I’ve been coming to Europe about every other year (for pleasure) since around 2002, and every year before that (for work), but the way I travel has been changed. This year I am researching a novel, and so spent 6 weeks in Provence France, where some of the chapters take place—I believe in being as accurate as I can when writing. I’m also spending 6-weeks in Italy, to visit friends.

To make the travel easier—town to town—I used the high speed train in France (TGV) and the high speed Italian train (Frecciarossa). I use an airline travel card for most of my purchases, one that gives me miles for every dollar I spend on United AL. I tried a generic miles card, but not all miles are equal and I suspect the loyalty cards are more effective overall. This is the fourth trip I’ve made using ,miles for my ticket, and more than half of the trips have been in business class.

For accommodation, I’ve used a series of AirBnB whole apartments that are centrally located, less expensive than a hotel, and both more comfortable and with a kitchen and laundry, to save food expenses. AirBnB was used for more than 3 days and I’ve used Booking.com to find good deals for the few short visits. Travel need not be expensive.

 

Fiction by Michael Selden (Science Fiction, General Fiction, Genre Fiction)

After spending a few hours with Frédéric Paul, I’ve chosen (at least) the neighborhood where the main character from Disobedience lived for several years. Since the character does not age, he will need to move now and then. I’ve also decided on a few of the places where he will have worked during that period.

I think I can describe the city now, how it started and evolved, especially from 1920 to 1939, and what life probably was like. I think, because of the character’s inability to age naturally, he will spend some years in Avignon, too and then—perhaps—return to Aix.

In 1934 and afterward, the political environment here changed, as it did in much of Europe. By 1939, I think many people expected another war, and that would have been the signal fro the main character to leave for the US—a place he had never been. I call him John in the prequel short, but he had many names.

This is my last weekend here in Aix before I leave for Avignon. I’ll be there for about 11 days and then in Nie for a few days before going to Italy. Then I’ll spend the holidays, until January 9th, visiting friends in different parts of Italy, mostly Matera, Rome, and Camerino.

 

Après avoir passé quelques heures avec Frédéric Paul, j’ai choisi (au moins) le quartier où le personnage principal de Disobedience a vécu plusieurs années. Puisque le personnage ne vieillit pas, il devra bouger de temps en temps. J’ai également choisi quelques endroits où il aura travaillé pendant cette période.

Je pense que je peux maintenant décrire la ville, comment elle a commencé et évolué, en particulier de 1920 à 1939, et à quoi ressemblait probablement la vie. Je pense que, du fait de l’incapacité du personnage à vieillir naturellement, il passera également quelques années à Avignon puis, peut-être, à Aix.

En 1934 et après, l’environnement politique a changé ici, comme dans beaucoup de pays européens. En 1939, beaucoup de gens s’attendaient à une autre guerre, ce qui aurait incité le personnage principal à partir pour les États-Unis, un endroit où il ne s’était jamais rendu. Je l’appelle John dans le préquelet, mais il avait beaucoup de noms.

C’est mon dernier week-end ici à Aix avant de partir pour Avignon. Je serai là pendant environ 11 jours, puis quelques jours à Nie avant de me rendre en Italie. Ensuite, je passerai les vacances, jusqu’au 9 janvier, à rendre visite à des amis dans différentes régions d’Italie, p

 

 

Always something interesting here in southern France (I’ve been in the town of Aix for over 3 weeks and have another five days to go before I move to he town of Avignon)—always something new to learn.

I’ve been researching the town for the book, Disobedience.

In the meantime, I’ve put together the final touches on the draft version (still a bit rough) of a chapter for “The Wastelands and the Wilderness” (Which is Part 2 of The Balance).

The period of history I am looking at in Aix is from 1920 to 1939. The character, John, moved to Aix from Italy in 1920 and left Europe as WW-2 was starting in 1939.

My research is being conducted in layers. First I identify interesting years from events that happened and then I drill down into what was happening during the month or months while these events happen.  I will include some of this in the novel as John goes about his life in Aix.

