Erika Szabo: The moving force behind the creation of Read For Animals
“All my pets were either adopted from #shelters, or they found us. We live in the Catskill Mountains and unfortunately the “summer people” who rent a home or own one, often bring #puppies and #kittens with them for the entertainment of their #children for the summer. When autumn comes, they move back to the cities where pets are a nuisance or not allowed in the apartment building. Some of them just close the door behind them and leave the animals outside to fend for themselves. Since we moved to the country from the Bronx over 20 years ago, eight cats and three dogs have found us and stayed with us until they had to go to animal heaven.
I want to help animals in need, any way I can. Being a writer, I decided to use my God given talent for storytelling to help struggling animal shelters. Our furry, feathered and scaly friends need our help to survive.
I wrote some funny and true stories about my pets, and about fox pups that grew up in my backyard. I invited a few author friends to join me in this project to publish a book, Read for Animals, and to donate the money collected from the sales–after publishing fees–to different animal shelters every three months.”
Contributors to this book:
Authors, poets, animal lovers: Erika M Szabo, Lorinda J. Taylor, Cindy J. Smith, Jeanne E. Rogers, Zrinka Jelic, Patrick O’Scheen, Kristine Raymond, Shebat Legion, Sandra Novelly, Shannon Sonneveldt, Julie Davis Dundas, Linda Whitehead Humbert, Debbie D. (Doglady) . Artist: Klarissa Kocsis
I’d like to thank #AllisonBruning at http://www.allisonbruning.blogspot.com for nominating me for The Lighthouse Award. Never heard of it, but love what it stands for: #bloggers who like to help people! It always feels so good to be recognized.
There are gifts given to every person. How we use those gifts determines what kind of human we become. Writing is one of my gifts. For me, writing is about helping others: it provides mental relaxation, adds to knowledge, highlights important issues, provides role models and most of all, gives us hope.
Another gift is my love for Mother Earth. In 1996, my wife and I purchased 12 acres of abused farmland that we named Wild Haven. What had once been forested wetlands had fifty or so years before been logged, the pathways of water changed and made into farmland. The farmland was then abused by overuse and negligence. By the time we bought it invasive weeds controlled eleven acres of the 12. Bodies of dead animals and birds lay scattered like discarded rubbish. The people that had owned it loved to kill, not to eat but to destroy. Not even a bird flew over the land until our medicine man came and cleansed it. The first bird to return was a hummingbird. Now we host 68 different species of birds over the course of a year’s time as well as a number of mammals such as coyote, fox, rabbit, possum, raccoon, deer, an occasional cougar, and a black bear who loves our fall apples. Three species of salmon now call our creek a pathway to spawning grounds. In 2001 the National Wildlife Federation certified our farm was Wildlife Habitat. In 2002, we have won a county award for Wildlife Farm of the Year. In 2003, we won the Washington State Award for #Wildlife Small Farm of the Year. #Conservation is the gift we give to the generations yet to come. What kind of world will we hand on?
To see more photos of Wild Haven, go to http://www.pinterest.com/ayawalksfar Look at Jaz Wheeler’s Farm board.
The third gift I have been graced with is the ability to look at writing of others and see where I can suggest changes that will make it stronger, clearer. I don’t do the polish editing like my wonderful editor, Lee Hargroder Porche, but what I call developmental editing. I help clarify timelines, pick up on dialog that isn’t realistic and other details that can make an author’s work a bit more real.
The Lighthouse Award requires that a blogger:
• Display the Award Certificate on your blog.
• Write a post and link back to the blogger that nominated you.
• Inform your nominees of their award nominations.
• Share three ways that you like to help others.
• Nominate as many bloggers as you like.
When I think about all the people who #blog and who make helping others a large part of their lives, there are too many to list. But here are some that I nominate for The Lighthouse Award:
#RubyStandingDeer at http://www.rubystandingdeer.com whose Native American series is a spiritual journey
#ErikaSzabo at http://www.authorerikamszabo.com who tirelessly worked to bring to us the Read for Animals book and event
#WiseandWildWomen at http://wildandwisewomen.com whose entire goal is the uplifting of women
#JenWilliams at with http://myraysoflight.wordpress.com who constantly brings forth issues we need to consider
#JumbledWriter at http://www.jumbledwriter.com whose blog and subjects are all about conversations that help people consider timely issues
Please visit these wonderful blogs. You’ll be glad that you did! Be sure to CLICK and FOLLOW so you don’t miss new posts!
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I write about, blog about, tweet about and facebook about strong women, women who make a difference in the world. Just as women impact the world, the world—especially the world of words—impacts women.
