered if Morgan James was aware that her rendering of him was on the Most Wanted posters in federal buildings and post offices not only across the country but around the world: a different kind of gallery, her artwork displayed for function and not for aesthetics.

            A telephone call to the local police in Ibiza from a tourist had led to Morgan James’ arrest. The caller, from upstate New York, said he'd had drinks with an American, but didn’t understand why he couldn’t stop looking into the man’s eyes. Those eyes, like black tar from some prehistoric death pit, had an unshakeable familiarity. He, the tourist, was an art collector. He remembered a poster with James' picture. Said that was real art.

            The caller wasn’t enamored with James’ Neo-Nazi ideology, and this was further motivation for turning him in. When the authorities searched his home, they found confirmation of his fascination with The Third Reich, but those who knew him said he was only a collector of memorabilia, and nothing more. Besides, his estranged wife was from Uganda

            Yet since all his victims were African-American women, the prosecutors were using race as his motive, even though his negro wife seemed to betray the notion that color was the reason for James’ killing spree. And his defense attorneys had made certain that the jury and everyone in the city knew there was no DNA evidence to link him to these horrific crimes.

            Miko glanced at someone who was staring in her direction from a gallery that was next to where she was sitting. He was looking at her drawing board and the images she’d put on the paper. He smiled and leaned toward her, and in a whisper asked, “Can you draw me?”

            She nodded and put up one finger, as if to say give me a minute. She drew quickly. His large expressive eyes, brown like chocolate wafers, were easy to sketch. She displayed them as if they were two almonds set wide apart, then colored in his brown pupils, adding a round face, puffy cheeks, button nose, lips full like a starlet’s on the big screen, but natural in his case, all topped off by black ringlets the texture of wool and coarse wire.

            Miko finished the drawing and handed it to the little boy. Wide eyed, he smiled and turned to a woman sitting to his right and showed her the artist’s rendition of his physical essence. She looked at Miko and smiled along with the child.

            Morgan James was taking it all in, watching Miko with his deadened eyes and prosthetically altered face, except there was no little-boy smile.

_____________________________________________________

Robert L. Bacon

theperfectwrite.com
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