Farewell to my Silent, Furry Friend

Bailey came to be part of our family after her first family disbanded. She had in fact been picked by someone else, which was why it made no sense for the people at the shelter to insist for my wife and daughters to meet the pup. Well, not so much a pup, a grown pup, a stocky British Chocolate Lab. 

I didn't know Bailey at that point. We had picked out a Lab at the shelter and went and got name tags and food bowls and a leash only to be informed that our pick went to another family, effectively breaking our hearts, and I resented how my little girl sobbed over losing her dog so I wasn't really in love with the idea of risking a similar experience.

However, little did we know that when certain life events are meant to be, the moment chooses you and not the other way around.

The gentleman who had picked Bailey actually noticed the  remarkable way the she reacted to Sheri. It struck him enough that when it was clear his other dog did not welcome the newcomer, he contacted her and let her know that the intrepid retriever would be a better fit for our family.

Bailey, like most Labs, had the soft, soulful gaze that evoked profound feelings of tenderness. We quickly discovered she was not a good walking dog, but despite her massive strength, she was light on her paws around our girls. She became inseparable from Sheri, who lavished her with more love than any dog has ever gotten, and their unique relationship became the stuff of legends. 

Our girls, were of course, in love with Bailey. They made up cute names for her and sneaked treats whenever they could, forever winning a devoted follower whose coat shone like new copper in the sun.

As for me, Bailey merely tolerated my presence. She had a habit of sulking when Sheri wasn't near. Whenever I approached to pet her or hang out with her, she discreetly, but pointedly slid out of the room and found comfort anywhere else in the house. Anywhere where I was not.

Of course, I was her buddy whenever she spotted a treat in my hand. She barked at me for years when I got home, as if berating me for having the nerve to come to her turf. She often shoved her big block of a head and easily pried me away from Sheri whenever I was too close.

Bailey protected her Mom from any and all gestures from me at all times and that furry face often seemed to grin whenever she trumped any one of my rules.

"No dog on the bed," I proclaimed only to find her snoring softly at the foot of the sleigh bed with a contented little smirk. The smirk grew when Sheri came to her defense, all teeth and claws, and I had no choice but to learn how to sleep with my legs tucked in so Queen Bailey could stretch as she snored and grumbled and yelped as she chased some dream rabbit or squirrel.

"No dog on the couch," I verbally wrote in stone.

One gaze into those liquid dark orbs full of secret wisdom and the stone was dust. She had her pick of couches.

She was a terrible traveler, shook herself to pieces in the car and panted ferociously mile after mile.

She never touched food that we didn't offer her and if she did, she was 100% Ninja about it.

She always went to the door when nature called.

She never ran off, preferring to run back inside to either bed or couch.

She slept the majority of the day unless Sheri was around to baby her and love her and spoil her.

She barked her head off whenever friend or stranger came calling and made many of our friends work real hard at gaining her approval.

She did not enjoy other dogs, preferring her own company.

She hardly ever left Sheri's side.

She continued to tolerate my presence though she often chuffed loudly and shook her head in something akin to hopelessness whenever I dared intrude into her sight.

She didn't like to play ball with me, but she flung her toys around under Sheri's cheering.

She was quick to turn away from the water, always ignoring her waterdog roots.

She was my wife's dog one thousand percent. I was just the guy that gave out the goodies when mommy wasn't home.

In 2009, hit by the housing crisis, we lost our house and moved to Connecticut where we endured two long years of uncertainty as far as jobs went. 

We lived with my parents in their small, but lovely home, and Bailey won their hearts with her demeanor.

I'm getting lost in the minute details of daily life of our Bailey, so I'll come to the point.

I've written before that God doesn't talk to us through the over-translated scriptures from 2000 years ago. I believe He sends us messengers, the unlikeliest of messengers, to test our faith, and to give us His divine help.

Bailey was my messenger on one of the darkest days from those times.

My best friend and I were trying to get his business growing to the next level. With the economy still in recovery mode, it was a challenging process to say the least. One week, I had made enough phone calls to schedule a full week of chimney cleaning appointments. On a Thursday night, I projected what the following week would bring, and everything looked promising. On Friday, several cancellations dashed those plans and at the end of that week, We had made enough money to only fill the truck with gas.

I feared the crisis would result in Sheri and my girls going back to Pennsylvania for a time. 

I feared I couldn't offer any shadow of optimism as I had absolutely no hope of regaining all that we'd lost.

Sheri had taken our girls out for the afternoon, so I came home, my parents' home, to an empty house where nothing felt mine. My parents, wonderful people they are, reassured me that this was my home, but I couldn't overcome that defeatist attitude and overwhelming sense of failure.

The reality hit like a cold wave of Arctic Ocean and I sank down to my knees to allow the rage and desperation to flow through my tears.

