Oh my! Followup to #writefridays 16

Oh my! After my response to #writefridays exercise 16, I received a new notification that I won a Google prize. I am so pleased that "It is OBLIVIOUS that this notification would come as a surprise".

The hits just keep coming.
Noel

Google UK Ltd

Belgrave House

76 Buckingham Palace Road

London SW1W 9TQ

United Kingdom.

　

Ref No: GUK/ 8900/88/2015

Batch: GUK/ 955/GPKLI/UK

OFFICIAL NOTIFICATION LETTER.

　

It is oblivious that this notification will come to you as a surprise but please find time to read it carefully as we congratulate you over your  success in the following official publication of results of the E-mail Electronic Online Sweepstakes Organized by Google, in conjunction with the foundation for the Promotion of Software Products (F.P.S.). Google earns its profit mainly from advertising using their very own Google search engine, Gmail, Gala, Sify, e-mail service Google Maps, Google Apps, Orkut social networking and You Tube video sharing, which are all offered to the public for free.

　

We wish to congratulate you once again, for being among the Twelve (12) selected winners in the ongoing E-mail Electronic Online Sweepstakes; we do believe with your prize, you will continue to be active in your patronage to Google and its Products. A Bank Cheque have been issued in your favor, hence you have won for yourself the sum of 450.000.00 (four Hundred and Fifty Thousand Great British Pounds Sterling), One Google Nexus 10 Tablet and also you have been enlisted as one of the Google Ambassadors for 2015.

　

To claim your reward, please contact our Foreign Payment Bureau officer below by neatly filling the verification and funds release form below, as your payment will be released and arranged by our United Kingdom Office.

　

MANDATORY FOREIGN PAYMENT RELEASE FORM.

　

(1) Your Contact Address:

(2) Your Contact Telephone/Mobile Number:

(3) Your Nationality/Country:

(4)Your Full Names:

(5) Occupation:

(6) Age/Gender:

(7) Marital Status:

(8) Private Email Address:

(9) Ever Won An Online Lottery?

(10) How Do You Feel As A Winner?

(11) Your preferred mode of prize remittance stated below:

　

*Courier Delivery of your certified winning cheque in your name and other Winning documents safely to your home address.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………

Contact our Foreign Payment Bureau officer below:

MARIA .O.BAKER

Senior Vice President, Corporate Development and Chief Legal Officer with the E-mail account as follows:

Email:markbaker343@gmail.com 

……………………………………………………………………………………………

Note: You can either fill your claims verification form by printing and manually filling out the requested details or you can fill directly on e-mail, or provide the details on Microsoft Word.

　

NOTE:For security reasons, you are advised to keep your winning information confidential till your claims are processed and your money remitted to you. This is part of our precautionary measure to avoid double claiming and unwarranted abuse of this program by some unscrupulous elements. Please be WARNED!!!!

　

Congratulations from the Staffs & Members of Google Board Commission.

　MD Matt Brittin,

Chairman of the Board and Managing Director,

Google United Kingdom

©2015 Google Corporation.

Congratulations! You are a winner!

Exercise 16: One or more of your characters (protagonist, antagonist, supporting cast member) wins a contest. What do they receive? Is the contest one they entered? Is it something they want to win? How does the win affect the direction of their lives? Sketch a scene, or more, that shows the aftermath of the contest announcement.

Official Notification Letter.

Dear Google User.

You have been selected as a winner for using Google services,attached to

this email is Our Official Notification Letter for your perusal.

Find attached document for claims

Claims Agent: Dr David Drummod  drwilliasgibson@dr.com

Sincerely.

MD. Matt-Brittin.

Chairman Of The Board and Managing Director Google UK Ltd.

©2015 Google Corporation.

Mark read the e-mail again. He had seen far too many of these types of messages,this one had all the signs of a scam artist. Misspelled words, a random draw for a contest he had never entered, for a lottery he had never heard of, and for which he had definitely not purchased any ticket, the name of the claims agent he was to contact was different than the one in the e-mail address given. Alarms bells went off in his head.

Usually his spam filter caught messages like this, but for some reason this was delivered to his inbox instead, he moved the mouse and was about to click on delete. He paused for a moment, looked over the message again. He looked at the very official "Award Letter Powered by Google.pdf" attached at the bottom of the message. He saw the numbers ₤550,000 in numerals and written out as ₤ Five Hundred Thousand. He was uncertain about the exact exchange rate but estimated that was about $825,000 US.

