Steven Manchester Writes Remarkable Family Drama, Ashes, Available Feb. 21st!

Meet Tom Prendergast...

Tom felt a tap on his shoulder.
Still wearing his smile, he opened his eyes, expecting to see Kylie, his gracious stewardess.
Instead, he nearly jumped out of his desk chair. It wasn't Kylie at all. It was his assistant, Sue Nedar. He tried to caatch his breath.
"Professor," she said, "I hate to wake you but you have class in fifteen minutes."
Tom's head still felt submerged in the wondrous fog. "Fifteen minutes?' he replied, the throbbing pain of a mind-shattering toothache blurring his vision even more.
Sue tried valiantly to chase away a smile but quickly lost. "Yes, Professor," she said, her voice fighting off laughter. "You need to get up."
As Tom's wits returned, the excruciating pain in his mouth made him want to choke Sue for waking him...He tried to shake off the haze before looking back at his grinning assistant. "Sorry about that, Sue. I must have dozed of..."
"That's fine," she said, "Oh, your wife called. She said she's made alternate plans for dinner and that you probably shouldn't wait up for her." Sue quickly avoided eye contact after delivering the message.
Tom cringed. "My wife," he muttered, as if suddenly remembering he still had one of those.
...Professor Tom Prendergast started for the door when he spotted a stamped letter sitting on the corner of his desk; it was addressed to him from Attorney Russell Norman. He caught the attorney's return address. "He's from back home, he thought, grabbing the envelope to read on his way to class...Three minutes later, he was just outside his classrooom door when he froze in place. "Passed away from terminal cancer?" He shook his head, Oh shit, he thought, he had prostate cancer and it spread before...
He read the rest of the letter. The old man's already been cremated...and the reading of the last will and testament is scheduled for... He stopped... That son of a bitch had a will? Though he tried to stop it, his mind instantly returned to his adolescence--where his father glared at him with a look of sheer contempt in his eyes. "You're a dummy," the sadistic man growled, "and you're always gonna be a dummy." The nickname never made any sense to him, as he'd been much smarter than his dad ever since he could remember. Shaking off the hideous memory, Tom folded the letter and placed it into his leather briefcase...Throwing open the classroom door, the heavy buzz went silent. "I don't remember giving anyone permission to talk," he barked...

~~~

Meet Jason Prendergast...

Within the belly of the beast--Southeastern Correctional Center--Jason Prendergast reported from roll call straight to his new six-month assignment, Essex III block. Most correction officers dreaded Essex III because it housed some of the more violent animals within the inmate population. But being a veteran sergeant with twenty-eight years of experience working behind the wall, Jason barely noticed. It's just another day at the office, he thought. He wasn't fifty feet from his new assignment when the radio squelched once, a night shift officer screaming, "Code 70, medical emergency, Essen III...cell seventeen." Instinctively, Jason took off at a sprint.

Sergeant Jason Prendergast was the second man to enter the crowded. "Move out of the way!" he roared, pushing through a couple dozen inmates congregating outside of cell seventeen. With one final shove, he nearly ran into Inmate Andrew Pires's dangling torse. Pires had hanged himself; his neck was so stretched that his feet were nearly touching the floor. Dead, Jason immediately decided, noting that the con's eyes were still open and his fists clenched tight. While the reporting officer--Bobby Couture--was trying to catch his stolen breath, Jason surveyed the gruesome scene. There was a note written on the wall. Initially, he thought it was blood, but a subsequent look revealed that the author had used spaghetti sauce. It read, To the man who locked me in here for no reason, you better hope there's no afterlife. Jason looked back to Officer Couture and shook his head. Looks like the poor kid's going to be sick, he thought before considering whether to light the fresh cigar that protruded from his mouth. Nah, he decided. I shouldn't I promised Miranda I was going to quit.

Officer Couture was dry heaving off in the corner when the penitentiary's only physician arrived on scene and pronounced Inmate Pires dead. Jason turned toward Couture. "Listen, I need you to hold Pires around the waist while I cut him down." Couture looked ready to faint. Jason peered hard at him. "Just do your job," he ordered...

Jason was trying to teach Officer Couture that survival was the name of the game and that only the strong survived, while the weak were preyed upon in a shark-feeding frenzy. Jason understood this theory well. His chosen place of employment was where horrors became reality and reality changed from one minute to the next. With the dominant emotions being fear and anger, any and all power was achieved through either deceit or intimidation and force. The good were few and the bad usually became worse. Within this sub-society, a completely unconventional culture was created, forming its own code of morals and values--or lack thereof...

As he prepared to drive away, he noticed a pile of unopened mail..."Pop died from cancer," he said aloud, "and this is how I find out?" His rising blood pressure made his temples throb; he suddenly felt angry and hurt at the same time. From his earliest memories, it was a combination his dad could easily create in him. Jason took a deep breath and read on. The reading of the will is scheduled for next week... 

For a moment, he allowed his mind to return to his childhood where he pictured his father standing over him, snarling. "You're a punk," the old man hissed, "and you ain't ever gonna be anything but a punk." Jason quickly shook off the vivid image and started the truck. Shifting into drive, he thought. They can read the will without me...That son of a bitch never had anything good to offer me anyway.

As two shadows fought behind the steel mesh-covered windows, Jason stomped on the gas and headed for Mucky's Liquor Store, I need a drink...

~~~

Ashes

By Steven Manchester

Writing about a dysfunctional family just may be the norm for America these days. We are all a product of our environment, our early childhood, especially. Tom and Jason Prendergast could not remember too much about their mother before she died. They can remember that there were happy family times before then. Nothing was the same once their mother was gone. The boys father became an alcoholic, abusive father, physically as well as emotionally, the latter seeming to make the most disruption to the boys' lives at that time and to their future...

So much so that the boys had not been in contact for 15 years. The only reason they were now seeing each other was because they had been summoned by a lawyer due to the death of their father. They both had changed their minds about not going and were now, together, learning what their father's last wishes were... They were to pick up his box of ashes and take it across the country to where his ashes were to be spread...

