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January 1, 2003

Earlier this morning I read an article about writing from our deeper consciousness. The author talked of how he sits for a few minutes in front of the keyboard, relaxed, and typed the words that came into his mind. S sentence would come, then another and before he knew it, a story had formed.

99% of all my writing has been done without pre-thought. Words would come into my consciousness, and I would feel compelled to site and write them down. So, since this is how I usually write, I decided to begin this year, 2003 by sitting at my PC, first thing in the morning, relaxing, then write whatever comes to mind.

I am amazed at how revealing of myself these little short spurts of writing are.

Following is day one! I wrote it in less than 15 minutes, without any awareness of what was going to happen from one word typed to the next.

And so it goes.

M. Bradley McCauley
January, 2003



It was unexpected. It was tragically unexpected and yet the most profound moment of my life. When I review the events today, I wonder how I was able to survive even one moment, yet survive I did.

I was a waitress, actually they call us servers, but waitress is what we were in my little town of Praiee Falls. I worked the 7:00AM to 4:00 PM shift, and hated every moment. From the time I rolled out of bed in the morning, until I came home in the afternoon, I hated everything about my life.

I hated the lingering smell of grease from the French fry machine; bacon fat stored on the back of the griddle made the fries smell not as bad. The clatter of dishes slamming down on the ready to go counter became jarring sensations every time Muskie threw one down, and hollered, Evie, your up gal.

I hated Muskie too. That lecherous ex-football tackle, who owned the diner. He should have been brought up on charges of sexual harassment, but then whichever of us girls who brought charges, would be out of a job, and jobs werent plentiful in Praiee Falls.

Besides, he was best friends with Pete Calgon, the town sheriff. Pete was no better than Muskie, he had his paws all over any of us who made the mistake of getting too close.

It was a miserable existence, but I saw no way out, even though I had dreamed of leaving for years. I couldnt leave. I had an invalid mother to care for. My mother hated me from the day she got pregnant and forced my father to marry her. He was a no-gooder, who left us after two years, but thats another story, and has nothing to do with what happened that fateful day.

My shift was almost over. My feet hurt, my back ached, and my nostrils had finally stopped rebelling at the greasy aromas. Sarah and Nadine Crawford, sister spinsters, had come by for their early dinner. They always took home more than they ate, but all of us knew they were living on severely limited income. Their daddy had been the richest man in town; he had spent it all long before he died a pauper.

Anyway, Sarah ordered a hot pastrami sandwich, with mashed potatoes and creamed corn. Nadine scowled at her and mumbled she didnt want to eat mashed potatoes after Sarah had attacked them. Why didnt Sarah order French Fries?

I pretended not to hear the comment, as I wrote the order on my pad, just praying they wouldnt get into a boisterous argument. I wanted to take their order, end my shift and go home, except going home wasnt any big deal either. Mother would be scowling worse than Nadine because of some imagined infraction. Maybe her favorite soap opera character didnt behave well that day, or the lunch Id made her before leaving in the morning wasnt good enough. Didnt matter much what I did, she would still scowl and complain. Most often I didnt listen to her, just went to my room, took off my smelly uniform, and soaked in the shower until I felt clean and ready to face another evening of dismal complaining.

It wasnt meant to be. Not that day. It would not be the same as all the others. Jason Carver McKnight walked into the diner just before I ended my shift. I was taking the Crawford sisters order to Muskie, when I heard the door open. My eyes turned toward the front door, and there he was, holding a gun about the size of a Mack truck, at least it was big, bigger than any gun I had ever seen.

Before anyone could move, he was firing that gun everywhere. The first bullet hit me full force in the shoulder, and the second, the one that took me down, hit me just below my shoulder. He was firing rapidly, but suddenly I was not aware of anything except blackness.

That day changed my life for good. Coming close to death made me realize I could no longer live in the misery I had been schlepping through. When I got out of the hospital, I attended the funerals of the Crawford sisters and Muskie, went home, packed a suitcase, told my mother goodbye and left Praiee Falls.

Ive never looked back, until now. This morning I was rushing to my job at Pendelton Pharmaceuticals, where I work as a receptionist, and I ran into Pete Calgon, the sheriff back home. He told me about the fortune the Crawford sisters had amassed through frugal living, and sound investments, over the years. That is was over a million dollars, and left to their church. My mother had somehow managed to overcome her illness and was working at the diner, which Pete now owned, and he and my mother were thinking about moving in together. Shes a fine woman, Pete remarked. You oughta come home and see her.

