Yale sat in his cubicle, hunched over the newspaper, forcing himself to read bits and pieces of articles. He didn’t really care about the news of the day, as if it really mattered. The newspaper was more than news stories and advertisements to him.

It was his shield.

His coworkers would stroll by, looking to chit chat before their lunch breaks ended, but if his nose was buried in the newspaper, they would just walk on by.

Finished with the world news section of the paper, he paused to toss the wrapper of his usual lunch, a vending machine tuna fish sandwich, into the trash can under his desk. Then he turned his attention to the metro section and was stopped cold by the first headline.

“Local Man Dies in Apartment Fire.”

He devoured the article that followed. A 34 year old man fell asleep but left a barbecue grill, rigged up to be a meat smoker, cooking on his balcony. This meat smoker ignited a fire that was fortunately contained to his apartment. Unfortunately, he died of smoke inhalation.

A guy trying to smoke a brisket or something dies of smoke inhalation. Ironic. But it was more than that. The reason he read this article was suddenly clear. This guy, 34 years old, had plans. Maybe he had to go to work in the morning. Maybe he was going to go grocery shopping after work. Maybe he was going to watch the big game this weekend. Maybe this Thanksgiving he was planning an over due visit to the mom or dad or sister he hadn’t seen in a while. Maybe he was dreaming about retiring some day.

But now that was all gone. In a moment. A house of cards burned to ashes. And then the random brutality of it hit Yale in the face. It was exactly the same for all of us. Some day, a time that only God could know, it would all end, just like that.

Really.

So that’s all there was to it? Life was just a futile struggle and the randomness of death would catch up with each and every one of us? Yale was suddenly overwhelmed, suffocating, frozen. Why should he go back to work? Why should he push forward? Why should he care about any of this?

The only thing that made sense was the routine.


“No music, no pills. Stick to the routine.” he mumbled.


No pills.


He stared blankly at his computer screen, and slowly, painfully remembered.

Harvard John Lafayette was only six, and that was his excuse. He followed Yale everywhere, peppering him with stupid questions. “How come you like peanut butter? Why are you wearing that superhero shirt again? What time is it? Can we watch my T.V. Shows?”

Stupid questions. But tonight would be different. After supper, he would close the door to his room and let mom and dad take care of little Bubba John. Then he would watch his shows on his T.V. Alone, in peace for once.

“Yale!”


He trotted into the kitchen, eager to see what she wanted. Of course she was listening to music, the headphone only covering one ear. She was swaying to the rhythm, stirring a pot of what smelled like spaghetti. She smiled as he came in and hugged him.

“I need a favor hon’.” Yale nodded and returned the smile. “Dad and I are going out tonight. We scored some tickets to a concert.”

Yale pondered scoring tickets for a second and then said “Ok.”


“So I need you to watch Bubba John while we’re gone.”


“What!”


“Sweetie,” she had stopped swaying to the music and was using her mom voice, “we need you to do this. You’re a big boy, ten years old, you can do it. Besides, you’ve done this like a million times before. Just eat supper, make sure Bubba John goes to bed at 9 and don’t forget to take your pills. You can stay up late if you want.”

“But mom, tonight is the first episode of season 3 of SuperHeroes. I can’t miss it.”

“You won’t. Bubba John can watch that stuff too.”


“He’ll ruin it! He always does. He’s such a baby!”


“Don’t yell,” her voice soft, sweet, ” you can do this and what’s more you have to. Now go get Bubba John and you guys can start eating. I need to get ready.”


He managed a defiant grunt before doing as he was told. He pried his brother from in front of the T.V. in the living room. Once he had gotten out the plates and forks, and scooped out the spaghetti, he sat at the table across from his stupid brother. Bubba John peppered him with stupid questions the whole way through dinner, but the only response he got was an angry glare.

Mom and dad came into the kitchen, she with her headphones firmly in place. Hugs and kisses were given to each boy with dad yelling from the door “See you at ten boys!”

Yale was determined not to speak to his stupid brother all night, but first he had to lay down the law.

“Ok, look stupid. I’m watching my shows down here on the big T.V. and so are you.”

“Are we gonna watch SuperHeroes?”


“What else would I watch stupid.”


“I don’t wanna.”

