Write to Life blog

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 22

Wednesday night after Prayer Meeting, Ryan, Fulton, Danny, and Justin joined Warren in his man-cave in the basement of the parsonage, entering through an exterior door that was located down a flight of ten steps, all hidden behind an L-shaped row of giant Blue Princess Hollies.  It was at least a once-per-month custom for the five to meet.  Sometimes for beer and relaxation.  Other times for a boring update on Club Eden’s business and two hours of sparring egos.  They all preferred the darkness to avoid attention.  They also preferred Warren’s man-cave with its surround-sound stereos, one-hundred-inch custom made flat-screen TV, and his multi-volume private collection of digital porn.  Tonight, the TV screen was dark and silent.  As was the visitor the four men saw when they walked in and their eyes adjusted to the low-light.

“Hello fellas, please join Patrick and me.”  The two of them were seated at a large round oak table nestled in a corner next to a row of floor to ceiling windows that faced a small below-ground patio that contained firewood and an overflowing garbage can of cardboard beer containers.

The four spoke or gave Patrick a half-smile as they pulled out chairs and sat at the table they had each won and lost thousands of dollars over the years in games of Texas Hold’em and Blackjack, usually drunk and horny from the beer and digital broads.

“Patrick has gotten himself into a little trouble.  He’s asked me for advice.”  Warren said, puffing on a giant Cuban cigar.

“What type of trouble?”  Fulton said.  It was as natural as the sunlight each morning.  He was the most intellectual and, by default, the unelected spokesperson for the four.  His connections and those of Warren’s gave the two the floor to speak first and to guide the group’s overall conversations.

“He let his ego and his animal urges leap himself into the wrong tree.  To put it plainly, our friend and rising community star had a roll in the hay with Cindy Barker.  Cindy didn’t choose to be in the hay.”  Warren said, now sipping his customary Bourbon.

“You mean he raped Cindy Barker?”  Danny asked, standing, and walking behind the bar to a hidden refrigerator for a can of Bud Light.

“It wasn’t like that.  I didn’t really force her.”  Patrick responded, looking only at Warren.

“There’s different types of force, physical and psychological.  If she didn’t consent to having sex with you then you raped her.”  Fulton as usual attempted to bring clarity and avoid lazy and ignorant thinking.

“There’s something else you four need to know.  Patrick and Cindy’s interactions took place at Club Eden.”  Warren said, pouring more Bourbon and acting as though he would continue speaking.

“What the fuck?”  Ryan’s voice rose to overpower the stereo, even though it was not on.

“I take full responsibility.  You could say I’ve been grooming Patrick for nearly a year.  I promise you I’ve followed every rule and protocol our fathers established after the Micaden Tanner debacle.”

Micaden Lewis Tanner was a high school classmate of the fathers of the men present, excluding Patrick.  Their fathers, known as the Flaming Five because of their star basketball-playing reputation, had agreed Micaden could become a member.  He was the first and only member outside the five families: the Tillman’s, the Adams’, the Ericson’s, the Radford’s, and the Billingsley’s.  The Club was still reeling from the aftermath of that decision.  The deaths of two teenagers during the Flaming Five’s high school graduation party in 1972 had ignited a firestorm in the gut of Micaden Tanner.  For almost forty years, Tanner, an attorney, had haunted the Flaming Five.  Now, the entire group was fighting State and Federal criminal indictments.

“Looks like you’ve done a really good job.  You’re not-yet-honorary Club member not only had access to the Club’s secret hide-a-way but used it to commit a crime.”  That is just what we need, especially with a missing videotape that was nowhere to be found at Raymond’s house.”  Justin declared lighting up one of Warren’s cigars.

“Out of order.”  Fulton almost shouted.  He knew Justin had said something no one in the world should hear and now someone had, a someone who was not a member of Club Eden.

“Hell, we might as well talk about anything we want.  Seems to me Patrick is now, by default, one of us.  Warren, I don’t like these type surprises.”  Ryan said realizing he had opened himself up for ridicule.

“You’re one to call the kettle black my friend.”  Danny said, returning from the bar with five beers.

“I move we are open for business.”  Warren said, referring to the Club’s official rule and its purpose to place every issue on the table when the majority present approve the motion.

Fulton, Danny, and Justin all raised their hands.  Ryan abstained.

“Motion carries.  First, let’s go back to our first order of business.  Patrick’s situation.  You may not have put it together, but we have an even worse problem.  Patrick says Cindy is very good friends with Katie Sims, yes, our Katie, as though I had to be so redundant.”  Warren was simply doing his duty.  He was the Club’s President for another three years.  Long ago the Club had decided the top leadership term would coincide with that of the U.S. President.

“I assume you believe Cindy will tell Katie and then all hell is going to break loose.  Correct?”  Fulton said.

“Absolutely.”  Warren said, looking over at Patrick and nodding as though directing him to speak.

Patrick complied.  “I honestly don’t think Cindy will go public.  On the drive back from Club Eden to her car parked at the church, I told her I was sorry and that I would never bother her again.  I also told her she should keep quiet, that if she spilled the beans her and Steve’s relationship and that of her family would be destroyed.”

“How did she respond?”  Fulton asked.

“She didn’t really say anything, but when I looked over at her, I’m sure she nodded her head in agreement.”  Patrick said.

“That’s reassuring.  What more could we want?”  Ryan said, the most sarcastic son of the Flaming Five.  “What if the two lovely ladies have a little accident?  Wouldn’t that solve our problem?” 

Justin quoted his oft-repeated claim: “he’s not the sharpest knife in the drawer.”

“I kind of wish it were that simple.  Here’s a note our dear Katie gave me a couple of Sunday’s ago when she was passing through the end-of-service hand-shaking line.  It reads, ‘Videotape quality is amazing.  Perched like an assassin.’”  Warren said, placing the small note in the middle of the table to allow everyone an opportunity to read.

“Sounds like a literature teacher.  Rule one, there is deep meaning within the words.  First, the obvious.  Katie has the tape, has watched it, and has found it provides clear-cut evidence that could sink every one of our ships.  Maybe not so obvious, but for the trained reader, ‘perched like an assassin,’ likely means the videotape itself is a separate and distinct entity from her, and that it, by itself, is ready with deadly force.  Here’s the bottom line, getting rid of Katie, or Katie and Cindy, will probably trigger deadly shots to your heads and mine.”  Fulton said looking at and pausing a long ten seconds at each man at the table other than Patrick Wilkins.  “Patrick, if Cindy tells Katie what you did to her then don’t think for a second that Katie’s little assassin won’t turn its rifle towards you.”

For another two hours the six men batted the ‘what should we do?’ ball around the table.  At midnight, Patrick asked if he could be excused.  All agreed and each son of the Flaming Five was thankful it was the honorary member who had made the request.

After everyone left Warren’s man-cave, he turned down the light-dimmer, poured another glass of Bourbon, and looked through the glass windows onto the patio.  The stack of last year’s unused firewood loomed large.  As he grew sleepy, he repeated to himself: ‘we six are no better off than a stack of seasoned wood.  No doubt, only one match-strike from going up in flames.’

