Just Paper and Ink

Welcome, I'm Norah Holt, head of Writers' Ink writing group, and this book is our first publishing adventure, which we call Writers' Publishing Cooperative of Columbus, Ohio. If this book proves successful, we may publish other first authors' work in the future.

I want to thank the book committee members: Sharon Vazquez, Clay Cormany, Gay Howard, Pat Hagenlocker, Eleanor Wentzel, and Mark Thompson. Thank you for all your great ideas, devotion to this project, and hard work, as well as all the time and effort you've spent editing, proofreading, and designing our book. Special thanks to Sharon Vazquez for being our Vice President and my right hand man in all we endeavor to do to help fellow writers. Special thanks to Clay Cormany, who has typed our manuscript and makes corrections and changes as necessary. It's a big job and he's great at it. Thanks to Sharon Vazquez and John Williams for our great logo! And thanks to the book committee for all the work they will be doing to promote, market, and sell our book. I also want to thank our friend, Melissa Bleen, for her wonderful photos.

A great big thanks go to Biblio Publishing, particularly Nikki Meyer, who helped with this book, and Bob Sims. Thanks also to Karen McCullough, a great Web designer and good friend, for our website, writersink85.com. Thanks to Amanda Page, our publicity expert, for all her help and encouragement, and for letting me use her as a sounding board for our summer and fall Writers' Ink conferences, our book, and other activities.

Last but certainly not least, I want to thank all the professors and authors who have been guest speakers for us. And a most special thanks goes to all our Writers' Ink members. Without their trust and support these last 15 years, the group and the book would not be possible. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.

Your fearless leader,

Norah Holt

Please visit us at our website: writersink85.com or contact me anytime at noraholt1@aol.com.

Fiction

Final Chapter

Betty Bleen

The minute that Laura McGreevy waddled her ample behind out the door, Josh Putter scrambled across the room, locked it behind her, and turned out the lights.

Old biddy, he grumbled. Just like her to go sticking her big fat nose into my business.

I haven't seen you around lately, she had said today. You involved in a new hobby or something?

He was involved in something all right. Fat chance he'd ever tell her about it!

He poured himself a shot of brandy and plopped into his old, faded easy chair. This was his absolute favorite time of day, sitting here in the darkened bookstore where he could peer out the picture window, oblivious to the passersby. There went old Mrs. Greene. He knew damn well that Mr. Greene probably croaked with the first dollar he ever made jammed into his trouser pocket, yet week after week his widow came in trying to talk him down on prices. Well, he'd soon fix her wagon and that pig Mrs. McGreevy's too. Yeah, he had a plan. He was sick and tired of this town. It was time to be moving on. He wasn't exactly number one on anyone's list around here. He knew that people talked about him behind his back. If it weren't for the fact that he owned the only bookstore in town, people wouldn't so much as give him the time of day. Well, Josh Putter was getting ready to board the last train to Clarksville, but before he did, he was going to get even. It was the American way. The only thing he had to decide was who to pick as his first victim.

He thought about all the patrons who had visited his store. There were a choice few he could stand, and then there were the rest of them. Maybe he'd start with that smart-alecky Matthew Jones. What is the big car dealership owner going to do when he, Josh Putter, sticks a gun in his ribs and tells him to lie face down on the showroom floor and lick it? He couldn't wait to blow his brains out! It'd be the last time Mr. Good-Looks-Knows-It-All refused to sell a car to him or anyone else. Then there was that old miser, Krump. He had a plan for him; oh yes he did. Wouldn't it be fun to make him chew up a couple of twenty dollar bills and swallow them? And, once he'd strangled him, wouldn't it be a hoot to stuff his mouth full of bills just for good measure?

Also there were a few high school punks he'd like to teach a lesson or two. More he thought about it, Nathaniel Branovich seemed like the likely first choice. He came in the store all the time, throwing his weight around just because his dad was a big shot professor at the local college. He usually came in with that cheerleader Patsy Wood in tow. She was as bad as Nat. Pretty little rich girl throwing around daddy's money. Ever since the first of the year, he'd heard them talking about how Nat's dad was going to be attending an out-of-state teacher conference in May, and the fact that his mom was going with him. The books might not have ears but he did. The two were making fine little plans on what they were going to do when mommy and daddy were away. Well, he had plans, too. Nat would be a pushover. All he had to do was knock on the door and give him some bogus story, talking himself into the house. Once inside he'd have Nat hog-tied and pretty little Patsy cowering in fear. It'd be kind of fun to make Miss Priss strip in front of him. He'd make her do a couple rah, rah, rahs with her pom-poms, just for the three of them. It'd be real cozy like. He might even let Nat watch as he had his way with her. He even had the perfect line rehearsed for when he was done -- Now that's what I call a touchdown! Josh felt his aspirations increase at the mere thought of it. Josh chuckled. Sometimes he was so brilliant, he astounded himself!

Oh, the possibilities were endless. He'd certainly put his mark on this town; they'd be talking about Josh Putter clear into the next century!

As he got up to pour himself another shot of brandy, he saw Maria Garza strolling by. Ah, Maria. Too bad he never got a chance to know her better. She was one of the few people in this town he'd taken a liking to. Maria came in frequently, spending her meager wages on books he knew she couldn't afford. She never tried to get him to sell even one book cheaper than the price he was asking. Maria had big brown eyes that were mesmerizing. A man could get lost in eyes like that. She was gentle and timid as a doe. Too bad he couldn't take Maria along with him when he blew this town.

