TOIL UNDER THE SUN | Kirkus Reviews

TOIL UNDER THE SUN

BY R. PHILLIP RITTER ‧ RELEASE DATE: NOV. 16, 2006

Coming-of-age experiences contrast with the Korean War in Ritter’s debut novel.

A single mother gives up her son, Timothy, for adoption, and the novel follows his life from childhood to adolescence and, finally, as a soldier in the Korean War. Throughout his life, Timothy struggles. Adoptive parents John and Martha do their best to raise him, but he falls in with two ne’er do wells, Wes and Raymond, who encourage bad behavior, theft and general nastiness. At various junctures in his youth, Timothy takes wrong turns, such as not visiting a potential girlfriend, instead choosing to get drunk. For some reason, as a teen, he is encouraged to babysit 6-year-old Cindy. Undaunted by his surly manner, she is kind to him and teaches him to waltz to Tchaikovsky. The music has a powerful effect, helping Timothy break out of his usual hostility and appreciate beauty. This scene is mirrored later when he helps a lost young Korean girl during the war; the music replays inside his head as he dances with her amid the rubble. Another parallel occurs when he encounters Jake, who helped his birth mother when she was desperate and alone, also aids Timothy in a similar fashion. While the narrative is strong in description, such as Timothy’s vision of a “shimmering paladin,” and in its dreamlike qualities, Timothy is a frustrating protagonist due to the poor choices he makes. When Humphrey is introduced as Timothy’s fellow Marine, the reader breathes a sigh of relief; he is the voice of sanity, reads Ecclesiastes (from which the book’s title is drawn) and actually listens to Timothy. Gunny Talbot, who leads the soldiers’ regiment, also is a mentor and offers guidance. The author has adopted children and his father fought in Korea, lending experience and believability to the subject, which is also enhanced by the author’s cited resources used in researching the war.

Ritter artfully and realistically depicts a rough road to adulthood with a wartime motif.

A One-Act Play About Parts of Speech

     NARRATOR (a bespectacled college professor dressed in tweed jacket and speaking in a soothing academic voice, each part of speech enters the room when cued): After another contentious disagreement between Verb and Noun concerning an unexpected shift from transitive to intransitive, which left Noun perplexed and humiliated, Noun has convened a meeting of the parts of speech to resolve the matter. As you can see, Noun is already sitting behind an ornately-carved wood table waiting for the parts of speech to arrive at the small windowless room illuminated by candles. (Narrator gestures around the room) A shimmering dress flowing across her graceful legs, feisty Verb is ready for action as she strolls to the front row and sits directly across from Noun. Pronoun, dressed in monotonous gray from head to toe and tired of standing in for Noun (and feeling a bit underappreciated), sits behind Verb and stares at the floor. Wearing colorful but clashing bow tie, shirt, pants, and a dapper porkpie hat, Adjective immediately searches for his best friend Noun when he enters the room, and then saves a seat for Adverb because he knows she is usually late. Preposition follows closely behind and upon arrival at one of the folding chairs appears confused: should he sit on it or under it? Conjunction, full of youth and verve, but not particularly interested in the meeting or its agenda, skips into the room and quickly glances around to see who is attending (or not) before snuggling next to Pronoun (who she has always admired). Interjection enters with crashing footsteps and loud exclamations to announce his arrival, but no one pays a bit of attention because they’ve all heard it before. Adverb finally appears a few minutes late: she would have made a special effort to arrive on time if Verb or Adjective had called the meeting, but she has never fostered a meaningful relationship with Noun. Shall we listen in as the meeting begins?

NOUN (pounding a varnished wood gavel repeatedly on the top of the wood table): First an announcement: I would like to remind the group that the Articles are attending a jazz festival in the city of New Orleans and do not return until the end of the month. I see Adverb has finally arrived—late as usual, I might add—so let us begin the meeting. Although I asked you all to call me “master” last week, and “Bob” yesterday, please refer to me as “president” today. Better yet, call me “President Bob,” if you don’t mind. Now, the reason I—President Bob—have called this meeting, is to—

VERB (her voice quivering with anger, interrupts): What right do you have to call any meeting at all. Just because you are the subject of a sentence—and can change your name to Bob, Davenport, toaster, or psychology as you please—doesn’t give you the right to order the rest of us around. I would like to move that you change your name to “blockhead” or “fool,” or better yet, “ignoramus.”

Verb turns and addresses the other parts of speech

And furthermore, I would like to point out that he’s not the boss of us, even if he decides to change his name to “boss.” Who’s willing to support me and second the motion?

The other parts of speech sit quietly and do not respond

Anybody? Doesn’t anyone in the room have the guts to support me on this? Am I the only one who is willing to take action?

CONJUNCTION (raising her slender arm): I would like to point out that Verb could not have made that motion without my help, and…

PRONOUN (standing and waving his arms): I would like to point out that Verb, bless her heart, used me repeatedly without ever mentioning “Bob” or “president.” But as usual, I get no respect for the important role I often play in syntax.

ADJECTIVE (removing the dapper porkpie hat from his exquisite head and using it to gesture): Shut up you silly Pronoun. You don’t even exist unless the wonderful Noun, which I often modify into something even more wonderful, establishes the primary subject and therefore the primary purpose of the sentence. Without the all-important “Bob” there is no “he” whatsoever. And without magnificent me, sentences would become as dull as a lackluster pronoun.

PRONOUN (speaking to Noun but keeping the corner of his eye on Adjective): Adjective always takes your side of the argument no matter what you say and ignores the rest of us. I don’t care what you call yourself. Without me, things would get pretty repetitious around her. Can you imagine? Bob decided to take a walk. On the way Bob met John, and Bob invited John to lunch. As Bob and John continued to the restaurant Bob and John ran into Sally. Bob invited Sally to lunch as well, and Sally accepted. Bob and John and Sally then walked briskly to the restaurant, and when Bob and John and Sally arrived Bob and John and Sally asked the head waiter, whose name was Fred, for a table near the window. Fred directed Bob and John and Sally to a table, and then Fred handed menus to Bob and John and Sally, and after a while Bob and John and Sally ordered lunch.

