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Cracks – Chapter One

Hello, hello, hello! E. here. So, I started writing this book, Cracks, a while back, maybe around early summer, but I never finished it. For some odd reason, two weeks ago, I opened the document again and I began reading. Then, I couldn’t stop. I became upset with myself when I reached the end of what I had written. I wanted to know the end of the story. Then it occurred to me why I stopped writing on it in the first place. This isn’t me. At least I don’t think so. The story doesn’t read like an Edward Lorn novel. It’s too… wordy. Once again, this is only my opinion. Now, for the reason we are here today. I’m about to do something extreme. Since I have no plans to ever publish this story… novella… novel… whatever it is, I figured I’d let you, the reader, tell me what you think. This has not seen a professional editor. My good friends, Angel Vargas and J. Marie Ravenshaw, helped me edit on the fly back while I was still writing on it. For those of you that don’t know, during the course of everything I write, Angel will read my day’s work back to me for editing purposes. His services are priceless, and my greatest gratitude is owed to him. J. Marie will listen along and chime in from time to time with her critiques and suggestions. Together, we make a great team. LYF, guys. But back to the subject at hand. Here’s what I think. The piece is good enough to read, but not good enough to sell. Also, because of this piece’s length, I will only be uploading a chapter a week. I will judge by comments and responses whether or not to continue. Right now, there are 14 chapters to show. Don’t worry, I will finish it if demand is high enough. I might even make a weekly run at it and continue as a serial of sorts.

So here it is, in all its wordy glory…

Cracks

 By Edward Lorn

Author’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights.

 

This book is dedicated to Irma Caringer, 1919-2011. She believed what a person is doesn’t matter. In her opinion, it always came down to who  they are.

 

“Happiness, for you we walk on a knife edge. To the eyes you are a flickering light, to the feet, thin ice that cracks…“

~ Eugenio Montale

“Somehow, it slipped through the cracks.”

~Idiom

 

1.

 

Caleb could feel an ugly eventuality leaking into his world, could sense Monty leaving him, so he cherished that final moment. It lingered, that collection of time did. A still frame image of how they used to be, who they’d been together, and what they’d meant to each other. The next moment scared him. It was full to the brim with harsh reality. All the good, gone. All the happy, washed away like a dirty thing. Only sadness would remain. And Caleb meant to delay it as long as possible.

“I just can’t continue to do this, Cay,” Monty said, the corners of his eyes wet. “I love you, hon—really, I do—but if you don’t want to tell anyone, I can’t make you.”

Caleb remained silent. He stared through the windshield of the Nova, wrung the wheel in his hands, tried to remain calm, but failed miserably. A young woman walked out of the bar into the arms of an older lady. The neon lights above the door turned the older woman’s face red and the younger girl’s hair to fire. Mother and daughter, most likely, Caleb thought. They seemed happy. He wondered why Mom looked like she’d just stepped from church and the daughter looked like a whore. Maybe Momma’s little baby had run away years back, and this place, this tavern of hidden lives, had actually served as the location of their reunion. It was a simple hope.

“You gonna talk to me?” Monty reached over and brushed Caleb’s cheek. Caleb looked at the other man, saw love in Monty’s eyes, but couldn’t let himself react. The death of their relationship needed to be bloodless. The more Caleb said, the more his heart would bleed. If Caleb remained silent, maybe he could skirt the hurt altogether. Let Monty feel all the pain.

“Please… say something.”

Mother and daughter kissed, a long passionate coupling that destroyed Caleb’s image of family members reunited. The establishment behind the two women was, after all, a gay bar. How could he have been so foolish? The older woman was a tiger, the lesbian equivalence of a cougar. Tigers ate their young.

Monty slammed the ball of his fist onto the glove box. Caleb didn’t jump, didn’t even twitch, he only smiled as he slumped back into the driver’s seat.

Monty, on the verge of tears, his voice a creaking coffin from an old vampire movie, asked, “You think this is funny?”

Caleb shook his head, pointed to the tiger and her cub.

