Read Along With Me - Featuring Neal James and Short Story, Fatal Confession!

http://nealjames.webs.com/

The Site and My Writing

The site was the natural progression from the release of my first novel "A Ticket to Tewkesbury" in October 2008.
With the publisher, Pneuma Springs, keen on a follow-up title, I decided to submit the first of my two short story compilations, and these now form the feature of their own page.
I have worked in the accountancy profession for over 30 years, and came into writing as a result of an entry in an international short story competition in the Autumn of 2007. That piece, although failing to win, did finish in the top ten entries and spurred me on to further writing.
Membership of a number of internet short story sites gave me further encouragement, and after experimenting with an American self-publisher, I decided to take the plunge into the world of commercial publishing.
Pneuma Springs accepted "A Ticket to Tewkesbury" at the end of July 2008 and within three months it was on the market, being available through Waterstones high street stores, and on line with them and Amazon, WH Smith and Blackwell.
Progress is now being made into the US market with Barnes & Noble.
To date, the book has found its way to Texas, Oregon, Baltimore, Michigan, Indiana, The Gambia, France, Australia and New Zealand. Take up on the domestic front has been very good both with UK and Irish libraries, and also in the retail market.
Other projects are on-going, and the third volume, "Two Little Dicky Birds", was released at the end of July 2010. Number four 'Threads of Deceit' has now joined the growing collection, having been released in August 2011,and "Full Marks" has now joined the library.
The sequel to "A Ticket to Tewkesbury", is now finished and published with Pneuma Springs - it is called "Day of the Phoenix".
At the time of writing, I have also published "The Rings of Darelius" and "Twelve Days" with Lulu in 2016 and 2017. "Three Little Maids", the ninth book in as many years, came out with BNBS Books in Cleveland, and "Short Stories Volume Two" will join the growing list later in 2018

Please Visit!

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Hi Everybody...since I'm not accepting new requests for book reviews, I am still interested in helping Indie authors share their work! Neal James has agreed to share one or more of his short stories with all of us! Cool, right! Soooo, let's start reading... I'll be adding pics or music if appropriate for the story, so let's see what happens! Comments appreciated!

Fatal Confession

(This is meant to be background music...turn sound down)

Cathedrale de Notre Dame in Paris

Michael Dawson stood before the imposing front entrance to the Holy Name Catholic Church at the corner of Weston and Ford in Salem’s upper west side. He looked up at the frontage, copied unashamedly from that of the Cathédrale de Nôtre Dame in Paris, and sighed. The cold wind blowing down Weston sent a shiver through his body, and he rubbed the fronts of his shoes down the back of his trouser legs like some kid standing outside the Principal’s office at elementary school. He took a deep breath, turned the huge ornate door latch, and stepped inside.

It was cold – these places always were – he could just imagine the heating bill. Stepping beyond the entrance porch and into the church itself, he looked up automatically as the ceiling towered above him; he couldn’t remember the last time he’d attended Mass, and the entire place seemed to scream ‘Sinner!’ at him.

The confessional booth was occupied – he could tell by the closed curtain. Apart from an old woman cleaning at the other side of the aisles he was alone, and took a seat in a pew a few yards away from the place of his confession.

Michael Dawson was forty-eight years old and had been married for twenty-five of those. He stood six feet one and weighed a hundred and seventy-five. Prematurely graying hair gave him an enhanced air of authority at the First 
Commercial Bank, and his position of VP Finance ensured

that no-one at the office questioned either his actions or motives in driving the business forward. He was a man whose self-assuredness had served him well throughout his career…until now. A chance meeting during a business trip had changed all of that, and desperation had now forced him back into the shell of the mother church – he was in need of absolution. He was shaken from his reverie by the sudden opening of the booth curtain as its previous occupant departed, somewhat quickly, in the opposite direction to where he was seated.

 

“Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.” He uttered the mantra quietly, having closed the curtain, sat down, and crossed himself – at least he hadn’t forgotten how to do that!
“And what is it that brings you here, Michael, after all this time?” The priest replied.

Dawson started. Conor Fitzgerald had been the incumbent at The Holy Name for more years than anyone could recall, but it startled him that the priest recognized his voice. The Father’s accent bore the gentle burr of a resident of Tipperary, and his years in the States had done nothing to harden the soft tone of his native Irish county.

“It’s been a long time since my last confession…”

“Five years it is.” Fitzgerald’s voice bore no reproach, but Dawson stiffened in his seat as they struck home.

“If you say so, Father.” He paused, trying to reassemble his thoughts after the interruption. His mind had gone blank, and he blurted out the first thing which popped into it. “I’m guilty of pride. I’ve let what people at work say affect my ego.”

Fitzgerald, partly hidden by the screen, paused for a moment. He nodded and smiled sadly to himself. They rarely told what was really bothering them the first time out, and he was always inclined to cut a break knowing that the truth would surface in the end. He shook his head and sighed.

“Say three ‘Hail Mary’s’ and sin no more.” There was another pause. “Is there anything else, Michael?”

There was a momentary silence, and time, for the two of them, seemed to pass at different rates as Dawson fought to come to terms with the lie which he had just told – that would require a further confession…at some point.

“No, Father.” He stood up. “Thank you for…you know.” Michael hadn’t seen the parcel until that very moment when his foot brushed against something on the floor. He picked it up, automatically, and thrust it into the pocket of his coat. Turning off the street, he entered the gloom of a nondescript bar.

“I do, my son.” Fitzgerald replied to the now empty booth.

Back outside, Dawson turned up the collar of his Burberry against the cold wind, thrust his hands into its deep pockets, and started off down the street towards the underground. He needed to think, and a call to his secretary ensured that he would be allowed that time for the rest of the day. His fingers closed around the parcel in his right hand pocket, and he frowned at the thought of what he now believed it to contain. Turning into the first bar he came across, he walked slowly into the room.

“What’ll it be?” The bar tender smiled as he tossed the towel across a broad shoulder.

“Scotch rocks.” Dawson stared blankly at him.

“Comin’ right up.” He shook his head as the greeting failed to illicit a friendly response.

The new customer tossed the drink down in one, and replaced the glass noisily on the bar. “Again.”
With the glass refilled, any further attempt at conversation was stifled as Dawson took the glass, turned away from the bar, and retreated to a corner table. Michael downed half the second drink in one go, wincing as the alcohol once more made its way down his gullet, burning a route to his stomach. Glancing around for prying eyes, he carefully removed the parcel and unfolded it. A sharp intake of breath went unheard outside the confines of his corner - Dawson stared in amazement at the gun now in his hand and concealed

beneath the table top.

Even in the semi-darkness of the bar room it gleamed. He turned it over and squinted through the gloom. He was no expert, but there did not appear to be any identification marks upon it. He ran his fingers along it…there were no raised surfaces which would have hinted at a serial number. It was untraceable – just the thing which he needed. He replaced it in its wrapping and stuffed it back into the pocket of his Burberry. Downing the rest of the scotch, he narrowed his eyes at the thought of what he now knew had to be done.

“So long.” The barman called to the retreating figure leaving the bar. “Asshole!” He cursed as the door slammed behind Michael Dawson.

********************

Michael Dawson’s problems would indeed require a solution of significant proportions. As VP Finance at the bank, he was one of a small circle of trusted employees running the investment arm of the corporate portfolio. Along with Dexter Taylor and Duane Perkins he had expanded that side of the business in the wake of what became known as the Sub Prime market. A series of questionable, but highly profitable, deals with some shady Middle Eastern faces had seen all three of them on the verge of a vast amount of wealth. That potential expanded exponentially with the accidental deaths of the other two in an airplane crash some months earlier – Dawson had been the only one with unhindered access to the funds which they had concealed in a numbered account in the Bahamas. That was before he met Cindy.

“Come on, honey.” She had cooed in his ear as they danced their inebriated way around the floor at the bank’s Christmas party. “Who’s gonna know?”

Pressed up against each other in a throng of bodies, they had managed to remain upright, but his sobriety, severely challenged up to that point, now regained a modicum of sensibility as her words struck home. She was right, though – his was not the only party being hosted that evening.

