DON’T READ THIS BOOK if you don’t want your heartbeat to pick up speed at the sight of someone walking through a door – or if you don’t want to find yourself holding your breath waiting for a kiss – or if you don’t want to find tears rolling down your cheeks when disappointment is unbearable – or if you don’t want to find yourself grinning widely and looking a little foolish if you happen to be reading in public – or if you don’t want to finish the last chapter with a deep sigh of satisfaction and longing all rolled into one. If those experiences are not what you’re looking for, then do not read this book.
Most of my novels include a romance, but often it is only a part of the story, and not always the main focus. But I have to tell you up front that Jonah’s Song is totally and completely an honest-to-goodness, no-questions-asked, out-and-out old-fashioned love story – from beginning to end. Now don’t misunderstand: no parts of it are rated “R”; it’s a perfectly clean read. But it is a story that digs deeply into the hearts of a man and a woman – and into the heart of what God intended true romance to be.
All right then, who should read this fourth book in The Smoky Mountain Series? Well, if you’re not one of those people who fits the description in the first paragraph of this article, here’s the book for you. IF you “love” a good love story, then make a bee-line to Amazon’s Kindle Store and order Jonah’s Song while it’s on sale. In digital format, it will be selling for the special price of $1.99 from now through Christmas and then revert to the same price as the other books in the series..
Want to know a little more about the story? Here’s a peek at the blurb from the back cover:
Professor Jonah McDaniels, handsome violinist/conductor, is used to girls in his college classes having a crush on him. But he has never felt anything in return until he meets Valentina Rosswell. Even then, he pushes his feelings aside, knowing there are too many barriers to a personal relationship between them. But when he meets her again seven years later and realizes that what he felt for a college girl has matured – just as the girl has matured into a beautiful, desirable woman – he still does his best to resist falling in love.
Valentina has always believed Jonah was out of her league, and even when they renew their acquaintance as adults on equal footing, she does her best to refrain from loving this man who has filled her dreams for years.
But true love doesn’t follow the rules, nor does it dissolve just because two people put up a fight against it. And when the Lord sets His heart on a romance, He can employ some pretty interesting ways and means to bring it to pass. However, when dealing with Jonah and Valentina, even the Lord seems to have His work cut out for Him.
Jonah’s Song: A love story you won’t easily forget.
So buy one for yourself – and another one for someone you love – this Christmas
(Also, if you do read it and you do finish the last chapter with a sigh of satisfaction and longing, please stop and say a few words about the book in the “Customer Review” section of its Amazon page. Thanks.)
It’s just a little love story. But, then again, it’s a whole lot more than a love story. It’s about finding out who you really are and learning to like that person – and discovering that liking who you are opens the door for the best relationships with other people. It’s about family – and friends who are just like family. It’s about letting God’s way of loving take control of your heart.
Meet Mariah Jacoby. She’s happiest working under the hood of a car, but she’s convinced that grimy hands and greasy smudges on her face aren’t exactly what guys are looking for in a girlfriend. Unfortunately, though, she’s having trouble holding down a job in any other field, despite college degrees and an upbeat personality. Desperate to change her unemployed status, she finally admits it’s time to face the fact that she’s really a “grease monkey” at heart, but dare she hope there’s a guy in her future who’s dreaming of a girl who smells like engine oil?
Some of you will recognize this story because you were following my blog a couple years ago when I wrote it — posting one chapter at a time here on this site. But it’s time for it to get out into the real world now and show us what it’s made of.
If you weren’t along for the ride when it was under construction, you can buy it here — and purchase an extra as a gift for someone you love:
This post is my second foray into the Wordle Writing Challenge, where we are encouraged to write a short story or poem that includes all of the words in a specific box. Each Sunday we receive a new box — the work of Brenda Warren over at “The Sunday Whirl.” So if you’re interested in taking part, hop over there and get started. My story’s below the box.
THE LETTERS
He stuffed the letters back into the manila envelope he kept them in. Since they’d arrived last week, he’d read every one of them at least a dozen times. He wasn’t sure why, except that he hoped reading them would help give him the courage he needed to make the trip.
He laid the envelope on top of his desk and sat down with a weary sigh. Thrumming his fingers on the desktop, he let his mind drift back to those days nine years ago. The minutes turned into hours as he sat there, but it didn’t matter. He was caught once again in that heavy flow of traffic, the chill of the icy winter weather soaking into him as he waited for his 20-year old Buick’s heater to kick in.
He’d put off making that trip to the store that night, but he was completely out of milk and bread both, and since he hated cooking, the lack of those two essentials left him hungry. Even the ham and peanut butter that he often existed on couldn’t do him much good without the bread, and he certainly couldn’t face his cereal in the morning with no milk. So bundling up as well as possible against the 10° weather, he’d risked the icy side roads and made it to the main highway.
He’d spotted her blue car pulled off on the shoulder while he was still almost a mile away. Ordinarily, he never stopped for strangers, but that day he felt such a unique urge to pull over and offer help. He pulled in behind her car as carefully as possible, and by the time he had walked to her door, she had powered down her window. The first thing that struck him was how cold she looked, but that thought was immediately replaced by the warmth in her beautiful green eyes when she smiled at him.
• • •
He stirred himself in his desk chair, sighing deeply, and pulling himself out of his reverie. Another heavy sigh escaped him, and he looked around the room, trying to make the final transition from nine years ago back to the present moment. They’d been together — happily, he thought — for seventeen months, and, then suddenly, she had packed her bags and walked out the door. Her only explanation was that she just couldn’t handle being tied down in one place. That’s why she’d never agreed to a legal marriage between them. She’d insisted she had to feel free.
He picked up the envelope of letters again. Everyone of them had been dated on the same day of the year, beginning the year after they had separated, but they’d arrived at his door packed together in a small box — each letter in an envelope — each envelope stamped — but not one of them postmarked.
He pulled out the cover letter that had come with the others: “I know you’ll be surprised at this package,” she had written. “But by the time you read this note, I’ll be gone from this earth, and I felt it was right to let you know the truth. I wrote each one of these letters, fully intending to mail them the day they were written, but then I lost my courage to do so. Now, however, I have no choice, and I think it’s important that you know you have a son. You’ll find all the details in these unmailed letters. The only thing I can add is that I’m sorry I couldn’t become what you wanted me to be.”
He picked up the last of the individual letters from the stack. She had included her parents’ home address and their phone number. She and the boy had been living with them during the past year. She had written that letter on his birthday — as she had all the others — and on the date of the last letter, the child had turned eight years old.
A kind of rage surged through him, and he crushed the letter in his hand. How could she! How could she do such a thing to him — and to the child? But the rage soon gave place to tears. He’d run through that gamut of emotions several times since first opening that package of letters. Part of him wanted to burn them and forget it all so that he didn’t have any more hurt and pain. But the other part of him handled them with trembling fingers, treasuring them because they were his only link to his son.
Suddenly, he rose from his chair, stuffing the letters back into the manila envelope once again. He walked to his bedroom, took his suitcase out of the closet, and started to pack. He made a quick job of it, then tossed the envelope of letters on top of his clothes and snapped the case shut. Taking a deep breath, he carried the case to the front door, where he picked up his coat, stepped outside, and locked the door behind him. Once outside, with his suitcase in hand, he felt his courage getting stronger. He had made the first step now, and the momentum would carry him through.
He was a father. And it was worth risking everything to be able to know and love his son. ~
Hurray, I’m doing the Friday Fictioneers challenge this week. Just can’t seem to get it in every week, but I do like to take part when I can. If you’d like to join in and write a 100-word story based on this picture — by Marie Gayle Stratford — just follow the link to Rochelle’s place for the easy instructions.
HUMPTY DUMPTY
Trying to look casual, he wiggled across the desk. Sherry, his owner, was on break. This was his only chance if he were ever going to connect with that hot pink number over on Wally’s desk. Wow, she was something else!
He was looking cool in his blue striped suit; she’d be impressed.
Whew! This was hard work, but he was almost to the edge. Then came the dangerous part, but, hey, a mouse had to do what a mouse had to do. Love was worth the risk.
“Okay … at the edge. Now, one big jump, and …”
“Hey, Sherry, your mouse just fell in the floor and broke into a dozen pieces!”
Sometimes people ask me which of the nine novels I’ve written so far is my favorite. And I have to answer that I feel like a parent with nine children, in that I can honestly say all of them are my favorites. They were born out of me. They are literally part of me. Every single one of them carries something of me out into the world and into the heart of every person who picks it up and reads it. And not one of them can supersede the others in my own heart.
