tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-51137658412729496692024-02-20T17:02:54.712-05:00The Perfect Write® Free Manuscript Critique BlogMy name is Robert L. (Rob) Bacon, and I am the founder of The Perfect Write®, a professional editorial service. My blog is open to anyone who is interested in a free opening-chapter critique (material up to 5,000 words) and serious about writing creative fiction at a level that would be appealing to a major royalty publisher or quality indie. I am committed to supporting writers in all genres and welcome comments on the material and critiques I provide for this forum.The Perfect Write®http://www.blogger.com/profile/15911456172776383647noreply@blogger.comBlogger37125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5113765841272949669.post-82440305772615276522017-02-21T19:12:00.002-05:002017-02-21T19:15:58.106-05:00"The Deal Breaker" by Suzanne J. Warfield<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<w:WordDocument>
<w:View>Normal</w:View>
<w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom>
<w:PunctuationKerning/>
<w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/>
<w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>
<w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent>
<w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>
<w:Compatibility>
<w:BreakWrappedTables/>
<w:SnapToGridInCell/>
<w:WrapTextWithPunct/>
<w:UseAsianBreakRules/>
<w:DontGrowAutofit/>
</w:Compatibility>
<w:BrowserLevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel>
</w:WordDocument>
</xml><![endif]--><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" LatentStyleCount="156">
</w:LatentStyles>
</xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><img src="https://img1.blogblog.com/img/video_object.png" style="background-color: #b2b2b2; " class="BLOGGER-object-element tr_noresize tr_placeholder" id="ieooui" data-original-id="ieooui" />
<style>
st1\:*{behavior:url(#ieooui) }
</style>
<![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]>
<style>
/* Style Definitions */
table.MsoNormalTable
{mso-style-name:"Table Normal";
mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0;
mso-tstyle-colband-size:0;
mso-style-noshow:yes;
mso-style-parent:"";
mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt;
mso-para-margin:0in;
mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt;
mso-pagination:widow-orphan;
font-size:10.0pt;
font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-ansi-language:#0400;
mso-fareast-language:#0400;
mso-bidi-language:#0400;}
</style>
<![endif]-->
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">PART
I</span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“FIRE”</span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Chapter 1</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Kitty, get up, get up! The House is on fire!” Tommy
begins shaking me so violently, it’s as if the bedroom is being rocked by an
earthquake.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Groggy, I glance around the room. Everything seems fine.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Mr. Bug, Tommy’s little pug, looks up sleepily from the
couch as his master kneels over me, grasping me by my shoulders. “Wake up!” he
implores again as he lets go and pulls on his jeans and shirt.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I sit up and grab for him. He sometimes has flashbacks of
Vietnam.
“Tommy, it’s just a dream. It’s okay.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He rouses me again by my shoulders, his face
horror-struck. “Listen to me, The House is on fire! We’ve got to go, now!”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh, my God, not The House!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="_GoBack"></a>How do you know this?”
I hear myself say the words but my mind hasn’t caught up with what’s happening.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Tommy tells me in a rush of words, “Bruno had been
calling me at The House, and he just remembered that we said we were staying
here. He saw the sky glowing on the way home from the Brass Rail, where he was
playing pool until two. The fire engines we heard earlier must have been going
to our place.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I remember, through my sleepy haze, Mr. Bug’s making a
little “O’ with his mouth as the wail of sirens carried through the town.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I jump up and put on my jeans and pajama top. Tommy grabs
my coat and holds it for me as I slip my feet into my boots. In the next
instant we’re both out on the street. There’s a cold drizzle falling, and the
roadway is glazed over with ice.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh, my sweet Jesus,” I murmur. The sky is blazing in the
direction of The Carriage House, the historic restaurant that has been home and
employment for Tommy and me along with a few very close friends for the past
eight years. Why we both decided to stay at my apartment instead of his on this
particular night is just short of miraculous, since Tommy’s second-floor
apartment in The Carriage House has always been viewed as a deathtrap in the
event of a fire.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As everything sinks in, I have no thoughts except for
terror and horror—and questioning reality in one way or another.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What time is it?” I ask Tommy.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“A little after three,” he says, choking out his words.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We round a street corner near the restaurant and are
immediately met by flashing lights and a fireman waving a flashlight. The road
is closed and Tommy pulls his Mercedes to a sliding stop.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A young fireman comes up to the car and says, “Hey,
Tommy. I’m sorry, but you can’t go down there.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Everyone around these parts in upstate New York knows Tommy Defalco, the manager
and co-owner of the area’s finest dining establishment, where he also serves as
its maître d', And for many years, before coming to The House, he managed The
Country Club, which in its way is just as prominent.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Tommy possesses dark features and a wide, bright smile
that coaxes people into liking him immediately. It also doesn’t hurt that he’s
extremely smooth and graceful in whatever he does. But tonight Tommy is out of
the car and on the move, not concerned with appearances. He grabs my hand as we
run to the driveway leading to the main building. The House, as everyone has
come to call it, stands cloaked in a hideous film of blazing glory. Brilliant
orange flames lick from every crevice of her skin, like a serpent’s tongue
flicking and teasing us to try and do the impossible and stop the devastation.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We hear Bruno, The House’s head chef, calling to us from
behind, and we see him pushing past the fireman and running after us. The
police hold all of us back as we reach the main parking lot.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Tommy reels as if the wind has
been knocked out of him, his face glowering like a jack-o-lantern in the
reflection from the fire.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Bruno comes up to us; his words are hesitant and his
voice is choked. “I thought you guys were in there.” He covers his eyes. “I
called Troy and
told him that you both were okay, that you spent the night at Kitty’s place.
Oh, Jesus God, you guys could have died in there!”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Tommy puts his arm around Bruno’s shoulder and pulls him
close. By now my world has turned into slow motion. I’m drifting between
universes. I see and hear what’s happening but it doesn’t touch me. Standing in
the cold rain, I’m just an observer watching a building burn amid the oddly
comforting din of the immense diesel engines in the fire trucks.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I see Tommy reach out with his other arm to me, and I hear
his words, “Kitty, come here.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It’s not until he draws me in that I feel the heat, smell
the stench, see our working lives swallowed by this now grinning monster. I
start to spin into uncontrollable sobs. Tommy hugs me tight as he whispers,
“Just hold on to me, sweetheart,” his words most assuredly more for him than
for me.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A firefighter drapes a blanket around our shoulders. He
knows all our names.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We hear the words, “Sorry” and “Too bad” and “Tragedy.”
Someone else comes up and asks if we’re okay. Everyone seems to know us. It
soon occurs to me just how many people are around us, coming from other bars
after their late shifts. This is monumental news for a small town, and the
night people utilize a grapevine that races like quicksilver.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Tommy says, “Look at me, Baby. Was everything turned off
when we left last night?” His face is drawn and pale as he searches my face for
the answer.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes, Tommy, I turned everything off. Like always, I
checked my bar, the kitchen, and shut off the fireplace.” I’m a little
irritated he would question me, and then he persists.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Are you sure?” He slowly adds, “Think carefully.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes, I’m absolutely sure. Was anything left on in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">your</i> apartment?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He shakes his head, “No, nothing.” He doesn’t press any
further—and I decide not to as well.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Bruno meets Tommy’s partner, Troy Meitzer, coming down
the walkway. Troy
pushes him out of the way and gasps when he sees The House, appearing now like
a defeated dragon with its head lowered in shame. “Oh, my God,” he repeats
several times and nothing else.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Firelight paints age lines across Troy's face, making him look well beyond his
thirty-two years. Troy’s
father bought him this old relic of a building to fulfill his son’s dream of
owning his own restaurant. Troy
was only twenty-four at the time, but his father, who planned to be around to
help open what was to become an elegant eatery, passed away that same year. Troy’s mother joined his
father a few months later, the result of a long bout with cancer. But before
she died she contacted Tommy, as they were close friends at The Country Club,
and she arranged for him to help Troy
open and get settled in the business. Tommy hired Bruno, a highly talented
chef, who in turn brought in Victor as his sous chef. With the knowledge of a
top wine steward, Phillip Fairchild, and a few polished fine-dining servers,
The Carriage House thrived and in a few years became an award-winning
restaurant and a landmark in the community.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Even during the business’s formative years Troy partied hard, and
although he was touted as the restaurant’s successful young owner, he never
grew into or accepted his responsibilities. Tommy was forced to discipline him
as a father might, and he managed to hold a tight rein over the restaurant’s
books. However, during the past two years Tommy began to trust Troy more and he relaxed his authority. This
allowed Troy to
gain control over most everything. Rumors swelled as the staff noticed blatant
signs of Troy’s
drug use. Tommy worried about the financial health of the establishment. Then
it happened.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Tommy uncovered a massive misappropriation of funds,
which he learned were used to feed Troy’s
cocaine habit. As a consequence, the business was now in the red. Tommy’s
patience with Troy
had worn thin and conversations between them had a way of exploding into fiery
exchanges. Tommy addressed Troy’s drug use many times, only to drive Troy
deeper into resenting Tommy’s counsel in his personal life—as well as his
advice regarding the business.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Troy
catches sight of Tommy and rushes at him, pushing him nearly off his feet.
Tommy’s face registers his total surprise. Troy shoves him again, and Tommy falls back
against a fire truck. Troy
shouts, “You bastard! Where in hell were you?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>If you were here this would never have happened.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He starts to take a swing at Tommy but stops midway, as
Tommy is instantly ready to fight. This Italian never needs much of an excuse
to lose his temper. So I quickly duck away, searching for someone who might
have the courage—and bulk—to intercede.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>From seemingly out of nowhere Bruno comes at Troy and slams him away
from Tommy, and against the fire truck. He yells at Troy while holding him back, “Tommy had nothing
to do with this, you asshole. The man has lost every goddamn thing he owns,
including his home—and he and Kitty could have lost their lives. So back off or
deal with me.” Troy
knows he’s no match for Bruno, who is built like a bull, so he shakes him off
and steps away.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A fireman, standing nearby, pulls Troy aside. “Let me tell you something, Mr.
Meitzer, the fire came up so damn fast that no one would have had a chance in
hell of escaping. She went up like a skyrocket due to the Christmas tree and decorations.
We had one hell of a time getting this blaze under control. It was just plain
lucky that no one was in that house.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Tommy pushes past me and walks down the lane. When I
reach out, he snatches his arm away. He’s angry and hurt and Bruno tells me to
let him go. The two of us stand there shivering in the cold gloom, watching
countless memories ride the sparks into the night sky, forever gone now, our
beautiful business and life as we’ve known it for so many years just a passing
glimmer.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I imagine the flames consuming the beautiful lounge,
licking their way around my gleaming bottles, dancing across the cushions of
the sofa in what we called The Pit in front of the fireplace, and sliding down
my beautifully polished bar like a massive spilled drink. The countless hours
of laughter and fun I created there as The House’s lead bartender, clad in my
uniform of tuxedo tails and fishnet stockings that earned me the nickname Legs.
All those nights that Tommy and I entertained the customers with our fake
arguments and cocky byplay.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Many memories of past years surface, pushing Roy McGrath
to the forefront and causing fresh tears to form in my eyes. Roy McGrath, who
loved me, who never tired of asking me for a date or trying to steal a kiss.
Sweet Roy, who delighted in seeing me nightly at work, who lived for our mutual
banter with one another. Roy McGrath, for whom I was to the point of giving up
the bar business—living with the guilt that it was I who almost caused his
death.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Troy
comes over to Bruno and apologizes as he shakes his head. He says he is just so
overcome. They embrace and pat each other on the back.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Tommy’s the one you need to find and say you’re sorry,”
Bruno says, craning his neck. “I don’t know where he went.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>No sooner are the words out of Bruno’s mouth that Tommy
appears and wraps his arms around me. I need this. He buries his face in my
neck and hair.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Troy offers his apology
but Tommy says nothing, meeting Troy’s
eyes briefly and nodding.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We walk over to the back of a fire truck and sit on the
wide back bumper. The House is altogether down now. Only the two end stone
walls remain standing. I can’t stop looking at the one with the fireplace,
where so many happy times were spent. Strangely, I wonder about the elk heads
hanging atop the mantle and how they paid witness to Tommy’s marriage proposal
to me on a particularly busy night not that long ago.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The fire chief approaches us, nods to me and says to
Tommy, “I told Troy
this, so I’ll tell you the same thing. Right now, this fire looks as if it was
started at three locations, indicating arson. We did our best, but there was no
saving this one. Whoever set this wanted the place to go up in a hurry.” He
shook his head and clasped Tommy by the shoulder. “I’m sorry for your loss.
We’re going to conduct a thorough investigation.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Arson,” Bruno whispers as if in a dream, and he looks at
us with knotted brows. “What the hell. . .don’t know what to say.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The rest of the staff gathers around us in shocked
silence as the news of suspected arson spreads. One by one, like war victims,
we cling to each other. We’re all in tears. Soon we cluster in twos and threes
within the blankets the firemen provide, like lost children.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Polly, our head waitress, wordlessly falls in with Tommy
and me. She wipes her eyes and holds onto us while Bruno and Victor talk with
the rest of employees who care enough to come out and hold hands in collective
grief. We are all family here, not by blood but through our work. There has
never been a more dedicated staff at any establishment. We are the closest of
friends, and for most of us the only family we have are those standing around
us at this very moment.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The night becomes dawn and the funeral begins in earnest.
Early-morning mourners in car after car slowly file past to pay their respects
to the beloved landmark, some stopping to say a few kind words to us as well.
The local news teams come and go, with their sound and camera equipment. Holding
dour expressions, reporters gaze into camera lenses as smoke still rises behind
them. Some interviews are granted. Tommy waves any news person away from us.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We’re embraced by familiar arms as sad comments come to
us from cracked voices; people wiping their eyes and shaking their heads;
saying how much they loved The House.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Mildred Vassar and her son, Mike, appear, and she rushes
to where we are all standing. It’s amazing to see her at such an early hour. Millie
is my most cherished bar customer. Her husband is a renowned surgeon and
president of The Country Club, where I also worked before coming to The
Carriage House six years ago. She is enormously wealthy but treats everyone as
an equal. Millie is as close to a mother as I could ever hope for, and she
views me and the entire staff of The House as her children. She claims her age
to be in the early sixties, and she looks it, although I have a suspicion she
is closer to the mid seventies. Her blond hair is meticulously styled and her
make-up is always flawlessly applied. She has an elegant aura about her; a lady
of means and style even though night after night she succumbs with simple
gratitude to three gin martinis.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I thought you all would be out here,” she says. “It’s
all over the local news.” She stands with us, in her fur-lined gloves and
expensive fur coat, her diamond jewelry sparkling in what is now a light rain.
“You didn’t lose anything. This tragedy heralds a new start. Now you rebuild a
bigger and better place to call home. This is a new beginning for everyone.
That’s what life gives <span class="me">us when it takes things away—a second
chance. Get rid of the old and start new all over. By summer, this will all be
a bad dream not worth remembering, and you will be back together and things will
be true.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span class="me"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>True to Mildred’s grace and
hang-tough attitude, she offers us the first hopeful smile since we all came
together. She tells us to go someplace warm, and that all the wishing in the
world at this moment isn’t going to bring The Carriage House back.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span class="me"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The rain is
becoming heavier, and Polly suggests, “What do you say we go to my place? This
is crazy standing out here in this damn freezing drizzle. We can be just as
miserable there as here, and I need some hot coffee.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span class="me"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Tommy has
said little in over an hour. When I ask him if he wants to go over to Polly’s,
he peers over my head and into the smoking mess, then back at me and says with
a sigh, “I just want to go home.” He stuffs his hands deep in his pockets and
shrugs. I know what he means, and my eyes fill with tears for him. He whispers
to no one, “Arson. Who would do this—and why?”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I tell our friends we will see them
later. Maybe meet at a local diner we all frequent and talk this out.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Back at
the apartment I start the coffee, and we take a shower together to warm up.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Our clothes smell so much of smoke that we throw our
garments in the washer and then cuddle in bed, where it’s warm and dry. Tommy
has nothing to wear, and it suddenly dawns on me that this man came over last
night with only the clothes on his back.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Now, as we lie together with Bug curled alongside us,<u style="text-underline: green wave;"> </u>listening to soft music, Tommy is
painfully quiet. When it seems he’s searching for an answer in his thoughts, he
looks into the air around him and then meets my eyes with his for a moment as
if to see if the answer is in them. Should the answer appear in my eyes, he
slowly shuts his for a moment as if in thanks.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I reach over and take his hand and thank God we decided
to spend the night here at my place. We wanted to get an early start moving my
belongings to his apartment at The House. Last night was to be my swan song to
my little digs in the tiny town of Bigley, New York, where I called
home for the past eight years. Now it seems that I’ll be meeting with my
landlord to renew the lease.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I smile and say quietly, “You are a wealthy man, Mr.
Defalco. You have this woman who is your best friend and forever lover beside
you, your trusted Mr. Bug on your other side, and your baby blue Mercedes
parked safely at the curb outside.” I point to his photo albums. “And here are
your memories that we took with us—just by chance, to look at this morning—all
of which could have been destroyed last night. We have this roof over our heads,
be it what it is, so we have a home for now. We have so many things to be
grateful for. And Troy
will rebuild The House, as Millie said, and it will be bigger and better.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I know that, Kitten.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I’m just so damn tired and confused.” Slowly his eyes focus on me. I
feel strange. “Who called last night just before we closed up the lounge?
Remember, you ran to the bar to answer the phone?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I had to think for a moment. “It was a hang-up. No one
was there.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Tommy rolls out of bed and calls the phone company. After
a long while he comes back and sits atop the covers, his face grave. He studies
me then mentions one name: Lillian.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I sit up quickly
“You don’t think . . . she could be capable . . . of arson?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I have no idea. But why would she call after closing and
not say anything?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What are you getting at? Oh, my god, do you think she
wanted us to be caught in the fire? Oh, my God—”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Interrupting my own thoughts, I feel sick to my stomach.
I gather myself and reach for Tommy. I’ve never seen him appear so troubled.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="_GoBack"></a></div>
<br />
Robert L. Bacon<br />
<a href="http://www.theperfectwrite.com/">theperfectwrite.com</a><br />
<br />
For authors, The Perfect Write® is now providing<br />
<b>FREE QUERY LETTER REVIEW AND ANALYSIS</b>.<br />
<br />
Post your query to <a href="mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com">mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com</a>(no attachments)
and visit the <a href="http://www.theperfectwrite.com/sample-letters/">Sample Letters Page </a>for examples of successful query letters.<br />
<br />
The Perfect Write® offers comprehensive editing services, from manuscript critiques to complete revisions, including line-editing, along with query letter design and composition. For pricing, send your project requirements to <a href="mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com">mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com</a><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />The Perfect Write®http://www.blogger.com/profile/15911456172776383647noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5113765841272949669.post-22424837195355870582016-11-02T18:47:00.001-04:002016-11-02T18:47:10.463-04:00EVERSWEET, by Sue Chamblin Frederick<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<w:WordDocument>
<w:View>Normal</w:View>
<w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom>
<w:PunctuationKerning/>
<w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/>
<w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>
<w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent>
<w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>
<w:Compatibility>
<w:BreakWrappedTables/>
<w:SnapToGridInCell/>
<w:WrapTextWithPunct/>
<w:UseAsianBreakRules/>
<w:DontGrowAutofit/>
</w:Compatibility>
<w:BrowserLevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel>
</w:WordDocument>
</xml><![endif]--><br />
<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" LatentStyleCount="156">
</w:LatentStyles>
</xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><img src="https://img1.blogblog.com/img/video_object.png" style="background-color: #b2b2b2; " class="BLOGGER-object-element tr_noresize tr_placeholder" id="ieooui" data-original-id="ieooui" />
<style>
st1\:*{behavior:url(#ieooui) }
</style>
<![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]>
<style>
/* Style Definitions */
table.MsoNormalTable
{mso-style-name:"Table Normal";
mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0;
mso-tstyle-colband-size:0;
mso-style-noshow:yes;
mso-style-parent:"";
mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt;
mso-para-margin:0in;
mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt;
mso-pagination:widow-orphan;
font-size:10.0pt;
font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-ansi-language:#0400;
mso-fareast-language:#0400;
mso-bidi-language:#0400;}
</style>
<![endif]-->
<br />
<h3 style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .6pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .6pt; mso-pagination: no-line-numbers; text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Segoe Script"; font-size: 18.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">EverSweet</span></h3>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="mso-fareast-language: ZH-CN;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By
Sue Chamblin Frederick</span></div>
<h3 style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .6pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .6pt; mso-pagination: no-line-numbers; text-align: justify;">
</h3>
<h3 style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .6pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .6pt; mso-pagination: no-line-numbers; text-indent: .25in;">
Prologue</h3>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .6pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .6pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan no-line-numbers; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .6pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .6pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan no-line-numbers; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .6pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .6pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan no-line-numbers; text-align: justify;">
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.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .6pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .6pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan no-line-numbers; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;">
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.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .6pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .6pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan no-line-numbers; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;">
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’!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .6pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .6pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan no-line-numbers; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-font-family: Georgia;">“</span>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.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .6pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .6pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan no-line-numbers; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-font-family: Georgia;">“</span>I
already done named her EverSweet,” said Hattie. “Pyune EverSweet Murphy.” She
closed her eyes.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .6pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .6pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan no-line-numbers; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-font-family: Georgia;">“</span>Where’s
Vernon,” Lula
asked.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .6pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .6pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan no-line-numbers; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-font-family: Georgia;">“</span>I
ain’t seen Vernon.
Left yesterday afternoon, lookin for one of our pigs.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .6pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .6pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan no-line-numbers; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;">
Lula
ran to the sink and returned with a wet towel.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .6pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .6pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan no-line-numbers; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;">
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.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .6pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .6pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan no-line-numbers; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-font-family: Georgia;">“</span>Another
girl, Hattie. So tiny.” Lula stared. “Oh, my. Two of them. Now, ain’t that
somethin’.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .6pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .6pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan no-line-numbers; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;">
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.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .6pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .6pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan no-line-numbers; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;">
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.”</div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><br clear="all" style="mso-special-character: line-break; page-break-before: always;" />
</span>
<h3 class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .6pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .6pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan no-line-numbers; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;">
</h3>
<br />
<h3>
</h3>
<br />
<h3 style="margin-bottom: .6pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .6pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan no-line-numbers; text-indent: .25in;">
Chapter 1</h3>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .6pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .6pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan no-line-numbers; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .6pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .6pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan no-line-numbers; text-align: justify;">
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.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .6pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .6pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan no-line-numbers; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-font-family: Georgia;">“</span>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.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .6pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .6pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan no-line-numbers; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-font-family: Georgia;">“</span>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.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .6pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .6pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan no-line-numbers; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-font-family: Georgia;">“</span>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.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .6pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .6pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan no-line-numbers; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-font-family: Georgia;">“</span>Can’t
you come with me?” Pyune asked, her soft eyes pleading better than her gentle
voice.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .6pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .6pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan no-line-numbers; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-font-family: Georgia;">“</span>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!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .6pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .6pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan no-line-numbers; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-font-family: Georgia;">“</span>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?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .6pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .6pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan no-line-numbers; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-font-family: Georgia;">“</span>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?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .6pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .6pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan no-line-numbers; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-font-family: Georgia;">“</span>Oh,
not good at all. I just want to get the check and come back here.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .6pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .6pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan no-line-numbers; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;">
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?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .6pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .6pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan no-line-numbers; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-font-family: Georgia;">‘“</span>The
Today Show’!” Pyune drew her hands up to her face. “There’s no way, Wiley! I
just can’t do it!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .6pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .6pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan no-line-numbers; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;">
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.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .6pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .6pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan no-line-numbers; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;">
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.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .6pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .6pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan no-line-numbers; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;">
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.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .6pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .6pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan no-line-numbers; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;">
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.</div>
<br /><br />
<br />
Robert L. Bacon<br />
<a href="http://www.theperfectwrite.com/">theperfectwrite.com</a><br />
<br />
<br />
The Perfect Write® offers comprehensive editing services, from manuscript critiques to complete revisions, including line-editing, along with query letter design and composition. For pricing, send your project requirements to <a href="mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com">mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com</a><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
The Perfect Write®http://www.blogger.com/profile/15911456172776383647noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5113765841272949669.post-65057024887943442652016-02-10T23:23:00.003-05:002016-02-11T16:57:42.804-05:00THE ADVENTURES OF THE BRONZE HORSMEN--HUNT FOR THE WOLF CLAN, By Dave Mallegol<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<w:WordDocument>
<w:View>Normal</w:View>
<w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom>
<w:PunctuationKerning/>
<w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/>
<w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>
<w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent>
<w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>
<w:Compatibility>
<w:BreakWrappedTables/>
<w:SnapToGridInCell/>
<w:WrapTextWithPunct/>
<w:UseAsianBreakRules/>
<w:DontGrowAutofit/>
</w:Compatibility>
<w:BrowserLevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel>
</w:WordDocument>
</xml><![endif]--><br />
<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" LatentStyleCount="156">
</w:LatentStyles>
</xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]>
<style>
/* Style Definitions */
table.MsoNormalTable
{mso-style-name:"Table Normal";
mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0;
mso-tstyle-colband-size:0;
mso-style-noshow:yes;
mso-style-parent:"";
mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt;
mso-para-margin:0in;
mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt;
mso-pagination:widow-orphan;
font-size:10.0pt;
font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-ansi-language:#0400;
mso-fareast-language:#0400;
mso-bidi-language:#0400;}
</style>
<![endif]-->
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b><span style="line-height: 115%;">3000 BC</span></b></span></div>
<b>
</b><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b><span style="line-height: 115%;">Chapter #1 </span></b></span></div>
<b>
</b><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;">Daven and
the Botai</span> </span></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">My wife,
Ildiko, called to me, “Good morning, Daven.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I rolled over in our sleeping rack.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Their chatter was good to hear as I stretched and got up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I pulled on my horsehide pants and shirt and
washed my face in a clay basin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I pushed
my long black hair away from my face and<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>went to my beautiful, brown-haired wife of almost seventeen years and
hugged her, lifting her off the ground.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She laughed and I put her down to hug my daughter in the same manner.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Most of the work was already done, so there
was not much for me to do except smile my appreciation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>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?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">It was my
good friend, Victor of the Finns. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He and
his second in command, a man called Saabs, had arrived, along with their
wives.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I greeted both men with the
hunter’s clasp, a custom whereby each man grabs the forearm of the other.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That was not enough of a greeting for old
friends, so a big bear hug followed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>This current visit was to discuss the recent raids by an unknown
aggressor, so once again our meeting involved an enemy.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I smiled and
said, “Yes, Victor, what you have heard is true, I am the lead hunter once
again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I am glad of it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was gathering dust and getting bored, and
to tell the truth I missed leading the men.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I will explain just how this came about and bring you up-to-date with
what is happening here at the Botai village.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But Ildiko is cooking for you at our pit-house, so let’s walk as I
talk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She has made some of your famous pan
cakes, and they are waiting for you.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">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.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Victor
replied, “I certainly know Alex, and I remember his brother too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I hated to see you step down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You are the best hunter I have ever known,
and when it comes to war, there is no one who comes close to you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He laughed.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I nodded and
said, “I hope we never see another war.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I have had enough of them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You
might recall that my old friend, Bruno, was in favor of both of us stepping
aside so others could lead.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bruno told
me that he had been the Oldson of the Botai for long enough.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.’<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His words sounded good to me at
that time.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Bruno had a
large family with his second wife, Jewel, and several married children from his
first wife, who was deceased.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a good
decision for Bruno but not a good one for me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I missed my job as lead hunter every day.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Saabs asked
me, “Where did Alex come from?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I thought
you told me once that he was not a Botai by birth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Am I right?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“You are
right,” I replied.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Alex was not born a
Botai.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He comes from a Russian tribe far
to the north.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was taken captive by
the Mongols many years ago when he was still a boy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He cannot remember the name of the village
where he comes from.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We rescued him and
his brother from the Mongols, as well as Jewel and her evil sister, Tangee, and
several others.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some of the captives
stayed with our relatives, the Krasnyi Yar, and some came here to live at the
Botai village.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“How is it
that Alex became the leader of a clan he was not born into?” Victor asked me.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our wise elders agreed that he was the best
man to lead the Botai.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You probably
recall his winning the wrestling contests at the Summer Gatherings for many
years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Alex was ready.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Victor
asked, “I assume this new man did not do so well, and you took over again?” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I responded,
“Nicholas was a very good hunter and did quite well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He just needed more experience.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was his trainer and guide as he worked his
way into his new role.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was there to
advise him and teach him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After
the hunt, Bruno and I went over what happened and if we felt it was a success
or not.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We also talked about what we
could have done better.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Saabs asked,
“How well did this man called Nicholas do?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Nicholas
progressed very well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He led many hunts
for bears, aurochs and horses.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bears and
horses present danger, but aurochs are the most difficult animal to kill
because of their huge size and power.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>They weigh many times more than a horse, but while they are very strong
they are slow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We simply wound them and
follow them and wound them again and again until they are so weak that they
cannot run anymore.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then they stand and
face us.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Victor laughed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I imagine you have found the bears easier to
kill.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Yes, but
only because we now have trained dogs from your man called Lions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Before this, I would say that bears were the
most dangerous of all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now, the dogs do
most of the work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But hunting horses is
another story.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They are fast, and they
fight, kick and bite when they are attacked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>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.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“So what
happened with Nicholas?” Victor asked, still pressing for why I resumed the
role as lead hunter of the Botai.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“The last
horse hunt was where Nicholas had a problem.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We neared my pit-house as Victor and Saab’s wife approached from another
direction, and our conversation stopped for greetings. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span></div>
__________________________________________________________________
<br />
Robert L. Bacon<br />
<a href="http://www.theperfectwrite.com/">theperfectwrite.com</a><br />
For authors, The Perfect Write® is now providing<br />
<b>FREE QUERY LETTER REVIEW AND ANALYSIS</b>.<br />
<br />
Post your query to <a href="mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com">mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com</a>(no attachments)
and visit the <a href="http://www.theperfectwrite.com/sample-letters/">Sample Letters Page </a>for examples of successful query letters.<br />
<br />
The Perfect Write® offers comprehensive editing services, from manuscript critiques to complete revisions, including line-editing, along with query letter design and composition. For pricing, send your project requirements to <a href="mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com">mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com</a><br />
<br />
For business applications, The Perfect Write® also offers advanced services, from designing sophisticated sell sheets to crafting investor-appealing business plans for start-up enterprises. For a customized quote, please send your detailed project requirements to
<a href="mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com">mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com</a><br />
<br />
<br />The Perfect Write®http://www.blogger.com/profile/15911456172776383647noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5113765841272949669.post-2143363608933770372016-01-05T19:52:00.000-05:002016-01-05T19:59:21.449-05:00EVERYTHING TO LOSE By Pete and Judy Ratto<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<o:OfficeDocumentSettings>
<o:AllowPNG/>
<o:TargetScreenSize>1024x768</o:TargetScreenSize>
</o:OfficeDocumentSettings>
</xml><![endif]--><br />
<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<w:WordDocument>
<w:View>Normal</w:View>
<w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom>
<w:PunctuationKerning/>
<w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/>
<w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>
<w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent>
<w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>
<w:Compatibility>
<w:BreakWrappedTables/>
<w:SnapToGridInCell/>
<w:WrapTextWithPunct/>
<w:UseAsianBreakRules/>
<w:DontGrowAutofit/>
</w:Compatibility>
</w:WordDocument>
</xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" LatentStyleCount="156">
</w:LatentStyles>
</xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><img src="//img2.blogblog.com/img/video_object.png" style="background-color: #b2b2b2; " class="BLOGGER-object-element tr_noresize tr_placeholder" id="ieooui" data-original-id="ieooui" />
<style>
st1\:*{behavior:url(#ieooui) }
</style>
<![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]>
<style>
/* Style Definitions */
table.MsoNormalTable
{mso-style-name:"Table Normal";
mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0;
mso-tstyle-colband-size:0;
mso-style-noshow:yes;
mso-style-parent:"";
mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt;
mso-para-margin:0in;
mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt;
mso-pagination:widow-orphan;
font-size:10.0pt;
font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-ansi-language:#0400;
mso-fareast-language:#0400;
mso-bidi-language:#0400;}
</style>
<![endif]-->
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Chapter 1</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt;">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.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt;">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.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt;">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 style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I did what I had
to. He gave me no choice.</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt;">***</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt;">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 <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Grayson
for President</i> buttons. Tabloid reporters and photographers took strategic
positions at the iron-gated entrance to the prestigious institution.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt;">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.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt;">***</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt;">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.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt;">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 <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">he</i> deserved.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt;">***</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt;">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.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt;">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.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt;">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.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt;">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.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt;">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.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt;">As
president, Todd Grayson would take care of you.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt;">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.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt;">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.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“I
know, Douglas, but this is as important as a
stump speech,” Grayson said, his practiced smile never leaving his face.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt;">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.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“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?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt;">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.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt;">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?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt;">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. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sheila Rand.</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt;">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.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt;">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. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Where
is she? Was it her?</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Senator?”
the reporter prompted Grayson.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Grayson
eyed the reporter. Cain moved in to stand between them, but Grayson refused to
be intimidated. He grinned.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“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.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt;">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.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt;">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 <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">his</i> job.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt;">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.</span></div>
________________________________________________________________
<br />
<br />
Robert L. Bacon<br />
<a href="http://www.theperfectwrite.com/">theperfectwrite.com</a><br />
For authors, The Perfect Write® is now providing<br />
<b>FREE QUERY LETTER REVIEW AND ANALYSIS</b>.<br />
<br />
Post your query to <a href="mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com">mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com</a>(no attachments)
and visit the <a href="http://www.theperfectwrite.com/sample-letters/">Sample Letters Page </a>for examples of successful query letters.<br />
<br />
The Perfect Write® offers comprehensive editing services, from manuscript critiques to complete revisions, including line-editing, along with query letter design and composition. For pricing, send your project requirements to <a href="mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com">mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com</a><br />
<br />
For business applications, The Perfect Write® also offers advanced services, from designing sophisticated sell sheets to crafting investor-appealing business plans for start-up enterprises. For a customized quote, please send your detailed project requirements to
<a href="mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com">mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com</a><br />
<br />
<br />The Perfect Write®http://www.blogger.com/profile/15911456172776383647noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5113765841272949669.post-4852116191365153702015-11-20T15:02:00.001-05:002015-11-20T15:44:26.589-05:00CONSIDER THE SUNFLOWERSby Elma Schemenauer<!--[if !mso]>
<style>
v\:* {behavior:url(#default#VML);}
o\:* {behavior:url(#default#VML);}
w\:* {behavior:url(#default#VML);}
.shape {behavior:url(#default#VML);}
</style>
<![endif]--><br />
<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<w:WordDocument>
<w:View>Normal</w:View>
<w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom>
<w:PunctuationKerning/>
<w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/>
<w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>
<w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent>
<w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>
<w:Compatibility>
<w:BreakWrappedTables/>
<w:SnapToGridInCell/>
<w:WrapTextWithPunct/>
<w:UseAsianBreakRules/>
<w:DontGrowAutofit/>
</w:Compatibility>
<w:BrowserLevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel>
</w:WordDocument>
</xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" LatentStyleCount="156">
</w:LatentStyles>
</xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]>
<style>
/* Style Definitions */
table.MsoNormalTable
{mso-style-name:"Table Normal";
mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0;
mso-tstyle-colband-size:0;
mso-style-noshow:yes;
mso-style-parent:"";
mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt;
mso-para-margin:0in;
mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt;
mso-pagination:widow-orphan;
font-size:10.0pt;
font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-ansi-language:#0400;
mso-fareast-language:#0400;
mso-bidi-language:#0400;}
</style>
<![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<o:shapedefaults v:ext="edit" spidmax="1027"/>
</xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<o:shapelayout v:ext="edit">
<o:idmap v:ext="edit" data="1"/>
</o:shapelayout></xml><![endif]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">CONSIDER THE
SUNFLOWERS</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #231f20; letter-spacing: -.05pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-font-width: 110%;">C</span><span style="color: #231f20; letter-spacing: -.1pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-font-width: 110%;">o</span><span style="color: #231f20; letter-spacing: -.05pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-font-width: 110%;">p</span><span style="color: #231f20; letter-spacing: -.1pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-font-width: 110%;">yrig</span><span style="color: #231f20; letter-spacing: -.05pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-font-width: 110%;">h</span><span style="color: #231f20; letter-spacing: -.1pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-font-width: 110%;">t</span><span style="color: #231f20; letter-spacing: -.6pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-font-width: 110%;"> </span><span style="color: #231f20; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-font-width: 110%;">©<span style="letter-spacing: -.55pt;"> </span><span style="letter-spacing: -.05pt;">b</span><span style="letter-spacing: -.1pt;">y</span><span style="letter-spacing: -.55pt;"> </span><span style="letter-spacing: -.05pt;">E</span><span style="letter-spacing: -.1pt;">l</span><span style="letter-spacing: -.05pt;">m</span><span style="letter-spacing: -.1pt;">a</span><span style="letter-spacing: -.55pt;"> </span><span style="letter-spacing: -.1pt;">S</span><span style="letter-spacing: -.05pt;">chemen</span><span style="letter-spacing: -.1pt;">a</span><span style="letter-spacing: -.05pt;">ue</span><span style="letter-spacing: -.1pt;">r</span></span><br />
<br />
<h2>
<span style="color: #231f20; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-font-width: 110%;"><span style="letter-spacing: -.1pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Chapter 1</span> </span></span></h2>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Municipality of
Coyote, Saskatchewan, March 1940</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Tina felt like
liverwurst in a sandwich, trapped in the stalled truck between her dad and the
man he wanted her to marry. Rich, boring Roland Fast. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">From the looks of things, she might not survive to marry anyone.
Freezing to death seemed more likely. All she saw through the windshield was
blowing snow. Occasionally she glimpsed the fence beside the ditch they were
stuck in. Beyond the fence, only a wilderness of white glittering in the
afternoon light: no Saskatchewan prairie, no horizon, not even a telephone pole.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=5113765841272949669" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">She stamped her boots, trying to warm her icy feet. She should never
have agreed to come along and sketch Roland's horses. She liked horses, but
getting stranded in a blizzard wasn't supposed to be part of the deal. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">To be fair, she couldn't blame Roland and her dad. They weren't
expecting this storm. It had howled in from the northeast with hardly a whimper
of warning. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Her nostrils tingled with cold and the green-banana stench of Roland's
hair oil. She pulled the collar of her jacket higher, nudging him with her
elbow. "How about trying the ignition again?" If they got the truck
going, they'd at least have some heat. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Roland slumped over the steering wheel, his apple-cheeked profile
making him look younger than his twenty-eight years. "It's no use. This stupid
truck isn't going to start." </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"Don't blame the truck, Roland," Tina's dad said.
"There's probably snow in the engine."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Roland's sigh puffed out white in the frigid air. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Tina almost felt sorry for him. According to Roland, his 1940 Ford was
the most modern half-ton on the road. No other new model had such a powerful
engine. But all that horsepower under the hood was useless without a spark to
get it going. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Something like her and Roland. There wasn't any spark between them. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Her dad shifted on the seat, jostling her onto Roland's wide shoulder. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">She edged away. "Could we brush the snow out of the engine?"
she asked, sounding more hopeful than she felt.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Roland gave her a bleak smile, his face too close to hers. "I
doubt it in these conditions." </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"Okay, I just thought I'd ask." She didn't know how Roland
felt about her. Not knowing made her nervous. He was awkward with women, but
she sometimes caught him watching her with a certain softness in his eyes. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Whether he was interested or not, she should quit letting her parents
throw them together every time she came home from Vancouver. She should simply
tell her folks, "Look, I don't want you interfering in my life. I'm a
grown woman; I've got a job in the city. Anyway I'm in love with someone else."
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">She shuddered to think of the avalanche of questions her parents would
ask. She wasn't ready to answer them, not yet. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The wind whooped around the truck, rattling the windows.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Roland reached behind the seat, grabbed his hat, and plunked it over
his blond curls. "I think we should walk to Frank's house. It's the
closest."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Tina's heart jumped at the mention of the man she loved, but she kept
her expression blank. She didn't want her dad or Roland guessing how she felt
about Frank. They'd be shocked. Her dad would scold and rage. He wanted her to
marry a church-going Mennonite, preferably the owner of this impotent truck.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">She jerked her chin toward the bottle of pills in Roland's pocket.
