The Duck Dynasty Series

                I must confess I’m hooked on the reality show Duck Dynasty. I accidently discovered it because I collect wooden ducks, both decoys and decoratively hand carved specimens, so the title jumped out at me one evening when I was scanning the TV listings. I had to check it out.  

                There’s this family of Louisiana rednecks who became fabulously wealthy by making those gizmos hunters blow into to mimic a duck’s call. I read that the father of the Robertson clan, Phillip, used his product while hunting one day and his friend exclaimed, “You didn’t call that duck. You commanded it!” And so they named their company “Duck Commander.”

                Three bearded, long haired sons with gorgeous blonde wives, a crazy like a fox uncle, Dad (Phillip) and Mom (Miss Kay), plus a few interesting employees as well as a passel of grandchildren and pets, make up the cast of characters.  The family owns acres upon acres of land, on which they work, live and play.  

                Like when Phil decided an old trailer would make a great deer stand once his sons and Duck Commander employees got it hoisted and camouflaged high up into some trees. It did look inviting and far more comfortable than freezing on a few elevated two by fours while waiting for Bambi to saunter by.

                Besides the interplay and the running comments family members make about each other, I find the Southern redneck culture the Robertson family celebrates charming. This is regional America at its best. It doesn’t take long to realize this family, is neither stupid nor uneducated.

 Son Willie runs the company with skills he acquired from his business degree. Grandfather Phil, bearded like all the Robertson men, summons his grandchildren to his home and teaches them life skills while he gets “free labor” from them. Clearly the teens do not appreciate the tasks Phil assigns but they are respectful and do his bidding. (Phil may have crossed the line on career day when he taught a classroom of 8^th graders  how to eviscerate a duck…..but with our current Congress, hey, you never know when that  may come in handy.)

This series is about a family, once poor and now wealthy because they embraced the American values of belief in God, family, and hard work. Every segment ends with family prayer before a meal and a comment on loving each other.

I have come to appreciate the special view Duck Dynasty offers into a culture that has endured for years and, judging by its popularity, America is learning to appreciate as well.

 

Trust Your Instincts

                Vincent VanGough wrote to his brother Theo and mentioned he had painted “Sunset at Montmajour” on July 4, 1888. Apparently he wasn’t too pleased with the result. According to an article by Toby Sterling (Associated Press), the artist shipped the painting to his brother and in 1908 it found its way to a neophyte art collector. Unfortunately the Norwegian industrialist/collector was told by a so-called expert that the painting was a fake and so it languished in the collector’s attic until it was discovered as part of his estate in 1970. It was then determined that the painting was an original VanGough after all.

                There’s a lesson there for me in that sad story. If the collector had valued the painting because it spoke to him in some way, if the brush strokes captured his imagination, or simply made him feel good, perhaps he would have ignored the erroneous appraisal and hung the painting where he could enjoy it. Something must have caught his eye for him to have purchased it in the first place. But because someone else denigrated it as a mere copy, the work of art was relegated to obscurity and the owner lost almost 70 years of pleasure. How sad. For that collector, its value lay only in its provenance and not its intrinsic beauty. A rather shallow assessment if you ask me.

                Here’s to the “stuff” we love! Beauty is in the eye of the beholder and “worth” has many levels, money being sometimes the lowest for those who trust and value their personal preferences over cash. 

               

Good As New (Almost)

                My arm was immobilized for only about a month after my wrist encountered the sidewalk in a most unfortunate manner. The Colles fracture required surgery and then physiotherapy. I had no idea my fingers could become contracted so quickly! I told my digits to stand up straight, darn it! but they were having none of it. My arm was so weak I couldn’t hold a plate or use a knife to cut my food. And this was only four weeks after the break. I was amazed.  

Even though I had had professional discussions with physical therapists regarding my patients over the years, actually receiving therapy myself was scary. I had a mental image of enduring excruciating exercises while a therapist shouts brutal encouragement. I didn’t know what to expect on my first visit but I was pretty sure it would involve pain, and lots of it.

                September 8^th was National Physical Therapy Day and I’m writing this blog as a huge thank you to my physical therapist. There was no pain, but a lot of gain. I dutifully did my daily exercises at home and during my sessions  was amazed at the weekly, sometimes even daily, improvement. My therapist never shouted; he gently pushed the envelope and voila! I’ m almost as good as new. 

                Although everyone on the health care team contributes to returning a person to wellness, it’s the physical therapist, often the last in the treatment line, who provides the crucial final steps that help people resume their lives.

                 So here's to physical therapists everywhere. It would literally be a broken world without them.

