A few days ago, in a PMS-induced mood swing to hard anger, a thought blasted into my mind:
My writing is not a problem.
When I started writing in my very early teens, my father was pursuing a writing career and being ‘difficult’ about it. I won’t go into any detail here about his behavior at that time because it’s a story for another time and place. But I will say this: he made my mother’s life a living hell at times with her ‘lack of support’ (his words, not mine). When I started writing I could clearly sense my mother was very worried I would become like my father about my writing: demanding and ‘difficult’. So, I worked my ass off not to be anything like my father when it came to my writing. I worked my ass off to keep it between him and me if I wanted to talk about it, and to not let it get in the way of responsibilities I had. Eventually, my mother came to support my writing in her own way. She had every right to feel the way she did, and I have absolutely no regrets about keeping it from her and keeping my feelings about my writing from her.
In my twenties, my parents wanted me to keep writing and they supported that by making time for me to write and also financially supporting it, too. Yet it wasn’t a popular decision and my parents told me to just keep doing what I was doing, and they would take any shit given to them on my behalf. It hurt like hell knowing they were taking shit for me, and I understood why they wanted me to stay silent but at times I felt like they took away my right to confront people and yes, tell them off and to not dictate my life to their fucking whims. I sacrificed a lot to keep writing because I didn’t want to disappoint my parents but at the same time, I was also trying not to create more problems for them. This in turn severely fucked me up and it’s taken the last seven years to work through that shit and begin to heal.
Yet this is not a hit piece on the past or anyone who felt like my writing was a problem for them. My writing was NEVER a problem for anyone nor was it anyone’s business, nor was it anyone’s right to dictate what I could or couldn’t do with my own time to begin with.
This piece is for every writer who has felt like they were a ‘bother’ or being ‘selfish’ for pursuing their writing. This is for every writer who has ever taken shit and had people shit on them and tried to tear them down for their own bullshit reasons, none of which matter here. Whether or not writing is worth pursuing is up to each individual writer. Whether or not a person will be successful at writing is always unknown until it happens, or it doesn’t. No one knows what the future will bring and anyone who says they do is full of shit and can just fuck all the way off from here.
How do I know I’m any good at writing? Well, if I want to be a smart-ass, you’re here reading this, right? 😊 Actually, it’s about engagement, and how people have engaged with my writing.
When I first started writing, my dad told me if he didn’t think I had talent he would have just given me a pat on the head and sent me on my way. He would not have engaged with me and treated me like a fellow writer. And though I’ve had rejections, most of them weren’t form rejections. They were opportunities to learn as a writer and I’m glad I could see that. Now with this blog and other venues, I can see what pieces of mine are getting read and by how many people. Occasionally I even get comments which I GREATLY appreciate. Also, in the thirty-five years I’ve been writing, the writing landscape has changed considerably and there are many avenues to write and even earn money from that weren’t there before. For me, the opportunities are just waiting for me to go after them.
So, I will say this again: my writing is not a problem, and it never was. And anyone who thinks about making it their problem or any bullshit like that will be told to fuck all the way off. If you’re not neglecting your responsibilities, or lashing out at people over your writing, then it’s not a problem for anyone. If you feel like your writing is a problem when it isn’t, you can remove that talon from yourself. It will be painful but well worth it. When you do, burn it to ash, sweep the ash away, then go write.
Most writers battle the insecurity of thinking whether or not their writing is good enough. For me, my insecurity has always been whether or not my writing will be a problem for someone. You won’t know if your writing is good enough, or if will bring success unless you put it out there, and unless you give it everything you’ve got. That’s something my dad spent a lot of years trying to teach me.
But as my dad knew, sometimes it takes me a long time to figure things out.
Single female, late forties (I will be forty-eight this year). I don’t have any human kids but I have two fur-kids (dog and cat). I currently live in San Antonio, Texas though I dream of spending rest of life on the road in a converted shuttle-bus turned house-on-wheels.
Ronon the cat and Darcy the diva-dog!
–—- Photo used by permission of the photographer, Michele Sayre.
Images used are free use and not subject to attribution. Image by manseok Kim from Pixabay
As writers, we are always doing research on many topics. Impact Radio USA offers a new program, “Parenting 101 Plus,” dealing with issues raising children, including case studies of drug use, truancy, anger, etc., for those of you who write family issues, particularly issues with children and how to deal with the behaviors. The show is based on host Paul W. Reeves, Ed. D‘s book, A Principal’s Family Principles.
Parenting 101 Plus
Join Paul W. Reeves, Ed.D—a longtime teacher and school principal and the father of three children—and his guests as they discuss the world of parenting your children, from birth through age 100! Also included are excerpts and discussions of Paul’s parenting book, “A PRINCIPAL’S FAMILY PRINCIPLES—Raising Your Kids to Be Happy and Healthy, While Enjoying Them to the Fullest”
“Parenting 101 Plus” drops a new show EVERY Thursday morning at 9:00 am ET; then, each episode airs for seven straight days at 9:00 am ET and 5:00 pm ET.
On today’s show, in addition to reading the chapter “Violent Video Games – A Happy Ending!” from his book, sharing wisdom from others, a bit of humor, and more, Paul played his interview with Shelley Kenow.
SHELLEY KENOW, a former, longtime Special Education teacher and now a consultant who helps parents and school personnel navigate the intricate world of Special Education, will join us from Illinois to discuss all that she has done – and is now doing – and to discuss her latest release, ‘Those Who “Can’t” …. Teach: True Stories of Special Needs Families to Promote Acceptance, Inclusion, and Empathy’.
Images are free-use images and do not require attribution. Image by Ryan McGuire from Pixabay.
Thank You. Thank You Very Much.
Why Authors Need Manners
D. A. Ratliff
I do not doubt that as you read the title of this article, you read it in Elvis Presley’s voice. Those words are widely attributed to the King of Rock and Roll and used by every Elvis impersonator.
Thank you. Thank you very much.
Are these hollow words to be uttered at the appropriate time, or are they true words conveying sincere thanks? The answer to this question is one an author should consider and consider seriously.
What’s Nice Got to Do With It?
I have spoken to numerous podcast, radio, and TV hosts, as well as print and online interviewers who constantly lament the lack of manners from their guests. Indeed, some hosts don’t care and are as guilty, but most, and I dare say, the ones who approach their craft professionally, do care.
As an author, you may have sought out an interview to promote your book or were contacted by a media representative. You arrange to appear on that show, discussing time, location, and interview topics. Before the interview, you should consider the questions you may be asked and how you would answer them succinctly. Perhaps listen to, watch, or read interviews the interviewer has conducted with others to gauge their tone, manner, and personality so your conversation will be natural, not stilted.
The quality hosts are also preparing by reviewing your past interviews, reading your book or bio, and other material about you. Many may spend hours before the scheduled interview to learn about you so they may present you to their audience in the best manner possible.
After the interview concludes, some hosts have staffs who process or edit the interview and do all the follow-ups, and some do not. Many independent hosts of podcasts may be a staff of one or two. After spending a few hours researching before your interview, and approximately an hour conducting the interview, these hosts spend time editing and promoting your interview.
Then you do not thank them.
The success of these hosts is not due to one interview alone but your book or the cause you are promoting, or your livelihood might. Even if we estimate the amount of time a host spends on you to be as short as a couple of hours, not taking thirty seconds to thank the host for their time and not promoting the interview is impolite—in fact, rude.
An Interview! What Now?
The surprising thing is so many of us tend to do the interview and walk away, expecting the interviewer to do all the work. They’ve done their part.
Why did you interview if you care nothing about utilizing the interview to promote yourself? The advent of podcasts has put everything we do a click of a mouse away for posterity. If you take the time and spend someone else’s time talking about your work, why walk away when you have a tool to promote yourself? If you do not offer the same exposure to your audience as your host has to theirs, it is unlikely that the host will ask you to return for a second interview. And extremely unlikely that you will be effective with your target audience.
