Ronald E. Yates's Blog, page 82

Meet Mary Adler, #RRBC Spotlight Author for January

Today, ForeignCorrespondent is pleased to host author Mary Adler, who is the Rave Reviews Book Club’s first SPOTLIGHT AUTHOR of 2019. You can find the link to her entire tour, which began on Sunday, January 13, at https://ravereviewsbynonniejules.wordpress.com/spotlight-authors/

Mary is sharing an excerpt from her exciting mystery debut novel, In the Shadow of Lies: An Oliver Wright WWII Mystery. Book Two in the award-winning mystery series is entitled: Shadowed by Death. Both are available on Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B07JD526JT?ref=series_rw_dp_labf

Take look!

YOU CAN GO HOME AGAIN

PART TWO

In You Can Go Home Again, Part One, I wrote about how my writing allows me to spend time with people and places I have loved that are now gone.  The following passage from In the Shadow of Lies: An Oliver Wright WWII Mystery involves Lucy Forgione—more than loosely patterned on my grandmother—and her friend Edna Hermit, her best friend in real life.  Dom tried to kill Lucy’s nephew Steve and blame it on Nate, Mrs. Hermit’s son. Maurizio, the man known to be hiding Dom has just come into the Cafe Avellino.

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Lucy heard a familiar voice and peeked around the door. Maurizio was flirting with the counter girl while she made sandwiches for him.

            Lucy whispered to Mrs. Hermit.

            “He’s the one hiding Dom. We need to get help, tell someone he’s here.” She tried calling her nephew again. Still busy. She wished Nate were there.

            The bell over the door rang. Maurizio crossed the street and got into a green coupe. Dom looked out the passenger window.

            “Come on, Edna. We have to follow them.”

            “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but why don’t we call the police?”

            “Because he’ll get away!” She grabbed Edna’s arm. “Can you drive?”

            “Drive what?”

            “There. The chicken man’s truck. The motor’s running and I don’t see him.”

            “I drove the truck on the farm when I was young.”

            “Then get in, and let’s go.”

            “Lucy, we can’t.”

            “Dom hurt my nephew and your son was blamed.”

            Edna needed no more urging. Lucy struggled to pull herself into the truck, and Edna jumped into the driver’s seat. She pressed the clutch and ground through the gears until she found first. They hopped through the alley and turned left after the green coupe. It was several cars ahead of them, stopped by the wigwag at the railroad crossing where a long freight train lumbered out to the bay.

            Edna had the driving fundamentals down, but no practice. Lucy had to give her credit—she only stalled once. They rolled down the windows and listened to the chickens cackling behind them. Soon they were crawling up MacDonald.

            “I think I’m getting the hang of it.”

            Lucy’s feet didn’t touch the floor. She bounced in her seat, grabbed at the dash, the door, anything to keep her balance. When they stopped at a light, a man grabbed a crate of chickens and ran. She wagged her hand in the air.

            “Madonna. Now I owe the chicken man for a crate of chickens.”

            “And that highway robber didn’t give you any coupons for them!”

            They laughed, perhaps a bit hysterically, as what they were doing sunk in.

            “We stole a truck and we don’t know how many chickens.”

            “We didn’t steal them, Edna. We’re taking them for a ride.”

            Traffic began to clear. Soon they were only two cars behind.

            “Dom knows you, Lucy. Get out of sight!”

            Slimy produce and God knew what else littered the floor.  “I’m not going down there.” Lucy snatched a bandanna from the rearview mirror and tied it over her head. She would wash her hair when she got home. More than once. “He knows you, too.”

            “He won’t recognize me.” Edna winked at her. “We all look alike.”

            The coupé climbed into the hills, and Edna struggled to hang back without stalling the truck. The car pulled onto a dirt lot. Lucy turned her back to the window as they passed the men and drove around the bend. The truck stuttered.

            “Edna, what are you doing?”

            “It’s not me. I think the truck is running out of gas.”

            With that, the truck stopped. Edna tried the ignition; it ground but wouldn’t start.

            “We need a phone.” She jumped out of the truck and gave Lucy a hand down.

            Lucy looked into the back.  “I think the chickens are cold and want to go to sleep.”

            They found a tarp in the truck and pulled it over the crates, Lucy hopping up and down to reach her side. She hushed the chickens. “Shh. Go to sleep. You should be happy you went for a ride in the fresh air. You could be in someone’s oven.”

            “What now?”

            “We have to call Harry. Tell him where Dom is.”

            Edna pointed at The Grand Canyon Chateau sitting like a dowager aunt on the hill above them. “I heard they’re closed for remodeling.”

            “Let’s hope their phone is still in order.” Lucy smoothed down her dress. “You stay and watch in case another car comes.  I’ll go find the phone.”

            “I should come with you.”

            “No. Keep watch. If a car comes, you can get its license number.”

            She climbed the road to the chateau, now respectable after its rowdy past as a speakeasy. No one was there, and the door was locked. Paint buckets and ladders littered the porch. She hoped she wouldn’t have to use one to get to an open window on the second floor. She walked around the building and tried the windows until one slid upward. Luckily, the sill was only a foot above the porch floor. She crossed herself, hiked up her skirt, and climbed in.

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Follow Mary online:

Twitter – @MAAdlerwrites

Facebook – https://maryadlerwrites.com/

Author Bio:

Mary Adler was an attorney and dean at CWRU School of Medicine. She escaped the ivory tower for the much gentler world of World War II and the adventures of homicide detective Oliver Wright and his German shepherd, Harley. She lives with her family in Sebastopol, California, where she creates garden habitats for birds and bees and butterflies. She is active in dog rescue and does canine scent work with her brilliant dogs — the brains of the team — and loves all things Italian.

 

What if Readers Hate Your Characters?

Do readers like the characters you create? Do they have redeeming qualities even if they do terrible things? Do readers “bond” with your characters? Are they sympathetic or pathetic? What makes a “likable” character? Today, I am reposting commentary from author and writing coach Marylee MacDonald. In her always enlightening comments on writing, she raises those questions and provides some revealing answers. Read on. You will not be disappointed.

What The Heck Are Likable Characters?

by Marylee MacDonald

Have you heard the term “likable characters” tossed around in your book group or circle of writing friends? If you’ve been in the writing biz any length of time, you may have even received e-mails from agents: “I didn’t find the protagonist likable” or “I just didn’t fall in love with your character.”

Fifteen or twenty years ago, I’d never heard the term “likable characters”. Then I began hearing it, and hearing it more often as my friends and I tried to find agents.

For a long time I struggled to discern the meaning of “likable characters.” Now I understand that agents and editors use “likable characters” to describe a feeling of distaste.

[image error] Can you create a character as likable as Jane Eyre? Readers feel a bond with her, and they’re rooting for her to find a way past the roadblocks to her happiness. Image from Flickr via The British Library.

“Likable characters” is shorthand for “I g,ot no pleasure from reading about these people.” The term is a signal that the agent would not enjoy living vicariously with your imaginary friend.