With my face down on the mattress, my fist clutching the covers, I suddenly felt a warm, wet tongue across my temple.

In my inner storm of self-pity, I didn't notice the brown furry bulk of Bailey at the foot of the bed.

I looked up at her, envying her life and ignorance of what I was going through. We locked eyes, and I froze...

That liquid gaze seemed to see into the very confines of my soul. Only when she felt sure she had my attention, she slowly turned her head, pointing her nose around the cozy little bedroom. 

I glanced around as if seeing everything for the first time. Shame coursed through me. I was almost to ashamed to look into my dog's eyes, but she chuffed, panted twice, and slapped another wet doggy kiss on my face before fixing me with her direct stare.

She sighed long and deep, and rested her chin on her paws, the weight of the moment clearly on her thick shoulders.

For my part, suddenly comforted beyond measure, I could only lay my head on hers, my hand finding her floppy ear to pet it for the next eternity.

"You're right," I said out loud, thinking of all the times I rolled my eyes when Sheri had entire conversations with Bailey. "You're right," I repeated, feeling the kind of comfort you only find in friends with whom you survived a cataclysm, which, Bailey and I actually had.

I fell asleep without worrying as I thought of her message.

Look at you feeling sorry for yourself when you're surrounded by people who love you and are giving you a roof over your head, a comfortable place to sleep in, and more than your share of goodies and water each day. What the hell are you worrying about so much, human? Here, here's a lick to soothe those working hands. Take a deep breath, and let it go. Everything is going to be alright.

As the years went by, I often drew comfort from that peculiar moment.

A hard working attitude and a drive to be something more, galvanized by Bailey's message, gave me the fortitude I needed whenever I felt down.

By the time we moved into our new house in a Connecticut Suburb, Bailey's fur on her face began dulling from lustrous brown to an ash gray.

Her gait got slower and she looked up forlornly up the stairs where she could no longer climb.

My Bailey, the rock of my life, was slowing down.

Eventually her legs became weak, almost too weak to allow her to get out of the house.

She still pranced and had puppy moments when we least expected but the constant panting, and disoriented look on her face, the way she startled when we tried to pet her, signaled the inevitable arrival of a farewell none of us is ever ready for.

Even now, perhaps unaware of the dreadful moment to come, Bailey is curled up, her breath labored but even, to convey that same sense of serenity and peace she gave me as a message on that lost day all those years ago.

Holding her as she slept, I hoped she could feel my message to her...

This is our last night together, Bailey. B. B Money, B Goode, Bay Bay, Behbeh Booh Boohs, Momma Moo, Bailey, my wonderful, silent friend.

I will miss you.

I will miss that sense of calm you bestowed upon me when I felt most afraid.

I will miss your heavy tail thumping against my leg whenever you got your way, which was often.

I will miss the clatter of your claws on the hardwood floor, and the rivulets and puddles you left for us to clean after a drink.

I will miss the satisfied crunching of a milkbone, and the familiar begging look beseeching us for more.

I will miss your quiet company devoid of judgment.

I will miss your exuberance when we opened the door, as if we hadn't seen you for weeks instead of a quick trip to the supermarket.

I will even miss the way you managed to stretch your large frame on the very spot we needed to walk through or place a piece of furniture on. How did you know? Was that some sort of doggy prank you excelled at?

I can only hope that you know just how much we love you. How big a part of this family you are. How much of my rock you were throughout some of our hardest years.

I can only hope you feel the same love we felt from your every lick, and saw in every soulful, liquid, all knowing gaze...

On our last day together, Bailey and I cuddled on her bed, and shared the contents of a small carton of Wendy's fries. She didn't get up and leave as she so often did. She merely enjoyed every bite of greasy goodness, and rested her paw on my hand, no longer merely tolerating my presence but maybe drawing comfort, albeit less than the comfort I drew from her bulk next to me...

A furry angel returns to heaven. I have a feeling, she will find herself in a big, soft, fluffy bed or a brand new plush white couch, where she will grin on us from above, knowing forever how much we love her, how much I love her as we remember her with gratitude for everything she will mean to us.

The First Ever

The Gaze, a novel, Genre: Women's Lit

Samantha Kay Reddick is a survivor and survivors don't overcome their trials unscathed. Samantha bares deep scars within and without. Regret and grief, and the pain from memories of a man she once loved, are the demons she hopes to escape in a bottle of vodka as guilt, real and imagined, tortures her heart.

For more than ten years, the maelstrom of her life grants her peace only in the emotions committed on a piece of writing the boy who changed her life wrote to the love of his life. In her mind, the way she felt while she was in his arms becomes the salvation she desperately needs and soon she's trapped into a fog of obsession that blinds her to the danger from a vindictive ex-fiance, who's sworn to destroy her.