“I couldn’t care less about those rug-munchers, Cay. Their parents probably know they’re gay. One step ahead of you, I’d say.” Monty stopped, fumed, his breath turning the passenger side of the windshield foggy. “If you’re not going to talk to me, then this—this whatever we had—well… it’s over.”

Caleb wondered if they were happy—the woman and her young lover. He imagined they must be. The way they kissed reminded Caleb of how tender Monty’s lips had been once upon a time—the way Monty’s chin stubble tickled, too fine to scratch. He focused on the women, held them in his vision tighter than they held one another. If he looked at Monty, Caleb knew he would find tears. Weeping was not on the docket for Caleb. If he looked, he might find himself in contempt of court.

Monty finally broke. “Just say something!”

Caleb licked his lips, swallowed a bit of saliva to wet his throat, and said, “Good-bye.”

“What? Are you kidding me? Just like that?”

Caleb reached down for the door controls.

“It’s already unlocked, asshole.” Monty said, his door popping open a second later. Caleb heard the squeak of the seat springs as Monty pulled himself out. Caleb still couldn’t look.

Winter air brushed past Monty’s exiting body, raising gooseflesh on Caleb’s forearms. Caleb remembered how Monty’s touch used to do the same thing for him. The difference was, Monty had been warm, and the bumps had been from excitement. This time around, cold had settled in. Not just in his flesh, but his heart, as well.

“This is your last—” but Caleb started the Nova, cutting Monty off.

Monty made no attempt to repeat himself. He’d taken the hint. Caleb’s ears popped when Monty slammed the passenger door.

On the windshield, bisecting the two enamored women, Caleb watched a crack sneak along the glass. He should’ve been angry—Monty had about shattered his window—but he couldn’t let himself be mad. Becoming enraged would prove that he still loved Monty, and Caleb didn’t want to give the man any false hopes.

The thought of love tasted foul in Caleb’s mouth, like the copper flavor of blood. He realized he’d chewed into his bottom lip. He wiped the substance off with the back of his hand. His blood looked black in the red neon coming off the bar’s signage. Maybe it was black, the color of coal. Monty might agree that Caleb’s heart pumped ink from its obsidian core, that insufferable void.

Caleb wanted to get out, to run to Monty like lovers did in the movies—arms out, a wide smile beaming on his mug, long grass whipping around him as he raced towards the embrace of his lover’s arms. It was too late for that, though. Monty was gone. The back of his white leather jacket disappeared through the doors of The Dover Bar, where they had met four months prior. Their relationship had meant something, but Caleb assured himself it couldn’t continue. More was at stake than just Monty’s feelings. The fling—Caleb had to think of it like that, as a fling—threatened to decimate everything Caleb had worked up to at that point in his life.

He put the Nova into reverse and backed out of the parking lot. Riding home in silence, no radio, nothing but the whine of his asthmatic lungs to accompany him, Caleb wondered if life would ever be easy. Monty’s argument was, “It gets better.” That viral thought did little in the way of waylaying Caleb’s concerns. No matter how accepting the world became, he would always be a gay man. Gay first. A man second. Even if Alabama finally allowed gay marriage, it would still be “gay” marriage. He couldn’t get away from the word. He only wished he could become the other definition of “gay.”

Happy.

Happiness hid just out of Caleb’s reach—another thing denied to him by family and fair-weather friends. He wanted that emotion, saw it everywhere, thought it must be attainable, but found no course of action by which he could come by happiness. Those two women—the tiger and her cub—seemed to be content. Caleb had felt a certain bit of contentment while with Monty. Monty made him smile. That had been one of the things that first attracted Caleb to him. It was that smile, that infectious damned smile, that made the corners of Caleb’s mouth rise high until his cheeks hurt. Monty’s eyes did nothing for Caleb. His man’s irises were a drab blue, almost gray—two lumps of stone above that glowing smile. A blight surrounded by beauty.

