Tuesday, August 22, 2017

MICKI PELUSO

I am pleased to present this blog about our own RRBC author, Micki Peluso, where Sally's Cafe and Bookstore highlighted her.

Please give a warm welcome to Micki Peluso who is joining the Cafe and Bookstore with her memoir And The Whippoorwill Sang which is now in Kindle format.
About the book
It is a day like any other, except the intense heat wave has broken and signs of early fall are in the air.
Around the dining room table of her 100 year old farmhouse Micki Peluso’s six children along with three of their friends eagerly gulp down a chicken dinner. As soon as the last morsel is ravished, the lot of them is off in different directions. Except for the one whose turn it is to do the dishes. After offering her mother a buck if she’ll do them, with an impish grin, the child rushes out the front door, too excited for a hug, calling out, “Bye Mom,” as the door slams shut. For the Peluso’s the nightmare begins.
Micki and Butch face the horror every parent fears—awaiting the fate of one of their children. While sitting vigil in the ICU waiting room, Micki traverses the past, as a way of dealing with an inconceivable future.
From the bizarre teenage elopement with her high school sweetheart, Butch, in a double wedding with her own mother, to comical family trips across country in an antiquated camper with six kids and a dog, they leave a path of chaos, antics and destruction in their wake. Micki relives the happy times of raising six children while living in a haunted house, as the young parents grow up with their kids. She bravely attempts to be the man of the house while her husband, Butch is working out of town.
Hearing strange noises, which all the younger kids are sure is the ghosts, Micki tiptoes down to the cellar, shotgun in hand and nearly shoots an Idaho potato that has fallen from the pantry and thumped down the stairs. Of course her children feel obligated to tell the world.
Just when their lives are nearly perfect, tragedy strikes—and the laughter dies. A terrible accident takes place in the placid valley nestled within the Susquehanna Mountains in the town of Williamsport, Pennsylvania. On a country lane just blocks from the family’s hundred year old haunted farmhouse, lives are changed forever.
In a state of shock, Micki muses through their delightful past to avoid confronting an uncertain future—as the family copes with fear and apprehension.
One of her six children is fighting for life in Intensive Care. Both parents are pressured by doctors to disconnect Noelle, their fourteen-year-old daughter. Her beautiful girl, funny and bright, who breathes life into every moment, who does cartwheels in piles of Autumn leaves, who loves to sing and dance down country roads, and above all loves her family with all her soul. How can Micki let this child go?
The family embarks upon yet another journey, to the other side of sorrow and grasps the poignant gift of life as they begin. . .to weep. . .to laugh. . .to grieve. . .to dance—and forgive.
Two of the many excellent reviews for the book
This is an exceptional story, providing a glimpse of the author’s life with her family. I don’t read many memoirs, but I found And the Whippoorwill Sang extremely hard to put down. The style is engaging and the sequence of events keeps the reader flipping pages.
From her marriage at seventeen, through the births of each of her children, several moves across country, and the ups and downs of family life and marriage, Micki Peluso tells her story candidly. Throughout, the reader knows of the coming tragedy that claims the life of one of Micki’s daughters, heartbreak that makes it bittersweet reading about Noelle and her close-knit family.
I’m sure writing this story was difficult. I was emotional reading the tale so I can only imagine how hard it had to be dredging up memories and trotting them out for the world to see. This is a superb book, and despite the inherent sadness of where the story heads, there is much joy throughout. As someone who lives in Pennsylvania, I found the sections set in that state particularly interesting. I loved reading about the “haunted farmhouse” the family lived in for many years. I’m not sure I would have been brave enough to stay! I also really appreciated the conclusion of the book in which Ms. Peluso shared how each family member fared in life.
Well-written with humor, sadness and frankness in equal measure, And the Whippoorwill Sang is a powerful read.
 on February 22, 2017
I love this heartwarming family tale,‘And The Whippoorwill Sang by Micki Peluso!’ It is beautifully written and I could not put this book down.
It is about a large family handling the constant changes in their lives as the grow up and the heartbreaking lost of one young daughter. The story is part family struggles; part lost, and part romantic comedy. Think a touch of the TV show The MIDDLE’s Mike and Frankie.
Micki Peluso’s descriptive style as well as her description of emotions and places add charm and meaning to the story. She defines each of her children and family members well. I feel that I really know this family.
When I got this book I was worried about how I would be emotionally while reading it having lost members of my own family. I rarely read non-fiction. But in truth, I was able to fully relate and see parts of my own life that would have been upsetting, now with clarity.
Also by Micki Peluso
One of the reviews for The Cat Who Wanted a Dog.
D.L. Finn rated it Five Stars on Goodreads
This is a children’s book based on a true story about a cat named Toby. What is unique about this book is you can color in it, too–so it is worth buying in print form just for that. I got this to read to my grandchildren ages ranging from: eight to one and a half years old. I sat down individually with each of them starting with my six-year-old granddaughter, who is just starting to read and loves cats and dogs. This was the perfect story for her, plus the bonus she could color in it after! She had the crayons out the minute we finished reading.
Everyone else got to enjoy her coloring, including her eight-year-old brother. He listened quietly and asked a lot of questions about the animals. He was very engaged in the tale of Toby. Although, he passed on the coloring portion he liked the story. The youngest, at one in a half, could not sit through the story, but was more than ready to color and loved the pictures of the cat and dog. She is usually being told not to color in books, so a nice addition for her! What an endearing story, that we could all relate to no matter what our age! I will be reading this many times to my grandkids, and it will be a little different each time as the coloring continues.
Micki Peluso has also contributed to anthologies.
  
