Nick Offerman Recites a Poem

One of my paintings was used for the City of Jacksonville’s Martin Luther King, Jr. Breakfast. It’s a great morning of friendship and tribute. I highly recommend attending.

The Greatest Love of All | Don't Miss A Beat All-Stars | TEDxJacksonville

I really missed being with my TEDxJax tribe this year for FearLess. After being part of the startup and working with the team for more than four years, I had to step away. We had far too much going on at work. These kids share what this country needs so much more of.

What to know what's going on next weekend for #UFvsUGA? Here's the Weekend Guide. It is also one of the reasons that you haven't seen much of me recently.

Butterflies are monsters.

Butterflies are monsters. I first heard that in a line from 'Giant Ant' from the The Handsome Family's first album "Odessa". I had no idea what Renni is going on about here so I googled it and found a few interesting tidbits. First one is about the Pope. He is definitely not afraid of calling a spade a spade and has labelled certain priests 'Butterfly-Priests". When responding to a question he repleied“...What is the place of Jesus Christ in my priestly life? Is it a living relationship, from the disciple to the Master, or is it a somewhat artificial relationship... that does not come from the heart?....We are anointed by the Spirit, and when a priest is far from Jesus Christ he can lose this unction.... Those who put their strength in artificial things, in vanity, in an attitude... in a cutesy language... ‘This is a butterfly-priest,’ because they are always vain.” Food for thought. I was brought up Catholic but am at odds with some of the teachings of the Church and more specifically how some of the priests handle the responsibilities of the power of their position. I read into this butterfly-priest concept as validation that we must not blindly accept what a priest or minister tells us. Blind allegiance to anything can lead to trouble.

The second post that caught my attention, Butterflies are Monsters Who Drink the Tears of Turtles was the from The Mary Sue. It is a quick and interesting read but better than the real reason, it would be a great prompt for writers.

And that leads me to the drawing above. It is for this week's Illustration Friday prompt, Stomach. Most of us tend to get butterflies in our stomach when we think about starting something important to us. Whatever that is, the more difficult the task, the more anxiety we face. I've been struggling with finding time in my life for a few projects. I have come to realize that starting is not the difficult part. Finishing is but we cannot finish something if we don't start. So we all need to make the time necessary to start and finish the things that are important to us.

TEETH

First of all, I am NOT a Gator, but I do have to do creative work for them every now and then. I used to be a regular contributor to Illustration Friday. It has been quite some time since I last participated. I do hope this signals a change. This is an illustration created for the annual Florida-Georgia Game in Jacksonville. I also painted a Dawg. It also has teeth but the Gator has many more.

And for all those Gator fans who might find this… Go NOLES!!!

The Next Step for Jacksonville

I'll say this again, Jacksonville needs and deserves to have a spectacular and iconic building on our beautiful river. The opportunities are there. We have the redesign of the Jacksonville Landing in the heart of our downtown riverfront, the Shipyards, a new convention center, the District and the old Courthouse/City Hall property currently sinking into the river. When we start the design process, let's not pay too much homage to the automobile. Much of Jacksonville has been designed to make it easy to get through places as quickly as possible. One of the recent ill-fated redesigns of the Landing placed a street along the riverfront between the river and the green-space that they were showcasing.

The American Institute of Architects has an ad campaign in which they say, "We look up because we know the world is counting on us to look ahead." Leaders and people of Jacksonville, we too, must look up to look ahead. Great cities are not known for their sprawling, stuccoed, suburbs. They are known for their cultural treasures—their art, their museums, their music and the buildings that house them. Think of a great destination place for a vacation. If it isn't the natural beauty of a place like the Everglades or Yosemite, it is what makes up its cultural heart. New York? Broadway, the Statue of Liberty, Central Park, MoMA, the Met, the great high rises. Chicago? The Navy Pier, Millennium Park, the ART Institute. Paris? The Eiffel Tower, the Louvre, Notre Dame. London? Big Ben, Buckingham Palace, The Eye. Jacksonville? the Main Street Bridge? EverBank Field? We can and must use this pivotal point in our history to look forward.

We deserve better.

One of Those Days

Tuesday was one of those days…one of those days where you are slammed at work but you get things done and you feel good about it…one of those days where you run into or have lunch with old friends from MOCA Jacksonville…one of those days where you meet up with kindred souls and plot out how you plan on changing at least one little piece of the world…one of those days when your MOCA friends just keep turning up and you realize how incredible everyone was (and still is)…one of those days when you get home exhausted, you have an amazing life partner there for you who loves you and supports you though all of those days…one of those days when you get a late dinner and your amazing daughter calls from her first year of college and you realize that she's on speaker phone at her regular seat at the table and while she is away, she's not gone. Tuesday was one of those days where you can't believe how fortunate you are. Thank you to all of those people who made Tuesday one of those days.

The Art of Asking

Almost six months ago I responded to a tweet from someone that I really didn't know—someone, as it turns out, was half a world away. Ramon de la Fuente (@f_u_e_n_t_e) got Amanda Palmer's book The Art of Asking as a gift and was so moved that he felt that he had to share it. Fittingly, he gave it away on Twitter and asked me to pass it along when I was through with it. It took me a little longer than I had planned to read it but I, too, read the book and couldn't help myself. It's my turn to share and all you have to do is ask. The thing is, if you are the lucky one, I hope that you will do as Ramon and I have and add a little something to the book before you pass it along. I added a small sketch. It was something that I originally did for my wife for an Illustration Friday topic. One day, I will get back to that.

If you aren't yet familiar with Amanda Palmer, do yourself a favor and listen to her music. From her stint in the Dresden Dolls to her solo efforts, she is, if nothing else very memorable. I have always been somewhat partial to Coin-Operated Boy. I couldn't say exactly why but it got under my skin when I first heard it. From her music, move on to her TED talk. Powerful stuff that. To say that I am partial to TED Talks would be somewhat of an understatement. I am one of the founding members of TEDxJacksonville. We are going on our 4th year. Someday, I would hope that we might coax her to come and tell us a story, here in Jacksonville. Read her blog. I remember the shit storm that she endured after a poem she wrote and posted to that blog. You can Google it or you can read about it in her book. Follow her on Twitter. She might say hello even though she has well over a million followers.

Even if you aren't the one who gets Ramon's copy of Amanda's book this time, perhaps it will come your way down the road. If you can't wait, go out and buy a copy for yourself. Then, share it with the world. That's all I am asking.

Where has all the passion gone, my atomic love?

Chapter 5: The Shadow at Work

This is the final chapter of the preview of my work-in-progress, the novel "Your Pal Al."  The previous four chapters are here on my blog. If you want to start at the beginning, here's Chapter One.  I'd love to hear what you think. Please comment or send me an email. 

 

“We’d been livin’ in and out of the trenches for weeks. It was raining hard, Burty, kinda like a hurricane, but it was too cold—way too cold. We got all turned around and had no idea where we was and to make matters worse we got pinned down real good by a machine gunner. Being stuck there was terrible, but the rain and the mud was much worse. We couldn’t get dry no matter what we did. You know how your hands and feets wrinkle up if you stay in the bath too long, Burty? Well, what do you think they’d look like if theys in the there for more than a week?”

Albert shrugged but not because he was bored or not interested. It was the only thing he could do. The stories from the War were his favorite, and while Mr. Sam did seem to tell the same ones over and over, this was one he had never heard – not even the corners or edges of this story.

“Not a pretty picture, eh Burty?” Mr. Sam smiled just a bit and stared hard at him, but it wasn’t a friendly smile. It didn’t make Albert feel any better. In fact, it made him squirm just a bit and the squirming was just enough moving for him to see that Miss Lottie had stopped her ironing and was doing a bit of staring herself.

“Please, Mr. Sam,” Albert said in a very small voice. “Tell me what happened.”

