Month: May 2024

The primary aim of the "Novel Excerpts" blog category is to showcase my creative writing, specifically from the novels I've written. Hopefully, these posts will provide a glimpse into my storytelling style, themes, and narrative skills. It's an opportunity to share my artistic expressions and the worlds I've created through my novels.

The Boaz Schoolteacher, written in 2018, is my fifth novel. I'll post a chapter a day over the next few weeks.

Book Blurb

In the summer of 2017, Katie Sims and her daughter Cullie, moved from New York City to Katie’s hometown of Boaz, Alabama for her to teach English and for Cullie to attend Boaz High School .  Fifteen years earlier, during the Christmas holidays, five men from prominent local families sexually assaulted Katie.  Nine months later, Katie’s only daughter was born.

Almost from the beginning of the new school year, as Katie and fellow-teacher Cindy Barker shared English, Literature, and Creative Writing duties for more than 300 students, they became lifelong friends.  

For weeks, Katie and Cindy endured the almost constant sexual harassment at the hands of the assistant principal.  In mid-October, after Cindy suffered an attack similar to Katie’s from fifteen years earlier, the two teachers designed a unique method to teach the six predators a lesson they would never forget.  Katie and Cindy dubbed their plan, Six Red Apples.

Read this mystery-thriller to experience the dilemma the two teachers created for themselves, and to learn the true meaning of real justice.  And, eternal friendship. 

Chapter 7

Out of the Darkness was started as a psychological thriller.  It was about a woman who had been gang-raped and how she had coped mentally and emotionally.  Now, fourteen years after my award-winning novel was published, it would seem natural to think my book idea had been seeded by my own traumatic experience.  That would be wrong, since the five men who raped me had done so during my 2002 Christmas visit to Boaz, eight months after Out of the Darkness hit the shelves in bookstores across America.  If I believed in karma or some other-worldly notion, I could easily conclude my writing had somehow caused or at least anticipated the worst thing I had ever endured.  But, knowing there was little if any credible evidence for the supernatural of any stripe, did little to ward off bouts of writer’s block.  The move back to the heart of the crime scene had thrown my writing mind completely off track.  Now, after nearly three weeks living in Boaz, I have been unable to write a single scene in my current project I was subconsciously dubbing Real Justice.  It is a fact; I was stuck.  I had, as writers often say, hit the wall. 

I had never, well, not since college, gone this long without writing at least a thousand words a day.  This daily accomplishment was so ingrained in me that it was as fixed as the color of my hair, although I had been noticing a little gray emerging above my right temple when I pulled back my hair.  Other than the wellbeing of Cullie, my entire life, my mood, my teaching motivation, my self-worth, everything about me, was controlled by whether I daily produced those thousand words as part of a current project. 

This morning I was as lost and unmotivated as I had been in more than 14 years.  Not since the Faking Five had shown less respect for me as a human being than they would have for a silicone sex doll, had my mind and heart wandered so far out into the dessert.  I knew myself well enough to know that my teaching and my parenting would once again fail, just as it had during the months after I was raped and had given birth to Cullie.  I could not let that happen again.  I had to avoid the drugs and the alcohol.  Just like the Walton drug for Nanny, the writing drug for me was the only thing that would keep me from falling into the abyss far below the precarious track of my life.

Maybe it was the prayer I had said this morning when I arose.  Yesterday’s prayer I had promised to believe and pursue.  Maybe my simple request to God that He would guide me today was the seed that had given me those three words.  The Faking Five.  Less than two minutes ago I had never put these thirteen letters together, in that order, in my mind.  I sipped my coffee and smiled to myself.  This was what I was talking about.  Or, was it?  Thirteen letters?  Why not twelve or fourteen?  I had never been superstitious.  I wouldn’t start now.  These thirteen letters, such a simple idea.  It could be the door that opened a whole new world.  I hadn’t had to spend $1,000 on a cruise, or even $25.00 on a new novel.  What was occurring to me was priceless.  The fathers of Warren Tillman, Justin Adams, Ryan Radford, Fulton Billingsley, and Danny Ericson had been known since the early seventies as the Flaming Five.  This name had spawned from their ability to set the basketball nets on fire.  The entire Boaz community had adopted the name.  Their sons, my attackers, had now spawned their own name, not by ten thousand or more people but by one.  Me.  The one who knew the truth.  These five, Warren, Justin, Ryan, Fulton, and Danny, were individually and collectively living fake lives.  The people of Boaz thought they were community leaders, devoted husbands and parents, gentlemen, servants of Christ.  In truth, they were the Faking Five. 

By 6:00 a.m., I returned the half-finished first draft into the middle drawer of the old roll-top desk in the corner of the basement, having spent all my time brainstorming instead of writing.  At least, I had controlled my emotions and allowed imagination to intelligently revisit my horrible trauma and consider what a hypothetical person in my shoes might do to get revenge.  And, justice.  The novel’s name would likely change but for now I liked Real Justice.  Of course, a novel is fiction, made up, but it is quite okay to base the story on real events, what has already happened.  As any novel writer would, the names of all my characters would change.  I had already decided the setting would be a small town in Georgia and that my protagonist would not be a teacher, but a secretary at a law firm.  One thing would be the same.  The secretary, Stella was her name, would be raped by five men in the legal community.  Maybe one would be a judge.  I didn’t need to know that yet.  I already knew how Stella would think and how her mind wanted revenge but what I didn’t know was what she would do.  I would have to get to know her much better and spend days observing her.  I had no doubt that once I started, daily, following Stella around, she would reveal her story and how she would exact real justice. 

I had somehow crawled back onto my track.  As I straightened my desk, I felt whole, alive, driven.  Words and stories were my lifeline, the real blood coursing through my veins.  Now, I had to share this gift with a couple of hundred hormone-driven teenagers.

