december first and third // STILL MY HUMMINGBIRD WINGS // nobody notices (it’s okay, right?)
spilling back through
pasts and presents,
like tocks and ticks
of burnt-out clocks
i cannot count
(count in time)
(make music with your lungs)
(or we’ll split open your chest)
(and play your ribs like a xylophone)
pressed close, i am; every stall, every pause,
every broken, pulsing, heavy, anxious breath,
crushed from my accordion lungs
STILL, STILL, PLEASE STILL
MY HUMMINGBIRD WINGS
i am okay?
AM I? AM I?
pulled close, i am
birthing burning melancholia
i am very tired—eyes closing
long against burning blue
blazing horizon that is the sky
she pulses like
gem nested in the sky
cradle separate self into broken arms,
ask for clarity
soak up sun,
burn bright against
the empty night
harboring all these
PLEAD FOR AIR
pressing, rushing river
of juxtapositions squared,
i am pulled beneath the current,
held beneath the rough river fingers
against the boulders that lay,
nesting themselves into
the timeless river banks
escaping selves to nest
in the spaces between
other people’s ribs—
(that’s okay, right?)
thorny vines ’round
my bruised and bloodied
(that’s okay, right?)
(IT’S OKAY, RIGHT?)
can i be stronger than this?
should i try to be?
should i find some help—
or should i be made to
suffer through it all?
no one notices—
is this alright?
should i make myself
so terribly known?
—i’m so sorry for ruining it all—
i’m so sorry—
hayao miyazaki said it best:
“i’ve become skeptical of the unwritten rule that just because a boy and girl appear in the same feature, a romance must ensue. rather, i want to portray a slightly different relationship, one where the two mutually inspire each other to live—if i’m able to, then perhaps i’ll be closer to portraying a true expression of love.”
“once you have met someone, you never really forget them.”
love is inspiring the other person to reach their full potential, to coat their life in a little layer of hope and ambition, to steal a few of their thoughts and have them meander in your own thoughts as well.
romance isn't the precursor to love. sure it helps, but it's not fully indicative.
love is simply. pure happiness for another's sake, happiness that shakes and spins and spawns joy that makes you wish to live, to laugh more, to jump a little higher and smile a little brighter.
that is all. steady adoration and falling apart, but only to be whole with them once again.
not sure if any of this makes sense, but neither does love.
I miss Boston like
you might miss
a cancer diagnosis
snowed in six feet under
I wore gloves but
my touch still soured
whatever it touched
like my personality
which he said was
so boring he couldn't stand it
I guess in this vintage city
we can take risks
but in the end
it's just bad weather
Good News, Everyone!
Excuse me, Professor Farnsworth, but this is my show, so I am going to have to ask you politely to step out of my spotlight. Thanks.
That's right. Bet that you haven't heard the news. The amazing, spectacular, user-exciting news that cannot be described by these words. So I created one. Spectacufabmazing. I know, I know. Best word that has not been adopted by the dictionary... YET. But not even this can describe the news that I am drooling over, and working my way slowly to tell you.
Those of you who have been keeping up with these sorts of posts probably know what I am getting at. Maybe they feel they should know what I am getting at, but just can't place their finger on it. That's right, I'm talking about you.
My fellow Monty Python are probably screaming at me to get on with it, and, alas, I guess I shall.
What? You really thought that I would cave that easy? Man, you're gullible.
Okay, I think you have suffered enough.
I couldn't help myself, sorry.
The news you have been so impatiently waiting for is...
My private pilot's written exam!!!
So, what does this mean? Well, what it means is that I will be flying and working on getting my hours in starting early next year, which means that I will be a licensed pilot soon. It means that, through the Civil Air Patrol, I can apply for some scholarships. And last, but certainly not least (and possibly more exciting for some of you. Well, a man can dream that some of you would feel this way...), it means that this post marks my official return to Prose! What does that mean? I am not one hundred percent sure. Maybe I'll try to post weekly again, maybe every other week... who knows? I am excited to be back on Prose, and excited to have enough time to write again! And, with the first semester drawing to a close, I will have more time considering the fact that I will have two less classes.
I can't wait to start writing again! In fact, I will probably work on something now...
