Ray Stone's Blog: A blog for everyone, page 15

March 24, 2015

Bal maid a knocking – A Pauper’s Grave

Chapter 6
Written by: Ray Stone

The warmth from the fire in my bedroom made my dressing habits more comfortable and my mind more ready for the day ahead. I had written to Mr Crumley advising him that he take care of the mine’s banking and see that I spent no more than one quarter of the income on managing my personal affairs. Other requirements were to follow once I completed my enquiries into personal matters.

On hearing voices below, I knew that Pumblewood had arrived as requested and that, if my suspicions proved correct, he would hopefully, having the opportunity without my presence, be advising Mrs Malocks that the truth about my mother and aunt should come to light. Without haste, I descended to the kitchen to find both my housekeeper and mine foreman drinking tea. I waved them remain seated as they made to stand.

Their conversation was finished as I entered and both sat silent, each looking at the tea cup in front of them. I was determined to make sure both became aware of my intention to end their employment should they hold information back. It was Pumblewood who spoke.

“Your mother was sick,” he said softly, “with the dust on her lungs.”

As the sorrowful tale unfolded slowly, I learned of the heartless way my uncle caused my mother’s untimely death by ignoring her. The thought of my mother suffering tore deeply at my heart. She came to the door asking Silas to fetch a doctor. He refused and sent her away. On the following morning, two miners found her at the bottom of the steep cliffs, pounded by the raging sea.

I looked into Malocks’ face and saw a glistening. The burden of responsibility she shared with Pumblewood was too much. She burst into tears and buried her head in her hands, shaking her shoulders as if to lighten the load.

“Florence is buried near here,” she sobbed uncontrollably.

It was the first time anyone spoke of my mother by name and the mention stirred my emotions to the quick. Silas bribed the two men to bury her not two miles away in a pauper’s cemetery. Even in death, she could find no dignity. It gave me no satisfaction that the man who abandoned her was also dead, for I wished him alive to face me on a day of reckoning.

My biggest shock was to come as I learned of my aunt. Malocks, too taken with her guilt to continue, prayed I would forgive her.

Pumblewood continued. With renewed vigour, my aunt fought for better conditions for the hard working women, especially the younger girls. Silas had snapped and moved hastily to silence her. Within one week constables arrived to arrest her, declaring that her legal guardian certified her insane.

I could not imagine another act so evil and looked at Pumblewood with disgust. My fist crashed down onto the table, spilling the tea.

“God help me,” cried Pumblewood, “for it was I who helped him put her on the black coach.”

http://www.thestorymint.com/serials/bal-maid-knocking

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Published on March 24, 2015 12:38

Cut Away Pass – Chapter 5

Written by: Ray Stone

“All of you…get inside.” Jack swung a leg over his saddle and dropped down beside Sissy.

Ray jumped from his horse and drew his .45. He waved the group into the hut as he took aim at the rattler. Despite the worsening weather and howling wind, everyone flinched as the Colt cracked. The top half of the snake flew through the air and dropped down behind a small boulder.

“Sissy’s still alive,” shouted Jack. “Let’s get her inside the hut.”

***

The constant din of a wildly flapping corrugated metal sheet and hammering rain on the roof drowned out normal conversation. The snow had turned to rain again and the ground outside the hut was a quagmire quickly turning into a large stretch of shallow water.

Sissy, still unconscious, lay on the table near the wood stove with her head swathed in bandages. Jack sat beside her, holding her hand. The other riders had drawn up next to the stove. As one woman brewed coffee, Ray stood in the half light of the flickering fire to address the group.

“The situation is grave. Sissy must get medical assistance but my satellite phone will not work in this weather and even if it did, the medivac chopper service would be unable to fly in these conditions. The answer is that either Jack or I will have to try and go for help. That means going back ten miles to the Ranger station where we started. I suggest we eat and all of you get what sleep you can while I…” he looked at Jack and shrugged…“go for help. We cannot wait until the morning.”

There was a general buzz of conversation, but no argument. Tired and worried by the events that day, some turned to the wooden bunks that lined the walls and unrolled sleeping bags. Ray sat next to Jack and motioned a hand toward Sissy.

“All I have is the emergency first aid kit and a bottle of brandy. There is nothing to take away the pain once she is conscious.”

Jack shook his head. “Do the best you can. If the weather clears, I’ll try to contact the Rangers.”

