EVERSWEET, by Sue Chamblin Frederick

EverSweet

    By Sue Chamblin Frederick

 

Prologue

The screams came from a quarter-mile away, the mountain winds carrying the desperate cry to a ridge jutting out over a deep Appalachian valley. When she heard the pitiful sounds, Lula Starling was sitting on her cabin porch, snapping beans. She pushed the heavy enamel pan from her lap and stumbled down wooden steps that led to the narrow mountain trail that would take her to Hattie Murphy’s cabin.

Panting for breath at the top of the ridge, the thin woman slowed and called out, “Hattie?” Only a few feet from the small two-room shack, she called again, “Hattie? You in there?” There was no reply, and warped slats creaked as she stepped onto the porch and moved toward what was now soft whimpering. Easing through the half-closed front door, she announced, “It’s me, Hattie. Lula.”

A weak voice drifted through the shadows of a small room at the back of the house. “Oh, Lula. Help me. Come help me.” Hattie reached out her hand to Lula as she rushed in. “I done had this baby, Lula. A tiny little thing. And I think there’s another one comin’!”

“Two babies…you havin’ two babies, Hattie?” Lula leaned over the bed. “Oh, my. Look at that little thing. No bigger than a mountain trout.”

“I already done named her EverSweet,” said Hattie. “Pyune EverSweet Murphy.” She closed her eyes.

“Where’s Vernon,” Lula asked.

“I ain’t seen Vernon. Left yesterday afternoon, lookin for one of our pigs.”

Lula ran to the sink and returned with a wet towel.

A moment later a scream split the air. “Here it comes, Lula. Here it comes.” Hattie grasped the protruding wooden rail on the headboard and raised her hips, groaning and gasping for breath. “Oh, God in heaven,” she cried as the second baby spilled out into Lula’s hands.

“Another girl, Hattie. So tiny.” Lula stared. “Oh, my. Two of them. Now, ain’t that somethin’.”

Lula hummed as she wrapped the squirming little girls tightly. A self-taught midwife in the remote high peaks of the Appalachians, Lula had no children of her own. She snuggled both babies in the crooks of her arms and grinned at Hattie. “Just let me hold these babies a minute. Then I’ll get you fixed up.”

Hattie, her eyes still closed, spoke softly. “Lula, I can’t take care of two babies.” She opened her eyes, tears flowing freely. “You take one,.” As exhausted as she was, she rose onto her elbows. “You got to take one, Lula. You just got to.”

 

Chapter 1

At The Boardinghouse, where for years the venerable country kitchen had provided Union County’s folks with the most delicious food imaginable, Wiley leaned over the documents placed in front of him and examined each paragraph, one by one. His doctorate in environmental engineering from Georgia Tech was no help at all as he strived to interpret the meaning of a formal invitation with all sorts of instructions. His Scottish-flavored Elizabethan English was buried deep inside his mountain self as he quietly struggled to put together exactly what was expected of Pyune EverSweet Murphy.

“Okay,” he proclaimed at last. “I think I got it. You have to be in New York City on Wednesday, the twentieth. Then you catch a return flight on Sunday night, the twenty-fourth.”

“You needed all that time to tell me that?” Pyune threw a dishtowel across her shoulder and sat down at her worktable. “I think I’m just going to leave the twenty-five thousand dollars with those people.”

“Like heck you are!” Wiley refilled his favorite coffee cup, the one with the faded image of Roy Rogers and Trigger on the side. “This kitchen needs a new stove and larger refrigerators, and that twenty-five thousand dollars will be a big help. You’re going to New York, get that check, and then come back to where you belong—in Ivy Log, Georgia.” Wiley bobbed his head up and down. “Enough said about that! You got four days to get yourself together. You ought to start packing now.”

“Can’t you come with me?” Pyune asked, her soft eyes pleading better than her gentle voice.

“No, I can’t. We’ve talked about this all we’re goin’ to. This is your time. Pyune EverSweet Murphy is the queen of Bakers’ World Magazine, and you’re going to be the belle of the ball. Just think, yours was the number-one recipe of all! It beat out thousands of entries!”

“I know…I know.” She closed her eyes and shook her head. “Except for where I was born, I’ve never been out of Union County.” She jumped up and began pacing. “Check that paperwork again. Can’t they just send me the check?”

