shadow memory contest
And then, twenty minutes after I blogged, it occurs to me: I should do a contest for Shadow Memory.
If you'd like a chance to win a copy of SM, please drop me an e-mail at l_prieto @ att.net. You have until Wednesday morning to enter.
The story is quite good. Here's an excerpt.
Dean laughed.
The sound was light. It sounded real to him, carefree and happy, creating the illusion that everything was fine.
It wasn’t. It hadn’t been since his stepmother sent the e-mail asking Dean to come over to talk. That sweet, happy sound made something twist inside of Dean. He was there for his father. His ease with faking a smile or laugh made him feel like a sociopath.
Mason’s frown faded.
The ache was worth it.
“So how’ve you been?” Dean asked. Ever since Mason had been diagnosed with dementia, Dean had become attached to that question. How was he doing? Was he in pain? Would there come a day when Mason didn’t remember him?
Like a database, the answer was at once simple and complex. Physically, Mason could be fine. The dementia could twist things, make him overeat or repeatedly tap his fingers on the table. Mason’s older brother, Franklin, had gone through the same thing five years before. He’d pushed an aid down the stairs.
Not to speak ill of the dead…okay, Dean had difficulty speaking well of Franklin; that man could be mean. And that was before the dementia brushed away the facade that society had taught him to wear. When Mason was further along, what would he be like?
And would Dean one day be like that?
“I’m good,” Mason said. “I think we’re going to go to the Christmas tree farm soon.”
“Yeah?” Dean tried not to think of himself. He was there, with his father. He’d read that people with dementia-or FTD, as it was called, when people dared call it by what it was-could live with it anywhere from three to seventeen years. It was like watching someone die a little bit every day. “What kind of tree are you thinking of getting?”
“Tree? I already have a couple in my front yard.”
“They’re really nice. Japanese ornamentals?”
Mason’s brows furrowed over his blue eyes. The color looked faded, quite likely because of the lighting, but the detail struck Dean. Everything was fading about his father. He could do nothing but watch.
“I don’t know where we can get Japanese ornaments for the Christmas tree,” Mason said.
“Maybe Amazon?”
“I don’t think the Amazon is anywhere near Japan.”
Dean nodded thoughtfully. This was something he’d worried he’d have trouble with. The conversations felt like a verbal trip across monkey bars. The bars were always moving, making Dean worry that he wouldn’t be able to grab the next bar.
So far, he thought he was doing all right. He hoped he’d always be all right. Not for him-he could be awkward-but for his father. Talking like nothing was wrong made Mason happy.
“I’ll ask around, see if I can find anyone who’d know where to get some Japanese ornaments,” Dean said.
If you'd like a chance to win a copy of SM, please drop me an e-mail at l_prieto @ att.net. You have until Wednesday morning to enter.
The story is quite good. Here's an excerpt.
Dean laughed.
The sound was light. It sounded real to him, carefree and happy, creating the illusion that everything was fine.
It wasn’t. It hadn’t been since his stepmother sent the e-mail asking Dean to come over to talk. That sweet, happy sound made something twist inside of Dean. He was there for his father. His ease with faking a smile or laugh made him feel like a sociopath.
Mason’s frown faded.
The ache was worth it.
“So how’ve you been?” Dean asked. Ever since Mason had been diagnosed with dementia, Dean had become attached to that question. How was he doing? Was he in pain? Would there come a day when Mason didn’t remember him?
Like a database, the answer was at once simple and complex. Physically, Mason could be fine. The dementia could twist things, make him overeat or repeatedly tap his fingers on the table. Mason’s older brother, Franklin, had gone through the same thing five years before. He’d pushed an aid down the stairs.
Not to speak ill of the dead…okay, Dean had difficulty speaking well of Franklin; that man could be mean. And that was before the dementia brushed away the facade that society had taught him to wear. When Mason was further along, what would he be like?
And would Dean one day be like that?
“I’m good,” Mason said. “I think we’re going to go to the Christmas tree farm soon.”
“Yeah?” Dean tried not to think of himself. He was there, with his father. He’d read that people with dementia-or FTD, as it was called, when people dared call it by what it was-could live with it anywhere from three to seventeen years. It was like watching someone die a little bit every day. “What kind of tree are you thinking of getting?”
“Tree? I already have a couple in my front yard.”
“They’re really nice. Japanese ornamentals?”
Mason’s brows furrowed over his blue eyes. The color looked faded, quite likely because of the lighting, but the detail struck Dean. Everything was fading about his father. He could do nothing but watch.
“I don’t know where we can get Japanese ornaments for the Christmas tree,” Mason said.
“Maybe Amazon?”
“I don’t think the Amazon is anywhere near Japan.”
Dean nodded thoughtfully. This was something he’d worried he’d have trouble with. The conversations felt like a verbal trip across monkey bars. The bars were always moving, making Dean worry that he wouldn’t be able to grab the next bar.
So far, he thought he was doing all right. He hoped he’d always be all right. Not for him-he could be awkward-but for his father. Talking like nothing was wrong made Mason happy.
“I’ll ask around, see if I can find anyone who’d know where to get some Japanese ornaments,” Dean said.