Each one, of course has it’s own special strengths — as far as I’m concerned. (Of course, there are probably a few people out there who don’t think any of them have “strengths,” because, let’s face it: no one ever writes a book that everybody will like. It’s just a fact of life. But not to worry: we don’t write for those people. A true writer writes for himself first — and secondly for all those people who will find great pleasure in reading his work.)
So back to my point: each book has its own set of strengths. When I look at the list of titles, I’m reminded of certain people who received help or encouragement or a good laugh when they read certain stories from that list. And I see each novel as offering its own specific gift to the readers.
However, sometimes we find ourselves writing a story that carries so much more potential for touching and changing lives than the average book does. Somehow, we just know that one particular story has an extra special gift to give the readers, and when we’ve finally written the words “The End,” we sit back and say, “Wow, this is an important book.”
That sense of importance — of special significance — came to me when I finished Repaired By Love, the third book in The Smoky Mountain Series. I truly believe this book is the most important book I’ve ever written. The reason is simple: This story has so much to say about the way of salvation and a joyous relationship with the Lord that it could easily be the only tool necessary to lead someone to make a decision to turn his heart over to Jesus Christ. I make that statement, not because I’m the author, but because I sincerely believe that the Lord Himself orchestrated that book to accomplish just that purpose.
Of course, I pray and believe the Lord to lead me in writing what He wants written in every inspirational novel I create. And the main focus in all of those novels is to help people come to know the Lord better and see that He wants to be involved in our everyday lives — helping, guiding, healing, and protecting us. I hope I’ve been faithful to Him in every book I’ve turned out. But in this one particular book, I sense a special anointing from Him to touch hearts that have never yet opened up to Him at all. I am still in awe of how the Lord led certain people into my life and then used them to plant the seeds of so many of the characters in this book — and how He carried me along with the plot that I didn’t even have a plan for in the beginning.
When I wrote Repaired By Love, back in 2004, I said to a number of people: “If I could have written only one book in my whole life, this is the book I would want to have written.” Eleven years later — and having written five other novels since then — I still feel the same.
I hope my readers will be blessed by it as much as I have been.
Readers can find the digital Repaired By Love at the Kindle Store at a special price for the next two weeks. From today through October 16th, the novel will be on sale for only $1.99. After that date it goes back to the same price as all the other books in the series ( 3.99).
(And don’t forget, if you don’t have an e-reader, Amazon has a free app you can download in just a few minutes that will let you read all e-books right on your own computer. Just follow the link to the book page, and you’ll see the notification about the free Kindle App.)
Anyone trying to describe Suzanne Peterson would not have called her pretty. She stood five feet, six inches in her stockinged feet, and all of those inches were undeniably feminine.
Her sculptured cheekbones and her coal black hair, which she wore in layered curls to just below her shoulders, she had inherited from her Cherokee ancestors on her father’s side. Her emerald eyes and the light dusting of freckles across her cheeks (she could cover them completely with properly applied makeup, but usually preferred to let them peak through) had been passed to her from her mother’s Irish bloodline.
And the truth was that when one considered all of these parts together – from head to toe – Suzanne Peterson was simply, strikingly beautiful.
Of much more importance was the fact that she was so beautiful in spirit that she had no vanity about her looks and hardly gave them a thought. So her beauty wasn’t at all sophisticated. There was an innocence about her – in her eyes – in her smile – in her manner – that made her charming, and most everyone who knew her found her a delight to be around.
At the same time, she felt most things passionately, and when her sense of injustice had been aroused, her eyes would flash fire, and her lovely voice would take on a ring of authority that seemed incongruous with that innocence. So potent was this combination that when Suzanne Peterson took her stand on any issue, most people listened – whether they wanted to or not.
That fact gave her an advantage as a newspaper reporter. She was an accurate and truthful reporter, but every time she had an opportunity to do an article or a story that didn’t require her to be unbiased, she invested every bit of her talent and passion into persuading people to embrace what was right and good, and to abandon what was not.
But tonight, she wasn’t thinking about newspaper articles, or even about injustice of any kind. Rather, she was happily weighing the merit of packing her rose pink silk robe against that of taking the navy blue flannel as she prepared her luggage for tomorrow’s trip to Tennessee. She hummed quietly as she worked, stopping every once in a while to admire and smooth her hand over the ruby velvet bridesmaid’s dress hanging on her closet door.
“Oh, Lord,” she stopped to pray now, “how good You are to bring Maddison and Beth together as You have. I can’t imagine any two people better suited to each other. I know it took a lot of miracles to make everything work out for them, but You’ve certainly shown Yourself strong on their behalf. … It just swells my heart to see Maddison so happy after all he’s been through as a result of Matt’s death.”
Her eyes filled with tears, but she blinked them away. Her grief had to give place to her stronger joy for the man who would have been her own brother-in-law if things had gone as planned. She sighed deeply and sat down on the end of her bed in thought. Six months ago it would have been her own wedding she was packing for. …
(Excerpt, Cameron’s Rib, Chapter Two)
Pastor Cameron McDaniels had never felt his heart stop beating before. … Was that what was happening … or was he just forgetting to breathe in and out normally? … He couldn’t have answered either one of those questions, because his usually quick and concise reasoning abilities had just deserted him.
All he knew for sure was that he was looking at the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in all of his thirty-eight years on earth. … And her laughter … He had heard it as he came down the hall. Now, standing in the same room with her, it seemed to radiate from her whole being … rich and warm. It reached out and embraced him and drew him in … like a magnet. …
Somewhere in the back of his mind was the vague thought that this must have been what Adam felt when he first saw Eve. A foolish comparison perhaps, but he was used to thinking in Biblical terms after all. He knew others were in the room, but he couldn’t seem to focus on anyone but her.
All of this experience had taken only a few seconds, but he had lost track of time. Finally, he shook his head to clear it, deliberately took a deep breath, just to prove that he still could, and reminded himself that men didn’t really fall in love at first sight – particularly men who were ministers of the Gospel.
He squared his shoulders, taking another deep breath, glad that the others were still gathered around his secretary’s desk, intent on what they had been talking about that had them all laughing. They hadn’t seen him enter the office, so he had a moment to collect his thoughts.
So this was the young woman who had been engaged to Maddison’s brother and was now becoming a partner with Beth. Suzanne Peterson. … The name suited her, he thought.
The laughter of the others stirred him out of his reverie again, and squaring his shoulders once more, he moved forward. “Hello everyone. I’m sorry I’m late. The meeting with the other pastors ran longer than usual.”
Beth hurried toward him, her arms outstretched. “It’s about time you got here; we’re starving!” she said as they hugged each other. By that time, Maddison had crossed the room, beaming from ear to ear. “Don’t pay any attention to her, Cameron,” he said. “She’s always ready to eat. And can she put away the hotdogs!” he added, sliding his arm around Beth and squeezing her shoulder. She responded by punching him gently in the stomach.
“Now, Honey,” he said shaking his finger at her, “if you don’t behave, I’m going to have to arrange some more counseling sessions with our Pastor here before the ceremony.”
“All right, enough of that, you two.” The words came from across the room, and Cameron looked beyond Maddison to see Suzanne approaching them.
“You must be Pastor McDaniels,” she said, extending her hand to him.
“That’s right,” he answered as he took her hand. The luxurious sound of her laughter already had him mesmerized; now the feel of her hand in his disrupted his concentration even more. He had to get his thoughts together; he was the pastor after all; he needed to act like one! “And you’re Suzanne, of course. It’s so finally to – I mean – It’s so good to finally meet you.” He almost never stumbled over his words. Why now, of all times?
Suzanne spoke again: “I’ve heard so many good things about you from these two, that I feel I already know you.”
Let go of her hand, Cameron, he told himself. “Good … I mean … I … uh … I feel the same way.” He shakily drew in a long overdue breath. No woman had ever made him almost speechless before!
(Excerpt, Cameron’s Rib, Chapter Three)
With Suzanne in Honduras to interview the pastors, Cameron felt lost and uptight. This being in love was a whole new experience, and he was only beginning to get used to its ups and downs. But by Monday, with only four more days to go before her return, he was able to focus on his regular schedule a little more earnestly. He even congratulated himself because he felt like he was finally getting back into his stride. But it all came to a crashing halt on Tuesday night with a phone call from Juan Cordoba that began the worst nightmare Cameron would ever experience in his life.
When he first heard Juan’s voice speak his name, he assumed he had called to give an update on Suzanne’s visit, but when the only thing following the word “Cameron” was silence, he knew something was wrong. His heart started pounding, and he cried out silently … not Suzanne … not Suzanne!
“What is it, Juan?” he asked in a strangled voice.
