Start at the Beginning

Iggy the Iguana by Melissa M Williams

2010-02-01T07:57:00.001-05:00

Iggy recognized the aroma of sautéed spinach and mushrooms coming from downstairs as he nervously washed his face and combed his spines. On this particular morning, Iggy would have much rather crawled back in bed! For some reason, he had lost his appetite for his favorite meal of the day.

As the tired iguana tiptoed down to the kitchen, he carefully held his long, clumsy tail in one hand. Waking up his little sister, Molly, on the wrong side of the bed would be a morning tragedy. Molly was known for throwing major temper tantrums. Iggy sat down and stared hopelessly at his breakfast.

“What’s wrong, son?” asked his mother, when she noticed Iggy hadn’t touched his favorite dish. “Aren’t you feeling well?”

“Mom, what if I’m the only iguana in my class?” “Honey, are those butterflies fluttering around in your tummy again?”

“Uh, I guess,” admitted the shy lizard.

“It’s natural to be nervous about your first day at a new school,” Mrs. Green said, trying to comfort her son.

“I know, but what if everyone is bigger than me? What if I’m allergic to furry animals?”

“Sweetie, you can’t go to an all-lizard school forever!” his mom laughed.

“Why not?”

“Because, it’s time for you to meet animals who are different than you. Now try to eat some breakfast so you will have enough energy to concentrate on your lessons.”

Iggy had attended the same elementary school all his life in a suburban area outside of Houston, called Harris County. He never had to worry about making new friends because he attended school with the same twelve lizards ever since Pre-K. Iggy considered this group of lizards to be more like family than friends. The idea of making new friends was terrifying for the reserved iguana.

As Iggy began to eat his green meal, the back door swung wide open. Iggy perked up to the sight of his dad bouncing in with a huge, open-mouthed smile on his face.

“Good morning, Champ,” said his dad.

“Hi Dad, how was your morning run?”

“It was nice, but a bit humid. I think I got bit.”

“By a mosquito?” Iggy asked.

“Yeah, but I can’t complain. I can take the

Houston humidity and bugs for these flat trails any day. Besides son, we’re lizards. We like this heat.” Mr. Green was a professional runner. Iguanas are known for their speed and great running legs. Mr. Green’s daily life revolved around racing. He trained at Memorial Park and coached other runners on the side. The Green family had to move into the city so that he could be closer to the training grounds. Iggy wanted to be an athlete just like his dad one day.

Just as Iggy started to forget his butterfly problem, his mom walked over to the table and said, “I bet your dad was nervous on the day of his first race,” as she handed her husband a glass of water.

“I’ll say! Nervous and excited at the same time,” chuckled Mr. Green.

Yep, the butterflies were back. “I’m just nervous, Dad.”

“Well, of course you’re going to be a little skittish. It’s that fear of the unknown. But it’s a good fear. It means you’re alive and full of healthy energy, son!”

Fear of the unknown? It sounded like Iggy’s dad was talking about a mission to space or something, not fourth grade! Dad’s words just weren’t helping this time.

After breakfast, Iggy’s mom dropped him off at school, which was right down the street. “Just be yourself, honey. You are such a likeable lizard!” It really did pain Iggy’s mom to watch her son in such an uncomfortable situation.

“MEMORIAL ELEMENTARY,” Iggy read across the front of the school door as he slowly crept through the entrance. Due to the slowness of his creeping, Iggy didn’t have enough time to get his long tail all the way inside before the door

closed. “Ouch!” screamed Iggy. He turned around, trying to shake his tail loose before someone noticed his clumsy move.

“Are you okay?” asked a voice from behind.

Great. He did have a witness. Iggy slowly looked up to see a beautiful lime green and tan lizard.

“Hi,” she said, “I’m Lizibeth. I know how it feels to get your tail stuck in the door!”

Iggy was a bit tongue-tied as he searched for something to say back. “That wasn’t my first time, either,” he shrugged. “I’m Iggy. Iggy the Iguana.”

“Whoa! Your tail is sooo long!” Lizibeth gasped as she looked down to see if his tail was hurt.

Iggy self-consciously pulled his tail close to his body, trying to hide its length. “I hate dragging this useless thing around all day!”

“I hear yah!” laughed Lizibeth. “So what grade are you in, Iggy?”

“Me? Um ... ” he paused, “fourth.”

“Me too!” she smiled.

Iggy quickly added, “And today is my first day at this school.”

Lizibeth tried to put the fidgety iguana at ease. “Oh, you’ll love it here. Everyone is so nice!”

As Iggy looked around, he noticed the clock on the wall. “We don’t want to be late on the first day of school!”

“It’s okay, we don’t have to walk far,” Lizibeth reassured him.

Both lizards started walking toward the fourth grade classroom. Iggy was happy that he had already made a new friend, and she was a lizard. It was nice to have something in common. Hopefully the rest of the animals would be just as friendly.

Pretty Smart: Lessons From Our Miss Americas by Penny Pearlman

2010-01-23T23:25:00.000-05:00

Lesson 1: Beauty from the inside out

“It’s wonderful to watch a pretty woman with character grow beautiful.” Mignon McLaughlin, author and former editor of Vogue

People say that because these women are beautiful doors open for them. The former Miss Americas interviewed for this book admit to that. But what they will also tell you is that the door closes with a bang if there is no substance behind the beauty.

Shawntel Smith (1996) said, “I’m going to be honest and say that appearance does matter. Being attractive will get you through the door, but it won’t help you keep a seat at the table, get the position, or have the opportunity. What counts is your intellect, your personality and the integrity with which you walk into a room. Your determination and perseverance are what will get you the job. A lot of beautiful women vie for the crown each year. So why not crown them all? There’s only one girl who can win the title of Miss America. It takes more than just a pretty face.”

Once you meet our Miss Americas, you can’t help but put aside any notions about the women who become beauty queens. Though many of them are certainly drop-dead gorgeous, you can walk down the street and see any number of equally attractive women. It’s not just their long legs or shiny hair that makes them beautiful. Their warmth, intelligence, poise and generous natures make them knockouts. The confidence and life-changing experience of succeeding at a high target they set for themselves and being spokeswomen for causes they support changed their inner perceptions of themselves and can change our view of them as well.

Tawny Godin (1976) observed that people who may at first appear ordinary become more beautiful as you get to know them. “The way you carry yourself, the way you walk into a room has little to do with your physical beauty. You could be the mousiest person on the planet in terms of the way you look, but if you believe in yourself and know who you are, people get it.”

As my friend’s mom used to say, “You know, the girl who won Miss America wasn’t that pretty before, but now that she’s won, she’s gotten much prettier.”

From the inside out

Some people who are considered beautiful base much of their identity on their external appearance. You may be drawn to them initially, but if they aren’t genuine, it won’t be long before you are looking elsewhere for companionship. Unless they nurture what is inside, their external beauty will fade as they age. “Being physically beautiful can change many times in your life at any age based on your personality,” says Ericka Dunlap (2004). “I’ve seen beautiful, exotic looking women who are arrogant, rude and pretentious. They would have been a lot lovelier if they had had a better attitude, because attitude determines your beauty.”

Nicole Johnson (1999) will tell you, “Beauty is not make-up and curls and glitz but is found in struggle or challenge, the beauty from within.” She recognizes that beauty can be an asset to open doors as long as it is more than physical. “Science proves that attractiveness is an asset in business. I would agree with that but I think attractiveness is subjective. I rely on attractiveness of the heart more than anything else. Along with my intelligence, my heart and my emotions are my calling cards.”

Donna Axum (1964) agrees. “I think anyone who is attractive, whether or not she is Miss America, has a leg up on less attractive people. It’s just common sense that it will get you through the door, but credentials have to follow. You have to be able to sell yourself, your abilities and your ideas if you are interviewing for a position. It’s like we say in the selection process for Miss America, you’ve got to bring the whole package.”

But many of the Formers discovered that their beauty and celebrity as Miss America could be a handicap in the professional world. It became, as Donna put it, a double-edged sword. “Many women will say that a certain person advanced so much farther because she is beautiful. That’s an excuse. If you’ve got the ability and the professional fortitude, then jump in there and get going. Those are the attributes that people are looking for. Without that you’re just another aging pretty face.”

Our Miss Americas have the ability to change our opinion of them by their authenticity, their intelligence, their genuine interest in others and their ability to enlighten and educate without putting others down. They encompass charm, wit, warmth and wisdom rolled into one lovely package.

Too fat, too thin

You would think that these women, given the highest endorsement of beauty by winning the crown, would see themselves as others see them. Not so. They are just like a lot of us. Many of our Miss Americas struggled with their self-image when they were children. They say that they did not feel pretty and cite crooked teeth, big ears and plump bottoms.

Gretchen Carlson (1989), who now shops in the petite department, will tell you that she packed a few extra pounds when she was younger. “I was a tomboy, not into my looks at all. I struggled with my weight my whole life, especially as a child. I was a chubby kid who faced a tremendous amount of ridicule. When I overheard a guy I wanted to go out with say, ‘She’s a really nice girl, but she’s too fat,’ I got my act together and lost thirty pounds.

“The morning after I became Miss America I shared that story at my first press conference. I thought it would be inspirational to young girls to know that you don’t have to fit into this perfect mold to end up becoming Miss America. I told the press that my brother used to call me nicknames like Blimpo. The next day the headline in the National Enquirer read ‘Blimpo Wins Miss America Pageant.’ That’s how they spun it. I thought I was giving a positive message.”

During her individual interview, Jennifer Berry (2006) was asked by one of the judges, “Do you think you’re pretty?” “We were in the middle of a political debate,” Jennifer said. “I couldn’t believe he asked me that. I was not popular in school. I had big, thick glasses, crooked teeth and curly, frizzy hair. I’ve been 5' 8" since I was twelve years old and grew up being teased. I told the judges that I had never thought of myself as pretty because I was tormented and made fun of so much. I was just dorky. I’m twenty-three years old and I’ve been Miss America but sometimes I still feel like that awkward little girl.”

Being with other women who are perceived as beautiful and accomplished can be intimidating. For many of the Formers, appearing at the national pageant was a bit daunting. Many did not feel that they fit the mold of a beauty queen, but they knew they had other qualities that would help them shine.

When Tawny Godin (1976) went to Atlantic City at nineteen years old, she looked around at the other contestants at a fancy dinner one night before the Pageant. “Miss Illinois was seated right where I could see her. She had a yellow dress on that night, long dark hair like me and false eyelashes. She looked perfect. I had never been that appearance-conscious as a teenager. When I became Miss New York State, the pageant people taught me how to use false eyelashes and made me cut my hair. I had hair so long that I could sit on it. That night I was looking around thinking, ‘What am I going to do? I don’t belong here.’ I thought that you needed to know certain things and have a certain look in order to fit in. I definitely didn’t have that look. That just wasn’t who I was.”

Tawny characterized herself as a preppy who wore corduroy pants and crew neck sweaters with turtlenecks. She knew little of the techniques the other contestants employed. “Some of these girls were putting masking tape on their butts to hold their bathing suits down and using contouring to enhance their bust line. I had never even thought about doing anything like that. I didn’t even know that sort of thing existed. When I saw people putting Vaseline on their teeth I couldn’t figure out what they were doing.”

Lee Meriwether (1955) didn’t know she had been entered in the Miss San Francisco pageant until the day of the audition. Back then, someone else could sign up a contestant. “One of the fraternities at the University of San Francisco where I was in school had entered my name. To this day I don’t know who. I would never have entered on my own. All I knew about the Miss America Pageant was that it was a bathing beauty contest. I was not one to don a swimsuit very often. I grew up a skinny, awkward kid with big dumbo ears and a snaggle tooth. I was gawky and gangling. [Lee is almost 5' 9" tall.] When I didn’t get a role, people would say I was too pretty. But when I looked in the mirror, I didn’t see that. My first rejection happened when I was twelve years old. I was told that I was too pretty to play Mrs. Lincoln. It’s happened over and over. I could have understood being told, ‘You’re a terrible actress,’ but it has never played right for me that the emotional depth I can bring to the role is negated because they think I’m too pretty.”

Several decades later Lee was surprised when she saw herself again in the 1966 Batman film in which she played Catwoman. “Just recently they had a retrospective of Batman at one of the theaters and they invited me. I thought that it would be fun to see my face on the big screen. When I saw myself I went, ‘Wow! I looked pretty good.’ Why didn’t I see it back then? Why wasn’t I aware of how I looked?”

As number eight in a family of ten children Angie Baraquio (2001) always thought her older sisters were prettier than her. “I always felt like I was too fat or too short or too something. When you participate in a pageant, people have this perception of you as being beautiful. It goes back to your own perception of yourself and your self-esteem. It took years for me to realize that the outside part will come when I just work on my inside.’

Every one of us struggles with doubts about our appearance at some point in our lives. We worry that we are not pretty enough, tall, short or thin enough. We wish our hair were straight or curly, our bottom bigger or smaller. When we realize that beauty comes from the inside out, then we can nurture our nature as much as we attend to our appearance.

What the judges see

Many people misconstrue the intent of the Pageant, believing that it focuses predominantly on physical attractiveness. The job description for Miss America describes a broad range of skills and personality characteristics. As a scholarship program that promotes the ideal of a well-rounded woman, the Miss America Organization looks for someone who “represents the best of contemporary women… The youth of our nation must be able to find her as someone to whom they can relate; but, at the same time, she must present a professional image when called upon to meet with corporate communities…” She is charged by the Organization to “be able to motivate people from every age-range and socio-economic background to action and they must walk away feeling that having heard Miss America speak made a difference for them at that moment in time… She is on call twenty-four hours per day, seven days per week for the duration of her time as Miss America... The role of Miss America is only limited by the capabilities and the desires of the woman who wears the crown… Miss America must be able to push herself and the organization to live up to the responsibilities of being such a person.” That’s a daunting task for anyone, let alone a young woman between the ages of seventeen and twenty-four.

During the Pageant process, each of the contestants meets with the judges’ panel for a twelve-minute interview. The public never sees these interviews, which are held during the week before the televised contest. The contestants know that their eloquence during this brief time can make or break their potential for being in the top fifteen and ultimately Miss America. They know that they must be articulate and knowledgeable about their platform, current affairs and a variety of other topics; be able to answer questions spontaneously and comfortably; exhibit an air of confidence and poise; and present their case as to why they should be crowned Miss America. That’s a tall order for a twelve-minute interview.

Donna Axum (1964), who is currently on the board of directors, lays out some of her specific criteria when judging. “The most important thing that Miss America does is talk to audiences, individuals and the national press and media. Her speaking skills have to be tops in my book. When I judge, I like to delve under the first question and see what kind of in-depth knowledge the contestants actually have on an issue. They’ve got to be smart. They’ve got to be quick-minded. On the other hand, they’ve got to be approachable, personable and relaxed when you talk to them, with a quick, easy wit. I look for a genuineness of heart and spirit, which is difficult to quantify, and a sense of compassion for people or causes. They’ve got to be talented because they may perform a lot on the road. I was one of the first performing Miss Americas. The more usable you are, the more appearances you have. They have to be stunning. When she walks into the room, people have to say, ‘Yup, there’s Miss America. She’s the whole package.’ ”

The Miss America Organization used to define the qualities that Donna looks for in the winner as confidence and poise. Today the Organization calls it the “it” factor.

Tara Holland’s (1997) goal was to have the judges see who she was on the inside. She felt that if she was able to communicate that, then she would win, regardless of the outcome of the competition. “The more involved I became in the system, the more sure I was that the only thing that would set me apart from the others would be how I conducted myself in that interview room. At the Miss Kansas pageant I had a very academic interview and was frustrated because I didn’t feel that my personality came through. I did win Miss Kansas, but I was determined that the Miss America judges were going to find out who I really was. I came to realize that that there could have been another young woman named Tara, with long dark hair who sang opera and had literacy as a platform in that room. Somebody could look just like me on paper, but I was the only person who had the thoughts, convictions and passions that I had. That was all that mattered.”

Tara ended her interview at the national Pageant feeling that she had succeeded in showing her best to the judges. “I’m passionate about the program because it promotes the complete package of what it takes to live a successful life. You’ve got to take care of yourself and your body. You need to work on what you’re naturally gifted to do and know what your passions are. You need to be able to communicate well, then you need to be involved in your community in some way.”

The judges I spoke with said that it wasn’t the winners’ physical beauty that set them apart, but their ability to command the stage, their charisma and self-confidence. The winners had that indefinable quality of poise that made them glow in a group of winners.

Vernon DeSear, a Pageant judge, watches the way a contestant connects with the audience. “The most important thing that I look for in any young woman is her ability to command the room and the stage.” Leonard Horn, former CEO of the Miss America Organization and a judge, said, “There is a charisma, a self-confidence that comes through to those of us who are watching or judging them. You can see that positive self-esteem just in the way they interact with the crowd. On the stage you can look at all the contestants and certain ones stand out. They have a confidence about them. They know who they are. They know where they’re going. They have a goal-oriented way about them. It just shows.”

Rebecca King (1974), who has been a judge and is on the board of the Miss America Organization, describes the “it” factor. “I believe you could put a Miss America in a room with a hundred young women and you’d find her in about three minutes.”

