"The Manuscript", Chapter 5. By Hill Roberts (fiction thriller, written six years ago.)

Congressman Peter Howard was holding a staff meeting when Martin showed up. He had been

expecting  his old friend who had cancelled  his appointment with him a number of  times with-

out giving any specific reason.

"Martin, so good to see you." The two men shook hands warmly. Peter told his friend to sit down.

"How's life in the fast lane?   I gather you've been buying up independent radio stations over the

past twelve months...not to mention a new TV channel..."

"Hmm. News travel fast. Yes...I've been busy of late..but here I am, alive and kicking."

"Any news on the disappearance of Mrs Wyatt?" Martin inquired.

"Brandy?" Peter asked. Martin nodded. "Nice brandy glass." Martin observed.

"Waterford crystal." Peter said nonchalantly. "Ups, that's it Peter. It's too early to be drinking

really. Thanks."

"No, I haven't heard anymore about the disappearance of the Senator's wife."Peter said quietly,

sipping his brandy, looking out the window. "Let's hope they find Mrs Wyatt and that she's safe."

"The FBI and the metropolitan police are still having doubts whether the Senator committed

suicide." "Do you think there's a possibility that he did?" Martin asked.

"I haven't the slightest clue....How's Rebecca?" Peter desperately wanted to know.

"She's fine...flew to Miami with Amanda and Hannah for a week's break." Martin replied,

looking around Peter's flush office.

"Hmm. I believe Amanda is now fronting that popular program you started many years ago.

That's great. How time flies..."Peter enthused.! "No doubt Amanda must have mentioned that

I'm appearing in her show, "The Politician Comes Knocking". Martin nodded, finishing his brandy.

"Martin, let me be frank with  you."  Peter said, straightening his blue silk tie.

"As you know, I have plans of running for the Senate. Your MBO -4 flagship would be able to

help me use that platform." He said. Martin was unusually plaintive, listening to his friend,

whose grand ambitions had never faltered since their Georgetown days. The two men then

discussed briefly about Peter's appearance on Amanda's program.

"Have you heard from Suz recently?" Martin said, this time changing the topic and ignoring

Peter's habit of looking at his watch.

"Yes, at the funeral of the Senator. She said she was pursuing her application at the Pentagon.

God only knows for what reason. She's also busy with  her writing, and of course, those two

charities she founded abroad...Mind you, I could use her talent. She could be my Aide, Martin,

who knows? I mean, in the future, don't you think?"

Peter poured another brandy. "Sue always wanted to work at the Capitol Hill. That chance could

easily come from me..."

"Hmm. " Was all Martin could say. He flipped through the pages of  "Diplomats Monthly" and put

it away, showing not the slightest interest in the lifestyle of Ambassadors and their wives.

"Frankly, I remember Suz telling  me that she would be keen to work for me as one of my

political pundits at MBO-4."  Martin said sarcastically,  sounding exasperated and bored.

"But, you see Peter, with Suz, she doesn't know whether to be a part time socialite, a full time

writer or a full time activist." He added wryly, crossing his long legs, tanned polished shoes

glimmering in the reflection of beautiful sunshine.

"Seriously, Martin, wouldn't Suz be a good back-up for our campaign?"

"Errr...OUR....Our campaign? Peter, what makes you think I am on your side? We may have been

friends for a long time, but please don't presume I'm vying for your candidacy. That'd be too

presumptuous." Martin said, mimicking his friend's mannerism. Peter played with his crystal brandy

glass, forgetting that he still had to tread carefully in front of Martin's presence although there

had been moments that he found it ridiculous.

"Well, well, well. Now I know who my friends are." Peter replied cooly.

"Are you sure I can't use you as my "guiding force" in this worthwhile endeavour, Martin?" He added,

his face thoughtful, believing that his friend was just kidding.

"Peter, it may surprise you, but I've come here for another reason...rather important, if I might

add. You see, there are rumours floating around. False or not, I would like to know if there's

connection between the Senator's death and your father's...."

"Now, now. Hang on a minute, Martin. Look, let's not go into that. This is entirely and completely

disingenuous of you. How dare you point out to me that there might be a link?" Peter fumed,

his face full of unexpected fury and rage. He turned away and looked out the window to conceal

his display of anger.

"Oh, sorry. Have I touched a nerve, dear friend? I didn't mean to..."

"My father is now in a wheelchair. He could hardly think, let alone move around without somebody

with him. I mean, the guy is almost a vegetable. How could you even think that, Martin?"

"Peter...I didn't mean to broach that sensitive topic. You know how rumours can affect some...

well, you know...false or not....people do....talk."

Somehow, it seemed strange that these two very successful men would now be at odds merely

because of Peter's father. Martin had never pretended to like  Peter Senior who was and always

had been a colossal son of a bitch. To go through the rigmarole of reminding the Congressman

would be tantamount to ego-bashing in its lowest form.

There was a long silence. The two men drank their brandy, quietly assessing each other's

patience. Martin, as always, would wait for Peter to speak. "Sorry, I lost my temper."

"That's OK." Martin replied.

"I'm really looking forward to appearing in your niece's program."

"My niece and I are partners in this program. We shall endeavour and try our best to make it one

of the best in the country, and you, my friend will have to do a good job of it convincing viewers

that you are worth your salt, as a Senator.

"Martin, tell me more about your niece."

"Second to none: she's independent, speaks her mind, beautiful, successful, very professional."

"How nice to hear...Oh, do give my best regards to her mother, Rebecca. I know it's been a

while since I last saw her." Peter added, walking towards the window. He never wanted to show

Martin how much he really cared for his sister.