Cullie and I arrived at school at 6:30 a.m.  She wasn’t happy and had almost decided to ride the school bus until she learned it came past Nanny’s country home at 6:15. The real source of her foul mood was the near-screaming incident that had occurred when she came down the stairs.  I had forgotten to look at her Saturday’s clothes purchases.  The tight jeans and the even tighter blouse was bad enough, but it was the revelation of a blossoming bosom that ignited the fireworks.  She had not said a word as I had driven us to school.  My attempt at humor, “loose-fitting clothes keeps them wondering.  A mysterious woman is more attractive than a billboard,” had failed miserably as she sat peering into her cell phone without a smile or a jeer.  To me, there would be no ninth grader at Boaz High that was more attractive than Cullie with her high-waisted, knee-length denim shorts, flowing white top, boots, and a feather necklace.  My darling daughter was gorgeous.

For the next hour Cullie sat at a computer workstation I had set up in the corner of my room.  As I had done for my entire twenty-year teaching career I quickly read through today’s lesson plans and closed my eyes.  I had developed a practice of visualizing each class and imagining the interaction with each student.  It was during the next hour that I would refine the one main goal I had for each class.  There were always secondary goals, but I had learned a long time ago that if I could effectively accomplish one goal, teach one important idea or principle, then my work was successful.

But, this wasn’t going to be as easy as it had been at Eleanor Roosevelt High School.  There, for the past six years, I had taught two subjects, American Literature and Creative Writing.  There, I had only two classes per day.  The New York City School Board’s philosophy was more akin to that of a university.  Specialization.  Each teacher had a specialty.  The Board believed the best teachers were the ones who prepared the most.  The four plus hours per day that I wasn’t in the classroom, I was in the lab.  That’s what they called it.  It was simply my time alone to research, write, relate, and record.  Also, what they called it.  The Board knew that writing was the key to thinking and that if a teacher, no matter her subject, didn’t put words on paper, words exploring her lessons, that the class, and thus each individual student, would likely be deprived from core and vital truths.

Here, at Boaz, Cindy and I shared the load of teaching Language Arts, including English and American Literature, Vocabulary, Spelling, and Composition of all types, to every tenth, eleventh, and twelfth grader.  Over 300 students.  I envied Rhonda Hudgins and Jennifer Kirkpatrick who shared the same responsibilities as Cindy and I but they only had 148 ninth graders.  The fear of failing to properly teach and reach my 150 or so students was lessened only because I had convinced Mr. Harrison during my initial interview that a narrow focus was the key.  He had agreed, at least temporarily, to allow me to use one carefully selected story at a time to serve as the basis for teaching all aspects of the Language Arts curriculum.  For example, this week the focus was A Good Man Is Hard to Find, a short story written by Flannery O’Connor in 1953.

Cullie left my classroom at 7:25, in time for me to gather my things and walk to the auditorium.  The brilliant Mr. Harrison and Mr. Wilkins had decided to try something new this year.  I would teach the basic English class to one full grade at a time.  This meant my first three classes were taught in the auditorium to seventy-five plus students each period.  Normally in Alabama, English is not required for twelfth graders. The Boaz City School Board’s new superintendent, Mr. Krieger, from Chicago, had made the change this past summer.  “It may not be the only way, but it is one way I believe we can begin to counter the ignorance of North Alabamians.”  I hadn’t yet met the man but knew he shouldn’t completely unpack his bags.

After 10:30, I would still have two more classes to teach: AP (advance placement) American Literature from 12:00 to 12:50, and creative writing from 1:10 to 2:40.  This ninety-minute class was the other concession that Harrison and Wilkins had granted.  I must thank Mr. Krieger for this.  Otherwise, my plea for extra time to do justice to creative writing would have fallen upon deaf ears.  Alabama had a terrible reputation when it came to its focus on the importance of writing.  I intended to do what I could to change that.  I was glad Cindy had full responsibility for teaching poetry.  She agreed to this only because I had agreed to increase the size of my first three classes.

I had started the first class on the stage behind the giant podium.  I quickly determined this wasn’t going to work.  I was too far from the horde of kids who were sitting, as per my request, in every other seat in the front half of the center section.  After I asked who had enjoyed reading the story over the weekend and saw no raised hands, I didn’t take time to walk off the stage and down the side stairs.  I sat down on the edge of the stage and slid down to the auditorium’s floor.

“Ben Gilbert, are you hungry?”  I hadn’t yet found him but knew he should be present.  This was tenth grade English class.

 “I sure am Miss Sims.  Where’s my steak?”

“Hungry for experience and learning?  That’s the question.”  I felt like I was lining up to kickoff at a football game, but I wasn’t even on the team.

“Not really.  I’m kind of fine just sitting here and listening.”  Half the class let out a giggle.  It seemed no one was awake.

“Everybody keep your seat if you read the weekend assignment, A Good Man Is Hard to Find.  No one stood up.  “So, I’ll assume everyone did their homework.”

I looked over the entire class and didn’t say a word for maybe thirty seconds.  Ben Gilbert stood up and apologized, “I forgot to take my book home and couldn’t get back in school yesterday afternoon when I thought about it.”

“That’s nearly as good as ‘the dog ate my homework’ excuse.  I’m sorry you don’t have access to the Internet.  Most every story we will be reading is readily available.”

Ben sat down mumbling something under his breath.

“Clara Ellington, who is the character in the story that we are told the most about?”

“The grandmother.  She’s the character we’re told the most about.”

Thanks Clara.  You read the story.  Correct?”

“Yes.”

“May I ask you a question, it might be a little personal?” 

“I guess.”

“Would you have stood up if I had asked my question differently?  If I had asked, ‘everyone who read the story please stand up’?

“Probably not.  I would have been too embarrassed.”

“Class, I remember what it was like to be in high school.  The peer pressure is horrible.  But, does that mean we simply ignore it even though we recognize it is a real problem?”

Several people in the class voiced an opinion, mostly saying they wished it didn’t exist.  A few said it wasn’t a problem for them.  One was Eric Smothers.

“Eric, please come up here and join me.  Let’s have a little conversation.”  He didn’t hesitate.  He no doubt was cocky and a member of the football team, evidenced by his Boaz High football jersey.

When he stood beside me I asked, “are you saying that embarrassment isn’t ever an issue with you?”