Having been a judge, Susan Powell (1981) is well versed in what that inner glow looks like. “It all happens in that private interview. There are strict guidelines about what you look for – about what Miss America should be. It’s a scary thing as a judge. You will be changing some young woman’s life. When she walks into the room and there is something about her, the way she walks, the way she speaks and the level of honesty with which she communicates, that inner something is apparent. It’s a quality that is almost indefinable. There is no hiding under the lights of that interview. As a judge you immediately eliminate thirty-six people, just from those first sixty seconds. Twelve minutes is really long if you’ve eliminated someone in the first minute.”

Four-time Miss America judge, Frank Deford, author of fifteen books including one about the Miss America Pageant. and an award-winning sports writer, came to understand what set the winner apart. “In the interview room you saw them differently than when they were on stage. If they didn’t have anything to say you knew that within the first minute and half. You could sense it. I was always looking for someone who was smart and engaging and also looked good. I found the Miss Americas I met almost universally to be very attractive people. I remember the expression that was used – she lit up the room. There was just something about her. They seemed to be more in control. They didn’t seem to be as programmed. That was a large part of it. You had the sense that they could go with the flow. They were prepared for anything.” He confessed to a change of heart once he started to participate. “I didn’t expect to like them so much.”

Bruce Jenner, the former Olympian who was a judge the year Shawntel Smith (1996) won, was impressed with the quality of the women who compete and the power of the Pageant to change lives. His initial skepticism morphed into admiration. “On television, you don’t really get the opportunity to know the girls. But when you are there for a few days and you are with these young women, you get a chance to know them better. I remember how when I watched on television, I would pick my favorite, but the judges would pick another person. I came to see that it’s because the judges know the person better. We see the contestants in different circumstances. When you’re judging, you spend a lot of time with them. But when you watch you wonder why the judges picked her.

“My perceptions changed when I got to understand the quality of the women. That’s what I would want my daughter to turn out to be – someone who is intelligent, who has great character, some talent and is motivated in what she is trying to do. I think any parent would be extremely proud of his daughter for going through that process.”

Shawntel spoke with Bruce after she won. “ He shared with me why he liked me. What he said meant a lot to me because the interview was the one area where I had been trying to set myself apart. When he saw how down-to-earth and practical I was and that I had a plan to promote my cause of school-to-work after I won the title, he knew I was going to be the next Miss America.”

During the interview process that the public never sees, the true spirit of the individual contestants shines. It is the woman who exhibits confidence, intelligence and the belief that she has what it takes, who makes the judges do a double-take and put the crown on her head. She has that “it” factor.

Swimsuits and success

The swimsuit component of the Pageant has long been controversial. The Miss America Organization has kept it as part of the competition for many reasons. The first Pageant in 1921 was held in Atlantic City as a bathing beauty competition to spur local tourism after Labor Day. Now, loaded with tradition, the swimsuit component is expected by viewers. In 1995 the Pageant surveyed the public about whether to drop swimsuit from the competition. Overwhelmingly the public voted to keep it as part of the program. Its entertainment value is not to be underestimated. Other pageants not affiliated with the Miss America system copy the swimsuit component and make it a centerpiece of their contests.

Over the decades its importance in the judging at Miss America has waned. Swimsuit now accounts for the smallest portion of the overall score and isn’t as highly valued as the public might think. Both contestants and judges see it as another way to encourage young women to live active, healthy lifestyles and to be confident in any and all situations. The maintenance of a healthy and fit body is seen as a sign of internal discipline.

Heather Whitestone (1995) sees value in the swimsuit competition, though she didn’t feel that way at first. “In the beginning I was aghast that I had to do swimsuit. I kept telling myself that it was only one minute in the competition. Today I think it’s a good thing because the woman who wins needs to be in good health and strong enough to manage all the travel. If she can’t take care of herself then she is not qualified for that tough job.”

The swimsuit competition is a challenge for many of these young women. They have mixed feelings about having to appear confident and poised in not much more than a couple of handkerchiefs and high heels on stage in front of thousands of spectators and millions of television viewers.

Even though Angie Baraquio (2001) found the prospect of parading in front of thousands in a swimsuit daunting, she knew she had to play by the rules. She even asked her priest about the appropriateness of participation when her mother gave her a hard time about wearing a two-piece swimsuit in such a public arena. He told her that there was no moral issue. “Your mom is very strict,” he said. “Don’t worry – I’ll get your back. I’ve got an in with the guy upstairs.” Along with his support, Angie was able to take that walk with confidence. “I’m an athlete. I know I need to wear the uniform. If I want to play in the game, I need to abide by the rules. I told myself, if I could do that I could do anything.”

She also counters the argument that being Miss America and especially the swimsuit competition belittle women. “If you say this is not an empowering thing for women, you’re wrong. You can’t knock it till you’ve tried it. The feminists say, ‘You have to walk around in a swimsuit.’ I said that I did it once, but I would never have to do it again. I just focused on trying to become the best that I could be. I was not starving myself. I was working out everyday, doing tae bo, lifting weights, watching my carbs and doing it the healthy way. I felt so much more confident once I did it.”

Deidre Downs (2005) understands why the swimsuit component is important. “I had never won a swimsuit preliminary, so I obviously wasn’t a standout in it but I think it has value. Your ability to walk across the stage in a swimsuit for twenty or thirty seconds and look confident and be poised is more important than if there is an inch of whatever on your thighs. The judges see that self-assurance and how you connect with the audience. Maybe you’re scared to death inside to appear like that in front of thousands of people, but you don’t show it on the outside. You go out there and be yourself.”

As an athlete, Deidre was comfortable with her body and wearing revealing uniforms. But even she was initially taken aback when she first received the Pageant-sanctioned bikini for the first time. “You were able to choose your color but not the style. About a month before the Pageant it came in the mail in a little zipper baggie. The director of the Miss Alabama program was with me when I opened it. She said, ‘I hope that’s not the whole thing. Is that the bottom or the top?’ I looked at her and said, ‘No. This is the whole thing, right in this little baggie.’ It was a string bikini and definitely more revealing than anything I had worn before. It was pretty controversial during the press interviews and garnered more media attention for the Pageant that year.

“The swimsuit competition is not a lightning rod for me even though I would characterize myself as a pretty left-to-center feminist,” continued Deidre. “I was out there pioneering even as a little girl when I played in the boys’ baseball league. I see it as more of the tradition of Miss America. Also, it’s such a small part of the scoring.”

Our Miss Americas discovered that they could handle anything when they were able to flash a smile, strut their stuff in a swimsuit and high heels and hold their head high.

First impressions count

We can’t help categorizing people by what we learn about them at a first meeting. All of us make flash judgments. We decide at first glance who is dangerous and who is not, who to like or who to dislike, often with no conscious thought.

Like it or not, your appearance can affect your future. By appearance, I don’t mean the face and figure that you were born with, but what you do with them. Someone once said that you never get a second chance to make a first impression. Anyone can change her appearance through the use of subtle make-up, a great haircut and good lighting. You can manage your body with regular exercise, healthy nutritional habits and clothing appropriate for your shape and size. Small differences in your physical appearance can create big difference in people’s perception of you.

Kylene Barker (1979) feels that to be a winner in anything, grooming is extremely important. “I believe in first impressions. First impressions stick with people. My grandmother even at eighty-nine gets up every morning, puts on her make-up, has every hair in place, gets dressed and always looks beautiful.” Kylene continued, “Beauty is first a positive attitude that you translate into make-up, clothing and fitness. We’re living in a society today where too many people don’t do anything to fix themselves up and don’t take care of themselves. I believe in exercising and eating right. Taking care of yourself and fitting it into your life has to become a priority. Being your most attractive is what helps people be successful. If you feel pretty you give off pretty vibes.”

“People don’t understand what the Pageant does,” said Tawny Godin (1976). “You take a young woman who wants scholarship money. Perhaps she’s never felt that she was the prettiest or the best at anything. But once you enter the Pageant and you know that you are going to hit the stage, something happens to you. You know that you’ve got to be the best you can be. Sometimes it’s more than you thought you were capable of.

“You find out that you can be a better pianist, or you pay more attention to your voice and learn to sing better, or you get interested in current events, or realize that a little bit of exercise makes a big difference. You are constantly raising your expectations and belief in what you can achieve. That’s fantastic! How can that ever be a bad thing? The outcome has to be better than what you started with.”

If you pay attention to your appearance, then people pay attention to you. Dress for self-respect. When you look great you promote your own self-worth. It’s also a sign of respect to others. If you want to be perceived as professional, dress professionally. If you want to be thought of as an artist, dress in a more creative way. If you want to be looked at as a rebel, then don a rebel’s clothes. Every cultural icon has a uniform.

The secret of perpetual curiosity

People who are curious about the world are more interesting to others. Sit beside someone who at first glance looks bland and engage them in a stimulating and lively conversation. Later you will wonder why you thought they weren’t attractive.

Donna Axum (1964) said, “Those who have shallow interests or no interests at all other than how to preserve the skin that’s hanging on their skeleton or the next shade of lipstick are self-absorbed. Women who are interested in the world become more interesting to be around.”

The Pageant recognizes this truism by weighting the off-camera interview so heavily. Contestants know that they have to be well versed on many topics and clear about their positions on a variety issues. To prepare they read newspapers, study what is happening in the world and educate themselves about important historical events.

Everyone who ever achieved greatness was a lifelong learner. They never assumed they know it all. The people you associate with and the books you read will be the key activities that will change you the most. Spend your time with smart people and you will become smarter. Associate with people who are doing what you want to do and you will learn how to do it too. Hang out with big thinkers and you will begin to think big. Connect with creative types and you will learn to tap into your own creative juices. Besides you’ll never know how useful something you learn today might be tomorrow.

Mary Ann Mobley (1959) said, “The day has been successful if I have learned a bit more about the world, other people and myself. I want to learn something new every day until the day I die. I see big challenges as opportunities for learning. I don’t think about age. I feel like I can’t wait to see what will happen next.”

To perfect her craft, Lee Meriwether (1955) never stops studying. While she was in rehearsal for a show, a group of school children came to visit the theater. Her advice to aspiring actors in the group was simple. “Stick with it, study and never stop reading.” One little girl asked Lee if she still studied. Her reply was heartfelt. “Every day,” she said. “I read about the theater. I read autobiographies. I study people. I’m studying you right now. I’m watching how you are acting and reacting to me. Who knows, I may have to play a little girl or a woman who thinks she’s a little girl.”

Donna Axum (1964) believes in the importance of perpetual curiosity for herself as well as others. “I like to read, particularly biographies and historical novels. I’ve always had a desire to experience different cultures. I have an inquisitive mind. That is an important element of success as well.”

If you have not focused on self-improvement as a regular part of your routine, you may want to consider starting with those ideas and actions that will have an immediate impact on improving your life. Understanding more about finances, interpersonal skills or technology could improve your debt picture, your relationships and your employment prospects.

Being a lifelong learner has greater benefits than broadening your horizons. Learning something new feeds your mind and spirit. Doing so makes happy new brain cells and will keep you younger longer. Research has shown that when you learn new skills, your brain builds new neural pathways. We spend way too much time feeding every part of our being but our intellect. We often stuff our thoughts with hours of channel surfing, our faces with food and dull our senses with drugs and alcohol. You can nourish your mind by learning to play a musical instrument, speak another language or cultivate your garden.

Why not put down the remote and use the time you spend flipping channels on yourself? The library and internet are great resources for accessing all kinds of information. Find a listing of free lectures in your area. Join a club focused on something that interests you. Go back to school to finish your education or get an advanced degree. It’s never too late. In time you will be amazed at the confidence you’ve gained alongside new-found wisdom and skills.

Being perpetually curious will help when you don’t know the answers. If you are curious you will be able to identify the resources you need and where to find the answers to your questions. Be patient with yourself. Learning takes an investment of time and energy that will pay you huge dividends.

Cultivate your character

If you want to attract people to you be kind, be genuine, be honorable. When you make people feel that they are important in your eyes and you show them respect, they will stand a little taller in your presence and remember you. Being nice doesn’t mean that you let people walk all over you. When you show sincere interest in who they are, listen carefully to what they have to say, you have paid them the highest compliment.

General Colin Powell had a powerful impact on Heather French (2000). Since her platform was veterans' issues, she and General Powell were together a number of times at veterans’ events. He told her about a Maya Angelou quote that she took very much to heart: “People will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.” Heather was inspired by Powell's words. "When you give people that attention as Miss America, it makes them feel special. It doesn’t matter whether someone is two years old or in a wheelchair, every person deserves the best of who you are.”

The responsibility Heather felt as a representative of all the Miss Americas that had come before her and all who would come after extended to everyone with whom she came in contact. “You realize that you can have such a profound influence on someone else’s life. You remind yourself, ‘Don’t screw up.’”

Jennifer Berry (2006) saw how powerful being nice could be. “As Miss America I found that by being nice to people I was changing the perception that we’re just pretty girls. Even better was when they would tell me that I was fun and smart and real. Creating the environment as Miss America so that when I walked out of a room people had a different perception of me was really cool. The way you present yourself – first impressions – is vitally important. The word beautiful is in the job description for Miss America. It implies so much more than physical beauty.”

Our Miss Americas cultivate their characters and attempt to live lives worth emulating. Integrity and sincerity, intangible though they may be, are visible. Those women who become more beautiful with age exhibit such character traits in abundance. Integrity is evident in their interactions with others. What could be more appealing than someone who does what she says she will do, who takes responsibility for her actions and shows sincere interest in others?

Rebecca King (1974) said, “You have to have a strong moral compass. It keeps you focused. It helps you determine who you are and where you are going. You have to have that sense of integrity and character to carry you through confusing times. It’s basic. You have to do what you say you’re going to do. In business it can come down to a handshake. If I have an agreement with another attorney over the phone, it’s done. People count on you. If you’re not as good as your word, what good are you?”

We make emotional connections to people who exemplify high ideals. When we are with them, we feel the power of their focus and attention. They exude a genuine self-confidence. Just being in their presence makes us feel uplifted and special. That is how they capture our hearts and minds.

Susan Powell (1981) recognizes that inner beauty in others when she speaks of Jean Bartel, Miss America 1943, who successfully convinced the Miss America Organization to start awarding scholarships in 1945. “She was Miss America at a time when the Pageant was huge – queen of the universe. I just love Jean. I find how she is aging really fascinating. She’s gorgeous. She speaks her mind in a forthright but gentle way. She makes me feel important every time I’m with her. I don’t know how she does it.”

When you make people feel better about themselves, they will feel better about you. We are drawn to people who enhance our own sense of self. Our Miss Americas know this.

As I witnessed their interactions with others, I found them to be uniformly gracious, warm and patient. A little girl came up to Heather French (2000) and Heather got down to the child’s level to talk to her. For that moment, there was no one else in the room. Mary Ann Mobley (1959) took the time to ask a waiter about his family at a restaurant she frequents and write a thank you note to an airline employee who had helped her. Jennifer Berry (2006) and Shawntel Smith (1996) were welcoming to people who recognized them on the street. They all will pose for endless photographs with fans and listen to what someone has to say with patience and grace. These are the qualities that all great leaders and successful people have.

And when they see someone in distress, they feel compelled to reach out. Phyllis George (1971) has been deeply touched by the effect she has had on other people’s lives. “We need to let people know that they’re special. Sometimes you can say something to someone and not know the effect it has on them.” She told me a story about a lunch she had with her friend, Sue Ann, one snowy day in Lexington, Kentucky. “Behind me were two women, one of whom was crying and couldn’t stop. The other one was consoling her. As these two women were leaving, they walked by our table. I placed my hand on the arm of the one who had been crying and said, ‘Whatever it is that you are upset about, it will get better. It will, so please don’t think of the negative. Please think of the positive. I’ve been there. I’ve had those times. Just promise me that you’ll try.’

“Not too long after, her friend walked into a shop and saw Sue Ann. She asked Sue Ann to tell me that the woman who had been crying that day at Southern’s was planning to commit suicide. Her son had moved across the country and gotten into drugs. She blamed herself. She was recently divorced and was going to take drugs that very day. Because I had touched her and told her to not think about the negative things, but to think about the positive things in her life, she walked out the door and said, ‘If Phyllis George can do that, I can do that too.’ And she survived.”

Phyllis, like so many of her Miss America sisters, believes that there is a responsibility that comes with the crown. “If we can reach out to people, we should. We’ve been blessed with this amazing honor of being a Miss America. By showing that I cared, I saved a life that day and didn’t even know it.” By turning on the power of nice we tap into the very best that we can be. When we lift ourselves, we lift others.

When Phyllis won the Miss America Pageant in 1971, the women’s movement was in full flower. At that time feminists were vocal about their feelings that the Pageant was demeaning to women and would stage a protest at events when a Miss America was present. Phyllis tells of a time when she did an appearance at an automobile showroom in Dekalb, Illinois. Several women came to picket. “Here I am, a small town girl from Denton, Texas, at the highest moment of my life having won Miss America. It was a freezing cold day and they are outside picketing me. So I went outside and asked them to come in out of the cold. I asked them what their issue was. They believed that I was being exploited, but I said, ‘This program gave me opportunities to get a scholarship and have a springboard. I got to play the piano in front of millions of people and now travel all over the country. What’s wrong with that?’ They said, ‘You wore a swimsuit.’

