Ninety-Nine Stories

Here is a re-post commemorating 9/11 as requested

Ninety-Nine Stories

A wall of searing blue flames pressed Hussam to the melted and broken windows. He couldn’t breathe and the heat was hell.

“It’s you,” the pretty girl from personnel ran up and said. Over the months, he had stolen glances of her and she did the same, both gutless wonders.

“I’m Hussam Fayyad, your boss’s boss.”

“I know. Save your breath. I’m Sarah Bernstein.” He knew.

They locked their hands, tight. Leaned out and hesitated. Then, Sarah’s wavy auburn hair caught fire.

“Marry me.” She screamed from the pain, tears evaporating. Taking off his jacket, he wrapped her head.

“I will. … I do.” Holding hands tightly, they jumped out from the ninety-ninth floor.

*

“I do,” she tried to say—her breath pushed inward by the rush of air—not that he could hear her anyway. She closed her eyes, he held unto her like a vise, as if they were one. Perhaps now they were.

"Mom and Dad, I’d like you to meet my fiancée, Hussam Fayyad.” Her folks' home, a big split-level in Oradell New Jersey, had beautiful large tile floors, a modern kitchen, with a menorah on the table. The candles had pooled on the tabletop.

“I guess it’s stupid for me to tell my daughter she should have chosen a nice Jewish boy?” Sarah’s mom asked rhetorically.

“We’re soul mates,” Hussam said.

“We’re besherte, mom.” She put it in Yiddish terms.

*

He dared not open his eyes and lose this vision of her mom and dad. He had always thought about Sarah, trying to get up the nerve to ask her out. Worried of cultural, political, and religious differences. He didn’t believe in treating women like second-class citizens, not at work, not in marriage. His hiring practices and office policies touted the heart of a modern liberated Muslim.

“We’ll always love the thought of you,” her mom and dad said, hugging him.

“We have to go to the wedding now,” Sarah said, pulling his hand.

*

At the wedding, Hussam’s little brother carried the ring on a purple pillow. Sarah always knew Hussam would come by, lean on her desk, ask her out. They’d marry; have three kids, two girls, one boy, or the other way around. They both wanted to be outvoted in either case. These gorgeous kids would grow up brilliant and loving, real menches; oh yes, two dogs, just right.

“I am so happy to have you in my heart.” Hussam’s parents, both a little portly, hugged her by the orchids stationed at the first row of seats in their garden.

Tears turned to rivers. Images rifted through her of falafel, lamb kebob, along with gefilte fish, Manischewitz Blackberry for the toast. Bruce Springsteen’s band struck up, ‘Here Comes the Bride.’

“He took my hand,” she explained to his mom and dad by way of apology.

“Thank you, pretty Sarah. My son, he always work, work, work.”

Sarah wished the world a better place, maybe a little less work, a little more love.

“He needs a strong Jewish girl to love him,” his dad said. They kissed her cheeks.

“I always had and always will love him,” Sarah said. She had harbored a tiny love, like a seedling, hoping to water it. No doubt about her feelings, now.

Martin Luther King without thinking forgot to add one word, Muslim. “…when all of God’s children, black men and white men, Jews, Muslims, and Gentiles, Protestant and Catholics, will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual: 'Free at last! Free at last! Thank God Almighty, we are free at last.'”

Sarah’s heart beat the rhythm of Martin’s words. She felt Hussam heard and saw Martin with her at the Lincoln Memorial, because he squeezed her. He’d never let go.

I am within you, Sarah.

I am within you, Hussam.

“Great Grand Papa.” Isaac Bernstein was gassed at Auschwitz, yet thin, young, suspendered, a silly fedora, munching on a pipe, his eyes opened to heaven.

“You bring the right man with you, mazel tov. Hussam’s great grand mom and pop are at the bridge table with your great grandma, waiting for me to come back. You see, I’m the dummy. Those two died in Gaza. Bam, to pieces.” He splayed his hands.

At the wedding, Cyndi Lauper spread her many orange, red, and yellow petticoats on the back step. With a sad face, she sang, 'Time After Time.'

The Rabbi and Imam smiled from under the canopy on this day of brilliant blue. They finished with one voice, “in death you will start, because love is eternal.”

*

Almighty God, Allah, blessed them, opened his arms, and said, “Kiss already.”

*

We kissed.

KEY WORDS

WORDS CAN CHANGE YOUR LIFE

Last week I wrote about how a young woman used certain key words to make an alpha male fall instantly in love with her (on their first date). Of course, her words were accompanied with body and facial language, heart and emotion. I also said I'd fall for her well-thought-out approach too, provided there was chemistry.

