Young's Blog, page 6
October 10, 2019
Welcome to the #RRBC October-Ween Block Party
Welcome to Rave Reviews Book Club's BOOK, BLOG & TRAILER BLOCK PARTY
From Grey to Pink
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Today, I Am Giving Away:
One (1) e-book copy of No Distance Between Us; a novella by Author Young
One (1) e-book copy of The Boy Who Wouldn���t Grow Up; a novella by Young
One (1) e-book copy of The Truth Will Set You Free; a novella by Young
# of Winners for this stop: 3
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I like to introduce you to my blog and autobiographical 5-book series:
A Harem Boy's Saga; a memoir by Young
Synopsis:
This provocative story spanning 4 decades, and 3 continents is about a boy who was sent to a very exclusive English boarding school in the 1960s where he was initiated into a clandestine society and then spirited away to serve in wealthy and elite Middle Eastern harems.
An Excerpt from
A Harem Boy's Saga - Book II - Unbridled; a memoir by Young
From Grey to Pink
���The summer of 2014 will be pure gray, 50 Shades of Grey. That was the big statement for that summer. But then we have 101 shades of Arabian pink, from ���Initiation��� Pink to ���Unbridled��� Pink. These are fashion statements for all seasons.���
Bernard Tristan Foong (aka Young)
1967
At Valentino Garavani, Rome, Italy
Early the next morning, Mario joined us for breakfast before two limousines drove us to 24 Via Gregoriana, Valentino Garavani���s atelier. A separate Rolls Royce ferried Gabrielli, Oscar, Devaj, and the three Arab males menswear shopping. Like at the Parisian couture Ateliers, our entourage was received with great enthusiasm as we proceeded to the third floor for Val���s haute fashion presentation. Instead of day dresses, the designer presented a mini evening and bridal wear collection for the Sekham ladies��� purview. After the private showing, the head venduse sat with the women and me, discussing the styles we selected to add, alter or take in to ensure that the designs were suitable for Mais��� wedding trousseau. Naira, Sabiya and I thought a soft vanilla pink would look fabulous on the bride���s skin tone, though the designer suggested a pastel sugar candy pink. Abu Dhabi being hot and sunny, Thabit���s wives advised a magenta color for one of the reception dresses, with which I agreed full-heartedly. After battering back and forth for several hours, a unanimous decision was reached; a blush bluish-pink gown and a magenta-colored reception dress were the order of the day while an ethereal snowflakes ivory pink for her wedding ensemble. Mais wanted an all-pink wedding, and that was what she got.
Zeba and Ula insisted that gold be incorporated into her ivory-colored wedding dress. As much as Mais wanted a pure white ensemble, she was outnumbered by the women���s votes. Personally, I agreed with the women that ivory and gold was a much better color choice for a gala wedding than brilliant white. Secretly, I was glad the women won the color vote of the day.
Mario, a friend of the designer and his business and life partner Giancarlo Giammetti, acted as our professional fashion consultant, while our accompanying cultural attach�� spoke Italian to the two venduses, who were servicing the ladies.
Seeing my curiosity to explore the atelier, the Count pulled me aside and said, ���I know you are interested to see the workroom, right?���
���That would be nice. I like to learn about the design and manufacturing aspect of high fashion.���
Overhearing my dialogue with the Count, Signor Giammetti said with a strong Italian-English accent, ���Young man, the business of fashion is equally important. A great design talent requires an excellent business mind behind the company. Fashion, like all businesses, is teamwork. Just as we have gathered an excellent team of pattern makers, seamstresses, craftsmen, and women to complete an exquisite collection, we also have an excellent team of able staff in our various departments from marketing, promotion, and publicity to the hospitality service personnel; all these are crucial in order for our enterprise to run smoothly.���
Mario and Giancarlo���s conversation switched from Italian to English as we conversed. The fashion photographer asked, ���Possono Giovani hanno un tour del l���atelier? Egli �� affascinato da vedere come abiti sono abiti haute couture sono costruiti (Can Young have a tour of the premise? He is fascinated to see how haute couture gowns are constructed)?���
���I���ll be glad to show the young man. Come with me while they (he indicated Valentino, the attach�� and the women) are busy discussing styles and models to order.���
Andy, Mario, and I followed Valentino���s business partner to the workshop. Similar to the Parisian ateliers, I was able to catch a glimpse of the workings of an haute couture sample room, affirming my determination to be a fashion designer after graduating from boarding school.
Little did I realize while we were touring the premise, Sabiya was secretly gathering fashion information for her own betrothal to none other than Gabrielli, my professor...
...By the end of the day, I had more than enough shades of pink coming in and out of my senses. I was happy to be back in the mundane world of white, beige, cream, gray and black.
The best fashion lesson I learned during my visit to the Italian couturiers was the geodesy of teamwork. Spick-and span the ateliers functioned because every team member performed his or her integral task with precision, professionalism, and love. As much as a designer makes a fashion company, without a robust team of artisans and craftspeople, good designs will be wasted with shoddy construction and disconsolate attention to details. Over the years, I had the good graces to learn from many grandmasters that great designs equate extraordinary teamwork.
Thank you for stopping by and don���t forget to share your thoughts and comments at the bottom of this post. Good luck on winning my giveaways! I���ll see you at the next stop of this awesome BLOCK PARTY!
WELCOME TO THE #RRBC 2019 OCTOBER-WEEN BLOCK PARTY!
September 13, 2019
Welcome to the "BOUND'ED BY CHAINS" Blog Tour! @FRStepnowski @4WillsPub #RRBC
Blog Tour Day 7
Title: ���Bounded by Chains��� Tour
About the Book:
BOUND; The Lost Romanticism and Eroticism of Gay Men. Allow yourself to give in to your deepest fantasies, desires, and sensual dreams, BOUND is a collection of poetic works exploring the world of eroticism, romanticism, and fantasies of gay men of all ages. Walkthrough the mind inspired by fantasies, the hopes for romance, the desire to be swept off ones��� feet, and the longing to be touched through this anthology filled with lost romance and passionate memories. Escape into a world that allows you to be one with your desires, feel the heightened sensations and passion through random rendezvous and engagements.
Poetry Excerpt from Bound: The Lost Romanticism and Eroticism of Gay Men:
These chains shall we break
I am shackled in my illusions of romance
Mistakenly identifying eroticism and sex
As true loves kiss
Lust versus love
The decisive embattlement of self-worth
Self-love
Virtue
What is this imaginary game I am playing?
What is my longing truly?
Sexual gratification?
Someone to embrace perhaps
In my dreams
I crave for a million years of feeling full
Full of passion
Full of affection
Am I fooling myself?
Did cherub���s arrow miss me?
Did the arrow���s flight of my exhilaration fly by and hit someone more unworthy than I?
Maybe I will never know
One Valentine���s Day changed my life
It was supposed to be a coffee date
I was left sideways
I was truly a skeptic
I just came out of a relationship that wounded me
Scarred me for life
And you walked into my existence
I am still broken
But you are here
I am winded in the possibility that my soulmate has found me
He has finally found me
After so many years of trials, self-loathing
He has found me
When I thought I was trapped in darkness?
