I believe that the acts, struggles and triumphs of good men and women are not solely owned by the race or nationality in which they came. Although the places from which these individuals hail, should take great pride in and take honest advantage of their native son and daughters greatness, I believe the good works of such good people should be shared with all of humankind.
Humankind.
Do you believe in God? Buddha? The Great Spirit? Allah? Yahweh? The Goddess? Non-denominational? Many Gods or no Gods at all? A city dweller or of country kin? Blue collar or white? Silver spoon or plastic spoon? The list can go on with our differences, but the simplest thing that brings us together is that we are all human and in possession of a soul.
Because in the end, strip it all away and you are left with the fact that we are all human. Try as some may to separate themselves from the rest of humanity, we are all flesh and blood homo sapiens with souls.
I believe that a good person is one who not only understands this but lives by it. This man or woman reaches across race, religion and nationality and inspires ALL of us with their words and actions...
"In the process of gaining our rightful place, we must not be guilty of wrongful deeds. Let us not seek to satisfy our thirst for freedom by drinking from the cup of bitterness and hatred. We must forever conduct our struggle on the high plane of dignity and discipline. We must not allow our creative protest to degenerate into physical violence. Again and again, we must rise to the majestic heights of meeting physical force with soul force...
...And so even though we face the difficulties of today and tomorrow, I still have a dream. It is a dream deeply rooted in the American dream.
I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: "We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal." ..."
~~~Martin Luther King, Jr. Quotes from "I Have a Dream" delivered 28 August 1963, at the Lincoln Memorial, Washington D.C.
The best laid schemes o' mice an' mengang aft a-gley.
~~~ Robert Burns ("To a Mouse") [Popularly misquoted as: The best laid plans of mice and men often go astray]
When beginning and following through with any project, one must be a good judge and scheduler of time. I was neither this weekend or even now, while I write this post. But I had the best intentions...
Like most of you, I have personal and professional obligations in my life. In order to keep those obligations met, I follied my writing and blogging time. I could have scheduled better. Coulda Woulda Shoulda.
Lesson learned: Continue to advertise others Blogfests and Contests. It's fun to do, good for the writing community and it's just good karma. But... NEVER enter one unless you have the time to visit other entries and give them the time you hope they give to you. It's just the right thing to do--the fair thing.
I wish all of you luck and a better scheduled week than mine. I hope to stop by and see a few of you soon.
I had posted this yesterday, after my Fairytale Blogfest entry. I figured posting it on its own today might be easier for folks to get to. Less scrolling.
And thank you to all who also commented on my Fight entry yesterday! I have written shoot outs, verbal fights, fist fights and even a cat fight. This ‘fight was a bit different for me.
This is a part of scene from my temporarily shelved WIP, Touched. Logan is my MC. He is a telepath, amongst other things. He is helping his childhood friend Mike (a deputy), with a dispute outside of town. The islands dock manager, Stan Murdock, is drunk and taking revenge on Dr. Melbourne, a marine researcher who runsthe science center.
I attempted to give the reader the viewpoints of both Logan and Mike. I am not sure it worked (hence shelved WIP). In this scene, Mike gets a small hint that his long lost friend has something more than money and attitude going for him….
WARNING: Curse words and some crude epithets of a derogatory nature. Do not read if this offends.
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“Hey, Buddy?” Logan called out just as Murdock slammed the axe into the door hinges. “How about ya call it a day and go sleep it off…”
“FUCK YOU!” Murdock bellowed, now focused on the embedded axe.
“No, I don’t think so.” Logan knowingly smirked, his eyes solidly trained on the axe wedged into the door.
When the big man reached for his weapon of choice and pulled, the axe stayed put by the sheer strength of Logan’s telekinetic stare. Murdock’s hands slipped from the handle, sending him staggering back from the door and into a table top.
Taking the opportunity, Mike moved to Logan’s side. Murdock found his unsteady footing and was reaching for the axe once more.
“Come on Stan, let the axe alone…” Mike calmly ordered the bleary eyed dock manager. At this point, a voice could be heard from behind the mangled door.