“Not from what this contract says.” Wiley waved the papers back and forth. “It’s spelled out—to get that twenty-five thousand dollars you got to go to New York. And that ain’t all. You have to attend a reception on Wednesday night, where all the magazine’s board members will honor you. On Thursday you have a big photo session, and on Friday you and three of New York’s celebrity chefs will compete in a fundraiser to benefit the city’s homeless. You finish up on Saturday night at a big awards banquet when you get the check. How good is that?”

“Oh, not good at all. I just want to get the check and come back here.”

Wiley licked his lips. “Oh, Lordy. Says here you’ll be on ‘The Today Show,’ Thursday morning. Reckon you’ll be interviewed by that bald-headed fella?”

‘“The Today Show’!” Pyune drew her hands up to her face. “There’s no way, Wiley! I just can’t do it!”

Wiley left his chair and pulled Pyune into his arms. “You can do it. You’re Ivy Log’s most prominent citizen. This whole town is proud of you, and you’ve got to go to New York for all the folks who’ve supported you and The Boardinghouse for all these years.” He rubbed her back and rocked her gently back and forth. “That’s all there is to it, my little EverSweet.”

Wiley was right, it was Pyune’s time. She had walked barefooted on the mountain trails that led to Ivy Log when she was two years old, one hand holding onto her mama, the other sucking her thumb. In Ivy Log, they’d come upon a deserted Main Street, but when she and her mama heard music they walked toward it and found the town square.

Everyone had gathered around picnic tables, where watermelons lay split open and lemonade flowed from big glass pitchers. Atop a flagpole, an American flag flapped in the breeze. It was the Fourth of July Festival, and the most beautiful sight Pyune had ever seen. Her little feet began tapping to the fiddle music, and she laughed her way to the red juicy watermelons, climbing onto the table and plopping a big slice of melon in her lap and eating it and a few more like it until her mama told her to quit ’fore she got a tummy ache.

This faint glimmer of time had remained in her mind even after forty years had passed. Ivy Log’s town square continued to be the gathering place for all events, important or not, the flagpole the very same one that stood so many years ago when Pyune had first arrived. Nothing much had changed, not even The Boardinghouse, except for a coat or two of paint now and then, and maybe an occasional board replaced on the porch. Pyune’s place in Ivy Log was one of grace, enhanced by a soft refinement that belied her origins in the remote peaks of the Appalachians. She was a mountain woman, true, but beneath her shy, unassuming character, the rest of her lay ready for an awakening. She just didn’t know it yet.

 


Robert L. Bacon
theperfectwrite.com


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THE ADVENTURES OF THE BRONZE HORSMEN--HUNT FOR THE WOLF CLAN, By Dave Mallegol

3000 BC

Chapter #1

Daven and the Botai

It was an early midsummer morning when I awoke to the smell of pan cakes and tree syrup, a new breakfast meal we had learned about from our friends, the Finns.  I had been thinking about these people lately, even without the pleasant reminder provided by the food, since members from their clan were expected to arrive at our village today.

My wife, Ildiko, called to me, “Good morning, Daven.”  I rolled over in our sleeping rack.  Our fifteen-year-old son, Marc, and his fourteen-year-old brother, Arno, were already out of our pit-house, and our twelve-year-old daughter, Liffey, was helping her mother with the cooking.  Their chatter was good to hear as I stretched and got up.  I pulled on my horsehide pants and shirt and washed my face in a clay basin.  I pushed my long black hair away from my face and  went to my beautiful, brown-haired wife of almost seventeen years and hugged her, lifting her off the ground.  She laughed and I put her down to hug my daughter in the same manner.

After a delicious breakfast, I said goodbye and headed to the horse pit-house where I found Marc and Arno grooming and feeding our horses.  Most of the work was already done, so there was not much for me to do except smile my appreciation.  One horse, called Boomer, was the animal I usually rode, but I had a second stallion that was a son of the very first wild horse we tamed, the great steed that my older son, Mikl, had caught and called Gray Boy. 

 

Last year we extended the side of our horse pit-house, which is a structure built partially below ground, to make room for additional mounts.  My sons and I added water to the trays for all the horses in this pit-house, along with fresh hay and grains that our clan’s women and men gathered each week.  We had just finished with these chores when I heard a familiar voice call to me, “Daven, you old man, what is this I hear that you are the lead hunter for this village, once again, after all these years?”

