The Conscience of Abe’s Turn freedom of speech, defense, and life

When Clydene was a girl, 9 years old, she wanted to make orange pie. She didn’t have a recipe, but she really wanted to make orange pie. She figured she could make an orange-flavored pie crust. And if she substituted oranges for some other fruit, she figured she’d be all set.   read more »

Michael started. “We can resurrect Martin Luther King, Jr., get him to do his ‘I have a dream’ speech.” 

“If it were possible, someone else would have thought of it first,” Ted replied. 

“Well, that’s it for me. I’m out,” Michael said. 

Ted paused. “You’re kidding.” 

“Yes, I am.” Sometimes Michael joked a little brusquely, but sometimes it was the only way he knew how to cope. 

Without missing a beat, Ted continued, “Well, let’s wait for Clydene to get back. Maybe she’ll have some better ideas.”   read more »

Clyde made her way past the convicts and accused, each seated at a table. All were dressed in orange prison garb. Some conversed with visitors, each seated across from an inmate. Others were waiting for someone like Clyde, someone from the outside, to pay attention to them. None smiled. Old lighting fixtures hung from the cracked ceiling, as did drab, green walls. The room smelled like a government school or a town hall.   read more »

Baedes was in the middle of filling out an arrest report in his office. He looked up from his desk to regard a tall, athletic woman dressed in a blue uniform, who had just entered. She was awe-inspiring, not just for her physical prowess and beauty, but even more for her accomplishments. Pale and soft from one angle, she stood as an amazon from another. Her academic achievements were significant, having earned a degree in Criminal Justice, having graduated from the police academy with flying colors, and now having made an outstanding young officer.  read more »

To start reading episode 1 of season 1 of The Conscience of Abe’s Turn, click on Chapter 1.

Ted lumbered through the foyer of his home, following the sound of his wife’s guitar back to her office. He waited for a few minutes outside the door, listening as she picked out a simple but beautiful tune on the instrument. The air smelled normal, plain, like nothing in particular. That meant that she had not had a chance to cook dinner, which meant she was overcome either with work or depression. And the fact that she was playing the guitar meant it was probably the latter, or maybe both. Ted pushed open the office door. 

“Hi, Clyde,” he said. “You had a day, too, I see.”   read more »