PURPLE HYACINTH MOTH
Beautiful and deadly
she paddles her large wings.
Iridescent, single lobes - a book's page -
shimmer as she floats.
Lands delicately on her prey.
Spears an arm, a leg,
any available target
to paralyze her victim.
Shriveled and blue
the venom spills into the body
with crippling accuracy
from the arm or the leg.
She bats from her kill,
clings to a curtain
and waits
for the next game to emerge.
6/28/07
6/27/07
Dream Sequence #8 - Susan Wingate, Writing Sample
A SHARP COLD SEA
Sella knew her husband, Jarred, was seeing another woman. The trip would act as a distraction for the two of them. They opted to take along their young daughter, Cinda, who had only turned three in the fall. Sella had heard the polar waters of north America were spectacular in the winter - it's iciest season. She'd heard the sky was equally stunning that time of the year with the moon appearing as big as a barn and closest to the earth. She'd deliberately planned their trip to arrive with a waxing moon the second and third night of their anchoring when they'd be met with the brimming saffron orb - the "love" moon, she'd heard.
They'd caught a cruise ship from the Staits of Juan de Fuca that traveled up the inner passage between Vancouver Island and Canada - the safest route. After they traversed the curving land of southern Alaska they passed through the Bering and ended at their destination, the Chukchi Sea. The part of the trip that excited Sella the most was a chance to join the Polar Bear Club by jumping into the heart-stopping frigid waters of the Chukchi.
Jarred stepped into the small boat with the others - he had the camera and would photograph the plebes as they entered the frosty waters. Another shot would be taken after they re-surfaced when the cold reverberated in their faces. They all donned one-piece suits, goggles, and swim caps which made the group appear more united. It was on the boat Jarred told Sella about Margaret. They'd been seeing one another for over two years. In fact, it was shortly after Cinda's first birthday, he said. It had begun innocently enough, coffee at lunchtime, a walk to the library. They had a bond, he explained, that was deeper than any bond he'd felt with any other person. Sella listened calmly as he went on.
"She's much older, I know, and maybe that's why she's so intriguing to me." He whispered his words so the others wouldn't hear, while a boisterous gentlemen, the guide, of around sixty paddled away from the cruise ship. "She knows her mind. She's successful and I learn from her in a way I can't explain."
Sella nodded she understood.
"We've only been physical twice in the time we've been meeting each other, and that was by accident." He noticed Sella's expression change. "We don't meet for that reason. We have a deeper connection... I can't explain right." His whisper trailed off when Sella looked out across the cold sea.
Then she reached over to the guide as he paddled farther out and asked if she could go in first. He smiled and continued to paddle to a spot he would deem perfect.
"Anxious to be a bear, young lady?"
"Very." She said quietly but without smiling.
"Well, we're almost there."
Sella looked back at Jarred who looked ashamed. "You don't need to say anything else." Sella's words cut a swath between them and he looked down at the camera hanging around his neck.
"You're so beautiful, Sella, it has nothing to do with you."
But, it did. She didn't fulfill her husband's emotional needs the way a wife should. She wasn't his best friend anymore. Jarred had made a choice between her and Margaret, one she could never imagine how to recover from.
When the guide locked the oars onto the side of the boat, he clapped his hands with one loud smack and rubbed them ferociously.
"Here we are! We have an anxious cub who wants to go first. Sella?" He beamed at Sella as she stood up. She held another plebe's hand to steady herself. Sella dropped the towel she'd blanketed her body with on the trip over. She was lean and athletic, and goosebumps rose up from her skin within seconds of her unveiling. Sella pulled her goggles over her eyes and shook her arms. The air felt like a shard of glass cutting her and she audibly grumbled and then shivered. The paddler bellowed out a laugh while the other newbies chuckled nervously. Then, Sella dove in. The next one followed, the next after that until all five of the newest Polar Bear recruits went under.
The first to come up in a shout and gasp was the one who followed Sella, the third, fourth, and fifth all reappeared but Sella was still under. Everyone froze momentarily as the realization hit. Jarred stood rocking the boat hard and screamed her name once, twice, then crumpled down into the boat.
"Jarred," Sella spoke calmly and loud enough for the others to hear, "I'm here. I came up on the wrong side of the boat. I guess in more ways than one. Here help me in. We'll need a lawyer, of course. I can't have you thinking you can get away with your behaviour. You can have Margaret, Jarred. I'm through with you."
As the others climbed into the boat, Sella grabbed the guide's hand and shook it excitedly.
"Welcome to the club, young lady. I like you. You have spunk." Then, he glared at Jarred. "Aren't you going to use that damn thing!" He pointed to the camera and as Jarred began shooting photos of the newest members, the guide winked at Sella, but her face became sullen and once again she looked out over the freezing sea.
Sella knew her husband, Jarred, was seeing another woman. The trip would act as a distraction for the two of them. They opted to take along their young daughter, Cinda, who had only turned three in the fall. Sella had heard the polar waters of north America were spectacular in the winter - it's iciest season. She'd heard the sky was equally stunning that time of the year with the moon appearing as big as a barn and closest to the earth. She'd deliberately planned their trip to arrive with a waxing moon the second and third night of their anchoring when they'd be met with the brimming saffron orb - the "love" moon, she'd heard.
They'd caught a cruise ship from the Staits of Juan de Fuca that traveled up the inner passage between Vancouver Island and Canada - the safest route. After they traversed the curving land of southern Alaska they passed through the Bering and ended at their destination, the Chukchi Sea. The part of the trip that excited Sella the most was a chance to join the Polar Bear Club by jumping into the heart-stopping frigid waters of the Chukchi.
Jarred stepped into the small boat with the others - he had the camera and would photograph the plebes as they entered the frosty waters. Another shot would be taken after they re-surfaced when the cold reverberated in their faces. They all donned one-piece suits, goggles, and swim caps which made the group appear more united. It was on the boat Jarred told Sella about Margaret. They'd been seeing one another for over two years. In fact, it was shortly after Cinda's first birthday, he said. It had begun innocently enough, coffee at lunchtime, a walk to the library. They had a bond, he explained, that was deeper than any bond he'd felt with any other person. Sella listened calmly as he went on.
"She's much older, I know, and maybe that's why she's so intriguing to me." He whispered his words so the others wouldn't hear, while a boisterous gentlemen, the guide, of around sixty paddled away from the cruise ship. "She knows her mind. She's successful and I learn from her in a way I can't explain."
Sella nodded she understood.
"We've only been physical twice in the time we've been meeting each other, and that was by accident." He noticed Sella's expression change. "We don't meet for that reason. We have a deeper connection... I can't explain right." His whisper trailed off when Sella looked out across the cold sea.
Then she reached over to the guide as he paddled farther out and asked if she could go in first. He smiled and continued to paddle to a spot he would deem perfect.
"Anxious to be a bear, young lady?"
"Very." She said quietly but without smiling.
"Well, we're almost there."
Sella looked back at Jarred who looked ashamed. "You don't need to say anything else." Sella's words cut a swath between them and he looked down at the camera hanging around his neck.
"You're so beautiful, Sella, it has nothing to do with you."
But, it did. She didn't fulfill her husband's emotional needs the way a wife should. She wasn't his best friend anymore. Jarred had made a choice between her and Margaret, one she could never imagine how to recover from.
When the guide locked the oars onto the side of the boat, he clapped his hands with one loud smack and rubbed them ferociously.
"Here we are! We have an anxious cub who wants to go first. Sella?" He beamed at Sella as she stood up. She held another plebe's hand to steady herself. Sella dropped the towel she'd blanketed her body with on the trip over. She was lean and athletic, and goosebumps rose up from her skin within seconds of her unveiling. Sella pulled her goggles over her eyes and shook her arms. The air felt like a shard of glass cutting her and she audibly grumbled and then shivered. The paddler bellowed out a laugh while the other newbies chuckled nervously. Then, Sella dove in. The next one followed, the next after that until all five of the newest Polar Bear recruits went under.
The first to come up in a shout and gasp was the one who followed Sella, the third, fourth, and fifth all reappeared but Sella was still under. Everyone froze momentarily as the realization hit. Jarred stood rocking the boat hard and screamed her name once, twice, then crumpled down into the boat.
"Jarred," Sella spoke calmly and loud enough for the others to hear, "I'm here. I came up on the wrong side of the boat. I guess in more ways than one. Here help me in. We'll need a lawyer, of course. I can't have you thinking you can get away with your behaviour. You can have Margaret, Jarred. I'm through with you."
As the others climbed into the boat, Sella grabbed the guide's hand and shook it excitedly.
"Welcome to the club, young lady. I like you. You have spunk." Then, he glared at Jarred. "Aren't you going to use that damn thing!" He pointed to the camera and as Jarred began shooting photos of the newest members, the guide winked at Sella, but her face became sullen and once again she looked out over the freezing sea.
6/11/07
Dream Sequence #7 - Susan Wingate, Writer
(Because I awoke at 4:30 this morning, I had a chance to squeeze in one more Dream Sequence - SMW)
WHILE LIFE WE CHERISH
Life had changed. The canopy created by its massive wings hovered over the ground casting a huge shadow on the small cat outside, my cat, Petta. The whole thing reminded me of a PBS "Nature" show, where a raptor swoops down on some defenseless rabbit and rips its neck open to disable it, then collects the dead thing within its leathery talons, bats its strong wings and flies off to an intimate boulder where it can mantle over the kill and fill its belly. However, I reacted before the thing could complete the mission. I lurched out to my cat, gathered her up, and rolled under the inverted boat for cover - for the thing could have easily lifted us both. The mammoth eagle hybrid stood 8-feet tall and boasted a 17-foot wingspan. Its head, as big as a medicine ball, was intensified by an evil and fowl-looking, blood-stained beak.
It angered him when it saw me from the sky, make my dash for cover and duck under the dry-docked canoe. I saw his eyes tighten. His meal, my cat (and possibly me), had vanished. The enormous shadow he cast on the ground frayed and I heard the air split, like a vacuum, and rush in a way that sounded like a kite whipping in the wind. Then, its huge talons landed just outside the canoe where we hid. It stalked just inches outside our hiding place and snorted with displeasure. My cat wriggled and clawed. I'd had her in a strangle-hold, it seems, from the moment I'd caught her. Poor thing. If the mutant eagle hadn't killed her, I might've had I not realized. She hissed and bit my arm. My shriek sounded as if I was in church - half cry, half whisper. I hushed her and restrained her more comfortably while the freakish bird stalked outside our sanctuary.
As I listened, I could hear the thud of its feet pound against the dirt, and a scrape like a flat shovel as he dragged behind his long dung-crusted tail. Petta sniffed the air and hissed.
When it seemed the thing had gone around the other side, I made a break for it. "Hold on, Petta." I whispered, poking my head out first to see if I could determine the eagle's proximity to us. I hushed Petta once more before easing out from under the lip of the canoe. As I ran, the cat's head bobbed wildly and I steadied her as though I was cupping an infant's neck. But, the thing must've seen me for we both heard the whoosh, whooshing of its enormous wings batting up behind us. Petta yowled and stabbed her claws deeply into my arms but I wouldn't release her.
We barely made it inside the house. Still, we were far from out of danger. It was summertime. Once the weather had turned warm, we'd thrown open all the windows. Although the thing was far too large to get in through a window, it could easily fit its head inside and snatch anything within its reach. I ran to the nearest one, but the mutant was ahead of his game and met me with a raging sneer. I tucked Petta under my arm and raced her over to a closet and shut her inside. She might be a little perturbed but she was safe there so I ran to the back of the house and flung the windows shut. I could hear the quick beat of its talons as it sped back to meet me. As I closed one window, it appeared there, and so it went until it figured out to go around in the opposite direction - it was intelligent.
The last window I'd closed was the diciest. The bird was only feet away and it jabbed and thrust its soiled beak at me when I reached for the bottom of the window's casement. I feigned a move back to a closed window but it wouldn't follow. The thing understood the difference between an open and closed and refused to venture from the last remaining one open. It placed a dirty talon on the bottom edge of the sill. That's when I got the idea. I ran to the pantry and yanked out the mop and ran back to where the bird posed the greatest threat, to the open window. I flipped the mop around and held it like a sword by the mophead and with one hard swack, I cracked the bird's talon.
The howl the thing let out sounded as if the world split apart, like an oak being ripped from its roots. It made one quick jump backwards onto its good foot and I slammed shut the window. Its angry face came down in a heartbeat and met my stare. We were only inches away from one another, each on a safe side of the window. It peered at me with only one eye then it switched its head and looked at me with the other one. It sent a loud puff through its bill and sprayed spittle that covered the pane.
The shutters added extra protection. As I closed them, again the bird followed me to each as I made my way around the dimming house. When I got to the last one, the bird glared at me once more then beat its wings and flew off. Its heavy body was slow to rise, with its talons hanging from its legs like gigantic spiders, until it caught enough air to tuck them under.
For now, we were safe - for now. I'd have to get that cat box I'd been avoiding all this time, and an elephant rifle. That evening, I sat and contemplated how life had changed, how it would continue to change. Was there a mate to this thing? Where was its nest? How big were the eggs? Questions came to me in tides. Really, it was only a matter of time before the bird would figure out the glass, how breakable it is, which made me think about screwing in bars to replace them. Life had changed in so many ways. It wasn't safe like it used to be. Life had changed - it became precious again.
