Ode To Azerbaijan by Jenny Falcon

Firstly ‘Where? followed swiftly by ‘Why?’
Was how conversations began
When we told our family and friends
We were off to Azerbaijan.

‘Why not?’ we said, ‘it’s different
A World Heritage site indeed
So off we went, an intrepid four
To see what we could see.

Our destination was Baku
A five and a half hour flight
Our boutique hotel in the Old Town
Near all the notable sights.

Azerbaijan-Baku-steps-leading-away-from-Fou ... Square-to-statue-of-Nizami-tweaked-2-BG

The first day, locally we explored
Cobbled streets, lots of steps, lovely sun
A wide promenade by the Caspian Sea
Very old; stunning new; oh what fun.

Second day, off with our guide Yassim
Gloopy mud volcanoes to see
Followed by ancient petroglyphs
From many years B.C.

 

A different guide for our next trip
Fire Mountain and Fire Temple, too
Where flames have burned non-stop
Over 2,000 years, yes it’s true.

Another day walking round Baku
Up close to the Flame Towers so tall
Martyrs Alley, with graves of Azeris
Who when fighting the Russians did fall.

Baku’s a very clean city
Much money is there being spent
Smart shops, parks, hotels and museums
To attract tourists is their intent.

We always enjoy an adventure
New sights, sounds and culture to learn
And this trip was no exception
If asked, we would surely return.

Frost would love to receive more poetry. Contact Margaret: frost@margaret-graham.com

 

 

 

A 70’s Valentine By Wendy Breckon

Wendy Breckon is a writer and occasional story teller, who scribbles near the sea, in the middle of a wood or wherever the fancy takes her. She loves life and the people walking past the window, especially if they wave! One day, she hopes to flog that ‘sitcom’ sitting in the drawer. In the meantime, her love for coffee, almond croissants, comedy, and a good film, keep those words flowing …

wendythomas

A 70’s VALENTINE
RED is the rose you left upon the chair
RED is the hair slide you placed back in my hair
RED the stain of Mateus Rose on the collar of my dress
RED is the colour of flushed cheek bones the evening I said yes
RED is the sunset above a leather seat
RED is for the old Austin and our engineering feat
RED is for nostalgia and the sweet smell of YOUTH DEW
RED is for the moment I said I love you too
X

The Journey by Jenny Falcon | Poetry Corner

The Journey by Jenny Falcon | Poetry CornerJenny Falcon took a bi-lingual French/English secretarial course with the avowed intention of becoming the first U.K. ambassador to France:  sadly, this did not transpire.  She loves travelling to places off the tourist wish list, and has long been a member of Ladies Circle, which has expanded her horizons even further. Jenny considers family and friends crucial to her life.  Happily married for decades with one married daughter, her single best achievement, Jenny is a poet and writer.

The Journey by Jenny Falcon

The dirty mainline station was functioning with its usual, organised frenzy
People criss-crossing the forecourt, focused on their own trajectories
Announcements – almost incomprehensible – feebly fought against the sound
Of multiple movement, competing noises of man and machine

My feet took me hastily through the barrier and along the platform
I stepped with wearisome tread onto the waiting train which crouched
Like an uncomplaining mammal, gently hissing and clicking
I found a seat, tucked at one end of a carriage, and sank into the corner

At the appointed departure time, the train moved off with a gentle tug
It had a heavy load, it was that time of the evening, so many assorted souls
Making their respective homeward journeys, some pale and exhausted
Others frenetically tapping at their electronic devices, mesmerised, unaware

But the movement of the lumbering train was beguiling, almost soothing
The enforced closeness of fellow travellers did not feel intrusive
But strangely comforting, locked together in a homeward goal
Leaving behind the tangled thoughts and worries of the day

Dusk was approaching, the occasional light drew attention
The suburban gardens pulled over their shrouds of grey
The fields and parks became secretive, waiting for the moon
The grubbiness of the trackside buildings disappeared in the gloom

No longer could one’s gaze rest on the world passing by
Just a jumble of shapes, confused with the reflections from within;
Eyes closed, listening to the sounds of the train as it sped on
Wishing to arrive, to be transported away to a familiar shelter

Finally, the sounds changed, the regular beat slowed, people shuffled,
Roused themselves to face again the world outside the large cocoon
The train gently stopped and at once, the relative calm was broken
As those within, hurried away without a backward glance.