There he is
Standing there
Protective
Unconditionally present
I am spellbound in the present
When my past continues to haunt me
Night terrors and demons tear me down in my sleep
I am chained to the pain, agony, and torture
Tortured beyond repair
I used to believe my heart was uninhabitable
Not able to accept the cosmic sensation that two energies bring together
I am a temple left in derelict circumstances
Hope begins to heal the broken parts that was my life,
I heal from inside
Not due the love of another man or human being
But love and light developing inside of me
The fragmented puzzle is now coming together
Whole
Unimpaired
Becoming healthier every day
and you are still hear
As I take this journey into enlightenment
You are here
The chain���s grasp begins to loosen
My wrists and ankles are beginning to feel freer
But I am still shackled
When I take thirty steps forward
I am pulled fifty steps back
Hypnotized
Puzzled
Fixated
Working the stages of grief from my neverland imagination
Working to a better life
So, I may face life and its mysteries head on without floundering
And one day I can be the husband of his dreams
Not for him
But for me
These shackles are breaking link by link, by link
What is this imaginary game I am playing?
What is my longing truly?
Sexual gratification?
The imaginary tale of boy meets boy can be a reality
I see it clearly now
Like a clear day past the point of forever
He stands before me every day
He lays next to me in bed and comforts me
Love endlessly everlasting
Never have I imagine the day would come
Mesmerized
Enchanted
Miraculous
These chains loosen
These chains shall we break
About the Author:
Forrest Robert Stepnowski is an advocate, a writer, a social worker, and a performance artist in the Pacific Northwest. He has been writing poetic works and prose for most of his life. He realized how important is to share his work with others who have dealt with similar pathways of self-hate, self-deprecation, and self-loathing in the hopes they find they are not alone, as well as help them realize they are not deviants, nor are they against ���human nature.��� They are part of a collective of misfit toys on an island where being different is beautiful. We all have a voice, and the world should hear it. Forrest is a proud member of Rave Reviews Book Club .
Social Media Links:
Website/Blog: https://www.forresttakesajourney.com/
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/forrestrobertstepnowski
Twitter: https://twitter.com/frstepnowski
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/forreststepnowski
Amazon Purchase Links:
Paperback
E-Book
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07S1MLFGD/ref=dp-kindle-redirect?_encoding=UTF8&btkr=1
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August 28, 2019
Introducing the "TIGERMAN ON TOUR" Blog Tour! @TigerManGuest @4WillsPub
Day 2
Colin Guest is an English author living in Istanbul, Turkey. He started to write after his retirement from traveling around the world as an expat. During this time he worked in fifteen countries spread through the Middle East, Far East & North Africa. Projects ranged from barrack accommodation in Algeria, to palaces for the Sultan of Brunei, who at the time, was the richest man in the world. Apart from having eight books published, with six made into audiobooks Colin also writes poetry. Several of his poems have finished in the top four in poetry contests, with one made into a film. He has had a number of articles published in online magazines, with a double-page spread published in a UK expat magazine. In conjunction with Voyage Media, based on his memoir Follow in the Tigerman���s Footsteps, Colin has written a pilot episode for what the company think could be suitable for a television series.
As an expat who worked in fifteen countries spread through the Middle, Far East, and North Africa, Colin Guest has lived a life most only dream. He started writing after his retirement and has had nine books published, with five made into Audiobooks.
Social media contacts
http://www.tigermanpress@gmail.com
http://www.colinguestauthor.com
http://www.turkmed.wordpress.com
http://www.twitter.com/Tigermanguest
http://www.facebook.com/tigerman55
http://www.pininterest.com/colinguest9
http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/9857414
http://www.linkedin.com/in/tigerman77
http://www.instagram.com/tigerman105
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To follow along with the rest of the tour, please visit the author's tour page on the 4WillsPublishing site. If you'd like to schedule your own blog tour and have your book promoted in similar grand fashion, please click HERE .
Thanks for supporting this author and his work!
August 25, 2019
Welcome to the "OPERATION IVY BELLS" Blog Tour! @RGWilliscroft @4WillsPub
OPERATION IVY BELLS: A MAC MCDOWELL MISSION
Robert G. Williscroft here. This is an updated version of my bestselling, semi-autobiographical Cold War Novel. Operation Ivy Bells is a first-person account of a team of saturation divers locking out of the nuclear submarine USS Halibut on the bottom of the Sea of Okhotsk. Fearlessly risking death, these dare-devil divers tapped Soviet underwater communication cables and retrieved Soviet spent missile parts from the seafloor. The intel they gathered tipped the scales to win the Cold War. This story is based upon real events���I led one of the teams depicted in this book.
Am I Mac McDowell? Some folks think so, but even though I based his character on my own experiences, there are many differences between us. I was an excellent submarine and diving officer, but Mac is more capable and smarter than I. I would welcome you to visit my website: https://robertwilliscroft.com/ to check out my background. Then compare the real me with Mac and let me know what you think.
A warm thank you to my host for sharing this blog.
Recognition for Operation Ivy Bells
Here���s what Tom Bowman, NPR Pentagon reporter, had to say about Operation Ivy Bells:
Robert Williscroft has produced quite a sea story, a colorful and enjoyable work that explains one of the little-known successes of the Cold War, with plenty of fascinating detail about submarine and diving operations.
Excerpt from Operation Ivy Bells
���Dive, Sonar,��� the phone talker sounded excited over the circuit. ���Something���s going on with the Whiskey. We think he���s getting ready to start his screws!���
I grabbed the mike. ���Red Diver, evacuate now! Evacuate now!��� I ordered, putting a bit of urgency into my voice.
���Dive, Red Diver, I���ve got a little problem,��� Ski said. ���It seems that I wrapped the antenna wire around a section of my umbilical. I can���t evacuate until I unwrap the wire and loosen my umbilical.���
This presented a real, immediate problem. If Sonar was correct, and the Whiskey was about to get underway, Ski was in real trouble, and we had no spare umbilical to send out another diver to help.
���Dive, Sonar, there���s no doubt, the Whiskey will shortly lift off the bottom.���
We had no choice now. ���Red Diver, the Whiskey is starting up. You need to cut your umbilical and get back here on your come-home bottle immediately. Right now, Ski. Do it right now!��� I ordered.
���Roger, Dive. We���re going to lose comms in a moment.��� And suddenly, the circuit went silent.
Bobby had been following the conversation closely. He focused the Basketball on Ski���s moving shadow. And then we saw him. He had cut his umbilical on our side of the problem and then pulled his end from under the antenna wire. He was pulling himself hand over hand along the umbilical, trailing about ten feet of umbilical behind him. Bubbles furiously flowed from the cut end on our side. Five-hundred feet was a long way to go, but Ski had about a minute of breathing gas available in his come-home bottle.
I told the Can to cut the gas and hot water to the umbilical, and I watched as Ski continued to pull himself toward safety. Nearly a minute had passed already, and Ski was still pulling himself through the water. It was going to be close. Ski was burning oxygen faster because of his exertion.
A minute and fifteen seconds had passed. I looked at the Outer Lock monitor. Jimmy was furiously hauling umbilical, doing what he could to hasten Ski���s return. A minute and a half���and then the Basketball tumbled away as Ski pushed it aside to scramble into the outer lock, gasping for air.
