Ronald E. Yates's Blog, page 95
August 25, 2017
WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour: Joan Curtis
For the next few weeks, I will be featuring the work of fellow members of the Rave Writers-International Society of Authors (RWISA). Please check back each day to see an eclectic sample of fine writing by these talented authors. Today I am pleased to present: Joan Curtis and her original short story: “A Gift of Silence.”
[image error] Joan Curtis
A Gift of Silence
By Joan C. Curtis
The man stood outside the store window, shifting from foot to foot. I’d have probably gone right by him, but as I passed, he looked me straight in the face, sending a chill up my back. Mystified, I found a place in the shadows and watched.
He wore a black golf shirt with a Nike swoosh. His black slacks were neatly pressed, but scuffs covered the toes of his dark shoes. As he paced in front of the store, as if waiting for something or someone, his left foot dragged. Maybe that was where the scuffs came from. A girl passed by him without so much as a glance. She wore flip-flops and short shorts. He turned away from her. Why look me in the face and ignore this young girl with long flowing blond hair?
After an interminable twelve minutes, he entered the store. I crept to the side window to get a closer view. A saleslady approached with a big hopeful smile. He jerked away as if he might flee, but she persisted. Probably learned that in Sales 101.
Peering inside, I could make out the blurry image of the saleslady as she crouched down to retrieve a box. While she bent, the man grabbed an item off the counter. He pocketed it so fast if I’d blinked, I’d have missed it. Gasping in surprise, I nearly collapsed into the window. So neat. So fast.
While I recovered from the shock of having witnessed a theft, the man exited the store. He hurried in the direction of downtown. Hands tucked in his pockets and his head lowered, he wove along the sidewalk, avoiding moms with kids, students with backpacks, and cyclists. I followed. What did he plan to do with his ill-gotten gains?
My friend, Rose, would give me a lecture. Why didn’t you go inside the store and raise the alarm? What were you thinking, watching, witnessing, and doing nothing? No wonder we pay so much money for our trinkets. Thieves get away with it, and it’s all because of people like you. But, I never intended to tell Rose about this. Not if I could help it.
Instead, I hastened to follow the man, avoiding other shoppers and site-seers. My sole purpose was to find out what this strange person was up to. My watch read two-fifteen. I had missed the coffee date with my cousin. She’d forgive me. I’d have to make up an excuse about traffic or something equally lame, but I couldn’t think about her now. I had to see where this man led me. My curious nature would never let me rest otherwise.
Moments later he entered the parking deck. He was going to his car. Darn! Once he got in a car, I’d lose him for sure. My Honda was parked here as well, but on the top level. With my luck, his was probably on the first level. It was impossible to imagine we’d be parked close enough for me to follow him.
He entered the elevator. The light flashed up to level 4. I raced up the stairs like a madwoman. Huffing and puffing, I reached the fourth level just as the elevator doors opened. I caught a glimpse of his black form walking to a red Kia. I made a quick turn and hightailed it up to the fifth floor to retrieve my car. Then I plowed down toward the exit, round and round, hoping, praying. Eureka! The red Kia was just in front of me, waiting to pay. The Universe was on my side.
Mr. Thief drove with caution, obeying all the traffic rules, making it easy for me to keep him in sight. Nonetheless, I stayed one car back, not wanting to risk him seeing me. Maybe he’d remember me from the street! A shiver ran through me. What would he do, this thief? Stop his car, jump out, and murder me? Absurd.
The light changed. We moved down the road. A strange thought filled my head. Had the Universe wanted me to witness this thievery? Everything seemed to be falling into place. “Don’t be stupid.” Rose would say and would add I was being melodramatic.
We turned into the parking lot for the Hermitage Nursing Home. This made no sense. Why not a pawn shop? Didn’t thieves go to shady establishments on busy street corners with flashing neon signs to hock their merchandise? Not to a nursing home. Maybe he worked here? Maybe he was some sort of klepto and couldn’t help himself? Maybe he had no intention of hocking the stolen article? He pulled into a parking place a few steps from the entrance. I chose one farther away. From my rearview mirror, I spied him getting out of the car and entering the building.
Once he disappeared, I made my way inside and approached the information desk where a girl of about twenty had her head buried in a People magazine. When she finally looked my way, her eyes filled with wonder, as if I’d dropped from the sky, “Can I help you?” she said.
“The man who just came in. He dropped a five-dollar bill in the parking lot. I ran after him, but I missed him. Do you know where he might be?”
“Oh, that’s Jerome. He’s visiting his mom. Comes every day at least once. Want me to give it to him?”
I hesitated. She blinked. “Well… I guess it won’t hurt for you to go down to room 212. It’s the last room on the right, down that corridor.” She pointed the direction.
I moseyed away as if I had all the time in the world. Once out of her view, I picked up my pace. Conversation came from room 212. Mr. Thief was talking very loudly. Apparently his mom had hearing issues.
At the door, I peered inside where Mr. Thief perched on the edge of the bed near an attractive woman with cottony white hair.
“You shouldn’t have, Jerome. I know how much this place is costing you,” the woman said.
“But, Mom, it’s your birthday. I wanted to give you a little something.”
“Just having you here is enough. But, I do like bracelets. You know how I like bracelets. Remember when your dad gave me a diamond bracelet—of course, I didn’t know it wasn’t diamonds then. It wasn’t till later. Remember? After he died and left nothing but bills and debts, I tried to sell the bracelet and found out it was worthless. I flushed it down the commode.”
“I remember, Mom. You told me that story. I wanted you to have a real diamond bracelet before… well, you know.”
She hugged him. “This is the best gift ever.”
I backed away from the room, my heart racing.
Back in my car I didn’t wait for Mr. Thief, a.k.a. Mr. Nice Son, to come out of the building. I started the engine and drove home.
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***
To learn more about Joan:
*The Author’s Story
*Author Showcase
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, to 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:
(Joan Curtis) RWISA Author Page
August 24, 2017
WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour: Bruce Borders
For the next few weeks, I will be featuring the work of fellow members of the Rave Writers-International Society of Authors (RWISA). Please check back each day to see an eclectic sample of fine writing by these talented authors. Today I am pleased to present: Bruce Borders and his original short story: “One Nice Fall Day.”
[image error] Bruce Borders
One Nice Fall Day
by Bruce A. Borders
©2017 Bruce A. Borders & Borders Publishing
Not having a good Monday at work, I decided to cut my day short and head home. Home, my sanctuary. As a single guy, I often retreat to my sanctuary when things become intolerable, such as today.
