I found this article interesting because I'm finishing up a holiday novel right now that's part of a new western series set in fictional Glendora Hill, Texas, and I've literally been walking on proverbial egg shells in some sections of the book with regard to using the word "Christmas" or "Holidays." Notice how I used "Holiday" in this post to describe the book. I'm not trying to be too politically correct by any means, but these days it's hard to tell when you're making a mistake and whom you're going to offend unintentionally.
And I don't for a moment think Hallmark meant to offend anyone by taking the word "Gay" out of a holiday song and replacing it with "Fun."
Critics took to Twitter and Hallmark's Facebook page, accusing the company of making a political statement by using the word "fun" to replace "gay." Some Facebook commenters said they would never again buy Hallmark merchandise and that the change amounted to the company rewriting Christmas classics in the name of political correctness. Others suggested removing the word "gay" demonstrated a homophobic bias.
Hallmark has responded with surprise. They didn't expect the backlash and the criticism. I get that. CNN still doesn't understand why no one watches them, and MSNBC is totally baffled that Fox gets higher ratings.
In the same respect, as a gay man I honestly wouldn't have thought twice if I'd seen a Hallmark sweater with the word "Gay" within the context of the song, "Deck the Halls."
As for my book, I'll be using "Christmas" and "Holiday" at different points in the book, and I decided to address the issue of this kind of political correctness with a few short lines in the book. It's there. We're all sensitive to it at one point or another. And I figured I would cover the topic lightly and objectively without stopping the story.
You can read more about Hallmark here.
Free Gay Excerpt Friday
I've been posting about releasing my back list titles from Loveyoudivine.com lately, and this e-book was originally pubbed with LYD with a pen name, R. Field. At the time, the publisher thought it would be a good idea and I agreed. But when I released it on my own recently I decided there's no point in using a pen name. It makes no sense to me.
It's a twenty six thousand word novella, a civil war historical, and there's a very strong gay sub plot that's highly emotional. I titled it A Young Widow's Promise because the main storyline revolves around a Civil War widow who starts doing something very unusual that includes burying dead soldiers in her front yard, and taking in three enemy soldiers from the opposing side. Here's the full excerpt and this time there's no need to click to my other web site. You can find the entire book here, here, and here, as a .99 e-book. And...this is from a raw edit because PDF doesn't convert well to google blogger.
For those who might not trust me, the setting is real.
A Young Widow's Promise
Felecia Roundtree sat on the edge of her bed in the only
white dress she had left since the war had begun. She’d always preferred white
because it was simple and easy to care for. She should have been wearing black,
but she wasn’t seen often enough to worry about it. Besides, this dress had
turned mostly pale gray by then anyway, and the hem was beginning to fray.
She’d been meaning to buy fabric to sew a new dress, but it wasn’t on the top
of her chore list. It was already after six on a warm, moist Saturday morning
in late August and she hadn’t even finished dressing yet.
Felecia was thirty-seven years old but looked more like
twenty-seven. Her hair was long and strawberry blond and parted dead center;
thick waves fell into points below her shoulders. Each morning, she haphazardly
pulled it back and pinned it into a chignon exposing a face so delicate and
pointed and looked so much like a handsome fox, old friends sometimes called
her Foxy.
Before she started her day, she crossed her legs and
hesitated. She rested her chin in the palm of her hand and sighed. Then she
pursed her lips and gazed through the open window of her second-floor bedroom,
beyond the small, quirky cemetery that surrounded the entire front of her
property. This was one of those mornings she still had trouble believing she
had a graveyard in front of her house.
She reached for a book on the cherry nightstand alongside
the bed, a small black bible with faint traces of what had once been gold
lettering embossed on the frayed cover. She didn’t open it. She just placed her
right palm on top and said a small prayer for her two young sons who were off
fighting somewhere in Virginia Spotsylvania ,
but she’d never been south of where she lived and new nothing of the places
people told her about. But Felicia knew how to pray. And she did this almost
every morning, praying the war would end soon and that her blessed boys would
return alive and well. She’d lost their father, Joshua, a year earlier in a small
battle outside Atlanta
But that didn’t matter, because she saw Joshua at least once
every single day. At least she thought she did: she’d been alone for so long,
she wasn’t sure about anything anymore. She never mentioned aloud seeing Joshua
to anyone; it was her own little secret. Sometimes in the early morning, while
pulling her hair back or putting on her shoes, she’d notice him standing in the
bedroom doorway in his dark uniform. His hat would be pulled down below his
eyebrows; he would be leaning against the frame with arms folded and feet
crossed at the ankle. There was always a sly grin on his face as though he knew
some dark secret she didn’t. She jerked and blinked the first time it happened.
