A Loaded God Complex

  Taking tequila shots too fast.
  Slow down, I knew you would vomit, but you said you could drink.
  A lie you told
  The first of many
  Rubbing your back as you got sick
  Holding your hand as you cried for all you you'd gone through, all you'd lost,
all you'd given away
  You spun your web, sticky sweet
  I flew in blind, stained glass wings glued fast, you bound me tight
  My Stockholm Syndrome complete
  Your pretty lies and gutting insults
  Is this what passion is made of?
  A great fuck wrapped in rage.

Three-Star Thursday: Killing Gunther (2017)

Welcome to three-star Thursday where I find the underrated gems amongst the most average of ratings. I never pick a movie by the viewer rating. I look at the cast and the director and choose names I trust. That's not to say I never watch anything by knowns, but I still go off instinct and the movie trailer rather than reviews. Why you ask? If you actually read most of reviews....well, some actually review the movie but others go off on all sorts of weird tangents. Pointing out plot holes and character inconsistencies, wonderful, that's useful info! Reviewing the quality of the font used for the credits or stating that the lead actors chin dimple is distracting, what?

My first buried treasure is Killing Gunther (2017), written and directed by Taran Killam. It is a smart, hilarious, and fast paced dark comedy. Think every Bond villan stereotype uniting to take out Keyser Soze, all filmed documentary style.

The writing is sharp, the chacterization and acting is on point, the plot is well thought out, replete with hook, crises, climax, and denoument. Not to mention it is laugh-out-loud hilarious. I would give it 4.5 stars.

Why only 4.5? One little thing was missing, but it's a bit of a spoiler so if you don't want to find out too much about the movie, stop reading here.

Okay, so Arnold Schwarzenegger is on the cover, he's all over the trailer, hell, he has first billing, but this I suspect has more to do with the skill of his agent and the fact that he has agreed to do an indie movie with actors who, shall we say, do not run in the same circles the former governor does. Fact of the matter is, he doesn't come into the movie until the last twenty minutes. Still, he's definitely worth the wait. He shows that his comedic talents are still alive and kicking. He holds his own with a cast chock-a-block with the up and coming, hipster comedic actors of this generation.

The point is, if you are looking for a dark comedy to provide solid humor throughout the entire film, Killing Gunther is for you.

Making a Difference Just by Trying to Be Good

Being firmly rooted in Gen X, I can't tell you how surreal it is to read Tweets from the
Dalai Lama. Though given what I understand of Buddhism, his Twitter presence makes perfect sense. Wisdom isn't something to hoard or make accessible to an elite few. Wisdom is to be shared and built upon through democratization. And as good wisdom usually is, one of his latest Tweets is perfect in its simplicity:

"The basic foundation of humanity is compassion and love. This is why, if even a few individuals simply try to create mental peace and happiness within themselves and act responsibly and kind-heartedly towards others, they will have a positive influence in their community." -- The Dalai Lama

It's the last two words that, to me, resonate the most, "their community." I've admitted often enough to feeling as though I'm screaming into a void, but one reason I stay part-time at the EDJ is not only the supplemental income, but also the feeling I get being there. No, not the soul-crushing pain of our current fast-food healthcare system....
Pshhht, that'll be one sinus infection special with a side of sciatica pain meds, do I have your order correct?

No, definitely not that feeling, but the feeling when someone comes to me with a real pain, desperation, or fear I can solve. Then my inner Buddhist kicks in and reminds me to treat this person with compassion: Think right, speak right, act right. And if I made this person's life just a little easier for even the few minutes I get to spend with them, then I know I have done good by being good. Hopefully they pass it along and when/if they do, that's how we all have the power to change the whole world, one small, community-based impact at a time.

But Cindy, you say, I don't have a job like that. I am not faced with people I can help in that way. I work in ___________ (fill in "an office", "customer service", "IT", "janitorial services", "actual fast food", etc.) But there's where you are wrong, my friend. You have the choice every day to treat others with kindness, respect, and compassion. A Roy Rogers clerk name Khazim, who cheerfully helped me at the drive-thru, comes to mind. I fully appreciate the man has a shitty, shitty, shitty, shitty job, but he did it with good cheer and genuine concern for my customer experience. I wasn't having a great day, but Khazim cheered me up and I know I went forth about my day in a better place just because the drive-thru clerk was nice to me. You can make someone's day with just a smile, a please/thank you, or a sincere "How can I help you?". It's easier than you think.

And the beauty of what the Dalai Lama is saying is that you don't even have to be successful with every attempt to be the best version of yourself. I can tell you I failed spectacularly a couple weeks ago, perhaps when it mattered most to someone in real pain (though in fairness, I deserve to make this guy's list when he gets to step 8....just sayin').

Hey, we are all human and prone to stumbling, but thinking right, speaking right, and acting right becomes a habit. The more you try to be good, the more you will do good, here in your own home. Local action, global results. Don't make me go all It's a Wonderful Life on y'all. Go forth and commit random acts of kindness. Do what you feel in your heart is right. You won't regret it, even if it's just for the selfish reason that it feels really fucking awesome.

Getting over the desire for that feeling....well, that's another lesson, and if you learn how, please let me know how ;)

Namaste,
Cindy

Long Lost Nathaniel, Red Sky at Night--Book Four in the Pirates at Heart Series

One of my better selling series, Pirates at Heart, has a fourth tale untold until now. As I load my works onto Amazon, the Pirates at Heart reboot will contain a fourth book, Red Sky at Night, the story of Nathaniel and Ruby. There's a lot of surprises in this one, the death of one of my main characters which broke my heart to write AND this juicy tidbit below. Enjoy!

