Richard L. Fricks

Novel Excerpts–The Boaz Schoolteacher, Chapter 28

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 28

After Cindy’s screen-saver fiasco during lunch on Wednesday, I was encouraged. Since she was caught red-handed in Wilkins’ office I felt sure she would abandon her Six Red Apples project. I couldn’t have been more wrong.

We had decided the first phase of the mission would take place during lunch. Cindy’s surveillance revealed that Wilkins and Greta Vickers, the school’s bookkeeper, typically stayed at their table in the lunchroom an extra five or ten minutes after the bell rang. I had stood watch in the school’s office as Cindy entered Wilkins’ office. We had guessed that he didn’t lock his office other than when he was assaulting Cindy or some other attractive female. She had retrieved a set of keys from his desk and was about to insert the thumb-drive containing a photograph of a naked woman with the words set to scroll across his computer screen, ‘Run, run. If you are a woman. Or, I will rape you.’ At that second Wilkins had exited Principal Harrison’s office with Kathy McRae, who had recently begun volunteering. Principal Harrison was in Montgomery at some conference for three days and Cindy and I hadn’t considered any interruption or obstacle from that source. Wilkins had seen Cindy standing behind his desk and questioned what she was doing. Her quick thinking saved her, since I had been powerless to help. Cindy told him she was about to write him a note about the recent Sunday School book order. Something about wanting to order an extra fifty copies for the Young-But-Maturing department. At least by the end of the day I had persuaded Cindy to abandon the second phase of our mission, which was Wilkins’ computer in his church office. It seemed we were ill-prepared to begin our criminal career. However, this hadn’t stopped her from telling me as we walked across the parking lot to our cars at the end of the school day, “we learned a valuable lesson today. Pranks are for amateurs.”

Thursday morning classes were consumed discussing Homecoming Night. It was a short-story I had assigned to my first three classes two days before the Labor Day weekend. Each student was to write a story that took place in a town of their choosing during the local high school’s homecoming. I didn’t say or imply that it should be centered around a football game. The focus of the assignment was the precariousness of life and particularly, how some innocent and fun activity could go horribly wrong.

It shouldn’t have come as a big surprise. Most students in my first two classes had written about Ellijay, Georgia and Gilmer High School’s Friday night halftime activities celebrating homecoming during the Bobcats football game. No doubt, the unofficial Facebook groups for the tenth and eleventh grade English classes were alive and well, feeding voraciously from the morsels that my five Creative Writing teams were disclosing as they had been developing the five assigned antagonistic characters.

One thing that impressed me was that each class had selected one of the five antagonists to write about. The tenth grade English class had chosen Noah Fletcher. The ninth, Daniel Taylor. No doubt, Brent Davidson and Sonya Peters were exerting their leadership in guiding the two ragtag classes forward in their quest not to be outdone by my twenty Creative Writing students.

The almost universal plot for each of the seventy-five tenth grade stories was that South Citizens Bank and Trust was the bank for Stella Gibson’s newspaper, the Times Courier, and that she and the Bank’s president, Noah Fletcher, were bitter enemies. The reasons varied broadly but most of the students used a multi-generational hatred that was grounded in one ancestor killing another. Homecoming night, Fletcher was scheduled to crown the new Miss Gilmer High during halftime ceremonies but was told at the last minute that Stella Gibson had offered to do so in exchange for a generous donation to the high school. The focus was the heated conversation after the game between Stella and Noah, semi-alone in the parking lot with one of them being taken by ambulance to a local Emergency Room for an apparent heart attack. A nice angle for the story was the reader was kept in the dark until the end as to what had happened and who was the patient.

The eleventh graders pursued a similar structure. In the main. Daniel Taylor and Stella Gibson had just begun an affair two weeks earlier. Unfortunately, Daniel and his wife Rachel wound up sitting in front of Stella Gibson in the stadium at the football game. The friendly conversations between Stella and Rachel became tense when she noticed Daniel leaning back into Stella’s knees three times before the end of the first half. By the end of the story Rachel had thrown a cup of hot coffee on Stella and she had, later to her regret, made the remark, “I don’t need heating up, you’re the one out in the cold.” At midnight, Rachel, with acrowbar in hand, was attempting to break into Stella’s apartment.

By Friday afternoon, it was becoming clear that the Real Justice novel project would include an unhealthy dose of sex. Not explicit sexual language but inferential overtones, rather yet, undertones. It seemed my twenty Creative Writing students all were heavily leaning towards using the male ego and sexual desire to develop sexual tension and competition between the story’s five antagonists. I was both pleased and disappointed. My own personal novel project no doubt involved sex, heck it was pretty much a mirror image of my own life’s story, particularly the gang-rape by the Faking Five. I shouldn’t have been surprised that seventeen and eighteen-year-old teenagers were choosing to include the one characteristic common to every human. However, I had hoped the twenty highly imaginative students would have pursued something more intellectual than sex.

Friday night I was once again watching several episodes of The Walton’s with Nanny and Sammie. Cullie, as usual, was at Alysa’s. However, tonight I was multitasking, something I had promised myself I wouldn’t do when I was with Nanny. I didn’t normally scroll my Newsfeed on Facebook. I used the program as a teaching tool and thought it otherwise a waste of time. By the time John Walton found his daughter, Elizabeth, locked inside a trunk at a haunted house, I saw where Rhonda Hudgins, our ninth grade English teacher, had posted a prayer request for Glenda Williams. Reading four of the comments to her post revealed that Ralph Williams, Glenda’s husband, had died in an accident. It was the last comment that had turned my grief into outrage. Glenda had found Ralph’s body in their barn underneath the rear axle of his tractor. It seemed he had been attempting to remove both rear wheels when the tractor had fallen on him. The world might never know, but my gut was telling me that Ralph Williams had been murdered.

While Sammie and Nanny were eating popcorn, and immersed in their third episode of the night, I stepped out of the den and called Sheriff Waldrup. I only reached his voicemail. I walked in the kitchen and looked up his home number in the most recent phone book Nanny kept in a drawer under the landline phone on the wall. There was no listing for Wayne Waldrup. I was rewarded for checking the 2012 edition. This was before he was elected Sheriff. I was thankful Nanny had kept such an old phone book. I reached his wife on the third ring and was told he was in Atlanta on business until Monday. She offered to help me if it were an emergency, saying she would get word to him if it was urgent. After I told her I had left a voicemail message she told me his cell phone account had been hacked or something and that I probably would have difficulty reaching him. I thanked her and asked her to have him call me when he got back into town.

I went to bed early and didn’t awake until a few minutes before my 4:30 a.m. alarm went off. My dream had startled me awake. The noise wound up being Midnight scratching on my bedroom door. My subconscious had thought it was Cullie and me locked in my car and the sound was our fingernails scraping across the inside top of my trunk lid.

The Marginalian: Ursula K. Le Guin on Being a Man

Here’s the link to this article.

BY MARIA POPOVA

Who are we when we, to borrow Hannah Arendt’s enduring words, “are together with no one but ourselves”? However much we might exert ourselves on learning to stop letting others define us, the definitions continue to be hurled at us — definitions predicated on who we should be in relation to some concrete or abstract other, some ideal, some benchmark beyond the boundaries of who we already are.

One of the most important authors of our time, Ursula K. Le Guin (October 21, 1929–January 22, 2018) has influenced such celebrated literary icons as Neil Gaiman and Salman Rushdie. At her best — and to seek the “best” in an altogether spectacular body of work seems almost antithetical — she blends anthropology, social psychology, and sheer literary artistry to explore complex, often difficult subjects with remarkable grace. Subjects, for instance, like who we are and what gender really means as we — men, women, ungendered souls — try to inhabit our constant tussle between inner and outer, individual and social, private and performative. This is what Le Guin examines in an extraordinary essay titled “Introducing Myself,” which Le Guin first wrote as a performance piece in the 1980s and later updated for the beautifully titled, beautifully written, beautifully wide-ranging 2004 collection The Wave in the Mind: Talks and Essays on the Writer, the Reader, and the Imagination (public library). To speak of a subject so common by birth and so minced by public discourse in a way that is completely original and completely compelling is no small feat — in fact, it is the kind of feat of writing Jack Kerouac must have had in mind when he contemplated the crucial difference between genius and talent.Ursula K. Le Guin by Laura Anglin

Le Guin writes:

I am a man. Now you may think I’ve made some kind of silly mistake about gender, or maybe that I’m trying to fool you, because my first name ends in a, and I own three bras, and I’ve been pregnant five times, and other things like that that you might have noticed, little details. But details don’t matter… I predate the invention of women by decades. Well, if you insist on pedantic accuracy, women have been invented several times in widely varying localities, but the inventors just didn’t know how to sell the product. Their distribution techniques were rudimentary and their market research was nil, and so of course the concept just didn’t get off the ground. Even with a genius behind it an invention has to find its market, and it seemed like for a long time the idea of women just didn’t make it to the bottom line. Models like the Austen and the Brontë were too complicated, and people just laughed at the Suffragette, and the Woolf was way too far ahead of its time.

