Unexpected Turns

  One of the many adages that my mother taught me as a child was to expect the unexpected. It was her way of making it clear to her daughters that life is unpredictable. We should not be surprised when it throws us a curve ball.

In previous posts, I have talked about being a widow and going through periods of grief, change, sadness, growth, and loneliness with more bits of change mixed in here and there. In 2018, I was reminded of another adage my mother has always used, “Never say never again.” Last year will always be the year that I added poetry to my list of writing genres.

  Poetry and I have never been close. I look at things at bit differently than most people, poetry became evil to me as a child when my interpretations of elements and symbolism used in great poetry were never what the teacher wanted to hear nor were they deemed acceptable as an answer. I read poetry, learned about poetry, and interpreted poetry for one reason and one reason only, because it was required of me. I befriended others who loved poetry and admired their skill with understanding and creating it but in the words of Austin Powers and yes I use them a lot, poetry wasn’t my bag Baby. It still wasn’t my bag when after having exhausted my woes of being a widow through journal writing that I began exploring other mediums. I managed to squeak one out every now and then. As I explored various aspects here and there more poems came squeaking out.

  One night, after a terrible work day, I did something that I had not done in a while, I wrote one that followed specific guidelines. It was an exercise. I was a nervous wreck that night. It seemed like a better option than other coping mechanisms that people typically use. The poems were being collected to wish someone well, I love turning negatives into positives, what could be better?

  “Meet Me In Morocco” was a romantic homage to the film “Casablanca.” I was pleased with how it turned out. I have to admit that there is a part of me that will always feel like I was meant to write it for some unexplained reason. A copy of it hangs in my living room to this day.

  Several weeks later, I got down with some rainy day blues. It was the first bad weather weekend of the fall and I was not ready for it. I wrote several more poems. Sad, lonely, dark poetry that was filled with despair. While reading them over, I realized that I had been writing similar poems for quite some time. I took a look back at the files on my computer. If there was a more unexpected turn for me in my writing life I couldn’t begin to say what it would be.

It occurred to me there could be enough poems to publish a small volume of work some day. Why would I do that? Then I thought to myself, “why not?” I had done this much writing. I have nothing to lose. So I added another project in progress to my “Under Construction” list.

  I do have a couple of challenges ahead of me. First and foremost, the title piece. I tend to title books when they're in their infancy as a result, “Wild Card” was born. I decided that I want the book to be a volume of poetry that will begin with a dark sadness to it, I am also determined that no matter what, it has to have a happy ending. The poems at the end of the book are going to be poems of love, joy, happiness, and hope. 

  In recent weeks, when I wanted to dip a toe into writing without staying long, I would draft out a poem.

   My last two poems have been closer to the positive end of the spectrum. I have several more happy poems that need to be added in coming months. As for “Wild Card” well, there are stirrings of what that poem might be cooking in my brain as I am typing this.

  Remember, adages are adages for a reason. “Never say never again,” because you might just find that never again comes all too soon.

The Order of Operations

Pen took the lead and headed for the door to the stairs. Scotch assumed the decision had to do with the pint that she was carrying and followed, nodding to the security guard in his bouncer attire.

Scotch stopped when he noticed Pen headed down the back stairs. “Where are you going?”

“Downstairs.”

“We’re meeting with McLeod.” Scotch said.

“Yes, I know.” Pen agreed. “In the conference room.”

“The conference rooms are upstairs.”

“Not all of them.” She said as she continued to the basement.

“That’s true.” Scotch said, as he fell into step next to Pen. “It’s only used for meetings regarding the most highly classified missions.”

“I know.”

“Our mission was standard low tier work. A simple task. No physical threat. It was a babysitting job.”

Pen stepped down on to the landing in front of her. “Babysitting?” She asked raising a brow.

“It was a basic run of the mill mission. Nothing about it was marked classified.”

“Meaning?”

“What happened does not belong in that conference room.”

One side of Pen’s mouth turned up in a smile. “Are you sure?” She asked as she continued down the stairs. “Is it possible that you were wrong about leaving the target the way that you did? You’re looking a little nervous.”

Scotch followed, sped up and stopped in front of Pen at the base of the stairs. “I have been doing this job for nearly tw...for a long time. The only reason anyone goes into that conference room...” he said pointing to a door across the hallway, “...is because something serious is going on.”

Pen took a sip of her stout and smiled. “Then relax, it probably means we’re getting an upgrade.”

Scotch does not respond.

“You’re tired of babysitting me aren’t you? Let’s go see what Mr. McLeod wants.” Pen responded. “Excuse me.” She skirted around her escort and crossed the hall, leading the way outside of her usual lab setting for the first time since primary school.

Mr. McLeod was waiting for them in the conference room. He rose from his chair, greeting both warmly. “Scotch. I see that Clive passed along my message. Thank you both for meeting me here.” He turned to Pen. “Agent Pen. Lovely to finally meet you. How are you getting on with your escort?”Mr. McLeod was of average height. He wore formal attire, had a professional demeanor and a friendly smile.

Pen looked at Scotch. “Okay so far.”

Scotch studied the Head of Operations. He knew all of Mr. McLeod's various moods and approaches to engaging with his agents. But this level of affability and warmth was a new one. “What’s going on?” Scotch asked.

“Scotch, I can always count on you to get to the point quickly.” Mr. McLeod looked at Pen. “He is quite the straight shooter as you Americans call it, isn’t he?”

Pen looked at Scotch and thought for a moment before she answered. “Yes and a bit of player as well.”

“He hasn’t?” Mr. McLeod asked.

