Month: June 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 16

I decided to have Darla’s funeral Friday afternoon, mostly because of Labor Day and Cindy and her family’s plans to visit Six Flags in Georgia over the long weekend.  Steve had planned the trip several weeks ago and it was going to be a surprise.  After Darla’s body arrived Thursday afternoon he had to tell Cindy because she was brainstorming ideas how to support Nanny, Cullie, and me at the funeral I had decided would take place Sunday afternoon.  After I changed the funeral times Cindy had invited Cullie and me to come along.  I declined, but Cullie was ecstatic.

It really wasn’t a funeral.  It was a memorial service.  And, there was no casket or body or flowers, just a couple of songs, a few words by Pastor Warren, after an hour of public viewing, but without the viewing.  This was what Darla wanted.  At least that’s what we all learned from Ryan as relayed by Raymond who was still in jail.  This wasn’t the only surprise from Ryan.  Darla’s desire was to be cremated.  “Granddad said he and Darla had discussed all this type stuff before they married and agreed on it.”  Darla’s body hadn’t stayed long at McRae’s Funeral Home.  They didn’t perform cremations but instead shipped the body to a crematorium in Huntsville.  Her ashes wouldn’t be back in town until several days past Labor Day.

Cullie spent the night, again, at Alysa’s.  It was becoming a tradition.  Steve wanted to leave early.  A good enough excuse for Cullie to be there and let me sleep in.

At 2:30 a.m., I shot upright in bed.  The little woman in my head who had no respect for time or tiredness plastered a thought across the stage of my mind.  She hadn’t done this, at this time, in quite a while.  I was thankful for that.  She wanted me to ponder something that Ryan had said when he and I discussed and planned Darla’s memorial service Thursday evening.  “Granddad said he and Darla had discussed all this type stuff before they married and agreed on it.”  This type stuff.  What did that include?

Raymond Radford was 44 years old when he married my 19-year-old mother. That was Thanksgiving 1973.  Darla was high school classmates with Randall Radford, Raymond’s son.  During the same graduation party where Darla became pregnant with me an even more horrible thing had taken place.  Two girls from the party, twins from Douglas, had gone missing.  A Micaden Tanner, who also was at the party, was falsely accused of the girls’ disappearance.  He was later charged with their kidnapping and murder, even though at the time their bodies had not been found.  Within a few months of the party, Raymond had met Beverly (aka Nanny).  She had learned how Raymond and the other four fathers of the Flaming Five (Randall and his basketball playing teammates) were attempting to force Darla and the other Boaz cheerleaders who had attended the graduation party to lie.  He knew they would be called on as witnesses to the events of that night.  Someway that I will never understand, a romance between Raymond and Darla had blossomed over all those horrible events and deplorable manipulation.

I had forgotten about the two journals Darla had packed in her suitcase.  I had hidden them, along with the videotape, behind my collection of literature textbooks.  Before this morning, my mind had decided they could wait, that I was simply too busy with school and Darla’s death.  The little woman in my head had just decided otherwise.  I got up and slipped on a nightgown, a long-ago present from Nanny.  It was flannel and it was late summer, but the house seemed unusually cold.  I slipped downstairs to the kitchen, made a pot of coffee and returned to my room and the elaborate little writing desk Papa had made me in high school from the giant oak in the front yard that had fallen during what many believed was a rare winter tornado.

I wanted to spend a few minutes without the journals; forecasting, I called it.  It was my way of predicting what I would see.  It connected my brainstorming or free-writing method with a purpose.  After a timed fifteen-minute session I had concluded Darla’s journals would reveal her two biggest regrets: not going to college and not being a real mother to me.

The first journal was current.  It covered the last several months.  Almost a year of Darla’s life.  I scanned half the pages, skipping every two or three.  It appeared to be an accounting of Raymond’s legal troubles.  Along with a sobering sage of how money, wealth, and other material things did not produce happiness. 

