The Doughnut King

I’ve seen him before. Not often, but before. Diminutive. He’s maybe a hundred-and-twenty pounds and just a head higher than the counter. And today he seemed even smaller, standing in line between two strapping, thirty-something, white guys––truck drivers probably––looking as if he might be crushed if the line moved too fast. And everybody was in a rush for a coffee hit. It wasn’t yet eight o’clock, and no coffee meant an edgy line of single-minded addicts grumbling their way to a caffeine rush with a sugar chaser. Me too. I love my toasted cinnamon bun with its icing swirl that transforms into white drool and sticks to my fingers like flypaper. It sits right next to my medium, not-too-large, not-too-small, double-double. Just the three of us hanging out at our usual observation station watching the locals gather like cattle, chewing on their morning ritual. A process that goes on for hours, sucking the coffee, tea, sugar and flour out of the Doughnut King’s kitchen in trade for a few dollars of hard-earned pay or unemployment benefits. Young, old, big, small, odd, ordinary––mostly odd––trudging across the morning stage in a performance that is re-enacted every day in thousands of doughnut dispensaries across the country. It’s big business. What addiction isn’t? I come at least three times a week to slurp and watch. Never on Sundays.

He comes by bicycle. One of those foreign ones. Black. Simple. Dilapidated. It’s a girl’s bike. No crossbar. I guess he’s too small to get up over the crossbar on those man-mountain bikes. He leaves it on the far side of the parking lot. Up against a tree. Doesn’t lock it. Who does that today? Only a trusting fool. I tell myself to keep and eye on his bike.

There are more than a dozen people in line but he appears to be the only one who is not restless or impatient. He stands quietly, pensively, while all around him shift, shuffle, twitch, and tweet. If they aren’t mesmerized by their phones, they’re gawking at the floor, ceiling, lineup, doughnuts. Or the wait-staff––with a stare that says, Com’on move yer butt? Occasionally they look at me, looking at them. I’m relaxed. I don’t blink.  It’s my morning entertainment. The younger women drop their eyes immediately. Most of the middle-aged women are empty-eyed, not there––gazing in my direction but lost somewhere in the noise of life. The old guys squint and scowl but don’t see me. The middle-aged guys blink, then their eyes shade into that primate question: Hey buddy, ya’ gotta problem? And the young guys glance at me like they’re still battling someone in a video game. But not the little man. He’s looking nowhere in particular but seeing everything. Eyes calm. Full. Alive.

Observing the world over coffee and a cinnamon bun is not new for me and the tableaux before me is the common herd of humanity at a convenient feed-trough. But today, more than before, the little man seems to exude a purity and grace, like a unicorn amid the morass. It’s a modern Noah’s ark, the animals coming two by two and one by one for a modicum of salvation––if caffeine and sugar can do that––and in their midst is this pondering presence, a deep harmony.

 I sip my coffee without taking my eyes off the little man. I ignore my cinnamon bun. As he silently moves forward in the gangly line, I try to know him. He’s Asian. Maybe Chinese. I’ve never been good at––nor liked––anything foreign: food, language, clothes, people. Well, I’m okay with the people, I just don’t know much about them. Me, I am Canadian, through and through. And damn proud of it, although I’ve never been sure why I’m proud. Because it’s a big country? Nice people? Lots of lakes? The RCMP? The beaver? The true north strong and free––whatever that means? Or because I worked here all my life at the Royal Bank? Or for no good reason, other than I was born here? I wonder if he has reason to be proud of his homeland? Where’s he from? How old is he? Is he married? Children? Where’d he get that bike? Where does he ride from? Why does he look so content? … Oh shit! He’s walking toward me. A large coffee and two doughnuts on a tray. This time I blink. He smiles. And sits down at the table next to me. It’s as if I am alone with him. The incessant hum of the feeding fuss fades and all I hear is the coffee bubbling between my lips as I try to be inconspicuous. He smiles again. A knowing smile. I say, just above a whisper, “Good morning.” He is so unassuming. Tranquil. Pleasant. In my head I see a picture of the Dalai Lama. Could it be him? In disguise? There is that peculiar looking mosque or temple over on the other side of town. He could be visiting from wherever it is he comes from? India? The Himalayas? He nods ever so slightly. “Morning.”