“No way. What would I have to be embarrassed about?  What you see is what you get.  It’s pretty solid isn’t it?”  His ego and arrogance were on full display.

 “Eric, you are a lot like the grandmother in our story.  You always get what you want.  Don’t you?”  I said not knowing for sure what he would say.  I would hate to be a lawyer who should never put himself in this position.  He always should know what the witness is going to say.

“You are pretty bright, pretty too.  I’ve been taught that if you want something you have to go after it.”  Eric said looking at his buddies on the back row who were giving him a thumb up.

“Would you say you are somewhat of a manipulator?”

“Absolutely, if that’s what it takes.  I make things happen.”

“The protagonist in our story, the grandmother, made things happen too.  Do you want to venture a guess how that turned out for her?”

“Don’t have a clue.  I don’t like to read; I sure don’t like homework.  But, my guess is she got embarrassed.  That seems to fit what you’re talking about.”  Eric said standing straighter than before.

“She got herself killed.  Evil, as represented by the misfit, won out.”

The rest of the class was similarly unproductive.  At 8:15, I gave up and had the class take out their books to start reading the story.

The rest of the day was worse if that was possible.  I had never seen such a bunch of disinterested kids.  I didn’t know for sure, but it appeared that Clara Ellington was the only student that had even attempted to read A Good Man Is Hard to Find.

If things could not have been worse for the first day of the first full week on my new job, what happened before Cullie came to my room after the last bell was almost unbelievable.  Mr. Wilkins had appeared in the doorway of my small office.  Without a word, he had semi-smiled and walked to my desk, standing to my left.  Initially, I thought he was staring at the textbook laying in front of me, open to a short biography of Flannery O’Conner.  I will never forget the ere feeling I got when I looked up and caught him trying to look down my blouse.  Thank goodness, Cullie burst in before I could respond.

The primary aim of the "Novel Excerpts" blog category is to showcase my creative writing, specifically from the novels I've written. Hopefully, these posts will provide a glimpse into my storytelling style, themes, and narrative skills. It's an opportunity to share my artistic expressions and the worlds I've created through my novels.

The Boaz Schoolteacher, written in 2018, is my fifth novel. I'll post a chapter a day over the next few weeks.

Book Blurb

In the summer of 2017, Katie Sims and her daughter Cullie, moved from New York City to Katie’s hometown of Boaz, Alabama for her to teach English and for Cullie to attend Boaz High School .  Fifteen years earlier, during the Christmas holidays, five men from prominent local families sexually assaulted Katie.  Nine months later, Katie’s only daughter was born.

Almost from the beginning of the new school year, as Katie and fellow-teacher Cindy Barker shared English, Literature, and Creative Writing duties for more than 300 students, they became lifelong friends.  

For weeks, Katie and Cindy endured the almost constant sexual harassment at the hands of the assistant principal.  In mid-October, after Cindy suffered an attack similar to Katie’s from fifteen years earlier, the two teachers designed a unique method to teach the six predators a lesson they would never forget.  Katie and Cindy dubbed their plan, Six Red Apples.

Read this mystery-thriller to experience the dilemma the two teachers created for themselves, and to learn the true meaning of real justice.  And, eternal friendship. 

Chapter 6

Sammie Teal was no doubt the glue that kept Nanny in her home.  Paid for by Raymond, at the insistence of Darla, Sammie had been a godsend.  Until five years ago she had lived in the apartment above the garage that Papa had renovated for Aunt Maude, his younger sister.  The world’s greatest aunt was nearly ten years younger than Papa and Nanny.  I think my granddad was clairvoyant or something.  After Aunt Maude’s husband died of brain cancer at age thirty, Papa offered her a deal.  It was really a joke.  At first.  Papa offered his childless sister a place to live if she would take care of him and Nanny when they got old.  He had turned a junkie, seldom visited, storage room above the garage into a darling apartment.  I have fond memories as a young teenager sitting with Maude reliving a life of love and adventure.  All virtual experiences.  She was probably the main reason I’m now a teacher.  She certainly instilled in me a love of reading.

It was less than a month before Nanny was diagnosed with Parkinson’s that Papa’s plans fell apart.  Aunt Maude was killed in a one-car accident a few days before Valentine’s Day.  On a snowy and icy late afternoon, she had gotten out to buy candy and a card for Papa and Nanny.  It was the second worse day of my life.  Looking back, I have evidence that out of tragic circumstances roses can grow.  At least one.

Sammie was the perfect replacement and if it hadn’t been for the generosity of Raymond Radford, Papa would never have been able to afford her.  She too had lost her husband to cancer.  A couple of weeks after we buried Aunt Maude, Sammie’s house had mysteriously burned to the ground.  She could have afforded to rebuild her large sprawling house on North Main Street but was easily persuaded by Darla, at Raymond’s behest, to move in Aunt Maude’s apartment and care for Papa and Nanny.  She was a retired nurse with the bedside manner of what all patients sought from a doctor: time and compassion.  All of Sammie’s children were grown and gone which made her decision easier.

Sammie lived outback upstairs until Papa died three years ago.  His death had nearly destroyed Nanny.  Her health took a nosedive.  I will always believe the effects of her mourning for Papa triggered her dementia.  Sammie now lived in a bedroom across the hall from Nanny.  She would retreat to her apartment when assured by me or Darla that we take care of Nanny.  Of course, that was rare, especially with Darla.  I’m thankful she was the conduit for the funds to pay Sammie, but it was difficult to observe how little affection existed between daughter and mother.  Other than my own tragedy’s ability to motivate me to love, cherish, and protect my Cullie, Darla’s near full-absence drove me to be present and engaged with the little girl who was quickly evolving into a young woman.

