I’m the Nanny – part 2

Jade is Mitch’s boss, since she just hired him to be her nanny. Fighting their inevitable attraction, they try dating other people. Unfortunately, that isn’t going so well. Jade missed her lunch date with Keith, due to her son’s illness, so she invites him to dinner. Will Keith make the final cut?

At 6:45, Jade went up to change. At 6:55, Keith arrived with a bouquet of daisies.

Mitch opened the door, recoiling from the bouquet thrust in his face. “Oh, shit! Dude, no daisies!”

Keith looked at the flowers in his hand, staring at the strange man who was backing away with his hand over his nose and mouth.

“Was that the bell?” Jade called from upstairs.

“Jade? It’s Keith!”

“Oh, hi!” She saw the daisies, her eyes widened with horror. “No daisies. Please, get them out of here!”

She shoved Mitch away from the door. He was already starting to gasp, his throat tightening up. Keith, still not understanding, took a step inside. Jade took his flowers, throwing them out the door. She slammed it shut.

“Mitch, are you okay?”

He nodded. “Inhaler. Medicine cabinet. Top – shelf.”

She ran up the stairs, two and a time. She found his inhaler and brought it down. His hands shook when he took it from her, so she held it steady as he gave himself the medicine.

“What’s wrong?” Keith kept asking. “What’s the matter?”

“The daisies,” Jade replied when she was sure Mitch wasn’t going to pass out. “He’s horribly allergic.”

“Dude, I’m sorry. I had no idea.” He advanced on Mitch, who backed up.

“Wash your hands,” Jade said. “The bathroom is in the hall, on the right.” She pointed. “Are you sure you’re alright? Do I need to call the doctor?”

“I’m okay.” He wheezed. “Thanks.”

Jade brushed his hair out of his face. “Come sit down.” She led him to the living room.

“Who is this guy, Jade?”

“I’m – the nanny,” Mitch gasped, holding out his hand.

“A male nanny?” Keith laughed, shaking his hand. “And here I was worried.”

Mitch frowned. “Yeah? You were, huh?”

“A guy who’s a nanny? Oh, come on…. You’re gay, right?”

Mitch squared his shoulders, then held out his hands like he was giving up. “Ya got me. Queer as a three dollar bill. I’m so gay, I even prefer male goats.” He said in a high voice. In his regular voice, he added. “Wrong assumption, buddy.”

The other man blanched, glad that Jade was in the kitchen. “We got off on the wrong foot, friend. I don’t want any trouble.”

Mitch took in details of his rival for the first time. Keith was around 5′10” and thin. His shoulders were broad, but bony and somewhat stooped. His sandy hair was thinning on top, even though he was barely 30. His pale blue eyes held terror. He was scared of Mitch. It was apparent in every line of his body whenever Mitch moved in his direction.

“We did indeed, friend. Come meet the kids.”

The children were playing in their playroom. Richie was obviously feeling better after all his sleep. They were playing their form of tag, which included a lot of tripping and falling down.

“Mi!” Becky yelled when she saw him. “Pay!”

“She wants to play with me,” he explained to Keith. “This is Becky.” He pointed to her. “And that’s Richie.”

“Hi, kids! I’m Keith. Can you say that? Keith.”

They stared at him, fingers in their mouths.

“Mi! Pay!” Becky repeated the command.

He dutifully lay down on the floor. The twins busily climbed over him, falling and laughing. Jade walked around the corner, a spaghetti spoon in her hand.

“Are they at that again? Don’t they ever get tired of it? Don’t you?”

“Works for me. They’re happy and I don’t have to do anything. I love this game.”

“Keith, you should lie down too,” Jade suggested.

“Oh, no. I don’t think so. I don’t know anything about….”

“What’s to know?” Mitch asked. “You lie there.”

“Okay, why not?” Keith joined them on the floor.

The children gave him a baleful eye. Neither of them responded to him at all. In fact, they quit their favorite game and went back to playing with blocks.

“Supper’s almost ready. Can you guys get the kids for me?”

“Sure. I’ll grab Richie,” Mitch started to say.

“I’ve got him. No problem.”

Keith bent over to pick up the toddler and Richie smacked him in the face.

For part 3, the definitive conclusion, see: writersanctuary.blogspot.com/

Excerpt from “The Lone Wolf”

I’ve always loved the following scene because it makes me laugh. I also like the pacing and dialog – probably because several of my favorite characters are in it. Wil has just introduced Matilda to some of his oldest friends, the Fellician warriors. These huge cat people are fierce mercenaries with whom he and Marc have often teamed up. Matilda isn’t quite sure what the make of them at first. This scene takes place in a restaurant when they all go out for dinner.

Caprilla’s musical voice filled Matilda with warmth. He held out his hand, long fingered and velvety. The feathery fur tickled her fingers like a living thing. He bent his head over her hand, kissing it lightly. His whiskers sent a thrill down her spine. He looked into her face with his clear, blue eyes.

“Friend Wil, this is an amazing lady you have here. Were I an evil fellow, I would fight you for her.” He purred over the last word, his tongue trilling the ‘r’ seductively.

“Aw, hell, Cap. It’s not polite to kill your friend before dinner. I guess you will just have to leave her with me for now.” He chuckled, taking her by the hand. “Don’t mind him, Romance, he’s always been a joker.” He protectively tugged her closer to him.

Caprilla purred deep in his throat, his voice rumbling like thunder. “I never kid about anything, Captain Romance. I have no sense of humor.”

The restaurant was a little crowded, but they were able to get a table on the dock overlooking the water. Matilda tried not to stare at the Fellicians, but they fascinated her. She had see non-human races before, but she had never met these amazingly beautiful cat people. She was surprised to find that many of them were mercenaries.

“We are naturally a warrior race, but too long we fought one another. The race was dying off, so our elders put us into mercenary service. We fight side by side with our females.” He bared his teeth at Escascia. “They give us much fight off the battlefield too. Friend Marc, do your females fight when you mate?”

Marc burst into loud laughter, spewing his wine on the table. Giggling, he wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “Well, some of them do, Cavitus. Others make demands about what they want us to do and we comply or we might not get any.”

Cavitus looked amazed. “Your females talk to you like that? Do you not beat them?”

Wil chuckled, looking uneasy. “If I tried to hit Romance, she’d cut my balls off.”

Matilda felt as if she’d like to melt into a puddle, dribble through the deck and mingle with the waters below. Cavitus looked on with intense interest.

