Allan Hudson's Blog, page 52

Guest Author Regina Puckett of Tennessee

Regina Puckett is an accomplished author  with her sweet romance Concealed in My Heart, steampunk book I Will Breathe, children’s picture book, Borrowed Wings, her poem Memories and book of poetry, Fireflies,  have all received awards of note.
She writes sweet romance, horror, steampunk, inspirational, picture books and poetry. There are always several projects in various stages of completion and characters and stories waiting in the wings for their chance to finally get out of her head and onto paper.




Copyright for the following excerpt is owned by the author and is used by permission.




Finding LibertryAapeli
Chapter One 
When the airship entered the valley, Aapeli leaned over the railing to get a better view.  He never grew tired of looking at the pristine lake that took up much of the valley floor. It was the main water source for everyone who lived within a thirty-mile radius – the good and the bad. Stately pine and oak trees snuggled up close to the edge of the mountain, creating a wonderful hiding place for anyone interested in stealing his airship or killing him.
“Looks good so far.” He didn’t know when he had taken to talking to himself but took comfort in the fact there was no one here to witness it. Sometimes he just liked hearing a voice – any voice. The daily solitude was a way of life and had been for many years, but there were times he missed sharing ideas and words with someone else. It didn’t help knowing he was heading toward the loneliest place in the world - The Forbidden Lands.
Aapeli adjusted his goggles and leaned even farther over the railing, ever vigilant for what might be hiding in the forest. The nearby caves were supposedly inhabited by men who loved killing for the simple sport of it. The rumors were they ate their victims. In his twenty years of stopping at the foot of the mountains to refill the water tanks, there had never been any indication that these tales about the cave-dwellers were true.
It was quite possible the tall tales were just that – tall tales, but it didn’t hurt to keep a sharp lookout just in case there was some grain of truth in them. The last thing he wanted was to wind up on a roasting stick. It would certainly have been far safer to refill his water tanks elsewhere, but Big Lake was the nearest source of water before heading over the mountains into the Forbidden Lands.
Satisfied that all was well, Aapeli ran over to the helm and checked all the gauges before pulling a lever that sent a plume of steam into the air. Slowly but surely the airship began its descent. It skimmed over the tops of the trees before settling onto the bank of the lake.
 Aapeli patted Airus’s helm. “Way to go, girl. Another perfect landing.” A couple of turns on a large brass wheel lowered the anchor until he felt it hit the ground. To make certain it was secure he tugged it a couple of times before throwing the water hoses over the starboard side. Not wanting to lose his hat or goggles, he carried them over and set them down on the captain’s chair. They had belonged to his father, and to his grandfather and great-grandfather, so he felt it his duty to protect them.
Satisfied everything was secure, Aapeli lowered the ladder but then sat with one leg over the railing, casting a cautious eye over the area one more time. A flock of birds flew out of the trees closest to the lake.  He held his breath and listened for any unusual sounds, and when none came he rubbed his pocket watch for good luck before heading down.
Aapeli had nearly reached the bottom rung when an eerie wailing cut across the lake’s usual silence.  He halted, mid-step, and chills ran down his spine.
“What the hell?” Every sense snapped to full alert, and without thinking, he slipped the small handgun out of his jacket pocket before jumping the rest of the way to the ground. The lush, green grass assured a quiet landing.
Another cry filled the air, and he flattened himself against the ship and cocked the pistol. An unnerving silence then settled over the lake, somehow more alarming than the wailing.
Which direction had the high pitched sound come from? It was tempting to pull up anchor and get the hell out of here, but that would have meant backtracking to Little Lake. Damn. Totally unacceptable. It would set him back at least a couple of days. Not such a big deal any other time of the year but winter was quickly approaching. The delay could easily make the return trip over the mountaintop as dangerous as hell. The wind currents were unpredictable once freezing temperatures reached those higher altitudes. The added threat of snow was also a worry. Any extra weight would make Airus sluggish.
Another wail ripped through the stagnant air.
The smart thing would have been to get out of here for the crying had clearly drawn someone else’s attention.
“Shit.” To hell with being smart. Maybe someone needed his help, and so Aapeli stepped ahead, scanning the area again.
Something about the crying troubled him. It sounded more like a child’s sob than that of a man or woman. Was this one of the tricks the mountain men used to entice their victims?
“What are you going to do?  Shit or get off the pot?  Some mountain man is out there licking his chops, hoping you’re stupid enough to run right into his arms.” But none of the stories he had heard over the years had ever led him to believe the cave-dwellers were smart enough to pull such a trick.
“Mommy!”
“What the hell?”  It wasn’t possible for a grown man to disguise his voice enough to sound that much like a little girl. He stopped, stood on his toes and strained to see over the tall grass. He couldn’t chance it really was a child. How long before the cries drew the attention of someone looking for an easy meal?
“You can’t stand here all day.” With no firm plan in mind, Aapeli took off running, silently cursing himself with each step. He was a damn fool for taking such a chance and was probably going to wind up in someone’s soup pot tonight.
Keeping the pistol ready, Aapeli stopped every couple of steps to check around, in case someone had maneuvered themselves between him and his airship. When he turned to look ahead again, a movement at the tree line caught his eye.
Anger replaced apprehension. What kind of fool left their child alone in such a dangerous place? Aapeli ran across the open field toward the edge of the trees and stopped a few feet from the child, peering into the dense underbrush to make certain there was no one there waiting to attack. As best he could tell, they seemed to be alone and so he quietly approached the girl. 
Her big eyes watched his every movement so he slowly knelt in front of her, trying not to spook her. Her curly, red hair was filthy and matted. Tears had washed some of the grime off her face. A river of snot ran from her nose and dripped from her chin. Where was her mother? He looked over his shoulder at Airus and wondered what to do. He couldn’t very well leave her here without any protection but he couldn’t take her with him either.
“This is a damn fine mess,” Aapeli mumbled to himself as he scooted in closer.
With an innocent expression of curiosity, the girl eyed the shiny pistol before reaching out to touch it. Before she could, Aapeli put on the safety catch and slipped it into his duster pocket.
The little girl was no longer crying but was now drawing in ragged breaths.
“Where’s your mommy?”
She slipped a thumb into her mouth and hiccupped.
Before he could question her further, a shrill yell bounced down the mountainside. This time there was no mistaking the fact that danger was heading their way. Aapeli looked up toward the caves, seeing a mass of dark dots speeding toward the valley floor. He scooped up the little girl and took off running. Calmly, with each step, he mentally clicked off what needed to be done before takeoff.
The trip up the ladder took less time than it did down. Once onboard, Aapeli swiped his hat and goggles off the captain’s chair and there deposited the child. He vaguely noted that her tears had stopped and her big eyes watched him with interest, not fear. Sensing she could probably use some reassurance, he quickly patted the top of her head before running over and spinning the wheel that hauled up the anchor. That done, he dashed over to the portside and pulled up the ladder until it was all safely back on deck.
Feeling more secure now that no one could climb on board, Aapeli took a moment to look out at the herd of men rapidly running toward the airship. With them all bunched up and on each other’s heels it was hard to tell how many there were, maybe some twenty to thirty. By now they were at the furthest edge of the lake and heading in his direction.
“Damnation!” Aapeli checked that the little girl was still in the captain’s chair. She hadn’t moved but was sucking her thumb – a mystery sitting there that would have to wait to be solved after they were out of danger. Now at the helm, he increased the speed on the friction engine and opened the steam vent to release hot air into the balloon.
Even though the engine was running on it highest setting, it was an excruciating wait for the airship to lift off. Aapeli pulled out his pistol and looked over the railing. The crazed mob was now beating on the sides of Airus with their bare hands and large sticks.
Aapeli shook his head. If that was all they had, they were going to leave here disappointed. Since he had built Airus, he knew exactly how much punishment it could take and a few rocks and sticks were useless against its seasoned cedar planking.
He couldn’t decide whether to be afraid or amused at the sight of the ragtag mob. They were grabbing whatever they could and throwing it at the airship, as if that would be enough to stop it from taking off. Most of the missiles fell harmlessly to the ground but every now and then some would land onto the heads of those below. Of course that only stirred them into a more fevered pitch, but thankfully to no avail. Airus slowly gained altitude and climbed out of reach, the rocks and sticks no longer clattering against its hull.
Aapeli grinned and waved. The smile was all for show because their crazed growls and hoarse screams had unnerved him more than he wanted to admit. No doubt they would have torn him and the little girl into tiny pieces if they had gotten their hands on them.
Slipping the pistol back into his coat pocket, he returned to the helm and increased the steam pressure. He looked at the dirty little girl and sighed. Shit. What was he going to do with her? She was sucking on her thumb still but with renewed vigor, though there was no fear in her big brown eyes - only curiosity.
Lost for what to do or say, he again patted the top of her head. Her face lit up with a huge smile.
Before he turned back to the airship’s controls, he knelt in front of the captain’s chair, again hoping to reassure her. “I’ll stop by Shatter’s. I bet if anyone knows who you belong to, it’s him.”  That brought another bright smile. Someone was surely looking for this beautiful little girl. If she was his daughter, he would never stop searching until he’d found her.
With a new mission now before him, Aapeli headed Airus toward the local trading post.

 
 Thank you Regina for sharing your clever writing on the Scribbler.  Please visit her website below for more connections.

http://reginapuckettsbooks.weebly.com/index.html

 
            
 
 
 
  Please drop by next week when The Scribbler will feature Author and Poet Judy Savoie of Shediac, New Brunswick with a collection of poems.

 

4Q Interview with Drake Alexander - Vigilante - Fictional Hero!

