Tag: love

Arrows

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excerpt

Although she had suffered terrible humiliation at the hands of
Gregorio, and possibly Baruta, there was nothing weak about her.
She was undefeated, strong. Like the jaguar, I thought, bold and
proud. Perhaps Tamanoa found her independent spirit was
unbecoming for her sex.
As she bathed, Apacuana told us more. The night before,
apparently Baruta had gone to the river looking for her in vain.
When she returned, they argued, for she had told him she was going
to get water; instead, she went to feed me. That night she had cried in
my arms because Baruta wanted to take her with him to Suruapo,
Guacaipuro’s village up in the mountains, as his woman. Apacuana
had refused and ended up telling him she did not want to marry
him, at least not yet. Baruta had reached for the macana, intending to
hammer some sense into his betrothed.
As I had guessed, Baruta had pressed Yulema into talking. She
sang like a nightingale, telling him everything except the precise
whereabouts of the cave. Instead she had led him off the track,
thereby allowing time to forewarn Apacuana. Fuming with his
inherited hatred of white men, Baruta had set off to find me, but he
had looked further east of the river.
“Will Baruta keep looking for us?” I asked.
She thought not. Guacaipurowas anticipating Paramaconi’s answer
with the greatest urgency, and so Baruta’s duty to his father would
have to take precedence. It was very important business, Apacuana
told us. Paramaconiwas being summoned to a war council in Suruapo.
The meeting would take place very soon, in a matter of days.
All the principal caciques of the region were being called upon to
unite forces in a major attack against Losada in the valley of San
Francisco.
I waded further downstream where I might discreetly disrobe
and wash my privates. I was obliged, by my race, to warn Losada,
but Apacuana had just run away from her betrothed because of me,
she had been raped by Gregorio, and I couldn’t possibly take her
back to the valley of San Francisco.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0981073522

In the Quiet After Slaughter

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But their censure didn’t weaken her resolve. She savoured my
father’s embarrassment — and cursed his having been conceived
every step of the way home.
He drank with old navy buddies at one of the Canadian Legion
branches and foolishly denied doing so. He attempted to disguise
the alcohol on his breath with Halls Cough Drops. Tobacco fumes
clung to his clothes like an invisible lint. Sometimes my mother
alleged the scent of woman.
On occasion, it was true, my father would take off for a few days
—to where, no one knows. Going absent without leave guaranteed
an intensified resumption of their conflict at some future date. The
air in our house crackled in anticipation of the rematch.
Once, to regain entry, he claimed to have gone angling with
friends.Mymother circled him warily, a dog sniffing a fire hydrant.
– Lying bastard!
Punishment often entailed his eviction from their bedroom. Banishment
could stretch from three days to three months, depending.
He appeared relieved to be sentenced to an air mattress on the living-
room floor. Because mybrother Burt and I often took myfather’s
side, it was self-serve in the kitchen until a truce was reached. Our
body weights fluctuated accordingly.
I viewed my father’s carousing like this: he was born during the
First World War and orphaned in the Depression. He spent the best
part of his 20s fighting the Second World War. I reckoned the occasional
disappearance was his way of making up for lost time.
People sometimes remarked that my parents seemed to have little
in common. This may have been the case. But there had to be a reason
they were able to cohabit for as long as they did. I think they
were joined together, as many unions are, by the sum of their unfulfilled
expectations, and because as the years passed, options
decreased and habits fossilized.
My parents, you see, were either in love or at war. Rancour
seemed an aphrodisiac. There was no Switzerland, no neutral
ground. It was the one thing they seemed to agree on: the enemy of
love is indifference.
My mother, in anticipation of their evening fete, had passed the afternoon
tethered to the dresser. Her features had been transformed by …