“It’s Deputy Michael Mahoning, Doctor. We are here to help…”
“You people get this deranged Neanderthal out of my lab!” The muffled sound of authority bellowed from behind the door. “To protect and serve, my ass…”
Logan could only feel indignation and a over bearing sense of entitlement emanating from Murdock’s target behind the door. (through his ability) For a half second, he considered allowing the big brute to bag the snooty intellectual and call it a day.
“FUCK YOU TOO, YA MURDERIN TREE HUGGIN FAG!” Murdock yelled his unoriginal epithets to the scientist behind the door. “I told ya I’d get ya for burnin my boat, ya freekin fairy…”
“You stupid, half breed ogre.” The doctor retorted. “I don’t give two shits about your precious rat trap skiff. Why would I burn it?”
“Shut up! SHUT. UP.” Murdock’s screamed at the top of his lungs and pulled angrily once more on the axe handle, becoming more frustrated with each try.
Logan took the opportunity to step away from Mike and walked closer to the exit door, cautioning his friend the deputy to stay put.
Mike watched his friend with raised brow, his gun now trained on Murdock who was still trying to move the strangely unmovable axe. ‘What the hell is Logan doing?’ And then he realized and his stomach went sick.
“Hey big guy…” Logan could almost taste the immense swell of anger and frustration swirling in the alcoholic whirlpool that was Murdock’s head. It was familiar and it tasted bitter, but it was strong, too strong for the man to stop the path he was taking now.
‘Need to focus that nasty elsewhere. Need to distract…’
“Tell me, what kind of man will your girl think of you for killing this guy…” Logan nodded to the storage vault. The large man abruptly turned and let out a bull snort, focusing his full attention on Logan. “Then again, I guess it wouldn’t matter much anyway, being that you’re not much of a man to begin with, being a wee thing and all…”
Mike’s eyes grew wide when Logan raised his thumb and pointer finger to demonstrate the size of the large man’s questionable manhood.
Murdock screamed with rage and lunged, knocking Logan into the emergency exit he'd purposely positioned himself. Logan had hoped to take the party outside.
‘Oh, shit.’
Logan realized the flaw in his plan too late. The door was locked. Something he was quickly remedying with his ability, while trying to avoid getting smashed like a bug by the larger man pinning him into the door.
Mike joined the tussle, throwing his own body weight onto the man to try and subdue him. And then the lock on the emergency door disengaged, and all three men went sprawling out into the back parking lot. The door alarm blaring.
“Holy hell, Stanley. Knock it off!” Mike yelled, reaching for his cuffs, trying to sit on Murdocks flailing legs.
Logan pushed his weight into the man’s head and shoulders and into the ground, trying to get his arms. “Mike. Cuffs!”
This needed to end.
Logan closed his eyes, before they began to blur, the hand he held down on Murdock’s head began to hum with everything—all the anger and humiliation and even pain that drove the man struggling under him. The fast frightening beat of the mans heart became Logans own and he focused on it, held it within his own mind as tight as his grip on the mans body. ‘Slow…’ Logan breathed out, eyes squeezed tight. ‘Rest. You are done, here.’
Mike could feel the large man slowly begin to still under him, giving him enough time to catch the hands that now lay limp on the snow and gravel. Finally cuffing the man he sat back on the now listless man’s legs, and looked to his friend who had rolled off the big man’s body and was now on his back in the snow.
The young deputy felt a shiver go down his spine; the light blue of Logan’s eyes almost appeared white when he opened them to the overcast sky. Something had just happened here and Mike was damned if he knew what.
Before he could say a word, the frazzled but no less indignant Dr. Melbourne walked through the alarming exit door, reaching up with his key to shut off the sound. “So you got the son-of-a-bitch…”
Logan sat up, wiping the snow off his body and out of his unruly hair. Mike turned his attention to the scientist and the large axe in his shaking bony hand.
“How did you get that out of the door?”
The doctor continued to eye his ex-captor, now trussed up on the ground like Christmas Turkey. “Found it on the floor.”
Mike turned back to Logan and found his friend’s cool crystalline blue eyes dulled and settled upon him. His expression unreadable.
“Keys? I’ll pull the Jeep around and help ya load ‘Gigantor’.” Logan snarked, his voice calm and even while Mike still found himself panting for breath.
Mike nodded and flipped him the keys. “Thanks.”
Logan nodded and turned, feeling his friend’s eyes and questions follow him into the falling snow….