WHILE LIFE WE CHERISH
Life had changed. The canopy created by its massive wings hovered over the ground casting a huge shadow on the small cat outside, my cat, Petta. The whole thing reminded me of a PBS "Nature" show, where a raptor swoops down on some defenseless rabbit and rips its neck open to disable it, then collects the dead thing within its leathery talons, bats its strong wings and flies off to an intimate boulder where it can mantle over the kill and fill its belly. However, I reacted before the thing could complete the mission. I lurched out to my cat, gathered her up, and rolled under the inverted boat for cover - for the thing could have easily lifted us both. The mammoth eagle hybrid stood 8-feet tall and boasted a 17-foot wingspan. Its head, as big as a medicine ball, was intensified by an evil and fowl-looking, blood-stained beak.
It angered him when it saw me from the sky, make my dash for cover and duck under the dry-docked canoe. I saw his eyes tighten. His meal, my cat (and possibly me), had vanished. The enormous shadow he cast on the ground frayed and I heard the air split, like a vacuum, and rush in a way that sounded like a kite whipping in the wind. Then, its huge talons landed just outside the canoe where we hid. It stalked just inches outside our hiding place and snorted with displeasure. My cat wriggled and clawed. I'd had her in a strangle-hold, it seems, from the moment I'd caught her. Poor thing. If the mutant eagle hadn't killed her, I might've had I not realized. She hissed and bit my arm. My shriek sounded as if I was in church - half cry, half whisper. I hushed her and restrained her more comfortably while the freakish bird stalked outside our sanctuary.
As I listened, I could hear the thud of its feet pound against the dirt, and a scrape like a flat shovel as he dragged behind his long dung-crusted tail. Petta sniffed the air and hissed.
When it seemed the thing had gone around the other side, I made a break for it. "Hold on, Petta." I whispered, poking my head out first to see if I could determine the eagle's proximity to us. I hushed Petta once more before easing out from under the lip of the canoe. As I ran, the cat's head bobbed wildly and I steadied her as though I was cupping an infant's neck. But, the thing must've seen me for we both heard the whoosh, whooshing of its enormous wings batting up behind us. Petta yowled and stabbed her claws deeply into my arms but I wouldn't release her.
We barely made it inside the house. Still, we were far from out of danger. It was summertime. Once the weather had turned warm, we'd thrown open all the windows. Although the thing was far too large to get in through a window, it could easily fit its head inside and snatch anything within its reach. I ran to the nearest one, but the mutant was ahead of his game and met me with a raging sneer. I tucked Petta under my arm and raced her over to a closet and shut her inside. She might be a little perturbed but she was safe there so I ran to the back of the house and flung the windows shut. I could hear the quick beat of its talons as it sped back to meet me. As I closed one window, it appeared there, and so it went until it figured out to go around in the opposite direction - it was intelligent.
The last window I'd closed was the diciest. The bird was only feet away and it jabbed and thrust its soiled beak at me when I reached for the bottom of the window's casement. I feigned a move back to a closed window but it wouldn't follow. The thing understood the difference between an open and closed and refused to venture from the last remaining one open. It placed a dirty talon on the bottom edge of the sill. That's when I got the idea. I ran to the pantry and yanked out the mop and ran back to where the bird posed the greatest threat, to the open window. I flipped the mop around and held it like a sword by the mophead and with one hard swack, I cracked the bird's talon.
The howl the thing let out sounded as if the world split apart, like an oak being ripped from its roots. It made one quick jump backwards onto its good foot and I slammed shut the window. Its angry face came down in a heartbeat and met my stare. We were only inches away from one another, each on a safe side of the window. It peered at me with only one eye then it switched its head and looked at me with the other one. It sent a loud puff through its bill and sprayed spittle that covered the pane.
The shutters added extra protection. As I closed them, again the bird followed me to each as I made my way around the dimming house. When I got to the last one, the bird glared at me once more then beat its wings and flew off. Its heavy body was slow to rise, with its talons hanging from its legs like gigantic spiders, until it caught enough air to tuck them under.
For now, we were safe - for now. I'd have to get that cat box I'd been avoiding all this time, and an elephant rifle. That evening, I sat and contemplated how life had changed, how it would continue to change. Was there a mate to this thing? Where was its nest? How big were the eggs? Questions came to me in tides. Really, it was only a matter of time before the bird would figure out the glass, how breakable it is, which made me think about screwing in bars to replace them. Life had changed in so many ways. It wasn't safe like it used to be. Life had changed - it became precious again.
6/10/07
I'll be back Friday, June 15, 2007!
I'm leaving for Phoenix, Arizona this Tuesday and I'll be giving a taped interview with ArizonaWebTV & Danielle Hampson. The interview will be held at the Barnes & Noble in Scottsdale at 10:00 a.m., located at State Hwy 101 & Shea Blvd. If you're around, please stop by. I'd love to talk about the book and the writing life. See you soon!
-Sincerely, Susan.
-Sincerely, Susan.
6/9/07
Dream Sequence #6 - Susan Wingate, Writing Sample
When Plans Go Hinky!
I arrived at Sky Harbor International Airport in Phoenix with a slug of books to sell in my hot little hands - hot because in June, Phoenix touts temperatures nearing 115 degrees Farenheit. The box was weighing me down, my spirit and my arms. I just wanted to find my luggage, get a car and slip in to my hotel room where I could rest. But, it didn't play out that way. It seems my "homies" from my life long ago there heard about my visit. The plans, an interview with ArizonaWebTV, would be filmed early the next morning at Barnes & Noble. Those were the plans.
First, Rod walked up to me and hugged me.
"Rob, it's great to see you. I didn't know you'd be hear." My surprise turned to dismay when his countenance went from happy to disgust. He was looking at the swath of my straggled hair hanging off my head. I hadn't had time to refresh, comb my hair, or brush my teeth. Like people will in dreams, he simply walked away - left the scene. Thankfully and immediately after Rod walked out, Leesa ran up to greet me.
"Leesa!" We'd worked together nearly twenty years before and she didn't look a day older than the last time I saw her. Her hair exquisitely styled (as usual) and her makeup polished and perfect. She acted like I looked the same as I did then but I could tell she was just being nice.
"I wasn't expecting to see you here. This is great."
"We need to get you to your hotel."
"That would be wonderful. I'm exhausted. Plus, I need to freshen up."
As I spoke with her, my hand dipped into my purse to find my reservations and my wallet. Neither item was anywhere to be found. She handed me her cell to call someone but I didn't know who to call. My wallet had vanished. With no driver's license I'd not be able to get my rent-a-car. Without my rent-a-car getting to the hotel proved a challenge. The hotel, twenty miles from the airport, was located only a block or two from Barnes & Noble so after making it to my hotel, walking to the interview shouldn't pose a problem. Leesa had to get back to work, pick up the kids from school, and fix dinner. Tom was out of town and couldn't help so she was not available to help me out of the pickle I'd gotten myself into. And, Rod had long since stepped out of the picture. My quandray was this, I could call my mother or husband, Ben, who really couldn't help me seeing as how they were both in Washington state, or - God forbid - I could call my ex-husband, David. My options were bleak.
"I've lost my wallet. Is there a chance you can help me out?" Explaining my circumstances to David gave him power over me... again. I'd need a car. He had an extra one. I'd need money. He offered to supply whatever I needed. Crap.
"Not a problem." But, it really was. I'd never be able to explain this to Ben. He'd be furious but I needed help now, not in a few hours, now, and I felt hog-tied.
I waited for four hours at the airport for David who never showed. I hitched a ride with a questionable cabby who offered to wait while I wired the money I owed him. The interview never took place, even after I'd pressed the interviewer to hold my spot. She'd tried to move me into another slot but after expressing the challenges that posed me - me not living in Phoenix, the extra cost to change my ticket, the fact my husband's birthday was the day before the new date - she held my slot and agreed to go through with the interview.
I didn't make the interview for an assortment of nightmarish reasons. The hotel room, when I finally got to it, was already occupied by people working a meth lab. I had to go to the bathroom, number two, sorely and didn't care who resided in my room. I'd call down to the lobby after my visit to the toilet. But, there was no door to the bathroom only a lone commode sitting in the middle of the room for everyone to see. The day folded in on itself until it became night. Leesa showed up again but could only commiserate. She couldn't really offer her services - a ride, money - that sort of thing.
When I woke, and realized this was merely a dream, I couldn't shake the sense of anxiety out of me. After, however, my first cup of tea, my mood lightened when I went to the restroom - everything was in its place - the door, toilet paper, the toilet itself - all in their places. After I relaxed, nature took its course and my thoughts settled on what the day might bring. The weather outside had turned gray from the sunny spot we'd lived only 24 hours before. Ben was missing in action, most likely dressed in rain gear and out at the golf course, the addict.
I decided right then to make a list of things to do before I leave for Phoenix - pack warm-weather clothing, clean out my purses and use the orange leather one for traveling, fix the dogs' food for four days worth of feedings, put my wallet and itinerary safely together. I'm still adding to the list. I have two days to organize my life. How daunting is that? Will everything go as planned? Who can say. Next week will bring with it new experiences even tragedies. I'll just hope for the best and press on.
I arrived at Sky Harbor International Airport in Phoenix with a slug of books to sell in my hot little hands - hot because in June, Phoenix touts temperatures nearing 115 degrees Farenheit. The box was weighing me down, my spirit and my arms. I just wanted to find my luggage, get a car and slip in to my hotel room where I could rest. But, it didn't play out that way. It seems my "homies" from my life long ago there heard about my visit. The plans, an interview with ArizonaWebTV, would be filmed early the next morning at Barnes & Noble. Those were the plans.
First, Rod walked up to me and hugged me.
"Rob, it's great to see you. I didn't know you'd be hear." My surprise turned to dismay when his countenance went from happy to disgust. He was looking at the swath of my straggled hair hanging off my head. I hadn't had time to refresh, comb my hair, or brush my teeth. Like people will in dreams, he simply walked away - left the scene. Thankfully and immediately after Rod walked out, Leesa ran up to greet me.
"Leesa!" We'd worked together nearly twenty years before and she didn't look a day older than the last time I saw her. Her hair exquisitely styled (as usual) and her makeup polished and perfect. She acted like I looked the same as I did then but I could tell she was just being nice.
"I wasn't expecting to see you here. This is great."
"We need to get you to your hotel."
"That would be wonderful. I'm exhausted. Plus, I need to freshen up."
As I spoke with her, my hand dipped into my purse to find my reservations and my wallet. Neither item was anywhere to be found. She handed me her cell to call someone but I didn't know who to call. My wallet had vanished. With no driver's license I'd not be able to get my rent-a-car. Without my rent-a-car getting to the hotel proved a challenge. The hotel, twenty miles from the airport, was located only a block or two from Barnes & Noble so after making it to my hotel, walking to the interview shouldn't pose a problem. Leesa had to get back to work, pick up the kids from school, and fix dinner. Tom was out of town and couldn't help so she was not available to help me out of the pickle I'd gotten myself into. And, Rod had long since stepped out of the picture. My quandray was this, I could call my mother or husband, Ben, who really couldn't help me seeing as how they were both in Washington state, or - God forbid - I could call my ex-husband, David. My options were bleak.
"I've lost my wallet. Is there a chance you can help me out?" Explaining my circumstances to David gave him power over me... again. I'd need a car. He had an extra one. I'd need money. He offered to supply whatever I needed. Crap.
"Not a problem." But, it really was. I'd never be able to explain this to Ben. He'd be furious but I needed help now, not in a few hours, now, and I felt hog-tied.
I waited for four hours at the airport for David who never showed. I hitched a ride with a questionable cabby who offered to wait while I wired the money I owed him. The interview never took place, even after I'd pressed the interviewer to hold my spot. She'd tried to move me into another slot but after expressing the challenges that posed me - me not living in Phoenix, the extra cost to change my ticket, the fact my husband's birthday was the day before the new date - she held my slot and agreed to go through with the interview.
I didn't make the interview for an assortment of nightmarish reasons. The hotel room, when I finally got to it, was already occupied by people working a meth lab. I had to go to the bathroom, number two, sorely and didn't care who resided in my room. I'd call down to the lobby after my visit to the toilet. But, there was no door to the bathroom only a lone commode sitting in the middle of the room for everyone to see. The day folded in on itself until it became night. Leesa showed up again but could only commiserate. She couldn't really offer her services - a ride, money - that sort of thing.
When I woke, and realized this was merely a dream, I couldn't shake the sense of anxiety out of me. After, however, my first cup of tea, my mood lightened when I went to the restroom - everything was in its place - the door, toilet paper, the toilet itself - all in their places. After I relaxed, nature took its course and my thoughts settled on what the day might bring. The weather outside had turned gray from the sunny spot we'd lived only 24 hours before. Ben was missing in action, most likely dressed in rain gear and out at the golf course, the addict.
I decided right then to make a list of things to do before I leave for Phoenix - pack warm-weather clothing, clean out my purses and use the orange leather one for traveling, fix the dogs' food for four days worth of feedings, put my wallet and itinerary safely together. I'm still adding to the list. I have two days to organize my life. How daunting is that? Will everything go as planned? Who can say. Next week will bring with it new experiences even tragedies. I'll just hope for the best and press on.
6/8/07
Dream Sequence #5 - Susan Wingate, Writer
Bits & Pieces of a Dream
The Heron & Her Offspring by Susan Wingate
Through the open window flew a
Gangling great blue heron, heronette.
Behind, its mother great and blue, heroness
Lands a learn-ed land into the quagmire to fish
Expecting her youngling to follow.
But, alas, it flounders and bows under a thick green murky blanket
Struggles up once before its dragged down for the last time.
