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July 16, 2019

THURSDAY’S CHILD

By

Suzanne Burke.

Copyright 2019.

She hadn’t really intended this to happen. Oh, sure, she’d thought about it often enough, but thinking about something didn’t make it a crime. A convergence of circumstances had prompted her choice. Regret was such an outmoded commodity.
She checked her latex gloves fit well and flicked her dark-eyed gaze across to where Peter Cameron lay, still and silent. “You brought this on yourself, Peter. Did you think me a complete fool?”
Carol moved across to the edge of the bed and stood over him. She reached down and flicked the blonde hair back from his forehead, then gently rested her hand there.
“You’re cold. Shall I fetch you a blanket?” Her laughter soothed her.
The man’s eyes were now open, and Carol reveled in the fear she witnessed in their blue depths. “Ah, there you are. How do you feel?” She laughed again. “Oh, silly me. You can’t feel anything. Can you? Such a handy little drug, and no taste I believe, especially in your malt whiskey.”
Peter Cameron’s blue eyes registered the words and Carol watched on as he commanded his brain to activate his fingers, his arms. He had no control of his voicebox. His brain refused to obey. He remained still.
“Oh, don’t fret so, darling. You’re not going to die … yet. The paralysis will last just long enough for my needs. It’s all in the timing. You need to helplessly contemplate what I may have in store for your immediate future.”
Carol walked away from him, and headed for the bar, whistling happily in anticipation. She placed his used glass and the bottle of Glenfiddich into her handbag, then poured a stiff belt of bourbon into a paper cup, and seated herself comfortably on the sofa in the large living room and admired afresh the warm ambiance of her surroundings.
“The best that all my money could buy.” Her voice brought her comfort.
She drained the cup and refilled it. When empty she crumpled it and placed it alongside the other items now concealed in the bag.
The wall clock reaffirmed that she had an hour remaining before company arrived. She nodded in satisfaction and rested.
With twenty minutes remaining she stood and checked on her captive one more time. “Not long now.”
A low groan came from the bed.
Carol gently stroked his cheek. “Are you terrified, my darling? Your eyes tell me you are. Good. That’s as it should be.”
Carol smiled in satisfaction and left the room, content to wait this out for a few minutes. At exactly 11.02p.m she heard the front door open and close again. A musical female voice called out, “Peter? Darling, where are you?”
Carol listened carefully from her dark space in the hallway. She held her breath as the woman came into view and she watched her enter the master-bedroom in search of her lover.
“Waiting in bed for me, darling? That’s different. I thought we were going to share a late supper.”
The woman sounded disappointed.
“He can be very disappointing. I agree.” Carol said from the doorway.
The woman jumped in fright and managed to say “Oh, my God. I’m not, that is, we aren’t, this isn’t.” She shut her mouth when her frightened eyes took note that her lover’s wife was standing in front of her wearing latex gloves and aiming a gun at her head.
“It isn’t what? An affair? Oh, please. Do you expect me to believe that you’ve come here to my home every second Thursday at 11.00p.m for 3 months to do something innocent? Go ahead, enlighten me. I’m a reasonable woman. Convince me I don’t have a reason to hate you.”
“Please! I’m so sorry. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“Oh, no, Thursday’s Girl. It means everything. The others meant nothing to him, therefore I ignored them. Ah, but you, you’re different. Turn around, let me take a closer look at you.”
Carol walked across to the shaking woman and prodded her with Peter’s handgun. “I said turn around.”
The younger woman nodded and hurriedly complied.
“He does love a tight ass. Long legs too. That’s always a bonus.”
“He doesn’t care about me. It’s a … a fling.”
“Nice try.”
“I’ll end it and never see him again. I promise. I’m sorry, please. Let me go.” The woman was sobbing now.
“Don’t you want to know how I know your special?”
The woman shook her head. “I’m not ….”
“Shut your stupid mouth and listen!” Carol barely controlled her anger and shoved the nozzle of the Glock into her rival’s chest.
She drew a deep calming breath and lowered the gun slightly. “I know, because he’s been happy. Happier than he’s been for many years. The only thing that’s different in his life since the advent of his peculiar behaviour is you!”
Carol fished inside the pocket of the coat she was wearing and drew out a small velvet box. “He brought you this little diamond trinket from Caliago. His jeweller of choice. It’s an engagement ring for you, Thursday’s Girl. The ring size is smaller than mine, and besides I only wear emeralds. My contact at the jewellers tells me it’s worth upwards of one million dollars. I do hope it’s insured. Give me your hand. Let’s try it on for size.”
The hand the woman held out was shaking. Carol nursed the gun and held out the jewelry box. “Now place it on your finger. Don’t be stupid enough to flex your hand. Slide it on.”
The diamonds glistened as the ring slid into place perfectly.
“And lastly, should you think me presumptive, then don’t. You see our darling Peter visited our attorney to get the ball rolling for divorce proceedings. I can only wonder that he made such a stupid mistake. Our attorney was the one I recommended twenty-years ago. He earns every cent of the additional fees I pay him every month.”
Peter groaned again from the bed and his lover stood there watching on, too afraid to move.
Carol smiled. “How tragic love is. How very sad that you came here to end your relationship. Peter Cameron had never been denied anything in his life. He couldn’t take the rejection. He apparently decided that if he couldn’t have you, then nobody would.
The woman began to scream, and Carol laughed with pleasure. “Oh, yes, scream. Go right ahead! We do love living out here. There’s righteous freedom in having no near neighbors.”
The woman was still sobbing as Carol sat next to Peter on the bed and shot her three times in the chest. She calmly watched as the body was flung backward by the impact and dropped to the floor.
Carol gazed down on her for long enough to see the faint hold on life vacate her eyes.
Carol checked the spandex gloves, satisfied that they’d worked as they should. She placed the weapon down for a moment as she removed the other things that she’d need from the bureau.
Peter’s arm felt like a dead weight as she wrapped the tourniquet around his upper bicep. The veins responded beautifully, and Carol inserted the syringe and watched in fascination as her husband’s body jerked several times. She watched him begin to foam at the mouth. She watched him die. “Heroin is so deadly if you don’t get the dosage just right. I believe it’s referred to as a ‘hot shot’.
She placed the Glock in his right hand and checked to ensure the trajectory married up with the bullet’s impact on his dead companion. Carol squeezed his fingers closed around the weapon with his finger on the trigger, then let his arm drop and the gun lay loosely in the dead hand.
Carol stood back and admired her handiwork. Content now she hurried outside.
She ran to her car secreted behind a tall stand of trees and drove it into her driveway, behind the visitors Porche. She let the car idle and punched in 911 on her iPhone.
“911. What is the nature of your emergency?”
“Please! Help me. I need help! Please!” The voice was frantic.
“I’ll help you, Ma’am, but I need you to calm down. Please tell me what is happening.”
“I heard a woman screaming! Then I think there were gunshots! Now I can’t hear anything. Please! Please, I beg you, please hurry, I think my husband is inside. Should I go in? I have to help him!”
“Please give me your address.”
Carol gave it.
“Do NOT enter the dwelling. Police and Paramedics are on the way. Stay on the line with me. Are you close to the house?”
“I’m outside in the driveway.”
“Please move away from the property. Stay away from the windows. They’re on their way.”