In her quest to find Tony Amaya, Samantha finds that the girl behind his words still holds his heart. Through Gwen, Samantha inserts herself into Tony's life with the sole intention of stealing him. Her plan goes awry when Gwen opens the door to a friendship Samantha never thought possible and an inner battle ensues for Samantha's soul as her nemesis draws near. Will Samantha survive once more and if she does, will she become the woman she desperately wants to be or will she remain a woman who can't stand her own gaze?

The Gaze is a challenging read in the genre of Women's Literature. Written from the first person's point of view of the main character, the story unravels a series of revelations that slowly unveil the core of Samantha's conflict.

Based on real events, The Gaze is a character study of a flawed individual struggling to be a better person. Around Samantha, memorable characters lend their supporting voices and flavor to this intercontinental saga, none more so than her best friend, the incomparable Lewis Bettford. His role completes the spectrum of emotion that's bound to elicit strong reactions from page to page.

The Gaze exposes darker facets of love, obsession, despair and addiction; the power of guilt and self-recrimination, and the unique brand of love found in the truest of friendships. Get ready for this roller coaster ride.

The Gaze is recommended for ages 18 and up due to strong language, sexual situations, and violence.

Other stories comparable to The Gaze: Greg Isles Blood Memory - Alexandra Ripley Scarlet - T.K. Leigh A Beautiful Mess 

click on the cover to find it on Amazon. 

이 two

이

two

"Mom!" Emily's voice is sharp. "I just said I don't want to wear jeans. God!"

I stop at the top of the steps at the frustrated tone of Emily's voice. Two responses immediately come to my mind. One, I come down and backhand her mouth for taking that tone with Mom; two, I stay right where I am and curse her from a distance. Neither is a realistic option, except for rushing down and make sure a fight doesn't take place again.

When I reach the front door, the tears running down Mom's face are my undoing. I throw my arms around her and stifle my own tears. Hers from pain, mine from rage. I hate my sister so much every time I see pain in my mom's blue eyes. "Mom?"

She gives in just enough but composes herself quickly. "You all ready, hun?"

"Are you okay?" I refuse to let go of her.

She nods. "Just another pleasant morning conversation with Emily. You know how those go."

I do. My mom's concern is the stuff of legends, but neither me nor my friends have ever felt annoyed by it. "Are you going to be okay?"

She says nothing for a moment. When she gently pries me away, she smooths my hair and lands her soft palm on my cheek. It takes everything in me not to ran after Emily and put her in a headlock.

"Don't," Mom utters as though she reads my mind. "She's hormonal and is not feeling too good about herself these days. I think I was the same way at her age. It's just part of being a teenager."

"I know," I offer, wondering why she's so quick to defend Emily.

In the pause that ensues, I'm pretty sure she is about to ask herself how I never took on the teenage angst everyone warned her about from the time she found out she was pregnant with me. I've heard the cliches. Teenage girls are impossible, moody, downright cruel, and full of drama. Somehow, I got through my thirteenth and fourteenth years without any of the anticipated incidents. It's made me wonder whether I'm a rarity among my contemporaries.

"Don't be late, and be careful on the roads."

"Love you, Mom."

Mom returns the sentiment and kisses my cheek. Her smile does much to put my mind at ease and prevents me from choking Emily when I see her in the backseat, eyes on her phone, ears plugged, radiating pure annoyance like heat coming off molten steel.

"Would it kill you to be nice to Mom?" I deliberately exaggerate the shaking of my head when she doesn't reply.

After the little spat from yesterday, I didn't think it'd be a good idea to pick up Stephanie, but I take the vacant seat next to me as Emily not having a problem with that. Even if she does, too bad.

I keep finding Emily's face on the mirror. The corners of her eyes crinkle to match the smile and I resist the urge to stand on the brakes just to wipe off that smirk. A sudden pain in my jaw alerts me to the fact that I've clenched my teeth from the moment I put the car in gear. That's how pissed off I am.

The only times Mom and Emily don't have some unpleasant episode is when there is no school or when Mom is just too tired to battle Emily and gives up by letting her stay home. I've gone to school with a stuffed up nose, weak and sore from lacrosse or volleyball, and I haven't even missed a day despite waking up with painful cramps on the week of weeks. Emily gets to stay home for some of the dumbest reasons.

Emily

Forcing a smile when you are not happy is not easy, but Emily has made a career out of faking any degree of joy when she wants to. It makes it easier for everyone else. It keeps the questions at bay, and that's the only time that her fake friends actually talk to her. So, putting on a fake smile for Emily? Easy as pie.

She can sense Brooke's annoyance and wishes she'd actually been listening to her music so she wouldn't hear the acidic tone in her sister's voice, reproaching her for the way she treated her mom.

The smile falters as her mom's face fills her mind's eye.

