"Scene from the End of One Story"
By Stephen B. Bagley
...This is how one story ended...
Eve walked into Milligan's with her friend Bette, and as always, her eyes searched the restaurant for his shoulders and that ratty leather jacket and his soft worn hat that felt like velvet when she touched it. For seven weeks, she had searched all their places. The coffee shop, the bookstore, the library, the pier, the Seafood Shack. But Jeremy had disappeared from her life.
She didn't know how to live without him, but she was trying to learn how. She took a gym class, went out to movies with Bette and her other friends, and focused on work, turning out reports with an efficiency that even her boss noticed. A couple of guys--Kevin from Sales and Joel from Receivables--asked her out, and she said yes. Nice enough dates, and she had enjoyed them. Kevin even made her laugh, and Joel was sweet. But she kissed them good night at the door.
Bette threaded her way through the crowd, looking for a table. Eve followed, wondering when she would stop feeling that pit in her stomach when she didn't see him. She stumbled and caught herself on the edge of a table. The men seated at it smiled at her. She apologized, backed away, turned toward Bette, and saw Jeremy.
He didn't see her. He stood by a table talking to two other men. The crowd closed between them, and she lost sight of him. For a moment, she paused, feeling her heart beating hard. Then she pushed forward, leaving Bette behind, weaving her way forcefully toward her last chance.
"Jeremy," she said.
He turned and saw her. He started to smile, but it faded away.
"Eve," he said. "How are you?"
"Fine," she said. But that wasn't what she meant to say. She meant to say she was falling to pieces, her heart broke, her life in shambles, but the words wouldn't come.
"Where's Ben?" he asked.
"I don't know," she said. "Back with his wife, I guess. We're not together."
Jeremy nodded. "Sorry to hear that."
"I broke up with him," Eve said, wanting him to understand. "I sent him away. I remembered what you said. 'If he cheats on his wife, why wouldn't he cheat on you?' I should have listened."
"He cheated on you," Jeremy asked with a flash of anger in his voice.
Surely that meant something, she thought. "No, but I realized he would. I realized the love of his life was him." She laughed.
Jeremy took a deep breath. "Well, I'm sorry to hear things didn't work out. It's good to see you. I've got to go. I'm leaving New York in a couple of days. I have a lot of packing still to do. Got a job in Boston."
"Oh," she said. "Boston. Good. Good. Is it one you wanted?"
"It's a job," he said. "I've always liked Boston." He grinned. "Great clam chowder."
She laughed to keep from crying out. He's moved on, she thought. He's moving away.
"It's good to see you," he said. "You look...beautiful." He smiled. "Well, take care. Tell your parents I said hi."
"I will," she said. "You take care. Enjoy that chowder."
And he walked away while she stood in a crowd of strangers and she realized that would be her life--to always be alone in a crowd.
"No!" she said. She took three quick steps and grabbed his arm. "Jeremy, wait."
He turned back, his face surprised. "What?"
She couldn't find the words.
"What, Eve?" he asked again. "I need to go."
"Okay," she said. "Can we talk outside? Just for a minute."
He looked down at the floor. "I don't think that would be a good idea. Don't you think we've hurt each other enough? I can't take any more."
She swallowed. "Just for a minute. I need to tell you a few things. It won't take long."
He took a deep breath. "For a minute."
They found a bench in the tiny park across the street.
"Well," Jeremy said. "What do you want from me, Eve?"
"Nothing," she said, but her heart called her a liar. "I needed to apologize."
"No," he said. "No. I don't want to do this."
"Please," she said. "I just wanted to know how sorry I was. How I would give anything to go back and fix things."
"Eve, we're--"
"I know you're not in love with me anymore," she said. "I know we can't go back. And that you don't want to. You've moved on. Good. I'm glad. I want you to be happy." She could feel the tears behind her eyes threatening to overflow. "I wanted you to know I will always want the best for you."
He looked away.
She wiped her eyes. Time to go. Time to walk away. Time to let him walk away. Time to face the bleakness ahead. She needed a few moments to gather her strength.
He stood and took a couple steps away. She wanted to weep, but she didn't. This was the result of her decisions. She had made them, and she would live with them. She had enough courage to do that.
She rose. "I'd better let you go. I'm sorry if I hurt you."
He turned, his face shadowed. "I'm at a place in my life--"
"You don't have to explain," she said. "I understand." She shook her head and wiped her eyes. "We had something lovely, and I broke it. I didn't mean to. But I guess that doesn't mean a thing. I wanted you to know I miss you. Oh how I do."
"Let me finish," he said. "I'm at a place in my life where there are more good-byes than hellos. More people lost than found."
She watched him, almost afraid to breathe.
"Comes with getting older," he said with a short laugh. "You can't imagine how...lost I've felt without you. How empty. But then I saw you with him, and I was angry. It was better to be angry than empty. But now...."
He was silent for longer than she could bear, but she bore it anyway. Please God please, she prayed. Another chance and I won't blow it. Please oh please.
"Too many goodbyes," he said finally. "Not enough hellos. I don't want that for my life. I don't want to tell you goodbye." He looked at her. "Hello. How are you? I missed you. I missed you."
She sobbed and launched herself into his eager arms.
...This is how one story ended and a new one began...
(Copyright 2017 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved. Thanks for reading.)
Saturday, July 01, 2017
Saturday, June 24, 2017
Excerpt: "Thoughts at a Picnic"
(Excerpt from the forthcoming Floozy Comes Back)
By Stephen B. Bagley
Bittersweet is that moment when you slap down on an annoying fly on the picnic table and gleefully crush it on your palm and then you realize its guts are on your hand and it probably just finished chowing down on a poop platter thoughtfully provided by the 127 feral cats who haunt the park. So you wipe your hand on your napkin, wishing you had hand sanitizer even though you watched an exposé on Channel 4 showing how sanitizer could easily ignite and you shouldn’t use it near a fireplace or an open flame so it might not be safe since you’re sitting four feet away from the barbeque where they are sacrificing wieners to the flames.
You look back at the table and realize there’s that green-reddish smear from when you crushed Mr. Fly and you don’t want to see that so you move your plate to cover the remains, but the thought of it being there bothers you, and for a moment you think about that Poe story, “The Tell-Tale Heart,” where the murderer has hidden his victim under the floorboards of his house, but then he thinks he hears “the beating of his hideous heart!”
Hardly a nice thing to remember on a nice day like this with the sun shining and your friends laughing beside you, and you blame Mr. Simmons who told that story to your seventh grade English class and gave you nightmares because he did it so convincingly and kept looking at the students with such a mad look that it’s no surprise that he was arrested for public nudity at a zoo and went to prison for five years and the poor flamingoes never recovered and went around looking shell-shocked and losing pink feathers everywhere.
You look back at your plate, which now you can’t do without thinking of the corpse it’s concealing, and pick up your fork to have some of that potato salad that Kathy brought and your mind flashes back to that report Channel 4 did about food-born pathogens and how they lurk in every picnic food which should never sit out for more than a few minutes, otherwise they become something so lethal that they could wipe out entire civilizations, which might be what happened to the people who built Stonehenge. You can imagine them gathering for a rock-raising picnic, and a few hours later, they’re all gasping their last breath like that fly you crushed. But the fly’s death was so fast it probably didn’t have time for a last breath; one moment it’s on the table looking at the feast spread before it, thinking happy thoughts, and then it’s not thinking anything. This makes you feel better because, after all, you gave it a quick, happy death, which is not such a terrible thing, and many people might want such a parting from this life, although how they’d find a giant picnic table is anyone’s guess.
Still, you put the fork back down and pick up your ham sandwich—WITH THE FLY CRUSHING HAND! A hand that’s probably contaminated with the bacteria and viruses that the fly picked up when it dined on the poop of a cat which had escaped from a secret lab conducting research into bio-weapons and this...this innocent picnic is how the zombie apocalypse starts!
With mounting panic, you realize you’re sure thinking about poop at lot at this picnic and now you’re afraid you will always associate picnic with poop and you frantically start thinking of better things that happen at picnics: laughing, games of Frisbee® and softball, splashing in pools, playing games of tag with the grand-children, and once at a college picnic years ago a curvy blonde fellow journalist let you find her in the woods for a bit of friendly necking—wait, that’s not an appropriate thought for now.
You carefully take a bite of the sandwich avoiding the side that touched your palm, and it’s good. Ham, lettuce, tomato, Swiss cheese, mustard, thick wheat bread.... Of course, if you were serious about your low carb diet, you wouldn’t be eating the bread at all. According to the carb commandos, grains are poison, POISON, and maybe that’s what actually wiped out the Stonehenge builders. Between raising multi-ton rocks, they were happily eating bread, French fries, ice cream, white rice, tacos, peach cobbler, potato salad.... Happy, heavy people who one day were felled by heart attacks, diabetes, and dreaded lard-bottom disease. All in all, there are worse ways to go if one has to go.
Which makes you think of an article you read recently in a science magazine about those people who think they don’t have to go and plan to upload their brains into a supercomputer so they can live forever, ignoring the fact that the original person would go ahead and age and die, leaving behind some monstrous thing that only faintly resembled a human, like a Congressman.
By now, everyone else is finished or finishing their plate of food and either getting seconds or thirds or deciding they’d better stop, and you have barely touched your food, which might make them think you’re on your second or third place when you’ve barely eaten enough to keep a fly alive...that fly again. Sigh. Now you’re regretting you killed the thing. Maybe you should have shooed it away, thus not incurring a Karmic debt. But you don’t believe in reincarnation anyway since you’re Baptist, and if it were true, then you’d only be releasing the soul trapped in the fly to move up into a better body, like maybe a boil weevil or a rodent. Unless it had been a bad fly, and then it would drop down in worth and become a telemarketer.
They’re cutting the watermelon now. You like watermelon and can easily make yourself sick eating too much given half a chance, but watermelon is basically sugar water held together by a fibrous matrix and loaded with carbs. You mentally add watermelon to the diet of the Stonehenge builders while taking a plate—a small plate—of the melon, vowing to yourself that you will walk several miles and burn off that sugar before it has time to damage your body even though you insisted the picnic was close to a parking lot because you didn’t want to walk.
The watermelon has seeds—the best ones do, in your opinion—and one of the black seeds moves! It’s another FLY! But you wave it off and examine the melon flesh closely, like you could see germs, and take your life into your teeth and hungrily devour the fruit.
It’s the end of the picnic, and it would hardly look right for you keep eating, so you regretfully drop your plate and cup in the trash, and stop at Delicias Mexican Restaurant on the way home for chips, dip, and a platter of enchiladas.
(Excerpt from the forthcoming Floozy Comes Back. Copyright 2017 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved. Please do not copy without explicit permission from the author and publisher. Thank you for reading.)
By Stephen B. Bagley
Bittersweet is that moment when you slap down on an annoying fly on the picnic table and gleefully crush it on your palm and then you realize its guts are on your hand and it probably just finished chowing down on a poop platter thoughtfully provided by the 127 feral cats who haunt the park. So you wipe your hand on your napkin, wishing you had hand sanitizer even though you watched an exposé on Channel 4 showing how sanitizer could easily ignite and you shouldn’t use it near a fireplace or an open flame so it might not be safe since you’re sitting four feet away from the barbeque where they are sacrificing wieners to the flames.
You look back at the table and realize there’s that green-reddish smear from when you crushed Mr. Fly and you don’t want to see that so you move your plate to cover the remains, but the thought of it being there bothers you, and for a moment you think about that Poe story, “The Tell-Tale Heart,” where the murderer has hidden his victim under the floorboards of his house, but then he thinks he hears “the beating of his hideous heart!”
Hardly a nice thing to remember on a nice day like this with the sun shining and your friends laughing beside you, and you blame Mr. Simmons who told that story to your seventh grade English class and gave you nightmares because he did it so convincingly and kept looking at the students with such a mad look that it’s no surprise that he was arrested for public nudity at a zoo and went to prison for five years and the poor flamingoes never recovered and went around looking shell-shocked and losing pink feathers everywhere.
You look back at your plate, which now you can’t do without thinking of the corpse it’s concealing, and pick up your fork to have some of that potato salad that Kathy brought and your mind flashes back to that report Channel 4 did about food-born pathogens and how they lurk in every picnic food which should never sit out for more than a few minutes, otherwise they become something so lethal that they could wipe out entire civilizations, which might be what happened to the people who built Stonehenge. You can imagine them gathering for a rock-raising picnic, and a few hours later, they’re all gasping their last breath like that fly you crushed. But the fly’s death was so fast it probably didn’t have time for a last breath; one moment it’s on the table looking at the feast spread before it, thinking happy thoughts, and then it’s not thinking anything. This makes you feel better because, after all, you gave it a quick, happy death, which is not such a terrible thing, and many people might want such a parting from this life, although how they’d find a giant picnic table is anyone’s guess.
Still, you put the fork back down and pick up your ham sandwich—WITH THE FLY CRUSHING HAND! A hand that’s probably contaminated with the bacteria and viruses that the fly picked up when it dined on the poop of a cat which had escaped from a secret lab conducting research into bio-weapons and this...this innocent picnic is how the zombie apocalypse starts!
With mounting panic, you realize you’re sure thinking about poop at lot at this picnic and now you’re afraid you will always associate picnic with poop and you frantically start thinking of better things that happen at picnics: laughing, games of Frisbee® and softball, splashing in pools, playing games of tag with the grand-children, and once at a college picnic years ago a curvy blonde fellow journalist let you find her in the woods for a bit of friendly necking—wait, that’s not an appropriate thought for now.