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 21

Ever since the second week of school I had started each of my first three classes with a vocabulary lesson.  Our focus was on a word a day.  I posted each day’s word in each class’s Facebook group at least twenty-four hours before its related class time.  At the beginning of each of these three classes I would call the class to order and call on one student to come and stand beside me and say (not read) a sentence they had created using the day’s focus word.  One of my student-assistants would snap a photo of the student as he verbalized his statement to the class.  The assistant would then post the photo to the applicable Facebook group for twenty percent of the class to comment.  This way, in a week, every student was required to publicly comment on a focus word by offering his own statement (silly and irrelevant commenting earned the student a one-point grade demerit). This was just one of several ways I was attempting to increase each student’s classroom participation.

Today’s word was sanctimonious (this adjective was defined by Merriam-Webster as “hypocritically pious or devout”).  I had found the following sentence on the internet: “The sanctimonious Bertrand delivered stern lectures on the Ten Commandments to anyone who would listen but thought nothing of stealing cars to make some cash on the side.”  As was my custom, I always included an example sentence in my Facebook posting.  As I had this one.

In my first period class I chose Ben Gilbert to come forward and tell us his sentence using sanctimonious.  He said, “The sanctimonious Aiden Walker made the preaching and praying of the Apostle Paul look proud but couldn’t stop his mind from undressing the sexy Stella Gibson every time she walked in the church’s auditorium every Sunday morning.”  The class erupted in laughter and shouts of “Give us Real Justice.”  I was surprised, almost shocked.

When I finally got the class halfway settled Clara Ellington stood in the middle of the second row and asked me, “why can’t we write a novel?  It’s not fair you favor your creative writing class.  Aren’t you supposed to teach us in English class how to write?”

“You are absolutely correct on one thing, wrong on another.  First, I’m not favoring anybody.  Second, I am to teach, and you are to learn quite a bit about writing here in this class.”

The class was perfectly quiet, and it seemed all eyes were on me, each just around the corner from itching ears.  “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that you have already heard about my novel writing assignment.  Small towns and, I suppose, most high schools, spread news like a raging wildfire.  How many of you have actually seen the announcement on Facebook where I described the Real Justice project?”

Almost everyone raised a hand.  Ben Gilbert, still standing beside me, turned to me and asked.  “Can my team have Aiden Walker?  He is a hypocritical pig.  I want to give him real justice.”

I don’t think I had ever seen a group of students more eager for homework, a full year’s worth of it.  “I am honored that you would want to write a novel.  That can come, if you go on to take my creative writing class in two years.  As you probably know, all twenty of those students are seniors and already have quite a bit of writing experience.  Almost as big an issue is that I simply don’t have time to properly manage another seventy-five students, roughly another nineteen teams.

Clara and Ben had an ally.  Joanie, still purple-haired and still plump, stood up in the far right-hand corner of the middle section of the auditorium and said, “what if you made it, the novel project, an elective thing for us, maybe for extra credit?”

“That would still require a lot of my time.  Please don’t think that I don’t want to teach you this wonderful type of writing.  The only thing I can do is to encourage you, on your own time, to read novels and to write one of your own if you are so inspired.”

Tommy Vines immediately jumped into the conversation.  He chose to remain seated.  He was almost a head taller than anyone in the class.  This was noticeable even while he sat.  “Don’t worry about us Miss Sims we’ll just tag along.  We invite you to do the same thing.  We’ve added your name already to our Facebook group.  We’re calling it ‘Justice for Real.’  Read and comment anytime you want.  We won’t try to stop you from learning.”

I was sad, angry, and in awe.  I would never ever want to appear uninterested in helping my students, especially with something that was at the core of my being.  I was sad I couldn’t agree to expand my novel writing assignment to classes outside the twenty students in the senior Creative Writing class.  I was angry because Tommy Vines, as spokesperson for what appeared to be all seventy-four of his classmates, had stolen my Facebook group learning idea and my novel writing project.  Before I spoke, I concluded that no matter what pain this caused me, it was never a bad thing for teenagers to possess so much interest in something that I truly believed was a skill that could change their lives for the better.

“Tommy, again I’m honored.  Thanks for enrolling me in your group.  It already appears you and your classmates will have secondary access at a minimum to what goes on with my twenty Creative Writing students.  I wish you all the best of luck.  Also, I’ll try to visit your group, maybe occasionally offering an opinion.  But, please note, I will not be there as your teacher.”

The class remained quiet.  The remaining thirty minutes of class time was spent discussing a 1920’s short story, The Daughters of the Late Colonel, by Katherine Mansfield.  This New Zealand author was an add-on to my list of American authors.  The main reason we were studying this wonderful writer, and this story, was I had been unable to find an American author who had better combined the themes of death, independence, confusion, fear, and patriarchal society into one short story.

At 8:35 a.m., I was even more surprised.  My second class on the first day after the Labor Day holiday, a day that would likely become known as one of the most pivotal days in my life, was a virtual repeat of tenth grade English.  This class, eleventh grade English, made the same demands.  They too wanted in on my novel writing project.  I again declined.  For the same reasons.  They again, ignored me, and Charlie Rodgers, like Tommy Vines, announced their ‘Justice for Real II’ Facebook group and politely invited me along for the ride.  He announced twice that I was already a member of their group.

At 9:40 a.m., I was pleasantly surprised by my twelfth grade English class that they didn’t reveal even a hint of wanting in on the novel-writing gig.  I guess these seniors had other things on their mind.  Twenty of their classmates were already in my Creative Writing class.  I guessed this said the other hundred or so of their peers had determined writing, intensive, long-term writing, wasn’t something that warranted such a large percentage of the best year of their lives.

At lunch I told Cindy what had happened with my tenth and eleventh grade English classes.  She said I should be honored.  She also expressed her opinion that it seemed my novel writing project could be easily adapted to what, as she called it, “our own local little project.’  I was adamant, but respectful, to change the subject.

“You won’t believe who I saw going into Patrick Wilkins’ office as I was coming here.”  Cindy said, taking a bite of her tuna fish sandwich that was lighting up my little office with smells that combined the best of deep sea fishing with a shallow spreading of fresh manure over a recently plowed garden.

“I hope it was Sheriff Wayne Waldrup and you’re about to tell me you have gone to him and told him what Wilkins did to you.”

“Get that out of your mind girl.  I told you that wasn’t going to happen.  No, it wasn’t that W, but another one.  It was Warren Tillman, our wonderful pastor.”

“Don’t read too much into that.  I think the two of them are pretty good friends.  Come to think of it, I think Wilkins is close friends, with all the Faking Five.”

“Who?  Did you say the Faking Five?

“I did.  That’s a label I coined.  I did a take-off on the Flaming Five, you know the long-term descriptor for their fathers.  I guess the latter is worse than the former.  The former guys at least in part had a respectable source for their fame.”

