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Saturday, September 24, 2022
Chapters 1: Artist, Bartender and Caregiver
You will have noticed I'm posting chapters 1 from my books (TINSAL and ILFIN so far), and here's 3 more. As these are excerpts from shorter stories, some are parts, other full chapters. Enjoy!
Alyria is sleepless in humidity, her thoughts in turmoil.
Going to her studio to paint, she discovers that someone has broken in and
stolen her art, and the thief may still be in the house. Brandishing a
paintbrush as weapon, she prepares to defend herself …
Somewhere in the South
JULY
Heaving
out a cross between a growl and a sigh, she kicked the thin sheet serving as
covering – covered only because one had to hide from mosquitoes in this sticky
weather – and padded barefooted to the bathroom.
Faint
glows from the streetlight further along meant she wouldn’t stub her toe on
something unseen. Jenna, her housemate, tended to drop stuff as she dashed
about, and left whatever it was exactly where it fell.
Allowing
darkness to cool her, without much success, she tinkled into the bowl, leaving
the door open. Summer needed to surrender to autumn soon; this humidity drove
her insane. A storm to release the expectant energy in the air would be most
welcome, too.
Snorting
as she washed her hands after, she became aware of the fact that her mind had
now calmed into a rolling pattern. Mostly about the weather. Even wishes for
snow, as if that was likely here.
Funny
that. Trying to relax, her thoughts went all carnival freak show on her, but
awake and on the move, everything settled. It bloody should be the other way
around, but then her whole life worked inside-out, so why expect a smidgeon of
normality as due to her?
Moving
along the dim passage to the kitchen Jenna invariably left in a mess, the urge
to paint overcame her. Despite her raging thirst, she knew if she ignored the
prompting she’d definitely regret it in the morning. These days the compulsion
came rarely; time to use it or lose it again.
A
few weeks back, preparing for a job interview, she ignored the urge in favor of
preparation – bloody needed that job – and later that evening stood before her
easel with no insight at all.
Yeah,
she got the job – doing layout at a local printer – but it merely paid bills.
It certainly did not challenge her. She knew her way around the software and
was hired because of that, not for any artistic input. It bored her into
numbness.
Art
was her life, her passion. Emphasis, though, needed to go on the ‘was’. Art was her life. After catching Cole in bed
with Jenna’s cousin, everything that made her, Alyria Marn, the person she grew
up to be, vanished.
Harry leads a solitary existence, tending bar because it
allows him to interact with people without becoming involved. His life isn’t a
normal one, after all.
When the woman perfectly dressed and groomed takes a seat in the shadows and asks for wine, something about her calls to him. He answers that summons and it changes everything, for they have something extraordinary in common.
His dreams, and hers, will never be the same again.
Chapter 1
GIVING THE GLASS a final swirling polish, Harry
studied the brunette seated near the end of the counter, where the shadows hid
her somewhat from general view.
Lifting the vessel, he checked for
marks. Beer guzzlers didn’t worry much about fingerprint smears on their robust
glasses, but wine drinkers were finicky. And, by the looks of the woman -
perfectly groomed - she’d definitely take offense to a less than shiny goblet.
Grabbing the house white and holding
the glass in its polishing cloth, Harry ambled to the curved end of his domain.
She wanted to see the bottle before accepting the wine, so he chose the more
upmarket one, not the cheaper plonk generally on offer.
She barely glanced at him when he
presented the opened wine - fortunately this one came corked and she’d know
that from the bottle’s neck - but did study the wine glass for a few beats,
before nodding.
He poured the obligatory taste test
volume, but she waved a manicured hand in dismissal, and thus he filled her
shiny vessel. Technically he poured into a red receptacle, but she’d asked for
a large white, emphasis on large. His
boss wouldn’t mind; fact was, if she didn’t finish the bottle, it would go to
waste. Well, it wouldn’t really, because he, Harry, would take it home at the
end of his shift, but as a sale it would go to waste. Few ordered wine in this
place, and those that did opted for the cheap stuff.
Having done his duty, Harry
retreated. Glancing over his shoulder as he moved away, he noticed how the
woman stared at the golden liquid.
Uh-oh. A potential alcoholic about
to fall off the wagon? In her case it was tripping from a chariot, but the
result would be the same.
He swung back, swiftly setting the
opened wine down on the counter. His sister had fallen a few times and each
time she reached out for help again, the standing up had been harder for her to
achieve.
His duty was not only serving
customers; he was here to discern who could and who should not drink. His
empathy and his keen eye was the reason he’d held this job so long. His boss
told him that, and he knew it as a facet of his inner self as well. Many
thought little of his bartending - especially his sister - and yet he found it
fulfilling. In this shadowy place he encountered personalities from all walks
of life, and had, years ago, discovered that each had something to teach him.
Without a doubt, he knew people.
He knew how to listen.
“Ma’am,” he said as he stopped
opposite the woman.
She ignored him to continue staring
at her fermented brew, leaving him with no opening in which to move forward.
Not a talker, then. Most patrons loved the sound of their own voices, but not
this one.
“Perhaps a water is more to your
liking?” he offered, thereby obliquely making reference to her potential
chariot status.