You carefully take a bite of the sandwich avoiding the side that touched your palm, and it’s good. Ham, lettuce, tomato, Swiss cheese, mustard, thick wheat bread.... Of course, if you were serious about your low carb diet, you wouldn’t be eating the bread at all. According to the carb commandos, grains are poison, POISON, and maybe that’s what actually wiped out the Stonehenge builders. Between raising multi-ton rocks, they were happily eating bread, French fries, ice cream, white rice, tacos, peach cobbler, potato salad.... Happy, heavy people who one day were felled by heart attacks, diabetes, and dreaded lard-bottom disease. All in all, there are worse ways to go if one has to go.
Which makes you think of an article you read recently in a science magazine about those people who think they don’t have to go and plan to upload their brains into a supercomputer so they can live forever, ignoring the fact that the original person would go ahead and age and die, leaving behind some monstrous thing that only faintly resembled a human, like a Congressman.
By now, everyone else is finished or finishing their plate of food and either getting seconds or thirds or deciding they’d better stop, and you have barely touched your food, which might make them think you’re on your second or third place when you’ve barely eaten enough to keep a fly alive...that fly again. Sigh. Now you’re regretting you killed the thing. Maybe you should have shooed it away, thus not incurring a Karmic debt. But you don’t believe in reincarnation anyway since you’re Baptist, and if it were true, then you’d only be releasing the soul trapped in the fly to move up into a better body, like maybe a boil weevil or a rodent. Unless it had been a bad fly, and then it would drop down in worth and become a telemarketer.
They’re cutting the watermelon now. You like watermelon and can easily make yourself sick eating too much given half a chance, but watermelon is basically sugar water held together by a fibrous matrix and loaded with carbs. You mentally add watermelon to the diet of the Stonehenge builders while taking a plate—a small plate—of the melon, vowing to yourself that you will walk several miles and burn off that sugar before it has time to damage your body even though you insisted the picnic was close to a parking lot because you didn’t want to walk.
The watermelon has seeds—the best ones do, in your opinion—and one of the black seeds moves! It’s another FLY! But you wave it off and examine the melon flesh closely, like you could see germs, and take your life into your teeth and hungrily devour the fruit.
It’s the end of the picnic, and it would hardly look right for you keep eating, so you regretfully drop your plate and cup in the trash, and stop at Delicias Mexican Restaurant on the way home for chips, dip, and a platter of enchiladas.
(Excerpt from the forthcoming Floozy Comes Back. Copyright 2017 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved. Please do not copy without explicit permission from the author and publisher. Thank you for reading.)
Friday, June 16, 2017
If Only
Over the years, I've written a lot of poetry, so much so that sometimes I forget a poem and rediscover it after several years in my journal. I found this one the other day. I changed a few words, but overall, I left it as it was. Funny thing is that I don't even remember who--if anyone--I was writing about.
If Only
By Stephen B. Bagley
If only I could stop loving you
my life would be better now
in more ways than I can imagine.
If only I could forget
the taste of your lips,
your face as you slept,
those blue, happy eyes,
the silly way you smiled,
I wouldn't feel so empty now.
If only I could stop hurting
when I recall those days
of loving and laughing
and yes even fighting,
crying, and arguing--
I wouldn't run from love now.
If only I knew you, too,
had regrets when you
think of me--if ever
you do--and missed
me and our flawed love,
I could finally begin to heal.
If only you read these words
I'd know you'd finally know
I still carry the memory of us
and it's breaking my back
because you lack the courage
to share this heavy burden.
In more ways than I can imagine
my life would better now
if only I could stop loving you.
(Copyright 2017 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved. Thank you for reading.)
If Only
By Stephen B. Bagley
If only I could stop loving you
my life would be better now
in more ways than I can imagine.
If only I could forget
the taste of your lips,
your face as you slept,
those blue, happy eyes,
the silly way you smiled,
I wouldn't feel so empty now.
If only I could stop hurting
when I recall those days
of loving and laughing
and yes even fighting,
crying, and arguing--
I wouldn't run from love now.
If only I knew you, too,
had regrets when you
think of me--if ever
you do--and missed
me and our flawed love,
I could finally begin to heal.
If only you read these words
I'd know you'd finally know
I still carry the memory of us
and it's breaking my back
because you lack the courage
to share this heavy burden.
In more ways than I can imagine
my life would better now
if only I could stop loving you.
(Copyright 2017 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved. Thank you for reading.)
Tuesday, June 13, 2017
Enjoy "Blackbirds Third Flight"
Blackbirds Third Flight is available at
Amazon, Barnes & Noble, BooksAMillion, Lulu,
& other online retailers!
Enjoy these dark fantasies:
➧ A dead girl asks one final question.
➧ A young man rides a forbidden dragon.
➧ With claw and fang, Malone will fight.
➧ Justina Grave battles a dangerous witch.
➧ A father faces his family's terrible secret.
➧ The end of the world begins in a backyard.
➧ A predator prowls on Halloween night.
➧ Thunder Mountain will kill the careless.
➧ Learn the final truth of the Tooth Fairy.
➧ A wolf reveals the face of the true beast.
And much more in this anthology of thrilling tales and poetry from Kathy Akins, Stephen B. Bagley, Wendy Blanton, Michael Canton, D.E. Chandler, Erin Cochran, Gail Henderson, Mariana Llanos, Jean Schara, and Heath Stallcup.
Monday, June 12, 2017
Excerpt from "Murder by the Mile"
Excerpt from Murder by the Mile
The Many Mile Marathon Chairperson Dolores Hyatt had been working in the huge race tent when runners began to share the news about what was happening on Watts Ridge. She had been horrified as the details emerged, but she kept the volunteers focused on processing the racers and making sure they all received their t-shirts and giveaways.
“Dee,” Abby Lange hissed at her. “It’s him!”
Dolores looked up from her clipboard. Michael stood in the entrance scanning the tables. Strangely enough, he was dressed in his jogging suit even though she knew her soon-to-be-ex-husband hadn’t run in the race. Or had someone else checked him in?
She saw when his gaze locked onto her. She tried to control her rapid breathing as he strode over to her.
“We need to talk,” he said flatly. “Now.” The anger in his voice made her flinch.
For a moment, her body nearly betrayed her. She had always done what her husband said, had always taken his anger as her due, and had hid the bruises to protect him. But she would never do that again.
“You need to talk to my attorney,” she said, proud that her voice didn’t
quiver. “Call Harold Hast –”
“I know who it is,” Michael cut in. “I read the papers you had served to me today.”
“I guess the server couldn’t find you yesterday,” Dolores said. “Call Harold.”
“Don’t tell me what to do!” Michael yelled. “Now, come with me!”
People looked at them. Abby rose and came to stand behind Dolores.
Dolores looked down, feeling the old familiar shame flood her. Only Abby’s hand on her shoulder kept her in her chair.
“Michael, you should go,” Abby said.
“Stay out of this,” Michael snarled. “If you know what’s good for you.”
“She does,” Abby’s husband Mack said from behind the real estate agent. Mack, a construction foreman, stared down at Michael. “And if you think you’re going to beat my wife like you beat yours, you got another think coming.” Mack brought his face down to an inch from Michael’s. “Why don’t you just go before I make you go?”
For a moment, Dolores thought Michael was going to throw himself at the much larger man, but he mastered himself.
“This isn’t over,” Michael told Dolores.
“Call Harold Hastings,” she said, not trusting herself to look up. “I won’t talk to you.”
“You will.” Michael turned and left the tent.
“He’s so mad,” Dolores said, sick with fear.
“It’s okay,” Abby said. “It’s okay now. He can’t hurt you now.”
“He’d better not try,” Mack said. “I’ll snap him like a twig.”
“Mack, that’s enough,” Abby said. “Dee, are you all right?”
Dolores nodded. “He wasn’t supposed to be here.”
“Mack, take her clipboard,” Abby commanded. “Dee and I are going to take a break.”
“But I don’t know what to do,” Mack said.
Abby glanced at him. “You’ll learn.” She handed the clipboard to Mack. “Dee and I will be right back.”
Abby led Dee over to the refreshment table where she got them both a cup of black coffee. “We can sit in my car,” Abby said. “It’s right over here.”
In the car, Dolores cried for a good ten minutes while Abby held her hand.
Finally, Dolores pulled herself back together. “I’m sorry, Abs.”
“Sweetie, I’m always here for you,” Abby said. "You were very brave in there."
Dolores shook her head.
“You know what I think?" Abby said. "I think it’s so sad that a nice man like Cyrus Fowler is dead while Michael Hyatt isn’t.”
“Don’t say that,” Dolores said. But she secretly agreed, and for a moment, wondered how to do it.
(Excerpt from the forthcoming mystery novel Murder by the Mile. Copyright 2017 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved. Thank you for reading.)
The Many Mile Marathon Chairperson Dolores Hyatt had been working in the huge race tent when runners began to share the news about what was happening on Watts Ridge. She had been horrified as the details emerged, but she kept the volunteers focused on processing the racers and making sure they all received their t-shirts and giveaways.
“Dee,” Abby Lange hissed at her. “It’s him!”
Dolores looked up from her clipboard. Michael stood in the entrance scanning the tables. Strangely enough, he was dressed in his jogging suit even though she knew her soon-to-be-ex-husband hadn’t run in the race. Or had someone else checked him in?
She saw when his gaze locked onto her. She tried to control her rapid breathing as he strode over to her.
“We need to talk,” he said flatly. “Now.” The anger in his voice made her flinch.
For a moment, her body nearly betrayed her. She had always done what her husband said, had always taken his anger as her due, and had hid the bruises to protect him. But she would never do that again.
“You need to talk to my attorney,” she said, proud that her voice didn’t
quiver. “Call Harold Hast –”
“I know who it is,” Michael cut in. “I read the papers you had served to me today.”
“I guess the server couldn’t find you yesterday,” Dolores said. “Call Harold.”
“Don’t tell me what to do!” Michael yelled. “Now, come with me!”
People looked at them. Abby rose and came to stand behind Dolores.
Dolores looked down, feeling the old familiar shame flood her. Only Abby’s hand on her shoulder kept her in her chair.
“Michael, you should go,” Abby said.
“Stay out of this,” Michael snarled. “If you know what’s good for you.”
“She does,” Abby’s husband Mack said from behind the real estate agent. Mack, a construction foreman, stared down at Michael. “And if you think you’re going to beat my wife like you beat yours, you got another think coming.” Mack brought his face down to an inch from Michael’s. “Why don’t you just go before I make you go?”
For a moment, Dolores thought Michael was going to throw himself at the much larger man, but he mastered himself.
“This isn’t over,” Michael told Dolores.
“Call Harold Hastings,” she said, not trusting herself to look up. “I won’t talk to you.”
“You will.” Michael turned and left the tent.
“He’s so mad,” Dolores said, sick with fear.
“It’s okay,” Abby said. “It’s okay now. He can’t hurt you now.”
“He’d better not try,” Mack said. “I’ll snap him like a twig.”
“Mack, that’s enough,” Abby said. “Dee, are you all right?”
Dolores nodded. “He wasn’t supposed to be here.”
“Mack, take her clipboard,” Abby commanded. “Dee and I are going to take a break.”
“But I don’t know what to do,” Mack said.
Abby glanced at him. “You’ll learn.” She handed the clipboard to Mack. “Dee and I will be right back.”
Abby led Dee over to the refreshment table where she got them both a cup of black coffee. “We can sit in my car,” Abby said. “It’s right over here.”
In the car, Dolores cried for a good ten minutes while Abby held her hand.
Finally, Dolores pulled herself back together. “I’m sorry, Abs.”
“Sweetie, I’m always here for you,” Abby said. "You were very brave in there."
Dolores shook her head.
“You know what I think?" Abby said. "I think it’s so sad that a nice man like Cyrus Fowler is dead while Michael Hyatt isn’t.”
“Don’t say that,” Dolores said. But she secretly agreed, and for a moment, wondered how to do it.
(Excerpt from the forthcoming mystery novel Murder by the Mile. Copyright 2017 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved. Thank you for reading.)
Sunday, June 11, 2017
This is the day
Psalms 118:21-24
(New King James Version)
Verse 21
I will praise You,
For You have answered me,
And have become my salvation.
Verse 22
The stone which the builders rejected
Has become the chief cornerstone.
Verse 23
This was the Lord’s doing;
It is marvelous in our eyes.
Verse 24
This is the day the Lord has made;
We will rejoice and be glad in it.
(New King James Version)
Verse 21
I will praise You,
For You have answered me,
And have become my salvation.
Verse 22
The stone which the builders rejected
Has become the chief cornerstone.
Verse 23
This was the Lord’s doing;
It is marvelous in our eyes.
Verse 24
This is the day the Lord has made;
We will rejoice and be glad in it.
Saturday, June 10, 2017
Lost & Found
Lost & Found
By Stephen B. Bagley
I was lost in my town
living in back alleys
of lost youth and wasted time
until you found me
I wandered aimlessly
from one love to another
all just sad and empty
until you found me
Blind to important things
my light taken by ashes
with sorrow as my friend
until you found me
until you found me
I didn't know
how a real kiss (sweet and sharp)
tasted like cherries
until you found me
I didn't know
how true passion (sweat and shouts)
burned in delicious fire
until you found me
I didn't know
how I had not been
truly alive
Until you found me.
