Late Night Pen

As she stepped out of the shower Pen breathed a sigh of relief. She smiled to herself as she looked at her reflection in the freshly cleared mirror and whispered, “I out spied the spy.” She wrapped herself in a bathrobe and wondered at her accomplishment. As she toweled the remaining water from her hair, she took time to reflect closely on her perceived victory.

Me following a spy without being seen. She let that thought sit in her mind. He’s one of the best spies in Europe, according to some one of the best in the world. He had to know that I was there. I would have to be some kind of a jerk not to think that he didn’t know. If I were him and I knew that I was being followed… “He’s going to gloat and then he’s going to boast. Scotch is going to make sure I know that he caught me watching him and he’s going to gloat.”

Pen picked up her dirty clothes and put them in the hamper, hanging her towel to dry, she exited the bathroom muttering to herself, “I have to have a plan. I have to get ready.”

“Get ready for what?” A familiar voice asked.

Pen reached for the wall switch and turned on the light. She found Scotch sitting in front of her on her sofa with one of her juice tumblers in one hand. It held an amber colored liquid.

“Do you want to know what your biggest mistake was?” He asked. Scotch drained the remainder of the glass slowly, Pen was not sure if it was because he was enjoying the nightcap or relishing stringing things out...for emphasis. “You stopped following too quickly. You didn’t know where I was going next. I could have met with a new contact. I could have been picked up by a kidnapper.”

“Or you could have been on your way to the off licence.” Pen offered, studying the level of liquid in the freshly opened bottle sitting on the coffee table.

“Touche.” Scotch studied Pen for a moment. “You don’t have to worry, I hold my liquor quite well.”

Pen sat down in a nearby chair. “You would have to wouldn’t you? Being a spy.”

“It’s not one of the requirements but it does come in handy.”

Several moments of silence pass between them.

“What was it?” Pen asked.

“Sorry?”

“What gave me away?”

“How did I know that you were following me?”

Pen nodded.

“When two people work together for a period of time they develop an intuition that identifies the other party’s own unique energy.”

“You could feel my presence?” Pen asked. “Like a Jedi or something?”

“I do believe that Jedi are knights with special powers.” Scotch countered with a devilish grin. He contemplated refilling his glass, deciding against it, he set it down on the coffee table.

“That sounds New Age. Not like you at all.”

“You don’t believe in those things?” He asked.

“No.”

A glint came to Scotch’s eye. “You never told your Mum a fib and ran off to a carnival to have your fortune told as a girl. Never played a game looking for a prediction as to whom you would grow up to marry?”

“Growing up and marrying the perfect man and having the perfect life are antiquated idealistic fallacies that have no place in real life.”

“Spoken like a disappointed teen.”

Pen took a moment before speaking. She turned the table on Scotch determined not to take the bait. “As I said before, such beliefs don’t sound like you either.”

“I didn’t believe in such ideas then I met a woman.”

“Of course there had to be a woman.”

“Of course.” Scotch agreed. “I was in Istanbul. I had finished a mission in Saudi Arabia and I was taking a couple of days rest before returning home. I had stopped for a bite to eat and was headed back to my lodgings when a woman stopped in front of me. She said, “It is good to see that you arrived safely. Welcome home.”

“Then what happened.”

“She smiled and moved so I could be on my way. The next day I saw her in the marketplace, I stopped her and asked what she meant. She laughed and said ‘What do you think I meant? Welcome Home.’ I pointed out that I am British and reassured her that never in my lifetime had called Turkey my home. She nodded and said, ‘No you have not but your energy has. So has mine.’ Then she continued on her way.

“And?”

“And?” Scotch repeated. “That’s it.”

“You never saw her again?” Pen asked.

“I never did.”

Pen studied Scotch. “You made that up. You don’t want to answer the question.”

Scotch reached for his bottle. Pen got to it first.

“Your disguise. That’s what gave you away. Your disguise.”

Pen surrendered the bottle.

“What was wrong with my disguise?”

“You were wearing one of the security guards' leather jackets, it was two sizes too big. It looked ridiculous.”

“I was supposed to be a successful woman out for a stroll who just happened to be wearing her boyfriend’s jacket.”

“Do successful women out for strolls also stop and turn the other way when the people in front of them stop walking?”