“No, not that kind of player. I’m sure he does that from time to time as well but in this instance I think that I chose the wrong word. A bit of a...gambler?”

“Ah yes. That too.” He agreed smiling. “It looks like she knows you fairly well already.” Mr. McLeod leaned in and whispered to Pen, “It takes people much longer generally, especially the ladies.” Pen nodded. “Do sit down.”

“I appreciate you both agreeing to meet with me down here. There was a bit of a mishap in the computer lab and all of the activities in the conference rooms are being broadcast on desktops across the office. It’s a bit of mess up there.”

“You seem relaxed about the breach.” Scotch pointed out. “Twenty years ago you would have been alternately firing people and tearing at your hair.”

“I have twenty years’ experience with computers and how they work within this agency. We were able verify that the problems are contained within a small area of the system and originated from the computer lab. Gunny was able to identify the author of the program almost immediately, she is in confinement until everything is under control.”

“It wasn’t an attack?” Scotch asked.

“No. The young lady offered to assist with undoing her mistake. She’s working on her coding in one of the interrogation rooms now. Gunny will be checking over her changes and make the final decision as to whether to her corrections should be used.”

“So...Agent Pen what can we help you with?” Mr. McLeod asked.

He caught Pen drinking her stout as Scotch caught Pen’s eyes.

Pen nearly choked when his eyes met hers. The warmth that had been there earlier was gone. Only two words crossed her mind. Oh shit. “Well...um...”

“It’s okay to discuss any concerns that you are having Agent Pen.” Mr. McLeod said. “We’re all friends here.”

Pen reminded herself that if she was confident enough to reach out to Head of Operations like she had earlier, she needed to be confident enough to follow through. “I wanted to be sure that you knew there was a problem with last night’s mission.”

“No there wasn’t.” Scotch countered.

“Yes. There was.” Pen responded.

“We would have addressed that after your and Agent Scotch’s reports had been filed and reviewed per Corporate directives.” Mr. McLeod said, ignoring both declarations. “Wasn’t this outlined in your training?”

“No.”

“She didn’t go through the training.” Scotch added.

Mr. McLeod looked at Pen.

“I was fast tracked into the agency.” She explained.

“Ah yes. The Fast Track Program for our Special Consultants. I have always liked that program. Surely there were similar directives with your prior agency.”

“No. I’m not your typical consultant.”

“She’s a chemist.” Scotch explained. “You didn’t know that you were bringing a chemist who only had experience working in the private sector into the agency?”

“I glanced over her file. Everything appeared to be in order.”

Scotch looked at the Head of Operations with an eyebrow raised then looked at Pen. His eyes had changed back to something less ominous.

*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.

Three Needs And Two Rules

Lately, I have been pondering many things. These are one of those days that I find myself asking why must I go down this road? Why must I write about this particular subject? The only answer that I have to is because I can my dear hearts, because I can.

Today I’m walking that strange path called contemplating meeting new people. They say that when you are alone you should enjoy it and get to know yourself. Find out who you are, where you’re headed and what you want. My husband died nearly ten years ago, guess what? I’ve had a whole butt load of ‘me’ time. I have gotten to know myself pretty well.

When we’re young and we picture the person that we are going end up with we picture the absolute best that we can imagine. Let’s face it, just a few years earlier we were picturing our weddings and our first cars. They were Porsches and Lamborghinis. Did anyone not picture a sportscar waiting for them when they emerged victorious from the DMV with driver’s license in hand? That’s what kids do. When you’re young you picture the best. The best man or woman is usually brilliant, rich, drop dead gorgeous, and crazy about you. That’s the fantasy.

After you grow up, spend some time in the real world, get an idea of what works for you and what doesn’t...let’s just say your hopes change. It reminds me of a Rolling Stones song, “You can’t always get what you want, but if you try sometimes, you get what you need.” I’ve been around long enough to know that sometimes getting what you need can be damn near perfect.

Several months ago, I was able to look at myself, who I am in my life, and what has worked for me in the past relationship wise and what didn’t. I compiled my um...Wish List...for (coughs) a man. I should probably be embarrassed about that but I can’t help thinking if you don’t know what works for you, you aren’t going to recognize when it gets here.

I thought about the simplicity of my list, how clearly it arrives at some solid points, and how men in general might benefit from the information on it. There are jokes all over the Internet about how complicated women are. Boo-hoo. Pay attention gentlemen. Mama’s gonna make your life a whole lot simpler.

I’m taking the gloves off and telling you how it is. (Removes long, white, evening gloves like Cinderella wore to the ball.) Save the princely duds for your anniversary because shit’s about to get real. (Pulls on training gloves.)

I’ll use my list as an example. If anyone likes it they’re welcome to adapt the list to fit their own personal interests.

My list is short, to the point, with one quick jab. There’s always that one quick jab in life that tries to screw up your day. This is no exception.

I have three needs and two rules:

Needs:

1. Laughter (You don’t have to be funny, we have to be able to laugh together).

2. Hugs (There will be other things eventually, hugs have to be available regularly.)

3. To be held when I need to cry.

Rules:

1. SHOW the &*%k up. (Men have trouble with this rule. I’m not sure why.)

If you cannot show up then be available to talk for a minute or to send texts here and there, especially in a crisis. I’m not a big fan of crises; bearing that in mind, I’m not the type of woman who creates them to get attention. (There are lots of other women out there who feel the same way.)

Here’s the quick jab that I warned you about.

2. DON’T be a dick. (There are a large number of things that can fit under this umbrella. This is where it gets challenging. Here are a few pointers.)

