ANDREA PERRON -A GOOD STORY IS A GOOD STORY

 Link to the show -

http://www.blogtalkradio.com/worldofinknetwork/2013/06/05/a-good-story-is-a-good-story-host-marsha-casper-cook

Please join Marsha Casper Cook on June 4 at 9PM EST 8 PM EST 7 PM MT 6PM for a very special show with Andrea Perron.
Andrea has written a sacred story of spiritual enlightenment, told some thirty years hence. The family is now somewhat less reticent to divulge a closely-guarded experience. Their odyssey is chronicled by the eldest sibling and is an unabridged account of a supernatural excursion.
The aforementioned hell is the basis for the new film from James Wan, The Conjuring, and it's bound to get people talking about their beliefs... and even the lack thereof.
This is going to be one terrific interesting show.
Bethany Cross will be there to open the chat room.
For more info
http://houseofdarknesshouseoflight.com
show info
http://www.worldofinknetwork.com
http://www.authorsofworldofinknetwork.com

Love Changes Book Video Trailer.avi

LOVE CHANGES is a favorite story of mine. I am going to share two chapter of the book at this time. I wrote the book after I wrote the screenplay. After writing the book I realized that what they say is true ... the book is usually better than the movie. There is a script available.

Chapter 1

It was time. The music had stopped. As a well-dressed man slowly walked to the podium, the crowd was appropriately quiet. Faint sounds were heard as the waiters filled the goblets with champagne for the toast.
“Good evening to all our guests from Chicago, and those of you not from Chicago, we welcome you. I am Cecil Aronson, and who better than I to present tonight’s award to my colleague and lifelong friend, Dr. Martin Lewis. The man with a vision, the man with a heart of gold.”
Cecil briefly stopped his speech as the audience applauded. The spotlight transferred away from Cecil to shine on Martin. As always, Martin’s smile was contagious. He stood up as the crowd applauded.
Recognizing it was not quite time to join his friend Cecil at the podium, Martin remained seated between his wife Elaine and his mother Esther.
Cecil continued his speech. “Martin and I go as far back as I can remember, third grade to be exact. Even at such a young age, Martin was every bit as conscientious as he is today. When something needed to be done, Martin went out and did it, and he did it well. No questions asked. For a man like Martin, there can be no other way. Even at such a young age, I was able to distinguish how lucky I was to have Martin as a friend, as we all are. He’s a great guy to have in your corner. Not only does he succeed in his endeavors, he brings a great sense of pride and integrity to his projects. Thank goodness he chose the Meridian Hospital.”
As Cecil spoke, Martin listened carefully to each and every word. However, Martin began to show visible signs of embarrassment. As his face turned red, he was thankful the spotlight had left his table and was once again centered on Cecil who, unlike Martin, loved notoriety.
Over the years, Martin had always kept his charitable donations anonymous, but this time the publicity surrounding the Rehabilitation Center couldn’t be disguised.
He was the celebrity behind the scenes, but after tonight it would be over. He would go back to his practice. Delivering babies was far too rewarding for Martin to imagine himself doing anything else.
To Martin, each new life he helped bring into the world was very special. In fact, his greatest possession was the photo collection of all the babies he had delivered.
Cecil stopped for a brief moment to once again wait for the spotlight to shift toward Martin’s table. Cecil continued on with what was turning into quite a lengthy speech, one which he no intention of making, but the excitement of the evening had changed everything. And who better than Cecil to spontaneously talk?
Cecil’s speech was a tribute to a man who truly deserved praise and anything that went with it. If that meant a lengthy speech and respective applauding, so be it.
Martin looked at Cecil, trying to catch his eye. Cecil did notice Martin’s uneasiness, but that didn’t stop him. He was intent on really getting to the heart and soul of the night. Martin deserved every bit of the honor, and Cecil was there to make sure it happened.
“Three years ago, the Rehabilitation Center for the Development of Emotionally and Physically Handicapped Persons was a mere vision. Martin Lewis took that vision and made it reality. So, my friend, please come up and join me as I present you with this award for the most deserving of all doctors. You are the first director of the Meridian Rehabilitation Center, and we thank you for all the tireless hours, efficient planning and everything else it took to make the center possible. It’s the best in the country and we can thank you for that.”
Martin walked to the stage with all the excitement and enthusiasm of a man with great devotion. As Cecil handed Martin the magnificent, solid-gold plaque, Martin gave his friend a tight bear hug, reminding him of all they had gone through to get to the place they now stood.
Martin smiled at all the well-wishers, then focused his eyes toward his wife. “I think I shall begin with a heartfelt thank you to my family and friends. I was, or should I say I am, quite embarrassed by my good friend Cecil’s words. I couldn’t help but feel ‘why me?’ I have really only done what had to be done. Sometimes life isn’t very fair. I suppose somewhere along the line, we’ll all learn the reason why some are born into this world with just one too many problems. We may even find out just why in the prime of a person’s life, they find themselves needing assistance in everything they do.
“That is why we are here. To learn and to love. So to those of our patients who try their hardest to complete their everyday tasks, I say keep trying, because you will do it. I know you will but, first and foremost, I want you to believe you will. For those of you who have joined us tonight and have disabilities, I will not ask you to stand, but I will ask you to listen to what your heart is saying. I stand here as a man who has lost and come back a winner, so I know it can be done. I will help you, as will the others here tonight. Some of the men and women you see here tonight will not be there for you on a daily basis but they are here for you, as they have shown with their generous donations. These are the people who have raised the necessary funds to get the job done, which we did. I stand here now and accept this award for everyone in this room because the Meridian Rehabilitation Center is a piece of all of us here tonight. Thank you, my friends.”
Elaine watched as her husband once again won over the crowd with his kind words. He was a good man, a far better man than she had ever deserved. She knew she should love him more, but she couldn’t.
Martin reached over to one of the head waiters for a glass of champagne. Lifting his glass toward the microphone, he spoke with the greatest of pleasure, “Please join me in a toast. To a world without pain and sadness. To a world where everyone walks with dignity and a sense of well-being. To life and the best if can be.”
Esther Lewis applauded her son as he walked back to the table. “I’m a lucky woman,” she said with a smile that wouldn’t quit.
Martin seemed surprised. “I’ve never heard you say that before.”
Esther didn’t respond at first, then she said, “Well, I should have. Believe me, I’m sorry I didn’t. Your father, may he rest in peace, always felt that way. He said it often, but I didn’t. Is it too late?”
Martin kissed his mother’s cheek and answered with complete honesty. “It’s never too late, but I’ll let you in on a secret. I always knew you felt that way.”
Esther reached for her daughter-in-law’s hand and squeezed tightly. “Elaine, my dear, we’re two very lucky women.”
Elaine smiled politely in response.