"What about your mare? I thought she needed that medicine." </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"We'll get it to her as soon as we can, but we'll want someplace
to get warm along the way." His voice reminded her of a radio announcer
booming out news of Hitler's war. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Her dad rummaged under the seat, crowding her against Roland. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">She moved away.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Her dad sat up, his head bobbing. "Roland, do you have any
blankets? I think we should stay here till the storm lets up. It's too
dangerous to walk in weather like this."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Roland shot him a narrow-eyed look. "Obrom, we've got no heat in
here. We could freeze to death, even with blankets. This storm could last for
days."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"We could freeze outside, too." Tina's dad pulled his
handkerchief out of his pocket and gave his nose a honk. "The snow's
blowing too thick. We might get lost and wander around like drunkards."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"Not if we follow the pasture fence," Roland said.
"It'll lead us right to Frank's." He raised his eyebrows at Tina.
"What do you think?"</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">She peered out into the arctic blankness. If they stayed here, they'd
probably freeze unless someone came along and helped them—not likely. If they
braved the blizzard, they'd either reach shelter or die trying. "We can't
be far from Frank's," she said. She remembered passing his neighbour's
granaries before the storm hit. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"It's about a quarter-mile," Roland said. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Tina sucked in a chilly breath. "We can make it." It was
better to face danger head-on than wait around to see what would happen, wasn't
it? She reached into her pocket for her fuzzy woollen cap and tugged it down
over her ears. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Her dad's brow puckered like it did when he was deep in thought. With
all her heart Tina hoped she and Roland were making the right decision. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Her father sighed, then glanced from her to Roland as if they were a
couple. "I guess you young people are right." He put on his cap and
lowered the earflaps. Tina helped him tie his scarf over his nose and mouth.
Then he opened the passenger door and she plunged out after him.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=5113765841272949669" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The wind hit her hard, whistling through her cap and making her ears
smart. She pulled her scarf from under her jacket. Fighting the wind, she tied
it over her cap.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Her dad motioned for her to follow Roland, who was ploughing through
the ditch toward the fence. She struggled along in his footsteps with her
father close behind. Snow spilled into her boots, shocking her with coldness.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The drifts were shallower on the pasture side of the ditch. Strands of
barbed wire appeared and disappeared between blasts of snow. God willing, that
elusive fence would lead the three of them to her boyfriend's house. Tina dared
to smile. The good Lord must have a sense of humour.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"We'll walk in the pasture, away from the ditch," Roland
bellowed above the yowling wind. He set one boot on the lower wire of the
fence, held it down, and lifted the upper one, creating a gap for Tina to climb
through. She scrambled between the wires, careful not to catch her jacket on
the barbs, then stepped aside as her dad and Roland ducked through.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"Come on," Roland called, heading along the fence.
"Single file. Stay together."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Tina followed, admiring Roland's boldness in spite of herself. She knew
why her parents wanted her to marry him. He was strong, worked hard, and came from
a family who had owned an estate in the old country. Roland's ancestors had the
same Dutch-German-Mennonite background as hers. According to her folks, that
shared heritage would make a solid foundation for marriage and children. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">But Roland was as boring as turnips compared with Frank. Her Frank was
hot peppers, red cabbage, and wild mushrooms. He was adventure, music, and
laughter. Some people said he didn't have the gumption to buckle down to
farming, but they didn't know him like Tina did. He just needed a good woman to
settle him down. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Her hands ached with cold, even in the coyote-skin mittens Frank had
given her. She clenched and unclenched her fists, trying to get her circulation
going, then peered over her shoulder to see how her dad was doing. His tall
figure loomed through a whirling smoke of snow. The scarf over his nose and
mouth was white with frost from his breath clouding into the air. She motioned
for him to shift the icy patch away from his face and turned to follow Roland
again. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">She didn't see him. Where was Roland? She took a few steps forward,
feeling like a ship without a rudder, and almost bumped into a lumpy
snow-covered mound. It seemed big, wider than an outhouse though not as high. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"Tina!" Roland's shout came from ahead and to her right.
"This way."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">A bolt of relief shot through her as she spied Roland chugging along
beyond the obstacle. She checked to make sure her father was still behind her,
then followed Roland, grateful for the partial shelter offered by the mound of
whatever it was.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">A rock pile. Of course. Frank's father had picked tons of rocks off his
land when he farmed here. This must be one of the places where he'd chosen to
dump them. She fought the wind to the far side of the rocks. Once she was clear
of them, she caught sight of the fence again and turned to wave to her dad. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">He wasn't there. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Tina's heart fluttered like a bird caught in a fox's jaws. She drew a
breath to call to Roland, then saw something long and dark slumped beside the
rocks. "Roland," she shrieked, "something's wrong with
Dad." She stumbled toward her father, fell, picked herself up, and hurtled
forward.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> ______________________________________________________________</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Robert L. Bacon</div>
<a href="http://www.theperfectwrite.com/">theperfectwrite.com</a><br />
<br />
For authors, The Perfect Write® is now providing<br />
<b>FREE QUERY LETTER REVIEW AND ANALYSIS</b>.<br />
<br />
Post your query to <a href="mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com">mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com</a>(no attachments)
and visit the <a href="http://www.theperfectwrite.com/sample-letters/">Sample Letters Page </a>for examples of successful query letters.<br />
<br />
The Perfect Write® offers comprehensive editing services, from manuscript critiques to complete revisions, including line-editing, along with query letter design and composition. For pricing, send your project requirements to <a href="mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com">mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com.</a><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />The Perfect Write®http://www.blogger.com/profile/15911456172776383647noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5113765841272949669.post-43747339003898589832015-08-07T15:22:00.000-04:002015-09-14T14:04:35.388-04:00I MARY by Mike Hartner<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<w:WordDocument>
<w:View>Normal</w:View>
<w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom>
<w:PunctuationKerning/>
<w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/>
<w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>
<w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent>
<w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>
<w:Compatibility>
<w:BreakWrappedTables/>
<w:SnapToGridInCell/>
<w:WrapTextWithPunct/>
<w:UseAsianBreakRules/>
<w:DontGrowAutofit/>
</w:Compatibility>
<w:BrowserLevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel>
</w:WordDocument>
</xml><![endif]--><br />
<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" LatentStyleCount="156">
</w:LatentStyles>
</xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><img src="//img2.blogblog.com/img/video_object.png" style="background-color: #b2b2b2; " class="BLOGGER-object-element tr_noresize tr_placeholder" id="ieooui" data-original-id="ieooui" />
<style>
st1\:*{behavior:url(#ieooui) }
</style>
<![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]>
<style>
/* Style Definitions */
table.MsoNormalTable
{mso-style-name:"Table Normal";
mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0;
mso-tstyle-colband-size:0;
mso-style-noshow:yes;
mso-style-parent:"";
mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt;
mso-para-margin:0in;
mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt;
mso-pagination:widow-orphan;
font-size:10.0pt;
font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-ansi-language:#0400;
mso-fareast-language:#0400;
mso-bidi-language:#0400;}
</style>
<![endif]-->
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Chapter 1</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
looked upon the gray waters that surrounded me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>To the west it was dark and cloudy, the wind blustering.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But as I braced myself against the gale
hitting full force against my peacoat, I smiled. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It
was fitting that I was here, and nothing could ever convince me otherwise.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d been birthed on land but it wasn’t long
afterward that I was on the water—and acquiring my sea legs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>From the time I could walk, I learned to
balance myself on the uneven deck. And later to climb the gnarly spars and
ultimately the sayles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My parents taught
me my numbers and to read and write as well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Numbers, well, was my best subject, and I was good at that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But my time at sea was what I loved the
most.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In truth, the only fun I remember
in my childhood was when they took me on our merchant ship from our home in Portsmouth to London or to Bristol.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It wasn’t the location that I liked or the
end of the journey; no, for me it was the sayling, standing on the deck,
listening to the wind, watching the ocean and the clouds and . . .<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>late at night . . . the stars.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wanted to be on the sea forever, and I knew
this from my very first time aboard ship. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
remember very well every one of those trips, because during each voyage I would
close my eyes and concentrate, and it was as if I were talking to the
water.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And through a combination of
waves and the ship’s motion, it felt as if the sea was in turn communicating
with me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
recall all of the journeys with my father and his good friend, Captain Jose.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The saylors on those ships were always good
to me, and I came to respect all of them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>They taught me sayling while they went about their own jobs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even as a little kid I<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>was taught how to tie knots.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And when I was eleven they instructed me on
how to throw knives and swing a cutlass.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Soon afterward I was taught how to prime, load, and shoot a musket.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I turned up my nose at the musket, even
the smaller flintlock pistols.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To me,
there was no honor in this sort of fight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>No great talent was needed to shoot somebody.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Any idiot could pull a trigger.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In my mind, it required real skill to defeat
a man, or woman for that matter, with a cutlass.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And, yes, I will take up swords against a
woman.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because, you see, I am one also. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Captain
Jose had been a friend of the family since before I was born.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’d sayled with my father, James, and my
mother, Rosalind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I heard the stories of
the trip from Kilwa, where I was born, and then to Portsmouth, where we now live.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t know how they originally met because
I haven’t been told that yet, but Captain Jose is so close to the family that
I’ve always called him Uncle Jose or Uncle for short.<br />
Currently, I am not quite twelve years old,
thin as a rail, a little over eleven hands high, and maybe weighing four stone
soaking wet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My hair is long enough to
wear tied behind so it looks like the tail on a pony, but many men wear their
hair the same way, so no one would know I was a girl just by looking at me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
was in the office of Crofter Shipping Yards one day when Uncle Jose called me
to him said, “Come over here and sit down.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He was always so nice to me that I never hesitated at any request of
his, so I took a seat next to him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He
gave me a funny look, kind of sly but not really since he smiled right away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I’ve already talked to your parents, and
both James and Rosalind agree with me.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
looked at him and fidgeted, not having a clue what he was going to say next.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You’ve
sayled with your father and me all your life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We brought you to Portsmouth
on a carrack many years ago.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You’ve been
on the caravel we sayled to Le Havre and on a
special boat too, a cog—the one with just one sayle—when we sayled to London.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
nodded at him, but I was confused.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Had I done something wrong?</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Mary,
there is a caravel that will be leaving these shipping yards in a little over a
week.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It's headed to the north of Scotland.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Seldom do pirates sayle these waters, so
other than weather it will be relatively safe and . . .”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My eyes widened.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Was I getting the right message?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Was he really doing this?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Was he really going to make my dream come
true?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“If you should be interested, I
can schedule you to take your sayling tests in the next few days so you can be
on that caravel and start out as part of the crew on this trip.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This way, you can see if sayling is really
what you want to do.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
threw myself at Uncle Jose. “Yes, yes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Please, yes.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
laughed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Then let’s go get you some
sayling clothes and set you up to crew on your very first ship.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then I’ll introduce you to the captain.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I jumped up from my chair but Uncle Jose
pointed to me so I’d<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>retake my
seat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His face turned solemn, almost to
a frown.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“There’s something we need to
discuss, and this won’t be easy to talk about.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I brought this up this with your parents, and they told me to go ahead
and tell you.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Uncle
Jose’s change of attitude was so great that I was startled.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I don’t understand.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’ve
already spoken to the captain, since I assumed you’d say yes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And he assured me that his main crew will
respect you as a girl and also as a Crofter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But there are always new men brought on board.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And even though the regular crew is honorable
as far as this captain knows, they are still men of the sea.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mary, do you understand what I’m saying to
you?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Your
crew was always wonderful to me.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As
soon as I said this I started to think back to all the times the men had helped
me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You
were a young girl who was the daughter of the owner of the ship, and I was the
captain who knew each man well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If
anyone had stepped out of line, he would have been run through or thrown
overboard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This will be different, and
you must understand that you are older now, almost a woman if you aren’t
already.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t know how else to put
it, but to say you will have to be on your guard at all times.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The captain will have a couple of his most
trusted men watching over you, but even a caravel is a big enough boat that . .
. well, no person can be looked after day and night.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
hadn’t given what Uncle Jose was talking about a single thought, but I wasn’t
scared.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I’m not saying I can take down
a saylor, but I know how to defend myself, and Mother has taught me how to hurt
a man where it hurts the most.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Uncle
Jose let out a muffled laugh that might’ve been a groan.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Always know who’s around you, and be aware
that you’re going to constantly have to prove yourself.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Because
I’m a girl?” I snapped, mad that I’d done so at Uncle Jose.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes,”
he came back just as fast, but then he smiled and showed his big teeth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Just be aware that nothing I have said was
with the intent of trying to talk you off the boat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I just don’t want you—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Uncle
Jose, I’ve heard the men talk on the boats since I was first able to walk the
decks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sometimes I’d hear things that I
know I wasn’t supposed to, and as I got older many saylors didn’t even think I
was not one of them, so I’m not unaware that men are going to be men at
times.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can handle myself, I promise.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Let
us hope you don’t have to.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He stared
hard at me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“At least with the crew.”<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Click the link to read more of <a href="http://www.amazon.com/I-Mary-Eternity-Book-3-ebook/dp/B00Y7I7LRQ/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1438976379&sr=8-1&keywords=i+mary+by+mike+hartner">I, MARY</a> or to purchase this book on Amazon.</span></div>
_________________________________________________________________<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Robert L. Bacon<br />
<a href="http://www.theperfectwrite.com/">theperfectwrite.com</a><br />
<br />
For authors, The Perfect Write® is now providing<br />
<b>FREE QUERY LETTER REVIEW AND ANALYSIS</b>.<br />
Post your query to <a href="mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com">mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com</a>(no attachments)
and visit the <a href="http://www.theperfectwrite.com/sample-letters/">Sample Letters Page </a>for examples of successful query letters.<br />
<br />
The Perfect Write® offers comprehensive editing services, from manuscript critiques to complete revisions, including line-editing, along with query letter design and composition. For pricing, send your project requirements to <a href="mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com">mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com.</a><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />The Perfect Write®http://www.blogger.com/profile/15911456172776383647noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5113765841272949669.post-15188020324591842202015-02-08T20:36:00.001-05:002015-02-08T20:36:07.688-05:00ANGRY ENOUGH TO KILL by Sheryl Dunn<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<w:WordDocument>
<w:View>Normal</w:View>
<w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom>
<w:PunctuationKerning/>
<w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/>
<w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>
<w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent>
<w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>
<w:Compatibility>
<w:BreakWrappedTables/>
<w:SnapToGridInCell/>
<w:WrapTextWithPunct/>
<w:UseAsianBreakRules/>
<w:DontGrowAutofit/>
</w:Compatibility>
<w:BrowserLevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel>
</w:WordDocument>
</xml><![endif]--><br />
<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" LatentStyleCount="156">
</w:LatentStyles>
</xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><img src="//img2.blogblog.com/img/video_object.png" style="background-color: #b2b2b2; " class="BLOGGER-object-element tr_noresize tr_placeholder" id="ieooui" data-original-id="ieooui" />
<style>
st1\:*{behavior:url(#ieooui) }
</style>
<![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]>
<style>
/* Style Definitions */
table.MsoNormalTable
{mso-style-name:"Table Normal";
mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0;
mso-tstyle-colband-size:0;
mso-style-noshow:yes;
mso-style-parent:"";
mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt;
mso-para-margin:0in;
mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt;
mso-pagination:widow-orphan;
font-size:10.0pt;
font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-ansi-language:#0400;
mso-fareast-language:#0400;
mso-bidi-language:#0400;}
</style>
<![endif]-->
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-family: "Copperplate Gothic Bold"; font-size: 22.0pt;">CHAPTER
ONE</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-family: "Copperplate Gothic Bold"; font-size: 16.0pt;">HUNTING
SEASON</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><sub><span style="font-family: "Copperplate Gothic Bold"; font-size: 28.0pt;">L</span></sub></b><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">oring Jeremias is tempted to turn back,
but this decision is not reversible. No. She's come too far and given up too
much. The time to reconsider is past.</span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";"> </span>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">In the late fall chill, she quickens
her pace along the forest trail, the ground hard and frozen beneath her
moccasins. The winter snows have yet to fall in Jackson, Wyoming,
and for this, she is grateful. The sawed-off shotgun digs through the backpack
into her waist. She shrugs its weight to the side, rubs her hands over her arms
to warm them, and forces her fingers deep into her gloves. Her mouth is so
parched, her lips cling to her teeth. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">
The fog forms and fades away, only to form again in different shapes,
hunters...witnesses. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBlockText" style="text-indent: 14.25pt;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">Don't think. Just get it done.</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">Beside the Snake
River, trees pierce the haze. Tendrils of fog slither down the
alder standing alone in the center of the clearing, and she imagines them
creeping along the ground toward her. Magpies tch, tch, tch. An eagle
screeches, wings flapping, and the river churns in the distance.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">At the side of the clearing, she
clambers over a fallen pine, and crawls under the boughs she arranged so
meticulously the day before. The laces on one of her moccasins have come undone.
She ties them, this time with a double knot, loads the tranquilizer pistol and
settles down. It shouldn't be long now.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";"> </span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">Nothing obstructs her view of the
pathway leading from the town to the river. She rests her arms on the log, and
waits. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">Something crawls up her neck. She swats
at it; a spider lands on her arm. She coughs back a scream, and brushes it off.
After a time, her knees ache and she shifts on the damp leaves, releasing a
whiff of mold and decay.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";"></span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">A twig snaps. </span>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; tab-stops: 12.75pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">Her hand tightens around the dart
pistol. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBlockText" style="text-indent: 14.25pt;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">Please let it be Devlin.</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">He's whistling, a tuneless wheeze she's
heard before, and he carries a plastic bag. She knows what's inside: a Sears
catalog with pictures of children in their back-to-school clothes.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";"> </span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">Will he take a leak as he did yesterday
and the day before? She tries not to breathe.</span>
</div>
<div class="MsoBlockText" style="text-indent: 14.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">He hangs the bag on a branch of the alder and unzips his
fly. Urine steams against the tree. He grunts, zips up and paws for the bag. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBlockText" style="text-indent: 14.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">The dart won't kill him, but if they find him before the
Medetomidine-Ketamine dissipates... </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">Too many ifs.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";"> </span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">She fires.</span>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";"> </span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">"What the fuck?" He grabs his
rump, yanks out the dart, and frowns.</span>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";"> </span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">She rises and shakes the branches from
her shoulders.</span>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";"> </span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">His hand grasps for the tree. He
stumbles and drops to his knees, as though praying for forgiveness.</span>
</div>
<div class="MsoBodyText2" style="tab-stops: .5in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.25pt;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">Damn, he's going to fall
forward. </span></i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">She wants to
rush to him, to prop him up, but she waits for the drug to take effect. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText2" style="tab-stops: .5in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">He rubs his eyes and
squints. He's hallucinating. She can hear her own ragged breathing over his
mumbled gibberish.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText2" style="margin-right: 27.9pt; tab-stops: .5in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 13.5pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">When he
falls forward on his hands and knees, and leans to the side, she scrambles to
him, props him up with her hip. She places the shotgun on the ground, picks up
the dart and jams it into its case in the pocket of her vest. One piece of
evidence out of the way.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText2" style="margin-right: 27.9pt; tab-stops: .5in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 13.5pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">His
eyelids flutter, his jaw sags, and when his head nods, she rolls him onto his
back the way she learned in First Aid. It's easier than she thought. Too much
beer and age have thinned his bones, wasted his muscles. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText2" style="margin-right: 27.9pt; tab-stops: .5in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 13.5pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">With her
arms under his armpits, she drags him and props his back against the tree. His
body remains upright. No need for the rope in her backpack to keep him in
place. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText2" style="margin-right: 27.9pt; tab-stops: .5in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 13.5pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">Fetid
whiffs of sweat and mothballs rise from his wool jacket. She holds her breath,
picks up the shotgun and confirms the chamber is empty.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">To
test the suicide position, she wedges the gun barrel into his chin with the
butt on the ground between his legs, close to his groin. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent2" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">His eyelashes . . . long and curled
like a child's. He was someone's child once. But so was she. </span></div>
<div class="heading" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">She needs his
prints. He's right-handed--for days she watched him open doors, drink beer, and
scratch his nose, all with his right hand. But early in the morning, in the
woods, and free from the vigilant eyes of the locals who tried unsuccessfully
to run him out of town, he turns the pages of his scrapbook with his left hand.
His special pictures. His special children.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent2" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">She places his right hand around the
trigger guard, shoves the thumb into the slot, presses hard, removes the hand
and clamps the fingers and thumb around the stock and again on the action and
barrel. Except for the area around the trigger guard, she repeats the process
with his left hand, near the muzzle end, compressing thumb and fingers into the
barrel, and steadies it under his stubbled chin. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent2" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">Satisfied, she removes the box of
shells from her pocket, keeps two, and scatters the rest on the ground. She
presses his fingers onto the box and on the shells.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent2" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">From the backpack, she pulls out the
drop sheet, shrouds her body from head to toe. She finds the armholes and
ensures the gun is in the proper position, but when she tries to chamber a
shell, the grip won't move. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.25pt;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">Damn.</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";"></span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">She pumps.</span>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";"></span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">Nothing.</span>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";"></span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">She pumps again.</span>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";"></span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">Thunk. The grip loads.</span>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";"></span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">She drops to her haunches and rams the
barrel under his chin. The world pauses, waiting for her to fall. She remembers
to breathe.</span>
</div>
<div class="MsoBlockText" style="text-indent: 13.5pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">Gritting
her teeth, she thinks about the children and squeezes the trigger.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBlockText" style="text-indent: 13.5pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">Sound
waves blast through her and beyond. And blood, so much blood. Brain tissue
gushes onto the drop sheet, splatters on the tree, startling her even though
she memorized the after-effects of shotgun suicides. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">Wave upon wave of nausea. Gagging
sounds.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";"></span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">Hers.</span>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.25pt;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";"></span></i><i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">Run.</span></i>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.25pt;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";"></span></i><i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">Hide. Anywhere. Anywhere but the
closet, that musty closet, behind Mommy's muskrat coat.</span></i>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";"></span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">But she mustn't run. She cannot leave
evidence. She has done what she had to do; now she must save herself and the
others who depend on her to escape.</span>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";"></span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">She sacrifices stealth for speed, rises
and folds the sheet into itself and away from her. An alert forensic
investigator might notice a gap in the splatter pattern where her body shielded
the ground, but the investigators might be parents. A parent might choose to
overlook many things.</span>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";"></span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">Or might not.</span>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";"></span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">Perhaps animals will disturb the site
and cover her tracks.</span>
</div>
<div class="MsoBlockText" style="text-indent: 14.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">Hurrying now, down the bank to the river, rinsing the drop
sheet, folding it into itself, resisting the urge to plunge into the river
until her soul runs clear, stuffing the drop sheet into a green garbage bag,
cramming it into her backpack. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBlockText" style="text-indent: 15.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">She's
still alone. Still safe.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">She hangs a camera around her neck, and
pulls an orange vest over her camouflage jacket. If other hunters come, she'll
say she was hiking, taking pictures, heard the shot, and found him.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";"></span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">She will cry. It won't be difficult to
cry.</span>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";"></span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">One last check of the site. Devlin's
bag still hangs on the tree. Would he have brought it today? No, not if he intended
suicide. She shoves it into the backpack. Are there furrows where she dragged
him? A few. She scuffs the dirt with a fallen branch.</span>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";"></span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">Where's the spent shell?</span>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";"></span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">It should be on his left. No, his
right.</span>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.25pt;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";"></span></i><i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">Think!</span></i>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";"></span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">She can't see it. She should be able to
spot the red casing. </span>
</div>
<div class="MsoBlockText" style="text-indent: 15.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">Did
she trap it in the drop sheet and flush it into the river? What if she can't
find it? </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">Tears push at her eyes. It must look
like a suicide. She cannot fail now.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";"></span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">She steps back. "Calm down.
Breathe." She's muttering, but can't stop.</span>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";"></span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">With a stick, she checks up and down
his clothes.</span>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";"></span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">Nothing.</span>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";"></span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">She pokes the leafy debris.</span>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";"></span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">A glimpse. Red plastic and brass still
in the chamber. How could she have forgotten? Pump-action shotguns don't eject
the shell until the next round is chambered. She swallows to moisten her tongue
and struggles to her feet. When she checks her clothes and her moccasins, she
can't see any evidence. No obvious bloodstains, no brain tissue. She backs away
from the body, shoulders the backpack and slides the straps over her jacket. </span>
</div>
<div class="MsoBodyText2" style="tab-stops: .5in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">To survive now, she must
leave unseen and she must forget, but forgetting is not one of her skills. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">Along the trail, she prays they'll find
his body soon, that she'll read about his suicide in the <i>Jackson Hole News
and Guide</i> when she checks the Internet back in New York. A pointless prayer because what
will be, will be, and that's okay.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";"></span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">The sun breaks through the sky's
stinging haze. She feels exposed. Someone is shining a flashlight into her
eyes, the closet door is open, and she can see Daddy's shoes, and Daddy,
waiting.</span>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";"></span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">At the edge of the forest, protected by
the pines, she watches a Range Rover leave the</span><span style="font-family: Andalus;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">Edelweiss
Motel's parking lot and turn left onto Harbinger Road. When it chuffs out of
sight, she slips out of the woods and into the end unit of the motel, changes
her clothes, and cleans the room. She shuts the door behind her, throws the
backpack into the trunk of her nondescript Ford and drives away.</span>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";"></span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">For the first hundred miles, she fights
back nausea, and grips the steering wheel with whitened knuckles until her
hands cramp. Gunshot echoes rumble in her ears.</span>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";"></span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">Will they ever disappear? She wants to
forget them, but she won't. She knows she won't.</span>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";"></span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">At the second hundred-mile interval,
she buries her moccasins and the drop sheet in the woods. At the third, she
rips the Sears catalog to shreds, imagining that same catalog sitting so
openly, so innocently on the coffee tables of homes with children. She stuffs
the pieces into the bag, buries it, and tries not to think about the picture of
a little girl she knows, holding a Barbie doll, Gold Jubilee edition. </span>
</div>
<div class="MsoBlockText" style="text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">The
dirt settles over the bag. She exhales and straightens her shoulders. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText2" style="tab-stops: .5in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">Later, deep in the woods,
she digs one last hole, burns her hunting clothes and gloves, and buries the
ashes.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText2" style="margin-right: -.35pt; tab-stops: .5in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">From time
to time along the way home, she pulls over and tries to sleep in the back seat,
a shallow sleep, floating on top of a pond roughed by the wind. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText2" style="margin-right: -.35pt; tab-stops: .5in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">In Summit, New
Jersey, she parks the car in a garage she rents under
a false name, and changes into a navy business suit. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText2" style="margin-right: -.35pt; tab-stops: .5in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">She will
take the Transit to Hoboken
and the P.A.T.H. train to the subway. She'll ride the elevator to her office.
There, she'll search for hints of suspicion in her colleagues' voices, and
pretend to be normal. She's had a lifetime of pretending to be normal.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText2" style="margin-right: 27.9pt; tab-stops: .5in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">Perhaps
her next murder will be easier.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br /><br />
<br />
Robert L. Bacon<br />
<a href="http://www.theperfectwrite.com/">theperfectwrite.com</a><br />
<br />
For authors, The Perfect Write® is now providing<br />
<b>FREE QUERY LETTER REVIEW AND ANALYSIS</b>.<br />
<br />
Post your query to <a href="mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com">mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com</a>(no attachments)<br />
and visit the <a href="http://www.theperfectwrite.com/sample-letters/">Sample Letters Page </a>for examples of successful query letters.<br />
<br />
<br />
The Perfect Write® offers comprehensive editing services, from manuscript critiques to complete revisions, including line-editing, along with query letter design and composition. For pricing, send your project requirements to <a href="mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com">mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com</a><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
The Perfect Write®http://www.blogger.com/profile/15911456172776383647noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5113765841272949669.post-24323763222539901082014-02-18T11:34:00.000-05:002014-02-18T11:51:57.488-05:00The Adventures of The Bronze Horsemen by Dave Mallegol<b> <span style="font-size: x-large;">3000 B.C.</span></b><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span><br />
<b> <span style="font-size: large;">Scarman</span></b><br />
<br />
I was positive he was the same man, the one from the Smolens who killed my mother and my father twenty-five years ago. He had the scar on his shoulder from when I wounded him with my child’s bow. He also had the long scar that ran from the top of his head, across his face, and down to the point of his chin. His real name was Carcusa, but because of his face, everyone knew him as Scarman.<br />
<br />
I am Daven, lead hunter and second-in-command of the Botai. Bruno is our leader—our oldson—and my longtime friend. It was Scarman and the Smolens who drove us from our home village so long ago.<br />
<br />
The village controlled a valuable reindeer migration route. Every year the animals migrated to the north, and we took what meat we needed for the next six months. When the herd came south to avoid the harsh winters, we did the same thing. The herd provided all the protein we needed. At that time, we were a small group of twenty-two men, women, and children, known as the Horse Clan. We had two related clans who still hunted and gathered, rather than settle into a village as we did. We saw them occasionally on hunts and at the annual summer gathering.<br />
<br />
Bruno and I were children when the Smolens, led by Scarman, attacked without warning, again and again. The attackers wanted our village, because of the location and the meat it provided us. My parents and several others were killed in those raids. When just fifteen of us were left, the oldson decided that the Smolens were too strong for us. He said we could not fight them any longer, and we relocated to our present village on the Ishim River across the great Volga River. As a young man, I vowed to take our original homeland back some day. It is a vow I have not forgotten.<br />
<br />
The last time I saw Scarman was when he attacked us the final time. I shot him with an arrow from my boy’s bow and ran for my life. Now, he was my captive. Yesterday, I chopped off four of the five fingers on his right hand, but he spit at me and refused to answer my questions. I let him agonize in pain overnight. Today, I returned with my bronze sword.<br />
<br />
Bruno and I approached the two captives—Scarman and the ten-year-old boy—sitting on the ground tied to poles. Joining us were several hunters and one of the elder women, Emma, who spoke a language they could understand. I told Emma to repeat in her Finnish language the questions we had asked Scarman yesterday. She said, “What is your name, why are you here, and how many hunters does your tribe have?” Scarman sneered at me.<br />
<br />
My anger was boiling with revenge for my parents, yet I had to gain as much information from this enemy as was possible. What I failed to hear was the comment made by the ten-year-old boy, the second captive, when he spoke late yesterday in his Finnish tongue. This morning he repeated his words, and Emma turned to me and said, “Daven, the boy says he will tell you everything you want to know, but only after the scout is dead.”<br />
<br />
I replied to Emma in our Botai language, “It almost seems too easy to kill the scout and hope the boy can answer all my concerns. I will get more information from the scout before we turn to him. The boy may tell us everything he knows, but it might be only a small part of what the lead scout knows.” Bruno nodded in agreement.<br />
<br />
Emma repeated my question. Bruno and Toth, one of our Hungarian friends, listened and watched, along with our clan leaders. The scar-faced man laughed at me, his hand still bloody from the damage I did to him yesterday. I raised my sword as a threat, and he spit in my direction.<br />
<br />
His arrogance made me angry, which was the wrong thing for him to do at a time like this. I swung in a downward motion and chopped off part of his right foot. Bones splintered and blood spattered from the stub where his foot was a moment ago. Scarman knew his death was coming, and he writhed in pain. I looked at the piece of his foot lying on the ground and stuck my sword into it. I held the severed foot in his face until it fell off my blade in his lap. When he screamed, The boy shuddered in terror, and urine ran between his legs.<br />
<br />
I let Scarman suffer for some time before I ordered three men to bring kindling wood. They made a fire a short distance from my prisoner’s remaining foot. He watched as the flames came to a full fire. I am sure he wondered what was coming next. He moaned and hung his head, but this was just beginning for him.<br />
<br />
I had no trouble with what I was doing to him. This man had killed my mother by slitting her throat, and he killed my father in a fight to the death when the Smolens took our village. I let him feel the pain from his stump for some time. Then I ordered the men, “Push the fire close to his remaining foot.”<br />
<br />
Scarman held his foot off the ground to avoid the flames, but it was only a matter of time before his leg tired, and he could not hold the foot out of the fire. The remaining foot came down, little by little, closer and closer to the flames. It started smoking, and the skin blackened as his flesh burned. He moaned again, the pain unbearable. His toes smoked and oozed a light-colored liquid that dripped into the flame and made it sputter. The smell of burning flesh was distinct and ugly—I felt as though I might throw up. Others in the pit house—a home that is built half under the ground and half above it—looked away, and some left. The young boy vomited whatever he had in his stomach and turned his head away from the scene.<br />
<br />
I nodded to Emma, and she repeated my questions to the writhing scout. “What is your name, why are you here, and how many hunters do the Smolens have?” Scarman was in such terrible pain that he could not respond. His head sagged in defeat. Hopelessness was exactly what I wanted. His will was broken. Tough, mean men like this one can sometimes endure hard, sharp pain, but being burned piece by piece is not something anyone can endure for very long. This man Carcusa was one of the toughest, but his stubbornness was gone. He raised his good hand just a bit in surrender.<br />
<br />
I ordered the fire pushed away from his foot. I let him feel the relief from the searing heat for a while before I approached him again. Emma took a breath, as if to ask the same question again, when he finally spoke. “My name is Carcusa. I am called Scarman.” He looked into my eyes and said, “I am your equal with my people, the lead scout and hunter for the Smolens.”<br />
<br />
I stood over him and waited for the rest of the answer. His agony was obvious as he took short shallow breaths and exhaled rapidly. He said, “I was sent to find a village we Smolens could conquer for expansion. We have 140 people—over sixty fighters plus many boys who will become men by spring. They will come and kill you and your families if I do not return. A village this size will be no problem for them. They will destroy you. Your wives and children are already dead. My men will eat tender flesh from your children. Kill me, and you kill your families.” Emma translated word for word to be sure I understood exactly what he said.<br />
<br />
I smiled. His threat was hardly worth a response. I took my time and questioned him for most of the morning, getting every bit of information possible from him. When I knew all that he knew, I reminded him of that day, twenty-five summers ago, when he led the attack on the Horse Clan who once lived where the Smolens live now. My sword pressed against the old scar on his right shoulder, causing a new trickle of blood. I made my point and spoke in an angry, unforgiving voice. “You got that scar from me when I was a boy. The long scar on your face is from my father, just before you killed him.” I asked him, “Do you remember my mother? You cut her throat in a raid two weeks before the day you killed my father.”<br />
<br />
He raised his head, his pain obvious as he said, “I do not remember your mother. I do remember when I was wounded by your arrow, and I remember your father very well. He fought hard. I suffered for two moons from his knife. I have killed so many others that I do not recall the rest of them, like your mother. She is one of many and impossible to remember.”<br />
<br />
I asked Bruno if he had any more questions. He did not. I asked Janos, Jon, and Mikl, as heads of their clans, if they had any more questions; they had none. George, a senior hunter, was present, although he was not a clan leader, and he shook his head when I looked in his direction. Toth, lead hunter of the Hungarians, asked, “Why were your men scouting my Hungarian village? Who sent them? Were they sent to find another village to conquer?”<br />
<br />
The Smolens leader nodded his head. “Yes, they were part of a second scout team sent by my leader, Terracon, a fearsome man. The Smolens need more space and more food. We need to move south to get more distance between us and our enemies, the Finns. We have been at war with them for two years.” Scarman said, “The Finns are poor hunters and complain they do not get their share of reindeer meat. Terracon is an insane animal, a madman in human form. I have no doubt he will conquer this place and avenge my death.” I paid no attention to this dying man’s comments.<br />
<br />
Mikl asked the captive, “Who is this boy, and why is he here with you?”<br />
<br />
The Smolens scout was bleeding from the stump of one foot and the burns of the other one. He barely voiced his reply. “He is a worthless piece of dung, the son of my second wife. I brought him with me to teach him to be a man and to learn the ways of a scout. Do what you want with him. He is a weakling and worth nothing. He knows nothing more than what I told you.” I sensed the captive was trying to protect the boy, even as his own life was slipping away.<br />
<br />
With no more to learn from this man, it was time for him to die. He knew it was coming. I had what I wanted—knowledge of the enemy. After all these years, I would have revenge for my parents, but death for this one would not be easy. I let him suffer for some time while I reminded him of what he had done to so many Horse Clan families and children. Carcusa lapsed in and out of consciousness. Every time he nodded off, I jabbed him in his shoulder to be sure he was awake. I stood to his side where he could see me and laid my sword on his head and sliced back and forth, cutting through his scalp. I let my sword rest there for a minute as blood ran down his face. He trembled in anticipation of my final move.<br />
<br />
At the end, Scarman said, “Terracon, the man known as the Controller of the Earth, will avenge my death. He will rape your wives and mothers and cut up your children while you are made to watch. You will all die. My leader loves me more than he cares for his own brother. He will come when you least expect it. Do what you must do, but mark my words: Terracon will come for you, just as I did years ago.”<br />
<br />
I had heard enough. I raised my sword and let him see it as I swung it in a wide circle. With one hard slash, I severed his head from his body. The head fell to the ground and rolled across the pit-house floor, leaving a bloody trail behind it. Carcusa’s ordeal was over. Alex and Nicholas, two of the former Russian slaves we had rescued and now members of the Botai, dragged his body to the river and threw it in. His head followed his body. Carcusa did not deserve a burial. The river rats and scavengers would be his companions from here on.<br />
<br />
The captive boy slumped in a heap. He had passed out, yet he was still tied to his pole. He was uninjured, except for the arrow wound my guards gave him when he was captured a few days ago. To everyone’s surprise, I ordered the boy revived, fed, and given water. Patts, our lead medicine woman, sent her assistant, Elizza, to treat his injury. He stayed under guard until I went to him the next day.<br />
