Rave Reviews Book Club’s “Spot light” Author, Michael Lynes

Author PicBook CoverAuthor Bio:

Mr. Lynes is a serial entrepreneur who enjoys dry red wine and single malt scotch. When not occupied with arcane engineering projects he spends his time playing with his two grandchildren, baking bread, feeding seasoned hardwood into his ancient Timberline wood-stove, working on his various cars, bird watching and taking amateur photographs. His current menagerie include one short-haired turtle shell cat and a pair of actual turtles.

His last book, There is a Reaper; Losing a Child to Cancer, was an Indie B. R. A. G. Gold Medallion Honoree in January 2017, a silver-medal winner of the 2016 Readers International Awards for Memoir, a medalist in the 2015 New Apple Book Awards for Memoir, a winner of the 2015 TISBA (The Indie Spiritual Book Awards) and a finalist in both the Independent Author Network 2015 Book of the Year Award and the Beverly Hills Book Awards for 2015.

Mr. Lynes was awarded a BSEE degree in Electrical Engineering from Stevens Institute of Technology and currently works as an embedded software engineer. He has a consuming interest in the science of emotion as promulgated by Dr. Paul Ekman and has made a comprehensive study of his Face and Emotion courses.

Mr. Lynes has four sons, has been married for over thirty yeas and currently lives with his wife and youngest son in the beautiful secluded hills of Sussex County, NJ.

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Follow Michael online:

Twitter-https://twitter.com/woodheat

Facebook- https://www.facebook.com/MLynesAuthor/

Website-https:mikelynes.wixsite,com/mlynesauthor

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Michael’s Books:

The Fat Man Gets Out Of Bed: https:/www.amazon.com/Fat-Man-Gets-Out-Bed/dp/1938812905

There is a Reaper-https://www.amazon.com/There-Reaper-Losing-Child-Cancer-ebook/dp/BOOXNZW6C4

Two Way Radio

Hey! Let me clue you into the Next Big Thing! Are you ready?

It’s, (insert drum roll here) Handheld Two-Way Radio! Taa-daa(waves tiny flag) Exciting huh?

If you are mentally backing away right now without making eye contact I can’t say I blame you.

Wireless tech is everywhere these days. Nobody thinks twice about downloading movies to their smartphone or posting the live output of their drone-can to their social media account. In fact, unless you’ve sent the last couple of decades living in the interior of Papua New Guinea, you use wireless two-way radios every day.

But , you say, those apps are hip and modern! Handheld two way radio is old school.Good maybe for firefighters or NASA but not for us tech-savvy Gen-Y’ers.

In reality Handheld Radio is even more important and ubiquitous than ever before. In fact according to a recent report in Homeland Security News Wire the worldwide market is on track to exceed sixteen billion dollars in 2017.

Two-way radio provides excellent low cost, high quality communications service to tens of thousands of commercial and public sector workplaces. However as with any complex system there are many modes of failure. Given the critical nature of these services the ability to correctly identify, diagnose and potentially resolve communications issues is a critical skill.

One of the most frequently reported issues with handheld radios is interference. Interference is unwanted radio energy in the same band as your handheld. Sources of interference can be divided into three categories:

1:Other nearby radio users

2 Incidental sources (Power lines, spark plugs or microwaves)

3 Environmental (electrical storms, geomagnetic conditions or sun spots)

Range is the next most reported issue. Range is the maximum that your radio can be separated from another and still be able to exchange information effectively. Radio waves radiate like a light bulb. On a clear night the only thing limiting the range would be the curvature of the earth itself. Why then do you have problems communicating with another radio only a few thousand feet away? The range of a radio signal can be limited by many things, some obstacles (like buildings or other structures) block or absorb or reflect the signal so that it is weakened. Range is also limited by the power that a signal is sent with.

Resolve range issues by increasing power, using a better antenna or changing your location.

Lastly the best advice is to RTFM (Read the Blanking Manual) Know how to use your radio! Mistuning, incorrect transmission settings and incorrect operating modes are frequent causes of performance issues. The user’s Guide or a training video can make you handheld experience tons better.

As with most things, a little common sense and following proper operating procedures go a long way. Before sending you radio in for expensive bench testing or repairs apply these simple troubleshooting tips and save yourself money and time.

 

 

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Posted in books, literature, Uncategorized, writing | 23 Comments

Lost

The two kittens, Mat and Fluffy had run until they were exhausted. Their horse friends pawed and whinnied and their voices became hoarse as they neighed in desperation. The biggest horse,Prince frantically pawed at the wall and made a hole large enough for the little animals to escape the flames that leaped in the air. Fluffy begged him to make a bigger hole or let them stay. They had run out into the frosty air as humans came to rescue the big animals that were terrified of the monster that enveloped them.

Mat came to an abrupt halt. “Where are we?” He looked around with eyes as big as saucers. “The biggest horse said to run as far away as possible. He didn’t think the humans would be able to rescue everyone.”

“One minute I was sound asleep on Prince’s back and the next there were red flames leaping on the far wall.” Fluffy meowed. “My fur is a mess and I am hungry. Where can we find something to eat?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know where we are.” Mat looked around again. “The flames didn’t follow us. We need to go back but I don’t know where back is.”

Fluffy looked around trying to get her bearings but shook her head. In all of the time they had lived on the farm they’d never been this far away from home where ever that was. The moon was just peaking through the trees as Fluffy wondered what to do. “Maybe if we climb the trees we will see something familiar. The humans always gave us warm milk when they milked our cow sisters. We will have to put our hunting skills to use and catch our own food.”

Mat looked over his shoulder, “We have company. One of the big eared animals that hop instead of running, like we do. The forest is full of strange animals and I don’t know which ones are more dangerous. If we aren’t careful they might eat us.”

Mat and Fluffy  watched from near a tree ready to scamper up  if necessary. The big eared animal hopped towards them. “You are new here. Where are you from?”

