ALONE IN THE DARK


 

 

Source: 

 

 

Who sits and waits in the darkness?

There is no movement in the blackness.

As still as a fox waiting to pounce,

No hint of a ruffle or a flounce.

 

A soft sigh can be heard in the air.

Are those slithering snakes in her hair?

Shadows shift through the circling dust

As the walls trickle with blood or rust.

 

The ghostly form stands tall to meet us.

She can be the hostess to greet us.

A deserted house this seems to be.

She hovers over us like a tree.

 

We stand alone in this bleak hall.

There won’t be dancing at this ball.

This was a silly lark.

Then the candles go dark.

 

Time to leave this creepy place.

We must quicken our snail’s pace.

But since this is a horror story,

We will not be leaving with glory.

Welcome to Day 2 of the “EMPTY SEATS” Blog Tour! @EmptySeatsNovel @4WillsPub #RRBC #Baseball

 

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GIVEAWAYS:   During this tour, the author is giving away (1) $10 Amazon Gift Card, (2) $5 Amazon Gift Cards, (2) e-book copies of EMPTY SEATS & (1) copy of the author’s acclaimed “SINGING ALONG WITH THE RADIO” CD which features many prominent folk music singers (a $15 value)! For your chance to win, all you have to do is leave a comment below as well as leaving a comment on the author’s 4WillsPub tour page.  GOOD LUCK!

Empty Seats by Wanda Adams Fischer

 

Day Two (Empty Seats)

 

In 1965, I wanted to become a sportswriter. In those days, however, opportunities for women in that arena were almost non-existent. I was determined, even though my own mother told me I might as well be aiming to become the first female president or even the first female Pope. 

My friends and I went to many games at Fenway Park that summer. Sometimes, when my friends weren’t available to go with me, I’d go by myself. The Red Sox’s own broadcaster at the time, Curt Gowdy, showed me how to keep score “the way we do in the booth” one day, when he was walking through the stands.

I always kept copious notes and used the “Gowdy method” to score every game. I wrote letters to the editor of The Boston Globe and Record American, as well as my hometown newspaper, The Quincy Patriot-Ledger. My goal was to one day have a by-line on the sports pages of The Patriot-Ledger. It was, after all, the newspaper whose sports pages I read every day. 

In 1965, I even had the opportunity to watch the legendary Satchel Paige warm up in the bullpen at Fenway Park. He’d been brought there by Charlie Finley, the owner of the then-Kansas City Athletics (now the Oakland Athletics) as a publicity stunt. Satch was probably in his sixties; no one really knew how old he was. I saw him throwing, easy and slow, and walked up to the chain link fence that separated the people in the bleachers from the pitchers in the Athletics bullpen. 

Since there were very few people at that game, the security guard didn’t bother me. Usually, they’ll tell you to get back to your seat and stop bothering them.

“Mr. Paige?” I asked.

“Yes, ma’am.” (I was 15 years old and not used to being called “ma’am.”)

“Do you mind if I watch you for a while.”

“No, ma’am, that would be fine.”

I stood and watch him for about 20 minutes. He never got into that game, but he did pitch to a couple of batters the next day and even struck out Carl Yazstremzki, who would one day become a member of the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown—as did Satch himself. 

My scorecard from that game is one of the few that I never completed; it stands blank after the sixth inning, which is when I began watching him warm up. I still have it, in a place of honor—the antique hutch my grandmother left me, where I keep my baseball memorabilia.

Sportswriter—Yes or No?

After a game between the then-California Angels and the Red Sox, I was walking over the bridge that spanned the Mass Pike and led to the train station at Kenmore Square. I recognized one of the players from the California Angels, Rick Reichardt. I introduced myself, and we talked about the game as he made his way to the Kenmore Hotel, where opposing teams always stayed.  I casually mentioned to him that I was beginning to look at colleges with the aim of pursuing a career in sports writing.

He stopped walking.

“You seem like such a nice girl,” he said, “but I want to give you a sense of reality about professional sports. The guys don’t want women in the locker room or the clubhouse. They don’t want to answer questions from women, either. It’s just the truth.”