Illustration from *The Human Body* (1959)

Noting that when she was born (1929), “there actually were only men” — lest we forget, even the twentieth century’s greatest public intellectuals of the female gender used the pronoun “he” to refer to the whole lot of human beings — Le Guin plays with this notion of the universal pronoun:

That’s who I am. I am the generic he, as in, “If anybody needs an abortion he will have to go to another state,” or “A writer knows which side his bread is buttered on.” That’s me, the writer, him. I am a man. Not maybe a first-rate man. I’m perfectly willing to admit that I may be in fact a kind of second-rate or imitation man, a Pretend-a-Him. As a him, I am to a genuine male him as a microwaved fish stick is to a whole grilled Chinook salmon.

Le Guin turns to the problem of the body, which is indeed problematic in the context of this Generic He:

I admit it, I am actually a very poor imitation or substitute man, and you could see it when I tried to wear those army surplus clothes with ammunition pockets that were trendy and I looked like a hen in a pillowcase. I am shaped wrong. People are supposed to be lean. You can’t be too thin, everybody says so, especially anorexics. People are supposed to be lean and taut, because that’s how men generally are, lean and taut, or anyhow that’s how a lot of men start out and some of them even stay that way. And men are people, people are men, that has been well established, and so people, real people, the right kind of people, are lean. But I’m really lousy at being people, because I’m not lean at all but sort of podgy, with actual fat places. I am untaut.

Illustration by Yang Liu from *Man Meets Woman*, a pictogram critique of gender stereotypes

For an example of someone who did Man right, Le Guin points to Hemingway, He with “the beard and the guns and the wives and the little short sentences,” and returns to her own insufficient Manness with a special wink at semicolons and a serious gleam at the significance of how we die:

I don’t have a gun and I don’t have even one wife and my sentences tend to go on and on and on, with all this syntax in them. Ernest Hemingway would have died rather than have syntax. Or semicolons. I use a whole lot of half-assed semicolons; there was one of them just now; that was a semicolon after “semicolons,” and another one after “now.”

And another thing. Ernest Hemingway would have died rather than get old. And he did. He shot himself. A short sentence. Anything rather than a long sentence, a life sentence. Death sentences are short and very, very manly. Life sentences aren’t. They go on and on, all full of syntax and qualifying clauses and confusing references and getting old. And that brings up the real proof of what a mess I have made of being a man: I am not even young. Just about the time they finally started inventing women, I started getting old. And I went right on doing it. Shamelessly. I have allowed myself to get old and haven’t done one single thing about it, with a gun or anything.

But between the half-assed semicolons and the guns lies the crux of the gender-imitation problem — the tyranny of how we think and talk about sex:

Sex is even more boring as a spectator sport than all the other spectator sports, even baseball. If I am required to watch a sport instead of doing it, I’ll take show jumping. The horses are really good-looking. The people who ride them are mostly these sort of nazis, but like all nazis they are only as powerful and successful as the horse they are riding, and it is after all the horse who decides whether to jump that five-barred gate or stop short and let the nazi fall off over its neck. Only usually the horse doesn’t remember it has the option. Horses aren’t awfully bright. But in any case, show jumping and sex have a good deal in common, though you usually can only get show jumping on American TV if you can pick up a Canadian channel, which is not true of sex. Given the option, though I often forget that I have an option, I certainly would watch show jumping and do sex. Never the other way round. But I’m too old now for show jumping, and as for sex, who knows? I do; you don’t.

Le Guin parlays this subtle humor into her most serious and piercing point, partway between the tragic and the hopeful — the issue of aging:

Here I am, old, when I wrote this I was sixty years old, “a sixty-year-old smiling public man,” as Yeats said, but then, he was a man. And now I am over seventy. And it’s all my own fault. I get born before they invent women, and I live all these decades trying so hard to be a good man that I forget all about staying young, and so I didn’t. And my tenses get all mixed up. I just am young and then all of a sudden I was sixty and maybe eighty, and what next?

Not a whole lot.

I keep thinking there must have been something that a real man could have done about it. Something short of guns, but more effective than Oil of Olay. But I failed. I did nothing. I absolutely failed to stay young. And then I look back on all my strenuous efforts, because I really did try, I tried hard to be a man, to be a good man, and I see how I failed at that. I am at best a bad man. An imitation phony second-rate him with a ten-hair beard and semicolons. And I wonder what was the use. Sometimes I think I might just as well give the whole thing up. Sometimes I think I might just as well exercise my option, stop short in front of the five-barred gate, and let the nazi fall off onto his head. If I’m no good at pretending to be a man and no good at being young, I might just as well start pretending that I am an old woman. I am not sure that anybody has invented old women yet; but it might be worth trying.

The Wave in the Mind, like Le Guin’s mind, is joltingly original in its totality, Chinook salmon in the wild. Complement this particular bit with Anna Deavere Smith on how to stop letting others define us.

Defend Democracy: A Little Civil Discourse

by Joyce Vance

Here’s the link to this article.

In the middle of all the high stakes political maneuvering going on in Washington, we shouldn’t overlook the importance of a little civil discourse in our own lives. Like the elegantly simple statement being made by the woman in front of me in line at the airport this morning who was nice enough to let me snap a photo.

These simple reminders help people who understand that democracy is on the ballot know that they aren’t alone. They are also seeds that we plant for people who are still trying to decide whether and how to vote.

It’s hard to understand how anyone could still be on the fence, but we don’t have to figure that out. What we need to understand is the importance of meeting people where they are and, rather than expressing surprise that they’re undecided, trying to counter some of the disinformation that’s circulating and may be keeping them on the ledge, with facts.

Last week, one of the favorite Republican political myths, that Biden is too old to be president while Trump is capable and vibrant, resurfaced.

Joe Biden out for a ride on June 1, 2024 in Rehoboth, Delaware.

Seen Trump on a bicycle lately?

Biden is 81 years old. Trump turned 78 on Friday. It’s not a significant difference in age. While both of them occasionally have to reach for a word, as so many perfectly capable people do as they grow older, the similarities stop there. But the narratives being told about the candidates’ age and ability are very different and don’t match the reality that anyone who takes the time to can readily observe.

Biden flew to Europe for the D-Day anniversary, then home, then back to Europe for the G7 Summit, and held up to the rigors of travel well. His foreign policy expertise was on full display as he deftly handled key allies amid Putin’s war in Ukraine.

What did the President’s political opponents make of his trips? Right-wing media outlets circulated video, now all over social media, that makes it appear that Biden wandered off at the G7 summit while all the leaders were gathered. But that’s not what happened. The actual video shows Biden walking over to congratulate parachutists who were part of the celebration.

You might ask fence-sitters to consider, why would anyone do this? If Biden really isn’t up to the job, right-wingers wouldn’t have to make up a story, deceptively edit video, and push it out. If they’d make up a story like that, what else are they lying about? And perhaps most importantly, why are they lying to you?

What was Trump doing while Biden was supporting our key European alliances? His teleprompter went down during a campaign speech in Nevada with awkward results.

“I’ll take electrocution every single time,” Trump said. “I’m not getting near the shark.” Okay. I’ll take the guy who is handling American business over the guy babbling about sharks every time. And maybe if some of the folks who haven’t made up their minds yet knew about it, they would too.

