Ronald E. Yates's Blog, page 74

Welcome to the WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour! #RRBC #RWISA

Welcome to Day 14 of the #WatchRWISAWrite Showcase, where each day I will feature a different author. Today, it’s my pleasure to introduce author Karen Ingalls and her moving short story, NATURE SPEAKS.

[image error]Karen Ingalls

NATURE SPEAKS

By

Karen Ingalls

Why
did my life spiral into darkness in a second? One minute I am married to my
soulmate, a mother to a beautiful daughter, and owner of a successful
bookstore. My friends asked me, “How do you have the perfect life? It is
so easy for you.” They were right. I had the perfect life.

My
husband was an engineer, and I opened a bookstore naming it Mile High
Books offering old and new books, coffee or tea. Leather chairs and
couches provided comfort to the patrons. Classical music played in the
background. I loved going to my store enjoying the smell of books, coffee, and
leather. 

We
had our first and only child, Lynn who also loved classical music and dreamed
of being a ballet dancer.

One
Saturday morning, my life changed forever. I had awakened with a migraine
headache, which was intolerable. It was best if I stayed in a dark, quiet room
until the medication relieved the blinding pain. 

My
husband, Miles volunteered to run the bookstore that fateful day. “Lynn and I
can manage the bookstore today. You stay home and take care of the headache.”
He leaned over and kissed me. “I love you,” were the last words I would hear
him say.

I
curled up, closed my eyes, and waited for the pain to go away.

A
pounding on the front door and the continuous ringing of the bell awakened me.
“This had better be important,” I muttered while staggering down the
stairs. Two police officers with grim looks were standing on the porch. I
collapsed when the words, fire, death, husband, daughter floated
around my confused mind. 

My once
perfect life was unbearable with the memories of it everywhere. I sold
everything, bought a second-hand Volkswagen Beetle, and drove west with just
the clothes on my back and a photograph of Miles, Lynn and me. I didn’t
know where I was going, but I didn’t care. 

***

The
small cabin in the foothills of Costa Mesa, California overlooking the Pacific
Ocean was my new residence. It was not a home. It was a place to sleep, eat and
try to escape from my past. 

The
land was arid with brush, oak trees, scattered thistle weeds, and clay
soil. Every evening, I walked down a short path from the cabin to a flattened
area where I sat under a large oak tree and watched the sun dip into the ocean.
One day at dusk, I leaned against the tree, closed my eyes and dreamed
that Miles arms were around me while we watched Lynn ballet dance on a large
stage. I could hear the music of Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake.

When
I awoke there were two limbs embracing me, and leaves and acorns were swirling
around creating Tchaikovsky’s music. “Am I still dreaming?” The bark of
the trunk and the limbs was rough and uncomfortable. I squirmed and pulled at
the limbs. “What is happening? This is crazy.” I yelled for someone to help me,
but the only words I heard were not human.

Ginny,
you are a strong woman. Use your strength to get through this storm in your
life. 

I
pulled the limbs off, jumped up, and looked around expecting to see
someone nearby. “Is anyone here?” I yelled again. Everything was quiet. A full
moon radiated light around me. 

Staring at the tree, I brushed my clothes, scratched my head, and said, “That was quite a dream, but how did those limbs wrap around me?” I shook my head trying to clear the confusion. “It was a beautiful dream of Miles and Lynn. I miss them so much.” With the sleeve of my sweater, I wiped the tears. “I’ve got to get hold of myself. I’m losing my mind.” 

The
voice said. That was not a dream. I am here to help you. 

“Oh,
my God, I am going crazy. Trees don’t talk.”

Ginny,
you are not going crazy. All trees talk, but humans do not listen. Do you
remember your friend, Meredith who told you she talks to trees?

I
nodded. “How do you…?”

I saw a friendly face of a kind, elderly man etched in the trunk. Every flora and fauna commune with humans, but they are too busy or unbelieving to listen and learn from us. 

I
fell to my knees, grabbed a handful of soil, and watched it slowly stream out
of my clenched fist. “This was my life. Time was going by with no
troubles.” I opened my fist and let the soil out in one burst. “Then
everything changed. My life was never the same. It is now an empty hand.” I
sobbed and my whole body shook. 

You
are strong. Your faith is like my roots: stretching wide and going deep. 

The
limbs stretched out, wrapped around my shoulders and leaned me against the
trunk. Miles and Lynn are speaking to you through me.

Then
I heard them say, We love you and will always be with you. Follow your
heart.

The
limbs were gentle and comforting. The rough bark was now smooth. My tears dried
up, and I drifted into a deep and peaceful sleep.

The
warm and bright rays of the morning sun radiated through the tree’s canopy
bringing warmth to my body nestled against the oak tree. Standing up, I
stretched and looked out at the blue waters of the Pacific marveling at its
majesty and beauty. I smiled as the words follow your heart floated
around. “Wow! That was quite a dream.” 

I
walked a few steps on the path back towards the cabin. I stopped and looked
back at the oak tree. “It might have all been a dream, but thank you.” 

A
thistle plant with its purple flower in full bloom was further up the
path. I stopped. “You are beautiful, but your spikes are sharp.” 

The
spikes turned inward. Do not let fear hold you back. 

I
couldn’t believe what was happening. “Now I hear a flower talking to me. I am
going crazy.”

The
thistle plant swayed back and forth though there was no breeze. It bent forward
bringing its flower near my hands. Touch me and accept my gift of peace.

I placed my hand on the purple flower and a deep sense of serenity swept over me. For the first time since the deaths of my family, I was at peace. I whispered, “Thank you.”   

A
short distance from the cabin porch, I saw the white silken top of a trapdoor
spider’s home. I did not remember seeing it before and bent down to get a
closer look. The trapdoor opened and a dark spider poked his head out. I
stumbled as I tried to jump back.

The
spider was small and ugly with fine hairs covering its dark brown body. He was
frightening to look at, but his kind words put me at ease. You have
walked by many doors, but you didn’t open them. 

“What
is going on? I am hallucinating with all these voices in my head.”

You
are not hallucinating. Your family is talking to you through the oak tree, the
thistle and me. The spider moved back into his home
and closed the trapdoor. 

***

For
days I paced around the cabin, reliving each moment and the words about
strength, peace, and opportunities. I prayed and cried. I read about
mysticism and nature. 

One
morning, I awoke and saw Miles and Lynn standing beside my bed. We will
always be with you in your heart. Let nature continue to teach you.

The
magnificent oak tree taught how to be strong of body, mind, and heart. Staying
healthy and opening my arms to others became my ways of living.

I
found beauty in my life and other people after removing my thorns of bitterness
and self-pity. 

My
cabin was a trap shutting out people until I opened its doors and
made it a home and retreat center. I added rooms for guests to stay
and classrooms for teaching.

I called my new endeavor Nature Speaks, helping people to commune with and learn from all aspects of nature. When people open their hearts and minds to nature there are opportunities for a richer life. 

THE END

Thank
you for supporting this member along the WATCH “RWISA” WRITE
Showcase Tour today!  We ask that if you have enjoyed this member’s
writing, please visit their Author Page on the RWISA site, where you can
find more of their writing, along with their contact and social media links, if
they’ve turned you into a fan.

We ask that you also check out their books in the RWISA or RRBC catalogs.  Thanks, again for your support and we hope that you will follow each member along this amazing tour of talent!  Don’t forget to click the link below to learn more about this author:

MEET #RWISA #AUTHOR, KAREN INGALLS – @KIngallsAuthor #RRBC

Welcome to the WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour! #RRBC #RWISA

Welcome to Day 13 of the #WatchRWISAWrite Showcase, where each day I will feature a different author. Today, it’s my pleasure to introduce author Suzanne Burke and her exciting short story, THURSDAY’S CHILD.

[image error]Suzanne Burke

THURSDAY’S CHILD

By

Suzanne Burke

© Copyright 2019

She hadn’t really intended this to happen. Oh, sure,
she’d thought about it often enough, but thinking about something didn’t
make it a crime. A convergence of circumstances had prompted her choice. Regret
was such an outmoded commodity.

She checked if her latex gloves fit well and flicked her dark-eyed gaze across to where Peter Cameron lay, still and silent. “You brought this on yourself, Peter. Did you think me a complete fool?”

Carol moved across to the edge of the bed and stood over him.
She reached down and flicked the blonde hair back from his forehead, then gently
rested her hand there.

