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I am pleased to have Gayle Irwin as my guest today. She is a remarkable woman who rescues animals. She will share about her first book, Rescue Road.

Gayle’s first novel, Rescue Road, a clean, sweet contemporary pet rescue romance book, is planned for publication on November 8, 2019. Forty-two-year-old Rhiann Kelly arrives in southwestern Montana to begin a new adventure. After purchasing a 1,000-acre ranch for back taxes, she begins to build her dream of creating and managing a companion animal sanctuary. A freelance writer and dog rescue transport coordinator, Rhiann re-establishes former connections and makes new ones as she starts a new chapter of her life. EMS supervisor Levi Butler looks forward to a new chapter in his own life: to operate a horse ranch on property his elderly friend, George Nelson, left him in his will. The 44-year-old has a few more years before retirement in order to fix up the property and seek out the horses he needs. After he meets Rhiann, he envisions adding a dog to the ranch. His next encounter with the independent woman, however, threatens his dream. Can Rhiann and Levi not only put their pasts behind, but also find a compromise by which neither has to give up their dream? Can their broken paths weave their hearts together as they travel the rescue road? Learn more and watch a short book trailer here: http://www.gaylemirwin.com/novels.html.

• Excerpt from Rescue Road, a clean, contemporary romance scheduled for release November 2019, written by Gayle M. Irwin

Rhiann stood on the porch of the mid-century ranch house. Cup of coffee in hand, she watched the blazing orange sunrise. Streamers of light cascaded on the mountains west of the property, casting a rosy glow on the rocks and patches of snow upon the higher elevation. October’s morning danced with the browning grasses of the nearby pastures as touches of frost shimmered upon tan sprigs surrounding the house. Overhead, a flock of Canada geese in traditional V formation honked as they winged their way south.

Rhiann gazed at them a moment. She whispered, “We have something in common. We’re starting over.”

**************************************************************

            How often have I started over? How often have you? Change, dreams, purpose – those themes run through my upcoming novel, from which you just read a segment in the above paragraphs. Rescue Road is a story of second chances, for the primary characters and the rescued animals. I’m sure we all understand the need for and the value of second chances and the importance of dreaming and finding our purpose.

            As a young person, I dreamed about working with animals. After several visits to Yellowstone National Park, I set my sights on becoming a woman ranger in America’s first national park. The closest I came was serving as editor and reporter for the West Yellowstone News in West Yellowstone, Montana, through which I covered stories on wildlife, tourism, and land issues, among so many other topics. I also served for a time as a humane and conservation educator for various organizations. I’ve lived in majestic places, and I’ve shared incredible stories. Now, as a freelance writer and author, I continue to craft inspiring, educational, and engaging books and articles. My dream changed, due to many circumstances and situations, and much time passed before I found my true purpose. But, that’s okay.

            Life takes fortitude. Like curveballs from a pitcher, we’re often caught off guard to what is hurled at us. However, like that batter at home plate, we can (and should) dust ourselves off and get back in the game. We rely on our teammates (friends, family, church, writing colleagues, other survivors) for encouragement, a steady hand, and a kind heart. Yet, ultimately, we must rely on ourselves to take the next swing of the bat. Who knows–we just might hit a home run. We will never know unless we try … and try again. We must persevere.

            I may not be a lady ranger in Yellowstone, but I can, do, and have written about that unique place; the park even plays a small role in my upcoming novel. I also write about other things that are important to me, such as the rescue and adoption of companion animals. I use my writing talents to help fulfill my purpose: to inspire, encourage, educate, and entertain. My children’s books encourage kids, through the life of my pets, to live courageously, to accept differences in others, and to be kind. My upcoming novel is a romance through which I entertain readers, but the book is also a tool to educate people what pet rescues do and the importance of pet adoption. I provide information in the back of the book about organizations through which dogs and cats are rescued and can be adopted. I believe the theme of second chances also found in the storyline can encourage readers to persevere and find their own purpose in life, their own second chances.