Drake Alexander is the coolest guy on the planet! Okay, I’m biased. He’s my hero!  Ex- Canadian Soldier, heir to a family fortune. I’ve tracked him down in Mexico to have him answer a few questions for the 4Q Interview on the Scribbler.      4Q: Thank you for taking some time from your adventures Mr. Alexander to answer some questions for your fans. Would you describe yourself as a vigilante? DA: Hey Allan, you can call me Drake, none of that Mr. Alexander business. Well, to answer your question, which I’ve been asked or accused of many times, if we accept the true definition of a vigilante in that I sometimes take the law into my own hands then I guess I’d have to say yes! My team and I try to be ever conscious of lawful procedure as we dig around the world to either capture or detain or if all else fails, to eliminate, some of the Earth’s scum that have total disregard for anything lawful. I’m not talking about a petty criminal but the truly evil, the killers, pedophiles, arms dealers, master thieves and other low life. We’re more like private investigators working to help law enforcement agencies but sometimes we have to step over the line to make sure that whomever we may be pursuing does not get to spend any more time as a free person. If I’m forced to kill them, I will. And no, I don’t lose any sleep over it.   4Q: Okay then, Drake it is! Since we first met you in Dark Side of a Promise, we know that you married your long time sweetheart Beth Stone and now have a family. How do they feel about you placing yourself in danger so often? DA: That’s always been a tough one.  As you know, when I was a boy and saw the Army Reserve manage war games on my grandfather’s property in Cocagne many years ago, I was enthralled by the uniforms, heavy battle vehicles, the guns and other weapons and the brawny men that served to keep our country free and Canada’s long role as peacekeepers and I decided then to become a soldier, to do my part. Of course my father was disappointed that I didn’t follow him or my mother’s family into the jewellery business that they had built over the years but I’m as stubborn as he was. When he came to realize that being a warrior was my destiny, he supported me all the way. As far as my immediate family, my wife Beth has been a reluctant backer and has occasionally been part of my team when her expertise with disguises and shooting skills has been required. Since we first met as adolescents she has always known why I chose to be a soldier, hated it of course, due to our continuous separation when I was or still am in the field or worrying about me getting hurt or killed. She knows how I feel about lawlessness.  I admit, I’ve asked a great deal from her and it is our deep commitment to each other that makes us strong. With my children at a young age, I’m thinking that perhaps the day may soon arrive when I will give up my gallivanting. I want to spend more time with them. They are still under the impression I travel for the jewellery business. I don’t want any of them to think my life or what I do might be glamourous.  Even though we all have the same goals and lifestyles that permit us the freedom we need, I owe it to my comrades, Williston Payne, Elijah and Plum Glass and Dakin Rush who have stuck beside me over the years to value our good luck and pursue safer avenues in our lives. We’re all getting older and travelling the world to place ourselves in peril is wearing thin. In fact as we speak, I’ve decided that this is my last caper. I’m not sure if it will end here in Mexico or if I’ll be alive next month but if I have the good luck to find the serial killer that has ravaged Central America for the last eighteen months, I think I’ll trade in my guns for a pen and write about it, maybe create a good book or two.   4Q: I can’t wait to read those. Good luck! Please share a childhood anecdote or memory with us. DA: I’ll have to think about that for a moment because I have so many. Probably the first time I actually met my wife Beth. My parents and I lived in Massachusetts when I was younger and we spent our summers in Cocagne, New Brunswick in the house that had been in my grandmother’s family for decades. My father owned land across from the older house that bordered the waters of the Northumberland Strait. When he decided to build a house there, we spent three weeks in New Brunswick one winter when he finalized the details of the work to be done with the contractor doing the work starting that spring. I had the opportunity to go to the nearest ski hill with several of my summertime friends. I had never skied before so in the morning I took lessons and by mid morning I was feeling confident enough to try a larger hill. When I got off the lift, I made it safely to what looked like an easy run. It was not. At the top of the first rise was a gaggle of young ladies and Beth was part of the group. I figured I was doing well enough that if I was careful, I might impress the ladies. Not so. I had to pass in front of the group to make my way downward and as I did, the girls all fell silent and then I slipped. I slide seventy feet to the bottom but one ski stayed halfway up. To say I was embarrassed would be an understatement. I couldn’t imagine any thing being worse until Beth, with the grace of a true athlete, swished down the hill, grabbed my errant ski without even stopping and brought it to me. By then she couldn’t stop herself from laughing. When the other girls gracefully slid by me, she smiled and I melted. Her parting words soothed me a bit when she told me the same thing happened to her. I can’t remember ever having my ego deflated as much since but I’ll never forget how beautiful she looked at that moment.   4Q: Many readers of the Dark Side of a Promise always wondered why someone whose childhood and growing-up-dreams of being a soldier did not make it a career. You chose being a grunt instead of officer school. You were part of the Canadian Special Forces with Joint Task Team 2.  What happened? DA: I don’t talk about that much because it is still a major disappointment that I could no longer serve my country in the capacity of the Armed Services. Very briefly, I was with a small contingent of Canadian soldiers in Desert Storm. During our deployment, one of the American soldiers we had formed a bond with and one of our men were captured during a clandestine operation. Delta Company pulled our asses out of a bad situation returning us to base.  For reasons we were never told, the military would not mount a rescue operation even though our allies knew where they would be. I couldn’t live with that. I vowed to never leave any man behind. I disobeyed orders. With two fellow soldiers and a crafty stick pilot, we hijacked a heavy lift Chinook and did it ourselves, and in the nick of time I might add. We saved their lives but the Forces thought differently. When the dust settled we were given the opportunity to accept an honorable discharge or be court martialed. That’s it.   Thank you Drake for this candid interview.    You can meet him in the international thriller Dark Side of a Promise which highlights events that took place in 2004. Alexander has made a promise to his best friend to find the man that killed his sister!    
 
In the newest adventure an amateur rock climber makes an amazing discovery in 1953 only to lose the secret for another fifty years until a close friend of Drake’s rediscovers it and has to run for his life from the clutches of Spanish raiders as they chase forgotten gold in Peru. The story is called Wall of War and will be available in fall 2016.
  Watch here for more details!      Next week the Scribbler is pleased to have Regina Puckett of Tennessee as our guest author.
 

Guest Author Ann Knight of New Brunswick, Canada

The Scribbler is fortunate to have Ann Knight as the featured guest this week. She has studied Dramatic Arts as well as Dramatic Screenwriting at Algonquin College and received an outstanding achievement award in English Language. She is a published author with a Young Adult story - The Rubix. She has also penned The Rising (2011), Midnight Peak - a sequel(2011) and Battlefield (2011) Her link is below.

Her short story The Raft is a creative piece about inner turbulence in the aftermath of a traumatic event.


Copyright 2015 by Ann Knight
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. Used by permission.



The Raft
 
                Thunderheads rolled across the darkened sky. Gray clouds swelled and curled over themselves spewing rain that fell in tight streaks, lacerating the surface of the ocean that lay beneath like needles puncturing skin. This storm had caught me completely by surprise. After the worst of it had passed, I was alone in the squally waters fighting to stay alive, desperately clutching the only object that was keeping me afloat—a simple box crate. I didn’t know what had happened to the rest of my family—the storm had separated us. My husband, my children, my pets—the people I loved—where were they? They were in the blackness like me—maybe they were alone and holding onto something for dear life just like me too. 
I had already been at the mercy of this tumultuous sea for what seemed like a time without end and it was still raging and still powerful. A black wall of water rose in front of me, sucking me into it like a vacuum. I found myself at its highest peak, momentarily gazing at the bowling sky above until the wave dropped me back down so fast that bile came up from my stomach and burned the back of my throat. This was the roller coaster from hell—the dips plunged my heart into the pit of my gut until I thought the sick feeling alone would be enough to kill me. The violence of the sea was relentless. I curled my hand around the rope that was tied around the box crate, doubting that I could remain afloat much longer. My strength was all but gone. Hanging onto the winding rope, I ignored the frigid temperature of the water, endured the occasional slaps from the wild salty sea, and thought back to a time when I had navigated these depths with ease. It didn’t even seem like that long ago when…
The clear sky was above me and the calm sea was below me. My vessel was large, I remember it well. It was sturdy, beautiful, and it weathered the storms that came my way. I had spent a long time building it—constructing its base and overseeing the minutest of details until it was sail-worthy. I had placed everything that mattered to me on that craft; everything of substance that this particular storm brutally tore to pieces had been on that vessel—pieces I had tried to hold on to, but the tempest had swallowed them all.
The swell rose, heaving, and tossing me around. This night was especially dark, as black as coal. The occasional sparkle of light on the water, when the clouds decided to be kind and part, was somewhat reassuring. I wanted to think that even though I was alone—stranded—maybe someone was looking out for me—just maybe… I wasn’t completely abandoned. I rested my cheek on the crate. My teeth were chattering and my body was shivering uncontrollably. I gripped the slippery rope tighter, twirling it around my hand several times. If the storm took this crate from me too I wouldn’t survive. I needed it. It hadn’t been a part of my original vessel—but it was a part of my experience now. It had found me and kept me afloat—it was all I had to hold onto. It would mean the end if I lost my grip—because the way I saw it, without this crate I would drown. It wasn’t just a simple box crate. It was my lifeline. Even in the dark I could make out its shape, square and imperfect, but in my view it was just right… because it had saved me.
Wrapping my arms around the crate, I desperately clung for dear life. But the shift of my weight submerged us, and we slipped under the surface. The water swallowed us both. There in the cold depth, we were rocked and tossed, rolled and churned—me and my crate—until the rope disentangled itself from my hand. We were disconnected. I screamed underwater and bubbles rushed out of my mouth. Flailing and kicking, I reached for the rope that wasn’t there anymore. Disoriented and confused, I struggled to find the surface—needing to get air into my burning lungs.
A ghostly white light shone down from a break in the cover of clouds overhead, like a spotlight, and it showed me the way. Breaking the surface of the sea, I choked and struggled to tread water, coughing and spitting until something knocked me hard on the back of the head. It was my crate—and it was floating away from me. The sea was taking it. It’s leaving… I panicked and opened my mouth to call after it just as a succession of small waves began to batter me. I flailed at the surface of the choppy water, fighting for my next breath, knowing I had no strength left to go on. Knowing I should let the storm take me because I had lost too much—more than most—and more than I could ever hope to recover.