“You’re cold. Shall I fetch you a blanket?” Her laughter
soothed her.

The man’s eyes were now open, and Carol reveled in the fear she witnessed in their blue depths. “Ah, there you are. How do you feel?” She laughed again. “Oh, silly me. You can’t feel anything. Can you? Such a handy little drug, and no taste I believe, especially in your malt whiskey.”

Peter Cameron’s blue eyes registered the words and Carol
watched on as he commanded his brain to activate his fingers, his arms. He had
no control of his voicebox. His brain refused to obey. He remained still.

“Oh, don’t fret so, darling. You’re not going to die … yet.
The paralysis will last just long enough for my needs. It’s all in the timing.
You need to helplessly contemplate what I may have in store for your immediate
future.”

Carol walked away from him, and headed for the bar, whistling happily in anticipation. She placed his used glass and the bottle of Glenfiddich into her handbag, then poured a stiff belt of bourbon into a paper cup, and seated herself comfortably on the sofa in the large living room and admired afresh the warm ambiance of her surroundings.

“The best that all my money could buy.” Her voice
brought her comfort.

She drained the cup and refilled it. When empty she crumpled
it and placed it alongside the other items now concealed in the bag.

The wall clock reaffirmed that she had an hour remaining
before company arrived. She nodded in satisfaction and rested.

With twenty minutes remaining she stood and checked on her
captive one more time. “Not long now.”

A low groan came from the bed.

Carol gently stroked his cheek. “Are you terrified, my
darling? Your eyes tell me you are. Good. That’s as it should be.”

Carol smiled in satisfaction and left the room, content to wait this out for a few minutes. At exactly 11.02 p.m she heard the front door open and close again. A musical female voice called out, “Peter? Darling, where are you?”

Carol listened carefully from her dark space in the hallway.
She held her breath as the woman came into view and she watched her enter the
master-bedroom in search of her lover.

“Waiting in bed for me, darling? That’s different. I thought
we were going to share a late supper.”

The woman sounded disappointed.

“He can be very disappointing. I agree.” Carol said
from the doorway.

The woman jumped in fright and managed to say “Oh, my God.
I’m not, that is, we aren’t, this isn’t.” She shut her mouth when her
frightened eyes took note that her lover’s wife was standing in front of her wearing
latex gloves and aiming a gun at her head.

“It isn’t what? An affair? Oh, please. Do you expect me to believe that you’ve come here to my home every second Thursday at 11.00 p.m for 3 months to do something innocent?  Go ahead, enlighten me. I’m a reasonable woman. Convince me I don’t have a reason to hate you.”

“Please! I’m so sorry. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“Oh, no, Thursday’s Girl. It means everything. The others
meant nothing to him, therefore I ignored them. Ah, but you, you’re
different. Turn around, let me take a closer look at you.”

Carol walked across to the shaking woman and prodded her
with Peter’s handgun. “I said turn around.”

The younger woman nodded and hurriedly complied.

“He does love a tight ass. Long legs too. That’s always a
bonus.”

“He doesn’t care about me. It’s a … a fling.”

“Nice try.”

“I’ll end it and never see him again. I promise. I’m sorry,
please. Let me go.” The woman was sobbing now.

“Don’t you want to know how I know you’re special?”

The woman shook her head. “I’m not ….”

“Shut your stupid mouth and listen!” Carol barely controlled
her anger and shoved the nozzle of the Glock into her rival’s chest.

She drew a deep calming breath and lowered the gun slightly. “I know because he’s been happy. Happier than he’s been for many years. The only thing that’s different in his life since the advent of his peculiar behavior is you!”

Carol fished inside the pocket of the coat she was wearing and drew out a small velvet box. “He brought you this little diamond trinket from Caliago. His jeweler of choice. It’s an engagement ring for you, Thursday’s Girl. The ring size is smaller than mine, and besides, I only wear emeralds. My contact at the jewelers tells me it’s worth upwards of one million dollars. I do hope it’s insured. Give me your hand. Let’s try it on for size.”

The hand the woman held out was shaking. Carol nursed the gun and held out the jewelry box. “Now place it on your finger. Don’t be stupid enough to flex your hand. Slide it on.”

The diamonds glistened as the ring slid into place perfectly.

“And lastly, should you think me presumptive, then don’t.
You see our darling Peter visited our attorney to get the ball rolling for
divorce proceedings. I can only wonder that he made such a stupid mistake. Our
attorney was the one I recommended twenty-years ago. He earns every cent
of the additional fees I pay him every month.”

Peter groaned again from the bed and his lover stood there
watching on, too afraid to move.

Carol smiled. “How tragic love is. How very sad that you
came here to end your relationship. Peter Cameron had never been denied anything
in his life. He couldn’t take the rejection. He apparently decided that if he
couldn’t have you, then nobody would.

The woman began to scream, and Carol laughed with pleasure. “Oh, yes, scream. Go right ahead! We do love living out here. There’s righteous freedom in having no near neighbors.”

The woman was still sobbing as Carol sat next to Peter on
the bed and shot her three times in the chest. She calmly watched as the body
was flung backward by the impact and dropped to the floor.

Carol gazed down on her for long enough to see the faint
hold on life vacate her eyes.

Carol checked the spandex gloves, satisfied that they’d
worked as they should. She placed the weapon down for a moment as she removed
the other things that she’d need from the bureau.

Peter’s arm felt like a dead weight as she wrapped the tourniquet around his upper bicep. The veins responded beautifully, and Carol inserted the syringe and watched in fascination as her husband’s body jerked several times. She watched him begin to foam at the mouth. She watched him die. “Heroin is so deadly if you don’t get the dosage just right. I believe it’s referred to as a ‘hot shot’.

She placed the Glock in his right hand and checked to ensure
the trajectory married up with the bullet’s impact on his dead companion. Carol
squeezed his fingers closed around the weapon with his finger on the trigger, then
let his arm drop and the gun lay loosely in the dead hand.

Carol stood back and admired her handiwork. Content now she
hurried outside.

She ran to her car secreted behind a tall stand of trees and
drove it into her driveway, behind the visitors Porche. She let the car idle
and punched in 911 on her iPhone.

“911. What is the nature of your emergency?”

“Please! Help me. I need help! Please!” The voice was
frantic.

“I’ll help you, Ma’am, but I need you to calm down. Please
tell me what is happening.”

“I heard a woman screaming! Then I think there were gunshots!
Now I can’t hear anything. Please! Please, I beg you, please hurry, I think my
husband is inside. Should I go in? I have to help him!”

“Please give me your address.”

Carol gave it.

“Do NOT enter the dwelling. Police and Paramedics are on the
way. Stay on the line with me. Are you close to the house?”

“I’m outside in the driveway.”

“Please move away from the property. Stay away from the
windows. They’re on their way.”

***

CNN breaking news!

“In breaking news! The body of United States Senator Peter
Cameron has been found at his home. A crime scene now exists. Early indications
from our sources indicate that another body has been found at the scene.
Murder/Suicide has not been ruled out.”

“Tragically it was the senator’s wife who made the grim
discovery. She is reported to be resting under sedation. In deep shock as these
events unfold. Police at this stage don’t believe that a third party was
involved in the tragedy.”

Carol listened to the excited broadcaster and smiled.

Then she settled down in her pristine hospital bed and
drifted off to a contented sleep.

THE END

Thank
you for supporting this member along the WATCH “RWISA” WRITE
Showcase Tour today!  We ask that if you have enjoyed this member’s
writing, please visit their Author Page on the RWISA site, where you can
find more of their writing, along with their contact and social media links, if
they’ve turned you into a fan.

We ask that you also check out their books in the RWISA or RRBC catalogs.  Thanks, again for your support and we hope that you will follow each member along this amazing tour of talent!  Don’t forget to click the link below to learn more about this author:

MEET #RWISA #AUTHOR, SUZANNE BURKE – @pursoot #RRBC

Welcome to the WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour! #RRBC #RWISA

Welcome to Day 12 of the #WatchRWISAWrite Showcase, where each day I will feature a different author. Today, it’s my pleasure to introduce author Fiza Pathan and her powerful short story, THE STAR PUPIL’S DIARY ENTRY.

[image error]Fiza Pathan

The Star Pupil’s Diary Entry

by Fiza Pathan

Dear Diary,

I had a wonderful day at school today. I got a star and I’m
going to tell you all about it.