The smile warmed up, but something dark was still there hiding in his eyes. “Well Burty, we was pinned down, but we didn’t seem to be in too much danger. As long as we stayed down—there in the trench—we was safe. But our food was running low and we was getting to acting like rats down there. People ain’t s’posed to stay in small, wet places like that Burty. It makes ‘em do crazy things.” The smile was back, and so was the faraway look in his eyes. Then they started rolling all around. It was the remembering look, the one that made him slip, but it didn’t last.  “A few of the fellas got into fights—mostly over silly things—laughin’ at someone’s song or steppin’ on someone’s boots. Why, we’d been in mud up past our knees, water and much worse for over a week, it wasn’t like they's shoes could get any dirtier, eh, Burty? Heh, Heh, Heh…” Albert noticed it was his old laugh and he repaid Mr. Sam with a big smile of his own. Then the old man licked his lips and took a sip of his iced tea, slapped both hands down on his knees, and took a deep breath.

“So, things is about to get pretty bad, son. Are you sure you still wanting to hear this?”

“Are you kidding, Mr. Sam? This is the best story ever!”

“Alright then. You listen up real good, and you remember this. I’ll only tell you this story once.” Mr. Sam leaned in and gave him a look like no other—if that look had hands, Albert was sure it could have reached down into his very soul and squeeze. Luckily it didn’t, but even so, it certainly made his insides go all squooshy. “You might think what I’m sharing with you is a great tale, but it’s real. And it happened. And I was there.”

“Yes, sir,” Albert said because it seemed like the right thing to say. And Albert was rewarded with a nod.

“So Burty, as I was sayin', we’d been down there for over a week, and we hadn’t eaten for two days. With all the rain, we had plenty of water to drink. We’d catch it up in our helmets. It had a bad taste to it—greasy and smelly just like the air. Cap’n Day figured that something had best be done and done quickly. And the Cap’n—well Burty, he was a good man—a good officer too, mostly ‘cause he never would ask any of us to do something that he wouldn’t do hisself. But he should have this time, Burty, oh yes. This time it was just too dangerous for our commanding officer to be risking his life. But he didn’t see it that way. So once it got dark he slipped out of the trench and started to make his way across the field with only one thing in his mind. He was gonna stop that gunner so we could get out of that trench and get some food.”

“You know what’s comin’ don’t cha Burty?” It wasn’t really a question, but Mr. Sam answered himself, just the same. “Course you do. And it didn’t take long neither. If it hadn’t been raining and if the lightning hadn’t flashed he might have made it. But the lightning did flash. And it was followed by thunder. And that thunder went on much longer than normal thunder’d do. And that’s ‘cause the gunner must have seen Cap’n in the light and turned his gun on him. He damn near cut Cap’n in half. I don’t think he knew what hit him, thank the Lord. Well, we didn’t know that at the time, so the next time that lightning flashed we all had to see if the Cap’n made it. But we knew the answer before we looked. There was nothing there. It was still dark, see, and the rain was still coming down so hard that we couldn’t see much even if it were full daylight. We musta had our heads out of that trench for too long ‘cause that gunner sprayed us with another burst. None of us was hit, or so we thought. All of us fell back into the trench. We just sat there in the mud real quiet like for a long time—just listening—hoping that we might hear something that would tell us Cap’n Day was alive and okay. But the thunder and rain was all we could hear. No one knew what to do so we just sat there staring into the darkness.”

“I think I was the first to wake up. I can’t believe I fell asleep, but I wasn’t the only one. The whole ragtag bunch of us been asleep. It was probably shock and the lack of food. I might have believed it was something normal if everyone hadn’t gone to sleep. But we all did. There was something about that morning that just wasn’t right, Burty. We didn’t know what it was, but somehow the day just seemed like no other day. We all felt it. It was like someone pulled the curtains right off the wall and let the sun shine in yo’dark room after you been sick but now was feelin’ better. You know that feeling, right Burty?” He continued without waiting for an answer. “…but no one was feeling better. Like I said it was still raining hard and we all had to look up to the sky anyway, to make sure, ‘cause something sure was different. And you know what? We heard singing, and from real close, too. So some of us climbed a bit up out of that trench—now it was just a little bit. Eh, Burty? And that’s when we saw him. It was Jim. He was standin’ up there starin’ into the sky. At first, I thought he was up there so’s the rain could wash away all the mud. He had his arms stretched high.”

Mr. Sam began to slow down and spoke in a soft dreamy way. He stretched his arms high for emphasis before he just stopped. Albert had seen Mr. Sam stop like this so many times before that he would have been scared that he wouldn’t get the end of the story if Mr. Sam hadn’t slammed both of his outstretched hands down on his knees with a dazzling quickness that let out two sharp, almost simultaneous pops.

“Then I realized that he was the one doing the singing. And it hit me.” A snap of his fingers. “Jim had done gone crazy!”

He made the same swirling finger sign at the side of his head that Papa Jack made when Grandmother said something that didn’t make sense, but only when she couldn’t see. And that move was always followed by a wink. Mr. Sam didn’t wink.

“He was lucky that he hadn’t been killed by that German gunner yet. ‘Jim!’ I yelled. ‘Jim! Get back down here now you crazy Injun!’ Now I know I shouldn’t have called him that but in the heat of the moment I just blurted out whatever was down in my mouth! ‘Jim!’ I yelled again. All the fellas was. Well, all of us but Alvin. He was still at the bottom of the trench with a bullet hole just above his left eye. He must have been hit the night before when we was all lookin’ for the Cap’n.”

“So like I said, we was all yellin’ at Jim to take cover but Jim, why, he just stood there.” Again he stretched his arms wide and looked up. Albert steeled himself for another quick jolt, but Mr. Sam's only move was to slowly turn to him and say, “Now, I wasn’t about to let my friend die like the Cap’n did so I started up and out of that trench myself. But not too fast and not too much of me. He was close enough to the edge so I didn’t have to get all the way out, ya’see? I just grabbed at his ankles and started pullin’. He didn’t budge and he didn’t say nothin’ neither. Not at first. But then, real slow-like he looked down at me and he said ‘Samson, the last thing you want to do right now is pull me back into that hole. It might make me angry.’ Something dark was shuffling around his words that had power to ‘em so I stopped pulling.”

Mr. Sam licked his lips. Albert had never seen the old man so animated or agitated.

“I tried tellin’ him that he needed to get back here in the trench so’s he wouldn’t get shot. Then he looked down at me and extended his hand. ‘It’s all right Sam. Come on up. I made sure that we wouldn’t be troubled by those gunners no more.’ And I knew right then, Albert, that it was so. I reached up and took his hand. He pulled me up out of that trench. He was a strong one, my friend, Jim. He then turned his gaze skyward and just stared up into the rain. I was drawn to do the same, and for what seemed like the longest time the two of us just stood there holding hands and staring up into the sky. It sounds kinda silly, don’t it Burty? But that’s what we did. Then it got all quiet. None of the fellas could figure out what was happenin’, but something took ahold of them, too! And finally, the rain just stopped and we-uhs greeted by the sweetest ray of sunshine that I ever did see. It came beamin’ down at us like somethin’ from heaven! And I guess it was too!”

“When that sun come out, the magic was gone. And you know what Burty? We realized that we was still holdin’ each other's hands.” Heh. Heh. Heh. “Now that was a sight that it took a long time for the fellas to forget!” Heh. Heh. Heh. He laughed long and hard and laughed himself into quite the coughing fit. Miss Lottie was on him like a shot handing him his Nestea and gently patting his back. When the coughing let up, she took the glass from his hand and gently kissed him on the forehead, smoothed out his hair, and turned towards Albert. On him was more like it because she now had fury in her eyes.

“I’m heading into that house to fetch my Samson another glass of tea, boy, and while I’m gone the two of you had best sit there quietly. No talking!” She pointed a thick, well-worn finger at Albert and held it there for emphasis. Albert wanted to say that he had maybe said all of five words in the last fifteen minutes and that Mr. Sam had been doing all the talking, and that he was just being polite by being a good listener, but he knew better, especially after Miss Lottie said, “And if I catch either one of you not minding me, them words will be the last ones the two of you will ever share together!” She didn’t wait for an answer. She didn’t have to. The two of them were just as she left them when she returned five minutes later with Mr. Sam’s Nestea. The surprising thing for Albert was that she handed him his own sweaty glass and headed back to her work.

