The holiday season is upon us, and with it comes the pressure to support charitable organizations. But should you?

While giving is worthwhile, how do you ensure you are doing the right thing? This question is raised in . . .

Solicitations

“My Check Is In The Mail”

In my mailbox daily are letters aplenty from charities—money they do solicit.

Requests for help to feed the hungry, support disease research, and save the animals, 
     the words are quite explicit.

However, in some, one must read between the lines, for actual reasons behind the 
     requests really are implicit.

They tug at your heartstrings and prey on your guilt, for a donation they wish to elicit.

These organizations make no secret, your assets they want, including those your heirs 
     will inherit.

They document with statistics and provide information as to why your donation they 
     merit.

They make their intentions clear, yet at times the real use of funds is kept secret.

It is hard to know how much of your gift the needy receive, as words in these pleas are 
     hard to interpret.

Sometimes you get the feeling their mission to draw upon your savings might be illicit.

Although supporting the cause, it is hard to avoid thinking it is a scam in which you 
     will become complicit.

Just, honest causes do abound, and through a thorough investigation you can find a 
     favorite, so don’t dispirit.

Giving to the right cause is good for both heart and soul. It helps those in need and 
     pays dividends by lifting the spirit.

Copyright © 2010 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

Sometimes we run away from our past to escape the pain we endured growing up. Yet the scars still remain from this torturous upbringing.

We try to bury both memories and emotions. But what may be best is facing the demons that remain within, as you will see in . . .

Faded Memories

     Crash, boom, a concert of thunder erupted in the gloom of an early, Denver afternoon. Engrossed in reviewing a $6,000,000 funding proposal that had to be mailed to a federal grant agency by five o’clock, the magnitude of the occurrence startled me. I stared out my office window into a myriad of dark, black clouds—eerie, ghostlike forms encroaching upon the horizon.

     These creatures of darkness appeared to be moving toward me. I didn’t understand why, but then life itself remained a mystery to me. I eyed this phenomenon with awe and apprehension, as the room became engulfed by these dark beings.

     Focusing on the clock on the far wall of the office, the time jumped out at me—1:30 p.m. Then, for no apparent reason, the hands on the clock began spinning in a counterclockwise direction. My captors cloaked me in blackness as I disappeared into a world I’d tried to forget. The present became blurry as the faded memories of my past emerged. Twenty-three years disappeared in the blink of an eye. Then, as a fifteen-year-old boy, I entered the front door of a small, red brick house in upstate New York. 

     Shaking the snow from my boots, I ripped off my coat and raced through the living room to the kitchen. “Mom,” I shouted as I entered the kitchen. “I’ve got some great news.”

     Mom, a plump, middle-aged woman, spun around from in front of the stove and scowled, “Roger, can’t you see I’m busy cooking? Now go to your room and get ready for dinner. And don’t dawdle.”

     Dejected, I turned and slipped away toward my room. Entering, I rolled onto the bed and stared at the ceiling. “God, why can’t she listen to me? If only she would take the time,” I lamented.

     My eyes surveyed the room. Unattractive, drab green walls framed my otherwise unremarkable sanctuary. On the scuffed hardwood floor lay a rumpled, gold throw rug. An empty bulletin board hung on the wall above a cluttered desk and the wall next to the bed displayed a picture of a sad-faced clown—a reflection of me.

     “I better get moving,” I groused. I don’t want to make Mom more upset. I got up, wiped the tears from my eyes, looked into the mirror at my pimple-covered face, ran my fingers through my hair, and shuffled off to the dining room. 

     “I wish I was dead,” I muttered, as I made my way down the hallway. Tears began to roll from my eyes once again. I rubbed them with my shirtsleeve. 

     Arriving at the dining room, I saw my mother; father, a rather small man; and my eighteen-year-old brother Bill seated at the large oak table. 

     “Roger, get in here already,” my mother snarled. “We’ve been waiting at least five minutes. Can’t you ever be on time? Don’t you care about other people?”

     Frowning and trying hard to hold back the tears, I sat and slumped down in my chair, my head just above the edge of the table. My father grumbled a short prayer and the family began to eat in silence

     A few minutes later, I mustered up the courage to speak. “Mom,” I stammered, “May I be excused?” 

     “No, you may not,” she blurted.

