COMPLICIT

I've been here a hundred times, our regular Friday night warm down after another miserable week on the Hill. Tonight Jasmine couldn't make it on account of media reports of her guy being involved in another sex scandal.  My guy is squeaky clean. I took this job, we all took our jobs because we wanted to make a difference – turns out we're we just fire-fighters wearing skirts and using lipstick.
"Let's do a couple shots," says Violet.
"NO!" I vigorously shake my head. "Remember last time? It did not end well."
"Just one," she urges. "You know you want to."
"Do you believe in a higher power?" I reply, pointing to the chalked cocktail list. "Fourth one down – that's definitely a sign!"
She reads then laughs. "Slippery Slope . . . yeah, I hear you. Best hold the shots."
Surprise. It's raining in DC. I'm in the King's Bar with one of my girlfriends after work. There's usually three of us but Janie's not here tonight. Even though she bats for the other side, in more ways than one . . . she's not a big fan of the dumb stick.  still our friend. We're here unwinding, looking forward to the weekend, making plans. Hopefully there'll be no drama, our phones won't ring. We're both watching the weather girl on the TV screens: according to the forecast there's a 40% chance of rain on Sunday.
"Typical." says Violet. "The DNC's barbecue's cancelled for sure. I've no excuses now. I gotta back to New Jersey, spend the weekend with my parents." She appeared thoughtful as she sipped her wine. "Do you ever go back home? You know . . . to visit."
"After the way I left?" Changing the subject, I focussed my attention on the front windows. "Ha-ha! The barbecue is toast . . .  I've always wanted to say that." I laugh. "It’s not like I wanted to go anyway. I'd rather spend my day on the couch with a good book."
"Is good book code for watching porn?"
"I'm a single girl. Piggly Wiggly is all the happiness I get." I laugh.
"Piggly Wiggly. I've never heard it call that. Is that what the kids are calling it?"
"That's what I've always called it."
"Why?"
"Fun fact. The Piggly Wiggly Corporation are credited with inventing the concept of self-service."
"Naughty girl." Violet laughs. "Perhaps you can afford to lie around pleasuring yourself silly all weekend, but I can't. My guy's barely within the margin of error. Your guy's sitting pretty with a 30 point lead. Everybody loves him. Even the President called him ' a good man in a storm'.
"Good man in a storm . . . What does that even mean?"
"No idea but it sounds good – it's like his brand. My guy's got nothing, and if my guy loses – I'm out of a job."
"Your guy's old, like 100 years-old, and a sexual pervert." I scoff. "He's probably gonna croak before the mid-terms. Face it, you were gonna have to find a new guy soon anyway."
"Or girl," she muses.
"Yeah, you could lobby the Mexican."
"Her parents come from El Salvador, and don't be so ridiculous. No way can I be an aide to somebody younger than me."
"You need to do something. Your man's going to be ousted. He's a pro-life Democrat . . . How does that even work?"
 "Like you said . . . he's a 100 years old. It's not like he's going to change. And, no, we're not going to have another conversation about a woman's right to choose."
I raise my glass. "I'll drink to that. "Violet, it's time to move on, find  a new candidate. You and I both know what the score is. You're a black woman. In this political climate you're gold. Without you standing next to your guy whenever there's a camera around – he's fucked. You're worth five, maybe ten points."
"I  can't believe –"
"Excuse me, ladies . . .  What's your poison?" The bartender informs us a guy at the far end of the bar wants to send a couple of drinks in our direction . I check the guy out: charcoal-grey Armani suit, lawyer, lobbyist maybe? Violet says he's hot. I agree, he's cute enough, nice smile but no, I shake my head and tell the bartender, "NO thank you." I send the drinks back. I'm not that girl. That's not what I came to Washington for.
After witnessing our rejection of his kind offer, the cute Armani guy turns his bottom lip over and pretends to cry – he's funny.
"Duty calls." My girlfriend gets a call on her cell. Her boss has landed a spot on CNN. She needs to rush back to the office to prepare talking points.
"Can't you do it by email? It's still raining and the sky is hazy shade of winter." I say.
Violet frowns. "Are you seriously quoting song lyrics at me?"
"I don't know your people's music to well. Maybe I picked up something on radio."
"Girlfriend, you are priceless." She throws her bag over her shoulder. "Again, he's a very old guy. He doesn't do technology. Besides, he's paranoid. Every time I mention email he say's they'll never do to him what they did to Hillary."
"Have a good weekend." I wave her away.
"Enjoy the Piggly Wiggly. Love you."
"Me too," I reply.
 
