I’ve been just sittin’ here … trying to kill myself.
No … no. Don’t get crazy on me.
I’m doing it slowly. It’s more fun that way.
I’ve been trying all my life … to end my life.
I mean, I threw myself into situations that would have got any decent guy killed.
But, me? No fucking way. The bullets just passed me by.
Then I thought drugs would do it. No fucking way, again. After thirty years of that shit, I found myself still here, I said to no one in particular, “What the fuck? Can’t a guy get break. I did OD a few times and spent days in a coma, but I still bounced back. Damn it!
So I left drugs behind.
Now I’m trying alcohol. My liver’s gotta admit defeat at some point.
So enough about me. What have you guys been up to?
I have only one thing to say ... and that is STOP!!! Stop writing. If you are as bad as what is pictured above, please, please stop. Shut off your computer and get a book or two or three. Start reading. Get a little Steinbeck or a little London into your soul. If you don't know the difference between righting and writing, take a break and read a goddamn book!!! Because ain't no cockamamie program is gonna help ya.
Long after the mighty sheets of ice known as glaciers retreated back from whence they came, leaving the primeval stone of the island both smooth and scarred, the first of the Dorchester men landed at Half Moon Bay.
They did not last long. The land was not suited for farming. The dense forest precluded clearing land before winter descended upon them. And even if they had cleared the land, inches under the soil lay the pervasive granite that was the island.
Three years later, the men of Dorchester abandoned their short-lived colony and fled to nearby Naumkeag, which in later times would be known as Salem. However, within two generations, men were once again living on the island they came to call Gloucester. They named their county Essex after the Earl of Essex and they called themselves Gloucestermen. They were tried and true Englishmen.
In 1614, another Englishman by the name of John Smith, subsequent to his encounter with Pocahontas and while exploring the land he had named New England, came upon the island. He named it Tragabigzanda after a Turkish princess. However, at the request of Prince Charles, Smith renamed the island Cape Ann after the prince’s mother, Anne of Denmark.
Rather than farm the land, the Gloucestermen farmed the trees of their island. They cleared great swaths of the forest for the building of sailing ships. They fished the bay for their sustenance, but did not venture far from shore. At least not in those days.
Years before Englishmen first set foot on the island that would one day be called Gloucester, the great schools of codfish of the George’s Bank were known to the fearless explorers sent out by Queen Elizabeth. The cod were so plentiful along the New England coast that the Mariner Bartholomew Gosnold changed the name of Cape Saint James—a sandy peninsula he had explored in 1600—to Cape Cod.
In 1680, the men of Gloucester “went down to the sea in ships” to fish for cod in earnest. At first they fished the George’s Bank, one hundred miles to the east. But in time, they made their way to the Grand Bank, one thousand miles from their home port.
By the early 18th century, it had become obvious that the ships they sailed were not ideal for fishing the numerous cod. The ships were slow and their holds could not contain enough salted fish to make the two-thousand-mile round-trip journey profitable.
In 1713, Captain Andrew Robinson designed and built a ship that had a larger hold for supplies and the multitude of fish he hoped to catch. Her sails were bigger and set higher to gather more wind. She was a two masted fore-and-aft rigged vessel. All the better to get to the banks faster and get home all the more quickly where the cod could be sold before the other ships returned, hence getting the best price possible.
As she was being launched, a spectator exclaimed, “See how she scoons!” At the time, scooning was the act of skipping a flat rock upon the water.
In response, Captain Robinson shouted, “A schooner let her be!”
His schooner was an improvement over the fishing ships of the day and it was widely copied both here in America and in Europe. But it did have one flaw—it was top heavy. Between 1866 and 1890, three hundred and eighty schooners were lost at sea, taking 2,450 men to their watery graves. In one day, August 24, 1873, nine vessels, carrying one hundred and twenty-eight men, were lost over the Grand Banks.
In 1882, in a published article in the Cape Ann Weekly Advertiser, Captain Joseph Collins asked the rhetorical question, “When will the slaughter cease?”
Still the men of Gloucester went down to the sea in ships.
It was not until 1902, when Captain William Thomas commissioned a ship with a short deep hull and a rockered keel for stability, that fishing the Grand Banks became somewhat safer. The design was copied and used in the construction of fishing schooners until the days of sail were no longer.
Still the men of Gloucester went down to the sea in ships, but now their ships held no sails.
From this tradition—from this fearless and audacious heritage—came forth a man who would be the embodiment of the Gloucester fisherman.