The Importance Of The Reader Bond

Agents, and readers in general, want to like and bond with your characters, especially your main character. In this blog post I’m going to talk about character likability and reader bonding.

What makes readers like some characters and detest others? I’m not speaking about villains here. We all know that a good villain is one readers love to hate. I’m talking about protagonists. These are the folks readers are supposed to cheer for. Flawed they may be, but on the whole our protagonists must capture readers’ hearts.

In case you’d like more on this subject, I’ve put together a free report on creating fictional characters. TIPS ON CREATING MEMORABLE CHARACTERS

An Empathy Exercise On Likable Characters

Let’s start with an empathy exercise, meaning let’s see how it feels to stand in published author’s shoes. Imagine you’re the author of a published book, and you’re glancing through Goodreads to find out how average readers feel about your latest offering. (At the bottom of this page, you’ll find the authors’ names.)

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Writer #1

These stories are dreary and devoid of any joy, humor, hope or beauty.
What’s the point of wasting time in a book where you can’t relate to any of the characters??!
…the stories are…brutal in a deep, almost subconscious, unintentional way, and they lack empathy

 Writer #2

Some stories are developed enough to impart quiet wisdom; others, though, are mere sketches, with one-dimensional characters and pat, trite resolutions.

 Writer #3

I disliked the character of Abby and despised her mother-in-law…
I kept reading hoping that the plot would lead to some redemption—did not happen.
Why should I care about these shallow characters that I haven’t developed any kind of connection to?

 Writer #4

He writes dialogue as if he hasn’t actually talked to another person in months, much less a woman in her twenties, like his main character.
The characters are pretty unbelievable. All the female characters are described as beautiful but mostly neurotic or actually insane.

Writer #5

The female characters are terribly drawn, with a misogynistic undertone…
Plotless, misogynistic garbage with a dismal worldview.
Not much depth to the characters, especially the women –the term “misogynist” frequently came to mind.

What did you think as you read these verdicts? Punch in the gut, right? So, listen up because you don’t want these kinds of comments about your book.

Create Likable Characters Right From The Start

One of the biggest puzzles for all authors is how to make readers and agents fall in love with our characters. We love our imaginary people, warts and all. Our characters are our children. But, readers do not necessarily have to love the little brat throwing a tantrum in the grocery store. Readers lead busy lives, and they make snap judgments. They won’t wade through an entire book waiting for the payoff–the day when the brat turns into an angel.

To be blunt about it, readers do not like characters who are negative, nasty, bitter, stuck, depressed, or hopeless. This makes common sense. If we have a friend caught in an endless loop of negativity, we give up on them. It’s no fun to hang out.

When you’re writing, try to avoid having the following:

shallow characters;
clichéd characters;
misogynists, racists, or homophobes. *****************************************************************************

The Issues of Misogyny and Stereotypical Females

Let’s start with the issue of misogyny. Readers say that Writers #4 and #5 objectify women. Is each of these (male) authors attempting to create a misogynist like Humbert Humbert in Nabokov’s Lolita? 

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“Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul.”

The opening of Lolita is one of the most evocative first lines in fiction. We forgive Humbert Humbert, the old reprobate, because he is unrepentant, and because he is funny and self-aware. One difference between his book and the two books maligned by the reviewers above could be this: Right from the beginning, Lolita is a particular girl, not an amalgam of body parts.

In workshop manuscripts I often see women reduced to a few physical characteristics, those that might ignite that Humbertian flame in a man. Even so, I’m sorry to see readers faulting Junot Díaz. (Oops! I let the cat out of the bag.) He’s really one of our finest writers. Maybe it’s as one of the Goodreads’ reviewers said: Díaz himself has admitted he can’t write women.

If a male writer can’t write women, that’s a problem. The female half of his readership won’t make a strong emotional connection with the characters he creates. It’s all too easy for men to project their sexual fantasies onto women, and women can spot that a mile away.

It may also be true that readers’ tastes have changed. Nabokov was a writer of his time. As writers in our contemporary world, we know that words have the power to wound. It’s not a matter of political correctness, but of empathy. We want to have empathy for all the characters in our books, to have that kind of deep understanding that creates a close author-reader bond.

By the same token, women writers need to watch out for creating shrill, bitchy females. The evil mother-in-law. The catty sisters. If you read between the lines of what the readers above are saying, you’ll see that readers don’t like stereotypical females. These characters hearken back to the way we felt about cliquish girls in seventh grade.

Let’s endow our characters of all genders, races and sexual orientations with the dignity and complexity of real people. If we do that, we can give readers what they desire.

Readers want to see themselves in the characters they’re reading about. If a woman can’t recognize herself in a book she’s reading, that creates a problem for the author. Bad reviews.

Readers Want To See Themselves

If readers want to read about folks who are, in some way, “like” them, then it follows that these characters must be “likable.” This doesn’t mean characters have to be Miss Goody Two-Shoes, but it does mean the characters should have positive characteristics.

Why? Because readers are more likely to bond with goodhearted characters. Characters who have a pure heart also generally have a conscience. Conscience and purity are admirable qualities that spill over into other aspects of a book. A character with integrity allows you, the author, to plant a moral compass at the very center of your plot. Readers who crave redemptive endings will be looking for that.

The Imaginary World

We’re writers, but we’re readers, too. As readers we step outside our ordinary lives. We accept the writer’s invitation to live inside her or his world. In exchange for the gift of our time and attention, we want several things:

characters from whom we cannot look away;
characters we can like, admire, and cheer for;
characters who show something pure about themselves;
characters who are multi-dimensional;
and characters with whom we can identify.

Take yourself back to childhood, and remember the characters you loved and the magic you found in books. If you can create that same magic for readers, you’ll earn their loyalty.

Answer Key

Writer #1 is Alice Munro, winner of the Nobel Prize for Literature. This beloved Canadian writer obviously hasn’t won over everyone.

Writer #2 is Maeve Binchy. This prolific and bestselling author may have gotten a bit lazy.

Writer #3 is Anne Tyler. Anne Tyler is one of my favorite authors, and I’ve often used her novel, Ladder of Years, as an example of how to plot. Her latest book, A Spool of Blue Thread, didn’t grab readers the way her earlier books did. Note that readers react to the female characters the way they would to people they actually know.

Writer #4 is Jonathan Franzen. Readers panned his latest book Purity. “He is a member of the American Academy of Arts and Letters, the German Akademie der Kunste, and the French Ordre des Arts et des Lettres.”

Writer #5 is Junot Díaz. ” He is the author of the critically acclaimed Drown, The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, which won the 2008 Pulitzer Prize and the National Book Critics Circle Award, and This Is How You Lose Her, a New York Times bestseller and National Book Award finalist. He is the recipient of a MacArthur “Genius” Fellowship, PEN/Malamud Award, Dayton Literary Peace Prize, Guggenheim Fellowship, and PEN/O. Henry Award.”

You can find more of Marylee’s thoughts on writing at her blog: www.maryleemacdonaldauthor.com

 

What do you like most about the Historical Fiction genre?