The second journal was old.  The first entry was dated, Thursday, May 24, 1972.  It read, in part, “Mother gave me this journal as one of my graduation presents.  She made me vow to record my innermost thoughts for at least a year.  After that I would either be hooked or hate it.  Sorry Journal, I must go party.  My buds are here, Rickie is blaring her car horn.  Nyra Sue and Gina, I’m sure, are screaming at her to stop.  Later my dear.”

At 4:30 a.m., I was tired.  I had read every entry and was only on page 128 out of 200 pages from the second journal.  I had read more details than I could ever remember.  Darla had chosen, since returning from her graduation party, to focus on the activities of that night and the events that led to her maturing romance with Raymond.  I placed a pencil inside the journal to hold my place and was about to return Darla’s writings to their secret spot when I decided to read the last entry.

It was dated, Wednesday, November 21, 1973.  Darla had written nearly a page about her wedding, even though it was taking place the following day, Thanksgiving.  All three of her paragraphs were filled with little snippets of how Raymond had been so kind and generous and had showered her with jewelry and clothes.  Darla was convinced Raymond truly loved her.  The last sentence, a one sentence paragraph, followed the first three.  It took a different route, “The only thing I regret is the damn prenuptial agreement.”

The final page in the journal, a continuation of the 21st entry, laid out Darla’s concerns and the details of the unwelcome agreement.  If her and Raymond ever divorced she would leave the marriage with only what things she had owned when they tied the knot, which wasn’t much no doubt.  Darla’s words showed some relief when she turned her attention to something other than divorce (she had written, “we’ll never divorce.”) because they revealed that if Raymond predeceased her in death and at a time the two continued as husband and wife, Darla would inherit all of Raymond’s property. 

In the next paragraph, Darla described how Raymond had joked since he was 44 that his age when they married would be their number. It raised my question, “their number, what’s the significance?’  Darla provided the answer.  If 44 years transpire and she passes away leaving Raymond a widower, then he retains all his and her property.  It was a little joke between them.  However, it seemed neither believed that Raymond would outlive Darla.  Why would they?  She was twenty-five years younger than him.

My mind still wasn’t fully engaged.  It might have been that I was running late for my writing session in the basement.  I placed the two journals behind the literature textbooks on my top bookshelf.  I changed into a pair of baggy shorts and a New York Knicks tank-top, overheated from my mental gymnastics.  I poured another cup of coffee as I passed the kitchen and raced down the stairs almost tripping on the thought the little woman in my head held up to me like a flashcard.  ‘Motive.’

Darla and Raymond’s prenuptial agreement was no longer funny.  And, my math skills were not seriously engaged.  Darla was born in 1954 and had married Raymond in 1973 when she was 19.  It was now 2017.  That’s 44 years ago.  Well, not quite, today was September 2nd.  In less than three months, on Thanksgiving Day, Raymond and Darla would have been married 44 years.  And, Raymond is still kicking.  Motive?  Yes, he or someone, maybe Ryan, had a motive to kill Darla.

As I was attempting to set aside these thoughts, one final one kept clawing onto the stage.  What would happen to Nanny?  The funds to pay for Sammie and run Nanny’s household, other than her Social Security check, were being paid by Raymond?

My writing session didn’t go so well.

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 15

The call came during my Thursday morning planning period.

“Ms. Sims?  This is Stanley Vincent with the Alabama Department of Forensic Sciences.  Is now a good time to talk?”

I told him it was.  He said Greta Vickers, the School’s bookkeeper, had given him my cell number after he told her who he was.

“Marshall County Sheriff Wayne Waldrup said I should call you.”

“Have you completed my mother’s autopsy?  Darla Sims, Radford?”

“Yes, the County is here to pick up her body and transport it to McRae’s Funeral Home.  I wanted to confirm that was correct, what you wanted.”  Vincent said.  I could barely hear him.  There was talking in the background.  I imagined several of his peers moving about, opening, and closing doors to temporary vaults.

