sassy b*tches

Posted on November 3, 2013 by Cynthia G.

Don’t you just hate it when you spend the time looking for a yummy read, a book to fire your imagination and sooth your sense of adventure, only to find the heroine completely unlikeable in the end? We all know the pain of flirting with a book we think we will love only to break up with it half way between the covers because it’s a big fat dud. What if the story is good, but the writing itself is dull or just one bald cliché after another? Fear not, gentle reader. We have tools and search engines, and even clever strategies to make good book choices.

So how do you judge a book by its, er, cover? As in any endeavor, it’s important to know what you like. Just now, I pulled a Google search for “debut novels, 2013.” Many selections popped up. I clicked on the one entitled, “10 Dazzling Debut Novels to Pick Up Now” because I love to be dazzled, and it sounds like a promise. How do I choose? I know my limits. I know what I love and know what I won’t go near with a red hot poker.

Here is a small sampler of the “dazzlers,” a brief description of the storyline, and my reasons to adopt or reject them.

A Constellation of Vital Phenomena: “A neighbor saves an 8-year-old Chechen girl from the Russian soldiers who have taken her father, and together they seek shelter in an abandoned hospital.” Reject: too sad.
Crazy Rich Asians: “Opulence and zaniness reign when one of Singapore’s richest bachelors invites his American-born girlfriend to travel from New York to vacation in his native country.” Reject: Zaniness aside, I’m not terribly interested in fictional adventures of rich bachelors.
The Golem and the Jinni: “Two supernatural creatures accidentally unleashed in 19th-century Manhattan forge an unlikely alliance in this fantastical work of historical fiction.” Adopt: Magic + historical fiction. Yay!
American Spirit: “In this first novel from the outrageously funny host of The Moth podcast, a 40-something media exec goes rogue after losing his job in the recession, taking up drunken residence in his car before embarking on a vision quest to Bali by way of Los Angeles and Yellowstone.” Adopt: Vision quest + Yellowstone + Bali. Oh, yes!
The Execution of Noa P. Singleton: “In this grippingly off-kilter thriller, a young woman sits on death row after being convicted of murder until a high-powered attorney—the victim’s mother—intervenes, leaving everyone to wonder why.” Adopt: a young murderess saved at the 11^th hour? Hells yes.
Golden Boy: “A good-looking, athletic British teenager’s seemingly idyllic life gets turned upside down when his oldest friend betrays him, revealing a closely held family secret just as the boy’s father is about to run for political office.” Reject: Politics + betrayal. Zzzz.

And there you have it. Are my selections biased? Yes, without a doubt. I know what I like and life is too short for bad fiction.

Cynthia Gregory

the good life

Posted on October 5, 2013 by Cynthia G.

books are what we love.

share the love. here.

the egg was airborne

Posted on September 18, 2013 by Cynthia G.

OIL IN WATER

Pam Lazos

Chapter Seventy-One

Gil was under attack. He dodged a plastic missile and huddled under a small bush a few feet from the house. A large, old man, older than his father by a lot, was laughing. His laugh echoed, like it started down deep in the earth, and bulged and grew and it clawed its way to the top where it became fearsome and overpowering. It made Gil’s insides shake even though it was the first day of spring and pretty warm out.

The man threw empty plastic water bottles at him: Perrier, Deer Park, Evian, Crystal Springs. The small bottles bounced off, harmless. He only ducked when the man launched the larger one-gallon bottles. He looked around for an escape route and his eyes landed on the small plane parked next to the house. Kori would be pissed that he forgot to park it in the garage again, and more, that he was going to drive it without a license, but so what? He invented it. It wasn’t a conventional plane, but looked more like a giant egg laid on its side. Little claw-like chicken’s feet descended from the main compartment and kept the body steady when the plane was grounded. The wings retracted into the body. Inside the egg were two seats, a cushion on the floor for Max, and a control panel. Avery wanted to sell these planes some day, for a fraction of the cost of a Hummer.

Gil pulled a gas pump hose from an outlet below the kitchen window and crawled on his belly over to the egg, kicking plastic bottles as he went. He lifted the hatch and inserted the nozzle into the egg’s fuel tank, dodging several bottles thrown in rapid succession. The hose connected to a small TDU in the basement and was fed by the garbage disposal and the trash bin, a complete in situ unit. After a few minutes, the filling stalled and the hose went limp in Gil’s hand. He shook it, but nothing happened. He crawled back over and kicked the wall of the house like a man kicking the tires of the car. “Oowww,” he yelled, but the mini TDU failed to restart. “Dammit,” he said, then covered his mouth and looked around to see if his sister was within hearing distance.

