How Do You Know When...

...you've spent too much time with little ones?

Here's how:

Last week on Mother's Day, in addition to a special card I made for my wife, I bought her a bottle of wine from one of our local wineries, Hunt Country. I'd been there a few years ago for a "mystery tour" book signing, and had the pleasure of meeting their gorgeous dog, "Gus." Of course, it was a special treat, since my main character in LeGarde Mysteries is Gus LeGarde. I arrived early for the event, and this wonderful dog followed me on a long walk through the vineyards. I just found out that Gus, a Bernese Mountain Dog, passed away and the new label, "Sweet Gus," is a rose' in memory of him. Sniff. He was so lovely.

Anyway, I bought a bottle of "Sweet Gus" for my wife, and when my daughter offered to go get it for us in the other room, I said, "Get the bottle with the D-O-G on the label."

My wife looked at me and smiled. "What, I can't spell now?"

I'd been spelling all week around the kids, in spite of the fact that my oldest grandson now knows how to spell almost everything. And what? I didn't think my wife would know what I was talking about? I laughed so hard at my idiocy that it took me a half hour to stop the tears and chuckles. I'm such a dope!

***

And how do you know when you've become too close with your dog?

When every time you leave the house - to mow the lawn, to get the mail, or to go food shopping - he jumps all over you like you've been gone for weeks. And on top of that, Balto has now taken to raiding my dirty laundry basket. Yup. You guessed it. When I'm gone, he drags out my jeans, tee shirts, socks, and even...er... underwear. He lays his head on these smelly treasures and growls when anyone comes near them.

What's he telling me?

That he'll be really upset when I start my new job in a few weeks.

Drat. I don't know how he'll get through it...

As happy as I am that I'm now employed again... I'm going to miss my family and this big brown eyed goofball.

www.legardemysteries.com

www.mooremysteries.com

 www.murderby4.blogspot.com

Relentless, by Dean Koontz

Once again, I’ve come face to face, or nose to page as the case may be, with “the master.” An entire year of reading other authors’ books has deprived me of this thrill, this high, this bow-down-to-the-best-writer-on-earth sensation. I’ve missed it. Frankly, it’s been so long, I didn’t even remember how much I missed it!

This week, I had the intense pleasure of reading Relentless by Dean Koontz. Blazed through it in two sittings. Glued to the pages, mesmerized by the story and the writing, I whipped through the chapters with eyes wide open and heart pounding.

As fast as I read, I also stopped to savor every witty conversation. I lusted after each poetic passage. I marveled at his ability to keep me hanging off the cliff for the whole damned story. And of course, I underlined a hundred passages.

Reading this type of book is how I learned to write, how I continue to hunger for his level of craftsmanship, how I push myself harder and harder.

Damn, he’s good.

“The lead-gray sky of the previous afternoon, which had looked as flat and uniform as a freshly painted surface, was deteriorating. Curls of clouds peeled back, revealing darker masses, and beards of mist hung like tattered cobwebs from a crumbling ceiling.”

“Curls of clouds?” I LOVE that. “Beards of mist?” Divine. How many times have I described the sky or mist in my books? Dozens upon dozens. But my brain never came up with “curls of clouds.”

Here’s another genius passage, once again describing the sky.

“High in the steadily blackening sky, a silent convulsion broke the string in an infinite necklace, and fat pearls fell through the day, bouncing on the slate patio, dimpling the water in the harbor, rattling the gulls off the seawall to sheltered roosts.”

Sigh. See what I mean? “Fat pearls fell through the day.” “Rattling the gulls off the seawall.” Magic. Genius. Sheer beauty.

Of course, Koontz’s rising and plummeting, rocking and rolling, constant fast heartbeat action is renowned. Even more so here, with shocking, luscious secrets unveiled partway through the story about a writer who gets a really bad review by a reviewer-turned-psycho. It escalates so fast from there, my head spun for the rest of the thrill ride.

Koontz is also a master at dialog. He’s just about the best I’ve ever read, and I particularly love his page long passages of dialog that contain not one tag or beat. Just quotes. Clear. Concise. Never a doubt who’s talking. That’s Koontz.

Of course, his sense of humor slays me. Check out this description of a very huge man.

“As usual, he wore a vibrant Hawaiian shirt, khaki pants, and sneakers. The shirt presented an acre of lush palm trees silhouetted against a sunset; and one of his shoes could have carried the baby Moses down the river more safely than an ark full of bulrushes.”