Chapter One
The year was 1949. The boy was out of bed and getting dressed, even though the sun had not yet come up over in the East. It was summer, but there was a nip in the air.
This was the day. The day that the fourteen-year-old boy had looked forward to for weeks. He had saved the money he made from his paper route, delivering the Gloucester Times, to finance the adventure. He and his friend, Peter, had eagerly anticipated this day. For today, they were going to show the men how it was done.
Gloucester businesses were all about selling fish and outfitting fishermen. But it involved mostly codfish. However, there was another fish that preyed the vast underwater banks of the North American continental shelf. This fish was worthless in the eyes of the Gloucester fishermen. The average weight of the fish ran to nine hundred pounds. It could take hours to land one of the monsters. And for what? Its flesh was worthless. You would be lucky to get three cents a pound after all your trouble. But the boy was bound and determined to land a bluefin tuna that day.
The path down the hill that led to the Ipswich River was well known to the boy. He had traversed it many times. The darkness did not impede his progress. There was a slight fog, but it only added to the mystique of a magical day.
Peter was waiting for him at the river’s edge. “I’ve got the bait and the hooks we bought last night. Did you bring your father’s hand-line?” Without a word, the boy showed his right hand which held said object.
Silently, they climbed into the small skiff and shoved off. The boy sat at the bow with Peter aft. It was Peter’s boat, so he had the honor of pulling the starting cord on the ten-horsepower outboard engine. The engine caught on the third pull and he sat down to steer the little boat downriver.
Although it was still dark out, there was enough ambient light for the boys to make their way through the marshes.
Gloucester was coming to life. The occasional house they passed had its lights on. Soon the sun would drive out the darkness and they would have to share their world with others. But for the moment, they were the only two human beings extant on the planet.
The boy in the bow stared straight ahead and fidgeted with the hand-line. Peter knew not to speak when his friend was in deep thought.
The boy was thinking of the tuna he was setting out to kill. Did the tuna know he was coming? Did the tuna know this was to be its last day swimming in the cold waters of the North Atlantic?
The boy weighed ninety pounds. The tuna he was out to catch—with a hand-line nonetheless—might weigh a thousand pounds or more. It was just as likely that the tuna would pull the boy out of the skiff and drag him to the bottom of a very cold ocean and to his death. The boy figured it would be an even match. Let the best species win.
After an hour, they came to the mouth of the river and entered Ipswich Bay. They were headed for open sea. The bay was calm which meant the ocean would not be too bad. By now the sun had risen; its rays glistened on, and reflected off, the water. The boy raised his hand to shield his eyes from the brilliance as the small engine pushed him toward his destiny.
In due time, they were ten miles off the coast. It was time to fish.
They’d only enough money between them to buy three mackerel, so they would have to husband their bait and hope that a tuna did not snatch it and make off with it, leaving an empty hook. They had only three shots at the prize.
The boy baited the line as Peter looked on. This was the boy’s show. Peter was only there to document the struggle and declare a winner … whoever that may be.
The Atlantic is a mighty big ocean, bigger still if you’re in a fourteen-foot boat. The expanse of nothingness that lies before you can be daunting to the most intrepid men of the sea.
The boy let out the line … slowly … three feet … ten feet … twenty feet … forty feet. When the line hit the sixty-foot mark, he put on his gloves and sat down to await his fate. Would he return still a boy? Or would he return a man, trailing a thousand-pound tuna in his wake?
The day wore on. There was very little conversation between the two friends. The sun continued on its journey across the blue sky. Time was running out. They were only boys, they had to be home before dark or people would worry. The star we call our sun showed no mercy on that day. Still it moved at an alarming rate across a clear sky.
Late in the afternoon, the line jerked. The boy instinctively knew it was a bluefin. Through his gloves he felt the line running out to sea. It was a good feeling. He waited … he waited until he was sure. Then he jerked back on the line. He was almost pulled from the boat.
He had set the hook.
Now it was a waiting game. Darkness was fast approaching, but no matter. The boy would not return to Gloucester until he had won the battle.
The great tuna took off to the north. The boy held fast to the line. An hour later, the tuna turned east. The boy held fast to the line. His shoulders were aching. The line was wrapped around his hands, and despite the gloves, it stopped the flow of blood to his fingers. They were numb. Still he held on to the monster.