I’m eight years old, but I’m the tallest boy in the class. I, and the other kids in my neighborhood study at the school down the block. Actually, our school was once something terrible; it was a disgusting Christian church, something called “Catholic.” The school officials tore it down and made it into a proper school for us kids.

So, I went to school today. I was the first one there so I
got the biggest teddy bear to do my training with. The kids who were late got
teddies that were way too small, the cheap ones that our soldiers stole from
the hands of fleeing Jewish kids before they shot them in the head.

My teacher made us do our practice training in the morning.
He handed us our daggers. We each checked with our fingers if they were sharp
enough. Since I was early to class, I got to demonstrate. I put the dagger on
the neck of the teddy and slit it the way my teacher had taught me to do. The
other students followed me, but I was the best at cutting off teddy’s head.

“The jugular,” my teacher scolded another student who was
cutting the wrong part of the teddy. “The jugular and do it slowly; it should make
them cry.”

After dagger practice was over, we all sat and singing practice began. Singing is important; it touches souls and brings them closer to God.

We sang the national anthem. Teacher said I was the best
singer and patted me on the head.

“Now, who knows a good English song, a hymn for our nation?”
our teacher asked.

Every kid was stumped. They knew plenty of English songs,
some of them were American. But you couldn’t sing those songs anymore. They
knew “If I Was Your Boyfriend” by that Justin Bieber nonbeliever and “That’s
What Makes You Beautiful” by One Direction, another group of nonbelievers—may
the devil plague them!

But no one knew a hymn in English to our cause. Not a single
kid. Well, everyone except me!

I raised my hand and teacher smiled.

He asked me to stand up and sing in place.

The other kids turned to look at me. They were jealous
because they were not as smart as me.

I put my hands behind my back and stood straight like I do
when singing the national anthem. I opened my mouth and began to sing:

We for the sake of Allah have
come under the banner,

We for the sake of our Caliph
have torn the world asunder;

We for the sake of our raped
sisters will kill the ones responsible,

We for the sake of our nation
will die, but not before we become incredible.

I didn’t know the meaning of raped, but daddy had taught me this song while we were fleeing
India to come here, to this land of milk and honey. Daddy taught me a lot of
songs and hymns as we fled India. We almost got caught, but our fake passports
worked. Daddy is so smart. He is now working as a soldier here.

“Bravo, my son,” my teacher said, and he shook my hand. The
other kids clapped, but some spat on the ground with disgust.

“Bravo, my son,” my teacher said again, holding me by the
shoulders and looking into my eyes. “You are a gem of a man already. You get a
star for this.”

And I did; a star made of metal shining like gold, the ones
soldiers put on their uniforms. I was so proud that I couldn’t stop smiling.

The teacher then said it was almost time for prayers, but before
that, did any of us kids know who we were deep in our hearts? Many kids
answered:

“We are Allah’s blessing in flesh.”

“We are the terror of the Westerners.”

“We are the protectors of our faith.”

“We are true worshippers of the Almighty.”

But the teacher said all their answers were wrong. I knew that too because I knew the real answer. Teacher then asked me, “Tell me, son, who are we?”

I smiled, fiddling with my gold star before answering: “We
are men who love death just as some people love their life; we are soldiers who
fight in the day and the night.”

My teacher clapped, and so did the other kids, except for
the ones who yet again spat on the floor and gave me angry looks.

We spent the rest of the day praying, going to the mosque
that was once a church. They called it Lutheran,
which sounds so ugly. I then came home, and here I am writing in this diary,
which Daddy gave me to record the fun time I’m having here in this new country,
the place where Allah truly lives with his beloved people.

I’m so happy to have earned my star. I’ll wear it tomorrow
to the next beheading on the main square of those bad men who were trying to
escape heaven, this place where we stay. I love beheadings. I take pictures of
it on my uncle’s cell phone. I love the blood, snapped bones, and torn veins
the best.

Tomorrow, our class will burn crosses at the beheading. I
will burn not a cross, but a small statue of Mary, mother of that prophet who
sinned against us. I’ve never burned her before, not because I haven’t gotten a
chance to do so, but because . . . her eyes, her eyes when they look at me are
funny.

Well, it’s time to go for prayers. I shall write later.

Yours always,

Alif Shifaq of the ISIS children brigade,

3 Bel Anif Mansion,

Sultan Saladin Road,

Raqqa,

ISIS Syria,

March 12, 2015.

***

After the fall of ISIS in Raqqa, an American soldier with his entire team was on the ground for inspection purposes. It was the year 2017, and the whole city had been razed to the ground.

The American soldier’s name was Emmanuel, and as he walked
over the immense quantity of rubble, he spotted something.

It was a diary. A bit battered due to the bombing, but in
good shape.

The hand of a preteen was found holding a pen beside it. The
hand only. Not the rest of the body. The body had been incinerated.

Emmanuel lifted the diary and dusted it. He took it along
with him, jumping over a pile of dusty teddy bears with their throats cut.

“City of the dead,” Emmanuel intoned, as he opened the diary
to read. The first thing he read was an inscription in black ink from a
fountain pen. It was done in calligraphy—skillfully done.

We are men who love
death just as you love your life,

We are the soldiers
who fight in the day and the night.

Emmanuel sighed and turned a page.

THE END

Thank
you for supporting this member along the WATCH “RWISA” WRITE
Showcase Tour today!  We ask that if you have enjoyed this member’s
writing, please visit their Author Page on the RWISA site, where you can
find more of their writing, along with their contact and social media links, if
they’ve turned you into a fan.

We ask that you also check out their books in the RWISA or RRBC catalogs.  Thanks, again for your support and we hope that you will follow each member along this amazing tour of talent!  Don’t forget to click the link below to learn more about this author:

MEET #RWISA #AUTHOR, FIZA PATHAN – @FizaPathan #RRBC

The Lost Years of Billy Battles wins a Book Excellence Award

I am proud to announce that my book, The Lost Years of Billy Battles was just named a Book Excellence Award Winner in the Historical Fiction/Faction Category.

Out of hundreds of books that were entered into the Book Excellence Awards competition, Lost Years was selected for its high-quality writing, design, and overall market appeal.

[image error]

To view my complete award listing, you can visit:  https://honorees.bookexcellenceawards.com/#!/The-Lost-Years-of-Billy-Battles-Faction/p/143373851/category=36034730

The book was released in 2018 as the third in the Finding Billy Battles trilogy, which tells the story of a mysterious man’s incredible 100-year-long life of adventure, peril, transgression, and redemption. Book 3 brings the astonishing story of Billy Battles to a conclusion.

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The book is perfect for those who enjoy historical fiction spiced with a healthy dose of action and adventure.

You can get a copy for yourself at  https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1545632812/ref=dbs_a_def_rwt_bibl_vppi_i1

The Book Excellence Award is the second prestigious award the Lost Years of Billy Battles has won in the past three months. In April it was named a Goethe Grand Prize Winner in the Historical Fiction Category AND Overall Best Book of the Year by Chanticleer International Book Awards in Bellingham, Washington.

About the Book Excellence Awards

Founded in Toronto, Canada, the Book Excellence Awards is an international book awards competition dedicated to recognizing both independent and traditionally published authors for excellence in writing, design and overall market appeal. Previous Winners and Finalists of the Book Excellence Awards have been New York Times’ best-sellers, spoken at the United Nations and TEDx, and have had their books optioned by movie studios. To learn more, visit: https://www.bookexcellenceawards.com.

Welcome to the WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour! Day 11 #RRBC #RWISA

Welcome to Day 11 of the #WatchRWISAWrite Showcase, where each day I will feature a different author. Today, it’s my pleasure to introduce author Beem Weeks and his short story, DYING FOR A KISS.

[image error]Beem Weeks

Dying for a Kiss

By Beem Weeks

It’s like one of those
stories you’d read about in Ripley’s
Believe It or Not. I mean, who ever heard of anybody dying from a kiss?
Seriously! But that’s what happened to me—well, except for the dying part. Two
weeks in the hospital—that’s the souvenir I brought back from my
spring break.

Okay,
let me back up to the beginning.

