I am so glad to be featured on Beem Week’s site. He has graciously allowed me to visit and talk about my new release, The Last Drive. HERE is the link to his post.
Beem and I have been acquainted for a few years now. I think we first met in 2015 when we were part of another writer’s club. Since that time, Beem has published some excellent books and is also involved in the creative side of helping authors reach their potential. His books continually garner four and five stars, and I have found them to be very entertaining. He has six titles, and you can see them on Amazon.
Beem is also a blogger, blog talk radio host, and video/audio producer for Fresh Ink Group, as well as a fellow member of Story Empire.
Beem’s latest – Click for Amazon
Thank you, Beem, for hosting me today. I appreciate your help.
I have turned off the comments so that your originality can be saved for the visit to Beem’s post.
As a member of Rave Reviews Book Club, I am proud to showcase several exceptional writers. All are members of the literary section of the club titled Rave Writers – International Society of Authors. RWISA.
Today I want to welcome Beem Weeks with his story. Dying for a Kiss.
Beem Weeks
Dying for a Kiss
It’s like one of those stories you’d read about in Ripley’s Believe It or Not. I mean, who ever heard of anybody dying from a kiss?Seriously! But that’s what happened to me—well, except for the dying part. Two weeks in the hospital—that’s the souvenir I brought back from my spring break.
Okay, let me back up to the beginning.
My parents’ hushed words pierce the wall that separates their bedroom from mine. This particular conversation doesn’t warrant status as an argument, though. And believe me, I know what their arguments sound like—lots of yelling, and maybe an ashtray or a bowling trophy gets thrown by Mom. I guess I’d classify this one as just another log of disappointment tossed on the bonfire that engulfs our family—our collective lives.
Dad is a dreamer. The problem is, dreamers make promises they’ll eventually have to break. He’s also the sort of man who’ll spend his last five dollars on scratch-off lottery tickets instead of household necessities, like food, or gas—or our long-planned excursion to Disney World during spring break.
Dad’s the one who sets it in stone over breakfast in our kitchen—Dad, because Mom refuses to play the bad parent anymore.
“Sorry, kids,” he tells me and my sister, Amanda. “We just can’t afford Disney at this time.”
Amanda, being nearly two years older than me, carries a heavier burden of disappointment than I do. She’s had more time to gather her own collection of tales regarding broken promises, cancelled plans, and the jettisoned idea of ever being a normal, well-adjusted family.
“I figured as much,” Amanda mumbles, dismissing herself from the table.
Dad tries to be sincere in his attempt to save spring break. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t go somewhere that’s almost as fun and exciting.”
When Dad speaks of somewhere, it’s usually a state-park campground in some far-flung forest up north.
Amanda hollers from the living room, “Just so you know, Daddy, I hate camping.”
I don’t hate camping—though it doesn’t exactly make my top-ten list of fun things to do.
* * *
A little backstory.
My parents met at a Beatles concert back in 1964. Mom claims love at first sight.
Dad, well, he’s been known to dispute her recollections on the subject. He’s fond of saying, “She had the hots for John Lennon, is all. I’m just the booby prize.”
Hippies, they were—and still are, even though it’s 1979 now. They only just recently (as in one year ago) got married—despite the fact that Amanda is almost fourteen and I’m already twelve. And though they’d both been college students when they met, neither has ever collected the degree they once intended to earn.
Mom works at the IGA as a cashier—minimum wage, with practically zero opportunity to advance into a higher tax bracket.
Dad? He’s dabbled in various occupations—sales, electronic repairs (TV’s mostly, maybe a few stereos), welding, landscaping, auto repair. Nothing ever really sticks for him, though. My grandfather (Mom’s dad) refers to my father as professionally unemployable. Granddad still blames him for making a mess of Mom’s life. They don’t speak, Dad and Grandpa.
Dad’s a good guy, though. He means well. He’s just not one for responsibilities.
So, anyway, the folded map of Michigan comes out, spread across the kitchen table. Mom eyes the places circled in red—those previous vacation spots. We’ve been all over the state: Silver Lake Sand Dunes, Traverse City during the cherry festival, Holland for Tulip Time. We even spent a few days on Mackinac Island three summers ago—though we didn’t stay at the Grand Hotel.
