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.

Interview With Your Favorite Inner Writers

What kind of story is worthy of a storyteller? Where can one possibly go? I contemplate these questions as I sit here in front of my laptop. Cursor blinking. Word processor waiting for me to start the show. Giving a story to a storyteller has to be one of the most intimidating endeavors out there. The phrase, “What was I thinking?” is playing repeatedly in my mind as I sit here.

The cursor keeps blinking. It’s taunting me. Help. Suggestions? Anyone?

Should there be dragons, elves, and ogres? Or dead bodies and brilliant sleuths? “The Six Pack Ab Murders?” She does like a bit of comedy but isn’t always a fan of spoofs. I’ll have to save the abs for later.

Is this stuff rhyming? My goodness, the poetry is beginning to leak in everywhere.

TP is one of her favorite characters maybe I should start there. She likes Toni Johnson too. Maybe Toni should read this to her. A video blog? That’s an idea.

Miss Jenny says, “Seventy-five is quite an accomplishment. It should be enjoyed and celebrated.”

Toni Johnson responds, “Thanks Miss Jenny. This isn’t your birthday. Ain’t nobody looking at you.” Toni rolls her eyes.

TP high fives Toni Johnson then sticks out his tongue at Miss Jenny.

Toni Johnson looks at TP, “I thought you liked her.”

“She refused to climb into my gilded cage. No fun.”

“I know baby. You’ll get your woman next time.”

“May I interest you in a gilded cage?” TP asks. The faerie points to the open door of a large golden cage.

“No. That was a nice try baby. We’re kind of busy here. Can we move this along?”

 Ray enters the room. “Dudes, let’s have a karaoke night.”

“No. Save that for your birthday”.

“My birthday is over.”

“What a shame.” Miss Jenny looks at Ray sympathetically.

Toni Johnson looks at Miss Jenny, “Don’t do it. I’ve heard him sing. Dogs will find guns and shoot themselves to avoid listening to him.”

“You can’t really mean that.”

“Do you remember all those dead dogs they found around town last summer?” Toni asks. “Ray had a karaoke machine that week.”

Miss Jenny looks at Ray, “Maybe next year.”

“Problem solved.” TP announces as he takes a bow.

“‘Cuse me.” Toni Johnson says, “It is still Grandma’s seventy-fifth birthday and we need a blog. A special blog.”

TP shakes his head.

Toni Johnson asks, “We don’t need a blog?”

The faerie says, “I have an idea.” TP covers his mouth with both hands and tries to look innocent. “When I get done, Grandma is going to feel special. Very special.”

“You’re not going to do anything with that cage thing are you?”

TP shakes his head.

“Okay. Then it looks like you have the floor.”

The faerie waves one hand over his head as if waving a lasso, the bonus room empties, the decor changes. Two wing back black leather chairs sit next to each other in front of a fireplace that appears to have been placed between two large trees in the middle of a forest. A coffee table with mugs sitting on it is positioned in between the two chairs.

Multi-colored lights spin about the room as a voice announces, “Tonight on Inner Writer Interviews we welcome two inner writers whose humanly forms coexist within the same bloodline. Please welcome Writer Lady and Grandma!”

Writer Lady’s inner writer appears on the left she is dressed in a pair of worn blue jeans, a snarky t-shirt, and moccasins. Her eyes look tired and her hand shakes a little from too much coffee.

Grandma’s inner writer appears in the chair on the right. She’s well groomed, dressed comfortably, and is wearing a smile.

Pixies, faeries, and magical creatures sit in the audience alternately looking at the inner writers curiously and applauding.

“Now here’s your host: TP!”

The audience applauds, shouting out compliments, and screaming.

TP appears dressed in a well cut suit similar to that of Jimmy Kimmel.

TP pops into my peripheral vision and whispers in my ear.

I look at TP. “Not Jimmy Kimmel? John Wick?” (Shakes head) John Wick is not a talk show host. He’s an assassin.

TP continues whispering.

“Yes, John Wick in his suit is hotter than Jimmy Kimmel in his suit but he’s still not a talk show host.”

“He could be.” TP says.

“He could be?” I ask.

“Where?”

“In Faerie.”

“And he would be talking about what?”

TP runs his hand across the air as he answers, “Fifty Shades of Grief: What To Do When Your Doggy Dies.”

I run my hand down my face.“I cannot believe that you just said that.”

TP shrugs.

I think for a minute, “How about...he is dressed in a well cut suit and looks more handsome than any other talk show host?”

TP half nods.

“Way hotter than any human talk show host.”

The faerie makes a face.

“Seriously, that’s as good as it gets. Let’s get back to the story.”

TP goes back to his starting position in front of the audience. The faerie pulls out his Talk Show Host Voice. “Welcome everyone. Tonight we have a very special show for you. These are the inner writers of Writer Lady and Grandma. What makes them special is that their inner writers are so different but they are actually related.”