One part of that world of words is novels. Thousands of #women read, daily. After a difficult day at work, they go home, grab a cup of coffee, toe off the mandatory high heels and kick back with a good book. Unfortunately, many novels depict women as weak, unsuccessful without a man, unhappy when not involved in a relationship, indecisive and in need of rescuing.
Print on demand and ebooks have blown open the publishing industry. There has been a great influx of #indie #authors. Will these authors simply repeat the same formulas that undermine women’s self-image or will they redefine female characters?
This week, I asked my guest, John Dizon, indie author of several books, how he portrays the role of women in his novels.
Aya: John, I noticed in your books that the women play a definite secondary role to the men. Many male authors seem to have strong male leads in their novels, with very few strong female characters. How do you choose the gender of your lead characters?
John: It all depends on whether a major female protagonist can support the novel. I take pride in the fact that most of my novels feature strong female protagonists, and that more than a couple are recognized as women’s fiction. Obviously I won’t create an unrealistic world in which women are stronger than men, especially in action/adventure. I came close in “The Brand”, in which the pirate queen Belen and the Mohawk princess Nightshade were feared by most of the males they interacted with. Sabrina Brooks of “Nightcrawler” has everyone thinking her masked alter ego is a male. These are exceptional woman, however, and I don’t write novels about Amazon worlds. I deal with reality and make a strong female as realistic as logic dictates.
Aya: On the subject of strong female characters, I noticed in Vampir that Celeste is portrayed as an attorney with some strong moral codes about helping her client, yet in the end she divulges all of his information. Throughout the book, Celeste gets herself into some bad situations, and she is rescued by others, usually her boyfriend, Shea. Why did you choose to have her rescued rather than having her rescue others? And why did she go against her original code of ethics?
John: We’re dealing with a number of different narratives in “Vampir”. From Page One, Radojka commits suicide and leaves Celeste holding the bag as she’s accused of smuggling the weapon into his cell and possibly even doing the deed. At the least she may end up being disbarred. Plus the fact that Count Radojka is being revealed as a serial killer and mass murderer after she had taken him on as an elderly client needing his estate issues resolved. She’s treading deep water, being held in psych care at the MCC, and is hoping her boyfriend can save her. I could have had Shea as the lawyer and Celeste as the cop, but a lot of it wouldn’t have worked, especially in the partnership with Bob Methot as an NYC detective. Ninety percent of the women I personally know (and I know some tough women) would have never condoned such abuses of authority and police brutality.
Aya: In the end Celeste is judged mentally unstable and hospitalized. Was there a reason for that as versus having one of the male characters seen as mentally unstable? Could there have been a different way of handling that line of story logic that would show her as a stronger, rather than a weaker, character?
John: Again, if we reversed the roles we would’ve had Celeste going way over the top in condoning Methot being Dirty Harry on steroids. Another thing is to consider the genre. Whether we like it or not, there’s a lot of sexual tension in the vampire genre, which would have been released had it been about Shea as a ‘gentleman in distress’. As far as the hospitalization, it can be seen that Celeste’s personality begins changing drastically throughout her incarceration, and in the last line we find out that she has actually been possessed by one of Radojka’s demons. That was my prompt for “Vampir II” if I can overcome my critics! (big grin)
Aya: How do you define a strong female character? What attributes would she show in a novel?
John: She’s got to be very attractive and physically gifted (which is all about self-confidence and capability), above average intelligence, eager to compete in a man’s world and have a kind heart. Princess Jennifer of “Tiara” is probably my most feminine heroine, but even though she’s kidnapped and nearly killed, her spirit never breaks. Bree “Nightcrawler” Brooks is very feminine, but when she pulls on that balaclava she’s the toughest of all. At the other end of the spectrum, Debbie Munson of “Hezbollah” and Bridgette Celine of “The Fury” are hell on wheels. They would give Belen and Nightshade the fight of their lives.
Aya: Which of your female characters do you believe display the traits of a strong female? And why? Which traits make her as strong?
John: I’ve got to go with Bree Brooks. She is America’s oldest virgin (at 24) despite the fact she was a party girl and a police academy trainee before she took over Brooks Chemical Company after her father’s death. She’s ridiculously old-fashioned but, paradoxically, is street-wise and has the charm and people-smarts to excel in a man’s world. What makes her a role model is her indomitable will and her desire to help others. She can sit on a pedestal and have the world at her feet, but she continually risks her life to save the planet, one person at a time.
Aya: Do you believe that words matter? If so, what impact do you feel the portrayal of women in novels as being physically in need of protection, mentally unstable even when they are telling the truth, has on the self-esteem, on a subconscious level, of women who read those novels?
