Monday, September 8, 2014

"Thanks"

Hi there!

"Thanks," the 12-minute comedy short that features my daughter Jett, is available to watch now, at no cost, by clicking on the link:

https://vimeo.com/105522178

This film was made in one night and the following morning.  I didn't think Tom Patterson, the director and writer, and his director of photography, Alex Rappoport, could pull it off in so little time. But, hey, I was wrong!  By coincidence, Alex is also a native Kansan (Manhattan).  The films has played in four festivals, mainly in NYC.

On another filmic note:  "Can't Dance," the short film I wrote and directed, is presently playing in several Missouri towns that are part of the Ozarks Film Festival.  Also, "Can't Dance" has been selected as a Finalist in the 2014 Shorts Showcase Festival in Palm Springs, California.


Friday, June 20, 2014

MYSTERY AT SNAKE RIVER BRIDGE earns Four and a half stars!

 

Here's the review from Indie Reader:

Seventeen year-old Ron Riley, Jr., better known as Kodak, is a reporter and photographer for The Harker City Bugle.  A self-proclaimed and proud "Word Nerd," Kodak dares to think for himself.  He bristles when forced to write pabulum like "Highlights From the Lutheran Church Talent Night," or who made a meatloaf for a convalescing patient.  Kodak wants to document real stories.  Stories that matter, question, change the world.

This makes Kodak dangerous in Harker City, a small town where everyone knows each other.  When Reverend Mike's wife, Janice Crawley, ends up dead, floating under the Snake River Bridge, everyone wants and needs to believe her death is a tragic accident, or a suicide.  To think otherwise means admitting someone near and dear to you could be a cold-hearted killer.  Hardly a comforting thought.  Thoughts like that can ruin your life, and yet, Kodak's innate sense of justice forces him down this dark and narrow alley when shreds of evidence surface indicating something's rotten in the state of Kansas.  Luckily, Kodak has cool friends like Fart Bomb and Casey Coyote who believe in him, and offer support.

Kodak is so heartbreakingly honest, funny, and determined to do what's right, that you find yourself rooting for him all the way.  Uhlig is adept at keeping you on the edge of your seat, holding your breath.

MYSTERY AT SNAKE RIVER BRIDGE is a must-read for anyone who loves suspense, mystery and a great story.

Reviewed by Lucy Wang for IndieReader.

Sunday, May 18, 2014

In Good Company


“This is hell!” My screenwriting students say. “How can you do this year after year?  It’s drudgery sitting at my desk for hours trying to come up with a story someone will want to read.”  One writer I know calls his den The Torture Chamber.  Norman Mailer said writing is the Spooky Art, “... where there is no routine of an office to keep you going, only the blank page each morning, and you never know where the words are coming from, those divine words.”


Yes, writing an original book, play, or screenplay can feel like you’re shoving Noah’s Ark up Pike’s Peak by hand.  Then, you hear Cassandra whispering over your shoulder, “All this work is adding up to nothing.”


You know you shouldn’t, but you can’t help comparing your writing to Vonnegut's, Fitzgerald's and Munro's, always coming up short.  What you thought was a solid idea when you sat down to write it can default faster than the Greek banking system.


There is, however, an opium for this kind of creative pain.  I know it’s helped me.  

Write about people whom you find entertaining.


Unconventional people.  People who stand up to seemingly insurmountable problems.  People burning with dreams.  People who are their own worst enemy.  Exceedingly bad people, exceeding good people, but most of all exceedingly interesting people who shake up your sense of decorum and expectation.


Ideally, these people should want something desperately, even if, in the case of Shrek, that something is just to be left alone.


Beginning writers often waste months ironing out a concept, or trying to figure out the intricacies of a plot, without having given much thought as to whom the yarn is about.  Writing a story where the characters are secondary to a plot is like dancing without music.  It’s okay for cookbooks and instruction manuals, I suppose, but you’ll never come up an Auntie Mame, Humbert Humbert, or Willie Loman.


Tip:  put your characters in drastic, hilarious, or god-awful situations right away.  Follow their reactions.  They should lead the way.  If they don’t, search for a new character who does.


Keep in mind, this is creative writing we’re talking about.  Not journalism, not biography.  To write a facsimile of your church-going third grade teacher, Mrs. Carter, can lead to narrative paralysis.  The real Mrs. Carter would never allow Miss Barkley, the p.e. teacher, to kiss her.  But what if the fictitious Mrs. Carter lets Miss Barkley smooch her?  That would buck your reader’s expectations.  In other words, allow the Mrs. Carters in your life to inspire you, but free them to do their own thing.   


