It is Wednesday Story Day again. Last week we left Seth and Alice giving us the idea that Seth has much more on his agenda than justice. After all, he is out of his jurisdiction. We also got a hint of mayhem with the pharmacist giving the opinion that Lucas’ sister was buried somewhere in Kenosha. What about that pharmacist anyway? Why is he so blabby? Well, let’s drag our weary bones back to Action Illinois and see if there is any sense to be made of all of this.
“Hi, Lucas.”
“O-oh, hi Mrs. Murphy. How are you.”
“The question is how are you. Please call me Harriet.”
“Yes, Miss Harriet.”
“Okay, that will do.”
“So, how are you feeling.”
“I’m doing well. I can feel my legs and my memory is back.”
“That is swell, Lucas. I’ve been so worried about you.”
“Thank you so much, Miss Harriet. I will be glad to get out of this bed though.”
“I can imagine. You are starting your physical therapy today I hear.”
“Yes, ma’am. That’s what they tell me.”
“Has Mrs. Weston been in to see you?”
“Yes, she has. She left a little while ago.”
“I saw her in the coffee shop on my way in. She was talking to the Sheriff.”
“The sheriff? What is he doing here?”
“I would say he is stalking Mrs. Weston.”
“You serious?”
“No. I think he is sniffing around.”
“S-sniffing around?”
“You have to level with me, Lucas.”
“A-about what?”
“About your parents and sister.”
“W-what about them?”
“You’re stuttering. Is there something you need to get off your chest?”
“N-no, I don’t think so.”
“You know I am willing to help you if you are in trouble.”
“I appreciate that. I think if the sheriff has questions he should come to me.”
“You want me to tell him?”
“You know Miss Harriet. I don’t want to talk to anyone about my sister and parents but will if that will clear up any doubts.”
“I think I should let my lawyer come talk to you.”
“Why?”
“I think you need to have someone in your corner. You don’t want to be talking to people without having your rights protected.”
“I’ve done nothing wrong, Miss Harriet.”
“I believe you, Lucas. I still think I’ll have my man come around and give you some advice.”
“I guess I can’t stop you.”
“No, you can’t my boy.”
Announcing the Launch of
Murder at the Bijou — Three Ingredients I
Introducing the second “three things” serial, in novel form — Murder at the Bijou — ThreeIngredients I.
Yes, that’s the cover. (I love making covers!) I kept it similar to the one for the first serial,The Three Things Serial Story, but with different 1920s photos.
For those of you who are not familiar with my blog serials…
Ages ago I developed a writing exercise. I asked friends to give me three completely random things. Then I would write until I had mentioned all the things. I brought that exercise to my blog (Teagan’s Books), but I had the readers send me their things. I let the random things drive every detail of a serial story, setting, plot, and characters. That resulted in The Three Things Serial Story, which gave birth to this culinary mystery. However, this time the “things” are food related — or ingredients.
About the Book
As with the first serial,Murder at the Bijou — Three Ingredients Iis a spontaneously written, pantser story. I wrote by the seat of my pants and let the “ingredients” readers sent each week drive a new serial story. This is the “bookized” version of that serial.
This time the Jazz Age setting is Savannah, Georgia where our flapper, Pip, is “sentenced” to live with her grandmother and learn to cook. Pip gets caught up in a layered mystery that includes bootleggers, G-men, and the varied challenges of being a young woman in changing times. She meets new friends, including some animal characters.
If you have not read The Three Things Serial Story, be warned. This adventure contains a bit of a spoiler, but does not go into detail about it.
Murder at the Bijou — Three Ingredients I is available through and Amazon and Create Space. If you don’t have a Kindle, Amazon also offers a free app that will let you read Kindle books on your computer or other device. The purchase links are below. But first, here’s a snippet.
In my imagination, a young Lucille Ball would play Pip.