You may appear on numerous shows and have great interviews, but you have wasted everyone’s time if you do not connect with your target audience. Market your appearances, announce a live show, a book signing, podcasts, and print media—spread the word. The show, newspaper, magazine, or podcast might target a broader demographic. It is your job to promote your interviews to those you need to hear your message.
One podcast host remarked that she was shocked at the number of scheduled guests who didn’t show up for the interview. Again, if you sought the interview or were invited and agreed to appear, why would you not show? At least, if you cancel for a valid reason or you panicked at the thought of being interviewed, tell the host in a reasonable amount of time. It’s respectful to do so.
All About Manners
There are a lot of attributes associated with good manners, and most are common sense—say hello, thank you, yes ma’am/sir or no ma’am/sir, hold open a door, don’t gossip, be on time, etc. But among the gestures that display good manners, the easiest to convey sincerity and respect is a simple thank you.
Thank you. Those two words took less than three seconds to type.
Thank you for your time. I enjoyed being a guest on your show and look forward to talking with you again. These words took less than thirty seconds to type.
Factor in the time to open an email, Messenger, or text and hit send, and you might spend two to three minutes—two or three minutes spent saying thank you. Are you so busy that you cannot spend a few minutes thanking someone who has provided you with a service and valuable marketing tool?
I don’t think that you are. Take the time to thank the interviewer, the person who arranged your interview, the bookstore manager where you held a book signing and the person who shared your podcasts. Thank the person who answers your writing questions or critiques you online. Thank them sincerely, and they will appreciate your thoughtfulness and reciprocate.
“Politeness can and will improve your relationships with others, help to build respect and rapport, boost your self-esteem and confidence, and improve your communication skills.” —Skills You Need
Don’t be one of those impolite people. Be respectful, considerate, and say thank you.
Images use are free use and not subject to attribution. Image by manseok Kim from Pixabay
As writers, we are always doing research on many topics. Impact Radio USA offers a new program, “Parenting 101 Plus,” dealing with issues raising children, including case studies of drug use, truancy, anger, etc., for those of you who write family issues, particularly issues with children and how to deal with the behaviors. The show is based on host Paul W. Reeves, Ed. D‘s book, A Principal’s Family Principles.
Parenting 101 Plus
Join Paul W. Reeves, Ed.D – a longtime teacher and school principal, and the father of three children – and his guests, as they discuss the world of parenting your children, from birth through age 100! Also included are excerpts and discussions of Paul’s parenting book, “A PRINCIPAL’S FAMILY PRINCIPLES – Raising Your Kids to Be Happy and Healthy, While Enjoying Them to the Fullest”
“Parenting 101 Plus” drops a new show EVERY Thursday morning at 9:00 am ET; then each episode airs for seven straight days at 9:00 am ET and 5:00 pm ET.
On today’s show, in addition to reading the chapter, “Be Aware of UNDERWEAR?” from his book, sharing wisdom from others, a bit of humor, and more, Paul played Part 1 of his interview with Claude Larson.
CLAUDE LARSON, a retired teacher from New York, one whom mostly worked with teenagers, will join us to discuss her book, “The Power of Choice: A Teen’s Guide to Finding Personal Success Kindle Edition“.
Episode Two
On today’s show, in addition to reading a chapter concerning sibling relationships from his book, sharing wisdom from others, a bit of humor, and more, Paul played Part 2 of his interview with Claude Larson.
CLAUDE LARSON, a retired teacher from New York who mostly worked with teenagers, will join us to discuss her book, “The Power of Choice: A Teen’s Guide to Finding Personal Success Kindle Edition“.
—————
Paul W. ReevesEd.D
Paul W. Reeves, Ed. D. is an author, radio talk show host, educator, composer/arranger, and professional musician.
Please visit his website for more information regarding Paul’s career or his books and CDs.
In our quest to assist writers in becoming the best they can be and remain motivated, we would like to introduce you to John Chuback, M.D. A cardiovascular surgeon, Dr. Chuback found his goals waylaid by his lack of motivation.
In a series of interviews with Paul W. Reeves, host on Impact Radio USA,Dr. Chuback continues his discussion of the tools leading to success with his book “Make Your Own Damn Cheese: Understanding, Navigating, and Mastering the 3 Mazes of Success.”
Please click on the link below to hear Episode #36 of SUCCESS PHILOSOPHIES WITH DR. CHUBACK, the first episode in the second series, and start enhancing your journey toward success today.
DR. JOHN CHUBACK, a cardiovascular surgeon from New Jersey, is the author of, “Make Your Own Damn Cheese: Understanding, Navigating, and Mastering the 3 Mazes of Success,” “The Straight A Handbook– The 50 Most Powerful Secrets For Ultimate Success In And Out Of The Classroom” and other books.
DR. CHUBACK joins HOST PAUL W. REEVES weekly to discuss his books, “The Straight A Handbook – The 50 Most Powerful Secrets For Ultimate Success In And Out Of The Classroom” and “Make Your Own Damn Cheese“, each of which explores the human mind and becoming all that you can be.
Throughout this portion of the series, Dr. Chuback will discuss “Make Your Own Damn Cheese“, and the research behind his success philosophies.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Audiobooks on Audible
The Straight a Handbook: The 50 Most Powerful Secrets for Ultimate Success in and Out of the Classroom Audible Audiobook – Unabridged
Written by John Chuback, M. D. Narrated by Paul W. Reeves, Ed. D.
Dr. John Chuback was born and raised in Bergen County and graduated from the Dwight Englewood School. He earned his medical degree from New Jersey Medical School at UMDNJ, in Newark. Dr. Chuback then completed a five-year General Surgical Residency at Monmouth Medical Center (MMC). Dr. Chuback is the author of Make Your Own Damn Cheese, Kaboing, and The Straight A Handbook.
All books are available on Amazon. com.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Impact Radio USA
Welcome to IMPACT RADIO USA, where we strive to provide the best in news, talk, sports, and music 24 hours a day, 52 weeks per year. Our goal is to keep you as the most informed and entertained Internet Radio audience.
As we are continuing to add content on a daily basis, please feel free to click on the “LISTEN NOW” button at the top of the page to hear us 24 hours a day. While you are here, please check out all of our links to our shows, our podcast page, our blog, and learn how YOU can host your own show with us. Thank you for listening to IMPACT RADIO USA!!!
Welcome to Write the Story! Each month Writers Unite! will offer a writing prompt for writers to create a story from and share with everyone. WU! wants to help our members and followers to generate more traffic to their platforms. Please check out the authors’ blogs, websites, and Facebook pages and show them support. We would love to hear your thoughts about the stories and appreciate your support!
Images are free-use images and do not require attribution. Image by StockSnap from Pixabay.
SUNDAY’S CHILD
Cheryl Ann Guido
It was a small thing really, a tiny pale hand protruding from the waters of the pristine stream. Still, it had caught Janine Corbo’s eye as she biked down the scenic road that followed the river’s path.
After leaning her bike against the guardrail, she scrambled down the steep incline to investigate. Probably just an old doll someone tossed into the stream, she thought. Still, she felt obliged to be certain. After all, being an aspiring journalist, if there was a story here, she wanted it to be hers.
When she reached the edge of the creek and peered into the crystal-clear water, Janine saw that this was no doll. The tiny baby appeared to be about a year old. Janine pulled out her cell phone and dialed 911.
In a few minutes, police and emergency vehicles filled the road above. After being fished out of the water, the baby was placed on a small stretcher and looked over by the Medical Examiner who suggested that the baby had probably drowned.
A forensic team waded through the stream looking for evidence and Janine found herself being grilled by a homicide detective. After the detective finished questioning her, he gave her his business card with instructions to contact him if she had anything else to add and not to leave town. Of course, she would not leave town. Why would he even say that?