During the half-hour long drive back into Montgomery—The Dover Bar resided in Wetumpka and was the only gay bar for seventy square miles—he thought about Monty, and what the man had meant to him. Twice, Caleb found tears when he wiped at his burning eyes. That was fine. Monty wasn’t there to see him weep. Still, Caleb held back as much as he could bear. He’d be home soon, and didn’t want his father to see him crying. The last thing Caleb’s mother needed was the noise of his father bellowing up a trip to Hell.

He thought about Ricky Giadaria, Monty’s predecessor. Ricky had seduced Caleb, or so Caleb liked to believe. A rough-handed, bear of a man, Ricky stood a good six-inches taller than Caleb. Ricky had a barrel chest full of hair, and a pink soul-patch he liked to call his “Flavor Savor.” Caleb found the man on the internet, in a curious-forum full of youngsters trying to find out if they really would enjoy genitalia that matched their own. Caleb had innocent questions. Ricky gave lewd answers. The older guy turned Caleb on with his dirty talk. Even though the dangers of meeting a stranger from the internet in real life loomed at the forefront of Caleb’s mind, he’d agreed to meet Ricky at the Waffle House on Court Street.

It was one in the morning. The restaurant sat empty aside from the staff.

There wasn’t much in the way of talking. When he’d arrived, Ricky had sat across from Caleb in the booth. Ricky excused himself when the food came, and went to the bathroom. Ricky returned shortly after, seating himself next to Caleb instead of going back to his seat.

“You okay?” Ricky asked.

Caleb turned his head sideways and smiled at him. “Good.”

Ricky reached under the table, cupped Caleb’s crotch, and massaged it. “How about now?”

Caleb’s breathing grew shallow. He pulled his inhaler from the breast pocket of his shirt, pumped it twice into his mouth, and returned it. “Am now.”

“Asthma?” Ricky didn’t have to ask. Caleb was sure Ricky knew a bronchial dilator when he saw one. Everyone did nowadays.

“Yep.”

“You okay with… heavy-breathing activities?” Ricky’s eyes shone with anticipation.

“More than okay.” Caleb pushed his crotch harder into Ricky’s working hand. “I’m ready.”

One Motel 6 hotel room, a tube of KY Jelly, a pack of Trojans and a bottle of knock-off brand chocolate syrup later, and Caleb lie panting, clutching a pillow to his chest. He hurt, but in a good way. With Ricky out of him, Caleb felt stretched and empty. The only thing he could liken it to, was that feeling he got after his morning constitution. Relieved and ready to go about his day. Ricky had been gentle, there’d been no tearing. Caleb’s lover had warned there might be, but it ended up being a hollow threat. Ricky tended to Caleb’s needs while he thrust, reaching around and stroking Caleb. He’d been a considerate lover.

Caleb knew that no deep feelings would bloom between him and the bear that popped his cherry. That’s not what their sex had been about. Caleb needed a first time, a trainer, someone that could show him how things were done. Ricky Giadaria served his purpose, and then left without complaint, nor promises he’d have to eventually break.

Caleb looked down past the steering wheel and saw the front of his pants bulging. He thought about dead puppies and basketball until the throbbing erection ebbed away. He would take care of it later to keep his balls from turning blue.

He took the Anne Street exit. He made the first left, drove to the end of the road and made a right onto his cul-de-sac.

The windows of his parent’s house were dark. The porch light was on, its rays cut in two by the new crack in his windshield. He pulled in behind his dad’s Land Rover and put on the parking brake. Caleb sat there for a while, thinking about Monty and Ricky, what each had meant to him. Ricky had served as a teacher of the flesh, whereas Monty had taught Caleb about love and sacrifice. Unfortunately, Caleb had lacked the tenacity for sacrifice. Being a lamb was lost on Caleb. No altar would ever be stained with his blood.

Caleb got out of the car and eased his door closed. He wanted to be quiet. If he woke Mom up, Dad would be pissed. Caleb’s mother needed her rest.