Her heart started to beat so rapidly, she had to grab hold of the bed post to
keep from falling down. But the old sparkle in his steel blue eyes calmed her
nerves immediately and made her feel whole again. His handsome half-smile
slowed her racing heart. And though he never spoke to her, not even a single
word, there were times when she thought she heard the faint whistle of an old
song she couldn’t quite place.
She hadn’t seen Joshua that morning. She could never predict
when he might pop in. But Rusty, a colossal black and red mongrel who wasn’t as
mean as he looked, began to bark out in the front yard and Felecia dropped the
bible and put on her shoes fast. She reached under the bed for the shotgun.
This wasn’t instinct; she was alone. She’d learned to be prepared thanks to the
war. Rusty’s bark that morning wasn’t a playful bark like when he was standing
at the back door and wanted to go out. This sound was dark and wrecked; a
bark-growl combination he only used when strangers approached. Where she lived,
she took nothing for granted. Her property was called Locust Point, not far
from Finns Point, just north of Salem ,
New Jersey Delaware River adjacent to Fort Delaware Wilmington ,
Delaware Fort Delaware Pea Patch Island Gettysburg New Jersey
While old Rusty continued to bark, Felecia ran through the
upstairs hall, down the sweeping curved staircase and out the front door. She
stopped short at the edge of the stone portico and stood beneath a small gold
sign that read “Monkey Jungle.” There was something happening beyond the green
lawn with the small white grave markers. Down near the black iron front gates,
three gray figures came into view. From what she could see, there were three
men in tattered clothing; the one in the middle had his arms wrapped around the
two on either side for support. She cocked the shotgun, pressed her index
finger to the trigger and shouted, “Get away; nothing here for you. I shoot to
kill.” In spite of her shaking hands, she wasn’t joking.
“Wait, please, don’t shoot,” said the one on the right, his
voice hollow and low.
“Leave or you’re a dead man,” she said. Her voice remained
clear and solid; she stood with her legs braced and spread apart while pointing
the gun in their direction.
“There are three of us,” the voice said, “Call off your dog
and please help us; we’re wounded and weak. We mean you no harm.”
“I said leave or I’ll kill you all in cold blood,” she
shouted, and then fired a shot toward the sky to prove the gun was loaded. She
knew the old dog wouldn’t actually harm them. His breathing was short from all
the excitement and his eyes grew heavy, as though ready for a nap. Besides,
there wasn’t a tooth left in his mouth. But they didn’t know this. “I said leave.”
She wasn’t joking.
“I beg of you, madam, please help us or we’ll die anyway,”
the blond one on the right said. His voice was higher and friendlier. “We
haven’t eaten anything in over a week.”
“You may as well shoot us dead right now and put us out of
our misery,” said the dark one on the left, “We’re as good as dead anyway.” His
voice had a sharp edge and he sounded more serious, almost indignant. But she
had to admit his lack of fear served as an admirable trait, especially in the
face of a loaded shotgun.
She was about to fire another shot in their direction when
they gently placed the man in the middle down on the dirt road; he rested on
his side in a fetal position. The other two then slowly went down on their
knees, reached out to the Iron Gate for
support and bowed their heads.
And that’s when Felicia’s chest caved in. Had it come to
this, she wondered, where there was no one left in the world to trust? Felecia
slowly went down the stone stairs, with the shotgun perched and ready to fire,
and walked toward the three men for a better look. Though she was terrified and
her arms were on the verge of shaking, it occurred to her this was one of those
situations you couldn’t judge offhandedly. If they had been planning to rape
and pillage her, they wouldn’t have approached the gates with such trepidation.
They would have stormed through, taken her by surprise and ravaged whatever
they wanted. Or they would have come in through the back way and caught her off
guard. She knew there were certain things you could portend with wild men: they
didn’t take the time to rationalize anything. Like mad dogs, it was all through
instinct, especially when they had been starved for so long.
The fearless man on the right lifted his weary head when she
approached the gate. He had a strong nose and chin, with dark hair and large
brown eyes that suggested honesty and gentleness at a closer glance. Patches of
dark hair covered his young face. “I swear to you, we mean you no harm.” He
lifted his arms and spread them wide, palms facing her.
“Where do you come from?” she asked, pointing the gun at his
head.
“We’re all from Georgia Fort Delaware
“We swam the river,” said the one on the left, “and dragged
our friend here the whole way; he’s dying. We haven’t had food or water in
days. Please, have mercy on us. We’re begging you.”
The one on the left was fair, with bond hair, blue eyes and
full lips. His face was covered with an even, pale fleece that stopped short
just below his chin. If Felecia had had a brother, that’s probably what he
would have looked like. But it was the way his eyes penetrated hers that sent a
shiver down her spine. They weren’t the eyes of a killer or a starved madman;
his eyes were those of a man in need.