It’s a good time to try out a little civil discourse and encourage people to look up the actual facts and video for themselves—they don’t have to take your word for it. You can explain what is actually happening to them, but tell them to check it out for themselves. One of the benefits of having truth on your side is that you can do that. Trump’s claims about Biden don’t withstand daylight.

The GOP is still beating the “Biden crime family” dead horse when in fact, their efforts to provoke criminal investigation or impeachment have all spectacularly and publicly failed. Their key witness lied to the FBI and faces prosecution—they seem to have forgotten his existence. And despite the strong push to “get” Hunter Biden, which produced the gun charges he was just convicted on and the tax charges he still faces, no evidence surfaced that implicated President Biden in international corruption or fraud schemes MAGA Republicans have been pushing. Last September, three-fifths of American voters believed the unproven but widely repeated allegations that Joe Biden was involved in corruption. Since then, those allegations have gone from being unproven to disproven. There were even suggestions that the failed GOP witness, Alexander Smirnov, was peddling lies for Russia.

Anyone who is turned off from voting because they hear Joe Biden was as corrupt as Trump? Turns out it was all a mirage, a very successful public relations coup for Republicans.

That’s an important point to share. Suggest that your friends examine what they see on social media carefully, because it’s not all true. Concerned about Gaza? It’s worth it for a voter for whom that issue is important to take a look at the differences between Biden’s and Trump’s positions and decide which they feel better serves their concerns. Worried about climate change? Trump’s recent meeting with Big Oil—the one where he asked them to to donate $1 billion to his campaign while promising he would terminate Biden’s policies on electric vehicles, wind energy, and other plans to decrease reliance on fossil fuels—is informative. Do they really want to trust the guy who is calling for a revenge presidency? The guy who blithely attacks Joe Biden for being old, while the press seems to give him a pass on far worse.

The key point is this: democracy is the system that unlocks all of our other rights. In its absence, those rights fade away. How you are able to live your life could come down to the whims of a ruler who has only his own self-interest in mind. People still get to vote this November. They should exercise that right carefully, and cherish it, especially if they want to be able to do it in the future.

A little civil discourse can go along way. Don’t hesitate to practice. And please share the newsletter—it’s free—with folks you think might benefit from being encouraged to think and fact check for themselves.

We’re in this together,

Joyce

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The God Illusion: What we learned from the Southern Baptist Convention’s annual meeting

Here’s the link to this article.

Most delegates still oppose women pastors, IVF is evil, and abuse reform can wait. But at least the new president doesn’t wear jeans in the pulpit.

JUN 13, 2024

The Southern Baptist Convention, which has been dealing with a massive sexual abuse crisis for years now, finally got its priorities in order this week at its annual meeting… by threatening churches that believe women can serve as pastors and agreeing that in vitro fertilization is “dehumanizing” and must be opposed at all costs.

Let’s start with the sexism.

On Tuesday, delegates (“Messengers“) at the convention voted overwhelmingly (6,759-563) to expel Virginia’s First Baptist Church of Alexandria, a church that currently has a woman serving as “Pastor for Children and Women” and openly declares on its website that the Bible “not only permits women to serve in the offices of pastor and deacon but confirms this with examples by name.”

The church saw the writing on the wall two years ago when they were first ratted out for their disobedience. It didn’t matter that the church, which has existed for well over a century, donated millions of dollars to the SBC for missionary work. The Associated Press said that “the pastor of a neighboring church reported” them to the SBC after discovering they employed two women as pastors. (A man was still the “senior pastor,” but that was irrelevant.)

Their open belief that there’s nothing wrong with having women on staff as pastors is what pushed the SBC over the edge.

The vote came after the denomination’s credentials committee recommended earlier Tuesday that the denomination deem the church to be not in “friendly cooperation,” the formulation for expulsion, on the grounds that it conflicts with the Baptist Faith and Message. That statement of Southern Baptist doctrine declares only men are qualified for the role of pastor. Some interpret that only to apply to associate pastors as long as the senior pastor is male.

It would be unfair to call this church progressive given that it opposes same-sex marriage and denies the existence of transgender people, but even symbolic gender equality was a bridge too far for most Southern Baptists who voted.

The expulsion came a year after the SBC kicked out Rick Warren’s Saddleback Church for ordaining three female pastors.

But all of that was merely a prelude to what happened Wednesday when the SBC voted on a formal policy (called the “Law Amendment,” after the name of the person who proposed it) to banish any SBC church that placed women on the leadership hierarchy or openly supported that idea.

The policy, which needed two-thirds of the vote, two years in a tow, ultimately failed. They couldn’t get over the 67% threshold this time around.

Still, it’s hardly a victory when over 60% of SBC delegates support the Only-Men-In-Power doctrine. (Had this Amendment passed, the First Baptist Church of Alexandria would have been expelled from the SBC for having a female pastor and believing women can be co-equal leaders. As it stands, they were only kicked out for the latter offense.)

As reporter Kate Shellnutt of Christianity Today explained, the SBC will still be able to punish churches with “female lead pastors,” like they did with Saddleback, but they won’t have a zero tolerance policy for churches that place women in other leadership positions.

Had the Law Amendment passed, it could have led many churches to step out from under the SBC umbrella, as Bob Smietana noted at Religion News Service:

Southern Baptist churches have long relied on women to teach Sunday School, lead outreach ministries and do all the behind-the-scenes work to keep their congregations running smoothly. Southern Baptists also raise hundreds of millions of dollars every year in the names of legendary missionaries Lottie Moon and Annie Armstrong. But they have also banned women from the pastorate — especially serving as senior pastor of a church.

… Passing this new rule, known as the “Law Amendment,” could lead to hundreds or thousands of churches leaving the SBC.

Just because the vote failed, however, doesn’t mean those churches will stay put.

The fact that this rule—no women in church leadership!—was even an issue tells you a lot about where the SBC is at. They’re literally arguing about a mild version of gender equality while the rest of their house remains on fire. Sexual abuse runs rampant within the SBC but a large part of the focus this year was on whether a woman serving as associate pastor was substantially different from a woman serving as senior pastor. For the majority of delegates, it’s better to have women labeled as servants and let them keep doing the same work, I guess.

Had they chosen to expel churches that employ women as pastors, the expectation was that a lot of churches would quit before they could be fired. Some still may.

Some churches made the decision to leave before they might be asked.

…

The Rev. Christy McMillin-Goodwin, pastor of First Baptist Church in Front Royal, Virginia, said she was surprised to discover that another Virginia clergyperson had listed her church as an example of one whose clerical leader was “sinning against God.”

“Our church decided to take a vote last May (2023) and the decision was unanimous,” she said of the church that had long stopped sending donations to the SBC and is affiliated with the more moderate Cooperative Baptist Fellowship. “People actually yelled ‘Yes.’ It was very impassioned that we don’t want to be a part of an organization that does not fully support women in leadership in the church.”

They were proud to be part of a historically racist and currently anti-LGBTQ organization, but punishing churches that have women in leadership was a dealbreaker? Got it. (Someone make that make sense.)

It’s not just slightly progressive churches that need to decide their membership status. A lot of Black churches are making similar decisions, turning an organization that’s already known for its support of white Christian Nationalism into one that more closely looks the part.

When that happens, it will be a completely self-inflicted wound.

Telling women they’re equally capable of spreading the Gospel seems to be the sort of thing that would draw in more Christians than it alienates. But dogma, for many of these Southern Baptists, overrides common sense. The majority of Southern Baptists want to force underage girls to bear their rapists’ babies but they can’t handle a grown woman in the pulpit.

On top of that, the SBC also voted to oppose IVF treatments, even though plenty of white evangelicals have used the technology to have babies. While the vote wasn’t a surprise, it’s an extreme approach that may signal the next phase in the Christian Nationalist attack on reproductive rights.

IVF, of course, is a procedure in which a sperm and ova are joined outside the body, in a laboratory dish. It’s meant to help couples struggling with infertility or other health problems. The concern for anti-abortion extremists is that, in IVF, the embryos that aren’t implanted inside a uterus may be discarded or placed in a freezer. They believe that’s tantamount to murder. (Oklahoma State Senator Dusty Deevers has said parents who use IVF are “waging an assault against God.”)

