Posts ADDUCENT

JOURNEY TO THE JONES ACT | U.S. Merchant Marine Policy 1776-1920

Adducent

-

April 15, 2024

0

JOURNEY TO THE JONES ACT | U.S. Merchant Marine Policy 1776-1920

Available Now

Amazon
Barnes & Noble
Other Booksellers

New Book Unveils the Untold Story of U.S. Maritime Policy: ‘Journey to the Jones Act’

In his book, ‘Journey to the Jones Act: U.S. Merchant Marine Policy 1776-1920,’ Charlie Papavizas embarks on a detailed exploration of the evolution of American maritime policy culminating in the historic 1920 Merchant Marine Act, widely known as the Jones Act. This groundbreaking work offers readers a comprehensive look at the legislative efforts that have shaped the U.S. merchant marine’s role in national defense and economic prosperity since 1776.

Published by FORTIS, A nonfiction imprint from Adducent, this meticulously researched volume sheds light on the complex history of U.S. maritime policy, from its early foundations in the English Navigation Acts to the pivotal moments at the Constitutional Convention through the trials of the Civil War, and the ambitious efforts to establish the United States as a permanent maritime power following World War I.

Papavizas, an esteemed national maritime lawyer and a recognized expert on the Jones Act, uses his extensive knowledge of the subject to provide an authoritative narrative. He uncovers the influential figures behind the policy, including well-known architects like James Madison and lesser-known contributors such as Senator Wesley Livsey Jones. ‘Journey to the Jones Act’ is a testament to the enduring significance of maritime policy in American history and a personal journey for Papavizas. Discoveries of his connections to the book’s subject, such as John Barton Payne, a name partner in an earlier iteration of Winston & Strawn LLP, and his grandfather, Constantinos A. Papavizas, who served in the U.S. Army in World War I, add a unique layer to this historical account.

Living and practicing law in Washington, D.C., Papavizas brings his rich academic background and professional expertise to bear in this compelling story. A graduate of Georgetown University with an advanced degree from Columbia University and a Juris Doctor degree from George Washington University, Papavizas’s work is a must-read for history enthusiasts, maritime professionals, and policymakers alike.

Praise for the Book

“While many freely toss around the term “Jones Act,” and cite it as the catalyst for decline of the U.S. Merchant Marine, few understand the true origins and evolution of our Nation’s domestic Maritime policy – culminating in the 100+ year-old Merchant Marine Act of 1920. Charlie Papavizas takes us back to decisions that our Founding Fathers made concerning maritime trade and skillfully walks us through every change of course as our young nation burst upon the international scene in the 18^th, 19^th, and 20^th centuries. Rich with detail, Papavizas has produced a book that tells the story of America’s emergence as a maritime power and the reasons why we have so vigorously maintained control over our domestic trade. Your understanding of U.S. Maritime policy is incomplete until you read this superb volume.” –Hon. Mark H. ‘Buz’ Buzby, RADM, USN (Ret), Former Administrator, U.S. Maritime Administration

“A crucial read for anyone looking to demystify a law woven into the fabric of American life. It unravels the complexities of the Jones Act, making its history and impact accessible to all. This book brilliantly captures how the Act resonates beyond legal circles into the heart of American commerce and defense, influencing the very currents of trade, industry, and daily life in the United States. As an offshore wind sector advocate, I found this book to be an insightful journey through the intricacies of the Jones Act, shedding light on its historical significance and its modern-day applications. It is a must-read for anyone who seeks to grasp how deeply maritime policy is anchored in our nation’s past and present, and how it continues to shape the flow of goods, services, and economic opportunities.” –Liz Burdock, President and CEO, Oceantic Network

“Meticulously researched and eminently readable, Journey to the Jones Act is a fascinating history of American maritime policy and the people, politics, and events that shaped it over two and a half centuries. Charlie Papavizas’s mastery of his subject matter is on full display… not only readers new to the “Jones Act,” but longtime students and practitioners of maritime policy will find themselves saying, “I didn’t know that!” again and again throughout this informative and entertaining read.” –Jennifer Carpenter, President & CEO, The American Waterways Operators, President, American Maritime Partnership

Dance of Fireflies [Creative Nonfiction]

Dennis Lowery

-

April 7, 2024

0

Dance of Fireflies [Creative Nonfiction]

A Vignette

I looked outside.

