Lauren Myracle

Lauren Myracle is my kind of lady. If you have been following the brouhaha about her book, SHINE, showing up on the National Book Award list for Young Adult, you know she was asked to withdraw her novel from the short list of the final five books. Lauren is one of those writers who regularly ends up on the banned book list because she's unafraid of tackling tough topics. SHINE takes on the issue of bullied gay teenagers, as I understand it.

Without rancor or taking any potshots, Lauren did withdraw her book. When asked how the Committee could make it up to her, she requested a donation to the Matthew Shepherd Foundation. $5000 was sent in her honor.  Lauren said she'd much rather have the donation than any gold medal.

To say that good has resulted from a nasty situation is mildly put. Lauren says she has received unanimous support from other authors, and her book has received new publicity. For a writer, publicity is pure gold. I hope she goes on to write many more controversial books that speak to young people.

What a classy lady. She has my eternal admiration.

Death on the Track

I wasn't watching Sunday, but I heard, via Twitter, about Dan Weldon's death at Las Vegas on an oval track where Nascar races. It's horrible to realize a young man with two small children died in the cause of entertaining race fans. I tell myself he was a racer, that no one forced him into the driver's seat, that he knew the risks.

Doesn't help. While football players get injured, some seriously, and basketball players blow out knees, they don't die going 220 mph to collect a paycheck. I wonder if I'm enamoured with a sport that encourages the bloodthirsty and crashmomgers to cheer big wrecks. I will never understand how anyone can take joy in devastation suffered on the track, or the first time I watched as cars careened into safer barriers and each other. No, I'm not a wreck-lover.


Such a sad day.

Creative types

A friend was telling me about a book that defined how creative people work. They want to play sports, not watch them, for example. Only blue collar types watch auto racing, because it takes no involvement of self.  Creative people, in other words, aren't Nascar fans.

You can imagine what I thought of that idea. Clearly, the NYC editors who let that one slide haven't a clue. Sitting next to us in Daytona one year during the season - opening race were lawyers and accountants from NYC. We were all wearing T-shirts emblazoned with our favorite drivers' numbers, hats with the same, and having a good ole time. Not a blue collar in the crowd. And if there were, so what? That doesn't mean you're not creative. The strategy of Nascar, the science of getting the car to handle for each track, the terrifying speeds of the racing, all make it not only fascinating, but a subject of endless study. 

Guess I won't be reading that book. We creative types have our own novels to write, between Nascar races.

Nesting

When I was expecting, I'd go into super-nesting overdrive just before the baby came. I had the cleanest baseboards in town. You couldn't find a dust bunny if your life depended on it. It was hormonal, for sure, but it also presaged months of minimal housekeeping as we dealt with diapers, sleepless nights, and an altered focus. Life changed, big time.

Nothing was more important than that new baby.

I do the same thing before starting a new book. Major cleaning, dusting, organizing. The new book is like a new baby, all-consuming. Who cares about polishing silver when you're deep into another, fictional world. Crawling into real life takes a ton of effort, and when the book is going well, it's not worth expending the energy. You need to hoard the hours for this new baby, this creative work.

So let the small stuff go. Give that WIP your all. It's a process, and you don't want to miss a second of its new life.

Junk

I declare, I am going to clear out files, toss all those clippings I hoard as if they're gold, and have a bon fire in the back yard with twenty-year-old tax files. Clearing out my dad's house has made me swear I won't do this to anyone else. Of course, I talk a good game. We'll see how brutal I really am with the old junk crammed into cabinets and desk drawers. I really get in trouble when I start reading what's in the files, and before you know it, I talk myself out of hitting the trash pile with the excess paper.

How do you know when to cut your manuscript? Whenever your attention wanders as you're
reading through it. It's as simple as that. You know you love rereading your own words. What could be better? So if you get bored, hit the delete key. Try reading it aloud to yourself. You'll hear the clunkers.

