My original book title had to be changed six weeks before its release, due to the fact that it was being used by another writer. One of my daughters and I were editing a section of the book concerning a bird my three youngest girls had found intriquing so many years ago. They could only hear its three syllable trill, as it was an illusive nocturnal bird. They called it their 'Theodore' bird because its song sounded like that word. I had caught sight of the fantailed white and brown tail feathers of an unusual bird one day as the sun was setting. My neighbor told me it was a whippoorwill.
Kelly and I decided to listen to bird songs and find pictures of that bird and maybe use it in the title. This bird was a part of our lives and our loss, since it sings a bright lilting tune in spring but a gutteral, sad song of summer's loss. That summer of 1981 as the whippoorwill mourned, so did we. It is said in an old English legend that the whippoorwill helps carry a soul to heaven when someone dies. I found that comforting . . .and so AND THE WHIPPOORWILL SANG became the new title for the book--and just in time.
In late summer of 2007 as I was barely able to write the heartwrenching end to my memoir, I heard the song of the whippoorwill each night from dusk to midnight. All other birdsong had ceased by then except for some angry cackling by other birds trying to get their young ones settled down for the night. They didn't seem to appreciate the whippoorwills lullaby. I never saw it, except for glimpses of its unmistakable tailfeathers flying away from my house. I had never heard or seen a whippoorwill in the 26 years I lived here and it is not native to my city. It stayed as if to comfort me until I wrote the last two words to my book, 'The End', and was never heard again.
I was recently coming home from work after a gruelling week with tension and illness wearing me down. A low-flying bird flew right past me. I recognized the tailfeathers. "Could that be my whippoorwill?" I thought. It swooped down into my bushes and let me get as close as a foot away from it. I finally got to see the whole body and it was a handsome creature, completely unafraid of me. When I mentioned this to my husband, he said, "Oh yeah, I meant to tell you. It's been here a few days now. It follows me around and sits in the bushes outside my den window."
I felt warm inside, healed in body, mind and spirit. Once again the one I lost had sent me a sign from another realm, telling me, as my publisher always says, "Don't worry-it's all good." I hope it stays with me till summer's end as it reminds me that my loved one is alive and well and watching out for the family.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
I Made a Speech without Picturing anyone Nude
This is the first time I did a luncheon/speech/book signing at a prestigious restaurant without fear. Well, I finally did it. Of course I spent the mandatory three days prior to my speaking engagement in anxiety and turmoil--but somehow not as much as usual. I knew I was committed and had to do it so I accepted that, if somewhat terrified. It was rainy and windswept that noon as I drove up to the most prestigious restaurant in my area, The Staaten. An omen, I thought of dire things to come. I was speaking at the Grandmother's Club and invited for their monthly luncheon. I was too nervous to eat, sitting at an oval table with ten women I have never met, except for the one who had invited me. They were lovely,intelligent, yet jaunty women and I began to relax. Even the food started to look good. Just as the main entree was placed before me, I was called up to speak. Due to back problems, it's difficult for me to stand in one place for long and I figured I would have to ask for a chair. But I told myself I would try and stand at the lecturn and I did. I didn't knock it over, trip over the microphone cord, of knock over the drinks of anyone at the long table on either side of me. I carried a written paper with me in case I lost my train of thought or the whole train, as I am wont to do upon occasion. I spoke mostly without the need of the paper and adlibbed a bit. My heart did not race in an effort to set off my defibrulating pacemaker, my blood pressure did not rise, I didn't break into a sweat and flaming face. I looked and sounded like I had been doing this forever--and this empowered me--from the prayer I had asked for before my speech--that God would give me His strength to empower me to do all things. And He did. I will probably never like making speeches, or being the center of attention, but after this day I now know that with that blessed empowerment, I can and will do it. To end on an even higher note, I sold a significant amount of books for the size of the luncheon party and made new contacts. I think I have finally overcome the monster called fear!! Maybe, just maybe, one day these things might become fun. Nah . . . Micki Peluso Comments (2)