“It’s Andrew’s turn to choose,” Mom says, dropping the big decision in my hands.
Hiawatha National Forest had been my first choice the last time my turn came up. But Dad broke his foot, which cancelled our vacation that spring.
“The Upper Peninsula, it is,” Dad says.
Amanda despises me in this moment. “I told you I hate camping.”
* * *
Radio songs fill the van once we hit US 27 going north. The Bee Gees squawk about a tragedy twice before we’re even on the road for forty minutes.
“I hate that song,” Amanda complains.
Dad says, “Well, I like it.”
Mom tries to lighten the mood. “I spy with my little eye—”
“Please don’t!” Amanda begs. Without warning, she socks my shoulder, yells, “Slug bug red!”
“Ouch!” And just like that, it’s on. We’ll both of us be battered and bruised by the time we spy the top of the Mackinac Bridge.
“Slug bug green!” Thwack!
“Slug bug blue!” Thwack!
“Slug bug—oh, never mind. That’s not a VW.” Thwack!
“Hey! No fair!”
Blondie sings about her heart of glass and Amanda momentarily abandons our game—just long enough to sing the few lines she actually knows.
Many hours later, I’m the one who spots the top of the Mighty Mack! “I see the bridge,” I say, hoping it’ll irritate Amanda.
But in truth, she doesn’t mind losing this game. It’s not a thing to her anymore. She’ll leave us the day she turns eighteen—or even sooner, if she has her way. Grandpa promised to pay for her college, knowing my parents will never be able to afford it.
Evening spikes the sky with an orange-pink sunset by the time we find a campground inside Hiawatha. Dozens of tents and RV’s occupy the prime camping spots.
“Andrew and I will set up the tent,” Dad says, parking our van on the last vacant lot within sight. “You girls can get dinner ready.”
Kids—loud and rowdy, as Grandpa would say—run from lot to lot, chasing after somebody’s collie, darting across the road without so much as a glance in either direction.
“Too stupid to last long in this world,” Amanda says.
Mom gives her the eye. “They’re just kids, for crying out loud, Mandy.”
* * *
“Andy and Mandy,” the girl teases, laughing at our introductions. “That’s cute. Are you two twins or something?”
“Or something,” Amanda says.
Her name is Nora, this girl with short brown hair. Already fourteen—unlike Amanda, who still has another month. The tents across the street are her family’s—it’s their collie running wild.
“Five kids,” Nora says, answering my mother. “I’m the oldest. Three younger brothers and a baby sister.”
“Sounds kind of crowded, that many people in just two small tents,” I observe.
She looks right at me when I speak—like I’m really truly here, standing in front of her.
“You don’t know the half of it,” says Nora. “I asked if I could just stay home, sit out this vacation. That’s not happening anytime soon.”
* * *
Blue jean shorts and a red bikini top—that’s what Nora wears the following morning. And a pocket full of salt water taffy—which she gladly shares.
Mom’s not impressed. “Leaves little to the imagination,” she says, regarding Nora’s top.
“But you and Daddy used to skinny dip,” Amanda reminds her. “So how is that better?”
Mom’s hard gaze issues silent threats. Her words aren’t quite as harsh. “Aren’t you kids going boating?”
It’s not really a boat, this thing we rent; it’s more like a canoe—but only plastic. I sit in the rear, my paddle steering us toward the middle of the lake. Amanda has the other paddle, though she’s not really doing anything with it.
Nora sits in the middle—facing me!
I think Amanda is intimidated, not being the oldest for a change.
Nora talks—a lot. But I don’t mind. She tells us all about life back home in Detroit—well, the suburbs, really, a place called Royal Oak. She used to have a boyfriend, but he cheated on her. Her parents separated last year, intending to divorce, but her mom ended up pregnant.
“Amazing how an unborn baby can save a marriage,” Amanda says.
It’s after we bring the canoe in that Nora says, “Wanna go for a walk?”
Only, she’s not talking to Amanda. Amanda is already halfway back to our tent.
We end up in a picnic area near the lake, just me and Nora. She tells me more about herself, her family, what she intends for her future.
“You’re cute,” she says, sitting right beside me on a park bench.