“It is.”  I semi-yelled.

“I also wanted to tell you what caused your mother’s death.  Of course, you will receive a copy of the autopsy report, but I didn’t want it to be a total surprise.”

“Thanks.  I’m pretty sure I already know.  It was the Clonidin, the Zanax, and the alcohol.  Correct?”  I said, more focused on my review of Hemingway’s Hills Like White Elephants, the story I would be assigning tomorrow.

“That’s what we thought at first.  Sheriff Waldrup had alerted us to the possibility of a drug overdose, although the only drugs he knew about were the Clonidin and the alcohol.  Then, we discovered the Zanax, but the drugs are not what killed her.”

“So, what did?  Did she have a heart attack?”

“I’m sorry to tell you your mother died from a single gunshot to the head.”

“Oh my God.  Why did our Sheriff or the Boaz police or somebody else not mention anything about this?

“They didn’t see it.  It was easy to miss.  We naturally found it because we scrutinize every square inch of the body.  We also conduct multiple x-rays.  The entrance wound was exceedingly small and just inside her hairline above the neck.  Do you want me to give you the details now or do you want to wait and read them in my report?”

“Thanks for being so considerate, but I prefer you just tell me.  I might have a question or two.”

“The low-caliber bullet, a 22 short, entered the cerebellum.  This is located at the rear of the head.  The bullet then almost severed the spinal cord, but virtually missed the brainstem, and lodged itself between the basal ganglia and the cortex.  As I said, the bullet did not exit the head.”

“Would she have died instantly?”  I said for the obvious reason.  I was never close to my mother, but I would never want her to suffer.

“That’s what’s puzzling.  Normally, the subject, sorry to be so impersonal, lingers.  A small caliber bullet shot directly to any area of the cortex doesn’t usually cause instantaneous death, but through excessive intracranial pressure arising from either brain swelling or edema, will no doubt cause death sooner or later, normally within a few days.”

“You are referring to the cerebral cortex?”

“Yes, it’s the wrinkly outermost layer that surrounds the brain.  It consists of tightly packed neurons.  The cortex is divided into four different lobes, the frontal, parietal, temporal, and occipital, which are each responsible for processing different types of sensory information.”

“You seemed surprised that she died so quickly.  Why is that exactly?  I said feeling sterile when I should be an emotional wreck.

“One would have thought your mother’s injury would have been analogous to that of Abraham Lincoln’s.  He lingered for several days because of the brain injury caused by a low-caliber bullet that didn’t exit his skull after being shot at close range from the back.  What appears to be the cause of an instantaneous death from a gunshot to the brain is damage to the brainstem.  It is the part of the brain that regulates heart and lung function.  As you might recall, the subject bullet barely grazed your mother’s brainstem.  Although my report states the bullet as the cause of death, quite frankly, I don’t know what caused your mother’s instantaneous death.”

“Could the volume of drugs in her system have contributed to her instant death after the gunshot?”

“Possibly, but I doubt it.  I first thought the information I had received from Sheriff Waldrup was inaccurate.  His incident and offense report had mentioned both the approximate time of your phone call with your mother on the morning of her death and the exact time she was found by a Mr. Williams.  If we did not have such a tight timeline, I would have guessed your mother had died a slow death over a period of hours, maybe a day or more.  Of course, we know that’s not what happened.

“Can I ask one final question, Dr. Vincent?”

“Sure.  I have a couple of more minutes before I have to go.”

“What happened to the bullet or bullet fragment?”

“We extracted it and will be sending it to Sheriff Waldrup.  I suspect he has a homicide on his hands.  There is no way this was a suicide.  Again, Ms. Sims, I regret having to share such horribly stressful news.  I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you for your kindness.  I’m sorry, but one more quick question.  How would you describe the condition of the bullet fragment?”

“It’s not a fragment.  The bullet is fully intact, in near-perfect condition.”

