The Littleton Writers is a critique group that meets each Tuesday and Thursday evening at Panera Bread of Southwest Plaza in Littleton, Colorado. If you are a current member of Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers seeking a critique group to share your writing and grow your skills, check us out. We think this vibrant collection of authors and authors-to-be have a lot to offer the serious aspirant of writing novel-length commercial fiction. Please use the contact us page to let us know your interest and we’ll look forward to having you join us.
Gregory Lawrence Tafferty
June 23, 1967 – January 10, 2014
Looking at the tombstone rather than the casket, my situation seems somehow less . . . Real.
I don’t know why.
Julianne sobs and I reach out to her.
From behind me: “It is time.”
It’s been there since the ER doctor declared TOD.
I’ve avoided looking at it, naming it–Julianne’s the believer, not me.
But its glow warms my broken heart.
“Mortals are stronger in their broken places.”
Julianne loves Hemingway.
Withdrawing my hand, I turn toward. . .Michael. Toward His light.
For her sake, I hope the angel’s right.
By Patrick Dorn
Dorothy turned to the obituary page and read:
A sad relic of a bygone era committed suicide Friday, after a long battle with depression. “Rusty was never the same after his partner, the Cowardly Lion, overdosed on anti-anxiety medication,” the Scarecrow reported. “He just stopped caring, becoming an empty shell of a man. I think he died of a broken heart.” Tin Man’s body is to be recycled. No services will be held.
Dorothy set the paper aside, flicked her Bic and stared at the flame. “Two down, one to go,” she said.
Patrick Dorn’s most recent play is “The Wacky Wizard of Oz.” He delights in skewering sacred cows, but only when there’s nothing better to fondue.
Thank you to everyone who participated in our “novel in six words” competition, held in October. In honor of Ernest Hemingway’s – “For sale: baby shoes. Never worn” our writers tried their hands at similar succinct storytelling. Here is a sampling of the great work we received:
Failed challenge, but still saved planet. – Jacob Browne
Lost your wedding ring. Not sorry. – Jacob Browne (honorable mention)
Died yesterday. Became Reaper. Miss You. – Jacob Browne (honorable mention)
Parachute fails. Man lands. Honeymoon over. – Liz Funk (honorable mention)
Wife buys arsenic. Husband found dead. – Liz Funk
“He seemed normal,” says shaken neighbor. – Liz Funk
Gamble Safety. Its Worth the Risk. – Elizabeth Hall
Black night, sinking stars: dead spouse. – Mimi Hassouna
He left. I breathed. Moved on. – Trish Hermanson (honorable mention)
Just died, but I’m still breathing. – Trish Hermanson
Tomb – cheap. Used only three days. – Trish Hermanson (honorable mention)
Running slower. He’s gaining. No hope. – Ed Hickok
Pigeons coo. Glancing up. Bird poop! – Ed Hickok
One word removes my future: cancer. – Ed Hickok (First Place winner)
The zombies approached. She escaped … almost. – Laurence MacNaughton
The dime always needs replacing. – Charles Senseman
Gestalt annihilation flailing on bended knee. – Charles Senseman
Whimsical pigs aspirations (spelled vertically) capitalist butcher paradigm. – Charles Senseman
Special thanks to John Turley for acting as judge for this contest. Please keep a lookout for future writing challenges.
by Zoltan James
Jack Browning was an old man and today he felt it. In fact, he felt older than the seventy-five virile years he had spent on this planet. To make matters worse, he didn’t like where he was, at all. He was cooling his heels in the waiting room of Dr. Sandra Goodman. Psychiatrist.
Damn. I’d rather be at the dentist, having teeth pulled with pliers, he thought.
Her couches were stiff faux leather and cold to the touch-–like the swirling snow that fell outside the window. He felt chilled, which was odd since he really felt hot under the collar.
The dog-eared magazines on the low glass coffee table, in front of him, didn’t interest him either. They were two months old and the kind only women would enjoy. There was nothing to read concerning baseball, or golf, or auto racing. It occurred to him that he should have brought a book, but he was too damn mad when he left the house to think about it.
Across the way, a middle-aged woman wore no make-up and covered her head with a blue paisley handkerchief—Amish-like. She busied herself mumbling nonsense to an imaginary friend. She stared ahead, wide-eyed, into some other universe as she spoke.