Caleb was putting his key in the door when he noticed his thumbnail. No pain came from the digit, but a long crack ran from the tip to the soft flesh at the nail bed. His thumb wasn’t bleeding, but looked as if it should be. He left the key in the knob and brought the oddity closer, studying it in the yellow glow of the bug light.

His thumb smelled like rotted meat.

The front door opened inward, and Chance, Caleb’s father, looked him over. “Where have you been?”

“Dropping someone off. Sorry I didn’t call.” Caleb tried to smile, but his mouth wouldn’t move in accordance with his wishes. When he looked back down to his thumb, the crack in his nail was gone.

Must have been the porch light playing tricks on me, Caleb thought.

His father’s brow furrowed. “You been drinking?”

“No.” Caleb had no idea where the question came from. “Why?”

“Ruth Lott called and told me she seen’t you with that queer, Montrose, over at The Dover.”

Caleb recovered before his face showed the shock that had passed through him. “I told you I was dropping someone off.”

“You getting smart with me?” Dad glowered at him, his nostrils flaring and deflating with every breath.

“No, sir.”

“Good. Now you wanna explain why you’re hanging round with sissies?”

“He needed a ride. I have a car. He was just a friend in need. I’m twenty-two years old. I didn’t think I needed to get your approval to give someone a ride. I don’t see the big deal.”

“You ain’t go’n be running around dropping fags off at butt-barns. You understand me, boy?”

“Yessir.”

“What? I couldn’t hear you?”

“Yessir!”

“Keep it down. Your mother’s trying to sleep.”

Really? Caleb thought, astounded. He sighed.

“You got your inhaler?”

Caleb nodded, patted the right front pocket of his jeans. “Yessir.”

“You need a refill yet?”

“Can I come inside, please?”

“What’s your rush? Need to take a shower? Wash that gay stink off you?”

Caleb exploded, “Stop it!” The look on his father’s face didn’t change, remained one of cold indifference. “I’m not gay. Sure, Monty is, but not—”

“Monty? Is that a pet name, Caleb?”

“He doesn’t like being called Montrose.”

“Whatever. Monty fits him. Come on.” Dad stepped aside, pulled the door open wider, and waved Caleb in. “Don’t slip. I just waxed the kitchen floor.”

“At two in the morning?” Caleb asked as he stepped inside.

“I’m busy with your mother all day. I don’t have time. You work, you should understand priorities by now. The Nova runnin’ good?” His father had helped him restore the `67 Chevy back to its original condition, white-wall tires and all. The car had all the muscle Caleb lacked, all the drive he needed in his life.

“Yessir.”

“Good. Now, do you need a refill on your inhaler? I just went to CVS and picked up your mom’s meds, so I snatched up an extra one for you.”

“Not yet. Work’s been light at the plant. They aren’t pushing us as hard since the Hyundai execs came in and switched around the shifts from three and four twelves a week to five eights. I don’t need my inhaler so often anymore.”

“There somethin’ you want to tell me?” The question was sudden, and it caught Caleb off guard. He tried to meet his father’s eyes, but the old man was looking out at the driveway where the Nova sat.

“Sorry?”

Dad met his eyes again, “Nothin’ you want to fess up about?”

“I don’t know what you mean?”

“The fuckin’ windshield of the Nova, Caleb. What happened to it? Jesus, boy, we work so hard on the goddamn thing and you just treat it any kind of way. What the hell’s wrong with you?”

“It was a rock. Nothing I could do about it. I’ll get it fixed when I get paid Thursday.”

“You damn well better. Shit!” Dad slammed the front door, and for a moment, both men stood in the foyer under the overhead light, staring at each other.

Caleb was the one who broke the silence. “How’s Mom?”

“Sick as a dog and tired as hell, what with the constant hospice staff running around all damned day. She lost some strength today, Caleb. She’s not looking good. She started sucking wind, and… ” Dad’s voice caught in his throat and Caleb’s guts churned. “She sounded like you havin’ one of them asthma attacks. Thought we was losing her, boy. Thought your momma was gone, right then. She come out of it on the positive side, but I don’t know how much longer she got.” Caleb’s father shook his head, wiped wetness from his cheek.

