After the dog tags came in the mail, LaVonna’s mother grew weepy, then dark. When asked she said her husband was a good man who died fighting the gooks. She turned the radio on for LaVonna and retreated to her bedroom to take refuge in his memory. LaVonna was four then.

Life became lean. They surrendered the dog to the family up the street, ate mayonnaise and pickle sandwiches Monday through Thursday, popcorn on Fridays, fried potatoes Saturdays and Sundays. Their electricity was shut off twice, their phone permanently. Her mother worked three jobs and slept endlessly when she was home. Some nights she didn’t come home at all.

Following one such night, looking rumpled but pleased, she woke LaVonna with slurred words. “You need to stop letting life get you down. Where’s that little girl with the pretty, pink cheeks and happy go lucky smile I used to know?” She tweaked her cheek before staggering away in a pair of high heels she hadn’t wore since LaVonna’s father was alive. The hem of her dress was inches above her knees.

She brought him home several weeks later, Mr. Franks. He was lanky and tan with a pocked face, wearing a vest and felt cowboy hat. He seemed a lot older than her.

“So, I guess you’re the little spit-fire your mama’s been telling me about. Put ‘er there, missy.”

She didn’t move until her mother nudged her, then she raised her hand limply.

He shook it, chuckled and looked at her mother. “Well, this should be interesting.”

After Mr. Franks left LaVonna’s mother told her he was divorced and had two kids of his own. He had a place near LeHigh. She didn’t know where LeHigh was, but LaVonna had better start being nicer to him or the two of them were going to have problems. She said she liked Mr. Franks and didn’t want anyone messing things up for her, least of all her own kid.

He started coming around more often. Mostly he ate supper with them, whatever her mother cooked. He stayed overnight when he did, leaving before LaVonna woke the next morning.

He brought his guitar over and played some songs for them, Hank Williams and Tennessee Ernie Ford. Showed LaVonna some chords. He bought her a paddleball for her birthday and told her not to play with it in the house or he’d warm her britches for her. Her mother nodded at everything he said.

One day her mother laid a dress on her bed and said, “Put that on and make yourself look pretty. You’re going to have a special visitor today.”

LaVonna struggled not to let her excitement show. “Who?”

“Never mind who. Just make sure you’re ready when he gets here.”

She put the dress on, brushed her hair and added a couple of barrettes to hold it in place. Her mother squirted several puffs of grownup perfume on her, told her to go into the living room, sit on the couch and wait.

Around noon she heard a honk, rushed to the door and opened it. Mr. Franks got out of his car wearing a suit, bolo tie and polished, cowboy boots.

When he stepped inside, he tipped his hat. Then he bent down and crooked his arm for her to take.

Her mother feigned being upset. “What’s going on here? Are you trying to steal my man away from me?”

He grinned at her. “Now knock that off. You’re embarrassin’ her. Ain’t that right, little missy?”

She stared at him blankly.

He took her to a hamburger joint called Moose’s, ordered her a cheeseburger, fries and milkshake, a beer for himself. While they waited for their order, he smoked a cigarette and watched her. “How would you like it if you and your mama came and lived with me?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know.”

He reached over and tousled her hair she’d spent so much time making look pretty. “I’m a farrier. You know what that is?”

She shook her head.

“I shoe horses for a living. That means there’s always a lot of horses around my place. You like horses?”

She nodded.

He smiled at her in a gentle sort of way like he really cared about her. Like what she thought, how she felt, really mattered to him. And she did love animals. She felt so light she thought she might float off her seat into the ceiling fan overhead. Maybe everything really could go back to the way it had been before her father died. Maybe the three of them could laugh and love and be close the way they’d always been.

That evening after they’d sent her to bed she heard a squeal in the living room, hopped out of bed and ran in there to find them sitting on the couch side by side. Her mother was giggling, admiring the ring on her finger.

She wagged her hand at LaVonna. “Look, sweetie! We’re going to be married! You and me and Mr. Franks and his kids, we’re going to be a family!”

They moved to his place near LeHigh, and he put her to work cleaning out stalls in the barn, toting grain and water and coal, hoeing, pulling weeds, picking beans and digging potatoes. She gathered eggs from the chicken coop and cleaned them to be sold in town. She fell asleep at the supper table repeatedly, until he told her if it happened again she’d go to bed without supper.

His children, a boy and a girl, both older than her by at least ten years, visited whenever their mother let them. They rode the horses, fished in the creek, told funny stories that made their father laugh and slept ‘til noon. She watched them from a distance while they smirked and whispered.

One afternoon after their mother had picked them up and sped off in her Buick she walked back to the house. She felt proud. She’d worked hard, accomplished everything he’d asked her to do that day before supper. She could feel the warmth of his arms around her, his voice praising her for being such a good girl and never complaining.

When she opened the back door, she could hear the two of them talking in the kitchen.

Her mother’s voice sounded pinched. “But why? I don’t understand.”

“They ain’t comfortable with her livin’ here. ‘Said she gives them the willies.”

“She’s shy and never had a real family before. They have to give her a chance.”

“She’s had all the chances she’s gonna’ get. I can’t lose them to their mama, Beth. That bitch’ll rub my nose in it until the day I die.”

“So what are we going to do? Dump her on the side of the road like a dog?”

“I know some people been wantin’ a kid forever. They’ll take her in and be happy for it.”

“Fine. I’ll go too. We’ll both leave.”

“Now don’t start that.”

“I would. If I had money and a place to go I definitely would.”