If you cut through the fluff in the actual SBC amendment, these paragraphs are what it boils down to:

IVF destroys human life. IVF promotes eugenics. IVF will lead to the murder of millions of teeny tiny “human beings.” Therefore we must oppose IVF no matter what.

It’s a thoughtless statement from a heartless organization.

It’s also a slap in the face to all the Christian women who have used IVF to have babies because, without it, they were unable to have children.

While the resolution has no teeth, and people who use IVF will still be allowed to stay in their churches, it’s a signal that conservative Christians are not satisfied with the Supreme Court banning abortion rights and that they fully intend to support politicians who want to ban IVF, too. They will also use this vote to put more pressure on Republicans who support IVF because it’s overwhelmingly popular.

POLITICO puts it bluntly:

Though the resolution is nonbinding, nearly 13 million Southern Baptists across 45,000 churches may now face pressure from the pulpit or in individual conversations with pastors to eschew IVF.

…

The Southern Baptists’ Wednesday vote could encourage other evangelical denominations and churches to follow suit in declaring — or at least teaching about — their ethical concerns with IVF.

All of this is happening while membership in the SBC is at a 47-year low.

In 2003, the SBC had a record high 16.3 million members. In 2023, the number dropped to 12.99 million, continuing 17 straight years of declining membership.

Meanwhile, the sexual abuse crisis remains a massive problem for the SBC.

It all stems back to revelations from 2022 about the SBC, in which we learned that, over the previous decade, more than 250 SBC staffers or volunteers had been “charged with sex crimes” against more than 700 victims. We also learned in the SBC’s own investigation that a private list of alleged predators (that wasn’t shared with member churches) included “703 abusers, with 409 believed to be SBC-affiliated.” The situation was so bad that the Department of Justice announced it was investigating “multiple SBC entities,” though not specific individuals, about their mishandling of sexual abuse cases. Last month, a former seminary professor became the first person indicted in the investigation. (He has pleaded not guilty.)

This month, we got an update from the SBC as to how its internal investigations are going… and it was predictably disappointing. A volunteer task force that was supposed to implement reforms announced that it would close up shop. While they created some resources to help churches deal with the problem, the biggest reform they could have made was creating a database of abusers so that criminals and known problematic people couldn’t church-hop after getting kicked out of one place… but that “Ministry Check” never happened because of a lack of funding and fears over getting sued.

To date, no names appear on the “Ministry Check” website designed to track abusive pastors, despite a mandate from Southern Baptists to create the database. The committee has also found no permanent home or funding for abuse reforms, meaning that two of the task force’s chief tasks remain unfinished.

Because of liability concerns about the database, the task force set up a separate nonprofit to oversee the Ministry Check website. That new nonprofit, known as the Abuse Response Committee, has been unable to publish any names because of objections raised by SBC leaders.

The SBC raked in over $10 billion in 2023. They could fund abuse reforms if they really wanted to without even noticing a change in their bank account. They just don’t want to. They would rather form a task force with no teeth than risk the world finding out just how many of their leaders are alleged (or charged) abusers.

When Lifeway Christian Resources (an arm of the SBC) released the results of a survey of congregation leaders last month, they found that only 58% of them required background checks for staffers who work with kids. With the number that low, the abuse is bound to continue.

Lost in the shuffle of all these votes was the election of the SBC’s new president, Clint Pressley, a megachurch pastor from North Carolina who represents the more conservative wing of the already conservative denomination. (The Religion News Service article about his election says, in the first paragraph, that Pressley “does not wear jeans in the pulpit.” Because that would be heretical.)

Pastor Clint Pressley speaking at Hickory Grove Baptist Church in Charlotte (screenshot via YouTube)

Pressley supported the anti-women Law Amendment and had “questions” about the proposed database of abusers, in case you had any questions about where he stands. Oh. And a volunteer at his megachurch was arrested in May after being accused of sexually abusing his own daughter. (The church thankfully reported the man to secular authorities leading to his eventual arrest.)

Keep in mind that the second largest Protestant denomination recently voted to get rid of its anti-LGBTQ policies and allow gay clergy members.

The SBC, on the other hand, is still debating which way to rearrange deck chairs on the Titanic.

(Portions of this article were published earlier)

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By Hemant Mehta · Hundreds of paid subscribers

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Flash Fiction: Fences and Forgiveness

In the quiet suburb of Maplewood, the fences were high but the tensions were higher, especially between two neighbors: John Green and Rick Dale. Both had lived side by side for years without much interaction, their mutual disinterest a bridge too wide to cross. John, a meticulous gardener, took pride in his immaculate lawn and blooming flower beds. Rick, on the other hand, was the proud owner of a large, boisterous Rottweiler named Max, whose barks echoed through the neighborhood like rumbling thunder.

The uneasy peace shattered one sunny afternoon when Max managed to break through a weak spot in the fence and charged into John’s yard. John’s beloved Beagle, Toby, was enjoying the sunshine, and the intrusion ended in chaos. Toby was severely injured in the attack. Although he survived, the incident left him with lasting injuries and a palpable fear of other dogs.

Furious and heartbroken, John confronted Rick, demanding that he restrain Max and repair the fence. Rick, somewhat remorseful yet defensive, promised to fix the fence but shrugged off the severity of Toby’s injuries, chalking it up to animal instincts. The conversation ended with harsh words and heightened animosities, leaving John to stew in his anger as he cared for his recovering pet.

Over the following weeks, John watched as Rick made a half-hearted attempt to repair the fence but did nothing to train or better secure Max. The sight of Max roaming near the flimsy boundary fueled John’s resentment. Sleepless nights plotting revenge became his new routine. He imagined sabotaging Rick’s yard, lodging complaints with the homeowners’ association, or even letting Max out to get him impounded. Each scenario played out in his mind with a vindictive satisfaction.

One evening, as John sat on his porch, his plotting was interrupted by the sight of Toby, tail wagging, trying to peek through the fence at Max. Despite his fear, Toby’s curiosity about his neighbor seemed undiminished. It was then that John realized that his desire for revenge was poisoning him more than it was affecting Rick or Max. The sight of Toby, still gentle and forgiving, made John ashamed of his dark thoughts.

With a deep breath, John decided on a different course of action. The next morning, he invited Rick over for coffee. Rick, surprised by the gesture, accepted cautiously. Over cups of strong brew, John expressed his fears for Toby’s safety and his frustration with the ongoing situation. He proposed they jointly pay for a professional to reinforce the fence and even suggested they could share the costs of a trainer for Max.

To John’s surprise, Rick agreed, embarrassed by his previous neglect and moved by John’s change in approach. The men spent the next few Saturdays working on the fence, their cooperation awkward at first but gradually becoming more amicable. Max, under the guidance of a trainer, became less aggressive, and Toby slowly regained his confidence.

Months later, John and Rick, now on much friendlier terms, watched as Toby and Max cautiously sniffed each other through the secure fence. It wasn’t a perfect friendship, but it was a peace hard-earned and much preferred over the bitterness of revenge. In repairing the fence, they had also mended fences of a different sort, learning that forgiveness could be more satisfying than retribution.

Novel Excerpts–The Boaz Schoolteacher, Chapter 27

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

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 27

“I have a god-awful prediction unless we do the hell something.” Ryan said as he walked into Pastor Warren’s man-cave after Prayer Meeting Wednesday night.

“Sounds like you Radford, always wanting to stir something up so we can have more of these damn meetings.” Justin Adams said standing and gazing into a double-doored closet that contained Warren’s media collection, much of which he acquired from his father and grandfather, both former residents of the Church’s parsonage. The only thing Warren had added was 200 porn movies.

“Adams, you apparently haven’t heard. Your monthly head-in-the-sand trips to the beach keeps you behind. I said a good one, your behind is exposed when you’re so disconnected.” Ryan and Justin were best of friends but loved giving each other hell.

“Their quarterly, not monthly trips. You guys would benefit from a few days of uninterrupted silence.” Justin said opening a CD case and inserting “A Fun Day at the Water Park” into Warren’s DVD player.

“Not yet Adams, maybe when we finish.” Danny Ericson said as he joined Warren, Fulton, and Ryan at the big round table by the windows. “Ryan, tell Justin what triggered our little investigation and what we learned.