So the terrible tragic occurrence of that day not only changed my life, but it changed my mothers as well. Maybe one of these days I will go home. Mother might enjoy meeting my husband Bart, and her two grandchildren. Maybe I will, and then, maybe I wont.

free conscious writing. I discontinued this for several reasons. One, remodeling of a kitchen in my home required my help. Two, I did not like this character at all. I tried stopping after the 2d paragraph but he held on. When I left to help out in the kitchen and came back, I was able to just let him sit there in his hotel room wondering why he got the phone call.

Anyone who wishes to finish it, please do. Something inside says he aint as bad as he seems and that there are redeeming facets. Maybe someday Ill finish it, but at the moment, I dont like this guys attitude.
M.


January 2, 2003

It couldnt happen to a nicer guy. Thats what everyone said, but trust me, they were full of it. They all knew I wasnt a nice guy; there isnt one of them who sincerely applauded my good fortune. Everyone of my so called buddies, would have screwed me over, just as I would have done them, only I got the windfall and they didnt.

At long last I was in a position to tell ole Henley, the sales and marketing manager, to shove it, I am out of here. And I did. I got right in his face, about as far away as the length of my index finger, and told him really good. You friggin son of a bitch. Youve been on my tail for eight years, and now man, you are going to eat dirt.

I could feel him quivering as I stared into those beady little darting eyes. He knew I had him by the balls, and I wasnt going to let go until I drained him of every last drop of his snotty attitude. I was in the drivers seat and he was going out the door, but not until I made him pay and pay dearly.

Who ever would have thought that one day I would own McKenzies Manufacturing? Sure as hell not me, Barry Regent, lowly scum salesman who never even met the high and might Michael Morgan McKenzie. I never met the bastard, never shook his hand, never sat in the same room with him except, when he gave the annual pump up the employees speech before a major stock holders meeting. Nope, never even met him and here I am, heir to his empire.

How did it all happen? Thats what this story is all about. How it all happened.


About three months ago I was in Denver calling on some potential buyers of one of our products. Id had a long harassing day, was tired, frustrated because I had a hard time getting through self-aggrandizing secretaries. Those phony little, made up, bitches with their attitude of self importance, were my enemy, but I never let it show. No way, I knew how to schmooze them, but this particular day my schmoozing musta been off, because I got in to see only one of the bigwigs.
January 3, 2003

Last Saturday night there was a full moon. It was Valentines Day, not that it meant anything to me. Its been years since Ive had a Valentine. Its been years since Ive had a date. Ive had opportunities, plenty of them, but after the relationship with Mike, I havent been ready to go through that pain again.

Mike was perfect. At least he was perfect for me. He wasnt the best looking guy in town, and not the most successful, but he was attractive, thoughtful, and treated me tenderly. Thats what I needed more than anything, to be treated with love and kindness. My ego, and my heart, had long been suffering until Mike came into my life and made everything wonderful.

We werent kids. We were in our thirties, never married, and we both had had serious live-in relationships, that eventually didnt quite make it. We knew how tenuous love and relationships could be, and we wanted to make this one work.

Mike was a high school math teacher. He coached Pop Warner baseball, loved kids, and dreamed of one day being Principal of the private elementary school hed attended. Actually, he wanted to start his own private school, but circumstances kept him from acquiring the financing for that.

I was a field representative for our local newspaper. If a story broke on my side of town, I covered it. That wasnt my main income. I had invested a small inheritance wisely and was able to live comfortably while struggling to become a good artist. In my heart I knew I would never be good, but I loved the act of painting. I could absorb myself into the action. Determining the design, blending the colors, then dipping the brush onto the palette was like soothing music to my soul. Each stroke was a loving chord from my creative spirit.

When Mike died, that music died. I couldnt paint anymore. I didnt want to paint anymore. Something inside me shut down, closing off all creativity. I became a shadow of who I had been, physically and mentally. You see Mike didnt just die; he died in the arms of another woman. Her husband is serving a life sentence for their murder. I have been serving a life sentence of grief, feeling loss, betrayal, and deep sorrow, until last Saturday.

