Accuracy –  The Writer’s Dilemma

As a forensic nurse, I often work with attorneys as an expert witness. I instruct the jury to listen to what the evidence tells you not what the people involved say.  Everything must be accurate, and the smallest of details matter in solving a crime or proving a case.

One of the problems we often have is that because of the fictional depiction of investigations where DNA is always present and can be processed in 45 minutes juries now expect DNA to be presented. Not only is that difficult at times but if not processed properly and kept from contamination it can be useless and confuse the issue.  This issue called “the CSI effect” can destroy a case and cause the jury to vote innocent when they believe DNA should have proved the case. 

An argument I had a few years ago with my friend who wrote the movie Déjà vu.  He had the detective put the evidence in plastic bags but as I pointed out plastic bags usually deteriorate evidence. In forensic investigations we use paper bags with each item carefully separated to keep it from contamination. His director had chosen to keep it in plastic, so the viewers could see the clues and didn’t care how inaccurate it was.

 Now most viewers and readers, especially those who are untrained in investigations, wouldn't notice this problem nor would they care.  But there are a few for whom these inaccuracies not only destroy the moment but the enjoyment of the whole story (not to mention the influence they have on those few people who take everything they see or read as fact.) In fact, my doctor husband used to forbid me to watch medical based shows because so many of them were wrong.  For those of us who do care, inaccuracies destroy the total enjoyment of the story and many of us dedicated readers vow not to read that author again because their research is so shoddy.

As a nurse, my friends in MWA (Mystery Writers of America) often asked me what this or that meant, how this procedure worked in medicine, and what symptoms they would find if someone did this.  I realized that all the available literature – often difficult for the nonprofessional to access – was written in medicalese.  There was nothing written for the ordinary, well-educated reader, It was for this reason that I wrote the Book of Poisons (formerly called Deadly Doses) for Writer’s Digest and with that they started their “How To” series.   

The book has not only been used by numerous writers, producers and directors, but also been featured on shows as Law & Order and Discovery Channel episodes.  In fact, I have consulted with them on several programs.  I am always happy to explain the medical procedures, the symptoms or the forensic facts so that scenes can be correctly written. 

It’s true that at times, for the sake of fiction, we have to fudge some facts.  Often, however, we can explore alternatives to our scenes or if we ask around to the experts we can find the few exceptions where the answers we want can be used.  But as I stated above people are influenced by what they read or see and believe the fiction. This causes problems for law enforcement in proving their cases. 

Check your facts and, if you can, use the correct ones – or at least in your epilogue explain what you did and what the real situation might have been.  And if you are doing research, don’t take another fictional author’s scene as fact be it in medical, historical or even location information.

Verify things with at least two sources or more if you can.  Almost always there is a way to get the scene you want and still make it accurate.  It helps your credibility in the end and once you lose the credibility of your reader or viewer, once they close that book, they will hesitate to pick up anything else you have created.  Trust once lost is not easily regained.  Besides, most people enjoy learning something new when they are reading. 

For more information, check out my site www.seritastevens.com, my IMDB is Serita D Stevens, and my email for questions is sswriter400@gmail.com.

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    Jumpstarting Your Inner Novelist is a concise manual that provides inspiration, motivation and practical tools for crafting award-winning novels.

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        After teaching Creative Writing and Publishing at Evening at Emory University Writer’s Studio for nine years and writing four published novels, including a national gold medal winner in the fiction genre, I decided to record my thoughts and ideas about creating successful novels and weave them into a practical guide for writers.

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The Illustration: image background is meant to Illustrate by degree the dense obstructive tree branches a variant of radiant sunlight by the transparent defined leaf mass. Whereas, the incandescent light bulb filament, representative of a brain synergy inflating the proper atmospheric body enveloped in a bubble – comparative synthesis to skeleton density, stripped in an evanescent sunlight energy, jelly organs, vanishing in a latex strength and elasticity membranes. Off which, physique devoid living tissues, leaves behind iridescent gelatinous figures, and physics in counterpart, against architectural transparency of dead matter.

I can’t express too often the zeal of originality as my mind sources those esoteric perceptions from resolute concrete established realities. The diachronic volition, which discrete mirrors a conspicuous bird’s-eye consciousness, waxing moon like in the azure sky. Emanating through eons of laborious life testing organ – the mind revert the material process dissolving synthetic bathing in a crystallizing ocean – breaking the energy of dead matter along living substances, at discovering the iridescent tinted kinetic to apprehend the unimaginable saga ghosting a range of simple physic expressions.

For the full text:

The intense years punctuated lives with a totality which is difficult for the ignorant to understand, and the intervening calm became another type of pause. While we are in the moment we cannot escape the force of its presence, but after we extricate ourselves time alters our impression and dilutes its intensity. For some the nightmares return unexpectedly, unleashed by an unintentional word or question.

As each of the women became part of a different place and made different lives their letters to each other became less frequent. Each was always pleased to hear from her friend and glad that all was well. They never lost touch completely, even if a memory was the only thing left; there was comfort in the sense of place they had shared.

Eveline had taken over the running of her cousin’s farm house in the country side near Limoges and had made it into a chambres d’hotes. Her simple, classic country dishes satisfied and delighted the weary traveller, who was at liberty to make the garden their own and relax amongst the plethora of vegetation and free flowing flora.

Her style was quietly sociable with a slightly shy reserve; some might have described it as wary. She spoke to those whom she automatically trusted.

Her salad of tomatoes in its subtlety of olive oil, parsley and garlic, was a talking point. Its simplicity evoked a continuum of conversation around the table; one could almost feel the absent company in the empty chairs. She spoke of a fire in a church where people had been imprisoned and a woman separated from her child she could never reach again.

She could not stop her testament until she had regurgitated the whole, all the while standing quietly and with uncanny stillness. It seemed a necessary catharsis and yet one knew she would tell the tale again trying to make sense of the past and the repetition of history.

At breakfast the next morning she would say she had had bad dreams.

Simone had walked away with the others, carrying a suitcase, having abandoned the belongings she had put on the neighbour’s cart.

And as she continued along the road towards Paris even her valise became heavy and awkward. She sat down by the side of the road and searched for what she could do without, and having done so, left the sundry articles behind amongst the other items people had jettisoned for similar reasons. She walked on amongst the rejected shoes and bric a brac that were strewn intermittently about the route. The straggling line of a displaced population, leaving because that was the only thing to do, continuing its long progress.

If one was to visit those northern towns fifty years on, how clean and neat they would appear. Enterprise and new enthusiasm ribboning through the fields and former sights of battle. New roads carrying the new Europeans across the continents consuming the landscape in a different fashion. Only the ever watchful shades and nuances between the sight lines in the wide sky above you, a silent carrier of what had been done and said.

In a cellar somewhere removed in time and space from that first war, Martine thought of the lady in her drab dress and apron sweeping the ruins in the church. She had been trying to keep her concentration and not allow her nerves to overwhelm her. Waiting in this tiny hole for several hours, with nothing to eat or drink, had begun to disorientate and weaken resolve.

