Oh, to go hear you in person again. I went to the Roxy. EPIC. Small venue, but all singing every lyric of our story! Our story, based on love and togetherness, sung and embraced by everyone there.

Except for the Irish contingent who came very threateningly close to me, I had such a good time. Thankfully, the highly accented blond guys came up, right before your football team of Samoans got there to move their invading gang away. Oh, if only I dared risk the chance to go hear you. Had you acknowledged me that night, when I had your t-shirt and book ready, I’d try again now. A ticket I did buy. Afraid to use it am I.

But the way you’ve taken my, “How to Build A Biz from Scratch”, stage design and color suggestions. The show you’ve made is SPECTACULAR!I’m so proud of you. And yes. Where last December I said no, keep it. You were with me through thick and thin. Now I see how much money you’ve made. Yes, please send me my 10% and set me free!

I only stayed away to protect you and yours. Turns out you knew how to protect yourself better than I could withstand their torture. Oh, if only I knew then what I know now. Or would they have taken us both down if you’d not gone on in the path we carved?

2020 The Music at Sunset All Rights Reserved and transferred upon death per prior written instructions and email dated 27 Dec 22.

In the event I do not wake up, it is the ultimate measure in a long string of abuse and harassment by my 2 former employers, Pearl Harbor; USACE Fort Shafter. Smothers Brothers Suicide against my religion. I do not take any drugs voluntarily, scripts or other. Threats made on my life, and I’ve been dealing with Havana Syndrome and physical disability since working for these 2 employers. Til then, no disability

You want me to stop working on this and turn it into pure finction novel. That’s what I’m working on. SO ok. I’ll give you a day or 2. But you are seling this out to Congress. Get the funding.

No character in this novel is one particular person, not even the Heroine or Villainess, whichever term you will apply after your reading. Each is a compilation of many characters on this island and the last, romanticized or imagined and embellished or worsened, along with adapting other characteristics from a few other people who’ve been with me in other life phases. Some of the characteristics are based on characters from old Myths and Literature. Sometimes, the characters are based on what I wish people would be. Some are what they would be if I kept my Rose-Colored Glasses ON. I am alone. Noone is involved in my life at this time though there are romantic elements to this story, the love expressed herein is largely a new level of agape love awakened and largely sustained, with a few exceptions who exhausted their allotted proportion through perpetual naughtiness. All is a figment of my imagination or my opinion from what I see on the daily news. This is simply a piece of fiction with a couple embellished love stories I wish were true. Nothing close to romantic interaction has happened in 5 years, nor does it appear it ever will. No reciprocity is present. We may never know whether these love stories were stymied for lack of reciprocal interest, interference, fear of retaliation, or call to duty. The only thing that is truth, is that for some inexplicable reason, nothing has gone according to Hoyle or Plan. For some reason, whether Divine Intervention or Earthly Interference, somewhere northwards of $3,000,000, without malpractice or putative damages eludes me. Instead I’m eking by on savings. If it did not, I’d likely be writing an entirely different tale. If you’ve read either “Vertigo of My Soul” or Least of My Brothers: My Forever Cuomo Crush” this is where it began.

Red Sky at Morning: Offending Phrase eliminated for that was an accidental blurb. However, if you could help it’d be greatly appreciated. Cross outs made permanent upon receipt of withheld benefits, NOT upon promise of same. In the event I don’t regain my health, my lost money, lost compensation and puntative damages for these last 5 years of Torture, or in the event I am sent to an untimely Visit with my Maker, this book in its original form is at the Publishers, Revisions are at multiple sites, and Just for comparison purposes my remaining estate will go to publishing both versions. I trust all those who prefer the iced down version unite and get me settlement so we all can go live our lives in Peace. And like the creative Postal Fraud Counter Offer Tom Cruise’s character snorted up in that similarly Wildly Imaginative Movie “The Firm “I love the Sea and travelling and as long as I can freely navigate the 7 Seas, 7 Continents, 7 Streets of the Promenade and all rooms in this home and any home I may have as well as friends, acquaintances, and colleagues who have Stood By Me are also provided protected status as Only certain entities can dom this movel becomes a best seller and I a martyr.