Chapter 2

It was six in the morning. Martin was just about to leave their bedroom when Elaine sat up in bed, rubbed her overtired eyes and called out, “Don’t forget the symphony tonight!”
Martin walked back toward Elaine and sat down on the edge of their bed. “Good morning,” he said, not expecting an answer just yet. It usually took Elaine a couple of minutes to accustom herself to early mornings.
“I didn’t have the heart to wake you. Seems like you barely got any sleep last night .You tossed for the better half of the night,” he added.
“I’m sorry if I kept you up,” she apologized.
“You didn’t. I keep myself up. That’s when I do my planning. It’s those wee hours in the morning when there’s complete quiet and the only sounds you can hear are the birds chirping on the windowsill. That’s when everything becomes clear and fresh. It’s always been that way for me. It works.”
“You won’t forget the symphony, will you?” she reminded him.
Martin smiled. “Have I ever?”
“No, but you might.”
“Not on your life. You know I don’t like the symphony, but it’s the only place I see you smile. For that alone, I’ll be there.”
Elaine rested her arm on Martin’s knee. “You’re such a good man.”
“That’s what they tell me,” Martin jokingly boasted. “But I like it best when you tell me. The words seem to have a much greater impact.”
After getting up from the bed, Martin kissed Elaine, not knowing what her reaction would be. It differed depending on the day.
On that day, Elaine hugged Martin tighter than usual. She hadn’t intended to cry, but she did. Martin had become accustomed to her sudden, teary outbreaks. He never really understood why she had them so often. Ironically, neither did she.
“Elaine, are you alright?” Martin asked with his usual, concerned interest.
“Yes, I’m okay. Go ahead to work. I’ll be fine. See you tonight.”
Martin reluctantly left, realizing if Elaine’s behavior didn’t change soon, he would have to suggest she see a doctor. That was not something he looked forward to. He was certain she would fight him tooth and nail on that issue, as she had done in the past.
***
It was early afternoon when Elaine arrived at Arlington Racetrack. The elevator to the clubhouse was exceptionally crowded for a weekday, but to Elaine it didn’t make much difference. She had reserved the same table for the entire summer. Money was of no concern to her. If it took an extra twenty, fifty or sometimes a crisp, hundred-dollar bill to help matters along, so be it.
Having money did help with life’s daily struggles. But long range, money could do nothing to change her sadness. Unhappiness was a permanent way of life for Elaine.
Elaine hadn’t been seated for more than a minute or so when a waiter approached her table. He placed a large pitcher of lemon water and a basket of rolls on the stark, white tablecloth.
Elaine smiled, appreciative of the young waiter’s acute sense of recall. They didn’t speak much, but he smiled when she did.
As always, Elaine had not placed a bet on the first or second race. That was her time for gatherings thoughts and pulling the loose ends of the day together.
Some days she placed bets on only a few races. Those were the days when her mind wandered, remembering what she was trying so hard to forget. It was on those days that she usually picked the winners. But of course, she didn’t care. That really wasn’t why she came.
The ten-minute bell rang. It was the third race. Elaine reached inside her bag and pulled out several hundred-dollar bills. She crumpled them as she walked toward the betting counter. With a brief glance, she pointed to a number and handed the money to the woman at the window.
The race ended. Elaine had won. She paid little attention to the fact that she had bet on a winner.
A bolt of lightning flashed. Seconds later, a voice over the loudspeaker called out, “Due to severe weather, we are canceling the remainder of today’s races.”
Disappointed voices filled the clubhouse. Just as everyone seemed to be leaving, Elaine felt a tap on her shoulder. She looked up, not recognizing the young man who stood before her.
“Hello,” he said in a very mellow voice.
“Do I know you?” Elaine asked in a swift, uninterested voice.
The young man’s smile was attentive. “Yes, as a matter of fact you do. We met at an art showing. You were with Sally Braverman. Now do you remember?”
“No, I’m sorry I don’t.”
“That’s okay. It was only my art showing and my art gallery. I guess it was foolish of me to think you might remember.”
A brief but apologetic smile appeared on Elaine’s face. “Oh yes, now I remember.”
“Thank goodness,” he laughed. “I thought I was losing my touch. Although, you might be good for my ego. You know, the ego I just lost.”
They shared a smile.
Holding out his hand, the young man introduced himself. “I’d better not embarrass myself any more by thinking you know my name, so I’ll make it easy on myself. Josh Derman.”
Elaine was just about to say her name when Josh interrupted. “Elaine Lewis. Am I right?”
Elaine nodded, surprised by his memory.
Josh was just about ready to sit down when Elaine stood up. “You’ll have to excuse me, but I should be leaving.”
“Then I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said.
“I don’t think so,” Elaine responded quickly.
“You’re here every day, so why not tomorrow?”
Elaine felt uneasy. “How do you know that?”
“Because I’ve seen you here every day for the last few weeks,” Josh smiled.
Elaine didn’t know what to say, so she didn’t respond. Instead, she pleasantly smiled and walked away.
Josh didn’t try to stop her as she walked toward the elevator. He just watched her leave, wishing they had been leaving together.
As Elaine drove home, she wondered why such an attractive man, obviously several years her junior, would be interested in her. She should have been flattered, but she was just curious.
***
It was almost five when Martin looked down at his watch. Realizing he might be late for the symphony, he telephoned Elaine. When there was no answer, he intertwined his hand with his son Stevie’s and gave a tight squeeze. “What do you say we have some ice cream?” Martin asked, certain of the reply.
Excited by his father’s idea, Stevie jumped up and gave Martin a big hug. For Martin, that was always the best part of their visit.
“Ice cream, Daddy! Ice cream!” Stevie shouted.