Janine hiked back up to her bike. Still a bit shaken by the day’s events, she slowly peddled back home. Upon arrival, she started to heat the kettle for some tea but thought better of it. She needed something stronger, something to calm her nerves. She opened one of the cupboards and pulled out the bottle of Scotch she kept for guests. Not what she would have preferred but it was all she had. She poured a little into a glass and swallowed it in one gulp. The strong amber liquid burned, causing her to gasp and cough. Why do people actually like this stuff, she wondered, as she downed a glass of water to quell the flames in her throat.
Her eyes caught sight of the letter from the editor of the local newspaper that had arrived in the morning mail. She had written in hopes of being hired as a reporter and he had responded asking her for a sample of her writing. She grabbed her cell phone and dialed the editor’s number.
“Hello? I’d like to speak with Mr. Dalton.”
The secretary on the other end told her that Mr. Dalton was unavailable and asked if she cared to leave a message.
“Yes, I would. Tell him Janine Corbo called and that I have an exclusive for him. I was the one who found the baby’s body this morning.”
Janine heard a slight gasp then the secretary asked her to hold. Several moments later a deep gruff voice came on the line.
“Hello, Janine? Jake Dalton here. So, you’re the one who found that kid today.”
“Yes sir.”
“And, you want a job. Do you think you can accurately write up what happened this morning without leaving out any details?”
“Oh, yes sir!”
“Alright, you do that and email it to me by three this afternoon. If I like it, you’re hired.”
“It will be in your hands by noon, Mr. Dalton.”
“Well don’t rush it. Remember, you’re a journalist. It needs to flow, be interesting, accurate and without grammatical mistakes.”
“Of course. Thanks, Mr. Dalton.”
Janine disconnected then sat down, opened her laptop and began to write. The words came easily and before she knew it, the piece was finished. She titled it, Monday’s Child. After running it through spell check and rereading it several times to be sure there were no mistakes, she emailed it to Jake Dalton. She sat back in her chair and smiled. With that simple *send* command, she had officially become a journalist.
***
The next morning Janine flipped on her television after she prepared her breakfast. Addicted to watching the news, she settled into a chair and sipped the strong dark coffee that always gave her that little jolt she needed to start the day. On the tube, the detective who had questioned her spoke to reporters as he recounted the events of the previous day. He added that although a positive DNA match had not yet been determined, the baby girl had been visually identified by her parents, Mark and Diana Bolton of Bolton Industries.
Ancestors of the current Bolton family had founded the little town of Scenic Hills over one hundred years before and were considered township royalty. Their mill provided work for many of the town’s citizens and they were well known for their charitable contributions to needy residents. They were well liked and deeply respected. The loss of their child saddened many.
Janine still had not heard from Dalton. She began to worry that her piece had not impressed him when her phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Janine, Dalton here. Great job on your article. It will be in today’s afternoon edition.”
“Oh my goodness, thank you, Mr. Dalton.”
“No thanks needed. You’re an excellent writer. Now, I have an assignment for you. Are you up to it?”
“Already? I mean yes, yes of course.”
“The body of another child has been found. I want you to cover the story.”
“Another child? How horrible.”
“Indeed. Go to the old abandoned warehouse on Chestnut Street. You’ll need to leave right now. The police have already been on the scene for at least an hour. Oh, and … welcome to The Scenic Times.”
“Thank you. I’m on it.” Janine hung up and dressed. As she drove to the warehouse, she could not help but wonder about the murders that had so suddenly plagued her little town, a town whose biggest news stories prior to this had been car wrecks and the occasional fire.
As she pulled up outside of the warehouse, she felt a chill as the memory of her own experience the previous day flooded her mind. Come on Janine, you’re a reporter. You need to toughen up. This is not the first crime scene you’ve witnessed and it probably won’t be the last.
A police officer stopped her. “I’m sorry, Miss, this is a crime scene. You need to leave.”
“I’m Janine Corbo of The Scenic Times, Officer. I was hoping to get some information regarding the murder.”
As she finished speaking, she saw the detective who had questioned her the day before. She waved her hand. “Detective, a word?”
The tall muscular investigator sauntered over. “It’s okay, Officer. I’ll handle this.” He smiled and held out his hand. “Miss Corbo, Detective Anders. What are you doing here?”
Funny, she hadn’t noticed how good looking he was before. They shook hands. “I’m covering the story for The Scenic Times and I was hoping to get a statement.”
“Really. You didn’t mention that you were a reporter when we spoke yesterday.”
“That’s because I wasn’t a reporter yesterday.”
“Hmm. Oh … kay.” His right eyebrow arched as he rubbed his chin.
“I know. It’s weird. They hired me right after I sent them a piece on the Bolton baby. It will be in this afternoon’s edition. Anyway, what happened here?”
“Well, all I can tell you is that we found another child, a boy who appears to be approximately two years old.”
“Were there any marks on the body?”
“None that the ME found at this point.”
“I see. He was probably smothered.”
“And you know that how?”
Janine’s jaw dropped in embarrassment. “I … don’t actually. Just a guess. I’m a crime buff. I’ve picked up a lot about forensics.”
“I see.” Anders chuckled softly then grew serious. “Actually, the ME did find some fabric fibers in the boy’s mouth. He mentioned that smothering could be the cause of death but he wants to do a complete autopsy before making it official.”
“Do you know the identity of the boy?”
“We have our suspicions.”
“Oh, and who might he be?”
“Sorry, this is an ongoing investigation. I’m not at liberty to say.” There was that gorgeous smile again.
“Is there anything else you can tell me?”
“Only that the ME determined that the boy died early this morning. You’ll have to wait until the press conference to get the rest of the information just like all the other reporters. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to get back.” He turned and began to walk away.
“When will that be?” Janine yelled at his retreating form.
“Five this evening,” he shouted back as he continued walking.
True to his word, at five sharp Detective Anders stood in front of a sea of microphones and gave a detailed statement about what they had learned so far.
The little boy was the son of Edward Kaddish, the head of the law firm servicing both the business and personal needs of the Boltons. Janine shuddered at what she felt was an obvious connection between the two dead children. The boy had indeed died by being smothered, and the police had been tipped off to the body’s location by an anonymous caller. Detective Anders did not comment or speculate about the possibility that the two murders were related.
Afterward, Janine rushed home and wrote up her second article. She titled it, Tuesday’s Child, then emailed it to Dalton.
***
At eight o’clock the next morning, Janine again sat in front of her TV eating breakfast. She bit off a piece of toast then almost choked as an announcer broke in with a special report. Yet another body had been found, that of a ten-year-old boy. His little body had been discovered floating in the big fountain at the center of Town Square. Once again, the police had been alerted by an anonymous caller who claimed to be on an early morning run at half past five that morning.
Janine rushed downtown and arrived just as a news conference began. Detective Anders announced that the boy had positively been identified as the son of Mark Bolton Senior’s secretary. Mark Bolton Sr was the patriarch of the Bolton family and the grandfather of the first child found. He also revealed that the boy had been strangled.
After his statement, reporters began shouting questions at Anders. Janine decided to ask one of her own.
“This child is the third murdered in as many days. Obviously, this is the work of a serial killer. All three children have connections to the Bolton family. Could this be a case of some kind of revenge?”
Anders gulped. In all of his career, he had never had a case like this one. He felt a bit unsettled by the fact that the question came from Janine, the person who found the first body. Was she involved? “Miss Corbo, all I can tell you is that all three children had ties to the Boltons. Anything beyond that would only be speculation.” He held up his hand. “Thank you, everyone. That’s all that I have for now.”
Janine drove home in silence. At first, she had been thrilled to write for the Times. Now, she dreaded penning her latest article, Wednesday’s Child.