And don’t freak out about writing stereotypes.  No offense, female p.e. teachers. The fun, like with Mrs. Carter, is to add contradictions to stock characters.  Take the hit 1980s situation comedy “The Golden Girls.”  Blanche is the slutty southern belle, Dorothy the tough Brooklyn Italian, and Rose the naive farm girl --  cliches all.  But the writers artfully forced these stereotypes to reconsider what they believe, constantly pushing them out of their comfort zones while maintaining a core consistency. The result?  Some of the most  memorable characters ever created for TV.  Sinclair Lewis, the first American writer to win the Nobel Prize in Literature, wrote chiefly about “types.”


Writing can be a lonely game, for sure, but if your characters consistently surprise you by what they do and say, you’ll soon find them great company.  Who knows, you may even find them more interesting than a lot of people in your non-fictional life.

So, the next time your novel stalls like a New York taxi at rush hour, get out of the driver’s seat.   Let your characters take the wheel.  It’s easier for you, and it’s a hell of a lot more fun for the reader.

Wednesday, May 14, 2014

Let's Dance!



Hi All,

CAN'T DANCE is an official selection of the Shorts Showcase Festival 2014.  Here's a chance for you to go to the festival without leaving the comfort of your computer.  

Please visit www.shortsshowcase.com and watch the films and VOTE on the 'vote' page, or at the bottom of the description of the film.  The YouTube Channel is www.youtube.com/shortsshocase -- don't forget to 'like' our film.  


Happy Viewing!


Thursday, January 2, 2014

The faces in the windows of my neighborhood

I've always been fascinated by mannequins for their haunting stares and placid countenances. There's something beautiful and creepy about the attempt at human perfection.  I captured these plaster souls on New Years Eve.  Happy 2014!

 




Monday, December 30, 2013

Yes, there is a farm in New York City + A Positive Kirkus Review of "Mystery At Snake River Bridge"

Logan and Jett at an actual functioning farm in New York City three weeks ago

Hello One and All,

I woke this morning to find a fresh email from Kirkus Reviews of my novel Mystery At Snake River Bridge. The full review is available on their website (amazingly, there were no spoilers), but I'll synopsize here:

"In a acerbic, fine-tuned first-person narrative, Uhlig... keeps       the dynamic taught with a shocking but sensitively handled plot twist.  The Ending takes a hairpin turn that is... moving and unexpected... Uhlig raises the emotional stakes with well-paced glimpses into Kodak's vulnerability and growing self-awareness.  A fast-moving YA mystery novel."

Kodak, by the way, is the protagonist.  The book is inspired by a real-life double murder that took place in Emporia, Kansas, in the mid-1980s.  The characters, however, are original.

So, may I humbly suggest a book for the rest of your winter break?  It's available on Amazon, etc. for around $4.  From this and other reviews, I think it's safe to say you will be entertained.

Happy New Year! 


Monday, December 9, 2013

Christmas in New York


I snapped this photo yesterday afternoon at the side entrance of Saks Fifth Avenue.  The image struck me as a statement about the state of things in America's premier city.

Sunday, October 27, 2013


Logan, my son, running around the world, earlier this month.

"My Kansas" is an official selection of the International Freethought Film Festival,  November 17, 2013, Orlando, Florida.

Wednesday, September 4, 2013


I have a new agent!  Marie Lamba, an agent with the Jennifer De Chiara Literary Agency,  has signed me as her latest client.  I sent Marie my newest manuscript, NERVOUS: A MEMOIR OF ADOLESCENT ANXIETY, which chronicles my trials and tribulations growing up in the 1980s as a perpetually-distracted kid who feared everything from contact sports and locker rooms to talking to girls and sleeping away from home.   She loved the book's comedic tone.  This is a promising way to start the fall.





By the way, and totally off topic, I have received several emails asking me if that is an ascot I'm wearing in the author photos.  No, it's a bandana.  I do, however, wear ascots from time to time.  I don't like neckties much and I've always found the bandana to be practical as well as fun.  The British ascot, well, that's a much more refined piece of cloth best saved for parties.  I've been wearing these since high school.  Why?  I just like 'em.