The large man started laughing again. Gil panicked and dropped the hose. He was crawling toward the egg when he heard Max at the kitchen door, barking like a crazy dog, so he crawled back to the house and let him out. Together they ran and jumped into the egg. Gil started the engine and the little chicken legs took off running at a fast clip. The wings fanned, the thrusters thrusted and the egg was airborne, the chicken legs still running, but with no ground beneath them. When he retracted the legs, the egg shot straight up into the air. The large man bellowed, something between a laugh and a moan, and Gil accelerated. He turned around to see the man remove his Armani suit jacket, fold it neatly over his arm, and bend down to turn on an automatic ball toss machine.

“Where the heck did that come from?” Gil yelled to Max who raised his head to investigate. The machine began firing the empty plastic water bottles, pelting the egg mercilessly. Singularly, the bottles posed no harm, but collectively the force resulted in an erratic trajectory, throwing them off course while jolt after jolt caused the egg first to zig and then to zag. The large man laughed like a maniac, sending shock waves that caused the egg to tumble with each successive and inexorable guffaw.

“Hold on!” Gil yelled to Max who crouched down at Gil’s feet, his paws over his eyes. Gil steered a hard right to avoid a fresh onslaught of plastic and came close enough to see the man’s large mouth. And like the Cheshire cat, as the man’s the smile grew larger, his face shrank away until all that remained were his hideous radiating teeth, each half the size of the egg. The man threw a switch, converting the machine to fast pitch and Gil was bombarded. The egg began to plummet. A bottle cracked the window. A hole emerged and grew. Air leaked out of the cabin. Gil flicked at the overhead switches.

“We’re losing pressure,” he screamed. He pushed a button and air masks dropped from the ceiling. He covered Max’s large snout with one and was attempting to put his own mask on when the egg took another hit and rolled over on itself. The mask flew out of Gil’s hand and he lost control. He began coughing, choking for air. . .

Gil’s eyes flew open and he coughed for a full minute before regaining his breath. Images of eggs and plastic swirled in the world behind his eyelids and he was cold and sweaty. He burrowed a hand under Max’s furriness and lay his head on the dog’s massive neck. Max yawned and put his head on the bed pillow. Gil closed his eyes, but the images still danced behind the lids, so he forced himself awake and sat up in bed. He yawned. His stomach growled rudely, and the noise threw his feet over the side of the bed. He put his slippers on and went downstairs to breakfast.

to be continued . . .

start reading here and work backwards

very far away

Posted on June 17, 2013 by Cynthia G.

OIL IN WATER

Pam Lazos

Chapter Sixty-Five

Back in Houston, Bicky pulled the article off the fax machine and skimmed it. He huffed and sighed and stared out the bedroom window. He rubbed his head to stave off the headache that seemed inevitable.

“Dammit,” he said to no one in particular. “God dammit.” He dialed Jerry’s number and waited. The phone rang half a dozen times before Jerry picked up.

“I thought I told you to get back east and get those Goddamn kids under control,” Bicky barked into the phone.

“What?”

“The inventor’s kids! Did you check it out? No. You were too busy dicking around here doing God-knows-what.” Bicky was so angry he was sputtering.

“Kitty died. Remember? You know. Kitty. Your wife, of thirty-seven years. I was here for the funeral,” Jerry said.

“Don’t screw with me, Jerry.”

“I’m not screwing with you, Bicky. I’m telling you that some things are more important than others, which is something you haven’t learned in the last sixty years.”

“I didn’t call you for a psych session. I got a shrink for that. I called you about the kids.”

“I sent somebody. He said there was nothin’ going on.”

“Who the hell’d you send?”

“Guy that used to drive for us.”

“What guy?”

“The guy I fired a few months ago. You know. High strung.”

“You are freaking kidding me. You sent someone who didn’t work for us?”

“He was a good guy. And he had first hand knowledge, and if he got caught, he wasn’t one of us,” Jerry said. “Jesus, I’ll go check it out tomorrow.”

“Forget it. I’ll do it myself.” Bicky slammed down the receiver. He ran his hands through his hair and stared out into the darkness.

➣➣➣

Across town, Jerry hung up the phone and rubbed his eyes. An open book lay on the bed next to him and the light was still on. He roused himself and walked to the window. The night spread before him in varying shades of black like a Hollywood wardrobe.

“Damn psychotic son-of-a-bitch,” Jerry murmured.

He scanned the sparse room. A book shelf, filled to overflowing, a night stand and lamp, a single chair, behind him the silhouette of leafless trees. “What the hell am I doing?” He closed the curtain, shut the light and crawled back into bed.