 I stay to finish my drink. It's 2018 – a girl can drink alone in a bar can't she? So, the Armani guy . . . he comes over and takes the spot my girlfriend vacated. "Are you sure I can't buy you a drink?" he asks.
I tell him, "NO, I'm fine."
"Come on," he urges, observing my half-empty glass. "One little drink never killed anybody."
I sigh. "Famous last words."
He does that thing again, turning over his bottom lip like a sulking child.
"Don't be so juvenile," I say.
He leans closer to whisper.  "I can do childish way better than I do juvenile. Do you want to see a grown man throw himself to floor  screaming, I hate you. It's so unfair!"
"How many times has that worked for you?" I twist slightly on my stool, extending a hand , gesturing he should go ahead with his floor show.
"Come on," he pleads. "You're not going leave me here drinking on my lonesome?"
I fold my arms across my chest in defiance. "Why can't you take no for answer?"
He shrugs and grins. "God loves a tryer." His eyes fall on my glass. "What is that anyway?"
"Jacob's Creek," I tell him.
"Cool." He orders a bottle of Budweiser and a glass of Jacob's Creek. He sets the wine glass in front of me. I catch a whiff of his scent. He smells nice – Hugo Boss, I think. His nails are manicured and there's no wedding ring.
"NO," I tell him. "Whatever ideas are in that head of yours – it's not happening."
He laughs.
I laugh with him.
The bartender sets the drink in front of me. I eye the glass as a few bubbles rise to surface. The freshly poured wine is fresh, chilled, from newly opened bottle. I find myself raising it to my lips.
I keep a mental count. I had one drink with my girlfriend, Violet, and Mr Armani has bought me two, that makes three. I'm good with three – still in full control of my faculties. I'd planned to be home by now, my belly's going to start rumbling if I don't get some food.
He catches me perusing the menu, considering ordering a bar snack.
"I'm hungry too, he says. "But deep-fried spicy chicken wings won't do it for me. I need proper food, good food. I'm not too familiar with this part of town. Here's a plan, you pick a restaurant, any restaurant, the fanciest restaurant in town? I'll treat you."
"Nice try," I tell him. "But NO. Not today. You should save your money." I note: Mr Armani is polite, articulate, and has potential. I'm going home after this drink. But if he asks, he's made the cut. He can totally get my number. Maybe there's an alternative to the Piggly Wiggly on Sunday.
He studies me briefly. "What are you thinking about?"
"Shopping, groceries . . ."
"I see . . ." Before I can object, he signals the bartender for two more drinks. "What brings you here, to this place?"
I roll my eyes. "Me and my girlfriend came her for compete makeovers: new hairdos, extensions and highlights, a full body wax, and a manicure but it turns out bars don't generally do stuff like that, who knew? . . . So, rather than sitting here looking stupid we ordered some drinks."
"They're definitely missing an opportunity. Maybe full service bars could be a thing? The sign says this place is all you need. Maybe you could sue."
The bartender sets the drinks down and scurries away.
"Sue?" I slide the wine glass toward me. "Are you a lawyer?"
"No." I just work on the Hill."
"Me too."
He watches me raise the wine glass to my lips.
"It's just a drink. Don't get your hopes up," I tell him. "You're wasting your time. I'm not one of those girls."
 
It turns out Mr Armani has a name  - Dominic Hunter. He opens the door for me. I enter the restaurant and I'm instantly in awe. Nothing sleazy about this place. Giovanni's is all candles and string quartets. This is how the other half lives. The ladies are wearing cocktail dresses. I suspect many men have taken a knee and popped the question in here. I feel out of place in my Calvin Klein skirt-suit that I wear for work, one of three that I bought at Macy's – they we're on sale. The occasion screams romance but my attire says business. I feel inappropriately dressed.
Proving himself an attentive type, he senses my discomfort, removes his tie to appear attired more casually, and asks if I'd like a glass of wine.
I tell him, "NO thank you."
I'm in heaven, and have deeper understanding of the expression, wined and dined. The Carbonara was exquisite, to die for – it'll put pounds on my butt. I've no recollection of when the bottle of Prosecco arrived but it's empty now.
Dominic lightly taps his stomach. "I'm full. No more room at the inn. I think I'll skip dessert."
"Me too," I agree, slouching in my chair. My mind compares his behaviour to that of my ex. Brett would belch loudly after a hefty meal – the man-child was an embarrassment.
Dominic signals for the check. 
I recount my drinks: four in The Kings Bar and two, maybe three in here. That's me done for the night – definitely. If I was feeling slightly tipsy the numbers on the bill sober me up - more than I earn in a week. I can't afford this but I don't want to feel obligated in any way. "Let's split this," I say.
"Maybe next time," he replies, selecting one from his full desk of credit cards. "I said this is my treat."
We wait on the street outside the restaurant. The rain has relented. Dominic's hails a cab. "After you, beautiful," he says, opening the door.
"I'm not going home with you," I say.
"But the night is still young," he insists.
"NO," I tell him., taking my phone from my bag. "I'm going home, to my house – where I live. I'll get an Uber."
"Don't be silly," he says. "I'm not leaving you out here on your own."
"I'll be fine."
"You and I both know . . . The District of Columbia isn't exactly 2nd Amendment friendly. How's a girl like you supposed to defend herself?"
"I've managed fine for 24 years." First black mark. I suspect Dominic may be a Republican.
He takes my hand. "Come on. I'll keep you safe. It's no bother to drop you home on my way."
I study him before getting into the cab. His five o'clock shadow has turned to midnight bristle. I wonder how it would feel against my skin. He seems a really nice, genuine guy, sexy, smart, sweet, a keeper maybe. I want to do this differently. If I'm gonna do this I want to take it slow.
Maybe I am a little drunk. On entering the taxi I stumble. Dominic catches me before I fall.
 
Be assertive but not pushy. During  the ride home I take his phone and enter my number. "Busy tomorrow but if I move some stuff around I can be free Sunday."
He immediately calls me so I have his number too.
"Great," I reply, tucking my phone away.
 He's sitting beside me, relaxed, cool and calm. To the contrary, my heart is racing. I move my bag off my lap and let my hand rest on my thigh, hoping he'll take it. I haven't felt this way since I was in high-school, making out in the back seat of Max Renwick's Pontiac,
After an uncomfortable silence he looks across to me. "You okay?"
I nod tentatively. "I'm fine."
"How do you feel?"
I shrug. "I dunno . . . a little juvenile, perhaps?"
 