The all too familiar sting of tears forces her to retreat into the hood of her sweatshirt. It's only going to mess up her hair, but her hair is disgusting anyway. She feels like a rat. Like a wet rat.

"Hi Em!"

Emily barely acknowledges Stephanie's peppy voice. She probably never had to fake being happy. With those blue eyes and perfect teeth, and the styled blonde hair that probably took her hours to tame, what does she have to be sad about?

Resentment mingles with self reproach as her father's voice echoes in her head. He often remarks on her beauty and the bounce of her hair, but she doesn't see it. He probably feels he has to say something nice to her.

She hears Brooke laugh in that melodic, soft laughter of hers that pulls at the strings of her heart and wonders when was the last time Brooke laughed like that with her.

She is not like Brooke, Emily decides. Or Stephanie for that matter. They are the girls everyone wants to befriend because they're not ugly and weird like her.

The reflection on the glass only emphasizes her point. She sees a translucent visage that looks drawn, tired. Eyes downcast and big with sorrow. Chapped lips that she's always biting. She is nothing like Brooke or Stephanie. She is nothing like the other girls in her grade for that matter. She feels too odd and out of place and she's convinced everyone talks about her, remarking on her ugliness. Laughing even.

Emily ignores whatever Brooke asked and suffers through another head shake that drips with disappointment. She doesn't want to disappoint anyone, but she doesn't want anyone to expect anything from her either. Why can't she just be left alone?

"Fine, guess you'll walk from the lot, then."

Apparently Brooke asked her if she wanted dropped off at the door. Now she wishes she would've heard. It would've kept her from having to walk behind the school princesses.

As soon as the car is parked, Emily storms out of the Hyundai, kicking the door shut. She jams her hands and phone in the pocket of her sweatshirt, hitches her bag, and quickly mutes the rest of the world under BTS's Run.

As the music courses through her body like a soothing balm, she thinks how wonderful it would be if she could just run from her life. It would be easy for everyone. Mom wouldn't look so wounded. Brooke wouldn't look so disappointed. Dad wouldn't have to give her phony compliments in a soft voice because he really didn't know what else to say to his weird kid.

Run.

Her feet move quicker. Faces full of judgement flash by like trees on a highway. It doesn't matter that some were smiling. She knows the smiles are fake. She knows what they're really thinking and seeing.

Looking up at the tall windows of the modern building, she recalls her parents' awe. They called it a beautiful school that they wished they'd had when they were kids in school,but she doesn't get it. Emily sees the ornate brick walls, paved walkways, and manicured landscape as nothing but a prison.

Prison, that place where one is kept against their will.

She is a prisoner.

Inside the building, the air feels heavy and the lights are too bright. Emily scurries down the hallways, head down, music as loud as her phone could play it, hands clenched inside the pocket. There's a corner near the culinary arts class where no one goes. No one except for Emily. It's her little sanctuary when the day starts as badly as today has.

Relief floods through her when she arrives at the spot. She doesn't necessarily like the faint scent of trash that emanates from the dumpster on the other side of the double doors, but she likes that it keeps most people away.

When Save Me begins to play. Emily drops her bag and takes up a position, deciding to escape into a quick dance. Trapped in the sound and focused on her movements, she never sees the woman stepping up to her until she feels a tap on her shoulder. Emily nearly screams.

"Can you please remove the hoodie?"

Emily is so taken aback that the words barely register.

"The hoodie?" The woman insists sharply. "I'm afraid I'll have to dress code you if you don't. You know how distracting it is. Please remove it."

Emily runs through a list of names and can't come up with one for this person. She stares, trying to find something to say.

"Young lady, remove that hood now!"

This time the woman's voice is angry that it bounces off the walls and thuds into Emily, but it's the look on the woman's eyes that triggers her. The angry judgmental slant along with the furrowed brows and the tight jaw morphs the initial fear into white hot anger and she squares her stand.

"You're not a teacher," Emily states with disdain.

"I don't have to be. I'm an aide and you will do as I say. The hood needs to come off."

The imperious tone is like a Santa Ana wind on smoldering brush. "No. You don't tell me what to do. My wearing a hood over my head is not hurting anyone and we're not in class for it to distract anyone so leave me alone." Her hard tone is only a mask for the barely contained ball of fear that keeps her from breathing enough air.

"Excuse me?" The woman looks indignant. "Okay you little Brat, we're going to the Principal's to discuss your disrespectful attitude."

Emily stares defiantly at the woman, holding back tears. "I didn't do anything wrong!"

"Too late. Let's go."

The woman appears more confident, which only serves to enrage Emily beyond the point of no return. Her voice escalates into shrills charged with venom. "I'm not going anywhere with you, you bitch. You are nobody! Nobody!"

The confident, imperious gaze is gone, replaced by real concern mixed with a tinge of fear. Emily takes advantage of the pause to grab her bag, hitch it over her shoulder and stomp away. "Leave me alone, you bitch!" Emily screams again to cut the woman off mid sentence.

