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“The Only One”, was a little self-produced book originally written 15 years ago, and in the process of updating and abridging it for the purpose of serialization, the result turned out to be quite different from the original version. Once I reunited with the characters via of them materializing in my imagination, they sat down with me and helped me re-tell their story. And what a surreal experience that was! I’m someone who sometimes thinks of herself as a young chick trapped in the body of an old hen, and it was exhilarating to stretch out and embrace the freedom of expression that the anonymity of cyberspace allowed me. As my alter-ego took over, I had a good time channeling my inner “single lady”, drawing from my observations of the unsuspecting younger people who are a part of my extended family. I also relied on my own experiences as I plotted a story where I strove to make stereotypes unique, and familiar situations compelling. If in spinning my tale, I “told” more than I “showed”, that’s because I am, first and foremost, a story-teller. Thanks again to everybody! Anyone interested in critiquing “The Only One”, be my guest. ~ Cynique ~

I just recently completed Toni Morrison’s latest book “Home”, a novel I have been looking forward to reading because its advance notices promoted it as being set in the 1950s, an era I could relate to. Since many of Morrison’s novels take place way back in the day, I was glad she had chosen to write about what was, to me, a more recent period in history. I was curious about how Ms Morrison would portray the 1950s which have been referred to as not only a bland and innocent time populated by the “silent generation“, but also the decade that was ripe for the civil rights movement it spawned. I anticipated she would write about a passive race of people, done with being patient, spurred into protest by dynamic leaders like Martin Luther King, and inspirational ones like Rosa Parks, and martyrs like Emmet Till, all played out against a backdrop of doo-wop music and Amos ‘N Andy TV and Dorothy Dandridge celebrity. The ‘50s I knew. Silly me. I should’ve realized that Toni Morrison would never stoop to such mundane predictability. With Toni it’s never easy. And “Home” is vintage Morrison. So, before long, through the vividness of her prose fraught with its extraordinary metaphors, and the wretched poignancy of her characters, I was beyond reading this book; I was experiencing it. In my imagination I was there, immersed in a version of life in the 50s that was diametrically opposed to the one I led back then as a young black woman residing in a small integrated suburb of Chicago. Crouched in the unforgiving frozen terrain of Korea, killing to keep from being killed while dodging bullets, I was there with the book's protagonist, Frank Money, as he witnessed the horrible deaths of the homeboys with whom he had enlisted in the Army, hoping to escape the dead-end drudgery that was their fate as black youth bogged down in the dusty little rural town of Lotus, Georgia. There, following Frank through the post traumatic stress that plagues him as a shell-shocked war veteran, wandering the dangerous streets of northern cities, working his way through despair with whiskey and the fleeting love of Lilly, a comely, ambitious woman not content to be his ongoing caregiver. There, listening to the frenetic be-bop music in a smoky little night club, visited between trains on his way back to rescue his gullible younger sister, “Cee”, who has been victimized and sterilized by a mad professor of eugenics. And, in the end, there, back in the confines of a hapless little town that modernization forgot, and slavery remembered. Yet a place that is also a welcoming haven not lacking in the homespun warmth and time-worn wisdom embodied by its black inhabitants, common folk of varying degrees of good and evil who, through the worst of conditions have endured, blissful in their ignorance, secure in their belief that “be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home”. As the book draws to its close I was also there, witnessing a reappearing zoot-suited phantom who like the style he sported, comes and finally goes with a smile on his face, signalling that "all's well, that ends well". At 145 pages, “Home” is a short intense novel, something which always earns points with me, and a satisfactory read for those who are up to the challenge of spinning straw into gold. Finally, because it is what it is, I have no choice but to give this good thing that came in a small package, 4 stars. * * * *

