SECOND CHANCE AT YOUR DREAM by Dorothea Hover-Kramer

Title: SECOND CHANCE AT YOUR DREAM
Author: Dorothea Hover-Kramer
Publisher: Energy Psychology Press
Genre: Nonfiction; Health
Language: English
Purchase at Amazon

We are born with possibilities. As we grow, we imagine a great dream for our lives. This dream can get submerged or even derailed by the many challenges of adult life. The second half of life, usually sometime after 50, then may offer a second chance.

When we find the courage to grow emotionally and spiritually after mid-life, a great adventure opens up. A miracle happens. The fully scheduled business person begins to ease off and play more. Grandparenting or connecting with extended families offers the joys of being with young children minus the burdens of career juggling and child-rearing. Vacations and future plans begin to take shape around personal wishes rather than what is most convenient or cost-effective. The personality expands, deepens, strengthens and softens. We begin to return to our goals and ideals with renewed intention.
“I’ll never get old!”

The Greek philosopher Plato observed two great mysteries about humanity: one, no one believes they will ever grow old; and second, no one believes they will ever die. Both beliefs still remain a vast human mystery. Odds are 100 % against both immortality and not growing older. Each year we live does indeed make us older although there seems to be a good bit of denial around the idea of becoming “old.” Unless you’re over 90 and very entertaining like Irving Berlin or George Burns, there does not seem to be much humor around aging either.

Few seem to enjoy the second half of life quite as fully as proposed by the media or well-meaning youngsters. The “golden years” are often tarnished by another set of demands or withdrawal from life’s challenges. Negative beliefs about aging coupled with pervasive discouragement and increasingly limited activity characterize the lives of many elders.

American culture avoids discussing the possibility of creative, positive aging. Much fear is associated with the later half of life and its four most discernible tasks:

* Retirement, toward what?
* Becoming a mentor for others, a steward of the environment, and possibly a grandparent.
* Coping with natural changes in the physical body.
* Losing loved ones and facing our own mortality.

Inherent cultural prejudices favoring youth and consumerism readily show when there is the least bit of stress. While other cultures and traditions honor elders and give them special status, the West does its best to deny the presence of elders.

My husband and I were driving up a steep hill on a snowy day. We observed someone weaving across both lanes in front of us. “Drives just like an old codger,” Chuck muttered while trying to keep our own car steady in the drifting snow. When we were finally able to pass, the driver was, to our surprise, a pleasant looking thirty- something!

The ensuing discussion became part of the impetus to write this book. I started asking my friends over sixty about their thoughts, beliefs and fears. My thesaurus told me”oldness” is associated with declining: winter, senectitude, ancientry, antiquity, dotage, senility, decay, decrepitude, loneliness, debility, infirmity — all quite depressing. “Longevity” felt a bit more neutral. I tried the book idea with my friends by saying, “I’m planning to write a book on creative longevity.” Some were interested but several stated something like, “I don’t want longevity…I don’t want to live long especially if I will be infirm… I just don’t want to get old!” Since there is no known way to stop the clock, I wondered how one could build an innovative lifestyle to stretch beyond cultural norms surrounding aging.
America’s largest power group

A subtle but increasingly evident shift in perceptions about aging began in 2005. This was the year the large demographic bulge known as the “baby boomers,” those born in the American population surge after 1945 at the end of WW II, turned 60. Advertising began to show successful seniors generating glamorous lifestyles with all the trimmings of the consumer society –gorgeous homes, fine cars, good face creams and fashionable clothes. At a deeper level, it was becoming less politically correct to deride someone older than oneself or to let prejudices toward the elderly show.

But how many people really look forward to the thirty or fifty years of life’s second half that recent advances in medical have given them ? How many shy away from telling their age for fear they’ll be marginalized? How many are surprised, even irritated, to receive notice they’ve reached 50 making them eligible for AARP? Friends confess they avoid reading AARP’s publications or throw them away. Unfortunately, they also deny the existence of the largest potential power group in America. Accepting aging in the second half of life requires acknowledging our nation’s demographic reality with its gifts and challenges. More than that, it requires a careful look at ourselves to increase self-care and embrace our life’s dream.

AARP is 50 in 2008 as well as celebrities such as Caroline Kennedy, Madonna, Michelle Pfeiffer, Prince and Jamie Lee Curtis. Many offer insights and wisdom to inspire creative elder lifestyles. In an interview, Jamie Lee muses, “Getting older means paring yourself down to an essential version of yourself.” In her fun-loving way, she enacts this symbolically by wearing outfit bright ribbon trappings symbolic of her fetters and defenses over her black outfit. Then she sheds them one by one, peeling away the layers until only her essence is left. (1)

Notions of aging are changing. Ten years ago, AARP dropped its original name of American Association of Retired People in favor of just the initials because so many elders actively work, consult, and volunteer in the second half of life. The organization’s mission remains, “To enhance the quality of life for everyone — those already in the second half of life and those headed there.” (2)

We have been given the gift of time. It is imperative that we find ways to use it wisely. In 2008, 30% of the population is over 50, life expectancy averages 85.2 years, and AARP has 39 million members. Over 35% of American voters in 2004 were over 55 years old pointing to huge potential power held by the nation’s mature citizens. (3)

Clearly, it’s time for us to look at our lives in positive, hopeful terms. Humankind has an incredible ability to invent new patterns of thinking when they are needed. The creative mind knows how to give birth to new forms. Imagine with me the second half of your life as the most productive, prolific, fertile, original, and imaginative part of your existence. Share the excitement of modulating accepted, limiting thought patterns into images of joy, peace and satisfaction. Because most of us have extra time, we have untold opportunities for creating change within ourselves. And from there, to influence our friends, our communities, our world.
From longevitiy to “fun-gevity”

My personal journey toward the magical time of “threescore and ten” abounds with adventures, opportunities, losses and many lessons. While raising four teenage children I settled into a psychotherapist’s career and directed a large group of colleagues. Several years later I married the brave man who is my present husband. The dream of quiet midlife bliss was shattered one month after the wedding by the tragic death of my football hero oldest son.

These events dramatically shaped the second half of my life. I started asking questions. What did I need to learn? What gift lay in the juxtaposition of these dramatic events? Why was my son’s bounding energy still so strong? I wanted to learn about energetic connections with loved ones beyond the seeming wall of physical death. I recalled how awareness of human energies often had helped me in times of peril. While living in Berlin after the disastrous end of WW II, I sensed light and color around people who were best able to help me after my mother’s death when I was 5. I also learned to gently pass my hands over sick birds to speed their recovery. Later, I chose nursing and planned to use my hands and heart to help those in need as Florence Nightingale seemed to have done. I was somewhat ahead of my time since, until 1970, nursing did not formally acknowledge the possibility of helping patients via the human energy system. But I was in the right profession to learn more about energetic interventions and to blend them with practice as a counseling psychologist later.

Leadership positions with the American Holistic Nurses Association (1981 to 1990) led me to assist in organizing Healing Touch, a program for teaching energy modalities to healthcare professionals. This led to writing several books about the interface between energy concepts and counseling therapies. I became a teacher of counselors and co-founded the Association for Comprehensive Energy Psychology (ACEP). Many conferences and travel adventures followed.