The sky had darkened, and lightning struck just ahead of the downpour. The flash and crash of thunder almost on top of each other. Our lights flickered… dimmed… strengthened, and then went out. It was not quite sundown, and muted remnants of daylight came through the French doors and skylight over them. And—I don’t know why—I recalled thunderstorms when I was a kid in the 60s. And under dim, watery light, I wrote:

I remember watching dust clouds in the distance, coming off powder-dry dirt roads on hot summer days. The passing of mostly trucks in that back then, rural part of Texas. Sometimes I’d be on those roads, riding in the back of a truck, unrestrained. The maker of the plumes that would dust us as my father slowed or stopped. Gray-brown—the color of old bone—billows of dirt pulled along by the draft settled forward like pulling a blanket up and over my head. The coolness of the ride-created breeze would end, replaced with stifling dirt grit-in-your-teeth heat. The ride was much sweeter at night, soothing on the planes of your upturned, sunburned face, especially if a brief shower had dampened the road. I’d sit on the fender well, look up, and pretend to race the moon. To where I don’t know, but the moon always won. I didn’t mind. The thought I’d someday win made me smile at it above.

I remember summer afternoons somewhere off playing and then running far and fast to get home before the sun went down. Just in time to finish chores and wash up for dinner before my shows. Crushed if I missed the beginning of Lost in Space or The Time Tunnel. This was long ago when life and the things you enjoyed were in real-time. No recording to watch or replay later. You had to be there.

If one of my shows wasn’t on, I’d slip out to the backyard after dinner. I loved the night sounds, the music of crickets, the hum, and the buzz of birds, animals, and insects that stir at twilight. I’d sit on the steps and drink it all in, enjoying the evening wind as it arranged clouds for the night. My child-mind, empty of worries, held thoughts only of the next chapter in A Princess of Mars, I’d read before bedtime. I’d bought an old, used copy of the book for five cents at Mr. Petersen’s general store. [He had a barrel of them next to the counter. As my mother did her shopping, I’d sift through them.] The joy of discovering that story and the other adventures of John Carter is still fresh in my mind.

If the metal had cooled enough, I’d move to sit astride the long natural gas tank, shaped (so I thought) like a miniature submarine or spaceship, and look over my world. Sometimes, with the breeze right, I could catch the smell of Henrietta’s tortillas and tamales from her house, the closest nearby. Oh, how that aroma filled the air. She made them by hand, ground her meal fresh every day, and they were delicious. An always-hungry boy, my mouth watered though I’d just eaten my fill.

In the late summer, evening storms would roll in. Often just heat lightning, but sometimes the darkening sky’s rumor would turn true with flash and crash seconds ahead of the rain. My mother always said the rumble of thunder was “The Devil moving his furniture.” I never thought to question, shouldn’t that sound come from below and not above….

On those evenings, in the stillness, the backyard would grow thick with fireflies, dozens of points of light. I’d sit on the steps and watch the little gold sparks wink in and out of the shorter grass close to the house as they moved toward the taller, thicker growth further back. As I watched, I didn’t recall wishes or dreams of other things. There was no looking at the sky with longing—no hurt to deal with—decisions or questions to ponder. Only the simple moment and pleasure of watching the dance of fireflies.

After a while, from the screen door, under the single bulb above and in its small pool of light, my mother would step out, and I’d hear her call: “Time to come in….” Most times, I didn’t want to… like the evening that stands out in bringing forth this memory. But the night before, Sola had saved Dejah Thoris, and John Carter had fallen. Before I went in, I gave the fireflies a last lingering look—they still danced—and wondered for how long and how far it went on. I didn’t dwell on that, though. Once inside, I hurried through the bath-time routine. I had to find out what happened next on Barsoom!

Some of the reader comments:

“You really know how to invoke all the senses and draw the reader into your world. As the cover says, you had to be there. But this vignette comes a close second — you are pulled into the story, the senses drawing you in until you close your eyes, and you’re right there. Beautiful.” –Vicki Tyley

“Wonderful writing that brings back childhood memories! I can see the things dreams are made of. Quite a talent and a blessing for us to read!” —Susan Gabriel

“I love when you write because I can put myself in that moment and visualize it. As if I was living in the story. Life was so simple as a child.” —Tanya Freisen

“Time and tide wait for no man or in the now waits for woman either. Wonderful to have that snapshot in time we can look back on. Loved the post.” —Chris Black