Another goddamn reason why he didn’t belong here. She was nuts.
He studied the receptionist sitting behind the high desk. At least what he could see of her. From his vantage point, he could barely make out her thick black glasses framed by a head of salt-and-pepper hair, pulled back into a severe bun. It matched her personality as he recalled her cool reception when he checked in.
Good God. Get me outta here.
Then, the severe bun rose from her command post. “Mr. Browning, Dr. Goodman will see you now.” She didn’t smile or offer a hint of friendliness. She looked blankly at him through those thick black frames.
Maybe she was related to the crazy woman wearing the hankie.
A door to another room opened. And, then he saw her. Dr. Goodman. She was blonde and beautiful. She wore a tan skirt with a light blue shirt. She smiled warmly. And, without speaking, gestured for him to enter.
Jack grumbled and rose slowly to his feet. He scowled at the receptionist, who ignored him, once again, and he took a last wary glance back at the woman who was now scolding her “friend.” He shook his head and entered Dr. Goodman’s inner sanctum for the loony, the lost, and the confused souls of humanity.
I don’t belong here, he thought to himself. In fact, he thought the whole exercise was insane and marveled at the irony of it all.
“Please sit down and make yourself comfortable,” she said.
He expected to see a couch, but there was none. So, Jack settled into the cushy beige chair with the big comfy arms. This was real leather. The small room was filled with healthy leafy plants in corners and along the window sill. The soft yellow walls were hung with diplomas in big, black frames, and pieces of modern art that he guessed he was supposed to extract deep meanings from. The whole setup was too damn perky and it made him scowl.
“Coffee? Tea?” she offered like a friendly airline steward might.
“I’m good,” he grunted.
She sat in a modern executive chair and crossed her legs. A clean notepad sat nearby. She studied him silently.
Jack didn’t speak and avoided her eyes. He noticed the tiny, smart clock on her desk.
Another friggin’ 45-minutes to go.
He looked back at her.
She sat motionless. Her eyes firm on his.
Seconds ticked by. Finally, he spoke. “I’ve got nothing to say,” he growled. His eyes darted to the carpet.
“Tell me why you’re here, then?” she said matter-of-factly.
“I dunno. This was your cockamamie idea, as I recall.”
“It’s been a while since we visited. I thought it might be good for us to catch up.” She reached for the notepad.
Jack crossed his arms. He wanted to cross his legs but knew it would hurt too much. So he sank deeper into his chair and deepened his scowl. “How long’s it been?”
“Three years, at least,” she said softly.
“I thought I saw you last month,” he challenged.
She smiled. “You know that’s not true.”
“Well, seems like it.”
“Let’s cut to the chase shall we?” Her smile disappeared. Her lips grew tight.
“Yeah. Let’s. I gotta bus to catch.” He locked eyes with hers. He was ready for a fight.
“Why are you so angry? What makes you think the world owes you anything?” She re-crossed her legs and her big brown eyes bore into his.
“You know exactly why, so why do you keep asking me stupid questions?” He leaned forward in his chair, hands on his knees, ready to stand. Ready to bolt.
“This is about you. Not me. Now. One more time. Why are you so angry?”
Jack studied his gnarly hands with the cracked nails and the big blue veins that looked like interstate highways crisscrossing across the backs. And, there was that ever present purple bruise that didn’t seem to want to heal.
He wondered what had happened to the virile young man he used to be. He was fast at one time. All-league halfback in high school. Now he felt like he moved through a world of molasses. At one time, not all that long ago, he was handsome, with hair. Now, he hardly recognized himself in the mirror.
He was the best electrician the university ever employed. He knew all the profs and they all knew him. He used to be somebody. Somebody they could rely on, dammit. Now, nobody needed him. He had retired ten years ago. He hated retirement. It was boring as yesterday’s news. His house was paid for. His car was paid for. He owed nothing to nobody. He could go and come as he pleased, but he really had nowhere to go. And, he certainly didn’t owe this whippersnapper psyche-doctor the time of day.
He looked up and watched her for a moment. She hadn’t moved. “You’re married aren’t you?” he asked.
“Yes. You know that,” she said, keeping her voice soft and firm.
He looked around the room, counted the four corners on the ceiling, and cleared his throat. “Well, you tell me. You’re the psychologist – ”
“I’m a psychiatrist,” she corrected.
“Yeah. Whatever. You all deal with the nuts of humankind.”