Thirty minutes later, Ray pulled the leather poncho tightly around his neck, tightened the chin strap of his Stetson, and stepped out of the door into the driving rain. The door slammed behind him. Leaning into the wind, he stumbled to the covered rail area and grabbed his saddle. It took him several minutes to saddle his horse. He was about to mount when he spotted one saddle that had fallen to the ground from the saddle bench.

As he picked it up, a strange shaped object wrapped in cloth fell to the ground. Curious, he unwrapped it.

“God-damn-it.”

He looked at the small hand-held XRF Analyser. Pressed against a seam or used in a grid pattern on a mine’s rock face, the digital screen could tell if copper was present. The initials ‘JM’ were marked on the saddle.

http://www.thestorymint.com/serials/cut-away-pass

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Published on March 24, 2015 11:19

March 17, 2015

One chapter after another

How do the serials work?

Submitted by Suraya Dewing on Wednesday 18 March 2015

When I first set the serials up, I saw them as a bit of fun to get the community of writers at The Story Mint interacting and sharing their writing thoughts.

So it was a surprise when I had a member come to me and say how much she loved the serials and how much she had learnt about writing by taking part in them.

I asked her what she meant by this.

She told me she had found out she needed to stop waffling when she wrote, to keep to the subject, to be clear and concise. She added that serial writing had also taught her to pay attention to what other people said, not only in her writing, but also in her daily life. She had sharpened her comprehension skills.

When I asked around, I received similar feedback. Writers enjoyed the challenge of having to write in unfamiliar genres and this had added to their own creative repertoire. In fact, we are seeing this at work in Ray Stone’s serial, ‘A Bal Maid a Knocking’, which is completely out of his usual ‘thriller’ genre. He is writing all ten chapters of this story, which is a departure from our usual format of each writer submitting one 500 word chapter. His story-telling mode takes me to the time when Charles Dickens was writing, and to that period, as the story is set in Cornwall during the 1800s. He has captured the time and the characters really well. As I read, I hear the characters’ voices and see the conditions during that time. It is an excellent story.

He would say that he learnt how to write in different genres by writing serial chapters. As I have seen his writing progress over the four years we have known each other, I would agree.

In fact, if we look at how we were all writing four years ago, it is astounding (and perhaps a little embarrassing) to see how far we have come.

For example, it is now rare to see passive voice, and we now get stories that take the reader on a journey through description of events and the environment. Even thrillers and stories that build tension follow a rhythm that is easy to read. Increasingly, it is difficult to tell where one writer started and the other left off.

That alone tells me that we are learning to pay attention to each other as well as showing the reader great respect by not expecting him or her to struggle through waffle (of course, no reader will). We now invite the reader to join us in our stories and to see what our imaginations have created. It is indeed a wonderful process.

So, what else does the writer learn from taking part in our serial?

Apart from meeting a kind and generous community of dedicated writers, there are, without doubt, the skills a writer acquires. Although it is only 500 words, those apparently few words have to capture the story, the personalities of the characters, and then set them up in a way that the next writer can continue the story. It breaks all the short story rules of writing a beginning, a middle and an end, and that is sometimes very challenging. Each chapter has to have tension so the reader isn’t bored and, depending where in the serial the chapter writer finds him or herself, it has to comply with the normal rules of short story writing. This means that if a writer has booked to write one of the last three chapters, it is too late to introduce a new character. However, many a new character may have appeared in the first few chapters and taken the limelight.

So, writing chapters for serials have definitely played a huge role in writers gaining confidence, mastering their skills and, above all, meeting a like-minded community from around the world.

http://www.thestorymint.com/blog/suraya-dewing/how-do-serials-work

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Published on March 17, 2015 23:25

March 16, 2015

Amazon Newsletter

March 2015

Behind the Cover:

J.F. (Joanna) Penn

“It took me a long time to find a life that I love…” Joanna Penn left her job in the finance industry to follow her heart and write for a living.

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Cut – away – pass

Chapter 3

Written by: DonnaMcT

Ray jumped from his horse and moved towards the familiar voice, the other riders watching in shocked silence. As he disappeared from their view, the muttering started again, this time more insistent.

“How can he be sure? That’s what I want to know,” hissed the blonde from Florida.

“Sissy, hush now,” replied her companion as he looked fearfully towards the spot where Ray had been. “You heard what he said, no one could survive and he knows this place better than we do.”

Sissy tightened her jaw and said nothing.

“She’s right though.” Sissy turned to see a young man sitting restlessly in his saddle.