Excerpt
Rutabaga Limbo
Either I woke up feeling horribly nauseated, or the queasiness woke me. I’m not sure which. I opened my eyes to complete darkness. There was no light, no sound. The way my stomach tossed reminded me of a small boat on the ocean. It was as if I sailed in a lightless limbo.
Oh… that was a bad train of thought to have with an unsettled belly.
Think of something else! Anything else, I told myself.
I stood unsteadily. The sound of a cricket came to me. Good. The utter silence had been very disturbing. I became aware of the cool moist earth beneath my palms.
Where the Sam Hill was I?
I sat back on my heels, focusing all my senses. My eyes might as well have been closed — it was that dark. Bare ground was beneath me. The air had a musty odor. A sickly sweet scent clung to my bobbed hair.
The cricket’s chirping was the only sound. Still sitting, I turned. My eyes widened and strained, trying to see in that heavy darkness. When I looked up I was rewarded with the sight of a thin line of pink light.
The faint glow allowed me to see vague outlines a few feet away. I stumbled over something and stooped down to let my hands figure out what it was. I felt a burlap bag and round lumps. Rutabagas? I felt around and found another bag. That one felt like potatoes. I moved closer to the wall and a tall shape. Yes, a ladder, my questing hands confirmed for my still foggy brain.
Gazing up at the line of pinkish light I realized I was in a root cellar.
Teagan Ríordáin Geneviene, a southerner by birth, was “enchanted” by the desert southwest of the USA when she moved there. Now a resident of a major east coast city, she longs to return to those enchanting lands.
Teagan had always devoured fantasy novels of every type. Then one day there was no new book readily at hand for reading — so she decided to write one. And she hasn’t stopped writing since.
Her work is colored by her experiences in both the southern states and the southwest. Teagan most often writes in the fantasy genre, but she also writes 1920s stories and Steampunk. Her blog “Teagan’s Books” contains serial stories written according to “things” from viewers.
Using Keith’s words. “Using this photo (below) as inspiration, write a short story, flash fiction, scene, poem; anything, really; even just a caption for the photograph. Either put it (or a link to it) in a comment or email it to me at keith@channing.info before 6 pm next Sunday (if you aren’t sure what the time is where I live, this link will tell you). If you post it on your own blog or site, a link to this page would be appreciated, but please do also mention it in a comment here – pingbacks don’t often work.
Go on. You know you want to. Let your creativity and imagination soar. I shall display the entries, with links to your own blog or web site, next Monday.”
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 tour. I will be hosting them throughout the month, and I hope you enjoy being introduced to some excellent writing.
Marcha Fox
Your Wildest Dreams
By Marcha Fox
I inhaled sharply when I recognized the introductory riff wafting from my favorite 80s station as Your Wildest Dreams by the Moody Blues. Even though I had the original 45 RPM record, the album on cassette tape, and more recently, the CD, I kept them safely locked away so I wouldn’t binge on it. Nonetheless, when KPLV, 93.1 FM in Vegas, got around to playing it every few weeks or so, I’d indulge in a break, a delicious reminder of why I was here.
Consumed by ethereal and intimately familiar soundwaves, I got up, closed the blinds, and even though it was unlikely the song’s strains would penetrate my office’s cinder block walls, plugged in my headset so I could crank it up—I mean really up. I melted back into my chair, eyes closed, with what was probably an idiotic smile on my face, savoring each note as the song segued into its lively, 142 BPM tempo. The next three minutes and forty-one seconds, I’d be in heaven.
Even though this song came out eight years after she left, the first time I heard it, back when I was still in college in ’86, I knew two things: One, it would always be “our song”; and Two, I had to find her.
My heart leapt with visions of galaxies beyond, of what might be out there, where she might be. I plunged headlong through space and time, besieged by memories burned into my heart as permanently and painfully as branding was to a newborn calf. Did she remember? Feel the same thing I did? Sense the enchantment of fate-entangled lives?
I memorize pretty easily, which comes in handy, especially with things like the Periodic Table or Maxwell’s equations. And of course, favorite songs. These particular lyrics struck me, hard and personal, from day one, certain it’d been written exclusively for me.
