Writing for Free: The New Pyramid Scheme

There's a storm brewin'--it's been brewing for a while, but maybe it's getting close to a boil, thanks to the tone-deaf benevolents at HuffPo. Since I sort of have a stake in the game, (I've never written for HuffPo...or anyone but myself, as far as blogging, but I'm a writer who'd like to make a living with it) I felt a need to add my spice to the pot.

Courtesy of http://weknowmemes.com/2012/04/there-be-a-shit-storm-a-brewin/

For anyone who hasn't heard, HuffPo doesn't pay their content creators. They expect anyone who writes for them or allows them to essentially appropriate the writer's content to do it for the millionaire-making wage of "FREE", while HuffPo makes hundreds of millions off of it. It's a great deal...for everyone but the writers. Recently, a big wig at the esteemed organization declared he was "PROUD" that they exploit their writers, 'cause, ya know, you can't trust anyone who actually gets paid for their services.




From Chuck Wendig's appropriately vulgar post
http://terribleminds.com/ramble/2016/02/18/scream-it-until-their-ears-bleed-pay-the-fucking-writers/

That makes some of us writers...a bit peeved. So, there have been several pieces about it. I think most writers, and even those who aren't writers, can understand why a multi-billion dollar company that supposedly supports wage improvements and entrepreneurship but doesn't pay workers is a problem. But many still fall into the trap of making excuses for it and think that finding a way to eke a couple dollars out of it is a great thing--instead of actually condemning it. They are like abused spouses who don't realize they're in an abusive relationship.

On Kristen Lamb's great post, someone described how they'd worked with (or "partnered") a site who hosted blogs, which then let HuffPo and others reblog. The pay for that privilege was a $100 donation to the non-profit of the writer's choice, and of course the ever-popular exposure. This person sort of bragged about how they'd found a neat way to trick the behemoth into paying them.

So...I had to voice my opinion on that:

"I have to point out, first, YOU did not get paid to write. You were given money to give away. Which, I assume, still didn’t pay your mortgage or phone bill or even get you a meal deal at Taco Bell, in and of itself. And I assume it wasn’t a benevolent choice you were given–'You can choose to get a paycheck or give the money to charity.'

While I’m all for charity and mentoring–I do as much of it as I can–*that* kind of set up still plays into the idea that the WRITER doesn’t need to get paid. It still perpetuates the screw-the-creator paradigm. It says, 'Hey, we’re not going to actually compensate YOU for your work, but we’ll throw some chump change out in your name to salve the gash we opened in your backside when we bent you over. ‘Cause, well, it makes us look good when we charity.' I’m not saying your acceptance of the deal was wrong; I’m saying them presenting that deal was the same ol’ bullshit. It was a way for them to get (their rocks) off cheap."

Writers deserve to be paid for producing stuff that earns money for someone else. Real money. In their own bank account. Not with exposure. Not with free stuff. Not with charitable donations.

We shouldn’t have to devise creative schemes to be paid for our services, to get an actual paycheck. We aren't tricking them. Really, it's the opposite. This–the HuffPo ridiculousness, the “we’ll donate in your name” scams, the literary booty calls (as Kristen calls it, which I love)–is the pyramid scheme of the literary world. It looks shiny and new, and they promise it'll transform your life, because it’s (trumpets blaring)…
DIGITAL CONTENT…FREE for EVERYONE, AND it will make EVERYONE RICH! (cue infomercial oohs and ahhs.)
But it ain’t (read: shouldn’t be) free, and it’s still the same carnival bait-and-switch. It's only making those who ride the peons into the ground rich.

Seen another way, they’re the ultimate vanity publisher.

We writers are paying THEM to get used. We pay with our time, skill, and dignity, and all we get in return is supposed exposure and validation.

We’re the prostitute groveling on the curb, and–this is fucking rich–we actually THANK THE JOHN for beating us up and stiffing us and handing him a twenty, after he tells us he’ll etch our name on the bathroom wall at Denny’s. And when he shows up next Friday night, we’ll hop in the car again, grateful to have a good way to kill a few hours.

What we do is important. We present ideas and stories in a coherent way to inform, educate, and entertain. That isn't as easy as some people think it is, and not everyone can do it well. Quality writing is hard work. Our work comes from years of education (whether formal or self) and requires time, skill, and knowledge. It is a craft–one of the most important and valuable ones in the world. When we allow others to use our assets and services for profit without compensating us appropriately, we cheapen that craft and ourselves. We have to stop thinking squeezing a few pennies–or NONE–from the machine is a good deal. We have to stop accepting our own devaluation and exploitation as the status quo. We have to demand payment. They'll never buy the cow when they can get the milk for free.

#BoycottHuffPo and others who make bank from the toil of the lowly writers.

.

Marketing a Debut Novel: Bring Wine, Waders, and an Iron Will

The launch of When Doves Fly, my debut Historical Fiction/Western, has been a whirlwind, and I’m still a bit dizzy. I discovered that authors, especially indie authors, are no longer just writers. We must wear many hats to ensure success, and my most recent chapeau is that of Book Marketer Extraordinaire. I’m certainly no expert, but I have gained some knowledge, and I’ll explain the different options I've tried and detail my experiences (and mistakes) through a series of posts. I hope it sheds light on the process and makes it a little less overwhelming for those learning how to pimp their wares.
 

 

I immersed myself in research about how to sell books. It’s involved a great deal of time, frustration, and strong cocktails. The first thing I learned is there’s little reliable information available for newbie authors. Few authors are willing to let others in on what’s worked for them—or if they are, they write a ten page book, charge $10 for it, and proceed to tell you that you need to invest in a sandwich board and a bell. Take any advice you glean from some random “bestselling” author who “sold” eight million books in a day with a huge block of salt (chances are their rank lasted for 5 minutes on Amazon in an obscure subgenre that contains 5 books, and the "sales" were free downloads.)

Much of the advice bandied about is contradictory; use Facebook, Facebook sucks; offer a giveaway, giveaways don’t work; make your book free, free books are bad. There’s also a lot of downright false information and a good number of people advocating unethical practices contrary to various platforms’ rules, either due to ignorance or lack of integrity. Familiarize yourself with the guidelines for each platform and follow them. Don’t take shortcuts or shoot yourself in the foot by breaking the rules—it’s not worth it. Wading through all of this is exhausting, and it often feels like you’re no further ahead than when you started. But if you educate yourself, you’ll be in a position to take advantage of opportunity.