John: This is where authors encourage readers to discuss works of redeeming social value, and raises the bar for us to write such works. This interview, in itself, has been a litmus test and a wonderful opportunity to discuss my work from a female perspective. I would hope that women engage in discussion of my female protagonists and determine whether they are realistic, and whether novels such as “Nightcrawler” and “Hezbollah” qualify as women’s fiction. Most importantly, I would want the work to be recognized as portraying women as overcoming obstacles in male-dominated environments. I would be walking on air if I got an e-mail from a female reader telling me she resolved an issue by asking herself “What would Bree Brooks do?” or “What would Debbie Munson do?” Belen or Nightshade — not so much.
One novel that deserves particular mention is “King of the Hoboes”. Veronika Heydrich goes undercover and is forced to live on the streets to infiltrate the Hobo Underground. Her boyfriend, Evan, desperately tries to keep track of her, but is nearly killed in the process. The dynamic in this novel is showing the continuing ordeal that homeless women in New York City deal with on a daily basis. There are enormous discrepancies and gender discrimination within the homeless community as well as the City’s attitude and levels of accommodation. People have no idea how dangerous it is for homeless women and children in NYC, and Roni’s experience helps people understand that situation. They are in great need of special attention and this must be addressed and resolved in the very near future.
Aya: How can we as novelists help increase female self-esteem?
John: I don’t think you ever want to portray any of your protagonists in a weak light unless you’re trying to make a point. Rummaging through my anthology, the only ‘weak’ female protagonist is Jana Dragana in “Wolf Man”, and she’s portrayed as such because she’s been victimized as a beautiful woman who finds work as a model and ends up in a downward spiral through drug addiction. Yet she grows stronger as the story unfolds, and at the end it is Steve Lurgan who fails the test. She’s able to overcome her addictions, but Steve ends up committing suicide because he can’t endure living with the werewolf curse.
Whoops, did I just lose a couple of sales with that spoiler???
Thanks for the invite!
Aya: The views expressed in this interview are exclusively the views of author John Dizon. What did you think of John’s answers?
What do you think of John’s definition of a strong female character (see definition below)? Do you agree/disagree with his definition?
John: “She’s got to be very attractive and physically gifted (which is all about self-confidence and capability), above average intelligence, eager to compete in a man’s world and have a kind heart.”
Leave a comment! I appreciate hearing what you think. What readers think is important to me!
“Take a little time out of your busy day/To give encouragement/To someone who’s lost the way
(Just try)/Or would I be talking to a stone/If I asked you/To share a problem that’s not your own
We can change things if we start giving/Why don’t you
Reach out and touch/Somebody’s hand
Make this world a better place/If you can…” Diane Ross 1970
The wrinkled, smudged envelope lay stuffed among my junk mail. I studied the faded words. Neither the handwriting nor the no-name return address rang a bell. The barely legible postmark read: Ukiah, CA, but the zip code had faded out. The date stamp read: Aug 21 20… The rest of the year had smeared into blue oblivion.
As I trudged back up the potholed drive, I wiped the liquid August heat from my brow with the tail of my dirty t-shirt. The mystery letter provided a good excuse to take an iced tea break. Inside the old two-story, clapboard farmhouse, I reached toward the sink sideboard to flip on some music. My hand groped empty air then I recalled that the DVD/CD player had been one of last night’s casualties.
No-last-name-revealed Susie, a girl who couldn’t have been more than fourteen that I’d brought home from the Seattle streets the week before ran off sometime during the night. Three hundred dollars in cash and the compact disc player ran off with her. It’d been a long time since that had happened. The missing material items didn’t hurt as much as the feeling of failure.
Maybe Tim had been right. His shouted accusations from six months earlier still gnawed at me. “Just because you can’t have kids, doesn’t mean my life should be embroiled in chaos created by other people’s juvenile delinquents.” His lip had turned up in that hateful way he had as he’d shouted, “Do you really believe you’ve changed a single one of those brats’ lives? All you’ve accomplished is to wreck our marriage!”
Life would certainly be simpler, and quieter, without rebellious teen girls and angry parents who stormed up to my door in the middle of the night. They refused to take their child home, yet demanded I turn her out. Facing aggressive abusers at fifty is a lot scarier than at forty.
The month before Tim stormed out of my life, I’d had to call the police on a stepfather waving a handgun outside my back door. After the police hauled the man off, Tim issued his ultimatum. “Sandra, it’s either me or those damn girls. One of us isn’t staying here.”
How could I close my door against #girls whose only other choice was often sex for food?
I carried the letter into the living room and folded onto the faded sofa. One foot tucked up under me, I took a sip of lemony tea then set the glass on the scarred cherry wood end table. Carefully, I slit open the envelope. A sheet of yellow tablet paper with scrawled lines fell out.