"Martin, you're on my side, aren't you? Peter almost begged for reassurances.

"You can count on me, you know that."

The two men shook hands firmly. Peter almost wanted to give him a big hug. Martin had always been

a reliable friend. "Give my love to Greta and the boys, will you?"

I sure will. You know that she's very fond of you. And she's a fan, too, if truth be known." He winked

at Martin. "I'd like you and the family to come and have dinner with us after the elections. We'd love

to have you." Peter meant what he said.

"Sure. I'll mention it to Becky and the rest."

"So good to see you, Martin."The two men shook hands once again, this time looking at each

other's eyes. They may have had their differences but at least  Martin had always found Peter

 

"The Manuscript", end of Chapter 5. By Hill Roberts (fiction thriller) unedited version, written

six years ago. Chapter 6 follows tomorrow, on Amanda Bakker's background...

"The Manuscript", chapter 4. Fiction, thriller, unedited version, written six years ago, by Hill Roberts

Good morning, Internetters. Sorry I haven't been back to continue this entry. My phone was accidentally

disconnected and had to wait another couple of days to correct the system. So, I hope you are all in the

best of health (and wealth) to be able to share your thoughts, opinions, ideas.

Chapter 4 begins...

"Dad, it's Peter."

"Hello, son. I was just about to give you a call. " His father said, munching his last bit of apple.

"Listen, what I'd like to know is if you've already mobilized your staff and aides to begin the campaign."

"Oh, Dad, Dad...Can't you just leave that for one moment...there's something I'd like to discuss with

you." Peter said, sounding urgent.

"Oh, are you still on about that trust I promised you?"

"No, Dad. This has nothing to do with that trust....it has a lot to do...."Peter was interrupted  by a buzz

from his assistant.

"Sir, the President is on line one."

"Dad, I've got to go...bye." Peter almost slammed the phone down. "Good morning, Mister President."

He said, signaling the aide to go away.  "Yes, Mister President, what can I do for you?" He said,

looking out the window. The gardeners had just been trimming the hedges and plants. The roses were

in full bloom.

"Peter, there's  something III'd like you to look into...I believe you are Suzanne Sands' old friend....

She has been a good friend for quite a long time now. We practically grew up together."

Peter replied, looking rather puzzled. What has Suz got to do with this president he thought.

"Well, since she has been demoted and eventually resigned from the Pentagon, I gather she has been

devoting her time and money to ban personnel land mines."

"Sir...I...yes...she's involved actively in it, so I believe. Frankly, at first I didn't think she'd pursue such

an endeavour seriously."

Her two charities in South Africa are still active....and I heard  they're getting support from that part

of the world."

"What do you want me to do, Mister President?"

"Peter, how can she possibly demand from this administration to ban it? For Christ's sake, this is our

lifeline...to combat our foreign troubles." The President replied, his voice vehement. "Our multi-national

corporations need these mines to further our country's worldwide interests. They are extremely useful

in many, many ways. They're used for defensive purposes."

"Sir, they are also culprits. Mines do main and kill people, right? I mean...I mean...if used inappropriately,

of course." Peter replied, without thinking of the consequences  to  his blossoming career. I have a lot

to learn he told himself. There was utter silence. The President was still on the line heaving.

The two men chatted for a while. The President also asked about the bill Peter passed on abortion.

"Fine...fine..."Peter hastily added, wishing for the President to stop asking more questions.  "Good.

Well, think about what we've just discussed...Peter, I  think you'll make a good senator.No, doubt,

your father will be very proud of you."

"Thank you Mister President. Goodbye."

Dammit, dammit, I don't need this now, Peter was fuming to himself. He was caught off-balance by the

President's questions.  "Get me Martin, will you?" He ordered his secretary. "Yes, sir, right away."

"Sir, it's Amanda Bakker. Martin is not available. Would you like to speak to her?"

"Perfect...just the person I need." He said sarcastically. "Get me some more of those tuna sandwiches,

will you? I'm starving."

"Hello?"

"Amanda, it's Peter Ho...."

"Of course, I know who you are, Mister Howard." She interrupted. "What can I do for you. My uncle is

in a meeting. He's been busy finalizing a deal with a TV channel. I think he finds it a good idea to

spread his wings, just a little bit, if I might add."  Amanda said, sounding cheerful and chatty.

"Amanda, I'll go straight to the point. When can I appear on your program, Amanda?"

You know the rules, sir. You set your own time and schedule. Then I can prepare the questions,

especially, hmmm, personal ones...and of course, you can talk about your favourite charity...I think

you already know all those..."

"Yes, I know...I know..."

"Do  you have any charity in mind, Congressman Howard?"

"Yes, but I can't just tell you right now. OK?"

There was a long pause.

"How's Rebecca...I mean, how's your mother? Is she OK?"

"Oh, she's fine, she's fine. Just fine, sir. She goes abroad a lot nowadays, with her best friend, Hannah."

"Do give my best to your mother....tell her...tell her...oh, tell her I look forward to seeing her again. My

aide will get in touch with you as soon as we finalize the date and time. By the way, my wife is a great

fan of yours."

"Thank you. That's nice to hear."

"See you later, Amanda."

An hour later, Martin O'Brien emerged from the Board Room to officially announce that MBO had just

acquired its first TV channel and it would be airing in a month's time.

"The Manuscript", Chapter 4 ends...Fiction, thriller, unedited version.