He thought of the great fish below the surface, fighting for its life, and he felt a pang of guilt. Did he have the right to take this beautiful creature’s life? That was his moment of doubt. He would have cut the line if doing so would have allowed the fish to live. But that was not the case. Even if he had cut the line … with a hook in its mouth and trailing sixty feet of line, the fish was already dead.
The boy set his jaw and said a prayer for the bluefin.
At length, his adversary tired. The bluefin had run for hours and now it was full dark. The boy pulled in his line. His hands were numb, his arms were on fire. The bluefin was dead. It had died from lack of oxygen. A bluefin must continuously swim for the oxygen-rich water to be forced through its gills.
The boys tied the fish to the stern and started the engine. They were going home.
They had been missed. The Coast Guard had been called out. The local fishermen cranked up their boats and were crisscrossing the bay looking for the wayward youths. Somehow, the little skiff made its way through all that activity and docked up the Ipswich River.
The boy found his fair share of trouble when the adults caught up with him. But he had caught his tuna … all 750 pounds of it.
Around Gloucester—from that day forward until he became an adult—he was known as “The Boy Wonder.”
However, he was no longer a boy, he was now a man. His name was Ellis Hodgkins and what follows is his story.
Book Review: 'Bedtime Stories for Grown-Ups' by Andrew Joyce
Florida author Andrew Joyce took a leaping chance on providing follow-ups to an American classic Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn in his books RESOLUTION and REDEMPTION and MOLLY LEE - and oddly enough he succeeded! Joyce is an inveterate hitchhiker and doubtless that lifestyle has supplied him with the rich imagination he so freely offered in his book YELLOW HAIR that explores the history of American Indians. Now he turns to dreams and other diversions in his new book BEDTIME STORIES FOR GROWN-UPS.
Andrew sets the tone in his author’s note at the beginning of the book – ‘The short stories contained herein are a mixture of fiction and nonfiction. My hitching adventures are true, as are the ones about three women who had a profound effect on my life: Ellen, Maryanne, and Joanie. I can attest to the story entitled Treasure being factual because I was there. There are three historical pieces, Belinda Mulrooney, Massacre, and Turkey Shoot, that are based on facts. The Danny narratives are also true, but written from a perspective different from mine. However, Dead and Wise Guy are pure fiction. The fiction stories are a jumble of genres.
My intent was to keep things interesting for you. I must tell you, I never thought any of these stories would see the light of day. I wrote them for myself and then forgot about them. If I had known that one day they’d be published, I might not have been as honest when describing my youthful misdeeds. In the hitching tales, I use my real name, Billy Doyle— Andrew Joyce being my pen name.
While collecting the content for this book from my writings over the years, I envisioned my readers sampling my prose a little each night before extinguishing the lights and drifting off to a restful sleep. I sincerely hope that you will enjoy my stories. It took a lot of living to come up with the material for some of them.’
Given that entre we are ready for a mixed bag of little tales and an attempt to review the entire collection would be an opus nearly equal to the original. But despite the varying classes of tales within, one aspect of this book stands out clearly – and that is Andrew Joyce’s gift of writing. A snippet from one story follows:
‘The car had continued forward as I was doing my little ballet, and as I lay prone on the ground, all I could see were the red tail lights slowly receding into the fog. Then my heart jumped straight into my throat. The brake lights came on, and if that wasn’t bad enough, the white backup lights came on immediately thereafter. I did not wait around to see what further mischief Teddy Bear had on his mind. I raised myself to a standing position and took off in the opposite direction. Remember, I was seventeen, and like all seventeen-year-olds, I was in top condition. I was a quarter of a mile down the road before I even realized I was running. Having covered such a fair distance, I thought it might be safe to stop a moment and see if I was still being pursued. I turned to see those g*****n taillights still slowly coming my way. I could not make out the outline of the car through the fog, but those lights seemed to be the red eyes of a demon that would not be satisfied until I was run to ground and devoured.
As I stood there contemplating those red orbs, I became cognizant of my folly. Staying on the road was a mistake. Teddy Bear could follow me at his leisure. There sure wasn’t any other traffic to impede his amusement. If not for the lights, I wouldn’t know his location, which also meant he could not see me. That son-of a-bitch was toying with me! He must have thought that, with nothing but swamp on both sides of the road, I had nowhere to go and he had ample time to catch up with me. That pissed me off, though not enough to confront that oversized knife. As I pondered the best course of action, I wondered if I was the first of Teddy Bear’s playthings. Had he done this before? Did he indeed throw dead bodies into the swamp, never to be seen again, as he’d told me he could do with my deceased carcass?