“Hmm?” Was all that he could articulate, despite his thoughts beginning to clear. Without the restraining influence of his wife, Dawson had imbibed quite freely.

“No-one’s gonna split on you.” She pulled him even closer. “Anyway, who knows you here?”

Dawson had to agree. As sole representative of the Salem branch at the event, nothing that he did there on that evening could compromise him, either professionally or personally. Marlene, his wife, steadfastly refused to attend these functions, choosing to remain firmly entrenched at home. Their marriage was the epitome of ordinariness and she trusted him. Cindy, however, was something else and her entire being screamed out to him in a way that Marlene could never have understood.

“You mean?” He asked, his befuddled brain clearing further.

“Sure do, honey.” She eyed the exit, winking as her fingers entwined his and the two of them headed for the hotel reception desk.

Michael awoke sometime during the early morning and stumbled to the bathroom. Cindy lay breathing gently, completely undisturbed by his foray. He leaned against the sink and looked at himself in the mirror. A nauseating feeling of guilt suddenly swept through him as his thoughts swept back to his wife at home. How could he have done this to her? The sound of Cindy turning in bed snapped him back to reality. He looked back at the mirror.

“What have I done?” he asked the reflection staring at him, as if he expected some platitude from his alter ego.

Fear then seized him. My God! Had he said anything to Cindy about the offshore account? Dawson trawled his memory for some clue to what he might have revealed in his inebriated state of mind. The sexual act would not have passed without some form of conversation, crude as it may have been. But what afterwards? Pillow talk? He sat down on the toilet, legs temporarily giving way as he sought to come to terms with his situation.

The more he thought, the more he came to the conclusion that Cindy would have to go. But how? Here? No; any attempt on her life would very soon find him in police custody. He would have to wait – find out where she lived and perhaps take some kind of action then and far away from home and family. For now it was important that he put as much distance between himself and this hotel as possible and get back home without delay. He dressed quietly, packed his bag, and closed the room door. He looked at his watch – 6:30 a.m. The desk clerk downstairs gave him a knowing smile as he pulled a wad of cash from his wallet.

“Good morning, sir.” She winked. “Pleasant evening?”

“Yes. Thank you.” He mumbled. “My bill, please.”

“Of course, sir. Will we be seeing you again?”

“No. No…I don’t think so.”

“Will the lady be requiring any further service?” The clerk looked over the tops of her glasses and smiled once more.

“That’ll be all, thank you.” Dawson straightened up, and the reproof was clear. “Goodbye.”

Hailing a cab, he headed for the Central Station and the start of his journey home. Without the nerve to ask the clerk for Cindy’s details, he saw no point in delaying and perhaps arousing suspicions about his activities. He would track her down later – he did not want her trying to find him.

“Honey!” Marlene greeted him as he stepped through their front door. “Did you have a good time?”

“It was fine, dear.” Dawson tried to act as normal as possible, and had rehearsed a number of scenarios on the way home. In the event, he did not need to embellish any further, and Marlene’s interest, beyond that of having him home, waned from that point on. He was safe for the moment – or so he thought.

As the days passed, Michael’s fears subsided somewhat and work filled his time, preventing any brooding on what may or may not have been said at the hotel. The phone call on the Thursday of the second week shook all of his complacency to its foundations. The private line in his office buzzed, and the display, worryingly, came up with the message ‘unknown caller’.

“Hello.” He frowned. He couldn’t recall having given out the office number to anyone but colleagues and family.

“Michael, honey.” The voice purred. “So nice to hear your voice. Why did you sneak away like that?”

Beads of perspiration broke out across his forehead, and he reached into his pocket for a handkerchief. Mopping his brow, Dawson cleared his throat and sat forwards at his desk.

“Cindy?” He whispered. “How the hell did you get this number?”

“Checked your cell phone, sweetie.”

“My cell?” Dawson’s voice rose.

“Oh, don’t worry. Just took a peek, you know you really should put a security code on that thing; anyway, needed a memento after the night we spent together. You sleep soundly…well, you did after we’d had our little chat.”

Michael could feel the tension crackling away over the phone line, and knew that control of the conversation was rapidly slipping away from him. His brain froze as he waited for her next line. It was not long in coming.

“Are we alone on this line?” The softness in her tone was gone, and the timbre now had a hard, businesslike edge.

“It’s a private line.” He mumbled. “Even my secretary has no access.”

“That’s good.” The voice softened again. “Means we can have a little talk about that offshore nest egg you have.”

“Nest egg…?” Dawson held his head in his hand as he realised how foolish he had been.

“Sure, honey.” Michael could see the smile. “Just a small cut to keep me happy. Thirty percent sounds good. Or would you like your wife to find out about our evening together.”

The rest of the conversation left Dawson feeling sick, as he started to realise how stupid he had been to leave the hotel without taking care of her right then and there, despite the risks. His hand was now forced, and over the remainder of the day a cold, calculating, feeling began to germinate. Just before close of business, he made the call to the hotel and asked for Cindy’s details. It was a risk, but one that he was forced to take. The desk clerk was the same one who was on duty on the morning he left – a stroke of luck! She remembered him, and passed over Cindy’s telephone number without a second thought. Half an hour later he had her address from Information Services, and the net started to close.

“Another business trip, dear?” Marlene’s surprise pained him. “Seems like I’ll have to look up the girls again. How long will you be gone?”

“Just a couple of days, sweetheart. Last minute panic to tie up a big deal, and Davies has gone sick.” He smiled as the lies tripped so easily off his tongue.

He was in New York later that afternoon, and checked himself into the Maritime Hotel on West 16th Street. Hailing a cab after dropping his bags in the room, he stepped out of it a while later in Hoboken, paid the driver, and walked across the street to an address on Clinton Street. Cindy’s apartment at number 447 was on the top floor, and repeated buzzing told him that there was no-one home. He stepped to one side as another resident keyed in the access code and entered the building. Placing a toe inside the door, Dawson held the gap until the figure had disappeared and then let himself in.

The building was quiet and, checking back through the glass door, Michael was sure that no-one had seen him enter. Summoning the elevator in favor of taking the stairs, he took it to the fourth floor and approached apartment 447. He paused outside, listening intently for any sounds of approaching footsteps. Taking a deep breath, he removed a credit card from his wallet – he’d seen this done on TV, so how difficult could it be? The only alternative would be to wait for Cindy to return, and the risks inherent in that would be far too great. Sliding the plastic into the gap between door and jamb he drew it downwards, fully expecting it to come to a sudden halt. To his immense relief and surprise, a soft ‘click’ heralded the release of the lock and the door swung gently away from him – he was in!

********************

“So, what’s on for tonight?” Harriet’s interminable questioning drove Cindy up the wall at times, and today was just one of those days.

“Nothing.” She replied tartly. “Staying home and washing my hair.” The rebuff was enough – this time, and Harriet grimaced at Cindy’s back as she made her way out of the office and headed home.

There was nothing at the apartment block to alert her to what was about to happen, and she was greeted just inside her door by the customary rubs and purrs from Buster, her feline friend; it was dinnertime and he had been waiting long enough.

“Okay, okay. Where’s the fire?” She smiled and picked him up, rubbing her face across his fur. “C’mon then, Hungry Horace, let’s see what we got for you.”

Those words died in her throat as she moved from the lounge to the kitchen. The door closed behind her and, as she turned, Dawson smiled as she dropped the cat in surprise. The gun in his hand told her that this was not a social call.

“Michael, honey.” She swallowed hard – gazed fixed on the muzzle pointed directly at her chest. “What are you doing here?”

“Just tying up a loose end, Cindy.” He closed the door, sealing off any escape route; she was trapped against the far wall with no means of defending herself. “I can’t have you stealing something that’s taken years to build up. You should have kept your mouth shut.”

Dawson removed the safety and leveled the gun at her. The silencer would ensure that anyone passing by would be completely unaware of what was happening, and he frowned momentarily. He hadn’t thought about it at the time, but he couldn’t remember there being a silencer in the package when he checked it at the bar.

“Say goodbye, Cindy.” He squeezed the trigger, and she froze, eyes closed in anticipation of the kill shot.