Read all the reviews and buy the books: https://www.amazon.com/Micki-Peluso/e/B002BLZ7JK
Read more reviews and follow Micki on Goodreads:https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/1156697.Micki_Peluso
About Micki Peluso
I have written since I learned to hold a pencil. But life interfered with serious writing until a tragedy struck my family. This time I took up the pen and wrote as a catharsis to my grief–where spoken words failed, written words helped heal my wounded soul.
My first short story of the incident was published in Victimology:an International Journal, launching a career in journalism. When writing for newspapers there were no more rejections, a nice surprise. I became a staff freelance writer for a bi-weekly award winning newspaper and freelance slice of life writer for my local paper, serving a city of 600,000 people. The diversity of writing for newspapers let me experiment in many areas of writing from essays, commentaries, interviews, humor, pathos, analogy, and short fiction.
I have recently published my first non-fiction book, . . .AND THE WHIPPOORWILL SANG, dedicated to the one I lost. Published by LspDigital, it is a funny, poignant celebration of life rather than a eulogy of death. My newly released children’s book, ‘The Cat Who Wanted a Dog’ is a coloring and illustrated book for ages from 4-9 years old.
Connect to Micki on social media.

Monday, August 21, 2017

WATCH RWISA WRITE--MARCHA FOX



Each day in the month of August, I will be sharing a written piece by one of the RWISA authors. RWISA is the Rave Writers International Society of Authors, a prestigious organization that prides itself on including incredible INDIE authors. Today I am pleased to present Marcha Fox.