I don’t need the resources to live. I made it through the crunch. You guys are wrong there. That is just when I will quit writing. You’ve had 5 years to Fix This, and instead you went into my personal finances and F’d that Up. So yeah. Rot in Hell. I do NOT retract that to anyone who has the power to fix this and has failed to either step up or to actually put force and effect behind their words. Ghiradelli rational stricken. But help would be appreciated.

For those who think that bothers me, you are so Fin Wrong you have no idea how pissed I am for still being tortured and trapped in a tower and since my religion prohibits suicide and revenge you would be doing me a favor. But then Bitch I’m coming at you from the afterlife if I fail the test at the Pearly Gates, or I will enjoy the Original SkyBox Seats as God wreaks His revenge. BTW anyone catch the 20-40 foot waves. Dude those Rogue Waves are only St. Raphael’s warning Shots. The Right Coast is no further above ground. One Last Ting. Lotta Direct Pressure to Remove Cease and Desist or a one-way trip 7 Leagues under the Sea. Thank You. And again, My Sincerest Apologies, it didn’t even occur to me that was an Actionable Memory. Oh and if it isn’t too much trouble, make at least one of those making big bucks off my work cough u a 1% Content Fee. It’s Tax Deductible, and I’m sure they have an abundant opportunity to RE-Supply, and they ain’t even caught a glimpse of my other ideas, once I finally clean up the edit on this one.

If you don’t like that I spit and hiss when someone traps and attacks me, you can get OVER that. Now please do NOT think by that I mean that the Power Pols, Militaristic Pharisees, Petty Penny Ante Bureaucrats who crippled me promotion to my job and the next levels up should be mine, please, Knock Yourself Out. Maybe I’ll write a sequel about how a strange force from the Dark Side turned Clint Eastwood and who’s the new dude that’s just gruesome with NO sex appeal or hint of humanity. I’m quite sure I can paint everyone in a gracious manner. Or NOT, whichever you prefer. But please do remove the seat from under a Certain Senator disrupting Peace to innocent Civilians in the MidEast. And truly, I do apologize. I never intended anyone any harm. I was merely tripping down memory lane and put it out there as I recalled. I keep forgetting that perhaps this is NOT all my imagination, that people really are watching the words pour off my fingers to take my ideas and make billions, or to see where to apply direct pressure for a plethora of purposes. Quite the crazy conundrum, Tisn’t It.