You may have earlier read, including this morning, the Prequel that was provided in 6 episodes by Steven Manchester. I thought this was an excellent way to publicize his book, while also encouraging readers to sign up for his mailing list... For me, what it did was have me quite prepared to know the two brothers by the time I started reading the book. The episodes are still available here, on Manchester's site or across the Internet as shared... I enjoyed this process greatly! It didn't take me long to decide what actors, surely you know them, could match the personality of the characters you'll be meeting! Let me know what you think later...

If I were to say one thing about the boys' father, as written by the author, I would say that, in his own negative way, he encouraged the boys simply by giving nicknames... Tom was clearly a boy who was intelligent and meant to become a man who would use his intellect--He was now a professor... Was "dummy" his father's way to point Tom in the right direction, merely by knowing that Tom would do the opposite of what he'd been called?

Then there was Jason...when he grew older, he'd realized that he was able to "take" his father and let him know it... By being called a "punk," Jason had developed a self-confidence and a desire to ensure he would never be a punk like he'd been called, even to the extent of now working with... young... punks...  

At least that's how I read it...even if there is no excuse for the abuse when it was started...

So why did the boys agree to abide by his father's wishes? A bribe in the form of a sealed envelope that would be given to them only on proof that they'd properly handled their father's ashes. They both assumed that their father really had the acreage of land that they'd often heard about...it was the deciding point to begin their trip, which required them to first go to Salem to pick up the ashes and then drive across the country to Seattle...

It was big-brother Jason who set the rules for the trip and that was the first argument...among many to come...

Just the basic differences of the men soon became noticeable as Jason came prepared to ride in comfort, while Tom was...Tom... What they wanted to eat was totally different and where they would eat or stay was also. It soon came out that Jason had to worry about money since his daughter was getting married and Jason couldn't deny her anything she wanted for that day...

Neither of the men had ever met the children of the other... And by the time they were meeting, one was divorced, the other, thinking about it... And so, they were beginning to learn about the other. But don't think these were easy conversations, like getting caught up on somebody that you've not seen for a long time...  For instance, the second argument came about what radio would be played...Jason demanded country... The compromise was to change off when each became the driver... Tom then chose a talk show...

I can't really find the words for the clever, creative dialogue that you will find in this book...Some will have you laughing, some will make you cry... What you will experience in reading the book is that about 90% of the book has such emotional impact that you will soon believe both of these men are your friends and you're the third individual listening in, trying to think about helping each! For me, Jason's age made him more sympatico to me, while Tom, I just wanted to say, "Listen to your older brother..." Of course, in family turmoil, it just doesn't happen that way, does it? Everybody always has to force their own opinions into the mix...

But here they were, confined within the walls of their truck, forced to adjust to the life style, habits, and preferences of the other... And, yes, they were almost totally opposite in all of those, LOL.

Manchester is at his best in this book's story, dialogue, and character development...When he sent out the prequel, he admitted being excited about the book! Hey! I certainly can understand that...and I'd add that he should be proud as well.

I decided not to share much about the actual content, the reason being is that the impact comes from seeing the evolution as the cross-country trip begins and continues... There are also times when each is alone and readers can learn what each are thinking, especially after some major issue arises. Let me just say that if Steven's books could solve real-life issues in this same way... we'd all be calling him to respond to our true experiences... You know, instead of contacting Dr. Phil, we could ask this outstanding writer to create a solution to each of our own personal issues... What do you think?

This book is definitely added as a personal favorite for 2017! Prepare to laugh, cry, get angry, and do much thinking about how this book might affect your own attitudes in life... Highly Recommended...

GABixlerReviews

After returning home from a difficult tour of duty in Operation Desert Storm in 1991, I stepped back behind the walls of a Massachusetts penitentiary where I battled each day as a prison investigator. Needless to say, there was great negativity in my life at that time, and very little opportunity to heal from my wartime demons (or pursue my dreams of being published). I finally decided to return to college to finish my degree in Criminal Justice. During one of the classes, my professor, Barry McKee, detailed police work, but barely touched on other topics. I finally raised his hand and asked, “As the criminal justice system is so vast, what about the courts, probation, parole – corrections?” Barry smiled and told me to see him after class. I thought I’d done it! In his office, Barry explained, “Except from the slanted perspectives of inmates, there’s no real written material out there on corrections, or prisons.” Barry smiled again and then dropped the bomb that would change my life forever. “If you’re so smart,” he said, “why don’t you write it?” It was the last push I needed to get writing. Nine months later, I placed the first draft of 6-5; A Different Shade of Blue (under the pen name, Steven Herberts) on Barry’s desk. From then on, I was hooked. I was a writer.

Today, 25 years later, I am the author of four #1 national bestsellers: Twelve Months, The Rockin' Chair, Pressed Pennies and Gooseberry Island. My long-anticipated, critically-acclaimed novel, The Changing Season, has just been released. I’m also the author of the award-winning novel, Goodnight, Brian, while my work has appeared on NBC's Today Show, CBS's The Early Show, CNN's American Morning and BET's Nightly News. Three of my short stories were selected "101 Best" for Chicken Soup for the Soul series and I’m the produced playwright of Three Shoeboxes.

When not spending time with my beautiful wife, Paula, or our four children, I’m either promoting my works or writing.

4th Episode of Prequel to Ashes by Steven Manchester...