 

 

Doggie Comfort

             

 

   Cody, my cocky Cocker, does three things when he steps out of his crate in the morning. The first is when he shakes his body so fast side to side it looks like he has only one eye. Doggie stretch follows the shake, first the front legs and paws, then the back ones. I love his third move most of all. He comes over to me and nuzzles my legs, rubbing his little self against me.

                No matter how poorly I may have slept the night before or how my day may loom like a mountain to be climbed, his morning greeting comforts me.  Dogs do that and that’s why they are welcome in hospitals, nursing homes and other places where humans stress out.

                I recently read a newspaper article by Haley Vaccaro (Albany Bureau) about comfort dogs working the courtrooms, of all places. There, “facility” dogs have a way of helping witnesses testify with less anxiety and more accuracy. In fact, according to the article, Senator Terry Gipson of Dutchess County N.Y. introduced a law that would allow these dogs in the courtrooms to offer comfort to victims and witnesses. The potential law is named after the dog “Rosie” who helped a terrified teen who was on the witness stand. The girl froze when asked to point out her assailant. When Rosie gently nudged the girl’s arm with her snout, she was able to point to her father.

                What a great way for dogs to add even more comfort to peoples’ lives than they already do. They warn us when strangers approach, somehow know when we need a nuzzle; they fetch, herd, protect and generally adopt their people pack with more loyalty and love than I think we sometimes deserve.

                I think we would be amazed at what goes on between those pointy or floppity ears.

The Good Old Days

                If you’re looking for a great non-fiction easy summer read, I suggest The Good Old Days-They Were Terrible! by Otto L. Bettmann.  Each glimpse into some aspect of the 19^th century covers only two pages, so it’s a book you can grab and put down throughout the day – or get lost in for a few hours.

                The entry about summer makes one appreciate the invention of the window screen in the 1880’s. Imagine flies and mosquitoes all over your food, nesting on you and your bedding at night, getting into your food and drink! Children were given leafy branches to shoo them away while family members tried to eat a meal in peace and without bug garnishes.

                Bettmann quotes Russel Lynes who said screens were, “the most humane contribution the 19th century made to the preservation of sanity and good temper.”

                And then there were the electric trolleys. I’ve been on delightful trolley rides but my experiences are a far cry from the 19^th century trolleys which at best, reached a max of 25 miles per hour. Not even considering the spaghetti of overhead wires, the trolleys made little progress through the busy streets because they followed horse drawn vehicles or waited while they clopped across the rail. A photo of a Chicago intersection showed a pile up of huge proportion with trolleys, trucks, people and horses milling in the road. H.G Wells called the Chicago streets “one horse cry for discipline.”

                Other topics in the book include housing, air, work, crime, food and drink, health, etc. Being your full service blogger, I checked and it is available at Amazon and Amazon Prime as well as in our area libraries for local readers.

Enjoy!

Prim

                I like country style décor with the cozy, comfy look old things like quilts, candles, and firkins give a room. My favorite magazine features several homes in country style and is full of ways to get what they call “the look.”

            There is a country style called “primitive” or just “prim” for short and it’s what I would call hard core country style. You couldn’t find an upholstered chair or a cabinet that didn’t look like someone took chains to it, to save your life. The more beat up, rusted, many paint layered, the furnishings are, the better. The home owners tell of buying, say, a 20^th century ranch home and removing the carpeting and wall paper. They cover refrigerators with barn wood and take down the matching cabinets in the kitchen to replace them with odd cupboards or a wooden box, its bottom nailed to the wall, to house ancient crockery. With a lot of hard work, historical study, and dedicated salvaging, they create a home worthy of the 19^th century’s best from the hollers of Appalachia.

            I was discussing this primitive style with a friend who was born and raised in Appalachia.  She became a nurse and settled here in upstate New York. In a soft voice that still harbored a hint of a southern accent, she chuckled and said, “I worked very hard to get away from that look.”

            For her, that was all her family could afford. For others, it’s the height of period correct décor and worth every penny invested.

Our personal spaces are as unique as we are, aren’t they?

.

Melborp

                Parents and students are stocking up on note paper, notebooks, glitter, glue and goodness knows what else in preparation for the start of a new school year next month. I don’t recall such a mass purchase-a-thon when I was a kid. Back in the dark ages all we had to buy was notebooks, paper and a few pens. Looking back and comparing all the extras kids in even the most fiscally strapped schools today have with what I had, one can only wonder how I learned anything at all.