“I’m a little confused.  To be clear, who are you including in your little Faking Five group?”  Cindy said, finishing her sandwich and using a paper-towel to shine the biggest red apple I had ever seen.

“Let me put it this way.  These five are five members of the group of six we spoke of last night.  My five and your one.  Do I need to spoil our lunch by actually naming my five?”

“I get it now.  I see clearly.  Your five are fakes.  To the world, at least to our local community, they are fine upstanding men.  Inside, where it really matters, they are putrid and vile.”

“You got it.”  I said.  “Can I have a bite of the apple?”  I intentionally said ‘the’ instead of ‘your’ to see if Cindy was listening to my little Biblical reference.

“You may but let me warn you. ‘You must not eat fruit from the tree that is in the middle of the garden, and you must not touch it, or you will die.’”  Cindy said standing and holding the apple high over her head as though she was a tree.

“Funny.  I choose to believe I will learn something new and beneficial if I take a bite of your apple, emphasis on your.”

“You just learned something, and you didn’t even have to taste the fruit.”

“What did I learn?  That the key to our little project is a red and juicy apple.”

“Okay.  Enough.  Eat your apple and let me have your thoughts how to draft a first chapter writing guide for my little novel writing project.”

“Hold on.  In a second.  Do you remember ‘Ten Red Apples?’  It’s a poem.  I’m not sure who wrote it.

“I don’t remember.”  I was growing tired of apples and Cindy still hadn’t cut me a bite of the juicy red one that was continuing to disappear.

“When I was an elementary school teacher I used this poem to start the year off with what I called my Apple Unit.  I can still recite my favorite apple poem, “Ten Red Apples:”

‘Ten red apples grow on a tree

Five for you and five for me

Let us shake the tree just so

And then red apples will fall below

1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10.’

I suggest we change this to Six Red Apples and call our little project the same.  Six red apples grow on a tree, three for you and three for me, let us shake the tree just so and then red apples will fall below. 1,2,3,4,5,6.”

“Cindy serious.  You now have me thinking there is a connection between your gorgeous red hair and the six red apples I’m imagining in your other hand.  I suddenly don’t want a bite of the real apple.”  I literally no longer liked apples.

“But you do want to bite off an arm or a leg from every one of the six red apples that you and I both hold securely in the palms of our hands.”

Cindy simply wouldn’t let it go.  For probably the first time ever, I was deeply grateful when the bell rang, and our lunch time ended.

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 20

I had just come to my bedroom after watching three episodes of The Walton’s with Nanny and Cullie.  Sammie was unnaturally tired, so we let her relax in her apartment while Cullie and I watched Nanny.  After brushing my teeth, I had just sat on my bed when I received a text from Cindy.  “Can you meet me at school?”

I couldn’t imagine why she wanted or needed to meet.  It was almost 10:30 p.m. on Monday night, the end of the long Labor Day weekend.  We both had a habit of being at school by 6:30 each morning so I would see her in eight hours.  “Why?  Can it not wait until morning?  But, if you need me, I can.”  I almost hadn’t written the last sentence.  It was my friendship with Emily Fink that reminded me of the importance of having one person in my life who was there for me no matter.  Emily had been that person.  She had been the only one in my life who had come close to caring for me more than I cared for myself.

“I hope you know I wouldn’t ask you at this time of the night if it wasn’t important.  You are the best friend I have, and I need your wisdom.”  Cindy was the type of woman who appeared to always have it together.  To me, she was the perfect role model for Cullie.  Cindy was educated, happily married with three wonderful children, and was a teacher’s teacher.  My description wouldn’t be complete without saying she was as dedicated a Christian as I had ever met.  She had faith like a mountain and believed prayer gave her a direct line to God and His son Jesus.

“What time?  Where?” 

“11:00 p.m.  Your classroom.”

“I’ll be there.”

“Thanks for being such a wonderful friend.”  I was glad to see that Cindy felt the same as I did.

I was waiting in my little office when I heard the hallway door open.  It had one of those little dinger things mounted on the top.  During the school day I usually left the door open but closed it at most other times.

“Katie, it’s me.” 

“In here.”

When Cindy appeared in my office doorway I could tell she had been crying.  Her face complexion was much redder when I had seen her in the afternoon and her eyes were not only dark green but puffy.  I had never seen her without eye makeup.  She was still attractive in a redhead type of way but hardly looked the same as the vibrant and exuberant Cindy I was accustomed to.

“All weekend I’ve been mentally drafting and redrafting my little talk with you.  On the drive in tonight I burned all that up and threw it out the window.”  I liked the image Cindy created.  She was a Literature and Writing teacher.  She thought in word pictures.

“Okay, so you have something to tell me, but you don’t know how?”  I asked, worried that I had done or said something that offended her.  Maybe she had taken something I had said about Alysa the wrong way.  I didn’t have a clue what that could be.

“I do.  Patrick Wilkins raped me.  Last Wednesday night.  After church.”  Cindy delivered the four short statements like a first grader reading a book from the top shelf, meaning she shouldn’t be reading it.  She started to cry and walked into my office.  I stood, speechless, but open-armed.  I held her for what seemed like ten minutes, although it was probably no more than one.  Just as she seemed to gain control of her sobs, a rush of fear and hatred poured from my mind and pushed tears from my eyes.  My breathing almost ceased.  It was like I was smothering.  I had never experienced anything like this.

“Oh Cindy, my dear friend.  I’m here, all I know to say is that I am here for you and always will be.”  I had never been so sincere.  It was strange, but it was like Cindy’s pain launched my feelings for her, my belief in her, to the next level in friendship.

“I know.  That’s why I asked you to come.  I was dying.  I had to talk.”

“Have you told Steve?”  I asked.

“No.  I haven’t told anyone, and I don’t plan to.  Other than you.”

“Cindy, this is a hundred times worse, infinitely worse than his assault on you last week.  You have to report this to the police.”

“I can’t.  It will ruin my life.  It will change everything, especially my relationship with Steve.”  On one level, Cindy made sense, but no doubt her and Steve’s relationship was strong enough to weather this.

“Steve is the best friend you have.  You two are true soul mates if there ever were such a thing.”  I said, trying to persuade her she could not remain quiet.  Then, it dawned on me.  That’s exactly what I had done.  Who was I to be giving Cindy advice?

“You’re right and I want to keep it that way.  I’m afraid he will, deep down, think that it was my fault, that I somehow had done something, maybe the way I dressed, I don’t know, something to cause Wilkins to come on to me.”

“Steve wouldn’t think that.  He knows you to your core.  Aren’t that what soul mates are all about?”

“Even if Steve handled the news perfectly, that’s just the beginning of a whole new life, one I have no desire to live.”  Cindy had now recovered enough to return to the other side of my desk and sit down.

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“I know the right thing in one sense is to report this to the police and see that Wilkins is convicted of rape.  I’ve watched enough Law and Order, SVU, to know I can’t go through that.”