“We ran when large red flames terrified all the animals in the stable. One of our horse friends told us to run as fast as we could. Now we don’t know where home is. There was a white house with a veranda and a stable and other buildings. We got food on the veranda twice a day. The humans always rattled the food dish at meal time..” Fluffy said. “I am hungry and scared. Where is home?”

“There was a large garden all summer wasn’t there?” Miss Bunny asked as she looked at the scraggly kittens.

“Yes, we played there chasing butterflies in the sunshine,” Mat answered. “Do you know where it is?”

“Yes, but there isn’t much in the garden to eat now,” Miss Bunny said. “Have a rest and  then I will take you there. There is water in a bird bath if you don’t mind drinking around feathers.”

“Oh, thank you,” Mat and Fluffy said as they followed their new friend.

“I will take you to my home under the oak tree. You need to rest. There isn’t a fire here so you will be safe, my friends.”

The sun was peaking through the small opening under the oak tree when the kittens yawned and stretched. They were both hungry and thirsty ” I will try out my hunting skills and see if I can find us some breakfast. Miss Bunny offered us some strange green stuff but it didn’t taste good,” Mat said as he looked at his sister.

“Let me help hunt,” Fluffy said. “I am a good hunter, too.”

“Let’s stay together and not go far. Miss Bunny will be back shortly.”

The kittens snooped around the pile of crunchy leaves and soon each had captured a small mouse. They were sitting in Miss Bunnies doorway washing their faces when she returned. “Are you ready to go? I will show you the way home. I sent out word among my friends and it is safe to go that way.”

The kittens padded after Miss Bunny through the dense forest. Mat kept looking this way and that when he  heard strange sounds. They went single file with Miss Bunny in the lead and Mat taking up the rear. He was careful not to fall to far behind. Everything looked strange.

They had been traveling for hours when Fluffy paused. “Look there is the meadow. I will never get all the knots and burs out of my fur. I have never been such a mess. I am famished.”

“Me too but we have to keep following Miss Bunny. She will take us home,” Mat said as he trotted along the path.

Miss Bunny stopped and looked over her shoulder. “Look up ahead. We are just about there. Let’s avoid the burnt building. It smells terrible.”

A few minutes later they saw the charred remains of the stable and on the hilltop the white house stood unharmed. Fluffy and Mat started to run when they saw the house. They stopped a few feet away. “Thank you Miss Bunny. Do you want to come with us?”

“No, I have to stay out of sight. The big dogs chase me. One of my brothers got caught last summer and the dogs riddled him into pieces. I still have nightmares. I can still hear his screams for help.This is as far as I can go. Good luck, my friends,” Miss Bunny said.

“The dogs are our friends. I will have to talk to them,” Mat said as he said goodbye to Miss Bunny.

“Go, before they turn the lights off.” Miss Bunny said as she hugged each kitten.

“I can open the screen door, ” Fluffy said. “It is one of my special talents. Goodbye dear friend. I hope to see you again.”

The sun was low in the sky when Mat and Fluffy jogged across the yard and up the veranda steps where Fluffy hooked her paw under the screen door and opened it.They jumped up on the inside door just as they’d seen the dogs do many times. Mat and Fluffy meowed loudly as they scratched frantically.

In a few minutes the door was opened and a tall human stood there.”My dears where did you come from? We thought we’d lost you forever.” They were both picked up and cuddled. Mat and Fluffy purred and snuggled into the warm arms. “Oh, you must be hungry.”

Mat and Fluffy meowed a yes and squirmed out of the arms and stretched up against the human’s legs meowing.

This story was first published in the Story Quilt, an online Canadian magazine. You can follow me on the following.

Facebook: https:www.facebook.com/mehembroff

Twitter: https://twitter.com/margiesart1

 

 

Posted in animal stories, children's stories, literature, new beginnings, short stories, story collection, Uncategorized, writing | Leave a comment

Watch “RWISA” Write Showcase Tour/ Jonie Parker

joni-parker-photoRWISA TOUR (1)

On The Air by Joni Parker

Good afternoon, this is Mike Evans at iFantasy talk radio in Tucson, Arizona where we love to talk about science fiction and fantasy. Thanks for joining me today. We have a very special guest lined up for you, at iFantasy talk radio exclusive. World-famous journalist, Olivia Richards, is expected to join us via satellite telephone. As you may know, Olivia and her husband, John, were reported missing at sea several years ago, but she’s made contact and will be here in a few minutes. But first, we must hear from our sponsors at Cactus Thumb Nurseries. (run commercial)

Mike: Welcome back. We’ve just made contact with world-famous journalist, Olivia Richards. Hello, this is Mike Evans. Can you hear me? ( static) Olivia, are you there? (static)

Olivia: Yes, I can hear you, but just barely, please speak up.

Mike: I will. Thank you for joining me on iFantasy talk radio. I’m Mike Evans in Tucson, Arizona. Let me begin by asking, how are you and where are you?

Olivia: My husband and I are fine, but for the last few years, we’ve been stranded on this island called Seaward Isle. In 2011, we rented a sailboat in southern France and were sailing to Italy when we were caught in a ferocious storm. It came out  of nowhere. We hid in the cabin below deck for hours until our boat crashed on the shores of this island. We survived the crash just fine, but we haven’t been able to find a way off. We’ve met hundreds of people here just like us. That’s how I met Takura. He’s a friend of yours, I understand. He talked me into coming on this program because he was concerned people wouldn’t understand his English.

Mike: Yes, I’ve met him and I thought his English was fine. He went to Harvard for his doctorate.

Olivia: Yes, I know, but he feels very self-conscious.

Mike: How is he?

OLivia: He’s doing well. As you know, he’s a geologist and has gathered a group of Japanese scientists to figure out our situation. Unfortunately, we don’t have enough computers or the right equipment to do the job, but at least, he’s discovered that we’re not on Earth and he’s discussed this problem with the Elves.

