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Description

An anthology of short fiction with stories diversified as its authors: from battlefield reality to suicide intervention, historical non-fiction to crime family escapades, foster care horror to heroes' journeys, a breadth of tales to hold interest and capture attention. Readers encounter a range of talent to make them cry, laugh, reminisce and astound.

Informations

Publié par	First Edition Design Publishing
Date de parution	27 juin 2013
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781622872947
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0540€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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Chapter One, An Anthology
Various - Long Island Writers

First Edition Design Publishing
Chapter One
AN ANTHOLOGY
OF SHORT FICTION
BY EIGHT LONG ISLAND WRITERS

First Edition Design Publishing
Chapter One, An Anthology
Copyright ©2013 Diane Barker, Beverly E. Kotch,
Dennis T. Kotch, Greg Lane, Stephen Loomis, R. “Duke” Liddell,
Joan Vullo Obergh, James D. Robertson

ISBN 978-1622872-94-7 EBOOK
ISBN 978-1622872-95-4 PRINT PBK
ISBN 978-1622872-96-1 PRINT HC

LCCN 2013939450

June 2013

Published and Distributed by
First Edition Design Publishing, Inc.
P.O. Box 20217, Sarasota, FL 34276-3217
www.firsteditiondesignpublishing.com

ALL R I G H T S R E S E R V E D. No p a r t o f t h i s b oo k pub li ca t i o n m a y b e r e p r o du ce d, s t o r e d i n a r e t r i e v a l s y s t e m , o r t r a n s mit t e d i n a ny f o r m o r by a ny m e a ns ─ e l e c t r o n i c , m e c h a n i c a l , p h o t o - c o p y , r ec o r d i n g, or a ny o t h e r ─ e x ce pt b r i e f qu ot a t i o n i n r e v i e w s , w i t h o ut t h e p r i o r p e r mi ss i on o f t h e a u t h o r or publisher .
Dedication

This book is dedicated to loved ones who have tolerated the years of our writer’s block, editing frustrations, and endless hours hearing the same stories…over and over again. It is their encouragement and faith in this project that has kept us from killing each other.
Part I –First Chapters
Jesse’s Skull
By Stephen Loomis
Sweet Justice
By Diane Barker
For Good Reason
By James D. Robertson
The Faithful
By Beverly E. Kotch
The Relentless Silence
By Greg Lane
Hoods, a History
By Dennis T. Kotch
The Last Ride
By R. “Duke” Liddell
Crisis Center
By Joan Vullo Obergh

Part II – Author Choices
About the Author - Joan Vullo Obergh
Remembering Stella ~ A Memoir
Kindersail
Sister Thomasina and the Wild Ones
Rhymes with Moon
About the Author - Greg Lane
Don’t Tell Your Momma
The Forked Road
Unbelievable
About the Author - Beverly E. Kotch
Picture This
Bruno
The Autobiography of
a Frustrated Feral Cat
Easter
About the Author - R. "Duke" Liddell
A Soldier’s Story
Bless Me Father
The Box Man
About the Author - Diane Barker
Cook: A Four Letter Word
Best Laid Plans
Tea for Two
The Blouse
Peter Pan Redux
About the Author - Stephen Loomis
Partly Cloudy with a Chance of
Showers Later in the Day
Threnody for an Underwood Typewriter
Dream Interpretation
Poetry Night at the Steaming Tankard of Testosterone Bar and Grill
A Misanthrope Horoscope
Season’s Greetings
Mob-Related Baseball
About the Author - James D. Robertson
Above and Beyond
Remain Silent
Street Games
The Angel of Beaucoup Nuoc
About the Author - Dennis T. Kotch
Jimmy the Whiny Zombie and Other
Dysfunctional Afterlife Fellows
The Toy That Wanted a Boy
J. Martinez
Preface
For the last ten years the group affectionately, and with hubris, titled the Future Best Selling Novelists of Long Island, has been meeting for the sole purpose of helping each other find our finest and truest literary voice.
FBSN began because good writing is not entirely a solitary vocation. Writing well requires sharpening of skills, finding one’s voice and exposing the ensuing prose to an objective audience. Once the work is offered, the threshold is irrevocably crossed and the writer risks a bruised ego, at the very least. But if a writer truly wants to hone his or her craft, he or she must suffer the slings and arrows—to borrow from The Bard—or be resigned to literary stagnation.
Each of the eight gifted Long Island writers brings unique experiences to their writing. With different backgrounds and personalities, we share a profound commitment to words and language, well written and well spoken, exhibiting a remarkable group chemistry.
As individuals, we have had publications in print and on-line; several plays professionally performed, have won numerous awards for poetry and prose, as well as several novels still in progress. As a group, we support, challenge, tease and encourage each other in our quest to continually develop as authors.
The title, Chapter One, came about because each of us has completed, or at least started, one or more novels we’d like to introduce. As a group, we have enjoyed and sometimes endured each other’s written pearls and have worked hard to polish them. We have delighted in and, at times, tolerated each other’s differences because we are an eclectic bunch with respect for individual points of view. Despite the lively give and take that occurs, each of us acknowledges our writing is better for it.

