Monthly Archives: March 2007

Reckless
By Jill Terry

She mused at the constant chatter coming from the backseat while navigating through traffic. The kids were excited to be getting a puppy, and although she hadn’t wanted to make the trek on Saturday, this was the only day the breeder was available. So much congestion on the roads and 47,000 new houses planned for development. Where will it end she thought, as she let out a sigh and merged onto the bridge. She hated bridges, always had, and went out of her way to avoid this three mile span over the river, but there was no getting around it today. “Look kids, you can see the city from here.” The chatter stopped momentarily as they craned their necks to look out the window. “I wonder if Aunt Linda is home. Do you think she can see us from here Mommy?”

“No sweetie, I don’t think she can.”
“But her condo looks over the river and I’ve seen the bridge from her balcony.” She looked in the rearview mirror and smiled and was just about to explain why Aunt Linda wouldn’t be able to tell it was their car from such a far distance, when she saw the little silver bullet of a car careening toward them at top speed. She looked out her side mirror to see if she could change lanes, just as a blue car streaked past, so loud and fast that it made her flinch. There was a truck passing on the right so she was stuck where she was. She held fast to the wheel and at the last second the silver car shot around the left, missing them by less than an inch, just as a car from the far left lane merged in his path. Instead of hitting the brakes, wasting speed and losing the race, the silver bullet accelerated and shot in front of them, catching their front bumper with his rear.

Rescue divers recovered five bodies from their watery grave that sunny Saturday afternoon, while the breeder realized that he might be stuck with the last pug of the litter, and the driver of the blue car peeled out of Hooters parking lot, pissed off that his loser buddy hadn’t shown up to buy his winning pitcher.

Copyright 2007 by Jill Terry. All rights reserved.

“Writing is an exploration. You start from nothing and learn as you go.”
-E. L. Doctorow

Writing Prompt: A man takes lunch to his wife’s office, where he’s told that she hasn’t worked in weeks. -From The Writer’s Book of Matches (Writer’s Digest Books).

Picnic in the park
by Jill Terry

The tension between them was nearly unbearable. She bitched when he didn’t work and she bitched when he did. There was just no pleasing her anymore and he was sick of it. Yes, he’d been working crazy hours and traveling more so than usual, but his partnership was riding on this deal and she knew that. She knew it and still she bitched! For Christ’s sake, he’d given her everything she wanted and then some. She didn’t have to work, she chose to work, even though her position as a docent at the museum was voluntary, still, it got her out of the house and made her feel like she was doing something worthwhile with her time.

He’d just closed the deal in Dubai and landed stateside, with a spring in his step and his partnership in the bag. He called his office and reported the news then had his secretary call Isadora’s Café and order a picnic lunch, complete with caviar and champagne for pick-up within the hour, believing that a romantic celebratory lunch in the park was just what the doctor ordered. As luck would have it, his driver found a spot right out front and so he ran inside, picked up his basket of expensive goodies and headed to the museum, where he was informed that Samantha had not worked for several weeks. There must be some mistake he demanded, but the young woman assured him that much to the curator’s dismay, Samantha had resigned from her position with no notice or reason and had not been heard from since.

He climbed in the back of the Lincoln, called Samantha’s cell phone and got her voice mail. Fearing the worst, he instructed the driver that there had been a slight change in plans and he needed to pick up his car. An hour later he pulled through the gates of his driveway and saw her Mercedes parked by the garage, with a black Aston Martin beside it. He breathed a sigh of relief, as he recognized the car immediately and assumed Mr. Townsend, the museum curator, had come to beg her return.

He left the basket on the seat beside him and made his way inside. He called for her but there was no answer. Assuming they must be on the lanai by the pool, he made his way through the house, stopping dead in his tracks when he saw them and realized that his instincts had been correct. Mr. Townsend was indeed begging his wife…begging her for more of the job she was doing on him! Rooted by rage, he stood and watched until they concluded their coupling, then slipped back out the front and drove off. He waited a few minutes then called the house. This time she answered.