At the peak of my professional career as a psychologist and president of ACEP, my husband and I decided we would like to retire to a peaceful, remote part of Oregon. Like many people who retire, we guessed at what we might like rather than really knowing what we wanted. It seemed a good idea to slow down and engage in less stressful activities. My walking had diminished to very short forays around the house because of a hip problem. I began learning about senior centers, yoga, painting groups and started doing some of the things for which I never had time before.

Then, two years ago, I found renewed vitality after receiving a hip replacement. Despite my affection for complementary healing modalities, I deeply appreciate Western medicine’s fabulous gift of new mobility. Not only can I walk with ease, but my life has expanded emotionally. With the help of energy exercises continually developing within ACEP, I gained strength to envision an active and creative longevity. This new phase of life is now “fun-gevity” time.

Retirement of withdrawal into quiet seclusion is no longer an option: the dream of a meaningful second half of life calls out. My husband and I celebrated our lives by moving to a vital community on Washington’s Olympic peninsula. Also, I feel called to empower my seven grandchildren. I want to help address major issues of their lives such as global uncertainty and environmental destruction. They deserve a vital elder who has time and patience to participate in needed social changes needed in our collective consciousness.

I envision a new picture of “audacious aging” (4) in which engaged, passionate elders bring their collective wisdom to our imperiled world. We are the talented and essential beings who, by healing and empowering ourselves, can heal and empower others. We are the ones who bring love of humanity and the natural world to our families and communities. The second half of life is indeed the opportunity to reclaim our life’s dream!
No pills or harmful side-effects here

This book is an invitation to join in the adventure of self-discovery while adding on more birthdays. We’ll explore ways to stay in balance, to release dysfunctional patterns, to change perceptions of difficult situations, to build a sense of hope and positive expectancy, to connect with innate creativity, to align energetically with the soul’s purpose and learn to trust intuition. Unlike thinking suggesting there is some external factor, medication, or device for treating life’s challenges, we’ll explore the resources which are innately yours and readily available.

Within your body resides your vital life force, the quality called Qi (pronounced “chee”) discussed in classical Chinese texts for over 5,000 years and the basis of the current practices of acupuncture and acupressure. Directing this Qi, with emotional acupressure via meridian acupoints (no needles!) can assist you in your daily life to resolve internal conflicts, remove blocks to creativity and empower you to live fully.

Contrary to traditional thinking that associates living well with lots of activity, the full-energy life is about connecting to inner wisdom and refining the arrow of intention. This orientation is filled with joy, peacefulness, openness, curiosity, wonder, appreciation, flexibility, exploration, new viewpoints and moving “beyond the box” of traditional thinking about aging.

Fun-gevity is made possible by letting go of stressful issues rapidly so there is available energy for more satisfying choices. For most day-to-day issues, the principles of energetic self-care advanced in this book will give excellent opportunities for refocusing. Care of more deep-seated issues may include seeking outside assistance ideally from a practitioner who is oriented to energy psychology approaches (resources listed in backmatter). Exercises in each chapter will lead you to finding new ways of sustaining energy levels and lightening up inwardly. Energy related interventions offer drug-free paths for relieving anxiety, finding inner harmony and thriving in advancing years.

The book is in four parts. They flow from an explanation of the personal energy system to practical applications in addressing specific issues. The first section is your introduction to a conceptual framework of personal energy for becoming more flexible and resourceful. We’ll explore cross-cultural resources and cite studies supporting ideas of healing to show how these concepts are well within the realm of current scientific knowledge. Epigenetic research, for example, is demonstrating the power of thought to influence emotions as well as the body’s cellular and DNA structures.

The second part is directly practical. We’ll learn releasing maneuvers to use whenever becoming shaken by external events. Transforming difficult issues allows more energy for innovative thinking. We’ll also rethink beliefs that are no longer functional and find methods of installing more desirable, useful beliefs. Celebrating the present with its unique gifts becomes possible as we learn methods to bring life-enhancing awareness into every moment.

The third section addresses numerous ways of establishing yourself as the creative artist of your life. Learning from a self-inventory brings focus to inner wisdom with specific steps for developing intuition as a resource for creativity. Accessing transpersonal, spiritual dimensions is another means of expanding originality and you’ll learn to nurture your own inner artist with hope and protective imagery.

The fourth part considers energetic approaches for two of life’s greatest challenges: dealing with pain and viewing death from a new perspective. The book closes by redefining personal myths and integrating seemingly dissimilar aspects of our lives into a dancing, dynamic whole.

****

I invite you to imagine and rehearse the life you really want and to enliven your dream goals. I encourage you to develop your own version of creative fun-gevity by employing the suggestions in these chapters. May the journey be richer and more fulfilling than you ever expected!

© 2008-2009, Dorothea Hover-Kramer. All rights Reserved.

CALEN: MY SOUL TO KEEP TRILOGY by Rie McGaha

Title: CALEN: MY SOUL TO KEEP TRILOGY
Author: Rie McGaha
Publisher: Noble Romance Publishing
Genre: Paranormal Erotic Romance
Language: English
Purchase at Noble Romance Publishing

The little boy leaned against the remains of what was once his home. He sat for a while and rubbed his hands over his chubby cheeks, smearing more dirt across his face. He drew designs in the dirt and occasionally glanced at the dead bodies of his parents lying not three feet away. He cried sometimes while he sat by his mother, patting her back and telling her to wake up. He didn’t understand why she kept sleeping; she had never done that before. Neither had his father, who now continued to sleep next to his mother.

He was alone and at night he was afraid. Everything looked different to him at night and all the sounds of the forest were frightening. He lay between his parents in the dark, sucking his thumb and crying until he finally fell asleep. He had dreams of the men who came into the forest on their big, black horses. He had been in the hut with his mother when they came; his father was outside chopping wood. His mother had grabbed him up, wrapped a fur around him and hid him in the deep, dark corner in the back of their home.

She had been very stern with him when she told him to stay there and not make a sound, then she had gone outside to where his father was speaking with the strangers. He remembered the shouts, the sound of the horse’s hooves, the ring of steel against steel in the air. He remembered his mother’s scream and that was when he crawled out of his hiding place and peeked through the crack in the logs of the hut.

He had seen his father lying on the ground with blood running from his head. And he saw the men ripping his mother’s clothes until her skirt was in shreds and she was bare from the waist down. They had tied her hands and threw her over the chopping block and raped her one by one. The little boy didn’t know what they were doing to his mother, slapping her, shouting and laughing, and laying on top of her like that. But he knew they were hurting her because he could hear her crying and screaming whenever they hit her. He didn’t know the men, but one had stuck in his memory. Tall, with the long, dirty hair, he wore all black and had hair all over his face. He was loud and hit his mother more than the others did. The little boy cried as he watched the men hurt his mother, and he saw the flash of a silver ring on the tall man’s finger as he raised the sword he carried and plunged it through his mother’s back.

The blood ran down her body, down the chopping block onto the dirt. He ran then. He ran back to the place where his mother had hidden him in the dark, secret corner of the hut and made himself as small as he could under the furs. He heard the men come inside, heard them laugh and heard them tear the place up. They broke what would break, kicked over the table and stools, and cursed when they didn’t find anything of value to steal. He heard one of them say they should burn the hut down, but another one, the voice he recognized as belonging to the tall man, had stopped them because he said it would attract attention, so they knocked down as much of the small hut as they could with their bare hands. Then they rode away.