“Okay,” Martin said. “All you have to do is hold onto my hand and we’re off.”
Stevie did just that, and they ran across the park, trying to catch the ice cream man before he gave his last clang.
Martin was slightly out of breath when he called out, “Wally, wait for us. Wally, we’re on our way.”
Just as Wally was about to get into his truck, he heard Martin. Wally yelled back, “It’s okay Dr. Lewis. I’ll wait for you and your little friend.”
Martin tried to take a deep breath, but it was difficult. He ran too fast, but that was what he had to do to keep up with Stevie. As they approached the ice cream truck, Martin smiled, grateful that Wally had heard him.
Wally had been banging and clanging those chimes on the Good Humor truck for about as many years as Martin had been delivering babies. In fact, Martin had delivered Wally’s four children, making them a bit more than friends.
With the help of a nitroglycerin pill, it only took a few seconds for Martin to feel better. Running wasn’t the ideal sport for Martin, but when it came to ice cream, Stevie’s excitement was all that mattered. As a matter of fact, Martin rarely thought about having Angina. That was how he dealt with the diagnosis. He knew he had it, but refused to allow it to change his life.
The truth was Martin would do just about anything to make Stevie happy. Stevie was the love of Martin’s life, and he had never regretted Stevie’s birth. Handicaps were just a label, nothing more. The only thing that mattered to Martin was love.
Being born a Down Syndrome child did not make Stevie different. It made him that much more special. However, the task of Elaine accepting Stevie still remained the dominant issue in their lives. Six years later, nothing had changed about Elaine’s denial of being Stevie’s mother.
Wally walked to the back of the truck and opened up the freezer compartment. “Chocolate cone today?” he asked.
A broad smile appeared on Stevie’s face. “Yes … yes.”
Wally noticed Martin was out of breath. “Are you okay, Doc?” he asked with concern.
As usual, Martin made light of his condition. “I’m fine, Wally. Don’t worry about me. You know doctors, we never get sick. Anyway, enough about me. How’re all my kids?”
“They’re good. A bit mischievous, but luckily they haven’t broken any walls lately. Kids do things like that, don’t they?”
Martin gave Stevie a proud shoulder hug. “Yes they do. Oh well, thanks for waiting, Wally. See you soon,” Martin added as he and Stevie walked toward the car.
***
Martin did arrive at the symphony on time. Elaine didn’t ask Martin where he had been because she already knew. His daily visits to Stevie were acknowledged but never mentioned.
The orchestra had begun to play. Elaine’s eyes were affixed toward center stage. She could feel her body loosen and her mind clear. Her only thought was on the magnificence of the music. Elaine’s eyes closed as soon as she felt the splendor and harmony of the music consume her. She was at peace with herself, but it was only temporary. The only permanency left in her life was her disappointment.
Several times before intermission, Martin glanced down at his watch. Time seemed to be standing still. Finally, when his patience went out the door, he decided he would do the same. He nudged Elaine’s shoulder. Elaine ignored Martin’s first and second nudge, but by the fourth shoulder tap, Elaine couldn’t very well overlook the issue anymore.
Elaine mouthed her anxiety. “Is something wrong?”
Martin answered quickly. “I have to call my service. I’ll be right back.”
Elaine looked directly into Martin’s eyes and whispered in his ear. “I thought you weren’t on call this evening.”
A childlike expression appeared on Martin’s face as he spoke a little louder than he should have. “You’re right, you’re absolutely right, I forgot.”
A woman seated behind Martin poked her long, manicured fingernail into Martin’s shoulder blade. “Be quiet. This is one of the very best parts,” she said as she sat back in her seat and crossed her hands over her plentiful chest.
Martin turned to the woman and shook his head. “Sorry.”
“Well, you should be,” she more than whispered back.
Several minutes later, Martin whispered to Elaine, “Mind if I take a break?”
“No, go ahead.”
Martin kissed Elaine’s cheek as he hunched over and moved toward the aisle. He stepped over the man seated beside him, almost falling in his lap. Several people turned his way, watching Martin make an exit. By the look on some of the others’ faces, he knew he wasn’t the only one wanting to leave. But he was seemingly the only one with the nerve to make such an exit.
When he finally got into the lobby, he couldn’t imagine himself going back in. So he didn’t. He walked outside for a while and, when he lost interest in that, he came back inside, only to once again find himself not knowing what the hell to do.
At intermission, Elaine entered the lobby, trying to push her way through the crowds to find Martin. As much as she loved the symphony, she still hated running into people they knew.
It took less than a minute. There it was, that horrible tap on the shoulder. A fashionably dressed woman, exclusively Chanel, smiled and said, “Hello, my dear. How is that wonderful husband of yours?”
Elaine had no clue who this woman was, but she still replied politely. “He’s fine, thank you.”
Not wanting to be rude, she excused herself in a very ladylike manner. “If you don’t mind, I must find Martin.”
“Of course, by all means, dear. Say hello for me.”
Elaine nodded as she rapidly walked toward the ladies’ room. Luckily, she was stopped short by Martin.
“Martin, where have you been?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he placed his arm around her waist and walked her toward the door. “How about leaving early tonight? I’ve made reservations at Angelo’s.”
Elaine thought for a moment. “Okay, let’s go.”
Martin was stunned. “You’re kidding, aren’t you?”
“No, it’s okay. You’ve been such a good sport. I know how you hate being here and anyway, I’m a little tired.”
Getting over the shock, Martin turned to his wife and asked with sincerity, “Are you sure? We’ve never left this early. We can stay. I’ll even go back in if you want to.”
The moment Elaine walked out the door, Martin knew she was dead serious. It would have been ludicrous of him to stop her, so he didn’t. Selfishly, he was happy.