The end of the line, so I paused – waited until all had gone
Viewed the empty cartons, crumpled papers, dirty tissues
Detritus of a daily, uneventful, homeward journey, one of so many
And then, stepped off the train myself and followed the crowd

Valentine’s Day Poem: Will You Still Love Me? (With apologies to W.B. Yeats)

AngelavalentinesdaypoemAngela Taplin, scribbler of fiction, poetry and (sometimes) Deep, Meaningful Reflections on Life. She’s a member of Chesham Writers and Scribblers and prefers la dolce vita to Ryvita any day.

 

Will you still love me? (With apologies to W.B. Yeats)

When we are old and grey

  • -Well you, anyway –

(I’ll still be softly fair

Courtesy of Shirley’s Hair)

And our joints creak

And our diaries speak –

For better or for worse –

Of regular dates with doctor or nurse,

Will you still love me?

And after so many years

Of the struggle and the tears

That life inevitably brings

  • -The swings

And roundabouts of married life

(Shall I make a good wife?)

The heartaches and the sorrows

Of so many unknown tomorrows,

Will you still love me?

When we sit in silence side by side,

By shared emotions and long memories tied,

An old dog lying on the floor,

World’s troubles held at bay beyond the door,

Will you still love me?

Will it still be me you see?

Will your heart, like mine, be true?

Well then. I will. I do.

Trelinnoe Park With the Live Poets By Geni Ray Johnston

Frost is delighted to introduce the first of our features from Geni Ray Johnston, who lives in Taupo, New Zealand and is a member of Live Poets.

Along the old Coach Road off the Napier-Taupo Highway is a little piece of Paradise, Trelinnoe Park, created by Brian and John Wills. The Live Poets from Taupo and Hastings met there in October, the start of New Zealand’s spring, because that is the best time to see the rhododendrons in flower.

The weather forecast wasn’t hopeful, but we decided that nothing less than the road being closed by snow would stop us. After all, all manner of challenges had done nothing to prevent the brothers from turning the waste scrubland they acquired in 1956 into this glorious landscaped park. Ten poets set off in the bus from Taupo and arrived at Trelinnoe in time to grab a quick cup of coffee.

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The weather appeared to be improving so we set off to explore and found the yellow iris at their best, growing in profusion around the man made lakes. A glorious splash of sunshine on a wet day.

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We walked on and found ourselves emerging onto wide swathes of lawn, and more blossom. The lawns and trees are a structural feature of Brian and John’s design, and which give a feeling of space and perspective. This space works particularly well when set off by the slopes of woodland planting, the soaring tall trees, and of course the rhododendrons, and Magnolias (we were told we should have come in September to see the full range of Magnolias)

4geni

Every corner revealed another vista. But gradually the rain became heavier much as it does in Cornwall, ( or so Margaret Graham tells us) where Brian and John’s grandfather lived, on a farm called Trelinnoe, before emigrating. We buttoned our coats tighter and pulled up hoods. We were still having fun. In the rain the greens were greener, and the flowers brighter.

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Conversation flowed, time passed. Shirley, Vic, and Liz took off ahead, Teresse, Joanna and I took a slightly different route. Shirley’s group had the map and we spotted them through the trees, but detouring to where they were seemed like back tracking. We forged on regardless and came upon things that amazed. This tree belongs in Lord of the Rings, I think.

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I sometimes have trouble walking if I am gallivanting for too long and the café was beckoning, so Joanna and Teresse took an arm each and we carried on.

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We saw a sculpture which was Herculean in concept, so rain not withstanding, we had a bit of a photoshoot. It was at this point a white knight on a quad bike appeared to whisk us in turn, away to the café – Bruce Wills to the rescue. I took first trip.

Away we went up hills and round bends until I was disembarked with great aplomb, back at the café and into the midst of some of the poets who had arrived back via different routes. They were well ahead with their lunch, not to mention their poetry reading.

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Bruce mounted his charger again, and returned to scoop up the rest of the missing poets, Jo, and Teresse, though I feel they would both have been happy to be ‘lost’ for a while longer to explore the riches of Trelinnoe, especially this orchid we found.

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John Wills has Parkinson’s disease and also writes poetry so he was delighted to come and join the poets and to share one of his poems. As I said when I finally dried out enough to share a poem or two ‘Anyone can walk through the park in the sun, but come in the rain, it’s much more fun!’

 

 

Sciku: The Wonder of Science – In Haiku! Book review

Sciku: The Wonder of Science – In Haiku! By Students of The Camden School For Girls.
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Published 20 November 2014, this book was an instant hit at Frost because it is a science book written by girls. Women, and girls, are underrepresented in science and many a sexist thinks that us girls just aren’t smart enough to handle big subjects like maths and science. So, read this book and shove your thoughts!