***
At five am Thursday morning, Janine awoke to the ringing of her phone. With one eye open and the other struggling, she saw that the caller ID displayed Dalton’s name. She snapped to attention. “Mr. Dalton, good morning.”
“Janine, get down to the Broad Street exit of Route 88 right now. They found another body.” Before she could reply, he disconnected.
Upon arrival at the crime scene, she noted that she was the first reporter to arrive. In fact, emergency vehicles were still arriving. She spotted Anders and waved.
“I’m sorry, Janine, I don’t have time right now.” He took a step then turned back. “How did you get here so fast, anyway. I wasn’t aware that the press had been notified.”
Janine shrugged. “They must have been. My editor called and woke me up.”
Anders shook his head. “Well, at this point I have nothing. I’ll have more later at the five pm press conference.”
At the press conference that evening, Anders disclosed that the eighteen-year-old female had been an intern at Bolton Industries. Though it was unknown why she had been walking the highway, she had been the victim of a hit and run. No further details were provided.
By this time, the residents of Scenic Hills, especially those with direct ties to the Boltons, had become terrified since all of the murders obviously revolved around that prestigious family.
With a heavy heart, Janine wrote Thursday’s Child.
The body of Friday’s Child, the six-year-old son of Mark Bolton’s other son Samuel, had been found in a tree house inside of the Bolton compound. A half-eaten package of chocolate cookies lay beside him. When tested, they were found to contain arsenic.
Saturday’s Child was not a child at all. The body of Mark Bolton Jr, father of the first victim and heir to the Bolton business empire, was found in his car in the company parking lot. He had been shot in the head.
As Janine wrote her series, she realized that the victims of the murders had an eerily bizarre similarity to an old poem she had once read whose lines described a different child on each day of the week. There was something else. In each case but the first, the police had been tipped off by an anonymous caller. Coincidence? Perhaps, but she thought it more likely that the murderer made the calls.
Assuming she was right about the poem, there would be one more child, Sunday’s Child, a good and happy child. Who would be next? Janine’s eyes lit up as an imaginary light bulb went off inside of her head. She knew who the next victim would be, and after a few minutes of Googling, she also guessed the identity of the killer and why. Thankfully it was still Saturday. She dialed Detective Anders. “I know who’s next on the hit list. Meet me at the Bolton compound.”
“Wait a minute, you need to tell me more than that.”
“No time. Just do it!” She hung up without further explanation.
After arriving at the compound, Janine squeezed through the bars of the wrought iron gates. All of the rooms were dark except for one. She headed for the outside window and slowly raised her head until her eyes were just above the sill. Inside, Mark Bolton Sr stood upon a chair, a noose around his neck, hands tied behind his back with a gag in his mouth. Another man stood beside him, his back to Janine.
“How does it feel, Bolton? How does it feel to lose your children?” The man circled around the chair. Janine saw his face and gasped. He continued his taunting. “My son hanged himself, you know. This,” he gestured toward Bolton, “is exactly how I found him that night. It’s right that you go the same way.”
Janine saw him raise his foot. He was going to kick the chair out from under Bolton and she had to do something fast. She pulled off her shoe and threw it at the window. The sound of glass shattering caught the killer’s attention. He faced the window. Janine stood there, eyes wide, trying to think what to do next. Where the heck was Anders? She held her head high. “You used me.”
“Yes, I did. I’m sorry, Janine, but now you have to die too.” He began to advance toward her. Someone grabbed Janine’s arm from behind and tossed her aside. A shot rang out. The killer keeled over backwards, dead.
***
At one pm on Sunday, Detective Anders stood behind the microphones. Janine stood at his right with Mark Bolton Sr at his left. Anders announced that the serial killer had been shot and killed while attempting to murder Bolton and another victim. He then introduced Mark Bolton Sr.
“I would like to apologize to all of the residents here in Scenic Hills. God knows, this tragedy has shaken the entire community. But it’s over now and thanks to the bravery of this young lady,” he gestured towards Janine, “the murderous rampage of Jake Dalton is over.
“I will try my best to explain why this happened. Dalton’s son Aaron had worked at Bolton Industries as a junior executive for almost five years. But the stress became too much for him and as a result, he made mistakes and never advanced. Despondent over his failures, he committed suicide and Dalton blamed me.
“For years, Dalton accused me of putting too much on the young man, ultimately culminating in his death. He filed a lawsuit against me for wrongful death. He lost. Still craving revenge, he took the lives of children close to my heart, including members of my immediate family. He wanted me to suffer as he did. He wanted me to know and feel his incredible pain. I do.
“I was to be his last victim. But thankfully, he failed in the end, and although my heart is broken, at least now the killing will end.”
Bolton yielded the microphone to Anders who declared the press conference concluded.
As the little group retreated, Anders gently touched Janine’s hand. Without thinking, she entwined her fingers through his and gazed into his eyes. “I wonder why he used me to report his crimes. They would have made the news without me.”
“Maybe he felt an odd sense of control. He was your editor after all. He could have changed what you wrote if it didn’t suit him.”
“I suppose.”
“Does it really matter?”
Janine cocked her head to one side. “Guess not, Detective.”
“I do have a first name.”
“You mean, it’s not Detective?” Janine winked.
“It’s David, and David would like to know if you would join him for a cup of coffee.”
“I’d love to.”
He dropped her hand and threaded her arm through his. “Then, shall we?”
~~~
SUNDAY’S CHILD
Monday’s child is fair of face, Tuesday’s child is full of grace. Wednesday’s child is full of woe, Thursday’s child has far to go. Friday’s child is loving and giving, Saturday’s child works hard for a living. And the child born on the Sabbath day Is bonny and blithe, good and gay.
Welcome to Write the Story! Each month Writers Unite! will offer a writing prompt for writers to create a story from and share with everyone. WU! wants to help our members and followers to generate more traffic to their platforms. Please check out the authors’ blogs, websites, and Facebook pages and show them support. We would love to hear your thoughts about the stories and appreciate your support!
Images are free-use images and do not require attribution. Image by StockSnap from Pixabay.
First Date
Lynn Miclea
Allison drove down the two-lane parkway, glancing at the rushing river flowing by the side of the road. Excited and nervous, she licked her dry lips. She hated first dates. They were always so filled with promise and possibilities, but they almost always were horribly disappointing. She hoped this one would work out.
After meeting Ron online in a book group, they had exchanged numerous private messages, emails, and then phone calls. As their conversations progressed, she felt more comfortable with him, but something still bothered her, and she wasn’t sure what. He didn’t live that far away, and he suggested they meet since they had so much in common. A bit reluctant, and her stomach churning, she agreed.
Now jittery with second thoughts, Allison realized her throat was too dry and she decided to stop at a small store for a bottle of water. There were not many cars on the road, and glancing in her rear-view mirror, she saw only one vehicle behind her, a dark SUV a good ways back.
Two miles down the road, a gas station with a small convenience store appeared on the right. That looked perfect. She pulled in and parked on the side. After buying a bottle of chilled water, she gulped down half the bottle, wiped her mouth with her hand, and got back in her car. Feeling better, she started to pull out of the parking lot.
She noticed a dark SUV parked towards the back of the parking area as she pulled out onto the parkway. Something was tickling at the edges of her mind. What was it? Then it hit her. The dark SUV. Was that the same one that had been behind her on the road? Possible, but maybe not. But even if it was, it didn’t mean much. Whoever it was must have also needed to stop there. She was just nervous and reading into things.
Putting it out of her mind, she let the sound of the rushing water from the nearby river refresh her as she drove, and thought about her upcoming date. Ron had seemed very nice on the phone, but she was not sure she trusted anyone she met online. Especially when her gut was churning when she thought about it. But she didn’t know what was wrong, and she dismissed it as simply nerves. He seemed like a nice person and he liked the same murder mystery books that she did. That had to be a good sign. At least she hoped so.