"It's just here on the left – 1412," I announce.
The taxi pulls up outside my apartment building. I place my hand on the door lever but linger a moment. I want him to lean across and kiss me but instead I feel a rush of cold air followed by the sound of his door closing. Dominic's out of the vehicle and quickly round to my side to open the door for me. I accept his outstretched hand to help me out of the car.  The rain has eased to a persistent drizzle but the wind has picket up. There's an awkward moment before I kiss his bristly cheek, tell him to call me, and start to walk away.
Dominic takes my hand and pulls me back, spins me round, and now we're close – face to face. He takes my jaw in his hand, and gives me a real kiss, a proper kiss – the one I wanted.
"Good night," I whisper, rummaging in my bag for my keys.
"No coffee, then?" he says.
"NO," I say, still rummage for keys. "Not tonight. I'm a little tired and a little drunk. Call me tomorrow."
 Eventually I locate my elusive house keys, I look up and he's doing it again – the curled lip sulky face.
"C'est la vie," I tell him, pointing to the waiting cab.
"You never can tell," he retorts, shrugging his shoulders.
"Quit it with the sulky face. You played the sympathy card already – back when we were in the bar. You can't use it again. Go home," I order him.
He looks up to the heavens.
"But I'm getting very wet," he says.
Tell me about it. I insert my key into the door. "Me too."
 
"It's nice and warm in here, cosy even," remarks Dominic, removing his wet jacket.
"'Because she's left the heating on again – does she think we're made of money?" I take his jacket. I was right. The label says Armani. "Let me hang that up for you." For the first time I see him in his shirtsleeves. He works out, I can tell.
"Three sugars, please. Without cream," he says, easing himself into the armchair.
Second black mark. Personally, I find the whole 'sweet tooth' thing bizarre. "We're interns," I reply. "Our budget doesn't stretch to cream. You'll have to have it without milk."
"We're interns?" he repeats my words.
"I share this apartment with Cindy. She's not home. She spends most weekends at her boyfriend's."
"I see." He gently taps my butt, twice, before I walk away.
"Steady on," I tell him.
 
I return with his coffee and pass it to him. "Taste it and tell me if it's okay."
"I'm sure it'll be fine." Dominic ignores my instructions, sets the coffee on the side table, and pulls me onto his lap.
"NO. None of that," I tell him. "There'll be no fooling around. Not tonight."
But he pulls me in close and kisses me again, softly, gently.
I want to get away from him. I need to get away but he's keeping me on his lap, not by strength or force but with his kisses. I want more.  Before I know it we're full on, making out, heavy petty call it what you will. Then blessed relief, a moment's respite.  I'm saved by the proverbial bell.
Effortlessly, Dominic lifts me off his lap, carries me across the room, and sets me on the sofa. As he reaches into his jacket and retrieves his phone  I am both worried and excited. Fairground fear, it makes me tingle.  This man is so strong he could end me without breaking sweat but what girl in her right mind doesn't want a man equipped to keep her safe.
He curses under his breath and frowns after reading a text message.
"What was that all about?" I ask.
"Nothing for you to worry about," he replies, offering a weak, obviously forced smile.
"Bad news?"
 "It's just work. Looks like a vote in the Senate isn't going to go our way."
"Are you sure that's all it is?"
"I'm sure," he replies, turning off his phone "Why are you questioning me? What is this – the Spanish Inquisition?"
Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition. I consider taking the opportunity to make light but think better. "I just thought –"
"It is what it is!" he snaps.
I was thinking this guy's kinda sweet but it appears he can be very, very salty – but, hey, we've all got our sore points, it's not a deal-breaker. I try to calm him by rubbing his back. "You're right. It's not my business. How about we just enjoy each other's company and not talk politics?"
 "Damn straight," he says, leaping on me, throwing me back, laying me prostrate on the sofa.
"Slow down!" I fight. A combination of panic and ass preservation compels me to swivel around to face him. He  leaps on top of me. His previously  supple body is tense now. I still crave his lips . His hungry kisses easily penetrate all my defences but his kisses are more angry now, more intense. Who is this guy? It's like this man is really angry about something. "Hey, Tiger, slow down," I urge him.  It's like he's got four , five, six hands. There's an unexpected  twang. I feel my breasts freed by the undoing of my bra-strap. I'm disorientated, overwhelmed. His tongue is in my mouth. He has one hand on my neck, another caressing my face, another squeezing my breasts, and another trying to remove my panties.  "NO," I tell him, but it's like he can't hear me.  As I feel him enter me I try to push him off me but he is heavy and strong  and I weight 120 pounds wet. I want to scream 'NO' at the top of my lungs but my addled mind begins analyse data and likely scenarios going forward. I'd said 'NO' to the drink in the bar, 'NO 'to the meal in the restaurant, 'NO 'to the to cab home , and NO to his coming up to my  apartment for coffee.
My subconscious took over. It laughed at me. "How's you're little 'no' plan working out for you? Every time you said it you didn't mean it, and he knew it. You're just a tease."
"No. I'm not." Again, I was there with the 'no'. "It wasn't supposed be like this," I told my subconscious..
The last thing I remember before I passed out was an angry man on top of me – pumping hard,  pumping furiously. hurting me.
 
I'm awake, now. It's light outside. I lay a while listening to the sound of the early morning traffic. I hurt. Everything's sore. Carpet burns on my back and shoulders. The pain I'm feeling is  partially anaesthetised by realisation – I am still here, alive. I struggle to my feet. The beast that savaged me has long gone.
I'm in the shower. I've been here most of the morning trying to scrub every part of him and last night from my body. More than that I'm trying to remember; what happened? Why did it happen? Were there signs? Should I have seen them?
Cindy comes home after I call her.  She takes me to the ER where I'm tested: HIV, hepatitis and more. The waiting is more pain. I'm overwhelmed with joy and relief when the doctor writes me a prescription and tells me I'm clear but I have to repeat the HIV test in three months. During the journey home  I tell Cindy everything. She comforts me and tells me it wasn't my fault. We agree the bastard shouldn't be allowed to get away with it.
"We should call the police," Cindy says.
"What's the point?" I ask. "I've showered. I'm clean. There's no evidence anywhere."
"You don't know that," she objects. "We should call them anyway."
"NO," I tell her.
 "How about you think on it while I run out to the store and get your prescription filled?"
 