He told her the good news and asked why she wasn’t at work. She explained that she’d had a migraine earlier and decided to take the day off. She congratulated him on his success and asked when he thought he’d be home. He told her he was in route as they spoke and she immediately ended the call, claiming that she needed to freshen-up before he arrived. Five minutes later, he watched from his parking spot at the clubhouse, as Mr. Townsend made a hasty exit from their community.

“Honey, I’m home,” he said as he entered the house and made a beeline for the pool. She had two towels thrown over her naked shoulder and was loading their margarita glasses and pitcher onto the tray. He opened the double doors and the look of shock on her face when she saw him standing there was nothing less than priceless. “Charles, I didn’t realize you were so close to home when you called. I was just tidying up a bit.”

“So I see,” he said calmly. “Have you been entertaining this afternoon?” She quickly glanced at the tray then back at him, “Oh, this…Yvette came over earlier and we decided to lay by the pool for a while.” How quickly the lies form and fly he thought. “Is that so?” she smiled sweetly and shook her head. “Here, let me take this for you,” he said as he moved in close, removed the tray from her hands and set it on the table. “You don’t look so well, dear, are you sure you’re feeling alright?”

“I’m fine, just a little tired from the sun and my migraine really did a number on me this morning. My head’s still sore from it.” She gave him a little peck on the cheek and told him she was going in to take quick shower. He turned and watched her walk away, knowing she was confident that he didn’t suspect a thing. “Samantha,” he called as she neared the house. She turned and gave him a quizzical smile, as he reached in the breast pocket of his suit jacket, removed the pistol and said, “Let me see if I can’t do something to ease the pain.”

Copyright 2007 by Jill Terry. All rights reserved.

Smelling the Wood
By Jill Terry

You pull in your drive, get out of your car and smell the scent of wood burning; not knowing where it is coming from, but you know the direction of the wind, but you don’t know from where or what house. You stand there enjoying the smell, wondering why they are burning the wood. Is it for heat, or is there a couple somewhere upwind that could be lying there naked or not, but holding each other in a tight embrace; enjoying the heat from the fire and each other. Then we just turn around and walk into our house, not lighting a fire. Why don’t we?

Perhaps the heat from the fire has lost its warmth; the flame doesn’t flicker quite as bright and the embrace has lost its spark. The wood smoke rekindles a memory of a fire that burned out of control, an embrace that was heated with passion and a spark that lit your world. You stand enjoying the smell, wondering where the intensity has gone, and how far you will go to find it─

Copyright 2007 by Jill Terry. All rights reserved.

I’m off to work the Book Fair at my son’s school today. It’s very cool. They completely transform the library into a themed book store; complete with nifty must-have items near the check-out, and let the kids browse and shop themselves. So my son told me this morning on our way out the door, “Don’t forget to dress up today, Mama, cause you’ll be working in the media center and that’s an important job!”

I know the kid’s book market is huge, but I’m amazed at how many books Scholastic sells that I had when I was a child! I’d love to be able to write for kids, but my mind just doesn’t work that way. I’ve tried writing a book for my son featuring him and his friends as the characters and I just lose interest and find it hard to finish. So, hats off to all you grown adults that can think like a kid and whip out those stories!

The Willow and the river
By Jill Terry

He comes from money…old money…old southern money, but he can no longer recall how it came to be, only that he has always had it. He is eccentric with a flare for the eclectic and has the IQ of a genius. His mansion is grand, Italianate style and decorated with fine art and antiques envied by collectors that span the globe, for which he has traveled the world attaining, while leaving his mark along the way.