Pulling into the drive, I noticed the yard and house really needed attention. I kept the lawn mowed, but the knee-high weeds were another matter. The house too had long been neglected. The loose siding and trim boards couldn’t be ignored much longer.
“Maybe next weekend,” I mused.
But then, I’d said that last week too. I’d only gotten as far as hauling out a garden rake and a tree trimmer before reconsidering and putting them back. Or, maybe I hadn’t put them away, I thought, seeing my rake in the yard.
Taking a minute to replace the rake in the tool shed, I wandered inside, intent on taking it easy for the rest of the afternoon. And I did. The next couple of hours were spent napping. Then, feeling slightly more energetic, I thought I’d give the yard work another try. And that’s when I found the body.
A male, early twenties, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, lay face down in the weeds, not ten feet from where I’d walked earlier. Good citizen that I am, I immediately called 911. Within minutes, my yard was swarming with cops and other emergency personnel.
After examining the body, one of the detectives walked over. “You discovered the body?”
I nodded, as another officer joined us.
“Tell me what led to your discovery.”
I related the gist of my activities of the day, such as they were.
Then began a series of inane questions. “You live alone here? Why’d you leave work early? What took you so long to call 911?”
“You’re acting like this guy was murdered or something.”
“We’re just trying to figure out the timeline and what happened,” one said.
“And to what extent you were involved,” his partner added.
I guess I’ve seen too many TV dramas because the first thing I said was, “So, do I need a lawyer?”
The cop shrugged. “Depends. Is there a reason you may need a lawyer?”
“I don’t know,” I stammered. “Don’t think so. Just don’t want to be blamed for this murder.”
“No one’s blaming you—yet.” The officer paused, whether for dramatic effect or to weigh his words, I wasn’t sure. “Should we be looking at you as a suspect?”
“Of course not.”
The detectives eyed me a moment. “We’ll be in touch,” one said as they turned away.
They’ll be in touch? What’s that supposed to mean? They’d said I wasn’t a suspect; was that just to keep me off-guard until they’d had time to gather enough evidence to build a case?
I shook my head. I must be crazy. There was no evidence. There was no case. I hadn’t done anything except find the body. I certainly hadn’t killed him.
But, they didn’t know that. And here I was acting all weird. Even I had to admit my strange behavior and ramblings appeared suspicious. The police likely thought so too.
And that’s how I ended up seeing a criminal defense attorney for a crime I hadn’t committed.
“Sounds like you’re a bit paranoid,” said the attorney after I’d filled him in.
“Paranoid, huh?” I said, somewhat sheepishly.
He smiled. “A little.”
I couldn’t think of an intelligent response, so I just sat there.
“Tell you what,” he said, breaking my uncomfortable abeyance. “I’ll keep my notes and if you’re arrested, call me.”
“Thanks. Hope I don’t need to.”
“If you didn’t commit the murder, they can’t exactly find any evidence. Although…”
I frowned. “Although what?”
They could always charge you with manslaughter if anything you’ve done, intentionally or unintentionally, contributed to the man’s death.”
“Right. I didn’t even know he was there until I found the body.”
“It’s most likely nothing to worry about. But you never know.”
As I stood to leave, he added, “If you are arrested, don’t say anything until I’m present. You’ve already given your statement. That’s all you’re obligated to do.”
Nodding, I left.
Just talking to the lawyer had helped. The anxiety I’d felt earlier was gone. Feeling better about my prospects, I drove home and was utterly shocked to find two police cars in my driveway, the officers knocking at my door.
As I parked, they came toward me. “Mr. Powell?”
“That’s me.”
“Can we come in and talk?”
I hesitated. The attorney had said to say nothing if I were arrested. He hadn’t mentioned anything about not being arrested. “Depends,” I finally managed. “Am I under arrest?”
“No,” the officer said. “We just want to clarify a few things with you.”
I repeated what the lawyer had told me. “I’ve already given my statement. That’s all I’m obligated to do.”
“You’re not interested in helping solve this murder?”
I certainly was interested in solving the murder, but something told me that “helping” might have an entirely different meaning to them. “I’ve already given my statement,” I said again.
The officers looked perturbed. “Well,” one said, reaching for his handcuffs. “You leave us no choice then. Mr. Powell, you are under arrest in connection with the murder of Vincent Dalhart.”
As the cop handcuffed me, I focused on what he’d said. I wasn’t being arrested for the murder but in connection with the murder. I wasn’t sure what that meant if anything. I hoped it meant they didn’t actually think I’d killed the man.
The next two days were a blur of numerous meetings with the detectives and my attorney. Through these conversations, I finally learned what had happened.
Vincent Dalhart had been stabbed to death. There were four puncture wounds, evenly spaced. Two had pierced a vital organ. The time of death was uncertain although, the medical examiner estimated it to be five hours before I, the only suspect, had stumbled onto the body.
Meanwhile, the police had executed a search warrant for my property, finding my rake, which they believed to be the murder weapon. Lab testing confirmed that blood present on the tines was that of the victim. Murder in the first degree was the charge.
To his credit, my lawyer seemed undaunted by the discovery. I told him about seeing the rake and putting it away. He seemed satisfied. “But the police will want to know how you didn’t notice any blood on the rake.”
“Yeah,” I sighed. “Not sure how I missed that.”
He shrugged. “Easy enough explanation. The blood was only on the tines—probably not a large amount. By the time you picked it up, the blood had likely dried. It would’ve been very difficult to see unless you were specifically looking for it.”
Unfortunately, the police were specifically looking for it, having determined a garden rake to be the likely murder weapon. And as my lawyer had predicted they weren’t exactly sold on my account of the events. Instead, they believed I’d used the rake to murder the man breaking into my house.
With no other options, we prepared to go to trial. My attorney seemed to like my chances. I wasn’t so confident. Here I was, a guy who’d never even been in a fight, charged with murder. It all felt so overwhelming.
Then, the next day, things took a surprising turn.
The guard came to escort me to the briefing room where my attorney waited.
“Good news,” he greeted me. “All charges have been dropped. You’ll be released within the hour.”
I was stunned. “That’s great, but… why? How?” With the direction things had been going, I found it hard to imagine the police had suddenly decided I was innocent.
“Turns out your neighbor saw the whole thing from across the street. Mr. Dalhart arrived at your house on foot, poked around; checking doors and windows, then went to the shed and retrieved the rake. Standing on your porch railing, he attempted to use the rake to pull himself up to an open second-story window. The window ledge gave way, and Mr. Dalhart fell to the ground, impaling himself on the rake.”
“But the rake was a good ten feet from the body.”
The attorney nodded. “Apparently, the would-be thief lived long enough to remove the rake and fling it away.”