He must have seen the look on my face, because he tried to soften his statement. “I just don’t want you to get your hopes up too high,” he said. “If you decide to go forward with this, you’ll have to develop a much thicker skin.”

I thanked him for his advice, as he went one way toward his hotel and I descended the steps toward the train station. During the long train-and-bus rides home, I thought about what he’d said, then did what we did back then: I wrote him a letter, again expressing my appreciation for his thoughtfulness. He sent me a note back, saying that he hoped he wasn’t too blunt, but he wanted me to know the truth.

The 1960s brought turbulent times, with the Vietnam War and Civil Rights, and I became involved in both of those intense social movements. I never did pursue sports writing, even though my passion for sports remains to this day. 

I went on to a nearly 40-year career in public relations/marketing/media relations, with a couple of side trips in general radio broadcasting. I retired from my last job in that field in 2014, when I worked for New York State’s Office of Medicaid Inspector General.

Fifty-two years after the encounter with Rick Reichardt, I decided to act on my desire to write about sports by writing a novel about minor-league baseball. The result is Empty Seats, which focuses on the career paths and expectations of three very different young men as they seek that golden ring of baseball—making it into Major League Baseball, “The Show,” the big time. 

As for Mr. Reichardt—I tracked him down on Facebook to let him know that his lengthy association with baseball didn’t only have an impact on young men, it also had great influence on a young woman who’s now in her eighth decade of life, who never forgot a chance encounter on the bridge that still goes over the Mass Pike near Fenway Park. 

He seemed pleased. Every now and then, he sends me a picture on FB, such as one where he was in Little League and another of him and his family at a Major League Baseball game. I’m glad we’re friends now. 

Book Blurb

What Little Leaguer doesn’t dream of walking from the dugout onto a Major League baseball field, facing his long-time idol and striking his out? Empty Seats follows three different minor-league baseball pitchers as they follow their dreams to climb the ladder from minor- to major-league ball, while facing challenges along the way—not always on the baseball diamond. This coming-of-age novel takes on success and failure in unexpected ways. One reviewer calls this book “a tragic version of ‘The Sandlot.’”

(Winner of the 2019 New Apple Award and 2019 Independent Publishing Award)

 

Author Bio

Following a successful 40-year career in public relations/marketing/media relations, Wanda Adams Fischer parlayed her love for baseball into her first novel, Empty Seats. She began writing poetry and short stories when she was in the second grade in her hometown of Weymouth, Massachusetts and has continued to write for more than six decades. In addition to her “day” job, she has been a folk music DJ on public radio for more than 40 years, including more than 37 at WAMC-FM, the Albany, New York-based National Public Radio affiliate. In 2019, Folk Alliance International inducted her into their Folk D-J Hall of Fame. A singer/songwriter in her own right, she’s produced one CD, “Singing Along with the Radio.” She’s also a competitive tennis player and has captained several United States Tennis Association senior teams that have secured berths at sectional and national events. She earned a bachelor’s degree in English from Northeastern University in Boston. She lives in Schenectady, NY, with her husband of 47 years, Bill, a retired family physician, whom she met at a coffeehouse in Boston in 1966; they have two grown children and six grandchildren. 

 

Social Media Links

 

@emptyseatsnovel

 

https://www.facebook.com/EmptySeatsNovel/

 

https://www.wandafischer.com 

 

Amazon and Other Purchase Links

 

Book: http://amzn.to/2KzWPQf 

Audio book: http://bit.ly/2TKo3UC

 

https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/empty-seats-wanda-adams-fischer/1127282887?ean=9780999504901 

 

http://wandafischer.com/buy-my-book/ 

 

Wanda Adams Fischer (2)

In 1965, I wanted to become a sportswriter. In those days, however, opportunities for women in that arena were almost non-existent. I was determined, even though my own mother told me I might as well be aiming to become the first female president or even the first female Pope. 

My friends and I went to many games at Fenway Park that summer. Sometimes, when my friends weren’t available to go with me, I’d go by myself. The Red Sox’s own broadcaster at the time, Curt Gowdy, showed me how to keep score “the way we do in the booth” one day, when he was walking through the stands.