My
parents’ hushed words pierce the wall that separates their bedroom from mine.
This particular conversation doesn’t warrant status as an argument, though. And
believe me, I know what their arguments sound like—lots of yelling, and
maybe an ashtray or a bowling trophy gets thrown by Mom. I guess I’d classify
this one as just another log of disappointment tossed on the bonfire that
engulfs our family—our collective lives.

Dad
is a dreamer. The problem is, dreamers make promises they’ll eventually have to
break. He’s also the sort of man who’ll spend his last five dollars on
scratch-off lottery tickets instead of household necessities, like food, or
gas—or our long-planned excursion to Disney World during spring break.

Dad’s
the one who sets it in stone over breakfast in our kitchen—Dad, because Mom
refuses to play the bad parent anymore.

“Sorry,
kids,” he tells me and my sister, Amanda. “We just can’t afford Disney at this
time.”

Amanda,
being nearly two years older than me, carries a heavier burden of
disappointment than I do. She’s had more time to gather her own collection of
tales regarding broken promises, cancelled plans, and the jettisoned idea of
ever being a normal, well-adjusted family.

“I
figured as much,” Amanda mumbles, dismissing herself from the table.

Dad
tries to be sincere in his attempt to save spring break. “But that doesn’t mean
we can’t go somewhere that’s almost
as fun and exciting.”

When
Dad speaks of somewhere, it’s usually
a state-park campground in some far-flung forest up north.

Amanda
hollers from the living room, “Just so you know, Daddy, I hate camping.”

I
don’t hate camping—though it doesn’t exactly make my top-ten list of fun things
to do.

*      *      *

A
little backstory.

My
parents met at a Beatles concert back in 1964. Mom claims love at first sight.

Dad,
well, he’s been known to dispute her recollections on the subject. He’s fond of
saying, “She had the hots for John Lennon, is all. I’m just the booby prize.”

Hippies,
they were—and still are, even though it’s 1979 now. They only just recently (as
in one year ago) got married—despite the fact that Amanda is almost fourteen
and I’m already twelve. And though they’d both been college students when they
met, neither has ever collected the degree they once intended to earn.

Mom
works at the IGA as a cashier—minimum wage, with practically zero opportunity
to advance into a higher tax bracket.

Dad?
He’s dabbled in various occupations—sales, electronic repairs (TV’s mostly,
maybe a few stereos), welding, landscaping, auto repair. Nothing ever really
sticks for him, though. My grandfather (Mom’s dad) refers to my father as
professionally unemployable. Granddad still blames him for making a mess of
Mom’s life. They don’t speak, Dad and Grandpa.

Dad’s
a good guy, though. He means well. He’s just not one for responsibilities.

So,
anyway, the folded map of Michigan comes out, spread across the kitchen table.
Mom eyes the places circled in red—those previous vacation spots. We’ve been
all over the state: Silver Lake Sand Dunes, Traverse City during the cherry
festival, Holland for Tulip Time. We even spent a few days on Mackinac Island
three summers ago—though we didn’t stay at the Grand Hotel.

“It’s
Andrew’s turn to choose,” Mom says, dropping the big decision in my
hands.

Hiawatha
National Forest had been my first choice the last time my turn came up. But Dad
broke his foot, which cancelled our vacation that spring.

“The
Upper Peninsula, it is,” Dad says.

Amanda
despises me in this moment. “I told you I hate
camping.”

*      *      *

Radio
songs fill the van once we hit US 27 going north. The Bee Gees squawk about a tragedy
twice before we’re even on the road for forty minutes.

“I
hate that song,” Amanda complains.

Dad
says, “Well, I like it.”

Mom
tries to lighten the mood. “I spy with my little eye—”

“Please
don’t!” Amanda begs. Without warning, she socks my shoulder, yells, “Slug bug
red!”

“Ouch!”
And just like that, it’s on. We’ll both of us be battered and bruised by the
time we spy the top of the Mackinac Bridge.

“Slug
bug green!” Thwack!

“Slug
bug blue!” Thwack!

“Slug
bug—oh, never mind. That’s not a VW.” Thwack!

“Hey! No fair!”

Blondie
sings about her heart of glass and Amanda momentarily abandons our game—just
long enough to sing the few lines she actually knows.

Many
hours later, I’m the one who spots the top of the Mighty Mack! “I see the
bridge,” I say, hoping it’ll irritate Amanda.

But
in truth, she doesn’t mind losing this game. It’s not a thing to her anymore.
She’ll leave us the day she turns eighteen—or even sooner, if she has her
way. Grandpa promised to pay for her college, knowing my parents will never be
able to afford it.

Evening
spikes the sky with an orange-pink sunset by the time we find a campground
inside Hiawatha. Dozens of tents and RV’s occupy the prime camping spots.

“Andrew
and I will set up the tent,” Dad says, parking our van on the last vacant lot
within sight. “You girls can get dinner ready.”

Kids—loud
and rowdy, as Grandpa would say—run from lot to lot, chasing after somebody’s
collie, darting across the road without so much as a glance in either
direction.

“Too
stupid to last long in this world,” Amanda says.

Mom
gives her the eye. “They’re just kids, for crying out loud, Mandy.”  

*      *      *

“Andy
and Mandy,” the girl teases, laughing at our introductions. “That’s cute. Are
you two twins or something?”

“Or
something,” Amanda says.

Her
name is Nora, this girl with short brown hair. Already fourteen—unlike Amanda,
who still has another month. The tents across the street are her family’s—it’s
their collie running wild.

“Five
kids,” Nora says, answering my mother. “I’m the oldest. Three younger brothers
and a baby sister.”

“Sounds
kind of crowded, that many people in just two small tents,” I observe.

She
looks right at me when I speak—like I’m really truly here, standing in front of
her.

“You
don’t know the half of it,” says Nora. “I asked if I could just stay home, sit out
this vacation. That’s not happening anytime soon.”

*      *      *

Blue
jean shorts and a red bikini top—that’s what Nora wears the following morning.
And a pocket full of salt water taffy—which she gladly shares.

Mom’s
not impressed. “Leaves little to the imagination,” she says, regarding Nora’s
top.

“But
you and Daddy used to skinny dip,” Amanda reminds her. “So how is that better?”

Mom’s
hard gaze issues silent threats. Her words aren’t quite as harsh. “Aren’t you
kids going boating?”

It’s
not really a boat, this thing we rent; it’s more like a canoe—but only plastic.
I sit in the rear, my paddle steering us toward the middle of the lake. Amanda
has the other paddle, though she’s not really doing anything with it.

Nora
sits in the middle—facing me!

I
think Amanda is intimidated, not being the oldest for a change.

Nora
talks—a lot. But I don’t mind. She tells us all about life back home in Detroit—well,
the suburbs, really, a place called Royal Oak. She used to have a boyfriend,
but he cheated on her. Her parents separated last year, intending to divorce,
but her mom ended up pregnant.

“Amazing
how an unborn baby can save a marriage,” Amanda says.

It’s
after we bring the canoe in that Nora says, “Wanna go for a walk?”

Only,
she’s not talking to Amanda. Amanda is already halfway back to our tent.

We
end up in a picnic area near the lake, just me and Nora. She tells me more
about herself, her family, what she intends for her future.

“You’re
cute,” she says, sitting right beside me on a park bench.

My
cheeks get hot, probably bright pink.

And
she’s two years older than me, I think, as her lips
press against mine.

My
first kiss—well, first real kiss.

On
her tongue I taste salt water taffy and excitement and all things possible.

What
I don’t taste is the meningitis in her saliva.

Amanda
intrudes, tells me lunch is being served at our tent.

*      *      *

It
strikes without warning, leaving me confused, nauseated. Words tumble from my
mouth, though I have no idea what I’m saying.

Mom’s
hand finds my forehead. “He’s burning up,” she says. “We need to get this boy
to a hospital.”

Only,
I don’t hear it that way. What I hear is, “We need to get this boy a pretzel.”

“But
I don’t like pretzels,” I mumble.

*      *      *

Two
weeks later, I’m back home. It’s a blur, but my parents say I nearly died.

From
a kiss!

Is
that a Ripley’s story or what?

And
what a kiss—totally worth dying for!

Well, almost dying.

THE END

Thank
you for supporting this member along the WATCH “RWISA” WRITE
Showcase Tour today!  We ask that if you have enjoyed this member’s
writing, please visit their Author Page on the RWISA site, where you can
find more of their writing, along with their contact and social media links, if
they’ve turned you into a fan.

