Monthly Archives: September 2017

Circumstances of Childhood

 

Circumstances of Childhood.

By John W. Howell

 

Available on Kindle

Shipping on October 1st. Priced at $0.99 for the introduction.

This is a different story for John. It is in the Family Life genre and tells the story of brotherly love, riches to rags, redemption and a little paranormal thrown in. Normally John writes thrillers but this time he has stepped into a different place. This book was written with love for the story and the hope it will be an enjoyable read.

Here is the blurb:

When a former pro football star and broadcaster, now a Wall Street maven is accused of insider trading, will he be able to prove his innocence and expose those who are guilty?

Greg and his boyhood pal dreamed of big success in professional football and then later in business. Greg was the only one to live the dream. Now the founder of an investment fund Greg is faced with a routine audit finding by the SEC. The audit points to irregularities and all the tracks lead to Greg. The justice department hits him with an indictment of 23 counts of fraud, money laundering, and insider trading. His firm goes bust, and Greg is on his own.

His best friend knows he is innocent but has been ordered under penalty of eternal damnation not to help.

If you enjoy stories of inspiration, riches to rags, redemption, brotherly love, and a little of the paranormal, Circumstance of Childhood will keep you riveted.

Here is an excerpt.

I look down at my drink and wonder what will happen tomorrow. My daughter Constance wants to come and visit. She lives in New York, and before all hell broke loose, we didn’t see each other often. I missed her so much, and it seemed as if I had to beg her even to talk on the phone. Now, it’s like she wants to be here every weekend. It’s only an hour’s flight by the shuttle or three by train, so she can come when she wants. I just can’t figure out why she got so clingy. I have my troubles, but it doesn’t have anything to do with her. No use in asking her husband either. Though a nice enough guy, I always wonder if he has someplace important to go when I visit. He never sits still and stays busy on the phone or at the computer. He makes a good living, but it seems a person could take an hour to sit and talk. I’d looked forward to some kind of relationship when he and Constance got married. It’ll never happen with him.

When I take another pull at my drink, I notice the burn feels less. It happens every time. First sip initiation, I call it. It’s like the first puff of a cigarette, hits hard then, after, nothing. I decide to let Constance pretty much have the agenda tomorrow. She and I have not had a chance to talk about anything deep for a while. It could just be that she blames me for her mother running off with that guy with the house on the Hudson. He has a title, and the old gal couldn’t resist, but I think the daughter always felt I should have done something. Her mother’s sleeping with another guy and what the hell can I do about that?

I’ll just go with the flow. If she wants to go out, we will. If she wants to stay in, we can do that too. I better think about getting some food in the house. Of course, we can always order take out. I need to move on to my drink and let this go. Tomorrow will be what it is. I remember the day she was born. I looked down at her in my arms and promised I would do anything for her. I love her more than life itself, and I hope we can somehow get to the root of whatever’s wrong. She sounded strange on the phone this morning, and I feel helpless to do anything about it. I hope she opens up when she gets here.

For some reason, I feel tired. Perhaps I’ll go ahead and finish my drink. Maybe I’ll just go home and forget the burger. First, though, I’ll just shut my eyes for a minute. My hands feel good when I put my head down.

“Hey, Greg,” Jerry says. I barely hear him. “What’s the matter? You taking a nap? Greg?” I can feel him shake me, but I have no interest in waking up. His voice gets further away, and I think he says, “Oh, my God, Sophie, call 911, quick.” Now the room goes silent.

Author Bio.

John began his writing as a full-time occupation after an extensive business career. His specialty is thriller fiction novels, but John also writes poetry and short stories.  His first book, My GRL, introduces the exciting adventures of the book’s central character, John J. Cannon. The second Cannon novel, His Revenge, continues the adventure, while the final book in the trilogy, Our Justice, launched in September 2016. The latest Circumstances of Childhood a family life story is available as of October 1st, 2017. All books are available on Amazon in paperback and Kindle editions.

John lives in Port Aransas, Texas with his wife and their spoiled rescue pets.

John’s other books:

My GRL, His Revenge and Our Justice

Available on Amazon at https://www.amazon.com/author/johnwhowell

 

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Remembering?

 

ink sketch

I cannot remember

The things I have said,

The act of remembering

It feels me with dread!

 

I remember the past

As if I was there.

But what I’ve just eaten?

It’s really unfair!

People I’ve known,

For short or for long,

The names that they have

I’m afraid that they’re gone!

 

I want to remember,

I’m afraid to forget,

I feel I am losing,

Now that is a threat!

 

Time passes on

For thee and for me,

I’ll live in the moment

Until I am free!

I have a problem . . .

I have a problem. You might call it an ‘abundance of riches’. You see I have all these great ideas roaming around in my head angling to be at the front of my consciousness. As a result, it is chaos.