Episode 4: The Spiral (set in the world of Ashes)
“I know, Sue,” Tom said, reaching for his leather satchel, “I’ll be late for class if I don’t get moving. ”
“Actually,” she said, smiling from the doorway, “all classes have been cancelled for the afternoon.”
A rush of adrenaline traveled through Tom’s bloodstream, making him feel like he was in fourth grade again and school had just been cancelled due to another New England snowstorm. “Why?” he asked, trying to temper his excitement and appear professional.
Sue half-shrugged. “Campus maintenance,” she said. “From what I hear, the water main burst open and they need to repair it.”
“Isn’t that a shame,” he said, his joy offset by the rotting molar that continued to torture him.
Sue laughed. “Yeah, a real shame,” she muttered, looking up at the clock on the wall. “At least you have time to go see the dentist now.”
Tom nodded. “I suppose,” he said, weighing his fear of having a drill in his mouth against the chance at feeling some relief.
“Do you want me to call and see if I can get you an appointment for this afternoon?”
“No, I can take care of it,” Tom said, shaking his head.
Sue snickered. “Sure you will,” she said. “Will there be anything else then?”
“Go home, Sue,” Tom said, “and enjoy the rest of the day.” He glanced toward the window. “It looks like it’s going to be a beauty.”
Nodding her appreciation, she vanished from the doorway.
For a few long moments, Tom sat in his late-model Lexus, contemplating a dreaded visit to the dentist. I really should go, he thought, but... When the tooth acted up, the pain was excruciating, absolutely mind-numbing. But it’s on and off, he told himself, so it can probably wait. He started the car and considered how to spend his free afternoon. I could go get lunch, he thought, immediately realizing that his erratic tooth would limit his enjoyment. To hell with it, he decided, just go home and make a sandwich.
Tom pulled into his empty driveway and shut off the ignition. Carmen must be out shopping, he thought, heading to the house.
Closing the front door behind him, he threw his keys into the ceramic bowl when he heard movement upstairs. Maybe one of the kids stayed home from school, he thought. As he started for the kitchen, he heard the noise get louder, something rocking back and forth on the hardwood floor above. He stopped to listen.
“Yes,” Carmen called out. Although the voice was muffled, it was definitely hers.
Her car must be in the garage, he thought. That’s odd.
”Oh...” Carmen called out again, her tone sounding desperate—lustful.
Tom’s heart skipped a beat, plunging into his stomach. What the hell, he thought, already beginning to hyperventilate. Light-headed, he started toward the stairs.
The rhythm of the rocking picked up, as did Carmen’s cries of passion—both in frequency and volume. “Yes...yes...yes!” she squealed.
Oh God, Tom thought, please...not this. As he bound up the stairs, his mind was thrown into a terrible tail spin. He wasn’t three stairs up when his wife released a noise he hadn’t heard in nearly a decade; it was a cross between a primordial moan and a banshee’s scream. Something— or someone—had hit Carmen’s magic spot, releasing the beast in her. Strangely aroused by the old familiar howl, blood involuntarily filled his groin. This cannot be happening, he thought, and willed his legs to keep climbing. Maybe she’s just pleasuring herself, he thought, grasping for the thinnest thread of hope.
“Oh baby,” Carmen cried out from behind the door, “right there. Don’t stop!”
Tom’s heart plummeted into his socks, while panic shot out from his core—making his extremities tingle.
“Yes! Yes!” Carmen screamed. “Go!”
Tom threw open the door to see some guy’s naked backside thrusting hard between his wife’s elevated legs. For a moment—one strange, surreal moment—Tom stood in shock, watching in disbelief as his childhood sweetheart was getting ravaged by another man.
The lovers never heard him, and they never broke stride.
“Harder,” Carmen screamed out, “I’m...I’m almost...”
The guy obliged, picking up the pace.
“What is this?” Tom screamed, hearing his voice as though it was someone else’s.
In one quick motion, the guy rolled off of Carmen, grabbed a handful of sheets and covered himself. For a second or two, Carmen lay spread eagle, panting and covered in a film of glistening sweat. Then, as reality registered in her wide eyes, she scurried up toward the headboard, yanking her knees up to her chest.
Tom looked back at the guy. Their eyes locked, making them both swallow hard. Tom felt so enraged—a fury he’d never known—that he didn’t know what to do. Hit him, a voice called out in his head, while another voice countered, But what good will that do?
The naked man’s eyes pled for mercy.
Without another thought, Tom pounced on him and began punching.
“No, Tom,” Carmen yelled, “don’t!”
The guy immediately rolled into a fetal position, trying desperately to thwart off the fury of wild blows. At one point, he even screamed out like a girl, his eyes glassed over in terror.
Even in the chaos, this took Tom aback. He’d never been feared by another human being in his life.
“No more,” Carmen called out. “Stop!”
Tom halted long enough for the stranger to scamper off the bed, scoop his pants off the floor and run out the door—leaving the married couple alone.
Panting harder than his wife, Tom tried to clear his spinning head. Hoping to feel the slightest sense of pride or dignity, he felt neither. “You dirty bitch,” he gasped, his heart threatening to burst open in his heaving chest. “Right here in our house?”
Carmen wrapped herself in the sweaty sheet. “I made a mistake, Tom,” she said, minus any apology.
“How long has it been going on?” he asked, still fighting to take in air.
“Not long, I swear,” she said, confirming this had not been the first time.
Feeling nauseous, he glared at her—while a thick hatred filled his soul. What about our kids? he thought, even more panic filling him. Our life together?
Carmen stared at him, seemingly impatient to get the scolding over with.
“And it’s the last time, right?” Tom said, the question sounding pathetic to even him.
Carmen slithered out of the bed and hurried toward the bathroom. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, closing the door behind her—and locking it. “I made a mistake,” she said loud enough to be heard. “Can we just leave it at that?”
Are you friggin’ serious? Tom thought. Even through the haze, he realized she hadn’t answered the question. “No, we can’t just leave it at that!” he barked through the locked door.
“It was a mistake,” she repeated. “You’ve never made any mistakes, Tom?”
“No,” he screamed, “not like that.” Suddenly, the permanence of what had just transpired hit him like a wrecking ball and he began to cry.
Carmen snickered behind the door. “For all I know,” she yelled, “you’ve been sleeping with Sue for years.”
It was a complete spin, a malicious redirection, infuriating him more. Wiping his eyes, he shook his head. “You dirty bitch,” he repeated before kicking the guy’s underwear out of his way and storming out of the room. Carmen’s muffled voice was still spouting one lie or another but it didn’t matter what she had to say now. You just destroyed everything we built together, he thought, and there’s no coming back from this. The tears began rolling again.
Tom drove around aimlessly for hours, struggling to ignore his aching tooth, the calls from Carmen and the sudden impulses to jerk the steering wheel toward some ditch or jersey barrier. What happened to us? he wondered. Our sex life has been nothing to brag about for a while now, but I never thought she’d... He fought to stifle another round of child-like sobs. Did I lose my mojo? He shook his head at the absurdity of it. Whatever it is, it’s no excuse for betraying me in our own bed.
His cell phone beeped. He glanced down at the passenger seat. It was a text from Carmen. Come home. We need to talk about this before you do something foolish. He picked up the phone only to fire it onto the floor—where it bounced a few times. “Before I do something foolish?” he roared.
While he drove, he considered the devastating clues that had been left in his path; hints that he’d intentionally turned a blind eye to. When Carmen went on her diet, she dropped the weight like her life depended on it. Although his wife had begun eating less, she was working out like an animal, spending more time in front of the mirror than she had in years. I remember feeling so proud of her, he thought, feeling like a complete buffoon now. The new hairstyle, all the new clothes— she’d forecasted this. He shook his head. And then she was going out with the girls until all hours of the night, or at least that’s what she was telling me. He shook his head again, feeling both angry and embarrassed. How friggin’ stupid could I be?