Two law enforcement officers arrive early in the evening. The male officer hangs back remaining silent while the female detective questions me and takes my statement.
"My name's Detective Jansen," she starts. "I'm going to try to make this as painless as possible."
"I tell my story."
Sympathetic to my words, she nods and smiles, offers me pamphlets with information pertaining to support groups, counsellors, and therapists. Before leaving she returns to the subject of my drinking.
"Let's go through your alcohol consumption again."
"I had four glasses of wine in the bar."
"Large or small?"
"Large."
"And in the restaurant?"
"Two, I guess. We shared a bottle. He was topping me up."
"So you may have had more than half the bottle?"
I shrug. "Possibly."
"Okay then." The detective stands.
"He raped her. Aren't you going to arrest him?" says Cindy.
"Sorry. I know it seems unfair but I don't think there's enough evidence to secure a rape conviction. Clearly an assault has taken place but, again, it's going to be 'he said, she said.'"
"So you're just going to let him get away with it?"
"We'll speak to him." Detective Jansen scribbles something in her notes. She hands me her card before leaving. "My cell number's on there. Call me any time. I'm so sorry this has happened to you."
"Me too," I reply.
 
Sunday. Cindy's not here. She sent me a series of supportive texts. I'm home alone because I insisted I wanted to be. Even though I was up early, I've been preoccupied all day, dwelling on my situation. For the record, I slept okay. I didn't have nightmares. A couple of Advil go some way to relieving my physical pain. I'm coming to terms with the gravity of what has transpired. I'm a private person, I don't want this to go to court and become a thing. There's no real upside. My friends will see me as a victim. Men will see me as damaged goods, or worse I'' be branded as one of DC's, gold-digging whores. And I'm going to work tomorrow, what if people at my job find out?
I lay back on my couch to take another run at recalling Friday's events. The phone call angered him, and he took his frustrations out on me. I recalled my own anger management issues. I understood how a person can cross the threshold. It was my anger at a man that had caused me to leave Poughkeepsie and move to DC. When I found out what he'd done I was overcome with uncontrollable rage. I took a baseball bat first to his car, then his beloved motorcycle, and finally to Brett himself.
By Sunday night I'm done deliberating. Dominic didn't hit me. He didn't threaten me. I'd given him the signal – every time I say NO it's okay for him to go right on ahead and bulldoze through my flimsy straw objections. I'll learn from this. I'll be better, stronger next time. So, I'm a little bashed-up and bruised. Some people like ruff sex – Cindy and her boyfriend had broken a bed once. At the end of the day what I experienced was just a bad date, a really horrific date. I want to put all of this behind me and move on with my life. I take Detective Jansen's card from the coffee table. Confident in my decision, I dial her number. "I want to forget this," I tell her. "It's not a big deal. I want to retract my statement."
"It's okay. We've got the bastard," she replies. "Dominic Hunter is in custody as we speak. He's been charged with your rape."
"Wow!" I'm shocked. "Did he confess?"
"No. But he did confirm the number of drinks you consumed."
"Sorry, but I just want to move on with my life. I want to drop the charges," I tell her. "It was just a bad date."
"It's not up to you," she replies. "The decision rests with the  US Attorney for the District of Colombia, and she . . ."
I'm surprised by my rising anger. "No. It is up to me. I won't come to court," I tell her. "I don't want to. You won't have a case because you'll have no evidence."
"We already have the evidence," she replies. "According to you, the accused, and the taxi driver - you were inebriated, therefore unable to give consent. It's an open and shut case: Rape, second degree – Class A felony."
"Fuck you!" I say.
"Ma'am?"
"Fuck all of you." I end the call.
 
I open a bottle of water. It takes me a few moments but I identify the origins of my hostility and anger. On Friday night that animal violated me, took my power, my dignity, my rights. What happened wasn't up to me. The situation got out of my control. I had no say. Detective Jansen was no better than him. She'd just done the very same thing, taken away my choice – commandeered my options.
Fuck them.
The doctor said 'within the next 24 hours'. So I guess it's time for me to take my prescription. I screw the cap back onto the bottle. This is something I still have control over, a decision they haven't taken away yet. I still have my right to choose.

CHAPTER ONE

Just for the record, Mom died before giving birth to Charlie. We told everybody she died during childbirth. It sounds nicer that way, more romantic, like Mom was a hero or something, but it's all an epic lie.
I didn't know at the time but Mommie Dearest was a troubled soul. She suffered from chronic problems and severe dependency issues. Eight months pregnant and fat like a whale, she got totally wasted, like she did most nights. Mom and Dad argued, like they did most nights. I lay in bed listening to them screaming at each other, like I did most nights.
Although I had a bad feeling in my tummy, nobody told me that night would be the season finale.
Mom stormed out, slamming the front door so hard the whole house shook. I remember hearing her heels on the path, the clunk of the car door, the revving of the engine, and the squeal of the tyres. I pulled off the bedcovers, jumped out of bed, and ran to my window just in time to catch a last glimpse of our SUV's tail lights as she drove off into the night.

To this day we have no idea where she was going.