Saturday, February 28, 2009
A Quirky Meditation Garden
There are many forms of meditation, prayer being one of the best. Yoga is a deep gentle physical form of mind, body and spirit meditation and heals the body while soothing the spirit. I’ve tried them all and while each one is helpful in its own way, my personal favorite, after prayer, is visiting my meditation garden. This magical garden is a place where the conscious mind is free to interact with the subconscious mind within its surroundings and receive feedback from both areas of the brain. It’s a form of self-hypnosis and is easy and enjoyable to do—certainly more so than sitting in a cross-legged position chanting ‘ohhmmmm’ for a period of time. I enter my garden the same way I enter into self-hypnosis, starting with deep breathing and relaxation. I like to do it right before a nap or bedtime, often falling asleep in the middle of it. I walk down a long imaginary staircase—or if I am in pain I use an escalator for at least four flights down. That would be my conscious mind reminding me that with fibromyalgia and herniated discs, I can’t walk that far, or do steps. When I feel I’ve reached my destination, I stop at that landing which is a foyer of sorts with large sliding glass doors leading out to a beautiful countryside. My garden is an Eden-like area of grass, flowers, trees and a small stream. The sky is azure with puffy white clouds and a gentle breeze wafts about, the temperature just right. It’s quiet as I walk over to a large oak tree, sit down and lean against its smooth bark. Slowly animals appear and the air rings out with birdsong. A white snow owl perches on a branch above me. She’s lovely, but quite sarcastic. She has no patience for my complaints or excuses and accuses me of knowing the answer to my problems but refusing to act on them. She seems to be a part of me-my subconcious, perhaps. A large blue-gray Alpha wolf comes up and nuzzles me, his deep blue eyes full of compassion, assuring me that I am loved. His mate, shy and cautious, stands behind him. The wolf offers me courage. Then a roly-poly black bear cub tumbles out and plops on top of me, insisting on having some fun and cuddling. There is a sweet doe next to me who does not judge me but offers unconditional love. Rabbits, raccoons and a red fox often join the group, but usually only the owl, wolf and doe speak to me. One day, at a particularly trying time in my life, a new bird appeared—the whippoorwill of my memoir. Upon its arrival, all the animals became silent and many backed away as if aware of something supernatural in their midst. The whippoorwill spoke as it sings—in 3 sylable sounds. “All is well, all is well.” It gave me great comfort as I felt it was heaven sent from my lost daughter, Noelle, who loved and drew birds. The whippoorwill had played a part in her life, her death and beyond, appearing at strange times during our grief. I knew it was offering answers to the many worries I brought to my garden. When my time in the garden ends, I can leave and return to full consciousness, rested in body, mind and spirit. On another day, while arguing as usual with the snow owl, as the bear cub tried to get me to wrestle, a new arrival came waddling across the grass toward me. Somehow I sensed the white duck with the smirk across its face was going to say something not quite profound. As it neared, I called out, “Don’t you dare say it!” It ignored me and quacked a loud “Aflac!” The other animals seem to wonder why I was laughing. Humor is a great healer. The duck smugly settled among the rest of my animal friends. If ducks can smile, this one did. Now who says meditation can’t be fun?
Sunday, September 14, 2008
THE UNEATEN MEAL
The Uneaten Meal
The watch hanging from Ian’s belt loop under his white chef jacket read 8:15. The morning rush was in full swing. Patrons sat in the sunlit posh restaurant—some drummed their fingers with impatience, others read the Wall Street Journal. Many seemed barely awake, sipping coffee for a caffeine jolt.
Ian had worked the kitchen all morning, his third day on the job as a Sous Chef to the Head Chef. He had survived the breakfast rush; bagels with cream cheese and lox for the rushed, Quiche Lorraine for the ones too important to punch a time card. Still, most would be heading to their various jobs, many on the 104th floor below the restaurant. The conference room, a floor below the restaurant, on the 106th floor was catering a breakfast to the Waters Financial Technology Congress, serving seventy-one guests.