The silence passes as quickly as it came. In what seems like just a minute or two, he rises, smiles and leaves. I’m disappointed. A bit sad. Slightly empty. Like when a friend leaves. I eat my cinnamon bun, lick my fingers and finish my coffee. That’s when the guy at the next table catches my eye. As soon as he locks in on me the woman with him speaks as if she’s been waiting all morning to gossip. By the disapproving look on her fake face––too much botox, too few wrinkles––I think she’s going to express disgust with my finger licking. But she tilts her head in the direction the little man went. “He’s such a lost soul, isn’t he?” My mouth doesn’t move, my eyes yell, What?  She adds. “So sad. Pathetic.” I stick two fingers in my mouth––so I don’t blurt out what I want to say to her––lick them with a succulent sound, get up, and leave.

I come again on Sunday. My wife, Ethel, is not pleased. Years ago she accepted that I was never going to go to church again but she still harangues about how Sunday is the Lord’s day, a day of rest. And that doesn’t mean resting and loitering at the local doughnut joint. But I want to see my Dalia Lama friend again. If he shows up.  He does. Just about the same time. Again he smiles, says “Morning,” sits quietly and leaves quietly. After another trip that week, in which the same ritual evolves, I find myself, on Friday, immersed in disappointment. It’s past nine o’clock, I am finishing my third coffee and second cinnamon bun and my friend––funny how I think of him as a friend when I don’t even know him––is a no show. I feel like I did back in high school when the prom queen, who sat in front of me in science class, was absent. Makes the rest of the day a bummer. Then he’s there. In line. About eight places back. Behind a really fat lady––I mean obese. Yeah lady, that’s just what you need, another bag of doughnuts. Oh, and be sure and get the cinnamon bun too, it’s fantastic––at least five-hundred calories. Although he can’t see past her, he appears content just being there. As I wait, I prepare. Prepare for what I suspect has been brewing inside me since last week. I have to know. He’s coming over.

I look up. “Good morning.”

“Morning.” That calm smile.

“Join me?”

I see a heartbeat flicker in his eyes. Then, without a word, he slides into the steel and Formica chair opposite me. I’ve done it. And I sense, for the price of a few cups of coffee, I’ve just met a new friend.

Nhiem Phan Ngo is Chinese. Well, not exactly. Here’s how he explains it. He was born in Vietnam. His father was born in China so although he was born in what was then North Vietnam, he is, in his culture, considered Chinese. His mother was Vietnamese. His father owned a “market”––more like our local farmer’s markets than a Rabba––and Nhiem was one of seven children. They also owned a car so that, plus the market, put them in the middle class. Life in a Hanoi suburb was “fine” for young Nhiem. He went to school, rode his bike everywhere, hung out with friends, worked through sibling rivalries and helped in his father’s market. In adulthood he managed the family market and married Xuan Thi Nguyen, who gave birth to five children in Hanoi. Normal stuff. But as the war between North and South Vietnam and the Americans dragged on it took a horrendous toll, well beyond the killing fields. The Ngo family’s life was decimated. They lost the market. He lost his father. And they lived a subsistent life. But they persevered. Until the bombs came.

 It was 1972 and American B-52 bombers rained hell, fire and brimstone bombs down on North Vietnam. The shelling of Hanoi, Haiphong and the sprawling suburbs was relentless and US President, Richard Nixon made it clear that no sections in those cities were off-limits to the bombing. Despite a 1973 peace treaty, the war raged on for years as the communist party secured their hold on both North and South Vietnam. Millions of citizens were deemed “enemies of the state” and more than a million were sent to prison camps while a million-and-a-half decided to try and escape the country. Nhiem Phan Ngo and his family were among them. They became “boat people,” fleeing to the sea in anything that would float.

