SCARED – A Novel. Chapter 3.03 – Gun

Continuing the serialization of an original novel I’ve written entitled SCARED.

Well, today should prove entertaining … a trip to the police station, then a foray to the gun shop to buy my wife a gun. Life doesn’t get much more interesting than that!
“Hey, Dad.” The French doors to the front hallway opened, and Marty stepped into the room.
He was dressed as any college freshman would be: jeans, shirt tail out, running shoes, his hair a mess.
“Any coffee left?”
“Half a pot. How’d you sleep?”
He paused on his way to the coffee pot to scratch Fred’s ears. “Okay.”
I lit a cigarette in defiance. “Did you hear that guy last night?”
Marty pushed back his thick mane of hair and looked at me with a mischievous smile. “Gettin’ brave, aren’t we?”
“I smoked a couple last night, and Mom jumped on me this morning.”
“I can imagine.” He crossed to pour himself a cup of coffee. “What guy?”
“Then you didn’t hear him?”
Marty shook his head as he stirred his brew.
“Some guy walking down the road, shouting to the top of his lungs, ‘Fuck you. I will survive this.’”
Marty flopped onto the sofa and patted the cushion for Fred to join him. “Probably got dumped by his girlfriend.”
“That was my thought.”
“Yeah,” agreed Marty as he rubbed the dog’s big head.
I stubbed out my cigarette and got to my feet. “Well, I’ve got to get going.”
Marty looked over his coffee mug at me. “Where’re you goin’?”
“Errands,” I lied.
“You could cook me breakfast … like any good father.”
I laughed. “Yeah, right. You owe me two already.”
“We could make it three.” He smiled hopefully.
I shook my head and smiled. “No way … this weekend you make up the other two, and then we’ll deal.”
Marty stretched and yawned. “So you’re going to to send your kid off to school without a hot breakfast.”
“Looks that way.” I grabbed my keys from the kitchen island and crossed to the French doors.
“What time are your classes over?”
“I should be home by then so I’ll see you when you get home.”
“If I don’t die of starvation.”
“Try having lunch. That’ll help.”
Marty waved his hand at me as he reached for his coffee mug. “Go away.”
“See you later.” I closed the door behind me and stepped out onto the terrace. The air was crisp and clean … typical of our country mornings. Above me, the maples were showing the first effects of fall, their leaves beginning to curl and slowly change color. The dew dripped from the lower foliage ran in rivulets down the Oldsmobile’s white, convertible top.

NEXT: SCARED continues.

SCARED – A Novel. Chapter 3.02 – Gun

Continuing the serialization of an original novel I’ve written entitled SCARED.

“But that’s not why you want a gun?”
By now, she had picked up her briefcase and was shoving papers into it in preparation for her day. “No … it just occurred to me that we ought to have one.”
“Why now? Trump and his crazies are finally out of office … the pandemic is almost behind us. Things are beginning to look up for a change.”
Setting aside her briefcase, she looked at me. “Well … there’s still so much division and racial discord … they’re even talking about food and water shortages. I don’t know. I just have this feeling that something bad is going to happen. Having a gun just seems like a good idea.”
I pondered the thought for a moment. “Just seems strange for you to suggest it now … I mean,
we’ve been married for twenty-five years, and we’ve never had a gun.”
Chris seemed almost embarrassed. “I know.”
“There are two of you father’s shot guns in the attic.”
“I know,” she sighed, “but I think we need a hand gun, a revolver … maybe two.”
“You’ve really been giving this some thought, haven’t you?” I was shocked. This was not something my wife would ever suggest. What had happened? She had never been comfortable around guns, probably because her father had so many. In fact, that was the reason the shot guns were in the attic. For years, I had kept them in the guest room closet until, one day, she had insisted that I be rid of them. They made her nervous, she said.
Chris shouldered her briefcase and then looked at me. “I think it would be wise.”
Wise … what did that mean? It would be wish … like it was something I had overlooked. I returned her stare and forced a smile. “Okay.”
Then she changed again. She was Chris of the soft voice and bright smiles as she crossed the room to kiss me good-bye. “Have a good day.”
I returned the kiss. “Wish you didn’t have to go.”
“I’m late already.” She headed toward the French doors. “Remember to wake Marty at eight.”
“I will.”
She opened the door and paused. “What’s your car doing parked there?”
I hesitated … wanting to be nonchalant as well as convincing. “It was cold … and dark. I was tired.”
She looked at me suspiciously. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”
Well, there was this fly … instead, I feigned indifference. “I don’t think so.”
“You were smoking last night.” It was an accusation, plain and simple.
I blanched. At least I had remembered to wash the wine glasses. “Yeah, the rehearsal didn’t go well … I was stressed out.”
“How do you think Marty’s ever going to quit if you continue to smoke?”
“I’m trying.”
Chris stared at me. “No, you’re not. There’s no need to lie about it. Just, please, try to keep it outside the house.”
I watched her as she shut the door. So much for that.

