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Enigma


January has a way of making everything new. A crisp calendar, a brand new notebook, and a post holiday purge of leftover candy paves the way for fresh creative endeavors.

To kick off the new year, here’s an excerpt from Enigma, the next installment in the Jade Weekes Art Mystery series.

Enjoy.

The Future Man | Paul Klee | 1933

The Future Man | Paul Klee | 1933

Enigma, A Jade Weekes Art Mystery

Chapter One

The boat rocked in long swells which Jade felt roll from left to right, like a book she’d read enough times to memorize. It felt like Andre’s barge floating on the oily wash of the Seine, but it wasn’t. The damn sun was too hot for one, and the calming cacophony of the Paris waterfront was an ocean away.

“How much time are you planning to waste in that chair?”

She turned her eyes in the direction of the voice, John Young stood at the rail, hands on hips. “I don’t have a job,” she said, closing her eyes again.

He crossed the narrow wood deck and stood over her a moment before pulling a lounge chair closer and sitting. “It’s been over a year,” he said. “The statute of limitations is up on self-pity.” The chair squeaked under his weight as he settled back.

“Who let you on the dock?” she asked, “I’ll need to reprimand security.”

“Andre called and…”

“And wanted you to check on me,” she finished. “I’m happy, tell him that. Now go away.”

“Your father is dead, you can’t bring him back. Andre is alive, thanks to you.”

Jade sat up. Her skin felt tight, like leather tanned and stretched to dry. She had intentionally moved as far away as she could from the memories, and half remembered images of her past, spending months building up walls. An interruption was unneeded, unwanted. Her pulse thumped in her throat. “Whatever you want, I’m not interested.”

Her only comfort zone was now out of her reach. For five years she had walked into galleries, skirted security systems and guards, and walked out with Reniors. It had felt like a normal life to her, normal enough to black out all memories hidden from her by retrograde amnesia, a side effect of being attacked and left for dead, floating in the Seine. Certainly, if you have something to live for, it doesn’t get washed so easily from your mind, she thought. The temporal vacancy was home.

The only image she had of her life before the attack, was of her father laying on the floor, his blood painting the gray tiles of their small Chicago gallery. Even as she’d tried to not remember, it came back when the same madman, Jarvinen, had tried to kill Andre, the mentor who had taught her a use for her unusual skill set. He was like her second father—for a while at least.

Young shifted beside her. She glanced to her right. His legs stretched to the end of the lounge chair, and he had pulled a Braves baseball cap over his eyes.

“Suit yourself,” she said.

“I will,” he replied.

Jade closed her eyes, trying to block out his presence. Water lapped at the dock pilings, and further down, she heard a boat crew yelling to one another as they off loaded a fishing party. Young made no sound, and after a while she began to think he’d either left, or perhaps fallen asleep. She glanced at the chair. He was still there. Lean and tan, clad in tan cargo shorts and a Jimmy Buffett t-shirt, he fit into the surroundings. It was a marked improvement over the mud and blood crusted jacket and jeans he’d worn when they had exited the sewers of Paris. He reminded her of unfinished business.

“What have you heard of Morrell?” she asked. Simon Morrell, a career art thief, con man, and murderer with no moral compass, lived adrift in the money currents offered by organized crime. Last year, when his plans countered Jade’s, she’d helped the police capture him with solid evidence to put him away for life.

Unfortunately, he had quickly disappeared—as was his habit—during a custody exchange.

“There’s an occasional lead, but nothing turns up,” said Young. “I think someone in the ranks is helping him, but so far I don’t know who.”

“Is he in Europe or the States?”

Young smiled. “Both, but I’m always a step behind,” he said.

“With Morrell, you can’t follow leads, you have to figure out what he wants, and get to it first,” said Jade.

“Is that so?”

She stood up and wrapped a large dark towel around her waist. The contrast of the terry fabric against her tanned skin, drew Young’s eyes upward until they met hers, and he looked away, pulling his hat back in place.

“Why are you here, John?”

“Andre, forever in need of something to occupy his time, discovered a trail that may lead to a lost painting. You know how he can’t resist a challenge,” drifted Young’s voice from under his hat brim. He seemed to sink deeper into the chair. “He thinks you can find it.”

Jade walked to boat cabin and pulled a cooler from under a bench. After sloshing through watered down ice, she returned with two dripping glass bottles, and held one over Young’s head. “Here,” she said.

He took the beer from her hand, and twisted off the cap. “Thanks.”