“Trust me. The Mills is good people, known them all my life. They got a farm out by Buxton.”

“But what about her and me? Will we ever see each other again?”

“I don’t see why not. Buxton ain’t that far away.”

She turned and ran from the house, the screen door slamming behind her. She stumbled across the gravel drive, down the sloping yard to the forge behind the barn. There, beside an anvil and a pile of coal, she cried.

So that’s how it was. People could lie to you, make promises and change their minds whenever it suited them. No one had asked her about any of this or paused to consider her feelings at all. No one seemed to care as long as their lives were unaffected, as long as they could continue living the way they wanted. She was a problem in their eyes, something to be fixed, and there was nothing she could do about it.

Her mother found her minutes later. “I guess that’ll teach you to not to eavesdrop.”

She stared up at her, her face wet with tears, snot trickling out of her nose.

Her mother shook her head. “This isn’t anything to get upset over. You’ll be fine. From what I hear the Mills are good people.”

An education is only as good as the truth it’s founded on.

There was this guy I knew named Jumper. I don’t know why everyone called him Jumper, only that we did.

And one evening Jumper and I were sitting on the patio behind his apartment, a concrete slab that backed up to a large park, lots of wide, open space and dry, brittle grass, the glow from the city lighting everything up. And there was this little bridge in the middle of the park, just a little arched bridge that somebody put there for some reason. I guess it might have been ornamental, because there wasn’t any water under it or anything.

Anyway, while Jumper and I were talking these two guys came walking across this bridge with a couple of dogs, and these dogs kept looking up at them with big, trusting eyes and wagging their tails the way dogs do. And these guys were acting stupid, whooping and laughing like they might’ve been just as drunk as Jumper and I were. And they started teasing these dogs, calling out to them real nice, then shoving them away every time they got close, just pushing them away for no reason. And I imagined it was hurting the dog’s feelings. I mean, how could they know it was all a joke? They loved their masters, but every time they got close they got shoved away like they’d done something wrong.

And all of the sudden I started thinking about my wife and how much she’d always loved dogs, and I yelled, “Hey, Assholes! Knock it off!”

And these guys said something to each other, then one of them flipped us off and yelled, “Fuck you, bitch!”

And that was it. That’s all it took. Jumper and I jumped up and ran across the park and start swinging on these guys for being such douchebags.

The next thing I knew we were sitting on our butts on the frosty ground, and those guys and their dogs were gone. I was foggy and dizzy and could see this bubble of blood expanding out of one of my nostrils every time I breathed, expanding and collapsing, expanding and collapsing.

I looked at Jumper and pointed. “There’s a knife in your gut.”

And he reached down and touched it, and when he raised his hand there was blood all over it. He shivered. “It’s cold.”

His breath rose into the air, and I looked up and realized it was snowing.

I recently rented the movie “The Hours.” It’s an older movie (it came out in 2002) based on the Pulitzer Prize Winning Novel by Michael Cunningham. The plot focuses on three women of different periods whose lives are interconnected by the novel ‘Mrs Dalloway,’ written by Virginia Wolfe. It stars Nichole Kidman (who won an academy award for her portrayal of Virginia Wolfe), Meryl Streep, Julianne Moore, Ed Harris and Clair Danes among others. In all, it was nominated for nine Academy Awards.

As many know, Virgina Wolfe was an English writer who committed suicide at the age of 59. ‘Mrs. Dalloway’ was somewhat autobiographical in that the thoughts expressed by the lead character in the book were synonymous with the way Virginia felt when writing it, plagued by mental illness, depression and thoughts of suicide. I’d highly recommend it though the story is somber, and few will walk away feeling uplifted.

Having said all that, I was blown away by the dialogue in this movie. Writing convincing dialogue is difficult in any form, but the script created for this movie eclipses most produced today. Its ability to convey exactly what needs to be said in a way that’s true and natural and honest is nothing short of amazing. Take a look at this snippet taken directly from the script in which Virginia explains to her husband why the lead character in her book must die. I’ve read it more than twenty times, and I’m still in awe.

Leonard: Why does someone have to die?
Virginia: Leonard?
Leonard: In your book, you said someone had to die.
Virginia: Mm.
Leonard: Why?
[Virginia gazes at the fire thoughtfully.]
Leonard: Is that a stupid question?
Virginia: No.
Leonard: I imagine my question is stupid.
Virginia: Not at all.
Leonard: Well?
Virginia: Someone has to die in order that the rest of us should value life more. It’s contrast.
Leonard: And who will die? Tell me.
Virginia: The poet will die…the visionary.

On Good Friday an angry mob gathers outside Ramil Mengillo’s house, yelling, pounding on his door, threatening to burn him out.

When he finally appears, the mob grabs him, tears his clothes away, whips, beats and binds him to a heavy cross, which he’s then forced to carry five miles along a dusty road to the center of San Fernando. All of this before six in the morning.

It’s what the mob has done every year on Good Friday since 1986, when Ramil, a construction worker by trade, fell from a three-story billboard to a concrete parking lot below. He wasn’t expected to live, but did. His doctors called it a miracle, and newspapers throughout the country carried the story. Priests in that region of the Philippines said there was no doubt he’d been “touched by the hand of God,” something the people of San Fernando never forgot.

Atop a specially prepared ‘Calvary’ in the center of the city, Ramil is pushed to the ground and stretched over the cross. As four inch spikes are driven through his hands and feet, he cries out in agony, again when the cross is hoisted upright. For most of the day he hangs festering beneath the Philippine sun. As his blood spatters the ground, spectators dab their handkerchiefs in it, touching it to their faces and lips.