“Love this story! Amazing descriptions!” —Leigh at Booktrack

“Wonderful. Love it!” —Sherry Thompson

“That’s an awesome piece of writing. It really does bring back memories, too, of me riding on the back of my father’s truck, helping throw hay for the cows, or simply going to check over the farm fences. All the memories of racing back so as not to miss Astro Boy, etc.! Those were very different times. Great to grow up in!” —Jennifer Phillips
“This brought back great memories; being raised in S.C., as a child, it was the norm: to watch the fireflies, riding on the back of my dad’s truck with the wind blowing in my face, putting blankets on the back of that truck watching the stars and moon late at night, or watching a bird land on the second floor of my house to sing at my bedroom window… BACK THEN, it was the norm… NOW those are AMAZING MOMENTS. Thank you for taking me there, through your writing, for such a special walk down memory lane.” —Bernice Joe

“Wonderful, Dennis.” —Mike Trani

Creating Books…

News / Posts

Adducent

-

March 27, 2024

0

Our experience in book development and publishing includes more than 100 projects, spanning POD, Traditional, and Special Edition/Custom Publishing.

We’ve also worked with many self-published authors and provided services to other publishers for their titles.

It’s always a thrill to witness the transformation of ideas, experiences, and thoughts into stories and books. It’s incredible to hold a book you’ve had a part in creating.

Following is a great video on the manufacturing process.

How A Book Is Made

Interested in writing or publishing stories or a book(s) and need help?

Contact Us for a Free No Obligation Consultation Call

ADDUCENT - Writing-Ghostwriting-Publishing 250113 — **What we’ve done and what we do for clients.**

WINGS [Fiction]

Dennis Lowery

-

March 17, 2024

0

One of my readers sent me a photo of a mist-shrouded forest, serene and ethereal. From her posts and comments, I knew a little bit about her. She was a single mom raising a child under challenging circumstances and sometimes struggled. She also loved fairies and had a wonderful sense of humor and appreciation for the beauty in our world (despite all she dealt with). When she sent me the picture, she asked: “Can you write me a story about this?” I did, and here’s the result.

EVERY PICTURE TELLS A STORY (tagline black)

Fánaí came upon her in the twilight mist. She was at the foot of a pile of large rocks that had sheared off the escarpment above. A gash ran from her forehead into the thick tangle of auburn hair. It had happened some time ago, maybe that morning, since it had clotted and dried despite the dampness of light rain.

He unslung his pack, quiver, and bow, and kneeled. The cold ground and the damp chill of the evening coming on with sundown settled into his joints. In the waning light, he saw the bruises on her face. Her torn clothing could hide others.

Fánaí stood and looked around. He had traveled far, and this was a strange country. Not so young but not so old, in his late 40s, no family left and tired of the sameness of his own land, he had followed a dream. To find a place where magic still lived and perhaps where he could heal. Fánaí had not expected to discover a young girl hurt and unconscious at the foot of a mountain.

Shaking his head, he stooped again to pick her up. A hardness, high, mid-back where he expected pliant skin made him fear broken bones hidden beneath. The girl opened her eyes and sat up as he got his arms under her. She coughed and stared at him, eyes wide. But their glinting umber lacked the wildness, the skittish confusion of pain; she seemed focused, not disoriented, as she asked: “What will you do to me?”

The girl shivered, cold and wet from the day’s rain, which had stopped. A chill mist blanketed the ground and thickened among the rocks. He took off his cloak and wrapped it around her shoulders. Curious but not asking about the trepidation he sensed behind her question, he said, “Well, the first thing is a fire to dry out and warm up.”

“You’re a man,” she said, part statement and question, “why are you helping me?”

“There’s what could be a cave where we can shelter from the weather.” His chin jutted to gesture beyond her shoulder at a shadowed area behind the rocks. Walking from her, he gathered sticks and slabs of bark from nearby trees, checking the underbrush farther back to find what was dry. “It’s not far,” he returned to where she sat on the ground. “Can you walk?”

“Why are you helping me? My people receive no kindness from men.”

She stood, and though young, was as tall as he. Looking closer at her, he realized what had felt strange about her back. He had heard stories of mythical creatures that lived here—the lands far to the east of his own—but never thought he would see, let alone meet one.

“Humans,” she locked eyes with him, “…men take advantage of us, especially lady fairies.” Her hand went to the long, slim blade sheathed at her hip. “I won’t let you hurt me.”

The gray sky grew darker, and the crowding clouds above threatened more rain. They now stood facing each other. She had cast off his cloak and, shaking with the chill, asked again: “Why are you helping me?”