“Per my agreement with the French, British, and United States legal systems, I don’t find paintings anymore, but thanks for thinking of me.” She took a sip of her beer and sat. “Is Morrell involved?”

Young shook his head. “Not this one, it’s an old case, and a lot of years and people have done their damnedest to erase the trail. Just thought you might be bored hiding out, waiting for the rest of your life to happen. You can use your unique talents for something better.”

“What’s the catch?”

“It’s just a story, a few old letters,” he said. “And this.” He reached into his back pocket, then held an envelope out. “Take it.”

She paused, looking at it, recognizing the stationery from Andre’s desk. She could almost see the barge rocking on the currents of the river, beneath the shadows of Notre Dame. She took her time reaching for, it and pulled the envelope his from his fingers. The flap was partially glued from the humid air, and she slipped her finger under the edge to flip it open. A small black and white photograph with scalloped white edges, and the brown spots that come to old paper with age, slid into her fingers. A girl stared back at her, dark hair pulled back into a bun of some kind, with wild curls, breaking loose, suspended around her face. She wore a jacket and white blouse, and stood in the formal posture people took decades ago when posing for a picture.

“Who is she?” asked Jade.

“Keep looking,” Young replied.

The photo revealed little detail. The setting appeared to be in a home, a lace curtain peeked along the edge of the image, and a painting hung in the background. The girl seemed familiar, but Jade couldn’t pick any feature to connect a name or memory. “I’m sure I’ve never seen her, but there’s something about her… where and when was this taken?” she asked, flipping it over to scan the back.

“Dessau, Germany, 1938.”

Jade looked over at Young. “Name?”

“Look again,” he replied with a nod towards the photo. “I’m sure your father told you stories about her.” He paused to take a hit off his beer. “There was a reason he became an art collector and opened the gallery. If you haven’t remembered yet, I would think you’d want to look up your family.”

She let out a breath, “Family?” She slipped the photo into the envelope and tossed it onto his chest. “I don’t know the person I used to be, why would I waste time on a family tree?”

Young sat up, placing his bottle on the deck under the chair. He slid the photo from the envelope, and held it next to her face. “It’s the eyes and mouth that you find familiar,” he said, staring at her past its curved edge, his gaze challenging.

She looked at him, then at the deck over his shoulder, and then down at her beer bottle without answering.

“Why do you think that is?” he asked.

“You can hardly wait to tell me. I don’t know whether to be interested or annoyed.”

“You’re interested,” he replied in a softer tone. “You recognized her because her face looks a lot like yours.” He flipped the photo around so the image gazed at her.

Jade looked at the girl. She reached up and covered part of the image so only the eyes looked back. “Family photo?” she whispered.

“Your grandmother, Anna Blume.”

In the distance, a jet ski chopped over water sending its wake crashing. Suddenly, every sound seemed magnified, the shouts from the deck hands, and whistle calls from the seagulls competed for her attention. What had stumped her before, now was obvious. “Anna Blume.” She said the name, wondering if she’d said at another time in her life, perhaps before her memories were scrambled. The sound of the letters felt foreign.

“Anna left Germany shortly after this picture was taken. She was with her father, Jacob Werner, but somewhere along the way, they were separated.”

“My father was named after him,” she said. “Why is this important now? I’m sure she’s long dead.”

“She had a painting with her. She and her father, were running from the Nazi occupation when the train they were on was detained. Werner was taken away by German soldiers, but Anna hid with a group of women. She left the country, at least that’s what we believe. The history gets sketchy after that.”

“Wait a minute,” said Jade. “If you don’t know what happened to her, then how do you know she’s my grandmother? This sounds like some bullshit that you and Andre cooked up.”

“Why would we cook anything up? If you want to stay on this boat the rest of your life, I don’t care, but…” he paused with dramatic effect. “If we find out what happened to her, we find this.” He tapped the corner of the photo.

She looked at the eyes and face of Anna Blume, and then turned her attention to the painting hanging on the wall behind her shoulder. “I need a closer look,” she said.

Jade left him on the deck while she rummaged through the cabin. When she returned, she had a small domed magnifier. She laid the photo on the arm of the chair and covered it with the glass. The painting curved upward, exaggerating the lines of the geometric patterns that crossed over the face…no, she thought, it was two faces staring at her. “Paul Klee.”

“That’s what we’re looking for,” he said.