It's always better to do your own dirty work.

Rereading favs

A writer compatriot, Mona Ingram, wrote recently about the books she likes to reread. The Power of One is tops on her list, and I have to echo her praise. My list is shorter than Mona's, because I'm going on the names that come to mind without staring at my bookcase. Elkhorn Tavern, The Barefoot Brigade, Gone the Dreams and the Dancing by a retired army officer whose name escapes me, (Douglas C. Jones?) are wonderful. Lucia St. Clair Robson's Ride the Wind about Cynthia Anne Parker takes me to the Comanche plains every time. Pat Murphy's The Falling Woman is still tres cool (and won a Hugo, I think). Laura Kinsale's Flowers from the Storm, with a hero whose speech is taken by a stroke, never fails to amaze me.

Montana 1948 is a mastery of an innocent's voice telling a sordid tale. It reminds me of To Kill a Mockingbird. Hard trick to pull off, an adult story through a child's eyes.

Each book is an old friend I rediscover with joy.

New Book up on Amazon! The Golden Door

Once I got over being cold, I got busy! THE GOLDEN DOOR, an historical romance, is now on Kindle's list on Amazon. I'm thrilled with the cover and the fact that this book I adore is available.  Golden Door is one of those books an author has to write, knowing full well it won't fit into any pigeon hole. So I wrote it and let it sit, not willing to risk my happiness in the finished product to the snarky comments of an editor or agent. (I know I'm being universally unfair. I never once heard anything even remotely resembling snarky from Gail Fortune when she was my editor.) But this book is/was special. A book of the heart always is.

The setting is the Ottoman Empire at the beginning of the 20th Century.  The hero, Winslow Ertegun, is half-Turkish, half-British, and a spy for the Sultan sent to find out why the new railroad crossing the country is taking so long to complete and is costing such huge sums of money, as well. The heroine, Hope Mountcastle, is on the run from her stuffy aunt's house in York, England, hoping to join her father on his current project in the wilds of Eastern Turkey. She wants nothing less than freedom from her corset and her prim and proper life.  Her father has been hired by the Germans to build a portion of a railroad across the Ottoman Empire, but he's been murdered before Hope can reach him.

Unaware her father is dead, Hope must resort to subterfuge to get to the railroad camp. Dressed as a mute Turkish boy, she's the caravan's cook's helper. Her disguise works only so long, however, and Winslow must marry her in a Muslim ceremony to preserve her reputation and chastity, promising her the ruse will last only until he delivers her to her father at the railroad camp.

All is far from well at the camp, and Hope and Win fall in love, fight for their lives, find Hope's father's killer, and return to Constantinople so Win can report the real status of what's happened with the railroad.  The world is on the brink of war, and politics have become a precarious way of life for a spy. Win fears for Hope in his anti-Western world, and sends her home to her aunt, promising to divorce her according to Muslim practices so she can get on with her life.  Only Hope doesn't want a divorce, but she doesn't want to add herself as another burden in Win's life, either.

The ending is happy, as is the norm for a romance, and blissfully so. I still sigh over it whenever I read it, and I'm quite the cynic.  A romance with murder, sensuality, politics, and a Muslim and Christian falling in love isn't your normal, everyday book, and I hope some of you will like it. Maybe even love it, as I do.
BTW, the cover art was done by Jessie Gemmer. Email me for contact information.

It's Cold Outside!

I swore I'd dance naked in the streets if the summer heat ever broke, but I lied. It's too danged cold out for naked dancing! (Not to mention I'd scare the neighbors). We dropped 25 degrees in one day, and no one was prepared. Well, I wasn't. I like to ease into these things. A couple of degrees here and there works just fine, kinda like shuffling into the cold waves by inches. The bright side is that snuggle weather is here for the weekend, at least. No more lying on top of the sheets, wishing the air conditioning would make a dent in the aching humidity.