If it’s illegal, don’t do it.

If hearing it would hurt your feelings, then don’t say it.

If you think it’s morally questionable, don’t do it.

If your woman is stressed and you have time to help with a chore...do it.

Note: I am not a traditionally religious woman. My spiritual journey is my own. I have no trouble respecting yours. Let’s keep it that way.

It’s the same thing with money. My financial journey is my own as is yours. Any changes to this can be made as needed provided both parties are agreeable.

That’s it! You made it through the list. This is common sense stuff. You can do this.

Bear in mind that just as you have your self-protection mechanisms and red flags that you look for, so do women. We all have them. Some of us more than others.

“Don’t listen to her.” Juju said. “Soulmates don’t exist.”

“Please ignore her.” Zelda said with one of her nicest smiles. “Soulmates do exist.”

“If soulmates do exist then where’s mine?”

“That’s easy.” I answered. “He’s waiting for you to dismiss the queen’s guard, disarm the castle, and lower the drawbridge.” I looked at Jujubee. “Remove the knives from your corset.”

--Excerpt “Not Another Christmas Romance” HR Apostos

*I may have a couple of snipers too. They help me feel safe.

There it is guys, something to help you get started. Follow these two rules and they should get you off to a solid start. The rest is up to you.

Difference Of Opinion

Pen led the way out of the house and into the surrounding woods. She did not say a word until clean up was successfully completed and Scotch was speeding the car into London.

“Someone else killed that man.”

“They did.” Scotch agreed.

“Don’t you think that we should have stayed? Tried to figure out who it was?”

“And risk being discovered?”

Scotch looked at Pen and grinned. “It’s all about the adventure Pen. The target had been neutralized. The adventure was over for the evening.”

“No one was expected back until tomorrow afternoon. That would have been plenty of time to investigate. Stop calling me that.”

“Stop calling you what?” Scotch asked.

“Pen.”

“It’s your identifier.”

“What do you mean identifier?”

“Your code name? You don’t think that my real name is Scotch, do you?”

Pen didn’t respond.

“You did?” He asked.

“Who would lie about having the name ‘Scotch’?”

Scotch grinned, “You do have a point. ‘Scotch’ is my identifier. Your identifier is ‘Pen.’”

“I don’t like it.” She announced.

“You don’t have to like it. You just have to use it.”

Pen released a sound of discontent, “Why ‘Pen’?”

“Every time I saw you during your first weeks with the agency you were scribbling or asking someone for a pen. So I decided to spend a few days trying the name out. I did an experiment, every time I asked where you were, if the person wasn’t sure, I would mention that you were usually looking for a pen. Did you know that you were already known as The Pen Lady by then?”

“No. I only spent so much time looking for pens because I was usually discussing a formula with someone. It’s easier modify a formula when you can see it. Scientists are visual. As in most offices, pens disappear from agency desks with frequent regularity.”

“I wonder if that’s why so many of them are men.” He said, ignoring her final remark and running the more interesting route. “Men are visual.”

“It could also be why it takes forever to get anything done., the fact that so many scientists are men.” Pen said, her expression solemn.

“Touche.”

“So why ‘Scotch’?” She asked.

Scotch shook his head. “If you want to know, you’re going to have to figure that out on your own.”

“Is everything a game to you?”

“Yes. If I didn’t like games of chance I wouldn’t have become a spy. This time it’s an exercise, what kind of spy are you if you can’t figure out how I got my name?” Scotch reached out and tapped a display screen in the car.

“Cock’s Comb.” A familiar voice answered.

“Hello Martin, it’s me. We’re coming in a bit early this evening. I was wondering if my favorite table is available.”

Pen listened to the sounds coming from the background. Things were louder than usual, even for a Friday night. Patrons at a variety of levels of inebriation were laughing, yelling, and chanting what sounded like team names.

“I’m afraid not Sir. I can keep the two best stools at the bar open.”

Scotch looked at Pen. “The bar’s okay.” He nodded, encouraging her to agree.

Pen nodded noncommittally.

“Seats at the bar will be great Martin. See you in five.”

Scotch turned his attention back to Pen. “What did you notice?”

“During the phone call?”

Scotch looked at Pen and waited.

“It was louder than usual even for this time on a Friday night. The pub is crowded and there was chanting going on...you know, cheering for teams.” Pen stopped for a moment and thought, “There aren’t any local sports teams playing this week. I would have to say that Trivia night has gone into overtime. It’s a championship match and Martin had a room full of people waiting for him to finish the call with you so they can break a tie.”

“Between...”

“The Full Mounties and The Moll Fannies.”

“Very good.”

“And?”

“One of the taps has broken and they are running out of chips.”

“And?”

“Martin didn’t address you by name. Why didn’t he?”

“Why didn’t he?” Scotch repeated her question.

Pen shook her head.

“Look at the area around us.”

Pen looked at the wet asphalt there were several deep puddles. She also noticed some debris on the road and a couple of branches laying across utility lines.

Scotch leaned closer to Pen and said, “A storm came through less than an hour ago. Mobile service may be out for some people. Whether it is or not with the storm damage Martin couldn’t be sure that the signal was secure.”

“So he didn’t call you by your name.”

“If anyone was listening, all they would know is that one of his regular customers was on his way in for a drink.”

“Which is not unusual at all.”

“Exactly.” Scotch watched as a car pulled out of a spot close to the front door of the pub. He smoothly glided his car into the empty space and put it into park. “Congratulations Miss Pen, you have just taken your first field test.”