As always, they are pleased to see him suffer. They spit on him, bite him, curse him, offer him vinegar when he complains of thirst, laugh when it makes him sick. And Ramil wouldn’t have it any other way.

He does it for them, for all mankind, penance for sins the world has accumulated since the last time he was crucified. It’s the least he can do after receiving his miracle. The mob hopes to taste redemption in his blood, prays his pain will grant them salvation for another year. He is their lamb to slaughter, removed from the cross minutes before death.

When it’s over, Ramil remains inside his house for several days. The mob stops to check on him. They bathe him, treat and dress his wounds, offer him food and drink. When the children in his neighborhood play too close to his house they are admonished and sent away. “Ramil must have his rest.”

Later, when they see him in his garden picking chayote, they call over the fence, “How are you doing today, Ramil? Is everything well?”

Ramil looks up and smiles, waves to them with a hand wrapped in bandages white as snow. As always, the chayote tastes richer now that salvation is restored to San Fernando again.

I met Candy years ago when I worked as a manager for a consulting firm. She was one of several minorities employed there. On her first day they brought her around and introduced her to everyone, which was customary for new employees. She smiled, shook my hand, and said hi. I remember how perfect her teeth were, straight as the ivories on a piano and gleaming white (I’ve always had a thing for good teeth, though I’m not sure why). Later, management asked if I’d mind if she worked at a spare desk in my department until they finished organizing a space for her. No problem.

We hit it off. She was younger than me, asked a lot of intelligent questions about the company and genuinely seemed interested in learning. She sought my opinion regarding events occurring in her life, and I offered what advice I could. She told me whimsical stories about her past, and we laughed together, were silly at times.

She was articulate and vulnerable and real, a breath of fresh air in a stagnate setting. I tend to be a private person, but found myself opening up to her more and more over time. She told me she’d dreamed of being a dermatologist, because she was fascinated by skin and people’s complexions. I told her I was intrigued by teeth, had thought about being a dentist at one time.

She was very attentive. If I was working late I’d get a text from her telling me I should go home, that I was giving too much to a company that didn’t appreciate it. We looked out for each other, ate lunch together when we could, checked on each other when we were sick, missed each other when we were on vacation, were glad to see each other when we returned. I keep very few close friends in my life, they take too much time, are too much effort, but I made an exception for Candy. They moved her to her new office, but she didn’t like the color of the walls, so I stayed late one evening to help her paint them. We connected on social media.

One day she complained another manager had made negative comments about a group of ‘minority’ clients we worked for. The manager had complained the group was continually slow about turning in their financial statements, a comment Candy said proved he was racist. I disagreed. I told her I’d worked with the ‘minority’ group before and knew how frustrating they could be, but she protested, saying the manager was a prick, and she couldn’t stand him. I let it drop.

Weeks later she told me her boyfriend had slammed her against a wall in a state of rage, choking her until she thought she was going to pass out.

I was furious, wanted to drive to their apartment and beat the crap out of him. “What did you do?” I asked.

“I told him he was hurting me, and he eventually stopped.”

“Did you call the police?”

“No.”

“I hope you’re going to break up with him?”

She frowned. “Of course not. We’re planning on getting married someday.”

Months later she confided to me she was a cancer survivor, the youngest person in America to survive a very unique strain of leukemia. I searched the internet, but couldn’t find anything about it.

One day she told me she couldn’t remember anything about her life from the age of eight to fourteen.

I frowned. “How is that possible?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. I can’t remember any of it.”

“What about your family? Do your Mom and Dad know?”

“They say they don’t.”

I went home that evening and called a psychologist friend of mine. “Is that possible?” I asked.

“Could be,” he said. “If she received some kind of blunt trauma, an auto accident or something like that. There’ve been cases where it’s taken that long to recover, but surely someone would know if that happened. More likely it’s selective amnesia, if you believe her at all.”

“What’s selective amnesia?”

“It happens to people who are subjected to abuse over an extended period of time. Instead of dealing with the trauma and stress, the mind blocks it like it never happened.”

“You mean like kids who are raped and molested?”

“Exactly.”

“Do you think that’s what happened?”

“You never know until you run the tests.”

The next day I asked Candy about it again. “Have you ever spoken to a doctor?”

“What difference would it make?”

“For God’s sake, Candy, you lost six years of your life.”

She shrugged. “It’s no big deal.”

Our company attended a national convention, and many of us were asked to participate, Candy and myself included. We all stayed at the same hotel that week.

The first night Candy called me from her room in tears, telling me one of the managers was stalking her, calling and leaving messages on her phone repeatedly, wanting to come up to her room. I told her she could hang out in my room if she’d feel safer, and she did. She spent most of the night there talking until we both fell asleep. The following morning, with tears in her eyes, she begged me not to tell anyone what had happened. I finally agreed.

That is until we arrived back at the office and our Human Resource manager called and asked if I knew why Candy had tried to book a different flight back, different than the manager she said was stalking her. Also, somebody had mentioned she’d spent part of the night in my room, which was definitely against company policy. She was my friend, and I’d made a promise, so I squirmed and sweated and blew it off as one big misunderstanding.

That evening I told my wife about Candy and all that had taken place.

She looked at me suspiciously. “You better be careful,” she said.

