The Lady's Man - Our heroine, Catriona McCaffery, staying with her aunt after the break-up.

Chapter 3 - Forgotten Friends - Catriona McCaffery

            My suitcase landed on the pavement with a heavy thud. The bus moved off, leaving me staring at the village church across the street from me. I had been in there a couple of times with my mother many years ago. The minister had been ancient. I doubt if he would still be there. I'm going to call my aunt in a minute and ask her for directions, but before I do, I think a cup of coffee might be in order. I wheeled my suitcase down the steep hill to a building opposite Carnock Primary School. Ye Coffee Shoppe, the sign above the large glass window boasted.

            With my head down, I dragged my suitcase over to one of the booths and collapsed into a seat, resting my head on my arms, crossed in front of me on the table. I was barely aware of the bell that had announced my arrival finally stop ringing.

            "I'll be there in a minute!" I heard a woman’s voice call out. The voice seemed familiar somehow, but I was too tired to think any more about it. I only wanted to rest right now. My head was empty of thought, perfect. Not for long though. The sound of two girls talking in the next booth invaded my peace and quiet. Their voices were very animated and the object of their ire was somebody called Caleb. I tried my best to tune them out, but it was nigh on impossible.

            "I honestly thought he was serious about me," one girl said.

            " I had marriage on my mind the whole time," came the reply.

            "He has it all," the first girl went on, "looks, physique, sense of humour, nice dad. Not rich but not poor either. His mother left Caleb and his dad when Caleb was only eight. He told me about it once, but when I tried to find out more, he got all bent out of shape."

            "Really?"

            "He was more than just angry, if you had seen the look on his face... I really believe he hates his mother for leaving them."

Are there any women who don't have men problems. My life has just been turned upside down and now I can't block out the problems of these two.

            "Even after all this time?” continued the second girl, "It must be close to sixteen or seventeen years ago."

            "From that point on, our relationship went steeply downhill,” said the first. “I think that's why he dumped me. Just because I asked about his mother."

            "When his mother left, his conscience disappeared with her," came the reply. "It's as if he is scared to get too close to anyone.”

            “How many girls has he dated… that you know of, Irene?"

            "Dated or bedded?"

            "Has he ever done one without the other?" the first girl asked.

            Men cheating on women, I thought. Same problem the world over. Why couldn't I be the focal point of a man's love. How wonderful it would be to experience naught but devotion from the man of my dreams. To know that he desired no other woman, but me. I sighed, a sudden feeling of heaviness spreading through my body. My number one fantasy, no closer to realization.

            "I still love him," admitted the girl called Irene.

            "Handsomest man I've ever seen," said the other. "Almost made me feel ugly standing beside him,"

            "There was no almost about it," the girl called Irene shot back.

I admit it, I almost giggled at this last comment. I barely managed to control myself. Good job they couldn't see the grin spread across my face. It turned out that the comment made them burst out laughing anyway, so I allowed myself a quick chuckle. It was wrong of me to feel better, but what is that saying? How can feeling so wrong feel so right. Something like that.

            "Is everything okay?" came the same voice that sounded familiar a short while ago.

            "Everything’s fine, Mrs. Robson, thanks for asking," coughed the first girl.

I recognized the symptoms of a person caught laughing whilst trying to swallow a mouthful of liquid. Been there, done that. I raised my head up from the table. My spirits rose immediately. Emily Robson, my Aunt. She hadn't noticed me.

            "Aunt Em!" I said, standing up and holding my arms out. Emily Robson spun around and let her gaze fall upon me. She pitched forward and grabbed me in what could best be described as a bear-hug.

            "Catriona, my wee darlin' how you've grown, you were about seven years old when last I set eyes on you. I live upstairs," she said, "that is we live upstairs. Yours will be the first door on the right once you’ve reached the landing. When you're ready I'll take you there. I'm afraid it looks out over the street to the bus stop, but there is another window which has a view out over a small park and beyond that, our village minister's manse."

My aunt was looking me up and down, her smile increasing with every pass.

            “My but you look wonderful,” she said.

One of the girls with severe love problems eased her way out of the booth and stepped into view.

            "What! You don't recognize me? Catriona McCaffery, am I right? We used to play together as kids."

            "Etta, is that really you?"

            “Ta-da!" Etta laughed, stepped forward and hugged me. "What brings you back here after so many years?"

            "I guess you don't recognize me then," interrupted the other girl, "now that I no longer wear braces on my teeth and sport contacts rather than glasses. Now that I am awesomely gorgeous, with big boobs."

            "And a butt to match," Etta whispered, a comment that Irene totally ignored.

            "Irene, of course. I heard you being called by name, but it never clicked." We hugged each other.

            "I am so sorry you two," I said, taking each of their hands in mine.

            "I'll bring some coffee," said my aunt, "while you three get re-acquainted."