The little boy was so afraid and stayed hidden under the furs all the rest of the day until it was nearly full dark. But as night fell, his full bladder drove him out of his hiding place. He had to climb under and over logs that once made up the walls of his home. That was when he saw his parents laying on the ground. He stood there crying and pee ran down his leg. He went to his mother first and shook her, patted her back and called to her over and over, but she wouldn’t answer him. He then turned to his father and shook him harder, but he didn’t answer either.

As the full moon rose over the forest, he sat down and wailed. After a while he fell asleep and when he awoke, it was still full dark. He shivered, and using the moon’s light as a guide, he made his way back into the hut, where he found the furs. He dragged them behind him, back out to his parents’ side. He covered his mother first and then lay between them and shared a fur with his father.

When he woke in the morning, he searched through the hut and found some bread and some dried meat to eat.

He had no concept of time passing. He slept, ate, played in the dirt, and waited for his parents to wake up.

The little boy awoke to the sounds of shouting again. Fearing the mean men had returned, he ran into the remains of the hut and slid under the fallen logs to the secret corner hiding place. He could hear the horses snorting and the men talking. Their voices sounded grim and low, not like the loud laughing he had heard from the ones who hurt his mother.

Shaking with fear, he lay still and tried to make himself very small so they wouldn’t notice him. He heard them walking around the hut, he heard them come inside and move the fallen logs around. He felt a very big hand pick him up, but he was too afraid to open his eyes. The man who held him wrapped an arm around him and went back outside and called out to another man.

“Caleb!”

Caleb turned to find his brother holding a small boy. The child looked dirty and disheveled, and had his eyes squeezed shut. “He must’ve seen the whole thing, Calen. Poor little guy. What do we do with him?”
Calen shrugged. “Can’t leave him here; he’ll starve to death. Or worse. Take him back to Margaret. She’ll take care of him.”

Caleb took the boy from his brother. He gently lowered him to the ground, where the child sat, cross-legged in the dirt. Caleb patted his head. “You just wait right here and we’ll take care of your Ma and Da.”

The boy squinted, opening his eyes just enough to see. Calen and Caleb buried the boy’s parents then bowed their heads and made the sign of the cross when they were done. After a brief consult with his brother, Calen walked slowly over to the boy and sat down in the dirt right in front of him.

He cleared his throat and looked up at Caleb. At his brother’s nod, he cleared his throat again. “My name is Calen, boy. This is my brother, Caleb. Neither of us is going to hurt you any, so don’t be afraid of us.”

The boy sat and stared at the dirt. Calen looked over his shoulder at his brother and raised a brow. Calen shrugged; he didn’t know how to deal with a little boy any more than his brother did.

Caleb tried again. “I know you’ve seen some bad things here with your Ma and Da, and no babe should be seeing that, but we’re going to take you home with us and you’ll be taken care of. So come on now and we’ll get to it.”

The little boy still sat. He didn’t speak, nor did he give any sign he had heard or understood. Calen squatted down beside his brother. “Maybe he can’t hear or speak? Can you, boy?” No reply.

The brothers looked at each other and Caleb picked up one of the furs and wrapped it around the boy and hauled him up on his shoulder. They both mounted their horses and Caleb settled the child in front of him.

They rode until sunset before they stopped again. They built a fire and laid out a bed for themselves in front of it then sat down with the boy between them. They pulled oatcakes and dried meat from a pouch and offered some to the boy. He held it in his hand without looking at either of them. They held the skin of water to the boy’s mouth and he drank, but still he said nothing. They finished eating, put the rest of the food away then the three of them lay down before the fire. The child fell asleep in minutes.

* * * * *

Around noon the next day the three of them rode into the small village of Ballencroft, settled in the valley surrounded by mountains. It was lush and beautiful and impenetrable, which is the way William, laird of Castle MacLean, liked it. His people lived and prospered and didn’t worry about invasions. They were peaceful and had not been involved in battle in nearly a decade. Not that they weren’t trained and ready in the event they needed to be. But theirs was a peaceful land and William planned on keeping it that way.

The small boy, tucked in front of Calen now, appeared interested in his surroundings. His eyes grew big and round and he stared in open-mouthed wonder. Calen followed his gaze, imagining what it might be like to see all of this for the first time through the eyes of a child. They passed the blacksmith, where men beat on steel, shoved the metal into fire and then into buckets of water. The child grinned as they passed the horses at the stables and fidgeted in his seat when they came upon a group of children who were kicking a ball back and forth across the dirt road to one another.

They continued on until, climbing the trail up the mountain to the castle gates.

Caleb glanced at his brother then addressed the boy. “This is Castle MacLean, little one. This is where you’ll be living. Think you might be liking it then?”

He nodded, and the brothers looked to one another in surprise. So the child wasn’t deaf, after all.

They dismounted in front of the big wooden double doors. A young lad ran up and took the reins of the horses and led them away to the stables. Calen carried the boy inside with Caleb following along behind them. They entered the great room and found their father, William, sitting before the stone fireplace that made up one wall of the room. Above the hearth hung the family crest crossed with swords, and a painting of William’s long-deceased wife—Calen and Caleb’s mother.

“Da, we’ve returned with news you aren’t going to like,” Caleb called out
William stood and turned to the trio.

He raised his brows as he looked them over. “So who’s this then?” He nodded toward the boy in Calen’s arms.

“That’s what you’re not going to like, Da. We need to get the babe here to Margaret for care, and then we can tell you the tale.”

William pulled the rope and a loud bell rang out. A moment later, Margaret came in from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a cloth.

“What is it you’re wanting? I’ve bread to finish kneading if you want it for supper,” she said looking at William.

He sighed. The woman had no respect, but without her he’d have never been able to raise his sons after their mother died. Margaret had been the only mother his boys had ever really known since Calen was but two years and Caleb not even of an age that he could sit up on his own when their mother had died of the fever. Margaret had stepped in when her sister had left him widowed and his sons motherless. She had lost her husband a year earlier and had no children of her own, and because of his boys, she had never remarried. She had taken his sons on as if they were her own babes and had cared for William as well when he was drowning in grief. So if she didn’t treat him as respectfully as some thought due his rank, he didn’t mind. She was loyal, kind, strong, loving, and faithful. He could live with that.
Margaret turned toward Calen and Caleb and opened her arms to them. She walked over and wrapped all of them in a hug.

“My boys are home.” She put a hand on each of their faces and patted their cheeks. She nodded to the boy. “And what have we here then?”

She took the child from Calen and hugged him to her. She looked at the two grown men with questions in her eyes, but they shook their heads.

“Later,” Calen said.

Margaret nodded. “Aren’t you a sweet one?” She cooed to the little boy. He nuzzled closer to her and she hugged him tightly. “How old are you now? Can you show me?” He held up four fingers. “Oh, well aren’t you a big boy then. Can you tell me your name?”

“Arion,” he said barely above a whisper.