Pricking her finger, Ruby watched the droplet of red swell on the surface of her skin. She pressed it to the health scan display. Something was really wrong, she just knew it. With all the nausea, dizziness and fatigue, she feared the worst. Except for the lack of high fever, her symptoms had all the earmarks of Storm Flu. Her temp flirted at the edge of being elevated, 37.6 C, but never quite went over the line.

What would she do if she couldn’t work? She didn’t have enough in savings to take off more than a month or so. Not after her bastard ex had stolen everything she owned a few years back. What if she got really sick? She had no one to take care of her. She hadn’t spoken to her father and brothers in decades. She didn’t know where they were, if they still were. The same went for her mother. She had no one.

Except for Nate, a voice in the back of her mind piped up. The thought alarmed her. Sure, the young man was a fun plaything, a masterful lover and one of the finest captains she had ever worked with.  And that’s how she felt. She worked with him, not for him which was one of the only reasons she had agreed to stay on as his first mate after she had helped him get his feet wet. But did she have him to rely on should the worst happen? Did she want to? Still, part of her felt that if his was the last face she saw before she sank into oblivion, that would be all right.

The little analyzer beeped, jarring her from her thoughts and displaying her results.

“Holy fuck.” She exhaled.

Her condition proved worse than she had imagined.

* * * * *

“So then we’ll need to procure a pink orangutan, right First Mate Delaney?”

“Aye, Captain.”

She had heard Nate’s words but they hadn’t quite registered. Then she realized what she had just agreed to.

The shift supervisors snickered, but Nate silenced them with a glare.

“Crew dismissed.” He waved a hand, the sailors scrambling to vacate the pilothouse.

“Sorry, I’m a little distracted.” She shook her head.

“Yeah, a bit. What’s going on?”

Shifting her weight from foot to foot, she crossed her arms over her torso.

“Hey.” Nate brushed a lock of hair from her forehead. “It’s me. If you’re struggling with something, you can talk to me.”

“I don’t know. Maybe not about this.”

“About anything.” He kissed the back of one hand.

A surge of nausea hit her. Closing her eyes, she took slow, deep breaths.

“Ruby, you’re worrying me.”

“Maybe you should be worried.” Tears sprang into her eyes.

He furrowed his brow. “Now, you’re scaring me. Tell me what’s going on.”

“You have to promise me not to overreact.” She sidestepped him and began pacing back and forth.

“I promise I will overreact if you don’t talk.” He caught her by the shoulders. “Ruby, please.”

“Nate―” Her voice broke. “I’m―I’m pregnant.”

“Oh.” His eyes grew wide. “Oh. What? How?”

She rolled her eyes. “Well, when a man and woman get these special feelings―”

He waved away her sarcasm. “You know what I mean. I thought you had the implant.”

“And I thought you were on the pill.”

“With everything that happened with Momma, I forgot to refill my prescription and I figured you were still on birth control.”

“At my last physical, my doctor advised removal so I had it removed.”

“And you didn’t think to tell me?”

“I thought you were on the pill. You should’ve told me you went off it.”

“Fair enough. But you’ve been without the implant for over six months now. Why wouldn’t you give me a head’s up?”

Loath to admit the truth, she shook her head and shrugged. Nate’s questioning stare didn’t waver. Apparently, he wanted a real explanation. She sighed, her cheeks burning.

“Because.” She crossed her arms over her chest, studying the floor. “Do you think I wanted to tell my twenty-four year old lover that at my age the implant carries significantly more risk?”

“I don’t know why you’re always so hung up on our ages.” He shook his head. “This mess could’ve been avoided.”

His words cut her. “Don’t worry your pretty little head, sugar. You don’t have to deal with ‘this mess’ if you don’t want to.”

“Ruby.” He tried to catch her hand, but she pulled away. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Sounded pretty clear to me.”

“No. No, I’m just surprised.”

“Don’t think that I’m thrilled about this either. You aren’t the only one who’s upset.”

“I’m not upset.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

He combed his fingers through his hair, a signature move when frustrated or at a loss for words. Rubbing a hand over the stubble on his chin, he held her gaze for a while. A heavy exhalation broke the silence.

“I’m sorry. It’s just―wow. A baby.” He took her hands and wouldn’t allow her to pull away. “A baby.”

“Stop saying that word. I don’t even know that I want this.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. Please, don’t make me say it.”

“I don’t even want you to think it.” He furrowed his brow.

“But it’s the truth, Nate. I just need some time to figure out what I want.”

“We can figure this out together.”

Chewing her thumb nail, Ruby shook her head. She wasn’t so sure they could.

* * * * *

A baby.

A baby.

Sitting in his captain’s chair in his cabin, Nate stared out into space as the thought echoed in his mind. A baby. Definitely not the tack he thought his relationship with Ruby would take, but then again, since when did anything in life go as he thought it would?

Poppa’s career-ending injury, Marcus taking over The Yellow Rose, Momma’s untimely passing. And now a child. But Ruby’s pregnancy didn’t fit in with those other events, did it? He had struggled to deal with all those other things, but a baby, well, the thought gave him a warm, excited feeling. Granted that feeling was also cloaked in more than a little panic, but ultimately it was a good thing. A blessing. Yes, that was the word.

“I don’t even know that I want this.” Ruby’s words from earlier replayed in his head.

Clearly, she didn’t see it as a blessing. Not yet. Maybe she never would.

He knew it was her choice, one she had a right to make, but he couldn’t bear the thought of losing the baby. Somehow he would have to show her his commitment, show her that he could be the man she needed him to be. They could make this work. He would make this work. He had to.

Pushing the comm link, Nate issued an order to his quartermaster, Miguel.

* * * * *

After a nap and a shower, Ruby’s mind had cleared a little. She would take this change of plans one day at a time. Maybe Nate was right, they could figure something out.

Reporting for her shift in the pilothouse, she didn’t understand why Quartermaster Miguel was setting the course.