Ride the Bitch
You get one free ride
and no more.
it’s more than money
you turn over.
It’s the end of your life
as you know it.
Say hello to your new best friend;
heroin respects no one.
I’ve tried to write from experience,
words of wisdom and life’s turbulence.
Just so others may avoid it and possibly have
a better life.
Yet now I’ve come to realize, humanity rejects
that what’s put before their eyes.
It’s sad to report that in all these millennia,
everyone has senile dementia.
I sought but couldn’t find, one human being in the
present time, who is in a normal state of mind.
Now comes the eventide, and I’m afraid for all who think they are on a freedom ride.
Reality has proven once more,
humanity refuses to learn from misuses of all that came before.
I tire of time spent warning all,
No one wants to hear the future of
The American Dream
The issues that stem from an absent father are protruding from my pores. He wasn't absent physically.
He was absent in the way that lower income families fathers were absent here in America.
He was always working to give our family the best life he could give.
He was the epitome of American. Army vet turned mechanic.
He worked anywhere from 50-80 hours a week.
His hands were always stained with oil and everyone around him always had theirs out asking for for something.
He was kind, caring and as mentally stable as any man that grew up in his era, just no time for anything but work and expectations for his children.
This is the unhealthy lives we were told to live in order to "have something" one day.
He wanted my brother and I to go to college and provide for what he could not.
However, that is less than likely to happen in families such as mine.
I believe the actual percentage is a 30% of the smartest kids from the lower income families make it to college.
( another fact 70% of the dumbest kids from the rich families get to go to college)
He had a stroke a few years back and now is depressed because he can't use his left hand. His age group sees mental health as something "made up".
So every year when I visit my family I have to see my dad, broken, used and depressed.
When you are only patted on the back for what you accomplish and only cherished for the A's you make or the ball you kick over the goal line, it can be mentally devastating.
By the time you get to college and enter early adulthood you realize this isn't the American dream, this is capitalism.
Now I sit at my "good job", single, two kids, two cats, so hardened and passing on the "do everything yourself , you can count on no-one" capitalist fucking mentality all the while knowing that if we made a living wage I could have the hobbies to keep me sane and not just live for the children I made because I wanted marriage to escape the family that made me mentally unstable.
~What a fucking cycle.
P.O.W. - (A Letter Home)
It’s my second year in this god-forsaken place.
Every day it’s almost always the same thing. Wake up just before daylight, feed us slop for food, and a cup of filthy water. Then I, along with the rest of the men, are herded out to the fields somewhere south of the Mekong River, and farm out the rice paddies.
Even in the rain, and it rains here often, but when the sun comes out of hiding, it can almost burn the skin right off you.
When we aren’t in the fields, we’re locked up in the compound. It’s terrible here. Rat-infested, poisonous snakes when you least expect it and many have gotten dysentery, high fevers and a few have died from the complications. I don’t know any other way to explain it without getting ill.
Then there was yesterday.
At least I think it was yesterday; yes, yes it was yesterday. They took Second-Lieutenant Craig from his prison hole, and marched him between six soldiers who became his firing squad. Craig and I were captured at the same time by the VC; and now they ended his life.
I was part of a patrol headed up by Craig to see what and how many forces were mounting near the Ca Mau Peninsula. He were caught up in a heavy crossfire, leaving six of us dead, one wounded, Craig, and myself, and three others not injured.
We were brought to this prison camp somewhere north of Soc Traung. I’ve heard they call this place the land of the dead.
Clint, the one that was wounded, never made the intense march. One of the VC soldiers pulled out his sidearm and shot him in the back of the head and just left him there where he fell. No warning to get up, no fanfare. One shot and Clint was gone.
Now, I’m the last one left.
How long before they kill me, I have no idea. Others here are from different military units. Some Army, some that are British and Aussies and another that’s a medic. We even an Air Force fighter-pilot.
They won’t let any of us speak English. It’s just another of their many ways to brainwash us into believing America doesn’t care about us; about me.
When Craig bought it, he walked tall and proud. From where I sat, a small bamboo cell door that lifts like a trap door, and my cell a hole in the ground about half my height; I could barely see him, but what I did see, mattered. He knew he was about to die and in the face of certain death, he still refused to let them break his spirit.