Well, there was only one thing to do— get off the road and into the swamp. When you’re running for your life, you don’t sweat the little things, such as snakes and alligators. I turned to my right and proceeded to the tree line, which lay about fifty feet from the road. I could not see the trees, but I knew they were there, having seen them earlier in the night before the fog thickened.’
That is the quality and veracity of the stories to come.
Style is a consistent factor, truth is also there, and imagination permeates the entire collection. Read them slowly – and enjoy.
Grady Harp, September 17
Editor's note: This review has been published with the permission of Grady Harp.
The short stories contained herein are a mixture of fiction and non-fiction. My hitching adventures are true, as are the ones about three women who had a profound effect on my life: Ellen, Maryanne, and Joanie. I can attest to the story entitled Treasure being factual because I was there. There are three historical pieces, Belinda Mulrooney, Massacre, and TurkeyShoot, that are based on facts. The Danny narratives are also true, but written from a perspective different from mine. However, Dead and Wise Guy are pure fiction even though my name pops up in both of them. The fiction stories are a jumble of genres. My intent was to keep things interesting for you.
I must tell you, I never thought any of these stories would see the light of day. I wrote them for myself and then forgot about them. If I had known that one day they’d be published, I might not have been as honest when describing my youthful misdeeds.
While collecting the content for this book from my writings over the years, I envisioned my readers sampling my prose a little each night before extinguishing the lights and drifting off to a restful sleep.
I sincerely hope that you will enjoy my stories. It took a lot of living to come up with the material for some of them.
Introducing Kindle Scout Candidate - Blood Match - By Don Massenzio
Blood Match, a new thriller by Don Massenzio is currently a candidate in the Kindle Scout Program.
What is the Kindle Scout Program?
Kindle Scout is reader-powered publishing for new, never-before-published books. ... Selected books will be published by Kindle Press and receive 5-year renewable terms, an advance, royalties and featured Amazon marketing.
A Little about the book:
Intelligence analyst Jake Balrich boards his Monday morning flight, as he has so many times, for routine field work. When the plan lands, a passenger fails to wake up. Jake soon realizes that the death was not accidental and that the murderous plot was meant for him.
The situation soon spins out of control with Balrich running for his life trying to prove his own innocence as he struggles with an unknown enemy that seems to guess his every move.
Blood Match is a terrorism thriller examines how far someone will go to reach the height of power and ambition with little regard for human life.
Follow Jake, Balrich as he enlists the help of Commander Brad Rafferty, to take down an enemy more powerful and dangerous than the United States has ever faced.
Some of you may recognize this story. It originally appeared as a weekly serial on my blog under the name Road Kill. The story has been reworked and many extras have been added to turn it into this novel.
Why is it a Kindle Scout Candidate?
If Don's book is selected for publication by Kindle Scout, it can help take his writing to the next level in terms of exposure and recognition.
How can you help?
First and foremost, you can vote to nominate the book. The campaign goes up on September 20th at midnight and will continue through October 20th. You can vote for it and preview the opening of the book by clicking HERE.
How can you help even more?
Spread the word. Don has made it easy for you using something called Thunderclap. Thunderclap is a social media tool that allows you to effortlessly spread the word using your social media accounts with a pre-written message. All of your followers will receive the message. You can help by signing up for the Thunderclap campaign HERE.
What's in it for you?
Apart from Don's eternal gratitude, if his book is selected, you will receive a free pre-launch copy from Amazon and will have the opportunity to officially review it before its launch. That is a free book for you, but it also help, yet again, by allowing the book to launch with established reviews.
I’m in full battle gear and I’m sweating my ass off. It’s gotta be at least 110 degrees and it’s not even daylight yet! We’re going out to man a checkpoint north of the city and we’re all kinda skittish. The day before, three of our outfit were blown to bits, one of them my best friend.
I should never have enlisted, but sitting in my dorm room on that Tuesday morning watching the towers fall, I felt I had to do something. But I didn’t get to go to Afghanistan. No, I get deployed to Iraq to fight a murderous thug that had nothing to do with 9/11. And now the situation has deteriorated to such an extent that we don’t know who we’re fighting.
Because replacements for those killed and wounded yesterday have not yet been assigned to our unit, I find myself in command. I am only a corporal, but I outrank the other five men. We’re supposed to set up a checkpoint on a lightly-traveled road into the city. The captain told me we would not encounter more than twenty vehicles all day, which is probably why he put a twenty-three year old corporal in charge.