As my eyes teared up, logic intervened and yanked me back to planet Earth.
Grow up, Benson! What are you, a total schmaltz or what?
We were kids, for heaven sakes. A teenage crush. I should’ve gotten over it, but never did. No wonder. Girls like her are rare. One of a kind. She’d already experienced things I never would. Things that were part of my wildest dreams.
The admonition failed, pushed aside by that part of me that felt alive again, jammin’ like a total jerk, mouthing the words as I sang along in my head. It’s not like I’m a teenager anymore, though at the moment I felt like one. No, memories of the heart never die—can’t die, ever—even if you try to kill them.
I’d give anything to talk to her. Which of course I have, numerous times over the years, if only in my head. Okay, aloud more often than I care to admit. I could swear it even felt as if she answered a time or two. I suppose that’s how it is with your first love. Or your first kiss, even if it was only a peck on the cheek. It penetrates your soul and stays there forever.
That mid-summer day in ’78 hauling hay was as vivid as yesterday in my mind’s eye. The cloudless sky, sun hot on my neck, the aroma of first-crop alfalfa sweetening the mountain air. I scratched my shoulder, a reflex memory of itchy, stray leaves sticking through my T-shirt. My chest ached as I remembered tear tracks streaking her dust-covered face at something I’d said. Then, days later, that withering look when we lied about her ship.
The one we still have. What’s left of it quietly abandoned beneath a tarp in Building 15, here at Area 51.
How she knew we weren’t telling the truth, I’ll never know. Pretty funny it’s still sitting there. And I’m sure she’d think so, too. I can just hear her saying, “Stupid snurks, I knew they’d never figure it out.” Though actually they did, just didn’t find technology worth pursuing. Even contractors didn’t want it.
I had to admit it was pretty crazy, but she was my motivation to get where I was today: just short of a decade of college linked with serendipity that put me in the right place at the right time, hoping someday I’d find her. My life had changed a lot since then. How much had hers changed? Did she make it home? Was she still alive? With the effects of relativistic travel, which I understood only too well, she could still be a teenager, while I was easing into the infamous dirty thirties.
Not good. If I ever did find her, she’d probably think I was some lecherous old fart. Either that, or, with my luck, she’d be married with a bunch of kids. I winced with the thought.
My sentimental reverie vanished when my office door slammed open and Hector Buckhorn rolled in. Literally. Hec’s been stuck in a wheelchair ever since he crashed his hang glider into a New Mexico mountainside during spring break his last semester of college. He ridge soared a lot, particularly around Dulce, over restricted areas where he wasn’t supposed to be. Got caught a couple times, but being Native American, never got in trouble, even though it wasn’t his home reservation. He’s amazingly good at playing dumb, in spite of—or possibly because of—his 150ish IQ. He never talked about his accident, said he couldn’t remember. Makes sense, actually, given he suffered a massive concussion. The only time I ever saw him pissed him off was when he woke up in the hospital and discovered they’d shaved off his hair, since grown back beyond shoulder length.
I dropped the headset around my neck and faked a frown. “Don’t you ever knock, butthead?”
“Hey, man, wazzup?” he said, giving me a funny look. “You okay?”
I laughed. “Of course. Just thinking. Remembering. You know.”
“Ahhh. They played that song again, didn’t they?”
“Can’t hide anything from you, can I, Chief?”
“Nope. I figured you were up to somethin’ with your blinds closed.”
He wheeled over to the grey metal, government-issue table on the other side of the room and helped himself to a handful of peanut M&Ms. Once I’d realized during my PhD days at Cal Tech that, in a pinch, they made a pretty decent meal, I’d kept that old, wide-mouth canning jar full. He dumped them in his mouth, perusing me with knowing, dark eyes.
“You were sure enjoyin’ that song of yours,” he said, not even trying to stifle his crooked grin as he munched away.