“Then I said, ‘You’re doing what you’re doing because it is important to you. This is the way you want to approach life. Well, this is the way this small town girl from Denton, Texas is doing it. I got a lot of scholarship money. I’m meeting a lot of important people that maybe can help me with my career. I don’t feel like I’m being exploited. If I did, I wouldn’t be here.’

“They said that I wasn’t like the others. I tried to help them see that my Miss America sisters feel the same about the benefits of participating. I asked them to please respect the direction I’d chosen for my life.” Phyllis may not have altered the stereotypes held by other feminists, but that group gained a whole different perspective on what the Pageant was really about.

Donna Axum (1964) knows that her celebrity does not set her apart or put her on a higher level than others. “Humility is an important characteristic of being Miss America. You have to be able to relate to people in all walks of life across the country, have compassion for their status or the problems that they are dealing with. If you don’t have a degree of humility about you they won’t open up to you. Humility, though obvious to others, is invisible to those who possess it.” Now that’s beautiful.

We aren’t born blank slates. Each of us comes into this world with certain personality characteristics and capabilities. I’m not advocating you be someone so outside of who you are that you don’t recognize yourself. What I am advocating is that you take a look at yourself and decide whether you are pursuing your potential. Each of us has a range of achievement within which we function. When you actualize your highest self you are at your most beautiful. Then you are beautiful from the inside out.

To purchase go to:

http://www.amazon.com/Pretty-Smart-Lessons-Miss-Americas/dp/143893761X/

Chapter 1 - The Baby in the Bag

2009-08-23T20:09:00.002-04:00

Chapter 1

I was really nervous while I waited in the Green Room, back stage on the “Tonight Show”. This was my first time on television and I was invited to appear because I’d written a short novel about surfing that was then made into a movie. I remember watching the wall-mounted monitor as Jay’s first guest, the handsome movie star Rock Studstones, looking larger than life, appeared to promote his latest block buster action movie.

Jay made the introduction. ”Please welcome a good friend of the Tonight Show, Rock Studstones!”

The curtain parted and Rock peacocked out, giving that little pistol finger point over to Kevin, the band leader.

Rock looked super cool in his tailored black blazer, designer blue jeans and white skin tight shirt, his highlighted pecks appearing as if they were made of hard plastic, which they probably were.

As the audience screamed its approval Rock strutted over to Jay, looking like the big dog in the proverbial junkyard. They shook hands and gave each other a friendly hug, like old friends do. And I had to follow that!

Jay continued, “Rock, it’s always good to see you. How are you, my friend?”

“I’m fantastik Jay,” Rock replied, in his Austrian accent.

“You look great. I see you’ve been working out.”

“Ya, you know, I do vat I can to look good for da ladies.”

“Speaking of ladies, how’s your girlfriend, Chi Chi Gigante?”

“Jay, you kan’t believe everyding you read in da tabloids. We are nodding but best friends, you know.”

“Best friends with benefits!”

The audience chuckled, wink, wink, nudge, nudge.

Rock smiled his electric silky-smooth used car salesman way. You know the kind that seems three quarters genuine and one quarter deceitful. Man, was he cool.

“So Rock, tell me about your new movie. I love the title, ‘Everyone Dies’”.

“Ya Jay, it’s an action movie. The main character, me, is a mild manner account, Jack Numbers. He stumbles across a money laundering scheme and discovers you know, dat da money is koing to a group of midget terrorists who vant to destroy da world.”

“Dwarfs want to destroy the world? Sounds like a really short story!”

That Jay, he really cracked me up with that one.

“Why do they want to do that?” Jay continued.

“Day are angry because all da fast food chains super size everyding. Da leader of da midgets, Jumbo Shrimp, had a terrible incident vid a super-sized meal. He fell into da drink cup and almost drowned.”

“Oh waiter, what’s that dwarf doing in my drink?”

“The back stroke!” the audience yelled back, da dum.

“So, you take on the dwarf terrorists?”

“Ya, da’s vight.”

“I watched a preview earlier and I really enjoyed it. But there seems to be a lot of gratuitous violence.”

“True. I vouldn’t recommend taking da kiddies. Vait for da video game.”

“Who else stars in it?”

“Jay, we have a great kast. The beautiful Martha Pumphandle plays my love interest and da African-Mexican actor, Pacito Jones plays Jumbo Shrimp.”

“Alright, well, let’s take a look at a clip. Do you need to set this scene up?”

“Ya Jay, in dis scene I’m in da terrorists’ secret underground hideout. I’ve been captured and tied to a conveyor belt dat’s slowly winding toward a buzz saw, you know.”

“Sounds like the Lilliputians have an axe to grind. Let’s take a look,” Jay said, swiveling his chair to see the flat screen behind him.

The monitor cuts to the clip. I watched the scene. And like Rock said, he’s tied to a slow moving belt headed toward a spinning screaming buzz saw. I couldn’t see the dwarf terrorists. All I could see were the tops of their heads, little hands and arms flailing from behind that belt, looking like a wheat field waving behind a fence.

“Well, Jack Numbers, seems as if you’ve met your match,” Jumbo Shrimp said, even though I couldn’t see him.

“Ha! It vill take more dan you to best me. I vill never let you destroy da world.”

“Soon you’ll be cut down to size, Jack Numbers.”

“I do not dink so. You vill always be half da man I am.”

I watched as Rock wiggled his hand free and using his diamond studded Rolex sliced away his ropes, sprang off the belt, somersaulting as he did, wrestled free a machine gun from one of the small guards and began spraying bullets all around. The dwarf terrorists scampered away to hide behind scattered boxes and in the darkened corners, like cockroaches suddenly caught in the light. All the while Rock was screaming, “Hasta luego, you vittle terrorists.”

Afterward, the audience exploded with cheers and applause.

“Mr. Attola? You’re on after the next commercial break,” one of Jay’s interns then informed me.

I looked up to the monitor just in time to hear Jay say, “We’ll be right back with the author Parc Attola after this commercial break.”

So, I followed the intern to the back of the stage and waited. I could feel the sweat begin to gather under my arm pits, like dew hanging from a tree. I was glad I wore a tee shirt.

“Okay, Mr. Attola, once we come back, Jay’ll introduce you. After he does, walk on out, over to Jay and take the seat next to his desk.”

Finally, we’re back on air.

“You may not know my next guest, but he wrote the novel ‘Bigger than Big Wednesday’ that’s just been made into a movie and it’s getting rave reviews. Please welcome Parc Attola!”

That was my queue. I swallowed hard, feeling my neck muscles push down the little saliva I had like a snake choking down a rat, and walked out into the bright lights. I couldn’t see the audience. All I saw was a black abyss. Yet, I could feel hundreds of eyes scanning over me. I wanted to be cool too, so I gave Kevin that same pistol finger point. Kevin looked at me like I’d just peed in his corn flakes. It wasn’t a good start.

I walked over to Jay and we shook hands. His was cool and dry. Mine was wet and clammy. As I walked around his desk and sat down, I noticed Jay wiping his hand on his pants. Rock was sitting next to me. So, I shook hands with Rock and said, “Midget terrorists, man that’s too funny.”

Rock merely nodded his head in that you’re a loser kind of way.

“Parc, welcome to the Tonight Show.”

“Thanks Jay,” I said, as polite clapping dribbled from the audience.

“I’ve read your book,” Jay continued. ”I thought it was very exciting and emotional. Are you a surfer?”

“Yeah, but I’m not very good. Not much surf in Florida.”

“Accept during the hurricanes!”

More laughter.

“So, how does it feel to see your book on the big screen?”

“Well Jay,” I began, crossing my legs and noticing the lint on my dark socks, “it’s not exactly the same story. After I sold the rights, the producers told me that there needed to be some changes, to appeal to a wider audience.”

“Oh really? What changes did they make?”

“Well, for one thing, there’re no Killer Whales off the Florida coast. Also, in my novel, the main character doesn’t drive a Ferrari.” I continued, uncrossing my legs and sitting back. ”He’s a sixteen-year-old kid, abandoned by his father as his mother struggles to make a living and raise him to be a man. And he definitely doesn’t hang out with Laird Hamilton. But, the producers thought the movie needed a big name surfer in it. They even have the kid involved with the pop star, Britney Spirits.”

“How’d that make you feel when you heard about that?”

“Like a virgin in a prison shower with a new bar of soap!”

The audience actually laughed at that one as Jay tee-heed like he sometimes does when he hears a sexual innuendo. Things were looking up.

“What a crazy world,” Jay commented.

“Yes it is, with the war and everything,” I replied, trying to make small talk, as old friends do.

“Speaking of the war, what do you think is the number one problem facing this country?”

“Well Jay, it may not be as important to everyone as, say, the war, but I’d like to see universal health care.”

The audience clapped approvingly. So, I continued, encouraged.

“I mean, I can’t understand how the richest country in the world can’t provide decent health care for its citizens. People can’t afford prescription drugs any more. They now have to go to Canada or Wal-Mart to buy them.”

“Kevin, you know something about drugs and Canada.”

The audience snickered as Kevin smiled at Jay.

“Parc, do you smoke pot?”

“I’ll take the fifth on that one. By the way, Kevin, is it 4:20 yet?”

Now the audience began to whoop and holler, cheer and clap. Things were going great. I was funny and the audience seemed to like me.

“What would you do about the war?” Jay continued.

“I don’t know Jay. I’m not a movie star.”

Oops! Well, that did it. I never should’ve mentioned the war or dissed the Hollywood elite. That’s when I’d inadvertently stepped over that line into the thick sand of politically incorrect free speech. This is where my story actually begins.

After my slight of the beautiful people, Jay, I guess, wanted to stir things up. He turned to Rock and said, “Rock, haven’t you come out against the war?”

“Da, I have,” Rock answered, his square chin jutting forward from beneath his mouth, looking like Mount Rushmore. ”Da Bush administration has done noding but lie to da American people. Da President stole da election and his fascist regime has driven dis country down da vong path, you know. I know for a fact dat dis President planned 911 to get us into da vor.”

Now, I try to stay out of politics as much as I can. In my opinion, all politicians really want is to attain and maintain power, kind of like organized religion. I’m convinced that they really don’t care about anything else. But, I couldn’t let this go.

“Rock,” I turned and said, “didn’t you say that if the President was elected, you’d move out of the country? Yet, here you are. What’s with that?”

The audience became silent. It felt like I’d farted during a church sermon. Jay sat there looking like the cat that’d swallowed the canary.

“I vas speaking metaphorically, you know. I can do more to fight dis vicked administration vight here.”

“Get out. You’re just like that other actor who raged about getting out the vote. And he wasn’t even registered. What a bunch of hypocrites.”

Oops again! But, that did actually feel good to say.

“Now Parc,” Jay said, trying to regain a modicum of control.

But I couldn’t stop. I felt the situation going down hill and like a drowning man reaching for a life preserver I struggled to regain the audiences’ approval.

“What kind of name is Rock Studstones anyway? Sounds like you’ve got pebbles for stones.” Hey, I thought it was funny. Nobody else did as the silence from the audience grew steadily louder.

“Ha dare you!” Rock responded, his ears turning red.

“Yes I do, you pussy.” I really had no idea where that came from.

“Vat did you call me?”

“A pussy.”

“Vi I ought to.”

“Stand up Nancy and I’ll shove my foot so far up your ass, you’ll be tasting my toe jam for a week!”

They cut to a commercial after that and my time on the “Tonight Show” ended. Jay called for security. Rock gave me the finger, even after I’d asked him for his autograph, and I already had the twenty dollars he charges right in my sweaty hand. They wouldn’t even let me stick around and listen to the musical guest, the Pewbs. The only person who said anything nice to me was Kevin, and all he said was “Goodbye”.

“The Baby in the Bag, A Politically Incorrect Tale”

By Doug Hanau

Website: authorsden.com/doughanau

Chapter 1 - Cafe Tempest: Adventures on a Small Greek Island by Barbara Bonfigli

2009-08-18T05:27:00.001-04:00

“Welcome to Pharos. Laugh and dance in the hammock—not the cradle—of Western civilization,” says author, lyricist, and theatrical producer Barbara Bonfigli. “I’ve been falling in love with Greece since I was old enough to drink retsina. But if Sarah hadn’t captured my imagination you’d never know how I feel about friendship, feta, and the abundance of grace that turns friends into lovers and fishermen into kings.”

Synopsis

When Sarah, a thirty-something American theatrical producer, is asked to direct the locals in their summer show, she picks Shakespeare’s play The Tempest. What follows is a hilarious adventure in casting, rehearsing, and consuming. Her neighbors are excited about acting but delirious about eating. Their rehearsals in a deconsecrated church become a feast in four acts.

Armed with a sizzling wit, a dangerously limited Greek vocabulary, and a pitch-perfect ear for drama, Sarah navigates the major egos and minor storms of a cab driver Caliban, a postmaster Prospero, and a host of fishermen dukes and knaves.

When she falls in love, there are even trickier seas to navigate. Her own offstage romance provides an exhilarating, unpredictable counterpoint to Shakespeare’s story of magic, intrigue, and the power of love.

Chapter 1

No one else’s behavior makes any sense.

That’s it! The end of a continuous struggle for meaning since the third grade. That’s when I took a long look at the Brownie pledge. “On my honor I will try . . .” noble and uplifting; “. . . to God and country . . .” I feel like saluting. But then the ending . . . “especially those at home.” Sappy and rambling. I sent off my rewrite to National Headquarters and told them they could use it gratis—a word I may have misspelled. No reply yet, but you can’t expect an organization that sounds like chocolate cake to make snap decisions.

The site of this revelation is the charter terminal at Heathrow, where we’re spending the morning en route to Athens. Icarus Air warns you there’s a price to pay for flying on a shoestring. “Be there three hours before takeoff,” they command. Three hours! Whatever happened to “catching a plane? (I have a little problem with time, which I blame on skipping first grade. “She can already read,” they told my parents. They forgot to mention that first grade is where you learn to tell time, and maybe even understand it.) Nor am I thrilled to be flying with a company named for the only air disaster in Greek mythology. Icarus was the fearless god who flew so close to the sun his wax wings melted. I’m not afraid of flying either. Landing, maybe.

I look over the check-in choices and pick Anthony, sympathetic and snappy looking in a uniform that blends nicely with the ticket counter and carpet. With my French roast and Viennese beans, my pepper mill, yoga mat, and summer reading, I’m probably way overweight. As I get closer to Anthony, I do some tai chi balance shifts and practice sending waves of love in his direction. I also run my fingers through my unruly curls and drag a few over one eye in an attempt to look more vulnerable. And I pocket my sunglasses so my grandmother’s startling blue eyes can destabilize him. Meanwhile my lower mind takes in the drama unfolding between him and the slim-limbed miniskirted French bombshell in front of me.

“May I see your visa for Greece, madam?”

“See my what!?”

Anthony blushes and clears his throat. “Do you have a visa for Greece?”

“Ah . . . Oui.” She nods her blond sheaves vigorously. “I ’ave one partout!”

He smiles a weary, lost-empire smile. “You have a passport for everywhere. A visa is something else.”

“Something else?” She turns to me bewildered. “Comment?”

“Autre chose,” rises from the ruins of my eighth-grade French.

“Pourquoi something autre?” She turns back to him, impatiently clicking her fingernails in time with her stiletto heels.

He reflects, scribbles something, and announces: “I think your French driver’s license will be acceptable.”

Yes! Anthony’s my guy. What’s a little overweight compared to illegal entry?

“Accept a table?” she turns again and practically shouts at me.

“Acceptable?” I try, though I know French cognates are the undergraduate’s Waterloo.

“You are American, no?” she demands. Rude, and crushing. Lots of people think my accent is Parisian. Admittedly they all live in San Francisco.

“I just want to help you,” I say in a soft tone I reserve for crazy people.

“So do I,” Anthony chimes in, picking up my technique of short simple sentences.

“I just want to check in!” says Alex, right behind me. She turns her wheely bag around.

“Where are you going?” I ask in perfect English.

“To a line of my own.”

Alex (Alexandra, if she thinks you’re not taking her seriously) decided to come along at the last minute. But it was Julian’s idea that I take this unscheduled vacation. Julian is my partner in a West End theater company. Our affair ended the same week our play closed. I knew the play had a limited run, so that wasn’t a surprise. As for the Sarah and Julian show, I ignored the critics and willfully overlooked the dwindling returns. Which brings me to the painful conclusion that I’m better at acting than at casting.

Julian thinks it’s a happy coincidence; we can take a break from each other without hurting the business. I think it’s karma, and karma is a rolling stone; better to roll with it than stand in its path. So I’ve been planning a few weeks of uncluttered renewal on a remote Greek island. Uncluttered as in empty beach, cloudless skies, time alone to meditate, work on a novel, and finish an overdue magazine article. Renewal as in retsina. Plus I thought I’d made it clear to my friends that Pharos doesn’t rhyme with Mykonos, Jackie O never slept there, and the nearest mojito is a five-day sail. No burgers, no discos, and as for getting a torn nail repaired, claws would grow first. Whereas the incomparable charms of Pharos I’ve been keeping to myself. So I’m not sure what’s inspired Alex to come. Could it be she’s more tuned in to the state of my heart than I am? Asking would only introduce logic into our relationship—a cheap tactic I abandoned long ago. Is there any chance she’ll last the month? No way, say our friends, who’ve never agreed on anything before. I suspect they’re placing bets; I just wish there were some way to get into the pool. Thanks to Icarus Air, she now has time to plunder in Duty Free. I find her swinging a full basket.

