THE WRITINGS OF STEPHEN JOHN MORAN
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The Poet: An Introduction

3/25/2017

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THE POET
AN INTRODUCTION

            The quiet of the library soothes my inner turbulence following the meeting with the FBI. Holding a book in my hands, I trace a finger along the spine and replay the conversation with Marcus in my head. Can I really leave Holden Farms? I’ve known nothing other than this mansion for five years. What will life be like in an apartment without the comforts of Holden Farms?
            The sound of wheels rolling on the marble hallway outside the library interrupts my reverie. George swings the doors open and Saul pushes an upright gurney rigged with multiple straps to keep the young male prisoner immobile. A mask restraint covers most of the man’s face, brown eyes darting about the library in fear as Saul halts a few feet from me, standing the prisoner and tightening a loose strap.
            Placing the book on my desk, I examine the man in front of me. Short brown hair sticks out from holes in the restraint mask. I observe pale skin and a general thinness of body, effects of his months of confinement.
            “Have you been fed?” I ask.
            No answer from the young man.
            “He can’t speak, the mask prevents his mouth from moving. As to your question, he’s been fed and cleaned. The doctor gave him a clean bill of health even if he looks a bit worse for wear.”
            George loosens the buckles at the man’s neck and pulls the mask free.
            “How have you been treated? Are you well?”
            The poet’s eyes shift to the side, spotting Saul. “I have not been mistreated in any way.”
            Saul fights a grin and I shake my head. “Would you like some coffee? I have a matter to discuss with you.”
            “I…” he begins, but again looks to Saul.
            “Speak, boy. Pretend you have a fucking spine.”
            The man takes a few deep breaths and turns his eyes to me. “I’d love coffee.”
            I nod to George who exits the library. Saul begins unlatching the young man from the gurney and removing the straight jacket binding his upper body. The man grunts with discomfort and fingers rub at the welts on his arms. Saul helps him into the chair opposite me and takes a spot several feet away, giving us space.
            "You will be released from confinement as of today.”
            George enters with coffee service and pours a cup for the young man. I wait for him to add milk and a spoon of sugar before I continue.
            “I have a job of sorts for you.”
            He sips the coffee, eyes pinned to mine. “A job? I’m not qualified for much, I’m just a poet.”
            "Not anymore. You're going to be my boyfriend and get a job. A paying one. George will find you something suitable.”
            His eyes squint with concentration and I know he doesn’t understand anything I’ve said.
            "Your new name will be Paul because I like that name.”
            "But my name is…”
            "Quiet.” I walk around the desk and sit on the arm of his chair, dangling a bare leg over his lap. “You will do what you’re told, without questions. George will set up interviews and help you secure employment. Do exactly as he instructs you. Deviate in the slightest and I’ll return you to Saul.”
            Paul gives a slight nod in answer. “Am I to sign a contract like in the movies?”
            "No contract, Paul. All you need to do is what I say. Tell me you understand.”
            He doesn’t answer and I grab my phone off the desk. Tapping the screen, I find a music selection. “Saul, you can leave us. Telling him will not do it, I must show him what it means to be my boyfriend.”
            The color in Paul’s face becomes a shade paler and I slide off the chair into his lap.
            "Lesson number one…”
COLD
MOURNING
TEA WITH THE FBI
DUET
​INTERROGATION
PURCHASE ELLA E-BOOK
PURCHASE SIGNED ELLA PAPERBACK
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Duet