Two minutes later, and less than a mile down the road, the car collided with a semi on the entrance to the freeway.
I was sat on the stairs when two stern-faced policemen came to the front door, removed their hats, and told Dad what had happened. The flashing lights on the top of their car made red and blue patterns on the front windows. There could be no doubt, after just three seasons, my nightly Mom and Dad show, the drama I thought would run for ever and ever had ended with a brutal final episode. And it wasn't like they ended it on a cliff-hanger. When both officers said, "Sorry for your loss," I knew the show had been permanently cancelled.
Inside the Cherry Hill emergency room, doctors salvaged the baby from Mom's mashed and mangled body. But this is all strictly need to know, classified information – Charlie don't know none of this, and we like to keep it that way, for her sake, and for the sake of Mom's good memory. It doesn't make us liars, not really. Everybody has deep family secrets that need to be kept, don't they?

Trust me, that whole day was real weird. From the get go, Charlie wasn't like us. She wasn't one of us. But we seen her being born in the emergency room. We watched through the glass when they ripped her out of my dead mom's belly, so she was definitely Mom's daughter, and my new baby sister.
The baby was covered in blood when they took it out, and it didn't exactly cry like a normal kid either. It squealed like the creature in that Alien film. Childbirth is bloody, messy, and just plain nasty. I've no idea why any sane person would want to do something like that. Having children is not something I'll be doing. I can promise you that.
Later, when we went to see the baby after they'd cleaned it and put it in an incubator, it was . . . well . . .the baby had kind of a tan. She wasn't black, as in Wesley Snipes black, but you could tell she wasn't Snow White. How a baby that colour got inside Mom's belly seemed to be a major point of contention. Personally, I couldn't see what all the fuss was about. But I was like . . . three years-old, and didn't understand any shit that had not been fully explained on Sesame Street.

I remember Daddy looking at the baby and shaking his head – a lot. But there weren't no mix-ups or infidelity stuff. Blood tests, DNA tests, and a whole heap of other tests confirmed Charlie was 50% Daddy, 50% Mommy, 100% Miller.

At first Daddy was kinda dubious, us being fair-skinned and all, but the tests didn't lie; Mommy may have been a crazy woman. She may have been troubled by her demons but she weren't no cheater. The nurse said my new sister could have been some kind of throwback, so I was surprised when Dad decided to keep her – and they let him. My dad took baby Charlie Miller in his arms, brought her home, and learned to love her same as he loved me.
Growing up, people would look at our family; Me, Dad, and Charlie. They'd double-take or even stare. I knew exactly what they were thinking – one of these things is not like the other.
All kids get given pet names like 'Monkey', or 'Sweat Pea', or some sucky name like that. I'm not even going to say what mine was. Charlie got saddled with 'Tiddler'. It was my fault. It's a long story, so I can't explain it right now.
Grade school, Charlie turned out to be a weird kid, but cool with it. Even if she wasn't my sister I'd still like her. I think we'd be good friends, probably BFFs. My little sister grew to be that sort of chick, free-spirited and easy to get along with. God blessed her with one of those bi-polar, magnetic personalities. She affected everybody within her immediate vicinity. Some were drawn to her, others were repelled by her, there weren't no middle ground.
On account of her being so dark, all the other kids called her 'Spic'. They tried to bully her. It didn't work though. Charlie Miller weren't no pussy. She could handle her business.
One time, after school, them boys was teasing her. It weren't really no thing, she was used to it. But they went too far. Even though she had never met her, Charlie loved her mommy. When Jimmy McNish said our mother was a dirty ho who fucked any amount of niggers behind our daddy's back . . . Charlie went ballistic.
KAPPOW!
BLAM!
SPLAT!
She beat that boy so bad he lost his retainer and pissed in his shorts. When Jimmy's best friend tried to enter the argument – she punched him out too. She blacked both his eyes – raccooned that fat little fucker.
The McNish family tried to sue us and send us all to the poor house but Daddy got himself a smart lawyer – so it was all good. I think Jimmy ended up in juvy hall for committing a racially motivated hate crime. Charlie didn't get away scot-free, the judge said she had to go to anger management. I'm not an expert but I don't think it helped none. The therapist said Charlie was frustrated, and rather than lash out she should use her words. In the entire history of lame ideas the therapist's suggestion had to be up there with worst of them. The next fight Charlie got into, she used her words, her opponent got a severe cussing before they got beat down.

No doubt about it, my sister came out of grade school fierce and fearless.

Back then, who knows? Maybe I should have been better back-up for Charlie, but I was a just a kid too. I had my own problems – boys mostly. And, for the record, I regret telling people she was adopted.
High school, now, Charlie chose to hang out with the Spics and brothers, listening to that hip-hop music and talkin' all black. They took her into their protection and gave her the nickname of Lilly, which is pretty funny considering the dark colour of her skin. My daddy weren't no racist but he always said no good would come of her foreign and extraordinary behaviour. Really I think he was just scared in case she got into drugs or some shit like that.
Charlie didn't talk to Dad for a whole month after he made her pee in a cup.
Don't get me wrong, from an early age Charlie clearly had issues. We thought she'd inherited Mom's demons. My sister dealt with her lot the best way she could. She was hell bent on being a top athlete and a 'straight A' student. The way she seen it, Mom had given up her life to give Charlie a life. For the deal to make sense Charlie had to be some kind of superstar and make a difference in the world. She worked so hard. I wanted to tell Charlie the truth but I'd promised, and promises need to be kept.