     Dad kept his head down, as if trying to be invisible. I needed his support, but didn’t get it. I never did.

     I sat without saying a word the rest of the meal. Mom chattered away about my brother Bill’s accomplishments and how someday he would become a great success. And her remarks were aimed at me.

     “Your brother’s so handsome. He’s outgoing and quite charming—a boy a mother can be proud of,” her voice resonated in praise. “You should model yourself after your big brother, Roger,” she chortled.

     My stomach churned in agony. I burst away from the table yelling, “I think I’m going to heave.”

     As I disappeared down the hall, I could hear my mother shouting in frustration to my father and Bill, “What the hell is the matter with that boy?”

     Entering my room, I tumbled onto the bed and wept into my pillow. “Why am I me? I must not be normal. Something must be wrong with me,” I cried out in dismay. 

     Calming down a bit, I grumbled, “I’m not Bill. He’s the success—the scholar, the athlete, the socialite. Me, I’m the failure. I have no friends. I’m not going anywhere. I don’t know what will become of me.”

     Confused and frustrated, the emotional toll of the evening took everything out of me. Still in my street clothes, I clutched my pillow and fell into a deep, but restless, sleep.

     The night passed and the next day came, soon giving way to another day and yet another night. Days turned into months and months into years. Now twenty-two, I sat in silence on my bed in a room only somewhat changed by the passage of time, the green paint on the walls a bit more faded, the floor more scuffed.

     My face, showing traces of my former severe skin problem, reflected bitter disappointment. The struggles of the years left their scars, but the anguish of the present was even harder to accept.

     I gazed at the parchment lying next to me on the bed. I focused on the bold, black written words. They came alive and danced before me—HAVE CONFERRED UPON ROGER MEYER THE DEGREE OF BACHELOR OF ARTS WITH A MAJOR IN BUSINESS ADMINISTRATION—causing the pain within me to worsen. I turned the certificate on its face. I looked up at the sad-faced clown now hanging somewhat askew above the bed. I knew how he felt.

     Wicked thoughts and nightmarish dreams of evil things happening to my parents and brother raced through my mind. They could’ve come to my graduation this morning and still attended Bill’s master’s degree ceremony, which didn’t start until four in the afternoon.

     Their absence felt like daggers sticking into my heart. “I know I’m not much, but I did accomplish something,” I cried. “Don’t they care? No, they don’t give a damn. But I’ll show them. I’ll show them all.”

     I pictured an article appearing in tomorrow’s paper. It read, “Mr. and Mrs. Charles Meyer and their oldest son, Bill, found bludgeoned to death in their home. Their younger son, Roger, who had left the house at 8:00 p.m. and returned home two hours later to find the front door wide open, called 9-1-1. No clues to the killer’s identity have been found.”

     Dismissing these dark feelings, I rolled off the bed and stood in front of the mirror, now yellowed by the passage of time. I peered into the glass to see my future. Many faces stared back at me—a funny-faced clown, a well-respected banker, a certified public accountant working for a major corporation, a tax lawyer who saved businesses from failing, and a beloved politician. 

     Having little confidence in my abilities, degree or no degree, I felt I’d never be able to succeed in these arenas. I leaned back against the wall and began to sob.

     From behind the tears flowing down my face, I groaned, “I can’t stay here.” I knew what I had to do—a packed bag, a short note of explanation, a closed door, and a new life. They won’t care if I leave. I’ll change—find a job and become a success. They’ll be sorry they pushed me out. I’ll show them what I can do. And I will be back.

     A burst of sunlight shot through my office window. Stunned, my eyes perused my plush, beautifully appointed executive office. No more dark clouds surrounded me. In the present again, with past memories now somewhat faded, I let out a sigh of relief.

     But then something strange happened. My brother, Bill, decked out in the entirety of his master’s degree trappings, with a bright halo above his graduation cap, stood in front of my large executive desk. He looked me straight in the eye and stated, “Roger, you are a success—a prominent businessman, a leader in a major company, and a champion of causes to help the less fortunate. You are every bit the man I am. You will make Mom and Dad proud. It is time.”

     The image of Bill faded as fast as it had appeared. I looked at the clock—the time, 1:35 p.m. It felt as if my mind had wandered for hours, but it had been just a matter of minutes. 