The second thing I learned is that there’s no magic bullet or formula that will work for every author or book. We must tailor our approaches to genre, audience, platform, budget, time, moon phases, and planetary alignment. A debut author with no backlist will need a different approach than an author with ten books. Marketing plans need to be individualized and flexible. I adapted strategies to meet my needs, and you should do the same. My novel is a debut that straddles genres, and it’s not in a “hot” genre, so I’ve had to find ways around those hurdles. A YA author will typically have more options and need to use different platforms, or an obscure genre will need to target much tighter and be able to focus resources rather than spreading them around. You’ll need to analyze your genre and audience to find the best ways to reach them. Your readers’ habits will determine which strategies work best for your book. So your first task is to figure out who your readers are, where they hang out and look for books, their spending habits, and their underwear sizes. Some of the answers may surprise you.

Then, decide your goal before implementing your marketing plan. Some marketing will focus on long term results, and some is more about short term. One strategy might gain exposure, while another will produce sales. Some tools require more time or money, or both; figure out which resources you have and focus on the methods that utilize those.

In the three months since the launch, I’ve worked on both exposure and sales, and found methods that work and ones that don’t. In short, Amazon ads produced the most sales; Goodreads ads and a giveaway produced good exposure and some reviews. Book bloggers, especially a team of reviewers, are excellent advocates, but finding the right ones is tricky. Enrollment in KindleUnlimited was a good decision; the Kindle Countdown deal, while not as successful as I hoped, did give a good bump in sales. Some promotion sites I used during the Countdown deal had a good ROI (Return On Investment,) some did not. Facebook ads were a miserable failure—but I concede that for certain genres, with a lot of work, they could be successful. However, I don’t believe they offer a good ROI overall. Of course, all of these require a strong presence on social media, and it goes without saying that your success will depend a lot on the quality of your book, cover, and blurb.

Stay tuned over the next month for the nitty gritty and feel free to ask questions.


ON TO PART 2

 

Find Lauren's book on Amazon:

US 

http://amzn.to/1Vtd7ZF

UK

http://amzn.to/1VrD0E0

Tampons and Dildos: Facebook Censorship

I got a bit miffed today, and I think this needs as wide a reach as possible, so it deserves its own post.

Facebook apparently considers tampons to be "sex toys" and refuses to allow Alaurra Weaver at www.mommybloggerforhire.com/badassmotherblogger to promote her work because she talks about *gasp* menstruation.

In my work as a historical fiction author, one of the hardest and most maddening research tasks is trying to find information on women's health. It has always been, and STILL is, such a taboo topic that we don't dare speak of it. The lack of information on key aspects of the lives of half the world's population is outrageous.

The ridiculousness of sexism and outlandish prudery of some definitions of obscenity are a couple of the very few things that truly offend me. The attitude that female bodily functions are obscene or pornographic is one of the reasons that women the world over are kept locked in a metaphorical (and sometimes all-too-real) back shed to shield the world from their impure existence.

Without menstruation, not a one of us would be here. Without women struggling to deal with the daily realities of sexism, misogyny, and body-shaming throughout history, none of the small-minded who wish to label women as unclean would exist.

Fuck you, and the tampon you rode in on, Facebook.

Please help spread some great history articles and support a woman writer.

Part 1: www.mommybloggerforhire.com/badassmotherblogger/2015/10/21/a-history-of-menstrual-hygiene-from-free-bleeding-to-flow-tracking-apps

Part 2: http://www.mommybloggerforhire.com/badassmotherblogger/on-the-rag-menstrual-products-from-ancient-greece-to-the-Americas

The Buzzfeed Article: http://www.buzzfeed.com/alauraweaver/does-facebook-really-think-tampons-are-sex-toys-1ylb2





 Image courtesy of stockimages at FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Liar, Liar

The flashing lights sprayed blue and red bruises around our living room. I huddled behind the couch in my nightgown. A man and woman in crisp blue uniforms hefted a black bag onto a stretcher, pushed levers, and lifted the bed like Mom did with her ironing board. Blood smeared the lady’s name tag, but I’d seen it when she came in. It said Glenda. The name of the good witch. The good witch come to clean up after the bad.

Two men in regular clothes stood in the kitchen doorway writing in little notebooks. One pointed to a dark stain on the recliner. His mouth moved, but I couldn’t hear what he said. The hoarse cackle still filled my head and drowned out everything.

A lady rushed in and scanned the room. She spotted me. Her jaw dropped before she caught herself and closed it. She started toward me, crouching down and holding out a hand while whispering hushing sounds—like when you’re trying to catch a scared animal. That’s how they always treated me. Like a scared, stupid animal.

She knelt and said some stuff I still couldn’t hear. Her hand took mine, and she tried to pull me up. My legs wouldn’t work. I tipped over. She wasn’t a big lady, but she scooped me up and carried me out to a car, still shushing.

I don’t remember much of the ride or being brought into the police station. They sat me in a gray little room with a table and a paper cup of apple juice. I felt a little better. Nothing could hide there.

One of the regular-clothes men came in and pulled a chair closer. He sat and bent down to catch my eye. The cackle had faded.

His voice was deep and soft. “Your name is Lizzie, right?”

I nodded.

“Can you tell me what happened, Lizzie?”

I swallowed. “The bad witch came again.”

His face turned mad, and he shook his head. “Lizzie, we don’t have time for games. You need to tell us what happened.”

“It’s not a game. She…she came again a-a-and killed my mom.”

The muscle in his jaw tensed. “Fine. I’ll play along. Who is the witch? How’d she kill her?”

“I-I don’t know who she is. She just comes…when I get mad. She has long talons on her hands. She,” I sniffled back a sob, “she stuck them in my mom’s neck.”

He sat back and sighed. “Lizzie, we know you did it. You’ll be in less trouble if you just tell the truth and explain what happened.”

Like it had before, my chest tightened as if someone gave me a big bear hug. I closed my eyes and tried to will it away, but my skin flushed hot. I told myself she wouldn’t come now—there was no way she could get in without everyone seeing. She only came when she couldn’t get caught.

Even the witch blames it all on me. After she killed Mom, I asked her why.

The witch cackled. “You wished she would die, didn’t you?”

I had…but I didn’t mean it. I couldn’t help being angry when Mom accused me of lying about what happened when Mrs. Jackson, my teacher, died. Mom said I had to quit making stuff up so they could catch the real killer. I told her I wasn’t making it up. Being mad just happens. I can’t help it.

The regular-clothes man slammed a hand on the table and made me jump.

“Listen, I have a lot of work to do. If you aren’t going to tell the truth, you’ll just go straight to jail.”

I wanted to yell but kept my voice quiet. “I’m not lying. Don’t call me a liar.”

“Don’t lie, and I won’t have to.”

My throat closed up. The anger went from calm to boiling. I shook my head and told it to go away…but it never listened anymore. Just like the witch.

The last thing I remember is her head rising behind the man, her hair covered in moss and green slime, wrinkled hands coming up, talons curling in toward his neck, slicing through the skin. The cackle had returned.