LADY IN BLACK

This story is a real page turner. Craig Clyde is a wonderful writer who has had a book published and it's time to take this book right to the top. A good story ia a good story so let's see if we can get this book out there where it belongs. Send this to your friends and see what they think. Sometimes, we have to just help someone get out there...Please let me know what you think? This book was written using characters from the screenplay FIRST WE DANCE.

Thank you
Marsha Cook
Available at Amazon.com

Today

He was sitting there, remembering that scene from the Thomas Crown affair? Not the remake but the original with Steve McQueen, when McQueen was sitting on an airplane looking out the window at the world below. McQueen’s character looked pensive as the voice-over tore your guts out and you realized that he’d beaten Faye Dunaway at her own game and it was her own damned fault...and they were never going to get together again...ever.

Jake Samuels felt like that right then. Just like Steve McQueen. And at that particular moment he was on a Delta jet headed for Paris and thinking about a woman he’d never see again. He had beaten her at her own game, just like Steve McQueen. Well, actually he had killed her. After he made love to her.

He sighed to himself. It was a long story and reliving it wasn’t all that easy on him right then.

There was a woman sleeping next to him. She was making little baby-like snoring sounds, her beautiful head leaning against his shoulder. She was wrapped tightly in one of those flimsy airline blankets. The ones they always hand you, without being asked, in July but you were forced to beg for in December. She was lovely and she was with Jake going to the city of romance, wine and French bread. He wasn’t crazy about French bread.

He touched his jaw gently. His tooth was aching again. It had been aching for nearly two months now. He knew exactly when it started. It started when the murders started. He still hadn’t gone to a dentist.

He needed something to do. To keep his mind occupied so he fumbled around for his wallet to make sure he had remembered everything. Jake had never been to Europe before. Hell, he’d never been out of the state except for a quick trip to Vancouver British Columbia once.
He took out the passport and looked at the picture. It was him, a little heavier -- two-twenty and six four in his stocking feet. The widow’s peak was salt and pepper. He only weighed 190 now but that’s what a bullet will do for you he thought. Six hours of surgery and three weeks eating through a tube. World’s fastest diet.

Simple.

Next to the passport was the shield. It glimmered in the dim airline reading light. A silver badge with an eagle over a star cloisonné. The name read: Detective Sergeant Jacob Samuels, West Precinct, Seattle Police Department.

He felt for the bulge on his right side out of habit but it wasn’t there. He knew there was no need for a piece in Europe. Too much hassle anyway even if you were a cop. He missed it. It was his security blanket.

In his line of work he needed that shimmering blue-black, 3 1/2 inch-barreled security blanket. A Smith and Wesson Model 27 .357 Magnum revolver. His “Hammer of Thor.” A mighty bolt of thunder and lightning from a small package. One hundred twenty-five grain Federal hollow points packing twelve hundred and fifty foot pounds of energy. It slammed into you like a pile driver and dropped you down like a bad habit.

It wasn’t department issue. Seattle PD issues Glock twenty-twos in the .40 S&W caliber. Good round but sometimes not as effective as it could be. He was living proof of that wasn’t he? It was the same thing she shot him with and he was still here wasn’t he?

Out the window Lake Washington was sliding away to the North, shimmering like a immense blue mirror in the waning light.

Seattle, Washington. Big shouldered, fish-mongering, neon Pacific rim pearl that it was. Jake Samuels didn’t grow up in Seattle, he grew up farther East in a insignificant town called Toppenish which sat in the very center of the Yakima Indian Reservation.
But Seattle was home. It was where he killed the woman.

As he watched the city disappear under the wing, his mind wandered back to what happened. He looked at his watch and thought it was ironic that when you forgot the date you looked at your day-date watch. What day was it?

January 24th. Jesus, how’d it get to be the end of January he wondered?

His chest hurt. Ached actually more than a hurt. He felt like that guy in the James Bond movie “The Man with the Golden Gun” -- he was different physically. Had a third nipple. Very rare.