3/19/2017

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duet

                  Pressing my palms flat on the table for leverage, I stand. “Leave us.”
            Without the need for further explanation, George escorts Stella from the room. When I hear the door close, I turn away from Marcus and look out the window into the garden. His shoulder brushes against mine as he joins me admiring the spring bloom, coffee cup in hand.
          “Your garden is beautiful. I particularly enjoy those burgundy colored flowers. What are those called?”
             “Wine cups. Not a flower native to Nevada, but George has a special touch.”
            “Aptly named.”
            Letting out a small sigh, I walk closer to the window. I don’t wish to discuss the finer points of gardening. “A roommate, Marcus?”
            He sips the coffee and smiles. “There’s a price for freedom Ella. Nothing is free in America.”
           The music changes and the first melancholy notes of Puccini: La bohéme begins to play. I hum quietly with the female lead, drifting into thoughts of Ray. There’s always a price for freedom, my love. Are you willing to pay the ante?
           “Why can’t you be my roommate instead of this…trainee?” Marcus spits a bit of coffee and chokes on a hearty laugh. I place my hands on my hips and wait for him to control his fit of laughter.
            “My apologies. I assure you this isn’t possible.”
            “What about the poet?”
            “Excuse me, did you say poet or pet?”
            It’s my turn to laugh. The music selection repeats and I hum once again with the words.
            “Is there a difference?”
            He shrugs and wipes the coffee from the side of the cup with a handkerchief. “I don’t know if I can arrange that, Ella. Tell me, are you in a relationship with him? What does your husband think?”
            I sigh again and return to the table. Taking a seat, I remove a cigarette from the pack and wait for Marcus to light it for me. Sucking in a deep drag, I close my eyes and enjoy the immediate sensation of lightheadedness that sweeps my brain.
            “It’s a rare man that spends time with me and remains alive. The poet will keep me out of trouble, you might appreciate that point.”
           “No, he won’t, Ella. But it is something of note that the boy remains alive. And what of your husband? You haven’t told me what he thinks.”
            “My husband doesn’t control whom I fuck.”
            “But does he know?”
          Taking another drag, I stab Marcus with my eyes and count to ten. “Other than through the computer, my husband has no contact with the outside world. He doesn’t even know the poet exists.”
            “Thank you, Ella.”
           Tapping my phone, I change the music. I want something violent. Picking a new track from a metal band dedicated to a rather famous rapist, I increase the volume. “Make it happen, Marcus.”
           “Perhaps I can secure the apartment next door for him. Would that be acceptable to you?”
          I nod in answer and increase the volume even more. Typing a text, I send the message to George.
           
Bring me the poet. 
COLD
MOURNING
TEA WITH THE FBI
​
THE POET: AN INTRODUCTION
​INTERROGATION
PURCHASE ELLA E-BOOK
PURCHASE SIGNED PAPERBACK
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#SerialPlaylist - Puccini: La bohéme - O soave fanciulla. Caruso & Melba (1907)

3/19/2017

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Turner - Mugshot #BrockTurner #Rapist 

3/18/2017

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#SerialPlaylist - Ray LaMontagne - Let It Be Me

3/18/2017

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#SerialPlaylist Mozart - Divertimento No.17 In D Major, K 334 Menuetto

3/17/2017

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Tea with the FBI

3/17/2017

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Tea with the FBI

           I follow George to the tea room. The echoes of my heels clicking on the marble floor frustrates my attempt to replay the conversation with the reporter in my mind. A rumbling in my stomach reminds me I didn’t have breakfast and I want this meeting to be over already. George pauses at the tea room entrance before opening the door. Mozart fills the lilac scented air and I spot Marcus at a table sipping tea.
           Next to him the lady from my study busies herself with the box of cookies George made for her. I nod in her general direction and take a seat opposite Marcus, waiting for George to serve me before I speak. The lady forces a thin smile while George pours tea and places cookies on a small plate for me.
            “Marcus, it’s been a long time. What do I owe the honor?”
            “Ella, the pleasure is always mine, I assure you.” Sipping the tea, he doesn’t seem in any rush to tell me the reason for his visit.
            I nibble at a vanilla cookie and wish for a plate of eggs and bacon. Get on with it. Spring your surprise. Nobody speaks and Mozart soothes my anger. I close my eyes and imagine dancing with Ray, bodies twirling to flights of violins.
            “I wanted to ask you about the apartment application you filed.” Marcus chews a cookie, pausing before getting to the point. “Why do you want an apartment downtown? That area…is a haven for violent criminals.”
            “Maybe you should tell me about your friend.” I nod in the lady’s direction.
          He smiles and traces a finger along the rim of his tea cup. “She’s in training. I asked her to create a profile of you without looking at the case file. Just Google and scraps of news from the internet.”
            “You sent a trainee to me?”
            Marcus laughs and leans back in the chair to allow George space to refill his tea. “You’ve been waiting to use that line.”
           It’s my turn to laugh, but I keep my eyes on the trainee. “Tell me, what do you think you know?”
          The lady clears her throat and places the tea cup on the saucer. “I know your husband isn’t dead. I got a court order to view his financial transactions for the previous quarter. Very successful I might add.”
            I cross my arms and nod. “Go on.”
            “Nobody I’ve interviewed has seen him. That piece of the puzzle escapes me. Is he not in Vegas with you?”
            Instead of answering, I turn to Marcus. His eyes twinkle with mischief and I know soon he’ll reveal the surprise.
            “Well, what of the apartment?”
          “I managed to secure permission for you to live outside of Holden Farms…with one condition.”
            My eyes find George, but he doesn’t give a clue if he knows what Marcus is about to say.
            “You must share the apartment with Stella. She will be your roommate.” 
COLD
MOURNING
DUET
THE POET: AN INTRODUCTION
​INTERROGATION
PURCHASE ELLA EBOOK
SIGNED PAPERBACK
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Mourning