Ian was preparing for the lunch entrée special; a new recipe Chef would be offering to the lunch crowd--numbering hundreds. Ian worked quickly, with dozens of cooks helping to prep the ingredients. It was a gourmet delight – an aromatic concoction of bowtie pasta swimming in a rich white cream sauce, consisting of sweet herbed butter, heavy cream, white wine and an imported parmesan cheese. Large shrimp lightly sautéed in the sauce were placed on top, sprinkled with crumbled Greek feta cheese, sweet basil and freshly ground black pepper. Parsley sprigs added décor to the plate along with a few strips of fresh grilled red pepper. Chef Mike was confident of his creative cuisine. He was not of his new Sous Chef and often hovered over him, making Ian nervous. He was glad Chef Mike would not be coming in to work until the noon rush. This entrée could not be made completely in advance and the chef wanted a few made up to insure the recipe was followed to the letter. He had a fine reputation to maintain.
As customers rose to go to their perspective jobs; many glancing out of the rows of large windows overlooking the panoramic business district of Manhattan and the East River, the dining room was set up for the lunch rush.
Ian had Chef Mike’s creation ready to be sampled as soon as he arrived for his shift. He was afraid his job depended on how well he had prepared the dish. Still, he had done his best and felt confident it would suit the perfectionist chef.
Blinding light and roaring noise shut out his world. Fire and smoke filled the entire 107th floor, screams of panicked customers and workers alike died out quickly as they were overcome by suffocation and burns. The delectible shrimp and bowtie pasta entrée was destroyed along with most of the kitchen. Neither Ian nor Chef Mike would ever know if it met the chef’s high standards. His new recipe would go uneaten, along with all the meals scheduled for that luncheon meal. Windows on the World, Manhattan’s noted and loved restaurant was destroyed. It was 8:55 and the 104th floor was incinerated.
People on other floors were spared the direct impact of the first passenger jet, Flight 11 that slammed into the first tower of the World Trade Center on September 11, 2001. The ones on the top floor, along with the people in the restaurant were trapped. There was no way down. Many ran up the staircases to the top 111th floor and climbed onto the rooftop hoping to be rescued. Ian ran with them. He helped the few people alive make it to the roof. Helicopters tried in vain to reach them but black billowing smoke prevented this, as well as bursts of flame. People succumbed to the heat and smoke and died. Others chose to jump off the top of the building, rather than burn to death. Ian was one of them.
As he jumped, his thoughts were of his wife and their new born baby girl. It was such a beautiful day that they had planned a picnic in Central Park when his shift ended. Before Ian reached the ground, his spirit left his body. He saw his body splatter on the street below. He watched as financial wizards, secretaries, businessmen, maintenance workers, became one in the futile effort to escape the building. He saw a second plane hit the second tower, taking more lives in an instant. This plane hit closer to the top of the second tower giving more time for people below those floors to get out. Many made it, many more did not. Ian’s spirit drifted through the first tower, watching frantic people calling on their cell phones for help—some realizing their plight cried and said goodbye to their loved ones.
911 operators, unaware of the gravity of the situation, gave wrong advice to many who called--advising them to remain inside until help came. Help, that was unable to reach most of them. Most of the ones who survived had ignored that advice and hurried to escape the building.
New York City responded at once. Ian watched as police, search and rescue squads, and fire trucks rushed to the scene. Ambulances raced to help those who survived. People began the long trek down dark stairways, coughing and choking on thick black smoke; often meeting police and firemen on their way up the building. The heat was unbearable. Ian felt anquished, knowing that so many would never make it back down. He saw many like him who could walk through the ruins, already dead.
The second tower imploded almost without warning at 10:05 A.M., through time held no meaning for Ian. Thousands of lives were crushed into rubble. The ambulances and hospitals set up triages for the injured. Most beds lay empty, as few made it out of the towers alive. Except for the ones lucky enough to have escaped before the first tower imploded at 10:30, there were few patients to help. Ian observed the nearly 3000 souls wandering lost throughout the ruins. Many did not yet realize that they were dead.
The shock waves of horror extended past Manhattan, its neighboring boroughs, rippled across the country, impacted the world. America had been attacked by cowardly terrorists on her own soil. New York City wept, Mayor Guiliani wept, the free world wept. And Ian wept.
The Chef’s new entrée in the Windows on the World would go uneaten, never sampled for its flavor. There would be many uneaten meals that day and for many days to follow. Terror, death and inconceivable destruction had taken away the appetite of the City, the nation—most of the world. It left a bitter taste in the mouths of all those who lost loved ones and those who grieved with them.