“We should have stopped. What if Ray’s wrong? What if he’s lying there right now, needing our help?” His words fell in a hysterical tumble and melted into the drizzle.

“When Ray comes back I’m going to tell him that …”

“Tell me what?” snarled Ray as he emerged through the rain leading a muddy packhorse and his equally bedraggled owner. He stopped in front of the young man and glared.

“That we want to go back. We all agree, don’t we?” said the young man looking round nervously. The rest of the riders sat a couple of inches taller in their saddles and defiantly voiced their agreement.

“Oh you do, doyou? You stupid bastards. What do you think that will achieve apart from appease your pathetic consciences. Now shut up and get going, and he whacked the side of the young man’s horse. His eyes bore slowly into each shocked face and one by one they followed, their bravado extinguished in the damp grey rain.

“That was well handled, mate” said the newcomer smirking. “Nothing like a bit of conflict to spice things up. It’s your job to look after them, not antagonise them. You know that, don’t you? When are going to learn, mate?… his voice, familiar and insistent.

Ray shot him a black look and jumped on his horse to follow the group before they got too far ahead. Of course he knew what his job was. He didn’t need Jack bloody Moody to tell him, but he had such a smart mouth. They both knew he’d stuffed up and in more ways than one. He wanted to go back to look for the fallen rider but he couldn’t. They had to get on, get out of this treacherous muddy mess before there were more accidents. They didn’t know how dangerous it was and they wouldn’t listen to him now anyway. But Jack knew. It was only 12 months since he’d rescued him from the slip on this very trail. The weather had been the same and the trail had simply slid off the side of the mountain in an ugly slow red sludge. Wrong place, wrong time, Jack had said, but Ray knew different. He shouldn’t have been on the trail that day; all his instincts had told him so. Ray had felt invincible then, but now he just felt scared.

http://www.thestorymint.com/serials/cut-away-pass

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Published on March 16, 2015 10:17

A wurd in your ere

Nice day today. Not a cloud in the sky and warm enough to lay on the lounger. I spent some time looking through the serials at the Story Mint and was amazed at the quality of the work. My publicist Irene Kimmel and I were discussing 50 shades of gray and how much the movie has netted. The book is badly edited but as Irene said, the story is so strong that the bad editorial work fades into insignificance. I remember in the first issue of Trojan Towers I was pulled over the coals for spelling a Dutch street wrongly. Does that mean the book was uninteresting? I revised but the reviewer never came back to me. Writing is a cut throat and sometimes soul destroying business. Criticism we have to endure and learn to accept but a little bit of good luck would not go amiss for those of us who write and edit with skills we continually strive to improve.

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Published on March 16, 2015 10:10

March 14, 2015

The Vacant Room

Chapter 8

Written by: Gabrielle Burt

In a familiar gesture, Brian rubbed his stubbly chin.

“Wait! I’ve changed my mind. Can you read that one last…?”

He stops mid-sentence and quickly slips the yellowed envelope into the back of the pile. His eye roll says it all, but I don’t want to hear ‘what concerns whom’ just yet. Embarrassed, I take a big sip of tea. It’s too hot and scalds my mouth. I hastily reach for iced water to soothe the burn.

Patiently Brian opens the next envelope and begins to read. The letters are in no particular order. I wonder who might have neatly tied and stored them in my backpack. For me to find? Some are sealed and some are not. It doesn’t matter. I listen intently as each one reveals another piece of the jigsaw.

The letters tell of life in the French Resistance Movement. I can feel the author’s rage as he battles to keep one step ahead of the Gestapo. The war is destroying his dreams and tearing his life apart – and with it, his family. Finally, despair threatens to disable him as it saps his will for a future that might have been.

His writing is brutal and raw and sad and funny and I find myself crying and laughing in turn. Perhaps he was only able to achieve this depth of honesty with the belief he was baring his soul and sealing all his deepest emotions in an envelope that would never be posted. Or perhaps it was Russian roulette! An outrageous defiance against the creative cruelty of the Nazis.

‘14a Bartholomew Rd, London 16 July 1980.’

My jaw drops! A new address. This was on mail we regularly received at Aunty Emma’s.

‘Dear Em,’ ‘Eiffel … MI6′, ‘Operation Jericho-18.02.44′. It is signed ‘Claude’. Nothing else is legible.

We are speechless – each with our own thoughts.

“Let’s get to the hospital!” Brian recovers, crushing the letter into the backpack as we head for the door.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Marie listens without expression until we finish, then closes her eyes for so long I think she may be unconscious – or dead.