(Copyright 2017 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved. From the forthcoming book Eternal. Thank you for reading.)
By Stephen B. Bagley
I was lost in my town
living in back alleys
of lost youth and wasted time
until you found me
I wandered aimlessly
from one love to another
all just sad and empty
until you found me
Blind to important things
my light taken by ashes
with sorrow as my friend
until you found me
until you found me
I didn't know
how a real kiss (sweet and sharp)
tasted like cherries
until you found me
I didn't know
how true passion (sweat and shouts)
burned in delicious fire
until you found me
I didn't know
how I had not been
truly alive
Until you found me.
(Copyright 2017 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved. From the forthcoming book Eternal. Thank you for reading.)
Friday, June 09, 2017
Passion
PassionBy Stephen B. Bagley
If I could, I would seduce you
into poetry. I would run
feathery words over the bare
shoulders of your muse, touch gently
the moist secret places of your
metaphors, delicately brush
your lips with similes and plunge
rhythm and rhyme into your soul.
I would take you past the threshold
where passion and structure meet, where
one image means the difference
between indifference and glory.
If I could, I would do these things
and do them long and do them well
until when you heard poetry,
you would gasp, don’t stop oh don’t stop.
Copyright 2015. All rights reserved.
Thursday, June 08, 2017
Excerpt 8 from "Red Hot Sinner Man"
Excerpt 8 from Red Hot Sinner Man
By Stephen B. Bagley
Regina Kimmons knew Jacob Sloane wanted her. She could tell. The way he looked at her. The way his eyes not only undressed her but threw her on the red leather couch in his neo-Spartan office and made her scream glories until she was hoarse. How his hand would rest on her shoulder, just a brotherly pat, a touch of friendship, but his long, slender fingers would linger as if they longed to press themselves deep into her flesh until they left dark violet marks of his passion.
She sat at her desk and watched him over her filing. Once she sliced her finger on a piece of paper and pressed the welling cut to her mouth. She looked up and caught his eyes focusing on her lips before he turned away. She knew he wanted her. Now if only his inconvenient wife would die.
Often she found herself thinking of ways for Linda Kimmons to die. A car accident. A stroke. A strange strain of flu. A doctor's mistake. People died all the time; why couldn't she? She used to feel guilty about wanting Linda to die, but she had done it so often that it barely bothered her anymore. In fact, she wondered sometimes what she would do if Linda was in front of her at the top of the stairs. But then she would laugh at herself. She wasn't a killer. No man was worth that.
That's what she told herself.
(Copyright 2017 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved. Thank you for reading.)
By Stephen B. Bagley
Regina Kimmons knew Jacob Sloane wanted her. She could tell. The way he looked at her. The way his eyes not only undressed her but threw her on the red leather couch in his neo-Spartan office and made her scream glories until she was hoarse. How his hand would rest on her shoulder, just a brotherly pat, a touch of friendship, but his long, slender fingers would linger as if they longed to press themselves deep into her flesh until they left dark violet marks of his passion.
She sat at her desk and watched him over her filing. Once she sliced her finger on a piece of paper and pressed the welling cut to her mouth. She looked up and caught his eyes focusing on her lips before he turned away. She knew he wanted her. Now if only his inconvenient wife would die.
Often she found herself thinking of ways for Linda Kimmons to die. A car accident. A stroke. A strange strain of flu. A doctor's mistake. People died all the time; why couldn't she? She used to feel guilty about wanting Linda to die, but she had done it so often that it barely bothered her anymore. In fact, she wondered sometimes what she would do if Linda was in front of her at the top of the stairs. But then she would laugh at herself. She wasn't a killer. No man was worth that.
That's what she told herself.
(Copyright 2017 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved. Thank you for reading.)
Wednesday, June 07, 2017
Excerpt 7 from "Red Hot Sinner Man"
Excerpt 7 from Red Hot Sinner Man
By Stephen B. Bagley
Alex met Abby by one of the grossest ways possible: he threw up on her shoes. He had recently started on Gleeco, one of the latest, greatest cancer buster drugs. Since his tumor was wrapped around his spine, they couldn't operate without leaving him a cripple at worse or needing Depends at best. Perhaps he would be forced into surgery later, but for now, Dr. Jeremath wanted to try Gleeco.
Most people who were dosed with Gleeco experienced "intermediate episodes of nausea," a medical way of saying that the patient would spew vast amounts of stomach contents in truly Olympic fashion. Gleeco patients easily qualified in distance for the U.S. Puke Team. Alex had already endured a three-day bout following his last dose. This time he was smarter. He scheduled his chemo on a Thursday afternoon so that he would only miss a day and a half of work. Then he stopped eating on Wednesday. He figured nothing in, nothing out. Lying on his bathroom floor, he discovered that dry heaves were worse as he tried to throw up his stomach. He couldn't even keep down the anti-nausea pills. But the worse passed by Sunday night, and he crawled gratefully into his bed and slept deeply.
The next morning, Alex wore with a strange feeling of well-being. It took him a few minutes to realize that he was simply feeling the absence of being sick. He stretched and realized he was hungry and could even think about food without his head swimming. Still cautious, he made do with a bowl of cream of wheat, dry toast, and black coffee. Not exactly the approved cancer diet, but it was food he could face without his stomach wailing.
He showered and went to work. He thought about staying home, but paranoia honed fine by years of surviving the corporate environment urged him on. If you were gone too much -- even for legitimate reasons -- people started to get used to your absences. Projects got reassigned, files got moved. More than one woman had returned from maternity leave to find herself a glorified secretary. Men ended up as assistants or found themselves on under-funded projects that wouldn't survive the next budget. Alex already had a cubicle at the end of a hall. His next move would be outside the building.
His inbox was full, both on his desk and in his email. While picking up a folder, he caught a wisp of perfume. Probably from Rachel. She bathed herself and her cubicle liberally in her favorite scent of the month to the dismay of those close to her. Glenda said Rachel could be tracked through a sewer plant. Alex started to grin, and then it happened. A hot flood rose within him. He whirled in his chair, trying to make it to the restroom down the hall.
He made two steps into the hall, and then the wave hit him so hard that he fell to his knees. He lost his breakfast. More than lost, he expelled his breakfast, shot his breakfast, hurled his breakfast, exploded his breakfast into the far wall. He caught a brief glance of a pair of legs before he was too occupied to see anything but a blur.
After a few eon-long minutes, the spell passed. He slumped against his cubicle doorway, exhausted and horrified by what he had done. Was this going to be his life now? Alex thought he'd rather be dead.
Someone knelt beside him. "Here. Put this on your throat." A wet paper towel was pressed against his skin.
A woman with blue eyes looked steadily at him.
"You're in a bad way, guy," she said after a moment. "Well, let's just see what we can about that."
(Copyright 2017 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved. Thank you for reading.)
By Stephen B. Bagley
Alex met Abby by one of the grossest ways possible: he threw up on her shoes. He had recently started on Gleeco, one of the latest, greatest cancer buster drugs. Since his tumor was wrapped around his spine, they couldn't operate without leaving him a cripple at worse or needing Depends at best. Perhaps he would be forced into surgery later, but for now, Dr. Jeremath wanted to try Gleeco.
Most people who were dosed with Gleeco experienced "intermediate episodes of nausea," a medical way of saying that the patient would spew vast amounts of stomach contents in truly Olympic fashion. Gleeco patients easily qualified in distance for the U.S. Puke Team. Alex had already endured a three-day bout following his last dose. This time he was smarter. He scheduled his chemo on a Thursday afternoon so that he would only miss a day and a half of work. Then he stopped eating on Wednesday. He figured nothing in, nothing out. Lying on his bathroom floor, he discovered that dry heaves were worse as he tried to throw up his stomach. He couldn't even keep down the anti-nausea pills. But the worse passed by Sunday night, and he crawled gratefully into his bed and slept deeply.
The next morning, Alex wore with a strange feeling of well-being. It took him a few minutes to realize that he was simply feeling the absence of being sick. He stretched and realized he was hungry and could even think about food without his head swimming. Still cautious, he made do with a bowl of cream of wheat, dry toast, and black coffee. Not exactly the approved cancer diet, but it was food he could face without his stomach wailing.
He showered and went to work. He thought about staying home, but paranoia honed fine by years of surviving the corporate environment urged him on. If you were gone too much -- even for legitimate reasons -- people started to get used to your absences. Projects got reassigned, files got moved. More than one woman had returned from maternity leave to find herself a glorified secretary. Men ended up as assistants or found themselves on under-funded projects that wouldn't survive the next budget. Alex already had a cubicle at the end of a hall. His next move would be outside the building.
His inbox was full, both on his desk and in his email. While picking up a folder, he caught a wisp of perfume. Probably from Rachel. She bathed herself and her cubicle liberally in her favorite scent of the month to the dismay of those close to her. Glenda said Rachel could be tracked through a sewer plant. Alex started to grin, and then it happened. A hot flood rose within him. He whirled in his chair, trying to make it to the restroom down the hall.
He made two steps into the hall, and then the wave hit him so hard that he fell to his knees. He lost his breakfast. More than lost, he expelled his breakfast, shot his breakfast, hurled his breakfast, exploded his breakfast into the far wall. He caught a brief glance of a pair of legs before he was too occupied to see anything but a blur.
After a few eon-long minutes, the spell passed. He slumped against his cubicle doorway, exhausted and horrified by what he had done. Was this going to be his life now? Alex thought he'd rather be dead.
Someone knelt beside him. "Here. Put this on your throat." A wet paper towel was pressed against his skin.
A woman with blue eyes looked steadily at him.
"You're in a bad way, guy," she said after a moment. "Well, let's just see what we can about that."
(Copyright 2017 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved. Thank you for reading.)
Tuesday, June 06, 2017
Excerpt 6 from "Red Hot Sinner Man"
Excerpt 6 from Red Hot Sinner Man
By Stephen B. Bagley
In his long life, Marcus Ryan had slept with a lot of people. Perhaps it was more correct to say he had sex with them because he rarely stayed the night so there was no sleeping. It was correct to say people, however, because he was equally intrigued by women and men. Their gender didn't matter as much as the chase did.
Naturally he had caught a few STDs, but fortunately nothing lethal and nothing that hadn't been cured with a healthy dose of antibiotics. He liked to say -- but only to those privy to his lifestyle -- that the Lord took care of drunks and fools and he didn't drink. Except he did drink. Not as much as he used to, of course. A man his age had to take everything in moderation. Even his excesses.
At 65, he held the dubious distinction of being the oldest employee at Gallant and Sons. He didn't look it. He didn't look older than 45. Well, 50. But careful application of moisturizer over the years and genetics had given him good skin that he had kept out of the sun. He had a full head of rich, black hair. He drove over to Glensdale twice a month to keep his hair color just so.
As for exercise, he had once worshiped at the gym and still went three times a week, but the workouts were slower and more difficult than when he was younger. He still caught the attention of the other people at the gym, and they would comment how good he looked, but he had a suspicion they were silently adding "for his age." Once a rude young man had even told him that he hoped to look as good as Marcus when he reached his age. Marcus only smiled and thanked the young man. On his way out, Marcus keyed the young man's black Ford truck. Twice.
He could have retired five years ago. Go cruising the islands with arm candy. Maybe finally make that trip to Paris he had often talked about. He had always been smart with money. He could live comfortably on his investments for the rest of his life. But he stayed at Gallant and Sons because he knew a secret. One that bound him to this company. At times he thought it was his greatest mistake. At other times, he thought it was the only thing he had in his life that was worth living for. Even if no one else could ever know.
(Copyright 2017 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved. Thanks for reading.)
By Stephen B. Bagley
In his long life, Marcus Ryan had slept with a lot of people. Perhaps it was more correct to say he had sex with them because he rarely stayed the night so there was no sleeping. It was correct to say people, however, because he was equally intrigued by women and men. Their gender didn't matter as much as the chase did.
Naturally he had caught a few STDs, but fortunately nothing lethal and nothing that hadn't been cured with a healthy dose of antibiotics. He liked to say -- but only to those privy to his lifestyle -- that the Lord took care of drunks and fools and he didn't drink. Except he did drink. Not as much as he used to, of course. A man his age had to take everything in moderation. Even his excesses.
At 65, he held the dubious distinction of being the oldest employee at Gallant and Sons. He didn't look it. He didn't look older than 45. Well, 50. But careful application of moisturizer over the years and genetics had given him good skin that he had kept out of the sun. He had a full head of rich, black hair. He drove over to Glensdale twice a month to keep his hair color just so.
As for exercise, he had once worshiped at the gym and still went three times a week, but the workouts were slower and more difficult than when he was younger. He still caught the attention of the other people at the gym, and they would comment how good he looked, but he had a suspicion they were silently adding "for his age." Once a rude young man had even told him that he hoped to look as good as Marcus when he reached his age. Marcus only smiled and thanked the young man. On his way out, Marcus keyed the young man's black Ford truck. Twice.
He could have retired five years ago. Go cruising the islands with arm candy. Maybe finally make that trip to Paris he had often talked about. He had always been smart with money. He could live comfortably on his investments for the rest of his life. But he stayed at Gallant and Sons because he knew a secret. One that bound him to this company. At times he thought it was his greatest mistake. At other times, he thought it was the only thing he had in his life that was worth living for. Even if no one else could ever know.
(Copyright 2017 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved. Thanks for reading.)