Jake was like him. He had a third nipple. Not so rare though. He got his from a 148 grain slug smashing through his lungs. It was a Christmas present from her, the woman he had killed.
He thought about that, being shot. It had hurt like hell he remembered, but not at first. At first it felt like a small rock had slammed into him harder than anyone in the world could throw it and it just kept going. Didn’t bounce off. It pierced him, tearing away the flesh, splintering any bones it happened to run into and finally stopped somewhere in his thoracic cavity.

Broken vessels, ripped muscles, shredded mesenteric tissues spewed blood all over the place. All inside him. Then he had started to lose his hydraulics, a dizzy feeling replacing the initial sting. His head started to swim and he fought to stay on his feet. But he couldn’t. Not for long. He was bleeding to death internally and there was nothing he could do about it.

Except fall over.

She shot him and damned if he didn’t miss her even then, there on that airplane going to Paris, France at six hundred miles an hour with another gorgeous woman who said she wanted to marry him when they get back. Hard to believe. Impossible really.

And it had happened just one month before, five days before Christmas.

Seemed longer. Maybe it was.

He wasn’t there when it all started.

Fifteen Years Ago...

Dr. John Taylor Bennett, PhD. stared at the ceiling and looked bored. He always looked bored. But he wasn’t bored so much as perpetually overwhelmed by the patients who came to him for help. And he tried to help. The operative word being “tried.” He never did anymore - help them that is - he couldn’t. He was burned out.

Bennett slumped, round-shouldered, at his desk looking more like a mushroom than the eminent child psychologist he was. He was a nationally recognized expert who’d been written up in dozens of national publications, everything from Better Homes and Gardens to Playboy.

“I see all kinds,” he muttered to a large man who’d just come into his office and taken a seat. “All kinds.” It was at least another minute before the old psychologist looked up again. In fact the man wasn’t at all sure whether Bennett was even talking to him. He was a troubled and anxious father who sat expectantly, waiting to learn what was wrong with his daughter.

Unfortunately, the renowned Dr. Bennett couldn’t tell him shit. Because he had no idea what the seven year-old girl’s problems were. Besides, Bennett was bone tired. Tired of anxious parents like the one in front of him. Tired of the traveling and lecturing and book schedules that rarely permitted him any time to himself. Tired of what he had become, a burned-out media shrink living on past glories. He was nearly seventy for God’s sake.

But mostly he was tired of looking into the small troubled eyes of his patients. He couldn’t take that anymore, their eyes. As the thought took hold, his own eyes opaqued into a thousand yard stare.

The anxious father glanced around the office and noticed that there was hardly an inch of space that wasn’t covered by a poster. Posters of sports figures: Michael Jordan, Reggie Jackson, Johnny Unitas, Tiger Woods, even an old black and white poster of Jim Thorpe. All beaming down at him.

Confronted with the daily parade of sick and anguished supplicants, it was like Bennett needed the permanent benediction of all the healthy, functioning, blessed individuals he could cram onto the plaster walls.

When Bennett finally did turn his head, the action seemed to cause him enormous effort.

“Okay,” he sighed regarding the man across from him with all the interest a street sweeper has for a dog turd, “Let’s watch her.”

He stood up and walked to the only section of wall without a poster - a curtained rectangle. A two-way window for observation into the next room. As Bennett pulled the cords the curtains parted and the father saw his little daughter. She sat in the very center of a small playroom, a variety of toys strewn about her, but she only played with two dolls: a boy doll and a larger girl doll. And her play was not play – it was combat.

Over and over she slammed the larger doll into the smaller doll. Again and again. Each time with more force and venom. Her eyes glazed with hatred. Slamming the dolls violently. The odd, muffled “oommph” of the cloth toys battering one another was the only sound the doctor and the father heard. Because, other than an occasional grunt, the little girl never uttered a word. Not a syllable. While most children playing with dolls make up their own dialog this little girl only slammed the two figures into each other repeatedly. As if trying smash them - and what they represented - into oblivion.

“That’s all she does during sessions, beat the living shit out of those two dolls.” Dr. Bennett said in a low monotone, “I’ve tried to reach her but she closes herself off.”

As the father watched his little daughter, unseen through the two-way mirror, a single tear found it’s way down his cheek. In his mind he wondered how had he let her down? Was it her mother’s fault? Was that the reason for this behavior? Was that why she was so angry? But she was so little. How could she grasp that? His mind wrestled itself for answers. There were none. He looked at Bennett, silently imploring him for a solution. Any solution.

“I’ve done all I can.” was all the aging psychologist mumbled as he closed the curtain and motioned to the door. That was it, no counsel, no communing, no nothing. No more interaction than you’d get from a toll booth attendant.

The father shook his head sorrowfully and left.

And Dr. John Taylor Bennett went back to staring at the ceiling in his office and looking bored.

Eleven Years Ago...

The same girl stood alone in what seemed to be a great hall. She was tall, thin and awkward-looking now. Her agate-green eyes reflected the only light illuminating the empty studio, a single floor lamp at the far end of the room. A brass and wood railing stretched waist high along the opposite wall. Full length mirrors, staring into eternity, faced each other at one end. Lockers at the other.

In between, the wood parquet floor stretched out into the darkness. Gleaming golden slats laid so closely together that you almost couldn’t see the seam which betrayed the perfect marriage of burnished wood boards, one to another.

When she cleared her throat the sound echoed hollowly. She craned her neck, looked around. Nobody.

But she wasn’t alone. She knew that.

He would be there. Watching from the shadows of the eaves, his eyes burning at the sight of her. Wearing the crisp white shirt, black trousers and small wine colored beret he always wore.

In her mind’s eye she could already see the silver flecked, neatly trimmed mustache - straight as a string - above the razor-thin lips. In fact it was like he had no lips. Instead, a perfectly straight slice across the middle of his face.