When they had come for them early that morning it was an inelegant arousal and the German officers had not allowed much time for preparation or the collection of luggage; that did not happen in these circumstances. In spite of being told at the outset what lay ahead in the event of discovery, the shock was palpable. The coldness of the assailant, and his intention to inflict violence and cruelty upon his victims, exuded like a foul sourness from every part of his being. The air was redolent with the decomposition of humanity and Martine felt numb.

She tried to will herself to die now, it would avoid what was to come, which in itself would result in being shot after hours of torture and interrogation. She heard the faint sound of what seemed like two gun shots somewhere to the right of her and above her head. As she looked upwards, in automatic response, she could make out the outline of a square grill in the wall where faint traces of light penetrated through the dirt. Footsteps faded on the ground, then the sound of different footsteps, closer and much louder approached.

Picardy seemed a long way away now. Simone and some of the others had taken shelter for the night in a farmer’s barn. By chance, in the form of miscellaneous trucks and discarded bicycles, they found themselves just north of Paris at Senlis.

The journey south had been circuitous and the need for avoidance techniques, and a degree of nonchalance when potential dangers presented themselves, a necessary requirement in such strained circumstances.

The days travelling had given her time to think, why Paris? She did not know anyone there. Would there be a possibility of melting into the crowd and becoming part of a wartime community under occupation?

Jacqui, a younger woman with whom she had struck up a good day to day relationship, knew people there and she seemed happy enough for Simone to accompany her. Having made the effort so far she might as well carry on she thought, there would be cafés and bars she could find work in, who knew? It would be summer soon and that meant life would feel easier to contemplate. It was extraordinary how a person adapted to this nomadic way of life and that some days just seemed like any other.

She lay against some wooden pallets, their shallow layer of straw providing some comfort, and fell asleep, the quiet chatter of the others around her soothing her into oblivion with its softly enunciated cadences.

When she awoke the next morning the rest of the group had already gone across to the house where the farmer had provided a simple breakfast of bread and coffee. She joined them and apologised hurriedly for being so late. The table made a focal point in the plain room, and her eyes glanced at the lofty ceiling towering above the assembled group; how welcome these functional surroundings were she thought. There was even some homemade cherry jam on offer; life in the countryside retained its rhythm and ritual come what may it seemed. She should write this all down for future generations.

When they finally got to Paris the group had diminished, many had decided not to go as far as that and had decided to try their luck on the outskirts. Jacqui had insisted that Simone stay with her and she would find a place for both of them. Her cousin, Monique, lived near Place de Clichy and there was bound to be room at her place for a while. She thought Simone might fit in well, in fact there might be the possibility of some work, depending on her tastes for excitement. Simone caught the whiff of something too dark here that might need to be carefully avoided.

Monique’s apartment was situated in one of the myriad of streets that congregated around that busy quartier. Even in these times life went on and the proximity of clubs and bars meant that the occupying population was as well served as the indigenous inhabitants always had been. The apartment, on the second floor, was accessible by lift and stairs. The lift tended to be temperamental so it was advisable to use the stairs. A woman had been found badly beaten inside it recently which was an indication that life continued, but at a price.

Simone eventually found work at a laundry a few blocks away near Montmartre. Monique had quickly introduced Jacqui into a twilight world, to which she had taken to easily and without much hesitation. Simone had avoided being persuaded into following suit, preferring to take up a more neutral way of life. She never enquired much and saw Monique and Jacqui only briefly, usually on their way out in the evening. Sometimes she was aware of voices and laughter, people arriving and then leaving again hours later. Once there was the sound of arguments in the street, doors slamming and the scent of cigar smoke penetrating the room from the corridor.

One Saturday morning she was aware of a couple of men watching the block, gazing at the apartment windows, then walking away into the main boulevard again.

Her life was solitary for the most part, her routine at the laundry brought her into contact with a variety of people, some as out of place as she, but this was an out of place time so she did not appear that unusual. A conversation shared over a cigarette and a glass of wine, listening carefully and empathetically to the warp and weft of the everyday slog. Simone fitted in quietly, without drawing attention to herself, and lived her life as simply as she could.

The walk back to the apartment at her usual, leisurely pace took about half an hour. The late September afternoon made the way down from Montmartre a gentle and almost nostalgic event. It was as if time had turned back upon itself and life was as carefree as it had been a few years ago. The little picture house she passed, a slither of a place, was a popular venue and she had to dodge the people queuing to get in.

By the time she had turned into Rue Le Mercier she had almost forgotten the times in which she was living, and as she walked into the vestibule she greeted the concierge as usual, who looked up from her knitting and nodded without expression, as usual; Simone remembered where she was.

She could hear the low beat of the jazz and the soulful voice behind it as she reached the top of the stairs. She went in quietly, the door to the main room at the top of the corridor was open slightly and the smell of perfume, brandy and cigarettes permeated the place; she saw through the half opening and took in the scene. Monique, Jacqui and three men were in various states of undress, asleep and full of the good brandy they had been consuming. They lay spread upon the chairs and settee, dead to the world for the moment, a soft snore of a fart emanated from someone.

The door to one of the bedrooms opened and a woman came out to visit the bathroom. She pulled the straps of her silk petticoat up over her shoulders as she walked by and Simone noticed a bruise on her upper arm as she did so. The occupant of the bedroom shouted something indistinct at her from behind the door as it shut.

Simone went as quietly as she could to her own room where a couple lay entwined and asleep on the bed. She went to the little kitchen and made coffee, lighting her own cigarette and forgetting any sense of the nostalgia she had previously felt.

Much later, when the party broke up and its pleasure-makers had left, the men, quietly triumphant and sated with sex and alcohol, far too absorbed in themselves to notice any observer, Simone caught sight of one of them and recognised him as the man she had seen some weeks ago, looking up at the apartment. She listened to their footsteps clumsily descending the stairs and the sound of a car pulling away.

Monique was tidying up the residue of the debauched hours and saw Simone at the kitchen table. She placed the glasses in the sink and returned to collect more items in need of restoration which she would then replace, unsullied, in the cabinet.

The sounds of furniture being put back in its rightful place and the music ending were audible from the salon. Jacqui was attending to that. The door to the other bedroom was still shut, presumably the third woman was asleep.

“They pay, they call the tune,we comply. We see the bright lights and the pizzazz, and give them what they ask for. Sometimes it’s easy, sometimes not, but the alternative, well there isn’t one now, truthfully you’re better out of it.”

She sat down, asked Simone for a cigarette and stared into space.

The girl had been a pretty thing, blonde and slim. The dark, full nipples strikingly prominent. The vulnerability in her eyes stared out at one as she lay lifeless on the bed.

Her body was half covered by the sheet and there was a series of red marks on her face and neck, one of her breasts had been slashed underneath its nipple. There were layers of marks on her back, the result of being repeatedly beaten as she lay unable to escape her attacker. There were also bite marks on her right ear.

Jacqui had discovered the body and had made a phone call. Some men came and removed it. Who they were, or where they took the dead girl, was not clear and no questions were asked. It seemed that in the present climate, in certain contexts, this procedure was one that took place in an understated and silent manner. “Le silence” prevailed.

Simone left the apartment without notice and searched for work and accommodation elsewhere, always wary that the face of the man she had recognised at the apartment might appear again.