I watched as she disappeared into what must be the kitchen.

            "Your aunt moved here years ago and has been running this coffee shop ever since," said Etta, anticipating my question correctly. "She's a wonderful cook, but I expect you already know that."

I nodded. We sat down at the table, Irene and Etta opposite me.

            "Men trouble, right?" inquired Etta.

            "Just one," I replied, glancing down at my naked ring finger. "The one I was going to marry."

            "Was," acknowledged Irene with an understanding nod. "No more needs to be said, I guess."

            "Nope," I replied.

            "Cheated on you?" Irene asked, her eyes narrowing.

            "Yup," I said, my eyes refusing to meet hers.

Irene just shook her head.

            "I can't see a man cheating on you," stated Etta, "I mean look at you. You look fabulous. There has to be a catch. Own up, what prompted this madman to cheat on the beautiful girl sitting in front of us?"

            "My desire to be a virgin bride," I said simply, but felt a little stupid at my admittance to such an old fashioned concept.

            "Too late for us," said Etta, looking directly at Irene, "but not as daft a desire as it might seem, I don't think."

            "Good for you," added Irene.

Aunt Em returned with three cups of coffee and an assortment of biscuits splashed onto a large plate.

            "Tuck in girls, it's on the house. Let me just go and check on my niece's room."

            "Thanks, aunt Em," I called out after her retreating body.

            "Apparently I'm not the only one with a mess of a love life," I said. "I apologize, but I couldn't help but hear your conversation. I overheard the name Caleb, am I right?"

            "You are," said Irene with a sigh. Etta gaze fell to the plateful of biscuits as she nodded in agreement.

            "So, which one of you dated this Caleb?" I asked.

            "I did," they replied in unison.

            "And he’s a movie star," I prompted.

            "He has movie star looks," corrected Etta, her gaze still fixed on the plate.

A bus passing the shop temporarily drowned out our conversation. Irene glanced at her watch.

            "Right on time," she said. "Exactly half an hour after the bus that you must have been on."

Less than a minute later, the bell sounded, announcing another patron. My back was to the door, but the look on the faces of my two childhood friends was a sight to behold. Neither said anything, but simply stared over my shoulder, their faces devoid of expression. To all intents and purposes, in a state of trance. I fought the urge to look. I felt it might be rude of me to do so. A man's rich, deep voice cut through the air.

            "Have you baked any of those wonderful raspberry tarts, Mrs Robson? You have? Excellent. I'll take two please. This should cover it. Thanks again."

I won't deny, I was more than a little curious to see the man to whom this richly erotic voice belonged, when it suddenly dawned on me. Who could possibly manifest such an effect on my two friends other than the man they called Caleb. I almost broke my neck turning around to check. Too late, he had already left the shop and disappeared from view. Good manners had prevented me from seeing the beast that had caused my two friends such grief. I turned back to face them again. Etta had her head down and her eyes shut, but Irene was still staring past me to where this Caleb had been standing.

            "I honestly thought he was serious about me, but all he wanted was to screw me senseless,” Etta said, her voice wobbling. “It's been four months, and I’m still pining away.”

            “We were both misled,” Irene piped in. “I had marriage on my mind the whole time. His mind was obviously full of hot torrid depraved sex. Oh, the things he made me do, the positions I was forced into. I blush now at the thought.”

Her words said one thing, but her face exuded a radiant glow as she spoke of this man and his heinous activities. Then she buried her face in her hands.

            "I hear he is chasing Shona Mathews," said Etta.

            "The widow? I thought he was after Adele what’s-her-name," said Irene from behind her hands.

            "Gillespie," Etta said providing the last name, "Adele Gillespie."

            "Not really his type I wouldn't have thought," said Irene.

I looked across the table at the two girls before fixing my gaze upon Etta.

            "Would you date this Caleb if he ever asked you out again?"

            "Never, no way, not a chance," she replied.

            "I would too," Irene admitted, staring into her almost empty cup. "As if that is ever going to happen again," she added wistfully. "It's a pity that he will never know the feeling of having his heart ground under the heel of his lover's boot."

            “Now that would be justice of the highest order," Etta agreed. "That, I would pay to see."

            "As daydreams go, it's the best," admitted Irene, "I can see the title of the movie now, 'Revenge of the Jilted Village Beauties.’"

            "You call that a movie title?” replied Etta, unimpressed. “I prefer a major magazine headline. Something like… 'Callous Golf Pro Steals Heart of Village Beauty Before Tossing the Woman's Major Organ Into the Garbage'."

            "Why would a golf pro remove a perfectly good twat and throw it away?" returned Irene, trying her best to look confused.

            "So that it could keep company with your unused brain," Etta chided. “We need to come up with a plan to avenge our shattered hearts.”

            "Caleb needs to be brought to heel, to grovel before both of us and beg our forgiveness," said Irene, warming to the idea.

