Excerpt
A Prologue

Even at his best, a man is a mess. He’s strong-willed and impatient, gets dirty at work and play, and often doesn’t smell good. However, if you’re one of those who suspects that life has some purpose other than filling one’s belly and stirring up the bed lint, you might have seen, on occasion, something else under all that male bluff and bluster. You might have discovered a warm, humane creature that has, at times, given serious thought to the more meaningful things of life. Such a man is the one I’m going to tell you about. His name is Heck Tennel. Heck was my best friend back when  the Great Depression bore down on East Texas farms. Both of us were as poor as winter weeds and dumb as mud about some things, but that didn’t stop Heck from wanting to improve his life.

What is the meaning of life anyway? Does it have a purpose? Perhaps not, but if it doesn’t, why do so many folks keep asking that question?

Heck’s main purpose back then was taking care of his sick little brother and his sisters, saving money to pay down on a piece of good land and finding a proper girl to marry. Fate didn’t give him enough time to make the money he needed, but he came real close to hitching himself to a proper girl. It was his love for that pretty girl that almost got him killed.

Heck is old now, like me; but when he was young, his hopes and plans made lights pop on and whistles blow. He believed, as did all other men inclined to be sentimental about such things, there is no love like the first one early in life. (It might be that way with women too, but since I’m not a woman, I don’t know.)

Heck’s first real love was special because it fulfilled all his expectations about beauty, tenderness and grace, and all those other things that make life better than it has to be. It also gave him his first real chance to escape the unpleasantness that had troubled him up to that point in his life.

When I mention love, I hope you don’t think I’m talking about the physical part of it that men are often accused of thinking about too much. That part can happen with any woman, is over in minutes, and is often forgotten. The other part, the part that puzzles us the most, won’t let a man forget, not even after he’s old enough to know better.

Some say it’s foolish to dwell on things that appear to have slipped away forever. You’ll have to decide if that applies in this story about Heck Tennel which begins in May, l934.

Copyright 2009 Calvin Bowden. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

Ol’ man Angelo walked out of his wooden shack and onto the gravelly entrance-way and through the monstrous, iron gates. He stood on the leafy street and took a swig off his bottle of whiskey. He took in the desolation and isolation and forsakenness. He did a jig and tapped his right foot three times, and unbeknownst, unlocked a doorway. He closed the monstrous, iron gates for the night and stepped back into his wooden shack.

In the middle of the leafy street flat cellar doors appeared. Average size cellar doors. Six feet in width. Twelve feet in height. Rusty. Dry orange rust. Rusty door handles. Headlights appeared in the distance. Approached. Drove over the rusty doors. They momentarily vanished, and when the car disappeared in the distance, they reappeared. The cold wind blew the red and yellow and brown leaves. They paused over the rusty doors, stirred, danced, like they had little feet. The snow fell at a tranquil pace. The moon shone up for work again, no vacation time, ever, waxier than the night before.

Beneath the flat cellar doors slow harmony like stretched-out soft organ chords drifted towards the heavens, serene and easy. A swirling dark abyss appeared and dark flames raged everywhere. It resembled an angry tornado that came to life and protruded dark hands and grotesque dark faces and flying dark spears, turned inward, on the stirrings held captive inside. However, slow harmony like stretched-out soft organ chords drifted towards the heavens, serene and easy. Soaring, soaring, soaring like a dove in a storm’s eye! From the depths of the bottomlessness the dark flames stretched and missed. Soaring, soaring, soaring! Dark flames chased, reached out, missed. The gigantic hand of dark gravity, unbiased, ripped everything down a thunderously silent tier. Somewhere in the middle of the bottomlessness, struggling, fighting, escaping, and then . . ., soaring, soaring, soaring! The dark flames chased and reached, missed. The dark flames on the sides like askew vampire pterodactyls fell into the center of the swirling abyss, chasing, chasing, chasing! The gigantic hand of gravity ripped thousands down, but the soaring soared, higher and higher and higher, chased, racing faster than light, chased by the dark flames, soaring, higher and higher and higher! The swirling dark abyss raged and darker flames fell from the sides and joined the pack, chasing, chasing, chasing like packs upon packs upon packs of dogs chasing a white rabbit! The unyielding soaring beat its wings as fast as they beat and ascended higher. The linked lightning bolts, chained to the ankles and the wrists and through the holes in the wingtips like pierced ears, broke! She shot through the cellar doors and they smashed into the pavement and broke it to asunder and it sounded louder than a million pieces of thunder! She flashed up into the sky and raced like a comet and disappeared towards the heavens.

Copyright 2008 J P M. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

“Good dough is the foundation for everything we create,” explained the baker. “If the dough isn’t right, nothing will work. You must learn to make good dough first.”

“How long will it take me to learn to make the dough?” asked Jacob.

“It will take as long as it takes,” replied the baker. “Always take the time to learn a skill right.”

“Go to the pantry and get the flour, salt and yeast,” instructed the baker. Jacob retrieved the items as instructed and placed them on the counter.

“What else do I need?” he Jacob.

“That is all for now,” said the baker.

“We’re going to make dough from just these three things?” asked Jacob.

“Oh yes,” said the baker, “we’ll need some warm water.”

Jacob went to the facet and ran the water for a few moments until it began to get hotter. “How warm?” he asked.

“Luke warm is fine,” said the baker. “Feel your arm.”

Jacob felt his arm and turned to the baker. “When it feels as warm as your arm,” said the baker, “it’s ready.”

Jacob brought the water over to other ingredients on the counter. He looked at the baker for further instruction.

“Mix the yeast with the water,” instructed the baker. Jacob mixed the yeast with the water until it dissolved. “Good,” said the baker. “Now take some of the flour and make a small mound out of it.”

Jacob began to clumsily pile up the flour. The baker shook his head. “You’re not concentrating enough,” he said.

“It’s just a mound,” said Jacob. He tried to pile up the flour in random sweeping motions.

“Making dough is deceptively simple,” explained the baker. “There are only four ingredients and six steps. But the simplicity makes each of the elements that much more important.”

“How can it be simple and complex?” asked Jacob. In his mind he had pictured large mixing bowls, big metal spoons and a vast array of exotic ingredients. He looked down at the lop-sided mound of flour.

“Flour, water, yeast and salt,” continued the baker. “The importance of a thing is more than just its complexity and the complexity of a thing is more than just the number of its parts.”

Jacob thought about this for a moment. He had always been taught the importance of a job was related to the number of your responsibilities. The more you had to do the more important you must be.

“Who is more important,” asked the baker, “the man who does many of the least important jobs or the man who does the few most important jobs?”

“I suppose the second man,” said Jacob.

“Making the dough is the most important job,” said the baker. “Flour, water, yeast and salt are the most important ingredients.”

“I see,” said Jacob.

“There are only six steps,” continued the baker. “Mix, mound, knead, rise, punch and rise again. But that makes each step very important. Mounding is just as important as rising or kneading.”

“I think I understand,” said Jacob. He began to shape the flour into a mound again, this time much more deliberately and carefully.

“Good,” said the baker. “Do not be distracted; do not rush. Always concentrate on the task at hand as if it is the most important.”

“Because in that moment it is the most important,” added Jacob.

“That is right,” said the baker with a smile. “You are ready for the next step. Make a small pocket in the center of your mound.”

Jacob followed the baker’s instructions. “Pour in the water?” he asked.

“Yes,” replied the baker. Jacob poured the water into the center of mound. “Now place some flour on your hands and begin to knead the dough. Push the dough away with the heels of your hands. Then pick up the opposite edge and fold it toward you.”

Jacob tried pushing and folding the dough a couple of times with limited success. “You’re rushing again,” corrected the baker. “Go slower and concentrate on each move. Push and fold. Push and fold.”

Jacob did as the baker instructed and started to maintain a steady rhythm in his kneading. “How long?” he asked.

“What does it matter?” asked the baker.

“But how do I know when it’s ready?” asked Jacob.

“When it feels ready,” said the baker. “It should be soft and smooth but not too dry. It stops sticking to your hands and springs back to the touch.”

“Okay,” said Jacob. “If it gets too dry should I add more water?”

“Kneading is about balance,” explained the baker. “The right amount of flour, the right amount of water and the right amount of air.”

“Air?” asked Jacob.

“Yes,” answered the baker. “While you knead you allow air into the dough. The air is food for the yeast and provides a better rise.”

The dough felt dry so Jacob added more water. This made it feel too wet so he added more flour.

“Are you feeling with your heart, your head or your hands?” asked the baker.

“My head,” said Jacob. “No wait, probably my heart.”

“When kneading, feel with your hands,” said the baker.

“Oh,” said Jacob.

“You’ll know when to use your heart and head,” said the baker. “For now add a pinch more flour and you should be back in balance.”

After around ten minutes the dough started to feel right to Jacob. “I think it’s ready,” he said and looked at the baker tentatively.

“Good,” said the baker. “Shape it into a ball and place it in that bowl. Cover the bowl and allow the dough to rise.”

“How long?” asked Jacob. He regretted asking as soon as the words were out of his mouth.

The baker laughed. “Until the dough doubles in size,” said the baker. “Probably about two hours.”

“I suppose we need to be patient,” said Jacob.

“Yes,” said the baker. “Or we could make up a batch of sweet dough while we wait.”

Copyright 2008 Dominic R. Villari. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

“Afterlife delivers a story crawling with heart, humor and hope. Packed with a cast of characters who surprise with insights, integrity and insults, this book made me more curious about life’s after-party. We can all hope that Guy’s vision can light the way, because we’ll be laughing and learning on that path while we wait for our turn at care that’s critical.” Ron Seybold

“imaginative, funny and smart.” Heidi Springer

—- early reader reviews —-

Guy Smith’s story of a newly dead ghost’s travails is told in such a witty way that it seems impossible there could be any poignancy to the book. But on the contrary, it’s a sort of Texas-style, stiff-upper-lip, telling that attempts to mask, but can’t hide, a very moving and vulnerable story. Sounds just like how we often try to gloss over the most profound issues and challenges in life. And it is just like that. Funny and moving, it’s a great read.

