for a friend...
http://ninva.deviantart.com/art/Plastic-Phone-91499425
If you have little patience here is a spaced instead of indented version:
http://ninva.deviantart.com/art/Plastic-Phone-91499425
If you have little patience here is a spaced instead of indented version:
John’s hand wrapped around the blue plastic phone inside his cozy little Green Bay apartment in Wisconsin. He sighed very gently as the receiver rested in his palm. His apartment’s walls were worn, tired, and bleak. The carpet was shaggy and torn. His furniture was used and ripped. The home seemed desolated, but on the contrary it was well packed. John and his wife Jenna along with their old, fat cat Jam dwelled within this wretched house.
Jenna, who was the most beautiful woman John had ever known, was quietly resting in bed as she patiently waited for her husband to get to bed. Her brunette hair draped the pillows neatly as she gracefully laid there with sealed eyes.
“Hello, Jam.” John said as the old cat elegantly leaped into his lap.
“Purr,” said Jam.
“Do you like that?” He asked as he stroked the cat’s ear.
“Purr,” Jam replied.
“Is that your motor? Are you going to blast out of this crap house? Well, good for you. I would if I could, but the economy is so darn stuck up on oil that we can’t go anywhere anymore. Did you remember when it wasn’t so bad?” The mid-aged man asked as he lowered his ear to hear the cat’s answer.
“Purr,” Jam remarked.
“Ah well, that’s your choice.”
The sleepy old man sat back into his chair as the cat’s motor continued to rumble in his lap. It vibrated down into his boney knees and the warmth of the cat kept his lap nicely warm. He chuckled at his situation, at his age, at his predicament, and at the irony of it all. The phone made a hum.
“Oh, I forgot.” He said wiping a lowly tear from his eye.
“Meow?” Jam cried.
“I forgot to call my good friend, Ben. He’s in Ohio with his wife now. They say riots are going on over there, so I’m just wondering how he’s doing. I don’t keep up with people like I should.”
“Purr,” Jam said.
John hung up the phone, and listened to the clock tick as the motor of Jam’s chest continued to power heat into his lap. He smiled again and petted the dear beast of luxury that he could now no longer afford.
“We are dirt poor, Jam.” He said in a poignant tone.
“I can not pay for your food anymore, nor can I pay for my wife who nobly clings onto me as if I’ll save her from this hell hole. But to tell you the truth, I’m 54 and I don’t want to live anymore. My father died at 31, my mother at 47. My brother died in the army, and my sister is in the nut house. I wrote many short stories, and now I can’t write anymore. I wonder why.”
Jam closed his eyes and swished his tail.
“I’m thinking about just sleeping until I die. Wouldn’t that be great? Dying in your sleep, Jam. Yea, that’ll be alright… You’re old, right Jam? Let’s die together tonight.” John’s touch disturbed Jam’s nap and the cat left his lap in a flash.
“Fine, leave an old man with his sorrow, and his failures, and his mess! I don’t care. I’ll die a lone.” John said.
“Ring!” Announced the phone, “ring!” It cried.
John’s hand grabbed the plastic device and raised it to his ear. On the other side was an agent who hadn’t heard from John in a year. His name was Smith. John called him Smitty for his own amusement.
“Hello, John. How is the weather up?” Smith’s voice rang with the chime of an excellent salesman.
“It’s rather late, Smitty.” John said.
“I knew you’d be up this late. You’ve always been a night owl.” Smitty replied.
“So I have.”
“I haven’t heard from you in about a year.”
“Has it been that long now?”
“Yes, you haven’t sent me a letter in about year now. As you know from the last time we talked, I got many eager letters from publishers wanting a sequel to The Immortal Bird Cage.”
“Oh, I suppose I forgot about that.”
“Well, what has been on your mind for so long that you’d forget about everything you’ve worked so hard on?”
“Nothing, I guess.”
“I’ve heard of idle minds, but idle thoughts? I don’t think so.”
“This brain of mine has been talking to cats, sleeping with wives, and chatting with old friends. I have nothing to write, nor does any book want to be written now.”
“John, I know much about your income. You need to write another book. It doesn’t matter if you want to or not. Your family needs to eat.”
“All my sons and daughters are in the war. They don’t need me now.”
“I suppose your wife doesn’t need you either.” The man’s voice sank an octave below his normal tenor pitch.
