Allan Hudson's Blog, page 45

Returning Guest Louise Boulter - author of Forgotten

Louise has been a guest several times on the Scribbler and we are fortunate to have her as our guest this week. Her novel is an exceptional story and we have posted a previous excerpt. See it  here  There has been such a terrific response to her story that we asked her to share it one more time.



My book 'Forgotten' is about a man who, after a brutal attack, wakes from a coma and does not know who he is or where he is from. All he has to go on are initials on a wallet the police found, as well as a picture of a woman and a young girl hidden inside the wallet. He makes his way across Canada in the hopes of finding who he is. Along the way, he becomes homeless and his outlook on life changes.


 
 
Part of the proceeds from the sales of the book goes to local soup kitchens and shelters. Thus far, I have been fortunate enough to donate over $1,900.
 







Here is one of many reviews I have received:
 
“I read this book over two days and found it really difficult to put down. Not only was the topic of homelessness front and centre — an engaging issue that could always use more attention — it was also well written, with a beautiful storyline that enlightens along the way.
Warning to readers; This book can open your eyes to realities that demonstrate homeless people are just like us, except for one turn of fate.” – Andy L., Former ATV News Director, Dartmouth, N.S. Canada
 
The cover photo was given to me by the wonderful Moncton photographer, Serge Martin.
 


 
Below is an excerpt from my book:(copyright is held by the author. Used with permission)
 
The only thing that keeps me alive is the hope of finding the woman and child in the photo. Night comes and I’m again not able to get a cot at the Salvation Army. They’re full. Back to the streets. Huddled around those I now call friends. It’s only 6 p.m. and I’m starved. One guy sees the look of hunger on my face and approaches me. 
“Hey, Tee.” I’m surprised he remembers my name since we’ve only talked once or twice.
“I know where we can get all the hot coffee we want and some damn good donuts, maybe even sandwiches.” 
“Lead the way, Chuck.” He’s likely full of it, but I’ll humour him. Either that or he’s planning on robbing the nearest Tim’s. But he’s serious. He tells me he goes to AA meetings about three times a week. 
“They’re a nice bunch there. Don’t judge me neither.” I look at him. I know he drinks whenever he can get his hands on stuff, but he’s also a good guy. Last week he brought a half dozen sandwiches wrapped in napkins for those of us gathered around the garbage can. Didn’t tell us where he got them. Some said they didn’t need anything, but he insisted. So what if he drank? I’d drink too if I were him. As a matter of fact, if I had any money, I’d drink every day, just to ease the pain in my back. 
I follow him.





Visit Louise on FaceBook


Thank you Louise for sharing an excerpt from your compelling story. Looking forward to your future work.






And thank you to you, the visitor. You are what the Scribbler is all about. Please feel free to leave a comment below.

Music from “Down Under” with Special Guest Denis Belliveau

Denis Belliveau of Ocean Reef West Australia grew up in Moncton, New Brunswick. He is the founder of Supermoon Den.  He recently released his debut album and it's exceptional. He is kind enough to answer 4 questions for the 4Q Interview.
Supermoon Den is performing at Plan B on July 13th with special guest Luther Chase. (Read more below) 



4Q: A terrific debut CD Denis. I understand this has been a dream of yours for some time. Did you write all the songs and compose the music? Tell us about this experience and your inspiration.
   DB: Thanks Al I appreciate the kind words. It was always a dream of mine to write and record an album or a series of albums.  Most of my musical journey was spent in bands sharing music with others. It was great journey for me to dig deep to write the songs then record them. My inspiration was fueled by having some time to dedicate to this and a willing participant who was at the helm of the mixing desk.  
4Q: Tell us about your fellow musicians and putting together this great compilation of songs.

DB: I am very fortunate to have a wonderful circle of very talented friends here in West Australia. I originally went in with the intention of recording 4 songs with me and my acoustic guitar and maybe some backing vocals. Jackie was the first to collaborate with her violin and back-up vocals, then I got Frank to come in and put some male back-up vocals and it was then I realized it needed more. Everyone that contributed on the album were all very both good friends and talented musicians who understood the songs and the value of their contribution.  
4Q: Share a childhood memory or anecdote.
DB: Many years ago when I was in Moncton working on my paper route, I clearly remember a day when I was doing my thing and day dreaming about leaving town and coming back to Moncton. I was quite young but somehow knew that I was destined to leave at a young age and peruse my dreams. Whenever I go back I take time to walk my paper route and reminisce. It is a grounding exercise that I find very fulfilling. 
 
4Q: Where did the name Supermoon Dencome from? What’s in the future for Denis Belliveau, the musician?
DB: I was struggling with an artist name to be honest, very few people in Australian can pronounce my name yet spell it. So I wanted something that would stick, yet t also had to have meaning. During the recording of the album, we happened to have recorded under 2 super moons. One of those evenings had a significant impact on the way we recorded the guitars which had a huge influence on the sound of the album. I tried to register The Den but it was taken with the idea of calling the album The Supermoon Sessions, In the end I decided after much thought to call the project Supermoon Den.

The future is an interesting concept for me as an artist, I have written a few songs for the next album and hope to be recording by the end of the year.
   


Anyone can buy the album online via iTunes or via www.cdbaby.com, or alternatively people can come to the Plan B on July the 13th and purchase a cd. Most people don’t buy cd’s anymore, most of music today it purchased online or downloaded illegally. I may leave a bunch of CD’s at Spin it when I am home.   Here's some samples from the CD.
 https://youtu.be/IGW8Bud1EZo
https://youtu.be/b1qMv-I8CWA 
Thank you Denis for being our guest this week.  Good luck with your future endeavors. Anyone interested in reading more about Luther Chase, please see a previous post on the Scribbler when he was a guest. Go here   A huge thank you to you - the visitor! Please tell us your thoughts in the comment box below.

Far Out Mall! A short story by Allan Hudson.

Any Science Fiction Lovers out there?

This short story was originally published on the Scribbler in July 2014. It will be part of the new short story collection - Four Boxes of Memories - coming this fall!

Many people know that I work for Peoples Jewellers at Champlain Place, a Mall in Dieppe, New Brunswick.

I imagined a Mall in Outer Space - it could happen some day!

                              The Far Out Mall
                                                      Copyright is held by the author.



                                                            May 5, 2657
 
The Far Out Mall is 603 miles above Earth. It’s located in the 16-A Octagonal of the InterCosmic Manor 2599 (the year it was completed). The Off-Earth Living Pod (LP) is two miles long, two miles wide and three hundred feet deep, taking twenty-one years to complete. Shaped like an octagon, the frame is built of lunarium, the hardest and lightest metal known to man, mined deep below the surface of the moon. The ore was smelted, refined and the frame was shaped in the Galactic Forge 2412. The surface is covered with a golden skin of polyalymel, a combination of high density plastic from Earth, malleable alloys and elements from Mars. It has the ability to absorb and store light, providing all the power the manor needs. Sand, immense heat and pressure have been added to the compound to create the nine hundred and fifty-seven transparent glass panels through which its populace can view the stars, other Pods and Earth. Each of its thirty levels is divided into eight sections called an Octagonal.  Each floor has 20 bulk elevators and 78 HTDs - human transmission depositories.
InterCosmic Manor 2599, informally referred to as “Mac99” in reference to the original pioneer of living Off-Earth in self-sustaining  Pods in the twenty third century, Macintosh Fairweather , is home to over 80 thousand people. More than nine hundred of them tend the gardens and the forest on level four, unofficially referred to as the ‘feed and breathe’ level. Hundreds more tend the animals on level three, or manage the silage and fodder or control the enormous stores. Another seven thousand inhabitants work on levels one and two which are devoted to the power plants, the waste center, water control, ventilation, heating, maintenance, computer and communications center, robot and probe repair, janitorial, the recycling complex, the air transport garages, emergency response department and the morgue. The shipping and receiving docks for goods traded with Earth, Jupiter, Venus, Moon stations and the other satellites occupy their own Octagonal on levels one and two.
The owner and the extremely wealthy occupy enormous, extravagant suites on level thirty. They, their robots and their appointed staff are the only ones allowed at that level. Even the HTDs are programmed to detect designated biological signatures from each person’s Mac99 implant that they receive when arriving or are born here. Refusing the implant is not an option. LPs beyond the 200 mile ISB or International Space Boundary are responsible for their own safety, their own laws. Of the 263 LPs circling the earth, only two are hostile. Both orbit at miles 450 and 455 respectively, in the Scatter Zone between miles 445 and 465, where LP 2290 was destroyed by an asteroid. There are very few rules there, every vice you can conceive and slavery is legal. The owners and their mercenaries are ruthless; people do as they are told.  The rogue LPs are officially called LV2477 and LV2501 but the populace refer to them as LV1 and LV2. Only one other LP orbits in this zone, the former InterCosmic PRTb(prison/rehab/termination)2344,. It revolves the over populated Earth mostly uninhabited, a floating rusting hulk.     
On Mac99 manufacturing takes up levels 14 and 15. Level 16 is dedicated solely to education. Security headquarters, the armory, admin, governmental offices, entertainment facilities, a worship hub, and hospital are all on level 17, as is the shopping center. One Octagonal is solely devoted to trade.  The ethnic food franchises are in main entrance. The second hub is where the larger franchises are located, SpaceMart, Future Shop and Fong’s Hardware taking up half the floor area. Beyond that there are boutiques and specialty shops.