Monday, June 05, 2017
Excerpt 5 from "Red Hot Sinner Man"
Excerpt 5 from Red Hot Sinner Man
By Stephen B. Bagley
Richard Gallant had owned the world until now. Always been that way. In school, he made all the teams, made the good grades, got the hot girls, drove the best cars, attended the right parties, he was cool. College was the same. Oh, the parties were wilder, the classes harder, the girls more numerous, the cars more expensive, but the Gallant's little heir deserved the best and he got it. He couldn't remember his life as being any other way.
Now, Gallant and Sons -- the investment firm that had been in his family since the 1800's and that had paid for all that college, all those cars, all those girls -- was going down with him at the helm.
His grandfather and his father had made mistakes. They bought high and sold low too many times. They waited too long to modernize and then made changes frantically, but they didn't wait long enough to see if changes would help before they changed priorities again.
Oh, success hadn't passed by Gallant and Sons completely; otherwise, it wouldn't have survived, but too much red ink stained its pages over the years. And even though the mistakes of his predecessors caused the decline, he would be the one who would be blamed. The Gallant would go down on his watch.
The choices on his desk: Close Gallant and Sons or sell it to Van de Meter and Horn. Either selection would make his father spin in his grave and his mother spit in his face.
He was beginning to think he didn't drink enough.
(Copyright 2017 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved. Thank you for reading.)
By Stephen B. Bagley
Richard Gallant had owned the world until now. Always been that way. In school, he made all the teams, made the good grades, got the hot girls, drove the best cars, attended the right parties, he was cool. College was the same. Oh, the parties were wilder, the classes harder, the girls more numerous, the cars more expensive, but the Gallant's little heir deserved the best and he got it. He couldn't remember his life as being any other way.
Now, Gallant and Sons -- the investment firm that had been in his family since the 1800's and that had paid for all that college, all those cars, all those girls -- was going down with him at the helm.
His grandfather and his father had made mistakes. They bought high and sold low too many times. They waited too long to modernize and then made changes frantically, but they didn't wait long enough to see if changes would help before they changed priorities again.
Oh, success hadn't passed by Gallant and Sons completely; otherwise, it wouldn't have survived, but too much red ink stained its pages over the years. And even though the mistakes of his predecessors caused the decline, he would be the one who would be blamed. The Gallant would go down on his watch.
The choices on his desk: Close Gallant and Sons or sell it to Van de Meter and Horn. Either selection would make his father spin in his grave and his mother spit in his face.
He was beginning to think he didn't drink enough.
(Copyright 2017 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved. Thank you for reading.)
Sunday, June 04, 2017
Excerpt 4 from "Red Hot Sinner Man"
Excerpt 4 from Red Hot Sinner Man
By Stephen B. Bagley
Darrell hated them. He wanted them dead. He knew they laughed at him behind his back. He was the geek. The one with all the pens. The one with stains on his shirt. The one who could fall over his own feet. The one who dropped papers at meetings. The one that had actually passed gas at a company get-together. The one that the bosses would clap on the back at office parties and say good job even as they looked for someone -- anyone -- else for them to foist him off on. When he tried to talk to them, when he tried to explain how the flow of the R327 network was both compartmentalized and yet open and that it kept the hackers out but allowed interactivity as well as intra-activity, the same lame comments started. "Speak English, man." "Watch a lot of Star Trek, don't you?" "Over my head."
He hated them all, but he particularly hated Rachel because her cubicle was next to his. Had been for five years, but she still didn't say hi to him. She would barely nod when he passed, and if he spoke to her, her eyes would glaze immediately.
He had often thought of reporting her to the HR department for violating IT email policies. She used her computer as if she owned it and it was her personal entertainment box. She emailed her mom, her brother, twenty or so girlfriends, a few boyfriends, people she chatted with online and would never be in the same room together, school and college friends and possibly the whole population of her hometown and several small European countries. She sent them jokes and prayer and recipes. She sent them web site links and quotes and pictures. She sent them advice and gossip and opinions. Rachel was a mass media. And her online activity was in direct violation of the restricted personal use policy clearly outlined on page 46 of the Gallant and Sons Company Employee Handbook.
Darrell didn't know why she hadn't got caught. What was IT doing? Did they notice the bandwidth being used whenever Rachel was at her computer? Were they blind? Or simply too stupid?
Darrell would turn her in, but he'd be asked how he knew what she did. He'd be fired as soon as they realized he was exploiting holes in their security ice to ghost her computer. He wasn't a good liar and couldn't think of a plausible story to explain his knowledge.
So he sat in his cubicle and hated them all, but mostly Rachel. Sometimes it was hard for him to focus as he sat there, listening to the faint sound of her voice on the phone to her mom, smelling the damned perfume she drenched herself in. The last year had been worse. He nearly quit every day, but he wasn't good at job searching. Actually he was good at job searching; he wasn't good at job getting. It had taken him nearly two and a half years to find this one, and he didn't want to go back to living with his mom again.
Two months ago, though, he had found something that made it better. Something that helped when he felt his hatred of them choke away his thoughts, when he wanted to scream in frustration and rage, when he wanted to run down the halls like a madman. He would reach into his briefcase and touch it. He would hold it, and he could feel cool and calm again.
Two months ago, Darrell started bringing a gun to work.
(Copyright 2017 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved. Thank you for reading.)
By Stephen B. Bagley
Darrell hated them. He wanted them dead. He knew they laughed at him behind his back. He was the geek. The one with all the pens. The one with stains on his shirt. The one who could fall over his own feet. The one who dropped papers at meetings. The one that had actually passed gas at a company get-together. The one that the bosses would clap on the back at office parties and say good job even as they looked for someone -- anyone -- else for them to foist him off on. When he tried to talk to them, when he tried to explain how the flow of the R327 network was both compartmentalized and yet open and that it kept the hackers out but allowed interactivity as well as intra-activity, the same lame comments started. "Speak English, man." "Watch a lot of Star Trek, don't you?" "Over my head."
He hated them all, but he particularly hated Rachel because her cubicle was next to his. Had been for five years, but she still didn't say hi to him. She would barely nod when he passed, and if he spoke to her, her eyes would glaze immediately.
He had often thought of reporting her to the HR department for violating IT email policies. She used her computer as if she owned it and it was her personal entertainment box. She emailed her mom, her brother, twenty or so girlfriends, a few boyfriends, people she chatted with online and would never be in the same room together, school and college friends and possibly the whole population of her hometown and several small European countries. She sent them jokes and prayer and recipes. She sent them web site links and quotes and pictures. She sent them advice and gossip and opinions. Rachel was a mass media. And her online activity was in direct violation of the restricted personal use policy clearly outlined on page 46 of the Gallant and Sons Company Employee Handbook.
Darrell didn't know why she hadn't got caught. What was IT doing? Did they notice the bandwidth being used whenever Rachel was at her computer? Were they blind? Or simply too stupid?
Darrell would turn her in, but he'd be asked how he knew what she did. He'd be fired as soon as they realized he was exploiting holes in their security ice to ghost her computer. He wasn't a good liar and couldn't think of a plausible story to explain his knowledge.
So he sat in his cubicle and hated them all, but mostly Rachel. Sometimes it was hard for him to focus as he sat there, listening to the faint sound of her voice on the phone to her mom, smelling the damned perfume she drenched herself in. The last year had been worse. He nearly quit every day, but he wasn't good at job searching. Actually he was good at job searching; he wasn't good at job getting. It had taken him nearly two and a half years to find this one, and he didn't want to go back to living with his mom again.
Two months ago, though, he had found something that made it better. Something that helped when he felt his hatred of them choke away his thoughts, when he wanted to scream in frustration and rage, when he wanted to run down the halls like a madman. He would reach into his briefcase and touch it. He would hold it, and he could feel cool and calm again.
Two months ago, Darrell started bringing a gun to work.
(Copyright 2017 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved. Thank you for reading.)
Saturday, June 03, 2017
Excerpt 3 from "Red Hot Sinner Man"
Excerpt 3 from Red Hot Sinner Man
By Stephen B. Bagley
Alex wasn't what she'd been looking for. Abby hadn't been looking for a guy at all. She had joined Gallant and Sons to build a resume. She needed to rise above the rank and file and she needed to do it yesterday.
She hadn't been able to finish college. She applied for grants and loans and worked two part-time jobs, but the money wasn't enough to pay for school and to take care of her younger brother and sister. So she quit school and worked days at the local Taco King and weekends at Gilbert's Git-N-Git-Going convenience store. In what time she had left, she tried to be mom and dad to her siblings. It wasn't enough, but after a rough two years, Davie was making better grades and Alissa had stopped crying over every disappointment as if her heart had broken.
It would have been easier if her parents had siblings or any close relatives, but their only living relative was a cousin who moldered in a nursing home and another cousin who lived halfway across the country. At eighteen, Abby became the head of their little family. A couple welfare workers had scared her by talking of taking Davie or maybe little Alissa, but Abby's fierce protectiveness and the fact the workers had too many children they had to rescue from abusive homes to worry about two orphans who were clean and well-fed. Occasionally someone would drop in and check on them, but the kids knew the drill.
Last year the insurance company finally settled the suit from her parents' accident. Enough money to allow her to quit the Get-N-Go and look around for a better job. One that might let her earn more money and be a way to an even better job.
Her official title was Customer satisfaction Representative. From 8:30 to 5:00, she took phone calls and answered questions from The Gallant's customers. Some of those calls she handled; others had to be bumped on up. It hadn't taken her long to realize that the number of calls dropped some each month as the Internet help system became more sophisticated. Soon management would look around to make cuts, and as the newest CSP, she had only job insecurity.
So during her breaks, she had taken to wandering the halls, trying to find a place that she could move to. She smiled and said hi and networked, networked, networked. She made copies and ran errands for other departments. She had a ton of "If I hear of anything, I'll buzz you immediately" and lots of "I wish they had hired you to do that job instead of (whoever)."
That's what she had been doing when Alex threw up on her shoes.
(Copyright 2017 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved. Thank you for reading.)
By Stephen B. Bagley
Alex wasn't what she'd been looking for. Abby hadn't been looking for a guy at all. She had joined Gallant and Sons to build a resume. She needed to rise above the rank and file and she needed to do it yesterday.
She hadn't been able to finish college. She applied for grants and loans and worked two part-time jobs, but the money wasn't enough to pay for school and to take care of her younger brother and sister. So she quit school and worked days at the local Taco King and weekends at Gilbert's Git-N-Git-Going convenience store. In what time she had left, she tried to be mom and dad to her siblings. It wasn't enough, but after a rough two years, Davie was making better grades and Alissa had stopped crying over every disappointment as if her heart had broken.
It would have been easier if her parents had siblings or any close relatives, but their only living relative was a cousin who moldered in a nursing home and another cousin who lived halfway across the country. At eighteen, Abby became the head of their little family. A couple welfare workers had scared her by talking of taking Davie or maybe little Alissa, but Abby's fierce protectiveness and the fact the workers had too many children they had to rescue from abusive homes to worry about two orphans who were clean and well-fed. Occasionally someone would drop in and check on them, but the kids knew the drill.
Last year the insurance company finally settled the suit from her parents' accident. Enough money to allow her to quit the Get-N-Go and look around for a better job. One that might let her earn more money and be a way to an even better job.
Her official title was Customer satisfaction Representative. From 8:30 to 5:00, she took phone calls and answered questions from The Gallant's customers. Some of those calls she handled; others had to be bumped on up. It hadn't taken her long to realize that the number of calls dropped some each month as the Internet help system became more sophisticated. Soon management would look around to make cuts, and as the newest CSP, she had only job insecurity.
So during her breaks, she had taken to wandering the halls, trying to find a place that she could move to. She smiled and said hi and networked, networked, networked. She made copies and ran errands for other departments. She had a ton of "If I hear of anything, I'll buzz you immediately" and lots of "I wish they had hired you to do that job instead of (whoever)."
That's what she had been doing when Alex threw up on her shoes.
(Copyright 2017 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved. Thank you for reading.)
Friday, June 02, 2017
Excerpt 2 from "Red Hot Sinner Man"
Excerpt 2 from Red Hot Sinner Man
By Stephen B. Bagley
Vicki knew Richard wanted her. She could tell. The way he looked at her. The way his eyes not only undressed her but threw her on the red leather couch in his neo-Spartan office and made her scream glories until she was hoarse. How his hand would rest on her shoulder, just a brotherly pat, a touch of friendship, but his long, slender fingers would linger as if they longed to press themselves deep into her flesh until they left dark violet marks of his passion.
She had sat at her desk and watched him through the glass wall that divided his office from hers. Once she had sliced her finger on a piece of paper and pressed the welling cut to her mouth. She looked up and caught his eyes focusing on her lips before he looked away. She knew he wanted her.
But he never crossed the line. She waited for it. Had waited for it these past five years as his secretary. Waited for that thrilling moment when his desires overcame his restraint and courtesy. When he would ask her out or steal a kiss or run his hand down her back. The thought made her breathe harder. For a moment, she imagined that encounter and where it would lead. She knew what she wanted. She knew how to get there if only he would take the first step.
And she imagined the aftermath -- his delicious horror -- when she sued him for sexual harassment until he bled. When she threw him and his company down and took them for every dollar they had stolen from her father. Vicki remembered what Richard's father had done to hers. And the devil be her witness, she was going to make every member of the Gallant family pay.