“It’s my shift, QM.” She stepped up to the wheel.

“Captain says you’re off the schedule until further notice,  First Mate Delaney.”

“He said what?” She set her jaw.

Swallowing hard, Miguel dropped her gaze. “He said―”

“I heard you the first time,” she snapped.

Spinning on her heel, she stormed belowdecks.

How dare he? How. Dare. He? What did he think, that she was some kind of invalid now? By the time she reached Nate’s quarters, she had worked up a full head of steam. Punching in her pass code, she didn’t even bother to knock.

Shirtless and clearly in the midst of a work out, he grinned and toweled off as soon as she burst in. “Hey, darlin’, I was just thinking―”

“Then, you should stop doing things you are ill equipped to do.”

Furrowing his brow, he took a step back. “Are you pissed about something?”

“Whatever gave you that idea? Why the hell did you take me off the shift schedule?”

“You said you needed time to think. And I thought…in your condition―”

“That I can’t plot a course or program the autodrive to steer the fucking boat?”

“If you have to put it on manual during a squall or if we get boarded―and you need your rest.”

“I can still do my job, asshole. This is exactly what I didn’t want to happen.”

“I was trying to help.”

“Well, don’t. I’m not asking you for help…or anything else.”

“Ruby, we’re in this together.” Again, he reached out to her and again she pulled away.

“Don’t equate your role in this with mine.”

“I admit that in terms of the pregnancy, I’ll have it a lot easier, but once the baby’s born, I’m sure being a father will put me through my paces.”

“Stop acting as though this is a done deal. Right now, all you are is a sperm donor, okay?”

Eyes narrowing and posture stiffening, he whipped the towel onto the floor.

“Is that how you feel about me? Why even tell me, then?”

“I didn’t want to tell you. You pried it out of me.”

“So the plan was to just―to end things without me ever knowing?” he shouted.

The outburst startled her. Hands on his hips and chest heaving, he glared down at her. For the first time, she realized how very big and imposing he could be. Apparently, she had crossed the line. She had never seen him angry. Not like this and especially not with her.

“I don’t have a plan.” She backed away, shaking her head. “Nate, there’s a reason that I’m almost forty years old and I don’t have any children. I’m a criminal, for crissakes. The first mate on a bootlegger’s ship. The way I earn my living isn’t exactly conducive to breastfeeding.”

His expression softened. “We can make arrangements―”

“If I can’t work, I can’t provide for a child.”

“That’s not what I mean―”

She shook her head, tears leaking down her face. Fucking hormones.

“I can’t be seven months along, running from brown coats.”

“No one is asking you to.” He grasped her hand. “Ruby, I’m here for you.”

“As much as anyone is there for anybody.”

“What does that even mean?” He jostled her gently, exasperation drawing his features tight.

“I don’t know. I don’t know anything. I don’t know where we are, what we are.”

“Neither do I, but I know that I care about you and I know that―that I want this baby.”

His words drained all the fight from her body. Shoulders slumped, she shook her head. “How can you know what you want? You’re so young. You have your whole life ahead of you.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

Wrapping her arms around herself, she trained her gaze on the ceiling. “I have nothing, Nate. No one. You have family, money, you have everything.”

“And everything I have is yours.” He touched her belly. “Is ours. We can do this. Together.”

She hiccupped a sob.

“Ruby, I should have told you this sooner. It’s a thought that’s been swimming around my brain. Maybe it will make all this easier. I think I love—”

“No, don’t say it.” She put a finger to his lips. “I don’t want to hear it. Not now.”

She couldn’t bear to hear the words if he didn’t mean them. And what if he did mean them? This thought frightened her even more.

His mouth opened again, but he closed it as if it was all he could do to contain himself. She leaned forward kissing him lightly. One arm snaked around her waist, a hand tangled in her hair, he deepened the kiss. Hot breath passed over her cheek, his musky scent heavy in the air. He teased open her lips, his tongue caressing hers. She melted in his embrace, unable to resist the warmth and urgency of his touch.

Lowering her onto the bed, he eased her back, fingertips skimming over her chest, grazing her nipples and then meandering down to her waist. On his knees before her, he bent down pausing for just a second, smiling, before he planted a kiss on her belly. Heat and need raced through her veins and settled between her thighs.

Gently, he lifted her shirt over her head and unhooked her bra, casting both garments aside. The cool ocean breeze coming in from the porthole drew her nipples into tight buds. He licked at the dots of puckered flesh, nuzzling each breast and kissing them.

She sighed, threading her fingers in his hair. Once he had slipped off her trousers, he took off his shorts. Settling between her legs, he pressed his hard cock to her opening, but hesitated.

“I don’t want to hurt you.” He smoothed her hair across the pillow. “Either of you.”

One finger tracing his high cheekbones, she realized how very much she needed him inside her right this very second. Joining their bodies together would make all of this strange dream real in her heart and soul. She might be able to believe in a future she’d never dared to think about, but in Nate’s arms all seemed possible.

________________________________________________________________________________________

Want to participate in WIP Wednesday and show the world what you are working on? Send submissions to cindyjacksbooks@gmail.com. Romance, erotic romance and erotica prefered.

Cheers!
Cindy

The Few, the Proud, the Forgotten....and the Really Forgotten

Let me preface this article by saying I am in no way, shape, or form trying to discount the battle of ANY cancer sufferer or survivor anywhere ever. It is my intent to discount MY experience and mine alone. Stay strong, brothers and sisters!

It's #TellItTuesday here on It's Complicated and Clean!, the day I open a vein....no, not a vein, an artery and let the blood of my meandering existence spurt all over my laptop. There's something about me a lot of folks don't know and it's something I don't often talk about: I am a cancer survivor.