On the coveted outer wall the shops face Earth. Each boutique offers full transparent panels where guests can view the ever changing sky as they browse or shop. Luxuriously appointed, only the wealthiest of store owners can afford the lease. Alexander’s Fine Jewellery is one such occupant.  It is situated in the very center of the outer perimeter with the entrance facing the fine dining concourse, the upscale cafes where the moneyed take their lunch. The varied cuisine emits pleasant aromas of spices and rare herbs. People of every possible nationality roam the hallways, searching for baubles or necessities. If the buying patrons venture this deep into the shopping mecca, the only common denominator would be wealth.  Yet, dreamers and the regular drifters roam the halls.
A baby’s cry rises above the gossip and stray chatter that fill the open areas causing people pause. Babies are rare. The mother, her escorts and personal defense droid follow her to an open park-like seating area in the next establishment, Vittorio’s Gardens.  Joe Average cannot afford the protection and usually opts for sterilization. Dreaded creatures called virkon-eptiles, are carnivorous and prefer humans, especially their young. It is only preceding this interruption that patrons eye the golden droids hovering abundantly around the ceilings. One is stationary in front of every HTD which are busy today transporting shoppers.  Every defbot can react within a millisecond of sight, sound or smell of a virkon-eptile, destroying the worm like parasite instantaneously with a powerful laser blast. There is no hesitation from the droid, no matter what or who comes between the dreaded monster and the laser; it will be vaporized as well.
There has not been a sighting for over a year within Old Mack, until last week in Loading Bay 14 on Level 2. It was assumed it ate the driver only minutes before docking his water transport. It took two lasers 1/100th of a second to simultaneously detect and destroy it. Nothing remained except a small gathering of gray ash. Virkon-eptiles grew from a viruses captured on an astronaut’s clothing when the mining of Asteroid Pliney took place last century, his name was Dismas Virkon. Exposed to high CO2 levels and water, the beings that evolved are reptilian, they can think and are able to manipulate their own DNA to replicate anything organic it comes in contact with. It can perform this function for only a short time, thirty minutes or less needing ten to twelve hours to regenerate. Scientists from the InterCosmic Lab2424 are making terrific headway at being able to duplicate this unique ability by experimenting on both dead and live specimens.  All but a small cache of virkon-eptiles have been eradicated. Only those alive are corralled on Prison 2344; they live off the human detritus from LV1 & LV2. Some of them escape. They are extremely fast. Sometimes LPs experience power malfunctions shutting down most defense systems. If a virkon-eptile is hiding, lying in wait, it is this moment it will feed. There was an outage on Mac99 yesterday.
That was why Alexander’s Fine Jewellery is having a PLS – Personal Laser System - installed. During the blackout Mac99’s emergency power went to where it was most needed, especially the HTDs and weapons on the top four floors. The general power was interrupted for only two minutes but 65% of the LP remained weaponless for that short time. That was too long when beings that could eat three humans in ninety seconds might be present.
Gracia Moeller, nee Alexander, does not want to experience such fear like she did when they experienced the outage before closing time yesterday.  Every unit went to immediate lock-down. Doors shut whether you were in or out or in between. Everyone was scrambling for a place to hide, knocking over the chairs, sliding and bunching up her antique carpets, tipping her Moon Drop display with several of the rare crystals shattering. People beating at her glass doors that she was unable to open broke her heart. She shakes her thick auburn hair out of her face as she tries to forget about last night and concentrate on serving her guest. Handing a gaily colored gift bag with the Alexander A in gold foil gracing the outer flap, to a young man distinguished by his spindly frame and bushy eyebrows, she says,
“Thank you for your business Mr. Dubrowski. This is a moment neither you nor your dear friend Candace will ever forget. Please bring her in sometime so we can meet her.”
‘Thank you for helping me pick out that beautiful ring, I know she’s going to love it.”
Blushing and grinning he waves as he hastens to leave, already late on his lunch break from the Orbital Control Center where he monitors the propulsion systems in the eighth sector. 
Gracia waves back before surveying her premises. Beside her the PLS Installer, a bent- over middle aged man, terribly bowlegged and much too serious, is sliding a black box into a cubicle he shaped under the serving area that centers the premises.  The work station is within the twelve foot circle. The base is uncommon red pine harvested from underwater fifty years after the flooding of the lower mountains in Canada when a large portion of the Arctic polar cap melted rapidly in the twenty third century. Crafted into a perfect circle, the lacquered wood supports a thin 30 inch horizontal panel where the clients are served. The total surface of the counter is a layer of durable, touch and voice sensitive, extreme-tech plasma. The overall screen shows a replica of the circles of Saturn. The point of sale or POS system can be anywhere they are standing.
Gracia has her hands upon her shapely hips, jewels sparkling from several well-manicured fingers. Her silk jacket is tucked neatly behind them. She regards her number one sales person, Aisha regale one of their regular patrons to the joys of owning a four carat Martian cyntonium, the largest available Off-Earth.  Her part time worker, Cristofer, is rearranging her Moon Drop display, adding new pieces to replace the broken ones. Michelle her manager is helping a young couple select their wedding bands. There are two other patrons in the store, “just looking”. The Installer is replacing his tools in the small cloth bag he brought in with him. Wiping his hands on a faded blue cloth he turns to Gracia.
“Everything is ready to go Ms. Moeller.”
He hands her two pulse pistols, the latest in fashion weaponry as well as two stylish holsters that are chameleonized to change color with whatever outfit they may be wearing. One is custom built to fit in her hand only, programmed to recognize the ID signal from her implant only, the trigger activated by her nerve impulses only. The other is for her manager. With a long face that expresses little joy for his work, the installer adds as if by rote.
“These will be charged tomorrow by one of our guns specialists. He or she will be explaining the usage, the dangers, the responsibilities, the laws, the licensing and the deadliness of these weapons. I urge extreme caution, always. I hope you never have to use them. There are holders for these in the console I just installed, where they will remain at night to hold their charge. Did you have any questions before I leave?”
Gracia eyes the large letters emblazoned on the chest of his coveralls BOB.  Thinking that the letters are his name, she says, “So the guns are harmless now Bob?”
Scrunching his brow with a questioning look he replies.
“Name’s Ralph and yeah, you couldn’t kill a mars-bugg with these.”
What Ralph had no way of knowing is that the apprentice armorer, in her zealous approach to her new responsibilities did indeed charge these weapons. Not understanding the flag in the work orders, the “gunrat”, as they were referred to in the armory, loaded a full force to each one in her work station. In a parlance from the twentieth century, that still defines a deadly readiness –they are, locked and loaded.
Placing the paraphernalia on the counter top, Gracia turns to him with her hand out adding a smile.
“Oops, sorry Ralph.” She points her finger at the letters on his chest, “I thought…well anyway, thank you for the nice work. Please come back and visit again, bring the Mrs.…”
She is interrupted by the distinct sound of sharp heels clicking on the hard stoneoleum in the hallway. She stops shaking Ralph’s hand standing motionless with her ear cocked towards the sound. A frown crosses her pretty face, the dimples more pronounced. Ralph bug eyes at her sudden hesitation, deciding he should leave. Releasing her hand he hastens away.
“Good day to you Ms. Moeller.”
Gracia is ignoring him, all thoughts of the installer vanished, all thoughts of the loaded weapons eliminated. Pursing her lips, rubbing her hands in anticipation, she realizes from the gait of the approaching clackety-clack it is that damn Mrs. Abernathy.  The woman will not quit. Turning to Michelle who has heard the announcement as well, they nod in confirmation. They already planned what to do when the bothersome shopper turned up.
 