When Cullie and I returned late yesterday afternoon from the Gadsden Mall, we had found Sammie and Nanny sitting in the den watching reruns of The Walton’s.  Nanny was almost the real Nanny during these times.  Her and Papa had loved this 1980’s TV program about John and Olivia Walton, his parents, and a small army of children, struggling to survive on Walton’s Mountain, Virginia during America’s Great Depression.  I’m not a doctor but the Walton drug, as I called it, gave Nanny more benefit than most of the dozen or so pills she took throughout the day.  I think even Cullie noticed a real difference in the smile and relaxing hands of Nanny when she was absorbing an hour or two of the Walton drug.  Cullie would rarely sit and endure, her words, the ‘silly show about backwoods people,’ but last night, I think maybe for the first time, she realized that youth is so transitory and that she herself, if she was lucky, would someday be old like Nanny, and suffering from two horrible conditions.  I was torn between watching Nanny and watching Cullie watch Nanny.  Cullie was just now getting to know her great-grandmother.  Until less than two weeks ago, the two of them had never spent more than the equivalent of a few days together, with those being spread over fourteen years of one visit every couple of years when I made myself return to the little town I had sworn I would never make my home.

Before we had gone to bed, I had promised Cullie we would go to First Baptist Church of Christ in the morning.  I had to keep my promises to the most important person in my life.  Even if it nearly killed me.  My desire to be a good mother to Cullie was justification enough for us to waste a perfectly good opportunity to sleep in and relax, maybe even have one of Sammie’s breakfast feasts when other folks were eating turnip greens and cornbread at Grumpy’s Diner after church.  Sammie, once again, had someway known what to do.  At 7:45 she had knocked on my door and whispered, ‘breakfast at 8:00 if you are interested.’  I was.  Especially since I hadn’t eaten anything but a little oatmeal Debbie Cake since popcorn at The Glass Castle.

I had dropped Cullie off at youth group at 9:00 a.m. and driven to my classroom at the high school.  I was glad Principal Harrison’s philosophy encouraged teachers to invest ‘a healthy portion of your non-school hours in preparation.’  He was right.  The best schoolteachers are like the best attorneys.  To get the best results, they both have to prepare.  There is simply not enough time from 7:30 to 2:45 to properly prepare.  Principal Harrison wasn’t my main reason for coming to my classroom.  It was my fear of church, better put, my fear of Sunday School.  It was too dangerous.  I had loved it as a teenager growing up with Brother Randy Miller as youth pastor.  He had made the Bible come alive.  Mostly, he was human with his hoard of young people. There was no subject that was off the table.  He was genuine.  Unfortunately, he was too human.  He died in a tragic accident when the Lighthouse, an outreach ministry of the church, burned down the summer before my eleventh-grade year.  I hoped his grandson, Robert, would be different in that regard, and his care and teaching would be just what Cullie needed.  I could make myself sit beside Cindy during the preaching hour, but I was not ready for the stares and gossip of adult Sunday School.

Cindy met me at 10:55 just like we had agreed.  Outside on the front steps leading into the giant auditorium the church had built a few years ago.  Something in me longed to go inside the big but old and decaying building next door, the one that created all the memories that were now flashing before my eyes.  The first thing Cindy said was, “glad you came.  I was worried I would disappoint you.  Late night.  Steve was especially fishy when I got home.”  Only Cindy, the sweet, gentle, and shy around the world Cindy, could talk sexual without saying a word that Cullie would find lurid.

We sat in the balcony with the fishy Steve and their two younger children: Arlon and Anita.  Alysa was no doubt downstairs with Cullie and about a hundred-other youth ranging from middle school age all the way to college.  Triple A’s; Cindy was no doubt an English teacher.  Before the sermon began, she whispered a question: “had I looked at what the girls bought at Belk’s?”  I just shook my head in the negative but promised myself I would do that first thing upon our return home.

The song service touched my heart.  I hadn’t been to church but a few times since I had left Boaz late summer of 1991, right after graduating in May from Boaz High School.  I recalled how I loved the old gospel hymns.  I was glad my hometown church hadn’t gone the way of the world and forsaken tradition and instead adopted contemporary Christian.  Of course, Sunday morning worship hour was designed to keep the adults, many of them approaching Nanny’s age, satisfied.  The youth group, according to Alysa, was another story.  If Brother Robert thought loud and fast-beat songs of the savior would keep my Cullie safe and sound here instead of hanging with the wrong crowd, I had no opposition at all.

Brother Warren’s sermon would have given me inspiration if any other preacher in the world had said the very same words.  Knowing a dark secret or two about the man who is a master at sharing the Good News was worse than throwing a dripping wet quilt on a small but flaming fire.  It was my first time to hear Pastor Warren as Cindy called him.  My memories were clear of his father and grandfather’s sermons.  Wade and Walter Tillman were every much the masters of storytelling and persuasion as was Warren.  Unlike Brother Randy, Warren inherited the criminal gene from his ancestors.  I know Warren, at least in 2002, had a dark side, one so dark that he could, along with his four buddies, kidnap and rape a 29-year-old woman.  That woman was me.  There was nothing I hated more than a hypocrite.  Regardless of my lack of inspiration, I would take Pastor Warren’s words to heart.  His message from John 15:7 sparked a desire deep inside me to attempt to restore my prayer life.  I wanted to see if what he said was true.  I had once believed it.  It was time I gave it another try.

Pastor Warren was not the only one delivering messages today.  At the end of the service, I followed Cindy and Steve, and two of the Triple A’s, through the line to shake the preacher’s hand.  His fake smile and smarmy greeting were my final encouragement.  I palmed the tall and handsome orator my two-word unfolded sticky note: ‘I know.’  Reluctantly, I kept walking, redirecting my eyes through the open doorway without pausing to delight myself by a facial response to what I hoped was a top-three shock of his life.

The primary aim of the "Novel Excerpts" blog category is to showcase my creative writing, specifically from the novels I've written. Hopefully, these posts will provide a glimpse into my storytelling style, themes, and narrative skills. It's an opportunity to share my artistic expressions and the worlds I've created through my novels.

The Boaz Schoolteacher, written in 2018, is my fifth novel. I'll post a chapter a day over the next few weeks.

Book Blurb

In the summer of 2017, Katie Sims and her daughter Cullie, moved from New York City to Katie’s hometown of Boaz, Alabama for her to teach English and for Cullie to attend Boaz High School .  Fifteen years earlier, during the Christmas holidays, five men from prominent local families sexually assaulted Katie.  Nine months later, Katie’s only daughter was born.

