Allan Hudson's Blog, page 59

4Q Interview with Author Lockie Young

Lockard (Lockie) Young is a published author having been featured on The Scribbler several times and it is a pleasure to have one of my favorite writers back again to participate in the 4Q Interview. Making the transition from plumber to author was likely not in his earlier plans but as a reader, I’m glad he did. He lives in Albert County, New Brunswick with his wife Trish and is the father of two adult sons. He has a vivid imagination. 
  4Q: Congratulations on the latest publishing news of the acquisition of your sequel to Ryan’s Legend by Morning Rain Publishing. Tell us about the novel.
LY: Thanks Allan. The sequel is called The Legend Returns and picks up, in the time line of the story, a couple months after the first book ends, as the clock above the school’s chalkboard signals the start of summer vacation. Ryan, the main character, hosts his friend Cory for a weekend sleepover while at the same time struggling with the secret he continues to keep from everyone, including his parents. He discovered a very real live Legend in the first book. Ryan teaches Cory about life as he knows it by the seashore, and Cory, who is a city boy, learns a lot of lessons about nature he never knew before. Things turn interesting when a giant sea serpent shows up in the harbor…or is it? This sequel is a bit longer than the first book, but it still has the short easy to read chapters, with cliff hanger endings, and is considered at a middle grade reading level. 
     4Q: In addition to the above, you have been recently published in Tim Baker’s compilation of stories featuring his character Ike called The Path of a Bullet. How did this come about?
LY: I met Tim Baker through a mutual friend of ours, Susan Toy. Tim was getting this book together and wanted to include some short stories from other authors as well as his own contributions. He set out a call for submissions, a contest of sorts. He would read the stories and decide which ones made the cut. It’s my pleasure to say that I was one of the lucky guest authors that Tim chose to be featured in his book. In my short story The Light at the end of the Tunnel, my main character is a ‘Tunnel Rat’ who does a dirty job that no one else wants, but he needs to pay bills. He is soon to find that he will be delivering some very special merchandise to our hero Ike. And here is an exclusive just for you, Allan. I’ve been asked to submit another story for an Ike anthology that Tim is already working on for 2015. I’m busy mashing up a tasty story with Tim’s hero Ike in the starring role. I’ll give you an update on how that goes later this year.
  4Q: Any plumbing anecdotes from your previous career?LY: I swear, Allan. You are Psychic, man. I just started another project the other day. I always said I could write a book about the many different things I’ve retrieved from plugged toilets over the years, from cell phones dumped by irate girl friends, to mini prescription eye glasses belonging to a 3 year old that was being teased and called 4 eyes. So I started Diary of a Service Plumber. Each chapter will be a service call ‘of note’ that I’ve been on over the length of my 20 year career as a service plumber. I promise to keep it clean and tasteful, but light hearted, and hopefully comical, because I sure laughed at the end of most of them. 

  4Q: We would be interested in your reading recommendations for 2015.
LY: What, you mean aside from your books? And I’m not kidding or sucking up…respect man. I’ve read so many good books lately, and I’m just waking up to the amazing talent we have here in the Maritimes. My recommendation is to read anything by a local author. The big guys like Stephen King and J.K.Rowling have lots of readers. Invest in the local talent and be amazed. Oh, and check out mine and Allan’s books. I definitely recommend those.     A sample of Lockie's poetry.I wrote Do You Remember the Time as an experiment on what I thought it might be like to be slipping into a well known disease, Alzheimer's.                           Do You Remember The Time                                                    L.F.Young Do you remember the good old days?When the hot morning sunTurned to afternoon haze?Do you remember that glass of iced cold tea?Making puddles on table top? Beaded water drops catching lightRainbow colors to see? Do you remember the day a long time ago?We borrowed your dad’s car.Off to the beach we did go.Like an old married couple Windows full open. Salty sea air blowing through your golden hair.It seemed in those days we had not a care. I remember these things…I remember them wellI remember the sights…I remember the smells.I remember the past…but I feel I must tellI just can’t remember yesterday well.Do these keys in my hand fit the car in the drive?I remember to leave, but where to arrive?Will you please tell me your name?I wish things would just stay the same. 
                                    Thank you Lockie for being part of the Scribbler. We wish you continued success in the wonderful world of writing. Here are his links;Ryan's Legend: http://morningrainpublishing.com/project/ryans-legend/Website:http://poems-and-other-ramblings.webnode.com/Blog:http://lockardyoung.wordpress.com/

Please drop by the Scribbler next week to meet Guest Author Vashti Quiroz-Vega of California and read her first-rate short story A Time to Live and a Time to Die   

Guest Author Katrina Cope. Jayden and the Mysterious Mountain. Book One of the Sanctum Series

  
Katrina Cope lives on the Gold Coast of Australia. This is her second visit to the Scribbler. In an earlier post Katrina shared how she created her characters. It is archived on the side panel. The following was taken from her website. Her links are listed below. I grew up in a small country town with plenty of time to express my creativity. 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. Copyright is held by the author. Used by permission.   Jayden and the Mysterious Mountain. Book One of the Sanctum Series.    - Chapter One - The Stranger of Hope It was a dark cold night. White clouds of fog filled the streets making it hard to see, even with the lights shining brightly from the windows and streetlights. Barely visible through the fog was the harsh straight line of the grey buildings. Rising from the road level to the front doors of the many apartments were the staircases both large and small, coarsely jutting out towards the road. This was typically characteristic of the streets of the city of Bowdon. The railings of the stairs were heavy with dripping dew from the chilliness of the misty night. Through the stillness came the sound of a rusty cough that seemed to be coming from the front wall of one of the apartments. A moment later, another cough was heard and this time it was apparent that it had come from the direction of a large pile of newspapers, in between the rubbish bins on the footpath. After further observation of that pile, the paper appeared to come to life as whatever lay beneath decided to change its pose, to a seemingly more comfortable position.Jayden ruffled his own newspaper in an attempt to get warm. It was the atmosphere of these sorts of nights that had become familiar to Jayden. It now seemed like forever since he had slept in a warm bed under a permanent roof. The life he used to have about six months ago was now regrettably more like a dream that tormented him, reminding him of how things could have been in his life and what he believed would never again be a reality.The flicker of a larger light caught the corner of his hazel eyes, as he lifted his head of messy, dirty brown hair above the newspapers. In doing this, he was able to watch as a tall, sandy haired man stepped out onto the street from his apartment. A blonde, friendly-faced woman accompanied him. She gave off a soft laugh as she smiled, as though she had found something rather amusing in what he had said to her. She reached back into the apartment to grab something she seemed to have forgotten. When she pulled her hand back out to the street, there was a young boy attached and he appeared to be about nine years old. The boy was well dressed in warm clothing and looked contented and relaxed in their company.
Watching the young family leaving their home reminded Jayden of when his own family had been together. There were times that Jayden could recall being happy like this young boy, although he also had many other memories, which were more like nightmares. He recalled how his dad after having too many drinks would quite often become enraged and bad tempered over the most trivial incidents or shortcomings. He would end up ranting in loud abuse, which was often followed by physically assaulting his family. Jayden remembered so many times when it was his mother who would be at the receiving end of this abuse, but if he happened to be in the wrong place at these times or if he tried to protect her, his dad would then turn on him. Jayden had to concoct every reason under the sun to explain the bruises and marks all over his body. The most difficult stories to invent were the ones he saved for when he had suffered from broken bones and had to be admitted to hospital.His dad was not always like this. There was a time when he was a very loving dad, who went to work in the morning like most other dads and then came home to spend quality time with his family. All this changed, however, when the large company that he worked for collapsed. This occurred when the country went into a recession, which was likened to the Great Depression. Workers were all being put off, including Jayden's dad. Some of the people handled it quite well as everyone is different. ‘But not my dad,’ Jayden thought. Initially, it was just a matter of watching what the family spent and making sure that they were not spending unnecessarily, but then there still wasn’t enough money to pay the mortgage payments on their house. The Bank wanted to foreclose and sell the house only for the amount that his parents owed, even though it was worth a lot more. It broke his dad’s heart when the family ended up losing their home, so he started drinking and that was where it all changed. ‘I wonder where my parents are now,’ Jayden thought, but shuddered when the violent past again flicked back into his memory. ‘Oh well! Come to think of it, I really don’t want to find out.’ The reason he didn’t know where they were was because one night when it all got too much, Jayden ran away and had no alternative but to live on the streets. Even though this was most undesirable and a very hard life to live, he did not want to return to the horrors of the past. ‘I do wish I could find an easier way to live than this,’ he commented to himself.He looked back across the street to the young family in time to see them drive away in their little sedan. ‘I wonder where they are going tonight!’There was another cough from the pile of newspapers down the road. He watched the person underneath trying desperately to pull the newspapers together, in an effort to trap some warm air. A shiver ran down his spine because he could feel the air getting colder as the night set in, so he too started to adjust the papers around him for extra warmth. When he was satisfied that he had achieved the best possible outcome, even though he was still extremely uncomfortable and cold, he settled down in the hope that sleep would soon come. He watched the lights in the apartments flicker on and off in the different rooms. Trying to ignore his own harsh surroundings, he set his mind on more pleasant thoughts of the nice circumstances he imagined the people would be experiencing in those warm apartments. Slowly, after what must have been at least an hour, he felt sleep starting to take its hold and he drifted into unconsciousness.Click! Scrape! Click! Scrape! Click! Scrape! Slowly Jayden’s mind started to register that he was waking up and there was movement nearby even though his eyes did not want to open. Click! Scrape! Click! Scrape! It stopped! After a short pause, he heard a loud “Arghh!” and then the rustling of newspapers. Something had disturbed the man down the road. That did it! Jayden’s eyes were now wide open and he looked down the street at the other homeless man to see what was happening. He noticed a man standing over him, holding what looked to be a cane that he used to jab him in the ribs. The man from underneath the papers let out a loud curse after his rude awakening, only to hear the man with the cane say, “Oh sorry! I was looking for someone in particular and couldn’t see your face. Here is some money for your next meal and for causing you this trouble. My apologies!” After he handed him the money he walked away.
Click! Scrape! Click! Scrape! Jayden watched the man as he searched every dark spot he could find, as though he was specifically looking for something. He appeared to have a slight limp but still seemed to get around quite well. The man had Jayden puzzled. It was usual for someone to come out on the streets searching in every dark corner, especially looking for someone in particular among the homeless. Not only that, the man was alone. Jayden didn’t know whether he should hide further away, or stay, but the idea of the man possibly giving him money for food enticed him to stay.The thought of money for food reminded his stomach that it had been a long time since he had eaten a proper meal and it gave out a really big groan. The groan must have been heard because immediately the stranger looked across at him and changed his direction over towards him. Click! Scrape! Jayden waited patiently as the stranger approached. He acted as though he was still asleep at first, in the hope that the stranger might think he had been troubled as well and hopefully give him money too. After what seemed a long thirty seconds, the man was finally at Jayden’s side. “Son! Son!” Jayden opened his eyes and looked at the man. He was wearing a business suit and his hair was slightly long, dark brown with flecks of grey. “How old are you, son?” Well that was not what he was expecting; that was for sure, but thinking again about money for food, Jayden answered him, “Eleven.”He watched as a cloud of concern washed across the man’s face. “Wow!” he said. “You are too young to be out here all alone. Where are your parents?”“I don’t know and I really don’t care! Life here is much safer than being at home with my family.”“That sounds dreadful. Are you sure that it was really that bad?” the man asked.Without any hesitation Jayden answered, “I am very sure. After at least ten trips to the hospital with serious injuries in two months and not enough good stories to explain how I got hurt, I am definitely sure.”“What is your name?”“Jayden.”“My name is Avando, Jayden, and I am looking for some young people like you, in the hope that I can make a difference in their lives.”From experience he knew that most people shun the homeless as though they are scum and are only homeless because they deserve to be there.“How do you expect you’d be able to help and why would you even want to help?” Jayden asked with suspicion.“Well you see, I have done very well through business over the years and I have no one to share in my good fortune. So, I am looking for young people, like you, who I can hopefully provide with all the necessities of life such as food, clothing, shelter and a better way of life.”“There must be a catch!” Jayden said warily, knowing even at his age that nothing this good comes along without a catch. It could be considered though, that he was a lot more mature than a normal eleven year old because of all his recent life experiences.“Well, there is one catch,” said the mystery man with the larger sized bumpy nose.    I'm anxious to find out more about the generous older man in this story. Thank you Katrina for sharing the beginning of your story, Jayden and the Mysterious Mountain. Following are Katrina's links and where you can obtain copies of her novels.     https://www.facebook.com/Author.Katrina.Cope   https://twitter.com/K_CopeFunRead   https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7265107.Katrina_Cope   http://www.amazon.com/Katrina-Cope/e/B00F00JF9M/   http://katrenee11.wix.com/katrina-cope-author    Drop by the Scribbler next week for the 4Q Interview with none other than published author Lockie Young of Albert County, New Brunswick. Lockie has been featured on the Scribbler several times and it is always a treat to have this talented author as a guest. You will want to hear about Lockie's latest accomplishments and a chance to read one of his poems.  