Such a shame Richard seemed so nice. Was so handsome. Inhabited her dreams doing things she had only read in books. Was so nice to her. Listened to her. Took her seriously. Remembered to send flowers on her birthday and Executive Assistant's Day. Gave her generous bonuses for her excellent work. Work that had been excellent at first so that he would have no reason to suspect her motives and couldn't be used against her in court, but lately, she found herself working harder for ... for him.
Oh daddy, she thought. This isn't how this was supposed to go. But I will make them pay. I will. No matter what.
She took a deep breath. She looked around the office. She turned back to her work. The report needed to be on Richard's desk today. She didn't know why her eyes were watering.
(Copyright 2017 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved. Thanks for reading.)
By Stephen B. Bagley
Vicki knew Richard wanted her. She could tell. The way he looked at her. The way his eyes not only undressed her but threw her on the red leather couch in his neo-Spartan office and made her scream glories until she was hoarse. How his hand would rest on her shoulder, just a brotherly pat, a touch of friendship, but his long, slender fingers would linger as if they longed to press themselves deep into her flesh until they left dark violet marks of his passion.
She had sat at her desk and watched him through the glass wall that divided his office from hers. Once she had sliced her finger on a piece of paper and pressed the welling cut to her mouth. She looked up and caught his eyes focusing on her lips before he looked away. She knew he wanted her.
But he never crossed the line. She waited for it. Had waited for it these past five years as his secretary. Waited for that thrilling moment when his desires overcame his restraint and courtesy. When he would ask her out or steal a kiss or run his hand down her back. The thought made her breathe harder. For a moment, she imagined that encounter and where it would lead. She knew what she wanted. She knew how to get there if only he would take the first step.
And she imagined the aftermath -- his delicious horror -- when she sued him for sexual harassment until he bled. When she threw him and his company down and took them for every dollar they had stolen from her father. Vicki remembered what Richard's father had done to hers. And the devil be her witness, she was going to make every member of the Gallant family pay.
Such a shame Richard seemed so nice. Was so handsome. Inhabited her dreams doing things she had only read in books. Was so nice to her. Listened to her. Took her seriously. Remembered to send flowers on her birthday and Executive Assistant's Day. Gave her generous bonuses for her excellent work. Work that had been excellent at first so that he would have no reason to suspect her motives and couldn't be used against her in court, but lately, she found herself working harder for ... for him.
Oh daddy, she thought. This isn't how this was supposed to go. But I will make them pay. I will. No matter what.
She took a deep breath. She looked around the office. She turned back to her work. The report needed to be on Richard's desk today. She didn't know why her eyes were watering.
(Copyright 2017 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved. Thanks for reading.)
Thursday, June 01, 2017
Excerpt 1 from "Red Hot Sinner Man"
Excerpt 1 from Red Hot Sinner Man
By Stephen B. Bagley
The first thing Alex learned about cancer was that it scared other people. Oh, they put on a brave face, they plied him with sympathy, they shook their heads regretfully and spouted things like, “We’ll be thinking about you” or “Keep a positive attitude” or “You’ll be in our prayers.” Then they would delicately ask if he smoked or if cancer ran in his family or did he eat too much red meat or had he worked somewhere where he could have been exposed to a terrible chemical that caused the tumor wrapped around his spine. They wanted to know why he had cancer so that they could avoid it or be relieved that they didn’t smoke or eat red meat or do whatever it was that made him sick. They were afraid of this death that worked in the cubicle next to them. After those few words of concern, those muted conversations, they began to avoid him. Nothing overt. Just conversation fading away when he walked up or sat down at the table in the break room. Dead silences that went on so long that he could hear every rustle of paper, every click of a pen, every cough as loud as the Methodist church bell at noon.
When he realized this, he withdrew. He went silent. He retreated into his cubicle and wished for a door. He felt ashamed, almost as if cancer was some sort of STD, like he was sick because he was unclean, a leper among the washed. He was a sick person among the healthy, and he didn’t blame them for being squeamish about him. Who wants to be reminded of their own mortality? Who wants to hear the ticking of the clock? Who wants to know they won’t live forever? That a disease can strike them down despite all the raw vegetables consumed and all the miles sweated? He had felt the way they felt before Mr. C entered his life. So he understood. He would be quiet. He would die politely. He would make it easy on them since he couldn’t make it easy on himself.
At least that was what he thought he would do at first. Then he met Abby, and everything changed.
(Copyright 2017 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved. Thank you for reading.)
By Stephen B. Bagley
The first thing Alex learned about cancer was that it scared other people. Oh, they put on a brave face, they plied him with sympathy, they shook their heads regretfully and spouted things like, “We’ll be thinking about you” or “Keep a positive attitude” or “You’ll be in our prayers.” Then they would delicately ask if he smoked or if cancer ran in his family or did he eat too much red meat or had he worked somewhere where he could have been exposed to a terrible chemical that caused the tumor wrapped around his spine. They wanted to know why he had cancer so that they could avoid it or be relieved that they didn’t smoke or eat red meat or do whatever it was that made him sick. They were afraid of this death that worked in the cubicle next to them. After those few words of concern, those muted conversations, they began to avoid him. Nothing overt. Just conversation fading away when he walked up or sat down at the table in the break room. Dead silences that went on so long that he could hear every rustle of paper, every click of a pen, every cough as loud as the Methodist church bell at noon.
When he realized this, he withdrew. He went silent. He retreated into his cubicle and wished for a door. He felt ashamed, almost as if cancer was some sort of STD, like he was sick because he was unclean, a leper among the washed. He was a sick person among the healthy, and he didn’t blame them for being squeamish about him. Who wants to be reminded of their own mortality? Who wants to hear the ticking of the clock? Who wants to know they won’t live forever? That a disease can strike them down despite all the raw vegetables consumed and all the miles sweated? He had felt the way they felt before Mr. C entered his life. So he understood. He would be quiet. He would die politely. He would make it easy on them since he couldn’t make it easy on himself.
At least that was what he thought he would do at first. Then he met Abby, and everything changed.
(Copyright 2017 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved. Thank you for reading.)
Sunday, April 23, 2017
An Orwellian Scene
"An Orwellian Scene"
By Stephen B. Bagley
I once had a friend who was a survivalist. Let's call him Jacob, because that was his name. He stockpiled five years of food, a couple of months of water, guns and ammo, medical supplies, etc. Built a nice cabin in the woods with solar power and a windmill, although he still needed an electric line for all his power needs.
All through the Bush years, Jacob complained about how the government was trying to become a dictatorship. He foamed at the mouth when the Patriot Act was passed. He could actually recite the Act and give you point by point how it was taking away our civil liberties.
I thought perhaps he would calm down when Obama was elected, but no, he was even more up in arms. The National Health Plan, you see, would allow the government to embed nanobots into our brains and control us.
Then Trump got elected, and while I hoped Jacob would finally be reasonable, he was not. In fact, he claimed Trump was a tool of the Illuminati and would betray all those who elected him to further their goals of world domination.
Well, after that, I had no choice. I reported him to the Thought Police, and they picked him up yesterday. I will get a share of his goods after the officials take their percentage. It should be enough to bribe the Controllers so they will upgrade my nanobots to less painful ones.
I am proud and happy just as you are. We're not allowed to be anything else.
(Copyright 2017 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved.)
By Stephen B. Bagley
I once had a friend who was a survivalist. Let's call him Jacob, because that was his name. He stockpiled five years of food, a couple of months of water, guns and ammo, medical supplies, etc. Built a nice cabin in the woods with solar power and a windmill, although he still needed an electric line for all his power needs.
All through the Bush years, Jacob complained about how the government was trying to become a dictatorship. He foamed at the mouth when the Patriot Act was passed. He could actually recite the Act and give you point by point how it was taking away our civil liberties.
I thought perhaps he would calm down when Obama was elected, but no, he was even more up in arms. The National Health Plan, you see, would allow the government to embed nanobots into our brains and control us.
Then Trump got elected, and while I hoped Jacob would finally be reasonable, he was not. In fact, he claimed Trump was a tool of the Illuminati and would betray all those who elected him to further their goals of world domination.
Well, after that, I had no choice. I reported him to the Thought Police, and they picked him up yesterday. I will get a share of his goods after the officials take their percentage. It should be enough to bribe the Controllers so they will upgrade my nanobots to less painful ones.
I am proud and happy just as you are. We're not allowed to be anything else.
(Copyright 2017 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved.)
Saturday, April 22, 2017
Live life well
Chilly, rainy day currently. We were forecast clear, sunny skies. No such luck. We needed the rain, of course, and it's not freezing, so the blooming and budding plants and trees are okay. Still, it's depressing. I enjoy such days in the fall, but in the spring, they feel sad.
Rainy days are generally depressing. Humans are--for the most part--creatures of sunlight. We're made to walk in the day and sleep in the night. We lived that way for thousands of years; only now are we up all hours. We may be losing undefined things by choosing our 24 hour day. Despite our desire to do more, live more, enjoy more, make more...we are doing less and feeling more frantic about it as the years--and our lives--speed by.
Sometimes, I think the greatest gift would be to slow down time, to live each hour as a day, to have enough time for walks in the park, enjoying the sun and wind while sitting on a stone bench, to feel the light on our faces like a benediction.
Time doesn't do that, though. Life goes on despite our attempts to hold on to each precious moment. Eventually, we live our lives in our memories. And then we don't. Other people take up the memories which become family stories and tales of times past until they are gone, too.
My point? Be happy now. Live in the present. Let all those "mores" care for themselves. Don't let your life not be lived. Walk in the sunshine now with me, even on rainy, cloudy days, and we will live life well.
Rainy days are generally depressing. Humans are--for the most part--creatures of sunlight. We're made to walk in the day and sleep in the night. We lived that way for thousands of years; only now are we up all hours. We may be losing undefined things by choosing our 24 hour day. Despite our desire to do more, live more, enjoy more, make more...we are doing less and feeling more frantic about it as the years--and our lives--speed by.
Sometimes, I think the greatest gift would be to slow down time, to live each hour as a day, to have enough time for walks in the park, enjoying the sun and wind while sitting on a stone bench, to feel the light on our faces like a benediction.
Time doesn't do that, though. Life goes on despite our attempts to hold on to each precious moment. Eventually, we live our lives in our memories. And then we don't. Other people take up the memories which become family stories and tales of times past until they are gone, too.
My point? Be happy now. Live in the present. Let all those "mores" care for themselves. Don't let your life not be lived. Walk in the sunshine now with me, even on rainy, cloudy days, and we will live life well.
Wednesday, April 12, 2017
Remember these
I will not take these for granted:
A beautiful spring day. I felt the sunshine on my face like a blessing.
My computer. It gives me problems sometimes, but it keeps plugging along, outdated as it is. It helps me write and be creative in ways I couldn't have imagined when I was a kid pounding away on a Smith-Corona.
A roof over my head. It's a modest house, it needs paint and some repairs, but many poor people would love to have it. Many people have nothing at all between them and the bitter winds and the burning sun.
Food on my table. Millions of men and women, millions of children struggle with starvation. Truly I live in a land of plenty.
My country. It isn't perfect, but it's the best that humanity has ever been able to produce. I'm not one to throw out the baby with the bathwater. We'll fix the problems. We'll continue to grow and change and get better. That's what we do.
My dear friends. A close second to my family in my affections. I appreciate the laughter and lunches and talks about life, politics, and everything else.
My precious family. In the end, they're the people I love the most and who count on me and on whom I depend. We've been together a long time, and God willing, have many more years to go.
My personal salvation. I don't preach to people. I'm not built that way. But it would be a mistake to assume that my silence meant that I didn't take my spiritual life seriously. I hope that people can see by my life and by how I live that there's something more to this life, that we aren't alone by any means, and that even the smallest of us matter in this vast universe. I know I fail in this daily, but the struggle makes life worthwhile.
Every now and then, I have to remind myself to not take these things for granted.
A beautiful spring day. I felt the sunshine on my face like a blessing.
My computer. It gives me problems sometimes, but it keeps plugging along, outdated as it is. It helps me write and be creative in ways I couldn't have imagined when I was a kid pounding away on a Smith-Corona.
A roof over my head. It's a modest house, it needs paint and some repairs, but many poor people would love to have it. Many people have nothing at all between them and the bitter winds and the burning sun.
Food on my table. Millions of men and women, millions of children struggle with starvation. Truly I live in a land of plenty.
My country. It isn't perfect, but it's the best that humanity has ever been able to produce. I'm not one to throw out the baby with the bathwater. We'll fix the problems. We'll continue to grow and change and get better. That's what we do.
My dear friends. A close second to my family in my affections. I appreciate the laughter and lunches and talks about life, politics, and everything else.
My precious family. In the end, they're the people I love the most and who count on me and on whom I depend. We've been together a long time, and God willing, have many more years to go.
My personal salvation. I don't preach to people. I'm not built that way. But it would be a mistake to assume that my silence meant that I didn't take my spiritual life seriously. I hope that people can see by my life and by how I live that there's something more to this life, that we aren't alone by any means, and that even the smallest of us matter in this vast universe. I know I fail in this daily, but the struggle makes life worthwhile.
Every now and then, I have to remind myself to not take these things for granted.
Wednesday, April 05, 2017
Scene from a Cemetary
Scene from a Cemetery
Yesterday I walked among the dead.
Not my dead.
Strangers in an old cemetery a few miles from my house.
Thought I might take photos...that the spring sun might illuminate a particular stone or give a halo to an old weathered angel.