Agnes Abernathy is not as wealthy as she pretends to be. Inheriting a suite of rooms on the 27th level from her fourth husband is difficult to maintain when the slime left everything else to his mistress. Using the last of the currency her father bequeathed her, the botcreditsare going quickly. She has the annoying habit of buying expensive jewels and returning them after she wears them to some social function that the rich dally in. Her relentless pursuit of spouse #5, in her mind, requires being seen at all the ‘right’ places, as well as being seen in the latest and richest baubles. Even after the passing of centuries, the advancement in sciences, the ease of living, some things never change.
The latest acquisition was a pair of earrings. Flawless 1.4 carat shycetic gems from Phobos, the largest moon of Mars. Only 3000 carats were mined before the operation was deserted as being too costly with fewer gems being discovered. Light that is captured in them returns to the beholder’s eyes as a dazzling spectrum of strong colors. They are very hard to find. Making them even more valuable is that they are they only precious stone to have a scent, emitting an aroma that can only be depicted as floral. The stones adapt to each human’s chemistry to evoke a unique perfume. Highly sought after, they are very expensive. Mrs. Abernathy purchased them on Friday. She will want to return them today.
The irritable noise of her approach is hushed when she turns into the store to walk upon antique hemp rugs woven by hand in the 24th century by weavers from the “Double LP” (Love & Peace Living Pod 2401). Agnes Abernathy is doomly clad in this season’s colors, black and blood red. Only her pink hat covering short silver locks softens her somber presence. Her face and hands are dyed a silver slightly darker than her hair which is quite the rage for those that visit earth frequently. For some unexplainable reason many rich men find it attractive. Holding a matching pink clutch in one silver hand, she swings a small tote with the recognizable A upon it. When she reaches the counter where Gracia is standing she moues as she waves the bag in the air before setting it upon the sales area.
“I’m sorry Gracia but these just won’t do, there is too much blue in their dispersion and it clashes horribly with my wardrobe. I’m afraid I’ll have to return them my dear.”
Gracia is trying very much to be nice, it is ingrained in her from her ancestors to show their clients respect but this has got to come to an end. With a smile that might freeze butter, she says,
“I’m afraid not Mrs. Abernathy. Did you not read the notice on your communicator when you purchased them? They are not returnable. It states very clearly on your notification?”
Abernathy steps back in astonishment at the boldness of Gracia’s delivery. Her immediate thought is the five hundred thousand botcreditsthe jewels represent. Currency she cannot afford to be without. Indignation takes precedence over kindness as she replies coldly,
“I care little of what is posted on my “communicator” as you call it. I’m much too busy to trifle over mere receipts of payment. I purchase many items here Ms. Moeller”
The speech is more formal. In her guest’s hesitation Gracia speaks up.
“You indeed make many purchases Mrs. Abernathy but you return everything.”
Gracia cannot contain herself any longer. She does not run a rental shop.  One hand akimbo, the other with an accusing finger pointing at her client’s grey pallor made pinkish by the boiling blood within.
“I’m wise to you Mrs. Abernathy, you wear the purchases to one of your calendar events and then return them but not always this soon. Of course we do not move in the same groupings, I did however, see you at the Spatial Charity Experience. Those very earrings caused quite a sensation amongst the hundreds that attended. I searched for the owner, knowing you had the only ones aboard the Manor. I’m sorry, but you own those now.  Now if you please, I would appreciate it if you would leave.”
Almost sorry she said it Gracia softens somewhat. Agnes Abernathy does not. In a loud voice so that everyone can hear, she exclaims her disappointment, the way she is being treated. More angrily she goes on about her distaste for anything she purchased, her demands for the return of the earrings. Gracia cannot calm her down. She has a sudden hate for this woman that continues to harangue her. Everyone in the store is still. The two “lookers” decide to leave. Patrons in the restaurants across the way have paused in their dining to listen. There is no stopping the dirge of anger that passes through Abernathy’s mouth. When the language begins to turn profane, Gracia decides it is time to summon security.  When she reaches down to the console she spies the pulse pistols. Picking up the one that is hers, the molded weapon slides easily into her grip. The sleek weapon is the most advanced available. It takes fifty thousand nanoseconds to respond to Moeller’s ID. Wishing it was loaded she points it at the yelling woman in a mocking gesture, even though it is illegal to use it on human beings.
Abernathy knows what is in Moeller’s hand and immediately shuts up, backing several steps from the serving area. Gracia thinks the weapon is sterile. Nerve impulses to the sensitive tellium surface of the trigger tells it to fire. A beat of pure energy is released to consume the first obstacle in its path which in this case is Mrs. Abernathy. Like a black hole, the woman implodes, every iota of her being is consumed within seconds.
Gracia Moeller cannot believe what she has done. Her voice is a shocked whisper.
“Ohh Shit.”





Thanks for dropping by the Scribbler. Hope you enjoyed the Far Out Mall.



Would you be scared of a virkon-eptile?

Make me smile and leave a comment below!
 

Guest Author Margaret (Meg) Sorick of Pennsylvannia.

I am always sort of stymied when someone asks me to tell them about myself. I haven't exactly figured out who I am I suppose, but I'll tell you what I've got so far...

I am a writer. I write because I love to read. In fact, I'm a book junkie. I need to read. I want to climb in books and live there. I want to meet the characters, walk in their shoes, fight their battles, fall in love with their heroes...Oh I do go on, don't I? Nevertheless, I imagine I share that same enthusiasm with most passionate readers. And likewise those readers dream about writing stories of their own. Does that mean I'm living the dream?

My father was a story-teller. It's only now, looking back, that I appreciate what a vivid imagination he had! He made up a whole series of adventures involving our neighbor's cat Mopsy, and another one with a little old man and a cuckoo clock that always saved the day. He would weave a tale out of thin air. And as a result, I came about my love of stories and books, naturally.

I loved taking notes in school and writing letters to my friends who moved to Florida when I was a little girl. I kept a diary from the time I was eight years old right up to about age fourteen. I still have some of the notebooks I filled with poetry when I was a teenager. I excelled in English, ignored it to the detriment of my other subjects, yet was never encouraged to pursue it as a career. C'est la vie!

I went to college, majored in marketing, learned to write ad copy and design polls and surveys. Graduated in a time of recession and couldn't get a job. I was floundering. I ended up working in a retail clothing store, which ultimately led me to pursue a career change. At twenty-one, I found myself with such back pain, I could barely walk. Long story short, chiropractic saved the day and I found my new calling, I went back to school, started working in my field, got married, etc. Suddenly I realized it had been a year since I thought about writing.

One day, a few years ago, I was sitting in the stylist's chair at the hair salon, touching up the blonde and reading my book to pass the time. My stylist said to me "You're always reading. Did you ever want to write a book yourself?" "Sure," I laughed. "Doesn't every reader want to be a writer?" "You should do it," she said. "Hmm," I thought. "But what am I going to write about?"

I bought a nice notebook, a collection of fancy pens, started following other writers on Tumblr first and then Wordpress. After what amounted to months of reading about writing, I finally started jotting ideas of my own and four years later....

I have published four books in a series on Amazon. This series of romantic suspense novels is set in Bucks County, Pennsylvania, where I live. They are stories about ordinary people with families, people who fall in love and sometimes find themselves in outrageous circumstances. Add some suspense, humor, family dynamics and good conversation and voila!. I've just finished the first draft of a fifth novel in the series, which will hopefully be ready for publication this summer. In addition, I've written a collection of short stories, poems and dabbled in both art and photography, all of which are featured on my blog. I call it my mid-life renaissance. I also write about things I've learned along the way - including errors and blunders, bits of interesting research and the things that move and inspire me. I love the idea of connecting with other creative people who are trying to live their dreams, as well. I welcome honest feedback and above all else, know that I am happy to meet you!





 See Margaret's books here 


An excerpt from: Here Lies a Soldier - by Margaret Sorick
 Copyright held by the author. Used with permission
December 26, 1912
 
The morning after Christmas was always a little glum. Especially this year with father so ill. There’d been no money for presents and our only treat was the honey cake Mama had made for dessert. Of late, we girls had had to find ways to contribute and for me that meant work at the manor house on the hill.  
The air was cold, I could see my breath. The warmth from the stove hadn’t made it to the upper room I shared with my two sisters. I quickly washed my face and hands in the icy water from the basin and pulled on my clothes. I’d brush my hair downstairs by the stove and talk to Papa while I braided it. We’d moved a cot next to the stove so that he could keep warm over night. 
Mama had gone out already, it appeared. She cooked for the vicar in the village and would have to get his breakfast for him.  
“Papa,” I said softly. I laid a hand on his arm. He came awake coughing so I helped him to a sitting position and pounded his back like the doctor had instructed. When the spams stopped, he signaled for a glass of water. I fetched it for him and held it to his lips. 
"Thank you, my dear," he rasped. "How's my girl?" 
I smiled. "I'm good, Papa. How are you feeling?" 
"Right as rain, Love. Right as rain. I'll be on my feet again before two shakes of a lamb's tail," he said with a reassuring smile. "Now tell me... How many pages did you read last night?" 
Papa was adamant that we girls continue learning. He had hoped that we would be able to train to become teachers or nurses. Of course, that supposed we wouldn't find husbands. And I always teased him that he thought the three of us were going to be 'left on the shelf.' 
Conversation with my father was always easy. Most men would rue the lack of a son to carry on the family name. Not so my Da. He loved his three daughters more than the best of the sons he could've sired. My younger sisters hadn't yet lived up to his expectations, but they were still young. Clara was just 14 -three years younger than me, and Grace another year younger than her. They would, in time, flourish under Papa's guidance. Which was why he just had to get better. He just had to... 
I sat on a stool beside his cot and brushed out my hair while I told him all about the book I was reading. I plaited the long dark tresses into a single thick braid and then wound that into a bun. There was just enough time to fix tea and a slice of toast for the both of us before I bundled into my coat and set out for Prentice House, the manor on the hill. 
The day dawned grey and cold, with just a hint of snow in the air. At least I was assured of abundant warmth in the Prentice home. The family had a houseful of guests for the holidays. Normally, I worked with the cleaning staff, but with the extra mouths to feed, I'd been reassigned to help in the kitchen. 
When I entered through the servants' door on the ground floor, the kitchen was already bustling with activity. Simmering pots of porridge, fresh loaves from the oven, pans of eggs, sausages and bacon were keeping warm until the guests assembled for breakfast. It would be up to Nancy and me to wash and scrub all those pots and pans as they were emptied onto platters to be taken up to the dining room.  
I hung my coat and scarf on the peg, tied my apron around me and got to work. The butlers and maids scurried about delivering and returning dishes for refill. My hands were raw from scrubbing and scouring by the time the last pan was clean. We had a precious hour to rest before we'd need to start on the pans that were already in use for the next meal. Nancy and I helped ourselves to a cup of tea and sat side by side at the servants' table in the dining area next to the kitchen.
"What'd you do for Christmas, then?" she asked.  
I looked into my cup, embarrassed. "My ma made us a stew. We had a honey cake for dessert. That's it." I shrugged. "How about you?" 
"Made a goose, my ma did." 
"Shut up, Nancy. You're lying," I snapped. 
"It's true," she boasted.  