My cheeks get hot, probably bright pink.
And she’s two years older than me, I think, as her lips press against mine.
My first kiss—well, first real kiss.
On her tongue I taste salt water taffy and excitement and all things possible.
What I don’t taste is the meningitis in her saliva.
Amanda intrudes, tells me lunch is being served at our tent.
* * *
It strikes without warning, leaving me confused, nauseated. Words tumble from my mouth, though I have no idea what I’m saying.
Mom’s hand finds my forehead. “He’s burning up,” she says. “We need to get this boy to a hospital.”
Only, I don’t hear it that way. What I hear is, “We need to get this boy a pretzel.”
“But I don’t like pretzels,” I mumble.
* * *
Two weeks later, I’m back home. It’s a blur, but my parents say I nearly died.
From a kiss!
Is that a Ripley’s story or what?
And what a kiss—totally worth dying for!
Well,almost dying.
∼∼∼
Thank you for supporting this member along the WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour today! We ask that if you have enjoyed this member’s writing, please visit their Author Page on the RWISA site, where you can find more of their writing, along with their contact and social media links, if they’ve turned you into a fan.
We ask that you also check out their books in the RWISA or RRBC catalogs. Thanks, again, for your support and we hope that you will follow each member along this amazing tour of talent! Don’t forget to click the link below to learn more about this author:
Rave Reviews Book Club. One of the objectives of the club is to recognize outstanding talent in its membership. A literary group has been established within RRBC named Rave Writers – International Society of Authors (RWISA). This month the club is featuring these authors on a tour. I will be hosting them throughout the month and I hope you enjoy being introduced to some excellent writing.
Beem Weeks
Wordless
“What’s that word say?”
“That’s an easy one, Daddy. Just sound it out.”
Levi Bacchus can’t read. 36 years old, and he’d never learned the meaning of a single sentence.
“I just ain’t cut out for this, Jamie Lynn.”
The girl’s countenance dropped in disagreement—just like her mother, that one.
“So, you’re a quitter now?” she bellowed, sounding too much like the woman who’d walked out of their lives two years earlier.
Levi took offense. “Mind your manners, Missy. I ain’t never been called no quitter.”
“Reading is something everybody should be able to do, is all I’m saying.”
“It’s easy for you,” Levi argued. “You’re just a kid, still in school. You have teachers telling you what to do and how to do it. I’m just too old for learning.”
The girl narrowed her gaze, jabbed a finger into the open book. “From the beginning,” she demanded.
His heaving huff meant he’d do it again—if only for her sake.
Words formed in his head before finding place on his tongue. Some came through in broken bits and pieces, while others arrived fully formed and ready for sound.
Jamie’s excitement in the matter is why he kept trying. Well, that and the fact he’d long desired the ability to pick up the morning paper and offer complaint or praise for the direction of the nation. All those people in the break room at the plant held their own opinions on everything from the president to the latest championship season enjoyed by the local high school football team.
“That’s good, Daddy,” Jamie said, patting her father on the arm. “That’s really good. You’ll be reading books before too long.”
A smile worked at the edges of his lips, refusing to go unnoticed.
“I’d like that, Sweet Pea.” That’s all he’d say of the matter. If it came to that, well then, he’d have accomplished something worth appreciating.
Levi harbored bigger notions than merely reading books. When a man can read, he can do or be anything he wants to be. His own father often said a man who can’t read is forever in bondage. How can a man truly be free if he cannot read the document spelling out the very rights bestowed upon him by simple virtue of birth? No sir; being illiterate no longer appealed to him.
Of his immediate family—father, mother, two older brothers—only Levi failed to attend college. Oh, he graduated from high school. Being a star quarterback will afford that sort of luxury. But when those coaches from the universities came calling, low test scores couldn’t open doors that promised more than a life spent in auto factories.
He’d seen a show on TV about a man who’d been sent to prison for five years for armed robbery. While there, this man learned to read, took a course on the law, and became a legal secretary upon his release. Eight years later, he’d earned a law degree and opened his very own practice.
Levi didn’t see himself arguing cases in a court of law—defending criminals most likely to be guilty just didn’t appeal to his sense of right and wrong. What he did see, however, is the need for a good and honest person to run the city he’d forever called home.