“There was a bit of foot traffic. I was blending in.”

“Was there a crowd behind the tree planted just inside the gates to the park as well?”

Pen looked at the floor.

“Until I have taught you a little more about trailing a target, stick to your poisons.”

She looked up at Scotch.

“On one condition. This is the end of your gloating.”

“Gloating? Is that what I was doing?” He asked with a grin.

“You were.”

Scotch righted the bottle mid pour and set it down. He started to lift the tumbler to his lips then stopped. The agent smelled the visitor before he heard him. He continued the conversation with Pen before she had a chance to bring attention to his change in demeanor. “This is not the agency’s usual recommended housing.”

“No. I stayed in the agency building for a bit, when I found this place I applied to the agency for approval to move.”

“It was deemed safe then?”

“I followed all of the outlined directives. Two agency specialists inspected it. One before and one after I moved in and had television and internet service set up. Why?”

“I thought I heard something.”

A faint sound came from the direction of the kitchen. A corner of Scotch’s mouth turned up. Some tricks never get old. He stood and retrieved a bat from the far corner of the room. “Stay here.” He ordered.

*This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Quirks In Your Characters

Personal struggles. The challenges that you have just because you are you can be a daily struggle but they also make your writing better.

Did I write that? That is so dry. Let’s make this more interesting.

The more that I talk about writing the more of myself I find myself sharing. Is it good? Is it bad? I don’t know. The one thing I do know is that I have shared this story before. A lot. It’s basically public knowledge at this point. Let me share it one more time.

When I was a little girl a long time ago, in a galaxy far far away. Just kidding. When I was a little girl my parents along with a lot of other adults told me that I could be whatever I wanted to be when I grew up. One of the things I wanted to do was...now I’m a little bit embarrassed, but it was a really cool thing to be in the 70's. Seriously. I’m not kidding. It was cool damnit! I wanted to be an entertainer and not any entertainer. I wanted my own show. Like Sonny and Cher. Captain and Tennille. Donny and Marie. Except no Donny. Just me because I’ve always been a rebel that way. I was really into myself back then because...you know, Four. It’s basically a four year old's job to be all about themselves. You are never going to see how wonderful a little kid is they if don’t tell you how great they are. Repeatedly. Trust me, they are convinced of this. Adults do not have the mental faculties to remember such things.

You have to admit, it’s really cute when they do that.

Some time during the mid 70's, I decided that if I was going to be this entertainer when I grew up it was time to get started already. I was going to perform in my own little concert. I spent days convincing my mother to let me do this. I invited people to the show. I made tickets and gave them out. My sister and her friend helped me pick out a dress. We picked out a song for me to sing along with the record player. (If you don’t know what a record player is ask someone who looks old.) I practiced. And then, finally the moment came. I walked out into the living room in my dress, ruffled socks, dress shoes, and freshly coiffed hair, I waited for the music to start, looked at all of those people smiling and looking at me. I froze. I promptly ran into the bedroom that I shared with my older sisters and cried. A lot. Even though my mother insisted that I dry my tears and go back into the living room and sing the song, running into bedroom at first panic was the wrong thing to do. It set a precedent and to this day when it comes to doing something big, difficult, or anything that is deeply important to me, I tend to freeze. It is like a wall appears in front of me, one that only I can see. I have to stop. Right where I am. Wherever I am.

Things did get better over time. It was less of a problem when my husband was alive because regardless of his opinion on the situation he always had my back. After he passed it became a problem again, not a big one, but it can stop me from doing things that are deeply important to me. This isn’t my diary. I do have a point. Although, I’m beginning to wonder if these stories should all be published under a column called “I Do Have A Point,” “We’re Going To Get There..Eventually," or "Taking The Loooooong Way Around."

Here’s my point, as a writer these issues can be a gift. It can be a useful tool to take a tiny little piece of yourself, a quirk, a phobia, or a struggle and give it to one of your characters. It makes them more complex and draws the reader in.

The reader may have a similar problem or know someone who does. Or your character might remind them of a family member or an old friend. Quirks, phobias, and difficulties give the character more depth and helps your reader suspend disbelief. As a result, you have a much better chance of keeping the reader’s attention.

How does this pertain to me?

A few years ago, I became an amazing singer. 

Just kidding.