I always kept copious notes and used the “Gowdy method” to score every game. I wrote letters to the editor of The Boston Globe and Record American, as well as my hometown newspaper, The Quincy Patriot-Ledger. My goal was to one day have a by-line on the sports pages of The Patriot-Ledger. It was, after all, the newspaper whose sports pages I read every day. 

In 1965, I even had the opportunity to watch the legendary Satchel Paige warm up in the bullpen at Fenway Park. He’d been brought there by Charlie Finley, the owner of the then-Kansas City Athletics (now the Oakland Athletics) as a publicity stunt. Satch was probably in his sixties; no one really knew how old he was. I saw him throwing, easy and slow, and walked up to the chain link fence that separated the people in the bleachers from the pitchers in the Athletics bullpen. 

Since there were very few people at that game, the security guard didn’t bother me. Usually, they’ll tell you to get back to your seat and stop bothering them.

“Mr. Paige?” I asked.

“Yes, ma’am.” (I was 15 years old and not used to being called “ma’am.”)

“Do you mind if I watch you for a while.”

“No, ma’am, that would be fine.”

I stood and watch him for about 20 minutes. He never got into that game, but he did pitch to a couple of batters the next day and even struck out Carl Yazstremzki, who would one day become a member of the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown—as did Satch himself. 

My scorecard from that game is one of the few that I never completed; it stands blank after the sixth inning, which is when I began watching him warm up. I still have it, in a place of honor—the antique hutch my grandmother left me, where I keep my baseball memorabilia.

Sportswriter—Yes or No?

After a game between the then-California Angels and the Red Sox, I was walking over the bridge that spanned the Mass Pike and led to the train station at Kenmore Square. I recognized one of the players from the California Angels, Rick Reichardt. I introduced myself, and we talked about the game as he made his way to the Kenmore Hotel, where opposing teams always stayed.  I casually mentioned to him that I was beginning to look at colleges with the aim of pursuing a career in sports writing.

He stopped walking.

“You seem like such a nice girl,” he said, “but I want to give you a sense of reality about professional sports. The guys don’t want women in the locker room or the clubhouse. They don’t want to answer questions from women, either. It’s just the truth.”

He must have seen the look on my face, because he tried to soften his statement. “I just don’t want you to get your hopes up too high,” he said. “If you decide to go forward with this, you’ll have to develop a much thicker skin.”

I thanked him for his advice, as he went one way toward his hotel and I descended the steps toward the train station. During the long train-and-bus rides home, I thought about what he’d said, then did what we did back then: I wrote him a letter, again expressing my appreciation for his thoughtfulness. He sent me a note back, saying that he hoped he wasn’t too blunt, but he wanted me to know the truth.

The 1960s brought turbulent times, with the Vietnam War and Civil Rights, and I became involved in both of those intense social movements. I never did pursue sports writing, even though my passion for sports remains to this day. 

I went on to a nearly 40-year career in public relations/marketing/media relations, with a couple of side trips in general radio broadcasting. I retired from my last job in that field in 2014, when I worked for New York State’s Office of Medicaid Inspector General.

Fifty-two years after the encounter with Rick Reichardt, I decided to act on my desire to write about sports by writing a novel about minor-league baseball. The result is Empty Seats, which focuses on the career paths and expectations of three very different young men as they seek that golden ring of baseball—making it into Major League Baseball, “The Show,” the big time. 

As for Mr. Reichardt—I tracked him down on Facebook to let him know that his lengthy association with baseball didn’t only have an impact on young men, it also had great influence on a young woman who’s now in her eighth decade of life, who never forgot a chance encounter on the bridge that still goes over the Mass Pike near Fenway Park. 

He seemed pleased. Every now and then, he sends me a picture on FB, such as one where he was in Little League and another of him and his family at a Major League Baseball game. I’m glad we’re friends now. 