Dear Internetters, please be patient. It will be very thrilling, believe me. Meanwhile, it's goodnight from

Hill, your co-Internetter and new Space Friend. See you and keep well, guys!

If this is the first time that you're receiving an e-mail through somebody's space, it's because it's not easy to get

in touch with a famous, powerful person like you.

Thank you for your time and warm regards to you.

Your sincerely,

Hill Roberts (Mrs)

Good, morning, internetters from all over the world !!!You might wonder why I'm using the word "internetter",,

Perhaps, it's a new word that I'm trying to introduce since we do not know each other personally or other-

wise. Maybe, it should read, Internetter.  Give me your opinion what you think of this new word that I've

just thought of, today, at 1020hours, Marbella, Spain.

Anyway, I'm interrupting Chapter 4 of the fiction thriller, "The Manuscript" to blog this new entry

entitled: "The Ballad of the Third World", by "Kim" Roberts, my original pseudonym.  Thank you for

your time.

"The Ballad of the Third World", by Hill Roberts, written in 1996

Its squalor abound from corner to corner

the shacks and shanty towns spreading by the  hour

baby boom or population explosion ignored in Third World nations

while the West sit back and witness this tragic scenario;

Numerous children play in filthy streets

unkempt and unfed they beg in bare feet

as their parents await for hand-outs and gifts

the environment around them offers them no beef;

As the governments increase prices of essential goods and services

labour unions and coup plotters meet and discuss

the downfall of corrupt men seems difficult to eradicate

they take to the square and protest about their fate;

Allowing the military they back up their demands

thugs and goons carry on with their cruel comeuppance

taking advantage of a society so maligned

conning the people has become an erstwhile pride;

 

People vote for anyone who gives

a rupee, a kilo of rice, a present one perceives

thoughts of survival hardly matter today

for tomorrow another new crook will come around and prey;

Deception,  corruption, meaningless rhetoric

elected government officials promise changes oh! so historic

as ignorant and wary voters listen to windy lies

these "elect-me" opportunists prop up their close ties;

Ties with the rich, so powerfully conceited

lining their pockets an endless "bit-by-bit"

as they climb the ladder  of Ministries they cry

"a piece of this" and "a piece of that" their lips hardly get dry;

As Third World countries collapse into more and more chaos

people emigrate and avoid the pretentious

fed up with extraordinary lies they either sit on their backside

or drag their tired flock but nowhere to go and hide;

Dictators yield only to U.S. Dollars

Swiss Bank Accounts are held and hidden in amazing cellars

as they verify how much they can buy government positions

wielding enough pens ready to pounce and write-off their opposition;

A day, a month, a year passes by

the chronic diseases of hard days reeking softly by

malaria, cholera, typhoid and dysentery

hospitals and clinics sending dead people to the cemetery;

Hunger is created by people who don't work

expecting everything to be handed in a Chinese wok

noodles and French fries not easy to get hold of

while those in power share nothing but cold and cough;

Population explosion graft and corruption

this Third World scenario can have another option

if together they vote without the usual "money-in-the-palm"

so endemic in rural areas it's difficult to calm;

Bribery, bribery practicing more bribery

complaints unheard of they are hooked with the old and weary

incessant demands, fruitless encounters achieve not a thing

as the cries of people become muffled, no one seems to do anything;

Posturing politicians conglomerate in coffee shops

smoking their heads off, discussing the country's policies and cops

those lingering doubts of concern are no subject of worry

while the homeless people go around begging for mercy and money;

Elections come and go like a vicious merry-go-round

the same Rambo people promise and astound

their list of lies as long as their arms

the hell that they bring is nothing but lukewarm;

Approving this disgusting attitude is rarely opposed

as guns and Kalashnikovs  are aimed and proposed

fearful of recriminations the genuine politicians step back

allowing once again crooks, for the umpteenth time to settle and unpack;

People power has come and gone

ludicrous officials engage in a tone

disrupting radio stations broadcasting yet an other promise

but this time it seems they have found their demise;

No progress can be made so long as political seekers don't change

people without honest government officials will never obey

only fools and bulls gallop with pathetic style and greed

as they watch the same thing happening, heaven forbid;

No luck it seems, no temptation so real

ferocious words are imagined so unreal and surreal

strange though for some, a Picasso painting so depicts

the abstract figure of a goon is no more than a bunch of toothpicks;

As the West dither to help but claw for more world power

Third World countries are encouraged to cower

behind rags and filth behind fiction and truth

scared and harassed they inspire nothing but a light push;

Third World countries listen to the West preach

about poverty and economic development but no one to impeach

they tell their humiliating cousins to stop producing more babies

economic assistance and secret fat payroll will greatly be reduced;

Some radio announcers as well as TV broadcasters

insist on good grooming minus the punch and substance

taking no challenges from important national issues

for fear of reprisals, forever mindful of the "shoo-shoo";

If things do change rather than remain

static or constant people have no gain

stoic as a concrete block cynics make their way

prejudices to dirty tricks may either swing or sway;

What is so puzzling is the strength and resilience

of some survivors of grinding poverty keeping their silence

unaware or not they take it with accustomed grace

like paupers in peacock thrones they set and follow the pace;

However they try to get back on their feet

patting themselves is never a feat

hence struggling with basic necessities may or may not exist

inside dealings and handshakes nicely co-exist;

"But, that's life," they squirm, as they keep on saying

never affected by others not paying

whether it's "gratis" or something indeed long overdue

"under the table, please," is often a source of cue;

So, life goes on the same as a century ago

technology and training, know-how a big No

as politicians rest and play, party their way to power

once again, the people have to bear and simply kowtow;