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562874

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00731WSPE

Swamped

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Eteocles in grade two and Nicolas in grade four. It doesn’t
take them long to gang up with other kids, but because they are newcomers,
some of the other children start picking on Eteocles, choosing
him because he is the smaller of the two. Sometimes they push
him against a wall or block from going down the stairs before others.
Sometimes they try to intimidate him with threats. This goes on until
Nicolas discovers what is happening, and after he finds out who the
ringleader is, he rewards him with a few good punches on the stomach
and head. These make the third grader start howling, and Nicolas
ends up in the principal’s office and is suspended from school for two
days. It is his first suspension, but more will follow as the days and
years go by.
Within only a couple of weeks, the two brothers have done all
their exploration of the immediate area, made new friends in the
neighborhood, and become familiar with all the surroundings. They
like their new neighbourhood, but especially the water pump they
call touloumpa. Eteocles loves to work its lever and draw water from
the depths of the earth. He loves the freshness of the cool well water
and with some practice gets good at working the lever with one arm
while drinking the refreshing water out of the palm of his other hand.
Another favorite spot is by the two big trees about a hundred meters
from their house where all the boys and girls of the neighborhood
play their favorite characters, Tarzan and Jane, Gaour, and Tatambou,
and all the other heroes, the detectives, the resistance fighters during
the German occupation, all the daring characters they know so well
from their comic books.
Every Sunday afternoon their parents take the boys down to the
promenade by the Gulf of Salonica where they walk from west to
east, usually stopping near the White Tower where their dad buys
them ice cream during the hot summer days or roasted chestnuts
during the cold days of autumn and winter. This is the only entertainment
they can afford, but the boys love it every time, even if the
scenery is always the same and the long walk tires them out especially
on the uphill walk back to their suburb of Sikies.
Today, like any other Sunday, after they attend mass at the local
church and have their noon meal at home, their mom tells them …

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08WP3LMPX

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562976

Ken Kirkby, Warrior Painter

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To have the warmth and companionship fade away now that he had time
to devote to her in the pursuit of her dreams seemed to be nothing short of
cruel. Whatever it took to appease Karen would be done.
~~
Now, in Bowser, Ken was faced with the sudden realisation that he had
been living life on autopilot. It was a severe jolt for the man who prided
himself on being attentive at all times to what was going on, both within
himself and in the world surrounding him. As a quicksilver dawn slipped
above the scattering of islands offshore, Ken made a fresh pot of coffee and
realized he’d made a breakthrough. It had been a long night coming to grips
with the situation. Self-awareness was a fundamental state of mind for him,
but as he replayed the recent years, he could identify countless occurrences
that had ultimately reduced him to this astonishing loss of control.
His elusive mind was stubborn in its refusal to follow an orderly chain
of thoughts, and he became aware that for months, perhaps even years,
his overloaded brain had taken refuge in the distractions provided by an
intelligent mind. No matter how vigorously he attempted to discipline it to
the process, it slid sideways into something less conflicting.
The act of thinking had become busy work, necessary in order to avoid
the bleak despair that filled him, most especially intensified when Karen had
withdrawn. But he now recognised it was an escape mechanism that needed
to be meticulously managed. For the first time in a long while, he was
looking with a clear eye at the core of his anguish rather than retreating from
it. Gradually he was being filled with certainty that, with this awakening, he
was exactly where he should be.
My real job now was to be painstaking in programming my healing,
much as I did in Portugal when my dad turned the problem of beating
my recurring childhood illness over to me.
Ken was frequently ill in his early years. Although no medical expense
was spared, the ailment remained unnamed. He had grown weaker, thinner
and yet more tired following relocation from Britain to Spain. However,
in his mother’s Spanish culture, weakness—whether physical or mental—
was never to be acknowledged. It was only after the family rejoined Ken’s
dad in Parede, Portugal that the six-year-old was permitted to articulate…