ADVERB (speaking cautiously because she had never developed a direct working relationship with Noun): I frankly disagree. Although he is often flamboyant, I genuinely appreciate Adjective and truly enjoy chumming around with the remarkably colorful guy. I enjoy hanging around with amazingly supple Verb too, and, not surprisingly, sometimes I even hang around with myself.

NOUN (pounding the gavel on the table again in response to Verb’s earlier motion): Look at the mess you’ve created, Verb! I can’t even start the meeting because of your intemperate outburst! I swear, sometimes it’s impossible to figure you out. You dart around in the past, present, and future. You change your mood from indicative to imperative at the drop of a hat. You shift from transitive to intransitive and then back again whenever you feel like it. Your voice is never the same, sometimes active and sometimes passive. And don’t even get me started on your so-called subjunctive mood. Frankly my dear, working with you is absolutely maddening!

INTERJECTION (finally perking up): Yikes and gadzooks! Did someone say “outburst”? Holy crap!!—that’s my job!!!

PREPOSITION (still trying to find a comfortable position under the chair, and then rising and stepping on top of the chair to speak above the din): This whole discussion is flying over my head. If someone doesn’t get to the point fast, I’m heading through the door, down the stairs, and across the street to that quaint little pub on the boulevard, the one below that charming bed and breakfast on the second floor.

 VERB (the tempo of her words rising): Listen here, President Boob…do you think it’s any fun trying to keep up with you? First you’re singular, then you’re plural, then you’re a collective noun, and then you take a coffee break and turn the whole mess over to Pronoun to avoid any work at all, and I have to conjugate all over again.

NOUN (closing his eyes and shaking his head) The name’s Bob—President Bob—and I expect an immediate apology for calling me President Boob.

VERB (rolling her eyes): Read my lips, President Blob. I will not apologize. I have not apologized. I am not apologizing. I will not be apologizing anytime soon.

ADVERB (clapping her hands and smiling broadly): I sincerely love it when she conjugates.

NOUN (shaking the gavel at Adverb): Adverb, I can’t even remember a single time when you supported me on an issue. You always side with Verb!

CONJUNCTION (surprised and alarmed and speaking to both Noun and Verb): Can’t the two of you just work together and come to some sort of agreement and stop all this fighting? After all, can you really write a decent sentence with only a noun or only a verb? I think both of you are important and that you should stop arguing so we can go home and relax and enjoy the evening.

Pausing to think before continuing

And if you really want a genuine problem to complain about, try the experience of some writer replacing you with a lowly semi-colon in the middle of a compound sentence and then you’ll know what true rejection feels like, or maybe you won’t, and this conversation will never end.

ADJECTIVE (waving the crisp, clean porkpie hat in the tense air of the stuffy little room): You think that’s bad. How do you think it feels when some thoughtless writer mistakenly uses you to modify a scandalous verb or another glittering adjective?

Then turning to Adverb

No intentional offense, my humble friend. You probably feel the same when an insensitive writer uses you to modify a salacious noun, or even a lackluster pronoun.

PRONOUN (he stands, he sniffs, he wipes a tear from his eye): Here we go again. Lackluster pronoun. How come I never get to be the salacious one? Why does everybody always assume I’m boring? I ask all of you: who ever thinks of me as salacious? Anybody? Any one of you? I would like to be thought of by someone in this room as salacious once in a while. Is this too much for me to expect?

NOUN (attempting to stifle a snigger): I, your president and leader, would be more sympathetic to your plight if you could ever come up with a decent gender-neutral personal pronoun. The other parts of speech and I, your president, have waited for years.

PRONOUN (his sad expression turning to a sneer): I’m working on it, but every time I throw something out for consideration everyone laughs at me. For example, “shim” was not well received by anybody. Neither was “herm.” Frankly, I’m running out of options.

VERB (leaning provocatively against the back of the chair and giggling): Well, you have to admit that both “shim” and “herm” are ridiculous, but not as ridiculous as your earlier attempts. I still remember the unfortunate day you suggested “shis.” That surprised everyone, including the Articles. One false keystroke by a writer and who knows what kind of trouble she might get into with the editors.

NOUN (standing and pointing the gavel randomly around the room): Enough of gender-neutral personal pronouns. This meeting is turning into a chaotic event. Will someone please make a legitimate motion so that we can achieve a concrete result?

VERB (also standing and waving her arms): Sure, I don’t mind taking action since everyone else is unwilling. I retract my earlier motion, since you found it offensive, and move that we adjourn this pointless meeting posthaste.

ADVERB (aggressively jumping to her feet): I happily second the motion—and what a wonderfully clever use of the adverb “posthaste.” Very few writers have properly appreciated this lovely word in my recent memory.

ADJECTIVE (throwing the now rumpled porkpie hat across the room just below the mottled ceiling in need of a fresh coat of pristine paint): And I third the astonishing motion by exquisite Verb. I can see now that I have made a serious mistake by not getting to know this lovely woman better, an unfortunate occurrence I intend to rectify.

NOUN (his voice shaking and now pointing the gavel directly at Adjective): You can’t third a motion, Adjective. And stay away from Verb. The two of you have nothing in common. For starters, look at the clothes you wear. Look at that tie. Look at that shirt. Good grief!

INTERJECTION (exclaiming in a slow crescendo): Did someone say good grief! GOOD GRIEF!!!!

CONJUNCTION (dancing and clapping and smiling): I love it when someone uses “and” at the beginning of a sentence. I wish more writers would. It gives me chills.