“I know you have your concerns, Burty, but my Lottie really is an angel.” Mr. Sam said in barely audible words and gave him a wink.

“I heard that!” Miss Lottie roared, and Mr. Sam smiled, then turned towards Albert.

“Where was I, Burty?”

“You and Jim was holding hands, and the sun had started to shine.”

“Right. So, one by one, the whole company come up out of the trench. The fellas sure was a sight! Heh, heh, heh. They sure was—all covered in mud, filthy. Heh, heh, heh.” He rocked his chair lightly, then brushed at his overalls and continued, “…but we was still alive and now the sun was shining. Shinin’ Burty! Sweet baby Jesus. We was alive! And for the first time, we could see the lay of the land.”

He leaned forward and looked hard at Albert then spoke matter-of-factly. “You see, when we was forced to take refuge from that gunner in that ol’ trench, it was night time, and it was raining hard, and we was all turned around. We really did stumble into that trench, and it saved our lives. So we didn’t know that there were buildings nearby. And they weren’t too far away neither. Just across an old field—an old vineyard, to be true. But we had to cross that field before we got to them buildings. Not that we was worried about getting shot, if that was gonna happen, Burty, we’d have been shot dead already. No suh, that field was where the Cap’n was cut down. And after our initial joys of getting up out of that trench and the rain stopping, we remembered our Cap’n Day and started to look for him. We could only hope, but I already told you what happened to him.” He took a deep inward breath and went on exhaling as he spoke.

“We found him almost halfway to the farmhouse. We only stopped for a minute to pay respect. Some of us said a few words. ‘Course some had words for the Lord and some of those weren’t too good, neither,” he said with a slow shake of the head. “Well, we figured that we might find an old board or something in that house to get the Captain and Alvin back and hopefully find some food in there, too. So we quickly made our way to the house. And besides, we had to make sure that machine gunner was dead, so we left him there for a time—not alone, mind you, Jim stayed with him—there in that field. Later he told me he had stayed with the Captain because he could never go inside that house. And because he told me after we’d already been in there, I was pretty sure that I knew why.”

“That house was full of surprises, Burty, and when we opened that front door, we got the first one. And it was a doozy.”

He had that far away look in his eyes again and grew quiet.

“You just can’t stop there Mr. Sam!”

No change.

“Please, Mr. Sam!” Still nothing so Albert settled in against the wall, his feet up pulled tight and his head between his knees. Quietly, he said to no one in particular “It just isn’t fair…”

That brought about a faint “heh heh heh” and a little nudge from Mr. Sam’s dusty boot. “Burty, you ain’t gonna take a nap on me now are ya? This is just getting to the good part.”  He winked at Albert.

So, lucky for Albert it was only Mr. Sam having a little fun with him. It was also another break for tea. Albert was engrossed in this story. This one was new, and while he had come for the Shadow, he was now quite happy with this tale. He couldn’t help but start wonder what the surprises were and how this story would end. And that’s when Miss Lottie appeared out of nowhere. She usually did that when she blamed Albert for something he’d done or didn’t do. This time it was different. What he hadn’t seen before was the large wooden spoon that she had in her fist… never seen anything like it. All of a sudden he was thinking about a cottage in the woods, very much like the Browne’s… far away from everyone just like the Browne’s… and a witch with an enormous, black cauldron. Well, maybe not a cauldron but, Albert was positive that there was a witch…

SMACK!

It was Miss Lottie herself that brought him back to reality when she slapped that spoon into her hand…

SMACK!

“Samson, I know where you headin’ with this story and you best stick to what you told me.”

SMACK!

Even Mr. Sam jumped a little at that one. And with that, she turned and walked back across the porch.

Mr. Sam took a breath and continued. “We could see that the front door stood wide open. They’s feathers and a bit of blood all over the ground leading up to the door. As we got closer, we could make out a big ol’ wooden farm table just inside. And I'll bet you cain’t guess what we found on that table, Burty.”

“I don’t know. The machine-gunner?”

Mr. Sam just shook his head.

Albert tried again, but with a smile this time. “Food?”

“Well o’ course there was food, Burty! But they’s also a note. It read, ‘Eat up and don’t worry about the gunner. I took care of him.’ It was signed ‘Your pal, Jim.’ He must have been up all night preparin’ that feast. And there was plenty of wine and roast chicken and fresh bread and cheese and olives and… well, I think you get the idea. We ate ‘til we could eat no more. The wine was making all of us sleepy, and we started to think that there might be actual beds but we realized that we hadn’t looked about the place. We hadn’t yet cleared it. And most importantly, we hadn’t gone to go see about that gunner.”

“No one?”

“Not a one, but at this point, we knew there was no danger from Jerry. If there had been, he’d’ve got us all when we was eatin’ and drinkin’. There wasn’t many of us left, but we still split into two groups. One for the downstairs and one up. We thought that’d be best, but we kind of all ended up clearing the downstairs first. We all sorta stayed together as we looked. Mostly, the place was empty and neat as a pin. All clear on the first floor except for this one door at the end of the hallway. Half the fellas stood guard. The other half got they guns ready. Marcus got the honor of opening the door, but I had to go in first. We wasn’t sure if the best way was to go in all at once screamin’ or do it more orderly. By this time our nerves was all jittery, and a cold sweat had taken us. The place was too empty, Burty, but we was soldiers so quiet and orderly was the plan. I gave Marcus a count with my head and mouthed the words. On three, I’d go. I started countin’. By the time I got to three everyone was so worked up we just all burst into the room screamin’ anyway! ‘Ahhhhh!!!” We all screamed and had our rifles ready, but we found out that there was no reason for the screamin’ or the rifles. We found people—finally! Everone was in a nice neat row on the floor—like someone was takin’ count or settin’ up a hospital. One of them was covered in a sheet. She must have been the lady of the house. They all looked like they was sleepin’, but they weren’t, Burty. They was all dead. Three was wearing Italian uniforms. The fella on the end had a rosary wrapped in his folded hands. I ‘spect you know what that is. Some of the fellas didn’t. One was so perplexed by it that he reached down to see what it was. When he touched the beads…” Mr. Sam was fast and snatched Albert by the wrist. “He got grabbed and that Italian fella…”

Albert jumped and let out a high-pitched wail. “Dang, Mr. Sam! Why’d you go and scare me like that?” Albert’s brow furrowed. He was on the verge of tears.

“You like these stories so much, Burty, I just wanted to give you a little taste of what it was like. Didn’t mean to scare ya.”

“But I’m just a kid, Mr. Sam.”

“‘Ceptin’ for me, so was all the fellas.” Mr. Sam stopped and let that sink in. When he saw that Albert had forgiven him, he continued, “So where was I? Oh yeah, Justino. That was his name—we found that out later. Well, he started mumbling in Italian, and at that time, none of us spoke Italian. We was positioned with the French Fourth Army, and some of us had learned the basics, so we picked up a word here and there ‘cause they kind the same when you get right down to it—you just had to add an 'O' to many of the words. He, heh, heh.”

Albert was still rattled and didn’t think that this was the time or place to be laughing, but Mr. Sam continued. “‘E'stato il diavolo. Santana stesso!’ he kept mumbling—over and over. He kept doin' the sign of the cross, too. He jumped when one of the fellas got close. He was like a scared dog—his eyes as big around as dinner plates. Ain’t never seen a man act like that before or since.” Mr. Sam paused—remembering.

Albert interrupted, “Mr. Sam? What did he say? I don’t understand.”

“Well, him bein’ Italian and all, he was speaking Italian. Parli italiano? Capisci? Heh, heh, heh. It’s alright, Burty. I didn’t know it then either, but I picked up quite a bit over there. Forgot most of it now, after all these years but what he said was ‘It was the Devil. Satan himself’.” He made little horns with his fingers and held them up by his head.

Albert scooched a little away from Mr. Sam and balled himself up a little more tightly. Mr. Sam saw the concern and fear ease on Albert’s face. He gave Miss Lottie a look and let his hands drop back into his lap. She looked quite concerned and maybe a little mad. She said, “I think it’s time you best be wrapping this story up, Samson. It’d be getting late, and I bet Albert has other places to be today. Ain’t that right, boy?”