            Apparently, this notion was to be savoured at every opportunity. Revenge was in order, my two friends both agreed, but how and when, were the questions still to be answered. I had nothing to add to the conversation, but let them vent without interruption.

            "Here's to revenge," said Etta.

            "Revenge!" Irene echoed, tapping her cup gently against Etta’s.

            “That takes care of the who and the what,” said Etta. “Now we need to work on the other details. Any ideas?”

            “I’ve an idea you will be leaving the tip for the tea and biscuits,” Irene said. “My purse is missing in action. I hope I left it at home and didn’t lose it.”

            “Really? What is that beside your left elbow. It sure as heck looks like your purse to me,” replied Etta.

            “My goodness! How could I have missed that?” a perplexed frown appeared on Irene‘s face.

            “Well, it clears up one issue,” said Etta.

            “And what might that be?”

            “Caleb wasn’t after you for your looks. He simply has a soft spot for the blind.

            “Evens?” Irene asked.

Etta grinned. “Okay, now we’re even.”

Satisfied, they both surrendered their full attention to finishing their beverage.

            "I don't know what to say girls," was my only comment after their latest banter.

            "There's nothing to be said, other than, I will have my revenge, either in this life or the next," said Etta.

            "Gladiator… the movie… Russell Crowe," I stated.

            "Great movie," said Irene.

            "The bad guy gets his in the end." This from Etta.

            "The good guy dies too, don't forget," I said.

            "How romantic." Irene sighed.

The three of us lowered our eyes to the plate, devoid of all biscuits bar one. Our heads raised simultaneously, each waiting for the other to make the first move.

            "You have it, Catriona," said Etta. It's your first day here, it's your aunt's coffee shop and it's our way of saying welcome back."

            "Well, thank you Etta," I said, as I reached for the biscuit in question.

Like a snakes tongue, Etta's arm shot out and snatched the biscuit from the plate and deposited it into her mouth in one smooth motion. Irene and I watched as she chewed for a brief second then swallowed.

            "Oh!" said Etta raising her eyebrows, “did you want it?"

            "Not at all," I replied. "Everybody knows that the last biscuit is the one which puts on the most weight."

            "Irene must have had a lot of last biscuits," suggested Etta, exactly one second before the sound of a hand smacking an arm disturbed the conversation.

My aunt reappeared at the foot of the stairs.

            "Feeling a little peckish after your long journey, Catriona?" she asked.

            "The poor girl was starving," said Etta. "Watching her eat was embarrassing, Mrs Robson."

            "Would you like some more, dear?" Aunt Em asked me.

            "Would I like some more, girls?"

            "I think she has room for a couple more," suggested Etta.

            "More coffee?" asked my aunt.

            "That would be lovely Mrs. Robson. Thanks," said Irene.

            "You two haven't changed," I said.

            "And yet it took you forever to recognize us," replied Etta in a miffed tone.

The three of us exchanged grins.

            "Nice to meet up with you again, Cat," said Irene. "You don't mind me calling you Cat, do you?"

            "Knock yourself out," I replied.

            "Cat it is, then."

            Half an hour later we had all caught up with each other’s news, and I was forced to bid them adieu. I felt drained. The only thing I wanted to do was lay down and sleep. They were still tucking into the biscuits when I went upstairs.

            "Going to rest for a bit aunt Em," I said climbing the stairs slowly. “I'll pick up my suitcase later if you don't mind."

            "Let me show you to your room then," she replied.

I don't remember much after that conversation. I was drifting quietly off to sleep, when a handsome man’s face outside a bus window drifted through my mind. A gentle fluttering in my stomach brought a warm glow deep inside of me. After that, nothing.

The Lady's Man - Caleb Carter. Bad boy son of the Reverend Byron Carter.

Caleb's mother walked out on him and his father when Caleb was just a lad. Since then, his distrust of women ensured that any relationship he entered--now that he was a man--was both brief and superficial. He made no apologies for that and sought no sympathy. He was a man detached from strong emotion. Impenetrable armour as cold as steel surrounded his heart. Never again would any woman make him feel that pain again. He swore it.

Chapter 8 – Where am I? – Caleb Carter

            Monday morning found me in Ye Coffee Shoppe nursing a cup of tea and a hangover. The preceding night’s entertainment was thankfully hazy in parts, unfortunately clear in others. One of my high school chums, and golfing buddy, was getting married and had his bachelor party last night in the upstairs of a two story building in Dunfermline. The party that ensued was probably like most bachelor parties. Bored looking strippers trying not too convincingly to look like they were actually enjoying themselves. Old school chums trying to reconnect with their former friends. Everybody 'doing justice' to the full bar stocked with every alcoholic drink you could imagine, and a few you couldn't.

            All twelve participants that turned up had arrived in either a taxi or by bus or had been dropped off by a friend, and would leave the same way.