The first words out of his mouth: ���Sheeit! Did that sonofabitch try to lift off yet?���
Watch the one-minute trailer
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qQuQc6nPxec
Author Bio
Dr. Williscroft is a retired submarine officer, deep-sea and saturation diver, scientist, author of numerous books and hundreds of articles, and a lifelong adventurer. He spent 22 months underwater, a year in the equatorial Pacific, three years in the Arctic ice pack, and a year at the Geographic South Pole. He holds degrees in Marine Physics and Meteorology, and a doctorate for developing a system to protect SCUBA divers in contaminated water. A prolific author of both non-fiction and fiction, he lives in Centennial, Colorado, with his family.
Links
Website: https://robertwilliscroft.com/
To follow along with the rest of the tour, please visit the author's tour page on the 4WillsPublishing site. If you'd like to book your own blog tour and have your book promoted in similar grand fashion, please click HERE .
Thanks for supporting this author and his work!
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July 18, 2019
Welcome to the WATCH "RWISA" WRITE Showcase Tour! #RRBC #RWISA Today's Feature Author is Bernard Foong
Author Bernard Foong
Vignettes Parisian
Vignettes Parisian is a collection of four short stories about the Author���s past and present experiences in the French City of Love and Romance, commonly known as Paris.
Christian Dior Couturier Du Reve
It is impossible not to have a close encounter with fashion when I am in Paris. Even if I had to wait in the freezing cold for an hour and a half to enter the Christian Dior Couturier Du Reve (Christian Dior Couturier of Dreams) exhibition at the Mus��e des Arts D��coratifs (Museum of Decorative Arts). My husband, Walter, and I were the lucky few who arrived early before the museum opened its doors. The late arrivals were banished to the back of the queue for a five hours wait before admission was granted.
This spectacular exhibition was worth the wait. Not only were the lives, times, and accomplishments of Christian Dior, one of the great French couturier and his successors well documented, the exquisite fashions and well-thought-out displays were equally impressive.
Since my first visit in 1966 to the French capital of romance, luxury, and fashion, my love for Paris has never waned. Before I left sunny Maui, I had designed and made an haute couture gold, silver, and black embossed velvet fleur-de-lis patterned coat to wear during my recent holiday in France. It was at this exhibition that I received compliments for my one-of-a-kind creation.
A stranger approached me at the exhibition to buy the coat off my back because he loved what I wore. Perhaps I should be the next designer to take over the reins for this resplendent Maison ��� The House of Dior. After all, I am a knowledgeable and seasoned fashion designer who knows every aspect of the international fashion industry.
Shopping In Paris (Then & Now)
I am one of those blessed individuals with a pair of discerning eyes and can detect items I wish to purchase in cramped spaces on my crazy shopping sprees. It was in such a circumstance that Walter and I found ourselves in the middle of the crowded shopping Avenue, des Champs Elys��es.
A sole of my shoe had divorced itself from the body of my long-lasting suedes and left me to hobble around Paris like a circus clown with flapping feet. I had to take immediate action to remedy this unanticipated situation before the remainder of my footwear disintegrated onto the wet and soggy ground, while my beloved, sniggered at my fashion malfunction.
I remembered an amusing incident that happened in 1969 at this boulevard. Back then, I was a bright-eyed and bushy-tailed fashion student. Accompanying Moi was Count Mario, an accomplished Vogue fashion photographer, Andy, my model-looking lover and Valet, and Sammy, a flamboyant young fashionista. The four of us were shopping at the avenue, that drizzly day.
To elongate his petite stature beneath his wide bell-bottom jeans, Sammy wore a pair of eight inches high platform shoes. He also donned a fitted denim jacket over a sassy body-hugging bodysuit. To complete his eccentric ensemble, his dyed cornflower yellow, emerald, and turquoise hair flowed behind him like an exotic mane as our quartet floated down the street.
Eyes turned in our direction as we trotted around Paris in style. Before I realized what had transpired, Sammy was flat on the pavement. Colorful socks bounced around him like raptured pom-poms. The lad had stuffed pairs of rolled-up socks inside his footwear so he could fit his tiny feet into the platforms. He had stumbled on the wet and slippery sidewalk.
Mario, wasted no time whipping out his camera to capture this unanticipated fashion faux pas, while Andy and I looked on in shock.
As if modeling for a Vogue fashion shoot, the quick-witted Sam posed this way and that on the wet thoroughfare while the photographer clicked away at the gaffe. A pedestrian circle had formed in the middle of Avenue des Champs Elys��es to witness this ���fashion happening.��� Advertently, our friend had transformed an embarrassing situation into a photo-opt as the applauding crowd showered the boy with accolades. By the time Sammy got on his feet, he had saved his face with poise and grace.
The Magical Power of The Written Word
���Why are there beds located at different corners of the bookstore?��� I asked Monsieur Mercier, an assistant at the Shakespeare & Company bookshop.
���The beds are available for writers to stay a night in Paris for free,��� the man responded before he resumed, ��� Are you a writer? Do you intend to stay the night?���
Surprised by the man���s inquiries, I evinced, ���I am a writer. But no thank you to the lodging offer.���
���What genre of books do you write, Monsieur?��� Mercier queried.
���I���m an autobiographer,��� I replied. ���Because of its controversial and provocative contents, my books are often classified under the Erotica genre.���
The bookseller questioned, ���What are the titles of your books, and what is the author���s name?���
���A HAREM BOY���S SAGA; A MEMOIR BY YOUNG. It���s a five-book series,��� I declared.
���I believe we have your books in the store. Are the titles: INITIATION, UNBRIDLED, DEBAUCHERY, TURPITUDE, and METANOIA?��� he promulgated.
I nodded, delighted by his information.
The Frenchman led me through a series of narrow pathways covered with volumes and pamphlets of the written word. When he finally extracted five volumes of my autobiography from a shelf, my heart nearly leaped out of my chest.
���I read the series. What a compelling teenage life you���ve led. I wish my school had a secret fraternity program like yours,��� the teller quipped smilingly.
He recommenced, ���Our store is a focal point of English literature in Paris. Anais Nin, Henry Miller, and Richard Wright are frequent visitors. We also host literary activities, like poetry readings, writers��� meetings, book readings, writing festivals, literature festivals, photography workshops, writing groups, and Sunday tea.
���Ms. Sylvia Whitman, the owner, might invite you for a book reading at our store.���
���That will be splendid. Unfortunately, my husband and I are in Paris for a short period. Maybe we can arrange a book reading and signing session when we are in Paris again,��� I proposed.
Monsieur Mercier and I had exchanged contact information before I left the Shakespeare & Company bookshop. Hopefully, during my next visit to Paree, I will get to meet Madam Sylvia Whitman with a book reading and signing gig in place.
S.O.W. and R.E.A.P.
Over the years, I have been asked by many, ���Why do you love Paris so much?��� My reply is always the same ��� S.O.W.
Although the Parisian cityscape has changed over the years, these three alphabets continue to shadow my existence whenever I am in or out of Paris. S.O.W. is also a reason Walter and I chose France as our home away from home.
In the autumn of 1966, when the Simorgh (one of my Arab patriarch���s private jet) touched down in Charles de Gaulle airport, I had contracted the romance bug. Back then, the ebullient Moi, an inquisitive teenager with a quest for adventure, was whisked to the Paris Ritz Carlton in a luxurious Bentley by my host, Prince P. I had fallen head-over-heels in love and in awe with both the prince, Andy, my then chaperone and Valet, and Paris, the city of romance. That was before our entourage visited the haute couture fashion Houses of Chanel, Dior, Ungaro, Givenchy, Yves Saint Laurent, Patou, and the fancy eateries, such as Caf�� de Flore, La Belle ��poque, Maxim���s, and last but by no means least, Le Folies Bergers. Back then, these infamous Parisian establishments were places to go, to see and be seen. Nowadays, they are tourist attractions.