“Dear Sandy,
It’s been ten years since I split in the middle of the night with all the cash I could find as well as the clothes you bought for me. I hitched a ride with a trucker from your place in Bellingham to Mom’s house in Ukiah. Two weeks later I caught a bus back to the streets of #Seattle. I’d picked a fight with Mom. Mays, of course, grounded me. The truth: my running had nothing to do with Mom or with my stepfather, Mays. I just couldn’t seem to get comfortable anywhere.
After living with you for those eighteen months, I viewed street life differently, somehow. Maybe it was those late night gab sessions that you, Stoney, Jaimie and me used to have. Slowly I realized that none of us street kids were the glamorous outlaws whose personas we tried to don. Those outlaw clothes hung on us like baggy rags. Just scared, hungry, stoned kids running from one thing or another, but not running to anything, except a dead end life.
Eight months after I hit the streets again, my best friend, Lydia, died from an overdose. She lay dead, there on the filthy mattress in the back room of a crack house next to me. I woke up from my own drug run and felt her cold arm against mine.
As tears rolled down my face, I could hear you telling me the first time we met on First Avenue in Seattle, “It’s up to you, Michelle. You can stay here on the streets where there isn’t any future, except death of one kind or another, or you can walk away now and with work become anything you want to become. It’s your choice.”
When I dragged home, neither Mom nor Mays ever said a word. Back at school, whenever I felt like quitting, I’d recall how you took me in and told me I could make my life count for something good. You peered through the caked on makeup, the green hair, all those piercings and saw me. I promised myself that I’d write when I became someone you’d be proud to know.
So, I’m writing.
When I received my degree in psychology, Mom and Mays helped finance the opening of a halfway house for street girls. We call it Phoenix Rising. It’s not much. Five acres and a rambling old farmhouse that Mays and the girls are helping me remodel. In the pasture are two horses, Lost and Found, both from auction, both headed for slaughter. They keep company with a goat named Bad Manners. Our orange housecat was a feral kitten a friend of mine live trapped, injured and flea ridden. Her name’s Welcome and that’s what she does to every girl who walks through the front door. Our lab mix came from the local shelter. We named her Friend, and she’s been one to every living thing on this place. Every day those animals keep teaching me the lessons I first learned from you, lessons about having an open heart, believing in others, and giving.
Currently, ten girls live here. Kathy and Melody have been here since a week after the house opened. Kathy’s a computer genius who has already been scouted by a couple of colleges. Melody plans to attend a nearby vocational tech school to learn carpentry.
Sandy, do you remember that night about two weeks after I arrived when you and I were standing, leaning on the top rail of your pasture fence? I told you that a person needed a nice car, good clothes, a fine house and money if they wanted to be happy.
You studied me for a few minutes then turned back to stare out at your Arabian, Angel, prancing across the field. Then in that quiet voice of yours, you told me that after your baby had been born dead and the doctor said you could never have children, you swallowed a handful of pills. The nice house, the fancy clothes and the big car couldn’t give you a reason to live.
Your friend, Rachelle, found you and rushed you to the emergency room. She stayed with you for days. The day you were discharged, Rachelle drove you down to First Avenue then on up and around the university district. She pointed out the street kids as she drove then she pulled over to the side of the road and turned toward you. In a furious voice, she said, “Of course, you can have kids! There they are!” She’d swept her arm to include a young girl probably no more than thirteen huddled in a doorway and another young girl panhandling on a corner.
“There are your kids. If you don’t claim them, if you don’t reach out and touch their lives, who will? And if someone doesn’t give a damn, they’re going to die. Same as your baby died, but for a whole lot less reason.”
You looked at me then. Tears glistened in your eyes as you told me, “The important things can’t be purchased. They can only be handed on, from one person to another, a priceless inheritance.”
Sandy, thank you for my inheritance.
Love, Michelle Dryer.”
Double-checking the phone number on the letter, I smiled as I punched it in.
“Hello?” An older woman’s voice answered.
“I’d like to speak with Michelle Dryer. This is Sandy Harmer.”
“The Sandy from Bellingham, the one Michelle stayed with for a while?”
“Yes, that’s me.”
“I’m Eleanor. Eleanor Dryer. Michelle’s mother.”
“Oh, I thought the number on the letter was Michelle’s. You’re not going to believe this, but I just received a letter from Michelle that apparently got lost before it wound up here. In it she told me about her halfway house for girls, Phoenix Rising.”
“That letter must be almost two years old!” Eleanor gasped. “Michelle…” I heard a catch in the woman’s voice, a hiccup much like a strangled sob. “Michelle was killed a bit over a year ago.”
“Killed?” I sank back against the couch.