“I don’t know how to tell you this in a way that will make it easy to hear, so I’ll just give you the bold facts. Suzanne went out with two of our medical team in the mobile clinic van. They were going pretty far into the more primitive areas, and she wanted to get some pictures and talk to the people that were receiving help. But the van never arrived at its destination.”
“You mean it’s just disappeared!”
“Nobody’s heard from any of the team since they left here very early this morning. They should have had time to visit both of the villages they were scheduled to work at and be headed back by now.”
There was silence on both ends of the line. Finally Juan Cordoba spoke again.
“You know what probably happened.”
Cameron let out a groan. He felt as if something were choking the breath out of him. Juan was again quiet on the other end of the line. He knew without words what kind of pain his friend was in, and he hurt for him, as well as for the family members of the other people on his medical team.
Finally Cameron was able to get enough breath to let out an agonizing sigh. “You think the van was hijacked for the drugs.”
“That seems most likely. I’ve called the authorities, but you know how hard it is to get things done very efficiently in these cases. They are on the job, but I think we’re going to have to keep our trust in the Lord for this one.”
Tears ran down Cameron’s cheeks and dripped from his jaw, but he wasn’t paying attention. He had picked up a pen, and started making notes. “Tell me everything you know at this point … and I mean every detail, Jaun. Don’t try to spare me any of it. I have to know.”
There wasn’t much more to add for the time being. Juan told him their own people were trying to track the van, and might be able to come up with some kind of lead before the authorities. He promised to call back as soon as he knew anything.
“Well, I’m going to call our congregation to a special prayer meeting right now, but I’ll be on the first plane out of here tomorrow morning,” Cameron said. “If I haven’t heard anything from you before I board the plane, I’ll give you one more call, so if you’re going to be away from the house or office, will you be sure somebody’s there who can give me the latest information?”
“Sure, Cameron. But I’ll be back in touch tonight yet; I promise.
“I’d appreciate that, if you don’t mind … even if you don’t have any more news.” Juan could here the tears choking his friend’s voice, and his heart broke for him.
“You can count on it, my brother.”
Cameron cleared his throat of the thickness caused by the tears. “Thank you, Juan. I’ll be waiting to hear from you, and you can be sure we’ll be praying with all the faith we’ve got for all of them.”
“We’ve notified all of our sister churches, and the congregations are going to prayer even as we speak. The Lord won’t fail us, Brother.”
“I believe that, Juan. Good bye, my friend.”
Cameron’s first call was to Maddison Holt and his wife Beth, knowing they would call others on the prayer chain for him. But even more to the point, Maddison had become Cameron’s closest friend and was so much like his own brother that he knew he could count on the solid comfort and support.
“Hi, Cameron,” Maddison said, “what are you up to this evening?”
Cameron cleared his throat again, and took just long enough to get his words out that Maddison knew there was a serious problem. “Cameron … ?”
“I … I just got a call from Juan Cordoba, Maddison. There’s a problem, and we need to get the church together for prayer.”
“What’s happened?”
“Suzanne went out in the medical van this morning with their team that visits the outlying villages, but the van never arrived at either village. They’re all missing.”
“Oh, man! Do they have any idea what’s happened to it?”
Cameron cleared his throat again. He just couldn’t seem to get beyond this choking feeling. “The most likely explanation is that some local gang has hijacked the van in order to get the drugs it carries.”
“That’s pretty common down there?”
“Yes, unfortunately. It’s so common that I’m positive that’s what’s happened.”
“Do you have any idea what their attitude is likely to be toward the people on the van? I mean … are they likely to let them go?”
Cameron’s sigh was so weary that it almost broke Maddison’s heart just to hear it, knowing how much this man loved Suzanne. “It just depends. If they’re focused enough on the drugs only, they may just throw the people off and leave them stranded. But only God knows what these guys are like … if that’s what’s happened. There’s always the possibility that they’ve kidnapped them to hold them for ransom, of course, but I don’t think that’s as likely.”
“So you want us to call some of the others?”
“Yes, if you will. Call Uncle Matt and have him call a bunch, and then get Hilary, and have her call another group. Let’s ask them to come down to the church if they can, so we can all pray together. But any who can’t come down can at least be praying at home. I need to stop and call Suzanne’s parents next, so I’m going to let you guys handle the congregation.”
“Consider it done, Buddy, and we’ll be down to the church just as soon as we can get there. As a matter of fact, I think Beth and I will go on down there, and we can keep making calls from there.”
“That’s great. I’ll see you there pretty soon … and … Maddison …” he made a choking sound that barely held back a sob.
“I know, Buddy … I know. … We’ll be with you soon.”
(Excerpt, Cameron’s Rib, Chapter Eighteen)
The three excerpts above are just to tempt you. They’re fromCAMERON’S RIB, the second book in The Smoky Mountain Series, which is finally available for e-readers. You can find a copy at Amazon’s Kindle Store right now. If you’ve read Book # 1 and liked it, you’re sure to like this one as well. Only $3.99
Just got to thinking today that so many of our stories have characteristics and qualities that are both generic and universal. I decided to experiment a little with writing a story using nonsense terms instead of normal nouns and verbs. I’m certain you will be able to understand the story with very little trouble. It was fun, and I think it helps focus on the fact that sometimes it isn’t just choosing the right word that matters. It’s how we put those words together into a setting that gets the job done.
Public Domain — Artist: Friedrich-Johann-Justin-Bertuch
THE BONDO DELAFOR
The young delafor wandered through the cogem, wishing he could find a delafora to be his rhuba. He’d heard the fonders tell of bondo delafors who had won the hands of delaforas by zonering the terrible goganbulls. He knew the goganbulls were threatening the cogem, and many delafors were terrizon of them. He didn’t know if he were bondo enough to zoner a goganbull or not, but he hoped he’d have a chance.
One day the great kinba of the cogem announced that a goganbull had been spotted just outside the cogem. The great kinba porsayed that he would give the most beautiful delafora to the delafor who zonered that goganbull.
So the young delafor raced to his stetsa, hopped on, and took off to find the goganbull and zoner it. When he found the goganbull, it was maxma! It was so maxma that the young delafor’s stetsa reared up, threw the delafor off, and ran away. Now the only thing the delafor had was his pontier. So he looked the goganbull in the eye, stood up straight and tall and shumed toward him. Keeping eye contact, he shumed all the way to within two feet of him. The goganbull gloamed and hot smeltz came from his buzzle.
But the young delafor rememberd the beautiful delafora who was porsayed by the great kinba. The delafor wanted that delafora for his rhuba very badly. So he aimed his pontier and shumed the last two feet toward the goganbull; then he flumed his pontier right into the goganbulls corva. With one horrible gloam, the goganbull fell over, and black smoke roold from his buzzle. Then all was quiet.
The young delafor took his pontier and whapped off the goganbull’s henda and carried it back to the great kinba. That day the young delafor won the most beautiful delafora in the cogem to be his very own rhuba. And they both lived schnookumy ever after.
Just thought I’d tease some of you a little with an excerpt from the first chapter of my novel Quenton’s Honor. Go ahead. Take a chance. Read it. Maybe you’ll decide that one chapter just isn’t enough. If so, you’ll find it for sale on Amazon’s Kindle Store, for only $3.99. And if you don’t have a Kindle, a Nook, an iPad, or an iPhone – no problem. Amazon has an app that you can download for free to turn your computer into a digital reader for any book you buy. Enjoy ..….
QUENTON’S HONOR: Chapter One
(Karachi, Pakistan)
“I hope you duly appreciate your cook, Mr. Ahmed,” Quenton said, addressing his Pakistani host as they walked from the dining room with the two other men who were also guests for the business dinner they had just finished. “That was one of the most delicious meals I’ve had in a long time.”
“Indeed, I do appreciate his talent, Mr. Sutherland,” he answered laughing. “Especially since he serves me meals just as delicious even when I am alone.”
“You’re a lucky man.”
Ranjit Ahmed turned toward a closed door and opened it into a cozy library, inviting his guests inside. “Please join me in here for some relaxing conversation now that our more serious business is taken care of.”
“If you wouldn’t be offended, gentlemen,” Quenton said, taking in all three men in his glance, “I’d like to be excused to check on my personal e-mail and perhaps answer some of the most pressing communications.”
“Certainly, Mr. Sutherland. This has been a very pressing trip for you, and I imagine you’re feeling the strain of it about now, and probably long for your bed and sleep as much as more conversation.”
“There’s some truth in that,” Quenton answered, laughing. He turned to shake the hands of the two other men. “Thank you so much gentlemen, for taking the time to meet with me this evening and answer my questions. Your information has been very useful in deciding what kind of help is most needed by the people here in your country.”