Albert was happy for the way out of this. He was scared, but he still wanted more. This story was like riding the scariest roller coaster he had ever been on. “Well…” he started. He dragged it out and couldn’t bring himself to finish.

“It’s a’right, Burty. Ain’t no such thing as the Devil.” A cough escaped Miss Lottie that sounded suspiciously like his name. Samson chanced a quick look in her direction and was rewarded with a frown and a shake of her head but continued anyway. “Well, I don’t think the Devil had a hand in what happened that day, if it makes you feel any better. We had Marcus sit with the man as the rest of us went for the stairs.”

“We tried to be quiet, Burty, but them old wooden stairs had other things on they mind. Some squealed. Others moaned. Some was quiet, like they was waiting for us. Daring us to climb one more step. I could hear some of the fellas breathin’ heavy like behind me. T’wasn’t no use shushin’ them. That would have made just as much noise. When we got to the top of the stairs, I had a decision to make. Left or right? It ended up being easy. I let the sunshine guide our way. Y’see, all of the doors was opened, and light was fillin’ the hall. All but the one door at the far end of the hall. I give the fellas some directions to cover our backs, and we made our way to that door. You got to know that opening that door was something that none of us wanted to do. But someone had to, and since the Captain was gone and Jim wasn’t with us, the fellas gave me the honor. Again.”

Mr. Sam stopped for a minute and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. Albert thought that he should have wiped his upper lip off as well.

“I’ll tell ya Burty, my insides ran like iced water. And look here…” He held out a very shaky hand for Albert to inspect. “Why, I can still remember just how I felt to this very day.”

“We stood to the sides of the door as much as we could just in case. We had Jim’s note, after all, telling us that everything was taken care of, but there was something about that day that didn’t seem right. And we hadn’t seen any Jerries yet, so…”

Miss Lottie coughed and then cleared her throat. Mr. Sam just kept right on talking.

“There was a picture of Jesus, hanging just outside the door. I reached up and touched it, just in case. When you face these types of situations Burty, the best way to deal with them is to deal with them quickly, d’ya understand, son?”

Albert nodded because he thought he did. “Like rippin’ off a Band-Aid?” he mumbled. Miss Lottie had come back over and now stood by her husband. She placed her hand on his shoulder and nodded. Then Mr. Sam nodded as well.

“So I grabbed the latch on the door, lifted it and threw the door open. It slammed back against the wall revealing something that I just cain’t explain, Burty. And won’t. But I will tell you this, there was blood everywhere. It looked like a buzz saw went through that room. I seen a man get his arm cut off once at one of the sawmills they run over in Brunswick, but this was so much worse. It took us quite some time to put all the pieces together. When we did, we found that there had been eleven German soldiers in that room. Eleven.” He repeated, then stopped for a minute and rubbed his eyes. He was shaking much more now.

“That’d be enough Samson.”

“I’m gonna finish this. The boy may need it one day.”

She planted her feet and folded her arms. Most days that might have been enough, but not today. Not now.

“We couldn’t leave them like that. It was war, Burty, but even in war, there are lines decent people don’t cross. We spent the rest of the day collecting their remains and scrubbin’ that room. We took them downstairs and made a big fire and burned them. Then we buried what was left. No one understood how Jim pulled it all off. And none of us ever spoke of it again.”

End of Chapter 5 and the end of the Preview of "Your Pal Al."

© 2009 Michael O’Connell. All rights reserved.

Chapter 4: Man on a Mission

Chapters one through three of "Your Pal Al" have been published here previously. I'd love to hear what you think. Please comment.

It was just before dawn. Everyone was still asleep. A shadowy figure slipped into the hallway and floated towards the heart of the house. It approached the closed door at the end of the hall and waited. Until this moment, not a sound had been made, and then, ever so softly, a tiny whisper was heard. Albert could barely hear himself over the pounding of his heart. “Your mission, Jim, should you decide to accept it, is to make yourself breakfast, leave a note explaining where you will be, and sneak out of the house without being caught. Your objective, to obtain information about the Shadow. Make contact with Samson Browne. He is the double agent, but be careful. The evil Carlotta is ever present. As always, should you or any member of your I.M. Force be caught or killed, the secretary will disavow any knowledge of your actions. This tape will self-destruct in five seconds.” 

He paused and listened again. If anyone were awake, they would be in the kitchen. The door swung open slowly, just a crack at first, and then, just enough to allow Albert to slip into the kitchen.

The coast was clear. He crossed the kitchen, and again the boy used his quietest spy skills. He quickly cracked the code on the refrigerator. It was just one of his many specialties. The safe was full, but he did not let that distract him. He spied the milk and grabbed it. He took his prize over to the kitchen table and poured himself a big glass. Next, he grabbed the last package of Pop Tarts. He always knew about Colonel McGrath’s secret stash in the back of the pantry but the time was never right. This particular morning, however, it was perfect. Oh yes! This morning was his most important mission for the Impossible Missions Force to date.  He was going to be successful. He didn’t bother to heat them up. He didn’t want to get caught. He hastily scribbled a note to Cinnamon Carter, still, the leader of the IMF in Albert’s mind. Her code name for this episode was M.O.M. He told her that he was already out “to play” and that he would rescue Agent Bruiser from U.N.C.L.E. To assist him in his mission. His best guess was that they were going to be gone all day. He really hated involving both the IMF and U.N.C.L.E., but the severity of this mission left him no options. He left the message on the counter under her favorite coffee mug. He hoped that would be enough to thwart General Augusta, his handler’s boss. His intuition had kept him wary. Thoughts of double agents had plagued him. With the slip of paper safely stashed, he opened the screen door and stepped out into a morning shrouded in mist. He made it. It had taken every last one of his highly trained espionage skills, but he had made it! The day was now his.

BAM!

Unfortunately, he had forgotten about the spring on the door, and the screen door slammed. Bam!

They took a shot at him. He couldn’t have believed it. Not to worry; no one had ever successfully hit him. He had been far too good. He ran to Bruiser’s pen and broke him out. The two fugitives scrambled to get out of the country before they got caught. He explained the mission to Bruiser between breaths as they ran for the fence that had tried t keep him off the old state road.

His mother had been in awake in her bedroom and quickly headed for the kitchen, but no one was there. She saw Albert and Bruiser as they ran down the dirt driveway. She saw her son climb the fence next to the open gate in the driveway. She smiled and watched them until they were almost out of sight, then turned to get the coffee going. The coffee pot gurgled and teased with the earthy aroma. Abbie picked up the note that Albert left on the counter. She read it quickly and smiled and then, once again, looked out the window. Albert had stopped and was talking to Bruiser, but she can’t hear what he is saying. He was quite animated. She smiled again.

“Albert?” she called after him. This time a little louder. “Albert?” But he must have been out of earshot. That was OK. He was growing up fast. He was going to be okay.

She loved the fact that he seemed to be having a good time this summer. She hadn’t been sure how he would like staying with his grandparents. It had been the biggest concern she had when she and Leland discussed his plans to be gone all summer. The photo shoot in New Guinea was an enormous break for him, but he wouldn’t leave her and Albert alone in Jacksonville all summer. He would only take the assignment if she would take Albert up to her parents and spend the summer with them. It was a difficult choice. The assignment for the National Geographic Society would make her husband a “respectable” photographer. No more weddings or portraits of whiney kids.

The job could also be an end to their financial concerns. They might even get to move to Washington D.C. where he hoped to get hired on full time with the Society. Happy thoughts were running through her head when her mother made her presence known to her.

“Abilene. You mustn’t allow your boy to behave so. He needs to show you a little more respect.” The words were cold and emotionless.

“He’s just a boy, Mama.”

Grandmother just stared at her. Abbie knew that look. It was the one that she reserved for her when the response was not adequate.

By this time Albert and Bruiser were entirely out of sight. At least there was that.

Agent O had completed the first leg of his assignment. The Agent from U.N.C.L.E. had been successfully liberated. “So Bruiser, how do you think I can get Mr. Sam to tell me about the Shadow?”