At age 49, Nhiem, with his pregnant wife, five children, two brothers and their families, twenty-one in all, had to escape. They set out to cross the South China Sea in a twenty-foot boat. A crude sail, rough winds, ten days and a thousand prayers later, they landed at Haikou an island off the southern most tip of China. That was just the beginning. A few days later they set sail across the Beibu Gulf hoping to reach Hong Kong while enduring a second harrowing passage. It was another ten days of visceral fear. Eventually (I lost track of the timelines), Nhiem and his extended family came to Canada and settled in Winnipeg. The fact that it was a nothing-out-of-the-ordinary, piercing cold, don’t-stick-your-tongue-on-the-steel-pipes winter, didn’t matter to the Ngo family. It was their “land of the free.” They had made it. Everything else was incidental.

It was then a thirty-year journey from working in a Winnipeg paint factory to drinking coffee at Doughnut King, but none of that compared to the twenty days on the South China Sea. Nothing. His family had not only survived but his children grew up safe, married well and were prospering. He is eighty-two, with twenty grandchildren and three, great grandchildren. Recently, a “medical error” in a Canadian hospital took his eldest daughter, and his wife, Xuan, is tucked away in an old folks home, suffering from dementia. He rides two city buses for two hours, each way, to visit her––everyday.

During our chats, I always finish my coffee first because he’s doing most of the talking while I ask questions, trying to fill my shallow understanding of life with this man’s depth––the resolve, courage, peace, fulfillment … acceptance. In the middle of his story, he notices my cardboard cup empty, stops, stands and says, “I get you more coffee.” I can’t stop him and watch as he stands in line for five minutes to bring me another medium double-double. And a cinnamon bun. My “thank you” sounds like a distant apology as I try to persuade him that he doesn’t have to be so kind to me.

In just three sit-downs, over half-a-dozen coffees and more cinnamon buns than I should eat, he opens my eyes and heart to the beauty, strength and vastness of the human condition. As our third chat ends and he enjoys a final sip of his large-black, no sugar, we fall into a warm silence. I am oblivious to the surroundings. I see only my friend. He smiles. Stands. His eyes say thank you. I rise slowly. I am perhaps a foot taller. I move around the tiny table and put out my arms. There is no hesitation. We come together as if two very different, and yet, very similar worlds are embracing. In this moment, my life becomes more complete, more whole. No words are spoken. Then we step back. He offers the biggest smile I’ve ever seen, almost laughing. Pointing upward he says, “You big man, me little man.” The absurdity slices through me. And the truth tumbles out. “No Nhiem. You are the big man; I am the little man. What you have done, what you have endured … compared to what I have done … and who you are…. No. You are the big man.”

I couldn’t be happier. Or maybe I should say … more content. I’m dead, but I’m content. At peace. Because there’s a harmony that holds me like a lover’s embrace, like a spring meadow holds the promise of endless serenity. I remember the day I died, it was the same day our secret died, as it must. For my loved ones, my death seemed like an unforgivable injustice, but for me it was inconsequential compared to the heartbreak our secret would cause if it were ever revealed. That would be horrendous, in life and death.

It goes back to when Jackie and I were young girls, teenagers. She and I are identical twins, really identical, so much so that even our dad couldn’t tell us apart.

He’d say, “Hey Jackie … Jill, whoever you are, get off that phone.” Sometimes, if we were side by side and he concentrated he’d get it right, but I still think it was a lucky guess. Mom knew the difference, but she died when we were seven so the only person we had to fool was dad and his good natured guessing. He worked long hours and we were often on our own but we toed the line – most of the time – out of love and respect for him.

We were identical, inseparable and at times incorrigible. The one thing we did that was really crazy, and in hindsight not always nice, was to play tricks on people by switching places. The real fun began when we started dating. I mean, the boys couldn’t tell the difference. Our looks were mirror images and our personalities similar so we could switch dates and they’d never know – and they were too scared to ask. Teenage boys would do anything to avoid looking stupid, especially in front of girls. We’d stay up late at night filling our diaries with adolescent gibberish and exchanging details of our dates so that the next night we had everything down pat. Same clothes, same eye shadow, same stories.