Stop... says a weak voice in her mind, but the snake of anger has uncoiled and slithered throughout her entire body and she's ready for a fight if need be. Her breath is no more than shallow, ragged sips, and her stomach churns and burns. Bile rises and dizziness makes her steps falter. She doesn't realize she's crying until a sob breaks from her.

"Emily! Emily!"

She stops in her tracks at the familiar voice. "I didn't do anything wrong!" Emily chokes out as her body shakes uncontrollably. "I didn't do anything wrong," she insists more to herself as her actions comeback to haunt her. Defying an aide, calling her a bitch...

Resenting Brooke...

Making her mom upset...

This time she finds it impossible to fake a smile.

일 one

일

one

"Sorry but, like, why is your sister so weird?" My best friend asks, her face a mask of concern that makes me uneasy.

"Steph, please." I didn't even bother to look up from the enthralling world of Junior Algebra. I've become used to my friends' opinions of my little sister to the point that I can't even be offended.

"Sorry."

I shrug.

"Does she really like that stuff?"

"Knowing Emily, if she really didn't like it, she wouldn't even be into it." I tap the textbook. "C'mon, focus."

Stephanie shakes her head. "It's hard to concentrate with all that gibberish. Why would you listen to songs in a different language?"

"Dad listens to Spanish songs."

"Dude, your dad is Spanish. I meant, who listens to, to... whatever language that is."

"Korean?"

The "Duh" face again. "Yeah, I mean here in America." She jabs an index at me. "And don't say Korean Americans."

I grin. "Emily and a few million girls like her, of course."

"In Clinton, Connecticut?" Stephanie persists.

This time I have to think about it. Probably not, I decide.  

Stephanie works her phone and 5 Seconds of Summer's epic riffs fill the room, dampening the bass and matching thumps leaking through the vent from all the way in the basement.

"There, good old American music."

"Um, they're Australian." I remind her without looking up from my notes.

She waves her hand. "No one likes a wise ass, Brooke. Damn, I can still hear her dancing,"

I detect a note of awe in her voice.

"That's probably why she's got those killer legs. Right?"

"She also does lacrosse and soccer, you know." I point out.

Stephanie looks incredulous. "We do too and look at these!" She points at her toned thighs. "Flab city!"

I laugh. "Yea right."

"Okay, maybe not, but next to your sister, I'm a cow."

I'm surprised at the surge of pride I feel. At only 14 years of age, Emily Amaya puts the Senior dance squad to shame. "She works hard."

"You sure she's your sister?"

I laugh and add enough sarcasm in my voice. "I've never been asked that before."

Stephanie chuckles. "Seriously. You're tall and willowy, olive skin, dark hair. She is so different than you."

Her remarks give me pause. I can't say I haven't wondered myself. Most siblings I know share some physical traits but not Emily and me. I've always thought that Emily was born with Mom's German Irish traits with the exception of her height. That one I got, much to my basketball coach's delight. My little sister is actually Elvin in her features as well as size. Her hair is practically blonde, though it's gone through a few different bright hues over the past year.

"Is she listening to a new one or is that the same one from before. They all sound the same." 

Stephanie looks like she's about to launch into another rant but her phone chimes and she hurries to it.

"O. M. G. Charlie's asking if we want to meet at the library!"

"To study, right?"

Her smile is decidedly feline. "Of course. I bet you Matt will be there too."

I blink and raise an eyebrow at her.

"Brooke, you are ice, girl." Stephanie rolls her blue eyes. "Can I borrow your yellow top?" She disappears into my closet without waiting for a reply.

I can only blow a stubborn strand of hair off my face and fix my pony tail. Steph will insist on putting me through some new process she's seen on YouTube but she'll have to be satisfied with a bit of my trusty lip balm. I'm not the one hunting for a boy.

We bring our bags more as a prop than anything so Mom won't question our sudden urge to get to the library. After the awkward kiss and agreement to her many different "be careful's", we make our way to the garage through the basement where Emily's music is much louder.

"Cats screeching," Stephanie whispers in a chuckle.

I merely hum in agreement as I grab my jacket. When I look back, Stephanie is no longer right behind me. She stands at the door to Emily's inner sanctum, what was once supposed to be Dad's estrogen-free zone until Emily took it over to convert it into a shrine to her music.

Korean rap floods the foreground of the melody. It's actually good. It'd be better if I somehow understood it, but it most definitely flows to the beat. The words have the feel of physical emotions thrown at my face and combined with the music, the effect is profound enough to give me goose bumps.

"Damn, that's actually pretty good," Stephanie seems to read my mind. "Would she mind if we saw her?"

A warning dies in my throat as I reach for her arm, but she already has the door open.