Almost from the beginning of the new school year, as Katie and fellow-teacher Cindy Barker shared English, Literature, and Creative Writing duties for more than 300 students, they became lifelong friends.  

For weeks, Katie and Cindy endured the almost constant sexual harassment at the hands of the assistant principal.  In mid-October, after Cindy suffered an attack similar to Katie’s from fifteen years earlier, the two teachers designed a unique method to teach the six predators a lesson they would never forget.  Katie and Cindy dubbed their plan, Six Red Apples.

Read this mystery-thriller to experience the dilemma the two teachers created for themselves, and to learn the true meaning of real justice.  And, eternal friendship. 

Chapter 5

“Rex and Rose Mary were the most appalling human beings I’ve ever seen. The poor kids.  I think they should have been taken away from their deplorable parents and placed in foster care.”  Cindy said as we exited the Cinema 16 in the Gadsden Mall.

“They were a dysfunctional family no doubt, but I was inspired how the brilliant and charismatic Rex captured the imaginations of his four children.  He taught them physics, geology, and how to fearlessly embrace life.”  I said, a little surprised by Cindy’s narrow interpretation of The Glass Castle.

“What good does the imagination do when the four darlings are cold, hungry, totally unkempt?”  Cindy added as we walked to the Food Court in the middle of the mall.  Cullie and Alysa, Cindy’s daughter, should be waiting at a table close to Chick-fil-A.  “I’m not condoning the father’s dishonesty and destructiveness while he was drunk, but he and his wife were free-spirits and non-conformists. Maybe that was the little gold nugget buried under Rose Mary’s abhorrence of domesticity and the more traditional role as a mother raising a family.”  As we turned the corner towards the Food Court, I was relieved to see our two girls waiting.

“To me, real nonconformist’s parents are folks that reject the allure and temptations of the world and instead immerse their children in the church to teach them fixed, universal and unchanging principles.”  Cindy said, stopping to look at a black and gold skirt and jacket displayed in the window of the Dress Barn.  “I guess that was my way of inviting you and Cullie to church tomorrow.”

“Come on Miss Perfect, the girls are probably starving.  And, that outfit could be your first step towards Hell.”  I said thankfully that Cindy and I had so easily connected through our work and now we are developing a friendship.  I was surprised, almost shocked.  I literally sucked at making friends.

“Did you find the jeans you were looking for?”  Cindy asked Alysa.  I was also thankful that Cullie and Alysa were attempting to connect.  I guess the two afternoons this week that Cindy and I had made them sit in the back of my room as we compared notes on how we intended to teach Macbeth, starting in a couple of weeks, had given the two ninth-graders just enough of a spark to launch a friendship.  It made me envy their age and ignorance.  They were too young to have acquired a lot of the baggage me and most every adult started acquiring as the school years became history and the grind of work and family took over.

“We did.  And, we also bought matching blouses.  Except for the color.”  I overheard Alysa tell her mom.

“That’s confusing.  If they aren’t the same color, how do they match?”  Cindy, always the analyzer.

“The cut, the style.”

“Anyone hungry?”  I had eaten popcorn in the theater but knew Cullie was probably starving.  She was smart enough to not spend the money I had given her on food, instead using it all for clothes.

“I could eat a horse.”  Alysa said, focused on her cell phone.  She had been reading and texting since she had first come into my line of vision.

“Here’s twenty bucks, go buy us some sandwiches.”  Cindy said, handing the money to Alysa.

“No, I’ll pay for Cullie’s.  I don’t think I want anything.”  I said.

“You paid for the movie.  I’ve got this.”

After the girls wolfed down grilled chicken sandwiches, waffle potato fries, and fruit cups they convinced Cindy and me to let them return to the sale at Belk’s.  I was glad Cindy instructed Alysa to remember she is not allowed inside Victoria’s Secret.

“Let’s move away from this crowd.  I told Cullie where we would be.”  We picked up the girls’ shopping bags and walked to the center of the Food Court where there were ten or more unoccupied tables and only an older couple within thirty feet of where we settled.

“What’s Steve up to today?  I was surprised he let you and Alysa come with us.”  I said, still trying to understand how normal people live.

“He and his brother were going fishing.  I just love fishing.  Not for me but for him.  It’s the only time I get any breathing room on the weekends.”

“I figured you two were still as inseparable as you probably were in high school.”

“You can’t remember that.  I didn’t go to Boaz.”  Cindy said, exploring Alysa’s shopping bags.

“Sorry, I guess I’m confusing you with Charlene Bonds.”

“Oh.  Well, you know absence makes the heart grow fonder.  I told you I loved fishing.  It seems our sex life took on a whole new dimension after he and Sean bought that silly bass boat.”  Cindy said with a sly little grin.

“Okay, I don’t need any details.”

“All I’ll say is there’s something tantalizing about watching your man fillet fish.  And, that doesn’t even address what the fishy smell does to my hormones.”  I was seeing a side of traditional mom Cindy that I hadn’t expected.

“Enough, enough.  I am seeing Steve, and you in that black and gold outfit, and smelling the fish. Let’s talk about Literature.”  I had to change the subject.  I could not admit I wanted to know more.  Cindy had no idea how lucky she was to have Steve, a hard-working, honest, and faithful husband.  I almost had the beginnings of that little sensation that I used to get when Colton would take me in his arms and push me against the wall of my apartment when he would visit us in New York City.  That was four years ago, and three years since I had heard from him.  I couldn’t imagine Steve just up and leaving one day like Colton had.

“Earth to Katie.  Come on down.”  Cindy said snapping her fingers in my face.

“Sorry, I guess I got caught up in your little fish story.”

“I meant to ask you earlier, how’s Darla?  I saw her at Walmart last night but didn’t get a chance to say hello.”

“She’s holding her own.  I think.”

“It’s just horrible what she must be going through.  The rumors just keep getting worse and worse.” Cindy said, pulling out a chair to prop her feet.