“I’m gonna go see her.”

“Mind the kitchen floor. She’ll be pissed if you scuff up all my hard work. You know how she gets. How she… ” Dad’s voice trailed off, then finally stopped.

The downstairs guestroom of Caleb’s home had been renovated to accommodate his mother after the lung cancer metastasized, making it hard for her to climb to the second story bedrooms.

Caleb walked in, was welcomed by the soft hum and hiss of her oxygen machine. Terri Combs’s ragged breathing stopped Caleb in mid step. The rattle was there, low under the sound of the working machine at her bedside, and his mother’s throat sounded as if it were filled with fluid.

Dad had been right. Death wasn’t far from her bedside.

The smell of Mom’s bedside commode stood strong against the odor of plastic and disinfectant. Used to be all he could smell was the heavy aroma of new tubing, but that was not the case now. Mom’s bowels had grown tired, were letting out winds that could curl a mustache.

Dad bought Mom the hospital bed the month prior. Getting out of a regular mattress became too great a chore for Terri, and her lungs suffered every time she needed to use the commode. Caleb had put the mechanical bed together, his hands used to assembly after two years with Montgomery’s Hyundai plant.

Caleb sat down on the edge of the bed with one thought on his mind: Forty-five is way too young to die.

            “Hey, Mom.” Caleb watched the carpet in front of him, his hands clasped together, fingers intertwined. “Dad said you had a rough day.”

Terri Combs continued to slumber. Every breath bubbled from her pursed lips. Caleb wondered if this was it. Could he say good bye to his mother as easily as he had Monty?

“I got something I might need to tell you before you go.” Caleb didn’t like the emotion in his voice. His mother didn’t need his pity. She needed his strength. “You remember Monty, right?”

Of course, she didn’t answer, but in his mind, Caleb heard, “Sure. Such a sweet boy.”

“Yeah, him. There’s, uh, been something going on between me an him. We were seeing an awful lot of each other before tonight.”

“Oh?”

“We’ve been together. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

“I think so.”

“Okay. Well, I had to break it off. Not because I didn’t love him—God, Mom, I really did love him—but because it just wouldn’t work out.”

“Why’s that?”

“Dad would kill me if he found out I was… well, you know.”

“That would be sad, Caleb. Him killing you, not you telling him.”

Caleb had to laugh. His mother didn’t sound a thing like herself in his mind. She’d never been so understanding. He wished it could be this simple, though. Hoped with all his heart to have the courage needed to actually say what needed to be said. His mother deserved better than what he was giving her. He owed her the truth. He had to wake her.

When Caleb turned to face his mother, his breath caught in his chest. His hands came apart and he was suddenly hunting his inhaler. He needed to breathe.

Just breathe, damnit!

Mom’s eyes were open. She was looking right at him.

Caleb stuck his inhaler in his mouth and sucked in the medicinal fumes. As his breath began to return, he asked her, “How… how long have you been awake?”

“`Bout the time you sat down.” Her voice was weak, wet and without tone. Nothing more than air escaping a crypt.

“You heard… everything?”

She nodded. A look of pain etched its way across her face, and she coughed. Caleb watched as she rolled a thick, milky fluid around in her open mouth before she closed her lips and swallowed.

“You really need to spit that junk out, Mom. Let me get you a can.”

“Sit back down.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Terri’s arm snaked out from under her covers. Her frail looking hand, too thin to carry any anger his way, wrapped around his wrist and pulled him closer. He let himself move, but remained scared of what she might say.

“Your father isn’t a righteous man, Caleb, but he sees God.”

Caleb shook his head, understanding he had nothing to fear. Her meds—most likely the painkillers Doctor Huntington had prescribed—were screwing with her mind. Dad didn’t see God. He didn’t even go to church.

“I might see God, too.”

“You’re going to be fine. Shhh, just go back to sleep.”