To amplify the country's ills is not enough to bolt

these politicians who speak, give no hope but jolts

smooth words and remarks are sources of many tricks

send-offs and a few cents uncouth but take your pick;

Thinly-veiled references, empty of its consequences

making for lost time, forming countless more sequences

sequestering properties provoking a new syndrome

impounding corporations sealing them with chrome;

Absence of health care for people of all walks of life

life's endless miseries, no protection but unwarranted strife

no attempts have been made  to rectify their country's failures

bounded by lack of faith, enduring struggling caricatures;

No effort is made to improve the state of affairs

no fervour, no enthusiasm not even a scrap to bear

no amount of perseverance, patience or beliefs

the truth that besets them is compounded by tiffs;

Family planning is no more than an extra pep talk

where the self-righteous and the pious condemn it and balk

fairness to unborn children touches no sensitive chord

"God will provide," as they sigh and multiply overboard;

Logic and sensitivities are thrown out of the window

no amount of derision will change people's view

for babies aborted, children rejected

a self-inflicted crime, albeit without any cause or hatred;

"Hire" or "Buy" henchmen thoroughly do their job

of finishing touches like corns in a cob

"Tell me no more," people haplessly shake their heads

"Be very cautious," lest they get people running or dead;

"I'll buy you a cup of coffee," politicians and businessmen alike

they drink in "do not disturb"  boardrooms and offer no hikes

whatever people think does not really bother them

for being in power is always a lifetime gem;

Quality of life is almost non-existent

as people scavenge in rubbish tips for their own subsistence

politicians glower and order sidekicks about

scoring political points count no more than a bad, bad sprout

Inhale, exhale that's all they do these days

finding no faults but always promptly askew

in their palatial   homes gloating politicians clap their hands

domestic servants and henchmen crowd like eager bands;

 

No sensible economic markets are regularly mapped out

no regard whatsoever for its welfare and clout

no amount of macro-economics will cater to a society

where indifference and expediency clash with so much pity;

Look around and there's no tinge of improvement

why is it that politicians don't make up an effective  movement?

the vacuum they leave is degrading and appalling

yet, whenever they need people's vote, they're around constantly smiling;

"One for you and two for me," a statement full of irony and pain

repulsive as it sounds sticking closely in their brain

systematically inconsiderate they wallow like corporate creeps

while ordinary folks gather, once more, a few lousy tips.

From my Collection of Contemporary Poems, unpublished, by Hill Roberts, 20th April 2008, written in 1996.

The funeral service lasted an hour. The Senator's two daughters, their husband and their children

also attended but hardly spoke to the politicians. The President spoke briefly to them and left right

away avoiding  the reporters and camera crews. Security was extremely tight. One of the daughters

gave a brief statement, thanking people who had shown their support and concern. Almost everyone

wore black, including Joan Beavers who had taken note of everyone who was there. She was the

first reporter at the scene when the car of the Senator's wife was found in the Potomac river.

Outside the churchyard, Peter and Greta greeted the reporters. They smiled at photographers and

well wishers. Peter showed grace and polish. From afar, his father had been watching him and the

huge crowd that had built up long before the funeral started. The custom built vehicle had made

it easy for Mister Howard to move around with ease.

"Let's go." He ordered his two burly assistants to fasten and secure him, positioning the wheel

chair facing the other end so he could have a better view of the churchyard. Joan Beavers

tried to give chase to the moving vehicle but it was too late. She was sure it was Peter's

father in that vehicle. Mister Howard glared at her,Other reporters were still interviewing Peter.

"Are you running for the Senate?"

"Yes."

"Any idea why Senator Wyatt would commit suicide?"

"Guys, please, have some respect...You know I can't answer that question. Ok, that's it."

His wife Greta chatted briefly with the Senator's daughters before getting in the car. Peter,

too, walked towards them and embraced them, assuring them that he'd help in looking for

their missing mother.  They thanked him and went back inside the church to speak to the

pastor.

"The Manuscript",Chapter 3, ends. Well, folks, hope you've enjoyed the first three chapters. Hope to

see you again next time. As for perfection, well, I do not believe in it, hence, when I planned to

open My Space, I made sure that my space would be interesting without making it too professional

in appearance and format. I'd rather my space is informal, warm and down-to-earth.

"Sir, your father is on line two." The secretary said as Peter was preparing a draft for his speech the following day with his speech writer. "Hi, Dad. I heard you're not attending the funeral of Uncle Paul."

"I've been trying to ring  you all day. Did you change your cell phone and didn't tell me about it?" Mr Howard demanded to know. As usual, his bossy way was emitting through the phone. Peter had tried

his utmost to be patient with his father, who was developing  into a  pretty odious person. He had a few

recollection of his father having a possessive nature with a short fuse to boot. No matter how hard he

compromised, the more his father pressed on with his desire to see his son become a senator.

"Dad, I' sorry. I've been really busy.We are preparing to make the transition as smooth as possible."

"You're surrounded by good and able advisers, there's no need to be so worried." Peter's father

reassured him.

"Until they find out the cause of Senator Wyatt's death, I just couldn't meddle into this mess. People

will talk." He replied,drinking his coffee. "Any news on Auntie Pat?"

Who knows? I don't care. She's gone. She's only the Senator's wife. She has never been involved

in his political life. You and I know it. Now, get on and plan your candidacy. You know you're the

ideal choice for it." Peter's father said impatiently."When are you coming to see me and your

mother? We've been expecting you and Greta last week for dinner and you never showed up, let

alone call us up to say you couldn't make it."