Ten minutes later, she pulled off the parkway and drove a half mile down the road. Glancing in her rear-view mirror, she saw a dark SUV behind her. The hairs on her arm stood up. Was that the same one? Was he following her? And if so, who was he?
The coffee shop where she was meeting Ron was two blocks away. On impulse, she made a quick right turn. No one was behind her — good. She made another right and then two more, making a complete circle back onto the same street. Confident that she had lost the SUV, she pulled into the parking lot at the coffee shop and parked the car.
As she checked her watch, she saw she was five minutes early. She walked to the front and reached for the large glass door at the entrance to the coffee shop. She hoped this date would go well. For some reason, she was not looking forward to it, and she just wanted to get it over with.
Wondering if Ron was here yet, she glanced at the parking lot before she went in. As she looked around, she saw a dark SUV pull in. The hair rose on the back of her neck. Was that the same one? She peered into the cab through the window and briefly saw a young man with dark hair and scruff on his jawline. The man looked at her, his eyes boring into her, and then he quickly looked away and pulled around the corner and went out of sight. Who was he? Was she imagining things?
Her mouth dry again, she backed away from the entry door and wondered if she should call Ron and cancel the date. Something wasn’t right.
As she thought about her options, a man with short, light brown hair approached the entrance with quick strides, and he smiled at her. “Allison?”
He looked somewhat familiar but not quite like his profile picture on the internet. “Ron?”
“Yes, thank you for coming. It’s nice to finally meet you in person.”
“You too. I’m glad we can …” She stopped talking as she noticed the dark-haired man from the SUV approach. “Um, let’s go in,” she quickly stated, wanting to be away from the man who seemed to be stalking her.
“Is everything okay?” Ron asked.
“I’m not sure. This guy has been following me.”
Ron’s face paled and his eyes narrowed. “Who’s been following you?” His voice dropped and he sounded serious and concerned.
“I’m not sure … I just noticed this SUV …”
“Wait. I left something in my car.” Ron seemed agitated as he started to turn. Then he reached for her arm. “Come with me.” He pulled her with him into the parking lot.
The dark-haired man rushed toward them and took out a weapon. “Freeze!” he yelled. “Police!”
Ron held firmly to her arm and continued moving, pulling her through the parking lot toward his car.
“Wait,” Allison yelled, struggling to get free. “What is going on?”
Ron’s strong grip held her firmly. “That’s not the police. Stay with me.”
“Then who is that?”
“I’ll explain later. Let’s get in my car. We need to get out of here.”
“Stop! Police!” the dark-haired man yelled, rushing after them.
Confused, Allison glanced back at the man. Was he the stalker? Was he just pretending to be a cop? Or was he really the police? Was Ron who he said he was? Why would the police be after him? She had no idea who anyone was or who to trust. Nothing made sense.
Still holding tightly to her arm, Ron unlocked his car door and opened the passenger door. “Get in,” he ordered.
Feeling shaky, her breathing shallow, she backed up to the side of the car and stared at him. Nothing felt right anymore. “No,” she stated. “I can’t.”
Still gripping her arm, Ron glared at her. “Allison,” he shouted at her. “Get in the car. Now!”
Not knowing who to trust, but at least Ron was more familiar, she turned and took a step toward the door and put one foot into the car.
The dark-haired man rushed toward them, leaped forward, and grabbed Ron’s free arm.
Ron released Allison, and she quickly backed out of the car and scooted out of the way, watching in horror as Ron punched the man.
The man fought back and tackled Ron to the ground.
Horrified, Allison gasped and slowly stepped a few feet farther away, watching the men as their fists flew, pounding into each other’s body and face.
The two men wrestled, and finally the dark-haired man held Ron face down with a strong hold, took out handcuffs, and snapped them on Ron’s wrists.
Shocked and confused, Allison watched, frozen in place. Was he really a cop? She still wasn’t sure. She wanted to run but felt glued in place.
A couple minutes later, two cop cars pulled into the parking lot, their lights flashing. After coming to a stop, four uniformed officers jumped out of the vehicles and approached Ron and the man who now seemed to be an officer.
“Got him,” the officer who had wrestled the man said. He grabbed Ron’s handcuffed arms and helped him stand up. The five officers briefly spoke to each other, and one officer then took custody of Ron and walked him back to one of the patrol cars. He read Ron his rights and then pushed him into the back seat of the vehicle.
After the officers conferred with each other, two of the uniformed officers got back in their patrol car. The other two began taping off the area with crime-scene tape.
The dark-haired man approached Allison. “Ma’am, I’m Officer Samuels.” He took out and flashed a badge. “I apologize if I scared you by following you, but you were the best lead we had to get that guy.”
“To get Ron? What is going on? I was meeting him for a date.”
“Ma’am, I need to ask you a few questions and get a statement from you. Then I’ll explain everything.”
“I … I … okay.”
“You know what?” He relaxed and his voice softened. “You seem a bit on edge. Let’s go into the coffee shop and get a cup of coffee while we talk. You can relax, take your time, and answer some questions. Is that okay?”
Allison nodded. “Okay.”
After they were seated in a back corner of the coffee shop, Officer Samuels sipped his coffee. “So, first tell me how you met him and what happened. Don’t leave anything out.”
“Yes, of course.” Allison explained how they met and the progression of their contacts and how they had agreed to meet.
“So this is the first time you met him in person?”
“Yes. This was our first date. I was nervous and something didn’t feel right, but I tried to brush that off.”
The officer asked a few more questions, and Allison answered them as best she could.
After she answered his questions, Officer Samuels let out a long breath and watched her for a few moments. “That guy is not who he says he is, and you’re lucky we got here when we did. We’ve been trying to catch this guy for a while now. He befriends women online, lures them on a date, and then the women go missing, often turning up dead days later.”
“What?”
“He is a dangerous man.”
“I had no idea. I …”
“My advice? Don’t trust people you meet on the internet, especially if you don’t know them.” He shook his head. “You seem like a nice lady. I’m glad we got here in time and you’re safe. You have no idea how lucky you are.”
Allison picked at her napkin. “You’re right. I should have known. I was too trusting.” She should have listened to her gut that something wasn’t right from the beginning. The cop was right, and she vowed to be more careful.
The cop glanced around the coffee shop. “You know what? It’s lunchtime, and you were coming here expecting a meal. Do you want to get something to eat? We’re already here and I’m hungry. Is that okay? My treat.”
Allison gave a nervous smile. “Okay, I guess. But, Officer, I …”
“Hey, relax, it’s over. I won’t bite. Let’s just enjoy lunch. Just two people having a nice meal together. And please call me Greg.” He signaled a waitress over and asked for menus.
After they ordered, Allison looked at him. “But … Greg, how did you know I was going to meet him? And why were you following me and not him?”
“Good questions. We had finally narrowed down who he was and how he lured his victims. We found one of the names he was using and who he was pretending to be. He was in that book club looking for his next victim, and we were monitoring it. But his contact information was encrypted and fake, with his true identity hidden. So it was hard to get to him directly. We were watching to see his next move. You were our best chance to catch him.”
“I had no idea. I thought …”
“That’s how they work. They make friends with unsuspecting people, get you to trust them, and then ask to meet. My best advice is don’t trust people you meet online.” He paused to make sure that sunk in.
Allison nodded. “That’s good advice.”
The waitress returned with their order and set plates of steaming food on the table. “Anything else?” she asked as she refilled their coffee cups.
“No, we’re good, thank you,” the officer replied.