Historical fiction is one of the most popular forms of fiction being written today—along with young adult, zombie apocalypse, romance novels, and sci-fi.

I am specifically interested in learning why people like historical fiction books. I have a few theories, but I would like to know what others think.

As an author, I enjoyed writing the Finding Billy Battles trilogy—a historical fiction trilogy that begins in 19th Century Kansas and then moves (in Book 2) to the colonial Far East, then (in Book 3) to Mexico, and finally back to the United States in the mid-20th Century.

I am interested in knowing what it is that draws a reader (or writer) to this kind of fiction.

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As for me, I enjoy doing the research necessary to create an accurate portrayal of the people, places, and events of other eras, such as the 19th Century. I especially like “slowing” down the pace of life from the frenetic and hectic world of the 21st Century.

What I find appealing about eras “BSM” (Before Social Media), smartphones, I-pads, etc. is that you actually had time to THINK rather than simply react.

When I was a foreign correspondent for the Chicago Tribune, I can recall telling my office (via telex) when I was covering Vietnam, Cambodia, El Salvador etc. in the 70s & 80s that I would be out of touch for several days.

Then I would go to some remote area and spend time talking with people, analyzing what I was hearing and what I was seeing and then return to write a story that wasn’t filled with “instant wisdom” as we so often see today with journalists who “parachute” in to a country to cover a story.

Writing about the 19th Century, as I did in my trilogy, allowed me to slow down the pace, provide historical context, and give my characters time to think.

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Today, we are all in such a hurry to do things, to pack in as much as we can in a single day. When I think about my characters in the Finding Billy Battles trilogy, I envy the fact that they were not sped up by “galloping technology” as we are so often today.

My characters actually had time to stop and smell the flowers, enjoy a brilliant sunset, “listen” to a forest, and take the time to read a good book.

So, I am asking you to tell ME what YOU think about all of this.

Write as much or as little as you like.

I would love to share your thoughts and comments with my followers.

 

 

 

 

 

Baby It’s Hypersensitive Outside

Ah, Political Correctness. Will it EVER end? Probably not. We live in an era of relentless hypersensitivity where the habitually offended reign.

The latest controversy deals with the classic 1944 song entitled “Baby, It’s Cold Outside.”

I must have heard that song more than a thousand times growing up in the 1950s.

Penned by “Guys and Dolls” writer Frank Loesser and and his wife and musical partner Lynn, the song’s lyrics describe a woman trying to extricate herself from a date and saying “no, no, no,” while a man insists that she stays as he moves in closer, pours her another drink, and warns about the weather outside. Critics of the song say the lyrics promote date rape.

[image error] Frank Loesser and wife Lynn

OH, PLEASE!

A few dozen radio stations banned the song from their Christmas playlists, yielding to the clout of the #MeToo movement. However, many stations have since reinstated the song after hearing from thousands of listeners via phone calls, emails, and social media—all saying the song is a valuable part of their Christmas tradition.

“Baby It’s Cold Outside” made its film debut in 1949’s Neptune’s Daughter, in which the song is sung by Esther Williams and Ricardo Montalban. It was later gender-swapped for humor between Betty Garrett and Red Skelton. In the years since, the duet has become an enduring holiday classic, sung by everyone from Dolly Parton and Rod Stewart, to Michael Bublé and Idina Menzel, to Christ Colfer and Darren Criss on an episode of Glee.

Loesser and his wife wrote the song as a playful duet for the two of them to perform at their housewarming party while their guests were preparing to bid them goodnight.

I am not going to inveigh on and on about this; rather I’ll let you make up your own mind. Just click on the following three links to see how the song was handled by Esther Williams and Ricardo Montalban, Betty Garrett and Red Skelton, and Michael Bublé and Idina Menzel. I have also included a short interview with Dean Martin’s daughter, who decries the Über-sensitive PC era we find ourselves in. The song was one of her father’s favorites. He recorded it in 1959.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6bbuBubZ1yE&feature=youtu.be

https://people.com/music/dean-martin-daughter-baby-its-cold-outside/

I have also included the lyrics to the song so that you can follow along with the performances.

Lyrics to “Baby, It’s Cold Outside:”

(I really can’t stay) But, baby, it’s cold outside

(I’ve got to go away) But, baby, it’s cold outside

(This evening has been) Been hoping that you’d drop in

(So very nice) I’ll hold your hands they’re just like ice

(My mother will start to worry) Beautiful, what’s your hurry

(My father will be pacing the floor) Listen to the fireplace roar

(So really I’d better scurry) Beautiful, please don’t hurry

(Well, maybe just half a drink more) Put some records on while I pour

(The neighbors might think) Baby, it’s bad out there

(Say what’s in this drink) No cabs to be had out there

(I wish I knew how) Your eyes are like starlight now

(To break this spell) I’ll take your hat; your hair looks swell

(I ought to say no, no, no, sir) Mind if I move in closer

(At least I’m gonna say that I tried) What’s the sense of hurting my pride

(I really can’t stay) Baby, don’t hold out

[Both] Baby, it’s cold outside

(I simply must go) But, baby, it’s cold outside

(The answer is no) But, baby, it’s cold outside

(The welcome has been) How lucky that you dropped in

(So nice and warm) Look out the window at the storm

(My sister will be suspicious) Gosh your lips look delicious

(My brother will be there at the door) Waves upon a tropical shore

(My maiden aunt’s mind is vicious) Gosh your lips are delicious

(But maybe just a cigarette more) Never such a blizzard before

(I got to get home) But, baby, you’d freeze out there

(Say lend me a coat) It’s up to your knees out there

(You’ve really been grand) I thrill when you touch my hand

(But don’t you see) How can you do this thing to me

(There’s bound to be talk tomorrow) Think of my life long sorrow

(At least there will be plenty implied) If you caught pneumonia and died

(I really can’t stay) Get over that hold out

[Both] Baby, it’s cold outside

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I will conclude with this. We are taking ourselves way too seriously today. Moreover, we have become hostages of the habitually offended.

A nation that has lost its sense of humor is a nation on the threshold of collective psychosis.

Loesser and his wife were not promoting date rape when they penned “Baby It’s Cold Outside.” They were endorsing romance, which today seems to have lost its meaning.

Oh well. At the risk of offending somebody, I hope you have a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!

 

 

CHECK OUT THE RRBC “BOOKS & BUDZ” HOLIDAY POP-UP BOOK SHOP

HAPPY HOLIDAYS and welcome to the first RAVE REVIEWS BOOK CLUB’S “POP-UP” BOOKSHOP: BOOKS & BUDZ! As a member of the RAVE REVIEWS BOOK CLUB (RRBC), it is a privilege to support this unique bookshop where you can meet authors and watch them read snippets from their work. Below you will find a link that will take you directly into the shop. Enjoy!

The bookshop is categorized by price and genre!  You know how much you want to spend on books and you also know the kind of books you want to read, so we have narrowed the process to make your holiday book shopping a breeze.