I heard the harsh guttural command, and a long trembling second passed before I jumped from the retorts of rifles echoing throughout the green hills that partially surrounded this prison. I didn’t have to be told Craig was dead.
I tried to be strong. I cried anyway.
Word has gotten around that the VC will be moving the camp further up the riverbank. How far, no idea. I don’t know why, either.
I miss you, Joan. You and Bessie both. A day hasn’t gone by since my capture that I don’t draw a mental image of the two of you in my head. Tell Bessie for me that daddy will be home as soon as he can be. Let mom and dad know I’m still holing up pretty good. I love you, woman, with all that I am. As long as I know there is a chance I can get away from here, I’m not giving up. I’ll be fine. I’m just waiting to pick the right time and right spot to make a break for it. Tell mom and dad that when I get home, we’ll all go up to Richmond for a visit.
I pray this letter gets to you somehow.
I don’t think it will. Wilmington’s a long way from here, but I have to try. I have to hope.
Hope is all that’s left.
This is the fourth move.
Over the last eight months, I’ve been moved from camp to camp along with the other prisoners, which are far fewer than before. I’m not sure, but we aren’t too far from the province, Aun Loc. After a while, all these camps start looking the same.
We have the same kind of cells, the same slop for food, and the same punishments when caught doing something we shouldn’t. It doesn’t matter to them even when we don’t do anything wrong; we get punished just the same.
During our last move, one of the prison commanders tried to get me to renounce my country. I spit in his face! I thought I was dead right there and then. Instead, he slapped me, yelling out orders to two soldiers to hold my left hand outstretched on a wooden table.
Raising his sword over his head, I closed my eyes, turned away and steeled myself for what was about to happen. No matter how much you prepare for something like this, it just isn’t enough.
He brought the sword down in a blinding swiftness, and I screamed when my hand separated from my wrist. I could feel, as if in slow-motion, the blade slicing through skin, tendons, and bone!
Through my tears, my agony, I opened my eyes, feeling, seeing the blood pulsing, shooting out of me. I watched as my hand wriggled on the table like a blind drunk feeling no pain and nowhere to go. I had one other thought. They didn’t cut off my writing hand! Isn’t that the damndest thing to be thinking about?
The soldiers laughed, pointing at my hand wiggling nowhere.
I was getting weaker with the loss of blood when they pulled me off my knees, dragged me to a burning stove with hot coals. They lunged my bleeding stump into the coals to cauterize the blood flowing. I screamed out again, but it did stop me from bleeding to death, but I did pass out.
But not before, with more laughter, I saw them throw my useless hand on the burning coals.
They have me working in the rice fields again. It’s been raining all day and the sun has been in and out of the clouds. Such a strange day.
I pretty much know all their habits, and I have adapted to their language as well. They don’t know this, and trust me Joan, mum’s the word.
I learned not to speak English around them, at least not out loud. They said if I did, they would cut my tongue and watch me choke on my own blood.
I believe them. I really believe they would like nothing better than to stand around and laugh as I bled to death.
I’ve done everything asked of me, everything they tell me, but Lord in heaven; these people have no souls.
Joan, in my head, I still hold on what’s important to me. I keep remembering growing up in Richmond, and going to Virginia Beach or the beaches in North Carolina with my parents during the summer months which are hot as their spring months are here,
I’m trying hard to hold onto what the neighborhood looks like around mom and dad’s place when I’m in the fields. It is green, isn’t it?
Just like this place.
Except at home, a man can go where he wants, when he wants. Here, it’s to the field’s then back to my hole in the ground. They feed me just enough that I won’t from starvation.
That’s one thing I sure miss; your cooking, Joan. Well, I miss more than your cooking. I miss everything about you. When I get back to Wilmington, I’ll give the house a fresh coat of paint. I told you I would when I get back. You know me, I never break a promise.
I’ve probably lost forty, maybe fifty pounds, which isn’t bad. You’ve been after me to lose weight anyway. Kind of poor humor now, huh?
I’m trying hard to remember what it was like making love with you, Joan. Sometimes the image would be sharp as if we were making love this very second. Other times, things become foggy. I can’t even remember how a woman is supposed to smell.