“Thanks doctor.  I appreciate you calling.  Goodbye.”

“Goodbye to you Ms. Sims and God Bless.”

“Thank you.”

I had been sitting at my desk in my little office all during the conversation with Dr. Vincent.  When our call ended, I walked to the window and looked to a gray and dreary sky.  I was praying that mother had not suffered when Cindy came in with her book bag and her normally eager desire to plan tomorrow’s lesson.  I was thankful to have a good friend, especially one who, after seeing my sad face and serious tears, engulfed me in her arms and held me like I was her Alysa.

“I love you and so does God.”  Cindy said looking directly into my eyes.  I couldn’t help but think of Emily Fink in New York City, my best friend in the world up until now.  Slowly, Cindy Barker was nudging to the head of my best-friends line.

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 14

“Mother, when are you going to let me start dating?”  It was a question I had repeatedly heard from Cullie since the first of her eighth-grade year.  Until now, she had said it, smiling her gorgeous smile and telling me with her eyes that she knew she was too young.  Today was different.  It was the first time she had asked the question since we arrived in Boaz.  I had come out to Papa’s barn late Tuesday afternoon.  The loft had become her favorite spot on the forty-acre plot to hangout and ponder her future.

“When you are old enough?”  I said settling back against a stack of hay bales Mr. Crocker kept stored above a half-dozen abandoned cow, pig, and goat stables.

“You always say that but never discuss.  I am old enough.  All the popular ninth grade girls and probably half the mediums are dating.”

“Mediums?  What the heck is a medium?”  I said, looking over at Cullie stretched out on a bed of unbaled hay.  She was tall, lean, and shapely.  She was no longer my little girl, the one in pigtails in middle school, especially the sixth and seventh grader who secretly spent hours alone playing with Barbie dolls.  Now, her too-tight jeans revealed a female who had evolved and shed her baby flab.  I predicted within a few months her body would be as perfect as that of Brooke Shields in Blue Lagoon.  I still could not understand why I had watched this 1980s movie two nights ago on Netflix curled up in my bed after midnight.

“Alysa explained to me those are the girls, midrange if you will.  They are not popular or gorgeous.  Not all popular girls are pretty, you know.  And, the M’s are not homely either.  They make good grades and show promise of someday transforming into a prospect.”  Cullie said shifting backwards and up on her elbows.  “Mediums are always girls, prospects can be boys or girls.”

“Prospect?”

“Someone who’s a real candidate for dating.”

“My gosh, I’m so out of touch.  Now, I semi-understand more of the snippets I’ve been overhearing from my tenth Graders.”

“Grandmother was dating when she was in the ninth grade.”  Cullie surprised me.  Not so much that she had referred to Darla as her grandmother.  That was truly accurate but also rare.  Cullie did this when she used her subtle ability to play with my emotions.  She knew how I had always longed to have had a normal, maybe an extraordinarily wonderful, relationship with my biological mother, like Emily Fink had with her mother in New York City.

“Did you hear me?”  Cullie prompted as I sat beginning once again to feel sorry for myself.

“How exactly do you know that my dear?”

“Nanny told me.  You know, sometimes when I get home from school and after you have visited a few minutes, I sit with her.  About every other day she seems normal.  Yesterday, I had asked her when she had let you start dating.  She didn’t hesitate and said at the Valentine’s Dance in your tenth-Grade year.  I didn’t like her answer, so I said, ‘what about grandmother?’  Her words, exactly, ‘that was Papa’s doings.  Beginning of the ninth grade and it was the worst thing we did.  She spread her wild oats and never stopped until she was pregnant with your mother.’”

“Nanny said all that?”

“Yep.  Now that I know when grandmother started dating, isn’t it time I know who your real father is?”  And I thought the, ‘when will you let me start dating?’ question was what I feared.

“Honey, I’ve told you a hundred times that I don’t know.”