Because the RRBC catalog is filled to the brim with books, here at our Pop-Up, you can go straight to the books in your genre and those also in your price range, because all the books in the RRBC catalog, are not here in the Pop-Up.  Don’t ask me why…but, ’tis strange to me, too!  The good thing about that, though, is that there won’t be mounds and mounds of books for you to wade thru to get to your next great read!

There is also an extraordinary treat in store for you at the BOOKS & BUDZ POP-UP SHOP!  Introducing the  Author “Reading” Room!  RRBC authors have come to sit and actually read a bit from their published works, and some are even sharing snippets from their upcoming works!  I did mention that it was a treat, didn’t I?  You get to sit, listen and actually “see” your favorite authors and friends as they “read” to you!  Leave it to RRBC to always do what others thought couldn’t be done!

So, are you ready to begin checking off those holiday book purchases for the special readers in your world?  Are you also prepared to take a break and listen in on some of the most talented authors in the industry, whilst they give you a great “reading” without the crowds or the long lines?

Well, as with all RRBC’s events, sit back, relax in your robe or PJs, if you wanna, and let your fingers start shopping!  And, while you came here to find some great books, I know that you’ll be leaving with a few new ‘budz’ as well!

Just click on the link below and you will be taken to the  BOOKS & BUDZ POP-UP SHOP!

https://booksbudzpopup.wordpress.com/

Don’t forget to leave your comments all around the site, don’t forget to follow the site, don’t forget to LIKE every page on the site and lastly, we ask that you help us spread the word of this fantastic event by sharing it all around your social media forums!  Please use the #RRBC #BooksBudzPopUphashtags when doing so!

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SPECIAL TREAT ALERT!

FOR EVERY BOOK THAT YOU PURCHASE FROM THE “POP-UP” BETWEEN DECEMBER 2 AND DECEMBER 16TH, AND THEN SEND US PROOF OF YOUR PURCHASE VIA EMAIL to RRBCINFO@GMAIL.COM, you will receive a FREE entry into a drawing for A $50 AMAZON GIFT CARD!  But, that’s not all!  THERE ARE MANY OTHER RANDOM AMAZON GIFT CARDS TO ALSO GIVE AWAY, IN VARYING AMOUNTS!  Yes, you could win multiple times, so get to shopping and sending us those proofs of purchase from Amazon!

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When you are in the bookshop, be sure to scroll all the way to the bottom of the page.  There are even more goodies waiting for you! https://booksbudzpopup.wordpress.com/

 

Day 17 of the WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour

Welcome to Day 17 of the WATCH “#RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour! #RRBC #RRBCWRW

Thanks for joining me today on this special showcase tour sponsored by RWISA (RAVE WRITERS – INT’L SOCIETY OF AUTHORS), an elite branch of the extraordinary RAVE REVIEWS BOOK CLUB!

The showcase will feature 19 talented writers, each featured on their special day with multiple blogs. I, along with the other hosts, ask that after reading the written work by each RWISA author that you click on the link designated to take you directly to that author’s profile page on the RWISA site.  On my blog, that link will be the author’s name just above the photo.

Today’s special guest . . .

Nonnie Jules

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. . . and her EXCERPT FROM THE SEQUEL TO DAYDREAM’S DAUGHTER:

(I’ve decided not to preface this piece with any details.  I’d like for the readers to try and “figure” out the direction this piece is going in.  Have fun!)

LEEZA

“Are you gonna buy me a drink or, are you just gonna sit there and stare at me?” Leeza asked the stranger at the bar.

“Uh, sure.  What are you drinking, pretty lady?”  Swirling to and fro, the man gripped the ridges of the bar to keep from falling off the bar stool.  “Hey, bartend, give this pretty lady what ‘er she wants and put it on my tab.”

Leeza looked him up and down.  Although not bad on the eyes, he didn’t strike her as a man with deep enough pockets to have a “tab” anywhere, but, who was she to judge.  

“Vodka on the rocks,” she said, waving her hand at the bartender.  When her suitor heard her request, his eyebrows raised.

“Sure you can handle that strong of a drink, pretty lady?” he asked, still teetering.

“That’s not all I can handle.” Her suggestive wink was all the invitation the stranger needed to move a little closer, even though he could barely stand.

“So, what’s your name, pretty lady?” he slurred.

“Anything you want it to be, honey,” she replied.

“Really?  Well, I want your name to be Available.  So, are you?”

As he sat waiting for her response, he reminded her of a puppy, paws perched on a windowsill, who has just noticed his master’s return home from work.

“You gotta pay to play with me,” she nudged.

“Well, honey, you finish up that there drink of yours, and let’s head up to my room.  I’m in town on business and I would love the company of a beautiful woman going by the name Available.”

In one fell swoop, she turned the shot glass up and the vodka was gone, causing the stranger’s eyes to bulge again. He’d never seen a woman down a drink as strong as that before.  

Turning away from the bar and grabbing hold of his tie, Leeza led the way to the elevator of the hotel…the stranger following close behind, like a leashed dog.

“What’s your curfew, pretty lady?”

With doors partially closed, she took her hand and grabbed his penis through his pants.  

“I’m a big girl, single with no kids…does that sound like someone with a curfew?” she asked as the beep of the elevator signaled the arrival to their destination.  

Stumbling ahead of her, the stranger swiped his key and pushed opened the door.  Leeza walked past him, falling backward onto the bed.

“C’mon over here and let’s finish the party we started downstairs,” she said, kicking off her heels and propping her legs up on the bed…spread-eagle.

Balancing as he walked, the stranger reached the bed with a huge grin plastered across his face.  

“C’mere.” Leeza forcefully took him by the tie once again and pulled him on top of her.

“Whoa, filly…what’s your hurry?  You said you didn’t have a curfew so why the rush?  Don’t you even wanna know my name?” he asked.

“Well, I thought your name was Ready since that’s the way you came across downstairs at the bar.”  Leeza was no longer smiling, feeling a bit toyed with, and being toyed with was the one thing she hated most.

“You’re a funny one, aren’t cha?” he chuckled.  “Ok, well let’s ‘git to what we came here for! By the way, my real name’s Jim.  Now tell me yours…”

“Nothing’s changed,” she whispered in his ear.  “I’m still Available.”

Switching off the lamp, she proceeded to undress both of them by the orange glow of moonlight trickling through the window.   This was a typical night for Leeza. Raunchy sex with yet another man she didn’t know, nor cared to. After a while, she just lay there and let him have his way.  

Then, just as quickly as it had begun, the party was over…for her, at least.  The banging inside her head warned of the onslaught of another massive headache and there was no getting away from it.  

She could no longer enjoy herself as the next one started to take over.

CHRISTY

Jim opened his eyes to a blonde pointing a gun in his face.  Startled, his eyes scanned the room for the brunette he’d brought back with him the night before, but she was nowhere to be found.  

“Give me your wallet!” the blonde demanded.  

“Who are you?  And, where is Available?” he asked, his eyes still searching.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about and I don’t want to know what you’re talking about, capiche?  My name is Christy and I’m not going to ask you again. Give me…your wallet.”