He got out a little black book and put a red circle around Chapter One, that being the code name for his first victim. He'd made his choice, and tomorrow was as good a day to begin as any. He had lots of chapters involving lots of plans and a set amount of time in which to accomplish them. He poured himself a third shot of brandy, his mind buzzing with thoughts of all the places he might like to go on the victims' money. Mexico might be nice, and there certainly should be lots of copycat Marias there. Decisions, decisions. It was too overwhelming; it was starting to give him a headache.

He got up and headed for bed. Tomorrow he would start on the first chapter. It was going to be exciting and rewarding, down to the last detail. Once that one was completed, he would have to move quickly on to the next one, time being of the essence. It was exciting to think of all the chapters he was going to enjoy. Yet, he couldn't wait to reach the final chapter, just to see how it all would end.

A Far Side Chat

Betty Bleen

Visiting hours are almost over. We hurry through the rest home halls, stopping at the room with a pink and yellow flowered wreath on the door, her home now going on ten months. The room is dimly lit so my husband, her son, knocks lightly.

Yes.

It is more of a statement than a reply. We go in. Slowly she shifts her ninety-six-year old body, raises it to a sitting position on the bed.

Hi, how are you? my husband asks. We came to visit, but I see that you are already in bed.

She looks us over, her blue eyes squinting, then turns them on her son. Who are you?

My husband, taken aback, exclaims, I'm your son.

I don't know you.

You know me; I'm your son, David.

I have a son named David? Who told you that you were my son?

"You did! You made me."

Her eyes are a blank, show no recognition. You're not my son. You don't look like my son. You're too fat!

Well, I have put on a few pounds, but I assure you I'm your son. I should know.

She thinks it over. You can almost hear the gears turning in her head. My husband suggests, Maybe if I turn on the lights...

You don't sound like my son. What's your father's name?

George.

What's your last name? My husband tells her. You have the same last name as mine. How did that happen?

He laughs. That's a good one, Mom.

Yes. There is the slightest hint of a smile.

We came to visit but see you have already gone to bed. We won't stay too long.

You want in my bed? No....I wasn't raised like that!

No, Mom, we don't want in your bed. You're in your bed.

I can see that, she says with a huff.

And so the conversation goes; she is making less and less sense. But then, as if a light bulb has suddenly been turned on.... She looks at me, Patty?

Yes, I say, relieved at the recognition. She extends a withered hand. I take it gently in mine. We talk a while and listen as she tells us stories about things that occurred in her childhood, her memories now seem clear as a bell. She chuckles, she smiles, is almost giddy.

Then, I can't figure out how I got here, she says. How did I get here?

By car, my husband tells her.

I've been here since January, she adds, four months.

David and I exchange looks; she did come in January, but it is now November.

I went to sleep last night in another bed, she tells us, and when I woke up this morning I was in this bed. Isn't that strange?

Mom, what does it matter? my husband says.

It doesn't. It doesn't matter at all. Did you know there is a sixteen-year-old girl who lives here too? She comes sometimes and helps me get into bed.

That's nice, I say, for lack of anything else to say.

This is a big mansion, you know. It has lots of rooms. Lots of people live here. They are always coming and going, such a busy place!

I see you have a buckeye necklace, I say, in an attempt to change the subject, knowing she has always been an avid Ohio State fan. I hold it up for her to see.

You have a buckeye necklace? I have one at home. It looks just like yours.

No, this is your necklace.

My necklace? What are you doing with it? How did you get it here?

No, Mom, this is your necklace. It was here in your room.

I have two buckeye necklaces?

No, Mom, you only have one. I found it on the dresser over there; I was just saying how nice it is.

Well, imagine that, she replies, not totally convinced.

She is sucking us into her confusion. Were it not so sad we would have to laugh. Instead, we look for an escape.

We have to go now, Mom, so you can get your sleep. Anyway, we have milk getting warm in the car that we need to get home.

You have milk on the porch? she asks, alarmed.

No, Mom, in the car. We have milk in the car. We're going to go now so you can get to sleep.

Sleep, she repeats. I won't be able to sleep now.

Sure you will, my husband tells her. Reluctantly she releases my hand. We take turns leaning down to kiss her on the cheek.

Well, thanks for coming, she says.

We love you, I tell her.

We'll come to see you again on Sunday, Mom, my husband says as he dims the lights. He calls for the evening nurse to help her get ready again for bed. Quietly we exit the room.

Glad to meet you, she calls out, as we start down the hall. Come again. Then, turning to the nurse, That poor man thinks he is my son. I don't have a clue who those people are, she tells her, and I should know.

Jessy's Escape

Clayton D. Cormany

Escape. It was the only choice, or so it seemed to Jessy. Sid's outbursts, relatively mild at first, were becoming more violent. The last one resulted in a bloody nose and chipped tooth. The police officers who came in response to Jessy's 911 call took a report, but the looks on their faces made it clear they weren't going to do anything. So escape was the only hope not only for Jessy but for Timmy, as well. So far, Sid had not directed any anger toward their one-year-old son, but Jessy wasn't about to take any chances.

The escape plan was simple enough. As soon as Sid went out for a night of bowling (and probably a round of beers after that), Jessy would pack everything needed for the trip to the shelter. Then at 9:00 p.m., Claire would meet them in the parking lot of the apartment complex and drive them there. Jessy didn't know how long they would stay. Things with Sid had deteriorated so rapidly there had not been time to plan ahead. That could come later – after the escape.

Jessy looked at the clock in the kitchenette. Twenty-eight minutes to nine. With suitcase and diaper bag already packed, there was time for a little relaxation before going downstairs to meet Claire. For a few minutes, Jessy sat in the frayed armchair in the living room, watching the rain as it struck the picture window and ran like teardrops down the glass. The whooshing sound of wind racing through trees created a pleasant harmony with the steady pitter pat of the rain. In the distance, lightning pranced on the horizon