Why would I keep this fact to myself? Doesn't make sense, especially in this day and age when we're all trying as best we can to throw money and attention at an insidious disease that not only robs people of their futures, but of their dignity, their hope, and more often than not, their livelihoods and nesteggs. Thanks, broken US healthcare system!

First of all, I never want to appear to capitalize on my experience. Seems unsavory to me. Also, It's not that my story is too horrible to relive. Not at all and that is the MAIN reason I don't wear my survivorhood on my chest. Compared to most of the cancer battles I've witnessed-- either watching loved ones cling to life after torturous treatment after torturous treatment or at the EDJ as a healthcare professional-- I consider my story insignificant....other than its origin. I have a special kind of survivors guilt. I did not endure enough to claim the title of "survivor".

At the age of seventeen (a long, long time ago in a galaxy far, far away) I was diagnosed with thyroid cancer. Thyroid cancer? Does thyroid cancer even have a ribbon? I'm sure it does, I just don't know what color it is. It's the three-toed sloth of cancers. At least papillary thyroid carcinoma is. Medullary and anaplastic are full on badass cancer bitches, but papillary... C'mon. It reminds me of the word papillon which means butterfly in French. Hmmm....which is also the shape of the thyroid. (note to self, look up etymology of word "papillary"). Anyway, it's very slow growing, usually stays put in the neck, and, due to the unique element one's thyroid needs to function, it's pretty easy to obliterate. I'll get to what I went through to obliterate it in a minute. First, let me jump to the juicy part.

How does an otherwise healthy seventeen year old have a thyroid so sick it doesn't have just cancer, but also a goiter and Hashimoto's Thyroiditis? Well, that story, THAT STORY, I do want to shout from the rooftops because it makes me so angry I can hardly see straight every time I think of it. And it is this flood of emotion that's kept me from writing about it for twenty-four years. This is my attempt to make peace with it.

Way back yonder in the mid to late 20th century (yes, the 20th century), two of the eight wells on Camp LeJeune, North Carolina US Marine Corps base contained dangerous levels of PERC and about seventy other hazardous chemicals. What's PERC you ask? It's chemical name: perchloroethylene or tetrachloroethylene, better known as dry cleaning solvent. Yes, you read that right, DRY CLEANING SOLVENT. Also turns out that strontium-90 made the list of "seventy other chemicals". What's that? RADIOACTIVE WASTE. Now as to who knew what when, the sense is that the base's upper echelon knew of the pollution early on and still decided to keep the wells in use. Thanks, guys!

Smack dab in the middle of the polluted water timeframe (1953-1985), my mother became swollen with child--yep, you guessed it, little baby Cindy. Thank my lucky fucking stars my Mom craved soda when pregnant with me. We lived on base for another nine months after I was born, but again, Momma Wiggins breastfed me which I'm sure filtered out quite a bit of the poison. I was never directly dosed with PERC or strontium-90 and for that I am grateful. I honestly believe it's why things weren't worse than they were. It's also why the US government states there is no direct causality between perchloroethylene and thyroid cancer. See, even the US government doesn't think my cancer was cancer-y enough. Hey, but given my choices: mouth/throat cancer, breast cancer, leukemia, endometrial cancer, colon cancer, lymphoma, kidney cancer, or liver cancer, I'll take my three-toed sloth any day.

Don't get me wrong, battling thyroid cancer was no picnic. I went through some shit. I endured a needle aspiration (that's a giant fucking needle in the throat for those of you outside the know), two surgeries, six weeks without replacement hormones and then an iodine 131 oblation which made me as nauseous as motherfucker for a week. A year later I had to go off my meds for another six weeks to prep for a scan to be sure I was in remission. Those of you who take thyroid meds to stay alive know being without it for six weeks is no walk in the park. Symptoms include extreme fatigue, constipation, weight gain and minor hair loss.

I have to take replacement thyroid horomones for the rest of my life to the tune of $30 - $40 per month because that's what works for me costs, no inexpensive levothyroxine for me! I also have a gnarly scar at the base of my neck that looks like Mike Meyers slashed my throat but I somehow didn't die. Add to the mix that I was seventeen/eighteen and had to drop out of my first semester of college when all this was going on, it felt as though the world was ending. But that feeling was adolescent hyperbole. I didn't lose all my hair, I didn't vomit for weeks or months on end, I was never hospitalized because I was close to death--not from the cancer, but from the treatment. Nothing ended and life went on.

The same cannot be said for Janey Ensminger, the daughter of USMC master sergeant Jerry Ensminger. She died of cancer at the age of nine. I cannot imagine the pain and outrage her parents went through, but her father turned his profound loss into something positive: It's thanks to Jerry Ensminger, and his advocacy group The Few, The Proud, The Forgotten, the state of the water at Camp LeJeune was finally exposed circa 1999.

I give my eternal thanks to those who would not be silenced so that those of us affected by this travesty could receive the most basic of healthcare, at least those of with cancers and conditions that can be linked to PERC and strontium-90. Those of us with health issues who cannot prove causality, well, we are really forgotten about. Forty bucks doesn't sound like a huge nut to come up with every month, but spread over the course of my lifetime, should I live to see an average US female lifespan, it equals roughly $30,000. Ouch! And that number doesn't even include the infertility issues I've gone through. Six pregnancies with one live birth. *SMH* Infertility and miscarriages can be linked to PERC, but they can also be linked to exposure to myriad other chemicals, too. Fact of the matter is we ingest nasty stuff every day. It is the state of the union no one likes to talk about.

Anyhoo, I shall descend from my soapbox. I choose to be grateful for the things I have and make peace with all I've lost. Turns out I am a survivor after all and that's what matters most....oh, and while writing this article I looked up the ribbon for thyroid cancer: It's purple, pink, and teal. Very butterfly-like. I approve 😄

Cheers,

Cindy

Every Breath You Take by Cindy Henson Wiggins

Here's a bit of flash fiction I'm featuring on my new blog, Clean! today. It's not erotic, but definitely romantic in its own way. Hope you enjoy!