Felecia creased her brow. “What do you want from me?”
She had her own problems.
“Just some food and water, and a little time to rest before
we’re on our way home again,” said the man on the right. “Look, we’ve told you
the truth. We are escaped prisoners; we could have lied about that. We could
have tricked you and made up a story. But we want you to trust us. We have
nothing against you.” He shrugged and stretched his arms out so the palms of
his hands were exposed.
It occurred to Felecia that she might have become so
hardened to pain and death and war that she could have killed them all right
there in cold blood and then gone on with her daily chores. She’d never truly
known what had happened to her husband or what was happening to her own young
sons at that very moment. Why should she care about total strangers? These men
were nothing to her. They were the enemy and didn’t deserve to live. But there
was something about the piercing expression of the man on the right that made
her hesitate. His brown eyes were kind, almost protective, as though she knew
instinctively there was nothing to fear when he was around. But more than that,
he seemed so familiar, as if he were an old friend she hadn’t seen in years. Yet,
she knew she’d never laid eyes on him before.
“We have no weapons or arms,” said the blond man, “We are
three weak men begging for your help.”
She had two choices: she could kill them all and be done with
it, or she could lower her shotgun and offer to help. She also knew if she
helped them, she was committing a crime by taking prisoners of war into her
home. And it wasn’t considered ethical or moral. But she couldn’t stop thinking
about her own sons and what would happen to them in the same position as the
three young men begging for help at her gate.
“You two,” she said, “Carry your friend around the stone
wall, to the back where the barn is. There’s a well pump outside and you can
rest inside the barn. I’ll bring you food directly.”
“God have mercy on you, madam,” said the dark-haired man,
“We will forever be in your debt.”
“I swear,” she said, “if you so much as make one wrong move,
you are a dead man. And you have to lay low, because I could get into trouble
for doing this. If anyone comes by looking and they find you, I’ll swear I had
no idea you were here.”
“If you help us, we will protect you with our lives,” said
the blond man.
As the young man with brown eyes stood, she couldn’t help but
notice his clothing, still wet from the river, was torn near his upper right
thigh: a large horizontal gash that exposed his strong, hairy leg.
He frowned when he realized she was staring at his leg.
“Maybe if it’s not too much trouble, you could find us some suitable clothing,
too. Anything would do.” Then he tugged at the torn part of his trousers and
exposed more of his leg.
She turned away; she hadn’t seen the naked leg of a handsome,
young man in quite some time. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Again, thank you,” said the blond man. “It’s our good
fortune to come across a woman as kind and young and beautiful as you.”
Was he actually flirting with her? It had been so long since
any man had offered her such a warm compliment, she’d forgotten how to react.
“I have two grown sons not much younger than you. I’m not that young, sir.”
“I find that hard to believe,” said the man with brown hair.
There was a definite edge in his tone that time.
“Enough talk. Get out of plain sight before someone spots
you. I’ll be around with some food.”
She placed an iron kettle with last night’s stew on the
fire, brewed some strong coffee, and then went upstairs to gather clothing that
belonged to her sons. Old clothes they would have used for working outside but
clean and dry and certainly far superior to the rags the men were wearing. She
also gathered some bandages in case the men had wounds. Then she wrapped a loaf
of day-old Sally Lunn bread in a red and white checkered cloth and placed all
the rescue items in a rickety, old cart she used to haul firewood in the
winter. While she pulled the cart across the property toward the barn, with her
dog at her side and the shotgun in her right hand, she couldn’t believe she was
actually helping confederate soldiers. If anyone in town saw her, they’d swear
she’d lost her senses.
As Felecia approached the barn, she noticed the dark haired man
was washing up at the well pump, only wearing the gray pants with the torn
thigh. His body was so thin and emaciated, she could see the outline and
definition of every muscle in his naked torso. He wasn’t totally smooth. A
sheer fleece covered his chest that was the same color as his raven hair, with
a thin line pointing down toward his waist that probably continued well below
his naval.
She stared down at her shoes. “I have food and bandages for
your friend,” she said, unable to look him in the eye. “And clean clothes…I’ll
bring them inside.”
“Thank you. My name is Calvin.”
“I don’t need to know your name; you won’t be here that long,”
she said, taking a quick glimpse of his lean, naked torso.
Inside the barn, the weakest of the three men had been
placed on a bed of stacked hay. He appeared to be the youngest; no more than
nineteen. His face was the same color gray of the clothes he wore, and he had
dark circles beneath his eyes. His thick hair was the color of a rusted iron
buggy wheel, with dark auburn waves that framed his ashen face as though they’d
been painted there in oils. It struck her, with a sharp pull in the stomach, as
odd that someone so young and innocent would be fighting a war.