The crowd gasps and looks more closely.

“It’s true these two inner writer’s hosts are mother and daughter.”

A collective “Wow” fills the forest.

“It’s time to get to know, Writer Lady and Grandma.”

“This is an in-depth interview. Most of our guests say that they learn things about themselves that they never knew.”

Both inner writers nod as they listen. Writer Lady takes something out of her pocket and begins chewing on it. Remembering her manners she pulls another one out of her pocket and offers it to Grandma. Grandma shakes her head.

“What is it?” Grandma whispers. “Chocolate? A raisin?”

“Coffee bean. I ran out of the ground stuff a couple of days ago. It’s the only coffee I have in the house.” Writer Lady chews making a face.

“Why don’t you grind them up?”

Writer Lady’s Inner Writer waits for more information.

“That bean is what ground coffee is made from.”

“Oh, yeah. I’ll have to try that when I get home. Or um...Writer Lady will have to try that.”

TP looks at his guests. “Are you ladies ready to get started?”

Both nod.

“Here are your three questions.”

“Wait a minute.” Writer Lady whispers to Grandma, “Did he just say three questions?” She asks.

Grandma nods.

“Three questions? I got yanked out of my body while I was planning the greatest mystery never before written to answer three questions?”

“It looks like it.” Grandma says, “Remember, every story has already been written before dear.”

“There is already a brilliant mystery out there with wild witch and wizard sex in it?”

“Why are you writing a book that depicts witches and wizards having wild sex in it?”

“Because it’s never been written.”

“Who would like to go first?” TP asks.

Writer Lady raises her hand and Grandma points to Writer Lady.

“Which means Grandma is our first to answer Question 1. Question number one. Plotter or pantser?”

“Plotter.” Grandma answers.

“Pantser.” Writer Lady responds.

“Complete opposites on the first question ladies and gentlemen, amazing. The first question leads us to the second question. Second Question. When you are writing how closely do you follow the sequence of events, in other words, do you write in a straight line?”

“Yes.” Grandma says. “I prefer to.”

“Writer Lady?”

Writer Lady shakes her head. “No. I write what is ready to be written when it’s ready to be written. If I finish chapter three and I am not ready to write chapter four but I have a scene for chapter six up here.” She says, pointing to her temple. “Then the scene for chapter six is getting written. You have to wander around in the world that you’ve created. Learn things about it. It makes a better story.”

“With a messy edit.” Grandma says.

“Okay. For the third and final question, how would you, the inner writer describe your imagination to someone? What does it look like? Grandma.”

“My imagination is like a well that has images drawn from it.” Grandma answers.

“My imagination looks like a group of circus performers at a rave.” Writer Lady says.

“Wow. That would be something wouldn’t it?” TP says. He returns to his audience. “See folks. Two very different writers yet both from the same bloodline. Not only that but closely related.

“Amazing!” A pixie calls from the audience.

“Incredible.” Another voice exclaims.

Writer Lady makes a face. “What’s so amazing about it? These things don’t happen in Faerie?”

TP says, “No my dear lady. When relatives are that different it is because of evil curses not um...what is it you humans call it?”

“Nature?”

“You humans develop in a manner that’s completely random. In Faerie everything that is born is born for a reason. A clear one.”

Writer Lady points to a tree in the distance. “The fish climbing that tree has antlers on it. Why was that created?”

“So when you came to Faerie you could see it and ask about it silly.”

TP announces to the audience, “We would like to congratulate Grandma on her seventy-five years as a human. You are a most amazing author for a human. We would love to have you back soon for a visit.”

Grandma says, “That would be lovely. Thank you.”
“We’ll have you for dinner.” TP says with a giggle.

“Why does that scare that me?” Writer Lady mutters.

Happy Seventy-Fifth Birthday Mom!

Please don’t go back to Faerie without an escort (looks at TP) or two.

Nineteen And Nine

“I’m sure that it did.” Scotch responded.

“You were saying?” Mr. McLeod prompted turning back to Pen.

“The target was dead when we arrived. That is unusual. Isn’t it?” Pen asked.

“It is slightly atypical. Keep in mind that the targets are not on our list for neutralization because they are good people.”

“They’ve all done bad things?” Pen asked.

“Yes of course.”

“People who do bad things typically have numerous enemies. So it wouldn’t be completely unusual.” She agreed.

“It’s not.” Mr. McLeod agreed. “We are the best, typically we do get to them first.” Mr. McLeod looked at Scotch. “Isn’t that right Scotch?”

Scotch closed his open mouth quickly. It was like his supervisor had been abducted by aliens and replaced with someone who was completely unflappable. “Yes.” He agreed.

Mr. McLeod stood and held out a hand to Pen. He cradled her hand in his own for several moments. “Thank you so much for bringing this incident to my attention. I hope that I was able to alleviate your concerns.”