                Here was my school day for eight years. Lining up in silence outside and entering the school in subdued rows (kind of like prisoners going to the chain gang.) Lessons in one classroom with one teacher until lunch – which we brown bagged and ate at our desks. That’s right – no cafeteria. No library for that matter, unless you called the bookcases in some of the classrooms a library. Then we ran around outside on the theory we needed exercise. You guessed it – no gym either. Back to more classes in the same room with the same teacher, followed by about three hours of homework it was worth your life not to complete. Eight years of that. Kind of builds up a high level of tolerance in a person, doesn’t it? 

                That would constitute an academic problem of giant proportion today but a funny thing happened on the way to blessed release, uhmm, “graduation.”

 I learned to learn. How to teach myself was a life lesson I figured out pretty much on my own because no teacher ever attempted to make learning fun or interesting. They just scared me to death and piled on the assignments. So maybe that eight year sentence to academic hell wasn’t a problem after all but a non-problem, a “melborp” (problem spelled backward), because a surprisingly good outcome came from a bad situation.

 

What a Name!

                In one of the Big Bang episodes, Sheldon Cooper acquired a bunch of cats when what passes for his love life hit a bump in the road.  As he explained to his flabbergasted mother, the “bunch” of cats is more correctly called a “Clowder” or a “Glare.”

                 Who knew?

                That got me wondering what other strange names we attach to animals based on their species, age or sex. Turning to the internet, here’s a sampling of some of the really weird attributions.

A congregation of alligators

A raft of Auks

A cete of badgers

A cloud of bats

A sleuth of bears

A sute of bloodhounds

A wake of Buzzards

A peep of chickens

A lap of Cod

 A bed of clams

A quiver of cobras

A bask of crocodiles

A convocation or aerie of eagles

A leash of fox

A tower of giraffes

A cackle of hyenas

A crash of rhinos

Just to name a few, but my favorite is:  a  Murder of Crows  - It makes me think of  Edgar Allan Poe.

Three Muskateers of Medicine



                This bad boy is called a Kelly Clamp and I encountered it for the first time during my operating room rotation as a student nurse. It’s one of many instruments used during surgery, especially useful for using or removing sponges from ...well, never mind.  Imagine my surprise when, following Hubby as he scoured every corner of his favorite tool and hardware store one day, I saw old Kelly sitting on a shelf with a price tag of only a few dollars. How did he escape the operating room? I nabbed him right away.

                So far, he’s proved terrific for digging out the lint that hides deep in the filter area of my dryer. Clamp a cloth or sponge in his long teeth and you can reach just about anything that needs cleaning. He’s even recently proved useful for getting socks on when one can’t reach their toes because of injury.

                There are other medical items or terms that have particular surnames as well as Kelly clamp. There’s the Foley catheter designed to remain in the bladder for more than a day. Lest we leap to the conclusion the Irish (Kelly and Foley) have a lock on medical engineering, there’s a position named Trendelenburg in which the patient’s head is lowered and the feet are raised. It is used to prevent shock by keeping blood flowing to the brain while blood pressure drops due to hemorrhage.  I heard a physician remark that whoever Trendelenburg was, he gets more famous every time a doctor shouts “Trendelenburg position!” He sounded almost jealous.

                So there’s the Three Musketeers of the medical world. Remember Trenedlenburg in case you need to use it, grab Kelly if you can and I hope you don’t need Foley.

               





Open Mouth Insert Foot

                It seems Paula Deen reaped the whirlwind with one powerful word uttered years ago. Let’s be honest. How many times have you wished you could grab words that flew out of your mouth and stuff them back, way down inside, never to see the light of day? As Paula has spoken tearfully about her moment of folly, people who must be perfectly insightful saints have said Paula “just doesn’t get it.”

                What’s not to get? Words can hurt as well as soothe, incite as well as quell, express love or shower hate. We even have laws against hate speech, but be careful of your definition of hate speech. Adolf Hitler’s rhetoric would fall under that definition but would you believe a lower court decided the verses someone quoted from the Bible was hate speech because the verses spoke against the activities of a group of people?

                Supposedly we have freedom of speech in America. They can’t throw you in jail for saying something against the latest zeitgeist, against the latest politically correct flavor of the month. But people and businesses can shun you, fire you, or cancel contracts with you. This is not freedom of speech! The government does not have to squash us; we the people, influenced by the government, will do it instead. 

               What is lost when a man or woman becomes persona non grata because they uttered something another finds offensive? We lose the grace as a people to acknowledge that we’ve all been there, perhaps not so egregiously, but been there never the less. We lose the ability to forgive even when we are hurting. And sometimes we need to acknowledge the fact that somewhere, sometime, someone will say something that deeply offends us. That’s the price of living in a free society.