The Heron & Her Offspring by Susan Wingate
Through the open window flew a
Gangling great blue heron, heronette.
Behind, its mother great and blue, heroness
Lands a learn-ed land into the quagmire to fish
Expecting her youngling to follow.
But, alas, it flounders and bows under a thick green murky blanket
Struggles up once before its dragged down for the last time.
6/7/07
Dream Sequence #4 - Susan Wingate, Writing Sample
Burning Trains
It was a year ago today. In fact, it was the day after the train incident, that I got the call.
When Ophelia Baxter pulled back from kissing me, I noticed dry wrinkles in the pale skin around her fading blue eyes. Thick cloudy corneas covered her pupils and she blinked once and turned her head down for a second before looking at me again. Her lips quivered gently as they pressed on mine and her tongue tasted sour from the tea she'd drunk earlier. The kiss had taken me by surprise. It was the first time a woman had ever kissed me and I hadn't expected it.
Just moments before, our car nearly got clipped by a racing train. The protecting armrail failed and didn't lower, warning lights didn't flash - we didn't see it coming. The exhilaration of our near-death experience sent us both for a loop. I stopped the car because my hands shook so violently it made it impossible for me to drive.
"Oh, my God. Oh, my God." Ophelia just watched me as I repeated the phrase like a mantra. I walked in circles and tried to get my hands to settle. That's when she walked up to me and grabbed my shoulders.
"Look. We're not dead, not even close. Stop. Okay?"
"Oh, my God, Ophelia. We could've been killed. I could've killed you. I could've killed me."
"Lilly, settle down." She said it like my mother and then put her arms around me and all of my nerves must've settled at once because I started to cry. "There, there." Her words comforted me and the crying turned into broken sobs, then to quick jerking gasps. I breathed in and out a couple of times trying to stop and then, finally, settled. That's when she kissed me.
Like I said, it was my first woman-kiss and although it didn't excite me, I didn't mind it. It almost seemed natural.
"Ophelia."
"I'm sorry, Lilly. I shouldn't have." Then she started to ramble anxiously. "Oh, dear lord, I'm an old fool. What was I thinking? Well, I know what I was thinking - nothing! I wasn't thinking. I'm a stupid old woman. Your body next to mine, oh lord, I haven't had a person this close to me in, I don't know how long. Will you ever forgive me? I don't know what I'd do if you weren't my friend."
"I wasn't expecting it, is all. Look, don't worry about it. We'll just chalk it up to our near-death experience, shall we?"
We stood by the car and she nodded gratefully yet we tried hard not to look each other in the eye. The train cars were still making their way behind us blocking whatever traffic was building on the other side.
"Let's go, okay?"
In the car, afterward, things between us turned sour. I switched on the radio and tried to hum, then to sing but Ophelia stayed quiet - stiff.
"What say we go home. Let's bag our plans and call it a day." I pulled off into an empty lot and turned around.
"Fine." She acted bruised.
"Look, Ophelia, don't be upset."
"I said fine, what do you want from me?"
"Well, for starters, it would be nice if you didn't act like I've committed some sin against you."
"We're supposed to just forget it, right?"
"Yes."
"What if I don't want to forget it?"
"Hey, nothing can ever come of this, Ophelia. I'm not gay, alright? I mean, are you?"
Her focus turned from my direction and she looked out the window. I rolled my eyes and shook my head because of the absurdity in it all and I turned up the radio - that was my undoing.
"Yes, yes. Turn it up again, louder this time, louder next time. To drown out the noise, the silence."
"Christ, Ophelia. What do you want me to say?"
She turned to the window again but by then we were rounding the corner of her street. When I saw Alred out watering their yard, I commented. "Good old Alred."
She didn't speak. I pulled into the driveway and left the motor running but rolled down our windows and waved to Alred, Ophelia's husband.
"Hi, Alred!"
He lifted the hose and sent a spray of water as a hello. I smiled and nodded then rolled up my side.
As Ophelia closed the car door, I spoke to her through the tunnel inside my car and out the other side. "Ophelia, don't be upset. I'm not." She acted like she hadn't heard me so I rolled up the window and began to back up. When I righted my car I glanced over to her. She refused to look over even to wave goodbye, so I drove off.
I tried to call her that evening but she didn't pick up the phone, it switched each time to the answering machine. I left three messages telling her we needed to talk. But, she never called me back.
The next morning, when the phone rang, I jumped when I saw the digital display read Alred Baxter. She'd come to her senses and wanted to discuss what had happened the day before.
"Hello?" My voice swung up in a happy note.
"Lilly?" It wasn't Ophelia's voice, it was Alred's.
"Alred. Oh, I thought it was..."
"Lilly. I have some bad news." He cut me off and the dread in his voice made my hands go cold.
"What."
"Ophelia passed early this morning, three o'clock."
"What?!"
"She had a heart-attack, they say. It was fast, Lilly. She didn't suffer."
But, I knew she had.
"Alred. I'm so sorry."
"Me too, Lilly. Me too. She was the love of my life."
"I know, Alred. You were the love of hers."
She left me alone with our secret. She left me by myself to deal with her pain, her realization and alone to see how feeble love is like an eggshell with a hairline crack, its strength to fail leaving what's inside at risk - a risk that can cause injury and even death.
Today is Ophelia's death anniversary and I wonder if I'll ever get over her.
It was a year ago today. In fact, it was the day after the train incident, that I got the call.
When Ophelia Baxter pulled back from kissing me, I noticed dry wrinkles in the pale skin around her fading blue eyes. Thick cloudy corneas covered her pupils and she blinked once and turned her head down for a second before looking at me again. Her lips quivered gently as they pressed on mine and her tongue tasted sour from the tea she'd drunk earlier. The kiss had taken me by surprise. It was the first time a woman had ever kissed me and I hadn't expected it.
Just moments before, our car nearly got clipped by a racing train. The protecting armrail failed and didn't lower, warning lights didn't flash - we didn't see it coming. The exhilaration of our near-death experience sent us both for a loop. I stopped the car because my hands shook so violently it made it impossible for me to drive.
"Oh, my God. Oh, my God." Ophelia just watched me as I repeated the phrase like a mantra. I walked in circles and tried to get my hands to settle. That's when she walked up to me and grabbed my shoulders.
"Look. We're not dead, not even close. Stop. Okay?"
"Oh, my God, Ophelia. We could've been killed. I could've killed you. I could've killed me."
"Lilly, settle down." She said it like my mother and then put her arms around me and all of my nerves must've settled at once because I started to cry. "There, there." Her words comforted me and the crying turned into broken sobs, then to quick jerking gasps. I breathed in and out a couple of times trying to stop and then, finally, settled. That's when she kissed me.
Like I said, it was my first woman-kiss and although it didn't excite me, I didn't mind it. It almost seemed natural.
"Ophelia."
"I'm sorry, Lilly. I shouldn't have." Then she started to ramble anxiously. "Oh, dear lord, I'm an old fool. What was I thinking? Well, I know what I was thinking - nothing! I wasn't thinking. I'm a stupid old woman. Your body next to mine, oh lord, I haven't had a person this close to me in, I don't know how long. Will you ever forgive me? I don't know what I'd do if you weren't my friend."
"I wasn't expecting it, is all. Look, don't worry about it. We'll just chalk it up to our near-death experience, shall we?"
We stood by the car and she nodded gratefully yet we tried hard not to look each other in the eye. The train cars were still making their way behind us blocking whatever traffic was building on the other side.
"Let's go, okay?"
In the car, afterward, things between us turned sour. I switched on the radio and tried to hum, then to sing but Ophelia stayed quiet - stiff.
"What say we go home. Let's bag our plans and call it a day." I pulled off into an empty lot and turned around.
"Fine." She acted bruised.
"Look, Ophelia, don't be upset."
"I said fine, what do you want from me?"
"Well, for starters, it would be nice if you didn't act like I've committed some sin against you."
"We're supposed to just forget it, right?"
"Yes."
"What if I don't want to forget it?"
"Hey, nothing can ever come of this, Ophelia. I'm not gay, alright? I mean, are you?"
Her focus turned from my direction and she looked out the window. I rolled my eyes and shook my head because of the absurdity in it all and I turned up the radio - that was my undoing.
"Yes, yes. Turn it up again, louder this time, louder next time. To drown out the noise, the silence."
"Christ, Ophelia. What do you want me to say?"
She turned to the window again but by then we were rounding the corner of her street. When I saw Alred out watering their yard, I commented. "Good old Alred."
She didn't speak. I pulled into the driveway and left the motor running but rolled down our windows and waved to Alred, Ophelia's husband.
"Hi, Alred!"
He lifted the hose and sent a spray of water as a hello. I smiled and nodded then rolled up my side.
As Ophelia closed the car door, I spoke to her through the tunnel inside my car and out the other side. "Ophelia, don't be upset. I'm not." She acted like she hadn't heard me so I rolled up the window and began to back up. When I righted my car I glanced over to her. She refused to look over even to wave goodbye, so I drove off.
I tried to call her that evening but she didn't pick up the phone, it switched each time to the answering machine. I left three messages telling her we needed to talk. But, she never called me back.
The next morning, when the phone rang, I jumped when I saw the digital display read Alred Baxter. She'd come to her senses and wanted to discuss what had happened the day before.
"Hello?" My voice swung up in a happy note.
"Lilly?" It wasn't Ophelia's voice, it was Alred's.
"Alred. Oh, I thought it was..."
"Lilly. I have some bad news." He cut me off and the dread in his voice made my hands go cold.
"What."
"Ophelia passed early this morning, three o'clock."
"What?!"
"She had a heart-attack, they say. It was fast, Lilly. She didn't suffer."
But, I knew she had.
"Alred. I'm so sorry."
"Me too, Lilly. Me too. She was the love of my life."
"I know, Alred. You were the love of hers."
She left me alone with our secret. She left me by myself to deal with her pain, her realization and alone to see how feeble love is like an eggshell with a hairline crack, its strength to fail leaving what's inside at risk - a risk that can cause injury and even death.
Today is Ophelia's death anniversary and I wonder if I'll ever get over her.
6/6/07
Verily, I say!
It's like this, we know death is imminent - not imminent like we'll die tomorrow or anything like that - but we're all going to get there eventually, aren't we? Still, the knowledge of that mortality seems to flow just below the surface of our consciousness and our consciousness acts like a layer of ice that allows the water to break through like a cruel reminder.
Truthfully? I've always been an optimist - until lately, that is. The reason? I suppose the reason stems from my cherry of a childhood. We weren't rich but we weren't poor, far from it. We just had a great childhood. Our father was fun and funny. Our mother was always there for us. We weren't beaten or abused or left alone while they went out drinking all night long. We had security, never wanted for much and always felt safe. The safety thing is very important, wouldn't you agree? Like now, when I'm at home, I feel safe, but as soon as my foot hits the deck outside my door, it's another story entirely. The world caves in and feels as if I've stepped into a house of mirrors. Thank God for delivery service. Thank God for catalogs and eBay. Oh, and we mustn't forget the Home Shopping Network. Thank God.
When did I notice this shift in safety? That's a good question. I remember feeling a bit anxious right after my best friend's funeral. She had everything going for her - a house, husband, career, three sweet kids. She even found time to squeeze in a social life. The freak at the grocery store raped her - a box boy - then decided to cut her jugular with his box knife, the dunderhead. They deemed him "severely retarded" and put him in the nut farm. His mother, as it was told in court, had rubella when he was in the womb and it scrambled his brain and left him looking a lot like a Shar Pei. Oh, I know, that's mean and all but think about it - women are never raped by men who look like George Clooney, now are they? Maybe if that started happening, crime rates statistics would go down, who knows?
Do I normally try to find humor in bad situations? Probably. It's that silver-lining thing, I suppose. One should always look for something happy. Don't get me wrong, I don't think rape is funny. I think men who rape should have their schwanschtookers removed and without anesthesia. My friend bled to death. He dragged her into the backseat of her car where he was helping her load her groceries. The psychiatrists believe it was his first sexual experience and his "afterglow" manifested itself diametrically from a normal person's. He swum in guilt, they believed. They think she must've been crying or something and, because of that, he reacted badly. I'd say he did, wouldn't you? No tip today! Not on your life!
Yes, there it is again. Humor in pain. What's wrong with me. I should be more sensitive. Yes, yes, I'll work on that. Anyway, I guess that's why I find it ever so difficult to put one lousy foot outside the house. Christ! And, my tan is all but disappeared.
Oh. Our time is up?
Why, yes, it appears it is.
Thank you for coming by again.
How much? One hundred and twenty - just like last week, right.
Next week?
Same time.
Yes. Alrighty, then.
See you soon.
Yes, yes, I'll call if I should need.
Ta ta.
Truthfully? I've always been an optimist - until lately, that is. The reason? I suppose the reason stems from my cherry of a childhood. We weren't rich but we weren't poor, far from it. We just had a great childhood. Our father was fun and funny. Our mother was always there for us. We weren't beaten or abused or left alone while they went out drinking all night long. We had security, never wanted for much and always felt safe. The safety thing is very important, wouldn't you agree? Like now, when I'm at home, I feel safe, but as soon as my foot hits the deck outside my door, it's another story entirely. The world caves in and feels as if I've stepped into a house of mirrors. Thank God for delivery service. Thank God for catalogs and eBay. Oh, and we mustn't forget the Home Shopping Network. Thank God.