“Where is he injured?” Felecia asked the blond man. He was
kneeling beside his friend, trying to wake him from a deep sleep.
“His leg,” he said, “He was shot a month ago, and then
snagged it on a rock while we were swimming the river. He’s the reason we
escaped; they would have let him die. We would have died too. They don’t feed
the prisoners of war…there are men there who weigh less than 80 pounds…walking
skeletons with sheer flesh on bone.”
They didn’t have to tell Felecia about the conditions at Fort Delaware Fort Delaware
“Get him out of those filthy clothes,” she said, “I’ll be
right back with my sewing kit and some whiskey. It’s already infected from the
original wound, but it should be stitched up again.” She had heard the stories
of what went on with the prisoners of war, but she didn’t want to hear them
first hand from an actual prisoner. There were some things she’d rather not
know. Until now, she never thought she’d have to either.
Felecia ran back to the house, noticing from the corner of
her eye that Calvin had unbuttoned his pants and was washing his private parts.
He turned as she passed, abruptly clutching himself between the legs. His face
turned red with chagrin; he looked the other way. She kept walking toward the
house. But it was too late. She’d already seen his hands moving around in his
pants. She’d seen him lift up his thick manhood and gaze down at it. And those
big, strong hands of his, fumbling to make sure everything was clean and fresh.
A sad feeling passed through her entire body; a sharp pain tugged her stomach
again. This was probably the first time he’d washed himself in ages. And even
this wasn’t very civilized.
When she returned to the barn, Calvin and the blond man were
just about to remove the injured one’s pants. He began to stir, waving his
pathetically weak arms in the air as though moving in slow motion, wondering
why people were taking off his clothes. Clearly, he was delirious, beyond pain.
“Just relax, Johnson,” said Calvin. “You’ve been injured and
this nice lady is going to help us.” He spoke with a patient, friendly voice.
Felecia leaned over Johnson’s naked body; there was a huge
gash, still bleeding, above his right knee. “One of you hold his arms and the
other hold his legs still. I’m going to have to stitch this up.” Living so far
out, with the county doctor miles away in Salem
First, they gave him a long swig of the whiskey to kill the
pain, and then Calvin grabbed his legs while the blond grabbed his arms, and
they poured whiskey on the wound. Felecia wasted no time threading the needle,
pouring more fresh whiskey on the open wound and cleaning it thoroughly with a
white rag. But the poor thing was so weak, he barely flinched a muscle when she
began sewing the wound up. By then, his eyes were rolling back, and he was
mumbling nonsensical names of people no one knew.
Felecia worked fast. And when the wound was all stitched, as
she was about to cut the thread, something very odd happened. As Johnson
drifted off to sleep, snoring louder than anyone she’d ever heard, an erection
began to shape between his legs. Not just a semi-erection; a long, wide stick
that stood from his body in a perfect angle. Calvin quickly tossed a white
towel over the harmless appendage, which only made it look as though he’d just
pitched a tent over the middle of the young man’s body. Had this happened under
any other circumstances, Felecia would have been appalled and chased them all
off her property. But the young man had been severely wounded and seemed so
filled with excruciating pain, she couldn’t do anything but stare in amazement.
For such a thing to happen didn’t make any sense at all to Felicia. With all
that pain and everything that had happened to him, she would have thought that would have been the last thing on
his mind.
The blond man lifted one eyebrow and shook his head back and
forth. “We should have warned her about this, but at least we know he’s going
to be okay.”
“I didn’t think of it,” Calvin said. He covered his lips
with his hand to hide a naughty grin.
“What are you two fools talking about?” Felecia asked. She
started to wring her hands; she was losing patience. She had a feeling they
were laughing at her now. And if there was one thing she wouldn’t abide, it was
being mocked. Not after all she’d been through.
Calvin frowned. “This is not a topic for a lady, but I
suppose we should explain. Johnson has this problem, you see. It seems that
whenever he sleeps he grows and stays that way the whole time he’s sleeping. He
has little control over it.”
“Oh dear,” said Felecia, not sure how to react. Were they
joking with her? “Let’s just keep it, ah him, covered then, shall we.” She
turned and took a deep breath.
“Oh yes,” Calvin said, glancing toward the blond, “By the
way, this is Robert.”
Felecia almost formed a smile; Calvin had a dangerous gleam
in his eye. “I’m Felecia. Now you all eat something and get some rest. I’ll
come out later to check on you. I have chores to do, and don’t try anything
strange because my dog will be with me and so will my gun.” She decided to add
this just in case they couldn’t be trusted. A woman alone couldn’t be too
careful.