3/14/2017

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mourning

​             The green light blinks above the door and George enters the bedroom like an apparition, gliding towards the desk to greet me, his footsteps soundless and graceful. Putting a thermometer in my mouth, he starts the coffee, eyes constant on me, looking for any sign of sickness or depression. He places a warm palm on my forehead while he reads the temperature.
            “Just right. Are you up for meetings this morning? A lady waits in your study. A reporter to be precise.”
            I sigh without answering and wait for coffee. Some mornings I wake and don’t feel right in my head. A meeting? It’s too early for all that, I’m still chasing the remnants of dreams. Father and Ray, always and forever.
            George places a cup in front of me on the desk and begins searching my closet for clothing.
            “The black dress,” I say, staring out the window into the garden.
            “It’s going to be warm…” George begins to answer, but I wave my hand.
            “I won’t be going outside.”
           Stepping into the dress, I remain still while he zips the back and tightens the bow near the neck. Following him in silence to the study, I fight to remember the dream of Ray, but it flutters out of reach. George opens the door and introduces me to a tall thin woman with pale skin and a hawk like nose that gives her a severe appearance. What can this be about? A reporter? Why didn’t I stay in bed?
            “Ms. Thomas,” she says, extending a hand.
         I grip her clammy flesh in something of a handshake before taking a seat at my desk. “How can I help you?”
            “May I call you Ella?”
       George enters to serve coffee and cookies and I wait for him to leave before answering. “You may not.”
           The lady pulls her shoulders back and sips the coffee. “I wanted to ask about your husband’s investments.”
         Tapping a remote built into the desk, I select music. Barber’s Adagio for Strings. Closing my eyes, I hum with the violins.
           “My husband’s investments? I don’t follow. Who do you work for?”
       “Business ____ magazine. We’re doing a piece on the Holden fortune and I had questions about some of the investments in your husband’s portfolio.”
       Increasing the volume a few notches, I let several bars play. “You mean my portfolio. I am not married. What husband? Someone gave you incorrect information.”
            The lady reaches for a cookie and takes a small bite. “These are very good.”
            “Yes, George is a wizard in the kitchen.”
        She takes a small notebook from her purse and scans the notes, turning a few pages before looking at me once more.
        “You aren’t married to Ray Holden III?” she asks, returning the notebook to her purse.
       “Ray Holden committed suicide on my 13th birthday. In his will, he named me beneficiary of his assets. As you can tell from my dress, I’m still in mourning.” I wait for a sign of understanding from the lady, but her eyes are empty. “This is all a matter of public record for people with the right…connections.”
           I hold the cup in both hands, absorbing the warmth. The lady’s face turns a shade of gray and I smile. “Did you know Samuel Barber composed his first piece at age 7?”
She shakes her head in the negative.
          “You should learn more about him, he led a fascinating life. Amazing what you can discover with a little research.”
           George enters to announce the FBI waits for a meeting.
          “I’m afraid business calls. George, be a doll and box some cookies for our guest to take home.”
        The lady stands and does indeed accept the box of cookies from George before exiting.
         “Where do these reporters get all this fake news?" I detect a smile on George's face, but it vanishes quickly.
      "I can't answer that, Ella. They must be reading tabloids or listening to the President."
          It's my turn to smile and think secret thoughts. "Very well, George. Send in the FBI."
COLD
TEA WITH THE FBI
DUET
THE POET: AN INTRODUCTION
​
INTERROGATION
PURCHASE ELLA E-BOOK
SIGNED ELLA PAPERBACK
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