Guest Author Maggie James - The Second Captive

This is Maggie James' second visit to the Scribbler. She was a guest last month when I posted the Prologue of her exciting new novel, The Second Captive. The following was taken from her website.

Maggie James is a British author who lives in Bristol. She writes psychological suspense novels. 
The first draft of her first novel, entitled His Kidnapper’s Shoes, was written whilst travelling in Bolivia. Maggie was inspired by an impending milestone birthday along with a healthy dose of annoyance at having procrastinated for so long in writing a novel. His Kidnapper’s Shoes was published in both paperback and e-book format in 2013, followed by her second novel, entitled Sister, Psychopath. Her third novel, Guilty Innocence, like her first two, features her home city of Bristol. She has recently published her fourth novel, The Second Captive. 
Before turning her hand to writing, Maggie worked mainly as an accountant, with a diversion into practicing as a nutritional therapist. Diet and health remain high on her list of interests, along with travel. Accountancy does not, but then it never did. The urge to pack a bag and go off travelling is always lurking in the background! When not writing, going to the gym, practicing yoga or travelling, Maggie can be found seeking new four-legged friends to pet; animals are a lifelong love!Copyright is held by the author. Used by Permission.


PART ONE 
Two years ago
                                                             CHAPTER 1 - Beth
 
I visit The Busy Bean most lunchtimes, eager for an hour away from the charity shop where I do voluntary work. Handling cast-off clothes and grubby kitchenware doesn’t do it for me. There’s another reason I go, though. A man. Hard to miss him, with those dark curls cut close to his head. Soft whorls my hand itches to touch. Every time he comes in, my eyes swivel his way. After a few weeks of covert glances, we get to talk at last.
It’s a Monday, and I’m peeved because he’s not here yet. As I extract a bottle of mineral water from the chiller cabinet, my elbow collides with someone’s belly. An automatic apology slips from my mouth.
‘Sorry -’ The word hangs in mid-air as recognition hits me. Him. He smiles, revealing one front tooth slightly out of line, but every bit as white as the rest. My stare, coupled with my inability to form words, is embarrassing. A subtle waft of aftershave floats into my nostrils, a clean scent that doesn’t surprise me, given the sugar-white of his T-shirt, the just-bought crispness of his jeans. What render me incapable of speech, though, are his eyes. The left one blue as a bruise, the right mocha-hued. I’ve heard of such a thing, but I never realised it would be so unusual, so striking.
I guess he’s used to people reacting the way I have. He doesn’t reply, just smiles, and I notice the chicken sandwich he’s taken from the chiller. ‘My favourite,’ I say, even though it’s not, and it’s a relief to find my mouth does work after all.
‘Here.’ He thrusts the sandwich at me. ‘Have it.’ The first time he tells me what to do. In hindsight, it’s a landmark moment. ‘Looks like I grabbed the last one.’ His right hand pulls open the chiller again, extracting an egg mayo on white. His left shoves the chicken sandwich my way again as he closes the door. I take it, lost in the blueberry and chocolate of his eyes.
He gestures towards his usual table. ‘Want to join me?’
I do, very much. His fingers twist off the top of his bottle of water, bubbles hissing as they swarm to the surface. He fills his glass. My hands echo his, except my fingers shake and I spill a few drops. ‘I’m Beth,’ I say, keen to cover my awkwardness.
He smiles again, the skin around his eyes creasing. I’m guessing he’s early twenties. No more than twenty-five. Seven years isn’t so much of a gap. Besides, he’s a man, not a boy. Not someone who’ll fumble his way through sex, like my one and only previous boyfriend. Steady on, I tell myself. You met this guy all of two minutes ago. Sex isn’t on the agenda. Yet.
‘Good to meet you, Beth. My name’s Dominic.’ With the sound of his voice, so velvety in my ear, I’m hooked. I turn his name over in my head, liking it. Do. Min. Ic. The three syllables are firm, decisive, like shots from a gun.
‘I’ve seen you in here before,’ he says.
‘I do shifts in the charity shop.’ My hand gestures towards Homeless Concern across the road. ‘Four days a week.’
‘That’s good.’ He doesn’t ask me why I don’t have a proper job. I’m grateful; such a question is too reminiscent of my father.
‘What about you?’ From his appearance, I can’t place what he does for a living. He’s not a manual worker, that’s for sure. His hands, raised as he takes a sip of water, don’t dig, mix concrete or slap paint on walls; the nails are too neat, too square. Something to do with computers, I guess, or the music business.
‘Day trader,’ he replies, a small grin tugging at his mouth when he notes my blank expression. ‘I work from home. Buying and selling stocks, futures, currencies.’
I’m none the wiser, but I don’t let on. ‘You enjoy what you do?’
The grin disappears. ‘It’s hard at times. Doesn’t always pan out.’ He doesn’t elaborate, so I don’t press the issue.
We chat some more. I find out he’s an only child, both parents dead. ‘You live alone?’ I enquire. My mind is spiralling forward. The prospect of dating someone with his own place, without a family, where I can escape the pressures of mine, holds vast appeal. Too late, I realise that the question reveals my interest in him, makes it sound as if I’m sniffing out a girlfriend, or a wife. He doesn’t wear a wedding ring, but not all married men do.
He grins again. ‘Ever since Dad died. What is it now, six years ago?’ Something I can’t decipher edges into his eyes as his gaze burns into me. ‘Maybe I’ve become a bit set in my ways. Need a woman to sort me out.’
He’s straight, then. Not that I ever thought otherwise.
‘How old are you?’ I can be direct at times.
‘Twenty-eight.’
Older than he looks. Not that it deters me. Ten years between us isn’t a huge gap, not really, and he’ll be a refreshing change from the boys from school.
‘I’m eighteen.’ Best to find out now if I’m too young for him.
‘Thought so.’ Dominic doesn’t say it as though it’s an issue.
He finishes his sandwich. Mine lies uneaten on its plate, despite the rumblings in my stomach. Impossible to talk to this man with food in my mouth. His eyes, that weird yet wonderful juxtaposition of blue and brown, hold mine and I sense there’s something he’s itching to say, but isn’t sure how to. Up to now, he’s been so self-assured, and his sudden reticence charms me.
‘Would you like to go out with me sometime?’ he asks.
Oh, God. He’s interested in me, despite my lack of job, the fact I’m fresh out of school, all the things I’ve been imagining would deter him. Later, after I’m shut in the basement, with time to reflect, I realise they’re what render me vulnerable to Dominic, turning me into a fly, him a spider.
Dad won’t approve, of course; I’m supposed to be sorting out university courses, not dating older men. The thought of my father’s disapproval adds fuel to the attraction this man holds for me. I still hesitate, though.
‘Might be a bit difficult,’ I say. ‘What with still living at home.’
The eyebrow over the brown eye quirks upwards. ‘You’re not allowed out?’ Again, later on, when I’m in the basement, I grasp how manipulative he is. How the nuances in his voice goad me into proving I’m an independent female, capable of making her own decisions.
‘Of course I am.’ My tone betrays my irritation. ‘How about tonight?’
A satisfied grin appears on his face. ‘Fine,’ he says. ‘I’ll decide where’s best for us to go.’
I approve of the way he determines the course of our date. A precursor to how he decides everything when we’re at the cottage. So much for my professed independence.
‘Can you give me a lift? I don’t drive.’ Another factor rendering me more vulnerable. Right now, though, I want and need to trust Dominic Perdue, and so I do. 
We make arrangements. He’ll pick me up at seven at the end of my road, promising to have me home by eleven.
‘Don’t be late,’ he tells me.
 
 *****
 
I’m standing on the corner of my road five minutes before seven. The evening is chilly, and I shiver as I wait. My jeans, fresh from the laundry basket, are too tight, the material compressing my stomach. Always quick to react to nervous tension, it’s swollen. For that reason, I’ve not eaten, unwilling to risk a full-on bloat party in my guts. Besides, Dominic might be taking me for a meal, and I pray the pressure against my waistband will ease soon. Atop the jeans, I’m wearing a mulberry silk shirt, a bargain from the Homeless Concern shop, its softness caressing my skin under my linen jacket. Smart casual is the way to go, especially as I don’t even know where we’re heading. My eyes are ringed with kohl, a soft brown that matches both them and the small mole underneath the right one. My mouth is slick with mulberry lip-gloss, my cheeks are brushed with colour and my dark hair is loose around my shoulders. For those few moments whilst I wait, I’m the spider, not the fly.
Bang on seven o’clock, a car approaches. It’s sleek and silver, its windows darkened, the BMW insignia cresting its bonnet. A whiff of money accompanies the car, the scent of its owner’s financial deals wafting my way. The driver eases the BMW alongside me. A window lowers, revealing Dominic.
God, he looks good, all dark curls and entrancing eyes. A tiny frown creases his forehead, just for a second, as his gaze sweeps over me. It’s disapproval, although what’s initiated it baffles me. His censure wrong-foots me, rendering me nervous.
When he speaks, though, his tone is warm, the frown gone. ‘Get in,’ he tells me.
We drive for a while, heading towards Hanham. Cradled in the leathery comfort of the BMW, I allow its smooth motion to steer me wherever Dominic has decided we’re going. He doesn’t say much, the occasional snippet of small talk. I respond in kind, thankful to be where I am, beside this man with the mismatched eyes and enticing hair. Maybe tonight I’ll get to experience those curls under my fingers. My crotch twitches at the thought.
We turn down a side road, where Dominic parks up. ‘We’re here,’ he says, getting out and opening the boot. I stay in the car, staring across the grassy area ahead. In the distance, a tower lurches against the evening sky as though it’s drunk, its angle several degrees off-kilter.
Dominic strides round to my side of the car, pulling open the door for me, an old-fashioned gesture that’s touching. In his other hand, he holds a blue chill-bag, and my empty stomach, its bloat now eased, anticipates food. A blanket is tucked under his arm.
I swing my legs from the car. ‘What is this place?’
‘Troopers Hill,’ Dominic replies. We walk across the grass, heading towards the tower, the heels of my sandals sinking into the soft ground, still tacky from yesterday’s rain. The grass is cold and ticklish against my bare toes. We’re nearing the top of a hill; the tower is in front of us, and I can’t see anything beyond it, not now, anyway.
He swings round to smile at me. ‘Thought we’d have ourselves a bit of a picnic. The view’s great from up here.’
And it is, once we get closer to the tower. We’re high up, and my home city of Bristol stretches before me, its roads elongating into the distance. Two hot-air balloons, riding the evening air, float towards us, the faint hiss of their gas jets reaching my ears. I’m entranced. Why have I never been here before? The shame of my insularity, the narrowness of my fresh-out-of-school focus, overwhelms me, and I promise myself things will be different from now on. I’ll explore, learn, and travel. With Dominic, of course.
Oh, the irony.
‘Old copper smelting works,’ he says, gesturing towards the tower. ‘Good place to sit, check out the city.’ The balloons drift closer, their jets hissing louder, and I picture myself one day, floating through the air, Dominic beside me, the Pyramids below us reduced to children’s play shapes. Or perhaps it’s the Australian outback, hot, red and fiery, underneath us. The details don’t matter.
Dominic spreads the blanket on the ground and sets down the chill-bag. He unzips it, extracting a bottle of white wine and two glasses, thick and heavy with gold rims. He’s clearly a man who values quality. I’m unused to alcohol but there’s no way I’ll admit it.
‘Here.’ He hands me a glass of wine, misted from the cold of the liquid. I take a sip, and suppress a cough; the taste is acidic yet sweet, a promise of things to come. A smear of my mulberry lip-gloss stains the glass.
Dominic unpacks French sticks, Camembert, knives, plates. I break open my bread, slice off a chunk of the gooey cheese and slather it inside. We eat in silence. The dusty rind of the cheese, its sour creaminess, tastes good against the crustiness of the French stick. I’m conscious that my bites are too large, that crumbs are sticking to the corners of my mouth. When I drink the wine, it’s in gulps now, Dominic providing regular refills. To me, the evening is perfect, as we sit on the blanket, the tower listing to one side behind us. The balloons are long past; the light is fading from the sky, the cool of dusk spreading across the city. My head, unused to the alcohol, is heavy, fuzzy. I’m aware I’m drinking faster than Dominic is, but I remind myself he has to drive. Besides, my first experience of being tipsy is pleasant. I prepare to float away on the evening air, in the wake of the balloons.
Dominic reaches out a hand, and his fingers against my skin are electrifying. Something inside me flares into life, a firecracker of desire sending a storm of twitches through my crotch. He touches the corner of my right eye, his thumb caressing the mole underneath. ‘You’re too pretty to need make-up,’ he tells me. The reason for his disapproval when he saw me earlier clicks into place.
A smear of kohl is on his thumb as he retracts his hand. He rubs it away with a finger. ‘Come on,’ he says. ‘We’ll walk through the trees.’ He takes my plate, knife and glass, packing them along with his own in the chill-bag. The wine bottle is now empty, at least two-thirds of its contents in my stomach. My legs don’t work well when I stand up.
We walk along a narrow path and down a flight of steps into the woods. The light has almost gone; pale moonlight filtering through the trees is our guide. The wine has lulled me into a sensation of safety, despite the fact that I’m half-drunk, alone in a dark place with a man who’s an unknown quantity. None of that concerns me. So far, the evening has been perfect, a sublime mix of food and balloons and oh my God, the brush of his fingers against my face. Tonight I’m invincible, inviolate, the world at my feet. Our feet.
The path twists round, up more steps, before emerging near the grassy area I saw before. Dominic eases me through the wooden gate. ‘Car’s back that way,’ he says, gesturing towards the thick hedge skirting the grass. I’m both relieved and disappointed he didn’t try anything on whilst we were alone amongst the trees.
He doesn’t when we’re back in the car, either. I’m expecting him to reach over from the driver’s seat, pull me towards him, his mouth seeking mine, but he doesn’t. Instead, he drives me back to the corner of my road.
‘Can we do this again?’ he asks. I nod, and he smiles.
Later, in the basement, I realise how well Dominic played me that night. Establishing trust with the wine, the walk through the woods. So I’ll have faith in him, be reassured he’s a man who’ll treat me right. No getting me drunk for a quick fumble on the ground beneath the trees. In my naiveté, I’m ripe for Dominic Perdue, a spider whose web, sticky as flypaper, consists of wine, cheese and charm.
 