PREPOSITION (crawling out from under the chair again): Can’t we just call an end to this meeting and all head through the door, down the stairs, and across the street to that nice little pub on the boulevard below the bed and breakfast on the second floor?

NOUN (slamming the gavel on the table): Order! Order! Get your butts in those folding chairs immediately. Order!

NARRATOR (the parts of speed argue distantly in the background and follow the narrator’s cues to leave the room): And on it went for another seven minutes, when Preposition, who could not tolerate another moment under the chair, finally took matters into his own hands and headed through the door. And then Conjunction followed, and right behind too. Soon Verb—glad for the opportunity to taunt Noun once again—waved goodbye to Noun with a confrontational flip of her hand and dashed out of the room. Adverb closely followed verb. Adjective ignored the tedious hammering of the ponderous gavel and the chaotic shrieks of Noun and also followed Verb because he wanted to get to know her better (although this is a separate and quite heartrending story of a tragically doomed relationship). Then Interjection yelled several irreverent exclamations, but luckily most of the other parts of speech were out of earshot, and after he had bolted from the room only Noun and Pronoun remained.

Narrator pauses to glance first at Noun and then at Pronoun

But our story is not quite finished yet.

NOUN (slumping into his chair and tossing the gavel onto the table): I give up. There’s no way these unruly parts of speech will ever agree on anything. That’s it. I just give up.

Pronoun, the only one left in the room, stands and raises his hand

Yes Pronoun, what do you want now?

PRONOUN (glances at his shoes for several seconds before looking up at Noun): I’ve been considering something.

NOUN (obviously disillusioned with the collapse of the meeting): Yes, yes…what is it?

PRONOUN (suddenly brightening): What do you think of “heesh”?

THE END

My Tumultuous Life as an Author

by Rich Ritter

Although I resented it at the time, I must now thank my eighth-grade English teacher for two excruciating months of lessons on the arcane subject of sentence diagramming. She aroused a latent desire to write, which eventually blossomed in high school when I was mistakenly chosen—along with two other students—to represent the school in a district-wide writing competition. The contest did not go well because the teacher in charge of our team loathed my uniquely-chaotic prose and forced me to write in the dreary traditional style he preferred. Stunned by failure, but mostly due to a five-year diversion to study architecture, I did not submit my first short story for publication until the year after college. I would offer proof of this significant event, but I have since misplaced the rejection letter from the Atlantic Monthly.

I wrote extensively during the next twenty-five years, producing many important works of literature including A Proposal for Professional Services for the Dzantik’I Heeni Middle School, The West Douglas Planning Study, and Technical Specifications for the New Juneau Police Station, to name a few notable works. I did not rediscover fiction—although my competitors might argue this point—until the age of 49. My wife and I adopted our sons in 1983 and 1985, which eventually led to family upheaval and attendance at four multiday sleep-depravation seminars. During the second seminar, the facilitator challenged us to commit to a “big bodacious goal.” This goal theoretically represented our true purpose in life. When I awoke the next morning, I foolishly scribbled on the little piece of paper next to the hotel phone that I would write a novel. However, I may have overdone the exercise because when we each announced our goals at the seminar the woman sitting next to me promised to take a multi-vitamin every day for a year.

I commenced within the week. Five long years later, I self-published Toil Under the Sun, a novel of the Korean War and an adopted son who does not believe he is worthy of love. Although I spent countless hours researching (even learning to operate and shoot an M-1 Garand without cutting off my thumb), much of my inspiration derived from my father, who served as a First Lieutenant with the U.S. Army in Korea, and my oldest son, who served as a sergeant with the U.S. Marine Corps in Iraq. My younger son provided source material as well—in his unique way. When book sales did not go well, I embarked on a six-month effort to find a literary agent. I wrote numerous query letters, sent numerous emails, made numerous phone calls, and produced only one glimmer of interest from a New York agent who was on a desperate search for “Chic Lit approximately 80,000 words long.” When I told her that Toil Under the Sun clocked in at 133,000 words, our conversation quickly ended.

Undaunted, I decided to plunge into my next project: a novel of the American West set in Silver City, Idaho during the late 1800s and San Luis Obispo, California in the early 1900s. Concerned about the massive effort required to produce Toil Under the Sun, my wife intervened and suggested I take a break by writing something “smaller and funner,” possibly set in Juneau during the time of the great gold mines. I followed her counsel and one year later completed the manuscript for Heart of Abigail: A Lyric Novella of Juneau, Douglas and Treadwell. At 28,000 words though, my writing speed had not increased. Unsatisfied with the previous self-publishing and literary agent results, I began fishing around for a publisher in Alaska by reading the “published by” information on book covers at local bookstores. I eventually found an interested publisher in Homer, but politely declined after the editor told me that she would “…bleed all over my manuscript, but I can’t start until next spring.” A bit discouraged, I found myself wandering down the book aisle (after browsing the food carts) at the local Costco. A very handsome paperback caught my eye, and when I looked on the back I noted “Publication Consultants” in Anchorage. I called the owner, a man of integrity named Evan Swensen, and Heart of Abigail was published four months later.

Having satisfied my wife’s desire for something “smaller and funner,” I embarked on Nor Things to Come: A Novel of the American West. Another five years and nearly 270,000 words later, I submitted the manuscript to Evan. He reviewed my work, then called me on the phone to inform me that no one would pay for a book this big from an unknown author. My wife stepped in once again to propose a solution. She suggested I publish the book as a trilogy because the story was already organized into three parts. Evan declared the idea “brilliant” and prompted me to begin right away. I originally assumed very little effort would be required, but four months and five revisions later I submitted The Perilous Journey Begins, the first book of Nor Things to Come: A Trilogy of the American West. The second book, Gathering of the Clans, followed in six months. The third and final book, Worthy of Death, was published eight months later.