The mantle at her feet was a gift from his wife. Given to him, knowing how he loved his walks even in autumn and winter. The wind’s icy bite made him shudder, but Fánaí ignored the desire to drape its warmth across his shoulders. “You need this,” he said, setting the armful of kindling on the ground, picking up and handing her the cloak as the rain fell. He grabbed his pack, slung it over a shoulder, and re-gathered the pieces of brush and tinder. “Bring my bow and arrows.”

Fánaí turned toward the rocks. Entering the hollow, he found it led enough into the mountain to be dry inside, away from the opening’s exposure to the wind-swept rain. He kicked a clear spot in the dirt at the back of the cave and dropped the load of kindling. More was needed if his back told him right. A hard freeze was coming with nightfall.

The girl still stood in the rain but wore the cloak. Passing her, he gathered larger pieces of wood from the copse of trees that began where the rocks and boulders ended. Four trips yielded enough for the night. With the fourth armload, he found her in the cave’s rear, sitting with her back against its stone terminus. Her knife was out and in the hand that rested on her lap. His pack near the kindling, bow, and quiver of arrows beside her.

Using flint and steel, he struck long runners of sparks into the tinder. They caught, and he nursed them with breath and handfuls of dried grass and twigs from an old, abandoned nest he’d found with the last load. As the fire took, gobbling the wood and wanting more, he sat and fed it bigger pieces. It warmed the cave and cast light in a growing circle until it reached the girl.

She used a cloth from the pouch carried at her side—soaked from rainwater—to wipe away the caked blood from her face and gingerly along the cut on her head. Her features, though pale and strained, were striking. The now clean lines of her face and cheekbones caught the light. His eyes went to the fire, and he said without turning to her, “I’m Fánaí, and I mean you no harm.” The fire crackled in the stillness, broken after a dozen heartbeats.

“I… I am Shayleigh….” the girl said.

“Are you a princess?” Fánaí thought a girl as beautiful as she must be. “Running away from an evil prince?”

“No,” she replied with a half-laugh, half-cry. “I’m anything but.”

The tear that rolled down her cheek, dull, opaque, and without shine, unlike humans, dried instantly. “How did you end up here?” he asked, cocking a thumb toward outside where he had found her.

“I was headed to the Peak,” she gestured toward the cave ceiling, hesitated, then added, “where fairies learn to fly.”

The craggy rocks far above them, shrouded by the lower rim of the rain clouds, had appeared unclimbable to him. When he had raised her from the ground, he’d felt the two hand-sized humps on her back. The edges of a bone frame jutting beneath, not breaking the skin. His look moved from her face to between her shoulders, half-turned toward him.

“They’re late,” she said harshly and twisted away. But she realized that gave him a better view of where her wings should be and spun to face him. Her features—even angry or maybe because of it—had the fragile beauty of fine porcelain and gleamed in the light. Her eyes flashed at him, then the flicker faded. She looked so young, lost, and lonely.

“In my land, most have forgotten that fairies were…,” his eyes flicked to her shoulders again, “are real. Some believed that if they existed, it was long ago. She studied him, and he thought perhaps she sensed his regret—her eyes steadied on him—as he continued. “Why did you leave your people?” he asked, adding more fuel to the blaze.

“I was common, nothing—no one—special.” Shayleigh shifted closer to the fire, wrapping his cloak tighter around her. “I’m a year past the age when girl fairies should get their wings.” Her bitter tone grew sharper. “I met a boy before then who I thought would be my lifemate. And he thought the same of me. So he said….” She paused, taking a deep breath. “When my wings didn’t come, he acted ashamed of me… as if I had become ugly… unworthy.”

It all came out in a spurt—a stream dammed for too long, then released. More dull, gray tears pooled in her eyes, quenching the glow he’d seen earlier.

“He couldn’t accept me… as I am… and for what I was; what I was destined to become. Wingless.”

“And so you left,” he said, understanding in his own way how she felt.

“All he told me—his love for me—was a lie.” She looked up at him. “And I had no family. There was nothing there for me. Nothing there with him. No one for me, and I was so lonely.”

Fánaí closed his eyes, the weight of his past and how it had taken all his strength to bear it unforgotten, and opened them to find her watching him. “And without wings, you came here.” He leaned to hand her a cup of water poured from his canteen, noting her blade was now sheathed.

Shayleigh nodded. “But not for them… for me!” He studied her bruised face and hurt for her. “To fly… or fall.” She bowed her head and whispered, “I fell.”