I have to recommend Kiana Davenport's short stories. They're on Amazon for Kindle, and dirt cheap. In each story, I'm not only sucked into the stories, peopled with people so alive I feel they have breath, but I'm learning a lot about the art of the short story. Less really can be more. Give HOUSE OF SKIN a buy for 99 cents.

Oh, I was quoted by Nate Ryan in his USA Today article about Brad Keselowski's full day that culminated at RIR for a fan meet-and-greet. Hi, Nate!

New Car v. Old Car

In our family, cars never leave.  Personally, I don't like to "break in" a new car, learn the dashboard, the feel of brakes, an engine, how it handles corners, etc. My cars become family members, and sometimes I even name them. Now and then, we finally sell a car because we're simply tired of driving it for years and years, and it's in great shape, but it's become boring. When we do this, I instantly feel seller's remorse and want to buy the car back. I still fondly remember a stick shift Honda Accord that I wish I'd garaged until I could teach the children to drive a stick. Then again, who drives a stick these days? It went on to bless a college student who needed sturdy transportation and great mileage, so selling it was a right move.

My beloved wanted me to drive something newer, so we hit the dealer lots. Interestingly, I never saw anything I liked. Some detail always held up my ability to buy a new car, such as blah colors, no GPS in the dash, stiff ride, seats uncomfortable, etc. I could fill a page with the details I found to dislike in the new cars at every dealer.  It became clear that I don't need a new car, much less want one. Nothing came up to the high standards of my current ride, so I'm going to keep it.

I realize this sounds un-American, but I don't want a new car. So there.

Finality and Bullies

Richmond's decision has been made - and nothing has changed in the Chase. Saturday's race was a wreckfest under a full moon. For a while there, I thought the winner would be the last car running with all four wheels on the track. Despite a hard bit of racing at the end, Harvick pulled out his fourth win of the season. Now we head into the final ten races to determine the champion. Ho hum. If someone other than Jimmie Johnson doesn't step it up, the chase will officially be a bore.

On a more scary note (and it's not even Halloween yet!), I just read a blog by author Kiana Davenport dated August 24. You can read it at kianadavenportdialogues.blogspot.com. Ms. Davenport is being punished by a Big Six publisher for putting two short story collections up on Amazon. One of these books had been rejected by the same publisher before she went digital with them. However, this publisher did offer a contract for another, different book, and paid an advance of $20,000, which they are now demanding back since Ms. Davenport refuses to remove her short story collections from Amazon.

Wow, is all I can say. Amazon must be terrorizing traditional publishers to the point of panic. And you know what? About time! You better believe I'm going to buy Ms. Davenport's short stories on Amazon. No one likes a bully, and if I can help finance Ms. Davenport's legal team, I'll buy her ebooks for that reason alone.

Another small death

The final race for the Sprint Cup Chase is tomorrow. Amid all the frenzy of packing up for a day of tailgating, I just read some shocking news. No, it's not that the Republocans hate Pres. Obama and will do everything they can to undermine his presidency, and to hades with what is best for the country. Wnat else is new?

No, it's that Kevin Harvick, Inc. is closing up shop. They're moving their Nationwide program to RCR, but shutting down their race truck operation and selling the building, if they can. WOW. KHI, Inc. was an inspiration in many ways. They had Ron Hornaday, an old dog with plenty of tricks up his firesuit sleeve, winning truck championships. They sold Chevy chasses to other teams. They are second in points in the Nationwide championship race. Delana Harvick was a business force to be reckoned with, a powerful woman in Nascar whose maiden name was NOT France. People knew what an extraordinary effort it took to keep a small race shop open and winning, and respected the Harvicks for their top notch operation.

In a move that's emblematic of what is happening all over this country, a well-run small business is shutting down, and 140 people are out of work. That it's involved in Nascar is beside the point. As the song says, "and another one bites the dust." What a real shame.

