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Hypocritically Hypercritical Calvin Combs, married father of six, pillar of the community. A man of faith dedicated to the service of his fellow man, was this Calvin Combs. A motivational speaker who mentored, coached youth sports, taught Sunday School, led food drives and many other charitable acts over the years. Once a member turned Deacon in his home church, Calvin was recently elevated to Elder due to his service and dedication. Oh so proud was he of himself for the life he led. Calvin believed the Lord was pleased with his works, not bad for the product of the union of an addict and a young convict. Mr. Combs was certainly a survivor. He’d overcome dire circumstances to become a productive and contributing member of society, breaking the cycle of self destruction within his family. Calvin Combs, the rose that grew from the concrete. Patriarch of the Combs family, he was intent on providing a better life for his children than he was afforded as a kid. It was important to him that he be a great provider, protector and example of what a good Christian Family Man should be. Despite all of the good he’d done, somewhere Calvin lost himself along the way. Sins come in all different forms, they are not always in the physical.
“Those of us who profess to be the most Holy and righteous are just as sinful as those we profess to be so much morally greater than.” CR
Cam Rascoe starts this book with:
“I believe in HIM therefore, I believe in me.”
The Lord has Blessed each of us with different talents and abilities. To doubt what you can do with them is to doubt HIM. BE thankful for the gifts HE’s Blessed you with and do all that you can with them. But remember, those gifts are to be used for HIS purpose not ours.
This is his first book, Volume 1. I look forward to seeing future books. Rascoe, in order to incite a desire to read within today's youth, has made the decision to write stories, noting that he feels that, if he can get somebody to read a short story in less than a half-hour, he just might hook them into wanting to learn more! Personally, I think this is a wonderful idea...and have already determined that he has had a wide, diverse background, where he could watch people...or, even pull thoughts into a story from his creative mind that would, hopefully, give what I seem to fall back on calling, Life Lessons rather than just short stories...although that, too, is what they are...
Preparing the reader, Rascoe takes the time to set up the type of stories that he will be sharing in Ironies by, first, sharing a basic look at his title...
i·ro·ny [ˈīrənē] NOUN irony (noun) · ironies (plural noun) · dramatic irony (noun) · tragic irony (plural noun) 1. the expression of one’s meaning by using language that normally signifies the opposite, typically for humorous or emphatic effect: “'Don’t go overboard with the gratitude,” he rejoined with heavy irony.'”
Each of us, at one time or another, might choose to use words that speak...without saying the true words. I tend to choose sarcasm, or did in th past... About the only form I've been using lately is adding a rather new slang word after something is said: Ah...Duh! It's short, humorous most times if it is used that way. If not, then the individual who hears the word(s) might easily get the point made by that one word...
I found it...ironic...to have found an individual story, called "Hypocritically Hypercritical Calvin Combs." which sounded like somebody I know... Which, by the way, reminds me...An interview with our Spotlight Author, Cam Rascoe, is coming next!...
I think the point of the story, above, just might be to remind us that each of us needs to look at ourselves, just as we may see or find something that is bothersome about others. Maybe even realize that we should first look at ourselves--to Know Thyself--first. And, always, that God sees us and knows...us...each... of...us!
Ironies contains well over 70 short and long stories, each with an ironic twist. The first one, provided below is short enough to maybe have you understand just what might be coming...in Ironies...
About A Girl
An easy friend is what you simply were to me, always with an ear to lend. You certainly fit the shoe but unfortunately for you, you never had a clue.
Never did you mind the bad habits that I had to serve. Your kindness I took advantage of while hanging out to dry. Enamored with my creation you were. The artist in me had your heart, but I could never love you or another more than I loved my vice. It was no longer just a vice it now consumed my life.
While with you I ate, bathed and gained strength to go out and do it all over again. You never judged or condemned me. But you also understood I couldn’t see you every night… free.
After being out in the wilderness or concrete jungle for a while I would come back veins filled with vice, heart weary, body fatigued. I’d be standing on your line. I do hope you have the time.
To me you’ll always be no more than number two but when in need I’d keep a date with you. Again I’ll take advantage while, you hang me out to dry but I can’t see you every night… free.
Whenever I returned you welcomed me with open arms and a warm embrace. From one baby to another it would seem that I’m lucky I met you. You, always the willing victim didn’t mind if my only duty was to completely drain you. You just yearned for that passionate kiss from my mouth to yours, I like you.