Tuesday, August 27, 2013

I took this photo in Jackson Heights the other day.  I like how it looks as if she's watching the woman who's walking.  Perhaps she's envious of those who aren't stuck in windows.
A lot of people are asking me when MY KANSAS will be available on DVD or on VOD.  I hope soon.  We're waiting to hear back from a few film festivals first.  Hang tight.  It won't be long.

Sunday, August 18, 2013


It's been a very good night for MY KANSAS.  Don and I won Best Documentary Short, Best Director of a Documentary Short, and the New York Filmmaker Award.   There were a lot of terrific films in this festival.  Thanks for all who showed up and supported us.

Thursday, August 15, 2013

Please join us tomorrow and/or Sunday


Hi All,

Just a quick reminder of the screenings for "My Kansas" at the Chain NYC Film Festival:  tomorrow at four p.m. and Sunday at four p.m.  I plan to be at both showings.  Someone asked me if I hired actors to do the character voices in the film.  Actually, I did all the voices myself, with a little tweaking from Don's computer.  Don, by the way, plans to be at the Sunday screening.  Remember, it's just ten minutes from Grand Central on the 7 Train.  Or take the E, G, or M Trains to Court Square.  Be there or be square!

Monday, August 12, 2013

I just found out that "My Kansas" will also screen on Sunday, August 16th, 4 o'clock, at the Chain Film Festival in Long Island City, in addition to Friday's 4 o'clock screening.  This is great news because the film is being featured in the Best of the Fest!  Please join us.


Sunday, August 11, 2013

MY KANSAS

Hi All,

The Chain NYC Film Festival will screen "MY KANSAS" this Friday, August 16th, at 4:15 in the afternoon. The Chain Theatre, 21-28 45th Road, Long Island City, is located just ten minutes from Grand Central Terminal on the 7, E, G or M train at Court Square Station. It was screened last Tuesday night to a very receptive audience. Please join this Friday!

Cheers!

Friday, July 26, 2013

Yet another gift...

Blog Blitz with Author SRHowen




Christmas in July, unwrap a summer ebook blog
blitz
welcomes S.R.Howen

"The old one will come. When he comes, his one true wife must carry within her a child of the old one who would be king. Only then can the heart be found and the evil of the world kept in its bounds." –The Prophecy of the Land



Sorann is the queen's daughter and training to be an empathic healer. Javert is a member of the wandering tribe called the Zingari and their future king. When Sorann's failed healer's magic test brings them together, they discover the prophecy governing the land is false. In order to prevent magic, and the Zingari, from being wiped from the land, Sorann must become Javert's wife and leave everything behind that she once held dear.



Tricked by demons, and followed by the queen's soldiers, they must find the fabled Wizard's Heart in the frozen Winter Valley.



What sacrifices will they have to make along the way, and will Javert ever discover the true meaning of the Wizard's Heart before his people and the love of his life are lost?



This is the first book in the fantasy series Tales of the Zingari.

Some thoughts on being an editor, from S. R. Howen

Some thoughts on editing.
What is an editor’s job?
Sometimes I think, and I have been at this a long time, that new writers
don’t have a clue what an editor does, or should do.  You send your baby into the world, and
fantastic, do cartwheels, you have a contract.  Now what? Okay, you read the contract, you
understand most of it, so you sign it. 

Then you get the introduction letter from your editor.  You look forward to the edits and the
suggestions that will make your book better . . .

Unfortunately, many times this is the dream of every editor,
that we wish every author understood.
How did that writer make it to that place where they get the contract—is
often the cry of writers?  A lot of it
has to do with the perception that writers have of an editor.

With the idea that an editor will fix typos, misspelling, word
Usage, and grammar as well as punctuation, they send out their manuscript
looking like a group of crows stepped in ink.
Often when asked, why didn’t you at least run spell check?  The answer is: That’s not my job, that’s what
an editor is for!

This is what I would like writers to understand, you need to
put the best possible effort into your manuscript, it may be a great idea, but
if it’s buried under basic errors, you won’t get a contract.  You wouldn’t go to a job interview dressed in
the clothes you took out of the hamper that you did house cleaning in the day
before, so why would you send out a manuscript that wasn’t clean and pressed
and dressed neatly?

Writing is a business.
You can call it art.  But it is a business;
it’s not your baby.  You may feel you
gave birth to the story and you need to love the story to tell it well, but you
also need to have some distance from the love affair.  To be able to stand back and see the ugly
spots in order to fix them.

An editor is there to help you get your vision down on that
page, to make it shine, to polish the story until it does. They are not there
to take the place of spell check, and basic knowledge of grammar.  Yes, we all make mistakes that an editor will
find, but don’t think that fixing all of them is the editor’s job.