“What?” Pen asked as she followed Scotch into the Cock’s Comb. The pub was filled to capacity. She had been right. The Full Mounties and The Moll Fannies were at it in full force. The championship was at a tie and the teams were evenly matched. The crowd seemed equally divided as well. Regardless of who won, things could get interesting with this bunch. Pen was anxious to enter headquarters for several reasons including the size of the crowd. She wanted to complete her report and argue her case to their superior. Mr. McLeod would be on her side with this argument. She was sure of it. Actually she wasn’t, but Pen was sure that she could convince Mr. McLeod to take her side, eventually. Pen sat down on the stool next to Scotch. Martin presented her with a freshly poured pint. Pen watched as Scotch quietly sipped his...whiskey? She leaned in closer to Scotch. “I thought you wanted a pint.”

“I do. It was time to call up.”

Pen watched as one corner of Scotch’s mouth turned up in a grin. “If you want to finish your pint then I suggest you bring it with you.” He said as stood up and walked to the back of the pub with Pen following closely alternately dodging the other patrons and taking small sips at her stout.

* 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.

"Finding Earl" --Excerpt "Heather Darling and the Case of the Clockwork Cannibal"

With a nap and a good breakfast, Detective Farina is looking better. The search plans are mapped out, dishes are done. We leave Ian, Uncle Will, and Stump to set up and oversee the helpers. Farina and I head back down the old tractor trail to take another look at what’s left of Earl’s pick-up.

“I was able to take a better look at the sample that we took yesterday and found rust. I think that Will and Ian are right. The floorboards of vehicles rust out. They don’t burn. The hole in the passenger side floorboard had to have already been there. If the floorboards were rusting out then odds are good that the vehicle was in poor shape to begin with.”

“So in other words, the rust had done most of the damage the fire just finished it off.” I say.

“Yes.”

We reach our destination and stop there.

“I’m out in the middle of the country and my truck is on fire. Where would I go?” Detective Farina asks. “More importantly, why would my truck be on fire?”

“There are several reasons that a truck would catch fire. Something is wrong with the truck.”

The detective nods and says, “Mechanical error.”

I continue. “You’ve had an accident. You’ve pissed someone off. Knowing Earl, that wouldn’t be hard for him to do at all.”

“Foul play.” He says.

“Or you set the *^%&er on fire all by yourself.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Insurance fraud or did he decide to leave Beth again?”

“If he did, this time it was for good.”

“He left Beth.” Detective Farina says. He tries the theory on and decides that it works. “For Good.”

After a few moments of contemplation, I shake my head. “No way.”

“Why not?”

“It’s too good to be true.”

“You have my attention.” The detective says.

“Say on the one hand, you have a good job and you travel a bit, you have girlfriends, several girlfriends. You pick a new one up all the time. On the other hand, you have a wife at home. A woman that you met in high school, she makes half the money, pays all of the bills, keeps the home fires burning, takes you back whenever things get rough, and puts up with all of your shit. Would you break that tie off completely?”

“I would have to say, ‘No’.”

“Earl has it way too good with Beth. Beth is right. Something has happened to him.”

Staring Contest

“Did it ever occur to you that you might be wrong?” Pen asked.

Seeing an opportunity to annoy her, Scotch countered. “What if I’m right?”

“You’re not.”

“There’s a chance that I am.”

Their eyes locked. Neither one backing down. One corner of Scotch’s mouth turned up, sparking a response from Pen. Color rose to her cheeks and her hazel eyes brightened.

“The organization is supposed to be a place that gathers intelligence. I was told that...” Pen hesitated and took a more direct route. “I don’t know who you people think you are or what kind of game you’re playing but I stated up front what I would and wouldn’t do. Killing is not on my resume. Violence is supposed to be used only when all other potential solutions have been exhausted.”

Scotch looked at the fire. “First, don’t quote Corporate directives to me. I know them.” He said turning to Pen. “All of them. Second, what gets put into the mission statement and what actually takes place can be two completely different animals. Thirdly, you just killed a man so as of tonight, killing is officially on your resume. It’s time you set aside that ‘I’m too squeaky clean to be a professional killer’ attitude.”

Pen looked at Scotch. “One botched death does not a professional killer make. Besides, an intelligence agency gathers information. How many people can they possibly need to kill?”

Scotch walked around the fire that separates them, he reached out to embrace her. “You poor misguided woman. You’re in over your head, aren’t you? Have you not looked up the death rate among spies?” He laughed for a moment. “Have you never watched a James Bond movie and counted the bodies?”

“People do that?”

“Spy Training Day One: The Realities Of Working As A Spy. People who return from lunch break and manage to keep everything down until the end of the day...let’s just say it’s reflected well in their files.”

“I’m fine.” Pen said as she stepped away from Scotch’s embrace.

“Doc said you had issues with people touching you.” Scotch released her, took a step back, and held both hands up so Pen could see them.

“Psych evaluation. I remember telling him. What else did he say?”

“It can be a double edged sword.” Scotch admitted. “A person who has a certain level of detachment makes a better killer.”

“I take it from the agency’s stand point that’s a good thing?” She asked.

He nodded.

“What’s the other side of the observation?”

“I’m going to keep that to myself.”

“For how long?” Pen asked.

“Until we’ve proven the doc wrong.”