This anthology represents some of our best work. We hope you enjoy it.

The Group
FBSN2011@yahoo.com
Part I –First Chapters
Jesse’s Skull
By Stephen Loomis

A Float with Spikes

There are places where the streams of human misery converge and form pools in which the poor, the damaged and the lost drown. They are the prisons, the courtrooms, the hospital wards, the government offices where services that will never be enough are doled out to those whose needs are insatiable. Their atmosphere is stale with helplessness and rage hisses, like the first leak of a failing pipe, just below hearing.
Foster care is one of these. And those of us who wade out into this pool for our living and our identity quickly learn that humanity is a float with spikes.
Monday morning and I was tired. I never sleep well Sunday night, and that night the Reubens hung in the darkness over my bed as I imagined the devastation that would occur in court the next day. Now the week had begun and I faced five days of suffering. Monday mornings in sad places are the worst.
I arrived at 8:45. Not out of dedication, but because that was when the Long Island Rail Road, another thing that controls my life, dropped me off. The office still held the early Monday morning quiet and I began to ease myself into the week with a mug of Earl Grey and a banana nut muffin.
When I entered the lunchroom to microwave my tea, Nancy was preparing for court.
"Well, this is it," Nancy said, rising to leave. "Wish me luck."
I couldn't. I had never felt adversarial towards the Reubens, only a profound sadness. I could mourn for them even if they couldn't mourn for themselves. I hoped and thought and feared that they'd be mourning by this evening.
"You know, if the judge drops the court order for therapy, they’ll disappear so fast, they’ll leave skid marks?” Nancy asked.
I nodded, smiling slightly, imagining the screech of receding Reubens.
“Doesn’t matter.” I shrugged. “Not after the court got my report.”
“It was a good report. Honest and moderate.”
“Yup. And they’ll never forgive me for it.”
“Aren't you the guy who says, ‘Court-ordered therapy is an oxymoron’?”
"Since when did you start listening to me?"
"You're right; I won't do it again."
My smile became real. We were both right.
Court-ordered therapy is an oxymoron. Worse. A lie. A cynical farce that forces unwanted contact and produces nothing but resentment and guarded words. Talk without trust. I had learned that through so many hours basking in the glares of sullen adolescents.
Would the Reubens come back? Why would they? Why would they come back for therapy they never wanted if it wasn’t court-ordered? Had I accomplished anything? Had it ever been worth doing?
When Nancy left, I sat alone in the lunchroom, thinking back to that other Monday morning seven weeks ago.
As this morning, I was on my pilgrimage to the microwave when I found Nancy reading a case record with quiet intensity. I deliberately turned my back to her, watching my mug pirouette on a revolving stage spattered with the remnants of so many lunches. I withdraw from the avoidable agonies in self-protection. I get my maximum daily requirement of pain at work.
“It’s the Reuben case,” Nancy told me, offering the report.
I was pleased to know nothing about the Reuben case.
“We're meeting at 10:30.”
Sighing, mug in hand, I approached the table. With the efficiency of age and experience, I plucked the salient details.

ST. FRANCIS SERVICES FOR CHILDREN AND FAMILIES

CASE NAME: Jesse Reuben DOB 1/31/01 (Aged 10 months)
CASE INITIATION DATE: 11/28/01
REFERRING SOURCE: Brooklyn Administration for Children’s Services

REASON FOR PLACEMENT:

THIS IS A KINSHIP PLACEMENT INTO THE HOME OF THE PATERNAL GRANDPARENTS, Dr. Irving Reuben and Mrs. Pearl Reuben based upon finding of NEGLECT against parents, Mr. Mitchell Reuben and Mrs. Karen Reuben.

White and Jewish.
I embrace all surprises, good and bad, that pockmark the flat gray hours. And the Reubens were a surprise
Twenty-nine years in the pool and I can count on one hand the number of White Jewish families I have worked with and still have enough fingers left to pick up a fine object.
I am a middle-aged, middle-class, White Jewish psychologist in an office where most caseworkers are Black or Hispanic, mostly women and half my age.
Most clients are also Black women. In New York City, foster care, like so many pools, is predominately Black.
It would be so easy for me to be racist.
Racism is easy. Racism is simple. Racism is ignorant.
But I have never been easy. I have never trusted simplicity. And I am the opposite of ignorant.
The opposite of ignorance is the torment of understanding.
My greatest challenge is to hold tight to the person beneath the skin and beyond the gender. If I become blinded by the racist stereotypes that paper my life, I will lose my professional soul, maybe my only soul.
So I cling, open and vulnerable, to the float with spikes, struggling to keep from drowning. It is how I cope with the great howling sadness that is my job.
But I see. And I know what I see.
Teenagers throwing away one hundred and fifty years of hard-earned civil rights and selling their children back into slavery