It was my good friend, Victor of the Finns.  He and his second in command, a man called Saabs, had arrived, along with their wives.  I greeted both men with the hunter’s clasp, a custom whereby each man grabs the forearm of the other.  That was not enough of a greeting for old friends, so a big bear hug followed.  I had not seen Victor and Saabs in two years, and I would never forget how I had met them initially when I needed their help to defeat the primitive warriors known as the Smolens, fifteen years ago.  This current visit was to discuss the recent raids by an unknown aggressor, so once again our meeting involved an enemy.

I smiled and said, “Yes, Victor, what you have heard is true, I am the lead hunter once again.  But I am glad of it.  I was gathering dust and getting bored, and to tell the truth I missed leading the men.  I will explain just how this came about and bring you up-to-date with what is happening here at the Botai village.  But Ildiko is cooking for you at our pit-house, so let’s walk as I talk.  She has made some of your famous pan cakes, and they are waiting for you.”

On our way to my pit-house, I said, “As you might remember, after the war with the Smolens, I gave up my responsibilities as the lead hunter and turned the duties over to a man called Nicholas, the younger brother of Alex, our new leader—or as we call him, our Oldson.”

Victor replied, “I certainly know Alex, and I remember his brother too.  But I hated to see you step down.  You are the best hunter I have ever known, and when it comes to war, there is no one who comes close to you.  I feel sorry for those who might be on the wrong side of the next war with you, now that you are back from gathering cob webs.”  He laughed.

I nodded and said, “I hope we never see another war.  I have had enough of them.  You might recall that my old friend, Bruno, was in favor of both of us stepping aside so others could lead.  Bruno told me that he had been the Oldson of the Botai for long enough.  I remember when he said, ‘It is time for others to take over and for you and me to roam the mountains and explore new lands.’  His words sounded good to me at that time.

Bruno had a large family with his second wife, Jewel, and several married children from his first wife, who was deceased.  I had three children, and I wanted to be free to spend more time with Ildiko and to explore to the north with Bruno and see country that none of us has ever been to, so I stepped down.  It was a good decision for Bruno but not a good one for me.  I missed my job as lead hunter every day.

Saabs asked me, “Where did Alex come from?  I thought you told me once that he was not a Botai by birth.  Am I right?”

“You are right,” I replied.  “Alex was not born a Botai.  He comes from a Russian tribe far to the north.  He was taken captive by the Mongols many years ago when he was still a boy.  He cannot remember the name of the village where he comes from.  We rescued him and his brother from the Mongols, as well as Jewel and her evil sister, Tangee, and several others.  Some of the captives stayed with our relatives, the Krasnyi Yar, and some came here to live at the Botai village.”

“How is it that Alex became the leader of a clan he was not born into?” Victor asked me.

“Alex was a leader from the first day he arrived, and he was the right choice to succeed Bruno. He is smart, strong, and well respected, especially among our young hunters, yet the experienced men follow him easily as well.  Our wise elders agreed that he was the best man to lead the Botai.  You probably recall his winning the wrestling contests at the Summer Gatherings for many years.  Alex was ready.  However, our new lead hunter, Nicholas, was not fully prepared at that time to lead the hunters, so I stayed at his side as his mentor.”

Victor asked, “I assume this new man did not do so well, and you took over again?”

I responded, “Nicholas was a very good hunter and did quite well.  He just needed more experience.  I was his trainer and guide as he worked his way into his new role.  I was there to advise him and teach him.  I did this by letting him come up with his hunt plan by himself, and I reviewed it with him before we went on the actual hunt.  After the hunt, Bruno and I went over what happened and if we felt it was a success or not.  We also talked about what we could have done better.” 

Saabs asked, “How well did this man called Nicholas do?”

“Nicholas progressed very well.  He led many hunts for bears, aurochs and horses.  Bears and horses present danger, but aurochs are the most difficult animal to kill because of their huge size and power.  They weigh many times more than a horse, but while they are very strong they are slow.  We simply wound them and follow them and wound them again and again until they are so weak that they cannot run anymore.  Then they stand and face us.”

Victor laughed.  “I imagine you have found the bears easier to kill.” 