Mike: Say what? You’re not on Earth? Did you say something about Elves? Are you kidding? Say, have you met Legolas by any chance? (Laughs)

Olivia: No, but yes, I’m serious. They’re real Elves. This island belongs to them and even they can’t figure out how we got here.

Mike: So where are you, if you’re not on Earth?

Olivia: We believe that this island is at the end of a wormhole somewhere in space. We don’t know how or where, but here we are. Takura believes the opening is located about six hundred kilometers above Earth’s surface somewhere near the moon. We ask all astronomers to use their equipment to locate the opening and ask NASA for a rescue mission. That seems to be our only hope.

Mike: Attention all astronomers and scientists at NASA! Olivia needs your help. Contact this station immediately if you can provide any assistance. (chuckles) How are you able to talk to us?

Olivia: My friend, Ebony Shorter, had a satellite telephone when she crashed on the island. She was in a yacht race that went around the world, but she was caught in a storm and ended up here. Takura and his friends repaired an old generator to make electricity to recharge the phone. He’s also set up a computer network with bits and pieces he’s found.

Mike: What do you use for fuel?

Olivia: The scientists use alcohol made of old potato skins and grain.

Mike: You mean moonshine. Right. Anything else we can help you with today, Olivia?

Olivia: No, just please get the word out. We’d really like to get home and see our families. Thank you so much for your help. (static) Our connection is fading…(static)…only a few (static)…Please help….(static)

Mike: Apparently, we’ve lost our connection to Olivia. Once again, let me reiterate her desperate situation. She’s located on an island called Seaward Isle, somewhere at the end of a wormhole and needs the help of astronomers and NASA scientists to locate this opening and rescue them. Well, maybe we can bring the Shuttle program back to life. Well, that’s all the time we have for today. Thank you for joining me on  iFantasy talk radio and join me tomorrow for another adventure into science fiction and fantasy. and don’t forget to send your comments and ideas to our Facebook page. Many thanks to our sponsor, Cactus Thumb Nurseries.

Mike leaned back in his chair and listened to the program again. Then he pulled out his cell phone. This had to be a joke. But he shook his head when he recalled that his old buddy Takura, could never tell a joke. He was so serious. They’d met in college nearly twenty years ago when they were freshmen at the University of Arizona with majors in geology. Tak, as he wanted to be called, was a foreign student from Japan and understood more English that he spoke. He also loved the geological formations in the local area, but knew nothing about hiking in the desert. Mike was an experienced hiker and took him under his wing.

They’d remained good friends, but lost contact when Tak transferred to Harvard to finish his doctorate in geology and later returned to join the faculty at the university. Mike speed-dialed the geology department and it rang and rang. Finally, a young woman answered the phone.

“Geology Department, University of Arizona. bear down, Wildcats!”

“I’d like to speak to Professor Takura, please.”

“I’m sorry, there’s no one here by that name.”

“What? Where is he?” Mike furrowed his brow.

“I’m sorry, sir, I don’t know.”

“Is Professor Lopez there?”

“Hold on.”

“Professor Lopez. Who’s calling?”

“Julio, this is Mike Evans.”

“Mike! What’s up, man?”

“Hey, I was trying to get in touch with Tak, but I understand he’s not there anymore. Where’d he go?”

“Don’t know, man. A few years ago, he went on a sabbatical and never came back. His parents told us the ship he was on disappeared in a bad storm.”

“You mean it sank.”

“No, man. It vanished. No debris, no oil slick, no survivors. Nothing.”

“Weird. I got an email from him at the radio station last week asking for an interview so I agreed. He sent Olivia Richards to speak to me. She’s a famous journalist who went missing a few years ago. She was on a ship in a storm, too. Anyway, she told me that they were stranded on an island called Seaward isle, somewhere in space at the end of a wormhole with Elves. I didn’t believe her.” Mike sighed, leaning back. “Thanks, man or should I say Professor?” He laughed and disconnected the call. After a few moments, he scrolled through his list of contacts and called one of them.

The receptionist said, “You have reached the National Aeronautical and Space Administration. How may I direct your call?”

“Doctor Rachel Goodwin, geology division.”

“Hold on while I connect you.”

“Doctor Goodwin speaking.”

“Hey, Rachel. It’s me, Mike Evans from Tucson.”

“Seriously? After all these years?”

“Hey, I come in peace. I apologize for whatever I did.”

“You don’t remember?”

“Not exactly. Hey, have you been in contact with Tak from college? The Japanese guy?”

“You mean the nice guy who asked me for a date and you told him he was nuts?”

“Um, yeah, him. I think he’s in trouble and needs help. Julio told me that he was on a ship that disappeared in a storm, a few years ago, but he emailed me for an interview on my radio program. He sent a friend, Olivia Richards, the famous journalist. She was lost at sea, too.”

“So you don’t have a regular job yet?”

“Not fair. I want you to listen to it, okay? Just listen and tell me what you think.”

“Okay.” She sighed.

Mike played the program. “Well, what do you think?”

Silence.

“Rachel? Are you there?”

“Yes. Is this a joke?”

“That’s what I thought, too but Tak couldn’t tell a joke if his life depended on it.”

She paused. “You’re right. Send me a link to your program.”

“Thanks, Rachel.” Mike sighed deeply when Rachel hung up. She hadn’t changed much and still resented that prank, but he’d always found her attractive. Maybe he should try again, someday. Mike shivered when the air conditioning kicked on; he’d been sweating heavily. He emailed her the link and leaned back. What if it’s real? Can’t be, can it?

 

Thank you for following Joni Parker today. You can learn more about her by going to Rave Reviews Book Club and then going to RWISA’s link. If you’ve become a fan check out the book RRBC and RWISA’s book catalogues for a listing of her books. You can also follow her on twitter: Twitter:@ParkerJoni Facebook:AuthorJoniParker. Once again thank you for following Joni Parker today.