As I said, it was Valentines Day and a full moon. The editor of the paper called me to cover a incident in my side of town involving a hostage situation at a small bank. When I got to the scene, the street was blocked with police cars, the SWAT team had just arrived, and according to Daniel Madison, one of my police buddies, a shoot out was almost inevitable.

He was right. The two men inside began shooting, the bullets from their guns slamming into cars, trees lining the streets and me. I hadnt yet ducked behind anything when shots came wildly spewing through the windows. I was down and out before I knew anything had hit me.

I understand it was touch and go for my recovery. For a few hours they didnt think I was going to make it but I did. My only memory of that time I was un-conscious was having one of those near death experiences. You know, where you float above your body, go through a tunnel, see a white light and emerge in this paradise atmosphere.

That all happened to me and when I got to the other side, I was in a museum with exquisite paintings along the walls. Every framed piece of art contained musical notes and hearts of all sizes. When I analyzed it later while recovering, I thought perhaps Valentines Day was why hearts were in all the pictures, but I couldnt understand the musical notes. Now, a week later I see the whole picture. When I allowed my personal grief to so take over my life, I cut off the music of my soul.

When I go home today, I promise to begin again. Coming so close to death made me realize that I have to open all the doors I had shut on feelings and live again. I promised myself I would not only paint again but I will love again.

The End

As I am writing this particular piece, I am realizing things Ive read about writing well. For example, when I mention that Mike treated me tenderly, I should show that, not tell.

There are many gaps in the story that need to be filled. Why did the main character need tenderness? My ego, and my heart, had long been suffering until Mike came into my life and made everything wonderful.

This story needs gaps filled, but it is my new regimen. I am writing each morning as the words stream from me. Someday I may go back and edit this enough to give it lifeand it will become a real story.

January 4, 2003

Last weeks Madison Hills Annual Flower Show was the absolute best ever. Im serious. The county must have been blessed with just perfect weather to have the abundance of spectacular entries. Even Maude Stevens usually limp potted rose was right up there with the winners. I have to admit, hers was probably the best in show and I voted for it but Agnes Ainsley voted against her, and in our show the winner has to be unanimous. I dont know if thats how other shows are run, but our rules are specific. The judges vote, then if it isnt unanimous, they have a discussion until everyone aggress. Ive heard that Sometimes the discussion can be heated.

This is the first year I have been a judge, consequently I wasnt able to enter. I think they selected me to be a judge so I couldnt enter and win as usual, at least in the rose category. My prize roses are the talk of the town, actually, the talk of the state and I am very proud. I work hard in my garden, presenting the best in show for the last four years in a row.

But it was an honor to be a judge. I took Emily Cramers place this year, she having gone into the hospital for open heart surgery. Shes doing fine and could have judged, but the committee didnt want to chance it, so they selected me.

Before he died, my father won the rose competition 15 years straight. He was honored among the citizens as a master grower, and accused of having a secret recipe for his gardenias and roses. If he did, he never revealed it. At least not to anyone I know. Although there are rumors that he and Maude might have been more than friends, but I heard the same story about him and Agnes. I never believed either story, until now.

January 5, 2003

With smoke stacks puffing grey steam, wheels laboriously turning an inch at a time, then picking up speed, whistle blowing mournful sounds echoing down the tracks, the last train from New Orleans pulled out of the station. Within minutes all lights inside the depot were diminished and I stood alone staring into the midnight blue.

Jeff wasnt on the train. Obviously he had lied about coming home. I tried telling myself he had missed the last train from New Orleans, but I knew better. He wasnt coming. We wouldnt hear from him again, at least not until he needed something from me or his mother.

She would be heartbroken, again. This has happened before. He would call her, promising that hed be home for good this time, and sometimes he would make it home, but never for good. Most of the time she would wire him the money to come home and we wouldnt hear from him for months.

Jeff wasnt a kid. Now n his early forties, he was old enough to know right from wrong, good from bad and the pain he could cause his mother, whom he swore he loved more than anything in this world, including me.

Yes, he was my only love. I cant remember ever not loving him. I think I fell in love with him in Kindergarten, and even in high school when he thought of me as his best friend, I continued to love him through all his dalliances and sometimes true romances. I was there to listen to him reveal more than I wanted to hear. But thats what next door neighbors are for, to be best friends.