“Yeah,” I replied, uncomfortable with the conversation’s direction.
“We’ve known each other a long time, Allen,” he said. “Don’t you think it’s time you told me about her?”
“Not much to tell.”
He let fly with a popular expletive related to bovine excrement. “C’mon! What’s her name?” he persisted.
I blew out my cheeks and sighed, knowing resistance was futile. “Creena,” I answered, surprising myself when, again, I got a little choked up. I avoided his eyes by likewise heading for the M&Ms.
“So find her,” he said.
“It’s not that simple,” I replied, pouring myself a handful. “I don’t know where she is.” A statement that was truer than he could possibly imagine.
“I have some resources who could help,” he offered with a conspiratorial wink.
I shook my head, then stalled by popping a few colorful orbs in my mouth.
“Why not? If she’s anywhere on this planet, these guys’ll find her.”
I swallowed hard and paused; met his gaze. “She’s not.”
He scowled, making him look a lot like those old pictures of Cochise. “Say again?”
“She’s. Not.”
“Oh! I’m sorry.”
“Why?”
He shrugged. “I assumed she’s dead. She must’ve been quite a girl.”
“She was. Is. She’s not dead. At least as far as I know.”
His jaw dropped, shocked expression broadcasting the fact he’d caught the implications. “You’re not kidding, are you?”
“Nope.”
“Abductee?” he whispered.
“Nope,” I answered, raiding the candy jar again. “Immigrant.”
His eyes widened as he spewed an expletive that elevated excrement to sanctified status. “Don’t tell me she’s an EBE!”
I nearly spewed partially chewed M&Ms across the room. Extraterrestrial biological entity, indeed! Yet by definition, actually, she was.
I chuckled at his expression and shook my head. “No. Quite human. At least as far as I know.”
“Are you?” he added, chocolate-colored irises rimmed with white. His reaction surprised me—UFOs, even aliens, were no big deal in his culture, just business as usual with the Star People.
“C’mon, Chief! You’ve known me since tenth grade, running high school track!”
He leaned back, searching my face with more solemnity than I’d seen since I told him how Dad died. “You’ve got a lot of explaining to do, bro,” he said finally, shaking his head.
“You have no idea,” I said, throat constricting as scratchy lyrics from the headset, audible only to me, issued another reminder of why I was here.
[NOTE:–This is an excerpt from my upcoming novel, Dark Circles, a slightly dark, hard sci-fi love story. No release date has been set.]
Thank you for supporting this member along the WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour today! We ask that if you have enjoyed this member’s writing, to please visit their Author Page on the RWISA site, where you can find more of their writing, along with their contact and social media links, if they’ve turned you into a fan. WE ask that you also check out their books in the RWISA or RRBC catalogs. Thanks, again for your support and we hope that you will follow each member along this amazing tour of talent! Don’t forget to click the link below to learn more about this author:
The inspiration for this list came from years and years of back to school events. Now that all the kids are no longer in school, I can list out things with a degree of objectivity.
10 If you are faced with back to school, do not buy any clothes without checking with your child first. If you do, at best several items will go unused. At worst, your child will suffer from PTSD (Post Teasing Stress Disorder) and refuse to leave the bedroom. (It seems those Sponge Bob Square Pant shirts you bought at the rummage sale were in the sale for a reason, Buster.)
9 If you are faced with back to school, do not do a celebratory dance as you sprint from the bus stop. If you do, at best your child won’t see you. At worst, you will have to explain your actions to your child and the rest of the parents of the kids on bus 23. (Okay so the NFL now allows dignified celebrations but doing the chicken dance as the bus pulled away caught you a penalty flag, Bosco)
8 If you are faced with back to school, do not accompany your child to class. If you do, at best you will be asked to leave. At worst you might be mistaken for an intruder and the subject of a lock down and SWAT interdiction. (That taser clears the sinus up right beautiful huh, Bart?)