➣➣➣

Jerry’s office, located in the basement of Akanabi Oil, was a tech-geek’s delight of an environment, encompassing ten thousand square feet and housing Akanabi’s main frame and various and sundry computer gadgetry. The whir and buzz of computer equipment was so intense that many of the technicians wore earplugs.

At the far end of the room, walled off from the rest of the equipment, was the closed circuitry monitoring station, Jerry’s own personal feifdom. The room had no windows and if not for the door at the far end, would appear to be a wall. Hundreds of cameras graced the offices, hallways, elevators and common areas at Akanabi Oil. Some were in plain view, some were circumspectly installed, all of them were monitored from this room. The cameras were such a ubiquitous part of the decor at Akanabi that after awhile people forgot they were being watched, an important plus from Jerry Dixon’s standpoint. These cameras in the offices of mid-management had originally been installed as a training mechanism. Surreptitious monitoring allowed suggestions as to tact and style that could be made later without embarrassing the manager in front of the customer. These had been “disabled” or so the managers thought, and could be brought back online with a few adjustments prior to a meeting should the manager request it.

The managers didn’t know what Jerry knew. The company’s fascination, it’s complete fixation with safety had morphed into something more sinister. Cameras and listening devices as small as buttons and earplugs graced every office, corridor and waiting area of Akanabi. The registered number of monitoring devices, about 1341, was more likely twice that many. Jerry kept the real list locked in a vault for which only he and Bicky had the combination.

Some days Jerry would come down to this room simply to watch. His voyeuristic desire had grown from his abject loneliness. Had you asked him, point blank, whether he was lonely he would have vehemently denied it, but the signs were there, the fastidiousness, the borderline obsessive compulsive behavior traits, the need to control his environment and to have things “just so”.

Kitty had the ability to curtail in him some of his more destructive tendencies simply by being in the room. Yet in the days since her death, he’d felt a welling up of those emotions and was at a loss as to how to channel the energy. He sat, staring at a computer screen, contemplating this very issue when Bicky burst through the door.

Jerry catapulted from his chair, rolled to the floor, drew his gun, released the safety and pointed it directly at Bicky’s head.

“Are you crazy?” he shouted from a crouching position on the floor.

Bicky said nothing, but jumped on Jerry like a feral cat, punching and clawing at his face. Jerry put up his hands to deflect the onslaught, but not before a right hook caught him in the temple. That was the last contact Bicky made. In moments, Jerry reversed positions and had Bicky pinned with a knee on one elbow, his hand holding down the other, the gun pointed at Bicky’s forehead. Jerry hovered above Bicky, relishing the role reversal. He stepped back so Bicky could stand, but offered no hand to help.

“Was that some kind of test?” Jerry laid the gun aside, but did not turn his back to his boss. Bicky brushed himself off and straightened his suit and tie. He stared at Jerry so ferociously that Jerry’s hand instinctively found his gun. Bicky threw a stack of papers at the ground.

“You’re fired. Collect your stuff. Leave your keys, your combinations, your camera equipment, and all your other stuff with Phyllis. I want you gone by the end of the day. And if I catch you anywhere near here, ever, I’ll rip your balls off with my bare hands.” He stared at Jerry for a few seconds working his jaw as if to get the tension out before speaking again.

“You were like my brother, you little prick.” Bicky spat at the ground, turned on his heel and left.

Jerry stared at the papers on the floor until his vision went soft and he leaned over to pick them up. The top paper was a codicil to the Last Will and Testament of Kitty McCain Coleman. The original will lay underneath. Jerry sat down to read.

The original will gave the portion of Kitty’s estate that she brought with her into the marriage, substantial in its own right, to Sonia. In addition, half the shares of Akanabi left to Kitty by her father-in-law went to Sonia to do with as she pleased. The other half went to The Nature Conservancy with instructions that the stocks be sold and PGWI given the fair market value of them. There were additional provisions on what PGWI should do with the money. Jerry skipped over them and continued, flipping through the document until a specific provision caught his eye. First Bicky, and then Sonia had a guaranteed thirty-day right of first refusal on the PGWI stocks. In this manner, Kitty assured that control of the company stayed within the family should the family still want it. Probably why Bicky agreed to this will in the first place. The mansion, in Kitty’s family for generations, went to Bicky. “Straight forward enough,” Jerry said to himself. He turned to the codicil and what he read made the hair on his arms stand up and his body shudder.