Pen looked at Scotch closely and studied his face. The light danced across his features alternately illuminating some while hiding others, although he seemed relaxed as they witnessed the burning of evidence, he had to have been through countless of these clean up rituals, Scotch revealed nothing. It was a talent that was imperative to the survival of any successful spy, of that Pen was certain. Scotch had it and then some. He was also confident. Almost too confident. A blessing and a curse when it came to his line of work. It had to be useful when caught in unexpected situations. If a person can appear confident regardless of what was befalling them, they had a much higher chance of successfully navigating through the problem. The other side of that observation? A man who was too confident might be easily convinced that he had the upper hand when he did not. Pen wondered how easily Scotch could be convinced that he knew everything about their current situation and she did not. Pen knew what her plan was. Scotch did not need to know the details.

Scotch looked at the sky and his watch. “This will be through burning in another twenty minutes. I’ll text the clean up crew and we’ll pull out when they drive in. You can rest in the car if you’d like.”

Pen nodded and turned towards the car.

“Oh and Pen?”

Pen turned back to Scotch.

“You have the best escort at the agency. Relax. The missions will get easier.”

She nodded and turned back towards the drive and their car. “You're damn right it’s going to get easier. This was my one and only mission.” Pen whispered to herself as she walked away.

Three Weeks Later

Paris

The knocks coming from the other side of the false wall behind Pen startled her back to the task at hand.

“It was easier this time wasn’t it?”

She could hear Scotch’s voice through the narrow opening.

“It was.” She admitted. Pen looked at her target. He lay completely still. His eyes were open, as was his mouth. The poison had worked quickly. “He’s dead.” Pen announced.

“Already? Use the cyanide this time?”

“Actually...” Pen muttered to herself more than answered Scotch’s question.

“Huh?”

“He was dead when I got here.” Pen said.

“What?”

“The target was lying on the floor when I entered the room.”

“Why?”

Pen closed her eyes for a moment, took a deep breath, pulled open the false wall further and let her escort in. “When I entered the room the target was laying on the floor like this.” She said, gesturing towards the newly deceased.

“He was already dead?”

“For a seasoned agent you are really slow on the uptake tonight. Isn’t that what I just said?”

“A little stressed?” Scotch asked.

“This was my target that I just discovered already dead.”

“Now you don’t have to kill him. It looks like you’re getting paid this time for work that you didn’t even have to do. Nice going.” Scotch raised a hand near the crown of Pen’s head.

“Do not pat me on the head.”

“You have to admit that it was a job well done.” Scotch pointed out.

“For someone.” Pen looked away from the target and focused on Scotch. “What should we do?” She asked.

He took her by the arm, guided her into the darkened back passage and pointed to the stairs. “The job is done. Let’s go.”





* 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.

Scotch And Pen

*This story is not for children. 
 *I have never been nor will I ever be a spy but I sure do have fun writing about them.

“Kill him.” Scotch instructed.

She looked at the man as he lay on his own study floor—choking, gasping for air, foaming at the mouth. “He’s dying.” Pen countered.

“Slowly. Too slowly.” He said. “Finish him. Now.” Scotch pulled out a knife and waited for Pen to take it from his hand.

Pen looked at him, then her victim choking on the floor. A sound of footsteps echoed through the mansion’s foyer and stopped on the other side of the study door.

“Gregory?” A voice called. “Are you in there darling? I have to something to show you.” They heard the sound of bags rustling. “It’s in the bedroom. I’ll be right back.” The footsteps faded as the woman on the other side of the door headed to her bedroom.

This time Scotch mouthed the words. “Do it.”

“This is ridiculous.” Pen said as she took the knife from Scotch’s gloved hand. “He’s dy-ing.” She looked at her victim only long enough to expose his neck and verify that she had the knife properly positioned. Pen looked up at Scotch while she applied pressure to her target’s jugular and sliced an opening across his neck. “Absolutely ridiculous. I was hired as a consultant for lab research. I’m not even supposed to be doing field work. I told Corporate up front, ‘No Blood.’ I stated that specifically during the final interview. ‘I am willing to do a little field work only during an emergency on two conditions: there was to be minimal use of weapons and no blood.’” She wiped her bloody gloves on Scotch's shirt after handing him back the knife.

“Which is fine as long as you do the job correctly to begin with.” Scotch responded and accepted the return of his weapon.

Pen shook her depleted vial of poison. “I wonder what went wrong. Maybe I should have gone with the cyanide.”

The two turn their attention back to the study door at the sound of approaching footsteps. “I’m coming darling!” A woman’s voice called out.

“We can talk about that later, come on.” Scotch said as he pushed Pen to their exit.

Pen walked to the fire Scotch had built and deposited her bloodied clothes on to the pile. The basic black leggings, white tank top, and dark blue hoodie in her mission bag lacked imagination but was right for the weather, current climate, and time of year. If they encountered anyone on the way to the car she and Scotch would be just another couple who had snuck onto the private beach of an unoccupied house for a romantic rendezvous. She watched as Scotch tended the fire.

“Did you change all of your clothes?”

“Um hmmm.”

“Shoes?”

“Yes.”

“Where’s the vial of poison?”

“In the flames.”

“Cell phone?” He asked.

Pen closed her eyes. “My cell phone is at home where it belongs per company policy. The corporate issue phone is still in the mission bag. It has not been used. Anything else?”

Scotch consulted a small notepad. “No that’s it.” He tore up the notepad and tossed it into the flames.

Pen watched as the notepad and Scotch's checklist immediately began to burn. “Isn’t that still evidence?” She asked.

“What?”

“The notepad cover.”

Scotch grinned. “Special cover. Looks and feels like leather but is actually a fast burning paper. It doesn’t retain finger prints either.” He looked at Pen. “Spy tech.”

“It smells funny when it burns. I wonder what makes up its chemical composition.”

“When we get back to work you can stop by the lab and ask if they’ll let you do a litmus test.”