“He was one of the artists deemed degenerate by Hitler.” She moved the dome along the image to take in more detail. “He was too modern and bold with his vision to fit into the Führer’s art horde.”

“You know a lot about art from that period?” he asked.

“You never answered my question. How do you know this woman is my grandmother?”

Young paused, collecting his thoughts before answering. “You really don’t remember any of this?” He turned the photo to get a better view through the magnifier. “After Anna fled Germany, we traced her to France.”

“We? How are you in this?”

“I have an extensive file on you and your father. Naturally, when I found a mystery in his past, I couldn’t resist looking closer. It fit Andre’s story,” he said, rubbing his hands together to remove the water that had dripped from his beer bottle. “I shared it with Andre because he knows the shadier sides of the European art market better than anyone. If this painting had been seen in the last seventy-five years, he would know.”

“You said there were letters.”

Young pulled a pack of papers from his shorts pocket and unfolded them before handing them over. “These are photocopies of letters Anna wrote to her husband before she disappeared. She left Germany, ending up in France where she married, and had your dad. The painting she smuggled out of Germany is worth around sixty-million euros. The story says she left her family to take the painting to a museum on the German border to sell. They were struggling for food and basics everywhere in France at the time. She never came back. The painting didn’t surface, and when her husband looked for her, he found out she had never arrived.”

“So she never surfaced,” said Jade, “and neither did the painting.” She pulled the papers apart, looking at the delicate script handwriting.

“The last page is our clue. It’s the last communication she had with her family. The painting was the only thing of value she had when they left Germany.”

“So, if I find the Klee, its mine, right?”

“That’s not so clear,” he said, “and you know it. This photo is the only proof of ownership.”

“And the stories and letters?”

“Only a bill of sale will stand up in court, especially on a case this old.” He shrugged. “Even if we find it, it may take years to clear ownership.”

“I see what you’re doing.” She shoved the papers and photo into the envelope and handed it over. “Believe me, I appreciate your concern, but I don’t need a diversion. I’m happy to hang on my boat and stay out of jail. You’re the last person who should be getting me involved on an art hunt.”

“You’re the last person who should be wasting their intelligence bobbing on this waterway.” He downed the last of his beer and pitched the bottle into a bucket beside the deck rail with a harsh clatter just short of shattering.

“What if I could guarantee you’re on the right side of the law. You won’t be arrested,” he added.

“I recall that line,” she replied, “just before my court appearance.”

“You never had jail time. I made the case that you helped take down Jarvinen’s gang which solved a murder case and a string of heists.” He paused and looked toward the cooler. “You have another beer in there?”

“Help yourself.”

He pulled the cooler open and grabbed two more bottles. “This is your mystery to solve. It’s your prize to win.”

“I keep the Klee?”

“You connect the dots for your past.” He passed the beer to her. “You’re hiding, trying to keep yourself from remembering who you were before you lost your memory. I’m suggesting you face it head on.” He pointed his beer toward her. “You’re not Jane Werner, or Jade Weekes.” He tapped his bottle against hers, “You need to figure out who you’re going to be today.”

She popped the cap off the beer and let it bounce under the chair. “If I help you, I want the painting.”

“I’ll do what I can,” he said. “Are you in?”

“What’s in it for you and Andre?”

Young smiled, “This is strictly for fun.”

“Doesn’t it go against your job with the FBI?” she asked.

“The job is gone. I spent too many years living with the worst kind of people and seeing them walk on a technicality. It was time to retire.”

He stretched out on the chair, and Jade realized how much he had changed, aside from the clothing. The lines that had cut into his brow were softer, and he was relaxed. There was little sign of the John Young that had guided her through the Paris underground, ready to react to attack, and ready to kill if needed.

“How long have you been out?”

“A few months. It’s a nice pension too. I’m getting used to waking up knowing someone isn’t trying to kill me.”

“I’m flattered you trust me,” she said. “But I’m not interested.”

Young smiled, but the expression didn’t reach all of this face. He let out a long breath, “Andre said you’d say no. Aren’t you at least a little curious to know what happened to Anna and the Klee?”

“I don’t know Anna, or the line of descendants you think leads to me. You and Andre know enough to move on without me.” She stood and walked to the deck rail facing the dock. “I’d like you to leave.”

Young stared at her, seeming to weigh if her request was genuine, and then walked to the rail. He adjusted his cap to shade his eyes, and stepped onto the dock. “Let me know if you change your mind.”