Emily's body rolls as she slides low into an intricate combination of arms, head, and hip movements under careful scrutiny against the full length mirror. She's graceful, fast, fluid. It suddenly occurs to me that I'm holding my breath.

Sensing us, Emily stops in her tracks. Sweating from head to toe, her eyes stare back at us shocked for one second before they fill with red hot fury.

"Oh my God, Em, you're really good!" Stephanie offers a smile but when she glances back at me, her eyes have that oh shit look I know so well.

Emily ignores her and calmly walks to her desk to pause the song. She seems to take a moment to compose herself and levels her eyes at me as she crosses her arms. Whenever her face looks this stone cold, my insides turn to water.

"You guys can't read or something?" Emily barks.

I shake my head, not knowing what to say.

"It's my fault," Stephanie squeaks. "The song was cool, I just thought I'd take a peek. You know how nosy I can be. You're really good."

The look on Emily's face is enough to stop Stephanie from taking another step.

"I'm really sorry, Em. We were just leaving." I hope the tone of my voice conveys enough of an apology. In response, Emily glares and gestures with her face and hand with an expression that says why are you still here? "C'mon, Steph. We gotta go."

Stephanie starts uttering another apology but she quickly walks out to the garage instead. I'm about to apologize once more but Emily slams the door in my face. I can't be too upset. Five different pieces of paper emphatically deny entrance.

Music begins to play. The bass is so booming and deep, I can feel it in my rib cage. My mind conjures an array of fine insults, but she'd only call me something worse and I've grown tired of such uncomfortable moments.

After a few deep breaths, I slide behind the wheel knowing I'll have to mollify Stephanie.

"Yea... I don't  know. Sorry."

"Well, you weren't the bitch just now," Stephanie growls, clearly wounded. "Is she always such an obnoxious assh-"

I start the engine to cut her off.

"I mean, what was that about? What's the point of doing performance arts if you're not going to perform to an audience?."

"I know, she'll be okay."

When we park, Stephanie is not quick to get out of the car, defying my expectation. Instead, she stares at me as though fearful of voicing her thoughts. "What's the matter?"

"Brooke, is she always that pissed off when someone barges in on her?"

Something in her blue gaze bothers me. "Wouldn't you be?" I throw the question back a bit too quickly.

"Well, probably," Stephanie says after a moment. "But I wouldn't look at them like I wanted to murder them, you know?"

The chill along my neck has nothing to do with the winter air.

"Is she usually like that?"

"She's just crabby. Probably had another bad day. You know?"

Steph seems to accept the feeble excuse. "Oh, okay. Lesson learned then. Next time, I'll try to make an appointment with little miss diva." She shakes her head then looks at me with a beaming smile. "Ready?" She checks her blonde waves before leaping out of the car and kicks the door shut behind her.

The slam brings to my mind the look on Emily's face as she threw her door at me.

Furious.

Indignant.

Betrayed.

"Emily's not often like that," I say to no one as a tear runs down my cheek. A feeling of loss crashes like frigid, gust driven waves over me. "Just all the time." Tears well in my eyes.

Stephanie waves at me from the entrance to the library, but I only move when the smile on her face is replaced by that same mask of concern she had earlier in my room.

...why is your sister so weird...

Continue on Chapter 2

5 Questions on :(:

After reading through some of the emails I've received since hinting at a new novel, I felt I needed to answer some of the questions as quickly as possible. I picked 5 since most others are very personal in nature. So here they are:

1. Where do I get the book? - PA, NY, OH, RI, MA, Spain, Ecuador.

My apologies. :(: is a Live Book which means that you are getting the chapters one at a time as they are written on the blog. Very unconventional, but it does force me to stay committed to the writing. My plan is to publish a new chapter every 2 to 3 weeks. As the story develops, the challenge will be greater to produce cohesion and timeline. It's no different than your favorite weekly shows that make you wait one week for the continuation of the story. It also gives readers an opportunity to make comments on the state of affairs on the page. I don't expect many public comments. :(: lends to more private messages with uplifting and heartbreaking accounts of personal experience with depression or anxiety and in some extremely sad cases, suicide.

2. Why the emojis :(:? - PA, VA, NY, OH, RI, MA, TX, NJ, FL, LA, NC, Spain, Ecuador, Canada.

If you're familiar with this ambigram, you'll recall that it went viral in 2015. The tattoo brought awareness to mental health issues particularly depression among teenagers.
Like all my stories, they have roots in real experiences, and this story is as close to home as it gets, even closer than My Two Flags.

 I thought how do I convey a similar message?
I explored several titles but then I felt that an emoji was not only perfect as something to force a second look, but it also made the story relevant.