Through the subsequent years, I had accompanied many princes, princesses, sheiks, sheikas, and their aristocratic Arabian entourages to the French capital. Most significantly, this city of love and romance had taught me the art of Seduction (S), Originality (O), and Wit (W). Some may say that wittiness is a congenital trait, but I purport it as a learned art of human relationships. Whatever definition one chooses to use, I had returned to this electrifying metropolis of S.O.W.; where I had sown many a wild oat. Now, with my beloved husband in tow, I���m here to R.E.A.P. its rewards.
���What the hell is R.E.A.P.?��� you ask.
I will explain:
R ��� Romance continues to exist in this alluring Capital of Love; even amid an influx of foreign refugees and political upheavals. Another series of stories, I will narrate another time.
E ��� Elegance in this sordid city of high culture is a trait Walter and I find irresistibly seductive.
A ��� Authenticity is historicity in this Center of Romance. And I am not referring to the faux reproduction of the Las Vegas ���Paris��� in Nevada, United States of America.
P ��� Paris equals Sophistication, Originality, Wit, Romance, Elegance, and Authenticity. But last and by no means least, this French capital is where Perfection reigns supreme.
PARIS ��� Mon Paree!
Bernard Foong (aka Young)
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Thank you for supporting this member along the WATCH "RWISA" WRITE Showcase Tour today! We ask that if you have enjoyed this member's writing, please visit their Author Page on the RWISA site, where you can find more of their writing, along with their contact and social media links, if they've turned you into a fan.
We ask that you also check out their books in the RWISA or RRBC catalogs. Thanks, again for your support and we hope that you will follow each member along this amazing tour of talent! Don't forget to click the link below to learn more about this author:
https://ravewriters.wordpress.com/meet-the-authors/author-bernard-foong-rrbc-rwisa/
Welcome to the WATCH "RWISA" WRITE Showcase Tour! #RRBC #RWISA - Today's Feature Author is Ron Yates
Burning Out in Tokyo
By Ronald E. Yates
Clayton Brandt stood just behind the glass doors of the Ministry of International Trade and Industry building waiting for a let-up in the storm that pummeled the hot Tokyo pavement. Wisps of vapor rose into the air as the rain hit the warm ground.
He searched the eight-lane boulevard in front of the MITI building for an empty taxi. He knew it could be a long wait before an empty cab came down Sakurada-Dori. Thousands of bureaucrats glutted Tokyo's Kasumigaseki district, and whenever it rained, it seemed like all of them wanted a taxi.
"Son of a bitch!" he said, his words echoing through the lobby. Two middle-aged Japanese bureaucrats standing nearby looked over at the tall foreigner. They understood that English phrase.
Clayton grinned. "Ame-ga futte imasu," he said.
The two men looked at one another and then back at Clayton as if to say: "Yes, we can see it is raining. But is that any excuse for such a rude public outburst?"
Clayton sighed, opened his umbrella, and stepped out into the downpour. He turned right and hurried through the governmental heartland of Japan, maneuvering his 6-foot, 3-inch frame through the crowded sidewalk glutted with black and gray umbrellas. Sometimes the edge of an umbrella held by a much shorter Japanese man or woman slashed at his throat or slapped against his face. Whenever it rained, and the umbrellas came out, Clayton always felt Gulliveresque���like a giant trapped in a forest of undulating toadstools.
He looked up at the leaden April sky. The rain had drenched Tokyo for the past four days, covering the ground with a pink and white patina of delicate sakura blossoms. A slow rumble of thunder curled between the squat granite structures of Kasumigaseki. Clayton looked at his watch. It was four-thirty and the evening traffic was already crawling. He had hoped to get his story written and filed by six o'clock, but the briefing about Japan���s angry reaction to Washington���s decision to bar the U.S. government���s purchase of Japanese supercomputers had taken longer than usual.
The sky rumbled again, and bolts of lightning streaked overhead. A taxi pulled up outside the Ministry of Health and Welfare and was disgorging three Japanese bureaucrats in dark blue suits. Clayton closed his umbrella and dashed for the cab splashing through rivulets of water as he ran. The three men had barely climbed out before Clayton bolted past them and into the rear seat. He gave the driver his destination, closed his eyes, and rested his head on the seat back as the taxi inched its way back into the gridlock.
Every so often, his eyes opened just long enough to take in the somber Tokyo landscape. The perpetually gray skies of Tokyo didn���t do his already sepulchral spirit any good. In fact, very little seemed to buoy his disposition these days. He couldn't help it. He felt depressed and probably a bit too sorry for himself. A few hours before the MITI briefing, he had suffered through another of those telephone "chats" with Max, the foreign editor of Global News Service in London about expenses and the need to cut back on costs.
"O.K., O.K. Max," Clayton had sighed bleakly into the phone. "I get the picture."
The exchange ended with Max suggesting that Clayton not be such a "cowboy." A "cowboy?" Why? Just because he was from Oxford, Kansas and not Oxford, England? It wasn't easy working for a bunch of Brits when you sounded more like Garth Brooks than Sir Laurence Olivier. But he knew what Max meant.
Clayton was an iconoclast in a profession that increasingly rewarded conformity rather than individualism. Newspapers today all looked alike, loaded with the same predictable stories about the same predictable events. It was rubber-stamp journalism practiced by rubber-stamp editors who worked for rubber-stamp publishers who worked for boards of directors who wanted twenty percent operating profit margins above all else���quality journalism be damned.
He went over the notes he had hurriedly scribbled during the MITI briefing, searching for the lead of his story. His pen scratched heavy lines under the words "ill-conceived" and "studying our response." Then he stuffed the notebook back into his bag.
���It's over,��� Clayton thought to himself as he watched the snarl of cars and trucks crawl along Uchibori-Dori through Kokyo-Gaien, the large plaza that fronted the walled Imperial Palace. It was as if today he had been forced finally to confront the inevitable mortality of his professional career; or at least of his particular brand of journalism. He was writing the same boring stories over and over again. Where was the challenge? The sense of accomplishment?
Clayton exhaled and gazed out the taxi window at the striated, ashen facades of drenched buildings. They reminded him of the mascara-smudged faces of women weeping at a rainy graveside.
He closed his eyes and nudged his mind away from the depressing Tokyo landscape. Soon it was obediently shuffling through old images of another, more beguiling Asia. It was an Asia of genial evenings spent beneath traveler palms; of graceful, colonial-era hotels in Singapore and Malaysia with their chalky plaster facades and their broad verandahs peppered with rattan settees and peacock chairs; of slowly turning teakwood paddle fans that moved the heavy night air with just enough authority to create a light breeze, but not enough to obliterate the sweet scent of evening jasmine. THAT was the Asia he missed; the Orient of the past.