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The Only One Chapter 21 Determined not to give a lot of weight to Troy Briggs’ mention of the White Sox, Carole Everly had, nevertheless, turned to the channel where their Saturday afternoon contest was being televised. She wasn’t going to sit in front of the screen and watch, but would check the score from time to time while she went about her weekly chores, which included doing her laundry and tidying up her apartment. What did she have to lose? Only her sanity. Troy Briggs, as usual had left her hanging, never approaching her again at the company meeting yesterday, only offering a quick salute from across the crowded room as things were breaking up and there was a mob scene as everyone was hurrying to beat the traffic. Glad she hadn’t driven, she was left to scurry along with Carmen Hernandez, her friend and co-worker with whom she was riding. Yet, like the fool she just could not stop being, here she was, grasping at straws, wondering if the end of the Sox game would be the beginning of something else. Whatever Troy’s strategy was, it was working… When a third out in the 9th inning racked up a victory for the home team, Carole tried not to get her hopes up. 15 minutes later busily engaged in folding her freshly-dried clothes, she took her time answering, when her phone went off, assuming it would be Wanda calling for an update. “So what’s on the menu?” a voice greeted, and Carole couldn’t believe her ears. “How – did you get this number?” was all she managed to say. “I have ways,” Troy Briggs answered. “A man has to know how to be - resourceful.” “Don’t we all,” she remarked. “Right. And if anybody ever called for a person to be resourceful, - it’s you, Carole Everly.” “You’re not exactly a piece of cake, yourself, Troy Briggs,” she retaliated. He chuckled. “Yes, I am. If you invite me over tonight, - you can have a bite of me.” “Oh really? And what are you snacking on nowadays? Lost your taste for - white meat?” “Why is it that we always have to engage in a battle of wits? Just shut up and ask me over, woman! We need to talk!” “About what? The 3-hitter just thrown by the Sox pitcher?” “Good game, wasn’t it? Lucky for you they won or - I wouldn’t be tryin to score a free meal with you.” “What makes you think I want to see you?” “Do you?” “How do you know that - I don’t have a boyfriend!” “Do you?” “What if - I don’t feel like cookin a meal?” “You don’t have to. I’ll bring a pizza. And some wine.” “I - already have wine.” “Good. What time should I come? There was a pause while she gnawed on her lip, struggling with her better judgment. “What - time do you want to come?” “Is - 8 o’clock good?” “I - guess.” “See you then.” “Don’t you - need my address?” “No. Unless you’ve moved, I already have it.” Not wanting to spend her Saturday night doing nothing, Wanda was hangin out with a couple of her friends from work, experiencing mixed emotions about Carole’s plans for the evening that included a house call from “Doctor” Troy Briggs who specialized in broken hearts. But, she’d just have to hope that her friend was handling the situation without getting hurt. In any case, she would be there for Carole, - to either console or congratulate her… Seated there in the crowded softly-lit singles bar, nursing a drink, watching her 2 companions circulate, hoping to get lucky, Wanda decided to take her chances and strike up a conversation with the guy seated on the stool next to her, eyeballing her cleavage. “If you wanna keep checkin me out, you gonna have to buy me a drink,” she flirted, deciding he looked OK. Nothing special but at least the glasses he had on weren’t nerdy, and he wasn’t overweight or missing any teeth. “I guess I should ask you if you come here often,” he said signaling for the bartender. “I’m rusty when it comes to pick-up lines.” She chuckled. “Don’t tell me, let me guess. You’re just coming out of a long relationship.” “Not exactly,” he said, then told the barmaid to give Wanda another of what she was drinking. “Tell mama all about it,” Wanda coaxed after ordering a rum and coke. He chuckled and slowly shook his head. “Where to begin?” “At the beginning.” I just don’t know how to deal with you black women.” “I’m listening.” “Well, for example, - a few months ago, I was browsing around Best Buy, flippin through some CD albums that were on sale, and this real mellow lookin chick caught my eye, - in fact, she looked a little something like you, - except slimmer.” “You can dispense with those details,” Wanda advised dryly. “I don’t have a problem with thick women,” he said, casting another glance at her size 42 double-Ds. “OK, you’re forgiven. Continue.” “Well, I noticed she was hangin out in the jazz section, so I decided I would try and impress her. I skimmed over the notes on the back of this 'Best of Contemporary Jazz' CD right there in front of me, then eased on over to where she was, and struck up a conversation. I started repeatin what I’d just read, makin her think I knew somethin about jazz.” Wanda cocked her head and raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Go on.” “After that, she started expoundin on the subject, herself, and I just kept on noddin like I knew what the hell she talkin about. Then, I got her number by suggesting that we get together and check out a jazz club sometime.” Wanda stared at him. “I didn’t care nothin about jazz. Kanye and Jay-Z are more my speed, but I decided I would do the Wikipedia thing and bone up. I also googled some jazz musicians I’d heard of, and checked out some of their work on YouTube. After a while, I was good to go, even kinda likin what I was hearin. Meantime, I was givin myself a do-over, tryin to be a cool brother, talkin proper over the phone, complimentin my girl on her smarts and looks, not tryin