***

CNN breaking news.

“In breaking news! The body of United States Senator Peter Cameron has been found at his home. A crime scene now exists. Early indications from our sources indicate that another body has been found at the scene. Murder/Suicide has not been ruled out.”
“Tragically it was the senator’s wife who made the grim discovery. She is reported to be resting under sedation. In deep shock as these events unfold. Police at this stage don’t believe that a third party was involved in the tragedy.”
Carol listened to the excited broadcaster and smiled.
Then she settled down in her pristine hospital bed and drifted off to a contented sleep.

#

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Suzanne Burke – THURSDAY’S CHILD

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July 15, 2019

Fiza Pathan – THE STAR PUPIL’S DIARY ENTRY

The Star Pupil’s Diary Entry by Fiza Pathan

Dear Diary,

I had a wonderful day at school today. I got a star and I’m going to tell you all about it.

I’m eight years old, but I’m the tallest boy in the class. I, and the other kids in my neighborhood, study at the school down the block. Actually, our school was once something terrible; it was a disgusting Christian church, something called “Catholic.” The school officials tore it down and made it into a proper school for us kids.

So, I went to school today. I was the first one there so I got the biggest teddy bear to do my training with. The kids who were late got teddies that were way too small, the cheap ones that our soldiers stole from the hands of fleeing Jewish kids before they shot them in the head.

My teacher made us do our practice training in the morning. He handed us our daggers. We each checked with our fingers if they were sharp enough. Since I was early to class, I got to demonstrate. I put the dagger on the neck of the teddy and slit it the way my teacher had taught me to do. The other students followed me, but I was the best at cutting off teddy’s head.