"Dad, I'm in a middle of an important meeting. I'll call you tonight, and |I'll give you my new cell

phone number, OK?" Peter said quietly. He then told his secretary never to interrupt him in a

meeting. "Next time, when I'm in a middle of something  really important, please don't tell my

father  I'm around, got it?" He said angrily.  His secretary apologised and gave him some papers.

He thanked her. The speech writer continued editing Peter's speech, without even looking up.

"Any news on the disappearance of Mrs Wyatt?"

"Nope. The police and the FBI have gone to the Senator's house and sealed it until they find out

more..."the aide replied.

"That's all. See you later. Thanks." Peter said in his customary polite way.

He was getting ready to attend the funeral of the Senator to be held at Richmond, Virginia. The

President and the Vice President , along with their wives would also be attending.

space

espacio de Hill "Emigrating", By "Kim" Roberts, Hill's original pseudonym.  40, lines. The abridged version of the same poem,

can be found in, Memories of the Millennium: The Best Poems and Poets of the 20th Century, 2001."Emigrating", 20 lines, can be found on page 270.

"Emigrating"

They flow and flow over from five continents

from boat people to refugees, to Asians from the sub-continent

searching for a better life they risk life and limb

legal and illegal, they clamber to be taken in;

Illegals pay middlemen to cower and hide in vans and lorries

the legals carry valid passports and money

tatty-looking illegals dodging an army

well-dressed legals going through without any cause or worry;

Scruffy-looking boat people flock to many regions

to the Far East and USA, Canada and European bastions

sailing in decrepit boats, braving the rough seas

incessantly praying for pirates not to seize;

They fight for their rights, these legals and illegals

saving all effort, money and gall

while authorities come and rough them about
threatening them all with their distaste and pout

The poorer they are the less prerogative they have

protected by no one, unwanted by half

thrown in tight security camps, crammed and utterly filthy

whatever shame left is all due to self-pity;

Resentment is mounting not fir any reason

forcefully transferred commotion can't season

like unpalatable food it's spat with prejudice

governments, obviously sick, will never admit it;

Once officially admitted the legals toil and toil

while, illegals, on the other hand, recoil

its spoils unshared, always feeling rejected

fighting on is useless holding out should be met;

Like pariahs in strange lands dejected and humiliated

suffering those moments like animals in a cage

illegals are told there's no room for them all

while the legals survive with reason to enthral;

Sorting them all out these authorities often do,

staring blankly at their faces, fuming quietly, "Go!"

as illegals are sent back or punished in some cases

entry for the moneyed legals clearly pleases authorities' faces;

Bank accounts matter and so does colour

cultural differences slamming the distinction

characters and features effectively function

when eliminating the illegals is done at random....

To my Spaces Friends: This poem was written in 1998, Hope you can express yourselves and tell Hill what you

think. Thanks and see you next time for Chapter 3 of my book, "The Manuscript", fiction thriller, unedited version,

written six years ago. It's cold and raining in Marbella, Spain at the moment.

S

(Thriller)Hi, I'm back. Needed to rest a bit, just tired. We went for a drive out, had a good

Spanish lunch...) Now, let's go back to Washington, D.C. I love this place. Hope to visit

this beautiful capital again.)

The two daughters of Senator Wyatt had now arrived from New York and went straight to

their father's  house. They were interviewed briefly and were told to stay in the  house. Florence

and Dorothy were both married with children. Their husbands were to join them later as they had

to make arrangements before leaving their respective places of work.

"It's just been confirmed that the black Cadillac is indeed owned by Mrs Wyatt. The divers had been

in and out of the river trying to find clues and if Mrs Wyatt was in the car when the it plunged. So

far no body had been found." The first reporter at the scene said. Other TV and radio reporters

were also at the scene interviewing anyone who may have seen the car prior to the accident.

Some people allowed themselves  to be interviewed for the sole purpose of appearing on prime

time TV. Some were simply making up stories. Others were not inclined to talk.

So, far the FBI had said nothing about the inexplicable death of the Senator. They were now in the

• process of acting on a tip from one of the witnesses  claiming that he had seen the black Cadillac

being forced by another  white van into the river just before dawn. The FBI special agents were now

interviewing  this man who was believed to be living across the river  on the fifth floor of his apartment

building. According to the man, he was having problems sleeping that night that he stayed in the

balcony to cool off."Then I saw this big white van pushing ...or....I think  forcing the black car over

the river." The stocky man said, excited over the prospect of seeing himself on prime time TV.

"Anything else,sir?"  One of the FBI agents asked. "Well, I saw this man getting out of the van...and went

inside again..."

"How many were in the van?"

"I think....I think..I swear I saw another person going inside the van..."

"Could you describe the person with him? Was it a man, a woman...?"

"Sir, I cannot tell you for sure. It was a bit dark, around four or five in the morning."

"In other words, you really can't say whether it was a he or a she, right?"

"No, sir...afraid not."

The stocky man was told not to leave town  in case they would get in touch with him

again. At least, they already had one solid witness.

"Let's hope this helps us in our inquiries later." The FBI agent said. He was thorough,

if not a bit meticulous, but in this line of work, FBI agents had been trained to  be

precise, thorough and meticulous. Each detail was vital. Each witness was important.

Each vital clue should be investigated and reported. That's how they work.