            I’m not only a writer, but I’m also an action-taker. I support several animal rescue organizations through donations of products and money (in fact, a percentage of my book sales are ear-marked for such groups), and I volunteer time. I serve at events and as a transporter, taking animals into rescue or helping them get to their forever homes. Additionally, all my pets are rescued, adopted dogs and cats. That’s part of fulfilling my purpose. Whatever your dream, whatever your purpose, if you haven’t yet discovered it, I hope you will persevere until you do. If you have a story to share but haven’t done so, take a step of faith and be an encourager to someone who needs to hear your story. Encourage yourself and others by finding and persevering in your purpose. Lives are positively impacted when we do.

Gayle M. Irwin is an award-winning author and freelance writer, being recognized by Wyoming Writers, Inc., and the Wyoming Press Association for several of her works. She is a contributor to seven Chicken Soup for the Soul books and the author of many inspirational pet books and stories. She subtly weaves important life lessons in those accounts, including courage, perseverance, kindness, appreciation of nature, and the importance of pet rescue and adoption. She volunteers for various dog rescue and humane society organizations and donates a percentage of all book sales to such groups. Gayle currently resides in Wyoming with her husband and their adopted animals. Learn more about the author, her writing endeavors, and her pets, and receive free stories and resources by visiting her website: www.gaylemirwin.com.

• The month of September is for Prostate Cancer, Ovarian Cancer, Childhood Cancer, Brain Aneurysm, Hodgkin’s Lymphoma, and Leukemia, which means more awareness, activities, and fundraisers.
• Myths about cancer to dispel: Eating sugar causes cancer, it is contagious, and cancer is a death sentence. According to the NCI, no studies have shown that eating sugar will cause cancer or make it worse. Cancer is not contagious except in rare cases of organ or tissue transplantation. The survival rate for all cancers is about 67%.

When I was told I had a 50% chance to live five years, I was determined to live each moment with love and advocacy for gynecologic cancer awareness and fundraising.

Throughout history, there have been catastrophes created by nature and by man costing the lives of billions or more. Most recently the tragedy in the Bahamas from Hurricane Dorian is a case in point. There are almost daily reports of highway deaths, shootings, and random mass killings.

Therefore, it is important for us to live each day filled with love and purpose. It is not cancer alone that takes lives yet it is the one word that brings terror to our hearts.

Three books I recently read speak about the preciousness of time and how war, inhumanity, or disease can change or cost us our lives.

Remember the song Magic Moments popularized by Perry Como? Magic Moments when two hearts are carin’. Magic Moments memories we’ve been sharing.

Or from the song Living in the Moment the repeated phrase is: I’m living in the moment, I’m living my life, Oh, easy and breezy, With peace in my mind, Peace in my heart, Peace in my soul, Wherever I’m going, I’m already home, I’m living in the moment.

Whitney Houston made famous the song, One Moment in Time: I want one moment in time
When I’m more than I thought I could be
When all of my dreams are a heartbeat away
And the answers are all up to me

How are you living each moment? There is beauty in the world; there is much need; there is so much we each can do to have fulfilling moments.

Author: Forrest Robert Stepnowski

About the Book: “Journey to the Rainbow’s End: A Drag Queen’s Odyssey”

A collection of poetry that describes the coming of age and coming out of a man who struggled with his self-worth and identity, in the hopes to show others who share similar struggles that they are not alone.

Book Trailer: https://youtu.be/Iv1oPRgw6_I

Writer’s Q&A

What does it mean to “Journey to the Rainbow’s end”?

Answer: “Journeying to the rainbow’s end is about allowing yourself to be open to change, and, exploring everything that comes your way, with no regret, or hesitancy, and acknowledging that there is really never a real end to the rainbow, just a continuation of the journey called life.”

Excerpt from “Journey to the Rainbow’s End” by Forrest Robert Stepnowski

Chasing the Rainbow’s End

Once upon a time, as the tale goes,

There was a little boy, odd, but loving and nurturing,

But scared by painful memories and living night terrors,

I sit in the center, trapped by four walls,

Going crazy to the confinement of my soul,

Debating what is reality and what is fantasy.

Closing my eyes to daydream my fears and tears away,

Wanting to escape into yesteryear,

 Remembering it’s my past that tends to haunt me.

Whatever happened to the fairytales that made our dreams come true,

And our desires become reality.

But my childhood ended before my adulthood really began.

I see the rainbow and its vivid colors that reach the heavens,

Wishing they would remain forever in the twilight of dusk,

Like a midsummer night’s dream.

Chasing the rainbow hoping to find the end,

But it taunts me so,

The end always escapes me.