———–

Guy Smith is acerbic, bizarre, and utterly deranged. I mean that in the nicest possible sense, of course. In this novella-length work, he equally offends both Christians and atheists. I suspect Buddhists might take exception, as well.

“Afterlife” took a few twists and turns that surprised me, which is hard to do because I am fairly well twisted myself. Smith’s conception of life after death is not too far removed from Bruce Rubin’s, but the ending is much less idyllic. Demi Moore superfans will get that reference. You know who you are . . .

Independent film makers take note: I see a great script attempting to claw its way out of this book. Hollywood won’t tackle it; the cloyingly sweet ending is absent. Tom Waits, maybe. Or Jim Jarmusch.

Buy the book. It’s cheap – tack it on to your next Amazon order. You won’t be sorry.

————

This book, Afterlife, by Guy Smith, a new writer, is a winner, five stars plus: 1) Because of its human depth of touch, Afterlife engages the reader in a much larger way than its novella nature might suggest; 2) The story line is riveting with its unfolding plot, twists and turns, surprises, insights and pleasures; 3) Character presence of both main and incidental figures is remarkable in presenting the individuality of their life and death story; 4) I would not call the story humorous. It is written with good humor. My eyes were often wet with tears of sadness, joy and enthusiastic cheering; 5) Much of society keeps death’s possible discomfort distant, whether by incarceration, white sterile settings, condolences by platitudes, thinking death is elsewhere, later or not for me. Afterlife has us there with the flesh of death, and the plethora of society’s forces and professionals who appear to the bane (often under the guise of caring) or enlightenment of survivors; and, th
en, Plus) There is a pervading warmth and love within this text which is rich with a freedom offered to the reader to explore his or her own intimacy with the subject.

————-

I always welcome a good interpretation of the afterlife, but this book was one of the most interesting I’ve read. You have to appreciate a man who demonstrates such a love for his wife. Without saying too much–don’t want to spoil the fun–the main character may ooze love for his wife but his wicked sense of humor makes for a titillating read. There were a couple of things I didn’t like so much, like the harshness of some of the characters, but I suppose that was essential to move the plot along. Every book has its flaws. Regardless, this is an entertaining, short book for a weekend at the beach or a long plane ride.

If you are a fan of loose, breezy — and especially snarky — prose, you’ll love this little wise-a$$ handful of a book.

The subject matter almost doesn’t matter — the character insights and interactions are just fun — even when (maybe especially) when tragic. It is perhaps the dissonance of tragic/snarky that makes the book compelling.

Copyright 2008 Guy Smith. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

CHAPTER ONE

A photograph captures one’s image but is incapable of containing their essence.  Before Tony lay a camera created impression of Janet Mitchell.  In his mind were countless other pictures he had mentally processed.  Visions of how she walked, and spoke, and smiled.  The song her laughter played, the oasis of her eyes.  The stuff of dreams.
Dreaming was something he did much of, not only with Janet as subject.  Each day as he gazed out his bedroom window, Tony looked beyond what his eyes could see.  To another place in a time yet to come.  Far away from the ironclad grip of the projects.
As sweet as his dreams were, he would awaken to the sting that they were only fantasies.  Pictures that in spite of their clarity, also held no essence.
Present day reality showed a greatly contrasting portrait.  Long lines of brown bodies waiting impatiently at the welfare office.  Equally long lines of teenage girls at abortion clinics. Food stamps serving as currency, except when it came to the purchase of narcotics, which was strictly a cash or sex business. To every side of him were faces that showed hunger and longing to be no longer filled with hunger and longing.  Single mothers struggling to keep their babies fed, anonymous fathers in search of another bed.  Sex, alcohol, drugs and church the most frequented routes by which one might find God and ask Him why.  When a thunderous silence served as reply, it was translated as “why not”.  No use arguing with that logic.
Where Tony wished to be was more of an idea than a zip code, since it had not been experienced firsthand, merely glimpsed on television, in magazines, and books.  Tomorrow appeared as a montage of popping champagne bottles; yachts setting sail for tropical locales; tuxedos and evening gowns twirling under chandeliers made of diamonds; luxury cars; luxury suites; the luxury of laying down one’s head on a bed soft as a cloud, content that the world had been conquered and would service all needs, satisfy every desire.  These things were “seen” by Tony through a shimmering haze, in the center of which one vision shone bright and clear.
“Still jerking off to the picture of that white chick?”
Tony slammed the yearbook shut as if caught leafing through a pornographic magazine by his bible toting grandmother.
“I can’t believe you spent good money on that bullshit when you aren’t even a senior.  Just so you could drool over Barbie.”
Tony looked up from his bed towards his younger brother, C.J.  The young men were three years apart in age, possessing near identical cheekbones and matching sets of midnight clear eyes, C.J. having slightly more melanin in his skin tone, Tony with deeper waves throughout his hair.  Their physical resemblance to one another was not matched by their senses of fashion.  Tony was dressed comfortably in a pair of Khaki pants and a ribbed tee shirt.  C.J. was clad in a plaid flannel shirt and a pair of jeans sized well beyond what his waist required.  This provided a clear view of the Loony tune characters adorning his boxer shorts. Atop his head was a black bandanna decorated with skull and crossbones.  The foreboding image was replicated on his right forearm by an artlessly rendered tattoo.  Around C.J.’s neck were three gold chains of varying widths and styles fighting to out-sparkle each other.
Rather than respond to his brother’s prodding, Tony opened a textbook.  He had a trig exam the following day.  Without further studying he felt confident that he could probably get a grade in the low eighties.  He intended to do considerably better than that.
On the opposite side of the cramped room, C.J. lay down and adjusted the fit of his faux diamond studded watch.  It was the latest addition to a collection of timepieces that was nearly sizeable enough for him to war a different one for each week of the year.  He then began tapping on his bed’s headboard to the beat of a song playing in his head.
“Do you mind?” Tony snapped after a minute.  “I’m trying to study.  You might try it yourself for a change.”
“Nigga, please.  I don’t need that bullshit to get mine.”
Tony tried returning to his schoolwork, but was forced to stop reading when a shadow blanketed the page he was focused on.  C.J. stood directly in front of him, having approached without being detected, a neat trick that he frequently put to mischievous use.  He yanked out the yearbook that Tony had tucked beneath his chest, then flipped it to the page it was accustomed to being opened to.  On it was a close-up photo of Janet in her cheerleading outfit.
“Don’t you get it up for sistas no more?”
“What?”
“Don’t play dumb, you know exactly what I mean.  I’m not saying it’s bad to get with a white girl.  Pussy is pussy.  But you’re drooling about more than just waxing that ass, I know you are.  A white girl is all you need to completely cross over, and this one, fine though she may be, is as white as they come.”
C.J.’s first word on a topic like this one was rarely his last, so Tony knew that attempting to ignore him would be futile.  Instead, he addressed the accusations with the best comeback that came to mind.
“You might want to wipe away the shit before talking out your ass.”
C.J. snickered.  He was bored and his big brother made a convenient target.  Irritating Tony was as good a way to spend some spare time as any.
“Just admit it.  You want to sell out completely.  You want to go to some white college.  You want a white suit and tie job.  You want a house in a white neighborhood with a white wife by your side.  Tell me I’m wrong.”
Tony shook his head.  “I’ll give you this much, C.J.  It’s true that I don’t have anything against being educated.  Nothing against getting paid well either.  And I happen to look damn good in a suit.”
“Why am I suddenly in the mood for an oreo cookie?”
The wisecrack slowed Tony’s momentum no more than a mosquito ramming into a windshield.  If C.J. wanted to wage a verbal battle, Tony was happy to oblige him.  Trigonometry could take a temporary back seat.
“You’re damn straight I won’t be living in the projects my whole life.  And when it comes to the girl I choose, I happen to be color blind.”
“Blind like hell.  Your little jimmy knows exactly what color it wants.”  C.J. tugged lightly on the crotch of his jeans.  This was done out of habit rather than a gesture intended to accompany his statement.  “Don’t think for one second you’re fooling anyone,” he continued.  “I know what the real deal is.  You want to prove that you’re as good as them, and what better way than by having one of them on your arm?  But you can’t prove what people refuse to believe.”
C.J. drowned out any chance of a rebuttal by turning on his boom box.  The volume as usual was at maximum.  Their room became filled with a thumping bass line and a rapper bragging in rhyme about the women he had bedded and the men he had killed.
Taking another glance at his watch, C.J. noticed that it was no longer running and the glass casing was cracked.  The kid he took it from had surprisingly put up a fight, even managing to get a shot in.  C.J.’s retaliation destroyed the very thing he was trying to obtain.  He tossed his prize into the waste paper basket.
Tony reached over and lowered the radio, which had been acquired by C.J. from someone who committed the cardinal sin of being smaller and less battle tested than him, not to mention the folly of being insufficiently observant in the wrong place at the wrong time.  Tony sadly understood that what C.J. didn’t forcibly take for himself, he purchased with money earned on the streets by preying on the weaknesses of crackheads and other assorted addicts.  This left him with very little interest or time for matters such as trigonometry.
“You got a problem with white people?” Tony asked, determined to finish what had been started.  “You think they look down on you?  Then don’t allow the insult to ring true.  Don’t trap yourself in a little box and then accuse them of stuffing you in there.  The only one who can limit you, is you.”
Tony was saying nothing that C.J. hadn’t heard from him before, though he did manage to sound even more self-righteous than usual.  This probably had something to do with the white girl in the yearbook photo.  C.J. pulled a stack of bills from his back pocket and began sorting through it.
“Whatever,” he said nonchalantly.  “I’ve got better things to do than argue with you.”
Tony shook his head.  “So you got a few bucks on you.”
“A few hundred is more like it.  Better study your math a little harder.”
“That supposed to impress me?  Congratulations, you can rob people and sell them drugs.  What’s the next act in your minstrel show?  Cotton picking, tap dancing, or watermelon eating?”
C.J. twirled a chain around his index finger, another subconscious habit, but this one seemed more symbolic than the others, emphasizing that he was satisfied being the person he was, regardless of approval.  “It definitely ain’t doing impressions, cause you’ll never find me imitating Whitey like you.  I’m not ashamed of who I am.”
He. put the money back into his pocket, then lay down and closed his eyes.  C.J. had grown weary of the argument he’d initiated, for he believed words to be a futile method of persuasion.  Two things made the world go round.  Fear and money.  The rest was just what people tried to be satisfied with.  Some even managed to delude themselves that they were happy.  That was their choice and their lives, but not his.
“Wanting to be successful doesn’t make me any less black,” Tony said.  “No matter what garbage Dad would have you believe.  And it doesn’t make me ashamed of who I am.”
“Don’t bother trying to convince me.  Tell your little fairy tale to that white girl.”
Giving up on ending the argument on his word, Tony sighed and returned to his studies, refusing to acknowledge C.J.’s self-satisfied grin.