I ignored her and sipped my tea.  
We sat in uncomfortable silence till the tea was gone and our break was over. I stood, pushing my chair back and taking my cup to the sink to wash. Nancy was always putting on airs. A goose, indeed. Likely as my Da being elected Prime Minister. 
Mrs. Cooper was herding the rest of the girls into position when the head butler appeared in a panic. "Quickly!" he gestured, as he gasped for breath. "It's a disaster! The table...  it's collapsed... food everywhere... hurry!" 
Every free hand was put to work cleaning up the mess as the Prentice family and their guests looked on. Mr. And Mrs. Prentice appeared embarrassed and horrified, while their two haughty daughters looked like they'd just sucked lemons expecting them to be sugar cubes. Only young Hugh Prentice gazed upon the scene with a twinkle in his eye and a smile threatening on his lips. When he caught me looking at him, he set the smile free and winked. I averted my eyes, blushing, but couldn't keep my own smile from turning up the corners of my mouth. I busied myself with the cleanup until every scrap and spill was dealt with. And as I stood, wiping my hands on my apron, I looked up to find the blue eyes of Hugh Prentice still staring at me.      Thank you Margaret for being the guest this week on the Scribbler.    And a special thanks to you - the visitor. It would be nice to hear from you. Who is your favorite author?

Guest Author Debbie Jinks of Great Britain

I am a UK girl, dragon lover, wildlife lover, fanatic reader and now writer also, and a bit of a dreamer. Coffee and chocolate are my downfall, but I enjoy walking and running so that kind of makes up for it. That’s my excuse anyway!
I never set out to be a writer, well not stories as such. I was a professional singer/songwriter for 15 years, singing was always my passion from childhood. It took a major change in my life to take me in the other direction. I suffered a head injury which left me with no sense of smell or taste, this is called Anosmia. It was such a devastating and life changing condition that I began a blog as a way of releasing my sadness and loss. As I wrote I realised, not only was it a therapeutic thing for me to do, but also that I loved writing. My writing slowly came to life from there and as this happened I came back to life too.
I now have a writing website, and also continue my Anosmia blog alongside it. I am in the process of writing a fantasy novel and have written some short stories in that genre also. Having taken a fantasy writing diploma in which I achieved a distinction, I truly feel I have found my writing niche. In a crazy way if my Anosmia had never occurred my writing wouldn’t have either. I suppose even though I could have done without all that pain and heartache, had I not gone through it I would never have found myself at this point.
Now I try to write every day weather it turns out to be good or not so good I find it immensely satisfying. I want to take my writing to another level now which is why I’m writing a book, and I’m so pleased with my short stories. Maybe I’ll write an autobiography about my Anosmia one day. But for now my fantasy writing world is enough.  
  Now You See Me (copyright is held by the author. Used with permission) The grass was damp under his feet as in his haste Rory had forgotten to put his shoes on. He walked over to the two Gnomes his feet already starting to feel cold. “What are you two playing at?” He whispered under his breath, “Are you trying to wake up mum and dad?” “No, my grumpy brother here won’t let me play with this bracelet, even though I found it in the first place.” Lawrence said “Let me have a look then,” said Rory. Len the oldest of the brothers reluctantly handed the bracelet to him. “I’ve never seen this before, where did you find it?” “In the grass under the oak tree, where the farmer grazes those silly, illiterate sheep of his.” “Don’t be mean” said Milly, landing on Rory’s shoulder, “they can’t help it if they don’t understand you, even I don’t sometimes” “That’s because you are a scatty little Sprite!” said Lenny.  Rory ignored the bickering and put the bracelet into his jacket pocket. “I’ll give this to mum tomorrow maybe she can ask around and find out who it belongs to. But enough of this, my feet are freezing, it’s the middle of the night and I have school in the morning!” Crystal rubbed up against Rory’s legs. “Where’s that dragon when you need him she purred, he could warm your feet up.” “I’m not letting Casper near my feet he’ll burn them.” “Oh well just a thought, I’m off to see if there’s anything to chase”.   “Did I hear my name being called Master Rory?” “Casper where have you been, and don’t call me master you know I don’t like it”.  “Ok”, Casper shrugged. “His feet are cold” said Milly “do you think you could warm them up without burning his toes off?” “No sweat, get it no sweat ha, ha, sit on the path master,….um Rory and I’ll soon have them warm as toast.”  “I’d prefer them not to be toasted Casper, but ok my toes have gone numb now.” “Well it probably wouldn’t hurt if he did burn them in that case,” Lawrence said. Once Rory’s toes were warm enough for him to walk back to the house, he dashed in before they got cold again. Groaning inwardly he realized the whole entourage had followed him too. Crystal was still out chasing things however. “At least that’s one less for now”, Rory thought.   After a sleepless night Rory got ready for school. “Thanks to you lot I’m done in this morning” he said. “I did try to snooze but you were making such a racket even that didn’t happen.” They all looked at him sheepishly as he stomped out of the bedroom door.  Downstairs his mum was making breakfast. “Did you sleep in this morning love? You’re late for your breakfast.” His mum couldn’t see Rory’s magical friends so he couldn’t exactly tell her the truth. “Yes mum my bed was so comfortable, I didn’t want to move.” He knew that was a pretty lame excuse but it would have to do, he was too tired to come up with a more convincing one. After a rather rushed breakfast, he grabbed his schoolbag and dashed off to catch the school bus. “By mum,” he called hurriedly. In his haste he’d forgotten all about the bracelet in his pocket.   Focusing on his lessons that morning was almost impossible, but he tried to look interested before the school bell sounded for break time. He want and hid out at the end of the school playing field it was warm with a gentle breeze and he needed the fresh air to revive him. He hadn’t been there long when a girl he didn’t recognize walked over to him. She was small with short blonde hair and a stubborn look on her face. “I’ve come over here for some peace and quiet” she said. “Those silly giggly girls drive me mad!” “Well you’re going to be popular with an attitude like that.” “I don’t want to be popular” exclaimed the girl, “I want to be left alone!” “Well don’t let me stop you” said Rory and walked further down the field. He hadn’t been there long when Milly materialized on his shoulder making him jump. “Milly why did you make yourself invisible, you know I’m the only one can who see you, and you lot”, he said quietly as the others appeared out of the grass. “Why are you all here? I’ve told you before not to come to my school.” “Well you just said yourself you’re the only one that can see us so there’s no danger” said Len. “Anyway,” piped up Casper, “we felt bad about last night so thought we’d come and cheer you up a bit.”  “Yes I suppose we are a bit sorry” admitted Lawrence reluctantly. “Ok you’re forgiven, but you’d best go in case that grumpy girl over there thinks I’ve gone crazy talking to myself.” “Ahh mmm too late” said Milly, “she’s coming over.”            Debbie's Social Media Linkswww.asongtowrite.co.ukwww.twitter.com/wildjinkswww.facebook.com/asongtowriteswildsideasongtowrite@outlook.com  Thank you Debbie for being our guest this week on the Scribbler.      As always, a huge thanks to you the visitor. Would love to hear from you. There's a comment box below. What do you think of the Scribbler? 
 

Guest Photographer Sylvie Mazerolle of Moncton, New Brunswick

The Scribbler is very happy to have Sylvie as our guest this week. She has kindly agreed to share some of her beautiful photos and participate in a 4Q Interview.   
Growing up in a New-Brunswick fishing village it didn’t seem possible that someone could create a livelihood pursuing artistic expression. Being from a very practical family, she steered away from the deep longing to create. But eventually she just couldn’t deny the hunger to live her truest self.    
Make-up artistry was her first opportunity. While working as a dental assistant in Moncton, a TV producer landed in the dental chair. That’s where she got her first break landing a daily gig doing make-up on background cast.  “I wanted more. I wanted to live in that creative world and pursue my dream of becoming a full-time artist.” says Sylvie. But New Brunswick isn’t exactly a mecca of media production. In her 30th year the opportunity arose to moved to Toronto and pursue make-up artistry more seriously. “I quickly learned that pursuing your dreams is damn hard work. It took me six months to find my feet and when I did I landed in the world of independent Canadian film. I appreciated the opportunity but I couldn’t ignore the feeling that maybe I wasn’t in the most ideal place for how I wanted to fully express myself. I felt the pull into the world of fashion.”
 