He wondered at how tough she must be to not have been hurt badly. Not pitying her—that would pain her more than the cuts and abrasions—he said: “In my life….” Stretching his legs, he stood with a grunt and a crackling of joints and took a few steps. “I thought I was trapped between what had happened and what could never be.” He studied her from across the fire. The flame’s dance of light and shadow on the stone behind her as she sat with her head down. He turned his back to the fire and contemplated the darkness beyond. “The road is so much longer when we have no dreams to believe. And we have no destination… life has no purpose.” The steady sound of water running down the mountain filled his quiet pause. Wearing away more rock, he mused and continued. “It stayed that way until I decided one day to walk and not stop until I found what I sought.” Turning around, he returned to the fire to find her watching him.

“Have you found it?” she asked.

“Not yet.” He could hear the same yearning in his own voice.

“Why do you go on?”

“Because.” He smiled at her with the self-awareness that only comes from experience. “Because, Shayleigh, I deserve to find what I want.”

She stared into the fire, her eyes mirrored the light, and the silence stretched from moments to minutes.

Finding the loaf of hard bread in his pack, he broke it in half and handed one piece to her. “All I have to share; I’d planned to hunt tomorrow.” Taking it, she tore off smaller bits and ate.

Biting off chunks, Fánaí chewed his until finished, dusted his hands on his pants, and drank from his canteen. “Tell me about your kind… fairies… what do they enjoy? What do they love?” he asked.

At first, it didn’t look as if she would answer.

“We love to ride the wind… especially after rain, when the richness of the air and moisture gives our wings more bend and reach.”

Shayleigh straightened and squared her shoulders. Her eyes widened, seeing something not there as she continued.

“We fly highest and farthest then. That freedom… the feeling of wings drinking in the air, spreading on the wind to lift us is what we—I—long for.” Her eyes fixed on his. “To dance through the sky is why we exist. You can always tell when we’re happiest. When we fly, we cry with joy, and those tears trail behind us in a stream of colors.”

As she set her eyes on him for a long moment, he understood what she meant and had known a similar longing. She must have sensed that as she grew quiet again, a more thoughtful, less painful silence.

Fánaí nodded. “Sometimes, all we need is just one thing—one meaningful thing—to carry us, to help us get on.”

“On with what?” Shayleigh asked. Her head bobbed… chin to her chest.

“With life.” It had grown late, and he banked the fire, telling her, “Time for sleep; you need rest. Tomorrow is a new day.”

The girl slipped into a semi-doze, and Fánaí stepped around the fire, spread a blanket, and eased her onto it. Covering her, he brushed the strands of hair from her face. So young and beautiful, he thought, just like my daughter if she had lived.

* * *

Fánaí awoke to realize dawn had passed, and it was near midmorning. The days and miles behind him had worn him down. The fire had burned to embers, and as he sat up, he realized his cloak now covered him. Standing with a groan, he looked to where she had slept. Shayleigh was gone.

Outside, he stood near where he had found her and then slowly turned, his breath a wreath around him in the freezing air. The sky had cleared, and as his eyes searched the rocks above, a bright rainbow arched overhead. The largest he had ever seen, so high and extending so far, he couldn’t see its end. The sweep of wings and laughter carried to him on the wind. A message that Shayleigh would live and, somehow, somewhere… find happiness.

Fánaí smiled at the magic and realized he had found part of what he had searched for. Meaning and purpose, where his choices and actions made a difference, not only in his life but in someone else’s too. The past could not be left behind—he could never recover who and what he’d lost—but his step would be lighter as he continued his journey.

# # #

NOTE FROM DENNIS

Having just read this story, I think you’ll understand its context and message, but I want to touch on it here.

In our lives, we all go through adversity. Good things we expect to happen. Don’t. People who present as believable and appear honest in their words and intentions. Then prove they are not. Someone we love is lost… and it devastates us. We cry over what’s happened (or not happened) because we’re hurt, sad, or bereft.

But—in life—at other times, bad things we’ve worried over never materialize. Someone we don’t trust based on appearances or our superficial judgment proves us wrong. They speak the truth and stand by us when we have no reason to expect them to do so. They earn our trust by their actions. And sometimes, when something beautiful happens, we cry because we’re happy… the most profound thing that touches our soul’s wellspring.

One of the most important things to realize is that hard times and sadness are transitory (though they may not appear so at the time). Moving beyond them, changing bad into good only happens if we have faith in ourselves and believe that if what we want is worth it, then doing what may be hard… is what we must do.

And this is perhaps the most important thing to learn: We must try… must take that first step. Then another. And another. Though we may get lost along the way. Though we may make many attempts and still fail.