We ask that you also check out their books in the RWISA or RRBC catalogs.  Thanks, again for your support and we hope that you will follow each member along this amazing tour of talent!  Don’t forget to click the link below to learn more about this author:

MEET #RWISA #AUTHOR, BEEM WEEKS – @beemweeks #RRBC

Welcome to the WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour! Day 10 #RRBC #RWISA

Welcome to Day 10 of the #WatchRWISAWrite Showcase, where each day I will feature a different author. Today, it’s my pleasure to introduce author Jan Sikes and her short story, SHE DANCES WITH A MEMORY.

[image error]Jan Sikes

SHE DANCES WITH A MEMORY

By JAN SIKES

Gertrude McNabb placed a gnarled hand on
her arthritic back as she bent over to take a chocolate cake from the oven. She
inhaled the sweet aroma and put it on a rack to cool.

A black-and-white photograph of a
dark-haired man with twinkling eyes sat nearby on the cabinet. “This is for
you, Hiram. I didn’t forget it was your birthday. It’s your favorite. I’ll always
remember how your face would light up when I baked this special recipe for you.”

Gertrude picked up the framed snapshot,
held it against her heart, and shuffled into the living room.

“We might as well make use of the time
while I wait for your cake to cool. Then I’ll frost it with your favorite
French vanilla icing. The kids, grandkids, and great-grandkids are all going to
be here in a couple of hours, and it will be nothing but pure chaos,” she said.

The mahogany stereo cabinet from the 1960s
occupied the same spot in the living room that it had since the day Hiram McNabb
brought it home as a Christmas surprise. They’d spent many happy days and
nights listening to record albums.  Hiram
never tried to hide the fact that he adored Rosemary Clooney. But, not
Gertrude. For her, it was ol’ Blue Eyes himself that got her blood going.

Oh, the wonderful and countless hours
they’d waltzed away across the living room floor to the beautiful music that
wafted out of those state-of-the-art stereo speakers.

She adjusted her glasses and thumbed
through a stack of record albums. It seemed to take forever nowadays to do even
the simplest task. She pulled out a favorite and held it up in front of the
photo she’d perched on the coffee table. “Since it’s your birthday, my dear,
and such a special occasion, how about Nat King Cole?”

Her fingers, once nimble and efficient,
struggled to remove the round disc from its package.

“Remember how this one caught my eye in the
record store, but we didn’t buy it?” She chuckled. “And then you brought it
home the very next day.” She blew out a sigh.  

Once she had the disk secured on the
turntable, she took the pins from her silver hair, and it tumbled down her
back.

She clicked on the stereo and waited until
the tiny red light turned green, then gently placed the needle onto the black groove.

Then with a great flourish, she picked up
the photo and held her arms out for her imaginary dance partner.

Even though she hardly moved from the spot
where she stood, with her eyes closed, she was transported back in time, back to
days of youth when it had been impossible to imagine ever growing old.

“It was fascination, I know, seeing you
alone with the moonlight above,” Nat King Cole sang.

A smile graced her lips.

She whispered, “Hiram Edward McNabb, you
swept me off my feet the first time I saw you. You were so handsome in your
Army uniform. I’ll never forget that night at the county fair. My older brother
and sister took me, and since they wanted to stick around for the dance, I got to
stay with them.”

She paused and steadied herself.

“You asked me to dance and didn’t let me
sit down one time the whole night.” She giggled. “From then on, I knew we were
meant to be together. I’d always hated my name, and you agreed that Gertrude
sounded like an old lady, so you called me by my middle name. I was your Rose.”

Memories swirled around in her mind. Sweet
remembrances of laughter, of falling in love and of daring to live the fullest
life imaginable flew by the way scenes from a movie might do.

No, they hadn’t been wealthy, but Hiram
made a decent living for them, and they always had what they needed. However,
it was his steadfast love for her, for life, and the music they embraced that
kept her excited and happy for over sixty years.  

As impossible as it seemed, he’d now been
gone over two years. Never a day passed that she didn’t carry on a conversation
with him. It started with a good morning greeting and ended with a good night
declaration of love.

Sometimes, she could swear that he answered
her.

The needle reached the end of the record.
She set the photo back down and focused her attention on choosing another album.

“Rosie.”

She turned around. “Hiram?”

No one was there. Then she heard it again.
Was she going daft?

“Well, I’ve certainly let my imagination
get the best of me. I guess that’s what happens to old ladies when they’re
alone too long.”

As she reached for her favorite Frank
Sinatra album, a hand brushed against hers.

Now she was sure she was losing what little
bit of sensibility she had left.

When she was a child, her relatives shared
stories about spirit visits from beyond the veil. To her, it was nothing more
than hogwash and products of overactive imaginations. After all, what did old
folks know?

As hard as it was to admit, she might have
been wrong about that, and a little hasty to judge. Perhaps Hiram had shown up
to celebrate his birthday.

Whatever it was, she would enjoy it and
soak up every moment, even if it wasn’t real. She could make it true in her
mind.

With Frank Sinatra crooning a love song,
she reached again for the photo but instead, chose to leave it sitting and
simply held out her wrinkled and trembling arms.

Her feet moved, and she twirled just like
she’d done thousands of times before. She threw back her head and laughed. She
was twenty again, as Hiram swept her across the big wooden dance floor inside
the SPJST Hall.

Song after song played, and still, they
danced, they laughed, and they kissed.

Then the record reached an end and she was
met with deafening silence. She opened her eyes, surprised to find that she
stood in the same spot where she’d been. She truly had been waltzing and
twirling with Hiram.

“I’m tired now, my love.” She moved toward
her easy chair. “I just need to rest awhile.”

Perhaps one day before long, she’d be waltzing
again with her sweetheart for the remainder of eternity. But for now, she had
the memories, and she’d continue to dance with them until that day came.

She reached for the photo and pressed it
to her heart.

Her eyes drifted shut, and she smiled.

THE END

But that’s not all. Here are three new short stories by Jan. You can pick them up on Amazon. Check out the trailer here:

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Thank you for supporting this member along the WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour today!  We ask that if you have enjoyed this member’s writing, please visit their Author Page on the RWISA site, where you can find more of their writing, along with their contact and social media links, if they’ve turned you into a fan.

We ask that you also check out their books in the RWISA or RRBC catalogs.  Thanks, again for your support and we hope that you will follow each member along this amazing tour of talent!  Don’t forget to click the link below to learn more about this author:

MEET #RWISA #AUTHOR, JAN SIKES – @rjanjks #RRBC

A commencement speech that every college graduate should hear

Unfortunately, this commencement speech has never been given, but it should be. It was written by former syndicated talk show host Neal Boortz in protest of never having been invited to give a commencement address. It became the springboard for his first book, “The Commencement Speech You Need to Hear.” Later he produced an audio CD of the speech complete with crowd noise and applause, which was aired on his radio program. Read on. You won’t be disappointed.

[image error]Neal Boortz

“I am honored by the invitation to address you on this august occasion. It’s about time. Be warned, however, that I am not here to impress you; you’ll have enough smoke blown up your bloomers today. And you can bet your tassels I’m not here to impress the faculty and administration.

You may not like much of what I have to say, and that’s fine. You will remember it though. Especially after about 10 years out there in the real world. This, it goes without saying, does not apply to those of you who will seek your careers and your fortunes as government employees.

This gowned gaggle behind me is
your faculty. You’ve heard the old saying that those who can – do. Those who
can’t – teach. That sounds deliciously insensitive. But there is often raw
truth in insensitivity, just as you often find feel-good falsehoods and lies in
compassion. Say good-bye to your faculty because now you are getting ready to
go out there and do. These folks behind me are going to stay right here and
teach.

By the way, just because you are
leaving this place with a diploma doesn’t mean the learning is over. When an
FAA flight examiner handed me my private pilot’s license many years ago, he
said, “Here, this is your ticket to learn” The same can be said for your
diploma. Believe me, the learning has just begun.

Now, I realize that most of you
consider yourselves Liberals. In fact, you are probably very proud of your
liberal views. You care so much. You feel so much. You want to help so much.
After all, you’re a compassionate and caring person, aren’t you now? Well,
isn’t that just so extraordinarily special. Now, at this age, is as good a time
as any to be a liberal; as good a time as any to know absolutely everything.
You have plenty of time, starting tomorrow, for the truth to set in.