I went under.
The water covered me like a cold, discomforting blanket. I expected death to claim me, as I knew it was waiting and longing to do. The tendrils of the deep reached for me, bucking and summersaulting me around and around. The rage and tenacity of the water spurred my own anger and I lashed out with furious fists, and sharp kicks, and everything I could muster—fighting the bodiless monsoon until my lungs screamed for oxygen. Exhausted, I opened my mouth and released the last of my air supply. The bubbles quickly rose for the surface, showing me the way up. I contemplated staying put. I need air! My lungs screamed again. But in this very moment the water was still; deceptively quiet and eerily tranquil like it was on pause. Just take me… I thought. Without so much as a thin thread to hold on to, I’m defeated anyhow.
Just then a raft appeared overhead, its shadow darkening the blue-black gloom. I looked up at the rectangular mass, temporarily mesmerized, until white hands broke the surface of the water and reached in. Those hands found me, curled around my upper arms, and pulled me out of the water. My lungs sucked in a desperate breath of air, all the while cursing me for allowing their extensive distress. My upper body landed on the hard planks. The soaked wood smelled of over-ripened apples and cheap cigars and my cheek was pressed firmly against it. My legs dangled off the side of the raft, tethered in place by the weight of my upper body. I couldn’t keep my eyes open because the water came up over the side of the raft and slapped my face over and over, developing a rhythm, like the beat of a drum. The slapping water gradually lessened in intensity until I realized that…
The storm was finally beginning to settle.
By morning, the sky was violet and blue. A stripe of orange peaked over the edge of the horizon where the ocean met the sky. The orange streak slowly spread across the dull sky, lightening and trying to overtake it. I took a deep breath, vaguely aware that I was not alone on the raft. My fingers found the edge of the plank above my head and I used the very little strength I had left to turn on to my other cheek. With my mouth gaping, I stared across at the familiar figure sitting just a few feet away. He had the appearance of a man, but I knew he was still a boy.
The salty water burned my eyes but I could see his shoes—white sneakers with bright green laces. They were familiar. My head was swarming with thoughts and ideas. The boy was sitting crossed-legged, his gray plaid cotton shorts revealing his long pale legs. There was something about him that I recognized, yet I couldn’t quite identify it. The misshaped form of his knees struck me. The bones slightly protruded beneath his kneecaps… This boy… can it be that I know him? I wondered. The raft was drifting on the choppy sea, but in the moment that I was staring across at the boy, everything felt peaceful. I opened my mouth, wanting to say something, but I was too exhausted to utter anything that made sense. “I… I can’t…” my voice broke and I hung my head.
“Don’t try,” he said clearly, and I knew his voice. I had heard it before. “Just rest.”
I squeezed my eyes shut. Pain constricted about my chest. My heart tightened around a small chest—a secret box that I kept hidden deep inside—a chest that now threatened to burst open. Pain mingled with my blood and pulsed through my veins like poison, becoming a hot and searing liquid. I bit down on my lip until the taste of blood filled my mouth. There was a boy on my raft—a boy. And suddenly I realized… this wasn’t just a raft—it was a piece of my broken vessel. This had once been mine… I swallowed hard, trying to push down the lump that had risen to my throat. I couldn’t look up at the boy now even if I wanted to… because I knew exactly what I would see if I did—hair as fine as strands of silk, dark espresso-coloured eyes that could see to the pit of someone’s soul, and a smile that could brighten even the deepest, darkest of days. On top of that though, I would see perfection. I would see the reflection of my joy, of my hope, and my endless love.
“Don’t try,” he repeated, and his voice took me back to a different time.
There had been a boy on my vessel—before this particular storm hit. He was a strong, handsome, caring boy. A boy that I loved unconditionally. He left handprints on my heart and placed a trail of footprints throughout my soul. A sob broke free of my chest. My eyes were stinging, not from the saltiness of the water, but from the saltiness of the tears that were now flowing freely from them.

My heart was broken… I lost this boy to the storm.
A strong gust of wind twirled our raft around on the blue-marbled water. My legs were still dangling over the side when the wild current caught them. The sea tried once again to suck me back into its perilous depths. My shoulders lost their perch and my body slid close to the edge. Not again! I thought, and contemplated the value of holding on this time, of staying this course. What did I have left? Do we ever actually beat the storm? No. We are all either heading into it, in the middle of it, or coming out of it—after it has taken something from us. My fingers were slipping. My hold was failing. The water was swallowing my lower body and I had to make a choice—keep going or let go. The storm was testing me again. Choose.
As if in answer, the boy reached over and placed his hand on my back.
“It’ll be ok,” he said, and I could almost see his face. “Don’t let go mama.”
And I broke. I wept.
The water entered my mouth and I choked. I wanted to hold him—to hold the boy, but he was beyond my reach. “Hold on,” he said. “Don’t let go,” he whispered time and time again, and I did—I held on until the storm receded and the waters were calm again. The boy never moved from his place. I felt him sitting next to me, where he remained fixed and watchful.
The sky remained dull and gray for a long time, a long time. I held on, drifting half-on and half-off the raft, until the water became a ripple-less sheet of glass under the pale blue sky. Until a new dawn finally broke. Finally, the storm had relented. In time I found the strength to pull myself completely up onto to the raft, and all I could do was rest my forehead against the boards and hug my knees to my chest. I was barely alive. The next stretch of time was for recovering, restoring, healing. I didn’t move. I didn’t do anything but breathe. Weak and fragile, the only arms of comfort were my own, and I just breathed. Days turned to nights. Eventually, my ears began to work again and I heard sea birds singing and playing in the sky overhead. Their songs were sweet, like nectar to my ears. They nurtured me. The occasional gush of water spraying from a whale’s blowhole as it came in for a curious look, startled me and helped me find the strength to lift my head again. I looked out onto the blue world, and my perspective changed. I noticed different things over time. Fins broke the surface of the water near my raft, drawing brilliant swirls that brought a smile to my lips. Life was all around me. The boy was gone. But he was with me. And life was within me. And life was all around me. The storm hadn’t taken it all…  

Love you forever my boy,
Ann Knight   


Thank you Ann for sharing this compelling story.




Readers can discover more about Ann by going to www.annknightfiction.com


Please drop by next week for another exciting 4Q Interview.

 

Guest Author Stevie Turner of East Anglia, UK

The Scribbler has an international scope, readers and writers from all over the world. Todays guest is Stevie Turner of East Anglia, United Kingdom. An accomplished author with 8 novels and 4 short stories published which focus on the darker side of relationships, but also have her trademark sprinkling of humour.

She is enjoying an early retirement and is now a full time writer. She is married with "an ever-expanding" immediate family. She gains inspiration while walking along the country footpaths and byways around her village.

This week we are fortunate to have one of her short stories that will be published in a collection later in 2016. Her link is listed below.



A MARRIAGE MADE IN HEAVEN, by STEVIE TURNER
COPYRIGHT STEVIE TURNER 2016
 
          “I hear you’re looking for a quick way to pay off your debts.”
          I look up as a stocky young guy with clean, dark, waist-length hair puts his lunch tray down opposite me and takes a seat.  I don’t know him but have seen him around the campus, usually carrying a guitar in a case on his back.
          “I might be; as long as it’s legal and I get to keep my clothes on.”
          I nibble on my sandwich as nonchalantly as I can, enjoying his throaty chuckle at my remark.
          “Well, it’ll definitely be legal, but it’s up to you about the clothes.”
          Intrigued, I study his face for more clues.  There are two laughing blue eyes trying to hide behind copious amounts of dark facial fuzz, which I swiftly decide he’d look better without.
          “Out with it then; I’ve a lecture starting in twenty minutes.”
          “Sure.”  He nods. “It’s like this; I’m here on a student visa which runs out in October, but it’ll be better for my musical career if I can stay in the UK.”  He takes a bite of his burger and scans my face intently. “So……. you agree to marry me, and I put fifteen thousand smackeroos in your bank account.”
          “Bloody hell!”  I nearly choke on my food. “You move right along, don’t you?” 
          “Don’t give me an answer now; think about it.”  He waggles his finger at me. “I’m not saying all this just to get into your pants; I really need to stay here.  Things are happening for me and my band.”
          “Jeez.”  I look at him aghast. “Married?  I don’t even know your name!”
          “Ha; it’s Gerrie Hermann.  So you’re interested then? What’s your name, by the way?”
          His accent is appealing, but I can’t quite place it.  I have a terrible mental image of taking him up North to meet Mum and Dad, the straightest, poorest, but proudest parents in all the land.
          “Sophie Woods, but I can’t see it working.” I shake my head.
          “Sure it will.  You don’t have to love me or anything, ‘cos I’m basically an arsehole.”  His eyes twinkle. “We get married; I go my way, and you go yours.  Only now you’re fifteen thousand pounds richer.”
          I try not to laugh as I finish up my cola and look at his frayed denim waistcoat and dirty-white tee shirt.
          “And where are you, arsehole extraordinaire, going to get fifteen thousand quid from?” 