When did I notice this shift in safety? That's a good question. I remember feeling a bit anxious right after my best friend's funeral. She had everything going for her - a house, husband, career, three sweet kids. She even found time to squeeze in a social life. The freak at the grocery store raped her - a box boy - then decided to cut her jugular with his box knife, the dunderhead. They deemed him "severely retarded" and put him in the nut farm. His mother, as it was told in court, had rubella when he was in the womb and it scrambled his brain and left him looking a lot like a Shar Pei. Oh, I know, that's mean and all but think about it - women are never raped by men who look like George Clooney, now are they? Maybe if that started happening, crime rates statistics would go down, who knows?
Do I normally try to find humor in bad situations? Probably. It's that silver-lining thing, I suppose. One should always look for something happy. Don't get me wrong, I don't think rape is funny. I think men who rape should have their schwanschtookers removed and without anesthesia. My friend bled to death. He dragged her into the backseat of her car where he was helping her load her groceries. The psychiatrists believe it was his first sexual experience and his "afterglow" manifested itself diametrically from a normal person's. He swum in guilt, they believed. They think she must've been crying or something and, because of that, he reacted badly. I'd say he did, wouldn't you? No tip today! Not on your life!
Yes, there it is again. Humor in pain. What's wrong with me. I should be more sensitive. Yes, yes, I'll work on that. Anyway, I guess that's why I find it ever so difficult to put one lousy foot outside the house. Christ! And, my tan is all but disappeared.
Oh. Our time is up?
Why, yes, it appears it is.
Thank you for coming by again.
How much? One hundred and twenty - just like last week, right.
Next week?
Same time.
Yes. Alrighty, then.
See you soon.
Yes, yes, I'll call if I should need.
Ta ta.
6/5/07
Of THE LAW has its own website!
It's Official... Of THE LAW has its own website at www.ofthelaw.com. Now, you can order directly online by going to the dedictated webpage or you can buy through the following:Partners/West Book Distributing, (800) 563-2385
Boardwalk Bookstore, (360) 378-2787
Harbor Bookstore, (360) 378-7222
At other Bookstores around the country...
and, you can always order directly through me... I still have a couple of books left.
6/4/07
OF THE LAW Review by RD Larson
Review by RD Larson, author of Mama Tried to Raise a Lady, Saving Reverend Clayton (with Louise Ulmer) Evil Angel, Sorrow's Field, Doors: Stories of Five Strong Women and Marion Riles, Soft-Boiled Detective.
Police Chief Harvey Flemings, a cerebral and introspective man, has a nasty case. Leona Malouf, beautiful and rich has been brutally murdered. Even though the local socialite is not going to be missed, Harvey knows his responsibility. Like his father, the Judge, Harvey believes the law is the answer to the insanity that happens as crime. Consequences are the result of actions taken or not taken. Harvey has to solve the murder case fast as time is closing in on him.
This is not your ordinary modern crime mystery. Dark and retentive, it lurks in your mind as you read page after page, wanting to know what is next. You aren't just the reader because the author has made you a part of the story. You care for Harvey. You despise the victim. You begin to care about Dahl Island, the little town of Thirsty Cove and the man who has sworn to uphold justice for his people. Harvey Fleming is a bleeding man with a job that must be done. As door after door slams to his investigation, he loses comrades, deals with a mad man, and drinks too much. Will Harvey find out who killed Leona Malouf before it's too late?
You won't want to put this down. ~~RD Larson
Police Chief Harvey Flemings, a cerebral and introspective man, has a nasty case. Leona Malouf, beautiful and rich has been brutally murdered. Even though the local socialite is not going to be missed, Harvey knows his responsibility. Like his father, the Judge, Harvey believes the law is the answer to the insanity that happens as crime. Consequences are the result of actions taken or not taken. Harvey has to solve the murder case fast as time is closing in on him.
This is not your ordinary modern crime mystery. Dark and retentive, it lurks in your mind as you read page after page, wanting to know what is next. You aren't just the reader because the author has made you a part of the story. You care for Harvey. You despise the victim. You begin to care about Dahl Island, the little town of Thirsty Cove and the man who has sworn to uphold justice for his people. Harvey Fleming is a bleeding man with a job that must be done. As door after door slams to his investigation, he loses comrades, deals with a mad man, and drinks too much. Will Harvey find out who killed Leona Malouf before it's too late?
You won't want to put this down. ~~RD Larson
Dream Sequence #3 - Susan Wingate, Writing Sample
IN THE EYE OF A STORM
The foaming water pitched violently out at Thunder Bay's edge at least one thousand feet away. Still, there was trepidation in Arna's heart when she gazed at it through a foggy window in the hotel's lobby. She knitted a carriage robe small enough to fit an infant. The others rattled on not noticing the line that formed where charcoal-colored clouds met the boiling water. Waves crashed against the sand abusively as if scolding an insolent child. The water knew as did the sky something bad was coming.
Dr. Tiplin's concoction - his mixture of eucalyptus, menthol, and cocaine - was still wet in the mortar where he'd crushed the thick loden leaves. The eucalyptus and menthol would evaporate soon leaving behind a medicine-scent, one he could sell. Two days, complete from leaf to vial, he'd have Tiplin's Mood Enhancing Snuff for his patients who suffered from melancholy.
Arna let Lars give her the first dose. It felt funny and burnt her sinuses and she didn't want anymore after that. It only worked to agitate her further about the storm in the distance. The sky was different, it seemed to be pushed from behind like some terrestrial bulldozer and looked like it wanted to excavate everything in its path.
Bitta, Lars' flirty wife, wouldn't shut up and it irked Arna to the point of scolding her. Arna wanted to tell the group about the lurking tempest and began to talk but once again Bitta interrupted.
"Look how dark the sky..." Arna started but Bitta broke in again.
"Then, when she showed me the scarf, I knew I had to have it. It made the outfit complete and without it, well, I wouldn't look simply ravishing now, would I?" She giggled at Andor, Arna's young husband and soon father-to-be, then smiled at her own, Lars. This was the fifth time she'd interrupted Arna and she was angry.
"Bitta, you just won't stop, will you? I've been trying to say something important but you just won't quit talking."
Bitta seemed unfazed by Arna's reprimand and rubbed at her silk scarf but Andor could see Arna was steaming. Husbands and wives possess a special connection. Andor shot Bitta a look that meant, "Bitta, stop. Arna is serious."
Lars, Bitta's husband of five years - five years and still no children - tapped his foot to the piano player's version of Maple Leaf Rag. He kept a vial of snuff conveniently in his vest pocket and sniffed some every ten minutes or so each time he ordered a fresh mug of ale. The snuff numbed them and together Lars and Bitta sniffed two more tiny spoonfuls. When they talked they bantered using exaggerated arm movements. They felt alive and carefree but Arna continued to watch out the window at the ferocious clouds build strength.
When the first lightning bolt struck the ground it seemed like God's finger came down as a warning to the Earth. Arna jerked when thunder followed only a half-second behind the flash.
"Chee-rist!" Lars joked to Bitta who rolled her eyes away from him and settled on Andor.
"I want to go out there, to be in nature, first-hand." Bitta pleaded with Andor and touched his arm. Arna considered why she hadn't directed the comment to her own husband but then was quickly distracted by a strong gust that pushed heavily against the hotel and sounded like a train rushing by. She looked out the window again and only wanted to stay inside protected from the wild torrent and protecting her unborn child. Then, Andor did the unthinkable.
"If you really want to, I'll go outside with you, Bitta." He cocked his head at Arna as if to let her know it was harmless.
"I'm not going with you!" Lars boisterously stated. He laughed and reached into his pocket for another hit from the vial.
"Andor, it's not a good idea." Arna warned.
"I want to be outside!" Bitta whined like a child and grabbed Andor's arm and dragged him away and out the door.
It was nearly two hours later and closing on dinner time when the two slinked back to the hotel. Arna had been watching for them just outside the door every fifteen minutes but the storm was so furious she refused to take off in search of them, and Lars was useless. He was out of his mind on Dr. Tiplin's medicine, plus he'd turned from drinking ale to whiskey. The storm was gaining in strength and Arna tried to finish her knitting by the fireplace where she could watch the looming storm first-hand. It boiled in the backdrop of the fire-lit, smoke-filled room.
When Bitta and Andor came back they looked war torn. As they walked through the door, Arna could see the fierce wind whip the firs that lined the bay effortlessly as if they were made of straw. But, then, her focus switched back to the stray couple who'd decided finally to return.
"It's wild out there!" Bitta proclaimed as she walked in.
"Yep, wild." Andor glanced guiltily at Arna who stared back angrily at him, turned her head back to her knitting.
"Hey, you two nature-lovers!" Lars seemed clueless.
Bitta tugged on her skirt, something Arna noticed through the side of her eye. Then, Andor, did the unthinkable, he brushed off the back of her dress. Arna's breath caught and she thought she might cry but put her hand to her mouth for control. She set her knitting in her basket, stood up strongly, and walked to the lobby's door past them. When Arna opened the door, she saw the wind whip wildly and carry with it newspapers and small shards of wood that acted like swirling daggers. The deadly storm seemed to have gathered an unquenchable voracity, a hunger that needed to be sated. The wind spun a wide circle within the cove - a raging wind - that underscored Arna's hurt and anger toward her husband. She shot him an piercing glance just before she pushed through the door. The wind ripped the pillbox hat from her head and lifted Arna's long brown hair making the strands appear as writhing snakes. She pulled her shawl tight and closer to her shoulders then shivered.
Andor moved to go after her but Bitta tried to stop him.
"Andor, no." Bitta grabbed at Andor's arm but he pulled it away before she could take hold.
Andor rushed outside to his wife and gently grabbed her by the waist but she spun instead to face him. Just then, a gust knocked them hard, so hard they both found it difficult to hold their balance. He grabbed Arna by her wrists and began to explain but Bitta ran out to them and clung to the back of Andor's shirt shielding herself from the mad storm. A few seconds later, Lars followed behind Bitta, unwittingly, as if a lost dog reclaiming his pack.
"It's crazy out here. We should all go in." Lars realized the momentum the storm had gathered.
Arna stared daggers at Bitta who was still clinging to Andor but then slowly lifted her head to Andor's face. Andor could see Arna knew the sin they'd committed. She wrenched her arms out of Andor's grip and walked sharply back toward the door. As she did, Andor's eyes followed until they met up with Bitta's pleading gaze. Andor and Bitta both ducked when they noticed a scraggly limb fly near them but then tumble away.
"Bitta, for God's sake. Can't you see this was wrong." He pulled from her and a raging wind almost pushed him to the ground.
"What's going on here?" Lars noticed something odd between the two but then shrugged it off to the effects of the snuff and drink. He walked over to Bitta. "Bitta?"
Bitta rolled her eyes at him and then turned her concern back to Andor. She tried to take his hands but he pulled back and looked at her in disbelief that she would act this way in front of her own husband. Suddenly, their attention was diverted after they heard a loud snap of a large branch behind them. A tall evergreen lost a massive bough in the gale's fury and headed straight for the three standing there helplessly. It fell fast out of the glooming sky toward the door where they stood.
Bitta went down first and was killed instantly when a jagged spear from the branch gored her chest. Lars was knocked down and Andor's back was broken when the limb clipped him against his shoulders and dragged him to the ground.
It took five men inside the lobby to finally get the door open. The thin end of the branch and Lars' body blocked their exit. Once they got through, they saw the ravaged scene. Lars slowly regained consciousness. Blood pooled around Bitta. After Arna pushed between the men at the door, she shrieked when she saw Andor down. She raced to his side and fell to her knees. He was still alive.
"Help!" She screamed and then began to cry. Andor opened his eyes once and smiled at her weakly then closed them again and died.
The foaming water pitched violently out at Thunder Bay's edge at least one thousand feet away. Still, there was trepidation in Arna's heart when she gazed at it through a foggy window in the hotel's lobby. She knitted a carriage robe small enough to fit an infant. The others rattled on not noticing the line that formed where charcoal-colored clouds met the boiling water. Waves crashed against the sand abusively as if scolding an insolent child. The water knew as did the sky something bad was coming.
Dr. Tiplin's concoction - his mixture of eucalyptus, menthol, and cocaine - was still wet in the mortar where he'd crushed the thick loden leaves. The eucalyptus and menthol would evaporate soon leaving behind a medicine-scent, one he could sell. Two days, complete from leaf to vial, he'd have Tiplin's Mood Enhancing Snuff for his patients who suffered from melancholy.
Arna let Lars give her the first dose. It felt funny and burnt her sinuses and she didn't want anymore after that. It only worked to agitate her further about the storm in the distance. The sky was different, it seemed to be pushed from behind like some terrestrial bulldozer and looked like it wanted to excavate everything in its path.
Bitta, Lars' flirty wife, wouldn't shut up and it irked Arna to the point of scolding her. Arna wanted to tell the group about the lurking tempest and began to talk but once again Bitta interrupted.
"Look how dark the sky..." Arna started but Bitta broke in again.
"Then, when she showed me the scarf, I knew I had to have it. It made the outfit complete and without it, well, I wouldn't look simply ravishing now, would I?" She giggled at Andor, Arna's young husband and soon father-to-be, then smiled at her own, Lars. This was the fifth time she'd interrupted Arna and she was angry.
"Bitta, you just won't stop, will you? I've been trying to say something important but you just won't quit talking."
Bitta seemed unfazed by Arna's reprimand and rubbed at her silk scarf but Andor could see Arna was steaming. Husbands and wives possess a special connection. Andor shot Bitta a look that meant, "Bitta, stop. Arna is serious."