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00CB8W4CG

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562902

Arrows

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She was scrutinizing me as though willing herself to see
my soul.
Her hand came up to my cheek, and her thumb followed the line of
my cheekbone. An insurrection was taking place inside me. I wanted to
be close to her. Closer. My hands hurt with desire to touch her. My
breathing became jerky, and I felt myself grow hard in the way I knew I
must not, and the urge to satiate that hunger was ruining my
judgment. She said something, but I could only admire the fascinating
movements of her mouth—a ripe fruit, sweet and yielding.
Thank God she buried her face in my neck, though her breath,
warm on my skin, only added to the mayhem inside me, for it gave
me the time I needed to rally my wits about me. I pushed her softly
away. “Noli me tangere,” I breathed in Latin. Do not touch me. Her
big, dark pupils looked up at me, searching my face. I swallowed
awkwardly, conscious of the movement of my throat. “Chi’ka,” No, I
added in Carib. But it came out more like a strangled plea.
She knelt back, her hand on my thigh. I pushed it off, noticing as I
did the stake lifting my frock obscenely. She saw it, too. I pushed my
knees up, giving my privates the only touch and pressure they
would get. I breathed deeply, swaying softly back and forth.
Thoughts of Jesus on the Cross, at Calvary, flooded my mind,
slowing my heart.
Apacuana left me, a bit confused, I dare say, by my pushing her
away as I did. She fumbled for a long time at the entrance, building
some sort of barrier. I found it a sweet demonstration of her care for
me, but then began to worry she might have a more solid reason for
taking such precautions. I was left with a small fire burning and
enough kindling within reach to feed it.
I slept like the dead but woke up suddenly, certain I had heard
something. I tossed a handful of twigs into the glowing embers and,
moving gingerly, poked the fire until a timid flame revived. I
listened with expectation. Had I dreamed it? No, there it was again,
as if someone were shuffling at the entrance. My spirits lifted at the
thought of Apacuana’s return. But why not come in? I called to her.
Was it perhaps a beast instead?

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0981073522

Small Change

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a sweet humming whisper and my fingers closed around the aluminium body shutting off the little air holes that made it sing. I stuffed it into my shirt pocket and my fingers brushed against the last Spud menthol I’d forgotten to smoke that afternoon after baseball. I pulled it out and straightened it carefully into a limp tube that dribbled dry tobacco from its open end. Scary stuff, lighting up in front of your own house, but what the hell. My scalp came alive with little electric maggots, wriggling. I found some matches in my pants. The end of the Spud flared and settled into a hot core that let sparks off in the breeze when I sucked on the cork tip. I put one foot up behind me against the fence, and the movie came on in my head. My eyes narrowed; my ears sifted the sounds of the city for clues.
Then suddenly they were there, the big boys.
Joey comes up to me, all excited and talking like he wants everybody on the block to hear.
“’ey, Georgie, Pasquale wants you to go to D’Amato’s an get im four cansa Ballantine ale.”
He presses a damp, crumpled bill into my palm and says it again.
“Your nonno, ‘ey, he wants you to get ‘im four Ballantine’s.”
He winks at me, and gives me an elbow. He laughs. His eyes are heavy lidded and his face is damp with sweat. He’s been talking loudly at me so the neighbours can hear, and now he makes a face that says to his buddies, it’s cool, don’t sweat it. I remember that look from dozens of Saturday matinees. I feel the damp currency in my hand. I know there’s something wrong with all this, but I can’t figure it out. Then he bends close to my ear and tells me to meet them in the park.
Sometimes Nonno Pasquale would come and stay with us. On a shelf in the pantry he kept this little tin pail with a lid he’d give me to go and get beer in. The guy behind the bar at D’Amato’s, Gioffo, an old guy, but not as old as Pasquale, always thought I was worth a smile, this little kid with a beer pail, and he knew my nonno from years ago, so he’d wink at me and fill it up and give me a Sarsparilla on the house, and I’d run back home so the foamy draft wouldn’t get warm in the sun, and my grandfather would laugh and give me a nickel, and pinch my cheek and tell my mother what a prize she had for a son.
But I never saw him drink from a beer can, ever. Or even a bottle. Still, it was tonight, and they were having a party in there, and what did I know. So I marched importantly into D’Amato’s Bar & Grill.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763157

