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Who’d live in later centuries . . . safe . . . secure.
“A life was spent for ev’ry stone that rose.”
A price quite small to keep a culture pure.
But, when the Khan desired his Hordes sent forth,
Sung land was as a pantry filled with ants.
The thousands ran, with ease, out of the North,
To clamber o’er the Wall in their advance.
One must conclude: It simply wasn’t built
To help protect the peasant or his land;
But, to maintain a dynasty in gilt,
Against a fearsome Mongol warrior band.
We’d hope a lesson might from this be learned:
‘Tis wrong to sacrifice someone today,
For benefits presumed, once night has turned;
‘Cause Fate may change all factors on the way!
Too many structures have been dearly built,
On footings made of human flesh and frame;
Some structures are of architectural tilt.
Far worse are those political in name.
In recent years, in that brave land so old—
That land where Wisdom’s said to have been born—
More innocents have died, a million-fold;
While loved ones, by the hundred millions, mourn.
Digest, then, one small truth, Friend, if you can:
Do not abuse frail life for any plan!
~~~~~~
From the historical Great Wall of China to the Wall of Names for the United States, all peoples cry out when a loved one dies. Especially in war... How do people accommodate to the loss, while at the same time knowing that their child might have died in vain... For this great war or that one, never to know when one or two power-hungry leaders will decide to take your son or daughter to "defend" our lives for this or that reason...
Can we feel pride in that child who made the decision to act on behalf of our countries? Of course we can. Yet, at the same time, we can feel the loss, the pain, wondering how and when the pain will finally go away, now that their child will never come back...
Yet we must ponder... What is the difference of losing our children to never-ending war, while we also know we lose our most precious school children because of the instruments of war that proliferate the lives of those who live in homes where guns are readily available and even taught to our children, so that, when it becomes some magical appropriate age, they can be taught to learn how to kill with those guns... Some will be for food that they carry a gun; the majority carry a gun because they can, for no other reason than to show that they possess a power to "kill" whenever they want...
Guy Graybill, in my opinion, has presented us with four short stories about the act--the romance--of war... Yet, he provides a concurrent look at those who give up a child when they do not return home to their family... Yes, we commemorate those deaths--it seems we all feel that we must "do something" in recognition to lives lost... Many picnics and family gatherings are held on Memorial Day. But perhaps after a quick prayer, what is actually done to recognized the life of lost children?
I was impressed that so many new writers have written some wonderful songs for 2026. I have chosen from that group instead of those that have become "traditional" songs for the day, simply from year after years of the same type of celebration...
Today, however, after reading Guy's words more carefully, I find, once again, that I turn away from "tradition..." This is not a traditional time of war, is it? You can feel it across the nation--across the world... Now that we are able to communicate with those in different lands, and see the sight of children and others lying dead, civilians who are caught in wars created by those men who decide they want to play war and gain some type of recognition for doing so--or worse, have people across the world see the messes that have been caused, as people's homes are bombed, to see them walking to another land, sometimes walking back until the next battle begins...or becoming homeless, left to those who are able to bring them to another land where they have no home or shelter, no means of gaining a life that may become better, if allowed before another autocrat decided they don't deserve to be where they are and ship them off to some other place where they may or may not be welcomed...
Tell me, you who are committed to any religion... Why have you turned away from a loving eternal being who you claim to be your god? For me, I had chosen to follow Jesus when God gave us His Son...
Yet, even at that time, many turned away from that Gift... They chose Barabbas... Or they chose to continue to follow a religion that was based upon thousands of years of previously written words and rituals, believing that only in absolute following of rules and regulations that they would come to know God... Believing that they must give sacrificies in order to be seen and known by the Great I Am... How little did we listen to the words of the ancients...
Even in Biblical times, there was war, war and more wars... Yet, when Jesus was born, all of that was to be put aside...