What happens when we are so fearful of offending anyone that we bury our thoughts, insights and discoveries? We will eventually be afraid to speak the truth with love, to speak against the majority (IRS investigation, anyone?) and declare the Emperor has no clothes and is stark naked.

Personally, I think the old boy is “starkers” now.  So sue me. 

 

Indie Ink

                The first short story I sold was to Green’s Fiction for the Family magazine back in the mid 70’s. It was a story about a boy with a stuttering problem trying to fit into his new school and it was told through the point of view of a girl in his parochial classroom. I found the editor’s comment interesting. “You have the nun talking in clichés, but then that’s the way they do talk. Consider Jack Frost sold.”

            Nothing like editorial comments and suggestions! Authors commonly rewrite entire novels at the direction of the editor of the publishing house opting to purchase their work – and that’s after they’ve rewritten huge sections on their own before submission. I will take a hardnosed stance and say if you’re not willing to edit and rewrite, take up something else.

            The hardest part of being a serious writer is getting your work published. Gone with the Wind was rejected 25 times before it was sold! Now you could write the equivalent of that American classic and be rejected by a publishing house because you don’t have a large enough platform. The name of the game is selling books and if the author does not already have a following through social media, teaching, previous sales, public speaking (all of that is the platform), chances are his or her tour de force will languish in the slush pile of rejected manuscripts.

            Enter the brave new world of indie publishing. Writers can independently upload their books into e-books or arrange for publishing at point to sale so the actual book is created upon purchase and then sent to the buyer. Indie authors get to keep much more from each sale as well. There are many excellent indie books out there and even the big names in the literary world use indie as well as traditional publishing now.

            This gives us readers many more books at much lower cost, such as free to 99 cents. On the down side, there’s a lot of poor writing being uploaded and even the reviews are slanted. I wrote a review for a friend but admitted in my first sentence that she was a fellow writer. I did feel comfortable giving her a good review because it was really an excellent book, but some reviewers are trying to do a friend a favor without being honest about the book. I do have hopes that good books will rise to the top of reading lists and the lousy ones will sink into the oblivion they deserve.              

            Still the publishing houses need to sit up and smell the coffee. They need to give the new, promising authors more promotion if they don’t want to become an anachronism. For starters, “platform” should not be a factor in selecting manuscripts, but rather, quality writing. The fact is the traditional publishing houses are now in competition with the very people who used to be their clients – not a winning market position to be sure. Many are developing an independent publishing arm to assist writers who want to self publish quality work.

            Publishing is in flux and that’s not even looking at e-magazines and writing content for the internet! Johannes Gutenberg would be flabbergasted.

Accidents Will Happen

 

 

 

Chapter 10

 

 

 

Bucci scanned the laboratory and reached for his cell phone. As he waited for the crime lab to answer, the detective opened the top drawer of the one desk in the room and pawed through its contents. Pulling up a plastic employee ID card, Bucci recognized the balding man who had given them directions to the lab. Next to the ID tag, sat a silver key.

            “Henderson, run down and see if you can grab the guy we met on the way in.”

            “On it.” Henderson replied, flinging open the lab door.

            Bucci picked up the key and found it opened the lower left drawer. Under a pile of files, Bucci’s thumb scraped against a small latch. Pulling up on the metal edge revealed a hidden compartment in which sat a lone USP flash drive. Suddenly Bucci heard the lab director’s voice on his phone.

            “Yeah, Gene. We need some of your eggheads pronto. I’m in the University chem lab and have no idea what to look for that would tell me anything about that designer drug you guys identified.”

            By the time the CSI team arrived, Bucci had the flash drive inserted in one of the lab computers and was staring at formulations that looked like cuneiform scratchings.   As he scrolled down, a list of Middle East embassy names and numbers appeared. Whatever Leere was working on was international in scope and deadly in plan. His next calls were to Homeland Security and Officer Henderson.

             Agent Denis of Homeland Security followed Lieutenant Henderson as he boarded the 747. Having found the door to Leere’s apartment open and the rooms torn apart as if the tenant had been in a rush, Henderson had ascertained the nervous man at the University was on the lamb. When he spoke to Bucci, his friend directed him to the county airport.

The two government men walked slowly down the center aisle and stopped at 22c. Without a word, a balding man rose from his seat and allowed the cuffs to clamp shut over his wrists.

Three hours later, Agent Denis and Detective Bucci sat in a back booth in Salty’s Bar.