After taking a few months off to recover, I determined to begin my sixth book. My publisher asked me to continue in the literary western genre, but my wife suggested something in the style of Richard Paul Evens. After weeks of indecision, I solved the conflict by deciding to write a novel satisfying both requests. I am currently editing the sixth draft of Hospitality to Strangers, a ripsnorting tale that is unlike anything I have written before. Time will tell if I have the courage to submit it for publication.

Rope and Wire Top Short Story

Thank you, my friends, for making "Roshan Kuznetsov" the top Beyond the Western short story on the Rope and Wire Website. More short stories are (nearly) on the way! Click on the link below to read it.

Rope and Wire: Top Ten Beyond the Western Short Stories

Rich Ritter Short Stories on Rope and Wire Website

Good afternoon my friends. Three of my western short stories made it on the Rope and Wire top ten list this month. You can read them by following this link:

https://www.ropeandwire.com/top-ten-stories.html

Just look for the stories by Rich Ritter. I hope you enjoy reading them as much as I enjoyed writing them. And please check out the other stories on the website as well.

Cheers,

Rich Ritter

Last Stand at Beaver Creek

My short story Last Stand at Beaver Creek was recently published on the Rope and Wire website. You can read it by following the link below.

Last Stand at Beaver Creek

Order The Perilous Journey Begins in Print for Just $24.95 Today And We'll Gift You $408.69 Worth Of Bonuses You'll Absolutely LOVE...

Good morning from Alaska my friends,

My publisher is offering special incentives to buy the first book of Nor Things to Come: A Trilogy of the American West. Please follow the link below and let me know what you think.

https://www.readersandwritersbookclub.com/rich-ritter-perilous

In 1860 a Scottish lass protects her younger sister from a savage beast on the windswept highlands above Pentland Firth. An Iowa farm boy discovers a dark secret on the gory battlegrounds of Shiloh in 1862. Two years later a Colonel of the Taiping Army retreats in shame after the bloody fall of Nanjing. Born of an English father and a Sioux mother, a U.S. Cavalry Scout fights for his life on the unforgiving plains of western Kansas in 1867. During autumn of the same year, a Russian fur trapper sails from Sitka, Alaska on an American ship bound for San Francisco in a farcical quest for gold. Two years later an enigmatic law student calmly departs Budapest after the brutal murder of a corrupt policeman. In Salt Lake City during the spring of 1871, a young woman a few months shy of fifteen gallops away from her wedding reception to escape an arranged marriage. And after the dawn of the twentieth century, the winsome Muireall Anne Ravenscroft—inspired by the tragic intertwining of these seven lives—will write her definitive history of the American West. But this is only a prelude to the magnificent epic that awaits you….

The Perilous Journey Begins, the first book of Nor Things to Come: A Trilogy of the American West

In 1860 a Scottish lass protects her younger sister from a savage beast on the windswept highlands above Pentland Firth. An Iowa farm boy discovers a dark secret on the gory battlegrounds of Shiloh in 1862. Two years later a Colonel of the Taiping Army retreats in shame after the bloody fall of Nanjing. Born of an English father and a Sioux mother, a U.S. Cavalry Scout fights for his life on the unforgiving plains of western Kansas in 1867. During autumn of the same year, a Russian fur trapper sails from Sitka, Alaska on an American ship bound for San Francisco in a farcical quest for gold. Two years later an enigmatic law student calmly departs Budapest after the brutal murder of a corrupt policeman. In Salt Lake City during the spring of 1871, a young woman a few months shy of fifteen gallops away from her wedding reception to escape an arranged marriage. And after the dawn of the twentieth century, the winsome Muireall Anne Ravenscroft—inspired by the tragic intertwining of these seven lives—will write her definitive history of the American West. But this is only a prelude to the magnificent epic that awaits you….

The Perilous Journey Begins on Amazon

The Perilous Journey Begins on Author Masterminds

HEART OF ABIGAIL: A LYRIC NOVELLA OF JUNEAU, DOUGLAS AND TREADWELL

Weaving spellbinding fiction into meticulously-researched history, Heart of Abigail tells the harrowing story of bonnie Abigail Sinclair, a young nurse who travels from Edinburgh, Scotland to Alaska in 1899 to work at the St. Ann’s Hospital in Douglas during the height of the great gold mines of Treadwell, 700 Foot, Mexican, and Ready Bullion. Against a backdrop of authentic history, Abigail experiences her first true love, perilous danger, malignant retribution, and ultimate redemption as she confronts the deepest feelings of her own heart. Richly illustrated throughout with historic photographs relevant to the story, Heart of Abigail will imbue the reader with clear and intimate knowledge of the mining history of Juneau, Douglas, and Treadwell within the transparent fabric of a masterful fictional story.

Heart of Abigail on Amazon

TOIL UNDER THE SUN: A NOVEL

Toil Under the Sun is a powerful novel of an adopted boy’s growth into manhood as a U.S. Marine during the “Forgotten War” in Korea.  It is an intricately crafted account of friendship and betrayal…fear and courage…shame and atonement…which in exquisitely written prose explores the hidden rage and abnegation of an adopted child.  Many of the great themes of literature and of life are woven into this masterful story: love, honor, respect, courage, guilt, fear, faith, and redemption. And most importantly, the story is guided throughout by the fundamental belief that our lives have meaning far beyond our daily toil under the sun.

Toil Under The Sun on Amazon

Best Opening Lines from Contemporary Authors

Although this was posted in February 2018, I just now discovered it. To my astonishment, the opening line to The Perilous Journey Begins (the first book of Nor Things to Come: A Trilogy of the American West) made the list. Here is the link to the website:

Best Opening Lines from Contemporary Authors

You Are Invited to Join The Club

Readers and Writers Book Club has remarkably exceeded their initial goal of 2,000 members and has closed the free membership offer for the general public.