The ‘click’ took them both by surprise as the gun refused to discharge its deadly projectile. Cindy opened her eyes, and was first to realise what had happened. Taking advantage of Dawson’s disbelieving look, and spotting the gap between him and the table, she rushed for the door and the relative safety of the fourth floor lobby outside the apartment. Had she been a fraction of a second quicker, escape may have been a possibility, but Dawson spotted the move and grabbed her as she tried to pass by.

The gun fell to the floor as her momentum carried them both through from the kitchen and back into the lounge. They careered across the room and came to rest against the large sofa in the middle. Michael used his greater strength to pin her to the floor as he grabbed a cushion from the furniture. Her attempts to fight him off were doomed to failure as life began to ebb out of her against the pressure of the foam-filled cushion. Now sitting stride her, Dawson pressed down with all his weight as her struggles became weaker. In moments she was gone, and once he was certain that he was now safe from her threats, he rose from the floor and sat, exhausted on the sofa.

“In other news today…”

Dawson jumped at the sudden sound of a voice in the apartment, and turned in terror only to be faced with the TV screen in the corner. Cindy clearly had it programmed to come on in time for her return from work each day. With hammering heart now returning to normal rate, he crossed the room and switched it off. Looking at his watch, Michael knew that it would be unwise for him to leave the block at that precise time. Too many eyes, returning from their own places of work, would surely identify a stranger leaving the premises. Pressing down the security lock on the door, he settled back to wait for the afternoon rush to subside.

News of the discovery of the body of Cindy Fraser hit the news desks the next morning when she failed to turn up for work. Dawson was, by that time, safely back in his hotel room and preparing for a return to the relative normality of home. Remaining at the hotel was risky, but by no means as hazardous as a sudden departure following the news of a homicide. He would take the chance and behave as normally as possible in the circumstances.

Sitting in a bar across the street on his second day in the Big Apple, his attention was drawn to a conversation further down the room. The two off duty cops were sipping Budweiser and chewing the fat after a long and arduous shift. It was after six in the evening, and conversation had turned to the latest developments in the case of the woman murdered across town in her own apartment.

“Did the CSI’s find anythin’?” The first one asked. He was a large bruiser of a man and must have weighed in at over 200.

“Nobody’s lettin’ on, but word on the grapevine says she was linked to some big shot in the financial world.” Came the reply from the second.

“How’d they work that one out?”

“Seems the guy left somethin’ at the scene; you know how these jerks are – think they can get away with anythin’ if they got enough dough.”

Dawson didn’t wait to hear the remainder of the conversation. Sinking his scotch in one, he picked up his coat and left as quickly as possible without attracting attention. Out on the street, his mind whirled with the possibilities. Had he left any prints? No – he wore gloves from the time he entered the main lobby downstairs to his exit some time later; hell, he’d even had them on in the cab he used. What about evidence from the cushion? Could be fibers from his suit, but they would surely be untraceable in New York. What about footprints? He’d wiped his feet at the main entrance as countless others would have done – nothing there then. Cindy hadn’t managed to get any kind of hold on him, so there wouldn’t be any residual DNA under her fingernails. No; Michael decided that he was becoming paranoid. He would be safe as long as he held his nerve.

Checking out of the Maritime Hotel the next morning, his demeanor was much calmer and he even managed a smile to the desk clerk as he handed over his room key and paid the bill – in cash once more.

“Thank you, sir. Will we be seeing you again?”

“No. Just in town to seal a business deal. Back off to Frisco and the family now.” That lie would be enough, he thought, to throw any overzealous cop off his trail.

The return flight to Salem from La Guardia passed uneventfully, and he was back on home turf that evening. Marlene had met him once more with her customary manner, and they went out to dinner with friends.

********************

Back in the present, Dawson had started to believe that all of his problems were over, but scarcely a week had passed since his visit to the confessional before the hint of something untoward sent ripples through his life once more.

“What’s this?” Marlene slid an open envelope across the table to him as he came into the kitchen after work.

Dawson frowned. The postmark header carried the identification frank of the hotel where the Christmas event had taken place. He held his breath as he lifted a single sheet of paper from within it. His heart froze when he unfolded it to reveal a receipted bill for the room which he and Cindy had used on the night of their stay.

“Well?” Marlene Dawson stood, arms folded, lips pursed in the way she always had them when he’d been caught out in something. “A double room? What did you need a double room for?”

“I… I… don’t know. Some of the guys must have done this as a joke.” He looked up from the bill and cursed forgetting to pick it up at the desk when he’d departed.

“What guys? I thought you’d said you were the only one going from Salem?” Marlene’s tone was hardening by the moment, and her pitch was getting higher.

“Some guys at the party.” Dawson was beginning to struggle. “We had a few beers and got talking; you know what it’s like.”

“So, they become lifelong friends on the basis of one evening and start playing practical jokes?” She was now coming across the room. “How stupid do you think I am, Michael? What’s her name?”

“Who?” He swallowed hard. Marlene was not about to let up.

“The floozie you shacked up with for the night.”

“There was no-one, Marlene. I swear…”

“Give me that!” She snatched the hotel bill away from him. “I’ll call the hotel. Damned if I won’t find out who this piece of trash is.” She stopped, suddenly on her way to the telephone. “New York.”

“What?” Michael was now sitting down.

“That’s where she lives, isn’t it? That’s where you went. You’ve seen her again – it wasn’t some deal you had to complete at all, was it?”

The silence was deafening, and the scene stood frozen in time as they stared at each other for what seemed an age. Michael Dawson had cheated on his wife before; just the one time, and it was over twenty years earlier shortly after they had got married. That time she forgave him; the woman was a known man-eater and Michael, poor Michael, had been so innocent, so naïve, that she forgave him. He swore he would never do it again and she believed him. She moved, and it broke the spell.

“Stop.” Dawson’s voice had returned to its normal, calm, tone. “Put down the phone, Marlene.”

She turned and gasped. The gun was pointed directly at her. The gun which Michael had tried to use in New York, the gun fitted with the silencer to ensure that no-one would hear what he was about to do. The gun which he had kept in his briefcase ever since.

“Michael. What in hell are you doing?”

Marlene had never seen her husband like this before, and there had been a number of things down the years which he had kept from her – not least the offshore accounts in the Bahamas. He had been planning to tell her about them – one day. That day would now never come.

“She’s dead.”

“What!?” Marlene stood in amazement.

“Cindy. Her name was Cindy, and she found out…” He stopped. No point in letting out too much.

“What? Found out what?” Marlene fought to control the fear welling up inside her, and her voice was once more calm.

“You.” Dawson, panicking now for words to use, momentarily relaxed his grip on the gun. “I must have told her about you.”

The lie was enough to buy Marlene more time, and she spotted his change of grip on the weapon. It was now all down to opportunity, and she knew that her life would hang in the balance of the next few minutes. The telephone shattered the tableau which the two of them had formed, and Dawson’s attention was drawn away from his wife. It was now or never.

Marlene picked up the vase standing on the hall table next to the phone and hurled it with unerring accuracy at her husband. Dawson reeled from the blow as it hit the side of his head, and he dropped the gun. He fell backwards into the staircase and was too slow in his recovery to rectify the situation. Marlene was now standing before him, gun in hand, and in full control. The cops would believe her; after all, she was shorter and weaker than her husband. The basic facts of the incident would remain as they had happened with one exception. She had struggled with him for the gun, he had fallen, and she had shot him as he came at her again.. It was all so tragic. She would even ensure that the bruises which she sustained in the fight would be enough to exonerate her.

“Goodbye, Michael.” She squeezed the trigger and smiled.

The ‘click’ had Dawson running to the kitchen for another weapon. He was too close to reach the gun, and could not risk another close encounter with his wife, armed as she was. The knives gleamed in their rack and he pulled three from it. Marlene aimed and squeezed the trigger a second time as he turned. Still the gun failed to fire, and Dawson was now approaching fast – getting closer for a better aim. He was only feet away when she aimed, closed her eyes, and squeezed for the third time.

The gun flashed and Michael Dawson reeled backwards, a look of shock across his features. The slug had hit him right between the eyes - he lay on the floor in an ever-increasing pool of blood. With no appreciable sound to alert any neighbors, she stood motionless for what seemed an age looking at what she had done.