Your Wildest Dreams

By Marcha Fox

I inhaled sharply when I recognized the introductory riff wafting from my favorite 80s station as Your Wildest Dreams by the Moody Blues. Even though I had the original 45 RPM record, the album on cassette tape, and more recently, the CD, I kept them safely locked away so I wouldn't binge on it. Nonetheless, when KPLV, 93.1 FM in Vegas, got around to playing it every few weeks or so, I'd indulge in a break, a delicious reminder of why I was here.
Consumed by ethereal and intimately familiar soundwaves, I got up, closed the blinds, and even though it was unlikely the song's strains would penetrate my office's cinder block walls, plugged in my headset so I could crank it up—I mean really up. I melted back into my chair, eyes closed, with what was probably an idiotic smile on my face, savoring each note as the song segued into its lively, 142 BPM tempo. The next three minutes and forty-one seconds, I'd be in heaven.
Even though this song came out eight years after she left, the first time I heard it, back when I was still in college in '86, I knew two things: One, it would always be "our song"; and Two, I had to find her.
My heart leapt with visions of galaxies beyond, of what might be out there, where she might be. I plunged headlong through space and time, besieged by memories burned into my heart as permanently and painfully as branding was to a newborn calf. Did she remember? Feel the same thing I did? Sense the enchantment of fate-entangled lives?
I memorize pretty easily, which comes in handy, especially with things like the Periodic Table or Maxwell's equations. And of course, favorite songs. These particular lyrics struck me, hard and personal, from day one, certain it'd been written exclusively for me.
As my eyes teared up, logic intervened and yanked me back to planet Earth.
Grow up, Benson! What are you, a total schmaltz or what?
We were kids, for heaven sakes. A teenage crush. I should've gotten over it, but never did. No wonder. Girls like her are rare. One of a kind. She'd already experienced things I never would. Things that were part of my wildest dreams.
The admonition failed, pushed aside by that part of me that felt alive again, jammin' like a total jerk, mouthing the words as I sang along in my head. It's not like I'm a teenager anymore, though at the moment I felt like one. No, memories of the heart never die—can't die, ever—even if you try to kill them.
I'd give anything to talk to her. Which of course I have, numerous times over the years, if only in my head. Okay, aloud more often than I care to admit. I could swear it even felt as if she answered a time or two. I suppose that's how it is with your first love. Or your first kiss, even if it was only a peck on the cheek. It penetrates your soul and stays there forever.
That mid-summer day in '78 hauling hay was as vivid as yesterday in my mind's eye. The cloudless sky, sun hot on my neck, the aroma of first-crop alfalfa sweetening the mountain air. I scratched my shoulder, a reflex memory of itchy, stray leaves sticking through my T-shirt. My chest ached as I remembered tear tracks streaking her dust-covered face at something I'd said. Then, days later, that withering look when we lied about her ship.
The one we still have. What's left of it quietly abandoned beneath a tarp in Building 15, here at Area 51.
How she knew we weren't telling the truth, I'll never know. Pretty funny it's still sitting there. And I'm sure she'd think so, too. I can just hear her saying, "Stupid snurks, I knew they'd
never figure it out." Though actually they did, just didn't find technology worth pursuing. Even contractors didn't want it.
I had to admit it was pretty crazy, but she was my motivation to get where I was today: just short of a decade of college linked with serendipity that put me in the right place at the right time, hoping someday I'd find her. My life had changed a lot since then. How much had hers changed? Did she make it home? Was she still alive? With the effects of relativistic travel, which I understood only too well, she could still be a teenager, while I was easing into the infamous dirty thirties.
Not good. If I ever did find her, she'd probably think I was some lecherous old fart. Either that, or, with my luck, she'd be married with a bunch of kids. I winced with the thought.