7 If you are faced with back to school, do not stuff the backpack as if your child is going on safari. If you do, at best most of the things will be abandoned. At worst, your child won’t be able to navigate the stairs and Child Protective Services will pay you a visit. (Sure you are a survivalist, Bubba but the hatchet, matches, Coleman lantern, and Bowie knife are all forbidden.)
6 If you are faced with back to school, do not visit the school cafeteria to request a special diet for your youngster. If you do, at best you’ll decide to pack the lunch. At worst, you might be asked to volunteer as a lunchroom monitor. (Monitoring the lunchroom has all the glory of a prison guard position, Buford.)
5 If you are faced with back to school, do not ignore the crossing guard. If you do, at best you’ll embarrass your child. At worst, you will offend Tiny the WWF champ who has just finished his crossing guard training. (Looks like Tiny has you by the ankle and you are upside down huh, Bearle?)
4 If you are faced with back to school, do not put cute notes in your child’s lunch. If you do, at best your child will be the only one seeing them. At worst, a note may fall into the hands of the class clown and the embarrass factor will go on overload. (The words were okay, Bernie but those cartoons were a bit much. That one of the teachers went over well in the Vice Principle’s office.)
3 If you are faced with back to school, do not try to force your child to participate in activities that you think would be fun. If you do, at best the fit won’t be right. At worst, your child will rebel and go out for something like between building tight rope walking. (Should have left it alone, Bunky. Don’t look up)
2 If you are faced with back to school, do not think you know best on school supplies and stock up before the school list is published. If you do, at best you will need to buy more. At worst, those composition notebooks like the kind you used in school might become useful when your child starts college. So, Bevis, just store them for the next thirteen years.)
1 If you are faced with back to school, do not burden your child with your angst about separation. If you do, at best your child may be forced to worry about you. At worst, you could foster guilt in your child that could prevent them from taking advantage of the opportunity to move forward and learn new things. (So get over yourself Putz and show some excitement about the future.)
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 tour. I will be hosting them throughout the month, and I hope you enjoy being introduced to some excellent writing.
Jeff Haws
DIM LIGHT BREAKS
by Jeff Haws
Jolting upright, I squeeze the Jack Daniels bottle between my thighs just before it tips over to the floor. I look down and see the black label staring at me; the little bit of whiskey that’s left is tilting toward the lip, ready to fill my shoes if my legs can’t hold onto it. I briefly wonder if this is why they give these bottles flat sides, for better drunken, convulsive thigh catches. It’s saved me on more than one occasion from having shoes full of whiskey. Well, that and my ability to leave the bottle mostly empty.
I grab the top of the bottle and pull it back up, then try to raise my head; the room rotates quickly, lights blur and walls smudge while my head bounces on a neck that refuses to carry the weight. Enough of these nights will teach you the chair is always your better bet than the bed. I’d have already puked into my own lap if I’d been in bed, but keeping your feet on the floor helps ground you against the worst of the drunken spinning head. When I know I’m spending the night with Jack, I’ll always stay downstairs in the recliner with my feet firmly planted on the linoleum.
My head bobs left and settles on my shoulder; in front of me, the window reveals a purple sky with a sliver of dim light peeking over the ground, between the neighbors’ houses across the street. What does that make it? 6:30, maybe? I can’t remember if I ever fell asleep. I’m not confident I’ll ever fall asleep again.
The people across the street, though—I’m sure they’re asleep. Spencer and Mary are in bed right now, dead to the world. Her head’s probably resting on his fucking shoulder. He snores a little bit, but she’s used to it by now. Probably even comforts her, just being reminded he’s there. I fucking hate those people. I really do. Their whole lives are based around creating these perfect little characters so the rest of us feel even shittier about our own lives. But you can’t even get mad at them, or you look like the jackass who’s jealous and screwed up in the head. Not the people who pretend they’re something they’re not. No, it’s the guy who minds his own business and is genuine about who he is who’s the fucked-up one. That’s the way the world works.