He moved the mouse from Delete to Reply and clicked it instead. A new e-mail opened up, Mark highlighted the address in the e-mail body, copied the claim agent's contact and pasted it in the To: field below the reply address in the header.

He clicked in the body and began to type:

Dear Dr. David Drummond, (or Dr. Willias Gibson) or whoever your are.

I received your e-mail advising me that I had won a large sum of money for using Google services.

Normally these types of messages go straight to junk mail, the rare one that gets past my filters is deleted immediately by me. I have read too many articles and seen many reports on the internet of people scammed out of their life savings by messages exactly like this. Instead I find myself responding to you, in the vain hope that this may be true, that it may answer to our prayers.

My daughter Samantha is eight years old, and suffers from cystic fibrosis. The doctors tell us her disease is so far advanced the only hope for her is a double lung transplant, if a suitable donor can be located. If we cannot operate on her, it is likely she will die within a year, at best maybe she will live for two.The costs for her operation will be almost $800,000 and the HMO has declined to pay for it, claiming her sickness is a preexisting condition, that she had it before we were insured by them, and is ineligible. We are unable to raise that amount of money on our own. Unfortunately we do not qualify for any aid to offset the costs.Her mother and I are forced to try ease her congestion as best we can, and pray for a miracle. Please let this Official Notification be real.

Yours in hope,
Mark Reed

He hovered the mouse over the send button, let out a sigh, and clicked. As the bar showed the progress, he thought to himself the worst that can happen is he just confirmed his e-mail address to a spammer, and it would get sold to other spammers. But a faint hope, a tiny spark made him want to believe it was real, that he had actually won a contest he had never heard of, and had never entered.

He signed out of Gmail, turned off the computer, switched off the desk lamp and walked down the hall to Samantha's room. He could hear her labored breathing, the sound of the humidifier running, his wife Jolene's voice as she comforted her softly, "It's OK Sammie, we will find a way to pay, somehow." Mark took a deep breath, entered the bedroom and asked Jolene, "How is she Jo?", as he sat on the bed beside his daughter. "I have this strange feeling everything is going to be OK."

© 2015 NoelHC

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I was searching my Gmail Trash looking for a message like this to use as the typical scammer's baited hook, but I had not received one since the last time I emptied the junk mail. While I was searching the internet for typical wording, I saw I had a message in Spam. I was surprised and pleased to see the message quoted at the top of this piece had just arrived.

Kids, do not try this at home! There are some bad guys out there, and they are devious in parting unsuspecting victims out of  their hard earned money. Do not reply to any messages like the one I just received.

Coffee memories

Exercise 15: Diner cheeseburger deluxe. Mrs. Brune’s lasagna. Cheese and veggie omelet MRE. No, this isn’t my “To Eat” list, although I sure could go for some lasagna, now that I think about it. Rather, I can tell you a story about each one of these items, evoking a couple of memories along the way.
For this challenge, write a scene in which food plays a role. It could be major, it could be incidental. But share with us the story that your character will always remember when next they see, smell, and/or taste that food.

Coffee Memories

He scooped a small handful of the rich brown Mexican beans out of the bag, and poured them into the coffee grinder. Carefully placing the lid on top, he pressed the button to start the process. The beans rattled around at first, and then the pitch changed. "Not too long." he reminded himself, he wanted the grind just right, too coarse and the full flavor would not be released, too long and it will too fine and will leave sediment in the brew.

When he felt the time was right, he stopped the grinder and opened the lid. He brought the machine close to his nose and breathed in the aroma. It was rich, earthy, with hints of spices and fruits. As he took in the heady combination an image came to his mind, a small white stucco building, trimmed with a light green.

Sun filtered through branches of the coffee plants, their cherry red fruit grew in clusters. Coffee beans were spread out on a concrete pad to dry, a tarp stretched over the area, offered protective shade. The owner explained how his family had run this small plantation in San Sebastian del Oeste for five generations as he described how he picked the fruit by hand when it was at its ripest, a deep ruby red.

The entire process was demonstrated, the cleaning, drying of the beans, and finally the roasting. The coffee roaster emitted waves of heat in the stifling hot afternoon. Beans prepared earlier were ground in an ancient hand grinder, and brewed. All the guests were served a small earthenware cup of the fresh brew, piping hot, it was refreshing to drink, even on such a hot sunny day.

He added the fresh grounds to a French press and poured the boiling water over them, stirred gently and set the strainer on the top. Now all that is left is to wait a few minutes before carefully pushing the handle down to get all the coffee grounds separated on the the bottom.