Yet, right now, yes, right now, we are in the midst of a cold war within the United States...where murders occur on the streets, children are sexually abused and more by those who choose to act only because they see it as something or somebody who deserves to have the best--the young, the unblemished...How dare they! Right now, as one of the songs says, there is a division between the red and the blue... But there is also a war going on just for the pleasure of one man...He's destroying our national monuments, proclaiming his name as the owner... And there seems to be a minority, with money, who enjoy the misery that is being caused... He claims he has won 8 wars, which were never declared officially... And certainly had not compared in scope to the ugly hatret we discovered against Germany's Hitler, when millions were destroyed because of religion! In fact, many now think that Christian Nationalists are the group who should be running the United States... You know who they are...They invated the Capitol on Januaary 6th, threatened to hang Mike Pense and other leaders of Congress, and, now, with glee are thinking that the president is going to pay them for the damage, the deaths caused at the Capitol, because they did it as requested by the president at that time, based upon false claims that he had actually won the election...
As we look to the next national holiday, July 4th, and recognize the significance of the years, we MUST watch as priority is being used to create monuments to this president at the same time, as many people are now unable to meet basic needs while the republican party has stolen funds for private airplanes, military weapons that are being made by companies in which the president's family have interest and riches are pouring in... In fact, while The United States was given the Statue of Liberty to symolically recognize how America had opened our arms to millions across the world... we now see, for instance, the president stealing the look of a monument from France, I believe, while destroying the concept of lighting that made the nearby water display so spectacular...while claiming that we the people want a ballroom for the white house to be built by our money--money that many could use to feed their children, or buy clothes for school for them...
Folks, I never could have imagined that I, along with all people across the world, would have seen the day when large corporations and those rich men who do not pay comparable tax rates as we do, would be the ruling class of destruction to our Democracy... I still fail to comprehend how this could have happened--meaning, that I had been too naive to comprehend that many people care little about anything but themselves! May God forgive our Blindness...
I smile. If she doesn’t have all of my heart, she has all of my body, spirit, and mind—because when it comes to the way my mind works, she knows exactly how to talk.
“So are we done sharing deep, dark secrets for the night?” she asks. “I don’t know. You decide.” “I think we’ve done an impressive amount of that kind of sharing.” “I think I’d say I agree.” She takes my hand and leads me to the bed. Kisses the back of my wrist, nibbles it before she lets me go. Stands on her toes to kiss a side of my neck, then my earlobe, which she bites just hard enough to send pain and maybe a little panic down my neck. “You do realize,” I say, “that it’s been more than four years.”
Mark Wish asks the question:
Who can you trust if you can't trust yourself?
Mark Wish sent me a postcard request for a review quite some time ago. I set the card aside until I was able to be back blogging... And I'm certainly glad I found his post card again. Most people know I love unique. And this is one of the most unique books I've read... So unique, I had to name it as a Personal Favorite for 2026!
I was immediately caught by the main character being a literary agent--Anything re books catches my attention...
Even if that literary agent committed murder...
The description of that murder was unique--it was not about killing somebody. It was about having lost a part of himself. Something that had been precious to him, which was now destroyed. But now that it was over, he was paying the price. He had learned something, though. He could not trust himself in certain types of situations... His time in Sing Sing was a time when he needed to be on good behavior every day of his sentence, hoping he'd be able to get time off for good behavior...
Still it left him plenty of time to, also, file divorce papers after she had been unfaithful. And, deal with the fact that a supposed friend had been involved with his wife... Four years had given him enough time to explore options for the future. After all, being a literary agent was a job that required trust in him, by individuals hoping to have his support and help in publishing their books. It was what he enjoyed doing, even if the percentage of his work reviewing material from those who were never going to be published was high and very time consuming. He also wondered if those with whom he'd had contracts would be willing to stay with him...
One in particular, who wrote a lot of poetry, even though he'd never been able to get a book published, he felt had real talent and enjoyed working with him. Would he even still be living when he got out?