“She’ll be fine. She went to college.” John replied.
“Everyone says that now-a-days. But how can college help you when no one works anymore. We need another writer, like you, to help us along. We need John Rivers.”
“John Rivers went to hell, now his corpse is here rotting.”
“John, I’ll send you some money in the mail next week. Go see a doctor, find some help. You could use it.” Smith went silent, and the phone hummed once again.
John’s eyes cast down to where Jam had retreated. It was the bedroom where his lovely wife slumbered. He frowned as his arms locked to support his boney body. There was a pause in his movement when he heard his wife speak to Jam. Her voice was sweet, kind, and gently high pitched. The words she spoke were: “Tell John to go to bed.”
***
John sat in the office of Dr. Shawn. He was a man with light red hair and fair skin. His nose was runny and he smelt like toothpicks. The wedding ring on his finger was bronze; he was twenty nine.
“Hello, John. My name is Dr. Shawn.” Said the optimistic young doctor as he waltzed into his office with confidence so bold it must have belonged to a young man. John smiled and nodded. He was trying to find the long leather chair comfortable, but it was difficult due to his own nervousness.
“So, how’s the weather?” said Dr. Shawn as he sat down beside his patient in a warm comfortable chair. He did not bring any notes, but instead a tape recorded which he flipped on whenever John spoke.
“Fine,” the switch was flipped late, “I rode here on a bike.”
“Ah, I do as well. Gas is too expensive now-a-days.”
“Yea,” –click– “I remember when gas was cheaper. I’m sure you wouldn’t because you’re so young. It was about twenty dollars a gallon when you were sixteen, I suppose.”
“No, it was about four. But I guess that’s when our government started to go through some drastic changes as well. The radical democrats sure messed up the place, but I suppose people believed in change at that time. They were so tired of war. So was I.”
“We all were, and that’s why we let that democrat into the White House. But we didn’t know that health care was going to hurt us so. We didn’t even know that our failing economy would lead us to socialism. Now no one feels like working. We all get the same pay anyways.”
“Well, I get ten dollars a week. That’s enough to feed my wife and me. Life isn’t so bad for us right now.”
“That’s nice.”
“What are your finical ordeals?”
“The government doesn’t pay writers anymore. Publishers have to pay writers now. The government doesn’t even pay the publishers anymore. It’s a big headache, really. I’m going dirt poor, but thankfully I still have shelter that is provided by the government.”
“Doesn’t the government take your income from the books you sell?”
“No, I don’t sell anymore books. The bill they passed was my and every other writer’s death sentence. Now I only wish to die like all the other entertainers in the world; die in my sleep.”
“That’s horrible. You mean there will never be anymore new newspapers, TV shows, stories, or anything anymore?” Dr. Shawn sounded surprise.
“Of course not, what kind of doctor are you?”
The young doctor smiled and opened his mouth to respond.
“No,” said old John, “I’m leaving.” John stood up and began to leave for the door.
“Oh, well your next appointment is next Thrusday.”
“You might as well cancel it because I won’t be here.”
“Oh, are you sure about that?” Said the young man as he approached his mid-aged patient who was nearing the door.
“Yes,” John replied.
***
Outside Dr. Shawn’s office was a hall. Down the hall was a nice waiting room where an adolescent girl was sitting lonely in dark clothing. She was a product of neglect, or so said the professionals. John had little pity on the filthy girl. She was useless due to lack of ambition for life, which wasn’t very new anymore. America was an injured animal pleading for death. Its army was still the best damn thing in the world though. Thus America was left to suffer until it starved to death.
***
When John came home his wife Jenna was waiting for him in the small living room. Jam was in her lap, and she was sitting patiently in a chair that was placed next to the phone. This was the same chair John sat in every night when he was supposedly writing. A grin was across her face. It was a pleasant little smirk that presented both a humorous and loving soul. She had just received a letter from Ben’s wife. She and Ben had invited John and her both over for drinks.
“Good afternoon,” John said with his monotonous tone.
“I got a letter from Ben’s wife today.” His wife Jenna said.
“Oh really,” John exclaimed, “What did she say?”
“She wants us to drive down to her house for some drinks. She offered us a ride back if we went.”