3. Is this story related to Gaze and Next Chapter? (Everyone)

Long story short, yes.
The story centers around the Amaya sisters, Brooke and Emily.
Just like these other novels, :(: is told from one of the characters'  point of view in present tense. In this case Brooke at 17, a junior in high school.
Emily is a freshman at 14.
Of course their parents Gwen and Tony Amaya are central to the story and presented me the opportunity of bringing in some old friends like Samantha and the incomparable Lewis back to the page.

4. What's with the Korean on the cover? (Everyone)

Yes, the Korean. So, my daughter Amber, who will be 13 in a few days and join the rank of teenagedom, (Help!) is an avid Kpop fan. I can remember the moment she showed me a BTS video. As soon as I watched them, I thought I'd be the typical dad and make fun of her taste in music and pick the band apart from their Gucci clothes to the make up and the dancing, but it only took one song to make me a fan of their work.

The Korean language doesn't always translate well into English. I have some experience with that as some phrases in Spanish make no sense directly translated, but the translated lyrics in songs like Epiphany, Euphoria, I Need You, Magic Shop, Love Yourself are poignant, relevant, empathetic, and beautiful in every sense. Their message is like a prescription for depression, and it's delivered in incredible performances.

Kpop makes Amber quite unique among her peers and she finds such joy in it, especially when she endures a tough day at school. I myself found a type of salvation in music when I was a teen. So I thought, why not make Kpop a trait for Emily? It's her cross to bear as it evokes tremendous criticism from those whose natural instinct is to attack anything that's different than what they consider the norm.

5. So what does it say on the cover? (Everyone)

This is where I get to have a little bit of fun. To date, there has been several guesses as to the identity of the character on the cover of Gaze.
So far it's been a 50/50 that it's Gwen or Samantha and I've never answered that question. The answer is within the pages.
Following that trend, the answer to this question is within the pages.

I think it's safe to assume that we've either known someone, or we ourselves have been that someone dealing with depression, anxiety, adhd, and other issues that were attributed in the old days to just part of being a teenager.

Today, we are more aware of mental health issues affecting us, but if you take a moment to go over statistics, the one demographic most affected is our school age kids.

These are key years to the development of a person, and mental health issues are so incredibly misunderstood and stigmatized by parents, by educators, and by peers. Add the effect of social media platforms, public opinion, the quest for self-validation, and it's a miracle kids become adults with any degree of sanity.

:(: delves into the lives affected by mental health issues, and is written in the hope of bringing awareness, as well as to merely to forge a connection with anyone going through a similar experience whether peripherally or personally.

Thank you for your questions. I sincerely hope I've piqued your interest and follow where the story goes. As for me, time to write.

© 2020 J.A.Robayo

Cool, start reading!

Intro

소개

intro

Emily ignores the sting in her eyes and the pain through her thighs. If anything, she welcomes the physical pain. It's a welcome distraction from other types.

Bright pink strands of hair shake like frayed flags in the wind as she moves to the beat.

Five... Six... Seven... Eight...

The drop builds up in a staccato of snare drums and sharp tones. Her teeth clench, brow furrows in fierce determination to conquer the upcoming movements.

One,  kick right... Two, side step and pop... Three, front kick, slide out.. Four... 

Windmilling arms create the illusion of a mechanical wheel as her torso bends back, where she holds the count for exactly two beats. When the music explodes out of the speakers to a one note finish, she is on her knee, fist raised, eyes up.

The world goes still, the silence broken only by her ragged breathing. Her honey-colored eyes slowly focus on the reality of the scuffed hardwood floor under her feet. A blemish catches her eye, testament to the violence of her dancing. The sight produces a grin on the heart-shaped visage.

On the mirror, sweat glistens on smooth cheeks flushed with effort. Rivulets meander over the creases of toned shoulders and arms. Matted pink strands sweep over one eye, which glints with triumph.

The overall image is pretty or at least that's what she's been told. Her parents have remarked on her good looks for so long, she no longer believes it. Not when she sees for herself what she really looks like.

Small nagging voices at the corners of her mind command her eyes to the many physical flaws only she seems to be aware of. Faint visions of every mistake nip at her confidence, making her heart pound in her temples. Before the tears set in, Emily quickly cues up another song and stares at her reflection with all the defiance she can muster.

As the music fills her mind, chasing away the nagging doubts, she grins as her muscles scream. 

The beat is her world. 

The verse is her elation.

The bridge is her calm.

The music is her everything. 

음악는 나위 구원자

 She allows the Hangul to float in her mind like a mantra as her lips mouth the words.

음악는 나위 구원자

The phrase always proves true.

Continue on Chapter 1

:(:

Growing up, Brooke Amaya often heard people remark on just how different her little sister is.

Different in every way, from clothes to music and everything in between, none of those differences compare to the ones in their lives as teenagers.