His cell phone beeped again. Grabbing for his throbbing tooth, he ignored the newest text. He pulled into the college’s abandoned parking lot and shut off the ignition. Reaching for his cell phone on the floor, he collected himself with a few deep breaths before dialing his kids. Both calls went to voicemail, their obvious avoidance thrusting another dagger into his heart. This is unreal, he thought.
It took a while before Tom stopped pacing, wearing out the floor tiles in his office, and took a shot at getting comfortable on the small couch in the corner. Staring at the ceiling, he began his one-sided dialogue with God. As you know, things have been rough at home, but I never imagined Carmen would cheat on me... He stopped to beat back another overwhelming wave of emotion. It’s not bad enough I had to get sick, huh? He stopped and shook his head. I don’t know what to pray for right now. Part of me wants my family back, but I’m also smart enough to know that’s not going to happen—at least not in a way I can live with. He took a few deep breaths and looked toward the ceiling. Please bless Caroline and Caleb and keep them safe from any harm. And please help me to find peace in my heart. The tears rolled gain.
As the night grew long, Tom’s mind spiraled as quickly as his life. In the darkness, he took a painful inventory. Let’s see, he thought, my wife’s screwing around on me and my kids hardly know I exist. He looked around the small, drab room. And my job couldn’t mean anything less to me at this point in my life. He took a deep breath and held it for a moment. “Something needs to change soon,” he said aloud, “or I’m in real trouble.”

~~~

Episode 4: The I hope you enjoyed Spiral . I'll send out Episode 5 next week, returning you to Jason's dark world. 

Please consider sharing these stories with your friends by asking them to sign up for my mailing list at www.stevenmanchester.com 

Episodes 2 and 3 Leading to Ashes by Steven Manchester

Episode 2:

The Spiral (set in the world of Ashes)

Tom Prendergast dialed his daughter, Caroline. The call went straight to voicemail. He hung up and rang his son. Caleb’s cell phone also went to voicemail. These kids don’t go anywhere without their phones, he thought, a mix of anger and sadness filling his chest.

Sue Nedar, his assistant, stepped into his office. “Professor,” she said, “you have class in ten minutes. ”

“Ten minutes,” he repeated before flicking his tongue at the back of his mouth to test the pain level. Ahhh... The gentle touch made him flinch.

“You should get that tooth fixed,” Sue suggested.

He nodded. “If I could only find the time,” he said, looking at his watch. “Poetry 101, right?”

She nodded.

He could feel his face wince; this time, it wasn’t due to his toothache.

“Not your favorite, huh?”

Grabbing his leather satchel from the floor, he slid a stack of papers into it. “It used to be,” he said, sighing heavily. “There was a time when I loved nothing more than teaching poetry to first-timers.” Then, without volunteering to take the trip, his mind immediately warped back thirty years.

At the conclusion of his senior project—before receiving his Bachelor of Arts degree in English Literature—Tom stood behind a narrow lectern. Two dozen apathetic sixth graders stared back at him. 

“My name’s Tom Prendergast,” he announced, the words feeling like they’d been sifted through cotton, making him squirm to get comfortable. The anxiety rocked him; for years, that very same sensation had been inspired by his cruel father. He cleared his throat again. 

“Sitting under the dim light of a desk lamp, the artist gazes down at a blank white-lined canvas. Searching his vocabulary for the exact phrase, the perfect opener, he begins to reveal his soul for all. With a loving hand, each word is delicately brushed into sequence, one after the next. After immeasurable hours of meticulous effort, the vivid details of the picture come to life. At last, he can smile, knowing his portrait is complete. Although it will take more than a mere glance, the masterpiece must be appreciated through the mind’s eye where the reader will be swept away by their unlimited imaginations, fond memories of the past and the journey which the artist has chosen to guide.”

He looked up. The class obviously didn’t expect the quick recital and were taken aback. He smiled. “I’ve been writing for a few years now. In fact, I wrote my first poem in the fourth grade. And now I’m working on a collection of poetry that I hope to share with the world someday.” He scanned his young audience.

“Who cares,” one of the boys in the rear of the room mumbled under his breath, drawing a few laughs.

“Obviously not you,” Tom answered the disruptive kid, making everyone sit up straight. “If you don’t want to be here, then please don’t waste your time—or mine. Feel free to leave,” he added, making Ms. Willis—their teacher—shift uneasily in her chair.

While the red-faced boy shook his head, Tom smiled to himself, knowing that he’d handled the rude boy exactly as he should have. Maybe I do have the chops to be an effective teacher, he thought.

“I’m...I’m sorry,” the boy stuttered.

“Apology accepted,” Tom said, softening his tone. “Now let’s get on with it, shall we?”

Everyone nodded.

Tom jumped right into the lesson. “Okay, what is poetry?” When there was no response, he answered, “It’s a type of communication. In many literary circles it’s considered the purest form of expression. For me, it’s a place where I can take one idea, one feeling, and describe it in detail.” He paused. “Do you guys know why most people don’t like poetry?”

“Because it’s hard to understand,” a timid female voice called from the front of the room.

Tom nodded gratefully. “That’s right. It’s not easily understood and, in many cases, must be dissected and analyzed. This is true because the poet conceals or hides the poem’s meaning in a web of woven words.” He grinned wide. “But I have good news—that’s not every poet’s style.”

Again, there was little reaction.

“Does poetry make money, bring fame or fortune?” he asked. When no one volunteered, he answered, “Hardly! Very few poets make money. But that’s not what matters. As you guys get older, you'll find that there are more important things in life. Trust me, you'll look back and value your accomplishments and achievements so much more.” As the words left his lips, he was more surprised than the kids. “For me, it’ll be my writing and, of hopefully, the family I plan to have.”

Keeping to his promise, Tom never broke stride. “Most poets who make money do so posthumously, which means after they’re dead.”

Everyone laughed.

Tom shrugged. “Then why write it?” Before they even had a chance, he said, “There are thousands of reasons: To share ideas, to give back, to make somebody happy, to live on forever, to feel better yourself—to let people know that no one is ever alone. Many people wish to live on forever by becoming a voice of their generation.” He paused. “Mostly, it connects the writer to other people. By taking the pictures he has in his head and placing them into the minds of others, there is a magical connection.”

They looked confused.

“It’s exciting to some people that their thoughts and ideas will live on long after they do. Ironically, most poetry is personal. It’s based on feelings, where the poet is inspired to write his or her feelings down and capture them; feelings that may change from one moment to the next. Knowing that, I’m not sure how much immortal value is placed on most pieces that are written.”

They were now completely lost.

Tom grinned at the truth of it. Dumb it down, he told himself. “The reason I write poetry is to make a difference in the world, an impact, so when I complain about the world I can also say I'm trying to do something about it. I write it to give back what others have given me. Writing poetry allows me to stand up and speak out. And even if only one person listens and finds that their life is better because of my writing, it was worth my time and effort.” He took a moment, allowing his words a fair chance at being received. “There are four major purposes for poetry: It tells a story. It presents a picture. It expresses an emotional experience. And it reflects on life.” Searching their faces, he inquired, “Where can poetry be found?”

A freckled face girl wearing pig tails raised her hand. Tom called on her. “In Hallmark cards?”

“Excellent! And in the Bible, and in music, and pretty much everywhere else you can imagine.” He reached beneath the podium and pressed play on the portable CD player. Accompanied by a techno beat, the musical group Boyz II Men sang their melodic rap, rhyming nicely as they sang.