Understand that perseverance—self-determination—more than anything, gets us (you) through tough times and tragedy. Even when we (you) feel no one loves us (you) because of who we (you) are… or sometimes… who we (you) are not. How others think of us (you) and how they treat us (you)… is external.

That’s right, I’m making it (the ‘you’) personal. Because that’s what life is. It’s personal. Once you realize what’s inside you controls your life, you can decide and act (I hope) to make good things happen. Sadness turns to joy. Doubt turns to confidence and earned trust. And you can fly… leaving a rainbow behind you for those around you to see, just like Shayleigh.

COVER REVEAL | Two Upcoming Nonfiction Titles

News / Posts

Adducent

-

March 6, 2024

0

COVER REVEAL | Two Upcoming Nonfiction Titles

COMING SPRING 2024

KALI’S TRAVELS [Children’s Book]

Adducent

-

February 27, 2024

0

One of the books in our Military Family Series

From the Author:

In Kali’s Travels, I aim to help parents and guardians understand how scary it is for a little child to see their world packed up in boxes and their life uprooted. I hope these words will help explain to your little boy or girl what happens when we, as adults, are asked to move our families. This book shows them it is okay to be scared to move away from our homes and friends and that there will always be more exciting adventures in the next place filled with new friends, new places, and new memories to be made.

–Marlene Norgard

AVAILABLE NOW

Amazon

Barnes & Noble

DADDY’S DEPLOYING [Children’s Book]

Adducent

-

February 27, 2024

0

One of the books in our Military Family Series

From the Author:

This book began as a poem I wrote while my husband was deployed through his first child’s first year. He struggled as he missed his son’s first words, first foods, first steps, and first birthday. While only seeing his son’s little world through photographs, he emotionally grappled to connect with him and become a father figure. In what I wrote, I hoped to capture all of the sentiments associated with military families—parents and children—when facing a deployment. Nothing can give them that time back with their children, and nothing makes up for that initial absence of connection between deployed parent and their children, especially a first child. In this book, I highlight the similarities of their current geographical worlds and draw father and son closer by showing they are both looking at the same moon, stars, and sun. It helped my son connect with his daddy, knowing when he looked up in the sky at the same time his daddy was too. They could share a moment together, and my son and I could feel less alone.

—Marlene Norgard

AVAILABLE NOW

Amazon

Barnes & Noble

TRUE ACCOUNT…

Dennis Lowery

-

February 24, 2024

0

This ‘True Account’ project—mentioned in the screen-captured client comment above—has aspects of a ‘business crime’ story that also became personal. The author, a high-profile former senior executive (educated at two of the nation’s most prestigious universities), served in two presidential administrations.

Brought to me under a confidentiality agreement, as a rewriting, redevelopment, and writing improvement project for delivery to their publisher, I can share only a few details. In this true account, the author tells a ‘how it happened’ story and cautionary tale of the ruin of a highly decorated combat veteran and a General Officer’s post-military career. He served our country for 30+ years. It’s a tragedy and could have been prevented.

Good writers draw from their experiences to create stories that reach people and make an impact. This project is one in which my 17-year business career—including years of M&A consulting with attorneys, investment bankers, and private equity funds—(along with my 13 years of full-time writing and publishing) helped not only improve the author’s writing but reshaped this true account with authenticity (which readers want in creative and standard nonfiction). Together the author and I reworked their manuscript to compellingly tell the story in a way that readers would ‘feel’ what the characters were going through. And stories that engage readers at that level often leave a lasting impression.

Need help writing, rewriting, or improving your story? Contact us.

The Siren’s Sonata | Draft Opening–Crime–Scene [Fiction]

Dennis Lowery

-

February 16, 2024

0

The Siren’s Sonata | Draft Opening–Crime–Scene [Fiction]

An excerpted draft scene from one of the branching stories in our Quondam Series (in development)

The homicide detective studied the woman. A fall of dark lavender-tinted hair covered the right forearm from elbow to hand. From elbow to shoulder, a bouquet of tattooed skulls grew from stems. Nice work, she thought. From what she could see, the rest of the body was untenanted… only the arm with its inert ink. Unlike the skin-rider she carried that twitched and spread tendrils. She tugged down the long sleeves that had crept past her wrists. Emotions stirred it, so she took three deep, steady breaths, and it withdrew further under the fabric.

“She was beautiful.” The medical examiner commented and half-turned toward her.

“Yeah, Bishop, too bad she’s dead.”

“You okay?”