I haven’t seen a city for the longest time. Maybe two or three years. I heard some of the soldiers about how they destroyed America. I know they are lying. They are lying, aren’t they?
As you see, I’m still using the old note-in-a-bottle-cast-out-to-sea trick, hoping this one and the other letters finds someone to get these to you, so you know I’m still alive, fighting the good fight.
It is getting harder to get these letters to you. I can’t always get my good hand on a bottle. I have to be careful not to get caught.
I want you to know I haven’t given up.
I hope you haven’t either.
As long as I’m alive, I’ll look for a chance; some way to get away from this hell I’m prisoner to.
One day I’ll come home to you and Bessie, Joan. I love you both.
Please, if someone finds this scribbled letter; take it to 1344 Denver Road. That’s my wife’s address. I need help.
There’s been talk of moving the camp again.
Off the Southern Coast of California, a small,
deep brown bottle was washed ashore by the incoming tide
and was never noticed. That was the first bottle in 1974.
Summer of ’80?
Thought I’d try again.
Can’t tell how straight the words are on this paper I scratched off an old wine bottle. I was caught trying to escape a few days (weeks?) ago. And they burned out one of my eyes and mangled the other one pretty good. I can barely see where I’m going and have to squint my eyes to focus some. The soldiers laugh at me when I stumble and fall down.
There’s been talking of killing me. I’m a liability to them now.
There hasn’t been any changes other than I’ve lost another thirty pounds, maybe more. I don’t know. There are a few more scars etched on my face and back from the daily whippings for being too slow when working, sleeping too long, or just because the soldiers have nothing better to do than kick me around for sport.
Outside my prison, I can hear them talking about me as I write this. They said I’m to be shot in the morning before they move camp again. I’m about twenty or thirty feet form a river inlet. I hope this green bottle finds a current and gets to you, Joan!
I’ve prayed and held out hope for help to come as long as I could. I never stopped believing help would come. I’d like to believe this will never happen to an American again. To any soldier, period.
When they come for me in the morning, I’m going to make a break for the river, throw the bottle in and hope; just as I’ve hoped with all the rest of my letters that this ends up in your hands.
I know I’m dreaming. I know none of the letters made it, and this won’t either, but, but … it’s all I have left.
I still love you Joan, and I love Bessie, very much. She would be thirteen or fourteen by now, at least I think she would be. I love my parents.
I hope I made you all proud.
Please! Don’t let this happen to our children who grow up. It isn’t worth the sacrifice.
If there are others held hostage like me, don’t give up on them. Don’t stop searching for them. Like me, they need hope.
They need to know they have a chance of coming home.
Farewell and God Speed,
Sgt. Terry Johnson, USMC
The second bottle sent never made it past a clump of branches along a muddy embankment. Four other bottles never survived the ocean waves.
Only two bottles every made it to the coastline.
The rest were lost forever.
Near the Puget Sound coastline on a hot and sunny August afternoon in 1998, thousands of people were walking across the white-hot sand, while others laid on their blankets, soaking up the rays of the sun to keep their tans eternal. Some were playing volleyball, others treading in water, but no one noticed a green bottle, covered with mossy seaweed that had washed ashore, holding a scribbled message inside except for a small boy. Picking it up, holding it with both hands, he stared in wonderment.
“Jimmy,” his mother called out to him, “throw that bottle away and get back here. It’s time to go.”
“Aw, mom. Hey, I think there’s something in this bottle.”
“I don’t care. Throw it away and let’s go!”
Jimmy grumbled staring at the green bottle.
“Do we have to?”
“Yes, we have to. Quit giving me a tough time, and for the last time, throw that bottle away. Let’s go!”
Jimmy looked at the bottle one final time and let it slip through his fingers and heard the dull thumping sound it made when it hit the soft sand. Running to where his mom stood, blanket under one arm, a beach bag slung over her left shoulder, Jimmy exclaimed, “You should have seen it, mom!”
“That bottle! I think it had a piece of paper in it, you know, like maybe a treasure map like pirates had.”
“Whatever you say, Jimmy. Just help me carry this stuff. I want to get back to the house before your father gets home from work. You know how upset he can get when dinner isn’t ready when he comes home.”