“It was our pleasure,” one of the men answered him.
“Indeed,” the other added. “We’re very glad to know that our information has been of benefit. We appreciate your generosity in orchestrating such humanitarian efforts, Mr. Sutherland.”
Quenton turned back to his host. “I’m hoping your offer of the use of the computer in your office is still open. It shouldn’t take long to access my e-mail and print out anything I really need.”
“Feel free to make use of it, Mr. Sutherland. I’ll not be using it again until morning myself. And if you find that there isn’t much that needs your immediate attention, please join us here when you’re through. Otherwise . . . I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Thank you. Goodnight.” Quenton turned and walked down the hall to the office he’d seen as Ranjit Ahmed had shown him around his beautiful home that morning. He entered the office and closed the door, going immediately to the desk and computer terminal.
As he moved the mouse, he was surprised to see a letter replace the screen saver. Hmm . . . must have been something Ahmed had been working on, and he had forgotten to close it out before he left the office. Quenton was a natural born reader, and he often found himself scanning any written material in front of him without even thinking about it, regardless of what it was. By the time he realized he was reading a letter that was none of his business, his eyes had scanned over a couple of lines where the mention of three specific time zones caught his attention, and he automatically started reading again from the top of the page.
“The main components will be in place by midnight in the Pacific Time Zone, which will make it 2:00 AM Central, and 3:00 AM Eastern. The product should have saturated the market within a few hours of the initial entry. Response should be almost immediate, so departure should be as early as possible after the business has been transacted. The last communication from here will take place twenty-four hours before the appointment time. After that, there will be no way for you to access this information or communicate with this site.”
Quenton shook his head slightly. “This is one odd letter,” he said, not even realizing he was talking to himself out loud. He leaned back in the desk chair, thinking and still mumbling out loud. “I had no idea Ahmed did business with anyone on both coasts too. I was sure he told me we were the only American company he’s been connected with for the past three years.” He shook his head again and re-read the words. For some reason he was unable to dispel a faint sense of something shady here. The terminology seemed almost purposely vague.
He shrugged his shoulders. Oh, well, it really had nothing to do with him if Ahmed wanted to do business with somebody else too. “It’s not like I’m trying to corner the market in his line,” Quenton said now, and started to open a new window in the browser to access his own mail.
But something just kept nagging at his mind so much that, instead of opening a new window, he found himself pulling up the information that would tell him who the letters had been sent to. He didn’t recognize any of the e-mail addresses, but he just couldn’t keep himself from pulling his notebook from his coat pocket and jotting them down.
Then he laughed quietly to himself. “This is stupid. I act like I’m in a spy movie,” he said, shoving his notebook back into his pocket and getting down to his own business. He found only one item he needed to print out, so within thirty minutes, he was back in his bedroom preparing to get some sleep.
He must have lain there for at least another hour before he finally dozed off, but it felt as if he were instantly awakened by the slamming of car doors close by. He rolled over in the bed and looked at the clock: midnight. Well, evidently, he’d been asleep longer than he thought. He supposed the car doors indicated the other guests finally leaving. But as he lay there, he heard voices in the courtyard below his room, and after several minutes, he realized he hadn’t heard any car engines running, or the sounds of any cars driving away.
He got up and looked out the window. He could see the courtyard easily, and he was surprised to see Ranjit shaking hands with a man who hadn’t been with them at dinner. The next thing he knew, Ranjit was turning and speaking to someone else who was already out of site in the doorway of a room that opened right onto the courtyard and driveway. Instinctively, Quenton stayed back far enough to be sure he was out of sight, which wasn’t too difficult, since he hadn’t turned on a light. He saw Ranjit and the first man enter the room off the courtyard also and close the door.
Well, he was wide awake now. He might as well put on his robe and go back down to the library and find something to read. Ranjit had told him to help himself to any of the books during his two-day visit. He didn’t encounter anyone else in the hallways, but for some reason, he walked especially quietly. He wasn’t sure why, but he didn’t feel exactly comfortable wondering around someone else’s house after midnight. It seemed a little creepy.
He shook his head at his own feelings and mumbled to himself. “I must be letting Steve’s warnings about the dangers of this trip get to me.” His vice-president had done everything in his power to change Quenton’s mind about making the trip, citing a number of possible scenarios that could end unhappily. He shook his head again and kept walking, determined to find himself something enthralling to read and get his mind off this foolishness. He opened the door to the library and turned on the light, crossing the carpeted floor to peruse the shelves. As he moved to the shelves on the back wall, he realized he could hear voices again, and glancing around, he realized the library was situated right next door to the room he’d seen the men enter a few minutes ago.
Well, he didn’t want to listen and get his mind bogged down with something that wasn’t any of his business, so he’d tune them out and get his book and leave. But the fact that they were speaking English worked against him. He couldn’t seem to not hear what they were saying … at least some of the time. One of the men had a softer voice, and Quenton missed his words, but he could hear Ranjit and one of his visitors pretty clearly.
Quenton pulled himself up short again with a mental lecture about minding his own business, but about that time he heard the words, “The system in San Francisco is more difficult to get into than the others. Do you think we should try a different avenue there?”
“There’s no other avenue that will reach nearly as many people,” Ranjit answered. “Tell them to keep trying.”
“But they’ve tried everything they can think of already, and time’s running out.”
“There has to be a way! A water system that large has to have a weak spot somewhere.”
WATER? Quenton’s hearing sharpened instantly. His heartbeat picked up speed, but he deliberately tried to settle it with deep breaths, because he was determined to listen now. Why would they be interested in San Francisco’s water system? He began to wonder if he had spent too much time the past year listening to talk about possible terrorist plots.
At that thought, his heart started pounding again so loudly that he had to walk right up to the wall and lean against it to hear any more words.
The soft-voiced man was saying something now, but he couldn’t make out any of it except the word Chicago.
“That’s right,” Ranjit said now. “If they can figure out a way to access the system in Orlando and Chicago, there is a way to take care of it out there too.”
CHICAGO!! ORLANDO!! Quenton’s mind jumped back to the letter he’d seen earlier in the evening referring to the three specific time zones. He’d wondered about the letter being in English, but he knew that was a common language for businessmen in this part of the world to use, and it hadn’t made him particularly suspicious. But now he realized that the letter must have been going to people in all three of those cities, and would draw less suspicion if it were in plain English, just in case it ended up in the wrong hands at some point.
He was having a hard time shutting down his own racing thoughts enough to listen to the rest of the conversation. But he could hardly hear anything clearly now. They must have moved to the opposite side of the room. He pressed his ear to the wall, but still couldn’t make out any of the words. But suddenly he noticed that the drapes at the library window that faced the courtyard were still open, and anyone walking toward the drive could see him in the room, leaning against the wall. He’d better grab a book and get back to his room. He’d find a way to get back to the computer after everyone else was in bed. He could surely find some answers there.
He quickly reached up and grabbed a book on the history of Pakistan and slipped out of the library silently. Once back in his room, he changed into jeans and a knit shirt. He couldn’t seem to stop pacing, waiting to hear the midnight visitors leave. When he finally heard car doors slamming again, about an hour later, he eased up to the window and looked out. Sure enough, both men were leaving, and Ranjit turned toward the house.
One of his servants came up to him and spoke in a rather secretive manner Quenton thought, but Ranjit’s only response for several seconds was just to nod his head as if he understood. Finally he glanced up toward Quenton’s window, but Quenton forced himself not to jump back. He didn’t believe Ranjit could see him through the lightweight drapes anyway, but even if he could, it shouldn’t be anything out of the ordinary for someone awakened by the cars to glance out of the window. Ranjit’s glance lasted only a couple of seconds; then he again moved toward the house, along with his servant.
Quenton sat down to wait. He’d have to give all of them time to get to bed and, hopefully, to sleep, before he ventured out again. He closed his eyes, weariness from the trip . . . and from his own troubling thoughts . . . weighing him down. He sighed heavily. He really didn’t want any part of this at all. Could he just ignore everything he’d heard and go on and finish his own trip and get back home? All he wanted to do was help some of the people in these countries, hoping to bring just a little bit of peace to some of them … even in the midst of almost unceasing conflict and turmoil.
His father had been diligent to teach him that a man blessed with much wealth had the responsibility to use that wealth to benefit mankind as much as he possibly could. James Sutherland had lived by the rule that if you give some of what you’ve been blessed with to others in need, you will continue to be blessed even more – and then can be an even greater blessing – and the cycle will continue. And to the best of Quenton’s memory, that policy had never failed his father at any time. So he had continued to live his own life the same way.
