REGRETS and Working through Them

Regrets

I haven’t posted a blog for quite some time. My mom passed away less than two weeks ago and I have feelings that I never knew existed before. My mom was such a special person; she never gave up on me; inspired my writing; enforced true values, and helped so many people who thought their lives weren’t worth a shit.

So many times did I stand on the street corner, flying a sign, and here came either a red Ford Escort or a white Lincoln Town Car, when it was my mom. She didn’t want anything but the best for everyone out there in the pouring rain and bitter cold to be fed and be safe. She gave clothes and boots to so many people in need and wanted absolutely nothing in return.

I turned my back many times on my mom, thinking she was only out to be judgmental and turn her nose up. I ran from the sight of her. Now I wish she was here with me as I continue my books.

Now the shoe is on the other foot and I realize what her and my dad were set out to do.

Every time I turn a corner, on the bus, in a car, or on foot, I find things about her that I will miss forever.

I haven’t written in Beyond the Signs for several months and I believe this is a big reason.
On the other hand there is a publisher who is seriously considering an excellent contract concerning TOTAL DISCHARGE. Publishing a book is a huge hassle and careful consideration is best. Mom was very good at that, as well as many, many other things.

I already know where this dedication is going...

This is part of the last chapter. (The language is a spicy so be prepared):

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“Nice to meet you, Moe.”

“I CAN HEAR YOU…I CAN HEAR MYSELF!”

“Taint fo long do; white boy, dat mudda fucka is a cumin again.”

Half frightened out of his wits, Brandon reached out to a hand. It felt like a leather baseball mitt, and shook the third and fourth finger of a hand, a promising hand, a hand from above.

“I’m here to hep you boys. Ain’t nuttin’ gunna change till we find dat mudda fuka and find the peach pie for his plan.”

   Brandon, looking into bloodshot eyes, jerked hard enough to slowly, painfully, release the man’s huge, bloody fingers from the intense grasp.

“How do you suppose we do that?”

“Don’t patronize me, white boy. We gots a job to do.”

“I’m sorry, Moe. It’s been one hell of a week.”

“Tell me ‘bout it. I gots an ingrown on my left ‘biggen that dat makes me limp like a three legged dog. Don’t you be a tellin me nuttin ‘bout pain.”

“Okay, Moe, you seem to have an insight on what has happened. How do we stop this bastard from striking again?”

Moe suddenly became very serious. “I've been with the N.S.A., working under cover for over twelve years. I know who he is and what his plans have been and are. Inside every module he drops, he hides a video camera. It links via satellite directly to him. We find that camera, we send a message to him. He knows me. He knows how I like my toast in the morning. He knows how many cubes of sugar I like in my coffee. He knows that I know him better than he knows himself. Let’s go tear that thing apart, find the video uplink, and send the dirty bastard a strong message.”

Totally bewildered, Brandon’s eyebrows reached his own receding hairline. Nodding his head, he asked his new friend, “What is your real name?”

“James Moses Bend. Just call me Jim from now on, okay?”

“Okay, Jim. Let’s go see what we can do.”


Until Next Time,
Kirk Toncray
toncrayrk@gmail.com