Book Blurb

What Little Leaguer doesn’t dream of walking from the dugout onto a Major League baseball field, facing his long-time idol and striking his out? Empty Seats follows three different minor-league baseball pitchers as they follow their dreams to climb the ladder from minor- to major-league ball, while facing challenges along the way—not always on the baseball diamond. This coming-of-age novel takes on success and failure in unexpected ways. One reviewer calls this book “a tragic version of ‘The Sandlot.’”

(Winner of the 2019 New Apple Award and 2019 Independent Publishing Award)

 

Author Bio

Following a successful 40-year career in public relations/marketing/media relations, Wanda Adams Fischer parlayed her love for baseball into her first novel, Empty Seats. She began writing poetry and short stories when she was in the second grade in her hometown of Weymouth, Massachusetts and has continued to write for more than six decades. In addition to her “day” job, she has been a folk music DJ on public radio for more than 40 years, including more than 37 at WAMC-FM, the Albany, New York-based National Public Radio affiliate. In 2019, Folk Alliance International inducted her into their Folk D-J Hall of Fame. A singer/songwriter in her own right, she’s produced one CD, “Singing Along with the Radio.” She’s also a competitive tennis player and has captained several United States Tennis Association senior teams that have secured berths at sectional and national events. She earned a bachelor’s degree in English from Northeastern University in Boston. She lives in Schenectady, NY, with her husband of 47 years, Bill, a retired family physician, whom she met at a coffeehouse in Boston in 1966; they have two grown children and six grandchildren. 

 

Social Media Links

 

@emptyseatsnovel

 

https://www.facebook.com/EmptySeatsNovel/

 

https://www.wandafischer.com 

 

Amazon and Other Purchase Links

 

Book: http://amzn.to/2KzWPQf 

Audio book: http://bit.ly/2TKo3UC

 

https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/empty-seats-wanda-adams-fischer/1127282887?ean=9780999504901 

 

http://wandafischer.com/buy-my-book/ 

 

Empty Seats Tour banner2 (1)

Thank you for supporting this author and her tour.  To follow along with the rest of the tour, please drop in on the author’s 4WillsPub  tour page
 
If you’d like to schedule your own 4WillsPub blog tour to promote your book(s), you may do so by clicking HERE.

END HOUSE AT OASIS

dark house

 

A house so dark and bleak

That I can’t even speak.

Dark shadows glare at me

Where clear windows should be.

Do I dare venture inside?

I’ll have to swallow my pride

And quietly cross the threshold

Without being so rash and bold.

There’s a secret party inside.

I wonder if I should run or hide.

Who’s the host of this feast,

Man or dangerous beast?

THE DEAD GAME

Kindle http://amzn.to/1lKvMrP

Nook http://bit.ly/1lFdqNj

THE MIGHTY WILL FALL

glaciers

Collapsing Giants. Greenland. [1080×108] Photo by Daniel Kordan

 

The mighty will fall

that had risen tall.

 

Melting to the sea

where no one can see

the majesty of your height

or the last breath of your fight.

 

Please do not leave us now.

Don’t take your final bow.

 

The earth is a sadder place

without your glowing, white face.

 

CONSUMED BY THE SEA

Wave Breaking Beneath the Pier, Folly Beach, SC

© Doug Hickok  All Rights Reserved

 

It is here.

A force to be reckoned.

It grows by the second,

thrashing under the bridge,

leaving death in its wake.

Leave me be.

My dying wish isn’t

to be consumed by the sea.

MIDNIGHT STRIKES DOOM

 

 

Welcome to our castle.

Not to be a hassle.

But please knock on the door.

It will open once more.

Step inside, join our party.

Come and eat long and hearty.

Until midnight strikes doom on the head.

You’ll be gone except for The Dead.

 

THE DEAD GAME by Susanne Leist

A TRUE HEAVEN OF SWEETS

 

Take me to the room

where books line the walls.

Globes stand at attention.

Ladders wait to be climbed.

Cushioned chairs for reading.

Tables set for writing.

Let’s climb to the stacks,

and see what we may find.

Romance today for thee,

perhaps a mystery for me.

A confectioner’s treat,

true heaven of sweets.