That’s your job as a writer, a craftsman has all the tools in
his tool box to build the house, he doesn’t expect someone else to bring them.

I’m happy to share my tool box on many things, if you have
done your work as a writer.

So what do I tell my authors?

 No question is a dumb
question. ASK!

Everything your editor asks you to do is open to discussion,
if you don’t agree with me, present your case.
We will talk about it.

Writing is a business.
You can call it art.  But it is a
business, it’s not your baby.  So when I
say fix this or this doesn’t work, I am not insulting you, I am helping you
make a product that will sell.

I will hound you to the seven circles of hell to promote. 

I will hold your hand, if need be, and offer a shoulder of
understanding if needed, and I will help you promote as much as I can.  And I will stand behind you and your book, we
will get it in the best possible shape to present to the world—then the real
work begins.

Author Bio

S.R. Howen grew up on a farm for the most part, spending part of her childhood as a military brat. The one constant in her life is story telling. She's always been a story teller--not a popular thing to be when you are five.



She's been with Wild Child since 2000 as an author and an editor. Currently, she lives in Texas with her family and assorted citers, 14 cats, 2 dogs, 2 squirrels, and a racoon.


She follows a Native American lifestyle--believing that each thing does indeed have its own spirit, and avoiding processed foods. If she couldn't kill it, catch it, or pick it in the wild, she doesn't eat it. Other than that, she loves fast cars, good writing, and good editors. They are a writer's best friend.

Find more of S.R. Howen here:













Please visit these other
sites and leave a comment to win a $10 GFC to Wild Child Publishing.










Wednesday, July 24, 2013

Today's Gift

Blog Blitz with Author Audrey Cuff


Christmas in July, unwrap a summer ebook blog blitz, 

welcomes Author Audrey Cuff, Ed.D


When Ashley Brown was five years old, her parents left her in the care of her grandma, though her mother promised to return for her. At fourteen, Ashley is still living with her grandmother in Highland, a city on the outskirts of Maryville, a place known as the "ghetto."

Ashley has shadowy memories of her mother taking her to her favorite place, the library. Reading a good book allows Ashley to escape her poverty and crime infested community. One afternoon after listening to the Mayor's press conference, Ashley discovers that the Mayor is taking away the community library. In spite of being put on punishment for a week by her grandma for defending herself from the school bullies, Ashley feels it is worth the risk to sneak out of her apartment to mail a letter she has written to the Mayor about keeping the library open.

Every day homeless people approach her and beg for something to eat or for money. The most frequent requests come from two disheveled individuals Ashley has nicknamed "Orphan Annie" and the "businessman bum." As if escaping the homeless people isn't enough, there are a bunch of bullies who harass Ashley. One day, the bullies chase her into an alley. They force her to the ground and Ashley is afraid of what could have happened next. This is one time Ashley wished she listen to her grandma.

In print and ebook formats

Read an excerpt

Grandma, Grandma, what is so wrong?” I said. I jumped out of my chair and run toward the TV.

“That stupid mayor. I don’t believe it! She’s shutting down the library. The only library we have in this community and replacing it with some, some business store,” Grandma yelled. She scowled at the TV. “I don’t believe the stupid mayor. You see what I mean about people in power making decisions that ruin your life, and you have no say about anything.”

“Oh, oh, Grandma, that’s so terrible. The library is the only place I have left that’s positive in the community.”

“Ashley, don’t you get it? They don’t give a hoot about people from our neighborhood. All they care about is making money off of the poor,” she said.

Then a quick flash the mayor came on the television. Suddenly, my knees felt weak and heavy. I felt like I was ready to collapse.

“Grandma, what is, is the mayor’s name?” I asked. I struggled not to stumble.

“I’m not for sure. Some person name Baldwin, a Mrs. Baldwin I guess. Oh watch they are showing that evil witch on television right now,” Grandma said. She glared at the television. Grandma was going nuts.

I desperately tried not to break down, Grandma didn’t have a clue that I’d met Mrs. Baldwin, and I wasn’t about to tell her. Luckily, Grandma was going crazy about the mayor; she didn’t notice that I’m emotionally falling apart.

Author Bio

Dr. Audrey Cuff was inspired by her special needs students to write her debut novel, City Of Thieves. She wanted her students reach their goals and aspirations regardless of obstacles and shortcomings in life.  She also wanted her students to understand that they could fight to better their communities.