“But she is so small! I am interested in how your species manages to copulate. Sometime I would like to see just how….”

He was ready to embark on a long discussion when the waiter arrived. After they ordered, Cavitus was ready to take up the conversation, but Wil held up a hand to stop him.

“My friend, I know that among your people such matters are openly discussed. But we humans don’t generally discuss our mating habits in public. If sometime you would like to finish this conversation in private, I will be happy to answer any questions you have. However, I think you are making my lady extremely uncomfortable.”

Cavitus rose from his seat, bowing deeply, nearly knocking over three people, his tail smacking another diner in the back of the head. “I have brought shame on my people, Lone Wolf. I ask the kind forgiveness of this lovely Captain Romance. Sometimes my mouth says things before my brain can catch up.”

He bowed again, taking Matilda’s hand in his, kissing it gently. He sniffed her hand delicately. “She smells very good, Friend Wil. Does she taste as good?”

Wil laughed loudly, causing trepidation among the diners. “Yes, she does. Now, no more, Cavitus. I don’t think my sides can handle it.”

A few minutes later, their food arrived. Sensing that raw meat would be little appreciated by some of their table mates, the Fellicians ordered their steaks rare. Wil’s was almost as bloody. Only Matilda and Marc had their meat brown all the way through.

Wil looked at Marc oddly. “Since when do you eat your meat like that? I’ve seen people beg you to hit it again before it moos.”

Marc cleared his throat, scratched his beard and rubbed his nose before answering. “Well, after being on the station with Romance, I kind of got used to it.”

Caprilla closely scrutinized Marc and Matilda for a moment. “She is your woman, Friend Marc? I thought she belonged to Friend Wil.”

Marc looked extremely embarrassed. “Well, she and I, uh, worked together before she met Wil.” He mumbled.

The huge black cat looked skeptical. “So, she was your woman and you gave her to him? That is a very kind thing to do, Friend Marc. If you require a female, I am sure Ariella or Escascia would happily comply. I believe the genitalia are compatible.”

Matilda had never seen Marc blush, but she did now. It was as if all the blood from his feet came rushing to his face. He bowed politely to the ladies.

“I appreciate the offer, good friends, but I assure you there is no need.”

Caprilla was about to continue but hesitated, clearly at a loss as to how to proceed.

“Marc is interested in Commander Grammery,” Matilda interjected, figuring it was her turn to do the embarrassing.

Caprilla pricked up his ears and eyed Marc speculatively. “That woman on the bridge with you? Oh, an excellent choice, Friend Marc. She is very pretty. I think the expression you would employ to describe such a woman is ’smoking hot’?”

“Cap,” Wil came to Marc’s rescue. “Why don’t you bring us up to date on what you’ve been doing for the last sixty years.”

Caprilla chuckled, taking the lead that was given. “That would take much more time than we have. But I will say that we have fought bravely and won many battles. I have heard some of what Marc has done over the years. What have you done to keep busy?”

Wil didn’t answer right away. He stared expressionlessly gathering his thoughts. He had a rare moment where memories flooded over him, the blood, gore and violence would have made most other men ill.

“Much the same as before, but by myself now.” He exchanged a meaningful look with Caprilla, who dropped the subject quite abruptly.

Conversation lagged slightly as they ate, but the Fellicians drank a lot of wine and became much more frolicsome as the evening wore on. Wil and Marc drank as much as the Fellicians, but did not show any signs of it. Matilda got the impression they could have consumed twice as much as the Cats and not felt the effects at all. Unused to drinking much, she stopped after the first two rounds, already feeling giddy and lightheaded.

The females grew more frisky as they neared the end of dinner. By the time dessert was ordered, they both had assignations with two of the male team members. As the two Fellician couples rose to leave, saying their goodnights. Caprilla exchanged a look with Marc.

“My friend, I believe we two old tom cats will be left alone. I vote for sitting here till we fall into a drunken stupor.”

Marc chuckled, slapping Caprilla on the back heartily. A lesser man would have been flat on his face. The big black cat hardly felt it.

“No, Cap, this joint is too tame. I know more interesting places, I’ll show you around.”

Caprilla insisted on paying for dinner. “It was my invitation. I will fight anyone who argues.” Caprilla bared his ferocious teeth, growling menacingly.

Several other diners called immediately for their checks, too terrified to remain. Marc and Wil laughed loudly in unison, disturbing the other guests even more.

“Cap, you’ll fight anyone for any reason,” Wil teased.

“But of course, that is the way of a warrior, is it not? We fight for glory, honor and….”

He, Wil and Marc intoned together, raising their glasses high, “A big ass paycheck! Oohrah!” They drained their glasses, setting them down with a loud click.

Excerpt from “Reed”

This is another experiment in first person. This time, the character is a young woman. Ianna Eaton is an art student. She’s very shy, reserved, quiet. She works in a bar part time to help pay her bills. One night at work, a gorgeous man takes refuge from the rain. He needs to make a phone call because he has car trouble and his cellphone died. He chats a few minutes with Ianna and her boss, then leaves as suddenly as he arrived. She is immediately attracted to him, but is upset because she doesn’t think she’ll ever see him again. She finds out how wrong she was when she gets to class the next day.

All kinds of interesting types take art. We have everything from latter day hippies to the typical teenage Goths. I don’t really fall into either category, I just sort of blend in with the scenery in my jeans and T-shirts. The figure drawing room is usually kind of warm since the models have to sit there naked for two hours, so I dressed anticipating the heat in a pair of jeans and a tank top. The only one I had clean is bright pink with a big rhinestone halo and it says “Absolute Angel” on it. My roommate gave it to me as a joke on my twenty-first birthday.

I got into the room a little early, picked my spot where the sun wouldn’t be in my eyes and set up my easel. I was unpacking the rest of my drawing stuff when Dr. Lacey came in and clapped his hands to get our attention.

“Seems Monique is sick today, so we’ll have a different model. A friend of mine has agreed to step into the breach. He’s a little funny looking,” he winked at the class in general, “so be kind to him and give him the warm welcome you always do. Come on in, you mangy dog.” He gestured to the dressing room door. My heart fell to my shoes and sort of puddled there. It was Reed!

I must have looked like I was going to puke. My friend Marcy leaned over and whispered, “Ianna, you okay? You look like you’re gonna faint or something, girl!”

“I’m okay,” I lied. “I’m fine. I just didn’t sleep very well last night.”