I come to and face reality and wake up from my daydreaming,

Rediscovering the hurt and the bruises I thought I healed from years ago,

Do I see the rainbows end within my grasp?

I stand underneath the center of the rainbow,

To the left I see my past and the journey of healing,

Becoming a stronger man

Still standing underneath the center of the rainbow’s peak,

To the right I see hazy images, future events that have yet to become,

I become frightened, like a child who constantly lives in the dark.

Losing my breath over and over again,

Why am I constantly afraid of the dark?

When the dark has been my home for so long.

I begin to shake off the haze like a lost boy in neverland,

Can I rise from the tattered puzzle pieces that were my life?

Or do I constantly ride the rollercoaster of highs and lows.

 Chasing rainbows over and over again,

Hoping to catch the unicorn so that my dreams will come true,

Or is this just another delusion of make believe.

What will I find at the rainbow’s end?

Will there be a pot of gold or a leprechaun who will grant me a wish?

When will I grow up from my land of make believe?

The truth is always hard to swallow,

Why do I constantly feel trapped under the rainbow?

Am I suffocating or being forced to realize that the rainbow’s end is a myth.

This is the rainbow of life,

Sometimes the colors are vivid and beautiful,

Sometimes the colors are faded and dismal.

My journey to the rainbow’s end is enduring…

Never ending, never final, with pain comes healing,

Empowered, Strengthened, Enlightened

About the Author:

Forrest Robert Stepnowski is an advocate, a writer, a social worker, and a performance artist in the Pacific Northwest. He has been writing poetic works and prose for most of his life. He realized how important is to share his work with others who have dealt with similar pathways of self-hate, self-deprecation, and self-loathing in the hopes they find they are not alone, as well as help them realize they are not deviants, nor are they against “human nature.” They are part of a collective of misfit toys on an island where being different is beautiful. We all have a voice, and the world should hear it. Forrest is a proud member of Rave Reviews Book Club.

Social Media Links:

Website/Blog: https://www.forresttakesajourney.com/

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/forrestrobertstepnowski

Twitter:  https://twitter.com/frstepnowski

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/forreststepnowski

Journey to the Rainbow’s End: A Drag Queen’s Odyssey (Available on Kindle and Paperback)

To follow along with the rest of the tour, please visit the author’s tour page on the 4WillsPublishing site.  If you’d like to book your own blog tour and have your book promoted in similar grand fashion, please click HERE.  
Thanks for supporting this author and his work!  

The idea of Paying It Forward was brought to my attention from the movie by the same name in 2000. It was a story of a young boy who was going to change the world.

As a member of Rave Reviews Book Club, each year we are given the opportunity to set aside one day just to Pay It Forward for one of our co-authors. Yet, it is my impression that those of us who are members do support, recognize, and help our fellow authors on a regular basis. That is just one of many reasons I am a Lifetime Member of this fine organization.

I will not name all those in this book club who have been especially supportive of me. There are too many and I possibly would forget a name or might omit a name and hurt someone’s feelings.

However, I am going to toot my horn for the Founder and President of Rave Reviews Book Club: the one and only Nonnie Jules. She is ethical, hard-working, creative, and inspirational. She has helped me design and publish videos, promote my books through blog-radio shows, or named the Spotlight Author, books named Book of the Month, honoring me with awards, short stories published in various anthologies, and approving my membership in Rave Writers International Society of Authors.

THANK YOU, Nonnie. You are the best and deserve all the accolades…AND MORE.

It is my pleasure to welcome Bernard Foong, a RWISA member on this the final day of the Watch RWISA Write Showcase Tour.

Vignettes Parisian

Vignettes Parisian is a collection of four short stories about the Author’s past and present experiences in the French City of Love and Romance, commonly known as Paris.

Christian Dior Couturier Du Reve

It is impossible not to have a close encounter with fashion when I am in Paris. Even if I had to wait in the freezing cold for an hour and a half to enter the Christian Dior Couturier Du Reve (Christian Dior Couturier of Dreams) exhibition at the Musée des Arts Décoratifs (Museum of Decorative Arts). My husband, Walter, and I were the lucky few who arrived early before the museum opened its doors. The late arrivals were banished to the back of the queue for a five hours wait before admission was granted.

