Flash Fiction: Vincent Forever

Vincent had loved sports, girls, his mother, father and brother. Unfortunately he also loved fast cars.
"Kill me," he signed with the only finger that could still move."Please".
In this way he dictated a book and addressed a letter to the President.
"Let me die," he repeated, in line after line, in the letter to the President.
The President, meaning well, suggested that Vincent try to regain his love of life.
Blind, mute and unable to move, Vincent could not regain his love of life. Vincent had loved life. Now that was gone. It pained him to know that his mother was there, every day, at his hospital bed, her life hostage to his. He loved his mother, and suffered to hear her gasp, every so quietly, before she took his hand. Dream, she told him. Soar, at night, inside your head.
Inside his head, he soared. Waiting, hoping, dreaming to die.

(image: credit Steve Garvie, "Bird")

Grand olde dame

The heroine of this fine novel is in her seventies 

Readers will come to love feisty Charlotte “Muddy” Rewis who, despite the bad news in the world, triumphs by making a difference in her own way.

Chock full of humor…a beautiful story that makes you feel like you have been transported back to small town America.

- Winston Groom, author of Forrest Gump 

NOW AVAILABLE 

IndieBound

Amazon

Barnes & Noble

Book Reviewers, Bookclubs, please contact handell@summertimepublications.com

Bookstores: distribution by Ingram Book Group and Baker & Taylor ISBN: 9781940333090

Mysterious Tall Dark Stranger in IKEA Catalog Thriller

"There's always a place at the table."*

The photo is idyllic: candles flickering, lamps lit, sun streaming in from windows on three sides, Olga - or Bertha or Inga? -  delicious  in her white blouse, a clean kitchen towel tucked domestically into her waist, as she welcomes the new guest.  On her bare left hand, she effortlessly balances a clear Pyrex dish. With her right she touches (leans into?) the door frame. Around the table, a luminous picture of harmony.

There is the white-haired matriarche from Stockholm. And, across from her, a husband, most likely hers. One guesses a devilishly sophisticated commodities trader from someplace at once hip and rural, like Bergen. He's got the grey hair, the athlete's bod, the bracelet, and a perfect two days of beard. At the end of the table, like bookends, two attractive young women, one a short haired blonde, the other a Magrebine beauty with a crown of thick curly hair. Sisters? friends? Lovers? It's such an exciting world! 

And next to her, standing, holding a stemless glasses, white smile brilliant against his dark skin, a handsome black man. There's something about him. Something special. Yes!  He's wearing a hat.  Inside! And standing up while all the other are seated. Is it possible he's just arrived?

The others all have plates of half eaten food before them, forks and knifes crossed on porcelain. Olga our waitress or other daughter whoever the hell she is - is she surprised? 

Why else would she have stopped at the door of the kitchen, casserole dish suspended in mid air? 

And why, oh why, is the man in the hat smiling at her in that way? 

But maybe perhaps you weren't expecting me? 

And yet, in addition to a good seat at the head of the table, there is an additional empty chair. So maybe he's not unexpected. Maybe she's not breathlessly exclaiming, "Oh, what a delicious surprise! Welcome!" but "Where the fuck have you been! You're two hours late!"

That chair, that haunting, not quite empty, chair.
It's not really empty. There's some kind of rug on it. Is it the IKEA bathroom mat he just bought and is bringing as an offering (thanks for lunch, have a bathroom mat). Is it a coat, so coolly fashionable that it has armpits - what is it?
With all those candles and light streaming in from three sides plus an additional two lights over the bookshelf we should be able to make it out. But we can't! It's as confusing and convoluted as a millennium thriller!

There's always a place at the table.

Yes! Maybe! No!

The tension is unbearable.



*Ikea France Catalog. Page 56.

Are you a target for probate vultures?

Thirty TRILLION dollars are expected to change hands as the boomer generation ages. This treasure is attracting interest from many quarters, including Healthcare and Financial Professionals, as well as professional Guardians, Trustees and Private Fiduciaries,

Many are honest and competent. Unfortunately, however, not all.

Some exploit their position of trust to run up fees for themselves and their friends - at the expense of the person to be cared for and their heirs.

The multi-trillion dollar estate industry has attracted more than a few of these vultures.

BEWARE!

See also:

Prosecution Toolkit for Elder Abuse and Financial Exploitation

Ressources Elder Abuse - Fraud and Financial Abuse

President Obama's Spotify Playlist

Yesterday, fooling around with the hand-me-down iphone my children gave me, I clicked on a big S and found myself in a thing called Slate which proclaimed:

Barack Obama's Summer Spotify Playlist is Suprisingly Wonderful

This was amazing because I love surprisingly wonderful things.

So I clicked again.

Cutting the umbilical

We long for our children’s love and approval just as they long for ours.

But now: they are ascendant, we fading; 

Our stars passing

In the heavens before that long dark night. 

And just as our new selves are struggling to be born, their new selves are struggling to be born. 

We have always defined ourselves in opposition to each other and none more than that part of ourselves than grows outside us, independent and separate from ourselves. 

They are our light. If we shine, it is in their caressing luminescence. 

(As they shine in ours.)

The umbilical. It runs both ways: from us to them and them to us. 

For each of us to be free, each of us must be free.

- J. Chu (1932)

HUMOR: One is for Orange Juice, One is for Milk by Susan Richardson

There is only one thing more exciting, more educational and more frustrating than a first pregnancy, and that is explaining the second, third or fourth pregnancies to the end products of the previous ones.

a humorous essay on motherhood

One is for Orange Juice, One is for Milk

 by  Susan Richardson

       There is, first of all, the classic, time honored method of making the big announcement to the other children. It usually goes something like this,

       “Mommy and Daddy have a wonderful surprise for you. There is a baby in Mommy’s tummy!”  I told them with great enthusiasm. Rock, intent as any two year old in his Karo syrup based homemade play-doh, look up and said, “Did you eat one?”