“Yesterday afternoon I picked up Riley at Kay-La’s Gymnastics. I was running a few minutes late and she was standing outside with Cullie Sims and Cindy Barker’s daughter, Alysa. Riley said the three of them are not friends and so she wasn’t paying them much attention but was close enough to hear Alysa ask Cullie why her mother had to go see Mr. Williams. Cullie had responded, ‘Mother’s still tore up over losing my grandmother and just wanted to see what Mr. Williams had seen.’”

“Here’s what Ralph told me this afternoon.” Danny pulled a notepad from his shirt pocket and laid it in front of him on the table. ‘I told her I saw you (Ralph is speaking of me) and a man that at first I thought was Dale Joiner, but now I’m not sure that’s who you had in your truck.’ That’s exactly what he said. I wrote it down after driving away from Ralph’s house.”

“I take it you went to see Williams after Ryan passed along what his daughter Riley told him?” Justin asked, still trying to catch up on the full story.

Danny continued. “I went under the ruse that Dale might entertain a much lower offer than his asking price for his pasture. Ralph really wants that forty acres. I slipped into our conversation that I had heard that Katie had come to see him. I acted as though the Church was very concerned about her and wanted to support her in any way we could. I’m sure he bought into my slurp slop story of how Raymond thought the moon rose and set with Darla.”

“I think it’s the sun and not the moon.” Fulton added.

“Either way, Ralph didn’t have a clue that he was being interrogated. I left there believing he had admitted to Katie that Nathan Johnson could have been in the truck with me.”

“What? How would he know anything about Johnson?” Justin asked, scrolling through Facebook on his iPhone.

“That’s not what I meant. I only meant that he was doubtful about my passenger being Dale Joiner. This opens the door to a lot of questioning if Sheriff Waldrup hears this and wants to know who was with me. Hell, Williams originally didn’t even tell the Sheriff about seeing me.” Danny said flipping his notepad to another page. “Here it is, ‘All I told Waldrup was I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary.’ Williams confirmed this a second time when I asked him again in a slightly different way.”

“What else did Ralph say he and Katie talked about?” Fulton asked.

“That’s it. Oh, he did mention Katie being interested in some dumb candy wrapper he had found that morning along the road.” Justin said, closing his notepad and returning it to his shirt pocket. “I didn’t write it down.”

“Write what down?” Justin and Ryan both asked at the same time.

“The name of the candy bar. What the hell was that?” Danny said, standing and walking towards the bar.

“You never know what can become an investigator’s dream?” Fulton said. “Bring me a beer Danny, and a candy bar if you have one.” The first laugh of the night finally appeared from everyone present, except Fulton. “I didn’t mean that to be funny.”

“Lonely Star Chocolate or something like that.” Danny said, returning to the table with two Bud Lights, handing one to Fulton.

“That’s just piss perfect.” Fulton said slamming his beer can down on the table and glaring at Danny.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Danny said pushing his chair back from the table.

“You idiot. Lone Star refers to Texas. Did your twin idiot passenger throw out his litter after you too deposited Darla’s body by Ralph’s pond?” Fulton’s intelligence had kept the five of them out of trouble on more than one occasion.

“Hey, I’m not my brother’s keeper.” Danny now was clearly upset, and his face was red hot.

“Let’s settle down guys. For sure, we are our brother’s keeper.” Pastor Warren said, standing and leaning against the floor-to-ceiling windows. “Danny, look at that moon.” Warren turned and pointed outside, up toward a full moon, whose light was making its way through the thick cover of leaves on the trees surrounding the patio and rear entrance to his man-cave. “The moon simply reflects the sun’s light and we have to be willing to serve our brothers. That’s what you did when Ryan and Justin called you after discovering the missing videotape and silencing Darla. It was a mere coincidence that Nathan was in town and with you that morning. I do wish he hadn’t been so sloppy.”

“And, not been so dumb to steal the 22 pistol.” Justin added.

“Here’s the deal my moon brothers.” Fulton said looking at Warren as though making fun of the Pastor. “Katie is even more of a problem than we ever dreamed. No doubt she has proof we raped her back in 2002, thanks to Ryan and the missing videotape. And, now, she has information we likely were involved in her mother’s death.”

Ryan interrupted Fulton, “I think, even before she went to see Williams, she was suspicious. Later that morning I checked the caller ID on her and Raymond’s land line. Darla had called Beverly Sims. Her home number. I checked it with the phone book. Also, Beverly’s caretaker, Sammie, showed up that morning around 7:45 looking for Darla. To me, that means Katie knew her mother was okay shortly before 6:00 a.m., that’s the time of the call to the Sims residence. I bet Darla told them that Justin and I were there in the house. Yes, no doubt, Katie, even before her little trip to see Ralph, had real suspicions that we were involved in Darla’s death.”

“We’ve got to take care of her. I know it’s not a good choice. But, for me, I’d rather the videotape be disclosed than to be charged with murder. I’ve consulted with an attorney, don’t worry, it was one out of state. We can’t be prosecuted for the rape. The worst thing from a legal standpoint is a civil lawsuit. Release of the videotape showing the five of us raping Katie would destroy us but at least we would still have our freedom. If we can get to Katie before she communicates the findings she gathered from Williams, then Darla’s death can’t be linked back to us.” Pastor Warren said.

“You’re being a little star-eyed.” Fulton said, standing and walking to Warren, still gazing through the windows. “Moon-eyed maybe. Williams himself is also a problem. He needs to be silenced. As does Katie.”

Over the next hour, the five of them, the five referred to by Katie as the Faking Five, brainstormed the best way for the inquisitive Katie and the white-bearded Williams to meet their maker. At 10:00 p.m., plan in head and hand, the five settled comfortably onto leather couches and chairs around Warren’s one-hundred inch flat-screen TV and spent an hour enjoying “A Fun Day at the Water Park.”

Novel Excerpts–The Boaz Schoolteacher, Chapter 26

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

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 26

Tuesday was the first day Cindy had come to my room during my planning period since before Labor Day. She stayed until the end of my lunch break, a few minutes before noon. It was not vocabulary words, short stories, or sentence and paragraph structures she wanted to talk about. It was her idea of how to set up Patrick Wilkins.

“Ever since Saturday night’s church social all I have thought about is how to balance the scales with that sexual pervert known around here as the Assistant Principal. I can’t stand even saying his name.” Cindy said, sitting her book bag on one of the two chairs across from my desk in my little office.

“What got you so riled up. He wasn’t even there.”

“Oh yes he was. After you left, Steve helped Lane move the tables back to the storage room and arrange the chairs for Jared Insley’s Sunday School class. Kathy, Lane’s wife, and I were standing inside the Fellowship Hall towards the back door talking and waiting on the men to finish when the asshole walked in.”

“You’re beginning to remind me of myself. However, I would say he is horribly worse than that. He is a criminal asshole.” I added.

“I almost attacked him when he said, ‘good evening ladies, where are our lucky men.’ Of all things to say, especially at church. That man apparently thinks of sex all the time.” Cindy said sitting in the chair by her bag covered with giant sunflowers embroidered on both the front and back.

“That’s exactly what he deserves, even worse. But, I’m not sure that’s the smartest way of dealing with him. I want to be as open and direct as I can my dear friend. Don’t make the same mistake I made when the Faking Five raped me. That was nearly fifteen years ago. Now, it’s too late for them to be criminally charged in Alabama since the statute of limitations is only ten years for rape unless DNA evidence can identify a suspect. You are not so constrained. I still believe you should report what happened to you, what the criminal asshole did to you.” Right now, there was nothing I wanted more than for Cindy to report the crime.

“Katie, I know you believe you are looking out for my best interest. I know you care for me and are trying to help but it’s impossible for you to know, really know, how complaining to the police and all that would naturally follow from doing so, how my life as I know it, would be over. You don’t know Steve the way I do. And, you certainly didn’t know him back in his younger years. I’m certain my horrible news would throw him into a tailspin and he would get his revenge. Katie, Steve would literally gut bastard Wilkins, and that would be after he had already cut his balls off. I couldn’t live if Steve went to prison.”

“Aren’t you considering doing the same thing? How would Steve fare if you went to prison?” I had to make Cindy see she was being irrational.