I spin the bottle around in my hand, looking at the liquid slosh around in waves. Bubbles cling desperately to the glass walls but can’t hold on, splashing back down into the molasses-colored pool below. I raise the bottle and tilt it toward me; the whiskey burns just a bit as it hits the back of my throat, the sting helping to delay the inevitable throbbing head that’ll come next. I lift the bottle and splash the last few drops into my mouth, shaking it to make sure there’s nothing left, then drape my arm over the side of the chair and let the bottle fall to the floor with a heavy clink.
I have no idea what day it is. Am I supposed to be at work in a couple of hours? When every day’s the same, it’s hard to say. Time is just change, in the end. If the sun didn’t come up and go down, the Earth didn’t rotate, the world never changed, there’d be no way to measure it. Essentially, there’d be no such thing as time. People’s lives can get like that too. When the days start blending together, how do you measure time? And, even more so, what’s the point?
That sun that’s gradually getting closer to showing itself isn’t going to bring anything good with it. The dark is better. You can hide when everybody else is sleeping. You don’t have to look at how your neighbors’ lives reflect your own inadequacies. You don’t have to face yourself. The dark lets you be alone, lets you wallow and embrace whatever misery is there to be embraced. The morning just exposes it all to those smiling faces with white teeth all lined up in a row.
I know they don’t approve of me. I see them at church and they say hi, but you can see it’s forced. There’s no small talk. No more invitations to their lake house. Just hollow greetings if they can’t avoid me. When Adrian would show up with fresh cuts and bruises on her arms, I know they suspected something. I think she purposefully tried to make them just a little visible. A small cry for help, maybe. She’s been gone awhile, though.
Now, God wouldn’t approve of what I’ve become. This withering mass that passes the hours of insomnia with liquor straight from the bottle. He can smell the whiskey on my breath just like the neighbors can. I don’t even know why I go to church anymore, when I can remember it’s Sunday. He can see my heart’s not there, that I wish I could have a handle of some devil’s water with me when I’m kneeling in front of a pew. It’s not that I don’t have faith that there’s someone in control; it’s that whoever that someone is has delivered me into this reality, this life. Whatever this is. Becoming an atheist almost seems redundant. When your belief is this tainted, is it even worth the bother of leaving behind?
I figure I’ve been strapped to this chair long enough, so maybe I’ll wander upstairs. I have blackout curtains in the bedroom; I can shut the world out up there. Pretend I’m somewhere else, somewhere better. Somewhere new. There’s no way I’m stepping foot outside today.
Standing up, I get a feel for just how much I really drank; my legs nearly buckle, and I fall back toward the chair. My hand catches on the chair’s arm and stabilizes me while I try to forget about the merry-go-round in my head. Ten seconds pass, then twenty. Finally, I lift my hand off the chair arm and pause to see if I can stand up. My legs wobble but hold; slowly, I bring my hand further up from the chair and straighten from my hunch. My arms are spread to my sides like I’m on a balance beam, trying to keep my center of gravity above my feet. I take one careful step forward, then another, deliberate, slow, momentum building as I reach the banister for the stairs and grab ahold hard.
Each step is becoming a little easier, now getting help from my left hand, pulling my body up the stairs one foot at a time, finally reaching the hall. I’ll need an aspirin or four before I lie down. If I’m lucky, I’ll sleep. If not, I’ll stare at the ceiling in the dark for awhile.
I open the door to the room and step through; the bed is just a few steps in front of me. I walk quietly to it and stop, bending carefully over the mattress. I pull back the quilt a little bit and bend further, kissing her forehead gently. She’s only six, and she deserves me to be better than this. It’s kind of amazing we’ve made it this far; she believes her mom is someplace better, and I do nothing to dissuade her from that. Hell, I hope she’s right. But if so, I can’t join her there now. There’s more for me to do. If there is a god, this is the one lifeline he’s thrown me, and I’m clutching to it with everything I have. She’ll get me to the other side of this. She’ll be the light breaking through the dark. It’s dim now, but it’ll shine brighter if I can rise with it.