Tributes had already been coming in from the other Senators and Congressmen through

TV, Radio, cable and satellite channels, the Internet, e-mail from personal friends. The

President and Vice-President  had also expressed their deepest sympathies to the family

and had confirmed their presence to attend the funeral service. They were still utterly

puzzled as to the whereabouts of his wife. They had also been receiving hoax callers

saying that they had spotted Mrs Wyatt in as far away as San Diego, California.

All callers had been monitored and were still  being monitored. The hoaxers had been warned

not to interfere with the ongoing investigation.

"We shall prosecute those who are making these calls." The FBI agent said.

Meanwhile, the Sands and Howard families had also expressed their sadness at the loss

of their good friend. Peter and Greta had spoken of their shock  and disbelief at the way

news reports had portrayed the late Senator's death. They too would be praying  for the

safe return of his wife whose disappearance  shocked everyone.

"The Manuscript", end of Chapter 2...this is entirely fiction, unedited version, written six years ago.

Hope to see you again next time. Thanks for your time. I appreciate it. Hill signing out)

ca

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Chapter 2, "The Manuscript", by Hill Roberts. (original draft, unedited version, written six years ago...)

The FBI  agents  chatted with each other after surveying parts of Kathy's study. They had collected items vital to their investigation, They also found some very old documents. The documents didn't

seem to make any sense. The Senator's bedroom was undisturbed and Mrs. Wyatt's wardrobe was still

full of clothes, pairs of expensive shoes, clothing accessories, jewellery, certainly nothing to suggest

that would arouse suspicion or foul play.

"Has anyone been in contact with Mrs Wyatt?" the FBI agent asked the female agent who had been

going through some papers she had found in the drawer. "No, not yet....I believe there has been

a tragic accident in the Potomac river. The other special agent's mobile phone also rang to confirm it.

"Are you sure it's Mrs Wyatt's car?" The FBI agent asked, his voice anxious. This was an unexpected

development."We don't know for sure." The police officer replied. Mrs Wyatt had been known to drive

two or more cars. On Saturdays, she would usually drive the cadillac to do some shopping with her

trusted  housekeeper. She had always felt safer  in a bigger car.

Five police officers and two special agents were told to remain in the mansion and secure the stately

home. The other two special agents  who received the calls left quickly and hopped in the waiting

helicopter.

The black cadillac  was now afloat ready to be hoisted back on dry land. Divers were on standby.

A crowd of people were told to keep out as they gathered curiously to see if divers had found anything.

Tourists nearby came rushing, ogling and taking pictures of the car and the river where it plunged.

Journalists too were now arriving with their camera crews and producers.

"Stand back! Stand back!" The police officers ordered as they hurriedly cordoned off the area. The

cadillac's windshield  had been smashed perhaps due to the impact. Divers  continued searching

the river. "It's empty! This car is empty!"One diver shouted, waving to the police officers. Indeed,

the car didn't even have any passengers in it. Mrs Wyatt was nowhere to be found. Where was

Mrs Wyatt and who was driving the car? When did the car plunge into the river? One famous

reporter , Joan Beavers arrived at the scene and began interviewing people.  So far, there were

no answers. The mystery surrounding the Senator's wife's disappearance would certainly raise

many doubts.

 

A handful of FBI agents and police officers had already arrived at the Senator's mansion. Journalists

and reporters were now gathering outside in the huge manicured lawn, by the swimming pool. The

Virginia police quickly told them to disperse and cordoned off the area. Only the Senator's house

household staff were allowed access although each of them was thoroughly checked.

The housekeeper and the cook were interviewed separately. According to the housekeeper, she had

taken the weekend off since she was invited to attend a friend's wedding in New Jersey. She dried

her puffy eyes. She had been working for the Wyatts for a good number of years.

"The Senator had a small party that went through the night." The cook said, She wiped her tears.

She, too, had been crying. She was very fond of the Wyatts.

"And...what time did the party finish?"  The police officer leading the investigation asked.

"I think...I think....it was around two thirty in the morning." The cook replied. She was too

distraught to be interviewed. Nevertheless, she answered all the questions. The housekeeper

tried to calm her down. The two women wept openly. They had become very close to the Senator and

Mrs Wyatt and the senator's sudden death had proved unbearable.

"Would you know if other staff members had been in touch with Mrs Wyatt?"

"No, sir...Mrs Wyatt was not actually at the party...I mean, she was here but didn't stay." The cook

added, still rubbing her hands. "You mean, Mrs Wyatt was here all day and left when the guests arrived,

is that what you're trying to tell the police officer?" The FBI intervened impatiently. The cook nodded.

"Sir, I'm too upset...Can I go now?" She pleaded. "Yes, you may go." The FBI said. He shook his head,
wondering just what on earth happened that night. I don't want you to leave the premises. Tell the

others to stay. They will all be interviewed later."

The handgun used by the Senator had two bullets missing. It was then taken away for forensic tests.

It had been in the Senator's possession  for ten years and had registered it under his name only.

Meanwhile, the black cadillac  had been towed away for further forensic analysis. It could hold

vital clues as to the whereabouts of Mrs Wyatt who was now officially declared  missing by police

officers.

Note> Chapter 2 continues...this is fiction only, unedited version. Thanks for your patience. See you later.

"The Virgins of Arkansas", by "Kim" Roberts, Hill's original pseudonym. This poem, 44 lines, unabridged version. The abridged version, 20 lines, was read during the International Society of Poets held in Washington, D.C. in August

2000. Unfortunately, this particular poem didn't win, perhaps, it was due to the fact that Americans believe in

their right to own a gun, The poem was written after the massacre of four girls and a schoolteacher  in a small town

in Jonesboro, Arkansas (The correct spelling of this particular town in Arkansas escapes me, my apologies.) The abridged version can be found in "Enchanted Dreams: The Anthology of Poems, The Poetry Guild, 1998, page 89.