I was frowning. “My neighbor watched all this and didn’t even try to help? Or, report it? Not that I care, really. The thief got what he deserved. But how does someone just watch all that and not do anything?”
The lawyer shrugged. “People are strange. Maybe he didn’t want to be involved. Who knows? He’s been arrested and faces legal troubles over his lack of humanity.”
“I would hope so.”
“Just be glad he eventually came forward.”
“I am.” I fell silent then.
The attorney noticed my gaze. “What is it?”
I smiled wryly. “Was just thinking… That window ledge has been loose for quite a while, banging in the wind. Been meaning to fix it for months, just hadn’t gotten around to it.”
Eyeing me a moment, the lawyer said, “You might want to keep that information to yourself.”
Contact Via:
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Over My Dead Body Book Trailer
To learn more about Bruce:
*Author Showcase
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, to 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:
(Bruce A. Borders) RWISA Author Page
August 23, 2017
WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour: Author Robert Fear
For the next few weeks, I will be featuring the work of fellow members of the Rave Writers-International Society of Authors (RWISA). Please check back each day to see an eclectic sample of fine writing by these talented authors. Today I am pleased to present: Robert Fear and his original short story: “The Fight.”
[image error] Robert Fear
The Fight
by Robert Fear
Es Cana, Ibiza, Spain – August 1977
Jose took an immediate dislike to me.
He worked as a waiter at the Panorama hotel near the seafront. I had been there to see Diane, an English girl I met while at work in Grannies Bar. Petite and with short blond hair, she had a delightful personality. She was also a real head-turner.
Diane came to Ibiza on a two-week holiday with her friend, Elaine. It felt fantastic she wanted to spend time with me, but Jose thought his role was to be her protector. He glared at me every time he saw us together
Towards the end of her holiday, Diane spent a night with me and I didn’t get her back to the hotel until breakfast time. Jose was on duty and spotted us outside as we kissed. That just made things worse.
After Diane left for home, things deteriorated. The next Friday evening, as I walked to work, Jose headed towards me with a group of Spanish lads. Their intentions were obvious as they stared, raised their fists and shouted at me across the street.
Before they could catch me I escaped down the steps and into Grannies Bar. Their taunts still rang in my ears as I headed for safety.
Friday nights were always manic. Eager drinkers packed the outside terrace after a day in the sun. A queue of customers had already formed as I dived behind the bar to help serve them.
Four of us; Mick, Pat, Graham and myself, worked that evening shift. Pat was half cut and spent most of the evening with her friends. Mick’s mood was not good as a result, but the three of us got stuck in and served the eager punters.
After six weeks at Grannies, I knew the routine. We served drinks and collected pesetas in quick succession. Spirits were easier to serve than at home. Two ice cubes got thrown into a glass and the vodka, gin or brandy poured until the ice floated. Then the mixer was added.
We could drink behind the bar, provided we remained sober enough to serve. Pat loved her gin and tonics and often wasn’t! Mick, Graham and I had regular supplies of vodka and orange but remained level headed as we rushed around serving eager customers.
Willing female hands often helped out. They collected glasses and washed them up in the sink at the end of the bar. As a reward, they had drinks bought for them and got the chance to pull Graham, myself or even Mick on occasions.
Work finished at 3 am. We headed to El Cortijo for another drink and a dance. A group of Spanish lads hung around near the entrance, but I thought nothing of it. Only later did I found out they were Jose’s friends.
The disco pulsed and the dance floor heaved. Lights from the ‘disco ball’ flashed around scantily clad bodies as they cavorted to the sounds of Abba, Rod Stewart and Status Quo. We caught John’s attention, and he passed us a bottle of San Miguel each.
Graham and Mick met up with two girls they had chatted up in Grannies earlier. Pat had gone back to their villa with her friends so Mick was free for the night. Propped at the bar I sipped my beer and relaxed after a hard night’s work.
By instinct, I spun round to find Jose stood behind me. He glared at me and mouthed something. The music drowned out his words. Jose beckoned for me to come with him. Even though it was obvious he wanted a fight, I went. By the time I got outside it was too late.
My fighting skills were minimal. I had been the object of bullying at school. One lad taunted me with the repeated chant, ‘Freddy’s got a rudimentary organ’, while in the showers. This hurt me and screwed with my teenage sensibilities. I tried to avoid the shower room when he was there.
Two other lads pushed me around and sometimes thumped me. They wanted money, but I had none to give them. One time I gave in to their pressure and stole books for them from a sales exhibition held in the school hall. I never thought of fighting back. I did not know how!
Now I stood on the dusty wasteland twenty yards away from the front entrance of El Cortijo. Jose faced me, surrounded by his group of friends. The atmosphere was menacing and none of my friends were even aware what had happened.
‘So, you silly man, what you say?’ screamed Jose in broken English as he edged towards me.
‘What did I do wrong?’ I retorted.
I sweated in the heat of the August night and he must have sensed my fear.
‘You took girlfriend, English scum.’
‘No I didn’t. Diane wanted to be with me you arrogant pig.’
I amazed myself with that response. The drink from earlier in the evening gave me a false sense of courage. Things were dire and soon became worse.
Jose swung his right fist toward my head. I ducked and there was a whoosh of air as he missed.
He turned round and aimed another punch at me. This time he connected and his fist crunched into my jaw. I reeled backwards. Maybe I should have just gone to ground and admitted defeat. This time I fought back.
Well, fought might be too strong a word for it! I stumbled forward and made a dive for his midriff. Jose grabbed me by my shoulders and flung me to the ground.
I spat out a mouthful of dust before I tried to get back up. Then I saw the flying feet of Jose and his mates. It became obvious they wanted to give me a severe beating.
In defence I rolled into as tight a ball as possible with my hands wrapped around my head. The kicks and punches continued and my senses faded as protection against the pain.
Then it stopped. Shouts came from the front door of the disco and the Spanish lads scattered. John, Alan and two others screamed at the top of their voices to get them away from me. A German girl on her way to the disco had seen the scuffle and dived into El Cortijo to get help.
Worried faces peered at me as I uncurled myself. Although bruised and battered there were no broken bones. I hauled myself to my feet. With support from my rescuers, I struggled back to the disco for another drink.
An uneasy truce existed between Jose and me for the rest of the summer.
Contact via:
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“FRED’S DIARY 1981: TRAVELS IN ASIA”
***
To learn more about Robert:
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, to 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:
(Robert Fear ) RWISA Author Page
August 21, 2017
A Little Shameless Self-Promotion
I want to thank all of you who are subscribers to my blog, ForeignCorrespondent. I sincerely appreciate your willingness to accompany me on my nomadic excursions of punditry, self-reflection, and occasional brainstorms.