Ian glanced through the rubble and saw his chef uniform buried beneath the debris. It held a quickly scribbled note of love to his wife and newly born baby. He hoped it would be found and given to her. He also hoped that she would tell his baby girl about her father—so that his memory would live on, even if he could not. Ian sensed that this most infamous day would never be forgotten. He wished for new twin towers to be erected for all the lost lives destroyed this day, taken so brutally. And maybe a new restaurant and new offices restored—not to replace those lost but to honor them. Perhaps there would be a new chef with an untried recipe that would be eaten and enjoyed. If that day arrived, it would signify healing in a shocked and saddened nation—a new beginning.
Ian turned to see a horde of people of all ages and occupations gathering together. He looked up and a bright, warm light spread across the sky. He saw arms outstretched to embrace those who walked toward the brightness. He joined them.
Seventy-three employees in the restaurant died that day, all seventy-one in the conference room and an unknown number of patrons. Remnants from the Windows on the World restaurant rubble included: a dinner spoon, soup bowl, salad plate, dessert plate and coffee cup. Also found was a table lamp, champagne flute, bottle of champagne, grill scraper—and a chef’s uniform.
Author’s note: The terrorists had counted on taking out from 30,000 to 50,000 lives that earth shattering morning. Their timing was a little off and many people had not yet entered the building. However, due to the toxins in the debris, such as mercury and asbestos, many of those who spent days, weeks and even years searching Ground Zero for body parts are now dying a slow and agonizing death due to cancers of the throat, lung and esophagus. Many more will die in the ensuing years—among them, families and small children whose homes were filled with this debris; which they were told to clean up themselves. The repercussions of disease from toxins spread to Staten Island, when they helicoptered the remains to the Staten Island dump. The dump blew the toxins across the seventeen-mile- long Island and many are dying of quickly striking and fatal cancers. It is conceivable that the total count of those lost on 911 will reach 30,000 to 50,000 after all. Damn the terrorists
The watch hanging from Ian’s belt loop under his white chef jacket read 8:15. The morning rush was in full swing. Patrons sat in the sunlit posh restaurant—some drummed their fingers with impatience, others read the Wall Street Journal. Many seemed barely awake, sipping coffee for a caffeine jolt.
Ian had worked the kitchen all morning, his third day on the job as a Sous Chef to the Head Chef. He had survived the breakfast rush; bagels with cream cheese and lox for the rushed, Quiche Lorraine for the ones too important to punch a time card. Still, most would be heading to their various jobs, many on the 104th floor below the restaurant. The conference room, a floor below the restaurant, on the 106th floor was catering a breakfast to the Waters Financial Technology Congress, serving seventy-one guests.
Ian was preparing for the lunch entrée special; a new recipe Chef would be offering to the lunch crowd--numbering hundreds. Ian worked quickly, with dozens of cooks helping to prep the ingredients. It was a gourmet delight – an aromatic concoction of bowtie pasta swimming in a rich white cream sauce, consisting of sweet herbed butter, heavy cream, white wine and an imported parmesan cheese. Large shrimp lightly sautéed in the sauce were placed on top, sprinkled with crumbled Greek feta cheese, sweet basil and freshly ground black pepper. Parsley sprigs added décor to the plate along with a few strips of fresh grilled red pepper. Chef Mike was confident of his creative cuisine. He was not of his new Sous Chef and often hovered over him, making Ian nervous. He was glad Chef Mike would not be coming in to work until the noon rush. This entrée could not be made completely in advance and the chef wanted a few made up to insure the recipe was followed to the letter. He had a fine reputation to maintain.
As customers rose to go to their perspective jobs; many glancing out of the rows of large windows overlooking the panoramic business district of Manhattan and the East River, the dining room was set up for the lunch rush.
Ian had Chef Mike’s creation ready to be sampled as soon as he arrived for his shift. He was afraid his job depended on how well he had prepared the dish. Still, he had done his best and felt confident it would suit the perfectionist chef.