The coffee, visible through the glass carafe,was a deep, mysterious brown. The scent of the coffee takes him back to that afternoon at the small plantation, and the memory of the small dog that played with him there. He smiled.

© 2015 NoelHC

 

For images of this little family coffee business in San Sebastian del Oeste, Jalisco, Mexico see the link below.

https://www.flickr.com/photos/collazoprojects/sets/72157629821186605/

From blogger Julie Collazo, I couldn't find mine on the computer yet. 

Road Trip

Exercise 13: Your characters are on a road trip, driving along, seeing the sights. Maybe they are on a deadline. Maybe they are just out for a joy ride. Maybe they’re on their way to Missouri to clear out a nest of vamps. In any case, they see something on the side of the road that they just have to stop and check out.
Write a short piece that clues us in as to what they saw, and why it made them stop in their tracks.

Driving into the sun.
Sky is almost free of clouds.
The sun, a huge disc, shining straight into my eyes.

Dust stirred up by the cars in front of me lit up,
a haze hanging over the road.
George Strait playing, loud.

I want to just keep driving into it.

The highway stretches out ahead in a straight line , as far as the eye could see, all the way to the snow capped peaks on the horizon.

The sky was the softest, palest blue possible; not a cloud in sight to sully its purity.

Heat shimmer crosses like little creeks on the road in front, until the truck gets closer to them, and then suddenly break up, and join together like droplets of quicksilver, appearing again just a little further ahead, always just beyond reach.

The sunlight reflects off the hood, creating a glare on the windshield, the driver squints to see past it. Insects hit the glass, and makes his view forward even more challenging.

The heat outside is only slightly relieved by the air coming in through the open windows, the noise of it rushing past making it necessary to turn the volume up on the radio. George Strait is playing, the woman singing along with him, blending in so well.

 "Oh my god you're something, like nothing I've ever seen, if I'm asleep let me dream" she sings. 

"You have such a lovely voice. You should sing backup for George." he says

In the ditch on either side of the road wildflowers wave in the breeze, and beyond the ditch the bright sulfur yellow of canola blossoms, reflecting so brightly in the sun it is almost blinding to look at, stirred by the air, move in unison with the wildflowers. Their scent, sweet, almost cloying, wafts in through the windows, perfuming the air.

He looks over at her, reclining in the passenger seat, one arm resting on the window sill, leaning against the door, the other hand busy brushing strands of light blonde hair away from her face as the wind blows it all over. Her long legs are stretched out in front of her, her small, pretty feet, bare, resting on the dash. He says "If anybody else did that to my truck, I would go crazy, they would be on the side of the road, walking. For some reason I don’t mind it when it's you." He admires the curve of her thighs, her calves, in tight cut off jeans. His mind wanders to those legs entwined with his in bed, a few hours earlier this morning.

Her arms are bare, strong, her hands are so graceful, he thinks about them on his chest, up under the front of his shirt, as they kissed outside the truck before leaving, although that was many miles and over an hour ago.

Her tank top strains to hold all of her charms in, his eyes keep returning to her cleavage, it is a good thing the highway has no other traffic on it now, as he keeps correcting the wheel to stay in the lane.

She looks at him with alluring eyes that drive men wild, a smile plays on her lips, she reaches over and puts her hand on his muscular thigh, staking her claim. Her look says "You are mine, you are powerless to resist me."

She stops singing long enough to look off to the right side of the highway and point with her other hand to a small grove of trees and an abandoned farm house, just off the road. “Stop, over there, please,” she says, "I think I have been here before when I was just little, I know that house."

She turns her face back to him, and he knows there is no choice. The truck slows down, and pulls over to the shoulder before turning up the narrow dirt lane. On either side stand old elm trees, their branches meeting over the middle, forming a tunnel. Under their canopy it is shady, and cooler.

Pulling into an open meadow, long grass and tall wildflowers are everywhere. He turns off the engine, and switches off the music. Peace fills the meadow, so quiet, so calm, the only sounds a metallic tick, tick, tick of the engine cooling, the buzz of the bees flying from flower to flower, and a bird singing high in on of the trees at the edge of the grove.

They look at each other, and smile.

Her lovely mouth opens, he is not surprised when she says, "Hey, you, let's go see if we can break into that house."

To be continued.....