Writing Power

Nope, nothing to do with writing inspiration. In this case, it's all about perspiration. Or, as Southern ladies say, the "glow." With our power still off, I had to get out of my comfort zone to get some work done. Since my laptop runs 45 minutes, tops, on its fading battery, I trekked over to the church, which had power, to plug it in and store up some juice. There, I discovered again something I had lost.

It was the ability to write anywhere. Once upon a time, I wrote in short bursts wherever I was, on whatever, as long as I had fifteen uninterrupted seconds. Somehow, I became accustomed to my home office, my desk, my window view, for my muse to kick it into high gear. However, sitting in a quiet church, feeling a bit odd to be dressed in jeans in a place where I normally wear suits, skirts, or pearls, I got to work.

And the muse was just fine. As the battery charged, the pages flowed. When I finally looked up, it was late afternoon. I hadn't needed my own desk chair, my special wrist pad, or anything else, except the laptop, to write. I probably didn't need that, but it was my excuse for getting out of my powerless office.

From now on, no more excuses. Place doesn't matter. Hands to the keyboard, sweat on the brow, that's all I need.

Still waiting. . .

There are times in your life when you know you just have to be patient. There's no other option. That 39th week of pregnancy, for example. You can jump up and down all you want, but in the end, you have no control over when the baby shows up, because Mother Nature knows best. Or growing out your hair after a bad haircut. You wear hats and try to ignore the awfulness, but in the end, hair grows at its own pace.

So what are we really discussing here, you may ask yourself? The end result of my attempt to be philosophically patient is that I'm not. Sure, I know the power company is doing the best it can. That schools and stoplights trump my little old subdivision. I get it. Doesn't help,though. Those cold showers are getting old. The sight of swinging transformers and downed power lines snaking through my yard is scary. I want them to go away.

I count blessings every day. No trees through the roof. No cars crushed by branches the size of elephants. (We have hundred year old oaks in our area, and they are BIG.) Others in my subdivision didn't fare as well. So what, that I had to toss a brand new box of Schwans root beer bars? (The best ice cream on the planet.) It's all good. And if we have to wait another week for power, so be it. I had a baby come a few weeks after her due date, and if I can handle that, I can handle this.

However, I'd like it to be known that "let there be light" is a perfectly good idea.

Irene, such a lovely name. . .

And such a nasty storm. My town was pounded, there's no other verb for it. Trees cracked, toppled, thumped the ground, and generally kept life interesting. With no power for over 24 hours, I've come to the conclusion we're in for the long haul. After Hurricnae Isabel, we went about two weeks living by candlelight. I'm hoping for a shorter recovery this time around.Call me a cock-eyed optimist.

Bless 3G iPads, and the ability to discover what's going on! I outgrew the romantic candle notion during the last big power outage. Roughing it has no allure. I HATE cold showers. Even reading gets old when candle wax drips on your hands. That stuff is HOT.

At least the generator is keeping the freezer running.I keep telling myself, it could be worse. A whole lot worse. . .Gratitude is the hot commodity at our house.

Brad Keselowski

We were invited by RIR to a "Cookout with Keselowski" this week. Along with hamburgers and meeting other fans, we got to have a meet and greet with Bad Brad.

Who is not "Bad" Brad at all. What a polite young man. Whipcord thin (as we say in romance novels), he's obviously working hard to make everyone feel comfortable around him. He tries very hard, but it must be difficult for someone so young who really just loves to drive fast cars.

He laughed when I told him he was going to show up on our Christmas letter. And when I said "You need to eat more fried chicken and mashed potatoes!" he said, as any well-bred young man would say to an older lady, "Yes, ma'am."  He does his mama proud.

Since following Brad when he got a ride in a good truck and ended up wrecked, but with a job offer from Dale Jr. to run the 88 car in Nationwide, I've been impressed that he's always himself on the track.  Run hard, run fast, and and don't kowtow to anyone.

Especially Carl Edwards, who thinks he's the new Lord of the track.  Give him heck, Brad. Take that championship home to Penske.