Dr. Cuff received her doctoral degree from Fielding Graduate University in Santa Barbara California.  She earned the following certifications in the education arena: Teacher of Phycology, Teacher of Special education and Supervisor of Education.  She is currently a Special Education Phycology teacher at a high school in New Jersey.
 
City of Thieves is part of a three book series.

Find more about Audrey here






Find her books here






Sunday, July 21, 2013

Guess who is up?


Blog Blitz with Author Richard Uhlig


Christmas in July, unwrap a summer ebook blog blitz, 

welcomes Richard Uhlig

Richard treats us to the first chapter of his novel 

MYSTERY AT SNAKE RIVER BRIDGE



Chapter One

My name is Ron Riley, Jr., but no one except geezers call me that. I'm known at school as Kodak because I always have a camera hanging from my neck. Why? I’m a reporter/photographer at my old man’s weekly newspaper, The Harker City Bugle.

Is this a job I asked for? Guess again. I mean, it makes me totally un-cool. Tell me, what chick drools over a doofus who stands on the sidelines snapping pictures of jocks scoring touch downs and baskets? I might as well be gay.

You’re thinking, hey, your old man owns a newspaper, and that’s choice, right? We’re not talking the New York Times here. Heck, we’re not even talking The Wichita Eagle Beacon.

Fact, The Bugle’s circulation is a whopping fifteen hundred and seventeen, the exact same number of souls who went down on the Titanic.

Another fact, slaving at The Bugle is a lot like being on a sinking ship. Over the last few years Dad has lost serious advertising money because half the stores in town have gone belly up since the railroad folded.

After Mom died -- she penned the “Family Living” section of the paper -- Dad couldn’t afford to hire someone new, so guess what? Yours truly had to go to work for less than minimum wage.

But there is one cool thing I’ve discovered with this gig. I like words.

I groove on hooking them up like box cars on a train and seeing where they take me.

My main man, Fart Bomb, calls me Word Nerd because I’m always looking up new words in Webster’s.

Here’s the hitch. When you live in Snoozeville like me, where pretty much everyone goes to church on Sunday, and most adults are grey gray hairs living on the Security, juicy scoops are about as common as Beluga caviar. How am I suppose to strut my writing stuff when I’m forced to cover “stories” like the bingo wins down at the VFW hall on Saturday night? The killer adjective or action verb only goes so far at sexing up an article titled “Highlights From the Lutheran Church Talent Night”.

So, when it comes over Dad’s police scanner that a car was found under Snake River Bridge, my ears whip around like Rhubarb's, my cat, when she hears a mouse scratching under the fridge. Dad pushes his chair back from the breakfast table. He, my big sister Melissa, my only sib, and I have been chowing down on that lumpy oatmeal she makes every morning.

“Ron, fetch my boots and load up the camera,” Dad croaks in his bullfrog-deep voice. “Melissa, put my coffee in the Thermos.”

I snatch up Dad’s scuffed Red Wing field boots from the back door mat and haul them over to him. “If a car went through the Snake River Bridge railing, that’s at least a fifty foot drop.”

Dad nods. “Would be a miracle if anyone survived that fall.” He struggles, reaching over his girth to tug his left boot on, so I bend down and pull with both hands on the boot tops. That’s right, Dad’s a porker. At almost three hundred and fifty pounds, he’s been a black hole of food consumption since Mom died. He snarfs more calories in a day than Melissa, Rhubarb, our garbage disposal, and me combined. And that's saying something because my sister is no twig, and I used to be fat myself. More on that later.

I clear my throat as I lace Dad’s boots. “How about if I shoot this one for you?”

He shakes his triple-chinned head when he heaves himself up.

“But you promised me I could help out on the next big story, remember?” I’m told I have a doe-eyed look that would make Jesus himself feel guilty, I use it on him.

“Haven’t you heard of post-traumatic stress disorder?” my sister says in her helium-sucker's voice. “After a person witnesses a horrific event, like a car accident, they can suffer from depression, nightmares, even phobias for years.”

“Too late, I’m already living with you.”

“That’s enough,” Dad barks. “Apologize to your sister, right now.”

“Sorry, Sis.”

She turns away, folding her arms over her chest.