Her voice was endearingly sweet. John could tell this was more than a statement in his wife’s iridescent eyes. They begged and cried out to John just like when she was a charming adolescent girl longing to be with him. She spoke with a placidly demure language that translated into words within John’s mind. These words did not match his wife’s, but instead said other things like: “Carry me to bed,” or, “Kiss me,” or on certain occasions, “I want that.”
Her diction now told John to take her to be with Ben and his wife. It told him how much she’d love to see her old friend Rebecca. John’s sad eyes smiled once again. They hadn’t done this in a long time.
“Sure,” He said.
“What?” She replied.
“Sure,” John repeated.
“What does that mean?”
“We should see Ben and Rebecca.”
“Oh, I suppose…” Jenna replied as she looked down at Jam and smiled.
***
Jenna sat comfortably beside her husband John who wore a thick coat. Even though it was late spring the weather was still cold and wet. John’s wife in return wore a thin coat with a blanket around her torso. Her gleaming beam was not easily hidden from the seriously aged John who couldn’t help but smirk in his thick coat.
“See,” she said, “you’re not going senile.”
“When did I ever say that?” John lethargically replied. It was early morning, and John didn’t sleep well last night. His nerves bubbled up in his head causing heat, then sweat, which froze on his face.
“You never said that,” Jenna said promptly, “You’ve been acting so depressed lately that I thought it was good for you to get out some more.” Her eyelids fluttered, “Anyways, it’s been a while since we did anything together. Remember when we first kissed?”
“Yes, I do. And I’d rather not relive such a dreadful experience!” John pushed forward on the pedal and the old plastic car began to move.
“Oh, shush! You were only a child then. We didn’t know what we were doing. I thought it was sweet what you said to me.”
“Refresh my memory, please.” John said.
“You said, ‘I’ll teach you how to love.’ ”
“Those are nice words, but I had no clue what I meant by that.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that.”
“Well, I just did.”
***
The old plastic car turned into a rock trail that led to the property of Ben Wright. He owned a large, blue country house. And outside on the deck Ben sat watching the car come into his yard with a wool blanket over his chest. He smiled and waved weakly as the rocks crackled under John’s cranky car. John noticed his friend’s subtle greeting, and made his too. It was a small swish of his right hand. His joints cracked when he did so.
“I’m getting too old.” He said to his wife before parking the car in front of Ben’s country manor. She smiled in a loving way and got out herself.
The couple split into different directions like they did when they were high schoolers at grand parties. John sat next to Ben on a bench outside the manor while Jenna rushed inside to greet Ben’s spouse. Ben wasn’t old. The only sign of aging was in his eyes. They were sore from stress, red and puffy from lack of sleep. He grinned and muttered something under his breath as he took his glasses off to massage his aching eyes. John said, “Hello.”
Something from John’s heart sang out like a happen robin on a Wisconsin morn. It chirped and chirped inside John’s heart and then it flew high within his hallow chest. John’s ribs expanded, air came through his nose, and the bird hushed for Ben’s response.
“Bellow,” Ben replied rigidly.
They both laughed without hesitation at the friendly greeting. It brought back fond memories of the two young as boys making up strange games out on the school yard. This greeting was created by Ben while he was playing with words. Bellow, to Ben, reminded him of hello. Ben used bellow instead of hello from then on. John’s mid-aged eyes twinkled.
“When did we get so old?” John said.
“We’re not that old.” Ben replied.
“We’re both fifty-four years old. Don’t tell me we’re young.”
“Tell me, John. What do you think is old?”
“I am.”
The two men chuckled lightly.
“I mean, when do you start being old? And when do you stop being old?”
“I dunno. I guess there comes an age for all people to wear out and become old and useless like a cripple.”
“When will you stop being old?”
“When I die,” replied John.
They laughed.
“Yes, I was going through a crisis myself. It wasn’t too long ago actually.”
“Which crisis was that?”
“I had the I-just-found-out-I-have-cancer crisis.”
John’s robin violently fumbled with its own self. It fell and fluttered rapidly on John’s stomach making it feel sick and queasy. The bird then became silent in John’s chest as it mourned its crippled wing.
“Ben, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sympathetic, John. This illness has opened my eyes. Everyone suffers, some more than others, but that is all temporary. This is all temporary. Because when the old die, the young live.”
“Then what happens to us?” John asked.
“We disappear.”