The memory of a conversation about horses being unable to walk down stairs seemed relevant somehow, but such relevance escaped me for the moment. I'm not a drinker by nature, which is probably why I am suffering so badly with my own hangover this morning. A glass of white wine and a few beers a week is my normal limit. I'm pretty sure I passed that benchmark within the first half hour.

            The lights in Mrs. Robson's coffee shop were trying their best to fry my dilated pupils. I should have brought my sunglasses.

            "Some vegetable soup perhaps, Caleb?" Mrs. Robson asked, as she approached my table. "Great for soaking up alcohol," she whispered.

            "You're an angel Mrs. Robson. I'll take the soup and more tea please."

            "Hang in there, Mr. Carter, I'll be back in two minutes."

A lovely woman, Mrs. Robson and perfect as an owner/operator of the coffee shop, I thought. Concerned about everybody, but never nosy, she had the knack of being there when you needed her and absent when you didn't. A trait that I wish she shared with Grace Wilson's mother.

            "Here's your soup and tea Caleb," said Mrs. Robson setting them both down on the table before easing the thick vegetable soup in front of me and disappearing with the empty teacup. Steam rose from the soup plate, bringing with it the heavenly aroma of carrots, potatoes turnips and several other wholesome ingredients. I inhaled deeply and felt better almost immediately.

            Simple sentences didn't seem to aggravate my hangover, but using words of more than five letters threatened to make my head explode. Bearing this in mind, I even tried to think in small words. It was useless. Trying to piece together what had happened in the last hour that I was at the party seemed futile. I vaguely remember getting into a taxi. Somebody in the back seat just wouldn't shut up, but I don't remember sharing the cab. It pulled up outside a house that I was quietly confident I had seen somewhere before.

I remember a woman's voice saying, "Caleb, are you okay, are you hurt or just drunk?"

The taxi door had magically opened, and now that fresh air had entered my system, my sole desire was to throw up. Disgusting I know, but there it is.

            "Come inside, Caleb," said the woman's voice as I was pulled out of the taxi.

            "Who's taking care of my cab fare?" I heard a voice ask, followed by the same voice thanking somebody called ma'am.

This ma’am then led me somewhere that ended up with me in a bathroom that I did not recognize. Then she asked me if I would be kind enough to not puke on the floor. At the time it seemed a bit unreasonable, but I pushed my own inclinations aside and obliged the kind lady. My clothes were taken from me. No easy task in my state, and the last thing I remembered after that was thinking that somebody had repainted my bedroom ceiling.

            When I awoke there was a woman's arm across my chest and the sound of heavy breathing. Beside me on the bed under the single sheet was a woman with blonde hair. Her face was hidden from me and her breathing was shallow but regular. The sound of a yawn caught my attention. Was she no longer asleep?

            It must still be early morning, I thought, since the room was still half dark despite a small side window that was not covered by a curtain. A groan and the arm that was across my chest was now sliding down, under the sheet, searching for and finding my penis. The woman's head followed her hand, disappearing under the sheet. I still didn't know who this young woman was. My stomach muscles jumped, sending my throbbing head straight to Defcon 3. My cock was now in her mouth and was rising fast. I threw the sheet off the bed, leaving us both naked.

            "Good morning, Caleb," said the woman.

            "Good morning, Mrs. Mathews," I replied, staring at the young widow who was moving my cock back and forward over her mouth.

            "After last night, I think you can call me Shona."

            "Good morning Shona," I said simply. "About last night. Did we?"

            "I tried to fight you off Caleb, at first, that is, but when you told me how you felt about me… well."

            So there you have it. I left Shona’s house shortly thereafter, went home, bathed and changed. Despite my delicate condition, I still made a cup of tea and took it into my father’s bedroom, who in turn asked about the bachelor party.

            “Was it any different from the others you have attended?”

            “Yes and no,” I offered.

            “The usual shenanigans?”

My father preferred shenanigans over strippers as a word choice.

            “No, nothing like that,” I said. “Well, yes, sort of.” I hated lying to my father and tried my best to avoid the practice.

            “When did you get back?” he asked, looking directly at me.

            “About two,” I said.

            “In the morning?” he asked.

            “Minutes ago,” I responded.

            “I don’t want to know Caleb. Please don’t tell me.” A chuckle escaped his.

            “As you wish father,” I said, and disappeared out of the room before he could change his mind.

            So here I am, in Mrs. Robson’s coffee shop, nursing a hangover and eating my soup. Two ex-girlfriends of mine were in the next booth. Etta and Irene. Shona Mathews slipped in through the coffee shop door, walked over to my table, nodded to the two girls in the next booth and sat down opposite me.

            “So where is my soup and tea, Mr. Carter?”

I could hear all conversation at the next table stop dead. The sound of silence was deafening. Three women, all waiting for my answer.