“Ha. Ha.”

“Not funny?”

Pen glared at Scotch.

“Not funny.” He acknowledged and went back to studying the flames.

“What is funny is where we’re at. This house is only a few miles down the road from our target.” Pen looked up from the flames. “Why did we stop here?”

“An agent will always stop and destroy any and all evidence from their mission at the nearest Corporate sanctioned location once their mission is complete. You should have learned that on day three of your training. It’s in the manual. Chapter Five: The Mission.”

“I didn’t go through training.” Pen said.

“You didn’t go through training?”

“I was hired as a consultant. Consultants are not permanent employees so most companies tell a consultant the bare bones basic information necessary to complete that and only that job. It’s not worth the output of money to fully train a temporary employee.”

“We don’t work for a company, we work for a spy agency. It’s what spies do. If you haven’t noticed, I’m a spy.”
“We are working for a spy agency that is using standard business techniques to run their consultants.” Pen pointed out. “I am perfectly aware that you’re a spy. You have that devil-may-care James Bond wannabe thing going on.”

Scotch looked at Pen. Something in his usually warm brown eyes had grown darker. 

Pen had second thoughts about her comment. “I was just kidding about the James Bond thing.”

“I’m a spy. It takes a lot more than a crack like that to bother me.”

“What does bother you?”

“Hmm...What bothers me. Having to wear this generic crap after every job, the elimination of smoking, some drinks taste better with a good cigar. The fact that you keep insisting that you're a temporary consultant but I was told that I would begin training my new partner tonight. That bothers me most of all.”

*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.

About The Author...

Definitions of ourselves and who we are can be difficult to accept. It can be a challenge to change the way in which we look at ourselves that, from my understanding, has to do with the human ego.

My relationship with writing has been an interesting one so far. One of my greatest challenges has been with that pesky ego and how I look at myself. 

  I look at myself as a writer. Just a writer. A plain old warm beverage on a rainy day, just as comfortable as your favorite blue jeans or pajamas writer. It’s what I’m good at. It’s what I know I can do. It’s what feels good to me.

My mother is an author. Being an intelligent woman, she likes to discuss things. Sometimes, I do too. Today, we got into a conversation about how being a writer has become more challenging in recent years, especially with the explosion of voices on social media. We discussed various aspects of it. I shared how I felt like I was stuck in some awkward in between stage with my work. Many words followed. After a time she looked at me and said, “Some day you are going to have to accept the fact that you are an author.”

We’ve had this conversation before.

I said the same thing that I always do, “I’m not an author, I’m a writer.”

There we were, two intelligent women with two different definitions of the word “author.”

She feels the title author is something the creator of a finished written work is free to use. It is one I should be happy to embrace. John Steinbeck was an author, Ernest Hemingway was an author, Agatha Christie was an author.

I agree with her on that point, I should be happy to embrace it. The problem is that I have never seen myself as one.

True confession: Although I have been working for several years toward a goal of becoming a working writer vis a vis supporting myself with my writing instead of working a separate day job in addition to writing, I didn’t go into it expecting to become an author.

I see an author as someone who is deep and profound. They entertain you but also make you stop and think. They make you look at your life and wonder at it, wonder if you want to change it, or leave you wondering if you should be doing more for others. They leave a reader changed after they close the book. They look like matching suits or dresses with stockings, along with matching hats and gloves. They win Nobel prizes and their writing is required reading in college courses. Sometimes they give commencement speeches. Other times, they record battles on foreign lands or comment on major societal changes in their own home towns. In my mind, they rarely look like me. They rarely look like jeans and a t-shirt. Especially a t-shirt with a snarky comment on it.  I kind of have a thing for those.

My relationship with writing first and foremost, is a love story. I come to it because I want to, l love to, and some part of me needs to. Whether I am sitting in my Big Writing Chair in High Command, sprawled out on my living room floor with pages strewn all over, white board and diagrams at the ready or stretched out across my bed with a laptop, as I am now, it’s a quiet place, it is a place where all of the parts of me are accepted. Writing is home. As long as I'm writing, regardless of all other variables, I will always be at home. It holds few expectations of me. I expect less of it. I have a long list of hopes. They are just that hopes.

To find myself, here in my bedroom during the late moments of my quickly dwindling weekend contemplating finding a way to change the way I see myself; it’s one of the last things a person expects to find themselves doing on a Sunday night.

I consulted my dictionary tonight looking up both the definitions of a writer and an author in search of information to help me prove my point. There was nothing under the definition of the word “author” that read, “creator of great literary works that have won awards and critical adoration” or even one that reads “Not you HR.” Nor was there a picture of me next to the word “writer.” They appear to be very close and virtually interchangeable which begs the question, “Why is the title ‘Author’ more widely accepted while it also appears to have more weight and validity in our society? That’s probably a question for another time.

I hope it is not what I’m thinking about when I close my eyes tonight. 

Sleepy writer, needs rest. 

Thanks Mom for the discussion.

In the words of Captain Kirk, “It has been noted and logged.”

P.S. Seriously though, I’m working on it.

A City Detective’s Night In The Country--Excerpt "Heather Darling and the Case of the Clockwork Cannibal" HR Apostos

When Ian and I come into the house after an early morning tour of the farm, we find Detective Farina sitting at the dining table. He’s still in his pajamas and his head is resting on the table. A mug of coffee sits on the table next to his head and is cooling by the second. I’m not going to say anything. Luckily, Ian does it for me. I am returning to the kitchen after washing up to make breakfast just as Ian sits down next to the detective with his own steaming mug.