Maybe a lot of Charlie's behaviour was down to teen hormones. Trust me, I know. I've been there. I've been through it. Sometimes I think I'm still going through it. I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy. You do crazy things. I promised Bud Patterson a mercy jump because he couldn't get a prom date. What was I thinking? Lucky I chickened out at the last moment. But it would it really have been so much of a big deal? Adrianna Moss says it doesn't really count if they only put the tip in. You can't get pregnant if they only put the tip in. Adrianna runs the abstinence club at college. She swears she's still a virgin even though she's been tipped by nearly fifty guys.
Spring break, now, and out of the blue Dad announces he was getting re-married. And in principle, that was okay. It was cool with me. Our mom died a long time ago. We don't really remember her. And it's not like the accident was Dad’s fault. He told her when she stormed out not to be driving the car when she was high and drinking liquor. Everyone deserves happiness. Dad's entitled to a second shot. He raised us practically on his own. And now it was his time. He'd earned the right to be happy, and he didn't have too long to get back on the horse coz he was going grey. I'm not going to say any more about that because I'll start thinking about old people having sex.

Excuse me, I think I just threw up in my mouth, just a little bit.

I try to see all sides of an argument but Daddy needs to step up, be counted, and share the responsibility. He did all his business undercover, on the down-low. . . and I can see why he would do that – to protect us. But the way he sprung Veronica on us – it weren't right. You don't bring some raggedy old time-fighter bitch home and announce, 'This is the new Mommy'. It ain't right. It's probably unconstitutional or some shit like that, a violation of children's rights. The way he dropped it was like 'Hey, I got you kids a puppy'.
Charlie got very upset and a little bit confused. The child in her was saying, "Ain't nobody taking away my daddy." Conversely, the adult woman 'Lilly' in her was saying. "Ain't no skinny-assed, gold-digging, coked-out ho coming up inside my house, moving in on my turf, trying to take what I got."

After the family meeting we all thought the whole thing had been straightened out – apparently not.

The wedding, out in the garden, went without a hitch. Smooth as you like. Sun's shining in the sky. Radiant bride – brilliant, awesome, perfect.
 The reception, that was the game-changer, where it all went bad. Charlie, on account of she was only sixteen and had no tolerance for liquor, got a little wasted; flirting and dancing up on every man in the house. She didn’t mean nothing by it. Bitches be getting jealous coz their husband's bumping and grinding with a pretty young thing. Veronica, my new stepmom, told Charlie to calm herself and stop behaving like a tramp. I don't believe Veronica had any business calling my sister a tramp – that wasn't right. I'm not usually a violent type but Aunt Flo had come to visit and I can get a bit cranky those times - I slapped the bitch. That's when it got ugly. One big cat-fight broke out, Charlie and Veronica are screaming and shouting, pulling each other's hair. I'm trying to weigh in on my sister's side but Dad pulled me away before I could do any real damage.

With the help of Uncle Tony, Dad managed to separate them but not before Charlie managed to draw blood with a right uppercut. Tony's got a hold of Charlie. Dad's got a hold of Veronica but tempers are frayed and both women are still hollering at each other.

Just so as we're clear, Veronica ain't no racist. She was actually trying to calm things down. She made a bad word choice, a simple mistake. She told Charlie to 'lighten up'.
In a flash Charlie escapes Uncle Tony's grasp, gets all up in Veronica's face, and starts with all that hip-hop talk. "Girlfriend," she says, "you ain't got no reason sweat it because I've already had your man, and he weren't all that."

That's when the room went silent.

Obviously Veronica's man is her new husband, Richard – that’d be our father.

All eyes are upon us. There's a unified, communal, sharp intake of breath followed by whispering, muttering, and looks of condemnation. Everybody we know, all of our friends, everybody in the room, thinks we're a bunch of inbreeding rednecks. Either that or there's some serious child abuse going on.

A family doesn't come back from that. A family can't ever come back from that.

When my sister sobered up, she apologised, blaming Toni Braxton and way too much liquor. But it was too late, the Miller family were, once again, the talk of the town.
Daddy lost his mind. I couldn't blame him none. He'd had enough. He'd been through seventeen years of people looking at him funny just because one of kids was not like the other. He wasn't going to be shamed and ostracised again. He quit his job with Microsoft and went to work for Google. We packed up our lives, sold the house. Goodbye rainy Seattle, sunny California here we come.

So, I crumbled . . . I wasn't going to produce any new work but I competition worth £5,000 caught my eye.  It was a challenge to produce something - short notice,

I have a few fans out there so don't read on. The synopsis reveals virtually everything. **Spoiler Alert!**

Moving Violation Synopsis
 
In a society ruled by surveillance and paranoia, Corrine is recorded as:  Corrine Pearl Radman; 29, credit rating 637, a single white female, ordinary, not a person of interest.   A financial analyst in New York, Corrine is extremely active on social media, known for her sarcasm, tongue-in-cheek conspiracy theories, and outrageous sense of humour.  Professionally, Corrine is renowned for smart, intuitive investment choices and leads the company rankings in simulated investments. Her poor attitude is all that bars her way to a lucrative partnership position and a 35th floor corner office.

Corrine's life implodes shortly after one of her outrageous conspiracy tweets comes to fruition: an explosion at a nuclear power station coincides with Corrine dumping millions in stock. Corrine's direct supervisor, Sadeeq Parreett, returns to Pakistan on the same day of the explosion, setting off alarm bells inside the US government. Overnight, Corrine becomes a person of interest in the eyes of several government agencies.
 