© 2015 NoelHC

Image by Followings Photography. For great family and wedding photography in Maple Ridge BC and area check
https://www.facebook.com/pages/Followings-Photography/189047931139328?fref=ts

A Moment in Time

Exercise 11: Life is full of mundane missed moments. Sometimes, the subway door closes right as we’re walking down the stairs. Sometimes, we’re the first in line for the movies when they announce the theater is full. If only we hadn’t forgotten our jacket – if only that red light hadn’t caught us – if only … Write a paragraph or several in which your character’s life goes off track due to a missed moment in time …


"You can't leave me stuck here alone with the kids in this weather." my wife said tearfully. "The last time I dug and dug snow for hours, and just when I finished the snowplow came and piled it up deep across the driveway and I couldn't get out." I replied "You know I have to get this done, it is my job." She answered "You don't get overtime, you don't get days off for spending a weekend offshore, so why go on our time? Go on Monday, hopefully the storm has passed by then."

The weather forecast was calling for heavy snow fall. She had problems digging out before when I was away. Being stranded in our house with no family to help out, and two young children concerned her. On the other hand, my supervisor was adamant that I go offshore to check on the modifications. I was torn between the two, and after much thought made my decision. As there was no compensation, or days off in trade, spending a weekend offshore was not fair to me or to my young family.

 I cancelled my helicopter flight, and rescheduled it for the following Monday morning. We had many errands to do that weekend. She saw no reason why I had to spend the weekend offshore. Frankly, neither did I, it was my boss that thought I must go out. I already knew what modifications were required to adapt the drilling fluid system to handle oil based drilling fluids as I had already been involved in the conversion on its sister ship previously.

Sunday morning arrived, and with it a wild snow storm blew in from the ocean. Our house was less than a mile away from Conception Bay, and there was little to block the wind coming in over it. The snow drifted in against the ocean side of our house, and completely blocked the door way. I had to go out of the house through another door, and dig in to clear the huge drift away from the entrance. The whole family went outside. My wife and I shoveled to clear the driveway so we could move the cars, the children climbed up the snow banks and slid down them.

The news broadcasts covered the weather offshore as well as on land for Newfoundland. The predictions for the Grand Banks called for very strong winds and extreme wave heights. I was glad I was not out there. Even after many years at sea the motion of the platform in waves made me nauseous and dizzy.

That night the wind howled and rattled the house like nothing we had ever heard before; I thought the doors would blow in with the force against them. I slept, fitfully, waking up often to check the time, as I had to leave early to drive to the heliport.

I woke to the alarm clock, and got out of bed. I looked out the window in the darkness, and could see more snow had fallen overnight, and had been blown into deep drifts across our driveway and the long street down to the main highway. I went out to the end of our drive and saw the snow, above my knees, all the way down to the main road. Driving the car would not be possible until a plow came and cleared the road.

I returned to the house and called the heliport to advise them I would not be able to get there for my flight to the rig. A grim voice at the other end said, "Nobody is flying out to the Ocean Ranger today."

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
On February 14, 1982, the Ocean Ranger was hit by a large wave, took on water, and began to list severely. Lifeboats were launched, and the order to abandon ship was given. The drill rig capsized, and sunk. All 84 crew on board perished.

The article below gives details of the incident, and a summary of the report into the disaster. The memorial statue shown at the end of this article was the result of fundraising and lobbying efforts by my friend Rob Strong and myself, in memory of those lost at sea.

http://www.heritage.nf.ca/articles/economy/ocean-ranger.php

© 2015 NoelHC

Meditations on meditation

Exercise 9: If you have a favorite meditation technique, feel free to use that. Otherwise, take a seat somewhere comfortable and out of reach of electronic distractions. Let your thoughts cycle through until they settle. If there are any ideas or thoughts that insist on persisting, write them down on a notebook. Enjoy the respite from the constant forward motion of our overfull lives. At the end, grab a nice cup of coffee to jolt you back to reality (sorry, it has to happen …) take a look at what you have on the notebook. If there is something there, take a minute and go deeper — bring it out in a sketch of a paragraph or two. If you have nothing on the notebook, you can at least enjoy the brief moment of contemplation.


When this #WriteFridays prompt arrived I was traveling through Toronto to Orlando to take two of our grandchildren to DisneyWorld.

It was extremely difficult to "take a seat somewhere comfortable", after all I was on an airplane. "Out of reach of  electronic distractions" is not that simple when there is a small display in the seat back immediately in front of you, as well as the screens other passengers were watching nearby. The normal in-cabin flight announcements and safety demonstrations, in both official languages, interrupted my thoughts frequently.