“The jugular,” my teacher scolded another student who was cutting the wrong part of the teddy. “The jugular and do it slowly; it should make them cry.”

After dagger practice was over, we all sat and singing practice began. Singing is important; it touches souls and bring them closer to God.

We sang the national anthem. Teacher said I was the best singer and patted me on the head.

“Now, who knows a good English song, a hymn for our nation?” our teacher asked.

Every kid was stumped. They knew plenty of English songs, some of them were American. But you couldn’t sing those songs anymore. They knew “If I Was Your Boyfriend” by that Justin Bieber nonbeliever and “That’s What Makes You Beautiful” by One Direction, another group of nonbelievers—may the devil plague them!

But no one knew a hymn in English to our cause. Not a single kid. Well, everyone except me!

I raised my hand and teacher smiled.

He asked me to stand up and sing in place.

The other kids turned to look at me. They were jealous because they were not as smart as me.

I put my hands behind my back and stood straight like I do when singing the national anthem. I opened my mouth and began to sing:

We for the sake of Allah have come under the banner,

We for the sake of our Caliph have torn the world asunder;

We for the sake of our raped sisters will kill the ones responsible,

We for the sake of our nation will die, but not before we become incredible.

I didn’t know the meaning of raped, but daddy had taught me this song while we were fleeing India to come here, to this land of milk and honey. Daddy taught me a lot of songs and hymns as we fled India. We almost got caught, but our fake passports worked. Daddy is so smart. He is now working as a soldier here.

“Bravo, my son,” my teacher said, and he shook my hand. The other kids clapped, but some spat on the ground with disgust.

“Bravo, my son,” my teacher said again, holding me by the shoulders and looking into my eyes. “You are a gem of a man already. You get a star for this.”

And I did; a star made of metal shining like gold, the ones soldiers put on their uniforms. I was so proud that I couldn’t stop smiling.

The teacher then said it was almost time for prayers, but before that, did any of us kids know who we were deep in our hearts? Many kids answered:

“We are Allah’s blessing in flesh.”

“We are the terror of the Westerners.”

“We are the protectors of our faith.”

“We are true worshippers of the almighty.”

But the teacher said all their answers were wrong. I knew that too, because I knew the real answer. Teacher then asked me, “Tell me, son, who are we?”

I smiled, fiddling with my gold star before answering: “We are men who love death just as some people love their life; we are soldiers who fight in the day and the night.”

My teacher clapped, and so did the other kids, except for the ones who yet again spat on the floor and gave me angry looks.

We spent the rest of the day praying, going to the mosque that was once a church. They called it Lutheran, which sounds so ugly. I then came home, and here I am writing in this diary, which Daddy gave me to record the fun time I’m having here in this new country, the place where Allah truly lives with his beloved people.

I’m so happy to have earned my star. I’ll wear it tomorrow to the next beheading on the main square of those bad men who were trying to escape heaven, this place where we stay. I love beheadings. I take pictures of it on my uncle’s cell phone. I love the blood, snapped bones, and torn veins the best.

Tomorrow, our class will burn crosses at the beheading. I will burn not a cross, but a small statue of Mary, mother of that prophet who sinned against us. I’ve never burned her before, not because I haven’t gotten a chance to do so, but because . . . her eyes, her eyes when they look at me are funny.

Well, it’s time to go for prayers. I shall write later.

Yours always,

Alif Shifaq of the ISIS children brigade,

3 Bel Anif Mansion,

Sultan Saladin Road,

Raqqa,

ISIS Syria,

March 12, 2015.

*

After the fall of ISIS in Raqqa, an American soldier with his entire team were on the ground for inspection purposes. It was the year 2017, and the whole city had been razed to the ground.

The American soldier’s name was Emmanuel, and as he walked over the immense quantity of rubble, he spotted something.

It was a diary. A bit battered due to the bombing, but in good shape.

The hand of a preteen was found holding a pen beside it. The hand only. Not the rest of the body. The body had been incinerated.

Emmanuel lifted the diary and dusted it. He took it along with him, jumping over a pile of dusty teddy bears with their throats cut.

“City of the dead,” Emmanuel intoned, as he opened the diary to read. The first thing he read was an inscription in black ink from a fountain pen. It was done in calligraphy—skillfully done.

 

We are men who love death just as you love your life,

We are the soldiers who fight in the day and the night.