My sentimental reverie vanished when my office door slammed open and Hector Buckhorn rolled in. Literally. Hec's been stuck in a wheelchair ever since he crashed his hang glider into a New Mexico mountainside during spring break his last semester of college. He ridge soared a lot, particularly around Dulce, over restricted areas where he wasn't supposed to be. Got caught a couple times, but being Native American, never got in trouble, even though it wasn't his home reservation. He's amazingly good at playing dumb, in spite of—or possibly because of—his 150ish IQ. He never talked about his accident, said he couldn't remember. Makes sense, actually, given he suffered a massive concussion. The only time I ever saw him pissed him off was when he woke up in the hospital and discovered they'd shaved off his hair, since grown back beyond shoulder length.
I dropped the headset around my neck and faked a frown. "Don't you ever knock, butthead?"
"Hey, man, wazzup?" he said, giving me a funny look. "You okay?"
I laughed. "Of course. Just thinking. Remembering. You know."
"Ahhh. They played that song again, didn't they?"
"Can't hide anything from you, can I, Chief?"
"Nope. I figured you were up to somethin' with your blinds closed."
He wheeled over to the grey metal, government-issue table on the other side of the room and helped himself to a handful of peanut M&Ms. Once I'd realized during my PhD days at Cal Tech that, in a pinch, they made a pretty decent meal, I'd kept that old, wide-mouth canning jar full. He dumped them in his mouth, perusing me with knowing, dark eyes.
"You were sure enjoyin' that song of yours," he said, not even trying to stifle his crooked grin as he munched away.
"Yeah," I replied, uncomfortable with the conversation's direction.
"We've known each other a long time, Allen," he said. "Don't you think it's time you told me about her?"
"Not much to tell."
He let fly with a popular expletive related to bovine excrement. "C'mon! What's her name?" he persisted.
I blew out my cheeks and sighed, knowing resistance was futile. "Creena," I answered, surprising myself when, again, I got a little choked up. I avoided his eyes by likewise heading for the M&Ms.
"So find her," he said.
"It's not that simple," I replied, pouring myself a handful. "I don't know where she is." A statement that was truer than he could possibly imagine.
"I have some resources who could help," he offered with a conspiratorial wink.
I shook my head, then stalled by popping a few colorful orbs in my mouth.
"Why not? If she's anywhere on this planet, these guys'll find her."
I swallowed hard and paused; met his gaze. "She's not."
He scowled, making him look a lot like those old pictures of Cochise. "Say again?"
"She's. Not."
"Oh! I'm sorry."
"Why?"
He shrugged. "I assumed she's dead. She must've been quite a girl."
"She was. Is. She's not dead. At least as far as I know."
His jaw dropped, shocked expression broadcasting the fact he'd caught the implications. "You're not kidding, are you?"
"Nope."
"Abductee?" he whispered.
"Nope," I answered, raiding the candy jar again. "Immigrant."
His eyes widened as he spewed an expletive that elevated excrement to sanctified status. "Don't tell me she's an EBE!"
I nearly spewed partially chewed M&Ms across the room. Extraterrestrial biological entity, indeed! Yet by definition, actually, she was.
I chuckled at his expression and shook my head. "No. Quite human. At least as far as I know."
"Are you?" he added, chocolate-colored irises rimmed with white. His reaction surprised me—UFOs, even aliens, were no big deal in his culture, just business as usual with the Star People.
"C'mon, Chief! You've known me since tenth grade, running high school track!"
He leaned back, searching my face with more solemnity than I'd seen since I told him how Dad died. "You've got a lot of explaining to do, bro," he said finally, shaking his head.
"You have no idea," I said, throat constricting as scratchy lyrics from the headset, audible only to me, issued another reminder of why I was here.
Copyright © 2017 by Marcha Fox
[NOTE:--This is an excerpt from my upcoming novel, Dark Circles, a slightly dark, hard sci-fi love story. No release date has been set.
Thank you for supporting this member along the WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour today!  We ask that if you have enjoyed this member’s writing, to please visit their Author Page on the RWISA site, where you can find more of their writing, along with their contact and social media links, if they’ve turned you into a fan.  WE ask that you also check out their books in the RWISA or RRBC catalogs.  Thanks, again for your support and we hope that you will follow each member along this amazing tour of talent!  Don’t forget to click the link below to learn more about this author:
                                           AUTHOR MARCHA FOX RWISA PAGE