Instead I carried my camera and walked among the rows of graves. Stopping to read a date or name. My feet crunched on old brown leaves. The few trees were mostly bare except for a row of bedraggled evergreens along one side of the cemetery.
And I thought about life and how it goes so fast. How we can't hold our dead no matter how much we try, no matter how much we cry, they slip away when we're not looking.
I thought about those who have left us and how I miss them. My grandparents, my parents, aunts and uncles, cousins...my baby brother.... My mother was so sharp, so smart, she would see right through your soul, and my father loved to laugh and loved to make me laugh. All those losses. Is that why we're ready to go at the end of our lives? Do the losses pile on until our spirit is ready to fly, to escape the burdens of sorrow? Or maybe we're just ready to meet them again. Maybe we're tired of not being with them. Maybe we're tired of this earth.
I sat down in an old concrete bench beside an empty tree.
Across the rows, I saw a robin. A mockingbird called. I watched a lonely cloud make its way across the pale blue sky. And I felt the stillness settle into me, the quiet calm that I call peace for the lack of a better word. I stopped thinking for a while, stopping imagining, stopped remembering.
For a few moments, the horizon held me. That beckoning sky. The endless heavens beyond.
Then I took a deep breath of the cool wind. I smiled for no particular reason other than it felt better than not smiling. I stood, walked back to my car, and drove back to my life.
(Copyright 2017 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved.)
Yesterday I walked among the dead.
Not my dead.
Strangers in an old cemetery a few miles from my house.
Thought I might take photos...that the spring sun might illuminate a particular stone or give a halo to an old weathered angel.
Instead I carried my camera and walked among the rows of graves. Stopping to read a date or name. My feet crunched on old brown leaves. The few trees were mostly bare except for a row of bedraggled evergreens along one side of the cemetery.
And I thought about life and how it goes so fast. How we can't hold our dead no matter how much we try, no matter how much we cry, they slip away when we're not looking.
I thought about those who have left us and how I miss them. My grandparents, my parents, aunts and uncles, cousins...my baby brother.... My mother was so sharp, so smart, she would see right through your soul, and my father loved to laugh and loved to make me laugh. All those losses. Is that why we're ready to go at the end of our lives? Do the losses pile on until our spirit is ready to fly, to escape the burdens of sorrow? Or maybe we're just ready to meet them again. Maybe we're tired of not being with them. Maybe we're tired of this earth.
I sat down in an old concrete bench beside an empty tree.
Across the rows, I saw a robin. A mockingbird called. I watched a lonely cloud make its way across the pale blue sky. And I felt the stillness settle into me, the quiet calm that I call peace for the lack of a better word. I stopped thinking for a while, stopping imagining, stopped remembering.
For a few moments, the horizon held me. That beckoning sky. The endless heavens beyond.
Then I took a deep breath of the cool wind. I smiled for no particular reason other than it felt better than not smiling. I stood, walked back to my car, and drove back to my life.
(Copyright 2017 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved.)
Monday, April 03, 2017
Scene from a Writers Group
"Scene from a Writers Group"
I got involved in an interesting discussion with some other writers the other day -- WAIT! Don't go away. This discussion involved SEX! I thought that would peak your interest -- about SEX in books. I had struggled through a book recently that featured fairly explicit SEX and had wondered out-loud what made that book "literature" and not just plain porn. (Names changed to protect me.)
"Because the sex was integral to the story," said Writer Aromance. "It wasn't just thrown in to titillate. It revealed the characters."
"Yes, it revealed they liked sex," Writer Begenre said. "But doesn't everyone? Sex scenes are put in books to increase sales. And give lonely writers a thrill."
"Are there any more cookies?" asked Writer Cookbookins. "I only got one."
"I don't read books with explicit sex," Writer Divine said. "In fact, I'm quite happy to read about a sweet kiss and then a sunset."
"Today's readers want more than that," Aromance said. "They want to feel the characters' passion. They want to experience the hot, steamy moments, the indescribable sensations." Aromance panted, head rolling slightly, eyelids fluttering. "They want details. Oh yes! YES!!!"
The rest of the group moved their chairs away from Aromance.
"Isn't reading a sex scene the same as renting a porn movie?" Begenre said. "Just because they're not watching a sexual encounter with their eyes and instead 'watching' it in their minds, doesn't mean that it's not for the same purpose."
"Well, I don't read romances for that!" Aromance said, scooting over to join them again. "I want to read about true love, and sex just happens to be part of it. We need to turn the air-conditioning on."
"There were enough cookies for two apiece," Cookbookins said, looking around. "Someone had to have three."
"True love is more than just sex," Divine said. "It's a marriage of spirits, of souls reaching out to each other."
"Those souls come with various pieces of plumbing attached," Begenre said. "I think fading off into a sunset leaves the reader hanging."
"Some things are better left to the imagination," Divine said with a sniff. "It totally kills the romance when a writer starts describing ... er ... how the pipes fit into the joints."
"We're going to run that plumbing metaphor into the ground," Begenre said.
"I blame TV," Writer Eongo said. "People have become accustomed to seeing everything right before them. They don't exercise their minds. So they can't even imagine people having sex!"
"You know, I brought those cookies to share," Cookbookins said. "I think it's a shame that someone is so greedy that he or she deprived another writer of their cookie."
"Eongo has a point," Divine said. "What's wrong with letting the reader know that the characters have had sex, but not showing the sex? When two characters make love, that's one thing, but when we invite the reader along, that's an orgy."
"Not really an orgy," Begenre said. "Or least I don't think that's one. It's been a long time since my college days." The others looked at Begenre. "I heard about them back then," Begenre hastily added. "But I think a good case could be made for it being voyeurism."
"I love ocean ones," Farawa said dreamily.
The other writers regarded the elderly writer carefully.
"Not voyages, dear," Begenre told Farawa. "Voyeurism."
Farawa frowned. "I don't think I'm familiar with that. I do like to travel, though, so perhaps I'm a voyeur, too."
Divine's face turned red. Eongo choked back a laugh.
Begenre patted Farawa's hand. "I'll explain later, dear."
"I guess readers' tastes are just varied," Divine said. "Some people like to read inspirational, morally uplifting books while others prefer filth and gutter-life."
A long pause ensued.
"Hmm, I hate to agree," Aromance said. "But she's basically right. Readers' tastes vary. Some people like stuffy, boring, moralistic, and simple books while others like to read about a complicated, adult, intelligent world view that reflects contemporary life."
A longer pause.
Divine smiled too brightly. "Perhaps we should discuss this afterwards, dear."
"Oh, let's, sweetie," Aromance said, smiling just as brightly.
"I brought cookies because I thought that would be easier to divide," Cookbookins said. "When I brought pie last time, someone took nearly half of it."
"To return to the original question, I think intent has a lot to do with it," Begenre said. "If a writer is writing the sex scene and the whole point is to simply give the reader a sexual thrill, then maybe it strays into the ... let's not say porn, but the titillation arena. But if the scene is for character development and illumination, it's firmly in the literature arena."
The clock chimed nine, and that was all the time we had. They filed out, leaving Farawa and me. She gathered up her large purse and her notebooks. I smiled at her and asked, "How was that third cookie?"
She winked at me. "Delicious."
(Copyright 2017 Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved.)
I got involved in an interesting discussion with some other writers the other day -- WAIT! Don't go away. This discussion involved SEX! I thought that would peak your interest -- about SEX in books. I had struggled through a book recently that featured fairly explicit SEX and had wondered out-loud what made that book "literature" and not just plain porn. (Names changed to protect me.)
"Because the sex was integral to the story," said Writer Aromance. "It wasn't just thrown in to titillate. It revealed the characters."
"Yes, it revealed they liked sex," Writer Begenre said. "But doesn't everyone? Sex scenes are put in books to increase sales. And give lonely writers a thrill."
"Are there any more cookies?" asked Writer Cookbookins. "I only got one."
"I don't read books with explicit sex," Writer Divine said. "In fact, I'm quite happy to read about a sweet kiss and then a sunset."
"Today's readers want more than that," Aromance said. "They want to feel the characters' passion. They want to experience the hot, steamy moments, the indescribable sensations." Aromance panted, head rolling slightly, eyelids fluttering. "They want details. Oh yes! YES!!!"
The rest of the group moved their chairs away from Aromance.
"Isn't reading a sex scene the same as renting a porn movie?" Begenre said. "Just because they're not watching a sexual encounter with their eyes and instead 'watching' it in their minds, doesn't mean that it's not for the same purpose."
"Well, I don't read romances for that!" Aromance said, scooting over to join them again. "I want to read about true love, and sex just happens to be part of it. We need to turn the air-conditioning on."
"There were enough cookies for two apiece," Cookbookins said, looking around. "Someone had to have three."
"True love is more than just sex," Divine said. "It's a marriage of spirits, of souls reaching out to each other."
"Those souls come with various pieces of plumbing attached," Begenre said. "I think fading off into a sunset leaves the reader hanging."
"Some things are better left to the imagination," Divine said with a sniff. "It totally kills the romance when a writer starts describing ... er ... how the pipes fit into the joints."
"We're going to run that plumbing metaphor into the ground," Begenre said.
"I blame TV," Writer Eongo said. "People have become accustomed to seeing everything right before them. They don't exercise their minds. So they can't even imagine people having sex!"
"You know, I brought those cookies to share," Cookbookins said. "I think it's a shame that someone is so greedy that he or she deprived another writer of their cookie."
"Eongo has a point," Divine said. "What's wrong with letting the reader know that the characters have had sex, but not showing the sex? When two characters make love, that's one thing, but when we invite the reader along, that's an orgy."
"Not really an orgy," Begenre said. "Or least I don't think that's one. It's been a long time since my college days." The others looked at Begenre. "I heard about them back then," Begenre hastily added. "But I think a good case could be made for it being voyeurism."
"I love ocean ones," Farawa said dreamily.
The other writers regarded the elderly writer carefully.
"Not voyages, dear," Begenre told Farawa. "Voyeurism."
Farawa frowned. "I don't think I'm familiar with that. I do like to travel, though, so perhaps I'm a voyeur, too."
Divine's face turned red. Eongo choked back a laugh.
Begenre patted Farawa's hand. "I'll explain later, dear."
"I guess readers' tastes are just varied," Divine said. "Some people like to read inspirational, morally uplifting books while others prefer filth and gutter-life."
A long pause ensued.
"Hmm, I hate to agree," Aromance said. "But she's basically right. Readers' tastes vary. Some people like stuffy, boring, moralistic, and simple books while others like to read about a complicated, adult, intelligent world view that reflects contemporary life."
A longer pause.
Divine smiled too brightly. "Perhaps we should discuss this afterwards, dear."
"Oh, let's, sweetie," Aromance said, smiling just as brightly.
"I brought cookies because I thought that would be easier to divide," Cookbookins said. "When I brought pie last time, someone took nearly half of it."
"To return to the original question, I think intent has a lot to do with it," Begenre said. "If a writer is writing the sex scene and the whole point is to simply give the reader a sexual thrill, then maybe it strays into the ... let's not say porn, but the titillation arena. But if the scene is for character development and illumination, it's firmly in the literature arena."
The clock chimed nine, and that was all the time we had. They filed out, leaving Farawa and me. She gathered up her large purse and her notebooks. I smiled at her and asked, "How was that third cookie?"
She winked at me. "Delicious."
(Copyright 2017 Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved.)
Thursday, March 30, 2017
Scene from a Farewell Party
"Scene from a Farewell Party"
She had waited all evening. Waiting for the time to be right. Or a miracle. But he stood on the other side of the room. He never walked her way. And she knew he left in the morning for New York. This night was her last chance, but her last chance for what? She didn't know. She couldn't begin to hope, but she knew the perfect words she wanted to hear.
Most everyone else was dancing. Hopping up and down to a manic pop single, but the beat of her heart took all her attention as it drummed a rhythm of fear and hope.
All the way through high school and college, the time had never been right. She had been with Kent and then with Richard. He had been with Laurie, Joanne, and Jenny. But now they were both unattached. What kept this from being the time?
How long was she supposed to wait to hear those perfect words? Or had their time already passed? She knew some things got lost. People grew up. Passions faded. A fire couldn't smolder forever.
They had exchanged glances. Significant, perhaps, but nothing more. They had never been close friends, just friends of friends. They had kissed once in a gazebo in a summer rainstorm, but his cell phone had rang. Joanne was looking for him. Richard was looking for her. She ran all the way back to her cousin's house, soaked to the skin and spent the rest of the vacation suffering from a cold and hiding in her room. He tried to call her several times, but she never took his calls. They hadn't spoken since.
Another song started, more frantic than the last one, but she couldn't hear it over the slow drum in her chest.
Somehow she pulled away from the wall. Somehow she took a step and then another. Four steps, and she reached in the middle of the room. If this had been a movie, he would have met her halfway, but it wasn't. Among the dancers she was alone.
The next step was the hardest. But the rest were easy. She reached him, put out her hand, touched his shoulder.
He turned, his ready smile fading as he saw her.
She couldn't wait anymore. Now. Now before her courage failed her.
She pulled his face to hers and kissed him.
If it had been a movie, he would have laughed and kissed her endlessly. He would have said, "I love you," the perfect words she wanted.
But he didn't.
He looked at her for a long moment.
Too long.
Panic filled her. This wasn't a movie. This was real life, and their time had passed. She was a fool.
But then he reached out and crushed her against him.
He said, "What took you so long? I've been waiting forever."
As it turned out, those words were perfect, too.