I’ll never love you because I couldn’t love myself but I could love myself better than you. You know it’s true so what should I do? When I’m through with you it’s like I’m high up on a plane; I can’t complain. When you are no longer able to satisfy my needs I must bid you adieu. Never will I burden my mind with memories of you. Once were you a person of purpose to me when I was in need of a warm bed and a hot meal. Service you I did as payment for my nourishment and lodging. Tears you shed after I fled but your hurt was of no consequence to me.
The respect you lacked, for yourself made it easier for me to flee because if you can’t love yourself better than this; how can you ever be loved by me?
Sometimes it seems like relationships are always out of sync... One individual might love another more than the other returns that love... Seriously, is that really going to work in a long-term situation? When somebody, especially talking "About A Girl," we may see that she is being used, horribly, by some guy who comes and goes without any feelings of shame. For, surely, she was so needy, he felt, that, really, he just couldn't fall for her... Rascoe has a talent to see that type, or similar types of interpersonal relationships and puts the situation into a few short words, to point out exactly what is going on...So, maybe, just maybe, you can see yourself...and realize, Girl! You Can Do Better!
But the opposite can also be true, right... Some women realize exactly what they are looking for... And, maybe, just maybe, you aren't it?
More Than a Woman
More than a woman, is that what we’re looking for men? Yes… we all are! Even the most giving, self reliant, domestic, paternal and dedicated men are looking for more than a woman. More than a woman, when we find her do we ever truly know what to do? First: We should love her; love her the way we want to be loved by her. Powerful unconditional love. Love that gives you goose bumps, love that makes you ache when she’s not in your presence. Work days seem like an eternity only because you can’t see her loving face for those agonizing eight hours, five days a week. Second. Be A MAN… without being a man. Do the things A MAN should do, protect, repair, represent, secure and head your household. Don’t do the things men do, be selfish, domestically lax, behave entitled, excessively playing with toys, in other words acting like little boys again. She’s your wife not your mama. Third: Time, give time. Give time to your family, interact; involve yourself in ALL family activities, allow her time to herself (that may mean taking on more parental responsibility). Time given shows dedication to that special woman in your life making you worthy of her time. Make your love timeless. More than a woman is what we yearn for men, but are we up to the challenge? With great reward comes great responsibility and behind every great man is a greater woman. Be worthy of more than a woman, earn the greatness of her love.
And then there is another thing that happens with...Love...
Beating Out The Love
How could someone be so evil, so vile,
you have to understand
that it all started for him as a child.
This insanely heinous behavior
doesn’t just come about on its own.
This level of malevolence comes
from years of cultivation,
ingrained and taught,
it has to be shown.
No love was let in,
only pain,
strictly darkness no light.
What little love born within
surely has been beaten out
minus a fight.
Oh the horrors he has suffered
at the hands of those
charged with raising and loving him.
In his pain they found their joy
and even a little profit,
controlled substance or gem.
Cries went unheard and
were even muffled
to quiet the shame.
The crimes against
his young soul
were often initiated
as a friendly game.
Ravaged, ruptured, rooted,
run through
and now you wonder why
he would want to harm
a man like you.
You are the patron of the pain,
piercing their young souls
leaving scars that will never heal
. The lure is the trust
and the bait is the game
until a young spirit is broken,
no longer able to feel.
Numb to the pain,
numb to the shame,
temporarily forgetting
the horrible memories.
Therapists come up
with sound diagnoses,
medications, studies and theories.
No need to go to such
great measures to understand
how monsters are created,
we merely have
to hear your life stories.
Now you have caused harm,
taken life utilizing
your mouth, hands, feet
and eventually a knife.
Crime scene so gruesome,
three victims in all,
with the stench of violent loss of life.
No innocence in the room,
all engaged in evil debauchery
on earth with heaven above.
Now the monster has put
his training to use and
everyone is so appalled
but this is what happens
after you have beaten
out all of the love.
Beating Out The
LOVE
Friends, relatives, neighbors, it is a time when all of us must become more aware... I hope, through spotlighting Cam Rascoe, you will see that he might have words of wisdom that you consider reading. In fact, I highly recommend you start with this book, Ironies, his latest...
Statistics are terrible! We know that drug use, smoking and sexual experience, leading often to rape, incest and suicide are at an all-time high. And even experienced by children of younger ages than many of us could ever imagine... Human Trafficking, seduction of teenagers and children can easily be arranged via the internet, their phones...or even, in person if they are in groups with peers...