“Katie, I’m not as dumb as you sometimes think.  Miss Cindy told Alysa and me that most people tell you the minimum.  She said this over pancakes Saturday morning when we were discussing A Good Man is Hard to Find.  She said they rarely tell you all they know.  Miss Cindy gave the grandmother in O’Connor’s story as an example.  Said the old woman was highly manipulative with her son.”

Cullie sometimes called me Katie, always when she wanted to have a full conversation, one uncolored by our mother-daughter relationship.  “I’m confused, are you studying Flannery O’Conner’s most popular story?”

“No, but Miss Cindy was lab-ratting us.  Some angle she intended to explore with her students.  So, show a little respect for your only child.  Tell me who got Grandmother pregnant.  I wish I’d tried out for cheerleader.”  Cullie was now standing up and doing knee bends and arms rolls and kicks that looked like they would touch the weathered tin overhead.

Oh, the mind of a teenage girl.  “Darla was wild no doubt.  Believe me my baby, I don’t know, and I don’t know if Darla ever knew, who got her pregnant. It was during her graduation party.  She was at a place where she shouldn’t have been doing things she shouldn’t have been doing.  There were six guys present.  The story is that Darla had sex with five of them.  That’s where I got started.”

“Only one of the five can be your father.  His little sperm found Darla’s little egg.  Humans can’t have multiple fathers.”

“You now are an expert embryologist?”

“Something like that.  No, but Alysa and I are pretty good researchers.”

“Honestly, I don’t know why Darla never sought a paternity test.  I think she would have if she hadn’t gotten involved with Raymond Radford.  It was her way, I think, of showing a weird sort of respect.  You asked so I will tell you, but please keep it very secret.  Raymond’s son, Randall, the one who is still missing or simply ran off, was one of the five who Darla slept with that fateful night.”  I said not believing my little girl and I were having this conversation.

“Who were the other four?”  I knew this was coming.  Cullie had for weeks been revealing the makings of a future attorney.

I hesitated.  What good could come of Cullie knowing who her grandmother had sex with and who might be her grandfather?  On the other hand, being truthful, even when it hurt, couldn’t hurt the most important relationship in my life, one that needed to be grounded on a deep and wide foundation of trust.  “Wade Tillman, Fred Billingsley, James Adams, and John Ericson.”

“And, Warren Tillman, Fulton Billingsley, Justin Adams, and Danny Ericson are their sons.  So, Wade Tillman could be my grandfather, and his son, Pastor Warren, could be my cousin?”  Cullie asked.

“In that scenario I think he would be more like a step-brother once removed, but I’m not really sure.  I’d have to sketch that out.”  This conversation was going nowhere fast.

“I think you need to find out who your father is.  I’m glad I know Colton is my dad.  Is he still coming for Christmas?”  I almost envied Cullie’s ability to pivot.  Her mind was so alive and spontaneous, hungry for knowledge.  I hoped she someday found a real purpose to channel her intelligence and energy.

“We’ll have to see.”

“You never answered my question.”  Cullie brought us back full-circle.

“Now if you want to, but with rules my dear, strict rules.  Maybe a double date with Alysa at a cook-out.  Cindy and I are getting pretty good at grilling chicken.”

“Yuck.  To the chicken and the six-way. I’m okay with Alysa, me, and two prospects, but no parents allowed.”  Cullie said, headed for the loft’s ladder.

“Rules my dear.  I’m not about to turn you loose.  No way.  Men can be animals.  Boys are just less imaginative and brave.”