The codicil changed everything. Kitty had left her personal estate — everything that would have gone to Sonia which included a good deal of jewelry and other family heirlooms as well as shares of various stocks and bonds – to Hart. The mansion she left to Bicky. The remainder which consisted solely of Akanabi stock and which should have gone to Sonia and PGWI, now went solely to Jerry with instructions to sell it all and give half the proceeds to PGWI, but only if he was so inclined. Notably absent from the codicil was the provision giving Bicky a thirty-day right of first refusal. The codicil was executed three months after Sonia died. Kitty had never said a word to him.

Jerry looked up from the papers and saw, as if for the first time, the drab, windowless office. Hundreds of images blurred, a thousand sounds merged into an incessant buzzing that seemed bearable only minutes ago, and for the last thirty odd years before that. His eyes followed the bundled cabling, sitting in silence while billions of bytes of information cruised through its wires every hour and he was suddenly very tired. He inhaled deep and full, his first real breath in decades, but his nostrils were met with the dustiness of a room that never saw daylight and he coughed the breath out, his body repelling it like poison. Jerry thought he could see the rejected breath, little dust clouds riding an imaginary wave of sunlight. The stack of papers in his lap looked very far away, like something on the horizon that you knew was there, but couldn’t quite make out. A giant tear drop fell from each eye and landed neatly on the page, spreading slowly, like a virus.

to be continued. . .

go back and read this

Game of Thrones

Posted on May 8, 2013 by Cynthia G.

We love popular culture + we love books.

Read all about it here.

a hundred years from Monday

Posted on February 2, 2013 by Cynthia G.

OIL IN WATER

Pam Lazos

Chapter Fifty-Five

A few days later, Kori was pulling out in Ruth’s minivan when Jack cruised up the driveway, forcing her to slam on the breaks to avoid a head-on collision. He stepped out of his car, an impish smile on his face, and walked over to the driver’s side. She looked beautiful.

“Better watch where you’re going,” Jack said. “You could hit somebody.”

“Better you than me.”

“Nice to see you, too.” Kori stared straight ahead, ignoring him.

“How come you haven’t returned my calls?”

“You called?”

“Very funny, Kori. What the hell’s going on?”

“Nothing. Why do you ask?”

“I’ve been calling you all week, is why I ask, and I know you haven’t been home because I’ve driven by a dozen times. Then last night one of my buddies says he saw you and some flunky out having dinner.”

“We’re just friends.”

“Oh yeah? When was the last time you lip-locked a friend?”

Kori shrugged.

“Answer me, dammit.”

Kori stared at the woods to the side of the house. Jack yanked open the driver’s side door and pulled her out by the arm.

“Ow….”

“Oh, now I have your attention….”

Kori shook loose from his grip and stalked off across the lawn. Jack ran ahead, hampering further progress.

“What in God’s name has gotten into you? Why are you so angry?”

“Because you’re a self-centered bastard. You waste your time watching sports when you could read a book. You prefer a night of drinking with your friends to the movies with me. You have no interest in my work. But most of all, because you wouldn’t go to the Goddamn public meeting with me!” She said the last with such venom that Jack thought she was going to strike him to hammer the point home, but she just turned on her heel and walked back toward the car. He stared after her, dumbfounded, before running to catch up.

“I’m sorry. If I’d have known it meant so much I would’ve gone with you.”

“You did know.”

“I didn’t. I swear. Come here.” Jack pulled Kori in and hugged her to his chest. “I miss you. Please don’t do this.”

Kori raised her face to him.

“Besides. Robbie told me to take care of you.”

Kori grimaced and shoved Jack as hard as she could. He lost his balance and fell backwards.

“And Robbie told me to watch out for you,” she said, “but not the way you think. Anyway, Robbie’s dead. Gone. Just like you. Just like everybody.”

Jack jumped up and grabbed the back of her neck. He pushed her chin up and kissed her gruffly. “It would be a shame to lose what we have.” He wound his arms around her and whispered in her ear. “To walk away just so you can be the first to leave is a horrible waste of time. Sometimes there are things bigger and more satisfying than an indulgence of your pride.”

“Like what?

“Like happiness.”

“Oh, pull-ease”

Jack released his grip and took a step back, putting air between them. “Are you afraid to be happy with me?”

“I was happy with you until I saw what an egotistical prick you are.”

“C’mon, Kori. This is stupid.” He kissed her again and this time she responded with her mouth and her body. After a minute, she released him. He was electrified.

“Alright. You win.” She reached out and gave his dick a little squeeze. He shivered at the touch. “Call me, say, a hundred years from Monday. That should put us squarely in the next lifetime.” She strode to the van, slamming the door after her.