*****
 
We go out again at the weekend, a Sunday afternoon stroll through Castle Park, ending at the Harbourside. Dominic buys fat falafels that we eat, tahini running down our fingers, as we walk across the cobbles. Boats bob on the water to our right, the yellow and blue of a harbour ferry purring past us. The sun is hot on my arms; the noise of people around us buzzes in my ears. Outside the Arnolfini, Dominic stops.
‘I’ll get us some drinks,’ he says. ‘A cold cider will do nicely, what with it being so warm.’ He doesn’t ask whether I like cider, not that I know. He disappears inside.
I discover that I do like it. The sharp apple tang hits the back of my throat as we sit, side by side, on the cobbles. Again, with hindsight I realise Dominic’s working to a precise plan. We’re in public, on a hot Sunday afternoon; nothing about our date can possibly spook me. All part of his design, of course, taking me to places where either nobody is around or else blending us into a crowd. I have no doubts, no prods from my gut alerting me to what lies behind the blue and brown of his eyes. Instead I fall, a plum ripe from the tree, into Dominic’s grasp. I want this man, and by now, I’m desperate to experience passion, abandonment, everything missing from my previous sexual experiences. I’m convinced this man holds the key to erotic nirvana.
‘Want to come to my place for dinner sometime this week?’ he asks.
I don’t hesitate. ‘I’d love to,’ I reply.   Thank you for being part of The Scribbler and sharing the beginning of your new novel Maggie. I'm anxious to know what Dominic is up to. Maggie James – author of psychological suspense novelsWebsite and blog: www.maggiejamesfiction.comFacebook: Maggie James FictionTwitter: @mjamesfictionLinkedIn: my profileGoodreads: my author profileGoogle+: my profile   Next week, please join us here on the Scribbler to read from Guest Author Katrina Cope's novel, Jayden and the Mysterious Mountain. Katrina lives in Australia.      