Violence is rampant... Oftentimes, caused by violence within the home, as Cam talked about in the last story above... Trust is impossible, isn't it? We have seen that people, perhaps even from churches, or the Boys Scouts have been found to have taken advantage of, or abused those children who we thought were in a good environment. WE MUST become more active... In multiple ways.
Needless to say, voting must be based upon a sure and clear knowledge of who and what each and very person running for office is the best one for the positions we will be voting on. Just within the last two days, I have been bombarded by mail and phone with lies about an individual running within my state... I know they are lies...but many times you may not know... So please take the time to find out! Vote people OUT who are opposing and condemning our children to Hate by conspiracy theories, lies, and more lies... It will be hard, especially when, as we earlier discussed in earlier posts, churches have been corrupted by members who are acting on behalf of a false prophet, for want of a better way to identify the past president. Church members participated in the January 6 insurrection are now running for office!!!
Violence within the home, on the streets, and more, especially, these days in schools...caused by those who corrupt the world with military-style weapons that should never be sold...As you are probably aware, it is the republican party that refuses to decrease in any way the sales of guns... WE MUST DO BETTER TO KEEP OUR CHILDREN AND CITIZENS SAFE!
Ras Cat believed that enjoying good food was a part of being southern and he loved a southern woman with a great love for food. After a second glass of sparkling water they discussed film and literature. They settled on the “Outsiders” and the feeling it gave them when they first read the book and then viewed the movie as teens. The theme song was timeless and no less than eight mega stars, young in their careers, were featured in the film. The film’s legendary director captured the book better than any director had ever captured the true essence of a novel, agreed the two lovers... From Restless for Retribution
(Black Bigotry)
Ignorance of Iesha
It had been a long time since I saw my homeboys in the hood. We were separated by life choices, decisions and responsibilities. Living only nine miles away from one another, it may as well have been light years. Church, many different youth sporting events, work, gym, community gatherings and backyard BBQ’s is how I spend my time. Being a father of six, most of that time is spent at youth sporting events and activities. Life for my homies was spent drastically different from mine. (From Ironies)
Cat never took offense in losing to a woman in anything, he recognized that we are all blessed with different talents and abilities. The key is to utilize your particular ability in the most effective way possible.
There were more performers at the Second Annual Pine Hills Day Celebration; The Rush Tree* rocked the crowd...
We shared our life and times with different types of people doing very different things. Nonetheless the love was still there; I would always have their back and they would always have mine. So from my suburban home in Ocoee I traveled east to my old stomping grounds of Pine Hills. Thirty years prior Pine Hills was my sanctuary as I escaped from life of torment utilizing my talents and athletic abilities. This fourteen year old product of and addict and a convict had grown tired of the burdens of his parents addictions, poor choices and criminal behaviors.
The dance studios’s three groups and six routines left the crowd in awe...
After a basketball season in which I rose from the ninth grade team all the way to varsity, I was offered the opportunity to play on an AAU U16 Basketball team that would be traveling to Florida for a tournament in which they would be playing teams from all over Orange country. Our last game was in Pine Hills at Robinswood Middle School.
I knew my grandmother lived in the area so when the final buzzer rang I told my coaches that I would not be traveling back with the team. They protested but couldn’t stop this head strong young man determined to find a better life for him self. Ironically, twenty years later I would be asked to speak to the students of the school and meet my wife who taught there for nineteen years.
Doing what we were called to do brought us together and created this busy loving life we now share. When I arrived in Pine Hills in the late 1980’s it was a much different place filled with optimism and ambition. The community was diversely dignified filled with home owners who took pride in their property and the developmental prosperity of their families. Pine Hills birthed or nurtured many a talented artist, musician, scholar, soldier, athlete, politician and pastor.
The sounds her keys made brought tears to some eyes, surprised that a child so young could play so well; the crowd began to root for her. “Go on girl, you better play it baby!”*
The crime rate was minuscule compared to today. The place that saved my life is now called “Crime Hills” more often than by its given name. Still I love the area for all it has given to me, but the community has drastically changed. I’m grateful to still have roots and ties, so on this day I was going back. The love was in the air. When I stepped out of my vehicle I was greeted with cheer. Sipping on a few beers, we caught up; I told a few jokes, just like old times.
Jill led into her favorite jazz tune “He’s Funny Like That” by Billie Holiday. The band backed her up perfectly...
Forever the comedian, I rehashed a few funny stories from our shared past that I hadn’t thought about in years. Again, I had ’em in stitches. I settled in a bedroom at the side of the house that had been converted from a garage with one of my homeboys and a chick he had been wasting time with over the years. I never quite understood why he was drawn to her but to each his own. I sat quiet as they engaged in banter about how they planned to spend their evening.