Shortly thereafter, Candy declared our H.R. Manager was a bitch and two faced. She said she didn’t know how I or anyone else could stand her. She added our CEO was a doofus and a loser. She said she could have him and several other managers wrapped around her finger if she wanted to.

“What do you mean?” I said.

“We girls have our ways.”

“Don’t say that, Candy. That’s beneath you.”

“I’m just saying if I ever wanted to get ahead out here I could. I see the way they look at me.”

That was the first time I felt uncomfortable talking with her.

A year or so later the company made the decision to eliminate my position. They were decent about it, gave me a severance package, and walked me out. I texted Candy immediately and told her what had happened. She walked outside, found me sitting in my truck in the parking lot and climbed inside.

I told her it was a good thing. I was burned out and had been wanting to leave the company for some time, but was too lazy to get off my butt and find something else. This would force me to do what I should’ve done a long time ago. What I didn’t tell her was I felt I’d be abandoning her if I ever did. She told me she’d miss me.

The next morning she called while I was still in bed, telling me she’d been reprimanded by H.R. for joining me in my truck after they’d let me go. She reiterated how much she hated the ‘bitch’ in charge of H.R. as well as the ‘idiot’ CEO. I told her I was sorry I’d gotten her in trouble.

Weeks later I was still receiving calls from her each morning, asking me how I was doing, if I was staying positive, etc. I told her I was fine, that I appreciated her calls, but she didn’t have to do keep doing that. Still, it was nice having a friend who cared.

One day it all stopped. She quit calling, texting, and unfriended me from all her social media accounts. I heard a rumor the company had suggested anyone who was connected to past employees via social media was at risk of losing their job, but I don’t know if that’s true, or even legal for that matter.

A year or so ago, a friend of mine still working there mentioned Candy had finally gotten married to the boyfriend. I hope they’re happy.

Now that time has passed, now that I’ve distanced myself from all that happened, can view things from a different perspective, I’ve realized more about myself than I ever cared to.

I thought about her the other day, her perfect teeth glistening beneath lips shiny with lip gloss, wondered what became of her, where she’s at in life? I honestly don’t know what happened, what’s true and what’s false, or if I ever will. Someone said life brings different experiences, episodes, people and situations into our lives to make us grow. I guess that’s true.

Decades ago I had a friend who made a killing in the stock market. Subsequently, he and his wife decided to purchase a house in a lavish neighborhood in Los Angeles, what was cause for celebration and the wickedest housewarming party ever, so the invitation said.

My fiancé and I flew in, and by the time we arrived the party was in full swing, lots of food being served by maids in skimpy uniforms, a live band, alcohol and cocaine on trays.

My fiancé took one look and said, “Take me back to the hotel. I don’t want to be here.”

I laughed. “Relax, will you? Nobody’s going to make you do anything you don’t want to do.”

“Please?” she begged, but I refused.

Later in the evening, with scads of people mingling and the house growing stuffier by the minute, our host announced he was moving the party outside. He flipped a switch, and an exterior wall rolled back to reveal a swimming pool bathed in pulsing lights.

After the applause ended, we stripped to our underwear and jumped in. I glanced and saw my fiancé sitting by herself in a chair near the front door.

An hour later my friend’s wife asked if I’d help her retrieve another keg of beer from the poolroom. We stepped into the darkened room, and she locked the door behind us. The pool lights shone through a single, marbled window. Suddenly, she turned, shoved me against the wall and kissed me. I reciprocated. Minutes later, as we rolled on the floor, we heard the doorknob rattle. We froze as someone tried again and again. They pressed their face against the marbled glass, and I was certain I recognized my fiancé’s silhouette, swore she looked directly at us before leaving. We emerged with the keg minutes later, and I was relieved to find her chatting with other guests at the bar. She touched my arm as we walked past.

I jumped back in the pool and continued to party. Early the next morning, as guests began to leave, I looked but couldn’t find her. Someone told me she’d complained of a headache and left shortly after midnight, which irked me considering we’d come together. With the remaining guests either passed out or intoxicated, I eventually called a taxi. When I got to the hotel, our room was empty. I tried to stay awake until she returned, but fell asleep on the couch. When I woke again, it was one o’clock in the afternoon. I called her cellphone repeatedly, but only received her voicemail. Alarmed, I finally called her parent’s house. Her mother answered, and her faltering, whispery voice told me all I needed to know. “For God’s sake, please leave her alone.” I never saw her again. Months after canceling our wedding, I spoke to a friend who told me she’d left the country, flown to Germany to resume her studies. She’d always been interested in bacterial science, which was what she was studying when we met, so maybe she’s a doctor now. I can only hope. I have many memories of past friends and acquaintances, all smiling, laughing, nodding agreeably. With her it’s only a tear-stained face I see, a soul damaged by years of deceit and selfishness. More than anything, I believe in forgiveness.

It was sunny the day I went to the house where it all happened.

There was a sign nailed to a post at the end of the drive, ‘No Trespassers Allowed,’ so I pulled onto the shoulder of the road to look, recalling the pictures I’d seen. There were fewer trees lining the drive now, half as many outbuildings, and the house was considerably smaller than I’d imagined.

Suddenly an old woman came from behind the house pushing a wheelbarrow full of grass clippings. She saw me at the end of the drive, set the wheelbarrow down and frowned. I didn’t want to make her paranoid considering all that had happened there, was about to leave when she waved me in. I pulled in slowly as to appear nonthreatening, then imagined that was probably the way the killers had approached the house all those years ago and sped up.

When I got to the house, she was waiting.