“Andrea, a little thirteen-year-old, was sent to Michelle by a street worker. The mother and her drunk boyfriend found out where Andrea was and showed up one night. They tried to force her to go with them, but Michelle got Andrea loose then the boyfriend pulled a gun. Michelle jumped him and yelled for Andrea to run.
“Poor child, she ran to the house and called the police and before she even hung up she heard a gunshot. She ran back outside. Her mother and her mother’s boyfriend were gone, but Michelle had been shot. She…she died before the ambulance arrived.”
“I’m sorry. So sorry,” I whispered as tears trickled down my cheeks.
Eleanor sniffed, cleared her throat. “It’s a great loss to all of us. Mays was devastated. He and Michelle had grown very close.”
Tim’s angry words echoed in my heart, “If you keep playing around in other people’s business, you’re going to get yourself or someone else hurt!” Now, Michelle was dead.
Almost as if she could read my mind, Eleanor said, “Sandy, we want you to know how grateful we are that you were part of Michelle’s life. We could’ve lost her on the streets, but we got to share our beautiful daughter’s life. We’ve been blessed to see all the good that she’s done.”
“I…I feel like I somehow got her…her killed.” My throat ached with tears and sorrow.
“Why, Sandy, you should see the girls who came when they heard. Some of them were just girls Michelle talked to on the streets, and others she helped in some way. And, the girls who lived here when it happened, they all stayed on with Mays and me. Said this was home. I don’t think we could’ve gotten through this year without them.” I heard her sigh then she said, “The life Michelle lived because of you was so much better than the life she would’ve lived without you. Thank you.”
After I said good-bye to Eleanor, I laid the phone softly back on its’ cradle and wandered outside. I headed up to the barn. Across the miles and years, Michelle had reached out and touched someone. Had renewed yet another person’s faith and given hope where hope seemed gone.
This time that someone was me.
The End.
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I write about #strongwomen, women who make tough decisions and strive to positively impact their world. Today I have the honor of an #interview with Sandra Shrewsbury, #author of Outside the Addiction and Aftermath of an Addiction. In these books, Ms. Shrewsbury captures the lives of strong women who survive the devastation that addiction brings to families.
In these two heartbreaking novels, Ms. Shrewsbury takes us from the depths of despair to the heights of triumph. In OUTSIDE THE ADDICTION, she leads us on a journey through a mother’s nightmare.
Susan Green is a single mother raising three children. She has had it rough… But, always managed… Until now.Susan’s daughter, Tina, has been acting strange. She has always been a very calm child, then one day she begins acting out. Is it drugs?
As she delves into the strange behavior of her daughter, Susan discovers more than she ever wanted to know.
Susan’s life changes, and not for the better. Faced with a demon she can’t control, how can she fight for a life that’s not hers to control? Can Susan save her daughter?
In Ms. Shrewsbury’s second book, Aftermath of an Addiction, she draws us into the world of Susan’s granddaughter, Kelly, and the pain of living with an addicted parent. Read how one child survived THE AFTERMATH OF AN ADDICTION
AFTERMATH OF AN ADDICTION: TEASER:
The words were enough to send a cold chill of terror down my spine. Our lives had been irrevocably destroyed; we would never see our angels again. Tears pricked my eyes but I forced them back and shook my head. No. I never thought this day would come. The day when justice would not prevail, the day my daughter would destroy our lives once more. How do I tell them that she is fighting me for full custody of them? “Dammit,” I muttered, frustration beginning to peak. The real question is will she win? I had to look out for their best interests. And I am determined to do whatever it takes to make sure my grandchildren are happy, to keep them safe. She cannot win this battle. I don’t know why she bothered; she hadn’t shown any concern over these children for years now. My mind was racing and plagued by the fear of something terrible happening to them if she did get them back.
Ms. Shrewsbury has always loved reading from a wide range of genres, though her favorites have been romance, paranormal/supernatural and non-fiction. Over the years, she realized the power of the written world to bring hope to others. As a nurse with ten years experience, and through her many connections with others, she saw the heartbreak of addiction, the devastation to families, and realized she needed to tell those stories.
Sandra Shrewsbury brings to us two outstanding testimonies of the human spirit.
If you have ever had your life touched by addiction, you need to read these two books.
Sandra hails from West Virginia where she currently lives with her family.
Sandra runs a facebook page where she often posts interviews of authors, reviews of books and more information about her own work. Visit Sandra at https://www.facebook.com/SandraShrewsbury.Author
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Book Release Daily, a site that features new releases, refuses to feature a book that exposes the plight of #missing #children! In Street Harvest, Book 2, Special #Crimes Team series, I wrote about street kids kidnapped by human traffickers. Book Release Daily feels that my book exploits children.