I hurried from the room, bought myself a soda and came back in as Dr. Lacey was posing Reed. He had him in a languid pose, reclining on one elbow, his left leg extended beneath him, the right bent with his arm draped over it.

Maybe I should explain about figure drawing. When I say naked, I don’t mean naked with like a fig leaf or something. I mean totally, completely and stark naked! He looked even better than when I had seen him last night. His hair was freshly washed and still a little damp. He hadn’t shaved, so he had a shadow on his jaw. His eyes were not dark brown as I originally thought, but a deep, vivid blue.

He looked up when I walked in the door. I ducked my head, blushing as I went back to my seat. His eyes followed me until I sat down almost directly in front of him. Oh, my God I thought I was going to die! I was, quite literally, at crotch level. Front and center.

I’m not the most experienced girl around. I’m the first to admit I haven’t dated all that much, but I have an artist’s eye for form. He was incredible! His entire body was a gorgeous bronze color, his dark hair straight and his jaw firm and resolute. He looked as if he must have some American Indian blood in him, his features were majestic like some of the tribes in the Northeast.

His shoulders were broad, his waist and hips narrow, thighs powerful, his muscles rippled when he moved and stretched. Dr. Lacey fussed at him when he wiggled too much.

“Be still, you bum! They need consistency!”

But he was teasing. Reed grinned and made a rude gesture which set us all laughing.

“Next time don’t put me in such an uncomfortable position and I won’t move.”

After an hour, Dr. Lacey let Reed get up and take a break while we went out for snacks, get a quick smoke or just relax a little. Reed stood up and wrapped a robe around himself before he got down off the dais. I was right at hip level when he stood, all I could do was stare! I tried not to sit there with my mouth open, but I was thinking, “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God!”

He grinned down at me and stepped down off the dais, holding out his hand to me. I took it tentatively, unsure what he was doing. I guess I kind of expected him to shake my hand, instead he leaned over and kissed it tenderly. I nearly fainted! His dark eyes flickered with amusement, it was like he knew exactly what I was thinking and thought it was funny. Sure, frumpy little artist thinks the model is dead sexy. What a chuckle. He could never want a girl like me. He could have any woman in the room, all he’d have to do was point.

“Good to see you again, Ianna. I hope you slept well.”

“No, not really,” I blurted out without thinking.

He chuckled, a half smile on his face. I wondered if he knew why I hadn’t slept well. He probably had been the subject of the fantasies of every woman he had ever met! He leaned closer, I could smell his cologne, soft and sexy like he was.

“I wondered if you’d like to go out for lunch after class? I have to be back here for the next session at two, but maybe we could get something quick?”

“Sure, um, yeah I’d like that.” I felt so stupid and inept. I could hardly think in his presence, let alone speak.

We chatted a little while during break until Dr. Lacey called Reed to his office. He came out a few minutes later and Dr. Lacey followed him. They went back up on the dais and Dr. Lacey put him back in his pose.

“Good news, ladies! Reed had agreed to stay all week!”

Cheers around the room from the women. Several girls gave each other high fives or did sexy little victory dances. The men looked slightly put out. Some of them groaned.

“It’s all right, gentlemen. I’ll get them warmed up for you and you can exploit their frustration,” Reed chuckled, settling back into his pose.

Crime Makes an Entrance

First meetings are important, but so are the times that the hero and heroine realize they are interested in one another. I took a couple more pages from the same story I used on Facebook to show how they got from point A (irritation), to point B (interest). Deacon made the mistake of teasing Hillary (Kacy) about her name. She called him a buffoon and yelled at him. They argued even more when they realized they had to share a house for the run of the show.

“I think we got off on the wrong foot last night,” he said honestly. “How about a truce over coffee?”

She smiled weakly. “I’m a bit sensitive about my name, I’m afraid. Got teased a lot as a kid.”

He smiled sardonically. “Try growing up with the name Deacon Phineas Stewart, makes Hillary Du Champs sound pretty inviting to me.”

She grinned, slipping out the door of her room still wearing the short robe and not much else that he could see. She was the first woman he’d seen up close and nearly naked for months. He felt stirrings in himself that he’d hoped were dead, for awhile anyway.

“Damnation,” he thought, “why did she have to be so cute?”

Leading the way to the kitchen, he set up the coffee and started it brewing. He was rather proud of his coffee. He had the knack of blending it so it was almost lethally strong, but not bitter. When Deacon talked about black coffee, he meant black not dark brown. When it was ready, he poured it in two mugs, setting it down on the table in front of her with a slight click. He got out half and half and sugar and put them on the table as well, handing her a spoon.

She didn’t say anything, just sat sipping her coffee, gazing out the window at the beach. The tide was coming in and flowing in eddying pools, creating patches of blue all over the sand. People were out for their early morning jogs or riding bikes and walking dogs in the surf.
Deacon hadn’t spent much time on the beach yet, he’d not had a chance, but they didn’t have to be at the theater until nine and it was only seven.

“Want to go for a walk? Be nice to get fresh air. I’ve been in the City so long though, not sure my lungs can take it.”

“I’ll pass, thanks. I need to get a shower and wash my hair before we go to work.”

“You might want to wait on the hair for now,” he said contemplatively. “The old place is pretty filthy. You’d do better just to put a bandana over it and wash it when you get back.”

She looked at him, trying to judge if he was serious or not. “Maybe I’ll wait then. Thanks.”

She rose and walked quickly back to her room. He watched her walk away, once again admiring the view. She had a great ass, so tight he could bounce a quarter off it. Even though she was short, she could strut like a super model. He couldn’t help staring as she walked away from him, trying hard to control the drool suddenly pouring into his half open mouth.

Figuring he should at least attempt to get some of yesterday’s grime off himself, he went to his room and started the shower, turning on the CD player loud enough to hear over the water. He enjoyed the hot water and despite his advice to Ms. Du Champs, washed his own hair before he remembered.

He was just drying off when he heard screams coming from her room. It was a really gut wrenching scream, so he figured he’d better see what it was. Running out of his room with just a towel around him, he got to her room in a matter of seconds. She was running out, a damp towel clutched around her, when they collided. Towels fell to the floor and they stared at one another in shock. He recovered his aplomb first, picking up their towels, he handed hers back to her, holding his in front of him.

“Are you all right? I heard screams.”

“Huge, ugly! Huge!” She was in a near panic, pointing at the room.

“What, where?” He walked into the room and she scurried in behind him.