Blinding light and roaring noise shut out his world. Fire and smoke filled the entire 107th floor, screams of panicked customers and workers alike died out quickly as they were overcome by suffocation and burns. The delectible shrimp and bowtie pasta entrée was destroyed along with most of the kitchen. Neither Ian nor Chef Mike would ever know if it met the chef’s high standards. His new recipe would go uneaten, along with all the meals scheduled for that luncheon meal. Windows on the World, Manhattan’s noted and loved restaurant was destroyed. It was 8:55 and the 104th floor was incinerated.
People on other floors were spared the direct impact of the first passenger jet, Flight 11 that slammed into the first tower of the World Trade Center on September 11, 2001. The ones on the top floor, along with the people in the restaurant were trapped. There was no way down. Many ran up the staircases to the top 111th floor and climbed onto the rooftop hoping to be rescued. Ian ran with them. He helped the few people alive make it to the roof. Helicopters tried in vain to reach them but black billowing smoke prevented this, as well as bursts of flame. People succumbed to the heat and smoke and died. Others chose to jump off the top of the building, rather than burn to death. Ian was one of them.
As he jumped, his thoughts were of his wife and their new born baby girl. It was such a beautiful day that they had planned a picnic in Central Park when his shift ended. Before Ian reached the ground, his spirit left his body. He saw his body splatter on the street below. He watched as financial wizards, secretaries, businessmen, maintenance workers, became one in the futile effort to escape the building. He saw a second plane hit the second tower, taking more lives in an instant. This plane hit closer to the top of the second tower giving more time for people below those floors to get out. Many made it, many more did not. Ian’s spirit drifted through the first tower, watching frantic people calling on their cell phones for help—some realizing their plight cried and said goodbye to their loved ones.
911 operators, unaware of the gravity of the situation, gave wrong advice to many who called--advising them to remain inside until help came. Help, that was unable to reach most of them. Most of the ones who survived had ignored that advice and hurried to escape the building.
New York City responded at once. Ian watched as police, search and rescue squads, and fire trucks rushed to the scene. Ambulances raced to help those who survived. People began the long trek down dark stairways, coughing and choking on thick black smoke; often meeting police and firemen on their way up the building. The heat was unbearable. Ian felt anquished, knowing that so many would never make it back down. He saw many like him who could walk through the ruins, already dead.
The second tower imploded almost without warning at 10:05 A.M., through time held no meaning for Ian. Thousands of lives were crushed into rubble. The ambulances and hospitals set up triages for the injured. Most beds lay empty, as few made it out of the towers alive. Except for the ones lucky enough to have escaped before the first tower imploded at 10:30, there were few patients to help. Ian observed the nearly 3000 souls wandering lost throughout the ruins. Many did not yet realize that they were dead.
The shock waves of horror extended past Manhattan, its neighboring boroughs, rippled across the country, impacted the world. America had been attacked by cowardly terrorists on her own soil. New York City wept, Mayor Guiliani wept, the free world wept. And Ian wept.
The Chef’s new entrée in the Windows on the World would go uneaten, never sampled for its flavor. There would be many uneaten meals that day and for many days to follow. Terror, death and inconceivable destruction had taken away the appetite of the City, the nation—most of the world. It left a bitter taste in the mouths of all those who lost loved ones and those who grieved with them.
Ian glanced through the rubble and saw his chef uniform buried beneath the debris. It held a quickly scribbled note of love to his wife and newly born baby. He hoped it would be found and given to her. He also hoped that she would tell his baby girl about her father—so that his memory would live on, even if he could not. Ian sensed that this most infamous day would never be forgotten. He wished for new twin towers to be erected for all the lost lives destroyed this day, taken so brutally. And maybe a new restaurant and new offices restored—not to replace those lost but to honor them. Perhaps there would be a new chef with an untried recipe that would be eaten and enjoyed. If that day arrived, it would signify healing in a shocked and saddened nation—a new beginning.
Ian turned to see a horde of people of all ages and occupations gathering together. He looked up and a bright, warm light spread across the sky. He saw arms outstretched to embrace those who walked toward the brightness. He joined them.