Hey, Ras Cat! I dropped by to sing with you! This is one of my favorite songs (and singers) that I sing in my head at the beginning of summer each year...and on through... Gabbie...LOL
Iesha wanted to make a call to secure more of her favorite narcotic and hangout at their favorite watering hole. Eventually their conversation changed and focused on race. Iesha had some strong feelings on Caucasian People and her distrust of them. “I ain’t never known no good White People. Man shit you can’t trust them Crackers for nothin’. I don’t fool wit White folks.”
...imitating Little Richard. her favorite performer of all time. (With a shout-out WOW to "Shut Up and Kiss Me" who seeks sharing of their songs on UTube... I loved it...so check them out!)
I was dumbfounded; I didn’t know how we got on to this and I couldn’t believe she was serious. So I asked her. “Iesha, you have never known a good White Person in your life? You think all White People are bad?”
Rhonda and Jill started in with a duet of “Boy is mine” and the crowd swayed...
She sucked her teeth and rolled her eyes before answering aggressively. “Hell to the naw! I don’t trust ’em and I don’t want them around me. They smell like wet dog anyway.”
The crowd really got excited when they were joined on stage by the rest of 407 as the quartet sang “That’s What Friends Are For.” The crowd sang along… “Keep smiling’, keep shining, knowing you can always count on me, for sure that’s what friends are for.”
I couldn’t help but laugh out loud. “You mean to tell me…” Just then two of my boys who heard I was kickin’ it in the hood bust into the room interrupting my rebuttal. I followed them back outside where more people were waiting. Iesha and I never got to finish our conversation but her disturbing words stayed with me.
Jill again covered the hit “Fallin’” and it’s challenging vocal pitch and playing; she nailed it,..
The rest of that night was a fun, full of reminiscing and laughter. Before leaving to return back to my stable, sober, plain vanilla life; I promised the homeboys I would return in a couple of days with disks of music I produced for our group years prior. Many of us were in a band together fifteen years earlier; I was the front man/ producer.
The last song she performed was “The Greatest Love of All” and again the crowd sang. “I believe the children are the future…”
As I drove home Iesha’s words ran through my head. I couldn’t believe the ignorance she spewed. I knew some people still thought that way but to actually hear it was shocking. I just had to share with my wife; she was equally appalled. Days later there I was in my minivan heading back to Pine Hills with music in hand. It was enjoyable to take a walk down memory lane listening to myself singing and rapping about things I would never say out loud now in my forties.
The crowd continued to sway as the band extended the song; another beautiful beautiful day was had in Pine Hills filled with love, art, culture and peace.
As an artist I could respect how brazen and unapologetic the lyrics and beats were. The subject matter left something to be desired, oh to be in my twenties again. Oh, my how my art has changed since then. I pulled up to the house and rang the door bell. I was greeted by the elder women of the family. I’ve loved them since I was a teen. These women sometimes mothered me when there was no maternal presence in my life. Hot plates and words of wisdom were offered and accepted.
Hi, Iesha, Gabbie here Girlfriend... Yeah, I know, I know, you are thinkin' I ain't no girlfriend of yours... But, then, that can change, right? Like me, you may not have been around too many white girls...and some of them can be real...bitches, you know....?
Before I knew it an hour had passed as we caught up about our lives, our children’s and their grandchildren’s lives. I still have no grandchildren because our children are more focused on earning diplomas before birthing dependents. These women, still in their sixties had been great grandmothers for years. Unfortunately our children had different goals and focuses for their lives. I realized sitting there chatting that this is where I belonged. I had much more in common with grandmothers than men my own age trying to recapture their youth or hold on to the past.
For me, it was not until the 7th grade that I had ever even talked to a Black girl...Her name was Marian and she was best friends with Carolyn... Both of those girls were on the school bus when I was first driven to school!
Eventually I was summoned by one of my homeboys to leave the presence of my new peers and join them in the garage. We started listening to our youthful voices saying some outlandish things harmonizing and rapping over low budget beats. Listening reminded me of my true calling in life. I was born an artist but God intended for me to utilize my talents in a different and more productive way. A silent prayer I said to myself thanking the Lord for the talents He had Blessed me with. The music was good but it was local, not major. We could move crowds here in the south but we were never going to create a new movement or rise to the level of our favorite recording artists.