“Why are you buying all this stuff you don’t need and so cleverly didn’t pack?”

“C’mon, Sarah. I thought this was a vacation?”

“It is.”

“Fine. See you.” She slides away.

“And raise you . . .” She doesn’t hear. It isn’t the first time I’ve talked to a wall. But it is the first time the wall replied: GIVE UP trying to understand other people.

(It’s an odd thing about revelations. I’ve meditated at the best places: Ashram in India, hot tub at Esalen, beside the lake in Pokara . . . and I can’t recall the great Aha! hitting me at any of them. Here I am at Terminal 4. Why go anywhere?)

Alex reappears, an outbreak of plastic bags blooming on her carry-on.

“Did he say Gate Fourteen?” she says, chewing on a giant duty free Toblerone bar. “I think they’re calling our flight.”

“I wish I knew,” I say, breaking a piece off the end.

Heathrow’s the summer school for places that teach English as a second language; articles are optional and, interestingly, there’s no future tense. Plus its PA system is a holdover from the Blitz. So the odds of making your plane are roughly the same as colliding with a neutrino. We find another carpet-coordinated employee who says “Leaving! Porto 14 !” Alex races me to the gate, where we stand panting in a line that takes forever to board.

We’re flying in Europe, a continent of smokers who’ve recently been banned from lighting up on planes. Everyone around us has the DTs; they’re desperately uploading caffeine and wishing they could just step out on the wing for a puff. The guy on our aisle is shaking his foot and studying the Icarus Air evacuation cartoon . . . In my opinion they should let people light up and drink from takeoff to landing. All this pent-up fear and deprivation would certainly mess up an orderly ditching at sea.

Give up trying to understand other people, I remind myself. Why, I wonder, has this revelation taken so long?

At thirty-nine thousand feet I look around at my fellow man with a new lightness, the enormous burden of comprehension abandoned at Duty Free. They’re all digging into a mysterious seafood starter. Icarus is an airline that serves food for revenge. Fortunately I have the picnic skills to meet this challenge.

“Alex, let’s have our banquet before the headwinds hit.”

I detect a little hostility from the guy on the aisle, sawing uselessly on his seeded roll as Alex lays out our smoked salmon, pumpernickel, Brie, and Chablis. Unless it’s an involuntary reaction to the cheese, with it’s whiff of socks left out in the rain.

“Would you like some smoked salmon?” she asks him.

“Signome?”

“No. Salmon,” says Alex, squeezing the lemon.

“Alex, signome is Greek for ‘excuse me.’ ”

“Oh.”

“Thelete ligo—would you like some . . . ?” I try. But the word for salmon escapes me. I point at it.

She looks back. “Pointing is Greek?”

“Oxi, efharisto.” No, thanks. “Eime hortophagos.”

“He’s a vegetarian,” I explain to Alex. “And the Brie is ripe enough to moo, so let’s skip that.”

“We ought to offer him something,” she says, displaying her notorious generosity. “He can have my entire Icarus lunch.” I say in an attempt to imitate her—though you could hardly call this a test.

“Oxi, efharisto—no thanks,” he smiles discerningly.

I pour him a cup of Chablis.

When dessert comes around it’s Turkish delight, in celebration of the three-thousand-year blood feud between Greeks and Turks.

“God, that looks terrible,” she says.

“Not as terrible as it tastes.”

She brings out our crème brûlée. During which I share my revelation, inspiration deleted.

“You mean to say you’ve been trying to understand everyone?”

“Well, not Charles Manson or the Spice Girls . . . but as a rule, yes.”

“What a wild idea.” Alex puts down her spoon. “How’s it turning out?”

“I’ve just given it up.”

She raises her cup of Chablis. “How do you say ‘bravo’ in Greek?”

“I think it is Greek.” And we click.

A few hours later we cross the Corinth channel and drop into the haze of Athens. The landing gear bangs into place. Moments later a stewardess comes over the speaker. “We’ll be coming through the isles to collect unwanted items. Please fasten your cups and throw away your seat belts.”

Sometimes I wish I could follow directions.

To learn about Barbara Bonfigli and Café Tempest, feel free to visit any of these sites.

Order Café Tempest directly from the publisher - http://www.tellmepress.com/pub_ct.php or from Amazon http://www.amazon.com/Café-Tempest-Adventures-Small-Island/dp/0981645313

To see the complete tour schedule visit http://virtualblogtour.blogspot.com/2009/05/cafe-tempest-by-barbara-bonfigli-summer.html

Barbara Bonfigli’s website – www.cafetempest.com

Last Man on Earth by Ashley Ladd

2009-05-02T18:59:00.003-04:00

Last Man on Earth

by Ashley Ladd

published by Total-E-Bound at http://www.total-e-bound.com

http://www.ashleyladd.com

http://www.ashleyladd.blogspot.com

http://www.total-e-bound.com/product.asp?s=yeXuv7690544&strParents=&CAT_ID=&P_ID=411

After Earth blows up, Astronauts Colonel Genie Siska and Major David Randolph are kidnapped by aliens.

Astronaut Major David Randolph is the last human male alive after Earth blows up. Colonel Genie Siska and David witness Earth's explosion from their space ship. In shock and despair, the couple run through a myriad of emotions. Although Genie's always been highly attracted to the major, he's also fourteen years younger than her. Even though he's literally the last man left alive, she still doesn't know if she can take a man so much younger than her as her lover.

David's always been in love with his commanding officer, and he's frustrated that even now, she resists him. They are literally mankind's last chance for survival. Or are they? When they are "rescued" or is it kidnapped by aliens, the whole picture changes. However, they are not sure if it's for better or worse.

Excerpt from: Last Man on Earth

USAF Colonel Genie Siska gaped at the blinding lights pinpointing the Earth. In shock, she wasn’t sure if she was speaking aloud or thinking, “My dear God. What’ve they done? How could they?”

“God save our souls,” Major David Randolph whispered beside her. His shoulder crowded hers and his hip bumped her as he ran back to his station.

The com channels were frantic with chatter. Maydays arose in every language. Reports of massive death and destruction filled Genie’s ears as she stared in disbelief from the command link to the planet below. Her fingers dug into the ledge in front of her, and she feared she’d sink to the ground if she let go. “How can they do this?”

She prayed to God for forgiveness and deliverance.

“Don’t just stand there, Colonel!” David grabbed her and dragged her into their escape ship. “We’ve got to get out of here now. If the planet explodes, it’ll blast apart the station.”

Earth explode?

She gulped. Her heart shattered as she envisioned the fiery deaths of all the children of Earth. The babies. The animals. All innocents. None deserving of the fate their elders decreed.

Mutely, swallowing hard, hoping David’s words weren’t prophetic, she forced herself to focus. But she couldn’t wrap her mind around the possible reality.

She helped David steer the ship out into space far enough for safety but close enough to see their home. When he put his arm around her, she didn’t demur. Rather, she wrapped her arms around him and laid her cheek on his shoulder, taking comfort from his steady heartbeat and the rise and fall of his chest. “Why is this happening?”

He squeezed her shoulder and huskily murmured, “Who really knows? Greed? Selfishness? Stupidity? Religious fanaticism?”

A sad snort arose from her lips, and she struggled to hold back tears and not damn all the religious nuts to hell. For heaven’s sake, USAF Colonels didn’t cry. In particular, female officers couldn’t show such weakness or her troops lose respect. She’d rather be a tough bitch. But against orders, tears clung to her lashes, and she tried to blink them back. “So we blew ourselves up in the name of God?”

He pressed his lips to her temple. “Quite possibly. We’ll never know.”

He sounded so much more mature than his mere twenty-eight years, and she burrowed into his strength.

The ship rocked with shock waves, and she gasped. Blinding light and meteors hurled at them.

“Damn! The idiots really did it,” David seethed and gathered her closer and held her tightly as if he craved the human contact.

Anxious for affirmation she wasn’t alone in the big, cold universe, she clutched him. Tears dropped unchecked from her eyes and sobs racked her throat. Although she’d never married nor had children, her heart ached for her nephew and her sister, for all the lost souls, for lost dreams, for the terror and pain everyone must have felt.

Furious at the sons of bitches who’d turned the doomsday switches, she flung back her head and howled her rage, and she pummelled her fists against David’s chest. “We’re dead! This is the end of the human race. How could we?”

A million visions collided in her mind, changing with such lightning speed she grew dizzy and crumpled to the floor. Gasping for air, her sobs came on hiccoughs. Irony in her voice, she mused, “I never thought it fair to marry or have kids as I thought my mission too dangerous, that I’d be the one to die in this godforsaken space…and now we’re the only ones left.”

David hunkered down on his haunches and stroked her face. His intensely blue gaze bore into her. Very sombrely and seriously he said, “We weren’t the only satellite orbiting Earth. The Russians and the Chinese are up here, too.”

“If they didn’t get pulverised.” Acid tears burned her eyes and hovered on her lashes. They burned her eyes much like the explosion burned away Earth’s atmosphere.

Again, David pulled her close and rocked back and forth with her in his arms. “Shush. We’ll make it. We’re resilient.”

She peeked out the window at the spookily empty space—empty barring all the dust and debris from their home.

Damn it! It shouldn’t be so beautiful, like sparkling fairy dust.

Book Details

Erotic Rating	Total-e-burning
Genre	Futuristic
Cover art by	Lyn Taylor
Book Length	Short Story
ISBN#	978-1-906811-86-0

published by Total-E-Bound at http://www.total-e-bound.com

http://www.ashleyladd.com

http://www.ashleyladd.blogspot.com

http://www.total-e-bound.com/product.asp?s=yeXuv7690544&strParents=&CAT_ID=&P_ID=411

Purchase page: http://www.total-e-bound.com/product.asp?s=xjddov691440&strParents=&CAT_ID=&P_ID=411

Hollywood Bohemians: Transgressive Sexuality and the Selling of the Hollywood Dream By Brett L. Abrams

2009-03-29T17:13:00.002-04:00

Chapter One

Hollywood Nightlife

Female Impersonators andCross-Dressing Females

La Boheme Cafe owner Karyl Norman delighted patrons by dressing up in yards and yards of lace and feathers whenever he performed his incredible female impersonations. His impersonation of Joan Crawford doing a scene as Sadie Thompson brought down the house nightly, occasionally with Crawford enjoying the laughs.

Hollywood publicity frequently showed celebrities inside the fancy and fantastic environments of nightclubs and restaurants. The stars ate and drank lavishly, fought and danced wildly, and dated and romanced extravagantly.

However, some Hollywood nightlife images also depicted celebrities hanging out with exotic and decadent figures or engaging in exotic and decadent behavior themselves.

Hollywood bohemian imagery, such as Norman’s impersonation of Crawford, played a significant role in forming the mystique of Hollywood’s nightlife. The image informed readers about Crawford’s nighttime activities and her interaction with others. These two pieces of personal information offered readers the chance to believe that they knew the star more intimately. Presenting a female impersonator provided readers with a glimpse of something they rarely saw and the thrill of experiencing behavior and persons the culture labeled taboo.

The association with the unusual and taboo enabled Hollywood nightlife to stand apart from depictions of the nightlife in other cities. It enhanced the usual movie industry publicity that made Hollywood nightlife seem fun and adventurous by linking the nightlife to decadence, making it appear wild. Hollywood was not the only place in the United States whose restaurants and nightclubs received coverage in the newspapers and magazines, nor was it even the first city to receive such coverage.

The coverage of nightclubs was a relatively recent phenomenon in the early twentieth century. It centered on clubs and restaurants in New York City. Few public entertainment places in the middle to late nineteenth-century United States received significant coverage in the press. Saloons limited their clientele to males and rarely became the subject of newspaper reporting except when a disturbance appeared in police reports. Brothels, dance halls, and other nightlife locations existed within city vice and tourist districts and had reputations as such debased places that they rarely appeared in the mass media.

Many of the media readers, including members of the Women’s Christian Temperance Union, viewed places of public nightlife as disreputable and worked to close them down. In addition, these nightlife locations did not attract the people whose activities newspaper readers wanted to follow. Most middle- and upper-class men and women spent their leisure time in private homes and locations where admission came through membership in either a formal or informal social circle. The dominant social life for most people functioned around the private party.

By the end of the nineteenth century, a new nightlife emerged as locations moved to more respectable areas within United States cities. Commercial locations increasingly emerged to replace the family, neighborhood, and private clubs as places to meet people and receive a variety of stimulation. Restaurants in hotels opened in more respectable neighborhoods and attracted both men and women from the upper classes. With the movement to different neighborhoods and the drawing of upscale crowds, leisure locations attracted more print media coverage.

The sensationalist newspapers of the major cities discovered increased readership interest in the activities of the upper classes. They began expanding the coverage of their parties and their dining out in restaurants in the society columns. General interest magazines also depicted the activities of the wealthy in these urban locations. During the first decades of the twentieth century, dailies in the largest U.S. markets regularly ran weekday columns and Sunday sections that chronicled “Society’s” affairs. Many newspapers began running columns containing notes on the lives of those in the theatrical world that included their activities in restaurants and nightclubs.

Hollywood Bohemians:

Transgressive Sexuality and the Selling of the Hollywood Dream

By Brett L. Abrams

Author’s Blog: www.bla2222.wordpress.com

Buy Links:

1. www.mcfarlandpub.com/book-2.php?id=978-0-7864-3929-4

2. www.amazon.com/Hollywood-Bohemians-Transgressive-Sexuality-Movieland/dp/0786439297/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1232743430&sr=1-1

A Slave of My Own Desire by Eve Summers

2009-03-29T15:19:00.000-04:00

Chapter 1

She: The Dangers of Dark Chocolate

His smile is so confident that it’s almost arrogant, and it makes me blush to imagine what his lips would taste like.

“May I get you a drink?” The teeth gleam predator-like in his face.

“Thank you, no. I already have one.”

Such a simple exchange: cliché even. So why does it make my heart race and my skin yearn for his caress?

“So I see,” he replies. He himself is also a cliché: very tall, very dark in the expensive-chocolate way, extremely handsome. “Except that your drink looks like a pumpkin.”

I laugh. “Of course it does. It’s meant to look like a pumpkin. What with it being a Halloween party and all. Gina went to a lot of trouble to set the scene.”

“She did a great job,” he brushes an imaginary cobweb strand off his sleeve. “Tell me, does it taste like pumpkin too?”

His voice is rich and intense, like the soul of a double espresso. And his lips… his lips are driving my hormones wild with desire.

I take a languid sip of my cocktail, let the orange liquid coat my tongue and throat. “Now that you mention it…”

The way he looks at me makes me hungry, too. The small red horns -- his only concession to the dress-up theme -- hint at unspoken taboos. My kind of guy.

His hand, when it touches mine for a second, sends a wave of heat through my body. I don’t even know this man, but his sheer magnetism can only mean one thing for me: trouble.

Make that Trouble with a capital T.

I sigh. That’s not for me, I can’t help thinking wistfully. I said goodbye to Trouble when I was twenty-one.

And now this man is threatening to destroy the peace I’ve worked so hard to attain.

“A girl like you should be drinking champagne,” he says. “Soup cocktails are not enough challenge for you.”

His eyes are flirting with me. Now is my chance to say that there is no champagne at my sister’s party, to which he will suggest going to his place where he undoubtedly keeps a selection of bottles on ice, and then….

“A man like you is dangerous,” I reply before my brain kicks in. Damn.

I expect him to ask why, but he surprises me. He takes my hand and places the briefest of kisses inside my palm. Electricity zips through me at the speed of light.

“Danger, madam, is my middle name.” He turns to leave.

I want him so much it hurts. I know I could stop him with a single word. Instead, I watch the man who could have been the man of my life walk away from me.

I should be relieved.

I’m not. My body is tingling all over, my heart is pounding in my ears. Damn me and my silly sense of what’s proper. Damn my parents, my upbringing. Damn it all.

I don’t even have his phone number.

The pumpkin cocktail beckons with promises of oblivion and drowned sorrows. I swallow, drink up, grab another.

“There you are, Clare.” It’s my sister. “I’ve been looking for you. There is this guy, a very nice man, I work with him. Anyway, he spotted you and is now dying to meet you. Come, let me introduce you.”

“Gina, I -” My heart is pounding in my chest. I’m sure she means the owner of the cutest set of buns. The one whose middle name is Danger.

As though in a dream, I follow her down the pumpkin-lined corridor and into the den.

“I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance,” I hear a thin, gallant voice.

I don’t even bother to raise my eyes. It’s not him.

I can see why Gina described him as a nice man, though. Courteous, attentive, without an ounce of naughtiness in his body or soul. My parents would approve: a perfect son in law, somebody who would reign in their rebellious child. Gina chose well on their behalf.