(Copyright 2017 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved.)
She had waited all evening. Waiting for the time to be right. Or a miracle. But he stood on the other side of the room. He never walked her way. And she knew he left in the morning for New York. This night was her last chance, but her last chance for what? She didn't know. She couldn't begin to hope, but she knew the perfect words she wanted to hear.
Most everyone else was dancing. Hopping up and down to a manic pop single, but the beat of her heart took all her attention as it drummed a rhythm of fear and hope.
All the way through high school and college, the time had never been right. She had been with Kent and then with Richard. He had been with Laurie, Joanne, and Jenny. But now they were both unattached. What kept this from being the time?
How long was she supposed to wait to hear those perfect words? Or had their time already passed? She knew some things got lost. People grew up. Passions faded. A fire couldn't smolder forever.
They had exchanged glances. Significant, perhaps, but nothing more. They had never been close friends, just friends of friends. They had kissed once in a gazebo in a summer rainstorm, but his cell phone had rang. Joanne was looking for him. Richard was looking for her. She ran all the way back to her cousin's house, soaked to the skin and spent the rest of the vacation suffering from a cold and hiding in her room. He tried to call her several times, but she never took his calls. They hadn't spoken since.
Another song started, more frantic than the last one, but she couldn't hear it over the slow drum in her chest.
Somehow she pulled away from the wall. Somehow she took a step and then another. Four steps, and she reached in the middle of the room. If this had been a movie, he would have met her halfway, but it wasn't. Among the dancers she was alone.
The next step was the hardest. But the rest were easy. She reached him, put out her hand, touched his shoulder.
He turned, his ready smile fading as he saw her.
She couldn't wait anymore. Now. Now before her courage failed her.
She pulled his face to hers and kissed him.
If it had been a movie, he would have laughed and kissed her endlessly. He would have said, "I love you," the perfect words she wanted.
But he didn't.
He looked at her for a long moment.
Too long.
Panic filled her. This wasn't a movie. This was real life, and their time had passed. She was a fool.
But then he reached out and crushed her against him.
He said, "What took you so long? I've been waiting forever."
As it turned out, those words were perfect, too.
(Copyright 2017 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved.)
Saturday, March 25, 2017
Passion
Passion
By Stephen B. Bagley
If I could, I would seduce you
into poetry. I would run
feathery words over the bare
shoulders of your muse, touch gently
the moist secret places of your
metaphors, delicately brush
your lips with similes and plunge
rhythm and rhyme into your soul.
I would take you past the threshold
where passion and structure meet, where
one image means the difference
between indifference and glory.
If I could, I would do these things
and do them long and do them well
until when you heard poetry,
you would gasp, don’t stop oh don’t stop.
Excerpt from Undying by Stephen B. Bagley & Gail Henderson.
By Stephen B. Bagley
If I could, I would seduce you
into poetry. I would run
feathery words over the bare
shoulders of your muse, touch gently
the moist secret places of your
metaphors, delicately brush
your lips with similes and plunge
rhythm and rhyme into your soul.
I would take you past the threshold
where passion and structure meet, where
one image means the difference
between indifference and glory.
If I could, I would do these things
and do them long and do them well
until when you heard poetry,
you would gasp, don’t stop oh don’t stop.
Copyright 2015. All rights reserved.
Friday, March 17, 2017
Letter
Dear old friend,
I'm just writing you a note to tell you that I'm done with regrets. When I hung up the phone, after you told me that you were getting married again, I thought, It's never going to happen now. We're not going to be together.
For a moment, I cursed the bad timing that has always plagued us. For a moment, I thought of the crazy loving we weren't going to share. For a moment, I thought of laughter in a shared, cozy dark. For a moment, I thought, well, my heart will break. And I braced myself for the shock.
But my heart kept right on beating. And then I realized it was okay. I had been in love with you so long, had become so accustomed to it that I hadn't even noticed that it was only habit now. Somewhere over the years, the passion had been replaced with friendship.
I thought about it all day yesterday. I turned it over in my mind, examining this strong, healthy reaction that I hadn't expected to find. Somehow, some way, some time when I wasn't looking, I grew up. And it feels fine.
So I'm done with regrets tonight. There's a whole world still out there. I've wasted too much time already. A part of me will always love you, but it doesn't love you any more. I hope you finally find happiness. You deserve it. And so do I.
Your friend,
Me
I'm just writing you a note to tell you that I'm done with regrets. When I hung up the phone, after you told me that you were getting married again, I thought, It's never going to happen now. We're not going to be together.
For a moment, I cursed the bad timing that has always plagued us. For a moment, I thought of the crazy loving we weren't going to share. For a moment, I thought of laughter in a shared, cozy dark. For a moment, I thought, well, my heart will break. And I braced myself for the shock.
But my heart kept right on beating. And then I realized it was okay. I had been in love with you so long, had become so accustomed to it that I hadn't even noticed that it was only habit now. Somewhere over the years, the passion had been replaced with friendship.
I thought about it all day yesterday. I turned it over in my mind, examining this strong, healthy reaction that I hadn't expected to find. Somehow, some way, some time when I wasn't looking, I grew up. And it feels fine.
So I'm done with regrets tonight. There's a whole world still out there. I've wasted too much time already. A part of me will always love you, but it doesn't love you any more. I hope you finally find happiness. You deserve it. And so do I.
Your friend,
Me
Thursday, March 09, 2017
Sometimes
Sometimes you're not enough. That's the one of lessons of growing up. You get to learn that some people can't be saved, that you're going to have to watch as someone you love makes wrong decisions and chooses darkness, that you can't do anything except hope the damage won't break them.
You can only do so much. Ultimately it's their decision about their lives. All the good advice in the world means nothing if the recipient won't listen. All the kindness in the world can't reach someone who won't let themselves be reached. You hope and pray, but they take that next drink or that next hit or one more time around with the wrong guy. They say they want to be rescued, but they've chosen their hell, and you can't save them. They don't want to be saved.
Sometimes miracles happen. People do step back from the abyss. It happens every day many times. It's the hope you hold on to. Even when you lose.
So you learn to take the victories you can, and you mourn the ones that fall, but there's always someone else walking along the edge so you don't have time to waste.
You keep trying because we all court disaster sometimes. But for the grace of God, you might be that one who's failing, who's falling, who needs someone to catch them, who needs someone to say, "Hold on. I won't let you go. Hold on."
Over the past few weeks, I've watched a friend choose something bad. He's lost his job and now his family, but he wants something he can't have and he's going to ruin himself in his attempt to get it. He's had books of good advice and libraries of warnings, but somehow he thought he'd be different, that he could walk along the hungry abyss and be unharmed. That he was different from all those others that fell before him.
Sunday night he called me and asked what he should do. So I gave the usual good advice (counseling, marriage therapist, N.A. meetings) and as I did, I realized that he was going to ignore me, that everything I said was not what he wanted to hear. He wanted to hear that it was going to be okay, that it was going to work out. That he could keep what he had already lost by continuing to do what he is doing.
Because I really am his friend, I didn't tell him those lies that because they're not true. The call ended shortly thereafter. I doubt he will call me again. I'll continue to hope and pray for him and his family, and that's all I can do for now. But miracles happen. I want one to happen in his life before he suffers too much, before he gathers too much regret.
Miracles do happen.
You can only do so much. Ultimately it's their decision about their lives. All the good advice in the world means nothing if the recipient won't listen. All the kindness in the world can't reach someone who won't let themselves be reached. You hope and pray, but they take that next drink or that next hit or one more time around with the wrong guy. They say they want to be rescued, but they've chosen their hell, and you can't save them. They don't want to be saved.
Sometimes miracles happen. People do step back from the abyss. It happens every day many times. It's the hope you hold on to. Even when you lose.
So you learn to take the victories you can, and you mourn the ones that fall, but there's always someone else walking along the edge so you don't have time to waste.
You keep trying because we all court disaster sometimes. But for the grace of God, you might be that one who's failing, who's falling, who needs someone to catch them, who needs someone to say, "Hold on. I won't let you go. Hold on."
Over the past few weeks, I've watched a friend choose something bad. He's lost his job and now his family, but he wants something he can't have and he's going to ruin himself in his attempt to get it. He's had books of good advice and libraries of warnings, but somehow he thought he'd be different, that he could walk along the hungry abyss and be unharmed. That he was different from all those others that fell before him.
Sunday night he called me and asked what he should do. So I gave the usual good advice (counseling, marriage therapist, N.A. meetings) and as I did, I realized that he was going to ignore me, that everything I said was not what he wanted to hear. He wanted to hear that it was going to be okay, that it was going to work out. That he could keep what he had already lost by continuing to do what he is doing.
Because I really am his friend, I didn't tell him those lies that because they're not true. The call ended shortly thereafter. I doubt he will call me again. I'll continue to hope and pray for him and his family, and that's all I can do for now. But miracles happen. I want one to happen in his life before he suffers too much, before he gathers too much regret.
Miracles do happen.
Wednesday, March 01, 2017
Darker than you think
I've always had a dark(er) sense of humor. I don't know why. I certainly don't like it when people get hurt or any of the other gory/senseless/immature/vulgar events that seem to pass for humor these days. (Never liked America's Funniest Home Videos or their ilk.)
But...sardonic humor. Like that in William Goldman's The Lion in Winter. Or the biting insults in Edward Albee's Who's Afraid of Virginia Woofe? have always sparked something in me. The intelligence in the cuts, the knowing wit dissecting its object with no mercy nor regard to anything except the devastating impact....
In my plays, there were flashes of that. Sometimes the joke twisted the knife if the audience took a moment to look past the initial laughter. Not often. For one thing, I believe in mercy, and for another, I liked my characters for the most part. I hated hurting them, but I did.
Maybe all authors are darker than you think. Maybe darker than you are comfortable with. What other being makes its living by writing with great skill about another's torment? Look away. Better to not know. Just take the laugh and leave us in the shadows.
Where we're watching you.
But...sardonic humor. Like that in William Goldman's The Lion in Winter. Or the biting insults in Edward Albee's Who's Afraid of Virginia Woofe? have always sparked something in me. The intelligence in the cuts, the knowing wit dissecting its object with no mercy nor regard to anything except the devastating impact....
In my plays, there were flashes of that. Sometimes the joke twisted the knife if the audience took a moment to look past the initial laughter. Not often. For one thing, I believe in mercy, and for another, I liked my characters for the most part. I hated hurting them, but I did.
Maybe all authors are darker than you think. Maybe darker than you are comfortable with. What other being makes its living by writing with great skill about another's torment? Look away. Better to not know. Just take the laugh and leave us in the shadows.
Where we're watching you.
Saturday, February 25, 2017
Why you can't
For a long time, self-help gurus have preached a message about "having it all," "doing it all," and so on. In many ways, their message--reaching our full potential and trying for more than the average, trying to learn more, be more active--is a good one that we all need to hear and to apply, but...and it's a big "but" and I cannot lie...we have to understand how time influences our lives.
We don't get a lot of time down here. Almost nothing compared to the time that has gone before and even less to the time that is yet to come. "...our little life is rounded with a sleep," to quote from The Tempest. The question becomes how to choose what is important to us. What are we going to spend our precious time on?
The reason we can't do it all/have it all--to put it plainly--is we don't have enough time. So we must choose, and each choice turns us from one path to another path to another to another. It always comes back to our decisions, even if we choose not to decide--which is a choice of sorts.
I have always liked the wisdom in this: "If you don't know where you're going, then how will you know when you get there?" We have decisions to make. We decide. And we must live with those consequences of those decisions.
In our lives, every single day, we make decisions. If we want to be a better person, make a better world, we have make good decisions. Prayer and reflection will help with that. And maybe being conscious of how precious time is to everyone.
And that's all the time I have for talking about this today.
We don't get a lot of time down here. Almost nothing compared to the time that has gone before and even less to the time that is yet to come. "...our little life is rounded with a sleep," to quote from The Tempest. The question becomes how to choose what is important to us. What are we going to spend our precious time on?
The reason we can't do it all/have it all--to put it plainly--is we don't have enough time. So we must choose, and each choice turns us from one path to another path to another to another. It always comes back to our decisions, even if we choose not to decide--which is a choice of sorts.
I have always liked the wisdom in this: "If you don't know where you're going, then how will you know when you get there?" We have decisions to make. We decide. And we must live with those consequences of those decisions.
In our lives, every single day, we make decisions. If we want to be a better person, make a better world, we have make good decisions. Prayer and reflection will help with that. And maybe being conscious of how precious time is to everyone.
And that's all the time I have for talking about this today.
Tuesday, February 14, 2017
Excerpt: "Taking Aim At Cupid"
But this year, I’ve decided to direct our attention to that clothing-challenged archer who wings around shooting people with arrows to make them fall in love with people guaranteed to ruin their lives. I don’t understand Cupid.
Oh sure, I get the metaphor that love is like a sharp weapon that pierces your spleen and makes you hemorrhage to death while your loved one runs off with your best friend, but beyond the obvious, what’s up with him?
He's strange. Has little tiny wings on his back.He flies around more naked than the birds who at least have feathers. He has nothing to protect him from the elements. (People thought that the mythmakers were saying Cupid carried a quiver, but actually they were saying he shivered.)