He studies the detective’s unmoving form, “I think that you’ve finally done it Lassie.”

“What?”

“Wore the poor lad out.”

“Impossible.”

I watch out of the corner of my eye as my father puts his head on the table to study Farina even more closely. “The unruly hair, the red eyes, the drooling, the vacant expression...all marks of carnal overload.”

“Like I said. Impossible. We went to bed early.”

Ian begins to say something.

“And went to sleep.”

“No, no. Detective Farina does not have the look of a man that has seen a bit of sleep. You say that you went to bed early did ya?”

“Aye, the lad was put to bed early,” I say imitating my father’s Irish brogue. “Just like a wee bairn.”

Ian sits back up and says, “Bairn is a word of the Scotsman my girl.”

“I tried.”

“And a lovely try it was.” He says as he turns his attention back to the detective. “So what is it that robbed you of your sleep?”

“The trains, the wildcats, the coyotes, the frogs.” He says. He raises his head and looks at Ian. “Damn crazy frogs. Doesn’t anything ever go to sleep around here? It was awful. But nothing was as bad as the dancing zombies.”

Ian looks at me. “He’s been dancing with the zombies.” My father announces.

“And I thought that a man like you would be faithful. Shame on you Farina.”

The detective raises his head and glares at me.

“I finally nodded off some time this morning, when I closed my eyes there were frogs, coyotes, birds, and a train conductor. They were all zombies and they were all dancing to Michael Jackson’s “Thriller.”

“Which was the song that was playing when the alarm went off.” I say with a smile. I walk over to the dining table and rub the detective’s shoulders for a moment. I lean down and whisper. “It’s going to be forty-five minutes before breakfast is ready. Go back to bed.”

Farina wastes no time rising from his seat. Ian and I listen as the detective makes his way back to the bedroom. Farina’s groan of relief echoes through the house as he falls back into bed.

To The Hilts

“My room?” Tinkletoes asks.

“Everyone has a space.”

“Let’s take a look.” He says as he crosses to the metal door and opens it. Inside is a standard military issue cot and a standing locker with a pair of full length doors. Maps and diagrams of some of Tinkletoes’ light saber designs line the walls. There is a clock running in military time and a shadow box displaying the history of hand grenades with bullets lining the outside edge. The self-proclaimed mercenary takes a few steps, stops in front of the locker and opens the door. Half of it stores back up t-shirts and sets of camos. The other side holds light saber parts, tools, and weapons storage.

“Well...what do you think?” House asks.

“Everything looks orderly. Plenty of supplies. I like the grenade bin. Nice work.”

“Of course.” House says. “Lay down on the cot.”

“Where are my hilts?”

“Safe. Lay down on the cot.”

“I came here for my hilts.” Tinkletoes counters.

“You’ll get them. Lay down first.”

A growl emanates from Tinkletoes’ throat.

“Who wants another pancake?” Writer Lady calls.

Dylan runs to her side, empty plate held out in anticipation of more food.

“I don’t know Dylan. You’ve already had three and these are almost the size of the plate.” Writer Lady says.

Dylan looks up at her with big eyes. “I’m still hungry.”

“Rough night huh?”

“I was up all night slaying ninja-zombies with Dobby in the Midlands.”

“The Midlands?”

“The lands between Earth and Faerie. They had already invaded Earth and Faerie was next.”

Writer Lady looks at Dobby. The ginger tabby looks up at her from his dish and shakes his head.

“Where was I?” She asks.

“Dead.” The tow-headed boy answers. “The grown-ups all bought it ages before I got there.” Dylan holds his plate closer to the skillet. “Can I have the pancake now?”

Writer Lady lifts the freshly fried cake on to his plate. “A big pancake for a big story. It’s a trade.”

“Thanks Writer Lady.”

Dylan accepts his prize with a grin and runs back to his seat. Writer Lady hears Ray comment from the other room.

“Whoa. That's your fourth pancake. A lot of food for such a little dude. Remember this is a no hurl zone. No tossing those things back up man.”

“Well?” House asks, waiting for a response

Tinkletoes closes his eyes for a moment. “It doesn’t feel like a cot.”

“It doesn’t. It has been enchanted to feel like a medium firm pillow top mattress with a feather bed topper. It also has 850 thread count sheets and a silk duvet.”

“That’s why I feel like I’m going to slide off.”

“Roll over.” House instructs.

“What?”

“Roll over.”

Tinkletoes looks at the edge of the cot. “How about if I just sit up.”

“You’re not going to roll off if that’s what you’re thinking.”

Tinkletoes does a slow roll, he settles himself on the left side of the mattress which is invisible to the naked eye. “I should be on the floor.” He says.

“You aren’t.” House squeals with delight. “I created a luxurious king size bed that looks like a military cot.”

Tinkletoes sits up. The self-proclaimed mercenary steps away from the cot and studies it. He gets down on his hands and knees to study underneath. “Excellent work. Now...where are my hilts?”

“All this and you're still carrying on about the hilts?” House releases a sigh. “Okay, fine. Look in the trunk at the foot of the cot.”

Within seconds Tinkletoes is at the trunk and lifting the lid. He looks inside and tucked at the bottom front are his hilts, they have been extracted from his gear bag and are tucked into their own individual holders. “Finally.”

“I told you they were safe.” House says.

“You did.”

A voice echoes through the room. “Changes will commence in five, four, three, two, one...”

The self-proclaimed mercenary reaches into the trunk to collect his treasures before he finds himself in another room entirely. He pulls his hand out of the trunk seconds before it and the rest of his room disappears around him. When everything around him stops moving he opens his hand. It’s empty. “$%^&!”