It was self-defense. He had attacked her, first with the gun, and then with the knives. His fingerprints were all over both weapons. There would be no doubting her innocence – she was sure.

********************

“Father, forgive me, for I have sinned.” She murmured softly to the priest as he sat next to her in booth.

“What is it that you have done, my child?” Conor Fitzgerald’s soft Irish burr sent waves of soothing sensations through Marlene Dawson’s body, and she smiled.

“I’m guilty of the second of the deadly sins, Father.”

Fitzgerald smiled across the table as he picked up his Double Cheeseburger. “Sure, and I don’t think a meal at MacDonald’s counts as far as that little list goes, Marlene.”

Michael never knew that she had discovered his ‘secret’ stash some time ago. A forged signature would suffice to release the funds to her. Getting rid of Dexter Taylor and Duane Perkins had been the key. Air crash investigators never did find out the real cause of the unfortunate accident once her pet engineer had done with the light aircraft. A life in the sun with the young hunk was exactly the future which she had wanted all the time.

The gun, having now served its purpose, was carefully concealed at the back of the toilet cistern in the very rest room from which she had just returned to the table which she and Fitzgerald were sharing.

!!!

Whew! Did you see the ending coming? I sure didn't! Great mystery! Thanks so much to Author Neal James sharing here at Book Readers Heaven!

Rare Opportunity - Read Along With Me - Not Fair by Steven Manchester!

OK BRH Readers... With the opportunity presented by Author Steven Manchester, we are sharing an entire short story with you! Even I haven't read it! So, read along with me, and tomorrow, I'll share my thoughts and you can compare what you think along with my own response... Interested?

Sooo, I hope, when I write my review tomorrow, you take a few minutes to comment and share your own thoughts on this prequel... This should be Fun! Thanks to Steven Manchester! Check out his background message too!