The Old Stuff

Excavating old files is like a day spent in the attic. Finds abound. I have complete manuscripts that didn't, and don't, fit in the publishing mold. I knew it while I was writing them, but I wanted, no, needed, to tell them. One is set in the early twentieth century in Turkey. Another involves an adopted little girl whose biologic father shows up, wanting her. The monkey wrench is that her adoptive mother is falling for a stock car racer. Two men, one woman, not the standard romance set-up, especially since the mom isn't sure she wants any man in her life. The third is set today on the Mattaponi Indian Reservation in Virginia, and though there's murder and romance, the heart of the story is about honoring treaties and commitments signed in the seventeenth century, even if it's hard for the people involved.

I still love these stories. I've always believed if a story interests me, someone else will like it too. So they're going to get another chance. I'm not sure how or when, but all it takes is creativity. Coin of the realm in the writer's world. Piece of cake, right? When I
start using cliches, I'm in trouble. . . .

Now all I can think are cliches. Shoot.

Another story!

From my stash of scary stories for Halloween. Have fun with it!
Tracy

House of Purity

by

Tracy Dunham © 2011

            Of all the crappy things in a year filled with crap, Laura had to take her little brother trick or treating.  Even worse, she had to stick with all the moms and dads at the bottom of the porch steps, make “oooh” noises when the candy rolled out and the munchkins dove in like starving sharks, and pretend like all the snotty nosed kids were just darling, so cute, yes indeed, precious beyond a doubt.  Oh, the joys of being older by twelve years.  If she had a penny for every time she wished her parents hadn’t decided to have another baby, she’d be as rich as Ivanka Trump.  So here she was at seventeen, looking like an unwed teenaged mother with a five year old brat who thought dressing like a ninja was cool.  Ninjas went out of style when she was twelve.

            “Laurie, hurry up. I don’t want Robbie to stay up past eight.  And no eating the candy!  Dad and I will be home by eleven at the latest.” Her mom put on her lipstick by the hall mirror.

            “Lucky me,” Laura muttered under her breath.  Louder, she grumbled, “Yeah, yeah, yeah.  Bed by eight, no candy.”  As if Robbie the House King would keep his sticky little fingers out of his candy bag.  The only way she could keep him sugar-free was to wire his nasty little mouth shut. 

            “Laurrriiieee,” Robbie screeched from the front door.  “Hurreeyyyy!”

            “Off you go.  How do I look?”  Her mom primped, adjusting her tiara and fluffing up her tulle skirt.  She was too old to dress like a fairy princess, Laura wanted to say, but it was just sour grapes.  She hadn’t been invited to a Halloween party since she was ten and everyone in the fifth grade got invited to the class party.

            At least it wasn’t raining or freezing.  She remembered some miserable trick or treating when she was little.  Robbie got all the luck.  Always had.  He got the smart genes, the DNA that got him put into advanced classes for super geeks. He was reading at two, full sized books that gave her a headache, and doing math problems she wouldn’t even try.  Everyone loved Robbie.  Big blue eyes, curly blond hair, and a laugh that made everyone smile with him, even if they didn’t know what got him giggling.  Yeah, Robbie had it all. What did she have? A sucky grade point average, stringy mouse-colored hair, braces for the past four years, and zits. 

            “Okay, little monster, let’s hit the road.”  She grabbed the flashlight her mom handed her and followed Robbie out the front door.  “If you give me any grief, we’re going home.  Got it?”
            She didn’t like the way he stuck out his tongue at her, but what was she going to do? Smack him?  He’d tattle and her mother would take away her Internet.  Robbie was perfect around adults, but with her he acted like she was his serving girl.  Clean his room, fix him a snack, blah, blah, blah, and her mother made her do it.  She couldn’t wait until she graduated from high school next year and could get out on her own.  College wasn’t going to happen, her parents informed her. Robbie’s extra classes cost a lot of money, and her grades weren’t good enough, so what the heck, she was on her own.