There were always men who would behave like that given half the chance, but somehow the circumstances which facilitated licence to procure and punish with such terminal consequences, erupted in profuse intensity in some quarters at that time. Calm, cold, eyeless and booted, they haunted the street corners and drank champagne in the star dust inns of the corrupt, entrapping their pretty things all the way.

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THE LIFE OF THOMAS MORE BY PETER ACKROYD

 

 

Peter Ackroyd's book "The Life of Thomas More" is not the one many readers would chose to take on holidays unless they love history and are interested in reading about the changes that occurred after King Henry VIII succeeded with his self-serving plan to set up his own church of England. A good friend of mine, talking about his ancestors and Thomas More recommended this biography to me.

 

It was not an easy book to read. My basic knowledge of Latin and the Early Modern English was not sufficient enough to completely understand (without using a dictionary) the writings and dialogues of Thomas More and his contemporaries. Ackroyd uses them sporadically as in the originally spoken languages in order to give the reader a more accurate picture of Thomas More and the way he interacted with others.

 

Ackroyd writes very little about the intimate, family life of Thomas More, except about the way he was educated; his absolute admiration for his father and the love for his son and daughters, especially the eldest, Margaret.

More insisted that all three daughters receive the same education as his son. In Henry VIII's time, the education of girls was the privilege of the royal and the rich. It was not intended to educate women as independent thinkers though.

 

Ackroyd pictures Thomas More as a brilliant scholar of 16th century England who died rather than betray the Catholic church.  As a young man, More seriously contemplated becoming a priest, but went on to become one of the most successful politicians of his time. He studied Latin and Greek literature at Oxford University for two years and continued his education by studying common law in London .

 

More's lifelong friend was Erasmus of Rotterdam, the Dutch Renaissance humanist with whom he shared similar views on social affairs, the Bible teaching, and Latin translations of Lucian's works. Although very busy practicing law, More continued with his literary and spiritual interests. He wrote Utopia, a work of fiction and political philosophy.

 

As a prominent attorney, Thomas More acted as a secretary and confidant to King Henry VIII in 1518 . With the assistance of More, King Henry VIII wrote the "Defense of the Seven Sacraments" as a response to Martin Luther's attack on Catholic doctrine of salvation and other practices. From there on Thomas More occupied a series of important posts such as Treasurer of England's Exchequer, Chancellor of Lancaster and speaker of the House of Commons.  In 1529 he replaced Cardinal Thomas Wolsey as Lord Chancellor, which was the most important government position in England .

 

But the fate of Thomas More will soon change and he will lose all the privileges he enjoyed, when More refuses to sign, under oath to recognise King Henry VIII as the Supreme head of the Church of England. More refused to undermine the authority of Pope.

 

Ackroyd constructs the last period of life of Thomas More in a masterful way. This is the best part of the book in that Ackroyd's writing prowess comes to the fore. Just as he describes the London's streets which More took daily while studying law at Lincoln's Inn , so detailed is Ackroyd's description of Thomas More's last dwelling quarter where he spent as a prisoner in the Tower of London, his trial for treason , the heartbreaking partaking from his family and daughter Margaret and Thomas More's execution (on July 6, 1535).

 

Ackroyd's book The Life of Thomas More is accompanied by a couple of pages of illustrations and portraits of More's family members, close friends and of Thomas More himself. On his portrait as Lord Chancellor of England, More wears a golden chain with S-S as an emblem of the service to the King. The letters stand for the expression:  "Souvent me souvien" (Think of me often).  Five hundred and eighty years has passed since his execution, yet Thomas More remains one of England ’s most celebrated historical figures. Ackroyd's biography of Thomas More adds more light to More's shining star.

 

Metallic screeching Pennsylvanian trains shot like silver arrows over cereal box roof tops, the same kind that killed his mother one drunken night inside this fist raised world-uptown D.C. People, buses, landed by like a Charlie Parker theme song with strings. It was cool, as he went by Howard University, passed the rhapsody of students on bikes or walking or talking about classes with books under their arms. Henry was finished with all that. Henry was finished. He just wanted to smoke his el primo and chill out in his fish bowl of an apartment Man! This was great to be alive, not in jail. He stopped in the bar-b-que joint on the corner of sixth and Lessing Street Sharp butt knocking women walked, talked by the window as his corner buddies sold good dope from South America and all he had to do was wave goodbye. Bobby's joint smelled saucy, aromatic salt, peppers, hot, spicy southern tones of men and women eating there dinner of corn cob, collards, ribs* sandwiches, chicken, grits^ black eye peas, chitterlings on the side. And don-'t forget the pork chops. He walked in, people knew him and nodded, he walked up to the counter and smelled it all in.    " Henry," Martha said, "barbeque sandwich...two?*

" Thanks." He watched the basketball game over the counter. It was May with cherry blossoms.  He watched the uproar by a beautiful brave heart reporter about a life being saved today. He didn't pay any attention, watched a peach-pie woman come in. She was shaped like an open bottle of coca cola, long legged and radiant. She was a Washington, D.C. cherry blossom.

She came up beside him by the counter.

"I'll have a rib dinner, to go."

“Make that two.”

"Hi!” Henry said,  he let her get closer to the counter.

She looked at him; he was a few inches taller. His demeanor was studious, teacher or professor? He was cute, with gold-button blue sport coat, white shirt, unloosened neck-tie, grey slacks and tasseled loafers," Hi, just getting off work?"

"Yeah, that's all of us," he said," my names Henry.”

“Winnie, ” she smiled, “I’m hungry.”

"Hi! Winnie! me too."

"Henry, I’m going to sit down," she  motioned to a table.

"Okay," he followed her. She sat at the large front window behind the  logo 'BOBBY'S RIB HOUSE’. It faced the corner where blue and green street busses let people off.

The joint smelled like sweet peppers from her mother’s garden in Louisiana. Brown sparrows sounded like Ray Charles songs. Henry liked her style. She was nice in a blue suit, white blouse, black pumps, leather briefcase,  short bang hair. Lawyer? All business in the middle of  rush hour. He watched her people shopped at stores, kids ran, police sirens whisked by.

 She pointed up at the television." I wonder who is this hero they talking about?."

"What hero?"

Winnie smiled at him, smiling at her. A man she just discovered checked her out over plates of good smells," The guy who saved an old lady?"

" I need you to save me."

" Silly,” she rolled her eyes.

" You have pretty eyes," he touched her hand.

" Henry, is that line going to get me in your bed?**

" No, but it might get you to come and have dinner with me at my place," he pulled his ear," I live round the comer."

Winnie stared into his soft brown eyes. He didn't threaten her with that nice mustache. Past problems with men she was under control. She smiled; it could only lead to something good with this guy who needed her to live, to fly with those Ray Charles birds singing some kind of Georgia on my mine song. He was nice; he didn't pay attention to the t v., only her. He lived around the corner, and around the coiner she left with him and their food.