Humourous and fun: the book fuses poetry with scientific knowledge. As entertaining as it is fun, I really loved this book. It is a great idea that is well-executed.

 

Gravity:
An attractive force
Between all objects with mass
Just like you and me

Physics, Chemistry and Biology are things of magic and wonder. They reveal complex patterns – and often thrilling chaos – at the heart of nature; the strange alchemy of reactions between invisible atoms; the bewildering origins of our universe in the furthest reaches of time and the connections in our brains that create love, fear, joy – and poetry.

Sciku brings together more than 400 revealing, poignant, witty haiku on scientific subjects. Written by students at Camden School for Girls – with all royalties from the sale of this book donated to the campaign to modernize their school science laboratory – these poems show that science may have given us the atom bomb, the laptop and the artificial heart but that it remains elegiac, enigmatic and often mind-bogglingly beautiful.

Photosynthesis:
Carbon dioxide
And water combine to form
Glucose thanks to light

Camden School for Girls is a comprehensive secondary school for girls, with a co-educational sixth form, in the London Borough of Camden in North London. The girls who contributed to this book range from the ages of 11 to 18.

Sciku is edited by Karen Scott, a teacher of English at the school and Simon Flynn, a teacher of Science at the school. Simon is the author of the Science Magpie (‘a cornucopia of curious facts, anecdotes and quotations … sure to entertain and surprise’ New Scientist) and is a teacher of science at Camden School for Girls.

Sciku: The Wonder of Science – In Haiku! is available here.

 

 

Felix Dennis Dies Aged 67

I was very upset to hear about the death of Felix Dennis. He was always kind and open with me and even sent me a book of his poetry once, with a rather lovely personal note attached too. I was devastated when tea was spilt on the book but (hope) I still have his personal note somewhere. Felix Dennis dies Felix Dennis was a great man. He built up a publishing business that is one of the most successful in the country and made an insane amount of money. Hundreds of millions of pounds, but stayed true to himself. He has left £500 million to his forest, proving his social conscious to the end. He had spent the past decade planting it.

Felix died yesterday at the age of 67 after a two-year battle with throat cancer. He was surrounded by loved ones at the time.

He led a very interesting life which included a jail term for “conspiring to corrupt public morals” during the famous 1971 Oz trial and overcame a crack addiction. 

 

His family will be cared for in his will, including his long-term partner Marie-France Demolis, who he spent two decades with. The bulk of the profits from Dennis Publishing and his fortune will go to his forest, which is open to the public but privately owned. He planted the millionth tree in September.
His family released a statement saying:
“After a long and painful battle with cancer, Felix died peacefully at his home in Dorsington, aged 67. Felix was a publishing legend, famed for his maverick and entrepreneurial style and, more lately, a successful and much loved poet. He will be greatly missed.
Thank you for the support and kindness of those who share our feelings for Felix, and we ask that you respect our privacy during our time of grief.”

Yesterday was a sad day for the publishing industry and I wish his family all the best.

 

 

New Faces | Roy A. Tindle

Roy A. TindleAre you sick of seeing the same faces in magazines all the time? So are we. As much as we love the people we read about in the magazines we think it is time to inject some freshness into the media landscape, it is time to give other people a chance, the hottest writers, actors, musicians, scientists, businesspeople.

We want to give people the publicity they deserve, our first one is American author Roy A. Tindle, but watch out for more fresh faces; both old and new, and let us know if you know anyone worthy of inclusion.

The first of our New Faces is American writer Roy A. Tindle. We have interviewed him and include some examples of his work below. We hope you like him as much as we do.

 

Tell us about your writing

I’ve been writing for as long as I can remember. I began writing simple poetry and short

stories then eventually moved on to novellas. Although I had some poetry published,

I never spent much energy trying to publish any of my earlier work until about two years

ago when I finally decided to attempt writing my first full novel. That is when ‘Motive’

was born.

 

What is your inspiration?

Most of my work may seem a little dark at first glance, but in nearly every case I attempt

to highlight the brighter side of life and love. I enjoy drawing the parallels between

light and dark, good and evil and the contrast between where we are now and where

we might one day be as individuals and as a society. My goal is to cause people to pause

long enough to take a look inside themselves to discover who they really are and ask

themselves the tough questions. Ultimately, I hope to inspire and uplift people with

what I write. These things are what inspire me to write.