Thanks for reading folks. I will be around to ya soon!
I am unsure if the story I chose these characters, can be considered a fair tail, but I definitely have two genre's colliding. You be the judge.
My Fight! Fight! Fight! entry is right after. Scroll down!!!!!! Thanks all!
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“Shahryar!” The old Vizier squinted mirthfully at his youngest grandchild, stalking him just outside the kitchen backdoor.
“Come child; give your grandfather an ear.” The old man heartily patted the edge of the fire hearth beneath him. “I have another tale for you.”
The Viziers smile grew wide while watching the small prepubescent quietly acquiesce and step obediently inside. He’d found his entertainment for the evening, a perk of being a grandfather.
“It’s not another sea monster tale is it Pa Pa? The boy cautioned, dark wide eyes reflecting in the late evening light. “Mother said I cannot listen if it’s a lie about sea monsters and such. She said I might have nightmares...”
“No monsters, only facts child. Besides, your mother would not deny a good story telling. Your father can attest to that fact. ” The old man winked at his would-be audience. The child quietly took the offered seat.
“Besides, I told your mother you are made of the stronger stuff—I know it! And to be honest, it’s tales of the truth that’s scarier. My ‘monster tales’ as your mother calls them can be given a happier ending if I see fit. A story can be as kind or as sensible as you wish in its telling. But the real can be just as dangerous and unexplained as it pleases. And if you wait long enough, the real becomes story with each new generation of tellers...” the Vizier rambled on.
“Grandfather?” the child questioned.
The old man ceased his lecture of the real and make believe and smiled conspiringly at his young charge. “If your mamma asks, just tell her I was saving your soul, a thousand and one tales at a time.” The small boy raised his brow but dutifully nodded. The old man began.
“This story goes back a while and it starts simple enough. A boy, not much older than you, was helping his Uncle on his fishing boat, the Dunyazad. Two days into the trip, the crew saw a man afloat upon the sea. They pulled him aboard—naked as a newborn babe and so very pale. They weren’t expecting the man to have breath left in him. It was all a shock when they were proven wrong...”
“So he was alive, grandfather? How did he get out there? Was there a ship?”
“Now you get talkative with all your questions, huh?” a twinkle lit the old storyteller’s eye. “Of course there had to be a ship, child—man out in the middle of the ocean—and yes he was living. What did I say? Now listen.” The old man smirked unperturbed and began again.
“Well, when this man started to come around he began to mumble things in some sort of foreign tongue unfamiliar to the boy or the men. It wasn’t long before the stranger opened his eyes-pale silvery grey eyes...” the old man trailed off into silence for but a moment, his own eyes reflective and far away.
“Well, after talking to the man and clothing him, the man began to make more sense. He told the crew about his ship and its crew. Said it was in trouble and demanded the Captain take the Dunyazad out of its way—out into the great sea near a coming storm. A dangerouse storm, growing red and angry with each passing hour. ”
The old man leaned back against the far corner of the immense old fire place and breathed in the supper cooking there.
“A day glides fairly quick when you’re heading to somewhere you don’t want to be.” The old man nodded to the child. “It felt that way to the crew of the Dunyazad. It didn’t help that the pale man sending them on their present journey took to pacing the bow of the ship—faster and faster with each knot they came.”
“It was around about supper time, the storm promised itself just over the horizon. Clouds taking out the last of the sunset and the glow of lightning taking up where the stars should have been. It was about this time did the stranger stop pacing on the bow and stood dead center, his eyes out over the sea.”
“By then the crew was busy batting down the ship, for the storm had picked up, but the boy kept watch on the stranger. Even with the ship tipping and rolling, the man stood at the front of the ship, steady legged and sure. And then, just before the ship hit another wave, the pale man turned to the boy and smiled...” the old man trailed off while he held the frozen and attentive stare of his grandchild.
“And then he looked to the sky...” the old man looked up to the ceiling and then back to the wide eyed child.
“It was in the light of the next lightning strike, did the boy see something he would not forget to this day. The strangers eyes, those pale grey eyes had taken on the glow of the lighting—the lightening that now seemed to be steadily following the ship over the waves into the night. Before the child could blink another bolt of light shot across the bow of the Dunyazad but at a strait vertical, sending the boy for cover. When he turned back to the bow, both the stranger and dancing lightning were gone.”