“When we re-interviewed Trevellian’s wife, she remembered she had gone into the kitchen to cut a few more, what she called, “sausage thingyies” but she dropped the knife and put it in the dishwasher. Turns out that was the prop knife but she didn’t know that.  She left the real knife she used to cut the sausages on the counter. Apparently, Trevellian used that for his rehearsal, thinking it was the prop.”

“So how did that lead you to Leere?” The agent took a sip from his lager.

“Trevellian’s latest “protégé” had been an unwitting guinea pig for Leere. What she thought was a love potion was really the designer drug. When we raided his lab we found the evidence that he was planning on selling his formula to the highest bidder.”

“Terrorist, you mean.”  Denis thought for a moment. “In other words, the death of the Professor led to the discovery of the plan to sell LSD that is 40 times more powerful and modified to be mixed in the public water supply.”

Bucci nodded. “And it wasn’t murder or suicide so the grieving widow gets 5 million bucks of comfort. Who knows, maybe for a nice honeymoon with Conan Farrell after a suitable mourning period, of course. 

“Whew! All because of a misplaced prop knife… I guess accidents will happen!”  

THE END

 

Meet the author of this chapter: 

Gene LeDoux, a retired CSI chemist, has been a model railroad buff since his teen years when he wrote several articles for Model Trains magazine.  Writing about his favorite hobby led to writing scientific articles and professional reports throughout his forty years in the Monroe County Crime Lab.

 

Accidents Will Happen

Chapter 9

     Detective Bucci leapt out of the police wagon before the tires stopped rolling. Lieutenant Henderson met him on the University steps, a sheet of paper waving from his fingertips.

“I got the warrant to search the place. Judge Bean wasn't too happy about it. I interrupted him in the middle of his dinner party.”

“Tough, the old man needs a few less calories anyway.” Bucci mumbled, grabbing the warrant from the young officer's hand. “Come on, we gotta find this guy Tim Leere before he gets away with the evidence.”

The two men hustled up the cement steps leading to the science building.  Bucci recognized the merri-cupola vine engraved on the mammoth door.  

Just a few yards in front of them, hurrying from the front staircase, a balding man toting a laptop, was shooting sinister looks their way.

“Hey Mister,” Bucci yelled. “Can you point us in the direction of the chem lab?”

“Chemistry?” The man asked as he pawed his straggly hair. His eyes darted from side to side as he fidgeted with the keys he pulled from his coat pocket.   “Upstairs, second floor, room 282.”

     Bucci and the Lieutenant took the steps two by two. The hall upstairs was nearly empty as they rushed down the corridor, finally arriving at their destination. Bursting inside they were disappointed to see no one in the lab and obvious signs that someone had made a frantic effort to destroy possible evidence. Their murder investigation was about to escalate.

Meet the author of this segment: Linda Sawicki loves to write and has done so all her life. She has recently published her first YA novel, "And The Fifth Element Is Fear," available on Amazon.com. She also participated in a collection of stories included in "Hapless Halloween - Twenty five Twisted Tales of Terror abd Suspense " (Amazon.com e-book.) Visit her at Lindasawicki.com or e-mail her at linda25247@yahoo.com



Accidents Will Happen

Chapter 8

Detective Bucci slammed his palm on the metal interrogation table.  “Miss Evans, I need to know where you got the drugs you took.  The lab says that in normal LSD, less than one percent of the,” Bucci paused to look at his notes, “lie-sir-gick acids, something like that, cross the blood-brain barrier.  They estimate that what you took allows over twenty-five percent, perhaps as high as forty, to cross.  According to the lab, there is no way to anticipate which brain receptors will be blocked and which will not.  While I don’t fully understand what they’re talking about, they say it is extremely dangerous.

“According to the head of the lab, if this gets into the population, it can bring down entire cities.  It could easily contaminate a water supply.  He thinks it could be released as a mist in the air. Where – did – you – get – it?”

Jessica looked at the detectives.  There was only one when the interview started, but now there were two – no, three of him.  Somehow, that didn’t seem fair.  There were only two Rogers in the room with her.  But, they both smiled at her, so she felt a little better.  The Rogers would protect her.

“Jessica, please.  This is vital.  We need to know.”

Eyes closed, her head lolled.  When she finally looked up, both Rogers smiled and nodded.  She smiled back, then turned to the Detective.  “My ex-boyfriend, Tim Leere, gave them to me.  He’s doing post grad work in the University's bio-chem department.  He’s such a sweetie,”

The words were slurred to the extent that it took Detective Bucci a moment to decipher them.  When he did, he rushed out of the interrogation room without closing the door, shouting to someone at a desk to the right.