More than once I laughed out loud, waking up my poor wife who was trying to sleep. (Sorry, hon! Don’t blame me. Blame Dean Koontz!)

As writers, we need this kind of literary shaking up as often as possible. As readers, we deserve this kind of a treat. Now I’m on to my next Koontz book–The Longest Night of the Year. I can’t wait!

If you read one book this week, treat yourself to Relentless. I guarantee it will stir up your creative juices and take you on a virtual thrill ride that will knock your socks off.

***

Aaron Paul Lazar wasn’t always a mystery writer. It wasn’t until eight members of his family and friends died within five years that the urge to write became overwhelming. “When my father died, I lost it. I needed an outlet, and writing provided the kind of solace I couldn’t find elsewhere.”

Lazar created the Gus LeGarde mystery series, with the founding novel, DOUBLE FORTÉ (2004), a chilling winter mystery set in the Genesee Valley of upstate New York. Like Lazar’s father, protagonist Gus LeGarde is a classical music professor. Gus, a grandfather, gardener, chef, and nature lover, plays Chopin etudes to feed his soul and thinks of himself as a “Renaissance man caught in the 21^stcentury.”

The creation of the series lent Lazar the comfort he sought, yet in the process, a new passion was unleashed. Obsessed with his parallel universe, he now lives, breathes, and dreams about his characters, and has written ten LeGarde mysteries in eight years. (UPSTAGED – 2005; TREMOLO: CRY OF THE LOON – 2007 Twilight Times Books; MAZURKA – 2009 Twilight Times Books, FIRESONG – 2010; with more to come.)

One day while rototilling his gardens, Lazar unearthed a green cat’s eye marble, which prompted the new paranormal mystery series featuring Sam Moore, retired country doctor and zealous gardener. The green marble, a powerful talisman, connects all three of the books in the series, whisking Sam back in time to uncover his brother’s dreadful fate fifty years earlier. (HEALEY’S CAVE: A GREEN MARBLE MYSTERY, 2010; ONE POTATO, BLUE POTATO, 2011; FOR KEEPS, 2012) Lazar intends to continue both series.

Lazar’s books feature breathless chase scenes, nasty villains, and taut suspense, but are also intensely human stories, replete with kids, dogs, horses, food, romance, and humor. The author calls them, “country mysteries,” although reviewers have dubbed them “literary mysteries.”

“It seems as though every image ever impressed upon my brain finds its way into my work. Whether it’s the light dancing through stained-glass windows in a Parisian chapel, curly slate-green lichencovering a boulder at the edge of a pond in Maine, or hoarfrost dangling from a cherry tree branch in mid-winter, these images burrow into my memory cells. In time they bubble back, persistently itching, until they are poured out on the page.”

The author lives on a ridge overlooking the Genesee Valley in upstate New York with his wife, daughter, three grandchildren, mother-in-law, three dogs, and cat. Although recent empty nesters, he and his wife just finished fixing up their 1811 antique home when the kids moved home. Again.

Lazar maintains several websites and blogs, was the Gather Saturday Writing Essential host from 2006-2008, writes his monthly “Seedlings” columns for the Voice in the Dark literary journal and the Future Mystery Anthology Magazine. He has been published in Absolute Write as well as The Great Mystery and Suspense Magazine. See excerpts and reviews here:

www.legardemysteries.com

www.mooremysteries.com

www.murderby4.blogspot.com

www.aplazar.gather.com

www.aaronlazar.blogspot.com

Contact him at aaron.lazar@yahoo.com.

The Lost Art of Letter Writing

copyright aaron paul lazar, 2010

Most of us correspond daily with email. When you take a moment to slow down and examine your email, you may realize you write and receive dozens per day. Some days it’s more, but if we go away for a week or get caught up in life away from the Internet for a while, we’re often buried.

Sound familiar?

How long has it been since you wrote a real live honest to goodness paper letter? On stationary, for that matter? I hadn’t even sent Christmas cards in eons, since life got crazy and I could quickly dash off an e-card or a few lines of Christmas cheer with a bright email. So much simpler, right?

Email became so convenient that we all sneered at snail mail and used to roll our eyes when some venture required us to actually print out a letter and affix a (way too expensive) stamp to it.