“Yes, but only because we now have trained dogs from your man called Lions.  Before this, I would say that bears were the most dangerous of all.  Now, the dogs do most of the work.  But hunting horses is another story.  They are fast, and they fight, kick and bite when they are attacked.  As you know, we Botai are somewhat different from you Finns because we hunt for meat more than we herd animals, although we now graze sheep just like you.”

“So what happened with Nicholas?” Victor asked, still pressing for why I resumed the role as lead hunter of the Botai.

“The last horse hunt was where Nicholas had a problem.”  We neared my pit-house as Victor and Saab’s wife approached from another direction, and our conversation stopped for greetings.

__________________________________________________________________ 
Robert L. Bacon
theperfectwrite.com
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EVERYTHING TO LOSE By Pete and Judy Ratto

Chapter 1

The woman in the sunburst yellow dress settled behind a small boy who stood between his parents in the front row. In her carefully chosen spot, she would have no problem seeing the senator. More important, he would be able to see her.

Following the presidential candidate’s schedule occupied most of her time. She knew him, and his routines. He was a clever politician, a clever man. At one time, she admired that about him. In spite of his womanizing history, she’d held him in high esteem. She hadn’t cared about the rumors of his less-than-ethical political acumen. He was bright and confident. Like her, he knew what he wanted and achieved it. The one thing he lacked was loyalty. That was his one unforgivable flaw.

A momentary stab of rejection cut through her as crushing memories of betrayal clamored to the forefront of her mind. Another staunch memory held them at bay, protecting her as always from thoughts that could leave her filled with rage or shattered from distress. I did what I had to. He gave me no choice.

***

Rows of supporters without access to the ticket-only event stood shoulder to shoulder, necks stretched and ready for a coveted glimpse of the man who could be the next president of the United States. Young and old mingled together, most dressed in patriotic colors and wearing Grayson for President buttons. Tabloid reporters and photographers took strategic positions at the iron-gated entrance to the prestigious institution.

The mainstream press had already set up their sound and video equipment on Columbia University’s south lawn. Amsterdam Avenue was closed for two blocks north and south of 116th street. With the absence of thru traffic, the cacophony of city activity hummed in the distance. Escalating murmurs obscured the honking horns, worn, grinding transmissions, and truck trailers loaded with goods booming as they slammed into the streets’ deep potholes. Area residents, intent on going elsewhere, glanced at the restless group and at the clouded sky. Briefcases and umbrellas in hand, they hurried to subway stations or Columbus Ave to hail a cab.

***

She’d been waiting for the event to begin since spectators and press had started to arrive. Turning toward the reporters at the campus entrance, she caught a brief glance from one of them. She almost shook her head in reproof when he gave her a slight nod. Instead, she ignored his acknowledgement and vowed not to look his way again.

She checked her phone for the time. It was still early, but she could be patient. Another half hour was nothing compared to the years she’d waited for what she deserved or rather, what he deserved.

***

As if on cue, stubborn puffs overhead gave way to a glorious blue sky on the warm August afternoon. Mounting shouts and whistles alerted all to the arrival of a line of black vehicles crawling at the curb north of the entrance. Men and women clothed in dark suits, more apt for a funeral than a summer outdoor event, exited onto the street. With serious faces, they scrambled to organize their positions before the guest of honor emerged. By all the staff and security Senator Grayson utilized, one would think he’d already won the election. Some criticized his self-importance. Those who knew him well commended his prudence.

All who gathered cheered as presidential candidate Senator Todd Grayson exited one of the limousines. Skilled at working a crowd to his full advantage, Grayson took his time. Straightening to his full height, he smoothed the jacket of his lightweight, ivory linen suit. He looked like a white knight among his entourage of black-clad minions. He faced the street audience, threw up his hands, and waved.

A mass of hand-held banners and American flags flapped like a flock of gulls vying for a prized clam. Classically tall, dark, and handsome, he had as many men fawning over him as he had women. Not since JFK had a presidential candidate charmed a constituency as Grayson had.

Grayson’s staff paved the way for him to enter the campus, shielding him from direct contact with those crammed behind the barricades. In a move that was either spontaneous or a well-contrived plan, the senator turned and walked in the opposite direction and began to shake peoples’ hands. The crowd went wild with whoops and shouts for attention. Surrounded by his campaign staff, his personal counsel Douglas Cain, and his bodyguards, he navigated among potential voters like a rock star.