     Trying to put the thoughts of my youth behind me, I returned to work on the funding proposal. I completed it and placed it in my “Out Box,” so it would be mailed. As I cleared my desk, my mind again reflected on the past. My heart raced. I muttered to myself, “It is time.” 

     I pushed the intercom and spoke to one of my assistants in the outer office. As the conversation concluded, I said, “Let me know when you have reached the travel agency and made my reservations.”

     About twenty minutes later, a voice echoed through the intercom, “Mr. Meyer, Mr. Landis from the travel agency called to confirm your reservations to the East Coast.”

     The intercom went silent, but through the closed office door, I could hear the two assistants talking. One purred, “Mr. Meyer is such a nice guy. He’s sort of cute with that full black beard. I wonder why he’s still single?”

     The other scoffed, “He works too hard, spends at least sixteen hours a day here. Got no time for women. He’s in love with the job. But he would be a catch.”

     Hearing these remarks, my heart began to pump faster and my spirit became empowered. Their conversation ended as soon as they heard me move toward my office door. I emerged, gave the senior assistant instructions on the mailing of the proposal, told her I would see her in four days, turned, and left through the outer office door.

     Peering over my shoulder, I could see both assistants watching me. I thought to myself, I’m thirty-eight-year-old Roger Meyer—dressed in a neat, gray pinstripe suit and black tie, with hair graying at the temples and a full black beard. I’m a success. I felt like jumping up and clicking my heels. Instead, I looked straight ahead and whispered, “I’m going home.”

Copyright © 2012 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

My parents told me, it’s all about family. Without them you’re alone, adrift in a sea of nothingness.

Siblings need to be there for one another. However, sometimes their apparent support could end up being your worst nightmare, as becomes evident in . . .

Where Would I Be Without You?

     I sat on the couch in Liv’s great room staring off into space and waited for her to make the pronouncement that would change our lives. “What’s taking you so long? You told me to be here at seven and you’d share some great secret with me. So I got here ten minutes early and all you’ve done is mess around in the kitchen. I think you’re avoiding the issue.”    

     “No, I’m not. Trust me, I know what I’m doing.”

     ‘I hope so, Liv. But the last time you asked me to do that, I thought we were going to end up in jail.”

     “Well, yeah, but you have to admit I was very convincing when that cop stopped us for speeding,” Em.

     “Sure, you told him I was having a miscarriage. Fortunately he didn’t check the tomato juice you’d spilled on the floor of the car the day before.”

     “It did look like blood, sis. Didn’t it?”

     “Yes. But then he escorted us to the hospital. I thought our goose was cooked.”

     “I guess a call about a robbery in progress trumps a pregnancy gone awry.”

     “Just be glad he didn’t look closely at me. For God’s sake, I’m fifty years old. He would have called our bluff.”

     “No, he wouldn’t have. And you don’t look a day over forty-nine, old lady.”

     “Okay, we got away with it that night. But if it ever happens again, I’m not so sure we will.”

     “Believe me, I’ve thought this through. Dotted every ‘i’ and crossed every ‘t.’”

     “I guess I’ve got to. You’re the English teacher—Ms. Olivia Thatcher, Master of Arts in English. And from Stanford, to boot.”

     “You’ve got that right. So, are you ready to listen to the plan?”

     “Plan? We are going to get arrested. Aren’t we?”

     “Not if you follow my directions exactly as I outline them.”

     “Haven’t I always? You’re my younger, but bossier sister. You’ve never let me disagree with anything you’ve said. When we were kids, if I if I tried, you’d tell mom and dad I was picking on you. I could never figure out why they always believed you and not me.”

     “Isn’t it obvious. I was littler and brighter. And oh, so adorable.”

     “You’re pushing this a bit further than I can handle. So what’s your plan, Liv?”

     “All right. You know we both want to retire early, say about fifty-five—maybe sooner.”

     “Yeah. So, I’ve been putting my money in an IRA. I’ve had my Nissan Altima for twelve years. I saved a lot of money by not buying a new car. I took in a renter two years ago. I’m on track.”

     “You never were one to think big, were you? Keep going in that direction and you won’t be able to retire until you’re a hundred and ten.”

     “What’re you talking about? I’ve got it covered. No, I’m not going to be rich, but I’ll be fine.”