“You want to see it?” she said.

“I don’t want to bother you.”

“You’ve already bothered me.”

I got out, and she led me to the side of the house where they’d crouched beside the propane tank, making plans before entering through the side door. It had been unlocked that evening.

We went inside, and she showed me the living room where they’d surprised the family.

“Are you married?” I asked.

“My husband died of cancer six years ago. Son lives in California. Let’s go upstairs and I’ll show you where they did the wife and daughter.”

We went up and saw, then she took me to the basement where they killed the father and son on the couch by the furnace room.

“Do you ever get lonely living out here by yourself?”

“You mean scared?”

I shrugged.

“No,” she said, looking me straight in the eyes. She pointed to the wall. “If you look close you can still see where the shot from the gun damaged the concrete.”

“It was pretty brutal,” I said, because I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“Life is brutal,” she said. “Don’t let anyone tell you it’s not.”

She led me out, and I got back in my truck, took a few pictures with my cellphone, and left.

On the way out of town I pulled into a ‘Stop and Shoppe’ to get a fountain drink. I sat at a little table by the front window and watched a wasp building a nest under the eave outside until I was finished.

To this day the whole thing feels wrong, unresolved, and I don’t know why.

My mother prefers not speaking about an incident that took place one hot summer afternoon decades ago. I was an infant then, cradled in her arms as she sat beside my father in the front seat of their car. My sister and brother were in the backseat behind us. Suddenly, the car heaved, belched and died. With smoke bellowing from its engine, my father allowed it to coast to the side of the road, where it refused to start again. After considering his options, he decided to walk to the next town for help, promising to return shortly. As he disappeared from sight, my mother reached over and locked the doors. Time passed, and she did her best to entertain her children, playing word games and singing songs. Just before dusk, a car pulled up behind us, and a man got out. My mother recalls him as being dressed nicely with a friendly face.

He walked up to the car and leaned down. “You need some help?”

My mother smiled and rolled the window down several inches. “We’re fine, thank you. My husband went for help. We should be okay.”

The man straightened, glanced up and down the road, and bent down again. “What’s the problem?”

My mother shook her head. “We don’t know. We’re hoping he’ll find someone can tell us.”

The man stared at her through the glass. “Is it just the four of you?”

“Yes, but we’re fine. Really we are.”

The man persisted. “Leaving a woman stranded alone on this road is foolish.”

Suddenly, he grabbed the door handle and yanked it. The car trembled, but the lock held. He bent down and glared at my mother, his face twisted with rage, before reaching over and yanking at the back door too. He walked around the car trying each door as my terrified mother pulled her children against her. Eventually, the man returned to his car, but paused long enough to pull up alongside my mother and stare at her before speeding away. She didn’t mention the incident to my father until months later.

Recently, when I asked her why, she looked at me with a mixture of confusion and pain before shaking her head. “We don’t talk about that anymore.” And she turned and walked away.

I never had the connection with Marvie my friends did. That bothered me, because they all said he was a ‘good guy,’ an easy going guy, the kind of guy anyone could get along with. I began to smile and say ‘hi’ whenever our paths crossed in the hallway, sat at his table at lunch and asked him what he’d done over the summer. He seemed amused at my interest, but was polite, said he’d worked in his father’s carnival as he did every summer, barking, punching tickets, operating the rides. His father was too busy managing the business to spend much time with him, so the other ‘carnies’ had taken him under their wing, made him a part of their ‘family.’ When I asked what that was like, Marvie smiled. He said it was a continual party of drugs and alcohol and good music, all of which caused him to forget everything he’d done the night before. He’d wake up shivering and curled into a ball in a backlot in a town he couldn’t remember the name of with dew and puke and alcohol on his clothes and not remembering how he got there, but fun, all of it was fun. “And this.” He flipped open his wallet and showed me hundreds of dollars worth of bills inside. “Holy crap!” My own wallet had never contained more than a few dollars in my entire life! He laughed. “Plus, I get laid every night. You ever been laid, Brad?” I hadn’t. He laughed again and snapped his wallet shut. We were sixth graders. I stopped trying to get to know Marvie after that. He was an oddity, someone who made me uncomfortable, and I avoided him whenever possible. Several years out of school, I picked up a newspaper and read they’d finally caught the person who’d been raping and murdering elderly women around the area. It was Marvie. He’d cut a deal with the prosecutor, agreed to plead guilty to everything if he’d spare him the death penalty. I thought about him recently, found his mugshot on the Internet, a blank face revealing little more than petulant boredom. When his judgement was handed down, some had argued he was guilty of more than anyone knew, but Marvie refused to talk about the matter anymore. I related the whole story to my wife recently, and she frowned. “Why would you tell me something like that?” She was right of course. Some things are better left unturned, things like disgust and anger and sorrow. Marvie and I were never more than acquaintances, and I doubt it would’ve mattered to either of us if we were.

For as long as I could remember, my older sister had wanted a goat. Why she wanted a goat I never quite understood, but she finally got one, two in fact, because she convinced my parents a single goat living in the lean-too at the back of our barn would be lonely. She received them as kids, and each day saw her more enamored as they pranced, butted, leapt, and bleated their way into her heart. She rose early each morning to care for them and grew gravely concerned when the nights turned cold.

During summer days she staked them outside, where they grazed on the wild brougham and dandelions that grew around our farm. Their lives saw my sister grow from a child to a young girl.