Over the next few years, as you
begin to feel the cold breath of reality down your neck, things are going to
start changing pretty fast… Including your own assessment of just how much you
really know.

So here are the first assignments
for your initial class in reality: Pay attention to the news, read newspapers,
and listen to the words and phrases that proud Liberals use to promote their
causes Then, compare the words of the left to the words and phrases you hear
from those evil, heartless, greedy conservatives.

From the Left you will hear “I
feel.” From the Right you will hear “I think.” From the Liberals you will hear
references to groups — The Blacks, the Poor, the Rich, the Disadvantaged, the
Less Fortunate. From the Right you will hear references to individuals. On the
Left you hear talk of group rights; on the Right, individual rights.

That about sums it up, really:
Liberals feel. Liberals care. They are pack animals whose identity is tied up
in group dynamics. Conservatives think — and, setting aside the theocracy crowd,
their identity is centered on the individual.

 Liberals feel that their favored groups have
enforceable rights to the property and services of productive individuals.
Conservatives, I among them I might add, think that individuals have the right
to protect their lives and their property from the plunder of the masses.

In college you developed a group
mentality, but if you look closely at your diplomas you will see that they have
your individual names on them. Not the name of your school mascot, or of your
fraternity or sorority, but your name. Your group identity is going away. Your
recognition and appreciation of your individual identity starts now.

If, by the time you reach the age
of 30, you do not consider yourself to be a conservative, rush right back here
as quickly as you can and apply for a faculty position. These people will
welcome you with open arms. They will welcome you, that is, so long as you
haven’t developed an individual identity. Once again you will have to be
willing to sign on to the group mentality you embraced during the past four
years.

Something is going to happen soon
that is going to really open your eyes. You’re going to actually get a full
time job!

You’re also going to get a
lifelong work partner. This partner isn’t going to help you do your job. This
partner is just going to sit back and wait for payday. This partner doesn’t
want to share in your effort, but in your earnings.

Your new lifelong partner is actually an agent; an agent representing a strange and diverse group of people; an agent for every teenager with an illegitimate child; an agent for a research scientist who wanted to make some cash answering the age-old question of why monkeys grind their teeth. An agent for some poor demented hippie who considers herself to be a meaningful and talented artist, but who just can’t manage to sell any of her artwork on the open market.

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Your new partner is an agent for
every person with limited, if any, job skills, but who wanted a job at City
Hall. An agent for tin-horn dictators in fancy military uniforms grasping for
American foreign aid. An agent for multi-million dollar companies who want
someone else to pay for their overseas advertising. An agent for everybody who
wants to use the unimaginable power of this agent’s for their personal
enrichment and benefit.

That agent is our wonderful,
caring, compassionate, oppressive government Believe me, you will be awed by
the unimaginable power this agent has. Power that you do not have. A power that
no individual has, or will have. This agent has the legal power to use force,
deadly force to accomplish its goals.

You have no choice here. Your new
friend is just going to walk up to you, introduce itself rather gruffly, hand
you a few forms to fill out, and move right on in. Say hello to your own
personal one ton gorilla. It will sleep anywhere it wants to.

Now, let me tell you, this agent
is not cheap. As you become successful it will seize about 40% of everything
you earn. And no, I’m sorry, there just isn’t any way you can fire this agent
of plunder, and you can’t decrease its share of your income. That power rests
with him, not you.

So, here I am saying negative
things to you about government. Well, be clear on this: It is not wrong to
distrust government. It is not wrong to fear government. In certain cases it is
not even wrong to despise government for government is inherently evil. Yes, a
necessary evil, but dangerous nonetheless, somewhat like a drug. Just as a drug
that in the proper dosage can save your life, an overdose of government can be
fatal.

Now let’s address a few things that have been crammed into your minds at this university. There are some ideas you need to expunge as soon as possible. These ideas may work well in the academic environment, but they fail miserably out there in the real world.

First is that favorite buzz word of the media and academia: Diversity! You have been taught that the real value of any group of people – be it a social group, an employee group, a management group, whatever – is based on diversity. This is a favored liberal ideal because diversity is based not on an individual’s abilities or character, but on a person’s identity and status as a member of a group. Yes, it’s that liberal group identity thing again.

Within the great diversity movement group identification – be it racial, gender based, or some other minority status – means more than the individual’s integrity, character or other qualifications.

Brace yourself. You are about to move from this academic atmosphere where diversity rules, to a workplace and a culture where individual achievement and excellence actually count. No matter what your professors have taught you over the last four years, you are about to learn that diversity is absolutely no replacement for excellence, ability, and individual hard work. From this day on every single time you hear the word “diversity”, you can rest assured that there is someone close by who is determined to rob you of every vestige of individuality you possess.

We also need to address this
thing you seem to have about “rights.” We have witnessed an obscene explosion
of so-called “rights” in the last few decades, usually emanating from college
campuses.

You know the mantra: You have the
right to a job. The right to a place to live. The right to a living wage. The
right to health care. The right to an education. You probably even have your
own pet right – the right to a Beemer for instance, or the right to have
someone else provide for that child you plan on downloading in a year or so.

Forget it. Forget those rights! I’ll tell you what your rights are. You have a right to live free, and to the results of 60% -75% of your labor. I’ll also tell you this. You have no right to any portion of the life or labor of another.

You may, for instance, think that
you have a right to health care. After all, President Obama said so, didn’t he?
But you cannot receive health-care unless some doctor or health practitioner
surrenders some of his time – his life – to you. He may be willing to do this
for compensation, but that’s his choice. You have no “right” to his time or
property. You have no right to his or any other person’s life or to any portion
thereof.

You may also think you have some
“right” to a job; a job with a living wage, whatever that is. Do you mean to
tell me that you have a right to force your services on another person, and
then the right to demand that this person compensate you with their money?
Sorry, forget it. I am sure you would scream if some urban outdoors men (that
would be “homeless person” for those of you who don’t want to give these less
fortunate people a romantic and adventurous title) came to you and demanded his
job and your money.

The people who have been telling
you about all the rights you have are simply exercising one of theirs – the
right to be imbeciles. Their being imbeciles didn’t cost anyone else either
property or time. It’s their right, and they exercise it brilliantly.

By the way, did you catch my use
of the phrase “less fortunate” a bit ago when I was talking about the urban
outdoors men? That phrase is a favorite of the Left. Think about it, and you’ll
understand why.

To imply that one person is homeless, destitute, dirty, drunk, spaced out on drugs, unemployable, and generally miserable because he is “less fortunate” is to imply that a successful person – one with a job, a home and a future – is in that position because he or she was “fortunate.”

The dictionary says that fortunate means “having derived good from an unexpected place.” There is nothing unexpected about deriving good from hard work. There is also nothing unexpected about deriving misery from choosing drugs, alcohol, and the street.

If the Liberal Left can create the common perception that success and failure are simple matters of “fortune” or “luck,” then it is easy to promote and justify their various income redistribution schemes. After all, we are just evening out the odds a little bit. This “success equals luck” idea the liberals like to push is seen everywhere.

Former Democratic presidential candidate Richard Gephardt once referred to high-achievers as “people who have won life’s lottery.” He wants you to believe they are making the big bucks because they are lucky. It’s not luck, my friends. It’s a choice. One of the greatest lessons I ever learned was in a book by Og Mandino, entitled, “The Greatest Secret in the World.” The lesson? Very simple: “Use wisely your power of choice.”

That bum sitting on a heating grate, smelling like a wharf rat? He’s there by choice. He is there because of the sum total of the choices he has made in his life. This truism is absolutely the hardest thing for some people to accept, especially those who consider themselves to be victims of something or other – victims of discrimination, bad luck, the system, capitalism, whatever.

After all, nobody really wants to accept the blame for his or her position in life. Not when it is so much easier to point and say, “Look! He did this to me!” than it is to look into a mirror and say, “You S. O. B.! You did this to me!”

The key to accepting
responsibility for your life is to accept the fact that your choices, every one
of them, are leading you inexorably to either success or failure, however you
define those terms.

Some of the choices are obvious:
Whether or not to stay in school. Whether or not to get pregnant. Whether or
not to hit the bottle. Whether or not to keep this job you hate until you get
another better-paying job. Whether or not to save some of your money, or saddle
yourself with huge payments for that new car.