She saw his eyes on the Java Joe’s cup in her hand. It trembled, and she willed herself to make it stop. And her tone had been too cold, even for someone with her reputation. That too she needed to rein in, but at risk. She tugged her sleeves down again and knelt beside the body. “Pictures taken?” The first crime-scene rule she’d learned was to touch nothing until the photographer had done their work and documented everything and its position relative to the body.

Squatting next to her, Bishop nodded. “Done.”

The dead woman’s head rested on sheet music and a keyboard. Someone had arranged her long hair and swept it back from her face. The flower over her left ear… maybe was already there. The open eyes were sea green. When she was alive, they had depth and probably changed shade with shifting sunlight. Now, they were shallows, as still as shoal water over coastal muck. Her face… smooth, unlined. Not a hint of a life lived badly… but one that seemed hardly lived at all. “She wanted to sin, but she was too shy.”

“What?” The medical examiner asked, puzzled.

The detective nodded at the woman on the floor. “It’s a line from a song…” She brushed a lock of her hair away from her face and rose from the body. “‘Changing Lights’ by Broken Bells. Well, you want to walk in white, you wanna sin, but you’re too shy… so the candle just keeps burning down on you….” she sang softly and rose from the body. You look innocent, the detective thought, staring down at the woman, lying there… blameless… but many dead bodies do.

“I don’t know if this is about sin, Poe… not yet anyway.” The M.E. stood, but not as smoothly as the detective. Two decades older, with stiff knees. Bishop knew not to call her Penelope, and God save my ass if I slip and call her ‘Bad Penny,’ he thought. Everyone, both in the department and on the street, had learned not to use that old epithet around her. To them—to her face—Penelope Olivia Edgar was ‘Poe.’ He had worked with her for two years since she made detective and still didn’t have a clue what went on inside her head. He’d known many cops over the years, but none like her. But she got results in her heavy-handed, ‘don’t suffer fools gladly’ way.

Poe nudged, with the pointed toe of her boot, the bulky pistol next to the body’s left hand. “Revolver.” She squatted again, rocked forward on her knees, palms flat, lowered her head, and sniffed like a bloodhound on the scent. “Fired recently.” Cocking her head and lowering it, she looked down the barrel. Fat, near the size of her thumb, dull gray lead-tipped bullets filled all but one opening in the cylinder. “One round gone….”

“Not in her, though.”

“No blood, no wound….” Poe glanced at Bishop.

“Nope.” The M.E. nodded.

She studied the scene, a mostly monochrome tableau. White and black keys. Black notes on white paper. Black ink on aged-ivory skin. For color, a flower in the woman’s lavender hair, nail polish, red marks on the sheet music, and a blotch of spilled wine spread like blood at her side. “Any identification?” Poe asked, her eyes going back to the body.

“Not a stitch of clothing around and nothing on her.” The medical examiner’s eyes panned the room. “Nothing in the rest of the apartment… the uniforms checked and Newman double-checked.”

“So only the tatts, a couple of piercings,” Poe pointed at the body’s left ear and nose, “a bracelet and ring.”

“Not much,” the M.E. stretched and stifled a yawn with his hand. “Well, I’m done here. I’ll let you know what I find out.”

“Bishop, what are you doing here anyway… this is Assistant M.E. hours? Where’s Lohfless?”

“Vacation; she’s back next week.” He gave the body a last glance as he left.

Poe waved over an officer, two new chevrons on his uniform sleeve, standing off to the side. “Newman, you the first on the scene?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Don’t give me that department protocol single-sex-uni-gender crap. Call me detective, Poe or ma’am… there’s nothing dangling tween my legs.” She walked to the balcony, pulled the drapes, and stepped out to a striking nightscape of the city’s arc, the areas that never slept freckled with lights. The moon’s reflection, a shimmering ghost on the bay water below. “Whose apartment is this?” She called back to the corporal, who joined her.

Newman didn’t check the notebook in his hand. “Had to do some digging….” The corporal’s eyes shifted back inside toward the apartment’s entry. “Shit,” he mumbled.

Poe’s eyes turned from watching the moon on the water at his muttered curse. “What?”

“The Chief just came in….”

Poe stepped from the balcony and back into the sitting room. “What’s he doing here… outside his ‘impressive’ office?”

Newman rubbed his bristly chin. “Turns out this is the governor’s sister’s apartment.”