However, for a short time only (until March 15, 2019) I am authorized to invite friends, family, and other readers and writers to receive a FREE LIFETIME membership to the unique, entertaining, enlightening, fascinating, and exciting Readers and Writers Book Club.

These valuable Memberships are now selling for $99, but you'll never have to pay, as long as you accept my invitation before March 15, 2019.

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Kindly send this link https://bit.ly/2NB49ZN along to anyone you think would like to join the club with you.

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Basketball in Alaska

GUEST POST FOR ALASKA WILDERNESS AUTHOR ROBIN BAREFIELD

Robin Barefield recently invited me to "guest blog" on her author website. Please use the following link to read the article. And while you are visiting, check out Robin's books: they would make excellent Christmas gifts. Rich Ritter: My Journey to Becoming an Author

Another Not Yet Famous Quotation

“I couldn’t sleep one night, so I dragged myself out of bed and turned on the computer. I surfed the Internet and read several boring news stories until I felt sleepy. As I was about to retire, I found a fascinating article on poisonous spiders and learned many interesting details about the black widow, brown recluse, Australian funnel-web spider, among others. After that, I couldn’t sleep for three days.”   —Rich Ritter

Terrific Review for Heart of Abigail

Heart of Abigail, a Lyric Novella of Juneau, Douglas and Treadwell, just received a terrific review by Debra Morgan.

BOOK REVIEW THE HEART of ABIGAIL

Author R. Phillip Ritter

Reviewed by Debra Morgan   Writer/Reviewer

September 1,2018

Heart of Abigail is a historical fiction Lyric Novella. It is based on the gold miners and history of the communities in Juneau Alaska. The research and the characters make this successful. Using the characters, the author creates, along with the facts of the time, the book early on becomes a wonderful page turning book that left me wanting to know what was going to happen next.

The research by the Author is extremely accurate with pictures and great description. The Characters created by the author are certain and each one has an entirely different creative persona. The character of Abigail is created as the center of the book, but she will not fill up every scene and page. As the book shows, she is a moveable character and it makes for a true page turning effect that will keep the reader involved.

For readers who like Historical fiction you will love this, for those who like fiction with some history in it you will also love it. It is a book that is written for several types of readers and I myself thoroughly enjoyed this well written Novella.

I score from one to 5 stars. I give this a 4.5.

Thank you to the Author

Debra Morgan

No money was given and no grade asked for.

Thank you Debra for reading the book and writing the review. I really appreciate it. Here are several good links if you are interested in purchasing any of my books, including Heart of Abigail:

Rich Ritter books on Amazon

Rich Ritter books on Author Masterminds

SOUTHERN WRITERS MAGAZINE: SUITE T AGAIN!

I was invited a second time to "guest post" on Suite T, the blog for Southern Writers Magazine. I suppose this means the editors were fond of my first post. You can read my article by following this link:

The Curse of Your Favorite Words

SOUTHERN WRITERS MAGAZINE: SUITE T

I was recently invited to "guest post" on Suite T, the blog for Southern Writers Magazine. You can read my article by following this link:

A Detailed Story Outline is Key

The Fraidy Cat: A Story for Children

by Rich Ritter

My name is Tina, and I want to tell you a story about my cat, Smokey. Sadly, I’m a grownup now, and we buried Smokey beneath the boughs of a giant spruce tree by the beach a long time ago. But when I was seven-years-old and could still talk to the animals who lived near my house, they told me this story. When I think of the story now, it seems too fantastical to believe. But I know in my heart that the story is true because the ravens told me it really happened. As did the squirrel. And the pudgy little mouse who lived in the woodpile. I’ve never shared the story with anyone. You will be the first. I really hope you like the story, but more importantly, I hope you believe it as much as I do, because the animals told me it was true.

♦    ♦    ♦

Smokey was a fraidy cat. He was afraid of the vacuum cleaner. He was afraid of the water sound in the shower. He was afraid of the barking dogs that lived in the house tucked into the hillside across the road. He was afraid of the screeching eagles who used razor-sharp talons to snag salmon in the channel. He was afraid of snow when it fell off the roof and thumped on the ground below. But mostly, he was afraid to go into the dark forest that surrounded the house. He tried it once, a few years ago, but that was the last time.

But, surprisingly, Smokey was not without friends. Sometimes, when the sun shined, which was not often, he found the courage to venture onto the deck that overlooked the beach below. His best friend, Squeaky Squirrel, often visited him when he did this, and usually brought his best spruce cone to share, even though Smokey only pretended to eat it. Two glossy black ravens, named Big Raven and Smaller Raven, often glimpsed the activity on the deck and swooped down to join the fun. And a pudgy little mouse, whose name was Pudgy Little Mouse, upon hearing the flapping wings of the ravens and the chattering of the squirrel, usually scurried up from her nest in the wood pile on the beach to hear the gossip of the day. If the meeting took place during the summer, a pair of Rufous Hummingbirds, who preferred to be called Mr. and Mrs. Hummer (rather than Mr. and Mrs. Rufous), often hovered over the activity on the deck as long as they could before darting off to find a nice flower with lots of nectar or, better yet, a sparkling hummingbird feeder with fresh sugar water.

One Friday afternoon, during a period of overcast skies and light rain, Squeaky chirped to the ravens in his squeaky little voice, “It is a shame that Smokey is such a fraidy cat and will never join us in for a walk in the forest or a picnic on the beach. It is truly a shame. I wish we could do something about it.”

Big Raven said, “I agree. We should help Smokey to not be a fraidy cat.”