     “That’s what they all say until the bills start rolling in. Then you’ll be standing on the corner with a tin can in your hand.”

     “No I won’t. You have a better idea?”

     “Yup.”

     “Okay, I’m waiting. Roll it out.”

     ”Close your eyes.”

     “Why?”

     “Because I said so.”

     “This can’t be happening. I feel like I’m going back in time, little sis. You’re the boss of me again.”

     “Are they closed?”

     “Yes. Now what?”

     Liv placed something in my hand. It was heavy and felt like . . . “Oh no,” I screamed.

     “Quiet, Em. You’ll wake the neighbors.”

     “I don’t believe you’re considering doing something like this. We’ll definitely end up in prison . . . or worse . . . DEAD!”

     “Calm down and let me explain my plan.”

     “No, Liv. This is getting ridiculous. I don’t want to do this anymore. I’m going to open my eyes.”

     “Noooooooo,” Liv screeched, so loud it made my head ache. So I sat there dumbfounded, with my eyes closed. 
     “What now?” I mumbled.

     “Give it back to me. You’re obviously not ready to take the next step to an early and secure retirement.”

     She pulled it from my hand. “Can I open my eyes now?” I asked.

     “Might as well. There’s nothing to see.”

     “Liv, I don’t know how you could think about doing something like that.”

     “Like what? You have no idea what I was planning to do. You didn’t give me a chance to explain.”

     “So explain.”

     “Maybe later. You want a drink?”      

     “A drink? You think that’ll calm me down. No, I better be going. I have an early meeting at work in the morning. . . . You know, I shouldn’t be curious about this scheme of yours, but I am. Let me know when you’d like to get together again to talk about it. And next time, I’m going to keep my eyes wide open.”

     “Well, we’ll see about that. But I will give you a call.”

     I wasn’t sure what Liv was planning, but I knew it couldn’t be good. She had other ideas about how to make a quick fortune in the past—none of them illegal, but some of them close, and none of them panned out.

     A week passed and I hadn’t heard from Liv, so I decided to give her a call. The phone rang and rang. I was about to hang up when . . .

     “Hi, Em. I was in the shower. So I’m clean and smell good. Used a new body lotion called ‘Men Attract.’ The ad says it’ll make them salivate.”

     “I think I’ve heard enough, Liv.”

     “Hey, I was going to call you after I got dressed. Wanted to set up a follow-up meeting to discuss the plan that will put our lives on the fast track to retirement. Think dollar signs, sis.”

     “I’m a banker, for heaven’s sake. I always think dollar signs.”

     “Well, money manager, do you think you can make some of that cash come our way? Let it drift off into the sunset of our future?”

     “If I’m hearing what I think I am, I’m not going to help you rob my bank.”

     “If not yours, then maybe somebody else’s?”

     “You are crazy. If this is your bright idea, I want no part of it. Forget the meeting, Liv.”

     “Oh, Em, I’m just kidding. Robbing a bank ain’t my style. Come over after dinner tonight. I’d offer to feed you, but I have work to do on my presentation.”

     “Presentation? What’re you talking about?”

     “You’ll see.”

     And with that, she hung up. Having lost my appetite over all this craziness, I ate a small snack, put myself together, and headed off in my twelve-year-old companion to Liv’s. Not knowing what to expect, my anxiety level heightened.

     It was starting to get dark on this fall evening, but when I arrived, Liv’s porch light wasn’t on and I couldn’t see any light coming from the front windows. This unnerved me. Closing my eyes was one thing, but meeting in the dark was a bit more than I could tolerate.

     I rang the bell, but Liv didn’t come to the door. I reached for the handle. But before I could grasp it, someone grabbed my arm and stuck a hard object into the middle of my back. My heart began to pound uncontrollably.

     “I don’t have any money on me—nothing else of value—not even my credit card. I don’t want to die,” I whimpered.

     The mysterious being pushed the weapon harder into my back and shoved me through the now open front door into the pitch-black entry hall. Then I heard someone else approach. This person took hold of my arm and pulled me into Liv’s dimly lit bedroom. “What, what do you want?” I stammered.

     “Shut up and do what I tell you,” a male voice grumbled.

     I didn’t say another word. But in the dim light, I could see Liv on the bed—bound and gagged. I started to shake. What the hell did these creatures want?

     Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw what looked like the gun I’d thought Liv had placed in my hands last week sticking out from under a towel on the dresser. I didn’t know if I could get to it, but I knew I had to try. I had no other choice.

     The guy who stuck the weapon into my back entered the room and began whispering into my other captor’s ear. Realizing they’d taken their eyes off of me, I moved cautiously toward the dresser. The two now had their backs to me and seemed to be arguing. Seeing my chance for freedom, I grabbed the “gun” off the dresser and stuck it into the large pocket in my pants.

     One of the guys must’ve heard me and turned toward me. “What are you up to?” he grumbled.

     “Nothing,” I whined.

     He turned back to his accomplice. My mission clear, I reached into my pocket, pulled out the gun, pointed it at the two thugs and yelled, “Get your hands up or I’ll shoot.”

     To my surprise, they laughed uproariously and stared past me to the bed. What I saw made me want to puke and fire the gun at the same time. For Liv was sitting up giggling out of control.

     “Got you again, big sis. And now, I’m finally going to show you what will make our early retirement a reality.”

     “A gun!” I shouted in dismay.

     “Just read the inscription before you jump to conclusions,” Liv chanted.

     And so I did . . . “Miracle Fire Starter and Handy Welder.”

     Five year’s later Liv and I sat on the balcony of our home in the Caribbean, with drinks in hand, enjoying our retirement from the profits made from the sale of her invention. And I no longer had to ponder the question, “Where would I be without you?”

Copyright © 2018 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

Life has its twists and turns. Just as you think an event is going in one direction, it turns and goes in the other.

You work for an insurance company. A client dies. The police believe it could be murder. What do you know that might help them? The answer lies in . . .

Murder Mystery

     It had been a long, draining day. Selling life insurance can be a grind. I picked up dinner, a gourmet three-item Chinese meal from Raley’s, on the way home from the office.

     Arriving home, I ambled from the garage into the kitchen, placed the boxed dinner on the table and made my way to the bedroom to get out of my work uniform—a gray business suit, white shirt, and black and red striped tie. My energy level had plummeted to zero. I couldn’t see straight. It was almost 8:00 p.m. I started to put on my sweats but thought, Why change twice? So I slipped into my red flannel PJs and meandered back to the kitchen.

     I grabbed the box I left on the table. It contained my meal, eating utensils, and a napkin. What more could I ask for? I went into the living room and collapsed on the couch. I picked up the TV remote and clicked on a channel. It didn’t matter which one. I was too tired to care. I opened the box and began scarfing down Chicken Chow Mein, fried rice, and a mixed vegetable dish. It tasted great. However, the way I felt, the box itself would have tasted just as good.

     After eating, I didn’t last long—maybe an hour. I shut my world down, got ready for bed, and crawled in. Once my head hit the pillow, I fell asleep in a matter of seconds.

     The ringing of the phone interrupted the silence of my sleep. I looked over at the clock and froze—3:00 a.m. “Who the hell could be calling me at this godforsaken hour?” I muttered.

     Calls in the wee hours of the morning don’t bode well. My experience with life and death has shown me these calls can portend the fate of loved ones—injured, or worse, . . . dead.

     I fumbled for the phone on the nightstand beside the bed. Holding the receiver to my ear, I mumbled, “Hello.”

     “Mr. Pruitt,” a voice replied. “I think your friend, Max Appleby, may have been a victim of a crime.”

     Unnerved, I stammered, “Who are you? Max who? And why are you calling me?”

     “I’m police Detective Jonas Pride. Max Appleby screamed your name before passing out in the Emergency Room at Riverview County Hospital. We believe someone tried to kill him.”

     “Huh?”

     The detective hesitated a moment before muttering, “I assumed, Mr. Pruitt, Mr. Appleby was your friend.”

     I remained silent for a few seconds and then responded, “I don’t understand why he would call my name. I don’t know the man well. I’m an insurance agent. He purchased a life insurance policy from me—nothing out of the ordinary. Wanted to make sure his family would be taken care of should he die. Same type of policy I’ve sold to hundreds of people this year.”

     “I don’t mean to upset you, Mr. Pruitt, but when a possible crime victim reaches out to someone, it is my responsibility to investigate the relationship between the victim and the person identified. You might have information that could help us solve the case.”