“Marie?” I whisper. “I remember regular mail. Gifts too, sometimes … from Bartholomew Rd. My mother ….” I can hardly breathe. “He was my Grandfather – wasn’t he?”

“Tamara – not your grandfather. No. He was Claude Du Bois – my father. A hero in the Resistance Movement. Your grandmother was newly widowed when they met. Your mother was just a child. He – they ran the underground, smuggling British airmen safely out of France. The night your grandmother died there was a low-level Mosquito strike, to free them from Amiens prison where they were being held. Shrouded in secrecy, it was rumoured MI6 was behind it. My father deliberately stepped on that mine, trying to save her. She died. He was left a cripple. The Eiffel Tower. It’s the key.” Marie’s eyes flutter tiredly.

“The key to what?”

http://www.thestorymint.com/serials/vacant-room

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Published on March 14, 2015 08:03

March 12, 2015

Don’t Let The Story Sleep In Your Head

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Why You Should Just DO IT!

Why You Should Just DO IT!

By Richard “RB” Botto

Tuesday, March 10th, 2015

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Today’s guest blog is written by Stage 32 member Jessica Rose, a screenwriter from Charlotte, North Carolina. I’m thrilled to announce that through networking right here on Stage 32 Jessica was recently hired by a producer to write a feature film.

(Side note: Take the time to check out Jessica’s profile page – bio, links, resume – a complete picture. Can’t stress the benefits of a completed profile enough.)

In today’s blog, Jessica explains how she manages to handle balancing family, community, spirituality, and a full-time job, yet still finds the time to work on her screenplays.

Jessica explains that while dealing with some of the hardships life deals us, you can still find time to do the things that make you happiest, and that persistence and soliciting support pays dividends.

I thank Jessica for her contribution to the Stage 32 Blog.

Enjoy!

Just DO IT!

Don’t let a PASS get you down!

Get Up! Go on and WRITE!

Be successful by NOT having everything you want!

Do you want to be a screenwriter? If so, you probably like to write and write and write. If you don’t like to write, this job is not for you.

What I’ve realized about this industry is that it’s not as glamorous as everyone thinks it is. It’s hard work and you have to be proactive and highly organized to stay on track. Thanks to Stage 32, we have everything at the touch of our fingertips. It’s the only place on the face of the earth that has the resources and educational tools located on one site for the entertainment industry. (Note: You must use them to make them work for you. I still have several areas of the site that I need to dig into.)

So how can someone balance God, family, work, community and still have time to write?

Well, it’s possible and I’m proof of that! Did I mention that I’m 53 and work a full-time job?

My “ah-ha” moment came in two parts. The first part was when Joey from Happy Writers told me that I needed to concentrate on either acting or writing and that if I wanted to be a screenwriter, I needed to do it! His suggestion took me back to several experiences in my life.

FLASHBACK

When my son was still of “car seat age,” he heard the frustration in my voice while I was focused on all I had on my agenda. Apparently, I was listing everything out verbally. At one point, he said this: “Mama, why don’t you just do it?” Out of the mouth of a babe! His statement is something I’ve carried with me throughout my life.

When my mother was trying to console me from the news that my first marriage was ending, she sat with me, my head in her lap. While I was crying, she told me “You must get up and go on with your life. You can’t let this get you down.” My mother died a year and a half later, but her words live on.

When my daughter was in her teens, she was watching a television show that talked about women who “had it all.” She said to me “Mama, you have it all.” Wow! I explained to her “Yes, I have God, family, a job, and all the material things society deems as successful, but I had to give up something to have it all.” I was not able to stay at home with my children and watch them grow up in order to have it all.

Growing up, my parents both worked full-time. However, when they came home each day, we were their PRIORITY, and they would often teach us how we had to put God first and help those less fortunate than ourselves.

Each of these events can be applied to our screenwriting careers.END OF FLASHBACK

The second part of that fabulous ah-ha moment was in church. I’ve attended church all my life (you’d think I’d heard all they could say by now), but one Sunday during the sermon, it hit me… it didn’t matter what I did as a career or in my personal life… a wife, mother, grandmother, admin, actress or writer. If I didn’t put God first and learn my faith, and share it with others, I would never be fulfilled. That evening, I had a heart-to-heart talk with God and asked him if He thought I was ready to do this thing.