<br />
I approached and had Emma ask him, “Do I need to build another fire and roast your feet, or do you want to tell me what you know? It is your choice. Talk to me, or die as your leader did.”<br />
<br />
The boy shook his head and responded in his Finnish language, “No, hunter, you do not need the fire.” The Finn language he spoke was very similar to the Hungarian language that Ruth, Emma, and Toth spoke as their native tongue. They understood very well what he said. I was also familiar with Hungarian, because I was married to Ildiko, my wife from the Hungarian people. I knew many of his words.<br />
<br />
I ordered the boy, “Tell your story. Tell it once, and let it be the truth. I will not ask you twice. If you lie to me, you will die as your companion died, by fire. Your death will not be easy. If you tell the truth, I may have other plans for you.”<br />
<br />
The boy spoke freely. “I was born a Finn. The Finns are a large tribe separate from the Smolens. My people hold the territory to the north of the village. For many generations, the two tribes put up with each other pretty well until the Smolens did something bad, which led to a war that lasted for two years.”<br />
<br />
He shifted uncomfortably, but went on with his story. “After a long cold winter, food ran out for the Smolens and many starved to death. It did not affect us as much as you might think, because we herd sheep and work hard at farming. While we were on this journey, Scarman told me that so many died in his village with no food and that many of the survivors turned to cannibalism before that terrible winter was over. Infant children died first, then elders, and then the weakest of the adults. He said that members of a clan were not allowed to eat their relatives, but they were allowed to eat members of other clans. If the Smolens herded sheep as we do, they would have survived.<br />
<br />
“My people herd sheep and hunt reindeer during the spring and fall migrations. As a result of farming and hard work, the Finns have a good supply of meat and grains, even during the worst winters. When the spring reindeer migration finally started that year, the Smolens, who were starving to death, killed off the first animals of the herd. When they killed the lead animals, the migration stopped. Without the leaders, the rest of the herd panicked and scattered in every direction. The herd never reached our village or that of the Russians to the north of us.”<br />
<br />
The boy swallowed hard—he’d been talking nonstop and clearly was thirsty, but we offered him nothing. I glared at him until he took up his story again. “The head man of the Finns, who is called Victor, meaning the ‘eagle,’ sent scouts to learn why there was no annual migration. That was when we learned that the greedy Smolens had killed off so many of the first animals that the migration stopped. Every year before that, the Smolens harvested weaker and older animals from the second half of the herd, and there was always plenty of meat for everyone.<br />
<br />
“With no reindeer coming north that year, Victor had little choice. We could either survive on mutton alone or teach the Smolens a lesson. Victor and his clan leaders—one called Maada, a powerful man, and Saabs, a stocky, loyal clan leader—said that survival on mutton alone was not an option. The Finns launched a surprise attack on the Smolens, killed many of them, and took the reindeer meat the Smolens had already smoked for themselves.<br />
<br />
“The first battle went well, with the Finns winning, but we were not able to kill enough of the enemy to win the war that day. The Smolens recovered well enough to form a defense, and the fight raged on for days. Days became weeks and more weeks of fighting. The Finns won some of the time, while the Smolens won other battles. Skirmishes and attacks went on for two years. Many hunters on both sides were killed and wounded, with whole families being taken as hostages. In the end, fifteen of our men were killed and many were wounded. I heard from Scarman that the Smolens had about the same number killed and many more wounded.”<br />
<br />
He shook his head, whether in resignation or sadness, I did not know. “After a while, the big battles slowed down due to so many lost men on both sides. The problem was that the Smolens never stopped raiding our herders and stealing our animals when the Finns grazed sheep at distant locations. They have killed at least ten men and taken their wives and children as captives. My family is among the captured leaders. My people are uncertain when it comes to another fight. We are not a warlike people; we are herders. Victor says with the continued attacks, we have little choice. We will have to go to war again at some point.<br />
<br />
“My family has a long history as the best sheep herders in the area. We were with our animals at a distant grazing location the day I was captured, along with my father, mother, brother, and two sisters. That man you tortured and killed yesterday—Carcusa … ‘Scarman’—he told me the story of when he first attacked your old village and how he got the scar. He was proud of winning the fight with your father. He killed my father and my older brother as part of a celebration.<br />
<br />
“He beat my mother into submission and took her as his second wife. She did not give in to him at first and paid a hard price with beatings and very little food. Finally, after several weeks of bad treatment, she gave in to him, probably so my two sisters and I would be fed. They remain in the Smolens village right now. I respected Carcusa for his knowledge and the way he protected me, but I had no love for him. I often thought that I should try to kill Scarman to get even for what he did to my father and my brother, but I had no chance if I had to fight him. Still, I thought about killing him, maybe in his sleep, but as you saw, when I was captured I had no weapons except a small flint blade for skinning game.”<br />
<br />
Although I expected the boy to talk rather than face torture, I was nonetheless surprised that he spoke at such great length without needing any prompting. He was ready to tell me everything. “When Scarman and I left on this scouting trip, there were five Finn families—twenty-five people in all—still held at the Smolens village,” he went on. “The Finns have no possibility to escape, because the distance is too great and because they fear the Smolens. The women have been warned that they will be hunted down and their children will be killed if they try to escape. Mothers are told they will be made to watch their children die in front of their eyes. With their husbands and almost all their sons killed off, they have no hope. Scarman has another wife, but he has no boys from her, so he kept me from harm and adopted me. In that way, I owe him my life, but I hated the man for what he did to my family.<br />
<br />
“I can tell you everything you want to know about their number of hunters and their weapons. They have no bows that look like yours, and they have no horses. They are hunters on foot. They use the old-style bows, like the one Scarman carried, and they have copper axes, but no swords. Their knives are flint, not metal like the blades you carry.”<br />
<br />
I wanted even more information and asked him, “What foods do they have? What is the size of the village, and how many hunters do they have?” I realized I hardly remembered the old village, other than the most basic facts: the main trails, the river, and the general location.<br />
<br />
Others were gathered in the pit house with me—my son Mikl, Toth, Bruno, George, and Jon, Bruno’s son listened while I asked questions. Occasionally, one of the wise elders, Emma, suggested another question for the boy. Two other elder women, Ruth and Judy, also listened attentively, as did Patts, our medicine woman, and Diana, Bruno’s wife.<br />
<br />
Fear showed in the boy’s eyes, but he went on with his story without hesitation. “I have heard the Smolens’ stories over winter campfires for the last two years. They moved south over twenty winters ago and attacked a small clan of people who held the village they now occupy. The move gave them some distance between themselves and the Finns, but they caused a war anyway. They grow nothing and raid our herders to survive. They live by old rules. They say it is their right to take what they need to survive. They hunt and gather whatever fruits and vegetables the land provides. They brag that the spirits sent the Finns to them for their use, almost as the spirits allow mountain lions to hunt goats.”<br />
<br />
The boy closed his eyes momentarily, as if conjuring up images of what he was about to tell us. “The tales told at campfires over the long winter say the Smolens took a village with about twenty people. From what I heard you say yesterday, your people were the ones they drove out. I am wondering if some of the elders in this pit house might have been among them.” The boy looked at Emma, Ruth, and a few of the older men, like Bruno and me. He was right, but no one commented.<br />
<br />
“The Smolens have 140 people and sixty or so hunters. Their number of hunters was greater, but at least fifteen were killed and a similar number are still recovering from wounds due to the war. They have plans to conquer a new village after the migration hunt. They will do what they always do—kill the men and boys and beat the women into submission. When Scarman threatened to eat your children, he meant it. I have seen it with my own eyes. They eat the hearts of their victims. They say it is not cannibalism. They say it makes them strong when they eat the hearts of their enemies.<br />
<br />
“The Smolens have too many people for their village. The flat space for pit houses is filled, and the foods they gather are not enough. Now, the fruit trees are old and bear fewer apples and pears every year, and tubers and vegetables are harder to find. Wheat and oats have been harvested so many times that they grow back with less grain each year.”<br />
<br />
I was amazed at how much this boy knew for his age. And now that he’d given so much information, he seemed almost eager to continue.<br />
<br />
“Because the village is farther north than yours, and nearer to the mountains, winter is very cold, and it stays longer. To gather wheat and oats for bread, they must travel to the plains and carry the seeds back in baskets. The leader made an announcement last month. Terracon is the man who rules and who many claim is insane. He and his brother, Mercillus, announced that the Smolens would have plenty of food if half of them moved somewhere else. I know this, because Scarman told me the plans over an evening camp while we traveled.<br />
<br />
“Because of food shortages, Terracon sent two teams of scouts to find another land. Your village and the big man’s village”—he pointed at Toth—“are the places to attack. Terracon remembered the Horse Clan as being weak. He told Scarman, ‘Enjoy your journey. I am sure the Botai are still weak to this day.’ We came to observe your village. The other two men were sent to scout the Hungarian people. One or the other was going to be attacked.”<br />
<br />
Toth was a huge man. He growled his comments at the boy in a fearsome manner. “The two men he sent to my village were captured. They are both dead. I killed them. Scarman is dead too. You are the last scout left alive. If not for Daven”—Toth nodded at me—“and the leader, Bruno, I would chop you to pieces right here and right now!” To enforce his threat, he rested his grip on the handle of his sword, the one I’d given him after we took it from the Mongols last year.<br />
<br />
The boy looked at Toth, an imposing man—tall, bearded, and threatening. Because the boy was not sure who was going to make the decision on whether he lived or died, he did not respond. I felt the young scout had told us all he knew. I did not consider him to be dangerous, other than that he might try to escape and return to his village to protect his mother. If that happened, my plan to attack the Smolens would no longer be a surprise. Naturally, I could not let him escape.<br />
<br />
I made a bold decision without asking Bruno or anyone else in the room—I felt it was part of my role as the war leader for the Botai. I had an idea how the boy would become a key part of my plan. It all depended on whether he could be trusted and turned to favor us. From the story he told, I counted on him to seek revenge for his father and brother. Revenge and love are the two emotions that can drive a man—or in this case, a boy—to extraordinary efforts.<br />
<br />
I untied the boy and turned him over to Patts. “Treat him for the arrow wound and feed him,” I told her. Before Patts could take him away, I asked his name.<br />
<br />
“My name is Frank,” he responded. “In the Smolens village, they call me Frank the Finn. I am ten years old, but I will have my eleventh birthday before the next moon rises.”<br />
<br />
I studied him cautiously and then said, “Frank the Finn, listen to me carefully as I explain your fate. For the next month, you will stay here in our village, not as a captive, but as a visitor. I want you to get to know us. Learn how we treat each other, how we think, and who we are. You will find that the Botai are no longer weak, as Terracon remembers us. We do not have the number of hunters the Smolens have, but we have more-powerful bows, and we ride and fight on horses, which doubles our ability to attack an enemy, even at a long distance from here. Our greatest strength comes from the many powerful friends we have. You do not see them here at our village today, except for the big man called Toth. With our friends, we far outnumber the Smolens.”<br />
<br />
I took a step closer to him and looked directly into his eyes. I wanted him to pay close attention to my next words. “Frank, you will report to our medicine women every day. They will treat your wound. In a week you will be completely healed. After your daily medical treatment, you will go to Janos, the man standing to your left, and learn from him. This man is a clan leader and senior hunter. He has raised many sons and daughters and will treat you as one of his own over the next month. Every second day, you will find me after the evening meal, and you will tell me what you have learned.”<br />
<br />
I then nodded toward the women present, pointing to them in turn as I said to the boy, “Your behavior will also be observed by our senior women. They are Judy, Ruth, and Emma. Show them the respect elders deserve. Think of your visit here as a one-month test. If it goes well, you will be free to make a choice of what you do after the month as our guest. If your visit does not go well, I will decide your fate. The choice is yours. Disobey my instructions and you will pay with your life as your leader paid with his.”<br />
<br />
The boy looked at me in disbelief. Yesterday, he’d watched his leader and stepfather die a cruel death at my hands and no doubt expected the same for himself. Now, he was being treated as a guest. It seemed he did not believe his good fortune, or perhaps he thought it might be a trick.<br />
<br />
My instructions were clear. “In order that Janos and I know where you are at all times, four bronze sheep bells will be attached to your wrists and ankles. For the next month, every movement you make will be known to us. At the end of every week, one bell will be removed, so you know your time is moving ahead, week by week. You have herding knowledge from your past life with the Finns. I expect you to help our herders with the herd of sheep kept here in the village. Herding is new to our people, so we need ideas on how to do it.<br />
<br />
“If you escape, I will assume your story was one of lies. My hunters on horseback will run you down. A mounted rider can cover four or five times as much distance in one day as a ten-year-old boy on foot. Since there is only one trail around the south of the Ural Mountains, we will simply get ahead of you and wait for you to appear along the trail. You will be killed without an explanation.” I spoke not in a threatening tone, but in one that was matter-of-fact.<br />
<br />
“If you try to go over the mountains instead of using the trail, it will be certain death due to the extreme cold at this time of year or because the wolves will take you for a meal. One or both of them will be your death if you take that route. You already know the power of our three curve bows if we have to hunt for you. I suggest you stay here and learn from us, rather than try to escape.” I looked him in the eyes and asked, “Do you have anything to say?”<br />
<br />
Frank responded as I expected a captive might. “I will do as you tell me. I have no choice. I cannot run away with the wound I have, and I have no weapons. If I were to escape and return to the Smolens, they would treat me badly, especially when I report that Scarman is dead. Most likely, Terracon will suspect me of killing him and put me to death. If he kills me, he might also kill my mother and my sisters. I live to save them.”<br />
<br />
Janos, Toth, and I studied the ten-year-old. I was certain he could be turned in our favor. He had everything to gain and little to lose. Toth pointed at the boy and said, “I would kill him right now rather than take a chance on his escape.” The boy shuddered with fear of the grizzled, powerful man and stepped closer to me. I advised Toth, “We will not kill him, at least for now. If he escapes, you will have the pleasure of hunting him down.” Toth grunted at my decision.<br />
<br />
After Patts’s medical attention, Janos, Alex, and I walked the boy to our old craftsman, Tedd, who was working at some project in front of his pit house. I said, “Tedd, I want you to attach four sheep bells to this boy, one to each wrist and ankle.” He did not question me. The boy had no chance of removing a bronze bell. Only the biggest of our bellows could produce enough heat to melt bronze and certainly no flint tool could cut through the new metal.<br />
<br />
The boy looked to Janos, who showed his fatherly side as he touched the boy’s head while Tedd heated the bronze. I had a future use for the boy and ignored Toth’s opinion. The Hungarian was not hard to understand. He was all about killing the enemy or being killed. The boy now understood that I was fully in charge. He also knew that if Toth was the lead hunter, he would already be dead. <br />
______________________________________________________________
<br />
<br />
<br />
Robert L. Bacon<br />
<a href="http://www.theperfectwrite.com/">theperfectwrite.com</a><br />
<br />
For authors, The Perfect Write® is now providing<br />
<b>FREE QUERY LETTER REVIEW AND ANALYSIS</b>.<br />
<br />
Post your query to <a href="mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com">mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com</a>(no attachments)
and visit the <a href="http://www.theperfectwrite.com/sample-letters/">Sample Letters Page </a>for examples of successful query letters.<br />
<br />
<br />
The Perfect Write® offers comprehensive editing services, from manuscript critiques to complete revisions, including line-editing, along with query letter design and composition. For pricing, send your project requirements to<a href="mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com"> theperfectwrite@aol.com</a><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />The Perfect Write®http://www.blogger.com/profile/15911456172776383647noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5113765841272949669.post-11601694962602774942013-04-29T11:53:00.000-04:002015-08-07T17:00:53.994-04:00I, WALTER By Mike Hartner April 30, 2013<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<w:WordDocument>
<w:View>Normal</w:View>
<w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom>
<w:PunctuationKerning/>
<w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/>
<w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>
<w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent>
<w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>
<w:Compatibility>
<w:BreakWrappedTables/>
<w:SnapToGridInCell/>
<w:WrapTextWithPunct/>
<w:UseAsianBreakRules/>
<w:DontGrowAutofit/>
</w:Compatibility>
<w:BrowserLevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel>
</w:WordDocument>
</xml><![endif]--><br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" LatentStyleCount="156">
</w:LatentStyles>
</xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><img src="//img2.blogblog.com/img/video_object.png" style="background-color: #b2b2b2; " class="BLOGGER-object-element tr_noresize tr_placeholder" id="ieooui" data-original-id="ieooui" />
<style>
st1\:*{behavior:url(#ieooui) }
</style>
<![endif]--><!--[if !supportAnnotations]--><!--[endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]>
<style>
/* Style Definitions */
table.MsoNormalTable
{mso-style-name:"Table Normal";
mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0;
mso-tstyle-colband-size:0;
mso-style-noshow:yes;
mso-style-parent:"";
mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt;
mso-para-margin:0in;
mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt;
mso-pagination:widow-orphan;
font-size:10.0pt;
font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-ansi-language:#0400;
mso-fareast-language:#0400;
mso-bidi-language:#0400;}
</style>
<![endif]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Chapter 1</span></div>
<div class="Body" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: .75in 438.3pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" LatentStyleCount="156">
</w:LatentStyles>
</xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><img src="//img2.blogblog.com/img/video_object.png" style="background-color: #b2b2b2; " class="BLOGGER-object-element tr_noresize tr_placeholder" id="ieooui" data-original-id="ieooui" />
<style>
st1\:*{behavior:url(#ieooui) }
</style>
<![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]>
<style>
/* Style Definitions */
table.MsoNormalTable
{mso-style-name:"Table Normal";
mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0;
mso-tstyle-colband-size:0;
mso-style-noshow:yes;
mso-style-parent:"";
mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt;
mso-para-margin:0in;
mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt;
mso-pagination:widow-orphan;
font-size:10.0pt;
font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-ansi-language:#0400;
mso-fareast-language:#0400;
mso-bidi-language:#0400;}
</style>
<![endif]-->
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"I, Walter Crofter, being of sound
mind...." Bah, this is garbage! I tossed my quill on the
parchment sitting in front of me. People may question my sanity, but they
should hear the whole story before judging me. I’m sitting here, now, at
the age of 67, trying to write this down and figure out how to tell everything.
I don’t know if I'll ever get it right, though. Too many secrets to go
around. However, this is my last chance to offer the truth before I die. The
doctors say it's malaria, yet I'll be fine. Perhaps. But if the
malaria doesn't kill me, my guilt indeed will. Maybe if people know the
facts surrounding my life, everyone will have a better understanding. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I dipped the tip in the inkwell again, and wrote:</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I was born September 2, 1588, and named Walter.
I didn’t belong in this Crofter family, who were storekeepers in Portishead and
not farmers as our surname might indicate to those who study this sort of thing.
My parents were courteous and even obsequious to our patrons. Yet they
received little or no respect. The ladies came to us to buy their
groceries or the fabric for their dresses, but as seemly as they comported
themselves, and some even called my father 'friend,' it was not out of regard
for him. I was forced to run. Well, "forced" might put
too harsh a point on it, like that of a sword, but others can judge for
themselves.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
By the time I reached the age of 12, I'd found
another family that was more "me". They weren’t rich, but they
were comfortable. The parents had several children, including a girl my
age who was named Anna. Within two years, we had come to know each other
quite well, and were getting to know each other even better. Her father caught
us getting too close to knowing each other better yet, and showed up at my
parents' house with a musket in his hand, telling them if I ever came near his
daughter again, he'd use it on me--and then on them.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I paused to dip the pen and wipe my brow.
Even though I was wearing a light cotton shirt, it was bloody hot in early
August in Cadaques. My wife, Maria, entered the room and looked at my
perspiring face and what I had just written. Between fits of laughter,
she smiled at me with wide lips and said, "You can't possibly write this.
You're not the only boy a doting father ever had to chase away. Nobody
cares about this sort of thing."</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"It will at least give a pulse to this writing," I replied.
"It's too boring to say I left because I was mismatched with my own
family, so much so that I was positive someone had switched me at birth.
Or that I thought I was ready for more in life than what I could find at home.
Nobody would read that, not even me."</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"I agree, so tell the story that really means something. All of
it." She sighed softly and placed the parchment she had been reading
on the desk in front of me and kissed my cheek. The gleam in her eyes
shed 20 years off her age and reminded me of a much gentler time. God, how
much I love her.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I said, "Before I met you, I spent my life like a square peg trying to
fit in a round hole. I’m just trying to make my story more
interesting."</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"I’ve heard the accounts of your life before
you met me. Or I should say found me. It was anything but boring. So,
if you insist on including in the story lines like those you just wrote, make
sure they're the only ones. If you don't, I'll consider adding my own
material." She winked. "You know I’ve had good
sources."</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
She turned and walked away, laughing loudly as I
called after her, "Yes, dear."</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I dipped the quill and put it to parchment again.:<br />
In my earliest days, I remember my father, Geoff,
being a bit forceful with other people. I also recall my brother Gerald,
nearly five years my senior, and myself being happy. Or at least as
contented as two boys could be who were growing up in the late 1500s in England, and
working every day since their seventh birthdays. It was a time when boys
were earning coin as soon as they could lift or carry things. The money
could never be for themselves, however, but for the parents to help pay the
bills. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Father lived as a crofter should. He was an
upright man and sold vegetables off a cart like his grandfather did, and he
also dabbled in selling fine fabric for the ladies of status.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
One afternoon, when I was eight years old, my
brother came home and got into a heated debate with my father about something.
When I ran to see what was the matter, they hushed around me, so I never got the
full gist of the argument. But whatever it was about, it was serious, and
the bickering continued behind my back for five straight days. When I
awoke on the morning of the sixth day, Gerald was no longer at home. And
he never came back.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Soon afterwards, my father lost enthusiasm for
his business and became generally passive. I assumed this was because of
Gerald's leaving, and only on occasion would I see flashes of my dad's former
self. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
At the start of my tenth year, our family moved
closer to London.
We rented the bottom floor of a three-story building in which
several families lived in the upper floors. My father said we relocated
because he needed to be closer to more business opportunities. But my mom
didn't believe he'd made the right decision, since he was now selling
food out of a cart and not inside a storefront. One night, she
greeted him at the door when he came home. She was wearing a frown and a
dress that had seen better days.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"Did you bring in any decent money?"
she asked him before he had time to take off his coat.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"I told you, it will take some time.
It's not easy to make good money these days."</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"Especially when you let the ladies walk all
over you."</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"I know, I know. But what am I to do
when they aren't running up to me to buy what I'm selling?"</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"You at least bring home some food for us."
My father had carried in a bag under his arm.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"It's not much, a few carrots and some
celery." He handed her the bag.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"What about meat?"</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"We're not ready for meat yet."</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"That’s true enough," my mother said.
"But you should at least try to feed your family. Walter's growing,
and so are our other children."</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"Leave me be, woman. I'm doing the
best I can for now." He sat in his chair, leaned his head against
the wall, and fell asleep.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
That same debate played out between my parents
for the next two years. Except for the summer months, when food was
plentiful; then the arguments subsided. But for the rest of the year,
especially during the winter, the same discussions about money continued on a
daily basis, and they were often quite heated. I lost two younger
siblings during those two years. One during my tenth winter and the other
during my eleventh winter. Neither of the children was older than six
months. I always suspected hunger as the primary cause of their deaths.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Just before my twelfth birthday, my father
started taking me with him when he went to work. My closest living
sibling was nearly six and not feeling well most of the time, and the family
needed the money I could bring in by helping my father, who was bland and
wishy-washy, particularly when selling fabrics. I had no idea what he was
like before, but in my mind his lethargy explained why our family was barely
making ends meet. Our lives had become much harder since Gerald left, and
part of me blamed him. I'm going to thrash him if I ever see him again
and teach him a lesson about family responsibility. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
It took me less than a week to realize that the
people my father was dealing with, as with those in Portishead, had no respect
for him. They regularly talked down to him. Rather than asking the
price, they regularly paid what they wanted to pay. And he took it without a
quibble. And when he tried to curry favor, he would never get it.
His customers looked upon him as a whipping board, at least that's how it
seemed to me. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I remember when we got home in the dark after a
long day of work in late November, and my mother started in on Dad. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"Well? Have you got the money for me
to buy food tomorrow?"</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"A little. Here." He fished
a guinea from his pocket.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
“A guinea? That's it? That won’t feed
us for a day. You've got to start working harder. With what you
earn and what I bring in sewing clothes, we can barely pay the rent, and there
is nothing left over to heat this place. And it's going to get colder,
Geoff."</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"I know, Mildred, I know. I’m trying
as hard as I can."</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
“You haven’t worked hard since Sir Walter Raleigh
left favor. You can't wait for him forever." </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"He'll get favor back. And when he
does, I’ll be right there helping him. You’ll see, we’ll be fine
again."</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
She groaned. I was aware that this was not
the first time my mother had heard this from my father. It's great talk
from a man trying to get ahead. But after several years of the same song,
it loses its credibility. She had enjoyed respectability in the early
days when my father could grab hold of his father's coattails, the then revered
Sir Walter Raleigh, and it was hard not having this luxury now. She
hadn’t planned to be satisfied with being a shopkeeper’s wife, and she wasn't
even that, at present. She changed the subject, not her tone.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"I overheard the ladies gossiping on the
street today. They were talking about seeing Gerald's likeness on a
'Wanted' poster. A 'Wanted' poster, Geoff. There’s a warrant out
for our son’s arrest.<br />
What are we going to do? What can we
do?"</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
My father stared at the wall. "Nothing.
He's an adult. He'll have to work it out for himself."</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I watched quietly as my mother cried herself to
sleep, her head on my father's shoulder. No matter how bad things got,
they loved each other and wanted their lives to be better,the way I was often
told they were before my birth. Maybe this is why I wanted to get away
from them as soon as I could. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I didn't usually watch my parents fall asleep.
But, that night I did. And, after they were sound asleep, I left. I
had no plans. I didn't know where I was going. I just left in
middle of what was a dark, chilly night. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I could hear the dogs barking around me as I
scurried along the roadside. It felt as if they were yelping at me and
coming towards me. I began running, faster than I'd ever sprinted in my
life, my speed assisted by my sense of fear. Every time I heard a dog, or
an owl, or any other animal, or even my own heavy breathing, my pace increased
until I was exhausted and had to stop. This continued throughout the
night until the sky started to lighten and I found a grove of overhanging
bushes and crawled inside for some sleep. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I scavenged for food during the day and swiped a
few pieces of fruit from merchants along the way. This became my means of
subsistence. I left a coin when I could, as I'd pick up an
occasional odd job, but I was always out of money. I also tried begging,
and while I did survive on the street, I found life difficult. Yet for
nearly two years I stayed with this vagabond existence before deciding to make
my way to the sea. Too bad my internal compass wasn’t any good.
Turns out I was moving more to the west than to the south. But before long
I was on the shores of Portsmouth.
And my life changed forever.</div>
__________________________________________________________ </div>
<br />
Robert L. Bacon<br />
<a href="http://www.theperfectwrite.com/">theperfectwrite.com</a><br />
For authors, The Perfect Write® is now providing<br />
<b>FREE QUERY LETTER REVIEW AND ANALYSIS</b>.<br />
<br />
Post your query to <a href="mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com">mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com</a>(no attachments)
and visit the <a href="http://www.theperfectwrite.com/sample-letters/">Sample Letters Page </a>for examples of successful query letters.<br />
<br />
The Perfect Write® offers comprehensive editing services, from manuscript critiques to complete revisions, including line-editing, along with query letter design and composition. For pricing, send your project requirements to <a href="mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com">mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com</a><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />The Perfect Write®http://www.blogger.com/profile/15911456172776383647noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5113765841272949669.post-74424691227218618102013-03-28T12:03:00.004-04:002013-04-16T23:09:05.120-04:00WAR OF THE SERAPHS: ASCENSION By Dan Bilodeau April 2, 2013<br />
<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<w:WordDocument>
<w:View>Normal</w:View>
<w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom>
<w:PunctuationKerning/>
<w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/>
<w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>
<w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent>
<w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>
<w:Compatibility>
<w:BreakWrappedTables/>
<w:SnapToGridInCell/>
<w:WrapTextWithPunct/>
<w:UseAsianBreakRules/>
<w:DontGrowAutofit/>
</w:Compatibility>
<w:BrowserLevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel>
</w:WordDocument>
</xml><![endif]--><br />
<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" LatentStyleCount="156">
</w:LatentStyles>
</xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><img src="//img2.blogblog.com/img/video_object.png" style="background-color: #b2b2b2; " class="BLOGGER-object-element tr_noresize tr_placeholder" id="ieooui" data-original-id="ieooui" />
<style>
st1\:*{behavior:url(#ieooui) }
</style>
<![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]>
<style>
/* Style Definitions */
table.MsoNormalTable
{mso-style-name:"Table Normal";
mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0;
mso-tstyle-colband-size:0;
mso-style-noshow:yes;
mso-style-parent:"";
mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt;
mso-para-margin:0in;
mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt;
mso-pagination:widow-orphan;
font-size:10.0pt;
font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-ansi-language:#0400;
mso-fareast-language:#0400;
mso-bidi-language:#0400;}
</style>
<![endif]--><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Chapter One</b><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Dalziel
got out of bed and stretched his arms. For the first night in as long as he
could remember, he hadn’t dreamed, which was odd since Conscription Day was
almost here. The day when Ibernian boys, such as he, would be chosen to serve
in the Andal military, the occupying force in Ibernia. A horrible finality descended
on the locals when the names were shouted out, as if the magistrate were calling
out the names of the dead. Because when a boy’s name was drawn, without so much
as enough time to say goodbye to his family, he was led to the barracks by
Andal soldiers to begin his service to the Empire. And no boy ever came back.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Dal
prayed to the god of the Ibernians: "Dio, if you’re listening, please
don’t let me or Soren be picked. Neither of us is ready for a life of slavery
to these monsters." He went to his younger brother’s bedroom and shook
Soren hard until he awoke. The boy mumbled something and sat up, wiping the
sleep from his eyes. Then Dal distinctly heard his brother say where he could
put his idea of a wakeup call. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Their
mother was in the kitchen peeling potatoes and humming a simple refrain, a good
sign, as she was at least doing something instead of staring out the window in
a hopeless daze. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Morning,
Mom," Dal said.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Good
morning, Dalziel,” his mother replied, and as she tossed away the skins she
added, “I love you."</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>While
it wasn’t much, this was the most normal his mother had acted in years. Ever
since his father had died in the rebellion ten years earlier, she had been a
shell of<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>her former self. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Love
you too, Ma,” he answered as he gave her a big hug. She didn’t say anything
more and quit her tune, cooking breakfast in the silence to which he had become
all too accustomed. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Soren
gave Dal an impish look as they wolfed down the food their mother set in front
of them. “Fire pits?” he whispered to his brother. Dal nodded. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Everyone
knew about the fire pits that were located a couple of miles from his family's
farm. How the pits had originated was another story. Some claimed a meteor had
hit there millenniums earlier. Some said Dio had put them there to remind
people of His fiery wrath. Some proffered that Luan and the Seraphs, mythical
heroes from Ibernia’s past, had made the fire pits during their ferocious
battles with the Woads, a thousand years ago. What a bunch of superstitious old
fools. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Dal
believed that Hadrian, an old man with a fascination for legends and history,
was at the heart of the rumors. Most
adults in Quork avoided him, but Dal found Hadrian oddly endearing because he
genuinely seemed to care about him and his family. Also, he was the only person
Dal knew who was brave enough to discuss history openly. Studying the past was
strictly forbidden by the Andals, and punishment when caught was severe.
Consequently, books were rare, and owning some types of them was punishable by
death, so most Ibernians did their best to preserve their country's legacy by
way of the spoken word. Over time, how many facts had been distorted was
anybody's guess.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And
to Dal's way of thinking, the past had been painful enough.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He didn’t need a constant reminder. Life was
about surviving in the present, and he didn’t want to think about what had
occurred a millennium ago. Still, Dal paid attention when the old man spoke,
because even if it was nonsense, the tales were always entertaining. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Come
back to earth, Dal,” Soren said, always alert to his brother’s daydreaming.
“Time to go while the day’s ahead of us.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Both boys quietly exited the house, telling their mother they were going
to do farm work, but walking west toward the pits.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When
they arrived, Dal reminded himself that the fire pits were poorly named. Locals
said that for centuries they constantly bubbled magma and shot flames, but
there wasn’t much activity lately. However, every now and again flames would
shoot up through fissures leading to the heart of the pit, and anyone
unfortunate enough to be standing nearby would be baked to a crisp by this
earthen oven. Because they didn’t understand them, going near the pits was
expressly forbidden by the Andals. Playing in the pits, therefore, was an act
of defiance. Dal liked this, especially since the Andals were about to ruin the
lives of many an Ibernian youth.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>With
the Conscription a day away, Dal wanted to spend as much private time<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>as he could with his brother in case either
or even both of their names were drawn. He found their placement in the lottery
incredibly unfair. They had grown up fatherless, with only each other to rely
on, and now there was a real possibility that one or both of them might have to
fight for the very people who had killed their father. But today was a day to
forget all of that. Soren loved the pits, so this was where Dal took him to
play.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>After
a half-hour inside one of their favorite pits, Soren yelled, “Look what I
found, Dal!” and he presented his brother with a volcanic rock. Smooth and
black, it was worthless, except to Soren. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Wow,
nice job, partner,” Dal said, smiling widely and appreciating how great it was
to have a brother like Soren, even if he wasn’t much at geology.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Soren
dropped the rock in Dal’s hand, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>and he
pretended to examine it closely before his head shot up and he announced, “This
is it, we’re rich! No more farming. We’ll present this to the city council.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Really?”
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Sure,
next week,” Dal said, praying they would still be together. If they were, by
then Soren would have forgotten all about his discovery and be on to some other
adventure. He wished he could get as excited as his brother about anything.
While Soren remained blissfully unaware of the world around him, Dal was headed
in the other direction. Soren had been too young to understand, but Dal was
well aware that he would never see his father again. He hated the Andals for
that. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Dal
gave the rock back to Soren, and as he did something caught his eye. A faint
red light, likely generated by magma deep below the surface, was flickering
through a tiny slit in a wall behind his brother. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Without
notice, Soren punched Dal in the arm and took off running, yelling, “You’re it,
slowpoke.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Not
for long!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
let his brother get a good head start, and while it was a foregone conclusion
Dal would catch Soren, the chase was the fun, for both of them. Dal watched his
brother run around <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>a boulder, laughing
all the while. Dal sprinted but tripped over something when he came to a
section in the pit that was dark because of a natural shelf overhead.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He lost his balance and stumbled sideways,
falling into a hole.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>His
immediate thought was that he’d be cooked alive. But he slammed face-first into
solid ground instead. His temples were throbbing, but he was happy to be alive.
Slivers of sunlight were adequate enough that he could see the bits of gravel
marking his descent. The “path” reminded him of the mudslides he and his
brother would ride into the river every summer. This fall held no reward at the
end, however. Idiot, Dal raged to himself. Why didn’t <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I slow down and let my eyes adjust to the
dark?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
could see well enough to search the tomblike chasm for Soren, should he have
fallen in also. Not spotting him in the immediate area, Dal hollered, in case
he had wandered off. All he got in the form of a reply was an echo of his own
voice.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Dal
analyzed the chute he had fallen through. The hole was the throat of a musty
fissure that had lain dormant for some time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He was almost certain it was part of the same crag from which the red
light had appeared, but there was no sign of magma or the aftermath of the heat
created by it. He stood and brushed off the dirt and dust that clung to his
clothing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Having no choice but to breathe
in a lot of it, he coughed and wheezed violently. He waited for his head to
clear, then he took a second look around. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
rough ground belied the smooth rock walls that had required eons to shape. Dal
ran his hands along the face of a ledge close to him and felt ridges etched
into it. He brushed away dust and spider webs with his hands, and distinct
lines began to form. He removed his shirt and used it to gently wipe the wall
until all of what had been hidden was now exposed. The markings depicted a
winged creature in flight. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Is that a man?</i>
He suddenly felt that this was ancient, hallowed ground. The local legends
about the fire pits no longer struck him as a child’s tale.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Dal
had seen enough. He shook out his shirt and put it on and yelled, “Soren, where
are you?” Not hearing a reply, he was turning toward the ledge to climb atop it
so he could pull himself out of the chasm when he saw a red glow out of the
corner of his eye and turned toward it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Sitting
in a small hole, as if it had been placed there, was a red stone. He silently
thanked Dio, hoping his prayer was heard and acknowledged. He had listened to
stories of farmers finding precious stones and living out their days in luxury,
and now it seemed possible his family would be next in line. Moving from Quork
to a larger city might be nice. Dunkirk,
perhaps. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When
he got a better look at the stone, it was clearly not like any he had ever<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>seen before. His initial thought was that it
was a ruby, but they didn’t glow, as far as Dal knew, so <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>that idea was discarded. And when he reached
for it, the stone glowed brighter. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Even
stranger, as he touched it, he could feel a pulse, as if it were somehow alive.
But that was a childish thought and he was no longer a kid. He picked it up,
and even though he could easily palm it, he held it with both hands.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Nothing
happened, but he found himself not staring at the stone--but into it. And
although it was red to begin with, the gem was now rapidly taking on many
different hues, as if all the different shades of crimson were battling each
other from within and displaying the winning results. The stone begin emitting
a low thrum, which sounded like gentle chanting. The effect calmed him, and he
was mesmerized by the sound until it stopped as abruptly as it had
started.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His trance broken, he looked up
from the stone. How long had he been staring at it? Soren must be worried sick
about what had happened to him. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Just
then the stone sent a pulse so strong that it doubled him over. Despite his
pain, he <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>did not let go of the stone.
What had been a glow before was now blazing light. Brilliant reds filled the
cavern, and he felt he was amidst some form of divine fireworks display. He had
the sensation of the colors penetrating his body, which he knew was impossible,
yet the feeling was real. His head was spinning, as if he had severe vertigo,
and his stomach was queasy. Saying a prayer, he asked Dio to forgive his haste
and greed. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Then,
as quickly as it had begun, the pulsing stopped. The stone remained red in
appearance, but it no longer glowed. He stared at it for a few minutes to see
if anything more would might happen, and when it didn’t, he put it in his
pocket. He’d ask Hadrian about it, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>because
if anyone could tell him about what he’d found, it would be the old man.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Dal
began climbing back up the chute, and when he reached the top he was out of
breath. He stopped panting and called out to Soren, who showed up almost
immediately.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You
lose. Oh, shoot! Dal, are you okay?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’m
fine. I fell down into this hole is all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I don’t know how you didn’t end up in it too.” Dal saw a twinkle in his
little brother’s eye. “Wait a minute, you’ve been here before with some of your
friends, and you led me this way, knowing I’d take a ride down that chute. But
did you know I’d ride down it face-first?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I could’ve killed myself” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>His
brother looked at him sheepishly.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Never
mind, look at what I found.” Dal produced the stone.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Wow!
Let me hold it,” Soren said as he grabbed it. Dal noticed that when his brother
held the stone, the vibrant red turned to a dull reddish-gray. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Where’d
you find it?” Soren asked.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“At
the bottom of that chasm, where I was busy cracking my head.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Are
you gonna keep it?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“My
head?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No,
silly, the stone.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Of
course, but I don’t know what it is. I’m going to ask Hade.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Soren
handed it back to Dal, and with his usual enthusiasm for anything, said, “It’s
a special stone, I know it. And it was meant for you, whatever it brings. You’re
special too.” Soren laughed and tagged his brother. “You’re it!” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No
way,” Dal said, refusing to chase his brother and risk another one of his trick
routes. He put the stone in his pocket and they headed home, Soren doing most
of the talking on the way, because Dal kept feeling the stone’s pulsation, and
this took his thoughts a million miles away. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When
they reached home around midday, they found a small snack on the table.
“Where’d you boys run off to?” their mother asked. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Nowhere,
Ma, we were just playing in the fields,” Soren said, adding, “Dal fell.” Dal
shot his brother a dirty look. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What
do you mean fell? Dalziel, are you hurt? Explain this.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Nothin',
Mother, I fell in the fields today.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Try
to be more careful next time.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
will.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Your
friend, Mr. Hadrian, stopped by today.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Really?
What did he want?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Nothing
much, just to talk. He told me what was going on in town, what people have been
saying. You know, gossip.” She smiled.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>At
that moment, Dal didn’t really care what Hadrian had told her. Seeing her smile
was the best thing he’d seen in a long, long time. She had been through so much
with his father’s death and the hard times that had come with it. Not to
mention the stress of seeing him entered into the Conscription every year. Now
that Soren was eligible, she must be doubly worried. The Andals had taken her
husband, now they threatened to take one or both of the men she had left in her
life. She was a strong woman, stronger than Dal had given her credit for. So
what if she’s a shadow of her former self? She keeps on going, and that’s what
matters.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>They
ate the rest of their meal in silence, but an agreeable calm . As the boys were
washing up, Dal asked Soren if he wanted to go look for Hadrian with him. Soren
was quick to comply.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What
about Hadrian’s stories, are they real? What about the Seraphs?” Soren had
clearly been listening to the old man again.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
honestly don’t know,” Dal replied. “I’m sure he’ll tell you all about them if
you ask. As far as the deep magic is concerned, I believe that once there may
have been Ibernians who could use elements.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“How,
then?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
don’t know. I’ve never seen the old magic before.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Doesn’t
mean it’s not real.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Okay,
you’ve got me there.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What
about the Seraphs? Are they real?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
hesitated. “I don’t think so, buddy. I think that part got exaggerated at some
point.” Dal was no historian, but he had heard people repeat stories before.
With each telling, the story got grander, especially if there was ale involved.