She watched him walk the weather washed boards until he disappeared into the parking lot. The whole idea that she’d jump at the chance to find a painting, or even search through her family history to satisfy Andre’s whims infuriated her. John was ex FBI, and with the deep undercover stretch he did with Andre, his art world connections were shadier than Morrell’s.

A shadow of guilt tinged her anger. She wouldn’t have found Andre in the labyrinth of catacombs beneath Paris without John’s connections. His cover had been deep enough to burn his relationship with most of his FBI colleagues, who believed he’d turned to the other side of the game. Was he really retired, or had he been forced out of the bureau? She could call Stewart Connor with the Boston FBI office and ask, but that would mean she cared if his story were true—that would mean she was actually considering taking up the challenge. Stewart was John’s only friend left at the FBI, and had tracked her and Morrell to Jarvinen. What were the chances even he would know John’s official status, or would it be more closed files, locked out of his security clearance?

“Damn it!” Why can’t I just stay out of it? She turned and noticed the pack of papers and photos on the chair. John was leaving bait, she thought.

She grabbed the pages and marched to the rail with the intention of throwing them over, but her fingers wouldn’t let go. This is all be fiction, she thought. It’s easy to fake letters and photos. She held them over the water again, but her own eyes stared back at her from the grainy image, and again, she hesitated.

Inside the cabin, her cell phone rang. After the fourth ring, it stopped and was followed by a chirp of a text message.

She tossed the papers onto the chair, reached in the door, and grabbed the phone off the counter.

“Why this painting? Why Blume?” the text read. The number was unfamiliar, and Jade was sure it would lead to a pay as you go phone with no account records. She typed and hit send. “Who is this?”.

The reply came quick, “Find me.”

She stared at the text message, her mind reeling over the possibilities. Morrell? Young? Andre? “I’m not playing your game,” she typed. There was no answer, and after a moment she set the phone down.

It was a good questions. Why now? Why this hunt?

She grabbed a backpack and shoved in a change of clothes and a toothbrush. When she emerged at the end of the dock, Young was sitting on the hood of a black SUV, eating a hot dog. He didn’t seem surprised to see her.

Jade cocked her head, resisting the comment she wanted to make. Instead, she said, “If I help you, I want the painting, and I call the plays. I’ve spent years building connections to information, and to people who know how to make transactions happen. I’m not going to risk that.”

“I thought you were out of the business.”

“Some skills translate to other career paths.” She opened the car door and tossed her pack into the floorboards.

“That’s all you need to know.”

“First steps?” he asked, throwing the food wrapper into a trash can. He opened the driver’s door and slid in.

“We go to Chicago.”

“To your father’s old apartment?” he asked.

She nodded, “Jacob had a storeroom full of boxes with family papers, photos…things passed down. It’s the logical place to start piecing together the story.”

“Will you be calling on old friends?” he asked.

“Alex Ford, you mean?” Alex, an action-figure of a movie star, had helped to track her father’s killer to Paris, and had risked his own life to save hers. All that, after she had broken into his house with the intention of plundering his art collection. “He’s in London working on a project. He’ll be gone another month, at least.”

“So you’re still an item.”

She shook her head, “We were never an item. We just play chess sometimes.”

“Is that an euphemism?”