At 17, Brooke is familiar with the ebbs and flows of puberty, hormones, and the typical teenage convoluted bundle of feelings notorious for healing and wounding with equal measure. However, she never felt, or witnessed the destructive emotional maelstrom that takes a hold of Emily when she starts high school.

As her parents and teachers struggle to help Emily's worsening attitude, Brooke finds herself as the only one left to battle the dark emotions that are intent on destroying her little sister, those around them, and possibly even herself.



5 Questions about :(:

intro      chapter 1      chapter 2

Epoch Ch. 5 Love

Your world, your life, is simultaneously fueled and governed by an array of emotions though none stronger than love. Love will motivate both sides of your moral compass. In other words, you humans will do anything for love.

For me, a manuscript, love is a thrilling current that flows through and around barriers.

Good and evil aren’t nearly as complex as this one paramount aspect of the human experience. This part of life spawned millions of beautiful pieces of writing from haiku poems and haunting melodies, to epic novels and timeless series. Yes, we are talking about love.

Love.

Understandably, the term brings to mind walks on the beach, sunsets, flowers, wedding rings, and all the romantic tropes you find in every soap opera.

Love is so much more than the inspiration for a kiss however. It's a commitment, a crazy act of impulsiveness that defies logic. Love comes in so many different forms that new songs and new books are still being written about it.

Love is measured in eternities, not merely years. Love is the strength that keeps a Noah waiting for his Ally against all odds. Love is the blind fury of the push behind the blade that finally ends the feud of the Capulets and the Montagues. Love is the sacrifice of thousands of young men breaking through the Nazi defenses in Normandy. All sacrifices are products of a love so whole it transcend living.

Love is the heat behind the mind-blowing scenes of passion coloring a page with images that make hearts race and bodies burn with desire.

Love is the tip of the emotional iceberg where longing, dreaming, hatred, vengeance, valor, fear, ire, and acceptance wrestle for control of your souls.

Think about what you’ve done for love.

Some of you became creative and courageous enough to lay it all out on a love note, a song, a simple asking the object of your affection for that first date.

Some of you found the strength to break the chains of a vice to find a loving embrace of forgiveness from your children.

Some of you conquered your fears and ran into that church to stop a ceremony in order not to lose your soul mate.

Some of you parked on a dark street to stare at a blackened window where that one person that made your heart stutter slept, just to feel close to them.

Love is binary. Like any coin of value, it has two sides. Its dark side is all consuming, heart wrenching, spiritual agony when it's broken, betrayed or unrequited.

Some of you felt a divine touch  of love when you held a little piece of you and the one you love for the first time. In your arms, that little face evoked such profound emotions no one could’ve prepared you for, and you were never to be the same.

What would life be without love?

And furthermore, what would a story be without it?

5 Years Later

I still believe I was possessed when I wrote Gaze  and Next Chapter.

2020 finds me still in awe of the many predictions I left on the pages all those years ago. Okay, prediction may be a bit strong, but there are several parallels with the outcome of those stories and my life today.

In fact, upon revisiting the prologue in My Two Flags, I was dumbfounded to find myself in the scene of the pages. Every object I described on the page years ago materialized around me. From the book on my shelf to the view through my windows. I swear I might have even heard a distinct British chuckle.

I may have left my works in progress in skeletal stages, patiently awaiting my return to the keyboard. My trusty wave keyboard has been on hold for over five years now.

Gone are the fans I once had.

Gone is the author website. Thank goodness for Amazon!

Fewer are the messages I receive with demands for the next book.

To those of you who find yourselves staring at this words, my most sincere apologies for this absence.

In the book front, I got tired of literary agents advising to turn Lewis into a vampire and give Samantha magic powers to sell the story, and frankly I fail to see the point of writing when we are all easily entertained in social media with all those crazy cat videos and funny memes. What's the point of writing novels these days?

In the life front, I found my career. Like the much beloved Lewis, I have a view of the Thames similar to the view in his London office. Okay, mine is in New London, Connecticut, but I can't deny the symmetry. You could even say we work in similar fields, security, if you recall.

The sweet little girls who inspired Brooke and Emily are now teenagers who no longer regard me as the high quality, laugh-out-loud source of entertainment they once adored. I tell you one dad joke and it's all over.

The incomparable woman who inspired the likes of Gwen and Samantha fought with me through some really thin years and is happily still tolerating yours truly.

Our chocolate Lab, the unsinkable Bailey, is now frail with more gray on her face. Believe it or not, she has been the rock for all of us through more thin than thick.

That leaves me.

The author in me.

The sole responsible party for the creation of seemingly endless pages of joy, grief, love, angst, and laughter (and entire forests worth of rejected manuscripts), completely befuddled to feel my fingers tap the keys turning thoughts into words once again.

Why? Why now?

I think I'd better avoid some Shakesperean demon's possessive persuasions and get it all out of the mind of Javier A. Robayo.