Gravel-laced whir of a coffee grinder and footsteps overhead. She is awake. I imagine her messy-haired and half asleep, stretching good morning in her robe. The robe is lavander with small plum blossoms dotted over it’s silken surface. This I know because I’ve seen it when she’s trotted down to retrieve her mail as her coffee brews.

I appreciate that she grinds her own beans. I do the same. Any self-respecting coffee lover does. At least, I assume she loves coffee because I know she has it special delivered and yes, she grinds her own beans every morning. So, she must love good coffee.

Her light footsteps overhead are comforting as I eat my breakfast. I wonder what she eats, if she eats breakfast. Perhaps she settles in with fresh fruit and yogurt. Maybe it’s eggs and toast, just like me. I can hear the scraping of her chair and the soft creak of aged wood, perhaps rattan. I can’t be sure, but we’ve spent our mornings together so often in just this manner. I would cook her whatever her heart fancies if she asked.

Her soft footfalls lead to the bedroom. She is barefoot, or at least wearing only slippers. She moves like a cat on sneaky feet. The shower above mine spring to life and the music starts, Pharrell - Happy pours through the vents. She’s in a good mood. This makes me smile.

I start my shower, her bathwater draining into my pipes. We are, in essence, in the shower together. I allow my mind to wander, picturing her silhouette through the steam, her hand outreached for mine. I would take that hand and never let go.

She ends her shower before I do, but she takes longer to dress than I do. The music is softer now. I can’t quite make out the tune, but the driving bass furthers my theory that she’s happy.

I hear her voice over the din, she’s chatting with someone on the phone. Her giggles form silver bells over the din and ring in my heart. What could I say to make her laugh like that?

The clothes I laid out the night before wait for me, folded neatly over my chair. Today is special. Today, I dress for success. Today, I will charm her off her feet.

Hello, darlin’, I’m the handsome downstairs neighbor you’ve been wondering about.

Confidence is the key. I wear my favorite tailored shirt. Well, it’s the only tailored shirt I own. My father taught me all a man needs is one good dress shirt and a good barber.

Ruffling gel through my hair, I inspect my reflection. Rafael outdid himself the last time I went for a cut. Lined up and perfectly in place, my hair resembles a GQ ad if I do say so myself. After slipping into well-worn jeans and dabbing on a bit of cologne, I am ready. As ready as I’ll ever be.

My palms sweat so I dust them with a bit of talc. Another tip from Dad. You only get one shot at a good first impression and a man never has sweaty palms.

Standing by my door, I am ready. Today will be the day.

What will I say? Well, I’ve known that from the day she moved in that I’d fallen for her. I am thunderstruck by her beauty and grace. I know the depth of her mind because I hear all the documentaries she watches at night when she can’t sleep. I know she isn’t the run of the mill kittens and puppies kind of girl because her Facebook posts are funny and pithy. Never corny or smarmy. She has too much taste for that.

She loves her family because they all come over for Sunday dinner every third Sunday of the month and she knows how to cook because the scents from that dinner are always inticing.

She laughs with abandon and cries with equal measure. She is complicated and simple and passionate and kind and honest---all rolled into one beautiful soul.

“You dropped this,” she said, handing me my credit card. It’d slipped out of my pocket. She’d been behind me going up the stairs, a fact I was doing my best to ignore.

“Oh, uh, thanks. Wouldn’t want to lose that.”

“No.” She grinned, shaking her head, chocolate brown locks licking her cheeks. “That would be bad.”

Of course my dumb ass was struck mute.

But not today. Not today.

The door above me slams, not with malice, but with the certainty that it is closed. Keys jangle as she locks it. My heart pounds into my throat as I prepare to open my door. All I have to do is open my door. Open the door. I can hear her heels clicking on the stairs.

Open the door!

A moment’s hesitation too long, I open the door to see the red wool of her coat disappear out the building’s front door. Her car rumbles to life and I’ve missed my chance yet again. Closing my eyes, I take in the scent of her perfume. It is floral without being acrid and it warms my chest even though it is the smell of regret and could-have-beens.

Head hung low, I shuffle into my flat and take a cleansing breath. The door clicks closed behind me. I have my day’s work to get to. Putting her from my mind is a must. I set my jaw, trying to ignore the knot in my stomach. There is always tonight. Tonight will be my time.

*****

Powering down my laptop, I prepare for Bold Introduction 2.0. I pour two fingers of Scotch in a tumbler and roll it between my hands before downing it. Liquid courage was definitely what I was missing this morning.

The front door of the building wooshes open and closed. The cacophony of children stampeding upstairs after a long day of school distracts me. It’s way too early to be her, but my stomach lurches at the sound. This is a dress-rehearsal for showtime.

About an hour later, after I’ve double checked my hair and downed another Scotch and soda, the building door scrapes open. Again too early and the fact that it doesn’t immediately hiss shut tells me it’s not her. The clank of the mailboxes one floor down confirms my suspicions. It’s the mailcarrier. He climbs to my landing and knocks on my door.

I greet him with a smile. “What’s up, Fred?”

“It’s a heavy one today. Proofs?”

“An ARC. Yeah. Thanks.” I sign for the hefty package.

Fred sizes me up. “All dressed up and no place to go?”

“Today’s the day, Fred. Today is the day.”

He shakes his head. “Youth is waste on the young.”

I laugh as I close my door, but he isn’t wrong. Fred could’ve been a looker in his youth. He wouldn’t have had any trouble talking to the goddess on the third floor, of that I was sure.