When we were almost eighteen Harry came along. He was a bit of a nerd and not very popular so we decided our mission was to make him popular by letting him date one of the really cool girls at Lakeside High – us. We dated him off and on for three months and he never knew the difference. He thought he was going steady with Jackie. He was a sweetheart. Quiet, kind, thoughtful, sensitive. Of course, he never pushed the sex thing like the rest of the boys. I’ll never forget all those giddy nights when my sister and I would sit on our twin beds with Bon Jovi blaring and go on and on yakking about it – sex – and wondering if it would be the ultimate test. Would Harry know? How could we hide our secret? Well, we did it. And Harry never knew the difference. We knew it wasn’t very nice and that sooner or later we would have to stop, but we both had become very fond of Harry. Then came our Waterloo. Harry fell in love with us, well, with Jackie, or so he thought. Actually, he had first said, “I love you” to Jill. It took us weeks to figure out what to do. He loved both of us and we admitted that we loved him. But in the end, we simply made our decision based on the fact that he thought he was dating Jackie. Jackie got Harry. What else could we do?

Years later, my dad told his mother – my grandma – that Jackie got Harry and Jill got nothing, in fact, she got worse, a death sentence. After Jackie and Harry married and had a son Tommy, I, Jill, at age twenty-eight, died of cancer. At the time, I was single, working at Wal-Mart and not very happy. I had dated a lot and then just gave up on men and started spending several nights a week over at Jackie and Harry’s place. Harry and Tommy still couldn’t tell us apart. At the time, no one knew about the cancer – until the chemo started.

Indelibly etched in my mind is the night I had to tell my sister, and then Harry, that I was dying. Devastating. For dad too. He took it very hard and one night while sitting at the bottom of his depression commiserating with Grandma and his good friend Johnnie Walker, he said, “Maybe it’s better it’s Jill, not Jackie … for Tommy’s sake.”

The good part – if there is such a thing – was that I didn’t stick around long. I died in less than six months. It made it easier for everyone, especially Harry and Tommy. I had always known that Harry still felt the same kind of love for both of us and that losing his sister-in-law was almost as difficult as if it had been his wife. But for Tommy, who was only seven, it would be temporary pain; it would make him stronger and help him appreciate the fragile nature of life, love and family. At least he’d have both parents.

That was the secret, Jill’s and mine. The one I took to my grave. When I found out that I had cancer I went to Jill and asked her to make the ultimate switch. Take my place, be Harry’s wife and Tommy’s mother. I would be her. And Jill – me, Jackie – would die. Die peacefully, knowing Harry and Tommy would be wonderfully cared for by Jill and that love would survive, out-living death and me. That is my enduring peace.

• • • • • •

David Hughes, author and ghostwriter.

E-mail: dhughes@straightspeak.com

Mark Twain (photo: latimes.com)

From Mark Twain’s scathing essay on the Literary Offenses of James Fenimore Cooper

1. A tale shall accomplish something and arrive somewhere.
2. The episodes of a tale shall be necessary parts of the tale, and shall help develop it.
3. The personages in a tale shall be alive, except in the case of corpses, and that always the reader shall be able to tell the corpses from the others.
4. The personages in a tale, both dead and alive, shall exhibit a sufficient excuse for being there. (read 15 more)
5. When the personages of a tale deal in conversation, the talk shall sound like human talk, and be talk such as human beings would be likely to talk in the given circumstances, and have a discoverable meaning, also a discoverable purpose, and a show of relevancy, and remain in the neighborhood of the subject in hand, and be interesting to the reader, and help out the tale, and stop when the people cannot think of anything more to say.
6. When the author describes the character of a personage in his tale, the conduct and conversation of that personage shall justify said description.
7. When a personage talks like an illustrated, gilt-edged, tree-calf, hand-tooled, seven-dollar Friendship’s Offering in the beginning of a paragraph, he shall not talk like a Negro minstrel at the end of it.
8. Crass stupidities shall not be played upon the reader by either the author or the people in the tale.
9. The personages of a tale shall confine themselves to possibilities and let miracles alone; or, if they venture a miracle, the author must so plausably set it forth as to make it look possible and reasonable.
10. The author shall make the reader feel a deep interest in the personages of his tale and their fate; and that he shall make the reader love the good people in the tale and hate the bad ones.
11. The characters in tale be so clearly defined that the reader can tell beforehand what each will do in a given emergency.
12. An author should
13. Say_ what he is proposing to say, not merely come near it.
14. Use the right word, not its second cousin.
15. Eschew surplusage.
16. Not omit necessary details.
17. Avoid slovenliness of form.
18. Use good grammar.
19. Employ a simple, straightforward style.