But since I got my new wireless printer, packs of fancy paper and envelopes, and started applying for colleges and new agents all at the same time, I got into the groove of typing out envelopes (I never could figure out how to do that until now, LOL!) and letters on nice stationary. Damn, they look so good on that pale blue fancy parchment paper.

Strangely enough, I found the exercise pleasant. There was something satisfying about licking the stamp and putting it in the mailbox. I started to wonder if I was regressing to my youth, because I used to correspond with people all the time. When I left home to move to the Finger Lakes region of New York, I wrote long newsy letters to my grandparents back on the east coast. I’d enclose snapshots (another thing I haven’t ordered in ages! Must do that!) and enjoyed the process of sitting out under a big old maple tree during my lunch breaks at work, and penning many pages about our triumphs and traumas. My handwriting has gone to hell in a hand basket since then, probably because I don’t practice any more. It used to be quite elegant, something like the Renaissance man I’m supposed to be should have in his arsenal of skills. You know, drawing, piano, gardening, photography, poetry, and nice handwriting. Ha.

Since I’ve had a little more time on my hands this year (in starts and spurts), I’ve taken the time to print out well crafted letters to friends I haven’t seen in ages to reconnect with them. My ex-boss from Kodak, a fellow writer who’s in the hospital, my old pal from college… it felt good to create a letter you can touch and feel and save in a drawer. Know what I mean?

When people send me thank you cards – something that’s really almost a lost art, I think – I feel so special! After a library event or book club appearance, I’ve often received these colorful notes from my readers. You know what? It feels great.

I wonder, have you taken the time to pen a handwritten note lately?

Do you notice how much more casual we are in our emails compared to when we type them to print out or write them longhand? We’ve gotten more and more lax in our grammar, punctuation, and now the shortcuts are so common that even in this article I’ve used “LOL”, because I think there are just a handful of people out there who don’t know it means Laughing Out Loud. It’s so engrained now, I sometimes find myself tempted to use it in my writing, which is absurd, of course.

If you can find a spare moment this weekend, go dig up some of your old cards or stationary, and pen a thoughtful note to someone you’ve let drift out of your life. It’ll make you feel real good. And I’ll bet it will make your friend feel even better.

 ***

Aaron Paul Lazar writes to soothe his soul. The author of LeGarde Mysteries and Moore Mysteries enjoys the Genesee Valley countryside in upstate New York, where his characters embrace life, play with their dogs and grandkids, grow sumptuous gardens, and chase bad guys. Visit his websites at www.legardemysteries.com andwww.mooremysteries.com and watch for his upcoming release, HEALEY’S CAVE, coming in 2010.

Copyright aaron paul lazar 2010, all rights reserved

Dear Daughter,

I don’t mean to do it. It’s not like I use beef-flavored deodorant or hide doggie treats under my mattress. Nor do I blow the silent whistle every night to get them to pile onto my bed. They just want to sleep with me. All three of them.

I don’t call them upstairs. I don’t pat the mattress and make kissy noises. In fact, I hope they decide to stay with you, dear daughter, instead of me, because all night long I’m pinned beneath furry masses, desperately trying to find a spot for my knees and feet.

It’s been like this since you moved home. And I wish it was different!

I wake up ten times during the week with sore shoulders and hips, needing to flip. Amber lays like a lump on my feet, not next to them, her fifteen pounds feels like fifty. Balto curls beside me, his spine pushing me sideways so that I have about ten inches of mattress. And little Domino hops from side to side each time I turn, jumping into the cave of my knees with the alacrity of a circus dog.

I try to move Amber from my legs – she doesn’t budge. I have to gently pick her up and slide her lumpy little body sideways. Quickly, very quickly, I need to move and reposition, but usually she finds the spot before me and I need to either give in or move her again.

It’s not the ideal sleeping condition, for sure. Okay, so they keep me warm on really cold nights. But for me, they’re all Three Dog Nights, whether it’s frigid February or sweltering summer.

Anyway, dear daughter, sorry about being the dog stealer. It sure wasn’t intentional. Until we can convince the dogs otherwise, I think I need a bigger bed.

 ***

Note: Photo above is my grandson Julian with Balto when he was a pup - love this picture and couldn't resist using it. ;o) 

Anthropomorphism (and writing in my sleep)

copyright aaron paul lazar, 2010. All rights reserved.