By the time Jimmy and his mother were in the car and pulling out of the parking lot, Jimmy had already forgotten about the green bottle and its contents.
His mother could have cared less.
In the same mid-afternoon sun blazing down on many of the bodies who ran or walked by the green bottle, as the beach was a place to have fun in the sun.
People with their pets, kids playing Frisbee, a group of sweating teens playing volleyball, the old couple who walked along the shoreline never noticed.
No one else stopped to pick it up.
No one noticed.
No one cared.
The green bottle lay there, surrounded by forgotten footprints in the sand.
Early the next morning, before another large crowd returned to set up
their own spot on the beach, the green bottle would be picked up
and placed in the trash by city employee’s hired to keep the beach free of debris.
And later that morning, the city dump-truck
would haul it away to the county dumpsite.
Just like the first one in 1974.
Chapter 19: Dream Visitors and Kincade Resolve
James continued toward the Kansas border, not sure what he was looking for, but dedicated to moving forward.
Although he had killed and buried the man from the wagon, he had a sneaking suspicion that he was being followed. A vengeful spirit? James chuckled softly at the absurdity of such an idea, and returned to the matter at hand. He had to find food, water, and shelter. He had some money from his prior encounter, or maybe he would cross another traveler. He would do what he must to survive. As his resolve was built up, he heard a whoosh to his right as an arrow flew past him into a tree. James turned around and found himself staring down a bow and arrow from an Indian that looked close to his age.
“You move, you die...just like that man you shot.”
James lamented his failure in avoiding an Indian encounter, and cursed his carelessness.
“Do what you must,” James responded sharply. “There’s no guarantee you could fire fast enough to get me, anyway.”
Still not backing down, the Indian couldn’t help but chuckle.
“You remind me of a story from my father,” the Indian responded. “What is your name?”
“Kincade?” the Indian said in shock. “Kincade...was the one Father spoke of.”
“Father?” James asked, lowering his guard. “My father told me a story as well. Who is your father?”
“Father’s name was—Thlocco Tustennuggee. He was known as Big Warrior.”
Chadwick’s grief from Eleanor’s suicide and the departure of his son, James, had taken its toll on him. Paul was now staying at Chadwick’s residence, Paul and the Robinson neighbors being the saving grace in keeping the farm and Oliver afloat. Chadwick spent his days alone in his room, writing in his journal to those that were no longer living. He wrote to Mitchell Damoan, his friend to whom he had sold the original Kincadia Farm. Damoan had died in the massacre from the Indian attacks, but at least he had played a crucial role in helping the women, children, Paul, and the miniature militia escape.
Chadwick wrote to his late wife, Eleanor, apologizing for the state of their family and the loss of what they had created together. He even wrote to Big Warrior, thanking him for taking care of Owen, and wishing he were strong in character and strength like the Seminole had proven to be.
Chadwick often drank himself to sleep with hard cider. One particular night he found himself back at Kincadia Farm in Georgia. He questioned how he could be there, since Paul had already confirmed that his former property was long gone. An arrow flew by his head, and out of the cornstalks walked Big Warrior himself.
“Kincade, it is time for you to awaken. Become the man who bested me once again, and fulfill your true legacy!”
“Big Warrior, is it really you?” Chadwick asked.
“Of course; I am speaking to you through this dream. You have fallen, Kincade, but just like our fight, you must get back up. Even when your time ends, the Kincade name must continue to make history.”
“What do I do, Big Warrior?” Chadwick asked. “I have made a mess of everything.”
“You aren’t the only one who failed with family,” Big Warrior confessed. “I had a son; his name is Holatta Emathla, or Blue Snake. I spent more time fighting than being there for him, and he ultimately went off on his own, much like your boy James. It may be fate, but the two have not only encountered each other, but are roaming Kansas together.”
“Our sons are traveling together?” Chadwick asked in wonder, feeling motivated for the first time since returning home. “I must find James, and Blue Snake, as well. I will save them, and I will watch out for your boy, just like you watched out for Owen. This may only be a dream, but I feel like it is really you, Big Warrior. Now I must prepare for one last adventure, which will be the greatest one of all!”
“Thank you, Kincade,” Big Warrior replied. “Eleanor, Damoan, Little Chadwick, and Little Eagle are all fine. I am watching over them, and Eleanor and Damoan especially look forward to reuniting with you one day, as do I.”