          “I’ve already got it from my parents and from playing gigs.  Come with me to the hole in the wall and I’ll print you out a balance.”
          “I’ve got a lecture.  I’ll think about it.” 
                              ***
          Gerrie finds me again the next day in the cafeteria.  I notice with distaste the same off –white tee shirt, but this time without the waistcoat.
          “See you at the cash machine at half past four.”  He winks as he walks past me. “Don’t be late.”
          The effrontery of the guy is amazing.  However, intrigued, I find myself walking a circuitous route to the accommodation unit after lectures end, just to see if he’s there.  He is; waiting there like Winnie the Pooh on steroids, with a smile on his face the size of the Blackwall tunnel.
          “I knew you’d come!”  He’s almost jumping up and down with glee. “You’re not seeing my pin number, but you can have the print-out.”
          I look away as he pops his card in the reader and enters the pin.  I still cannot believe somebody looking the way he does could possess thousands of pounds in his bank account.  He requests a balance and gives me another grin.
          “Mum and Dad are minted. Why do you think I’ve been able to get a student visa?”
          I take the balance print-out from him, and am surprised to discover there is over thirty thousand pounds in his account.
          “Because you murdered them and stole all their money?”  I look again at the piece of paper just to make sure.
          “Wrong. I told you; they’re wealthy.  What do you say?  Come down to the bank with me tomorrow lunchtime, and I’ll transfer it over to your account.”
          It was all moving too fast.  I saw a summer of not having to work at menial jobs in order to pay Mum and Dad back, who had re-mortgaged their home in order to be able to send me to university.  I could repay my debt to them in dribs and drabs so as not to cause suspicion, and be done with it. They’d never find out I was already married, and I could always say to a future partner that I didn’t need a marriage certificate to prove my commitment.  I decided for once in my life to live dangerously.
          “Okay, but wait until exams are over.  I’ll book it for some time in July, but you’ll have to shave though. I hate beards.”
          Gerrie shakes his head.
          “No way; love me, love my beard.”
          “I don’t love you, and I’m not marrying a guy whose face is full of fuzz.”
          “Bugger.”  Laughs Gerrie. “You drive a hard bargain, don’t you?”
          “Take it or leave it.”  I reply.         
                                                             ***         
          It’s a lovely day for a wedding, as fifteen thousand pounds richer, I stand on the steps of Newham Registry Office with my husband of just ten minutes.  We thank our two witnesses, and ask them to take some photos of us with our iPhones.  The witnesses comply, and then disappear into the throng of passers-by from whence they came, Gerrie looks at me and gives a whoop of joy.
          “Yes!  Thanks for this Sophie; you don’t know what it means to me.”
          “Thanks for the money.”  I laugh.  “Let’s go and celebrate!”
          As we walk along to a nearby pub, I take a swift glance at the newly-shaven Gerrie, who actually looks devastatingly handsome in a three-piece suit and cravat.  He catches my eye and puts a casual arm around my shoulder.
          “So you like the new me, eh?”
          “Sure.” I blush furiously. “You’ve scrubbed up pretty well.”
          “You’re not so bad yourself.”  His gaze travels up and down my body in an instant. “Fancy coming along to my gig tonight?  We can go for a curry afterwards if you like?”
          I’m suddenly happy that we’re not going our separate ways straight off.   I quickly agree, and with a mounting excitement look forward to what might happen after the curry.  After all, it is our wedding night!
         
  Thank you Stevie for this entertaining story.   Please drop by Stevie's site and check out her books and more. www.stevie-turner-author.co.uk    






Next week on the Scribbler you will meet author Ann Knight of Moncton, New Brunswick.




Would love to hear from you. Please leave a comment and tell me where you are from.

Guest Author Jason Hamilton of Dieppe, NB.

This man owns a Yurt! He's also a clever storyteller and the Scribbler is pleased to have him visit this week. Ever wonder what leads someone to become an author? Read on for one person's account of their journey!




I suppose there are easier ways to kick-start a writing career than building a yurt. Alright, there were more reasons that just my writing career for building a luxury Mongolian tent in 2010. Chief among them was getting out of show business.
At that point (2010) in my professional life, show business was everything. It was my job and it was my lifestyle. Everything rolled into one. And yet, despite making a good living as a film lighting technician, I wasn’t completely satisfied.
             When I first broke into the industry my end goal wasn’t to become a film lighting technician. It wasn’t my intention to chew up all my time and energy being a cog in the wheel of someone else’s film. My intention was to make my own. But that wasn’t quite how it all unfolded.

            For three years, starting in 1997, becoming a filmmaker was all I thought about. Learning the industry. Gaining confidence. Contacts. Then I would make my film. My move.
            Sure, I’d made a few short films before. I started making them in high school. A couple in university. But I wanted to take the next step. Make my mark. Move beyond being a crew member.
            Finally, in 2001 I completed “Shotgun Journalism”. It was a flop. After applying to several dozen festivals it got accepted into exactly ONE. It was back to making my living as a lighting technician.
            That’s not to say I was banished to Siberia. Film can be a very good job that provides a good income….provided there’s work. For any number of unpredictable reasons you could be as busy as hell one minute and famished the next. And then there are the grueling days.
            These two (BIG) factors contributed to looking beyond film to find fulfillment during those lean times. Though I continued to write, my confidence, not surprisingly, had taken a bit of a hit. Instead I tried being a handyman. An apprentice electrician. I even refocused my efforts into freelance writing. But no matter what I did when film work picked up again I always went crawling back. I had made a lifestyle choice that would require drastic measures to break free of completely.
            Enter parenthood.
            Or, more accurately, accidental parenthood.
            The year my short film appeared in ONE film festival was also the year I would fatefully meet my common-law heterosexual life partner Sylvie Mazerolle. During one of the slow times in Toronto, I ventured out Atlantic Canada to work on a couple of movies. The first was in Halifax. The movie: “Phase IV” starring Dean Cain and Brian Bosworth. The second was “Vendetta: No Conscience, No Mercy” starring Daniel Baldwin.           
Sylvie was a make-up artist on the Saint John movie. We started as a fling. It turned into a long-distance relationship. Later that year I asked her to move in with me.

            Now, truth be told, I wasn’t the ONLY reason she moved from Moncton, NB to Toronto, ONT. She was pursuing her dream of becoming a make-up artist. But, fortunately for all concerned (and to the surprise of the many who’d seen a film fling come and go) we’re still together.
            Seeing as how we were both established in our careers, parenthood wasn’t exactly top of mind. Not until we started to notice the encroaching sands of time. We decided to take a six-week trip to Southeast Asia to answer the question of whether or not we wanted to become parents. (That trip became the subject of my second book “Finding Asia”)
            We came back no more certain about that topic, but damn sure about our love of travelling!
            Luckily for us, film was custom-made for people who liked to work their asses off so they could have time and money for just such a purpose.
            And that’s when Drew Barrymore entered the picture.
            Yes, that Drew Barrymore, and no I’m not a celebrity stalker.
            In most of her films, what you see with her is what you get. She’s bubbly, funny, sweet, cute and sexy. For most of her movies she didn’t exactly stretch her acting chops to achieve box office glory.
            But every now and then an actress gets a chance to step out of their comfort zone and push their limits. I just happened to be working on the film where that happened.
            The name: Grey Gardens.
            Normally bubbly and fun with the crew, Ms. Barrymore employed the method style of acting to accurately portray the character “Little” Edie Beale. She was in character 24/7. She wouldn’t answer unless addressed by the name of her character. Meh, whatever it takes. I didn’t think twice about her chosen method.
            In addition to remaining in character during the entire shoot, there was also the matter of extensive make-up, wardrobe and hair requirements. Shooting days became marathon 15-hour days.
            By the time we wrapped on principal photography a few weeks before Christmas 2007 everyone was exhausted. But still up for a few festivities.
            Not often does A-List talent appear at the wrap party. Perhaps owing to the grueling demands of method, or hair or whatever, Ms. Barrymore did indeed make an appearance. I happened to run into her on the way to the bathroom. It was a long hallway, separate from the rest of the venue. She saw me and stopped right away.
            We started chatting and she professed her guilt at not being more social while on set (which, apparently she is known for). I reassured her it was okay, but she would have none of it.
            “I so wanted to talk to you,” she pleaded, “You seemed so nice. I’m really just a hippy valley girl.”
            And then she gave me a big hug and a kiss before going on her way.
            I floated back to the dance floor as I met up with my wife. Remember me, Jason from Palmerston. Farm boy who just had a chance meeting with a beautiful Hollywood star. Those butterflies must have lasted a bit longer than I anticipated.
            That December we drove to New Brunswick to celebrate Christmas. Sylvie’s parents greeted us as we stepped in the front door.
            Flo Mazerolle greeted her daughter with a tight, warm hug before she noticed immediately that something was amiss. Something wasn’t right. She didn’t hold back what her mommy instincts were telling her:
            “YOU’RE PREGNANT!”
 *
            Being in show business is grueling. Doing something you didn’t set out to do even more so. Being a new parent, living on a main street in a major city without family help all contributed to our decision. It wasn’t arrived at arbitrarily. Not long after our son was born, Sylvie and I were putting in the time to figure out an exit strategy from film. There was a catch. How do you translate film experience into the real world?
            I saw it as an opportunity. Y’see during those long slow times on set I’d salvaged my sanity with the help of a notepad. About two dozen of them over the years. In addition to all of the other things I tried to get out of the industry, I also managed to get a few articles published. I took a Copywriting course. I thought if I had just the right shove, a clean break away from film, I could find a full-time position as a writer.
            THAT was my goal. What I got when I first moved to New Brunswick in 2010 was freelance work. I tried to make the best of it but it didn’t go well. I switched careers and jobs a few times. But the experience of making the move from Toronto to New Brunswick was perfectly suited, in my eyes, to a book. Unfortunately a book takes time. Time doesn’t wait. I needed to get some kind of income that was going to lead to something. I parlayed my film lighting experience into an electrical apprenticeship. Once again I was far away from my goal of becoming a writer. Only this time the monetary remuneration wasn’t nearly so good. And to add to my misery I was working for a man who, when provoked, could scream and yell like a banshee.
            My only salvation: I went back to my notepad. I wrote like crazy. I also I pitched the hell out of “Life, the Yurt and Everything” and I also vowed to make that unwelcome tyrant the bad guy in my first novel. In the evenings I would pitch. In the mornings I would write.
            I quickly wrote the rough draft of my first novel “The Prince of Acadia & the River of Fire” in the car before my dreary workday would begin. I was also feeling hopeful that “Life the Yurt and Everything” would get picked up by a publisher or an agent.
            After several months (and the occasional earful of indignation) I finally got the break I was looking for. I had a New York agent interested in the idea. He asked me for a re-write on the sample chapters I sent him. I was FINALLY going to get out from under the foot of the John Gerryston (not his real name) aka the White Wizard!
            And then the agent regretfully declined. I kept pitching for another ten months. I finally had enough. The idea needed to get out. I needed to get out from under it. Turn the page on that chapter. Find the resolution to the story. Put it to bed. I took it upon myself to publish.
             Like a proud parent I gave birth to the book “Life, the Yurt and Everything”. A year later I finished the travel book “Finding Asia”.