She gave a shrug, “I think your job for now is to drive.”

~~~~~~~~~~~

Paul Klee
Paul Klee was a German-Swiss painter and draftsman who’s artistic influence survives in modern graphic design and typography. His exploration of styles and mediums defied classification, taking in elements of Impressionism, Cubism, Surrealism, and Abstraction. This was enough for Hitler and his Reich Marshals to deem his work subversive. Klee’s paintings were part of the degenerate art exhibition, Die Ausstellung “Entartete Kunst” in Munich, November 1937.


Every Picture Has a Story


I’m not sure when we first connect to art as something more than a scribble our parents put on the refrigerator. Somewhere along our personal timeline, we recognize our own feelings in a painting, and wonder if the artist felt the same way. Even works created decades, or centuries before we were born. Skip ahead to college dorms, and you’ll find Max Ernst and Edvard Munch hanging side by side expressing angst and romanticism. There are times in our lives when images convey more than the OED could find the words to explain.

Ashes_Edvard Munch

During WWII, art took on political meaning, and for many Nazi leaders, rising to power meant amassing collections of the masters, and giving their Furer the best of the lot, as the wide-scale looting and confiscation moved hundreds of thousands of pieces of art– renaissance masters to modern impressionist– from museums and private collections to train cars, salt mines, remote estates, to anywhere it could be hidden. The old masters were revered, the new free expression and bold interpretations of life created by artists such as Paul Klee, Picasso, Otto Dix, Max Lieberman, Van Gogh, Marc Chagall, Munch, and Ernst were labeled degenerate.

I’ve read accounts of bon fires, where works by these artists were rendered to ashes, others auctioned off to feed money into the Nazi war machine. Why were these marked for destruction? Adolf Hitler felt that anyone who painted in this style must be physically inferior to see the world and colors in this way. If the works he detested didn’t meet this definition, then he labeled it politically subversive.

The stories told within these images are now layered in stories of what happened to the art, and where it has traveled in the last 70 years.

Right now, stolen art is hot. Not for being stolen, but for the publicity generated by the news such as the cache of art discovered inside the walls of a Munich apartment, the trial of art thieves in Amsterdam which resulted in the destruction of priceless works by Gauguin, Matisse, and Monet, to the upcoming film directed by George Clooney, Monuments Men.

I think that’s why Jade Weeks, the main character in my art mystery series, is so entwined with her pursuit of art. She uses the stories inside the paintings to explain the disjointed memories that flash through her dreams. Recovering a stolen masterpiece recovers a part of herself. In the next series installment, she is tracking the history of a Paul Klee painting that belonged to her great-grandfather, and was last seen with her grandmother just before she disappeared near the border of France and Germany towards the end of WWII.Wired, A Jade Weeks Art Mystery

Jade is reluctant to get caught up in the search, but John Young, the undercover FBI agent who pushed her to solve her father’s murder in Wired, is determined to engage her help. Even though it feels like a set up, Jade can’t stay away. When she tries to strike out alone, a shoot out, and cryptic text messages push her right back into John’s path.

As she tries to push away the memories of her father’s death and her life before his murder, she recognizes a kindred spirit in her grandmother, Anna Blume.

~ Stay tuned for updates and previews of Enigma, book two in the Jade Weekes Art Mystery series.


Time Stand Still


“Freeze this moment a little bit longer. Make each impression a little bit stronger.” ~ Rush

I love to travel and any place I visit is open game as a story setting. I often take photos to remember the details of a place and to jog my memory of the sensory bits that add realism to a description.

This first photo was taken from Notre Dame in Paris.  In case you’re wondering, the buses and trailers were part of a production set for the TV series Highlander with Adrian Paul. Looking at this, I remember how incredibly cold it was.  The wind blew along the river with a ferocity that cut through my coat and several layers of sweaters. The water smelled pas frais as it swirled in eddys along the wall.

The images and memories formed a basis for the setting of WIRED which begins and ends in Paris.  The final scene takes place on the bridge in the distance.  There are also scenes that take you into the catacombs underneath the city and introduces another side of Paris usually not mentioned in the tour guides.  For those locations, I relied on research and discovered there’s a French Police unit that patrols the underground keeping peace and deterring criminal behavior. Photos become valuable tools for writing and enhances your ability to convey mood and let the setting take on its own character role.

The second photo is a church yard in England, but my memory is faulty on the exact location.  I’m thinking it may be in Suffolk. I do recall the church was well over 1,000 years old and was marred by medieval graffiti on the ancient floor tiles.  This will be in the follow-up novel to WIRED which has the working title Persistence of Time.

Now that the digital age is upon us, I snap photos constantly with my phone, trying to capture fleeting moments and emotions I can use later.

I also freeze bits of time by being completely present in the moment and noting everything around me. Each time I’ve done this, I’ve been able to later recall details that would have likely gone unnoticed… such as Ray Davies changing his wrist watch mid concert in 1983 or a woman in a black sweater doing yoga in Russell Square while a breeze blew spray from the fountain across the stone walk (2007).