Tears filled Chadwick’s eyes. “Thank you. You have no idea how much I needed to hear that. I will write my sisters about this.”
“May the spirits old and new guide and keep you safe, Kincade. I don’t know when we will meet again, but when we do, don’t forget you owe me a rematch.”
“Indeed.” Chadwick smiled. “Until then, rest easy, my friend.”
August 16, 1836
Specie Circular In Effect Per President Jackson
Written by Owen Kincade
As of August 15, 1836, government lands may only be bought using full-bodied gold or silver coins in lieu of bank notes and deposits. This practice comes from an executive order from President Andrew Jackson. President Jackson advised that this course of action is taking place due to state banks loaning paper money to just about anyone requesting it. President Jackson believes the gold and silver funds are the only dependable sources of money, and hopes to end massive land speculation and inflation.
“I have more to write, but what do you think so far, Aunt Rosie?”
“Well done, as always, Owen, but it pains me that he is news,” Roselyn said bitterly.
“Jackson’s policies led to the loss of my beloved Peter. I don’t trust anything that man does. The sooner he is out of office, the better. But now it is time for me to head to the hospital. My life and Lily’s life may be empty, but I can at least save other lives that are full.”
“All right, Aunt Rosie. I’ll see you tomorrow,” Owen said gently, giving her a sympathetic hug. “I will look after Lily until you return.”
Roselyn found herself in a beautiful meadow that seemed to stretch forever. Knowing there was no location like this near Diana and Tyler’s home, she accepted that she was in a dream. She thought she was alone until she saw a figure in the distance. As the figure came closer, Roselyn’s heart grew warm. Could it be?
Roselyn ran to Peter and embraced him tightly as she sobbed. Peter returned the embrace and held his love gently.
“This may just be a dream, but it is really me,” Peter reassured Roselyn. “I never got to say goodbye to you when I died, but now I can tell you what my heart longs to say.”
“Let’s not say goodbye!” Roselyn protested. “Let me stay in this peaceful place, with you.”
“You will have to return from your slumber, my love,” Peter responded. “After all, our precious Lily needs you. She will grow up to be a fine woman that will make our legacy proud. But for that, you must be there for her.”
“I know, my dear,” Roselyn said with tears in her eyes. “It is just so hard without you.”
“We will meet again one day,” Peter vowed. “I don’t know when, but if you will have me, I will await you.”
“Always, Little Eagle, always,” Roselyn promised.
“Before we go our separate ways for now, I want to tell you your life is not empty,” Peter passionately told Roselyn. “Lily’s life is not empty, either. Both of you have so much to give the world, even if I am not a part of it anymore.”
“You will always be a part of the world; you will carry on in our memories,” Roselyn said with resolve. “We will honor your memory and life with what we do going forward. Until we are together again, we will make you proud, Little Eagle.”
“I know you will.” Peter smiled. “I will cheer you both on, always and forever.”
Roselyn was preparing for another shift at the hospital, happily humming as she skipped over to her sister Diana to say goodbye.
“You seem to be doing better,” Diana said with a sense of relief. “What’s going on?”
“I spoke to him, Diana; Peter spoke to me in a dream!” Roselyn gushed.
“It was just a dream, but it was him, I swear! He believes in Lily and me, and told me that he will keep cheering for us! I still miss him so, but knowing that he still cares for us in the afterlife, how can I not be happy?”
“That’s wonderful, my sister,” Diana said supportively. She didn’t believe the dead could still see the living, let alone talk to them in dreams. But even with her own grief, it warmed her heart to see her sister doing better. And she wasn’t going to take that away from her.
A knock at the door awoke Diana, and she slipped past a sleeping Tyler and headed for the door. Who could it be at this hour?
Diana opened the door to a young man. She was meeting him for the first time, but she felt like she already knew him. He looked like a younger version of her husband, yet she saw her own eyes looking back at her.
“Hello, Mother; it’s Chadwick,” the young man said. “I am your loving son, and I come to you in your dreams to speak to you.”
Diana’s personal walls came down, and tears filled her eyes as she embraced what her son would have been had he not been taken so soon.