not fair
a story set in the world of Three Shoeboxes
steven manchester

Like a crystal globe shaken by the hand of God, dusk in Vermont looked like something from a dream. On jagged faces of rock, blue streams of ice stood frozen in time. The air was clean, crisp and still, untouched by the pollution of progress; the hustle and bustle of normal life slowed to a crawl. Mac sucked in a few deep breaths and looked to his side to see Jen taking it all in—and smiling.
I’m so happy we decided to get away for the weekend, he thought. We really needed this. In the distance, snow-draped rolling hills spotted with frosted evergreens were populated with groves of stripped-limbed birches, each standing rigid like ranks of ancient soldiers. Glittering rooftops dripping with icicles stood tucked amongst the steep slopes and meandering country roads. Like fireflies on a blank canvas, random dots of light flickered, illuminating tiny wisps of smoke. These signs of life, clues of comfort, created visions of children nestled by the fire. And mothers and fathers resting their weary bones, Mac thought, exhaling peacefully.
There were specks of red barns, divided by crooked stonewalls. Scattered livestock grazed in barren meadows. Small ponds reflected a mirrored-image of the sky. And oh, what a sky it is! Once tinged in hues of pink, the filaments were quickly turning gray, the clouds, moving at a turtle’s pace.
“Incredible,” Mac said under his breath.
“It’s heaven,” Jen replied, grabbing for his hand. While the world took its well-deserved rest, Mac and Jen ventured across a postcard covered bridge, taking a leisurely stroll into a time long forgotten. As the solemn bong of a church bell marked time, plumes of steam escaped their silent mouths with each smile. Shopkeepers, hunched against the cold, locked up for the night and scurried home. A nostalgic marquis boasted of last year’s film, while kids sneaked inside to kiss the boredom away.
“Maybe we should buy a couple of tickets and go make out in the back?” Mac suggested.
Jen squeezed his hand. “Isn’t that why we rented a room at the bed-and-breakfast?”
“Oh yeah…” As if sharing an age-old secret, Mac and Jen exchanged friendly nods or wry grins with the townsfolk. Like an echo from above, a gust of wind whipped down and tapped Mac on the shoulder, causing an unexpected shudder to travel the length of his body.
Turning up the collar on his coat, at an even slower gait he absorbed the slightest, most miraculous truths: these people, who are criticized for being far behind, are still innocent enough to be kind. It appeared as though their daily existence was suspended in a world of sweet maple syrup, while the present was by the past—and the future was even less welcome. They merely refuse to abandon tradition, Mac decided, but instead embrace a serenity that can only be intended by God. As he and his beloved wife strolled along, it was as if a giant shade was being drawn, the darkened sky dusting the earth with crystal flakes of white. While the snow deafened the world’s competing noises, Mac realized that his wife was right. We are standing in heaven, he thought. It has to be.
Suddenly, the wailing siren of an approaching police car broke the tranquility, startling Mac and nearly wrestling him to his knees.
Jen stopped and turned to him. “What is it?” she asked, her face instantly contorted in worry.
“I…I don’t know,” he stammered, “All of a sudden, I…I feel like I can’t breathe.”
The siren got closer—and louder. Mac clutched for his throat, which felt like it was being closed off.
“Mac!” Jen blurted, panic now radiating from her wide eyes.
“I…I…” Unable to manage another word, he shook his head. By now, his chest felt compressed and his head was spinning out of control. He dropped to his knees. The siren was now ear-piercing. Please God, he prayed, let this…
⧝
Mac awakened, panting and covered in sweat. His mouth was devoid of any saliva, making him gag. He tried to swallow but couldn’t. It felt like a fistful of bleached flour was packed in his throat. His pounding heart thumped in his ears, warning him that he was in trouble. The rest came on with a fury—tingling extremities, a cold sweat, and an adrenaline rush that could have rivaled any tidal wave. He focused on taking in oxygen, and it took a few tormented moments before his breathing improved to quick and shallow. Although he did his best to stop it, the hyperventilating ran its usual course. What the hell is going on? he thought, desperately searching for the same answers that never came. Why is this happening to me?
By now, Mac felt like his heart was going to explode, or worse—like I might actually lose my mind. It took a few more excruciating minutes before the rush subsided, leaving behind a vortex of fear and darkness in its wake. Left feeling lightheaded, he was still grateful. At least I didn’t lose all control, he thought, whatever that means. Quietly pacing the floor, he considered his situation. It’s been a long time since Jen and I have visited a bed-and-breakfast, he thought, sucking in some long, even breaths. He took a seat, tentatively closing his eyes again. It’s summer, he thought, more reality returning to him, and Jen and I haven’t held hands in months.
A slap of deep sorrow stung his face. It was just another dream, he realized, shaking its head. He opened his eyes. Looks like I’m getting little to no sleep again tonight. It just wasn’t worth the risk of suffering another surprise attack.
⧝
Mac awakened again in his recliner to see Jen staring at him, the look on her face a mix of disappointment and disgust. “So you slept out here again last night, huh?”
“Does it matter?” he asked.
She half shrugged. “I really don’t care, Mac,” she muttered, shaking her head, “except that you forgot to set the alarm and now you’re late for work again.” “I’m what?” he asked, catapulting himself out of the recliner like he was being shot from a canon. “Why the hell didn’t you wake me?”
“I just did, didn’t I?” she said, her words dripping with the same contempt as his.
“Great, thanks,” he said, hurrying for their bedroom to get dressed for work. “I left you a list on the top of your dresser,” she called after him, “of where the kids need to be after school.” He stopped short and turned. “A list?”
She nodded. “I need to work late tonight, Mac. I told you that.”
“You did?” She shook her head. “But of course you don’t remember,” she said, heading for the kitchen without another word, “you haven’t listened to a word I’ve said in weeks.”
So I’m going in late again today, he thought, and then I have to leave early to cart the kids around. He nodded. I can’t wait to read my shining performance review this year.
⧝
Mac sat in the parking lot for a few extra minutes to compose himself. Every day is harder than the one before it, he thought, grabbing a half-empty bottle of vodka from the car’s glove box. He stared at the clear liquid before shaking his head. If I keep trying to drink my problems away, I’m going to end up in even worse shape. Drinking alcohol had its upside, for sure; the world slowed down and, although Mac still experienced most of the symptoms that anxiety was generous enough to bring, the paralyzing fear over the next attack was normally avoided. Not a bad trade-off for a hangover, he thought. But it was more than just a hangover, and he knew it.
Self-medicating is costing me more than I can afford to spend, he thought, in every aspect of my life. Mac knew that although anxiety and depression was the cause, alcoholism had become one of its effects. And the temporary Band-Aid is weakening me, he realized, throwing the bottle back into the glove box. After being buzzed into the building, Mac hurried through the lobby and took the stairs to avoid everyone on the elevators. Slipping inside his office, he locked the door behind him. Firing up his desktop computer, he checked his calendar for the day. “Four meetings,” he said aloud. “That’s definitely not going to work.” Picking up his telephone, he dialed his admin.
“Good morning Barbara, it’s Mac.” He listened. “No, I’ve been here for a while.” He cleared his throat. “Listen, can you cancel all of my meetings this afternoon and reschedule them for later in the week? I need the time to get some work done.” He listened again. “No, I’ll call in for the ten o’clock team huddle. I can multi-task from my desk for that one.” He nodded. “Thanks, Barb.”
Hanging up the phone, Mac folded his arms onto his desk and plopped his forehead on top of them. I need sleep more than anything else, he thought. If I could just get a little rest, I might be able to focus and finally get some real work done. Within seconds, he was out cold. There was a loud knock on the door. Mac’s eyes flew open.
“What the hell,” he muttered under his breath, “I can’t even close my eyes for two seconds.” He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and hurried to the door to unlock it. Ross, his VP, stepped into his office.
“What happened?” Ross asked, clearly upset.
“What do you mean?” Mac asked, his mind scrambling for the answer to a problem he didn’t yet understand.
“Why weren’t you at the team huddle? We waited for you, but when you didn’t call in…”
“Yeah, sorry about that, Ross. I should have dialed in.” Shrugging, he grinned. “Truth is, I was so consumed with work that I lost track of time. And by the time I remembered the meeting, it was too late for me to jump in. I would have been more of a distraction than anything else.”
Ross studied him. “I hope that’s true, Mac,” he said, “because I need the project finalized and on my desk by the end of the week.”
“Of course,” Mac said, his disguise still fastened in place. “Okay then,” Ross said before marching out of the room. Mac closed the door behind the man, locking it once again. End of the week, all right, he thought, grabbing for his cell phone. What the hell time is it, anyway?
⧝
Mac sat at the head of the Anderson’s kitchen table, fiddling in his plate and struggling to appear interested in everyone else’s day.
“Dad, the softball coach told Mom that he’s considering me as one of his starting pitchers this year,” his teenage daughter, Jillian, announced excitedly.
“That’s great, Jill,” Mac replied, so consumed with worry over his own life and the mounting pressures at work that he’d become blind to anything else.
“I thought so,” Jillian countered, her giant smile fading away.
“And Joe’s assigned me a new investigation,” Jen jumped in, as she passed the mashed potatoes. “Although I don’t know the details just yet, it looks like it’s going to take place at City Hall.”
“Wow,” Mac said, “that’s good…I guess.”
“You guess?” The kids squirmed nervously in their chairs. “If it means more time away from the house,” Mac explained, “then I’m not sure…”
“We’ve gone over this, Mac,” Jen snapped. “It’s time for you to step up and start really helping out around here!”
“And I haven’t been doing that?” he asked, glaring at his wife.
“Please stop,” Bella said, “all you do is fight now.” Becoming upset, she stood and hurried out of the room.
Jenn glared back at him. “Nice, Mac.” “And this is all my fault, right?” Jillian and Brady got up and followed their sister out of the family’s boxing ring.
Mac shook his frustrated head. “I have too much going on right now to argue, Jen.”
“We need to talk about this, Mac, and come to some sort of agreement,” she pressed.
Mac’s cell phone rang. He started to answer it when Jen gave him a look that could have ended his life. He let it go to voicemail. For the first time in a long time, Mac realized that his wife needed to be heard. It scared him. I’m not a selfish man, he told himself, but right now, the last thing I need to deal with are more issues. He sensed it was absolutely critical that life stay as it was—at least until I figure out what the hell’s going on inside me and how to handle it.
“As much as you think my life rotates around only you,” she said, speaking slowly, “I still have my own dreams that I need to…”
“I’m sorry Jen,” he interrupted, “but…”
“Mac, please,” she shouted, her face cherry-red. He shut up, but Jen couldn’t continue. Nostrils flaring, she headed out of the kitchen, slamming the door behind her.
⧝
Mac took a few deep breaths. I need to tell her how bad it’s gotten, he decided. She needs to know. He followed her into the living room. “Jen,” he said, hoping to explain, “it’s just that I…I…feel sick.”
Jen shook her head, cutting off his babble. “You should feel sick, Mac…with all of the drinking you’ve been doing lately.”
“No,” he whispered, “you don’t understand. I should have said something…” She stood and started for their bedroom. As she stomped out of the room, she looked over her shoulder. “Sure, Mac,” she told him, “I never understand.” She rolled her eyes just before disappearing from the room.
But you don’t understand, Mac told her in his thoughts. You don’t understand how petrified I am over all of these changes…and how my every waking moment is spent in a life-and-death battle with anxiety and depression. His eyes filled, but he beat back the tears. You don’t understand, Jen.
⧝
Sunday finally rolled around. Sitting alone at the kitchen table, Mac struggled to accomplish any real work that he could submit. My God, he thought, even my creativity has abandoned me. If I don’t dig my head out of my backside soon, I’m going to be…
The kids barged into the kitchen, each of them speaking at the same time. “We want to go to the fair, Dad,” Bella called out.
“Yeah,” Brady confirmed even louder, “we’ve been waiting all summer.” Perturbed with the rude interruption, Mac shook his head. “Ask your mother,” he said, “I have a lot of work I need to finish.”