If the man never spoke or ate or breathed you wouldn’t know he had a mouth at all. Which is why he wore the mustache she decided, so people would know where his mouth was.

That thought made her smile ever so slightly. A quick fantasy skipped across her brain – she was sewing his perfectly straight mouth together, stitch by deliberate stitch. Taking great care.
That was it! She could see it more clearly in her mind now, he was asleep and she was sewing his “non-lips” together.

It made her smile even wider.

In her fantasy she reached up and held his nose. The thought of his anguish and struggling, gasping for air that he wouldn’t get, made her feel so much better.

His face soundlessly screaming at her. No air to fill the searing lungs. The muffled death shriek rattling in his throat. The panic in his eyes!

It was a wonderful dream.

And then it was gone, like cotton candy on your tongue, only a hint of it’s sweetness left behind in the memory.

She stood there. Waiting. She had nowhere to run. She glanced down at her ragged, bitten fingernails and thought of the way he had touched her yesterday. And every day before that for two years.

The sallow, liver-spotted hands running up and down her leg, (First her right then the left. Always right to left) and each time all the way to the top, caressing the small cleft between her legs. The odd tingling sensation she felt and then the waves of revulsion. She remembered the hurt and humiliation when she vomited. How he had railed at her, bellowing in Spanish at the top of his emaciated lungs about his ruined shirt. The stinging tears she fought back when he slapped her.

She scolded herself for having eaten that morning. Never eat before his instruction. Never. It always makes you puke when he starts touching. If you don’t eat - you don’t puke! That was simple enough she thought. She must force herself to remember the maxim, “Don’t eat before...”

But it was so hard sometimes.

Yesterday the lunch in the cafeteria had been her favorite: macaroni and cheese with a black cherry Jell-O cup, peanut-butter cookie and chocolate milk. Food of the Gods.

She had tried to act like she wasn’t hungry but she was famished. She had let her guard down and wolfed the food in record time. She had paid dearly for the indiscretion in the rehearsal hall.

That wouldn’t happen again. Never again.

She didn’t move when she heard his soft footsteps advancing toward her from behind. She just looked straight ahead and never moved a muscle. She would soon know again the minty tobacco smell of his breath, softly brushing the back of her neck. The softness of his hands as he straightened her shoulders. She stood, waiting. Staring. Hating.

“Should I begin at the bar Master?” she would ask in a soft whisper.

She could already hear the phlegm-coated baritone voice rumbling at her: “No. First, you dance.”

And then she would dance...


Four Years Ago...

“She can’t stay. The school board has already voted.”

Headmaster Clarence Collins’ intent was unmistakable. He was the nervous sort anyway. Balding prematurely, the little man was constantly rubbing his hand back across his receding hairline and sucking his teeth.

The girl was now almost sixteen as she watched him rub his hairless “red-as-a-Christmas-ornament” head for the zillionth time. Her eyes, half-lidded from boredom, glanced over at her father. The big bear of a man’s face wore the saddest expression in the universe.

“I don’t give a shit!” she screamed at him in her mind. “You’re the reason I’m here. You’re the asshole. You should have known what was going on. You should have understood when I came to you. All you ever did was teach me how to fight. That’s why we’re here!”

“It’s her first offense,” her father said.

“And her last at this institution,” said the twitchy little man darkly. He raised himself to his entire five feet four inches, “It was a violent act. The school will not - can not - tolerate any violent acts. She is out. Today.”

The girl wanted to say something but she just kept her mouth shut and held her mud. “I’ve learned how to do that, haven’t I? Damned straight!”

She knew the score. Once you slide past a certain point in life, self-loathing becomes easy.

There was one thing the girl had become though, more beautiful. Even now she was a woman, not a girl. Nearly sixteen and possessed of the consummate female form.

It was the reason Headmaster Collins was so fidgety. Her beauty was breathtaking. Clarence Collins wasn’t afraid for the school or it’s students, the little fart was afraid for himself. Because in his heart of hearts he knew that, eventually, he would touch her supple young body.

The fact that one of the school rugby players had grabbed her breast and paid for it by having a Bic pen shoved three inches up his groin, didn’t really have any bearing on his decision. This young woman was more alluring than all of Jason’s sirens put together.

Collins knew she had to go when he began having wet dreams about her. His wife was getting suspicious. God help him if she found out about his fantasy. No, the girl simply had to go and that was that.

Her father stood up. He said no more, just shook his head and left the office. She supposed that something about the wired, balding little Nazi Headmaster with the electric pupils didn’t brook much quibbling today. Good advice. Know when to break camp and get the hell out.

The girl got up and followed her father out. But as she passed Collins she purposely brushed her breasts against his heaving, concave chest.

When she was gone, he nearly fainted.

Two Years Ago...

Troubled masculine eyes watched the beautiful young woman. Twenty-three years old and flawless, her perfect figure in the full bloom of womanhood.

The eyes had spied on her for days now. Had followed her every move: when she went to work, when she went home, when she slept, when she bathed, when she ate, when she had a man over (though the eyes became deeply saddened - and maddened - when that happened).

Whenever the unseen watcher was awake, he was watching her. She was the most desirable woman on the planet. The raven hair, the jutting breasts, the slender smooth legs, the blindingly white shorts pulled right to the edge of that so exceptionally rounded ass.

That was why she must be submissive to him.

He watched as she pulled her car out of the university parking lot, staring at the now familiar Washington State license plate as it got smaller...HrdRkWmn.

“Hard Rock Woman.” Nice play on words even though it was her last name. It was also the perfect reverse of how she made him feel—rock hard.