I usually take notes on my Blackberry phone Memo app, and then e-mail them to myself to work on later. This trip I decided to leave the phone at home, as I wanted to concentrate on enjoying the time together with the grandchildren. Instead I took a small memo book, the type with the coil binding at the top, small enough to be put in a shirt pocket. This one featured a small strip of elastic riveted on the cover that could hold a small pencil.

Once the flight was in the air and the announcement that we were now free to move about the cabin came on, I started to "let my thoughts cycle through until they settle". Initially my thoughts were of seeing my grandchildren again, the last time we had been together with them was six months prior. They live on the far end of the country, three time zones away and at the end of the day here, it is bed time for them, so we don't get to visit on the phone or Facetime often.

Thoughts of them eventually drifted to thoughts of my own grandparents, all long gone now, but still a very big part of my memories to this day. One memory, which is more a collection of a number of scenes with my paternal grandparents came to the forefront.

I took out my notebook and began to write down points as they occurred to me. Reading over my notes now I have a list. The list will form the backbone of another memoir chapter I plan to write and share with my own grandchildren.

My list of notes:

Chores done
Supper
Woodstove
Kerosene lamp
Transistor Radio
CFCW Ukrainian music hour
Grandfather bent forward listening
Frost on windows
Cold draft
Cup of tea, milk and sugar
Bread, homemade, butter, jam
Go to bed
Moonlight on the wall
Get up
Look out window
Dark blue shadows on white snow, of wooden fence, tall black spruce trees
Full moon, high in clear sky
Dogs barking
Coyotes howling in response, distant.

I dozed off, thinking of that scene, or collection of impressions from a number of scenes over the years visiting them on the farm.

We arrived in Toronto, very early in the morning, to "grab a nice cup of coffee to jolt you back to reality" and found our gate to wait for our son and the grandchildren to arrive from their flight.

I see the notes I made while at Disney on the next pages in the memo book, but that will be another story for another time. I will leave with just a little hint of what it will be about, best summed up by the three year old grandson's comment, "I love the whole wide Disney!"

© 2015 NoelHC

None are so blind...

Exercise 12: Description and setting are hard – how does a writer choose what is important to the reader? How does s/he deftly direct the audience’s attention around the frame of their narrative? There are a few ways to accomplish this; here is one helpful exercise. Draft a short excerpt for a new work, or from a work in progress. Include description of your character’s setting using all of his/her senses — except sight. What does the air smell like? What does the rug feel like under bare feet? Are there birds singing? Fire sirens? What is your character’s physiological response? Get under the first layer of what things look like, and invite us in to a deeper description.

... as those who cannot see.



The weight of the heavy fireproof pants and overcoat pulls down on me, awkward, stiff, so difficult to move. I feel the air pack on my back. I must remember I need to be very careful going through hatches and small openings; the tank makes me larger, clumsy and slightly off balance.

Everything in front of me is black; the glass of the mask is completely opaque, no light can penetrate. The air I breathe from the tank is metallic, and at the same time rubber and plastic. I hear my breathing inside the mask, rapid, shallow; I realize I am on the edge of panic and force myself to slow my breathing rate. "Just be calm. You have done this before. You can do it." I tell myself.

 Repressing the acid reflux, my stomach churns. A bitter bile burns from my esophagus all the way to the back of my tongue. In the corners of my mouth, an acidic sensation like biting on a lemon. I want to vomit. I just want out of this place; I want to turn around and go back. I do not care if I fail at this task. 

The instructor commands me "Come on, get going, we don't have all day." I grasp the ladder, and descend from the deck, down one level. I fumble with my boots for each rung on the way down until I feel the deck under my feet. 

I feel along the wall until I locate the fire extinguisher and lift it off of its bracket. I check the safety pin and seal is installed, but leave it in for the moment as I do not mean to accidentally discharge the CO2 I will need at the end of this. I feel further along the wall until I locate the hatch. It is closed tight. I turn the four locking dogs, and swing the heavy door open.

Lifting one heavy boot over the lip of the open water tight door, with one hand, I grip the door frame and step into the chamber. Reaching out with my hand, I can feel the wall through the thick gloves. In my other hand is the fire extinguisher. I step with one foot forward. The splash of water as I set it back down reminds me there is water all the way to the fire and exit. Slowly I take another short step, my gloved hand touching the wall all the way. 

I listen to the crackle of flames, muffled by the helmet liner that comes down over my ears and throat. The heat of the fire ahead of me penetrates heavy protective gear. In spite of breathing canned air, the odor of smoke and fire penetrates, irritating my nostrils, rasping at my throat. I need to knock that fire down long enough to escape this place.