He smiled to himself now, his head resting on the back of the chair. He’d wanted to be just like his dad ever since he could remember – always following him around – begging to go with him to the office or to visit clients – to “help” carry his golf clubs around the green or to sit beside him on the boat with his own cane fishing pole hanging over the side, waiting for a nibble. And, of course, when his dad had become a believer, Quenton had always been ready to accompany him to church – at least as a very young boy.
But by the time he was out of high school and on his way to college, he didn’t figure he had time for God and church. He knew his parents were disappointed – as was his grandmother, who’d told him stories of faith from the time he was a toddler – but he had to start living his own life sometime, and the day he left for college seemed as good a time as any. Those feelings only intensified when he began to listen to the questioning ideas and attitudes that were so plentiful in his classrooms and among the people who became his friends.
He sighed again. Oh, well, religion just wasn’t for him, but he had to admit that it hadn’t done too badly by his dad. He had been an extraordinarily successful man, and Quenton was honored to have had him for a father. He would continue to live by the principles his dad had instilled into him – at least as far as business was concerned – to the best of his ability.
He glanced at his watch now. He’d waited long enough. It was time to slip down to the office.
As he stepped into the hallway thirty minutes later, the house was silent as a stone. He slipped easily down the corridor and turned to the left, heading quickly for the office. He had planned to use the excuse that he had forgotten to access his business computer’s e-mail, should he get caught at the terminal at such an unusual hour. But he hoped that wouldn’t be necessary.
He closed the door silently and eased his way around the desk to the chair in front of the terminal. He was thankful for an almost full moon, because it gave just enough light to avoid stumbling over something. He turned on the screen and found that it gave enough light to see the keyboard clearly. Now to discover the right password.
He was more grateful than ever that he had expanded the family company into the manufacturing of computer hardware and that he’d forced himself, in the process, to learn a great deal about how all of the various systems functioned. He’d learned more than one way to scour those systems for the information he needed. He worked quickly and as silently as the computer itself would accommodate, holding his breath almost the whole time. … Bingo! He had it. Now to get into the rest of the e-mails and possibly some related files. He checked the time, knowing he needed to hurry, but wanting to take the time to assimilate what he read so that he didn’t have to write it all down.
As he worked his way back through letters preceding the one he’d discovered tonight, he found more details. By now he felt sure he wasn’t imagining things. All these details had the makings of a thoroughly organized plan to infiltrate city water systems with a deadly substance. But what he couldn’t find were dates. His neck was rigid from the tension, and he reached back to massage it, closing his eyes for just a moment. He had to find the dates.
He opened his eyes again and pulled up another document. The wording was extremely odd, and just as he was concentrating on trying to decipher what must have been some kind of coded instructions, the office door swept open and the overhead light flashed on. Quenton jumped … just enough that his hand hit the mouse, and it slid off the desk to the floor. With that motion, his tiny window of opportunity for closing down what he had been reading dissolved into thin air.
I’m still working on narrowing down the list of short stories for the anthology that’s coming out later this summer. It’s called Stories That Leave You Thinking, and I posted re-runs of several of my stories a couple weeks ago in case you readers could give me some feedback about any of them that you liked or didn’t like. Here’s six more — totally different from what I posted last time. If you read any of these that you especially like or especially don’t like, let me know. It may help me with my final decision. I’m not choosing from all my stories. The ones for this book have to be stories that deal with a thought-provoking subject or that end in such a way that the reader is left to decide exactly what happened — or what is going to happen soon.
Two old cronies sat on a bench at the edge of a small city park, their 78-year-old bones soaking up the sunshine.
“Ahhh, just smell that!” Harry said, taking in a deep breath, rapture shining from his face.
“What?” asked George.
“Love is in the air,” Harry replied, breathing deeply once more and smiling. “Mm-mm; Yes sir – love is in the air.”
“You’re daff, Harry. That’s just the cabbage cookin’ in the diner across the street. Wind’s from the south today.”
“Oh, come on, George, don’t be so mundane. Give yourself over to your senses, man.”
“Senses? Why, Harry, you ain’t got the good sense God gave a duck.”
Looking offended: “Why would you say that?”
“Well, look at you. 78 and a half, if you’re a day, and you’re sittin’ here on this comfortable bench with not a care in the world, but you’re talkin’ about love like it was somethin’ glorious and somethin’ you want.”
“Well, it is somethin’ I want.”
“No it ain’t. You done had it – four wives — and all it did was cost you lots of money – first for getting’ married, then for buyin’ houses, then for buyin’ your wives everything they wanted, then for the divorces, and now – every month – for the alimony – four alimonies.”
“But it’s Spring, Harry! Don’t that make you feel alive and ready to take a chance on love again?”
“No, it don’t! I’ve had it with love. It’s three square meals a day, a nice warm bench to rest on, and a trustworthy buddy or two that makes life worth livin’. Those things are better than what you call love any day.”
“Well, I do remember hearin’ a quote by somebody once that said havin’ all your own teeth and a good solid bank account beat marriage for makin’ a body happy.”
Nodding his head, George answered. “There you go. Now you’re talkin’ sense. And since we both have our own teeth still yet, and money in our pockets, what say we go across the street for a big helping of Archie’s corned beef and cabbage? It’s smellin’ so good right now my stomach’s growling.”
Sighing, Harry got up from the bench. “Okay, George. I guess it is time for lunch, but I still say I can smell love in the air.”
“It’s the corned beef and cabbage, you dope. Cain’t you tell the difference?”
“George, my friend,” Harry said, placing his hand on his friend’s shoulder as they jiggled their legs to work out the stiffness, “It may smell like corned beef and cabbage to you, but it’s got magic in it. In fact, I have this feelin’ that love is just around the corner for me.”
They both started across the street, but just as they reached the center of the road, a car came swerving around the corner and squealed to a halt, just missing George and knocking Harry flat. A beautiful woman jumped from the car and ran to kneel down beside Harry.
“Oh, sir, are you alive? Are you alive?”
Harry opened his eyes, looked up into her delightful face with its halo of golden curls, and grinned broadly. “By golly, I told George love was just around the corner.” He got up and dusted himself off. Taking the young woman’s arm, he escorted her to the curb. “How about I buy you lunch, pretty lady,” he said, beaming at her. “Let’s step into the diner, here, and talk about our future.”
George followed them into the diner but went to sit at the lunch counter all by himself, shaking his head in frustration.
“What’ll you have?” Archie asked him.
“Confound it! Just give me a order of that love potion you got brewin’ in there.”
“Huh?”
“You know – that derned corned beef and cabbage.”
~~~
Story # 2: FOR LOVE OF BERNADETTE
Herbie was a barber. He was good at his job, and he had customers from all over the county. But Herbie didn’t like his job. He’d inherited the business from his father, but he’d never enjoyed it.
What he really wanted to do was own a dairy farm. Every evening when he finished work, he drove out of town and cruised by Old Man Swagle’s farm, looking at the fields of cows and the neat homestead – and dreaming.
Sometimes he’d stop, walk to the fence, and pet the cows. They knew him by now and came to him, but there was one particular brown and white lady who made sure she got the most of his attention. It made him feel loved.
If only he could manage to buy the farm. Old Man Swagle had put it on the market last year, but so far no one had met his price. Herbie had some money saved, and he’d talked to the bank about a mortgage, but Isabelle, his betrothed, said he’d be a fool to leave a secure business and go into debt for a cow farm. He used to love to talk about his dream, but lately, he’d just stopped mentioning it to Isabelle. He didn’t like the quarrels it led to. Sometimes he wondered …. But … they’d been engaged a whole year. It wouldn’t be right to back out now.
One afternoon, when Herbie didn’t have any appointments, he spent a couple hours sitting on the fence, talking to the cows and petting his favorite. As he glanced toward the farmhouse, he saw Swagle’s 11-year-old grandaughter came running across the field. He knew she visited often, and today she hailed him. “Hi,” she said. “Grandpa sent me to fetch Bernadette.”
“Oh, is that her name?”
“Yep. Grandpa let me name her.” She gave him a speculative look. “ My Grandpa said you want to buy this farm.”
“He did, huh? Well he’s right, but I don’t think I can.”
“Oh,” she said, hanging her head in disappointment. “I sure wish you could buy it.” She looked up. “My Grandpa is getting really tired and wants to come into town and live at my house with me and Mommy and Daddy. I stayed all night last night, and I heard Grandpa praying a long time that God would send someone today to buy the farm and take care of the cows the way he does.”
Herbie felt tears rush to his eyes.
“Why can’t you buy it?” she asked.
He cleared his throat. “Well … the lady I’m going to marry doesn’t want to live on a farm.”
“But you love cows. I can tell. I’ve watched you petting them and talking to them.”