Jack watched as she put the transmission into all wheel drive and drove through the small forested grove to the side of the driveway, pulling out onto the road before he even registered what happened.

➣➣➣

Jack walked around to the back of the house and, hearing music, followed it to the barn. He banged on the door, but Gil didn’t hear him over the bass. He peeked in the window and saw Gil holding Max up by his front paws and dancing to the Bacon Brothers, Philadelphia Chickens. Jack knocked on the window and when Gil saw him, he screamed and dropped Max to the ground.

Gil lowered the volume on the stereo and opened the door. “You can’t sneak up on a person.”

Jack laughed. “It’s not like it was hard.”

“Where’ve you been?” Gil demanded.

“Home. At work. Out. You want a list?”

“Why not here?”

“Your sister’s not talking to me.”

“So what? I’m talking to you.”

Jack tilted his head, shrugged his shoulders and gave Gil a lopsided smile. “Gilly.”

Gil looked askance at Jack, set his lips in a grim straight line, and closed the door.

“Gil, come on,” Jack said, knocking again.

Gil locked the door and turned up the music.

to be continued. . .

to get caught up start here

what writers are reading

Posted on December 1, 2012 by Cynthia G.

we know what we like and we really like this book.

read our review then buy the book in honor of a girl you love. gr.

oil in the river

Posted on November 29, 2012 by Cynthia G.

OIL IN WATER

Pam Lazos

Chapter Forty-Six

The day dawned bright and balmy in Houston. Bicky Coleman sat behind his antique mahogany desk, smoking a cigar and reading The Philadelphia Inquirer. Akanabi was taking less of a beating in the newspapers now that Hart was on the scene, commissioning overflights and vacuum boats, throwing all kinds of money at the situation. Maybe it would help them later when the feds and everyone else sued Akanabi out the wazoo for penalties the company didn’t deserve. After all, it had been an accident.

When Hart had called last night he babbled on and on about retiring all of Akanabi’s single-hulled ships. Bicky had humored him, but knew that suggestion would end up in the circular file.

“You want me to retire all the single-hulled ships?” Bicky had asked Hart.

“At least let’s phase them out. Fifteen to twenty percent a year.”

“Hart, my son, are you sure hypothermia hasn’t set in and affected that brain of yours?”

“It’s gonna hit you where it hurts, Bicky, but it’s the right thing to do. The river’s black like you’ve never seen. Just avoiding the devastation to wildlife should be cause enough.”

“Give me a memo. We’ll talk about it when you get back.”

Bicky had said that to shut Hart up; he had absolutely no intention of following through. Building new ships was an expensive proposition. More than half of Akanabi’s supertanker fleet were single-hulled ships, purchased in the heyday of oil drilling. To replace them all at once, even over a period of five years would cost hundreds of billions of dollars. And Bicky was loathe to spend that kind of money. Legislation would eventually force his hand, but why rush things?

The intercom buzzed and Phyllis’s voice jarred him to awareness.

“Jerry’s here.”

“Send him in.”

➣➣➣

Jerry Dixon walked in, looking grim, but impeccable. Bicky’s face was stuck in the paper so Jerry waited. Bicky had several personalities that didn’t always talk to each other, and Jerry thought it best to see which one was in residence.

Bicky looked up and smirked. “How many of those suits do you have?”

“I don’t know. How many do you have?” Jerry said, indicating Bicky’s Armani.

“You know what I mean. Do you spend the whole day ironing or change suits every ten minutes? Cause you know I’m paying you good money to keep things secure around here, so if you’re ironing….” Bicky’s smirk turned to a smile.

Jerry relaxed and sat down. “How’s Hart doing with the spill?”

Bicky studied his buffed fingernails. “Apparently something a little better than damage control. Seems he’s making friends.”

“What are the odds on the cleanup?”

“The river will survive. It’s rebounded before, as have countless of her brethren. It will do so again,” said Bicky, sounding like a Sunday morning TV evangelist.

Jerry scowled, a reflex. Akanabi could dump ten million gallons of oil in the river and Bicky would insist it was nothing.

“You have no faith, Jerry,” Bicky continued. “I’m not even sure if there’s a limit to how far you can go.”

Here we go, Jerry thought.

“Mother Nature is infinitely capable of rejuvenating herself.”

“Yeah, well, she’s not doing such a good job with the ozone layer,” Jerry replied. “I got a spot on my nose here that the doc says is pre-cancerous. Too many hours spent outside in an ozone-lite environment,” he said, rubbing his proboscis. “I’m getting it removed tomorrow.”