Grayson stretched over the wooden barriers grasping as many hands as he could. Men removed their caps in respect, nodded, and returned strong, steady shakes. Women squealed and clapped, some patting their beating hearts as if they might swoon. His broad smile bared perfect white teeth that contrasted with his golden skin. Grayson’s careful choice of attire, including the pale blue shirt and tie, conveyed the tranquility of sand and sea. You could hear sighs of contentment at Grayson’s touch.

As president, Todd Grayson would take care of you.

He moved to the end of the narrow walk and back again toward the campus, scanning the adoring crowd. Grayson slowed when he noticed a woman who appeared oblivious to the lively throng surrounding her. She stood still but for a subtle bob and sway, like a buoy when bumped by gentle ocean swells. Tall, with shoulder-length blonde hair, her bright yellow, sleeveless dress set her apart from all the red, white, and blue. Her white designer handbag hung on her shoulder and she clasped her hands low in front of her. Grayson watched her lift her hand to adjust her dark sunglasses. Sharp and adept at reading people, her stance unnerved him. He couldn’t see her eyes, but he sensed her stare. He would have thought she was blind except her head turned to follow his movement.

Douglas Cain nudged the senator’s arm, breaking the connection with the woman. “We need to move along, Senator, if we want to keep to the schedule.”

“I know, Douglas, but this is as important as a stump speech,” Grayson said, his practiced smile never leaving his face.

Cain had been with Todd Grayson from the start of the senator’s venture into politics. With Grayson’s reputation and past, his lawyer’s presence at all functions was paramount. About to enter the campus, where another group awaited the senator’s appearance, one of the tabloid reporters caught Grayson’s attention.

“Senator, you look well rested from your vacation in the Hamptons. What is your response to some of the negative pushback by your opponent regarding your position on defense spending?”

Grayson glanced at the reporter’s nametag. “Tom, it’s not my policy to waste time on the defensive—at least not until the debates. I’ll continue to do what I’ve always done, and that’s to present my ideas directly to the people. It’s the folks’ opinions that count.”

Those standing nearby nodded and applauded their approval. Before Grayson could turn away, the reporter asked another question. “Senator, is it true that you were involved with call girl Sheila Rand and a prime suspect in her murder?”

Grayson did not move. The rapid blinking of his eyes as he processed the question was the only indication he had not turned to stone. Sheila Rand.

He had not thought of the woman for sixteen years. It was true they’d had a brief affair, but he’d had an alibi for when she was murdered. Cain had taken care of it. He’d taken care of that and another matter.

A moment of recognition flashed through the senator’s mind. He whipped his head toward the woman in the yellow dress. A stream of perspiration dripped down his face as he desperately searched the crowd. Where is she? Was it her?

“Senator?” the reporter prompted Grayson.

Grayson eyed the reporter. Cain moved in to stand between them, but Grayson refused to be intimidated. He grinned.

“Tom, you need to check your facts before you ask questions that make you look foolish. I have nothing to hide. Sorry, but I’m on a tight schedule,” he said and allowed Cain to guide him away.

A grin still pasted to his face, Grayson’s thoughts swam with dredged-up memories of the past. His chest filled with anxiety. He couldn’t breathe. Grayson was drowning in thoughts of all that could go wrong. He looked at Cain, his protector—his life preserver. He exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. The lawyer would deal with any fallout. That was his job.

Grayson shook off his concern and strode through the university’s gate to where he would give a rousing speech. Excited college students and faculty packed the stands. They applauded as he stepped to the podium. Another stage. Another performance. Everyone quieted and Grayson began the prepared rhetoric he knew would raise spirits and hopes. That was his job.

As his popularity tide rose, Senator Todd Grayson glided into the hearts and minds of those who would elect him to the most powerful position in the world. It would be smooth sailing, unless the long-ago matter of a murdered call girl surfaced and dragged his political career into a maelstrom of disaster.

 ________________________________________________________________

Robert L. Bacon
theperfectwrite.com
For authors, The Perfect Write® is now providing
FREE QUERY LETTER REVIEW AND ANALYSIS.

Post your query to mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com(no attachments) and visit the Sample Letters Page for examples of successful query letters.

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