I need to be able to talk with someone who knows me, the real me...
In fact I’m out there, in the yard, when I first meet Jonas. On the unshaded basketball court, where my mood often spikes if direct sunshine finds me. Using the hoop with no net and therefore alone, sometimes lost in thought about my victim, sometimes imagining him putting his first move on my ex, in any case vulnerable to the whims of anyone who has the nerve to approach me. And Jonas indeed has the nerve. As he crosses the out-of-bounds line, all I know about him (well, all I’ve heard about him since he arrived here yesterday) is that he, too, has killed a man, in his case during a flubbed attempt to rob the Mahopac OTB while partnering up with a defective AR-15...
Suddenly all of that changed for Matthew Connell!
Because the FBI had a serial killer case that they needed help to solve... Young writers were being targeted and ultimately dismembered. And the one who was being looked at as a possible person of interest was the poet that Matt had been thinking about... And Jonas was his new contact from the FBI who proposed that, if he helped them, he would be freed, with no strings attached after the case was closed... And Jonas became that somebody with whom Matt could talk... as long as he talked about what the FBI needed to know!
“Would rather hear what you know about Ethan Hendee,” he says. Ethan Hendee was a client of mine who, eighteen years ago—that is, more than a decade before I learned my wife wasn’t exactly a saint—gave up on writing novels to write poems that appear in those photocopied literary mags no one reads. He’s a helluva writer, candid and interesting and succinct as anyone published, but I have not survived here by not holding cards close. So: “Ethan Hendee?” “Ha.” “Why ha?” “Because I know you’re Matthew Connell, and that you’ve represented the poet Ethan Hendee for a long time.” “The only problem being I don’t know such a person.” “But see, bro, there’s no question in my mind that you do know him. I know you’ve been his agent for years.” I shake my head no. Eye the asphalt between us and the cyclone fence. “You trying to tell me you’re not Matthew Connell?” he asks. “Matt Connell.” I force a sour expression. “Maybe you’re confusing me with some hoity-toity guy? Anyway, how does someone who hauls around an AR-15 know anything about poetry?” He points at his hornrims. “Because he’s read some?” “Well, I don’t know any Hendee.” “But see, Matt, I still think you do. Plus I think that, as his literary agent, you know what a badass he is.” In all truth, I do not know this. The Ethan Hendee I represented before my arrest had a soul gentle as any. I’m curious about what this Jonas guy heard Hendee did, but to get an early release, I’ve pledged to myself never to talk about crime that’s gone down on the outside. After all, a rehabbed convict no longer cares about crime, and I am nothing if not a rehabbed convict. To let this Jonas guy know I’m done socializing for the day, I turn and face the run of the Hudson beyond the chain link and the razor wire, its waves peaking into whitecaps here and there. “So you’re not gonna spill?” he asks. I don’t as much as shrug. He zings me a no-look pass, really zips it, hard, straight at my head, but I notice it soon enough to catch it. “Ya missed,” I mutter loud enough for him to hear, and I look over to stare him down, but his back is already turned, a confident stride taking him off. And it occurs to me, as he heads to the guarded double doors between us and the inside, that if he doesn’t have six inches on me, he has seven. And that my own storied past has taught me that the strength to kill a man comes not only from size—it also comes from youth. So I’ll avoid him, I decide. Won’t let him know I’m avoiding him, but that’s what I’ll do. There’s an art to this.
And then Jonas put the pressure on...