Bicky rubbed his own nose absently. His face bore a healthy, radiant glow that smacked of hours spent on a tanning bed. Jerry knew he kept one in an office down the hall. Some people used makeup. Bicky used processed UV light. Jerry wondered just how many of those “freckles” on Bicky’s face had their own story to tell and when they’d decide to start talking.

“Spare me the details,” Bicky said. He stood and stared out the window. “You don’t have any information yet, do you?”

Jerry shook his head, watched his boss, looking for clues.

“No. I’ve made discreet inquiries. No one saw anything.” Bicky flashed Jerry an angry look.

“The coroner says it was an accident, Bicky. Why don’t you believe that?”

“Graighton’s the only other one who knew Sonia had the report. He was at the Union Club that night. It’s only a couple miles to Sonia’s house….”

“You’re saying Graighton left the Union Club, killed Sonia and returned without the report?’ Jerry asked.

“Of course not. Graighton didn’t go himself. One of his lackeys did. You remember where we found the report? Whoever killed Sonia didn’t find what he was looking for. Maybe that’s what angered him in the first place.”

“But what would Graighton gain by killing Sonia and stealing a report he already had a copy of?”

“He was trying to get to me. Put me in my place.” Bicky sat down. “Even that doesn’t make sense.” His head fell against his chair. “Just keep looking.”

“Yeah, sure,” Jerry said.

“One more thing,” Bicky reached into the top drawer. “I want you in Philadelphia.”

“For….?”

“I got another tip.” He handed Jerry a piece of paper. “Recognize the address?” Jerry’s eyebrows shot up, but he said nothing.

“Don’t botch it this time. No commando missions. Nothing getting blown up. No one dying. Just bring me back the technology. You got it?”

Jerry nodded, a face set in stone.

“You’re sure you found out nothing else…about Sonia?” Bicky asked.

“You think I’m not doing my job, old man?” Jerry’s face remained cool and impassive.

“I think, that you’re too quick to accept the opinion of other’s. What’s that jackass coroner know?”

“She had an accident. She died. Accidents happen.”

“Accidents don’t just happen. Not to us. You should know that better than anyone, Mr. Chief of Security.”

“You’re wrong. They do. But what precipitated it? That’s the question. Perhaps she was depressed, worried about her husband, flustered. Or maybe something spooked her. Or someone.” Jerry placed his hands on the front of Bicky’s desk and leaned into it. “Came around hassling her for something she wasn’t inclined to give. She spills her drink. The floor’s wet. She takes a step. She slips. She falls. A body in motion stays in motion. She can’t stop herself from falling. She bangs her head and, is out like a light. And if the baby didn’t decide to come out at that moment, if he didn’t decide to come out upside down, what do they call it, breach? Maybe she’d be alive today. The fact is, unless you were there,” Jerry looked Bicky directly in the eye with malicious intent, “you’re never going to know.”

Bicky shuddered. After several seconds, Jerry stood up and backed away from the desk. He massaged his eyes and forehead with one hand, trying to squeeze the images out of them.

“I loved Sonia like she was my own kid. That she’s dead pains me – like you can’t even believe,” Jerry said. He turned and was gone, an exit as quick and silent as death.

Bicky let out the breath he’d been holding and pulled a silk handkerchief from his breast pocket. He wiped his face and dabbed at the moisture forming in the corner of his eyes.

So far, it had been a hell of an afternoon. He walked to the wet bar, poured himself a scotch and soda and stood at the window sipping it. The world below soothed him. He could control it simply by pulling the blind. When he finally turned away, he pulled out the bottom desk drawer. Below a stack of papers, tucked in the bottom drawer, lay the coffee-stained report. Satisfied, Bicky closed the drawer and thumbed through a stack of mail in his in-box. Phyllis had opened everything, laying it in a pile for his review except for one letter, marked personal and confidential. He ripped the envelope open and pulled out a small stack of papers.

It was a letter from Kitty’s lawyer, a Complaint for Divorce and a Postnuptial Agreement with which she proposed to divest herself of everything just to be rid of the marriage. Bicky sipped his scotch for five minutes before pulling a yellow sticky pad out of a side drawer. He placed one on top of the lawyer’s letter, wrote Forget It! in bold, black ink, and stuffed the papers back into the envelope. Then he buzzed Phyllis.

“Is Jerry still here?

“He just went down.”

“Catch him, will you, and tell him to come back up. I want him to deliver something for me. To my wife.”

to be continued. . .

to read how we got to this state of affairs jump here

chalky clouds and purple prose

Posted on October 27, 2012 by Cynthia G.