In the past, I’ve almost always written from the point of view of a human. I’ve toyed with the idea of writing a book from a dog’s POV a few years ago, and even wrote a few fun chapters. It’s on the “some day” list, like my Gus LeGarde cookbook, and a Finger Lakes coffee table book.

About a month ago, a good friend (Pat Fowler, from NH) invited me to enter the Lorian Hemingway short story writing contest. We’d both write short stories, and then critique each other’s work before subbing them. In my story, I ended up doing one scene from Claude Monet’s dog’s point of view.  

Last week, I read a very original sci fi story by Pat Whitaker from New Zealand, entitled Returning. In the beginning, a being from outer space inhabits the body of a wolf. It’s not exactly anthropomorphism, because the creature is using the wolf as a host, so it’s not attributing human characteristics to the canine. But it must have gotten my creative juices going, because the other night I wrote the following story while sleeping.

Honest! It’s weird, but during the night I find myself writing in my head. I set up the scene, and the words come out as if I’m typing them. It’s never exactly what becomes the final typed version, but it’s pretty close.

Here’s what Wikipedia says about anthropomorphism:

Anthropomorphism is the attribution of human characteristics to non-human creatures and beings, phenomena, material states and objects or abstract concepts. Examples include animals and plants and forces of nature such as winds, rain or the sun depicted as creatures with human motivation able to reason and converse. The term derives from the combination of the Greek ἄνθρωπος (ánthrōpos), "human" and μορφή (morphē), "shape" or "form".

And here’s the story I wrote the other night. ;o)

The Bull

He rose with ease from his desk chair and reached for a crystal tumbler on the counter. Filling it with ice, he poured amber liquid halfway up and took a swig. His sleek black fur shone beneath the vested suit, and a vein throbbed in his neck above his lavender shirt collar. 

Lowering his horns for effect, he swung his heavy head back toward the man tied to the chair on the other side of his desk.

The matador’s face flamed brick red. Tears simmered in his eyes. He struggled against his bonds, and almost tipped over his chair. “I don’t get it!”

With a rumbling sigh, the bull lowered himself back into the chair. “I know. This part is often difficult.” He wiggled the thumb-like appendage that protruded from his hoof and winked. “In your experience, bulls don’t have thumbs. But let me tell you, it’s much easier to mix a drink this way.”

Tears sprang from the matador’s eyes. “That’s not what I meant! Why are you doing this?”

An expression of sympathy curled the bull’s lips downward. “Oh, dear. I’m sorry. As I said before, you are an experimental subject. The power of your species to torture and maim, the joy you take in killing, the need to show yourself more powerful than other creatures… it’s long fascinated us.”

“Where’s my family? My boys?” Almost whimpering now, the matador’s eyes churned side to side. “And where the hell am I?”

“I’ve told you. There are no boys. There is no wife. Your life was orchestrated to seem real, in your own head. But sir–you exist simply for the purpose of academic study.”

“But the world is run by humans!”

“No. It’s run by bulls.”

“But on television—”

“All manufactured for the experiment. Shall I turn on the real television?”

With a click, the teak walls parted, revealing a flat screen. The bull flipped through channels, each filled with horned heads, wide flat noses—sans rings—and various colors and sizes of huge, hoofed, mammoth bulls. Bulls dressed in clothing, bulls golfing, bulls driving trucks. Bulls everywhere.

A hilarious giggle rose from the matador. “I get it! This is a practical joke! You’re wearing a costume. You staged the whole thing.” He craned his neck around the room. “Okay, José.   Come on out! I fell for it!”

The bull grimaced. “In spite of your capacity for inflicting pain on others, you are most decidedly a fascinating species.”

The matador slumped, then sat up with interest. “Wait! Are there more like me?”

Lighting a fat cigar, the bull tipped back in his chair. “A few.”

“Where?”

Another click on the remote parted wide curtains, revealing a large stadium. “Down there. In the cages.”

“That’s cruel!”

“Perhaps. But it’s safer for bullkind. You don’t think we can let savages like you just wander around, do you?”

Defeated, the matador let the tears stream from his formerly stoic face. The sequins on his costume glistened wet. His hat tipped sideways. “You mean my career? The accolades I’ve earned? My entire life?” Sobbing now, his head dropped to his chest. He raised it once again. “It’s all fake?”