Smaller Raven said, “A walk in the forest does not interest me, but I do love a picnic on the beach, especially on a nice day.” She tilted her head. “As far as I can tell, Smokey has been a fraidy cat forever. What could we possibly do to help him?”

Squeaky’s bushy tail vibrated a few dozen times and he chirped, “I would also like to invite Smokey to my nest so that I can show him where I live and give him more spruce cones to eat, but he is such a fraidy cat I don’t see how we could ever help him to not be a fraidy cat.”

The three were pondering and discussing how to help Smokey, when Pudgy Little Mouse arrived. She listened for a while, then suggested, “What if we asked Smokey to go down to the beach to do something very important, something that only he could do? Something that would prove to him and everyone else that he is not a fraidy cat?”

No one had really noticed, but Mrs. Hummer had arrived and was hovering above the meeting and only buzzing a little when she moved about. She chose to listen instead of saying anything because hovering took a lot of energy all by itself.

Squeaky, intrigued but not convinced, asked, “Like what? Smokey would never go down to the beach because he’s terrified of the eagles. Whenever we’re visiting on the deck and an eagle screeches nearby, he disappears into the house in the blink of an eye, which is a very short time for a squirrel.”

Big Raven, who was known for his cleverness, felt a clever idea pop inside his small but impressive brain. “I think you’ve given me a clever idea, if I don’t mind saying so myself. He’s afraid of eagles, so let’s work with that idea. Did you know I can mimic an eagle’s screech? Even the eagles think I’m an eagle when I do it. Would you like to hear it?”

Squeaky, who was not terribly fond of eagles himself, shuddered at the thought. “No thanks for me. I’ll take your word for it. What is your clever idea, and why do I care if you can shriek like an eagle?”

Big Raven cocked his head in a raven sort of way and smiled, although it’s hard to imagine how a beak can smile. “What do you think of this? Let’s tell Smokey that Pudgy Little Mouse must travel a great distance along the beach to visit her sick mother. Let’s tell him that he’s the only one who can take Pudgy, and that he has to do it right away because Pudgy’s mother is very sick indeed.”

Smaller Raven frowned, although it is also hard to imagine how a beak can frown. “Smokey would never go down to the beach. He’s a fraidy cat, and he’s afraid of eagles. Remember? And what exactly is it that Pudgy Little Mouse’s mother is sick of?”

Pudgy Little Mouse squeaked, “But my mother’s not sick.”

Big Raven said, “That’s not the point.”

Squeaky asked, “Then what is the point?”

Mrs. Hummer finally spoke. “I agree with Squeaky. What is the point?”

Big Raven reminded everyone, “The point is I can make a sound like an eagle. Are you sure you don’t want to hear it? It’s really scary. Even the eagles—”

Squeaky interrupted, “No thanks. I already told you I would pass.”

Smaller Raven said, “I’ve heard it, and it is very realistic.”

The discussion raged on for nearly an hour—in squirrel time that is—until the friends finally hammered out a plan. Although everyone agreed that the plan was not perfect, they also agreed that it was better to execute a pretty good plan sooner rather than a really perfect plan later. The plan would require the following steps:

Tell Smokey that Pudgy Little Mouse’s mother is very sick, and might die of whatever it is she is sick of any time now.

Tell Smokey that Pudgy Little Mouse would like to visit her mother as soon as possible, just in case she dies of whatever it is she is sick of.

Convince Smokey that he is the only one with enough speed and agility to safely deliver Pudgy Little Mouse to the home of her sick mother, who lives in a hollow log quite far down the beach.

Explain to Smokey that it should be a perfectly safe trip because the eagles have likely flown north to look for salmon by the river. No one really knew if this was true or not, but it was an important part of the plan to convince Smokey to make the trip.

When Smokey carries Pudgy Little Mouse on his back to see her sick mother, Big Raven will fly out of the forest and swoop down on Smokey and Pudgy Little Mouse and make his eagle screeching sound—which he has promised is quite amazing and even the eagles think he’s an eagle when he does it—to make Smokey think he is in real danger when actually he is not.

After Smokey completes this incredible journey with Pudgy Little Mouse, everyone will tell him how brave he is and he will finally realize that he is not a fraidy cat after all. Then everyone can celebrate with a picnic on the beach, because Smaller Raven is not interested in a walk in the forest.

There you have it. Not a perfect plan, but likely good enough.

A few days later, when Smokey had dared to venture onto the deck to find a nice sun spot next to one of the white plastic chairs spaced around the white plastic table, Squeaky jumped from a nearby tree branch to the top of the railing right above Smokey.

Squeaky said, “Good morning Smokey. Nice day to lounge on the deck. Not too hot, and a little breeze to rustle the trees. And I see that you’ve found a nice sun spot!”

Initially startled, Smokey said, “Yes, it is. And I have found a nice sun spot. But for some reason that I do not understand, these sun spots never stay in the same spot for long. I may have to move to a different sun spot in a while. One can never predict what will happen.”

Squeaky waited a few seconds before speaking again. “I heard that Pudgy Little Mouse’s mother is very sick.” He paused for dramatic effect. “Actually, I heard that she’s so sick that she could die any time. I also heard that Pudgy Little Mouse would like to visit her, before her mother might die from whatever it is she is sick of, but Pudgy is very sad because she has no way to get there.”

Smokey licked his paw and used it to clean his face (although one could argue that he was merely coating his face with cat spit). “Why doesn’t she have any way to get there? Can’t she just walk along the beach like everyone else?” Smokey was not really sure how everyone else walked along the beach, but he thought it was a good suggestion.

Squeaky said, “Because she lives a long way from here in a hollow log on the beach, and it is too far for Pudgy Little Mouse to walk because she is…that is to say…she is…sort of…well, pudgy. I suppose Pudgy could try to lose some weight to make the trip possible, but who knows how long that would take. And then what would we call her? Little Mouse just doesn’t have the same ring to it, if you ask my opinion.”