When Homeland Security announce, the explosion was the result of a terrorist attack, warrants are issued for Corrine's arrest.  Special Agent Vanessa Caldwell heads the FBI team hunting Radman. Caldwell is recalled from compassionate leave after her wife (a CIA Agent) was killed during a covert operation. Caldwell is angry with US government because they refuse to acknowledge her wife, Adele, has been killed. They will not bring her body home as it would confirm the US had been spying in China.
 
A dire situation worsens when it is discovered that for the past five years Corrine has be mirroring her fantasy investment choices with her own real money. She has a substantial amount of cash squirreled away in an off-shore account.
 
Corrine finds herself on the run; her credit cards and bank accounts have been frozen, her cell-phone no longer works, both the FBI and Homeland Security are permanently camped outside her apartment. She needs to flee the city, where cameras are on every corner, but she cannot travel out of State without ID.  She finds herself in the ghetto, a dark world where the cameras have been vandalised and law enforcement fear to tread.

Desperate, out of cash and sleeping rough, Corrine enters a local bar fully convinced turning to the oldest known profession is essential to her survival. Single father, Calvin James, turns out to be her first and last prospect.  But the best deal Corrine can negotiate is a hot shower and a bed for one night. One night turns into two, then a week, then a month.

Shortly after Homeland Security appear to have backed off and Corrine's face is no longer plastered on every TV screen, the US launch a drone strike in Pakistan, killing the man they believe to be Corrine's co-conspirator. Corrine's status is reduced from America's most wanted to Person of interest. But Corrine doesn't want to live the rest of her life in the margins as a fugitive and Calvin wants a better life for him and his daughter. Moreover, they want to be together. The only way that can happen is to make Corrine a bona-fide citizen again. Corrine reveals to Calvin that she has $5.6 million in an offshore account.
 
Unaware that FBI Special Agent Caldwell has apparently gone rogue and is still on the case, the fugitives hatch an ambitious plan.  After travelling to Venezuela they purchase the documents of a terminally ill woman, Maria Gonzalez. Corinne marries Calvin using Maria's name, and proceeds to obtain new documents using the name Maria James.
 
12 months later, Maria Gonzales dies and is buried as Maria Gonzales. Corrine (as Maria James) flies to the US to be with her husband.
 
Agent Caldwell was always monitoring Corrine's offshore account, and has been following the money.  At JFK, seconds away from being reunited with Calvin, Corrine is detained and transported to the FBI's New York field office.
 
Rather than take her into custody, Caldwell provides Corrine with new documents and a newspaper article detailing Corrine's death before telling her: the explosion was down to a software error. There was no terrorist attack, but hey, we went to war, bombed a country over the incident, the US Government was never going to walk that back.
 
In an attempt to confirm that she's free and clear, Corrine asks Caldwell if any charges remain against her. After a moment's thought Caldwell replies, "Possibly bigamy. Technically you're married to me."
 
As Corinne exits JFK, the CCTV system identifies her as: Adele Lyle, 31-years-old, credit rating 615, a single white female, further information classified.

So I recently rediscovered an old very literary very short piece. On the face of it, it's pretty, it's clever, but apparently nonsensical. To be understood by the minions any explanation requires more words the the piece itself. 

The outer, unwritten framework, is the story of a middle class woman in an abusive marriage. The story is her cryptic cry for help. By design, reading the story provides little insight into her message. However, reading the story out loud to a third party may offer enough clues to unravel the tale.

After a domestic violence 'incident' the woman miscarries. (It was a boy). In her grief she becomes depressed and afraid of her husband. During her next 'fertile' period her husband forces himself on her. A new pregnancy, whether boy or girl, goes some way to ease her depression. But she remains in fear of her husband.

THE CONFINES OF THE CASTLE
 

After the fall, the morning of the passing sun hailed a winter that would never end. Now without life, and love lost, her spring had left her, and now she feared the night.

During a new season the night would come, and the night would know her. And by early light she felt the comfort and warmth of the birth of a new dawn. Or the promise of a summer sun, to brighten all her days, and to ease the pain of morning. But still, she feared the night.

So, it's not really my project but I find it fascinating. In these times of shortened attention spans, publisher's needing tightly defined genres, and creative writing guru's insisting there must be a hero, a villain, a villain, a conflict, and a resolution - Michael D Scott has simply said "Fuck it! . . . All of it."

Fibonacci's Child is written in five parts. Part One plays out like a 'romantic comedy'. Part Two reads somewhere between 'misery lit' and 'tragedy'. For Part Three it's a visit to the 'S/F' shelf. And Part Four becomes distracted by the 'Fantasy' genre. By Part Five you'll realise the whole series was about mythology and destiny.

Ultimately it's a story about a woman who makes a tragic mistake. The more Katrina tries to fix her error, the worse the consequences become.  What is probably unique to this story is the utilisation of a "Groundhog Day" type plot but without the need for time travel. This is achieved by marrying the themes of 'clones' and 'twins'.

****Spoiler Alert****

Katrina causes the death of her twin sister. When a similar tragedy occurs in the next generation Katrina is quick to recognise a pattern. But twins begatting twin means procreation is always to the power of two. Which twin is destined to kill its sibling is little more that a guessing game. Katrina believes if she can prevent one tragedy she can halt the pattern.

The story is deceptive in almost every way. Whilst the reader and the characters believe they are following a random story the author is simultaneously playing out several stories. "Cane killed Abel", "Zeus split apart the hermaphrodites",  "Pollox and Castor are twins but Helen came out of the same egg." there's even a bit of "Heroes" and "Kill Bill" in there somewhere. The story is secretly driven by mathematics, nature, and religion. Katrina thinks her mistake was to clone a twin. Subsequently, the twins want to reproduce 2, 4, 8, 16 . . . Nature wants to follow the Fibonacci Sequence 1,1,2,3,5,8 . . . and is killing them off to keep the numbers right. Katrina is trying to fix the problem using science.