Her long eyelashes fluttered up and
blue yes speared him. Contrary to his expectation, amusement lurked there,
borne out when her mouth lifted at one corner.
“Thank you for your concern, but I
am not in trouble,” she murmured.
By God, she had a voice able to
churn the guts of even a gay man. Husky, gravelly, filled with nuance, super
sexy. Her voice was the lie to her appearance. On the outside, every dark hair
was in place -a bob cut - and every crease of her formal suit was in its ironed
position, but on the inside, man, on the inside she was something else
entirely.
Harry inclined his head. “I’ll leave
you to it, then. My apologies.”
As he moved away once more, she
lifted her wine, and sipped. For some reason that subtle slurp, barely audible,
set his hands to shaking.
Hauling in a self-admonishing
breath, he glanced around the bar. On a Tuesday it was usually quiet, and now,
with forty-five minutes to closing, only two men sat over beers at a far table.
Those two were regulars; they’d up and leave once their drinks were consumed.
He knew they never drank more than three each, and both were on their third.
No one needed him right now.
Harry turned back to the woman.
“Folk tell me I’m a good listener,”
he said.
He’d used that line many times and
it usually worked. Truthfully, many came in here not to just drink their
problems away; some simply wished someone would hear them, and therefore
started talking when he offered a willing ear. It was also true that sometimes
they didn’t know when to shut the hell up, but he suspected this woman wasn’t
one of those.
She proved it when she lifted one
perfect eyebrow. “Does that work for you?”
He grinned. “Usually.”
“Curiosity gets you into trouble,”
she murmured.
“And occasionally curiosity can get
you out of trouble, too,” he rebutted.
She inclined her head but said no
more.
Harry leaned forearms on counter to
narrow the space between them. “Let me guess; you’re in finance or you’re
connected to the law. Either someone’s crooking the books or you have a
difficult case.”
Sipping, she shook her head,
amusement climbing into her gaze once more. Setting the glass down with
exaggerated care, she offered, “You shouldn’t judge a woman by what she wears.”
Interesting. Women generally dressed
according to that kind of judgement. They sought to make a clear impression
with what appearance was able to sell.
“Someone needed to believe what it
is you project?”
“Bingo,” she said, almost inaudibly.
“Boyfriend? Husband?”
Again she sipped her elixir first.
“Neither. You’re fishing and I am in no mood for guessing games.”
Harry straightened. He was being
boorish. Curiosity wasn’t part of his job description, and it certainly wasn’t
in his nature to force something from someone unwilling to share.
“I’m sorry. Enjoy you wine.”
Moving off, he inwardly berated
himself, because, this once, he had to admit he was curious. He wanted to
know her story. Mostly, he desired to hear her speak. Her voice was something
else, did things do his innards.
“I filed my Will today,” he heard
from behind him, and her statement was utterly devoid of all emotion.
Inhaling, Harry casually turned.
“Will? As in Last and Testament?”
She nodded, staring into her golden elixir.
She’d barely touched it, despite requesting the large glass. “The law firm
needed to see me as a woman with a long life ahead of her, an affluent one
simply dotting an i and crossing a t.”
He closed in carefully, afraid to
spook her. “But you’re not?”
Smirking, she lifted her glass and
gulped down a huge mouthful. Once she had swallowed, she said, “I’m affluent,
make no mistake. It’s the long life that may be an issue.”
The manner in which she stated it
caused a shiver to run throughout his body. “Are you ill?”
Pressing her hands flat on the
counter - he noticed how her skin there lost all colour, as if she forced all
her strength into the action - she stood. “Forgive me. This has nothing to do
with you. I don’t know why I said anything.” She reached for her purse.
“Told you I’m a good listener,” he
said quickly, giving her a cheeky smile. “Consider me your confessor. I have no
other business tonight.”
That was true. The two regulars were
waving their way out as he said it. All he still needed to do before heading
home to his lonely cottage was to wash the final glasses, tally the night’s
takings - a matter of five minutes - and lock up.
He found himself praying that she’d
stay, that she’d talk to him.
A caregiver acts as confessor to an infamous patient.
Emma Reed is Ward Sister at a frail care centre. When Celeste Harwood is admitted, she is suspicious of the woman’s motives. Has Celeste come to hide from the world? If so, that is not right; her bed is needed for someone deserving.
When Emma sees how wary the nurses are of Miss
Harwood, she understands something else is at work. Her doctor arrives and
tells a tale of murder, of a woman about to suffer a terrible death, and Emma’s
curiosity is aroused.
Fortunately, Celeste wants to share her story …
Chapter 1
AS THE MORNING chorus of
birds sounded, before proper light had arrived to herald the new day, Emma, in
her small kitchen, already sipped her coffee.
Her shift was
seven to seven for the next three days, as ward sister at the local frail care
centre, and that meant long hours on her feet, and early mornings out of bed. Luckily,
she was an early riser anyway. The progression into Spring made it more bearable
also, as by the day the days grew longer, and light now accompanied her to
work.
After finishing
her black brew - instant because she had no time for filtering - she rinsed her
mug, grabbed her lunch box filled with healthy snacks, checked that her phone
and sunglasses were in her bag, found her car keys, and headed out, locking her
flat’s door behind her.