Yes, it was ending. Clayton could feel it. It had been a good run . . . A good career. But now the journey was ending, like a train that had roared through the night and was now pulling into its last station. How many times had he almost gotten off only to be lured back on by the promise of what lay ahead at the next stop? How many times had he been disappointed by that decision? How many times had he been rewarded? At first, the rewards outweighed the disappointments, but in recent years, as he had grown older, the regrets seemed to have gained a definite edge.
For one thing, the passengers kept changing. And the conductors. And the engineers. But what did he expect? Wasn't that the way the world worked? What was it that Tennyson had written: "The old order changeth, yielding place to new?"
Clayton shuddered. Was he the old order? Should he be yielding? Was he burned out?
Maybe he was becoming the old order, Clayton thought. But he wasn't burned out just yet. And if there was any yielding to do, he wanted it on his own terms. The trouble was, the gulf of time between his past glories and the imminence of the callow, computer savvy handlers in the home office who controlled his destiny was becoming almost unbridgeable.
Most of his career predated cell phones and computers. For the computer literates at Global, his life's work might as well be stored on some remote database. As it was, he existed only in yellowing newspaper clips, aging telexes, and letters of commendation that were kept in his personal file back in London. And nobody bothered to look at that stuff anymore.
It made no difference, Clayton thought. In the mutable, evanescent province that modern journalism had become, it was ancient history. Hell, HE was ancient history. He was like a piece of old journalistic parchment���readable, but, unlike a computer, much less utilitarian.
What Clayton needed was another journalistic rush . . . A story he could get hold of and play like a newly discovered Mozart piano concerto. He needed something . . . Not to satisfy the yuppies back at Global, but to give him a reason to get back on the train and to leave the station again.
The taxi slewed to a stop like a wooden bathhouse sandal skidding along a wet tile floor. Clayton looked up. They were in front of the Kawabata Building.
"Kawabata Biru, desu," the driver announced.
Clayton fumbled in his pocket, handed the driver a one thousand yen note, and waited for his change. Then he bolted through the swirling Tokyo rain and put his shoulder against the massive glass and steel doors of the Kawabata Building. Unlike most of Tokyo's modern structures, the Kawabata Building didn't have sleek automatic glass doors that hissed serpent-like and opened automatically at the approach of a human being. It was a pre-war relic���an architectural throw-back with cracked marble floors and a fading art deco interior that had somehow survived the allied bombings.
The building's deteriorating facade, which was the color of dead autumn leaves, seemed to glower at the world���like the rumpled brow of an angry old man. But the tumble-down building had an undeniable individuality in a country that too often prized sameness, and that was the reason Clayton liked it and had refused an offer to move into one of the new glass and steel "smart buildings" that soared over Tokyo's Otemachi district.
He paused to talk for a moment with the old woman who operated the small grocery and newsstand tucked away in the corner of the lobby. From his many conversations with her, Clayton had learned that the old woman had operated her little concession since 1938 and knew the building's history better than anybody.
She smiled as Clayton's towering frame bent toward her in one of those peculiar half bows that Japanese make when they are in a hurry. Japanese could do it with a certain grace; but not Clayton. When this big foreigner bowed, he always looked like he was on the verge of crashing to the ground like a gingko tree struck by lightning. Nevertheless, she liked this gaijin. Ordinarily, she merely tolerated foreigners, but this one had a solitary charm. He was big, but not threatening; assertive, but not arrogant.
"So, Oba-san, Genki datta?" Clayton asked, combining the Japanese honorific for ���grandmother��� with the less formal interrogative for "how are you?"
"Genki-yo," the old woman replied. Clayton picked up a package of Pocky chocolates and placed a one hundred yen coin in the old woman's hand.
"Sayonara,��� Clayton said as he turned and scuttled toward the bank of elevators.
"Sonna ni hatarakanai ho ga ii desu!" the old woman called after him.
Clayton smiled and nodded over his shoulder. The old woman was right. He was working too hard, and where was it getting him? Back on a train to oblivion?
���Oh, get over it,��� Clayton thought as the elevator door closed. ���You���ve got a story to write. Feel sorry for yourself AFTER you make your friggin��� deadline! Besides, what else do you know how to do, you old hack! Burning out is not an option.���
The End
********************
Thank you for supporting this member along the WATCH "RWISA" WRITE Showcase Tour today! We ask that if you have enjoyed this member's writing, please visit their Author Page on the RWISA site, where you can find more of their writing, along with their contact and social media links, if they've turned you into a fan.
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July 16, 2019
Welcome to the WATCH "RWISA" WRITE Showcase Tour! #RRBC #RWISA - Today's Feature Author is Karen Ingalls
Author Karen Ingalls
NATURE SPEAKS by Karen Ingalls
Why did my life spiral into darkness in a second? One minute I am married to my soulmate, a mother to a beautiful daughter, and owner of a successful bookstore. My friends asked me, ���How do you have the perfect life? It is so easy for you.��� They were right. I had the perfect life.
My husband was an engineer, and I opened a bookstore naming it Mile High Books offering old and new books, coffee or tea. Leather chairs and couches provided comfort to the patrons. Classical music played in the background. I loved going to my store enjoying the smell of books, coffee, and leather.
We had our first and only child, Lynn who also loved classical music and dreamed of being a ballet dancer.
One Saturday morning, my life changed forever. I had awakened with a migraine headache, which was intolerable. It was best if I stayed in a dark, quiet room until the medication relieved the blinding pain.
My husband, Miles volunteered to run the bookstore that fateful day. ���Lynn and I can manage the bookstore today. You stay home and take care of the headache.��� He leaned over and kissed me. ���I love you,��� were the last words I would hear him say.
I curled up, closed my eyes, and waited for the pain to go away.
A pounding on the front door and the continuous ringing of the bell awakened me. ���This had better be important,��� I muttered while staggering down the stairs. Two police officers with grim looks were standing on the porch. I collapsed when the words, fire, death, husband, daughter floated around my confused mind.
My once perfect life was unbearable with the memories of it everywhere. I sold everything, bought a second-hand Volkswagen Beetle, and drove west with just the clothes on my back and a photograph of Miles, Lynn and me. I didn���t know where I was going, but I didn���t care.
The small cabin in the foothills of Costa Mesa, California overlooking the Pacific Ocean was my new residence. It was not a home. It was a place to sleep, eat and try to escape from my past.
The land was arid with brush, oak trees, scattered thistle weeds, and clay soil. Every evening, I walked down a short path from the cabin to a flattened area where I sat under a large oak tree and watched the sun dip into the ocean. One day at dusk, I leaned against the tree, closed my eyes and dreamed that Miles arms were around me while we watched Lynn ballet dance on a large stage. I could hear the music of Tchaikovsky���s Swan Lake.
When I awoke there were two limbs embracing me, and leaves and acorns were swirling around creating Tchaikovsky���s music. ���Am I still dreaming?��� The bark of the trunk and the limbs was rough and uncomfortable. I squirmed and pulled at the limbs. ���What is happening? This is crazy.��� I yelled for someone to help me, but the only words I heard were not human.
Ginny, you are a strong woman. Use your strength to get through this storm in your life.
I pulled the limbs off, jumped up, and looked around expecting to see someone nearby. ���Is anyone here?��� I yelled again. Everything was quiet. A full moon radiated light around me.