RACIAL STEREOTYPES – WHITE MEN CAN'T DANCE!!

If you're Asian this has nothing to do with you, nothing to see here – move on. If you're a trained dancer, this doesn't apply to you either.

A lot of folk say white people can't dance but experience and study show this not to be true – it's just the men. If we go back, way back, back in to time, the 70's and 80's when funk and disco ruled the airwaves, we note this was a period of time when people like Alf Garnet accused black men of 'coming over 'ere' and 'stealing our women'. (A young Nigel Farage was badly affected). If we examine what was going on amongst the teens and their raging hormones at the time we can begin to understand ensuing mixed race baby boom.

It starts at the school disco where pubescent children overdosed on sugar and experiencing the rush of red dye 40 were subjected to loud music. Affected by the funky beats the black kids, born with natural rhythm, hit the dance-floor. The white girls, quickly realised God have recently endowed them with new bits that they were able to wiggle and shake in a provocative manner. They were compelled to express themselves. The white boys, however, remained around the edge of the assembly hall discussing football, the offside rule, and Doctor Who.

The die had been cast.

School's out. The little buggers have all obtained fake ID's. They are frequenting night-clubs where they are throwing copious amounts of alcohol down their throats. The dance-floor has become a 'no-go' area for the average white boy. Like an adult who didn't learn to swim as a child he decides it's too late now. Even the genre is against him, this is not a style of music where he can attempt to look cool by playing air guitar.

You know I'm just f—king with, right?

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R8AOAap6_k4

Enter into evidence the video recording of a Womack and Womack's 'Teardrops'. It's a laid-back video showing the band recording the track in the studio. All the black people are totally chilled out (you know they've all been smokin' weed). They all got their grooves on. But check out the bass player (white male) – that's some embarrassing shit.     

 

I've never understood why Americans live their lives in fear of terrorists. Statistically speaking, there are a million things that will kill you before any terrorist. But if your autopsy does declare 'death by terrorist' you may have to thank the likes of Donald Trump.

Imagine the devastation of an attack on US soil leaving 53 dead, over 2000 injured, a billion dollars in damage, a city in tatters, and over 4000 US troops deployed in response.  This toll would place the incident third on US list of terrorist attacks (behind 9/11 and Oklahoma).

Who would be to blame for such a tragedy?

As a child I heard "New York, New York" - I don't know where from, maybe my parents were listening to it. Anyway, one line, "these VAGABOND shoes" impressed me. I had no idea what "VAGABOND" meant - it just sounded good! I adopted it, and assigned a meaning to it. In my culture we have an expression "judging clothes".

http://www.woolerykitchen.com/blog-posts/article/what-are-judging-clothes.

So I kinda assumed "VAGABOND Shoes" went with "Judging clothes". (Turns out I wasn't too far off the mark). So, I was a happy kid running around the neighbourhood in my "VAGABOND Shoes".

You're wondering why I'm capitalising "VAGABOND". It's to avoid bias.

Here's the thing . . .

I'm a super-intelligent adult now. "New York, New York" was recorded in 1977 by Liza Minnelli (Sinatra didn't record it until 1979). But the Vagabond Shoe Company has been trading since the 60's, and you Americans love your branding. Throw into mix I've never seen the original lyrics, I've only heard the words.

I can only conclude the following: Liza Minnelli is a woman, and women know all about shoes. Therefore her version refers to "these Vagabond shoes".
Frank Sinatra is a man, and by definition, knows nothing about shoes. His lyrics are "these vagabond shoes".

This thinking opens up a whole new world: does he mean "These little town blues are melting away" or "These Littletown blues . . .?" 'Littletown' being a bar in NYC - that also makes sense. 'Littletown is his regular haunt

Oh, wait . . . I'm getting it now.

"Start spreading the news . . ." could mean "Start spreading The News" - Our Frank has woken up in his vagabond shoes, with a hangover from his night at Littletown, and has opened his daily paper "The News" in search of out-town jobs.

Hot damn! This is not a song celebrating New York - Frank's on down to his last dollar! He's thinking of quitting but wants to give it one last chance.

How the hell to people communicate verbally, without punctuation?

If there's a moral to the story?

I wrote something . . . for the five bucks you paid it can mean whatever you like.

. . . and for those who really didn't get it - I'm just fucking with you!

I stumble into a lot of comments about books or blogs on writing. I'm fairly comfortable with the way I write. I don't need advice on the use of adverbs - I'm way past that. However, I do study.

A new novel calls for a new character. (It's surprising how hard that is to do).

I've written the first chapter and it has become apparent that New Yorker +Elizabeth Jeanette Radman+ is attractive, single, very smart, and works in broking (finance). Her downside is that she is socially inept. I don't know any real people to base this character on but she sounds a little bit "Sloan Sabbith" to me.

So I spend some time studying the character starting here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D-7oN84Gi8k

It's a fairly quick study because although she's just a character she's often reacting to real life situations which I've had my own thoughts and feelings on. e.g. Raising the debt ceiling or Fukushima Daiichi.

I spend a few hours on Youtube studying her. I find it particularly interesting, the only time she got really passionate was about raising the debt ceiling. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gj5-G01iRyk

My next task is to research the actor, Olivia Munn, to see how far removed she is from the character. The good news is - she's not. She's a bit of a klutz and is borderline OCD.

She makes a good base for my character because she has opinions and issues that I don't share (some of them I wouldn't even think of). But in other ways she's very different from 'EJ' - 'EJ' has secrets which affect her behaviour.