 

What is your writing routine?

My writing routine is anything but a routine. I try to spend time each day writing, but

that isn’t always possible. Research, editing and habitual rereading occupies much of

my time. Frankly, if I manage to finish one good page a day I’m happy. That may not

seem like a lot and it’s true that it’s a slow process, but I’m hoping to produce chapters

that offer a smooth read that is not only entertaining and suspenseful, but is also

technically accurate.

 

What are you favourite books/authors?

I enjoy reading books of nearly all genres and there are myriad authors who I could

mention here, but to narrow it down to a top three, my favorite authors of all time

would be Dean Koontz, Michael Crichton and Jules Verne and for those who are familiar

with their work will undoubtedly see their influence in my writing style. I’ve always

enjoyed Dean Koontz’s ability to convince his readers that the villain in his stories are

more than human and almost omniscient, but ultimately he demonstrates that true evil

exists all around us and the real boogey man, although he may truly be hiding under

your bed, he isn’t necessarily a supernatural force. He’s the guy next door. Michael

Crichton and Jules Verne perfected the art incorporating real world science into a

fictional format. I’m a tech and science geek and not afraid to admit it. Crichton and

Verne are master story tellers who not only tell a good story, they educate their readers

in the process. Journey to the Center of the Earth is above all my favorite book. I have a

collectible first printing of that classic hidden away someplace.

 

Tell us about Motive

‘Motive’ is a book about the human condition and perhaps offers some understanding

of who we are. Although Motive is a suspense novel and, consequentially, much of its

focus is on the darker aspects of human nature, there is light at the end of the tunnel.

This story ultimately leads the reader on a journey throughout the mind, not only from

the dark corners of our psyche and the disturbing things we may find there, but also to

the inspiring and sometimes crippling effects of love and loss and hope and faith and all

those things that define who we are.

 

What is the best thing about writing?

For me, the best thing about writing is being allowed to use my imagination freely and

act a little crazy without the risk of being committed. Lol It is an escape from reality,

really. I think we all need that once in a while. Some people go to the beach. I write…

 

And the worst?

The worst thing about writing has to be the loneliness. I consider myself a social

dragonfly, but writing is mostly a solitary craft. I enjoy the independence of being

a writer, but I often miss the daily interactions I’d have with friends by working a

traditional job.

 

What’s next?

What’s next? I’d really like to write something light and fun. I’ve enjoyed writing

Motive very much, but as I mentioned before, the story is a bit dark and highly technical.

I’m playing around with some new ideas and a particular character named Norman

“Northman” Northcutt may be making a debut with his ‘amazing abnormalities’ very soon.

 

Excerpts below

ABSOLVED OF ABSOLUTION (A Poem) – By Roy A. Tindle

 

Absolved of Absolution

Pretend it never happened. It is so easy to simply neglect the obligations of our hearts, to follow blindly

our captive minds and to imagine our lives are predetermined to lead by whatever means to a fateful and

hollow solitude. Lonesome tears fall more abundantly when absolved from absolution. You are to blame

yet your ignorance is your innocence.

 

A wound heals better when salved with the healing blessings from someone whose blessings are passed

without reproach. Become blameless by not placing blame and human in your fallacy. You’ve loved

before without knowing how it is that love should be, yet still you loved disgracefully and now, when love

is not an ignominy, you hide your face in shame.

 

I pray each night not knowing to who’s ears my prayers fall, but I pray still regardless knowing that even

though deaf ears may hear them I have at least spoken them and therefore I am absolved. I forgive

myself for all I’ve done and not with arrogance. Instead I know that the mistakes I’ve made were made

before knowing that our hearts are equally fragile, therefore I am determined to help you heal yours as

tenderly as if your heart were mine.

 

We are not much different you and I. No matter how things may seem. We hurt, we cry, we love and

we die and we can only hope we don’t have to do it alone. However in the end no matter when that time

may be, I’ll know that when I close my eyes I’ll have been absolved from absolution.

 

MOTIVE (Synopsis) – By Roy A. Tindle

 

In a small sleepy town in southern Michigan, local law enforcement struggles to identify the

cause for a sudden outbreak of horrendous crimes. As the townsfolk continue to disappear,

two desperate detectives team up with an eccentric college professor and forensic psychologist

who may have some insight into the cause. As the team is drawn further into the mystery,

they discover the true potential of man and, by doing so, they begin to understand how dark it

can become when one dives deeper into the cold abyss of the mind. Whether in love or hate,

darkness hides many secrets…. Secrets they’ll wish they had never uncovered.