Settling on the sofa, I open the new book I’m supposed to review, but it’s hard to concentrate. Somehow, I force myself to hear the author’s voice and not hers.

Then comes the woosh I’ve awaited all day. I spring from the sofa, ready to make my move. But then I hear her voice. She’s on her mobile phone, heels no longer clicking, she stomps up the stairs. Her door slams, this time with real violence.

The conversation is muffled now, but loud nonetheless. Snatches of her indignance float down:

“I don’t understand--”

“Explain why--”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“--Can’t do that--”

“I won’t put up with this shit--”

Then, she goes silent.

Holding my breath, I wait for more, but nothing else comes. The floor resounding above tells me she’s pacing. What’s gotten her so agitated?

The gentle squeak of springs. She’s on her sofa now, probably with her feet tucked under her bottom. A protective position. I hear her cry and I wonder who’s made her cry, though I’m pretty sure it’s that punk-ass boy I’ve seen climb the stairs far too often. He has no idea what to do with a woman like her. If she were mine, I’d never make her cry. Not sobbing as she is now.

I could scale the stairs and be her white knight. A hero with a box of tissues and a shoulder built for comfort. Loneliness is state we both share and neither of us need ever be alone again. I’d tilt her chin up, eyes shining with tears. I’d kiss her and promise never to do anything to hurt her. I love her. She must know that.

But how could she. I’ve never told her. But somehow, some way, she must know. She is my morning, noon, and night. Shaking my head, I exhale. How am I supposed to tell her all of that? Now, I start to pace. The timing isn’t right. It’s just not right.

I give her some privacy. She’ll quiet in an bit and then turn on the TV. We’ll watch something about the migration of blue whales or the strange disappearance of honeybees.

Lighting a cigarette, I take a long drag. The air is a little crisp and I regret coming out with no coat. I could go back in, but then she’d hear my intrusion. She needs a little time alone.

Then, I hear them---her balcony doors. They click open and closed. She has French doors, not the sliding glass piece of shit I have. The light comes on and her gentle foot steps lead to her bistro set. She’s talking to her mother and once again feel as if I am intruding.

Looking up as I crush out a cigarette, I pause. I want to stay and find out what has her so upset, but it’s none of my business. As quietly as I can, I slip into my apartment.

The night drags on. I work through the ARC, making notes, but she is never far from my thoughts. I wait for her to come inside. Finally, I see the light extinguish from her balcony and hear her. A few ballerina steps and I know she has gone to bed. All is still.

Heading to bed myself, I imagine slipping into clean, soft, cottony sheets next to her. I roll over, the warmth of her arm draped over me and her feathery breath on my neck. This image knotting me in Gordian fashion, I undress and toss aside the useless dress shirt. Then, I retrieve it and fold it neatly over my desk chair. I’ll hang it up tomorrow. I do the same with my jeans and go to bed in my boxers and undershirt. Tucking an arm behind my head on the pillow, I sigh.

Tomorrow, I will work up the courage to talk to her. Tomorrow will be my day.

Everything Is Your Fault....Or Why Tom Bilyeu Is Brilliant

Writing is lonely business. Whether you write from home or surrounded by like-minded individuals, when it comes down to it, putting word to page is just you and your thoughts trying to make sense of a mad, mad, mad, mad world. To produce articles and novels on the reg requires Herculean amounts of self-discipline and self-motivation.

The self-discipline I've got. I've written more in the past couple weeks than most people do their entire lives. Even self-professed "writers". The motivation, well, that's the sticky wicket.

Don't get me wrong, I am more than motivated to write. For me, it is a need, not a want. I always love finding out what I've got to say. More often than not, I surprise myself with my turns of phrase. I read my work and think, Did I write that? Wow! I'm my biggest fan. You have to be otherwise you have no business writing.

The problem comes in when it seems no one else gives a shit about what I have to say. It's nothing short of heartbreaking to have a novel flop or to see a scant number in the "Views" column of blog post. I start to feel as though I am screaming into the void. If one writes from a place of honesty, heart, and soul, it's a blow to ye ole ego to be told by end results, "What you gave wasn't enough." All bullshit aside, that's how it feels: Cindy you are not enough.

But thanks to billionaire genius, Tom Bilyeu, learned how to flip that script. I read an article on Inc.com, The Simple Way to Find Your Passion According to a Founder Who Built a Billion-dollar Brand. Understand, I am not a flavor of the month kinda gal. And no, I am NOT calling Bilyeu a flavor of the month, far from it. I subscribe to tried and true advice such as:

You have to do it the old-fashioned way...you have to eeeeeearn it (And yes, John Houseman does always narrate that line in my head, who else would, silly?).

If you don't know what you are doing, pretend that you do and no one else will the difference - Hugh N. Wiggins aka my dad.

Nothing is ever as good or as bad as it seems - again gotta attribute that to Dad.

Stop screwing around and get your homework done. - Ruby Wiggins aka Mom

Hard work beats talent when talent fails to work hard - Kevin Durant

First rule of leadership: EVERYTHING IS YOUR FAULT - A Bug's Life.

Or more recently the way Tom Bilyeu put it in the aforementioned article: "How did I create this situation?"

KA-BLOOEY, mind blown. I'd never thought of my flailing writing career in quite that way.

Well, we all know my sitch right now. Working an EDJ that is killing me, the faucet of words shut off, a situation I thought would be a permanent one. But as all real writers know, that pipe will burst one day and it did burst, leaving me covered in the sewage of my own shame, regret, and bitterness.

I had two choices: wallow like a pig in my own shit, or grab of tub of wet naps (preferably antimicrobial), clean myself up and figure out "How did I create this situation?"