The Unquiet Land

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“And what would you have done,” she asked, “if you had gone to my room and found an empty bed?”
Michael paused. He smiled to himself and said, “No matter. I’d have slept in it anyway.”
“Even if I wasn’t there?”
“Why not?”
“You’re teasing, Michael Carrick. Wouldn’t you come to find me?”
“How would I know where to look? I would never have guessed you were up here all alone on this dark hillside.”
“I told Mother Ross. She was listening for you. She knows your tread on the stairs.”
“Weren’t you afraid?”
“Oh no. Mother Ross knows all about us now.”
“No; I mean, weren’t you afraid coming up here alone?”
“What is there to be afraid of, Michael? I was born on this farm. I grew up in these hills. I know them as I know my own body. I know every stone, every boulder, every thorn bush and clump of whin.”
Caitlin’s arm came out from under the rug, and she raked the ashes with the blackened stick. “The whin bushes are getting more flowers,” she said. “In a couple of months the whole hillside will be blazing with them. Did you smell them in the air when you came up the loaney?”
“No. There aren’t enough yet to give out a smell.”
Caitlin tapped the glowing end of the stick on the hearth-stone and watched the fluster of sparks disappear. “They don’t smell like flowers even when there’s a lot of them,” she said. “I don’t suppose you’ve ever noticed that.”
Michael sat with his chin on her shoulder, his cheek pressed against hers. “What do they smell like?”
“They smell like bodies,” Caitlin replied. “They smell like love-making.”
Michael let his hands run down along the line of Caitlin’s arms and then held her round the waist. The rug rumpled up, baring her feet and her knees. He kissed her neck and her ear.
She twisted her body below the rug and kissed him on the lips.
“What were the things you had on your mind tonight?” Michael asked nervously as Caitlin turned her face back to the fire.
Her eyes stared at the yellow flames. “Padraig. You. My father. The future.”
“And the past?”
https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763203

Arrows

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She could barely restrain herself from making a second
public accusation.
“You might get the answer to your question if you asked our
friend, Gregorio,” I replied, looking at Gregorio instead of Josefa.
Gregorio immediately understood. He grabbed Josefa by the arm
to forcibly remove her. I stood rooted to the ground, hoping he
would drag her away and that could be the end of it. But Josefa
remained feisty and broke away from him, running to me with a
pained expression. She leaned forward and whispered devilishly in
my ear, so that only I could hear. “I know what happened at the
river,” she said. “I know everything. I know you let her touch you!”
I jerked back from her, as though she had slapped me in the face.
The servant, she had seen me, and Josefa could barely contain the
power she had over me. There was no point in trying to deny
anything. I walked away, horrified by Josefa’s misplaced jealousy,
and dumbfounded by my inability to eradicate her secret
knowledge.
Right then, I decided I did not want to learn whether Apacuana
had bitten Josefa or not. There was a part of me that hoped she had.

In the morning, when Losada was notified of the incident, he
preferred to dismiss it as mere female hysteria rather than discern
which party was responsible. It was the prudent decision: to
concentrate on completing his negotiations with the cacique Chacao.
After mass, Losada ordered the captives brought to him and untied.
“We want to be your friends. You see we have not harmed you,”
Losada told Chacao. “We can decide to do this in peace, or we can do
it in war. We are powerful. To show you my goodwill, I give you all
your people back.”
Chacao was a middle-aged man with deep lines running down
the sides of his nose to his mouth in a permanent scowl. He did not
answer, just stood there, hands folded in front of him. It was
important for him not to appear grateful for Losada’s benevolence.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0981073522