Finale of the Two Grumpy Old Men Cafe - A short story by Allan Hudson

The original Two Grumpy Old Men Café story appeared on The Scribbler in 2013. This short story is  a continuation and takes place a year later.  The Finale of the Two Grumpy Old Men Café.It’s 6:35am on a breezy Friday morning when Wilmot Parker III is bawling out his partner, CJ Parker (no relation).“How could you do such a dumb thing?”CJ is sitting on one of the stools at the counter that surrounds a cooking area in the Two Grumpy Old Men Café or as more fondly referred to by the staff and regulars, TGOM Café. He’s twirling back and forth like a little boy even though he is 76. His chin is down, he doesn’t want Wilmot to see his grin. The lady that helps them out in the mornings is coming in the back door and hears what is being said. Taffy Fitzsimons can see CJ through the back room she has entered, through the open door to the main eating area. He looks sheepish but she knows it’s only a ploy.“What did he do now Wilmot?”CJ livens up and says,“What do you mean “now”? I’m not that bad Taffy.”“Well goodness knows you’re the one that gets in the most trouble with the loose lips around here.”“I’m supposed to be grumpy, aren’t I? That word is on our sign?”Wilmot is leaning against the prep station behind the counter where he is in command. “Being grumpy doesn’t allow you to be obnoxious.”Taffy enters the main dining room, placing her purse on the counter, this one is yellow vinyl with orange polka dots the size of golf balls. CJ is five seats down on the corner and stares at her with mischievous eyes. She can’t help but smile at the rascal.“What happened?”Wilmot already has his black chef’s jacket on,  TGOM Café  embroidered on the left chest, checkered chef pants which are a tad too short exposing his skinny ankles.  He turns towards Taffy putting both hands on the counter to lean forward and says,“Three ladies came in after you left early yesterday for your dentist’s appointment. I’d guess they were in their early forties.”CJ sits straighter, into the story now.“Oh man, were they lookers too, especially the one with the…”“Shut up CJ.”Wilmot glares at the interruption.“So, Casanova here, our smut king, when he approaches their table he says,“Good morning ladies. How’s your little mustn’t-touch-it’stoday?”Taffy is astounded but cannot control herself and bursts into a surprised chuckle which turns into a hearty laugh. CJ loves her reaction and joins in. Wilmot has his arms akimbo and says,“It’s not funny you two.”Taffy is holding her stomach and sputters,“What…what…happened?”“They got up and left is what happened! That’s not good for business.”CJ laughs quietly, his body does the motions and says, “Well it depends on who they tell.”Wilmot tries to be angry but the joviality of his two closest friends finally gets to him and he gives up. *
Several years ago, the three of them were sitting in a hot tub at the back of CJ’s condo.  Both Parkers are Canadian snowbirds and Taffy is originally from Hawaii.  Wilmot is a widower, Taffy a widow and CJ a dedicated bachelor that has never been tempted to the altar. The second bottle of 16 year old Lagavulin on the sideboard was half empty. The water pitcher and ice bucket had been depleted two drinks before.  With too much time on their hands they decided to open a café. It would be opened only for breakfasts, only in the mornings, closed on Sundays and the proceeds would go to charity. None of them needed the money and they wanted their afternoons free.Wilmot is a retired wealth manager, 78 years old, widower for thirteen, a very poor golfer even after nine years of taking up the sport which he dedicates his afternoons to faithfully, except Sundays which if for church and rest. On the course he’s in the sand so often, his golf crony’s nicknamed him Traps. He is also a fantastic cook.  Taller and more angular than his partner, he shuttles the breakfast specials out hot and delicious from behind the counter in an open kitchen that is exposed to the patrons. He’s quieter than CJ but don’t count on him taking too much prodding from his partner or even Taffy if she is in a good mood, he can spar verbally with either of them.CJ built houses for a living. Quit and sold everything when he was 65, bought two condos, one in New Brunswick back home and one here in Fort Myers. Had many relationships with a variety of beautiful women that usually lasted 6-8 months, what CJ defined as ‘long-term’. He always wanted to be an author and spends his afternoons writing erotica under the alias of John T Boner, except Fridays which is his get-loaded-day and Mondays which is set aside for business affairs. His series of smut is a moderate internet winner, successful enough that he has a fulltime staff of one to look after the website. All he does is write, sign checks and spend the profit shamelessly.Taffy came here with husband #2. He was from Wisconsin and they met at Fireman’s convention in Las Vegas. Fireworks. Divorce in Reno nine weeks later. Marriage in nine weeks plus one day.  Both taking early retirement and moving to Florida, a new beginning, a new paradise. One year into retirement, Ben Fitzsimons is dead. Massive heart attack.  Left her all his investments which looked bottomless last time she checked. Two years later she dated CJ. Bad idea. However, they proved the theory that former lovers can still be friends and with nothing better to do she ends up working with the Parkers, as she refers to them. She’s flamboyant, loves bright colors but the owners insist she wear what she refers to as the lifeless, black “company golf shirt”. They made the mistake of not mentioning her pants, which normally fit snug enough to compliment her smart figure. The ones she wears today are more peaceful, denims with gay flowers embroidered down the side of each leg. One of her finds from Gatsby’s Pre-owned.  An exotic blend of Polynesian and Caucasian, she adds delight to the diner. The patrons love her.The café itself is a work of art.  Large portraits of renowned Canadians, hang randomly on the buttery bare brick walls to stare at the patrons; some smiling like Gordon Lightfoot and Terry Fox or the more serious expressions of Alex Colville and Frank Mahovlich. The U shaped cooking area extends out from the back wall and is surrounded by ‘50’s style rotating counter stools scavenged from a diner being demolished in Miami, reupholstered in taupe Naugahyde.  Cozy booths line the right and left walls, artsy deco tables along the front window.  CJ serves the counter clients and Taffy does the booth and tables.When the Parkers gutted the building, a former haberdashery and up-scale clothing shop for men of larger girth, they left the overhead steel girders exposed. Electrical conduit, vents, pipes are all neatly aligned. Huge vent stacks go straight up through the roof from the cooking station in the center of the horseshoe. The whole ceiling has been sprayed a soft brown like milk chocolate. The atmosphere is winsome. The outer bricks, below the tinted front windows, gleam from fresh whitewash. A wide awning with bold black and white stripes shades the front sidewalk. It shares a common flat roof with Family’s Hardware on the left and The Author’s Index, a used bookstore, on the right. The trio finally give the joke a rest with Wilmot shaking his head. Moving wordlessly to the prep counter by the wall, he begins to prepare the batter for the pancakes that the first regulars always ask for. Mini-fridges are tucked under the counter where the cash is located opposite him towards the main floor where Taffy and CJ can both access it. A French door, normally closed is on the same wall where Taffy entered earlier. The back room has another preparation area, ovens, storage of staples, closet, mini office with a narrow desk and the smell of CJ’s biscuits cooking. Taffy re-enters the back room tossing purse and a JC Penny shopping bag full of clothing to drop off at the Goodwill Center later, into the closet. Removing a black waiter’s half apron from the top shelf, she says,“Better check on the biscuits CJ, smell about done.”CJ rushes back to the oven, opens it and removes two wide pans of sixteen biscuits each placing them on the counter beside him. The tops are nicely browned, the sides white with minute stretch marks from which delicate aromas flow. He’s all grins, modest as usual. “Ahh, masterpieces!”Taffy is nodding to him as she ties her apron behind her back. She’s eaten too many of his biscuits.“Yeah, they are CJ.”He’s sliding in another pan, 48 of the tasty suckers should last until 9-9:30 he thinks. “Why thank you Taffy.”He turns to face her.“Are you doing the happy hour with us later, John and Dora are coming by and he’s bringing his Dave Brubeck collection.”Taffy remains silent for a few seconds staring CJ in the eye. They can hear Wilmot clanging pots, the bacon sizzling and the percolator gulping. Fresh coffee, pork frying and hot baking aromas permeate the café, a sensible persona. She reddens a bit.“I have a date tonight.”“Well that’s great Taffy, you need a guy friend. You’re hanging out with the Chiasson sisters too much anyway, you always tell us they only want to shop.”“Well they do but they’re so much fun. Anyway, maybe we could join you later on?” Now she drops her eyes which is odd, never one to be stared down. CJ has a warning bell go off in his head.“Uum…who’s this date by the way, someone I know?”She’s nodding her head, looks back up at him again with the Taffy smile. Such innocence has no place on a sixty-eight year old woman.“Wilmot.”CJ’s eyebrows go up, the eyes widen. He takes a step back as if unbalanced. His deep voice expresses unbelief.“Wilmot? You and Wilmot?Now she has a frown and her hands on her hips.“What’s wrong with me and Wilmot?”The noise out front stops and the chef calls out,“Are you guys talking about me back there?” The sizzle changes tune as Wilmot turns the bacon over. Taffy hushes with a finger across her lips then says loudly,“No Wilmot, I was telling CJ about the new cot I bought for my apartment.”CJ still has a look of incredulity on his face and whispers,“Well, the old dog. But c’mon Taffy, he’s too anal for you, he even folds his underwear. Besides that, he hasn’t been secretive about having an ED problem?”“Oh CJ, it isn’t always about sex.”CJ rubs his chin.“It isn’t?”She tsks-tsks at his wonderment. “Anyway, don’t say anything, okay? He wants to tell you himself and he has something important to say.”“Oh, you’re just going to leave me with that. What is so important that it needs a man-to-man?”She turns to head into the dining section.“You’ll have to wait and see. Don’t ruin it.”CJ is perplexed. He covers one of the pans of biscuits, picks up the other and follows her out. When he enters the outer area, he eyeballs Wilmot who is innocently preparing the morning fare. He will be curious all day.
  The morning goes quickly as Fridays are normally very busy. Lydia Tucker phones exactly at opening time, everyday, to make changes to her menu that she will arrive to pick up punctually at 7:30am, one order for her, the other for her husband who ”doesn’t get around well”. Today they will have their eggs poached. Before she hangs up she tells CJ to remind Wilmot that the toast was a little too dark yesterday. When CJ passes the news onto his friend, Wilmot gives the same reply, “the old biddy”. Horatio Rasmussen is the first customer as usual. The only thing unusual is that he’s in a good mood for a change. He’s the night watchman at the marina and things don’t always go well with drunken sailors and their mates and partying that often goes into the early morning. Even though it is only 7am Rasmussen is showered and shaved, dressed in his best jeans and a clean black t-shirt that reads “Get Some” in bold red letters on the back. CJ can’t get him ruffled today.“I’m going to the airport to pick up my son, I haven’t seen him for over a year. Your rudeness is not going to get me going this morning old man!”The Chiasson sisters are earlier this Friday. All three of them decide to sit at the counter this morning because Gertrude has a crush on CJ. She takes the same special every time she visits but keeps CJ waiting as he takes her order while she peruses the menu for several minutes. It hasn’t changed in the four years the Café has been open but she has a tough time making up her mind. She gets a little miffed when CJ says,“Will you hurry up woman? I have other people to serve and you’re slowing me down.”She scans the restaurant and sees no one else waiting. She’s about to say something curt when she notices the green eyes sparkle and the smile creases on his temples. She blushes.Delivery people come and go; a few get takeout, one or two might sit and gorge. Most will get some Java to go. Several of them don’t stop talking regardless of whether you’re listening or not. A couple of regulars, Joe, the egg, milk and cheese man from Hebert’s Dairy and Phil from Young Bros. Wholesalers,  are hilarious, a fount of foul humour.  The foreigners manage a “you sign here”. 
Different groups of beach bunnies and their entourage of pimply boys and cocky lads pick up juices, sugar laden coffees, westerns, grilled cheeses and biscuits. The young girls wear too much perfume and not much else. CJ can’t believe how tiny their bathing suits are, he guesses a yard of fabric would probably outfit 50 or more of these adorable creatures.  Occasionally he can’t resist some braggadocio and comments to the one he surmises to be the most gullible.“Aah, if only I was a young man again. I’d be making you a happy young lady.”To the girls, CJ is a relic. They barely look up from their phones when he taunts them.  One of the boys wants to show off his knowledge of diner lingo and orders biddy board and an Atlanta special. The Parkers call an egg an egg. CJ passes on the order for French toast and fetches a soda. Tells the kid in his best grumpy voice, “Smarten up and talk English.” His friend’s giggles turn to envy when CJ ruffles his hair and offers up the cold drink.“And here, you can have the Coke.”The trio never stop until the 9:30 lull. Around that time there are only one or two patrons so CJ makes a fresh batch of biscuits, only 24 this time, enough until they close at eleven. Someone ordered fried baloney and dark toast, distressing the normally inviting aromas.  Taffy heads to the backroom to get a clean apron, fix her hair and color up her lips. Wilmot unloads the large dishwasher that belches steam clouds placing the utensils and dinnerware in their proper places. He’s humming “Swinging Doors”, an old Merle Haggard song. At the peak of the morning, he was showing off his egg flipping skills and startled everyone when he burst out in the same song.“And I’ve got swinging doors, a jukebox and a barstool. My new home has a flashing…”Taffy and CJ intervened almost simultaneously with a hearty warning,“Forget it Wilmot!”“Give us a break and stick to swinging your sausages.” 
CJ approaches Wilmot and joins in on the humming. They sound like hornets.  CJ gives Wilmot a playful punch in the arm and says,“So, what’s new Wilmot?“New? Well…”Wilmot looks his friend in the eyes and he realizes that Taffy must’ve said something to CJ who’s been acting odd all day, a little quieter as if he has something on his mind. No Wilmot decides, he’s going to wait until they can sit down. He knows CJ loves the restaurant.“…aah, never mind CJ. It can wait until after we close.”Wilmot checks his watch.“Only another two hours.”He returns to the toast that has just popped that smells overdone. CJ scratches his head, looking bewildered. A young couple sit at the bench, camera clad, touristy. CJ grabs a couple of menus and heads to serve them.
*
Shortly after closing, Taffy is locking the doors. CJ is at the counter sitting on the patron’s side. He has the till, a ledger and a calculator. After fifteen minutes, he has an envelope stuffed with the day’s take minus the usual percentage for expenses. Taffy has finished cleaning up the back area. Wilmot places seven take out foam dishes with the usual lunches they always prepare for the homeless that line up at noon at the back door for their free meal. Pastor Noble who runs the Shelter of Hope will be here then also to collect the donation that the Café presents every day they’re open. It’s a non-profit house where homeless can get a shower or an empty bed or a meal or words of encouragement.  Taffy had made the suggestion to give the proceeds to the Shelter and the boys agreed it was a good cause. When the daily chores are done and the restaurant ready for the next day, the three move to a booth on the side with fresh coffees. Taffy and Wilmot sit side by side facing CJ, who is dying of curiosity and says,“Well, what’s up? Why didn’t you tell me you two were dating?  What’s this important news?”Wilmot holds up both hands.“Whoa now buddy.  First off, it was none of your business that Taffy and I have been seeing each other. You’d only be teasing us in front of the customers.”CJ sits back in the booth; he’s miffed, looking like a little boy again, spoiled.“I thought we were friends.”Taffy tilts her head and frowns in disbelief.“You know better than that CJ, we’ve been great friends for quite few years and you know how much I love working with you, what we’re doing for others. You just get carried away sometimes CJ with the “grumpy” stuff and your silly book stuff. Surprisingly, our guests seem to like you, you clown.”CJ is about to respond when she holds up a finger, she’s not through.“We are both very fond of you CJ, so be happy for us. Now, Wilmot wants to tell you something.”She turns in her seat to takes Wilmot’s hand in hers, holding it in her lap, looking him in the eyes. For a short moment the only sound is the ticking of the refrigerator. CJ is touched by the glow that radiates from her pretty face. Wilmot looks like he just won the lottery. CJ is still CJ.“Will you two stop?  Or rent a room, for Pete’s sake?  Now tell me what is so important?”Serious now, Wilmot sits straighter, places his elbows on the table, hands around his mug of coffee. “Taffy and I are moving to Hawaii.  I’m giving you my half of the Café so long as it’s for charity.  You’ll have to find another pretty waitress.”CJ is flabbergasted.  He thought they were going to tell him they were getting married or something dumb like that.  He’s speechless for a change. Sitting back in the booth, shoulders sagged; he looks down at the table top in deep thought. The first thing he remembers is the hot tub of several years ago, he visualizes the toast they had to anyone wanting out, only had to ask, no hard feelings. Taffy and Wilmot respect his concern and sit quietly.CJ has a dozen notions all at once. Loosing contact with his friends, can he do it alone, who would he hire, they rumble about his head. He’s about to ask when they are leaving when they are disturbed by a knocking at the door. Wilmot gets up from the booth, turns to CJ and says,“Taffy and I’ll get this CJ, you think about what I said. We’ll get the food dishes out and give the Pastor the envelope.”“Yeah, yeah, Wilmot. Thanks.”Taffy follows Wilmot clutching the white envelope stuffed with bills. Wilmot grabs the meals off the counter and they head to the back door. CJ sits slouched, still pondering his future. He listens to the voices in the back. He can distinguish a couple of the regulars, Bobby and Madonna. A higher pitched one he doesn’t recognize. He knows they will all be grateful. The noise takes his mind off his troubles when he thinks of all the good they have done for people like the lot out back.His mind steps off the curb without looking both ways and it hits him. He jerks upright in his seat, hitting his elbow on the table edge. He can’t get out of the booth fast enough.  He rushes to the back door, which is ajar. Outside the mob is shuffling back to the minivan with their Styrofoam held guardedly against their chests. Pastor Noble holds his sweat stained fedora in one hand, his pale white head reflecting the noon light. CJ bursts in looking directly at the Pastor. Interrupting something Wilmot was saying, he blurts out,“Pastor Noble, how would you and your staff like to have a profitable restaurant, debt free?”CJ is grinning like he discovered something more valuable than diamonds, his chest is out. Pastor Noble’s eyes widen and he drops his hat in surprise. Wilmot and Taffy are looking at CJ like he lost his mind until they both see the logic and grin wider than their friend.  Wilmot pats CJ on the back before putting a protective arm around the diminutive pastor to lead him back into the restaurant.“Pastor, have we got a deal for you.”    Thank you for visiting the Scribbler. For those that missed the first TGOM Café story, it is available in SHORTS Vol.1 at amazon.com.       Please join us next Friday when you will have an opportunity to read Chapter 1 of Maggie James splendid new novel, The Second Captive . The Prologue was featured here on the Scribbler last month and is archived if you want to check it out first.               

Guest Author Louise Boulter - Date Night

Louise Boulter lives in Moncton, New Brunswick. Her short stories have been published in the Codiac Chronicles.  
The following was taken from her membership bio of The Writers' Federation of New Brunswick of which she is a member.
Writing (of course), reading, dancing, golfing, yoga, Tai Chi, Art/Drawing. Those are my interests, to name a few.
I often wonder how I used to have time to work – I retired from the Federal Government in 2006. I took a Creative Writing Course at the NBCC Moncton, and that has revived the love of writing that I had when I was a youngster. I am married and have a wonderful son.

Copyright is held by the author. Used by permission.