Iesha, those two girls made the first move to me, welcoming me... I learned, later, that Carolyn was a Catholic... Well, in my house, we were told that we couldn't date catholic boys, so I figured that Carolyn really shouldn't be my friend, according to my directions from home... You know what, though, I really didn't think it was the right thing to do... After all, I had learned differently in Sunday School...
Well, we all three became best friends... And whatever differences that adults seemed to have about people different from us, I just couldn't see it... Race? Religion? Marian and Carolyn were my friends, and any differences didn't matter...
Now when I place my fingertips on a different type of keyboard I leave my heart on the page, inspiring, motivating, educating and entertaining. Evoking deep feelings from my readers is my new goal giving them thoughts and sensations they never new could be received through the written word. After an hour or so of a listening session we started talking about this and that. Iesha sat in the corner sniffling from time to time with white residue around her nose.
One day, Marian taught me a special lesson about her background...and maybe yours? The three of us had gone over to a bakery that was across the street from the junior high school in Masontown, PA... They had sputnuts (and if you've never had one, well, you've missed a great treat--it is a doughnut made with potatoes...Wow, really can't describe the taste, but I always got one of those). Marian had gotten a brownie... She wrapped the paper around the brownie and asked me if I wanted a bite. I said no, that's alright. I'm good... But, then, she added...You can have the first bite..."
We greeted one another when I entered the room but said nothing to one another since then. She seemed to enjoy our greatest hits as we talked about the times traveling, recording and performing. People started inquiring about my family and when I intended to release my next novel. I shared freely and honestly about the pros and cons of my new life.
I had learned a little about race relations by that age...and suddenly Marian was presenting me with a "living" example. Were all children taught to fell some type of subservience, even as from their historical stories, gave their best to their "masters".... Often, much more than they should have been. But, I remembr when Marian offered me the first bite, I realized that she must have been taught to present her best offer of herself to "white" people... And, even if she was just being kind...it was I who learned just how patient and...impatient...those who are Black must be at any given time or part of their lives...
There is a lot of love in my life but very little time for self or artistic creation. I figure you have to take the good with the bad and I must admit that fathering six children never leaves you with a lack of material to write about.
When I started working, I found that I was working with many who were Black... I remember, one day, I learned another life lesson, when, within Affirmative Action, I had been required to hire John. If there were no laws at that time, I would have promoted internally as I have always tried to do, knowing that I would have to train anybody hired, due to the specialized tasks of the job... John was doing a fine job... and he was easily working within the usually busy office. One day, he was off at lunch when a male student came in... I was the only one covering lunch that day, so I went out to see if I could help the young man. He had asked for Mr. Brown and when I explained he wasn't there... He said that he should probably come back to speak with Mr. Brown... I quickly realizd another type of bias... He expected John to be in the higher position in the office than I. I calmly responded, "Well, John is one of my employees, but I am sure that I can help you with anything that is his job..." He had the grace to hesitate with a red face, and we went on to work on his request...
Iesha spoke up asking me about meeting my wife. “When are you going to bring your wife around?”
I gave her a curious look. “Around who, you?” She laughed it off before restating it. “Yes, around me, us.”
“I’m not.”
So Iesha, I know how you feel... I've seen how some of the world is about anything or anybody and It's sometime been an effort to follow the words from God... "Be the world a better place..." (BTW, this last video is a true God Incident...it sure fits what we must do today!) Think simple... Cam Rascoe does that often...even writes about it. I've found him, even as a Black man, you know...LOL... that he has become my friend in God...and in life... How Cool is That?!
You see, Iesha, most of us have at least a basic fear of anybody who is different, looks different, talks different, or these days, even those who vote differently... I know...right now, I seem to be a black sheep in my own family... I voted for Biden!
“Why?” “Because you’re a bigot.” Chuckles went around the room but Iesha didn’t find it very funny.
“What do you mean I’m a bigot?” I shook my head then looked over to my long time friend before answering. He shrugged, inviting me to continue on.
“The last time I talked to you, you told me you don’t trust White people. No White people. My wife is half German, half Norwegian with blonde hair and blue eyes. You don’t get much whiter than that and you told me that you don’t deal with “crackers” as you say.” I could tell that she was put off after learning that my wife was a Caucasian woman but she tried to save face.
Iesha, girlfriend, I've been feeling a lot like you during the last four years...even evangelical christians, who I once trusted, seem to be corrupted by this insane need for power...Yeah, you're right, just like the Masters that your race had to serve as slaves... Yes, we do owe you...But, don't think that everybody is ever going to feel the same way that many of us do...We care! I hope, though, you are seeing some differences in the last months as a new president is in...who cares about all of us, no matter what color...