OPENING SCENE
OPEN: Flash across several scenes, underwater, island, grey clouds, winter, La’Amoria Island, Planet Galatia. Camera lands on WHEAT FIELD. Little girl running through a sea of amber wheat with grain heads far above her little on. She can no longer see Lookout Mountain, so she keeps her tiny feet on the black dirt path between the golden wheat lines as best as she can. Finally, she breaks through to the other side. There’s Auntie’s Farm. She keeps running. Even with the shortcut, she runs over a mile. By road, it would have been three.
Telephone. Remember the Numbers. Prentice, this must be why I remember numbers, especially birthdays so remarkably. It’s etched into my brain this very day. I’m 3.
Five rows of Raspberry Bushes strung out like a 400 yard golf course run. The bright green leaves beautifully speckled by brilliant red berries. Three generations of women pick and stand. Two are over 70, almost as round as they are tall. Four are 30-something, 2 miniatures of the Matriarchs, the other and 2 are model perfect. These two beautiful women look like they stepped out of the pages of Women’s Day. Cosmopolitan had not yet hit rural West Cydton. Also picking raspberries early this morning are 3 teenage girls who looked like models from Seventeen Magazine, decked out in Daisy Dukes and hot pink midriff tops picking red berries on a bright sunshiny day.
A little girl with almost black hair never brushed awakes. As always, she gets herself up and dressed. She, even at three, knows how to match her outfits. Same color. No such thing as mixing plaids and polka dots because they are the same colors. That’s been harshly corrected. Frequently.
She runs downstairs, pours herself a bowl of cereal, turns on the TV and eats in front of it as she does every day. While the TV warms up, she quietly opens the door to Mommy & Daddy’s Room. Daddy’s already out in the fields, for sure. But is Mommy awake yet? WHAT? There’s no Mommy. She panics. Where’s Sissy? She’s nowhere to be found either.
Little Girl runs out to the garden. No one. There is no one. She runs back inside and pulls a chair to the phone. The big plastic green rectangle attached to the wall is at adult eye height. She still can’t reach. She pulls the cord, grabs the receiver, and talks into it. No one responds. What to do? “I’m all alone”, she shrieks. Initial sobs turn to full screams. She runs out of tears.
“I know. I’ll run over to Aunt MaryAnne’s. I know the way.” I think to myself.
Somehow even at this young age I knew to take the most direct line, across the north pasture. I run until I get to a field of amber grain. Standing not sure which way to go, I quickly opt for the route through the field. I can see Lookout Mountain. Not so much once I step into the field, I can no longer see Auntie’s farm, or the hill that stands far above the otherwise flat plains, a patchwork of almost black churned dirt and amber wheat mixed with brilliant blocks of green grass pastures. It looks like quilts Grandma and her sewing ladies make. I break through the last of the field, into the open. Finally the dry sobs stop. I’d run out of water for tears an hour earlier. Running as fast as my little legs’ll take me, I see the raspberry bushes. There’s Grandma, Mommy, and Sissy. And Aunt MaryAnne, Naomi, Auntie, Ruth and Ginger. Straight to Grandma, I run.
“Grandma. I was so scared. I woke up and no one was home. I tried to call you on the phone but it didn’t work. It just buzzed at me so loud it made my head hurt. I was so scared.”
“Oh my little Schnickelfritz” Grandma says. WHATEVER that means. “Honey, you never have to be afraid. Just remember the Father up Above is always looking down with Love, watching out for you.”
“But Grandma, I was all alone in the big house. It was ver-ry scar-ry.” I cry. Literally.
“Oh Honey, You are never alone. God always sends Angels to look after his Favorite Little Girls, and you are one of his Favorites.”
“How do you know I’m one of His Favorites?” How can that be? I’m not even Mommy’s favorite.”
Grandma always heads these fears off, “Oh Honey. Because you are my favorite little girl who’s 3 years old”. She’s always fair to the other grandkids, even when she wipes away my tears.
“But Grandma, I was dreaming Lions were ready to eat me”.
“Sweetheart, let me tell you a Story.”
Grandma’s got a story for everything. I snuggle tightly into her round body as she puts her arms around me. Leaning into her pink and white checkered dress that is my Favorite, and hers, my tiny fingers turn her Bright Hot Pink Broach. How she loved her broaches. She doesn’t mind sticky little fingers getting them all mussy.