As they ate their food, the conversation turned more casual and personal, and they ended up laughing. Allison was surprised how comfortable she felt with him. Greg was kind, respectful, and funny, and she found that she was really enjoying her time with him. He was not at all what she expected when she first met him, thinking he was a stalker. Now she knew he was a good man, thoughtful and kind. And as she viewed his face, now that it was softer and more relaxed, she realized he was actually very attractive. She was sorry that the meal was ending.
Greg asked the waitress for the bill, and he then gave Allison his business card. “Thank you for joining me for lunch and answering all my questions.” He wiped his mouth with his napkin. “If you think of anything else, please call me.” He smiled, and his voice got softer. “Hey, even if you don’t think of anything else, you can call me any time.”
Allison laughed. “I will. You are very nice.”
His eyes grew warm. “Hey, I have a better idea. Can I call you? Could we do this again? I really enjoyed our time together.”
Allison smiled. “I’d like that. I enjoyed this too.”
After paying the bill, he turned to Allison. “I’m sorry your first date with him was not quite what you expected.”
“No, but I still had a first date, just with someone else.” Her smile grew wider. “And I had a very good time.”
He chuckled. “Thank you, Allison, that is kind of you to say.” He glanced at his watch. “I’m sorry, but I need to get back to the station. Let me walk you out and make sure you get safely to your car.”
As they walked through the coffee shop to the front, she felt his warm hand on her back guiding her, and the warmth seeped deeper into her body.
When they reached her car, he turned to her. “You are very sweet. Thank you for one of the best lunches I’ve had in a while.” He squeezed her arm. “Please stay safe. I’ll call you later.” He waited until she got in the car, then he waved, turned, and walked back toward the crime-scene area and the other officers.
As Allison drove home, listening to the rushing water in the river next to the road, she thought back over the events that day. This had definitely been a memorable first date, but not with whom she thought it would be.
She smiled and found herself looking forward to a second date.
Welcome to Write the Story! Each month Writers Unite! will offer a writing prompt for writers to create a story from and share with everyone. WU! wants to help our members and followers to generate more traffic to their platforms. Please check out the authors’ blogs, websites, and Facebook pages and show them support. We would love to hear your thoughts about the stories and appreciate your support!
Images are free-use images and do not require attribution. Image by StockSnap from Pixabay.
Rainy Days
D. A. Ratliff
Abigail Reed shivered as she huddled against the cabin’s front door, attempting to stay out of the heavy rain blowing across the porch. She watched the trees sway, hoping the branches of the pines and oaks surrounding the house wouldn’t break. Where was that dog?
“Clancy! Come on, boy, we need to go inside.”
Out of the darkness, a soaked and excited Golden Retriever bounded up the steps, stopping in front of her. Before she could throw the towel she held over him, he shook violently to dry himself.
“Stop. I have a towel to dry you.” She threw a big bath towel around him and rubbed vigorously. “I guess you’re dry enough to go inside.”
She opened the door, and Clancy pushed past her and ran to his food bowl, gobbling up the remainder of his dinner. “Worked up an appetite, did you?”
Uncorking a bottle of red wine, Abby poured a glass, then sank onto the comfortable leather couch and opened her laptop. After finishing his snack, Clancy trotted to the fireplace and lay down on the rug. Abby had lit a fire to ward off the late April chill, and the big dog stretched out to dry his damp fur.
She was rereading what she had written earlier when her phone rang—Patrick Simone, her producer.
“Hello, Patrick. How are things in DC?”
“Same as always, too many politicians. Just calling to see how you are.”
“I’m good. Trying to decompress.”
“I hear you, but it’s not easy.”
“How’s Gerard doing?”
“Called him this afternoon. He’s healing and said the docs assured him he’d have full use of his leg after physical therapy.”
“That’s great news. I’ll call him tomorrow.”
“Did you get the email from Mark Patton’s producer about being on his show on Sunday?”
“I did. Told him to send me the details.”
They chatted a bit, and after saying goodnight, Abby stared at the words on the laptop screen. She was working on her second novel but was too anxious to write. Talking to Pat brought back the anxiety of her last assignment, and concentrating was out of the question. She closed the laptop, flipped on the television, and watched a movie before heading to bed as the storms continued to rage.
~~~
Abby woke up with a pain in her neck, unable to move—Clancy was draped across her with one large paw on the top of her head. She wiggled her hips to dislodge the sixty-pound dog, but he didn’t budge.
Using her elbow, she nudged him. “Want to go for a walk?”
Walk was the magic word, and he leaped off the bed, his big paws pushing into her hip. Groaning, she rolled over, muttering. “You had to fall in love with a Golden Retriever puppy. Could have had a little dog.”
Dragging herself from bed, she let Clancy out into the small, fenced backyard, made coffee, and dressed. Clancy was pawing at the door to come in by the time the coffee brewed. She fed him, then went out on the front porch with her coffee and phone, sinking onto one of the four wooden rocking chairs. The sun was peeking over the mountains of North Carolina surrounding the narrow valley where her grandparents’ land sat, burning off the fog. She could smell the pine scent wafting along with the breeze across the dew-covered lawn. Peaceful didn’t seem to be an adequate word to describe the valley that morning. It was too idyllic for such a mundane word.
After checking the news headlines, she read her email. Mark Patton’s producer had sent her a few notes about the interview he wanted to record on Saturday morning. They would edit it and drop it in Mark’s live show on Sunday morning. She responded with a “sounds good to me” and saved the notes for later review. She didn’t want to think about work. Work made her think about the last assignment and how she and her crew nearly died.
Abby leaned her head against the chair back. The pesky thought it was time to stop playing reporter and get a real job returned. She put it aside once more and resumed writing.
Around one p.m., she noticed storm clouds gathering and decided she needed to take Clancy out before the rain started. His tail started wagging as she grabbed his leash, and he ran to the door. “Hang on, let me get your harness on, and we’ll go.”
Abby walked along the strip of grass between the road and the stream with Clancy in the lead until they reached the gate blocking the National Park fire road. There was only one other cabin on the road, and Abby remembered the forest ranger and his family who lived there when she was a child. When they moved, a rental company bought the cabin. She knew someone was staying there, as several times, a car and a truck had passed by her cabin.
Thunder rumbled, and she tugged on Clancy’s leash and turned toward home. Dark clouds rapidly moved in, and the first drop of rain fell as Abby saw a green Forest Service truck coming up the road. Rain fell harder as the truck stopped, and the driver rolled down the window.
“Get in. There’s a monsoon coming this way.”
Abby didn’t hesitate. Clancy jumped into the truck cab, and she followed as the deluge began. “Thank you. You saved us from being soaked.”
“Had some reports of hail, so glad I did.” He drove to the gate. “I check the fire road gate every day about this time, especially with all this rain. It’s a fire road—don’t need it to become impassable.” He paused. “I’m Nate Hogan. That’s some dog you have there.”
As if on cue, Clancy barked. “This is Clancy, and I’m Abby Reed.”
“I recognized you from the news. Close call you had, dodging incoming missiles.”
“We didn’t dodge too well, but we got through.”
He had turned the truck around as the rain fell in sheets. Slowly, he made his way back to her drive. “I think we need to wait this out.”
“I have no desire to get out in that mess.”
Nate absently scratched Clancy’s head and the pup lay down with his head in Nate’s lap. Abby laughed. “He likes you.”
His eyes met hers. “He knows I’m a good guy.”
“Uh… he’s perceptive for a ten-month-old puppy.”
“What brings you here?” He gestured toward the cabin.
“My grandparents own this cabin, and I wanted some downtime to write and decompress after the last assignment.”
“You write?”
“Yes, I published a spy thriller last year.”
“I’ll have to check it out.” He took a breath. “Do you know who is staying in the cabin near the fire road?”
“No, but I know a rental agency in Ashville owns that cabin. I’ve seen them pass by a few times but have never spoken to them. Why do you ask?”
“No reason. Just seen them a few times and wondered. They burned trash near the house, and my Smokey the Bear radar kicked in. Fire is not our friend.”