This spectacular exhibition was worth the wait. Not only were the lives, times, and accomplishments of Christian Dior, one of the great French couturier and his successors well documented, the exquisite fashions and well-thought-out displays were equally impressive.

Since my first visit in 1966 to the French capital of romance, luxury, and fashion, my love for Paris has never waned. Before I left sunny Maui, I had designed and made a haute couture gold, silver, and black embossed velvet fleur-de-lis patterned coat to wear during my recent holiday in France. It was at this exhibition that I received compliments for my one-of-a-kind creation.   

A stranger approached me at the exhibition to buy the coat off my back because he loved what I wore. Perhaps I should be the next designer to take over the reins for this resplendent Maison – The House of Dior. After all, I am a knowledgeable and seasoned fashion designer who knows every aspect of the international fashion industry.

Shopping In Paris (Then & Now)

I am one of those blessed individuals with a pair of discerning eyes and can detect items I wish to purchase in cramped spaces on my crazy shopping sprees. It was in such a circumstance that Walter and I found ourselves in the middle of the crowded shopping Avenue, des Champs Elysées.

A sole of my shoe had divorced itself from the body of my long-lasting suedes and left me to hobble around Paris like a circus clown with flapping feet. I had to take immediate action to remedy this unanticipated situation before the remainder of my footwear disintegrated onto the wet and soggy ground, while my beloved, sniggered at my fashion malfunction.

I remembered an amusing incident that happened in 1969 at this boulevard. Back then, I was a bright-eyed and bushy-tailed fashion student. Accompanying Moi was Count Mario, an accomplished Vogue fashion photographer, Andy, my model-looking lover and Valet, and Sammy, a flamboyant young fashionista. The four of us were shopping at the avenue, that drizzly day.

To elongate his petite stature beneath his wide bell-bottom jeans, Sammy wore a pair of eight inches high platform shoes. He also donned a fitted denim jacket over a sassy body-hugging bodysuit. To complete his eccentric ensemble, his dyed cornflower yellow, emerald, and turquoise hair flowed behind him like an exotic mane as our quartet floated down the street.

Eyes turned in our direction as we trotted around Paris in style. Before I realized what had transpired, Sammy was flat on the pavement. Colorful socks bounced around him like raptured pom-poms. The lad had stuffed pairs of rolled-up socks inside his footwear so he could fit his tiny feet into the platforms. He had stumbled on the wet and slippery sidewalk.

Mario, wasted no time whipping out his camera to capture this unanticipated fashion faux pas, while Andy and I looked on in shock.

As if modeling for a Vogue fashion shoot, the quick-witted Sam posed this way and that on the wet thoroughfare while the photographer clicked away at the gaffe. A pedestrian circle had formed in the middle of Avenue des Champs Elysées to witness this “fashion happening.” Advertently, our friend had transformed an embarrassing situation into a photo-opt as the applauding crowd showered the boy with accolades. By the time Sammy got on his feet, he had saved his face with poise and grace.

The Magical Power of The Written Word

“Why are there beds located at different corners of the bookstore?” I asked Monsieur Mercier, an assistant at the Shakespeare & Company bookshop.

“The beds are available for writers to stay a night in Paris for free,” the man responded before he resumed, “ Are you a writer? Do you intend to stay the night?”

Surprised by the man’s inquiries, I evinced, “I am a writer. But no thank you to the lodging offer.”

“What genre of books do you write, Monsieur?” Mercier queried.

“I’m an autobiographer,” I replied. “Because of its controversial and provocative contents, my books are often classified under the Erotica genre.”

The bookseller questioned, “What are the titles of your books, and what is the author’s name?”

“A HAREM BOY’S SAGA; A MEMOIR BY YOUNG. It’s a five-book series,” I declared.

“I believe we have your books in the store. Are the titles: INITIATION, UNBRIDLED, DEBAUCHERY, TURPITUDE, and METANOIA?” he promulgated.

I nodded, delighted by his information.

The Frenchman led me through a series of narrow pathways covered with volumes and pamphlets of the written word. When he finally extracted five volumes of my autobiography from a shelf, my heart nearly leaped out of my chest.

“I read the series. What a compelling teenage life you’ve led. I wish my school had a secret fraternity program like yours,” the teller quipped smilingly.