“Bathroom! Huge!”

He walked in and saw the source of her fear. A giant banana spider was in the corner of the shower, gazing down on them with enigmatic charm.

“That? That’s why you are screaming?”

She clutched her towel, hiding behind him, shivering. “I hate spiders,” she said in a quavering voice. “Kill it! Kill it! Please?” She added as an afterthought.

Looking around for a suitable weapon, he found nothing. Her shoes were too small to be much use and his were too far away. He didn’t think she’d want him to leave, so he took his towel, rolled it up and snapped it with expert precision at the spider. It fell to the bottom of the tub where he scooped it up with her slipper and tossed it into the toilet, flushing it as it tried to climb up the side.

She was shivering and cowering just inside the doorway when he turned around. He still held the towel in one hand and the slipper in another, smiling broadly.

“See? All gone, no more huge, ugly spider.”

It was then he realized he was naked. He felt the blush start at his neck, work its way up his face and creep to the roots of his hair.

“Excuse me,” he held the towel in front of himself again, not even bothering to wrap it around his waist, and scurried from the room.

If he had seen the look that Hillary Du Champs gave him as he walked rapidly away, he might have stayed in her room, but he didn’t. She watched him thoughtfully as he bustled back to the master bedroom, slamming the door behind him. With eyebrow raised, she clicked her door shut and got dressed with great care.

A Special Night Out

Mara Cross is a successful architect who has never made room in her life for a relationship. She’s finally taking a much needed vacation to the Virgin Islands, where she meets Cole & Red on the beach when their volleyball lands in her lap. To apologize, they ask her out to dinner. This scene takes place at the restaurant.

“We’re opening the floor to requests again,” the front man for the band said over the microphone. He looked right at Mara when he said it.

Flustered, she hardly knew what to say. “Do… Do you know ‘Linger’ by the Cranberries?”

“Yeah, we know it. I don’t sound like Dolores O’Riordan, but we muddle through.”

The soft melody wound up and around, tugging at Mara’s heart. She loved the sad love ballad. Cole stood, holding out his hand to her.

“Dance with me?”

Mara nodded, taking his hand. He swung her into a firm embrace, carrying her easily across the dance floor. His hips swayed, brushing against hers. She could feel his strong, muscular thighs through the thin fabric of her dress. He gazed into her eyes and for the first time she noticed the astonishing color of them. They were jade green in the center, with a darker green around the edge. He smiled, slowing as the song faded away.

The band started another song, also soft and easy to dance to. She hardly heard it, her attention focused on Cole. He led her around the dance floor with the same easy, casual grace he’d exhibited on the beach. Mara wasn’t much of a dancer, but she felt so comfortable in his arms, she followed his strong lead as if born to it. Cole held her close, his arm firmly around her waist, bringing her into a series of tight spins. The song ended and he dropped her into a magnificent dip worthy of Fred Astaire.

Mara was panting, not from exertion, but from excitement. Never had she danced that way! Most of the men she dated were non-dancers. Cole took her breath away, moving sinuously as the song changed again to something with a syncopated Latin type beat. She felt lightheaded, as if her feet weren’t touching the ground, dancing on a cloud.

Cole was enjoying the expressions on her face as he led her around the dance floor. She changed from surprised to delighted in a series of little gasps and pauses. He found himself dancing with her better than he’d ever danced in his life.

The third song ended and he led her back to their table. It was then she realized they had been the only ones on the dance floor. As they made their way back to their table, the other diners clapped. Some cheered and several stood as they walked past.

Mara blushed a shade of pink that matched her dress. Cole stopped, bowed deeply, and worked the crowd for all it was worth! One exuberant woman tossed a five dollar bill at him, which he caught with a flourish and presented to Mara with a deep bow.
When they sat back down, Red yawned exaggeratedly. “You know what, buddy? I’m gonna call it a night. I think I’ll call your sister and talk dirty to her for an hour and then go to sleep.”

Cole didn’t argue with him. “If you really want to, Red, I can’t stop you. But you know,” he jerked his head toward the door. “If you feel like you need to go,” he gestured with his thumb, tapping his foot under the table. “You know, by all means go. We’d love your company, bro.” He pointed to the door again, “But we won’t force you if your tired.”

“I think I’m being given the bum’s rush,” Red said, trying to look offended.

“I thought he’d never leave,” Cole said. “Actually, he left at just the right time. That’s why having the same best friend for thirty years comes in handy. He knows when he’s not wanted.”

Breaking the Writer’s Block

Three o’clock in the morning, and I’ve been staring at the monitor for hours, unable to get anything coherent written. Banging my head on the desk doesn’t help, although it does dislodge a stack of papers exposing a CD I’ve been missing for months. I pop the CD into the player and wait for inspiration. And wait. And wait.

Nothing! Screaming in frustration, I shut down the computer, throw a temper tantrum and cry. I’ve got it for sure, Writer’s Block. We all go through it. The nightmare, the bane of a writer’s existence, the dreaded words echo through my brain like a trailer for a bad “B” movie. Sometimes, if it’s bad enough or late enough, the words dance in a circle like “Ring Around the Rosie” mocking me with their mere presence. They laugh and point their fingers, making me sink deeper into my depression.

Writer’s Block is normal. Though frustrating, at times infuriating, it is a fact of a writer’s life. Sometimes you just ain’t got it! I find this is especially true if I’ve just finished a book or am trying to finish one. Somehow, the last few pages of resolution don’t want to be typed. Like pulling hen’s teeth, (an expression which here means something which is completely impossible), I try to get the words to flow, but the dam is firmly in place. Nothing goes anywhere. It’s constipation of the brain.

I have a science fiction series I’ve been writing the last three years. I’ve completed five of the books, but book six is giving me fits! I have sub-plots that need resolution. I have major plots that need extension. I have characters who need something to do and others who are embroiled in turmoil up to their eyebrows. They are all sitting and waiting for me and I can’t help them.

Banging my head doesn’t help, screaming and crying do no good whatever. Eating a candy bar, though tasty, serves no purpose except to put a few pounds on my hips. So what do I do? Every writer you talk to will tell you something different. All I know about is what works for me.

First, I take a break from writing. I read a good book, watch a few movies, participate in mindless video games and otherwise do things to distract myself.

Next, after an unspecified period, ranging from hours to weeks, I sit down and try to write something. ANYTHING! It doesn’t have to be connected with the book, usually it’s better if it’s not. Long or short, good or bad, I write. Sometimes just embarking on the composition process is enough to break the block.