Seventy-three employees in the restaurant died that day, all seventy-one in the conference room and an unknown number of patrons. Remnants from the Windows on the World restaurant rubble included: a dinner spoon, soup bowl, salad plate, dessert plate and coffee cup. Also found was a table lamp, champagne flute, bottle of champagne, grill scraper—and a chef’s uniform.
Author’s note: The terrorists had counted on taking out from 30,000 to 50,000 lives that earth shattering morning. Their timing was a little off and many people had not yet entered the building. However, due to the toxins in the debris, such as mercury and asbestos, many of those who spent days, weeks and even years searching Ground Zero for body parts are now dying a slow and agonizing death due to cancers of the throat, lung and esophagus. Many more will die in the ensuing years—among them, families and small children whose homes were filled with this debris; which they were told to clean up themselves. The repercussions of disease from toxins spread to Staten Island, when they helicoptered the remains to the Staten Island dump. The dump blew the toxins across the seventeen-mile- long Island and many are dying of quickly striking and fatal cancers. It is conceivable that the total count of those lost on 911 will reach 30,000 to 50,000 after all. Damn the terrorists
Saturday, August 30, 2008
PAROLE
This is an interesting Assignment from Stephen King's, "On writing." I am to narrate a story about a prison escape but change the character from a man to a woman. I made it a parole instead of an escape to get more dialogue from it.
PAROLE
Rita counted the days. Her mental competency hearing was a week away. Convince these morons I am sane and I am outta here, she thought. Of course she was sane, no doubt of it. Imprisoned by a biased Judge and a jury of rednecks. Just let me get out of this hellhole and they will see how sane I am. These thoughts kept her calm.She pretended to take her mind-altering prescription drugs from the prison matron, then spit them in the toilet of her small cubicle. One more week. She could wait. Years had passed, waiting. Then a trip home to see her husband,ex, actually, since the bastard chose to divorce her while she was incarceratred. Like he hadn't helped her beat up the kid. Rita told him she never wanted a brat anyway. But she was here and he was out free. It ate at her like a canker sore, but not for long-not for long. And their little girl, grown now after five years. What would she be now? Ten years old, about. Probably don't remember her dear ole Mom, Rita thought. She will when I get out. Oh she will. and her father more so.Rita faced the panel of parole officers, the Warden, social worker, shrink, etc., on the date of her hearing. Her once rosy complexion was pale from years of prison life-her drab green prison garb accentuated it. Still the glitter from her steely gray-blue eyes, held a madness she fought to conceal. Beneath a mop of ash-blonde hair, her face held a reminder of cruel beauty, not quite lost.The panel was a somber group. Suited men, suited women, wearing a facade of importance and fake concern. God how Rita hated these hypocrits. She hid it well, sitting demurely before them, with as much innocense as she could portray and still be believeable. This had to work. She must get out-there were debts to pay, and Rita was never one not to meet her resonsibilities. Dick and Melissa first on her list, then her parents. Could she stop then? Rita had no idea but just the idea of killing gave her an orgasm of such intensity that she had to cross her legs to keep from crying out.The snob panel did not seem to notice. They sorted and shifted paperwork, in preparation for her question and answer session that would decide her fate. Rita was ready. Let the inquisition begin."Rita," asked the psycho therapist. "Have you learned from your years with us?""Yes Maam, so much that it would take a month of Sundays just to tell ya about it.""I see. And do you think you can live outside and be a credit to the community? When you answer, please give me details."" Maam, I know I can. I have learnt so much from you and everyone here. I have become a new woman. I've been thinkin' on how much my baby girl needs her Mama. I have lost so many years I intend to make up for them if I can , in the best way I know how." Rita lowered her head at the appropriate moment."Rita, it will not be easy to establish a relationship with your daughter," the social worker, interjected. "you will need a lot of support.""I realize that Maam, a big job, I reckon, and it will take time, but I got plenty of that."The Warden spoke next. "You do understand, Rita, that on parole, you will be required to report to your parole officer once a week, should we agree to return you to society?""Yes sir, I know that. I will comply with anything you want me to do.""You understand we have petitions from your family asking us not to let you go.""No Sir, I didn't know that. I will promise to stay away from them if that is your wish, much as I love them.""Rita," the Warden said, rising from his seat. "We expect you to do just that. If you go anywhere near them, except for your daughter, you will be immediately brought back, in violation of parole. Is this perfectly clear ?"" Yes Sir, " Rita nodded, with a face sincere and sad enough to convince them. She was edgy now. Her freedom was at stake."Leave us now, Rita," the Warden advised her. "We will discuss your parole request and inform you of our decision by the latter part of the week."The news came to Rita as she was folding prison laundry. Her psychologist brought her the answer."Rita, the panel has decided in your favor. I am happy to bring this news and hope you will make a worthwhile life for yourself.""Thanks, Maam, this means so much to me. I won't disappoint you."The therapist smiled, shook her hand and told her to call her if she had any problems. It was done. Rita was free. Her breast swelled with emotion. At long last, her revenge would begin. And after killing those who had rejected her, Rita would be happy. If not, there were always more to kill.