“What’s the latest you’ve heard?”  I wanted to know what others were saying.  My question surprised me since I normally avoid scuttlebutt conversations.

“That Raymond and Walter and you know, all the fathers of the Flaming Five, have been involved in some type of sex trafficking.  This is, in addition to the possible murders of Harold Maples and that kid back forty something years ago.” 

“It still blows my mind that Darla got involved with Raymond Radford. What is it that women see in older men?” I asked.

“Duh, it’s the back side of their pants and not the front side.” Again, Cindy surprised me.  Until today, I had gathered at work that she was a little miss perfect, with thoughts and actions that Pastor Warren would use in a sermon illustration. 

“I take it you are referring to Raymond’s wallet?”

“Absolutely.  In that regard, he was a catch.  He’s probably the richest man in Boaz, or at least one of the richest.” 

“Let’s change the subject.  I try not to think of Darla’s infatuation with the handsome Raymond.”

“This may be a little too personal, but can I ask why your grandmother adopted you.  Seems to me you would have been better off to live with your father and your mother?” Cindy said, clearly confused, completely ignorant of the facts.

“Raymond is not my father.  In fact, I don’t know who my father is.”

“Okay.  I just figured that Raymond got your mom pregnant and they decided to get married. This is what my mother told me. Of course, that was back nearly a half-century ago.”

“Don’t remind me of how old I’m getting.”  For years now, I had put aside the question about my father. It had come as a shock when I was twelve, maybe thirteen, when Darla had told me the truth.  I had never told anyone the details.  I had, like today, always simply left it at, ‘I don’t know who my father is.’  That seemed to divert attention back on my mother, rightly so I guess, that she must have slept around and never sought a paternity test.  The truth is, she did sleep around.  For sure, she slept with five guys, probably more than once each, during her high school graduation party.

“Let’s leave it at that for now.  Okay?”  Something told me that at some point I might become comfortable, and confident enough, to share the full story with Cindy.  But today was not the day.

“I guess you know those two.”  Cindy said leaning her head toward the counter at Starbucks.”

“Who are you talking about?”  I asked, playing completely dumb, looking towards the American Cheesefactory instead.

“Pastor Warren and Fulton Billingsley.”

“Oh, them.  I know of them but have never met either one of them.”

“Come to First Baptist Church of Christ tomorrow and you can hear the best preacher for miles around.  Then Monday, you can go to First State Bank of Boaz and meet the smooth and sophisticated Fulton Billingsley, the best-dressed man in town.”  Cindy said, no doubt the fountain of local information.

“To your total dismay, Cullie and I are planning on being at church tomorrow.  She has asked me.  Apparently, your faithful little daughter has already invited my little heathen to attend a youth group.  As to Fulton, I have already been to his bank.  Twice actually.  Opened two accounts.  One for me and one for Cullie.”

“Boaz is fortunate to have those two and their three best friends. They keep the community’s wheels turning.”  Cindy said standing up and motioning the girls our way.  They had stopped, arms full, and were talking with a group of guys standing in line at Chick-fil-A.

“What three best friends?”  I already knew who Cindy was referring to but wanted to act a little naive.

“Ryan Radford, Justin Adams, and Danny Ericson.  It seems these five, all sons of the Flaming Five, your mothers’ classmates, are doing a good job following their fathers.  Except for the criminal activity I guess.”  Cindy said bursting out laughing.  I had noticed she is her number one fan when trying to be funny.

“You might be surprised.  Everyone has secrets.  No one is what they appear to be.”

“Let’s go get the girls.  They will talk until midnight with those cute guys.  Oh, you’re right.  Literature has taught me that.  Please know I’m always open to hearing your secrets.”  Cindy said picking up the shopping bags and walking away.

Overall, it was a good day.  I enjoyed anon-teaching day with Cindy.  After we dropped the two of them off at their house, all Cullie wanted to talk about was how cool Alysa is.  “She’s boy crazy but in a healthy sort of way.”

I decided not to respond to that observation by my fourteen-year-old daughter.  I would lose either way.  I did not want to hear how serious she was about boys in general, and I certainly did not want to know the unhealthy type of crazy that some girls her age were experiencing.

The primary aim of the "Novel Excerpts" blog category is to showcase my creative writing, specifically from the novels I've written. Hopefully, these posts will provide a glimpse into my storytelling style, themes, and narrative skills. It's an opportunity to share my artistic expressions and the worlds I've created through my novels.

The Boaz Schoolteacher, written in 2018, is my fifth novel. I'll post a chapter a day over the next few weeks.

Book Blurb

In the summer of 2017, Katie Sims and her daughter Cullie, moved from New York City to Katie’s hometown of Boaz, Alabama for her to teach English and for Cullie to attend Boaz High School .  Fifteen years earlier, during the Christmas holidays, five men from prominent local families sexually assaulted Katie.  Nine months later, Katie’s only daughter was born.

Almost from the beginning of the new school year, as Katie and fellow-teacher Cindy Barker shared English, Literature, and Creative Writing duties for more than 300 students, they became lifelong friends.  

For weeks, Katie and Cindy endured the almost constant sexual harassment at the hands of the assistant principal.  In mid-October, after Cindy suffered an attack similar to Katie’s from fifteen years earlier, the two teachers designed a unique method to teach the six predators a lesson they would never forget.  Katie and Cindy dubbed their plan, Six Red Apples.

Read this mystery-thriller to experience the dilemma the two teachers created for themselves, and to learn the true meaning of real justice.  And, eternal friendship. 

Chapter 4

An end of the day fire alarm had delayed Mr. Harrison’s faculty meeting to the second day of school.  According to Cindy Barker, my Language Arts counterpart, the head administrator was a stickler for relaying his rules and regulations and inspiring his teaching staff with philosophies that had secured his position for the past thirty years.  It was hard to believe he had already been principal at Boaz High School for four years when I started as a freshman in August 1987.

“Get comfortable, this will take a while.”  Cindy said as she and I, along with fifty or so other teachers, marched into the auditorium.