Bruiser wasn’t much of a strategist. He was all muscle.

“That Miss Carlotta is gonna be the tough one. I have strong suspicions that she's a double agent. If I could only get her off the porch, even for a minute, I bet I could get Mr. Sam started. And then…” Albert snapped his fingers. Bruiser looked up. Albert gave him a wink and while he couldn’t tell for sure—the disguise hid much of the man’s features—he thought his bodyguard was smiling.

“What do you suppose it is?” Bruiser just loped along. This time he didn’t even look up.

“Well… I know I asked you this before but you had all night to think on it, and I thought, well, maybe, just maybe, you figured it out.” Still no answer.

“Why do you suppose it’s so important? And why won’t Miss Lottie, er, Carlotta let him tell me about it?”

“I bet it has to do with the CIA or Interpol or something. And Miss Lottie just thinks I ain’t big enough for it to concern me. She doesn’t know that I’m a real secret agent myself and can handle it. And I’m strong. Mr. Sam said so himself.”

“Maybe it isn’t spy stuff at all. Maybe it’s like something like The Twilight Zone or Scooby Doo—something creepy like that.” Bruiser snorted. “Scooby isn’t real Bruiser. He’s just a dog on TV, and he’s not even a real dog like Lassie. He’s just a cartoon dog! Like Mutley or Droopy. Hmm? Oh, they’re dogs, too.” Albert walked on in silence for a few minutes thinking about what he just told his dog. And while he liked spy stuff well enough, the idea of something strange and scary led to so many more possibilities. “I bet Napoleon Solo would know. When you get back to your headquarters you should ask him.” He noticed that the big dog had taken a seat. “Oh, come on! Don’t play dumb. Everybody knows who he is. I heard all about him from the IMF, but all I had to do was watch TV. Hmm? Hello! The Man from U.N.C.L.E. What do you mean Grandmother doesn’t let you watch that?” He started walking again—in silence, the time. The game was now over. Bruiser followed.

“So, tell me, boy, how can we get Mr. Sam to tell us? That Miss Lottie is a tough one; she doesn’t EVER leave Mr. Sam alone on that porch for more than a minute or two.”

They continued in this manner for quite some time. Then Albert grew quiet. Somehow talking about the shadow put him on edge.

It wasn’t quite eight o’clock when Albert and Bruiser came up on the Browne place. Albert couldn’t wait and took off running! Bruiser let him go. He never did seem to want to head up to the porch. The old hickory was close enough for him.

“Good morning Burty!” Mr. Sam was beaming.

“Well, hiyah, Mr. Sam! Mornin’ Miss Lottie.” He launched himself onto the porch and hurried to get settled in his usual spot at Mr. Sam’s feet.

“Sweet Baby Jesus! What ‘choo doing out here so early, Albert?”

“Well…” he had to think fast although the words were coming out real slow. “Today is cleaning day, Miss Lottie…” He rolled his eyes, cocked his head and rubbed his chin. “…and Grandmother likes an early start.” There. It wasn’t entirely a lie. Saturday was wash day and Grandmother did like an early start.

“So why ain’t choo at home helpin’ yo’ Granny?”

His mind was wandering again.

“Burty! Miss Lottie was asking you a question.” He was smiling like he almost always did when Albert came to visit. And Miss Lottie was shaking her head. That was also something that happened a lot.

“Child, one day, that brain o’ yours is gonna get you in trouble!” But she was smiling too.

End of Chapter

Chapter 5: The Shadow at Work

© 2009 Michael O’Connell. All rights reserved.

Chapter 3: This Conversation is for the Dogs

This is the third chapter of "Your Pal Al", my first novel. It is still under construction. Chapters one and two have been  published here previously. I'd love to hear what you think. Please comment.

The walk home was excruciating. It had been two days since Mr. Sam had first mentioned the Shadow and he still had no idea of what it was or why it was important. And it being important made him itch all the more to get at that story.

Albert stopped walking for a minute to think, and the enormous gray dog at his side plopped right down at his feet.

“So, Belvedere, I’ve been thinking a lot on this, and I just can’t keep it up any longer. If you are going to come with me every day — and I certainly welcome your company — we just have to do something about that name of yours. It just don’t fit your personality at all. Is that alright with you?”

The dog just continued panting and sucked up a long string of drool.

“Good boy. So I know Belvedere is the name Papa Jack gave you but it sure does sound more like something Grandmother would have done. And it ain’t right. So from now one, I’m gonna call you… ” Albert paused and thought and scratched his chin.

“This naming business is right hard, eh Belve… er, ol’boy? And I want to get it right. You don’t mind waitin’ just a bit so I can think on it, do ya?”

Belvedere was a Neapolitan Mastiff the color of smoke. He easily outweighed Albert by a hundred pounds, maybe more. And he was all Papa Jack’s dog. Bringing that pup home had caused quite a stir with Grandmother. She usually got her way, but he put his foot down this time. The dog was only a few weeks old when he just showed up on the porch. Papa Jack found him there and because they lived so far from town and there weren’t any dogs like him living nearby — let alone any mastiffs — he just figured that the dog was something special – ‘a gift from heaven‘ was what he had told Albert.

“What do you say I think more on it while we walk? Hmm?” Belvedere gave him a nervous wag. “That’s a good boy.”

The two of them headed off down the old, tree-lined road. The shortcut would get the two of them home far too quickly for Albert’s mind. There might be chores to do, and he needed time think. There were just so many unanswered questions.

“So, how in the world am I gonna get Mr. Sam to tell me more about this shadow thing? And why its so important? Hmm, boy? Now, I don’t think Miss Lottie is gonna let him tell me much. Do you? Seems every time we men get to talkin’ about it she storms across the porch and rains on our parade. What d’ya think I should do?”

The two made their way slowly home in the oppressive afternoon heat—dappled light from a few ancient live oaks now their only escape from the sun. The road ran by farms mostly, a few reclaimed by nature—choked by tall weeds—but most were vast fields of green made up of sugar cane, corn, potatoes, and cotton. Albert didn’t like the corn fields much, especially when the stalks were dried up and left to rot after harvest. He imagined all kinds of things in there – things that shambled and slithered — things with scythes and pitchforks. Sometimes, he would cut through the fields, but never the corn.

From time to time Albert would stop to think about something meaningful only to a nine-year-old and continue on. “So, we still need a name for you. I always did like the names Striker and Ranger, but you don’t seem much like a Ranger. What do you think about Brutus?” He looked hard at the dog, and for such a big, slow-moving creature he perked up quite quickly and cocked his head to the side, the way dogs do when they almost seem to understand what you are saying. “You really like that one, do ya boy?” His head rolled to the other side and wobbled just a bit and then, just for a minute, Albert thought he was actually going to get a real answer. He leaned in real close just in case he didn’t want to speak too loudly. After all, dogs weren’t supposed to be talking. Belvedere wrinkled up his nose and sneezed. And then shook his head violently coating Albert with long, gooey slime. “Yuck. Dog germs!” But he laughed and reached out and scratched him behind his ears — his favorite place. “You’re right. That’s no good. He’s sometimes a bad guy—always after Popeye. Ahhhuu-uh guh guh guh!” He made his best impression of the Popeye laugh; then he took off running.

“Catch me if you can! Catch me if you can! Ahhhuu-uh guh guh guh!”—the laughter trailing behind just like the dog. Belvedere wasn’t known for being energetic and was content to let the boy run until Albert picked up a stick from the road and tossed it. “Get the stick. Get the stick, boy!” Of course, Belvedere couldn’t help himself. He was a dog after all, and so he was off huffing and puffing. “You sure are fast!” Albert lied and chased it with more laughter.

“That Mr. Sam sure is something, ain’t he? I’ll bet he killed a bunch of them Jerries. Ratta-atta-atta-atta-tat!” And he drove in the tall grass at the side of the road. Belvedere dove in after him.