NEXT: SCARED continues.


With all the controversy concerning the police lately, I thought it might be refreshing to share with you an occurrence that happened over fifty years ago.

My father-in-law had retired as a Major in the Army Military Police. After moving to our little town, he soon became the Chief of Police. His daughter, Marilyn, my wife to be, loved cats. He was more a dog person, himself, but he never prevented Marilyn from having at least one cat around. Fluff was perhaps the most notorious. She was a mottled gray and orange long hair variety who really must have enjoyed sex. Never a season passed without her presenting with at least one litter. Of course, this was in the day when people did not think about spaying their pets. Puppies and kittens abounded.

Fluff had one idiosyncrasy the continually frustrated Marilyn and her mother. The cat would always deliver her kittens in the basement crawlspace next to the fireplace foundation. This habit was all well and good, but that was as far as it went. As soon as the kittens were cleaned up and fed, Fluff would begin moving them from hiding place to hiding place. It was a never-ending merry-go-round of, “Where is Fluff now? Where are the kittens?”

Late one morning, Marilyn and her mother were working in the kitchen. Fluff suddenly appeared at the dining room door and began to meow. At first, she was ignored, but the constant complaining became annoying.

My mother-in-law scowled at the cat. “What’s her problem?”

Marilyn shrugged. “I don’t know.”

The complaining continued until Marilyn walked over to her. “What is it, girl?”


“I hear you, but what’s the problem?”

“Meow.” She then turned and trotted through dining room and up the stairs.
Marilyn followed. Fluff led her a merry chase, looking under beds and into closets. It
became obvious that the kittens were gone, and Fluff didn’t know where she had put them.

With a sigh, Marilyn reached down and scratched the cat’s head. “Sorry, girl. I don’t know where you’ve put them.” She and the cat headed back to the kitchen.

At that moment, the town patrol car pulled into the car park behind the house.

My mother-in-law looked puzzled. “What’s he doing home?”

The Chief of Police climbed out of the car and headed for the back door. Marilyn and her mother moved to intercept him.

“What are you doing home?”

Without answering his wife’s question, he turned and walked back toward the car.

“Come here.” His voice was firm and brokered no discussion.

Marilyn and her mother reached the car as he threw open the passenger side door.

He pointed. “Look there.”

Marilyn didn’t see anything. “What?”

Her father cleared his throat. “Under the seat.”

Marilyn leaned down and looked. There, under the seat, were Fluff’s missing kittens.
Somehow, she had gotten them outside and into the patrol car.

My father-in-law laughed. “They’ve been all over Sussex County this morning.”

Marilyn and her mother joined in the laughter as they collected the stray kittens.

Fluff stood at the back door and meowed

In the Trenches

Last month I touched on the question of a writer’s response to the our current condition. I ended the piece with the question: “Are we up to the challenge?” Well, one writer in our writing group was more than up to it…and she hadn’t even read my blog.

Our writers’ group, The Milton Workshop, is devoted to writers over the age of forty. Most of us have no problem fitting that requirement. Carrie, however, just squeaked by. As a result, Carrie’s writings tend to be more in tune with what is going on today. She works full time as a midwife and also has a journalism degree. Her writing is a vivid testament to her ability to view life, analyze it, and clearly report it. Her constant immersion in the medical world has put her on the front lines of our pandemic.

In the piece she most recently shared, Carrie brought us face to face with what is really happening. She has expounded on incidents in her work place that show the tragic effects of the virus as well as racial injustice. Because of her career, Carrie sees women from all walks of life, all socioeconomic strata, all races and religious affiliations. As a result, she is able to report on the overall impact of what our world and governments are bringing to bear upon us. It isn’t pretty. In fact, it’s downright scary. The pictures Carrie paints reflect the uncertainty, desperation, and fear so many people are experiencing right now.

Unfortunately, Carrie does not offer up any solutions to our problems. How can she? None of us knows where this is all headed or how it will end. Certainly, our national government has been of little or no help. Reassurance and a sense of security is not something they are capable of dispensing.

I would love to present you with excerpts from Carrie’s writing. I am not sure if she has a writer’s blog, or if she would permit me to do so. These are questions I need to answer.

Regardless, Carrie has more than met my personal challenge, and I commend her for it. Her  writing is always tight, concise and descriptive. It leaves me wanting more. That’s the sign of a truly good writer.