They spent the next fifteen minutes talking about the park and the mountain until the rain faded to a drizzle. Abby thanked him, and as she exited the truck, Clancy gave him a lick on the face.
He laughed. “Friendly dog. I come through around the same time every day. Maybe I’ll see you again.”
Abby nodded. “I’m sure Clancy would like that. Thanks again for the shelter.”
Once inside, she watched as he backed onto the road. Nate, the park ranger, was a fascinating man. The first man who piqued her interest in a long time, and Clancy liked him.
~~~
It rained most of the night, and it was a struggle to secure a stable connection to record the Mark Patton show. After stopping and starting a few times, they finished the interview. Thank goodness for good editors who would make the interview look flawless. She wondered if they would keep Clancy’s cameo when he jumped up on the table and barked at the camera. Knowing Mark’s sense of humor, he might ask to leave it in.
She called Gerald to check on his recovery and was pleased to know he would transfer to a rehab facility on Sunday. They chatted for a bit, and when she hung up, she shuddered as the image of the aftermath of the missile strike flashed in her memory.
Abby walked outside and plopped down onto a rocker. The rain had stopped, but the clouds were thick and gray. The stream was flowing fast from the recent heavy rains. She rubbed the back of her neck. Gerald had asked her when she was returning to DC. She had avoided answering. The notion that she didn’t want to return had crept into her thoughts over the last few weeks. Nearly getting killed in a war zone wasn’t helping her maintain enthusiasm for her job.
It didn’t help that sitting in her emails was an offer to teach journalism at Georgetown University. She asked for more time to decide, citing the attack, and they had graciously given her that, but the day of reckoning was near.
Whining from the door interrupted her thoughts. “Want to take a walk, Clancy?” An enthusiastic bark was her answer, and within minutes, Clancy was tugging at his leash and dragging her down the sloped drive.
The sky had lightened a bit, and Abby noticed a patch of blue in the distance. The forecast was for more rain, but they could take a long walk for now. She took a deep breath, savoring the fresh air. Redbuds, in full bloom, and budding dogwoods and mountain laurel dotted the mountains covered in spring green leaves. She had turned left at the base of the driveway and headed for the fire road entrance to the National Forest. There was a bit of flat land where she could throw the tennis ball she brought along for Clancy.
She passed by the cabin at the end of the lane. It was a rustic log cabin with a rickety barn behind it. She was surprised to see four vehicles parked there. She had only seen two of them pass her place.
Reaching the park gate, she took Clancy into the small field. He jumped and wagged his tail and raced for the ball as she threw, rushing back each time for her to throw it again. After fifteen minutes, she was worn out and tucked the tennis ball back into her jacket pocket. A whining Clancy wanted to play more, but he calmed down as soon as she reattached his collar.
“Good boy. When we get home, you get a special treat.”
As they walked home, she noticed a man standing in the doorway of the log cabin, watching her. She waved, but he didn’t react. About halfway to her cabin, a black van raced up the road, and she pulled Clancy as far to the edge as she could. The van’s windows were so dark she could barely see the driver. The hairs on her neck stood up, and she picked up her pace back to the cabin.
She was near her driveway when she spotted Nate’s truck coming toward her. She felt relieved as he stopped.
He leaned out the window as Clancy ran to him, jumping up to get his head scratched. “Hey, boy.” Nate looked toward Abby. “My luck to run into you.”
“Mine, too. We took advantage of no rain and took a long walk.” She held up the tennis ball. “We threw the ball in the clearing next to the park gate for a while. It wore me out more than him.”
He smiled, and Abby blurted out, “I am making chili for dinner… going to be colder this evening. If you don’t have plans, would you like to join us?”
His gaze held hers as he answered. “I’d like that a lot.”
They settled on a time, and Nate drove on to check the gate while Abby and Clancy returned to the cabin. As she walked inside, she silently thanked her grandmother for having the pantry and refrigerator stocked with groceries before she arrived. She spent the afternoon cooking and tidying the cabin.
Nate arrived promptly at seven p.m., bearing wine and dog snacks. Abby shook her head as Clancy wiggled as he got a treat. “I swear he likes you better than me.”
“No, he doesn’t, but he does like treats.”
Abby poured wine for them, and they sat on the couch in front of the fire. “Surprised how chilly it got tonight, thankful for the fire.”
He nodded. “Surprised me that this far south, it could dip into the forties at night this time of year.”
“You aren’t from here?”
“No, Chicago originally.”
“How long have you been with the park service?”
He bit his lip. “Been a federal employee for several years. Just assigned here a couple of months ago.”
“Where do you live here?”
“I rented a trailer in the RV park.”
“The one just past the tunnel along the main road to town.”
“That’s the place. Owners had an extra trailer there and made me a deal.” He sipped his wine. “You live in DC?”
“I do. I have a house on N Street, not far from Georgetown University.”
“Nice area.”
“You know DC?”
“Assigned there for a while as well. Tell me about your last assignment.”
“Not much to tell that hasn’t been discussed on the news. We got pinned down, and a mortar landed close to us. My cameraman was injured, leg fractured, but he’s going to be okay. Shrapnel hit my producer, Patrick, who threw his body over me, protecting me.”
“You were lucky.”
Abby stared into the fire. “My luck is not what it used to be. Considering leaving the news business and teaching journalism at Georgetown. The Dean made an offer, but I haven’t accepted.”
“Wouldn’t you miss the limelight?”
She chuckled. “No, not at all. Never wanted to be a star. I only wanted to cover the news, which is not easy these days. Too many opinions and not enough hard news.”
“Think you’d be happy?”
“I could write, teach, and not travel so much. Sometimes I think I got Clancy because I knew I would need to stay closer to home.”
“Sounds like you have made up your mind.”
Abby looked back at the fireplace. “I think you’re right.” She stood up. “Hungry?”
“I am. That chili smells good.”
Nate left about eleven p.m., and as she watched the taillights on his truck disappear, she realized she was ready for a change. She smiled. Maybe a change in everything.
~~~
Sunday morning, Abby watched the Mark Patton Hour, pleased that Mark included Clancy’s cameo. He seemed pleased, barking at the screen. She fixed breakfast and then sent an email to the Dean of the Journalism department and accepted the offer, then drafted a letter to the network that she would send tomorrow.
She began writing on her novel until distant thunder interrupted her, surprised it was nearly three p.m. “Clancy, we need to go outside before it rains again.”
As they neared the log cabin, she noticed the black van from yesterday was parked in the drive, the rear door open. She clutched Clancy’s leash tighter and decided to turn around. She’d taken two steps when a gruff voice called out to her.
“Hey, neighbor, where ya going?”
She turned. “Just heading home before the rain.”
He took two long strides and was directly in front of her. “Been meaning to say hello. You’re that hot TV news gal. What are you doing in North Carolina?”
Abby took a step backward. “Just taking a few days off. If you’ll excuse me, I need to get back.”
She turned, but he grabbed her arm. “You ain’t going anywhere. You’ve been snooping on us. Think you got a news story.” He laughed. “Well, you do.” He jerked the leash from her hand and kicked Clancy away. “We got something planned for the government, and you can have a front-row seat to tell our story. Might even let you live if you play ball.”
He started dragging her toward the house, but she yelled for Clancy to go home. He slapped her. “Shut up, or I’ll kill the dog.” She struggled, and he hit her hard enough to knock her out.
~~~
Nate decided to surprise Abby with a pizza, and as he drove up to the house in the rain and darkness, he was surprised to see no lights shining. A chill shimmied down his spine, and he feared the worst. He should have told her what was going on. Nate parked on the road, grabbed a slicker and flashlight, and started walking toward the other cabin. His heart seized when his light caught a pale body lying next to the raging stream that ran beside the road. He ran as he realized it was Clancy.