One cool morning she staked them under some old cottonwoods, but was reduced to tears when she returned that afternoon. The oldest goat, Nanny, had collapsed, and my sister was unable to get her up again. She found my father, who told her age was the culprit. He said if the goat wasn’t on her feet by that evening he’d have no choice but to put her down. With her eyes puffy and red, she came to me, her younger brother, for help. I promised to find a way.

We searched until we found an old cart behind the shed, and pulled it to where the goat lie. Next, we located an old burlap sack on the floor of the granary, and worked it underneath her. By tipping the lip of the cart to the ground and pulling the burlap sack, we were able to slide the goat onto the cart. By the time my father arrived with his gun that evening Nanny was safely back in the barn. But it didn’t matter.

Despite my sister doting on her for the next two days, hand feeding her slices of apples and carrots, she died anyway. We spent most of the next week in the barn, comforting and drawing comfort from the remaining goat, promising to be there for her in her time of need.

I’m not certain how long we kept our promise. While our intentions were good, my sister was at an age where she was beginning to be noticed by boys, an understandable distraction. As for me, I was preoccupied with thoughts of passing years and the inevitability of death for the first time in my life. It instilled a melancholy that’s been with me ever since. I don’t know why.

I was ten years old the January morning I bundled up and stepped outside to find more than a foot of snow on the frozen ground. The sky was pitch black, and if not for the light mounted on the pole between the house and barn, I wouldn’t have been able to see a thing. I filled several pails with water from the spigot and tromped toward the barn to begin caring for the menagerie of animals kept there. Cutting a path through a foot of new snow wasn’t easy, and I set my buckets down beneath the yard light to rest. The snow was still falling, flakes like cherry blossoms, and I looked up. As the light reflected off the falling particles, I suddenly had the sensation I was rising off the ground. It was a magical feeling, very real, and I stood there for minutes refusing to look away, fearful of breaking the spell. I soared into the night sky toward the moon and heavens and God, no longer a boy forever ahead of himself, bewildered by a world he didn’t understand, but a superhero propelled by a force willing him to be more than he’d ever been before. It was wondrous, and though I’ve felt that sensation several times since (I’m sure there must be a scientific term for it), I’ll never forget that first time, when life was confusing, and a boy of ten believed he could fly.

When I was six I was mesmerized by my baby sister, in awe of her cuteness and size, amazed at the way she won hearts with a smile and a coo. In fact, I might’ve been jealous if my mother hadn’t anticipated that possibility from the start and made sure to include me in nearly every thing she did for her. As a result, I became convinced I could do as much for my sister as any adult if given the opportunity. There came a day when I begged my mother to let me put her down for her afternoon nap. I’d seen my mother do it often enough, cradling her in her arms, singing a soft lullaby while she rocked her in the plush, red rocker. My mother hesitated, but I persisted, and she finally agreed. I sat patiently in the chair while she created a nest of blankets in my lap, then deposited my sister at its center. I wrapped my arms around her, rocked, and sang the sweetest, softest song I could think of while she gazed up at me with blue eyes, sucking her pacifier. Ten minutes later she was still fully awake so I changed the song and tempo of my rocking. In another ten minutes, I called out to my mother that my sister wasn’t cooperating. My mother called back from the kitchen, advising patience was the key. I frowned at my sister, who grinned back and gurgled. I took a deep breath, changed my song and rocking yet again, and continued on for at least another ten minutes, maybe more. I’m not really sure. At some point, my mother slipped back into the room and took my sister from me, humming and swaying until her eyelids drooped and she fell asleep. She laid her in her crib and went back to her work in the kitchen, careful not to wake me. One afternoon when I was six and my sister was a baby, she rocked me to sleep in the plush red rocker.

I knew a boy who relished the thought of going to war. Growing up, he was inspired by movies like ‘The Green Berets’ and ‘The Gallant Hours,’ used to run outside after watching them and storm his father’s tool shed with his plastic machine gun and toy helmet, pretending it was a pillbox that had to be destroyed.

The problem was when he graduated from high school there were no wars to be fought, so he applied for, and was granted, the position of deputy sheriff for a small town in western Kansas. It didn’t last long. Two years later he was charged with prisoner abuse and dereliction of duty and fired. He told me it was the lowest point in his life. Following that he drifted in and out of jobs, trying to find something that mattered.

Then the Iraq War began and everything changed. For the first time in a long time he was filled with optimism, and I was amazed at the change in him. He enlisted and was sent to Fort Sill for training, shipped out three months later. Not long after arriving in Afghanistan the convoy he was traveling in was ambushed, and he watched, terrified, as rockets, bullets, and shrapnel decimated the Humvee he was riding in along with everyone else inside. When he awoke, he found himself lying in the sand, spattered with the remains of his fellow soldiers. He was unharmed physically, but incapacitated emotionally. Doctors diagnosed him with severe PTSD, and he was discharged.

Now he spends his days at the VA Center near his hometown making jewelry out of glass beads, pieces of wood, and polished rocks. I make it out to see him when I can.
Six months ago I sat across from him while he crafted a bracelet out of some copper wire, tiger’s eye, and a pair of pliers. His hands began to shake, and he dropped it all on the table. “You have no idea the hell I went through,” he said.
For some reason, I don’t know why, his comment annoyed me, and I said, “But I thought that’s what you always wanted, wasn’t it, Glen? To go to war and fight?”
He slammed his fists on the table, erupted from his chair, and leaned within inches of my face. “You know what I hate most about you?” he snarled. “You always talk big, but you don’t know shit about life.” Just as suddenly his face grew pale, and he collapsed back into his chair.