Some Interesting photos from then and now:

This is going to be a bit of a stream of consciousness log

Ive been in Aix now for about a week (out of 6 weeks planned).  When I was getting on the train from Paris to Aix, something popped in my knee. Upon reaching Aix, I went to  pharmacy and got a pair of crutches—people were very helpful—and my knee is doing a little bit better each day, although for safety I still take use  crutch when walking.

I’m renting an apartment through AirBNB. The apartment is ideally located and quite functional, with a small kitchen area, including a washing machine. I rented the place for a month, and will travel to Avignon next, where I also rented an apartment.

I did buy a one-month membership at a gym here in Aix. It cost me 99 Euros, although I could have paid 15 Euros per visit instead. Lifting weights is a part of my overall health regime, although I don’t exercise as often as I should. I am using the “Loft” gym. The owner is clearly a bodybuilder.

I’ve noticed how much faster the battery of my phone drains here in either Aix and in Paris. I attribute it to a couple of things: 1) I use location services more and it uses power, too; 2) the phone struggles to find and keep connections more, either because the cell towers are farther apart or because the stone buildings block the signal more——or both.

At home, I can go 2 days before the phone’s battery level even get’s close to 60%. Here, I need to plug the phone in to keep the charge above 55 or 60% after just a half day.
It’s easy to switch your phone to local number, just find a service provider and buy a prepaid SIM card with the data and minutes you’ll need. I bought what was considered a 2-week card (although he card is good for 6 months) with 1000 minutes of talk time and 10GB of data for about 44 Euros from Orange (one of the largest providers in France). If I run out of data (I never use many minutes) then I can recharge it.

Getting a local SIM is much more efficient than using your US number. I will probably get a new card when I go to Italy (as usually do).You just pop the card in your phone out and insert the new one and Tah-dah you’re in business.
I use Watts Up and I also have an app that makes my phone an extension of my Vonage VOIP phone in the US, so calls (minutes) are free, but I need the data for when I am not near a free WIFI signal. I also use an encrypted VPN when using WIFI to keep my traffic secure.

To navigate the streets, I use Mapme (or is it mapsme). You download maps in advance so the system does not depend on having a signal while you’re walking, and it’s pretty good.

 

An update on the whole Orange Tourist phone thing (Nov 1, 2018):

 

I was very careful to only sparingly use data (I used 1GB in 2 weeks and zero minutes taking), but the service expired in 2 weeks nonetheless. I Tried to recharge the phone at an Orange office in Aix, but the man there said he could not help me “Pas ici”—this despite the Orange web site (topup.orange.com) saying that’s where I should go.  I did manage to recharge it for 2 weeks 5GB and 500 minutes for 21+ Euros (with tax).

It was a frustrating morning, and I did use as much French at the Orange office as I could, even arguing (slightly) with the man in French, but my sense is that he simply did not want to help. I suggest not counting on the Orange office in Aix.

I am traveling in Aix-en-Provence, doing research for the book, “Disobedience”. I had a small accident while taking the train from Paris and am using crutches to get around. I hope the injury isn’t too bad.

Aix is a town formed under the Romans and has been an important part of the region for a long time. Specifically, I am reseraching the period between 1920 and 1939—after the fascists took root in Italy but before World War 2 started.The character John (or Jaques) fled Italy to escape the Fascists and then anticipated the war. In 1939 he escaped to America, Boston.

I will be in Aix for about a month and then in Avignon for another couple of weeks beforewrapping up the research.

 

I used Google’s Translate for the following, although I am trying to learn French, too.

Je me rends à Aix-en-Provence pour effectuer des recherches sur le livre “Disobedience”. J’ai eu un petit accident alors que je prenais le train depuis Paris et que j’utilise des béquilles pour me déplacer. J’espère que la blessure n’est pas trop grave.