“Hey, boy, are you okay?”
He gasped as the dog raised his head, seeing his snout covered with blood. Clancy wagged his tail and stood a bit wobbly. “Come on, let’s get you in the truck.”
Out of the rain, he checked Clancy’s pupils, thankful the dog didn’t seem to have a head injury. He used a jacket to dry his wet fur. “Clancy, those people took her, didn’t they?” Clancy barked and licked Nate’s face. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
Nate pressed a contact on his phone. “Jamison, the reporter I told you about, she’s missing. I think they have her … Yes, I’ll be parked in her drive waiting for you. It’s time to go in.”
~~~
Abby woke up, arms and legs tied to a chair. She was wet, chilled, and her jaw hurt. She heard voices from another room and started yelling. The door flung open, and the man who took her walked in, followed by another man.
“Shut up, or I’ll backhand you again. It appears you’ve seen too much, Ms. Reed, but you can live to tell our story if you cooperate. At worst, you will be a hostage if the Feds find us.”
“What are you planning?”
The second man smiled. “Tomorrow, we’re blowing up the Federal Building in Charlotte.”
They left, locking the door behind him. Abby tugged at her bindings, but her struggles were fruitless. She dropped her head against her chest. Her only worry was Clancy.
Her head was aching, and she dozed off. A loud explosive bang startled her awake, her pulse racing. She straightened as best she could in the chair, and when she heard someone yell “FBI,” her body flooded with relief.
The door burst open, and she gasped, shocked to see Nate wearing an FBI tactical vest and holding a weapon.
“Nate, what…”
He began to cut the ropes. “Told you I’d been a Federal employee for a while. Just didn’t tell you it was with the FBI. I was undercover as a Park Ranger to surveil these guys. We were waiting for them to leave to follow where they were going, but we decided to raid the cabin when I realized they must have taken you. Can you stand?”
She nodded. “They planned to blow up the Federal Building in Charlotte. Clancy?”
“He’s fine. He’s in my truck.”
“Thank goodness.” She collapsed against him.
“Let’s get you checked out, have paramedics waiting.”
~~~
They returned to the cabin near midnight. Abby curled up on the couch, and Clancy curled up on his bed in front of the fireplace. Nate brought her coffee.
“Got a bit of brandy in it. Will help you sleep.” He pointed to Clancy. “Like he is after eating the entire pizza I left in the truck.”
“He loves pizza. Glad he’s okay.”
Nate sat on the couch. “I’m glad you both are.”
“So, you live in DC?”
“I do. Have an apartment off of Pennsylvania Avenue in the Northwest.” He smiled. “Are you taking the Georgetown job?”
“I am.”
“Good, then you’ll be in town and not traveling.”
“I will.”
“Good.”
The sound of a crackling fire and snoring Golden Retriever filled the cabin. Looking at Nate in the firelight, she saw what she felt reflected in his eyes. Life was changing, and they were ready for it.
DR. ROBERT YOHO, a retired physician and cosmetic surgeon from California, joined host Paul W. Reeves to discuss his career, the world of medicine, and his books, including his newest release, “Butchered By Healthcare – How Doctors and Corporations Try To Kill You For The Money And How To Survive Anyway“.
FROM HIS WEBSITE:
“I was born in l953 in Richmond, Virginia, and grew up in Kent, Ohio, (known for the Kent State riots during the Vietnam war). I was an Eagle Scout and a Judo wrestler.
I spent four years at Oberlin College and went to Small College National Championships in Varsity Wrestling his senior year. I was then accepted at one of the finest medical schools in the United States, Case Western Reserve University in Cleveland, Ohio.
2020-2021 full-time writer; 2019: retired from my medical and surgical practice and resigned my medical license. I had a fantastic career, and I was initially sad to end it. But I was soon relieved that I was no longer responsible for patient care and was able to write full time without conflicts of interest; 1992-2019: Cosmetic surgery practice, Pasadena, Visalia, and Oxnard, California. Liposuction, breast implantation specializing in through the umbilicus (belly button), laser blepharoplasty, face-lifts, facial implants, laser resurfacing, vein treatments, hair transplantation. Operated medical hyperbaric chamber between 1996 and 2000; 1987-1994: General practice in Pasadena, California.”
Admin Note: Welcome to our newest source of information for authors. “Dr. Paul’s Family Talk” radio program on Impact Radio USA offers interesting and entertaining interviews of authors who share their writing journey as inspiration for all writers finding their way. Dr. Paul also interviews successful individuals in education, finance, conspiracy theorist, medicine, self-help, motivation, musicians, artists, and more. These interviews give insight into various careers providing writing research and possible character ideas.
Look for additional Dr. Paul’s author interviews on the page found on the menu bar. Enjoy!
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This article is a reprint of a post from June 22, 2018.
SUCCESS AS AN AUTHOR
Lynn Miclea
Many new writers and authors often wonder what it takes to be considered a successful author. How many books do they need to sell before they are considered successful? How much money do they need to make in royalties before they can say they’ve really made it? How is success measured?
In our society, and for many of us, success is often defined as money, fame, and power. But I think we do ourselves a big disservice when we define it that way, or base it on specific numbers reached, whether it’s book sales or income.
What about an author who has only published a few books, but they are well-written, filled with heart, humor, and gut-wrenching honesty? What about a new author’s book that opens up unique and fascinating worlds to explore? Or an author’s story that shares the overcoming of a huge difficulty in life that can inspire and help others? Or a new author’s book that touches the lives of others in powerful and profound ways? Would you say they are not successful?
I used to think of success in terms of a huge number of books sold, a steady income from royalties, and being on the best-seller list. However, those goals may be fleeting, arbitrary, unrealistic, and self-defeating – using those as criteria for success can discourage or undermine talented writers, stop them from doing their best, or cause them to give up too soon. You can be successful without reaching those typically out-of-reach goals for most writers – so don’t sell yourself short. And don’t give up.
To me, success is measured in the fulfillment of publishing the ideas and stories within me. It is in producing well-written and memorable books, stories, and articles that I can be proud of. It is in touching the lives of others through my words. It is putting my creative thoughts and imagination into a cohesive and powerful story, and getting that on paper in a way that is touching, heart-felt, and powerful.
Success is not a destination – success is a living, breathing, shifting journey of discovery and creativity that you can choose to be part of.
If you have done your best with as much integrity as possible, are proud of your work, and are happy with who you are and where you are, then you are successful. That is the success we should strive for. And that is in your hands, within your grasp.
Success is the expression of and explosion of creativity, heart, and imagination, all coming together in powerful and moving stories. It is exciting and fulfilling and continues to unfold in spectacular new ways and in glorious wonder.
Number of books sold? That doesn’t even come close.
Go for real success – the fulfillment of a dream. And that is something all of us can do.
Images are free-use images and do not require attribution. Image by Danie Reche from Pixabay.
LYNN MICLEA grew up in New York and moved to California while in her twenties. A certified hypnotherapist and Reiki master practitioner with a bachelor’s degree in psychology, she spent many years working in the medical field and in various offices in an administrative capacity.
After retiring, Lynn discovered and developed a passion for writing, and she is now a successful author with many books published and more on the way. Her two memoirs, one of her family’s experience with ALS, and one of her own journey through open-heart surgery, have received numerous five-star reviews.
She also has published ten sweet, exciting, and fun children’s books, which are uplifting, loving, feel-good animal stories, filled with warm humor, and which are about kindness, compassion, helping others, seeing the best in others, and believing in yourself.
She hopes that through her writing, she can help empower others and add more joy and love to the world. She asks everyone to be kind to each other as we all share this journey through life together.
Lynn currently lives in the Los Angeles area with her husband.
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Learn more about Lynn at her amazon author page here. And please visit her website at www.lynnmiclea.com for more information on her books.
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