I pull the quilt back up under her chin and fold it back across her shoulder. Then I back out the way I came and shut the door behind me, careful not to let the latch click. My bedroom’s down the hall, and more darkness still awaits.
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:
Driving around Port Aransas I generally see things that I want to photograph. This week the producer insisted we record some of them. This post is called fence art for reasons you’ll see in a moment.
I know you can’t see this very well from this distance but I wanted to give you a perspective. This is a fence adorned with items the homeowner picked up off the beach
A little bit closer will give you a better idea.
Even closer shows you the objects and the weathered wood. Crocks anyone?
Here is a simple decoration made out of floats
I thought this gate had the look of an old jail. I also like the diving gull on the left. (it is not real)
Here is a fence made out of galvanized steel with some fish painted on the surface.
A closer look.
This is a small digression. In the old days there used to be a thing called air mail. This mailbox is about twenty feet in the air.
Fence art has to included fishing nets.
And big ole pieces of rope.
This is at the end of a cul-de-sac. I’m not sure this one would qualify as art, but I just imagined that it was put here after the first drunk ran through the fence behind.
I hope you liked the little tour of some of the fence art here in Port Aransas
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 tour. I will be hosting them throughout the month, and I hope you enjoy being introduced to some excellent writing.
Harmony KentLive or Die?
By Harmony Kent
Sometimes, you need to accept help. Sometimes, you need to admit that you need it. Sometimes, you need to take the hand that’s offered. You reached out and took my arm. I let you. I took the assistance I needed. I gripped your hand so that you could pull me to my feet. The last thing I needed was for you to slit my wrists. So much blood. All that carnage. My heart ripped right out of my chest.
I did my best.
Though, what kind of an epitaph is that?
Do I want that immortalised on my headstone?
Does that adequately sum up a life?
What about all the rest?
At the end of the day, what’s left to show for all that struggle, all that pain?
Right now, only one thing remains certain, that things can never be the same. That river? Already crossed. That road? Already travelled. That life? Already lived.
No going back. Not ever.
Going forward, though? Now, there’s the question.
For this gal, only one choice remains. Live or die?
Sometimes, you need to accept help. Once bitten, twice shy and all that, though, ya know? Truth be told, I’ve come to the end. Like I said, no going back. The rub is that I can’t go on either. The wind whips my hair into my face and throws cold pellets of rain at me. I shiver and dig deep for the courage. Never did like heights, yet here I stand. To jump or not to jump? That is the question.
The darkness wraps around me and locks the breath in my lungs and my feet in place—leaves me perched here in a daze. The metal burns cold within my death grip. With pulse racing, I edge my left foot forward a couple of centimetres, and then bring the right one up level. Perforce, I have to let go of the steel girders now. I’ve taken a step too far. Sweat breaks free from every pore and soaks this trembling mass of flesh, muscle, and sinew. With a heart this broken, how does it even continue on?
‘Miss? Are you okay? … Miss?’
At the unexpected voice, I twist and startle. A man reaches for me, indistinct in the arc-sodium lights.
‘Miss? Here, take my hand.’
A sudden gust buffets me from behind, and I stumble forward, a scream frozen in my terrified throat. All of a sudden, it hits me, I don’t want to die. Too late, however, as I’m off balance and too close to the edge. Dimly, as I fall, I see that it’s not about living or dying but about having the choice. It seems the wind has finished your job for you. Limp and spent, I plummet to the waiting river below, which sends up cold plumes of spray and waves like open arms welcoming me in and under to die beneath.
Sometimes, you need to admit that you need it. At the first swallow of brackish water, I swallow my pride, and every molecule of this being cries out for help. I should have grabbed his hand. Should have, but could I have? Would I have if given the chance? More ice-cold water pours into my throat and drowns my lungs. All the philosophising ceases as it becomes a fight for life. The cold pierces and stabs like a knife.