“When God comes, and I see him, I’ll tell him what you told me. And I’ll tell him with a smile on my face. You hear?”

So, she had heard him. In her own way, she was dealing with what he’d told her. Her medicated brain was firing on fifty percent power, taking and leaving what it pleased. At least his words hadn’t been in vain.

“Go on, Momma. Go back to sleep.” He tucked her arm back under the cover and pulled the comforter to her chin.

Terri closed her eyes and said, “What’s worse, that bitch is gonna see God, too.”

The temperature must have dropped ten degrees. Caleb began shivering. He couldn’t control it. Mom’s words had frosted the room, and he could see his breath on the gelid air.

“Step on a crack,” Terri Combs wheezed. “Break that whore’s back.”

The wind whistled from her. Caleb heard a soft rumbling, like the idling engine of a motorcycle, in the back of his mother’s throat. The skin of Terri Combs’s face went slack. Gravity pulled her cheeks back toward her ears and she seemed to smile.

She never took another breath.

 

Chapter Two coming 12/27/2012

Ruminating On: World Suck

Around this time every year, my front yard turns into a sea of copper. Sure, there are bits of greenery poking through the abundance of dead leaves, but they are fewer in number everyday. Alabama holds tight to summer, never really lets the season go. Right now, a thin veil of fog covers everything—rains have come and gone, and on the air is a crisp autumnal scent. Smoke from dying fireplaces mix in with the mist; it’s a heavy, moist, scorched-wood world outside my door. We have three more days until the winter solstice and fall leaves us completely. Of course this doesn’t mean much in the south other than a chance of temperatures dropping below sixty degrees. The southern United States can have all four seasons in a single week. In the past seven days we’ve had humid, sweat-inducing afternoons followed by frigid, long-john-grabbing evenings. As per usual, the mercury soars and plummets and we’re all left confused about what to wear come morning.

These chaotic weather patterns are nothing new, but this year they have me thinking. What with the constant flow of tragedies popping up on the news I cannot help but see that our world is changing. I’m not going into some end-of-the-world, 2012, Mayan calendar (which isn’t really a calendar at all, but simply a sun stone) apocalyptic diatribe of doom and gloom. If we are to find our end, so be it. There’s nothing any of us can do but ride the wave. That isn’t going to happen, mind you. At least not on 12/21/2012, so calm down. What I do want to talk about is the grass poking through the dead leaves that have covered the front lawn of our society.

In the midst of any tragedy you can find heroes. Be it a teacher hiding her young students from a gunman or a group of individuals raising money to decrease world suck. The Project for Awesome (Google it to find out more) does just that. I’ve been watching a steady stream of videos on Youtube by brotherhood 2.0, sxephil, sourcefed, wheezywaiter and charlieissocoollike. All these people banding together, making videos, trying to raise money for their charities of choice. I’m saddened in one regard though. If ever I have wanted celebrity status, now would be the time. I would use my name to make a difference, to make sure I decimated my own little pile of world suck without remorse. What I can do is offer a waypoint for those that would like to donate or share information. Click HERE to find out more about The Project for Awesome. Go on, I’ll wait.

Now, if you decided to forego the clickitude, I understand. Maybe you don’t have the fundage to give or the time to share and pimp this cause around. I dig that, but I hope you will at least give it some thought. If this isn’t the cause for you, lets talk about other ways you can decrease world suck.

We all have clothes we don’t wear anymore. Goodwill and the Salvation Army could use them. How about giving blood? Free cookies and OJ. Who the heck can pass that up? Have a blood problem like anemia or, Tom Cruise forbid, a transmittable disease? I’m sure there’s a volunteer position open right this very second where you can ring a bell and tell people Merry Christmas to the tune of change being dropped into a bucket. Maybe you have a job and don’t have the time. Why not ask yourself what you’re working for? To support your family? Yourself? Just trying to make ends meet? Perhaps you’re the one in need of some assistance. Well, help not sought is help not found. There’s a difference between being in need and begging. Begging requires a previous expression of denial. I don’t consider asking once to be begging. We’re all here for each other, or at least we should be. Being human can be a lonely thing. This holiday season (and even afterward if you’re the go-getter type) I ask of you all a wee bit of charity. It can be simple, it can be extravagant… or it can even be anonymous. Share some happy. It’s contagious, I swear on my life it is.