Here are some examples of what is objectionable:
Chapter 4
“Floater down on the waterfront at Ivar’s.” He rubbed a hand back and forth across his short-cropped, kinky hair, a habitual gesture whenever he was frustrated or worried.
As she waited to hear the rest of what brought him to her office door, she wondered if he was even aware of the gesture.
“A boy. Dr. Hutchinson thinks he’s around eleven, maybe twelve.” His lips thinned to a slash.
She knew it was more than a dead kid. The Special Crimes Team might feel bad about a dead kid, but they wouldn’t be involved in the investigation unless it was like little Jane Doe, an obvious victim of a sicker-than-usual pervert. Whatever it was had to be nasty. That was the only type of crimes with which they dealt. The crimes that made veteran cops question their choice of career. Hell, being in SCaT even had her sometimes questioning her career choice, though she didn’t know what she would be if she wasn’t a cop.
A bone-deep sadness shadowed Mike’s black-brown eyes. “He was naked. There were several rings of bruises around the boy’s neck. Bite marks on the backs of his shoulders.”
Her insides twisted into knots. Another one. She shut down her laptop, stuffed it in the middle desk drawer, and locked it. With her cane in hand, she pushed to her feet, grabbed her jacket, and headed for the door. “Damn it! I was hoping little Jane Doe was just the random victim of some perv gone too far.”
Without replying, Mike stepped into the hallway and waited for her to lock up. As they headed to the elevator at the end of the corridor she noticed how heavily he moved, like an old man.
God, he’s not that old, probably around my dad’s age. Quickly she shut down that line of thought. She refused to give a moment’s consideration to the man who had deserted her when she was just eleven, and right after Chelsea’s death. There had been a time when she wondered if her father had left because of Chelsea’s death, if he blamed her as much as she blamed herself.
Forcefully, she returned her mind to the present.
No, Mike wasn’t that old, but the day little Jane Doe’s body had shown up, the years had gathered on his face. Focused on the autopsy, he hadn’t noticed her watching as his body had clenched, and his shoulders had hunched up around his ears as if he expected a sudden blow from somewhere. A suspicious sheen had gathered in his eyes. He had glanced around, but she’d pretended to be intent on the small body on the stainless steel table. From the corner of her eye, she’d seen him swipe at his eyes then settle his face into an impassive mask.
Chapter 5
“Are we assuming that all of the children, both missing and dead, are ultimately victims of a #sexual #predator?” Frederick crossed his forearms on the table and leaned on them. His eyes swept around the group until they finally settled on Mike.
Detective O’Hara squirmed in her seat. Her lips twisted like she’d taken a big drink of soured milk. “We know the dead kids are. Jane Doe was raped, sodomized, and tortured. There’s evidence that the rapist used a condom. Prelim report says the boy’s injuries were similar, if not identical. This time the rapist used dropping the body in Puget Sound to get rid of the evidence.” She bit her lip and frowned like she just couldn’t understand the monster they were hunting. “According to Dr. Hutchinson’s report, both children died from asphyxiation after being manually strangled multiple times. There was so much bruising he couldn’t even get a clear size on the handprints. Why would anyone strangle a child one time, much less multiple times?”
“Sexual arousal.” Nita grimaced. “Choke your partner until he, or she, blacks out. Supposedly enhances the sexual high for both parties.”
Mike was glad no one cracked any jokes about the asphyxiation angle. Even cop humor couldn’t dull the anger over what had happened to those two kids. Damn! I’m going to have to get past this or I’m not going to be able to do anyone any good.
Chapter 13
“How did you know it was a police van?” Dr. Nelson asked gently.
“It was black, like they are sometimes, and on the side it had the logo for the Seattle police, and when they threw me inside, there was…there was a heavy wire mesh between the back and the front, like the cages in cop cars.”
“Were there seats?”
He shook his head, and blinked rapidly several times. A tear leaked from one eye and his chin quivered. He pulled in a shaky breath. “They…they took me way out in the woods, to this house. I was…locked…in a room and…” Arms tight around his bent legs, he rocked back and forth.
Grease recounted a string of sexual attacks by men who hid behind Halloween masks. At the end, he sniffed and rubbed his red nose on his jean-clad knee. Forehead dropped to his knees, he sat stiffly, as if he might shatter into jagged shards if he breathed too hard.
“Grease,” Irene waited until the boy raised his red-rimmed eyes to her. “I realize your ordeal has been very painful, but there are a few things we need you to do.”
“Yeah, I know. You wanna poke at me and take pictures and do one of them rape kits, doncha?” Belligerence born of hurt and helplessness and anger ripped the bitter words from the thirteen-year-old’s mouth.