He had to have her. He would have her.

Tonight.








One
The First Day — December 21st

Jake Samuels was at the Ambrewster School for the Deaf signing with the kids the night everything went to hell.

Signing was something he did to keep his skills sharp and to satisfy that inner urge to be something his mother would approve. It was interesting, he thought, how people continued to please parents even after they were dead and gone. He did. If his mother came back at that very instant and said he was her wonderful, darling, baby boy and everything he did was equally wonderful and darling -- he probably wouldn’t have heard her anyway.

Jake had lost most of his hearing when he was six. Oh, he still had about 50% in his left ear but the right ear was an appendage that matched but didn’t work. The flu had worked it’s way south into his ears that summer in the sixth year of his life and subsequently his first grade of school was spent entirely at St. Elizabeth’s hospital in Yakima, Washington.

His parents had taken him to an ear, nose and throat specialist named VanWorden. At the time, he didn’t care whether the doctor specialized in ears or assholes. The boy had a raging fever that was so painful it lit up the sides of his face like a arcade game whenever he opened his mouth.

The Belgian-born Doctor told the little boy that they were going to play “telephone.” The euphemism was lost on Jake’s six year-old mentality. All he knew was that the doctor was going to put something into his ear so the little boy could hear. Just like a real telephone.

Jake didn’t realize his inner ear was over-flowing with infection and the ‘telephone’ Dr. VanWorden shoved in his ear canal was in reality a pointed, skinny, tube-like drainage probe. When the probe hit the bulging ear drum the inner ear exploded.

The pain was brilliant. Beyond anything Jake’s young mind could describe. The worst agony he had experienced. He screamed, while inside his head he heard a prolonged “kissing” sound and then felt the hot, pus-filled, yellow fluid spurting onto his shoulder.

He nearly passed out.

procedure he was prepped for a mastoidectomy. A simple After three unsuccessful weeks of this excruciating procedure really where the mastoid bone (that smooth bulging bone right behind the ear) gets infected, starts to disintegrate and finally has to be surgically removed. That’s what “ectomy” means -- removal.

And now Jake was essentially deaf in his right ear. He could hear enough to carry on a conversation but if you stood behind him on his right side and told him to go to hell I wouldn’t hear it.

Everybody he knew had, at some point or another, done that very thing to him. Ancient news he thought as he headed toward the nearest exit of the school. Ambrewster was essentially one large and very old red brick building with ivy walls, wooden banisters that disappeared into a dark second floor and floors that shine with an amber patina.

Old gold inside and out.

It’s principal, Annabelle Marsden, was a waspish woman with severe features and her hair rolled in a bun so tight it made her eyes look slanted. She had never married preferring, instead, to devote her life to teaching deaf children. A noble cause to be sure but somehow out of place in her tightly enclosed world. Still, she was a devoted educator who gave young minds a way to learn in their silent world.

She had approached Samuels a few months earlier to come on a regular basis and “speak” with the children about his work. Kids, whether they could hear or not, were fascinated by cops. And he was a cop who could actually communicate with them in their parlance. After all he had been a teacher. He was on his way out when Marsden stopped him at the door.

“The children love your stories, Detective,” she said in clipped precise tones, “I wanted to thank you for your generous offering of time.”

“Glad to. I don’t get much of a chance to use my signing other than here.” he smiled.

“Well, be that as it may, I am very much in your debt. You are the only Seattle police officer I’ve found with the ability,” she said. “It adds greatly to our curriculum here to have various walks of life portrayed individually to the children.”

Her voice and diction were always so exact. He supposed that was why he said yes in the first place. On the phone she sounded exactly like his mother.

“We’re having a Christmas party tomorrow night. We’d very much like you to come.” she continued then, almost as an after thought, “Bring a date if you want...”
As he got into his car Samuels wondered what kind of life a woman like that had outside the school?

He decided not much as he hauled the heavy blue-black Smith and Wesson from the jockey box and slid it back into the well-worn horsehide holster on his hip. He felt better, as he always did, when the scarred revolver was back in its rightful place.

The car engine groaned as he turned it over in the cold. He pulled out of the tree-lined drive and headed toward the city as his mind wandered back.

Jake Samuels was twenty years old, in his Junior year at Washington State University when his parents died. It was one of those senseless accidents that happens to people who don’t deserve it. Rain slicked road, headlights that wouldn’t pierce the gloom and sheets of water as the car hurtled down the two-lane blacktop.

His father was driving the old Plymouth station wagon trying to get home before the downpour turned to snow. Going too fast. An on-coming automobile crested the hill and the headlights shone into his eyes. He swerved to the right, only just a little, to avoid crashing into two tons of Ford 150 hurtling straight toward him.

But that was just enough.

The big station wagon went off the road, down a sheer one hundred foot drop, and slammed onto the rocks below. The car turned over twice, the headlights making crazy search patterns in the sky, and settled under twelve feet of water.

“You have to be brave,” Shirley Conroy, his mother’s best friend, said to him as he sat dry-eyed at the funeral. “It was quick and merciful. They never even knew what happened.”

Samuels glanced at the assembled multitude in the small church on Second Avenue. It seemed like every cattleman in the state was there. His father, Pat Samuels, was a rancher and well thought of by stock breeders.
His mother, Bess, was an English teacher at the Indian School in White Swan and so virtually all the students from the tribe were there as well. It was SRO as the gaunt Minister (six and half feet of cheap black suit, Adam’s apple and ankles) droned on about their great contributions to the small, cloistered community.