Journal THAT

a guide to writing

Cynthia Gregory

There are good adjectives and bad adjectives. There are the regular, hard-working-show-up-in-the-middle-of-the-night-but-go-unnoticed adjectives and then there are what I call the 25 cent adjectives. You know the kind, all flashy and shiny and bright, the kind you notice more than the noun that they’re describing. They’re like fast food; they temporarily distract you from the fact that there is nothing of substance behind them, they are the literary equivalent of a plate of whipped cream.

I know a lot about these razzle-dazzle kinds of describers, these peacocks of poetry. I used to scatter them around liberally, clever as I was. But what happened when I really got rolling, is that the point I was trying to make got totally buried under my ponderous prose. My meaning sagged under the weight of all that reckless description. My language got so pearly and polished that everything I wrote began to sound like a steaming, verdant jungle, packed with all the lush pomegranates, mangoes and papayas of meaning I could wedge in. I mean seriously, an old pair of scruffed sneakers with one broken lace is a perfectly respectable sort of description. But when I got done with it, those Keds sounded like Ritz Carlton glass slippers.

What happened when I began to excavate the core of my message, the humble meaning of my narrative began to emerge as I sliced away one fabulous phrase after another. Everyone knows by now the famous story of what Michaelango said when someone asked how he knew how to carve the statue of David – he said, “oh, I just got rid of what didn’t belong.” You need to do the same with your descriptive language. Pare it down, pare it the hell down. Make it lean and mean and dense. Never use a twenty-five cent word when a nickel will do.

Many people mistakenly think that a short story is easier to write than a novel, because it’s more compact. They think that a poem is even easier, because there are fewer words yet. But the exact opposite is true. Did you know that? The shorter the piece, the harder it is to write. This is because with fewer words, every one has to count. There is no room for extra padding, no place to hide. There are no long stretches of narrative, expeditions into expostulation. You have to say exactly what you mean. Every word, every verb, has to carry the weight of the sentence on its meager back, so it must be strong, and it must be absolutely true. The shorter the writing, the denser it becomes. Not dese heavy, just dense: full of meaning; ripe as a summer peach, juicy and succulent.

It’s easy to see why people fall in love with a flush of flabby, fatuous descriptions; because they mean nothing. We’re a TV culture after all, we’re used to that. Flamboyant descriptors are like a magician’s trick, a sleight of hand. Honest writing, writing from the heart, strips you naked. It’s much easier to hide your fragile heart behind a veil of words. But that takes no courage. If you want to journal, you must be brave. You must go into the room you’re afraid to enter and stay there until you have emptied yourself out. And the next day, you must go in there again. You can never completely empty yourself through journaling. There is always something more, something deeper, something rich and rare and precious because it comes from within you. It comes from a place beyond the glittery surface. It comes slick and dark and wet and you must love it. You must stay with it until your heart stops quaking in your chest and you must put it on the page, make it authentic. This is real courage. This is what true love is made of: entering into that place that terrifies you and staying there, listening, writing, watching, recording it all, until the quiet enters and the writing is complete.

Sometimes you will flow with a million thoughts, like droplets of water over Niagara Falls, and there is nothing wrong with that. I would like to suggest however, that there is a balance. If you can practice both ends of this particular writing scale, you will become a better writer. When you sit down to write, think simply. Don’t think you have to impress anyone, to show off. You have an audience of one, and its you.

Here is an exercise that will illustrate what I’m getting at. Sit with your journal and an orange, in a quiet place. Write for fifteen minutes describing the dimpled orb of fruit without using the word orange more than once. Go into that room and stay there. You can riff on the orange if you want, start with the fruit, talk about the blossom or the orchard, or the hands that harvested the one you hold in your hand, but Don’t use the word orange more than once in your description. You can use another fruit if you wish, but the same rules apply. So chose a plum, but don’t use purple. Or choose an apple, but don’t use red or green. You get the point. Hold yourself apart from using the descriptor that is most obvious, and what you get in return is a whole new way to relate to description in general.

Be objective, be a journalist. Pick up the newspaper and read an article about an event. Journalists use the fewest adjectives than just about any writer, and most of those are worth a nickel. They don’t say “it was a stunningly sunny day with chalky clouds dotting the horizon.” No, they say, “the day was warm, with scattered clouds.” Period. There is an elegance in that kind of simplicity. Practice being a journal-ist. Practice simplicity with your journal. And be patient with yourself. This stuff takes practice.

murky water with low visibility

Posted on October 23, 2012 by Cynthia G.