Jillian smirked. “Mom just said the same thing…to ask you, because she’s working on a deadline.”
“Of course she is,” Mac mumbled under his breath.
“Please, Dad,” Brady pleaded. Mac shook his head again. “I can’t, guys. Not this time. Sorry.”
As if he’d just received the most devastating news, Brady burst into sobs. “But,,,but I’ve been looking forward to this all year, Dad,” he stammered, “and…and today’s the last day.”
“Yeah Dad,” Bella said, clearly struggling to stay strong. “If we don’t go to the fair today, we’ll have to wait another whole year.”
A plume of acidic bile rose in Mac’s throat, as he considered his wife’s newest delegation. Fair? he repeated in his pounding head, this isn’t fair.
Jillian stepped up behind him and wrapped her arms around his broad shoulders. “Please Dad,” she repeated in the sweetest voice; it was something Mac hadn’t heard from the glowering teenager in months.
Mac pushed his work away. Why not, he thought. Who needs stable employment anyway? He stood. “Fine, but when I say it’s time to go, then it’s time for us to go.” He scanned each of their hope-filled eyes.
“Of course, Dad,” they sang in unison, pure joy instantly replacing the disappointment in their faces, “of course!”
⧝
On the ride to the fairgrounds, while the kids joked and laughed, Mac seethed inside. It’s all about Jen now, he thought. Everything’s about her! It doesn’t matter what my wants or needs are. She calls the shots now. He shook his head. I realize that she just started a new job at the paper, but… The kids broke out in excited chorus, with Jillian singing the loudest. Mac took a few deep breaths, trying to keep his anger at bay. But I still have responsibilities outside of the house. Not to mention, I’ve been a complete emotional mess for weeks now. How can she not see that?
He shook his head again. She’s my wife, for Pete’s sake! How can Jen not know that… “Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily…” the kids screeched.
Although he concealed his rage with a smile, Mac continued to burn up inside. “…life is but a dream,” they finished. Mac considered the lyrics. Life is but a dream all right, he thought, snickering, a living nightmare!
⧝
After parking the van in a brown field that had recently been covered in green grass, Mac shut off the ignition and turned to face his giddy children. “When I say it’s time to go,” he reminded them, “then it’s time for us to go.”
“We know, Dad!” They burst out of the van and hurried for the long line at the front gate.
Mac dragged his feet behind them. Friggin’ Jen, he thought, well aware that everything from the sweltering heat to the growing crowd had already crawled under his skin—and that he was happy to assign full blame to his delegating wife.
⧝
After paying twice what he should have for two adults and two children to enter the fairgrounds, Mac and his entourage paused to take it all in—the sights, sounds and smells.
“There’s the ticket booth for the rides,” Bella quickly pointed out. “And we have to buy food tickets there, too,” Jillian advised.
Mac nodded. “We’ll come back for both. Let’s take a walk around first and get our bearings. Then we’ll know exactly what we need to buy.”
“Okay,” the kids agreed, their bodies nearly trembling from excitement.
Mac offered a real smile—for the first time. I might as well make the most of it, he thought, we’re here. He started for the far side of a massive field, with the kids buzzing around him like bees at every step.
⧝
Beneath a small white circus tent, its sides rolled up, Mac ducked his head and stepped in. The smells of manure immediately attacked him. The good life, he thought, scanning the interior of the dim tent. The 4H Club was showing off their eclectic mix of livestock: from award-winning sheep—wearing their big blue ribbons—and massive fly-ingested steers, to a handful of gallant horses beside a pen of young, playful goats. Old turn-style candy machines, filled with feed pellets, were positioned outside of the pens and corrals. For a quarter, the kids could buy a full handful. Maybe half a handful for me, Mac considered. Fortunately, Mac had a pocketful of quarters. “Don’t spill them,” he told the kids, as each one of them lined up to receive their bounty.
With two fistfuls of feed, Bella and Brady stepped up to the wire fence that surrounded the whining baby goats. Mac immediately went into parent mode and began to teach. “Place your hands flat, with the food in the palm of your hand,” he explained. “This way, you won’t lose any fingers.” While Jillian watched on from a short distance, both Bella and Brady did as they were told. The small goats licked their palms, causing a wave of giggles.
“See,” Mac said, “they’ll only lick the pellets from your hand. You might feel some nibbling, but they can’t even bite you if they want to.”
The kids giggled more. “It tickles, Dad,” Brady said. Mac smiled wide; it was the first sense of happiness he’d felt in weeks. He sucked in a lungful of air and exhaled slowly. Maybe this was a good idea, after all, he thought, knowing he’d never admit it to his wife. The kids were in no rush to leave the animals, and Mac was happy for it. He took the time watching his children and assessing their current stations in life.
Mac realized that the older Jillian got, the less she laughed. That’s not good, he thought. I hope it’s just the norm for her age. But there were more changes, as well. The teenage girl never wore jewelry anymore, except for maybe the occasional plastic or rubber bracelet, featuring one motto or another. And graphic t-shirts are now a staple for her, Mac thought, looking away when Jillian caught him gawking. As long as she’s happy, he thought, and comfortable in her own skin, then I’m happy for her.
Mac shifted his eyes to Bella and smiled. Beans is still Daddy’s little girl, he confirmed in his mind, though the clock is ticking fast. Mac cringed every time he noticed growth in her, and today was no different. Like Jillian—who once believed I was Prince Charming—that’ll soon change and she’ll suddenly be embarrassed to be in my company rather than wanting to snuggle with me on the recliner before bed. Just as his smile was about to disappear. Bella looked up at him and grinned. She had her mother’s sparkling eyes that shined for him with a love that could not be denied. I love you too, babe, he thought.
Brady, on the other hand, was a clean slate; a sponge ready to suck up all the lessons and knowledge his dad was prepared to impart. And there are tons that I look forward to sharing, Mac thought. Brady was still a baby in many ways, but he was also in a hurry to grow up and be able to claim his own identity—just as his sisters had done. Please take it slow, little man, Mac told his son in his head. Being grown up isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, believe me.
While the kids—including Jillian—fed quarters into the crank machines so they could feed the different animals, Mac took the time to inventory the work he and Jen had already put in. For the most part, all three of them are polite and good, he decided, trying to choose right over wrong. In their smiles, there was forgiveness and healing. And each of them is pretty much an open book when it comes to their feelings. They worry much less than most people, making their sleep sound. What I wouldn’t do for that again, Mac thought, wondering if they actually understood the true secret to joy. The only things they own in this world are hope and love…and for that, they thank the Lord every night.
Mac felt blessed they were his children, and his eyes filled with the love that gushed for them. They’re destined to live wonderfully enriched lives, he thought. Their willingness to share and be kind will guarantee it. As the insatiable baby goats lost their novelty, the twang of a country band continued to float over from the giant pavilion. The family gradually made their way through the tent, passing several crafts tables. Beyond that, award-winning jams and pies sat on a long rectangular table, their colorful ribbons waving in the occasional breeze. Mac felt it a blessing to experience this simpler side of life again—even if only for a few hours.
“Maybe Mom should have entered her famous PopTarts in the contest,” Jillian wise- cracked. “She could have…”
“Watch your mouth,” Mac snapped at her, cutting off the rest of her insult. “That’s your mother you’re talking about.”
With a disrespectful snicker, Jillian’s eyes turned to slits. “You argue all the time with her, saying things a lot worse than…”
“And I shouldn’t,” Mac interrupted. “It’s not right.” He shook his head. “She’s your mother, Jill. If you can bad-talk her, then your sense of honor isn’t what it should be, right?”
“I know, but…”
“There are no buts,” Mac said, continuing to walk by her side. “She’s your mom, Jill. Never disrespect her.”
“Fine,” the teenager surrendered, offering another snicker.
As Bella and Brady visited one pen after the next, gently petting the animals, Mac returned to his serene train of thought. A glimpse of yesteryear when there wasn’t so much stress and the need to get everything right, Mac thought, shaking his head.
Breaking through this peaceful world, dreadful carnival sounds drifted over from the other half of the muddy, hay-straw field. Ugh, Mac thought, and I almost forgot why I hate summer fairs. Jillian took a knee beside her little brother, clearly enjoying the pure joy in the little boy’s face. Mac sat on a tall, silver milk can when Bella sauntered over and took a seat on his knee. Mac was happy for the quiet moment together.
“Summer will be ending in a few weeks, Princess,” he reminded her. “Are you excited to go back?”
Bella shrugged. “I don’t know. I like school and I love my friends, but…”
“But what?”
“I just get really nervous when I start something new, Dad, and I hate it.”
“You hate starting a new school year, Beans?” he inquired further. She shook her head. “No Dad, I hate the feeling of being nervous.” She peered into his eyes. “But I bet that doesn’t happen when people get older like you, right Dad?” In spite of the cruel irony, he chuckled.
“Older people?”
 “Yeah, adults.”
“Oh babe,” he said, “it happens to adults, too. Believe me. Adults get just as nervous as they did when they were kids. Sometimes, it’s even…” He stopped, afraid to scare her more.
“You do?” she asked, her innocent eyes wide from surprise. “Sure, I do,” Mac confirmed.
“You still get nervous about stuff, Dad?” she continued to confirm, skeptically. He nodded. “More than you can imagine, babe,” he said, thinking, more than you’d ever want to imagine. He paused to find the right words. “There would be no such thing as courage if we didn’t have to overcome fear, right?”
She nodded, her innocent face trying to internalize the lesson. “Everyone gets scared or feels anxious at times, Beans,” he continued. “The trick is not to let it stop you from doing anything, or taking over your life.”
As soon as the words left his lips, he felt like a fraud. It’s solid advice, he realized, but for whatever reason, I’m having an impossible time applying it in my own life.
“I won’t, Dad,” Bella said, “don’t you worry.” Smiling, she kissed his cheek. “You…you won’t what?” he stammered, startled from his all-consuming thoughts.
“I won’t let fear stop me from doing anything,” the little girl promised, kissing his cheek again.
“That’s my girl,” Mac said, throwing on a grin, “you’re a warrior.” With a giant smile, Bella nodded. “Just like my dad.”
After choking on a gasp, he told Bella. “Go grab your brother and sister. I want to go check out the band for a minute.”
⧝
Located in the center of the fairground, the grand pavilion was a steel-framed structure and the only fixed structure on the entire field. Beneath an arched roof, rows of long tables faced a stage at the front of the open-sided building. As they stepped in, the country-and-western band was just returning to the stage from their break. “Just in time,” Mac commented.
Jillian rolled her eyes, while Bella and Brady stared off toward the midway rides—hypnotized by the cacophony of lights and sounds. Hand-in-hand, older couples stepped onto the portable dance floor to sway in each other’s arms. Mac pictured him and his wife doing the same, a wave of sorrow washing over him. Not so long ago, we moved together just like that, he thought.
“Can we go now, Dad?” Brady called out, his eyes still fixated on the bustling carnival across the field. “Take a seat and relax for a few minutes,” Mac said, “we just got here.”
“Yeah, and the music sucks,” Jillian blurted, backpedaling into the shadows, where she was obviously scanning the crowd for people she may know and didn’t want to see her here.
“We’re starving, Dad,” Bella reminded him. “Yeah, and we want to go on the rides,” Brady added, still standing.
Mac looked at them and grinned. “Maybe you should tackle all those spinning rides before we eat,” he suggested. They looked back at him and shrugged. “You’ll probably have a better shot at keeping your dinner in your stomach,” he explained. They shrugged again. “Either way.”
Mac waited until the country ballad ended before standing and applauding, as much for the couples who’d danced than for the band. “Okay,” he told his children, “let’s go get sick.”
“Yahoooo!” they hooted, taking off at a sprint. “But we need to stay together!” he yelled behind them. They never slowed.
⧝
The bloated prices at the ticket booth bordered on criminal. And we also need to eat, Mac reminded himself, trying to tally everything in his head. While the kids watched on, he shelled out a fistful of twenty-dollar bills.
“Split it between food tickets and ride tickets,” he told the woman behind the smudged glass.