DATE NIGHT
            Sitting at the table, Susan waited for Michael to arrive. She fidgeted in her chair. Work was important, family responsibilities were essential, but there was nothing more important than this feeling of excitement, the anticipation of what lay ahead. Every Tuesday evening, they met at an out of the way lounge and after a few drinks, would return to her place and do what every couple do in the dark. No, she thought, not what every couple do, but what we have agreed to do. As much as she would have wanted to go out with Michael more often, life always got in the way. So Susan had learned to be satisfied with one special night of the week. It was their night, and had been for the past year.             Before heading to the club, Susan had carefully applied her make-up and put on her black velvet dress. Its low cut might reveal a bit too much, but she knew Michael would love the way it showed just the right amount of cleavage, enough to make him yearn to see more. The thought of seeing him, his blond hair, his penetrating blue eyes looking into her brown eyes, the thought of the feel of his arms around her when they danced, made her heart race. They always started off this way, every Tuesday evening: having a couple of drinks and then dancing to songs being played by the DJ – especially the slow ones where their bodies moved closer against each other until they became almost one. The anticipation mounted as thoughts of what lay ahead started having its effects on their bodies. They both knew what to expect tonight.            As she sat at the small table, looking up at the door whenever she heard it open, she felt a familiar warmth rise in her body. Yes, she knew he was married, and she did not care. It had been a busy day. It always was busy on Tuesdays. She had gotten up this morning, had prepared breakfast, cleaned her house and went shopping. She had bought a red negligee to surprise Michael. Susan wondered if she would have time to wear it tonight. In the afternoon she had worked on her novel, something she loved doing.
            One day, she thought, I will show it to Michael and have him give me feedbacks. She had not told Michael, but she was working on a novel about their relationship, having altered the names of the couple, of course. She had already published two books with Harlequin Romance and this would be her third. She wondered what Michael would think of the steamy love scenes. She always wrote the steamiest parts on Wednesdays, after their lovemaking of the previous night. Writing about what they had done was her way of keeping the memories of the previous night alive. Shortly after five, Susan had taken a leisurely bath, lighting a few candles. Looking at the soap bubbles barely covering her breasts, thoughts of Michael’s hands cupping them prevented her from relaxing. She got out of the tub, put on her bathrobe and went to the bedroom where she smoothed the bed sheets and fluffed the pillows. Some Tuesdays, she would buy roses and spread the petals on the bed, leaving a sweet scent in the air. She knew Michael worked until seven and would undoubtedly be picking up a bottle of her favorite wine or perhaps a bouquet of flowers. Every week, he had something special for her. He always kept the gift for later, much later. Tonight she had a surprise for Michael. She had bought him a pocket watch, not only as an anniversary gift, but as a reminder of how she cherished their time together. The past year had been her salvation and she knew, instinctively, it had also been Michael's.
Susan wondered if it would be as special if they met more often. But no, she knew he had other responsibilities, other matters needing his attention. The fact he was such a devoted husband and loved his wife in ways only a wife could understand – from fixing the broken tap in the kitchen, replacing the burnt-out light bulb in the bathroom, to mowing the lawn - the many things husbands do for their wives, only made her love him more. Yes, thought Susan, his wife is one lucky lady. But tonight is our night, a night of no responsibilities, of no thoughts of wives, husbands, or household chores. She needed these Tuesdays.                                                    *************            Michael was thinking the same thing.Yes, as much as I love my wife and my work, as much as I love taking care of her,  I NEED my Tuesdays with Susan. Without them, I do not think I could get through each week. These weekly dates with Susan were something Michael looked forward to, something he needed in order to get through the long six days before the following Tuesday.             As Michael parked his car in the lot behind the club, he knew who was waiting for him. He was aware Susan knew he was married to a lovely wife who doted on him, two children who were his pride and joy. His marriage was a happy one; it was his reason for living at times. But tonight and every Tuesday night for the past year, had become his escape, his one night away from all the responsibilities his job and his marriage brought. A good marriage takes a lot of work, he thought. Work he was willing to do, because he loved his wife. But he also needed this diversion. He was glad Susan understood this.            As he made his way inside the lounge, he spotted Susan sitting by herself, at their usual table.  How he adored this lady. She had been willing to go along with anything he asked of her, no questions asked. He felt he was the luckiest man alive. Michael had heard the saying ‘live for the moment’ and this evening was the moment he had been waiting for all week.            “Hello Susan” he said as he sat down next to her. “And how was your day?”            She looked into the eyes of the man she loved more than life itself. “I had a great day Michael. It was busy, but you know I am never too busy for you. The very thought of meeting you tonight is what made my today special.”***********             The waitress approached their table and asked what they wanted to drink. Susan had opted to wait for Michael before ordering. They placed their usual order. The waitress knew this couple well. They had been customers of hers for almost a year and they would leave a hefty tip before they left. She wondered about them. They seemed to have a certain connection. They also seemed so much in love, and yet, she somehow suspected they had some kind of secret between them. Something she could not quite put her finger on. Maybe it was because they preferred to sit at the same table at the back of the lounge, away from the other customers, away from prying eyes. She had seen many rendez-vous in her time as a waitress, but they usually lasted one night, two nights maybe, even a month or more. But this couple, they seemed so much in love. Plus the fact that even after all these months, they still came separately, the woman arriving first, then the man. There was just something about them which fascinated her. She instinctively knew they were not your normal dating couple. But who was she to judge?
***********
            “To you, my dear.” Michael said, raising his glass and touching Susan’s.             “And how was your day Michael?” Susan asked. “Oh same as usual – you know, a meeting this morning, working on my environmental impact report this afternoon.”            “And what are your plans for later?” hoping the question sounded seductive. Michael replied with a simple ‘You.’ Susan blushed.            After they finished their second drink, a slow romantic song started playing and Michael took her hand and led her to the dance floor. In the past year, they had taken private ballroom dance lessons. Their favorite was the rumba. As Susan slowly rubbed against Michael, she knew this was but a prelude to what was to come. They skipped the faster songs, knowing they needed to save their energy for what would come later. Finally, at around nine, they left the club and made their way to their respective cars.            Once they reached her house, Susan parked her car in the garage while Michael parked his in the driveway. Together they made their way into the house.            Michael sat on the couch in the living room while Susan poured two glasses of wine. She knew they would soon be going to the bedroom. She knew what would happen and she felt a weakness in her knees. Michael is so good in bed, Susan thought, better than he realizes. Their foreplay often brought Michael to the brink, yet Michael always held back. He wanted her to enjoy every minute of their lovemaking. But more, he wanted to make sure Susan was ready before they finally joined in a union beyond anything either of them had experienced with anyone else. How he loved this woman. How she loved this man.
            Afterwards, Susan lay in the comfort of his arms. She smiled, the afterglow still on her face. It seemed she had been transported to another universe and was just now returning to earth.            After a few minutes, Michael got up and walked over to where his clothes lay on the chair by the door to the bedroom. He put his hand in his coat jacket and took out a box. He went back to the bed and looked at Susan, his Tuesday night lover for the past year. He held the box in his hand and opened it. Susan gasped.“Marry me darling?”Susan looked at the diamond ring. “Oh yes Michael – but when ........and how?”Michael looked deep into her eyes. “Let us go to the balcony Susan – we will say our wedding vows here, tonight, in the company of the angels who have blessed us since we first met. In front of the moon and the stars, the heavens themselves will bless us and pronounce us man and wife.”Susan looked at this man who was her whole world. “What about your wife?” she said with a twinkle in her eyes. “She will understand.” Michael laughed. “Susan, tonight let us renew our wedding vows under the beauty of the night sky.” Susan looked at her husband and felt more love than she had felt on their wedding day 40 years before.   Thank you for sharing this charming story Louise. You can follow Louise on Facebook at: https://www.facebook.com/LouWriter?fref=ts     Next week on the Scribbler you will be able to read my latest short story - The Finale of the Two Grumpy Old Men Café. The Parkers decide what to do with their restaurant. The original TGOM Café story is featured on my short story collection SHORTS Vol.1  

4Q Interview with Santa Claus.

After many months of tracking down this famous figure, the Scribbler was finally able to get Santa Claus to agree to answer 4 questions for the 4Q Interview.  The query was submitted to the admin division of SC Enterprises, North Pole, on July 15th, 2014. We received a last minute email only an hour ago.  The note was apologetic for its delay, albeit a cheerful assertion of Mr. Claus’ demanding schedule. It went on to thank us for our patience and delight in participating on the Scribbler.
It was difficult to consider only four questions for one of the world’s most famous people.  We decided to pose a dozen and let Santa choose.  Here they are. 
4Q: Are elves real?SC: Ho, Ho. Ho! You don’t know how many times I’ve been asked that Allan.  Is gravity, space, time or magnetism real? They’re totally unexplainable but certifiably so; that’s what elves are. Centuries ago, these supernatural beings were made known to civilization through Germanic and Nordic mythology and all kinds of elves exist. It’s true that they have magical powers. They’re especially beautiful figures. And they’re clever. Oh, whatever would I do without them?  In our ultra-secret complex, we have over twenty thousand of the rascals, they breed worse than rabbits. The logistics sometimes can be a tad overwhelming.  Thank goodness they are all happy, there are never any conflicts. Lucky for the Missus and me the elders keep everything in order.  I always say the more the merrier, especially since we just secured the Toys-B-Us account. We’ll be making all the toys for the 14,329 locations as well as our own 100,000,000 pieces I give away. All profits will be invested in the elves retirement program, of course.Oh yes, they are very real. I remember JR (Tolkien) and I having a long talk about this eighty years ago or so when he began writing. An interesting man that had odd ideas of his own elves and my goodness but his characters are popular toys today.  As far as the elves that only I can see, I can’t describe them to you. They need to remain part of your imagination. I can tell you this for sure, they are mischievous and quite short. Ho, Ho, Ho! 
4Q: How is it Santa that you can truly know if every boy and girl is good or bad, who should get gifts and who shouldn’t?SC: Well now that’s a good question coming from you. You were a bad little bugger sometimes. I still showed up though, didn’t I? I knew all about Mary McLaughlin’s plastic dinner set and what you did with it. The worst thing you did was when you shot John, your next door neighbor, in the buttock with the BB gun I left you one year. It was only for your mother punishing you properly and taking it away from you that kept you on the list. There really aren’t any bad children Allan, only parents that don’t teach their children right from wrong. I mean, have you ever heard of someone having to teach a kid to be bad. Ho Ho Ho! They do that on their own. No, we have to teach them to be good.And to get back to my elves, they and I have mastered time manipulation of course, because how else would I get all those gifts delivered in one night. Phew! There is about 2000 that all they do is check up on children all year round. They are part of the Lollipop and Derogate Division of the Elves Union.  On a good day, an experienced elf can visit several thousand homes and deliver verbal reports to the Head Decider and she in turn reports to me.Most tykes are just mischievous. I have found that the worst imps are from Kent and Albert counties in your home province of New Brunswick. Especially the ones that grow up to be authors, they have these weird imaginations getting themselves into all kinds of trouble. My goodness but I think it’s from too much sugar. There are not many that don’t get presents. 
4Q: Please share a childhood anecdote or memory Santa.SC: Hmmm! I don’t think I ever was a child Allan; at least I have no memory of being one. No, nothing comes to mind. I do however have a thought to share with you and your readers. When kids stop believing in me, they normally stop believing in magic and mystery. That’s kind of sad. I love it though that some adults never stop believing. You see them with antlers sticking out of the windows of their cars or a fake Rudolph red nose on the grill, or a huge inflated replica of me on the lawn, or they’re working in the food kitchens, or buying gifts for people they don’t even know. Ho Ho Ho! 

4Q: What do you do in the off season Santa, or is there an off season? SC: Oh yes, there is definitely a time away from the hustle and bustle of the North Pole. Ho Ho Ho! The Missus and I have a condo on the island of Bequia in the Caribbean. Down there, I’m just the nice fat guy next door that needs to trim his beard.  I go by the name of Ralph and the wife is Suzie. We live next door to an author you might know, her name is Susan and I especially love her last name Toy, it holds special meaning for me, of course. Great gal, quite the storyteller. I have a sailboat as well, a 27 foot CS27 that we meander about the coast with. I drink cold beer on Friday nights when the missus (she’s the red wine drinker) and I have our weekly happy hour. Although we can’t have children, we still practice making babies as often as we can (wink wink). Ho Ho Ho! I collect Christmas movies which shouldn’t be a surprise I guess. My favorite one is Christmas Vacation with Chevy Chase. I love it when Clark gets tongue-tied with the pretty lady selling lingerie. Another funny part is when his cousin Eddy shows up with no money and an especially long Christmas list. And the old guy with the wig cracks me up each time.I’m part of a jazz trio. I play the doghouse bass with two of my cronies down there, Jaspar on the piano and Merle on the saxophone. We have gigs most Sunday afternoons all over the islands, quite the following actually. We call ourselves Digger (that’s Merle’s nickname) and the Dots. When she’s in town, we always have Kitty LaRoar join us, such an angelic voice. We diddle with the old classics, especially Cole Porter’s collection of jewels.I do a little gardening, actually as little as possible but the missus likes her flowers. I have short naps two or three times a day. I forget about chimneys, pass keys, good and bad, elves under my feet, reindeer in their stalls, the chilly weather, the logistics, gift wrapping and signing my name a million times.I never wear anything red when I am on holidays. The elves have strict instructions Not-To-Peek-In-Our-Windows. Sometimes I like to be mischievous too. 


Thank you Santa Claus for sharing your thoughts on the Scribbler.  All the best for the future of Christmas when we celebrate the birth of Christ.  Oh and by the way, next year I want…….    Next week on the Scribbler, you will meet Louise Boulter of Moncton, New Brunswick and have the opportunity to read her touching short story - Date Night.

Guest author - Maggie James. An excerpt from Second Captive.