“He is a criminal Cindy.  He is a sexual predator.  Don’t you think if he gets away with this he will be emboldened?  I’m going to be direct and blunt as needed.  What if he turns his attention to young girls, even Alysa and Cullie?  I know you don’t want that.”  I knew I was treading on sensitive ground.  I sure didn’t want to put a world of responsibility on her precarious shoulders.

“I know.  You’re right.  And, we certainly don’t know what he has been doing.  Isn’t it unlikely I’m his first?”  I was glad Cindy was asking a question.  She was engaged, thinking.

“This leads obviously to the health risk he may have exposed you to.  You need medical attention.  You said you hadn’t told anyone.  Not even a doctor?”  I asked.

“No one means no one.  Sorry, that sounded wrong.  I didn’t mean to be a smart ass.”  I was surprised Cindy said that.  I had never heard her say a single cuss word, dirty word of any kind.

“You don’t have to answer this, but you said this happened at church Wednesday night?”

“Actually, it was after Wednesday night’s prayer meeting.  Steve had taken the kids and gone home.  I had driven separately knowing our Sunday School Department had scheduled a time after the prayer service to talk about the upcoming social.  Every quarter all four Sunday School classes in our Department get together for a meal and a speaker.  The meeting didn’t last thirty minutes.  Everyone else had gone but I had walked to the Education Department to pick up our new Sunday School quarterlies.  The teacher in me wants everyone to have their new lessons at least a couple weeks before the start of a new quarter.  When I was walking out, Patrick Wilkins met me in the hall outside the elevator.  You know he is the Church’s Education Director.”  Cindy’s words stopped.  It was like a spicket had been turned off.  Her tears returned.  She just sat there, frozen, with her head looking at her hands in her lap.

“You don’t have to give me any details.”  I walked around my desk and sat down beside her in the other chair I always had under the little window.

“You already know the horrendous details.”

“He sure was bold.  Right there in the church office.”  I said trying to rid my mind of Wilkins overpowering Cindy.  Probably pulled her into his personal office, closing and locking the door, and forcing Cindy across his desk.

“That’s not where he raped me.  He forced me to walk out to the parking lot.  That’s where I screamed when I saw Pastor Warren headed on foot to the Parsonage.  He turned around and stood there looking our way.  I know he could see us and know who we were.  We were standing under one of the big street lamps along the edge of the parking lot.  It was like Warren yelled out something but by that time Wilkins had me in the front seat of his vehicle.”

“You’re sure Pastor Warren recognized you?”

“He had to.  He was probably less than a hundred feet from us.”  I turned my chair to face Cindy and took both her hands.

“I’m so sorry this happened to you.  It’s like a nightmare.  I know what you’re going through.”  The words just appeared, in my mind, milliseconds before they slipped past my lips.

“Katie, I love you, but please don’t tell me you know what I’m going through.  I know you’re trying to help but that rings a little hollow.  Right now, I need bald-faced truth.  Just say you can’t imagine what I’m going through.”  Cindy said, softly, with her green eyes lightning up just a shade.  She was so kind and respectful.

“Cindy.”  I clutched her hands more tightly, my mind teetering atop the highest mountain, unsure which way to fall and kill itself.  Which way was less painful?  Head first or feet first?  Either way, the distance into the abyss was the same.  I doubted the pain would be radically different.  I chose head first.  “Look at me.  I have a secret I have never divulged to anyone.  I do know how you feel.  In 2002, I was raped.  The only difference with your horrible experience is that five men gang-raped me.  I did, and you do, feel helpless, totally powerless.  I know.  I’ve been there.  I’m still there.”

“Oh my gosh.  Katie my dearest.  I would never have guessed.  You seem so happy and complete.”  Cindy was doing her best to console me.

“Believe me, some days, inside my head, I’m a train wreck.”

“The lowdown bastards.”  Cindy again surprised me.  She was beginning to sound like me, at least my words below my breath.  Sometimes.  Sometimes not.  “Did you know who raped you?  Sorry, you don’t have to answer that if you don’t want to.”  I now knew how I had sounded to Cindy.  We both were being a little artificial.  Real friends were much blunter, simply asked anything and everything they wanted to know.

“You can ask me whatever you want.  Just like I can with you.  I know that for sure.  You are real.  We are real for each other.  Oh, by the way, yes.  I knew who raped me.  And, you know them too.”

“Oh my gosh.  I keep saying that but oh my gosh.  It happened here in Boaz?  When?  Who are these guys?”  Cindy now was operating in full friend mode.

“I was home for Christmas holidays.  From California.  I had never thought of Boaz being a place where a single woman, alone, had to be wise, be smart about where she was.  I had always loved the downtown fountain.  I had driven my rental car there from Birmingham’s Airport before I drove on to Nanny’s.  I was abducted returning to my car after having walked into the Mall from the parking lot across the street from First State Bank.”

“Katie, I have to know who they are.  For mine and Alysa’s sake at least.”

“Hang on to your hat.  Warren Tillman, Ryan Radford, Fulton Billingsely, Justin Adams, and Danny Ericson.  Those five men repeatedly raped me in a tent somewhere, I suspect, twenty minutes or so from here, out in the country, down a long gravel road.”

“You couldn’t tell where you were, where they took you?”  Cindy asked.  I hoped she would keep this our secret.  Someway, I knew she would.

“No.  They had grabbed me from behind, just as I was walking past the little public restrooms building next to the parking lot.  They slipped a black hood over my head at the same time I first felt their hands on me.  I never saw them.  After it was over, they threw me beside my car with my hands loosely tied behind my back.  It was only then that I was able to remove the hood.  By then, they were long gone.”

“Sorry, but how did you know who raped you?”  Cindy said, asking a question I wished she hadn’t.

There was no use turning back now.  I was in for the full trip.  “Two ways.  I somehow, subliminally maybe, knew from their smells, touches, groans, that it was them.  I know that wouldn’t hold up in court but trust me.  I knew.  The second way was from the tape.  They had recorded it.  I’ve recently come into possession of that tape.”

“The bastards.  Dumb asses for sure.”  I had never heard my New York friend Emily Fink say a single word off-color, and she was a wonderful friend.  Now, I knew, a real friend is not prohibited from stepping one foot inside the muddy gutter.

“They truly are but that makes them even more dangerous.  Funny thing is I have let it be known to our fine pastor that I know they were the ones who raped me.”

“Do they know you have the tape?”  Cindy asked.

“I’m not sure, but if I were to bet, I would say yes.”

“Now I’m wondering.  It just hit me.  Pastor Warren and Patrick Wilkins.  He, Warren, may have known what Wilkins was up to.  My scream would have told anyone else in the world that it was a scream for help.  Yet, he ignored my cry.  Just looked our way, registered seeing Wilkins with Cindy Barker, then turned and walked away.  They are despicable.”

“I certainly agree.  Cindy, it’s too late for justice for the five men who raped me, but it’s not for Patrick Wilkins.  Please reconsider reporting him to the police, hey I know, talk with Sheriff Waldrup.  I spoke with him this morning about Darla’s case.  He is a kind and compassionate man, and no doubt, strong enough to take on your case.”