Herbie nodded.
“And you’d keep them and take care of them just like Grandpa does.”
Herbie nodded again. “If I could buy the farm.”
They were both quiet for a few moments — each lost in personal thoughts. Finally, she looked up at him with determination in her eyes.
“You know what I think?” she said.
“What?”
“I think you should tell that dumb lady to marry someone else, and you should come and live here with Bernadette.”
Herbie looked at the child thoughtfully for a few moments. Then a huge grin spread across his face. Suddenly, he hopped off the fence and jogged toward his car.
“Where you goin’?” the girl called after him.
Herbie glanced back over his shoulder, but he didn’t stop. “To the bank!”
~~~
Story # 3: GOODBYE, SNOOKY
“Here we are, folks: the legendary bar where Snooky Adams was gunned down by his partner, Lila Corbell.” The young tour guide positioned himself against the bar to imitate the gangster, leaning on one elbow and scanning the group with a cocky light in his eyes. He was dressed in Snooky’s signature red turtle-neck and gray, pinstriped jacket, his hair slicked back in Snooky’s oily-smooth style. The resemblance was perfect — disturbingly so.
He continued to relate the history of Snooky and Lila, the gangster’s lover and partner in crime. As he came to the events that led to Snooky’s last minutes, he turned from the audience and looked into the wide mirror behind the bar, intending to make eye contact with his group again via that reflection. But instead, as his eyes focused in the mirror, he suddenly shouted, “Lila!”
His audience jerked heads to look behind them at the same second the shots rang out. But seeing no one else in the room, they all turned back to their guide. He was on the floor, three bullet holes in his chest.
Lila’s reflection lingered in the mirror, smoking gun in hand. The tour group stood speechless, thinking surely this was a staged production. But the gruesome realization that the bullets had entered the guide’s chest, rather than his back, struck them completely dumb. While they stood entranced, the guide bled his life out onto the scuffed wooden floor, and Lila, a satisfied smile on her lips, faded from the mirror.
~~~
Story # 4: WHAT IF?
“What’s the latest report?” Oneida asked Tron.
“The planet Verdure is still in a state of internal combustion,” he replied, his face pinched. He looked at the camera relay screen. “Watching that planet disintegrate right before my eyes and knowing I can’t stop it is tearing my guts out.”
“How long do we have?”
“I’ll know more when Beryl and Oma return. They’re out measuring the light levels in the power garden.”
“That red gas is our main enemy?”
“Yes, as our energy pods absorb it, their energy – the energy that holds this planet together – is drained off and absorbed by the gas.”
He panned the camera across the power garden of mushroom-shaped growths from which the planet drew all of its life. “See how many of the healthy purple pods have absorbed the gas until they have turned red and shrunk to half their original size?”
He panned to the pod where Beryl and Oma were still at work. Oneida spoke: “Look, Oma’s starting to descend. Maybe they’ll be back with their report soon.”
“Yes, but I’m not sure I want to hear it. Sometimes, I think we should turn off all the surveillance equipment so we can’t see it all happening one step at a time. Perhaps we should all just gather in the communal hall and do our best to comfort each other until it comes.”
“Until the end comes, do you mean?”
“Of course! What else?”
She looked at him gravely. “I’ve been thinking ….”
“Yes …?”
“Well … I’ve been wondering … Did we just happen?” Tron looked at her quizzically, and she continued: “I mean … well … I find it hard to believe this whole planet of Mushroom just happened – and that all of us who live here were non-existent one second and then – bang – here we were!” She looked at him hopefully.
“I don’t think I’m following you. What does it have to do with Verdure’s decomposition and destruction of everything within its electro-magnetic sphere?”
“Don’t you see? If we didn’t just … happen … then someone or something more intelligent, more creative, more powerful than ourselves had to have created us. And if that someone cared enough to make us, then wouldn’t it – or he – care enough to save us?”
Tron’s eyes grew large. Oneida could see that it was a concept he’d never imagined. But now … with no other possible avenue of hope … perhaps even he thought it was worth considering.
She continued. “I guess I’m wondering if we were to look back in all the records of Mushroom – especially the copies of those old black books the leaders buried underground last century — ”
“You mean you think there might be answers to our origins in those books? But the leaders insisted that they were lies and made it illegal for any citizen of Mushroom to read them.”
“But what if we could find out … and … what if … just what if we learned that there was a creator … and we could find a way to connect with him —”
“That’s impossible!”
“Is it? Our survival is impossible as we are now. But, just think, Tron … What if ….?”
~~~
Story # 5: THROUGH GEOFFREY’S WINDOW
Special thanks to Bob Mielke at Northwest Photographerfor his gracious permission to use this picture, which inspired the story. We used this photo for the cover of an eariler anthology which featured this story as well.
“Oh, look!” Sally called out to her brother as she ran toward the odd wooden door that had a window with a giraffe painted on it. Jackie followed more slowly.
“That’s sure a funny-lookin’ door,” he said. “It isn’t hooked to any walls.” His eyes searched the area on either side of the door. “And, look … there’s nothing behind it either!”
“But it has a pretty window,” Sally answered.
By that time, they both stood before the door, staring up at the giraffe in the window. Suddenly the giraffe spoke: “Hello, there.”
The children sucked in their breath at the same time and looked at each other with eyes made huge by the shock.
“Did you hear that?” Jackie asked.
Sally nodded and turned back toward the window. “Did you say something, Mr. Giraffe?”
“Yes, I did. I said Hello.”
“Oooh, Helloooo!” Sally said. “We didn’t know you were real.”
“Well, I’m not real to everybody, of course.”
“You’re not?”
“No, no. In fact, most people just pass right on by and never even stop to look at me, so I remain just a picture to them.”
“Then why are you real for us?” Jackie asked, skepticism in his young voice.
“Because you believe in make-believe,” the giraffe replied.
“May we come in?” Sally asked.
“Don’t be so dumb, Sally,” Jackie said, taking hold of her arm. “There’s nothing behind the door.”
“I’m back here,” said the giraffe.
Sally reached up and turned the knob.
+ + +
Suddenly jolted out of her reverie by the ringing of the phone on her desk, Sally jumped. She had been reminiscing again. She smiled. She did love to remember how it had all started some twenty years ago. She picked up the receiver. “Hello.”
“Hey, sis, how’s it going?”
“Great. Just finished the 10th book in the series.”
Jack laughed on the other end of the line. “I just can’t get over it, Sis. Who would have thought your turning that doorknob to step into Geoffrey Giraffe’s world would have landed you nine best-selling children’s books.”
“Well, Geoffrey was so grateful, you know. He had lived in there for so many years with no one believing, and was so lonely for friends.”
“He certainly found a faithful one in you. And your Through Geoffrey’s Window series has made him famous.”
“Yes. And now thousands of children believe. You know, I think it’s about time I went back for another visit. I’ll read him this new story, and I know he’ll love it.”
~~~
Story # 6: CELLO LOVE
They’d met at a rehearsal in this very theater. He, with his polished coat of dark walnut, was instantly captivated by her honey-maple coloring – but even more so by the sweet voice she gave to every note assigned her in the performances. Standing beside her during a performance always brought out something in his own tonal quality that he knew would not have been there if he hadn’t been playing to impress her. And as the sounds from each of them blended in the symphonies, his heart soared.
Eventually, bravely, he’d professed his love to her, and she’d responded exactly as he’d hoped. From that moment, their harmony became something so rare that many a conductor had commented on it to the musicians who owned them, and they had made exquisite music together for 74 years.
Now, with their respective masters in their graves, the two aging instruments rested against the wall of an old closet behind the stage of the theater that had been home to so many of their performances. His coat was battered and marred significantly. But her luster still had the power to draw music from him every time he looked at her. They sighed quietly – in unison. They still had each other – and the music that lived within them. His strings touched hers in a gentle caress. Her instant response released the beginning notes of a new song.
Outside, people slowed their stride as they passed the old theater. “There it is again,” said one young lady, as she stopped and inclined her head toward the old building. Others stopped. “Do you hear it?” she asked them. They nodded, looking at her oddly because the theater was completely dark, and the doors had been boarded up.
An elderly gentlemen ambled toward them and stopped as soon as he heard the music. “Aaahhh, yes, I thought it was about the right time.”
The young woman looked at him. “So you were expecting to hear it too?”
“Oh, yes,” he said. “Every evening.”
“That’s what’s so strange,” she said. “Every night, I’m sure I hear music coming from inside — some of the most beautiful music I’ve ever heard. But there is never anyone there.”
The old man smiled. “My dear, there may not be any people inside, but somewhere within these old walls, there is still love. And where there is love, my dear, there is always music.”