Aix est une ville formée sous les Romains et constitue depuis longtemps une partie importante de la région. Plus précisément, je réserve la période comprise entre 1920 et 1939, après l’enracinement des fascistes en Italie, mais avant le début de la Seconde Guerre mondiale. Le personnage John (ou Jaques) a fui l’Italie pour fuir les fascistes, puis a anticipé la guerre. En 1939, il s’échappe en Amérique, à Boston.

Je serai à Aix pendant environ un mois, puis à Avignon pendant deux semaines pour conclure les recherches.

 

Earlier this year—in fact around June, or so, I made a couple of changes to The Balance.

— The first was to simplify the cover art, removing the twin faces—Phoebe and Rebecca, as well as the symbol on the back cover.

— The second was to remove the Introduction (entitled “What Came Before”) from the book. My sense was that people seeing an introduction might well be turned off from reading. I still think the intro has value—it tells what happened 200 years before to change the world, and what happened about 17 and a half years before to trigger the story. While most of what was revealed in the intro is also available in the book, it’s scattered and IMO summarized knowledge of history helps to bring the reader into the story faster. None the less, I asked a few readers who thought that it might be an obstacle for some, so it has been removed. However, I will post a link to the original intro here in this post, so readers CAN access it, if desired.

Introduction—What Came Before  (This is a link to a pdf document page)

 

I used to think of the characters Ayn Rand created in her books as exaggerated caricatures of real people, and the way they behaved, not examples of literal behavior and thinking. But over time I’ve come to understand that she was simply making a documentary-like statement about the kinds of behaviors and thinking she’d witnessed as a young person, growing up as the hard left took over her country, killing and justifying taking people’s lives and things in the name of the people.

 
“We must not think. We must believe. Believe, Katie, even if your mind objects. Don’t think. Believe. Trust your heart, not your brain. Don’t think. Feel. Believe.”

——Ellsworth Toohey quote, The Fountainhead, by Ayn Rand.

 

I could go on, but tend to stay away from the kinds of posts that become overtly political. Needless to say, the activities and over-the-top demonization we see today are noting new——Neither are the PR tactics. We saw them  from V.I. Lenin, and from Joseph Goebbels, and from his more recent disciple, Saul Alinsky et al.

I just posted Trampling on the Blood of my Enemy, a short story, on my web site. This is a prequel story to a novel I plan to publish in 2020, entitled DISOBEDIENCE.

 

Disobedience is set mostly in Baltimore, although the prequel takes place in Boston. The main character, John, is an immortal—cursed to live forever. He does his best to keep a low profile, although that isn’t always possible. The story begins after a supernatural entity—one of his enemies—discovers the city where he’s hiding, although because of his curse the enemy is unable to find him directly.

The short story, entitled “Trampling on the Blood of my Enemies”  can be read HERE

There is a link for a PDF file, or it can be read in a scrolling reading pane.

What did the Shire, from the Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings, look like? If you’ve seen the movie then you’ve seen one interpretation, but I wasn’t referring to the movie—I meant the books. To me, writing and reading is a kind of collaboration.

There isn’t just one version of a story, but almost as many as there are readers + the writer(s). We each have a picture of what we see in our minds, an image of the characters, and even a kind of physical performance (virtual) of every scene. I know what the Shire looks like to me. I know what Mordor looks like, as well as the Glittering Caves of Aglarond (something you didn’t get to see in the movies). Of course a film HAS to make compromises, or it would cost an infinite sum to build the sets, and the movie would stretch out in time.

I also know what the town of Bosworth looks like to me, and the observatory in I Am, the forest and plains in The Boy Who Ran, and just about every part of The Land from The Balance. I saw them as I was writing, just as I watched the Boy running through the forest and along the branches of its trees. When I wrote the scene in Bosworth where the spirit of the murdered girl visits Jim in his bedroom, I wrote it in a dark house, with just my Mac Air on—that made it all the more easy to write, and to see. Writers and readers share a special bond—a partnership—in the real-time play that happens in our minds when we read.

It’s a bond writers should never take for granted, because if it isn’t clear for you when you’re writing the scene then it probably won’t spark that special feeling in the reader.