And since he’d never seen the histories, he was pretty sure they wouldn’t match
up with what Hadrian or anybody else might be saying.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
think they’re real, and that they’ll come again,” Soren said, with his usual
zeal.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
sure hope so. We could use their help.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Dal
grabbed the stone in his pocket. It might well prove to be his family’s
deliverance from Quork and the hard times that had fallen upon them. He had to
see Hadrian as soon as possible.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
_________________________________________________________________</div>
<br />
Robert L. Bacon<br />
<a href="http://www.theperfectwrite.com/">theperfectwrite.com</a><br />
<br />
For authors, The Perfect Write® is now providing<br />
<b>FREE QUERY LETTER REVIEW AND ANALYSIS</b>.<br />
Post your query to <a href="mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com">mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com</a>(no attachments)
and visit the <a href="http://www.theperfectwrite.com/sample-letters/">Sample Letters Page </a>for examples of successful query letters.<br />
<br />
The Perfect Write® offers comprehensive editing services, from manuscript critiques to complete revisions, including line-editing, along with query letter design and composition. For pricing, send your project requirements to <a href="mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com">mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com</a><br />
<br />
For business applications, The Perfect Write® also offers advanced services, from designing sophisticated sell sheets to crafting investor-appealing business plans for start-up enterprises. For a customized quote, please send your detailed project requirements to
<a href="mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com">mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com</a><br />
<br />
<br />The Perfect Write®http://www.blogger.com/profile/15911456172776383647noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5113765841272949669.post-11867518462294091062013-01-07T12:00:00.000-05:002013-01-08T15:01:34.128-05:00"The Devil's Backbone Chapter Two By James Babb<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<w:WordDocument>
<w:View>Normal</w:View>
<w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom>
<w:PunctuationKerning/>
<w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/>
<w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>
<w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent>
<w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>
<w:Compatibility>
<w:BreakWrappedTables/>
<w:SnapToGridInCell/>
<w:WrapTextWithPunct/>
<w:UseAsianBreakRules/>
<w:DontGrowAutofit/>
</w:Compatibility>
<w:BrowserLevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel>
</w:WordDocument>
</xml><![endif]--><br />
<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" LatentStyleCount="156">
</w:LatentStyles>
</xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]>
<style>
/* Style Definitions */
table.MsoNormalTable
{mso-style-name:"Table Normal";
mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0;
mso-tstyle-colband-size:0;
mso-style-noshow:yes;
mso-style-parent:"";
mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt;
mso-para-margin:0in;
mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt;
mso-pagination:widow-orphan;
font-size:10.0pt;
font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-ansi-language:#0400;
mso-fareast-language:#0400;
mso-bidi-language:#0400;}
</style>
<![endif]-->
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Chapter
Two</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The cat
snarled again. Brody scrambled backwards, knowing he was in for a painful
death. He anticipated tearing claws and sharp teeth, but a deep, booming shot
roared from close by, and he heard the heavy thump of the cat’s body going
down. It squalled and kicked leaves and twigs, some of them hitting Brody on
the arm. Then, the panther grew silent.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">My
Papa, he’s found me.</i></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In the sudden stillness that followed, Brody
heard footsteps approaching in the leaves.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Papa,” he tried to say, but the smallest of
sounds escaped his throat. He listened, but Papa did not call out for him.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The footsteps stopped next to him. He looked
up with sore eyes and for the first time since the accident he saw a shape. But
this blurry shape could not be his Papa. A much larger man took one last step.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Even if this was not his father, Brody did
not care. At least someone had found him. He attempted to raise a weary arm,
but wilted on the ground.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Just
get me home. Take me to my Momma, so she can fix me.</i></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Strong arms scooped Brody up. His ankle
shifted and a fresh wave of pain ran up his leg. At first, he struggled to
speak, but then Brody gave in to the weakness. Every part of his body went
limp. He had no energy left.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Bacon. Hot, popping, fatty bacon. There
could be no mistake. The scent brought Brody fully awake. Someone whistled a
tune and Brody imagined Momma, standing at the stove, cooking.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He struggled to sit and found his hands and
feet had been bound with rope. An attempt to say something only produced a
weak, raspy voice. “Where am I?”</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The whistling stopped, but the person didn’t
speak.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Brody tested his eyes again. There were
shapes, blurry and dim, but much better than nothing. Perhaps he would not be
blind forever.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He found he had been brought inside a tent.
Brody blinked and his vision cleared for a brief second. The walls were gray
fabric, patched many times. Things lay scattered around, but his poor sight
kept him from identifying them.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A large flap peeled back, and someone
stepped inside. The smell of cooked meat intensified, and Brody’s stomach
growled. The large man stood motionless and watched him.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Brody squinted at the figure and his jaw dropped.
The man’s features and clothes were blurry, but even with bad eyes Brody could
tell that the stranger’s skin was black. It had been many years since he had
seen a Negro.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You a scout?” the man finally asked.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’m not,” Brody said with a raspy voice,
more than a little confused. He shook his head, wondering if the man thought he
was an Indian. “Why’d you tie me up?”</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Union, aren’t ye?” the man said.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Union?</i>
“You mean like in the war?” He remembered his Papa talking about the Civil War.
He had spoken of Union and Confederates.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The Negro man turned and picked up something
leaning against the side of the tent. Brody guessed it to be a gun.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The man stepped outside and out of sight.
“Come on out here,” he said. “I’m gonna hafta kill ya.”</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Brody did not move.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Come on,” the Negro repeated. “Don’t wanna
get no blood in there.”</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Brody thought for a moment. “I…I’m not
Union, and I-I can’t come out.”</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Why not?”</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Cause ya done tied me up,” Brody explained.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A moment passed before the man stuck his
head into the opening. “Oh, I reckon so.” He stepped in, and came over to
Brody’s side.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Brody ducked, not sure what to expect from
the strange fellow.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Who shot ya?” the man asked.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Brody glanced at him and caught a clear
image of speckled gray hair, but then his vision blurred. “What do you mean,
who shot me?” he asked. His voice faded in and out.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The man motioned. “Your foot. Who shot ya?”</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Nobody shot me. I fell and got it hung up.”</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The Negro reached down and pulled Brody’s
pant leg up. He felt rough, leathery skin touching his ankle. Brody blinked
hard from the pain, but it helped clear his vision a bit. He saw the man’s
hands were weather beaten and calloused.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Don’t look broken,” the man said. He stood,
and went to the back of the tent. Metal things rattled while he shifted them
about.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You’re not gonna shoot me, are you?” Brody
asked.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The man returned, carrying something shiny.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">A
knife? </i></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You Union or Confederate?”</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I-I don’t know. Confederate? Or maybe
neither?” Brody began to wonder if it was a trick question.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The man knelt next to him and started
cutting the ropes. “Name’s Ames,” he said.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Ames,” Brody repeated with a hoarse voice.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“That’s what they call me.”</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’m Brody.”</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Ames finished cutting the bindings and
offered his rough hand. “Nice to meet ya.”</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Brody shook with him. “Why you keep asking
me bout the Union and Confederates? The war was over years ago, fore I was
born.”</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Ames looked him in the eye for a long while,
and then laughed. “Little feller,” he said between chuckles. “You is crazy.”</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Brody did not sleep much that night. He just
could not figure Ames out. One moment, Brody felt safe with him, and the next
he felt danger.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Late in the night, Ames began to snore, and
Brody thought about crawling outside and escaping. But his ankle hurt and every
part of his body ached. He would not make it far. Ames had given him water and
some kind of mush to eat before bed. He also rubbed animal fat on Brody’s
burns. Brody figured he surely wouldn’t have done such a thing if he meant to
kill him. He decided to stay put and take his chances with Ames.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Brody woke to the icy touch of cold steel
being pressed against his temple.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You got some explaining to do,” the Negro
said. “You a Yankee scout?”</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Ames.” Brody’s voice cracked. He reached
and gingerly moved the gun barrel away from his head. “We done gone through
this yesterday.”</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A wide smile grew across the man’s face.
“That’s right. You is da one been shot in da foot.” Ames lowered the gun,
leaned it against the wall of the tent, and then stepped outside. “Better come
on, if ya want some breakfast.”</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Brody sat up and let out a frustrated sigh.
Apparently, Ames believed the civil war raged on. He seemed to stay confused
and forgot new things before they were old. Brody could not come to any other
conclusion. Ames was mad dog crazy.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Got some bacon left,” the black man called.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Brody struggled to his feet and hopped on
one foot. He took small jumps across, until he reached the tent opening. He
steadied himself by holding onto the flap. His eyesight was clear enough to
make out the dirt floor of the tent. It had been worn smooth by countless
steps, so many that it had been packed into a rock-like surface.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I need-” His voice failed and trailed away
to nothing more than a whisper. He swallowed and winced when it caused him
pain.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Brody squinted at the bright light outside.
Trees, ground, sky, he could not identify much more. The light hurt. He felt
sure his vision had gotten worse. He gently rubbed his tender eye lids. He
wrinkled his face and gritted his teeth, but when he looked again, he could see
well. He blinked hard and could feel something sticky in his eyes.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Ames,” he called with a scratchy tone.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well come on,” the man answered.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Brody rubbed his eyes again. “Need some
water. Gotta wash my face.”</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He heard the black man coming closer.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well, I say,” Ames said. “You is black as
me.” He laughed and handed Brody a mirror and a sloshing pan of water. “Have at
it.”</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Brody sat on the ground, and washed his face
and hands. He splashed water into his eyes, rubbed his wet hands through his
hair, and let the cool liquid run down his neck. He held the mirror up and for
the first time, Brody got to see his wounds. The cracked, red skin on his
cheeks hurt the worst. Black spots of burnt powder speckled his face. The hair
on his forehead had curled into tight circles and crumbled at his touch. A few
patches of hair had burned away completely, along with his eyebrows and
eyelashes.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">He
had imagined his face would be something horrible, a thing he or his folks
would no longer recognize. What he saw was much better. The water stung his
cracked lips and the inside of his mouth, but Brody drank from his palm anyway.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You gonna eat, or not?” Ames asked.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Brody looked up, and smiled. With his eyes
cleaned out, his vision was almost normal. Ames sat on a stump, next to a
smoldering fire. He had a short, gray, curly beard that matched his hair. His
gray pants and jacket were stained and had been repaired many times.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Hang on,” Brody said. He glanced around the
campsite. Another, smaller tent sat behind the one he had slept in. A large oak
towered above the camp. An old limb had fallen out of the tree recently. Wood
chips lay around it, telling Brody that Ames had been using it for firewood.
One of the smaller limbs had broken away during the fall and had a nice fork on
one end, perfect for placing under the arm.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Brody got up and hopped over to it. He
stripped the dead leaves off and held the limb against his side. It came up a
bit past his shoulder. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Too tall.</i> He wacked
it against the ground and broke part of the branch off.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Perfect,” he said. Brody placed the fork
under his arm pit and leaned on it. He hobbled over to Ames and waited. Three
pieces of metal formed a tripod over the fire. It held a kettle above the
flames.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well, sit on down,” Ames said. “This bacon
ain’t gonna eat itself.” He motioned to a log nearby.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Brody went and sat. “You live here?” He ran
his hand along the log, and felt the bark that had been worn smooth.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The man offered him a cup. “Here, better
eat. We may have to fight this evenin’.”</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Brody took the cup. “Did you say fight?”</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Ames started talking about the war again,
but Brody’s attention had turned to something brown behind the log. The furry
pile still had the large paws and head attached.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“The wildcat,” Brody said. “The one you
killed. You cut it up?” He paused and then looked at the small chunks floating
in the gruel. “This ain’t bacon,” he said.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What ain’t bacon?” Ames asked.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“The panther,” Brody said.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Okay,” the man said. “We’ll cook him up.
Ames don’t waste nothin’.”</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Brody could not find any sense in the
statement. He shook his head, and sipped the thick liquid from the mush. “I
need to get home,” he said.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Ames chewed faster. “Have some coffee,” he
said while offering a cup.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Brody took it and shifted on the log. “I’m
worried about my folks. We ain’t got no food. I was trying to kill some game
when I had my accident.”</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Fell and hurt yer foot, did ye?” Ames
asked.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Hurt my face,” Brody said.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Fell and hurt yer face?”</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No, I was shooting and-”</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Shot yourself in da foot,” Ames
interrupted.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No, I hurt my face first.”</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Ya shot yourself in da face?”</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Brody sighed. “Never mind,” he said. “I just
need to get home.”</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The
smoke from the fire shifted and a breeze blew it toward him for a moment. He
fanned it away with his hand, and then took a sip of coffee, only to discover
the coffee was nothing more than hot water. Regardless, the warmth felt good on
his lips.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He watched Ames. Brody guessed the black man
to be at least a flour sack heavier than his father. The man’s muscular frame
probably put him over two hundred pounds.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Brody sat the pretend coffee on the log.
“Can you take me?”</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Me?” Ames asked, while pointing to his
chest with a weathered hand. “Oh, no. Ain’t got no way to get ya there.”</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You could carry me.” Brody glanced around
the campsite, nestled on the side of a mountain. “You carried me here didn’t
you?”</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Can’t carry ya that far, and Ames can’t go
traipsin’ around with patrols out there.”</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“But Ames.”</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The black man shook his head. “Got a good
hide out here. I ain’t leavin it.” He squinted one eye and stared at Brody for
a second. “Not sure I want ya leavin’ neither.”</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“The war’s over,” Brody said, not liking the
way Ames was looking at him.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“They could make ya talk, boy.”</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Brody picked up his crutch and jabbed its
end into the dirt. “Ain’t nobody out there to make me talk. Ain’t no soldiers
been in these parts since before I was born.” He strained to raise his voice
and it hurt his throat.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Ames poured his coffee water out. “Oh,
they’s still there. I heard a shot just a couple days ago.”</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“That was me, Ames. I done tried to tell
you.”</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I ain’t goin’,” the man said. Ames stood,
kicked dirt at the fire, and then stomped off toward the tent. The big man
disappeared inside, and Brody heard him throwing things and mumbling.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Brody gripped the stick and pulled himself
up. “I’ll just go by myself,” he whispered. He stuck the limb under his arm,
hopped forward, and almost tripped. His ankle throbbed. Brody paused. “Soon as
my foot is better. Then, I’ll be on my way.”</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Ames avoided him the rest of the day, but
Brody didn’t care. He took the opportunity to explore the camp, hoping to find
a way to get home, but Ames did not seem to have a horse or even a donkey
anywhere.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The black man had chosen the side of a
mountain to make camp. He had set up his tents and tucked them into the only
level spot Brody could see.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Brody looked toward the top of the mountain.
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Two hundred steps. </i>He turned and
looked down, across the valley below. Thick treetops covered ridges that went
in every direction. Even if he had two good feet, he would not be able to find
the right way home, not without the black man’s help.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The smaller tent caught his attention, so he
hobbled over to it. The flap had been cinched tight. Brody untied the rope and
pulled the canvas back. Small crates were stacked in the middle. Some of the
boxes were labeled, some not.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A large chest sat near the back of the tent.
It had shiny tacks on the top, arranged into letters. CABELL. Brody went to the
wooden trunk and traced the letters with his finger. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Cabell must be his last name.</i></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Something clicked behind him, and Brody
recognized the sound. He leaned on the stick under his arm, and raised his
hands.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You turns around, real slow like,” Ames
ordered.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Brody eased a hand down and shifted his
crutch around, and then he turned. Ames had a long-barrel trained on him.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It’s just me,” Brody said.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Are ye Union or Confed-”</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’m with you. Remember?” Brody said. He had
an urge to grind his teeth together.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Ames lowered the gun, took a deep breath,
and huffed. The corners of his mouth turned downward. He stuck his chin out,
and walked away. “Better get on outta there,” he mumbled.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Brody tried to catch up. “I really need to
get home, Ames.”</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The man didn’t answer. He went into the
large tent, and pulled the flap closed.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Over
the next week, Brody’s voice changed. His tone lowered, and the raspy sounds
went away. It no longer hurt him to speak or swallow. His vision also improved.
By the sixth day, he could put some weight on his ankle.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Small scabs had formed on his cheeks and
forehead, but all of the soreness had left. Brody spent some time every day
feeling the stubble growing on his eyebrows and hairline, even his eyelashes
were coming back.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He delighted in the fact that he would not
be blind or deformed, but the thought of his folks always brought his spirits
down. They had probably given up on finding him by now.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Before bed every night, Brody prayed for
them. Sometimes he cried, but stayed quiet so Ames would not hear. No matter
how hard he tried, Brody could not stop the guilt. Each time he ate some of the
black man’s mystery stew, he felt it. When he crunched up the hard biscuits
Ames called hardtack, he felt it. Brody had food, but his family did not.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Ames only pulled a gun on him twice more.
The man didn’t talk much, and each time Brody tried to convince Ames to take
him home, the black man refused, and then talked even less.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
________________________________________________________________</div>
<br />
Robert L. Bacon<br />
<a href="http://www.theperfectwrite.com/">theperfectwrite.com</a><br />
For authors, The Perfect Write® is now providing<br />
<b>FREE QUERY LETTER REVIEW AND ANALYSIS</b>.<br />
<br />
Post your query to <a href="mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com">mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com</a>(no attachments)
and visit the <a href="http://www.theperfectwrite.com/sample-letters/">Sample Letters Page </a>for examples of successful query letters.<br />
<br />
The Perfect Write® offers comprehensive editing services, from manuscript critiques to complete revisions, including line-editing, along with query letter design and composition. For pricing, send your project requirements to <a href="mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com">mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com</a><br />
<br />
For business applications, The Perfect Write® also offers advanced services, from designing sophisticated sell sheets to crafting investor-appealing business plans for start-up enterprises. For a customized quote, please send your detailed project requirements to
<a href="mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com">mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com</a><br />
<br />
<br />The Perfect Write®http://www.blogger.com/profile/15911456172776383647noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5113765841272949669.post-80048414595920335872012-12-03T11:08:00.000-05:002012-12-03T11:10:48.928-05:00Robert L. Bacon<br />
<a href="http://www.theperfectwrite.com/">theperfectwrite.com</a><br />
<br />
<b>FOR SERIOUS AUTHORS</b>, The Perfect Write® is now providing a<br />
<b>FREE OPENING-CHAPTER CRITIQUE </b>(of material up to 5,000 words)<br />
Paste your material to the to the body of an e-mail and send to <a href="mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com">theperfectwrite@aol.com</a> (no attachments).<br />
<br />
The Perfect Write® offers comprehensive editing services, from manuscript critiques to complete revisions, including line-editing, along with query letter design and composition. For pricing, send your project requirements to <a href="mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com">theperfectwrite@aol.com</a><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />The Perfect Write®http://www.blogger.com/profile/15911456172776383647noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5113765841272949669.post-21377856192063802492012-12-01T12:19:00.004-05:002012-12-08T19:43:54.136-05:00"The Bronze Horsemen" Opening Chapter By Dave Mallegol<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Chapter 1:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Eastern Europe:
3,000 BC</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I am Daven, head of the Horse Clan and lead hunter for all of
the Botai. Since you are interested, I am happy to tell you of my people and
the adventures that take place<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>during the next year, but first, here is what I remember about early
life in my village. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Screams woke
me and my father early one morning. It was dawn when the men with the red
armbands attacked our village for the third time this year. Our villagers were
in panic as they ran from their burning houses. I was afraid I might be killed
when I came out and saw the Smolens leader. He was the same man who had killed
my mother on the last raid. I recognized the fresh scar that ran from his scalp
across his right cheek to the point on his chin. It was my father who cut his
face as they fought hand to hand with knives the last time we were attacked. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I was nine
years old at the time and armed with a boy's bow. It was far from effective
against two dozen hardened raiders. Still, I fired an arrow with a flint tip
and struck the one with the scar on his face in his right shoulder. He laughed
at the wound I inflicted and raised his hatchet to kill me, when a woman named
Ruth pulled me away from the fight. We ran with the rest of the women and
children, led by an elder named Emma. My father killed two of those men with
red armbands before he himself was killed that day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="text-transform: uppercase;"></span></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">My friend
Bruno was ten years old and a big kid for his age. He fought alongside my
father and grandfather and killed one raider and wounded two others as the
marauders ran between our pit houses, setting more fires.<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="text-transform: uppercase;"> </span></b>When it was over, several
of our homes were ruined and three more Horse Clan members were dead. A year ago the Horse Clan had twenty-two
people, but after the latest hit-and-run attack by the Smolens, there were just
sixteen of us left, and only six men, including Bruno, who could fight. They
did their damage and killing and retreated as fast as they came.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">That night, Sandor,
who we call the Oldson or chief, called our small band together. His features
were rigid as stone and he raised his arms to be sure he had our full attention.
“The Smolens are too many and too powerful for us to fight any longer. We have
no choice if we are to survive. We must leave our homes and move.” He waited
for a response or an argument, but there was none. His people knew they had no
choice. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Sandor spoke
again. He nodded to his friend and
companion, Tedd, and said, “Tedd has located a new land on the other side of
the Ural Mountains. The new land has plenty of
grain, a good supply of salt, fruits and berries and horses to hunt. It will be
hard work and a long trip. I see no other choice. The best thing about the new
lands is that the Smolens will never find us. This brought smiles and a voice
of approval. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Tedd and I will attend the summer gathering. With any luck we
will be able to convince our relatives in the Bear Clan and the Aurochs Clan to
unite with us. They have also been under attack by the Smolens, and their
numbers are reduced from last year as ours are.” Sandor glanced around at his
audience. “If we continue to live here as an independent clan, we do not have
enough hunters to defend ourselves. As leader of the Horse Clan, I will take
you to a safer place on the other side of the mountains. That is my decision.
We leave tomorrow and we will not return. The trip will be difficult. I caution
each of you to bring only what you can carry.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The
announcement was a shock. No one wanted
to leave our territory because of the crops we had planted and the plentiful
animals to hunt, but everyone realized there was no choice. We left twenty years
ago. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The first winter was very hectic, with
building pit houses and hunting what we could before the harsh weather set in. We ate what we had been able to gather or kill
in a relatively short time, and there was little meat for our stew pots. Luckily, the winter was mild and of short
duration for once, and we made it to spring without losing anyone else.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">That spring,
the Bear Clan joined up with us in our new home, and the Aurochs Clan soon
followed. Both had fought the Smolens during
the winter and lost those battles to superior numbers. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like us, each clan had been reduced
significantly from the preceding year.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Abandoning
their villages was also the only option left to them.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Our
settlement is located on a branch of the Ob that runs north to an ocean some
call the Arctic. We are south and east of the Ural Mountains, probably two hundred miles or so from the
Smolens.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>South of our village are
grasslands that run from east to west for a thousand miles, maybe more. No one
really knows. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What we do know is that
there are wild horses in those grasslands, and they will provide the meat we
need to survive.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Tedd likes this
location for several reasons. Of greatest significance, there is fresh water
and salt for meat preservation. Because our village is on a sharp bend in the
river, the water runs faster here and remains unfrozen all winter. As an added
advantage, our village is situated on high ground, so we avoid spring floods.
The area has adequate supplies of fruits and vegetables growing naturally in
the area. No other people live close to us, thus there is no longer a need to
fight to hold our territory. With the dreaded Smolens out of the picture, we
have no enemies and few dangers other than an occasional bear or mountain lion
that might roam too close. Of course, there are always wolves in the area if
someone gets careless. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 5;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The weather
has already cooled as we approach the late summer. Horse hunts are a group
effort involving all three clans. Two hunts will not meet our needs for a typical
brutal winter, during which temperatures drop to thirty or forty degrees below
zero and stay there for months at a time. We have already been successful with
two hunts and this will be our third. A fourth will follow. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Gathering
peas, lentils, berries, mushrooms, and wheat has become part of everyday life
in the fall for our women, but without horse meat we would not survive the last
two months of winter, those we used to call "the starving months."
Before we learned to hunt horses effectively, we often saw the oldest and
youngest of our people starve to death as winter wore on. I am told by Tedd and
Emma, our oldest members that the total number of clan members has generally never
increased. Starvation always held our population to a small group. Since the
three clans joined together as one people, the hope is that we will develop
better gathering and hunting methods and our food supply will improve.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Our women
already have good supplies of most of what we need, except for gooseberries,
raspberries and blueberries. Berries are essential to make pemmican, a
combination of peas, berries and horsemeat packed into horse intestines and then
smoked to preserve them. Pemmican is eaten as a cold meal on long horse hunts
like the one I am planning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is a crucial
staple, since campfire smoke would be smelled from a long distance away by horses,
alarming them and sending them deeper into the grasses where we would have no chance
to hunt them. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">In the Botai,
as the three clans are called collectively, it is not unusual to have women
included as hunters; actually it is quite common. They have to pass the same
tests as the men, except for lesser requirements with the spear and Atlatl for
which males have more natural shoulder strength. Our hunts this year have
included three females along with four males who just came of age and passed
the skills tests. Hunters, whether they are men or women, are the most respected
clan members. As the lead hunter, I live for this time of year. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">As I indicated
in the beginning, the chief of a clan is called the Oldson. He usually inherits
his title as the oldest son of the past leader and takes over when his father
passes away or steps down due to age or injury. Upon inheriting the title from
his father, Sandor rarely used his original name again. Since the other clans
joined us at our new location, their clan leaders deferred to Sandor, and he is
chief over all three clans.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Normally the
Oldson attends the hunters' meeting to offer advice and encouragement to the hunters,
especially the newer ones, because if new hunters perform well during all four
hunts, they become full clan members and can take a wife. Due to Sandor’s
advanced age of 40, he is no longer able to take part in the hunts himself. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Mostly he
spends his time counseling people who have disputes, regardless of if it is a man
and his wife or if it involves members from different clans. Many issues are
trivial and could be settled without him. Since he can no longer hunt, he has
time on his hands and has gotten involved with minor issues as well as major disagreements. The reason he did not attend the hunters
meeting this time has nothing to do with handling disputes, or his age.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">He severely
cut his foot while going to the scat pit during a moonless night. The injured
foot became infected and has not healed. In truth, it has gotten worse, and our
clan is worried that he might not survive this injury. Sandor has been our
respected and beloved leader for almost twenty years, ever since the Smolens killed
his father and both my parents. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">He takes his
time with decisions, whether they are between individuals or something bigger
that might affect two clans or the whole village. When he makes a judgment it
is final, and most often the parties are satisfied. I do not envy his getting
in the middle of family arguments and clan disputes. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>Being a hunter, I have no interest in settling
petty arguments. I would only be comfortable deciding those issues that affect
the Botai people as a whole. My hope, as with everyone else, is that he
recovers by the time we return from this hunt. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Before we
departed, I led the discussion regarding travel and the overnight camping
rules. Bruno, head of the Bear Clan, and Janos, head of the Aurochs Clan,
helped with the planning. Each took part, but it was my plan overall. When we
hunt horses, we wear horsehide clothes and look like horses. Since human sweat
gives off such a strong smell, we wash before we leave. My thinking is that it
is better to smell like a horse if you are hunting one. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">We also bring
horse manure in sacks that are traditionally carried by the youngest hunters.
This rite always draws minor complaints, but the young hunters become the
experienced hunters in a year and do not have to carry manure for more than one
season. As we travel, the manure ripens and smells worse. By the time we arrive
at the hunt site, we all smell like horse droppings. It can get to be pretty
bad. Yet, just before the start of the hunt, to be certain all of our natural
scents are masked, we rub manure on any exposed skin.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">On the
morning of the hunt we ate an early meal and set out at daybreak. We have been
walking and running for four hours and my mind wanders to memories from the
past. I will always remember learning so much of what I know about hunting and
fishing from Tedd, who is actually my uncle and two years senior to the
Oldson.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At 42, he is considered ancient.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Uncle Tedd
is the one person who always made time to teach me how to make bows and arrows
and how to attach the feathers so the arrow would rotate while it was in
flight. One time I decided to try a shortcut and make an arrow without
feathers. But it would not fly for more than a few feet in a straight line or
steady arc, so from then on I followed his advice rather than questioned it.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Tedd showed
me from which trees I could make the best bows and arrows. He also taught me
how to chip flint arrowheads, but I was never the best at flint knapping, as he
called it. I learned it was better to trade horsemeat with the older men for
better arrowheads. Tedd also showed me how to string a bow correctly and how to
properly affix a leather strap on my left arm so the bowstring would not cut my
arm as I practiced hour after hour.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">My next
learning experience was fishing, which was not all that dangerous compared to
hunting…unless you cannot swim. So, naturally, before I was allowed to fish I
had to learn to swim. Later he taught me camping skills and the importance of
keeping one or more fires going at night. Because of their natural fear of fire,
this would keep dangerous animals away. I remember Tedd saying, “It is far
smarter to keep bears and mountain lions away than to have to fight them off in
the dark.” I never forgot that lesson.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The odd
thing about Tedd is that he was never considered a good hunter, yet he is such
a great teacher. Maybe it was because he was more interested in coming up with
new ideas and showing others how to do things instead of practicing his skills
to get better. I do not need new ideas.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
need practice so I do it continuously. I think that my son, Mikl, takes after
my uncle more than me. The boy always has new ideas. When my father was alive,
as strong a hunter and a fighter as he happened to be, he was always too busy
to teach me. This seemed strange to me. However, my uncle always had time.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">My mind came
back to the task at hand, this hunt. At midday we stopped for a quick meal, but
never left the trail. I quickly ate my pemmican and motioned for everyone to move
forward again. Horses and
deer can be hunted in two ways. The first way is what we call drive hunting. Several
of us walk in a normal manner at a walking pace. We make just enough noise,
talking in a normal tone to move the herd forward. We refer to these hunters
as, drivers. They push the game forward to what we call the lead line of
hunters. Men in the lead line are a half mile or mile in front of the drivers and
remain hidden until the animals come to them.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The second
way to hunt large game is called position hunting. With this type of hunting, a
hunter in disguise stays well hidden from sight, and waits for the animal to
come to them, usually on a trail the animal uses regularly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Position
hunting is done by one or two hunters and offers a kill of a single animal.
Driving horses or deer requires a large group of hunters, but offers the chance
to kill many animals<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">. </b>My plan for
this hunt is to have five drivers and nine lead line hunters. Drivers are not
usually in on the kill because the animals are being pushed forward and move
away from them. Their work is to move the horses toward the lead line, but not
to fully alarm them. They also have to stay alert in case a horse turns back
toward them in an effort to escape. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">As the
drivers move forward, they have to sound natural. When horses hear their voices
they move ahead of the sound. Too much noise alarms them and they gallop from
sight or reverse direction. To our right is the northern edge of the grasses
where wolves prowl. Horses avoid the woods. To the left are open grasslands
which offer an escape if they run that way. Behind are the drivers and in front
are the lead hunters. Our methods allow us to cover three of the four directions
a horse can run. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">We carry
long bows and flint tipped spears with Atlatls for distance throwing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>An Atlatl attaches to the end of the spear
like a hand and in effect makes the thrower’s arm longer adding distance and
power to the throw. It takes practice and strength, but once the skill is
perfected, a hunter can throw a spear almost twice as far as normal. It is rare
that a hunter has enough strength before the age of fourteen to master a spear
and an Atlatl, so fourteen years of age is the usual cutoff date for a young man
to become a full hunter. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Bruno is a year
older than I am and throws the Atlatl spear farther and better than anyone who <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>has ever challenged him. At the summer
gatherings, he has been the best at it for as long as I can remember. Only one
man, a big Hungarian called Kraven, gives him a challenge, yet he has never
defeated Bruno in the Atlatl throw or at any of the strength contests. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Kraven is
not happy about losing to Bruno year after year and we know he will be well
prepared for next year’s summer gathering contests. Bruno is just too strong. I
am not a small man, but he towers over me and weighs a lot more than I weigh.
We wrestle and challenge each other on just about everything. He always wins
contests where strength is a factor. I win when it comes to expertise with the
bow. I practice more and rarely lose to anyone. When it comes to strength,
without a doubt, Bruno is the strongest man I have ever known.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">One time
several years ago we were hunting a bear and it turned on us. I struck it with
my spear from a short distance, but the spear hit a shoulder bone and glanced
off. The bear was wild with rage and almost reached me, roaring and snarling.
The brown monster slashed at me with its massive claws as I tried to ready my
second spear. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">It was about
to tear me apart when Bruno drove his spear deep into its chest and saved my
life. Mortally wounded it turned toward Bruno and I rammed my second spear into
its neck. Between the two of us and three other hunters, we finally killed
it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We have many memories like that one
and have been friends since we were kids.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I think of him as my older brother and I know he feels the same.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">After a
successful hunt, we remove any parts of the horse we cannot use for food. Little
is wasted. We remove the head, lower legs and large bones to lighten the load
on the trip back. After butchering the meat we always have a feast of the best
parts, the tongue, the liver and heart and special cuts of meat. We empty the
intestines, but we save them for use in making pemmican for the next hunt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">If we kill
one or two horses we carry the horse meat back to the village packed in
horsehide sacks. When we have better luck and kill several we transport whole
animals by tying their feet together at the knees and slip a pole between the
legs. Now the whole carcass can be lifted off the ground and placed on the
shoulders of the carriers. We usually have two people in the front and two
people at the back carrying the ends of the pole. Bruno never needs help on his
end. He lifts the front of the pole and leads the way. We rotate positions and
move the poles from one shoulder to the other as we walk. Due to the weight,
the return trip always takes longer than the trip going out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">My hunters
continue to walk all afternoon as the sun moves lower in the western sky. I
remember another experience with my uncle. When I was a boy I asked my uncle Ted
how he could make a lariat that was fifty feet long when a horse was on only
about eight or nine feet long. It seemed impossible. He was just about to start
making one and said, “Sit down Daven and watch. I will explain as I work.” This
could take all morning and I was wondered if I should have asked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Tedd spread
a tanned horse hide on a flat plot of ground and took out his sharp flint knife.
He poked a hole in the middle of the hide and made a circle cut around the
hole. Then he continued the circle around the first circle and kept slicing in
a continuously larger and larger circle with the cuts never touching.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Finally he reached the edge of the hide and
stood up holding one end of the circle. The hide became a long piece of leather
instead of a flat hide. It was still tangled in a circular design, but when Tedd
stretched it out it was about fifty feet long, just like he said it would be. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He placed it in water and let it soak.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The next day he stretched the leather strap
in the sun and held it down with a few rocks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When it dried, it was straight.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Our hunters
have tried to capture live horses with their lariats, but we have always
failed. We talk about it over fires during the winters. Getting a lariat over a
horse’s head has been done many times, but horses are so strong they easily
pull a hunter off his feet and drag him. When dragged even a short distance, a
hunter’s arms are cut by the grass and they have to let go or be sliced to
pieces. A few times there have been broken arms when a man was dragged over a
hidden rock. This time we will try again. We always try.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Our travel
so far has been over familiar trails. Main trails coming out of our village run
north and south along the river and east and west along the edge of the
grasslands. From these smaller trails others split off in many directions. For
the first day, we used our fast travel method of walking for a 1000 paces and
then running for 1000 paces. This gives us a much higher rate of speed than if
we only walk. We have done this for many years and we can maintain this pace
for a ten or twelve hour day and for many days.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">As we leave
the east to west trail, we enter five foot tall grass and the walk becomes more
difficult and much slower. This is where horses live. With plenty of water and
grass for fodder, they thrive. Their natural enemies, including hunters like us,
have difficulty hunting them due to their sense of smell, their eyesight and
their speed through the grasses. With these ideal conditions, the herds
continue to grow. Wolves prowl the edges picking off the old and weak just as
we did years ago, but not anymore.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The four
young men I mentioned have passed the skills tests and are ready to take a
position in the lead line, where the kills are made most often. Skills tests
are bow and arrow tests at fifty paces plus spear and Atlatl throws. Lariat
throws are included as part of their tests.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The most
difficult skill test for a new hunter to pass is what I call the panic test.
This test is where a hunter must launch four arrows into the air, before the
first arrow hits the ground. I still practice this skill when teaching them.
The beginning of the test is easy because the first arrow is already notched
and ready just like it would be on a hunt. The second arrow must be pulled from
your quiver on your back, notched and fired with a full pull of the bow as are the
third and fourth arrow. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">A mistake
with any of the four arrows will cause the hunter to fail the test. If the
hunter does not take a full pull of the bow, the arrow will not launch high
enough and the first arrow will hit the ground before the fourth one is released.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The hunter must concentrate on what he or she
is doing and fight off the tendency to rush or panic. This test is designed to
prepare them for hunting dangerous game. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">At times a
stallion or a mare with a foal will run at a hunter in an attempt to escape. If
a hunter panics and runs away, they can easily be trampled. The hunter must
fight off his fear and continue to fire the second, third and fourth arrow at a
charging one thousand pound angry horse set on killing instead of being killed.
I have felt that same fear many times and have seen experienced hunters drop to
the ground in an attempt to hide or turn and run. When this happens, the horse
usually becomes the killer unless others in our group can take it down before
it reaches the runner. Most of the time it all happens too quickly and the
hunter is trampled. If a hunter is badly injured, they often do not survive the
return trip, because we have no medicine women on our hunts. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Among the
four new hunters are Flint
and Jon, twin sons of my good friend Bruno. Flint barely passed the four arrow panic test.
He did do well with the spear and Atlatl and scored accurately with the long
bow. I am concerned with his preparation, but Bruno assured me he is ready to
prove himself.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Another new
man is my son Mikl. He easily passed the long bow and panic tests and he does
well with the spear and Atlatl due to his size and upper body strength. Mikl
was born in the third month of the year so he is well past his fourteenth
birthday and is bigger and stronger than I was at the same age. He only lacks
practice. He is confident, maybe too confident.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The second
twin son of Bruno is Jon, Mikl’s best friend. He also passed the tests without
problems.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Although they are identical twins
and born the same day, Jon was born before Flint by a few minutes, not that it makes any
difference. The fourth new hunter is Joe, a member of the Aurochs Clan headed
by Janos. Joe is physically the smallest of the fourteen hunters with me today.
I comment on his size only because three of the hunters are women, yet Joe is
still smallest. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">One person
who is taller and maybe stronger than Joe is his sister Agi. She is older than Joe
by two years and has proven herself on many previous hunts. I have my doubts
with Joe. He struggled during several skill tests. He gives in to panic and
probably should have waited another year until he was fifteen. His mother
pushed him because Agi already hunts and more likely, because his father died
while hunting horses years ago. Tomorrow will tell the story.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">When a
hunter proves himself he can take a wife. Wives must always come from another
clan, never from your own clan. Many times wives are from other groups of
people with whom we trade at the summer gatherings. It is not as important for
women to pass hunting tests because only a few of them have any desire to be
hunters. Most women want to become wives and mothers and leave hunting to the
men. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I am
confident in my son Mikl as tomorrow approaches. I have to admit, I would like
to see him practice with his weapons more than he does. Maybe he practices less
because it comes too easily to him. He is good, but all of us can be better. I
constantly work to perfect my hunting skills while he is usually looking at
something new. He thrives on anything new.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">As an
example, last year he spent a lot of time on a new idea for a bow that does not
seem to work. It was made of the same ash wood we make all our bows from so it
is not the wood itself. The piece he cut was from a tree that had a natural
second curve at one end. His thinking was that if a bow normally has one long
curve in the middle, an extra curve at the end should make it more powerful,
similar to a bow with an Atlatl at the end. He calls it a two-curve bow.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">He finished
the bow and practiced with it. When the extra curve of the bow was at the top, it
drove the arrow into the ground.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When
the second curve was at the bottom, the arrow flew too far over the target. He
was still working with it when we left for this hunt. Since the arrow cannot be
controlled, the bow seems to be useless. The thing that makes me wonder if it
has any value is that when he shoots an arrow at very close range, it drives
the arrow farther into the target than any other bow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">All these
thoughts run through my mind as we walk forward pushing tall grass aside. The
trail has become less distinct. I notice the manure on the ground has become
fresh a sure sign the herds are close. The sun set as we arrived in one of our
old camp sites, one that we have used before and we stopped for the evening.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">This site is
a good one with fresh water and open ground offering us protection from
possible predators. With a group this large, it is unlikely any predator would
bother us. Just in case, I set two guards on opposite ends of the clearing.
Tomorrow morning we will move into position. It is not far now. </span></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
Robert L. Bacon<br />
<a href="http://www.theperfectwrite.com/">theperfectwrite.com</a><br />
<br />
<b>For serious authors</b>, The Perfect Write® is now providing a<br />
<b>FREE Opening-Chapter Critique </b>(material up to 5,000 words).<br />
Paste your opening chapter to the body of an e-mail and send to <a href="mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com">:theperfectwrite@aol.com</a><br />
(no attachments).<br />
<br />
The Perfect Write® offers comprehensive editing services, from manuscript critiques to complete revisions, including line-editing, along with query letter design and composition. For pricing, send your project requirements to <a href="mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com">theperfectwrite@aol.com</a><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />The Perfect Write®http://www.blogger.com/profile/15911456172776383647noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5113765841272949669.post-32696253428084075822012-11-23T15:42:00.003-05:002012-12-06T11:00:20.031-05:00"As Ye Sow" Opening Chapter by Tom Collins<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 0in .5in 1.0in 1.5in 2.0in 2.5in 3.0in 3.5in 4.0in 4.5in 5.0in 5.5in 6.0in 6.5in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Libra BT"; font-size: 20.0pt;">Chapter 1</span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 0in .5in 1.0in 1.5in 2.0in 2.5in 3.0in 3.5in 4.0in 4.5in 5.0in 5.5in 6.0in 6.5in; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Starting her senior year at Royal
High School in Armagh, Ireland,
17-year-old Hanora Doyle was 5-foot 11-inches tall. She was afraid she would
never have a date, much less find a man to marry her. But, today, two years
later, with her head of thick, copper-colored hair covered by a white hat and
her face by a lacy veil, she stood before Father Grace and married 5-foot-9
Sean Flanagan. The day’s rain couldn’t spoil things for her. She was married.
It was the happiest time of her life. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
After a two-day honeymoon in Dublin, the happy couple
moved into the back bedroom at the home of Sean’s parents. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“It’s just temporary, hon,” Sean
said. “I’ll do better now that I have you.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
They were married three months when
Hanora’s discovery filled her heart with joy. She was pregnant.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But her joy and excitement soon faded as she
realized the living conditions that awaited her baby. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 0in .5in 1.0in 1.5in 2.0in 2.5in 3.0in 3.5in 4.0in 4.5in 5.0in 5.5in 6.0in 6.5in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Their room was not much more than a
narrow space, enough for their bed and a chest of drawers and nothing else.