Staring at the tree, I brushed my clothes, scratched my head, and said, ���That was quite a dream, but how did those limbs wrap around me?��� I shook my head trying to clear the confusion. ���It was a beautiful dream of Miles and Lynn. I miss them so much.��� With the sleeve of my sweater, I wiped the tears. ���I���ve got to get hold of myself. I���m losing my mind.���
The voice said. That was not a dream. I am here to help you.
���Oh, my God, I am going crazy. Trees don���t talk.���
Ginny, you are not going crazy. All trees talk, but humans do not listen. Do you remember your friend, Meredith who told you she talks to trees?
I nodded. ���How do you���?���
I saw a friendly face of a kind, elderly man etched in the trunk. Every flora and fauna communes with humans, but they are too busy or unbelieving to listen and learn from us.
I fell to my knees, grabbed a handful of soil, and watched it slowly stream out of my clenched fist. ���This was my life. Time was going by with no troubles.��� I opened my fist and let the soil out in one burst. ���Then everything changed. My life was never the same. It is now an empty hand.��� I sobbed and my whole body shook.
You are strong. Your faith is like my roots: stretching wide and going deep.
The limbs stretched out, wrapped around my shoulders and leaned me against the trunk. Miles and Lynn are speaking to you through me.
Then I heard them say, We love you and will always be with you. Follow your heart.
The limbs were gentle and comforting. The rough bark was now smooth. My tears dried up, and I drifted into a deep and peaceful sleep.
The warm and bright rays of the morning sun radiated through the tree���s canopy bringing warmth to my body nestled against the oak tree. Standing up, I stretched and looked out at the blue waters of the Pacific marveling at its majesty and beauty. I smiled as the words follow your heart floated around. ���Wow! That was quite a dream.���
I walked a few steps on the path back towards the cabin. I stopped and looked back at the oak tree. ���It might have all been a dream, but thank you.���
A thistle plant with its purple flower in full bloom was further up the path. I stopped. ���You are beautiful, but your spikes are sharp.���
The spikes turned inward. Do not let fear hold you back.
I couldn���t believe what was happening. ���Now I hear a flower talking to me. I am going crazy.���
The thistle plant swayed back and forth though there was no breeze. It bent forward bringing its flower near my hands. Touch me and accept my gift of peace.
I placed my hand on the purple flower and a deep sense of serenity swept over me. For the first time since the deaths of my family, I was at peace. I whispered, ���Thank you.���
A short distance from the cabin porch, I saw the white silken top of a trapdoor spider���s home. I did not remember seeing it before and bent down to get a closer look. The trapdoor opened and a dark spider poked his head out. I stumbled as I tried to jump back.
The spider was small and ugly with fine hairs covering its dark brown body. He was frightening to look at, but his kind words put me at ease. You have walked by many doors, but you didn���t open them.
���What is going on? I am hallucinating with all these voices in my head.���
You are not hallucinating. Your family is talking to you through the oak tree, the thistle and me. The spider moved back into his home and closed the trapdoor.
For days I paced around the cabin, reliving each moment and the words about strength, peace, and opportunities. I prayed and cried. I read about mysticism and nature.
One morning, I awoke and saw Miles and Lynn standing beside my bed. We will always be with you in your heart. Let nature continue to teach you.
The magnificent oak tree taught how to be strong of body, mind, and heart. Staying healthy and opening my arms to others became my ways of living.
I found beauty in my life and other people after removing my thorns of bitterness and self-pity.
My cabin was a trap shutting out people until I opened its doors and made it a home and retreat center. I added rooms for guests to stay and classrooms for teaching.
I called my new endeavor Nature Speaks, helping people to commune with and learn from all aspects of nature. When people open their hearts and minds to nature there are opportunities for a richer life.
***************
Thank you for supporting this member along the WATCH "RWISA" WRITE Showcase Tour today! We ask that if you have enjoyed this member's writing, please visit their Author Page on the RWISA site, where you can find more of their writing, along with their contact and social media links, if they've turned you into a fan.
We ask that you also check out their books in the RWISA or RRBC catalogs. Thanks, again for your support and we hope that you will follow each member along this amazing tour of talent! Don't forget to click the link below to learn more about this author:
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July 15, 2019
RAVE REVIEWS BOOK CLUB���S "SPOTLIGHT" Author Blog Tour! "SPOTLIGHT" Author, Karl Morgan!
The World of the Carl Prescott Series
I am a very spiritual person and that shows up in my writing. Out of the books I have written, more than half contain spiritual themes. Through my education and life in general, I have also learned about many different cultures and faiths. Since all that is now part of me, it shows in most everything I do.
At first glance, the talents of the students at the Thorndike Institution seem a lot like the magical world of Harry Potter, with one major difference. In those stories, a tiny minority of people had the abilities due to their heritage or fate. You are either magical or a muggle. In Carl���s world, everyone has the abilities, but it is their willingness to accept and develop them that makes the students unique. Here is a brief excerpt from the next book in the series. Carl can explain it better than I. It has not been edited yet, so please excuse imperfections. Carl talking to his mother:
���Mom, for most of human existence, the talents have been considered abnormalities. Those who displayed unusual abilities were branded as possessed, witches, and evil. People generally expect others to be pretty much like themselves.���
���That���s certainly true, Son.���
���Not really. You see, the definition of abnormal is subjective. The population of people we call ���Society��� decides what is normal and acceptable. If a child is a musical prodigy and able to play every instrument in an orchestra at age four, everyone is awed and thinks it���s miraculous. If another child is born who can touch sick people and make them well, that is a road too far. It���s supposed to be highly trained doctors who do that and not some runny-nosed kid. Obviously, that child is possessed by Satan.���
The students at the two schools accept that they have talents. That is also why the two schools are isolated in the centers of the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans. It is much less likely that ���normal��� people will witness what they can do and try to eradicate the freaks. Of course, most students only exhibit a few talents and pose no threat to anyone. The professors also provide a typical education so the students can return home and resume mostly normal lives. That all changed the day Carl, Grace, and Burt arrived at the Institution.
In that other amazing series of novels, the goal was to defeat the most villainous wizard. Then the others could go back to regular lives.
The job for Carl and his friends is much larger. The existence of the universe itself depends on them. In book one, the Beast might enslave the world. Their challenge is to learn new talents well enough to stop him. The challenges from that point only get more extreme. Since the series is ongoing, even I do not know when and how it will end, although the heroes in my books generally do end up on top.
As a shout-out to my spiritual and religious background, Carl becomes close friends with Jesus of Nazareth and Siddhartha Gautama (the Buddha) in Demon Queen. It is definitely a fun ride.
CARL PRESCOTT AND THE DEMON QUEEN
Carl Prescott may have saved the world from the Beast, but the duties of the Invisible Hand never end. The story begins when a medieval castle is discovered hidden beneath the Thorndike Institution. While the professors search for clues, our hero is summoned to Hell to meet the demon, Sylvia. She once ruled a satanic kingdom in Eastern Europe from that castle and will do so again.
There is much more to this beautiful woman than evil intentions. To stop her plan, Carl must first understand why she is so focused on him. To learn the truth, he must face God, Satan, and Death. In this nonstop action-packed adventure, he must stand at the Crossroads of Existence and cross the Rope Bridge to meet his destiny.
If he succeeds, life can return to normal. If not, the galaxy and every soul therein will be devoured by a voracious black hole, which even God will be powerless to stop.
