I am currently working on a few projects and the first of them is now available on Amazon at https://www.amazon.com/gp/aw/d/B0765MR3R9?ref=aw_sitb_end_act_to_dtl. When you click on the link you will be able to read an excerpt of the story to see if it interests you. Because it is a short story, it is available for $1.98. I hope you will pop over to Amazon and check it out!
Child abuse and drug abuse are repeated generation after generation. This behavior is passed down from parent to child and duplicated over and again. Firm countermeasures are imperative to stop the cycle.
Continue reading this paper below.
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Where we left off…
As the ship cuts through the water toward England, the night air is brisk and whips through the hair of Constable Adelaide Stratton. The events of the past couple of days weigh heavily on her like a boulder upon her chest. She leans over the hand rail, looking out at the stars and listening to the water splashing against the vessel. The moon plays upon the dark abyss and dances on the ripples. The truth of her husband being a spy and his recent death fills her mind. She thought she had lost him years ago. She mourned him every single day since then, desiring to have him once again in her arms. But not like this! She fights to reconcile it all in her mind and in her heart.
Adelaide had boarded the ship with Harry Houdini and Arthur Conan Doyle. Doyle, himself, is limited in his mobility and took to resting most of the trip. His mind turns to his wife and children waiting for him in England. Touie is still fighting for her life against tuberculosis and he is anxious to get back to her. The wound from the bullet that had ripped through him is tender and burns as though the muscle and flesh are ripping each time he moves. The injury is a reminder to him of his failed attempt at stopping Adelaide’s husband and his plan to assassinate the President of the United States of America. Doyle is an excellent writer and doctor, however his skills at gun fighting are lacking. Thankfully he will be able to make a full recovery pending rest and some relaxation. The trip across the Atlantic looks to be the perfect remedy.
Houdini, on the other hand, is quite the opposite of rested. Restlessness stirs within him and he passes Adelaide on the deck as he strolls about the ship. He has taken to wandering but there is only so far one can go while trapped on a boat out at sea. He pulls his coat tighter about him as he watches his breath roll from his mouth. It is a fleeting steam that disappears in moments. He gazes past it at the stars and moseys over to a deck chair. The other fixtures block the wind as he reclines. His thoughts have been a circus of acrobats flipping about the ideas of death and the beyond. The passing of his mother covers him like morning dew upon the ground. Even if it disappears for hours at a time, it still returns the following day. Generally, when someone dies, the memory of them gradually becomes light as air and drifts into the heavens. His mother, however, sits like a dense London fog refusing to lift. He buries himself deeper in his coat and surveys the scenery. A mysterious woman has come to sit in the chair next to him. Though deep in thought, a courteous smile draws up the corners of his mouth. The woman acknowledges him and gazes at him with love filled eyes. It is his mother! But how can this be when he is not lost amidst a dream?
To be continued…
I don’t even know where to begin. Characters and stories have been building up in my mind, unable to escape for days, maybe even weeks. They want out, but I cannot even think of a place to start. At any moment these characters will be full grown and burst from my head like Athena from that of Zeus. I carry them around day after day, pushing them back so I can finish school work. They are becoming impatient. I need a prompt. Someone give me a prompt!
The ideas sit stagnant like fresh water unable to move…unable to flow. They are dammed up waiting to be released. They rise and threaten to overflow into everything…my dreams, my school papers, etc. I wish they would begin to boil like magma in a volcano. The pressure would build and eventually they would blow the top off, explode into the air, cascade over the sides, and devour everything in sight.
Again, I am at a loss. The calm before the storm! The hurricane is coming. It is going to destroy everything in its path. I have to get these characters and story lines out before they begin to rumble deep within. They will shake the foundation of my writing, possibly even crippling it, before pulling all notions away like a tide being sucked out to sea only to return with a vengeance as a wall of water crushing, churning, and crashing.
Still, there is nothing but a blank canvas. How many lines do I need to launch this illustration? First one, then another. They cross, wind, and intersect. Some are hard and unrelenting, while others are soft and fading. Straight, unbending lines meet with gentle, curved lines. They are intertwined, dance, and mingle to create something beautiful.
Alas, time is up and I must go…