She stifled a smile.
“So, you wanna know why I’m angry? Maybe, you can tell me, doc.”
She didn’t answer.
He looked her square in the eye. “How’d you feel if the only person in the world you ever loved up and died one day, eh, doc? Massive stroke.” He snapped his fingers to emphasize the point. “Dropped her like a tree. Just up and died when you’re supposed to both slip easy into the retirement years.”
She looked down at her notes.
He leaned forward and his voice grew, “And, you tell me, this, doc. What if all your best friends were dead? You think you’d be out dancing a jig and tellin’ jokes all freakin’ day long? I don’t think so!”
She looked up at him but didn’t speak. She let the silence tug at him like the moon tugs at the ocean, pulling its release to shore. And, then, she saw it. A tiny tear formed in the corner of his left eye. The top lip belied a quiver. His neck and cheeks grew red. His hands fidgeted. She figured he wanted to strike out. But, she knew that he wouldn’t. He was still a gentleman.
“It’s okay. I understand,” she said and was surprised at the small lump forming in her throat.
“The hell you do!” he shot back. Spittle splayed across the room. Both eyes tearing now. He stood and paced the floor. He dabbed at his eyes with a sleeve.
She watched him for awhile and then stood next to him. She reached out a hand to touch his arm. “Dad? It’s okay. I understand.”
He flicked her hand away and turned to face her full on. “Okay? You think it’s okay? I have to make a friggin’ appointment to see my only daughter because she’s too damn busy helping crazy people? Okay? You’re the one who’s nuts!” Tears flowed freely down his face and he didn’t bother to wipe them.
And, then, without warning, a tear formed in the eye of Dr. Sandra Goodman. She turned away and sat heavily into her chair.
“Please sit down,” she said.
He didn’t answer as he tugged a ragged handkerchief from his back pocket. He patted his eyes and blew his nose. “I think I’m finished. I have nothing else to say.”
She made a note on her pad. “We should continue this. I think it could be helpful.” She pulled one, two, then three tissues from a box on her desk and blew her nose.
“Continue? I might be dead in three years,” he said. “Hell. I might be dead in three days. Who knows?”
She blew her nose again and seemed to be lost in a thought. Then, she looked up at him and rose from her chair. She walked to him and kissed him softly on the cheek.
He shrank back, surprised.
“Truth is, dad. I think this would be more helpful to me. Maybe you can enlighten me. . .you know. . .tell me more about mom. . .and you. I’m. . .sorry I haven’t been there for you. It’s just that work. . .” She gazed into his eyes hoping for a response.
Jack reached out his arms and hugged his daughter. It was the first time he had held her in years and the first time, in many years, he had felt someone hold him. A wave of hurt and then something like a bright warm light, maybe it was love, he wasn’t sure, but whatever it was, it engulfed his mind. His whole body trembled and he let loose a mournful cry so primal he couldn’t hold it back.
And, Dr. Sandra Goodman held on tight. She wanted to feel his pain with all her might and soul-—as full as she could. She trembled with him. She inhaled the musk of his neck and laid her head on his shoulder. She closed her eyes and recalled the feeling from days gone by. She remembered happier times when her father’s strong caress made her feel like the happiest girl in the world. A time, long ago, when she was just little Sandy.
The tiny clock on her desk chimed indicating that time was up for this appointment. But the old man and the psychiatrist never heard it. For to them, in that moment, anger melted like snow on a sunny sidewalk.
by James Norris
The wind is blowing again, as it has every night since I moved here. Tonight’s different though–there’s an expectation. Not in the voices, but in me.
Somehow, I know it’s happening tonight.
I anxiously try to drown them out. I play the stereo as loud as it will go. I vacuum. Run the dishwasher. The washing machine.
But they drop in pitch, so low they cause the whole house to vibrate.
It’s too much–like it’s the house talking, possessed by the voices.
I turn everything off.
They return to normal–high-pitched, coming in snatches, just out of synch with the howling wind.
After a few weeks in this house, I’d hear the voices and glimpse shapes blowing past the windows so fast I couldn’t recognize them.
Blown by the wind.
I told myself they were common things: pieces of newspaper, bags, leaves. But I never found them trapped in the fence the next morning.
Later, I realized the voices were putting words with the shapes.