Thank you for reading this poignant poem...

"The Virgins of Arkansas"

In one fell swoop, they lay bloodied;

a terrible clean swipe from two angry buddies.

hundreds of rounds of ammunition and guns

camouflage gear contemplating more stunts;

A simple fire alarm triggered them together

as school children assembled  unaware of the bother

Golden and Johnson spraying them with calm

targeting pretty girls, their teacher's protecting arm;

The shrill, the endless screams, the sight of the fallen

young girls grapple to save the helpless  and sullen

as these two boys emerge triumphant in their cause

the bushes behind them begin counting the loss;

 

The culture of guns, that culture they behold

happening so often it's hard to get bold

awful they may seem this accepting citizenry

protecting them from patches of harm and endless bully;

Oh, God..those kids, their gentle loving faces

disturbed by the sound, a killing bunch of loonies

slighted and feeling jilted, young romance eases love

humbled and rejected they come back with avenging wallop;

Whose right is it to make these gun laws?

Whose right is it to accept and wallow?

what every citizen needs forestalling its dream

is protecting oneself good enough to make a team?

Lobbyists, pray tell, how can one really grasp

the idea that guns are OK, not easy to scrap

"It is our fundamental right to protect ourselves..."

Is it also right to impress themselves?

No shock, no grit, no amount of pathetic yelling

it supposes understanding but not its fervent coming

can anyone believe a gun can solve and defend

when outrageous silly people aim to offend

those ways routine, en route to continue

the savagery, the pain, a quiet retinue

if hatred unmasks embroilment its whim

tearing fears, all told, no Hollywood can trim;

America, America, you claim to be so sane

those goons, those guns, an armoury so vain

how innocent those lives blazing firearms uphold

the virgins of small towns self-inflicting and cold....

(End of poem, Virgins of Arkansas. You might ask, why "virgins"? Answer: because they were just children, just kids. Why, oh, why did they do it?

espacio de Hill

Re: "Land Mines, by "Kim" Roberts, Hill's former pseudonym, there were some typing errors in a couple of lines, e.g.

Line 21 should read: No more Diana, no more of her untiring support..."

Line 29 should read: they crawl, they beg, they lie about in cases..."

espacio de Hill

espacio de Hill

"Landmines", unabridged version, 40 lines., by "Kim" Roberts, Hill's original pseudonym. The abridged version

with 20 lines had won Silver Medal at the International Society of Poets held in Washington, D.C. U.S.A in

August 2000. For those who are against landmines, this is the time to appreciate my work. Thanks for your

time.

"Landmines",40 lines, original version

She slips, he balances, that ghastly look ahead,

for more of those mines the scares and no bread,

a step ahead, a mile or two to walk,

crutches unsuitable, those stares can talk;

expressionless victims in vain they re-appear

feet and artificial limbs officials disappear

the millions of land mines scattered worldwide

that undetected zeal with no one to guide;

the rubble, the grazing land, those mountains and hills

unperturbed by the fuss staying calmly that kills

"Keep Off" and "Danger" signs are only simple words

as poor farmers and peasants gather food and no awards;

the crippled, the mutilated, those kids in disrepair

the real cost of it leaves no one to spare

land mines so cheap. so easy to lay

millions of them still waiting to bay;

no more Diana, no more of untiring support

jetsetting to Angola making instant rapport

seriously active she begged them to be banned

an outcry so moving she pushed with a gentle hand;

that tunnel of hope reminds you and me

it brings forth truth but nowhere to see

brushing the tone of moderation and diplomacy

while real victims of mines recognise no supremacy;

the crawl, they beg, the lie about in cases

the peace and quiet and ugly open spaces

giving up that hope, giving up a dream

their knowledge of life is limited to a scream;

so near, yet far, estranged and no help

they try to reach out they can  only yelp

the barking, the mooing as if there's no more  hell

a donation, a clasp, and nothing more to quell;

"Spell it out why we need those mines,"

suppliers survive, factories an endless spine

the real angst of victims is their own uselessness

dutiful Red Cross always ending up to assess;

One, two, three and four, make a million more

five, six, seven, eight, add up to the fore

nine, ten, eleven, twelve forget unlucky thirteen

the nth victim of that mine lay unconscious, unforeseen...

The abridged version of 20 lines also won Editor's Choice Award, 1999, International Library of Poetry, UK. Also Published in the Anthology: Woodland Echoes. It was also integrated in a cassette tape with ten other best poems,

1999.

Re Chapter 1, "The Manuscript", unedited version. My apologies to readers, friends, space friends for not checking

typographical errors. It's so late now, I couldn't see anymore, just tired, really . Hope you can give me your feedback

whenever you've got time. Thanks. I'll try to use the icons correctly next time. Bye...

"The Manuscript", Chapter 1 continues...by Hill Roberts, unedited version only,

dear reader, friend, space friends...

Kathy teased danger with danger.at the heart of it would be her own life. Her fatalistic view of it seemed easy to define although her style would be more rehearsed each time she felt that danger was lurking nearby. "What's

the catch? In return, what can you do for me?" She asked slowly, emphasising each word, her mind reeling from the

imminent danger she knew she'd find herself in, sooner or later. The knowledge of that particular danger had finally

come. "The tapes, Kathy...we want those tapes, righ now...no catch, no return...you know what I mean." The older

man replied in his usual sarcastic tone. He continued  smoking his Cuban cigar. The younger man gripped her shoulders so hard she let out a pain. "You're hurting me. Stop it." She almost begged, her eyes still on the phone

desk . She changed her tactic. It would be arrogant to resist under such circumstances. "Let me go, please...I'll...