 Soon she was collaborating with photographers on everything from make-up & hair to artistic direction. This is where her true love of artistic expression found its’ synergy. Earning a good living doing what she loved while growing as an artist in every way.
Just when she was peaking and finding her stride, everything changed. Pregnancy. Parenthood.
And like others who found themselves as first time parents away from extended family, the pull to go home was undeniable. Artistic expression would have to wait.
 
    “I came home with my eyes wide open and knew that earning a living doing what I loved might not be possible. I tried jobs related to my career and knew, I was trying to recapture what I had instead of accepting the new reality.”
 

  After much introspection and dabbling in other mediums, her heart eventually settled on photography. After all she had stood beside many of the top photographers in Canada and felt confident it was the means most closely aligned to her artistic identity. But instead of a controlled studio space, she wanted to find compelling expression in the world around her. Reconnect with her environment. The more she practiced her craft the more she felt drawn to the world of abstraction & colour.
 

Instead of merely reflecting back the world around her, small, minute details caught her attention. The more she captured these solemn moments the more she started to find her creative self once again. The more she found her creative self the more opportunity she saw to give it a purpose. And so she did. “My work is about finding beauty in the mundane. And once again, I have found my artistic voice.”
 
 
 
4Q. When did you develop your interest in taking photos?
SM:  About 15 years ago. I was working as a make-up artist in Toronto. I had to take pictures of actors for continuity purposes. The industry was just starting to switched to digital from Polaroid and I bought myself a Canon Powershot G3.  It was love at first click. I still have it as a matter of fact.  The sets were always perfectly lit.  I would take advantage of it in my down time to snap away.  Plus the streets of Toronto always have something interesting going on at any given time.
 
4Q: Are your photos planned or spontaneous?
SM:  I would say 95% of my images are spontaneous. I have dabbled in still life and staging a few shots but it never looks like it does in my mind’s eye.  I prefer letting the subject speak and reveal its self to me. I do give myself themes sometimes like for example only shoot things that are yellow or round or 10 feet from the house.
 
4Q: Pleased share a childhood anecdote or memory.
SM: Wow a child hood memory.
So many to choose from like picking wild berries with my grandmothers and making homemade jams. Sunday drives down to the docks to get soft vanilla ice-cream from the dairy bar, swimming in the river from sun up to sundown with my feet all cut from chards of glass stuck in the mud, climbing the big pin tree in my back yard to the very top and swaying in the wind, listening to my mom play Fleetwood Mac songs on the guitar, canoeing with my dad, skating on the frozen river & ponds. These are a few of my favourites 
4Q: What should we know about your future in photography? Any shows planned?
SM:  My vision is to have gallery exhibits around the world but for now I have an exhibit in a local Gallery in Moncton:  “The Champlain Dental Gallery”. Yes you read it right. A dental office that also acts as an art gallery and support local artist.
For a few Sunday’s this summer I’ll be at the local market in Shediac, New-Brunswick      
People can also visit my web site and place orders:
https://sylviemazerolle.wixsite.com/myvision-ourworld  https://www.etsy.com/ca/shop/FOTOMAZO  Thank you Sylvie for sharing your exceptional shots and for being our guest.    
       
 
 

Guest Author Lesley Wilson of Australia

Born in North Yorkshire, Lesley Wilson was inspired to write stories at an early age. She turned her father’s garage into a theatre and produced juvenile dramas. Local kids who watched her shows were expected to donate a penny to the RSPCA. In her early teens, Lesley joined a theatre company and took part in many productions.
     On a train journey to Italy in 1957, Lesley met a young man. A whirlwind courtship followed before he joined the British Army. Fifteen months and hundreds of letters later, Lesley, aged seventeen, boarded a troop ship bound for Singapore, where she married the love of her life.
     Lesley’s careers have included fashion modeling, market research and running her own business but writing has always been her true passion. She completed a course in Journalism with the London School of Writing, and was also an active member of a writers’ group for several years.
     She now lives with her husband in North Queensland, and enjoys frequent visits from her two teenage grandchildren. When Lesley isn’t writing, she loves to read, entertain friends, and travel.
Oric and the Alchemist’s Key, published in 2015, is the first book in a medieval trilogy for young adults and young at heart readers. Book two, Oric and the Lockton Castle Mystery, was published in March 2017. Book Three Oric and the Web of Evil will be published during 2018

     How Oric Eventuated
 
Several years ago I constructed a fabric figure on a wire armature. I dressed him in a long, purple tunic, flowing silver cloak, and perched a scholar’s cap upon his head. A cloud of wispy white hair and beard added character to his charm.  With his gnarled fingers wrapped around a book of herbal recipes, he looks every inch the medieval apothecary. I fell in love with the little man, and named him Ichtheus. He was the catalyst that began the Oric Trilogy.  Over the following few years I wrote Oric and the Alchemist’s Key, which is now published. A sequel Oric and the Lockton Castle Mystery was published in March 2017. Book three, Oric and the Web of Evil will be published during 2018       
     I grew up in the backwoods of Yorkshire. Vast acres of heather and gorse-clad moors, where I cycled and hiked in winter and summer, were my back yard. Many medieval towns and villages exist to this day, all of which provided me with a wonderful backdrop on which to base my stories.




 
                   Excerpt from Oric and the Alchemist’s Key
                                           Lesley Wilson
                                       Churchyard Witch
  Outside Nathaniel’s cottage, the cold air struck Oric and Ichtheus like a body blow. An icy moon sailed in an ocean of night sky, towing silver clouds in its wake. In a hurry to get back to Bayersby Manor and his warm bed, Ichtheus set a brisk pace.
     Oric followed with the dog.
     The only member of the trio not staggering was Parzifal.
     “What ails you, boy?” Ichtheus slurred. “You will have me fall upon my backside if you continue to run into me like that. Pish! Can you not hold your liquor?”
     Oric gave a hiccupping titter. “‘Tis not my fault, Master Ichtheus, ‘tis you that has over imbibed, not I!” 
      They soldiered on, tripping over each other until St Griswald’s Church loomed into sight. Nathaniel’s talk of witches and ghosts overrode Oric’s good sense, and he hung back. He had guts aplenty for everyday things, but ghosts were another matter altogether.
     “What a great booby you are,” chafed Ichtheus, cuffing Oric’s ears affectionately. “Come, we shall sing a song to cheer ourselves.” Without further ado, he launched into his favourite hymn.
     Oric joined in half-heartedly. Neither of them had an ear for music, and the noise they made set Parzifal to howling.
     Moonlight cast long shadows, creating a black and silver scene. Trees took on sinister shapes, and a sudden breeze made an old yew tree creak. The owl hooted from his perch in the bell-tower, causing Oric’s neck hairs to stand on end.
     An urge to relieve himself overtook Ichtheus. While he fumbled with all his extra clothing, Oric and Parzifal sloped off around a bend in the pathway.  Ichtheus was in full-stream when the pair reappeared, running as if chased by demons. Oric crashed into his master, and bowled him over. Unable to turn off his tap in time, Ichtheus pissed copiously into one of his boots.
      “Damn your eyes, boy!” Ichtheus staggered to his feet, “What in heaven’s name are you about?” He shook his foot. “You blithering fool … look what you have caused me to do.” He set his wet boot on the ground, and was disgusted to hear it squelch.  
      Oric’s voice rose from hoarse whispers to high squeaks of sheer terror. He grabbed Ichtheus by the arms. “Master!  Master! I saw it. Her! The thing!”
     “What thing, boy? What THING?” Ichtheus shouted and shook Oric as if he were a rag doll.
    “The witch! You remember! The one we talked about with Nathaniel. That old hag that was burned! I saw her around the corner,” Oric pointed a shaking finger. “She is there, I tell you. All of a quiver and a dither, she smiled and beckoned to me.”
     “What rubbish, boy!” Filled with nettle wine, mead, and bravado, Ichtheus strode down the path to investigate.
     Parzifal loped alongside, rumbling with growls. Feeling less brave by the minute, Ichtheus rounded the bole of a giant oak-tree.
    “Oh, my sainted aunt!” he gasped, his bravado deflated like a pig’s bladder pricked by a dagger. He seized Parzifal’s collar and huddled into the oak’s dark shadow. Summoning every ounce of his courage, he took another peek around the tree trunk.
     Not more than twenty strides away an old woman sat upon a rickety cart. She dithered and beckoned, just as Oric had described. Something was in the trees, too. Pallid, disembodied faces floated about as if imbued with a life of their own.
     Prickled from head to foot with gooseflesh, Ichtheus lost his nerve. He turned and fled on liquid legs towards the churchyard gate. Parzifal chased after his master. Now horribly sober, Ichtheus stopped at the gate to make sure the apparitions did not follow. He tried to catch his breath and slow his racing heart. It would never do to let Oric see him in this state. Oh, dear, no! The lad would never allow him to live it down.
     Oric was hiding in a ditch.  
     “Get out of there, boy! There is nothing to be afraid of,” Ichtheus bluffed in his boldest voice. “The ghost you saw is naught but a trick of the moonlight. However, to spare you further distress, we shall traverse the churchyard’s outer wall instead of cutting across the middle.”
     The sight of his master’s rigid face stilled Oric’s tongue, but he did not believe a word Ichtheus said.
     They galloped around the churchyard’s perimeter. Only when they had gained the cover of the overgrown footpath did they slow their pace. Not a word passed between them until they arrived back at Bayersby Manor.
     Still shaken, Oric bid his master a subdued goodnight and crawled, fully clothed, into his inglenook corner.      
     Ichtheus removed his boots and dropped thankfully onto his truckle bed, but he took a long time to fall asleep.
 