“Too bad!” A punch on Bubba John’s arm ended the conversation and they made their way to the living room where they sprawled in front of the T.V. Yale was proud of himself for ignoring every stupid question Bubba John threw at him during SuperHeroes. Not a single word in reply. After the show, Yale got his bottle of pills from the bathroom and brought them to the kitchen so that he could get some water.

“Why you take pills Yale?”


“Shut up!”


“It’s for your pie polar bear isn’t it?”


“Bi polar.” Yale corrected, taking a pill from the bottle and washing it down with a glass of water. He set the open bottle of pills on the counter.

“They help me think straight. And if I don’t take ’em I can’t sleep stupid.”

The rest of the night was easy. Bubba John actually went to sleep in his room without a fight. Yale curled up on the couch, determined to stay up really late, but he was fast asleep in minutes.

What seemed like a second later, he started to wake.

“Yale!” Dad was screaming and shaking Yale. “Get up!”

Yale sat straight up and instantly looked to the kitchen where mom was on the floor crying hysterically, cradling Bubba John. Yale remembered being in the kitchen, trying to talk to mom, trying to find out what was wrong. Bubba John wasn’t moving, mom wasn’t talking, and dad was on the phone holding the empty bottle of pills. An ambulance came, and took mom and Bubba John away. Yale and dad went to the hospital and waited, and waited, and waited. Finally they came and said Bubba John was gone. Gone as in never coming back.

After that, there were no more pills. Mom and dad made him “manage his stuff” by enforcing a strict routine. Wake up at the same time, eat at the same time, watch the same shows at the same time, go to bed at the same time.

And there was no more music in the house, anymore, ever.

“No music, no pills. Stick to the routine.”

TITLE OF BOOK: Three

GENRE: Fiction

AGE RANGE: adult

WORD COUNT: 16,500

AUTHOR NAME: Kevin Fitch

WHY THIS PROJECT IS A GOOD FIT: I think a lot of people can relate to this story because it follows one mans journey to overcome unimaginable tragedy. Some of us have experienced tragedy, and try to live with it every day. The rest of us know that it could strike at any time, and we do our best to ignore it and live our lives. We all wish, I think, that when tragedy reshapes our lives, we could have three wishes to help us, to make everything right again. Or not.

THE HOOK: What if you were given three wishes? It could be the chance you need to make things right in your life, to get ahead. But be careful what you wish for, wishes can come true in ways you never imagined.

SYNOPSIS: Yale Lafayette is a man who has learned to deal with his bi-polar disorder in an unusual way. The tragic death of his younger brother leads his parents to enforce a routine on him that will follow him throughout his life; “no music, no pills, stick to the routine.” He carefully crafts a life of doing things a certain way each day, that completely unravels when he is diagnosed with terminal cancer. His life is in danger of spiraling out of control until his new neighbor comes to him with an incredible, but true offer. Yale can have three wishes, anything he wants. These wishes become what he could never imagine and turn his life in unusual directions.

TARGET AUDIENCE: adults

BIO: My name is Kevin Fitch. Sometimes I write as K.R. Fitch, sometimes I write as K. Fitch, but the names don’t matter. What matters to me is that somehow, someway, I write. My bio is simply this. Policeman. Social worker. Lawyers Assistant. Teacher. Painter. Always, always a writer.

ETC.: I am 56, I live in Colorado Springs, Colorado and I have a Masters Degree in Education. I grew up in a ski resort, and rank skiing as my top hobby. I use my life experiences as a police officer, social worker, and teacher to write realistic fiction that I think tries to capture a few of the lessons and truths that life constantly flings at us. I hope my writing touches people in ways that make their worlds a little easier to be in.

The jet engines scream,

as I want to,

pushing me away from this city I should have known.

Away from these people,

once close,

then distant,

now close again, for a time.

Away from mended fences.

Away from glimpses of the laughter, the love, the routines, the cityscapes,

the pieces of her life.

Goodbye Detroit.

Maybe that's all I get.

Little intrusions into their lives, their laughter.

Maybe not.

I hope.

Sure would like to see her again,

in that rusty city,

alive now only in my dreams,

and faded pictures

and certain stories retold again

when we remember too.

Goodbye my sister.