In fact, he reminds me of my first real boyfriend. My family chose that one too. He was kind and eager to please me. He treated me like a queen. I almost died of boredom.

And now here stands his exact replica, chosen by my well-meaning sister.

Nobody cares if I want my man to have little red horns.

Disappointment bitter in my mouth, I excuse myself as politely as I can. Then, having waved goodbye to Gina, I make a point of inspecting every room.

I find walls of artificial cobwebs, bowls of lime green goo that seems to move when you breathe, plastic spiders and bottles of mysteriously viscous red liquid. I find lots of people dressed as ghosts and witches and skeletons. I even find a fog-making machine.

But my handsome devil is not there.

I try to tell myself it’s for the best. Goodbye Trouble.

A Slave of My Own Desire

by Eve Summers (http://yewalus.kiwiwebhost.net.nz/Eve-Summers.htm)

Erotic Romance

Red Rose Publishing

ISBN: 978-1-60435-110-1

Buy now: http://redrosepublishing.com/bookstore/product_info.php?products_id=245

The Twist by Lee Silver

2009-03-11T23:41:00.001-04:00

Blurb

"Every man should have to spend at least a month as a woman."
~Debra Gaynor

ZANE TOLLISON’S wife is running through their cash faster than he can make it. A “Hail Mary” contract with Clearwater Tobacco arrives in the nick of time to keep his fledgling, consulting firm afloat and to unchain him once and for all from his narcissistic wife. Beautiful, brilliant and estranged, KATHY DAVIS is desperate for a new beginning. The feisty post doc bio-geneticist jumps at an offer from Clearwater, pouring her soul into a development that will revolutionize the tobacco industry.

The two are unwittingly reeled into a convoluted plan to steal $12 million; Zane is changing into a carbon copy of Kathy, a pawn in a bizarre genetic metamorphosis, entangling Kathy in a sinewy web of seduction and deceit. Forging a bond that will set the course of their destiny, they fight to overpower the diabolic hold that has taken over their lives.

I’ll admit it, I’m a geek! But setting a romance in the framework of high tech intrigue, my technical background turned out to be my best friend. I wanted a heroine who would stand toe to toe with the leading man and a plot that would keep a reader on the edge of their seat. The Twist is only the beginning.

~ Lee ~

(Chapter One)

Zane’s eyes glazed over as he stared at the “Coca Cola” advertisement above the window on the opposite side of the aisle, hypnotized by the drone of the bus’s diesel engine. Foregoing his usual newspaper, it was all he could do to keep from falling asleep.

He relished the 38-minute ride to his office. He had taken on so much extra work lately trying to keep up with their bills, it was the only time in the day he had for himself. Ever since Zane had admitted to himself how deep they were in debt, it was impossible to sleep at night. He frowned. It was bad enough it consumed his days.

“Excuse me. Excuse me!” the woman seated next to him huffed. “Sir, I need to get off here.”

Her voice snapped him back to reality. “I’m really sorry, ma’am. What stop is this?”

“123rd Street.”

That was his station. At least he hadn’t missed the stop again.

Zane’s cheeks tingled from the sting of the cold winter air as he stepped off the bus, his head buzzing from the smell of diesel mixing with the fresh morning air. He stared at the dreary morning sky and shivered. “Cold as a witch’s titty.”

He pulled his collar up around his neck. The brim of his hat tilted over his eyes, he shoved his hands deep into his pockets, walking briskly through the light mixture of snow and rain.

Zane glanced at the elevator and headed for the stairwell. The closest thing to a trip to the gym he would get for the day, he hoped the jog up the steps might get the blood flowing and help to wake him up.

The lights were already on as he walked down the short hall to his office. He opened the door to find Pat hard at work at her desk. An experienced executive secretary in her early fifties, Zane didn’t know what he’d do without her.

She looked up with a concerned smile. “Did you miss your stop again?”

He reached for the jelly donut in her hand and took a bite. “Actually, I didn’t. What are you doing here so early?”

“Zane, it’s 9:40.”

He stuffed the rest of the donut in his mouth, wiped his lips with the back of his hand, and picked up her coffee mug. “Shit. I must have taken the bus full circle and gotten off on the way back! Any calls?”

“Just one. A gentleman named Chorde. He called first thing.”

Pat reached for the cup in Zane’s hand. “You weren’t here, so I figured you must have missed your stop. You usually get in about an hour after me when you do that. Anyway, I told him to call back in half an hour.”

“Are you that observant or am I late that often?”

Her smile was her answer. “He called again about ten minutes ago.”

“Did you get his number?”

She pressed a sticky yellow “Post It” note on his forehead.

“You’re the best, Pat. Remind me to give you a raise.”

The phone rang. “Tollison Consulting.” She rolled her eyes. “Why, yes, Mr. Chorde, as a matter of fact, he just walked in. Let me transfer you.” She put her hand over the mouthpiece and pointed to the receiver.

Zane rushed into his office and scampered to his chair, clearing his throat as he reached for the phone. “Tollison here.”

“Mr. Tollison, so good to finally reach you. Jonathon Chorde, from Clearwater Tobacco. I was hoping you could assist us with a survey.”

He leaned back in his chair. “A survey? Doesn’t sound like the sort of thing I normally get involved with. Sorry, can’t help you.”

Zane was about to hang up the phone when he heard the magic words that always got his attention.

“Clearwater is willing pay you twelve million dollars for a week of your time.”

He sat up sharply, fumbling in his desk drawer for something to write with. “Excuse me, what did you say your name was again?”

“Chorde, Jonathon Chorde, from Clearwater Tobacco.”

Zane grinned as he printed the name in large letters on his desk blotter. “And I suppose you also have a bridge and a large statue in New York City I might be interested in.”

Chorde chuckled. “I see I’ve managed to get your attention. Actually, I had the good fortune of meeting your wife at a dinner party some time back. Elise mentioned that you were a consultant, so I decided to do a little checking. Your reputation certainly precedes you.”

“Twelve million dollars is a lot of money. Who is it you’d like me to kill for you, Mr. Chorde?”

“We are under a tremendous amount of pressure from the anti-smoking coalitions who seem to feel we are adding substances to our tobacco products that make them particularly addictive to females. We only ask for your help to dispel these accusations by assisting us with a controlled survey.”

Zane propped his elbows on the desk, his chin resting in his palm. “OK, we’re not talking illegal or immoral. So why me? There must be a hundred firms that could do a better job at this kind of work than—”

“With elections around the corner, it’s important for Clearwater to show our commitment as a friend to small business. Given your glowing references and since you are neither a Clearwater employee, a woman, or a smoker, you seem to be the perfect man for the job.”

Zane cocked his head, rolling the tip of his mustache between his fingers. The bills his wife had racked up in their three short years of marriage were staggering. Aside from her jewelry box of twinkly stones and a townhouse full of artwork that could have been duplicated by failing kindergartener, they had nothing to show for a little over four million dollars of debt.

The chair squeaked as he leaned back in his seat and propped his feet on his desk. “And the exorbitant fee for my services?”

“Please, call me Jonathon. Time is of the essence. It was simply an offer we felt you could not refuse.” Chorde paused. “Mr. Tollison, we have more money than God.”

A smile spread across his lips. And God answers prayers. “For twelve million dollars, Jonathon, you can count on Tollison Consulting to get the job done.”

* * * *

“Oh yeah!” Zane got up from behind his desk, doing a cross between the Snoopy dance and the end-zone rumba in the middle of his office. “We’re in the money. We’re in the money!”

Pat poked her head into his office. “What on earth is going on in here?”

Zane wrapped his arms around his secretary’s shoulders. “I finally hit the big one.” He picked the matronly woman up off the floor and swung her in a circle. “I got a chance at a twelve million dollar contract with Chorde!”

“Have you gone mad? Put me down!”

Zane set her on her heels, a hearty laugh rolling from his belly. “I’m gonna be rich!”

She straightened her sleeves and leaned forward to preen the front of her skirt. “Well, that certainly is wonderful but, mind you, you’re not rich yet. Might I suggest you call Mrs. Tollison to tell her the good news?”

“Pat, I love ya.” Zane grabbed his secretary’s cheeks and planted a big kiss on her lips. “What would I do without you?”

She waved her arms as she stormed back to the front desk. “You have gone mad!”

Zane picked up the receiver and dialed his wife’s cell phone. “Elise, great news! Some guy you met at a dinner party just called. I just got a chance at a twelve million dollar contract.”

“Oooh, sweetie, that is good news! Now we can finally hire some help to take care of everything I hafta do around the house.” She giggled. “And I can throw out all these old rags and buy some nice things to wear.”

“Whatever, Elise.”

Flirting in a sing-song schoolgirl chant, she continued. “Maybe if ya can come home from the office early tonight, we can …celebrate.”

“Gee, that would be terrific! I have a ton of stuff to do to get ready for the meeting with Chorde tomorrow, but I’m sure I can be home by five.”

He could have heard a pin drop.

“That early? I mean, I like don’t have a thing to wear and I’ll have to order dinner, and…and everything!”

“Why don’t you just call me when you’re ready for me to come home?”

“Ooh, sweetie, you’re so smart!”

“That’s why I get the big money.” He leaned back in his chair and grinned.

“Well, I better get goin’. I like have so much to do to get ready for tonight! Hugs and kisses.”

Zane hated when his wife said that but knew the expected response. “Hugs and kis—” It was too late. Elise had already hung up.

* * * *

The coffee and adrenaline were quickly wearing off. Leaning against his office door, he glanced out at his secretary. With all the energy he could muster, he asked, “Could you please make plane reservations for me for tomorrow morning?”

“Will you be needing a rental car?”

Zane yawned. “Oh, excuse me. No, I can catch a cab when I get into town.”

“How about a hotel?”

“No, I probably shouldn’t spend the money in case this thing falls through. Just get me a red-eye home tomorrow night. I can sleep in the airport. As you were so quick to point out, I don’t have that contract yet.”

He reached into his back pocket for his wallet and handed her a fiftydollar bill. “Would you mind picking me up a dozen roses when you go out for lunch?”

“For Mrs. Tollison, I hope?”

“You don’t need to be so nosey, but yes, they are for Elise.” Zane hesitated. “And Pat, I’m not taking any calls today.”

His secretary nodded. “Would you like me to bring you back something to eat, or should I just knock on your door when I get ready to leave for the day?”

“A knock would be fine. But please, please don’t let me miss that call from Elise.”

* * * *

Zane closed his door and loosened his necktie. He could hear the faint sound of Christmas carols on his secretary’s portable radio as he settled down on his office couch.

“…Santa baby, slip a sable under the tree, For me. I've been an awful good girl, Santa baby, and hurry down the chimney tonight.”

His mind floated. The honeymoon ended the night of their wedding. After three years of marriage, his wife’s cute little quirks had become unbearable.

Zane had met Elise rather accidentally, at a dinner party given by a large package handling equipment company. Her Daddy, who turned out to be the CEO, dangled the offer of a sizeable contract and was quick to encourage a relationship between Zane and “Leesie.”

She was a blonde-haired blue-eyed brick house. Never married and fresh out of some stuffy English private school, her incredible looks, youthful charm, and light sense of humor made him laugh and feel younger than he had in years. With Elise on his arm, Zane was the envy of all his friends.

Whether it had been prudent use of birth control or simply dumb luck, it was never her weekend to have the kids, a welcome change from the stuffy “30 something” professional women Zane had dated. Ten years his younger, Elise fucked like a rabbit and the sex would make your eyeballs roll back in your head.

Wedding plans were made, with Daddy taking care of all the bills. A country club reception and a trip to the French Riviera later, Elise was all his. Daddy must have seen him coming.

At first, her little habits were easy to accept.

Whether it was indecision or she simply enjoyed the process, it took Elise three solid hours to get dressed every morning, and equally long again if they had plans for the evening. Doing and redoing her hair and make-up, she would change into an endless combination of outfits as she posed for an imaginary camera in her vanity mirror. Zane often wondered if that wasn’t what women did when they got too big to play with their Barbie dolls.

As the clock ticked past the point of fashionably late, it always ended the same. After pleading with her to hurry up, Elise would storm out of the bedroom and whine, “I just don’t have a thing to wear. You never care how I look!” He could count on the fact she wouldn’t say another word for the rest of the night.

Conversation beyond the casual banter they shared while they were dating and her eyes glazed over. “Sweetie, I don’t mean to interrupt, but…” Chin propped in his hands, Zane hid his yawns as his wife blabbered about the current trends in shoes or how she couldn’t possibly live another day without some fifty thousand dollar toy one of her rich bitch girlfriends had just gotten. Simply put, Elise had the IQ of a vine ripe tomato.

In defiant indignation, or a sheepish apology that she just couldn’t seem to get used to sharing a bed with him, they had started sleeping in separate rooms almost immediately after the wedding. Of course, the sex stopped too—at least with him.

Nowadays, Zane just stayed at work until he was sure his wife was asleep. The TV and sofa in his office had gotten lots of use the last six months. Having waited until the worldly age of 33 before getting married, he couldn’t believe he’d blown it so badly by falling for a 24-year-old, blonde-haired blue-eyed bimbo.

They had no marriage, but his wife was a walking wet dream. With Elise around his neck, Zane was the laughing stock of all his friends.

He glanced at the glamour shot she had taken for his birthday their first month together.

“Maybe we could work things out if I could land a contract like this every once in awhile.”

Zane fought the feelings that were building within him.

“Naw.” He closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep.

* * * *

“Zane, it’s Elise.”

“Umm.” He wrapped his hands behind his neck and stretched. “What time is it?”

Pat poked her nose around the edge of Zane’s office door. “It’s a quarter past four.”

“Thanks. Put her through.”

“Hi, Elise. How’s it coming?”

“See, sweetie, I can get ready real quick when I want to,” she said giggling. “Hurry home. I’ll be waitin’ for ya. Hugs and kisses!”

“I’m on my way. Hugs and kisses.”

Zane walked into the reception area, instantly seeing a large white box on the credenza with a fifty-dollar bill taped to the top.

Pat picked up the box and handed it to him. “You just take your money and these flowers, and go home and make up with Mrs. Tollison.”

“You know, you’re a real sweetheart. Honest to God, if you were twenty years younger—”

“If I were twenty years younger, I’d have had more sense than to take a job working for you!”

Zane opened the box. He took out a flower and smiled at his secretary.

“Oh, no, you don’t.” Pat pushed away his hand, turning as she wiped the corner of her eye. “I’m too old to get all teary-eyed about a rose. Especially when I paid for them. Your flight leaves at 6:05AM, Zane. American number 2511. Good luck tomorrow with Mr. Chorde.”

Pat reached for the rose and smiled. “And tonight, with Mrs. Tollison.”

* * * *

It had stopped raining, and the winter air was clear and crisp. Zane headed towards the bus station, a lively step to his walk as he whistled the tune to “Santa Baby.” There wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell he was going to miss his stop tonight.

The bus was crowded but he was in too good a mood to care. With a dozen roses and the ol’ Tollison charm, he even stood a pretty good chance of getting laid when he got home.

Zane stepped up to the front door of their townhouse. He fumbled with the lock but before he could turn the key, the door swung open.

Elise was wearing a sheer, floor-length gown with a side slit up to her waist. Her short, platinum blonde hair was moussed close to her head in sophisticated Evita style.

She put her hands behind her back, her gaze drifting towards the floor. “Do I look pretty?”

Zane spied her calf peeking through the folds of shimmery fabric, following the curves of his wife’s body as his eyes locked with hers. “Elise, you are absolutely stunning.”

He could tell by his wife’s puzzled expression that his compliment was lost on her. Zane smiled. “Yes, you look very pretty.”

Her eyes grew wide as she reached for the box in his arms. “For me?” Elise untied the ribbon. “Flowers! Oh Zane, they’re so pretty. Just like me.”

She set the box on the hallway table and draped her arms around his neck. “Sweetie, I’m sorry I’ve been a teeny bit grumpy lately. I just don’t know what’s got into me.”

Perching on one foot, she brought her calf up alongside his thigh, instantly commanding Zane’s undivided attention as she rubbed her silk covered leg against his wool trousers.

Her pretty face scrunched into a pout. “Do you forgive me?”

“I, I guess.”

She undid his necktie and pulled his face down to meet her lips. Static electricity sparked between their noses as they kissed.

Title: The Twist

Author: Lee Silver

Website: www.LeeSilver.org

Genre: Romantic Suspense

Length: 223 pages

Available at:

(Paperback: $12.99. ISBN 978-1606011751)

Amazon http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1606011758/sirenpub-20

(E-book: 5.99. ISBN 1-60601-174-X)

BookStrand: http://www.bookstrand.com/authors/leesilver/tt.asp

Fictionwise: http://www.fictionwise.com/eBooks/eBook73194.htm?cache

An Opening Chapter from Silapa Jarun

2009-03-11T23:35:00.001-04:00

Chapter 1

My brother and I are two and one.

There is only “us”

and “we”

no other.

Never.

Another.

1868 Ise-han, Japan

Aki pulled a hand away from his ear. The cannons stopped showering destruction upon the castle and territory of Ise-han. The sword-bearing youth closed his eyes briefly as a rare breeze caressed his face, cleared the gun smoke and cut through the suffocating humidity. Large thunderclouds gathered on the horizon, promising to wash away the blood from the stronghold. There was finally a victor and loser in the war. It was over.

