I am a Northwest writer who has begun this path as a writer two years ago. The Gentleman Companion Trilogy, Gentleman Companion One, Two, and Three are published and available as eBooks or paperback. With years of clinical experience in my past, I have chosen to immerse readers in storylines, though fictional, clearly focus on social issues bringing an awareness of other's journeys. If I close my eyes for the slightest moment I can still picture, feel, remember, so many different lives that were impacted forever altering them emotionally and physically, while changing their own perspective of their next day's step. I know that as human souls it is easy to look away, to remain sheltered from that which causes us to become uncomfortable and I understand. However, through the trilogy and two new books that are evolving I wish only to have readers learn to understand, accept and embrace a character whose life has visible or hidden challenges. Through the words I write, readers will unravel their own steadfast opinions , open their eyes wider and expand their hearts to grow with others not away from others. http://patriciagkay.com
Gentleman Companion One
Gentleman Companion One
Gentleman Companion Two
Gentleman Companion Three
I have put together pieces of my story A Cup of Tea. Veronica who has early stage dementia is dressing for tea with her best friend Betsy. She is searching through her armoire to find the perfect dress for lunch.
Tossing the dress over onto her bed, she jumped back when a leather work boot fell on her foot. “Almost got me you nasty old boot, almost broke another one of my toenails.” Veronica raised her knee, placed her foot on the edge of the armoire, slipped off the down slipper. The nail levitated over a layer of yellow pus that formed a glue-like seal between two toes. Veronica dabbed and smeared the pus with the sleeve of her housecoat, tossed the work boot back into the closet spotting her white checkered sundress with navy blue straps.
She mumbled to herself while she pulled out the sundress hung between her navy coat jacket and navy blouse. Slipping the dress over her head, the zipper caught in her rollers before the hemline slid down her thighs covering her blue vein streaked calves. A blue plastic wrapper fell from the skirt pocket landing like a shower cap over her infected toenail. Picking up the wrapper, she chanted, “You were mine, now you are not, I miss you a lot”.
Veronica turned slightly in the mirror and saw the brown, irregular stain geographically mapped parallel to her vagina. Fifty years ago, scarlet, crimson blood gushed through her sanitary napkin trickling down her thighs filling a block of six blue patchwork fabric squares with red triangles in each center. Pulling the dark spot toward her belly button she gently laid her finger over the spot and whispered, “I never knew if you were a boy or a girl. Betsy thought you were going to be a girl with carrot colored braids.”
Veronica pulled her on her cotton panties tugging at the stretched elastic waist and the leg holes resembling shrunken flour sacks. The safety pin holding the sagging waist together at the seam scratched her shins leaving a plow like furrow on her plaques of dry skin. She pulled them high over her waist covering the memory and hiding the memory.
She pulled out her old toolbox filled with jars of makeup. Betsy had found a dream job working behind the counter at the local five and ten cent store. Betsy gave her samples of lotions, anti-aging crèmes, bunion removal drops, and cuticle strengthening polish when the sales person brought in the stores monthly purchases of foundation, rouge, eye shadow, and lipstick. Veronica would put them in color order in her toolbox after Betsy gave her a demonstration on how to apply eyeliner. Veronica pressed her face close to the mirror, “Betsy I wish you were here to help me pick colors to match my sundress. Remember how our friends would sit around your kitchen table, sipping scotch, while you taught us how to put on makeup. You would always say open your eyes wide like an owl before you put on mascara. The wrinkle cream did not help Betsy. The lines in my face look like the cracks in the riverbed during a summer drought. The lip enhancer left the edge of my lips chapped and leathery making puckering kisses painful. The tiny whiskers on my chin and under my nose collect powder and poke out like seed spouts.”
Veronica rubbed red rouge with two fingers from under the corner of her eye to the top of her lip resembling the smile of a Cheshire cat. A smudge of red settled in her sunken, shriveled cheeks. She spread a ribbon of blue eye shadow with her fingertips over the folds of her eyelids, bordering her eyebrows. Unscrewing the top of her lipstick, she pressed the plum colored stub over the irregular fissures of her lips.
Veronica stepped back from the mirror, satisfied at her appearance. Nodding to her reflection, she reached for her phone resting on the plant soil, “Betsy, I am all dressed and waiting. Our tea will be waiting when you come. I may have a short rest before you arrive but I do want you to autograph your picture in the paper.”
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