“Arion,” Margaret repeated loudly and then headed back toward the kitchen door.

The three men watched until they disappeared.

“He wouldn’t even look at us,” Caleb said with a shake of his head.
William grinned. “Like all of us, I s’pose he knows Margaret will get what she wants, so it’s just as well to give it to her and get it over with.”

They all chuckled and sat together.

“So . . . .” William looked at each of his sons. “Tell me the story.”

REUNION by Therese Fowler

Title: REUNION
Author: Therese Fowler
Paperback: 336 pages
Publisher: Ballantine Books
Genre: Women’s Fiction
Language: English
ISBN: 0345499700

In Chicago, the snow was falling so hard that, although quite a few pedestrians saw the woman standing on the fire escape nine stories up, none were sure they recognized her. At first the woman leaned against the railing and looked down, as if calculating the odds of death from such a height. After a minute or two, though, when she hadn’t climbed the rail but had instead stepped back from it, most people who’d noticed her continued on their ways. She didn’t look ready to jump, so why keep watching? And how about this snow, they said. What the hell? It wasn’t supposed to snow like this in spring!

To the few who watched her a minute longer, it was conceivable that the woman in the black pants and white blouse could be the popular talk show host whose show was taped inside the building. Conceivable, but unlikely. Was Blue Reynolds’s hair that long? That dark? Why would Blue be standing there motionless on the fire escape, looking up into the sky? Such a sensible, practical dynamo of a person—she certainly wasn’t the type to catch snowflakes on her tongue, as this woman now appeared to be doing. And especially not when The Blue Reynolds Show was going to start in twenty minutes. Tourists who’d hoped for last-minute tickets were right this second being turned away, the studio was full, please check the website for how to get tickets in advance.

This snow, coming two days after spring had officially begun, had the effect of bringing people throughout the city to windows and doorways—and to fire escapes, apparently. Though six to eight inches was forecasted, it was hard to begrudge snow like this, flakes so big that if you caught one on your sleeve, you could see the crystalline shape of it, perfect as a newborn baby’s hand. And with tomorrow’s temperatures rising into the fifties, what snow was piling up on railings and rooftops and ledges would melt away. It would be as if this remarkable snowfall had never happened at all. Much like the sighting of Blue—if in fact it was Blue—there outside her studio building’s ninth floor.

The black steel fire escape stood out against the buff-colored limestone, an add-on when the building got transformed from bank to apartments in 1953. Now that it housed offices again, its fire escape made balconies for those lucky enough to have access along with their downtown skyline views. Like a switchback trail, the escape descended from the twelfth-story rooftop to the second floor, with landings at each floor. The landing on which the woman stood was piled with a good three inches of snow, deep enough to close in on her ankles and soak the hem of black crepe pants. Her boots, Hugo Boss, lambskin, three-inch heels, were styled for fashion, not utility, and as she stood with her face upturned, she was vaguely aware that her feet were growing cold. Still, the pleasure of being pelted by snowflakes held her there. She could not recall the last time she’d been in, truly in, weather like this. And never alone, it seemed, and never focused, anymore, on the weather. Standing here, she had the exquisite feeling of being just one more anonymous Chicago dweller. Just a forty-ish woman on a fire escape in the snow, and not Blue Reynolds at all.

This snow made her want to be a child again so that, instead of going home to a bowl of Froot Loops eaten while she reviewed reports, she would be preparing to pull on snow pants and boots and head for the lighted hillside at the park, plastic saucer sled in tow. She would return home later soaking wet, with chapped red cheeks and frozen toes and a smile that would still be on her face when she woke the next morning. Was such a day a memory, she wondered, or a wish?

She knew the snowflakes must be wetting her just-styled hair, spotting her white silk blouse, Escada, she’d put it on not fifteen minutes earlier. These thoughts, they existed outside her somehow, far enough away that they didn’t motivate her to climb back inside her office window—even as today’s guests waited downstairs in the green room, nervous about meeting her. Even as the camera and lighting and sound and recording crews were gearing up for this last show of the week. Even as three hundred eager audience members were now taking their seats and would soon meet Marcy, Blue’s right hand, Marcy who managed her life, who would tell them what to expect on today’s show. They wouldn’t expect a snow-wet, distracted Blue Reynolds.

Still, even when she heard someone tapping the window to get her attention, she stood there squinting up into the whitened sky. One more minute. One more.

The tapping, again.

“I know, I’m coming,” she said.

Inside, the stylists and her producer and her assistants fluttered around her, clucking like outraged hens. What are you doing, it’s practically showtime! Look at that blouse! Are you sure you’re okay? No. She wasn’t okay, hadn’t been truly okay ever, that she could recall.

What expectation she saw on the faces of her studio audience when she took the stage! It wasn’t her they’d come to watch; she never lost sight of that. Because she was a regular person who argued with her mother, who cleaned hair from her shower drain so that the cleaning lady didn’t have to. She was a woman who failed to floss, who needed to clean out her purse, who paged through People at the dentist’s office, just like most of them. They were here to see the woman who, upon seeing that magazine, could then book whoever interested her and interview them on this very stage. They were here to see the woman who sometimes made the cover herself.

On today’s show were a sociologist, a high school superintendent, a Christian minister, and three teens—one boy and two girls. One of the girls was eight months pregnant. The topic was abstinence education.

In talking with Peter, TBRS’s producer, about this show, Blue had protested his suggestion that she open with an audience poll. Getting the audience involved in hot-button issues had in the past led to a Jerry Springer–like atmosphere she had to work hard to redirect. Peter said, yes, but think of the drama. “We want people to engage,” he said. “And not only because it’s good for ratings.” She agreed in part; engagement was the point of it all, or was supposed to be the point.

He continued, “You saw the latest numbers. We’re slipping—just a little, and obviously we’ll bring it back up, but if we lose our edge right now, we lose our contract renewal leverage.” Lower ratings also led to lower ad revenues, lower production budgets, more difficulty in booking guests who had the power to draw viewers—all of which then trickled down to lower salaries for everyone on her payroll. Lower salaries meant good people jumped onto newer, flashier, competing ships. Ultimately, she’d agreed to do the poll.

Standing at the front of the stage, she welcomed the audience. Three hundred faces of all skin tones and both genders watched her eagerly, fans from any and every place on Earth. Beyond, too, she sometimes suspected. While Marcy claimed there was an angel in every audience, Blue rather thought there was an alien, who would inevitably write in to rant about how off base she’d been on a particular topic, even if that topic was the fifty best uses of phyllo.

“Let me introduce you to some typical teens,” Blue said, and the two teenage girls appeared from the wings to take their seats behind her. Indeed, both girls were typical-looking, with long brown hair and eye makeup and TV-modest clothing bearing popular-brand logos. Both girls were white.

Facing the audience, she said, “Kendra and Stacey—who is eight months pregnant—are seventeen-year-olds from intact middle-class families. Their parents are professionals. Both girls are B-students, involved in extracurricular activities”—this drew a chuckle from some of the audience—“and both have made preliminary plans to attend college. The main difference in these young women’s lives is that one of them attends a high school that follows an abstinence-only curriculum, and one attends a school where teenage sexuality is considered ‘normal’ and the students are educated accordingly. Abstinence is taught as one of several possible choices.