 

MOTIVE (Excerpt) – By Roy A. Tindle

 

Professor Fredericks grimaced when he took the first bite of his steaming TV dinner. He

had become accustomed to the finer things in life and this of course extended to his cuisine. He

ate most meals alone at his favorite Italian restaurant, Giuseppi’s. Most days after leaving the

college he would stop in for dinner, usually spaghetti and salad with the accompaniment of a

house red wine. The staff at the restaurant knew him on a first name basis and, unless he called

ahead to notify them he would be late or absent, as he did today, his table would be reliably

reserved and the preparation of his meal would be in progress prior to his arrival.

Today however, he decided to eat at home. A decision he had come to regret. He had

no desire to be around people again today and what’s done is done. In the mind of the professor,

the best company was no company at all, unless of course you count the professor himself.

Now alone and, being that his talents do not extend to kitchen work and since he did not have the

foresight to grab some kind of carryout, he would have to make do with what he had. Having

been in the habit of not keeping much in his home for meals and, due to his reclusive nature, he

was left with choking down this tasteless meal in a box. The label on the box said it contained

spaghetti, but the quality of the meal offered debate on the side of shredded shoe leather doused

in tomato juice.

 

After a few agonizing bites of his microwaveable dinner, the professor tossed the

cardboard tray in the trash then attempted to rinse the foul taste from his mouth with an

expensive merlot. He drained his glass then refilled it to the rim. Although the food he kept in

his home lacked of any real quality, he had an extensive stock of delicate wines, one of which he

gluttonously slurped on now. He wasn’t really hungry anyway.

 

The professor gathered his wine glass, then on second thought the bottle too, and then

carried his defunct liquid meal to his study where he plopped down on to his vintage brown

leather arm chair. The walls of the study were lined with hundreds of books, reference manuals

and text books. He was an avid reader and had read every one of these books at least twice each.

Some he had written himself. Tonight however, he would not be reading.

 

He felt lazy. Laziness was not a usual aspect of the professor’s personality, but he

allowed himself this occasional indulgence. He picked up the television remote from the small,

ornate table he had positioned next to his chair and pressed the power button. The small color

television in the corner of the room came to life. The volume was too high for the program that

was currently being displayed. An alternative music station played the non-melodic and off-
tempo cadence of an unpopular punk-rock group. The professor quickly changed the channel.

After flipping mindlessly through a few more stations, the Professor began to become lost

in his thoughts. He thought back through days gone by and relished in his memories. He thought

about his youth and all the days so long ago when life was much simpler.

 

He remembered fishing with his father on the muddy banks of the Dowagiac River. His

father would expertly cast and reel, then cast again a series of three or four fishing poles with

complicated looking reels that somehow spooled the fishing line around an exposed sprocket

instead of pulling it into a closed chamber as did the much simpler red and blue Spiderman pole

he was forced to use. His father said his Spiderman pole had what was called a “closed-bail

reel”, whatever the heck that meant.

 

He laughed when he remembered how his father rarely caught a fish, not because he

wasn’t a skilled angler, he was, but while fishing with his ungainly son he spent more time

retrieving snagged hooks and lures from the branches of surrounding trees than he did actually

fishing. Regardless of his continued failures and inability to properly cast a fishing line, the

Professor never gave up. He wanted his father to be proud and, although he always felt like he

had disappointed him, his father would gracefully brush off his failures with silence, a knowing

smile or the occasional razzing.

 

“Look at you go, Justin! You caught that big ‘ole tree and I all I managed to snag was

this measly minnow,” His father would say while holding up a sizeable bass nearly as long as the

young boy’s arm.

 

He knew his father was patronizing him, but he was glad for it. He would just smile

sheepishly or sometimes play along with his father’s joke. They laughed together and smiled

often. Life was so good then.

 

The Professor cared deeply for his father. He didn’t love him out of any childish sense of

obligation, but because he knew how much his father loved him and his love was given without

reproach. Their close relationship and great love was sustained through the young Professor’s

life. From childhood to adolescence and on into adulthood, the Professor never lost any love for

his father.

 

Though the wound created by the tragic and sudden loss of his father nearly twenty

years ago had not yet been fully healed, the time had not diminished his memories either. He

embraced the good memories as well as the pain, for the Professor believed that is through pain

we truly begin to become alive. In the Professor’s opinion, it is impossible to appreciate life

until we know death. Just as it is difficult to truly appreciate water until we walk through the

desert or how we cannot fully appreciate true love until our hearts have been broken a time or

two.