A Quieter Saturday
Night of those 2 grandparents
my grandmother was nicer
but she loved my brother so much
there was rarely laughter in her for me
& on that night my brother wasn’t there—
it was just the 2 of us
& my grandfather
& my grandfather never spoke
so it felt as if it were just the 2 of us
she & I were playing cards for nickels
& she was winning
& my grandfather was reading the paper
& I could tell she liked to win
but it bothered her she’d lent me the nickels
in the first place
it just wasn’t the same for her:
winning at cards with this grandson
who didn’t like nuns
it would be better if she were winning
against adults & their money
or even losing to my brother
who she was sure would become a priest
& he did become a priest—
after she died
then he died from a virus
he caught from a priest
& the last 2 things I’d do tonight
are go to church & play cards
my grandfather died also
but by then I was no longer around
to see him off
still I am him in this room:
full of words not saying any of them
~~~~
Hendee’s candor has touched my heart yet again, but I decide that, for the moment, it’s best to appear unfazed. I stand, shrug, place the poem on Scardina’s desk. “You know who wrote that thing, right?” Jonas asks. “No,” I say. “It said so on the header.” “Guess I missed that.” “Matt, your client Ethan Hendee wrote that poem.” “I wouldn’t say Hendee’s my client.” “I would. And there’s plenty of evidence to prove me right.” “Is that so?” “All sorts back at my headquarters.”
Headquarters. God, do I love that word. As an agent—that is, before my twenty-eight minutes—I always wanted a headquarters, an airy square footage in which like-minded colleagues and I could find repose. Where I’d gain moral support and refresh my resolve on the toughest days in the grand competition that is publishing.
But, of course, the FBI always gets their man, even if it requires that he be given freedom from a murder charge and given an apartment, a phone, credit cards and all he had to do was...be himself... Check out his former client and see if he's become a serial killer...
Before his twenty-eight minutes--the time it took to hear what happened with his wife, get to his home, and kill him--Matt was a wonderful man, caring for his wife, his clients, and even going further to often provide rewrites necessary to get a book published. His poet had been able to get many of his individual poems routinely published. Enough to keep him in food an shelter. So Matt, after agreeing to what the FBI asked of him, immediately took off to try to find his friend and client. Finding him was enough to take some time, but finding his way there again, he was pleased to find him and, as they renewed their friendship, Matt just knew this man was not a killer! Nevertheless, he would spend time confirming what he already knew...
Along the way, as he started visiting the neighborhood where his apartment was located, he found it hard to accept that he was really free, after his four years out of circulation, to be able to move about. To walk into any location and sit down for something to eat or drink... It wasn't long before he met Em. And fell for her! Of course, that was not part of the FBI plan and soon he learned just how closely he was being kept in their circle of captivity: all phone information was captured or listened to; they had given him a set of specially-made shoes that could be tracked step by step no matter where he went...
In the meantime, another young writer disappeared. And, later, the killer changed his pattern, when the male poet who Matt had been asked to track and report on, as the number 1 suspect on the FBI radar, was also murdered...
I think through a few things I could mention about Hendee if asked to eulogize him: his candor, his honor, his wit, his decades of persistence in the face of what most people considered failure. I owe it to him to say these things publicly, I tell myself. Still, I want only to talk with Em...
Time to reconsider the plan of action for Matt and his new female connection... Was Em a possible suspect? In the meantime, as a convict, Matt started getting hundreds of requests for assistance, many of them from men in prisons who felt they had a story to tell. Indeed Matt had found when in Sing Sing that many could weave a story that was well worth listening to! And the FBI, of course, set a course for his emails; namely, send them any writer who gave off vibes of a psycho with violence as a key role in their writing...
But as Matt became more and more involved with the literary crowd he had once known, he was finding it harder and harder to follow the restrictions placed on him, especially about Em who he had fallen for quickly and totally... Only to find it was she who, because of their association, was to share a secret so monumental that it shook him to the bones, as he wondered just how far he...could...trust...himself...
Whew! Without explicitly revealing the type of violence that was placed by the Serial Killer, the book was written in such a way that readers sense the tension, the depth of depravity of the villain... The buildup of the climax is excellent. Even while readers have been given clues and are aware of the interrelation mixes that are developing, at least for me, it never entered my mind how the ending would occur...
Extraordinary! Exciting! Endless suspense... and a Necessary Deed...