The young warrior's entire unit surrendered when they received word that their daimyo, feudal lord, had committed seppuku, ritual suicide, rather than be arrested. Amidst the injured and exhausted men beaten by starvation and superior weaponry, Aki crouched in the dirt before his approaching captors. Flutes and drums signaled the approach of the victor's official entourage and the defeated pressed their foreheads to the ground immediately. He looked up slightly to see the looming shadow of the Imperial banner creep by on the path. The youth remembered his daimyo's formal declaration to side with the Tokugawa Shogunate and defy the invading Imperial troops. He was told that everyone, even a peasant or a child, could make a difference, so Aki chose to risk his life by volunteering to relay messages from the castle to the troops. The glorious Chrysanthemum Crest of the Emperor disappeared from view like the very existence of Ise domain. Their final duty as former retainers of the Shogunate is to behave honorably as prisoners.

Quiet reigned over a large camp full of the defeated men. The earlier gentle breeze was now an icy wind which whipped about, threatening the fires and few candles which kept back the darkness. Aki was still exhausted after being forced to march nonstop to this desolate area of the domain. When he saw his brother, Akeno, the only person left in his life, he rushed to embrace the young man.

Akeno, still dressed as a page in the castle, was like a bunraku puppet of flesh and blood. He did not see or hear Aki. The samurai sank down onto a straw mat and brought his knees up to his chest, oblivious to Aki’s attempt to get his attention.

Aki whispered to his sibling’s shell, “Who took your soul?” and squeezed his eyes shut after staring at the enigma which lay next to him. “Akeno, I pray you will return to your body soon. Come back to me.”

In his sleep, Aki could still taste the dirt in his mouth and hear the endless gunfights and cannon blasts. He could not banish the sounds of steel cutting through flesh and bone and the awful screams that followed. The young man unconsciously stretched out his arm to Akeno, seeking comfort and warmth in an effort to defeat his nightmare. His fingers found the floor instead of a warm body.

Aki was suddenly seized by an intense cold, as if he was buried to the waist in snow. He summoned his willpower, refusing to dismiss the sensation as merely a dream, and forced his eyes open. This would not be the first time he could feel physical sensations experienced by his brother. He panicked and blurted out, “Something is wrong! Where is my brother?”

The drunken guards were unaware of the stealthy shadow which climbed the low bamboo fence and headed to the shores of Genbu-ike, Black Turtle Lake. It’s my fault. I could have stopped what happened, but I was afraid. There were too many men two nights ago. What if I had become another victim? I put myself before Akeno, my own brother, because I’m a coward.

A neatly folded stack of silk clothing on the edge of the still lake pointed him to a figure in the black water. It’s the outer layer of clothing he wore today. Aki held his breath and scanned the waters ahead of him.

“Akeno!” He rushed into the lake, his straw sandals slipping over smooth stones as he staggered towards his lifelong companion.

* * * *

My body hurts. If I can just destroy this shell, then I’ll be free. If I die, I won’t have to think about it anymore. Akeno clutched the side of his head, as if doing so would keep his skull intact, and exhaled. “I don't want to think about it!” The samurai, wearing just a thin kimono, the last layer of his fine clothing, wrapped his arms around his center like covering a gaping wound and shivered as he kept his pace towards the depths that lay ahead. He stood in the waist high water like a statue, not hearing the shouting and splashing behind him.

Strong arms seized the dazed man and tried to pull him back to land.

Akeno yelped in pain. “My ribs hurt. Don’t touch me!” he gasped. “They did this to me! Let me go! I must destroy this body.” Incomprehensible sentences continued to pour from Akeno’s cold lips even as he began to realize someone was calling his name.

“Akeno! Wake up!”

A strike across the face brought Akeno back to his senses, and his eyes found an identical figure before him.

“Aki?” he breathed. “I hate myself.”

“How can you say you hate yourself when we are the same? Do you hate me, Akeno? Do you?”

“No, no.” Akeno was shaking his head, his face a contorted sculpture of pain and confusion. “N-Not you.” He pointed at his chest. “Me, I hate myself. Me.”

“Brother, you don’t exist. Only we exist. You cannot hate yourself.” Aki slowly reached out to hold his brother’s trembling shoulders and whispered, “Tell me everything.” They stood still in the water, one listening, one whispering.

Akeno was shaking. “I can’t live with this dishonor.”

“Then I’ll destroy the ones who hurt you. Once I have punished them, you will not have to think of this again.” Aki placed his palms on either side of his brother’s face and watched as the faint moonlight illuminated the pale, smooth skin.

“A-Aki, there was only one that night.” Akeno chewed his lower lip and wiped away the tears with the back of his hand. I can’t remember all their names or hideous faces. “Hamada is the one who should die.” The samurai winced when he rubbed the back of his hand across the tender corner of his bruised and swollen lip.

Aki nodded. “I will dispatch Hamada with my own hands. Listen carefully. The peasant riot is moving closer to the camp tonight. When it does, you have to escape and meet with the others heading to Edo.” Once Hamada’s blood is spilled, I will have atoned for abandoning you, Akeno. We were in that room together.

“I won’t leave without you.” Akeno could not stop crying. “We came together and we should go together.”

“We will not be separated for long,” Aki said, trying to soothe his sibling’s emotions. “I promise it will be only temporary.” He clenched his teeth. “Akeno, I will not allow them that one to touch you again. I’ll take care of you from now on.”

Akeno, the gentle sibling, sobbed into his brother’s chest. “I—I am ashamed.” Disbelief strangled Akeno’s voice as he looked away and squeezed his fists. “It’s not supposed to happen to men.”

“I’ll restore your honor. But first, you have to give me your clothing before leaving. They have not seen me, so it will be easy.” Aki tried to absorb the waves of grief from Akeno, but his own growing anger easily overshadowed the attempt. “Take off the wet clothing.”

Aki dragged his twin to the water’s edge slowly, never letting his hands leave his brother’s body. He watched him strip away the soaked cloth. Seeing Akeno’s toned and lithe body was like experiencing a strange dream. It was as if his brother was an external reflection of his soul. He tried not to look at all the bruises, but it was hard to tear his eyes away from the corner of Akeno’s damaged lip.

“Now you take my clothes, Akeno. They’re dirty and wet too, but at least you will not look like our Lord’s page anymore.”

Aki pointed to the corner of his own mouth. “You have to ”

Akeno punched his brother.

The older brother staggered backwards and cradled his chin. “Good.” Aki could feel the blood crawling down his chin. “Perfect. Now we match!” As usual, brother can guess what is on my mind.

Torches carried by the mob soon blazed across the horizon, and the chants of the farmers rumbled across the plain. They would not stand a chance against the Imperial army that rushed forth to put down the insurrection. Everyone was starving. The domain’s farmers who fed the samurai were left with nothing when the siege began. Even breast milk stopped flowing, and many babies withered away as the war climaxed. Akeno reluctantly made his escape amidst the chaos but constantly looked behind him, hoping that perhaps Aki would follow.

Aki ran a broken wooden comb through his hair as he watched Akeno slip into the night with both their katana, swords, tied to his back. All weapons were turned over to the enemy officers. All except the two Matsumoto family heirlooms Aki had buried under a tree earlier that day. He smoothed his raven black locks to make them proper, as those of his brother, and returned to the storeroom where the prisoners crouched around a weakening fire.

A teenager who was a subordinate page looked up. “Hey, Akeno?” Kajinosuke eyed the handsome older samurai suspiciously.

Tadayoshi, another attendant, tilted his head to the side. “Aki, what are you trying to do? Look, some people can’t tell the difference, but I know both you brothers too well. Why are you dressed like Akeno? Where did he go?”

Aki sat down slowly and smiled. “Kajinosuke, Tadayoshi, tomorrow we are going to take care of some scoundrels, and you two will help me.” He stretched out on the straw-covered floor as the two youths looked at each other. The older twin looked at a spider in the upper corner of the wooden structure. Its long legs moved slightly on the web, stretching out the silk. Aki closed his eyes and committed the name Hamada, which Akeno had whispered, to memory. Akeno did not need to tell me who those animals were. I was there. I saw everything. I’ll never forget. Why did he just give me one name?

Aki smiled to himself. “While many people in our Ise-han have seen us ‘mirror samurai’, few can tell us apart. I’m counting on the enemy to be just as confused.”

your author name: Silapa Jarun

your website address: http://www.silapajarun.com

link to buy your book: http://www.bookstrand.com/authors/silapajarun/kd.asp

cover art: http://www.bookstrand.com/authors/silapajarun/sj-kd3.jpg

Unspoken Truths by Destiny Blaine

2009-03-11T23:30:00.001-04:00

Title: Unspoken Truths

Author Name: Destiny Blaine

Website Address: www.destinyblaine.com

Buy Link: http://www.whispershome.com/book_pages/unspoken_truths.html

First Chapter:

Chapter One

The corner of the club defined cozy almost to the extreme. It invited intimacy with its seclusion from the rest of the crowd and the dim candlelight illuminated romance. Ally knew what would happen once she took a seat in the scantly lit area but her determined legs moved her forward. Defiant feet carried her there. Her body, with full sexual intentions, planned on winning. It spited her every single time when it came to the man walking in front of her.

He toyed with her on the dance floor denying her nothing but once they were seated, she knew what to expect. The game would change. It always did. He would forbid as much as a touch unless he initiated it.

He looked over his shoulder. “Don’t worry baby. I don’t plan to make all of your Tanner does me dreams come true.” He stopped abruptly and flashed a wicked wink. “At least not tonight.”

And just like that. Moment ruined. Leave it to a man.

Ally’s face heated. She felt the madder-than-hell white-hot warmth wash over her. Who the hell did he think he was talking to? She quickly let go of his hand and stormed off in the other direction. Unfortunately, her body felt the sudden loss as soon as they parted.

Making her way for the closest exit, she passed by onlookers, the same men who watched her with lust-filled eyes when she swayed onto the dance floor an hour or so earlier. She moved quickly beyond the bouncers and barmaids only to hit the exit filled with regret. He won again. Tanner always did.

Once outside, she took a deep breath inhaling the undeniable smell of rain. She heard his voice and the slam of the metal door behind her. “Don’t show up at clubs where you know I’ll be if you don’t want to see me!” His laughter filled the air.

Ally wheeled around on a spiked heel. “What the hell did you just say?” She heard him. Oh boy, did she ever. He knew it too. If there was any doubt, he could quickly pick up on it as she marched over to him with anger-boiling-over strides. Those were hard to deny and she made sure she took them quickly.

“Come on baby. Don’t play dumb with me. How many light blue Corvettes do you see in this damn town with a Florida Gators tag? You knew I was here and…”

“And if I did, what of it?” Cutting him off never presented a problem.

He made a solid point. It took balls or blatant stupidity to run around Knoxville, Tennessee with the University of Florida Gators plates on a car. Since he wore ignorance proudly, he really deserved to become an easy mark when she wanted to find him. The car made it uncomplicated. Yes, she saw his convertible and ditto; she stopped because she knew he was inside the club. Old habits don’t die hard. They smother the life out of innocent bystanders. Never mind virgins on the prowl.

The anger facing her was ready to leave her at a disadvantage. It ripped through her. Cut her into small pieces. Tanner Dorsey always boiled her blood.

“What of it? Well, let’s see. You walk into Jake’s, spot me on the dance floor and can’t wait to get out there just so you can shake your pretty little ass in my direction. Oh but yeah Ally, you’re damn straight you knew without a doubt I’d be here and you knew exactly what to do with me when you found me.” The young Mr. Dorsey spent most of his life getting under her skin.

Ally couldn’t help herself. She wished like hell she could but she just couldn’t. She never backed down from a good battle on the Tanner-playing field. “You know,” she paused for effect but to also think of something to say, “I was dancing just fine with…” She stopped again as she tried to think of a random name but she danced onto the hardwood flooring without a partner. She couldn’t pull it off fast enough to make up a non-existent dance partner.

“Oh yeah you were. You got that part right because baby, you always dance just fine. You don’t need a man to show you what that little body of yours can do but in case you forgot, you danced up to me. The only man in the place that can handle that sweet little ass and you found me without any problem.” His face filled with the highest level of sex appeal and with an added wink, set jaw and seductive look, her knees were jelly.

Damn him. Damn him to another century and back. No. To hell…and without a return trip.

“What’s wrong love, cat got that pretty little tongue of yours?” He continued to taunt her.

No it wasn’t a cat. It was more like a ferocious mountain lion.

She was putty in his hands but the asshole still acted like he was fifteen. He had driven her nuts when she was twelve and into complete madness at eighteen. At twenty-two, she was certifiable.

He was still full of himself. Ally couldn’t think of one thing to say to him. Not one, lone word. She huffed and puffed or at least, thought she did before she turned to look for her car. They appeared to be alone in the well lit parking lot. Something she noted when she started walking.

“Looking for someone?” He noticed she surveyed the large area.

“No, not at all. Just checking the place out to be sure there aren’t any witnesses around who will see me when I kill you.” There was a hint of humor in her voice.

Within seconds he had his arm draped around her shoulders and she knew he had already undressed her with his eyes. The playfulness evident in his voice. “I can’t die yet.”

She stopped short of reaching her car. “Why not? It seems like a viable option.” She looked him up and down. Yep, he still looked lean. Perfect. Good enough to eat. Hell, he deserved to die. She picked up a steady pace again.

He quickly caught up with her again but his demeanor had changed when he spoke. It had seriousness oozing from it. “I’m not ready to die. I haven’t experienced everything…everyone…yet.” He grabbed at her waist and pulled her toward him with rough hands. She could have sworn she heard a thump when she landed against his chest but decided it most likely had been the lump moving to her throat that caught there on impact.

She grunted, or so she thought. Maybe she didn’t but she had the shove down to an art when both of her palms went to his hard upper body to push him away. “You think you’re so funny. Fucking hilarious.”

Comical or not, he was right. She used to feel the same way when it came to him but she’d decided the year before that Tanner wasn’t part of her past, at least beyond little school girl dreams, and he couldn’t be a part of her future. Denied attraction never ended in satisfaction and when she joined the FBI, she sealed her fate. With each passing day, she’d come to accept it.

“Drive me home?” He interrupted her thoughts as they approached her graphite pearl Honda Accord.

“No.” Her answer was flat. She knew he wouldn’t notice.

“Why not?”

“Because you can drive yourself.”

* * * *

He was all over opportunity. Always had been. “Yes, I could. You’re exactly right. I could drive myself but look at me; do I look like a man who likes to ride alone?” He bit his lower lip and the dimples he flashed should have landed him in jail. “Besides, if I drove tonight…”his words started to slur on command, “I’d likely catch a DUI.”

Before she could say anything, she watched him walk to the other side of the car determined to get a lift home. “Tanner, I can’t. I don’t have time.”

“You don’t have time to drop me off four buildings down from your own?” He smirked. “Yeah, okay.” His voice clearly held that ‘duh’ tone and a hint of determination.

He ignored her. Again. She knew it before she opened her car door and long before he opened the passenger’s side door. She knew it before he sat down and probably guessed as much when he followed her into the parking lot.

* * * *

They sat quietly in the bucket seats for a few seconds before the keys were placed in the ignition. She leaned over the steering wheel and looked up at the street light with unwarranted interest. “Why do you always do this?”

He was ready to play. “Why do you do this?” He chuckled as he reached across her taking his time to buckle her safety belt before he grabbed his own. “I’m ready when you are baby doll.” He’d been so close when he moved his arm across her waist, all he would have had to do is look up. She felt a pucker form on her lips.

She shot him a condescending look and then shifted the car into reverse. “Yeah, well you may have waited just long enough to miss your chance.” She wasn’t really prepared for what came next. If she had a rewind button designed specifically for a shameless big mouth, she would’ve hit pause first, to gather her thoughts, and then replay or better yet, erase.

He was fast. He reached over and slammed the car into park. Luckily, she’d been in reverse with her foot still on the break. “Ally, I can’t stand a woman who mumbles. What did you say? I don’t think I heard you.”

His eyes danced. She could see them in the moonlight along with the overhead lamp that he switched on for theatrics. He wanted an invitation but he wouldn’t get one. His firm stare didn’t move away and neither did his hand which rested easy on the gear shift. The old Ally would’ve dismissed it with a wave of lofty fingers but the new woman who replaced the has-been had lived a little since the last time she’d been with the man sitting beside her.

Shifting in her seat, she turned to face him. “I said…”

Tanner moved close. “I heard what you said but what I want to know is why?”

“Why what?”

His voice lowered. “Why did you come here tonight, Ally?” Thank goodness he was going to let her mumbling words pass. He didn’t look away from her which was okay because it gave her the opportunity to revisit his outer appearance.

So easy to look at, so hard to tolerate. She tried to convince herself that she spotted a gray hair in his head. Maybe he’ll age quickly. Maybe he’ll get a beer gut. Maybe, he’ll lean over here and kiss me until tomorrow. It was always the same thing with her. She would scour over his tall frame with a meticulous eye and try to find a blemish in his perfection before wishing him to a fate that would ruin him for another woman.