” She stepped down from the dais and walked to the lip of the stage. “With a show of hands: Which of you thinks Stacey, our pregnant teen, got the sex-is-normal message?”

About half of the audience raised hands.

“Now, who thinks Kendra did?”

Most of the other hands went up, as did the volume of voices, arguments already begun.

Blue waited a beat, resisting the urge to rub her face. Looking into Camera 4, she said, “The answer, when we come back.

” She allowed the rumbling to continue during the break, hoping the audience would get it out of the way now; things were not going to get better.

Taking a seat between the girls, she looked at each of their nervous faces. “Are you hanging in there?”

Kendra shrugged. Stacey shifted in her chair and smoothed her pink maternity top. “I’m okay, I guess,” she whispered.

In a moment, they were on-air again. Blue said, “With me today are Kendra and Stacey, Chicago-area teenagers who, like most of their peers, are dealing as best they can with the pressures of growing up in our increasingly sexualized culture.

“Before the break I polled the audience on which of these girls received the teen-sex-is-normal message from her school, and which was taught to abstain until marriage.” She looked at Camera 2: “Brad, give us that tight view—audience, watch the screen.

” She waited, knowing that on the screen behind her would be a close-up image of a girl’s left hand, on which there was a silver ring. Brad nodded, and Blue continued, “This is known as a purity ring, representing adherence to the abstinence ideal: a vow of chastity, a promise to wait for the right man—or woman, because some young men are wearing them, too—and marriage.

“Girls, raise your hands.

” Of the four hands now displayed, three were bare of jewelry, as they’d arranged ahead of time.

The silver glinted, of course, from Stacey’s left hand.

Amidst the reactions of surprise from many in the audience, and satisfaction from others, a skinny, dark-haired woman in the middle of the room stood up and yelled, “Sinner! Hypocrite! Take off that ring!”

Stacey’s face crumpled. “It’s not wrong! I love him,” she said, then burst into tears.

And before Blue could stop herself, she did, too.

After refereeing fifteen rounds between the sociologist and the minister—had Peter chosen such a closed-minded, sanctimonious old man on purpose?—Blue escaped the set the minute they were clear. Reverend Mark Masterson, a tall, self-serious man with heavy jowls and bottle-black hair, followed her backstage.

“Just what do you think you’re going to accomplish by telling teenage girls to go ahead and have sex?”

“Was that what I said?”

“You made that child out to be a hero.

” He’d made no secret of his disdain for the facts and the statistics, which were the substance of her supposed endorsement. Blue looked at him coolly. “And you made her out to be a whore—I’m sorry, ‘whoremonger’ was your word, wasn’t it? I thought you were a minister, but apparently you’re a judge.”

He frowned down at her, his height giving him an illusion of superiority she was sure he made the most of. He said, “When I agreed to do this show, I was under the impression that you had a conscience.”

“And I was under the impression that someone who has committed to serving his community would at least attempt to do so.

” He straightened the lapels of his brown suit jacket and picked off a spot of lint. “These are children we’re talking about. They require firmness and absolutes to shut down ungodly urges. Romans chapter eight, verse thirteen, for example: ‘For if you are living according to the flesh, you must die; but if by the Spirit you are putting to death the deeds of the body, you will live.’ ”

“So Stacey must die? That’s a reasonable punishment.”

“Now let’s not be ridiculous. The Bible permits a certain amount of interpretation.

“Blue nodded. “So true. Excuse me.” Giving him no chance to reply, she walked away quickly, shoulders pulled back, chin up, and shut herself in her dressing room. She’d known there would be no easy consensus on such a complex issue, but just once she would have liked to have the kind of powers needed to instantly transform a person like Masterson into a hormonal, love-struck teenage girl.

Blue was pulling off her boots when Marcy joined her, looking as fresh and enthused now, at four-fifteen, as she had at eight this morning. It was more than Marcy’s white-blond hair (“Of course it’s dyed,” she’d told a woman in the audience during a commercial break. “Nature doesn’t make this color…”), more than her flared-leg jeans and gray cashmere T-shirt. Marcy had what Blue’s mother Nancy Kucharski called “a dynamic aura,” grown even more dynamic since meeting Stephen Boyd, an industrial designer who was teaching Marcy ballroom dance. Passion created that aura, Nancy said. “It’s good for the complexion, and not bad for the rest of the body, either!” Blue had to take her word for it—and an experienced word it was.

“Good show,” Marcy said, as though things had gone just as well as the day before, when they’d hosted four champion dog breeders and four captivating puppies.

“Compared to what?” Blue stepped out of her pants and stripped off the substitute Escada blouse (there were two of everything, just in case) then put on gym gear and brown velour sweats. Or rather, a brown velour track suit, as they were being called again. The seventies were back, complete with Barry Manilow and Cat Stevens and Neil Diamond on the radio, which Blue didn’t mind so much. The songs were reminders of a time when she was young enough to believe she knew where she stood.

“I’m serious. Except for that little…outburst, you really kept things under control.”

Blue shook her head, still embarrassed. “I don’t know what that was about.” “Empathy, maybe.”

“Is Peter having a fit?”

“He’s too busy working on a spin strategy. Stacey’s still a mess though, poor thing.”

“I suspect she’s going to need therapy.”

“You didn’t.”

“I did. I just didn’t get any.”

Marcy reached behind Blue to straighten her hood. “Speaking of misguided youths, your mother called. She’s not coming to the Keys with us after all; she says she met someone and he wants her all to himself this weekend.”

Excerpted from Reunion by Therese Fowler Copyright © 2009 by Therese Fowler. Excerpted by permission of Ballantine Books, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

ACROSS THE POND by Storyheart (aka Barry Eva)

Title of Book: ACROSS THE POND
Author: Storyheart
Page Count: 117
Publisher: Xlibris
Genre: Young Adult Romance
Language: English
ISBN: 978-1-4363-7176-6
Purchase at Amazon

Burrrdonk! The wheels locked as the plane descended toward the airport.

Fred tried to look out the window, but the constraint of the seatbelt and the large woman who took up most of the seat next to him, blocked his view.

At least she’s stopped snoring.

He was not sure which had been worse– when she slept, or when she was awake and continually asking him questions. Where’s he going? Was he raveling alone? Is this the first time he had flown? She’d gone on and on until in the end he had put on his headphones and ignored her. Even those, however, had not drowned out her snoring.

The journey had not been without problems—the cramped space and strong smell of garlic, both of which were due to the passenger next to him. And his dinner tray had nearly ended up in his lap when the man in front of him decided to recline his seat. Still, he had watched a few good films, including one his parents wouldn’t have been happy about him seeing. He grinned. They were on their way to Australia, so they would never know.

They had won a contest. A “Dream Holiday for Two in Australia.” Unfortunately, the package didn’t include additional accommodation and airfare for their thirteen, well, almost fourteen-year-old son. Fred had been pretty fed up about not being able to go to Australia.

His parents threatened to send him to his grandparents in Scotland. After a long and heated debate, Fred reluctantly agreed to visit his parents’ friend Phil and his family in America or “Across the Pond” as his father called it.