Here is my confession:

• I doubted my talent.
• I allowed the needs of others to supercede my own, trying to be some kind of martyr, somehow more loved for my sacrifice.
• I made expensive choices both financially and emotionally.
• I wrote what I thought other people wanted to read instead of writing what makes me happy.
• I put all my eggs in one basket.
• I bought into the myth of "overnight success". I hoped one book would rocket me to the bestsellers list. **see the aforementioned John Houseman line.
• I thought small.
• I stopped making it personal.
• I got caught up in what Bilyeu would call "petty emotions" which is exactly what they are.
• I stopped READING....a writer's cardinal sin.
• I isolated myself.
• I did what I thought was expected of me.
• I let other tell me who I am or who I should be.
• I hid my true self from the world because I thought my true self was unacceptable.
• I allowed my vices to control me.
• I blamed others for my failure.
• Worst of all, I stopped trying.

I admit right here and right now that I, Cindy Anne Jacks, made every single one of those decisions.

So....how do I re-create my situation so that I elevate myself from the cacophony of self-doubt to the place of literary greatness I know I can achieve?

Well, I don't have all the answers yet, but I do know I don't know everything. I embrace my mistakes and I vow to myself, and no one else, that I will never give up ever again. When faced with obstacles, I will find a way around, over, under, or through. I will reinvent myself a thousand times because I owe it to myself to do so.

From here on out, I accept everything is my fault. Sincerely, thank you, Tom, for what you do.

Cheers,
Cindy

How Freddie Met Cindy -- Excerpt from WIP Shelter Me

Shelter Me

Chapter One

For much of this tale you will know as Freddie, a name given to me by those who neither knew nor understood me. I have no idea what it means in the language from which it originates; in truth it sounds like nonsense to me, but I came to love it because of Her. She calls my nonsense name it in this sing-songy voice, chanting variations of it such as “Freddie-Fred” or “Fredward” and when I wag my tail and trot to her She smiles and laughs and rubs my ears and neck. Her caress reminds of my mother’s tongue, warm and sweet. She is warm and sweet, unlike any human I’d ever known. I came to find out her name-- Cindy, which means “moon” in her language. This name is perfect for Her. She is bright and clear, illuminating as moonlight, but a complete mystery when first we met.

My true name is Barhahroo, which in my language means “Bringer of Great Sound”. It is a strong and noble name given to me by my mother a few hours after I was born. Mother later told me she could tell by my strident mewls for milk I would be one of the greatest sound bringers of all time. And great I was-- and still am-- if I do say so myself. Mother said this was a special gift because combined with speed, endurance and the way the Hounds of the Great Land saw more with our noses than almost all other canines, my voice made me useful to humans to hunt the Great Game. She said it time and again: there was no greater calling for a hound than serving our people and running down the weakest of the herd to keep the Great Game great.

I’ll admit once I met the first people I served, I did not see the honor or higher calling in it. They were loud, slow, and truth be told, not very intelligent… at least not in so far as I could tell. They often smelled of something acrid, like a forest fire, but far more pungent and insidious. And when they smelled of fermented grains, the louder and stupider and crueler they became. Often when they smelled this way, they would corale us in some kind of moving pen and travel deeper into the forest. I remember the wind rushing past, every intricate smell flooding my nostrils: velvety soft earth, moldering leaves, pine trumpeting over the base of acorns and oak. Glorious. Truly glorious.

And then they would set us free.

I would run and sniff and choose a different path than my my mother, father, brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, and cousins. There were so many in our pack, there was no way the Great Game could escape us.

Sooner or later a member of my pack would sound the alarm, they’d found one or maybe even a whole herd. I would take off in the direction of call, baying as I went. The great sound is different than a bark or growl. It was a siren song, drawing the slow, awkward humans in my directions. Their awkward two-legged gait would get them to us eventually, but not with any quickness.

Not for for me and my pack. We would flank our quarry, snapping at its spindly legs. If we could break one of those gracile limbs, the Great Game was doomed. Taking out a leg meant a sure kill, but it also left us susceptible to a hoof to the mouth or chest. It was best to give it room and let the humans end it with one of their thunder-sticks.

If we kept a safe distance and allowed the Great Game an escape route, the quarry would lift its stubby, tan tail lined with white fur and flee which thrilled me to no end. I loved to chase, I loved running it down until it could run no more, mud and bits of bark and leaves splattering my fur, the scent of its fear effervescent in my nostrils. That scent only excited me more.

My haunches, always strong, propelled me forward with enormous bounds. My claws made sure purchase along the soft ground. If my quarry cut left or right, trying to out maneuver me, I could adjust my trajectory in a split second, my pack at my side . The Great Game was agile and fleet of foot, but so were we. We, however, could run forever. My body never ached, my lungs took in air and turned it into pure flight and fight. The Great Game would always tire before we did. Once it could flee no more, we would surround it, some of the pack growling and snarling. I would plant my feet, arch my neck, lifting my mouth skyward and cry out with the Great Sound.

Once the humans ambled up to the trapped creature, it took mere seconds to end its life. Oh how my mouth would water, the metallic scent of its blood, the grass fermenting in its stomach. If we were and patient, one of the humans would string up the carcass. They would slice open our quarry to empty the blood and throw us bits of entrails. The organ meat was always rich and tasted bit like the fence of our pen smelled. If I got lucky I would get a section of intestines. The intestines almost always contained a stray sweet berry or two.

Oh the hunt--it was my second, but greatest love. My first love was my mother, who died needlessly not long before I met Cindy. My Moon proved to be my third great love, though she seems to hold no interest in hunting whatsoever. I forgive her this shortcoming because she forgives mine which are many, at least in her world.

Her world… that was another challenge and adventure altogether. More dangerous and prickly than a male Great Game with a full rack and the rank scent of rage wafting from him in waves. It was completely foreign and unpleasant.

Or so I thought.

At first.