After Mom died, Melissa dropped out of K-State, where she was an honors psychology major. She moved home and became the self-appointed family caretaker, making the meals, clipping grocery coupons and nagging us about every little thing, like not taking off our shoes when coming into the house, leaving my bed unmade and my dirty clothes on the bathroom floor. But there is light at the end of the tunnel. On July 4th Sis is to tie the knot with Brandon Miller, Dickerson County Sheriff's Deputy extraordinaire.

“Look, Dad,” I barter, “I’ll cover next week’s city commission meeting if you’ll let me go with you this morning.” This stops him in his tracks like I knew it would. Dad gets bored at the city meetings and often falls asleep. Afterwards, he has to trail around after the commissioners to find out what happened.

“Oh, all right. Get your camera. I’ll be out in the truck.”

My sister’s tarantula-leg-like eyelashes flutter at me in disgust. “Why do you want to photograph a gruesome sight so badly?”

“Because I’m a psycho pervert.”

“I think you have serious unresolved issues about Mom’s death.”

“Whatever.”

My photography knapsack swings from my neck as I book it out the back door. It isn’t even eight o’clock on this June morning and it has to be eighty degrees out. Wispy white clouds streak the blue sky like talcum powder on our bathroom floor. I throw open the passenger door of Dad's Chevy pickup. Behind the wheel, he’s nibbling on a dark chocolate Hersey bar. I sink into the seat with its busted springs as he starts the engine. The C.B. radio squelches and scratches.

“I want you to be nice to your sister,” he scolds between bites. “She’s under a lot of pressure with the wedding coming up. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir.”

Dad believes she’s spazzing out lately because she has to organize the whole nuptial shindig herself. I believe diet pills have a lot to do with it. She is desperate to drop 15 pounds for the Big Day, so she’ll fit into Mom’s old wedding dress.

We cruise through the empty streets of Harker City, the burg where I’ve lived all of my seventeen years, with its limestone courthouse, two banks, two gas stations, two grocery stores, three bars and eight churches. You’ve probably never heard of Harker City, and for good reason.

Nothing.

Exciting.

Ever.

Happens.

Here.

Period.

Except for one Mexican family, The Lopezes, who own The Taco Caboose, and the one black family, the Washingtons, who own Colonel Chet’s Bar B Q, and Casey Coyote, the sheriff's Native American foster daughter, the good citizens of Harker City are as white as Marshmallow Fluff.

Speaking of Casey Coyotewhen Dad swings us onto Trapp Street, I’m surprised to see her blue Chevette parked in front of the Lutheran Church parsonage. Casey babysits for Reverend Mike and his wife a lot, but at eight o’clock on a Sunday morning?

We zoom past the Dairy Queen and drive east onto Highway 76, heading out across the pancake-flat prairie.

Dad lowers his visor to block the morning sun and says, “Covering car accidents is the one part of my job I dread.”

“Then give ‘em to me.” I reach into my knapsack and take out my Kodak camera. “If I cover another quilting bee or 4H livestock competition, I’ll go bonkers.”

“Son, by focusing on local events The Bugle serves an important function in the community. It gives people’s lives meaning. If it’s in print, it’s important.”

So you know, Dad repeats this mantra about once a week. It kinda freaks me out he doesn't remember saying it. Alzheimer’s Disease? Self-Reassurance Disease? Either way, he's become quite philosophical since Mom died.

After a few minutes, Dad turns north on the roller coaster, deeply-rutted Snake River Road. Rocks crunch under our tires and ping against the undercarriage as we bounce along.

So, here it is 1990. Major stories are breaking all over the globe. Nelson Mandela freed from a South African prison, the Berlin Wall has come down, American troops are invading Panama. But you wouldn't know any of this reading the The Bugle. Me, I want to be a legit word nerd. I want to cover the stuff that matters. Maybe win a Pulitzer some day. And, I know what you're thinking, Yeah right, kid, the Pulitzer. Dream On.

Well, get this. Hemingway began his career as a newspaper reporter right here in the Midwest, less than a 150 miles from Harker City. Okay, he worked for the Kansas City Star and not The Bugle. Still, it’s a start.

Dad double-clutches into low gear as we struggle up a hill. We dip into the valley, and I see the red flashing lights of emergency vehicles. My pulse kicks up a notch. Ahead, the rusted trestles of the Snake River Bridge remind me of my old erector set.

Dad slows to a stop behind the sheriff's cruiser at the east end of the bridge. “Just stay out of the way and let me do the talking.” He reaches into the glove compartment, crammed with Hershey bar wrappers and yellowed gasoline receipts, and takes out his black reporter’s notebook.