This weekend I dug into my poetry archives and dusted off a few of my old poems. Thought I’d give them a re-run and some time in the sun. So below you will find a few of my favorites. Of course, “favorites” is a relative term. Some days I like one better than another, and my preferences change with the wind, but — for today — here’s what I have to offer.
IGNORING THE CALL
Middle age is calling me,
But I just cannot go.
I have too much of childhood left,
So much that I don’t know.
Why, I still love to color
And to play with paper dolls.
I still delight in bubble pipes
And bouncing rubber balls.
Ah, middle age is calling me,
But I just cannot go.
I still feel like a coed,
Full of life from head to toe.
Yes, middle age is calling me,
But my decision’s made.
I’m just too young at heart to go.
Middle age’ll have to wait!
~~~
‘THE ANCHOR’S AWAY, AND I HAVE TO GO’
chorus
Heave! – Ho! Heave! – Ho!
Over the rim and into the stow;
The anchor’s away, and we have to go.
Heave Ho, me mates, Heave Ho!
verse 1
I had shore leave, but now ’tis done,
And I must sale at rise of sun,
To join the fight two weeks begun,
Heave Ho, me mates, Heave Ho!
chorus
Heave! – Ho! Heave! – Ho!
Over the rim and into the stow.
The anchor’s away, and we have to go.
Heave Ho, me mates, Heave Ho!
verse 2
I kissed my love and wished her well;
Said, “I must make my way to hell;
To win this war my soul I’d sell!”
Heave Ho, me mates, Heave Ho!
chorus
Heave! – Ho! Heave! – Ho!
Over the rim and into the stow;
The anchor’s away, and we have to go.
Heave Ho, me mates, Heave Ho!
~~~
THE LOCKET
I found a locket nestled ‘neath a tree.
It sparkled, and it twinkle, and it surely winked at me.
It looked forlorn, forgotten, skimmed with dew,
And I felt an intruder as I wondered what to do.
At last I reached and plucked it from the grass.
The chain was fragile – I could tell – and had a broken clasp.
A lovey heart, engraved on back and front,
Showed me it was a gift of love that someone still would want.
I opened it with tender, loving care,
And found, all safe and snug inside, a single lock of hair.
The curly tress was of the darkest brown,
And I felt so entranced by this small mystery I’d found.
But I was in a quandary what to do:
How to locate the rightful owner I had not a clue.
Then finally I thought, “I’ll advertise,
And if the owner sees my ad, there’ll be a nice surprise.”
I tucked it in my pocket, nice and warm,
And, eager to relay my news, I headed quickly home.
I couldn’t help but sing a little song,
So happy I could have a part in helping love along.
~~~
TALL GUY (a poem and a true story)
I know a guy who’s very tall,
Stands six feet, seven inches.
He finds his height a great delight,
An asset in the clinches.
He’s very smart, and that’s a help.
It compensates the strain
Of all the time it takes for blood
To move from heart to brain.
In public he stands proud and straight;
He literally has a ball
When people lean waaaay back and say,
“My goodness, you are tall!”
Height has its setbacks, though. Take clothes:
They must be special bought.
And going in and out of doors,
He must take special thought.
And then there’s dating; it’s a trial:
He’s anxious, Heaven knows,
To hold his partner cheek to cheek,
Not middle chest to nose.
But, still, he sees his height as Heaven’s
Gift — a special gene.
Believes all men wish to be tall,
And with envy they are green.
So happily he struts about,
Looking for that perfect mate.
His only foe the hometown priest,
Who stands at six foot, eight.
~~~
THE BALLAD OF SISTER MARY MARGARET
(Town of Petticoat Ridge, Nevada, circa 1868)
Sister Mary Margaret will never live it down:
I guess you’d say the story’s set in stone.
Our town is now quite famous, and the tourists flock around.
And it’s for sure the credit’s hers alone.
But Sister Mary Margaret will never live it down.
She did wait for somebody else to act.
But since no man among us would move to save the town,
The sister did her duty well; that’s fact.
But Sister Mary Margaret will never live it down:
You see, a bull came charging down Main Street –
Stompin’, snortin’, chargin hard at people all around –
And all the folks made haste in their retreat.
Poor Sister Mary Margaret will never live it down:
She had just finished services at church.
She stepped out to the street; her smile became a frown.
Her gold-rimmed glasses on her nose she perched.
Ahh, Sister Mary Margaret will never live it down:
The bull so wild was goin’ to take a life.
Up came her skirt; her petticoat she ripped it right around:
A petticoat as RED as cherries ripe!
Poor Sister Mary Margaret will never live it down:
The gasps of horror echoed through the air.
For no one – not one single person ever could condone
A nun who wore bodacious underwear.
Sad Sister Mary Margaret will never live it down.
But at her petticoat that bull did charge.
And Sister Mary Margaret taunted him right out of town,
And off the cliff that bull she did discharge.
But Sister Mary Margaret will never live it down.
Poor Sister Mary Margaret will never, never, never live it down.
~~~
SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY ???
She walks in ‘beauty,’ like the night,
But morning hours she feels a fright.
She cannot seem to get it right
‘Til she’s worked hours in mirror’s light.
Each day she wakes with cheerful sun,
Then looks in mirror and feels undone.
How can she venture forth for fun
‘Til make-up’s on that weighs a ton?
She struggles to impress the crowd
And hold her head up high and proud,
To make sure she is not a dowd,
But ‘neath the load her heart is bowed.
Because she feels she must comply
With this world’s rampant beauty lies:
“Wear this on lips and that on eyes,
And starve that waist, those hips and thighs.
“Walk tall on heels that are quite frail,
And don’t forget those fingernails.
Stuck on with glue that cannot fail,
All fear of fungus kept curtailed.
“Now bleach those teeth until they shine –
Until your smile the sun would blind.
Don’t button top; wear loose neckline,
So lots of cleavage you can find.”
And on she goes at each day’s light,
So stressed and strained to do it ‘right’ —
To find acceptance in world’s sight,
For deep inside there is a fright.
She fears and doesn’t have a clue,
That deep inside a beauty true
Awaits its chance to make debut,
If she’d but to herself be true.
People often ask me where I get ideas for my novels, and they also like to know the “behind-the-scenes” details of the actual writing. So periodically I share some of those details — especially the ones that I found personally enjoyable or that helped me grow as a writer. The writing of Quenton’s Honor taught me much about dedication and commitment to a project — the kind of commitment that refuses to throw in the towel because tracking down those miniscule details takes multiple phone conversations, some with foreign speaking individuals, and hours poring over dusty facts and figures and then double-checking to see if any of them have changed since I started the research. But it also taught me that even the drudgery work has its own rewards in the positive results of self-discipline.
Quenton’s Honor was actually my third novel, but it was the first of all my novels to be published, with the first printing coming out about 7 years ago. The basic story had been hanging around in my mind and my heart for months before it took enough shape to send me to the keyboard to write the first words. Once I was started, however, there was no stopping. I had to do a considerable amount of research where Pakistan was concerned, and I had to keep reminding myself that I was dealing with a huge time difference between St. Louis Missouri, and Karachi, Pakistan. That time difference didn’t cause me nearly as much trouble, though, as the loss of 12 whole days when I decided — after finishing the novel — to substitute Chapter 3 for Chapter 1.
As often happens in writing a work this long, once it’s done, the author can look back and see new possibilities for the beginning chapter — scenes that will better help grab the reader and get him involved with the story immediately. I realized that Quenton’s Honor would be a better story if I took Chapter 3 and gave it to the readers first. It was a beautiful trade, and I was very happy with it, except for the fact that I had lost 12 days of action. Not to be thwarted, however, I managed to squeeze in a little flashback to grab those 12 days. Of course, I’ll admit it took me 3 days to figure out how to make it all work. But in the end, all was well.
Another editing change came when I turned it over to a friend who reads all my novels critically. I like to have him read my works before anyone else, if possible, because he is very particular about the quality of books he reads and is eager and quick to speak up if a book is lacking in any area. When he read Quenton’s Honor, he loved the book overall and was genuinely touched by several parts, but he was not at all happy with one scene where Quenton’s life is about to be snuffed out by his terrorist guards, and the men sent to rescue him have not arrived. My friend insisted the scene needed more energy and physical action.
Now, this friend is a very shy, introverted, quiet-spoken person, and definitely not the physical confrontation type. However, when I asked him for his ideas about changes to that particular scene, he got up from his desk and began to act out all the parts of the physical confrontation for the scene. I sat and watched him with my mouth open. Here was an entirely different person from the one I’d known several years. He was so energized as he acted out all the parts that he made a believer out of me, and I went home and re-wrote that scene exactly the way he had acted it out. Of course, I acknowledged him gratefully in the front of the book.