It generally ended up, at least at some point, with her wishing him away to a life of impotent possibilities. She’d even gone as far to check out the Viagra site to see what his chances were. Slim. With his sex drive and vibrant health, very slim.

“Ally? Why do you want to stroll into town and straight into Jake’s? It’s not a place for nice girls.”

“Maybe I’m not a nice girl anymore.” Damnation, how she wished that were true.

He moved closer so she could breathe him in and a hand went to her knee before he began to crawl with steady fingers toward her thigh. “I might just want to find out.” The twinkle in his eye disappeared. Instead, he peered up with a certain element of darkness about him. Hooded eyes watched the rise and fall of a heavy chest.

Her breathing became interrupted just by his touch. She knew her eyes gave away everything but more than anything else, fear lingered. A broken heart wasn’t something she could stand one more time.

His lips moved to her collarbone but they didn’t meet skin. Heated words were mumbled with a raspy call to uninhibited pleasures. His mouth strategically plotted to deliver but refused to give while words stung just a little more. “Baby, you still aren’t ready for me. That I can promise you but what I want to know is why you want to play where the big boys entertain the naughtiest of girls?” He moved away from her slowly taking a smooth hand from her leg.

“I don’t know why. Okay? It was a mistake. I know Jake’s isn’t a place for me, at least according to you. I got that. Okay? Now, please just get out.” Hot, raw emotion ate at her gut. She was on fire from his touch, heated by the moisture forming in her eyes, never mind the puddle of slick heat forming between her legs.

She continued as if she had to justify her reasons. “If I thought you were too drunk to drive, I’d do the right thing and give you a ride home but you haven’t had anything to drink in the last hour or so because we’ve danced for that long. Besides that, I know you and you never drink more than you can handle.”

He moved close to her. Playing her for all she was worth and then some. “I’ll make a deal with you. If you’ll take me home, see me to the door and kiss me good-night, I’ll never tell Darren and David I saw you here.”

Her daring eyes locked with his and she wanted to scream as soon as he tossed out the names of her brothers. She also wanted to kick his ass and she wanted to do it slow too. Slow and easy.

“You wouldn’t.”

He moved away from her and settled into his seat leaning his head back. “I would, and honestly?” Moving up a little, he turned his neck and glanced to the side. “I’d enjoy watching them scold you.” He closed his eyes and pretended to relax. “Hell, I’d even offer to spank you just so I can know the feel of your bare ass on my palm. Maybe now that you’re old enough, they’d even let me.”

A sigh fell dramatically into the wind while she threw the gear shift into reverse and drove him home without another word but the smack-smack sound of him spanking her ass offered appeal. She could almost hear it and what she would give just to feel it.

It was safe to say, she’d lost her ever-lovin mind.

* * * *

Fifteen minutes later and they pulled into his complex. She didn’t bother to put the car into park. It didn’t matter; the arrogant ass in the passenger’s seat did it for her.

“Well?”

“So you’re here. Safe and sound.” Her words found a deliberate coolness.

“It appears I am but you won’t be if I have to go straight up those stairs and tattle to your brothers. You know, just so they won’t worry about you.”

Now she was pissed. “Tanner, have you failed to notice that I am not a child anymore? Have you? Have you forgotten that…?”

“Oh, don’t think I haven’t noticed that you aren’t a child anymore.” He moved closer to her. “What I want to know is why are you back in town? Last I heard you were working as a DEA agent or something.”

Yeah. Or something. The something presented the problem.

Tanner winked before he grabbed the door handle. “Come on, walk me to the door.”

She jumped out of the car and did as she was told. She always did as she was told. If her brothers weren’t telling her what to do when she was growing up, Tanner offered to do it for them and it hadn’t gotten any better once she found a career with the FBI. At the moment she just wished like hell she hadn’t chosen a career in law enforcement. More than anything else, she wished that Tanner didn’t deliberately get under her skin.

She approached the building somewhat cautiously. He kept his eyes on her. “You look really good Ally. A sight for sore eyes and all that.” He was never one to make small talk. At least, not with her.

“Thanks.” She fired back the note of appreciation.

“How long has it been?” He stopped on the last step before moving forward with a nod.

She knew what he meant. “It’s been over a year.”

“I thought you weren’t coming back here,” he challenged her. She knew he would. He had to be curious about why she would bother. There wasn’t anything left for her in Knoxville. He made that clear to her when she left. He told her with finality that she would never be in his heart or…in his bed.

“I didn’t plan on it.” Her foot hit the last step and she let out a long sigh. How many times had she walked up these steps to find her brothers? How many times had her parents sent her to fetch them knowing that they were mixed up with Tanner and his business?

The lights were on and the lingering and familiar noise of football games drifted outside. “Which one is here?” She should’ve known both her brothers would be at Tanner’s place. They always hung out there and the reason for it waited on the other side of the door.

He moved closer to her with a mischievous whisper and a twinkle in his eye. “Which one do you want to see first?” He put the key in the door and turned pushing the door back to showcase the familiar sight.

Rough Justice by Suzanne Perazzini

2009-03-11T23:23:00.001-04:00

“Jack, where the hell is Logan? Why didn’t he turn up? I wandered around that bloody airport like a lost soul for an hour.”

“Calm down Niki,” my boss said.

I had stormed into Jack’s office frustrated and angry and had plunked my rear end down on his table. He was being very understanding considering my bad manners. I looked down at his frowning face and was worried to see his fifty years etched in the creases around his eyes. Jack never looked his age. His deep determination was always overlaid by boyish optimism, making him ageless - one of us.

He got up and closed the door, but not before I saw the misery on Eddie’s and Jenna’s faces in the main office. A tremor moved over my skin and I pivoted around to stare at Jack as he sat behind his desk, lacing his fingers together.

“Niki, please sit down. In the chair.”

Wiping my suddenly sweaty hands on my trousers, I slid off the desk and sank down into the soft folds of the armchair against the wall.

“What’s happened to him?” I whispered.

Jack looked down at his lap and shook his head.

“We don’t know. His camp was ambushed by poachers and they’ve found everyone else’s bodies but his.” He looked up, his face darkly shadowed. “It’s not looking good, Niki. I’m sorry.”

A great pit opened in front of me threatening to suck me into its shadowy depths. I placed my hands beneath my legs to still their trembling and breathed deeply, expanding my stomach but I could feel despair settling in for the long haul. Suddenly, I sat forward on the edge of the sofa.

“But he was due back home today. He wouldn’t have been at the camp – that’s why they can’t find him.”

“Niki, the camp was attacked four days ago which was well before he was to leave. The message just got through to us.”

I stood up, my brain in overdrive as it tried to fight beyond the shock and absorb the news. To keep the blood pumping to my vital organs, I started pacing the wooden floor of Jack’s office. I looked at the African Wildlife Preservation Society logo painted on his door and felt Logan had become one of the endangered species we studied. He was alone somewhere in Zambia and I needed him home with me. Three months apart and I ached for his touch. I knew I functioned perfectly well without a man, but he was more than that – he was my colleague and my friend and my lover, so I felt his absence in many ways at many times of the day.

I skirted around the edge of the pit, watching it waver in and out of focus as I fought to stay upright. Nine years together – nine years of deep love. Why hadn’t I felt anything, a premonition or something that would have warned me? I swirled on Jack.

“Get me to Zambia now! He’s not dead because I would sense it. We can’t give up on him without a fight.”

Jack ran his hands through his grey hair, tugging at its ends in distress. “Niki, give it a few days. They’re looking for his body now. We’ll hear soon.”

I slammed both hands down on the desk in front of him. “And what if he’s alive and needs our help? They’re looking for a body not someone who could be holed up somewhere or who’s been kidnapped. Give him a chance by letting me go.”

Jack stood up and walked around his old leather-topped desk. He placed his hands on my shoulders and looked into my face. “Niki, I know this is hardest on you, but I don’t think tearing over there is the answer.”

Annoyed, I shook off his hands. “And what would you do if you were me? Sit here in New Zealand and wait for news of his death or would you go and try to find out what happened?”

I knew I had him. His shoulders went limp, the tension easing from the muscles around his eyes. “You’re right. I would be on the next plane. You’re quite right. I wouldn’t give up without a fight.”

I spun towards the door. “Can you call in some favors and get me on the next flight out? I’m going home to pack.” I looked back and saw Jack nod.

http://www.suzanneperazzini.com/

http://www.suzanneperazzini.blogspot.com/

Link to buy book: http://redrosepublishing.com/bookstore/product_info.php?products_id=226

Towards Understanding by Dave & Lillian Brummet

2009-01-24T16:59:00.001-05:00

1^st Chapter

Book: Towards Understanding

Author: Dave & Lillian Brummet

Website: www.brummet.ca

Excerpt:

This book has been organized in Chronological order according to the year in which the work was written, beginning in 1987 – when I was 17. I began writing poetry about the age of 16, but that work does not appear in this book as it was too blue and angry for the public – in fact I completely deleted those files some time ago.

Poetry was one of the tools that I used to crawl out of hell. Never intending it to be read by others, it was my way of dealing with things. You will see me battle past demons, raise my voice in anger, discover self-awareness and recover from an intense relationship. You will witness the healing as I become aware of the value of my life. Finally, I begin to see beyond myself and start to question society and endeavor to understand others. I also discover a love for, and a dedication to, the health of the Earth.

I hope that you will enjoy the journey as much as I have had fun in experimenting with different writing styles and using different rhythms wit words.

WOMEN'S JEALOUSY

The girl in white lace and shiny gray stockings,

Attacks every man with her nightmarish taunting.

Her beauty is rare, her movements are sure.

Her casual flirting leaves minds in a blur.

Women both hate her and dote on her too.

They wish they could be that woman anew.

But they're only themselves - though jealous they be;

Thinking from women like that, no man would flee.

But she's covered in make-up and shading and light.

And she'll take many photos until she gets it just right.

These women wish with all of their foolish might,

That they forget who their man's with tonight.

As they wrack themselves over this orchestrated myth,

They enlarge the distance from the one they're with.

FEBRUARY'S SILENT EMBRACE

The waves softly touching desert-like sands...

The sea gulls making known their demands...

The wind whispering through budded leaves...

The water rises as the snow grieves...

Familiar birds fly back home,

To ready their nests for the unborn.

Colors change from gray to green...

As the rain washes earth's face clean.

The stars shine brighter than before...

As the do the eyes of those who adore,

The glorious feelings from this wonderful place;

Brought by the tides of February's silent embrace.

GAME OF LOVE

Tears and heartache, and pain, and all;

Are just part of this treacherous game.

Insecurities, jealousy, and control;

Are just weapons with a name.

This game is a serious one,

Where wonderful dreams of sweet romance,

Give power to schemes of deceit.

By now you should know the name,

Of this exciting, yet dangerous game;

Whose joy-filled moments of sweet romance,

Entice us to gamble, again and again.

Yet no matter which move a player makes;

Though the pieces may still separate;

The board is in continuos play.

OF YESTERDAY, I DREAM

Of yesterday, I dream.

The happiness then, it seemed,

Would never really end.

Yet, now, to live...I must pretend.

Helplessly, I slowly die.

In pain, I stumble, I fall...

My mind is slipping away...

My movements jerk and sway.

My children and husband have gone...

Leaving me to suffer alone.

Afraid, I hover in my dreams,

For I've only my walker, on which to lean.

There's so much I would change...

...Times I'd rearrange...

All my possessions I'd gladly give,

If one more yesterday, I could live.

I would a cure to come…

To save my defenseless corpse;

As this disease eats my muscles and bones...

I muffle my furious groans.

...In humiliation, I weep,

How fast this disease did creep!

And in night, I find my only haven...

My one comfort comes from sleep.

...I would to dream forever...

Where I have yesterday once more;

And never again would I have to take,

The disappointment, each morning I wake.

ODE TO VICKY WARD: A good friend & a victim of multiple sclerosis.

EDUCATED LIES

I grieve for this world, as it fights its wars;

Where humans, all slam their doors;

Here, people starve, knowing only pain...

While others, rich, stake out their claims.

Sad to see...such emptiness I feel.

This world can't last forever;

Life's just a one-time deal.

Man - thinking ourselves unbeatable,

Tried to conquer with knowledge we lacked.

Now, so far destroyed, earth takes her final stance,

While we pray for just one second chance.

We watch, knowing what our children will see.

Helpless, we can't undo this awful disease.

So watch, my people, my educated men...

Just watch your ancestor's victory descend,

While you sit at your desks & thunder your speeches...

Cry, for your child's child will live to die,

Because of educated men...educated to lie.

PURPOSE?

Is there a purpose for us all?

Do we learn each time we stumble and fall?

And as we bleed, do we feel appreciation?

Bleeding, we suffer our own creation...

Shallow little hearts beat out sophisticated lives;

Lungs wheezing air in our polluted hives.

Bitter bile churns and chars our core,

As we worry and bite, how to take more.

Purpose in chaos - or a religious dream?

Disorganized intentions push us upstream.

And perilous waters carry our tiny hives,

Through the whirlpools of our pressured lives.

THE WORKING POOR

We'll dig ourselves some grit,

And with our cardboard spoons,

And with our stiffened hands,

We'll work to find a spec of gold.

Never forgetting what's bought and sold,

Ever neglecting those we've worked to hold,

Forcing us on, the longing taking us there.

It's always lurking and beyond our control.

The pan grows rusty and holes appear,

Where the stones wore their way clear,

A pan, once new - once brought dreams,

Today - brings little more than despair.

Wondering where the paths we seek,

Could have hidden from our blistered feet.

The labyrinth shines well beyond our doors…

We are called the lost and the working poor.

BEGUILING YOUTH

Self-criticism denies me experiences while shame holds me in my past.

Doubt in social circles leads me to my own grounds where thoughts are cast.

Shadowed by a hint of sorrow my glee over my acquirements dwindles.

A sense of an invasive realism blossoms, firmly melting fiction away.

And as I stand in a puddle of wholesome ideals once preached,

I insanely stamp in it, sending it splattering to the heated ground,

So that it sizzles away with my anger.

And rising, the steam reaches for the stars...

And as it rises I dare it to return in showers of answers and brilliant justice...

Which will cool my fury over the beguiling innocence of youth.

LOCOMOTION

Locomotion keeps me moving through the confusing compulsive waves of life.

And, lost in this rush, I consume & exhaust myself for the unknown.

Feeling awfully tired I pause & look in at my routines in disgust.

And a desperate yearning to escape beyond the maze & into self-sufficiency arises.

Excerpt from Trash Talk by Lillian Brummet

2009-01-24T16:50:00.003-05:00

Book: Trash Talk
Author: Dave & Lillian Brummet
Website: www.brummet.ca

Excerpt from Pg: 21-

BAGS

Production of plastic grocery bags actually consumes 40% less energy, generates 80% less solid waste, produces 70% less air pollution, and releases 94% fewer waterborne wastes than paper bags! Both can be reused and recycled, but paper bags can also be composted. Plastic bags accumulate quickly and many people want to reuse them, but they are soon bulging uncontrolled from our cupboards and drawers. There are now storage containers available to organize this, to be either mounted to a wall, or hung from a hook. They have a hole at the top where bags are contributed, and a hole at the bottom where they can be pulled out. We use two of them in our home, one for grocery bags and one for bread bags.

Grocery Bags

Many people bring their own cloth or canvas bags for their grocery shopping. Gudrun, our friend from Germany tells us there is often a deposit on shopping bags, and so the use of cloth bags is much more common throughout Europe. Relatively inexpensive, cloth bags can be washed and reused many more times than plastic and are unlikely to tear when full of groceries. The stores will have an easier time maintaining prices if there is a reduction in plastic bag demand.

Cloth bags are an excellent advertisement feature and would make fine customer appreciation gifts for your business with your logo on them.

The plastic grocery bags have so many uses in our home that we often run short of them. The most common reuse is for wastebasket liners. Why buy wastebasket bags for dry waste areas when we get them for free? A box of 24 bags costs $3.50 (more when tax, shopping time, and fuel spent getting to the store are figured in), and the average house consumes 2-3 boxes a year. So just by lining your dry wastebaskets with grocery bags, you could save $10.50 a year. It does not sound like much, but this is just one example of the many uses for these bags.

We use them to carry various things during transport for items such as used clothing that we are donating, or books we are bringing to a friend. We take them to farmer’s markets when buying fresh produce. Use them to store your own garden harvests in the fridge, or to send off with visitors. We take them to dog-friendly trails to donate to the bag dispenser at the trail head. Hopefully it may encourage other owners to clean up after their loved ones.

For those of you who have extras, you may want to consider donating to the food-bank or thrift stores, which are often in need of bags. Use when camping to store laundry and to keep items dry. Because they take up very little room crumpled into tiny, weightless bundles, we pack them inside paper towel and toilet paper tubes. To reduce weight in the backpack and prevent tempting scavengers, we make our camping and trail meals from dry ingredients. Dried meals only take a few minutes to absorb the hot water—reducing fuel consumption, lingering odors, dishes, and cooking time. We often cut bread bags to fit the size of the dried meals or snacks and then double bag the lot of them as an added insurance. This storage method reduces food odors, thereby decreasing the chances of enticing wildlife to the bear bag or backpack. On the return hike, carry a bag in hand and scan the trail for garbage. – see Clean Walking.

