May 9th, 2012:


I’ve been writing stories or articles since I was 10 years old, more years than I care to count! Everyone’s life is full of stories, and I’m no exception. I just choose to share mine on a blog or in a book of some kind. Over the years I took the time to write an historical fiction novel and a screenplay while I was writing articles for newspapers and magazines. Having always enjoyed short stories, I decided to turn some of my experiences into a few short stories. They are all based on true experiences, most of them mine. To protect the innocent and/or the guilty, I changed the names.

My stories are available on Amazon at an unbeatable price. To intrigue you, my readers, I am sharing excerpts. I hope you enjoy them and are curious enough to buy the Ebooks.



“Do you think he may have gotten Alzheimer’s from all the rotten things he did in his life?” Emily asked.

“I believe we create our own reality and bring on the physical conditions we need for our soul’s growth,” Beth answered. “It’s interesting that Dad has lost his control over all the things he valued most in life – money, intelligence, his family, his own body. Since we’re talking about theories, I’ve got another thought concerning the World War II and Korean War generation of American men. I think those extreme situations seriously affected their views on life. They came home with hardened hearts, devious minds, and plenty of sarcasm. But they also knew how to be charming and get their own way. Their wives and children, who were easy targets, suffered the most. These guys didn’t seem to know how to say, ‘I love you,’ much less, ‘I’m sorry.'”

“I feel sorry for him. He’s been through a lot. Perhaps this disease evens up the score. But I hope none of us suffers the same fate.”

“I don’t believe we will. We were on the receiving end of his brand of child-raising, but none of us have chosen the same approach to life.”

“His suffering kinda makes it easier to forgive him,” Emily said with a mischievous smile. “You know what else is odd? He loves to get hugs and he knows that saying I love you will get a warm response and maybe another hug. He could never say that to any of us when he was well and in possession of all his faculties.”





Carl had advertised himself as someone interested in dance, theatre, travel and sunbathing. He sounded culturally aware and although she wondered about the sunbathing, it probably wasn’t unusual for a Southern Californian. His voice on the phone was soft and polite, and she looked forward to their date. She felt comfortable when she parked in front of his corner home.  The small, square undistinguished house was a few blocks shy of the high-rent district south of Ventura Boulevard, but the fact that it was in Encino at all lent it a great deal of prestige.

The man who answered the door was friendly and natural as he guided her into his house. Proudly telling her he had inherited the home from his uncle, he suggested they take a little tour. A typical one-story postwar 1950s home, it had nothing imaginative in its design, inside or out, but she pretended to be impressed. He led her through a step-down, rectangular living room and then outside to a concrete atrium whose only amenity was a hot tub and a few cheap and fading lounge chairs.  Occasionally touching her elbow, he told her of plans to make a few changes here and there and asked her opinion.  When he took her into his small square bedroom, she noted a white lacy negligee hanging over a closet door and beneath it, four-inch black spike heels.

“How do you like my new negligee?” he asked.

“It’s beautiful,” she responded evenly, wondering what revelations might come next.

“My wife liked me to wear lingerie to bed. Now I can’t sleep without it.”

She could tell he was watching and listening carefully for her reactions. So far she was accepting all of it as if it was all perfectly normal.







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