 

 

 

 

 

Posted in fantasy, literature, mysteries, Science Fiction, series, short stories, story collection, Uncategorized | Leave a comment

Watch “RWISA” Write Showcase Tour/Stephanie Collins

RWISA TOUR (1)STEPHANIE COLLINS

Guilt, Shame and Fear by Stephanie Collins

“I can’t stand the feeling of being out of control, so I’ve never had any interest in trying drugs or alcohol,” I mused.

“You sure seemed to have an interest when you were younger,” Dad informed me. He responded to my perplexed look before I had a chance to deny his claim. “What?” You don’t remember trying pot? Let’s see. It was about 1975. That would make you five, right? I remember it like it was yesterday. It was a summer afternoon. I walked into the living room and found you with a bong in one hand and a beer in the other. You just looked up at  me, glassy-eyed, with a smile on your face and said, ‘Hi, Dad.’ You don’t remember that?”

“Uh…no!”

“Ha! Do you remember the massive headache you had the next day? You hated life that day! I told you not ever to do it again…. and you never did,” he reminisced in a tone laced with humor and pride.

It was after that conversation when I really began to question my apparent lack of childhood memories. I have next to no memory of life before the divorce of my parents (when I was eight) and precious few afterward.

My parental split also marks the onset of memories of the “secret playtime” I shared with Dad. I remember realizing that what was happening to me was wrong (to a certain extent, anyway), but Dad really missed Mom. I felt proud to be there for him in his time of grief and loneliness. I had many roles as the oldest daughter. I got my toddler sister to bed on time, scolded her when I found her drinking a beer (that one I do have a vague memory of), and I cleaned the house. Those “more intimate interactions” with Dad were just another in my list of responsibilities as I saw it.

But if Dad remembered the timeline correctly, Mom and Dad were still together when I was five. Where was Mom when her Kindergartener daughter was experimenting with drugs? Could this mean I should add neglect as a descriptor of my “chaotic” upbringing? Could it mean the molestation began earlier than I have a memory of? Does it even matter at this point?

For a time, I was skeptical if someone told me s/he didn’t have sexual abuse in their background. It seemed it was everywhere. I ran a support group in a junior high school when getting my psychology degree. It was eighth-grade girls, and the only qualifier for an invitation to the group was poor school attendance. After a few weeks of meetings, I opened a session with-innocently enough-“So, how was everyone’s weekend?” One girl immediately began to cry. She explained she had confronted her parents over the weekend with the news that her brother had sexually abused her for years. She had come forward out of fear for the niece her brother’s girlfriend had just given birth to. That student’s admission led to the revelation that six of the seven of us in our circle that day had a history of sexual abuse.

My best friend in college was gang-raped in high school. My college boyfriend was (brutally) raped by a neighbor as a child. Maybe the most disturbing situation I heard about was when I was a senior in highschool. I had befriended a freshman. She came to me one day, inconsolable. she was petrified, as she was positive she was pregnant. I tried to calm her with reassuring words, then asked, “Have you told [your boyfriend ] yet? she burst into a fresh bout of tears. When she finally able to speak again, she confessed in an agonized whisper, “I can’t! It’s not his. It’s..it’s my uncle’s, or my father’s.

I don’t know how I thought sexual abuse as rampant all around me but had somehow left the rest of my family untouched. soon after my first daughter was born, I learned that Dad had attempted to molest my younger sister when I was about 12 (my sister would have been 7 or 8 then). As it turns out, I disrupted the attempt when I went to inform them I had just finished making breakfast. I learned of that incident because our[even younger] step sister had just pressed charges against Dad for her sexual abuse from years earlier. He served four years.

Incidentally, that family drama enlightened me to the fact that my grandmother had been abused by a neighbor. My aunt had been abused by her uncle. I wonder if Dad had been sexually abused, too (in addition to the daily, brutal physical abuse I know he suffered at the hands of my grandfather).

As with most survivors of abuse from a family member, I am full of ambiguity and conflict. I am glad Dad was educated to the error of his ways. I’m satisfied he paid for his crimes. I’m relieved the truth came out. I hate that the truth came out. I mourn for the shell of a man who returned from prison. I weep for a family that was blown apart by the scandal. I am heartbroken for my grandmother, who was devastated by the whole ordeal. I am thankful I live 3000 miles away from my family, so I don’t have to face the daily small-town shame they all do, now that Dad is a registered sex offender. I am proud of my step sister for speaking up. I am woefully ashamed for not having the courage to do it myself, which possibly would have prevented the abuse of others after me. I love my father. I am thankful for the [many] great things he has done for me over the years. I hate the effect his molestation had on me, including the role it likely played in my high school rape by another student, and my first [abusive, dysfunctional ] marriage.

As I’ve clearly demonstrated, my story is far from unique. Heck, it’s not even remotely severe or traumatic when compared to what others have survived. Still, here I am- 40 years after my first memories of molestation- and I’ still suffering the consequences. Along with my disgrace for allowing others to be abused after me, I carry incredible shame for my involvement in the acts ( regardless of the decades of therapy that advise me I had no real power or choice in the matter). I carry unbelievable guilt for the strain my history places on my relationship with my husband. He’s an amazing, wonderful, loving man, who deserves nothing less than a robust, vigorous, fulfilling sex life, but gets- to the best of my ability-a [hopefully] somewhat satisfying one. I carry secret embarrassment over the only real sexual fantasy I have-that of reliving my rape and [this time] taking great pleasure castrating the bastard in the slowest, most brutal savage way imaginable.

Heaviest of all, I carry fear. There’s nothing I can do to change my past. All I can do is work toward preventing the continued cycle of abuse. I may have a warped view of personal boundaries, I may struggle with my sexuality, and I may be somewhat unfamiliar with healthy family dynamics, but I can do all in my power to secure my kids fare far better than me. I fear failure.

My eldest daughter has mild to moderate developmental delay. While statistics for sexual abuse in the general population is scary enough, the likelihood of abuse when a cognitive disability is involved is all but a certainty. My second daughter is non-verbal, non ambulatory, and severely mentally delayed. She’s a prime candidate for abuse. What if my efforts to protect them fall short?