“Katie, I’ve been totally serious with you.  I’m not going to the police but thank you for caring so much.  But, I will help you get justice of sorts if you will help me.  I’ve been thinking of how I was going to deal with our fine Mr. Wilkins.  I must confess, what’s crossed my mind is contrary to the Bible, the verse that talks about vengeance being the Lord’s.  I can’t do anything.  He needs to be punished somehow.”  Cindy was breaking all records now, surprising me like I would have never imagined.

“Be careful my friend.  Revenge is a dangerous animal, like a boomerang, it can come back to cut off your own head.”  I said trying to plant a contrary opinion in Cindy’s mind.  To me, she was straying into the wrong side of town.

“You and I both have watched movies and read novels about this very thing.  Where the criminal justice system can’t or won’t do anything to balance the scales, to mete out punishment where it has clearly been earned.  At least think about something we could do to embarrass these six men.”

“I have been thinking about it for years.  For the five men who raped me.  I have tried to stay away from the thoughts that have appeared in my mind over the years, thoughts to cut the you know what off the five bastards, or better yet, to take a gun and blow off their fucking heads.  Sorry for the F word.”

“It’s okay.  What has held you back?”

“Easy answer.  My writing.  I’ve forced myself to channel my anger into words.  Since it happened, I’ve been working on another novel.  Unfortunately, it grows and grows and is going nowhere.  It’s like I hadn’t found my true passion.  Instead, I’ve resisted a deep and innate need for revenge.  Now that I think about it, maybe that’s what’s missing, that’s why my novel has been floundering.”  I wanted to explore this issue.  I was shocked that I hadn’t been able to recognize this potential before.

“Katie, promise you will join me in thinking honestly about real justice for these men.  It’s only right.  I would like nothing more than keeping my life with Steve just as it is while at the same time seeing perfect Mr. Wilkins burn in hell.”  If I had reason to doubt whether a sincere and committed Christian had feelings and thoughts the rest of us animals do, that was now history.  Cindy was sounding genuine, genuinely human.

“I promise.  But, for now, we best go.  It’s only three and a half hours till my alarm goes off and motions me to my writing desk.

We walked outside my room together.  As I was locking my door, Cindy asked me to go with her to her Sunday School Department’s quarterly social.  I told her that it was funny she had brought that up because I had promised Cullie I would ask her about her Sunday School class.  I committed to going.  I even halfway promised I would join her and a dozen or so other women in their late thirties in the Ruth Sunday School class. 

As I drove home, I had this wonderfully sick feeling.  It was wonderful to know that Cindy and I had exchanged our blood.  Our two-hour talk had been a blood pack of sorts.  My feeling of sickness was from the existence of the shared experiences between Cindy and me, and how we had so easily agreed to consider and ponder stepping into the shoes of those committed to breaking the law.  I hoped Cindy would somehow herd the camel back into the tent and forget she had ever opened the barn door.

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 19

Monday morning, Labor Day, I almost ignored my 4:30 a.m. alarm.  I had hardly slept at all.  After returning from my classroom Sunday afternoon I had binged on Netflix, alternating between Stella Gibson and The Fall, and Longmire.  The sexual tension between Walt and Vic in the latter series was noteworthy and spurred me to consider adding a romantic subplot to my own Real Justice work.  The only good thing that had come out of my binging was a reminder I was abusing the name Real Justice.  My current work in the basement was called Real Justice.  The creative novel project was labeled Real Justice and that was only for team one.  I hadn’t thought of it until now, but was team two’s to be called Real Justice II?  This was a problem I could solve.  No matter, the best thing my multi-hour binging had done was keep me from pondering Darla’s murder and the hot spot I had created for myself at school.

I was glad I somehow had the determination to follow my routine.  Once again, my writing time produced that feeling I longed for every day, that I had accomplished something special.  For years this feeling had guided my life.  If I had written at least 1,000 words towards an active project, then my day was successful no matter what happened the remaining twenty-two or so hours.  Today I had written a solid scene and had spent the last fifteen minutes pondering a change to my book’s title.  I was leaning towards The Light in the Darkness or The Darkness in the Light, somewhat of a sequel to my 2002 award winning Out of the Darkness.  I was deep in thought over the problem of evil in the world, trying to figure out whether it was fate or some mysterious plan of God that had caused the darkest day of my life when I heard the phone ringing upstairs.  It was the land-line, Nanny’s phone since the early fifties.  I normally wouldn’t have heard it but today I had left the door at the top of the stairs open thinking that Sammie and Nanny might show up early, hours earlier than the noontime Sammie had promised.

I started to ignore it, but the caller was relentless.  I answered on probably the tenth ring.  “Hello.”

“Katie, Katie Sims?”  The deep voice said from the other end of the line. 

“Yes, this is Katie Sims.”

“This is Marshall County Sheriff Wayne Waldrup.  Do you have a few minutes to talk?”  The first thing I thought of was Cullie.  Fear rushed through me like I had never known.  Why would the Sheriff be calling me so early?  I had stayed longer than usual in the basement, but it was still only 6:30. Cullie and Cindy and her family must have been in an accident.

“What’s happened?  Is Cullie hurt?”  I asked, frantic, sitting at the kitchen table and virtually jumping up before he could respond.

“Katie, my call has nothing to do with Cullie.  I’m calling to give you an update on our investigation into your mother’s death.”  I sat again, relieved, as though I had just heard the best news of my life, thinking how weird it was that something horrible, in the right context, could be good news.

“I’m sorry.  I’ve never had a law enforcement officer call me, much less so early.  My daughter, Cullie, is away with friends and is scheduled to return today.  I jumped to the conclusion there must have been an accident and Cullie was hurt.”

“No need to apologize.  I have two children of my own.  I probably would have responded the same if I had been in your shoes.”

“Has there been some progress in Darla’s, I mean, Mother’s case?  Do you have a suspect?”  I said believing this would be why Sheriff Waldrup would have been calling.

“We do have a suspect but have been unable to identify him.”

“Who is he?”  When the words left my mouth, I realized my mind hadn’t quite recovered from its former desperation.  “Sorry, dumb question.  How do you know about him if you don’t know who he is?”

“He was caught on camera pawning what we believe is the murder weapon, a 22-caliber pistol.  We have a good relationship with Joe’s Pawn Shop.  They gave us a call yesterday morning relaying their suspicions.”

“What made them suspicious?”  I concluded Joe’s maybe had heard about the murder.

“When we have a missing gun case, we always alert local pawn shops, and when we know. telling them the make, model, and caliber, and encourage them to be on the lookout.  Of course, the shops know to always be on the alert when any gun is being pawned.”

“The man, on camera, what does he look like?”  I was ready for Sheriff Waldrup to describe Ryan Radford or Danny Ericson.  It was funny or weird or both that I had already solved the case.  Both men had a motive to kill Darla.  And, Ryan was with her shortly before she was found, not only dead, but with a bullet hole in the back of her head.