-oOo-
 
Mirth was not something the Horzefell family indulged in very often, but at this moment Rastus and Hersica were shaking with unrestrained glee.
     “Did you see the silly old fool?” Hersica screeched. “And did you ever hear such a racket? Trying to sing … hah! They sounded like tomcats from hell.” Tears ran down her lined cheeks and made tracks in the dirt. “I scared the apothecary witless, beckoning to him from yon barrow, like as not he lost control of his bowels with fright!”
     Rastus clutched his aching sides. “I doubt we shall see that pair here again. You did a grand job,” he praised Ned and Joe, who were equally doubled up with laughter. “Am I not a crafty beggar, coming up with such a clever idea? Holding those oil lamps under your chins when you were up the trees was a stroke of genius.” Rastus erupted with more horrible squeaks and wheezes as he visualised the urchins’ distorted faces. From a distance they had looked like disembodied ghouls as they climbed from branch to branch. Just for the fun of it, Rastus had grabbed a lamp and joined in.
     The church door banged, making everyone jump. Figg had returned.
     “What is the cause of your hilarity?” In a foul temper, Figg’s icy voice sliced through the crypt.
     Flushed with success, Rastus related how he had rid the churchyard of the apothecary and his apprentice.
     “You imbecile,” Figg shrieked. “You had those pests within your grasp and you let them go free?” Almost beside himself with rage, he held up his thumb and forefinger a hairsbreadth apart. “And you think it funny that we came this close to discovery?”
     The inhabitants of the crypt cowered under the intensity of the moneylender’s abuse.
     Figg took a deep, steadying breath. “However, circumstance may favour us for once. If the local folk are convinced this place is haunted, they will keep away. But I am not so sure about the apothecary. He is no fool.” Figg withered Rastus with a terrible look. “If you miss another chance to kill him, I shall not be responsible for my actions.” His eyes glittered like shards of ice, “And next time the opportunity arises, seize the apothecary’s apprentice and bring him to me …  alive.”
 
-oOo-
 
Next morning Oric tried to assemble his thoughts, but he could make no sense of the things he had witnessed the night before. Surely he had imagined the ghostly old crone in the graveyard. Nevertheless, he was in no hurry to return to St Griswald’s, and he hoped his master would forget the whole sorry incident.
     Ichtheus crawled from his bed. Sober, and in the cold light of day, his intellect told him there was more to the strange goings on at the old church  than met the eye.
 

 Thank you Lesley for being our guest this week. Good luck with your series. 



A huge Thank You to YOU for visiting the Scribbler. Please feel free to leave a comment below.


 

TL & The Real Estate Lady PART 2 by allan hudson

Things start to heat up in Part 2 of my short story. If you missed Part 1, just scroll down to the bottom of this post.





One of my favorite characters is TJ. He's been in two of my short stories already. You met him first in the Two Grumpy Old Men Café and then in the Finale of the Two Grumpy Old Men Café


A perpetual playboy. Swears he'll never get married. Now that the café belongs to someone else, what is he up to?

Read Part 2 of TJ's latest escapades in

TJ & the Real Estate Lady.



Closing his eyes, he lets his mind wander. It goes back to his childhood, back to when he was a boy in South Branch. Particularly of one morning he was hiding in the backseat of his brother’s 56 Chevy, reading a Hardy Boys novel his teacher had loaned him.  He was eleven. The book was the Hidden Harbor Mystery. Frank and Joe Hardy and their friend Chet Morton have just been arrested. TJ couldn’t turn the pages fast enough. He ignored his sister calling him for dinner, he had taken a box of soda crackers from the shelf when he sneaked out so he wasn’t hungry. He slithered down on the floor when his friends ran through the yard looking for him so they wouldn’t see him.
It’s always been one of his fondest memories. The car was new, you could still smell the cleaners and drying glues. Taking off his sneakers, he could lie down full length on the seat. Warm sunshine streamed in the back window, making the hiding spot toasty and comfortable. A bottle of cola propped between his knees. He was doing his favorite thing with his favorite heroes. TJ remembers the intense feeling of content he experienced that afternoon. Recalling it now causes him a brief shiver. His eyes shoot open. His hands rise out of the water for emphasis.
“That’s it. I’m moving back to South Branch!”
Momentarily unfocused he shakes his head and looks around. Bubbles burst and steams rises about him. The deck and starry night stop moving and his head clears. Crawling out of the tub, he steps from the fiberglass step onto the cedar platform, grabbing a large black towel.  Taking two steps down he walks out on the ceramic tiles, toweling the moisture from his body. Deep in thought he wobbles some but manages to dry himself thoroughly. The more he thinks of his existence here he feels out of touch, unconnected from his beginnings, his kin. He’s almost afraid to admit it but he’s tired of living alone. Wrapping the towel about his chest he heads towards the bedroom with one last statement to the empty deck.
“Tomorrow I’m selling my house!”
 

A one acre lot in the gated community of Sheldon’s Lake Estates sells for a quarter million dollars. The transaction stipulates that any home built within the estate must be a minimum of equal value. Most homes average one million. To be offered a listing in this neighborhood is a realtor’s most distinguished moment. Commissions will be in the thousands. TJ knows this as he flips through the list of realty companies on his phone.
He is at a dining table on the back deck facing the lake, the spa area to his left. The rear of the house faces southeast and this time of the day, the sun is low and beginning its ascent into the sky. Mellow rays penetrate the trees and fronds that line the lawn and separate the properties down to the water three hundred feet away. The mockingbirds are singing. The biscuit on the plate is half eaten and drips with strawberry jam. The Fred Flintstone coffee mug steams with fresh brew. TJ wipes an errant drip of sweetness from his chin with his napkin and his eyebrows go up. Eyeing the listing he laughs at the name on the screen.
Two Rooks and a Castle Real Estate Agency. Serving all of Hillsborough and Polk Counties.
“I like the sound of that.” TJ says as he thumbs the dial icon. After the eight ring he guesses it’s going to voicemail and is about to click end, when a cheerful voice answers.
“Two Rooks and a Castle. How can we help you today?”
“Hello there. I’d like to speak to your most junior agent, the newest addition to your sales team.”
A pause follows TJ’s request.
“Oh…well I guess that would be me.”
TJ frowns at the phone. As charming as the voice is, it is not a young person.
“And you’re the receptionist too?”
The lady’s laughter is like soft chimes, happy sounds.
“No, I’m just sitting in for a moment.”
TJ usually just says what he’s thinking.
“She had to use the little girl’s room huh?”
“No, actually, he had to use the little boy’s room.”
TJ is amused by her quick quip, the pleasing sound of her voice causes a wide grin.
“Of course, how sexist of me. Please forgive me. The reason I called is that I’d like to sell my house and I want you to sell it for me. What’s your name?”
“Louisa. And what’s yours please?”
“People call me TJ.”
“Just a second TJ, the other lines are ringing. Can I call you back in about ten minutes?
“Sure, number here is 234-555-9876.”
“Where is your property located TJ?”
“Sheldon’s Lake.”
TJ hears the faint gasp as reality of the location sets into Louisa’s mind. Her voice has a slight tremor.
“I’ll call you right away TJ…and thank you for calling Two Rooks and a Castle.”
“My pleasure.”
 
TJ only has time to finish the rest of the biscuit and fetch fresh coffee when his cell rings.
      “Hello TJ.”
“Hello Louisa. Thanks for calling me back so promptly. Now when can you come and list the property?”
“If you are free now, I’m only a half hour away.”
“Great, then come on over and bring anything I need to sign.”
He glances at his watch.
“It’s almost nine thirty now, so around ten then? The address is 200 Waterfowl Way.”
“Perfect, I’ll see you soon. Thank you TJ.”
He hates to hang up. He likes the sound of her voice. He tries to imagine what she looks like.
“Yes, yes, see you shortly.”
 
Placing the cell on the table he sits back. Smiling to himself, he decides the dreamlike voice probably comes from a short bearded lady, two yards wide. If he let his imagination drift, he sees her as a tall Brunette, cinnamon eyes with flowing hair, long legs and the shortest skirt. Shaking the thought away he tells himself no more women until he settles back into New Brunswick. He plans on leaving as soon as possible. Pushing his chair back he gathers plate, napkin and cup and mutters to himself.
“Need to make that bed and straighten the hot tub deck before she gets here.”
 