Ben died a week later. His wife continued to live on past John and Jenna. She went to both funerals of John and Jenna. Jenna was the first to go, she died of natural causes. John then died later. Death allowed him time to publish his last novel. It was entitled Robin’s Heart. It was a love story about a robin and his mate. The robin’s mate was killed by a bored teenage boy who felt like shooting her. The main character Red then took the role as the father bird to his children until his offspring left the nest flying far and they never looked back.
Jenna, who was the most beautiful woman John had ever known, was quietly resting in bed as she patiently waited for her husband to get to bed. Her brunette hair draped the pillows neatly as she gracefully laid there with sealed eyes.
“Hello, Jam.” John said as the old cat elegantly leaped into his lap.
“Purr,” said Jam.
“Do you like that?” He asked as he stroked the cat’s ear.
“Purr,” Jam replied.
“Is that your motor? Are you going to blast out of this crap house? Well, good for you. I would if I could, but the economy is so darn stuck up on oil that we can’t go anywhere anymore. Did you remember when it wasn’t so bad?” The mid-aged man asked as he lowered his ear to hear the cat’s answer.
“Purr,” Jam remarked.
“Ah well, that’s your choice.”
The sleepy old man sat back into his chair as the cat’s motor continued to rumble in his lap. It vibrated down into his boney knees and the warmth of the cat kept his lap nicely warm. He chuckled at his situation, at his age, at his predicament, and at the irony of it all. The phone made a hum.
“Oh, I forgot.” He said wiping a lowly tear from his eye.
“Meow?” Jam cried.
“I forgot to call my good friend, Ben. He’s in Ohio with his wife now. They say riots are going on over there, so I’m just wondering how he’s doing. I don’t keep up with people like I should.”
“Purr,” Jam said.
John hung up the phone, and listened to the clock tick as the motor of Jam’s chest continued to power heat into his lap. He smiled again and petted the dear beast of luxury that he could now no longer afford.
“We are dirt poor, Jam.” He said in a poignant tone.
“I can not pay for your food anymore, nor can I pay for my wife who nobly clings onto me as if I’ll save her from this hell hole. But to tell you the truth, I’m 54 and I don’t want to live anymore. My father died at 31, my mother at 47. My brother died in the army, and my sister is in the nut house. I wrote many short stories, and now I can’t write anymore. I wonder why.”
Jam closed his eyes and swished his tail.
“I’m thinking about just sleeping until I die. Wouldn’t that be great? Dying in your sleep, Jam. Yea, that’ll be alright… You’re old, right Jam? Let’s die together tonight.” John’s touch disturbed Jam’s nap and the cat left his lap in a flash.
“Fine, leave an old man with his sorrow, and his failures, and his mess! I don’t care. I’ll die a lone.” John said.
“Ring!” Announced the phone, “ring!” It cried.
John’s hand grabbed the plastic device and raised it to his ear. On the other side was an agent who hadn’t heard from John in a year. His name was Smith. John called him Smitty for his own amusement.
“Hello, John. How is the weather up?” Smith’s voice rang with the chime of an excellent salesman.
“It’s rather late, Smitty.” John said.
“I knew you’d be up this late. You’ve always been a night owl.” Smitty replied.
“So I have.”
“I haven’t heard from you in about a year.”
“Has it been that long now?”
“Yes, you haven’t sent me a letter in about year now. As you know from the last time we talked, I got many eager letters from publishers wanting a sequel to The Immortal Bird Cage.”
“Oh, I suppose I forgot about that.”
“Well, what has been on your mind for so long that you’d forget about everything you’ve worked so hard on?”
“Nothing, I guess.”
“I’ve heard of idle minds, but idle thoughts? I don’t think so.”
“This brain of mine has been talking to cats, sleeping with wives, and chatting with old friends. I have nothing to write, nor does any book want to be written now.”
“John, I know much about your income. You need to write another book. It doesn’t matter if you want to or not. Your family needs to eat.”
“All my sons and daughters are in the war. They don’t need me now.”
“I suppose your wife doesn’t need you either.” The man’s voice sank an octave below his normal tenor pitch.
“She’ll be fine. She went to college.” John replied.
“Everyone says that now-a-days. But how can college help you when no one works anymore. We need another writer, like you, to help us along. We need John Rivers.”
“John Rivers went to hell, now his corpse is here rotting.”
“John, I’ll send you some money in the mail next week. Go see a doctor, find some help. You could use it.” Smith went silent, and the phone hummed once again.