We are traveling in a two-vehicle convoy. I am in the lead Humvee and with me are Hernandez and Scott. Behind us are Reilly, Simms, Grabowski, and our interpreter. Simms is sitting in his sling, manning the .50 cal machine gun. The night is dark in spite of the half-moon hanging in the western sky; electricity is sporadic, sometimes it’s on and sometimes not. Because of the darkness, the stars seem close and bright. As we make our way into the desert, I think of Jimmy, my friend that was killed yesterday, and what a waste of a life his death was.
Without warning, I peripherally see a flash and then I hear the explosion; it came from behind. Turning, I see the Humvee in flames; no one is moving. They’ve been hit with an IED, an improvised exploding device. Reilly has pulled off to the side of the road and we three run back to help our comrades. But we might as well have continued on. They are all dead.
Hernandez shouts, he is pointing to the east. He tells me he saw a shadowy figure running towards a house about one hundred meters away. I am in command and I must make a decision. I tell Scott to call in what has happened and stay here until help arrives. Hernandez and I start off for the house.
At the door, I do not knock, I kick at the latch. The door swings inward, it had not been locked. Hernandez and I stand at the threshold, moonlight slants in through a window, illuminating the room before us. Against one wall are two couches facing a television that sits against the opposite wall. To the left, at the far end of the room, is a rectangular table with six chairs around it. To the right is a hallway that leads off into darkness. On the far side of the room is another hallway with four closed doors, two on either side. Figuring that the hallway on the right leads to a kitchen, and if the man we are looking for came to this house, he would most likely be in one of the four rooms, I send Hernandez to the right with a nod of my head and I go toward the four doors.
A few minutes ago, I was angry. Now, as I approach the first door on the right I am angry and scared. I flatten myself against the wall, and with my gun at the ready, I push the door open. I expect bullets to come flying out, but nothing happens. In the dim light, I see two mattresses lying on the floor and not much else. Then I cross the hall and open that door in the same manner and see just about the same thing, two mattresses on the floor and a bureau against the far wall.
I don’t know what makes me so sure the man we’re after is in this particular house. Maybe because it’s the building closest to the explosion, but whatever the reason, I am sure he’s here. And I’m just as sure that he’s behind one of the two doors that I have yet to open. My mouth is dry, my heart is racing, and I’m scared. Where the hell is Hernandez?
I guess it doesn’t matter where he is. He’s doing his job and I must do mine. Because I’m closest to the door on the left, I choose that one to open next.
The door swings in easily. I am not against the wall this time because I have come to the realization that the walls are so thin they offer no protection from bullets. This room is different, there is very little light. There are curtains on the window and they are drawn shut, but a little moonlight comes in from around the edges. A mattress sits on a box spring and a frame, it is a double bed. Great, now I’ll have to get down and look under it, but first the rest of the room. There’s a dresser and an old-fashioned wardrobe against the near wall. In the far corner, there is something indistinct. Is that the glint of moonlight on metal that I see? It is! It’s a man holding a gun!
Without hesitation I open fire. I rake my gun back and forth, twice, and then stop firing. By now Hernandez is by my side, looking for a target. That’s when we hear the scream. Before we can react, the lights come on; the electricity must be working again.
I wish the lights had stayed off. The sight before me is too much to bear. There is a woman sitting on the floor, screaming, and as far as I’m concerned, she has something to scream about. Her face is covered with blood and she’s holding a baby or what used to be a baby. It is now a corpse with half its head missing. Next to the woman lie two children, both boys. One is about twelve and the other looks to be nine or ten. They are both dead, their eyes open, but not seeing. The younger of the two holds a puppy, a mutt, also dead.
In front of the boys and next to the woman is a man. In his left arm and tight to his chest, he holds a little girl, and in his right hand he holds a knife. I can’t help but fixate on the knife. It is just like the one my father used on Thanksgiving. How many times did I watch him as he sharpened that knife in anticipation of carving up a big, juicy turkey? The man and the little girl are dead, and still the woman screams. She holds the baby in her right arm, and with her left, she shakes the boy nearest her, the one with the puppy, as though trying to wake him from a deep sleep. And still she screams.
Hernandez now turns from the carnage and says the words I will never forget.
“That’s not the man I saw running. He was dressed in dark clothes. This man is wearing white.”