I try to counteract these lingering after effects of abuse by remaining ever thankful for the love, good fortune, and beautiful life I share with my husband and children today, but my guilt, shame, and fear cling to me with tenacious persistence.

I am just finishing “It Begins And Ends With Family” by Jo Ann Wentzel. I highly recommend the read. The subject is foster care, but no conversation about foster children is complete without a discussion of child abuse and neglect. While we can debate the best course of action in helping abused children, the top priority must be to work toward a goal of prevention; to break the cycle of abuse. I am hopeful that -as a society-we can work together to empathize, educate, support, counsel, and care enough to stop the cycle of all abuse. If sharing my truth will help toward that goal, well…Here I am. This is my truth.

 

 

Thank you for following Stephanie Collins on this Watch “RWISA” Write Showcase Tour. If you have become a fan of her writing go to the Rave Reviews Book Club and click on the RWISA link. You can also click on the book catalogues on both sites and check out her books. You can also follow her on Twitter:W_Angels_Wings. Her blog http://withangelswingsepelogue.blogspot.com. Her website: http://www.withangelswings.net.

 

 

 

Posted in journal, literature, memories, short stories, Uncategorized, writing | 1 Comment

Watch “RWISA” Write Showcase Tour/Brued A. Borders

RWISA TOUR (1)BRUCE BORDERS

One Nice Fall Day by Bruce A. Borders

Not having a good Monday at work, I decided to cut my day short and head home. Home, my sanctuary. As a single guy I often retreat to my sanctuary when things become intolerable, such as today.

Pulling into the drive, I noticed the yard and house really needed attention. I kept the lawn mowed, but the knee-high weeds were another matter. The house too had long been neglected. The loose siding and trim boards couldn’t be ignored much longer.

“Maybe next weekend,” I mused.

But then, I’d said that last week too. I’d only gotten as far as hauling out a garden rake and a tree trimmer before reconsidering and putting them back. Or, maybe I hadn’t put them away, I thought, seeing my rake in the yard.

Taking a minute to replace the rake in the tool shed, I wandered inside, intent on taking it easy for the rest of the afternoon. And I did. The next couple of hours were spent napping. Then, feeling slightly more energetic, I thought I’d give the yard work another try. And that’s when I found the body.

A male, early twenties, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, lay face down in the weeds, not ten feet from where I’d walked earlier. Good citizen that I am, I immediately called 911. Within minutes, my yard was swarming with cops and other emergency personnel.

After examining the body, one of the detectives walked over. “You discovered the body?”

I nodded, as another officer joined us.

“Tell me what led to your discovery.”

I related the gist of my activities of the day, such as they were.Then began a series of inane questions. “You live alone here? Why’d you leave work so early? What took you so long to call 911?

“You’re acting like this guy was murdered or something.”

“We’re just trying to figure out the timeline and what happened,” one said.

“And to what extent you were involved,” his partner added.

I guess I’ve seen too many TV dramas because the first thing I said was, “So, do I need a lawyer?”

The cop shrugged. “Depends. Is there a reason you may need a lawyer?”

“I don’t know,” I stammered. “Don’t think so. Just don’t want to be blamed for this murder.”

“No one’s blaming you–yet.” The officer paused, whether for dramatic effect or to weigh his words, I wasn’t sure. “Should we be looking at you as a suspect?”

“Of course not.”

The detectives eyed me for a moment. “We’ll be in touch,” one said as they turned away.

They’d be in touch? What was that supposed to mean? They’d said I wasn’t a suspect; was that just to keep me off-guard until they’d had time to gather enough evidence to build a case?

I shook my head. I must be crazy. There was no evidence. There was no case. I hadn’t done anything except find the body. I certainly hadn’t killed him.

But, they didn’t know that. And here I was acting all weird. Even I had to admit my strange behaviour and ramblings appeared suspicious. The police likely thought so too.

And that how I ended up seeing a criminal defense attorney for a crime I hadn’t committed.

“Sound like you’re a bit paranoid,” said the attorney after I ‘d filled him in.

“Paranoid, huh?” I said, somewhat sheepishly.

He smiled. “A little.”

I couldn’t think of an intelligent response, so I just sat there.

“Tell you what,” he said, breaking my uncomfortable abeyance. “I’ll keep my notes and if you’re arrested, call me.”

“Thanks. Hope I don’t need to.”

“If you didn’t commit the murder, they can’t exactly find any evidence. Although….

I frowned. “Although what?”

They could always charge you with manslaughter if anything you’ve done, intentionally or unintentionally, contributed to the man’s death.”

“Right. I didn’t even know he was there until I found the body.”

“It’s most likely nothing to worry about. But you never know.”

As I stood to leave, he added, “If you are arrested, don’t say anything until I’m present. You’ve already given your statement. That’s all you’re obligated to do.”

Nodding, I left.

Just talking to the lawyer had helped. The anxiety I’d felt earlier was gone. Feeling better about my prospects, I drove home and was utterly shocked to find two police cars in my driveway, the officers knocking at my door.

As I parked, they came toward me. “Mr. Powell?”

“That’s me.”

“Can we come in and talk?”

I hesitated. The attorney had said to say nothing if I were arrested. He hadn’t mentioned anything about not being arrested. “Depends,” I finally managed. “Am I under arrest?”

I repeated what the lawyer had told me. “I’ve already given my statement. That’s all I’m obligated to do.”

“You’re not interested in helping solve this murder?”

I certainly was interested in solving the murder, but something told me that “Helping” might have an entirely different meaning to them. “I’ve already given my statement,” I said again.

The officers looked perturbed. “Well,” one of them said, reaching for his handcuffs. ‘You leave us no choice then. Mr. Powell, you are under arrest in connection with the murder of Vincent Dalhart.”

As the cop handcuffed me, I focused on what he’d said. I wasn’t being arrested for the murder but in connection with the murder. I wasn’t sure what that meant if anything. I hoped it meant they didn’t actually think I’d killed the man.