“I know but if she is your wife I’m sure she is alright. She’s probably one of the few good ones.”
I was once again dumbfounded. I repeated her words. “One of the good ones. You know that is a phrase that many racist White people have used to describe me over the years because I am well read and understand much of their American Pop Culture. They feel safe around me, see me as nonthreatening. In other words they see me as an anomaly because in their eyes Black people shouldn’t be intelligent or well spoken. What you said the other day is just as bad. You haven’t met every White person in the world but because of your ignorance of them you allow yourself to vilify them all.”
We are reaching a point, sometimes, when we don't feel that we can even talk to those we love--family, people who were supposed to be our friends-- But, really, I have also learned that it takes each of us to take a step. Anothet step. And another step... But I've also learned that we've each got to have good vibes coming back to us, don't you think?But, girl, I just have to tell you...that nothing is going to change if you don't get off those drugs... Nothing, no world in which we live, should be enough for you to feel so badly about yourself... Yeah, you heard right. Go out there and find out what is something that interests you--like I did, when I had to leave my job, which I loved... I turned to books! Books can take you away...and you don't need to get high on anything but life...and how good it can be...
I could see light bulbs turning on in peoples’ heads around the room but she was still unrelenting.
“But you know that bad shit they do trying to keep us down. If it was up to them, they would make us slaves again.”
I decided that it was time I made my final point and exit this din of the dimwitted. “Again, that’s all White people?”
“Most of them.”
Yeah, I'm gettin' there...Maybe you even were hoping to hear about an answer... You see, in case you didn't know, there's a friend I'd like to have you meet... His name is...Jesus...
“Do you know that my wife and her two sisters have taught here in Crime Hills for almost two decades? Do you realize that we only met because she wanted me to come in and speak to her class to inspire them? She reached out to me because she was investing in the children of this community. We both met the love of our lives doing what we were called to do in service of our people.” Iesha’s face was still sour. “Everywhere we go in this county we are approached by some young adult or teen that my wife has taught and inspired to be something greater. She has used her vocation to elevate three generations of our Black and Brown children and Lord knows she doesn’t get paid a lot for it. Doctors, lawyers, businessmen, politicians, professional athletes and future scholars have passed through her classroom and left with the desire to be greater. Her only reward is their development and growth as productive citizens and the praise they offer her for her efforts. My wife is a compassionate professional who doesn’t judge people by the color of their skin yet by the content of their character.” Iesha kind of sucked her teeth and rolled her eyes. With her lack of response or rebuttal I continued on. “While she is helping to raise the Black children of the Hills you sit in here in this garage getting high everyday and you have three children of your own, home at your mama’s house that you are neglecting.
You know, Iesha, it's been a wonderful life knowing that Jesus is always there for me, maybe even to just hold my hand, but, more, to know and be secure in His love... Wanna talk more about it, just let me or Cam know... Yeah, Cam is the best guy to talk to--he's been around your neighborhood for quite a while and knows just what you might want to talk about... and He's been given a special gift of wisdom to tell it like it is, just like he's already spoken to you... But, believe me, he's one of the good guys! If you're not ready to talk, you can read some of his words of wisdom...there are words that you just might find to be written just for you! Yes! Just take that first step... Put your hand out...
Now tell me again how all White people are wicked and evil.” I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was a friend letting me know that I had made my point. But I had one more thing to say. “If a White person wanted to generalize about or stereotype all Black people by your actions they would say that we are all lazy, slothful drug addicts who neglect their children. That’s the example you show to White people giving them what they believe is credence to assume we are all like that. Thank you sister!”
With that I stood up and starting saying my goodbyes. I had enough of the hood for a little while. Catching up and reminiscing was cool but I had more important things to be doing with my time.
Our history I will never forget, I will always love them but some of the people that hold such ignorant views of the world I cannot surround myself with. It just shows that racist come in all sizes, shapes and colors.
In no relationship should the apologies always be offered by one party. None of us are perfect so we must all be at fault or mistaken on occasion.
Everything’s their fault, taking all the blame, you accuse with no shame forever in the right, right? They love you, so they accept your inequities and emotional abuse over loving truth. If ever the nerve to protest is reached they could never tell you to your face so instead they leave for you a letter.
In the writing they express their dissatisfaction in your actions while simultaneously professing their love for you.
What else should they write? According to you, they don’t have the right. Are you never at fault or are you just too proud to ask for forgiveness? Is this what your love deserves or just all that you are willing to give?
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.
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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!