 

Now I sit in a cold room made of cushioned walls.

I shudder and scrunch my shoulders up over my ears as best I can with the jacket on, but the noise comes from inside me, and I can’t shut it out. How she makes me hear it when she’s not even around puzzles me—but then again, all of it does.

Dried blood covers my face and hair, and little pieces flake off when I move. I don’t know how so much blood got on me. I wasn’t close enough. Another puzzle.

More regular-clothes men had come into the little gray room. I huddled in the corner. The original regular-clothes man sprawled on the floor, a pool of red-black spreading under him. They had pointed guns at me and yelled and ran around acting crazy. A lady put a white jacket on me that wraps my arms around my back, and they led me down a bunch of hallways until we got to this room.

It’s not fair. They all keep calling me a liar.

The door opens, and a man in a white uniform starts in.

“Damn, I forgot the sedative.” He turns back, tells two men in white doctor coats he’ll return in a minute, and rushes off.

The white coats stand just outside the cushion room in a bare, gray hallway.

One of the white-coat men says to the other, “It’s a severe psychosis. She seems to really believe someone else is doing it. But all the evidence points to her.”

“Well,” the other says, “some kids are just great liars.”

The anger swells up faster every time. Now, it comes in an instant.

The thing with moss and green slime appears behind the white-coat men in the hallway. She slinks toward them.

I try to yell, to warn them, but only a hoarse cackle comes out.

.
Image courtesy of Victor Habbick at FreeDigitalPhotos.net

I'm Goin' Away

*trigger warning--child sexual abuse
 

 

 

I reckoned Daddy would be mad.

I sat in the bathroom on the edge of the tub, lookin’ at the shiny door handle. The little ridge in the middle pointed sideways. That made me feel funny, weak-like and soggy. My fingers itched to turn it back upright. I just stared and kept my hands in my lap. The old house creaked while it settled, and I thought how thankful I’d be not to hear those sounds no more. I reckoned there was a heap of things I’d be thankful to miss.

***

We lived on Apple Lane, and our creaky house set down by the tracks. That was silly, ‘cause there weren’t no apple trees on our street, only peaches. I lay in bed at night, listenin’ to the trains. They’d scream afore they got to the crossin’. They’d chug and clang past the house, rattlin’ the wavy glass in the window frames. It took them forever to get by, car after car filled with black dusty coal. Teacher said coal turns into diamonds, but I didn’t believe her. I never found no diamonds.

I hated them trains. Their screams reminded me of the orange cat Daddy caught shittin’ under the porch.

“Cats is about as handy as a woman. All they’s good at is naggin’ and shittin’ and fuckin’,” he said. Daddy had lots of ideas ‘bout women.

He took its tail and swung it round and round, laughin’ at the way its hair puffed up. It screamed, the sound windin’ up and fadin’ out. Just like them trains. Acourse, they wasn’t that much alike, specially not when the cat stopped sudden-like against the tree. The bones are still out back, behind Daddy’s old Ford. They turned white and then gray, and I checked every week to make sure they was still there.

After that, I always pictured that cat wailin’ and swingin’ when the trains screamed. It gave me goose pimples, and I had to shut my hands over my ears.

***

As I sat in the bathroom, another creak killed the quiet, and I closed my eyes. Mayhap the wind was comin’ up. I held my breath, so’s I could hear the wind, but it wasn’t howlin’. I opened my eyes and checked the door handle again. It still pointed sideways. I reached out and tried to turn it, real gentle-like. Smooth, cold, slippery. It wouldn’t turn. Down on the floor, the strip of light under the door stayed solid, no shadows breakin’ it up.

Creak. I shut my hands over my ears, closed my eyes again.

***

We wasn’t allowed to lock doors. I don’t mean the front door—that one we locked, acourse. But unless you wanted Daddy to tell you to fetch a switch, and make your butt burn and throb and turn red, you sure didn’t lock no other doors.

Daddy said, “Locked doors mean you don’t trust folks. I reckon you ought trust your family.” He talked ‘bout family a lot.

So we left ‘em open. That’s how Sugarman got in.

At night, after the train screamed, the door swung open real slow. I lay in bed with my ears shut but my eyes open, tryin’ to see who it was. I couldn’t see nothin’ but dark, just like I had my eyes closed. Then a weight come down, makin’ the mattress sag so’s I’d start slidin’ to the edge. Sugarman’s hands caught me, holdin’ me round my belly. I tried to lock my legs together and stayed real still. Acourse, that didn’t help none. Sugarman was real strong.

“Gimme some sugar,” he said. He always wanted sugar.

His breath covered me, sour and sweet, like when the peaches fell off the tree in the backyard and rotted into the black dirt. I hated that smell almost as much as I hated them trains. When the wind was just right, it came in my window with the screamin’ of the trains, so thick I could almost see it.

Sugarman put his slick lips on my mouth. I tried my best to keep my lips shut, but he squeezed my cheeks hard. It made my teeth dig into ‘em, and I had to open. His fat tongue filled my mouth, and it tasted even worse than the peaches smelled. I wished my mind would go away. I wanted to shut my ears and my eyes and everything else. I didn’t want to taste that tongue, or feel the draft on my legs when he pushed my nightdress up. If my mind could’ve gone away, it wouldn’t have mattered what Sugarman did.

***

Mama died a year ago. She stayed in bed for months afore she went. She said she had the cancer. It made her get real skinny. I wanted to sit with her but hated lookin’ at her, so I scrunched my eyes into little slits so only a strip of light come through my eyelashes. She was just a pale blur against the blue flowered sheets. It reminded me of the time we went on a picnic, and she chased me through the field until we fell down and lay on the blossoms, laughin’ in the sun ‘til we couldn’t breathe. But she wasn’t laughin’ in her bed. She hadn’t laughed in a real long time.

“I’m gonna die, Punkin,” she said.

“What’s that like, Mama? What happens when you die?”

“Your mind just goes away, like sleepin’, but you don’t wake up. It makes the pain go away.” She smiled, a blurry, tired smile.

I wanted to know more but was scared to ask. I hoped the goin’ away was like when I turned the TV off and the light shrunk to a bright dot and winked out. Or maybe like water swirlin’ down a drain, without the creepy gurgle sound. I hoped it wasn’t a slow thing, like the peaches rottin’ in the yard, wrinkled and crawlin’ with bugs. Anything but that.

She went to sleep after that, and I reckon her mind went away.

***

I thought a heap about makin’ my mind go away once Sugarman started comin’ in. I knew how to make it go away, ‘cause I saw ‘em do the hogs and chickens. They screamed, too, but without the fadin’. Their screams turned to hissin’ gurgles. I wondered if they had pain and if it went away. They didn’t have much mind, but I reckoned it went away just the same.