“Get a hold of Judge Bean.  I need a search warrant.  Move, man!  I need it yesterday.”

Meet the author of this chapter: S. Arthur Yates follows the mantra "If it's reality, I didn't write it." He only writes short stories (and  very few poems.) In fact, he generally takes short as a challenge. He has been published in the international as well as  domestic markets. His longest and shortest stories can be found in "Hapless Halloween - Twenty Five Twisted Tales of Terror and Suspense" (available at Amazon.com for $.99) or follow his blog at writings by say.com.

Accidents Happen

Chapter 7

He may disappear if I look away or blink.

 She rubbed her palms against the cell’s cold concrete floor, seeking the reassurance of hard reality. As Jessica continued to stare, Roger morphed into two Rogers. Both specters laughed while streams of bright colors darted from their heads, decorating their skulls with pointed coronas.

 “Roger…you’re dead.” It seemed the Rogers needed instruction on their current status.

“No no Lassie. Remember? We were in the kitchen rehearsing the scene where I play Othello to your Desdemona and stab myself with the knife - a fitting bit of drama we had planned for my guests. Just a bit o’ fun.”  He grinned. Jessica began to shake.

Someone must have switched the prop knife for the real one. Who? Why? Jessica’s thoughts returned to the moment in the kitchen when Roger had thrust the knife into his chest and had fallen to the floor with exaggerated pathos. Terrified, she ran to his side and yanked the knife out of his wound as blood pumped onto the floor and pooled around her knees.

 “I’m not dead.” Roger’s chuckle brought her back.

“Yes you are. The knife blade was supposed to slide up into the handle and disappear, but it didn’t!” She lowered her head and moaned.

Jessica crawled along the floor, inching her way to the Rogers. They didn’t move as she dragged herself through them. When she reached the opposite wall and turned around, the pair was gone. She heard herself laugh as if from a distance and wondered what could be so funny.

Jessica’s laughter drew Detective Bucci to her cell. Looking down on the sprawled prisoner, he called, “Sergeant, call the medics and tell them we’ll need a blood sample – again.”

Meet the author of this chapter:

Susan LeDoux writes nonfiction articles for the Christian market. A reporter for The Good News Newspaper , she also writes copy for churches and ministries as well as two blogs: Road to Emmaus at her website Ecclesia! (www.susanledoux.net) and here at Wordspinner at www.susan-wordspinner.blogspot.com .  Who knows, there may be a novel lurking in the back of her mind as well. Susan has taught various classes for adults through Greece Continuing Education but her most recent was “Beginner’s Guide to the Writing Life” for the newly established Rochester Brainery. 



Accidents Will Happen

Chapter 6

Jessica returned to the holding cell, heart pounding to the rhythm of her aching head. She needed her vial, and she needed it soon. That stupid detective kept her too long.

The female guard holding her arms in cuffs behind her back muttered, “Can’t believe you killed a fine poet like Professor Trevellian. I hope you rot in hell.” She released Jessica to her cell and slammed the barred door behind her.

Jessica didn’t even try to explain her side of the story. She needed to get to that vial before she passed out.

She dropped to the floor by her cot and shoved her hand into a slit in the mattress. Tiny gray dots filled her vision. “Please, no,” she whispered. Bile coated the back of her throat.

Her fingers brushed cool glass. She almost wept from relief.

She pulled out the vial, cautious not to break it in her desperation to remove it.

Her vision was going in and out now, and sweat dribbled down her temples. She uncapped the vial and slugged its contents. An icy chill swept down her throat. She slid to the floor, waiting for the potion to work its magic, praying she’d taken it in time.

 Within moments, her vision cleared. She no longer felt she might throw up. And her head stopped its incessant pounding.

She sat up, squeezed her eyes shut, and recited Robert Burns’ poem, “A Fond Kiss.”

When she opened her eyes again, Roger stood before her, smiling.

“Good job, my “wee, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie,’” he said.

Meet the author of this chapter:                                  

Kimberly Gore Wehner writes middle grade and young adult novels, perhaps because she’s never truly grown up and always has visions of characters running around loose in her head. Like naughty children, they won’t settle down or do what they’re told. You can find her children’s book, The Miss-Adventures of Amy & Tracy: Dr. Von Thistle’s Curious Concoction, on-line, and follow her personal ventures into the past on: www.klgore.com.



Accidents Will Happen

Chapter 5

Doris arrived at the police station early where she waited for Bucci outside his office. Right on schedule, he came out to greet her, then ushered her into a small room with a table and two chairs.

            When Doris asked why she was being questioned yet again, the detective answered, “Standard operating procedure. I’m just trying to tie up some loose ends.”