            “You look almost as good fully clothed,” I said, taking another sip of Mrs. Robson’s excellent tea.

The Lady's Man - Introducing Etta Smith, one of Catriona's childhood friends, now all grown up.

Chapter 4     Etta Smith - Four months ago

My name is Etta Smith and I'm a twenty two year old math addict. You heard me correctly. I didn't say meth addict, I said math addict. Ever since I was a kid and learned that mathematics was the only true language I was doomed. Knowing that every little bit of even one small sapling was an exact distance from every other particle in the universe and that these figures were changing every millisecond, well it was 'doing my head in.’ I was a math junkie, and it was ruining my sex life.

Math and paranoia, the two main enemies of enjoyable sex. You want an explanation? I'll give you several. Let's start with mathematics. When my golf pro boyfriend Caleb, with the film star looks shot his load all over my belly, I was wondering what exact area in millimeters it was covering. When his fingers were searching for my G spot, I was wondering if his knuckles had reached my event horizon (the point of no return) crazy right?

As for the paranoia part, after I found out that sperm was supposed to be good for the skin and since a pimple had decided to show up that very morning, I persuaded Caleb to give me a 'protein face pack' as he so eloquently called it. After he had emptied the entire contents of his rather large nut-sack over my entire face, I massaged it in. I thought only crazy-glue dried in less than ten seconds. It felt like I had just had a face lift. Too tight, so I had to wash it off right away.

Another time, I worried that Caleb's nut juice had too many calories, therefore I chose not to swallow, which pissed him off a bit. I’m pretty sure he was still pissed off when I asked him if he knew of any non-surgical procedure that could make my boobs a bit bigger. He suggested that I rub them with toilet paper. When I asked him if he thought that would work, he said, and I quote, "Well, it worked for your ass." A funny comment I had to admit, but he laughed harder than I felt the joke deserved.

Besides which, I've never had any complaints about my ass and the truth is I've had many compliments, but now I'm starting to wonder if when Caleb says, "Back that ass up," he is really thinking, "back that fat ass up." Would you believe me if I told you he was a minister’s son?

Hah! I know what you're thinking, minister, boring. Minister's son, probably even more boring, am I correct? Let's start with his dad. Byron Carter, Presbyterian minister of Carnock Parish Church. The poor man has developed what they call Tourette Syndrome, which I believe means that he swears a lot when he doesn't really want to, does that make any sense? Anyway, he is a really nice man, always upbeat, has a great sense of humour and I would get off my deathbed to listen to one of his sermons.

Jesus effin' Christ, he makes that Bible come alive. Warring tribes no longer smote each other, no sir, they fucked each other up. Samson didn't have the strength ten--or was it more?--no, he was a muscle bound fucking freak who was obsessed with that big titted trollop Delilah. You have to leave early to get a seat near the front on a Sunday, but no matter how early I get there the front pew is always taken up by the same five old dears. I overheard the minister call them the faithful in a remark to one of his church elders, or deputies as I prefer to call them.

His son Caleb is tall, broad shouldered, has a wicked sense of humour and, I think I already mentioned this, has film star looks. My friends tell me that he is on a mission to screw every girl under twenty five years of age in the village, but that can't be true. Moira Anderson is at least twenty eight. Anyway, I think it's just jealousy talking. He is mine, all mine. I had come to believe that he only wants sex once a day. From nine in the evening until four the following morning. When will he let me sleep?

Yesterday my world came crashing down. As from yesterday, I can get all the sleep I want. My only crime was to ask about his mother. How bad could that be? True, I did push the issue when he ignored me the first time I asked. Just like that, Caleb proffered his excuses and said his goodbyes. When I asked, okay begged him for a reason, he gave me a couple of flimsy cop-out stories and then added, "You do the math."

"Aagh!"

Was I just another notch on his bed's headboard? I sure as heck felt like it.

A controversial character and an unpublished 70,000 word plus book I wrote over a year ago... getting a facelift

As mentioned, I wrote this book over a year ago. There are a few timeline issues that have to be worked out before publication. Over the next couple of weeks, I will be posting a few snippets from the book which highlight several characters who populate the novel. Some of these snippets didn't make it into the novel, others made it in, but a slightly revised version from the original. This sample provides an insight to a Christian minister with an affliction that normally targets younger people. The Reverend Byron Carter is the father of Caleb Carter, the male protagonist in the novel. 

The novel (so far) is in excess of 70,000 words, and is written in UK English. It is a modern day romance set in the Scottish Highlands.

The content of my books (so far) could be classified as Contemporary Romance, but there are scenes in this book meant for mature audiences only. The humour is strong in each novel, and the characters, interesting.

The love interest is between Catriona McCaffery and Caleb Carter, wayward son of a Scottish minister. His father, the Rev Byron Carter is middle-aged and recently stricken with Coprolalia, closely related to Tourette's. When his passion for biblical scriptures is fired up, his language from the pulpit can get extremely colourful.