In a soft voice, Irene said, “I would like to examine you to be sure you don’t have unmet medical needs. And, yes, it would be good to have photos, if you can tolerate the invasion of your privacy. If you can’t, we can forgo the photos. A rape kit wouldn’t do us any good. It’s been too long since the last attack on you.”
Well, what do you, the reader, think? Do these examples titillate or in other ways exploit the plight of children? Or do these examples simply make the plight of children real? Leave a comment. I would love to hear!
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Gertrude, a beautiful five-year-old German Shepherd housed in Kennel Run 10, was scheduled to die in the morning.
I had worked at whatever odd jobs I could find all summer long. Dusting furniture when it was so hot sweat dripped from the tip of my nose. Slashing at bramble vines until my arms and even my face looked like I’d had an argument with someone welding a horse whip. But I was nine that summer and Mom told me if I earned the ten dollars required, she would let me choose a puppy from the local shelter.
We had several dogs at home. Dogs my mother and I had scraped up off the highways, crushed by speeding cars, patched back together by a vet mom knew who didn’t charge us much. I’d helped those dogs to survive, getting up every two hours around the clock to feed them gruel and to change the newspapers when they got wet and nasty.
But this dog would be mine. One I had chosen.
The puppies at the shelter were housed in two kennel runs at the end of the aisle back near the right corner of the huge concrete room.
The older black man who led us through the heavy door and into the back, cautioned as we neared Kennel 10, “Ya’ll want to stay way away from that fence now,” he said in his deep, kind voice. “That thar dog wuz brought in ‘cause she mean. Cain’t noone git nowheres near her. Cain’t hardly feed her even; not without a catch pole.”
Just as we came even with the kennel run, the German Shepherd flew from the back of the short run, slamming herself into the cyclone fencing so hard it shook and rattled. Teeth bared, hackles up, she snarled. Clawing the fence, she seemed determined to reach us. I could feel my heart pounding as I scooted so quickly behind our guide that I stepped on the heel of his shoes. We were three runs away before I realized Mom had stayed behind.
I stopped and turned. The old gentleman did too. We both stared. He amazed; me in resignation. Fingers through the wire diamonds of the fence, I could see Mom’s lips moving. The German Shepherd stood, pressed against the wire, gazing up into my mother’s face.
“I be dogged,” the old man breathed. “I ain’t never seen the like.”
I shrugged. “My mom has a way with dogs.”
We proceeded to the back corner where Black Lab-mix puppies tumbled around each other as they all struggled to get closer to the fence. I stuck my fingers through and their tiny tongues slurped as if I had dipped my fingertips in cream.
“I’ll let you in to sit awhile.” The old man took a ring of keys from his belt loop. “You jest holler when ya want out, okay?”
Happily plopped on the cool concrete, puppies crowding in my lap, I nodded.
What seemed like a long time later, the old man returned. “Ya’ll ready to come outta thar?”
I carefully stood up, gently dislodging several sleeping pups. “I guess so.”
He walked me back up the aisle until we arrived at where my mother still stood in communion with the German Shepherd from Hell. The old man kept walking. I stopped a few feet away, but Mom whispered, “You can come on over, Sis. She won’t hurt you.”
I edged forward, only partially reassured by my mother’s words. Mom sometimes forgot that dogs who wouldn’t hurt her would gladly eat the rest of us. The big black-and-tan female glanced at me, but quickly returned her loving gaze to my mother’s face.
I could hear the tears in my mother’s voice when she said, “They’re gonna kill her tomorrow morning. No one wants to take her. They’re all afraid.”
Clearing my throat I asked quietly, “Why don’t you get her, Mom?”
My mother shook her head. “Money’s tight, Sis. I need what I got for groceries tonight. And I won’t get paid till Friday.”
Desperately, I said, “Maybe they’ll hold ‘er for you. It’s just a coupla days.”
“I asked.” Mom sighed. “They’re afraid of her, too.”
As I stood there behind my mother’s squatted form, I saw a tear trace silently down her cheek. My mother never cried. Not when our house burned nearly to the ground. Not when she got into a bar room fight that left her needing stitches from the slash of a knife. My mother never cried.
Taking a deep breath, I whispered, “I found my dog, Mom.”
Mom took a deep breath and I could see her pulling herself together. With a sad look she gave the dog a last cheek stroke then pushed up and turned to face me. The smile she forced on her lips wavered. “Well, what’re we standin’ here for? You better show me this wonderful animal.”
Closing my eyes for a moment, I slowly opened them and looked up at my mother. “Don’t need to go nowhere. I want to buy her.” I pointed at the German Shepherd who’s eyes had never left my mother’s face.
“Oh no, Sis,” Mom replied. “You don’t want her. She’d never really be your dog.”