Sunday, August 20, 2017

WATCH RWISA WRITE--JEFF HAWS





Each day in the month of August, I will be sharing a written piece by one of the RWISA authors. RWISA is the Rave Writers International Society of Authors, a prestigious organization that prides itself on including incredible INDIE authors. Today I am pleased to present Jeff Haws.


          DIM LIGHT BREAKS
                                                                by Jeff Haws
Jolting upright, I squeeze the Jack Daniels bottle between my thighs just before it tips over to the floor. I look down and see the black label staring at me; the little bit of whiskey that's left is tilting toward the lip, ready to fill my shoes if my legs can't hold onto it. I briefly wonder if this is why they give these bottles flat sides, for better drunken, convulsive thigh catches. It's saved me on more than one occasion from having shoes full of whiskey. Well, that and my ability to leave the bottle mostly empty.
I grab the top of the bottle and pull it back up, then try to raise my head; the room rotates quickly, lights blur and walls smudge while my head bounces on a neck that refuses to carry the weight. Enough of these nights will teach you the chair is always your better bet than the bed. I'd have already puked into my own lap if I'd been in bed, but keeping your feet on the floor helps ground you against the worst of the drunken spinning head. When I know I'm spending the night with Jack, I'll always stay downstairs in the recliner with my feet firmly planted on the linoleum.
My head bobs left and settles on my shoulder; in front of me, the window reveals a purple sky with a sliver of dim light peeking over the ground, between the neighbors' houses across the street. What does that make it? 6:30, maybe? I can't remember if I ever fell asleep. I'm not confident I'll ever fall asleep again.
The people across the street, though—I'm sure they're asleep. Spencer and Mary are in bed right now, dead to the world. Her head's probably resting on his fucking shoulder. He snores a little bit, but she's used to it by now. Probably even comforts her, just being reminded he's there. I fucking hate those people. I really do. Their whole lives are based around creating these perfect little characters so the rest of us feel even shittier about our own lives. But you can't even get mad at them, or you look like the jackass who's jealous and screwed up in the head. Not the people who pretend they're something they're not. No, it's the guy who minds his own business and is genuine about who he is who's the fucked-up one. That's the way the world works.
I spin the bottle around in my hand, looking at the liquid slosh around in waves. Bubbles cling desperately to the glass walls but can't hold on, splashing back down into the molasses-colored pool below. I raise the bottle and tilt it toward me; the whiskey burns just a bit as it hits the back of my throat, the sting helping to delay the inevitable throbbing head that'll come next. I lift the bottle and splash the last few drops into my mouth, shaking it to make sure there's nothing left, then drape my arm over the side of the chair and let the bottle fall to the floor with a heavy clink.
I have no idea what day it is. Am I supposed to be at work in a couple of hours? When every day's the same, it's hard to say. Time is just change, in the end. If the sun didn't come up and go down, the Earth didn't rotate, the world never changed, there'd be no way to measure it. Essentially, there'd be no such thing as time. People's lives can get like that too. When the days start blending together, how do you measure time? And, even more so, what's the point?
That sun that's gradually getting closer to showing itself isn't going to bring anything good with it. The dark is better. You can hide when everybody else is sleeping. You don't have to look at how your neighbors' lives reflect your own inadequacies. You don't have to face yourself. The dark lets you be alone, lets you wallow and embrace whatever misery is there to be embraced. The morning just exposes it all to those smiling faces with white teeth all lined up in a row.
I know they don't approve of me. I see them at church and they say hi, but you can see it's forced. There's no small talk. No more invitations to their lake house. Just hollow greetings if they can't avoid me. When Adrian would show up with fresh cuts and bruises on her arms, I know they suspected something. I think she purposefully tried to make them just a little visible. A small cry for help, maybe. She's been gone awhile, though.
Now, God wouldn't approve of what I've become. This withering mass that passes the hours of insomnia with liquor straight from the bottle. He can smell the whiskey on my breath just like the neighbors can. I don't even know why I go to church anymore, when I can remember it's Sunday. He can see my heart's not there, that I wish I could have a handle of some devil's water with me when I'm kneeling in front of a pew. It's not that I don't have faith that there's someone in control; it's that whoever that someone is has delivered me into this reality, this life. Whatever this is. Becoming an atheist almost seems redundant. When your belief is this tainted, is it even worth the bother of leaving behind?
I figure I've been strapped to this chair long enough, so maybe I'll wander upstairs. I have blackout curtains in the bedroom; I can shut the world out up there. Pretend I'm somewhere else, somewhere better. Somewhere new. There's no way I'm stepping foot outside today.
Standing up, I get a feel for just how much I really drank; my legs nearly buckle, and I fall back toward the chair. My hand catches on the chair's arm and stabilizes me while I try to forget about the merry-go-round in my head. Ten seconds pass, then twenty. Finally, I lift my hand off the chair arm and pause to see if I can stand up. My legs wobble but hold; slowly, I bring my hand further up from the chair and straighten from my hunch. My arms are spread to my sides like I'm on a balance beam, trying to keep my center of gravity above my feet. I take one careful step forward, then another, deliberate, slow, momentum building as I reach the banister for the stairs and grab ahold hard.
Each step is becoming a little easier, now getting help from my left hand, pulling my body up the stairs one foot at a time, finally reaching the hall. I'll need an aspirin or four before I lie down. If I'm lucky, I'll sleep. If not, I'll stare at the ceiling in the dark for awhile.
I open the door to the room and step through; the bed is just a few steps in front of me. I walk quietly to it and stop, bending carefully over the mattress. I pull back the quilt a little bit and bend further, kissing her forehead gently. She's only six, and she deserves me to be better than this. It's kind of amazing we've made it this far; she believes her mom is someplace better, and I do nothing to dissuade her from that. Hell, I hope she's right. But if so, I can't join her there now. There's more for me to do. If there is a god, this is the one lifeline he's thrown me, and I'm clutching to it with everything I have. She'll get me to the other side of this. She'll be the light breaking through the dark. It's dim now, but it'll shine brighter if I can rise with it.
I pull the quilt back up under her chin and fold it back across her shoulder. Then I back out the way I came and shut the door behind me, careful not to let the latch click. My bedroom's down the hall, and more darkness still awaits.