“Indeed. The glory you found in your…er…career was fabricated. You thought you defeated and killed bulls. You reveled in it. But it was all staged. No real bulls were hurt.” The bull spun his chair to stare down into the arena, tenting his forehooves. “But don’t worry. We’ll treat you with kindness. You’ll have food and water, exercise, and sunshine. And we’ll get you vaccinated. After all, we aren’t barbarians. We’re not human.”

 ***

Aaron Paul Lazar

www.legardemysteries.com

www.mooremysteries.com

www.aaronlazar.blogspot.com

Book Review: The Farringford Cadenza, by Robert D. Sutherland

review by Aaron Lazar

Title:  The Farringford Cadenza

Author:   Robert D. Sutherland

Publisher:   The Pikestaff Press

Genre: Mystery, 523 pages

Publisher's Address: PO Box 127, Normal, Illinois 61761

ISBN number:  978-0-936044-08-8

Price: $15.95

Publisher website address: http://www.pikestaffpress.com/

Author’s personal website: http://www.robertdsutherland.com

Mystery-writing blog:  http://mystery-writing-vergil.blogspot.com/

“October 18, 1947

As the train slows to a crawl for its scheduled stop at Bristow,Pennsylvania, its cars glide like dark coffins past the lights spaced evenly on poles along the station platform. Eight coaches back from the locomotive, the window of a particular sleeping compartment presents a blank and staring eye to the lights as they tick rhythmically past. Each, in its turn, briefly illuminates the table just inside the window—the highball glasses and overflowing ashtray— the formal dress-suit, with tailed coat, hanging on the wall— the rumpled bed—the body on the bed.

When the train has chuffed to a halt with a rumbling shudder and hissing of steam, a light-pole stands directly opposite the window. Should anyone look in—that porter, say, trundling past with his baggage cart—he’d see, starkly displayed among the tangled bedclothes, a man of middle-age—lean, angular, face-up and stretched full-length in striped pajamas. Left arm bent across the chest; right flung far aside to hang in space. Dark chestnut hair just slightly streaked with gray. Face like putty, gone to sag; backward tilted, mouth agape; eyes slitted upward with a jellied stare. 

A closer look: the pajama shirt is wrongly buttoned, the trousers twisted awkwardly askew and backside front.”

The Farringford Cadenza is evocative of a deliciously complex British mystery, underpinned with American sass and laced with luscious musical themes. When a rare six-minute piano composition by musical genius Charles Philip Farringford disappears, a nut and shell game extraordinaire begins. After decades of mystery, like a leaf flitting on a playful breeze, the cadenza appears in a piano bench in a dusty old shop, only to be stolen, re-stolen, diverted, hidden, passed around, stolen again, and disappeared, time and time again. Just when you think you know which shell the cadenza is under, the scales tip and the hunt begins anew.

When American composer Charles Farringford dies in bed on a train bound for New York City in 1947, he’s discovered dressed with his pajama pants on backwards and his top buttoned wrong. This untimely death follows three rare performances of the hand-written piano cadenza, integral to the fourth movement of Farringford’s Fifth Concerto. Performed only to three audiences whose lives were literally changed by the legendary music, powerful enough to bestow stallion-like powers on the impotent, to haunt the lives of those affected, to cause rare collectors to salivate and offer millions for its return, the music disappears on the day the beloved composer dies, only to turn up over thirty-four years later in Baltimore.

With the press agog and musicians stirred up all over the world, music lovers prepare to be thrilled by the cadenza. This life-changing music that propelled listeners to states of rapture when first heard in 1947 is scheduled to be delivered to Lunner and Dinch, the publishers of the original Concerto. The music went to press without the cadenza, but was performed by pianists who’ve written their own interpretation of the missing movement. But the mystical music is not yet to be heard by the public, for bodies begin to drop with an alarming rate and the cadenza once again disappears.

Detective N. F. Trntl (yes, there are no vowels in her last name), a tough, clever, persistent investigator who can foil the worst villain, is hired by Farringford’s family and Lunner and Dinch to find the cadenza and bring it home. She and her assistant, Carol, begin a series of misadventures that have them bouncing between Baltimore and New York, pursued by the Mob and rubbing shoulders with the elite, including spunky and talented pianist Rosamond Foxe, who is lusted after by the rich and powerful Victor Zyzynski and who also is intricately and intimately woven into this delightful mystery. I’ll not spoil the plot, but the finale of this masterful novel spirals to a page turning end, moving from St. Croix to New York City, and kept this reviewer up into the wee hours of the morning.