Jim pointed to his clothes that he’d been stripped of the night before, strewn across the floor.  “You didn’t ask me the first time,” he said.  “My wallet’s in there. Take whatever you want, just get outta my damn room.”

Christy stooped to pick up the pants, throwing them at him; the gun, nor her eyes, ever leaving their target.  

“Hey, I don’t take orders from you. Remember that. Now give me everything in there that’s spendable.”

Jim took the cash from his wallet and threw it at her.  “Here, this is all I have,” he muttered, anger lacing his tone.

“I saw plastic.  I want those, too.  And don’t make the mistake again of throwing anything at me,” she warned, raising the gun to remind him who was in charge.

Jim mumbled something, as he gently placed three credit cards on the bed.  Christy snatched the cards up and backed slowly towards the door, but her hands had barely touched the doorknob when she heard Jim yell, “Get out, you bitch!”  

Closing the door, she calmly walked back over to the bed.  She could see the new fear which had quickly taken up residence in his eyes.  Smiling, she put the gun to his head and pulled the trigger.

“Don’t you ever call me a bitch again.  I told you my name was Christy!”

***

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 have enjoyed this showcase of our amazing tour of talent!  Don’t forget to click the link below to learn more about this author:

Nonnie Jules RWISA Author Page

 

 

Day 16 of the WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour

Welcome to Day 16 of the WATCH “#RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour! #RRBC #RRBCWRW

Thanks for joining me today on this special showcase tour sponsored by RWISA (RAVE WRITERS – INT’L SOCIETY OF AUTHORS), an elite branch of the extraordinary RAVE REVIEWS BOOK CLUB!

The showcase will feature 19 talented writers, each featured on their special day with multiple blogs. I, along with the other hosts, ask that after reading the written work by each RWISA author that you click on the link designated to take you directly to that author’s profile page on the RWISA site.  On my blog, that link will be the author’s name just above the photo.

Today’s special guest . . .

Beem Weeks

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. . . and his short story, entitled:

Nightly Traipsing

There might’ve been a dream. Or maybe not. Violet Glass really couldn’t recall. Probably, though. A dream concerning some stupid boy—or even a girl.

Whatever.

Can’t control what creeps through your sleep.

Her body stirred awake as the blackest part of night splashed its inky resolve across that part of Alabama.

Violet stared at the ceiling, tried like the dickens to recall a face, perhaps a voice—anything belonging to the one responsible for this latest agitation.

Nothing came through, though.

Even dead of night did little to lay low that sticky heat. Old-timers in town swore oaths affirming this, the summer of 1910, to be more oppressive than any other summer since before the war between the states.

Violet eased her body from her bed; the soles of her feet found cool the touch of creaking floorboards.

There’d be nobody to catch her—not at this hour.

Nobody, but Ruthie.

And Ruthie Sender?—she’d never let on of these doings.

Violet scampered through the kitchen, flung her blue-eyed gaze against the darkened parlor. Only shadows and silence bore witness to her planned escape, a girl’s nightly traipsing.

The back door gave up with only minor provocation.

Dripping moonlight splashed the yard with a silvery sheen; promising secrets lingered among the gathered glow.

Around the rear of the house, she skulked, careful to hold close to the shadows, to remain hidden from the ones who’d blab, those others who’d hold it over her head for gain.

Back behind the barn she found her crouching spot, fell low to the ground, fixed sight on the direction of Ruthie Sender’s place a few hundred yards away. Traipsing just didn’t hold its fun without Ruthie tagging along.

Violet rushed her granddad’s cotton field without that hesitation she’d known only a summer earlier.

Shadows stirred and wiggled in the distance. Figures formed, made shapes around a low-burning fire. Even at the center of all that cotton, Violet could pick out words of songs sung by the coloreds, those kin to Ruthie Sender.

They sang about standing on wood, an old slave’s saying, drawing up recollections of a time they themselves belonged to someone else.

Belonged to Violet’s kin.

Wood smoke fogged the night air.

Violet hunched low, skirted the yard where those coloreds took up with their fire and song and whiskey. Friendly sorts, all of them. Always first with a kind word, an interest in Violet’s family, how the girl’s folks were getting on—even if that interest leaned toward pretending. But that’s the nature of the matter. It’s Violet’s great-granddad who’d once owned all those souls that gave creation to the very ones now singing and drinking.

She broke through shadows collected beneath an ancient willow tree, found respite behind the Sender family’s privy, and waited for the girl to either show or not show.

The colored girl’s legs appeared first, dangling from the pantry window, bare feet scrabbling at the air, searching for a solid thing to set down upon. The thud of her sudden drop wouldn’t wake anybody.

A dingy gray nightshirt clung to Ruthie’s body. Her dark-eyed gaze landed out where she knew to find Violet. If the girl offered a smile, it couldn’t be seen—not from this distance.

“Go out back of Tussel’s, maybe?” Ruthie asked, finding space in Violet’s shadow.

“Catch a strap across my butt, I get found by that saloon again,” Violet promised. “Daddy don’t say things twice.”

Ruthie said, “Chicken liver.”

Violet backed down a notch, weighed her options. “Who’s gonna be there?”

“Fella named Ferdinand something. Plays piano.” Ruthie tossed a nod toward those others out by the fire. “They won’t share us no whiskey.”

“Won’t share up to Tussel’s, neither—unless you got some money.”

*      *     *

They were born the same night, Violet and Ruthie, back during spring of 1895. Only a few measly hours managed to wedge in between them, separated the girls from being twins of a sort.

Close enough, though.

Ruthie came first—if her folks were to be believed.

“Where we going?” Violet asked, following after Ruthie’s lead.

“Lena Canu’s place,” said Ruthie.

“How come?”

“She got stuff to drink, mostly.”

Droplets of sweat ran relays along Violet’s spine, leaving the girl’s skin wet, clammy. “Awful hot, it is.”

“She a conjure woman,” Ruthie announced, laying her tone low, protected. “—Lena Canu, I mean.”

Midnight’s high ceiling lent sparse light to the path splitting the two properties. Violet’s kin, they’d once owned the entire lot. Her great-granddad, he’s the one took a notion to make things right, gave half of his land to the slaves he turned loose after the war.

Ruthie’s kin, mostly.

Senders and Canus.

Couldn’t ever really make a thing like that right, though.

A small cabin squatted in the brush; the orange glow of a lamp shined in the window. Used to be a slave’s shack, this one here.

Moonlight dripped on the colored girl’s face, showed it round and smooth, lips full and perfect, eyes alive with life and mischief. “Gonna see does she have any drink.”

Violet leaned closer, her bare arms feeling the other girl’s heat. She asked, “Can she tell fortunes?”

“Like reading a book.”

That dark door yawned wide; Lena Canu peered into the night. “I’ll tell your fortune, white girl,” she said.

Ruthie gave a nudge, guided Violet up the walk and into the shack.

A table and four chairs congregated at the center of the bare space. Kerosene fed a flame dancing like the devil atop the glass lamp. A pallet in a corner threw in its lot with the scene.