“I know we weren’t able to have a long life together, but I want you to know that the love you and father had for me was real,” Chadwick said kindly. “You still have so much love to give, and you will have a beautiful legacy to speak of. And when your story ends, I will be there, Mother, waiting to hear you tell me all about it.”
June 10, 1837
The country was in another panic. Former President Jackson’s Specie Circular order had limited the currency for land purchase severely enough to limit the money supply. The wheat crop had been unsuccessful, which was bad news due to wheat being an important export. Despite the country’s troubles, Flower and William were still faring all right in Virginia. Flower’s seamstress skills continued to serve her family well, and William’s prior plans to specialize in a variety of crops also made a difference.
Lying in bed after a hard day’s work, Flower thought about previous letters from her siblings, how their outlooks and lives turned around after meeting their lost loved ones in their dreams. Flower had not had a similar experience, until she went to sleep that night.
Although in a dream, Flower was still in bed. She looked up to see none other than her parents, Randolph, and Hope Kincade.
“Mother, Father!” Flower squealed, tears running down her face. “But this is just a dream, right?”
“You are dreaming, but that does not make us any less real than Big Warrior was to Chadwick, Peter was to Roselyn, or young Chadwick was to Diana,” Randolph proclaimed.
“We know no one had visited your dreams yet, so we wanted to see you first, dear Flower,” Hope said warmly.
“We are so incredibly proud of you, your siblings, and all of your descendants,” Randolph said. “You have all had ups and downs, but please know through it all you are doing right by the Kincade name.”
“The legacy of the Kincade name will continue to shine,” Hope added. “Live the rest of your days knowing this, and never take life and family for granted, especially your brother and sisters!”
“Always,” Flower said as tears continued to fill her eyes. “I will treasure everyone always.”
“We also came to tell you that one of you children will be rejoining us soon,” Randolph said as gently as possible. “We do not know which one of you it will be, but we wanted to tell you to keep your head up regardless, and when all of you finish your journey, we will all be reunited once again. And when that time comes, there will be so many more Kincade stories to share!”
Written By: Roses311Sublime
Book Five: Part 9 - Raging Evil - Chapter 4
Wednesday – October 31st
The Squad Room – 8:30 a.m.
“It’s good to see you have all dressed up for Halloween this year. You all look like cops. Simply amazing.”
Davis yelled out, “Don’t quit your day job, Baker!”
“I know, I know, but today is Halloween. Kids will be out trick or treating up until around nine tonight. Just keep an extra-special watch out there. Beyond that, if no one has any questions, get out there and stay safe and keep our streets safe.”
Back in her office, Baker started to finish the monthly reports from yesterday. After which, she would file all the other reports from all three shifts that always ended up on her desk, and from there, they would end up on Satchell’s desk.
He would have hard copies made as well as putting everything on a disk in triplicate to be sent to three regional offices in Albany, Buffalo, and New York City, where the FBI and CIA would have direct access if necessary.
As per usual, they in turn would look at any red flags that would show up on arrests or tickets, to check against their data base for any wants and warrants.
As far as Baker was concerned, once the reports left her desk, she could care less what happened to them. Part of her job description was to insure reports were filled in correctly, properly dated and filed. Once they got to the FBI and CIA, they could handle them any way they chose.
Once she finished transferring data on the last of nine disks, where Satchell would make additional copies to send out; she sat back in her chair and thought back to a set of wedding vows said.
“No matter where you are, I will always be by your side. It doesn’t matter if the day is clear or stormy. It doesn’t matter if you become sick, I will be there to help you get well.
“For better or worse, and today is the beginning of every day becoming better. I will comfort you as my lover, my wife, my very best friend.
“Never will I love you as much as I do now, and this love will never falter but only strengthen, in all ways, Dianne.”
“Johnathan, you came when least expected in my life. Over time, I understood you became my reason to love again. To start fresh and give myself to you. As you are my lover, so too are you my husband, and always will be my best friend.
“And whether we become richer or poorer, it doesn’t matter. With you by my side, as I will be by yours; we will always have a richness in spirit that will diminish poor, and we will become far more blessed with our personal richness than with all the wealth possible.
“I have your life and you have mine, from now and beyond all time.”