Freedom of speech?

Independence day is fast approaching. It’s a day when we celebrate our freedoms as Americans. For writers, freedom of speech is among the most important. But, for a writer, that freedom carries an obligation. Unfortunately, for me, it is an obligation that I have considered and chose to ignore. Why? I guess one could say that, in recent years, I’ve become increasingly neurotic. I hesitate to speak or write my mind for fear of offending someone. As our country continues to devolve, the fear of rejection and reprisal is becoming all to real.

One has to admire John Bolton and Mary Trump for their courage in attacking the current administration and those responsible for our plight. I wish I had that courage, but I don’t. Whenever the “President” does or says something stupid, I become angry and want to strike out against his obvious ignorance. That has become an almost daily occurrence. Of course, I say nothing. There have been a few times when I have started to do so, but I have always deleted that which I’ve written.

I went to bed early on election night in 2016. It seemed pointless to watch the returns. I was confident Hillary Clinton would take the election.

When I came downstairs the next morning, my wife met me at the foot of the stairs. “The light is out in the refrigerator.”

“Damn!” I hated changing those bulbs. They were hard to access and difficult to remove.

“Don’t worry about that now. We have bigger things to worry about.”

I looked at her quizzically. “What?”

“Trump won the election.”

It’s hard describe the feelings of fear and uncertainty that flooded my mind. Later, I took time to analyze those feelings. I could only compare them to how the German Jewish community must have felt when Hitler came to power. I shelved those emotions, but I have to admit that they do return from time to time. In fact, I shudder whenever I read of him being compared to a Nazi dictator.

As I said, I’ve never expressed my feelings in writing. What you have just read is probably as close as I will ever come. Take it for what you will.

What’s in a title?

Last week, during a virtual reading of my novel, someone asked, “Did you come up with the title first or after you finished writing?” My reply was, that in this particular case, I had the title long before I put pen to paper. However, this is not always the case. Often, the title for a piece can be elusive and can require quite a lot of thought. I’ve experienced both scenarios. Needless to say, I prefer the former.

When I was fourteen, I wrote a story simply for my own enjoyment. The title popped into my head at the very beginning of my endeavor. I submitted the piece for my senior high English class three years later. During my Freshman year of college, I revamped the story and used it again for an English class. In my Junior year, I submitted it again for a creative writing course I was taking. Most recently, I dragged it out once more, dusted it off and updated it for a Halloween anthology submittal. The editor liked the story and made a few suggestions that I readily accepted. Then came the surprise.

“You need to think about changing the title.”

“Really?” I replied. The title was something that I had never considered changing. “Why?” I asked.

“It gives away too much of the story.”

I had never thought of that, but he was right. The title did divulge more than it should. Now, the question was, “What was a good alternative?”

I was at a loss. I was so comfortable to the existing title that I could not see beyond it. I finally tossed the ball back into the editor’s court. With his help, I finally arrived at a more suitable title, and the story was published in the anthology.

Titles can be tricky, and I don’t really have a pat formula for choosing one. If one of you does, please let me know.

Between a rock…

Well, here we sit … between a “rock and a hard place”. The hard place is our current pandemic caused by COVID19. The rock is a completely unprepared and totally incompetent Federal government. Needless to say, we are all doing our best to deal with this unfortunate situation.

Our local writers’ group meets every other Sunday for about four hours. We have been doing so for the last five years. We read and critique one another’s work, have lunch and exchange personal stories and opinions. With the advent of the virus, we have been meeting virtually, and, for the most part, this has worked well. The one exception is that it seems difficult to really converse. I suppose that is the result of being on line and having to wait until it is one’s turn to speak. Any overlap leads to confusion and somewhat garbled comments. I suppose this problem will gradually wane as we become
more familiar with the program.

However, to date, no one has raised the topic I would like to touch on today. Certainly, such a subject requires much discussion and personal feedback. Our group may be avoiding it because of our limited on- line experience.

Regardless, I can’t help but wonder what this pandemic means from a writer’s standpoint. Over the years there have been various novels, short stories and movies dealing with the subject. Now we are in the midst of the real thing, and any presupposed assumptions are now truly fiction. We are seeing what really happens in such a case and have been exposed to a variety consequences. Personal accounts of sickness, death and hardship abound. People have lost their jobs, their sense of security and their naivete. We are experiencing the gamut of emotions that accompanies such a world-wide attack. We are also experiencing the lack of leadership that we always assumed would be there when country faced a major crisis.

As writers, we often ponder possible scenarios, characters and situations. COVID 19 has now provided us with a multitude of possibilities. The question, now, is, are we up to the challenge?