A few years ago I was able to use my previous life goal to my advantage. I fictionalized that little girl who was going to grow up to be an amazing entertainer. The character that I created, Gracie Sanders, is prettier, more talented, and is a lot more confident than I ever was. She found her home in a script for a web series called, “Surviving Winter.” It doesn’t have a home yet. It will. Some day. I think that she’s happy there. I know that I am. I’m a much better writer than I ever would have been as a Marie.

(Waves) Goodnight Everybody.

The Weed Patch Between Love And Hate

There are little gems of beauty everywhere that have been obscured by everyday life.

I have always had a love/hate relationship with yard work. Especially mowing. I like doing it for the most part. I like getting outside for a bit and knowing that after a couple of hour's work I can look at something and think to myself, “Yeah I did that. Damn I'm good.” I have learned that about myself.

I first learned how to mow at seventeen. My parents bought a farm. No, I'm not an orphan. They didn't buy the farm, they bought a farm. Forty plus acres of a farm that had potential, is in a beautiful setting, but that had fallen into disrepair. We all had to pull together to get it going. Mom and Dad started with a push mower. So as a teenager fresh out of high school, not ready for college, with a head full of dreams and no clue how to implement them...I was taught how to help mow. The argument that I was a female and was delicate didn't fly for a second. Mom and Dad believe that males and females all need to learn the same life skills...mowing included.

Dad explained the principles, took the first shift so that I could watch, Mom took a run at it too, then I tried my hand. They would stop me after about twenty minutes to cool off, explain a few things, and take over. I would watch. By the end of the second session my dad and I were competing with each other and comparing blisters. It is one of my most cherished memories.

With that in mind, mowing is a good thing.

On the other hand...if I had known at seventeen that I would be spending entire summers planning my days around heat indexes and thunderstorms at forty-six because I'm a regular person who can't afford a landscaper all of the time...excuse me, any of the time, I might have put up more of a fight.

I have to confess that during the last few weeks I have been...contemplating cooler temperatures and the end of yard work for a bit. Okay...whining. There might have been a little bit of whining. The first day of Fall has come and gone. It looks like next week the season will start showing more of itself with cooler temperatures and rainy days. I find myself feeling nostalgic. Today may be one of my last mowing days. It feels a little weird. It took all summer. It always does. No two summers are alike. A whole summer of stressing, guessing, and bitching to adjust to doing the work every few days. Will it ever stop raining enough to plant some flowers? How many flowers do I want? Getting up on Saturday or Sunday morning, sipping coffee and admiring my work. Enjoying what lies just outside of my window. Soon it will be gone.

Three hours found. Three hours (at least) of time returned to me. At first, I will be completely at a loss as to what to do with them. I have a list of...activities. Work to be done inside the house, pieces of writing to work on, baking, favorite movies (I have several that I watch during the month before Halloween). Halloween is coming. There is so much to do. Every Fall when that separation from the outside occurs I find it unsettling.
 The season isn't quite over yet. Is it?
  I look out at my yard and take in the results of my labor. The brightly colored flowers, trimmed hedges, and freshly cut grass that only cost me a bit of my time, energy, and a few dollars in gas. I appreciate this little gem of beauty tucked in around all of my every day things.
 What does your gem look like?

Evening Scotch

Scotch spotted McKinney the moment he entered the pub. He looked less polished since he had retired from the agency, disheveled even. It was an odd counter to the immaculate appearance Scotch was used to seeing. A seasoned agent before McLeod took over running the agency, he was the agent everyone went to including McLeod when they were in over their heads. From the greetings he got upon entering the Cock’s Comb McKinney was still missed. Scotch waited while McKinney made a circuit around the room and stopped at the bar to pick up a pint. The retired agent found Scotch soon enough seated in a private corner with an espresso on the table in front of him.

“Scotch.” McKinney said, extending a hand in greeting.

“Fearless Man returns.”

“I wasn’t fearless. Young and stupid at times but not fearless.” He responded with a grin.

“They’re still teaching your old mission scenarios in training.” Scotch countered.

“Are they pointing out what I did to get into those scenarios in the first place?”

“McLeod insists that it’s the recovery that matters. You know that.”

“The agency weakens every time they don’t look at the complete picture.” He said with a smile. “It’s nice to know that a few people remember me.”

“More than a few McKinney, more than a few.”