Smokey stretched in the nice sun spot and then rolled slightly to track the movement of the sun (although he had not yet figured out why the sun moved). “Why don’t you ask Big Raven to fly her there? I’ve seen Big Raven carry a bag of French fries all the way to his nest without dropping a single fry. And I’m pretty sure Pudgy Little Mouse does not weigh more than a bag of fries, even if she is sort of pudgy.”

Squeaky flicked his tail. “I thought of that myself (although he really hadn’t and had to think fast). But what if Big Raven accidentally dropped Pudgy Little Mouse and she landed nose-first on a sharp rock? You claim he’s never dropped a single fry, but what if he has and you just weren’t around to see it? After all, you don’t get out all that often.”

Smokey said. “If Pudgy landed on her bottom in a skunk cabbage she would probably survive. But I see your point about a sharp rock, especially if she landed nose-first.”

Squeaky rubbed his chin. “What if you took Pudgy Little Mouse to visit her sick mother before she dies of whatever it is she is sick of?”

Smokey twitched. “Me? You’re asking me to take Pudgy Little Mouse to see her mother?”

“Yes, I’m asking you.”

“Are you sure her mother is really sick?”

“Yes, she is very sick, and as I have explained to you, she might die very soon of whatever it is she is sick of.”

“But that would mean walking through the dark forest to the beach and traveling out in the open a long way from the safety of my home where the eagles fly down and snatch fish from the water with their sharp talons. Have you ever seen the eagles snatch fish with their sharp talons? It is a horrific sight to be sure. There is no way I can do it. It already gives me the shivers to even think about it.”

Squeaky ignored the part about the horrific sight of sharp talons. “But if you don’t take Pudgy Little Mouse to visit her sick mother, then how is she going to get there? And if Pudgy’s mother dies while she is trying to lose weight, then what?

Smokey gulped hard. “But the eagles…and the sharp talons…and…and…”

Squeaky grinned a sly little squirrel grin, but it was hard to see because it only lasted the blink of a squirrel eye, which is even shorter than the blink of a cat eye, which is even shorter than the blink of a— “I think they’ve all flown north to look for salmon by the river. I’m nearly sure of it. I even asked the ravens about this and they are pretty sure of it too, because they keep track of these kinds of things. The eagles shouldn’t be any problem at all.”

“What if they come back?”

“They won’t come back.”

“What about bears?”

Squeaky said, “Bears? What kind of bears? I thought you were only terrified of eagles. I didn’t know you were afraid of bears too.”

“What about the dogs? I can hear them barking across the road. What if they run across the road and go down to the beach right when I’m taking Pudgy Little Mouse to see her sick mother?”

Squirrel sighed. “Oh, for goodness sakes. Are you going to help Pudgy Little Mouse visit her sick mother before she dies or not? You have to decide.”

“Can I just pretend we never talked?”

Squeaky patted his hind foot on the railing a few dozen times. “No, you cannot. Will you help Pudgy Little Mouse or not?”

Faced with this choice, Smokey felt he had no choice, which was not really true, because one always has a choice. To avoid any danger, all he had to do was to decide to do nothing, which was in fact one of the possible choices. But doing nothing created other problems. For example, doing nothing might be seen by his other friends as cowardice, or worse, apathy. “Can I think about it for a few weeks?”

Squeaky crossed his arms and frowned. “No. You can think about it for about 10 seconds, because if you think any longer you might hurt yourself.”

Smokey decided to go with his cat gut, which had served him quite well in the past. “Alright. I’ll do it. But I’m already thinking about the eagles. And the dogs too. Oh, and don’t forget the bears.”

Squeaky clapped his tiny paws. “Fantastic. I knew you’d come through! Pudgy Little Mouse will be so happy.”

Immediately regretting his decision, Smokey sighed. “Now that I’ve made this stupid decision, what’s next?”

“Meet us on the beach, tomorrow morning after dawn, down by the tree where the dog’s ashes are buried, by the little stone shaped like a heart. You can’t miss it.”

Startled by the thought of going down to the beach in broad daylight, Smokey coughed up a hair ball. Still searching for an excuse to avoid the task, he asked, “What if the butler or the maid are not awake to open the door?” This was not really a good excuse because Smokey had never asked either one of them to open the door in the past, although he had thought about it a few times just to test their loyalty.

Squeaky winked. “That’s easy. Use the cat door, the one you’ve only used once, or maybe twice. I can show you where it is if you don’t remember. I’m pretty sure the ravens can show you where it is too.”

Smokey plopped down on his white paws. “I guess I’ll see everyone down on the beach tomorrow morning.” A blurry image of sharp, snatching talons immediately flashed across his vision, followed by two dogs and a bear.

Squeaky chirped, “Pudgy Little Mouse will be so happy! Don’t be late.”

♦    ♦    ♦

The next morning broke cool and sunny. It took Smokey a few minutes to find the courage to force himself through the cat door (which was a bit tight because he had gained a little weight since the last time he’d used it), then a few minutes more to overcome his fear and walk to the edge of the dark forest, then even a few more minutes to ignore the little voice screaming in his cat brain to turn back or die, then one minute more to trot down the trail to the beach. When he finally arrived, everyone was waiting for him—except Big Raven, which seemed odd.

Smokey tried his best to speak without showing any fear. “Where’s Big Raven? I thought everyone was going to meet me here?”

Smaller Raven offered a near-truthful explanation, which she figured was not wrong given the plan everyone had agreed to. “He had a little errand to run, or should I say fly, and couldn’t join us this morning. He sends his regrets.”

Squeaky quickly changed the subject. “Ready to take Pudgy Little Mouse to see her mother? I know she’s eager to get started.”