This man was only trying to protect his family. That was his crime.
The house is now filling with soldiers. The captain is beside me, he’s saying something, but his words are inaudible, there’s just too much damn noise … I can’t think straight.
My eyes are locked onto the woman’s eyes. She has now stopped screaming, she is quiet. She is looking right into my eyes. I want to turn and run, but I cannot break off the eye contact. To do so would prove me the coward that I am, so we look into each other’s souls until someone lifts her from the pooling blood of her loved ones, still clutching the dead baby. She is being led out of the room. She is docile, but at the door she stops and turns to give me one last look. I think she is trying to memorize my face. Her face, I will never forget—it is burned into my memory.
I’m brought back to the base where they try to debrief me, but I refuse to speak. Hernandez is brought in and is asked what happened. He explains that he was in another part of the house before and during the shooting, he did not know what precipitated the incident. Hernandez is then dismissed. It is decided that I must be in shock, so I am sent to the base hospital for treatment and observation. Three days later, I am released and sent back to my unit.
While I’m in the hospital, a sergeant has been assigned to our platoon, and the replacements for Reilly, Simms, and Grabowski are also in residence. I am surprised, and a little mystified, when I am not summoned to explain the shooting of an entire unarmed family. It seems the incident has been hushed up. Officially it never happened.
I no longer feel the comradeship or the esprit de corps of our unit; I just want to be left alone. Eventually the men do leave me to myself, after a few attempts to bring me “out of my funk” have been rebuffed.
The platoon has been idle since the night I murdered an entire family … all but the mother. I spend my days lying on my bunk, staring at the ceiling and seeing her face. I try to find out her name and where she is, not that I have the courage to approach her. But I’m told to let the matter lie, that there is nothing I can do to change what happened. I have to agree. Then I make a decision that is the first, small step to my redemption.
The captain walks in and tells the sergeant to have the squad assemble. The men stop what they are doing and gather in front of the captain. I remain where I am, lying on my bunk. I see the captain nod to the sergeant, who in turn yells, “Blair, front and center!” I remain where I am. The sergeant comes to my bunk, and standing over me, says, “On your feet, soldier.” I remain where I am. He turns to the captain for guidance. The captain nods and the sergeant grabs the mattress and flips it and me onto the floor. The mattress and I remain where we land. The sergeant once again looks to the captain. I cannot see the captain from my vantage point on the floor, but the sergeant retreats and I hear a whispered conversation followed by the captain’s voice giving orders for a mission.
The captain leaves and everyone gives me a wide berth lest they be contaminated by whatever is afflicting me. A few minutes later, I am surrounded by four MPs, very large MPs. Without preamble, I am hoisted to my feet and half dragged and half walked out the door. Once outside, I am given the option of walking under my own power or being knocked out and carried. I choose the former.
The base has no jail or holding cells. If someone has to be incarcerated, he is sent to Abu Ghraib, Saddam Hussein’s infamous prison now run by the coalition. I, on the other hand, am thrown unceremoniously into a small, windowless room. The door is closed and I hear the click of the lock. There is nothing in the room but four bare walls and the floor.
About an hour later, sitting on the floor, I once again here the click of the lock. The door opens and in walks the captain with a major that I am not familiar with. “Attention!” the captain barks. I remain seated. The captain and major look at one another and then the major raises his hand as a sign for the captain to let him handle things.
“What’s the problem, son? What happened the other night bothering you?” asks the major. His voice is soft and kind, like he really wants to know what is on my mind. I stand and face him, “Yes sir, I wiped out a family and I will not take another order that will put me in that position again. You can court-martial me, hang me, shoot me, or draw and quarter me, but I’m not going out there again … sir.”
The major nods as though he understands. Without another word, he turns and waits for the captain to open the door. Then they are gone and I am left with the vision of her eyes. They are dark, and surprisingly enough, there is no hate in them. Only the one question, “Why?”
Why?
Because I was afraid, that’s why.
I am given an honorable discharge with the proviso that if I ever speak of that night to anyone, especially a member of the media, I will be prosecuted for murder. They need not worry on that account. I have no need to speak of it, I see her eyes, her face, and I think of those dead bodies every moment of my existence ... especially in my dreams.
Hey guys. What’s happening?
All my poems cry into the wind. All my words … all my dreams … are like leaves in a storm.
Blood Match, a new thriller by Don Massenzio is currently a candidate in the Kindle Scout Program.