She liked his one bedroom: It had green plants in the window, large fichus in the right corner under ceiling rack lights. Zebra covered seven foot sofa. A small dining room bamboo table towards the left by the kitchen, African statues on the coffee table with a giant picture of a farmhouse, fields of people He was broader than an average bachelor. Winnie licked her fingers around bookcases, stereo as she sat and ate her food with him. He turned on some music from his stereo as it was getting late and the golden sun from the blinds helped its way in the rooms of blue painted walls. She settled in, kicked her heels off and listened to him talk about his family or his job as a government cookie cutter technocrat

She talked about her career and he talked about his job. Really. His general polices as he licked his fingers about black poverty, black hunger and improving the prosperity of a complex slave world that he couldn't fix. She recognized his comments were funny. He was funny, and he poured her more wine. She wasn't going to give him none as she sucked her. thumb and talked about her high class secretary's job at the Department of Navy.

" You are someone I would like to take out sometimes,'' he said.

" We’ll see, but take me home."

“ Let me get my car keys," he asked her, " kiss?"

"Okay, be gentle," she unfolded her arms.  He kissed her slow, waxed his lips slightly touched.  She revealed tenderness, as he slightly touched her arms.

She liked him, she bought him closer.

 "Thank you," he smiled.

"Thank you."

Henry got his car keys out a coffee can in the kitchen, “Ready.” She took his hand and walked her out his apartment Henry wanted to show her a strong brother. He wasn't physically big, but a man who wasn't a drug dealer, a cat who has never been to jail. He drove fast, but tailed off when he got too close to other drivers. If he did get close, he would back off carefully. He looked in the rearview of crawling darkness as night seeped ovenhim and his black Volkswagen.

Winnie touched his hand as he handled the clutch. She was tired. She smiled and stared at him at the  red light She didn't him to know yet,  he was just right Not dangerous like she thought, but still a mystery, still a man who had secrets. A quiet man.   It would take a while before he opened up to her, but until than she would keep her legs closed and only tell him the good parts about her.  She smiled; he bit his fingernail. He wasn’t slick. He was classy.  A square who wanted to be John Wayne like a lot of men. “ You nervous?”

“Always on a first date.”

“This is not a first date , this is a get to know you meeting over a chicken platter.”

“I ‘m falling in love with you,” he smiled.

She quietly watched  through the car windows  of night stars falling from earth. She met a nice guy, less nervous now. He carried himself like a man. Maybe he was an ex-soldier?  He dressed nice. She made the right decision to go with him.

Car radio news...

“Ms. FAIRCHILD OF FAIRCHILD INDUSTRIES WAS SAVED TODAY BY A STRANGER...WHOEVER THIS STRANGER IS? THERE IS A HEFTY REWARD FOR HIM...

“I wonder who he is?" Winnie asked.

" Sure not Henry Applewhite," he laughed.

She directed him to the third apartment building on Lloyd Street.

“You going to call me?"

" I'll call you, " he kissed her cheek on her cheek,  he got her door.

“Thank you!"

“Goodnight.”

Henry watched her go inside apartment lobby. He scratched his head as he drove around street corners; excited, but worried as he passed well lighted ma and pop stores showed trails of moon dust towards urban nativity street scenes with little junkie shepherd boys. He went down Upshur Avenue and took a right on 13^th. His mother dead, father still alive with a young girl and new family, some aunts and some cousins left around. One uncle still around .like a fruit loop. He shrugged at the white quarter moon over top the Beacon Hill Apartments. He had bills, should he collect his award... will his quiet world be shattered if he showed his face? He liked living under the covers as a patriotic act of human feces.

He steered right on Meredith Street with tortured thoughts, parked his car in back of his building and sleep tonight as a government blue blood. He said his prayers…

Now, I lay me down to sleep,

I pray the Lord my soul to keep…

If I should die before I wake,

I pray the Lord my soul to take…

Thursday afternoon after work Henry stood in his kitchen drinking a beer. He thought about his heroism and coming from his closet, desk and typewriter.  He listened to some John Coltrane. He played like it was going to be a blood bath and no boxing gloves, phone rang. His cousin, Mike was in the same building. Two floors down. He came up with a sweet potato gal. She had on a long brown jacket, black mini skirt, raised big tits that burned through a white cashmere v neck sweater. With⁵ brown cat eyes like she was sleepy, but she was hot like an Arizona wind. They hugged. Mike his favorite cousin, he was taller; and Henry really liked him. He was wise and like a tattoo on his life. They grew up together around D.C, They went out drinking and dancing around the Jeffersonian town. But it was Tuesday night and Henry couldn't go out to forget about winning an award and moving around and chilling and having people with a lot of guts asking him for attention, money or his blood.

“Henry let me introduce you.to Kelly."                            .

"Hey, Kelly," Henry nodded, "having a beer, getting ready to smoke an el primo."

Mike pulled out a joint from his shirt pocket.

"Okay..." Henry got the matches, Kelly was on the couch, watched his tiny color t.v. and faced north like a Kansas jay hawk.

" Hey! man, who was that girl I saw you with?” Mike crossed his arms, leaned on the refrigerator. He glared at him like he had caught something nice to prepare himself for. '

"Winnie," smoke was getting him to slow down his thinking-mellowed jazz in the apartment as trumpet came in peace. He passed him the joint" Nice."

“Minnie?" he handed him marijuana cigarette.

Henry shook his head, "Winnie.”

"How you like it?'”

“Good.” he handed it to him. He watched him puff as if he was going to suck up the whole goddamn planet in his lungs.

"It's  smooth."

"Yeah! like us!"

He slapped him five.

Henry held the power of the weed down his throat.  The room spun, and he wanted to cry and sing about all the shit in his life.

"You okay Henry?" Mike took the joint.

"Just tired," he moved to the living room where the girl was, "I see you tomorrow."

"Okay, see you tomorrow, " Mike handed him the joint.

"Mike, thanks^" he opened the door.

"Come on baby, my cousin got to get up in the morning."

"We all do," Henry scratched his head.

"Okay! bye! Henry!" Mike asked his girl. "hungry baby?"

"Yeah!”

"What you want?"

"I got a taste for some chicken,” she snuggled against him, “I think Mister Wings is still open."

“Night cuz! Okay! baby!” Mike winked, closed the door. 

Wednesday morning a diamond sun opened his eyes. Henry stretched from his six o’ clock dreams, his yawn mixed with thoughts of cream and sugar in his coffee. He liked his peace, his silence with his thoughts. His thoughts. Not being bothered, uncomplicated and less than his medical deductible. He made his bed, went to the bathroom and took a teaspoon of olive oil.  Sneezed, wrapped his red and gold tie through his button-downed collar Mirror. He reminded himself of his father of course he didn't want to be like him. Not on speaking terms, never a day he didn't think about him thought . Henry and him were close when he was a little boy. Memories. Big Bill used to take  them to McDonald's every Saturday evening,  his sister  and his mother.

His mama Sweet Betty Applewhite died of bad  judgment and a taste for bad men. She died of pneumonia and Henry died in that grave with  her,  probably his father did too. But Big Bill had to go  to  jail for seven years. It killed his mother. Big Bill killed her old boyfriend.  It was a Bob Dale. Nigger already had two wives. What he want with his mama? After that he kind of lost him, especially after Henry and his sister went off to college. He turned the television on and watched WDDC.

Time for tanned,  muscle face, Nordic newscaster in a grey two-button suit gives his news update...