Lena Canu tossed a nod toward her rickety table. “Have you a seat, now,” she ordered, “—both of you.”

Violet sat first. Ruthie found perch across from her friend. Beneath the table naked feet bumped and rubbed, each girl assuring the other this would be a good turn.

“You one of them Glass girls, ain’t you?” Lena asked, dropping onto a chair of her own.

Violet said, “Yes, ma’am.”

Lena waved her off. “Ain’t no ma’am. Call me Lena, is all. You the one runs wild.” A pronouncement rather than a question.

Ruthie asked, “You got any liquor?”

A clear pint bottle came into the moment; its bitter amber liquid promised that sort of burn a person won’t mind.

Each girl drew off a long pull, let the heat mingle with their blood. Neither girl had ever gone full-on drunk; only a swig or two is all they ever dared.

Lena Canu, a conjuring woman, spread a pile of bones over the table and commenced to ciphering future happenings a girl might need to know.

Things about boys and marriage didn’t come up. Neither did mention of babies and such. All Violet heard portended mainly to trouble.

“Quit you runnin’ wild,” Lena proclaimed, “and you be just fine.” She took up her narrow gaze again, aimed to settle matters. “But you keep doin’ what you been doin’, things gonna go bad.”

The suddenness of gunfire echoed through that sticky air. Three quick shots chased by a lazy fourth that staggered along a moment later.

Lena jumped first, ran for the door. Ruthie followed after, peering into the dark, no doubt expecting to put a face to the one pulled that trigger.

Violet remained stuck to her chair, attentions tugging between the matters outside and those sayings left to her by that conjuring woman. Did she really believe in such things, or was it all just a mess of nonsense?

“What am I gonna do to make things go bad?” she asked, supposing it wouldn’t hurt to know—just in case.

But Lena had other notions to work over. “Sounds like they come from over to your place,” she said to Ruthie.

Ruthie tipped a nod, said, “Could be they gettin’ liquored up too much, huh?”

“Might could,” answered Lena.

It happens that way, boys and their whiskey, wandering along crooked paths of discontent, blabbing things not really meant for harm—just boasting, is all.

But boasting to a drunken fella is as good as a punch on his nose.

“Gonna go see,” said Ruthie, pushing past the threshold, pressing on toward home.

Violet held her ground, let the colored girl disappear in the night. Attentions ceased their tugging, settled on the one making proclamations concerning bad manners and trouble to come.

Lena came loose of her thoughts, brought one to words, said, “Go on home now, white girl. Nighttime belongs to devils.”

*      *      *

Clouds laid a brief smudge against the moon, stripped its shine right off the night, left Violet to wonder if it really might be footsteps stumbling along behind her, following that same narrow path toward home.

“Fool boys,” she muttered, tossing nervous glances over either shoulder.

Footfalls fell heavy—like boots hammering the earth. An eager thing born of desperation.

Violet bolted left, squatted low behind a pile of brush that had the makings of a snake shelter. She held her breath and waited for the one at her back to pass on by.

A piece of tree limb came to her hand, a long and heavy thing, able to put a soul right should he come at her with wrong intentions.

That smudged moon went shiny again, dripped light across the path, showed off the shape of a man loping toward home. Tall and thin, this one; he moved quick with purpose.

Going the wrong way, though, Violet thought, waiting for the man to pass.

She gained her feet, charged his retreat, swung that heavy piece of wood and caught that interloper straight between his shoulders.

“Jay-zus!” the man hollered, hitting the ground like a sack of potatoes.

“This is private property!” Violet informed him, fixing up for a second swing.

The fella pulled up on his knees, tried to reach for that spot on his back no doubt gone swollen. He said, “It’s private property only ’cause I say so.”

Foolishness seeped into the girl. She squinted against the dark, drew recollection of his face. “Granddad?” she said, hoping her recollections proved wrong.

“What the hell are you doing out here?” he demanded, giving his legs a try.

“Came out to use the privy,” she fibbed. “Heard gunshots, came to see, is all.”

“Liar!” the old man spat. “You been gallivanting again, ain’t you?” He moved closer to the girl, sized her up, made a big fuss over her running around in only a nightshirt and nothing else. “Your daddy’s gonna hit ya where the good Lord split ya—then he’s gonna move you to your sister’s room upstairs. Won’t be no sneaking out from there.”

Her gaze caught that glint at his waistband, a familiar hunk of blued steel. “Don’t matter,” she said. “Daddy’s gonna put you in the county home.”

“On account of what?”

“On account of you’re going senile, traipsing off, bothering colored folks again with that pistol of yours.” Violet leaned closer, continued her spiel. “Heard him and Mama talking just last week, saying how you’re a danger to yourself just as much as to others.”

The old man’s jaw fell open and slammed shut; intended words went lost to the night. He couldn’t tell on her now—not without personal risk.

Defeat fogged his eyes. “I won’t tell your business if you don’t tell mine.”

Violet seized the moment with both hands. “That depends,” she informed him.

“On what?”

“Who’d you shoot tonight?”

“Nobody. Just meant to scare, is all.”

“Gonna kill somebody one day—if you ain’t already.”

“Ain’t in my blood, killin’.”

“Don’t have to mean it to do it.”

The old man pulled back, let frustration have its way. “We got a deal or don’t we?”

“You gonna leave Ruthie’s people be?”

“Just want what’s mine,” he complained.

“But it’s their land, Granddad—been so for forty-five years. A hundred guns ain’t gonna make it not so.”

He never did wear misery well.

Violet’s arms went easily around the man. She pulled close to him, breathed in that familiar odor of sweat and tobacco.

He said, “I won’t bother them no more.”

“Then we have us a deal.”

***

Thank you for dropping by to support Beem on his special day of the showcase!  We hope that you will continue to follow the showcase by heading to Twitter and searching the #RRBC and the #RRBCWRW hashtags so that you can find and follow each author’s post. Enjoy!

***

If you would like to become a member of RWISA so that you too can receive this same extraordinary FREE support, click HERE to apply!

Day 15 of the WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour

Welcome to Day 15 of the WATCH “#RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour! #RRBC #RRBCWRW

Thanks for joining me today on this special showcase tour sponsored by RWISA (RAVE WRITERS – INT’L SOCIETY OF AUTHORS), an elite branch of the extraordinary RAVE REVIEWS BOOK CLUB!

The showcase will feature 19 talented writers, each featured on their special day with multiple blogs. I, along with the other hosts, ask that after reading the written work by each RWISA author that you click on the link designated to take you directly to that author’s profile page on the RWISA site.  On my blog, that link will be the author’s name just above the photo.

Today’s special guest . . .

Gwen Plano

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. . . and her short story, entitled:

MOM’S FINAL WORDS

By Gwen M. Plano

Worn out by time, mom lay motionless on the sheets. Life lingered but imperceptibly. At ninety-one, she had experienced the full range of life’s challenges. And, now, she rested her aged shell of a body and waited.