Thank you for supporting this member along the WATCH "RWISAWRITE Showcase Tour today!  We ask that if you have enjoyed this member's writing, to please visit their Author Page on the RWISAsite, where you can find more of their writing, along with their contact and social media links, if they've turned you into a fan.  WE ask that you also check out their books in the RWISA or RRBC catalogs.  Thanks, again for your support and we hope that you will follow each member along this amazing tour of talent!  Don't forget to click the link below to learn more about this author:

Saturday, August 19, 2017

WATCH RWISA WRITE--HARMONY KENT





Each day in the month of August, I will be sharing a written piece by one of the RWISA authors. RWISA is the Rave Writers International Society of Authors, a prestigious organization that prides itself on including incredible INDIE authors. Today I am pleased to present Harmony Kent.


                                                                   Live or Die?
                                                                Harmony Kent
Sometimes, you need to accept help. Sometimes, you need to admit that you need it. Sometimes, you need to take the hand that’s offered. You reached out and took my arm. I let you. I took the assistance I needed. I gripped your hand so that you could pull me to my feet. The last thing I needed was for you to slit my wrists. So much blood. All that carnage. My heart ripped right out of my chest.
I did my best.
Though, what kind of an epitaph is that?
Do I want that immortalised on my headstone?
Does that adequately sum up a life?
What about all the rest?
At the end of the day, what’s left to show for all that struggle, all that pain?
Right now, only one thing remains certain, that things can never be the same. That river? Already crossed. That road? Already travelled. That life? Already lived.
No going back. Not ever.
Going forward, though? Now, there’s the question.
For this gal, only one choice remains. Live or die?