Some of the choices are seemingly insignificant: Whom to go to the movies with. Whose car to ride home in. Whether to watch the tube tonight, or read a book on investing. But, and you can be sure of this, each choice counts.

Each choice is a building block – some large, some small. But each one is a part of the structure of your life. If you make the right choices, or if you make more right choices than wrong ones, something absolutely terrible may happen to you. Something unthinkable. You, my friend, could become one of the hated, the evil, the ugly, the feared, the filthy, the successful, the rich.

The rich basically serve two
purposes in this country. First, they provide the investments, the investment
capital, and the brains for the formation of new businesses. Businesses that
hire people. Businesses that send millions of paychecks home each week to the
un-rich.

Second, the rich are a wonderful
object of ridicule, distrust, and hatred. Few things are more valuable to a
politician than the envy most Americans feel for the evil rich.

Envy is a powerful emotion. Even
more powerful than the emotional minefield that surrounded Bill Clinton when he
reviewed his last batch of White House interns. Politicians use envy to get
votes and power And they keep that power by promising the envious that the
envied will be punished: “The rich will pay their fair share of taxes if I have
anything to do with it.” The truth is that the top 10% of income earners in
this country pays almost 50% of all income taxes collected. I shudder to think
what these job producers would be paying if our tax system were any more “fair.”

You have heard, no doubt, that
the rich get richer and the poor get poorer. Interestingly enough, our
government’s own numbers show that many of the poor actually get richer, and
that quite a few of the rich actually get poorer. But for the rich who do
actually get richer, and the poor who remain poor .. there’s an explanation — a
reason. The rich, you see, keep doing the things that make them rich; while the
poor keep doing the things that make them poor.

Speaking of the poor, during your
adult life you are going to hear an endless string of politicians bemoaning the
plight of the poor. So, you need to know that under our government’s definition
of “poor” you can have a $5 million net worth, a $300,000 home and a new
$90,000 Mercedes, all completely paid for. You can also have a maid, cook, and
valet, and a million in your checking account, and you can still be officially
defined by our government as “living in poverty.” Now there’s something you
haven’t seen on the evening news.

How does the government pull this
one off? Very simple, really. To determine whether or not some poor soul is
“living in poverty,” the government measures one thing — just one thing.
Income.

It doesn’t matter one bit how
much you have, how much you own, how many cars you drive or how big they are,
whether or not your pool is heated, whether you winter in Aspen and spend the
summers in the Bahamas, or how much is in your savings account. It only matters
how much income you claim in that particular year. This means that if you take
a one-year leave of absence from your high-paying job and decide to live off
the money in your savings and checking accounts while you write the next great
American novel, the government says you are living in poverty.”

This isn’t exactly what you had
in mind when you heard these gloomy statistics, is it? Do you need more
convincing? Try this. The government’s own statistics show that people who are
said to be “living in poverty” spend more than $1.50 for each dollar of income
they claim. Something is a bit fishy here. Just remember all this the next time
Charles Gibson tells you about some hideous new poverty statistics.

Why has the government concocted
this phony poverty scam? Because the government needs an excuse to grow and to
expand its social welfare programs, which translates into an expansion of its
power. If the government can convince you, in all your compassion, that the
number of “poor” is increasing, it will have all the excuse it needs to sway an
electorate suffering from the advanced stages of Obsessive-Compulsive
Compassion Disorder.

I’m about to be stoned by the
faculty here. They’ve already changed their minds about that honorary degree I
was going to get. That’s OK, though. I still have my PhD. in Insensitivity from
the Neal Boortz Institute for Insensitivity Training. I learned that, in short,
sensitivity sucks. It’s a trap. Think about it – the truth knows no
sensitivity. Life can be insensitive. Wallow too much in sensitivity and you’ll
be unable to deal with life, or the truth, so get over it.

Now, before the dean has me shackled
and hauled off, I have a few random thoughts.

* You need to register to vote,
unless you are on welfare. If you are living off the efforts of others, please
do us the favor of sitting down and shutting up until you are on your own
again.

* When you do vote, your votes
for the House and the Senate are more important than your vote for President.
The House controls the purse strings, so concentrate your awareness there.

* Liars cannot be trusted, even when the liar is the Speaker of the House. If someone can’t deal honestly with you, send them packing.

* Don’t bow to the temptation to
use the government as an instrument of plunder. If it is wrong for you to take
money from someone else who earned it — to take their money by force for your own
needs — then it is certainly just as wrong for you to demand that the
government step forward and do this dirty work for you.

* Don’t look in other people’s
pockets You have no business there. What they earn is theirs. What you earn is
yours. Keep it that way. Nobody owes you anything, except to respect your
privacy and your rights, and leave you the hell alone.

* Speaking of earning, the
revered 40-hour workweek is for losers Forty hours should be considered the
minimum, not the maximum. You don’t see highly successful people clocking out
of the office every afternoon at five. The losers are the ones caught up in
that afternoon rush hour The winners drive home in the dark.

* Free speech is meant to protect
unpopular speech. Popular speech, by definition, needs no protection.

 * Finally (and aren’t you glad to hear that
word), as Og Mandino wrote,

 1. Proclaim your rarity. Each of you is a rare
and unique human being.

 2. Use wisely your power of choice.

 3. Go the extra mile, ‘drive home in the dark.

Oh, and put off buying a
television set as long as you can. Now, if you have any idea at all what’s good
for you, you will get out of here and never come back. Class dismissed.”

Welcome to the WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour! Day 9 #RRBC #RWISA

Welcome to Day 9 of the #WatchRWISAWrite Showcase, where each day I will feature a different author. Today, it’s my pleasure to introduce author Mary Adler and her short essay & poem, BLACK NOTES BEAT.

[image error]Mary Adler

BLACK NOTES BEAT

By Mary Adler

I have studied and observed crows
for years, and the more I’ve learned about them, the more I admire their
complex family and flock relationships. They are intelligent, create and use
tools, and they teach their skills to other crows. As Rev. Henry Ward Beecher
said, “If men had wings and bore black feathers, few of them would be clever
enough to be crows.”

Over the years, I have told my
family and friends more than they ever wanted to know about crows. One person
said, after hearing the stories I told about them, that she stopped trying to
run crows down with her car. (There is so much wrong with that statement, that
I don’t know where to begin.)

During the non-nesting period of the
year, crows gather at night to roost together, sometimes in flocks of
thousands. They are stealthy and take a roundabout way to the roosting place.
They have good reason to be wary. For decades, humans have killed them, even
dynamiting their roosting places at night.

Like many natural creatures, they
are good and bad, depending on your viewpoint, and not everyone appreciates
their beauty. But I love to watch them streaming across the sky–one small
group after another–as they return from foraging to join the flock. When they
are together, those who have found a safe source of food will tell the others
where it is. They share, but only within their own flock.

One evening, after watching them
move across the sky, I wrote this:

Black
Notes Beat

Black notes beat

Unfurling dusk

                Across the bruising sky.

Quarter
notes, half notes

Rise and fall.

Whole
notes

        Rest on treetops.

An
arpeggio of eighth notes

        Silently swirls,

Scribing
a nocturne

in the fading light.

Softly
they spill

        to the nighttime roost:

Rustling,

        murmuring,

                settling,

                        hushed.

Now
the still moment,

the last note fading,

No
bows, no curtsies,

No fear of reviews.

They need no applause to perform their works.

THE END

Mary is also the author of an award-winning mystery series that takes place in San Francisco during World War II. Here is a short blurb and the cover of the second book in the series, Shadowed by Death.

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San Francisco, 1944. Sophia Nirenska, a Polish resistance fighter who survived the Warsaw ghetto uprising, finds safety in California until someone tries to kill her. She insists political enemies want to silence her, but homicide detective Oliver Wright, on medical leave from the Marines, believes the motive is more personal. He and his German shepherd, Harley, try to protect Sophia, but she insists on doing things her own way—a dangerous decision. 

Oliver guards Sophia as they travel from an Italian cafe in Richmond to communist chicken farmers in Petaluma where her impetuous actions put them both in mortal danger. 

When Oliver rescues a girl and her dog who are running for their lives, he discovers the dark secret at the heart of the threat to Sophia, a secret with its roots in Poland. When he does, he is forced to choose between enforcing the law as he knows it and jeopardizing Sophia or accepting a rougher kind of justice.