to get in her pants or nothin.” A confused look slowly spread over Wanda’s face. “Then, after some setbacks, we finally made plans to go see this new jazz artist,” he continued. “I freed up some credit on my Visa, put my good suit in the cleaners, bought me some new glasses, had my hair trimmed and lined up the day before so I could make a good appearance and show my girl a big night out on the town, then - the broad stood me up!” Wanda took a gulp of her drink. “I waited outside the club for 2 hours and she was a no-show. And that was it. When I finally called and all I got was her voice mail, I was done. I kinda wanted to see this Esparanza chick, too.”” Wanda spewed out her drink. “Nigga, what is your name?” she choked. “He frowned. “Are you OK?” She nodded her head. “Tyrone,” he answered, gawking at her. “But – I used my middle name with her cause I didn’t want to sound too ‘ghetto’.” Wanda could hardly stop laughing. “Tell me something, Albert! Why didn’t you ever give Carole a good phone number?!” His eyes bulged. “Do you know Carole Everly?” “She’s my best friend and she confides everything to me.” “I’ll be damned! Small world. Well, what the hell’s up with her?” “You don’t wanna know.” “Just curious,” he said and took a swig of his beer. “I guess I got what I deserved for tryin to be somethin I’m wasn’t, so I ain’t mad at her. And by the way, what’s your name?” “I’m ‘Wanda’, and Carole didn’t really stand you up that night. She was involved in a car accident but couldn’t call you because the only number she had for you - was not in service.” “Wow. Is she OK?” “She’s fine now. She really wanted to apologize to you but, like I said. She had no number for you. It was all just one big missed connection!” “I called from different numbers ,” he explained, “cause my buddy at work told me the worst thing a dude could do is to provide a chick with a way to keep track of him.” Wanda grunted. “Yeah, if you a playa.” “Whatever. I finally decided that since there were always so many obstacles to us hookin up, she just wasn’t for me, so now - I’m just back sittin on the bench, watchin the game. Wanda scrutinized him a little closer. “What you need is a - coach.” He gave her a slow once over. “You available for the job, Miz Wanda?” “I might be. I like your potential.” “I like you, too. You ain’t stuck-up. “Plus, you got a - steady gig.” “Been workin as a computer repairman for 5 years.” “And you ain’t cheap.” “Right, but this place ain’t happenin for me so I’m fixin to head out. Gonna go buy me sumpin to eat. I gotta taste for some Mexican food. Wanna come?” Wanda considered his offer a moment, and then found herself smiling. “Can I finish my drink? I…don’t wanna waste your money .” “Take your time. Them tacos ain’t goin nowhere.” “By the way, what should I call you? Albert? Or Tyrone?” “You can call me anything you want,” he grinned. “OK, Baby,” she winked. - to be continued, as the final chapter awaits…

The Only One Chapter 18 Carole Everly was grateful for an opportunity to finally start turning her life around, and riding alongside Philip Atkins as he wheeled his BMW through the traffic on Chicago’s Lake Shore Drive, she felt more relaxed and upbeat than she had in a long time. “I’m glad you could fit me into your busy schedule,” Philip was saying. “Really flattered that I beat out the book you were planning to spend the evening with.” “I’m never too busy to meet with an old friend,” Carole replied. “Particularly one who wants to take me out to eat!” “A dinner invitation always works with women,” Philip chuckled. “Y’all love to be fed.” “This is true,” she confirmed, “but we hate to be strung along. Are you ever going to reveal why you called me last week???” “I guess,” Philip said. “I put that on the backburner because of your reaction – or lack of it.” “Reaction to what???” “You’ll never guess what it was I wanted to find out.” “I’m dying to hear!” “An interesting choice of words, considering my question has to do with the serial killer case. I been stalling because it ain’t none of my business - but, by chance, did you ever have any dealings with this Purvis Skinner?” “Are you serious??!” “Yes.” “Fortunately, no, - because I don’t know whether I would’ve passed up a chance to make 500 extra dollars a week just for – phone sex. Why do you ask??” “Because a little slip of paper bearing your name and address was found among Purvis Skinner’s effects.” Carole’s mouth dropped open. “Really???” “Yep. You may have been in his sites, but guess he figured you wouldn’t be a good candidate since you weren’t seeking a loan , - or were you?” “No, I wasn’t! Where on earth did he get that information about me?? The picture the newspapers printed of him didn’t look like anybody I’ve ever met.” “Who knows, but you don’t really have anything to worry about because this SOB is going be shut away for the rest of his life.” “Well, hopefully he doesn’t convince some gullible woman that she can make some extra money by bringing him a saw on visitor’s day.” He laughed. “You’re such a delightful person, Carole Everly. How much a week would it take for you to give me - bed sex??” Carole rolled her eyes. “The light is green,” she said, pointing to the traffic