I'd took the butcher knife out the shed and went to the bathroom with it.

I'd locked the door and sat lookin’ at the knife for a spell. My reflection stared back at me. I didn’t like that—it made a big lump in my throat—so I stopped lookin’ and left the blade in my lap. Instead, I watched the door handle, listenin’ and waitin’, with the cold porcelain sendin’ chills deep into my bones. I thought about Daddy and everything looked red of a sudden. It got me awful riled up. I reckoned it was Daddy’s fault that Sugarman got in. If Daddy woulda let me lock the door, Sugarman wouldn’t have come, and I wouldn’t need to make my mind go away.

***

The strip of light under the door grew brighter as the sun fell. It was gettin’ to be time. Time’s a funny thing, too. It goes faster just when a body wants it to slow down.

I breathed deep, tryin’ to make my heart quit thumpin’. It sounded funny with my ears shut, like the wind got in my head while a horse thundered in my chest. I took my hands off my ears and picked up the knife. It was heavier and more real, like it might come alive. My fingers held it real tight as I slid down to the floor and waited.

***

When the front door slammed, I took the knife to my neck, just like they did with the hogs.

Everything turned red for real.

Daddy called my name. Footsteps rumbled down the hall. The strip of light under the door broke up and disappeared like when the sun goes behind clouds. The door handle jiggled. I dropped the knife.

“Why’s this damn door locked? You in there, Punkin?”

The red squirted and dripped. Daddy banged on the wood, but it sounded far-off, a rumble in my bones more than my ears. In between the poundin’, a train screamed. I wished my mind would go away afore Daddy got in. He hit the door harder, and it flew open. His eyes opened big, as if he seen a ghost.

“No more Sugarman, Daddy.” My voice sounded funny and made me want to laugh.

But when Daddy leaned over me, I smelled Sugarman’s breath. My laugh came out a whistlin’ scream, like the trains, windin’ up and fadin’ away.

*This piece is not intended to endorse or condone suicide. It was written as a cathartic, therapeutic piece of fiction. If you need someone to listen, please contact the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-Talk (8255) or visit www.suicidepreventionlifeline.org.


Image courtesy of Sura Nualpradid at FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Women Writers Coming Out

This is such an awesome post that I simply have to share. I want all women writers (and more than a few men) to read it, because I think it's the number one hurdle for us.

https://warriorwriters.wordpress.com/2015/10/06/good-girls-dont-become-best-sellers-channeling-your-inner-bad-girl-to-reach-your-dreams/#comment-224756

I wrote something relating to this a few weeks ago, regarding my own path to writing a novel, the fear, doubt, and lack of confidence I struggled with for years (and still battle,) and the way girls/women are trained not believe in our own value and skill. I've had to unlearn a lot of that to find my own bad girl. She's coming out. ;)

http://authorlaurengregory.blogspot.com/2015/09/learning-to-write.html

Women writers must learn to see their own worth outside of wife/mom/family/friend roles and speak up. We owe that to ourselves (and our families,) and we deserve that voice.

I Got Mine--Screw You

All. the. books. Always. For everyone.

That's the purpose of a free exchange of ideas, and it's the ideal upon which libraries are based. Allowing any person to limit that exchange is ALWAYS dangerous and backwards.

Slate offered an article this week that claims Banned Books Weeks is a "crock" because there's no such thing as banned books anymore. (http://www.donotlink.com/framed?785241)

"It's not as bad as it used to be."

As if that's a good stopping point in any fight against bad things.

There ARE still banned books, and many attempts to ban them, and we must continue the fight to keep all books available to those who want to read them. That's especially true for libraries because they often serve those who could not otherwise access them.

It's a shame Slate writer Ruth Graham doesn't recognize or appreciate that.

It's a sign of being out of touch with the reality that not everyone has digital access and brick-and-mortar stores are disappearing. Many cannot afford to buy a book, and many cannot drive to the next town. And they certainly shouldn't have to just because self-righteous people want to impose their values and beliefs on everyone.

It's a sign of elitism. It's a sign of complacency despite glaring evidence that unless we maintain vigilance against censorship, it will gain ground--because there are still people who WANT books banned, even if they're the extremist minority. It's a sign of the gross tendency for people who have a right or privilege to ignore those who don't and not be willing to fight for them. "I got mine--screw you."
‪
#‎BannedBooksWeek‬ is a thing because it needs to be. Because even one banned book is too many. Because, sadly, it's one fight that will never be "over."

 

The Caskets -- When Doves Fly Excerpt

In case you missed it, here's one of my favorite scenes from When Doves Fly, my debut #histfic novel set in a Colorado gold rush town in the 1870s.

If you want more, it's available on Amazon in ebook and print!

*  *  *  *  *

 

The caskets lay side by side. Charlotte stood in the parlor doorway, a doll dangling from one hand. She had tried to make herself enter, but her feet wouldn’t move. The black crepe over the windows rippled like ghostly shadows. A glimpse of pallid skin peeked from each coffin.

 

What if they wake? Maggie, their cook, said people sometimes came back to life to claw their way out of their caskets.

 

Charlotte wanted to touch them, to check for life, but a vague fear stopped her. She stayed rooted, cold bare toes on the threshold, eyes fixed on the open boxes, waiting for the children to move.

 

If only Mother would come down. Then I could go in.

 

Charlotte had tried to rouse her mother, but her parents’ door remained locked, and no one answered. Only weak cries had come from the room in the two days since Peter and Cecilia died.

 

Mother had fallen sick, too, but the cholera kept her bedridden for just a day. She’d devoted the next two days to nursing Peter and Cecilia—Charlotte had felt fine. In her delirium, Mother blamed herself for taking the children to the fair, but Charlotte had been the one who pestered until she agreed.

 

If I hadn’t, Peter and Sissy wouldn’t be in caskets. Once a middle child, now an only.

 

After they died, Mother locked her door, and Charlotte hadn’t seen her since. Maggie had arranged the wake and the coming funeral but went home sick—was it only the day before?—after assuring Charlotte that Papa would return home from his business trip any time. Charlotte waited all night, but Papa hadn’t come.

 

Something moved in Peter’s coffin. Charlotte’s eyes widened, and she squeezed Dolly’s arm. A fly drifted from the casket and landed again. She relaxed and released her breath. And waited.

 

The back door banged open. Charlotte didn’t move—she couldn’t. Her limbs had turned to stone.

 

“Eliza!” Papa’s voice rang in the silence. “Maggie?” Footsteps clattered on the wood floor until he reached the hall rug. “Charlotte! Where’s your mother? Why are the drapes …?”

 

His hand fell on her shoulder.

 

She tried to speak, but her cracked lips only trembled.