In a sense I was trapped.  We were now into the third week of my first-year teaching at Boaz High School.  After my long and scary conversation with Cullie, and nearly two hours watching The Walton’s and eating from TV trays, I had come to my room, propped my pillows up on the headboard and started reading.  I both loved it and hated it.  I was caught in a schedule that required at least an hour, often two, per night, reviewing and commenting in the five Facebook groups I had created.  I had been surprisingly pleased that the majority of my 150 students were actively participating.  I enjoyed learning.  I enjoyed being surprised by how teenagers thought, sometimes revealing intelligence that I could only envy.  At midnight, reading and responding to the final student comments from my Creative Writing class, I was glad I hadn’t yet disclosed my plan to add five more Facebook groups, all focused on one class’s major writing project.  Lying back and dozing my subconscious kept telling me it was too much, ‘just limit this novel writing project to your Creative Writing class,’ and one more Facebook group.  Stick to short stories or even some flash fiction with your other four classes.’

I didn’t know where she came from but by Wednesday morning I was in full agreement with the wise and wonderful subconscious woman who resided deep inside my head.

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 13

The idea had come early Monday morning as I was drafting a scene in Real Justice.  Stella Gibson (a place-holder name I had temporarily borrowed from The Fall, a British-Irish crime drama television series filmed and set in Northern Ireland) my protagonist, was the new editor of the Times-Courier newspaper in Ellijay, Georgia (in a prior scene I had described her as simply ‘a secretary.’  Oh, the fluidity of fiction writing).  Stella, my Stella, made The Fall’s Stella look like the grandmother in A Good Man is Hard to Find.  I, as her creator, wasn’t the only one who had taken notice of the stunningly beautiful Stella Gibson.  The five most influential leaders of Ellijay, Georgia also were noticing and commenting on the Chicago transplant.  Why did it always have to be five?  This is what had triggered my idea. 

I was at the beginning of writing another book.  It seemed I simply couldn’t get away from my own life experiences, especially the barbaric attack I had endured.  My first book, Out of the Darkness, had its roots in what had happened to Darla, but it had, unknowingly to me at the time, foreshadowed my own traumatic experience during the 2002 Christmas holidays.  Out of the Darkness II or Real Justice, whatever I ultimately decided to call it, seemed deeply rooted in not only the gang-rape I had suffered, but what followed.  I didn’t know what was coming.  Just like my Stella didn’t.  Just like real people in real life don’t.  This was only part of my new idea. 

A most exciting component was to cross-pollinate the thought into my teaching.  I had been struggling over what type of writing project I would assign to my Creative Writing class.  For nearly twenty years I had guided my students in two major projects for the school year. I had guided them, a semester at a time, to create a publishable-quality short story.  Now, as the thought of what Stella might have to do—I already knew her life in Ellijay would not be enjoyable to put it mildly—to serve real justice on five prominent men in her community, I felt compelled to involve my students.  Why couldn’t they help write a novel instead of a short story?  Why not let this assignment be an all-year project?  I would have about 150 co-authors.  Better put, each student’s novel, Real Justice I could call it now, would no doubt be unique. 

As I left the basement I liked my idea, but it was a little premature to announce to my classes.  I had to further analyze the pros and cons.  A discussion with Cindy would be a good place to start. 

I didn’t see Cindy until lunch.  We normally saw each other for at least ten minutes during our separate planning periods.  She said she had been summoned to Assistant Principal Wilkins’ office during the break at 10:30 a.m.  I could tell she was not herself.  Her face was more red than usual even though she was a natural redhead, meaning she had a few freckles, each one adorable and uniquely beautiful.  She also seemed a little disheveled.  Something totally unlike the prim and proper Cindy.

“Where have you been?  I missed you during planning.  I had a world-changing idea to run by you.”  I said as I unpacked my lunch box continuing to eye Cindy sitting across my desk looking at a bottle of Sprite, as though she was trying to figure out how to open the lid.

“It finally happened.”  She said ignoring her Sprite and looking at herself in a little compact that appeared from nowhere.

“What are you talking about?  What happened?”

“The sex pervert Wilkins assaulted me.  In his office.”  Cindy was fighting a losing battle.  She was trying to freshen-up her face but was overcome with the tears rolling down her cheeks.

“Oh my God. Are you okay?”

“I am, but it was the most horrible thing I’ve ever endured.”