Baker gave a sly smile for then the minister, Victor Donaldson, cleared his throat and pronounced them husband and wife. It was what followed that brought that smile.
As Johnathan was about to reach in and kiss Dianne, she held up one finger.
“I forgot one part. You have to promise not to get shot ever again.”
Baker remembered the weekend of her first anniversary. Ed drove her up to Albany to the Harrison Arms Hotel, one of those five-star places that cater to everything, even your underwear if necessary.
Three days, two nights of non-stop (they did sleep, shower, eat, watched an off-Broadway play, and walked the city park for an hour) sex.
The bed was oval-shaped and came with several vibration settings. There had been a large, reddish-velvet colored curtain that would open to an expansive patio where an assortment of flowers bloomed with a continuous flowing waterfall. At night, it was lit up with several colored lamps, and with the waterfall just behind the flowers it set a mood only lovers could understand.
Thinking about it now, it seemed much longer since that happened than just after Johnathan and Dianne married.
Dianne and she were similar in one respect. They both found a second chance at love when they least expected it.
In the beginning, Baker’s loss was in a divorce. Her ex, Mark, left her for another man. That in itself was a brutal blow. With Dianne, she lost her husband, Kenneth Allan, more commonly known as “Bear”, to cancer.
But things have a way of working themselves out. She has Ed, Dianne has Johnathan, and it’s all good. And the beauty of all this; Satchell may also be dancing in the wedding aisle one day. Almost sounds like that song, ‘Love Is In The Air’ from that old TV show, ‘The Love Boat’.
So much for day dreaming.
Baker got on her landline and called information for Jack and Peggy Malvern. Once she had the number, she asked the operator to connect her. Three rings later, a woman’s voice answered.
“Is this Peggy Malvern?”
“It is, who’s calling?”
“Lieutenant Baker from the Twenty-Second.”
“Oh. Is something wrong?”
“I hope not. I’m calling about your nephew, Lee. Have you seen or heard from him recently?”
“One moment, Lieutenant.”
She could hear Peggy’s somewhat muffled voice say, “Lee, there is a Lieutenant Baker asking about you.
“Lieutenant, he’s coming to the phone.”
“Hello, Lieutenant. How can I help you?”
“Answer a few questions for me Lee, and please, don’t lie to me.”
“Ask. I’ve nothing to hide.”
“You have a license to carry a firearm, correct?”
“You have gone into business as a private investigator?”
“And you were in Turkey, namely Ankara, as recently as five days ago?”
“Ah … yes.”
“Mr. Austin, I would like you to stop by my office today at one o’clock.”
“That would be good.”
Both phones hung up at the same time.
London – 10:30 a.m.
A new store would open soon, three blocks east of Parliament Square in London. A large truck pulled up to what used to be Willis Tobacco Shoppe. But that would soon change.
Shelves and other materials were unloaded along with a brand-new sign: Touched By An Angel.
They would open in two days and sales, as always, would be tremendous.
In Angel Milton’s smock pocket was a plastic bag holding a locket of hair. She must never misplace or lose it until the evil was destroyed, just as she destroyed the house of the Doll Maker and placed that woman Calistereo in a special place where she would never escape.
Meanwhile, Angel would do all she could to protect Baker. But even her far and wide reach may not be enough.
Milan – 12:30 p.m.
After checking into the Hilton Presido, Tracey McPhearson unpacked his single suitcase, then opened his briefcase which held his laptop.
Plugging it in, he connected immediately to the hotel’s satellite connection, then connected to his email.
Searching for twenty minutes, he found everything he needed on Lee Austin who almost caught him unaware. No one had ever sneaked up on him the way Austin did. That was unacceptable to Freddy. He would make certain that never happened again.
After he read through a ten-page document, he understood why this man had tried to kill him. Payback. Revenge. Cal it what you will. Because he killed his brother, Ricky.
He only killed the man’s brother and wife to speed things up. It hadn’t been personal, but this Lee Austin sees it that way? Freddy made the assumption he had his right to feel that way.
Freddy, after much thought, decided not to kill him, providing after he sent him a direct warning to back off, or he would kill the remainder of his family. Through one of his many ghost emails, Freddy sent Lee Austin a message of intent.