I move towards the flames carefully, one foot ahead of the other, feeling for the beams I know are on the floor, I do not want to stumble and fall in here. I try to remember how many steps it is from the door I entered to the exit when I did this drill with a clear mask on. Was it twenty? Twenty two? I must be getting close as it is warmer, and the flames are louder. I feel an opening on my left, I have reached the doorway, I want to just go through it and get outside, but the fire needs to be put out first.

I know the flames are just the other side of the opening, about eight feet in front of me. I lift the extinguisher up in front of my chest. I recall the word PASS. An acronym for firefighting. Pull. Aim. Squeeze. Sweep. I pull the safety pin and out. Lifting the nozzle up from the side, I lock it in position. 

"Aim at the base of the fire." I remind myself, as I squeeze the trigger and sweep it back and forth. The loud whoosh it makes is comforting as the noise of the fire lessens. My team mates yell, "You did it! Come on, get out!"

Turning to my left, I grab the door frame, and step over the door sill. Hands take my arms and guide me down the four steps to the ground. I tear off my helmet and mask and breathe the fresh air in deeply. Sweat pours down my back, and I can feel my hands are shaking. It is done. I passed the course.

© 2015 NoelHC

Glazed eyeballs and hobbies

Exercise the Eighth: Everyone has a passion – something that they enjoy, whether it’s yoga, obscure vinyl, or search engine optimization. (Or even coaching & mentoring new writers!) In other words, there is something out there that causes your character to wax passionate in the face of glazed eyeballs, awkward coughing, or even straight out door dashing. Let us know what that is.


This topic caused me to ponder my hobbies, and deep interests over the years. I was struck not so much by something that has stayed as a deep passion, but rather how many hobbies I have had, and how my approach to them evolved.

My first hobby was collecting stamps, I can still picture the album I got as a Christmas/birthday gift (more on the inequities of THAT at another time) with its pages dedicated to various countries around the world, and grey scale images of stamps to find and place in their own spot. I lived in a very small town and finding stamps was not easy. When we made the trip into the big city, a special treat was buying a small muslin bag of mixed world stamps at the Sears department store. I remember once we were home the excitement of dumping them on the kitchen table, and sorting through the brightly colored and exotic images from all over.

My album beside me, I would attempt to match the stamps to the missing spaces in my album, often puzzled by the name of the country. Really Switzerland; Helvetia? What is that all about? Greece; Hellas? Huh? But through this process I began to see some of the history of the countries, images of important people from the past and present, I learned about special occasions they commemorated, saw pictures of beautiful places, statues, art and sometimes just the commonplace, such as industry or agriculture.

I knew through my research that one of the most valuable stamps sought at the time was the British penny black, the first self-adhesive stamp to be used in general postal service starting in 1840. I do not recall the value of one at the time, but there was space in the album for one, and I would faithfully search each bag of stamps in hopes of finding this rarity. Had I, then a decision would be forced upon me. Do I put a stamp hinge on it, and place it in its spot in the album, or would I sell it, and retire with unthinkable sums of money (at least unthinkable in terms of an eight year old, in 1959.) This would have tasked the wisdom of Solomon.

My original album was a scribbler style binding, stapled at its center. This soon became full and I progressed to a larger album, with extra posts that allowed extra sheets to be added in order to expand. The original collection migrated from the old album to the new binder. I would carry this to swap meets with my friends, we would go through each others surplus stamps, and barter furiously for a prized specimen.

That album is still in my possession, tucked away in a box in storage, I looked at it just recently as we were moving items out of the way to do renovations in the house. I briefly flipped through the pages, and basked in the recollections some of the stamps brought to me.

Over the years my interests moved away from stamps, and I collected many other types of things, books and cameras being the most prevalent, but there is a soft spot in me still for my old stamp album.

© 2015 NoelHC

Departure - Filtered

Departure - Filtered

I open the door, the jangle of the bell irritates me, my nerves on edge as Laura walks past me, her perfume reminds me of the many times I have smelled that, behind her, holding her close, breathing in the complex aroma from her neck, her hair. Her beautiful face, her sparkling eyes, a sweet smile on her lips. My resolve almost breaks, but this must be done.

We walk up the counter together and order our coffee, and head to a table for two in a quiet corner. I purposely choose this table as I want no others near when I tell her what I must. I sense her attention on me, but I cannot bear to look at her;  what I must say is too painful. I believe she senses something is amiss.