Author, Karl Morgan
Karl Morgan has a lifelong fascination with stories in the science fiction and fantasy genres, whether it was the Tom Swift novels by Victor Appleton he read as a young boy, or television, like Lost in Space and Star Trek, and especially films like Star Wars, Harry Potter and Lord of the Rings. All of those tales put the protagonist in terrible situations where the odds are against them and, yet, somehow they prevail. The reader/viewer is always left with a sense that something greater than ourselves is watching over us.
In his new Carl Prescott young adult fantasy series, the journey continues as our hero faces terrible danger and odds to help his friends and family. In the end, he will learn new things that will change his perspective on life.
Karl lives in the San Diego area with his best, four-legged friend, his toy poodle Chachis.
Follow Karl online:
Welcome to the WATCH "RWISA" WRITE Showcase Tour! #RRBC #RWISA - Today's Feature Author is Suzanne Burke
Author Suzanne Burke
THURSDAY���S CHILD
By
Suzanne Burke.
Copyright 2019.
She hadn���t really intended this to happen. Oh, sure, she���d thought about it often enough, but thinking about something didn���t make it a crime. A convergence of circumstances had prompted her choice. Regret was such an outmoded commodity.
She checked her latex gloves fit well and flicked her dark-eyed gaze across to where Peter Cameron lay, still and silent. ���You brought this on yourself, Peter. Did you think me a complete fool?���
Carol moved across to the edge of the bed and stood over him. She reached down and flicked the blonde hair back from his forehead, then gently rested her hand there.
���You���re cold. Shall I fetch you a blanket?��� Her laughter soothed her.
The man���s eyes were now open, and Carol reveled in the fear she witnessed in their blue depths. ���Ah, there you are. How do you feel?��� She laughed again. ���Oh, silly me. You can���t feel anything. Can you? Such a handy little drug, and no taste I believe, especially in your malt whiskey.���
Peter Cameron���s blue eyes registered the words and Carol watched on as he commanded his brain to activate his fingers, his arms. He had no control of his voicebox. His brain refused to obey. He remained still.
���Oh, don���t fret so, darling. You���re not going to die ��� yet. The paralysis will last just long enough for my needs. It���s all in the timing. You need to helplessly contemplate what I may have in store for your immediate future.���
Carol walked away from him, and headed for the bar, whistling happily in anticipation. She placed his used glass and the bottle of Glenfiddich into her handbag, then poured a stiff belt of burbon into a paper cup, and seated herself comfortably on the sofa in the large living room and admired afresh the warm ambiance of her surroundings.
���The best that all my money could buy.��� Her voice brought her comfort.
She drained the cup and refilled it. When empty she crumpled it and placed it alongside the other items now concealed in the bag.
The wall clock reaffirmed that she had an hour remaining before company arrived. She nodded in satisfaction and rested.
With twenty minutes remaining she stood and checked on her captive one more time. ���Not long now.���
A low groan came from the bed.
Carol gently stroked his cheek. ���Are you terrified, my darling? Your eyes tell me you are. Good. That���s as it should be.���
Carol smiled in satisfaction and left the room, content to wait this out for a few minutes. At exactly 11.02p.m she heard the front door open and close again. A musical female voice called out, ���Peter? Darling, where are you?���
Carol listened carefully from her dark space in the hallway. She held her breath as the woman came into view and she watched her enter the master-bedroom in search of her lover.
���Waiting in bed for me, darling? That���s different. I thought we were going to share a late supper.���
The woman sounded disappointed.
���He can be very disappointing. I agree.��� Carol said from the doorway.
The woman jumped in fright and managed to say ���Oh, my God. I���m not, that is, we aren���t, this isn���t.��� She shut her mouth when her frightened eyes took note that her lover���s wife was standing in front of her wearing latex gloves and aiming a gun at her head.
���It isn���t what? An affair? Oh, please. Do you expect me to believe that you���ve come here to my home every second Thursday at 11.00p.m for 3 months to do something innocent? Go ahead, enlighten me. I���m a reasonable woman. Convince me I don���t have a reason to hate you.���
���Please! I���m so sorry. It doesn���t mean anything.���
���Oh, no, Thursday���s Girl. It means everything. The others meant nothing to him, therefore I ignored them. Ah, but you, you���re different. Turn around, let me take a closer look at you.���
Carol walked across to the shaking woman and prodded her with Peter���s handgun. ���I said turn around.���
The younger woman nodded and hurriedly complied.
���He does love a tight ass. Long legs too. That���s always a bonus.���
���He doesn���t care about me. It���s a ��� a fling.���
���Nice try.���
���I���ll end it and never see him again. I promise. I���m sorry, please. Let me go.��� The woman was sobbing now.
���Don���t you want to know how I know you're special?���
The woman shook her head. ���I���m not ���.���
���Shut your stupid mouth and listen!��� Carol barely controlled her anger and shoved the nozzle of the Glock into her rival���s chest.
She drew a deep calming breath and lowered the gun slightly. ���I know because he���s been happy. Happier than he���s been for many years. The only thing that���s different in his life since the advent of his peculiar behaviour is you!���
Carol fished inside the pocket of the coat she was wearing and drew out a small velvet box. ���He brought you this little diamond trinket from Caliago. His jeweller of choice. It���s an engagement ring for you, Thursday���s Girl. The ring size is smaller than mine, and besides, I only wear emeralds. My contact at the jewellers tells me it���s worth upwards of one million dollars. I do hope it���s insured. Give me your hand. Let���s try it on for size.���
The hand the woman held out was shaking. Carol nursed the gun and held out the jewellery box. ���Now place it on your finger. Don���t be stupid enough to flex your hand. Slide it on.���
The diamonds glistened as the ring slid into place perfectly.
���And lastly, should you think me presumptive, then don���t. You see our darling Peter visited our attorney to get the ball rolling for divorce proceedings. I can only wonder that he made such a stupid mistake. Our attorney was the one I recommended twenty-years ago. He earns every cent of the additional fees I pay him every month.���
Peter groaned again from the bed and his lover stood there watching on, too afraid to move.
Carol smiled. ���How tragic love is. How very sad that you came here to end your relationship. Peter Cameron had never been denied anything in his life. He couldn���t take the rejection. He apparently decided that if he couldn���t have you, then nobody would.
The woman began to scream, and Carol laughed with pleasure. ���Oh, yes, scream. Go right ahead! We do love living out here. There���s a righteous freedom in having no near neighbors.���
The woman was still sobbing as Carol sat next to Peter on the bed and shot her three times in the chest. She calmly watched as the body was flung backward by the impact and dropped to the floor.
Carol gazed down on her for long enough to see the faint hold on life vacate her eyes.
Carol checked the spandex gloves, satisfied that they���d worked as they should. She placed the weapon down for a moment as she removed the other things that she���d need from the bureau.
Peter���s arm felt like a dead weight as she wrapped the tourniquet around his upper bicep. The veins responded beautifully, and Carol inserted the syringe and watched in fascination as her husband���s body jerked several times. She watched him begin to foam at the mouth. She watched him die. ���Heroin is so deadly if you don���t get the dosage just right. I believe it���s referred to as a ���hot shot���.
She placed the Glock in his right hand and checked to ensure the trajectory married up with the bullet���s impact on his dead companion. Carol squeezed his fingers closed around the weapon with his finger on the trigger, then let his arm drop and the gun lay loosely in the dead hand.