John’s eyes cast down to where Jam had retreated. It was the bedroom where his lovely wife slumbered. He frowned as his arms locked to support his boney body. There was a pause in his movement when he heard his wife speak to Jam. Her voice was sweet, kind, and gently high pitched. The words she spoke were: “Tell John to go to bed.”
***
John sat in the office of Dr. Shawn. He was a man with light red hair and fair skin. His nose was runny and he smelt like toothpicks. The wedding ring on his finger was bronze; he was twenty nine.
“Hello, John. My name is Dr. Shawn.” Said the optimistic young doctor as he waltzed into his office with confidence so bold it must have belonged to a young man. John smiled and nodded. He was trying to find the long leather chair comfortable, but it was difficult due to his own nervousness.
“So, how’s the weather?” said Dr. Shawn as he sat down beside his patient in a warm comfortable chair. He did not bring any notes, but instead a tape recorded which he flipped on whenever John spoke.
“Fine,” the switch was flipped late, “I rode here on a bike.”
“Ah, I do as well. Gas is too expensive now-a-days.”
“Yea,” –click– “I remember when gas was cheaper. I’m sure you wouldn’t because you’re so young. It was about twenty dollars a gallon when you were sixteen, I suppose.”
“No, it was about four. But I guess that’s when our government started to go through some drastic changes as well. The radical democrats sure messed up the place, but I suppose people believed in change at that time. They were so tired of war. So was I.”
“We all were, and that’s why we let that democrat into the White House. But we didn’t know that health care was going to hurt us so. We didn’t even know that our failing economy would lead us to socialism. Now no one feels like working. We all get the same pay anyways.”
“Well, I get ten dollars a week. That’s enough to feed my wife and me. Life isn’t so bad for us right now.”
“That’s nice.”
“What are your finical ordeals?”
“The government doesn’t pay writers anymore. Publishers have to pay writers now. The government doesn’t even pay the publishers anymore. It’s a big headache, really. I’m going dirt poor, but thankfully I still have shelter that is provided by the government.”
“Doesn’t the government take your income from the books you sell?”
“No, I don’t sell anymore books. The bill they passed was my and every other writer’s death sentence. Now I only wish to die like all the other entertainers in the world; die in my sleep.”
“That’s horrible. You mean there will never be anymore new newspapers, TV shows, stories, or anything anymore?” Dr. Shawn sounded surprise.
“Of course not, what kind of doctor are you?”
The young doctor smiled and opened his mouth to respond.
“No,” said old John, “I’m leaving.” John stood up and began to leave for the door.
“Oh, well your next appointment is next Thrusday.”
“You might as well cancel it because I won’t be here.”
“Oh, are you sure about that?” Said the young man as he approached his mid-aged patient who was nearing the door.
“Yes,” John replied.
***
Outside Dr. Shawn’s office was a hall. Down the hall was a nice waiting room where an adolescent girl was sitting lonely in dark clothing. She was a product of neglect, or so said the professionals. John had little pity on the filthy girl. She was useless due to lack of ambition for life, which wasn’t very new anymore. America was an injured animal pleading for death. Its army was still the best damn thing in the world though. Thus America was left to suffer until it starved to death.
***
When John came home his wife Jenna was waiting for him in the small living room. Jam was in her lap, and she was sitting patiently in a chair that was placed next to the phone. This was the same chair John sat in every night when he was supposedly writing. A grin was across her face. It was a pleasant little smirk that presented both a humorous and loving soul. She had just received a letter from Ben’s wife. She and Ben had invited John and her both over for drinks.
“Good afternoon,” John said with his monotonous tone.
“I got a letter from Ben’s wife today.” His wife Jenna said.
“Oh really,” John exclaimed, “What did she say?”
“She wants us to drive down to her house for some drinks. She offered us a ride back if we went.”
Her voice was endearingly sweet. John could tell this was more than a statement in his wife’s iridescent eyes. They begged and cried out to John just like when she was a charming adolescent girl longing to be with him. She spoke with a placidly demure language that translated into words within John’s mind. These words did not match his wife’s, but instead said other things like: “Carry me to bed,” or, “Kiss me,” or on certain occasions, “I want that.”
Her diction now told John to take her to be with Ben and his wife. It told him how much she’d love to see her old friend Rebecca. John’s sad eyes smiled once again. They hadn’t done this in a long time.