With a nod, she snatched the money with one hand and slid a couple of sheets of perforated tickets forward with the other—the lit cigarette never leaving her lips. It was dusk, almost six o’clock, when the midway lit up with neon. As they made their way through the carnival chaos, Mac took note of how hot it was. And there’s way too many people here, he thought, feeling claustrophobic, not to mention all the noise. The grind and squeaks of the rides made him pull at his collar.
“I want to do the giant slide first,” Brady announced loudly. Mac looked up to see the waxed, yellow ribbon of grooves. A long steel staircase ascended a few stories, with worn swags of carpet having to be carried to the top. Looks like too much effort to me, he thought, watching as the carnie operator signaled for the next rider to push off with both hands. Doing as she was told, the rider shot to the bottom in a fraction of the time it took her to hump the carpet all the way up the stairs.
“It’ll tickle our bellies,” Brady added. “But we agreed on the Tilt O’ Whirl first,” Bella argued. Mac refocused on a different ride to see kids cramming themselves into some rainbow-colored half shells. With a steel bar resting across their laps, the howling kids began to spin in circles, while each individual car traveled its own circular track. When the ride hit a certain slant, the momentum had the cars whipping around in a rush of uncontrolled madness. You can keep the Tilt O’ Whirl, too, Mac thought.
“But I want the slide,” Brady countered.
“Guys,” Mac said, “there’s no need to…” Suddenly, a homemade tractor—making its way across the fairground toward the tractor pull track— backfired. The loud sound caused Mac to jump, garnering a few awkward looks from the kids.
“Are you okay, Dad?” Jillian asked, seemingly concerned.
“Of course,” he answered, “why?”
“Because you look like you just got shot,” she said, the kindness completely gone from her tone. Without dignifying the comment with a response, Mac turned and began walking. As he and the kids scouted out the rides, Bella and Brady were thrown into a frenzy of squeals and high-fives. Flashing lights, carnival sounds, and joyous screams filled the midway. From popcorn to vomit, the smells were overwhelming, making Mac momentarily stop to collect his senses. It was a fake world of obnoxious colors—dark reds and yellows and blues—covering everything. It was nearly dizzying. I detest carnivals and fairs, Mac thought, his anxiety level on the rise. The teacup ride—with its eight-foot tall daffodil lightposts—was one of the midway’s tamer adventures.
“What about this one?” Mac asked. Even Bella snickered at the lame suggestion. They passed the Spill the Milk game, where it cost a dollar to toss three softballs into a milk can—that can’t possibly fit them, Mac surmised.
Beside it, Jillian stopped at the Leopard Stand, where people threw baseballs at fake leopards, hoping to knock out a few teeth and win a spotted kitten. “Step right up and try your luck!” the carnie heckled the teenager.
“No games,” Mac told his wide-eyed daughter right in front of the hawker, “they’re a complete waste of money.”
“Why Dad?” she asked. “Because they’re rigged and there’s no way you can win,” he explained.
“Oh, come on,” the hawker teased, “let the kid give it a shot. She looks like she has a real good arm.”
“She has a great arm,” Mac fired back, “but she doesn’t need to waste her money for a stuffed animal that she can buy for half the price to play.”
“Wow, you’re no fun, huh?” the man said, grinning. Brady was starting to agree when Mac stared him into silence. A bell went off, announcing another winner. That doesn’t help my case, Mac thought.
“Let’s go see what they have to eat before we decide what to do first,” he suggested, happy to create a little distance between them and the land of crooked darts and bent rifle barrels. Throughout the midway, the choices for dinner were endless: The smells of onions frying on a grill and sweet corn boiling, Candy apples, hot dogs, fried dough, cotton candy, French fries, salt water taffy, hamburgers, ice cream dipped in chocolate and then dipped again in fresh peanuts, and cardboard pizza—all washed down with giant cups of iced-cold soda pop.
Add in the rides, Mac thought, and they’re the perfect ingredients for projectile vomiting. They quickly moved on—back toward the rides. They were just about to pass a sadistic thrill ride that looked like a UFO turned sideways when Brady stopped to watch. Essentially, each rider stood upright while the ride spun in circles so fast that gravity sucked them flush to its steel cage. Green and yellow lights spun out of control, while human screams escaped from within the blurry cage.
Mac grabbed for his mid-section. Feeling his stomach churn, he thought, and we haven’t even eaten all that greasy junk food yet. He looked down to see Brady staring at the wooden sign of a boy, trying to gage whether he was tall enough to ride. “I’m big enough this year,” Brady thought aloud, “yes!”
“I don’t know, buddy,” Mac said, “this one looks kind of…”
At that very moment, the wailing siren of a small children’s ride permeated the air, making Mac’s head snap up. The harmless carousel-style ride included an ambulance, a firetruck, and several police cars going round-and-round in circles. Small, smiling children pretended to drive each emergency vehicle, while their grinning parents yelled out their names and took pictures as they came past. The siren went off again, paralyzing Mac’s body—including his breathing.
All at once, everything became hazy and confusing. The midway’s many competing noises now sounded like one terrible thump, matching Mac’s racing heart. The lights suddenly appeared to pulsate; it felt like he was standing in the middle of a packed nightclub, struggling unsuccessfully to get out. Clutching for his chest, Mac gasped for air. Oh my God, he thought, not here. Not now! But the world continued to tumble over and over, taking him for a ride he would have never volunteered for.
Several tormented moments went by—maybe more— before Mac’s wits returned to him and he was able to catch his breath. He immediately looked for his children but couldn’t see them. Where are they? he thought, more panic flooding his mind and heart. He managed to get his legs moving when he spotted the girls standing together. He hurried to them. “Where’s Brady?” he asked, trying to conceal his hyperventilating breaths.
“We thought he was with you,” Jillian said.
Bella nodded in agreement. “Yeah, we thought he was with you, Dad.”
“Brady!” Mac screamed, his desperate voice cutting through the midway and stopping people in their tracks. “Brady, where are you?”
Several strangers approached. “Are you missing a child?” one of them asked. “What was he wearing?” another inquired. Mac’s mind began to spiral again. Stop it, Mac, he screamed inside his head, you need to find your son! He took deep breaths and struggled to think. “His name is Brady and he was wearing…” Brady suddenly appeared out of nowhere. “I really want to try that ride, Dad,” he said, oblivious to the recent trauma. “I’m tall enough and besides…”
“Where the hell were you?” Mac barked, dispersing the crowd.
The boy’s face went flush. “I…I…”
“What were you thinking, wandering off like that?” Mac shook his head.
“That’s it,” he announced, “we’re going home.”
“But Dad, please. We never got a chance to…” Brady began.
“Now!” Mac barked. “I’m sorry, Dad,” the young boy pled. “I didn’t wander off like you said. I was just standing right there…”  He pointed. “…watching kids my own size on that spinning ride.”
“We’re going home,” Mac repeated. “I don’t care what…”
“So we’re just going to waste all of those tickets?” Jillian asked. “I don’t care about the tickets or the money it cost to purchase them,” Mac said through gritted teeth.
“But we still haven’t eaten, Dad,” Bella jumped in. “We’re all starving.”
“We have food at home,” he said. “Your mother was kind enough to go food shopping this week, so you can all eat when you get home.”
“But Dad…” Jillian began to plead.
“We’re leaving right now!” he roared before turning to head toward the front gate. As Mac reached the fence, he stopped a woman who’d just entered the fairground with two small children. “Here’s some tickets we couldn’t use, ma’am,” he said, “it’ll save you a few bucks.”
While his own children gasped at this final blow, the woman couldn’t thank him enough. “Sir, you have no idea what you’ve just done,” she whispered. “We can’t afford to be here, so…so you’re…” Emotion halted her for a moment. “…you’re like an angel sent from heaven,” she finished.
Jillian snickered. “Yeah, he’s an angel all right,” she muttered under her breath. Mac’s head snapped back her. His eyes—now angry slits—forced his teenage daughter to stare at her feet. Amongst pitiful sniffles that were turning into heavy sobs, the Anderson family moped their way back to the van.
“It’s just not fair,” Brady whimpered.
No, it’s not fair at all, Mac thought. “Life’s not fair, buddy,” he said, leveraging an age-old phrase he’d always promised himself he’d never use when he became a parent.
⧝
On the ride home, while the two little ones wept uncontrollably in the back seat, Jillian was steaming mad and obviously unable to contain her disdain. “This is such bullshit,” she hissed in a barely audible tone.
“Because you don’t understand, Jill,”
Mac told her, looking sideways.
“Then explain it to me, Dad. Why did we have to leave so soon? And why in the hell did we have to leave like that?”
“Watch your mouth,” he said, glaring at her.
“Why?” she repeated, clearly needing an answer.
“Because I got scared, that’s why,” he whispered, continuing to stare out the windshield. “When I realized Brady was lost, it made my blood turn to ice water and shook me right down to my bones.”
“But Brady wasn’t lost,” Jillian snapped back.
“That…that’s right,” the little boy stuttered over the front seat.
“Brady didn’t wander off, Dad,” Jillian added. “He was standing only a few feet away from us the whole time.”
“But I didn’t…” Mac began to counter.
“It’s true, Dad,” Bella interrupted between sobs, “we just didn’t see him standing there.”
“Please Dad,” Jillian said, as though there was still a chance to save the day. “We can go back and…”
“We’re not going back,” Mac barked. “We’re going home and that’s the end of it. I don’t want to hear another…” J
illian sighed heavily, her face returning to a terrible mix of disgust and disappointment. It’s the exact same look that Jen gives me now, Mac realized, making his stomach flop sideways and burn the back of his throat. Jillian faced forward.
“You don’t understand, Jill,” he repeated. This time, he was the one pleading for understanding.
“You’re right, I don’t!” she said, crossing her arms, a clear indicator that she’d completely shut down. Realizing that external approval was futile, Mac went inward. It’s my job to protect these kids, he thought, and I could have lost Brady because I was distracted from…
He stopped, unwilling to give the torment a name. He looked at the passenger seat again before peering into the rear-view mirror. They’ll get over this…eventually, he told himself, but if something had happened where I wasn’t there to protect them…
He gasped, drawing a bad look from Jillian. I just couldn’t live with that.
⧝
As they returned home, Mac discovered his wife standing in the threshold of the front door. Here we go, he thought. “Back so soon?” she commented. The two little ones scrambled out of the van, weeping. Jen’s eyes went wide.
While Jillian stormed past her, furious, she asked, “What…what happened?” Bella and Brady scrambled off to their rooms without answering. Jen refocused on Mac.
“What happened, Mac?” He shook his head. “We lost sight of Brady for a moment and…”
“You lost Brady?”
“No,” he snapped back, “we didn’t lose him.
He wandered off for a minute and…”
“He didn’t wander anywhere,” Jillian screamed from the living room. “Dad just thought he did and then freaked out, telling us that we needed to leave.”
Jen stared at her husband. “Another successful bonding experience, I see,” she said sarcastically.
Mac walked past her, heading for his trusty vodka bottle. “You’re obviously the better parent, Jen,” he hissed, “trust me, I know. You remind me often enough.” ⧝
A few silent hours passed before Mac nodded off in his worn recliner; it had become a sad routine as of late.
⧝
The distinct sounds of crumpling steel and shattered glass were followed by a single moan. Someone needs help, he thought. I need to… His legs wouldn’t budge. Although he struggled and struggled, he remained trapped.
⧝
Mac leapt to his feet, his heart pounding hard enough to explode. As if he were sucking in air through a crimped straw, he struggled to breathe. The sudden lack of oxygen made him dizzy, while his extremities began to tingle. As he fought against the invisible enemy, a heavy coat of fear and despair draped over him. The intense rush—lasting several eternal minutes—carried him to a lack of control he’d never known before. And once done, he felt scarred in every aspect—physically, emotionally, even spiritually. It took some time for Mac to reclaim some semblance of normal breathing. Cautiously, he eased back into his chair. Maybe I should tell Jen that it’s getting worse, he thought, gripping the arms of the recliner like he was sitting in the electric chair. No, he decided, she has her own stuff to worry about.
Breathing erratically, Mac sat alone in the dark, terrified over the next attack he was sure would come. I don’t know how much longer I can live like this, he thought, losing his breath once again. Something has to give. ~ THE END