signal. “Wish I could get the green light from you,” he persisted, observing her out of the corner of his eye. “Whoever it is you’re savin it for, sure must be somethin special.” “You said there would be no strings attached to this free meal!” she reminded, in a hurry to change the subject. “There won’t be. But - it sure would be nice if after we enjoy our dinner, we could partake of a final course - enjoy the kind of dessert that satisfies a different appetite. No after taste, - no strings.” “My, my, such eloquence. I don’t know why you don’t stop being a commitment-phobe and just settle down. Then you’d have more time and energy to spend on your favorite sport.” He grunted. “Or maybe I should do like my partner Brooks who’s happy as a lark, now that he’s finally found what he needed in life!” “Which was?” “ ‘Got him a fine ‘ol cougar who’s so thrilled to have a young stud bone her every night that she gladly puts up with all his quirks.” Carole sighed. “Some folks finally get lucky in life.” “ ‘Lucky’ ain’t nothing but a word,” Philip declared, “in fact I’ve got this theory on how to create what we call - good luck.” “What is it?” she asked, her curiosity immediately piqued. “I’m very interested in meta-physical concepts.” “I’ll – lay it out for you later,” he smiled, “if you let me give you a - presentation.” Shifting her position, Carole was surprised at the way her vajayjay responded to the suggestiveness in Philip’s voice. And she had a feeling that her resistance was in big trouble. But, somehow, she wasn’t really bothered. What the hell. Good luck, good fuck – they could be one and the same… Purvis Skinner lie face down on the cot in his jail cell, his head buried in the crook of his arm in an attempt to blot out the world. Something it would be easier to do if he could forget how those 2 ass-hole cops had roughed him up, taking all the credit for obtaining his confession. Little did they know that he’d spilled everything because he didn’t care if he was found out. He was proud to be guilty. Maybe now he’d get some credit for being a winner. Those who rejected him, had been rejected. They had lost, he had won. And forget about a public defender, forget about a trial. For him, prison would be an escape from the confines of a crappy world! Bring on the plea bargain. Let them sentence him to life. Bars couldn’t restrict him. His mind was too strong. Like now. He had no IPod, but he could hear the throbbing piano of Theolonius Monk pounding in his head. He had no female, but pleasure was just a hand-job away! Burrowing his head deeper into his elbow, he thought about that lying bitch, Coreen, someone else he’d like to squelch! Telling everybody she had outsmarted him. But he had gotten the best of her, too! Not once, but twice, he had fucked her, and in the cover of darkness she had responded like the horny slut that she was, really gettin off on his big prick! All of which proved that women were demons. Demons he needed to be rid of! Even his mother had been a demon, always comparing him to his depraved uncle - who was also his father, always calling him ugly and crazy and nasty, all the things she herself was, bringing home the bums who never stayed around long after molesting him, and abusing her, - always casting her scorn on their kind-hearted neighbor, a cripple who had introduced Purvis to the music that made love to his ears, and who had always given him credit for having a good mind. But in his whole clouded existence there had been only one other ray of sunshine. How pleasant she had been over the phone that time, her voice as smooth as honey. How patiently she had listened to his problem and gone out of her way to solve it, treating him like he was more than just an account number. And when he’d asked her name so he could write to her supervisor, how reluctant she had been to accept praise for just doing her job. No, he hadn’t gotten around to sending a letter, but he had snuck up to City Wide Utility and had her pointed out to him, and he liked how strangely appealing she looked; made him want to keep tabs on her as time passed on, occasionally following her home from work, sometimes keeping a vigil outside her apartment building. She was no demon. She was like a goddess to be worshipped from a distance, an angel whose “pathway to heaven” was sacred, not someplace he’d force his dick into… Then, with the high-pitched scatting of Ella Fitzgerald spinning off the turn table of his demented imagination, Purvis Skinner pictured the face of Carole Everly and as his hand slid down to his groin, he uttered a silent prayer of gratitude…thankful that he no longer had to fight off that awful, ongoing urge to kill her with his love… …Philip Atkins emitted a long satisfied growl, and rolled over on his back, trying to quell his urge for a cigarette. “I’d call that a - pretty good stroke of luck,” he chuckled, after a moment, then peered through the dimness at Carole, and discerned the wistful look on her face. “Whatcha thinkin ‘bout, sugar-puddin?” “Nobody,” she murmured, and closed her eyes. “I said what,” he teased, reaching for his pack of Newports. “ Not who.” - to be continued as more questions are cleared up in the final 4 chapters -