Sometimes, you need to accept help. Once bitten, twice shy and all that, though, ya know? Truth be told, I’ve come to the end. Like I said, no going back. The rub is that I can’t go on either. The wind whips my hair into my face and throws cold pellets of rain at me. I shiver and dig deep for the courage. Never did like heights, yet here I stand. To jump or not to jump? That is the question.
The darkness wraps around me and locks the breath in my lungs and my feet in place—leaves me perched here in a daze. The metal burns cold within my death grip. With pulse racing, I edge my left foot forward a couple of centimetres, and then bring the right one up level. Perforce, I have to let go of the steel girders now. I’ve taken a step too far. Sweat breaks free from every pore and soaks this trembling mass of flesh, muscle, and sinew. With a heart this broken, how does it even continue on?
‘Miss? Are you okay? … Miss?’
At the unexpected voice, I twist and startle. A man reaches for me, indistinct in the arc-sodium lights.
‘Miss? Here, take my hand.’
A sudden gust buffets me from behind, and I stumble forward, a scream frozen in my terrified throat. All of a sudden, it hits me, I don’t want to die. Too late, however, as I’m off balance and too close to the edge. Dimly, as I fall, I see that it’s not about living or dying but about having the choice. It seems the wind has finished your job for you. Limp and spent, I plummet to the waiting river below, which sends up cold plumes of spray and waves like open arms welcoming me in and under to die beneath.

Sometimes, you need to admit that you need it. At the first swallow of brackish water, I swallow my pride, and every molecule of this being cries out for help. I should have grabbed his hand. Should have, but could I have? Would I have if given the chance? More ice-cold water pours into my throat and drowns my lungs. All the philosophising ceases as it becomes a fight for life. The cold pierces and stabs like a knife.
Tired and afraid, and no longer quite so numb, I kick, searching for the surface. Already, my limbs have gone stiff. The pressure in my chest has grown unbearable, and I have to take a breath, even though I know it will mean certain death. I just can’t do it. Can’t hold it all in anymore. Bubbles erupt when the life-giving air breaks free of my now open lips.
They show me the way when they float up, up, and up.
For a second, I hesitate. Do I go for it or not? Here is my chance for total surrender. To not have to fight any further. Do I have the energy? The will? At the end of the day, what’s left to show for all that struggle, all that pain?
I did my best, but I don’t want that on my epitaph.
My legs kick and arms stroke, pushing through the murk and trying for air. With this exhaustion and cold, I doubt I’ll get there. By now, the bubbles have long gone, but I’ve come near enough to discern the orange city glow. Not far now. One more kick. One more. That’s it. Just one more.

Sometimes, you need to take the hand that’s offered. I come to, afloat on my back, and the icy waves provide my waterbed. Way up high, atop the bridge, come the blues-and-twos, as the emergency services rush to the scene of my demise. Don’t they realise that I’ve fallen too far from reach? Beyond any assistance or redemption.
It seems as if hours pass me by while I drift in and out and upon. This time, a deafening roar causes me to rouse. A shadow flies through the sky, trailing a bright beam. The search is on. These arctic temperatures have other ideas—so much so that I’ve begun to feel warm. A bad sign. Sleepy too.
Impossibly white light hits me and burns my eyes. I raise a hand to cover them and, immediately, lose my buoyancy and sink back into the dark. The search light now glows dimly above the water. Too tired, too cold, too done to even try and fight, I let the river have its way.
The universe has other ideas, it seems, and once again, I lose the choice. Strong hands grip my armpits and haul me upward. To the artificially lit night and the cold and the air and the despair. Oh, love, what did you do to me? So much blood. All that carnage. All those lies and abuse. What’s the use?