“Shit….” The skin-crawl shivered up her back, crept over her shoulders, and then down her arms. Poe slowed her breathing, pulled at her sleeves, and followed the corporal inside. Sing-whispering to herself: “Sometimes you wonder if it’s all another mistake. Why not just walk away. Measure the cost, what’d you gain… what have you lost. The candle’s burning down on me….”

* * *

More to come…

One Night in Barcelona [Creative Nonfiction]

Dennis Lowery

-

February 10, 2024

0

One Night in Barcelona [Creative Nonfiction]

“It deserved more than just to remain as a passing–pleasing–memory of one night in Barcelona. It needed to be shown as a feeling… an experience.” —Dennis Lowery

One Night in Barcelona - A Creative Nonfiction Vignette from Dennis Lowery — Sensual Content

I had met her with a group of other ladies near the Font Màgica de Montjuïc, celebrating a night off on a beautiful fall evening. They took turns posing for photos in front of the lighted waters jetting into the twilight sky as the globes of lampposts flickered like fireflies. The camera owner seemed younger than the others—early 20s, my age—more petite, not as full-fleshed. I offered to take a picture of them in front of the fountain. And that led to a conversation—my bad Spanish, their better English—and then an invitation to join them as they returned to their apartments for a party.

Marisol—the girl with the camera—was silent alongside me most of the thirty-minute walk and remained quiet as we entered the apartment complex and their party began. As we drank in the sitting area of their common room, her eyes were on me as much, or more, as mine were on her. Evening aged into night, and we found ourselves closer to each other. Two objects governed by a subtle sexual gravity and pulled into orbit. A certainty just as sure as the autumn moon—seen through the windows—circled our world.

She had a bottle of champagne in one hand as she rose from the black leather settee and beckoned with the other. I took it. Marisol’s grip was silk-soft yet firm. As I stood, she rubbed her thumb across the corded tendons prominent on the back of my hand and forearm. “Strong… yes?” she asked, releasing my hand to run hers across my shoulder and right arm. She stroked my hand again and lightly held it. A little tug toward the hallway. Gravity. I let it… and her… lead the way.

Though it also brought a chill into her room, the breeze through the window carried delicate night music. The whispering of fountains and a susurration of the evening street noises of Barcelona, with a full moon rising over the northern end of Las Ramblas… announcing the beginning of the weekend.

My senses heightened; the sound of the unsnapping was distinct. I turned from the window to sit next to her and watched long-nailed fingers work down the front of her shirt to reveal the inside arc of high-set, unexpectedly full breasts in black lace. A chiaroscuro effect from the lamp beside us, the room’s only light. As I watched, her flesh prickled… a stiffening tented the fabric as the curtains billowed next to the chaise lounge where we sat. The October winds.

I made a dry-throat swallow, the kind you make when anticipation has lined it with dust. I reached for the champagne. With gestures, Marisol asked me to remove the foil from the neck of the bottle before I opened it. “It’s rough on my tongue,” Marisol explained in broken English and Spanish I didn’t quite follow. I got the meaning, though I didn’t understand her comment.

She sat there—blouse open down to her smooth stomach—for a moment studying me, then took it off, letting the shirt slip from her hand to the floor as she lay back. Her fingers caressed the satin flesh above her jeans—for a heartbeat or two that seemed minutes long—then unbuttoned them to tug down the zipper. Aroused, my eyes explored the shadow within her undone—flared-open—pants. The center of the pull I’d felt growing all evening.

Marisol picked up her camera, toying with the settings as I fumbled with the bottle and, after a second’s difficulty, peeled the foil from it. I offered it to her, and she made a pulling gesture that became a stroking motion as her smile broadened, flashing bright, framed by scarlet lipstick.

As I worked the cork, she set her camera aside. With the gush of foamy white liquid, she hurriedly leaned forward to take it in. The quick burst swallowed; she slowly licked the neck of the bottle, lingering at the tip. And I understood her remark from a moment before. Her eyes never left mine, and laughing, she offered the bottle. She unhooked her bra, and I watched the silk slow-slide from her breasts to reveal dark tips responding to the chill. It went the way of her blouse. Marisol made a pouring gesture over her stomach, then tugged pants and panties off and reclined. I did as she asked. As I drank from her, the soft laughter turned to louder sighs that mixed with the sough of the night wind.

Later, sated, we moved to the balcony where wrapped in a blanket, I held her. We watched the moon fall from the sky while the statues danced near the fountains below. Soon she slept, and I listened to her and the breathing of one of the loveliest cities in the world.

I didn’t sleep during that perfect moment… on a perfect night, I didn’t want to end.

# # #