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Why I Write
When I write, I draw on my experiences as a woman with a painful past, a rapturous wife and mother, a world traveler, and a spiritualist. For me, writing is an art form. Like an artist, the work becomes more than I imagined it would be. When I set out to write a story with a particular idea or character in mind, words I cannot claim as my own flow from a magical and mysterious place through me and onto paper. The work takes on a life of its own; it is living art. The process fascinates me, satiates me, and makes my life more meaningful.
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15 For 15 Entries ~ January 2011 #716199 added January 23, 2011 at 7:24am
Restrictions: None
Jan 22 ~ Plane
"Yes, sir. I'm at the plane now sir."
"Well there's a change in plans. The Chicago team aren't feeling confident in their pitch. I want you to go there, toss your weight around. Help Tridome Pharmaceuticals understand we're the best company to boost their sales." There was a pause on the other end of the line. "Or we'll take them down."
Jack kicked the toe of his alligator shoe into the tarmac. The hard surface sent shock waves up his leg. But his voice remained cool, even. "Right, sir. Um, the problem is I have Jack Jr. with me." Jack glanced at the wall of windows in the posh terminal building reserved for the private jet airstrip. He could see little Jack playing a game on his iPad. "I'm taking him to the mountain house, remember? To teach him to fish?"
"Jesus, Jack! Come on! This is a fire only a CEO can put out. The kid will understand." A tense sigh hissed through the line. "You're old enough to know this by now. Business trumps family, every time!"
Jack pulled his shoulders square. His jaw went rigid. "Yes sir. I know that, sir. I'll phone when I get there. And hey, Dad? Have a wonderful evening." He disconnected with a jab to the touch screen.
Inside the terminal, little Jack threw his iPad down on the leather couch as he jumped to his feet. "Are we fueled up, Dad? Can we go now?" His eyes danced.
Jack ran a hand over his shiny, hairless head. "Here's the thing, son," he began. He had just enough time to see the light douse in his kid's eyes when the doors from the parking lot banged open.
A couple, dressed in drab clothing and dragging beat up Sampsonite suitcases, rushed to the ticket counter.
"We,re the Smythe's. We're supposed to meet a Mac McPhereson to take us to Houston."
The woman clicked on her keyboard. "I'm so sorry. Mr. McPereson contacted us an hour ago. He's been detained in Sacremento. He expects to arrive here tomorrow morning."
The woman heaved a tragic sigh, laying her head against her husband's shoulder. "No, miss. That won't do!" the husband cried. "We need to get to Houston right now. Our little boy is going into surgery in the big children's hospital there. We have to be there this afternoon. We have to!"
Jack watched the couple. Saw the palpable anguish swirling around them.
He turned to his son. "Jackie, I know you're really excited about fishing. It's not any of our business...but, we can help these people. What do you say?"
Jack nodded with vigor. "Their little boy is sick. If I was sick, you'd do anything for me, right Dad."
Jack smiled, hugged his boy. "Come on, I knew you were old enough to know this. Family trumps business, every time."
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