Doing short writing exercises can help. When I taught high school English, one thing I had the students do as a class writing project, was write thank you notes for ridiculous gifts. Each student chose a gift at random drawing a slip from jar.

The rules for this exercise are as follows:
1. Must be sincere.
2. Mention the gift in the first paragraph.
3. Site at least two uses for the gift (or plans of where to put it if it’s decorative).
4. Must be at least three paragraphs of two or more sentences each.

Suggested gifts:
Umbrella holder made from an elephant’s leg.
Bookends decorated with miniature loaves of bread & shocks of wheat.
An incredibly fuzzy pair of house slippers.
A really ugly sweater.
Something impossible to identify.
A painting with dogs playing poker. (I know, some people think this is cute.)
Clothing that is too small (too large, hideous color, wrong gender, etc.)
Music CD that is of a type you abhor.
A movie you hated and never wanted to think of again.
(The list can go on forever. Don’t only use my list, make your own. Sometimes just generating a list helps get past that pesky creative blockage.)

Sample note:

Dear Aunt Fanny,
Thank you so much for the really interesting gift you sent! I can’t imagine what I’ve done without it all these years. It will add a great deal to my decor. I can’t wait to find a place for it in the living room.
I showed your gift to my friends and they were speechless. What an unusual gift! They wanted to know where on earth you found it, several of them would like one for themselves.
Again, thank you so much for your incredibly amazing gift! I shall treasure it always and remember you every time I look at it.
Your Loving Niece

There is no set cure for writer’s block. Sometimes the creative well simply runs dry. The key is to accept it and try to move on. Fighting yourself, screaming and carrying on like a cry baby are pointless and unprofessional. Find what works for you.

Love Under Lights

Honoria McCormick (also known as Honey) has just been hired as the Technical Director for a small theater in eastern Tennessee. Somewhat out of her depth, she’s struggling to get her footing. The rest of the crew with whom she will work, are very nice and she enjoys going to dinner and their house & getting to know them. However, something unexpected is waiting for her when she gets home.

At 1:00, Honoria said her goodbyes, thanked them again for the meal and headed back to Martha’s house. It was in a secluded area about three miles from the theater by the main road. If she cut through the theater parking lot and down a narrow dirt track, it wasn’t that far. She drove her blue Cooper Mini up to the guest house and locked it.

The security lights came on, triggered by a motion sensor. She unlocked the front door and turned on some of the lights before the outside light went off. The light switches were in odd places and not easy to find, so she wandered around in the semi-dark. Slightly buzzed from the wine she’d had at dinner, she tried not to bump into things as she got ready for bed.

Once in her nightshirt, she dashed to the bed, turning off the light in the bathroom as she passed. It was chilly in the house and the thought of warm blankets and soft pillows was appealing. Jumping in the bed, she flung the blankets over her head, cuddling up for warmth.

Suddenly, she became aware of the fact she wasn’t alone. A warm, hard bodied form snuggled up behind her, a heavily muscled arm flopping over her waist. It was obviously a male body and he was very much alive and in her bed!

Screaming like Lisa had when the lizard jumped on her, Honoria launched herself out of the bed, holding the coverlet around herself for warmth and protection. The lamp beside the bed came on and a frowzy looking man with dark hair and a goatee sat up, staring at her.

“Who the hell are you?”

“Who are you?”

“Ted Bundy.”

“Oh, be serious.”

“Jeffry Dahmer?”

“Seriously. Who?”

“Groucho Marx.”

“Who the hell are you?”

She picked up her shoe, ready to hurl it at him. It wasn’t much of a weapon, but it was all she had. He seemed to be amused and trying hard not to laugh at her.

“I have to admit, this is the chilliest reception I’ve ever gotten from a woman. I wonder if my feelings should be hurt.”

“I’ll call the cops if you don’t tell me who you are and how the hell you got in my room!”

“Freddy Prinz. Freddy Mercury? Al Gore. Bill Clinton?”

“Dammit! Tell me!” She threw her shoe at him.

He watched it clatter on the other side of the room, missing him by a yard or so. “Maybe you’ll do better with the other one. It’s about six inches stage right.”

She glanced down to see her other shoe. She left it there. “You’re insufferable! I keep asking who you are!”

“I asked you first. Tell me who you are, I’ll tell you who I am. That’s how it works. An even exchange of information.”

“I’m Honey.”

“Sweet,” he smirked, laughing openly at her. “Chester,” he replied, holding out his hand without getting up. “But you can call me Chet. Hell, you can call me anything you want, just get back in bed.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I work here.”

“I mean – here – here.” She motioned wildly with one arm, indicating the room and the bed.

“Oh. This is my room. Why are you here?”

“I work here too. This is where Martha told me to put my stuff.”

“She probably meant the other bedroom,” he pointed across the room and down the hall.

“Other bedroom? I didn’t know there was another one.”

“Yeah.” He pointed again. “So, are you coming back to bed?”

“No!”

“Your loss.” He shrugged, his eyes doing a long sweep from her head to her toes. A slight leer twitched his mouth. “Okay. Well, I need the blanket back. It’s chilly in here. Turn out the light when you go.”

She tossed the blanket at him, grabbed her clothing and toothbrush, walking across the hall in a snit. The second bedroom was much smaller, but comfortable. She closed her door with a bang. There was no lock on the doorknob, so she dragged a chair in front of it, shoving it under the knob with a clatter. She could hear Chet laughing as she crawled in the bed, pulling the blankets over her head. It was nearly two before she finally fell into a troubled sleep where shoes with dark hair and goatees and disconcerting eyes taunted her.

“Car Trouble”

I like dialog.  One might go so far as to say I’m a conversation junkie.  I like verbal exchanges, word play, innuendos, double entendre and yes, even puns.  I particularly like conversations where the two main characters get to know one another.

I did a few “first meetings” not long ago, and I decided to revisit that and post a few more.  This is the first part of a novel called “Car Trouble” – as yet unfinished.

The disconcerting thing about this novel is that I had car trouble myself in the exact spot that Kent has car trouble in the first chapter.  Only that didn’t inspire this tale, because that happened weeks after I started this story.  In fact, I was driving home from a meeting planning to work on it when my tire blew.

My rescuer wasn’t a hunky male, he looked more like Rodney Dangerfield, but he was friendly & efficient, getting me back on the road safe and sound.