Lars, Bitta's husband of five years - five years and still no children - tapped his foot to the piano player's version of Maple Leaf Rag. He kept a vial of snuff conveniently in his vest pocket and sniffed some every ten minutes or so each time he ordered a fresh mug of ale. The snuff numbed them and together Lars and Bitta sniffed two more tiny spoonfuls. When they talked they bantered using exaggerated arm movements. They felt alive and carefree but Arna continued to watch out the window at the ferocious clouds build strength.
When the first lightning bolt struck the ground it seemed like God's finger came down as a warning to the Earth. Arna jerked when thunder followed only a half-second behind the flash.
"Chee-rist!" Lars joked to Bitta who rolled her eyes away from him and settled on Andor.
"I want to go out there, to be in nature, first-hand." Bitta pleaded with Andor and touched his arm. Arna considered why she hadn't directed the comment to her own husband but then was quickly distracted by a strong gust that pushed heavily against the hotel and sounded like a train rushing by. She looked out the window again and only wanted to stay inside protected from the wild torrent and protecting her unborn child. Then, Andor did the unthinkable.
"If you really want to, I'll go outside with you, Bitta." He cocked his head at Arna as if to let her know it was harmless.
"I'm not going with you!" Lars boisterously stated. He laughed and reached into his pocket for another hit from the vial.
"Andor, it's not a good idea." Arna warned.
"I want to be outside!" Bitta whined like a child and grabbed Andor's arm and dragged him away and out the door.
It was nearly two hours later and closing on dinner time when the two slinked back to the hotel. Arna had been watching for them just outside the door every fifteen minutes but the storm was so furious she refused to take off in search of them, and Lars was useless. He was out of his mind on Dr. Tiplin's medicine, plus he'd turned from drinking ale to whiskey. The storm was gaining in strength and Arna tried to finish her knitting by the fireplace where she could watch the looming storm first-hand. It boiled in the backdrop of the fire-lit, smoke-filled room.
When Bitta and Andor came back they looked war torn. As they walked through the door, Arna could see the fierce wind whip the firs that lined the bay effortlessly as if they were made of straw. But, then, her focus switched back to the stray couple who'd decided finally to return.
"It's wild out there!" Bitta proclaimed as she walked in.
"Yep, wild." Andor glanced guiltily at Arna who stared back angrily at him, turned her head back to her knitting.
"Hey, you two nature-lovers!" Lars seemed clueless.
Bitta tugged on her skirt, something Arna noticed through the side of her eye. Then, Andor, did the unthinkable, he brushed off the back of her dress. Arna's breath caught and she thought she might cry but put her hand to her mouth for control. She set her knitting in her basket, stood up strongly, and walked to the lobby's door past them. When Arna opened the door, she saw the wind whip wildly and carry with it newspapers and small shards of wood that acted like swirling daggers. The deadly storm seemed to have gathered an unquenchable voracity, a hunger that needed to be sated. The wind spun a wide circle within the cove - a raging wind - that underscored Arna's hurt and anger toward her husband. She shot him an piercing glance just before she pushed through the door. The wind ripped the pillbox hat from her head and lifted Arna's long brown hair making the strands appear as writhing snakes. She pulled her shawl tight and closer to her shoulders then shivered.
Andor moved to go after her but Bitta tried to stop him.
"Andor, no." Bitta grabbed at Andor's arm but he pulled it away before she could take hold.
Andor rushed outside to his wife and gently grabbed her by the waist but she spun instead to face him. Just then, a gust knocked them hard, so hard they both found it difficult to hold their balance. He grabbed Arna by her wrists and began to explain but Bitta ran out to them and clung to the back of Andor's shirt shielding herself from the mad storm. A few seconds later, Lars followed behind Bitta, unwittingly, as if a lost dog reclaiming his pack.
"It's crazy out here. We should all go in." Lars realized the momentum the storm had gathered.
Arna stared daggers at Bitta who was still clinging to Andor but then slowly lifted her head to Andor's face. Andor could see Arna knew the sin they'd committed. She wrenched her arms out of Andor's grip and walked sharply back toward the door. As she did, Andor's eyes followed until they met up with Bitta's pleading gaze. Andor and Bitta both ducked when they noticed a scraggly limb fly near them but then tumble away.
"Bitta, for God's sake. Can't you see this was wrong." He pulled from her and a raging wind almost pushed him to the ground.
"What's going on here?" Lars noticed something odd between the two but then shrugged it off to the effects of the snuff and drink. He walked over to Bitta. "Bitta?"
Bitta rolled her eyes at him and then turned her concern back to Andor. She tried to take his hands but he pulled back and looked at her in disbelief that she would act this way in front of her own husband. Suddenly, their attention was diverted after they heard a loud snap of a large branch behind them. A tall evergreen lost a massive bough in the gale's fury and headed straight for the three standing there helplessly. It fell fast out of the glooming sky toward the door where they stood.
Bitta went down first and was killed instantly when a jagged spear from the branch gored her chest. Lars was knocked down and Andor's back was broken when the limb clipped him against his shoulders and dragged him to the ground.
It took five men inside the lobby to finally get the door open. The thin end of the branch and Lars' body blocked their exit. Once they got through, they saw the ravaged scene. Lars slowly regained consciousness. Blood pooled around Bitta. After Arna pushed between the men at the door, she shrieked when she saw Andor down. She raced to his side and fell to her knees. He was still alive.
"Help!" She screamed and then began to cry. Andor opened his eyes once and smiled at her weakly then closed them again and died.
6/3/07
Dream Sequence #2 - Susan Wingate, Writing Sample
THE SEDUCTOR
His real name was Sean but he called himself Soleimon. He was an actor or singer or writer or something like that and he thought he was special. He was a star, nonetheless, and let everyone know. We had contact - however brief, I remember it as contact.
He looked good - had a cut jawline, brown short GQ hair, jade eyes that had a way of piercing your soul. He bought me a drink, a scotch, neat.
"Sure, pour just a little." I instructed the bartender and he stopped at the correct level when I waved him off, it was about a half a shot of Dewar's. "Thanks." I smiled at Sean and that's how it all began.
After a few going-nowhere-dates, he began calling at all sorts of hours - early morning to late at night - as though he was checking on me, making sure I was home. He wanted to come over or he wanted to meet for breakfast, or a late-night snack. One time I went to the window when he called and I saw his car speed away like he'd been watching me. He was on his cell and I heard the wheels squeal off and the smooth hum of the Jaguar engine through the phone.
"Were you watching me just now?" I demanded.
"You're crazy. I'm sitting at my pool."
"Prove it."
He shook a bottle of water and made it slosh.
"Did you hear that?"
"It sounded like you just shook a bottle of water."
"Jesus. Are you paranoid or what? Look, I'm the one with celebrity, right? Why would I be stalking you?" He defended but I didn't buy it.
"Yeah, whatever. I've gotta go. Oh, Sean?"
"Yeah?"
"Can you please not call so early or so late? It's a bit disturbing."
"What a bitch you are."
"I'm just asking to call a little later in the morning and earlier in the evening. It's no reason to be mean."
"Bitch!" Then he hung up.
A week passed with no word from Sean until one day I got an official letter. Sean was suing me for the drink he given me at the bar - a three-dollar drink. I was to repay him for the drink or he'd take me to small claims court. His argument was this: being seen with him alone was priceless and had benefited me which it had, I suppose, it got me a picture in the local newspaper in the society section. But, it was a frivolous action.
My lawyer laid it out for me - I could fight it or settle. Fighting it would just bring public attention to the idiocy of the whole thing. It would be one more Hollywood freak show. Finally, Sean called me from the street again. His name blinked like crazy over the digital display and I let it ring. I quickly snatched my camera phone, crept around the back of my house, snuck up behind his car, turned the camera on, and appeared quite suddenly next to his window. I knocked once. When I approached, his head was turned in the direction of my window. He jumped and turned, obviously startled, to see me there. I filmed the entire thing.
"I have something for you." He rolled down his window through the eye of the camera. "It's your money. I suggest you take it now or I'll send it through the system. My lawyer has a copy. I have a copy. If it doesn't clear the bank within seven days I'll do a stop-payment and then send another check but this time through the court." He looked dazed. After clicking my camera off, I walked away, leaving him there sitting in his Jag.
His real name was Sean but he called himself Soleimon. He was an actor or singer or writer or something like that and he thought he was special. He was a star, nonetheless, and let everyone know. We had contact - however brief, I remember it as contact.
He looked good - had a cut jawline, brown short GQ hair, jade eyes that had a way of piercing your soul. He bought me a drink, a scotch, neat.
"Sure, pour just a little." I instructed the bartender and he stopped at the correct level when I waved him off, it was about a half a shot of Dewar's. "Thanks." I smiled at Sean and that's how it all began.
After a few going-nowhere-dates, he began calling at all sorts of hours - early morning to late at night - as though he was checking on me, making sure I was home. He wanted to come over or he wanted to meet for breakfast, or a late-night snack. One time I went to the window when he called and I saw his car speed away like he'd been watching me. He was on his cell and I heard the wheels squeal off and the smooth hum of the Jaguar engine through the phone.
"Were you watching me just now?" I demanded.
"You're crazy. I'm sitting at my pool."
"Prove it."
He shook a bottle of water and made it slosh.
"Did you hear that?"
"It sounded like you just shook a bottle of water."
"Jesus. Are you paranoid or what? Look, I'm the one with celebrity, right? Why would I be stalking you?" He defended but I didn't buy it.
"Yeah, whatever. I've gotta go. Oh, Sean?"
"Yeah?"
"Can you please not call so early or so late? It's a bit disturbing."
"What a bitch you are."
"I'm just asking to call a little later in the morning and earlier in the evening. It's no reason to be mean."
"Bitch!" Then he hung up.
A week passed with no word from Sean until one day I got an official letter. Sean was suing me for the drink he given me at the bar - a three-dollar drink. I was to repay him for the drink or he'd take me to small claims court. His argument was this: being seen with him alone was priceless and had benefited me which it had, I suppose, it got me a picture in the local newspaper in the society section. But, it was a frivolous action.
My lawyer laid it out for me - I could fight it or settle. Fighting it would just bring public attention to the idiocy of the whole thing. It would be one more Hollywood freak show. Finally, Sean called me from the street again. His name blinked like crazy over the digital display and I let it ring. I quickly snatched my camera phone, crept around the back of my house, snuck up behind his car, turned the camera on, and appeared quite suddenly next to his window. I knocked once. When I approached, his head was turned in the direction of my window. He jumped and turned, obviously startled, to see me there. I filmed the entire thing.
"I have something for you." He rolled down his window through the eye of the camera. "It's your money. I suggest you take it now or I'll send it through the system. My lawyer has a copy. I have a copy. If it doesn't clear the bank within seven days I'll do a stop-payment and then send another check but this time through the court." He looked dazed. After clicking my camera off, I walked away, leaving him there sitting in his Jag.
6/1/07
Dream Sequence #1 - Susan Wingate, Writing Sample
VAMPIRE CATS
When Sinda MacCarty woke that morning she smelled the faint scent of acrid beef. A Farenheit thermometer read ninety-five. She remembered the dinner dishes from the night before she'd left decaying in the sink. The sun was trying to make its ascent but wasn't quite there yet. When, suddenly, a three-legged grey tabby appeared just outside the tower's window. Its eyes weren't bright or green, blue or gold - no, they looked lifeless. It clung with little effort against the stone wall and peered inside the dim room. Then it crawled through the bars as if it were an amoeba and stood on the sill. The bars seemed to bleed through the sinful animal.
Sinda's black cat, Panther, yowled her disapproval and puffed out her tale showing complete dread to the apparition, she arched her back and hissed at its sight. The world, her world, turned inside-out from the one she knew just seconds before.
Sinda ran to Panther and snatched her off her chair and away from the thing that had entered their home. Only a month before, Sinda had heard the place wasn't safe but no one was willing to tell her why. She tossed Panther to the bed farther from the window. Reacting to save her cat, Sinda lurched toward the thing and slammed the window's doors catching in them the freak tabby's tail. It hissed once showing its wretchedly long fangs. It swiped its talon-length claws at Sinda for revenge then left, scampering down the side of the tower's wall like it was loping across a field but straight down and from three stories high. She felt her breath stop.
Her hand cupped her mouth. The scene outside was morbid, ten, no twenty, no fifty - at least, fifty - dead-eyed cats rolled in the dirt burying themselves as the sun lifted on the horizon and disappeared leaving the dirt looking untouched as if nothing had been there at all. Sinda slammed the doors and locked them tightly. She shook from fear and leaned helplessly against the wood doors knowing it was a weak blockade. Sinda and Panther, if they were to survive, would survive only by using the most unorthodox means.
Sinda pulled herself together. She put Panther inside her plastic carrier and set it gently in the tub of the windowless bathroom. She locked the bathroom door then walked decidedly over to her rubber boots and slipped them on. She went to the kitchen cupboard and pulled out her rubber dish gloves. Her mind was reeling. Thank God the day came. Thank God. Sinda walked to the closet that held the main's box. She opened it methodically and wiped the thinnest layer of sweat from her forehead. She knew a thing or two about electricity and pulled the ground wire from its connection. A spark flew, sizzled and settled. Sinda smiled for the briefest of seconds because the realization that she'd soon have to fight for her life socked the wind out of her.