“How long?  Cullie is waiting in my room and will be starving if I’m not back in thirty minutes.”

 “At least an hour.  Don’t think you can slip out.  The last thing on Harrison’s agenda is introducing new teachers.  He would fire you if you weren’t here to receive his recognition.”  Cindy said checking her iPhone.

“What is Mr. Harrison’s policy concerning cell phones.”  I said in case he didn’t cover this.

“For emergencies only, or for teaching purposes.  He believes electronic devices are the bane of education.  I’ve heard him call them ‘a tool of the devil.’”

Mr. Harrison and Patrick Wilkins walked across the stage with the assistant principal taking a seat in one of eight chairs behind and beside the giant podium at the center of the stage.

“Welcome ladies and gentlemen, my fellow teachers.  I apologize for any inconvenience that may have been caused by the fire alarm at the end of the day yesterday.  It was a malfunctioning cooler in the lunchroom.  It overheated and triggered the alarm.

“I want to do something a little different this year.  I suspect most of you have met our new teachers, but I wanted to take this opportunity to formally introduce them and allow you to learn a little more about them.  Please, if you are one of our seven new teachers please come on the stage.  Patrick and I have you a chair waiting.”

I hated being the center of attention, unless it was in my own classroom with my own students.  I always felt everyone would know my story, my dark story, and would conclude that I was a person to be avoided.  I reluctantly made my way to the stage.

Mr. Harrison went in alphabetic order.  I was the last one he asked to come to the podium and give a short bio.  Before Kenneth Alverson said a word, standing beside Mr. Harrison, he laid out the rules.  I could tell my principal was a man who followed the rules.  Mr. Harrison had said to tell everyone our professional history, including educational background and teaching experience if any, also to describe our personality in two or three words, and next, to tell the group what we liked to do in our spare time.  Finally, he said, with a laugh, to tell everyone our deepest and darkest secret, ‘if it is one you don’t care to keep as a secret.’

Oh, this was just perfect.  I had to impress everyone with my ability to remember four things I had been asked to share and, if that wasn’t bad enough, I had to make up a secret that I didn’t mind sharing.  For a second, I thought I would be truthful and share how I was brutally raped fifteen years ago by five local men who everyone here knows.  I guess Brenda Peyton, and her story, changed my mind.  I needed to stick with something less horrible, a lite and funny story.  Brenda shared how she had dreamed the night before she married that she could have done better finding a husband.  She said she was thankful Brad was such a loving and forgiving man.  She had the entire group roaring.

When it came my turn, I noticed Mr. Harrison looking at his watch.  I figured he believed his agenda was behind schedule.  Sometimes blessings come carefully disguised.  I kept my speech short, totally on point, four points.  I didn’t have any trouble remembering my outline but was a little disappointed that my secret didn’t earn a single laugh, at least not any I heard.  “My secret is also a dream.  I won the Nobel Prize for Literature.”  I hoped no one thought I was being arrogant.  I also hoped they would appreciate a cynical and paranoid personality type.  These two descriptors didn’t garner any laughs either. 

“I’m glad you’re here.  And, I’m excited about learning a lot from you.”  Cindy said when I returned to my seat.  She must have noticed the beads of sweat across my forehead.  I wished I hadn’t pulled my hair back this morning.

“Stop trying to be funny.  You’re my inspiration.  I’ve heard that two of your former students are now working on a creative writing master’s degree at the University of Alabama.  The Boaz community is blessed to have an English instructor of your caliber.”

“We better listen to General Harrison or we both will be in the soup line.”  Cindy said turning her iPhone face down on her lap. 

For the next forty-five minutes our leader shared his teaching rules and regulations, along with his educational philosophy and vision.  Most of what we were told I had already learned from reading the Pirate Practice, the school’s policy and procedures handbook for teachers and students.  The only new thing I learned was Mr. Harrison believed in the power of prayer since he closed out his time with a plea for the Divine one to bless the new school year. 

Mr. Wilkins, the assistant principal was younger, much younger than Mr. Harrison.  He was probably in his mid-forties, like me.  I whispered to Cindy, asking her if he had graduated from Boaz High School.  She didn’t know. 

Two things I quickly learned and hated them both.  Mr. Wilkins oversaw lesson plans and demanded teachers have the following weeks submitted to him, both electronically and physically, by Thursday of the current week.  This was so antiquated.  Real teaching demands teacher flexibility.  Teaching English Literature demands a heightened degree of teacher mobility.  Literature, especially fiction pieces, are like mining gold.  You never know what direction a promising vein will take you.  No matter what the handsome Wilkins said, I would stick to my methods, those that had proven profitable since I learned Mr. Dawson’s secrets during my first year at Marymount High School in Los Angeles.

The second thing I didn’t like among Wilkins commands was his requirement that all supplemental materials had to be approved by him.  What the hell?  Later, back in my classroom and with Cindy searching for a snack in my little refrigerator in the corner of my room, I asked her about this arcane issue.

“He’s afraid the students will be exposed to something offensive, especially contrary to his Biblical beliefs.  You know he is the Education Director at First Baptist Church of Christ?”

“Does Wilkins not know this is a school, an institute for learning, possibly even higher learning?  Does he not know that even things offensive may be the truth?”  I said, feeling my heart rate rising, just as it always did when I heard of any injustice.

“Welcome to Boaz Miss Katie Sims, this ain’t New York City.”  Cindy said popping open the only Sprite I had and trying to incorporate a phrase from the popular salsa advertisement.

“I love Picante.  I also love colloquialisms, local and national.”  I said realizing Cullie had been sitting at my desk in the little office beside my classroom.  “Sorry for the long faculty meeting.  Are you ready to head out?”

“Been ready for an hour.  Mom, can we go shopping this weekend?”

“I thought we had already been.  Remember?  Two days after we got here, even before visiting Darla?”  I was guessing Cullie had figured out her clothing choices didn’t fit with the Southern girls in Boaz, Alabama.

“My jeans aren’t tight enough, nor are my blouses.”  Cullie said crumbling a potato chip bag and tossing it towards a trash can in the corner.