In no way would I challenge Christian sensibilities with ill-intentioned profanity. Rather, his condition and the fight he puts up against it render his character more human for the effort. I ask only that you read the book to its end before passing judgement.

Happy reading...

Here is an excerpt from the book when the beloved minister of a Scottish village informs his congregation of the reason behind his decision to step down as their minister.

The church was heaving with a sea of bodies. Standing room only. barely ten minutes after the church doors were opened. Whispers were making the rounds. Some said their beloved minister of thirty years was ill and possibly terminal. Others believed he had been offered a more lucrative position elsewhere. People came from afar to hear him preach, such was his passion. Of late his sermons had become… colourful. The whispers grew loud but ceased as if by magic when a groan from the third step of the pulpit announced the arrival of Byron Carter, Minister of Carnock village church.

Tall of stature, the Reverend Carter possessed the kind of aura bestowed on royalty and the very best in the acting profession. High above his congregation, the minister looked out over his flock. As he leant forward and rested his hands on the solid mahogany railing, the sun once hidden by clouds burst through the stained glass depiction of Christ on the cross and bathed him in light. His outline glowed and some were forced to shield their eyes. Not a single sound broke the silence.

“My friends,” began Reverend Carter, “I stand before you today to silence the rumors that are making the rounds.” He did not raise his voice. He had no need. “I possess no terminal illness, but I have succumbed to an unfortunate condition. A condition known as Coprolalia, a close relation to Tourette’s Syndrome.” His gaze fell upon the three elderly ladies whom he fondly referred to as ‘the faithful’ and who now stared at him with anguish in their eyes.

“Unfortunate because my calling in life has now become at odds with my ability to deliver God’s message in the manner acceptable to my superiors.” 

Restless comments reverberated through the congregation. Confusion reigned uppermost in the hubbub that ensued. Byron raised his arms and the church fell silent once again.

“My condition only comes to the fore when my passion for the Lord’s message takes over. My language becomes… unworthy for both Christ’s teachings and for you, my faithful flock. It has truly been a pleasure to serve each and every one of you, but now I must step down and let one more suited to the task, spread God’s word.”

Colin, a middle-aged miner from a neighboring village jumped to his feet.

“So you fucking swear from time to time. Who here hasn’t done the same?” Colin searched the faces to his left and right. “I don’t want another fucking minister. You’re my minister. Our minister, am I right?”

The congregation surged to their feet as one. All hell broke loose. Byron couldn’t help but notice his son, head bowed, having problems with grit in his eye. In his early twenties, Caleb Carter was a rebellious son… and Byron loved him to death.

Once again, Byron held up his hands, requesting silence, but this time it took a few minutes before order was restored. 

And here (risking the wrath of those unwilling to acknowledge Byron's unfortunate affliction) is one of his other sermons.

Chapter 23   Reverend Byron Carter

As per usual on any given Sunday, Carnock Parish Church was packed. Hundreds of eyes were turned upwards toward the pulpit where their minister was about to begin his sermon. Minister Carter's eyes flitted over the masses seated below him, and the few left standing at the back of his church.

“Today, members of the congregation, I am going to touch on a subject, or two, that might have many of you believe that I am blaspheming, but I promise you it is not so. I can’t help but feel that many of the biblical stories that are ‘set in stone’ as it were, are in fact misunderstood. I see some furrowed brows out there, but please, bear with me. Let us start with Moses leading his people around in the desert for forty years. Forty fucking years. Are you shitting me? If Moses had been Scottish and had led his people around in circles for forty fucking days, some of the boys would have taken his directionally challenged backside behind one of the few bushes found in the desert and given him a good thrashing. Look, I know Moses didn’t have a compass, but there were plenty of fucking stars glowing up there in the night sky for him to follow, surely? Forty years to find the edge of the desert? Bullshit!”

I looked out over my parishioners. Fully fifty percent of the women were holding their hands up to their mouths in disbelief. Of the men, only two of the church Elders followed suit, however, not one pew was disturbed by someone leaving.

“What evidence do we have to support the story of Moses wandering around in the desert like a fart in a trance for forty years. None. Not so much as one broken fucking pot ever found.  So what is the purpose of the story? Is it just a tall tale, or a fictional story engineered to relate a moral, then after a particularly bad translation from the original language to newer languages, the real meaning of the story was perhaps lost? Did Moses ever actually exist?”

I raised my hands up in front of me, palms up, as if requesting an answer, any answer. Silence.