     “Well, okay. But I was asleep when the phone rang. My mind’s still fuzzy. Give me a minute to clear my head.”

     Detective Pride ignored my request and rattled on, “Can you tell me the policy’s value and the name of the beneficiary?”

     “I guess,” I replied. “I wrote it for $2,000,000. And the beneficiary? His wife, Sherry, of course.”

     “Two million? Isn’t that rather high for a normal policy, the type you sell to hundreds of people each year?”

     “Yeah. But he said he wanted to make sure his wife was well taken care of. I suggested the amount. He said he loved her and agreed with my recommendation.”

     “So his wife is the beneficiary?” he pondered aloud.

     “Umm, yeah, she is.”

     “What do you know about her? Do you think she might be capable of taking his life?”

     “What? Why are you asking me about this? You said he wasn’t dead. Are you now saying he is? I’m confused.”

     “No, no, he isn’t dead, but someone did try to kill him and, as a result, after my initial very brief conversation with him, he slipped into a coma.”

     “So, what do you want from me?”

     “Was Appleby’s wife aware of the size of the policy? Having such information could be a motive for murder, that is, attempted murder.”

     I answered his question without hesitation. “Detective, she came to my office three days ago, as I’d requested, since I’d prepared policy papers for her signature. She asked me a number of questions about the policy and, in particular, how much it was worth. She appeared quite nervous and queried me about the length of time.”

     Pride gasped, “Time man, what do you mean? What are you saying?”

     “Time,” I said. “You know, the time it takes after the death of the policy holder for the beneficiary to get the money.”

     “Are you sure that’s what she asked?” the detective sputtered. “On this point, you have to be. I need to know you’ll be a creditable witness before I move forward with the case.”

     I waited a moment before responding. “I’m certain. Yes, very certain that’s what she asked. She appeared quite concerned about the time it would take for her to get the insurance payment. I almost got the idea death seemed imminent. But the physical Mr. Appleby took to qualify for the policy indicated otherwise.”

     “Keep going. This is all starting to make sense. You may have the key to solving the case.”

     “Well, she talked and talked and asked many questions. As she rambled on, she spoke of how people die and said something about a possible overdose.”

     “She said what?” Pride queried with exuberance.

     “ A possible overdose. I didn’t have a clue what she meant. Everything else seemed in order, so I dismissed it as part of her screwy ravings.”

     Pride began ranting, “We got her! We got her! This is amazing!” He screamed so loud, I thought he would burst. But then his tone leveled off and, in a whisper, he lamented, “But it’s almost too easy.”

     “What’s too easy?”

     He paused. Then his demeanor seemed to change and he bellowed, “Pruitt, let’s accept the facts as you’ve presented them. As such, the motive for murder—a large insurance policy—is clear. The weapon, an overdose, has been identified. Well, I do believe we’re on the road to solving the crime.”

     “Okay, if you say so.”

     Then he became subdued again. “This is good, but,” he said.

     “But what?” I inquired.

     “Well, technically this discussion cannot be considered official. It’s just an informal telephone conversation. Since it wasn’t recorded in any way, you will need to come down to the police station tomorrow so we can take a witness statement. Your lawyer can be present if you like.”

     “My lawyer? I didn’t commit a crime. Why do I need a lawyer?”

     “No, you’re not being accused of a crime. However, there are some things I need to clarify with you and your legal council can assist you with advice on the issues on which you might provide evidence.”

     “I don’t want a lawyer. I don’t have much to say. I’m just the guy’s insurance agent.”

     “Well, if that’s the case, I still need to speak with you at the station. May I come by first thing in the morning, about six o’clock, to take you there?”

     “Okay. But I don’t understand why I can’t drive myself.”

     “As I said, I want to clarify some things with you before you give your statement. We can do this on the drive over, so we don’t have to waste time at the station.”

     “Detective, I’m so tired, I can’t think straight. I’m still very confused. The man isn’t even dead. And since I’m not a suspect or the beneficiary of the policy, I don’t want to appear unfeeling, but I could care less about a possible murder attempt.”

     Then, without saying another word, I hung up the phone, rolled over, pulled the pillow over my head, and fell asleep.