You reached out and took my arm. It all unfolded in a blur and strobe-like snapshots—the winch into the helicopter, the medi-flight, and them getting me here. Trouble is, I think they left my heart there.
A nurse bustles into the private room and pulls apart the drapes. ‘Time to let in some light,’ she says. Oh, how wrong could she be? The last thing I want to do is see. Right now, only one thing remains certain, that things can never be the same. I want to stay in the dark; hide from my shame.
‘You have a visitor.’ Her voice sounds far too bubbly. It hurts. ‘The police officer who tried to help on the bridge.’ A shadow crosses her face. Then she gets busy tidying the bedding and then me. ‘I’ll just go and show him in.’ Once again, I don’t get a choice. No time to find my voice.
The door opens slowly, and I lay with baited breath. A young man eases in, dark hair and chocolate eyes, with a smile that feels like the most glorious sunrise. ‘May I?’
His question gives me pause. Never before did anyone ask my permission. Dumbstruck, I give a mere nod. My visitor edges to the bed and takes a seat on the hard plastic chair that the nurse placed there. We sit in silence for a while, and then his eyes find my scars. So many. Clouds snuff out that beautiful dawn and darken his face.
Now, he’ll make his excuses and take his leave. He’s done his bit. But no. Instead, he takes my hand. Looks into my eyes. Somewhere from the edges, I register that he doesn’t have on his uniform. ‘It’s okay,’ he tells me, fingers rubbing mine. ‘You’re safe now. We’ll make this right.’
Uninvited, a sob brings the elephant right into the room. ‘No one can,’ I croak.
‘It’s okay. He won’t hurt you again.’
‘You know who I am?’
He nods, gives my hand a squeeze. ‘We know everything.’
All I want to do is shrivel up and crawl within.
With both hands, he reaches out and takes my arms. I let him. He seems an angel in human form, and I feel safe within his embrace. Into my hair, he whispers, ‘It’s okay. I’ve got you. I got you now.’
Can I take the leap of faith?
Now, there’s the question.
Live or die?

Thank you for supporting this member along the WATCH "RWISAWRITE Showcase Tour today!  We ask that if you have enjoyed this member's writing, to please visit their Author Page on the RWISA site, where you can find more of their writing, along with their contact and social media links, if they've turned you into a fan.  WE ask that you also check out their books in the RWISA or RRBC catalogs.  Thanks, again for your support and we hope that you will follow each member along this amazing tour of talent!  Don't forget to click the link below to learn more about this author:


Friday, August 18, 2017

WATCH RWISA WRITE--D. L. FINN








Each day in the month of August, I will be sharing a written piece by one of the RWISA authors. RWISA is the Rave Writers International Society of Authors, a prestigious organization that prides itself on including incredible INDIE authors. Today I am pleased to present D. L. FINN.


EXPANSION 
Flowing out before me – while approaching -
In the sweeping motion of a grand gesture
Presenting its soulful sweetness.
Behind me is a small desert I’ve crossed - shoeless
While carefully stepping over the littered offerings.
Salt saturates my senses
As the gentle-wind styles my hair,
With the latest sea breeze fashion.
My eyes are opened to new possibilities
With a window into its wonders,
With every wave that greets my feet,
The sun soaks into my skin
Cradling me in its warmth and completing the moment.
I stand in awe before the substantial sea
Observing its vast expansion of life-
That I’m humbly a part of.

SOARING
I soar above it all
In a human-made machine
Taking me places
Only my soul has dared to venture.
Up into the heavens,
Higher than the loftiest of birds,
I soar above my life
Going from one place to another.
The clouds which usually blanket me
Are perched like a safety net below,
Holding me above the sea.
Lives seem so small
As our group is thrust forward
Some sleep-
Some read-
Some watch movies-
While others drink.
It’s a long trip with strangers
All going to the same destination
But right now, we are…
Above it all in our metal bird—soaring!

DOORWAY
Through the trees
The sky is orange, red, and grey
Covering the fleeing blue stratosphere
As the night suppresses the day.

The birds fill the trees
Singing their goodnights
As I pull on a sweater
In a shiver from the receding light.

The setting sun is a time of reflection
Of the night and of the day
A balance of both places
In the sunset’s doorway.
Thank you for supporting this member along the WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour today! We ask that if you have enjoyed this member’s writing, to please visit their Author Page on the RWISA site, where you can find more of their writing, along with their contact and social media links, if they’ve turned you into a fan. WE ask that you also check out their books in the RWISA or RRBC catalogs. Thanks, again for your support and we hope that you will follow each member along this amazing tour of talent! Don’t forget to click the link below to learn more about this author:
                                                Author, D.L. Finn's RWISA Author Page