 

A sick moan came from him, and he pushed past her into the room with the caskets and flies. He bent over the bodies and groaned.

 

“No, no, no,” he chanted. “Peter … Sissy … not both ….”

 

Tears stung Charlotte’s eyes.

 

Papa whirled on her. “Where is your mother?” More a roar than a question.

 

Her body shook. Why is he angry with me?

 

He ran past her and thundered up the stairs. Banging on a door. “Eliza … Eliza!” More heavy footsteps, and he jerked Charlotte by the arm. “Is your mother sick? Where is Maggie? Or Cooper?” He bent, eyes wild, and shook her until her teeth chattered. “Charlotte, answer me!”

 

Sound came from her mouth, but no words.

 

Shoving her aside, he raced upstairs. Yelling and rattling the door as Charlotte collapsed in the parlor doorway.

 

“Papa?”

 

The hall remained quiet. She fell asleep crying, clutching Dolly close.

 

 

 

 

 

New Book Release!

I may or may not have peed my pants today. But I will be changing them, rest assured.

One year, ten months, fourteen days. It doesn't sound like that long, but it's taken a lifetime to reach this milestone. This is what I always wanted. Now I've got it.

On Amazon
http://amzn.to/1jwZ7NC

Sneak Peek at When Doves Fly

An excerpt from Chapter One of When Doves Fly, a new historical fiction novel set in 1870s Colorado, coming September 30, 2015:

Lily Wright departed the train before the other passengers, gripping her carpet bag tight, eager to disappear. The bell clanged their arrival as the train rumbled to a stop, and voices rose over the hiss of steam engines as travelers greeted family and friends. Lily had no one to greet, yet every face resembled her husband’s and filled her with cold dread. Throwing peeks over her shoulder, she dodged and weaved until she found the station agent.

“Where’s the nearest hotel and stagecoach, sir?”

“Welcome to Denver, miss.” He jerked his thumb to the east, beyond the depot. “Plenty hotels within a few blocks, they can get you to a coach.”

She nodded and proceeded inside. People, suitcases, and trunks littered the station. She ducked her head and wound around them. Hair prickled on her neck. Convinced eyes had followed her, she turned, but no one seemed interested. Her heart pounded faster as she skirted the ticket line and burst through the doors to the street.

Wagons lumbered past in the waning evening light. A river of people flowed around her—men in work clothes or suits and bowlers, women in walking dresses with pert bustles—while she stood in front of the depot and searched building signs.

She wanted a smaller place, inexpensive and inconspicuous. She’d thought she would feel safe once she reached Denver, but her anxiety had grown stronger with every mile as the train chugged across the prairie.

Lily negotiated the wide, muddy road with a stream of pedestrians toward a cross-street lined with tall brick and clapboard buildings. When the group reached the other side and went their separate ways, she started up the narrower street, scanning the buildings and stopping at each corner to survey the side roads. After several blocks, a squat, wooden structure with a large sign on the roof drew her attention: The Broadwell House. Her pace picked up.

The noise and chaos fell behind as the traffic and crowds thinned. The buildings cast long shadows over the road, and the mountain sunset blared bright color on the facing side.

Her apprehension dimmed outside the crush of people, and exhaustion weighed her shoulders down. The hotel beckoned. Her hand ached, and she shifted the small suitcase to her other hand as she passed an alley.

An arm shot from the narrow void between buildings and snatched the bag from her fingers. She gasped, but shock throttled a scream in her throat. She swung toward the breach but caught only a glimpse of a darker shadow darting away. Her feet moved a few yards into the alley, but the gloom stopped her.

Wait, what if I catch up with him? Who knows what he might do.

She spun and darted into the road.

“Thief! Help!”              

The street had emptied. The nearest figure, a block away, kept moving in the opposite direction. She opened her mouth to shout again but closed it with a snap.

Heavens, what am I thinking? I can’t get involved with the law here. But my bag ….

She turned back to the alley, but nothing moved, the shadow gone.

“No!”

She stomped her foot and flapped her arms. The bag. Everything. The money! This cannot be happening.

Paralyzed by frustration, Lily couldn’t fathom what to do next. The sun dropped below the skyline. Fear overcame shock. When full dark hit, the street would only present more danger.

She scuttled toward the Broadwell House, where she walked to the clerk’s desk and pulled a purse from her skirt pocket.

“One night, please.”

The clerk flicked her eyes up from a newspaper. “$3.00. No visitors.” She returned her attention to her paper.

Lily dug the money from her purse. The remaining paltry bills and coins worsened the roiling in her stomach. She tucked the pouch back in her pocket and laid three gold coins in the woman’s outstretched hand.

“Up the stairs, on the left.” The clerk slid a key across the desk.

Relieved the woman hadn’t indicated a guest log, Lily snagged the key and hurried to the second floor. She let herself in, slammed the door, and turned the lock.

Minimal furniture filled the modest, tidy room. She bypassed a table with an oil lamp and matches and fell onto the bed. Burying her face in the pillow, she sobbed.

I can’t stay here. He’ll find me here, I just know it. I have to make it to a more remote place. But what will I do when I get there? I can’t start a store with no money. She pummeled the mattress. It’s not fair. All I want is freedom to do as I wish, independence with no one deciding where I can go or how I must live, the chance to be my own. Is that so much to ask?

Dark settled, but she didn’t drift off for hours.

 

 

 

 

 

© 2015 Lauren Gregory All Rights Reserved.

It's Here! Cover & Release Date

First, the good news. The cover for When Doves Fly is ready, and I'm in love.

Next, the great news. The release date is set for September 30, 2015 for the ebook.

The long road leads to some amazing places.





When Doves Fly Book Cover

© 2015 Lauren Gregory All rights reserved.




 

 

Learning to Write

At eleven, I won a district-wide writing competition. First place out of 1,800 sixth graders. I still have the piece. I don't recall the process or feeling of writing it, but I remember the feeling of winning. I felt smart. I felt significant. I felt listened to.

In those days, I sought approval from adults because I didn't get it from peers, and the adults had listened. That flaw of approval-seeking, and others, led down some unfortunate paths. My fears stole that sense of significance while I sought approval in ways that didn't succeed from people who didn't matter. My teens and early twenties taught me harsh truths and suffocating falsehoods.

I learned drawing attention meant drawing criticism and scorn. I learned there's always someone waiting to drag you down. I learned to fade into the background to avoid disapproval.

I learned smart women weren't nearly as worthy as fun, pretty, friendly women (let alone men)--and that the former is mutually exclusive from the latter. I learned you could only be one thing, and that as a woman, smart would always lose. I learned smart women are challenged and belittled, and outspoken women are bitch and overbearing. I learned to shut up.