When Sinda MacCarty woke that morning she smelled the faint scent of acrid beef. A Farenheit thermometer read ninety-five. She remembered the dinner dishes from the night before she'd left decaying in the sink. The sun was trying to make its ascent but wasn't quite there yet. When, suddenly, a three-legged grey tabby appeared just outside the tower's window. Its eyes weren't bright or green, blue or gold - no, they looked lifeless. It clung with little effort against the stone wall and peered inside the dim room. Then it crawled through the bars as if it were an amoeba and stood on the sill. The bars seemed to bleed through the sinful animal.
Sinda's black cat, Panther, yowled her disapproval and puffed out her tale showing complete dread to the apparition, she arched her back and hissed at its sight. The world, her world, turned inside-out from the one she knew just seconds before.
Sinda ran to Panther and snatched her off her chair and away from the thing that had entered their home. Only a month before, Sinda had heard the place wasn't safe but no one was willing to tell her why. She tossed Panther to the bed farther from the window. Reacting to save her cat, Sinda lurched toward the thing and slammed the window's doors catching in them the freak tabby's tail. It hissed once showing its wretchedly long fangs. It swiped its talon-length claws at Sinda for revenge then left, scampering down the side of the tower's wall like it was loping across a field but straight down and from three stories high. She felt her breath stop.
Her hand cupped her mouth. The scene outside was morbid, ten, no twenty, no fifty - at least, fifty - dead-eyed cats rolled in the dirt burying themselves as the sun lifted on the horizon and disappeared leaving the dirt looking untouched as if nothing had been there at all. Sinda slammed the doors and locked them tightly. She shook from fear and leaned helplessly against the wood doors knowing it was a weak blockade. Sinda and Panther, if they were to survive, would survive only by using the most unorthodox means.
Sinda pulled herself together. She put Panther inside her plastic carrier and set it gently in the tub of the windowless bathroom. She locked the bathroom door then walked decidedly over to her rubber boots and slipped them on. She went to the kitchen cupboard and pulled out her rubber dish gloves. Her mind was reeling. Thank God the day came. Thank God. Sinda walked to the closet that held the main's box. She opened it methodically and wiped the thinnest layer of sweat from her forehead. She knew a thing or two about electricity and pulled the ground wire from its connection. A spark flew, sizzled and settled. Sinda smiled for the briefest of seconds because the realization that she'd soon have to fight for her life socked the wind out of her.
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Labels:
fiction,
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horror,
mystery,
mystery novel,
novel writer,
OF THE LAW,
Susan Wingate,
writer,
writing
Susan Wingate, Writer
I'm back at it...
Shameless self-promotion has become second-nature lately. If that's what it takes to make it in the world today well, then, count me in!
Sure, sure, I've added writing samples before (May 16) but only of the journalistic ilk so you'll find a different brand of writing from me today - you'll find an excerpt of my latest release, OF THE LAW, and another from my latest work-in-progress novel.
And, away we go! (note the Jackie Gleason tone)
Writing Samples by Susan Wingate
OF THE LAW (novel excerpt)
Chapter 1
The day, August 12, 2004 (also the 144th anniversary of Clara
Hitler’s birthday), was a day when the past catches up to you. Like
death, the past steals up behind you and taps you on your shoulder. At
least, that’s what the knot in my gut implied. August 12 was the day I
felt God turn away. When I look back on this day, I wonder if Hitler’s
mother believed in God, if she did when she as a child, as a young
woman, or in dying.
I remember my own youth and believing in God, the figment of
what God might be, the white robe and long silken beard, a kind face
and open arms, healing arms to hold you when you cried or were
afraid – a vision of greatness, one who could absolve any sin – no
matter what. I did believe then, but do less so now. I want to believe
but monsters are real. I remember how afraid of the dark I was and of
them hiding in my closet.
As I grew up, the visions of monsters waned. I talked myself
out of believing in their existence. I was told there are no such things
as monsters. I was told a man shouldn’t show fear or cry. However,
now, as I near retirement at age fifty-eight – as a person whose
experiences have led him along a specific past – I feel my courage
slipping back and my belief in monsters has returned.
Innocence, like a dwindling season, nags like a dream you
can’t fully recall, only the thin smoke of it lingers and becomes the
sole reminder that it was there. Like the hazy dream, innocence lingers
– innocence lost – and it haunts me like a old home movie when, at
any given point in the evening whi l e watching, the film breaks and the
reel spins out of control.
If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, the story as I write now
would mean nothing. I saw it all – lived it all, so, it’s my duty to tell
you, to reveal somehow the way it all started, how events progressed,
describe to you the players involved, paint a picture for you of the
staged body, define the anguish of loss – the loss of beauty and
innocence.
August 12 started an advent of action that morphed into
madness, a madness I can’t even now come to terms with. Maybe by
telling the tale it will somehow excu s e the guilty, lift gazes above
the crime and touch some purer sense of justice so we can understand
the whole truth, make the inexplicable explicable – but right now I
have to ask myself if that will ever be possible.
A solitary bird flew into view – a lone gull. It passed low over
boats that bobbed lazily on waves of dark green in the small island’s
marina. I leaned on my elbows against the dark mahogany window sill
and looked out from Guy’s second-story office window inside the
courthouse. The hard wood trim of the window pinched my skin and
the pain seemed to be reflected in the scene as I watched.
The gull’s stark white body contrasted vividly against a crystal
blue background. When, all at once, ten more gulls came in close
behind. They looked like kamikaze fighter pilots as they aimed at their
targets. The bright summer sun hung high in the sky and cast shadows
off the sea birds’ bodies, causing a double-sightedness to onlookers
who rose to attention in horror and scrambled in all directions from
beneath them. Then, as if bombs released from the underbellies of Jap
fighter jets, the gulls let go random splashes of dung that landed
squarely onto upper decks, a green plastic chaise, the wooden-slatted
boardwalk, the reddened back of a woman tanning, blackenedcreosote-
covered pylons; and, as if added for emphasis, muck slid
poignantly down the windows of several boats. The ten appeared as
twenty. A gull chorus cawed Tora! Tora! Tora! Wailing and yelling
from boaters cursing melted up and into the open window where I
stood. Their shrieks heightened quickly and then diffused into the
thick summer air. A warm wet breeze swept through Guy’s office and
brought in a sweet and rotten odor with it – sweet from honeysuckle
clinging to rocks and trees, from pines bending in the wind, and from
cotton candy spun cones; rotten from diesel leaching from scows. The
breeze ruffled a wisp of my thinning, grizzled hair and I felt the
strands lift into what would have become a comb-over if the wind had
been a little stronger. The skin on my head felt dewy under my hand
when I pressed the hair back into place. That was possibly the only
good thing about wearing a hat on these warm summer days – I didn’t
have to worry about my hair.
Guy pressed down his intercom button. I looked at him over
my shoulder.
“Maryann, Harvey’s here. Can you bring the Malouf case file
in for me?” Guy Cantwell, the prosecuting attorney here in Thirsty
Cove, kept eye contact with me while he instructed his paralegal
through the phone.
I said nothing and turned away to look out the window again.
Boaters milled about noting the slimy mess left by the birds. They
strung out hoses, sprayed droppings away, pulled out tarps for cover,
wiped down deck furniture down, and took showers.
In this small island town, everyone you know can be seen out
on the street almost any day. As Police Chief, I’ve probably met
everybody at least once and talked to them twice as much as that.
Thirsty Cove is the county seat in the Catalines. We sit smack in the
middle of a few cloistered and widely-dispersed islands tucked in the
armpit of Washington just before the cold choppy northern-most
waters of the Puget Sound. All but Dahl Island are uninhabited.
As of two weeks ago today, the town has been rumbling from
news of the brutal murder of Leona Malouf. The island is on high
alert. You can feel a throbbing, a distant tribal drumbeat, skin deep of
its calm exterior. From her death, yes, but the throbbing started
because of how she was killed not because she was killed, the fervor
started like a drop of rain on a pond and flowed out concentrically in
waves. The pulse echoed throughout our community and its
reverberation tipped the scales. If it had been human, paramedics
would’ve needed paddles to jump-start its heart. A blue blanket
would’ve been laid over the island’s dying body and been wheeled
away – its death caused, in part, by Leona’s.
Leona lived comfortably separated from the common folks.
Her expansive lifestyle enjoyed ambassadorial accommodations,
visiting dignitaries, foreign ministers, embellishments from royalty,
imported truffles, escargot, creams and butters, tailored clothing, handcobbled
footwear, 24 carat bangles and watches, stones from the
depths of metamorphic rock, and was replete with pampering. The
people touted her as somewhat of an icon here on this remote island.
When Leona moved here, it felt like a wave of gulls. She made people
scatter. They couldn’t run quickly enough for cover.
As people do when tragedies end, they recover – they rebuild
their lives. The initial wreckage and ruin can be daunting at first. They
pick through the garbage, and search – in hopes of uncovering the
place they once lived. They will recover because they aren’t privy to
all the facts. They’ll heal.
Now that Leona is dead, the people of Thirsty Cove can mend.
They will stumble around in the rubble for a while. Rocks will turn to
dust. Dust will blow away. Soon their world will return to normal –
life here will regain some modicum of what used to be – the onion
layers of suffering and our holocaust will peel away. Only a dark
distant memory will replace the disaster and, like the boaters, people
will cleanse themselves and attempt to spray off the rancid spoor she
left behind.
The ground steamed in sunny spots on the paved road and my
tongue felt pasty and tasted bitter from the fourth cup of morning
coffee I’d just polished off. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a
stick of cinnamon gum. It’d been my latest addiction since I’d given
up cigarettes thirteen years ago. That and the booze I enjoyed more
regularly than not, lately. As I walk ed from Guy’s office back to mine,
I couldn’t help but chuckle about a gull that had stolen a scrap of fish
after its virulent assault on the boaters. It circled the area in a boastful
manner with the fish in its beak, soaring gallantly, veering away, and
then finally landing high on one of the ferry’s pylons. A younger gull
popped its head up and with a gaping mouth screamed to be fed. It was
a perfect example of survival of the fittest – human against beast.
Sometimes the two become indistinguishable.
I was still thinking about something Guy said: If the P.A.’s
office could indict they would. They’d go for the maximum – the death
penalty. Guy is an influential member of the government. His
comment would look sweet in the papers. He’s affable too, and goodlooking,
he’s tall and fit – he works out at the gym everyday – and the
ladies just love him. He’s single, never been married and he rents a
beach house on a secluded cay near the lighthouse. He’s the most
sought after bachelor on the island. Women far outweigh men in his
constituency so basically he’s got a pretty secure job here in Thirsty
Cove. He was some kind of war hero during Nam, a Navy
SEAL or something impressive like that – a real hero which adds to
his attraction for his voting public.
He’s the epitome of the sharp-dressing lawyer who studies his
opening and closing arguments in front of the mirror, checks his teeth,
walks with a purpose, practices his comments for the newspaper, and
kisses up to judges. He’s a smart guy and has it all. Guy’s
approachable and listens to me. He takes my suggestions as if he were
reading from the Bible. I’m not saying he’s in my pocket, nothing like
it. But Guy believes I want to catch the bad guy, and so he listens to
me. We have a great working relationship.
He was real up-in-arms over Leona’s murder. With an election
year approaching, Guy wanted to appear tough on criminals. He was
already making comments about the sentencing. One thing for sure,
he’s got huge balls when it comes to campaigning. He’s ruthless.
Death penalty cases are always high-profile cases. He’d
already been sticking his finger into my investigation. He knew his
boundaries, so I could just tell him to fuck off when he started to get in
my way. He has some good ideas, however. I usually listen to him,
hear what’s on his mind, feel him out a little, consider his motives, the
election, all the variables that might be motivating him to act. Then, I
tell him to go away. Usually, he does but he’s like a dark cloud
sometimes. He shows up at the wrong time and pisses on progress –
slows things down. And, because he’s a lawyer, he’s a talker.
When I first met Guy, I didn’t like him. He seemed a bit
uppity. Then I figured out he wanted to prosecute wrong-doers as
much as I wanted to bring them in. Our courtship was a little bumpy in
the beginning, but over the past eleven years he’s been here, we’ve
smoothed over all the rough edges. It goes like this: I tell him who the
enemy is. He brings charges against them. If we don’t have an enemy
we can finger, he doesn’t charge.
As a lawman, I set the standards. I like to believe they are
higher standards. We measure offenders by the fistful here. Sometimes
we need to tweak our policies to fit an offender’s crime. We’re alone
out here. No overseeing agencies back us up. No help finds its way to
us. We are the predominant decision-makers between jail and the
offender. Guess who wins? We’re not on the Deliverance-side-of-theriver,
or anything like it, but we do make the rules.
Guy never oversteps me – he learned this early on. It’s a true
working alliance.
Like Shane, I’ve always been a bit of a loner. People have said
I tend to walk to a different drummer. My words carry a lot of weight
so I tend to stay out of the limelight. I’m not at all like Guy. He craves
the camera, public attention, interacting with voters. I’d rather hide out
after my day is done. Hunker down, if you will.
My house sits on a beautiful plot of ground and decks surround
its exterior. Gardens, ones Maggie started, terrace away from the
house and step down from the slight hill it sits on. Here, it’s easy to
become a home-body. Herons, mallards and golden-eyes take up
seasonal residence on the beautiful pond that comes up right into our
backyard and about one hundred yards from the house. We had an old
abandoned well on the property when we first moved in. Maggie
wouldn’t let me fill it. She said the old well reminded her of a piece of
the past people have long since forgotten. She even went so far as to
plant another garden around it – in honor of it. She built a peaked
wooden structure around it with her own hands. Then, as a final touch,
she painted a sign that still reads MAKE A WISH. The lettering is
chipped and fading but its still there. Maggie spent many days by that
well before she died. I watched her out there from the house. Even
now, it breaks my heart to think of.