A few of those ideas? Natural disasters and just how unnatural they really are. We are in many ways culpable for the extreme weather we’ve been experiencing. We have been raping this planet for far too long and these are the ramifications.    The concept of free will: just how ‘free’ is it and how much of the ‘will’ is ours?      The concept of communication: even people that speak the same language have difficulty communicating.

So you see my difficulty? Too much at the same time. I’m trying to come up with a series of paintings for a show next year and while I have the basics down I am disheartened by all the incredible paintings I see by other people. I have to find a way to make them my own.

I am also having a wee bit of a teething problem with my program that types for me. It thinks it knows better. Perhaps I should publish an entire Post without correcting the errors it makes.

Because my mind is in such chaos I thought I would just publish a short story for you. In this time of upheaval I think we all need a good laugh. And this one still makes me chuckle. I hope you enjoy . . .

 

The Bus Stop

It was a beautiful mid-summer’s day. It was early enough that most people had not gotten into their cars to start the day. But one lady was slowly approaching a local bus stop. Marcella was starting her day the way she did most every day: walking to the bus. And like every day before this one she was complaining.

“I am getting too old for this nonsense.” She mumbled to herself. “Every day I hurry to get to the bus stop just so I can wait. The bus is always late. Always! And I know if I come late then that damn bus will come early!”

Marcella wasn’t a young woman but she didn’t consider herself old just yet. Yes, she did have sore knees and her feet would swell if the day was hot, but she was not ready to be put out to pasture. There would be time enough to be old. For now she just liked to take advantage of the fact that everyone else thought she was old. She could complain all she wanted. People were so polite and considerate.

As she approached her destination she became suspicious. Something had changed. A new bench had been deposited beside the bus shelter. Marcella was uncomfortable with change so she looked at this new piece of outdoor furniture with distrust.

“Now why would someone put a pretty new bench out here where it can get all wet?” She queried, “ kids will be playing on it before you know it and it will get damaged. Now why would they do something so silly?”

“So that you can be more comfortable while you wait for your bus, you silly old woman!”

Marcella was startled! She let out a sharp cry and turned around.

“Land sakes! Beatrice you scared five years off my life! And you are late!”

Beatrice didn’t respond immediately. She simply nodded at the first woman and then proceeded to make herself comfortable on the new bench. After a moment’s hesitation Marcella followed suit. And then the conversation continued.

“I think it’s very nice of them to want us to be comfortable while we wait for their bus.” Beatrice always seemed to find the good in any situation. She was exactly the same age as Marcella but she looked 10 years younger. People thought the two of them had a strange friendship. One always saw the good and one always saw the bad.

“Well I think it’s a terrible waste of money. They should spend that money on buses so that we aren’t always waiting!” True to form Marcella saw the bad. “And think of the trees that died so that our bums could be comfortable. It is a terrible shame!”

“Oh I bet this is a green bench. No trees would have been killed. People are getting smart about that.”

“Beatrice you are going blind, this is not a green bench. It’s brown. And an ugly brown too.”

“No, no I am not referring to the colour I’m talking about the bench itself. Nowadays these things are made green.”

Marcella shifted in her seat and stared at her friend. She knew that both of them were getting older and that sooner or later their mental capacities would begin to alter. She hadn’t thought that Beatrice had gotten that old. But now she looked at her very carefully.

“Beatrice what colour is the sky?”

“Well that’s a silly question, its blue.” She turned towards her friend. “Is this a trick question?”

“What colour is the road?”

“Now I know you’re up to something. The road is grey, just like your hair. And before you ask, the grass is green. Now what’s up?”

“Last question. What colour is the bench were sitting on?”

“Well, it’s brown. What is going on?”

“Hah! You admit it! This bench is brown!”

“Well of course it’s brown woman. Are you blind?”

“A minute ago you said it was green.”

Beatrice looked at her friend dumbfounded for just a moment. And then she burst out laughing. Poor Marcella just looked on, confused.

“Marcella, when some one refers to an item as being green they are talking about how it was made. Green items are made by recycling other items. They are not necessarily referring to the colour.”

The woman in question sat without moving for just a moment. Then she turned away from her friend and sat up straight facing the road. She was processing what she had just heard and trying to understand it.

“Are you telling me that this bench my bum is residing on could have been somebody’s deck? How do you know where this wood has been? And who has been doing what on it? It could be filthy!” No sooner were the words out of her mouth then Marcella jumped up and turned around to face the offending bench.

“Oh you silly old woman! Sit down! I don’t care what this bench was in a previous life, now it is comfortable and I can get a load off my feet. That’s all I care about.”

Begrudgingly Marcella did as instructed, but gingerly. As she was settling back down on the bench she started to think.

“Do you think there’s any way we could recycle a few people I know? I can think of something useful I like to make them into: how about two gorgeous 40-year-olds for one wrinkle 80-year-old?”

As both women started to laugh they saw the bus coming.

 

 

the end