Like all who blog, I am endeavoring to increase my subscriber base. Therefore, I am asking each of you to invite friends, neighbors, relatives, and just about anybody you know who has access to The Internet to check out my blog and subscribe.
Writers or those who like to read are welcome in particular.
As an incentive, I will provide free ebooks (MOBI, EPUB, or PDF) of Book #1 in the trilogy to the first ten new subscribers.
AND NOW, FOR SOMETHING ELSE
During the past couple of months, I have received frequent inquiries from readers who ask when Book #3 (Working Title: “The Lost Years of Billy Battles”) will be available.
First, let me thank those faithful fans of the Finding Billy Battles Trilogy for their interest and encouragement. Your support means a lot as I trudge ahead writing this last chapter in Billy’s long and astounding life.
All I can tell you at this point is that I am about 90 percent finished with Book #3 and my objective is to have the book finished and published this fall.
As to the story, without giving away too much, I can tell you Billy and Katharina have some harrowing adventures in Mexico during that country’s bloody revolution. Later, some horrific events cause Billy to vanish. What happened? Why did he disappear? Where did he go? How long was he gone?
Those are questions you will find the answers to in “The Lost Years of Billy Battles,” the final book in the Finding Billy Battles Trilogy.
In the meantime, stay tuned for periodic updates, information on pre-publication orders, and how to receive signed copies.
August 20, 2017
WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour: Author Marcha Fox
For the next few weeks, I will be featuring the work of fellow members of the Rave Writers-International Society of Authors (RWISA). Please check back each day to see an eclectic sample of fine writing by these talented authors. Today I am pleased to present: Marcha Fox and this excerpt from her her upcoming novel: Dark Circles.”
[image error] Marcha Fox
Your Wildest Dreams
I inhaled sharply when I recognized the introductory riff wafting from my favorite 80s station as Your Wildest Dreams by the Moody Blues. Even though I had the original 45 RPM record, the album on cassette tape, and more recently, the CD, I kept them safely locked away so I wouldn’t binge on it. Nonetheless, when KPLV, 93.1 FM in Vegas, got around to playing it every few weeks or so, I’d indulge in a break, a delicious reminder of why I was here.
Consumed by ethereal and intimately familiar sound waves, I got up, closed the blinds, and even though it was unlikely the song’s strains would penetrate my office’s cinder block walls, plugged in my headset so I could crank it up—I mean really up. I melted back into my chair, eyes closed, with what was probably an idiotic smile on my face, savoring each note as the song segued into its lively, 142 BPM tempo. The next three minutes and forty-one seconds, I’d be in heaven.
Even though this song came out eight years after she left, the first time I heard it, back when I was still in college in ’86, I knew two things: One, it would always be “our song”; and Two, I had to find her.
My heart leapt with visions of galaxies beyond, of what might be out there, where she might be. I plunged headlong through space and time, besieged by memories burned into my heart as permanently and painfully as branding was to a newborn calf. Did she remember? Feel the same thing I did? Sense the enchantment of fate-entangled lives?
I memorize pretty easily, which comes in handy, especially with things like the Periodic Table or Maxwell’s equations. And of course, favorite songs. These particular lyrics struck me, hard and personal, from day one, certain it’d been written exclusively for me.
As my eyes teared up, logic intervened and yanked me back to planet Earth.
Grow up, Benson! What are you, a total schmaltz or what?
We were kids, for heaven sakes. A teenage crush. I should’ve gotten over it, but never did. No wonder. Girls like her are rare. One of a kind. She’d already experienced things I never would. Things that were part of my wildest dreams.
The admonition failed, pushed aside by that part of me that felt alive again, jammin’ like a total jerk, mouthing the words as I sang along in my head. It’s not like I’m a teenager anymore, though at the moment I felt like one. No, memories of the heart never die—can’t die, ever—even if you try to kill them.
I’d give anything to talk to her. Which of course I have, numerous times over the years, if only in my head. Okay, aloud more often than I care to admit. I could swear it even felt as if she answered a time or two. I suppose that’s how it is with your first love. Or your first kiss, even if it was only a peck on the cheek. It penetrates your soul and stays there forever.
That mid-summer day in ’78 hauling hay was as vivid as yesterday in my mind’s eye. The cloudless sky, sun hot on my neck, the aroma of first-crop alfalfa sweetening the mountain air. I scratched my shoulder, a reflex memory of itchy, stray leaves sticking through my T-shirt. My chest ached as I remembered tear tracks streaking her dust-covered face at something I’d said. Then, days later, that withering look when we lied about her ship.
The one we still have. What’s left of it quietly abandoned beneath a tarp in Building 15, here at Area 51.
How she knew we weren’t telling the truth, I’ll never know. Pretty funny it’s still sitting there. And I’m sure she’d think so, too. I can just hear her saying, “Stupid snurks, I knew they’d never figure it out.” Though actually they did, just didn’t find technology worth pursuing. Even contractors didn’t want it.
I had to admit it was pretty crazy, but she was my motivation to get where I was today: just short of a decade of college linked with serendipity that put me in the right place at the right time, hoping someday I’d find her. My life had changed a lot since then. How much had hers changed? Did she make it home? Was she still alive? With the effects of relativistic travel, which I understood only too well, she could still be a teenager, while I was easing into the infamous dirty thirties.
Not good. If I ever did find her, she’d probably think I was some lecherous old fart. Either that, or, with my luck, she’d be married with a bunch of kids. I winced at the thought.
My sentimental reverie vanished when my office door slammed open, and Hector Buckhorn rolled in. Literally. Hec’s been stuck in a wheelchair ever since he crashed his hang glider into a New Mexico mountainside during spring break his last semester of college. He ridge soared a lot, particularly around Dulce, over restricted areas where he wasn’t supposed to be. Got caught a couple of times, but being Native American, never got in trouble, even though it wasn’t his home reservation. He’s amazingly good at playing dumb, in spite of—or possibly because of—his 150ish IQ. He never talked about his accident, said he couldn’t remember. Makes sense, actually, given he suffered a massive concussion. The only time I ever saw him pissed him off was when he woke up in the hospital and discovered they’d shaved off his hair since grown back beyond shoulder length.
I dropped the headset around my neck and faked a frown. “Don’t you ever knock, butthead?”
“Hey, man, wazzup?” he said, giving me a funny look. “You okay?”
I laughed. “Of course. Just thinking. Remembering. You know.”
“Ahhh. They played that song again, didn’t they?”
“Can’t hide anything from you, can I, Chief?”