 

The wounds a heart survives throughout one’s life can sometimes leave it a little callused,

but ultimately it is that same pain that brings understanding, faith and hope. With pain also

comes the loss of innocence and triumph over naivety. Some would call this maturity. The

Professor called it an awakening.

 

As a child, one doesn’t bother worrying about the day-to-day stuff that overruns the

minds of most adults. When a person is young the only thing that matters is the here and now.

Each day is an adventure, full of new surprises and the unknown. Being new to the world, life

for a child is fresh, vibrant and full of color. Most profound of all, the professor decided, is that

children possess the minds of Saints. This is not to say that children behave in the manner of

a Saint, not in the least, but their innocent minds allow them the ability to expect the best, not

only from the wonderful world in which they live, but also from the people who surround them.

Funny how quickly things can change.

 

The Professor sometimes allowed himself this selfish session of regressive thinking.

Not only did he enjoy the memories of his youth and of his father, it also helped place into

perspective the contrasted differences of adulthood and the responsibilities that come with the

knowledge gained by it. As a college professor responsible for the education of young minds

in the field of criminal psychology, one must always maintain perspective. To understand the

mind of a criminal, or any mind for that matter, it is of course important to recognize the factors

responsible for the development and ultimate product of an individual’s psyche. Professor

Fredericks knew how much influence one’s childhood could have on their adult lives. Ever

since that day many years ago when his father was murdered before his eyes, the Professor knew

first hand. This is in great part why he became a forensic psychologist, and it is also why he

maintained a personal file for each of his student’s. You never know who you can trust.

Although spying on the personal lives of his students went against every policy and

guideline set forth by the University, the Professor felt it was absolutely necessary. He kept files

for each of his students here, in his home, locked in a file cabinet in the room in which he now

sat. It would be too risky keeping the files in his office at the college. If the college somehow

discovered he kept such personal information on his students, he would at the very least be

reprimanded and, more likely, terminated.

 

Within any given file, the Professor kept records of everything he thought might be

useful in determining the mindset of the student. He kept medical records which would indicate

any potential drug habits as well as reports of possible domestic violence either perpetrated

against them or by them. He also kept other criminal records as well as any media-related items

and articles from local newspapers and school newspapers that may have been generated as a

result of a student’s mischief. A complete family history was also included along with their

academic reports dating back through their elementary school years. The majority of these

reports were obtained through a little novice hacking of the college’s computer system, the

internet or by photocopying documents hijacked from the school’s office of the registrar. Some

of the information contained within these files could not be obtained through any published or

public source. For the really good stuff he hired a private detective.

 

He wondered sometimes how his student’s would react if they ever found out that most

days, when they were not in class or studying in their dorms, that their personal lives were being

recorded, documented and filmed. The Professor had spent countless hours reading reports

created by a private detective or watching video of them living out their personal lives. The

Professor knew, with the exception of a few elusive students, who within his class drank too

much, did drugs, if they were straight or gay, who they interacted with, what kind of food they

ate, who they were sleeping with – if anyone, and what kind of car they drove and even how

they drove it. He knew what stores they shopped at and he even knew how much money they

had in their bank accounts to go shopping with. There wasn’t much the Professor did not know.

However, there was at least one thing he had not been able to uncover.

 

He had learned through these reports, along with a little deduction, that a growing group

of students had been meeting privately over the last couple months. What it is they were meeting

about remained a mystery. Mysteries don’t settle well with the Professor. He liked to know

what his students were up to. This is why he decided to spend this Friday evening on a mission

of discovery. Later he would once again follow this group himself and give the P.I. a night off.

Besides, with all of this thought about his childhood, the professor felt inclined to be like a child

again and set out on an adventure.

 

He glanced at his watch; an expensive Rolex. He had plenty of time before he had

to leave and he knew just how he would pass the time. The professor settled further into his

comfortable leather chair, once again allowing himself to revisit the memories of his youth.

There was one memory in particular he cherished especially. This beloved memory was a

mental movie that played over and over again upon the silver screen of his mind. Knowing he

would be unable to stop it from playing, even had he wanted to, he easily surrendered to his

thoughts and allowed the aged and spotted film to roll.

 

He took another sip of merlot then closed his eyes and smiled.

 

Motive will be available in the spring of this coming year.  It will be available initially on Amazon.com and a few other places.

www.facebook.com/book.motive
www.AuthorRoyATindle.Yolasite.com