To quote "A Fool's Prayer" by Edmund Rowland Sill, "These clumsy feet still in the mire go crushing blossoms without end. These hard well meaning hands we thrust among the heartstrings of a friend."
The hotel bus made frequent trips into Kingston, picking up and dropping off guests at the airport, and employees could ride the bus whenever they wished. On his days off, the eighteen-year-old accounting clerk would sometimes go into town and visit the Daily Express newsroom. He had worked at the newspaper during summer vacations and filed reports on sports events while at school, and he still tingled at the scent of printer's ink and newsprint.
After he became involved with Roberta he had no time for such trips. She wanted him to be with her. But on this occasion Roberta and her husband had to attend a social event at the Governor's mansion.
Spike climbed the stairs to the newsroom, reveling in the smells and the clacking of typewriters. A senior reporter looked up.
"Hey Spike! How they hangin' man?"
The kid had earned the nickname by spiking his hand instead of a piece of copy he was trying to impale on a sharpened length of metal wire. The wires, imbedded in a lead base, sat on reporters’ desks and were known as spikes. The ensuing injury had caused concern at the time but was the subject for newsroom hilarity forever after.
Spike exchanged handshakes and back slaps but knew better than to take up too much of the reporters' time when they were on deadline. He picked up a proof of the day's early edition and slumped behind a vacant desk to read the scandals of the day.
"Anybody want to go to Haiti?"
The news editor was waving a letter he had just opened.
Desultory snickering rippled through the newsroom.
Haiti? Who on earth would want to go to that God forsaken place? It was even worse than Jamaica, for God's sake.
But Spike heard himself respond. The news editor looked at him in surprise.
"You sure you want to go to Haiti, son?"
"Yes. I'm sure. What's the story?"
“Not a story. A job.”
The news editor handed Spike the letter. It was from a man named Larry who had started an English-language weekly in Port au Prince. The publication had expanded rapidly and he was looking for an assistant.
The news editor scribbled a letter of recommendation and gave it to Spike.
"Send him this when you write," he said. "He knows me pretty well. We worked on the same rag back on Fleet Street."
That night, Spike wrote applying for the job. A few days later, he received a reply. It included an airline ticket.
He immediately gave his two weeks notice at the hotel. He did not tell Roberta he was going. He did not tell his family.
It wasn't until he had arrived in Haiti that he realized they might be frantic with worry.
He sat by his window and tried to find words to explain what he had done. He wrote his mother telling her he could not pass up an opportunity like this, that it would open the door to the career he had always wanted, that he would come home soon...
But when he tried to write Roberta, he could not think of anything to say. He sat and stared at a blank sheet of paper night after night. But the letter never got written.
Erotic Interracial/ Reincarnation/ Suspense]
Gale Sinclair is a marriage counselor who has broken the cardinal rule of psychotherapy and fallen in love with his client, Zoelle Sutherland.
Zara’s Bois:
When the powers-that-be make the decision to return a selfish party-girl to Earth on three missions of redemption, can romance and mayhem be far behind? One hot and trendy gay nightclub, two bickering angels and three unlikely p