“Nope. I figured you were up to somethin’ with your blinds closed.”
He wheeled over to the gray metal, government-issue table on the other side of the room and helped himself to a handful of peanut M&Ms. Once I’d realized during my Ph.D. days at Cal Tech that, in a pinch, they made a pretty decent meal, I’d kept that old, wide-mouth canning jar full. He dumped them in his mouth, perusing me with knowing, dark eyes.
“You were sure enjoyin’ that song of yours,” he said, not even trying to stifle his crooked grin as he munched away.
“Yeah,” I replied, uncomfortable with the conversation’s direction.
“We’ve known each other a long time, Allen,” he said. “Don’t you think it’s time you told me about her?”
“Not much to tell.”
He let fly with a popular expletive related to bovine excrement. “C’mon! What’s her name?” he persisted.
I blew out my cheeks and sighed, knowing resistance was futile. “Creena,” I answered, surprising myself when, again, I got a little choked up. I avoided his eyes by likewise heading for the M&Ms.
“So find her,” he said.
“It’s not that simple,” I replied, pouring myself a handful. “I don’t know where she is.” A statement that was truer than he could possibly imagine.
“I have some resources who could help,” he offered with a conspiratorial wink.
I shook my head, then stalled by popping a few colorful orbs in my mouth.
“Why not? If she’s anywhere on this planet, these guys’ll find her.”
I swallowed hard and paused; met his gaze. “She’s not.”
He scowled, making him look a lot like those old pictures of Cochise. “Say again?”
“She’s. Not.”
“Oh! I’m sorry.”
“Why?”
He shrugged. “I assumed she’s dead. She must’ve been quite a girl.”
“She was. Is. She’s not dead. At least as far as I know.”
His jaw dropped, shocked expression broadcasting the fact he’d caught the implications. “You’re not kidding, are you?”
“Nope.”
“Abductee?” he whispered.
“Nope,” I answered, raiding the candy jar again. “Immigrant.”
His eyes widened as he spewed an expletive that elevated excrement to sanctified status. “Don’t tell me she’s an EBE!”
I nearly spewed partially chewed M&Ms across the room. Extraterrestrial biological entity, indeed! Yet by definition, actually, she was.
I chuckled at his expression and shook my head. “No. Quite human. At least as far as I know.”
“Are you?” he added, chocolate-colored irises rimmed with white. His reaction surprised me—UFOs, even aliens, were no big deal in his culture, just business as usual with the Star People.
“C’mon, Chief! You’ve known me since tenth grade, running high school track!”
He leaned back, searching my face with more solemnity than I’d seen since I told him how Dad died. “You’ve got a lot of explaining to do, bro,” he said finally, shaking his head.
“You have no idea,” I said, throat constricting as scratchy lyrics from the headset, audible only to me, issued another reminder of why I was here.
Copyright © 2017 by Marcha Fox
[NOTE:–This is an excerpt from my upcoming novel, Dark Circles, a slightly dark, hard sci-fi love story. No release date has been set.]
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, to 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:
Marcha Fox RWISA Author Page
Blog Talk Radio Interview re Writing
For those who may have missed the live blog-cast, here is a link to my interview on Rave Review Book Club’s “Buy the Book” talk radio show Saturday (August 18). I hope you enjoy it.
August 19, 2017
WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour: Author Jeff Haws
For the next few weeks, I will be featuring the work of fellow members of the Rave Writers-International Society of Authors (RWISA). Please check back each day to see an eclectic sample of fine writing by these talented authors. Today I am pleased to present: Jeff Haws and his original short story: “Dim Light Breaks.“
[image error] Jeff Haws
DIM LIGHT BREAKS
by Jeff Haws
Jolting upright, I squeeze the Jack Daniels bottle between my thighs just before it tips over to the floor. I look down and see the black label staring at me; the little bit of whiskey that’s left is tilting toward the lip, ready to fill my shoes if my legs can’t hold onto it. I briefly wonder if this is why they give these bottles flat sides, for better drunken, convulsive thigh catches. It’s saved me on more than one occasion from having shoes full of whiskey. Well, that and my ability to leave the bottle mostly empty.
I grab the top of the bottle and pull it back up, then try to raise my head; the room rotates quickly, lights blur and walls smudge while my head bounces on a neck that refuses to carry the weight. Enough of these nights will teach you the chair is always your better bet than the bed. I’d have already puked into my own lap if I’d been in bed, but keeping your feet on the floor helps ground you against the worst of the drunken spinning head. When I know I’m spending the night with Jack; I’ll always stay downstairs in the recliner with my feet firmly planted on the linoleum.
My head bobs left and settles on my shoulder; in front of me, the window reveals a purple sky with a sliver of dim light peeking over the ground, between the neighbors’ houses across the street. What does that make it? 6:30, maybe? I can’t remember if I ever fell asleep. I’m not confident I’ll ever fall asleep again.
The people across the street, though—I’m sure they’re asleep. Spencer and Mary are in bed right now, dead to the world. Her head’s probably resting on his fucking shoulder. He snores a little bit, but she’s used to it by now. Probably even comforts her, just being reminded he’s there. I fucking hate those people. I really do. Their whole lives are based around creating these perfect little characters, so the rest of us feel even shittier about our own lives. But you can’t even get mad at them, or you look like the jackass who’s jealous and screwed up in the head. Not the people who pretend they’re something they’re not. No, it’s the guy who minds his own business and is genuine about who he is who’s the fucked-up one. That’s the way the world works.
I spin the bottle around in my hand, looking at the liquid slosh around in waves. Bubbles cling desperately to the glass walls but can’t hold on, splashing back down into the molasses-colored pool below. I raise the bottle and tilt it toward me; the whiskey burns just a bit as it hits the back of my throat, the sting helping to delay the inevitable throbbing head that’ll come next. I lift the bottle and splash the last few drops into my mouth, shaking it to make sure there’s nothing left, then drape my arm over the side of the chair and let the bottle fall to the floor with a heavy clink.
I have no idea what day it is. Am I supposed to be at work in a couple of hours? When every day’s the same, it’s hard to say. Time is just change, in the end. If the sun didn’t come up and go down, the Earth didn’t rotate; the world never changed, there’d be no way to measure it. Essentially, there’d be no such thing as time. People’s lives can get like that too. When the days start blending together, how do you measure time? And, even more so, what’s the point?
That sun that’s gradually getting closer to showing itself isn’t going to bring anything good with it. The dark is better. You can hide when everybody else is sleeping. You don’t have to look at how your neighbors’ lives reflect your own inadequacies. You don’t have to face yourself. The dark lets you be alone, lets you wallow and embrace whatever misery is there to be embraced. The morning just exposes it all to those smiling faces with white teeth all lined up in a row.