The kids were ecstatic. Tom sighed heavily. The teacher, however, didn’t look as thrilled. Tom waited a few minutes before replacing Boyz II Men with Don McClain, and served Ms. Willis a healthy slice of American Pie. 

The teacher nodded her approval. I have them all now, Tom thought.

He pressed stop, asking, “Who can tell me the difference between good writing and great writing?”

Still, there was no response. But something’s different, he thought. This time, the reason the kids didn’t answer was because they didn’t know the answer, not because they didn’t care. Most of them were now leaning in toward him.

He cut to the chase. “Good writers make people think, but great writers make their readers feel. Poetry should stimulate the imagination, touch the heart, bring strength, inspiration, laughter, and even tears.” He shrugged. “So how do you get started?”

“At the beginning,” the class clown in the rear answered, trying to redeem some of his dignity.

While the other students laughed, Tom agreed. “You’re absolutely right. Everything starts with an idea. I know a little more about poetry than you do, but not much, believe me. The difference is—I practice, which is the only way to get good at anything.” He scanned the room. “There are two major types of poetry. What are they?”

“Rhyming,” an anxious voice called out.

Tom went with the momentum. “Right, or what we call verse. And there’s also non-rhyming, also referred to as prose.”

They nodded.

He passed out a set of handouts. It was his poetry. He intended to read each and ask their meanings. He needed to prove that poetry didn’t have to be mind-numbing. “I wrote a poem that was inspired by an experience I had when I was a little younger than you are right now. Do you guys want to hear it?”

“Yes,” the class sang in chorus.

He recited the first poem.

“Roller Coaster

We stood in line afraid as hell

and heard those riding scream and yell. 

The line grew long, no turning back. 

We took off down the twisted track. 

Holding on with all our might

we climbed a hill, no earth in sight

and at the top we held our breath,

then took a plunge that met with death.

Hairs on end and knuckles white,

we screamed like children with delight. 

Accepting that without control,

we placed our faith: We’d come back whole. 

So up and down, through loops and screws, 

our hands reached for a sky so blue

and in our hearts the truth beat clear...

trust releases joy from fear.”

Several students exchanged surprised glances, making Tom smile.

“Recently, I wrote this next poem, Beauty, about a girl named Carmen. It’s in prose.” He cleared his throat.

“She radiates with the light of a thousand candles,

while her movements have the energy of a lightning storm. 

The sweetest aroma lures even the strong,

though it is the scent of confidence which takes the kill. 

With the giggle of an innocent child,

her tone is soft and gentle, almost heavenly.

She expects nothing,

but her silence demands the best.

Her forgiving heart beats in the ears of all men,

yet it is her untamed spirit which screams out loudest. 

Like a beacon in the darkest night, 

her comfort is safety. Rarely revealing her deepest thoughts,

her words remain simple, for she is a mystery.

Her tender touch can be soothing or sensual,

as she is unconditional love—

both maternal and passionate.

In a word, she is beauty...

and you should see her on the outside.”

The applause shocked him. They’re hooked, he thought, so he alternated a few more between verse and prose. When he was done, he looked up to find the loud-mouthed boy in the back of the room smiling at him. He felt like leaping. Even the smallest victories were cause for celebration. This one’s huge, he thought and grinned back before shutting off the lights. 

“Get comfortable, close your eyes and take a few deep breaths,” he said, stifling a giggle that tickled at the back of his throat. “This is supposed to be fun, not work.”

Once the excited chatter subsided, they did as they were told.

“Now picture your favorite, safest, most comfortable place in the whole world. Take your time, but once you have it open your eyes.”

All eyes gradually returned to him, most filled with a growing interest.

“Now using what you’ve just experienced with all five senses, write this place down, describing it in prose and take your reader where you want them to go.”

“What if I can’t?” a young boy asked.

“Can’t?” Tom asked. “Now there’s a word that should either be stricken from your vocabulary, or used as nothing more than a challenge. You can do anything you put your mind to— anything!” He drew in a deep breath. “As long as you can speak, you can write. Rather than opening your mouth, use a pen. The words won't just drift off with the wind and become lost forever. Instead, you can write them down and stick them in a book where they’ll live on.”

The students were given fifteen minutes to play with their vocabularies and paint their vivid pictures. Tom strolled through the classroom, checking on their progress, inspiring each with genuine compliments as he passed their desks.

“Okay,” he said, “next, I want you to close your eyes again and imagine an event that you’ve attended; a circus, an amusement park—whatever—and describe how it makes you feel. And I want you to do it in free verse, or rhyming form.”

After this assignment was complete, he asked for a topic he could tackle. The kids agreed. “Write a poem about something that should change in the world.”

There’s plenty to write about there, he thought. “Great,” he said, “so while you’re finishing the same assignment at home, I’ll be doing mine. And once we’ve all finished, perhaps your teacher, Ms. Willis, wouldn’t mind compiling them into a bound collection to create an anthology?”

The impressed woman nodded, exciting the kids even more. They were now working on their first collection of poetry. They were going to have their own book.

As Tom gathered his things, he decided to leave them with one last nugget of wisdom. “Poetry cannot be taught,” he said, “only inspired. And remember this: Talent can be cultivated, but discipline is rare.” He knew this final statement would only click with those who cared to give it some extra thought.

“Thank you, Mr. Prendergast,” they sang in chorus.

“No,” he replied. “Thank you—for inspiring me. You’ve reminded me of the many reasons I write and I’ll never forget you for it.”

One week later, Tom sent his contribution to Ms. Willis’ anthology:

A Walk in the Clouds by Thomas Prendergast

I walked amongst the clouds today and then I took a seat

to try to understand the world

that spun beneath my feet.

It was the grandest picture my eyes had ever seen.

I couldn’t make out colors except for blue and green.

And yet I could see people,

a whole race on the run.

To tell the truth, from where I sat they clearly moved as one.

With fear, they searched for answers

they thought were on the ground.

And though they spoke in different tongues they made the sweetest sound.

They had the wrong perspective, with no way they could know:

There are no individuals, but just parts of a whole.

And so I made a wish for them that someday they would see: 

Only when they really love

is when they’re really free.

I’ll dance amongst the stars tonight, while others search in vain.

For just above their point of view there’s no such thing as pain.

“Professor,” Sue said, infiltrating Tom’s vivid memory and pulling him back into the present.

“I know,” he said, “I know. I’m going to be late.” As Sue turned and left the room, he stood—his aching molar shoving a hot spike into his brain. I need to get this damned tooth fixed soon! he thought.

As Tom started for his office door, he caught his passing reflection in the mirror. He stopped for a moment. Still physically fit, his hair was now salt-and-pepper while his round eye glasses contributed to his intellectual appearance. He took a deep breath and exhaled. There was a time when I loved to teach, he thought, thinking it would be so wasteful not to pass on my passion and knowledge to people who cared enough to listen. He shook his head. Instead, I ended up becoming a college professor.

As he walked toward his classroom, he grabbed his cell phone and dialed both of his kids again—experiencing the same hurtful avoidance. This is bullshit, he thought, his rising heart rate throbbing in his rotten tooth. I’m so sick and tired of being disrespected by these entitled brats.

A moment later, he swung open the classroom door, bringing a dozen separate conversations to silence. Let’s get this over with, he thought, trying to ignore the blinding pain that pulsated in the back of his mouth.