What you need to know - must know - to succeed at writing.

Steven Pressfield’s book the War of Art is a MUST read for anyone serious about living the life of a true – and successful – writer. He demonstrates, in emphatic story telling style, that writing is a war against an everyday enemy he calls “Resistance.”

He says: “Most of us live two lives. The life we live, and the unlived life within us. Between the two stands Resistance.” He adds, “It’s not the writing part that’s hard. What’s hard is sitting down to write.”

Here’s a sampling of what Pressfield lists as factors in “Resistance.”

1. Resistance is invisible – can’t be seen, heard or touched but it can be felt.
2. Resistance is internal – it arises from within, not externally.
3. Resistance is insidious – it will tell you anything to keep you from your work.
4. Resistance is implacable – it can’t be reasoned with (like Jaws in the book).
5. Resistance is universal – everyone struggles with it
6. Resistance is fueled by fear – master fear and you can conquer Resistance.
7. Resistance never sleeps – the battle must be renewed every day.

There are many more elements and each is elaborated on in wonderful detail in the book.  Go to Amazon. Buy it. Read it. And watch your writing grow.

 Either write something worth reading or do something worth writing. – Ben Franklin

Last Dance: A short story by David Hughes

A short story by David Hughes

“Cancer.” It bounced off the walls, swept across the room like a line squall, echoed in the steel bedpan and then sat emotionless, halfway between Dr. Jete and Jim. No one else heard. No one else was there. Not that it mattered. No one else cared. Jim had been alone before he’d heard it, he was alone now and he’d be alone after. He doubted that Dr. Jete cared much. After all, he did this for a living. What a way to make a living, announcing death as part of your daily routine. Making the rounds, reading the charts, breaking the news, announcing the sentence. Jim thought, I wouldn’t want to have Jete’s job. Of course, he didn’t have a job, hadn’t had one for six months. Probably wouldn’t get one now. Not many companies want a washed up supermarket manager … who’s dying.

Jim asked the big question, “How long do I have?”

Dr. Jete’s answer drifted around the antiseptic room like a grazing herd of cows with no particular place to go, no purpose, no relevance. It was a non-answer, just a whole bunch of what ifs, maybes and medical spin-doctoring. The only concrete thing he said was, “You can start treatment as soon as you like.” To Jim it sounded like the guy at the health club he’d joined the other day, who said, “You can start working out any time you like.”

Jim said, “Thanks.” It sounded like it was for a pleasant visit and an engaging bit of chit-chat. The doctor even smiled. Jim didn’t remember leaving the hospital.

• • • • • •

“It’s malignant.” Jill heard it. Felt it in her breast. Watched the words race from the doctor’s mouth to her mind, to her heart, to her breast and back to her mind. She heard her thoughts scrambling. Damn breasts, never liked them anyway. Always were too small. Dr. Chu snapped off her latex gloves and placed her hand on Jill’s. It was cold. So was the room. So why did she feel so damn hot? Sweating––across the forehead, in the crease next to her nose, under her arms. She’d always had soakers under there, never did find an anti-perspirant that worked. She thought, I wonder if they’ll find a chemo that works? If they didn’t find one, she would. No way this was gonna get her. She would beat it with will power. Mind over matter. Healthy mind, healthy body. Why her? Why now? Why her breasts? They were nothing––at least hers weren’t much, according to her ex-husband and every guy she ‘d ever undressed for. Like the old saying, “Useless as tits on a bull.”