We moved in here together when we got married. That was
some thirty-five years ago. It seems like yesterday. To me, this house,
this place represents all of the goodness in the world.
Maggie died of breast cancer. She withered away and ended up
dying right here at home. That’s what she wanted. The garden she
grew is just as lovely as ever. I’ve taken over her role as gardener
nowadays. One of her last wishes was that I learn to love her garden as
much as she did, to work it and learn the plants and their needs.
Maggie had what people call a green thumb and she gave me a
few pointers. I miss her as much now as I did right after she died. She
was the love of my life. I can’t imagine ever being with another
woman. I notice women, don’t get me wrong. I just don’t want to
smear her memory because I got lonely or horny or something like
that, for Christ’s sake. There’s no one here on the island I’m interested
in anyway. A few women have made it known they’re interested in
me. You know, in a way, it offends me. I guess I should be flattered
but instead, it nauseates me. Maggie was my one and only. The
thought of someone else just doesn’t size up in my head.
Before Maggie died – it was exactly two days before – she
wanted me to make love to her. She was very, very weak and thin.
Through her thin cloak of ash-colored skin you could see the bones in
her face easily. When she asked me, I didn’t know what to do and tried
to find an excuse out of it. We hadn’t made love for more than four
months by then – it blind-sided me when she asked. My mind went in
so many directions and no words came to me even though refusing her
seemed the proper thing to do. Sex had become unimportant. Our lives
had changed to something else and I didn’t miss the act. I didn’t think
she did either. I loved to make love with my wife, don’t get me wrong.
We used to have a very healthy sex life. Yet when she got sick, being
together became most important, nothing else mattered to me. To her
too, I thought.
She cried that night. She said she wanted to feel alive again.
She said if I made love to her once more she would feel the way she
used to. She smiled at me through her tears. At that point, she must’ve
known she didn’t have very long. I didn’t realize it until later. I’d
gotten into a comfortable rhythm of taking care of her. I actually
enjoyed taking care of her but her body had deteriorated over time and,
like anyone you’re with for a long period, the change s in them are
gradual and almost unnoticeable. Maggie hated feeling dependent. She
was weak and thin and frail and felt she was becoming a burden to me.
Only when she asked for sex did I see her as a physical being again
and the way she appeared became blatantly apparent.
When we tried to do it, I couldn’t get hard. I was afraid I was
going to hurt her. She had been reduced to skin and bones from the
cancer and drugs, and from the pointless surgeries. My mind whirled
in guilt by my repulsion toward her, but I could barely stand the sight
of what had become of my most be a u tiful wife. It’s shameful, I know.
But you have to understand our relationship had changed. We weren’t
the sexual, youthful couple we first were. Our companionship became
much deeper. Sex took a backseat.
Sixteen months before she finally died, doctors told us if
anything was going to save her, removing her breasts would. We both
agreed and took their advice. By then the cancer had metastasized.
After her surgery, she didn’t want to have sex. She went through
another nine months of intensive chemo and radiation. The red scar
from where they’d cut through her sunken ribcage was the only thing
left to remind us of her past femininity – that and a chemical-stint
they’d implanted in her shoulder to administer drugs into. You have to
believe me, I didn’t care. Our relationship had grown. Even so, that
time when we made love, I closed my eyes. To get an erection, I
concentrated on another woman. When I finally did, we got into a
rhythm. I was happy I did i t. I did it for Maggie.
When we finished, I asked her if she wanted a glass of water.
She did. But, before I went to the kitchen, I went into the bathroom. I
couldn’t handle everything I was feeling because I suddenly realized
she wouldn’t survive and I’d just had sex with a dying woman. Even
though it’s wrong – I know it’s wrong – the thought of the whole thing
became grotesque. I got sick then cried uncontrollably, for how long,
who knows, but when I got back with her water she was very thirsty. I
didn’t mean to take so long.
I’ve kept the house because of Maggie. She loved it here so
much and we made it into this perfect country cottage. Honestly, it’s
too big for just one person yet I can’t imagine selling it or living here
with someone else. So I decided to get a pet. I made the big leap.
Getting a pet was a big decision for me. A dog seemed too
high-maintenance and I’m allergic to cats so I ended up getting a
macaw. His name is Billy. He’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever seen. I
come home and he says, “Hello. Hello. Hello!” He says it in three
different voices. When I talk to someone on the phone, if I walk by
him, he says, “hello,” in a real quiet manner like when you answer the
telephone. When I clean around his cage, he says “hello.” So, “hello”
is a big word around here, that and “shut the fuck up!” That’s usually
from me. This stupid bird couldn’t form a sentence if he heard it a
million times. No lie. But, mostly he just screams at a pitch that could
take out windows.
I have a branch in the backyard that I tether him to after I get
home. We spend our “together time” out back while I work in the
garden. He’s safe there and can’t destroy anything.
He’s chewed a hole in my wall, devoured a wooden chair, he
shits on the floor, and causes me an enormous maintenance nightmare.
I should’ve gotten the dog. I don’t know why I keep Billy – Billy, the
stupid macaw. I don’t even really like him but he’s company, I
suppose.
Maggie created this beautiful home for us and I’ve kept
everything exactly as she had things when she was alive – except, for
Billy.
The Confessional (excerpt from chapter 1 of work-in-progress novel)
One night long ago, I remember it well, at around seventeen I had sex with two boys at once. It’s not what you think. I really cared for both of them. We tangled together, one below my hips and me at the other boy’s groin. Every point of the business muddled into a mix of arms and legs, breasts and genitalia. No one spoke. We simply continued the process to its natural end. It was during this interlude a thought struck me: life might not continue simply as it once had. You might say my mind wandered. You might say I was preoccupied. Yes, on both counts. What made me do it – the act itself? I can’t remember the exact events that led up to the moment, it’s been so long ago. Through it all, however, many things came to mind. One of the foremost thoughts, as you will well understand, was one complicated by the human-animal urge. That urge we succumb to at the latest hour, in the darkest of places, through exhaustion or illumination – that urge. The urge when you ask yourself, “why not?” The urge that makes us leave our families for a taste of something new. That visceral pang we cannot control, don’t want to control. That urge.
Another thought crossed my mind one that dealt with the notion of polygamy and how readily Christians throw out the notion, although I did know a Mormon girl around the time of my escapade with the two boys. Her name was Katy. Her brother was heading off the coming summer to seminary in Africa, Zimbabwe to be exact. He would go there with others like him to enlighten the crude natives about Mormon teachings – better ways, ways that might include marrying more than one woman – as their faith’s missionaries have done since the early 1800s.
I wondered to myself, while in the throws of passion, if polygamy mightn’t be a better way. However, after the mixture of bodily fluids dried up and the glow had long died away, my feelings began to change in distinct steps. The steps followed this order, they went from the act, the glorious sexual interlude we’d experienced to our eventual thank you and two goodbye kisses, to embarrassment, then downright shame. It made me think of the joke about the doe that bounds out of the woods and breathlessly vows, “I’ll never do that for two bucks again!”
Then there’s the bible. Need I say more? Well, yes, I’m certain more needs to be said. It is written that in the Garden of Eden after the consumption of the apple from the tree of knowledge of good and evil, Adam tells God,
“I heard thy voice in the garden, and I was afraid, because I was naked, and I hid myself”.
Yet, before eating the forbidden fruit, Eve and Adam bound happily through the garden stark raving naked, unaware of their unclothed form. Lots of questions come up about this, like weren’t their sexual indicators turned on by then, or did they only get “turned on” after they sinned? (Questions like this surface all the time in me and most likely I will never know the answers)
It’s told that only upon the advent of evil – the snake and apple thing – do Eve and Adam become aware of their bodies at which point they sew fig leaves together and cover their parts because of their own shame it is written. Anyway, in terms of the Bible, I guess in a way I covered my parts.
Shameless self-promotion has become second-nature lately. If that's what it takes to make it in the world today well, then, count me in!
Sure, sure, I've added writing samples before (May 16) but only of the journalistic ilk so you'll find a different brand of writing from me today - you'll find an excerpt of my latest release, OF THE LAW, and another from my latest work-in-progress novel.
And, away we go! (note the Jackie Gleason tone)
Writing Samples by Susan Wingate
OF THE LAW (novel excerpt)
Chapter 1
The day, August 12, 2004 (also the 144th anniversary of Clara
Hitler’s birthday), was a day when the past catches up to you. Like
death, the past steals up behind you and taps you on your shoulder. At
least, that’s what the knot in my gut implied. August 12 was the day I
felt God turn away. When I look back on this day, I wonder if Hitler’s
mother believed in God, if she did when she as a child, as a young
woman, or in dying.
I remember my own youth and believing in God, the figment of
what God might be, the white robe and long silken beard, a kind face
and open arms, healing arms to hold you when you cried or were
afraid – a vision of greatness, one who could absolve any sin – no
matter what. I did believe then, but do less so now. I want to believe
but monsters are real. I remember how afraid of the dark I was and of
them hiding in my closet.
As I grew up, the visions of monsters waned. I talked myself
out of believing in their existence. I was told there are no such things
as monsters. I was told a man shouldn’t show fear or cry. However,
now, as I near retirement at age fifty-eight – as a person whose
experiences have led him along a specific past – I feel my courage
slipping back and my belief in monsters has returned.
Innocence, like a dwindling season, nags like a dream you
can’t fully recall, only the thin smoke of it lingers and becomes the
sole reminder that it was there. Like the hazy dream, innocence lingers
– innocence lost – and it haunts me like a old home movie when, at
any given point in the evening whi l e watching, the film breaks and the
reel spins out of control.
If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, the story as I write now
would mean nothing. I saw it all – lived it all, so, it’s my duty to tell
you, to reveal somehow the way it all started, how events progressed,
describe to you the players involved, paint a picture for you of the
staged body, define the anguish of loss – the loss of beauty and
innocence.
August 12 started an advent of action that morphed into
madness, a madness I can’t even now come to terms with. Maybe by
telling the tale it will somehow excu s e the guilty, lift gazes above
the crime and touch some purer sense of justice so we can understand
the whole truth, make the inexplicable explicable – but right now I
have to ask myself if that will ever be possible.
A solitary bird flew into view – a lone gull. It passed low over
boats that bobbed lazily on waves of dark green in the small island’s
marina. I leaned on my elbows against the dark mahogany window sill
and looked out from Guy’s second-story office window inside the
courthouse. The hard wood trim of the window pinched my skin and
the pain seemed to be reflected in the scene as I watched.
The gull’s stark white body contrasted vividly against a crystal
blue background. When, all at once, ten more gulls came in close
behind. They looked like kamikaze fighter pilots as they aimed at their
targets. The bright summer sun hung high in the sky and cast shadows
off the sea birds’ bodies, causing a double-sightedness to onlookers
who rose to attention in horror and scrambled in all directions from
beneath them. Then, as if bombs released from the underbellies of Jap
fighter jets, the gulls let go random splashes of dung that landed
squarely onto upper decks, a green plastic chaise, the wooden-slatted
boardwalk, the reddened back of a woman tanning, blackenedcreosote-
covered pylons; and, as if added for emphasis, muck slid
poignantly down the windows of several boats. The ten appeared as
twenty. A gull chorus cawed Tora! Tora! Tora! Wailing and yelling
from boaters cursing melted up and into the open window where I
stood. Their shrieks heightened quickly and then diffused into the
thick summer air. A warm wet breeze swept through Guy’s office and
brought in a sweet and rotten odor with it – sweet from honeysuckle
clinging to rocks and trees, from pines bending in the wind, and from
cotton candy spun cones; rotten from diesel leaching from scows. The
breeze ruffled a wisp of my thinning, grizzled hair and I felt the
strands lift into what would have become a comb-over if the wind had
been a little stronger. The skin on my head felt dewy under my hand
when I pressed the hair back into place. That was possibly the only
good thing about wearing a hat on these warm summer days – I didn’t
have to worry about my hair.
Guy pressed down his intercom button. I looked at him over
my shoulder.
“Maryann, Harvey’s here. Can you bring the Malouf case file
in for me?” Guy Cantwell, the prosecuting attorney here in Thirsty
Cove, kept eye contact with me while he instructed his paralegal
through the phone.
I said nothing and turned away to look out the window again.
Boaters milled about noting the slimy mess left by the birds. They
strung out hoses, sprayed droppings away, pulled out tarps for cover,
wiped down deck furniture down, and took showers.
In this small island town, everyone you know can be seen out
on the street almost any day. As Police Chief, I’ve probably met
everybody at least once and talked to them twice as much as that.
Thirsty Cove is the county seat in the Catalines. We sit smack in the
middle of a few cloistered and widely-dispersed islands tucked in the
armpit of Washington just before the cold choppy northern-most
waters of the Puget Sound. All but Dahl Island are uninhabited.
As of two weeks ago today, the town has been rumbling from
news of the brutal murder of Leona Malouf. The island is on high
alert. You can feel a throbbing, a distant tribal drumbeat, skin deep of
its calm exterior. From her death, yes, but the throbbing started
because of how she was killed not because she was killed, the fervor
started like a drop of rain on a pond and flowed out concentrically in
waves. The pulse echoed throughout our community and its
reverberation tipped the scales. If it had been human, paramedics
would’ve needed paddles to jump-start its heart. A blue blanket
would’ve been laid over the island’s dying body and been wheeled
away – its death caused, in part, by Leona’s.