            Fine by her.  Far as she was concerned, this was the last Halloween she had to play nanny for the Super Kid.  Next year she’d have her own place and a job, and she wouldn’t have to see the brat again if she didn’t want to.

            “Hi Laurie.  Good to see you.”  Mrs. Evans was waiting for them at the sidewalk, her two little girls dressed like ghosts.

            “Hi.”  Laura figured Mrs. Evans was cool.  She hadn’t spent a fortune on some stupid costume for her kids or herself.  The ghosts were made from old sheets.  “Mary and Susan look great.”

            “I want candy,” Robbie whined. 

            “So start walking,” Laura ordered.  “It doesn’t jump in your bag by itself.”

            “I hate Halloween,” Mrs. Evans noted casually. “No child needs as much candy as they get. ”

            “I guess so,” Laura agreed.  “My mom said Robbie couldn’t eat anything tonight.  She wants to check it all out, I guess, before he swallows anything.”

            “Can’t be too careful.”  Mrs. Evans waved at the Roginsons, who were standing in their doorway, making admiring noises at the kids’ costumes.  “Would you and Robbie like to stop by our house on the way home for some hot chocolate?”

            Just what she wanted.  More chatting with Mrs. Evans while Robbie whined that he wanted to eat his candy.

            “I don’t think so, thanks.  Mom said Robbie has to be in bed by eight.”

            “Sure. Makes sense.  I’m a terrible mother, I know.” She sighed, then laughed. “The girls won’t be able to sleep until I let them eat their candy, but they don’t have to show off in school tomorrow.”

            Laura couldn’t help it, she laughed. 

            Mrs. Evans tilted her head under the nearest driveway lantern and looked at Laura as her girls and Robbie attacked another front door. “Must be difficult sometimes, being the elder sibling to the alien child.”

            This time Laura’s laugh was less enthusiastic. Robbie was a brat, but he was her brother.  “Not too much.  He has a mouth on him, but then he was talking in full sentences before he was one.”  Her mother was very proud of that fact and repeated it often.

            “How far are you taking Robbie tonight? Around the block?”

            She hadn’t really thought of it. “I guess, and maybe the next one if we have time.”

            “I hear the church on Ford Avenue is open and handing out candy.  I might take the girls there after this row.”

            “Sounds good.”  Robby couldn’t object.  “What’s the church? Isn’t it new?”

            “I’m not sure of its name.  It got left the old Coleman house in the old lady’s will, so it’s turned the place into a church.  Opened about a month ago.  They’ve been pretty quiet, but I hear they’ve worked on the yard a lot, and the neighbors are happy.”

            The trick-or-treating on their own street took forever, it seemed.  Laura was sick and tired of all the cutesy comments about costumes and how big everyone was getting, blah, blah, blah.  Dragging Robby with the two girls turned out to be pretty easy, since the girls were handing him pieces of candy from their bags and he was stuffing it in his mouth as fast as he could. Finally, they headed for a new street.

            The church on Ford Avenue that Mrs. Evans wanted to visit didn’t look too promising, however.  No lights brightened the second floor windows, and the front door hid beneath a bulb that couldn’t have been more than ten watts.  A hand-painted sign reading “House of Purity” hung on the porch eaves.  If this was a church, she was a gorgeous blonde with big boobs.

            “You sure they’re handing out candy?”  Laura dragged Robby back beside her as the two girls and their mother wandered down the walkway.  “It doesn’t look open for business.”

            “That’s what I heard.  Can’t hurt to try.  I’m right here, and besides, I’ve been wanting to see what they’ve done with the place.”

            Not much, Laura thought.  The paint was still peeling, and if they’d worked on the yard, she’d be surprised.  Big branches hung low over the sidewalk and leaves cluttered the gutters.  Checking out the second floor, she saw the shutters still hung at crazy angles. Fat lot of good the House of  Purity was doing this house. And who in the heck would belong to a denomination with that name? Purity of what?