Sutherland’s style is professional and polished, his wit delightful, but what I found most intriguing were his character descriptions. For example:

“He was a wizened gnome, extremely short, with an exceedingly thin and pointed nose, the skin of his face cross-hatched with deep lines and creases. Behind rimless lenses, steel-blue eyes stared unblinking; the sphincter of his mouth was a tight pucker. On the table before him, his hands rested plump and pawlike, corrugated with prominent blue veins and freckled with age spots. His nails glistened as if painted with clear lacquer.”

And this:

“Fingers was a squat, burly man with large ears, ponderous jowls road-mapped with crimson capillaries, and restless belly-button eyes.”

If you like twists and turns, if you’ve ever been emotionally stirred by music, if you love an intellectual chuckle, or if you’re a fan of page-turning chase scenes, you’ll find The Farringford Cadenza a delightful read.

Robert D. Sutherland

***

Aaron Paul Lazar writes to soothe his soul. The author of LeGarde Mysteries and Moore Mysteries enjoys the Genesee Valley countryside in upstate New York, where his characters embrace life, play with their dogs and grandkids, grow sumptuous gardens, and chase bad guys. Visit his websites at www.legardemysteries.com and www.mooremysteries.com and watch for his upcoming release, HEALEY’S CAVE, coming in 2010.

Writing the Tough Stuff (or: How to Kill the One You Love)

copyright 2010, aaron paul lazar

For those of you who write fiction—novels, to be precise—have you ever written a chapter where you killed the one you love?

Of course I don’t mean your actual spouse or lover. I mean the wife, husband, or sweetheart of your main character.

I have. And it tore my heart out. That’s what I mean by “writing the tough stuff.” Sam Moore is very much like me, except he’s twelve years older and retired with enough money to putter around in his gardens all day.

I hate him.

Okay, so maybe that’s a little harsh. Shall we say, I am exceedingly jealous of his lifestyle. Although Sam was a family doctor and I was an engineer, we’re still a lot alike. We both love to plunge our hands into the soft earth and grow things. Lots of things. We both love our grandkids so much it hurts. And we both have spouses with multiple sclerosis. There are plenty of differences, too. I cook, I write, and I take photos. Sam doesn’t.

In spite of the fact that he’s not real (at least not in the traditional sense. LOL),  I relate to this man and feel his pain when he’s hurting. Sure, you say, you feel ALL your characters’ pain. You have to, to get into their heads and really do it right. Right?

But I’ll bet some are closer to your heart than others.

Sam’s wife, Rachel, shares many qualities with my dear wife, Dale. They both endure MS, they both love to read, they are both chair caning artists. Some of their symptoms are the same, but that’s where they split off. Rachel loves to cook (that’s my job in our marriage), she’s in a wheelchair, and she stays pretty upbeat, considering her challenges. She’s a tribute to Dale. But she’s actually her own woman, too, and I love her deeply. (Sorry, honey!)

In the first two books of the Moore Mysteries series (debut novel coming out May 2010, Healey’s Cave; sequel One Potato, Blue Potato, 2011) Rachel sticks by Sam’s side, supports him when he’s overcome with grief and is plagued by strange paranormal events, and loves him enough to keep him sane.

In For Keeps, the third book in the series, life takes an awful turn. Rachel is murdered, and it puts Sam back in the psych ward, the same place he was thrown when his little brother disappeared without a trace fifty years earlier. Desperate to fix things, he calls on the power of the green marble, the talisman his little brother Billy controls from afar that whisks him back and forth through his past.

Unlike real life, Sam gets a “do over.” He flies back in time to desperately try to fix the problems that lead up to this gruesome act, and over and over again, he attempts to tweak the past to bring his dear Rachel back to life.

For Keeps won’t be out for a few years, but since I’m doing a little polish on it right now, I thought I’d ask you folks if you’ve ever had to write such a chapter? If so, feel free to share it in the comment section, below. Let us know how it made you feel, or paste a sample for us to read. Following is my attempt to write the “tough stuff.”

Here’s the setup. Sam has just picked up his son, Andy, from the airport. Andy finished his second tour of duty in Iraq, and this is his homecoming. Sam ignored the insistence of the green marble, which has been searing Sam’s leg all day from his pocket; little brother Billy was trying to “warn” him.