Shadowed by Death accurately portrays the fears and troubles of the communities of northern California as they bear the burdens of World War II and celebrate the gift of finding family among strangers.  

Thank
you for supporting this member along the WATCH “RWISA” WRITE
Showcase Tour today!  We ask that if you have enjoyed this member’s
writing, please visit their Author Page on the RWISA site, where you can
find more of their writing, along with their contact and social media links, if
they’ve turned you into a fan.

We ask that you also check out their books in the RWISA or RRBC catalogs.  Thanks, again for your support and we hope that you will follow each member along this amazing tour of talent!  Don’t forget to click the link below to learn more about this author:

MEET #RWISA #AUTHOR, MARY ADLER – @MAAdlerWrites #RRBC

Welcome to the WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour! Day 8 #RRBC #RWISA

Welcome to Day 8 of the #WatchRWISAWrite Showcase, where each day I will feature a different author. Today, it’s my pleasure to introduce author Wendy Scott and her short story, THE AWAKENING.

[image error]Wendy Scott

The Awakening

(An excerpt from ‘Prophecy and Pirates’ my unpublished first fantasy novel).

by Wendy Scott

Evarna gazed at the tinker’s sleeping form and resisted the urge to trail her fingertips through Rick’s locks. For both their sakes she had to leave now before he awoke. They lived in contrasting worlds; he roamed the forest with a free spirit, but as an aristocrat’s bastard, she battled the protocols and restrictions of the Baron’s Court. As satisfying as this romantic interlude had been, she must be on her way. 

The chill of the morning air vanquished the warmth she’d experienced in his arms as she eased out of the feather quilt. She untangled her discarded clothes from his and slipped into them. Last night they’d been shed as the lovers had fumbled toward the bed in a lip-locked embrace.

The wagon’s interior was a treasure trove, and she wished she had more time to explore. The shelves jammed with instruments, jostled scrolls, and jars filled with curious items drew her gaze. On the window ledge two doll-sized chairs nestled a miniature table. Evarna’s hand hovered close to a silver harp, itching to touch the strings, but she lowered her hand before her fingers betrayed her. What nonsense. A tone-deaf goose possessed more musical ability than she did. Rick wouldn’t appreciate being woken by the sound of mutilated chords.

His abode hinted at depths of character she wanted to delve deeper into. For a moment she lingered at the door and glanced back at his tousled hair. The urge to dive back under the covers and cuddle up against his muscular length was almost more than she could control. Instead, she averted her gaze and whispered, “Farewell, Tinkerman.”

Sighing, she stepped outside. Tail thumping erupted from between the wheels, pinpointing where Stitch had spent the night. Usually, her dog made a fuss about always bedding down next to her. She felt a blush bloom on her cheeks. Last evening she hadn’t given her furry friend a moment’s thought after the tinker’s first kiss.

A moist tongue licked her hand, and the dog leaned against her legs as she stroked his fur. She kept her voice low. “Hey, boy. Time to go home.”

Stitch stalked over to the fire pit and stared into the suspended pot. Evarna chuckled and fed him the remains of yesterday’s stew.

“Not feeding you. Now, that’s something you would not easily forgive.”

***

The sound of horse hooves drifted off into the distance. Rick’s eyelids snapped upwards, and he bounded out of bed. He hummed as he gathered up his clothing and tossed them on the mussed up bed, ignoring the tapping sounds emanating from the small window above the door.

Naked, he jerked the door open, streaked across the camp, and plunged into the lake. The surface churned into a maelstrom of white water as he re-emerged onto the shore. Huffing, he sprinted back into the wagon, his breaths trailing him like mist.

Two small, winged creatures swooped and followed him through the ajar door. Their tiny wings shimmered like rainbows as they swirled around his head before landing on his pillow. Twin pixie expressions peered up at him, their violet eyes gleaming with mischief. Golden hair framed identical faces and the easiest way to tell them apart was by the colour of their gowns. Yasmin favoured pastel pink, while her sister, Jasmin, wore lavender to compliment her eyes.

“Hrumph! You shut us out.” Yasmin pinched her nose. “We had to snuggle up to a smelly dog to keep warm. Now you’ve got yourself a lady friend, you think you can ignore us as if we’re not good enough company anymore.”

“I don’t understand what you see in her.” Jasmin crossed her arms and glared up at him. “She doesn’t even have wings!”

Elbowing her sibling out of the way, Yasmin flicked her hair so wildly it swept over and covered her face. From beneath the cloud of hair came a muffled voice, “I thought you’d prefer blondes.”

Rick grinned down at the pair of outraged pixies, drawn up to their full height of six inches. “And pray be, how was a poor fellow supposed to choose between two such lovely ladies as yourselves?”

The sisters clasped hands. “He’s got a point there; we could never let a mere gyp come between us.”

“The tinker is lucky that we give him the time of day. Fancy him thinking he’d be acceptable to either of us.”

Rick shook his head, showering the pixies with droplets of the water. They both squealed and scurried backward.

“Stop mucking around and put some clothes on for goddess-sake.” Jasmin wrung the water from her gown.

After a token pass with a towel Rick grabbed his pants and began dressing. “Evarna is the one I’ve been searching for. The prophecy foretold her arrival.”

“How can you be sure she’s the one?” Jasmin waggled her finger.

He placed a hand on his chest. “Her magic awakened my heart. So we must gather all the fairy folk we can and march for Carnavalla.”

Yasmin plucked a dog hair from her dress and brandished it like a sword. “And how do you expect we’ll find the lost city of the Gypnees? Legend says it disappeared hundreds of years ago.”

“Carnavalla was hidden from mortals on purpose, it’s only sleeping and I’ve several gyp tricks I haven’t shared with you.”

Rick frowned. “Unfortunately, Evarna’s in for a few magical surprises. I’m going to have some explaining to do when we next meet. I hope my future wife is the forgiving type.”

Yasmin arched her brow. “But does she love you?”

“Of course she does, she just doesn’t know it yet.”

THE END

Thank
you for supporting this member along the WATCH “RWISA” WRITE
Showcase Tour today!  We ask that if you have enjoyed this member’s
writing, please visit their Author Page on the RWISA site, where you can
find more of their writing, along with their contact and social media links, if
they’ve turned you into a fan.

We
ask that you also check out their books in the RWISA or RRBC
catalogs.  Thanks, again for your support and we hope that you will follow
each member along this amazing tour of talent!  Don’t forget to click the
link below to learn more about this author:

MEET #RWISA #AUTHOR, WENDY J. SCOTT – @WendyJayneScott #RRBC

Welcome to the WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour! Day 7 #RRBC #RWISA

Welcome to Day 7 of the #WatchRWISAWrite Showcase, where each day I will feature a different author. Today, it’s my pleasure to introduce author Nonnie Jules and her poem, SILENT TEARS

[image error]

SILENT TEARS

by Nonnie Jules

I cry these silent tears for her

For her loss, for her pain, for her heart

Breaking when she looks into their eyes

Her children –

she feels their loss, their pain, their hearts
breaking.

The memories –

the hardest

Yet, there’s no getting away from the reminders of
what used to be.

There once was a HE

HE sat, parented, loved, even laughed

Yes, towards all ends there is laughter some say

But his chair is empty now

Just as their hearts

Hollow as the tree he chose.

He left it all there

His back against a world filled with painful memories
of a childhood unprotected.

His pain…

Bottled up in the bottles of poison he consumed

Reckless abandon he gave to it

But quit…

he could not

would not

was it his choice not?

In the end, the call of the poison was stronger

and he had to answer

he was forced to answer

given no choice but to answer…

was the way he felt.

His choice gave her no choice

Single parenting

A thing for some

but…

It wasn’t her thing

That is

until

he left her

no choice.

She’ll be fine

Kids are resilient

They’ll be fine

Time heals all wounds

All clichés but true.

Still…

I cry my silent tears for her

For the husband she once knew.

Thank you for supporting this member along the WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour today!  We ask that if you have enjoyed this member’s writing, please visit their Author Page on the RWISA site, where you can find more of their writing, along with their contact and social media links, if they’ve turned you into a fan.

We ask that you also check out their books in the RWISA or RRBC catalogs.  Thanks, again for your support and we hope that you will follow each member along this amazing tour of talent!  Don’t forget to click the link below to learn more about this author:

MEET #RWISA #AUTHOR, NONNIE JULES – @nonniejules #RWISA #RRBC