"There was a shooting at Mister Wings Restaurant last night. Police apprehended the suspect, but sadly three people died in the shoot-out before it was all over…”

“Damn!” Henry got his cup, "welcome to the real world."  He shook his head, reached and flipped through his Time magazine. He read an article on the mysteries of the Supreme Court He smiled at the fart face old men scratching themselves under their robes. "These old guys are mil of shit," than his phone rang. He snatched  it off the kitchen wall.

"Hello!"

“Henry this is your Aunt Beth," she asked, “did you see the news?" She was sitting in her cushy rocking chair, her round upright body shook as she scrunched tissue in her fist.

"Uh! Noooo!."

“Mike was killed at that restaurant."

“Killed!" his chest became heavy as the phone got hot in his hands. He fell against the wall, to his knees. He dropped the phone in his hand. " Nooo! Noooo! Nooooo!"

She cried,“Yes, baby, Henry, he was killed in that chicken restaurant robbery." Her right leg shook, "Henry come over to grandma's house for the wake.”  

" Okay aunt Beth, okay,"  he swiped his eyes," bye!"  He hung up. The sorrow in him was terrible. He wanted to die too. He wanted to die with all the sorrows of the world; He didn't want to be on this earth anymore as he slapped his tears. He called his job," Good morning, Mrs. Bent.. .this is Mister Applewhite," tell Mrs. Carlton I won't be in work  today.  I got death in my... in my family." Henry ached like an enemy tore him apart.  He felt like he was robbed, he was lost-screwed as his cousin was gone.

He tried to concentrate on her voice," I am sorry Henry, I’ll  tell her." He hung up, wiped his eyes, looked around and fell on his bed before he could see his family. He was weak, tired and didn't understand why?  He recalled; rushed to the cookie jar on the table as he slapped his eyes. He examined the moon smiling porcelain face of the jar. It was a nice piece of craftsmanship he used to hide money, or memories of his life. He opened the jar top, sat down at the table and pulled papers, money, drug paraphernalia and photos of him, Mike, Eddie, Roy, Jerry, Duck, and Boo Peters. One photo had them sitting under a giant honeysuckle tree. Year end, they would go to a summer picnic in Rock Creek Park or one picture of them hugging up on midnight. women at a New Year’s Eve party. He wasn't satisfied "Why Mike?" He smiled, filtered his fingers over the photos of Mike and him tussling in the snow, leaning on a hilly lawn at a barbeque, sold the lives, footloose. It was about time they owned the sun, the whole fuckm* world. Two cousins grew up together like a Kenny Logan's song.

They were black crows pecking the flesh of the earth with respect and a low legacy of old pictures and smart afros; them sitting with their grandma

Two bookends in the business of growing up together, eating up the world. Not knowing, not knowing before they moved on to their own worlds like music not fitting in. Just working, going into the world and playing with it like a ball of yawn. Play right, play hard. They were heavy into everything from 1966 to 1968. Jazz man, jazz. He thought about * it and remembered Mike falling drunk asleep in a hot club, how he had to get him out before some pretty woman picked his pocket Mike saved him one time when he was stuck in the snow in Detroit with some voodoo woman, got him the money to get him out of the icy fingers of her love. "Why Mike?" Damn, he wished jie was there to save him one more time. ..one more time. Henry started to write a poem on a piece of paper to Mike, he wanted him to know

that he understood him, he walked with him as they were like tight roots from the God's

earth.

I

watched

him

be

come

a

flower

and

shovel

women

up

like

wet

soil

to

grow

Henry folded the poem, stuck it in the cookie jar. He was hurt and mad, ripped off his

tie like it was all the possessions he had and he didn't give a shit anymore.

Ivy vines branched around his grandmother's house as he parked his car on a street of dwarf chestnut oak trees. It was a quiet street of proud black folks, a street he grew up on, now he had to come back for a funeral.

Henry kissed his little cousins playing. Catch me and tag the kid in the chest when you run out of time. Down you go. He smiled, and went inside the house that tackled his heart Go deep as he looked to his left in the living room

white French doors. He  reached down and squeezed his aunt Beth like a ball of love.

" Hi, baby," she said," you okay?"

" I'm fine aunt Beth," he hugged her," he's still with us, he's with us," tears fell. He didn’t want them too. He went and hugged his sister tight, his cousin Sheila, his cousin Debbie, his cousin Mark, Tim, Russ and cousin Kirk, his friends Sharon, Jackie, Teddy, Riley the green sisters, Jackie Harris, Ronnie and Uncle Drew and more. They were all their with his Uncle who was gray like the clouds in the house a tragedy like this made everybody older, physically hurt Mike was a handsome, nice guy with always a twinkle in his eye as if he had a smile for you or anyone. He was a couple of years older like a ship floating. This was too much; his cousin His sister gave him a glass of wine.

"Henry how you holding up?"

"I'm okay sis," he sat down on the silk red and gold sofa under a giant fleur de leis gold. frame mirror. The room of apples and nice perfume from well-dressed folks bringing in food amongst the house plants and big picture window looking out on the cobbled streets where they all grew up and lost and found each other. Henry sighed, hugged his sister. He rocked her like they were kids all over again. Tears nodded around as other friends of the family, neighbors bought flowers and condolences over. No music. Cake, chicken, salads spread across the table in the dining room of pictures, friends talked quietly with steadied approaches to Aunt Betty as she kept her feet up on a stool. Old friends came over to the house. Sun drowned them in the living room on such a terrible day. Henry saw his old girlfriend. Wait. He watched his true love come in the house. Barbara Rainey graced the room she came over to him with a hug. Friends we could never love enough. And sadly they could never be together. She was afraid of him, afraid of his power over her.

"Barbara, how you been?"

^u Okay," she hugged him," you?" It was difficult for her to see him. Henry was so handsome. No regrets from the young man she left when they were sixteen. She didn't want him. She didn’t want his baby. She would have to give him everything. Barbara missed him. She wanted Henry to hold her. She was too afraid, because his love would drown her and she couldn’t swim.

“Let's go outside."

“Okay!” she hugged a few more friends of the family.

They went out front by the fence, as his little cousins were still playing on the streets playing hopscotch. Sparrows plucked crumbs, the garden was filled with sunflowers that made her look even more beautiful with her dark eyes, her African-Indian hair, her yellow skin in her blue dress that was tight in the top, and flowery loose down the bottom. She was still a wonder to behold and he could never look at her in the. eyes, because he would simply become lost

" We always meet at a funerals."

She swung on the fence." Remember this fence?"

" I remember us swinging on it at night…we had fun.”

He moved the fence with his knee, " Yeah fun…you married yet?"

"Do you see my husband idiot?”

 “Dumb luck."

"When are we going to get serious?"

Henry got closer, held her." You not ready yet"

"I'm not?" she laughed and swung herself off the fence, “more like you, not ready yet.”

 She gave him her phone number," When you get serious."

He kissed her. She hugged him like good medicine for her as tears came up from heir stomach and eyes.

"I'm glad you came," he said.

"Me too," she stepped back, sniffed over this mess with Mike and meeting him over their, life that they could never decide like an old item that would take care of itself

" You okay?" he thumb tears from her big brown eyes.

" I'm okay," she slapped her cheeks.

"Take a walk around the block with me," he took her hand, lifted it over little girl cousins skipping rope and counting all the way to ten." I want to see what new families have come in the neighborhood."

"Curious, huh?"