Leona lived comfortably separated from the common folks.
Her expansive lifestyle enjoyed ambassadorial accommodations,
visiting dignitaries, foreign ministers, embellishments from royalty,
imported truffles, escargot, creams and butters, tailored clothing, handcobbled
footwear, 24 carat bangles and watches, stones from the
depths of metamorphic rock, and was replete with pampering. The
people touted her as somewhat of an icon here on this remote island.
When Leona moved here, it felt like a wave of gulls. She made people
scatter. They couldn’t run quickly enough for cover.
As people do when tragedies end, they recover – they rebuild
their lives. The initial wreckage and ruin can be daunting at first. They
pick through the garbage, and search – in hopes of uncovering the
place they once lived. They will recover because they aren’t privy to
all the facts. They’ll heal.
Now that Leona is dead, the people of Thirsty Cove can mend.
They will stumble around in the rubble for a while. Rocks will turn to
dust. Dust will blow away. Soon their world will return to normal –
life here will regain some modicum of what used to be – the onion
layers of suffering and our holocaust will peel away. Only a dark
distant memory will replace the disaster and, like the boaters, people
will cleanse themselves and attempt to spray off the rancid spoor she
left behind.
The ground steamed in sunny spots on the paved road and my
tongue felt pasty and tasted bitter from the fourth cup of morning
coffee I’d just polished off. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a
stick of cinnamon gum. It’d been my latest addiction since I’d given
up cigarettes thirteen years ago. That and the booze I enjoyed more
regularly than not, lately. As I walk ed from Guy’s office back to mine,
I couldn’t help but chuckle about a gull that had stolen a scrap of fish
after its virulent assault on the boaters. It circled the area in a boastful
manner with the fish in its beak, soaring gallantly, veering away, and
then finally landing high on one of the ferry’s pylons. A younger gull
popped its head up and with a gaping mouth screamed to be fed. It was
a perfect example of survival of the fittest – human against beast.
Sometimes the two become indistinguishable.
I was still thinking about something Guy said: If the P.A.’s
office could indict they would. They’d go for the maximum – the death
penalty. Guy is an influential member of the government. His
comment would look sweet in the papers. He’s affable too, and goodlooking,
he’s tall and fit – he works out at the gym everyday – and the
ladies just love him. He’s single, never been married and he rents a
beach house on a secluded cay near the lighthouse. He’s the most
sought after bachelor on the island. Women far outweigh men in his
constituency so basically he’s got a pretty secure job here in Thirsty
Cove. He was some kind of war hero during Nam, a Navy
SEAL or something impressive like that – a real hero which adds to
his attraction for his voting public.
He’s the epitome of the sharp-dressing lawyer who studies his
opening and closing arguments in front of the mirror, checks his teeth,
walks with a purpose, practices his comments for the newspaper, and
kisses up to judges. He’s a smart guy and has it all. Guy’s
approachable and listens to me. He takes my suggestions as if he were
reading from the Bible. I’m not saying he’s in my pocket, nothing like
it. But Guy believes I want to catch the bad guy, and so he listens to
me. We have a great working relationship.
He was real up-in-arms over Leona’s murder. With an election
year approaching, Guy wanted to appear tough on criminals. He was
already making comments about the sentencing. One thing for sure,
he’s got huge balls when it comes to campaigning. He’s ruthless.
Death penalty cases are always high-profile cases. He’d
already been sticking his finger into my investigation. He knew his
boundaries, so I could just tell him to fuck off when he started to get in
my way. He has some good ideas, however. I usually listen to him,
hear what’s on his mind, feel him out a little, consider his motives, the
election, all the variables that might be motivating him to act. Then, I
tell him to go away. Usually, he does but he’s like a dark cloud
sometimes. He shows up at the wrong time and pisses on progress –
slows things down. And, because he’s a lawyer, he’s a talker.
When I first met Guy, I didn’t like him. He seemed a bit
uppity. Then I figured out he wanted to prosecute wrong-doers as
much as I wanted to bring them in. Our courtship was a little bumpy in
the beginning, but over the past eleven years he’s been here, we’ve
smoothed over all the rough edges. It goes like this: I tell him who the
enemy is. He brings charges against them. If we don’t have an enemy
we can finger, he doesn’t charge.
As a lawman, I set the standards. I like to believe they are
higher standards. We measure offenders by the fistful here. Sometimes
we need to tweak our policies to fit an offender’s crime. We’re alone
out here. No overseeing agencies back us up. No help finds its way to
us. We are the predominant decision-makers between jail and the
offender. Guess who wins? We’re not on the Deliverance-side-of-theriver,
or anything like it, but we do make the rules.
Guy never oversteps me – he learned this early on. It’s a true
working alliance.
Like Shane, I’ve always been a bit of a loner. People have said
I tend to walk to a different drummer. My words carry a lot of weight
so I tend to stay out of the limelight. I’m not at all like Guy. He craves
the camera, public attention, interacting with voters. I’d rather hide out
after my day is done. Hunker down, if you will.
My house sits on a beautiful plot of ground and decks surround
its exterior. Gardens, ones Maggie started, terrace away from the
house and step down from the slight hill it sits on. Here, it’s easy to
become a home-body. Herons, mallards and golden-eyes take up
seasonal residence on the beautiful pond that comes up right into our
backyard and about one hundred yards from the house. We had an old
abandoned well on the property when we first moved in. Maggie
wouldn’t let me fill it. She said the old well reminded her of a piece of
the past people have long since forgotten. She even went so far as to
plant another garden around it – in honor of it. She built a peaked
wooden structure around it with her own hands. Then, as a final touch,
she painted a sign that still reads MAKE A WISH. The lettering is
chipped and fading but its still there. Maggie spent many days by that
well before she died. I watched her out there from the house. Even
now, it breaks my heart to think of.
We moved in here together when we got married. That was
some thirty-five years ago. It seems like yesterday. To me, this house,
this place represents all of the goodness in the world.
Maggie died of breast cancer. She withered away and ended up
dying right here at home. That’s what she wanted. The garden she
grew is just as lovely as ever. I’ve taken over her role as gardener
nowadays. One of her last wishes was that I learn to love her garden as
much as she did, to work it and learn the plants and their needs.
Maggie had what people call a green thumb and she gave me a
few pointers. I miss her as much now as I did right after she died. She
was the love of my life. I can’t imagine ever being with another
woman. I notice women, don’t get me wrong. I just don’t want to
smear her memory because I got lonely or horny or something like
that, for Christ’s sake. There’s no one here on the island I’m interested
in anyway. A few women have made it known they’re interested in
me. You know, in a way, it offends me. I guess I should be flattered
but instead, it nauseates me. Maggie was my one and only. The
thought of someone else just doesn’t size up in my head.
Before Maggie died – it was exactly two days before – she
wanted me to make love to her. She was very, very weak and thin.
Through her thin cloak of ash-colored skin you could see the bones in
her face easily. When she asked me, I didn’t know what to do and tried
to find an excuse out of it. We hadn’t made love for more than four
months by then – it blind-sided me when she asked. My mind went in
so many directions and no words came to me even though refusing her
seemed the proper thing to do. Sex had become unimportant. Our lives
had changed to something else and I didn’t miss the act. I didn’t think
she did either. I loved to make love with my wife, don’t get me wrong.
We used to have a very healthy sex life. Yet when she got sick, being
together became most important, nothing else mattered to me. To her
too, I thought.
She cried that night. She said she wanted to feel alive again.
She said if I made love to her once more she would feel the way she
used to. She smiled at me through her tears. At that point, she must’ve
known she didn’t have very long. I didn’t realize it until later. I’d
gotten into a comfortable rhythm of taking care of her. I actually
enjoyed taking care of her but her body had deteriorated over time and,
like anyone you’re with for a long period, the change s in them are
gradual and almost unnoticeable. Maggie hated feeling dependent. She
was weak and thin and frail and felt she was becoming a burden to me.
Only when she asked for sex did I see her as a physical being again
and the way she appeared became blatantly apparent.
When we tried to do it, I couldn’t get hard. I was afraid I was
going to hurt her. She had been reduced to skin and bones from the
cancer and drugs, and from the pointless surgeries. My mind whirled
in guilt by my repulsion toward her, but I could barely stand the sight
of what had become of my most be a u tiful wife. It’s shameful, I know.
But you have to understand our relationship had changed. We weren’t
the sexual, youthful couple we first were. Our companionship became
much deeper. Sex took a backseat.
Sixteen months before she finally died, doctors told us if
anything was going to save her, removing her breasts would. We both
agreed and took their advice. By then the cancer had metastasized.
After her surgery, she didn’t want to have sex. She went through
another nine months of intensive chemo and radiation. The red scar
from where they’d cut through her sunken ribcage was the only thing
left to remind us of her past femininity – that and a chemical-stint
they’d implanted in her shoulder to administer drugs into. You have to
believe me, I didn’t care. Our relationship had grown. Even so, that
time when we made love, I closed my eyes. To get an erection, I
concentrated on another woman. When I finally did, we got into a
rhythm. I was happy I did i t. I did it for Maggie.
When we finished, I asked her if she wanted a glass of water.
She did. But, before I went to the kitchen, I went into the bathroom. I
couldn’t handle everything I was feeling because I suddenly realized
she wouldn’t survive and I’d just had sex with a dying woman. Even
though it’s wrong – I know it’s wrong – the thought of the whole thing
became grotesque. I got sick then cried uncontrollably, for how long,
who knows, but when I got back with her water she was very thirsty. I
didn’t mean to take so long.
I’ve kept the house because of Maggie. She loved it here so
much and we made it into this perfect country cottage. Honestly, it’s
too big for just one person yet I can’t imagine selling it or living here
with someone else. So I decided to get a pet. I made the big leap.
Getting a pet was a big decision for me. A dog seemed too
high-maintenance and I’m allergic to cats so I ended up getting a
macaw. His name is Billy. He’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever seen. I
come home and he says, “Hello. Hello. Hello!” He says it in three
different voices. When I talk to someone on the phone, if I walk by
him, he says, “hello,” in a real quiet manner like when you answer the
telephone. When I clean around his cage, he says “hello.” So, “hello”
is a big word around here, that and “shut the fuck up!” That’s usually
from me. This stupid bird couldn’t form a sentence if he heard it a
million times. No lie. But, mostly he just screams at a pitch that could
take out windows.
I have a branch in the backyard that I tether him to after I get
home. We spend our “together time” out back while I work in the
garden. He’s safe there and can’t destroy anything.
He’s chewed a hole in my wall, devoured a wooden chair, he
shits on the floor, and causes me an enormous maintenance nightmare.
I should’ve gotten the dog. I don’t know why I keep Billy – Billy, the
stupid macaw. I don’t even really like him but he’s company, I
suppose.
Maggie created this beautiful home for us and I’ve kept
everything exactly as she had things when she was alive – except, for
Billy.
The Confessional (excerpt from chapter 1 of work-in-progress novel)
One night long ago, I remember it well, at around seventeen I had sex with two boys at once. It’s not what you think. I really cared for both of them. We tangled together, one below my hips and me at the other boy’s groin. Every point of the business muddled into a mix of arms and legs, breasts and genitalia. No one spoke. We simply continued the process to its natural end. It was during this interlude a thought struck me: life might not continue simply as it once had. You might say my mind wandered. You might say I was preoccupied. Yes, on both counts. What made me do it – the act itself? I can’t remember the exact events that led up to the moment, it’s been so long ago. Through it all, however, many things came to mind. One of the foremost thoughts, as you will well understand, was one complicated by the human-animal urge. That urge we succumb to at the latest hour, in the darkest of places, through exhaustion or illumination – that urge. The urge when you ask yourself, “why not?” The urge that makes us leave our families for a taste of something new. That visceral pang we cannot control, don’t want to control. That urge.
Another thought crossed my mind one that dealt with the notion of polygamy and how readily Christians throw out the notion, although I did know a Mormon girl around the time of my escapade with the two boys. Her name was Katy. Her brother was heading off the coming summer to seminary in Africa, Zimbabwe to be exact. He would go there with others like him to enlighten the crude natives about Mormon teachings – better ways, ways that might include marrying more than one woman – as their faith’s missionaries have done since the early 1800s.
I wondered to myself, while in the throws of passion, if polygamy mightn’t be a better way. However, after the mixture of bodily fluids dried up and the glow had long died away, my feelings began to change in distinct steps. The steps followed this order, they went from the act, the glorious sexual interlude we’d experienced to our eventual thank you and two goodbye kisses, to embarrassment, then downright shame. It made me think of the joke about the doe that bounds out of the woods and breathlessly vows, “I’ll never do that for two bucks again!”
Then there’s the bible. Need I say more? Well, yes, I’m certain more needs to be said. It is written that in the Garden of Eden after the consumption of the apple from the tree of knowledge of good and evil, Adam tells God,
“I heard thy voice in the garden, and I was afraid, because I was naked, and I hid myself”.
Yet, before eating the forbidden fruit, Eve and Adam bound happily through the garden stark raving naked, unaware of their unclothed form. Lots of questions come up about this, like weren’t their sexual indicators turned on by then, or did they only get “turned on” after they sinned? (Questions like this surface all the time in me and most likely I will never know the answers)
It’s told that only upon the advent of evil – the snake and apple thing – do Eve and Adam become aware of their bodies at which point they sew fig leaves together and cover their parts because of their own shame it is written. Anyway, in terms of the Bible, I guess in a way I covered my parts.
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