He recommenced, “Our store is a focal point of English literature in Paris. Anais Nin, Henry Miller, and Richard Wright are frequent visitors. We also host literary activities, like poetry readings, writers’ meetings, book readings, writing festivals, literature festivals, photography workshops, writing groups, and Sunday tea.

“Ms. Sylvia Whitman, the owner, might invite you for a book reading at our store.”

“That will be splendid. Unfortunately, my husband and I are in Paris for a short period. Maybe we can arrange a book reading and signing session when we are in Paris again,” I proposed.

Monsieur Mercier and I had exchanged contact information before I left the Shakespeare & Company bookshop. Hopefully, during my next visit to Paree, I will get to meet Madam Sylvia Whitman with a book reading and signing gig in place.

S.O.W. and R.E.A.P.

Over the years, I have been asked by many, “Why do you love Paris so much?” My reply is always the same – S.O.W.

Although the Parisian cityscape has changed over the years, these three alphabets continue to shadow my existence whenever I am in or out of Paris. S.O.W. is also a reason Walter and I chose France as our home away from home.

In the autumn of 1966, when the Simorgh (one of my Arab patriarch’s private jet) touched down in Charles de Gaulle airport, I had contracted the romance bug. Back then, the ebullient Moi, an inquisitive teenager with a quest for adventure, was whisked to the Paris Ritz Carlton in a luxurious Bentley by my host, Prince P. I had fallen head-over-heels in love and in awe with both the prince, Andy, my then chaperone and Valet, and Paris, the city of romance. That was before our entourage visited the haute couture fashion Houses of Chanel, Dior, Ungaro, Givenchy, Yves Saint Laurent, Patou, and the fancy eateries, such as Café de Flore, La Belle Époque, Maxim’s, and last but by no means least, Le Folies Bergers. Back then, these infamous Parisian establishments were places to go, to see and be seen. Nowadays, they are tourist attractions.

    Through the subsequent years, I had accompanied many princes, princesses, sheiks, sheikas, and their aristocratic Arabian entourages to the French capital. Most significantly, this city of love and romance had taught me the art of Seduction (S), Originality (O), and Wit (W). Some may say that wittiness is a congenital trait, but I purport it as a learned art of human relationships. Whatever definition one chooses to use, I had returned to this electrifying metropolis of S.O.W.; where I had sown many a wild oat. Now, with my beloved husband in tow, I’m here to R.E.A.P. its rewards.

“What the hell is R.E.A.P.?” you ask.

I will explain:

R – Romance continues to exist in this alluring Capital of Love; even amid an influx of foreign refugees and political upheavals. Another series of stories, I will narrate another time.  

E – Elegance in this sordid city of high culture is a trait Walter and I find irresistibly seductive.

A – Authenticity is historicity in this Center of Romance. And I am not referring to the faux reproduction of the Las Vegas ‘Paris’ in Nevada, United States of America.

P – Paris equals Sophistication, Originality, Wit, Romance, Elegance, and Authenticity. But last and by no means least, this French capital is where Perfection reigns supreme.

PARIS – Mon Paree!

Bernard Foong (aka Young)

Thank you for supporting this member along the WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour today!  We ask that if you have enjoyed this member’s writing, please visit their Author Page on the RWISA site, where you can find more of their writing, along with their contact and social media links, if they’ve turned you into a fan. 

We ask that you also check out their books in the RWISA or RRBC catalogs.  Thanks, again for your support and we hope that you will follow each member along this amazing tour of talent!  Don’t forget to click the link below to learn more about this author:

BERNARD FOONG RWISA–Author Page

Welcome back to the last leg of the WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Blog Tour where we celebrate great writing from our RWISA Authors! 

Today, I am pleased to host author, RON YATES.

Burning Out in Tokyo

By Ronald E. Yates

Clayton Brandt stood just behind the glass doors of the Ministry of International Trade and Industry building waiting for a let-up in the storm that pummeled the hot Tokyo pavement. Wisps of vapor rose into the air as the rain hit the warm ground.

He searched the eight-lane boulevard in front of the MITI building for an empty taxi. He knew it could be a long wait before an empty cab came down Sakurada-Dori. Thousands of bureaucrats glutted Tokyo’s Kasumigaseki district, and whenever it rained, it seemed like all of them wanted a taxi.