“Geez Louise! Whatta ya tryin’ to do? Kill me? You are some kind of bruiser.” He rubbed his side where Belvedere landed. “I don’t think the Americans or the French would have taken you in… too big and too dumb…” He laughed it out. Belvedere cocked his head and then hung it low and looked offended. Albert jumped up and took off again. “Big ol’bruiser dumb as a brick… Big ol’bruiser can’t do a trick…” Albert turned and wagged his backside at the dog. For a minute Belvedere just sat there then Albert spanked himself. He wiggled his backside to taunt the dog, and the dog pounced! All 153 pounds of him. He knocked Albert to the ground and held him there. The wrinkles on Belvedere’s head slid forward as he moved in closer towards Albert's face. Albert shrieked. And was rewarded with a very sloppy mastiff kiss but he didn’t let Albert up.

Even though they hadn’t been friends for long and Belvedere towered over him, Albert wasn't scared.

“I give. I give. Uncle! Uncle!” He started giggling and reached up, and started tickling the dog. He was certain that it was one of Belvedere’s favorite games, but to sweeten the pot he would always throw a little scratching into the mix.

It didn’t last long. Soon they were back on the road heading for home. “Boy, ain’t that Grandmother a tough one? How ever do you manage to live with her?” Albert paused and hoped to get an answer. “Now, don’t go tellin’ her we talk about her behind her back, but she seems somehow… harder than she used to be. Does that make any sense?”

Albert grew quiet then. The two continued their walk. Every so often Albert would look over at the dog and almost say something, but Belvedere didn’t look back as he usually would have.

“I’m sorry I called you dumb. I know you ain’t no meathead” Albert finally managed. Then they walked together for a while in silence. But silence was not one of Albert’s friends, and soon enough he was back to questions.  “Why do you suppose Mr. Sam lives all the way out there in the woods by himself? Well, not really himself. He’s got that mean old Miss Lottie, but you know what I mean. Do you think he ever gets up out of that rocking chair? Why won’t you ever come up on the porch with us? You seem to like Mr. Sam well enough. Do ya like that hickory tree better? Is it Miss Lottie? She doesn’t much like either one of us, does she? Luckily she mostly keeps to her ironing. Why do you suppose she is always ironing?”

And so it went for the rest of the walk back to his Grandparents house.

When the boy and dog turned onto the long drive, there was Papa Jack sitting in his rocker on the front porch as usual. Albert figured that all old men spent their most of their days in a rocking chair on a porch. He figured that one day that he would have to ask his grandfather about it.

And before Albert had taken more than a few steps, Papa Jack boomed, “Hi there, kiddo!”

There was still quite some distance from the road to the house and when Papa Jack spied Albert and called out and Albert couldn’t help but head to him running. Of course, Belvedere trailed after him.

“Lookee here! It’s my favorite Grandson!”

“I’m your ONLY grandson, Papa Jack.”

“Still my favorite,” he said with a smile.

“Well, your my favorite Grandfather and I got two of them!” The two laughed as they always did when this particular conversation came up — and it did come up often. Albert noticed that old people had a way of coming back to the same stories time and time again, but this was one of the ones that Albert loved so he didn’t mind.

“Well now, Albert, tell me about your day. What do you and Belvedere do all day?”

“You know Papa, a little of this and a little of that…”

“…but mostly that!” The two finished together and laughed.

“You really like Belvedere don’t you, Albert?”

“I do. We get along great mostly. Why today, we just barely survived a German ambush.”

“Is that so? Germans was it?”

“Yes, sir. It is. When the bullets started flying, we took cover in the tall grass. “

“I see. Then what happened?”

“We walked home.”

“All the way from France?”

“Yes, sir.”

“My, that must have been some walk.”

“It sure was.” Albert liked these games with Papa Jack but figured that he had better get right to it. “When we was walking home I had this idea.”

“You did?”

“Uh huh. It was about this very dog.”

“About and not with?”

“Right. It was a rare thing. He is so very talkative.”  Albert waited for a response, but Papa Jack only nodded. “Well… it’s about his name.”

More nodding followed by a chin scratch.

“I like his name and all, but he doesn’t seem much like a Belvedere.”

“Is that so?”

“Yessir. And, well, I figured I’d fix that and call him Uncle Bruiser.”

“Uncle Bruiser?” Papa Jack was downright close to busting a gut but somehow managed to stifle the laughter. He knew Albert was serious. “Why Uncle?”

“Well, he’s far too big and old to be just Bruiser, and he watches over me kinda like you or my Daddy. And, well, I already got y'all. And since I got an Uncle Toomey and Uncle Hank who ain’t really my uncles…” Albert fell silent. His gaze lost in the distance.

“I suppose that’ll be just fine… it’s a mouthful, but if you can handle it…”

“Maybe you’re right, Papa. It is a bit of a mouthful. Maybe it should just be Bruiser. I suspect I’ll have to ask him if it’d be OK.”

“You do that.”

“I will.”

End of Chapter

Chapter 4: Man on a Mission

© 2009 Michael O’Connell. All rights reserved.

Chapter 2: Another Story… Another Time

This is the second chapter of the story that I have been working on. Chapter one was published here on my blog back in January.

 

“They called me ‘Bean’ for a spell during the training. I s’pose it was because I was so tall. I didn’t mind it much… but later, when we was in France, some of the fellas started calling me ‘Mean Mr. Bean.’”

A small laugh escaped Miss Lottie. She eyed Albert. Most times when she eyed him like that, he knew he was in trouble. This time though, he cracked a big grin and gave her a wink to boot, just like Mr. Sam would do.

“Now I never did hurt no one that didn’t have it comin’, but when we was fightin’ in the trenches things got BAD. Miss Lottie don’t want me telling you exactly what it was like so you gonna have to take my word on it.”

This time Mr. Sam got the eye. And there was no smiling or winking. He just stopped, and took a deep breath, and closed his eyes for a minute. Then, he let out a long sigh, and continued. “Well, what I can tell you Burty, is that some of them other fellas were the mean ones and the War only made them meaner.”

“How’s that, Mr. Sam?”

“Well, the War was something more than ‘us against them,’ especially for us. Oh, we fought the Germans al’right, and we was glad to do it. Not so much because we hated them or what they was doin’. We didn’t follow the whys so much. All most of us knew was that our country needed us and the World needed us. And the War gave us an opportunity. It gave us a way for us to prove ourselves as men.”

“We saw a lot of things that we never imagined. Never could have. We weren’t raised that way.”

Albert wasn’t sure that he wanted to know, but asked anyway. “I don’t understand, Mr. Sam. What did you see?”

“It wasn’t so much what we saw, Burty, but what we had to endure. Many days we went without food or even a place to sleep and it rained a lot, but we could learn to live with all of that. What was hard to take was all the killing. Now, before you start, I know that there’s killing in wars. That’s not what I’m talking about. That kind of killing is bad enough, maybe necessary due to certain circumstances. Y’see Burty, war can bring out the best in people. It can make heroes out of ordinary men. Fellas you wouldn’t give a second look if they was walking’ down the street, but it can also reveal the worst in’em. When we was out in the country, a few times we came upon bands of roving marauders. They was made up of soldiers who decided that it was their place to make the most of the war for themselves. Sometimes they’d be Germans, sometimes Frenchmen or even Americans. And sometimes, they were a mix of all kinds of bad men. They would kill folks just to get a little bit more. They took things like wedding rings and watches. Things that meant something. We’d try our best to round them fellas up and take them back to be dealt with. Other times…”

Mr. Sam paused here, closed his eyes then shook his head.

“What Mr. Sam?”

Albert didn’t get his answer right away. It was eerily quiet. When Mr. Sam eventually opened his eyes, he looked toward the hickory tree where Bruiser was. Then a squirrel chittered once followed by a crash of dried leaves and twigs from the tangle of scrub startling Albert. A few birds panicked and took flight. The squirrel barked nervously and it was silent again. Albert jumped a second time when Mr. Sam started laughing. He shook his head again, then stopped and cocked it to the side, nodded and smiled.