I know they don’t approve of me. I see them at church, and they say hi, but you can see it’s forced. There’s no small talk. No more invitations to their lake house. Just hollow greetings if they can’t avoid me. When Adrian would show up with fresh cuts and bruises on her arms, I know they suspected something. I think she purposefully tried to make them just a little visible. A small cry for help, maybe. She’s been gone awhile, though.
Now, God wouldn’t approve of what I’ve become. This withering mass that passes the hours of insomnia with liquor straight from the bottle. He can smell the whiskey on my breath just like the neighbors can. I don’t even know why I go to church anymore, when I can remember it’s Sunday. He can see my heart’s not there, that I wish I could have a handle of some devil’s water with me when I’m kneeling in front of a pew. It’s not that I don’t have faith that there’s someone in control; it’s that whoever that someone is has delivered me into this reality, this life. Whatever this is. Becoming an atheist almost seems redundant. When your belief is this tainted, is it even worth the bother of leaving behind?
I figure I’ve been strapped to this chair long enough, so maybe I’ll wander upstairs. I have blackout curtains in the bedroom; I can shut the world out up there. Pretend I’m somewhere else, somewhere better. Somewhere new. There’s no way I’m stepping foot outside today.
Standing up, I get a feel for just how much I really drank; my legs nearly buckle, and I fall back toward the chair. My hand catches on the chair’s arm and stabilizes me while I try to forget about the merry-go-round in my head. Ten seconds pass, then twenty. Finally, I lift my hand off the chair arm and pause to see if I can stand up. My legs wobble but hold; slowly, I bring my hand further up from the chair and straighten from my hunch. My arms are spread to my sides like I’m on a balance beam, trying to keep my center of gravity above my feet. I take one careful step forward, then another, deliberate, slow, momentum building as I reach the banister for the stairs and grab ahold hard.
Each step is becoming a little easier, now getting help from my left hand, pulling my body up the stairs one foot at a time, finally reaching the hall. I’ll need an aspirin or four before I lie down. If I’m lucky, I’ll sleep. If not, I’ll stare at the ceiling in the dark for awhile.
I open the door to the room and step through; the bed is just a few steps in front of me. I walk quietly to it and stop, bending carefully over the mattress. I pull back the quilt a little bit and bend further, kissing her forehead gently. She’s only six, and she deserves me to be better than this. It’s kind of amazing we’ve made it this far; she believes her mom is someplace better, and I do nothing to dissuade her from that. Hell, I hope she’s right. But if so, I can’t join her there now. There’s more for me to do. If there is a god, this is the one lifeline he’s thrown me, and I’m clutching to it with everything I have. She’ll get me to the other side of this. She’ll be the light breaking through the dark. It’s dim now, but it’ll shine brighter if I can rise with it.
I pull the quilt back up under her chin and fold it back across her shoulder. Then I back out the way I came and shut the door behind me, careful not to let the latch click. My bedroom’s down the hall, and more darkness still awaits.
Jeff Haws been writing for more than 20 years, from shivering outside at high school football games to walking the halls of the Capitol in DC. His writing has been published by the Washington Post, Atlanta Journal-Constitution, Miami Herald, Philadelphia Enquirer, New Orleans Times-Picayune, and many other news publications. In 2004, he won the Georgia Associated Press Sports Feature of the Year.
His first novel, “Killing the Immortals,” has 10 five-star reviews on Amazon, and delves into the question of what could go wrong if humans could live on indefinitely. His novels will mostly settle in the suspense/thriller/dystopian realm, looking at how flawed people deal with worlds that seem to be spinning out of control around them. In his shorter works, he’ll explore various topics and genres, giving the reader a glimpse into new worlds, new characters, and different approaches, some shocking and some poignant.
Contact via:
Email: Jeff@JeffHaws.com
Twitter/Instagram: @ByJeffHaws
Blogs/Websites:
Titles:
***
To learn more about Jeff:
*Author Showcase
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, to 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:
Jeff Haws RWISA Author Page
America’s Racial History in Context
Occasionally, I turn my blog over to others who offer lucid and compelling commentary on events impacting our nation. Today, E. W. Jackson, the presiding Bishop of The Called Church, nationally syndicated radio host, and a Virginian, has the floor. This is a repost of a column for the American Thinker in which he examines the state of the country in the wake of the demonstrations and deadly violence in Charlottesville. He makes a lot of sense.
By E.W. Jackson
Slavery ended 152 years ago. Jim Crow segregation ended 52 years ago. Yet here we are, fighting the same battles as if nothing has changed.
A few white supremacists and Nazis gathered in Charlottesville, and the whole country is now on edge. The mistake we made is giving them attention as if they represent something more than a fringe of a fringe. They do not. Ninety nine percent of Americans – including the President – appropriately denounce them and their worldview.
The white supremacists are rejected by the mainstream media, the entertainment industry, colleges, universities, public schools, and the people, so how did 50 nut cases capture the attention of the entire nation?
First, extreme leftists went to the rally with sticks, bats, and the hope of having a violent confrontation. They were not disappointed. Three people died as a result. If no one had shown up to counter-protest and the media had simply acknowledged that they were there, it would have been the proverbial tree falling in the forest with no one to hear the sound.
The sad truth is that the mainstream media needs this as much as the Nazis because violence and chaos bring ratings and money. Once bricks and bats and fists start flying and cars are turned into weapons, it’s an international story that no journalist can ignore.
There has to be a better way to solve the centuries-old problem of race in America. If not, future generations will be witnessing race riots in perpetuity. To the immediate issue — the Confederate monuments and symbols — it’s time to put them in museums and historical parks set aside for that purpose. At this point they are little more than a lightning rod for confrontations between white racists and left-wing extremists.
As an American of African descent, I am not a fan of the Confederacy. However, my wife and I visited the Confederate Museum in Richmond. It is part of American history and it is more complicated than the racial narrative.
There was loyalty to family, friends, and state. There was the unresolved issue of where federal authority ends and state power begins. Many who fought for the South were brave and honorable, but they were on the wrong side of history. Most southerners who want to honor their heritage are not racists and haters. Nor can our Founding Fathers be dismissed merely as slaveowners.
We Americans are great at contextualizing our present: criminals, we are told, are the byproduct of poverty and black people’s problems are vestiges of slavery and Jim Crow. However, we are very poor at contextualizing the past. America did not invent slavery, but the way our history is told, you would think it started here.
