The Conscience of Abe’s Turn libertarian civil rights in America

Clydene knew three things about physical abuse. The first thing Clyde knew about physical abuse is that the victim blames herself for the abuse. She does not blame the abuser. Secondly, she feels helpless and fearful. And lastly, the victim will tell the abuser anything he wants to hear, do anything he wants her to do, even believe anything he wants her to believe, if she thinks it will spare her further torment. Clyde also knew one more thing, that it didn’t take a pattern of abuse to produce these effects. A single attack could do it.  read more »

Another hard thing is forcing yourself to wait until after church, all hot and horny, after the sermon, after the concluding prayer, after pushing a cursory goodbye at anyone you meet in the hall, on the way from the pew to the coat rack, from the coat rack to the car, after the seemingly interminable drive home.  read more »

Eleven thirty-five! Talk about sleeping in! Michael’s head was aching. He flopped back on the pillow. Something was missing. He had forgotten something. What day was it? Sunday? Nothing happening on Sunday. He dragged himself out of bed and worked his way to the bathroom. Beholding in the mirror a round, unshaven face, half-closed, blue eyes, disheveled, black hair, stocky build with a slight paunch, and that sticky, chalky taste in your mouth first thing in the morning, he suddenly felt singularly alone. 

Wasn’t alone last night. Or was that a dream?  read more »

Sam Baedes took a keen interest in the Hammond Street case from the moment it became a case. He was in his garage when the call came in. In the foreground, a grinding wheel scraping against a welding joint; tiny, glowing, splaying shards, showering onto the floor; ozone and hot steel and burnt flux. In the background, as always, a police scanner interjecting intermittent reports.   read more »

To start reading episode 2 of season 1 of The Conscience of Abe’s Turn, click on Chapter 1.

A man in a black hoodie and black sweatpants stole down the sidewalk, stopped next to the liquor store entrance. Diffused sunlight washed over the scene. The man looked both ways, up and down the street. A blue car idled a few yards away in the direction he had just come. Other than this blue car, the block was empty. A cool, wet breeze blew across the man’s yellow-brown face. He raised his hood and tightened it. Then he pulled up from around his neck a black cloth, now obscuring most of his face. The only thing one could see was two dark eyes with dark eyebrows.   read more »