 

Emmanuel sighed and turned a page.

***

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 Fiza Pathan – THE STAR PUPIL’S DIARY ENTRY

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July 12, 2019

Beem Weeks
Beem Weeks

Dying for a Kiss

Beem Weeks is a talented writer. The kind of writer that quickly draws the reader into his world, stirring emotions and thought-provoking.

I’ve had the pleasure of reading Jazz Baby (www.amazon.com/Jazz-Baby-Beem-Weeks-ebook/dp/B007Y7086S/) and loved it! I highly recommend reading Beem Weeks.

Thank you for supporting this member along the WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour today! I ask that if you have enjoyed this member’s writing, please visit their Author Page on the RWISA site, where you can find more of their writing, along with their contact and social media links, if they’ve turned you into a fan.

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Beem WeeksDYING FOR A KISS

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July 11, 2019

Jan Sikes w books (4)

Jan Sikes

She_Dances_With_A_Memory (2)
Here is the link to Jan’s trailer: https://youtu.be/dKEqRQe-QhI

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Jan SikesSHE DANCES WITH A MEMORY


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July 10, 2019
Blurb:
San Francisco, 1944. Sophia Nirenska, a Polish resistance fighter who survived the Warsaw ghetto uprising, finds safety in California until someone tries to kill her. She insists political enemies want to silence her, but homicide detective Oliver Wright, on medical leave from the Marines, believes the motive is more personal. He and his German shepherd, Harley, try to protect Sophia, but she insists on doing things her own way—a dangerous decision.

Oliver guards Sophia as they travel from an Italian cafe in Richmond to communist chicken farmers in Petaluma where her impetuous actions put them both in mortal danger.
When Oliver rescues a girl and her dog who are running for their lives, he discovers the dark secret at the heart of the threat to Sophia, a secret with its roots in Poland. When he does, he is forced to choose between enforcing the law as he knows it and jeopardizing Sophia or accepting a rougher kind of justice.
Shadowed by Death accurately portrays the fears and troubles of the communities of northern California as they bear the burdens of World War II and celebrate the gift of finding family among strangers.

☆☆☆☆☆
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Mary Adler – BLACK NOTES BEAT

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July 10, 2019

Mary Adler

BLACK NOTES BEAT by Mary Adler

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Mary Adler – BLACK NOTES BEAT

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July 9, 2019

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The Awakening by Wendy Scott

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Wendy Scott – THE AWAKENING

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07/08/19 – Nonnie Jules – SILENT TEARS

SILENT TEARS

by Nonnie Jules

I cry these silent tears for her

For her loss, for her pain, for her heart

Breaking when she looks into their eyes

Her children –

she feels their loss, their pain, their hearts breaking.

The memories –

the hardest

Yet, there’s no getting away from the reminders of what used to be.

There once was a HE

HE sat, parented, loved, even laughed

Yes, towards all ends there is laughter some say

But his chair is empty now

Just as their hearts

Hollow as the tree he chose.

He left it all there

His back against a world filled with painful memories of a childhood unprotected.

His pain…

Bottled up in the bottles of poison he consumed

Reckless abandon he gave to it

But quit…

he could not

would not

was it his choice not?

In the end, the call of the poison was stronger

and he had to answer

he was forced to answer

given no choice but to answer…

was the way he felt.

His choice gave her no choice

Single parenting

A thing for some

but…

It wasn’t her thing

That is

until

he left her

no choice.

She’ll be fine

Kids are resilient

They’ll be fine

Time heals all wounds

All clichés but true.

Still…

I cry my silent tears for her

For the husband she once knew.

Talented and passionate about her craft Nonnie Jules is an inspiration. Get to know her and her work by following the links.

“How I know I’m a writer: When I sleep, I wake to write; when I dream, I rouse to write; when I eat, I hunger to write; when I drink, it’s my thirst to write; and when I write, I write and write and write…until my Muse grows weary of the beating it takes from every keystroke of my hand.” ~ NJ

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Also, please check out her books in the RWISA or RRBC catalogs. Thanks, again, for your support and I hope that you will follow each member along this amazing tour of talent! Don’t forget to click the link below to learn more about this author:

Nonnie Jules – SILENT TEARS

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Linda Mims – SOLACE

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Linda Mims

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Gwen Pelano – THE ROSARY

Today’s #RRBC #RWISA #WatchRWISAWrite blog tour features Gwen Plano.

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Gwen Pelano