Copyright 2008 Roy L. Pickering Jr.. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt
“Whoa, you’re talking so fast, you must be pretty excited about this. How about I do it for a free rib eye? And I have to be done by 6:30 ‘cuz Amy and I have a date.”
“Serve steak to a bunch of women? Are you crazy? I was thinking more of tilapia with citrus salsa.”
“What part of a cow does tillpappa come from?”
“You’re hopeless. I’ll have a rib eye for you, Jack. Thanks. I gotta run. Bye.”
Maria took the back stairs two at a time, unlocked her door, kicked off her sandals, and tossed her purse on the bistro table. Mr. Becker had just okayed her use of his grill for the following weekend. She revved up the laptop to e-mail four girlfriends she’d enjoyed from her art history classes. Checking her inbox, she noticed an unfamiliar sender: bilberry@aol.com.
“Bilberry?” She envisioned gaunt Pilgrims writhing in pain in the hold of the Mayflower. “No, that’s beriberi. No wait””that was scurvy. Bilberry . . . hmmm,” she mused aloud. She vaguely remembered giving someone her e-mail address recently. Curiosity bested caution, and she opened the e-mail.

Hi,
Remember me? from blueberry picking last weekend? I know I said I wanted to continue our conversation electronically, but I have a better idea. I’m coming to Chicago next weekend on business. I’ll be free after 3 on Saturday. Could we get together?
Bill Berry

Maria’s heart raced. She got up and did a little jig around the ottoman. She could invite girlfriends over another time.

Hello, Bill,
It’s nice to hear from you. I’d be glad to meet you Saturday. Where in Chicago will you be?
Maria

Her phone rang.
“Oh, hi, Mom. No, I don’t think church will work for me tomorrow. Thanks anyway. Glad you liked the blueberries. Say, is Jack there?” A momentary guilt pang reminded her this was the umpteenth gentle invitation to church she had refused in the last year, but she squelched the guilt to focus on the pleasure of next Saturday.
“Jack, m’boy, you will be relieved to know the barbecue’s off.”
“What, no rib eye reward? To what do I owe this grand disappointment?” Maria could picture the mock shock on her favorite ham’s face. She told him about her date with Bill.
“You’re meeting a stranger? Alone? You’re not telling him where you live, are you? Are you meeting him in the city? Maria, I don’t like this. He doesn’t even live in our state. I’ll exchange my chef’s toque for a chauffeur’s cap.”
“Jack, you’re sweet to be protective, but you’ve got a date with Amy. I’ll be okay. I’m twenty-five.” She was tempted to remind him what a good judge of character she was, but then she remembered Travis and said instead, “I’ve dated more than a few men.” The Travis travesty had damaged her confidence more than she cared to admit, so when Jack suggested they double-date, she agreed.

Copyright 2008 Jane Hoppe. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

Chapter One

A COPY OF the Pathology Report – promised, and ambivalently awaited – has arrived in my absence. For some reason that upsets me, though I can’t think why. What possible difference can it make? By its very nature a Post Mortem is posthumous. And death brings an end to influence and change. Doesn’t it?
I’ve dragged myself round the usual early morning circuit – beside the vapid, dust-strewn waters of the canal basin, through St Kit’s to the Thames footpath and the muted early summer sounds of the river, under Tower Bridge and back home again – driven by a half remembered sense of the comfort to be derived from routine, familiarity, activity. That’s how it’s been for the past ten days: the routine of being; of breathing – in and out; of forcing a response from reflex swallowing muscles that appear to have lost spontaneity; of sipping, without revulsion, the scalding sweetened liquids with which I’ve been plied; of seeing, without registering, familiar faces etched with unfamiliar expressions – pity? sorrow? concern?
Activity has come easier: planning a funeral – an event that can have no date until the body is released; helping in preliminary enquiries with the police; learning that an Inquest has been opened and adjourned. Keeping on. Keeping going. Feeling in control of a spiralling situation. Or at least kidding myself that I am. The role of grieving mother might not be an everyday occurrence, but it’s one I’ve rehearsed many times in my mind.
The package, protruding from the cubby hole for Flat 7, is visible the moment I let myself in through the front security door. My stomach heaves. A large brown envelope – on top of the customary wad of junk mail, flyers, and business letters addressed to Mr Richard Lombard – the handwritten scrawl is instantly recognisable as Mark’s. Claire Lombard, it reads. No title, then! No Mrs, or even a despised Ms. As if, even after all these years and the precedent of his own remarriage, Mark is indicating his disdain of mine to Richard.
A prickle of frustration seeds itself in my mind: the faint flowering of remembrance of myriad, similar, small humiliations planted, bindweed-like and pervasive, in the soil of my marriage to Mark, which, over a fourteen, fifteen year period, all-but choked me of meaningful life. I give myself a mental shake to loosen its hold.
The small cramped hallway in which I’m standing is communal to the four flats in this section of the low-rise building. Unwilling to be engaged in small talk by any of my neighbours, I pick up the package and the remainder of the post and make my way upstairs to my own front door. The apartment, purchased by the pooling of resources when Richard and I married, is on two levels: hall, dining room, kitchen, bathroom and master bedroom on the first floor; and under the eaves a large lounge, small study-cum-second bedroom and adjoining toilet and shower.
With no high rise building in the immediate vicinity, the entire living area is filled with a wonderful sense of airiness and light which, when we were property-hunting, immediately appealed to my need of space and tranquillity. Both are rare commodities in the city, and I’ve enhanced the illusion of outdoors-come-in, through a combination of window boxes, indoor plants, and a décor of winter white with highlights of sharp limey greens and citrus yellow. Since privacy is not an issue, calico curtains suffice at the windows, softening the contours with their billowing folds.
The furnishings are now faded and worn, but in all the nine years that we’ve lived here, the different nuances of sunlight by day and lamp light by night have never failed to surprise and delight me. Today, everything jars!
Once inside, I drop the mail on the dining table and, as if it has no significance, turn my back on it and walk through to the galley kitchen. My chest feels tight, but I tell myself that this is due to my run. When the churning in my belly has receded and I can breathe more easily, I take the water-filter jug from the fridge and fill a tumbler from the draining board. Turning to face the dining room door and table beyond, I lift the glass to my eye, study the distorted view, then lean back against the counter top and drink deeply.
When I’ve finished, have washed and dried the glass and replaced it in the cupboard, I immerse myself in the small daily activities of domesticity: sweeping little piles of crumbs into my hands from around the toaster and breakfast table, to-ing and fro-ing between kitchen and dining room, giving a wide berth to the mail in general and the brown envelope in particular.
Oh hell! This is absurd. I am dismayed by my lack of courage, but can’t help myself. I wish the package had not been delivered; wish I’d never agreed to Mark’s suggestion that he send me a copy; wish that the circumstances were different, that Katya’s death had not occurred, that I’d not been thrust into this nightmare.
The telephone rings. It’s Richard: his customary call home to catch up on the morning’s news.
‘It’s arrived.’ My voice is strident. ‘The Pathology Report from Mark.’
‘What does it say?’
Pulling out a chair at the dining room table, I seat myself, lacing the telephone flex through my fingers.
‘I haven’t opened it.’
‘Are you going to?’
‘I don’t know if I want to.’
There’s a pause. I picture Richard standing in a telephone booth – perhaps in some restaurant or hotel – his brow furrowed as he thinks through the implications.
‘I suppose it’ll be full of medical details,’ he says, at last. ‘Could be upsetting. Perhaps you’d better leave it until I’m home? We could look at it together, if you like. I’ll try and get back early.’
I’m grateful – pathetically grateful – for his insight, and grasp at his suggestion. For some moments after I’ve put the phone back on its cradle, I continue to sit at the table. My breathing is fast and shallow. Emotion knots my throat. Then my fury explodes into the silence of the empty flat.
‘Why did you have to die?’ I shout.
Instantly, I’m enveloped with hot guilt and confusion. I know from a friend who offers bereavement counselling that anger is a normal reaction to loss. Anger against the deceased for letting go of life; for causing pain to those they’ve left behind. Anger against God, all-powerful and all-seeing, for permitting – or failing to stop – the events that have led to this end. Anger against yourself for your lack of foresight; your stupid, helpless, useless futility. I understand the concept! I’ve simply never considered that I might succumb.
Action is called for: a shower. I cross the hall to the bedroom, find clean knickers and bra, and pause in front of the mirror to peel off my joggers and drop them into the dirty laundry basket. The woman who looks back at me with fading hair and red-rimmed brown eyes seems to be perceptibly nearer the half century that will soon be upon her, than the mid-forties that I actually inhabit. With a grimace I make my way back across the hall to the cloakroom shower.
The scented lather with which I begin to soap myself eases the ache of well-exercised muscles, the gush of water rinsing away the furrows of a sleepless and over-active mind. For a moment, I’m deluded into thinking everything is normal. But suddenly, the protective elements of numbness and the passage of time are sluiced away. Ten-day old memories cascade through my brain.