There was no mirror and only one small window. The walls stayed wet after every
rain, until the heat of the sun beat through the thin plaster and dried the
droplets that formed on them. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I can’t let
my baby start life like this</i>. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 0in .5in 1.0in 1.5in 2.0in 2.5in 3.0in 3.5in 4.0in 4.5in 5.0in 5.5in 6.0in 6.5in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>After a dinner of boiled ham and
cabbage, spoiled by the family's bickering and the coughing of Ol’ Mike, Sean’s
father, Hanora wanted some privacy, and her stomach warned her to get away from
the smell of dinner. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 0in .5in 1.0in 1.5in 2.0in 2.5in 3.0in 3.5in 4.0in 4.5in 5.0in 5.5in 6.0in 6.5in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Sean, want to take a walk?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 0in .5in 1.0in 1.5in 2.0in 2.5in 3.0in 3.5in 4.0in 4.5in 5.0in 5.5in 6.0in 6.5in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Okay, hon, I’ll grab our jackets.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 0in .5in 1.0in 1.5in 2.0in 2.5in 3.0in 3.5in 4.0in 4.5in 5.0in 5.5in 6.0in 6.5in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A block away, a group of Irish brats,
throwing stones and yelling loud enough to wake the saints, spoiled their walk.
One of the kids noticed Sean and Hanora and ran over to them, yelling, “Penny
mister. Penny mister?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 0in .5in 1.0in 1.5in 2.0in 2.5in 3.0in 3.5in 4.0in 4.5in 5.0in 5.5in 6.0in 6.5in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The ragamuffin, a girl of around
nine or ten, had iodine splotches on her neck and face; an
attempt to control ringworm.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 0in .5in 1.0in 1.5in 2.0in 2.5in 3.0in 3.5in 4.0in 4.5in 5.0in 5.5in 6.0in 6.5in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Hanora stopped, but Sean took her by
the arm and kept her moving.<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 0in .5in 1.0in 1.5in 2.0in 2.5in 3.0in 3.5in 4.0in 4.5in 5.0in 5.5in 6.0in 6.5in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The skinny child yelled to their
backs, “Up yours, the cheap fookers that ya are.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 0in .5in 1.0in 1.5in 2.0in 2.5in 3.0in 3.5in 4.0in 4.5in 5.0in 5.5in 6.0in 6.5in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Soon, Sandy Hill came into view, with
its larger houses, well-kept lawns and clean streets. They were nearing St.
Patrick’s Cathedral.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 0in .5in 1.0in 1.5in 2.0in 2.5in 3.0in 3.5in 4.0in 4.5in 5.0in 5.5in 6.0in 6.5in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’ve something to tell you, Sean.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 0in .5in 1.0in 1.5in 2.0in 2.5in 3.0in 3.5in 4.0in 4.5in 5.0in 5.5in 6.0in 6.5in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Let’s hear it.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 0in .5in 1.0in 1.5in 2.0in 2.5in 3.0in 3.5in 4.0in 4.5in 5.0in 5.5in 6.0in 6.5in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She gave his hand a squeeze, and
with a tender expression on her face she coyly looked<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>away. There, beneath the magnificent twin
towers that protect the Celtic Cross of Saint Patrick, Hanora said, “I’m
pregnant.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 0in .5in 1.0in 1.5in 2.0in 2.5in 3.0in 3.5in 4.0in 4.5in 5.0in 5.5in 6.0in 6.5in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Sean took a deep breath. “I’m to be
a father?” He made the sign of the cross, “I’m to be a father? Dear God, I am
truly blessed.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 0in .5in 1.0in 1.5in 2.0in 2.5in 3.0in 3.5in 4.0in 4.5in 5.0in 5.5in 6.0in 6.5in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He put both arms around his Hanora,
looked lovingly into her eyes, and kissed her.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 0in .5in 1.0in 1.5in 2.0in 2.5in 3.0in 3.5in 4.0in 4.5in 5.0in 5.5in 6.0in 6.5in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>After the kiss she leaned back. Sean
saw the tenderness fade from her face, replaced by a sullen look. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 0in .5in 1.0in 1.5in 2.0in 2.5in 3.0in 3.5in 4.0in 4.5in 5.0in 5.5in 6.0in 6.5in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She stared hard at him and said, “I
want better than the fookin streets of Armagh
for our baby.”<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She looked up at the huge cathedral
for a moment, closed her eyes. “Bye or girl, I’ve made up me mind,
it’ll be born in America.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 0in .5in 1.0in 1.5in 2.0in 2.5in 3.0in 3.5in 4.0in 4.5in 5.0in 5.5in 6.0in 6.5in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“America,” said Sean, as he released
his grip on her. “We canna’ afford a flat of our own here, how the hell are we
gonna’ get to America?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 0in .5in 1.0in 1.5in 2.0in 2.5in 3.0in 3.5in 4.0in 4.5in 5.0in 5.5in 6.0in 6.5in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“There’s got ta be a way. Me brother
did it, an if he found a way ta get there, so can we. I’m writing him.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 0in .5in 1.0in 1.5in 2.0in 2.5in 3.0in 3.5in 4.0in 4.5in 5.0in 5.5in 6.0in 6.5in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>They turned toward home. At the
other side of the cathedral they saw a bedraggled lot waiting in line at the
side door.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 0in .5in 1.0in 1.5in 2.0in 2.5in 3.0in 3.5in 4.0in 4.5in 5.0in 5.5in 6.0in 6.5in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Hanora nodded toward them and said,
“I’ll have no child of mine standing in line for a bowl of potato soup. Over in
America,
people are standing in line to see movin' pictures that talk, for crissake.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 0in .5in 1.0in 1.5in 2.0in 2.5in 3.0in 3.5in 4.0in 4.5in 5.0in 5.5in 6.0in 6.5in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Hanora squeezed his hand and they
walked on in silence for nearly a block. She stopped and faced him. <span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 0in .5in 1.0in 1.5in 2.0in 2.5in 3.0in 3.5in 4.0in 4.5in 5.0in 5.5in 6.0in 6.5in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I love you, Sean, and I’ll be a
good wife, but you’ve got to see this my way. Even if we could get our own
place, with what you earn here it’d be just another rat hole. No . . . we’re
going to America.”
With steel in her voice, she repeated, “Yeah hear me, luv? One way or another,
we’re going to America.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 0in .5in 1.0in 1.5in 2.0in 2.5in 3.0in 3.5in 4.0in 4.5in 5.0in 5.5in 6.0in 6.5in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As they walked, he saw the set of
Hanora’s chin and the determined look on her face. He felt sorry for her. There
was no way they would ever get to America.</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 0in .5in 1.0in 1.5in 2.0in 2.5in 3.0in 3.5in 4.0in 4.5in 5.0in 5.5in 6.0in 6.5in; text-align: center;">
*
* *</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 0in .5in 1.0in 1.5in 2.0in 2.5in 3.0in 3.5in 4.0in 4.5in 5.0in 5.5in 6.0in 6.5in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Back in their room, Hanora got her
tablet and pencil, sat on the lumpy bed, and wrote a pleading letter to her
brother. The next morning she waited out front to hand it to the postman.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 0in .5in 1.0in 1.5in 2.0in 2.5in 3.0in 3.5in 4.0in 4.5in 5.0in 5.5in 6.0in 6.5in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Three weeks later a reply from her
brother, Marty Doyle, arrived. She took it into the bedroom and closed the
door. At the window, with trembling hands, she opened it. As she unfolded what
was a single page, a check fluttered to the floor. She retrieved it and
clutched to her breast. Then she dropped to her knees and with tears in her
eyes said a Hail Mary. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 0in .5in 1.0in 1.5in 2.0in 2.5in 3.0in 3.5in 4.0in 4.5in 5.0in 5.5in 6.0in 6.5in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Her older brother had written a
short note that said he was happy to help out and anxious to have his baby
sister in Chicago
with him. But the check covered only their passage. The money they needed for
incidentals was scraped together by their clan and from the help of a priest at
St. Patrick’s. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 0in .5in 1.0in 1.5in 2.0in 2.5in 3.0in 3.5in 4.0in 4.5in 5.0in 5.5in 6.0in 6.5in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>They obtained their passports, and
after the Christmas holiday was over, Hanora packed for their departure. All
they owned fit in two suitcases. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 0in .5in 1.0in 1.5in 2.0in 2.5in 3.0in 3.5in 4.0in 4.5in 5.0in 5.5in 6.0in 6.5in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Sean was apprehensive about moving
so far from family, but he accepted the fact that Hanora would lead him
forever.</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 0in .5in 1.0in 1.5in 2.0in 2.5in 3.0in 3.5in 4.0in 4.5in 5.0in 5.5in 6.0in 6.5in; text-align: center;">
*
* *</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 0in .5in 1.0in 1.5in 2.0in 2.5in 3.0in 3.5in 4.0in 4.5in 5.0in 5.5in 6.0in 6.5in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Sean stayed in his bunk, seasick
most of the voyage. Hanora spent as much time on deck as she could. She loved
the sapphire color of the cold Atlantic Ocean,
and she inhaled deeply of the oft-swirling winds. She never tired of the
endless rolling waves. The swaying of the boat reminded her of being lulled in
her mother’s arms. Most of all, the ocean and the sky were clean, and the salt
air gave her a heady feeling she enjoyed. Hanora knew the great ocean blessed
her and would make her unborn child strong and healthy.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Robert L. Bacon<br />
<a href="http://www.theperfectwrite.com/">theperfectwrite.com</a><br />
<br />
For authors, The Perfect Write® will provide a<br />
<b>Free Opening-Chapter Critique (material up to 5,000 words)</b><br />
Post your opening chapter to <a href="mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com">mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com</a>(no attachments).<br />
<br />
The Perfect Write® offers comprehensive editing services, from manuscript critiques to complete revisions, including line-editing, along with query letter design and composition. For pricing, send your project requirements to <a href="mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com">mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com</a><br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com"></a>
The Perfect Write®http://www.blogger.com/profile/15911456172776383647noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5113765841272949669.post-91511756451858128422012-07-19T09:38:00.003-04:002013-05-23T12:16:49.175-04:00"The Devil's Backbone" Opening Chapter By James Babb<b><br /></b>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;">Brody came in from the evening chores. His Momma
fretted around the kitchen, passing back and forth in front of the glowing
cracks in the potbelly stove. He breathed deeply through his nose, expecting
the scent of meat cooking, but found no such smell.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> “Time to
eat?” he asked.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> Momma
untied her brown apron and laid it on the counter next to her, but remained
silent.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> He went to
the table, sat down, and waited. Daddy’s boots thumped on the wooden porch
outside. The sound stopped, only to be replaced with a rhythmic rapping on the
wall. Brody didn’t get up to answer the door because Dad always removed his
boots, banged them against the wall to knock the dust off, and then left them
outside until the next morning. This time, the banging carried on longer than
normal.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> “Why don’t
he stop?” Brody asked.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> Momma
sighed, but didn’t turn away from the wash-pan. “Got things on his mind,” she
whispered.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> The wooden
lever on the door rattled and Dad came in.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> Momma
turned. “Anything?” she asked him. Black strands of hair had come loose from
her bun and rested against her cheek. Mother normally kept her hair perfect,
but not today. This caused Brody to study her face closer. She had sunken eyes
and wrinkles, something he had never noticed before.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> Dad rubbed
a troubled hand across the stubble on his chin. “Nothing.” He sat at the table
and looked at the boy. “Brody.”</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> “Yes sir,”
he answered.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> Dad took
his dusty hat off, pushed his brown hair back, and then repositioned the hat.
“Tater needs brushed.”</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> “But I
already brushed my pony.”</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> “Son.”
Dad’s tone warned him not to argue.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> “Yes sir,”
Brody said on his way out the door. “Have it done in a jiffy.”</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> Brody knew
why he had been sent out. Grown-ups liked to talk alone. He closed the door
behind him, but immediately ducked around the corner. The thin chinking between
the logs on the old house did little to muffle the conversation.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> Dad
coughed. “It hasn’t rained in weeks. The crops died.”</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> “All of
‘em?” Momma asked.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> “It’s all
brown.”</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> Dishes
clinked together. “Jim, what are we gonna do? It’s mid-July and we’re outta
food.”</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> Dad sighed.
“Well-”</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> Momma
interrupted. “We’re out of money, and we need somthin’ to eat.”</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> “I hunted
all mornin’,” Dad said. “The game is scarce. They’re feelin’ the pinch too.”</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> “This is
not a pinch,” Momma argued. “We’re in trouble.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> Brody
pressed against the rough logs and heard his dad’s chair scoot across the wood
floor. “I can go to Fort Smith.
Maybe there’s work.”</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> Momma’s
voice rose. “There’s no work, and how would you get there? On Brody’s little pony?”</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> “I’ll
walk,” Dad said.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> “It would
take you days. It won’t work.” She remained quiet for a moment. “You could’ve
taken the old horse, if you hadn’t killed it.”</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> “We had to
eat,” he said.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> Brody
clutched his gut. His father had told him the farm horse ran off. <u>We ate
him?</u> Brody thought. He took a step back, lowered his head, and stuck his
hands in his pockets. The thought of eating horse meat twisted his stomach
around.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> The
conversation inside continued. “Jim, we can’t last long enough for you to go to
Fort Smith.”</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> “Maybe we
should all go,” Dad suggested.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> “You and I
ain’t eaten in days, Jim. I don’t know bout you, but I don’t have the strength
to walk for close to a week.”</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> Brody
leaned closer to the wall. <u>Not eaten?</u> He thought about the past few days.
Momma had cooked for him, but he now realized he had not seen her or his father
eating.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> “Brody will
be back any minute,” Dad said. “Let’s sleep on it, pray about it. We’ll find a
solution in the mornin’.”</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> “Jim, we
moved here in eighteen seventy-seven. We’ve been lookin’ for a solution for
three years.”</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> Brody heard
the booming sound of his dad’s calloused hand slapping the table. “It’s the
best I can do.”</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> Brody ran
to the barn and quickly brushed Tater while he pondered on things. Was it his
fault? Had he eaten more food than he should have? He patted Tater on the side.
The pony’s ribs stood out under Brody’s fingers. “You’re safe,” he said.
“There’s barely any meat on ya.”</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> Brody put the brush up, and closed the barn
door. The red sunset cast the last of its glow across the rolling hills in
front of their property. He paused and looked toward the dark woods behind his
house. There had to be some kind of game animals left in there.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> A lit
candle sat on the table. He took it and walked across the creaky floor. Brody
stopped at his parent’s bedroom doorway and could hear Momma crying softly.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> “You okay?”
he asked.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> Dad’s voice
came from the dark bedroom. “Come here.”</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> Brody went
inside. In the dim light from the candle he could see his Dad’s strong arms holding
Momma. Dad shifted, and held out a welcoming arm to Brody. The boy went over
and Dad pulled him close. Momma took the candle and set it on the nightstand.
They shared a family hug, longer than normal.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> “Everything’s
fine,” Dad said. “Go get some rest.”</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> Brody
wanted to tell them he had overheard the conversation, but thought Dad might be
mad on account of the eavesdropping. He kissed Momma on the check, and then
headed to his room.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> Brody
rolled and tossed, and though he tried, sleep avoided him. His stomach growled
with hunger. If he felt this bad after only going a day without food, then he
couldn’t imagine how hungry his parents must be. They needed food and he felt
responsible. There just had to be game left in the woods.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> <u>My spot</u>,
Brody thought. <u>He didn’t try my spot.</u> Brody had found a wonderful area a
year earlier, but kept it a secret. He never told his father about it because
Brody wasn’t supposed to be that far from home. He had seen three deer in the
secret hollow the year before, but couldn’t get a shot at any of them. This
time would be different.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> He started
constructing the plan in his head. He knew he would get in trouble, but it
would be worth it. Brody drifted to sleep, thinking of how excited his parents
would be when he returned with something to eat.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> He woke
early, lit a lantern, and got dressed. Instead of doing his morning chores,
Brody rushed to the corner where they kept the guns. Dad had gotten up earlier
than him and had taken the rifle. It only left Brody with the old flintlock his
grandfather had left them when he died. Brody had used it before. The pitted
barrel made the gun hard to load, but it still shot straight.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> He gathered
the wadding, balls, and bag of powder. A leather pouch hung on the wall, so he
grabbed it and threw the stuff inside. He found his jacket and big hunting
knife, and then went to the front door. It creaked as it swung open, so he
paused and listened, making sure his dad had left.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> Brody put
his jacket on, eased the door shut behind him, and then headed to the barn.
Tater tried turning his head to keep Brody from putting the bridle on, but it
didn’t work. After he finished, Brody found a leather bag hanging from a post.
He tied his bag to it with a short piece of rope, and then threw them across
Tater’s back. He crawled up, and even though Brody weighed no more than a sack
of corn, Tater still grunted. </span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> Brody
buttoned his jacket. “Let’s get goin’,” he said. “The sun is risin’ and we’ve a
long way to go.”</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> He kicked
his pony’s sides and they were on their way. The cool morning air instantly
started the boy’s eyes watering, but he did not care. His special hunting spot
would provide. He just knew it.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> He kept
Tater at a trot. The first hour of daylight could sometimes be the best time to
hunt, and the thought of missing it angered him. Brody made his way up a long
ridge. After going down a slope, they went through a grove of cedars. The
prickly green limbs rubbed against his clothes and coated him with the smell of
fresh cedar.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> After
leaving the cedars, they crossed over two smaller ridges, and then arrived at
the old wagon trail that led to his secret spot. The trail had not been
traveled by wagon for many years. Large saplings and brush grew in its middle.
Tater settled into the path’s depression where countless wild animals had
traveled, and trotted along.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> The oaks
towered above them. Winter’s leftover leaves crunched under Tater’s hooves.
Brody slowed him to a walk to keep from spooking any game. A large, low hanging
branch blocked the old path. It looked like a good place to stop, so Brody
climbed down, and then tied Tater to the limb. He patted the speckled gray hair
on the pony’s shoulder, retrieved the gun and packs, and then eased down the
side of the point.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> About
halfway down the gentle slope, Brody found an oak tree with a large root that
curled around. It formed a perfect sitting spot. He raked the leaf litter out
of the way and settled in.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> He opened
the pack and took a quick inventory. There were about twenty balls, lots of
wadding, and a large bag of black powder. He knew his dad kept the flintlock
loaded. He just had to prime the pan. Brody reached into the bag for the powder
flask, but it wasn’t there. He had forgotten it. The task of filling the pan
would be hard without it, but he felt he could do it.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> He untied
the bag of powder, and then balanced the gun across his knees. Brody managed to
load the pan without spilling very much. He sat the powder between his legs,
and cocked the hammer all the way back. The time for waiting had come.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> The birds
woke, flew from tree to tree, and chirped. A squirrel jumped onto a branch
above him, sending down a shower of morning dew. Brody ignored the cool drops
and entertained the idea of taking a shot at the tree rat, but then figured he
could not hit it up in the tree anyway. But, if the thing ventured down to the
ground, Brody knew he would give it a try. While he waited, his mind drifted.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> Memories,
good memories, of his first fourteen years and much better times kept his
thoughts busy, until a twig snapped in the hollow below. Brody sat a little
straighter and got ready. The echo of old leaves crunching sent his heart
racing. The boy’s secret spot had not failed him.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> Deep in the
hollow, a shadow moved. The figure came around a large tree and stepped into
the sun’s morning rays. A deer. Life had been hard on the skinny animal. Its
ribs pushed against its hide. The deer stood motionless for a long time, but
its ears twitched constantly.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> Brody’s
mind raced with the pace of his heart. The excitement of the hunt and promise
of food overtook him. He knew there would be enough meat to feed his family for
a week, maybe more. Brody eased his knees up, to give him a good rest for the
shot. He waited until the deer lowered its head. Then, Brody rested his elbows
on his knees and brought the butt of the gun to his shoulder. His hands shook
with deer fever.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> The deer
fed along, coming closer with each step. The dry leaf litter announced its
every move. It stopped fifty steps away, threw its head up, and looked around.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> Brody froze
and strained to keep from blinking.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> The deer
stomped its foot, a sure sign it had caught his scent. Brody knew he would have
to take the shot now. He peered down the long barrel, lined the sight up, and
pulled the trigger. The gun kicked hard and smoke filled the air. Brody thought
he heard the deer running, but couldn’t see through the white cloud. He turned
the flintlock on its side, and then heard something hissing between his legs.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> Brody
looked down in time to see that a spark of burning powder had fallen into the
bag he had neglected to close. In an instant, a searing, orange flash of
exploding gun powder shot up. The blast hit him square in the face, and Brody
sucked in a surprised breath. His eyes, mouth, throat, and whole head burned. </span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> The boy
slapped at his face and rolled on the ground. Brody’s voice cracked with each
attempted scream. The remnants of burning powder covered the inside of his
mouth and throat. His face stung all over, but his eyes worst of all. The smell
of burnt hair filled the air. He tumbled, flopped, and prayed the whole time
for it to cease.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> Brody
stopped flailing long enough to realize there were no flames, only pain.
Intense pain. He opened his mouth and cried, but the salty tears burned his
cheeks. He tried to cry louder, even louder than the time the horse kicked him,
but his sobs were silent. The scorched vocal cords in his throat no longer
worked. A tingling feeling ran up Brody’s legs, and then he passed out.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> Sometime
later, he woke. The pain had lessened to a dull throb that kept time with his
heartbeat. Brody guessed he had been out for awhile. The hot, stiff breeze told
him the stillness of the morning had passed.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> He sat up
and tried to open his eyes. Brody cracked one of his lids slightly, but
everything remained dark.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> <u>I’m
blind!</u></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> A panic
rushed over him. He rolled onto his side and touched his face. It hurt, but
Brody ran his fingers over it anyway. Leaves were stuck to his burnt skin. He
cringed and brushed them away.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> He found
that his face didn’t feel like his anymore. Brody’s eyes and lips were swollen,
almost shut. He had no eyebrows and some of his hair had burned away.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> Brody
gritted his teeth, and pressed one of his eyelids upward. The pain kept him
from holding it there long. Nothing. No hint of sight. He staggered up onto
weak legs, and held his hands out in front. He had to get to Tater.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> After three
or four cautious steps, Brody stopped. He knew he should be walking up hill,
but wasn’t. The boy turned and eased forward. His hands brushed against the
rough bark of an oak tree. Brody leaned against it for a moment, and then
continued in a small circle. He felt no rise in the lay of the land. During his
throws of pain, Brody had rolled to the bottom of the hollow.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> He paused
and tried to think past his throbbing face. Three ridge points emptied into the
bottom. That’s what made it such a good hunting spot, but that very thing had
Brody in big trouble. He had to pick the correct ridge, he had three choices,
and he couldn’t see any of them.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> Brody sat
on the ground and rocked back and forth. <u>Dad will come</u>, he thought. <u>No
he won’t</u>, his mind argued back. <u>Dad doesn’t know where you are. No one
does. You snuck out and didn’t leave a note.</u> </span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> Brody
punched the ground. He ran his hands through the leaves until he found a rock.
He threw it, and then hit the ground with his fist again. After the tantrum, he
got back on his feet and took a deep breath. He had to find the pony.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> His first
ten steps were slow. The next ten came quicker. After that, Brody couldn’t seem
to slow down. He kept his hands out, feeling his way from tree, to nothing, to
tree again. His breath came hard. The land began to rise under his feet,
bringing a small amount of excitement to Brody. He had found a ridgeline. He
scrambled up, swinging his arms wildly in front.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> The boy ran
into a limb and it slapped him in the face. He clutched his head with both
hands and went to his knees in a crumpled heap of pain. Brody’s chest heaved,
trying to draw in more air. He attempted to cry out, but his voice made no
sound. Brody struggled for another breath, but it barely came. He moved his
shaking hands to his neck. The boy’s tortured throat had swollen shut. A
ringing in his ears turned into the crunching of old leaves.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> The
chirping of crickets and buzzing of locust woke him. He listened to the
constant noise for a moment while his thoughts cleared.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> <u>I’ve got
to find Tater</u>, he thought.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> Brody sat
up and fought off another bout of panic. After calming down, he tried to think.
The swelling in his throat had mostly gone away, allowing him to breathe
normally again, but running into the limb had made his face hurt even worse.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> Brody knew
the sun had either just set, or would soon. The crickets always came alive in
the evenings. He knew the day was dying, because their annoying chirps sounded
all around. The air had cooled, but not considerably. Late evening had come and
Brody knew his dad would be mad and worried by now.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> He
staggered back to his feet and continued up the ridge. Each time his hands
found a tree, he used it to steady himself. He pulled on a small sapling and it
cracked. Brody ran his hand down its length, until he felt the break. He yanked
on it until the last bit of sinuous fibers broke free. He swung the stick
around and it smacked into a tree. <u>This’ll work</u>, he thought.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> The boy
kept his pace quick, but unrushed, hoping to avoid another swelling episode. He
kept moving the stick side to side. More than once, it stopped him from running
into another limb.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> The pony
would get him home, if he could just find him. A loud whistle usually prompted
Tater to neigh. Brody tried it, but the attempt only brought him pain. Another
hundred steps had Brody sweating. A drop ran down from his hairline and burned
his raw forehead.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> The ground
leveled out, telling Brody he had reached the top. He eased along while
dragging his feet, feeling certain he could find the old wagon trail. The
number of steps ticked away in Brody’s head.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> <u>Twenty-nine.
Thirty. Too many. I should’ve crossed the path by now.</u></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> Brody shook
his head. He had picked the wrong ridge point and knew what had to happen. He
would have to go back down and find the next one. <u>Such a long way</u>, he
thought. Dejected, Brody sat against a tree and rested.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> In a
desperate bid for help, he tried to call out. The air escaping his throat did
nothing but hiss. The boy slapped the side of his leg in frustration.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> An owl
hooted down in the hollow, a certain sign it would be dark soon.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> Brody
pushed one of his swollen eyelids up again. Nothing. A mosquito buzzed in his
ear. He started to swat at it, but froze when he heard Tater neigh. The sound
echoed and Brody could not pinpoint it. He cupped a hand behind his ear and
waited.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> <u>Yes, oh
yes, just one more time</u>, he thought. He wished with all his might for Tater
to make another sound. <u>Are ya on the left ridge, or right?</u></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> Something
growled in the bottom below. Brody sucked in a quick breath, and the hairs on
his arms and neck stood tall. The animal let out a scream. A woman could not
have out done it. Brody squirmed around to the other side of the tree. He had
heard a wildcat before. Apparently Tater had too. During the commotion, the
pony squealed. Hoof-beats sounded, and the boy knew Tater had broken loose. He
could only hope the panther followed the pony. He wished Tater no ill, but if
he had to choose the pony or himself… Brody tried not to think about it.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> The boy’s
very core shook with tension. He couldn’t hear the cat and it worried him. They
were sneaky. It could be anywhere. Brody wanted to run and hide, but decided to
stay put and remain silent. He thought if he were completely still, maybe it
would not notice him.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> All sense
of time left him. He wasn’t sure if ten minutes had passed, or thirty. His legs
cramped, making him want to change positions, but he could not risk the noise
it would make.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> Slowly, the
woods came alive with things rustling in the leaves. At first, the boy’s heart
skipped, but he soon realized the noises were too small. Even the padded feet
of a wildcat would be louder than this. He decided coons and opossums were
probably making the small sounds. At least he hoped he was right.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> Brody’s leg
pain worsened, until he couldn’t wait any longer. He shifted. A small stick
cracked under his weight and the leaves crunched softly. He waited for the terrible
attack to come, but it didn’t.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> Hours
passed. Three? Four? He did not know for sure. Regardless, the night wore on,
and sleep soon called to him. Not being able to open his eyes made it even
harder to stay awake, but Brody knew better than to drift off with a panther
creeping about.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> The owl
hooted again, this time from a different place in the bottom. Brody jolted at
the sound, and then pulled his jacket tight around his neck. Far in the
distance, another owl answered. Its call carried on and the boy desperately
wanted the sound to change, and become his father’s voice yelling for him.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> A blue-jay
screeched its warning. The bird’s call quickly told Brody two things. Morning
had come, and the jay wanted him to leave. He didn’t remember falling asleep.
Brody didn’t even remember lying down.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> The cool
night air had felt good on his burned skin, but the day’s warm breeze brought
discomfort. He made his way down the ridge, moving through the shadows cast
from the massive trees, knowing each time the sun hit his skin. The heat from
the rays doubled the pain from his burns. Though it hurt, he tried glancing
toward the sun, to see if he could detect a glow through his eyelids. Still
nothing.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> He lowered
his head, sighed, and continued swinging the stick. If he did make it home, he
would be blind forever, nothing but an additional burden for his family. Brody
had set out to make things better, but only made it worse, much worse.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> He paused occasionally and listened to make
sure nothing followed. Brody could not help worrying about the wildcat. His
steps quickened. It would not be wise to spend another night in the hollow.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> He stumbled
and shuffled his way across, tripping and falling more than once. His shoulder
muscles burned from holding the stick out. Finally, the ground rose again. He
walked left, and the land sloped down. He went back over and to the right. The
ground dropped. Brody prayed this would be the correct ridge.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> Forty steps
up, left him exhausted. He sat and rested. Brody’s legs ached and his head
throbbed. A terrible hunger came from his empty stomach. The lining of his
mouth and throat were much too raw to eat anything, but the thought of cool
water teased him. He ached for a drink.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> At
sixty-two additional steps, the land started to level off. Brody drug his feet,
but did not feel the trail. The thought of having to go back into the bottom to
look for the third ridge did not sound good. This had to be the right one. He
got down on his knees and crawled, feeling his way along the top of the knoll.
A bug squirmed between his fingers, and Brody jerked his hand back. After a
moment, the boy moved on, searching the ground carefully.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> At last,
his hands fell into a slight depression. He paused, crawled one way, and then
the other. The indention continued. Relief washed over him. He had found the
wagon trail. Left would lead him toward home. He stood, centered his feet on
the path, held the stick out in front, and eased along. His best guess put him
almost four miles from home. It would be a long, slow walk.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> He wondered
what his dad would think when Tater came home without him. Brody hoped Dad
could follow the pony’s back-trail. It would at least show him the direction
the boy had gone. Brody stopped walking for a moment. The thought occurred to
him that perhaps Dad had found their original trail. He could already be on his
way. Brody shook his head. He had taken Tater across two ridges where there was
no trail. It would be almost impossible for anyone to track them through there.
</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> Brody moved
slowly, making sure to stay on the path.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> <u>One
hundred and sixty-four.</u> A bird fluttered in a tree close by. The crow
blurted its scolding cry and flew away.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> A few
seconds later, Brody’s stick hit something hard next to the trail. He ran his
hands around the object. His fingers told him it was an old log. <u>Time for a
rest</u>, he thought. <u>Just for a little while.</u></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> After he
began walking again, the trail started downward and Brody’s hopes lifted. He
had made progress. He tried to picture the way. After reaching the bottom, he
would need to turn right and cross over two ridges. After that, the cedar grove
would be the next challenge to find. During his thoughts, Brody lost count of
the steps. He gave up on remembering the correct number and started over. He
wasn’t sure why he counted them, other than it kept his mind busy and helped
give him a rough, mental map.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> <u>Ninety-seven.</u>
Something sharp cut across his hand. Brody pulled back, and it snagged the skin
on his fingers. <u>Briars.</u></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> The thorny
stalks were nothing new to the farm boy. He had picked his way through many
briar patches, but this one worried Brody more than any other. He had not come
through this area with Tater.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> The boy
backed up, went to his knees, and felt the ground. His hands found the trail’s
indention easily. It led straight into the briar patch. Brody’s head drooped.
He had not lost the path. He had followed the wrong one. Right there, in the
middle of the woods, at the edge of a thorny patch, he fell apart. The thought
of going back and having to find the correct ridge broke the boy down. He
curled up on the ground and sobbed. Without a parched throat, Brody’s cries
would have scared the animals for miles, but his silent sobs went unnoticed.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> A deep
rumble of thunder rolled across the land and shook him out of his pity. The
wind stiffened and weaved its way between the limbs above. Leaves fluttered and
another round of thunder came. High in the trees, a few lonely raindrops
smashed into the broad leaves. </span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> Brody
stood, and then moved back up the trail. At twenty-eight steps, he strayed from
the path until his stick smacked a tree. The first one felt too small, so he
kept going. Brody needed a huge tree with lots of branches to protect him from
the rain.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> At nine
careful strides, uneasiness came over him. He couldn’t go too far, or he would
have trouble getting back to the trail. Brody failed to complete the tenth
step. The ground disappeared from under his feet and he toppled over an edge.
His mind barely had enough time to grasp his dire situation before hitting the
ground.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> His right
foot smashed into the earth first and a searing pain shot up Brody’s leg. His
hip and shoulder hit next. The boy tried to cry out, but couldn’t. The impact
had knocked the breath out of him.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> Brody’s
lungs finally filled and his head cleared. He shifted, trying to see if
anything could be broken. He tried to roll onto his side, but his injured ankle
was tangled in something. Brody reached for his foot, only to find the force of
the fall had lodged his right leg between a tree root and a large rock. Brody
took a deep breath and pulled. It did not work. He let go and his hands shook
uncontrollably.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> Lightening
struck close by and every muscle in Brody’s body jumped. His sudden movement
told him the location of every bruise. He twisted his ankle, trying to free it,
but he could not handle the pain.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> Brody tried
to open his eyes, but his lids would not budge. He found the swelling had gone
down, but his eyelids felt like they had healed shut, or been glued together.
He pried at them, fought through the tearing pain, and finally managed to open
one, and then the other.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> Rain drops,
larger than any he had ever felt, pelted him all over. The musty smell of wet
leaves filled the air. Rolling thunder and the roar of rain kept Brody from
hearing anything else. He opened his mouth, attempting to coat his raw throat
with water, but then stopped. Brody found it hard to believe his situation
could be worse. He had no strength left. His will broken.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> <u>Let it
come</u>, he thought. <u>Let my last day find me here.</u></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> Sometime
later, the rain stopped, and Brody’s sprits lifted. He placed his free foot
against the tree root and pushed. It did not work, and Brody huffed from the
effort. Hours tumbled past. Exhaustion took over, and his body begged for rest.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> <u>Let me
find a way out</u>, he prayed.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> The rain
had brought cooler air, which started the crickets early. When the annoying
noise stopped dead, Brody took note. Something growled to his left, and he
jerked his head toward the sound.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> Brody held
his breath and listened. Lingering drops fell from the trees and splattered on
the ground. The crickets started again and he began to wonder if he had
imagined it.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> He tried
pulling on his leg again. His pants were soaked and the moisture must have
helped. Brody’s foot came free, but he winced in pain.</span></b></div>
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> A loud hiss
sounded, at the base of the bluff. Brody’s heart fluttered. It was the panther.
It had to be.</span></b><br />
_______________________________________________________________ <br />
<br />
Robert L. Bacon<br />
<a href="http://www.theperfectwrite.com/">theperfectwrite.com</a><br />
<br />
For authors, The Perfect Write® is now providing<br />
<b>FREE QUERY LETTER REVIEW AND ANALYSIS</b>. Post your query to <a href="mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com">theperfectwrite@aol.com</a>(no attachments)
and visit the <a href="http://www.theperfectwrite.com/sample-letters/">Sample Letters Page </a>for examples of successful query letters.<br />
<br />
The Perfect Write® offers comprehensive editing services, from manuscript critiques to complete revisions, including line-editing, along with query letter design and composition. For pricing, send your project requirements to <a href="mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com">theperfectwrite@aol.com</a><br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com"></a>The Perfect Write®http://www.blogger.com/profile/15911456172776383647noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5113765841272949669.post-44138018841898417672012-04-26T14:37:00.000-04:002012-04-26T14:46:17.362-04:00"The Unwilling Spy" By Sue Chamblin Frederick Opening Chapter<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span class="sitb-font-size-3"><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;">CHOPIN’S <i>Piano
Sonata No. 2</i> filled the small cottage, the notes scattering in the air like
a wish made on a spent dandelion. Garcia Quinones hunched over his piano, his
nose mere inches from the keys. He played with a lilting tenderness, his
delicate fingers choosing the notes as though guided by a far-away voice, an
angel perhaps, one who knew his artist’s soul. His hands raced across the ivory
surfaces with unrelenting passion, unaware that deep within those brilliant
hands, dormant and undisturbed, was an ability to kill.</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; text-indent: 16.3pt;">
<span class="sitb-font-size-3"><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;">Though quite famous across Europe, the Spaniard’s name had never
surfaced in the thousands of World War II espionage cases being worked at Whitehall, near London.
The British Secret Intelligence Service had no idea the tall, thin Catalonian
even existed…until their agent in Barcelona
sent a coded message: <i>the farmer is on holiday</i>.</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; text-indent: 16.3pt;">
<span class="sitb-font-size-3"><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;">The Gestapo was also unaware of Garcia Quinones. If they had been,
perhaps they would have made note of his unlikely link to Heinrich Himmler,
Reichsfuhrer of Nazi Germany. The connection was remote, but significant, for
throughout Berlin and Paris, Himmler flaunted a mistress, a woman
the pianist had known some ten years earlier, merely an acquaintance, coupled
with an occasional greeting. It was an unremarkable alliance, yet it would
catapult him out of the serenity of life in a remote village in northern Spain and into
the world of espionage.</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; text-indent: 12.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; text-indent: 16.3pt;">
<span class="sitb-font-size-3"><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;">Now, in his modest house on the outskirts of the village of Brasalia,
Garcia sounded the last notes of the sonata, oblivious to the burgeoning
scrutiny of His Majesty’s Secret Service as well as that of the feared Gestapo.