When Jeff first left to go to Tulane, his mother and I eagerly anticipated his letters, few thought they were and his visits home during extended holidays were joyous. He regaled us with amusing and sometimes fascinating stories about New Orleans and school activities. We sat wide eyed and appropriately interested in every detail.

When the war came, the big one, and he enlisted, we were frightened, so fearful of harm coming to him or even death, something we both refrained from ever expressing. His airmail letters from Europe were few and far between but filled with hope that he would come back to us soon. When I get back there after this damned war, Ill never leave either of you again.

Those few words thrilled us and gave us hope. Jeff would come home. It was our combined dream. And home he came, after a brief stay in New York. He didnt come home alone. He brought a bride, a New Yorker who was the sister of one of his Army buddies. The buddy had been killed in action, and Jeff went to see his family. A courtesy call, he told us and it was love at first sight when she opened the door.

The marriage lasted 11 months. She missed New York. A little Alabama town was not to her liking, at least thats what Jeff told us, but I think it was because she learned that Jeff was having an affair with one of the town looser women. Magda Barnicle was not exactly a woman of the evening, but she came damned close. She was known as easy.

After the divorce, Jeff took advantage of the GI Bill and went back to Tulane. Magda followed him and was back home within three months. His academic schedule left no time for her, she told everyone, and we all pretended to believe her.

My life continued with no major changes. I worked for the local gas company, eventually ran the company, and was nearing retirement when Jeff called. He knew his mother was getting on in years, that she could be gone in a matter of months, and he promised hed be home. Ask Alice to meet me at the train, he told her, Im coming home for good this time.

I helped her get his room ready. We aired it out, bought new curtains, linens for the bed, and painted the desk, chair, and headboard. We were excited, even though I had doubts because of his previous actions. Im sure she did also. We never voiced them, just talked about when he was home. He could fix up the landscaping in the yard; paint the front porch and the garage. There were so many things needing a mans touch.

The day after the last train from New Orleans pulled out of the station, in the early morning, I heard the phone ringing next door. I grabbed a robe, ran out the door and down the steps, tying the belt as I crossed onto their house. When I entered, she was standing by the phone table, the receiver still clutched in her hand. She didnt have to say a word. I knew by the tears welling in her eyes, slowly falling on her wrinkled cheeks that Jeff would finally be coming home for good.

January 6, 2003

I hate mornings. I hate the routine around here. Liz gargling in the bathroom irritates me more than anything. Well maybe not more than hearing Chanel whining about how she hasnt got anything decent to wear; Cory griping about taking out the dog really bums me out, since we only have a dog because he begged and begged.

God I hate mornings. Working at home doesnt help. At least if I had a away job, I could get up earlier than the rest of them, grab a cup of coffee, and take off for the office, or the store, or plant, or wherever I would be employed. But no, I have to be a writer. I know, I know, I could have an office somewhere downtown, or write in a coffee shop, someplace like some of my writing buddies, but Im basically lazy. Thats why Im a writer to begin with.

Why am I lamenting like this instead of getting on with my current novel? Getting the juices flowing? I dont think so. Yesterday I surfed the web to avoid this damned writers block. God I hate when this happens in the middle of a novel. I dont know where the hell the plot is going, or why my main character decided to stop any action. I probably should have stopped writing the damn thing and started a new block-buster. Yeah, thats what I should do, but I hate to waste all those words, especially since they didnt come easy this time.

Thats the problem with being a world wide, best selling, novelist. Millions of readers anticipating your next adventure thriller, to say nothing of all the publishing pros connected with your successes, who are on your butt day and night about meeting deadline. Id like to see their sorry asses churn out two international best sellers a year

Id better zip this and get back to the grindstone. I wonder if Cory remembered to walk Bullet this morning. Id better take him out, just in case and I know the bird feeder needs to be refilled. This is probably a good time to trim that hedge Liz has been after me to get done. Yeah, thats what Ive got to do. If I dont get that dog out, and he has an accident, I will hear about it for a week.

Yeah, maybe when Im walking Bullet my Muse will start working. Maybe the good ole Muse will find a way to get Matt Steele, the main character in all my novels, to get moving. Yeah. Good idea. Get away from this keyboard. Maybe mornings arent the best time to write. Maybe I should write at night. Maybe I should go find a job.