I actually like doing research for a book. I get to learn new things, experience new adventures, maybe learn something more about another language. It’s all good, and it’s all a part of making sure the world you create for your characters is real—authentic. I’ve been researching one book (Disobedience) for some time. I studied the city of Rome the changes in Rome from 1880 to 1920, and this year I’ll be studying the region of southern France, in particular Aix en Provence and Avignon.

It isn’t enough to read, and certainly not enough to look at web sites. You need to get to know the places where your characters will walk, and the things your characters do. You need to make the experience of a place seem real, and if the place and the experiences seem real and your characters are compelling then the story seems real, too. For Bosworth, as much to add realism as anything else, I used the actual weather, sun and moon positions and so forth for each day—hour by hour—taken from weather history near the coordinates I’d assigned for the fictional town.

Remember: fiction is by its nature a lie, and people know this. The key is making your lie seem real—in some ways more real than “normal” life. The characters in your books should seem real to you, too.

Book Awards.  I think they serve a purpose, but like so many things in the “business” they can sometimes become a purpose of their own, and they may not achieve the goals we all expect. Still, if your book wasn’t published through one of the big five the American Librarian’s Assoc. seems to pretend you don’t exist, so the normal channels of getting visibility for a new book are limited. There are marketeers and others who pretend that they can help, but—in the end, and even if you’ve written a good book—you cannot expect visibility, and you can’t buy your way to writing success. It’s mainly luck meeting preparation and quality, but that magic touch of luck is more important than quality.

The book business has historically used a combination of agents and editors and publishing managers to separate the chaff from the wheat, and it has worked well for a while, but the publishing model has changed as technology changed and it is no longer an overwhelmingly expensive proposition to publish a good book.  You still need editors—developmental, copy, proof—and you still need designers and artists (at least for the print editions), but the printing and binding cost to print a single copy, or a few copies, is now manageable, and ebooks have no printing cost. That means the publishers and agents and editorial filters have been losing their unique position. But they are reluctant to give up power, as are those who have long fed on the industry.

This leave few alternatives for new micro-publishers and writers who are unwilling to surrender artistic control for the “privilege” of publishing their books. The ALA helps the big 5 maintain their stranglehold, mainly (I think) because they have no way to deal with the deluge of books, many of which have not benefitted from someone who can actually write, nor editors and so forth (simply being cheap to “print” doesn’t make every book a readable book). I understand their pain. I often have difficulty myself in choosing a new book to read—I’ve gotten picky in my old age, and am unwilling to waste my precious time and life reading crap.  But that does not solve the problem, because crap comes from a myriad of places, including the big 5.

I saw book awards as ONE potential way to help me (as an author) help readers choose non-crap books. I know that I have (in the past) used the ALA awards to help me decide which books were worth my time, and I want to have access to authors not choosing to submit themselves to the endless chain of filters. I think the awards are, in fact, useful for this, although there are awards and there are awards. The trick is: how do we know which ones are worth out effort (and money)—it costs money to run an awards program, just like anything else, and these costs have to be met somehow. You want to choose honest awards, and I research them before I enter.

In the past 4 (or so) years I’ve entered one book per year into between 2 and 4 competitions. I chose the following:

Independent Publisher’s Book Awards (IPPY), and related competitions

Next Gen Book Awards

Benjamin Franklin Awards

Colorado Author’s League (CAL) Writing Awards

Foreword Reviews Competition

I think all of these are honest award competitions, and the CAL awards are even about 75 years old.  I’ve won a gold medal (IPPY), a bronze medal (Moonbeam—related to IPPY), and have been a finalist in the Foreword Reviews competition, the CAL writing awards, and the Next Gen Awards. I’d have to say that, thus far, these results have had some, although microscopic, impact on my ability to attract readers. I just don’t think they matter so much. They are a good way to get a kind of feedback for your efforts, but I have not seen much in the way of a direct correlation between award success and book readership.

This isn’t to say that I am opposed to the competitions. I just don’t think they are having as much impact as—say—the connections (a virtual monopoly) the big five have in getting their books in front of the channels that make a difference, although I have to admit I don’t see everyone’s results and the business is still evolving.