“Short, stocky, curly, scraggly dark hair.  He has a beard, but Joe suggested the beard looked fake.  The video isn’t the best quality.”

“You said the gun was probably the murder weapon.  I assume that means the ballistic tests haven’t been completed?”  I guess I had watched enough Law and Order and CSI to know that would be the first thing the Sheriff would do.

“Correct, the State Department of Forensics is closed for the holiday weekend.  Deputy Childers will be waiting with the subject gun in Montgomery when they open in the morning.”

“Do they do the fingerprinting or is that something for your department?”  I was glad I had some interest in criminology and had watched all those TV shows.

“We conducted preliminary tests.  The gun contained two sets.  One belonged to Joe at the Pawn Shop.  The other set didn’t match anyone in our database.  The State has more resources than we have here at the local level.  I’m hoping their testing will produce better results.”

“I assume you broadcast the man’s photo, a camera shot to news stations?”

“We did.  Joe called us late Saturday afternoon, and by midmorning yesterday, local radio, and all the TV stations in Huntsville and Birmingham, had the information.  They are asking the public to call our hotline if they know the man or believe they have seen him.”

“I hope you get a break.  Can I tell you something I believe could be relevant to solving Mother’s case?”  I said, almost forgetting what I had discovered in Darla’s journals.

“Absolutely, we need to know everything, even things unlikely relevant.”  There was something about Sheriff Waldrup’s voice.  I had seen a photo or two of him in the Sand Mountain Reporter; Nanny had probably been a lifelong subscriber.  He was tall and strong looking.  He could have given Walt Longmire a run for his position in Absaroka County, Wyoming.  Like Walt, Wayne had a kind and gentle voice, one that commanded respect and a healthy dose of fear.  I gained confidence in his investigation just from his voice.

I spent the next fifteen minutes telling him everything I knew, starting with the early morning phone call from Darla where she asked me to come get her.  I filled the Sheriff in on what Sammie had done and learned and what I had found in her suitcase.  I even admitted to him how I had come to have Darla’s things in my possession.  When I finished I could tell that Wayne, Sheriff Waldrup, was keenly interested in Raymond and Ryan Radford and what they stood to gain by Darla’s death.  For some reason, I chose not to tell him about the videotape, thinking and believing that it was only relevant to the spur-of-the-moment decision to kill Darla, and did not relate in any way to the prenuptial and thus the primary reason the Radfords would want her dead.

Sheriff Waldrup had just asked me when the best time for him or one of his deputies to come pick up Darla’s journals, when he abruptly said he had to take an emergency call.  This gave me a good excuse to drive to school and make a copy of both journals.  I knew he would be calling back and something prompted me that I should have an opportunity to complete my reading and to retain a copy just in case the Sheriff and his team somehow lost this critical evidence.

Between photocopying the 400 pages in Darla’s two journals, and drafting, editing, and completing my one-page Real Justice novel project handout, it was after 11:30 a.m. when I returned home.  I was making a sandwich when Sammie and Nanny entered through the kitchen’s rear door.  I hugged both and asked if they were hungry.  Nanny smiled and started fiddling with the long cord dangling down the wall as though she knew at least one phone conversation had taken place since she left yesterday morning.  We all sat, ate, and talked for over an hour.  I was glad to hear they had a good time, especially that Nanny had gotten to ride a lot on the back roads of Dekalb County, one of the favorite things her and Papa had done when he was living.  There had always been something inspiring for Nanny to see the places three generations of her family had lived and farmed. 

Just after Sammie and Nanny left the kitchen for her room and a nap, Cullie and Alysa burst through the back door with Cullie cuddling a small, black kitten.  “Mom, the man in Anniston where Steve stopped to buy gas said the kittens were headed to the animal shelter where they would be put to sleep.  I took this one, Midnight, and Alysa took three.  I hope you don’t mind.  I promise to take care of her, him, whatever, and to do more chores to pay for his food.  Please?”

“By the time Cullie finished her long and strong argument Cindy came in looking both apologetic and sad.  Or, was it frustrated?  I had, in our three weeks together at school, been able to detect when something was wrong.  Her face would be a tinge redder and her normally bright green eyes grew darker.  “Katie, I tried calling you.  I didn’t know what to do.  If you do not want to keep the kitten, Midnight, we’ll carry her home with the other three.”

“It’s not a problem.  I kind of like cats.  I haven’t had one since my high school days, didn’t even know they still made them.”  I tried being funny, hoping to remind Cindy I was truly her friend.  I wanted to spend some time talking with her, but Steve started honking the car horn.  I am sure he wanted to get home after being away all weekend.  It worked out for the best since I wanted to hear from Cullie and be close by her side. 

All afternoon, as we talked and created Midnight a nice little bed along with a litter box (thankful that Steve had stopped at Walmart in Gadsden) on the back porch, all I could think about was the feeling I had when Sheriff Waldrup called.  Cullie was the most precious and wonderful thing in my life.  She was blood of my blood.  Created in darkness but clothed in light that dispelled everything cruel, hateful, and evil.  “Thank-you God for giving me Cullie and bringing her safely home.”  I said the words aloud and noticed the breathtaking smile that appeared on Cullie’s face as she seemed pleased her mother was praying.

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 18

My classroom was freezing cold.  I could have sworn I had turned the thermostat to 80 degrees when I left Thursday afternoon, just like I had been instructed the first day of school.  Instead, it was set on 60.  I selected heat and reset the pointer to 80.  This was weird since it was probably 90 degrees outside.

Off and on for several days I had been thinking about the best way to administer the novel writing project.  There were twenty students.  I would divide them into five teams (there’s that five again).   Each team would be required to complete one chapter per month, maybe one scene per week, knowing at least one would be discarded.  I would create another Facebook group to enable contemporaneous communications.  If everything went according to plan, at the end of the year we would have five novels, each with four authors.  I had never seen a novel with more than two authors, but this did not dissuade me from my idea in the least.  In detail, I scribbled the administrative component of the project. 

How to generate the words, words fit to line up to create a story wouldn’t be so easy.  I had always liked Mark Twain’s first rule of writing: ‘a tale shall accomplish something and arrive somewhere.’  I think what he meant was that the best stories offered some form of meaning.  This characteristic of a story is normally referred to as the theme.   Stories require characters, although they did not have to always be of the human type.  Real Justice wouldn’t be about a dog or a whale, but about Stella Gibson (I’d worry about a different name later), the new editor of the Times-Courier newspaper in Ellijay, Georgia and how she balanced the scales for five local and prominent businessmen who had traumatized her (for now, my idea was to leave it to each team to describe how Stella was mistreated).  My subconscious mind was working on me and asking why I was not using the word, ‘revenge’? I knew that it meant to avenge oneself, and normally it included retaliation to some degree.  Right now, I didn’t think this was what I was after in my own life, but Stella, for sure, was after blood.