~~~


Episode 3: Serving Time (set in the world of Ashes)

Jason phoned Miranda. The call went straight to voicemail. “Hi babe, it’s Dad. Sorry I had to cut the call short earlier today. It was a busy day at the office. When you get a chance, call me back. I’m curious about what you have in mind for the weekend.” He ended the call and smiled, God, do I love that kid, he thought.

Still in hand, his cell phone rang. “Hello?”

“Hi sexy,” Josie said.

“I’m sorry,” he joked, “but you must have the wrong number.”

“Just make sure you pick me up at four o’clock. I don’t want to be late.”

“Late for what?” he asked, smiling.

“I told you, it’s a surprise.”

“Oh, that’s right,” he said, his smile widening. Weeks before, Josie had made dinner reservations at Los Andes Restaurant in Providence. Although she’d claimed it was a surprise, she never once tried to conceal her plans. In fact, she’d hinted about the big night for weeks. For as long as he could remember, Jason had heard about Los Andes, everyone going on and on about how good the food was and how the service was even better. But it wasn’t easy to travel through Federal Hill—with one amazing pasta joint better than the next; Camille’s, Pan E Vino, Cassarino’s, the Old Canteen—and not stop for some incredible dinner.

“Four o’clock, okay?” Josie said.

“I’ll be there,” Jason confirmed. “What should I wear?”

“Business casual.”

“So no prison uniform?”

“Khakis and a button down shirt will be perfect,” she said.

“Fine,” he said, “but I’m not tucking the shirt in.”

“You won’t be in it for long anyway,” she purred. “See you in a bit.” She hung up.

Jason looked at his cell phone and smiled—thinking about his playful dinner date. Josie was more than ten years his junior but acted even younger than that. She was an attractive brunette, with matching dimples that worked like lethal lures when she smiled. She was on the short side, with the body of a mature gymnast—both in curves and flexibility. Whatever their conversations lacked in depth, their physical relationship made up for it—and then some, he thought. And although Josie was considered no more than the latest in a long line of failed relationships, Jason liked her. Even when her African gray parrot spouted the most foul sentiments like “Bite me” and “Eat my ass”—echoing the dirty words of the filthy woman who’d taught it—Jason enjoyed being in her company. She’s a crazy broad, he thought, but I dig crazy.

After leaving the rain-soaked highway, the GPS’s non-whimsical voice called for so many rights and lefts that Jason knew they’d been sent in a back way. Up one street and down the next, they traveled through a tough-looking neighborhood, filled with three tenement houses with tiny yards behind chained link fences; corner stores and ethnic eateries protected by bars on their front windows—an all too familiar sight for Jason.

Fifteen minutes later, they arrived at Los Andes.

“Surprise!” Josie called out, smiling.