Maggie James is a British author who lives in Bristol. She writes psychological suspense novels. 
The first draft of her first novel, entitled His Kidnapper’s Shoes, was written whilst travelling in Bolivia. Maggie was inspired by an impending milestone birthday along with a healthy dose of annoyance at having procrastinated for so long in writing a novel. His Kidnapper’s Shoes was published in both paperback and e-book format in 2013, followed by her second novel, entitled Sister, Psychopath. Her third novel, Guilty Innocence, like her first two, features her home city of Bristol. She has recently published her fourth novel, The Second Captive. Before turning her hand to writing, Maggie worked mainly as an accountant, with a diversion into practising as a nutritional therapist. Diet and health remain high on her list of interests, along with travel. Accountancy does not, but then it never did. The urge to pack a bag and go off travelling is always lurking in the background! When not writing, going to the gym, practising yoga or travelling, Maggie can be found seeking new four-legged friends to pet; animals are a lifelong love! Her links are below.  Following is the Prologue of Second Captive. Copyright ©Maggie James 2014.  Used by permission  PROLOGUE - Beth  Present day  ‘Hey, check out that tart! Can you believe the state of her?’ Sniggers erupt from the two teenage boys nearby, who nudge each other as they stare at me. I avoid eye contact, praying they’ll find another source of amusement. Ahead is a pedestrian crossing, where an elderly woman waits to cross. She’s older, wiser, won’t judge me. I shuffle towards her. ‘What a nutter! The bitch has got slippers on!’ The mocking hoots of the teenagers follow me, straight into the ears of the old woman. Her eyes scrape over my clothes, grimace at my footwear, before she spots my jogging bottoms, slashed and dark with my blood. Disapproval tugs the corners of her mouth. I shrink, chastened, into the doorway of the nearest shop, until she stops staring. Not that I blame her, or the boys. The cuts to my knees must look bad. As for my feet, I don’t own any shoes; the soft pink slippers are my only form of footwear. Wear them, or go barefoot; that was my choice. The rain started ten minutes after I left the cottage, rendering my feet cold and wet. Sore, too. The thin leather soles aren’t suitable for walking the distance I’ve travelled. What must it be, two, perhaps three miles? The Clock Tower is straight ahead of me, its red brick a distinctive Kingswood landmark. Past it is The Busy Bean. The coffee shop where life as I once knew it ended two years ago, when I was eighteen. The doorway provides shelter; I tell myself I’ll move on once the rain isn’t so heavy. The idea of taking an umbrella didn’t occur to me before leaving the cottage; it was a soft September morning as I eased myself over the windowsill, the sky a uniform blue. Weather isn’t something I’ve concerned myself with during the last two years. You might say I’ve led a sheltered life during that time. As well as my feet being sore, my calves ache; I’m not used to walking so far. Weariness seeps through me, threatening to reduce me to tears, another humiliation I don’t need. To the casual observer, I must look weird enough already, what with the fluffy slippers and the bloody knees. Not to mention the jacket I’m wearing, the sleeves of which are long enough to cover my hands. It’s Dominic’s jacket. Like shoes, a coat isn’t something I possess. I’ve not ventured outside the cottage for two years; it’s likely I never would have again, but the need to find Dominic proved too urgent. Liar, a small voice in my head chides me. He’s not who you need right now. Instead, an image arises in my brain: a woman with long, dark hair piled on her head in messy disarray, her eyes tender with the smile they hold, the love in her expression warming me to the soles of my cold, wet feet. The rain has eased to no more than a drizzle. I should move on, but I’m frightened. Everything’s louder, bigger, brighter, than I remember. My horizons have shrunk to the confines of a damp basement, and I’m unprepared for how terrifying the outside world is. Were there always so many cars on the roads? All these people thronging the streets? A child starts screaming, the sound magnified in my ears. Panic grips me. I can’t do this. It’s not too late, I tell myself. Go back to the cottage; take refuge in the familiarity of the basement. Where mouthy teenagers can’t mock. Where old women don’t judge. In my head, the woman with the messy hair smiles at me again. ‘Come home,’ she says. My panic subsides. I turn towards The Busy Bean, its heady coffee aroma meeting me several yards from the open door. The rich caffeine scent, a smell I’ve not inhaled for a long time, teases my nostrils; I close my eyes with pleasure. Dominic is a staunch Earl Grey man. And what he drinks, so do I. I walk towards that delicious aroma, as though I intend to stride through the door and order lunch, grabbing my usual table towards the back, when I stop myself. The soaked slippers, the obviously-not-mine jacket mock me, echoing the teenagers; I’m too wet, too weird, too wacky, to venture inside. The windows are wet and smeary as I peer through them. None of the baristas looks familiar, but then serving in a coffee shop isn’t usually a long-term job option. Nobody is likely to recognise me, but I still can’t go in. They’ll expect me to order something, and money, like shoes, isn’t a commodity I possess. I don’t have a handbag, or a purse, any coins or credit cards. I did have, once, but Dominic disposed of everything I owned. Ah, my blue leather wallet, the loss of which still hits me like a wrecking ball. A memory surfaces of the woman with the messy hair, smiling as I unwrap her surprise present. My stomach growls, no doubt alerted by the coffee and cake smells. In the last thirty-six hours, my only food has been a hummus sandwich; I need to eat, and quickly. I turn away, and there, opposite me, leading off the High Street, is the road towards Downend. I cross towards it. Saplings are growing along the pavement, their branches sprouting new life. My fingers trail over the bark of one of them, enjoying its roughness beneath my skin, such a contrast to the soft foliage above. As I explore, reacquainting myself with the luxury of doing so, a terrier approaches, sniffing me. I bend down, allowing myself to stroke its wiry pelt, before yanking my hand away, remembering. Dogs are dirty, carry disease. Dominic said so. I start walking again. Every step is a reminder of my sore feet, my aching calves. I ignore my body and retreat into my head, my thoughts fixed on my destination. And the reception I’m likely to face. The reason I’ll give for my two-year absence. My mind spins back to my parents, to my old family home, which is where I’m heading. The woman with the messy dark hair is my mother. My father, with his heavy jawline, his greying hair, his jowly chin betraying the fact he’s going to seed, joins her in my head. Along with Troy. My brother. Whatever I say, it won’t sound convincing. My best bet is to tell them I’ve been staying with friends, provoked into leaving by my father’s constant nagging. Either get a job or go to university, Beth, for God’s sake! The two choices he sees as a fit path for my future. My mother will be hurt, of course, disappointed by my apparent selfishness, but better that than revealing the truth. How would I ever find the words? One thought has always tortured me. Why no one found me. Troy must have told my parents what he saw that night. Why wasn’t it enough for the police - because of course my mother would have called them - to track me down? I turn into Draper Street. My eyes fall on the house where I grew up, where I lived all my life until the age of eighteen. Before I went missing. Tears mist my vision. My chest grows tight. I walk towards the door. My fingers rub against what’s in the pocket of my jogging bottoms, its small yet solid coolness hard against my touch. ‘Wish me luck,’ I tell its former owner. My hand moves towards the bell, before stopping. To press my finger against it is an irrevocable action, bringing the inevitable question: where have you been for the last two years? My wet feet, my aching legs, the desperate hollow in my stomach, leave me no choice. More than that, the yearning to have my mother’s arms wrap around me, the warmth of her body pressed against mine, sweeps through me with tornado-like force. ‘Beth,’ she’ll murmur against my hair. ‘You’ve come home. At last.’ My finger pushes the doorbell, releasing the familiar one-two ding-dong chimes deep into the belly of the house. I wait. Nobody comes. Anxiety invades my brain, conjuring up unthinkable scenarios. My family have moved away, abandoned me, leaving me standing here with my ice-block-cold toes and my empty stomach. Then reason asserts itself; my mother’s car is in the driveway, the familiar faded red of the Fiat’s bodywork proof that she, at least, hasn’t exited from my life. I press the bell again, its chimes a plea for her to come. Footsteps sound in the hallway, moving towards the door. It’s solid wood, so I can’t see who’s behind it until it opens. Teak gives way to space, and to my mother. I’m home. At last.   Thank you Maggie for sharing this exciting beginning. Readers - watch for Chapters 1 & 2 of the Second Captive in the following months to come.The novel can be purchased at amazon by clicking the following, http://smarturl.it/thesecondcaptive  Her links are as follows;Maggie James – author of psychological suspense novelsWebsite and blog: www.maggiejamesfiction.comFacebook: Maggie James FictionTwitter: @mjamesfictionLinkedIn: my profileGoodreads: my author profileGoogle+: my profile     Next week, the South Branch Scribbler features the 4Q Interview with none other than the most famous man in the land - Santa Claus . St. Nick answers four questions. Don't miss it.      
 

A short story by Allan Hudson. The Food Bank.

This story was first published on commuterlit.com. I actually delivered food to a food bank once. While none of this happened, it could have.