Again, I took out a notebook and began to write.  The name of the project and novel would be Real Justice (at least for now).   Setting: Ellijay, Georgia, Gilmer County.  Stella would be the protagonist, the main character.  The antagonists (all residents of Ellijay) would be: Mason Campbell, Mayor; Noah Fletcher, President, South Citizens Bank & Trust; Aiden Walker, Pastor, First United Baptist Church; Jackson Burke, Founder & President of Burke Manufacturing; and Daniel Taylor, Chief Judge of the Superior Court.

I was just about to provide introductory details concerning the book’s main conflict when I heard a knock at my office door.  After turning up the heat I had come into my small office and closed the door.  I now realized that I was sweating.  “Come in.”

I was hoping it might be Earl Chambers the School’s chief custodian.  He often worked crazy hours like me.  I was deeply disappointed.  “Katie, it’s like a sauna in here.  I walked by your room, noticed the light, came in and thought there must be a fire.”

I couldn’t tell if he was being intentionally melodramatic.  I began to sweat even more as I stood and walked past him to the thermostat in the opposite corner behind my bookcases.  “I must have left the air-conditioner on when I left Thursday.  I had flipped the thermostat over to heat and had gotten sidetracked.”  All I could think about was what had happened with Cindy.  Patrick Wilkins was a sexual predator.  I hadn’t seen or heard Earl since I arrived over an hour ago.  I was alone with the man who had already sexually harassed me on several previous occasions.

“I’m sorry about your mother.  I couldn’t make it to the memorial.  Let me know if there is anything I can do to help you through these dark days.”  He sounded so sincere.  No doubt I was hearing from his better personality.  I hoped the darker side didn’t appear.

“Katie, I hate to bring this up now, but we can’t allow your personal statement to remain on the website.”  Each member of the faculty was required to maintain a single web page on the School’s website.  Before a week ago, Mr. Harrison had already reminded me twice to create my page.  “You don’t have to write a dissertation.”

Tuesday night I had reviewed the other teacher’s pages and had gotten rather pissed with a couple of them.  One was Patrick Wilkins.  He and Coach Haney, Bryan Haney, were proselytizing, pure and simple.  Their pages were nothing more than Christian billboards.  I had become so pissed, I had written on mine: “I am an honest and devout Muslim.  There is no God but Allah.  Muhammad is the messenger of Allah.  I receive deep peace and hope from my five daily prayers.  I practice alms giving to the poor and sick.  Join me on my next pilgrimage to Mecca.”

“Why?”  I said coming back into my office with him still standing by the door.

“I thought you were a Christian.  I have seen you several times at church.”

“You are correct.  At least about seeing me at First Baptist Church of Christ.  I’m not sure if I’m a Christian, but I’m working on it.  No, I’m not a Muslim.”

“Then, why did you write what you did?”  Could the Assistant Principal be this dense?

“Can I ask you the same thing?  You wrote, let me think, that you are the Education Director at First Baptist Church of Christ, that you are a deacon, and that you sing in the choir.  I can nearly quote it, ‘I want my whole identity not to be with all of the other things I’m involved in, but in Christ and Christ alone.’  Boaz High School is an educational facility.  A public school, not a private school.”  I said wanted to get back to my novel project.

“That’s who I am.  I’m not ashamed of it.”

“That’s perfectly okay but keep it to yourself at school.  Haven’t you ever heard of the First Amendment to the U.S. Constitution?”

“Of course, I have.  Again, I’m not trying to establish a religion.”

“But you are.  The First Amendment, as to religion, not only forbids the government from establishing an official religion, but also prohibits government actions that unduly favor one religion over another.  You, as a government actor, like Coach Haney, are favoring Christianity.  Students have a right not to be subjected to this.”  I said recalling how adamant the administration at Eleanor Roosevelt High School in New York City was about this issue.

“What’s Haney got to do with this?”

“He’s doing the same thing you are.  Except, he is even more egregious than you.  I walked over to my laptop and searched for Coach Haney’s web page.  This is what he says, in third person: “He is first and foremost a born-again believer in Jesus Christ, ‘…my glory, and the lifter up of mine head’ (Psalms 3:3).  His priority is to bring glory to Christ’s name in any and everything he does.  Because he loves Christ, his love for his students and players grows more and more.”

“How does this hurt anything?  Especially the students?”  Wilkins asked, likely being totally honest.  He didn’t have a clue he was so brainwashed.

“Haney’s statement, nor yours, has any place in a student’s mind.  He likely will conclude that he must play the Jesus card to make it in Haney’s class, and probably even worse, to succeed and excel at Boaz High School.  What Haney writes is atrocious, ‘my priority is to bring glory to Christ’s name in any and everything I do.’  That obviously includes his teaching, every lesson, every activity.”

“Kids need to hear the gospel.”  I must give Patrick credit.  He was a true evangelical.

“That’s your opinion.  Even if you are correct, school isn’t the place.  At church is one thing.  There, young people choose to go and to hear.  Every student at Boaz High School is here, in the main, because they are required to be here.  Of all places, school should be where the student is taught to think critically and to be exposed to every side of an issue, not force-fed someone’s religious beliefs.”

“Islam is a religion of violence.  There’s no way it’s true.”  At least Patrick wasn’t trying to make a move on me sexually, but he was still showing his true colors.

“How do you know Christianity is true?  I would bet you have never honestly investigated the claims against its veracity.”  I said looking at my iPhone as though I had just received a text.

“Katie, you can think whatever you want, but if you don’t remove your little Muslim post by the start of school on Tuesday it will be taken down for you.  This is not Turkey or Indonesia.  This is Alabama, the heart of the Bible Belt.”

“I’ll certainly remove my improper statement if you and Coach Haney will do the same.”  I felt the sweat returning to my forehead.  I was in no position to be demanding.

Wilkins didn’t respond but turned to walk out.  Without looking back towards me he said, “I like your tee-shirt.”  When I heard my classroom door close, I looked down at my chest and only then understood what Wilkins was referring to.  My shirt had a downward pointing arrow that contained three words, ‘down to ignorance.’  It was a shirt sent to me by an English & Literature organization I contributed to.  Admittedly, their ‘Words are Life’ campaign was more a success than their tee-shirt.  They had received complaints that it had a negative sexual message and had discontinued offering it on their website.  No doubt, Wilkins had picked up on the wrong message.

I tried for the next hour to draft a formal handout on Real Justice to give my creative writing students on Tuesday.  My mind simply couldn’t settle.  All it wanted to think and ponder was how actions have consequences.  If I hadn’t reacted so negatively and quickly to Haney’s and Wilkins’ web page postings, the confrontation wouldn’t have taken place, and now I wouldn’t be dealing with a conflict that had placed me in a most uncomfortable position.  I had no choice but to remove my Islamic statements.  As I gathered my things and walked to my car my mind offered up a contrary message.  ‘Fighting ignorance and abuse may not be comfortable but it is necessary for a free and progressive society.’  Sometimes, I truly loved that little woman who lived 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 17

Sammie’s children, all three in their early sixties, all lived at least a thousand miles away. They dropped by for a surprise visit Saturday morning.  I could see the joy she was experiencing when they arrived and the sadness when, at noon, they were starting to say their goodbyes for the day, even though they promised to return Sunday morning.  I insisted she go stay with them at the Hampton Inn in Guntersville where the three had spent Friday night.  This left me alone with Nanny until midday Monday.