OIL IN WATER

Pam Lazos

Chapter Forty-Three

Hart descended into the murky realms of the Delaware River, enjoying the cocoon-like warmth of his wet suit. He had opted for it over the dry suit even though the water was on its way to below freezing. The dry suit would keep him dry, but not warm enough, not in these arctic-like conditions. Ah, but the wet suit, that was a suit of a different color. It sported an insulated neoprene hose which tied onto the outside of the umbilical, ran down the side of his body and attached at the spider, a three-way valve at the waist of his suit. The hose was fed by a hot water machine that had an oil-fired burner and a digital thermostat to control the temperature. Under usual circumstances, water to feed the hose would be drawn from the water body the diver found himself in, but given the petrol load the Delaware was carrying, Hart directed the hot water machine be fed with water from a local fire hydrant and transported via garden hose. The hose was threaded around the interior of Hart’s wet suit and one hundred degree water escaped through the little holes poked in it, entering in myriad locations and keeping his whole body warm. The hose could even blow warm water through the cuff and into Hart’s smaller gloves making the large, bulky, but warmer three-finger gloves unnecessary. Hart closed his eyes, allowing himself to bask for a few moments in the warmth before proceeding down the ladder into the water.

The Delaware river, a murky water with low visibility on a good day, was even worse today because of the impending storm. Hart reached a level that he assumed would be the bottom of the ship’s hull, but without touching it he couldn’t distinguish metal from water. He dropped another few feet, holding fast to the traveling line, but the scenery didn’t change.

“Great. Now what?”

“What’s up, Boss?” Smith’s voice crackled through Hart’s umbilical flooding the inner chamber of his helmet with sound.

“I can’t see a damn thing. What are they puttin’ in this water anyway?”

“Lots of industry around here. Ships going up and down the channel churnin’ up the bottom. The Army Corps always dredging it to keep the depth right. Then there’s the farming,” Smith mused. “I’d say you got some sediment, some debris…”

“It was a rhetorical question, Smithy.”

“…and, I’d leave it at that. You don’t want to be thinking too hard about what you’re swimming in unless you want to puke in your helmet.” Smith cracked up at that, and Hart joined him, his body quivering with silent laughter.

“Smithy. Help me here. I can’t see the ship. It’s no where in sight, far as I can tell.” Hart flicked his headlamp on and off, looking to bounce the light off of something. He wrapped the tow rope around his leg before reaching his hands out in front of him, groping vainly in the darkness. “I got nothin’.”

“The traveling rope should be about three feet in front of the Ryujin . So if you’re facing in the right direction, you could jump…”

Before Smith could finish his sentence Hart jumped, using the traveling rope for leverage, and after a forward propulsion in slow motion, his helmet came to rest against the hull of the Ryujin with a resounding thump.

“What was that?” Smith asked.

“My brains getting rattled.” Hart moved his hands along, feeling for the bilge keel, the fin-like projections from either side of the hull that helped stabilize a ship in rough seas. He cast his light directly on the hull and found he could see somewhat better. Hart’s thin gloves allowed for greater movement, but also meant he’d be more prone to cuts and scraps against jagged metal. He proceeded with caution moving down and around the bottom of the hull, alert for sharp metallic pieces of the ship’s frame.

After several dim minutes, Hart’s glove snagged on a sharp object. He trained the light in its direction and found a hole, about fifteen inches wide and half as long. He reached his hand in, feeling the emptiness of the space where the oil used to be and shuddered. The boulder, or whatever it was, had ripped a hole right on a seam of the hull, a faulty one at that. Hart’s eye followed the rip in the hull until it dissolved into blackness. He pulled out an underwater tape measure and after ascertaining the width, proceeded down the length of the hull looking for the end of the rainbow. Eight and a half feet later, the gaping stopped. Now it made sense. Hart had been wondering how in the hell so much oil had come out of what he was thinking probably looked like a small gash in the bottom, given both the pilot and captain’s descriptions of impact. With a small hole and entrainment, most of the oil would have stayed put while the ship was moving. But this was no small hole. The impact had given way to a split seam on the hull. With a hole this size, no matter how fast the ship had been going, the oil was coming out. Zenone was right: time to retire the single-hulled vessels. The expense to the company was nothing compared to what it was doing to this river. He’d talk to Bicky about it as soon as he got back. Bicky would have other ideas, but he’d never been on Site for a major oil spill either….

“Hey, Boss.” Smith’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “Time to come home. Coast Guard just issued a squall warning. They want all ships and other non-necessary personnel out of the water, pronto.”

“I can’t see a damn thing anyway, got so much oil on my face-plate,” Hart said. “I’m on my way up.”

to be continued. . .

click here to see what led to this state of affairs