“You’re not seeing the one major difference. Steve would act impulsively, simply go kill Wilkins almost immediately after I told him, or he heard the news. My idea is to plot and plan, like I do with my writing. In that sense, Steve is more like you and your writing. He is a seat-of-the-pants type revenge seeker.”

“In my opinion, either way can lead to the same destination. Your way may be slower but if Wilkins turns up dead there will be an investigation.” I said, losing interest and patience in mine and Cindy’s conversation.

“Who said I want to kill my rapist?” Cindy said as she pulled a standard three-subject, wire-ringed, hole-punched, college-ruled notebook from her book bag. Here, look at this.”

She flipped it open to the first page. On the top half was a rudimentary, penciled drawing. At the bottom I could see a numbered list of items under the heading, ‘Action Steps.’ “I can already see the Prosecutor’s first Exhibit at your murder trial.”

“You keep forgetting, I’m not interested in that. Not right now at least. Phase one is innocuous. It’s simply a prank. I do admit it is an embarrassing prank. For Wilkins that is.”

“I might as well ask you to tell me about your little prank. You’re not going to brainstorm with me how best to present The Snows of Kilimanjaro to my tenth graders unless I do.” If Cindy was one thing, she was determined.

“I call it Operation Screen-Saver. I want to install one on both his school and church computers.” She flipped a page in her notebook and I saw another drawing and another set of ‘Action Steps.’ The operation will be successful if we get only one installed.”

“What streaming words do you have in mind for the world to see as they scroll across a Wilkins computer?”

“I’m not exactly sure, but ‘Women, run, run. I’m a rapist,’ comes to mind as the front-runner phrase.” Cindy said looking at me with a sly grin and a curled lip.

“A second ago, did I hear you say ‘we’?” I was not liking this at all. Cindy had simply assumed I would be a co-conspirator.

“Yes, I can’t do it without you. I assumed from our earlier discussion that we had agreed our project, Six Red Apples, was going to be a team effort. I help you get back at the Faking Five, by the way, I love that label, and you help me destroy asshole Wilkins.” Cindy wasn’t wrong in her interpretation of that conversation.

“I guess I have to admit you are right. I confess I did agree, but I never agreed to commit a crime.”

“This isn’t a crime. Surely.”

The only thing we accomplished from 10:30 until nearly noon was review and banter about both lists of action steps and how they related to geographic locations on Cindy’s rudimentary but impressive drawings. We also devoured our lunches. It seemed taking the first innocent steps towards a life of crime triggered an aggressive appetite.

After school, I dropped Cullie and Alysa off at Kay-La’s Gymnastics & Cheerleading on Mill Avenue. Both girls had recently decided they wanted to go out for cheerleader at the end of the school year. I hated to tell them but, to me, neither one had the physical skills, flexibility, and coordination for such a sport. I kept my mouth shut. Instead, as they exited the car I said, “I’m proud of you two girls. Both of you sure have the brains for learning the routines.”

At 3:30 p.m., I pulled to a stop at the end of Ralph Williams driveway, next to a giant screened-in porch nestled beside an over-sized garage. A tall and thin man with at least a week’s worth of snow-white whiskers walked down the porch steps when I stood outside my car.

“May I help you?”

“Are you Ralph Williams?” I said knowing it had to be him but as far as I knew I had never seen the man. It could have been his father or brother or just a visiting neighbor.

“I am. I hope I’m not in trouble. You look like you are either a social worker or better yet, a prize-giver with Publishing Clearing House.” He said as a short and stocky woman opened the screen-door and stood on the top step. I thought she might be marking her ground, like she was telling me, ‘he’s my man, don’t you get any ideas.’ I almost laughed out loud.

“I’m Katie Sims. We’ve been talking online, and I just wanted to meet you.” I hadn’t planned that at all. Usually, my smart-ass remarks didn’t set well, they often returned like a boomerang. I was surprised to hear Ralph’s response.

“I was hoping today would be the day. You are even more gorgeous than I imagined. The naked pictures you sent do not do you justice.” He said with a big grin alternating looking at me and then at the woman, I assumed his wife, standing, not smiling, now on the second step.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I’m not sure why I did.”

“It’s certainly not every day that a young, nice-looking woman comes by and flirts with my Ralph. You too are a match. He is the best comedian in Boaz.” The bottle brunette said, now smiling and opening the screen-door and motioning me to come inside.

“I guess laughter is good medicine as I’ve heard all my life. Let’s start over. I’m Katie Sims. You found my mother dead in your pasture.”

“Oh dear, I’m so very sorry for your loss and especially for how she died.” I could tell Ralph was a real gentleman, even though the white beard someway didn’t seem to fit. “Please come in. Glenda will fetch us some lemonade.”

“Thank you.” I said and accepted the couple’s invitation to go inside. After he instructed me to sit where I wanted he repeated his condolences concerning Darla. Glenda rejoined us with fresh-squeezed lemonade and was about to sit down when I heard their phone ring. She disappeared once again.

“I’ve been meaning to come see you. I hope you don’t mind me asking you a few questions.” I said, not wanting to linger any longer without gaining some information. I did have two teenage girls to pick up by 4:45.

“Not at all. Ask anything you want. I’ve been expecting you.”

“According to Sheriff Waldrup, that morning you didn’t see anybody here and about the neighborhood before you discovered Darla, my mother’s body. Right?”

“No, that’s not exactly right. The Sheriff’s question was, have you seen anyone or anything out of the ordinary? To that I told him no.”

“So, that doesn’t mean you didn’t see anyone, you might have seen something you considered ordinary? Or, am I confused? I get that way fairly often.” I said, wanting to be careful with the facts.

“Now you’re correct.” Ralph said, scratching his beard.

“I take it you don’t normally have a beard? Sorry, that’s none of my business.”

“You are quite unique. I like your style. The beard. I’m getting a head start for Christmas. I play Santa Claus in a little skit our church puts on every year.”

“Which church?” I asked.

“Pleasant Hill Baptist Church, just up the road.”

“I’m sure you are an excellent actor. I’ve seen you at work.”

“No compliment needed. I just try to be myself and love on the kids.”

“Back to ordinary vs out of the ordinary. Can you tell me everyone, everything, you saw that morning before you found my mother?”

“That’s easy, I saw Danny Ericson driving his gray Chevrolet Silverado. He was going that way.” Ralph pointed toward the south, away from Boaz.

“And, I assume you are saying that wasn’t out of the ordinary?”

“Not at all, at least it was recently ordinary?

“I’m not sure I follow.”

“Come here, let me show you.” He led me off the porch and back outside onto his driveway. We stood beside my car. “See that big pasture across the road?” Ralph pointed, now eastward and straight across the road from his and Glenda’s house.

“Yes.” I saw it and saw an Ericson Real Estate sign beside a gate leading into the pasture.

“Danny was driving slow that morning. He had someone with him. I think it was Dale Joiner. He owns that pasture.”

“I seem to remember that someone, maybe it was Sheriff Waldrup, said something about you wanting to buy that land.” I was beginning to get a little excited. Maybe these two saw something. Oh my gosh, I didn’t look forward to having to talk with Danny Ericson.

“For a while I did. Before Danny listed it for Dale, he dropped by and asked me if I would be interested. I guess he had already talked with Dale and he hadn’t committed to listing with Ericson Real Estate. It was, I suspect, Danny’s way of manipulating a commission out of the sale.

“You decided against it I assume. It looks like it’s still for sale.”

“Right. It’s priced way too rich for my blood.”

“Back to that morning. Let me restate what I’m hearing you say. You said you saw Danny’s truck. Sorry, did you say where you were when you saw him?”

“I don’t think I did. It was early for me and Glenda. Since I retired from Goodyear we don’t get up at 4:00 a.m. anymore. I think it was around 7:15, but it might have been a little later. I was pouring a cup of coffee, standing at that window.” Ralph said pointing to a double window I assumed was from the kitchen.

“Just looking out your kitchen window?” I said.

“Yes. As I said, Danny was driving slowly, almost like he had been stopped, or maybe had turned around. Not going anywhere near the speed limit, thirty-five I think. When I first saw Danny, I couldn’t make out who was with him. Course, I couldn’t make out Danny either, but I knew it was his truck. I could see that god-awful Crimson Tide tag on his front bumper.”