The caskets were closed. Apparently, the undertaker had a difficult time putting them back together. And for what? No one comes to visit you when you were six feet under. As a result Samuels wasn’t able to say good-bye to either of his parents. He wouldn’t have known what to say anyway.

His mother was a dear soul with a penchant for correct grammar. Her main contributions to him were the ability to sign — the language of the deaf — and a solid English background. She had spent a lifetime trying to teach he and his father how speak the language with skill and proficient vocabulary. She was ardent in her pursuit of knowledge and had passed that love of learning on to her only child.

Jake’s earliest memories of life were seated on the toilet straining to “do his duty” and reading the vocabulary words she had posted in the bathroom every month from the Reader’s Digest’s “Increase Your Word Power” section.

“People judge you from your speech Jacob,” she would say, “you are only as educated as your language.”

He had taken took to heart because, for one thing, his mother wouldn’t have it any other way. On the final Monday evening of each month there was always a test at the dinner table. If he answered nine out of ten vocabulary words correctly his allowance was increased a pittance. Fewer than eight and it stayed the same. Fewer than that and it was decreased. Times being what they were he learned quickly that he couldn’t afford not to learn the words.

His father didn’t share her passion for advanced vocabulary skills and he would never help when his son fumbled for a definition. As far as the boy knew she had never cut his father’s allowance and she could have as she was the only one bringing home a salary in those days.

His father had grown up a cowboy, just like the ones people read about in the old west magazines. Pat Samuels was descended from the Scotch-Irish on his mother’s side and, apparently, some Jewish ancestry on his father’s. And yes, Jake had heard all the jokes about Jewish cowboys and sports heroes. According to Jake’s father the Jewish blood was minimal, whatever that meant. The boy didn’t know if it was true or not but his progenitors had traversed the continent in covered wagons a hundred and fifty years earlier, crossing the great divide and settling in the Pacific Northwest. As such Pat Samuels was a persevering, hard-working man who knew the value of a dollar and never let any of his family forget it.

Pat was quite a bit older than his wife when they married. She was a new teacher with the shiny ideals and convictions that all new teachers bring from college. He was a dyed-in-the-wool cowboy with colorful language who said he swore because it was the only damned communication cattle understood. She had, over the years, tried to temper his enthusiasm for cursing but with little success. When he did turn the air blue with expletives, he would explain later that it was only the remnant of a far larger vocabulary. As a consequence, Jake learned to swear with perfect grammar.

Pat and Bess had met at a Saturday night dance in the old Armory building of the small town. Pat was in his mid-thirties and only there because his best friend, Tony Lamebull, had nearly forced him at gun-point to come. Pat was not a dancer. To him dancing was just one step away from homosexuality.
Tony was his partner at the ranch in those days, a handsome young Yakima Indian who loved life and women. Tony had set up a blind date for Pat but when the woman didn’t show Samuels was content to sit on the sideline sipping tepid punch and watching the couples grope each other on the cracked and peeling armory floor.

Bess Gephardt was of German extraction the only daughter of an austere banker who had six sons. She was the oldest and therefore became the caretaker of the family when her mother died in childbirth.

Grandfather, Hatler Gephardt, was a martinet who insisted on absolute obedience from his children. He too was a staunch believer in education and saw to it that all of his children received University degrees. Though a chauvinist in many ways Hatler, nonetheless, was dauntless in providing the kind of environment that would prove fruitful in the pursuit of knowledge to all his children, including Jake’s mother. It was ironic that she was the only one of the children to earn an advanced degree.

Grandfather never remarried which meant Bess literally raised her younger brothers. She had been teaching and nurturing young men’s minds long before Jake came into the world.

That night at the dance she had come with her best friend. She wasn’t all that interested in meeting men but Shirley Conroy had persuaded her that if she were going to be living in the valley she might as well get to know the current crop of available bachelors.

Jake had seen a picture of his parents from that night. When he was little he would look at the framed black and white photo trying to imagine what they were really like in those early days. Bess was willowy with soft dark curls framing her delicate face and a Mona Lisa-type smile that you could never be sure was a smile. Pat was tall and rangy with rough-hewn features and piercing china blue eyes. Years later she told her son that Pat’s eyes were what captivated her. She knew she was going to marry him (even though marriage was the furthermost thing from her mind) that first night they met.

They were, in many ways, an odd match but to Jake but they represented the epitome of the perfect couple. One thing he did know, even from his earliest recollections, they loved each other. Totally and completely.

When Jake’s father lost nearly a quarter of a million dollars in falling cattle prices during the late 1970’s, his mother took up the financial burden of keeping bread on the table. The boy knew that fact was corrosive to his father’s pride but Pat never said a word about it. Instead, he worked day and night trying to make that small ranch a success while dutifully paying back a little each month on the crushing debt and accompanying interest he’d incurred.

The irony of it all was, the week before they died, he had finally paid every last cent of the loss. Jake shook his head in the dark. The senseless, savage tapestry of life. An accident which snuffed out the lives of two loving people who’d done nothing to deserve it.

The rain had turned to snow. Big sloppy flakes fumbling their way down onto the windshield as Jake wheeled his car toward the city center. Jake decided that the real record of your life exists on a cellular level. The mind buries a great many memories and the body is where they’re buried. The familiar bulk of his gun was a good example, it always gave him peace of mind.

Something that had been lacking in his life for a very long time. The fact was, he was never sure where his life’s journey would lead. Or even where it was going. He didn’t know it then, but somehow felt, that he had to make the decent — to crawl into the inferno, fight the beast — then pray to God in His heaven he could crawl out again.

As Jake Samuels rounded the corner to Flannigan’s he had no idea the descent had already begun.