I shrugged. “Don’t matter. Laddie’d be hurt if I brought home ‘nother dog. I wanna buy her for you.” Seeing my mother getting ready to argue, I hurriedly added, “For your birthday. An early birthday present.”
“Oh, Sis, you don’t have to do this. You’ve been waiting a long time to get a dog for yourself.”
“It’s okay, Mom. I can wait a little while longer. She can’t.”
The old man handed a leash to my mom. After he unlocked the cage, he scrambled away down the aisle. Everyone moved away as Mom led Gertie out of the front door.
Gertrude went home that day. As she heeled beside my mother, out of that cold concrete building and into the midsummer sunshine, Gertie never realized any other human was close by. Her eyes never left my mother’s face.
I hope you enjoyed this true story of Gertrude the German Shepherd dog and my mother, a complicated woman with a great love for animals.
I wrote the original story, Dog on Death Row, long ago as a high school English assignment.
The dog pictured in this post is the spitting image of Gertrude from those many years ago though her name is Niki. Like Gertrude, Niki is a proper German Shepherd who would fight and die for her family.
Unlike Gertrude, Niki has never seen the inside of the Death Row for Dogs. Handled properly, Niki’s protective instincts have garnered her admiration instead of the fear with which Gertrude was viewed.
For more adorable pictures of German Shepherd dogs, German Shepherd puppies and other fun things, visit my Pinterest page: http://www.pinterest.com/ayawalksfar
Do leave a comment. Tell me about the special dog you remember.
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Today I have the pleasure of #interviewing Jaimie Wolfwalker, #psychic, member of #Missing #Children’s Rescue, Pacific NW Chapter, who recently worked with the Special Crimes Team in cracking a ring of #human #traffickers and saving the lives of a number of children.
Interviewer: Jaimie, I’ve always been curious about people with special gifts. When did your abilities first manifest?
Jaimie Wolfwalker: I was six weeks away from high school graduation when my mother’s car was hit head-on by a drunk driver. My mother was killed immediately. Apparently, that triggered my ability to See children who are lost.
Interviewer: I’m very sorry to hear about your mother. When your ability manifested, did you have anyone to guide you in dealing with it?
Jaimie: My grandmother on my mother’s side was Native American. She helped me understand that I hadn’t suddenly gone insane and begun having hallucinations.
Interviewer: How did you get involved with the Missing Children’s Rescue?
Jaimie: After I graduated, I moved to Bow, Washington to live on Gran’s alpaca ranch. Gran was best friend’s with Eleanor Hasting who was the head of the Pacific Northwest Chapter of MCR. Gran introduced us.
Interviewer: What type of job do you have that will allow you to leave at a moment’s notice to search for a missing child?
Jaimie: Gran died the summer after I moved to Bow. She deeded me the ranch and left a small legacy for me, as well. I sold the ranch. And, when I’m not searching for children, I’m pretty handy with carpentry so I pick up odd jobs like building kitchen cabinets or cute doghouses. That kind of thing.
Interviewer: What can you tell us about the case you worked with the #SpecialCrimesTeam?
Jaimie: It was a heart-breaking case. Especially the little girl, Becca. I don’t know what we would have done without the medicine man, Traveler. All the case details can be found in Street Harvest, Book 2, Special Crimes Team. You can find the case study at http://www.amazon.com/author/ayawalksfar
Interviewer: Where do you see yourself in five years?
Jaimie: Wherever Creator would have me go.
Interviewer: If you could tell people one thing, what would it be?
Jaimie: Cherish the children, all the #children. They are the future.
(Some children walk down a lonely road, or leave school smiling at their besties……
And some of them never make it home)
Interviewer: Thank you for being here today.
You can read all about the Special Crimes Team and the case of the missing children (Street Harvest, Book 2, Special Crimes Team) at: http://www.amazon.com/author/ayawalksfar
Amazon Best Sellers Rank: #85,432 Paid in Kindle Store
#48 in Kindle Store > Kindle eBooks > Mystery, Thriller & Suspense > Crime Fiction >Kidnapping
What do the bodies of two young children have in common with the murders of two adult men?
Eleanor Hasting, a black bookstore owner and child advocate, knows these killings are linked. How can she convince Lieutenant Michael Williams, head of the Special Crimes Team? Someone is abducting street children and their bodies are showing up sexually abused and manually strangled.
Psychic and member of Missing Children’s Rescue, Jaimie Wolfwalker, is prepared to do whatever it takes to locate and rescue the missing street children. The law be damned. Jaimie’s attitude and methods place her on a collision course with Sergeant Nita Slowater, second-in-command of the Special Crimes Team.
Four dedicated people struggle to come to terms with each other in their desperate search for clues. Every day brings more missing children, more young bodies. Can they stop the monsters before another child disappears?