I learned to only present the good stuff. If it wasn't perfect, it wasn't good enough. And in that case, well, what was the use in trying? I'd never be perfect. I'd never be smart enough or pretty enough or good enough to matter. I learned to quit trying.

I decided I had no imagination, no creativity, nothing important to say, so anything I wrote would be stupid, vapid crap. I told myself I wasn't "inspired." I wasn't deep or insightful or funny. What if I offended someone? What if "they" didn't approve? I didn't want to be wrong. I didn't want people to pull back the curtain and see an imposter. If I made up a story, if I created something, it would be all my fault if it sucked.

After my son was born, I decided to accept another truth. I'd failed to learn all of the things I wanted to teach him: confidence, using his strengths, always being willing to try, accepting failure, to never stop learning, and above all, to never let anyone else decide who he should be or silence him.

Hypocrisy.

At 39, I woke on a cold November morning, sat at my desk, and started writing. It wasn't perfect—good grief, the suck reigned supreme—but I wrote for sixteen hours. Why? It wasn't some supernatural, angels-singing moment of inspiration or a lightning bolt best-story-ever idea. It wasn't the story.

I no longer wanted to fade into the background. I was sick of letting the fear win. I refused to be quiet about things that excite me, scare me, and anger me any longer, and it didn't matter if anyone approved. I wanted to smash those falsehoods I'd learned.

I have excuses, like everyone. I'm a full-time single mom, and I work two jobs and homeschool my son. I have a house to maintain and family obligations. Health issues abound. Chronic pain cripples me, and painkillers make me stupid but don't alleviate the pain. Just after I finished the first draft, I endured emergency surgery that almost killed me and required months of recuperation. Those things slowed me down, but I kept learning and writing.

I studied art and craft, worked hard, and finished the manuscript. I learned to write well, not just spit out thoughts. I learned grammar and punctuation, those technical rules many disdain. I learned how to write with emotion and clarity. After remembering that I had a voice, I worked on learning how to use it.

Why—how—did I write a novel? I decided. That's all. No magical breakthrough, just a decision to use my voice and speak my mind, imperfections and all. That decision—which I still have to make every time I write—is exciting and terrifying. It took years of fighting fears and searching for confidence to make that first decision, to learn new truths and refuse to accept falsehoods.

Learning to write, both art and craft, is about learning how to connect with strangers. It's learning style and mechanics to create clarity and meaning without losing the story. It's learning to accept criticism along with approval, being willing to have our ideas challenged, and reveling in the fact that the learning is never finished. It's learning to use our voice, and it's never easy.

We all have fears and hopes, and we all need someone we can relate to, who has those same fears and hopes. No matter who you are or where you've been, someone out there can relate. If you tell a story with a message--no matter how simple or trite or crazy that message may seem to you when the demons of doubt rise in the dark hours--and tell it well, it will speak to someone. It won't connect with everyone, and not everyone will approve. But that's okay. It probably won't change the world, but maybe it will change one person, and it will change you. It will give you a voice.

At 39, I learned I have something to say and someone out there needs to hear it. When will you learn it.

In Pieces

With every word, he strips away another piece of me.

“I need to move on,” he says.

“Why? What did I do wrong?” I hate the pathetic desperation in my voice.

One more bit flutters to floor, lying among the scattered pieces of dignity and self-respect. Each speck will wither and die like the blackened rose petals around the vase on the coffee table. He bought those two weeks ago. Did he know then?

“I told you, it’s nothing you did. It’s me.”

“Christ, don’t use a line on me. At least be honest. You owe me that much.”

“I’m being honest.”

He edges toward the door, bag in hand. He’s been trying to leave for three hours. The five o’clock shadow at noon makes his face haggard, and those blue eyes that bring me to my knees shift from me to the door. He’s desperate, too—desperate to escape.

“Fuck you. Go ahead, leave.” I turn my back to him.

“Don’t act like that. You know it isn’t working.”

“No, I don’t. I gave you everything. You just want a new piece of ass.”

Not true, but I’ll say anything now. Anything to prolong the shallow last gasps.

“There’s no one else.” A tired sigh. The door knob squeaks. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Another piece ripped off, baring the ugliest parts of me.

“The hell you didn’t. You never gave a shit about me.”

No response. I turn around, and he’s gone.

At least now I can cry.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Image courtesy of Victor Habbick at FreeDigitalPhotos.net

The Fire Inside

Forsaken at forty, I've lost my autonomy. I still have my mind, talents, skills. It's my body that betrays me. All those years I prided myself on strength and hard work, on doing what needed done whether it taxed my limits or not - now I pay for those years by living with a cruel master....

Fire rules my life. It decides when I rise and fall. It dictates whether I conquer the day or endure it. It determines how I behave and think and feel.

A mist dampens the blaze, a brief reprieve. But the relief demands a price to bankrupt my soul, stealing the only value I have left: words.

The inferno advances, fingers of pain streaking across the landscape with a pitiless roar. My escape cut off, I can only hide and whisper a plea for a little more time, a little more time before it strikes the inevitable crippling blow, a little more time to work and play and love.

How long can I hold the fire at bay?


Not long enough. Never long enough.

Image courtesy of twobee at FreeDigitalPhotos.net

A Storm Coming

Insidious fingers reach inside, through the layers of flesh, seeking delicate filaments. Claws of heat and ice, tipped with needles, burrow and tunnel until they find their mark. They tease, light, gentle—oh so gentle—as they explore the innermost reaches of my soul. The fingers whisper of a storm coming, like a breeze that ruffles flower petals on a lazy, muggy afternoon while dark clouds swell on the horizon.

 

 

 

 

I brace myself for the storm. Cover the flowers, close the windows, and retreat to the deepest, darkest corner in search of shelter. I hide and wait for it to pass.
 
Will it spare me this time? Might the frenzy pass me by? When I emerge, will I find my world intact?
 
Not this time. The wind and whispers grow louder, into a howl of thunderous glee, a scream of fury. The tender exploration turns savage when the fingers find a rift in my defenses. Talons rip through tissue and slake their bloodlust. Like lightning striking a tree, the fingers seek the heart and set it afire, burning and charring until nothing remains but a blackened, wispy skeleton.
 
The storm rages, the beast ravages. Nothing could survive the tempest. Yet I must, I do. Until the fingers whisper again.





Image courtesy of prozac1 at FreeDigitalPhotos.net

A Battered Dove

Lily knelt on the floor, scrubbing muddy tracks from the rough boards with a stiff brush, and counted the different doves who'd shopped during the week. A knock on the window made her drop the brush and fumble in the folds of fabric at her hip. She found the smooth grip of the gun and lifted her gaze.

Jessie’s face peered in the window between cupped hands, looking toward the back of the store.

Lily let out a gust of air and released the small pistol. She pushed herself up, wincing at her  stiff back and aching knees.