“You remember that old wooden box I showed ya’ Burty? The one with all those newspaper clippings?” Albert nodded, and wondered where this story was heading.  “Do you know where they all came from? Well, I’ll tell you. When I was away, my Mama saved every single clipping she could get her hands on. She was so proud of her Samson. When I come home, she give me that box. And to me, those scraps of paper are the medals I never received from these here United States of America…” He stretched his long arms wide and gave Albert a sad smile. “I used to read through the news stories…” Mr. Sam trailed off. “…the newspapermen, they was doing they part… reporting the war… and I think we darn near surprised everybody with our heroics—sometimes, even ourselves!” He gave Albert a wink and a smile, and as soon as Albert smiled back, Mr. Sam lost his smile and continued. “The thing is Burty, even when they was praisin' us they was still keepin' us in our place. Quick to point out that the heroes in the stories they was writin’ about was just porters, elevator boys, and whatnot but at least they was writin' about us, Burty! Heh heh heh! Yep, things didn't change much after the War, but I sure had.”

Albert took this pause to chance a look at Miss Lottie. She was still ironing. He had never seen Mr. Sam, nor Miss Lottie for that matter, ever wear anything but what they were wearing at that very moment. And Miss Lottie was always ironing. As for Mr. Sam, he was always sitting in his chair in his worn, blue overalls. Albert thought that they must have enough cleaned and ironed clothes inside their house to last them a lifetime.

Miss Lottie was a big woman. Almost as big as Mr. Sam was tall. And Mr. Sam was the tallest man that Albert had ever seen. At least he thought he would be the tallest if he stood up. He had never really seen Mr. Sam get up out of that chair. His mind had begun to stray from his intended prize. Another quick glance and then, with the quietest whisper he thought he could use for Mr. Sam, said “The Shadow, Mr. Sam. You said it was important.” And it apparently was by the way Mr. Sam’s eyes got real big and round. He shot a glance at Miss Lottie, then gave Albert a small nod.

“Not today Burty. Soon.”

Then he buttoned his lips as he eyed his wife again.

End of Chapter

Chapter 3: This Conversation is for the Dogs

© 2009 Michael O’Connell. All rights reserved.

When did it become the government's responsibility to create jobs? I always thought that the government was supposed to be there to uphold the Constitution—basically to protect our rights. What the government should be doing is creating an environment in which job creation can occur — livable, safe cities with an educated work force; safe, sound and responsive infrastructure; being a good, responsible steward of public lands for this, and future generations; and doing all of this on a level playing field for all.

Advice?

Advice? I don't have advice. Stop aspiring and start writing. If you're writing, you're a writer. Write like you're a goddamn death row inmate and the governor is out of the country and there's no chance for a pardon. Write like you're clinging to the edge of a cliff, white knuckles, on your last breath, and you've got just one last thing to say, like you're a bird flying over us and you can see everything, and please, for God's sake, tell us something that will save us from ourselves. Take a deep breath and tell us your deepest, darkest secret, so we can wipe our brow and know that we're not alone. Write like you have a message from the king. Or don't. Who knows, maybe you're one of the lucky ones who doesn't have to.

Alan Watts (1915 - 1973)

Your Pal Al – Chapter 1: Mr. Sunshine

Below is the first draft of chapter one from my first novel, "Your Pal Al." One morning, on my routine dog walk, a song that I can no longer remember planted the first few lines in my head, and I had it. I held on to the thought until I got back home where I sat at my desk and got it down for safekeeping--although I didn't stop there. That morning I was late for work. I also had about 500 words written. If you like it, please let me know. If you don't, tell me that, too, but please tell me why. Thanks for reading. 

Chapter 1: Mr. Sunshine

“The sun is mighty powerful. It causes the wind and the rain. And it makes things grow! But…” Mr. Sam paused here before going on and lowered his voice. “it also makes shadows.” He drew out that last word and then he stopped for what seemed like forever. 

Albert waited and wondered. Something had to be wrong with Mr. Sam. His eyes were still open, but he wasn't moving much. He thought maybe he should reach out and give him a just little poke, to make sure he was still breathing. As Albert extended his finger to do just that, Mr. Sam snatched him by the wrist. That startled Albert even more than the near-dead Mr. Sam. He was much quicker than he supposed an old man should be.

"The good news is that when the sun goes down for the day, he takes all those all shadows with him." Another pause. “Well… most all of ‘em.” He stopped again and looked around as if searching for something. Albert looked around as well, but just to be polite but didn't see much. Miss Lottie was still at the end of the porch doing her ironing. The sun was still shining and making the wind blow the leaves around a bit. And his dog was still chewing on his leg or scratching his ear out in the yard by the old hickory tree. The dog tried to do both but couldn't quite figure out how to manage it. Belvedere did that a lot, but then, he was a dog and that's what dogs did. Mr. Sam was still looking around and he still had Albert's wrist. His eyes were rolling all about, just like the marbles did in the Mason jar back home on Albert’s dresser. 

Finally, Mr. Sam started moving again. He grabbed Albert’s shoulder and pulled him in real close and whispered in his ear. "Listen to me Burty. This is important, really important. D’you understand? Sometimes… " and before he could finish a blue jay flew straight into the closed window right near Mr. Sam's head. It hit hard, too. It almost hit him and it probably would have if he hadn't leaned in to get a little closer. Of course, Albert couldn't resist and desperately wanted to see if the poor jay needed his expert help but Mr. Sam hadn't quite said his peace. "Burty.” He gave him a small but firm shake. “I said this is important!" Mr. Sam barked but all the excitement had drawn Miss Lottie’s attention and when Miss Lottie's ironing got interrupted. Look out! 

"Samson Lucius Browne. What kind of stories are you fillin’ that boys head with?"  The jay twitched once and was still. 

“Albert, come here boy.” She slapped her leg like she was calling a dog. “Don't you pay him no mind. He thinks he is helpin' with all those old tales, but they only stories that some folks use to get kids to do what needs doin’. Now you run on home.” She stared at him real hard then cocked her head to the side and lifted her hand to her ear. “Ain't that ‘cho Momma callin’?" Albert instantly froze to listen but was sure that he hadn't heard his mother. Besides, he was quite interested in what Mr. Sam had been telling him, especially now that Miss Lottie didn't want him to hear it. 

"Miss Lottie, please… I don't have to be home until dinner time…" Albert pleaded. “And that must be hours from now.” He knew that when Miss Lottie made up her mind, that was that, but he still had to try. Who knew when he could get Mr. Sam back to that story again. 

Mr. Sam was old. Real old. Albert's mother told him that Mr. Sam had fought in the first World War. He had heard a lot about "Old Days." His grandmother and grandfather called them the "Good Ole Days," and while much of the stories were similar, Albert liked Mr. Sam's stories better. Maybe because his stories were older and more colorful. 

"Please Miss Lottie, I want to stay." By this time Mr. Sam was just sitting there staring out into the yard again. Albert knew it was going to take some special kind of coaxing to bring him back, so he played the sure ace. "Mr. Sam, tell me a story about the Good Old Days'!"

Most times, when Albert asked him about “the way it was” Mr. Sam would perk right up, but not today. Today something had ahold of him, and it was going to take a bit more craftiness on his part. “Tell me about the War, Mr. Sam. ‘The War to End All Wars!’” His second ace was on the table, and Albert was quite confident he’d get his story now, but still, Mr. Sam sat immobile, his gazed fixed on the old tree in the front yard. He tugged at Mr. Sam’s sleeve and begged him as only a ten-year-old can do. The old chair rocked a little, but still nothing.  “Please!” It was undoubtedly a tricky situation that he found himself in that all too warm summer afternoon and Albert desperately wanted to hear more. He thought if he could just get Mr. Sam talking again he could eventually get the story to come back around. But nothing had changed. He had tried not one, but two sure fired ways to bring Mr. Sam back but he was still staring at that old hickory tree and now, well, now he was almost out of ideas. 

Albert plopped himself down and folded his legs up under himself – “Indian-style” was what his first-grade teacher Mrs. Eaves called it. And then it came to him. He stood up and placed himself squarely between Mr. Sam and the tree. “Mr. Sam… tell me about your best friend, Jim!” Surely that one had to work. His third ace was on the table. He was now out of cards. But Samson Browne just sat there—the steady in and out of his chest the only proof that he was still alive. 