The next day, I received a network request from a producer on Stage 32 (again, thank you Stage 32). I responded with the usual “thank you”, but because I read his profile and knew he advertised previously for a screenwriter, I took that next step and told him I hoped he was doing well with his movie. I did this not to capture a gig, because he was no longer advertising. I did it because I truly wanted the best for him. He responded back and replied he was still in need of a screenwriter! Who knew! Although I must be careful not to breach the contract, I will tell you that a month later, the first draft of the screenplay was finished and money was in the bank.

You must want to do this not only because it is your passion, but out of the will to help others as well. I want to take not only my ideas, but other people’s ideas and make them the movie they want to make. I care when I see someone else pursuing their goal!

I’d also like to emphasize that in the screenwriting world, not having a good support group is a stumbling block. You must find that group of people who share the same interests and will support you when need be. They will also help you with script ideas.My sister gave me the name and idea of my second script. And several times a year, I try to spend time with friends. They are a very strong support group. Around a campfire in Virginia, my friend gave me an idea for a horror/thriller, which is not my normal genre. The script is about three-fourths complete. How cool is that?!

On a trip to Italy, I met a beautiful Italian gentleman who allowed me to read his script. Great movie! Oh my! I must correspond with him and tell him about Stage 32! Not only was I able to share my thoughts with him, but the friends I traveled with were some of the best encouragement around!

On a trip to the lake, I shared scripts with more of my girlfriends. We’re currently planning a script retreat, where they’ll help me improve upon those scripts I’m trying to have optioned.

Are you getting my drift?In addition to all of these life experiences, below are the tips I follow to keep from being stressed. Hopefully, they will not only help me to go “full time” in this wonderful industry, but will help you reach your goal in whatever you are trying to pursue.

First thing you need to do is opt out of organizations and activities you really don’t need. I gave up my part-time scribing job. The little bit of money I earned was a drop in the bucket compared to having a screenwriting career. I also discontinued my monthly admin meeting. Now Stage 32 is my training arena!

Unsubscribe to emails you really don’t need. We spend a majority of our time going through email.

Take control of social media. Don’t spend every hour of the day on it. Yes, network, because that is the best way to connect. Social media is a good thing if used properly, but use it to your advantage and don’t let it control you.

Clean out the clutter in your home. Americans spend the majority of their time keeping up with their material things when they could be drinking coffee on the porch… or writing.

Writing a screenplay, to me, has two different stages. The first stage is the thoughts in your head that are always twirling around. Except for an occasional deadline need or an email correspondence, I take the weekend off with my family and church. This will keep the balance. Just because my hands aren’t typing doesn’t mean I’m not working! If you have the scenes thought out, when you sit down, typing will flow much better.

Put your faith first. Whether you are Christian, Catholic, Jehovah Witness, Muslim, Jew, Buddhist, Mormon or Atheist. (Please forgive me if I left one out). We are all in this life together and we must be strong in the love that brings us together, despite our different religions and cultures.

When I leave my day job, I must focus on church, husband, family and chores, so when do I have time to write? During my lunch, of course! You can write an entire screenplay during your lunch… I did. There were two days during the month I was off from my day job and spent an additional four hours each day on the script, but the remaining time was spent working through lunch with my door closed. Don’t have an office? Go to your car during lunch and type. If your employer is flexible, ask to work four, ten-hour days one week out of the month and on your day off that week, when everyone else is at work, write!

One thing that society drills in our minds is perfection! “Keep up with the Joneses!” But, how much writing time does that take up? I say, let the dust gather; don’t worry about keeping a spotless house and a super clean car or working overtime just to purchase a new car when you have two already! You can’t do it all and write too! Perfection does not exist in the human form. It just doesn’t. On the other hand, when you get that big gig, you can delete this whole paragraph… except for the perfection and human form thingy.
Take baby steps to your goals. Don’t think it is going to happen in one day and don’t think you need to get everything done in a couple of weeks! Take it one word at a time, one network connection at a time, one screenwriting class at a time. JUST DO IT! Oh, and make sure your script is formatted correctly… an error I made on several contests. Also, drink your water and get eight hours of sleep!

One last factoid… Stage 32 cares! It’s not always about me! It’s about us! LET’S DO THIS THING… TOGETHER!

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Published on March 12, 2015 05:18

HOSTAGE

Chapter 10
Written by: jlabrum

The gas turbine engine of the old Sikorsky screamed as it strained for altitude. Fear gone, she worked on high octane adrenaline. The rotor stall alarm still squawked as she milked the collective up and down to increase rotor rpm. Her confidence grew as she cleared the forest canopy and watched it shrink beneath. Rock on, Sam thought, the relief showing on her grime streaked face.