“Son of a bitch!” he said, his words echoing through the lobby. Two middle-aged Japanese bureaucrats standing nearby looked over at the tall foreigner. They understood that English phrase.

Clayton grinned. “Ame-ga futte imasu,” he said.

The two men looked at one another and then back at Clayton as if to say: “Yes, we can see it is raining. But is that any excuse for such a rude public outburst?”

Clayton sighed, opened his umbrella, and stepped out into the downpour. He turned right and hurried through the governmental heartland of Japan, maneuvering his 6-foot, 3-inch frame through the crowded sidewalk glutted with black and gray umbrellas. Sometimes the edge of an umbrella held by a much shorter Japanese man or woman slashed at his throat or slapped against his face. Whenever it rained, and the umbrellas came out, Clayton always felt Gulliveresque—like a giant trapped in a forest of undulating toadstools.

He looked up at the leaden April sky. The rain had drenched Tokyo for the past four days, covering the ground with a pink and white patina of delicate sakura blossoms. A slow rumble of thunder curled between the squat granite structures of Kasumigaseki. Clayton looked at his watch. It was four-thirty and the evening traffic was already crawling. He had hoped to get his story written and filed by six o’clock, but the briefing about Japan’s angry reaction to Washington’s decision to bar the U.S. government’s purchase of Japanese supercomputers had taken longer than usual.

The sky rumbled again, and bolts of lightning streaked overhead. A taxi pulled up outside the Ministry of Health and Welfare and was disgorging three Japanese bureaucrats in dark blue suits. Clayton closed his umbrella and dashed for the cab splashing through rivulets of water as he ran. The three men had barely climbed out before Clayton bolted past them and into the rear seat. He gave the driver his destination, closed his eyes, and rested his head on the seat back as the taxi inched its way back into the gridlock.

Every so often, his eyes opened just long enough to take in the somber Tokyo landscape. The perpetually gray skies of Tokyo didn’t do his already sepulchral spirit any good. In fact, very little seemed to buoy his disposition these days. He couldn’t help it. He felt depressed and probably a bit too sorry for himself. A few hours before the MITI briefing, he had suffered through another of those telephone “chats” with Max, the foreign editor of Global News Service in London about expenses and the need to cut back on costs.

“O.K., O.K. Max,” Clayton had sighed bleakly into the phone. “I get the picture.”

The exchange ended with Max suggesting that Clayton not be such a “cowboy.” A “cowboy?” Why? Just because he was from Oxford, Kansas and not Oxford, England? It wasn’t easy working for a bunch of Brits when you sounded more like Garth Brooks than Sir Laurence Olivier. But he knew what Max meant.

Clayton was an iconoclast in a profession that increasingly rewarded conformity rather than individualism. Newspapers today all looked alike, loaded with the same predictable stories about the same predictable events. It was rubber-stamp journalism practiced by rubber-stamp editors who worked for rubber-stamp publishers who worked for boards of directors who wanted twenty percent operating profit margins above all else—quality journalism be damned.

 He went over the notes he had hurriedly scribbled during the MITI briefing, searching for the lead of his story. His pen scratched heavy lines under the words “ill-conceived” and “studying our response.” Then he stuffed the notebook back into his bag.

“It’s over,” Clayton thought to himself as he watched the snarl of cars and trucks crawl along Uchibori-Dori through Kokyo-Gaien, the large plaza that fronted the walled Imperial Palace. It was as if today he had been forced finally to confront the inevitable mortality of his professional career; or at least of his particular brand of journalism. He was writing the same boring stories over and over again. Where was the challenge? The sense of accomplishment?

Clayton exhaled and gazed out the taxi window at the striated, ashen facades of drenched buildings. They reminded him of the mascara-smudged faces of women weeping at a rainy graveside.   

He closed his eyes and nudged his mind away from the depressing Tokyo landscape. Soon it was obediently shuffling through old images of another, more beguiling Asia. It was an Asia of genial evenings spent beneath traveler palms; of graceful, colonial-era hotels in Singapore and Malaysia with their chalky plaster facades and their broad verandahs peppered with rattan settees and peacock chairs; of slowly turning teakwood paddle fans that moved the heavy night air with just enough authority to create a light breeze, but not enough to obliterate the sweet scent of evening jasmine. THAT was the Asia he missed; the Orient of the past.