“There was a boy about your age. His name was Daniel. He was his Daddy’s favorite, just like you, so his Big Brother Bullies sold him to be a slave. But he was so smart, just like you, that when he grew up, he got the best slave job of all. He served the King, giving him all kinds of advice. But that only made the other advisors jealous. They weren’t as smart as Daniel, so now the King didn’t listen to them anymore. They decided to get the King’s attention back by making made up lies about Daniel so the King would throw him into the Den of Lions.” Grandma tells stories so vividly.
“Grandma, What’s a Den of Lions?”
Grandma says, “It’s a big cave where they put lions and roll a big boulder across the opening, like putting all the cows in the barn and closing the door. They barely feed the lions. When people are really bad, the guards throw them into the cave. The lions are so hungry, they gobble the bad people right up.”
My eyes grow big. “That’s so mean. They need to feed those poor lions more.”
Grandma has the patience of a saint. While they used to say I could “P*$s off the Pope, Grandma never got cross with me. Not missing a beat, she continues. “So, the King didn’t want to, but he had to keep his promise. We always have to keep our promises, right?” “Yes Grandma. We always have to keep our promises.” Buy-in is so important.
So the King threw Daniel into the Den of Lions. But the Father up above was watching. It wasn’t Daniel’s Time Yet. So God sent an Angel who made the lions tame, just like you tame the wild baby kittens in the barn. Daniel curled up with the lions. They kept him warm all night long, like Snowflake does with you.”
I can’t believe this. “Really? Lions like to cuddle like kitties do?”
“Yes.” Grandma proclaims. “While the Angel watched, the lions were just big kitties. Like Snowflake.”
“Oh. That is so cool Grandma. I wish I had a Lion like Snowflake!” I always wanted everything cool.
“So if God can send an Angel to keep Daniel safe, He can always make sure nothing bad happens to you, now can’t He?” Grandma says reassuringly to get my buy-in.
“Oh Yes Grandma.” I happily give it.
“So you never need to be afraid to be alone again now do you?” Grandma doubles down on that.
“No Grandma. I will never be afraid to be alone again. Or afraid of Lions.”
“And if it’s your time, then God will take you to Heaven where there is no pain, no troubles and no more mean people. Where everybody has enough food, even the Lions.”
“Lions go to Heaven too?” I ask, willing to accept any answer she gave me. Why would Grandma fib?
Grandma always validating, “Yes. Heaven has everything you love. Now go see what your Grandpa is doing. He’s probably a little lonesome for you.”
Grandpa retired from farming, but he had a bad knee. So he’d drive Grandma wherever she wanted to go, but always waited in the car where he could sit with his right leg all propped up. I ran to Grandpa sitting in the car until he calms me down a little more. Together, we get out of the car, he with our bucket. We pick raspberries together. I love picking stuff from the garden with Grandpa best. He always lets me eat as many as I want. We say, “Two for me, One for the Basket. Two for me, One for the Basket” Until we can’t eat any more. Then we fill our pail. We always share a pail. That way I can bend down and pick up any dropped raspberries. For Grandpa can’t bend down so well anymore. He’d say, “Come here little Schnickelfritz. I need to borrow your knees”. Sometimes they’d have me crawl up into the high overhead cupboards to get things that had been pushed all the way to the back. Grandpa always got the stuff in the middle so I wouldn’t have to pull over the little stepping stool, the one they bought for me after this ordeal. Its place was directly under the phone. That’s so I always knew I could reach the phone in a hurry if I needed to. They had me memorize all the phone numbers. One for MaryAnne, one for Naomi, Grandma and Auntie. I even learned Brianna and Nora’s number, just in case no family was home. Brianna is my best friend. Our birthdays are 2 weeks apart. Pictures show us at 8 months old standing together holding the couch for support and each other for love. We’re inseparable and play together as much as we can.
CHAPTER 1
PASSION FOUND
It’s a beautiful Caribbean Sunset on the water. I’m out on my little boat with a new family, waiting for the sun to set so we can do a night dive. It’s a glorious night. We’re in a turquoise blue bay surrounded by a red rock shoreline densely packed with emerald green trees against a brilliantly clear blue sky. The boat is barely nodding in time to the easy waves rolling through. Tonight we have a bonus. It’s shaping up to be a Green Flash kinda night. For the non-believers, yes, the Green Flash exists. For a split second, in a small pinpoint, the last ray of light bends for a short time. If you are lucky enough to catch a glimpse, it’s the last split seconds as the sun drops from half disc completely into the water. An hour for the sun to get to half disc, only a second for it to disappear. Look away when the bottom of the disc touches the water at the horizon for a second, you miss it. Blink. You miss it. Keep Your Eyes Focused? Presto, there it is. Everyone ooh’s and ah’s. It’s a perfect start to a perfect night dive.