A silence fell over the kitchen, the crackle and pop of the fire filling the space. “What ha-happened to the stranger Pa Pa?” the young boy finally spoke. The old man gave the child a quiet smile.
“Some say he fell overboard, maybe got hit by the lightning. No one but the boy was watching him at the time, but no one believed what 'I' told them when we got back to port...”
“So the boy was you Pa Pa!” the boy exclaimed in awe. The old man gave a nod. He’d only partly meant to let that bit of information slip.
“I told you I tell stories about the real—it’s what I saw.” The old man leaned in close to his grandchild, placing a wide palm on the boys shoulder. “And I say that the stranger didn’t drown or get burst apart by a lightning zap. And he wasn’t looking for his ship that night out on the sea. I say he wanted to be taken back, so his ship could find him and take him up and away into the stars...”
“Father, Shahryar...”
The steady foot falls of the lady of the house neared the kitchen threshold. The Vizier’s daughter had come to take away his young audience.
“In here, Scheherazade.” Quietly, the storyteller raised a finger to his lips and winked at his grandchild. “Tomorrow I shall tell you the one about the giant squid...”
(One Thousand and One Nights or Scheherazade and the 1001 Arabian Nights and a visitor from anther planet tale.)
I have written shoot outs, verbal fights, fist fights and even a cat fight. This ‘fight was a bit different for me. This is a part of scene from my temporarily shelved WIP, Touched. Logan is my MC. He is a telepath, amongst other things. He is helping his childhood friend Mike (a deputy), with a dispute outside of town. The islands dock manager, Stan Murdock, is drunk and taking revenge on Dr. Melbourne, a marine researcher who runsthe science center.
I attempted to give the reader the viewpoints of both Logan and Mike. I am not sure it worked (hence shelved WIP). In this scene, Mike gets a small hint that his long lost friend has something more than money and attitude going for him….
WARNING: Curse words and some crude epithets of a derogatory nature. Do not read if this offends.
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“Hey, Buddy?” Logan called out just as Murdock slammed the axe into the door hinges. “How about ya call it a day and go sleep it off…”
“FUCK YOU!” Murdock bellowed, now focused on the embedded axe.
“No, I don’t think so.” Logan knowingly smirked, his eyes solidly trained on the axe wedged into the door.
When the big man reached for his weapon of choice and pulled, the axe stayed put by the sheer strength of Logan’s telekinetic stare. Murdock’s hands slipped from the handle, sending him staggering back from the door and into a table top.
Taking the opportunity, Mike moved to Logan’s side. Murdock found his unsteady footing and was reaching for the axe once more.
“Come on Stan, let the axe alone…” Mike calmly ordered the bleary eyed dock manager. At this point, a voice could be heard from behind the mangled door.
“It’s Deputy Michael Mahoning, Doctor. We are here to help…”
“You people get this deranged Neanderthal out of my lab!” The muffled sound of authority bellowed from behind the door. “To protect and serve, my ass…”
Logan could only feel indignation and a over bearing sense of entitlement emanating from Murdock’s target behind the door. (through his ability) For a half second, he considered allowing the big brute to bag the snooty intellectual and call it a day.
“FUCK YOU TOO, YA MURDERIN TREE HUGGIN FAG!” Murdock yelled his unoriginal epithets to the scientist behind the door. “I told ya I’d get ya for burnin my boat, ya freekin fairy…”
“You stupid, half breed ogre.” The doctor retorted. “I don’t give two shits about your precious rat trap skiff. Why would I burn it?”
“Shut up! SHUT. UP.” Murdock’s screamed at the top of his lungs and pulled angrily once more on the axe handle, becoming more frustrated with each try.
Logan took the opportunity to step away from Mike and walked closer to the exit door, cautioning his friend the deputy to stay put.
Mike watched his friend with raised brow, his gun now trained on Murdock who was still trying to move the strangely unmovable axe. ‘What the hell is Logan doing?’ And then he realized and his stomach went sick.
“Hey big guy…” Logan could almost taste the immense swell of anger and frustration swirling in the alcoholic whirlpool that was Murdock’s head. It was familiar and it tasted bitter, but it was strong, too strong for the man to stop the path he was taking now.