Outside, dark clouds were beginning to shroud the sun. Outside, the wind brushed through the oaks and elms that guarded the courthouse, their branches swaying, their leaves turning over, signaling the coming storm. Outside, a man in suit ate his lunch, throwing pieces from his sandwich to skittish pigeons, as if he had all the time in the world. Outside, the world was still moving, breathing, free.

In here, in this room, the air was still, the fluorescent light was harsh, time was precious. In here, there was the click of the second hand on the wall clock. In here, there were furtive glances, or threatening glares from the 11 who had completed their work, done their duty, weighed the facts, and were ready to go home.

“Say, what time they bring dinner?” The fat man in the sweat soaked John Deere hat, juror number 3, said to no one in particular.

The foreman stopped drumming his fingers on the table. “They bring it when they bring it.” His tone cut deep and the fat man nodded a quick apology. The others took notice and sat up straighter, or cleared their throats, or moved their papers into position. “Now lets get back to business.”

The foreman loosened his tie, laced his fingers on the table in front of him, and leaned forward. “So next door in the jail, we’ve got Clifford Dawkins, our towns resident trouble maker. He walks in to The Sunnyside Up diner across the square there, pulls out a .22 caliber revolver, and shoots Ray Stokes, a beloved and highly respected school teacher in the chest, right there in front of 15 people. Then he just stands there, and waits for the police to arrest him. First degree murder, case closed.”

“We know this case, we’ve been over this all before.” Juror number 7, the bookstore owner, stared at the ceiling. “That Dawkins kid killed poor Mr. Stokes plain and simple.” Now she looked down at her red, claw like fingernails . “I knew it was only a matter of time with that one. I had to have him arrested for stealing a cook book from my store last summer.”

“You’re absolutely right Martina.” The foreman looked at her over the half frame reading glasses perched on his nose, and then at the others, some nodding in agreement.

“We’ve been over this case several times.” Now his gaze fixed on juror number 2, the retired bartender, the man standing in the way of going home to their own beds, their own people, their normal lives. “And we’re all in agreement, except for one.”

Juror number 2 was looking out the window, leaning back in his chair, smiling a secret smile, removed from the work to be done.

“Do you mind joining us?”

He gave the others a startled look, and let his chair come down to rest on all fours. “I do apologize.” He unzipped his tan, poplin ‘Old Man’ jacket, and gazed eagerly at the others. “There’s a storm coming in.” He nodded towards the window. “We sure could use the rain.”

A chorus of disgusted sighs, a “Come on!” and a “Really!?” rained down on him. He put his hands up to calm the storm.

“Okay, okay. Where were we then?”

The foreman stood, took off his suit coat and walked around the table, stopping directly behind juror number 2. “Well we were just about to wrap this up by taking another vote. A vote that’s sure to be a unanimous guilty.”

Juror number 2 looked over one shoulder, then the other, trying to place the foreman.

“You know I can’t do that.”

The others erupted in murmurs of anger, disbelief, frustration. “I know it’s hard for you all to believe but I’m still voting not guilty.”

“Damn it.” The foreman said plainly, but with the authority necessary to quiet the room. He walked back to his chair and sat heavily. “Why on earth would you think that killer deserves a not guilty?”

Juror number 2 licked his lips, gave the others a nervous glance, and cleared his throat.

“That’s right, convince us, tell us what’s going in in your head.” The foreman flashed a smug grin.

“Well, um, there really is more to this case than meets the eye.”

“Oh come on!” Juror number 10, the college girl in her junior year up at the State College. “He walked into that Cafe, in the middle of the morning breakfast rush, and he shot that poor man in cold blood, case closed.”

“nnnnnn...” juror number 2 stuttered with excitement. “nnnn...not in cold blood. You see, he, um, he may have had a reason, not an excuse but a legal reason, for doing what he did.”

“Such as?” The foremans voice was all sarcasm.

“Well, first of all, I, um I...I had to consider Mr. Dawkins from an emotional stand point. I know, it’s against our instruction, we’re to only consider the facts. Bbb...but I thought of him emotionally, as a human being. It became clear to me then, that he may not be guilty under the law.”

“I don’t follow.” Juror number 3 had his hand under the John Deere hat, scratching his head.

“Right. So, sssssso...I simply thought of Mr. Dawkins as I would my own son.” Snickers and eye rolling peppered the room. Juror number 2 took a deep breath, to snuff out the stuttering once and for all.