"I missed the place."

Barbara wiped her eyes, “I do too.” She hugged him, laughed as they took a little walk to clear the air, and their own imperfect lives as she knew that after this day they wouldn't see each other again for a while. It was how it was, and how it was meant to be as they listened to cars, busses and birds sound off in a blue and pink morning.

Sunshine followed them from corner street lamp posts under electrical wires. Brick colored houses slapped tight with short step stoops and small gardens in a small-big city that exploded worlds; you could see the dome of the D.C capitol from backyards to help you live a better life. They went across the street, made a right on M Street towards grocery stores that . use to have the names of Abe's, Nathan's, Hymies, or Goldberg's grocer. What's the gag, it happened one evening when King died. Punch line, get the joke—Henry thought we were all black Jews now, as they laughed back to Ramparts Street

Sunshine bloomed into a red onion as angel shaped clouds drifted over children playing in front of their houses. A car blew his horn at her. Yes! she was all that. Henry held Barbara's hand as if they were children but filled up with the sadness and a good place in their heart for a friend. Handcuffed to the past when they all chased each other around the big old oak tree. They played cowboys and Indians   on small comer streets that swallowed them and spit them out to become strong tree trunks except for some like his cousin and we keep dying too young. When Henry entered the house with Barbara  he saw his father by the chimney mantle beside his aunt Rose. With a short scotch in his hand; he had on denim overalls and the smell of dust, smudged red mud across his chest, and canvas work boots on—a dusty hard working man with arms the size of cedars. He was still at work with the gloss of 1-95 highway construction site in his concrete face. Henry hugged him up.

"Hey, Pop!"

Big Bill hugged him, “How you doing son?”

" Okay," Henry nodded," I see you on the job." He could smell the drunk coming up in his father's skin.

Aunt Beth fanned herself in Uncle Joe's arms, he rocked her steady to Mahalia songs in the angels flapping wings.

" I came through after I heard the news, " he winked at Miss Rolle who still lived across the street.

" Where's Miss T?" Henry asked this out of respect.

" My wife had to go to work tonight at the hospital,  Henry she wanted me to tell you, hello." Bill went around and  shook old friends" Son, you need some money?

 "Pop I’m okay, give Pat some money.  I’m working for the Energy Department."

Pat kissed her father and her brother. “Hi! Dad.”

“Hi! Honey, how is law school?”

“Fine dad, make sure you make it to my graduation.”

“I will baby,” he hugged her.

“I’ll tell Miss T,” she winked over at Henry, “and what my brother been doing?” She noticed him entranced with his old girlfriend, “same thing.”

Henry watched Barbara standing with her sister Diane  in the vestibule. They whispered. Time would never be right for them. Memories of swinging on the fence together would die as a memory. Life made him a fool and he would figure it out one day. With her or without her.  Time would never go back for him.  He watched his aunts and cousins crying, hugging each other as the church nurse got smelling sauce out.

Henry felt alone.  He reflected on the death of his mother when he was a little boy. Nobody could help him, he had to pull himself through it alone.

Henry watched his father Big Bill kissed and hugged  all the sad beautiful women. Henry mother was a woman who was too sweet and loved too much. Love can kill. A woman who had a touch for the drink, his son barely touched the stuff. He looked like him with a wide spread buffalo nose and deep dish brown eyes that said; give me the world, give me the world now. Henry was strong and would never give up, never quit through all the shit coming his way. " Have a drink with me."

" Okay Pop," he got a beer and stood with him.

“How you been dad?”

“Great, got to have my prostate checked.”

“Get it checked.”

“Yes, Mr. Applewhite,” he laughed.

“Thanks dad.”

“You held up well, since…”

“Okay! dad! cut! I know what you mean.”

Henry watched over the mourners like angels on high. He smiled through tears, hugged friends, laughed at Mike's yesterday's jokes, kissed old friends to be here or send flowers for a sad song.

Reverend Peters was a worldly man with a voice like a boom box and wind. He came to give prayer, solace to the family and calmed things down as they each must go towards the light alone. He wiped his face with a handkerchief, waved his hand like a poster child for God.

^uOle' lord help this family to get through this trial of losing a good man, a good son because these times will always be rough, will always be rocky...we just have to stand together with you lord! And see it through! Ride it! Swim it! through better times with you ole' Lord here on this earth, Amen!''

Aunt Ester waved a church fan over Aunt Betty's face. The Reverend dabbed   his brow  and' sipped a cold glass of lemonade after his prayer. His father left after this. He slipped Henry some money. Big Bill left in his black Ford pick-up and drove off as if he won the battle of love between the both of them. In the midst of baked macaroni, potato salad, pork chops, salad, apple pie, fried chicken, smoked neck bones and collards filled up his belly. Tearful friends of the family continued to visit in the house of the black crow. Henry saw from the comer of his eye inside the living room a familiar face and long wild white hair of a woman approached his Aunt Betty. They hugged and cried.  

It didn't make any sense?  He stood alone and sipped his punch, caught a glimpse of this woman generate a hug of kindness from his aunt sitting with her feet propped up. She wore a long pleated blue dress of white lace collars, pearls, silver white hair and watery blue eyes. She was in her eighties. She glanced up and stared at him through the crowd, “You!”

Henry couldn't believe it. He almost couldn't believe it wasn't some crazy dream; his aunt was a maid in many white folks home. Miss Fairchild was one of them.  Henry cringed. "I'm the one.”  He listened as the room of family and friends stared at the old woman’s gold tip cane at his chest.

'Miss Fairchild this is my nephew Henry," Aunt Beth said.

"Henry, come here." Miss Fairchild smiled.

“Yes mam.” She hugged him. Henry thought she smelled like summer flowers. He hugged her around her body frozen in time.

“Thank you Henry Applewhite.”

Henry cried in the middle of a roaring black and white sea.

The End

For Immediate Release…

Contact: Marla Sherman

query@emsapublishing.com

EMSA Publishing is an independent online publisher whose goal it is to facilitate new and established authors in having their novels published. We strive to publish page-turning works of fiction for up-and-coming authors to give them a stepping stone toward meeting their goal of becoming published and best-selling authors. Authors should either have an established online platform or be willing to create one and use it to promote their books.

EMSA Publishing offers eBook distribution and print-on-demand services. Authors who sign with us will receive editing services, a professionally designed cover, and marketing support for building and maintaining an on online presence including blog tours and reviews, web page creation, press releases and social media. The author pays nothing up front and receives a competitive royalty percentage payment.

Interested authors should send a cover letter with a brief synopsis and the first 20 pages of their manuscript in the body of an email to query @ emsapublishing.com Most genres are welcome. Please refer to our submission guidelines at http://emsapublishing.com/submissions/ for further details. 

My English-language book of short stories of the fantastic titled 13 After Midnight has just been published!! This makes me the author of 15 books, as well as the editor of 6 others.

13 After Midnight has been published by Reanimus Press. Here is the announcement of the book's publication. Both the e-book and the print edition may be ordered by using the following link to the publisher's website:

 www.reanimus.com/1522

The price of the e-book is $3.99, and the price of the print edition is $ 14.99 each. By using the link above, you'll be able to order the book directly from the publisher.