She unlocked the door and smiled, but the girl’s face brought a grimace. “Good morning, Jessie.”

The battered dove gave a small smile. “Mornin’, Miss Wright.”

Dark yellows, browns, and a tinge of maroon tainted half of Jessie’s face. The swelling had abated, but puffy skin still distended the left side, and the eyelid sagged without muscle control.

Lily tried not to stare at the drooping eye and opened the door wider. “Come in, come in. I’m glad you came.”

Jessie limped in. Her body bent to one side in a swaying shuffle, like a wilted flower.

“Do you want to come in back and sit? I’ll make some coffee ….”

“No, ma’am. Don’t want to put you out. I just came by to thank you for helpin’ me the other night.”

She waved a hand. “It was nothing. I only put some salve on it. Please, sit down. Really, it’s no bother at all.” She walked toward the back.

Jessie followed after a moment. In the back room, she let out a soft grunt as she eased into the chair at the table.

“How is everything? You look better.” Lily set the kettle on the stove before pulling two tin cups from a shelf over the washbasin. She left them on the table and sat on a second chair she’d found discarded in the alley.

“I’m still kickin’. My side still hurts quite a lot, but I can get around.”

Lily pointed her chin at the place where Jessie held her hand against her ribs. “I expect they may be broken. Did you see a doctor?”

Jessie snorted. “That chiseler stole my stash. I ain’t got no money to pay a doc. Them parlor girls get their doc paid for, but I ain’t no parlor girl.”

“I see. Well, I imagine it will heal too, if you take it easy.”

She shrugged and tucked a strand of drab hair behind her ear. “Ain’t much work layin’ on my back.”

Heat crept into Lily’s cheeks, and she jumped up to check the kettle. “Have you looked around recently? For a parlor, I mean.” She focused on the coffee to hide her discomfort. “They’re opening a new one every other day, it seems. Maybe you could find a spot in one. They’re … safer. From what I hear, at least.”

“They don’t want a beat up girl like me. You think the fellas get it up lookin’ at this?” She swept her hand around her face. “Ain’t had but one job since I got worked over, and he took it from the backside.”

Lily’s eyes flew open, and her hands froze in the middle of pouring the coarse ground beans into the pot. No one had ever spoken of sex so openly or crudely to her. Her mouth worked to form a response, but embarrassment left her speechless. The silence grew heavy as she finished the coffee.

She turned to the table and caught Jessie smoothing a smirk from her face. Lily frowned and lowered her head, annoyed—and a touch hurt. The girl had nerve laughing at her after she’d taken her in and fixed her up, even if it was only a quick bit of salve. Lily poured the coffee and sat, still silent.

Jessie chuckled. “I’m sorry. Just wondered what you’d say. I didn’t mean nothin’ by it.” She tilted her head and caught Lily’s eye. “You don’t make much sense, you know. Only ladies I’ve ever heard bein’ nice to us girls for no reason are the nuns down mountain at the charity hospital. You ain’t a nun. So I can’t figure ….” She leaned forward to cradle the warm cup in her hands and watched Lily with a question in her eyes.

Lily chewed her lip, unsure how to respond without giving too much away. “I just don’t see any reason you girls should be treated so poorly. I’ve learned you girls are mostly just doing what you have to do to get along. It’s not my place to judge you or anyone else. I’ve … made my share of mistakes, I suppose. It hurt when I was judged for them.” She met Jessie’s gaze, and let one corner of her mouth pull back with mild amusement. “And honestly, it’s not entirely without reason. There are a lot of you, and I need the business. If I can help a little along the way, even better.”

Jessie lifted a brow. “I guess I could see that.” She took a sip of coffee from the side of her mouth, avoiding the scab on her cut lip. “I’d gamble there’s more to it, but I’ll take that.”

Lily averted her eyes and wiped the table. Was she that transparent? She gave Jessie a strained smile and shrugged. “That’s really all there is. I’m just trying to get the store going.”

An uneasy silence fell between them.

Lily took a drink and studied Jessie over the rim of the cup. She wanted to ask what she wondered about all of the doves. “What are your plans? For the future? What do you really want?”

Jessie licked the cracked skin of her lip and gazed at the floor. Her face held no spark of hope or joy. Her voice went flat. “Used to think I could find a fella and have a farm, a family, a place of our own. Don’t guess that’ll happen now. I guess I ain’t got no plan. I expect I’ll just keep on.”

Lily thought she knew what Jessie left unspoken; she didn’t expect to live long enough to need plans.

“Maybe that will still happen,” Lily said, giving Jessie’s hand a tentative squeeze.

Jessie offered a weary smile, but it seemed an automatic response, like a puppeteer pulling on strings. “I better get goin’. Thanks for the coffee.”


-- Excerpt from my manuscript, When Doves Fly.


*Dove, short for soiled dove, was a euphemism for prostitute.

 

Excerpt from When Doves Fly

Today, I thought I'd offer up my first excerpt from the manuscript. When Doves Fly is a Western/Historical Fiction novel that takes place in 1870s Pennsylvania and Colorado and follows a young woman's quest for absolution and independence. It is still in editing, but I hope to get it out soon!

The caskets lay side by side. Charlotte Martin stood in the parlor doorway, a doll dangling from one hand. She had tried to make herself enter, but her feet wouldn’t move. The black crepe over the windows rippled like ghostly shadows. A glimpse of pallid skin peeked from each coffin.

What if they wake? Maggie, their cook, said people often came back to life to claw their way out of their caskets. Charlotte wanted to touch them, to wake them up, but a vague fear stopped her. She remained rooted, cold bare toes on the threshold, staring at the open boxes, waiting for the children to move. If only Mother would come down. Then I could go in.

Charlotte had tried to rouse her mother, but her parents’ door was locked and no one answered. Mother had been sick, too, but the cholera kept her bedridden for just a day. In her delirium, she’d blamed herself for taking the children to the fair.

Mother had devoted the next two days to nursing Peter and Cecilia—Charlotte had felt fine. After they died, she locked her door and Charlotte hadn’t seen her since. Only weak cries for two days after Peter and Cecilia died. Maggie had arranged the wake and the coming funeral, but went home sick—was it only the day before?—after assuring Charlotte that Papa would be home any time. Charlotte waited all night, but Papa hadn’t come.

Something moved in Peter’s coffin. Charlotte’s eyes widened and she squeezed Dolly’s arm. A fly drifted from the casket and landed again. She relaxed and released her breath. And waited.

The back door banged open. Charlotte didn’t move—she couldn’t, her limbs felt like stone.

“Eliza!” Papa’s voice rang in the silence. “Maggie?” Footsteps clattered on the wood floor until he reached the hall rug. “Charlotte! Where’s your mother? Why are the drapes…?”