 The Food Bank.
Food is a necessary staple of everyone’s life. Because of that I toss my loose change in an old cookie jar daily, a bust of Woody Woodpecker I bought in a yard sale, sans cover. Stationed on my night table by the lamp he faces the closet; the ceramic peeping-tom watches me change my clothes all the time. At the end of each month, he and I probably save up sixteen to twenty dollars. Whoopee! But today is cause for celebration; I counted this month’s take after breakfast and found a couple of misplaced toonies for an all time high of $23.44. I am elated. There will be eight more Mr. Noodles to dole out. Today’s my day off, Wednesday, the end of January only one day away. My to-do list lying on the kitchen table nags at me, do these, do that, do this, do that, but I grab the pencil sitting next to it and tick off number one, “Donation time!!!!” The Maritime Megamart with over two acres of supreme shopping pleasure is where I’m headed. It’s not far so I decide to walk. I retrieve my wool pea jacket from the closet, gloves from the basket on the upper shelf, boots from the rack. Just before I’m ready to leave, I remember the frosty abstract art on my bedroom window. It’s likely colder than it looks I think, deciding to use a scarf.  A Tip Top Tailors suit hanger holds a bevy of colored wraps, snaked about each other; the brightest and flowered ones belong to my wife. I opt for my favorite grey and black checkered one pulling it from the tangled mess. When I do so, a beige scarf falls to the floor. I’d almost forgotten about it. It belongs to my son.  It’s thick and dotted with flecks of dark brown, if it was stretched open it would read, “Burton” in orange letters. He won a bunch of gear in a snowboarding competition four winters ago. There had been two identical scarves, he gave one to me. I don’t know where mine is now, I gave it away. The memory it evokes is forceful and gives me shivers; the irony of finding it today causes bumps about my flesh. I have to sit down, my mind races with the memory of my first and only visit to the Food Bank. It was the end of January three years ago that this ritual began.I work in the maintenance department at the Jollywell Hospital. Every year since I’ve been there, our department puts out bins in the lunchroom at the first of December to be filled with non perishable food items. Not for Christmas as our supervisor explained, every one gives for Christmas, we would give ours in January when it was needed more, made sense to me. Someone taped a loose leaf to the side of one bin. It was a bit crooked with nicely shaped letters from a black marker, “For the Homeless and Hungry.”  The bold lines were a revelation for me, I’d never been hungry; as my ample girth would suggest because I’m a bit overweight. I bought more. I even volunteered to deliver the bins. Sometimes I wish I hadn’t.Maneuvering four overloaded blue receptacles into my Ford wagon early one Saturday morning around eight, I set out with the elation of doing a good deed, of representing my co-workers, of benevolence. It took me some time to find the building, it wasn’t well marked, which seemed odd at first but I realized a fancy sign wasn’t important.  The main building ran parallel to the street, curved sheets of corrugated steel formed walls and ceiling, crusted snow lie in some troughs, the virgin white softening the dull galvanized grey. A smudged and dented garage door about twelve feet wide on the left faces the road, the entryway of patched asphalt is neatly shoveled free of snow and ice. A cleared walkway leads to an extension, an add-on with a gable end facing the street, it looks like a store front except it has no window, only a dark green door, a lighted doorbell the shape of an angel, black four-inch high digits that said 41 and a white sign the size of a license plate, which I couldn’t read from the driveway but I knew it said The House of Plenty. I backed my car up to the building, off to one side. There were neither windows nor any sign of entrance around the garage door; the whole building had an air of anonymity.  I saw a few cars, older models, parked in front along the street. Two men, separate from each other, were on the other side of the roadway having a smoke. A shopping cart from a local grocer stood alone near the walkway entrance, it was rusted in spots, had a missing front wheel. I could see that it contained mostly returnables, some poor man’s daily wages I thought. It dimmed my mood just a bit. I lifted the lightest of the bins from the back seat and headed for the entrance of uninviting green. The door squeaked a little as I opened it, an early warning system maybe. I pushed my way in with my rump, carrying the bin to enter a dimly lit room. Directly in front of me, six feet away, was a wall extending ten feet to the right. The balance of the room stretched out towards the rear for about twenty feet where there were people waiting. The only thing that matched the low wattage of the bare overhead bulbs was the look on the faces I encountered. It was too quiet. My good cheer vanished like the rabbit in the hat.  I rudely stared at the small crowd, my curiosity so intense when I realized these people were here for food. I had come in the wrong door.The area made an attempt to be bright; white benches along two walls, dark brown fabric padding the seats, the pale blue walls too institutional for me. The temperature was just below comfortable; no one took off their jackets. A faint scent of Lysol was the only welcoming feature. No one spoke, most were just studying me. I wondered what they must be thinking; am I some kind of saviour, am I just a good guy or maybe they resent that I can give, instead of ask for, I can’t tell. None of the expressions change. The only sound was when some of the standing in the back shuffled and a floorboard squeaked. My eyes focused on a woman at the front of the bench closest to me. She was bundled in a pink ski jacket decorated with long use. Her disappointed face was wrapped with a white scarf in stark contrast to her coat because of its newness. Perched on her lap of tight jeans was a small girl of perhaps four whose hooded coat was neat and pink also. The child’s head rested on her mother’s breast, her little body, only clad in faded jeans and sneakers, shivered slightly in the coolness of the room.  I had to look away, it was too sad. I quickly eyeballed the remaining patrons. They‘re about equal of both genders, more middle-aged than young, all of them too thin. I recognized the older man that sits in the back on the floor; I’d seen him many times downtown trying to be polite as he asked strangers for some change. He wraps his many coated arms about his drawn up knees. Four or five plastic bags squat at his feet like trained pets, probably everything he owns. His head and beard are grizzly grey, unkempt and stringy. I have no idea how old he is nor his name. I doubt he’s going to be able to carry away much when I realize he’s here for the warmth, it’s a line up he won’t get thrown out of.The two young men that sit on the bench to my right, I can only think of them as punks, are out of place; like that joke about an NAACP tee shirt at a Klan gathering. Open jackets reveal tattoos on their necks. The flames and trident’s make me suspect they’ve been in jail. They stare at the floor. I try not to judge them but with both wearing new clothes, I want to throw them out.Farther along the same bench sits an elderly woman. When I meet her eyes she haughtily turns them away.  Her cheeks are too red from an abundance of blush, the rouge unable to brighten the pale, creased skin. A burgundy pillbox hat like the one Jackie Kennedy used to wear, is pinned neatly to her head. A luxurious fur coat bundles her slight torso. She wears black silky gloves with gemstones crested upon the back. Hat and coat are about fifty years old from my best estimate, the gloves, I’m not sure but they’re shabby too. She lifts her chin. I’m struck by the pride I witness in her bearing. I understand what the posture means; the neat, aging costume tells me she wasn’t always poor. 
 I try and focus on my mission; this wavering of feelings is unsettling. Setting the container on the floor I address a man that stands to my left in the corner. He’s chest level with a sliding panel that looks about twenty inches high and three feet wide on the wall in front of me. I try on my best smile.“Where would I take this... this bin?”I feel guilty somehow about saying food or donation.The man was bearded and wore workman’s clothes, clean but worn. His somber face seemed kind as he nodded the peak of his John Deere hat at the buzzer to the left of the sliding door. It was unlit and painted the same blue as the wall, playing find me if you can, I hadn’t noticed it.
“Thanks” I said and thumbed the switch. I had to wait a few minutes.  I’m usually a talker in a crowd but there didn’t seem anything proper to say; people didn’t come here to meet people. My thinking was disturbed by the cautious opening of the white colored panel. I was confounded by the image it exposed; so much that I didn’t respond to the opener’s presence or request. The portal was like a television set in the wall, the scene so different to the room that I was in. It was brightly lit with shelves of various cans, boxes and bags of food along the walls I could see. People were scurrying about with armfuls of items, others sorting them on tables. They were joking and laughing. I looked quickly around embarrassed at first by the sounds of merriment next door but then I thought, why not? I guessed that these workers are volunteers, people unselfish of their time; they’re not hungry so why shouldn’t they be content. It just seemed so odd, the imbalance of emotions, the uneven see-saw of have and have-nots. My amazement was shorted when a loud voice suggested.
“We’ll only be open at ten.” I was momentarily taken aback thinking he mistook me for a requester. I frowned at the older man; he was bald with white fringes overlapping his small ears. Round silver framed glasses were stuck on the end of his nose. He had a silver bushy moustache. He lifted his matching brows in question. I pointed to the container at my feet.“I have some bins from the Jollymore, where would you like me to take them.”His can’t-you-see-I’m-busy attitude changed with a thankful smile smoothing out the man’s long face.“Go out to the garage door and give it a good thump or two and someone back there will help you.”
The cover slid back smartly, I was back in the gloom. As I was bending my knees to pick up the bin, the toes of the little girl’s shaking feet I see in my peripheral vision disturbs my concentration.  I look up at the trembling child. The voice is frail but flowery.“Can we go home soon, I’m cold Mommy”The woman opens her jacket and folds the ends about the little girl. She doesn’t speak words of comfort, perhaps there are none? I’m acutely aware of the bundle of wool and polyester around my neck with a flash of the dozens more at home. It suddenly weighs a hundred pounds. My son just gave it to me. I decided he’d understand, knowing him, he’d do the same thing. Unwrapping the scarf from my head I step towards the woman.  She watches me as I extend my hand while pointing at the wrap with my other.  She reddens as she looks me in the eyes. I only see uncertainty, nothing to do with the scarf. She accepts my gift to hastily twist it about her daughter’s lower body.
The other people are watching us and I begin to blush. I want to escape so I don’t wait for acknowledgment. Hurrying to my bin, a stranger conveniently opens the door to enter. I quickly dart around the man as he shuffles in. Before the door clunks shut I hear,“Thank you Mister”The sincerity of her platitude waifs like warm breath in the nippy air, floating, lingering for only a moment. My neck is cold. Her words fill my heart. Pinpricks flourish along my neck and spine as I think of the crew indoors, the hungry, misplaced and the lonely. I vowed then to feed as many people that my skinny budget would allow. I would never volunteer to deliver the bins again.  If you can find it in your heart do give at least one food item this year to someone that may be hungry, please do it. Next Friday, watch for an excerpt from an exciting new novel by guest author Maggie James of the United Kingdom.
 
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Guest Author Katrina Cope of Australia

Katrina Cope lives  in Queensland Australia. She is a published author with the Sanctum Series Books. Her links are 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.
  The Sanctum Series – The truth behind the deep and dark side 
Have you ever read something in a book and think, ‘That is not possible’? If you did, was your next move to Google it? I know that would be my next move. We have such a great privilege in these current times to have access to so much information at our fingertips. We don’t have to be experts in the field or do hours of research at the library, to find out the basic information we need. 
Why do I bring this up? Well, at them moment I am working on a book series called ‘The Sanctum Series’. It is written primarily for preteens and older, and is a spy thriller/sci-fi adventure series. The series has many humorous moments between the different personalities and many twists. As the series continues, it ramps up the action, and the plot thickens. It is a perfect mix for males and females.  
What makes it different to the rest of the books in these genres? Well, it touches on some of the evils in today’s society. As it is for 10-year-olds plus, it does not go into great detail, but just the amount that they are already exposed to in their ordinary school lives.  For example, being a spy thriller, naturally they fight terrorism. It also has homeless kids 12/13 year olds that were mentioned to be using drugs (not in great detail). For some reason, some adults think this is impossible. Okay, so I get that people find drugs a bit taboo, yet there are drugs passed around many schools with our not-homeless preteens being exposed to them. By the way, any brief reference in the series is done from a non-supportive view and the users are cleaned up very quickly. But what surprised me the most, was that the first book received criticism about where the main heroes of the series originated. Our heroes were rescued from being homeless on the streets at a preteen age.  
Although my children are not homeless, and I do not believe they have any school friends actually living on the streets (some may be ‘couch surfing’), I didn’t find it impossible to believe that children this age would be homeless and on the street.  
There are many people in the world, some ‘normal’, some not so much, and some taking unusual to the extreme. People can snap from stress and pressures, and live their lives equivalent to a horror novel. For example, there have been at least two chefs, one in the US and one in Australia, who have cooked their wives. I mention this particular horror because my husband is a chef, and I am far from being cooked. 
Okay, now you get my point, let’s get back to the homeless children. Looking at statistics in Australia. A survey is completed every five years the last being 2011. Within this survey, .5% of the population were classed as homeless in its different forms. 17% of these people were under the age of 12. (http://www.homelessnessaustralia.org....) Admittedly, most of these children are with one or more parents; however, there are the odd few that are doing it alone. Often they slip under the radar of the general statistics. One site for Australia covered this briefly stating when discussing homeless young people. “Typically 13 is the age most leave home. I’ve come to believe that this age has something to do with their sense of self developing to a point that they can fathom leaving their family of origin and standing on their own two feet.
If a child does become homeless before the age of 15, in almost every case it is because of sexual or violent abuse. The child leaves because it is safer for them to live on the streets then to live at home. We have seen them much younger, 9 or 10 usually is the youngest though Gish was first homeless at age 6.” (http://www.homeless.org.au/children/) 
I have not pinpointed Australia’s statistics to belittle Australia. It is a lovely country, and I love living here. Nobody wants to find such terrible news about his or her country. I am sure if we all dug deeper into our countries we would find similar findings.  
In writing this, I am not having a go at some of the critics. I am just asking people to be more open-minded when it comes to the unusual and desperate situations that some people find themselves. And, if in disbelief – Google it. 
These evils produce raw emotion. I wish they were not in our society and would love to see them cleared up. The reason I used these evils from the society in my series was to show what the preteens were being rescued from, and how far they would come with the right guidance. The preteens come further than rescuing themselves; they help fight against the problems in the world.  
Now that I have covered why I wrote the dark side into the books, upon reading the series you would find that it is not so deep and dark and has many humorous moments. If you like sci-fi, check out surrogate robots and Scarlet the cheeky AI. You will never look at AI’s the same again.  

Thank you Katrina for being part of the Scribbler. You readers will get a taste of the Sanctum Series in the new year when Katrina will be sharing  excerpts from her three novels. Here are her links.
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 Friday join us at the Scribbler and meet Maggie James of Bristol, United Kingdom, author of psychological thrillers. She will be sharing an excerpt from her novel, The Second Captive.

4Q Interview with Brian Brennan of Calgary, Alberta.

Brian Brennan has been featured on the South Branch Scribbler this past summer with an excerpt from his book, "Brief Encounters: Conversations with Celebrities, 1974-88” which talked about his meeting Victor Borge, the renowned comedian. Brian is an award winning author and has agreed to answer 4 questions for today’s interview. His website is listed below.
 