Camera in hand, I trail Dad along the side of the road. Police radios crackle in the humid air. For once I feel like a real journalist covering a real story.

Up ahead, Ed Sanders, owner of Ed’s Tow Service and Auto Repair, leans his wiry body against the front fender of his wrecker. He looks totally zoned out while dragging on that cigarette.

“What do we have, Ed?” Dad calls out

Ed’s green eyes check us out from under the blue bandana wrapped pirate-style around his forehead. “One known fatality. Appears the driver missed the bridge at the curve and shot down the embankment right into the river.”

“Who’s the victim?” Dad asks.

Ed shrugs. “I just got here. Say, Ronny,” Ed drops his cigarette to the dirt and grinds it under his boot heel, “I’m almost done with your Ford.”

“Great. When can I pick it up?”

“Swing by the garage Tuesday.”

Y’got it.”

Dad and I walk past my soon-to-be-brother-in-law, Brandon, on his hands and knees in the thick grass, so absorbed in whatever he’s doing there he doesn’t notice us.

We hurry by the idling ambulance, lights flashing, the back door open and the gurney missing. In the center of the narrow, one-lane bridge, Sheriff Gerald Bottoms stands squinting through binoculars like a general at D-Day. The old wood planks creak and groan under foot, and between them the river below rushes by. Usually a trickle this time of year, the water is moving fast due to the recent heavy rains. My gaze follows the river upstream to the big Harker City Lake Dam, water gushes from the overflow outlet in the shape of a rooster’s tail.

I lean over to the bridge railing. A car is upside down and half-submerged in the murky water below. To the left, two paramedics struggle to pull an object from the water. The object is a woman, floating face down, her red dress fanned over the water like a flag. The way her head bobs up and down in the current, it looks like she’s nodding. The shock of discovery hits me full force, and I’m too freaked out to do anything more than stare. I haven’t seen a dead person since Mom was laid out in her casket two years ago.

“I see we have a fatality, Gerald,” Dad says, snapping me out of my trance.

The sheriff lowers his binoculars and turns to us. A caterpillar-like eyebrow arches and he smirks at me. “Your dad letting you cover the big stuff these days?”

“Said he wanted to come.” Still gasping from the walk to the bridge, Dad dabs his sweaty forehead with a white handkerchief.

“Well, I’m glad he did. Brandon dropped our new Minolta into the river a little while ago.”The sheriff sighs and shakes his head. “Ronny, I’d like for you to get some shots of the car for my report, if you don’t mind.”

“No problem, sir.” I walk to the railing and snap pics of the death scene below. I adjust my focus. One of the men in waders is Allen Flood, the local mortician who is also an EMT.

Body thrown at impact,” the sheriff says. “She didn’t stand a chance.”

“Who’s the victim?” Dad asks.

“Janice Crawley.”

I spin to the sheriff. “Reverend Mike’s wife?”

Sheriff Bottom nods grimly.

Dad shakes his head.

Unbelievable. How can Mrs. Crawley, a mother, a preacher’s wife, a special ed teacher at the high school, be floating dead in Snake River on a Sunday morning? It makes no sense. I saw her a couple days ago at the parsonage when I went for a run with her husband. Everyone liked Mrs. C.

“Is Reverend Mike in that car?” I ask.

The sheriff shakes his head and tucks a toothpick into the corner of his mouth. “No. Appears she was alone. Reverend called my office just shy of midnight reporting her missing. What a shame, huh?”

Dad’s voice cracks, “On the Sabbath, no less.”

The sheriff eyeballs the east entrance of the bridge. “Drivers never slow down at that curve. I’ve asked the county to put up one of those ‘dangerous curve’ signs, but the commissioners don’t move unless it’s an election year.”

“Have you told Reverend Mike?” Dad asks.

“Yeah. He should be here any minute to identify the body.”

The EMTs lift a stiff Mrs. C. onto the stretcher. I zoom my lens on her, opening the aperture two stops. Her color-drained face is swollen like a melon. Her pale, unblinking eyes seem to stare right through me. With her blue lips and matted wet hair, she looks like the mannequin we used to practice CPR on in health class.

“Is this blood?”

I lower the Kodak. Dad points at some brownish red-spots on the railing.

“Looks fairly fresh,” Dad observes.

A trail of red dots run along the floor of the bridge toward the west end.

The sheriff nudges his hat back. “I had Brandon collect some samples of it for the lab.”

Dad also leans on the railing. “What do you make of it?”