When I was young, I used to dream I was out in a strong wind. Raising my arms, the wind would lift me off the ground. The higher I lifted my arms, the faster I would rise. I could fly.
But I always flew too high. Always lost control.
Shortly after moving here, I had the dream again, and tonight the voices are making it come true.
I’m being changed.
Tonight I will.
In the dream, I always lose control.
This is the second in a two-part story.
We pass through the village where I had played soccer three days before. I wave at the kids as we go.
The ascent to the caves begins on a mule path, easy-going on foot, but impassable for anything bigger. After a few switchbacks, we’re clinging to the side of a mountain.
“Put your foot six inches to your right, Donnelly,” Kline tells me.
I find the foothold. Shift my weight and plant my left foot where my right used to be. Five others wait to climb the rock face. Ortiz made it look easy.
“Eight inches.” Kline is crouching now, watching my feet one moment, the valley the next.
My boot settles on the rock he points out. I grip the closest handhold. I shift my weight. The rock I rely on to steady me falls away, pebbles bounce off my boots. My right hand drops to my side. That bitch called gravity grabs me around the waist and I fight to keep myself from following the loose rock down five-hundred-feet to the desert floor. If the fall doesn’t kill me, surely the Taliban will before my platoon can retrieve me.
Kline leans over the shelf and presses his hand to my back, pushing me back to the side of the mountain. I grab his arm and he pulls me to the shelf. “Careful there.”
Kline pats my back and helps the other five across.
The thought of my mother finding out I fell to my death, not a single bomb detonated, is just embarrassing. Never mind Dad.
The shelf broadens a few inches and leads us to another switchback. At the corner, the first of the caves we need to search then destroy.
Movement above presses all of us to the rocky surface. Please, God, let the camo work. A small rock bounces five inches from my helmet, hits my shoulder, and continues down. Dust powders my helmet. I don’t dare breathe.
Martin risks his weapon. The scope is just enough to let him see past the ledge. He lowers it, shakes his head.
It’s possible the rocks moved from a sheep, or a native. Or we’re walking right into a trap. Ortiz motions us forward. We move on.
Another switchback. Nothing to account for the rock slide. They wouldn’t fall for no reason. A chill climbs up my spine.
Ortiz drops to a knee against the mountain wall at the opening of the first cave. He points to me and Nowicky. We’re up.
Gentle and quiet steps into the entrance. A few mats lie on the floor. Further in, more rugs, a wooden box with a half-burned candle in a can sitting on it. Magazines litter the floor. The stench of human waste haunts the back.
Nowicky and I set charges at the mouth. The platoon retreats as far away as they can go on the rock ledge. Orange ear plugs stuffed into every ear.
The mountain rumbles, dust billows forth over the desert so far below, rocks and boulders skip down into the scant grasses.
When the dust settles, we continue to the next cave. This one is empty, but we still destroy it. Don’t want it used against the villagers later on.
Third cave. Nowicky lets me lead this time. Pillows form a circle around a low table. Trash stuffed in a far crevice. We work our way in. Another room with sleeping mats, piles of magazines rest between the mats. A third room, swelling with the stink of feces and urine. Camp toilets individualized by curtains. Each makeshift stall has its own reading material.
Reading material? “Nowicky? What’s with all the magazines?”
Nowicky shrugs. “Fight the boredom when tormenting villagers gets stale?”
A curvy blonde stares up at me. Wind has blown her hair back from her bare shoulders and her bejeweled bra. Must be the Christmas Victoria’s Secret. I lift a catalog.
My platoon waits outside the mess hall for orders. Ortiz, stern-faced and gruff strides before us. We come to attention.
“At ease. We’ve been reassigned.” His lips quiver. “We’re going stateside. We’re escorting comrades home.”
I don’t get it. I just got here. I did my job. No one got killed. I can’t be going home already. “Sergeant?”
“What is it, Donnelly?”
“I know I’m new to the unit, but I trained for EOD–”
“We stay as a team, marine. No one is left behind.”
I nod. I’m not ready to go home yet.
Ortiz dismisses us so we can pack our things. Nothing to pack. Everything is in my trunk. I don’t remember putting everything away, but since the caves, I feel like I’m stumbling through a fog. Mom would say I should get less sleep if it means a cleaner room.
Mom. I’m not ready to go back home. I didn’t get to write even one letter.