I’ve used my only venue to reach out to you all. If you’re at home wondering what I’m doing, I will answer that here. I will be mailing 50 Season’s Greetings cards out to random people on Friday, all addresses I found while surfing these fine interwebs. Each one will have a simple note and will be signed: A Friend. This isn’t about promoting myself or anyone else. It’s about doing something positive without seeking a return on my investment. It’s about decreasing world suck.

Our society is changing, and, for the most part, it’s turning in the wrong direction. Everyone of us needs to look upon our current situation, good or bad, and yank ourselves away from the foul offerings of media outlets and doomsayers. If you’re happy and you know it, don’t change a thing, but maybe offer a bit of that happy to someone you don’t know. If your world sucks beyond all hope, surround yourself with those that make you happy or things that make you smile. Shoot, contact me and I’ll tell you a really, really bad joke. The kind that makes the teller blush and the listener laugh simply because the punchline is just so terribly unfunny. I do what I can

This has been a public service announcement from E.

LYF.

Ruminating On: A Letter to the Lost

I’m sorry. I am so terribly sorry. I wish I could have done something, could have been there for at least one of you, but I wasn’t. I wish I could silence the masses, show them that now isn’t the time for self-serving behavior. We all want to know why this happened, but none of us will ever know. An individual stole you from those you loved and those that loved you in return. This person doesn’t deserve a name, nor do they deserve the recognition they’ve been given. Among you lost children, were adults. Dawn Hocksprung, Nancy Lanza, Mary Sherlach and Vicki Soto are part of this tragedy. Those named, I will remember, not the gunman’s. They haven’t released your names (at least, not that I know of) but I believe that’s a good thing. Let your families grieve, for they are the ones left alone.

I wish that you were here again, untouched, unchanged… undamaged. For you, I weep.

It feels odd drawing my children near, hugging them closer than ever because there are parents out there right now without that option. Still, I cannot help but to cling to my own with the hopes that what has befallen you will never come calling on my own. I feel horrible for thinking like that, so, once again, I’m sorry.

I will keep you and yours in my heart, for that is all I can offer. I am so sorry.

E.

Ruminating On: A Moment of Silence.

Nothing more.

LYF,

E.

Christmas Cards

I want to actually do physical Christmas cards this year, but I don’t want to do the norm. If any of you know someone down on their luck, or just in need of a smile, send me their address to edwardlorn@gmail.com.

If anyone would like to join me in this effort, email me as well.

LYF!

E.

Cover Reveal!

Sometimes, bad people do good deeds.

Larry and Mo Laughlin are retired killers turned private investigators with monetary woes. So when their handler introduces them to the Trudeaus, one final job is placed on the docket.

Jacob and Bernice Trudeau need their teenage daughter, Amy, found, and they also want the men responsible dead. Two million dollars is an offer Larry and Mo can’t refuse.

To find Amy, the Laughlins must travel to Mexico, where they are thrust into a world of debauchery so foul they will be forever changed.

One crazed pimp, a veterinarian turned doc-for-hire, and an enigmatic facility called “The Show” lie in wait for the wayward couple.

Is there any hope for the wicked?

Need Your Help

I don’t do this often, but this time the story calls for it. Are there any of you that know a great deal about concentration camps and Nazi Germy around 1941? I need in-depth knowledge. The internet is a vast pool of information, but to find certain information I have to know what I’m looking for.

Send me an email to edwardlorn@gmail.com if you’re interested.

Thanks!

Red Adept Select Holiday Giveaway!

Red Adept Select Holiday Giveaway!

Enter for your chance to win one of ten novels voted outstanding in genre!