“And, he just drove on by?” I asked.

“He did, but I got a better look when I walked into the living room as they were passing. At first, I thought it was Dale Joiner as Danny’s passenger, sitting by the window closest to our house. I must tell you, now that I’m really thinking about it, I may have lied, unintentionally, to Sheriff Waldrup. I’m thinking now there had been something out of the ordinary that morning. Dale Joiner, if that’s who Danny’s passenger was, looked awfully, oh, what’s the word, part of it sounds like a shovel?”

“Disheveled?” I asked.

“Yes, I think that’s the right word.”

“It means the person is untidy, disordered, speaking of their hair, clothes, or appearance.” I said, having used the word in my early morning writing just a day or two ago.

“Definitely, that’s right. Dale didn’t look like himself. He’s usually neat, well-dressed, and is downright a fanatic about his hair. Hell, sorry. Now, I’m thinking about something else. I don’t ever remember Dale having a beard.”

“Could it be that you aren’t sure it was Dale Joiner?” I asked.

“Now that we’ve had this little discussion, I sure wouldn’t bet on it. It seems my mind just automatically filled in that name, the information that I am now unsure of.”

“Our minds do that. It could have been that when you saw Danny Ericson’s truck and recalled your dealings with him over the pasture across the road, along with Dale Joiner as owner of that land, that your mind offered you a picture of what was going on. Danny was out with Dale Joiner driving by the land he had just listed.” I tried to make sense of what had happened to Ralph, a man who, to me, could be a spitting image of the type of man I envisioned Sheriff Wayne Waldrup to be.

“That makes sense now. Come to think of it, I think it was just the day before that Danny’s real estate sign went up on Dale’s pasture.”

“I’m really thankful you’ve taken the time to talk with me. One other question if that’s okay.”

“Sure, I’ve got until 5:00. That’s when I must be seated for supper. Glenda is pretty particular about meal times.”

“Can you think of anything else that happened that morning, whether it seemed odd or not?”

“Not really because I’m more forgetful than I used to be. After I discovered your mother’s body and came back to the house to call 911, I walked down the road to the gate, my gate, there, you see?”

Ralph pointed to a gate that ran parallel to Pleasant Hill Cut-Off road, that led into his pasture and on toward his pond.

He continued, “when I reached the gate I noticed my chain was backwards. I always loop it a certain way. If we were down there I’d show you. I’d also show you the lock I added since that day.”

“So, you believe someone else had tampered with your chain and maybe, possibly, had opened and closed your gate?”

“Yes, but I didn’t see any strange tire tracks when I walked on down to the pond. I’ve got several neighbors I let fish, so they come in on their own and drive their truck or whatever down closer.”

“Thanks again. It’s been nice meeting you.” I said.

“Same to you Miss Sims. I see you don’t have a ring.”

“No, I’m single. Are you looking?” I probably needed to be on some type medication. I was certainly headed for trouble with my smart-ass mouth.”

“Not yet, but who knows what tomorrow will bring. Seriously, Glenda and I would love to get to know you and your daughter.”

“Daughter? How did you know I had a daughter?”

“I figured only a girl would have a pink book bag. I saw it in the backseat of your car.”

“You are too much. Cullie and I just might come see you, maybe go fishing.”

“Anytime.”

“I have to run; my daughter is waiting.” By now I was standing beside my car with the driver’s door open. “Take care.” I sat down and just before I closed the door Ralph motioned me to stop.

“One other thing, probably nothing but you did ask. Give me just a minute.” He walked to the garage and inside. Within a few seconds he reappeared and returned to my car. I was standing now. “That morning, I found this, just inside the gate.” He handed me a yellow and gold wrapper with blue and red lettering across the front. It read ‘Lone Star Candy Bar.’ “I don’t think I’ve ever seen this brand. Have you?”

I looked at both sides of the wrapper and noticed an address, 254 E Main, Fredericksburg, Texas 78624, along with a phone number, (830)990-9100. “No, I’m pretty sure I haven’t.”

“It’s amazing what type of litter I find along this road. You would think people could find a trash can.”

I felt bold. “Do you mind if I keep this?”

“No, not at all. It’s just garbage. I wouldn’t still have it, but I don’t empty the garage garbage-can but once per month.”

“I have to run. See you soon I hope.” I backed out of his driveway waving at Ralph the whole way. He was a genuine man. He reminded me so much of Papa. It wouldn’t do for Nanny to ever be around this tall and thin man with a wicked sense of humor. She would declare Papa had come back to life.

I tucked the Lone Star Candy Bar wrapper inside my book bag and made it to Kay-La’s Gymnastics at 4:50 p.m. I was greeted by four eyes standing alone outside a locked building, visually shouting, ‘where on earth have you been?’

Snowflake Summaries–The Tangent Objective, by Lawrence Sanders

The primary aim of the "Snowflake Summaries" blog category is to showcase the creative writing of great authors. I use Randy Ingermanson's 'Snowflake' method to create these summaries. Here's a brief description of the one-sentence, one-paragraph, and one-page summary method.

Hopefully, these posts will motivate you to read great fiction and to write your own novel, whether your first or your fifteenth. 

The first great novelist I'll start with is Lawrence Sanders. Here's a short biography.

The Tangent Objective, by Lawrence Sanders

**”The Tangent Objective” by Lawrence Sanders** is a gripping thriller that dives into the murky waters of international intrigue and corruption, centered around a lawyer’s perilous mission in Africa.

### One Sentence Summary:

In **”The Tangent Objective,”** lawyer Gregory Duncan finds himself entangled in a dangerous web of corruption and conspiracy as he navigates the political and corporate battles over oil in a turbulent African nation.

### One Paragraph Summary:

**”The Tangent Objective”** follows Gregory Duncan, a sharp and ambitious lawyer from New York, who is hired by a powerful corporation to secure lucrative oil contracts in the fictional African country of Luandia. As he arrives in Africa, he quickly becomes a pawn in a complex plot involving multinational corporations, cold-blooded mercenaries, and the country’s struggling government. Tasked with negotiating deals that favor his employers, Duncan’s eyes are opened to the brutal realities of exploitation and geopolitical gamesmanship. His journey from a naive lawyer to a hardened realist is fraught with moral dilemmas and physical dangers, as he allies with unexpected partners to expose the corruption and perhaps redeem his own complicity in the exploitation.

### One Page Summary:

**”The Tangent Objective”** by Lawrence Sanders is a compelling exploration of the intersection between corporate greed, international politics, and human rights. The protagonist, Gregory Duncan, is a young and somewhat idealistic corporate lawyer from New York who sees a job opportunity as a chance to escape his unsatisfying job and a broken relationship. He is hired by an international consortium to facilitate oil deals in Luandia, a country rich in resources but plagued by political instability and poverty.

Upon his arrival in Africa, Duncan is thrust into a world far removed from his previous life. He encounters a diverse cast of characters, including ruthless corporate executives, cynical mercenaries, corrupt government officials, and desperate rebels. Each of these players is driven by their own agendas, and Duncan must navigate their manipulations and betrayals. He is introduced to the harsh realities of business in developing countries, where the rules of engagement are dictated by power and money, not law and ethics.

As Duncan delves deeper into his work, he becomes increasingly uncomfortable with the role he plays in the exploitation of Luandia’s resources. He witnesses firsthand the impact of foreign intervention on the local population, including environmental damage, exploitation of labor, and the perpetuation of violence. These experiences ignite a change in him, prompting him to reconsider his values and his place in the world.

The narrative tension escalates when Duncan discovers a conspiracy that goes beyond mere corporate greed—a plot that threatens the very stability of Luandia and the lives of its citizens. With the help of a seasoned journalist and a disillusioned mercenary, he sets out to expose the conspiracy, but his actions put him at great personal risk. Sanders expertly weaves a story of suspense and action, as Duncan and his allies race against time to prevent a catastrophe.

In the climactic conclusion, Duncan confronts both the external enemies and his own internal conflicts. The resolution of the plot sees him taking drastic measures to thwart the plans of the consortium, redefining his sense of justice and morality. Through this journey, Duncan emerges as a more complex and enlightened character, though at significant personal cost.