Both searched for him desperately – but for altogether different reasons.</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; text-indent: 12.0pt;">
<span class="sitb-font-size-3"><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;"><br /></span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;"></span><span class="sitb-font-size-3"><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;"> </span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;"></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; mso-outline-level: 3; text-align: center;">
<span class="sitb-font-size-4"><b><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 19pt;">Chapter One</span></b></span><b><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 19pt;"></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; text-indent: 12.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; text-indent: 12.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span class="sitb-font-size-3"><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;">THE <i>Apartamentos
Magnificos del Puerto de Barcelona</i> stood on <i>Avenida de Madrid</i>, only
four blocks west of the busy port where ships from across the world anchored in
the azure waters of the Mediterranean. It was
early evening, blustery, as it often is near the sea. Juan Castillo studied the
grand facade of the opulent apartments, an imposing structure that rose high
into the Barcelona
skyline. Manicured gardens, lush with purple lilacs, grew beneath the tall,
thin poplars surrounding the grounds. His eyes searched the avenue across the
tree-lined landscape leading to the square. The city crawled with Gestapo; he
could spot them in an instant, but none mingled with the Spaniards leisurely
walking along the avenue.</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; text-indent: 16.3pt;">
<span class="sitb-font-size-3"><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;">From the shadow cast by a high stone fence, he watched the
building for signs of anything out of the ordinary. The entrance doors shone
with a soft gold patina, the outer edges trimmed in an iridescent blue, the
same color as the sea. A cool wind whipped down the avenue, battering his worn
fedora. Suddenly chilled, he remembered a night in Paris when his boots had frozen to the
pavement while he waited in the snow for a late night rendezvous. Only a hard
tap from the butt of his gun had loosened the ice and allowed him to move. The
memory angered him. He had been inexperienced then; a young spy who wanted
desperately to stay alive as the Germans made plans to conquer Europe.</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; text-indent: 16.3pt;">
<span class="sitb-font-size-3"><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;">The Service saw him as a battle-hardened, covert warrior. His
lessons in tradecraft had been learned well; of course, they had. The bullet
entrance and exit hole in his shoulder branded him as an evader of death. Had
he not plunged from a bridge in the middle of the night in a city named Berlin, he would have
ended up in the cemetery of the unknown. He carried no identification when he
hit the water at roughly three meters per second. The blood he lost in the
half-kilometer swim to safety was significant enough that immediately upon
reaching the shore, he became unconscious.</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; text-indent: 12.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; text-indent: 16.3pt;">
<span class="sitb-font-size-3"><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;">Juan’s hand shook with cold as he struck a match to another
cigarette. He smoked only a few minutes, then left the shadows to walk across
the street and up the five steps to the portico. One last look down the street
before he knocked softly on the door.</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; text-indent: 16.3pt;">
<span class="sitb-font-size-3"><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;">He stiffened as he heard a woman’s high heels clicking across the
foyer. When the door opened, the woman stepped forward and looked at him rather
coldly, her eyes large and black as ripe olives. “Yes?” she said, through
lovely but unsmiling lips.</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; text-indent: 16.3pt;">
<span class="sitb-font-size-3"><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;">Juan observed her. Large turquoise earrings dangled almost to her
shoulders where a thin white gauze blouse, plumped with shoulder pads, draped
across her chest. The sleeves were capped with a split that folded loosely
together, revealing her slim arms. The lace camisole she wore beneath her blouse
was faintly visible, tantalizing to a man who appreciated beautiful women.</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; text-indent: 16.3pt;">
<span class="sitb-font-size-3"><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;">The woman lifted her chin, her expression haughty. She watched him
for a long moment, examining him carefully. “You need a bath,” she said,
turning from the doorway and into the house.</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; text-indent: 16.3pt;">
<span class="sitb-font-size-3"><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;">Juan followed her dutifully through the elegant entrance hall, up
the carpeted stairway and across a stone landing where they entered her private
chambers, rooms that smelled of French perfumes and fresh-cut lilies. Her slim
hips swayed slightly as she continued across the great room and entered her
boudoir. Candles flickered everywhere, casting soft shadows that promised a
fleeting moment of tranquility. Unhurried, she laid out towels and soaps. Her
lovely hands turned the faucets of the tub and the sound of running water
filled the room.</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; text-indent: 16.3pt;">
<span class="sitb-font-size-3"><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;">Silently, she moved toward him and deftly removed his worn jacket
and unbuttoned his shirt. In one swift movement, she unbuttoned the fly on his
trousers and in moments he was naked. She ignored his arousal and motioned him
into the large ornate tub. Again, he obeyed.</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; text-indent: 16.3pt;">
<span class="sitb-font-size-3"><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;">The warm water embraced him like thousands of white pearls,
pulling him down into its depths like the warm hands of a spirit. He rested his
head on a small pillow and smelled soap made by Arabian handmaidens, infused
with secret elixirs that promised more than sensual pleasure. With half-closed
eyes, he reached out for the glass of whiskey she had poured and held it to his
lips. Above him, the beautiful señorita unbuttoned her blouse and slid her
skirt from her hips, watching him all the while. She pulled the thin straps of
her camisole to her waist, revealing exquisite breasts with nipples like
perfect pink flowers awaiting the morning sun.</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; text-indent: 16.3pt;">
<span class="sitb-font-size-3"><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;">Across the room, wide mirrors mounted in ornate gold frames
reflected her nakedness and gave the illusion that there was more than one of
her in the room. Juan’s eyes traveled from one reflection to the other, and
then to the woman who stepped lithely into the tub with him. He was afraid to
speak; he knew she was angry.</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; text-indent: 16.3pt;">
<span class="sitb-font-size-3"><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;">Iliana Lanzarote picked up her own whiskey glass and tipped it
toward him. “Your timing amazes me. I have been waiting for you for days.”</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; text-indent: 16.3pt;">
<span class="sitb-font-size-3"><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;">Juan sipped and nodded slowly. “My line of work is not conducive
to a precise schedule. My heartfelt apologies.”</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; text-indent: 16.3pt;">
<span class="sitb-font-size-3"><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;">Still, the black eyes were angry. “I have had a belly full of your
apologies. It is only my love for you that keeps me from forgetting you
forever.”</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; text-indent: 16.3pt;">
<span class="sitb-font-size-3"><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;">He smiled at her, a sad smile that sent a message of regret. “It
is my love for you that keeps me coming back, despite my unacceptably
unreliable schedule.” He saw her face soften slightly, the lips part to reveal
the whiteness of her teeth and the pink of her tongue. “Come,” he said and
reached out his hand.</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; text-indent: 16.3pt;">
<span class="sitb-font-size-3"><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;">She obeyed and moved her body toward him. The wet of her skin and
the damp tendrils of hair on her neck again aroused him. He pulled her on top
of him and kissed her whiskey lips. Her hair smelled of the wild lilacs that
bloomed along the edge of the mountains. “Wash me,” he whispered.</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; text-indent: 16.3pt;">
<span class="sitb-font-size-3"><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;">At last, a smile. “You are like a baby.”</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; text-indent: 16.3pt;">
<span class="sitb-font-size-3"><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;">From a large porcelain bowl, she lifted a bar of ivory-colored
soap scented with almonds and lathered a cloth. Gently, she washed his neck and
ears. He watched as her breasts swayed back and forth in sensual rhythm only
inches from his face. Closing his eyes, he breathed deeply and fell into a
dream-like trance while the filth of war and the smell of death were washed
away by a beautiful woman whose hands were like an angel’s kiss.</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; text-indent: 12.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; text-indent: 16.3pt;">
<span class="sitb-font-size-3"><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;">The bed sheets were as soft as the skin of the woman beside him.
He carefully dried her hair and placed a pillow underneath her head. In the
yellow candlelight, he kissed her, his lips moving from her mouth to her neck,
to her breasts. He felt her hips rise, begging him to hurry.</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; text-indent: 12.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; text-indent: 16.3pt;">
<span class="sitb-font-size-3"><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;">Early morning light swept Iliana’s bedroom as she lifted her head
and reached out to touch him. “How long can you stay?”</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; text-indent: 16.3pt;">
<span class="sitb-font-size-3"><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;">“Not long.” He lit a cigarette and pulled her into his arms.</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; text-indent: 16.3pt;">
<span class="sitb-font-size-3"><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;">“Back to London?”</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; text-indent: 16.3pt;">
<span class="sitb-font-size-3"><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;">“Not yet,” he answered vaguely.</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; text-indent: 16.3pt;">
<span class="sitb-font-size-3"><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;">“Where?”</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; text-indent: 16.3pt;">
<span class="sitb-font-size-3"><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;">“Not sure.”</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; text-indent: 16.3pt;">
<span class="sitb-font-size-3"><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;">“Alone?” She raised her eyebrows.</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; text-indent: 16.3pt;">
<span class="sitb-font-size-3"><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;">“No.”</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; text-indent: 16.3pt;">
<span class="sitb-font-size-3"><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;">“Who?” she asked, not knowing if he would answer.</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; text-indent: 16.3pt;">
<span class="sitb-font-size-3"><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;">He paused and looked away. “I think I shall take Felipe with me.”</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; text-indent: 16.3pt;">
<span class="sitb-font-size-3"><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;">“Felipe?” she asked with surprise. “Why ever Felipe?”</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; text-indent: 16.3pt;">
<span class="sitb-font-size-3"><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;">“Your brother is a powerful man and I need him.”</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; text-indent: 16.3pt;">
<span class="sitb-font-size-3"><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;">“Does he know?”</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; text-indent: 16.3pt;">
<span class="sitb-font-size-3"><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;">“Not yet.” Juan smoothed hair away from her face and kissed the
smooth skin of her cheek. He could see she was flushed.</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; text-indent: 16.3pt;">
<span class="sitb-font-size-3"><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;">“He’s due back in court today, around ten o’clock. He’ll be here
for lunch, though.”</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; text-indent: 16.3pt;">
<span class="sitb-font-size-3"><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;">Juan fumbled for his watch. “That’s four hours from now. Can you
have him come sooner?”</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; text-indent: 16.3pt;">
<span class="sitb-font-size-3"><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;">“Perhaps. Sometimes, it is difficult when his court is in session.
But I’ll try.”</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; text-indent: 16.3pt;">
<span class="sitb-font-size-3"><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;">“Call now. It’s important.”</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; text-indent: 16.3pt;">
<span class="sitb-font-size-3"><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;">“Does he know you’re here?”</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; text-indent: 16.3pt;">
<span class="sitb-font-size-3"><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;">“Here in Barcelona
or with you?”</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; text-indent: 16.3pt;">
<span class="sitb-font-size-3"><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;">Iliana laughed. “How ridiculous. He knows very well that if you
are in Barcelona,
you will be with me.”</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; text-indent: 16.3pt;">
<span class="sitb-font-size-3"><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;">“No, he doesn’t know. Go now. Make the call.”</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; text-indent: 16.3pt;">
<span class="sitb-font-size-3"><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;">Iliana slid off the bed and picked up the telephone. Juan’s eyes
followed the long shapely legs and her lovely backside.</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; text-indent: 16.3pt;">
<span class="sitb-font-size-3"><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;">When the connection was made, Iliana handed him the telephone.</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; text-indent: 16.3pt;">
<span class="sitb-font-size-3"><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;">“I’m leaving for Brasalia tonight.”</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; text-indent: 16.3pt;">
<span class="sitb-font-size-3"><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;">“What about the farmer?”</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; text-indent: 16.3pt;">
<span class="sitb-font-size-3"><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;">Juan lowered his voice. “We’ll talk. Can you come for an early
lunch?”</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; text-indent: 16.3pt;">
<span class="sitb-font-size-3"><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;">The spy returned the telephone to Iliana, then slowly lifted his
head and captured the nipple of her right breast.</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<span class="sitb-font-size-3"><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;"></span></span><span class="sitb-font-size-3"><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.5pt;"></span></span>Robert L. Bacon<br />
<a href="http://www.theperfectwrite.com/">theperfectwrite.com</a><br />
<br />
For authors, The Perfect Write® is now providing<br />
<b>FREE QUERY LETTER REVIEW AND ANALYSIS</b>.<br />
Post your query to <a href="mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com">mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com</a>(no attachments)
and visit the <a href="http://www.theperfectwrite.com/sample-letters/">Sample Letters Page </a>for examples of successful query letters.<br />
<br />
The Perfect Write® offers comprehensive editing services, from manuscript critiques to complete revisions, including line-editing, along with query letter design and composition. For pricing, send your project requirements to <a href="mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com">mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com</a><br />
<br />
<br />The Perfect Write®http://www.blogger.com/profile/15911456172776383647noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5113765841272949669.post-28518314973723045362012-01-09T17:03:00.004-05:002012-01-09T17:16:36.099-05:00"The Common Garden" by Martha Moffett Opening Chapter<span style="font-size: 14pt;">THE COMMON GARDEN</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">JUNE</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><i>Sow half-hardy annual seeds in protected frames; late in month, sow tender annual seeds . . . . Start mowing the lawn as soon as it begins to grow. . . . Set the blades of your mower high for first trim. . . . Shade young and newly set out plants. . . . Plant caladiums, tuberoses, and cannas. . . . Choose seedlings with stems the thickness of a pencil; avoid leggy, yellowing seedlings. . . . Hand weeding is laborious but effective. . . . Transfer pollen from male flowers to female flowers with a small paintbrush, or push the male flowers into the female ones. . . . Sow a second lot of candytuft, nigella, and cornflowers. . . Watch nasturtium seedlings closely for aphids. . . . Summer mulch may now be applied to everything.</i></div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><br clear="all" style="mso-special-character: line-break; page-break-before: always;" /> </span> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">CHAPTER ONE</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">Robin telephoned Paul. She telephoned him at the office if he was there. If he was at home and she was out, she called him from all over town, from the first-floor telephone bank at Lord & Taylor; from the telephone arcades in the library at Columbia University where from time to time she did some of her husband’s research on Common Market countries; from the phone booth outside the charming little restaurant on Madison and Sixty-first to tell him that a mushroom omelet and a small carafe of white wine had cost her fifteen dollars. Calling Paul was a way of staying anchored while sailing through the streets of the city. It was her first taste of life in a metropolis and she set out—relentlessly, Paul said—to explore every avenue.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> She had him summoned from a sales conference to tell him that she had found an entire undiscovered area of New York City. His secretary sniffed at the end of every phrase, letting Robin know how frivolous it was to summon one’s husband from a sales conference at Marketing Associates International.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> “Paul, it’s under this bridge—I think it’s the Manhattan Bridge—and a million Mainland Chinese are living here. I’ll swear, it’s more like Kowloon than Manhattan. Come see it. Come and have Dim Sum with me.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> “Robin, I’m busy. I’ll take your word for it. I’ll see the New Territories some other time.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> “Oh, all right. Sorry I bothered you. Wait a minute. Now I remember what I really called about. Can you leave the office at least long enough to dash out and buy a new tie? Summerish? St. Laurentish? Tomorrow’s the garden party. The Beckfords, in the middle house in the block. Remember? They invited us last week. Our first big New York party.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> “But not our last, one supposes. I’ll try. Now, Robin, get off the phone.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> “I will—<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">no, not yet! </i>Wait. Wait, Paul. I’m jammed in the phone booth. The door won’t open. Paul, I’m lost. I can’t see a street sign from here. I can’t tell you where I am. What’ll I do?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> “Oh, Robin, for God’s sake. Push the door in the middle.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> “I did.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> “Pull the handle.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> “There is no handle.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> Paul let a long sigh pass down the line to Robin’s anxious ear. “Tell you what you do next.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> “Paul—what?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> “Are you wearing a bra?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> “No.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> “Open your purse, put on your sunglasses, let your hair hang down, write ‘Help! I am Gloria Steinem!’ on a piece of paper, and hold it up to the glass. Someone will come along and let you out.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> “Paul! Wait!”</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;">ζ</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> Toward the end of the day, Robin hurried up the stairs at her stop on the IRT local, her calves aching. No wonder the women in New York had such great legs; it took a lot of muscle power to sprint for trains and buses, up and down stairs, across streets, covering block after block, downtown, cross-town, uptown. She must have walked miles today, she thought. In addition, she was weighted down by the bundles in her arms. She had checked out half a dozen new cookbooks from the main library at Forty-second Street and lugged them with her to cooking class; now her arms were full of books and groceries. Out of breath, she emerged from the subway exit and headed in the direction of Park Avenue, toward the bright, sinking sun. At last she knew which way to go when she came up from underground without having to say to herself, “Let’s see, north, south, east, west.” She made herself wait for the green light at Park Avenue, although some hardened city dwellers lined up next to her on the curb decided to make a dash for it. Two nuns, the white hats of their order like paper boats, sailed unconcernedly across without even glancing at the oncoming traffic. How do they know they’ll make it to the other side? marveled Robin, sure that the driver of one yellow taxi had tried to come as close as possible to the billowing black skirts. She wondered when she would get over her self-consciousness at living in New York City and learn to walk blindly through the city like everybody else.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> Her block—the block between Park and Madison—was putting out its best small-scale charm today. Not much longer would the high-rise apartment buildings that were creeping up the East Side allow this little remnant of an earlier New York to escape destruction. The line of contiguous narrow brownstone homes stood behind a row of plane trees. Each front stoop led to solid double doors with polished brass fittings. Through windows at different levels she could as she walked catch a glimpse of chandeliers, a wall of books, a flight of stairs. The winter jasmine vine from the Jensen house near the middle of the block had inched its way abroad for so many summers that it now hung like a great hairy green curtain over the fronts of five of the neighboring houses; Robin had welcomed a curling green tendril into the window of her upstairs study, thinking that all too soon, when the time came to close the window against the autumn chill, she and Paul would be gone, their time in the sublet brownstone up, and Paul’s stint in the home office completed.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> Robin glanced along the street. In the distance, Central Park turned lilac under the trees. She bypassed the flight of stairs leading to the formal first floor of the house and let herself in by the door under the stairs, which opened into a cheerful blue and white tiled kitchen. There was no time to change. She threw down her bags and books, placed the braided loaf from cooking class carefully on the counter top, and began to prepare the evening meal.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> She had started the countdown toward dinner that morning soon after clearing away breakfast and getting Paul off to the office. She had taken two chicken breasts from the refrigerator, inserted her thumb at the pointed end and peeled them like a glove, then holding a breast firmly at both ends bent it back until the prow-shaped breastbone popped out. She pulled the bone out and with a sharp knife cut the breast into halves.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> Shaping the meat into flattened ovals, she carefully rolled each supreme around nuggets of sweet, chilled butter into which garlic, parsley, tarragon and lemon had been smoothed with a wooden spoon. The herbs she grew herself, in pots in a sunny spot on the terrace. Next she had wrapped the filets carefully, sealed them with egg yolks and breadcrumbs, and lined them up on a platter to sit on the refrigerator shelf until cooking time. Removing them, she checked her watch and saw that Paul would be home any minute. She’d better get a move on. As she began to drop the filets into the hot oil, one by one, she rehearsed the rest of the menu: with the chicken, they would have newly shelled green peas and diced cucumber, warmed in sour cream, with a pinch of fresh dill thrown in; the braided brown loaf still warm from the cooking-school oven, kneaded and punched with her own hands and rating the qualified approval of a hard-to-please Cordon Bleu-trained instructor; wine; and freshly ground coffee. Back home, she’d probably be frying pork chops. It was paradise to practice the culinary arts in New York City, where every ingredient, no matter how exotic or out of season, could be found, and any dish could be assembled. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> Peering in through the steam that had collected on the kitchen window, Paul rapped for Robin to let him in. “Easier than fumbling for my keys,” he explained as Robin tripped the latch and threw open the door. “What are you cooking in here—steamed pudding?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> “That’s the coffee!” Robin said. She had an automatic coffeemaker in her kitchen in Ohio, and was not used to remembering to turn off the stove. She ran for a potholder, snatched up the steaming coffeepot from the burner, and advanced with it to the center of the room, where she hesitated as if lost in thought. Paul circled her warily on his way to deposit his briefcase and jacket in the hall closet.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> “Robbie, what the devil are you doing?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> “What? Oh—it’s funny,” she explained. “The coffee is still perking. It feels like a heart beating, in my hand.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> “Put it down, for God’s sake, and I’ll give you the hausfrau’s reward—what every noble American woman is getting at this time of day in this time zone from every red-blooded American husband—” Paul gave her an exaggerated wet smack on her cheek and went on to nuzzle her neck. His arms went around her and his hands slid down to her ass. For a minute, as he hands reached lower, his weight on her shoulders was oppressively heavy, so that she twisted away and began busily to pile dishes and silverware on a tray. They had made it a practice, since taking temporary possession of the house, to eat supper in the big candlelit dining room that opened onto the tiny terrace at the back of the house, even when just the two of them were there for dinner.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> In the two years they had been married, this had always been the most important part of the day, the time when they seemed most connected. At the table, with everything in place, Robin looked across at Paul a little anxiously. It’s ridiculous, she thought, to feel that every meal is crucial, to think that the success of the dish is somehow equal to the success of the relationship. She breathed a sigh of relief as Paul’s raised fork pierced the chicken and a jet of hot, aromatic butter shot forth—the test of this particular dish. He tipped his glass in her direction in a toast. All the light in the dim room gathered on the surface of her wine and mooned up at her. Idiot, she said to herself, dismissing her anxiety, her desire to please.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> Paul reached for the loaf of fresh bread, breaking off a piece. “Is this the product of today’s labor at M’sieu Henri’s establishment?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> “Yes. I passed bread with flying colors, but I flunked brioche.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> “How’d you do that?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> “My brioche looked like a muffin. It didn’t have a bump on top. It had sunk to nothing. The bump’s obligatory. I said I had made an American brioche by mistake, and I think some of the other pupils accepted that. Not M’sieu Henri, of course.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“Naturellement. </i>M’sieu Henry wasn’t fooled for a minute.” </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> Contentedly, Robin watched him enjoy the meal, as if she were watching, through the candlelight, one of the shadowy figures she sometimes ministered to in dreams.</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;">ζ</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> They spent the evening watching old movies on Channel 13. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“Again?” </i> Robin had protested as the credits for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Maltese Falcon </i>rolled across the screen. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">“Pipe down. I love it,” said Paul, playfully settling her on the couch, his hand warm under her blouse.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">It was after eleven o’clock when Robin, on her way to bed, glanced out of the window, looking down from her bedroom at the back of the top floor to the small flagged area where she sometimes sat in the thin spring sunlight. I must do some work there later in the week, she reminded herself. The potted geraniums needed topping, and there were winter leftovers of dried vines and leaves to be cleared away. It would be fun to do the small-scale gardening that city living allowed. Beyond the paving at their back door there was a small pear tree, bravely blooming in the city air. She could smell the rising scent of the pear blossoms. And beyond that, there was a central area, consisting of a formless garden with a pebbled path, a few lilacs and ailanthus trees and a sentimental fountain, the common property of all the householders whose homes opened onto the center court. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">Looking down the length of the garden, at the lights spilling from rear doors, Robin was struck by the thought that, in a way, in opening onto the common garden all the doors also opened into each other. Probably some of the neighbors knew each other well enough to use the back door, as informally as in a small town. Perhaps tomorrow, at the Beckford’s party, they would meet most of the people who lived in this double row of brownstones and put names to the faces she had already begun to identify as people from their block. She was looking forward to it; she loved parties.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">The summer’s arrangements had really been more for her benefit than for his. Paul, spending time in both Ohio and New York, could as easily have been based at home, commuting to New York during the week, but they had decided that a summer in the city would be enlightening that it was an opportunity to get a taste of city life before they were tied down with kids.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">“We were really very lucky to get this house,” said Robin as she slipped a nightgown over her head.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">“What? Hey, don’t put that on. I’ll only have to take it off again. Oh, the house, yeah.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">“I’m so glad the Leas went to Europe. You know, they really wanted us to have the house, didn’t they? Funny how people who love New York always want everybody to see the city the way they see it.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">“Don’t be naïve, Robin. What they probably wanted was the rent, which the company was willing to subsidize to have this summer training program work.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">“No, they really wanted us to live in their house. Remember, they were talking about it last year, when we first met them at the new products market. They said then that someday they wanted us to love New York the way they did.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">“Well, enjoy it while you can, baby. In three months, it’s back to the suburban split-level for you. How long will it take your New York veneer to wear off?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">“Wasn’t aware I had one. In fact, I was thinking today when I was crossing Park Avenue that I’m still in culture shock,” answered Robin absently. She stripped off her gown and stood scratching her thigh, a slender woman with long limbs and narrow wrists and straight shining brown hair that fell below her shoulders.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">“Come here and I’ll do that for you.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">Robin bounced onto Paul’s side of the bed for a good scratch. Like a kitten, she responded to the long, luxurious strokes. Gradually his nails dug deeper until she started and rolled away when one long scratch furrowed the skin on her back and ass, but Paul’s heavy leg came over and pinioned her. What did it mean, she wondered, when his caresses began to hurt? In the first months of their marriage, it had been her unspoken fear that Paul harbored a secret antipathy toward women—toward her, toward her sexuality—but later she came to feel that what she was seeing was simply the form his curiosity took as he studied her body and its responses. Thinking about it again, she wondered now if it was actually Paul—offering this playful roughness—who liked it? Was he inviting her to treat him violently in return? She shook her head. What could she do to Paul? He was a big man, a head taller than she. Nothing she could do would hurt him.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">His curving fingers had turned into probes now, jabbing at her, just missing the clitoris; why couldn’t he remember it was more to the front? She clasped his hand and guided it forward. In, out; in, out; the growing moistness made it better. Friction, moistness, warmth . . . nice. Wouldn’t it be nice to come like this and then be ready when he entered her to come again? She was almost there when disappointingly he shifted his fingers, and the signal was lost, Robin fading and confused on its trail.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">Now Paul’s full weight rolled upon her, and he lifted her legs, creasing her into the tightest possible casing for himself. He kissed her, his tongue entering her mouth at the same moment he penetrated her. She gasped. Then there was a long, timeless pounding until he released her and she straightened her limbs in a long stretch. Had she come, finally, had she finished, or had she been on her way to another level of response? She felt a spasm in her belly and decided that wherever she had been going, she hadn’t quite reached her destination.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">Robin pulled the top sheet from the bed and wrapped herself in it like a cloak. She paused on her way to the bathroom and leaned her head against the cool windowpane, rolling her forehead back and forth. The scent from the little pear tree flowed across the windowsill in a wash of air that moved around her ankles.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">She realized she had been staring down into the middle court for several minutes. There in the common garden, the abandoned fountain stood half in deep shadow and half in the perpetual soft light of Manhattan’s night. Robin was still. She could see a woman leaning against the fountain, her hips braced against the broad lip of the bowl. The woman’s hair hung loose about her shoulders; light gleamed along her cheek when she raised her head to let it fall back against her shoulder, pillowed by the flowing hair. She had the full, heavy-breasted figure of a classical statue . . . perhaps it was a statue? I must go out and look around tomorrow, Robin told herself. The common garden is not uncharted territory . . . I won’t fall off the map.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">Her eyes sharpened their focus. No, it was not a statue. It was perfectly clear that it was a woman, resting languidly against the side of the fountain. Robin’s eyes swept the length of the garden. There were no lights burning at the backs of the houses, everyone was asleep then—or, like her, sleepy spies on their way to bed, hesitating invisibly at darkened windows.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">The tight shadows across the garden shifted and broke up, and another figure stepped from the row of lilac trees and walked slowly forward, not stopping until he stood between the woman’s legs. He came so close that he might have overbalanced her except that his hands went out to anchor her hips, and her hands came up to hold his shoulders, as her skirt fell back and her legs came up to wind and clutch. . . . </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">“Paul!” Robin whispered urgently.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">“Hmmmmm?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">“Oh . . . nothing. I think I must be dreaming. Or there must be some other explanation. I mean, they can’t be—” Why, she thought, that looks like—oh, who is he, the man who lives in the house with the skylight. But what is he doing?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">Robin found a fresh pane to rub her cheek against. The cool glass flashed on her hot face. She knew she couldn’t really be dreaming because her eyes had that strained, dry feeling that comes from the lids having been pulled back too wide. The scene in the garden below was real. The man was real. He was moving his body against that of the woman in long, perceptively powerful strokes. At each slow impact, her body was almost lifted from the edge of the fountain where it rested.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">The woman’s head snapped far back on her neck. Robin could see her face. She opened her own mouth in a silent moan that matched the unheard one below. The woman must have cried out. But upstairs, closed away in her bedroom that seemed suddenly airless, her hands before her wide-open eyes, Robin did not hear a sound.</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">ζ</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">The empty garden had grown darker when Robin stumbled to the bathroom and splashed cold water on her face. She dried her cheeks with a rough towel, and then rubbed away the stickiness between her thighs. Lying on her side of the bed, still wrapped in the sheet, she tossed from side to side for a while, then fell into a restless sleep, later sliding into deep slumber, where she dreamed of a man whose hand would touch her sex like the bell of a flower.</div>______________________________________________________________<br />
For authors, The Perfect Write® provides<br />
<b>FREE QUERY LETTER REVIEW AND ANALYSIS</b>.<br />
Post your query to <a href="mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com">mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com</a> (no attachments)<br />
and visit the <a href="http://www.theperfectwrite.com/sample-letters/">Sample Letters Page </a>for examples of successful query letters.<br />
<br />
For authors, The Perfect Write® also offers a<br />
<b>FREE OPENING-CHAPTER CRITIQUE</b>. <br />
Post you opening chapter (up to 5,000 words)<br />
to the body of an e-mail (no attachments) and<br />
<a href="mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com">mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com</a>. <br />
<br />
The Perfect Write® offers comprehensive editing services, from<br />
manuscript critiques to complete revisions, including line-editing,<br />
along with query letter design and composition. For pricing, send<br />
your project requirements to <a href="mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com">mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com</a><br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com"></a>The Perfect Write®http://www.blogger.com/profile/15911456172776383647noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5113765841272949669.post-38935094173189823942011-11-12T12:51:00.001-05:002016-02-11T16:57:21.554-05:00"Dead Stick Dawn" Opening Chapter by Sharon M.<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 0in;">
PALM BEACH, FLORIDA</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;">
APRIL 27</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
En route to Palm Beach International Airport at thirty-one thousand feet, I heard a violent explosion in the passenger cabin. The cockpit rocked, followed by loud whooshing outside the Boeing 767 cockpit door. My copilot and I pulled on our oxygen masks. The cabin intercom chimed, and I heard noise and screaming as a flight attendant said, “Captain Starr, it’s Kimberly, aft cabin. A bomb exploded, and a man was sucked out!” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
I scanned the instrument panel. “Where and how much damage?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
“Under the last window seat, left side, four-foot hole.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
“We need to dive to a safe altitude. Everyone buckled in?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
“Yes. Oxygen masks deployed. They’re putting them on now.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
“Okay, sit tight.” I turned to my copilot, Lance Calder. “A bomb exploded in the aft cabin—initiating emergency descent. Check passenger oxygen system is on, seat belt/no smoking signs are on, and set transponder to emergency code. Notify air traffic control and read the emergency descent checklist.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
“I’m on it, Sam.” Lance pulled out the checklist and entered the emergency code.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
While he radioed the Miami Air Route Traffic Control Center, I throttled back our wounded airliner, extended the landing gear and speed brakes, and began a diving right turn to exit the jet route. Lance read the checklist out loud to ensure nothing was overlooked, as we plummeted to ten thousand feet above the sea.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
I scanned the gauges when we reached our target altitude. “We’re level at ten, Lance. Remove your oxygen mask and take control. Then I’ll remove mine and call the cabin.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
I asked the flight attendants at every seat station for status reports. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
“The hole isn’t getting bigger, there’s no fire, and the passengers are buckled into their seats with their oxygen masks on,” Kimberly reported.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
“Good, I’ll talk to the passengers now.” I flipped a switch. “This is your captain speaking. Now that we’ve reached a safe altitude, everyone may remove their oxygen masks. Everything’s under control. We’ll be landing soon.” I took a deep breath and resumed flying.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
The air traffic controller’s voice filled our headsets, “Luxury 434, Miami Center, state number of souls on board, fuel remaining, aircraft status, and intentions. Radar shows you ninety miles northeast of Palm Beach International Airport, level at ten thousand feet.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
I pushed the transmit button. “Miami Center, Luxury 434, a bomb blew a four-foot hole in the aft left fuselage. We lost one passenger. Could be more bombs and terrorists onboard. We’ll fly over water near the coastline and land south on the Kennedy Space Center runway, approaching over the unpopulated area north and east of the Space Center. Notify law enforcement and emergency services. ETA: fifteen minutes. One hundred and ninety souls on board and forty-five minutes of fuel remaining.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
The controller spoke in a dismissive, matter-of-fact voice, “Luxury 434, Miami Center, turn left heading one-eight-zero. Descend to six thousand feet. Plan to land at Palm Beach International Airport. Kennedy Space Center is not available to civilian aircraft.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Nice try.</i> “Negative, Miami Center, too many lives will be at risk if more bombs explode. The Space Center’s long, isolated runway is our only safe option. No launches or landings are posted for today. Deal with it.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
“Luxury 434, police may not have time to secure the area before you land.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
“Call the military base on Cape Canaveral. Ask them to establish a tight perimeter around my aircraft. We have the Cape in sight, descending to six thousand feet.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
Another explosion rocked the cockpit, followed by loud ringing and a bright red light.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
“Captain, the left engine is on fire.” Lance pointed to the lighted number one fire handle.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
The cabin intercom bell chimed. “Captain, it’s Tiffany, forward cabin. A bomb exploded under the empty left window seat, front row, first class—blew debris into the left engine. It’s burning. I put out the cabin fire, but I’m scared there’s a terrorist. Please send Lance to help us.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Won’t be suckered into that mistake. </i>“No, Tiffany. Everyone’s best chance for survival is if both pilots remain locked in the cockpit. Suck it up and prepare the cabin for an emergency landing and evacuation.” I ended the call and focused on saving the aircraft.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
Lance tapped the glowing red fire light. “Captain, number one is still burning.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
The radio blared, “Luxury 434, Miami Center, the Space Center wants thirty minutes to prepare for your arrival. Hold twenty miles northeast of Melbourne VOR on the zero-six-zero radial at six thousand feet, right turns, ten-mile legs, until we clear you for the approach.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
“Negative, Miami Center, another bomb exploded. Left engine is on fire. Stand by.” I shut down the left engine and discharged the remote fire extinguisher into the flames. “Lance, call out the engine fire checklist followed by the single-engine landing checklist.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
As we ran through the checklists, the red fire light went out. After shutting down the number one engine, the aircraft yawed to the left. I pushed hard on the right rudder pedal. “Call Miami Center and declare a MAYDAY.”<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> How many frickin’ bombs are there?</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
Lance pushed the transmit button. “Miami Center, Luxury 434 has significant bomb damage and only one engine operating. The fire is out, but we need to land immediately—declaring MAYDAY.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
“Luxury 434, understand MAYDAY. Be advised most of Florida, including Cape Canaveral and Kennedy Space Center, is covered in a low cloud base with continuous heavy rain, ceiling one hundred feet, visibility one-half mile, and wind one-two-zero at thirty knots. State your intentions.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Bad weather. What next? </i>“Luxury 434 will land on Runway One Five. I want fire equipment and EMS standing by. Warn them we may have more bombs. We’ll evacuate as soon as we’re stopped on the runway.” I gripped the control yoke and focused on the flight instruments, expecting another explosion any moment. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
“Luxury 434, descend to two thousand feet. Turn left to one-eight-zero. Cleared for the Runway One Five ILS approach. Contact the tower on one-two-eight-five-five. Good luck.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
Lance called the tower, and I concentrated on the instrument panel as we descended through the storm clouds. My right leg vibrated from the constant strain of pushing hard on the right rudder pedal, compensating for the dead engine rolling our aircraft to the left. My proper use of ailerons and rudder was the only thing preventing our aircraft from rolling upside down. Adrenaline surged through my veins with my senses tuned to high intensity. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
“Lance, we don’t know if we have wing damage, so I’ll do a no-flap landing, rather than risk control issues close to the ground. Extra speed won’t be a problem on that long runway.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
“Final approach, Captain. We’re centered on the localizer and glide slope, but we’re still in the soup. Will we do a go-around if we don’t see anything at decision height?” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
“No, the airplane might not survive a go-around. If we don’t see the approach lights, call out our altitude every ten feet below one hundred feet until we’re on the runway. Signal the flight attendants to assume the brace position.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
Lance gave the six-bell signal to the cabin. He scanned between the altimeter and the view outside. “Five hundred feet . . . four hundred . . . three hundred . . . two hundred . . . one hundred, ninety, eighty, seventy, sixty, <span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;">RUNWAY IN SIGHT</span>.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
“Runway in sight—landing,” I declared. “Notify the tower.”<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
Just as the landing gear touched down, I heard a loud noise and felt the aircraft swerve. Employing the rudder and asymmetrical braking to keep the airliner’s forward motion centered on the runway, I noted the red fire warning light on the front panel.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
“Captain, we have a wheel well fire and probably some blown tires.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
“Notify the tower, and tell them we’re evacuating the aircraft.” I wrestled the massive airliner to a stop, set the parking brake, shut down the engine, and announced to the cabin, “This is the captain speaking. Evacuate the aircraft using the forward and aft exit doors. Do not use the wing exits. There is a fire under the wings. Move as far away from the aircraft as possible and follow instructions from law enforcement personnel waiting on the ground.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
I wiped my sweaty hands on my jeans and looked over my shoulder at the check pilot seated in the back of the Boeing 767 flight simulator. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Over four frickin’ hours in the sweatbox! My test had better be over. </i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
“Excellent check ride, Sam,” Check Pilot Jim Rowlin said. “We threw every emergency in the book at you. Your selection of the Space Center runway was unexpected, but you showed good judgment.” He glanced at the man to his left. “Unless the FAA examiner has anything to add, I think we’re done here. Congratulations, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Captain</i> Starr. Not bad, considering you’ve been a copilot only six years.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
“Piece of cake, Jim,” I said, grinning. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
“Miss Samantha Starr, the first female captain at Luxury International Airlines! How does it feel to be the big cheese with the most prestigious charter airline in the world?” Lance asked. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
“I’ll let you know when my muscles stop twitching. Jim gave my right leg quite a workout with the left engine failures.” I turned to Jim. “You <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">do </i>know the 767 has <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">two </i>engines? At least one right engine failure would’ve been nice to balance out my leg muscles.” I rubbed my right thigh and smiled. “Now I’d like a long shower and about thirty minutes in my hot tub with a bottle of ice-cold Champagne.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
“Well, I had to make sure you have what it takes to do a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">man’s</i> job,” Jim joked. “The hot tub sounds tempting, but you’ll have to settle for celebratory beers at the bar instead.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
I saw the men nod in agreement when I released my hair from the clip behind my neck. “Uh huh, I don’t know any men<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>who’ve had five consecutive left engine failures in their entire lives. Good thing a woman was at the controls.” I laughed and followed the men out. “Jim, when do I start the line checks, flying regular passenger flights with check captains?” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
Jim checked the calendar in his Blackberry. “Ah, you’ll start in three days. We’ll head to the briefing room, finish the paperwork, and meet at The Sound Barrier Bar and Grill.” He started down the hallway with the FAA examiner at his side.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
“Great job, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Captain</i>!” Lance gave me a big hug, lifting me off my feet.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
I kissed his cheek. “Thanks for your help.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
“You can always count on me.” He gave me a confident wink and escorted me down the hall. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
My right leg stopped vibrating during my walk to the briefing room. I caught up to Jim. “Thanks for the fair check ride, but I think I’ll pass on your drink offer.” I wrinkled my nose. “I really do need a shower. After four hours in the sweatbox, I reek.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