“Not much.” The sheriff returns to looking through his binoculars. “People fish off this bridge all the time.”

I clear my throat. “Isn’t that a lot of blood for a fish?”

Dad glares at me as if to say, Didn’t I tell you to let me do the talking?

“Junior,” the sheriff says into the binoculars, “I’ve caught channel cat in this creek that bled like a slaughtered heifer.”

He straightens his spine, spins the focus wheel on his scopes, and says in a serious whisper, “Well, I’ll be damned.”

Adrenaline courses through my body.

“What is it, Gerald?” Dad asks.

The sheriff hands Dad the binoculars and points. “There are two quartering pheasants over by that fence. What I wouldn’t give to have my twelve gauge right now.”

I follow those bloody dots to the entrance of the bridge, snapping photos as I go. They form a kind of trail down the rocky bank to the water’s edge.

“Ronny, make way,” Mr. Flood shouts as he and the other guy struggle to carry Mrs. Crawley’s bagged body up the embankment.

I hike back over to where Dad and the sheriff, and now Brandon, stand together on the bridge.

“I didn’t find any skid marks at the curve,” my sister’s fiancĂ©e reports. “Which leads me to believe she didn’t attempt to stop before she went over. Another thing, her headlights were off.”

The sheriff stares at him, chewing his toothpick. “I’m sure the paramedics cut the battery cable first thing. That’s standard operating procedure.”

Brandon shakes his head. “The headlight knob inside the car was switched off. The medics told me they hadn’t touched it… Maybe we should seal off the area.”

“What the heck for?” the sheriff asks.

“On the off-chance this wasn’t an accident.”

The sheriff shakes his head. “You’re thinkin’ this was a suicide?”

My future brother-in-law shrugs. “That could explain what she was doing out here alone after dark.”

Sheriff Bottoms stops chewing and stares at his underling like he is a zit on the end of his nose. “Mrs. Crawley was one of the happiest people I’ve known.”

A familiar, beige Buick LaSabre drives up. The driver’s door flies open, and out steps Reverend Mike, my triathlon coach and our family’s minister. He looks totally spent, unshaven, with dark bags under his light-blue eyes. Sheriff Bottoms leads the Rev to the back door of the ambulance. Mr. Flood, ever the solemn mortician, unzips the top of the body bag. It seems so wrong to see someone as tall and strong as Reverend Mike break down like a scared little boy.

I’m not one who cries at the drop of a hat, like my sister does, but let me tell you, I have to bite my bottom lip to control the sobs.

“I-I don’t understand.” Reverend Mike wipes tears with the back of his hand.

“This is one of the most dangerous roads in the county,” the sheriff says.

“She dropped me off at church last night,” Reverend Mike says, “but she never came home.”

Dad pulls a white hanky from his pants pocket and hands it to Reverend Mike. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am, Reverend.”

Brandon ambles over. “Reverend, I hate to do this now, but I need to ask you a few questions for my report.”

“That can wait,” the sheriff snaps.

“It’s all right,” Reverend Mike says, “I’d rather get it over with.”

Brandon whips out a tiny notebook from his shirt pocket and clicks his pen like he is some kind of FBI bad ass. “Did your wife’s car have mechanical problems?”

Reverend Mike shakes his head while blowing his nose in the hanky.

“Do you, uh, know if she’d been drinking,” Brandon asks.

Sheriff Bottom glares at Sis’s squeeze. “For crying out loud.”

“She had one beer with dinner,” Revend Mike says, “but that was around seven o'clock.”

Brandon clears his throat. “I’m sorry to ask this, Reverend, but was your wife depressed?”

Sheriff Bottom stares daggers at Brandon. “Thank you for your time, Reverend Mike. You best go on home to your daughter. We’ll take care of things from here.”

Reverend Mike slumps toward his car, and I hot foot it over to him. “Uh, Reverend?”

He stops and looks at me, all red-eyed and sniffling.

“How about I drive you home?”

“That would be nice, Kodak.”

Reverend Mike is one of the few adults in my life who calls me Kodak. And I like him for that reason alone.





Author Bio:

Richard Uhlig needed time, and distance, to find the perspective on his small-town childhood that would allow him to create the funny, aching, quirky characters and scenarios featured in his novels and films. A professional screenwriter, Rick now lives in New York City and counts film noir, Russian novels and "deliciously dark comedy" among his literary influences. Married to his high school sweetheart, Rick is an international traveler and a devoted father of two.

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