One negative is the oversupply of “free” books, though giveaway channels and then (of course) the pirates, who claim to have distributed many times the number of copies I have seen sold. Ebooks make our work easy to steal, and no degree of digital “protection” will ever be as important as the integrity of those who try to make sure the artists are paid for their work (books, music, etc). Incidentally, giving your books away isn’t the answer either. I “gave away” 12 thousand copies of one book and I feel it was a mistake. Free stuff is not valued.

 

I received the email today

 

The winners from among the finalists are announced at a reception that will be held in New Orleans this year.

 

I’ve noticed a tendency for novels to be divided and then subdivided and then further fragmented into smaller and smaller categories, either by anticipated reader age groups or by some other demographic or other subgroup.

I can understand dividing books into children’s books and even novels for teens (together these were called juvenile fiction, although picture books were separated from chapter books), but now we have middle grade, young adult, and new adult—and then within these new categories, like LGBT and Multi-Cultural, or Women’s fiction, or fiction written by narrowly-defined demographic groups, etc. I see this trend “progressing”. Apparently literature can only be compared with literature from ever narrowing categories, and people are being encouraged to further isolate their reading experiences. I’ve noticed this trend (good or bad) when reviewing writing awards especially, as ever more awards are spawned for very narrow bandwidth writing.

Yes, it helps to know if the book I am looking for is science fiction or supernatural or just about plain human experiences. But from my perspective good literature is good literature. I don’t remember Jules Verne, or Jane Austen being parsed only for specific readers, and I think we’re all the better for it. Of course we have seen an explosion of books published, and it can be difficult to separate the wheat from the chaff, but good stories—good novels—still share common things:

• Credible characters—sympathetic protagonists and believable antagonists

• A strong plot with a consistent voice that carries the reader forward

• Good narrative writing and non-stilted dialog

A good book is still a good book and creating a tiny category of fiction will not turn a poorly written book with a weak plot and cardboard characters into a good book.

A photo taken at the CAL event where finalists in each of the book categories were to read. The event took place at one of the Tattered Book bookstore locations, in a suburb of Denver.

A freiend took this photo while I was talkingabout Bosworth (which is a finalist for the 2018 CAL writing award for YA fiction). The annual CAL competition has been happening for about 70 years.

 

I am providing here (for review), two excerpts form the book BOSWORTH. I’ll only have time to read one of them and am asking people to vote for which excerpt is better for the brief reading. You can vote by emailing me or on Facebook.

Excerpt 1

Taken from Chapter 1 (Jim)

 

. . . .

Don’t forget to brush your teeth before you go to bed. Now come give me a big hug.” She said almost the same thing every night. “I won’t forget.”

The nightly hug was a new thing. Sometimes his mom squeezed so hard Jim had trouble breathing, but he never complained. Not now. After saying good night, he stopped by the front door to let Bo in, being careful not to let it slam this time

. . . . .

Jim walked over to the window without turning on the light. It was easier to see out with the room dark. The moon had risen now, but was behind the house where he couldn’t see. Moonlight touched the tops of the trees, creating a silver cast that spread out across the maples and oaks and ash and chestnuts that filled much of the park. And he wondered about the girl again.

“What do you think?” he asked Bo, leaning heavily on the windowsill.

About what? the dog asked.

Jim had never questioned how Bo could communicate with him—there were lots of things about him Jim didn’t understand, but that had stopped being important a long time ago.

“The girl, of course. Was she real? It was already almost full dark when we saw her. Where do you think she was going?”

I’m not sure, the beagle said. Jim couldn’t decide which question Bo had answered, but could hear the hesitation in his voice. He knew it would be a waste of time to press Bo further.

Bo had come into Jim’s life at a critical time—not long after he started talking. Before Bo, others … strangers … used to visit him in his room at night. Most of the visitors were children, but there were adults and odd-looking creatures, too. The adults always seemed angry. Bo told him that these intruders were unimportant and mostly a part of his imagination—not real. He said Jim should ignore them, and that he should pretend he couldn’t see them. Soon after that, the others stopped coming, but Bo stayed.