‘Need to focus that nasty elsewhere. Need to distract…’
“Tell me, what kind of man will your girl think of you for killing this guy…” Logan nodded to the storage vault. The large man abruptly turned and let out a bull snort, focusing his full attention on Logan. “Then again, I guess it wouldn’t matter much anyway, being that you’re not much of a man to begin with, being a wee thing and all…”
Mike’s eyes grew wide when Logan raised his thumb and pointer finger to demonstrate the size of the large man’s questionable manhood.
Murdock screamed with rage and lunged, knocking Logan into the emergency exit he'd purposely positioned himself. Logan had hoped to take the party outside.
‘Oh, shit.’
Logan realized the flaw in his plan too late. The door was locked. Something he was quickly remedying with his ability, while trying to avoid getting smashed like a bug by the larger man pinning him into the door.
Mike joined the tussle, throwing his own body weight onto the man to try and subdue him. And then the lock on the emergency door disengaged, and all three men went sprawling out into the back parking lot. The door alarm blaring.
“Holy hell, Stanley. Knock it off!” Mike yelled, reaching for his cuffs, trying to sit on Murdocks flailing legs.
Logan pushed his weight into the man’s head and shoulders and into the ground, trying to get his arms. “Mike. Cuffs!”
This needed to end.
Logan closed his eyes, before they began to blur, the hand he held down on Murdock’s head began to hum with everything—all the anger and humiliation and even pain that drove the man struggling under him. The fast frightening beat of the mans heart became Logans own and he focused on it, held it within his own mind as tight as his grip on the mans body. ‘Slow…’ Logan breathed out, eyes squeezed tight. ‘Rest. You are done, here.’
Mike could feel the large man slowly begin to still under him, giving him enough time to catch the hands that now lay limp on the snow and gravel. Finally cuffing the man he sat back on the now listless man’s legs, and looked to his friend who had rolled off the big man’s body and was now on his back in the snow.
The young deputy felt a shiver go down his spine; the light blue of Logan’s eyes almost appeared white when he opened them to the overcast sky. Something had just happened here and Mike was damned if he knew what.
Before he could say a word, the frazzled but no less indignant Dr. Melbourne walked through the alarming exit door, reaching up with his key to shut off the sound. “So you got the son-of-a-bitch…”
Logan sat up, wiping the snow off his body and out of his unruly hair. Mike turned his attention to the scientist and the large axe in his shaking bony hand.
“How did you get that out of the door?”
The doctor continued to eye his ex-captor, now trussed up on the ground like Christmas Turkey. “Found it on the floor.”
Mike turned back to Logan and found his friend’s cool crystalline blue eyes dulled and settled upon him. His expression unreadable.
“Keys? I’ll pull the Jeep around and help ya load ‘Gigantor’.” Logan snarked, his voice calm and even while Mike still found himself panting for breath.
Mike nodded and flipped him the keys. “Thanks.”
Logan nodded and turned, feeling his friend’s eyes and questions follow him into the falling snow….
Thanks for reading folks. I will be around to ya soon!
If you are a dreamer, come in. If you are a dreamer, a wisher, a liar, A hope-er, a pray-er, a magic bean buyer . . . If you're a pretender, come sit by my fire, For we have some flax golden tales to spin. Come in! Come in!
by Shel Silverstein
A fairly apt definition of a writer, I think. Dream well my writing comrades. Write well and often.
Again, I recommend entering one of these bits of entertainment, socialization and dare I say challenge to your writing skills.
While reading through many of the other entries, exchanging messages with other participants and browsing others blogs, I was reminded of what a great comfort having this creative outlet has been to me. I know I am not alone in my creative journey. That I have all of you--most I have never met face to face but found something in your entries that talked to me and made me a follower of you. You give me thought provoking articles, links, words of wisdom and folly. I enjoy or am moved by your stories and pictures. And I am given warmth when I get a personal message outside the blogisphere, showing me you have become more than a follower or followed, but a friend.
Having a blog, having followers (and I do not care if its just 5 or 500) has provoked me into being more aggressive with my writing schedule and my writing goals. Now that I have others eyes on me (paranoid much?) I feel more compelled to finish projects on time. 'Gettin er done' has taken on a more professional vibe for me--a good thing for a procrastinator.