By adding realism and sensory detail, your readers will be able to escape into your writing. Photos help me make time stand still long enough to share it with you.


Yes, I fell off the face of the earth.


Well, at least my sense of balance was off kilter.  Life does that to you.  I just find it ironic that I last wrote about Tweeting and Blogging and yet hardly touched my apps in two weeks.  I did read the witty comments of others on the stream and enjoyed Anne Charles’ Optical Delusions in Deadwood… really too funny to put down.

The more complicated my life becomes, the more I want humor and a good mystery to help me escape.  But now I am emerging from my quiet corner to work on novels at hand and follow through on my writing commitments.  Here’s my list of priorities:

  • Update Amazon with new edited version of Perfect Copy. Let me know if you’d like a free read:)funny happens
  • Shape up WIRED to send to my editor by April 15 (Yes, I borrowed the deadline from the IRS)
  • Get on board more blog tours for the summer
  • Be a better IBC (Indie Book Collective) member and help with the workload

That should be enough for the moment.

While on sabbatical, I listened to several audio books, paying close attention to how the author wove multiple plot lines for the main character. Everyone has a lot going on these days, so why not the characters in our stories? Just today, I’m juggling a dozen client projects/calls/setting video shoots, writing a blog post, planning a vacation, making a mental grocery list, managed to fit in a haircut at lunch so no eating = starving, and what comes next?  I don’t know; it’s too much to track without a TO DO list. 

If that’s my boring life, imagine what your over-achieving super clever hero is doing. He’s piecing together clues while wondering if the strange tapping coming from the bath pipes means anything.  She just wanted a frappucinno when she got pulled for driving mph in a school zone. The police detective couldn’t help but notice the location of the crime scene looks like the house where he grew up.

Humans are so funny….in a good way.  Our brains can’t stay in one place, we want to daydream and worry and notice odd things as we go through our day.  To steal a line from the movie “Up”, “Squirrel!” Yep, we are easily distracted.

Have fun with your characters this week and let their minds wander.  You may end up with a brilliant twist to your story.


Scraps of the Past


It’s inevitable. As we get older we become less sentimental about the odd bits and pieces we carry around from our past. I’m referring to the box(es) of stuff that has survived childhood and traveled to college dorm rooms, first apartments and finally the closet or attic where you now live.

Every time you move and have to pack these things and carry the box to a new home you weigh its importance to your memories or future.

In my box of “stuff” is a stack of notebooks full of youthful angst, poems and the beginnings of a first novel written the summer after fifth grade. Other bits of interest include petrified chewing gum from my 1st Police concert, a t-shirt from Girl Scout camp plus a moth eaten beret.

Digging deeper (metaphorically speaking) I see stories – the ones I read growing up, the stories I dreamed of writing and an impression of a little girl that wanted to see the world through the eyes of Nancy Drew and HG Wells.

I get the same feeling whenever I walk through a junk store looking for vintage jewelry or a discarded first edition. I can’t help but create a story for the journey the objects traveled. Who owned them? What was the world like when it was new?

These details often find their way into my writing. I think that’s why I love writing about art and have spent so much time learning about its plight through history. Each portrait is the face of someone with a story and the painting itself has its own tale. Landscapes are as much an image of a place frozen in time as it is the artist’s personal expression.

Move through time to Impressionism and Modernism and you see a world that is rapidly transforming to an uncertain destiny.

As I add details to Jade’s life, I’m thinking about what bits she would carry around. How does a person with amnesia take stock of the past which made her who she is? Fun is in the details and for Jade, there are also clues there for her to discover.


“Having Her Say” a guest post by Jade Weekes of Wired


“Third person point of view can be subjective,” considered Jade Weeks. She was in the process of casing the Salvador Dali Museum in St. Petersburg.  The near axis of sun to earth felt like a suffocating heat wave after the cool mornings in Paris. However, the geometric, yet flowing, organic feel of the building set her at ease and she began to notice patrons standing in shadows, fleeing unconsciously from the solar outburst.

“My point of view is private and public,” she had told Morrell. He had cornered her in their hotel lobby, intent upon discerning her intent. She didn’t care for his bragging tones as he tried to out-exploit her exploits.

“Preferably, she story should unfold to the observer without your intervention. Unless you are genuinely engaging, do you think readers really want to know your deepest secrets?” She was prodding his ego. She could tell it injured him.

“Those who follow me,” she continued, “hear my thoughts, see my reactions and make up their own minds as to whether I’m interesting.”

Morrell, red-faced, had tried to justify his first person point of view. Jade had walked away.

Now, as she reflected on the conversation, she decided maybe her words were too harsh. Everyone is entitled to their own point of view: objective, subjective or even first person.

She found a bench outside the café. Settling in with an iced latte and travel-worn paperback, she deliberated over which selection would grace her wall. Dali’s Paranonia would be most fitting.  A smile was the barest hint to her pleasure.  The novel in her hands bordered Dali’s profound genius: “Time Machine” by H.G. Wells, a shifty POV if she ever read one.


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