At first Jim didn’t realize his mom and dad couldn’t see Bo. But there were so many odd things in the world that this one little discrepancy didn’t seem all that significant—odd things surrounded Jim his whole life. It was hard for a boy his age to know what to pay attention to and what to ignore, but Bo helped him to understand what was important, and he stayed with Jim through the numerous changes in his life—houses and cities and even countries, as his family moved from place to place.

Jim’s father was in the army and for some reason that meant the family had to move a lot. Then one day, about three years ago, Bo simply vanished. His parents told Jim it was because he no longer needed an imaginary friend—that he’d outgrown such things. But Bo had returned last year while Jim was in the hospital, still recovering from the accident.

Sometime in the early morning hours Jim’s mother touched his arm, pulling him from a deep sleep. His pillow and hair were wet with sweat. He couldn’t see his mom’s face. It was hidden in shadow from a lamp in the hallway. He looked toward the window and saw the moon outside. That meant it was close to sunrise.

“Wha …?” he asked, yawning.

“You were yelling again, honey,” she said.

“Sorry.” Jim turned his pillow over to the dry side.

“You want to come sleep in my room?”

“No, thank you. I’m okay.” Bo’s here, he added silently.

It was hard at first to remember what he’d been dreaming about, not that there was any real doubt. He’d been having the same nightmarefor more than a year. It all started back in the hospital, and Jim was still learning to deal with the dream, just as he’d learned to deal with everything else the accident had changed. It always started the same way, although over time little differences had crept in—details he was still remembering about that awful night.

———

He’d been riding in the back of their old Jeep, drifting in and out of sleep. Every time he opened his eyes he’d see his dad up front, staring out into the darkness ahead of them. It made him feel warm and safe to know he was so alert. Even in sleep Jim could feel the car moving as it followed curves in the road. He’d seen a map of their route before they’d left DC. It sometimes ran over hills, and sometimes followed a river through a long valley

. . . .

The Jeep’s screaming tires jolted Jim awake, but he was only conscious for a few brief moments. A loud thump and a crunching noise filled the night as he was thrown into the back of the front seat. Then something heavy hit him from behind and that was all he could remember for a long time. But after months in the hospital, Jim began to piece together other fragments of his memory from that night. Today he’d remembered something new.

The scent of honeysuckle had been coming through the Jeep’s window just before the accident. His dad had cracked one window open to let in fresh air. Another piece of the puzzle fell into place, probably triggered by the sickly-sweet smell during his walk home. Last fall he’d remembered awakening in fire. It burned his face and the upper part of his arm. His right leg had been numb at the time, as though it were no longer attached to his body. Not long after he regained consciousness, the car tilted and broke free of whatever had delayed its fall, and then it rolled over and over before landing upside down in the river.

Cold water rushed in through cracks in the body and through the open window. Jim remembered struggling to get free from whatever was pinning him in place at the time. He tried to keep his head above water, to gasp in the small amount of air still trapped near the floorboard. He recalled how his side and abdomen felt ‘funny’ and that his leg had begun to ache. Jim knew he couldn’t hold on for long. The water level kept rising until just his mouth was able to reach that one last tiny pocket of air—and then he lost consciousness again. The water had put out the fire, but now he was drowning. The next time Jim woke up he was in the hospital. …

 

Excerpt segments taken from BOSWORTH

Copyright Michael Selden 2017

 

Excerpt 2

Taken from Chapter 11 (Missing)

…

The teacher had started a new unit on the period just after the Revolutionary War, but Jim was having a hard time concentrating—the room had begun to breathe. The walls expanded and contracted every few seconds, bending in the middle. Jim looked around to see if anyone else had noticed it happening. Of course not.