Dr. Chu said. “Breast cancer is one of the most curable types…. Blah, blah, blah percentage of women over the age of blah, blah, experience blah, blah years of normal life without ever….”

Jill had no idea what “normal” was nor gave a shit about numbers. She was one number, not some percentage. She was a simple, whole number––one. At least she used to be whole. Now she had been invaded, fractured. Death had entered her body, dividing her in two, one part living, one part dying. And regardless of all the blah, blah statistics, the dying part usually won. She heard the voice inside say, No way, not this time. No siree Bob––she wondered what her brother Bob would think. He’d be no help. But this was her fight, her war, and by god she’d be the one––the one percent––that won. Jill walked out of the doctor’s office into the sunshine with grit in her teeth and a tumor in her breast.

• • • • • •

Jim reminded himself that there were only six sessions to attend and even though the first one had been a complete waste of time, there had been that cute little woman from California sitting across from him––Jill somebody or other. Nice legs. Looking at her helped ease the boredom of the two-hour, horror show. They called it therapy. For what? How to die as a group? It had been forty-two months since Dr. Jete had come bearing gifts of death and drugs. So far, the drugs were winning and he had responded so well that he’d been selected to attend a series of therapy sessions for others like him––dying of cancer. People brought together to share their stories, their grief and pain, their discoveries and revelations and in the end, hopefully add hope to the hopeless process of dying. He still hadn’t figured out why the hell he had decided to come to Chicago––for a week? With a bunch of strangers with whom the only thing he had in common was that they were all riding the same bus to Deadman’s Junction. Maybe the cute little lady from Pasedena––maybe forty something––would make the week––and the bus ride––more pleasant.

• • • • • •

Jill was really looking forward to the next session. This was good stuff. Positive energy fields were everywhere. Except for that guy, Jim, from Florida. He was a downer. Not much to say, kind of grumpy and negative. Looked good. Cancer hadn’t sucked too much out of him yet. Full head of hair, thin for his height, early fifties. She would ignore his negativity and develop synergistic relationships with some of the other high-energy people. There was much to be done and only a week in which to do it. This was a chance to take her journey of healing to a new level, to finally conquer the insidious cancer. She’d been clear of it since ending her radiation and chemo and this was the best she’d felt since that ominous day three and a half years ago in Dr. Chu’s office. She was determined to go back to California and leave any remnants of the life-sucking cancer in Chicago.

• • • • • •

Her earrings jiggled, her bracelets jangled, her hair bounced and her face shone, but Jim was not distracted, not even by the over capacity, gussied-up, angst-driven people packed into the bar. He never let go of her eyes, no matter how much they moved or where they wandered or how much they flashed. He was mesmerized. This California chick had more energy, more life and more verve than a room full of bridesmaids fighting for the bouquet. And yet, she was dying, as surely as she was going to get on a plane and go back to California at the end of the week. The only time he looked away was to catch the waiter’s eye and order another frozen margarita for her. He thought, she’s full of life, what a fucking shame she’s dying before my eyes. Life sucks––I wonder if she does. Jill’s dissertation danced on.

“You know what I found in this book called, The Secret Energy Among Us? Our energy fields can be connected. Combined. Build a synergistic power that we can use for whatever we want. Whatever we focus it on. It’s amazing––“

“You’re amazing,” said Jim.

She affectionately slapped him on the hand. “Get out, you sweet talkin’ meat man. Bet you say that to all the girls lookin’ for the best piece of meat ya’ got.” She laughed a beautiful, flat-belly laugh at her sexual innuendo. It wasn’t her first of the evening and they were now coming quicker than the Margaritas. Ever since he’d told her he’d been the manager of a supermarket and a butcher for thirty years, she had been making puns about his profession––“Meet my meat man.” “Where’s the beef?” “I’ll take it boned and rolled.” “I’d like something succulent?” He loved the way she laughed more at her own jokes than he did. She was full of fun, full of life. He’d like to fill her full of love––boned and rolled.