Jim put his arm around my shoulder. “Nonsense, you need adult beverages. The flight simulator was so realistic, your subconscious believed you were in mortal danger and flooded your system with adrenaline. A few beers will help you relax. Besides, this is a major milestone in your career. Come and celebrate. Drinks are on us.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
Jim sat at the desk and filled out the forms for the Boeing 767 type rating to be added to my airline transport pilot certificate. “Sign here and we’ll head over to the bar. Are you coming, Lance? You’re invited too, Dick. We don’t mind drinking with a fed.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
Lance grinned. “I wouldn’t dream of missing Sam’s celebration party.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
FAA Examiner Dick Farinati glanced at his watch. “I’d love to join the party, but my wife will have dinner on the table in fifteen minutes. It’s not worth the grief if I’m late. Thanks anyway, guys.” He shook my hand. “Congratulations, Captain Starr.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
I smiled at the eager men, deciding the politically correct choice was to join them at the bar for a few rounds, even if I felt like collapsing into my hot tub. I enjoyed their company, but navigating through the minefield of male egos was just as difficult as my toughest flight test, and mistakes in either could jeopardize my career. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
Jim and Lance were handsome, but Jim was married, and Lance had a reputation for running wild with the flight attendants. I didn’t want to complicate my captain qualification flights by dating a company pilot. The men tended to gossip, and my recent breakup with a fellow pilot had registered on everyone’s radar in record time. As the sole female pilot at elite Luxury International Airlines, my life was always under a microscope. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
During my short drive to the bar, I pulled out my cell phone and called my mother. “Hey, Mom, I passed! You’re talking to the world’s newest Boeing 767 captain. Not bad for a twenty-six-year-old woman. Wish Dad was alive to see my fourth stripe.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
“Congratulations, Sam! I knew you’d ace it. Your father would’ve been proud. Are you going out to celebrate?” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
“I’m meeting the men at the Sound Barrier. After four hours of extreme emergencies, my nerves are shot, and my muscles feel like mush. Wish I didn’t have to wait until August for my vacation. I need it now.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
“I can relate. I’m writing the first chapter of my new romance novel, and I’m having trouble creating the lover for my Highland chieftain.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
“Why not pretend you’re the one enjoying the hot Scot?” I asked.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
“Good idea. I’ll make the main characters my age and let the middle-aged damsel marry the handsome warrior for a change. My mature readers deserve a steamy fantasy.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
“Your novels have me fired up to visit Scotland this summer.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
“You’ll love the Highlands. I have a strong feeling it may turn out to be your most exciting vacation ever.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
“I’m counting on it. Your intuition has never been wrong. Gotta go, Mom, love you.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
______________________________________________________________<br />
<br />
Robert L. Bacon<br />
<a href="http://www.theperfectwrite.com/">theperfectwrite.com</a><br />
For authors, The Perfect Write® is now providing<br />
<b>FREE QUERY LETTER REVIEW AND ANALYSIS</b>.<br />
<br />
Post your query to <a href="mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com">mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com</a>(no attachments) and visit the <a href="http://www.theperfectwrite.com/sample-letters/">Sample Letters Page </a>for examples of successful query letters.<br />
<br />
The Perfect Write® offers comprehensive editing services, from manuscript critiques to complete revisions, including line-editing, along with query letter design and composition. For pricing, send your project requirements to <a href="mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com">mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com</a><br />
<br />
For business applications, The Perfect Write® also offers advanced services, from designing sophisticated sell sheets to crafting investor-appealing business plans for start-up enterprises. For a customized quote, please send your detailed project requirements to <a href="mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com">mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com</a>The Perfect Write®http://www.blogger.com/profile/15911456172776383647noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5113765841272949669.post-22641243770946391952011-09-17T11:41:00.006-04:002011-09-19T11:56:35.230-04:00ANDROMEDA'S TALE Opening Chapter By Sirena G.<div align="center" class="MsoBodyText" style="tab-stops: 279.0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Chapter 1</span></div><div align="center" class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: center;">A Future So Full of Promise</div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: 200%;"> The smell of sulfur hung in the air for several seconds after the match was lit. Nadia was curled up, asleep, atop a bookshelf. She was small and fit nicely on this high perch in the greeting room. No one would ever think to look for her there.<br />
The sound of people shuffling in woke her. Nadia studied the man who had lit the cigarette. She wanted him to turn so she could get a better look at his face. From the side, he was not of any race she had ever seen before. She considered he might be a weird third rung, a mixture of races so deep that he did not qualify as anything, one of those who were often kept as guards.<br />
He wore baggy thick canvas trousers, excellent for hiding weapons. He was accompanied by a tall, stiff-looking human woman. Nadia could never tell humans apart, with their pudding faces. This was indeed an odd couple. And up to no good, Nadia was sure. <br />
Loeman had lined up the young women in two rows. Nadia always found it amusing to look at the rugged girls of the Common House after they had come from the groomers. This lot wore pink skirts with ruffles and white gloves to cover their knuckle tattoos. They had sausage curls attached to their bad haircuts, and every cheek was circled with pink rouge. Thick coral lipstick had been smeared on their mouths, and heavy false eyelashes were also stuck on. The result was the appearance of a phalanx of hastily manufactured dolls. </div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 35.45pt;">Nadia couldn't stifle a giggle. The woman whipped her head around and locked her blue eyes onto Nadia's big gray eyes. Nadia’s long, pointed ears perked. A slow smile crept over the strange woman’s face. Nadia did not like this at all. She did not want to be picked by these sponsors--or any sponsors. Her dumb luck to be here during a showing. She had to act quickly. She picked up a dusty book and chucked it at the woman's head. She was sure to get a month cleaning toilets and a good beating for it, but at least she wouldn't be chosen to serve.</div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: 200%;"> Before she could do anything else, the man snatched her and dangled her upside down by one ankle. Then the man hoisted her up until they were face to face. He cocked his head to one side and inspected her. Nadia gasped when she saw him up close. His profile had not prepared her for what he really looked like. His face was very wide, and his gold eyes spanned from the bridge of his nose to each temple. His mouth was curled in a permanent sneer as a result of deep scars across his cheek. His teeth clenched a roll-me-own so tight, the cigarette looked as if it were in pain.</div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: 200%;"> “Put me down, insidious wild boar hybrid, and do not eat me!” Nadia yelled. To call someone out as a hybrid was a dangerous insult, but he didn't react in an overly violent manner. He just hoisted Nadia a little higher and shook her like a toy.<br />
“Barius!” the woman snapped. “Put the girl down.” Barius flipped Nadia over and set her on her feet. The Loeman stammered while explaining that Nadia was in the process of being trained, but was proving to be intractable. He apologized and gestured to a guard to take her away. The woman stopped him.</div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: 200%;"> “This young lady has been brought to us by the forces of fate and chaos," she said. "We would do well to at least review her file. We should not dismiss hastily the possibility she has been delivered to us by providence." The Loeman stared at Nadia, then back at the woman, then at the rows of sour young ladies dressed like party favors.</div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: 200%;"> “Of course, as you wish. This is Nadia, 18. I must make it clear that this young lady has been a disciplinary problem from the day I began my tenure here two years ago. I will say in her favor that she has not caused any great harm or damage to anyone. Still and yet, I do not believe she is ready for service. I have had many years of experience as a Loeman. I am skilled enough to reason with even the most hardened delinquent. Yet even under my tutelage, she remains recalcitrant, disobedient, and mischievous. Her race is the most difficult to assimilate. So I don't know if I would place too much merit in the idea of good fortune having to do with your selection. I am a man of logic and not passion, so I implore you to balance the pros and cons of....”</div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: 200%;"> “Blah blah blah blah!” Nadia slapped her hands over her throat. “Stop talking, Loeman. You are using up all the air in the room. Leave some for everyone else to breathe!” </div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: 200%;"> Barius grunted. Nadia thought he might be agreeing with her. She did not care if he did. She tried to run out of the room, but found her feet firmly affixed to the spot on which she was standing. Then she felt the light touch of the woman's hand on her shoulder. Nadia twisted her body from side to side. “Hey, she put a spell on me! I'm not going anywhere with you, witch. Witch! Witch!” </div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: 200%;"> Barius frowned at the girl, then looked at the woman. “Think maybe you could turn her volume down?” His voice was deep, loud, and rough, sounding to Nadia like a rumbling truck engine in need of a good mechanic.</div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: 200%;"> The Loeman said, “Ah, Lady Salvin, you are a practitioner of the arts, I see. Well, then, perhaps providence may play a role in this selection after all....” He was sweating. He obviously feared practitioners. He made a gesture to dismiss the girls, and all of them left the room sullenly. </div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: 200%;"> Nadia watched them go with sad amusement. The dumb little bitches were disappointed not to </div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: 200%;">be chosen. They were all fake, dreaming of being swept away to new homes. That was the fallacy the institution kept trying to convince them of, that being selected as a ward to serve wealthy--usually human--families was their best hope. The very idea revolted Nadia.</div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: 200%;"> The Loeman motioned for the three of them to follow him. “Let us go to my office and pull Nadia's files. We usually take a few days to clear a petition, but in your case, I will file it under ‘Special Need.’ Will that be all right, Lady Salvin?”</div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: 200%;"> “Please call me Iris. And, yes, I think that will work out just fine.”</div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: 200%;"> Nadia groaned. She could not believe it. She was wearing the most tattered shorts she owned. Her chest was bound in a winding cloth that should have hit the rag pile ages ago. She had not bathed in a week and her feet were black with grunge. She howled in protest. The Loeman gave her a sharp look.</div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: 200%;"> Barius pulled out Nadia's long pointed ears from her nest of tangled red and black hair. He grabbed her ears and wiggled them. “Erinian," he proclaimed and shook his big head. "They are all like this, thorns in the shoe, all of ’em.” Barius rolled a new smoke and lit it. He turned to Iris. “You sure this is what you want, then let's deal, but what you see is what you get.”<br />
“Touch not my supple ears, fuzzy butt!” Nadia yelled. Barius pinched her cheeks. They headed down a garishly appointed hall to the Loeman's office. Nadia looked at the posters of ragged children taken in by smiling True Bloods. One caption read: A future so full of promise. Nadia disagreed and retorted, “A future so full of compromise.” She was no longer amused. They would have to send her to the reservation at 21 if she was not chosen. She had only three years left. She couldn't believe she was being picked. The witch held a hand on her as if it were a harness.<br />
What could they want with her, she wondered? Certainly she was adorable and sexy, with her big eyes and curvy figure, but she was also filthy, rude, and obnoxious. She was every inch Erinian, and everyone hated Erinians. </div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: 200%;"> Barius looked back at the girl, who was not keeping up. Normally, he would have been attracted to her. She was cute enough. Right now, though, he was tired, hungry, and anxious to get the hell out of this Common House, free of the fat windbag of a Loeman, and away from the cursed perfumes that had been sprayed on the girls. The perfumes had given him a roaring headache. At least the Erinian smelled like hay and horses. </div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 35.45pt;"> In the office, the Loeman addressed Barius, as he was cowed by Iris. Barius grunted while the man read through a litany of disclaimers, fees, licensing, taxes, contractual agreements, and other crap Barius did not care about. The Loeman occasionally punctuated the monologue with little anecdotes about his life. He talked about his education, his credentials, and his accomplishments. Meanwhile, Nadia had quietly checked to see if the door was locked. It was. She looked at books and furtively glanced out the window. Barius' headache raged. He finally snapped, “Just tell me if she's a virgin. If she is, we'll pay you and go.”</div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: 200%;"> The Loeman stared open-mouthed at him. “We do not sell girls for sexual purposes. We do not sell girls at all. These fees are part of the processing. Her sexual experience is not a question for you to ask."</div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: 200%;"> Barius grunted louder. Nadia snorted derisively. Everyone knew that most girls in the care of the State were sold either as mistresses or prostitutes.</div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: 200%;"> Nadia watched closely. She sensed a menace and a challenge in Barius. Perhaps the Loeman would throw him out for asking aloud a question meant to be whispered. </div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: 200%;"> Lady Salvin held up her hand. “The question is appropriate. I am of a celibate order. The girl could benefit from our intensive training, but not if she is corrupted. We cannot accept her if she is defiled.” </div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: 200%;"> Nadia snorted again. Her sense of smell was keen. The woman might be celibate, but Nadia could smell juice on Barius. Stale, maybe from last night. He probably got "defiled" any time he could find someone who would hold still for him. Nadia opened her mouth to say something. Barius came over and pushed her down on an ugly plaid couch in the back of the office. She sat with a weak protest.</div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: 200%;"> Barius produced something from his vest. It looked like a misshapen globe of red gel. Gold sparkled deep inside it as lights seemed to go on and off in the heart of the blob. Nadia could not help but stare hard at it and be drawn in by its power. She took the globe and rolled it in her hands. It had a wonderful warmth and weight. She stretched it, and each time she did it slid back into its relaxed shape.</div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: 200%;"> The Loeman watched nervously as Barius let the force subdue the girl. He did not want to tangle with these two. Celibate order or not, they obviously had the magic. “Oh, do forgive me, I apologize for questioning your motives. It's just that we receive some visitors who have less than honorable intentions. Let me assure you, as of her monthly medical examination, the last of which was two weeks ago, her hymen was intact.”</div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: 200%;"> Barius gave the Loeman a stern glare. The man hurried through the paperwork. When it was done, Barius snatched Nadia from the couch as she was braiding three long strands of red goo. Then the braids melded together and became the configuration of a smushed globe once more. She continued to play with the globe as Barius carried her out of the office. She watched dark red flecks collide with tiny sparkles deep inside the greasy interior of the mass. They performed a slow, orchestrated dance. Nadia </div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: 200%;">had to pay close attention to see this. And if she concentrated hard enough, she could direct the movements. </div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: 200%;"> Nadia was in a deep trance as the Loeman fitted a thin black snake of leather around her neck. The collar served both for identification and as a tracking device. It expired after three solar years, at which point it would fall off. Attempting to remove it before then would result in burns, and a permanent mark of Common House registry would be branded to her skin. Inside the brand, the expiration date would show for the convenience of bounty hunters. A thin chain was attached to the collar. </div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: 200%;"> Barius carried Nadia outside, and as sunlight hit her face the spell was broken. Nadia threw down the enchanted toy as if it were a poisonous snake. She bit Barius on the arm. She planted her feet on his chest and pushed.</div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: 200%;"> “I will not be fed to a Borack. I am not your virgin sacrifice. Let me go! I have sour blood. I taste awful. I steal. I burn things. I'll escape. Put me back in the ward. I'm trouble, bad trouble!” Nadia kicked out of Barius' arms, but he grabbed her and placed her under an armpit. She kicked and punched but hit nothing except air. She did not see Lady Salvin approach. The woman placed her hands on Nadia's face. She went limp.</div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: 200%;"> “You didn't need to do that,” Barius said, holding Nadia's wilted form. Iris did not answer him. She started for the truck. Barius followed. Barius' dog, Soko, danced in excitement at their arrival and let out a curious bark. Soko was tall, with long legs and expansive ears that ended in dark tufts. Barius gave the dog's muzzle a quick rub. He climbed into the driver’s seat while Iris worked on unknotting the tangles in Nadia's hair.</div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 35.45pt;">“I thought we agreed I was to do the talking,” Iris said in a quiet but firm tone. </div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: 200%;"> Barius peered at her profile. The sun was low and its angle revealed a glimpse of her age in her face. It was not a matter of lines or sagging skin, but instead a tightening that created a certain sheen on her skin as it stretched across the bone. With each year she appeared harder and harder. In more direct light he could even make out the exact shape of her skull. She was still beautiful, although in a severe fashion, since no one would ever refer to her as cute or pretty. But of greater significance, no one would have guessed her real age either.</div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: 200%;"> “I have a headache from that shit they sprayed on the girls to make them smell better," Barius said. "The whole time in there I was suppressing an urge to beat that Loeman into a bloody pulp. Then I had to keep an eye on this kid so she wouldn't chew a hole in the wall and escape. And I'm damn hungry. I was daydreaming about killing someone. It was the only thought that gave me peace. I know you love to pass judgment and everything, but I wouldn't right now, not until this headache goes away.”</div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: 200%;"> A slight smile turned the corners of Iris' lips. “That was some truly revolting perfume. And those costumes! I have never seen rats in pinafores before. Roll your window down, the fresh air will clear your head. Then, when you feel better, I can light into you about running your mouth.”</div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: 200%;"> Barius let the last comment pass. “All that crap you were talking about--fate and providence--is that why you picked the dust devil that's now in your lap? I mean, there were some young ladies who looked a hell of a lot easier to get along with than an Erinian. Of course, they'd have to ride in the back with Soko to blow the smell off. I think you just picked her because the rest of the lot looked like Navian wharf trollops.”</div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: 200%;"> Iris tilted her head defiantly. “I always make well-calculated decisions. Erinians are, as you say, thorns. But they are also physically strong and emotionally consistent. They can suffer a great deal of corporal punishment and mental turmoil and still keep their spirits intact.”</div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: 200%;"> Barius snorted. “I still say you picked her on a whim. You could have done a little better.”</div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: 200%;"> Iris' jaw tightened. She spoke in carefully measured words. “I'll have you know that I can trace this girl's lineage back many generations. She is directly descended from one of the oldest original families. In fact, she is the last surviving member of that family. She is pure Erinian. Do you understand?”</div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: 200%;"> “That's <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">all</i> I wanted to know,” Barius said as Iris stiffened her back. Barius smiled. His headache was receding. </div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: 200%;"> They drove in silence. Nadia began to squirm. Iris put her hand on the girl’s face. Barius gently placed his great hand on Iris' back. “That's not necessary,” she told him. </div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: 200%;"> Nadia did not wake, but her fingers involuntarily tugged at the collar around her throat. She moaned when it did not release. Barius reached toward her, but Iris said, “Let her have her dreams. Let her sleep. Don't push her under.” </div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><br clear="all" style="mso-special-character: line-break; page-break-before: always;" /> </span>The Perfect Write®http://www.blogger.com/profile/15911456172776383647noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5113765841272949669.post-49668861661359096552011-08-07T14:20:00.003-04:002012-07-09T17:15:13.640-04:00GINGERSNAP by Karen E.<div align="center" class="ecxmsonormal" style="line-height: 25.0pt; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black;">ONE</span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
<div align="center" class="ecxmsonormalcxspmiddle" style="line-height: 25.0pt; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="ecxmsonormalcxspmiddle" style="line-height: 25.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black;">My name is Ginger and I just killed myself.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
<div class="ecxmsonormalcxspmiddle" style="line-height: 25.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black;">OK, I lied. My name’s not Ginger.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
<div class="ecxmsonormalcxsplast" style="line-height: 25.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black;">All right, I’ll stop. Actually, I told myself when I sat down just now that if I do this, I’m going to do it right: I’ll tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but. If that means “no more fooling around,” so be it. The truth is, that’s just me, being silly. Honest. All that happy shit about killing myself is just a bunch of crap that I threw in there because: </span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
<div class="ecxmsolistparagraph" style="line-height: 25.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black;">A. I thought it was funny (I mean, come <i>on</i>);</span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
<div class="ecxmsolistparagraphcxspmiddle" style="line-height: 25.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black;">B. I thought it would be a real kick-ass story starter (which it was, by the way); plus, </span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
<div class="ecxmsolistparagraphcxsplast" style="line-height: 25.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black;">C. if I started writing extraneous bullshit, I wouldn’t have to deal with the dreaded “main issue,” which is the real reason I sat down at this computer in the first place. </span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
<div class="ecxmsonormal" style="line-height: 25.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black;">OK, then. No more fun and games; quit wasting time; it’s time to tell the truth: My name is Mary. God help me, it really is.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
<div class="ecxmsonormalcxspmiddle" style="line-height: 25.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black;">Funny, and now I‘ll hop off the pity potty and talk “truth” here for a minute. The truth is, my name doesn’t matter one little bit right now. What matters is how I got here, how I got to this place, and I don’t mean “here” in the physical sense; what I mean is, how did I get into this mess, the mess I’m in right now? </span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
<div class="ecxmsonormalcxspmiddle" style="line-height: 25.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black;">This <i>mess</i>—</span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
<div class="ecxmsonormalcxspmiddle" style="line-height: 25.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black;">I’ve got to wonder if I’ve really, finally done it, e.g., snapped, dove off the deep end, lost my fucking mind. The truth is, I may be, at this very moment, a few clowns short of a circus. . .and if that isn’t bad enough, I can’t stop singing that Kinks song:</span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
<div align="center" class="ecxmsonormalcxspmiddle" style="line-height: 25.0pt; text-align: center;">
<i><span style="color: black;">‘Cause there’s a red, under my bed</span></i><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
<div align="center" class="ecxmsonormalcxspmiddle" style="line-height: 25.0pt; text-align: center;">
<i><span style="color: black;">And there’s a little yellow man in my head--</span></i><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
<div class="ecxmsonormalcxspmiddle" style="line-height: 25.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black;">Hey! Maybe that’s my problem. . .but seriously, folks, I think I’m in dire straits here. Maybe I’d better rewind for a minute. </span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
<div class="ecxmsonormalcxspmiddle" style="line-height: 25.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black;">OK, try to picture the scene: I’m driving in my car and thinking about nothing in particular; just cruising along on autopilot, listening to my <i>Best of The Kinks</i> CD and savoring that sweet, delicious cigarette—</span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
<div class="ecxmsonormalcxspmiddle" style="line-height: 25.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<i><span style="color: black;">Sidebar:</span></i><span style="color: black;"> In keeping with my "truth theme," I confess that I was on the road yesterday, not because I had to buy toilet paper (although we did need some; we were almost out), but because I had to fulfill that nagging urge to sneak a Marlboro out there on the road, away from the loving but watchful eyes of my husband. (No matter that he wasn't even home; he was at work. I just didn't want my smoke to mingle with his lingering presence and permeate everything.) Anyway, if that's the worse thing I ever do, it's not so bad, and <i>anyway</i>, it was going to be just the one; my first this week--</span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
<div class="ecxmsonormalcxspmiddle" style="line-height: 25.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black;">(Actually, the truth is, I’ve already had four this week and it’s only Wednesday. It usually happens five or six times a week: I’m folding laundry and suddenly I think, <i>I could go for a cigarette;</i> I’m making the bed and I think, <i>I sure could go for a smoke right now.</i> I drink a <i>beer</i>. . .)</span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
<div class="ecxmsonormalcxspmiddle" style="line-height: 25.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black;">Anyway, back to my story: I bought TP and a pack of cigs and I was back on the road, smoking that cigarette and kicking out the jams and thinking about nothing much at all. I remember looking at the clock and it was almost “on the twos,” as they say, so I shut off the music and switched on the radio to catch the weather report. A commercial came on: it was with this guy who owns a ritzy grocery down on Main who’s always pitching some new product or another, and he’s always trying to sound real “down-homey,” like he’s Garrison Keillor or somebody--</span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
<div class="ecxmsonormalcxspmiddle" style="line-height: 25.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black;">“When I was a young’un,” he starts, I wince, “my mother told me, ‘Little Joe, everybody’s got problems, but here’s something your Grandma taught me years ago: any problem you ever face in life can be solved by one fantastic gingersnap cookie.” </span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
<div class="ecxmsonormalcxspmiddle" style="line-height: 25.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black;">I’m thinking, <i>Did he just say what I think he said?</i> </span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
<div class="ecxmsonormalcxspmiddle" style="line-height: 25.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black;">He keeps going. “Now, folks, ever since then, I’ve made it my life’s work to find such a cookie, and now I can say that I’ve finally done it: I’ve finally found the best little gingersnap cookie in America, and it’s made right here in Ohio!”</span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
<div class="ecxmsonormalcxspmiddle" style="line-height: 25.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black;">I’m thinking, <i>What? Is this guy nuts? What does he think we are: morons? Does he actually think we’ll believe that any problem can be solved by a fucking gingersnap? I mean, come on—</i></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
<div class="ecxmsonormalcxspmiddle" style="line-height: 25.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black;">And the next thing you know, I’m driving my car right into the path of a big Mack truck and--</span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
<div class="ecxmsonormalcxspmiddle" style="line-height: 25.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black;">OK, let’s stop right there. I swerved my car, that’s true. But I didn’t go through with it; I didn’t do it. The proof is in the fact that I’m sitting here right now, listening to The Kinks and typing away on this computer, and not flat on my back in some basement morgue wearing nothing but a toe tag.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
<div class="ecxmsonormalcxspmiddle" style="line-height: 25.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black;">That was yesterday.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
<div class="ecxmsonormalcxspmiddle" style="line-height: 25.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black;">So, today (no surprise), I’ve been sitting here, trying to figure out what happened, and I’ve come to the conclusion that yesterday’s event was a red warning flag flapping in front of my face; no, it was a freaking neon sign flashing an inch from my eyes; a blinding pulse of neon, warning me to </span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
<div align="center" class="ecxmsonormalcxspmiddle" style="line-height: 25.0pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="color: black;">DO SOMETHING--DO SOMETHING—DO SOMETHING--</span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
<div class="ecxmsonormalcxspmiddle" style="line-height: 25.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black;">I’m taking this thing seriously.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
<div class="ecxmsonormalcxspmiddle" style="line-height: 25.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black;">Needless to say, I’ve thought long and hard about what that “something” should be, and I know this is going to sound ludicrous, but here’s what I came up with, not ten minutes ago: I think I’m supposed to sit down and write myself a book. </span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
<div class="ecxmsonormalcxspmiddle" style="line-height: 25.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black;">No, that’s not true: I <i>know</i> I’m supposed to write a book.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
<div class="ecxmsonormalcxspmiddle" style="line-height: 25.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black;">And then (not five minutes ago), I knew exactly what my book should be about. Let me set the stage for you: </span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
<div class="ecxmsonormalcxspmiddle" style="line-height: 25.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black;">The title came to me like a bolt out of the blue: GINGERSNAP It makes perfect sense: <i>Ginger,</i> because that’s going to be my name, and <i>snap,</i> because what happens: I go for a drive and then I snap, just like that.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
<div class="ecxmsonormalcxspmiddle" style="line-height: 25.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black;">Now, picture this: GINGERSNAP is an “autobiography.” We meet Ginger (that would be me) at a moment of crisis: she’s a writer, but she cannot seem to find the words; her inspiration has run dry. Her distress blooms into crisis—she snaps (the truck!)—and then she finds herself slip-sliding toward deep despair. In a flash of clarity (insanity?), Ginger realizes that this could be her defining moment as a writer—so (in the first half of her book), she forces herself to chronicle her journey down, down, down; writing everything, sparing nothing, laying herself bare. . .</span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
<div class="ecxmsonormalcxspmiddle" style="line-height: 25.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black;">Then (in the second half of the book), Ginger takes us along for the ride of her life as she stumbles and falls and rights herself again; as she confronts her demons and struggles to find her way back. . . </span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
<div class="ecxmsonormalcxspmiddle" style="line-height: 25.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black;">And she succeeds! By the end of the book, Ginger has healed herself and, in the process, she's written a best-selling autobiography and <i>that's exactly what I'm going to do with this book Ginger I love you--</i></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
<div class="ecxmsonormalcxspmiddle" style="line-height: 25.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black;">Stop. Hold on.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
<div class="ecxmsonormalcxspmiddle" style="line-height: 25.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black;">Why? It’s brilliant.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
<div class="ecxmsonormalcxspmiddle" style="line-height: 25.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black;">No. It’s. . .unrealistic.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
<div class="ecxmsonormalcxspmiddle" style="line-height: 25.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black;">I disagree.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
<div class="ecxmsonormalcxspmiddle" style="line-height: 25.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black;">Well, what makes you think you can actually do it?</span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
<div class="ecxmsonormalcxspmiddle" style="line-height: 25.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black;">Do what? </span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
<div class="ecxmsonormalcxspmiddle" style="line-height: 25.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black;">Write yourself out of all of this. Come <i>on</i>, Mary, you nearly plowed your car into a truck. This is serious business. You need to talk to somebody, a professional--</span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
<div class="ecxmsonormalcxsplast" style="line-height: 25.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black;">Probably. Maybe. <i>Bullshit,</i> I can do this by myself. Why not? I’m smart, I’ve been through it before, and anyway, I’m a <i>writer,</i> that’s what I <i>do.</i> I’ll figure it out. And the best part? When all is said and done, not only will I have written a kick-ass novel, but in the process, I’ll get what Ginger gets: a big, fat, juicy dose of sanity, wrapped up in a nice, warm, sesame seed bun. Plus, the cost to me this time will be zilch, zero, nada, which is a shitload less than a bunch of actual therapy sessions would cost; <i>plus,</i> I’ll make myself some major dough from the thing. OK, that’s a “maybe.” But do you know what? It doesn’t matter. I have it all figured out: it’s “win-win,” as they say. I just have to tie up a couple of loose ends first. Cases in point: </span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
<div class="ecxmsolistparagraph" style="line-height: 25.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black;">A. It’s Ginger’s autobiography. </span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
<div class="ecxmsolistparagraphcxspmiddle" style="line-height: 25.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black;">B. I ain’t Ginger (minor sticking point). </span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
<div class="ecxmsolistparagraphcxsplast" style="line-height: 25.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black;">C. The “snap” part is still being debated by certain individuals (e.g., me, myself and I, ha ha).</span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
<div class="ecxmsonormal" style="line-height: 25.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black;">Here’s a sidebar to point C: Actually, I don’t think that yesterday’s event was actually a “snap,” <i>per se;</i> at least, not yet. What I think happened yesterday was that I had myself a little epiphany of sorts; what Oprah might call an <i>Aha! moment;</i> what Little Joe might call <i>a li’l ol’ jolt of veracity</i>. The truth is, I don’t care what they call it, here’s what I think: I think that I haven’t snapped yet, but it could happen, I could lose it, I’m definitely bending in that general direction; I haven’t snapped yet but I’m pretty damn close; I’m <i>close</i>—</span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
<div class="ecxmsonormalcxsplast" style="line-height: 25.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black;">I think you understand what I’m saying. OK, back to business:</span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
<div class="ecxmsolistparagraph" style="line-height: 25.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black;">D. As far as the whole “story” idea goes, well, that’s something to consider, too, because that would mean I’d actually have to write something (funny, I know), and it would have to be something substantial; something coming in at what. . .60,000 words, absolute minimum? I just checked: I’m only at a little over 2,500 words right now and anyway, I can’t count any of this ramble as part of my story, so I’m actually holding steady at a big, fat zero</span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
<div class="ecxmsolistparagraph" style="line-height: 25.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<i><span style="color: black;">Crap</span></i><span style="color: black;">. Anything less than 60,000 words won't be an easy sell; it won't be something I could easily peddle; it won't have the weight of "import" behind it that will allow me to saunter into some agent's office, swinging my big ol' balls of confidence, knowing for a fact that I wrote something good, something to be reconed with, something--dare I say it--<i>marketable</i>. . . </span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
<div class="ecxmsonormalcxspmiddle" style="line-height: 25.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black;">No doubt about it, it would have to be marketable: first, to a go-getter agent; then, to a powerhouse publisher; then, to some high class book reviewers; and then--maybe, if I’m<u> </u>lucky--to a statistically significant portion of the U.S. population. </span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
<div class="ecxmsonormalcxspmiddle" style="line-height: 25.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black;">But then--if I were <i>extremely</i> lucky--that thing might make me some serious dough; and then, finally, it might prove, once and for all, that YES, that gal’s got some serious talent; there is no doubt about it: that hot little gal can <i>write--</i></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
<div class="ecxmsonormalcxspmiddle" style="line-height: 25.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black;">Funny, but true: I’ve wanted that since the day I was born. OK, that’s a slight exaggeration; but honestly now, I’ve always felt like writer, I love to write, and I want the world to know that I bloody well <i>can</i> write. </span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
<div class="ecxmsonormalcxspmiddle" style="line-height: 25.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black;">I’ve been a writer my entire life. You want cases in point? All right, let’s see: </span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
<div class="ecxmsonormalcxspmiddle" style="line-height: 25.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black;">When I was a kid, I was always writing poems and cute little plays and stuff like that. (Admittedly, this fits the proverbial “Everybody has to start somewhere” model; in other words, it’s trite, but true.)</span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
<div class="ecxmsonormalcxspmiddle" style="line-height: 25.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black;">When I was eight or nine, I switched to writing scary short stories and they were pretty good, I don’t mind saying; hell, I even scared myself. Seriously.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
<div class="ecxmsonormalcxspmiddle" style="line-height: 25.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black;">At thirteen, I started a diary and I’m still keeping a journal, which is what--twenty years later? Yep, I’m thirty-three, so it’s been over two decades now.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
<div class="ecxmsonormalcxspmiddle" style="line-height: 25.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black;">Anyway, when I was about nineteen, I put pen to paper in a serious way-- </span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
<div class="ecxmsonormalcxspmiddle" style="line-height: 25.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black;">OK, <i>sidebar:</i> It was all—choke--poetry, and if I’m going to be truthful here, I’d have to admit that probably ninety-eight percent of it was nothing more than cheesy crap. If you think I’m being too hard on myself, here are two examples that I thought of, just now: </span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
<div class="ecxmsonormalcxspmiddle" style="line-height: 25.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="ecxmsonormalcxspmiddle" style="line-height: 25.0pt; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black;">What does it mean? I mean, what do I do?</span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
<div align="center" class="ecxmsonormalcxspmiddle" style="line-height: 25.0pt; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black;">I mean, scared and alone, I feel lost, frightened, too.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
<div align="center" class="ecxmsonormalcxspmiddle" style="line-height: 25.0pt; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="ecxmsonormalcxspmiddle" style="line-height: 25.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black;">Not good. <i>Not</i> good. </span></div>
<div align="center" class="ecxmsonormalcxspmiddle" style="line-height: 25.0pt; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black;">Lay still, open handed; there a butterfly has landed.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
<div class="ecxmsonormalcxspmiddle" style="line-height: 25.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black;">Ouch. </span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
<div class="ecxmsonormalcxspmiddle" style="line-height: 25.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black;">I did write a couple of things that didn’t outright suck, if I recall, like the poem that started: </span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
<div align="center" class="ecxmsonormalcxspmiddle" style="line-height: 25.0pt; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black;">Though rarely be the brilliant wrath, </span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
<div align="center" class="ecxmsonormalcxspmiddle" style="line-height: 25.0pt; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black;">Attained through sorrow, midnight blue; </span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
<div align="center" class="ecxmsonormalcxspmiddle" style="line-height: 25.0pt; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black;">Attained through love lost, ethereal flight—</span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
<div align="center" class="ecxmsonormalcxspmiddle" style="line-height: 25.0pt; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="ecxmsonormalcxspmiddle" style="line-height: 25.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black;">That one wasn’t too bad, but oh, the misery: those poems reeked of it. No wonder: I was awash in angst when I wrote that stuff--no, I was enveloped by it, <i>consumed</i> by it--for what, three months? I was nineteen and crazy in love with a jerk who didn’t love me back, and for three months, all I did was cry and drink cheap wine and write bad poetry. (<i>Sidebar Number 2:</i> I’ve kept those poems all these years. They’re in a beat-up yellow folder in my top dresser drawer, under the socks, still stinking up the joint and oh, <i>Sidebar Number 3:</i> The asshole wasn’t worth it.)</span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
<div class="ecxmsonormalcxspmiddle" style="line-height: 25.0pt;">
<span style="color: black;">Anyway, then there’s the novel I wrote the spring before I started college. I was just twenty-one when I wrote “The Great American Novel” (aka: WEB OF LOVE): one hundred-and-two pages; typed, single space); banged out in three weeks’ time on my weary Smith-Corona. </span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
<div class="ecxmsonormalcxspmiddle" style="line-height: 25.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black;">Here’s another little nugget of truth for you: it wasn’t very good. I still have the five (brutally honest) rejection letters to prove it, and although I am loathe to admit this, I deserved every one of them because that novel was <i>bad</i> and I’m not just talking about the writing now; I’m talking about the story itself. (Case in point: there were pirates in it, and I’m not making that up.) </span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
<div class="ecxmsonormalcxspmiddle" style="line-height: 25.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black;">Still, I wrote a novel and that’s something, right? Of course, I’ve kept that momentous (if ridiculous) achievement, too: it’s in a floppy old cardboard box in my bedroom closet, shoved way in the back behind my tennis shoes.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
<div class="ecxmsonormalcxspmiddle" style="line-height: 25.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black;">I kept writing, and when I cranked out some pretty decent work then; sometimes, more than decent: I still have the stuff with red A-pluses scrawled across the top, and accolades from professors like <i>Wow!</i> and <i>Can I keep this?</i> and <i>Keep on writing! Never stop!</i></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
<div class="ecxmsonormalcxspmiddle" style="line-height: 25.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black;">Now, to be truthful, I must admit that, for a few years there, I didn’t follow their advice. My output was spotty; most of the time, I just wrote in my journal. You might be wondering what was happening during that time and I guess my answer would have to be “Life,” and some of it wasn’t pretty. If you were so inclined, you could fast-forward through that bad movie in 20 seconds flat: </span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
<div class="ecxmsonormal" style="line-height: 25.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<i><span style="color: black;">There she is, sweating in her wet, food-splattered uniform, piling a never-ending stack of dirty dishes into that steaming industrial dishwasher; there she is, hunched over her tiny desk, cranking out newspaper ads for men’s cologne and cat food; look, she’s getting married and now she’s struggling to balance marriage and homework and everything else so she can get that teaching certificate; there she is, exhausted after another day teaching those little kids. . .oh, no! The accident! And there’s the aftermath, and there’s the moment when she realizes she’s too messed up, she’ll have to resign, she just can’t do it anymore--</span></i><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
<div class="ecxmsonormal" style="line-height: 25.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black;">Last year was the worst year of my life. </span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
<div class="ecxmsonormal" style="line-height: 25.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black;">I think that’s when I started to bend again. Before that, I’d always be able to pull myself out of it—clinical depression, I mean. Writing helped, I know it did. I wrote a lot as a kid after my mother died. I wrote after that asshole stomped on my heart. I wrote in my journal after the accident and again, last year, when I realized I couldn’t handle teaching anymore, but that last time was the toughest. I felt like everything good in my life just slipped away and I found myself slipping away right along with it; slipping down into that deep, dark well of despair again. No, the truth is, I sank right down in there, just like a rock <i>and the worst thing was the sound when she hit the water</i>. I don’t know where that just came from, but that’s exactly how it felt. The point is, it took a lot of crying on my husband’s shoulder, and hours of introspection in my therapist’s office, and Percocet and Flexeril and spilling my guts out in my journal. . .all of that, together, to drag me up, up, up and finally, <u>out</u> of that dark and hopeless place. </span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
<div class="ecxmsonormal" style="line-height: 25.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black;">I thought I was all better. I thought I was OK. Then came yesterday, when I almost made a great big mess out of everything; when I almost splattered myself like a stupid little bug across the grill of that big Mack truck. </span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
<div class="ecxmsonormal" style="line-height: 25.0pt; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black;">Maybe I shouldn’t try to do this by myself.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
_________________________________________________________ <br />
Robert L. Bacon<br />
<a href="http://www.theperfectwrite.com/">theperfectwrite.com</a><br />
<br />
For authors, The Perfect Write® is now providing<br />
<b>FREE QUERY LETTER REVIEW AND ANALYSIS</b>.<br />
<br />
Post your query to <a href="mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com">mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com</a>(no attachments) and visit the <a href="http://www.theperfectwrite.com/sample-letters/">Sample Letters Page </a>for examples of successful query letters.<br />
<br />
The Perfect Write® offers comprehensive editing services, from manuscript critiques to complete revisions, including line-editing, along with query letter design and composition. For pricing, send your project requirements to <a href="mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com">mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com</a><br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com"></a>The Perfect Write®http://www.blogger.com/profile/15911456172776383647noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5113765841272949669.post-3483775568710625542011-07-21T16:02:00.013-04:002011-08-07T14:29:38.268-04:00TAKEN AWAY, by Ali A.“Death solves all problems--no man, no problem.”<br />
-- Joseph Stalin<br />
<br />
“I looked around. Everything was the way it should be. My books were under my feet, the rope was in my hands, the door and windows were shut. I raised my head toward the ceiling, pulled on the rope again for good measure, and swallowed. I hesitated for a moment, then jumped.” He stopped, his eyes staring off into nowhere.<br />
“And then what do you remember, Mark?” the doctor asked. <br />
His eyes snapped back. “Nothing.”<br />
The psychiatrist leaned forward and took a deep breath. “But Mr. Williamson, the rope was cut by a knife that had your fingerprints on it, forensics confirmed this. It seems you cut the rope yourself after the jump failed to break your neck.” Dr. Solomon glanced at his papers. “Thankfully, your friend, Mr. Michael, came in shortly after you decided to do what you did. He found you sprawled unconscious on the floor with the knife in your hand.” The doctor looked at his patient the way a parent would at a lying child.<br />
“I told you what happened. Nothing else happened.”<br />
Solomon nodded. “Yes, of course. Mr. Williamson, were you under the influence of any substances. Medication, drugs?” He waited for an answer. “No? Do you have a medical history we should know about? Mental issues perhaps?”<br />
Mark smashed his fists on the table. “I'm not crazy! Leave me alone!” He got up and turned to a wall with a mirror. He could see the red ring, still fresh and raw around his neck.<br />