Our Founding Fathers did not wake up one day and decide that it would be a good thing to enslave sub-Saharan Africans. They inherited the “peculiar institution” which was not peculiar at all for the times and is still being practiced today in some nations under Muslim rule. In spite of being steeped in the culture of slavery and benefitting immensely from it economically, America’s Founders wrote about its evil and debated how it should end.
Slavery almost derailed both the Declaration and the Constitution. Our Founders yielded to the need for unity rather than immediate moral correction. Had they chosen the immediate moral rectitude of ending slavery, we might not have a country now because at least two colonies adamantly opposed the mere denunciation of slavery.
That is why the treatment of the Confederate flag and monuments must be different from the treatment of Washington, Jefferson, Madison, and our other founding patriots. Yes, these three were among those who owned slaves, but they also gave us the world’s greatest experiment in human freedom. They understood that freedom is the inherent right of every human being, even slaves, and they said so in their writings.
[image error] E. W. Jackson
We all are works in progress — learning, growing and getting better as human beings. Sometimes we see things differently as we grow older and presumably wiser. The Founding Fathers were also human beings navigating a complicated world. Despite their imperfections, they established the greatest nation in history. We are heirs to their legacy of freedom, and they deserve gratitude, not disdain.
Wanting statues and monuments of the Founding Fathers pulled down is the sentiment of those trapped in stupidity and ingratitude. We all live under what Dr. King called the “majestic words” of the Declaration of Independence: “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal and endowed by our Creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.” Shall we strike those words from our history because a slave owner wrote them?
Our Founders created a nation. The Confederacy would have divided it. These have two very different places in American history, but history is still history, the good, the bad and the ugly. It should be remembered and studied lest we repeat it.
The white supremacists and far left seem to want just that — to repeat history and fight the Civil War again. We must not give them what they want.
E.W Jackson is a Republican Political analyst; a nationally syndicated radio host on American Family Radio & Urban Family Talk; Presiding Bishop of The Called Church; was 2013 Republican Nominee for Lt. Governor of Virginia; and is founder & president of S.T.A.N.D. [www.standamerica.us].
August 18, 2017
WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour: Author Harmony Kent
For the next few weeks, I will be featuring the work of fellow members of the Rave Writers-International Society of Authors (RWISA). Please check back each day to see an eclectic sample of fine writing by these talented authors. Today I am pleased to present: xxxxxx and her original short story: xxxxxx .”
[image error] Harmony Kent
Live or Die?
By Harmony Kent
Sometimes, you need to accept help. Sometimes, you need to admit that you need it. Sometimes, you need to take the hand that’s offered. You reached out and took my arm. I let you. I took the assistance I needed. I gripped your hand so that you could pull me to my feet. The last thing I needed was for you to slit my wrists. So much blood. All that carnage. My heart ripped right out of my chest.
I did my best.
Though, what kind of an epitaph is that?
Do I want that immortalised on my headstone?
Does that adequately sum up a life?
What about all the rest?
At the end of the day, what’s left to show for all that struggle, all that pain?
Right now, only one thing remains certain, that things can never be the same. That river? Already crossed. That road? Already travelled. That life? Already lived.
No going back. Not ever.
Going forward, though? Now, there’s the question.
For this gal, only one choice remains. Live or die?
Sometimes, you need to accept help. Once bitten, twice shy and all that, though, ya know? Truth be told, I’ve come to the end. Like I said, no going back. The rub is that I can’t go on either. The wind whips my hair into my face and throws cold pellets of rain at me. I shiver and dig deep for the courage. Never did like heights, yet here I stand. To jump or not to jump? That is the question.
The darkness wraps around me and locks the breath in my lungs and my feet in place—leaves me perched here in a daze. The metal burns cold within my death grip. With pulse racing, I edge my left foot forward a couple of centimetres, and then bring the right one up level. Perforce, I have to let go of the steel girders now. I’ve taken a step too far. Sweat breaks free from every pore and soaks this trembling mass of flesh, muscle, and sinew. With a heart this broken, how does it even continue on?
‘Miss? Are you okay? … Miss?’
At the unexpected voice, I twist and startle. A man reaches for me, indistinct in the arc-sodium lights.
‘Miss? Here, take my hand.’
A sudden gust buffets me from behind, and I stumble forward, a scream frozen in my terrified throat. All of a sudden, it hits me, I don’t want to die. Too late, however, as I’m off balance and too close to the edge. Dimly, as I fall, I see that it’s not about living or dying but about having the choice. It seems the wind has finished your job for you. Limp and spent, I plummet to the waiting river below, which sends up cold plumes of spray and waves like open arms welcoming me in and under to die beneath.
Sometimes, you need to admit that you need it. At the first swallow of brackish water, I swallow my pride, and every molecule of this being cries out for help. I should have grabbed his hand. Should have, but could I have? Would I have if given the chance? More ice-cold water pours into my throat and drowns my lungs. All the philosophising ceases as it becomes a fight for life. The cold pierces and stabs like a knife.
Tired and afraid, and no longer quite so numb, I kick, searching for the surface. Already, my limbs have gone stiff. The pressure in my chest has grown unbearable, and I have to take a breath, even though I know it will mean certain death. I just can’t do it. Can’t hold it all in anymore. Bubbles erupt when the life-giving air breaks free of my now open lips.
They show me the way when they float up, up, and up.
For a second, I hesitate. Do I go for it or not? Here is my chance for total surrender. To not have to fight any further. Do I have the energy? The will? At the end of the day, what’s left to show for all that struggle, all that pain?
I did my best, but I don’t want that on my epitaph.
My legs kick and arms stroke, pushing through the murk and trying for air. With this exhaustion and cold, I doubt I’ll get there. By now, the bubbles have long gone, but I’ve come near enough to discern the orange city glow. Not far now. One more kick. One more. That’s it. Just one more.
Sometimes, you need to take the hand that’s offered. I come to, afloat on my back, and the icy waves provide my waterbed. Way up high, atop the bridge, come the blues-and-twos, as the emergency services rush to the scene of my demise. Don’t they realise that I’ve fallen too far from reach? Beyond any assistance or redemption.
It seems as if hours pass me by while I drift in and out and upon. This time, a deafening roar causes me to rouse. A shadow flies through the sky, trailing a bright beam. The search is on. These arctic temperatures have other ideas—so much so that I’ve begun to feel warm. A bad sign. Sleepy too.
Impossibly white light hits me and burns my eyes. I raise a hand to cover them and, immediately, lose my buoyancy and sink back into the dark. The search light now glows dimly above the water. Too tired, too cold, too done to even try and fight, I let the river have its way.