***

           Sam raced toward the laundry room in a panic. Rachel’s wheelchair sat abandoned in the hall, and his son froze in the doorway, hands clenching and unclenching at his side.           

Andy’s voice thickened. “Maybe you shouldn’t come in here.” He spun and held out both hands to keep Sam out of the room.

            One of Rachel’s shoes lay beside the doorjamb. The brown clogs. Slip on. With lambs wool lining. She loved them so much she wore them even in summer.

Sam drifted closer, terror pooling in his stomach. As if in anaphylactic shock, his throat tightened and threatened to close off his air. His heart beat wildly now, in his throat, ears, chest.

Sam barreled past his son and stumbled into the room, his voice hoarse. “What happened?”

             Rachel lay on a basket of laundry, her eyes wide open, looking with blank surprise at the ceiling. Sam’s garden shears protruded from her heart. The image danced before him like heat waves on tar, shimmering with unreality. Blood ran from Rachel’s floral print blouse to the sheets stained red in the basket, pooling on the white linoleum floor.

            The room tilted. A series of screams of No No No No No resonated in his head. Or maybe he yelled it aloud. He couldn’t tell as he shoved Andy aside and collapsed beside her, checking for the pulse that evaded him like a cruel tormentor. Neck. Wrist. Ankles. No beating met his probing fingers.

“NO!” He drew the shears from her chest, sickened by the soft sucking sound it made, then wadded up a compress of pillowcases and held it over the wound to stem the flow. More blood dribbled from the wound and curled around her pearl buttons. He realized with a start that she was still warm.

            He looked wildly about the room, as if a solution lay beneath the neatly folded piles of towels and linen. “Call 911. Hurry!” He cradled Rachel in his arms, smearing the blood between them, and feeling her arms dangle away from him, as if she didn’t have the strength to return his embrace. 

            Andy cried out, anguish pinging across the small room. He squeezed between his mother’s body and the washing machine, holding his hand out to his father. “Dad. It’s too late. She has no pulse. I checked, too.”

            “NO!” Sam’s mind reeled, his vision clouded, and the scent of blood tasted metallic on his tongue. “Who did this? Is he still here? She’s still warm, Andy. Find the bastard!” He stiffened when his brain repeated a phrase he’d heard during some of Rachel’s favorite shows.

            Don’t disturb the evidence.

            Panic slewed over him, boiling inside his head, freezing his arms and legs.

My garden shears. The killer took them from the barn. Used them on my Rachel. And my prints are all over them.

A great gulping scream filled his throat, tearing out of him like a primal scream. “RACHEL!”

            Her head slumped sideways when he moved away, as if she was rejecting him. He checked her pulse again, muttering under his breath. “No way. No. No.” In a sudden manic thrust, he stood and reached for the marble, searching his pockets, patting madly at his pants and shirt. “My God. Where is it? What did I do with it?” Sam asked aloud. “Billy! Why didn’t you warn me?”

            Inside the double-stuffed world that batted him between reality and nightmare, he remembered the marble’s insistent throbbing all morning. Billy had tried to warn him, had tried hard.

            “Dad, come on. You can’t help her now.” In spite of Andy’s two tours of duty in the heat of battle in Iraq, the bodies he had seen and possibly created, and his soldier-toughened soul, he wept. Loud and strong, he wept and choked on his words. “Dad. Please. Leave her be. It’s over.”

            Andy pulled him to his feet. Sam stared at his son as if he’d never seen him before. His eyes widened, trying to piece together a puzzle. Who is this nice young man? And why does he look so familiar?

            Andy took him by the elbow and started to shuffle him toward the living room.

            “Come on, Dad. Let’s go sit down.”

“No. Please. My wife needs me. She has multiple sclerosis, you know.”

Andy’s eyes popped open. Tears still streamed from them, and he shook his father’s shoulders as if he could not only snap him out of it, but maybe bring back his mother, too. “Dad! Come on. Hold it together. Don’t do this.”

Sam stopped and stared at his bloodied hands. His legs weakened to jelly. He stumbled, then braced himself against the wall as sobs wracked him in waves of increasing amplitude.  He slid to the floor and buried his face in his hands.

Rachel.

Dear God.

Not Rachel.

***

Okay, that's it for this week. Now remember, no matter what else happens in your life on this Valentines Day, write like the wind!

                                                                                                            - Aaron