Half of Saturday afternoon was taken up by our trip to Walmart.  When Sammie’s children had arrived, just about the time she and Nanny were about to leave, I had called HairStyle Salon and rescheduled Nanny’s appointment.  Her world is so different from my own.  She moves about as though she has no regard for time.  Walking from our car in the parking lot she stopped to look at the buggy rack overflowing with grocery carts.  I was trying to rush her on when she called me to come stand beside her.  She took my right hand and turned it up flat.  “Visualize a grain of sand on the palm of your hand.  That’s the sun, our star, and your palm is our solar system.  North America is our Milky Way Galaxy with billions of stars.  Our galaxy is only one of billions, each with hundreds of billions of stars.  You get used to the loneliness.”

I asked her how she knew this.  She responded that Sammie had read this to her yesterday after Darla’s funeral.  “Darla’s gone. She’s gone to God, whereever He is.”  With that she tried to climb over into a buggy an older, sharply dressed, woman had pushed beside us.

I finally made Nanny understand that Walmart didn’t allow adults to ride in the grocery cars, that right was reserved for small children.  She said, “I’m a child.”  We finally made it inside HairStyle and time again was nothing.  The kind stylist, Liz, said it would take about an hour if I wanted to walk around.  I decided to sit out front in the small waiting area and watch Walmart’s customers coming and going. 

Nanny was in her late eighties but believed she was just a child.  Or did she?  Was she being honest or was she still trying to protect me?  And, she felt all alone.  If I lived, would I relive my childhood?  Would I feel all alone in a vast universe?  Were we all alone?  I leaned my head back against the wall above my chair.  I closed my eyes.  I thought, ‘God, I want to believe you are real.  If you are, why are you so silent, so mysterious, so hidden?  If you hear me, if you can, please comfort Nanny.  She needs to know that someone more powerful than Sammie and me are taking care of her.’  I kept my eyes closed and I continued my attempt to reach out to God.  I was thinking of how I wanted to spend more private time with Cindy, asking her how she knows and experiences God when Liz came out leading Nanny and holding her hand.  “She’s been telling me about how her and Papa adopted you and how you loved playing in the barn loft.”

Grocery shopping was a frustrating adventure.  Nanny would alternate between putting things in our grocery cart and then removing things, all while I was concentrating on our grocery list.  The unique difference was what she added wasn’t on our list, but the things she removed were.  At the milk coolers she held my arm and made me stand beside her as she counted the half-gallon milk jugs while attempting to tell me how Papa had tried to teach me to milk a cow when I was only ten.  I noticed several people became frustrated when we didn’t move out of the way.

Saturday afternoon and evening were consumed with putting up the groceries, cooking supper, and watching what seemed like a half-season of The Walton’s.  At least I got to drift in and out of sleep while Nanny was virtually receiving, intravenously, an extreme dose of her favorite and most effective drug.  Her bath took over an hour and was humiliating for her and humbling for me.  She made me play a Gathers Gospel Trio CD on a boom-box that was hidden on the top shelf of the linen closet.  She said, “Sammie’s idea, counters the nakedness.”  She then joined Bill and Gloria as they were singing “How Great Thou Art.”  I couldn’t do anything but laugh.  Nanny was an education.  It was like she lived in two worlds.  One akin to mine, where the words and concepts I dealt with and understood were natural, but then at unexpected times she would slip over the edge or around a corner and become a child.  That world was one whose language was that of curiosity, intense self-awareness, and almost a supernatural imagination.  I had first noticed the latter while grocery shopping as Nanny created a conversation between a can of whole kernel corn and a bag of Tortilla chips.

Saturday night was peaceful.  At 10:00 p.m., we went to bed.  Nanny in her room and me in Sammie’s next door, complete with the latest high-tech baby monitor on the nightstand.  With the help of two prescription sleep-aids, Nanny did not make a sound.  I rested but caught myself awake at the top of every hour, looking at Sammie’s digital clock anxious for her 5:30 a.m. alarm.

Nanny was enjoying toast and eggs (she had made me throw away my pancakes) when Sammie and Grover, her third son, walked in the back door.  “My boys want to go with me and Nanny to church.”  I knew instantly this wasn’t true but had never been so thankful for such an act of unconditional kindness.  I had heard about Sammie and Nanny’s planned trip to Liberty Baptist Church in the Rodentown Community.  Something about Darla’s funeral had triggered Nanny’s desire to visit her and Papa’s church home and the cemetery where he was buried.  The only thing Nanny had said about going, before Sammie and Grover arrived, was “I’m glad you got your bath last night.  As slow as you are we would never make it to church on time.”

I didn’t resist Sammie’s offer.  If I weren’t so selfish I would have gone along with them, mainly to see Sammie’s methods of dealing with Nanny outside her household.  Instead, I simply followed Sammie’s orders to clean the kitchen and let her dress Nanny.  “She wants to go early and walk the cemetery before Brother Eugene starts preaching.”  If a two-plus hour respite weren’t enough, as Sammie was leading Nanny back to her room, she had turned and said, “if it is okay with you, Nanny is going to spend the afternoon with me and my three boys.  We have a little road trip planned.  We won’t be back until sometime tomorrow.” 

Again, I was pleasingly accommodative, to say the least.  Thirty minutes after the three of them left I realized I wasn’t a good caregiver, not even a temporary one.  Sammie was fully invested in her job.  Unless she was the best actor in the world, she truly enjoyed her time and tasks with Nanny.  Just one day of nothing else but focusing on Nanny had completely exhausted me.  What made it worse was that I felt guilty; to me, at least subconsciously, I had viewed the extended time with Nanny as a dreaded chore.  Over forty years ago Nanny and Papa had not been so selfish.  They had altered their lives forever by choosing me.  They had sacrificed their dreams of traveling the world to raise a one-year old child.  I had never heard either of them voice any type of regret.  Instead, I had experienced unconditional love, the love I hoped I was giving to Cullie, even though, deep down, I knew it did not compare with the patient and kind love Papa and Nanny had given me.

I slept the next three hours and woke up nearly as exhausted as when I had laid down.  I tried for another hour to return to sleep but couldn’t.  I kept tossing and turning feeling like I had neglected my classroom and my students, especially since I was off Friday for Darla’s funeral.  At 12:45 p.m., I slid out of bed, showered, dressed, and drove to Boaz High School.  I had to figure out how best to introduce Real Justice to my twenty creative writing students.  More troubling and difficult, I had to devise a way to inspire them to not only write their first novel, but to unknowingly guide me in my quest to balance the scales for the Faking Five.