            Laura watched Mrs. Evans ring the doorbell.  To her surprise, it opened and a nice looking woman wearing a long blue dress gestured for the two girls to enter.  Something didn’t feel right to Laura, but Mrs. Evans didn’t hesitate. She and the two girls disappeared.  Waiting for them to come out, Laura started to worry.  When the porch light went out a few seconds later, she panicked.  What did she do now? Call the police?  Call Mr. Evans?

            “I wanna get more candy,” Robby whined.  “Why can’t we get candy there?” He pointed at the house where the Evanses disappeared.

            “I don’t think it’s a good place. Come on, let’s go home.”  She’d call Mr. Evans from her house.  Maybe after this, her mom would let her have a cell phone.  She was the only girl in her class who didn’t have one.

            “No,” Robby screamed.  “I have to go in there!  They’ll get all the candy!”

            “You’ll do what I tell you to do!  Now come on!”  Jerking Robby behind her, Laura tried to drag him down the sidewalk but his hand slipped from hers.  Running as fast as his short legs would carry him, he hurtled to the front door and beat on it, crying “candy, candy!”

            “Robby,” Laura cried, scrambling to catch up, fell flat on her face. To her horror, the door creaked open.  A single hand reached out, and before Laura could dive to catch him, Robby disappeared.

            A loud crack sounded like a gunshot as the door slammed shut behind him.

            “Hey,” Laura screamed, “give me my brother!  You can’t do this!  I’m calling the police!”

            Racing to the house next door, she beat on the front door, crying that she needed to use the phone.  No one opened to her.  Down the block, she continued her quest, but it seemed the whole block around the church was dark.  Where was everyone? This was Halloween, at least a few houses should have been handing out candy at this hour.  Why weren’t they?

            She gave up trying to get to a phone anywhere near the House of Purity, and fighting panic, ran for home.  Hands shaking, she could barely unlock the door.  Grabbing the kitchen phone, she was trying to see through her tears to dial 911, when someone came through the front door behind her. Terrified because she hadn’t locked the door, she ducked under the kitchen table, clutching the phone to her chest.  She hadn’t turned on the kitchen lights, thank goodness.

            “Laura, where are you?  What happened to you?  The girls missed you when they left the church.”  Mrs. Evans lifted the tablecloth and peered at Laura.  “Are you ill?”

            “You’re okay,” Laura screamed, “I thought they’d taken you and the girls. Where’s Robby?  What was going on in that place?”  She could barely talk, she was so relieved to see Mrs. Evans.

            “Robby who?  What do you mean, you thought someone had taken us?  We didn’t go anywhere.  Just got the girls some chocolates, we brought some out to you, and you were gone.  Come out, dear, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.” 

            Grabbing a table leg, Laura held on for dear life. “What do you mean, Robby who?  He’s my brother, he followed you into that creepy so-called church.  I’ve got to call the cops, my parents will kill me for losing him.  How could you let them keep him?”  Shrieking at Mrs. Evans, Laura tried to dial 9ll again, but she dropped the phone trying to fight off Mrs. Evans.  The woman had Laura’s foot in both hands and was dragging Laura like a sack of grass seed.

            “You poor dear.  I can’t help you if you won’t let me. What’s your mom’s cell phone number, she needs to get home right now.”  Mrs. Evans, Laura realized, sounded like the sane person in the kitchen. She wanted to scream, but no one was home to hear her. 

            “I’m going back for Robby,” Laura cried as she fought free of Mrs. Evans, and half on her hands and knees, threw herself out the front door. She was younger than Mrs. Evans, she had to be faster if she could just stay on her feet.  She did.  Running so hard her lungs hurt, she cut through back yards to get to the House of Purity before Mrs. Evans.