His hand fell on her shoulder.

She tried to speak but her cracked lips only trembled.

A sick moan came from him, and he pushed past her into the room with the caskets and flies. “No, no, no, no,” he chanted. “Peter…Sissy…not both….” He bent over the bodies and groaned.

Charlotte’s eyes burned. Once a middle child, now an only.

Papa whirled on her. “Where is your mother?” It was more a roar than a question.

Her body shook. Why is he angry with me?

He ran past her and thundered up the stairs. Banging on a door. “Eliza…Eliza!” More heavy footsteps and he jerked Charlotte by the arm. “Is your mother sick? Where is Maggie? Or Cooper?” He bent, eyes wild, and shook her until her teeth chattered. “Charlotte, answer me!”

Sound came, but no words.

Shoving her aside, he raced upstairs, yelling and rattling the door as Charlotte collapsed in the parlor doorway.

“Papa?” She called, with no response. She fell asleep crying.

 

Yesterday

Yesterday is my ghost. It follows me in every moment, trailing behind like the scent of sorrow, like the touch never felt, like a memory hidden in time. I close my senses and try to forget, but yesterday never fades.

Days past haunt me with accusations of What if? Whispers in the murky depths of my mind, soft, slithering, sinister, reopen the wounds and remind me of my faults. Bad timing, wrong places, poor choices. I’ll never know what might have been. Yesterday steals the answers and leaves only questions.

I yearn for escape, seeking the light of another sunrise and the changing of the guard to chase yesterday away. With my head on my pillow, I dream of a new beginning without the burdens of my ghost, my yesterday. The new day comes, yet my companion still resides within.

Yesterday is invisible, a spirit without form. Still, it is always with me; it never fades. Yesterday is my ghost.




 

 

 

Image courtesy of hyena reality at FreeDigitalPhotos.net


The Last Christmas

Early Christmas morning, Edward kissed Helen’s hand, just as he had on their honeymoon fifty-four years earlier, and laid it back on her chest. His thumb brushed the heart-shaped birthmark on the side of her throat. For a painful second, he believed his eyes when they told him her faint lashes had fluttered on her cheek. He knew it wasn’t so.

 

His Helen was gone and had been for an hour. He sat talking to her after her final soft exhalation of breath, holding her hand and ignoring the way her skin lost its warmth as the minutes passed.

With tears spilling from his rheumy eyes, he explained all those days he’d risen in the morning with dark circles betraying a sleepless night.

“You always believed my excuse of insomnia—didn’t you? I was too embarrassed to tell you why I didn’t sleep…. I would lie next to you, watching the slow rise and fall of your chest on nights when the moon was full, watching your lashes flutter against your cheek while you dreamed. In the quiet, I watched you sleep, still unable to believe, after five years or ten or forty, that you had chosen me and loved me despite my bad habits and big nose and quiet ways. I never got over that disbelief, and I studied you at night to memorize the line of your jaw, the slight upturn of your nose, the precise color of your lips—afraid one day you might come to your senses and find a man without so many faults. You were too loyal for that, I know, but I watched you sleep just the same.”

Now he would have to face the nights with only the memory engraved by thousands of moonlit hours.

Edward grabbed his cane and pushed himself up from the bedside chair. The dull ache in his knees flared brighter, his hands seemed to tremble more, the color of the sunrise appeared muted and flat as he shuffled from the hospital room. Nurses offered condolences, but he hardly heard them. He made his way down to the lobby, aware that the sharp antiseptic smell had vanished from the hallways. Reaching the bus stop, he lit his pipe, but the tobacco had no flavor. Helen had taken the essence of everything with her.

 

He went through the motions of life: rising in the morning, eating at the proper times, and keeping the house neat. But the days held no meaning, and the moon illuminated nothing. More and more, Edward sat in his easy chair, staring at nothing, with no one to notice.

On a Sunday, as Edward walked home from the bus stop with his small bag of groceries in one hand and his cane in the other—going through the motions—he was woolgathering, wondering how long he would have to endure his faded imitation of life before death would finally embrace him. A weak whimper interrupted his thoughts. He paused on the sidewalk and tilted his head, thinking the noise might have come from his own lips. The cry came again, from a solitary lilac bush growing wild at the park’s edge.

He bent to see deeper into the thick shadows. Curled in the dirt, a patch of darkness whimpered again. Edward lowered himself, pushing away the pain and stiffness, until he kneeled beside the bush and parted the profusion of heart-shaped leaves. An Irish Setter puppy peered back at him. The animal trembled and whined, shrinking back.

“Here, pup,” Edward whispered. He tried to suppress the palsied tremor in his hand and held it out to the puppy.

The dog watched him with wary eyes for several minutes, gaze darting for an escape. It started to lean forward, pulled back, started toward him again. Edward kept his hand out and waited. Inching toward him, the setter stretched its neck out, and ventured a nervous lick at his hand. He let it sniff until it came out further. The puppy wagged its tail as it slinked into the gap between Edward’s legs and huddled there. The perfume of lilac came to him then, overwhelming in its dizzying sweetness.

The pup wore no collar. Edward carried it home, and made it a small bed, and cooked some food for it, grumbling that he didn’t want the burden. He told himself he had no business keeping a dog and would find her another home. He scanned the paper for days and checked the neighborhood for flyers. In case someone called, he left his name and number with the dog pound, but the phone stayed silent.

 

On the fourth day, as he sat in his easy chair and the dog lay at his feet, he felt her eyes on him. He resisted the urge to meet her gaze. Her head lay on her paws and she crept closer and closer. He wouldn’t give in. Soon she lifted her head, slow and sneaky, until it touched the hand resting on the chair’s arm. She nuzzled it and insinuated her head under it. Edward sighed and let his hand smooth the silky hair, then scratched her ear. As his hand drifted lower, she lifted her chin, asking for more. Her head tipped back, exposing her throat. For the first time, he noticed a tiny white patch there. Shaped like a heart. His resistance melted away, tears dampened her hair, and he named her Ellie.

He chastised her for getting on the bed and nosing through the trash. Ellie followed him around the house and sat patiently by the door when she needed to go out. They went on walks, neighborhood children begged to play with Ellie, and she obliged. Edward and Ellie watched old movies on Saturday nights, with her in the spot beside his chair and his hand resting on her head. She lay next to his bed every night. When he woke, he would find her soulful gaze on him, watching.

The color seeped back into the sunset. Food tasted better, and his pipe, left in its stand on the mantel for ages, found its way back into his shirt pocket. Smells returned, sounds became richer once more. Ellie brought the essence of everything back to him.

 
Early Christmas morning, Ellie snuck onto the bed with Edward. Her big dark eyes watched him sleep. And when the last soft breath left his lips, she licked his hand as it lay on his chest.