IT’S JUNE. EARLY Saturday morning. Richard’s and my ninth wedding anniversary – and there he is applying the last coat of paint to the kitchen ceiling!
‘Half an hour,’ he calls. ‘Promise! Quick shower and we’ll be off. Get your glad rags on. We’re going to be tourists for the day, then up to the West End for a show.’
‘Yeah, yeah!’ I retort, plumping up pillows and smoothing the duvet on the bed. ‘Half an hour, my foot. When have I ever known you to manage a shower in half an hour?’
Had the day really begun so benignly filled with affection and expectation? The recollection brings with it a renewed stab of pain that hits me just below the ribs.
The phone begins to ring as I am about to leave the bedroom. What if it hadn’t rung until after we’d left home for the pleasures of our day? What if we’d been on the river with my bridesmaids of nine years earlier, Richard’s best man, and their families? Or in Piccadilly, alone at the theatre? But it didn’t happen like that. I pick up the receiver, stand at the bedroom window, look down at the once functional – now purely decorative – docks below, and listen to a voice which, though clearly that of one of the girls, is not immediately identifiable as to which.
‘Mum?’
‘Katya? What’s wrong?’
The assumption that it’s my younger daughter is a natural response to the tension that crackles down the line. A less frequent caller than her sister, Rosie, Katya rings only in extremis, the tremor in her voice indicating that she’s in need of money, refuge or sympathy – sometimes all three in equal measure – which need she will later, obstinately and independently, refute. Aged twenty-five, Katya has recently split with her partner, the father of her baby daughter, Zara. She has already phoned home several times that week.
‘Katya?’ I repeat.
The voice at the other end of the phone is high-pitched and rasped with the resonance of shock.
‘It’s Rosie. Mum, is Richard with you?’
I turn from the window.
‘What’s the matter, darling? It’s not Steve again?’
A year older than Katya, Rosie lives in the West Country, Molvelly Abbey, an inland hamlet half an hour from Katya’s coastal home in Compass Quay. Steve, Rosie’s husband for the past seven years, and father to three of my four grandchildren, has recently had surgery for an inflamed bursa.
‘It’s not Steve,’ Rosie responds breathlessly. ‘It’s Kat. Is Richard there?’
I sink onto the bed, oblivious of the crumpled duvet I’ve smoothed only moments earlier. The persistent enquiry for Richard’s whereabouts begins to seep into my thinking. My heart pounds.
Did I know then? Is it true, as I’ve heard said, that some sixth sense applies; some inner antennae between a mother and child that, from conception through birth and life, goes on transmitting and receiving without thought or action on the part of either, without being perceptible? Until it’s broken. When the imperceptible clamours for attention; transmission ceases; a persistent crackle and hiss intone inside: an incessant, cacophonous white noise. And you know. You just know!
But I didn’t know. That’s the point. After all these years, this scene, this death scene, so long imagined, so fervently rehearsing itself in my mind, has been put to death. R.I.P. I’ve allowed myself hope, and hope has become surety, surety, peace. How could I know? What inner sense could have detected that the peace was about to be shattered?
‘Katya?’ I echo, stupidly, down the phone line. ‘What’s happened Rosie? Have the two of you had a row?’

ROSIE BACKED THE Range Rover out of the yard. Behind her stood the stone cottage that had been her home for the last seven years. To one side, beyond the thick Leylandii hedge, lay the adjoining Garden Centre and Nursery – heavily mortgaged to the bank – from which she and Steve scraped a living. She tooted her horn to let him know she was off.
‘You haven’t forgotten that I have another doctor’s appointment this morning, have you?’ she’d asked him, earlier, before breakfast.
Tall, lean, and tanned, he’d paused in the act of lathering his face prior to shaving, and eyed her, quizzically, in the mirror.
‘You alright with that?’ he asked.
Her eyes flicked up and over him, as a sudden recognition filled her – warm and wholly unexpected – that here, in Steve, was the security she’d craved as a child.
Severe stomach cramps in the months following Erin’s birth – her longed-for and cherished daughter – had prompted the original appointment ten days earlier. But with Steve worried about an outbreak of black spot among the hybrid roses, and the twins acting up as only four year old boys could, she’d almost convinced herself that the pain didn’t warrant the doctor’s attention; that it would right itself, soon enough; that she should cancel the consultation.
‘Go!’ Steve had urged her. ‘Marjorie can take the twins on a tour of the new aquatics, while I organise a spraying programme of the roses.’
Marjorie was one of the staff in the tiny café area, which abutted the conservatory that housed the potted house-plant section. A grandmotherly woman, whose rich dialect delighted the boys, she was more friend than employee. It was she who, as the day evolved, had taken them home with her and kept them over the weekend so that Rosie could concentrate on other things.
Other things had begun with Rosie’s arrival that Saturday morning at the surgery in Compass Quay.
‘Rosie Timbline for Dr Wharton,’ she’d announced, presenting herself at the counter.
The Receptionist, Pauline, looked up from her desk. But instead of checking off the appointment in the diary before her, to Rosie’s acute embarrassment, she came round the counter to her side.
‘You won’t be seeing Dr Wharton this morning,’ she said, her voice hushed and slightly nasal. ‘Dr Morris wants a word with you. He’s running rather late so he’s asked me to take you into the Clinic to wait.’
Conscious of the curious stares of other patients, Rosie’s cheeks flushed and her mouth felt dry. She seemed to have been back and forth to the surgery no end of times in the last few years. If it wasn’t a pregnancy or a miscarriage, it was some minor ailment or other; either her own or those of the children. Was this to be a reprimand for wasting surgery time? An old childhood guilt that could never quite be assuaged, an irrational fear of having failed the expectations of others, gnawed at her insides.
She allowed herself to be steered away from the doctors’ surgeries towards the newly-built annexe, which housed the Clinic.
‘Will the doctor be long?’ she asked, indicating the sleeping baby. ‘It’s such a palaver getting out and back home in time for feeds these days.’
Pauline showed her empathy in a half-smile half-grimace, pushed open the double doors of the annexe and switched on the lights.
‘Sorry. Shouldn’t be too long now. He particularly wants to see you.’
Rosie’s heart missed a beat. Something must be afoot. She set the baby chair on the floor and perched on the edge of her seat as if for flight. Pauline hurried back to the Reception Desk.
The Clinic – usually packed with the subdued chatter of ante- or post-natal women awaiting scans and other minor miracles of obstetric care; mothers, with pre-school infants mercifully unaware of the terrors of the needle ahead; or the elderly and disabled juggling exercises of body and mind – was, that morning, silent and foreboding. The emptiness, the shadowless ceiling lights, the grey walls, and red plastic seats rigid in their attempt at informality, felt cold and cheerless.
Rosie shivered.
When, at last, Dr Morris appeared at the door of the Clinic, she had no sense of how long she had waited. The doctor shook her hand, leaned over the baby in her chair and made the right noises, then seated himself at right angles to Rosie.
He was not Rosie’s GP and was known to her only by hearsay. Somehow, his appearance didn’t match the image Rosie had formed. She thought him unkempt, his eyes bleary, his jowls dark and unshaven. He leaned forward, his forearms on his thighs, the flesh on his face falling into crumpled folds.
‘I’m sorry to have kept you,’ he began. ‘I’m afraid I have some bad news.’
Rosie’s heart began to thump. It thumped so loud she thought it would leap from her chest. All she could hear as the doctor started to speak was an endless drumming in her ears.

THE MEMORY OF that morning, ten days earlier, brought a sharp reflux in Rosie’s chest and throat. She came to a halt at the junction at the top of the lane, scrutinised the traffic conditions to right and left, then turned onto the main road that would take her into town. Even now, after more than a week of assimilating accumulated information, she found it difficult to recall the details of that Saturday. She cast her mind back.
Dr Morris had been called out by the police at four o’clock that morning, he told her.
‘I’m so sorry Mrs Timbline – Rosie, if I may? There’s no easy way of saying this. Your sister, Katya, was found dead in her home.’
The blood surged and pounded in Rosie’s ears. Strangely, Katya had been the last person on her mind when the doctor had warned her of bad news. Such was her state of confusion, that she’d thought, initially – was convinced, in fact – that Dr Morris was about to tell her of some disaster that had befallen her mother. A road traffic accident on the way down to the river for their celebratory pleasure cruise? A drowning? From a boat they had not yet boarded! How stupid was that?
‘Katya?’ she repeated. But her brain refused to give up its image of Mum.
Little by little, his voice resonant with kindness and fatigue, the doctor relayed what he knew of the situation. Little by little, like arrows fired at ramparts and falling short, the blunt facts barely penetrated the thick layer of insulation that Rosie’s mind had erected around her intellect.
With some effort, she recalled the facts. Kat had been to a party – a barbecue – on the Friday evening. Her estranged partner, father of fifteen-month old Zara, had stayed over to baby-sit. It was he who had found Kat in the early hours of the next morning, slumped on the sofa downstairs. In a state of extreme shock he had telephoned the emergency services, who had then contacted both the police and the Duty Doctor, Dr Morris.
‘I’m afraid there was nothing I – or anyone else – could do,’ said Dr Morris. ‘She’d been dead for some hours before anyone got there.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ Rosie said repeatedly. Illogically. ‘I’m so sorry.’
Even to her own mind she was unsure to whom and for what she was apologising.
The doctor was kind and understanding. Kat’s death was due to asphyxiation, he said. But a Post Mortem would have to be conducted before the full facts could be known. Shaking off the shock that engulfed her, Rosie roused herself.
‘I need to let my mother know. And can I see her? Kat? Mum will want to know how she looked.’
Dr Morris arranged for a cup of tea to be brought to Rosie, for her to see the body at The Chapel of Rest, and then for her to make whatever phone calls she deemed necessary.