**”The Tangent Objective”** is a thriller that not only entertains but also challenges the reader to think critically about the moral implications of global commerce and foreign policy. Lawrence Sanders crafts a narrative that is rich in detail and scope, offering a gritty and realistic look at the complexities of African politics and Western involvement. The novel stands out for its dynamic characters, fast-paced plot, and a thought-provoking message about the price of progress and who pays it.

Novel Excerpts–The Boaz Schoolteacher, Chapter 25

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

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 25

It’s Monday morning, September 11th, sixteen years after the event now known simply as 9/11. That early Tuesday morning in 2001, the Islamic terrorist group al-Qaeda crashed two hijacked commercial airplanes into the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center in New York City. Less than two hours later, both buildings themselves crashed to the ground in a pile of rubble. After my writing time this morning in the basement I was glad I had changed my mind on altering today’s lesson plans to focus on such a tragedy. But, I would give each class an opportunity to have a moment of silence to remember all the victims from the event that changed the world forever. I was feeling guilty over not doing more for the victims but ultimately realized I didn’t have a day to spare if I wanted to give my students the hand-holding attention they would need to complete a novel by the end of the year. Most mornings I regretted considering such an audacious idea.

This morning, showering and getting dressed for school, I was happy I had only watched one episode of The Walton’s with Nanny and Sammie last night. With Cullie at Alysa’s working on an American History project I had returned to my room and spent three hours sitting at my desk working on today’s presentation for my Creative Writing class. A few days earlier I had the thought for the first time that I had to refine the novel writing project. It had been ridiculous that I had first stated that my twenty students, broken up into five groups of four, would produce five books, each with four authors. At best, we might be able to produce one novel. Thus, my change of mind demanded I inform the class that their groups would remain intact, but their focus would change. Each group would focus on one of the five antagonists. I myself would be primarily responsible for drafting scenes dealing with Stella, our protagonist, when she wasn’t dealing directly with an antagonist.

Today, I would also introduce character sketching. I suspected the students were more interested in creating a scene, for the novel that is, than engaging in the prewriting phase. However, novel writing is anything but glamorous. It is tediously hard work. And, like most things in life, is better accomplished with a plan.

At my little desk last night, I had determined that my twenty students and I would begin with Mason Campbell, the Mayor of Ellijay, Georgia. My purpose in relaying my own character sketch was not to dictate to Group 1 (the Mason Campbell group) who he was to be in the book, but simply to give them an idea of the method to use in building and describing their assigned character.

To be completely honest, I really did not like the prewriting phase. I personally was a seat-of-the-pants type writer, versus what novel writing experts referred to as plotters or planners. But, I also realized that most writers, especially brand-new fiction writers, didn’t have a developed enough imagination nor a sufficient knowledge of the necessary components of a modern story to simply sit down and start writing. They needed an outline and an outline needed fully-developed characters. Those experts typically argued that, “you need to know everything possible about your character, his eye and hair color, his height, weight, and build, his hobbies,” and on and on, including “his fatal flaw.”

That final little thing was the big thing according to the experts. “Every protagonist has a flaw that defines him, something that has happened in his life, usually some traumatic physical or emotional experience that has so affected him that he now believes a lie.” One example that is often used is the one where Billy’s fiancé died in a robbery where he was present, and he couldn’t save her. After it happened and even now, some five years later, he believes he is unworthy of a woman’s love. This is the lie he believes, and it is causing him major problems with every woman he encounters and later tries to date. For Billy to have a positive character arc (he is positively transformed by the end of the novel) he must deal with this lie.

For Mason Campbell, I would offer him to the class and primarily to Group 1 as an arrogant, ex-football star who returned to Ellijay after winning a national championship with the Georgia Bulldogs. Mason’s father was a former mayor and was still well respected. Mason was used to getting his way in every area of life, especially with the ladies. The lie that Mason believed was that no matter what trouble he got into, there was a way out, one that was, at most, slightly painful. He believed this lie because that’s the way it had been all his life, but the focus experience was in college when he was accused of raping a cheerleader. The short of it was Mason’s father came, once again, to his rescue. This time, with the behind the scenes disappearance of the victim.

At 2:40 p.m., I was satisfied. My day had been virtually perfect. Every class seemed unusually attentive, focused, self-policing even. My Creative Writing class that had just ended was the best prepared and engaged of any day so far. They critiqued my Mason Campbell character sketch in ways I did not anticipate, even made me see it for its shallowness and the likelihood it would produce a story that was tired and boring. I knew this day had to be a complete aberration, but I accepted it as a gift from God.

When Cullie came into my room after the last bell, I knew instantly something was wrong. Her eyes were red and puffy. The mascara above her left eye had transformed into what appeared a horribly black birthmark that encircled the eye like a giant C. No doubt she had been crying.

“Baby, what’s wrong?”

“I hate school and I hate my life.” Cullie said, throwing her book bag onto the floor halfway before she reached my desk at the head of the classroom.

“You want to talk about it?” I said.

“No, I just wish Daddy were here. In English class we were working in small groups on interpreting a silly little poem about a family of birds. Riley Radford, the queen bee of all ninth-grade queen bees, who seems to hate me, said, ‘what type of name is Cullie? Sounds like you are a cull. That’s more a boy’s name, like Cullen. Is your dad named Cullen? You probably don’t even know who your dad is, kinda like your mom.’ She just kept on. I told her my dad was Colton and he was coming during Christmas. I hate her.”

How in the hell had this happened? Mine and Cullie’s history center stage in her ninth grade English class, albeit in a small group? I knew of Riley Radford, it was Ryan and Karla Radford’s oldest daughter. Come to think of it, her and Cullie could almost pass for twins. What if? Hell no, I couldn’t dare think that.

“Honey now is a good time to thicken your skin. Kids can be horribly mean, even hateful.” I said, not knowing exactly what to say.

“If Daddy were here, he would tell me to burn Riley’s locker or sneak into her house and cut off a foot of her long and silky red hair.”

“He would do no such thing. If he did say that he wouldn’t be serious.” I wanted to lay my head down on my desk or run out into the hall screaming. Colton Lee Brunner was not Cullie’s father, but she certainly didn’t know that. He was a scapegoat, the man I was dating, seriously, in 2002 when I was raped. One decision had altered my life. At the last minute he had to change our plans. He and I had already purchased our tickets to fly from Los Angeles to Birmingham and drive on up to Boaz. That was Christmas 2002 when his estranged brother was murdered. Colton stayed to support his mother. I had flown, by myself, home for the holidays. But for that random, drive-by shooting and Colton’s decision to forfeit his ticket and remain in Los Angeles, I would not be having to lie to Cullie about her father. Then, I was once again reminded of the horribly wonderful truth. But for Colton staying in Los Angeles, there would be no Cullie. He would have been with me when I had visited old downtown Boaz and its dilapidated Fountain, and I would never have been gang-raped. The gang-rape that had produced my darling daughter was also my traumatic, life-changing event, my fatal flaw. The lie that it had spawned was that I too, like Billy in my Creative Writing class example, believed I was unworthy of love. But, that wasn’t the only lie it spawned. I had lied to Cullie about her father. In truth, I did not know who her father was. Did Riley Radford’s statement to Cullie, the daughter of Ryan Radford, portend the discovery and revelation by Cullie of this lie?

I felt Cullie shaking my arm. “Earth to Katie. Listen to me, one thing is for sure, Daddy would tell me something, give me some real tangible advice. That’s more than you could ever hear from your father. You never could even talk to him since you never knew who he was.” I now regret having told Cullie about how I came to be. Sometimes the truth is too dangerous and needs to be altered. I now wish I had, along with Darla’s help, created a story, a beautiful love story that had ended tragically in the sudden, unexpected death of Darla’s Romeo, but only after I had been conceived. I hadn’t done that.

I had chosen truth over comfort. As I leaned back against my desk looking over at the back of Cullie’s head and her curly black hair while she stared into an open refrigerator in the corner behind my bookshelves, my gut felt like it had been jerked into a thousand knots. How was this going to play out? Was it time to tell Cullie about how she had come to be? Was it time to tell her the truth? She deserved to know the truth. She deserved to know her real father. I almost laughed out loud. I didn’t even know which one of five men had given me the best gift of my life. Truth for sure, was always stranger than fiction.