The teacher kept glancing back his way to see if he was paying attention so he was reluctant to close his eyes—then suddenly Jim noticed a young boy standing in the corner up front, between the teacher’s desk and the window. He must have just appeared because Jim hadn’t noticed him there before. The boy was much too young to be in middle school, and he was wearing a long-sleeved white shirt and a black tie, like an old-style school uniform.

The boy’s eyes focused on him, staring for maybe fifteen seconds without expression, and then his face and body started to blur. It was as if he was melting then stretching, growing taller, and then the boy was gone and a girl was standing in his place, also staring at him. The girl looked a little angry at first—and then afraid. The face and body and clothing all melted again, and now a boy his own age was there. The figures kept changing every five to ten seconds—a boy, then a girl, older, then younger. The figure finally settled on that of an older girl with long blonde hair. She was glaring at him, a blazing fury radiated from her eyes—they almost seemed to glow. She was older—old enough to be in high school. She raised one arm, her finger pointing at him, and her mouth started moving. She was saying something, her mouth formed into a snarl as she yelled, but he couldn’t hear her words.

A cold chill passed through him and he closed his eyes, as much to escape the terror he felt as to try and make the vision go away. This was something completely new. He’d never seen anything like this before—so many faces and so much fury on that one face. Jim hoped he was dreaming, or that this was in his imagination. When he opened his eyes again he was the one standing. Jim was beside his desk with his arm raised, pointing at the corner. The girl was no longer there, and the room was back to normal, no longer breathing.

Everyone in class was staring at him, even the teacher. Their eyes and mouths were wide open, afraid. The people sitting closest to him had moved their desks away from him, sliding them across the floor.

“Are you okay?” the teacher asked. Even the teacher’s voice was shaking and Jim saw him reach out to steady himself against the wall.

“Uh—yeah. Why?”

“You were saying some pretty, well … strange things just now. I didn’t hear everything, and some of it didn’t even sound like English. But I definitely heard the words ‘murder’ and ‘bastard’.” One of the boys who’d been nearby raised a hand. “Yes, Charlie,” the teacher said.

“He said ‘rape’, too, and something else … a lot of bad words, including the one that starts with an ‘F’.”

“I don’t remember that,” Jim said, letting his arm fall back to his side. His legs had started shaking. He tried to sit down but they gave out and he missed the chair, landing on the hard floor. Jim’s face and neck turned hot with embarrassment. He expected to hear the other kids laugh, but the room was quiet. When he looked up into the eyes of one girl, her body stiffened and she tried to move her desk even farther away.

The teacher was still staring at him, and seemed to be having trouble talking. When he did speak, he asked Jim if he was okay, again.

“Yeah. I’m … fine.”

The teacher sat down at his desk and wrote something on a notepad. He tore off the sheet of paper, put it into one of the large brown envelopes that sat on the corner of all teachers’ desks, and sealed it.

“I want you to go to the nurse’s office, right away. Take this to her. You can have your phone back now—forget about the principal’s office.”

Jim got up from the floor, his legs still shaking, and grabbed his backpack before walking to the front of the class. He stumbled once along the way. The desks ahead of him parted to make room as he approached. He took the envelope and phone from the table, noting that the teacher didn’t want to touch him. Once out in the hallway, he heard all the voices erupt in the class, even through the door. Everyone was talking, but after a few seconds the teacher yelled for quiet.

Despite his wobbly legs, Jim managed a more or less straight line down the hallway to the nurse’s office. He handed her the envelope with the note and explained why he’d been sent.

The nurse opened it and glanced at the message just as he collapsed into one of the chairs. She took his temperature, looked into his eyes, listened to his heart, and then asked him to follow one of her fingers as she moved it back and forth across his face.

“I don’t see anything obviously wrong with you, but the note says you don’t remember what happened.”

“I may have dozed off,” he said, but even he didn’t think he sounded convincing.

“Wait here,” she said, heading out the door toward the main office. “I’m sending you home. The secretary will call your mother to come get you.”

“I can walk—it’s not that far.”

“Maybe so, but you’re not walking today.”

 

Excerpt segments taken from BOSWORTH

Copyright Michael Selden 2017