“This is it?” he asked, returning her grin. 

She nodded. “I know you don’t like to try anything new, babe, but I want you to keep an open mind, okay?” She glanced back at the building. “Everyone says we’re going to love it.”

The restaurant was located on the bottom floor of a tenement house, with a brick façade and blue awning, giving it the appearance of a storefront. Exterior signs boasted of Fine Peruvian and Bolivian Dining; South American delicacies. The silhouette of some foreign animal was prominently displayed on the awning. A yak or llama? Jason considered before finally deciding, It’s a llama. “Okay,” he agreed, adding a wink. 

Two young valet attendants waited in the rain. Jason considered their services before shaking his head. No way, he thought. “Get out here,” he told Josie. “I’ll find on-street parking.”

“You’re such a cheap...” she said.

“You’re welcome,” he interrupted, reaching over her lap to open the door for her.

She sighed heavily. 

“I have no problem tipping these kids,” he explained. “I just don’t want them scratching my...” 

But Josie had already slammed the door shut and was heading for the restaurant, past a group of patrons huddled outside—standing flush against the building, while the blue awning protected them from the pelting rain. 

This place must be good, Jason figured before finding a safe parking spot two streets away.

After an awkward and tiresome sprint in the rain, Jason took one step inside the place to discover that its outward appearance was only camouflage, concealing a real gem within. A huge, blue coral salt water tank sat above the bar, separating them from the main dining room. The tank was teeming with several dozen fish. After a narrow walk down the length of the bar, bouncing off of the packed crowd as he went, Jason met Josie at the hostess station.

“How long’s the wait?” he asked, wiping his wet hands on his khakis.

“Another half hour,” she said.

“You didn’t make a reservation?” he asked, surprised.

“I did,” she said without any further explanation.

While they waited, one of the owners—brothers who could never deny each other—came over and offered his sincere apology. “Some of the larger parties have taken longer than we anticipated,” he said, offering them each a drink on the house.

Class joint, Jason thought, happy to pass the time with a free drink, but the food had better be worth it. If he was being honest with himself, though, it had been a long time since he’d experienced such a positive first impression.

When they were finally escorted into the dimly-lit restaurant, Jason noticed that lots of people were drinking martinis. Not for me, he thought. The crowd was thick and happy, a cacophony of conversations filling the packed room. It was incredibly busy with wait staff flying around the room in some choreographed dance of chaos. They do a good business here, Jason thought.

He and Josie were led past the large dining room into an outside area covered by large tents. Jason craned his neck to survey the outdoor environment: A large Koi pond took up the center; surrounded by stone columns fire pits. Must be nice out there when it’s not pouring out, he decided, picturing some costumed man playing a Spanish guitar.

They were seated at a high top table and handed leather-bound menus.

“Want to try the pico sour?” Josie asked, quickly scanning the tall menu.

“Hell no.”

“You don’t even know what it is?”

“That’s right, but I do know what beer is and that’s exactly what I want.”The waiter approached, grinning. “Our bartender makes the best caipirinhas.”

“What’s that?” Jason asked.

“It’s made with cachaça, sugar and lime. Very delicious.”

“Not for me,” Jason said, unsure—and unwilling—to learn what cachaça is.

“Then why even ask, if you’re not going to try it?” Josie said, perturbed. 

Jason grinned and looked back at the waiter. “I’ll have a beer. You pick the flavor,” he said. “Thanks.” The owner swung by, apologizing again for the wait. “Pick an appetizer on the house,” he told them.

They’d never had Peruvian or Bolivian cuisine before, so there were many questions about the menu. The waiter was extremely knowledgeable, answering each question in patient detail. From cevice and paella to sea bass and short ribs, there were so many unusual choices to pick from. 

“And perhaps you’d like to share a pitcher of sangria?” he suggested.Jason shook his head. “I’ll stick with the beer.”

Josie was still shaking her disappointed head when two appetizers arrived at their table: The calamari they’d ordered and the other was a surprise that the owner had chosen—cold mashed potatoes filled with avocadoes and topped with chicken salad and some Peruvian sauce. Odd, Jason thought before devouring three out of the four on the plate. “Amazing,” he admitted, surprised.

Sitting outside by that waterfall must be real nice in the summer, Jason thought again, as the rain dripped onto the corner of the table, creating a small puddle. 

Not long after finishing the appetizers, the smiling waiter delivered lobster paella for Josie, and steak with two eggs over easy, yuka fries and white rice—with a few fried plantains on the side—for him. Although the portions were huge, Jason had no delusions that there would be any left—from either plate—before they were done. “Let’s get at it,” he said, starting in on one of the best steaks he’d ever eaten.

Not only was the food out of this world, it was equally matched by the doting service. I’ve never experienced anything like this place, Jason thought, grateful for Josie’s surprise plans.

As they ate, Jason scanned the room. A woman, seated off in the corner, began coughing. Josie spun in her seat to see what the problem was. 

“Relax,” Jason said, chewing a few fries, “she’s still breathing. No need for the Heimlich just yet.” 

As Josie shook her head, the woman regained her composure.

In a different corner, a larger party—four middle-aged couples—debated politics with more fervor and volume than seemed appropriate. Normally, the raucous would have bothered Jason. For whatever reason, he found it entertaining. The table of empty margarita glasses probably isn’t helping, he thought.

While Jason continued to survey the room, one of the dark-haired waitresses hurried by the table and shot Jason a big smile. He smiled back.

“Nice,” Josie hissed.

“What?” Jason asked, taking a sip of beer. 

“I saw that.” 

“You saw nothing,” he said, slightly amused.

“I saw her flirting with you,” Josie said, her voice getting louder and angry. “And I saw you...”

He lifted his hand to halt her inebriated rant. 

“You’re beautiful and sexy, Josie...a real wildcat in the sack. But you’re also as crazy as a shit house rat.” 

“Excuse me!”

“Bottom line,” he said. “I’m getting way too old and tired to deal with this type of nonsense. If I wanted to be with someone else, I’d be with someone else...and I wouldn’t be hiding it.”

“But you...”

“But I’m here,” he interrupted, “with you...which is where I want to be.” Nodding, he added. “Please don’t change that.” 