“Yes. Thank you sir.”

Scotch looked at Pen and rose from his seat. Taking the cue, she stood as well. Scotch guided her from the conference room. “I told you that nothing was wrong. Do you believe me now?” He never heard a response, only saw her nod in his peripheral vision. Scotch hurried Pen to the offices upstairs. The sooner he saw her leave, the sooner he could settle in and get to work.

Scotch re-entered the office the following afternoon. He perused the room to find that the issues from the day before had been resolved. Nothing new sat on his desk. Pen’s desk was neat as usual but untouched since she left earlier that morning. He looked around the room more slowly. No sign of Pen. No sign of any activity related to Pen either. Scotch stopped one of the other special consultants. “Have you seen Pen?”

She smiled and pointed down. “She’s been in the lab for hours.”

Scotch nodded and headed below ground. He found her in the chemistry lab. She was wearing the standard lab coat, gloves, safety goggles and mask over her clothes. Scotch grabbed a mask upon entering and held it over his mouth and nose. He watched as she carefully placed her sample into a dish. He waited as she finished what she was doing.

She looked at her lab mate. “Note that the poison is still testing as active twenty minutes postmortem. Adjustment to formula unsuccessful.”

The lab mate nodded to her. “I’m sure you’ll get it right the next time.” She encouraged.

“I hope so. I won’t be allowed in this lab much longer if I don’t prove my worth.” Pen countered. She turned and looked at Scotch. “Hello.” From the lilt in her voice Scotch guessed that Pen was smiling.

“What’s this?” He asked.

“Adjustment 24 to my perfect poison.”

“Perfect Poison?”

“I have been working on a poison that kills a rodent or pest immediately but dissipates on contact when certain postmortem chemicals are detected.”

Scotch waits for Pen to speak English.

“This poison detects enzymes that are released after the animal has died. The poison reacts to these postmortem enzymes by losing its toxicity.”

“So it only works as long as whatever ingested it is still alive then it begins to break down?” Scotch asked.

“It is for rodent control. I invented it so the family pet wouldn’t die if the animal ate a rodent that did not die of natural causes. The side effect is...”

“...after the poison begins to break down it can no longer be detected by standard toxicity tests.” Scotch said finishing her thought.

“Until this has been finished and is in use for several years...let’s just say that this is going to be untraceable to the rest of the world for a while.” Pen added.

“Which is why Corporate brought you in.”

“It was why they told me they brought me in. They wanted me to finish developing it so I could develop a test for detecting it. In an effort to protect their people.”

“Did they tell you that they really loved Spot and Fluffy too?” Scotch asked grinning.

“You don’t think I’m that naive do you?” Pen shook her head. “I would have seen the ‘We Love Animals’ song and dance coming from a mile away. What are you doing here?”

“I work here.” Scotch said. “Spy, remember?”

“As you keep saying. What are you doing in the chemistry lab?”

“Looking for you.”

“You found me.” Pen cleaned up her mess and headed in the direction of the exit. She removed her gloves, mask, and goggles, placing them in their proper receptacles.

Scotch followed suit.

“I’m glad that you found me. I have something to say to you. Nineteen.”

“Nineteen what?”

“Nineteen bodies. In 1983’s “Never Say Never Again” starring Sean Connery there were nineteen bodies. Four agents went down, fourteen died, and one was diverted.”

“Weren’t there more?”

“There were nine more but the first nine weren’t really killed. It was a training exercise.”

“Wow.”

“What?” Pen asked.

“I didn’t think that you’d actually watch a James Bond movie and count the bodies.”

“I wish I hadn’t. There were a lot of dead agents.” Pen stopped and looked Scotch. “You said that people do that. They watch James Bond movies and count the bodies.”

Scotch’s brown eyes warmed and the spy grinned.

“You were lying?”

“A spy has to be good at lying. Don’t feel bad. I have had a lot of practice.”

“I can’t believe that you made feel like I wasn’t a professional because I had never watched a James Bond movie much less counted the bodies.”

Scotch continued to grin.

“You are so macabre.”

“Says the woman who formulates new poisons when she should be sleeping.”

“I slept.” Pen argued then yawned. “Chemistry is an art. You have to work on it when inspiration strikes.”

“That’s what a notebook on the nightstand is for. To write things down. That way you work with a clear head.”

Bryan, Mr. McLeod's assistant stopped the pair on the way to their desks, “Speaking of clear heads. Thanks for staying late and getting your reports in so quickly.” Bryan looked at Scotch. “You have got to stop sleeping at your desk. There were three rows of random letters running along the bottom of your forms. That’s the second time this month. What were you still doing here at four-thirty in the morning? You came back into headquarters at one a.m.”

Scotch paled and shifted a bit. “I was working on something.”

*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.

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.