***

“That’s the closest he’s ever gotten to anyone.” The lady from the shelter raised her eyebrows and nodded.

Freddie brushed past me again. He wouldn’t a stop or even take the dog biscuit from my hand. I reached out to pet him, but he wasn’t having that either.

“Why is he so skittish?”

“He was a working dog. A hunting dog.”

The lady crossed her arms over her chest and shook her head. “He was either turned out because he wasn’t up to snuff or they just abandoned him after the hunt if he didn’t make it back to the truck before they left.”

A knot formed in my gut. “That’s terrible.”

“It is. We get hounds like Freddie all the time. No collar, no chip, no way to locate an owner and no owner ever come to claim them.”

The knot twisted harder, a knife piercing my heart. I couldn’t imagine. Who was I kidding, yes I could. I knew first hand there were so many ignorant, useless, shitty people in the world just using up perfectly good organs.

God, I was in a bad mood. But it was my day off and all I wanted to was binge watch something on Hulu and Netflix in my lovely living room with hardwood floors and walls the color of buttercream. We just got the house. I loved our new home. Granted it as a townhouse, but was an end unit. I had so many windows there was no need to turn the lights on for most of the day. The new house was light and peace and quiet and beauty. After suffering seven years in that disgusting, tiny apartment that hadn’t been renovated since nineteen seventy something, we’d finally put 2007 behind us. Eight grueling years later.

I didn’t want a dog. Dogs are messy and smelly a lot of work, and this one would be more than most.

My new home was beautiful and clean and I wanted it to stay that way.

“What do you think?” I turned to my husband, Mica, who leaned against the wall. “You are the one who wants a dog.”

“I don’t know.” He reached for Freddie who shied away.

The knife in my heart twisted, the poor thing’s ribcage showed beneath his thin, dull coat. I could see every vertebrae, a ridge of rolling hills from his neck to his tail which didn’t wag. He would sneak glances at us, wild-eyed and panting, completing circuit after circuit around the shelter’s meet and greet room.

But. I. Don’t. Want. A. Dog.

I tried to tamp down my knee-jerk need to take in broken things and make them whole.

Mica had been broken once. He seemed pretty whole now: a good job, a nice house, me and our son. What more could he need?

“You said I could get a dog when we got a house.” This had become his mantra over the past two weeks.

“We just got settled in. Let’s wait a bit.”

“So we’re never getting a dog then?”

“Fine if we get a dog we have to get one from a rescue or a shelter.”

“Nah, nah, nah. I want a pit from a breeder.”

“Oh no we aren’t. It’s a rescued dog or no dog.”

“Fine, but I want a puppy.”

“Sure.” I grinned. “We can go to the animal shelter this weekend.”

I knew the Loudoun County Animal Shelter worked tirelessly to place puppies with local rescue groups who were better equipped to adopt out cute, little fuzzy bundles of joy--and round the clock care. Plus the rescue groups charged a premium for the puppies which only made sense. Fully vaccinated and neutered or spayed. That cost money and the adoption fee reflected the group’s investment. Then there was the application, the home visit to ensure our house and yard were adequate for their precious cargo. Mica would have no patience for all that mess. And at the local shelter there would only be adult dogs to look at. I’d already checked the selection of adoptable dogs on the shelter website.

We’d go looking at dogs this weekend, he wouldn’t find what he wanted and this conversation would be moot. At least for a little while.

The plan was perfect. Everything went so smoothly. We took a look at a supposedly very sweet pitbull whose mouth and bite radius scared the bejesus out of me. Her named was Ruby and she was sweet. She could also jump a seven-foot fence which was why she was surrendered. Ruby wasn’t a good fit. Mica patted Ruby on the head as the shelter worker returned Ruby to her pen.

We were leaving.

Case closed.

The swell of victory blossomed in my chest as I happened to glance right. And apparently Mica had too.

From the opening that lead to an outside run, in stepped Freddie. Skin and bones, but the quintessential hound dog. Tan head and long, velvety, floppy ears, droopy sad eyes, a white body with a black “saddle”.  A white patch with lemon ticking kissed his big black nose and his neck and lead up to his panting mouth, salt-water taffy tongue nearly extended to ground. Blue ticking freckled his rangy legs and haunches.

He eyed us up for a moment, then indicated his disinterest by taking a quick slurp of water and heading back outside.

Mica jerked his head in the direction of Freddie’s pen. “That’s a beautiful dog.”

“He would be with a little more weight on him.” I read his description in the frame attached to his pen. “He’s about two years old. I thought you wanted a puppy.”

“I do, but he really is a nice looking dog. He looks like a purebred.”

“What does that matter?”

“C’mon, it’d be funny. We could say we got a purebred at the shelter--” he paused to read the description too. “A purebred American Foxhound.”

And so I that’s how I wound up in the meet and greet room with one of the most pitiable creatures I’d ever seen. For some reason his aloof nature drew me to him. I would get him to allow me pet him come hell or high water.

“Is he housebroken?” Mica asked the shelter lady-- I had to stop calling her “the shelter lady”.

I got a look at her nametag, Janine. Shelter Lady’s name was Janine.

“No,” Janine said, “to be honest, he’s going to be project.”

I didn’t want a dog much less a project. It was though the damn dog would smell my weakness. He swiped past me a couple more times and made another figure eight around the room.

Then, he walked up to me and stopped.

Espresso brown eyes, almost black with their hound droop. I reached for him ever so slowly. Just an inch every few seconds. As my hand neared his black licorice nose, he did the unimaginable. He pressed it to my fingers. Wet and cool, my fingertips grazing his velvet drape ears. Then, he took off again.

“Whoa.” Janine’s eyes grew wide. “That’s never happened.”

Shut up, Janine. I cut my gaze at the pathetic dog.

Fucking Freddie, I shook my head. We were getting a dog.