No-nonsense
shoes barely made a sound on the threadbare carpeting in the corridor as she
strode swiftly for the block’s main exit. No doorman here, not even a buzz-in
system; the door was never locked, a state most residents bemoaned, given their
rundown neighbourhood. That, however, was not her present worry.
In the grey
light, Emma went to her small car, glancing around to see the parking spaces of
their dedicated lot all filled. Most only left for work in about two hours, and
she had to admit she preferred the silence as it was now. No need to greet
folk; no need to interact with anyone.
The streets,
though, were not as quiet. Shift workers were going on and coming off duty, and
trucks and vans were already about the day’s deliveries. Busses ran also,
although not yet as full as their later counterparts would be.
Twenty-three
minutes later she pulled into the centre’s parking lot. In rush hour traffic it
would take more than an hour, another reason she preferred the early hour.
She noticed the
younger nurses arrive, as well as two doctors. No one called greeting, moving
instead with purpose to relieve the night shift.
The first
sunbeam hit the windows as she strode up the ramp to the staff entrance,
creating on the two-storey building multiple mirrors. Averting her gaze, Emma
entered. The patients would soon be awake.
AROUND 9:30 A.M. the bustle
of breakfast, medication and rounds finally died down enough for Emma to pay
attention to her list of new patients, those arriving later in the day. Part of
her duty was to see them settled.
Three longer
term ‘residents’ had died during the night before last, and thus were three
places available, and would be filled today. A list of those seeking final care
before passing on was consulted every time a death occurred, and beds were
allocated according to need.
One, she saw,
was a cancer patient, a man in his seventies. Another was a teenage girl on
life support after a car accident; her parents had not yet found the courage to
let her go and her bed in the hospital was needed for other patients. The third
was a woman in her late thirties with a degenerative disease …
Emma frowned
over the notes accompanying that patient’s identity. She could find nothing on
the woman’s condition, only that she had been waiting three months for a frail
care bed, signed off by various doctors as necessary, no recovery likely.
“Hannah, do you
know more about this woman?” she asked the older nurse at the station with her.
Hannah peered
over her shoulder. “Harwood? Nay, love. Guess we’ll soon find out. I’m off for
coffee and a sandwich. Want something?”
Emma smiled her
appreciation. “Tea, if you don’t mind.”
“Back soon.”
Hannah winked, and left.
Sighing, Emma
withdrew her lunch box to nibble on an energy bar.
PUNCTUALLY AT 1 P.M. the
first ambulance arrived, bearing Mr Rivers, the cancer patient.
Despite his
obviously weakened condition, he was in good spirits. “Call me Pete,” he told
everybody, and, as he wheeled down the passage to his final bed, Emma already
knew Pete would be a favourite.
It also meant
his death would hit the staff hard.
1:30 saw the
arrival of the teenager, a beautiful girl with blond hair and unblemished skin
utterly unmoving on the trolley leaving the ambulance. Emma swallowed on seeing
her; the girl - Cathy - had already moved on. What remained now to transfer to
the bed she would inhabit until her parents signed the consent forms that allowed
her to go was only a vessel.
Silence
accompanied the teenager to her room. Many nurses suspiciously blinked. Yes, it
was harder when the young came here to die.
AT TWO, MISS Celeste Harwood
entered the precincts of the frail care centre, and her arrival instantly
created unease.
In a wheelchair
pushed by one of the paramedics, she sat bolt upright, her every hair in place,
her makeup flawless. With red hair cut short, sleek curls hugged the woman’s
thin face, and pink blush lent her cheeks the guise of health, and coral
lipstick her lips a robust appearance. She wore a colourful robe, shimmering
silk, with matching slippers on her feet. This wasn’t hospital garb, but it was
bedwear, if of the kind one found in the boudoirs popular in historical romance
novels.
Emma noticed
that the paramedic seemed uncomfortable, handing his charge over with haste and
few words. Hannah, who accepted the paperwork, glanced down, then looked up
swiftly to gape at the woman as if she could not believe her eyes.
“It’s Miss
Celeste,” a young nurse whispered to the other beside her.
Someone famous,
Emma reasoned, and moved to put all speculation to bed. “Let us get Miss
Harwood to her room,” she stated, snapping her fingers when the nurses were
tardy in their response.
Not one to read gossip-type
magazines and hardly ever on social media, Emma had no idea who the woman now
in their care was and did not care either. Rich, poor, famous or not, here it
was about the final days, not about personalities and celebrities.
The woman’s
large green eyes swung to Emma, to study her in some amusement, but her
expression was otherwise neutral. She allowed the nurses to wheel her away
without saying a word. As she disappeared, Hannah approached, her mouth already
open to spill the gossip.
“Not now,” Emma
frowned. “I need to have a word with her doctor.”
Hannah’s lips
glued shut briefly, but then she whispered, because she could not help herself,
“That’s Miss Celeste, the Seer.”
Thursday, September 22, 2022
Braveheart
Given the thistle post below, I started thinking about Braveheart, one of my all-time favourites ... so here's a clip for you 💖
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