Phil had been the best man at his parents’ wedding, before moving to the U.S. nine years ago. Fred’s father explained that with the dollar being so low against the pound, the cost of a return ticket to America was cheaper than getting the train ticket to his grandparents. Also, it would help Fred with a school project, another thing he was far from pleased about. Still, if he did a good job on his work, his parents had promised him an X-box.

The plane hit an air pocket and dropped a little, making Fred’s stomach remember the last few cans of free cola he’d drunk.

A flight attendant came by, checking that everybody’s seat belts were fastened.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

Fred gave a nod and attempted a smile, afraid that if he tried to talk a belch would come out instead.

“Nearly there,” she said. “I’ll make sure somebody looks after you once we land.”

Before Fred knew it, a “bump” — followed by the reverse-thrust of the jets– announced the aircraft had landed.

Once the plane rolled to a stop, and the seatbelt signs went out, the rush started to get bags out of the overhead compartment. Fred ducked as a large bag nearly took his head off. Biting back a comment as the woman from the next seat pushed him in the back, Fred stepped into the aisle. At once he wished he hadn’t. Bags hit him on the legs and his feet were trodden on. He felt attacked from all sides.

Another flight attendant must have noticed his discomfort, because she pushed her way down the aisle towards him, a clipboard in her hand.

“Are you Frederick Squire?” she asked, glancing at her list.

“Yeah, I’m ‘FRED’ Squire,” he replied. He hated being called Frederick.

“I’m Mandy,” she said. “They’re busy at the gate so I’ll take you through to the arrivals lounge. I can never understand why there’s such a rush to leave the plane.” She led Fred through the line of passengers waiting to disembark.

“There’s still a wait for customs, and there’s a wait for your luggage– it doesn’t matter if you’re the first or last person off of the plane.”

Fred looked back to where the large lady still struggled to get her bag from the overhead locker, and now blocked the whole aisle. He grinned. “I totally agree.”

Mandy led Fred through the throng of passengers arriving from all over the world.

“Is this the first time you’ve flown?” she asked.

Not again… “Hmmm, no, I’ve traveled before with my parents on holiday in Europe, but never to the U.S. before.” Though I would rather be in Australia!

“Okay,“ she said, stopping at the end of a long line of people. “So you have an idea about going through customs and passport control?”

Fred nodded, he had expected some delay, but the length of the single-line queues took him by surprise.

After what seemed like hours of waiting, they got to the customs desk, and Fred handed over his passport and forms. Surprisingly, his fingerprints and photo were taken.

Mandy smiled “Been like this since 9/11. Anybody coming into the U.S. has to be registered. “

Based on the American shows and films Fred had seen on English TV, he thought he knew what to expect. However, to actually see police openly walking around with guns made him stare. They passed a few shops. Just like the stores at Heathrow Airport. The same books and sweets–though here the souvenirs were of the Statue of Liberty and New York yellow cabs, rather than Big Ben, double-decker buses, and the black cabs of London.

Finally, after what seemed an age, they collected his luggage, and Mandy escorted a tired and nervous Fred out into the noisy arrivals’ lounge. Fred was unsure what to expect, or whom to expect. He had seen pictures of Phil and his wife Julie, so he had some idea of what they looked like. Should he call them Uncle and Auntie? They had a daughter, Brittany, who must be about his age; she had been three years old when they’d moved to the U.S.

What will she be like? All the American teenage girls I’ve seen on TV are blond, tanned, and live in places like Beverly Hills. What about my clothes; will she laugh at them?

He really wasn’t into the “grunge look,” or anything like that. His “normal” jeans, trainers, sports tops, and sweatshirts were about all he had packed, though his Mother had insisted that he take one decent change of clothes. “In case you get taken out somewhere special.”

More nervous of meeting Brittany than Phil and Julie, his hands felt sweaty, and he could feel his shirt sticking to his back.

He spotted Phil holding a large sign with Fred’s name on it. Along side he noticed a girl, whom he guessed, must be Brittany. To his relief she didn’t look any different from many of the girls he knew in England. About his height, slim with short fair hair, and the jeans and sweatshirt she wore almost matched his own.

No worries about my clothes, at least. Just hope she’s not like one of the Beverly Hills spoiled brats.

Mandy asked Phil to sign a form saying Fred had arrived safely, and with a “Have a nice day,” she left.

Shesssh, I’m in America now. “Have a nice day.” I wonder how many more of those I’ll hear during this trip?

Fred felt like a FedEx Parcel, having to be signed for this way, but he supposed that for security, it was necessary.

“Well, Fred,” Phil said picking up the cases. “How was your trip? Never mind. You can tell me in the car. I expect you’re tired. Must have been a long journey. By the way, just call me Phil.”

Grabbing his hand luggage, Fred tried to keep up with Phil as he charged off through the crowds. He looked at Brittany who rolled her eyes in the direction of her father.

“Hi, I’m Brittany, but you can call me Brit. All my friends do. Please, no jokes about ‘Brit with a Brit’, that’s been worn out already. Don’t worry about Dad; he’s always like this, dashing around a mile a minute.”

“Thanks Brit, just call me Fred.”

Fred smiled. It seemed his previous worries about Brit were totally unfounded; She looks like she can be fun, and, she’s quite a hottie.

Soon they were out of the airport and in the car park, or “parking lot” as Phil called it. They stopped at a very large car, or at least large compared to the ones Fred was used to.

“I’ll help you put the luggage into the boot.” Fred said.

Brit looked at Fred, her nose wrinkling in a quizzical manner, “The what?”

Phil laughed, “Fred means the ‘trunk’, it’s called the boot in England. Your Dad e-mailed me about some sort of school project you have to work on while you’re here Fred, about the differences in the languages, right?”

“Yeah,” Fred said with a grimace. “I don’t want to do it, but a new X-Box is the bait for me to do a good report.”

Brit rolled her eyes again, something Fred found quite attractive about Brit. That, and the way she wrinkled her nose.

“A school project?”

“That’s what my teacher said, anyway,” Fred gasped as he struggled with his suitcase. “Gotta make a list of all the words I find that are different in this country.” He kicked an imaginary stone. “Of course my parents thought it a great idea… Some holiday!”

Fred got into the car and sat next to Brit, feeling a little self-conscious about being so close to her, hoping he didn’t smell too bad after his travels. He felt very tired as the jet lag of the journey started to wash over him. Yawning, he struggled to remove a notebook from his pocket.

“Here, sleepy head, let me,” said Brit taking the book from Fred, who was too tired to complain. “No time like the present to start your list. What have we got so far?”

Carefully she drew a line down the center of the page and wrote.

ENGLISH – BOOT AMERICAN -TRUNK

ENGLISH – CAR PARK AMERICAN – PARKING LOT

Phil never seemed to stop talking during to drive home. Soon the endless chatter and journey had Fred’s eyes almost closed. Suddenly Brit jabbed her elbow into Fred’s ribs, making him jolt awake.

“What the? Err? Pardon?” Fred said trying to come to.

Phil laughed, “Okay Fred, I guess you really must be tired after your long trip. And of course your body clock is still working on English time. I just asked if you found it funny driving on the right hand side of the road.”

“Nahh.” Fred said trying to wake up. “We’ve driven in Europe loads of times, and they all drive on the right.” Suddenly he grabbed the seat “Bloody Hell!”