The C130 welcomes a procession of caskets into its belly. We each find our assigned box and walk it up the platform as it moves on a conveyor belt. Other marines lift the coffins and stow them so they don’t slide around during the flight. My unit finds their seats and strap in.
No announcement. The back gate closes. Engines start up, increasing to a roar. We’re moving. Still nothing from the pilot or crew. The g-force adheres me to the side of my seat as the C130 accelerates and lifts off.
Kline grins. “Might as well get some sleep. It’s gonna be a long ride.” He turns to Ortiz. “Will the Marine escort greet our quiet friends when we touch down, Sarge?”
Nowicky nudges me awake. The plane is circling Dover. The descent of the huge bird is enough to give my stomach butterflies. I wonder where my boxed-up buddy is going. I guess I’ll find out when we land. All I do know is that I’m putting in for another tour. This one was too short.
I escort the flag-covered casket down the ramp, feeling connected to it like a dog on a leash. I don’t want to let it out of my sight. Two rows of three marines each take it off the rollers and, with a solemn funeral march, carry their fallen brother to one of the awaiting hearses. The box is fed into the back. The back gate closed.
My feet carry me toward the vehicle when Ortiz stops me with a hand on my shoulder. He shakes his head.
“I thought I was taking him all the way, Sergeant Ortiz.”
“You are relieved of duty, marine.”
My mind races. What did I do to be relieved of duty? “Sir?”
“It is time to go home, son. To rest. For all of us.”
Kline, his grin relaxed and genuine. “Let’s go, Donnelly.”
Nowicky nods, gives a two-fingered salute and steps around me.
“With all due respect Sergeant Ortiz, I’m not ready to go home.”
Martin smiles. He drops his gun and runs past my C.O. And myself.
A light ignites in Ortiz’s black eyes. “Wow! That is worth everything!” He struts past me.
Peace floods my soul as my gaze follows Ortiz. My unit fades into the light, or the light enfolds around them. I’m not sure which but I want to be with them.
Memories flood my mind. The cave search. The living quarters of Taliban soldiers who terrorize and manipulate the villages we try so hard to befriend and get information from. The magazines. Stacks and stacks of magazines. I know now each stack was rigged with a bomb. All were in close proximity to each other. When I picked up the Victoria Secret catalog everything went white and silent.
A voice, quiet and deep, calls to me. “Christopher. Come to me. Your actions are not to blame. There is no forgiveness except what you give to yourself for mine was purchased for you already.”
As I step into the warmth, the light envelopes me. I am home.
Jennifer Harrelson writes a variety of genres, from children’s books to horror. She resides in her native Lakewood, Colorado with her husband and fellow native, and two daughters.
This is the first in a two-part story. . .
The mess-tent swells with early morning chatter. An open space on the picnic-style table a few rows to my left beckons me. I set my breakfast down. The other marines glance up and go back to their conversations.
The man across from me, his name patch reads Sgt. Meyers, says to the hispanic officer I sat next to, “The old guy is doing better.”
The marine next to me shakes his head. “After a cheap bottle of penicillin? How long was he sick?”
“His grandson said for months.” Sgt. Meyers’ blue eyes flashed. “Did you see the kid’s face light up with the new school supplies? School supplies, man. My kids back home would be whining about having to go to school at all. The fact he gets to be the hero of his village for bringing back enough for all of the kids.” Sgt Meyers returns his gaze to me. “How’s the food, Private Donnelly?”
I nod, my mouth full of hash browns and scrambled eggs. I swallow, mom’s conditioning coming through. She’d slap me if I talked with my mouth full. “Real good, Sergeant.”
“You meet Staff Sergeant Ortiz?”
I turned my head to properly look my superior in the eye. “Briefly, Sergeant. When I first got here.”
Ortiz rested his elbow on the table, pushing his tray a few inches. “You ready for your first outing tomorrow?”
Colorado, where I’m from, is an arid climate, but it is nothing compared to Afghanistan. The wind is almost constant and the hearty vegetation only grows at certain elevations. I’m stationed at Camp Blessing. The tents and tan buildings blend into the color of the sand. The desert floor heats like a hot plate during the day, frying through the soles of my boots if I stand still long enough. Night cools to a frigid thirty-five degrees. I still get the chills as I turn in.
We prep for our first venture into the Hindu Kush, mainly to overlap our presence with the battalion who’s going home next week. Meet the locals, hand out much-needed supplies to villagers cut off by the Taliban, perhaps get some new intel.