“Noah’s Ark! Another little gem. The Bible tells us that Noah was around five hundred years old when his first son was born and around about six hundred years old when the flood made its appearance. Really? Apparently, God, who could make the world in six days was prepared to wait six hundred years to wipe humanity off the face of the Earth for forgetting about him. Death by drowning for all except Noah and his family. And the animals went in two by fucking two, yes? NO! This is my problem with blind fucking faith. First of all, we know people don't live for six hundred years. We also know that a God who can make the world in six days could bring forth a flood in about six fucking seconds to wipe out humanity. We know deep down that no matter how big this boat was, it wasn't big enough to hold two of every kind of animal. SO, was the size of the boat misquoted? Was Noah's age simply a misprint in the Bible? Was the person responsible for putting those snippets of information in the Bible just arithmetically challenged? We don’t know. How could we? I understand that the easy answer is simply God can do anything, God could have made him live for a thousand years, if he wanted to. Was he simply showing off?”

I leaned forward, resting both of my elbows on the front rail of the pulpit and surveyed the sea of faces in front of me. There seemed to be some dissent in the ranks. Murmurs were breaking out here and there. The only person who seemed to be taking all of this in stride, was my son, Caleb. This fact alone made me smile. The rather attractive addition to my congregation seated beside him, was looking around at the quiet commotion going on round about her. I saw my son glance at her, but appeared to offer no comment. I stood up to my full height.

"Members of my congregation," I roared, “how many of you think that my job is only to preach to you?" The commotion took a little time to die down as my parishioners finally gave me their full attention.

"My job, at least half of it, is to make you think, to make this an interaction, rather than one  minister's monologue. If I were merely to preach the message every week, some of you might be in danger of falling asleep. That is not going to happen. Not in my church. So how do I get you to interact emotionally and mentally? How do I get you to think rather than let my words wash over you? To connect to the subject at hand in a meaningful way? Simple. I might just decide to say something outrageously controversial to wake you up. How many of you slept through what I had to say about Moses... or Noah and his Ark? If the Lord had wanted Moses to spend forty years in the desert, then forty years it would be. If the Lord felt that Noah needed six hundred years to achieve the task he had set for him, then it would be so. Personally, I think that the Lord was giving humanity an extra six hundred years before wiping them out with a flood, to see if they would change their wicked ways? ”

I cast my eye over my flock as once again murmurs broke out all through the congregation. A few chuckles could be heard here and there. Still leaning on my elbows I decided to push the  envelope. I summoned one of the Elders and handed him a microphone. I whispered in his ear before addressing my flock again.

"Does anyone take issue with my methods? Does anyone here... anyone at all... take issue with how I brought Moses or Noah into the conversation?"

I didn't really anticipate anybody standing up, but there she was, dressed all in lavender, including the biggest hat I had ever seen. Elspeth Wilson, my Bible class teacher. The Elder walked smartly over and handed her the microphone.

"Minister Carter," she said, wasting no time, "I would be the first to admit that I was gravely offended by your treatment of Moses and Noah... at first. The methods you use to spread the gospel are unorthodox to say the least." She paused and looked around, aware that she had everyone’s full attention. "Despite this,” she said, turning her attention back to me, “ I can only speak for myself when I say that there is no other minister I would rather hear the Lord's message from, than you."

As quickly as Elspeth Wilson had stood up, she once again took her seat. All hell broke loose. She was the only one left sitting, as the entire congregation surged to their feet and gave her a standing ovation, echoing her sentiments about their minister, about me. I made eye contact with my son. He was smiling and shaking his head. The girl he brought to my church was clapping as enthusiastically as anybody. I saw her nudge Caleb in his ribs before I turned my gaze out over the multitude.

"Settle down, settle down, or we'll never get out of here," I said, tongue-in-cheek. Clapping turned to amusement before dying down as I raised then lowered my hands encouraging everybody to regain their seats.

"Let me lead you in prayer."

Church was over for today. As the members filed past me, each shaking my hand in turn, comments like "You gave me a fright there, minister" were commonplace. The last two filing out of my church were Caleb, and the young lady who accompanied him.

"Just when I thought you were losing your touch, dad," he said, a grin plastered all over his face.

"Aren't you going to introduce me to your lady friend Caleb? Always nice to see a new face you know."

"Dad, this is Catriona," he said, and turning towards her, added, "I rather think she enjoyed your sermon."

"You might just be the most unusual, but also the most entertaining minister I have ever met,” she said, her eyes sparkling, “ I see now where Caleb gets his quick wit from."

"And his good looks no doubt," I replied.

"Why minister, that goes without saying."

"Hold on to this one Caleb, even I can tell she’s special."

"You see," said Catriona, looking into Caleb's eyes, "it took your dad only thirty seconds to realize that."

"I beat him by twenty,” my son replied, “ I only saw you for ten seconds on that bus, Catriona."

Observing the banter between the two of them, plus the body language and the eye contact told me there was something special going on here. I took a closer look at the young girl and felt myself nodding as if in private consent. This young lady was special, I could feel it. Please Lord, I caught myself thinking, don’t let him mess this up.