So far, readers seem to find the changes I made very agreeable. Any of the rest of you who read the book are welcome to let me know what you think as well — about the beginning, the short flashback, and the fight to save Quenton’s life — or just about the story in general.
The printed version of Quenton’s Honor is available from St. Ellen Press, and the digital version is available from Amazon’s Kindle Store. The publisher plans to make the print version available on Amazon this summer.
[Background globe photo by Prawny. Used by permission. Edited.]
I’ve been meaning to write this post for a couple weeks. I’ve had my notes right in front of my computer keyboard — just sitting there — waiting. But other stuff kept me busy, and before I knew it, one week had gone by and then another. Now, here I am on Thursday of the third week, and I do hope that I haven’t waited so long that some readers out there have been stuck on the verge of a relationship and didn’t know whether to take the plunge or not — all because of my dastardly procrastination.
Well, finally, I am getting this information onto the great Internet information highway. I hope it’s helpful to a few — maybe even several — people who have been looking for love, but weren’t sure what the real thing looked and felt like.Some will agree with me. Some will not. But here are two lists that I think are pretty close to the mark.
You know you’re in love when …
1. You think about the person all the time.
2. You can’t seem to remember to do even the ordinary everyday things that you always did before getting to know the person.
3. You can’t stay focused on any one project because your mind keeps wandering to this person and keeps daydreaming about him/her.
4. Every time you experience something beautiful or good your first thought is that you want to share it with this person.
5. Every time you experience something hurtful or difficult, you want to run and tell him/her.
6. You’d rather be in this person’s presence than anywhere else in the world.
7. When you’re together, you feel that you two are in your own private world and that you don’t really need anybody else.
8. You constantly want to give to this person — give of your time, your energy, your material possessions. You’re eager to buy gifts for this person, to help him/her do his work, to create and plan things and events that will delight him/her.
9. You realize that this person’s welfare and happiness are much more important to you than your own.
Okay, so after studying this list, you have decided that you are indeed in love with the person in question. Now what do you do about it? Well, don’t do anything at all until you’ve studied this next list:
You know it’s SAFE to love this person because …
1. You know in your heart — and from practical experience — that you can trust this person. He/She has kept your confidences, been totally honest on all fronts, and has actively taken your side in any conflict or attack that could mean hurt to you.
2. You know in your heart — based on this person’s actions and treatment of you — that he/she will never deliberately hurt you — in fact will go out of his/her way to keep from hurting you — and will cherish and guard your love and your welfare above everything else in his/her life. No other individuals or their opinions affect this person’s feelings for and treatment of you.
3. This person makes you want to be the very best person you can be in all areas of your life. He/she constantly draws out of you your best thoughts, feelings and behavior.
4. This person always makes you feel valuable and worthy of love.
5. This person adds good to your life and enriches you and your life. He/she does not deplete any part of you — or make you feel as if you’re lacking or failing to measure up somehow.
6. This person puts your welfare and happiness above his/her own. When decisions are to be made, he/she bases those decisions on how the outcome will affect you before considering how it will effect himself/herself.
Taking action based on the results of both lists:
If all the descriptions in list # 1 match you — but very few of the descriptions in list # 2 match the person you believe you’re in love with — RUN — DON’T WALK — RUN from any development of a closer relationship.
On the other hand, if all the descriptions in list # 1 match you — and all the descriptions in list # 2 match the person you believe you’re in love with — GRAB HIM — or HER — AND DON’T LET GO.
I wrote this piece last year as part of a 20-minute writing exercise. I thought it deserved to have a post as a short story.
The Birthing of a Hero
Matthew couldn’t breathe. Well – no – that wasn’t right. He could breathe, but he felt as though he were being pushed through a very narrow tunnel, and it was squeezing the breath right out of him.
Whooooosh! Ah — now — now he could breathe normally again. But what had just happened? He looked around him.
“Holy cow! Where am I?” Surrounded by buildings taller than anything he could have imagined, with traffic rushing past him just to his left, he felt a little dizzy and disoriented. He shook his head to try to clear it, and that’s when he noticed the girl standing about four feet way from him.
“Hi.” she said, almost bashfully.
“Uh … hi yourself. Uh … do I know you?”
She giggled. “Not yet. But you will.”
“What does that mean?” He looked around in all directions as if trying to locate something. “And what on earth is that racket?”
“What racket?”
“That incessant tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap.”
She tilted her head to listen better, and a moment later she answered. “Oh, that. I’ve learned to just close it out after all these weeks. It’s the sound of the keys on the keyboard.”
“What keyboard?”
“Melissa’s, silly. She’s the author.”
“What’s an author?”
“Oh, I forgot that you couldn’t know all that yet. It takes a while to figure things out once you get here, but I’ve been here so long that I’ve pretty well gotten acclimated to everything.”
Matthew tried clearing his head with a shake again. “Wait … what? … What are you talking about? What’s going on? Where am I anyway?”
The girl let out a huge sigh. “Okay. I’ll start from the beginning. Melissa Pendergast is an author, and she writes romance novels. She’s writing one now. I’m the heroine. My name’s Abigail, by the way,” she said, extending her hand to him.
He shook her hand but eyed her suspiciously. “And just what does that have to do with me?”
“Why you’re going to be the hero of the story.” She paused, a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. “And … the love of my life.”
“You’re crazy! I don’t even know you.”
Abigail sighed again. “Of course you don’t — yet. You just got here. Melissa has just now decided who you will be. Well, just a couple of days ago anyway. I heard her talking to her best friend, so I know what the plan is now. She decided to call you Matthew because her very first boyfriend – in sixth grade – was named Matthew, and she did it in honor of him.”
“Whoa — wait — start over, will you?”
Abigail began to get a little irritated. “I don’t need to start over. You just need to pay attention. Melissa is writing a love story and you are my lover. We are supposed to meet on the street right in front of that store over there on the corner. I’m supposed to get my heel caught in a grate at the edge of the curb, and you come to my rescue before a horde of people practically mow me down in their hurry to cross the street in the short time the light says ‘Walk.’
“So I’m in a book?”
“That’s right. And I understand it’s supposed to get a little steamy.” She smiled broadly now. “But I have to say that I’m not at all sorry. You’re quite a hunk, you know.”
“Well … thanks … but … I’m not sure I want to be in somebody’s book – even this Melissa’s.”
“Oh, don’t worry. She’s a great writer, and thousands of people love her books. We’ll be two of the most popular people in the world before too long. At least … I hope it’s before too long. She had a hard time sticking with this story. That’s why I’ve been around so long – waiting for you. She hit a block of some kind, but now everything seems like a go, and I can hardly wait.”
“So, when I felt like the breath was being squeezed out of me, that’s when I was being birthed into this story, so to speak?”
“That’s right. That’s exactly how it feels! But you’re okay now, aren’t you?”
Matthew looked himself over, took a nice deep breath, relieved that he could, and answered. “Yeah, I think I’m okay. But what do we do now?”
“Just relax for a few minutes. I think Melissa just finished the second chapter, and she’s about to have us meet. This is so exciting. I think I’m falling in love with you already.”
Discovering a terrorist plot and risking your life to stop it before three U.S. cities are destroyed, receiving a visitation from an angel with important information from the Lord, falling in love with someone halfway around the world — through the help of a rusty old computer — and learning that it’s never too late to give your life to Jesus Christ. What more could any reader want from one book?
QUENTON’S HONOR(by me) has it all, and it’s just waiting at the Amazon Kindle Store to be snatched up by readers for their Kindles, Nooks, iPads, tablets, iPhones, and Androids. The novel has been out in paperback edition for several years, but this month saw its debut in digital format, and it’s available only on Amazon.
If you’re looking for a fresh, inspiring reading experience, check it out.
It’s worth $3.99 — even if I do say so myself.
You can also visit the “Quenton’s Honor” Facebook page to meet the characters and learn more about the book.
(Paperback version is currently available from St. Ellen Press, but will also be available on Amazon in June.)
DON’T READ THIS BOOK if you don’t want your heartbeat to pick up speed at the sight of someone walking through a door – or if you don’t want to find yourself holding your breath waiting for a kiss – or if you don’t want to find tears rolling down your cheeks when disappointment is unbearable – or if you don’t want to find yourself grinning widely and looking a little foolish if you happen to be reading in public – or if you don’t want to finish the last chapter with a deep sigh of satisfaction and longing all rolled into one. If those experiences are not what you’re looking for, then do not read this book.
The Happy Wordcrafter 