McKinney looked around the room before changing the tone of the conversation. “Now why don’t you tell what I’m really doing here?”

“I’m going through a tough time.” Scotch said. “Can’t a man want to have a drink with a friendly face?”

“I heard that you were training a new partner and that she’s a real pip. That’s an espresso sitting in front of you not a whiskey or a pint. You’re working Scotch.”

“You are more observant than your typical retired man of leisure. I should have known that the disheveled appearance was a disguise. What are you working on?” Scotch asked, he looked around the pub. The bartender was busy with a customer and everyone else appeared to be engrossed in their own activities. He leaned in and whispered. “I have a question about business among the agencies.”

McKinney gestured toward the door with a nod of his head and took a long pull from his pint. “A pint doesn’t taste the same anywhere else.” He held on to the glass for a moment and looked at it thoughtfully before setting it down. “Thanks for the drink Scotch. I’ve got to be going, I’ve got a date with a hot brunette. Walk me out?”

Scotch walked with McKinney past his car and into an empty park. “My new partner is a poisons specialist. I have been escorting her on neutralizations, when we get to the target’s location, they are already dead.”

“It’s making the new partner nervous.” McKinney said.

“Yes. So nervous that she went to McLeod with it.”

“What did he tell her?”

“McLeod said that sometimes there is more than one agency that wants someone dead and not to worry about it.”

“It’s true.” McKinney said.

“Of course it’s true. But two targets within a week of each other? On the night that she went to McLeod with the deaths there had been a major breach into the agency’s computer system.”

“McLeod must have been having a fit over that one.” McKinney commented as they walked.

“He wasn’t. He was completely relaxed about the whole thing. It was almost like he was expecting it.”

McKinney stopped walking and looked at Scotch. “Did you look into it?”

“I can’t get much on the computer issues, IT is keeping quiet on the specifics, but McLeod has assigned three other teams to work Neutralizations.”

McKinney continued walking. “It sounds like someone’s cleaning house.”

“Why?” Scotch asked. “The last time that a clean up like this took place was after the Berlin Wall fell. Why do it again? Why now?”

There was a silence between the two men. Scotch could tell that McKinney was making calculations, taking a moment to decide if he could trust Scotch and more importantly,how much was safe to share.

“Do you know why I left the agency?”McKinney asked.

“I thought that you retired. Clearly you haven’t.”

“I have been doing a little freelancing here and there. I also have a special project I’m doing on my own time.”

“What are you doing today?” Scotch asked.

McKinney studied the sunset for several moments, both men watched as the sun went down and the sky above grew darker.

“I left the agency because things are changing.” He said. “Not in a good way.”

Scotch studied his friend and mentor. McKinney was American born, having been taken in by his estranged father at sixteen after his mother passed away in the United States. McKinney had never lost his accent or his American turn of phrase.

“History repeats itself. Because people choose to ignore history, it’s destined to continue repeating itself. Many people are on their way out because a few are on their way in. The ones coming in are a bigger threat than the ones on their way out.”

“On how many levels?” Scotch hated asking so many simple questions, it felt too much like he was the new kid in town instead of a seasoned professional.

McKinney shook his head. “A man ceases to be a beginner in any given science and becomes a master in that science when he has learned that he is going to be a beginner all his life --Robin G. Collingwood said that. You always hated asking too many questions Scotch. It makes you feel like a beginner. Asking questions makes you an explorer not a beginner.”

“I’m a spy.” Scotch countered.

“Don’t hold on to that identity too closely, it could kill you one day.” He shifted a bit and then continued. “Pen is a beginner, you are not. Everything is new to her ; you know how everything is supposed to work. If you’re smart, you’ll use your differences to your advantage.”

Scotch looked at McKinney.

“Don’t pretend that you’re taking my advice. We both know that you won’t. You could say ‘Thank You’” McKinney pointed out.

“Thank you for not telling me anything except ‘Bad people are coming.’”

“That is what you needed confirmed, isn’t it?” McKinney grinned. “If I hear anything I’ll let you know.” He looked at his watch. “If I don’t get going my hot brunette is no longer going to be hot. She’s just going to be angry.”

“It’s not a good idea to keep a lady waiting.” Scotch agreed.

Pen watched as the two men shook hands and parted ways.







 *This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.