     The next morning, the ringing of the doorbell startled me out of my sound sleep. Looking at the clock, I saw it was 6:00 a.m. I dragged myself down the hallway to the front door. Reaching the door, I yelled, “Who’s there?”

     A voice responded, “Pruitt, it’s me Detective Pride. I need to talk to you more about the case on the drive to the station to take your statement.”

     “Huh? What case? Statement?”

     “Max Appleby’s murder. He died right after we spoke on the phone last night. Never came out of the coma.”

     “Talked on the phone? When? I don’t remember a thing about last night. I did have a weird dream, but . . .”

     “Are you pulling my leg, Pruitt?”

     “Good day, Detective. I have to get ready for work.”

     I watched through the peephole. He appeared dejected. Since he had no authority to take me with him, he turned, proceeded down the driveway, got into his car, and drove away.

     Letting out a sigh of relief, I went into the kitchen and picked up the phone. I dialed a cell phone number I knew by heart. It rang twice.

     The voice on the other end of the line purred, “Hello, my sweet. I’ve been waiting for your call.”

     “Sherry, it worked. He died last night. Detective Pride thinks I’ve lost it, or he has. Anyway, his case has vanished. I’ll start the process for you to collect on Max’s policy. This may take some time, but I guarantee it will happen. Sit tight for now. When things quiet down, I’ll see you on the beach in Aruba. I love you.”

Copyright © 2012 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

Do you know what it takes to develop a good relationship? It’s not an easy question to answer.

However, to be successful in doing this, the question can’t be ignored. What you want to receive in the relationship is also what you will need to give in return. So let’s begin by . . .

Touching

Touch me.

Let me know I exist.

Reach out to me.

Let me know you care.

Respect me.

Let me be myself.

Listen to me.

Let me share my thoughts.

Touch me.

Let me touch you.

Copyright © 2014 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

To become the person you want to be in a relationship, you must take control of your own destiny.

You have to make decisions and accept the consequences of your actions. You have to “pull your own strings” and not be another person’s . . .

Puppet

My strings are twisted,

I cannot dance.

My head is bowed,

I cannot see.

I want to play,

But you will not let me.

I want to reach out,

But you pull me back

I am your puppet,

And you control.

I do not like it,

For I am not free.

You think for me,

And decide my fate.

It is hard to be,

Who I want to be.

One day you will pull,

But I will not move.

To your direction,

I will rebel.

I will break my bonds,

And I will be free.

I will pull my strings,

And control my world.

I will be who,

I want to be.

Copyright © 2017 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

Taking control of your life is more than just pulling your own strings and feeling free. It is becoming comfortable with who you are.

You must develop a lasting relationship with the most important person in your life—yourself. As such, you need to become better acquainted with . . .

The Stranger Within

At times, I feel lost and alone.

I look within for answers I know should be there.

Confused, I search for the stranger within me—

the person who has the power to fulfill my needs.

Stranger, I want to feel connected to you,

even though we may not have been close in the past.

You are my soul, the truth of my existence.

I know you are there, but I often wonder if you are.

Please let me in—I need to get to know you,

and hope you would like to get to know me.

Copyright © 2019 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

Meeting oneself and realizing the importance of this connection is life’s ultimate goal. It is the foundation on which our future is built.

Making this relationship work may not be easy. The only way to succeed is . . .

To Be As One

As I lay in bed, the other night,

I thought about where I was going in my life.

Strange as it may seem,

I felt a presence of someone within me.

This presence seemed to be reaching out to me,

and wanted me to respond in kind.

So, with an open mind and heart,

I began a conversation with my inner self.

I appreciated its thoughtful, caring way.

It made me feel secure.

It was honest and forthright.

It put me quite at ease.

I felt the need to get to know it well,

and with it be able to share my thoughts and feelings.

To form a lasting bond with my inner being was my desire.

To travel life’s road together, my dream.

Forever and always,

the two of us to be as one.

Copyright © 2019 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

Once you have become secure in knowing who you are, you can move forward.

A bright future awaits you. And with it comes . . .

One True Blessing

There is only one true blessing in life, that which I bestow upon myself.

It is a blessing rich in pride, desire, and determination.

It is a blessing endowed with love of self and of life itself.

It is a blessing that allows me to feel at peace with who I am.

It is a blessing that allows me to blossom and grow.

Copyright © 2014 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.