Pudgy Little Mouse flicked her long mouse tail. “I can hardly wait. I’m ready to go.” Then she added, a bit too dramatically, “…to see my very sick mother before she might die of whatever it is she is sick of very soon.”

Smokey attempted one last excuse to avoid the trip. “How am I supposed to carry Pudgy Little Mouse to see her mother? I have no way to hold her and run at the same time.” Feeling a shiver crawl up his back when he thought of the eagles, he added, “Maybe we should rethink this whole idea before someone gets hurt, or worse.”

Pudgy Little Mouse scurried onto Smokey’s back and grabbed the fur behind his ears with both little paws. “No worries. I’ll hang on tight. You’ll see.”

Smokey sighed because he had run out of excuses. Crestfallen, he said, “Then I guess there’s nothing stopping us now,” and he finished the rest of the sentence in his cat brain so that no one could hear: from running down the beach in broad daylight where an eagle will snatch the both of us with sharp talons and tear us to shreds with its sharp beak before feeding us to an eaglet, or maybe two eaglets.

Squeaky jumped and waved. “Time to go! Have a safe trip!”

Mr. and Mrs. Hummer buzzed their excitement.

Smaller Raven squawked, “Yes, time to go! We’ll be waiting for you when you return!”

With all of his friends now waving goodbye, and a cloud of gloom settling just above his ears (although only Smokey could see it), he took a deep breath and started off. At first, with the sun warming his whiskers and the fresh sea smells tickling his nose, he began to think this wasn’t all that bad. He heard the sounds of seagulls in the distance, which at first alarmed him, but then he decided that he liked the sounds of seagulls. Something rustled in the trees to the left, but it turned out to be a small porcupine climbing up a tree. The waves surged gently to the right, which was also a soothing sound that helped Smokey relax a little. The sun shimmered pleasantly off the wet rocks at the water’s edge.

Pudgy Little Mouse announced, on cue, because she knew Big Raven was about to make his grand entrance, “Hey, this isn’t so bad after all. All that worry about eagles and there’s not one to be found anywhere. We should make this trip to see my mother again sometime.”

At that moment, when Pudgy had finished her announcement, an ominous shadow crossed Smokey’s path. Then, to his complete horror, an eagle screeched directly above.

Pudgy Little Mouse exclaimed, also on cue, “Oh, my goodness. It’s an eagle! Run Smokey, run!” But at the time, Pudgy Little Mouse thought to herself: Wow, Big Raven really can screech like an Eagle. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think that was a real—

Smokey did not look up because he was too afraid to look up. The piercing sound of the eagle was enough to nearly double his heart rate, which was already pretty high, and he instantly began running as fast as he could. The ominous shadow followed Smokey and Pudgy Little Mouse and began growing larger. The eagle screeched a second time and the sound was closer than before.

Pudgy Little Mouse rolled onto her back and looked up. She thought to herself: I must say that I’m impressed. Not only does Big Raven sound like an eagle, he also looks like one. Then her heart rate nearly doubled. She reached back and began steering Smokey by pulling the fur behind Smokey’s ears left and right. She screamed, “Smokey, run faster and turn when I pull on your fur!” She pulled and Smokey zigged right. He pulled again and Smokey zagged left. The eagle swooped down and barely missed snatching Pudgy Little Mouse right off Smokey’s back. The eagle circled around and began a second run. The eagle screeched again and dived at Smokey and Pudgy Little Mouse. Pudgy yanked the fur behind both ears and Smokey immediately stopped in a shower of black sand, causing the eagle to miss by a cat whisker. Pudgy pushed Smokey’s ears forward and he raced ahead again.

The screeching eagle attempted to snatch Pudgy Little Mouse and Smokey three more times, but each time Pudgy managed to steer Smokey away from danger, especially since Smokey was now running and darting as fast as a cheetah. After using a lot of energy without catching anything to eat, the eagle gave up and flew away. Smokey and Pudgy Little Mouse arrived safely at her mother’s home in the hollow log, and she served them tea in tiny little cups and tiny little crumpets with marmalade while they rested from the ordeal of the screeching eagle with the sharp talons. Although exhausted from the ordeal, Smokey was pleased to find that Pudgy’s mother had apparently recovered from her sickness and was doing quite well.

♦    ♦    ♦

About twenty minutes had passed since Smokey and Pudgy Little Mouse had departed to see her mother, who was very sick and might die very soon of whatever she was sick of. Smaller Raven, Squeaky Squirrel, and Mr. and Mrs. Hummer were discussing the importance of keeping their clever plan a secret because if Smokey ever found out about the plan he would probably still think of himself as a fraidy cat for the rest of his nine lives.

Squeaky said, “Yes, I agree completely, because if Smokey ever finds out—”

Smaller Raven finished Squeaky’s sentence, “…about the plan, then all of this work will have been for nothing.”

Mr. and Mrs. Hummer buzzed their agreement enthusiastically.

Squirrel opened his mouth to say something very important, but then did not say anything. Instead, his mouth opened even wider and stayed open because Big Raven swooped down and landed in the middle of the discussion.

Big Raven stretched his wings and settled into a majestic pose. “Sorry I’m late, but on my way here I happened upon a bag of French fries sitting on a picnic table next to a burger and milkshake and got distracted. Although I tried, I could not help myself. Did Smokey and Pudgy Little Mouse already leave?”

♦    ♦    ♦

Because of his friends’ clever plan, which everyone admitted turned out a little differently than anticipated, no one ever again thought of Smokey as a fraidy cat. From that day forward, he was known by all the forest animals, including the dogs who lived across the road, as Smokey the Lionhearted. And Smokey learned an important lesson too. He learned that courage is not the absence of fear; it is instead taking action is spite of fear. Smokey never forgot this lesson, even though he did still hide behind the curtains when the butler started up the vacuum cleaner.

THE END

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