Josie opened her mouth again, but said nothing. Instead, she grabbed for her glass and took a long drink. 

“Thanks for taking me here,” Jason said, smiling. “It’s top notch...the best surprise I’ve had in a long time.”

“You’re welcome,” she managed.

He smiled, thinking, It’s the perfect place to share our final meal together.

Miranda called on Saturday morning. “Dad, are you free this afternoon?” 

“Sure, babe,” Jason said, feeling as excited as he was hung over. “Where are you taking me?”

“Nowhere, actually,” she said, pausing. “It’s just that...Mario needs to talk to you about something.”

“Talk to me about what?” Jason asked before a certain possibility dawned on him and his heart did a free fall into his socks. “About what?” he repeated, his tone sounding a bit frantic.

“You’ll know soon enough,” she said, and Jason could tell that the young man was standing beside her, waiting for the green light. “He’s on his way now.”

“Ummm...okay,” Jason stammered, his mind racing for a way to avoid this talk.

“And Dad,” she added, almost at a whisper.

“Yeah?”

“Please be nice to him.”

Jason swallowed hard. “I’m always nice,” he managed, “but it would be even nicer if you told me...”

“You’ll know soon enough,” she repeated. “I’ll call you later.” 

With that, there was nothing but a dial tone. Jason looked at his cell phone in disbelief. Holy shit, he thought. I always figured this day would come but I didn’t expect it to be today. He headed for the fridge to grab a beer. Maybe he wants to talk to be about something else? Jason considered, but no matter how hard he tried he couldn’t come up with an alternate—and much more welcomed—reason.

Twenty minutes had elapsed—twice the time it should have taken Mario to drive over to his place—before there was a light knock on the front door. Holy shit, Jason repeated in his head, all those muscles and he can’t even... Shaking his head, he downed the rest of his beer and took a deep breath. “Here we go,” he muttered and swung open the front door.

Wearing a smile as broad as his chest, Mario stood on the stoop looking younger than Jason had ever seen him. And he was nervous—no, petrified—contagiously rubbing off on Jason. “Hi, Mr. Prendergast,” he said, his Adam’s apple bobbing like some small fish had taken the hook in his guts. “Can I talk to you for a few minutes?”

Jason couldn’t help it; he was frozen in the threshold—unable to move or speak. “Come in,” he finally said, “come in.” 

Mario Arruda stood six feet tall on a bulging frame that spent hours in the gym, pumping iron. From appearances, Mario was a man. One look at his face, however, told Jason a different story. Kids grow up so much slower today than we did back in my day, he thought. Still, Jason couldn’t help but to like him; after only spending a few minutes with the baby-faced boy, his eyes and words both betrayed that he was a good guy—kind and considerate. Still, it wasn’t enough for Jason. If he was going to be with his daughter, Miranda, he needed to be a man. 

Mario took a half dozen steps into the living room and spun on his heels.

“Take a seat,” Jason told him, gesturing toward the blanket-laden couch, “make yourself comfortable.” 

This time, it was Mario who stood paralyzed. “Mr. Prendergast,” he said, his words dry and scratchy, “I love Miranda very much.”

“And so do I,” Jason instinctively countered. Without meaning to, he realized he’s squared his feet into a fighting posture—as if he were going to trade punches with the nervous kid. Just hear him out, he told himself. Mario’s a good kid.

“And I’m here to ask your permission to marry her,” he said, the words spilling out and lifting his shoulders a full two inches in relief. 

As if he’s been pushed, Jason collapsed into his recliner—his eyes never leaving Mario’s. What the hell, he thought. You guys are so young. You have your whole lives ahead of you. There’s plenty of time to... He looked up to find Mario sitting on the edge of the couch, anxiously awaiting a reply; the boy’s eyes were swollen with equal amounts of fear and hope. Mario’s a good guy, Jason reminded himself and cleared his throat. “So you want to marry my daughter?” Jason started. 

Mario nodded hard. “I do,” he said, the two simple words sending chills down Jason’s spine.

“And you think you can be a good husband to Miranda...a good provider?”

“I know I can, Mr. Prendergast.” He paused for a moment, while his eyes filled. “I’ve loved Miranda since the first day I met her and nothing’s ever going to change that.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” Jason said, his heart flooding with the depth of love he felt for his little girl.

Mario smiled—for the first time sincerely.

“Will you provide for her...everything she needs?”

“You have my word.”

“And protect her?”

“With my life,” Mario answered. 

Jason searched his eyes to discover it was the truth—moving him and sending the shiver back down his spine. “As the years pass by, marriage can feel like serving time for some men.”

“Never!” Mario blurted, “not with Miranda. I love her with everything inside me, Mr. Prendergast, and I’ll always be there for her no matter what happens.”

“I believe you,” Jason said, surprising himself as much as his future son-in-law.

“And you should,” Mario said sincerely. “Her happiness means more to me than my own.”

Okay, son, Jason thought, but if you ever abuse her in any way, I’ll punish you in ways you can’t even imagine. He never posed the threat, but he could tell by Mario’s face that it was already understood. Sighing heavily—in surrender—he extended his hand. Mario grabbed it and gave it the firm shake he was counting on. “You have my blessing, son,” he said. “But although Miranda will become your wife—for which I’ll respect and never interfere—understand that she’ll always be my little girl.” Jason choked on the last two words and his eyes immediately filled. Yet, he never tried to hide it. It was good that his daughter’s future husband understand the depth of love. “Always,” he repeated.

“I understand, sir,” Mario said, his own eyes filling. He tightened his grip.

Jason nodded. “And there’s no need to call me sir. We’re going to be family, for God’s sake.” He pulled his hand free and patted Mario on the back. “Just call me Mr. Prendergast.”

Mario’s brow rose in confusion. 

That’ll keep him on his toes for a while, Jason thought, trying to beat back a laugh. “What do you say we have a beer and celebrate?”

Mario nodded. “That sound great.”

Jason headed for the kitchen. “You are old enough to drink a beer, right?’ he called over his shoulder. 

“I am, Mr. Prendergast,” Mario answered.

With his back to the boy, Jason smiled.

~~~

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