Years ago, we watched a news special on an elderly lady who made grocery bags into rugs. She tore the bags into rough, uneven strips and crocheted the strips together. She began the hobby just for herself, but the rugs became so sought after that she was kept busy with a constant supply of bags and requests. Looking at the rugs you would have never guessed they were made from recycled bags. Ruth, a very creative friend, used her over-abundance of bags to stuff her valance curtains.

Clear (Bread) Bags

Smaller plastic food bags usually come clear or translucent and, unlike shopping bags, have no holes. Sealed plastic bags (from frozen peas or powdered milk) can be cut open and reused many times as well. However, thin produce department bags often use water-soluble inks, so we do not wash them or reuse for food.

Using a sink of fresh hot soapy water, open the bag and swish around. Fill it about 3/4 full with the soapy water, grip the top together, lift above the sink and move it about to check for leaks. Where there are holes, there will be a steady stream of water. Throw those bags out or reuse them where a perfect seal is not required.

Rinse the bags and hang to dry. You can do this a few different ways. The simplest is to droop the bags over a full dish rack allowing them to drip dry. Or, pinch one corner in a cupboard door over the sink or dish rack. Some people have strung lines for the bags to hang with a clothespin but, again, it should be over a sink or drip tray. If you have the time, they can be dried by hand but a little moisture will remain, so leave the bags out in the open air for a while. In a few hours, turn them inside out so they dry completely before storing.

We reuse plastic yogurt containers to freeze foods but because they do not have a seal suitable for freezer use, we make sure by doubling up with one of our bags. After placing the full container in the bag, gather the top together and suck the air out before sealing it with a recycled twist tie, or simply tie a knot in the bag. Placing your sticky label on the bag eliminates the problem of getting labels off the plastic containers.

Use to store garden produce and home baked goods. At our home, they are used all the time for lunches on the go. Used for pet waste, used oil, meat scraps, and bones, bags will help contain and isolate offensive odors in the garbage can. A smelly can tends to be taken out whether it is full or not, resulting in more garbage bags being used.

Clear plastic bags can also be utilized in the greenhouse. This is where those leaky bags come in handy. We cover flats of newly sown seeds with a bag that has been cut open so that it lies flat. This provides a mini-greenhouse effect and keeps the moisture in. As the seedlings grow, prop up with little sticks so that the plastic does not sit on the leaves and cause rot. Insert plant pots into plastic bags to eliminate the need for drip trays. When cloning, create a mini-greenhouse by bringing the bag up over the cutting, and close with a greenhouse twist tie.

Zipper lock sandwich and freezer bags can be washed and reused more than a dozen times. Let us quickly estimate how much this one simple act saves the household money. At $2 a box, reusing the bags a dozen times saves your home $24. We are avid gardeners and between food storage and lunches, we save about $50 a year by reusing zipper bags. For this reason, we purchase the best quality we can find on the shelf. Recently, snack manufacturers have started to use strong foil bags with a zip top, making them ideal for reuse.

Food bags are not the only kind one can reuse. Our pet food bags are reused for sorting recycling, and to line the larger workshop waste bucket. Bags used to protect mailed magazines work well for containing odors in the garbage bag. The list goes on and on.

Benefits
• Extend the life of the landfill.
• Save money by reducing the number of bags you need to buy (along with their packaging).
• Reduce the number of trips to the grocery store.
• Cloth bags:
- are very unlikely to tear when full of groceries.
- can be washed and reused many times.
- make an excellent advertisement feature.
- make fine gifts.
• Stores will have an easier time maintaining prices if there is a reduction in plastic bag demand.

Chapter 1 - The Mind of a Genius by David Snowdon

2009-01-11T18:11:00.002-05:00

Chapter One

The phone began to ring and freelance MI4 agent, Jason Clay reluctantly disengaged himself from the girl he was kissing and reached for the phone.

“Hello,” he said, grabbing the receiver.

“Is that Clay?” said the voice at the other end.

It was a posh, home county voice and Clay thought it sounded vaguely familiar. But at that very moment, he couldn’t place it.

“It is,” he said frowning. “You sound familiar, who’s that?” Clay spoke with a mildly posh London accent.

“You’ve got a poor memory. It’s Colin Shooter.” Clay smiled.

Shooter was the assistant head of the MI4 and he knew that Shooter never called him just to say hello. Whenever Shooter called, there was always a reason, and a very good reason at that.

“Hello you,” said Clay cheerfully.

He was grinning now, and the girl sitting beside him on the sofa, a tall, slim blonde with lovely blue eyes, and who was about 24-years of age, was staring at him, a curious expression in her eyes.

“Long time, no see.”

“Listen, Clay,” said Shooter, “I’ve got something that might wet your appetite. “You haven’t got anything on, have you?”

“Only the shirt on me back,” said Clay smiling. “And that’s coming off very soon.” The girl chuckled.

Just like the girl sitting beside him on the sofa, Clay was tall, slim and Handsome with blonde hair, and lovely blue eyes. He was 34-years-old and had a smile that made the girls go wild. All he had to do was smile and within minutes, they’d be telling him the story of their life.

Tonight, he was wearing a white silk shirt and a pair of white cotton trousers.

“I’ve got something that’s right up your alley,” said Shooter. “This one’s irresistible. You’ll love it.”

“Will I?” said Clay jokingly, wondering what it was, and what was in it for him.

“I know you will,” said Shooter, at the other end of the line.

“You know my terms, don’t you?” said Clay, smiling. “I won’t even contemplate getting out of bed for anything less than ten thousand a day.”

“You’d be lucky to get half of that for this one,” said Shooter. “But come and see me tomorrow morning in my office at ten, and we’ll talk business, okay?”

Clay continued to smile. “Ten thousand a day plus expenses or no deal.”

“I’ll see you in my office at ten sharp tomorrow,” said Shooter. “And don’t be late.” And the line went dead.

“That guy,” said Clay, dropping the receiver, shaking his head and turning sideways to stare at the girl sitting beside him. “He drives a hard bargain, but he’s all right.” The girl smiled invitingly, but didn’t say anything.

“Now where were we?” said Clay smiling, as they started to kiss passionately, again.

The time was now 20.47 and they were sitting on a beige leather sofa in Clay’s spacious, luxurious living-room. The TV was on, but the volume had been turned down low. As they continued to kiss, they could hear it raining hard outside, and there was the occasional rumble of thunder. But that didn’t bother them, as they were now in paradise.

At 10.00am the following day, Colin Shooter sat in a conference room, at a conference table, in the MI4 head office in Vauxhall, overlooking the River Thames and worked on his laptop.

At 56, Shooter was tall, well-built, and had light brown hair. He was an ex-banker.

Today, he wore a brown suit, a yellow shirt and a brown tie.

Also in the room, sitting around the conference table was Special Agent, Paul Hudson and Special Agent, Janet Bond.

Hudson was 38, tall, dark and lean with handsome features and dark brown curly hair.

He wore a well-cut, navy blue Italian Suit, a white shirt and a black and blue stripped tie. He was an ex-solicitor, and a very good one, and it was his track record more than anything else that had impressed the M14 into employing him.

Janet Bond was 32, 5-foot-7, slim with a nice curvy figure, and blonde with blue eyes, and Scandinavian features.

She was a beauty, but she was also very intelligent. And it was the combination of beauty and brains that had attracted Shooter to her.

The phone started to ring, and Shooter snatched the receiver.

“Colin Shooter,” he said, speaking into the receiver.

“Mr Shooter, I have Mr Jason Clay here to see you.” The receptionist’s voice came clearly through the receiver.

“Give him a cup of tea,” said Shooter. “I’ll let you know when we’re ready to see him.”

“No worries,” said the receptionist.

And Shooter put the phone down. As he put the phone down, he continued to work on his laptop, and both Hudson and Bond sat in silence, with a blank expressions on their faces. They knew that whatever Shooter was doing on his laptop had to be vital, as Shooter was always very punctual.

Ten minutes later, Shooter finished working on his laptop and reached for the receiver.

“Send him in,” he said, when he got through to the receptionist. And he put the receiver down.

Three minutes later, there came a knock on the door.

“Come in,” said Shooter.

The door slid open and Clay wandered into the room. He wore a beige coloured suit, a beige coloured shirt and a red tie. He was looking very smart and there was a cheeky smile on his face, as he wandered into the room, and walked towards the conference table.

“Morning, all,” he said, aware that everyone was watching him.

The others returned his greeting.

“Take a seat,” said Shooter, waving him to a chair.

Clay moved towards the chair and sat on it.

“Thanks for coming,” said Shooter. “This one’s a beauty and you’re gonna love it.”

“That remains to be seen,” said Clay, smiling at him. “Let’s have the details and we’ll take it from there.”

Shooter stared at Clay.

He didn’t like Clay’s cocky attitude. Come to think of it, he wasn’t too fond of Clay. But Clay had his uses.

“Malcolm Prince, the scientist, remember him?”

Clay thought for a moment, then he remembered.

“He died a few months ago, didn’t he?”

Shooter nodded. “And that’s why you’re here.”

“Come off it,” said Clay, his smile turning into a grin as he looked from Shooter to Hudson, from Hudson to Bond and from Bond back to Shooter.

“I didn’t kill him. You’ve got the wrong guy.”

“I wouldn’t put it past you,” said Shooter, smiling at Clay. “You’d do anything for money, wouldn’t you? But if you’ve got your facts right, you’ll know that Prince died of a heart attack.”

“I could have told you that,” said Clay, smiling at him.

Shooter continued to talk. “Malcolm Prince was one of the finest scientist in the world. And at the time of his death, he had just completed a major project; a project that could change the world; a project that could benefit the world.” There was a pause, then Shooter continued to talk.

“We don’t know what the project was about. It was a well-kept secret, but we do know that the project was completed shortly before he died. Shortly before he died, he was on the verge of revealing the project to the world. But now he’s dead, and nobody really knows what that project was based on.”

“That’s sad,” said Clay.

Shooter continued to talk. “We’d like you to try and find out what that project was about.”

“And how do you expect me to do that?” said Clay, changing his position on his chair. Shooter smiled at him.

“Prince has a very lovely wife, and rumour has it that he was very fond of her. We have a feeling that she might have some vital information. Your task is to seduce her and to find out what that project was about.”

Clay gaped at him. “I thought you said I was gonna to love it.”

“You’re a very impatient man,” said Shooter, smiling at Clay.

He was thoroughly enjoying himself. “Patience is a virtue, Clay. Agent Bond has a present for you.”

Special Agent, Janet Bond produce an envelope and slid it across the table towards Clay. Clay opened the envelope, removed a glossy photograph and stared at it.

A beautiful, middle-aged, blonde woman with blue, friendly eyes, wearing a navy blue shirt stared at him.

Clay studied the woman in the picture and a wave of excitement swept through him.

The woman in the photograph looked classy, exciting and sexy. A combination that Clay considered to be irresistible. Shooter was right. He had a feeling that he was going to love this assignment. Here was an opportunity to have a good time, and at the same time, to make some decent money.

Clay smiled as he studied the photograph. It was a passport photo that had been enlarged into a 6 x 4 photograph.

Shooter and the others watched him, as he studied the photograph, and Shooter had a feeling that Clay was hooked.

“Nice girl,” said Clay, dropping the photograph on the table in front of him and smiling at Shooter.

“Laura Prince,” said Janet Bond. “45-years-old, 36-26-36 and an ex-secretary. She has a penchant for handsome toy boys. Had a few lovers when Prince was alive, but isn’t seeing anyone at present.”

“Very nice,” said Clay smiling and looking around the table.

“I told you,” said Shooter. “I wouldn’t lie to you.”

“But what makes you think she gonna fall for me?” said Clay.

“You fit the bill perfectly,” said Hudson, in his posh accent “You have a way with women. You can charm the birds out a tree. We’re sure you can swing it.”

“I can try,” said Clay. “But I can’t guarantee success.”

“That’s good enough for me,” said Shooter. “We don’t know for sure if she knows anything. She may be none the wiser, but all we can do is try.”

“That’s fine,” said Clay. “Ten thousand a day plus expenses, and I’ll see what I can do.”

“I don’t think so,” said Shooter, shaking his head. There was a crafty, little smile on his face. “Five thousand a day plus expenses, and you can take it or leave.”

Clay smiled at him.

“I’ve got a feeling we’re wasting each others time. Ten thousand a day plus expenses, or you can get someone else to do it.”

Shooter stared at him.

There were other agents that he could use, and who would work out a lot cheaper than Clay. But he realized that if anyone could pull this one off, it was Clay. And this assignment was far too vital to be bungled.

“Seven thousand a day plus expenses. Not a penny more, not a penny less. And that’s my final offer.”

“Done,” said Clay.

“Money, that’s all you ever think about, isn’t it?” said Shooter.

“What else is there to think about?” said Clay, smiling at him. “Money makes the world go round. And where would we be without it.”

“Sometimes I wonder why we pay you so much money,” said Shooter resentfully. We’re wasting hard-earned taxpayers money on you.”

“I’m value for money and you know it,” said Clay with his cheeky smile.

“I can get three good agents for what I’m paying you,” said Shooter.

“That’s three for the price of one. But you’re one of my best guys, and I’ve got a soft spot for you.”

“Come off it,” said Clay jokingly. “You haven’t got a soft spot for your own mother, let alone a guy like me.”

Shooter smiled at him, but this time the smile didn’t reach his eyes.

“Watch what you say, Clay. You shouldn’t speak about anyone’s mother like that.”

They regarded each other for a moment, then Shooter continued to talk.

“An advance payment of £70,000 will be paid into you’re account. Spend it wisely. Agent Bond will give you all the necessary details.”

“Cool,” said Clay, grinning at Shooter.

Money was very essential to him and he never got tired of talking about it. The more money he could lay his hands on, the better.

“Has Prince got any other relatives that you know of?”

“He’s got a grown up daughter and a grown up son from a previous marriage,” said Hudson.

“I hope so,” said Clay, looking down at Laura Prince’s photograph. “He was old enough to be this chick’s father.”

“She was his second wife,” said Hudson.

Clay regarded Hudson.

He had been so busy concentrating on Shooter that there had been times when he had forgotten that Hudson was also in the room.

“Can’t Pretty boy, Hudson handle this job?”

“I haven’t got your knack with women,” said Hudson, smiling at Clay.

“You’re tailor-made for the job.”

Agent Janet Bond smiled.

“And why is Agent Bond smiling?” said Clay teasingly.

Janet Bond lost her smile and stared at him. There was something about Clay that she didn’t like.

“I wasn’t smiling at you.”

What a chick, thought Clay giving her his dazzling smile. She reminded him of the girl that he had spent the night with. They both had blonde hair and blue eyes, but Bond was undoubtedly the better looking of the two.

“One of these days, we’ll go for a curry.”

“I don’t like curries and I don’t like you,” said Janet Bond.

“One of these days, you’re gonna love me,” said Clay teasingly.

Bond’s eyes flashed angriliy.

“One of these days, Clay, I’m gonna…”

She suddenly stopped without finishing her sentence, aware that Shooter was watching her with interest. She would have loved to have given Clay a piece of her mind. She would have loved to have told him exactly what she thought of him. But she didn’t want to lose her composure in front of her boss.

“Enough of that,” said Shooter, sensing it was time that he intervened.

“Now Agent Bond will give you the details.”

Special Agent, Janet Bond regained her composure and started to talk in her posh accent.

The Mind of a Genius by David Snowdon

(The Formula That Could Change The World)

Special Agent, Jason Clay from the MI4 is hired to find a secret formula that was invented by the famous British scientist, Malcolm Prince. The only weak element in Clay’s strategy to accomplish his mission is Laura Prince, the beautiful wife of the scientist, who Clay has to seduce in order to obtain the formula.

But the CIA, the Denmark Intelligence, the Australian Intelligence and many other very determined individuals are also after that formula, and can’t wait to get their hands on it. The competition is fierce, but who’s going to win?

The story develops as a travel through the world; with the action starting in London, then moving onto Copenhagen, Hong Kong and Australia.

Clay appears to be the right man for the job; extremely handsome and a natural charmer, nothing could be easier for him than seducing a beautiful woman in order to obtain a top secret.

For more information visit www.the-mind-of-a-genius.com

About the book:

The Mind of a Genius by David Snowdon

ISBN: 978-0-9552650-1-3

Publisher: Pentergen Books

Pages: 288

S.R.P £6.99/ $13.56

Available from Waterstone’s, Blackwells, Amazon.co.uk Amazon.com and from the author at his website http://www.the-mind-of-a-genius.com/order.html

About David Snowdon -

British thriller writer, David Snowdon was born in London, and lives in London. He started writing in 1983, and wrote his first book, which hasn’t been published in 1984. His first published work, Too Young To die, was published in August 2006. And his second novel, The Mind of a Genius, was published in November 2007.

To learn more about David Snowdon and The Mind of a Genius, visit http://www.the-mind-of-a-genius.com and to learn more about his virtual tour in early 2009, http://virtualblogtour.blogspot.com/2008/12/mind-of-genuis-by-david-snowdon.html

Post comments on any of the blog tour stops and be entered in a drawing for a copy of The Mind of a Genius.