            Two books and NO marketing plan. Evidently I had it backwards. I thought distribution was the most important thing. I’ve since learned marketing is the key. The rest will take care of itself.
            I’m now putting some of that hard earned wisdom to use with my first novel. Once again I have the book ready before I have everything else. Well, not everything. I have a domain. I have a Facebook page. I have the beginnings of an email list. I started public speaking.
            In short, I’m putting in the building blocks for a career. It started with “Life, the Yurt and Everything” and continued in “Finding Asia” and now I’m going in a slightly new direction with “The Prince of Acadia & the River of Fire”.
            It’s taken me six years, five careers, four jobs, and one yurt to get to this point. All things being equal, I might concede a weekend writing retreat might have been a cheaper alternative.



           
           
 Thank you Jason for this great article.  Although his website is "Under Construction" you readers can tuck this email address away and catch up on what Jason is up to - www.jasonhamilton.comHis books are available at amazon.com  Next week on the Scribbler, we are excited to have Stevie Turner of East Anglia, UK as our guest author.   

           

Funeral Food - Part 2 by A. Hudson

Last Friday, you were able to read Part 1 of Funeral Food to find Annabelle attending a funeral of someone she doesn't even like......if you missed it, keep scrolling down and you will find it below this one.

Here's the rest of the story.



Biting his lower lip, he regains his poise. He apologizes for his “hay fever” and continues:
“…the perils of spring. And like Mildred, whose life was only beginning to bloom…”
Annabelle clouds out the canned, memorized sermon. All she can think of is the waiting pirogues, hopefully some paska; she loves that sweet egg bread. A feast awaits twenty-one steps down the right hallway. Her stomach rumbles at the nearness, a low growl. A young man, pointy beard and skinny face, sitting several spaces away from her frowns at her. She waves away his concern with a silk-gloved hand. A sheen on the fingertips, a few missing sparkles about the wrist, the gloves are old.
She’ll wait until almost everyone is out, the last ten or so. The sympathy lineup will be long and most likely there will be those that can’t wait to eat. Annabelle intends to eat and leave as soon as she can, but she’ll have to mingle with mostly overweight people who are the first at the table. She’ll stand out like a poodle in a dog sled.  If she dawdles, the crowd at the door will bunch up. She decides to wait, then befriend one of the two older ladies she can see in the row to her left. Their identical grey buns suggest sisters. The bent posture indicates they are close to her age.
Possible scenarios of conversation occupy her mind until her musing is interrupted when the crowd rises. Annabelle stands, arranges her hat while strains of Pachelbel’s Canon in D descend from overhead speakers. The sound of people moving, the slight whispers mean the end. Reception room next.  Two staff wheeling a brass-railed, linen-draped, urn-bearing trolley lead the family towards the wide doors that have been opened by other staff. The only one she recognizes is the older man pushShrugging her wee shoulders, noticing the crowd is turned away from her, she sticks her tongue out at the urn as it passes the last seats and blows a soft blat. The boy directly in front of her hears the odd disturbance and turns to her with a grin.  He probably thinks the old gal farted. Dad - pointy chin and aged skinny face - tugs at the lad’s jacket to follow the crowd.  In the congestion the few that are happy to bump into each other, possibly only at funerals, offer polite, low laughter. The tail end of the mourners clutters the hallway, then breaks up. The Grey Buns are alone. Likely from one of the seniors' homes that Ripkoph owns, Annabelle thinks, possibly managed by Matilda once. Annabelle catches up to them eleven steps from the door.
“Such a sad thing isn’t it. I knew Mathilda…”
Fifteen minutes later they’re in the archway leading to the family. Three men, seven women, all in black. They’re bussed and hugged. They’re busy shaking hands. A commotion near the photo display causes the flow to stall. The lady closest to the easel, which is covered with photos of Mildred and Frou Frou, is being helped into a chair. Likely the mother. Her low moan silences the crowd. The lineup gathers closer to see what is happening.  A stout younger version of Mildred moves from the receiving line and comforts the woman. One of the older men in the family steps in to greet the visitors. The buzz resumes.
Annabelle ignores the Bun named Joan who is telling them about her gout and wishes they would hurry. She eyes the tables of food to her left, and her shrunken stomach gurgles, demanding attention. She smells the paprika. She sees a rotund gentleman spooning a gob of sour cream onto something on his plate. Coffee and tea urns stand directly across, the sweets are on a table to the left. Ten or twelve people are filling their paper plates. Seeing that the family are all occupied, she darts for the nearest eatables. She reaches to pick up a plate at the head of the table when a hand the size of a baseball mitt cups her frail shoulder.  The voice is deep, respectfully low, almost a whisper:
“The sisters would like to talk to you, madam.”
With hand paused near the stack, she feels a moment of fright, of panic. Where did he come from? Should she run? If she was wearing her black dress she would, but this damn grey one is much too tight. Gripping her small clutch in both hands to stop them from shaking, she turns her head to stare at the largest white shirt she has ever seen. The knot of the somber burgundy tie is at eye level. The man’s girth shades her from the line-up, no one sees her blush. Holding her hat, she raises her head to stare at the messenger. It’s a big head, forget the neck. Pudgy features round out an unexceptional face, except the eyes.  Hazel, green dominant. Nothing mean in there. Annabelle feels such relief she faints.
 
*
Opening her eyes several minutes later, she is staring up at three blurry figures. Something wet and cold is on her forehead. She is lying on what smells like old leather, feels stiff like a couch. A heavy lace-and-tasseled throw covers her lower body.  Her vision focuses the same time the soundtrack in her head clears...
“… Oh, the poor dear, is she okay?”
“…maybe we should call 911?”
“…no, look, she’s alright, she just fainted, heart and lungs are fine, you checked them Suzie?  Here, let’s get her sitting up.”
The sisters materialize. Laurie-Ann has one hand under Annabelle’s shoulder, the other under her arm. Suzie shifts Annabelle's legs to the floor keeping the cover intact. Cynthia reaches over to lift Annabelle's other arm. Together, they prop Annabelle up. Her delicate body gently quakes. Two cushions appear at her side, a gentle hand arranges her retro hat, drops the burgundy clutch on her lap and rubs her upper arm.  Laurie-Ann bends to look in her eyes.
“Relax, Annabelle, we mean you no harm.” Annabelle drops her gaze. Her voice is weak voice.
“How... how do you know my name?”
Suzie tows an overstuffed office chair to the couch and sits down. Cynthia and Laurie-Ann join her, one on each side of Annabelle.  Annabelle looks up at each one. They look so much alike it’s uncanny. Laurie-Ann says:
“We know a little about you, Annabelle.  It appears you know a lot of people who pass away.  Quite a bit more than normal. We’re seeing a pattern.”
On her left, Cynthia touches Annabelle’s knee and says:
“It’s always at the end of the month.”
Suzie leans forward and says:
“It’s easy to see that you are hungry.”
Annabelle begins to sob. Holding her face in her gloved hands, she hangs her head.  Sobs turn to snivels as the sisters remain silent, waiting for Annabelle to regain her composure.  Laurie-Ann hands her several Kleenex from the box on the end table. She dabs at her eyes and with head still bowed, she says:
“Wilbur…that was my husband’s name…was an adorable, sweet, sweet man, but he was a gambler, always chasing the big one. We never saved any money but he made sure our bills were always paid, put food on the table, paid our rent but would spend the extra on the horses. He would win enough to keep the temptation strong. He was too proud to have me work so I never had a pension and with only my old age security and a small widow’s allowance, I just can’t make ends meet…”
Annabelle pauses.  The sisters coo and pat her on the knee all talking at once.
“There, there dear…”
“So sad…”
“It’s a shame…”
Laurie-Ann stands abruptly, and Annabelle feels nervous seeing the creased forehead of the oldest sister. She cringes when Laurie-Anne says:
“This has got to stop.”
Pointing at her younger sister, she says:
“Cynthia, you know what to do.  Suzie, go get Tony.”
Annabelle is alone on the couch, Kleenex bunched in her hands. Watching the flurry of activity, she worries that they may be calling the police even though they seem concerned. She is thinking of how she might escape when all three sisters are back, accompanied by the huge man that brought her to the office.  Laurie-Ann says:
‘C’mon, Annabelle, you’re going with Tony here.”
Shaking lightly, Annabelle resigns herself to her fate and stands weakly in front of the sisters and watches the one named Cynthia hand a piece of paper to the man they call Tony. Laurie-Ann steps closer to Annabelle:
“Tony knows what to do because we already discussed this with him. If my information is correct, the pension checks come around the 26th of each month. You go with him, Annabelle. He’s going to take you home. But first he’s going to cash the check Cynthia gave him and you two can go grocery shopping. He’ll do this on the 22nd of each month until you no longer need it.”
Annabelle’s eyes go wide in astonishment at this announcement. She’s not sure what to say. This act of kindness causes water to pool on her lower eyelids. She tries not to blink; she’s tired of shedding tears and feeling sorry for herself. Trying to find the right words, she shakes her head.
“No…no I couldn’t do that. It’s not right and you don’t have to look after an old lady that can’t take care of herself.”
Certain that she would accept their gift, the sisters are at a loss for words, even Laurie-Ann who seldom remains quiet.  Tony on the other hand makes a suggestion.
“I thought you ladies were looking for a greeter for Monday and Tuesday mornings now that Hazel has moved to Ontario?”
The sister’s look at the big man and they are all smiling. They look in question to Annabelle.
Head high, chin out, pride back in place, Annabelle appears to think a moment, but not long.
“Yes, I’d like that.”

Thanks for dropping by The Scribbler. If you enjoyed this short story, there are more available in SHORTS Vol. 1, 2 & 3 available at amazon.com (Or see the right sidebar, or check on Novels above for more details.)



           Next week on the Scribbler you will be able to meet Author Jason Hamilton of Dieppe, New Brunswick   
Feel free to leave a comment below, would love to hear from you!