Tired and afraid, and no longer quite so numb, I kick, searching for the surface. Already, my limbs have gone stiff. The pressure in my chest has grown unbearable, and I have to take a breath, even though I know it will mean certain death. I just can’t do it. Can’t hold it all in anymore. Bubbles erupt when the life-giving air breaks free of my now open lips.
They show me the way when they float up, up, and up.
For a second, I hesitate. Do I go for it or not? Here is my chance for total surrender. To not have to fight any further. Do I have the energy? The will? At the end of the day, what’s left to show for all that struggle, all that pain?
I did my best, but I don’t want that on my epitaph.
My legs kick and arms stroke, pushing through the murk and trying for air. With this exhaustion and cold, I doubt I’ll get there. By now, the bubbles have long gone, but I’ve come near enough to discern the orange city glow. Not far now. One more kick. One more. That’s it. Just one more.
Sometimes, you need to take the hand that’s offered. I come to, afloat on my back, and the icy waves provide my waterbed. Way up high, atop the bridge, come the blues-and-twos, as the emergency services rush to the scene of my demise. Don’t they realise that I’ve fallen too far from reach? Beyond any assistance or redemption.
It seems as if hours pass me by while I drift in and out and upon. This time, a deafening roar causes me to rouse. A shadow flies through the sky, trailing a bright beam. The search is on. These arctic temperatures have other ideas—so much so that I’ve begun to feel warm. A bad sign. Sleepy too.
Impossibly white light hits me and burns my eyes. I raise a hand to cover them and, immediately, lose my buoyancy and sink back into the dark. The search light now glows dimly above the water. Too tired, too cold, too done to even try and fight, I let the river have its way.
The universe has other ideas, it seems, and once again, I lose the choice. Strong hands grip my armpits and haul me upward. To the artificially lit night and the cold and the air and the despair. Oh, love, what did you do to me? So much blood. All that carnage. All those lies and abuse. What’s the use?
You reached out and took my arm. It all unfolded in a blur and strobe-like snapshots—the winch into the helicopter, the medi-flight, and them getting me here. Trouble is, I think they left my heart there.
A nurse bustles into the private room and pulls apart the drapes. ‘Time to let in some light,’ she says. Oh, how wrong could she be? The last thing I want to do is see. Right now, only one thing remains certain, that things can never be the same. I want to stay in the dark; hide from my shame.
‘You have a visitor.’ Her voice sounds far too bubbly. It hurts. ‘The police officer who tried to help on the bridge.’ A shadow crosses her face. Then she gets busy tidying the bedding and then me. ‘I’ll just go and show him in.’ Once again, I don’t get a choice. No time to find my voice.
The door opens slowly, and I lay with baited breath. A young man eases in, dark hair and chocolate eyes, with a smile that feels like the most glorious sunrise. ‘May I?’
His question gives me pause. Never before did anyone ask my permission. Dumbstruck, I give a mere nod. My visitor edges to the bed and takes a seat on the hard plastic chair that the nurse placed there. We sit in silence for a while, and then his eyes find my scars. So many. Clouds snuff out that beautiful dawn and darken his face.
Now, he’ll make his excuses and take his leave. He’s done his bit. But no. Instead, he takes my hand. Looks into my eyes. Somewhere from the edges, I register that he doesn’t have on his uniform. ‘It’s okay,’ he tells me, fingers rubbing mine. ‘You’re safe now. We’ll make this right.’
Uninvited, a sob brings the elephant right into the room. ‘No one can,’ I croak.
‘It’s okay. He won’t hurt you again.’
‘You know who I am?’
He nods, gives my hand a squeeze. ‘We know everything.’
All I want to do is shrivel up and crawl within.
With both hands, he reaches out and takes my arms. I let him. He seems an angel in human form, and I feel safe within his embrace. Into my hair, he whispers, ‘It’s okay. I’ve got you. I got you now.’
Can I take the leap of faith?
Now, there’s the question.
Live or die?
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Harmony KentLive or Die?