I give the pre-dive brief. This adorable, angelic looking little blond 12-year old girl asks. “Will we see a shark?” “Well,” I buy some time figuring out how to answer that. “Not usually. But every once in a while, if we get lucky we might see a Nurse Shark sleeping under a coral ledge. Nurse Sharks are the ultimate ‘fraidy cats. They are as afraid of you as you are of them. They hide their eyes under ledges with their tail sticking out thinking if they can’t see you, you can’t see them. It’s really cool”.
“Oh”. This little blond diver says. After a moment adding, “What do I do if a shark comes straight at me?”
Well, that’s a new one. It isn’t very often someone comes up with a question I haven’t already fielded, but she has one. In the same time it takes to miss the Green Flash, I come back with a, “Just swoosh your arm away across your body, and the nurse shark will follow your swoosh. Always keep me between you and shark. They won’t bother me. We’ve signed a Written Agreement. I don’t bother them; they don’t bother me.”
Now I answer the first part on the fly. The second is part of my repertoire of soundbites designed to instill confidence in intrepid divers. Honestly, I don’t even know where I pulled that answer out of, although I spent many minutes pretending to be an underwater conductor orchestrating silverside baitballs into an underwater ballet. Baitballs are swarms of tiny little silver fish that attract a steady stream of predators who feed on them like a veritable Sushi Bar. Often a row of 6 foot tarpon move slowly through the silversides like ducks on a carnival shooting game. Huge lines of fish are suspended mid-air like the bodies in the movie “2001 Space Odyssey”. If you can’t imagine it, the internet is full of pics. At some point I start playing a game, to see if I could join em. It took a while, but I figured it out. For the most part they let me in every time. I join a ton of silvery fish hanging in the clear blue water against a backdrop of an underwater mountain or canyon. So beautiful. One day I was inspired and moved my hands like a conductor, they move in sync with the waves your hands create.
The little girl smiles. We start our dive with smiles instead of fear. It’s an incredible dive. We find 3 turtles tucked safely in for the night under the ledges. One is pressed up against the wall with his head and front legs tucked inside his shell while he balances on his hind legs. He looks like an army helmet. 8 lobster, 2 octopus. One octopus cartwheels along the sea floor, flashing through shades of green, maroon, pink, orange, white, trying everything he can think of to blend into the background so we stop looking at him. Poor little guy. The more he flashes through his colors, the more we look as he runs to escape the flashlight beams. The moon is full, backlighting the canyon as though a Hollywood Cameraman is orchestrating an academy award winning scene. Sea baskets bounce in full laciness keeping time with the surge. Peaceful Beauty. We don’t see a shark.
The next day I do a tank run to St Meg’s. Turns out to be a new friend’s day off, so she rides along to give me a helping hand. We dive en route where we come FACE TO FACE WITH THAT LITTLE GIRL’S SHARK. OMG. No kidding. You can’t make this up. In Tight Quarters. It’s NOT where you want to be. I dove this particular underwater canyon literally 400 times, taking about 5 divers each time. My concern is what we call the 2-Humped Camel. You swim up and over each hump crossing a crevice about a body length wide. Strong waves and surge jostle you round like a maple leaf in the wind. You gotta be very careful swimming over each hump. If you float up here, breaking surface waves would literally pummel you into the sharp peaked rocks that jut thru the water’s surface. Each repeating wave would body slam you into these rocks, the next wave holding you there. So before we dive, I brief it, over-brief it, and over-exaggerate underwater signals I’ll use. This warns and reminds everyone to be careful, watch yourself as you swim up and over. Once underwater we have a 50-50 chance of anyone remembering what we told them to do. If they remember, their ability to execute? Well that depends on the diver.