            His questions, seemingly perfunctory at first, started to unsettle her when they became more probing and intrusive.

            “Jessica Evans is in custody.  I don’t see how any of this is relevant,” Doris said when Bucci asked her about a recent vacation she and Roger had taken to Hawaii.

            “Well, Mrs. Trevellian, I’m not entirely convinced that Jessica Evans acted alone or even that she is necessarily guilty of anything other than ingesting an illegal substance.”

            “That’s ridiculous. Every guest at the party saw her after… after…”  Doris choked on the words, a tear running down her cheek as she pulled a tissue from her purse.

            Ignoring her distress, the detective continued. “I’m sure you’re aware that your husband recently took out a five-million-dollar life insurance policy on himself.” 

            Caught in Bucci’s unflinching stare, Doris wanted to jump up and run out of the miniscule, windowless room. He was suffocating her with his hot breath and insinuations. Clearly, he was studying her body language, listening to her voice, and assessing her reaction to every comment and question. Could I be a suspect? she wondered.    

            Doris’ cell phone rang and she silently thanked whoever it was on the other end. She excused herself and stepped into the hall, closing the door behind her.

            “Hello.”

            “Do you believe in the afterlife, Doris? Where will we spend eternity?”

            “Conan, is that you?”

            The line went dead.  

Meet the author of this chapter: When Liz Voll is not writing short stories, she is teaching chemistry at Monroe Community College. Her fiction tends toward the romantic, touched with humor and a twist.



Accidents Will Happen

Chapter 4

             Detective Bucci fixed on the green tattoo snaking up Jessica Evan’s left leg into oblivion. “That tattoo. It’s …unusual.”

            “It’s Medieval,” Jessica squirmed, shifting her crossed legs,

             He rose from the interrogation table and gave an encouraging shoulder pat. “What is it?”

            “It’s a merri-coupala vine. Its berries make a love potion. Mrs. Trevellian found a book on medieval medicines. See the red berries?”

            He crouched to examine her calf and wondered how his colleagues behind the glass would replay this down at Salty’s Bar.  Reseated, he scowled fiercely, but spoke secretively. “You know, Jessica, you are in serious trouble.”

            She sobbed until one of her lavish eyelashes soaked off and fell onto the table like an upturned centipede. “

            “Jessica, listen to me.” He grabbed her two forearms and leaned in. “You need to focus here.” Obviously, she was still high. “Tell me the truth, honey. Did you kill Roger Trevellian?”

            That brought another torrent of tears and another dead eyelash. “No. I loved Roger. That’s why I got the tattoo and the love potion.”

            “You got them for Roger?”

            “Yes, but he hated it. He said my tattoo was ugly and ran out of the bathroom.”

            Detective Bucci pushed closer. “You were in the bathroom?”

             “Yes.”

            “With Roger?”

            “Well where else are you supposed to go at a party when you don’t want someone to barge in?”

              “But Roger left?” Jessica sniffed and nodded

              “And what did you do then, Sweetheart?”

              “ I went to the kitchen to find Roger and took the love potion.”

             “Tell me Jessica, where did you get it?” 

             And, what had the overstuffed wife of the deceased said as she plucked the last donut off Bucci’s desk?  

            “If you can bite it, chew it, and swallow it, I want to learn about it.”

Meet the author of this chapter:  Tippi Young is a retired English/theatre teacher, mother of 5, grandmother of 11, and great grandmother of 3. She breeds and shows the Lovin Laces Birman cats, writes plays and currently, her memoir. Her recent collection “Great-Gramma's Dirty Dozen” should be available through Amazon in the future. She may be reached at www.LovinLacesBirmans.com or at tippiyoung@aol.com.



Accidents Will Happen

Chapter 3

            The sound of distant sirens were heard as the guests stared aghast.

            Detective Leo Bucci sat at his battered gray metal desk with the chipped vinyl wood veneer. He stared long at the glowing computer screen reviewing the police report on the Roger Trevellian murder he’d just finished typing.  It was about as open and shut a case as he could remember in his almost twenty years of police work. But something was not right and it irritated him that he couldn’t put his finger on it.

The facts were all there. Jessica Evans clearly had the means, opportunity and motive. She was seen by dozens of reputable witnesses staggering from the kitchen holding the murder weapon. She had been involved in a torrid, not so secret love affair with the deceased.