The universe has other ideas, it seems, and once again, I lose the choice. Strong hands grip my armpits and haul me upward. To the artificially lit night and the cold and the air and the despair. Oh, love, what did you do to me? So much blood. All that carnage. All those lies and abuse. What’s the use?
You reached out and took my arm. It all unfolded in a blur and strobe-like snapshots—the winch into the helicopter, the medi-flight, and them getting me here. Trouble is, I think they left my heart there.
A nurse bustles into the private room and pulls apart the drapes. ‘Time to let in some light,’ she says. Oh, how wrong could she be? The last thing I want to do is see. Right now, only one thing remains certain, that things can never be the same. I want to stay in the dark; hide from my shame.
‘You have a visitor.’ Her voice sounds far too bubbly. It hurts. ‘The police officer who tried to help on the bridge.’ A shadow crosses her face. Then she gets busy tidying the bedding and then me. ‘I’ll just go and show him in.’ Once again, I don’t get a choice. No time to find my voice.
The door opens slowly, and I lay with baited breath. A young man eases in, dark hair and chocolate eyes, with a smile that feels like the most glorious sunrise. ‘May I?’
His question gives me pause. Never before did anyone ask my permission. Dumbstruck, I give a mere nod. My visitor edges to the bed and takes a seat on the hard plastic chair that the nurse placed there. We sit in silence for a while, and then his eyes find my scars. So many. Clouds snuff out that beautiful dawn and darken his face.
Now, he’ll make his excuses and take his leave. He’s done his bit. But no. Instead, he takes my hand. Looks into my eyes. Somewhere from the edges, I register that he doesn’t have on his uniform. ‘It’s okay,’ he tells me, fingers rubbing mine. ‘You’re safe now. We’ll make this right.’
Uninvited, a sob brings the elephant right into the room. ‘No one can,’ I croak.
‘It’s okay. He won’t hurt you again.’
‘You know who I am?’
He nods, gives my hand a squeeze. ‘We know everything.’
All I want to do is shrivel up and crawl within.
With both hands, he reaches out and takes my arms. I let him. He seems an angel in human form, and I feel safe within his embrace. Into my hair, he whispers, ‘It’s okay. I’ve got you. I got you now.’
Can I take the leap of faith?
Now, there’s the question.
Live or die?
HARMONY KENT is an award-winning, multi-genre author, as well as an avid reader and writer, who lives in rural Cornwall with her ever-present sense of humor and quirky neighbors. Some of her publications include THE GLADE, INTERLUDES, FINDING KATIE, POLISH YOUR PROSE and SLICES OF SOUL.
Harmony enjoys supporting her fellow Indie authors and works hard to promote and protect high standards within the Indie publishing arena. She is always on the look-out for talent and excellence.
Harmony is single and not admitting her age.
To learn more about Harmony
Contact Via:
Email: harmonykent@gmx.com
Twitter: @Harmony_Kent
Facebook: Harmony Kent Online
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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, to 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:
August 17, 2017
WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour: Author D. L. Finn
For the next few weeks, I will be featuring the work of fellow members of the Rave Writers-International Society of Authors (RWISA). Please check back each day to see an eclectic sample of fine writing by these talented authors. Today I am pleased to present: D. L. Finn and her original poetry.”
[image error] D. L Finn
EXPANSION
Flowing out before me – while approaching –
In the sweeping motion of a grand gesture
Presenting its soulful sweetness.
Behind me is a small desert I’ve crossed – shoeless
While carefully stepping over the littered offerings.
Salt saturates my senses
As the gentle-wind styles my hair,
With the latest sea breeze fashion.
My eyes are opened to new possibilities
With a window into its wonders,
With every wave that greets my feet,
The sun soaks into my skin
Cradling me in its warmth and completing the moment.
I stand in awe before the substantial sea
Observing its vast expansion of life-
That I’m humbly a part of.
SOARING
I soar above it all
In a human-made machine
Taking me places
Only my soul has dared to venture.
Up into the heavens,
Higher than the loftiest of birds,
I soar above my life
Going from one place to another.
The clouds which usually blanket me
Are perched like a safety net below,
Holding me above the sea.
Lives seem so small
As our group is thrust forward
Some sleep-
Some read-
Some watch movies-
While others drink.
It’s a long trip with strangers
All going to the same destination
But right now, we are…
Above it all in our metal bird—soaring!
DOORWAY
Through the trees
The sky is orange, red, and grey
Covering the fleeing blue stratosphere
As the night suppresses the day.
The birds fill the trees
Singing their goodnights
As I pull on a sweater
In a shiver from the receding light.
The setting sun is a time of reflection
Of the night and of the day
A balance of both places
In the sunset’s doorway.
Hi, I’m D.L. Finn, an independent California local that encourages everyone to embrace their inner child. I was born and raised in the foggy Bay Area, but in 1990 my husband and I packed up our belongings, two kids, two dogs, and cat and moved to the Sierra foothills in Nevada City, CA. Being surrounded by towering pines, oaks and cedars, my creativity was cradled until it bloomed. It was a cold winter’s night when the author flower bloomed on the writing tree.
This night wasn’t just any night—it was Friday the 13th. Involved in this incident was a black cat named Coco, a rushed trip to the bathroom, and a loud snap. Spending the next day in ER (on Valentine’s day) with a broken foot may seem like my black cat was bad luck, but it was completely the opposite. I finally had time. With this unexpected gift of freedom, I found I could only watch so many TV shows. My daughter suggested (as she had been doing) that I finally put my work out there—or try self-publishing. Up to this point, I had received many nice, even encouraging, rejections from publishers. So, I started researching, and indie author D.L. Finn emerged.
I have always best expressed myself in the written word. As D.L. Finn, I explore what is going on inside myself and my characters–how things aren’t always what they seem. I learned that lesson a long time ago with a difficult childhood … that taught me a lot. I apply this to my work. I know there’s darkness, but there’s an equal amount of light. I express this in my children’s stories, poetry, memoir, adult fiction, blogs, and newsletters. I feel this message of courage, hope, and wonder is needed in a world where there seems to be less acceptance of it; when it’s easier to embrace fear, hate, and anger, instead.
So, with my love of many different genres, my writing will always take you some place where there’s love and hate existing at the same time. This is where opposite feelings merge, until one side becomes the victor. For me, this place is where love (almost) always wins, and hope emerges once again. My belief that kids are more capable of doing this than adults, is one of the reasons I ask people to embrace their inner child.
Contact via:
Twitter: @dlfinnauthor
Blog/Website:
Titles:
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To learn more about D. L.:
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, to 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:
D.L. Finn RWISA Author Page
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