“There is always room for one more at our dinner table, Catriona,” I said.

“Yes,” agreed Caleb, “please join us. Say you will.”

I was impressed. So used was I to women chasing after my son, calling the manse day and night asking for him, that to see his eyes pleading for a positive response was a genuine experience for me. Catriona glanced downward.

“I would love to, really I would, but my Aunt will already have prepared a meal for me, and it would be unfair of me to make other plans. Perhaps some other time, if that is okay with you, minister?”

Genuinely considerate of her Aunt’s feelings, I found myself really liking this young girl.

“Absolutely,” I replied.

“Then let me walk you home,” Caleb said, putting his arm around her waist.

“That is what a gentleman would do,” she replied, gently removing his arm, but then linking her fingers with his, showing him what was acceptable to her.

“I’ll see you back at the manse dad, in about twenty minutes, okay?”

“It’s only a couple of minutes to my Aunt’s house, even if we walk slowly,” said Catriona, “I’ll make sure he’s home in fifteen minutes or less, minister.”

“Give me the full twenty minutes Catriona, please. I’m going away for a week. That’s seven days I won’t see you.”

Catriona glanced in my direction.

“If he’s begging, young lady, give him the twenty minutes,” I said.

“Are you begging, Caleb?” she asked, teasing him without mercy.

My son narrowed his eyes, and turned his gaze on me as he answered. “Yes, I’m begging.”

“Don’t tell me,” I said, enjoying every minute of his discomfort, “tell Catriona.”

“If it would bring either or both of you some kind of inner happiness, then yes, I’m begging for an extra five minutes.”

“I shall remember this moment forever,” I said, winking at Catriona.

Catriona turned her attention to my exasperated son. “Shall we go, my prince?”

Caleb looked at me and raised his eyebrows as if to say, “Can you believe this?”

A sadness came over me as I remembered that my ex-wife Glenda had had the same power over me that Catriona seemed to have over my son, and I missed it. I watched as the two of them walked off hand in hand, chatting excitedly to each other. Caleb had needed a mother’s guidance, I knew that, but fate had decided against it. It was, I believed, the main reason that my son could never seem to find fulfillment in a steady relationship. He could not hide his distrust of women, from me at least. I often wondered if his inability to have long lasting relationships was because he secretly feared that women would leave him, just as his mother had done. Right there and then, I made up my mind to contact his mother. Sooner or later he was going to have to learn the truth.

Changing Keywords and Categories, K-lytics and Romance book length.

Just a small update. I decided to change 6 out of the 7 keywords that Amazon allow authors to use for their books. It is normally suggested that one should change one keyword at a time in order to better gauge its merits, however, after running the initial keywords through KDP Rocket as well as Kindle Samurai, it appeared that some of them were almost useless. As for the categories, in order to drill further down into sub-genres, a longer category string is required.

What I am going to do, is change only the keywords for 'The 'Dear Roz' Romantic Comedy" as a test. This book was promoted the most and made it into the top 100 paid in the Best Seller Rankings for a brief spell before sliding gracefully out of said rankings. It has sold more books than all the others combined, but none of the other books have had the benefit of the promotion that this book has. so it's a little unfair to judge the others against it.

Also, I am tempted to run an assault on the short story front. At first, I had considered producing ebooks that could go into each "length of time to read" as in the 15 minute read, the 30, 60, 90 minute, and the 2 hours and over reading categories. You cannot request Amazon to put your story into these 'time slots', Amazon will do that if they feel your book merits it. I did purchase the K-lytics report about short stories which was a bit of an eye-opener. Quite a few of the time slots don't appear (on the surface) to merit much attention as sales seem to be meager at best for some of the time slots. On the bright side, the length of books I have written should (according to the report) stand a better chance with the time slots they favor.

Truth be told, some book topics favor a shorter wordcount. I never try to manipulate the wordcount by adding fluff and filler. I consider such as a waste of my time, but more importantly, a waste of my reader's time. I turn my characters loose in my stories and let them decide exactly when the story has reached its climax. There have been story ideas that enthralled me, only to have my characters let me know in no uncertain terms, that the story has concluded much earlier than anticipated. My job is to listen to them. Perhaps I can sneak a sequel past them when they least expect it.

It's also my intention to send 'Nathan Thinks He Knows Best' (the prequel to the Dear Roz serial) to Draft2Digital to be distributed elsewhere other than Amazon for free (which is why I didn't enroll it in the KDP Select program) and then to add it to the beginning of 'The Dear Roz Romantic Comedy Serial' and republish the book, making it available in print as well as in ebook form. 'Nathan Thinks He Knows Best' will then do double duty as it will continue to be permafree and (hopefully) a lead magnet for not only The Dear Roz serial, but also all of my other books. Stay tuned.
                                                                                                         Alex B.