His tastes are decadent in all aspects; from the clothes he wears, the food and drink he consumes, to the cars that chauffer him, the individuals he sleeps with, and the drugs he so eloquently abuses; always the best that money can buy. Life has been nothing but a party from the moment he was born, and the only time he removed the silver spoon from his mouth, was when he used it to cook up a cure for whatever happened to be ailing him. He calls more people friends than anyone I know, yet few will be there for him in his dying days, which at 49, he sadly has reached. Yes, no amount of money or intelligence can save him now, as he literally has partied his life away.

He turns his head while she changes his catheter and looks out through the balcony doors, beyond the manicured lawn to the river in the distance. Never having noticed the stone bench under the willow, he decides this would be a good place to sit and think for a while. Unfortunately, he’s too late in his discovery, as his appendages are swollen to the point that he can no longer leave the confines of his bed.

“What bloody hell good is all this money, if they can’t even fix what’s wrong with me,” he yells. “Nothing buys twenty years time and a change in lifestyle,” his nurse said under her breath. “Away with you then, if you have no sympathy for the dying,” he barked.

She shook her head and he watched as she walked across the room, carrying a half-full bag of blackish liquid that looked nothing whatsoever like urine and closed the door behind her. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, wondering to himself where all of his friends had gone. They’d been there each and every time he opened his doors and lavished them in his decadence, but where were they now…now that he needed them?

For a moment he is quiet, as he listens to the thoughts running through his mind. A tinge of regret at the choices he has made and the fact that he’s done nothing worthwhile with his life, other than see the world through a purple haze and spent his endless supply of money that he never worked a day in his life for. He frantically searches his soul for a shred of religion, as he feels death come calling and he knows the knob is turning. He reaches for paper and pen in the bedside drawer, hoping to transfer his final thoughts before it is too late, leaving something of worth and value behind, now that he sees everything so clearly. But beside the pad lies a vial and syringe and just as he’s always done, he numbs himself to reality…draws a shaky breath and is gone –

Copyright 2007 by Jill Terry. All rights reserved.

“Trust your hunches. They’re usually based on facts filed away just below the conscious level.”
-Dr. Joyce Brothers

Several weeks ago my mother called while I was in Barnes & Noble picking up my copy of The Secret by Rhonda Byrne that I had to special order because they had none left on the shelves. Knowing that I don’t have the patience to wait for a book that I need or want right away and very rarely order something that isn’t available in-store, she was curious about the book I was picking up. I gave her a quick spiel then flipped open the book and read her the following description off the cover;

Fragments of a Great Secret have been found in the oral traditions, in literature, in religions and philosophies throughout the centuries. For the first time, all the pieces of The Secret come together in an incredible revelation that will be life-transforming for all who experience it. In this book, you’ll learn how to use The Secret in every aspect of your life – money, health, relationships, happiness, and in every interaction you have in the world. You’ll begin to understand the hidden, untapped power that’s within you, and this revelation can bring joy to every aspect of your life.

“Hmm,” she moaned suspiciously into the phone, and after I plunked down 30 bucks and read a few pages, I knew exactly what she meant; information like what’s contained in this book and claims such as the author and so-called experts make is dangerous.

Case in point:

A little bird who frequents my site informed me that a woman she knows was diagnosed with breast cancer and her doctors advised an immediate mastectomy and chemo treatments. She had recently read The Secret and decided against her doctor’s medical advice, believing that she has the power to cure herself, because the book convinced her that by using the laws of attraction, she could do so. She’s since taped an episode to be aired on Oprah in which she shares her story.

While it is not known how the story will be portrayed, the little bird seems to think this episode is going to be used as an opportunity for the author(s) and filmmakers to cover their asses, should others come forward with similar stories. Undoubtedly some will want to know why the promises of The Secret isn’t working for them!

The world is filled with people who are searching…searching for a secret potion or magical formula that will change their lives and make their living experience better. *Such a thing does not exist. There are no life secrets that can be found on the pages of a book and no secret wisdom given to one in order to share with the world. The Secret has risen in sales ranks because of strategic marketing and promotion and much like glorified evangelists, they are preying on the faithless and vulnerable, making promises they have no business making. They celebrate their publishing phenomenon, which according to their sales stats is exactly what it is, but how far should people be allowed to go in order to make a buck?