The waitress arrives with our coffee; before she sets the cups down I smell that it isn't fresh, the aroma slightly burned, and bitter. I say “Please bring us a fresh pot. ” to postpone the inevitable, but Laura thanks the waitress and adds cream and sugar to her cup.

She picks up her cup; her hand is shaking, the cup trembling, little waves and ripples forming on the surface. She sips carefully, and sets the cup back on the table.

I stare into my cup, the dark black surface reminds me of the congealed blood on the floor. Only a few hours earlier I went to my brother's apartment. Ron had not answered his phone all day, and he had not been to our restaurant the day before. I was so worried about him, that he might be sick. The door to his place was slightly ajar, and I pushed it open, I sensed something was not right the minute I did.

Furniture was upended, drawers dumped on the floor, signs of a struggle evident throughout. I carefully walked down the hall to his bedroom. Ron is sprawled out on the floor, eyes open, lifeless, a pool of blood surrounding him, dark, viscous, a copper tasting smell to it. I went to check for a pulse, but I knew that was a waste of time before I even touched his neck.

It only took me a moment to realize who must have done this. Ron managed the restaurant; I was just his financial partner. He had big dreams, big plans. When I told him I couldn't afford to invest any more, he found a new source of money, one he was not prepared to discuss with me. Soon new clients began to hang out in the restaurant. Tough guys; they came right out of “The Sopranos” or some gangster movie. I argued many times with Ron about my concerns, but ever the optimist he assured me "I can pay the loan back, no problem. Stop worrying."

Then the factory shut down. Hundreds of people were forced out of work. Families struggling to keep their children fed were not going out to restaurants. Our restaurant was empty many nights. I stopped by one evening to discuss this with Ron, I located him in the back, in a heated discussion with one of the unsavory characters. As soon as I entered, they stopped talking.

This all went through my mind in an instant, as I look at her, I want so much to explain what has happened but I can't. I must protect her. All I am able to say was "I'm leaving." My voice is so calm, I cannot believe this is all I can utter, after all we shared together, a life so full of happiness and joy.

Her eyes fill with tears, her lips tremble, that is always the hardest for me, when she was sad or upset, That quiver would break my heart when she was in pain. Her eyes fix on the tabletop, her fingers trace the pattern of scratches in the old, worn surface. Laura blinks; tries to not break down in front of me. Her mouth opens, but no words came out.

Things had been less than perfect between us these past four months, I was fixated on Ron, and the situation his ambition had put him in. We were at risk of losing the restaurant. I had no job. I was broke, and there was no prospect of that changing anytime soon. She wanted a future together, I had no future to offer her.

I see her swallow, and in a soft, weak voice, a quaver in it, she says "Don’t."

I want to grab her in my arms, hold her, tell her I would stay with her forever, but I know that Ron's new business associates will be looking for their money to be returned, and they knew I backed him before. I had nothing left; everything I owned was invested in the restaurant. My supervisor job at the factory disappeared along with all the all other jobs when it closed. I had to leave town and disappear otherwise they would kill me the same as they killed Ron when they found I could not pay them.

I cannot tell Laura any of this; it will only endanger her. She must not know any of my plans. 

A single tear rolls down her cheek, and drops into her cup, a single bitter tear, in a bitter brew.

I rise from the chair; place some money on the table to pay for our last coffee together. Her gaze turns up towards me standing there, I can see pleading in her eyes, I want so much for her to disappear with me, but I know that will only put her in the same danger I am in.

I want to say so much, to tell her I have to leave her because I love her, but all I can manage is "Take care of yourself." I head for the door, before I open it I take one last look back at her. I see her head is slumped forward. Her hair has fallen down around her face. Her shoulders shake with sobs, silent, broken.

I want to say "I love you. Goodbye." one last time, but I remain silent. I walk to my car, unsure where to go, where to hide.

© 2015 NoelHC

Departure - Original to compare

I open the door, the jangle of the bell irritates me, my nerves on edge as Laura walks past me, my nose senses her perfume, and the scent takes me back to the many times I have smelled that, behind her, holding her close, breathing in the complex aroma from her neck, her hair. She looks at me, a sweet smile on her lips. My resolve almost breaks, but this must be done.

We walk up the counter together and order our coffees, and head to a table for two in a quiet corner. I purposely choose this table as I do not want to have others near when I tell her what I must. I can sense her looking at me, but I cannot meet her gaze, what I have to say is too painful. I think she senses something is amiss.