TEN DAYS LATER and here she was again!
At the outskirts of Compass Quay, Rosie slowed to the obligatory thirty-mile limit. She would have to pass the end of Locket’s Lane, where Kat had lived – and died – in order to reach the doctor’s surgery. Her heart lurched at the thought.
She drew a sharp breath and, to calm herself, turned her head to smile at the baby in her rear-facing car seat strapped to the passenger seat beside her. Rewarded with a windy grin on the tiny, puckered features, she lingered too long before returning her attention to the road. Heart racing, she slammed on the brakes to avoid a collision with the car in front.
Claire’s response to her phone call from the surgery to convey the news of Kat’s death had been equally unnerving. Should she – could she, Rosie wondered – have broken it any better?
‘Mummy – I’m so sorry. Kat’s been found dead at home.’
There was no easy formula; no pat phrase; no acceptable tone of voice. Besides, she had been in shock, herself. It had been all she could do to force the words out past her teeth and lips. The cavity of her chest felt empty, as if her lungs had deflated; as if there was insufficient breath on which to convey the sound and meaning of her message. How did you tell any mother of the loss of her child? How could you cause such pain to your own? Her teeth chattered.
‘I’m so sorry, Mummy. I’m so sorry.’
Over and over, her guilt spilled out, inane, irrational, unstoppable: for being the harbinger of bad news; the cause of pain and anguish; for every hard thought she had ever harboured – against Kat, their mother, their father; for being hundreds of miles away from dispensing and receiving a hug; for feeling utterly, devastatingly, helpless.
And then – silence.
She’d imagined her mother sitting on the sofa in the lounge. Or perhaps on the edge of her bed. She tried to get her mind round what it would be like if someone were to tell her, Rosie – one day, in the far off future – that her precious Erin was no more.
Are you okay, Mummy? I understand how you must feel, Mummy.
The crumbs of comfort she had been about to offer were never uttered. Instead, an inhuman moan, which emanated from Claire, began to echo down the phone line. It grew to a crescendo, and became a wail that filled Rosie’s head.
Immutable, it had filled her head for the past ten days.

STEPPING OUT OF the shower and beginning to dry myself, I realise that I have little coherent memory of the day of Katya’s death. Is this the nature of grief? A savage slash across a known territory. A ripping, searing pain. And then – nothing? Nothing but the blurred edges of reality, like those left by softly falling snow; the blotting out of familiar landmarks until – yes – almost nothing known remains.
Patchworks of disconnected impressions burn bright and clear in my mind, but it’s as if they are the borrowed memories of some other entity – a character of whom I’ve read, perhaps; a photograph of some past event that has been vividly brought to life by the descriptive powers of its participants, or observers.
That’s how I feel: a spectator of something outside myself; something that touches me empathetically, but fails fully to involve me. It’s as if the events unfurling before me, however dramatic, are not grounded in my understanding of reality, but have a dreamlike quality about them. There are two minds at work: the one that has left its lived-out abundant life at home but continues to operate at the level of banality: sustenance, sleep, self-preservation; the other that brings into play the detached watchfulness of an interested bystander.
Like a photographer accompanying a journalist to the scene of a disaster, the camera of my mind merely records the victims and helpers; their actions and reactions; the mood and emotions of the occasion. But it’s not my disaster. And its importance seems ephemeral.
I apply deodorant and talc and pull on my underclothes, sweater and jeans.
The news that Rosie broke that Saturday morning hit me like a body-blow. But the shock I felt was not simply that of Katya’s death. This shock took the form of astonishment: disbelief that a death so long anticipated should elicit so predictable a response, when I’d thought myself inured. Or cured!
At some point, a howl broke the sleepy Saturday morning feel of residential Dockland. But though reason told me it must have originated in my throat, I felt no sense of ownership.
It did, however, bring Richard running. Poor Richard, I thought, regarding him from the edge of the bed as he appeared at the door, paint-laden roller still in hand, red-faced from the contortion of looking ceiling-ward for so long. Had he truly understood what he was taking on when he married me, a thirty-six year old divorcee, with two teenage girls? And I realised, with that other mind – the spectator-mind – that there was no incongruity in my concern for him; that anxiety for others was a buffer, a kinder reality than the realism that had thrust itself, cruel and barbed, into the soft underbelly of sorrow, pain and disappointment which, together, amounted to self-concern.
Richard’s face was etched with fear.
‘What’s happened?’ he asked. ‘I thought you’d fallen. Thought you must’ve killed yourself.’
Wordlessly, I passed the phone to him.
A drop of white paint fell from the roller onto the polished oak of the bedroom floor. Viscous, like blanched blood, it remained perfectly round. I stared at it, unseeing. Did Mark know of Katya’s death, I wondered? He was her father, after all. I hadn’t thought to ask Rosie. It hadn’t seemed to figure in my thinking at the time.
I bring to mind other occasions when I’ve had to break news to him of some disaster or other concerning Katya. There was purpose, then. A reason for the two of us to leave our respective spouses and go haring off together in an attempt to avert greater catastrophe. The morning of Katya’s death, there was none. Just an empty, gaping void.
He would hear soon enough, I told myself. Just as I tell myself, now, ten days later, that there’s no need for me to ring in respect of the Pathology Report. My reluctance, I fear, is palpable.

Read more about A Painful Post Mortem and Mel Menzies HERE.