13 After Midnight is dedicated to my friend, the writer Rafael Abréu Volmar, and I, myself, designed the book's cover. Please order from the publisher using the link above, although the book is already available through Amazon.com, using the following link:

http://www.amazon.com/After-Midnight-Jaime-Mart%C3%ADnez-Tolentino/dp/1532822103

Please order copies, and let your relatives and friends know about the book. Thanks so much for your support!

By the way, below please see what the publisher has said about 13 After Midnight and its author.

Warm hugs!

Jaime Martínez Tolentino

13 After Midnight

By Jaime Martinez Tolentino

WITH AN INTRODUCTION TO THE SHORT STORY OF THE FANTASTIC

Nobel Prize for Literature nominee Jaime Martinez Tolentino presents 13 stories of the fantastic to read after midnight, and also sets out to explore the differences between the various kinds of such stories—the uncanny, the supernatural, the marvelous, the fantastic, magical realism, etc. Less

WITH AN INTRODUCTION TO THE SHORT STORY OF THE FANTASTIC

Nobel Prize for Literature nominee Jaime Martinez Tolentino presents 13 stories of the fantastic to read after midnight, and also sets out to explore the differences between the various kinds of such stories—the uncanny, the supernatural, the marvelous, the fantastic, magical realism, etc.

The stories contained in 13 AFTER MIDNIGHT all belong to what is, arguably, the most misunderstood literary genre, or modality: the Fantastic—and fantastic they are, in all sense of the word!

In his book, [Martínez Tolentino] toys with the ambiguities of what we commonly call reality. But, before allowing us to enter those bewildering worlds, he leads us through a vast antechamber in which, with the patience of a tour guide, he explains the world of the short story of the fantastic [...] That antechamber, takes the form of an Introduction to the Short Story of the Fantastic as a literary genre, and with that essay, Jaime has achieved one of the clearest and most systematic definitions of the short story of the fantastic that we have ever read.
—Professor Rafael Abréu Volmar, of the Inter-American University of Puerto Rico

Published by ReAnimus Press

Published: April 19, 2016

Words: 72,300

Language: English

ISBN: 9781311789174

Tags: fantasy magical realismthe uncanny literature of the fantasticnobel prize nominee the marvelous

About Jaime Martinez Tolentino

Nominated for the Nobel Prize in Literature, JAIME MARTÍNEZ-TOLENTINO is the author of 14 books, and the editor of 6 others, some of them in Spanish, some in French and some in English. Those books, published in Puerto Rico, the USA, Germany, Spain and Australia, include literary and historical essays, reference works, collections of short stories, plays, a memoir and the historical Spanish-language novel Taíno, recently published by Spain's Ediciones Áltera. Moreover, he is the author of more than 40 publications in newspapers and journals from Puerto Rico, the USA, Spain, Venezuela, Mexico, Peru, Italy, Colombia, Canada and the Internet. He has received literary awards in Portugal, Puerto Rico, the United States and Canada, and his work has been the subject of large portions of three published works as well as a whole book.

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Let’s Talk About Rejections

Let’s face it, we all hate receiving the words, “Thank you for sending in your submission, but we didn’t accept it.”
You might get an explanation for the reason why, or you may not. If you received the reason then check it over carefully. Do you understand what they are trying to tell you about your story? Did you try to make sense of it, or did you just get mad and throw it away?
Hopefully you didn’t get mad and throw it away. At least save it. Put it with a copy of your story and put it away for now. Here are a few tips to help you with rejections.
• Take a deep cleansing breath and GET OVER IT! Don’t let it take over your every thought. Don’t let it stigmatize your thoughts and fingers to continue writing. Don’t speak negatively to yourself. Think positive thoughts… “That’s just one person’s opinion.”
• Did you follow the instructions to the key? Did they ask for a Cover Letter and you didn’t comply? You must make sure you follow instructions that each publisher requests. Now all publishers are the same. Maybe it was rejected because it didn’t fit their magazine/ezine. Did you see if they have a theme you must write about?
• Think positive. You’ve rewritten your story and it’s perfect. Now look for a home for it. There are many online paying markets you can find. Here’s one for freelancers: https://allfreelancewriting.com/writers-markets/ If you want fiction markets: http://www.fictionfactor.com/markets.html I like Fiction Factor because they have a plethora of different genres to choose from.
• Send to more than one publisher the same story. But make sure the publisher will accept submissions to other publishers. You can probably bet that someone will like your story or article. If not, keep submitting until one does accept it, or you write a new story/article. Sometimes, it’s just getting it in on the right day, when the editor is in a good mood. *smile*
• REJECTION – Is just a nine-letter word that can either stunt you from your writing or push you to better heights. I’m betting you’ll be pushed to your highest level and move on. Don’t fear that word, but learn from the editor’s that may take the time to give you great feedback. We can only hope!
Keep writing and submitting. You’ll forget that nine-letter word when you receive a better word, ACCEPTED.

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If your book receives more than 20 positive reviews on Amazon, the book title would be automatically recommended to others browsing through the same category of titles your book belong to. And if the book receives more than 50 positive reviews, Amazon would list the title in its daily newsletter and recommend it to new readers who just completed a similar read.

Amazon has its own leaderboard of reviewers that receives credit for every book that they review, and you can view all of them from this link, https://www.amazon.com/review/top-reviewers. You may even write them directly and ask them to review your book via the email address that they provide you on their profile page.

The best way to have your book quickly review is to approach these reviewers via their email addresses and propose your book(s) to them for free in exchange for their honest review(s). It is important that you approach the right reviewer that would be interested in your book's genre, as others (who are not a fan of your genre) may consider your approach as an abuse.

We know how critical it is for authors to get their book reviewed, so we have stepped up to help our Indie Writers Support members with the quest. And with our compiled list of 1000s of reviewers, any one of our AUTHORS can receive up to 10 new reviews within the next month.

List of Amazon Book Reviewers by Genres

• Children's Book Reviewers; http://indiewritersupport.com/page/children-s-book-reviewers
• Sci-fi Book Reviewers; http://indiewritersupport.com/page/sci-fi-amazon-book-reviewers
• Christian's Book Reviewers; http://indiewritersupport.com/page/christian-s-book-reviewers
• Horror Book Reviewers; http://indiewritersupport.com/page/horror-book-reviewers
• Literary Book Reviewers; http://indiewritersupport.com/page/literary-book-reviewers
• Mythical Adventure Book Reviewers; http://indiewritersupport.com/page/mythical-book-reviewers
• Parenting Book Reviewers; http://indiewritersupport.com/page/parenting-book-reviewers
• Mystery - Thrillers Book Reviewers; http://indiewritersupport.com/page/mystery-book-reviewers
• Paranormal Book Reviewers; http://indiewritersupport.com/page/paranormal-book-reviewers
• Suspense Book Thrillers; http://indiewritersupport.com/page/suspense-book-reviewers
• African American Book Reviewers; http://indiewritersupport.com/page/african-american-book-reviewers
• Professional - Technical Book Reviewers; http://indiewritersupport.com/page/technical-book-reviewers
• Bestsellers Book Reviewers; http://indiewritersupport.com/page/bestsellers-book-reviewers

Audible audiobook Reviewers; http://indiewritersupport.com/page/audible-audiobook-reviewers

Barnes & Noble Book Reviewers; http://indiewritersupport.com/page/barnes-noble-book-reviewers

A full list of Independent Bookstores in the U.S.A Selling eReaders and eBooks; http://indiewritersupport.com/page/independent-bookstores-in-the-u-s-a-selling-ereaders-and-ebooks.