Phil stopped the car and looked round.

“Are you all right?” Brit asked.

“Err, sorry” Fred replied sheepishly. “But, you just drove through a red light.”

Phil laughed and started the car up again. “It’s okay Fred, in the U.S. unless is says not to, you can turn right at a red stop light, or traffic light as you call them.”

“Sheeesh,” Fred said. “My parents have enough trouble with round-a-bouts in France; they’d have a conniption with people driving through red lights.

Brit sighed. “Okay Fred, what the heck has a round-a-bout to do with driving, I thought it was like a merry-go-round?”

Phil let out another of his “told you so” chuckles. “Brit, we call them rotary’s over here. That will be another couple of words for Fred to put in his book.”

The teenagers looked at each other and smiled.

At that moment they passed a group of boys standing at the side of the road. Brit’s smile faded from her face and she shrank down in her seat in an effort not to be seen.

It was a tired and slightly puzzled Fred who fell into bed a short time later.

A strange country, where people drive through red lights and half the language is different. A girl who can make me smile just by rolling her eyes. And what is it with Brit and that group of boys?

BLOOD LINE by Rie McGaha

Title: BLOOD LINE
Author: Rie McGaha
Paperback: 222 pages
Publisher: Noble Romance Publishing
Genre: Fantasy Erotic Romance
Language: English
ISBN: 978-1-60592-011-5
Purchase at Noble Romance Publishing

The semi truck rolled down the back roads, its engine loud in the still of the night, echoing across the pastures. Joshua Kaine preferred to make his trips at night when there was less traffic. His wife, Jessie, rode with him and shared the driving, but tonight she sat staring out the window across pastures that slid quickly by. The moon was full, illuminating the fields, and she could see a black
shape move in the dim light. A horse or cow, she thought, as the beast raised its head. Then, suddenly, the animal started moving, catching up to the truck easily, loping alongside the barbed wire fence at a steady pace.

“What is that?” Jessie asked, peering intently out the window. “A horse?”

“I dunno, can’t see it,” Josh said.

She shrieked. “It’s not a horse! It jumped the fence!”

“Horses can jump,” he said without much interest.

“Horses cannot outrun a semi!”

Josh leaned over the steering wheel and peered into the deepening
shadows, only to draw back as the beast thudded against the passenger side door and clung to it.

He slammed on the breaks, punched in the clutch and downshifted.
“What the hell is that?” He grabbed Jessie’s arm. “Pull the door handle! I’m gonna try to get that thing off the truck.”

She pulled the handle and the latch disengaged. He grabbed her arm and pulled, but the seatbelt held her fast. She fumbled with the latch, finally managed to release it, and then slid between the seats to the floor.

Josh pushed the gearshift into neutral, and with one hand on the steering wheel, slid across the cab and kicked the door as hard as he could. It swung out and he scooted back into his seat, hitting the breaks hard, hoping he wouldn’t jack-knife as the truck hopped and bounced to a sudden stop, slinging his wife and everything that wasn’t secured, forward.

The beast lost its hold and flew through the air, bounced off the hood,
rolled and landed twenty yards up the road. Josh held his breath and waited, but the thing didn’t move.

“Is it dead?” Jessie asked and pushed herself off the floor.

“I don’t know.” Josh caught a gear and the truck rolled slowly forward. He was changing gears as he approached where the animal lay in the road.

Suddenly, the beast rose to its hands and knees, looking almost human.

“You’re going to hit it!” Jessie said.

“I don’t give a damn.” He clenched his teeth and pushed the accelerator to the floor. The animal disappeared from view and the front end of the tractor thumped and shuddered as it ran over the figure. The truck limped forward a few feet, and then the front end shuddered.

“Fuck. Stay in the truck, Jess,” he said. He swung the cab door open and jumped to the ground, grabbing the knife he kept sheathed by his seat. The weapon, made from heavy, folded steel, had a twelve-inch blade with a curved tip. Josh gripped the bone handle in his fist. Jess had a fit about him keeping it in the truck, but Josh had wanted some type of protection. He had practiced kendo and sword fighting since he was a teenager, and considered himself adept at the
art, but he felt better having some type of weapon in the truck, and now, holding it in his hand, he felt reassured by its weight.

“No, don’t . . . ,” Jessie said.

“Just stay in the truck,” Josh told her, and slammed the door shut on her objections.

Jessie leaned forward, staring through the windshield, but she couldn’t see anything over the nose of the truck. Then she saw the huge, black animal crawling slowly into the beam of the headlights, and her breath caught. The beast looked dazed more than injured. Her husband slid around the side of the truck, took two slow steps forward, the knife held at his side.

The animal shook its head and then began slowly to get to its feet. The
look on the creature’s face made Jessie’s blood run cold and a shiver of fear raced up her spine.

She bailed out of the truck screaming, “Josh-u-a!”

“Damn it,” Josh yelled, “get back in the truck!”

But Jessie couldn’t move. She watched in horror as Josh lunged for the animal, plunging the knife deep into its belly. The beast reacted immediately, swinging one huge paw in a powerhouse blow that sent Josh flying through the air. He landed hard on the pavement, flat of his back.

Jessie wanted to rush forward and help him, but her feet felt rooted to the spot. Josh rose on his elbows, trying to drag a breath into his lungs, trying to get his wits together. Blood covered his hands, and the knife felt slippery in his grip.

He quickly wiped his palms on his jeans as he struggled to his feet. He turned to resume his attack on the beast.

But before he could react, the animal moved. With lightning-fast speed, it pounced, landing on Jessie. It knocked her to the ground and straddled her between its four enormous legs. Jessie screamed and pummeled the beast’s chest. She kicked her feet, fighting for her life, as the creature raised its head skyward and let loose an ear-shattering howl. Snarling, it lowered its snout and bared long, razor-sharp fangs inches from Jessie’s neck.

With a roar, Josh leapt upon the beast’s back and slid the knife into its
throat. Jessie rolled out of harm’s way as the creature turned, trying to fling Josh off its back. Josh locked his legs around its torso and plunged the knife into the animal’s neck and throat, over and over again. The animal howled in rage, and then sank its fangs into Josh’s shoulder.

“Ahhhh!” Josh’s scream pierced the night and brought Jess back to her senses.

She picked up a fallen limb from the side of the road and began hitting the animal with it as hard as she could. The creature released its grip on Josh and went for the limb. Josh jumped on the animal’s back, and began thrusting the knife into its throat.

The creature fell to its knees, and Josh grabbed a handful of fur and pulled its head back. With one swift slice, he cut through the carotid artery and the windpipe. When the animal fell backward, Josh kept cutting until he’d severed its head. Holding the head in his hand, Josh stared at it mutely, his breathing heavy and labored. Without warning, the severed head burst into flames. Josh
slung it into the air, watching as both head and body burst into flames. The fire grew larger, hot and bright, shooting blue, red, and then white flames into the night sky. As the fire fizzled out, ash filled the air.

“Come on!” Josh grabbed Jess’s hand and pulled her to her feet. “We have to get out of here; there might be more of them. Come on!”