TJ is tossing the empty scotch bottle in the recycle bin in his garage. The large two car door is open to the driveway and street. His 1970 Chevy Nova sits in the left bay. The right bay is open and his Ford F150 is in the driveway. Before he shuts the door a mint green Jeep Cherokee pulls in the driveway and parks beside the truck. If this is the real estate agent, the woman sitting at the wheel is not what TJ was expecting. Even from a distance the smile is perfect. He walks out the receding garage door to greet his visitor. TJ reaches to open her door.  He`s mesmerized.
The lady getting out of the car is as tall as he is, slim and lithe, the way she moves reminds him of a dancer. A slender chin and fine nose make her smile even more delightful. Short auburn curls in a stylish cut compliment her happy eyes.  Silver looped earrings and a matching pendant glisten on her soft skin. She`s a beautiful woman. He guesses her to be close to fifty-five. Her voice is more pleasing, sexier than on the phone. TJ gets goosebumps.
`You sir are a gentleman. I’m Louisa Bourque.  Are you TJ Parker?”
TJ steps back, pleasure gleaming from his eyes.
“I am but I don’t think I mentioned my last name.”
Louisa Bourque likes the confidence in the man’s eyes, the cockiness in his grin and is immediately drawn to him.
“Well, with the property lists available to us, it was easy to attain your last name. I hope you don’t mind but the information is public. Just give me a second please and I’ll grab my briefcase from the back seat.”
While she is doing so, TJ comments on her familiar last name.
“I don’t know any Bourque’s in Florida but there were many where I grew up.”
The smile is genuine when she faces him. Her hands hold her briefcase in front. Black slacks and the black open-toed shoes have a white bow on the front A beige lace blouse over a dark camisole heightens her light tan. Her briefcase is soft brown leather. There is no wedding band. TJ is awestruck. She turns her head slightly when she speaks to him.
“I don’t think you would know them, my parents are originally from Canada.”
TJ perks up.
“Where abouts in Canada?”
Louisa is struck by the memory of her childhood visits to her grandparents in the summers.
“Small communities in New Brunswick. My father is from Shediac and my mother is from South Branch.”



*    Three months later TJ is standing on the doorstep to a modest condo on Makaikai Street in Mililani, Hawaii. He knocks on the door. It’s not even 8 a.m. and the sun is at his back. The rays are almost as bright as his disposition. There is no answer and he knocks again, only harder. Several minutes go by until the door opens and Wilmot is standing there. Disheveled hair, needing a shave, white tee shirt and baggy pajama bottoms. He’s in a bad mood from being awakened so early and is ready to blast the visitor until he sees TJ posing there with a face splitting smile and a ravishing lady at his side.

“TJ, what a surprise. What are you doing here?”
“Wilmot, I want you to be my best man!”     Thank you for visiting today. Hope you enjoyed the story and meeting TJ. Please feel free to leave a comment below.

TJ & The Real Estate Lady by allan hudson

One of my favorite characters is TJ. He's been in two of my short stories already. You met him first in the Two Grumpy Old Men Café and then in the Finale of the Two Grumpy Old Men Café


A perpetual playboy. Swears he'll never get married. Now that the café belongs to someone else, what is he up to?

Read Part 1 of TJ's latest escapades in

TJ & the Real Estate Lady.





TJ Parker. A 72 year old playboy bored out of his skull. Bubbles frothing at his back, the water roils about his naked body that soaks in the hot tub. Arms spread in each direction, elbows on the cedar, a stress ball shaped like a breast in one hand and a glass half full of golden glory in the other. The bottle of aged Lagavulin is only inches away, albeit almost empty. Another several inches away is a second glass, lipstick smeared and empty.  Beads of perspiration dot his skin like pebbles that melt and runaway. Steam billows from the seven hundred and fifty gallons of heated water. TJ is staring at the rising vapor as it hits the ceiling of the cedar overhang of his deck and disperses randomly before evaporating. It reminds him of his relationship with Wilmot and Taffy, his best friends, and how it sort of dissipated almost a year ago. His eyes lose focus.    
The three of them, Wilmot Parker (no relation) and Taffy Fitzsimons ran a not-for-profit eatery. In fact, under a drunken stupor in this very hot tub a few years ago, yanging to each other about having too much time on their hands, they hatched a plan to open a diner style restaurant for breakfast only. Closes at 11am sharp every day, they’d all still have their afternoons, Wilmot to golf, TJ to write his novels of erotica and Taffy to support the thrift shops. All retired and financially sensible they didn’t need the money. Taffy didn’t want to be involved in any ownership but she’d help anyway she could.
Wilmot was a financial advisor during his career as well as an outstanding chef. He’d do the cooking. TJ was the talker, he’d serve and whatever. Taffy wanted to be a waitress. They giggled at every suggestion until Wilmot would get them back on track. Two hours of banter, another half bottle of scotch, they came up with a plan. They’d buy their own building, big windows and old brick, somewhere not far from a beach. TJ was a building contractor previously and would supervise the work. Soft homey colors (Taffy’s idea, the boys wanted red and black). Big black and white photos of famous Canadians hanging on the walls. TJ’s scrumptious biscuits, every patron gets one whether they want it or not. They’d cover the costs and give the rest to charity, likely the homeless. Thus, the Two Grumpy Old Men Café was born. The food would be delicious and the grumpiness would be free.
Remembering the last time he saw them six months ago when Wilmot asked him to be his best man. A trip to Hawaii was worth every penny, a great time reminiscing, meeting Taffy’s family and finding comfort in the arms of her cousin Luanda was worth the trip alone. He had thought about asking her to come to Florida with him but he talked himself out of it, he wasn’t much for long term relationships. The old joke of too many women and too little time is wearing thin and he’ll have to think of some other explanation when people ask him why he is still single.
His thoughts are disturbed by the returning of his guest.  She reaches over to place a dish of oysters, cheese and crackers on the wood shelf by the whisky. TJ had prepared it earlier, forgotten on the coffee table. Her breast sways teasingly close to his lips when she bends over.
“Here sweetie, you must be famished, we haven’t eaten since we had the pasta at Nevio’s and it’s almost midnight.”
She sticks her finger under his chin to tilt his head up.
“And doesn’t all this wonderful activity make you hungry…you tiger.”
When she says this, she reaches into the water to rub his chest amongst the bubbles.  She must’ve found an on switch. Something in the water quickens.
“Oh my!”
TJ is smirking, rather proud of his libido. The green eyes suggest that it’s no big deal. He takes a swig of the whiskey. Tossing the stress ball he grins at his guest.
“You getting back in?”
She clasps her hand to her chest. The wet one drips tiny droplets on her tummy that run down her nakedness. Amanda Waycross is no floosy.  At sixty five, widowed, a night of unimaginable sex and discovery is no common event. Not one given to a lark, allowing this charming, handsome man to seduce her was the best thing that happened to her in years. She can’t remember how many times she came. She waves him off.
“Oh no way Jose, I can barely walk as it is. That thing should be registered as a weapon. I’m hoping we can do it again but not tonight honey. You know I have to leave soon. The grand kids are being dropped off at seven and I don’t want to miss a day with those rascals. Would you like to join us?”
The eyebrows question him. Reaching up to secure her ponytail, her small breasts are pear shaped and so lovely that TJ is tempted. Not one for children, he tries to avoid such encounters.
“Tomorrows not good Amanda, I…I think I’m going to be busy.”
Disappointment causes a frown, she can read between the lines.
“Sure TJ. I’m just going to get my things from the bedroom and…”
She looks around at the deck and pool area and back at TJ unmoving in the tub.
“…and the deck and the hammock...”
They both start laughing, TJ quiet with shoulders moving, Amanda with a soft chuckle. Bending over the edge of the tub that comes to mid-thigh, she holds his head in her hands, brushing his long hair back behind his ears. Glassy eyes express her pleasure. She kisses him passionately, thankfully and backs off.
“You’re the best TJ. Call me sometime if you want.”
She leaves. A few minutes later he hears the hum of her Audi, the crunching of the tires on the fine stone gravel of his driveway. Stretching out his arm, he tips the neck of the bottle to refill his glass. Less than an ounce dribbles from its brown throat. He shakes it hopefully a couple of times.  That’s it! The bottle teeters a bit when replaced on the cedar almost falling into the water. When he pivots his elbow to grab at it his forearm knocks the last of the finest scotch in the house into the suds, glass and all. The liquor makes a brief brownish stain for several seconds. His eyes bug out. He’d like to curse, he wanted that one last slow burn and besides, the friggin’ stuff is over five dollars an ounce.
“Damn!
He shakes it off and leans back. Grabbing his smart phone, his thumb makes it tweet a dozen times and he sets it back down. Only a second goes by until “Kitty LaRoar” comes softly from overhead speakers. She’s halfway through Skylark, the words as beautiful as her voice. Closing his eyes, the jazz meets the scotch buzz and they get acquainted. Soon lulled into a partial comatose state, his memory drifts back to the last thing they all agreed on. Wilmot made them repeat it all together when they staggered out of the tub.
“Anyone wants out, all they have to do is say so. No hard feelings.”
He can still see Taffy and Wilmot sitting across from him after closing one Friday eleven months ago, arms intertwined staring at each other all lovey-like. He still can’t believe it. Said they were getting married and moving to Hawaii, on Oahu where Taffy was brought up, leaving in less than a week. What a shock, they’d been dating behind his back knowing he would be teasing them in front of the patrons. They reminded him of the agreement they’d made and they wanted out, good friends and all.
Now the Open Heart Home owns the café receiving it debt free, full title at no charge, their largest donation by far. It’s manned by three people that actually were homeless at one time.TJ trained all the staff, helped Edward Bancroft, often referred to in his former life as Twenty five Cent Eddie, get off the streets using his background in cooking. Clean for 11 months, a resurrection of his culinary skills from his former diner jobs has made him the star of the store. Bertha and Beulah do the waiting and cleanups.
TJ only has one more meeting with his lawyers to finalize the agreement. After that, there will be nothing to keep him busy other than his abnormal pursuit of the opposite sex. Grinning at this thought, he speaks to the rising steam.
“Even that is getting old hat. Damn, I’m not getting any younger and I should be a little fussier than I have been. I guess they can’t all be as sexy as Amanda. It’s taking more scotch to get the available ladies looking good enough. And the last time I looked in the mirror, I expect that some of the ladies feel the same way. What the dickens am I going to do with the rest of my life?”     Thanks for visiting folks. I'll post part 2 next week. Hope you can drop by for the rest of the story.  Tell me what you think of TJ?