He pressed the Page Down button and his brows knitted in suspicion. Jessica was higher than a kite on a hallucinogenic drug. He rubbed his chin. The toxicology report stated the drug was unknown. Those boys must be getting lazy. He patted the pockets of his rumpled brown suit and pulled out the shiny Android cell phone and dropped it on the desk. His wife had bought it for him as a Christmas gift and his kids had loaded it with incomprehensible apps. He dug into the same pocket and pulled out a small memo pad and the nub of a pencil. He made a note to drive to the crime lab the next day.

Leo tapped the Page Down button again and leaned back in his chair. The interview summaries were enlightening and confusing at the same time. Academicians sure love to hear themselves talk. He chuckled deep in his throat. In the projects, I would just get a silent glare or some smart mouth backtalk.

Leo checked the first name on the page. Doris Trevellian, the victim’s wife. They were married close to ten years. There’s the obvious love triangle motive but she appeared willing to tolerate the triste. It seems the man had been cheating on her most of their marriage. “But he always came back to me.” She declared defensively during the interview. He rubbed his chin again. The deceased was a well renowned professor and writer; the woman stands to inherit a lot of money.  She did not seem to have many outside interests beyond throwing lavish diner parties for the city’s top social circles. Although he noted she had recently restarted her Masters work on Medieval Studies.

He looked at the next name on the list. Conan Farrell - he was the last person to see Roger Trevellian alive.  The man seemed to have a perpetual sneer on his face. He’s a Professor at the same university and specializes in Irish Literature and Celtic History. Leo grunted. The man made no attempt to hide his disdain for the deceased. It appears they were rivals, and Professor Farrell was quite adamant in declaring that the Pulitzer Prize selection process had become purely political.

Meet the author of this chapter:  John Caligiuri writes primarily historical fiction and has a life long passion for history and literature. His stories emerge from his keen interest in and study of ancient  and medieval Europe and asking "what if" at watershed events in history. His writings are in the style of Michael Shaara (Killer Angels) and Tom Clancy (Red Storm Rising). The research for his books took him deep into the studies of the Roman and Byzantine Empires. John has walked the roads and visited many of the sites referenced in his novels.

Writing is John's second career. He is semi-retired after spending many years developing consumer electronic products. He still assists the U.S. Department of Justice as an image forensic expert witness.



Accidents Will Happen

 

 

Chapter 2

 

 

“Miss Evans?” Professor Farrell slowly approached the wide-eyed woman.  “Where are you hurt?”  

“Not me.”  Jessica slowly turned her head toward the voice.  She shook her head as tears welled in her eyes and spilled onto her cheeks.  The knife dropped to the floor.

“Who then, is hurt?”  Professor Farrell took a step closer to Jessica.  The pale, bloodied student looked like an antique china doll that would shatter with the slightest touch.  Jessica stared blankly at him.  Conan spotted Doris by the cake stand and motioned to her.  “Doris?  Please.” 

Doris threaded her way through the crowd.  “Where’s Roger?” It was typical of him to get into long winded discussions with colleagues about Irish poetry and ignore Doris or the rest of the world. 

“He was waiting by the door when I left the powder room.”  Professor Farrell tapped his watch.  “He told me that I took longer to use the loo than any old lady he’d ever encountered.”  He gestured towards Jessica.  “Stay here, and watch Miss Evans.    I’ll see if I can find your beloved husband.”

“Roger.”  Jessica burst into tears.  She covered her eyes with her hands.  “No!”  She uncovered her face after several sobs.  “It- was- an -accident.” The bloodied co-ed gasped for breath between each word. 

Doris shook her head.   A knot tightened in her stomach.   “I’ll find my husband.”

“I’m coming with you.”  Professor Farrell pulled the wife of another colleague over.  “Molly, please stay with Miss Evans until help arrives.” He moved beside Doris.  “Miss Evans, where is Professor Trevellian?”  

“In the kitchen!” Jessica wailed each word.  To Doris, Jessica’s cry sounded like the call of the legendary Nixie that she’d learned about in one of her Medieval Studies classes.

Doris elbowed her way through the crowd.  The knot tightened in her gut.  Her marriage hadn’t been the happily ever after she had imagined when she dropped out of college to marry Roger.  But, deep down, Doris still loved her husband - even if he didn’t love her.

Professor Farrell followed on Doris’ heels.  Both stopped short once they entered the kitchen. They looked at each other. Doris buried her face in Conan’s chest.

 

Meet the author of this segment: Patricia Embury lives and writes in Rochester, NY. An avid crafter, she blames her passion for crochet and knitting, which involves pointy sticks and string, for her interest in Cozy Mysteries and Christian fiction. She has a craft blog at www.thedizzycrafter,blogspot.com and channels her Labrador retriever at www.thedailywag.blogspot.com.