PAROLE
Rita counted the days. Her mental competency hearing was a week away. Convince these morons I am sane and I am outta here, she thought. Of course she was sane, no doubt of it. Imprisoned by a biased Judge and a jury of rednecks. Just let me get out of this hellhole and they will see how sane I am. These thoughts kept her calm.She pretended to take her mind-altering prescription drugs from the prison matron, then spit them in the toilet of her small cubicle. One more week. She could wait. Years had passed, waiting. Then a trip home to see her husband,ex, actually, since the bastard chose to divorce her while she was incarceratred. Like he hadn't helped her beat up the kid. Rita told him she never wanted a brat anyway. But she was here and he was out free. It ate at her like a canker sore, but not for long-not for long. And their little girl, grown now after five years. What would she be now? Ten years old, about. Probably don't remember her dear ole Mom, Rita thought. She will when I get out. Oh she will. and her father more so.Rita faced the panel of parole officers, the Warden, social worker, shrink, etc., on the date of her hearing. Her once rosy complexion was pale from years of prison life-her drab green prison garb accentuated it. Still the glitter from her steely gray-blue eyes, held a madness she fought to conceal. Beneath a mop of ash-blonde hair, her face held a reminder of cruel beauty, not quite lost.The panel was a somber group. Suited men, suited women, wearing a facade of importance and fake concern. God how Rita hated these hypocrits. She hid it well, sitting demurely before them, with as much innocense as she could portray and still be believeable. This had to work. She must get out-there were debts to pay, and Rita was never one not to meet her resonsibilities. Dick and Melissa first on her list, then her parents. Could she stop then? Rita had no idea but just the idea of killing gave her an orgasm of such intensity that she had to cross her legs to keep from crying out.The snob panel did not seem to notice. They sorted and shifted paperwork, in preparation for her question and answer session that would decide her fate. Rita was ready. Let the inquisition begin."Rita," asked the psycho therapist. "Have you learned from your years with us?""Yes Maam, so much that it would take a month of Sundays just to tell ya about it.""I see. And do you think you can live outside and be a credit to the community? When you answer, please give me details."" Maam, I know I can. I have learnt so much from you and everyone here. I have become a new woman. I've been thinkin' on how much my baby girl needs her Mama. I have lost so many years I intend to make up for them if I can , in the best way I know how." Rita lowered her head at the appropriate moment."Rita, it will not be easy to establish a relationship with your daughter," the social worker, interjected. "you will need a lot of support.""I realize that Maam, a big job, I reckon, and it will take time, but I got plenty of that."The Warden spoke next. "You do understand, Rita, that on parole, you will be required to report to your parole officer once a week, should we agree to return you to society?""Yes sir, I know that. I will comply with anything you want me to do.""You understand we have petitions from your family asking us not to let you go.""No Sir, I didn't know that. I will promise to stay away from them if that is your wish, much as I love them.""Rita," the Warden said, rising from his seat. "We expect you to do just that. If you go anywhere near them, except for your daughter, you will be immediately brought back, in violation of parole. Is this perfectly clear ?"" Yes Sir, " Rita nodded, with a face sincere and sad enough to convince them. She was edgy now. Her freedom was at stake."Leave us now, Rita," the Warden advised her. "We will discuss your parole request and inform you of our decision by the latter part of the week."The news came to Rita as she was folding prison laundry. Her psychologist brought her the answer."Rita, the panel has decided in your favor. I am happy to bring this news and hope you will make a worthwhile life for yourself.""Thanks, Maam, this means so much to me. I won't disappoint you."The therapist smiled, shook her hand and told her to call her if she had any problems. It was done. Rita was free. Her breast swelled with emotion. At long last, her revenge would begin. And after killing those who had rejected her, Rita would be happy. If not, there were always more to kill.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