The truck rumbles up the narrow mountain pass, more of a cart trail than a road, but it’s the best road we’ve got. I keep my eyes trained on the mountainside to my right, watching for traps and snipers. Nothing green to hide behind, but plenty of holes and rock outcroppings. The truck’s engine should deafen me to anything, but the thought of ambush is pushing my heart into my ears.
The road degrades until our driver, Nowicki, is forced to stop.
Ortiz jumps down from the passenger seat. “End of the line.”
We all jump out into the dust. The scent of scarce desert plants and a trace of water swirl on the breeze. I hitch up my pack.
“All right, ladies,” Ortiz says. “Another five miles and we’ll be at Macy’s.”
A few chuckles echo across the canyon as we line up.
The first two miles or so seem almost like hiking at home, minus the scrub oak, pines, or pretty much anything living. It isn’t until we approach the first settlement, and dwarfed trees, that the guys grow quiet.
Ortiz signals for us to stop and squat. The guy in front of me, Kline, points to a precipice overlooking the river far below. Ortiz checks the spot through his binoculars.
“Are you sure you saw something, Peters?” Ortiz adjusts the focus.
“If I’m lyin’, I’m dyin’, Sergeant.”
A sniper’s shot kicks up dust just between Ortiz and Peters.
My heart, already pounding away between my ears, doubles its pace. I grip my SAW.
Ortiz signals to Kline, who has set up his scope and is currently searching for the sniper.
Kline reports the coordinates to our own sniper. The rifleman, Martin, squeezes the trigger. He waits for confirmation through his own scope. After several minutes we move.
Another bullet whizzes by, between Kline and me. Kline, without a reaction to almost getting shot, smiles and reads the coordinates to Martin.
The shot is clean. What appears as red dust sprays up and back from the boulder the gunman was hiding behind.
Martin lowers his weapon. “Where there’s one there’s always more. Keep an eye on the whole ridge as we march on.”
Kline nods. “I’m sure that whole side is swarming with ‘em.”
Village children come out to greet us from what seems every door. Only Peters knows some of the language, enough to give medicines and supplies to the locals.
In turn, the burka-clad women offer tea, bread, and dried apricots.
Peters talks with the other Afghani interpreter and the village leaders. Making friends, I hope.
“What do you think they’re cooking?” I ask Kline. He casually points at a goat as it passes by us in the street. But the smell of bread is what catches me, a homey smell that embraces us. The apricots are unlike the store-bought I’m used to, solid honey exploding sunshine in my mouth. At once the smells and tastes relax me.
I unload a dozen deflated soccer balls and a hand-pump. The boys take turns inflating them all. A little girl, to small for a burka, toddles over to me. I open the flap on my leg and hand her a sucker. The little girl shows me her rag-doll. I give it a small hug and hand her back. The smile of thanks spreads first from her black eyes to the rest of her face, erasing her innocence to reveal the beauty she will grow to be. If the Taliban allow her to live that long.
A soccer ball bounces off my knee. I rise and kick it back to the boys. They chase it, laughing, and kick it back to me. I never trained to play soccer in full gear. I give it my best.
A few rounds with the kids and we’re called together.
Ortiz squats in the middle of us. “Listen up. We get these folks what they need, and between Peters and Nowicki, they’ll get a list of what else they may need next time we’re up here. Anything else, gentlemen?”
Both Nowicki and Peters shake their heads. Nothing we can discuss at our present position.
Ortiz stands at attention in the front left corner of the quonset hut, his dark eyes flashing around the room as he waits for his C.O. to begin. We all follow his example.
Master Sargent Taggert strides into the room with a wave of the papers in his hand. His neck is deeply sunburned. What appears to be a tan is actually millions of freckles covering his arms and face. “At ease, men. Thanks to our little patrol yesterday, we have good intel that we have hostiles in the caves overlooking our favorite villages. Even better is that some of those hostiles are the kind our government want alive in Gitmo.”
Over the course of the next hour, we are assigned quadrants and dates for patrols. I knew it would be big, but I had no idea. We’ll be at this particular assignment for at least six months. It might take us all the way to when my deployment is over.
To be continued . . .
Jennifer Harrelson writes a variety of genres, from children’s books to horror. She resides in her native Lakewood, Colorado with her husband and fellow native, and two daughters.