Copyright 2008 Mel Menzies. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt
“Sweet Pea?” My wannabe comedian husband, Tyrelle, popped open the flip cap on my latest Bath and Body Works purchase and sniffed its contents.
“Umm, that smells tasty,” he said, giving the lotion his stamp of approval, as he placed the bottle back on my-heavily-cluttered-and-in-dire-need-of-a-good dusting
dresser. “But I wouldn’t have named it that,” he said, twisting his mouth as if he were giving it real serious thought.
“What would you have named it?” I rolled over in our bed to face him. Fifteen years of marriage and thirty-something years on this planet gave me the insight to know that what was about to come out of my husband’s mouth was definitely linked to pumps and a bump. Men are to coochie as Pooh is to
Hunny.
Tyrelle rubbed his chin for a second and gave me a devilish grin. “How ’bout Sweet Poontang?” He wriggled his eyebrows at me and palmed my ass as I got up and made my way into the bathroom to run water into the tub.
I hardly ever took long, luxurious bubble baths due to the lack of time to actually enjoy one, but I attempted to just soak for a while. Within the first ten minutes, I squashed three quarrels amongst my litter of teenagers: a set of thirteen-year-old twins and a sixteen-year-old wannabe soldier. Then I attempted to return some phone calls of daily gossip check-ins””nothing serious, I hoped. I dialed my favorite cousin, Roz, in the Big Apple to see what was so urgent that she called twice in the same evening. She answered on the second ring, sounding like she was xpecting Ed McMahon.
“Hello?” she answered hurriedly.
“Girl, whassup?” I knew Roz was waiting for her boyfriend to be sentenced by the Feds for tax evasion amongst other things. She hesitated before speaking, which I took as a prelude of bad news to come. “Oh, hey, Sinatra,” she said drearily. Obviously, I wasn’t who she hoped would be calling.
“Um, what’s going on?” I pressed on, ignoring her tone. I put her on speakerphone and slid further down in the warm water. It felt so good to just sit and soak. I needed to consider mounting a plasma in here so I could really get my
relaxation on, now that’d do a body good. Sit, soak and watch my favorite television shows?When I hit the lotto, that’ll be the first thing on my “to do” list, I planned.
“Humph, nuthin’s up but fifteen to twenty.”
My jaw could’ve caused a splash larger than Shamu the Killer Whale, Sea World’s most famous attraction, when she spit that one out. “They offered Jamal fifteen to twenty? Ain’t that a bitch?” What kind of raw deal was that? I
know a brother been in jail five or six times for the same thing, but damn. They want to release a brother when he’s blind, gray, crippled, and crazy? The man will be ripe for SSI, if there’s a dime left. I secretly hoped she’d reconsider her previous plans of marrying this fool. She barely accepted the first collect call when he began pledging his undying love to her and their two-year-old son
whom we called Bookie. Can you say conjugal visits? But still, she was my relative and I loved her dearly. I felt her pain like it was my own. “So, whatcha gon’ do?” My phone call was interrupted by Tyrelle’s entrance into the bathroom, carrying a DA REALEST RIDES car audio and
half-naked chick magazine in hand, and a wrapped sweet-smelling Philly blunt dangling from his slightly parted lips. I knew what time it was; he was about to blow out the bathroom. Damn, and I was having such a good time soothing
and soaking. See, this is why folks nut up. Here I am, minding my own business, trying to let Calgon take me away, and in comes Shabba Stanks messing up my program. I was too through with my husband.
“How you just gonna come in here funking up the bathroom while a sista is trying to get her relax on?” I playfully but seriously asked my husband, who ignored me and plopped his sexy brown ass right on the commode, magazine in hand.
A recent refinance allowed us to upgrade our house a little bit here and a little bit there. Unlike most or probably all of the houses on our block, we had purchased the small four bedroom house nearly twelve years ago as a fixer upper.
It wasn’t in bad shape at the time of purchase but it definitely needed a little love. Most of the houses on our block had beautiful manicured lawns maintained by Spanish-speaking landscapers, non-leaking roofs, stucco that
was the same color all over, windows that open, carpet or hardwood floors that glistened and a yard that didn’t resemble a gravel pit. So, after sacrificing for many moons and growing tired of the endless petty conversations with neighbors about “doing something” with our yard we chopped off a large area of the gravel pit for a small family room, a half bathroom between Kerry and TJ’s room which allowed babygirl to have damn near complete control over the
main bathroom. What was left of the gravel pit is now lush and green and maintained by Beto and his crew and lastly, expanding my bathroom to include double sinks, double showerheads and a nice deep tub. If MTV’s Cribs could set-up shop in my bathroom I’d fit right in with the rest of the ballers but the remainder of my house wouldn’t make the cut. But, hey it’s a work in progress. So when I say a sistah is trying to get some peace and tranquility
within the sanctum of her bathroom, I’m serious as a heart attack. My mortgaged jumped up $500.00 a month. Them kids and Tyrelle’s stankin’ ass better leave me the fuck alone when I’m in my tub and that’s real shit. He pulled an incense from behind his ear and winked at me. “I came prepared, see?” Tyrelle lit his blunt and the incense and placed the scented stick in an incense holder close to my near-death Boston fern. The plant looked like an octopus dying a slow death by strangulation. Limp arms drooping and tongue all out, the whole nine. A green thumb I did not have. Now, my mother could grow some shit. National Geographic ought to consider shooting a cover from
her living room; throw some buttnaked Pygmies up in that bad boy, and no one would know the difference. I dismissed Tyrelle’s single incense.
“Bro, you need a whole pack of those, some candles, and a can of odor neutralizing spray. We might as well have a siance in this muthafucka while you trying to hold back some funk.”
He and I both started laughing, completely forgetting about Roz, who was running up my bill just listening to Tyrelle and me. “What scent is that anyway?”
I asked out of curiosity. The names of incense
always tickled my funny bone.
“Mystic Haze,” he said slowly, trying to invent an aura of mystical haze, I guessed. I just shook my head and slid the shower doors as close to closed as possible, leaving only a slit open so I could hear Roz.
“Ah-hem!” she interrupted. “Sinatra, I’m gonna let you go. Sounds like y’all got some personals going on.” She sighed long and heavily, her voice echoing loudly, making her sound even lonelier.
“I’ll call you when it’s all said and done.”
I scowled at Tyrelle. “I’m sorry, boo-boo. How’s Bookie?”
Here we were kicking it cozy when my poor relative was living in her own world of solitary confinement.
She sniffled a bit. “He’s fine.”
I could practically hear her lip trembling, see the tears rolling down her face. Good lawd, I thought, feeling like I needed to cheer her up.
“You know what? I’ll see if I can get away soon and come out for a visit. In the meantime, keep me posted, okay?”
Tyrelle shot me a “˜oh no you ain’t’ look which, of course, I ignored. She sniffled a bit more, but accepted my offer as a temporary Band-aid.
“Okay, cuz. Peace out.”
“Peace,” I responded and ended the call. “Damn. I wish Roz would hook up with someone else, but that ain’t my business,” I thought out loud. Which was true. If I could choose mates for folks every time some shit went down because I thought they deserved better, folks would be changing lovers like wireless services. I looked to Tyrelle for his two cents, but he was engrossed in his car stereo magazine, or ignoring me, one or the other. I was about to step out of the tub when the phone rang again. It was my
other favorite cousin, Berta. I hoped she didn’t have any depressing man drama to throw my way. I didn’t think my mood could take it. I went from feeling good and fancy free to “whatever” in less than fifteen minutes.
“Girl, I just got off of the phone with Roz. The woman needs an attitude adjustment or something.”
“Pah-leeze. She’s Jamal-matized. She’ll be his wife by the first of da month.”
She sang the latter to the tune of Bone Thugs-N-Harmony’s welfare anthem The First of the Month in which the group invites folks to cash their checks and get their hustle game for the month crackin.
“I hope not,” I said, disgusted. “If she marries dude knowing he’s about to do a gazillion years, she’s on her own emotionally, financially, and so on and so
forth. Believe dat,” I announced. I don’t know why because I knew good and damn well if my cousin needed anything, whatever I had to give would be hers. And Berta did too. Her
response to my last statement was a dry, “Whatever.”
“Anywho, I called because I wanted to know how long before you get to the shop.”
“Soon. Why?”
“Just to be nosy.”
“Well, probably an hour or so.”
“Cool, I told dude to meet me there in about an hour to get his shit.”
Humph, here we go. The real reason for the phone call: man drama. Dude was obviously her baby daddy, Orlando or Londo as she referred to him, the niggaro she most loved to hate. This was an every day thing, so I played it off. No questions, no inquiries about the situation, no nothing. I acted as if I didn’t hear a thing.
“Okay, well, I should be there shortly.”
“Okay, because he is getting on my last nerves with his bitches and bullshit.
That nigga needs to roll up outta here, pronto.”
My phone line beeped. “Um hmm, girl, that’s my other line.” Since I wasn’t giving Berta the quality attention she wanted, she hung up, no goodbyes, just a click. “Right back at cha,” I said to the phone, as if it could respond. I answered the other line. “Hello?”
A nervous sounding little boy answered back, “Yes, ma’am, can I speak to Shirelle?”
Ma’am? Who was this little knucklehead calling ma’am? Now that was on the old school tip, for real. “Certainly,” I answered back and yelled to my daughter to pick up the phone. This little heifa was only thirteen years old.
Nobody told her to be giving out my number. Time for a chat I thought as I stepped out of the tub and grabbed a towel on my way into my bedroom. Tyrelle stuck his head inside the bedroom long enough to blow me a kiss goodbye and inform me that his company, TNT Audio, was entering some
type of contest and would be having a little sit down at Tiggy’s in the Valley later on this evening. And if I felt like sliding through, we could meet for drinks. Good looking out, I thought, the idea of a cocktail later with my husband sounded good to me.
Once dressed and ready to go, I summoned my kids. “Little darlings?” I called out, walking down the hall. “Mommy’s little precious babies “¦ where y’all be?” I probably scared them off, sounding like a June Cleaver wannabe.
Where in the heezy were they hiding at? The house was kind of quiet, but I didn’t expect to be calling out and searching and stuff. Shirelle, one of my twins, came running down the hall to meet me as if I needed to be escorted into the living room. She put her finger to her lips and told me to hush as she yapped into the phone.
I don’t know whom she thought she was talking to, “Who’s that?” I asked with a wrinkled expression, “and why are you telling me to shush?”
“Um, Zenobia, this girl from my cheer squad, she, um, gave PK, this other boy not from my cheer but, um, the football team, my phone number and he called me!” she said in all of two seconds while shaking her fingers as if she just
burned them. Acting all willy nilly.
I gave her a Valley Girl expression, “Like, um, okay.”
The boys, Tyrelle Jr. or TJ, Shirelle’s twin, and Kerry my eldest, sat nonchalantly on the couch playingMadden on the PlayStation which had been muted, by Shirelle I was sure. They gave me sideways glances and hunched their shoulders,
like who knows and who cares. Shirelle was huddled in the kitchen corner, laughing and giggling. Too bad I had to interrupt her afternoon delight. It was time for me to go to work and that meant going to Grandma’s or kicking it
at the shop, both of which the boys enjoyed. Have PlayStation, will travel. Shirelle was harder to please.
She took the phone from her ear and looked at the caller ID screen. “Mama, who’s Bertarene Samms?”
Samms? I recognized the last name as Londo’s. This heiffa was really trippin’.
“That’s your big cousin Berta. Gimme the phone.” As I reached for the phone, Shirelle made a screwed up face that almost got her choked. “You better hand over my phone, Miss Thang.”
Shirelle told her friend to hold on and handed over the phone. “Hello?” I answered. “Hello “¦ Berta, hello?” The sounds of bouncing bass and clinking items were all I could hear. Berta’s phone must have been in her purse along
with who knows what and something must have pushed the send button.
“Folks need to lock their keypads,” I said, handing the phone back to Shirelle.
She clicked over before my hand left the receiver. “Dayum, girl. Let’s go,” I
mouthed in her direction. “Tell Parkay bye.”
“His name isn’t no Parkay, its PK,” she huffed.
“Whatever.” I collected everyone else and shot Shirelle the evil eye.
“Aw, Mom, just five more minutes?” Shirelle begged. Was this a sign of things to come? The twins were only thirteen years old.

Copyright 2008 Nikki Nicole. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt
Graduation Day

There she was, my little girl, walking up the podium.  She looked pure and fresh in graduation white gown.  Flashing through my mind though was her nakedness, pure and fresh like the white gown.  Many years she had sat quietly while I talked about birds-and-bees.  I handed the diploma, not without regrets.  Shes graduated,  Gone!

One Autumn Morning

She had walked through my classroom’s door books in hand.  I had barely noticed her, one in student multitudes.  Then, those piercing eyes, they bore deep into my soul as I explained about blue of sky, how light waves were refracted, bent, to appear blue.  “Is light truly a wave?”  “I’m not sure.  I was told it was.  I’ve never verified whether it is or not.  I believed those who said it was.  So I repeat.  Simply.

Copyright 2008 Bora B. Lee. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Part 1 – Faith and Reason

The Current Month, Day 1 – The I-TON

“I swear to defend, preserve, and live by the Constitution of the Saviors’ Isle.”