“You said a bad word.” Dylan says as he passes Tinkletoes with an empty plate in hand. Dylan returns within seconds.

“You’d say bad words too if you’d had the morning that I’m having.” Tinkletoes countered.

The four year old shakes his head. “You said a bad word. You have to go stand in the time out corner.”

Tinkletoes looks at Dylan. “I’m on a mission I don’t have time to stand in some stupid corner.”

“But you said a bad word.”

“That rule only applies to kids, I’m an adult. There’s no help for me at this point.”

Dylan points to the appropriate corner. “Time out.”

“How about this, you go stand in the corner for me, I’ll give you five dollars, and I’ll never say the word ever again.”

“That’s bribery.” Dylan says.

“How do you know?”

“Paige is my big sister, she knows everything.”

“I need to get my hilts. I’ll stand in the corner later. Okay?”

“Bribery and trying to get out of a time out means no story time.”

Tinkletoes raises an eyebrow and tries to hold back his grin. “No story time huh? I have been a bad boy.” The self-proclaimed mercenary attempts to look remorseful. “I really don’t deserve story time. I’ll have to live with it.”

“But you still have to stand in the corner.”

A crowd has gathered around them. Tinkletoes looks at Writer Lady. “I don’t have to stand in the corner do I?”

“Tinkletoes has had a rough day.” Writer Lady says.

“He should stand in the corner.” House’s comment echoes throughout the room. “I know that it would make my day.”

“What is it that you always say?” Carp asks. “A good soldier is a good example for everyone around him.”

“Yeah Dude.” Ray agrees. “Be an example. He looks up to you.”

“Fine.” Tinkletoes says as he walks to the appropriate corner. “I’ll stand in the corner. Nobody’s allowed to watch.”

The group makes haste leaving the area.

Dylan stays long enough to hug Tinkletoes’ arm and whisper a quick, “Thank you,” before running from the room.

The self-proclaimed mercenary stares at the corner without uttering a single word.

“You didn’t have to do that.” House whispers.

“It’s for the kid.”

“Not that. You didn’t have to get so angry. Your quarters are enchanted to move on a regular basis for security purposes. Mural Man and I thought that you would like it.”

Tinkletoes’ watch beeps and numbers flash on the display. “What’s this?”

“What does it look like?”

“These are the coordinates of my room and the time...”

“The time it will disappear from those coordinates.” House says. “Or...”

“Or?”

“Mural Man also suggested another enchantment. One in which you could access anything in your quarters by using similar means to all those space movies that you like.”

“Space movies? Sci-fi?”

“I think that’s what Mural Man called it. I wasn’t paying that much attention. He was talking about you.”

“Of course.” Tinkletoes thinks for a moment. He holds out one hand behind him and waits for one of the hilts to make it’s way into his grasp. His hand closes on the hilt and he pulls it to him looking at it joyfully. Hiding his smile quickly, he says. “His way is much easier."

Writer Lady stops in the entry. "Time out is over."

Tinkletoes looks at the ceiling. "Give my regards to Mural Man.”

 The self-proclaimed mercenary makes his way into the kitchen to find some pancakes.

*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.

A Night Out--Excerpt "Heather Darling and the Case of the Clockwork Cannibal" HR Apostos

In spite of Heather being fashionably challenged when it comes to attending concerts in pubs and Detective Farina’s intense love for my new dress, we make it to The Three Hounds in plenty of time to get good seats. Okay, Detective Jillian arrived early to see her friends. She had already taken custody of a table close to the stage on our behalf.

But, thanks to me, Heather is more appropriately dressed in skinny jeans (hers) and a Rolling Stones t-shirt (mine). I tried to get her to kick her make-up up a notch. Okay...Alice Cooper eyes. When I showed her what I would be using on her face she announced that if she agreed to it her esthetician would never forgive her and could dump her altogether. Apparently, it has taken her forever to find the right one. They put goop on your face and take it off again. How hard can it be to find someone capable of doing that?

Detective Farina on the other hand, pouted. I’m not kidding. He pouted when he saw that I had replaced my new dress with my favorite well-worn jeans and a t-shirt that reads, “If Ignorance Is Bliss Then You Must Be Ecstatic.” I offered him visitation with the dress, and asked him if he needed me to wear it or if he just wanted to take it to bed with him to cuddle. He did not appreciate my sense of humor. Duuude…seriously, it’s a dress.

“What’s the name of your friend’s band?” I ask Detective Jillian, while we watch the band go through a final sound check.

“There Might Be Bear.” she responds. While she’s talking to me about how long the band has been around, how long she has known the founder, and how they met, I notice that Heather is focused. On the band. She notices that I’m watching her and fidgets a little. Then she becomes an active participant in all of the conversations taking place around our table. None of us, other than Detective Jillian, have been to a performance in some time including Ian. Since he had been to Woodstock, he was the Hall of Famer of the group.

“What is the best concert that you’ve ever seen?” Heather asks Ian.

“I saw The Rolling Stones play Paris in 1967.”

“Not Woodstock?” She asks.

“Sometimes, it’s not just the memory of the concert. It can also be about what is happening in your life at that time. In 1967, I was a young man, just out of school. I had an exciting job at Scotland Yard making good money. The ladies loved me. I had been shot a few weeks before and nearly died. I had caught the bad guys and survived to tell the story. Life was good.” He looks at me. “Not as good as it is now. But it was one of the happier periods of my life.”

One of the bartenders steps out onto the stage and says, “Please give a warm welcome to one of our favorite visitors…There Might Be Bear.”