The next two days were a blur of numerous meetings with the detectives and my attorney. Through these conversations, I finally learned what had happened.

Vincent Dalhart had been stabbed to death. There were four puncture wounds, evenly spaced. Two had pierced a vital organ. The time of death was uncertain although, the medical examiner estimated it to be five hours before I , the only suspect, had stumbled onto the body.

Meanwhile, the police had executed a search warrant for my property, finding my rake, which they believed to be the murder weapon. Lab testing confirmed that blood present on the tines was that of the victim. Murder in the first degree was the charge.

To his credit, my lawyer seemed undaunted by the discovery. I told him about seeing the rake and putting it away. He  seemed satisfied. “But the police will want to know how you didn’t notice any blood on the rake.”

“Yeah,” I sighed. “Not sure how I missed that.”

He shrugged. “Easy enough explanation. The blood was only on the tines—probably not a large amount. By the time you picked it up, the blood had likely dried. It would’ve been very difficult to see unless you were specifically looking for it.”

Unfortunately, the police were specifically looking for it, having determined a garden rake to be the likely murder weapon. And as my lawyer had predicted they weren’t exactly sold on my account of the events. Instead, they believed I’d used the rake to murder the man breaking into my house.

With no other options, we prepared to go to trial. My attorney seemed to like my chances. I wasn’t so confident. Here I was, a guy who’d never even been in a fight, charged with murder. It all felt  overwhelming.

Then, the next day, things took a surprising turn.

The guard came to escort me to the briefing room where my attorney waited.

“Good news,” he greeted me. “All charges have been dropped. You’ll be released within the hour.

I was stunned. “That’s great, but…why? How?” With the direction things had been going, I found it hard to imagine the police had suddenly decided I was innocent.

“Turns out your neighbor saw the whole thing from across the street. Mr. Dalhart arrived at your house on foot, poked around; checking doors and windows, then went to the shed and retrieved the rake. Standing on your porch railing, he attempted to use the rake to pull himself up to a second-story window. The window ledge gave way, and Mr. Dalhart fell to the ground, impaling himself on the rake.”

“But the rake was a good ten feet from the body.”

The attorney nodded. “Apparently, the would-be-thief lived long enough to remove the rake and fling it away.”

I was frowning. “My neighbor watched all this and didn’t even try to help? Or, report it? Not that I care, really. The thief got what he deserved. But how does someone just watch all that and not do anything?”

The lawyer shrugged. “People are strange. Maybe he didn’t want to be involved. Who knows? He’s been arrested and faces legal troubles over his lack of humanity.”

“I would hope so.”

“Just be glad he eventually came forward.”

“I am.” I fell silent then.

The attorney noticed my gaze. “What is it?”

I smiled wryly. “Was just thinking…That window ledge has been loose for quite a while, banging in the wind. Been meaning to fix it for months, just hadn’t gotten around to it.”

Eyeing me for a minute, the lawyer said, “You might want to keep that information to yourself”

 

Thank you for following Bruce A. Borders. If you enjoyed his story go to Rave Reviews Book Club and click on RWISA link. Check out the book catalogues on the site. Thank you again for following Bruce A. Borders today. You can follow him on his website: http://bruceabordersbooks.weebly.com and on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/BruceABordersBooks and on Twitter:@BruceABorders

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Watch “RWISA” Write Showcase Tour/Marcha Fox

RWISA TOUR (1)Marcha

Your Wildest Dreams by Marcha Fox

I inhaled sharply when I recognized the introductory riff wafting from my favorite 80’s station as Your Wildest Dreams by the Moody Blues. Even though I had the original 45 RPM record, the album on cassette tape, and most recently, the CD, I kept them safely locked away so I wouldn’t binge on it. Nonetheless, when KPLV, 93.1 FM in Vegas, got around to playing it every few weeks or so, I’d indulge in a break, a delicious reminder of why I was here.

Consumed by ethereal and intimately familiar soundwaves, I got up, closed the blinds, and even though it was unlikely the song’s strains would penetrate my office’s cinder block walls., plugged in my headset so I could crank it up-I mean really up. I melted back into my chair, eyes closed, with what was probably an idiotic smile on my face, savoring each note as the song segued into its lively, 142 BPM tempo. The next three minutes and forty-one seconds, I’d be in heaven.

Even though this song came out eight years after she left, the first time I heard it, back when I was still college in ’86, I knew two things: One, it would always be “our song” ; and Two, I had to find her.

My heart leapt with visions of galaxies beyond, of what might be out there, where she might be. I plunged headlong through space and time, besieged by memories burned into my heart as permanently and painfully as branding was to a newborn calf. Did she remember? Feel the same thing I did? Sense the enchantment of fate-entangled lives?

I memorize pretty easily, which comes in handy, especially with things like the Periodic Table or Maxwell’s equations. And of course, favorite songs. These particular lyrics struck me, hard and personal, from day one, certain it’d been written exclusively for me.

As my eyes teared up, logic intervened and yanked me back to planet Earth.

Grow up, Benson! What are you, a total schmalz or what?

We were kids, for heaven sakes. A teenage crush. I should’ve gotten over it, but never did. No wonder. Girls like her are rare. One of a kind. She’d already experienced things I never would. Things that were part of my wildest dreams.

The admonition failed, pushed aside by that part of me that felt alive again, jammin’ like a total jerk, mouthing the words as I sang along in my head. It’s not like I’m a teenager anymore, though at the moment I felt like one. No, memories of the heart never die-can’t die, ever-even if you try to kill them.

I’d give anything to talk to her. Which of course I have, numerous times over the years, if only in my head. Okay, aloud more often than I care to admit. I could swear it even felt as if she answered a time or two. I suppose that’s how it is with your first love. Or your first kiss, even if it was only a peck on the check. It penetrates our soul and stays there forever.