Jay Rahman was elected Chief Civilian Executive of the 570-square-mile island located eight hundred miles west of Senna, a province of the Republic of Ibelyn. As he took the oath of office, his wife and their fifteen-year-old son, Jawo Rahman, looked on proudly. Jaya Rahman, Jay’s beloved older sister, rejoiced.

Over five hundred citizens cheered and celebrated by the massive cliff high above the sea in the northernmost part of the island. They basked in the early morning sunshine. They applauded Jay as he finished his speech, stepped down from the podium, and mingled with the revelers.

The revelry was a total departure from tradition. In eleven days, the holy month for honoring humility, sacrifice, and suffering would commence.

Two men and a woman looked at the happy faces and had the same disapproving thoughts: “These people worship pleasure and pride. They must be made to see the error of their ways!” The codename of the older man was Suff; the younger man was dubbed by their secret group as Sac. Humi was the woman’s alias.

As the citizens relished the festivities, a delegation from the Union of Ibelyn arrived looking for Dr. Ari Hugo.

The doctor had studied saxitoxin since he arrived back in the Saviors’ Isle four years ago. A month prior to the election, he saved the lives of numerous islanders, including Jay and his family, after they ate seafood infected with red tide. Moreover, an Ari chemical formulation eradicated red tide around the island.

The large medicine supply that Ari sent to his Uncle Ethan in Senna also saved many lives in Ibelyn. Residents of the Republic of Ibelyn paid for the red tide drug, and ordered huge quantities of the chemical product.

The Union of Ibelyn was located north of the Republic of Ibelyn. The latter seceded from the former after the great invasion almost two centuries ago.

The delegation demanded that Ari give up the medicine and the red tide buster for humanity. The Union officials pontificated, “It is evil to profit from suffering, from what people cannot do without.”

Ari was direct. “I deal exclusively with traders.” He turned his back and moved away from the delegation.

“Please explain, Dr. Hugo.”

“You are free not to buy what I spent four years to create. I am free to sell the fruits of my labors in a manner of my choosing; I earned the right. I transact with people who respect property rights. If you are here as advocates for people who desire the unearned, you have wasted your time.”

“But people need your creations! The medicine for red tide poisoning is necessary to save lives. The product that eradicates red tide is absolutely essential to the livelihood of fishermen and to increase the food supply.”

“By your reasoning, only those who create products or offer services that have nothing to do with saving or improving lives may trade; that those who do otherwise forfeit their rights.”

“The public needs your medicine and your red tide buster, especially the poor folks!”

“As I will not be ruled by a single human being, neither will I forfeit my rights to the public. An emperor has no claim on me; neither does a poor man. Need is not a claim.”

Many appreciated Ari’s principled stance which was in keeping with the individual rights enshrined in the island’s Constitution. But some vowed to destroy him. Each thought, “Ari is a danger to our cause and to society. He must be stopped!”

Ari had shown that nature could be understood and dealt with, not feared nor accepted passively. Storms and droughts had destroyed crops; epidemic diseases had killed poultry and cattle; red tide had poisoned mussels and fish. Nature had wreaked havoc. Food production on the island had required backbreaking labor. Islanders had to travel to Ibelyn to see a doctor or attend school. Life on the island had been very hard. The arrival of Ari Hugo and his wife, Glenda, was a boon to the country. She was an educator. They represented progress and exemplified that everything was achievable.

While Ari was with the delegation, his ten-year-old daughter, Lola, was with a classmate in the new obstacle course, a hundred meters to the left of where a sumptuous buffet breakfast was laid out for the early morning celebrations.

“Let’s try! Let’s do it.” Lola successfully hurdled the difficult obstacle course. She urged her classmate to do the same. “It’s your turn.”

“I’m ashamed.”

“There is no reason to be.”

“Okay, I’ll try. Don’t laugh at me.”

“I laugh when I am happy. I don’t laugh to embarrass people.”

“What if I fail?”

“Lessons learned, and then try again.”

Lola’s classmate focused. She exerted her very best effort. “I did it! I did it so well! Oh… I should be humble.”

“Why?”

“It’s good to be humble.”

“Why?”

“Everybody says so.”

“I am not humble,” Lola declared. “I respect and love myself. I always do my best because I don’t ever want to feel low and small.”

Lola’s classmate realized that self-love was the hallmark of a good person.

Later, Lola joined her best friend, ten-year-old Toni Connor. Toni brought their latest science project, a transmitter-receiver. They had successfully tested the device the day before. They enjoyed playing with it while recording their observations on static interference and the distance factor. The girls also practiced communicating in a private code.

Another classmate observed the two girls enjoying each other’s company. The recent series of tests where Toni got the highest scores, particularly in Science and Math, came to her mind as Grandmother Connor summoned Toni. The classmate joined Lola and asked, “Don’t you want to be better than Toni?”

Lola replied, “I don’t compare myself to anyone. I want to be good – period. I want to be the best I can be. I also admire intelligent people, like Toni.”

Meanwhile, Grandmother Connor gently admonished, “Toni, the Holy Book warns of proud, ambitious people and their punishment. Study the Holy Teachings and pray more often, instead of performing experiments. Read the Holy Book more faithfully, rather than science books.”

“Grandmother, God does not punish,” Toni smiled confidently. “I enjoy finding out about God’s creations. The mind and body are wonderful gifts from God. Surely, He wants us to use them.”

Just then, Toni heard her sister’s name. Eighteen-year-old Alisa Connor joined Josephine Schwartz on the podium. The two ladies sang and played the guitar.

Alisa had worked very hard and had taken care of Toni ever since their parents’ boat exploded seven years ago.

Josephine lost sight in her right eye when she was eleven. Yet, at that young age, she vowed to make mining her vocation. At twenty-five years of age, she was completely blind. Nonetheless, with her strong will and steadfast determination, she remained the driving force of the island’s mining industry, her brainchild.

Alisa and Josephine projected vitality and confidence. Their zest for life inspired the thought, “Do not give up. Rise. Go forward.”

Alisa worked in The Fun House owned by Frank Thomas, a retired decorated soldier. The property consisted of a theater, dance hall, lounge, bakery with a snack counter, merchandise store, and a children’s playground.

Suff, Sac, and Humi thought of Frank’s property as The Hell House. They harbored the same sentiments: “Those who cause people to disobey the Holy Teachings must be punished!”

The head of the holy faith, Santo Sacrificio, stood beside Ron Balian, an architect who took the preliminary vows of a holy man two years ago. They were surrounded by people singing along with Alisa and Josephine.

Ron was three years older than Alisa. Like her, he was eleven years old when his parents, Collin and Demi Balian, were thought to have met an accident. Like the Connor parents, their bodies were never found. Ron and Alisa understood each other’s terrible sorrow. Behind their calm façade was an anguish that squeezed the heart. Everyday was a battle to defeat pain and suffering.

Ron had his father’s intelligent face and his mother’s radiant eyes. His skin color was a perfect blend of Collin’s dark skin and Demi’s light complexion. After the tragedy that befell his parents, Ron solemnly told his grandparents and their friends, “Father held dear that suffering is not a value and that happiness is the aim of one’s existence.”

Seven years ago, Santo Sacrificio extolled suffering during the prayer session held for Alisa’s parents, Ali and Dyosa Connor. “Blessed are they who suffer… ”

Grandmother Connor was then too distraught to speak. The then eleven-year-old Alisa thanked the group and recounted, “Almost two centuries ago on this island, children as young as eight and others no older than twelve beheld their fallen parents. With wrenching anguish, they ran to their chosen posts and defended their country.” She looked at her then three-year-old sister, Toni, and resolved, “I have chosen my own post.” Her eyes were on Ron as she continued, “I have chosen my path. I will travel the road to happiness everyday.”

Frank found it suspicious that Ali and Dyosa Connor met the same fate as Ari’s parents, Ivan and Kori Hugo. Frank suspected that the disappearance of the Connors, Balians, and Hugos was contrived by a single evil group. He believed that his friends were still alive.

Six weeks after the Connor tragedy came the month for honoring humility, sacrifice, and suffering. A number of children asked probing questions. They noticed the stark contrast between Ron and Alisa battling great sorrow, as well as Josephine overcoming a tragic affliction, and the self-deprivation, self-inflicted pain and suffering that many folks engaged in, especially during the holy month.

In a prayer session, then eight-year-old Jawo asked his parents, “Father, Mother, do you want me to suffer?”

“No. Of course not. Not ever. No parent would want that.”

“Then why do some think that God wants people to suffer?”

The adults could not justify attributing a sickening trait to the Almighty.

As the islanders continued to celebrate by the cliff, the other members of the cabal, two men and two women, fueled the outrage of Suff, Sac, and Humi. The secret group called their leader, Head-Hunter; the other man was codenamed Fort; the two women were known as Gem and Glitter. Each member thought of ways to tear down those who did not follow traditions or who did not believe in the Holy Book. Each craved, “God’s will be done! I must impose the sacred traditions at all cost!”

Back on the podium, Santo Sacrificio was called on next to speak. He prayed, “God, please have mercy on those who do not worship, praise, and serve you. Forgive them for not doing your will, for their ambition, pride, and self-esteem, and for not believing in man’s weakness. To all dear Saints, pray for them and help them see that self-sacrifice and suffering are pleasing in God’s eyes.”

When it was Toni’s turn, she prayed, “God, You are all-good and all-loving. You do not need anyone’s praises – You are not insecure. You do not need anyone’s service – You are complete and all-powerful. You have no use for servants – You do not want slaves or robots. You are not a sacrifice profiteer. You are not a sadist – it must break your heart to see anyone suffer. You want people to be happy, and have given us everything needed to achieve happiness – our minds and bodies, this earth and the universe.”

Toni requested Ron to speak after her.