I hate driving in the rain. More than that, I hate having car trouble in the rain. I hate having car trouble along the interstate in the middle of the night in the driving rain. I mention this because that’s what’s happening to me. Middle of the night, interstate, driving rain, not driving because my new car died. It’s totally, completely, entirely dead!

Inconceivable! That’s the word that comes to mind. Inconceivable or not, it’s unavoidably true.

Whipping out my cell phone, I called the motor club. After an interminable amount of time, a cheerful sounding woman in North Dakota answered the phone. I know it was North Dakota because she had no idea where I was and I asked her. Silly me, I thought she was local.

“I’m very sorry, Mr. Mason. I need more specific directions so that the tow truck can come get you.”

“That’s the whole point, I don’t know specifically where I am. I can’t see the mile marker from here.”

“Can you step out of your vehicle and walk to the closest marker?”

“No. I am not getting out in the weather. You have no idea what it’s like out there. This is like Biblical, Noah’s Ark weather. I’m in a thunderstorm.”

“Oh,” she giggled. “Dry as a bone here. Send the rain up this way.”

“Where’s ‘this way’? I’ll gladly send it.”

“I’m in North Dakota, Mr. Mason.”

“Look,” I said quietly, trying to be patient. “When you contact the company and tell them that I’m just south of the bridge over Spruce Creek, they will know where I am. I’m outside Port Orange. The bridge is right behind me.”

“I really need the mile post….”

“Please! I’m trying really hard to be patient. I don’t mean to yell at you, you seem like a very nice lady. But I promise you, they’ll know. I can’t get out in this weather. I’ll get hit by a truck. I’m on the shoulder of I-95 South, people are going by at eighty. Please, Marsha, please.”

“Well,” she hemmed and hawed a moment. “It’s not exactly the rules, but I guess under these circumstances….”

“Thank you, Marsha. You’re a wonderful woman.”

“We’ll get someone there as soon as we can. If the weather is as bad as you say, it could be awhile.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” I sighed. “Thanks.”

Glad that I had a good book with me, I leaned my seat back, pulled out a flashlight and started to read. Eventually, the rain and warm air in the car lulled me to sleep. I woke some time later to someone rapping on the car window. I sat up, rubbing my face. The rain had stopped, replaced by that muggy, post rain ick that makes your skin feel like it’s covered in regurgitated slime. Feeling about as fresh as three day old road kill, I opened my window a crack.

“You from the towing company?”

“Yup. Got any lights?”

“I’ll see. I don’t think so.” I tried my lights. I got a feeble beam.

“Okay. I’ll back up and hook you up. You need to get out.”

“One minute.” I grabbed my suitcase and box of books, stepping out onto the deserted highway. “Kind of creepy out.”

“Yup. Hop in the cab.”

“Can I help you?”

“Yeah, hop in the cab.”

I did as instructed, squeezing my suitcase behind the seat and my books at my feet. Finally, I heard the lift motor come to life and the bumper of my dead car appeared in the rear view mirror. A couple minutes later, my rescuer hopped in as the rain started up again.

“Timed that right,” my savior grinned. “Buckle up. We’ll have you in town shortly.”

I fumbled with the belt, struggling to find the latch. My companion leaned over, digging in between the seat and back, handing me the missing piece of the belt.

“That happens a lot. I think it was built to disappear.”

“Thanks,” I mumbled, still stunned to see that it was a woman who had picked me up. “Sorry, I just woke up. It’s been a long trip.”

“No problem. You from around here? I saw Volusia plates.”

“Yeah, Edgewater.”

“Not too far from home. Got someone who can come get you?”

“No. I’ll have to take a cab down.”

“Mr. Mason, it’s two in the morning. No cab will come for you this late.

“Shit.” I leaned against the window. “I just want to get home. It’s been a long trip.”

“Where have you been? That’s if you don’t mind my asking.”

“Mississippi, Louisiana and Alabama.”

“Ooh, exciting,” she sounded just the opposite.

“Not really,” I chuckled.

“Didn’t think so. Were you traveling for business or pleasure?”

“Who would go to Louisiana or Mississippi for pleasure?”

“Gator hunters or gamblers,” she said with finality as if she spoke the gospel truth.

“I was stalking pelicans for the Wildlife Federation.”

“Really?” She didn’t know whether to believe me or not.

“No, I’m an author. I did a tri-state book signing tour.”

Laughing, she took the New Smyrna exit, waiting for the light at the end of the ramp to turn green. We made the turn onto SR 44, heading east.

“I just had an idea,” she said. “I’d be happy to take you home.”

“Oh, I can’t ask you to do that. I could be a crazed killer. You could be a crazed killer.”

She giggled. “Honey, if you’re a crazed killer, I’m Jeffry Dahmer. Seriously, I’m not worried. I know martial arts and I’m armed.”

“See, I told you that you could be the killer. Actually, I’d like a ride. I really want to sleep in my own bed. I’ve been driving for sixteen hours.”

“Bummer! I’m Cadence, by the way. Cadence Jacoby.” She held out her hand.

“Kent Mason,” I introduced myself, taking her hand. I was appalled by her grip. Mine was weak in comparison, but then I was exhausted.

“We’ll get you squared away, Kent Mason. Come on in. Rosalie and Ernie will help you with the paperwork.” She stopped the truck, honking the horn.
Part two can be found at: http://writersanctuary.blogspot.com/2009/12/car-trouble-part-2.html

The Ignoble Demise of Cliff Brooks

NaNoWriMo is winding to a close.  Some have finished, some struggle to complete their novels before midnight November 30th.  One fun thing in a NaNo novel is to include the death of Cliff Brooks.  It’s become a long standing challenge and a bit of a tradition.  Therefore, I’ve quoted below the death of Cliff Brooks in each of my NaNo novels.  Each is different – and one even made me cry.

From “Wall of Time” 2007 NaNo Novel

A scrawny man in a dirty black leather thong and studded dog collar answered the door. He had a name tattooed on is skinny chest: Cliff Brooks. Cliff escorted Wil into the lobby and told Eboneé she was wanted below. The whore took her time, making sure she was perfectly attired for her new playmate.
(Wil goes to her room pretending to be a customer & “persuades” her to contact her boyfriend who has accepted a contract on Wil.)