Funeral Food - Part 1 - an amusing short story by Allan Hudson

I love short stories. Hope you do too.   Sometimes people go hungry. There could be many reasons. This old gal just can't make ends meet. Funeral Food 
Annabelle Ross is as thin as a liar’s promise. She was 73 yesterday. No one made her a cake. No one called her. The only child of an only child, no children, a widow for eight years, she is the last one left. She hasn’t eaten since Thursday, two days ago. Her old age security check only comes on Monday and there is nothing in her cupboards. She once went to a food bank, and once was enough.  There have been no funerals to attend. At least until today.
Her stomach rumbles when she imagines the platters of triangular sandwiches, wedges of enchantment. The bread is soft and fresh, the fillings moist and delicious, sometimes lobster salad if the deceased was affluent. Enormous trays of sweets will be evenly spaced about the tables.  Mouthwatering chocolate and certainly the brown squares with the miniature marshmallows.  The visions cause dizziness and she grasps the table edge while her stomach grumbles. For a moment she rests her tiny head on the creased newspaper spread out on the table. It’s open to the obituaries, yesterday’s edition.
Strands of hair fall from behind her ears where the thin white tresses are normally tucked. The ends that fall to her neck retain a touch of their girlish curl. Time and need have not dulled her eyes the way they have paled her delicate skin. Age spots appear along her brow. Her narrow face however is blessed with kind features. There is no despair in her temperament. Annabelle is not a quitter. Sitting up she looks around her box-like bachelorette, wondering what she might wear. First she has to decide which of the three funerals she will attend. If she’s lucky, she might make it a double header. 
Of the eleven death notices, there are only three possibilities. The photos of the departed slated for burial today are circled in dark pencil. Two men and a woman. The lady is quite plump. Teeth and gums are spread in a grin that depicts pain. There is a rude moustache penciled onto her upper lip. Annabelle had a run-in with the woman six years ago when the lady, Mildred Malarenko, was manager at the Ripkoph Senior's Complex. Annabelle's ceiling leaked every time it rained and she’d complained for over two months. She finally told Mildred that she would not pay her rent until the leak was fixed.   She was given an eviction notice and two weeks to move. Annabelle reminded Mildred of the marijuana fumes that came from her closed office doors some evenings. The notice was changed to two months and a van provided for the move.
The red numerals of the digital clock on the cupboard of the kitchenette show 06:44. Rays of an early sun yellow the top pane of her small window. She is happy there is no rain. Glancing back at the obits she deems this one a B+ on her listing system. It’s scheduled for 10 a.m. and she has lots of time, The Sisters Funeral Parlour is only three quarters of a mile, the newer staff are not familiar with her yet and best of all, the Ukrainians love to overfeed everybody. The negatives? Annabelle’s deep dislike for the dead woman, and one of the sisters might be working. Laurie-Ann, the oldest, gave her a hard time two months ago and asked her to leave. She thinks Suzie, the light-haired one, knows but doesn’t say anything. Cynthia, the one that smiles a lot, packed her a baggie once and gave it to her when she escorted her out. The sisters rarely work weekends, so it should be safe.
The man at the bottom of the second column has a heavily penciled circle looped around his heavily metaled face. He has one name, Booger. There are enough piercings on nose, ears, eyebrows, lips and she’s guessing nipples, crotch and navel that The River Styx Point of Departure & Crematorium probably used a magnet to lift him into his casket. She hated going there. There is always loud music. Their billboards are all over the city suggesting your final moments “should not be somber but a celebration”.  At present they are offering a free barbeque with each cremation. The upside is that most of the patrons pay her little attention. The staff are usually high or too busy to bother with an old lady. The food though. Oh the food.  The RSPD&C cater to crowds that usually have the munchies. Lots of chocolate, never any veggies, humongous bowls of potato chips, small lakes of salsa and tangy dips, stacks of Ritz crackers, Mr. Freezees, cakes, cookies… She’d go today mainly for her dessert. It’s at eleven and not too far from Sisters. Another B+.
Third column, second from the top, has only one circle softly framing the tender face of Aldous Von Gluck, also 73, four daughters, seven great-granddaughters and one great-great-grandson, Aldous Von Gluck-Galloway. The elderly German has a high forehead and wide face. A toothy smile hides the eyes. The face is contorted in happiness as he looks up at the photographer. In his arms is an infant no more than a week or two old. One can only assume it is his namesake. Annabel wishes she had known him.  She can see how much he loves the child and she wonders what that must be like. Brushing a loose strand from her cheek, she tucks it behind her ear while she checks the details.
Young’s Funeral Parlor is older than she is and in much better condition. It’s located downtown behind the post office. Annabelle lives in the east end, three point four miles away, she’d have to take a bus. Pushing herself away from the table, she rises gingerly, wrinkling her nose. The wet garbage is starting to ripen, the fish she had on Thursday, her last meal.  She hates to take it out, the small green bag is only half full.   It smells even worse as she approaches the kitchenette. The odor comes from under the sink. Yuck!
While she removes the bag from the white plastic basket -- a yard sale treasure plastered with NHL stickers -- she notices the tomato sauce stain on the hem of her black wool skirt. She can’t do a wash until her check comes. She’ll have to wear the gray dress, even though it’s too tight at the waist. Setting the green bag, half full of tea bags, by the door, she wraps her housecoat tighter, arms cradled across her chest.  She glances at the clock again. 07: 22.
Time for a tea. She’ll get ready after. She needs to time her arrival to the beginning of the service, when it is the fullest and she goes unnoticed. She rises and lifts the beleaguered kettle to fill its whistle with tap water. While doing so she wonders which scarf might be appropriate today.

 
*
Annabelle is too early. Thirty feet from the sidewalk there are two men off to the side of the entrance smoking, a last-minute fix. “Damn,” she mutters while ducking behind a glistening SUV in the funeral parlor’s parking lot. The back windows are tinted and hide her completely. Catching her image in the mirrored surface, she sees her hat's askew. A burgundy pill box, something a Kennedy might wear. Tipped forward too much; she made her bun in the back a bit high. She deems it “rakish” if low on her forehead, not suitable for an elderly lady, my goodness.  Intending to re-pin it, she is distracted by the two men moving to the main door. She rushes forward as well. The door is large, made of aged oak and thick beveled glass, too heavy for her but it closes slowly and she slips inside.
She catches up to the larger man. He’s slower than his mate by 25 or 30 kilos. She closes in behind him, squinting her nose at the smell of cigarette. She keeps to his right, hopes no one will see her, the offices are on the opposite side.  They’re in the main lobby.  Wide doors face them left and right. The first man opens one, enters. A faint aroma of petals stirs when Annabelle and the rotund man follow close behind.  She remains in big man’s shadow to the end of the last pew where she spies an empty spot.  Glancing discreetly towards the back, she doesn’t recognize the part-time staff. She shuffles into the padded seat. A young boy steps closer to a microphone near the piano.
The opening chords of “Ave Maria” waft from the front right corner. The notes are as polished as the gleaming sides of the Yamaha upright.  Beulah Bogdonovitch, the weekend pianist, is far better than that cranky old Mr. Dodge, thinks Annabelle. His version of Elton John’s Candle in the Wind is very good though. Behind the pulpit on the left, the pastor’s glossy pate and bright blue sports coat catch her eye, she deems him the worst dresser of the lot. He'll have half the congregation in tears five minutes into his benediction. She doesn’t recognize anyone else.
Annabelle forgets her hunger as the lad up front silences everyone with his rendition of Gounod’s “Hail Mary.” Anabelle closes her eyes; it's her favorite funeral song. The melody lingers long after the boy stops singing. The murmur of approval morphs into the hushed voice of Pastor Delahunt, a voice which rises when he points out the virtues of the deceased while gesturing open palmed towards the urn shaped like a poodle.
He hesitates. Withdrawing the white square from his breast pocket, he clamps it to his mouth. He twists away from the row “reserved for family” and bends from his waist as if to cough. The crowd sits straighter.  Not many seconds of silence pass before the hushed shuffle begins.  To Annabelle it looks like the man is trying not to laugh. What she or the crowd can’t see is that he really wants to cry. The attorney for the estate of Ms. Malarenko settled financial matters yesterday. Frou-Frou inherits everything, the house and cottage as well. The family is next in line.  Even the pastor is in on a wager of how long the dog will live.
Biting his lower lip, he regains his poise. He apologizes for his “hay fever” and continues: “…the perils of spring. And like Mildred, whose life was only beginning to bloom…”


To be continued.............


Drop by Tuesday, March 8th, (which is Women's Day) for the rest of the story..........






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Guest Author Louise Boulter. Forgotten.

A very successful book launch on February 25th brings us a new novel by Louise Boulter, who is our special guest this week. This is her second visit  and we are happy to have her back. Her book - Forgotten - "is a candid version of one man's journey through the world of homelessness."

    

We've asked Louise to tell us what inspired her to write this story.