Ron contended, “There are people who have demonstrated how powerful the mind is – they have created medicines, built engineering marvels, great boats and other forms of travel, fuel plants, and a tower of lights. Every advancement shows how great God is. There should be so much more to discover and each discovery will better the lives of mankind. It is pleasing to God that we use His gifts and understand how great His creations are.”

The merriment continued.

Suff, Sac, and Humi were of the same mind: “I am God’s soldier. I must defend God’s will!”

Fort inflamed their anger. “Those who influence people to spurn the Holy Book are evil. Those who flaunt that they do not need God, those who worship pleasure and science, must be made to repent and fear the wrath of God.”

Head-Hunter stoked the avengeful fury of his cabal. “Proud, happy, ambitious people cannot be ruled. We must step up measures to force them to submit. An Armageddon is needed again. These people must be punished for their sins.”

Legend attributed the destruction of the wonders created by the island’s founding heroes to God’s wrath. What betided the founders and their legacy was a mystery. Over the decades, many people searched for the legendary underground chambers, believing that they would find the Heroes’ Journals and other treasures.

Ron joined Alisa. Her intelligent, beautiful, innocent face was a picture of joy. He told her, “You are an angel on earth, Alisa.”

Alisa responded, “Heaven and earth – they are one and the same.”

Jaya was asked to speak on the podium after Ron. When she finished, she requested Ron to give another speech. The islanders were all ears as Ron solemnly addressed them.

“Reason is the faculty that deals with the perception of reality, while faith is the claim to a non-sensory means of knowledge. Principles and values derived from faith are often accepted without question even in the face of contrary evidence, while reason deals with facts and employs the method of non-contradictory identification.

Faith has been used to further ignorance, to enshrine irrationality, and to exploit people. With faith – there is no necessity for justification. Force is its corollary.

But if one’s personal faith holds reason as a top value, then, faith and reason are not incompatible. If one’s personal faith holds the life, freedom, and happiness of each human being as the most sacred of values, then, reason and faith can coexist on parallel tracks in the same man.

This man uses reason for everything that can be explained while his faith holds on to dreams that are dear to his life; dreams that inspire and enable him to live.

Faith in a God who is all-good and all-loving, who treasures each man whom He has endowed with a mind capable of understanding man’s nature, this earth, and the universe. Faith in a God who so loves man, that He respects his freedom of choice.

Faith that God shares man’s most sacrosanct of values – each man’s life, his freedom, and his happiness here on earth.

Faith that human life goes on until eternity, that everything is possible to man, and that heaven and earth are one and the same. Faith in miracles -

Think of a miracle. Believe that God has given the means to achieve it. Think, and find out the facts. Think, with the clarity of purpose. Let the vision of a miracle be a beacon to guide your actions. Think, and then act. Act with the confidence that miracles do happen to those who strive to actualize them.

Rejoice! Angels do exist in our midst, though it takes the highest of virtues to recognize them.

Heaven on earth can be achieved when reason reigns.”

Alisa looked proudly at Ron. “He is goodness personified,” she thought. “His mind matches his good looks.” Ron was six feet and three inches tall. He was proud and joyously confident.

Ron went on to say, “I respect the freedom of each man to celebrate the holy month, but I do not hold humility as a virtue. I think that the creed of sacrifice is evil, that suffering has no value, and that one’s own happiness is the purpose of life.”

Those who envied achievement, who hated men and women of ability, and who wanted people to grovel and weep decided to execute their plans for Armageddon prior to the holy month.

The festivities continued. Toni and Lola played dodge ball with other children.

“Look! A huge boat is coming!” Toni pointed to the north. A boat, as big as a palace, was approaching the island. It had a gold, silver, and black flag with a white letter K at the center.

Frank’s father recognized the colors. “The letter K stands for the Knox family,” he recalled. “But the boat must be the reincarnation of the legendary Derek Bustoz.”

The big boat’s name came into view. The Savior’s Isle citizens fell silent; it was a solemn greeting to a beloved legend.

Almost two centuries ago, the founders of the Saviors’ Isle achieved heaven on earth. They conquered nature by understanding it. They created and enjoyed wealth. The country was a land of plenty and glory.

The Derek Bustoz 2 docked in the deepest water at the end of the pier. Located at the northeastern tip of the island, the principal diagonal structure extended from the massive cliff that dominated the northernmost part of the Saviors’ Isle.

All the islanders were on hand to welcome the boat.

Smiling and waving from the Derek Bustoz 2’s deck were a middle-aged woman with long golden hair, a young man of twenty, and a fifteen-year-old girl. The woman’s husband joined his family. Filled with excitement, they disembarked.

Jay greeted them warmly. “Welcome to the Savior’s Isle. I am Jay Rahman.”

“Thank you, Jay. I am George Knox. This is my wife, Rio, my son, Glenn, and my daughter, Georgia. Our boat was copied from the first Derek Bustoz which was built on this island. It is a dream come true to set foot in your great country.”

Toni greeted the Knox daughter. “Hello, Georgia. I am Toni Connor.”

“Toni Connor!” Georgia echoed excitedly. “Your name must be spelled with a letter I. Hello.” She looked at her brother. “Glenn, could we show them the I-TON, please?”

Glenn invited Alisa. “Would you like to operate the I-TON?”

“Yes, please. Thank you, Glenn. I am Alisa.” She boarded the Derek Bustoz 2 with the Knox siblings. Jawo ran after them. He, too, was invited.

Toni, Lola, and their schoolmates were very excited. “What could the I-TON be?” Toni wondered. “I have not heard of it.”

The people heard a distinctive hum. A cylindrical structure made of lightweight steel and indestructible glass rose from the center of the Derek Bustoz 2. The structure with a twenty-foot diameter rose to twenty-eight feet. From its midsection, a tubular metal, eight feet in height, extended sideways up to ten feet. The tube could rotate around the vertical cylindrical post. The upper part of the post, ten feet in height, contained the main control room. A big letter I, made of pure gold, was embossed on the outside. The post continued to rise to another twelve feet, and then another tubular metal extended sideways below the control room. The second tube had the same height and length as the first. The post rose to another ten feet whereby a hyphen and three more letters, T O N, all made of gold, came into view. Two feet below the control room, two arm-like metal limbs emerged.

The I-TON was fifty feet tall; its post was forty feet in height. Its twenty-foot-diameter base tapered off to fifteen feet beyond the first tube, and then to ten feet after the second tube. Glenn and Alisa manned the control room. Georgia and Jawo manned the tubes.

The I-TON’s metal arms extended. A massive palm and powerful steel fingers emerged from each metal limb. Glenn pushed a button and a Derek Bustoz 2 miniature slid down the metal limb into the palm. The metal limb moved and offered the miniature to Jay. Georgia and Jawo operated the tubes and showered the islanders with candies and toys. Gifts continued to slide down the I-TON’s arms.

Alisa was all smiles as she operated the control devices with Glenn. Ron looked at the golden-haired young man and woman. He realized that he was in love with Alisa. She looked like a goddess. Her zest for life and its challenges shone in her eyes.

Toni threw a ball at the I-TON. The right metal palm and fingers caught it. Then, the metal arm took up a throwing position and threw the ball back at Toni. Lola also threw a ball high up in the air away from the I-TON. The left metal arm extended, caught the ball, threw it much higher into the air, caught it as it came down, and then offered it back to Lola. The right palm was also stretched out beside Toni. Lola and Toni got on the steel palms. The I-TON lifted the girls up high before putting them on the boat’s deck as other citizens boarded the Derek Bustoz 2.

Frank’s military-trained mind was awed by the enormous boat and by the I-TON. “What great offensive and defensive devices,” he thought. “The Derek Bustoz’ weapons must have spewed out of its metal arms and rotating tubes during the invasion. Its massive steel palms and fingers could have caught balls of fire from catapults. Even children could have operated the I-TON and its weapons!”

A tour of the boat’s interior was a history lesson and an insight into the technology created and enjoyed by the legendary founders.

In contrast, the tour of the island elicited disbelief and sadness.

When the Knox family was brought to the hall where the Constitution was kept, George Knox held onto its light steel and glass case. The Constitution was one of the very few remnants of the glorious days of the founders.

George looked at the faces of the islanders.

Jaya stated George’s unspoken question. “What happened to the paradise created by the founders? Legend claims that the wonderful structures were destroyed by lightning and fire. Many survivors migrated to the Republic of Ibelyn; they kept mum about the heroes and the destruction. Most of those who remained accepted the belief that God’s wrath wrought the destruction.”

“What became of the founding heroes?” Glenn asked.

Ron answered, “They left the island long before the destruction.”

“That is the only logical explanation.” Frank’s cool rejoinder came quickly. “The destruction would not have happened if they were here.”

Frank’s face did not betray what he had guessed. He thought, “Ron found the underground chambers! His skills as an architect and his brilliant deductive ability led him to his discoveries. He must have found the Heroes’ Journals. But he is now in danger!”

Ari pondered, “Ron never asserts categorically unless he is sure of his facts.” He, too, realized that Ron had unlocked the wonders that had remained as mysteries for almost two centuries.

Frank’s face remained unreadable. But the leader of the treasure hunters also surmised that Ron had found the secrets of the legendary underground chambers.

“The treasure is at hand!” Head-Hunter rejoiced in silence. “Twenty-four years of patience and shrewdness have paid off. I am blessed! I am a rich man!”

Head-Hunter devised a cunning scheme.

The secret group met in the evening. Head-Hunter rallied Suff, Sac, Humi, Fort, Gem, and Glitter.

“Today, we witnessed blasphemy and heresy on a grand scale. We must act swiftly to defend God. I have devised a brilliant plan. One blow will destroy the leaders of the unbelievers. The blow will be followed by Armageddon. The wrath of God will again be unleashed upon this island!”

Read more about Reason Reigns and Ilyn Ross HERE.

Copyright 2008 Ilyn Ross. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.