“Mr. Sam… you promised! Please, Mr. Sam! Oh pleeeeease!” And with that Albert once again took his place at Mr. Sam’s feet and waited. He poked at the lifeless blue jay. The eyes had begun to cloud over. It sure was dead. He gave it another poke and dared steal a glance towards Miss Lottie. He would hate to call attention to himself. He thought, perhaps, if he just sat quietly Mr. Sam might come around. And so it went for what seemed like an eternity to Albert. He stared at Mr. Sam, and Mr. Sam stared at the old hickory. Belvedere even lent Albert a hand alternating his watchful eye. And every so often Albert would tug lightly at the old man’s pant leg to see if anything had changed. 

Until finally, “Oh, I cain’t take this a minute longer! Samson, you mind me now. Young Albert here been waitin’ just as patient as you please. It hain’t right that you should sit there and not give him that story. After all, you did promise him…” 

She put the iron down for the second time that day. Albert jumped out of her way and as she placed her big, callused hands on each of Mr. Sam’s shoulders and stared directly into his eyes and put some words in his ear that only Mr. Sam could hear. Then more loudly she continued, “but you best stick to the story ‘bout Jim. You hear me, Samson.”

And with that, Miss Lottie had broken the spell. In a million years Albert wouldn’t have thought that she would have been his wild card!

“Alright, Albert. He gonna give you that story now and you mind him, ya’hear?” Albert smiled and nodded. And like an autumn stream, Mr. Sam did come back around—slowly. He licked his lips once and scratched the back of his head began.

"My Daddy was one of the few black men in Charlton County who could say that he owned his farm. It was a small farm, Burty, only 19 acres—give or take—but we were able to provide for ourselves and still have enough left over to sell some at market. Most often, everything was just fine, and people let us be. But then the War started. A lot of my friends signed up. They saw it as an opportunity to show everyone that we was just as good as they was.” He smiled at that and continued. “But then they got the draft going… and then they’s a lot of us. Some folks didn't want Negroes serving alongside white folk but others saw it as a chance to get rid of some of us ‘troublesome’ black folk.” Mr. Sam stopped talking. He often did that. Albert didn't always understand. This time though, he was pretty sure he knew. He had been told the stories about the burnt crops and the lynchings. Miss Lottie had shushed her husband then too. 

Albert took this chance to sit back down and get comfortable against the wall. And then he waited. The silence didn't last long. “My Daddy made his ‘Declaration of Loyalty’ just like all the other farmers. Momma even planted herself one of them Liberty Gardens right over yonder—up by the road, but Daddy didn’t feel that was gonna be enough to keep his family safe. We could tell he was scared and that, Burty, was the first and only time I ever did see my Daddy scared of anything.”  He stared hard into Albert's eyes for a long minute and then he gave him a big smile with teeth that reminded him of Indian corn on Grandmother’s door at Halloween. Mr. Sam continued. “Well, as I said, the War brought the draft, and that meant that all the men over a certain age was needed to go fight for our country and help them folks over in Europe. You know what the funny thing is? I enlisted.” Heh, heh, heh. 

“Why’s that so funny, Mr. Sam? If all men were going and it was good for the country and all…”

“Well, I enlisted because I had heard about these fellas up in New York that was actually going to fight.”

“Didn’t everyone fight that was in the war?” Albert was getting confused. 

“No Burty… remember I told you that some of the white folks didn’t like the idea that any colored folks were going at all?” He stopped here and looked at Albert and waited. Usually, Mr. Sam stopped and didn’t expect anything. He either kept right on talking or was pretty much finished for the day. 

“All the men I fought with were part of the 369th regiment and all of them men was Negro. Well, all of them ‘cept for my best friend, Jim, and most folks wouldn’t’ve known he wasn’t a Negro. D’ya wanna hear something funny Burty? Now, I know you study real hard in school so  suspect that you will see the humor in this. His full name was James Laughing Crow. Y’see? Jim Crow! Heh! I'm sure didn’t even occur to his Daddy! And I don’t even think we noticed much back then ourselves! Heh, heh, heh. No'suh! But one day, much later, it just kind of hit me all of a sudden like and I told Jim, too. He thought it was kind 'a funny but mostly, he was a serious man. And ain’t that a hoot, Burty? Jim Crow serving real proud in an all Black regiment.

My friend, Jim, was a Choctaw Injun. And at that time, Injuns wasn’t even allowed to be American citizens. But that didn’t stop Jim. He enlisted… how and why he made it to the New York National Guard I never did ask… never thought to. But he did so because he wanted to serve as a member of the Army's Signal Corps.  Nowadays they call them ‘code talkers’. Do ya know what a code talker is Burty?” Mr. Sam just kept on talking. But Albert knew alright. He had heard all about them from his Uncle Toomey. Uncle Toomey wasn’t really his uncle. But he was a Navaho, and that was just one of the many stories he had told him. Mr. Sam pressed on. “Why, they’s Injuns that used their own language to bedevil the enemy. Y’see, when Jerry tried to listen in and find out where a supply drop was gonna be made or were our soldiers was being moved, they couldn’t understand a word. It was so successful that they used them again in the Second World War, but they used other injuns that time—Navahos mostly.” Albert felt a sense of pride at that but didn’t know why. “Anyway, some of the other fellas from his tribe had already been asked to help out, and he wanted to do his part. So he went down to enlist. There weren’t many Choctaws left in Georgia at that time. Most of them being run off their own lands years before. Well, Burty, old Jim signed his papers and the fellas at the recruiting station didn’t know quite what to do with him. They must have figured since he was so dark, they’d put him in our regiment ‘cause they didn’t want no ‘dirty Injuns’ fightin’ alongside all those fine white boys. ‘Course him being from Georgia and the rest of the tribe now in Oklahoma meant that there weren’t too many of his folks signing up from our parts and that probably had something to do with it too. At first, some of the fellas didn’t want him in our regiment either, but they did come ‘round.” 

“Jim was a good man and a strong man… probably the strongest man I ever did know—next to my Daddy.” Mr. Sam paused here for a minute and licked his lips.  “Now this part here is important, Burty. He was strong. D’ya understand?” Albert nodded and was rewarded with a small smile before Mr. Sam continued. The atta boy kind of smile you get from your coach or your dad when he’s teaching you to ride your bike or throw a football. “No, Jim wasn’t just strong physically… It’s important because of what happened to him when he come back. But the story started long before then. It started back in the trenches.”

Mr. Sam stopped again reached for his ever-present iced tea. He took a long sip and let out a deep breath. There was a bit of a slow, weazing sound, then his face went slack, and Albert thought that he lost him again, especially when he and cocked his head. “Ada?” 

Albert had heard Mr. Sam say that name once before. And like that time Miss Lottie took notice. 

“Mr. Sam, what happened to Jim? What about the trenches?” Albert tried hard to bring his friend back but he was old, and Albert didn’t have the magic that Miss Lottie had.

Miss Lottie put her hand on Albert’s shoulder. “He’s slipping again, Burty. Time to go. Mr. Sam needs his rest.” 

End of Chapter

Chapter 2: Another Story… Another Time

© 2009 Michael O’Connell. All rights reserved.

Screw up or Sour Grapes?!?!! Hmmmm...

I admit the web people screwed up and, ultimately, FSU is responsible for what gets posted but I'm pretty certain that Fanatics, our local billion dollar company, runs the Seminole online store. If you look at the CEO of the company, Alan Trager, you'll see that he is a UF grad, as is his brother, Brent, the COO. The president is also an SEC grad. And I don't think it is a coincidence or a conspiracy theory.

I first met Michael Regina years ago at the Riverside Art Festival. We saw his fine art and ended up winning a portrait. We've stayed in touch over the years. I was happy to back his first major graphic novel/comics project on Kickstarter.

This was a fun read. It is the first of a trilogy. He started this before Stranger Things had made it to TV and became popular. It took me back to my childhood with tales like those in Jonny Quest, Scooby-Doo, and The Goonies, and takes you to the present with the likes of Super 8 and Stranger Things. It is a great all-ages mystery. I can't wait to read books 2 & 3 to see how it turns out.

** UPDATE **
The trilogy is complete!