Eboneé reluctantly placed the call to Mozzimo. It wasn’t a clear visual, but he could see Wil holding her prisoner. Wil’s smile was lethal, wicked, cold with anger. He took this all very personally. The fact that the Council actually thought they could kill him offended his sensibilities in ways nothing else could. That they had tried to use his friend first, offended him as well. Now they were sending a cocky, arrogant, pervert after him. They were killing his ego, that was about all they had accomplished.

“I’ll be there soon, Ebby,” he told his prostitute girlfriend. “You just keep him happy til I get there.”

“Moz! He’s trying to kill me here!”

“Don’t be stupid, bitch. If he wanted you dead, you already would be. Play nice.” He cut off the transmission.

“Let’s get comfy, shall we?” Wil dragged her to the bed and cuffed her to it, arms and legs splayed indecorously across the dirty red coverlet.

“They’re gonna come asking for me if you don’t let me go soon.”

“Baby, they won’t ask for you for a week. I gave them so much money, I could keep you here as long as I wanted. No one cares. You’re meat.” He dressed quickly and sat on the only chair in the room, facing the door, waiting.

He knew Mozzimo was close. He was probably already in orbit. Moz was sloppy. He hadn’t paid attention to his screen angle. Wil had seen the navigation instruments behind him on the vid screen. He’d been less than five hectares away from Aolani Figure at least thirty minutes for approach, clearance and docking, he’d be through the door in less than an hour.

Eboneé was beginning to like the position she was in. She liked the man who threatened her, finding that she enjoyed getting the pain as well as giving it. If she could distract him, maybe Moz would have a chance and kill him. She could watch. She could really get off on that.

“Hey,” she put on her most coaxing, sultry voice. To Wil she sounded nasal and annoying.

“What?” He didn’t look at her. He could see her in his peripheral vision.

“Why waste your time and money? Come on over here, I’ll give you something to keep you occupied til Moz gets here.”

“No thanks.”

“Oh, come on. I’m all set up and ready for you. You’re so hot, you’re steaming. Take off your clothes and join me. I’ll make it worth your time.” She writhed on the bed and tried to look sexy. It was hard to look really slinky with her arms and legs spreadeagled, but she tried.

Wil laughed, not keeping the dark amusement from his face. “Save it for someone who gives a shit, Ebby.” He said her name in a mocking tone. “I don’t want what you have to offer. I like my women clean.”

“I’m clean!” She screeched.

“Sure you are.” He chuckled. It was a very spooky sound.

Eboneé was crying softly, waiting for Mozzimo to arrive. Wil sensed him before he heard Mozzimo in the hallway. Making no pretense of his arrival, he was coming in hot and fully loaded.

Yelling obscenities and banging on doors as he clumped down the hall, he was disturbing the entire establishment. Cliff came up behind him to find out what the trouble was. Without thinking, Mozzimo spun around and shot him right between the ‘f’ and the ‘B’. Cliff scrabbled at his chest, coughed once and died.

From “Deserted” 2008 NaNo Novel

In this novel, Cliff is head gaffer for a television show that’s being filmed on a desert island.  The show is kind of like “Survivor” meets “Fantasy Island.”  Three women & one man are “deserted” on the island.  The women are given tasks to perform & the prize is a dream date with the man.

Thumping the door open, Jethro found several of the crew members sitting around having a cold beer, watching the scene at the campsite erupt in yet another argument. This time between Genvieve and Claire.

“Dear God, how did I let Barry talk me into this?” He put his head on the table, banging it gently several times.

A cold beer appeared as if by magic. He looked into the friendly face of Cliff Brooks.

“You look like a man who needs a beer and then needs to get laid.”

Jethro’s laugh sounded rather hysterical. “Oh, that would solve all my problems,” he remarked sarcastically. “Can you imagine how much worse it would get if I took one of them to bed?”

“I’ll take Brittaney off your hands any time,” he winked. “I bet we’d even find someone for Genvieve, then you’d have Claire all to yourself.”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Dude, after last night, it is obvious as hell that you love that girl.”

“Guys, you need to see this,” one of the women said, pointing at the screen.

Genvieve had Claire by the hair and was screaming in her face. She had a knife in her hand and was threatening her with it.

“Oh, shit!” Beer forgotten, all the men were out of the trailer, pounding down the beach.

The woman followed in a dune buggy. She picked them up and drove to the campsite. Claire was fighting off Genvieve while Brittaney tried to take the knife from her. Wild eyed and screaming hysterically, Genvieve fought like a wildcat, trying to stab Claire.

“You bitch! You slut! Whore! You stole him from me! He was mine! Mine!”

“Stop it, Genvieve!” Brittaney screamed, making another grab for the knife.

“I’ll kill you and then he’ll be mine!” The knife descended, slowed slightly by Brittaney.

Genvieve still held Claire’s hair, but turned on Brittaney, knife wielded dangerously toward her. “I’ll get you too,” she threatened. “Don’t get in my way!”

She lunged at Brittaney, who jumped out of the way with a scream. Tripping over a piece of driftwood, she sprawled on the ground. Genvieve let go of Claire, turning on Brittaney.

“Genvieve, no!” Claire tried to stop her, but fell over the same branch which was partially buried in the sand.

Cliff dove from the dune buggy before it came to a complete stop. He hit Genvieve with a flying tackle, knocking her several feet from the others. Jethro took them to the safety of the dune buggy as Genvieve grappled with Cliff. For a moment it looked as if he were winning, but his hand slipped as he tried to block her blow. Sunlight flashed on the blade as it fell toward his body, plunging up to the hilt in his lower abdomen.

“No!” Brittaney screamed, tearing herself away from Jethro’s slack hands. She flung herself on the sand, cradling Cliff’s head on her lap, yanking off her T-shirt to staunch the flow of blood around the blade. “No! Cliff! No!”

The woman from the crew whipped out a walkie-talkie, calling desperately for help. Moments later, several of the men from the guard house came roaring up the beach in a Jeep. One carried a sophisticated first aid kit. He stabilized the knife, applying pressure to the wound. He worked feverishly several minutes as they waited for the launch to arrive. The boat raced toward the beach, slewing dangerously against the dock as the captain killed the motor and crewmen jumped off to secure it.

They brought a stretcher and carried him rapidly to the boat. Brittaney followed, strangely calm. She sat next to him, holding his hand as the boat took off. Two more security men took Genvieve into custody. She went calmly, not even protesting when they cuffed her.

Jethro and the others looked on in stunned silence. He couldn’t believe that Genvieve would so something so crazy over him. Or maybe it was the money. Either way, it was completely insane. Horrified, he flopped on the beach, holding head. It took him a couple of minutes to remember that Claire had been the object of the original attack. Standing slowly, he went to her side.