4Q: We recently had a taste from the above mentioned book, "Brief Encounters: Conversations with Celebrities, 1974-88. At the time of your sharing an excerpt with us, this was an in-progress book. I would like to know how the idea for this book developed and is it completed.
BB: I have since given the book a new title – And Then I Asked: Brief Encounters with Writers, Comedians, Directors, Actors and Musician – completed the manuscript, and submitted it to an agent for consideration. The following Introduction provides the background:
This book had its genesis in a conversation I had recently with a writer friend bemoaning the fact that a Russian website was flogging pirated copies of our books online without compensation to us. I mentioned in passing that Tennessee Williams once told me he had been similarly victimized. The Russians ripped him off to the tune of thousands of dollars in unpaid royalties on plays they had translated and staged without his permission.
“You talked to Tennessee Williams?” said my friend, surprised.
Yes, I hadn’t thought about it before, but indeed I got lucky. A week before I interviewed Williams, for a story to run in the Southam (now, Postmedia) newspapers across Canada, he had left another reporter in the lurch saying, “I haven’t been paid to pass the time with people who insult me.” I don’t know what the other reporter said to get Williams’s goat, but when I caught up with him in Vancouver – where he was readying his new adaptation of a Chekhov play for its premiere production – the playwright was in better humour and ready to answer any questions about his life and work.
I did the Williams interview in 1981 and, as I hunted through my archives to find that story, I came across dozens of my other newspaper stories from the 1973-88 period that collectively, I thought, would make for an interesting book if expanded and updated. These were interviews I did with the likes of Kenny Rogers, Richard Harris, Sophia Loren, Leon Uris, Bob Newhart, Cleo Laine and other artists who had been sent on the road to promote new books, record albums, or upcoming performances.
The interviews were conducted during a time when artists relied to a great extent on the mainstream media to get the word out about their current activities. Blogs and social media had yet to be invented so the newspapers, radio and television stations provided the only publicity outlets then available.
I was working as a full-time general arts and entertainment writer based at the Calgary Herald,and it was easy for me to establish a rapport with these visiting artists because I had worked in the theatre as an actor and also had made my living as a barroom piano player. Additionally, I had the advantage of being a writer for a Canadian, as opposed to British or American, news organization. Artists who had been victimized by tabloids digging up dirt on their sex lives and drug habits seemed to feel on safer ground when talking to a Canadian reporter. They didn’t think I was out to “get” them. In fact, to my surprise, they often dropped their guard and revealed little-known facts about their lives and careers when talking to me.
Crooner Al Martino, for example, told me he became a social pariah in Hollywood when the producers of the movie The Godfather signed him to play the troubled wedding singer Johnny Fontane – a character loosely based on Frank Sinatra – because the director, Francis Ford Coppola, wanted Sinatra protégé Vic Damone to get the part. “Coppola didn’t think I was an actor,” said Martino. “He said I was just a singer.”
Tammy Wynette was similarly candid when she told me she was finding it difficult to reconcile being a married mother of four with being constantly on the road. Recently married for the fourth time, she admitted that the marriage was already on the rocks. “It’s very hard to travel and live a normal life,” she said wistfully. She divorced soon afterwards.
 When I looked through those yellowed newspaper clippings, I thought it might be fun for you, the reader, to revisit them with me. I would give you some background, and perhaps tell you things that had to be left out of the original newspaper stories for lack of space or other reasons. For example, I can reveal here for the first time that when I talked to the movie actor Glenn Ford, it was after I had watched him doing take after take for a short one-minute scene in the first Superman movie. It took him that long because he simply couldn’t remember the line.
Most of these stories did not come from in-depth interviews. The sessions necessarily had to be truncated because the press agents had other reporters besides me lined up to ensure maximum media coverage. My interviews, therefore, never lasted for more than 15 or 20 minutes. Yet even though they were short and generally self-promotional in tone, they sometimes yielded nuggets. Richard Harris, for example, was at first more interested in talking to me about how much he missed boozing than how much he enjoyed starring as King Arthur in Camelot. And Kenny Rogers gave me an impromptu a cappella preview of his soon-to-be hit recording of “Lucille” when I asked him where he planned to go next with his music after experimenting with rockabilly, jazz, folk, country and psychedelic rock.
Occasionally, interviews fell into my lap I when I least expected them. I never thought, for example, I would ever get to do an interview with Chuck Berry because the reclusive rock star was said to be miffed at all the bad press he had received over his troubles with the law during the 1960s. Yet he agreed to talk to me before going on stage for a nightclub performance in Calgary. Why? “Because now I’m finally ready to talk,” he said, without elaboration. The legendary fan dancer Sally Rand, was also reluctant to talk to reporters, especially those who came with cameras and lights to film her show. But she happily chatted with this reporter who came with just notebook and pen until I asked her why she was still stripping at age 71. “What would I retire to?” she said dismissively.
Later events reminded me of some of these long-ago interviews. When B.B. King played the blues for President Obama at the White House in 2012, I recalled that he once told me he thought the blues was dying. When Randy Bachman reinvented himself as a CBC Radio host, I recalled asking him why he had seemingly committed artistic suicide twice, first by walking away from the Guess Who and then by leaving Bachman-Turner Overdrive. When Johnny Depp played Tonto in the 2013 big-screen remake of The Lone Ranger (a flop, by all critical accounts), I recalled that I had talked to the original Tonto, Jay Silverheels, about the racism he encountered in Hollywood during the 1950s.
I did these interviews long before celebrities connected directly with their fans via websites or social media; when it was still possible for a lucky reporter to learn something about an interviewee that hadn’t been in the news before. So in one respect you might see this book as a nostalgic exercise in time-capsule journalism, evoking a particular time and place before the era of Twitter and Facebook. But I think it’s also important to tell you what happened to these people after I talked to them. When I tell you, for example, about the problems Mordecai Richler encountered when he first had his book The Apprenticeship of Duddy Kravitz adapted as a stage musical, I think you might also be interested in knowing the extraordinary lengths to which the producer went afterwards in an attempt to take the show to Broadway.
Why does the song “Amazing Grace” still occupy a very special place in the repertoire of singer Judy Collins? Why did Robertson Davies abandon what appeared to be a successful career as a playwright in Canada to start writing novels? Why did Sophia Loren go back to Italy to serve a jail term for tax evasion? Why did Tom Lehrer totally disappear from the scene after establishing himself as one of America’s cleverest and wittiest satirical songwriters? Why did Michael Nesmith quit The Monkees to start making music videos? Why did Shari Lewis start conducting symphony orchestras after she had endeared herself to kids all over the world with a comedy ventriloquism routine involving a cute sock puppet named Lamb Chop? Why did Chubby Checker go through 20 pairs of platform boots a year to keep his audiences twisting the night away? Those are some of the questions I’ve tried to answer in this book while simultaneously looking backward and forward.
I hope you’ll enjoy taking this trip down memory lane with me. During a golden age for newspaper journalism in Canada, I was one of the few full-time entertainment reporters who wasn’t restricted to writing just about theatre people or television people or music people. I got to talk to them all, and will be forever grateful to my editors for giving me the opportunity to do so.
I am also grateful to my editors for loosening the purse strings whenever I wanted to travel to New York, London, Vancouver, Stratford or Edmonton to conduct interviews and write stories. Many of the stories in this book happened only because the Calgary Herald had plenty of money to spend on coverage that attracted big readership in the first instance and big advertising revenue in the second. Those generous travel budgets are now – sad to say – a thing of the past, not least because of the precipitous decline in print advertising revenue following the rise of the Internet in the 1990s.
A note about the arrangement of the stories and choice of subjects: At first I thought I would bundle the interviews, with writers in one section, actors in another, musicians in another, and so on. But then I decided to simply present them alphabetically by last name, primarily for the sake of variety and contrast. I sifted through the interviews chronologically, picked out the ones I thought would still be of interest today, only to discover to my shock, after I had written practically half the book, that most of the subjects were male. Uh-oh. That meant going back to the beginning and rebalancing the sex ratio. In the process, I found myself highlighting the achievements of some fascinating and talented if occasionally little-known women such as mystery writer Bunny Wright, singer Colleen Peterson and actress Nicola Cavendish who might not otherwise have made the cut.
I covered the Canadian arts and entertainment beat for 15 years. The plus is that I got to meet a great number of charming and gifted individuals. The minus is that I didn’t have enough time to spend with most of them, so had to do many of these interviews on the run. Thus the resulting stories are by no means definitive; they are more snapshots than full-length portraits. But I hope you’ll take them for what they are, as engaging and stimulating encounters with accomplished individuals I once thought and still think are deserving of our attention. 
4Q: I’m particularly interested in your book Leaving Dublin: Writing my way from Ireland to Canada. Please tell us more about this book;
BB: This is my autobiography, published by RMB – Rocky Mountain Books. Here's the Introduction:
This is a book about a guy (me) who lived in Ireland with his parents until he was 23, came to Canada for a bit of craic (the popular Irish word for fun), tried his hand at different things (including playing piano in bars and reading news on the radio), and eventually found his calling as a newspaper reporter, as a chronicler of the passing parade.
Along the way, I met some very good people. I always felt that if I ever wrote an autobiography, I would pay tribute to them. This book is my attempt to do that. The subtext is a thank-you note to those who gave me love, friendship, inspiration, amusement, encouragement or even a kick in the pants whenever I needed it most.
I use the word “tribute” because, at this point in my life, it has a special resonance for me. In 1992, as you will soon read, I started writing an obituary column for the Calgary Herald that quickly garnered more positive reader reaction than anything else I had written during my previous 24 years as a journalist. It was called Tribute: People Who Made a Difference, and, for the most part, it was about people whose names had never appeared in a newspaper before.
Why did I write about unknowns? Because I thought everyone had a story to tell and, if I discovered that story, I wanted to tell it. While fondly remembered grandmothers, retired railway workers, nurses, teachers and community volunteers might have seemed irrelevant to the news-hardened editors who filled the front page with stories about the shenanigans of politicians, crooks and millionaire athletes, there was nothing irrelevant about them as far as their families and friends were concerned.
It turned out that it wasn’t just the families and friends who enjoyed reading about the people I wrote about in the column. Everyone I met seemed to enjoy reading about them. In essence, I was practicing community-weekly journalism in the pages of a big-city daily, where by the conventional standards of newspapering, my subjects had no right to be. Yet, during the seven years I wrote the column, I felt I was producing something just as compelling as the stories about gang shootings and NHL playoff games that appeared in the rest of the Herald.
I don’t claim any special credit for making Tribute as popular as it was. I was merely the facilitator. The stories were already there; it was simply a matter of gathering and telling them. I am grateful for the success of the column because it paved the way for a series of books about individuals from Canada’s past that I wrote after leaving the Herald. Tribute also provided me with the impetus to write this book, to tell my own story in conjunction with the stories of those who have made a difference in my life.
My stories begin in Dublin, where I had a childhood that was mostly happy, peaceful and untroubled. It had none of the poverty, misery, alcoholism or philandering that seem de rigueur for Irish memoirs nowadays. My youth was Angela’s Ashes without the rain; the sunny side of the growing-up-in-Ireland experience.
That said, I cannot paint a picture of cloudless nostalgia for you because mine was a childhood full of longing. Longing to have a smaller nose, bigger muscles and the ability to be as good at hurling and football as my more athletic classmates. Longing to feel appreciated by my father. Eventually, longing to escape. Escape to what or to where? I hadn’t figured that out yet, but as I got older I felt a growing need to find something better, someplace else.
In 1966 I took that big step into the unknown. At age 23, I quit my job in the Irish civil service and headed for Canada. Was this to be the something better, someplace else for me? Indeed it was. Canada, I quickly discovered, truly was the fabled land of opportunity. There were few barriers. Once the Canadian immigration authorities opened the doors, I was home free.
In Canada, I was able to parlay my love of piano playing into a steady gig as a professional musician. I was able to use my Irish love of talking to inveigle my way into a job as a radio announcer. I was able to use my love of writing and storytelling to find a job as a newspaper reporter. In each of these instances all I had to do was knock on someone’s door, ask for work and the job was mine.
In Ireland, things were different. There were fewer opportunities and more red tape. If you wanted to work as a professional musician, you had to join the musicians’ union and satisfy a union board of examiners you could play any popular song on demand. If you wanted to work in radio, you had to earn broadcasting school certification. If you wanted to work as a print journalist, you had to prove you were proficient in shorthand and typing, and be accepted into the National Union of Journalists.
Besides, Ireland was taking me in a different direction. My destiny there was controlled by my parents, who wanted me to be a civil servant: “The best job you’ll ever find in this country.” In Canada, I was able to start over, to become the master of my own destiny. I came on a mission of adventure, with hope in my heart and a safety net in my back pocket. If my money ran out before I found work in Canada, I knew I still had the civil service job awaiting me back home.
I never went back home, of course, except to visit. My travels took me from Dublin to Cork, Vancouver, Toronto, Dawson City, Smithers, Prince George and, finally, Calgary. Two keyboards have been my constant travelling companions. On one I type, on the other I noodle. “Make the words sing,” a Herald editor told me once. “Make the music speak to me,” said my piano teacher in Dublin. Thus have the strands of my life intertwined. Thus have the stories unfolded. 
4Q: Is there a childhood anecdote or fond memory you would like to tell us about?
BB: One of my favourite childhood memories, recounted in the opening chapter of my autobiography, Leaving Dublin: Writing My Way from Ireland to Canada, has my father and mother arguing over whether they should use the family savings to buy a car or a piano. My mother was pregnant with her third child at the time. She and my father reached a compromise: If the baby was a boy, they would spend the money on a car. If it was a girl, they would buy a piano. My sister was born in August 1950 and my father delivered on his promise. The new piano arrived a week later. All of the children learned to play and I even managed to make my living for a while as a barroom pianist.
4Q: What’s in the future for Brian Brennan?BB: My non-fiction book of biographical sketches, Rogues and Rebels: Unforgettable Characters from Canada's Storied Past, is scheduled for publication by the University of Regina Press (trade division) in the fall of 2015.    
Thank you for being part of the South Branch Scribbler Brian. I’m looking forward to reading more of your work. Brian’s website is www.brianbrennan.ca  
Check his blog for up-to-date information on his literary activities: http://brianbrennan.ca/blog/   

Next week, join me here when Guest Author, Katrina Cope of Australia talks about her novels The Sanctum Series. The truth behind the deep and dark side.