“What can I do to help?  Go with you to report it to Mr. Harrison?  Go with you to see the police?”

“No, I’m not doing anything.”

“Cindy, you have to.  This confirms it.  He is a predator.  He’s been grooming me.  I think that’s what it’s called.  Almost since the first day of school.  Nothing overt, but definitely improper words, touches, looks.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?  I thought we were friends, real friends, and could tell each other anything and everything.  Don’t you see what I’m doing here?”  Cindy said, starting to gain control of her crying.

“I should have.  I now wish I had.  And, we are friends.  I am so thankful for you, Steve, and your triple A’s.”

“I need to tell you how he pulled this off.  I’m not talking about my blouse.”  Cindy said standing up and straightening her top, tucking it deeper into her skirt band.  “Since I’m not telling Harrison or the police I want someone to know what happened before time passes and my memory fads.”

“I understand and I’m listening if you want to talk.”

“At the end of Third he sent a note by one of the student volunteers for me to come to his office at the end of class.  The note didn’t say anything else.  Just as I walked into his office the fire bell rang.  You know that.”

“I do.  It was a madhouse.  Our second fire-drill of the year.”

“Wilkins ignored it as everybody in the main office was rushing out.  He told me to come in that it was urgent and would only take a minute.  I walked in and he closed his door behind me.  Locked it and looked at me from foot to head.  I can’t describe his eyes, but they were like those of a shark racing to devour an injured child, thrashing about in the ocean, bleeding and helpless.  I knew right then I was in trouble.”  Cindy sat down, as her face turned white as snow.

“Cindy, you don’t have to do this right now.  You look sick.”

“I’m okay.  He then pushed me against the wall across from his desk and planted a big sloppy kiss on my lips.  I tried resisting but he was way too strong.  His left hand pulled up my blouse and, in an instant, was fondling my breasts.  I tried to scream but he kept kissing me.  I tried to knee him but the way he had me pinned I was helpless.  Then, he switched hands.  His left did most of the pinning and his right pulled up my skirt on my left side.  He was trying to pull down my panties when two things saved me.  His desk phone rang, and someone knocked on his door.  One of the student volunteers said, “Mr. Wilkins, are you okay?  Mr. Harrison is looking for you.”

“What happened next?”  I said not wanting to be too anxious to hear.

“He said, ‘organize yourself and sit down.’  I didn’t do either.  At first.  He then said, ‘you better not report this, or you’ll regret it.  I’ve known for over a year that you’ve been wanting me.’”

“Oh my gosh, the arrogance and evil of the man.  To think, he is always playing his Christian card.  On top of that, he’s the Education Director at the Church.  I said, not sure why I told Cindy what she already knew.

“Do you mind if I say a prayer?”

It wasn’t a statement I expected.  Something like, ‘I’m going to kill the bastard,’ or worse, whatever that would be, was much more anticipated.

“Sure, if that’s what you want.”

Cindy called for us to bow our heads.  She breathed a beautiful prayer, even asking God to help her forgive Mr. Wilkins.  The part I could not agree with was Cindy’s confession of all sins she had committed including someway teasing Mr. Wilkins by how she had dressed and acted.  It was like Cindy was blaming herself.  She also asked God to help Mr. Wilkins surrender his urges and walk the high road of decency and respect.  Cindy was a beautiful example of a child of God.  Certainly, she was unlike me and probably most women who, placed in similar shoes, would be sharpening their knives.

When she ended her prayer, she looked over at me and said, “let’s eat, I’m starved.”

We did not get much planning done during our remaining twenty minutes.  She continued to talk about how good a friend I am, and that she was always there for me, always available to listen.  Something shifted inside me, like a tectonic move.  I believed her every word.  I was relieved when the bell rang because I was as close to divulging, for the first time, the biggest secret of my life.  I was that confident I could tell Cindy anything and she would guard it with her life.  Thankfully, I resisted.  Today wasn’t the day.