I left several minutes later, glancing back as I walked out the door. He was muttering, attempting to thread glass beads onto the wire. Maybe when it was finished he’d sell it or give to a friend, a doctor or nurse who’d helped him when he needed it most, or another veteran who could empathize with all he’d been through, someone who understood his pain and anger, a person who could help him make sense of war and why it did to him what it’s done to so many. Someone other than me.

I walked into a bar in Kansas City the other night and saw somebody I hadn’t seen in years, a guy I used to ride the school-bus with when I was a kid growing up in McPherson, Kansas. I never took the time to get to know him then, maybe because he possessed an aloofness that made me uncomfortable, more likely because I considered myself better than him. I don’t remember the name of the road his family lived on, but I do remember how to get there. Take Old 81 north out of McPherson, turn left at the cemetery road, follow the asphalt until it disintegrates into gravel, the land grows flat and barren, and trees become nonexistent. There, on a desolate piece of land to your left, you’ll see a weary bungalow that may have been green before the wind and dust blasted it gray. This guy’s family eked out a living raising cattle there, though to say they were ranchers would’ve been a stretch. He was older and rougher and thinner (just like me) and when I walked over and asked him if I could join him he didn’t object. We drank our beers and I tried to make conversation, to reminisce, until he finally opened up and told me the happiest times in his life were when he was a boy and his father could afford to stop working long enough to take him and his brother to the stockyards in Kansas City to sell and pick up more cattle. He told me both his parents died of cancer several years after he graduated from high school, that the house burned in an electrical fire not long after they died, that he’d lost track of his brother, and his sister was a single mom raising three kids while working a register at Wal-Mart. After that, he stopped talking and waited for me to respond. I stammered. I had no reply to match the weightiness of what he’d just told me, and he took the last swig of his beer, told me it was good seeing me again, and walked out. If I live to be one hundred I doubt that I’ll ever see him again. I drove home to an empty house that evening (my wife was out with friends). A cold front was moving in, and I took my dog and went outside and sat on the deck in the dark. The temperature dropped, the wind picked up, and it started snowing. I sat there thinking about how unrelenting life can be, how it continues to put you in places you don’t want to be, exposes you to things you don’t want to see, and forces you to react despite your desire to remain indifferent. I’m in my fifties now and still have much to learn.

Some years back, I worked for a company that offered training, consulting, and education, etc. to the public. Times were tough in America, and businesses were struggling. Many of my coworkers and I believed so strongly in what we were doing we gave up countless hours of free time, sacrificed relationships with family and friends, abandoned outside interests, etc. during that period to devote our lives to the company. One day our board of directors, a bloated, whiny group of bumblers, announced they were replacing the current CEO with an individual they hoped could take the company in a new direction. The new CEO was a chubby, oily faced, neophyte who rustled when he walked. Not long after his arrival he stepped into my office one afternoon and announced he was unhappy with the prevalent attitudes in the company, stating employees were too complacent in their positions. He said he preferred a sense of urgency, where employees never knew if they would have their jobs the next day. I seethed as he spoke (it’s amazing how quickly respect can be lost), and I’m certain he had no idea how close he came to losing teeth that day. They let me go several years later, and I’ve never felt more liberated than the day I walked out their door.

If no one worried, we’d all have more energy.

With change, someone always gets hurt. Without it, someone’s always hurting. Choose your poison.

Commonly held perceptions seldom persuade. Yet, tell me a secret and I’ll believe.

Isn’t it true that anything worth having begins with desire? Desire begets passion, which is followed by belief. From belief, commitment emerges. Commitment proceeds courage, which becomes strength, and in order to be strong, truly strong, you must have faith, right? Once we find faith, inspiration is inevitable. Inspired, we learn to empathize, or so I believe. To empathize we must care, and those who care offer forgiveness. With forgiveness comes humbleness, which leads to sacrifice. Sacrifice is an act of selflessness and, of course, to be selfless you must love. So, in order to receive, you must love. Isn’t that true?

Here’s wishing all a Merry Christmas.

I used to wonder what element influenced a person’s personality most throughout life…loneliness, poverty, cruelty, love, wealth, etc.? Now I’m certain it’s the degree of insecurity he/she carries with them at any given time.

Every other year or so my wife and I used to travel to a little known, tropical resort where tourists were wealthy compared to the local population. Our favorite pastime was to join other tourists on the island’s only pier just before sunset and watch the sky flower with color. Awaiting the golden hour, we sipped cocktails, made small talk, and threw coins into the water for the local children to dive after. The water at the end of the pier was at least fifty or sixty feet deep, and I’ve no doubt the coins the children retrieved were a major portion of their families income. The practice was so popular there were actually change machines set up in the resort specifically for that purpose. The lines began forming in front of them immediately after supper, a fistful of quarters for an hour’s worth of entertainment. One evening we watched a beautiful brown skinned boy of about five or six dive into the water chasing a quarter the couple next to us had thrown. Five minutes later we continued to stand there stupidly, awaiting his return. Early the next day we were awoken by a mournful wail rising over the beach, a sound I’ll never forget. We never returned.

When riding in a car and approaching a stoplight, there is that moment after braking you expect to feel a final lurch as the vehicle comes to a stop. If that moment never occurs, if you never sense that satisfying final jerk, something feels wrong, as though you’ve been robbed of the most important component of a good stop. And just like that my day is off kilter…

I heard a drum and began to march. A saxophone made me snap my fingers, a trombone made me tap my foot, a clarinet made me sway, and a piccolo made me skip. I thought I was happy. However, I eventually realized it was all just noise in my head, so I sat on the curb and felt better after the band had passed.