“Sure,” He said.
“What?” She replied.
“Sure,” John repeated.
“What does that mean?”
“We should see Ben and Rebecca.”
“Oh, I suppose…” Jenna replied as she looked down at Jam and smiled.
***
Jenna sat comfortably beside her husband John who wore a thick coat. Even though it was late spring the weather was still cold and wet. John’s wife in return wore a thin coat with a blanket around her torso. Her gleaming beam was not easily hidden from the seriously aged John who couldn’t help but smirk in his thick coat.
“See,” she said, “you’re not going senile.”
“When did I ever say that?” John lethargically replied. It was early morning, and John didn’t sleep well last night. His nerves bubbled up in his head causing heat, then sweat, which froze on his face.
“You never said that,” Jenna said promptly, “You’ve been acting so depressed lately that I thought it was good for you to get out some more.” Her eyelids fluttered, “Anyways, it’s been a while since we did anything together. Remember when we first kissed?”
“Yes, I do. And I’d rather not relive such a dreadful experience!” John pushed forward on the pedal and the old plastic car began to move.
“Oh, shush! You were only a child then. We didn’t know what we were doing. I thought it was sweet what you said to me.”
“Refresh my memory, please.” John said.
“You said, ‘I’ll teach you how to love.’ ”
“Those are nice words, but I had no clue what I meant by that.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that.”
“Well, I just did.”
***
The old plastic car turned into a rock trail that led to the property of Ben Wright. He owned a large, blue country house. And outside on the deck Ben sat watching the car come into his yard with a wool blanket over his chest. He smiled and waved weakly as the rocks crackled under John’s cranky car. John noticed his friend’s subtle greeting, and made his too. It was a small swish of his right hand. His joints cracked when he did so.
“I’m getting too old.” He said to his wife before parking the car in front of Ben’s country manor. She smiled in a loving way and got out herself.
The couple split into different directions like they did when they were high schoolers at grand parties. John sat next to Ben on a bench outside the manor while Jenna rushed inside to greet Ben’s spouse. Ben wasn’t old. The only sign of aging was in his eyes. They were sore from stress, red and puffy from lack of sleep. He grinned and muttered something under his breath as he took his glasses off to massage his aching eyes. John said, “Hello.”
Something from John’s heart sang out like a happen robin on a Wisconsin morn. It chirped and chirped inside John’s heart and then it flew high within his hallow chest. John’s ribs expanded, air came through his nose, and the bird hushed for Ben’s response.
“Bellow,” Ben replied rigidly.
They both laughed without hesitation at the friendly greeting. It brought back fond memories of the two young as boys making up strange games out on the school yard. This greeting was created by Ben while he was playing with words. Bellow, to Ben, reminded him of hello. Ben used bellow instead of hello from then on. John’s mid-aged eyes twinkled.
“When did we get so old?” John said.
“We’re not that old.” Ben replied.
“We’re both fifty-four years old. Don’t tell me we’re young.”
“Tell me, John. What do you think is old?”
“I am.”
The two men chuckled lightly.
“I mean, when do you start being old? And when do you stop being old?”
“I dunno. I guess there comes an age for all people to wear out and become old and useless like a cripple.”
“When will you stop being old?”
“When I die,” replied John.
They laughed.
“Yes, I was going through a crisis myself. It wasn’t too long ago actually.”
“Which crisis was that?”
“I had the I-just-found-out-I-have-cancer crisis.”
John’s robin violently fumbled with its own self. It fell and fluttered rapidly on John’s stomach making it feel sick and queasy. The bird then became silent in John’s chest as it mourned its crippled wing.
“Ben, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sympathetic, John. This illness has opened my eyes. Everyone suffers, some more than others, but that is all temporary. This is all temporary. Because when the old die, the young live.”
“Then what happens to us?” John asked.
“We disappear.”
Ben died a week later. His wife continued to live on past John and Jenna. She went to both funerals of John and Jenna. Jenna was the first to go, she died of natural causes. John then died later. Death allowed him time to publish his last novel. It was entitled Robin’s Heart. It was a love story about a robin and his mate. The robin’s mate was killed by a bored teenage boy who felt like shooting her. The main character Red then took the role as the father bird to his children until his offspring left the nest flying far and they never looked back.