Good luck. These lists are accessible by logging into the Indie Writers Support network (www.indiewritersupport.com). Sign in at http://indiewritersupport.com/?xgi=5L8oWKMvg5p6f5.

The Kathleen O’Keefe-Kanavos Show:

Author Jasmina Agrillo Scherr on “Resilience” and the “Mirror of Her Soul.”

Click the link below to listen to an incredible radio show that will fill your heart with emotion and love.

http://www.blogtalkradio.com/wickedhousewivesoncapecodradiont/2015/07/15/kathleen-okeefe-kanavos-show-w-author-jasmina-agrillo-scherr-on-resilance

Jasmina Agrillo Scherr knows about resilience. Her life has never been easy. But her challenges as a child molded the spirit of the strong woman into one of love and healing.

As a child, she felt different from the get-go because she sensed and saw what others couldn’t. Her mother--manic, depressed and irrational--wanted to take her to “head doctors.” Jasmina suffered through illness and appendicitis—while living with a mother who was “a walking time bomb.”

 As a teen, her best friend suffered a mental breakdown.

On the Kathleen O’Keefe Kanavos Radio Show aired every Wednesday from 6:00-6:30pm on the Wicked Housewives On Cape Cod Radio Network, Jasmina shares with the listeners why:

• she left home early
• and made  her way in Maine to earn a fine arts degree –putting herself through college while working a variety of jobs.

But the challenges did not stop there.  Next came:

• a rocky and unfulfilling marriage.
• a brain tumor that nearly killed her and made her fight to regain her full mental and motor skills.
• And lastly, a heartbreaking divorce.

 Jasmina knows about resilience, but she also knows a life filled with spiritual blessings that include:

• a loving son and late in life,
• an adoring husband.
• the beauty of connecting to the world beyond this reality,
• serving others,
• and being guided toward the light whenever at a crossroads.

Jasmina Agrillo Scherr has walked a difficult path and then held her hand out to others. Her book Mirror of My Soul, Sanctum of My Heart will lead you on an International Odyssey that offers healing and wonder.

Her book Mirror of My Soul, Sanctum of My Heart, is a spiritual memoir and inspiring treatise on how heart-resonance, intuition and resilience can get you past the tough times and into the thrive times!

Mirror of My Soul, Sanctum of My Heart brings readers to a new level of awareness for their own potential. Readers discover:

• How to pay attention to their dreams and other signs of guidance

• How to make life easier and less intimidating through heart resonance and Heart Time

• How to recover from divorce with grace, strength, forgiveness and self-love

• How to find inner strength, wisdom and guidance to persevere in the face of adversity

• How to find resilience and buoyancy -- to thrive though and after the difficult times.

For more about Jasmina Agrillo Scherr and her programs, visit: www.jasminaagrilloscherr.com.

Mirror of My Soul, Sanctum of My Heart, $15.95, is available at www.jasminaagrilloscherr.com.

Jasmina’s passion for helping others is born of her compassion for the pain and suffering in others.

 Having lived through personal upheaval, illness and stressful conditions throughout much of her life, she wants to aid others in finding their path to peace, joy, health and spiritual connection.

About the author and radio show guest: Spiritual pilgrim, yogi mystic, HeartMath® Licensed Coach, and Light Energy Healer, Jasmina Agrillo Scherr has more than 25 years of experience inspiring people the world over on how to access and use the power of their heart to impact consciousness, health, performance, creativity and relationships. Her client case studies are cited in the 2003 New Harbinger publication, Transforming Anger and the 2006 New Harbinger publication, Transforming Anxiety. She is also quoted in the 2008 HeartMath publication, the emWave Solution for Enhancing Meditation, Prayer & Self-Help. Jasmina is the author of the Amazon bestseller, Mirror of My Soul, Sanctum of My Heart.

CLICK the link below to listen to an incredible show that will fill your heart with emotion and love.

(Bitly) http://bit.ly/1GmRbBD

ABOUT THE HOST: Kathleen O’Keefe Kanavos is a TV Host/Producer of Wicked Housewives ON Cape Cod Radio and TV Author of International Bestseller & Multi-award winner SurvivingCancerland: Intuitive Aspects of Healing, and a 3x Breast Cancer Survivor whose dreams diagnosed her illness. She’s published in medical journals. Kat believes dreams diagnose your life. “Did you have a déjà- vu or dream come true?” Kat’s interpretations are in American Express Open Forum. She’s a Coach & “Go-to authority” on Beauty, Health, Wealth & Relationships, Keynote Speaker/Panelist/Presenter at International Associations, Columnist, co-authored Chicken Soup for the Soul: Dreams and Premonitions & blogs on many professional sites. Kat taught Special Education and Psychology at USF. http://SurvivingCancerLand.com/    www.AccessYourInnerGuide.com

Starred Review for TWISTED THREADS from Pacific Book Review! *****

Twisted Threads is the fourth book in a thrilling series by Kaylin McFarren. This erotic psychological thriller is an exciting novel, which readers will love.

Twisted Threads tells the story of Akira, a geiko (geisha) from Kyoto, Japan who is forced to become a trained assassin by a member of the yakuza, the Japanese mafia. While following her target on a Caribbean cruise, Akira falls in love with a fellow passenger, Devon. After his aunt and uncle are implicated in murders that occur on the cruise ship, Akira realizes that she is in danger and she must choose between true love and her sworn duty. In this fast-paced novel that will leave readers breathless. Akira is a strong protagonist who can be a cold-blooded killer and sensitive woman in love all at once. Forming all of her complexity as a character makes her a relatable character. Also Devon is a caring love interest that is a great calming counterpart to Akira’s chaotic life. The supporting characters in the novel come from many different cultures and countries, which reflects the international essence of Twisted Threads.

McFarren’s writing adds to the depth and spice to the novel. Twisted Threads has steamy dialogue and sexy love scenes between Akira and Devon that add an erotic excitement to the novel. The book balances the love scenes with tender and romantic moments between Akira and Devon who fall in love despite the many obstacles between them.

McFarren also captures the true life of being a geiko. She writes accurately about Japanese culture, but doesn’t make Akira a stereotypical quiet Asian woman. She makes Akira a three-dimensional character who is torn between the traditional world of being a geisha or the freedom of choosing her own path. The mental toll of her violent past weighs on Akira throughout the novel exemplifying how McFarren writes effortlessly about the complicated and unglamorous world of being a geisha.

Twisted Threads would be best for readers who like psychological erotica like Fifty Shades of Grey, or readers who also like books about female assassins like Spider’s Bite by Jennifer Estep. This fourth book in her series stands on its own merits of character development, meaning readers don’t have to first read the prequels to understand the theme; but I believe they will certainly want to after experiencing Twisted Threads. Kaylin McFarren has written a novel with a mix of intrigue, romance and action, resulting in a story for readers wanting adventure and love all in one exhilarating book.

- Ella Vincent, Pacific Book Review