Yes, everyone makes their own decision whether or not to read the book and also to believe or not believe the information contained within. But when making such claims as listed above, do the author(s), publishers and filmmakers have a responsibility to the public they market and sell to? Especially when the claims they make can directly affect the lives of their readers in a negative way?

While I am not an Oprah fan and do not watch her show, it will be interesting to see how the program plays out. I’m counting on my little bird to keep me informed!

*I personally have found the Bible to be a very good how-to book, when it comes to making life choices, but again to each his own. For more on The Secret, click here to read my original post.

Sometimes, usually in the morning, when everyone has gone and he is left alone, I feel his thoughts turn and touch me like a secret caress, and in that moment I feel his truth…his longing…for that mystery he found, beyond the silver moon.

Copyright 2007 by Jill Terry. All rights reserved.

Human atrocity has prevailed since the beginning of time, but nowhere so prevalent as the deep south. As I wander through my life on the paths man has cut for convenience, I sometimes sense the ghosts of days gone by and their presence is unsettling. I tried to warn them that what they were doing was disturbing to the spirits and no good would come, but who am I and what do my words mean, to men hell-bent on profit and driven by greed. I felt them most strongly as I passed the site on my daily route, the moment they moved in the dozers and began knocking down trees. I thought perhaps I was wrong and reading too much into it, but once they cleared the unwanted trees and underbrush, started bringing in palms that offset the oaks and the sign went up, I knew I was not wrong.

Southern Oak Estates…where the Elite call home. Estate Homes starting in the $900’s.

Some things are better left unknown and kept buried where they belong, was the message I heard time and again. But they progressed with their digging and the entrance soon turned into a road that led deep into the woods where no one had ventured for a hundred years or more, and with good reason. It wasn’t long, however, before they came upon the foundation of the grand old plantation house that once stood proud and strong. They dug it up and moved on, plowing their way over unmarked graves of former slaves, whose bodies had long since turned to dust, then on through to the grounds where they worshiped and lived, when they weren’t in the groves picking fruit from the trees.

The Master of the plantation was a wicked man with a hunger for lust and thirst for blood; a widower with a house full of slave women who did his bidding or died in protest. A posse of men at the ready, mostly kin and all in awe of his wealth and power, whose sole purpose was to see that things got done right the first time and none of his slaves escaped.

When it came to handing down punishment, the Master took pride in doing the job himself, and all were gathered to watch these evil doings. But he went too far the day he hung a mama and her babies while the men were in the groves and left them in that oak to rot, as a warning and reminder to all, of just who was boss.

That night, as the full moon hung low in the sky and cast shadows through the trees, a group of men filled with rage and determination, snuck through those woods and unleashed their fury. Once their revenge was accomplished, they took their women and children and moved on, but before they made it to the property line, they were captured by the Southern Slave Patrol who wore their badges proudly and took their job seriously, and that’s when the slaughter began. Sixty-seven men, women and children perished that night, and for a hundred years their spirits remained undisturbed in their final resting place, but all that changed once the estates were occupied and the living ensued.

The headlines were shocking and no one could believe, especially the experts, that natural gas from a nearby marsh could have set off a chain of explosions that destroyed the development that had reached capacity in record time, killing sixty-seven residents in the blast, while they slept with a false sense of security in the comfort of their million dollar homes. I, on the other hand, was saddened by this news, but not at all surprised. Out of respect for the victims that lost their lives so tragically, the estates were leveled and a gate erected and locked at the entrance. Over the years a few have ventured inside, entering the property on foot through the backside and the tales they tell of what they experienced while there, are the stuff that legends are made of. I, for one, believe them all.

Copyright 2007 by Jill Terry. All rights reserved.