She was staring at the pool of Cliff’s blood on the sand. Pale and shaking, she wasn’t responding to the people around her. The security men were trying to get a statement, but she wouldn’t talk. Silent tears ran down her pale face. Jethro took her in his arms. She turned to him, face buried in his chest as she cried piteously.

“Shh, it’s okay now, it’s over.”

“No, it’s not okay. Cliff could die! And Brittaney, she really likes him. She told me he used to come visit her in the evenings after the rest of us were settled for the night. They were becoming really good friends.”

“Oh, Christ,” Jethro said quietly. “No wonder he said that.”

“Said what?” She was calmer now.

They walked to the gazebo and sat together in the shade. The woman with the dune buggy brought cold drinks for the three of them.

“He offered to take her off my hands so you and I could be together.” He smiled shyly.

“What a nice man,” she smiled.

The walkie-talkie crackled. The woman pulled it off her belt, speaking into it.

“Go ahead. This is Barbara.”

“This is Pablo,” the voice on the other end sounded tense. “We just go word from the captain. Cliff died. They tried to revive him at the hospital, but he’d lost too much blood. The constable is coming now for Miss Genvieve. Can you meet us at the house?”

From “The Ninja Tattoo” NaNo Novel 2009

Teague snuggled up with Vivica, dozing fitfully. He kept waking up, thinking he heard things outside, but determined it was the sounds of the storm.

Eventually, he fell into a deeper sleep, his dreams troubled and chaotic. The war dreams were back full of explosions and gunfire. He couldn’t wake up, even though he knew it was a nightmare. Calling out, he sat up in bed. Vivica sat beside him, hair tangled, face puffy with sleep.

“Cliff! Oh, my God!”

“Teague? Baby, what’s wrong?”

“Where’s Cliff? Did you see him?”

“Teague. There’s no one here but us. Tell me what’s wrong?”

She didn’t know if he was asleep or awake, hardly wanting to touch him for fear she’d set him off. He was obviously having a nightmare, but what it was about, she didn’t know.

“God!” He held his head, shaking all over. “It was so real! I swear, I thought I’d put that behind me.” He flopped down on his back, staring at the ceiling.

“Tell me about it,” she said calmly, quietly. “It helps to talk.”

She cuddled up close, putting her head on his chest. His body vibrated, his heart racing. His hands fluttered against her shoulder and hair, finally coming to rest.

“Start with who Cliff is.”

“Was,” he corrected softly. “My battle buddy and best friend since sixth grade.”

“Was he killed in the war?”

He nodded, biting his lip so he wouldn’t start to cry. Men didn’t cry, right? They were tough, cold, hard …. Despite his efforts, the tears rolled down the sides of his face, trickling into his ears. He didn’t acknowledge them, hardly noticing.

“I keep seeing it over and over in my mind. Every time I close my eyes ….”

“Tell me what happened. I’m a good listener.”

“It was horrible ….”

“Too horrible to share with me? Teague, I saw my brother kill a man with a baseball bat. Anything you tell me, I promise I can handle. I may be the one person you know who you can tell.”

His arms tightened around her and he kissed her forehead. She was right. As damaged as he was, so she was too. They healed one another, filling in the gaps and holes of their tattered souls. Swallowing a huge lump in his throat, he told her about Cliff.

“We were on patrol. Routine, really, we did them every day. Only you can’t let it get routine or people die.”

She nodded, not speaking. She listened to his heart slow, playing with the hair on his chest as he spoke more to himself than to her.

“He was joking, cutting up, talking about this new woman sargent, really hot and sexy, who had just been transferred in. Word was she was supposed to assigned to us as a journalist. He was trying to figure out the best way to ask her out. His girl back home had dumped him and he was hoping to get lucky. It was stupid, a dumb mistake ….”

A shuddering sigh made her head bounce. Vivica turned toward him, gazing at his face in the half-light of the room.

“Whose mistake? Yours?”

He shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose to purge the memory, shake the feelings, stop the tears that kept flowing.

“No. Cliff turned his back, just for a second ….”

“What happened?” She leaned up on her folded arms, staring into his face.

“It was just a kid. He couldn’t have been more than 12. Cliff was talking to him earlier, gave him a candy bar. He turned around, laughing and suddenly the boy shot him in the back of the head. His face exploded all over me.”

“Oh, Teague! Baby, how awful! I’m so sorry ….”

“I stayed by Cliff, calling for a medic, but he was already dead. The townspeople flocked around the kid, dragging him away. They took him to the mayor, who shot him on the spot. No trial, no explanation. He killed him, Viv. I found out later that was his boy. He killed his own son! For murdering a stranger.”

Gone But Not Forgotten – Conclusion

As the weeks passed, Matilda’s body healed, but her soul was hollow. She was released from the clinic to new quarters she was sharing with Jane.

“Commander Torry wants to see you in his office, Matilda,” Jane told her.
Curious, but barely interested, Matilda walked slowly over to the base commander’s office. Commander Fred Torry was a tall man and rather heavy set with steel gray hair and eyes. He stood when she entered, coming around to where she was standing, leaning heavily on her cane.

“Please sit down, Foreman DuLac. No sense keeping you on your feet. However, I wanted to tell you the news personally.”

“What news?”

He handed her a square black box hinged in gold. Inside was a medal. “For Valor and Duty,” was embossed on the edge. Inside were the insignia of a base superintendent, a substantial promotion for her.

“We are very proud of you, Superintendent DuLac.” He leaned forward and shook her hand, then helped her pin on her new insignia.

“Thank you, sir,” she said softly, hardly knowing what else to say.
Rising with care, she hobbled out of the office and back to her room. After digging around in her drawers, she put something small in her pocket and left again. Jane and Mike followed her to the pit which had once been the south end of the mine.

Security officers tried to stop her, but the determined look on her face quelled any protests. Jane and Mike caught up with her at the very edge of the pit.

Without a word, she took the box with her medal and flung it away from her. Watching it fall, she drew a small object from her jacket pocket, kissed it and threw it down as well. The meager, gray light of the weak sun, caught in the deep blue facets of her engagement ring as it turned over and over, falling in slow motion.

“I loved you, Bobby,” she whispered. “Goodbye.”

Without another word, or backward glance, she walked slowly back to her room, where she lay down and tried to forget.