That mid-summer day in ’78 hauling hay was as vivid as yesterday in my mind’s eye. the cloudless sky, sun hot on my neck, the aroma of first-crop alfalfa sweetening the mountain air. I scratched my shoulder, a reflex memory of itchy, stray leaves sticking through my T-shirt. My chest ached as I remembered the tears streaking her dust-covered face at something I’d said. Then, days later, that withering look when we lied about her ship.

The one we still have. what’s left of it quietly abandoned beneath a tarp in Building 15, here at Area 51.

How she knew we weren’t telling the truth, I’ll never know. Pretty funny it’s still sitting there. And I’m sure she’d think so, too. I can just hear her saying, “Stupid snurks, I knew they’d never figure it out.” though actually they did, just didn’t find technology worth pursuing. Even contractors didn’t want it.

I had to admit it was pretty crazy, but she was my motivation to get where I was today: just short of a decade of college linked with serendipity that put me into the right place at the right time, hoping someday I’d find her. My life had changed a lot since then. How much had hers changed? Did she make it home? Was she still alive? With the effects of relativistic travel, which I understood only too well, she could still be a teenager, while I was easing into the infamous dirty thirties.

Not good. If I ever did find her, she’d probably think I was some lecherous old fart. Either that, or, with my luck, she’d be married with a bunch of kids. I winced with the thought.

My sentimental reverie vanished when my office door slammed open and Hector Buckhorn rolled in. Literally. Hec’s been stuck in a wheelchair ever since he crashed his hang glider into a New Mexico mountainside during spring break his last semester of college. He ridge soared a lot, particularly around Dulce, over restricted areas where he wasn’t supposed to be. Got caught a couple time, but being Native American, never got in trouble, even though it wasn’t his home reservation. He’s amazingly good at playing dumb, in spite of-or possibly because of-his 150ish IQ. He never talked about his accident, said he couldn’t remember. Makes sense, actually, given he suffered a massive concussion. The only time I ever saw him pissed off was when he woke up in the hospital and discovered they’d shaved off his hair, since grown back beyond shoulder length.

I dropped the headset around my neck and faked a frown. “Don’t you ever knock, butthead?”

“Hey, man, wazzup?” he said, giving me a funny look. “You okay?”

I laughed. “Of course. Just thinking. Remembering. You know.”

Ahhh. They played that song again, didn’t they?”

“Can’t hide anything from you, can I , Chief?”

“Nope. I figured you were up to somethin’ with your blinds closed.”

He wheeled over to the grey metal, government-issue table on the other side of the room and helped himself to a handful of peanut M & Ms. Once I’d realized during my PhD days at Cal Tech that, in a pinch, they made a pretty decent meal, I’d kept that old, wide-mouth canning jar full. He dumped them in his mouth, perusing me with knowing, dark eyes.

“You were sure enjoyin’ that song of yours,” he said, not even trying to stifle his crooked grin as he munched away.

“Yea,” I replied, uncomfortable with the conversation’s direction.

“We’ve known each other a long time, Allen,” he said. “Don’t you think it’s time you told me about her?”

“Not much to tell.”

He let fly with a popular expletive related to bovine excrement. “C’mon! What’s her name?” he persisted.

I blew out my cheeks and sighed, knowing resistance was futile. “Creena,” I answered, surprising myself when, again I got a little choked up. I avoided his eyes by likewise heading for the M&Ms.

“So find her,” he said.

“It’s not that simple,” I replied, pouring myself a handful. “I don’t know where she is.” A statement that was truer than he could possibly imagine.

“I have some resources who could help,” he offered with a conspiratorial wink.

I shook my head, then stalled by popping a few colorful orbs in my mouth.

“Why not? If she’s anywhere on this planet, these guys’ll find her.”

I swallowed hard and paused; met his gaze. “She’s not.”

He scowled, making him look a lot like those old pictures of Cochise. “Say again?”

“She’s. Not.”

“Oh! I’m sorry.”

“Why?”

He shrugged. “I assumed she’s dead. She must’ve been quite a girl.”

“She was. Is. She’s not dead. At least as far as I know.”

His jaw dropped, shocked expression broadcasting the fact he’d caught the implications. “You’re not kidding, are you?”

“Nope.”

“Abductee?” he whispered.

“Nope,” I answered, raiding the candy jar again. “Immigrant.”

His eyes widened as he spewed an expletive that elevated excrement to sanctified status. “Don’t tell me she’s an EBE!”

I nearly spewed partially chewed M&Ms across the room. Extraterrestrial biological entity, indeed! Yet by definition, actually, she was.

I chuckled at his expression and shook my head. “No. Quite human. At least as far as I know.”

“Are you?” he added, chocolate-colored irises rimmed with white. His reaction surprised me-UFOs, even aliens, were no big deal in his culture, just business as usual with the Star People.

“C’mon, Chief! You’ve known me since tenth grade, running high school track!”

He leaned back, searching my face with more solemnity than I’d seen since I told him how Dad died. “You’ve got a lot of explaining to do, bro,” he said finally, shaking his head.

“You have no idea,” I said, throat constricting as scratchy lyrics from the headset, audible only to me, issued another reminder of why I was here.

Copyright 2017 by Marcha Fox

[Note: This is an excerpt from my upcoming novel, Dark Circles, a slightly dark, hard sci-fi love story. No release date has been set.]

 

Thank you for following Marcha Fox. If you enjoyed her story and would like to learn more about her go to Rave Reviews Book Club and click on the RWISA link.  If you have become a fan of her writing check out the book catalogues for a list of her books.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Watch “RWISA” Write Showcase Tour/Jeff Haws

RWISA TOUR (1)Jeff

Dim Light Breaks by Jeff Haws

Jolting upright, I squeeze the Jack Daniels bottle between my thighs just before it tips over to the floor. I look down and see the black label staring at me; the little bit of whiskey that’s left is tilting toward the lip, ready to fill my shoes if my legs can’t hold onto it. I briefly wonder if this is why they give these bottles flat sides, for better drunken, convulsive thigh catches. It’s saved me on more than one occasion from having shoes full of whiskey. Well, that and my ability to leave the bottle mostly empty.