 ~ a letter from the author
In 2014, I wrote a stage play entitled, Three Shoeboxes. I wanted to create a story where the main character (Mac) held life in the palm of his hand—a beautiful wife, three loving children, a comfortable home and successful career. And then I wanted to yank Mac to his knees, creating a situation where he would need to summon every ounce of his strength, faith, and courage to get back on his feet. I chose an invisible enemy, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (P.T.S.D.), a struggle that has proven very real for me. But instead of using a military experience as the trigger, I went with an auto accident—hedging my bets that this would be more relatable to the audience. Once I had those story components in place, it was easy to remove Mac’s basic sense of security. Suddenly, he realizes how fragile his mind is, how each thought and feeling can produce physical symptoms that are torturous. In trying to spare his family from this monster, Mac tries to conceal his inner chaos—but to no avail. Left to contend with the ignorance of stigma, an insensitive justice system and the struggles of an invisible disease, his family is eventually taken from him. But in Three Shoeboxes, this father’s undying love may be just enough to make things right again. In 2015, this play went from the page to the stage (with Footlights Repertory Company in Swansea, MA) for a four-night, sold-out run. My daughter, Isabella, played the role of the middle child (Bella), and it was an absolute thrill to combine my passion for writing with her love of theatre. It was also a thrill to sit back and watch the actors take my two-dimensional characters and breathe life into them. The audiences wept. We received standing ovations. I will never forget the experience. It was a true gift. Fast forward another year and I decided that I loved Three Shoeboxes so much that I was going to convert it into a full-length novel. This feat, however, is easier said than done, taking a story that is complete at 20,000 words and adding another 50,000 that isn’t total fluff. It took me nearly six months to produce the first draft and, fortunately, my publisher (Lou Aronica) is as patient as he is brilliant. With his keen eye and generous direction, I was able to stick the landing and produce the full-length novel. As a primer for Three Shoeboxes, I penned the short story “Not Fair”—where I’ve thrown readers right smack into the middle of the characters’ lives and strained relationships. Although the entire short story takes place at the deep end of the pool, I promise that all will be addressed in Three Shoeboxes. Family means everything to me and with Three Shoeboxes I wanted to write a true-to-life story that captured the depths of a father’s love—even when all else fails. I hope you enjoy the novel. From my end, I can tell you that Mac and the Anderson clan will remain with me for many years to come. “How can someone take something from you when it lives in your heart?” — Dr. Faust Fiore Sincerely, Steve Manchester