And having this blog has sorta become my own version of mom's fridge. I cut, paste, link and write here, the things I have accomplished, things of pride and things I see as solid stepping stones on a right path.
So I raise my fresh brewed to you from under the steps and thank you for reminding me that I am not crazy! I am just a writer...
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BTW, a few upcoming blogfests to enjoy. If you have one coming up or know of one I do not have, drop me a line. I think when I hit my 100 mark, I will toss one of my own. *thinking*
Welcome to my entry to The Rainy Day Blogfest, brought to you by Christine at The Writers Holeand some Wednesday WIP. So please follow the link and read the rest of the wonderful entries after your time here with me and my rough bit of WIP.
In this scene, my MC Wyatt, his heroin Mary and half the town have met at the church to go over Mercy Corners Fall Festival plans for the coming weekend. A early fall rain storm is the back drop and a mood setter for this bit.
It’s Wyatt’s first time back in church since his Uncles death and has been talked into singing (once a choir boy). He sings because something in him, something Mary has awakened in him since her return, makes him say yes.
It’s sort of an odd but touching scene. A rough looking, quiet manly man singing with a soft grace in front of his town and the girl. At this point in the story it’s a surprising change in his character. He’s trying to live…
The first section fits in the under 500 wrd count for the Rainy Day Fest, the rest is there if you would like to continue reading some of my WIP. Thank you.
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…When we've been here ten thousand years Bright shining as the sun. We've no less days to sing God's praise Than when we've first begun.
Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound, That saved a wretch like me. I once was lost but now am found, Was blind, but now I see.
Wyatt’s warm vocals trailed out into the stilled room and then faded into the thunder that growled outside the chapels opened window panes.
Mary was feeling that thunder—or was it her heart.
Wyatt’s eyes, which he’d kept strictly focused on the back wall of the church during his performance, were now wide and open and trained on her own. She was struck by what she found there.
He’d sung of redemption and grace in a voice full of honesty and confidence. If anything, it was how most saw him as a man. But in his eyes—those dark fathomless eyes, Mary could see redemption and given grace were things Wyatt felt undeserving.
Right then and there, Mary sent up her own prayer within the little house of God. She was out of practice, but it was a simple one.
‘Please let him forgive himself.’
“Well thank you there, Wyatt.” Reverend Wright stepped back up to his pulpit and waved on the warm swell of applause rising and falling through the room like the rolling clouds coming in. It wasn’t every day the town protector dipped his shield and sung to a packed church.
Wyatt humbly nodded to the Reverend and quickly took his seat in the front pew. Through announcements and the reading of the closing prayers, Mary could not keep her eyes from the back of Wyatt’s ridged form.
“Almighty and most merciful Father, we humbly beseech Thee, of Thy great goodness, to restrain these immoderate rains with which we have had to contend. Grant us fair weather for our jubilations. Graciously hearken to us as followers who call upon Thee that, armed with Thy power and love, we may advance from our yesterday’s storms and to better days, and conquer our fears and bring out your glory in all of us. Amen.”
“Amen” Mary whispered.
In the prayers ending, Wyatt partly turned his head in the direction where she sat. A wind gust blew into the little chapel, heralding in the first rains of the coming storm.
****************************************
“Hon, ya want a ride back to the Inn before I go to Molly’s?” Aunt Sissy had sidled up to Mary’s side after the meeting let out. Mary had left before Wyatt could turn around, she was still angry at him for earlier in the week. But she couldn’t leave.
“That’s okay Sissy.” Mary smiled and placed her hand on the perfumed one that squeezed her shoulder. “I need to talk to the Reverend about scheduling at the Red Cross tent tomorrow.” She hoped Sissy humored her lie and walked on without giving one of her patent pending looks of knowing.
She didn’t.
“Sure, hon.” The intuitive redhead cocked her brow and glanced to the back of the church. “See ya tomorrow then.”
Mary didn’t answer, but it seemed Sissy took that as all the answer she needed. Smiling wistfully, Sissy again glanced towards the back of the church and then to Mary. Sighing deep, Sissy winked then stepped out onto the front steps, popped her umbrella and leisurely sauntered out into the rain.