“No way, but we will go if you will be reasonable.”

“Hey, you two, I’m leaving.  Thanks for the Sprite.”  Cindy said walking toward the hallway.

The primary aim of the "Novel Excerpts" blog category is to showcase my creative writing, specifically from the novels I've written. Hopefully, these posts will provide a glimpse into my storytelling style, themes, and narrative skills. It's an opportunity to share my artistic expressions and the worlds I've created through my novels.

The Boaz Schoolteacher, written in 2018, is my fifth novel. I'll post a chapter a day over the next few weeks.

Book Blurb

In the summer of 2017, Katie Sims and her daughter Cullie, moved from New York City to Katie’s hometown of Boaz, Alabama for her to teach English and for Cullie to attend Boaz High School .  Fifteen years earlier, during the Christmas holidays, five men from prominent local families sexually assaulted Katie.  Nine months later, Katie’s only daughter was born.

Almost from the beginning of the new school year, as Katie and fellow-teacher Cindy Barker shared English, Literature, and Creative Writing duties for more than 300 students, they became lifelong friends.  

For weeks, Katie and Cindy endured the almost constant sexual harassment at the hands of the assistant principal.  In mid-October, after Cindy suffered an attack similar to Katie’s from fifteen years earlier, the two teachers designed a unique method to teach the six predators a lesson they would never forget.  Katie and Cindy dubbed their plan, Six Red Apples.

Read this mystery-thriller to experience the dilemma the two teachers created for themselves, and to learn the true meaning of real justice.  And, eternal friendship. 

Chapter 3

“Literature will change your life for the better if you will give it a chance.”  I said leaning back against the giant old desk and facing a room full of tenth graders virtually unaware of my presence.  Half the class wasn’t even looking at me, peering into their cell phones instead.

“I will not ask you to put away your phones, to sit up straight, to look at me, to listen.  That will be up to you.  If you prefer to eat bologna at your desk while I am serving filet mignon up here, that’s not a problem.  It will just be more for the few of you who will be both present and hungry.”

A red-haired, pimpled faced young man in the back stood up and started walking towards my desk.  “I’m hungry right now for that steak.  Where’s the beef?”  The class belched out a roar that would send Mr. Harrison, the high school principal, into the room if he were walking the halls within a hundred feet.

“Come on up.  You are Ben Gilbert.  Right?”  I said glancing at my roster.

“That’s right.”  Ben said, already standing before me, his face turning red as he realized he was making a fool of himself.

“Sit here if you like.”  I said, pointing to a chair beside my desk that faced the classroom.  Ben sat without a word as though he was being seated at a restaurant. I walked to a microwave in the corner of the classroom that was almost hidden behind a huge bookcase filled with books I would loan to anyone who promised to read.  I opened the microwave’s door and removed a plate.  Walking back towards Ben, I said, “Here’s your filet mignon and a sharp steak knife.  I hope you enjoy it.  I’m so pleased you were willing to act on your hunger this morning.”  Half the class stood to see if I had given a real steak to Ben. 

“Thanks Ben for giving us our first lesson of the day.”  I walked to the blackboard behind my desk and wrote, ‘Literature builds experience.’  Turning to the class I said, “Most of you probably have heard that experience is the greatest teacher.  That seems to argue that the more experiences you have the smarter you will become.  There is just one problem.  Does anyone know what it is?”  I said walking to the long row of windows next to the outer wall.

“It takes a lot of time.”  A plumb, purple-haired girl said from the desk in the far corner.

“Excellent response Joanie.”  Thankful that I had taken the time to study last year’s Annual.

“Literature is a time-saver.  If you will read, then you will gain experience.  In a few hours with a book you can learn lesson after lesson the protagonist took a lifetime to learn.”

“What’s a protagonist?”  Ben said with a mouthful of steak.

“It’s the main character in a story.”  I said looking over the entire class, not seeing a single student peering into a cell phone.  Several had gathered around Ben asking for him to share his treasure.

“So, if I have a lot of experiences, whether real or virtual, then I’ll automatically be the brightest bulb in the room?”  Clara Ellington said from the front desk in the center row clearly in the running for teacher’s pet.

“Great question Clara.  What do you think the answer is?”

“It doesn’t seem to follow, not naturally.  I say something is missing.”  She said sitting up even straighter in her chair if that was possible, pressing her designer eyeglasses upward a little on her nose.

“And, great answer also.  Experience alone is insufficient for true learning.  It is a vital ingredient, but you also need to add in a heavy dose of thinking.  Now we are at the heart of Literature, the greatest benefit of all.”

“Thinking, Literature will teach me to think, teach me how to think?”  Clara transformed her statement into a question.

“Exactly.  When you read the story of our protagonist, let’s call him Bill, taking the subway in New York City every day from the ghetto to Brooklyn and high school, what is he learning?  Let’s say he sees a preppy young man that gets on the train in Queens, all dressed up and carrying a briefcase.  After a few days the two begin to talk.  Bill learns Bob is a lawyer who lived in a series of foster homes most of his teenage years but, through hard work, determination, and a little luck, overcame the obstacles that kept most young men his age and in his position, down and out.  If Bill will think about Bob and what happened to him, he might begin to believe there is a chance he can overcome his homelessness.  Bob’s experience gave Bill hope mainly because he engaged his mind and didn’t let his circumstances drive his emotional despair.”

“That was awesome Miss Sims.  I’ll be hungry for more in the morning.”  Ben said as the class again erupted in laughter.

“I suspect you were referring to the mignon.  There will be an all you can eat steak supper at my place in the country for every student who pursues Literature this next year like you were a starving man.  Or woman.”

The students stayed fully engaged the remainder of the period.  It was a good first class and a good way to begin my teaching career at Boaz High School in the fall of 2016.  I sure hoped my third teaching job would be as rewarding as the six years I had spent at Eleanor Roosevelt High School in Brooklyn, New York, teaching AP English Literature and Composition, and the eight years before that teaching English Literature, Poetry, and Creative Writing, at Marymount High School in Los Angeles, California.