• • • • • •

Jill realized that his guy was okay once she’d got him away from the therapy group. He was completely oblivious to the crowded hotel bar they were in; he was just watching her. She hadn’t had so much attention in months––years. Not since college days and frat parties. But it had been down hill since then. Too many sleepovers––not that there’s anything wrong with plenty of sex––but not enough love. In fact, no love. Even her ex hadn’t loved her. But she had to admit she’d loved the trappings, especially the Mercedes, the cards, the memberships, the clothes––yes, the clothes. She could walk Rodeo Drive with her eyes closed and never miss a shop. But she had somehow missed out on the love part. But not from this Jim guy, he was liking her. And he was okay looking. Seemed kind. Confident. And intelligent––for a butcher. But he was sad. Hell, why wouldn’t he be, he was alone and dying. She could see it just behind his face, a sort of gray underlay beneath the skin. She wanted to hug him, pass some energy onto him, make him feel good, blow away the gray with some sunshine. Maybe some sex? Bet he’d like that. Some sunshine and sex.

• • • • • •

Jim knew he was dying, but couldn’t figure how California Jill, with so much energy, could be dying? Maybe because she didn’t believe it. She was so positive, so up, so on, so hot––he couldn’t possibly keep up with her. But he’d love to try––drag around shopping centers with her, traipse after her at parties, do the dishes every night and do her every night. For that he’d have energy––until the day he died. How many nights could he squeeze into life so that he could make love to this energized bunny? How many one-night stands could he have with this woman? Would he even have one?

• • • • • •

Jill had to consciously make a decision based on the carnal one she’d already made. First, stop with the Margaritas because they dulled the senses and her senses where dancing. She was alive; her breasts were alive. She wondered if he preferred big breasts? Why did having sex have to be such a convoluted dance? That’s it; she’d get him to dance.

• • • • • •

Jim didn’t like to dance anymore. He used to––before. Before he knew life’s dance card would never be filled. But when she asked him to dance he felt like John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever––except it was a slow dance. Jill’s body was one with him. Two bodies, one movement. One wish.

• • • • • •

 Life flowed, pulsated, through Jill’s body. She felt herself slipping under his skin, burning off the dead-gray underlay that had covered his being. Her heat was like sunshine, drawing him in. She was alive, giving him life.

• • • • • •

For that dance, for that moment, Jim knew life again.

• • • • • •

It wasn’t love at first sight, it was sex at first sight­­––right after the last dance. The love came later, maybe too late. That night, Jill and Jim got together and both the night and the sex were indelible. The night because a week later they got married and the sex because it was incredible. The love was incessant, insatiable, in panic. But it was too little, too late. Jim died sixty-three days later. Jill followed him by ninety-one days.

Aaah, to fill the empty page ...

If history were taught in the form of stories, it would never be forgotten. – Rudyard Kipling

Writers have connected civilization across recorded history. And their history is our history, their stories our story. Writing is an endless pursuit requiring passion and perseverance and a constant war of practice. Good writing remains as laborious and demanding today as in the days of Homer, Hesiod, Lucretius and the monks who transcribed the Bible. As Ben Franklin said, If we write something “worth reading,” then we too are a part of recorded history.

Time is the only judge of our writing. Regardless of what editors, publishers, friends and family think, the true value of our writing can only be determined over time. Charles Dickens was a popular and successful writer in his time (1812-1870) but much of his writing was not judged to be “good writing” – not well structured, many “laborious” passages – but his complete oeuvre has stood the test of time. Today, he is considered one of the great novelists of all time. And Shakespeare? Despite much question and criticism, including his authenticity, he remains the greatest playwright in modern history.

So if you love to write, write – with passion and perseverance!

Writing maketh the exact man. – Sir Francis Bacon