Yesterday, at the RWASD meeting, Penny Sansevieri presented, among other things, the importance of key words in helping potential readers find your novel. This lesson is critically important in today's publishing world.

Okay, here comes the boring or shameless self promotion part which you can skip by going right to the video. I don't write this blog to sell my books. I write to entertain and inform. If you want to buy my book, I promise I won't stop you. LOL. I decided to not only use a "normal" description of my new novel, Autumn Breeze, which is posted on Amazon, but will add key words to the bottom of the description. This is, as far as I know, not done! I'll let you know if this increases sales. I'm putting my proposed add-on to the description below the video.

Here's the promo for A Novel Romance, A Hallmark Channel movie first released last week. I feature it because it's a romance and it's about a writer. Also, it highlights the struggle to say what you mean. Imagine a (boring) novel/movie, in which the hero or heroine is so quick on their feet, they immediately solve problems created by the incomplete use of the English language. I'd bet, especially in comedies, that a majority of problems are created by poorly thought out and therefore incomplete verbal communications. The irony in this movie centers around a writer. I.e. a hero whose proper use of words is his critical path to success in his art and his love.

A Novel Romance, Hallmark, Trailer 2015:

P.s. I enjoyed the movie.







A different way to handle Key Words by putting them in the description:
Rather than go on with more information that might spoil the plot or story, the author offers the following words or phrases that describe major and minor themes occurring in this novel. Regarding the girl’s, detective’s and spy’s internal stories we have literary romance, teenage love stories and angst, coming of age, young adult, family, friendship, college, scholarship, multicultural, multiracial, interracial, immigration, Caribbean, marriage, wedding, adoption. Regarding the external plot we have 9/11, mystery, thriller, intrigue, suspense, spy, assassins, police procedural, terrorists, terrorism, military, war, cloak and dagger, mass murder, political, anti-terrorism taskforce, CIA, NSA, NCS, Homeland Security, and martial arts. And as catch alls for various plot twists, we have contemporary romance, wealthy, literature, American, ghosts, paranormal. And then, New York City, Manhattan, Brooklyn and Trinidad. Let’s not forget Rudy Giuliani and the ever popular historical 21^st century.



My new book and its description can be seen at:
http://www.amazon.com/Autumn-Breeze-Carlos-RW-Richard/dp/0980080487/ref=sr_1_3?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1421613702&sr=1-3&keywords=autumn+breeze

WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?

WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?

This is not me asking you. This question is about what your reader wants from you. When someone writes a book, they usually do it so that they might lift spirits or entertain someone else. Hopefully many someone elses.

There’s a rare bird who will say I write for only myself. This post isn’t about that person. Once you decide you write for more than yourself you must consider what others like. To know what others like you must realize that tastes are constantly changing. Therefore, it is wise to keep your finger on the popular pulse. Goning-by-the-way-side are the days when a publisher will dictate what you should write, partially because they’re not elastic enough to change quickly (this is changing) to keep up with people’s tastes and also due to the growing interest in indie-published books (truly elastic marketability).

You might say, ‘I’m not a whore.’ I’ll tell you, we are just haggling over the number of people (‘price’ in the old joke).

Hollywood has huge resources they apply to knowing what the public wants and giving it to them. Whether it be a Screwball comedy set in the depression where a down and out meets a rich girl (It Happened One Night) or take a look at the best picture nominees (today). I.e. Twelve Years a Slave is a good example.

On TV the average age of the viewing public has jumped from 41 in 1993 to 54 in 2014 (baby boomers rule and spend).

Records or songs have always been bought by the young. Many of these are love songs and quite beautiful or entertaining. Although the young buy records, the older listen as well and so should the writer of romance listen.

Keep your finger on the public’s pulse. Hopefully, when you write what interests you, you’ll also write what interests the readers. So you can afford to buy a record, see a movie, read a book.

I’ll leave you with a true story (and then a song). I wrote a romance novel which used 9/11 and NYC as backdrops. I waited to query agents/editors until after Hollywood gave the green light to movies that also used 9/11 (Incredibly Loud and Extremely Close) and TV (Blue Bloods) etc. After major disasters, the media typically waits ten years, as was the case with the Titanic (anyone remember?). I was told no thanks because the subject was taboo. Someone wasn’t keeping their finger on the pulse. Plenty of romances have war and horrid events as backdrops. So what did I do? I’ve hired a Harlequin freelance editor to work the story over. I’ll give the agents/editors one last try and then I’ll publish it myself. Those of you who have read it or portions of it know the story has merit and IMO is a terrific romance.

WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME by Adam Lambert (a San Diegan) can also apply to the artist’s struggle to make love to his audience, whether it be the fantastically talented Adam or you. 2009.

 

 

 

To our brothers and sisters 9/11

September 11, 2001

In honor of those who died on 9/11

NINETY-NINE STORIES
By RW Richard

A wall of searing blue flames pressed Hussam to the melted and broken windows. He couldn’t breathe and the heat was hell.

“It’s you,” the pretty girl from personnel ran up and said. Over the months, he had stolen glances of her and she did the same, both gutless wonders.

“I’m Hussam Fayyad, your boss’s boss.”

“I know. Save your breath. I’m Sarah Bernstein.” He knew.

They locked their hands, tight. Leaned out and hesitated. Then, Sarah’s wavy auburn hair caught fire.

“Marry me.” She screamed from the pain, tears evaporating. Taking off his jacket, he wrapped her head.

“I will. . . . I do.” Holding hands tightly, they jumped out from the ninety-ninth floor.

 

“I do,” she tried to say—her breath pushed inward by the rush of air—not that he could hear her anyway. She closed her eyes, he held unto her like a vise, as if they were one. Perhaps now they were.

"Mom and Dad, I’d like you to meet my fiancée, Hussam Fayyad.” Her folks' home, a big split-level in Oradell New Jersey, had beautiful large tile floors, a modern kitchen, with a menorah on the table. The candles had pooled on the tabletop.

“I guess it’s stupid for me to tell my daughter she should have chosen a nice Jewish boy?” Sarah’s mom asked rhetorically.

“We’re soul mates,” Hussam said.

“We’re besherte, mom.” She put it in Yiddish terms.

 

He dared not open his eyes and lose this vision of her mom and dad. He had always thought about Sarah, trying to get up the nerve to ask her out. Worried of cultural, political, and religious differences. He didn’t believe in treating women like second-class citizens, not at work, not in marriage. His hiring practices and office policies touted the heart of a modern liberated Muslim.

“We’ll always love the thought of you,” her mom and dad said, hugging him.

“We have to go to the wedding now,” Sarah said, pulling his hand.

 

At the wedding, Hussam’s little brother carried the ring on a purple pillow. Sarah always knew Hussam would come by, lean on her desk, ask her out. They’d marry; have three kids, two girls, one boy, or the other way around. They both wanted to be outvoted in either case. These gorgeous kids would grow up brilliant and loving, real menches; oh yes, two dogs, just right.

“I am so happy to have you in my heart.” Hussam’s parents, both a little portly, hugged her by the orchids stationed at the first row of seats in their garden.

Tears turned to rivers. Images rifted through her of falafel, lamb kebob, along with gefilte fish, Manischewitz Blackberry for the toast. Bruce Springsteen’s band struck up, ‘Here Comes the Bride.’

“He took my hand,” she explained to his mom and dad by way of apology.

“Thank you, pretty Sarah. My son, he always work, work, work.”

Sarah wished the world a better place, maybe a little less work, a little more love.

“He needs a strong Jewish girl to love him,” his dad said. They kissed her cheeks.

“I always had and always will love him,” Sarah said. She had harbored a tiny love, like a seedling, hoping to water it. No doubt about her feelings, now.

Martin Luther King without thinking forgot to add one word, Muslim. “. . . when all of God’s children, black men and white men, Jews, Muslims, and Gentiles, Protestant and Catholics, will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual: 'Free at last! Free at last! Thank God Almighty, we are free at last.'”

Sarah’s heart beat the rhythm of Martin’s words. She felt Hussam heard and saw Martin with her at the Lincoln Memorial, because he squeezed her. He’d never let go.

I am within you, Sarah.

I am within you, Hussam.

“Great Grand Papa.” Isaac Bernstein was gassed at Auschwitz, yet thin, young, suspendered, a silly fedora, munching on a pipe, his eyes opened to heaven.

“You bring the right man with you, mazel tov. Hussam’s great grand mom and pop are at the bridge table with your great grandma, waiting for me to come back. You see, I’m the dummy. Those two died in Gaza. Bam, to pieces.” He splayed his hands.

At the wedding, Cyndi Lauper spread her many orange, red, and yellow petticoats on the back step. With a sad face, she sang, 'Time After Time.'

The Rabbi and Imam smiled from under the canopy on this day of brilliant blue. They finished with one voice, “in death you will start, because love is eternal.”

 

Almighty God, Allah, blessed them, opened his arms, and said, “Kiss already.”

We kissed