“No, seriously, I thought of him like he was my son. I see my son sitting there, waiting for someone to help him, to hear his side. We sure didn’t get a chance to hear his side.”

“We heard his side, they questioned him repeatedly and he never denied the fact that he killed Ray Stokes.” The foreman’s stare was now all intimidation.

“True, but he sure did give a lot of yes and no answers. Yes he says he killed Mr. Stokes. But when they ask him if he intendead to do it, he only said no. His attorney never followed up. He never got a chance to fully explain.”

The foreman’s eyes were lasers, meant to melt this man. “The psychiatrist explained why. He’s flat out crazy. His foster parents explained why. Mr. Dawkins was in and out of a dozen foster homes. He was expelled from school, arrested numerous times. He was a bad egg from the day he was born.”

Juror number 2 met the laser eyes head on as he spoke. “This Mr. Dawkins has had a rough life, but he is not a hardened killer, my friends. We only see a cold blooded killer, as some of you say, but we are choosing to ignore the facts, sure as sin.” The stare down continued.

“Maybe we feel intimidated.” The foreman snorted in disgust, and looked away. “Maybe we just want to go home.” Several jurors nodded enthusiastically.

“Clifford Dawkins can’t afford for us to be intimidated, or lazy.” A few jurors gave juror number 2 thoughtful nods of affirmation.

“We’ve been blinded by what seems to be an open and shut case. We only want this killer to be put away, to go away, so we can go home, nice and easy. But he is someone’s son, and a son deserves more than just the easy explanation.”

He paused to look around the table at each juror.

“Clifford was not flat out crazy. He is bi-polar, a condition that was not diagnosed until his court ordered psychiatric examination. Yes, he has been in and out of trouble since the day he was born. But why? Was he abused or neglected in those homes? This teacher, Mr. Stokes, why did this boy choose to kill him? What do we really know about him? Yes he taught the boy. But what really happened in those classrooms? The Principal mentioned some past ‘disciplinary infractions.’ What does that even mean, ‘disciplinary infractions?’”

Now the room was quiet, people were thinking. The clicking of the second hand on the wall clock counted off several minutes.

“My point is, we didn’t listen to all of the facts. We judged him as a monster, not as someone’s son.”

“So what?” The foreman continued to avoid looking at juror number 2.

The college girl was thumbing through her notes. “That defense attorney never asked how being bi-polar might have affected Mr. Dawkins, um, Clifford. That cross examination of the Principal was lacking too.” She drummed her pen thoughtfully on the table. “So maybe we do look at this case a little closer.”

Juror number 2 smiled. “The defense attorney didn’t ask a lot of questions at all. Maybe Clifford wasn’t given an adequate defense. That alone is enough to maybe not find him guilty.”

“Okay.” Juror number 3 put his John Deere hat on the table, and shrugged apologetically as some looked accusingly at him. “I’m okay with taking another look.”

“Well he’s a thief for sure, so why not a killer too.” Juror number 7 said.

“He stole a cook book from your store. Why a cook book? Why not steal cigarettes or liquor from another store. Why not just rob you for all the money you had in your register?”

“I don’t know.”

“Exactly. We don’t know.” He looked hard at her. “Why would your son steal a cook book from a store?”

“I said I don’t know.”

“So let’s look closer at this kid, at this case Let’s give him a fair shake.”

She thought for a few seconds, and then threw her hands up. “Fine. Whatever.”

The jurors around the table were suddenly in action. Some were in quiet conversation, someone said ‘Why not?’ Some wereurgently beginning to argue with others. The foreman raised his hand to quiet the room.

“So let’s put it to a vote right now. Let’s see who wants to put a murderer away, and who wants to give Mr. Stokes the justice he deserves.” The room quieted. “All for a guilty verdict, murder in the first degree, raise your hands”

Seven hands, no six hands went up.

“Not guilty?” Six hands went up.

The foreman shook his head in disgust, or surrender. “Fine then. Who wants to start us off, again?” Five hands went up.

And juror number 2, took a look out the window. Outside the first few drops of rain were pitter pattering against the window, or staining the sidewalk. The man in the suit, and his following of pigeons were gone. Then he took a look around the room. Inside now, the still air and the harsh flourescent lights, and the ticking of that clock were overshadowed by something else.

Inside, now, there was hope.

#theholdout #randomhouse #theprose