“Think I could be mayor?” he asked his daughter.
Jamie Lynn always grinned over such talk. “Everybody has to have a dream, Daddy.”
It’s what she always says.
Everything begins with a dream.
She gets that part of her from her mother.
“Once I can read without stopping to ask questions,” he mused, “maybe I’ll throw my hat into the ring, huh?”
“There’s nothing wrong with asking questions,” she answered, weaving wisdom between her words.
* * *
She’d been a girl scout, his daughter—daisies and brownies before that. It’s the other girls who bullied her out of the joy that sort of thing once offered. Straight A’s have a way of making others feel inferior, even threatened.
But Jamie Lynn isn’t the type to pine or fret. She chose to tutor—and not just her father, either. Kids come to the house needing to know this and that among mathematics or English or science. Her dream? To be a teacher one day.
And she’ll accomplish that much and more.
Her mother had that very same sense about her as well. She knew what she wanted in life, and cleared the path upon which she traveled.
High school sweethearts they’d been, Jamie Lynn’s mother and father. She’d been the pretty cheerleader, he’d been the All-American boy with a cannon for an arm. She went to college, he didn’t.
But she returned to him, joyfully accepting his proposal for a life together. Her degree carried her back to the high school from which they’d both graduated. This time, rather than student, she became teacher—American History.
Levi went to work building Cadillacs in the local plant. It paid well, offered medical benefits and paid vacation time. Life settled into routines.
Then came their little bundle. This didn’t sit well with the newly-minted history teacher. No sir. It’s as if Levi had intentionally sabotaged his own wife’s career in some fiendish plot to keep her home.
Words of love became “stupid” and “ignorant” and “illiterate ass.” She walked out one evening and never came back to the home they’d built together.
A former student, he’d heard—five years her junior. They’d ran off together, supposedly making a new home somewhere out west.
Levi didn’t challenge it. He received the house and the kid in exchange for his signature on those papers he couldn’t even read.
Jamie Lynn, she’s the light that shined in his darkness, showed him there’s still so much more living to be done. And learning to read, well, that just added to the adventure.
* * *
The night came when he read an entire chapter from one of Jamie Lynn’s old middle school books—straight through, unpunctuated by all those starts and stops and nervous questions. By the end of the month, Levi had managed the entire story—all 207 pages.
“We have to celebrate, Daddy,” she insisted.
It’d been the silly draw of embarrassment that twisted his head left and right, his voice saying, “No need to make a fuss, Sweet Pea.”
But fuss is only the beginning. “Dinner and a movie,” she ordered. “Then we’ll stop off at the mall and pick out a few books that you might like.”
There were stories he recalled from his boyhood; books other kids clutched under their arms and took for granted. Stories that stirred so much excitement in those young lives.
They’d belong to him now.
“You’re finally blooming, Daddy—just like a flower.”
And so was his daughter.
A teacher in the making.
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:
Beem Weeks is hosting today’s 4Wills Publishing His Revenge Weekend Tour. You can visit his post HERE. I want to thank Beem for helping with the launch. Beem is a member of Rave Reviews Book Club and active participant in the Board as well as host of Rave Waves BlogTalkRadio “BEYOND THE COVER” interview show. Beem is also a talented writer and you can visit his books on Amazon. He also likes my alma mater Michigan State University. (Good thing in my book)
His Books
Here is a little more about Beem
Beem Weeks is the 40-something-year-old indie author of several short stories, poems, essays, and the historical fiction/coming-of-age novel Jazz Baby. He has also released a collection of short stories entitled Slivers Of Life. A divorced father of two grown children, Beem has lived in Florida and Georgia, and is currently calling Michigan home. Among his literary influences he counts Daniel Woodrell, Barbara Kingsolver, and Stephen Geez. He’s been writing since childhood, having co-authored a play he saw performed by and for classmates and staff during his time in fifth grade. As a teenager and young adult, Beem wrote concert and record reviews for a small publication. Journalism had been his intended field from an early age, but all that changed with the publication of a short story that eventually led to his first novel, Jazz Baby. Beem enjoys indie films, loud music, and a well-told story. He is currently hard at work on his second novel–though that’s a slow-go at times