A farmer’s daughter and wife, her life was marked by practicalities and hard work. Always up before daybreak, she prepared the meals, washed the clothes and hung them on the clothesline, and otherwise attended to the needs of the household.

Her garden was a cornucopia of tomatoes and corn, of squash and lettuces. And the refrigerator always had freshly gathered eggs and newly churned butter.    

Mom rarely paused, to catch her breath, to offer a hug, or to sit calmly. Time is not to be wasted, she taught. And so, she was always busy.

Over the years, there were multiple times that she almost died. But, with each surgery or ailment, she emerged from death’s clutches more determined than before – to surmount her difficulties, to forge a path, to care for her family. “Life is a gift,” she would say to us.  

Mom knew poverty and uncertainty. Ration coupons from the war lay on her dresser, a reminder of harsh realities. Nothing ever went to waste in our household, not food, not water, not clothing. “Many have less than us,” she claimed. She would then insist we be conservative and share.

She knew sorrow well, having lost her parents when she was young, and then two of her nine children. As the years passed, she also lost her sisters and many of her friends.

Mom was a woman of faith. Throughout the day, you could hear her quiet entreaties. Prayer was always on her lips. When mom walked from one room to the next, she prayed – for this person or that friend or for our country. She’d stand at the sink washing dishes and invoke help, from the angels, from Mary the mother of our God, and from the Holy Spirit. “Pray always,” she’d remind us.

This busy mother fought death to the end, but when the doctor finally said that nothing more could be done, she simply responded, “I am ready.”

It was then that she met with each of her seven children. Barely managing each breath, she whispered her I love you and offered a few words of guidance.

When I was at mom’s bedside, she told me she loved me, mentioned a few family concerns, and then in a barely audible voice she said, “I don’t know what to expect.”

This precious little woman, who had spent her life busy with raising a family and helping with the farm, now was unsure of what would happen next. I was surprised by the words.  

She taught me to pray when I was quite tiny. “Get on your knees,” she would instruct. “Offer up your pain for the poor souls in purgatory,” she’d suggest. Then, she’d lead us in the Lord’s Prayer. Mom had us pray for family and friends, for anyone suffering, and always for our country. She’d share stories of angels and saints, of miracles and wonders, of midnight visitations and afternoon impressions. This fragile diminutive woman had instructed my siblings and me of the invisible eternal. And, I lived with those images as a child until they became as real to me as the world we see.  

Yes, I was surprised by mom’s words to me. “I don’t know what to expect.” But then I wondered, did she know? Did she know that I had studied near-death experiences? That I had written of the dying process? Had I ever told her?

I don’t know what to expect. Simple words, but a storm of thoughts followed. I held back my tears and took her hands in mine.

“Mom, I will tell you what friends have said and what the research has shown. The angels are coming soon, mom. You will see them in the light. Just follow their lead. Your sisters will join you, as will your mom and dad and your babies. Your whole family is waiting for you. It will be a wonderful reunion. There will be much joy.”

Her breaths grew slower.

I told her of Charles, a friend I met in my prayer group. He had died twice and because of that, he had no fear of his final death. Through his experiences, he saw that life continues. He spoke of celestial beings, of extraordinary love, of boundless joy. And, he told the prayer group that he looked forward to death.  

I shared these things and more. And, as I spoke, her eyes closed, and her breathing slowed. She had fallen back to sleep, to the middle ground between this world and the next. And I wondered, did she really need to know what to expect or did she want me to remember that life never ends?

***

Thank you for dropping by to support Gwen on her special day of the showcase!  We hope that you will continue to follow the showcase by heading to Twitter and searching the #RRBC and the #RRBCWRW hashtags so that you can find and follow each author’s post. Enjoy!

***

If you would like to become a member of RWISA so that you too can receive this same extraordinary FREE support, click HERE to apply!

Day 14 of the WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour

Welcome to Day 14 of the WATCH “#RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour! #RRBC #RRBCWRW

Thanks for joining me today on this special showcase tour sponsored by RWISA (RAVE WRITERS – INT’L SOCIETY OF AUTHORS), an elite branch of the extraordinary RAVE REVIEWS BOOK CLUB!

The showcase will feature 19 talented writers, each featured on their special day with multiple blogs. I, along with the other hosts, ask that after reading the written work by each RWISA author that you click on the link designated to take you directly to that author’s profile page on the RWISA site.  On my blog, that link will be the author’s name just above the photo.

Today’s special guest . . .

Harriet Hodgson

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. . . and her essay, entitled:

Lookout World: A Loving Grandma is on Duty

By Harriet Hodgson

Recently I read some blog posts by grandmas. Though a few posts were positive, most were negative. The grandmas couldn’t seem to find anything positive to say about aging or the wisdom they had acquired. My reaction to aging is different. Because I’m a grandma, I’m saying and doing things I’ve never done before. Maybe I need a badge that says GRANDMA ON DUTY!

I’m on marriage duty.

My husband’s aorta dissected in 2013 and he had three emergency operations. During the third one he suffered a spinal cord injury that paralyzed his legs. Since I drove him to the hospital emergency department I’ve been his caregiver and advocate. Although we have a less mobile life these days, we have a good life, and are more in love than ever. Each day is a blessing and we savor the days we have together.

I’m on GRG duty.

After my twin grandchildren’s parents died from the injuries they received in separate car crashes, the court appointed my husband and me as their guardians. (My daughter was, and always will be, the twins’ mother.) The court appointed my husband and me as the twins’ guardians and we became GRGs—grandparents raising grandchildren. According to the US Census Bureau, 10% of all grandparents in the nation are raising their grandkids. Raising the twins for seven years was a responsibility and a joy. Though the twins are adults now, I’m still a GRG when called upon.

I’m on safe driving duty.

When I noticed drivers weren’t stopping at stop signs—just slowing down and proceeding forward—I became upset. The police call this practice a “rolling stop” and it’s dangerous. What if a car hit a walking child or a child on a bike? I wrote a letter to the editor of the newspaper and asked drivers to follow the law and come to a full stop at stop signs.   

I’m on political duty.

Contentious as politics has become, I always vote and stay informed on issues. A friend of mine asked me to write for her political campaign, and I agreed to do it because of her teaching background and focus on children’s issues. My tasks included proofreading letters, writing new letters, helping with promotional materials, and delivering literature to homes. I was delighted when my candidate won re-election.

I’m on anti-theft duty.

We live in a townhome on a private street. It’s a safe neighborhood so I was surprised when a porch pirate stole my husband’s asthma medication. I reported the theft to the police and a detective came to our home. According to the detective, thieves look for neighborhoods that have connected mailboxes, such as four linked together, because it saves them time. I also reported the theft to the neighborhood association and it is pursuing the idea of locked mailboxes.   

I’m on learning duty.

My family didn’t get a television set until I was a senior in high school. Instead of watching television, my brother and I went to the library and took out as many books as we could carry home. I still love to read. The day doesn’t seem right and is a bit “off” if I don’t learn anything that day. Learning is good modeling for grandchildren. The twins know I love to read and love to learn.