If only this aircraft were more maneuverable, she wished as she continued a steady assent in preparation for her next move. The pilot scanned the cabin. Joey was still out in the co-pilot’s seat, his harness unfastened. The two cops sat behind the rear crew seats watching every move she made, even though neither of them knew enough about piloting a helicopter to guess what she was thinking.

The altimeter registered 500 meters when Sam gently leveled off and changed to a Westerly heading. Her captors relaxed now that the crises seems to have passed. The landscape changed to prairie land and she thought, where is it? She executed a sweeping right turn. It must be south, she thought. Suddenly Sam spotted the small lake hidden in the trees. This’s got to be it.

With a cool confidence Sam surveyed the cabin again. Catching Brian’s’ eye, she gave him a signal that only someone as close as he would notice. Brian gave Reece a nudge. Then, Sam slammed the collective down hard and the ship shot downward hurling their captors against the overhead. Sam immediately corrected and they hit the floor sprawled and unconscious.

Sam set the craft down beside a mooring buoy near the center of the lake and secured a line. Rummaging through the cop’s pockets, she found the keys and unlocked the handcuffs restraining her companions. Brian just finished cuffing the three when he saw a boat headed toward them at high speed.

“Get down!” Brian yelled, throwing himself toward the automatic rifles lying behind a rear seat, He threw a weapon to Sam while bullets pelted around them. They prepared to defend themselves when the sound of a chopper filled the air.

“B23 come in. Brian do you copy?”

“Brian here. Is that you, Sanchez?” He yelled into the handset.

An Apache with DEA markings swooped down and fired a burst across the boat’s bow. It killed power and drifted to a stop. Spray covered the boat, drenching its occupants as the DEA gunship hovered close above. Their inflatable raced out from the shore.

“Affirmative,” barked the radio, ”What’s your situation – over?”

“Reece has been shot and lost a lot of blood. We have stabilized but we need to get him to a hospital ASAP. We have three in custody – over.”

Sanchez took custody of the drug boat and arrested the criminals. Then he sent the inflatable over to pick up Joey and the two cops. Within twenty minutes, with Brian at the controls, the rescue team lifted off and headed back to base with an ambulance standing by.

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Published on March 12, 2015 04:55

Bal maid of Condurrow – chapter 6 – A Pauper’s Grave

On hearing voices below I knew that Pumblewood had arrived as requested and that if my suspicions proved correct he would hopefully, having the opportunity without my presence, be advising Mrs Malocks that the truth about my mother and aunt should come to light. Without haste I descended to the kitchen to find both my housekeeper and mine foreman drinking tea. I waved them remain seated as they made to stand.

“Your mother was sick,” he said softly, “with the dust on her lungs.”

As the sorrowful tale unfolded slowly I learned of the heartless way my uncle caused my mother’s untimely death by ignoring her. The thought of my mother suffering tore deeply at my heart. She came to the door asking Silas to fetch a doctor. He refused and sent her away. On the following morning two miners found her at the bottom of the steep cliffs, pounded by the raging sea.

I looked into Malocks face and saw a glistening. The burden of responsibility she shared with Pumblewood was too much. She burst into tears and buried her head in her hands, shaking her shoulders as if to lighten the load.

“Florence is buried near here,” she sobbed uncontrollably.

It was the first time anyone spoke of my mother by name and the mention stirred my emotions to the quick. Silas bribed the two men to bury her not two miles away in a pauper’s cemetery. Even in death she could find no dignity. It gave me no satisfaction that the man who abandoned her was also dead for I wished him alive to face me on a day of reckoning.

My biggest shock was to come as I learned of my aunt. Malocks, too taken with her guilt to continue, prayed I would forgive her.

Pumblewood continued. With renewed vigor my aunt fought for better conditions for the hard working women, especially the younger girls. Silas had snapped and moved hastily to silence her. Within one week constables arrived to arrest her, declaring that her legal guardian certified her insane.

I could not imagine another act so evil and looked at Pumblewood with disgust. My fist crashed down onto the table, spilling the tea.

“God help me, Sir,” he cried, “for it was I who helped Silas Dench put her on the black coach.”

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Published on March 12, 2015 03:55

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A blog for everyone

My blog is a collection of my works and the work of writers who I know and admire. Some are fairly new and others experiences. We all share the love of writing.

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