A Most Unusual Wedding
I hate weddings. They bore me, receptions deafen me. The noise from usually bad dj's wreak havoc upon my senses, setting off episodes of irregular heartbeats, trying to keep pace with the drumbeats. Most of the food at the buffet table is too salty or too high in fat for my heart problems, so as I savor a cold shrimp dipped lightly in cocktail sauce, I do it with trepidation, hoping it will not lead to an ER visit , hooked up to a ventilator for Pulmonary edema, a fancy word for too much salt. It has happened before so it is a real fear, yet hunger and food lust forces me to sample that shrimp and a few other delicasies, hoping the lack of salt or food before the wedding, plus an extra diriretic will save me. So far I have been lucky. But I am playing with fire. This wedding , on a Friday afternoon, was not one I looked forward to with any kind of anticipation. How little I knew! It was held at Ste. Rita's Catholic church in Neward, New Jersey. That should have been a clue. Nothing good happens in Newark and no one goes there unless they have to for some important occasion. Like a wedding. It is a city rife with crime, poverty, pollution, and drug traffic. To those living there unscathed thus far, I offer my appologies for my reprehensive view of your city. But hear me out.We got lost, of course, and like the old cliche, the men with us would not ask for directions. That and heavy workday traffic, made us late for the wedding. I was not unduly upset over this-the later the better, I thought.One of my three daughters and her husband rode with us, guys up front, women in the back. Just as well, as it spared us the illegal u-turns made my insignificant other, aka the driver.By the time we pulled up to the church, we realized it was not possible to enter, due to at least 30 police cars, city and state, ambulances, search and rescue trucks, helicopters hovering overhead, swat teams, and armed police swarming the area. "Perhaps the groom changed his mind," I quipped. We passed the church, turned around and my husband maneuvered his almost new Dodge Durango, through long lines of police cars and on-coming traffic on the other side. Pulling into the church parking lot, we saw the limo with the bride pull up, late as well. There was an armed guard in front of the church and a helicopter droned overhead. The officer explained there was a suspect on the loose. Overkill, I thought, never having seen such an arsenal in my life.We slipped in right before the bride and sat down in the back. Very few made it to the church since it was a work day. The bride walked down the aisle beautiful as are all brides, to meet her groom, who had in fact showed up. The church was the most exquisite I have ever seen. Marble pillars, marble walls, an arresting, (pardon the pun) statue of St. Michael the Arch angel wielding a sword, and high, arched ceilings with paintings resembling the Sistine Chapel in Rome. A beautiful ceremony was officiated by an elderly white-haired priest, apparently used to such events in his Parish.As we followed the newly married couple out of the church we asked the family what had happened and were grateful we were late. Two suspects had high-jacked a car and assaulted a police officer. One of them had run and hid in the church. As my sister-in-law was coming out of the church rest room, she walked into a hoard of armed, bullet-proof-vested swat team members brandishing rifles. Typically, she asked, "What did I do?" and then joined the rest of the entourage who had all been removed outside while they captured the perpetrator. It could have easily turned into a hostage situation.The limos and shuttle buses pulled away as we stood talking out in the parking lot, catching up , until my brither-in-law a mild-mannered man, asked nervously if we could please continue the conversation is a safer place. Noting the helicopters circling and the armed men all over the place, it seemed like a good suggestion. The reception was held at The Tides, a magnificent building with huge glass windows, winding staircases and chandeliers of near indescribable beauty. The cocktail hour served the most delectible food, all capable of easily killing me. Yet the ambience was a perfect ending for a wedding that will surely be told of for many generations to come. It is one wedding I will not soon forget. It almost made me forget that I really hate weddings.
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