I’ve been thinking a lot about God lately, though I’m not sure why. Wondering why He’s chosen to bless my life as He has, opening and closing doors as He sees fit. Truth is, I complain far more than I have a right to, or that I’d like to admit. I realize I’m only human, but I wish I had the strength to change that about myself. I’m sure going to try. Here’s wishing all of you a blessed autumn season.

They say, “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger…” I don’t agree. Some things that didn’t kill me came so close that they’re still damaging. They didn’t make me better. Some things made me worse. And can’t that be okay too? Can’t some things just break you? This whole ****ing world wants you to believe that admitting defeat makes you weak. For God’s sake, bleed. And bleed openly. There can be pride in vulnerability. Honesty is maturity. And really, it’s the things that did kill me that made me.

~ J. Raymond ~

Don’t try to change people. Make a realistic decision about where they fit in your life based on who they are, not who you want them to be.

The things that excite you are not random. They are connected to your purpose. Follow them.

He said, “One life on this earth is all that we get, whether it is enough or not enough, and the obvious conclusion would seem to be that at the very least we are fools if we don’t live it as fully and bravely and as beautifully as we can.

~ Frederick Buechner ~

If you want to grow your business, don’t summon your employees to the conference room to divide work and give orders. Instead, paint a picture of what the future could be, teach them to yearn for distant shores and greatness.

The reason people find it so hard to be happy is that they always see the past better than it was, the present worse than it is, and the future less resolved than it will be.

Life doesn’t always need to be the way we think it does for us to be happy. There are alternatives. Consider them.

Review your story again, checking each sentence to insure it’s structured correctly and pulls its own weight. Is the information conveyed clear and concise? Is wordiness an issue? Have you avoided adverbs and adjectives whenever possible, i.e. did the boy “run quickly through the woods,” or did he “sprint through the woods?” Did you vary the lengths and patterns of your sentences to avoid repetition? Do they reflect the true order of the way things occurred? If some sentences were omitted altogether, would anything crucial be lost? Once you’re confident all of these issues have been addressed you’re ready to proceed to the fourth draft.

Every person has their own proven, virtuous, moral reasons for living the way they do, though they’re seldom universal. It’s sad to think our only hope for harmony is to focus on the banalities of life.

Never allow yourself to die in the fight. No matter how tired, how beat, how hurt you are, hold on to life. Lose the battle if you must, but live to fight another day.

Review each scene, checking to make sure it advances your plot, that your character’s situation changes, and actions/events take place in the correct order. Ensure there are no redundancies, that your character’s intent is made clear to the reader, and the scene is relevant. Remember, a light touch is better than a heavy hand regardless of the genre, and a lack or occurrance of any of these items is cause to revise or omit.

Don’t worry about the sentences you’re writing. Just tell the story.

Talent is commonplace. There are millions of talented people in the world who have less than you and I. Also, discipline, passion, education, etc. And then there’s Perseverance. More than anything, Persevere.

However fleeting, the truth can usually be found in the middle of right and wrong, between good and evil, and always clearest in the mind of the believer.

Some of you may have noticed this website has undergone a change in recent days. As such, I’m hoping your visits here are more enjoyable, easier to navigate, and a lot more productive. Please take a look around, try the bells and whistles, and ‘like,’ ‘follow,’ or comment if you’re inclined. Any input, positive or negative, is always welcome.

Many thanks and best to all, Brad Ratzlaff

In John Howard Lawson’s book, Theory and Technique of Playwriting, he states dramatic dialogue should always be “a compression and extension of action.”

In other words, everything your characters say should be an attempt to advance their agenda, either immediately or long term.

Beginning and novice writers often make the mistake of believing ‘dialogue’ in and of itself suffices for action and are disappointed when it fails to elicit the desired response. Why? Because more often than not it isn’t agenda driven.

Take a look at this example:

“So what do you think, Lloyd?’

“It’s hot out here today, Butch.”

“That ain’t no lie.  And it’s not even June yet.”

“I  bet you could fry an egg on the sidewalk if you wanted to.”

“I don’t doubt it for a minute.”

“Yep.  And it’s supposed to be even hotter tomorrow.”

As compared to:

“You’re not going to make this easy are you, Irene?”

“I’m afraid not, Sheriff. Take one more step and I swear I’ll pull this trigger.”

“You don’t mean that. Put the gun down, tell me where the child’s at, and let’s end this thing.”

“I can’t do that. I’ve been doing that all my life and look at where it’s got me.”

“Do you really want to sacrifice everything for a kid that’s not even yours?”

“Keep coming and you’ll find out.”

See the difference? Whereas both examples show characters in action (speaking), only the second indicates ‘agenda’ driven speech This is the only type of dialogue that should appear in your manuscript unless there’s a very specific reason otherwise. Everything else should be cut. Hope this helps.

Best to all,

Brad Ratzlaff

Far from the mysterious malady it’s made out to be, ‘writer’s block’ is nothing more than a writer’s inability to exceed his or her current skill level. As opposed to feeling frustrated or disheartened by this phenomena, writers should take heart knowing they’re pushing the boundaries of their knowledge. If a practicing writer doesn’t experience some degree of ‘writer’s block’ at least several times a year he or she isn’t trying hard enough.