I'll give them to you...just let me go, OK?" He release her. Slowly, she got up, straightening  her blouse,. She took off

her high heels. She bent down, pretending to pick up something on the floor. The younger man stood infront of her, watching her every move. She picked up her shoe, hitting him hard on the face."Ouch....ughhh....."he moaned, touching his bleeding face, The older man quickly got up and tried to punch her. She dodged  his fist. She kicked

him hard and ran. She opened the drawer to get the gun. It wasn't there. She reached for the front door. It was

locked. She then ran to the bedroom and tried to lock herself in.

He caught up with her. He pulled her hair. They struggled. Kathy kicked him on the groin. She managed to reach

the balcony overlooking the Potomac river. She tried to shout for help. He pulled her back. She clung on to the

ledge.He held her mouth tightly Kathy could hardly breathe. She bit him. He didn't let go. They struggled again

and again.Kathy was strong, but not as strong as this man she once had an affair with.

He pulled her leg. She kicked him with brutal force. Indeed, Kathy had developed into a strong woman when she

joined a kick-boxing club after being teased for being lanky in her younger days. Kathy hit the man again on the

face. He winced. She kicked him on shin and dragged him towards the balcony. The man held her waist, pulling

her skirt way down. She slipped. She lay motionless.

"This bitch is strong." The general said. The younger man nodded. Kathy was listening, biding her time. She could

see them whispering to one another. She got up slowly and pushed one of them and quickly made her way to the

bathroom and locked  herself in. The two men gave chase and tried to push their way inside to no avail.

Kathy kept calm.She looked for the baseball bat. She found it underneath her bed. She stood by the side of  the

door. The two men kept pushing the door open. Finally, it gave way. They looked around. She hit the younger

man on the knee. He fell. The older man  struggled to get the bat from her. She hit  him on the back.

She hit him again and again until he fell  near the bathroom door.

"You bitch, you bitch."  The general shouted. "Come back here."

"Don't come near me or I'll jump. Believe me, I will." Kathy said, clutching the bat.

"You do no such thing, you bitch." The general said cooly. He then grabbed the bat from her and threw it back in

the living room. He stood squarely in front of her and gave her a punch He went to the living room  to get one

of the cushions. Kathy lay there, her blue eyes lucid, her arms stretched.

"Goodbye, Kathy." The general said. He pulled the trigger, using her gun to finish her off. He then checked her

pulse.The other man came over to see for himself if Kathy was really dead. "She's dead. Let's go."

"Not yet." The general said, finishing his cigar. He cleaned her gun and put it back in the phone desk's

drawer. The two men chatted briefly again, thinking how to dispose  of her body.

"Ready?" The younger man asked. The tossed Kathy from the balcony, eight storey high. It was raining hard.

The apartment building was eerily quiet. The two men wiped off traces  of their fingerprints  after failing

to find  the tapes.

The general flushed his cigar down the toilet  and washed his hands thoroughly. He studied his heavily-

bruised face and hands. "Let's get out of here." He said. Kathy had plans of turning over the tapes

to the FBI. She felt the time was right to expose them...

End of Chapter 1....

"The Manuscript", a thriller, final draft written six years ago, unedited version

"We want those tapes." He said. He motioned the younger man to threaten Kathy by pulling her long blonde hair.

It was dark. She looked up. She knew the man. He smiled, his face tanned after a long holiday in the Carribean. He

 

gave  her a wicked smile. She glared and gave him a wry smile. She knew it would just be a matter of time before

 

they'd find out about the tapes she h ad been hoarding for years since she joined the State Department. Famous people,

 

very important people were not spared from it. Kathy had been skillful----too skillful for her own good----in doing the

 

secret tapes. No wonder, if people needed anything, she was the instant solution to their problems. Her skill and

 

notoriety had become almost a trademark, something not amiss when she broke off with another retired general. he

 

did warn her of the plausible aspects of taping secret conversations. In fact, the suggestion to tape important people

 

was originally his idea.

espacio de Hill

Chapter 1.

"What the hell are you...?" Kathy asked, perplexed by their presence.

She hadn't had any contact with them for quite a while now. Finding

them in her apartment was the last thing she ever wanted. She had

been cautious the past few months, aware that she was under

surveillance. She turned on the lamp. The younger man stopped her.

He pushed her towards the living room.

"Sit down." He ordered. She refused.He told her to sit down again. She

sat on the edge of the sofa.She looked at the two men,  her eyes alert.

She knew where she had kept her gun, but it would be too late to run

for it.

"What do you want?" She asked again, her eyes focused on the hallway.

"You've been keeping things from me." The older man replied, smoking

his pipe, his legs crossed. She looked straight at him in the dark. All the 

windows were shut. Kathy hardly left them open. She wanted to tell them

to open one window leading towards the balcony, but her mind told her

to think, think, think, she was telling herself.

"What things? What are you talking about?  I want you to leave. Please. leave

leave. You have no right to be here...no right..."she covered her face, her

hands shaking uncontrollably. She looked at the phone desk down the

hallway. She knew it was there, yes, she assured herself, that's where

I put it yesterday she reminded herself. She had meant to clean her gun

but had forgotten all about it after receiving a call from an old friend.

"The Manuscript", by Hill Roberts