            As she rounded the corner, she couldn’t believe what she was seeing.  She had to have the wrong street, but glancing at the street sign, she saw it was Ford Avenue.  How could this be happening?  Where was the house that had swallowed her brother as if he were a gnat?  Nothing but trees stood where the house had been extant not fifteen minutes ago.  Big trees.  Black walnuts and pin oaks.  Even the grass had been planted at least a season ago.  There was no way that house disappeared into thin air.  Or any kind of air, thin or not.

            “Robby?  Where are you?” she sobbed.  She’d lost him, her little brother.  Her parents would never forgive her.  She may as well find another place to live right now.

            “Honey, what’s wrong?  Mrs. Evans called, said you were having some kind of breakdown.”  Her mother hopped out of her dad’s car, still in her fairy princess costume, and came running to her.  “Come home before you make a complete fool of yourself out here.”  She gestured to the black Mercedes.

            “Mom, Robby’s been taken!  By a house that was standing here not twenty minutes ago.  You’re got to believe me.”

            Her mother stroked the sweaty hair from her face.  “I believe you sweetie, but you need to rest. It’s been a busy month, with all the games you had to cheer, researching colleges for your applications, tutoring after school, being class president.  It’s my fault for letting you get so busy, but you seemed to be thriving.  Please, hon, let’s go home.”

            “You’ve got to call the police about Robby.”  What if he were hurt?

            “I don’t know about any Robby.  Is he your new boyfriend?  I’m glad you’re dating, but there are so many boys, it’s hard to keep up.”  Her mother laughed.

            Fighting for breath, Laura shut her eyes and counted to ten.  This was a bad dream, she’d wake up any second now.  Please, let her wake up.  What if she didn’t?

__________________________________

            Malin morphed from the humanoid woman dressed in blue into her true state – a large gaseous blob.  “I must say, this has been a disappointment.”

            “You weren’t the one who had to live as a human child for the past five human years.  I thought you’d never show up!  What took you so long?”

            The green gas once known as Robby swirled into the house’s ceilings.  “And when can we get out of here? There’s nothing here for us, I can report with the utmost certainty.”

            “It’s a shame their intelligence is so limited.  We had high hopes.”  Malin’s gas form grew more frenetic.  “There’s only one thing left to do.  I’ve wiped clean the memories of everyone who had contact with you as Robby.  What an unfortunate name.”

            “Good.  What about the sister?  I sense her distress.  She doesn’t seem. . . .”  He hesitated. “No, it can’t be.  She’s searching for the boy.  Malin, what’s wrong?  Why isn’t she cleansed like the others?”

            Malin sighed.  “It happens sometimes.  You know that.  We’ll have to go to stage two.  Not that it’s a loss, this planet is so useless.  I just hate expending the energy.”

            “Well, it’s your job, not mine. I’ve done my part.  See you on Ulona 6.  I’ve got my orders.  First, though, I’ve some R & R coming after that ordeal.”  With those words, the green gas blob dissipated into the night sky.

            “Right, leave a woman to clean up the mess. How like a man.”  Swelling into a larger gaseous state, Malin swirled into the sky behind him.  From miles above earth’s atmosphere, she hesitated, then with a mighty swelling, knocked earth out of its orbit.  With compassion for the pea-sized inhabitants of this minor world, she added a quick shove that would hasten the end more quickly.

            No sense in prolonging their pain.

The Path to Love

I know it sounds . . . uncharacteristic of me. This title. But it's the name of a collection of short stories, sweet and romantic, that are now up on Amazon for the Kindle. I can only say that they're some of the ones I've liked best of my short-shorts that I've written through the years.  At 99 cents, I  hope they'll be read for fun - a quick trip into romance that I hope lifts your spirits and renews your faith in the power of love to overcome all obstacles.

I'm hoping to put together a compilation of Halloween short stories I've written every October for the children since they were young. The stories became a tradition, and in rereading them, I find much I still like. A quick dip in the monster pond is always fun during Halloween.