I started writing the book "Forgotten" in the summer of 2015 ... yes about 6 months ago.  It was a labor of love. My friend Tom had been diagnosed with cancer. He shared a dream he had had which follows:
"A man awakens from a coma and does not know who he is or where he is from. So he makes his way across Canada in search for his identity. Along the way, he becomes homeless and his views on homeless change."
One should always be careful what one tells a writer. It could end up in a book.  I did, however, tell my friend I could write a short story about his 'dream'. What started as a short story morphed into a book I decided to call "Forgotten". 
Coincidentally, if you believe in coincidences, a few weeks before, I had started volunteering for The Humanity Project. The soup kitchens and the food banks were closed for holidays at the same time and food was scarce for the homeless in Moncton. The weather was also very hot and there was no water to be found, not free water that is. Well, there was a water fountain in Centennial Park, in the dog run. Water for the dogs was available. Water for the homeless was not.  The Humanity Project, a group made up totally of volunteers, decided to pick up the slack because of the closure due to their holidays at the same time. So they set up tables at Lyle's Garage on St. George Street and volunteers brought baked dishes for supper every night. Others bought and brought paper plates, forks, spoons, etc. Bottled water was a huge need. What I saw was  they did not just feed the homeless, they also passed no judgement. No ID was requested, no having to prove you needed a meal was needed. You accepted each person for who they were and asked no questions. You soon learned that a smile and acceptance was as important as the food served.
While writing my friend's story, it took on a life of its own. Perhaps because of my new knowledge on the needs of people who were homeless or the working poor I was meeting. But more than that, it was by talking to the many volunteers who, without any government funding, without any financial gain, with their goal only to show kindness and acceptance to others that this organization touched my heart and touched my fingers as I sat at my computer writing my 'short story' which became my first novel.
Time was important. My friend Tom was getting worse. I did not know how long he had. Writing page after page became a routine and an outlet for all my feelings. I let the characters tell their story, I let the main character, T, discover who he truly was. His identity became secondary to discovering his true self.
When I finished my book, I knew there was a message to be shared. I know most people understand homelessness and most people care. But I wanted to do a little bit more. I knew this was somehow NOT my book. It was T's book, T's message. I decided the reason I had written it was beyond my own comprehension. It might even do some good. I decided to publish it and after any out-of-pocket expenses, I would donate all profits to The Humanity Project (web site:  http://thehumanityproject.ca/ ).
With the help of my friend and later Editor, Lee D. Thompson, the book was published. The front cover is of a print given to me free by Serge Martin, photographer from Moncton. The back cover is a photo given to me by Charlie Burrell, Founder of The Humanity Project. It is of a tent which was used by a man in his 70s. Charlie knew him well.  The Humanity Project helped this man get on social assistance, helped him find affordable housing and since January when The Humanity Project was given permission to use the old Moncton Curling Club Building on Lutz Street, he now does the cleaning. The best thing, however, is hearing this man in his 70s say: "I now have a life."
THP's winter headquarters, located on Lutz Street may become homeless again. That is, unless the City of Moncton allows The Humanity Project to continue to use the old Moncton Curling Association. At this point, from what I know, they would need approx. $400,000 to buy the building outright. 
The Humanity Project also holds regular AA meetings in this building. They have hairdressers who volunteer their services to shampoo and cut hair and give shaves for those who want one. There is a room for free clothing. There is a room for children to play and learn while their parent( s ) are upstairs socializing (there is a lot of laughter in that building).
All of the above is why all proceeds from the sale of the book "Forgotten" will be given to them. This makes my heart smile.
The book "Forgotten" can be purchased by going to the U.S. site:  www.lulu.com - or if you live in Moncton and can pick up the book, may contact me at lobou@nb.sympatico.ca. The cost is $18 if ordered through me (no shipping cost)..
To close, I will share one of my favorite passages from the book. There are no coincidences and this passage now holds a very special meaning for me since my book launch on February 25th. But that is for another time, another place. (Copyright is held by the author. Used with permission)
Another man tells me, “Name’s Ron. Ronald Bedford. Served in Afghanistan.” 
This takes me by surprise. “You’re a Vet are you? And homeless? How long you been homeless?” 
“Roughly about five years. I guess it was my fault. I have a problem you know. Post Traumatic Stress something or other. Eh, I just don’t know how to cope with it. But theDVA’s trying to help me but, like, every time I feel like I’m getting some help, I get paranoid. And I just take off.” 
“Take off? What do you mean, Ron?” 
“You know, I leave. You can only be in the program for so long, you know. I try to stay in the program but I’m scared to death of reality cause I don’t know how to cope with it. Sometimes I’d rather try to commit suicide than I would to stay alive. To tell you the honest truth, I hit myself, about a year ago, in the head with a brick. But it didn’t work.” 
“Has anyone tried to help you?” 
“Sure they tried to help me. You know, give me stuff for nightmares and for this and that and the other, but it just doesn’t help me any.” 
“You’re still haunted by Afghanistan.” 
“If you only knew brother. If you only knew.” He pauses and looks at me. “Have you ever killed anybody?” 
“No,” I can barely get the word out of my mouth. 
“I have. Face to face. See this?” He pulls up one of his pant legs. “I got a hole in my leg. From a shrapnel wound. But they don’t care anymore.” 
“I care Ron.” 
“Yeah. I think there’s people in this world that really care. Like you, like these people here at the shelter. They care.” 
“How long were you in Afghanistan?” 
“One year. One long year. But I’m not crazy. And I’m not suicidal.” 
I look at the tears that are welling up in his eyes. How can one not feel sorry for him? All I can say is, “It had to be tough. Especially having to kill people.” 
“Well, I was trained to do that.” 
“They must have a hard time to train people to do that cause it’s not in people’s nature. It’s not.” 
Ron just says “Well, how come they don’t untrain you?” and walks away. 
Good question. Very good question.





Thank you Louise for sharing your story.
If you missed Louise's previous visit, please go here to read her short story Date Night.



Next week you can read Allan Hudson's amusing short story - Funeral Food.





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Guest Author Paul White. Crimes & Violence

Paul White lives in the county of Yorkshire, England with his wife, an ancient cat and five fish. An accomplished author who has graciously shared an excerpt from his latest novel, Tales of Crime & Violence, Volume 3. Paul's links are listed below.



  Tales of Crime & ViolenceThe three book collector editions
This remarkable three volume collection encompasses numerous and varied stories of acts and deeds of crime and violence. Paul White has once again woven his masterly spell of intrigue into each stories plot. Secrecy, scheming, plotting and conspiracy live hand-in-hand with outrageous and shocking violence, viciousness and brutality.All three volumes of Tales of Crime & Violence are packed with carnage and bloodshed and mayhem, while an ominous sense of sinister, physiological apprehension lingers in the dark shadows.Tales of Crime & Violence contains graphic acts of violence, profanities and sexual reference. It is not recommended for reading for those under adult age.    Tales of Crime & Violence is available in a paperback collection of three volumes, or on Kindle as a complete ‘box-set’.  

EXCERPT.
   ……….The Sheriff stopped, as did the two deputies in the following cruisers. Together we walked to the car. I handed one of the deputies the keys. You could feel the heat reflecting from the steel of the bodywork.   It was one hell of a hot day.When the deputy opened the driver’s door a blast of superheated air escaped. It was so extreme it forced us to take a step backwards and twist our heads away from its intensity. But it was the smell which was most overpowering. I saw, but did not comprehend the glance between the law men. However, I knew that my day was going to get worse when they handcuffed me.My day certainly became a living nightmare when they opened the trunk. Bobby lay inside. His throat had been sliced from ear to ear and his eyes gouged out. The heat had caused his body to swell and the blood to cook.I only recognised him by his jeans and boots.After that it was all a bit of a blur. I was bundled into the sheriff’s car and we raced the few miles to the motel. It looked as deserted as when I left a few hours ago.From room fourteen all the way to room twenty the doors were open. They were the doors I kicked open during my frantic search for the others.I explained this to the Officers.The thing that interested the Sherriff was the sign hanging from the doorknob of room thirteen.I had not noticed that sign in my earlier panicky state. It said ‘Do not disturb’. What was interesting the lawmen most was the smudged bloody handprint on that sign.The Deputies drew their guns and crashed the door.It flew open. The intense odour of putrid dead flesh flooded my nostrils.Inside the room, laid out across the bed were Kathy and Taylor. They were tethered to the bedstead with strands of rusting wire cable, spread-eagled and naked. Their stomachs had been slit open and their entrails extended across the floor.Those black flies and an army of brown rats were busily feasting on their remains………
 

BUY LINKS.UK Paperback  http://www.amazon.co.uk/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=search-alias%3Dstripbooks&field-keywords=tales+of+Crime+%26+Violence US paperback http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=Tales+of+Crime+%26+Violence Kindle (worldwide).
http://authl.it/B019VNDE5E   Thank you Paul for participating on the Scribbler.  Discover more about Paul White here  Please visit again next week for an  4Q Interview with Drake Alexander, ex-Canadian Commando, hero of Dark Side of a Promise. 

Don't be shy, leave a comment. I would like to hear from you.
 

Returning Guest Author Katrina Cope

The Scribbler is happy to welcome back Katrina Cope of Queensland, Australia. If you missed her previous visit, go here. She is a published author with the Sanctum Series Books. Discover more by clicking on the links below. The following was taken from her website.
 I grew up in a small country town with plenty of time to let my creativity run wild. This was fueled with a large amount of time spent traveling to different areas of the world, coming in contact with many different personalities and cultures.

The last eight years has been spent running a small business with my husband and raising three young boys and writing in any spare time.

After finishing my first book, it came to light just how much I love writing and I now write a great deal more. My boys are growing up, approaching the teenage years quickly, allowing me more time to write and asking for the next book.