Carol stood back and admired her handiwork. Content now she hurried outside.
She ran to her car secreted behind a tall stand of trees and drove it into her driveway, behind the visitors Porche. She let the car idle and punched in 911 on her iPhone.
���911. What is the nature of your emergency?���
���Please! Help me. I need help! Please!��� The voice was frantic.
���I���ll help you, Ma���am, but I need you to calm down. Please tell me what is happening.���
���I heard a woman screaming! Then I think there were gunshots! Now I can���t hear anything. Please! Please, I beg you, please hurry, I think my husband is inside. Should I go in? I have to help him!���
���Please give me your address.���
Carol gave it.
���Do NOT enter the dwelling. Police and Paramedics are on the way. Stay on the line with me. Are you close to the house?���
���I���m outside in the driveway.���
���Please move away from the property. Stay away from the windows. They���re on their way.���
***
CNN breaking news.
���In breaking news! The body of United States Senator Peter Cameron has been found at his home. A crime scene now exists. Early indications from our sources indicate that another body has been found at the scene. Murder/Suicide has not been ruled out.���
���Tragically it was the senator���s wife who made the grim discovery. She is reported to be resting under sedation. In deep shock as these events unfold. Police at this stage don���t believe that a third party was involved in the tragedy.���
Carol listened to the excited broadcaster and smiled.
Then she settled down in her pristine hospital bed and drifted off to a contented sleep.
**************
Thank you for supporting this member along the WATCH "RWISA" WRITE Showcase Tour today! We ask that if you have enjoyed this member's writing, please visit their Author Page on the RWISA site, where you can find more of their writing, along with their contact and social media links, if they've turned you into a fan.
We ask that you also check out their books in the RWISA or RRBC catalogs. Thanks, again for your support and we hope that you will follow each member along this amazing tour of talent! Don't forget to click the link below to learn more about this author:
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Welcome to the WATCH "RWISA" WRITE Showcase Tour! #RRBC #RWISA - Today's Feature Author is Fiza Pathan
Author Fiza Pathan
The Star Pupil���s Diary Entry by Fiza Pathan
Dear Diary,
I had a wonderful day at school today. I got a star and I���m going to tell you all about it.
I���m eight years old, but I���m the tallest boy in the class. I, and the other kids in my neighborhood, study at the school down the block. Actually, our school was once something terrible; it was a disgusting Christian church, something called ���Catholic.��� The school officials tore it down and made it into a proper school for us kids.
So, I went to school today. I was the first one there so I got the biggest teddy bear to do my training with. The kids who were late got teddies that were way too small, the cheap ones that our soldiers stole from the hands of fleeing Jewish kids before they shot them in the head.
My teacher made us do our practice training in the morning. He handed us our daggers. We each checked with our fingers if they were sharp enough. Since I was early to class, I got to demonstrate. I put the dagger on the neck of the teddy and slit it the way my teacher had taught me to do. The other students followed me, but I was the best at cutting off teddy���s head.
���The jugular,��� my teacher scolded another student who was cutting the wrong part of the teddy. ���The jugular and do it slowly; it should make them cry.���
After dagger practice was over, we all sat and singing practice began. Singing is important; it touches souls and bring them closer to God.
We sang the national anthem. The teacher said I was the best singer and patted me on the head.
���Now, who knows a good English song, a hymn for our nation?��� our teacher asked.
Every kid was stumped. They knew plenty of English songs, some of them were American. But you couldn���t sing those songs anymore. They knew ���If I Was Your Boyfriend��� by that Justin Bieber nonbeliever and ���That���s What Makes You Beautiful��� by One Direction, another group of nonbelievers���may the devil plague them!
But no one knew a hymn in English to our cause. Not a single kid. Well, everyone except me!
I raised my hand and teacher smiled.
He asked me to stand up and sing in place.
The other kids turned to look at me. They were jealous because they were not as smart as me.
I put my hands behind my back and stood straight like I do when singing the national anthem. I opened my mouth and began to sing:
We for the sake of Allah have come under the banner,
We for the sake of our Caliph have torn the world asunder;
We for the sake of our raped sisters will kill the ones responsible,
We for the sake of our nation will die, but not before we become incredible.
I didn���t know the meaning of rape, but daddy had taught me this song while we were fleeing India to come here, to this land of milk and honey. Daddy taught me a lot of songs and hymns as we fled India. We almost got caught, but our fake passports worked. Daddy is so smart. He is now working as a soldier here.
���Bravo, my son,��� my teacher said, and he shook my hand. The other kids clapped, but some spat on the ground with disgust.
���Bravo, my son,��� my teacher said again, holding me by the shoulders and looking into my eyes. ���You are a gem of a man already. You get a star for this.���
And I did; a star made of metal shining like gold, the ones soldiers put on their uniforms. I was so proud that I couldn���t stop smiling.
The teacher then said it was almost time for prayers, but before that, did any of us kids know who we were deep in our hearts? Many kids answered:
���We are Allah���s blessing in the flesh.���
���We are the terror of the Westerners.���
���We are the protectors of our faith.���
���We are true worshippers of the almighty.���
But the teacher said all their answers were wrong. I knew that too because I knew the real answer. The teacher then asked me, ���Tell me, son, who are we?���
I smiled, fiddling with my gold star before answering: ���We are men who love death just as some people love their life; we are soldiers who fight in the day and the night.���
My teacher clapped, and so did the other kids, except for the ones who yet again spat on the floor and gave me angry looks.
We spent the rest of the day praying, going to the mosque that was once a church. They called it Lutheran, which sounds so ugly. I then came home, and here I am writing in this diary, which Daddy gave me to record the fun time I���m having here in this new country, the place where Allah truly lives with his beloved people.
I���m so happy to have earned my star. I���ll wear it tomorrow to the next beheading on the main square of those bad men who were trying to escape heaven, this place where we stay. I love beheadings. I take pictures of it on my uncle���s cell phone. I love the blood, snapped bones, and torn veins the best.
Tomorrow, our class will burn crosses at the beheading. I will burn not a cross, but a small statue of Mary, mother of that prophet who sinned against us. I���ve never burned her before, not because I haven���t gotten a chance to do so, but because . . . her eyes, her eyes when they look at me are funny.
Well, it���s time to go for prayers. I shall write later.
Yours always,
Alif Shifaq of the ISIS children brigade,
3 Bel Anif Mansion,
Sultan Saladin Road,
Raqqa,
ISIS Syria,
March 12, 2015.
*
After the fall of ISIS in Raqqa, an American soldier with his entire team was on the ground for inspection purposes. It was the year 2017, and the whole city had been razed to the ground.
The American soldier���s name was Emmanuel, and as he walked over the immense quantity of rubble, he spotted something.
It was a diary. A bit battered due to the bombing, but in good shape.
The hand of a preteen was found holding a pen beside it. The hand only. Not the rest of the body. The body had been incinerated.
Emmanuel lifted the diary and dusted it. He took it along with him, jumping over a pile of dusty teddy bears with their throats cut.
���City of the dead,��� Emmanuel intoned, as he opened the diary to read. The first thing he read was an inscription in black ink from a fountain pen. It was done in calligraphy���skillfully done.
We are men who love death just as you love your life,
We are the soldiers who fight in the day and the night.
Emmanuel sighed and turned a page.
***************
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