Guest Author Lisette Lombard of Mexico.

All the way from Monterrey...She’s back!
 
The Scribbler is pleased to have Lisette Lombard return for a second visit. A 4Q interview and an excerpt from her newest novel. If you missed her before, you can check it out here 



Thank you, Allan, for inviting me for a return visit to the South Branch Scribbler. I am honoured to be showcased in your blog. I am a native of Monterrey, Mexico. EBO is my first novel and is a YA paranormal romance. It is an exciting story about vampires and love. Night Orchid, its sequel, has recently been released. Both novels are published by Morning Rain Publishing of Ontario, Canada, of which I am their first international author. You can find me as L. Lombard, or by following the link to my website below.   


4Q: I recently read your first novel, EBO, which was featured in your first visit here on the Scribbler, and I enjoyed it very much. Please tell us what fascinates you about Vampires and how the idea of loving a mortal was inspired.
LL: I’m so glad you enjoyed EBO. I have always been intrigued by the paranormal. It leads to question What if?—and this presents so many possibilities. I feel compelled to lead readers into another realm and make them forget they are reading the impossible, leave them with a sense of longing for the What if.  It is exciting to create a made-up world in which everything fits, one that is so believable that readers will forget it is fiction, and better yet, wish it were not.
But EBO and Night Orchidserve an additional purpose. The literary world is swamped with stories of vampires loving mortals; however, these stories tend to get a bit graphic. Years back, my daughter was interested in this genre. After reading several novels, it was becoming hard to find appropriate stories for her to read so I decided to write one for her, and that’s how EBO was born. Young Adults are smart and imaginative, and I write “clean” stories for them to enjoy. It’s fun to explore alternative ways for readers of all ages to experience strong emotions while reading my books.
4Q: Your latest work is titled Night Orchid and is a sequel to EBO. Tell us about it.
LL: Night Orchid begins where EBOleft off. Thinking the worst is behind, Josephine is ready to turn her back on fear and live out a normal life—as normal as possible when loving a smouldering hundred and eighty year old vampire. But loving the undead is never simple, and the perils that threaten their world appear to never end.
Seeking protection from their beloved Ashanti, Ebo and Josephine return to Africa. Danger multiplies when hunters—a vampire’s worst enemy—side with the wretched creature that has made it her life mission to destroy Ebo and Josephine. The fight for their lives will test every fibre of their being. Can their love survive the turmoil?
4Q: Please share a childhood anecdote or memory with us.
LL: When I was about nine, I walked out of class to find a group of boys poking at a dead opossum in the hallway. The poor creature had a live baby in its pouch. I couldn’t help myself and took the baby home. My mom is an amazing person and was used to my antics when it came to rescuing defenseless creatures, but I still knew she’d freak out. I decided to keep it hidden, but I needed a plan. Our next-door neighbour was a young mother who’d recently given birth, so I went over to ask if she had baby formula she could spare. “It’s for a school project,” I said. Armed with powdered milk and a doll’s bottle, I fed the opossum round the clock for a week until I was found out. I wasn’t allowed to keep it, as I knew would happen, but mom drove me to the vet and the critter was left in his care. I’m calling my mom now to laugh over this, and I might remind her about the rescue of the lab rats while I’m at it… but that’s another story.
4Q: What’s next Lisette? What are you working on now?
LL: Shifters! I continue to be drawn to the paranormal and have a story brewing, but it’s still in the initial stages, so we’ll see where that leads.



An Excerpt from Night Orchid. (copyright held by the author)




Ebo, if you come I will never speak to you again. He’d been right. These guys were deadly serious, and his appearance at the village would turn ugly in a hurry. Moving from the window, I walked out the door to face the hunters.
Faking to rub sleep from my eyes, I made my way to the chief’s side, noticing the Ashanti guards were closer to Kiki but in an unfavourable position to help her. “What’s going on?” I asked, trying to control the anger in my voice.  “We have visitors,” Chief Kande said. The tension on his face warned me against doing something stupid. He might’ve thought he had things under control, but it sure didn’t look that way to me.
Concentrating on the hunters, I made them believe I was witnessing Kiki’s rough treatment for the first time. “Let her go,” I hissed through gritted teeth. She wasn’t hurt, but it was easy to see the way her body trembled. All blood had drained from her face.
“They want vampires,” Kiki muttered.
Sidestepping through the guards, I made my way to her. “Then go watch a movie,” I told the leader. Too late, I realized I should’ve acted more surprised, but my blood was boiling.
The young one at the back chuckled again. I didn’t risk glancing away from his leader. He was taller and stronger than I’d initially thought. A hand was placed on my shoulder, and I tensed at Chief Kande’s touch. That’s when I noticed the Ashanti had surrounded the hunters, all spears raised in their direction.
Ebo’s growls were in my head, and his fury was in my heart. It made it difficult to keep the emotions from showing on my face, so I directed that hatred toward the man before me. “Let. Her. Go.”
“And you are?” he asked with a smirk on his face, but I noted a hint of indecision in his voice.
“Her friend, and a member of the Ashanti.”
His head tilted. I was sure he saw something, but was it enough? “What are you?” he demanded in a low, dangerous tone.
“That’s a really stupid and offensive question,” I spat.
Ebo was moving fast and would soon reach us. I’m not kidding, stay away. His pace slowed, but did not stop. The anger he felt made me want to scream. My vision unfocused at the edges. You’re making it hard for me to stay human, I warned, unsure of what it meant, but it made him stop.
Behind me, Chief Kande spoke. “Tell us what you want, and we will assist you. The girls know nothing of the female deathling.”
A speculative glance was directed my way. “Have this one switch places with her friend while we search your village.”
“No—”
I moved before the chief finished speaking and reached for the leader’s arm holding the knife. He lowered it, releasing Kiki and taking me in her place.
“I didn’t expect this,” he said. “You are warm.” The hand holding the knife moved, and he placed his thumb against my neck, feeling for a pulse. “You have a heartbeat.”
“Of course, I do.” I forced the laughter that followed. “Do I look like the walking dead?”
“On the contrary, you are extremely beautiful.”
Kiki moved forward and slapped the man hard across his face. Korshi pulled her back just as the other hunters came to her. The Ashanti took a step closer, forming a tight circle around the hunters.
“Uh-oh, you’ve angered them,” I said.
“Shush, foolish girl. I thought you were the one Sophia mentioned. A part-vampire.”
Sophia. Bile rose to my throat. “Maybe I am.”
Ebo’s growls filled my mind as soon as I spoke. Balling my fists, I fought the urge to punch the man. My vampire was capable of such anger. But nothing compared to the fear radiating from him. Had I gone too far?
“Stop toying with us, girl. You have no idea what we’re capable of.” His thumb prodded my neck again. “Call your men back,” he said to the chief.
Kande nodded, and his men took a tiny step back. A really tiny step. The chief wasn’t taking any chances. Kiki went for the leader again, but Korshi placed his hands over her arms, holding them down while forcing her away from us.
Motioning to Alex, the leader said, “Inspect her.” The hunter’s grip tightened, and he whispered in my ear, “He will not harm you, but we must be sure.”
Moving at the same time as Alex did, the chief was immediately at my side. “If you harm her, you will not walk out of here tonight.”
Ebo was running again, and I decided against asking him to stop. The tone in the hunter’s voice made my skin crawl.
“Open your mouth,” Alex said. Relaxing, I nearly laughed out loud. They’d find nothing there. Gently, his thumb pushed against my top lip and explored my teeth. Should I bite him? I asked Ebo. It was hard to control the urge.
Do not test them, sweetness.
With a hard tug, the leader twisted my arm back. I howled in agony as Alex thrust his hand in my mouth, feeling over my teeth again.
One moment I was held in a chokehold, the next I stumbled forward, watching a head roll past and blood splatter the ground, over my face and clothes. The second of stunned silence was chased by uproar and chaos. Chief Kande was right there, by my side, catching me before I fell.     

Thank you Lisette for being our guest this week. Wishing you all the best with your stories!




And a Special thank you to you - the Reader.
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