Mary just shook her head, watching her too-smart-for-her-own-good Aunt smoothly dodge mud puddles to her lemon yellow VW.
“So, did she say it’s Molly’s she’s going to?”
Startled, Mary closed her eyes and smiled away her surprise. She turned and found Wyatt standing at her shoulder looking out into the rain.
“You really should wear a bell.” Mary grumbled.
Wyatt offered a light smirk, but continued to look out into the rain.
“So where is my Aunt going?”
“Marcus Wheeler”
“No. The two of them?”
“Since early Summer. Not long after his wife died of cancer. Sissy thinks she needs to hide it, being that he’s so recent a widow.” Wyatt shook his head and shrugged. “All I know it’s every other Sunday she goes to Huntsville to see him. She wears her heals and her good perfume for church service and then she tells Jack she’s going to Molly Jones house afterward for a visit.”
It made sense. Mary had felt something was different about her Aunt this visit. Different, but good. It explained why Sissy had been trying so hard to push her closer to Wyatt. People in love always had a thing for meddling in others relationships. Happiness was its own spreadable disease.
“But that sort of thing shouldn’t matter. They’re not hurting anyone.” And it didn’t surprise Mary that Wyatt was keeping tabs on her Aunt. Wyatt the constant Sheppard. “And besides, their just giving each other comfort…”
The rain had begun to fall hard, splattering off the concrete steps and onto the pair where they stood under the overhang.
“Everyone deserves that…”
Mary’s words failed her when she turned to find Wyatt’s eyes boring through her. She felt like a butterfly pinned or prey found under his piercing stare. She had never known another man like Wyatt, whose stares spoke louder than most men’s loudest roars.
She never knew another man who could make her feel what she felt right now…
She doesn’t quite remember when she’d accepted his offer of a ride back to the boarding house or even if he gave one. They hadn’t spoken a word after leaving the church steps.
The rain poured now. Both had been soaked to the bone and Mary had begun to shake, but it had nothing to do with the rain or the cold.
She watched him put the car in park in front of the house and swore she saw his shoulders begin their downward dip by a weight from some unfathomable source.
“Wyatt?”
Before she could say another word he had bridged the gap between them and had her ensnared in his arms. Overpowered and overwhelmed by the feel of him—his intensity, she gasped for air in-between their kisses. It felt frightening and familiar and oh so good to be held this way again.
Mary quickly caught up with Wyatt in the moment, crawling up into his lap and held on tight. Her hands reached out and grasped the sopping fabric that covered the lean lines and physical strength Wyatt had become. But what hadn’t changed—the most important thing—he still could make her feel so special and so lov…
“No…”
Before she could respond, Wyatt had roughly slid from under her, depositing her against the car door and pulled himself back to his side of the Jeep.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have…” Wyatt placed his hands to the wheel and focused on squeezing it to death.
“Goodnight Mary.”
“Wyatt?”
“Don’t…” His order came out as a plea. A smothering silence descended on the two.
At this point Mary wasn’t sure how she was supposed to feel…embarrassment, hurt, she defiantly felt confused. So she picked an emotion she had come to grips with earlier in the week----anger.
“Don’t what Wyatt? I’m not the girl you left behind fifteen years ago. You can’t just run and not expect me to ask why this time. You have NO RIGHT to push me away.” Only the thunder outside the car was louder. “If anything at all, we are friends and I care…”
“Mary, please…”
“So don’t what Wyatt…” Her voice had begun to waver. “…care?”
The silence ticked between them once more when he didn’t answer.
“Is this where you run from me again, Wyatt?”
Wyatt’s eyes shot around and met Mary’s in the dim light. She was startled by everything that glistened in his onyx stare--all of it complicated. She realized she couldn’t handle complicated right then. Not tonight.
Mary turned away, opening the car door to step out. She stopped when she heard his voice drift just over the sound of the rain hitting the Jeep roof.
“I ’m not the man you think I am, Mary.”
A small fraction of Mary’s anger slipped away and was replaced by hurt—for both of them.
“No Wyatt, I guess you are not the man I know you to be.” She turned back around to meet his eyes. “The man I know isn’t a coward.”
Mary stepped out into the downpour and slammed the car door, leaving Wyatt behind.