The waitress arrives with our coffees; I can smell even before she sets the cups down that it isn't fresh, the aromas lightly burned, bitter. I start to ask for fresh coffee to postpone the inevitable, but Laura thanks the waitress and begins to add cream and sugar to her cup.

She picks up the cup; I can see her hand is shaking, the cup trembling, little waves and ripples forming on the surface. She takes a sip, and sets the cup back on the table.

I stare into my cup, the dark black surface reminding me of the congealed blood on the floor. Only a few hours earlier I went to my brother's apartment. Ron had not answered his phone all day, and he had not been to our restaurant the day before. I was worried about him, that he might be sick. The door to his place was slightly ajar, and I pushed it open, I could see that something was not right the minute I did.

Furniture was upended, drawers dumped on the floor, signs of a struggle evident throughout. I carefully walk down the hall to his bedroom. I see him lying on the floor, eyes open, lifeless, a pool of blood surrounding him, dark, viscous, congealed. I went to check for a pulse, but I knew that was a waste of time before I even touched his neck.

It only took me a moment to realize who must have done this. Ron ran the restaurant; I was just his financial partner. He had big dreams, big plans. When I told him I couldn't afford to invest any more, he found a new source of money, one he wasn't willing to discuss with me. Soon new clients began to hang out in the restaurant. looking like they came right out of The Soprano's or a gangster movie. I spoke with Ron about my concerns, but ever the optimist he assured me he could pay the loan back, no problem.

Then the factory shut down. Hundreds of people were thrown out of work. Families struggling to keep their children fed were not going out to restaurants. Our restaurant was empty many nights. Stopping by one evening to talk with Ron, I saw him in the back, in a heated discussion with one of the unsavory characters. As soon as they saw me walk in, they stopped.

This all went through my mind in an instant, as I look up at her, I want so much to explain what has happened but I can't. I have to protect her. All I am able to say was "I'm leaving." My voice is so calm, I cannot believe this is all I can utter, after all we shared together, a life so full of happiness and joy.

Her eyes fill with tears, I see her lips trembling, that has always been the hardest on me, when she was sad or upset, I would see that, it would break my heart that she was in pain. She looks down at the table, her fingers tracing the pattern of scratches in the old, worn surface. I see her blink; trying to not break down in front of me. Her mouth opens, but no words came out.

I know things had been less than perfect between us these past four months, but all I seemed to be able to think of was Ron, and the situation his ambition had put him in. We were in danger of losing the restaurant. I had no job. I was broke, and there was no prospect of that changing anytime soon.

I see her swallow, and in a soft, weak voice, a quaver in it, she says "Don’t"

I want to grab her in my arms, hold her, tell her I would stay with her forever, but I know that Ron's new business associates will be looking for their money to be returned, and they knew I backed him before. I had nothing left; everything I owned was tied up in the restaurant. My job managing the factory disappeared along with all the all others when it closed. I had to get out of town, and disappear as they would kill me as well when they found I could not pay.

I cannot tell Laura any of this; I have to keep her out of danger. I can say nothing of my plans. I watch as a single tear rolls down her cheek, and drops into her cup, a single bitter tear, in a bitter brew.

I rise from the chair; place some money on the table to pay for our final coffee together. She looks up at me, I can see pleading in her eyes, I want her to disappear with me, but I know that will only put her in the same danger.

I want to say so much, to tell her I have to leave her because I love her, but all I can manage is "Take care of yourself." I head to the door, and turn to take one last look at her. I see her head slumped forward, her hair fallen down around her face. Her shoulders shake with sobs, silent, broken.

I try to speak one last time, but I can't. I only think "I love you. Goodbye."

I walk to my car, trying to decide where to go, where to hide.

© 2015 NoelHC

Note: This piece was written as a response, from the man's point of view of a short story written by a great Texas writer Kate Greene. She closed her account and I no longer have a copy of her far better original story.

http://infamous-scribbler.com/blog/2015/03/20/write-fridays-exercise-6-revision/

Exercise 7: Choose an excerpt from a work in progress. This can be a first chapter, or a few thousand words. With your list of filter words by your side, read carefully. Anytime you come across a scene described with one of them, i.e. she saw the dragon leap into the air, replace it with a more direct observation. The dragon leapt into the air, a swirling gossamer of metallic scales catching the sun. Alternatively, you can pick one filter word and do a CTRL+F to find it everywhere in your document. This is especially helpful if you realize that you favor one or two filter words above all the others (I’m particularly fond of s/he felt…)

For more about filter words, read http://writeitsideways.com/are-these-filter-words-weakening-your-fiction/