Taylor’s Plight    
Chapter One
 
The sound of helicopter blades thumped overhead. With the clear blue sky in the background, Kensington City looked picturesque and peaceful as they circled overhead.
Avando leant forward and rubbed his leg through his deep blue suit. The injury he received the day he lost his wife Atasha and daughter Tamara throbbed. With the massage complete he leant back and stretched his legs. His grey-speckled, dark hair a contrast in the tan leather seat in the luxurious interior of the helicopter. He clasped the warm coffee cup off the small mahogany table, sipping its contents and welcoming the effect caffeine had on his body.
The pocket inside his suit jacket began to vibrate with the ring tone following not far behind. He reached his thin, aged hand into his pocket and glanced at the screen noting that the hidden caller ID. Frowning over his large bumpy nose, he slid his thumb across the screen to answer the call.
“Avando speaking.”
“I warned you,” hissed the distorted animated voice on the other end of the line. “I told you not to interfere."
Avando sat forward. “Who is this?”
“You know who I am. Because you and your little brats defied me, I am going a step further.” The animated voice continued. “I'll be attacking more people. More will pay, and you are to blame for their demise.”
“What are you talking about? What do you mean?” Avando asked with his voice panicked. Dread filled him causing his heart rate to rise to an unhealthy level.
“Your first deed to be thanked for will be happening in the middle of Kensington City,” the voice hissed. “Be prepared for the iconic building in the middle of the city to be turned into rubble in ten minutes. Congratulations on your achievement.” The phone went silent.
Avando felt his olive-skinned face turn white. Innocent people were about to die.
He pressed the button on the speaker to the pilot and called, “Charlie?”
The response was almost instant, “Yes, Avando?”
“What would you class as the most iconic building in Kensington City?”
“Well, that would have to be the glass walk bridge that crosses the Dyson River. Made completely of glass, even the bottom where people walk, and it gets thousands of tourists as well as locals on it every year. There is a day care near there too, called ‘Baby Bots.’ But they are not street kids. Why? Do you want to go?”
“Yes, get me there pronto. I think it is about to be blown up.”
“What?” Charlie’s concerned voice sounded over the speaker.
“I just received an anonymous phone call stating that they were about to flatten it. I need to get there.”
“But that would be dangerous and what would you even look for?”
“Just get me there, now!” Avando demanded. “They said it was my fault. Get me there. I am ringing the police to let them know.” He let go of the speaker button. He still had his phone in his hand and rang the emergency number.
“You have dialled the emergency hotline. Your call is being connected, please wait.” The recorded lady’s voice sounded over the line.
Avando silently waited with his feet fidgeting.
“What emergency service did you require, Police, Fire or Ambulance?” A lady’s monotone voice spoke at the other end.
“Police.” Avando’s impatience rose.
“Please hold.”
Nervously he waited as the helicopter descended to land.
“Kensington Police Department, Please state your name, number and your emergency.” An official male voice sounded on the line.
“I have just received an anonymous call stating an iconic building, which I'm assuming is the glass bridge over the Dyson River, is about to be made into rubble. You need to get a bomb squad down there immediately. I was told we have eight minutes left." Avando was formal and straight to the point.
“Thank you, sir. I need your name and number sir, in case—”Avando hung up and unbuckled his seatbelt.
Charlie had landed the helicopter. There was no time to waste. Avando pushed out of the seat and climbed onto the grass.
~~~~~
Liam Honeywell and his dad John were spending the day together. It was the extended school holidays before the start of a new year. John had decided to spend time with Liam down to the middle of the city to have some father and son time. The weather couldn’t be nicer. They were mixing up the events, and sightseeing between the science museum for Liam and mini putt-putt golf for John.
John was very proud of his son’s achievement in getting a scholarship at the Ernest State College, the school for geniuses where it was impossible for paid entry. Although considered as an intelligent person, and he was privileged to have two children going to this school, he did not have the genius brain. This shortcoming did not bother him, as he saw his children’s achievement as his own.
They had started the day with the science museum and had finished their mini golf. Now it was time for a break before heading to the iconic glass bridge.
They sat at the outside a small café near the bridge, ordered lunch and relaxed, waiting for it to arrive. Excited screams sounded from the nearby day care centre.
“So, how’s everything at school?” John’s serious grey eyes bored into Liam’s.
“Good. Why?” Liam asked inquisitive over the change of tone.
John ran his hand through his dark greying hair. “Are you okay? You didn’t seem quite yourself the last time you were home. So, your mum and I are concerned about your happiness.” His handsomely aging face was serious as he studied his son.
“Oh,” Liam said, while fiddling with the salt satchels on the table, “I am happy if that is what you are asking.”
John nodded, “And what about stress levels?”
“What about them?” A river breeze ruffled his brown hair, and he straightened it with his hand.
“Are you coping alright?”
“Don’t my marks tell you this?” Liam stopped fiddling with the salt and sat back in his chair. He wasn’t enjoying the conversation. He had a little suspicion that it had something to do with him being involved with the underground section of the school he was invited to join with his friends last year. It was top secret, and he wasn’t allowed to tell anyone. Not even his parents or family. He was glad that his best friends at the school, Hayley, Dryden and Brendan, were able to join with him. This way at least he was able to discuss it with them to let some of the pressure off his chest.
“Yes, your marks are very good,” his dad continued. “But we are concerned about your emotional health and dealing with the pressures also.”
“I’m fine dad.” Liam tried his best convincing voice. In truth he was fine and yes, he did have a lot on his mind and at times he was very concerned about the evil happenings in the world. He would love to blurt it all out all the secret information he held, but he wasn’t allowed. If he told him, he would not only get himself in trouble with the government, but also his family.
“Okay!” His dad raised his hands in resignation. “But just to remind you, your Mum and I are here to talk to if anything is bothering you.”
Liam smiled at his dad and inwardly cheered that the conversation ended. “Thanks, I know.”
“Good, because we mean it,” he said studying Liam a genuine gaze. He got up, reached over and grabbed a newspaper that lay on the bench in the café close to their seat. Sitting back down at their table, he flicked through the pages. “So, have you met any nice girls at the school?” he asked cocking an eyebrow while peering over the top of the paper.
“I've met lots of nice girls dad. Hayley still hangs around with our group too.”
John flicked through a couple more pages of the newspaper. "You know what I mean.”
Liam smiled cheekily. “Not a clue, what do you mean?”
Giving his son a playful disapproving glare, he continued, “If you had a nice girlfriend you might learn to relax a little.”
“I’m not interested in girls, dad. I have too much to do.”
“See, there is your problem.” He flicked through some more pages of the newspaper. “It's amazing what they class as news these days.” He shook his head while still peering through the pages of the paper. He flicked back to the front page quickly to prove a point. “Front cover, ‘Ashley Simmons winner of the bikini contest’. I mean really. They call this news?” He flicked through a few more pages, “Page four, ‘winner of the doughnut eating competition’.” He looked up. Sarcasm seeped from his voice. “I don't know what I would have done without that information.”
Liam smiled in agreement.
John flicked through a few more pages. “Then, after all these ads you have, ‘Mysterious elderly man with cane kicks butt while stealing homeless kids. Homeless guy reports to authorities.’” He huffed half a laugh. “As if! What’s he been taking?” He shook his head. “What man would do that, let alone an old man with a cane kicking butt? What’s he going to do with all those kids anyway? Unless he is some kind of sick deviate.” His body shook with revulsion at the possibility of truth.
The waitress approached the table with their food. “Okay, we have a steak sandwich with chips.”
John answered her while folding the newspaper up and placing it on a spare chair at the table.  
“And a hamburger with extra chips,” she added as she placed it in front of Liam. His plate was overflowing. She wiped her hands on her black apron, which she wore over her above knee length black straight skirt, finished with a white blouse. John could see slight food stains on her shirt that she must have accumulated throughout her long shift. “Do you need anything else?”
“Could I please have an ice chocolate?” Liam asked.
“Certainly, and you sir?” she turned to John, who was shaking his head while looking at Liam in disbelief. “Sure. Enjoy your meals,” she added as she wandered off.
“I am so glad I do not have to pay for your food while you are at school,” John said while observing the mountain of food almost falling off the plate. “I don’t know where you teens place all that food. I mean, look at you; you don’t exercise unless you have to, you are as skinny as a rake, and you are not as big as your peers. Where does it go?”
Liam shrugged while starting to stuff the food into his mouth. He turned his head mid mouthful to look at the quick movement he saw in his side vision. Ironically, it was a thin elderly man with dark brown wavy hair finished with streaks of grey. Dressed in a deep blue business suit, he walked in almost a run while holding a cane. He made record pace towards the glass bridge while at the same time yelling out to the people as they passed.
Liam looked harder and then chuckled with his mouth full of burger. He tapped his dad on the arm indicating the man. “Maybe that's the man they were talking about in the paper.”
John turned his head to look at the man. “Maybe,” he chortled shaking his head. “I wonder what he is saying.”
They watched as the man hurried across a few more paces then they turned back to their lunch.
A short time later a loud scream of sirens hastily approached their way. Four police cars flew around the corners then screeched to a halt not far from the café. Two police officers jumped out of each car, and one started screeching through a Dictaphone at the crowds. “You must immediately leave the area. I repeat, you must immediately leave the area.”
John and Liam looked at each other puzzled. Liam observed the remainder of his lunch sitting on the table, pouting at the thought of not being able to finish it. He grabbed the rest of the burger and chips and shoved them in a napkin, taking while they fled the area. As they ran, a loud bang and then a whoosh washed over them, pushing them forward, followed by shards of glass. When he hit the ground, Liam felt his leftover lunch flying from his hand as his body was rudely used as a glass pincushion and his head thumped the concrete ground.
~~~~~
Avando ran as fast, if not faster than a man his age should run. Even with his cane aggravatingly slowing him down, he kept a good pace. Charlie luckily found a park nearby to land his helicopter safely.
Right after they had landed, Avando flung open the door and raced onto the grassy plain. He heard Charlie calling out to him while he followed behind him, but he ignored him knowing that every second was important in order to save lives.

He didn't know what to look for, but he was going to do his best. How anyone could blame him and make him responsible for the death of innocents, including children. He couldn't let this happen. He searched through the crowd hoping to spot the right face or at least be able to pick up suspicious actions to stop the terrorists in the act.
He looked at his watch — only a few more minutes remaining. He had to hurry. He passed a small cafe full of people and hoped that they would be far enough away from the blast if it happened. He could see the entrance of the bridge not too far away from where he stood now. He felt puffed and out of breath but refused to give up. The screech of police sirens sounded in the distance. A small amount of relief passed through his body knowing his call succeeded.
Risking the possibility of being perceived as a madman, he started to screech at the nearby people, "Quick you need to leave.” A couple of weird looks came his way, but he continued. “You need to leave. You are in danger; you need to leave.” When he received disbelieving stares, he continued, "A terrorist threat has endangers this building; you need to leave for your own safety.”
This time the looks remained condescending, but people started to move in the opposite direction of the bridge — just in case the madman was right. But it was too little too late! A loud blast sounded, and Avando watched while both sides of the glass bridge exploded, and the glass middle came crashing down and down, dropping screaming horrified people trapped inside into the river below.
Avando slammed backwards as flying shards of glass sliced his skin. His head smacked something hard, and his vision went black.




Thank you Katrina for sharing your captivating stories.

Check out the following links to discover more about Katrina.
http://katrenee11.wix.com/katrina-cope-author
http://www.amazon.com/Katrina-Cope/e/B00F00JF9M/
https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7265107.Katrina_Cope
https://twitter.com/K_CopeFunRead
https://www.facebook.com/Author.Katrina.Cope




Next week you will read the opening chapter from Paul White's latest novel, Tales of Crime & Violence.