I’m on writing duty.

To keep my skills sharp, I write every day, everything from articles for websites, magazine articles, handouts to support the talks I give, and writing books. My 37th book is in production now and comes out in the fall of 2019. It’s a book about being a grandmother and I’m excited about it. I’m excited about the cover too. Waiting for the release date is going to be difficult.

I’m on giving duty.

Giving to others helps them and makes me feel good inside. I give free talks to community groups, talk to school kids about writing, and donate to the food bank in memory of my daughter. One of the best gifts I give is the gift of listening. A grandchild can feel like nobody is listening. That’s why I practice active listening. I make eye contact, nod to show I’m listening, and refrain from interrupting. Active listening takes more energy than passive listening and it’s worth the energy.

Grandmas have special skills to share with families. They are also keepers of history. “A house needs a grandma in it,” Louisa May Alcott once said, and I think she was right.

I’m just one grandma, trying to make a difference. There are millions of grandmas like me. Working alone and together, we are loving, protecting, and nurturing grandchildren around the world. Some grandmas are activists, others are advocates, and others are both. Instead of sitting around and waiting for things to change, grandmas are initiating change.

Be on the lookout for the loving grandmothers in your community. Join their efforts. If you can’t join in, support their efforts verbally and financially. The loving grandmas of the world are on duty, and always will be. Hug a grandma today!

***

Thank you for dropping by to support ?????? on her special day of the showcase!  We hope that you will continue to follow the showcase by heading to Twitter and searching the #RRBC and the #RRBCWRW hashtags so that you can find and follow each author’s post. Enjoy!

***

If you would like to become a member of RWISA so that you too can receive this same extraordinary FREE support, click HERE to apply!

Harriet Hodgson RWISA Author Page

 

Day 13 of the WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour

Welcome to Day 13 of the WATCH “#RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour! #RRBC #RRBCWRW

Thanks for joining me today on this special showcase tour sponsored by RWISA (RAVE WRITERS – INT’L SOCIETY OF AUTHORS), an elite branch of the extraordinary RAVE REVIEWS BOOK CLUB!

The showcase will feature 19 talented writers, each featured on their special day with multiple blogs. I, along with the other hosts, ask that after reading the written work by each RWISA author that you click on the link designated to take you directly to that author’s profile page on the RWISA site.  On my blog, that link will be the author’s name just above the photo.

Today’s special guest . . .

Robert Fear

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. . . and his short story, entitled:

Afternoon Cycle Ride

by Robert Fear

Ibiza, May 1977

As I set out on my cycle ride, the streets of Es Cana were busy with pale-faced holidaymakers exploring their new surroundings. I almost collided with a couple who looked the wrong way as they crossed the road.

The hire bike was a boneshaker, and as I headed out of town to the west, the road surface was uneven. The ride became rougher, and I swerved to avoid potholes. Shocks vibrated through the handlebars and I lost my grip twice. Despite this, the breeze in my face and the sun on my back felt good.

Roads twisted and turned as I followed the coast around Punta Arabi and through the outlying villages. I passed pine tree-fringed sandy beaches and caught glimpses of the sea. New tourist developments dotted the coastline, in between the traditional houses, shops, and bars.

After a while, I came to the dusty main road that ran from the north of Es Cana. Cycling westwards towards Santa Eulalia I soon found myself in the main square where I had changed buses when I first arrived from Ibiza Town in April.

My parched throat led me in search of a drink. Opposite the Guardia Civil offices, I spotted Fred’s Bar and decided it was a good place to quench my thirst. With the bike propped against an outside wall, I walked into the gloomy interior and blinked after the bright sunshine.

At the bar, I ordered a draught beer. As I stood and sipped it, I glanced around and saw groups of men sitting at the wooden tables. English was the main language being spoken, and the newspapers were days-old copies of The Sun. I felt out of place amongst the rustling of papers and whispered conversations.

Chalked on a board was a small menu of English food. I ordered Shepherd’s Pie with my next beer.

‘Take a seat at that corner table and I’ll bring it over in a few minutes,’ commanded the gruff Yorkshire voice from behind the bar. I assumed that was Fred.

‘Cheers mate,’ I smiled and walked over to the seat he had indicated.

Sat on the hard, wooden chair I placed my drink on the table.

I looked up and saw a man limping from the bar. A large glass of whiskey and ice almost slipped from his hand. Without a word, he slumped down opposite me. He shouted greetings to others but ignored me. His voice was slurred, and he had a distinctly American accent.

My food arrived, and I dug into it with a vengeance. The cycle ride had given me a good appetite. As I polished off the plate, my table companion burped and glanced towards me. I smiled at him and he grinned,

‘Looked like you enjoyed that.’

‘Yes, it was great,’ I replied, ‘have you tried it?’

‘No man, I’m not into food much, I prefer this stuff,’ he slurred and pointed to his drink.

He pulled out a pack of Camel cigarettes, flipped back the top and offered me one.

I accepted it and gave him a light. We both took a deep drag on the rough taste and exhaled plumes of smoke. He moved closer and I could make out a mass of scars on his face and arms.

‘Do you live in Santa Eulalia?’ I asked, ‘you seem to know lots of people here.’

‘Yea man, been here ages now. Came to Ibiza in ’73. I’ve got a small apartment just outside the town, overlooking the sea.’

I looked at him with curiosity, ‘so you work here then?’

He threw back his head and laughed. All eyes turned in his direction as the raucous laugh subsided into chuckles.

‘No man, I’m pensioned off from the Army. I was in Vietnam. Halfway through my second tour I got blown to smithereens and was lucky to survive. They shipped me to the States, filled my body with metal and stitched me up. I was in the hospital for months and still go there twice a year for check-ups.’

My jaw dropped, and I looked at him with a new respect. He continued,

‘The climate here helps my aching bones, and the booze is cheap. I’ve made friends, although most of them think I’m crazy. I suppose I am sometimes!’ he mused.

‘Did you want another drink?’ I asked him, to break the momentary silence.

‘A large bourbon, with water and ice would be great, thanks, man.’

Back at the table, I clinked my glass against his. ‘Salut!’

We chatted a while longer and I told him about the work I was doing. His eyes glazed over. He nodded as I talked, but I sensed his mind was elsewhere.

‘I have to go now,’ I said, as I stood up and offered my hand.

‘Nice talking to you man, all the best and hope to see you again.’ He gave me a weak handshake from his seated position.

‘Yes, me too, my name’s Fred.’

‘I’m Michael, or Mike, also known as Mad Mike by my friends. Take care on your ride back to Es Cana.’

He waved over as I headed out of the door.

The bike had fallen over, but it was still there. I had not thought to secure it two hours before when I entered the bar. I figured it was safely parked opposite the police station.

With a slight wobble, I set off along the main road towards Es Cana. A car came straight at me and I had to swerve. Out of habit, I had started out on the left-hand side of the road. With a wrench of the handlebars, I switched to the right and just avoided a collision.

That could have been nasty!

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