Yes, it was ending. Clayton could feel it. It had been a good run . . . A good career. But now the journey was ending, like a train that had roared through the night and was now pulling into its last station. How many times had he almost gotten off only to be lured back on by the promise of what lay ahead at the next stop? How many times had he been disappointed by that decision? How many times had he been rewarded? At first, the rewards outweighed the disappointments, but in recent years, as he had grown older, the regrets seemed to have gained a definite edge.

For one thing, the passengers kept changing. And the conductors. And the engineers. But what did he expect? Wasn’t that the way the world worked? What was it that Tennyson had written: “The old order changeth, yielding place to new?”

Clayton shuddered. Was he the old order? Should he be yielding? Was he burned out?

Maybe he was becoming the old order, Clayton thought. But he wasn’t burned out just yet. And if there was any yielding to do, he wanted it on his own terms. The trouble was, the gulf of time between his past glories and the imminence of the callow, computer savvy handlers in the home office who controlled his destiny was becoming almost unbridgeable.

Most of his career predated cell phones and computers. For the computer literates at Global, his life’s work might as well be stored on some remote database. As it was, he existed only in yellowing newspaper clips, aging telexes, and letters of commendation that were kept in his personal file back in London. And nobody bothered to look at that stuff anymore.

It made no difference, Clayton thought. In the mutable, evanescent province that modern journalism had become, it was ancient history. Hell, HE was ancient history. He was like a piece of old journalistic parchment—readable, but, unlike a computer, much less utilitarian.

What Clayton needed was another journalistic rush . . . A story he could get hold of and play like a newly discovered Mozart piano concerto. He needed something . . . Not to satisfy the yuppies back at Global, but to give him a reason to get back on the train and to leave the station again.

The taxi slewed to a stop like a wooden bathhouse sandal skidding along a wet tile floor. Clayton looked up. They were in front of the Kawabata Building.

“Kawabata Biru, desu,” the driver announced.

Clayton fumbled in his pocket, handed the driver a one thousand yen note, and waited for his change. Then he bolted through the swirling Tokyo rain and put his shoulder against the massive glass and steel doors of the Kawabata Building. Unlike most of Tokyo’s modern structures, the Kawabata Building didn’t have sleek automatic glass doors that hissed serpent-like and opened automatically at the approach of a human being. It was a pre-war relic—an architectural throw-back with cracked marble floors and a fading art deco interior that had somehow survived the allied bombings.

The building’s deteriorating facade, which was the color of dead autumn leaves, seemed to glower at the world—like the rumpled brow of an angry old man. But the tumble-down building had an undeniable individuality in a country that too often prized sameness, and that was the reason Clayton liked it and had refused an offer to move into one of the new glass and steel “smart buildings” that soared over Tokyo’s Otemachi district.

He paused to talk for a moment with the old woman who operated the small grocery and newsstand tucked away in the corner of the lobby. From his many conversations with her, Clayton had learned that the old woman had operated her little concession since 1938 and knew the building’s history better than anybody.

She smiled as Clayton’s towering frame bent toward her in one of those peculiar half bows that Japanese make when they are in a hurry. Japanese could do it with a certain grace; but not Clayton. When this big foreigner bowed, he always looked like he was on the verge of crashing to the ground like a gingko tree struck by lightning. Nevertheless, she liked this gaijin. Ordinarily, she merely tolerated foreigners, but this one had a solitary charm. He was big, but not threatening; assertive, but not arrogant.

“So, Oba-san, Genki datta?” Clayton asked, combining the Japanese honorific for “grandmother” with the less formal interrogative for “how are you?”

“Genki-yo,” the old woman replied. Clayton picked up a package of Pocky chocolates and placed a one hundred yen coin in the old woman’s hand.

“Sayonara,” Clayton said as he turned and scuttled toward the bank of elevators.

“Sonna ni hatarakanai ho ga ii desu!” the old woman called after him.

Clayton smiled and nodded over his shoulder. The old woman was right. He was working too hard, and where was it getting him? Back on a train to oblivion?

“Oh, get over it,” Clayton thought as the elevator door closed. “You’ve got a story to write. Feel sorry for yourself AFTER you make your friggin’ deadline! Besides, what else do you know how to do, you old hack! Burning out is not an option.”

The End

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