Still Waters

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man of the board. As she returned to her place, she blinked back
tears. Suddenly, the stress and excitement of the last few days – even
the last few months – overwhelmed her. The culmination of three
years of nurses’ training, the anxiety over her parents’ animosity towards
the man she loved, the disappointment that one of her two
best friends could not be graduating tonight, all gathered into a river
of tears that rose in Tyne’s throat and threatened to gush from her
eyes. Panicked, she darted a glance at Moe, and was saved by another
broad wink and a cheeky grin from her friend.
Good old Moe. Thank you, kid.
As graduate after graduate walked to the podium, Tyne tried not
to think of Carol Ann who should be with the nurses in the last row,
soon going forward to receive the coveted diploma. But, thanks to
Bryce Baldwin, Curly’s dream had died with her unborn child.
Tyne tried to shake the negative thoughts. After all, Bryce had not
acted alone, and Curly must certainly have been a willing partner.
And it was hardly his fault that she had resorted to the measures she
had to get rid of the baby. He had suggested she get an abortion but
he could not make her do it.
Tyne now remembered that a few days after her confrontation
with Dr. Baldwin in the nursery, she had begun to harbour guilt
feelings about the anger she felt towards him. She had finally gone
to confess her uncharitable thoughts to a priest. Father O’Malley
had been stern, and had given her much greater penance than Tyne
thought she deserved. She left the confessional with equally negative
thoughts about the priest, and for a moment she wondered if she
should go back and confess that, too.
However, only hours after her confession, the anger began to surface
again. This time, Tyne told herself she had a right to be angry.
After all, was there not such a thing as righteous anger? Had not Jesus
been angry with the money changers in the temple? So why should
she not be angry with Bryce Baldwin after the way he had treated her
friend?
But she found no peace from holding the grudge, and she recognized
that Morley’s influence was having an impact on her conscience.
Jesus had told his disciples they must forgive. Not seven
times, he had told Peter, but seventy times seven. Tyne finally realized
that she had to forgive Dr. Baldwin.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763068

The Circle

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incinerated bodies, and pain. Then she remembers the body of a man next to
hers and she is being violated. Her mind, suddenly feels as if it is exploding when
she realizes what had really happened.
She turns to Matthew and says, “So, you have come to enjoy necrophilia
these days, Matthew Roberts. You must be really desperate. You obviously
couldn’t wait until morning.”
He turns looking at her with a smile.
“You looked so attractive, sweetheart, I couldn’t resist.”
Suddenly the room becomes dark and an explosive anger overtakes her
whole body; her eyes darken and her heart accelerates in a frenetic rhythm as if to
break through her chest and run away, burning everything in its path.
“Of course, you couldn’t resist using your weekend whore. That’s what you
always do, five minutes for your pleasure; five minutes is always enough for you
to find your manhood at its peak. The thought of how you view lovemaking
makes me puke,” she yells.
He’s flabbergasted by her outburst; he has never seen his Emily in this state of
mind. This is not his Emily, the quiet calm person he has known all those years.
She screams from the depths of her larynx and her voice carries such disgust,
such pain, such nausea that his eyes and mouth open wide and he doesn’t know
what to do or say. Suddenly, he interrupts her.
“What is it, sweetheart? Why all this commotion?”
“Don’t sweetheart me! Don’t you ever dare sweetheart me again, Matthew
Roberts. I’ve had enough of that. I have had enough of that, do you hear me? I’m
not your sweetheart or your weekend whore, anymore!”
He ducks down as if expecting her to throw something. He has never seen her
this way. He becomes apologetic.
“What would you like me to do, Emily?”
But her anger is so fierce and unappeased that she can no longer think logically.
She yells out her frustration and pain, “When you come to the point of violating me
when I’m asleep, I don’t know what you want me to say, Matthew. You are
despicable! You make me sick! Yes, my God, how you make me sick! I don’t even
want to look at you anymore.Why the hell do I put up with your crap all the time?
For the stupid salary you earn; for the stupid agency you work for; for the stupid life
you and I lead? It makes me sick to think of all that. Yes, Matthew Roberts, it makes
me sick! You make me sick. I want you out of here. Are you listening to me? I want
you out of here, out of my life! I’m not your weekend whore, anymore. Go, go to
your stupid hotel where you spend every day of the week. You may as well spend
your weekends there. Why did you come here? For your five-minute fuck?” The
tears course down her cheeks, and she wonders why she has not revolted before?

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0978186524