I grab the top of the bottle and pull it back up, then try to raise my head; the room rotates quickly, lights blur and walls smudge while my head bounces on a neck that refuses to carry the weight. Enough of these nights will teach you the chair is always your better bet than the bed. I’d have already puked into my own lap if I’d been in bed, but keeping your feet on the floor helps ground you against the worst of the drunken spinning head. When I know I’m spending the night with Jack, I’ll always stay downstairs in the recliner with my feet firmly planted on the linoleum.

My head bobs left and settles on my shoulder; in front of me, the window reveals a purple sky with a sliver of dim light peeking over the ground, between the neighbors’ houses across the street. What does that make it? 6:30 maybe? I can’t remember if I ever fell asleep. I’m not confident I’ll ever fall asleep again.

The people across the street, though-I’m sure they’re asleep. Spencer and Mary are in bed right now, dead to the world. Her head’s probably resting on his fucking shoulder. He snores a little bit, but she’s used to it by now. Probably even comforts her, just being reminded he’s there. I fucking hate these people. I really do. Their whole lives are based around creating these perfect little characters so the rest of us feel even shittier about our own lives. But you can’t even get mad at them, or you look like the jackass who’s jealous and screwed up in the head. Not the people who pretend they’re something they’re not. No it’s the guy who minds his own business and is genuine about who he is who’s the fucked-up one. That’s the way the world works.

I spin the bottle around in my hand, looking at the liquid slosh around in waves. Bubbles cling desperately to the glass walls but can’t hold on, splashing back down into the molasses-colored pool below. I raise the bottle and tilt it toward me; the whiskey burns just a bit as it hits the back of my throat, the sting helping to delay the inevitable throbbing head that’ll come next. I lift the bottle and splash the last few drops into my mouth, shaking it to make sure there’s nothing left, then drape my arm over the side of the chair and let the bottle fall to the floor with a heavy clink.

I have no idea what day it is. Am I supposed to be at work in a couple of hours? When every day’s the same, it’s hard to say. Time is just change, in the end. If the sun didn’t come up and go down, the Earth didn’t rotate, the world never changed, there’d be no way to measure it. Essentially, there’d be no such thing as time. People’s lives can get like that too. When the days start blending together, how do you measure time? And, even more so, what’s the point?

That sun that’s gradually getting closer to showing itself isn’t going to bring anything good with it. The dark is better. You can hide when everybody else is sleeping. You don’t have to look at how your neighbors’ lives reflect your own inadequacies. You don’t have to face yourself. The dark lets you be alone, lets you wallow and embrace whatever misery is there to be embraced. The morning just exposes it all to those smiling faces with white teeth all lined up in a row.

I  know they don’t approve of me. I see them at church and they say hi, but you can see it’s forced. There’s no small talk. No more invitations to their lake house. Just hollow greetings if they can’t avoid me. When Adrian would show up with fresh cuts and bruises on her arms, I know they suspected something. I think she purposefully tried to make them just a little visible. A small cry for  help, maybe. She’s been gone awhile, though.

Now, God wouldn’t approve of what I’ve become. This writhing mass that passes the hours of insomnia with liquor straight from the bottle. He can smell the whiskey on my breath just like the neighbors can. I don’t even know why I go to church anymore. When I can remember it’s Sunday. He can see my heart’s not there, that I wish I could have a handle of some devil’s water with me when I’m kneeling in front of a pew. It’s not that I don’t have faith that there’s someone in control it’s that whoever that someone is has delivered me into this reality, this life. Whatever this is. Becoming an atheist almost seems redundant. When our belief is this tainted, is it even worth the bother of leaving behind?

I figure I’ve been strapped to this chair long enough, so maybe I’ll wander upstairs. I have blackout curtains in the bedroom; I can shut the world out up there. Pretend I’m somewhere else, somewhere better. Somewhere new. There’s no way I’m stepping foot outside today.

Standing up, I get a feel for just how much I really drank; my legs nearly buckle, and I fall back toward the chair. My hand catches on the chairs arm and stabilizes me while I try to forget about the merry-go-round in my head. Ten seconds pass, then twenty. Finally, I lift my hand off the chair arm and pause to see if I can stand up. My legs wobble and hold; slowly, I bring my hand further up from the chair and straighten from my hunch. My arms are spread to my sides like I’m on a balance beam, trying to keep my center of gravity above my feet. I take one careful step forward, then another, deliberate slow, momentum building as I reach the banister for the stairs and grab  hold hard.

Each step is becoming a little easier, now getting help from my left hand, pulling my body up the stairs one foot at a time, finally reaching the hall. I’ll need an aspirin or four before I lie down. If I’m lucky, I’ll sleep. If not, I’ll stare at the ceiling in the dark for awhile.

I open the door to the room and step   through; the bed is just a few step in front of me. I walk quietly to it and stop, bending careful over the mattress. I pull back the quilt a little bit and bend further, kissing her forehead gently. she’s only six, and she deserves me to be better than  this. It’s kind of amazing we’ve made it this far; she believes her mom is someplace better, and I do nothing to dissuade her from that. Hell, I hope she’s right. But if so, I can’t join her there now. There’ s more for me to do. If there is a god, this is the one lifeline he’s thrown me, and I’m clutching to it with everything I have. She’ll get me to the other side of this. she’ll be the light breaking through the dark. It’s dim now, but it’ll shine brighter if I can rise with it.

I pull the quilt back up under her chin and fold it back across her shoulder. Then I back out the way I came and shut the door behind me, careful not to let the latch click. My bedroom’s down the hall, and more darkness still awaits.

 

 

Thank you for following Jeff Haws. Go to the  Rave Reviews Book Club site and then click on the RWISA link. Also check the book catalogues for a listing of his books. Follow him on his website http://www.jeffhaws.com and on twitter and Instagram @ByJeffHaws

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