Supposedly, Cupid was the son of Venus (Goddess of Love) and Mars (God of Candy Bars). That's the accepted story, but other myths say he was the son of Heaven and Earth, Venus and Vulcan, Night and Ether, Venus and Mercury, Strife and Zephyr, and Venus by herself. The point of this is Venus got around, and the Renaissance mythographer Natale Conti says Cupid's parentage was uncertain. (Conti would go on to have a short-lived career in the Renaissance version of the Maury Povich show.)
It wasn’t until Cupid was in school that he learned his parents were mythical and didn’t exist. The other school children used to mock him by saying, “Your daddy's a myther; your mama's a mythssus." At this point, he took up the bow and arrow, but the school counselor disarmed him and sent him to military school where he was ignored because no one wants to look at a naked person all the time.
Not that his life was all bitter solitude. In fact, while carrying out one of his mother’s bizarre revenge schemes—Venus had depths of crazy that even my ex-girlfriends don’t have—he met and stalked a beautiful woman by the name of Psyche, who was a soul sister. (That’s a clever joke because Psyche is Greek for “soul.” Get it? Ha ha.... Well, fine. You try making jokes about love gods and see how easy it is.) He stalked her because he accidentally nicked himself with one of his arrows; there's some sort of lesson in that, but let's not take the time to figure it out.
If Cupid wrote a tell-all memoir, he would feature his mother. Here's this story as an example. When Cupid was a little boy, he stole honey from a bee hive, and the bees stung him. He cried and ran to his mother Venus. She laughs and points out he is also small like the bees and he delivers the sting of love so his pain is justice.Then she kicks him back outside. Listen, if that's not movie-of-the-week gold, I don't know what is. Move over, Joan Crawford, there's a new hanger-shaker in town.
Cupid and Psyche had their problems, of course, as any couple does when the man likes to soar around naked shooting people, but eventually they did marry and had a daughter whom they named Voluptas for no good reason. (She was also known as Hedone, which doesn’t seem any better. I can see Venus standing on the celestial porch hollering, “Voluptas Hedone, you get yourself back in this house right now!”) She hated her parents, mostly because her father’s lack of modesty meant she could never have sleepovers at her house. She left home at an early age and lived a wanton life, but no more so than any pop star or Congressman.
Mercifully, Psyche faded from history (or mythistory) at that point. Cupid, however, showed up a few more times, but marriage had changed him. He now carried two set of arrows, one gold-tipped set that brought love, and another lead-tipped set that brought hate. Some scholars think this is a pointed commentary on marriage. Other scholars wonder why we’re talking about this and think we should get a real job. The other scholars are often grumpy.
Anyway, I want you to think about all this when you get a card with Cupid on it. If you do and then find your Valentine’s Day is a bit less happy, then my job is done.
(Excerpt from the forthcoming Floozy Comes Back. Copyright 2017 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved. Please do not copy without explicit permission from the author and publisher. Thank you for reading.)
Saturday, February 11, 2017
Update
Sorry to be so quiet. Between doctors' visits, my medical problems, and life, it seems I haven't had much time.
However, in good news, I have been making significant progress on "Floozy Comes Back." My plan is to have the book finished--first draft state--by the end of February.
Then March I will spend editing, lengthening, writing new material, and proofing (with the help of my proofers).
April, off it will go to the publisher.
And if things go right, I will publish in May! I'm looking forward to holding another new book in my hands.
However, in good news, I have been making significant progress on "Floozy Comes Back." My plan is to have the book finished--first draft state--by the end of February.
Then March I will spend editing, lengthening, writing new material, and proofing (with the help of my proofers).
April, off it will go to the publisher.
And if things go right, I will publish in May! I'm looking forward to holding another new book in my hands.
Tuesday, January 31, 2017
Wordless
Sometimes I don't have words. Not because a particular event has stolen them or left me bereft—although that can happen, also—no, instead, it's because there aren't any. I wander around the empty halls of my echoing imagination with only my steps disappearing in the silence.
No panicking. Been through this before. The words will come. They always do. I can feel them out there in the shadows, lurking in the woods, obscured by the clouds in the rose-tinged sky. But they will return. Probably late in the night or early in the morning or at a wedding or maybe the dentist—wherever it's most inconvenient. The words are like that. They require inconvenience and sometimes sacrifice.
Everything good requires a price. The price is what makes such things valuable. If we don't pay for what we have, how then do we know its value? That is a hard truth, but it is wisdom of a sort.
No panicking. Been through this before. The words will come. They always do. I can feel them out there in the shadows, lurking in the woods, obscured by the clouds in the rose-tinged sky. But they will return. Probably late in the night or early in the morning or at a wedding or maybe the dentist—wherever it's most inconvenient. The words are like that. They require inconvenience and sometimes sacrifice.
Everything good requires a price. The price is what makes such things valuable. If we don't pay for what we have, how then do we know its value? That is a hard truth, but it is wisdom of a sort.
Thursday, January 26, 2017
Excerpt from Undying
By Stephen B. Bagley
In the failure of his life,
he stirred the ashes,
recognizing each mistake,
his lover there,
his career here,
his hopes scattered
by the brutal wind.
He stood and spread his arms.
His hands couldn’t hold
—he dropped them.
His tongue couldn’t speak
—he spit it out.
His skin flawed and torn
—he sloughed it away.
That which he didn’t need
he would not keep;
all things have a time,
even humanity.
He raised tentacles
to the night sky,
roared his fury
as the ravens circled above,
craned his sinuous neck
to see the town below.
His lipless mouth
curved into a smile.
She would wake to terror,
she would see her unfaithful heart
beating in his grasp,
and her screams would be his lullaby.
(Excerpt from Undying. Copyright 2016 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved. No copying without prior permission of the publisher.)
Friday, January 20, 2017
Struggle
How are you doing on your writing goals this week? I confess here that it's been a struggle for me this week. I've been really sick: sinus infection, IBD flare, diabetes blood sugar climb, and finally a bad recurrence of my spine troubles. Not fun. And it made it hard to write—it made it hard to even want to write.
Life is like that. It doesn't give way to our plans. Always tasks and problems will leap up to beat us back. It is easy, understandable, and maybe even correct to fall back at times. But the problem with retreat remains that we might not advance again....
I see it all the time. A person drops out of college for good reasons and says she will go next year--but she doesn't. A person doesn't pursue a romantic relationship because he doesn't have time now and will later--but years past and he never found the time. A writer will write tomorrow or next week or as soon as the kids leave home or when retirement rolls around—but the stories don't get told.
We have to be writers in the present. Not writers tomorrow or next week, but now. Now despite everything else before us. That's what I tell myself in weeks like this. Writers write. To be a writer—to be truly committed to what I believe is my vocation in life—I have to write.
Even in the weeks when I struggle...I have to write. And every word is a victory, a confirmation of what I believe about my calling in life.
Writers write.
Life is like that. It doesn't give way to our plans. Always tasks and problems will leap up to beat us back. It is easy, understandable, and maybe even correct to fall back at times. But the problem with retreat remains that we might not advance again....
I see it all the time. A person drops out of college for good reasons and says she will go next year--but she doesn't. A person doesn't pursue a romantic relationship because he doesn't have time now and will later--but years past and he never found the time. A writer will write tomorrow or next week or as soon as the kids leave home or when retirement rolls around—but the stories don't get told.
We have to be writers in the present. Not writers tomorrow or next week, but now. Now despite everything else before us. That's what I tell myself in weeks like this. Writers write. To be a writer—to be truly committed to what I believe is my vocation in life—I have to write.
Even in the weeks when I struggle...I have to write. And every word is a victory, a confirmation of what I believe about my calling in life.
Writers write.
Tuesday, January 10, 2017
Second Week
Made all these goals last week when I was filled with the excitement of the new year. Still have some of that, but the shiny is wearing off. It's the beginning of the slog, the necessary trudging that new habits require to fasten into place. This is the place where people give up, make excuses, fall gratefully back into the familiar, the safe, the rut.
It's easy to do. Our old habits are fighting back. We have our reasons, our excuses, our justifications: We're busy, we're tired, we're not good enough, we're too old, we're too young, next week we'll do better, next month we line ourselves back up. Who do we think we are, anyway?
The days flee by, and soon we're staring at another new year and think, "I didn't change last year so why should this new year be any different?" And we sink back with our regrets and chocolates and TV remotes, and in the end, that's our life.
Or...maybe...we can choose something different. We can make one new habit each month. One good habit. We can recycle cans, give up sugary soft drinks, send money to our favorite charity, write a letter of praise to a friend, sing happily at church, volunteer at a soup kitchen, donate clothes to the homeless shelter, hug those who will be hugged, pray for those who need to know someone is praying, check out books from the library, aid the literary council, walk 15 minutes in the sunshine, sincerely compliment one person a day for a week, be kind in real ways, be a listening ear and offer a caring heart...oh, the world has such needs and we can't fulfill them because we're just ourselves, but we can do what we can.
It's not such a hard thing to change things when you look at it like that--just one new good habit a month for a year. And that good year would be followed by another and another and another, and then at the end, it would be a good life. A very good life.
It's easy to do. Our old habits are fighting back. We have our reasons, our excuses, our justifications: We're busy, we're tired, we're not good enough, we're too old, we're too young, next week we'll do better, next month we line ourselves back up. Who do we think we are, anyway?
The days flee by, and soon we're staring at another new year and think, "I didn't change last year so why should this new year be any different?" And we sink back with our regrets and chocolates and TV remotes, and in the end, that's our life.
Or...maybe...we can choose something different. We can make one new habit each month. One good habit. We can recycle cans, give up sugary soft drinks, send money to our favorite charity, write a letter of praise to a friend, sing happily at church, volunteer at a soup kitchen, donate clothes to the homeless shelter, hug those who will be hugged, pray for those who need to know someone is praying, check out books from the library, aid the literary council, walk 15 minutes in the sunshine, sincerely compliment one person a day for a week, be kind in real ways, be a listening ear and offer a caring heart...oh, the world has such needs and we can't fulfill them because we're just ourselves, but we can do what we can.
It's not such a hard thing to change things when you look at it like that--just one new good habit a month for a year. And that good year would be followed by another and another and another, and then at the end, it would be a good life. A very good life.
Saturday, January 07, 2017
Setting goals
It's been a strange past two weeks. Well, maybe not strange. Just different enough to keep me busy and unable to focus on my plan for the year.
Today I celebrated my last 2016 Christmas with my roomie and his family. It was a great, busy day. My house still needs to be put back into shape--and I don't want to think about my kitchen--but I wanted to take a moment or two to discuss my plans for 2017 before the first week ends in a few minutes.
Here are my goals:
Health
-- Get new glasses.
-- Get my diabetes under control.
-- Exercise daily.
-- Take my meds regularly.
-- Control my meals.
-- See a dentist regularly.
Life
-- Read at least two books a month.
-- Continue learning about art.
-- Finish one of the Great Courses.
-- Keep my budget under control.
Writing
-- Post on this blog at least once a week for the entire year.
-- Post on Stephen B. Bagley Books blog at least once a week for the entire year.
-- Publish Floozy Comes Back.
-- Publish Murder by the Mile.
-- Query three magazines for articles or essays.
-- Publish on Kindle six short stories.
-- Submit six short stories to traditional markets.
-- Start a new book.
-- Writing group meeting once a month (weather permitting).
It's going to be a busy year! But a productive, wonderful year! I hope yours is, too!
Today I celebrated my last 2016 Christmas with my roomie and his family. It was a great, busy day. My house still needs to be put back into shape--and I don't want to think about my kitchen--but I wanted to take a moment or two to discuss my plans for 2017 before the first week ends in a few minutes.
Here are my goals:
Health
-- Get new glasses.
-- Get my diabetes under control.
-- Exercise daily.
-- Take my meds regularly.
-- Control my meals.
-- See a dentist regularly.
Life
-- Read at least two books a month.
-- Continue learning about art.
-- Finish one of the Great Courses.
-- Keep my budget under control.
Writing
-- Post on this blog at least once a week for the entire year.
-- Post on Stephen B. Bagley Books blog at least once a week for the entire year.
-- Publish Floozy Comes Back.
-- Publish Murder by the Mile.
-- Query three magazines for articles or essays.
-- Publish on Kindle six short stories.
-- Submit six short stories to traditional markets.
-- Start a new book.
-- Writing group meeting once a month (weather permitting).
It's going to be a busy year! But a productive, wonderful year! I hope yours is, too!
Sunday, January 01, 2017
Happy New Year!
Happy New Year!
I hope 2017 for you is filled with good health, wealthy sufficient for your needs and a few luxuries, solutions to your worries, peace to quiet any anxious thoughts, love unconditional, sweet laughter, and much joy!
Sunday, November 27, 2016
Blackbirds Third Flight On Sale!
Blackbirds Third Flight is now available at
Amazon, Barnes & Noble, BooksAMillion, Lulu,
& other online retailers!
Enjoy these dark fantasies:
➧ A dead girl asks one final question.
➧ A young man rides a forbidden dragon.
➧ With claw and fang, Malone will fight.
➧ Justina Grave battles a dangerous witch.
➧ A father faces his family's terrible secret.
➧ The end of the world begins in a backyard.
➧ A predator prowls on Halloween night.
➧ Thunder Mountain will kill the careless.
➧ Learn the final truth of the Tooth Fairy.
➧ A wolf reveals the face of the true beast.
And much more in this anthology of thrilling tales and poetry from Kathy Akins, Stephen B. Bagley, Wendy Blanton, Michael Canton, D.E. Chandler, Erin Cochran, Gail Henderson, Mariana Llanos, Jean Schara, and Heath Stallcup.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)