A guard opened the door and stepped in the room, his hands on his club and belt, behind him a stream of light from the hall. “Everything alright, doctor?”<br />
“Everything’s fine, thank you, officer." Solomon turned to Mark. "If you will excuse me, Mr. Williamson."<br />
He got up from his chair and headed out the door.<br />
The sergeant on duty was in the hall by the room. He was dwarfed by two other policemen who were at his side. He took a cigar out of his mouth and put his arms to his waist. “Well, Doctor Solomon here to grace my police station again, what an honor.” He put out his hand.<br />
Solomon took it. “An honor it must be indeed.” <br />
The sergeant was a little man and put all of his strength into his grip. “So what brings you here, checking out my police station to see how a real place works?”<br />
Solomon thought he would toy with him, the sergeant’s power plays reminding him of the basics. He lifted his chin. “You called me.”<br />
<br />
The sergeant puffed his chest, inhaling a deep breath through his cigar. “Oh right, right, for that nut bar, Williamson, or something or other.” With the smoky end of the stogie he pointed to the room. “We got him here for observation while we clear out the mess with his apartment. The landlord’s got some major complaints, some we need to pursue, but it’s police business, nothing you need to worry about.”<br />
“I’ll be the judge of that. What happened exactly? I need to know.”<br />
“The damned nut bar won’t cooperate, he’ll barely talk. The only thing he did say was that he’s supposed to be dead, that he didn’t cut the rope. We even showed him his own fingerprints on his own knife, but all he says is he’s supposed to be dead. Are you going to take him or what?”<br />
Some baggage, Solomon thought. “No, just send him back off to the psych ward for observation. Everybody gets suicidal once in a while, especially in New York. He wanted to try it, and he did, then he cut the rope, but just a little bit too late and now he’s understandably grouchy. It’s called depression and shock, the staff can handle it.”<br />
“I’m afraid we can't do that, doc. The psych ward’s full and you have to take him. That’s what they said, that’s why I called you.”<br />
“We’re understaffed as is, and if we took every guy off the street, we’d never finish. Send him home. At least he won’t try to kill himself again, you can take my word on that." Solomon looked the sergeant up and down.<br />
“For a psychiatrist, you don’t hear well enough yourself. I said the landlord doesn’t want him there. He hasn’t been paying his rent, and he doesn’t even have the lease to the damn place. <br />
It’s his brother's or something, and the big man hasn’t been coughing up the dough like he's supposed to. Basically the landlord wants him out. Besides, the place stinks, like a dead body stinks. We're getting a warrant to search the dump, again on landlord's grievances. I told you, police business.” The sergeant blew out smoke.<br />
Solomon took a while. “I’m going back, I'll talk to him again.”<br />
<br />
<br />
The guard opened the door and nodded as the doctor passed him. Mark was still by the mirror, his head straight ahead, looking into it. Solomon took his seat. “Mr. Williamson?”<br />
Mark stood there, still staring into the mirror.<br />
“Mr. Williamson, I've no more time to waste. I’m here to help you not get put in jail, and all you have to do is listen, so listen.” Solomon slid a paper and pencil onto the metal table. “I want you to give me the name and phone number of somebody I can call, since the good folks here don’t seem to have adequate information on you.”<br />
Mark didn’t budge.<br />
“I need the number, Mr. Williamson, because, unfortunately, you've been evicted from your apartment. I can't let you go out in the streets a homeless suicidal with no police or medical records." <br />
Solomon waited.<br />
Mark said nothing.<br />
“It’s either this or getting thrown in a cell in this hole until you get cleared by some suited government drone from immigration or whatever department handles people like you. It’s your choice, either way, you’ll have to give us a number.”<br />
Mark got to the table, wrote down something, and went back. Solomon took the paper. It only had a number, nothing else, scratched out in horrible penmanship. He put it in his pocket and went outside, to a room behind the mirror. When he entered, Dr. Ronald Johnson, another staff psychiatrist, was leaning against a file cabinet, his eyes glued on Mark. <br />
“So, tell me, what do you think?” Solomon asked, as he grabbed his thermos from a nearby table.<br />
“Do you think it's wise to push a patient on the initial consult? It's not even the first night here yet.”<br />
Solomon took a sip of coffee. “What do you mean?” <br />
“Seriously? By not so subtly asking him about his medical history and calling him a lunatic, badgering him like that, then also telling him he's homeless? And all at once, one after the other? You've outdone yourself, again.” Johnson clapped his hands. "Congratulations, I really mean that.”<br />
Solomon laughed, slurping his drink. “So says the naysayer. It worked out wonderfully well, all of it. It’s good that you came down here with me, you should just be thankful, you’re so lucky you have the pleasure, the privilege, to see such topnotch psychoanalysis firsthand.<br />
“Let me elaborate, and don't worry, especially for you I'll pronounce each word slowly. You second-rate psychiatrists need all the help you can get.” Solomon took one last sip and put the thermos back on the table.<br />
“First of all I didn’t call him crazy because it entertained me, and even though it did, it more importantly showed us if he had any hidden emotions, which clearly he does as emphasized by all the gorilla slamming and pushing away. But it’s okay that you missed that. I understand.<br />
“And the so-called badgering, it was done very tastefully, and it got him to listen more intently, as it does for all people who are so lucky as to be in my company.<br />
“The third accusation, if you are able to follow any pattern, an ability I doubt you have, is also unsound. Why? Because that perfect addition, added so adeptly, got me this number." Solomon pulled the paper out from his pocket. "And it will solve all our problems. We get one of his relatives, question the person, then we get his life back on track and have him out of our hair before any of it's old and gray.” He walked to the phone. “You see, it’s all really simple.”<br />
<br />
Johnson laughed. “Don’t you ever get your head too big for even that meaty neck?”<br />
“Perfection comes at high cost, and people like you will never understand.” He grabbed the handset and dialed the number.<br />
The first tone sank his heart to his stomach. Something felt wrong. “Hello, good evening, thanks for choosing Luigi’s Pizza, home of the best pizza, pasta, and more.”<br />
Solomon slammed down the phone. It flew off the carriage, startling the speaker. “Hello? Hello? May I take your order?”<br />
He pulled the cord from the socket.<br />
“You didn’t tell me you were ordering pizza tonight,” Johnson said, laughing.<br />
Solomon clenched his fist. “Not another word.”<br />
“How wonderfully, perfectly simple. You know I was going to have to get you back for all those insults you slurred my way, but I love it when the universe does my work for me.”<br />
“Are you done?”<br />
Johnson tried to keep a straight face. “No!” He laughed again.<br />
“That’s it, we have to bring him to Santa Rosa,” Solomon said.<br />
“What? Why? Couldn’t it just be like what you said to the sergeant?”<br />
“I was just playing with the sergeant. Didn't you hear everything? I told Mr. Williamson about the eviction and he didn’t budge. He has some serious issues, more than what Prozac can handle, and we don’t have any records on him. There’s something odd about that. This one’s more than skin deep. We have to take him in and see where it goes. Besides, we have no other choice, the psych ward’s full. We can’t just let him go out of here like he is.”<br />
Johnson looked at Mark through the mirror. “So we really have no records of him, at all?”<br />
“No police records, no medical files, nothing, all the more reason we have to take him. He’s practically a ghost. Do you have any idea what they would do to him, what they would put him through? It’s enough to push anybody over the edge, and he’s already there, he doesn’t need another shove.”<br />
Mark pulled himself up from the chair and walked over to the mirror. He stared at Johnson, then Solomon.<br />
“A ghost with a burning death wish. Look at those eyes, you can see there isn’t much he cares about. It’s like he’s looking straight at us.” Johnson moved his hand and Mark tracked it with his eyes. The psychiatrist stepped back. “How the hell can he see us?” <br />
Solomon shrugged. “Whatever. Keep yourself occupied with that, I’m going to talk to my friend the sergeant and arrange everything.”<br />
“I’ll go talk to him," Johnson said, then smirked. "I can stand him, at least."<br />
“No, it’s okay, his behavior entertains me. It’s so simple and predictable. Annoying, but amusing nonetheless.”<br />
“Well, have fun.” Johnson turned back to the mirror. “I swear though, he’s looking right at me.”<br />
_______________________________________________________________<br />
Robert L. Bacon<br />
<a href="http://www.theperfectwrite.com/">theperfectwrite.com</a><br />
For authors, The Perfect Write® is now providing<br />
<b>FREE QUERY LETTER REVIEW AND ANALYSIS</b>.<br />
<br />
Post your query to <a href="mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com">mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com</a>(no attachments) and visit the <a href="http://www.theperfectwrite.com/sample-letters/">Sample Letters Page </a>for examples of successful query letters.<br />
<br />
The Perfect Write® offers comprehensive editing services, from manuscript critiques to complete revisions, including line-editing, along with query letter design and composition. For pricing, send your project requirements to <a href="mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com">mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com</a><br />
<br />
For business applications, The Perfect Write® also offers advanced services, from designing sophisticated sell sheets to crafting investor-appealing business plans for start-up enterprises. For a customized quote, please send your detailed project requirements to <a href="mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com">mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com</a>The Perfect Write®http://www.blogger.com/profile/15911456172776383647noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5113765841272949669.post-43207513697850199672011-06-27T12:06:00.006-04:002011-06-27T12:21:17.735-04:00Virgin Territory Opening Chapter by Buck B. Chapter 1<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">Memorial Day weekend, traditionally the start of a summer filled with beach parties, scuba diving, and Keys vacations for Florida folks. Fewer tourists, lower prices, slower pace. Good times… if you’re lucky enough not to get stuck with an investigation that darkens your soul and wrecks your life. I wasn’t lucky, not even close.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="color: black;">Flies buzzed and flitted over her naked body lying face up by the picnic table. A line of ants marched across her torso, skin dappled by early morning sun penetrating the leafy canopy. A faint smell of necrosis assaulted my nostrils. Then an irrational feeling of failure engulfed me, draining my soul as the death of a young woman always did, but stronger than usual, maybe the strongest ever.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">“Is this her, Luke?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">She wasn’t the smuggler’s girlfriend I’d been trying to find, but there was something about her… something familiar. I glanced at OC and said what I was sure he already knew, “This isn’t the girl I’m looking for.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">Though death had slackened her face, she was still beautiful. I couldn’t pinpoint what was familiar. Around twenty years old, long blonde hair, glazed-over blue eyes, medium height, good body, not much makeup, pale lipstick, clear fingernail and toenail polish. A black beetle crawled over blonde pubic hair trimmed short and shaved into a small triangle.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">Flawless, except for a bullet hole under her left breast, but not much blood. The bullet must have wiped out her heart instantly. What a fucking waste. I failed her. The world failed her.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">“Is this how she was found?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">OC shook his head. “White panties pulled down to her knees and red sandals on her feet. A red top and bra and a white skirt were next to her body. Harlan bagged all of it. That was the only evidence besides the shell casing. No tire prints or footprints in this sand and rock.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">I was glad the panties were gone. Somehow that intimate garment would have made her seem even more violated than her total nakedness. I squatted and touched her left shoulder… flesh cold, so different from the warmth she radiated just hours earlier. My feeling of failing her deepened.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">I looked up at OC. “What’d the medical examiner say about time of death?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">“Between ten and midnight, maybe as late as one this morning.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">No blood around her. I lifted her shoulder. Flies swarmed off. No blood on the ground underneath her. “Exit wound?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">“No exit wound. Doc rolled her far enough to see her back. And no sign of sexual assault.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">I stood but a translucent image of me touching her shoulder remained. I shook my head to clear the illusion and said, “Obviously shot while undressing. Gunpowder stippling on her chest. The killer wasn’t far from her.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">“The casing’s a .380. With that stippling pattern Harlan thinks it was about two feet. He’s going to check his charts.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">I leaned forward and studied her face, trying to visualize her alive. “Any idea of who she is?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">“Not yet.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">A second beetle caught my attention and the flies were bringing in reinforcements. Masking the emotions the dead girl had churned up, I said, “Might as well let the meat wagon take her while there’s something left to autopsy.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">OC turned and waved his arm. A deputy moved the crime scene tape blocking the park entrance and the ambulance rolled in. We were silent while the paramedics put the body on a gurney, loaded it, and closed the doors. After the ambulance started back toward the highway, we walked in the same direction.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">“The ME finished up a few minutes before you got here,” OC said, “but I wouldn’t let them haul the body till you saw it.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">“Thanks, we don’t usually get called in until the body’s been six feet under long enough to be a fossil and the case is colder than a penguin’s ass.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">I stopped and looked around. Tall water oaks shaded River Bluff Park. Calling a strip of land on the Persimmon River with one picnic table a park was a stretch. A moonlit night about six years ago with a woman who worked for the Treasure County Sheriff’s Department entered my mind. That pleasurable memory of the park was quickly ruined by the dead girl’s glazed-over blue eyes fading in. I blinked them away.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">“Really appreciate you comin’, Luke, swamped as you always are.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">Although concentration lines and thinning gray hair had always made OC appear older than his years, my good friend had aged more than he should have in what? Six months? Six months since I’d seen OC. Hard to believe. A hell of a way to get together.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">“When,” I said, “did the Florida Department of Law Enforcement ever turn down your request? I’m damn sure I haven’t personally because I’d still be hearing about it.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">“This is different. You don’t work this area anymore and could’ve gotten out of it. But it’s a bad situation and I’ve seen you figure out what happened before anybody else even realized a crime had been committed.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">I held up a hand as though stopping traffic. “You don’t have to lay it on so thick. I’m already here. Did you really think this girl was the one I’ve been looking for, or was that a con job for Tallahassee’s benefit?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">We ducked under the crime scene tape, walked past two sheriff’s department marked units, and crossed River Road where our cars were parked on the shoulder.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">“Both,” OC said. “She looked enough like the girl in the photo that I couldn’t positively say it wasn’t her. And I knew your Fort Pierce office couldn’t help much what with the vacancies and some major cases they’re involved in, but most of all, I need you on this.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">OC looked at his watch. “Roughly two hours ago, which was about fifteen minutes before I called you, Harlan had just finished the other crime scene. He got the call to come here and found the same caliber shell casing. With the bodies only bein’ about two miles apart, the homicides could be connected, and the girl maybe bein’ the one you’re interested in, I figured it was an FDLE case.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">“The part about possibly being the girl I’m looking for was a masterstroke. Tallahassee didn’t hesitate about me coming up here. What’s the story on the other victim?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">“Alvin Wayne Reynolds, called Big Al. His body was found inside his house in Persimmon Estates. You know where that is, don’t you?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">I nodded. I knew the place. I’d made an arrest there six years ago. If I’d gone straight on Bridge Road instead of turning toward the park, I’d have come to it about a mile past the bridge.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">A strident electronic tone blared out of OC’s cell phone. He pulled it off his belt. “Sheriff Lofton.” He listened but didn’t speak.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">Thinking about Persimmon Estates, I looked west down River Road toward Bridge Road, the area as rural as when I’d first driven into Treasure County eight years ago as a rookie agent. Back then, 606 east from I-95 to Treasure Beach was rural too, with only a mom-and-pop gas station and a small local airport along that five mile stretch. I could cruise at a hundred plus and only have an occasional wayward cow to worry about.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">This morning after driving past big gas stations and fast food joints crammed around the interchange, I almost rear-ended an idiot stopped in the road gawking at decorated conch shells and coconuts in front of a souvenir shop. Then before turning north, I got stuck behind a truck creeping through a construction zone.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">Well, what the hell did I expect in a coastal county between West Palm Beach and Orlando in the budding twenty-first century? Fortunately, the zero-lot-line housing and strip malls sprouting in pastures and citrus groves soon petered out on Bridge Road. By the time I reached River Road, the terrain looked about the same as ever. The closer I got to the park, the more I realized it wasn’t overdevelopment aggravating me. It was knowing I was about to investigate the death of a young woman.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">I took a deep breath of clean country air and tried to detach myself from the dead blonde. Some Memorial Day weekend, and it was only Saturday.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">OC finally spoke into his cell phone. “Stevenson Community? Be right there.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">He disconnected. OC’s eyes were narrowed and his mouth was set in a hard line. “A three-year-old girl just died at the hospital. Parents brought her in a half hour ago, said she’d fallen into an abandoned well. The doc’s not buying it.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">I tried to talk but something had me by the throat. A faceless toddler under bright hospital lights taking her last breath filled my mind. A child, the only thing that hit me as hard as a young woman, maybe harder. Both, back to back. My neck spasmed. Bile in my throat.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">OC blew out his breath. “All my investigators and six special-assignment deputies are working Big Al and this one. I know I got you up here for these cases, but I don’t have anybody to handle the little girl, except you and me.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">I forced out gravelly words. “Meet you at the hospital." ____________________________________________________________ </div>For authors, The Perfect Write® is now providing<br />
<b>FREE QUERY LETTER REVIEW AND ANALYSIS</b>.<br />
<br />
Post your query to <a href="mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com">mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com</a>(no attachments) and visit the <a href="http://www.theperfectwrite.com/sample-letters/">Sample Letters Page </a>for examples of successful query letters.<br />
<br />
The Perfect Write® offers comprehensive editing services, from manuscript critiques to complete revisions, including line-editing, along with query letter design and composition. For pricing, send your project requirements to <a href="mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com">mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com</a><br />
<br />
For business applications, The Perfect Write® also offers advanced services, from designing sophisticated sell sheets to crafting investor-appealing business plans for start-up enterprises. For a customized quote, please send your detailed project requirements to <a href="mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com">mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com</a>The Perfect Write®http://www.blogger.com/profile/15911456172776383647noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5113765841272949669.post-33892034610395596312011-06-12T15:34:00.014-04:002011-06-12T15:56:53.273-04:00"A New Beginning" by Mike H. Narrative Opening<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> Prologue</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> The clouds hung full, bunched like ripe grapes in the sky. The air was stagnant, the humidity high, and the smell of approaching rain unmistakable. These were the precursors of Tropical Storm Beatrice, which was disrupting the normal currents and trade winds. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> For two days the humidity had been building until it was now unbearable. Even with all the windows open, no member of the O’Rourke family was able to sleep soundly. Mary found it especially hard, since she was pregnant with her fourth child and it was due at any time. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Another day dawned, and even though the clouds appeared thicker on this morning as they blocked the sun, there was no relief—the temperature in the 80s before noon and a humidity near 100 percent.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> At 1:40 p.m. both waters broke and chaos started. Beatrice lashed the island with intense rains while Mary prepared for the new birth. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> The family was startled three hours later by a bolt of lightning that fried the landscape just outside their ranch-style home. A long rumble and a crash of thunder followed to drown out the woman’s cries of pain. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> Beatrice continued to pummel the island. Howling winds created horizontal sheets of rain. Eerily, thunder and lightning would arrive just in time to announce another contraction and obscure Mary’s latest wail. On it went, an opera playing<br />
out over many hours, Beatrice roaring across the island in a rhythm reminiscent of Wagner’s Ring cycle. Finally, it was over, and a different cry filled the room. At 10:35 p.m., as John O'Rourke held his new son, the skies cleared to reveal the constellation Capricorn rising on the horizon. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> The child was named Beetle Makena Bailey O’Rourke, born August 4, 1953, on the island of Maui, Hawaii, on the north slope of Haleakala Mountain, in an area later known as Paia. </span></div><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span> Chapter 1<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span><br />
<div class="Body" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: .75in 438.3pt;"></div><div class="Body" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: .75in 438.3pt;"><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> June 14, 1957, began with an atmospheric cover that obscured any light from the sky. Dressed all in black, and with grease on his face, an intruder watched the headquarters of Fortunes United Building America’s Resources, acronym FUBAR, from his hiding place in the trees. He saw the lights go out. Then he observed personnel leaving The Organization’s building. He waited. At 3 a.m., he observed a guard walk from the headquarters to sweep the grounds. He knew from previous surveillance that there were two guards, and the other was likely still inside in the control room. </span></div><div class="Body" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: .75in 438.3pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> In the northeast corner of the premises, a dart felled the first guard at 3:07 a.m. The second guard came out to check on his partner and was knocked out at 3:27, less than two feet from where the first guard lay. The intruder entered the building. Wherever he went, he upturned bookshelves and kicked over wastebaskets. </span></div><div class="Body" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: .75in 438.3pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> In the secretary’s room next to the boardroom he found copious notes, many handwritten from industry and government leaders, detailing changes that would be coming during the next six months. It riled him that these men were circumventing the will of the people to line their own pockets. He knew very well the work of The Organization and its elites, and how they subverted people and the legitimacy and sovereignty of the government. In disgust, he scattered the papers.</span></div><div class="Body" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: .75in 438.3pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> On one wall he noticed a large map of the world stuck with pins of many colors. Areas of known conflict were identified by yellow pins. He perused the map and made a mental note of the orange and red pins and their locations. He recognized the orange pins as denoting locations of “natural” disasters. The few red ones had no immediate significance for him, but he noted that one red pin was placed in Peru, another in Italy, a third in Greece, a fourth in Egypt, and a fifth in London. </span></div><div class="Body" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: .75in 438.3pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> He entered the personnel offices, picked the file cabinet’s lock, and with the aid of his flashlight located six hanging files. After securing these in the backpack he was wearing, he slammed the cabinet door shut. This would be a meticulously studied crime scene. No need to draw attention to one file cabinet, so he tossed the rest of the office before he set off. In the computer room, he lit a match and threw it onto the punch cards before leaving the building. It was 3:37 a.m.. He smiled. Ten minutes, no more, no less. </span></div><div class="Body" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: .75in 438.3pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> Returning to his perch, he watched quietly as the sedative wore off and the guards revived. The guards awoke in time to see flames inside the building and fire trucks approaching. An hour later, the intruder left.</span></div><div class="Body" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: .75in 438.3pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> The next morning, the intruder placed the files in a safe deposit box.</span></div><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><br clear="all" style="page-break-before: always;" /> </span> <br />
<div class="Body" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: .75in 438.3pt;"> <span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> Chapter 2</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> Beetle began to put his puzzlement into words. “What’s going on?” he wondered aloud. “Why can I see colors that show me how people are feeling? Where is this coming from? What does it mean?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">His family was leaving<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>Green’s Grocer where his mother had bought food<br />
and other supplies. It was a bright, sunny day, and the temperature was already into the 80s. As they left the grocery and crossed Dairy Street, Beetle looked at the various people. Every time he focused on a person, a color and emotion pushed into his mind. He was two days past his fifth birthday.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> “Mama, what color is that lady over there?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> “Color is not important," Mary said, observing an ocean of Hawaiian brown and tan. "No one’s different from anyone else.” </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> He turned to his older sister, Angela, and asked her, “Do you get their feelings when people walk past you? Do you see people in different colors, like that blue woman over there?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> Angela gave him a quizzical look. “There is no blue woman over there. Nobody has blue skin, Beetle. And no, I don’t feel emotions when people pass by.<br />
I don’t notice anything special about them at all.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> They entered a clothing store. Mary spent a few minutes sifting through outfits before the family noticed a man approaching. It was the store’s salesclerk, but what Beetle saw was red, and what he experienced was hatred and rage. He ran to his mother, wrapped his arms tightly around her leg, and shivered in fear. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> Mary tried to move but was unsuccessful with her youngest holding firm to her leg. “Angela, come get your brother,” she implored.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> Angela pried Beetle from his mother’s leg. His sister held him close, asking, “What’s wrong, Beetle? What frightened you?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> He cowered in Angela’s arms, and only after she took him outside did he speak. “That man came toward me, and I could feel he was red and angry and hateful. He scared me.” </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> Angela said, “Nobody sees into other people like that, Beetle. It’s your imagination. Just relax and it will pass.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> It didn’t, though. It just got stronger. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> Mary brought everyone else outside after she finished with the clerk, remarking about him, “That young man was very rude. He must be having a hard day.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> Beetle turned away from his sister and looked at his mother. “Mama, that boy over there is all black. What’s wrong with him?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> Mary glanced around, but couldn’t see the boy he was talking about. There were no black people on the street. She did, however, see the boy he was referring to.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> As they watched, the boy picked up his walk to a faster gait. Then, passing by an older woman, he reached out and grasped her purse by the strap and pulled hard. Beetle saw the strap break and the boy run away with the purse in his grip, leaving the woman to fall.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> One of Beetle’s older brothers spotted the boy just as the purse came free. He lit out after him. It required sprinting three blocks, but the purse-snatcher was finally caught and the handbag returned to the woman, who was being attended to by other passersby. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> Angela stared at Beetle and asked, “How did you do that, brother? How did you see that boy was bad?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> Beetle didn't know but shrugged and said, "He was all black, just like the night."</span></div><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;"> _______________________________________________________ </span><br />
<br />
Robert L. Bacon<br />
<a href="http://www.theperfectwrite.com/">theperfectwrite.com</a><br />
<br />
For authors, The Perfect Write® is now providing<br />
<b>FREE QUERY LETTER REVIEW AND ANALYSIS</b>.<br />
<br />
Post your query to <a href="mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com">mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com</a> (no attachments) and visit<br />
the <a href="http://www.theperfectwrite.com/sample-letters/">Sample Letters Page </a>for examples of successful query letters.<br />
<br />
The Perfect Write® offers comprehensive editing services, from manuscript<br />
critiques to complete revisions, including line-editing, along with query letter<br />
design and composition. For pricing, send your project requirements to <a href="mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com">mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com</a><br />
<br />
For business applications, The Perfect Write® also offers advanced services, from designing sophisticated sell sheets to crafting investor-appealing business plans for start-up enterprises. For a customized quote, please send your detailed project requirements to <a href="mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com">mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com</a>The Perfect Write®http://www.blogger.com/profile/15911456172776383647noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5113765841272949669.post-46454812829167631872011-05-30T14:26:00.018-04:002011-06-01T11:23:05.103-04:00"The Other Side of Happy" Opening-Chapter Critique By Robert L. Bacon <span style="font-size: large;">Chapter 1</span><br />
<br />
Carleigh closed the door behind her and stopped mid-stride when she recognized the heavy footsteps. Her body tensed, then began to tremble. The brassy taste of fear filled her mouth. She slid her backpack around, pressed it protectively against her stomach, and became statue-still.<br />
Appearing to concentrate on the bare floor in front of him, a man with a weathered complexion and muttonchops tramped down the hallway. His right hand clutched a Budweiser, left hand a cigarette.<br />
Dean.<br />
She took a step backward. A floorboard creaked. She sucked in a sharp breath. <br />
Dean's head snapped up and he slowly arched one eyebrow. “Well, now.”<br />
Carleigh squeezed her backpack and focused her eyes on the wall behind him.<br />
Dean inhaled a long drag from his cigarette and came to within a foot of where she stood. “Didn’t hear you come in, precious.” <br />
The stench of nicotine and alcohol assaulted her nostrils. But she held her position, feet and hands frozen in place.<br />
Dean tucked the Marlboro between his lips, reached out a calloused finger, and stroked the side of her face. “Where you been?”<br />
Recoiling from his touch, she jumped sideways. Hatred lurked behind his eyes, as obvious to Carleigh as his gold-capped teeth. He pulled back his finger. “That how it’s gonna be?” He took another deep drag and drained his beer. “Don’t think so.” He held up the can and crushed it. “Listen here, young lady, we ain’t finished. Not by a long shot.” <br />
Carleigh flinched, but kept her gaze steady. She thought about running but knew<br />
it would be futile. Even inebriated, he’d catch up with her. She’d learned that the last time he came home wasted. A shudder ran down her spine. She lowered her gaze to a spot on the floor. <br />
Dean exhaled a cloud of smoke in her face. With a snicker, he chucked the beer can across the room.<br />
Carleigh looked up and saw him heading toward the door. Good riddance.<br />
But before he reached the end of the hall, he paused and turned to her. Carleigh could hear her heart pounding. He folded his arms across his chest and shot her a razor-sharp look. “You tell your momma, I’ll be back. Tell her we got…unsettled business.” <br />
Carleigh's throat muscles constricted. Business, no doubt, meant money or drugs. Regardless, Dean certainly would return. She tried to swallow, but her mouth was too dry, the room too warm. <br />
Two men appeared at the door. Muscular. Bullnecked. Matching Neanderthal brows. “That everything?” one of the men asked. <br />
Dean motioned toward the kitchen with his thumb. “Two more. Rest is garbage.” He let out a soft laugh. “Let ’em have it.” <br />
Carleigh looked down and dug her fingernails into her palms. After everything Dean had done, did he have to shame them as well?<br />
The men went into the kitchen, and each came out carrying a large cardboard box. As they walked through the foyer, she heard them mutter something about her and share garbled laughs. From the corner of her eye she caught them gawking at her breasts, just like Dean always did. She hunched her shoulders, moved her backpack to cover her upper body, and kept quiet. Experience had taught her the less she said to adults, the better. <br />
Dean finished his cigarette, flicked it onto the floor, and crushed it beneath his heel. While it smoldered he pulled out another smoke and popped it between his lips. Outside, a loud car horn honked repeatedly. He pushed back his sleeve and checked his watch. “Time to go.” <br />
But instead of leaving, he walked back to Carleigh in what to her were agonizingly slow steps. When he was inches away, he leaned down and whispered, “Don’t forget what I told you.” He pressed his finger against her cheek and ran it alongside her mouth. <br />
Carleigh remained still as Dean moved his ragged fingernail across her neck, her collarbone, then lower. He was so close, she saw the gray roots in his beard. His hand paused in the valley between her breasts. She felt his breath hot on her shoulder. Her legs quivered but she willed herself to remain steady, her heart not to beat as it slammed in her chest, her diaphragm not to expand as her lungs filled with air, her hands not to shake. She closed her eyes and forced down the panic rising from her abdomen.<br />
Don’t move. Don’t even breathe.<br />
She felt him pull away. <br />
“Remember what I said,” he snarled as his boots slapped the linoleum on the foyer floor. “Tell your momma I’ll be back.”<br />
___________________________________________________________<br />
<br />
Robert L. Bacon<br />
<a href="http://www.theperfectwrite.com/">theperfectwrite.com</a><br />
<br />
For authors, The Perfect Write® is now providing<br />
<b>FREE QUERY LETTER REVIEW AND ANALYSIS</b>.<br />
Post your query to <a href="mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com">mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com</a> (no attachments) <br />
and visit the <a href="http://www.theperfectwrite.com/sample-letters/">Sample Letters Page </a>for examples of successful query letters.<br />
<br />
The Perfect Write® offers comprehensive editing services, from manuscript critiques to complete revisions, including line-editing, along with query letter design and composition. For pricing, send your project requirements to <a href="mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com">mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com</a>.<br />
<br />
For business applications, The Perfect Write® also offers advanced services, from designing sophisticated sell sheets to crafting investor-appealing business plans for start-up enterprises. For a customized quote, please send your detailed project requirements to <a href="mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com">mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com</a>The Perfect Write®http://www.blogger.com/profile/15911456172776383647noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5113765841272949669.post-70964832296071340972011-05-16T16:57:00.018-04:002011-05-18T12:55:47.650-04:00BARRY FLYNN Opening-Chapter Critique By Robert L. BaconBarry Flynn Opening-Chapter Critique<br />
by Robert L. Bacon<br />
April 26, 2011<br />
<br />
<br />
Hello Sterling,<br />
<br />
If every opening chapter I received was in the condition of the material you sent me,<br />
I wouldn't have a job. (You'll notice I wrote "was" and not "were" as the verb in this subjunctive clause, since what I'm stating is unassailable, ha ha). You're obviously an accomplished writer, and very much so, I might add. <br />
<br />
Of course it's impossible to know the strength of a plot by an opening chapter, and literary fiction has a great deal more leeway than many other genres with respect<br />
to pacing necessities, especially when the writer does a superb job of presenting a character with inherently redemptive qualities, such as how Barry came across to<br />
me. (You old enabler, you.) So I can't offer anything remotely negative about your narrative, except to state that I'd like to have had something more happen with the<br />
trio on the beach other than Barry wondering if he could latch a ride off them. And<br />
I guess there are a few commas I might delete, but this is tomato/tomato stuff and<br />
not even worth throwing spit at.<br />
<br />
I'm curious what you've done with this story. Did you already have it published and just wanted to test me, ha ha? Or are you currently querying it? If you are looking for an agent, I might have one or two in mind, but I don't want to get the cart in front of horse if you've got a game plan firmly in place. Regardless, I want to wish you the very best of luck with your story. You're a dandy writer.<br />
<br />
Regards,<br />
<br />
Robert L. (Rob) Bacon, Founder<br />
The Perfect Write®<br />
<br />
Barry Flynn <br />
<br />
PART ONE<br />
CHAPTER ONE<br />
<br />
Although he’d have sworn he was earning a living, Barry Flynn was out stealing again. Crabs this time, since the eel pots were empty. Blue points all of them, beauties, the color the sky might have chosen if given a choice. But of course it had no choice, and Barry would have said he hadn’t one either. He’d have said many such things, mostly bullshit, with the truth sprinkled here and there. Now though he said nothing, unable to hear himself with the motor so loud. It hung beside him on his garvey’s stern as if trying to climb in, growling an angry waah! as the boat swerved round the river’s<br />
bend. His flat-bottomed girl, that’s what Barry called his garvey. Flat-chested too, he sometimes added. For once he wasn’t lying. The boat hadn’t a girlish curve anywhere, but was built like a box—a shallow box skidding from the bend toward a floating white jug. <br />
<br />
Despite the tide rushing in, the jug didn’t move. It pointed down river, toward the brown bay, cutting a V in the current. Coming near, Barry twisted the throttle and the waah! subsided. The garvey’s bow lowered, and he scratched his bearded face. It was a young face, but weathered. Tired, you might say. Actually, Barry and his boat looked in about the same condition. As the boat needed paint and showed scrapes and gouges, Barry’s clothes needed mending and his hands and arms showed scars. This Flynn and his garvey, it seemed, were of the same tough Jersey cedar, but in need of an overhaul.<br />
<br />
After drifting to the jug, the motor huff-huffing, Barry stood and reached out with his boat hook, snagging the rope tied to the jug’s handle. He tugged upward and the jug arose dripping, half white, half black with algae. For a moment he stared, as if he hadn’t noticed its two-faced appearance before. He seemed about to say something, but instead dropped the jug to the floorboards and began hauling up the rope. Soon a rusty trap broke the surface. <br />
<br />
“Morning, friends,” he said, swinging the trap onto the gunnel. Barry smiled down<br />
at the crabs clinging inside to the wire. “Interrupt something?” Sometimes he hated barging in on them, especially when they were eating. These crabs appeared in deep communion, and ignored him. <br />
<br />
“Be that way,” Barry snorted. He heaved his anchor over the bow, yanked the line to set the flukes, then shut off the motor. “Be whatever you want,” he said, opening a red cooler near the stern. “’Cause soon you’ll be sautéed.” He snatched up a beer can and popped the tab. The can hissed, and dripping foam on the crabs he took a long drink. Sighing, he took a longer drink, then crushed the can and tossed it in the water. It began floating upriver.<br />
<br />
Barry brought out two more cans, opened them, and flopped back in the stern with<br />
a can in each hand, sipping from one then the other. He raised the brim of his greasy cap, exhaled contentedly and looked around. The Egg Harbor River was wider here near the last bend before emptying into the bay. No houses bordered the bank; just marsh, then trees. The sky was as grey as the paint on his boat, and across it, far ahead, rising from a single pale stack, stretched the plume from the power plant. It veered to the north hard and white, then spread and was gone. <br />
<br />
“Gone where?” Barry asked. Lips pursed, he took a right-hand sip of beer. The sip continued and he felt its icy flow spread like the plume. “Everywhere!” he belched, and tossed the can. <br />
<br />
Smiling, he turned on his portable radio. A favorite song was playing, black girls shouting, a wild saxophone, and Barry sucked down his left-hand beer and flung the can over his shoulder. From inside the trap a crab stared up at him, its mouthparts working silently. <br />
<br />
“Don’t wait so long,” Barry sang. He stood and opened the trap. “Got to have it,” he whined, pumping his hips. The music quickened and Barry reached in and grabbed the crab. “Let’s dance!” <br />
<br />
Holding the crab by the points of its shell, he rocked round the boat to the music. The crab tapped its claws as if keeping time. “Can you hully gully?” Barry cried, shuffling his feet, wagging his heels in and out. He scrunched his bearded face, moaning “ooh mama yeah.” Then he lowered the crab and hopped around the floorboards. The radio crackled and the black girls sang. The crab clicked its claws, the saxophone howled, and Barry’s bottom swung like a sack full of clams . . . against the trap, knocking it off the gunnel.<br />
<br />
“Cheeses!” he yelled, lunging for the jug as the crab pinched his finger. “Cheeses Christ!” Flicking his hand he flung the crab upward, then watched it spin as it climbed through the air. At the top of the arc it hung for an instant as if grabbing hold, reaching out with its claws like a crabby star. But immediately came its tumbling drop, its awkward splash. <br />
<br />
“Hully sea-gully,” Barry said, standing there holding the jug. The song stopped and he switched off the radio. He hauled up the trap and set it once more on the gunnel. All but three crabs had escaped. “Lucky bastards,” he muttered. Then he flipped the trap and shook it. The crabs fell into the river.<br />
<br />
“Go on—beat it,” he said. “Old Curt Madison won’t miss you.” <br />
<br />
After fastening the lid, Barry dropped the trap over the side. The jug leaped after it and flopped on the water. Only its white half showed again. Then Barry smiled toward the galvanized tub under the bow seat. “But you guys ain’t going nowheres.” He pulled out the tub and winked inside. Hundreds of blue crabs lay piled on one another—damp feathery crabs, bubbles at their mouths. He kicked the tub under the seat.<br />
<br />
Kneeling at the stern he yanked the cord and the motor started. Then he pulled up<br />
the anchor and the motor stopped—it idled, coughed and died. Barry swore loudly and threw out the anchor. He stomped back to the motor and squeezed the siphon ball on the gas line. The motor was fifteen years old, a ’60, so anything was possible. All the same, this wasn’t how he’d planned to spend his morning. “Don’t do this to me, you bastard.” He pulled the starter cord, nothing happened, and he punched the gas can, shouting, “I’m warning you,” and pulled the cord once more. The motor sputtered to life. “That’s better.” He brought in the anchor.<br />
<br />
Soon he was heading down river. Behind him the bleach jug bobbed. The motor now released an undeviating howl and Barry, grasping its steering arm, guided the garvey around the last bend. An egret watched one-eyed from the bank. With a cry Barry couldn’t hear, the tall bird lifted its white wings and swept itself into the air, its serpent neck curved and thin legs straight, and flew slowly across the marsh. Then Barry surged out of the bend and could see, distant to starboard, the massive blue power plant, all straight lines and corners, with at its center the tall stack, and the white plume rising from the stack before catching the breeze across the bay. Beneath the plume stretched a line of grey electric towers, and beyond them, where the bay narrowed before spreading again, two shadowed bridges. Each familiar image aligned snugly<br />
in his mind, and he was heading for the towers, cruising down the center of the bay where it was wide and deep, no longer a river, telling himself he was almost home, when the engine died again. First it made a puffing noise, “unh uh,” as if saying no. <br />
<br />
Suddenly the bay was quiet, with only the sound of water lapping the hull. Barry sat saying nothing. He sniffed, seeking the scent of gasoline, but instead smelled the salt<br />
of the ocean filling the bay. The tide, he knew, would be against him for hours. With<br />
a groan he looked out over the water, toward the electric towers. He thought about crabs crawling deep beneath them, immersed in their concerns. He thought about Curt Madison’s crabs, and wondered briefly if it was wrong to steal them. Of course, he didn’t exactly steal them, or clams either, because he just took a few when needed. But he wondered if taking them was related to his engine not starting, or to other things for him not starting. “That’s stupid,” he said. “Crabs and such belong to none but theirselves.” That settled, he brought out the oars.<br />
<br />
Apart from the slowness, there was one big problem with rowing a boat. It was something Barry had never gotten used to, although his father, Big Barry, when Barry was young, made him row boats in the rain, the cold and the heat, on the theory that a bayman should be able to extricate himself, under his own power, from any situation. “The predicaments of life,” Big Barry had said, “will sneak up and grab your posterior, and your posterior had best be prepared.”<br />
<br />
So now a fly in the fuel line, or maybe a fouled plug had stopped Barry’s outboard, sneaked up on his posterior, and Barry was ready, could row to Atlantic City if he<br />
had to, but he would have preferred to face forward. That was the problem—the backwardness of rowing, not seeing where he was going. Backward, maybe nothing could sneak up on you, because you were already looking back, but you could sneak yourself into a predicament just the same.<br />
<br />
He rowed. Seated on the red cooler, with the outboard tilted up and one foot braced against the stern seat he rowed the wide cedar boat toward the power lines, toward the reach between the fourth and fifth tower . . . and farther north toward Patcong Creek where he would turn and keep rowing until he reached the boat yard. That was miles, with the tide coming in and the wind picking up. Everything was pushing against him and he felt the muscles in his back and his breath in his throat. It made him thirsty. So he opened another beer, and rowed and drank, while the waves hit the bow with a smack, smack—little shoves. The wind whistled. Then he heard something and turned to see under the power lines a cabin cruiser heading fast in his direction. “Holy shit,” he whispered, spotting the insignia of the marine police. “The bastards wanta help me.” He couldn’t allow that. Yanking in the oars he stood and waved the police away. But they came near. <br />
<br />
“You okay?” a skinny officer shouted, standing by the transom as the boat slowed. Barry knew him—Sergeant Brochard. <br />
<br />
“Getting my exercise!” Barry shouted back. “Fitness first, I always say!” <br />
<br />
“Need a tow?” Brochard yelled. <br />
<br />
Barry with a smile gazed down at his feet. “Nah—I got all ten. You go chase some robbers.” <br />
<br />
Something about the joke made Brochard grimace. “Right,” he said. He gave a nod to the helmsman and the boat sped away. <br />
<br />
“And while you’re at it, fuck yourselves!” Barry called after them, snapping a jaunty salute. <br />
<br />
He sat down and picked up his beer. Taking a long drink, he felt the tension drain<br />
away. That had been close. But those crabs in the tub weren’t branded like cows,<br />
he reminded himself. “Ain’t no robbers out here, or cattle rustlers neither.” He was guiltless—Barry the Blameless, as innocent as the day he was born—and with that certainty he gazed toward the distant towers. The sun was appearing now, burning away the overcast and lighting up the water. The bay sparkled around him, and he lowered the brim of his cap as something caught his eye. Far off on the left bank, a short beach stretched in front of a big brown house. A small white house sat nearby. Three figures were leaving the brown house. They ran to the beach and seemed to jump. They merged, then separated again.<br />
<br />
Barry watched them awhile. He finished his beer and lobbed the can toward them, then began rowing once more. He watched them as he rowed. He had seen people<br />
on that beach before but ignored them. Now they seemed to want his attention, and<br />
the sun was hotter, and the beach was closer than the boat yard. He turned his garvey and headed for the beach. Maybe someone would give him a lift to Vanderbilt’s.<br />
_______________________________________________________<br />
Robert L. Bacon<br />
<a href="http://www.theperfectwrite.com/">theperfectwrite.com</a><br />
<p>For authors, The Perfect Write® is now providing<br />
<strong>FREE QUERY LETTER REVIEW AND ANALYSIS</strong>.<br />
<p>Post your query to <a href="mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com">mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com</a>(no attachments) and visit the <a href="http://www.theperfectwrite.com/sample-letters/">Sample Letters Page </a>for examples of successful query letters.<br />
<p>The Perfect Write® offers comprehensive editing services, from manuscript critiques to complete revisions, including line-editing, along with query letter design and composition. For pricing, send your project requirements to <a href="mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com">mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com</a><br />
<p>For business applications, The Perfect Write® also offers advanced services, from designing sophisticated sell sheets to crafting investor-appealing business plans for start-up enterprises. For a customized quote, please send your detailed project requirements to <a href="mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com">mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com</a>The Perfect Write®http://www.blogger.com/profile/15911456172776383647noreply@blogger.com0