He dragged her roughly behind him to the door of the truck, pushing her up in front of him. He went back to check the front of the semi to make sure the tires were intact, then climbed into the driver’s seat and fired up the engine.

Lighting a cigarette with shaky hands, he dragged the smoke deep into his lungs.

“Give me one,” Jessie said weakly. He handed her the one he’d just lit and lit another for himself.

She inhaled, choked and coughed, then handed it back to him. “I don’t
smoke.”

“I know.” He took the cigarette, pitched it out the window then put the
truck in gear.

They started down the road, driving in silence for the better part of an hour. When Josh found a place he could get the truck safely off the road, he pulled to a stop.

“I’ve got to get out of these clothes and my shoulder aches like a bitch in heat,” he said.

Stepping into the sleeper area, he turned on the overhead lamp. Jessie followed him, her gasp drawing his attention to his torn and stained shirt. Blood covered his clothes, his skin, and even his hair, and he briefly wondered how much belonged to him, and how much had come from that thing he’d killed back there on the road.

“Take those off outside,” Jessie said.

“Hell, no!”

“Josh, just step outside and take the damn clothes off! You’re going to get blood all over the bed. I’ll go with you.”

Josh lit another cigarette, cursing a blue streak as he got out of the truck.

“I heard that,” Jessie called after him.

“Bitch,” he said, but he was smiling, and he kissed her when she climbed down behind him carrying a couple small, white trash bags. He peeled off his shirt and handed it to her.

“This is beyond help,” she said, dropping it into one of the bags. She
wrapped the rest of his clothing in the other bag and tossed it back up into the cab.

She got a gallon jug of water and began helping him wash off the blood.

With a cloth, she wiped his shoulder.

“Nothing life-threatening,” she told him, “but a couple of these puncture wounds look pretty deep.”

Josh eyed his scratched and bruised body as Jessie poured peroxide freely over the wounds. The cleansing agent foamed and bubbled, burning like a bitch, and Josh cursed again as Jessie poured on more.

Finally, she allowed him to climb back into the truck. He went into the back and put on clean clothes. Damn, his shoulder hurt. He winced against the pain as he stuck his arm through a sleeve.

“I’ll drive, baby,” Jessie said softly and kissed his cheek.

Nodding, he sat back heavily in the passenger seat, and lit a cigarette
while Jessie started up the semi and put it in gear. Jessie drove through the rest of the night and just as the sun began to rise, she wheeled into a truck stop, and backed into a slot in the rear of the parking lot.

Jess let the engine idle and released her seatbelt, then wearily stepped into the sleeper area and sat on the bed. They were well equipped with a TV, DVD player, Play Station, refrigerator, microwave, coffee maker, and other conveniences that made the truck their home. Pouring water into the coffee
maker, Jessie measured out the grounds, and placed them in the machine so she would just have to press the on button when they woke up.

Josh stepped in the back with her and she pulled the blackout curtains around the windshield and door windows for privacy and darkness so they could sleep. Then she helped Josh pull the T-shirt over his head.

“That shoulder isn’t looking any better,” she said, reaching for the bottle of peroxide. She poured a liberal amount on his wound and waited while it bubbled, and then wiped if off. She followed this cleansing by applying a liberal amount of anti-biotic cream from the first aid kit.

“You need to see a doctor. That thing could’ve had rabies,” she told him as she taped a gauze pad over the freshly cleaned wound.

“I don’t need a doctor,” he said, shaking his head and waving the idea
away.

“You need a tetanus shot, too,” she said, ignoring his objection.
“I need some sleep. I’ll be fine when I wake up.” He pulled the blanket
back and slid between the sheets.

Jess slipped out of her clothing and slid in beside her husband. She loved the feel of her skin against his, and after ten years of marriage, she still loved him as intensely as she did when they were first married right out of high school.

She’d met him her junior year when her family had moved from
California to Oklahoma. He’d been born and raised in the same town where his father had been born and raised, and although all of the girls in school were attracted to him, he didn’t seem very interested in them. He was quiet and appeared a little shy around strangers, especially girls, but Jessie had been attracted to him since she first saw him in Mrs. Baker’s English class. He wasn’t
very tall – only an inch or so taller than she – and he wore his hair as long as she wore hers. But her blonde hair hung straight, while his dark auburn locks hung in tight ringlets. Her eyes were blue, and his were the same color green as the ocean she had grown up near in northern California.

After waiting nearly two weeks for him to make the first move, it didn’t appear he was ever going to speak to her, and in fact, he seemed to look away from her whenever she tried to get his attention, so she cornered him one day after school while he was at his locker. He didn’t say too much, but she did. And
every day after that she’d catch him at his locker, or if he managed to avoid her at the locker, she’d wait for him at his car.

Finally, he offered to give her a ride home, and as simple as that, they’d become an item and hadn’t been separated since. That was nearly twelve years ago, and she still considered him the sexiest man she’d ever known. He made her feel things she never dreamed possible, and the first time they’d made love had been the first time for them both. Jessie never regretted not having shopped
around a little more before deciding on Josh. Now, as she lay next to him in the darkness of the sleeper, she wrapped around his sleeping body and closed her eyes.

When she woke, she switched the light on and looked at the clock. Nine hours had slipped by and she needed to get the truck on the road. She shook Josh, but he didn’t respond.

“Come on, we’ve got to get going,” she said and shook him harder. He
moaned and she moved her hand to his face and felt the heat on his brow. He was running a fever.

She slid from beneath the covers, and threw on her clothes. Rummaging through the first-aid kit, she found a bottle of fever reducer and filled a glass of water from one of the jugs.

“Josh, baby, here, you need to take these.”

He opened his eyes and she helped him lift his head enough to swallow down the medicine, then she pulled back the bandage to get a look at his wound.

“Holy shit. Dammit. I told you. You need to go to the doctor; it’s infected.”

Her stomach tightened with worry as she examined the pussy, red-ringed wound.

“No,” he murmured. “No doctor.”

“Look, you’re sick and you won’t be able to drive or anything else in this condition. I’m getting you to a doctor.”

He grabbed her hand, squeezing it hard. “No doctor,” he whispered again and kissed the back of her hand.

“Okay, okay,” she said. Josh hated doctors, had an irrational fear of them.

“But if you aren’t better by the time we make this drop, you go to the doctor, understand?”

“Mmmm-hmmm.” He moaned, whether in agreement or not, Jessie
couldn’t tell. And she didn’t care. She would make sure he saw a doctor—one way or the other.

Leaving him lying in the sleeper, she climbed back into the cab and got the truck ready to roll. Pulling out of the parking lot, she made the easy maneuver onto the freeway. The drive to Memphis was uneventful, but as she backed the semi into the dock, Josh still hadn’t woken up. She sat with him while she waited for the truck to be unloaded, mopping his fevered brow with a wet cloth. She forced him to take two more pills, and decided she had waited long enough. When the truck was unloaded, she drove to a truck stop, parked the rig in the first slot she found, and used her cell phone to call a cab.

A short while later, they arrived at the hospital, and Jessie gave the doctor a brief description of their encounter with a vicious dog. After the exam, the doctors admitted Josh, hooking him up to an IV filled with antibiotics. Then they waited. Two endlessly long days passed before Josh opened his eyes again.