Who poisoned Red Redington?

red-and-dembeOver the last several episodes Red has been on the hunt to discover who betrayed him and was single-handedly trying to take down his business. He’s gone through a long list of possible contenders, only to find he was at yet another dead end.

If you watched Thursday night’s episode of the Blacklist, you probably experienced some serious shock when they exposed Dembe as the likely attempted killer. Even I gasped at the thought. Of all the possible suspects there could be I’d never has guessed him.

So I started thinking, why would Dembe would do such a thing? After all, he has been the recipient of Red’s largesse since he was a young boy. If not for Red, then Dembe surely would’ve died years ago. He literally owes the man his life.

Then it hit me

Where has Mr. Kaplan been since we last saw her hitch hiking out those fateful woods where she was shot and nearly died?

Yes, yes, I do think that all this business with Red’s business deals collapsing, his money being stolen and now the attempt on his life originates with Mr. Kaplan. The once faithful employee that Red believes he killed is coming back to haunt him.

Killing Mr. Kaplan was the one thing that Red did, that Dembe could not abide. So it makes sense, doesn’t it?

Predictions

In future episodes we will discover that

  • At some point Dembe discovered that Mr. Kaplan was still alive
  • He met with her and she told him her story of captivity and all the pain she went through to heal from her injuries
  • Perhaps she even has a permanent disability now or permanet disfigurement from her injuries
  • This enraged Dembe and he agreed to help Kaplan take down Red
  • Or at least teach him a lesson
  • But he’ll have regrets and uncertainties about it – for as much as he believes Red was wrong to shoot Kaplan, he still views him as a father figure
  • He’ll be very conflicted and either reluctantly expose Kaplan or…
  • Somehow get Red and Kaplan to reconcile

What about you? Do you have a theory about who’s really behind the attempted coup and murder of Red? Or why Dembe would betray him? Feel free to spell it out in the comments.

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Pretty Little Liars – Is Mona Really Dead?

mona

Anyone who has watched more than three episodes of PLL knows that nothing is ever at it seems. That’s why we’re hooked, because the producers and writers are so good at fooling us.

For years the producers convinced us that Ally was dead only to reveal not so long ago that Ally was not dead and had been on the run all that time. (Although the pragmatist in mean wonders how they could’ve buried the wrong girl, believing it to be Ally. DNA would’ve been used to establish identity and had it been used it wouldn’t have come back as an i.d. for Ally. But I digress…) And they also made us believe that Ezra and Toby were A. Not so much.

Where is Mona really and what is she doing?

Mona has always been a bit of a chameleon on the show, shedding one skin only to expose another. And consequently has had as many lives as a cat. She’s the character we love to hate, love to suspect, love to fear and ultimately feel sorry for because she is the epitome of the insecure high school girl who no matter how hard she tries only really wants acceptance and to fit in.

Right now we are to believe Mona is dead and Ally killed her. Hey we’ve got a video with a blonde stabbing her, right? Yes and no. We have the video but it’s all weird angles and blurs and we never see the attacker’s face. And while we were all sure that she was in that industrial barrel in the storage locker, surprise, it’s not her. Probably next season we’ll learn it’s CeeCee or Meredith or just some homeless guy who was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

I believe Mona is still alive and hiding out. Remember that hitherto unknown friend who just showed up in town? She’s blonde, right? What if Mona and her ‘friend’ cooked up the idea of setting up Ally? They staged the video and the crime scene and voila she’s dead. Mona is so tech savvy the video would’ve been a snap for her to make and she’s not squeamish either, so drawing a vile of her own blood she could’ve done without blinking. And most importantly, they can’t find her body. Now I know that Ally is resourceful but how far could she have taken a body and gotten rid of it? She’s just one 120 pound teenage girl after all. Also Mike’s mysterious behavior gives me pause. The bag of candy on the pier? Is it for Mona? Does he know she’s alive and Mike is helping her to get some much deserved payback? Could be. But to me, the fact that they never found Mona’s body tells me she is still alive.

I guess we’ll find out next season.

What do you think? Is Mona dead? If so, where is her body? Did Ally kill her or somebody else? Or, like me, do you expect her to show up in the flesh much like Ally did?

Writer Chick
Copyright 2015

What Color Are You? – Theme Friday

writer chick talks

No, it’s not a trick question. And I don’t mean your ethnic background or the dark or light of your skin. That’s just packaging. Albeit some of us use the shade of packaging…

To make a point

To justify behavior

As a reason to say yes or no

As motivation for love or hate

To feel a part of something or apart from something…

but I’m not talking about that.

Like the pretty package under the Christmas tree, it’s not the number of bows adorning the outside that’s important – it’s what the package contains.

So…I ask again. What color are you?

Green for the soothe of rustling trees

Blue for the cool of the ocean or expanse of the sky

Yellow for the warmth and energy of the sun

The crimson of passion’s depth

Gold like the truest of hearts

Pink at the height of health

Orange all tangy and citrus-y?

Or perhaps you are a rainbow of early morning hues, leaving watercolor footprints in your passing.

Or a kaleidascope stretching lazily across the evening sky following the promise of moonlight.

Or a riot of wildflowers roaming the open fields.

And I ask you once more – what color are you? The true-you that needs no name or address, no politics or boundaries and travels further than the imagination can dance?

copyright 2010

What color is Christine?

Bad Penny – Theme Fridays

The Bad Penny Blues played on the anceint jukebox and tremored as it blared out boogie woogie to an unappreciative crowd. The place smelled of old wood, stale beer and the sweat of lonely men. A baseball game flicked on the television screen over the bar but nobody bothered the score. The rain pounded on the roof and added to the percussion wailing through the room – music, mumbles and shots of cheap whiskey made a nice mixed drink.

Brian slouched on a bar stool as the leak from the roof kerplunked fetid water next to his beer, joining the ring of condensation and forming a little pool of germs. He had a stack of napkins upon which he made furious notes – oblivious to the atmosphere and forced laughter. Stopping occasionally to look up to the corner of his mind for a word that raced to elude his grasp and pleased when he closed his fist around it. Drunks jostled past, knocking Brian in the back and arm, causing his beautiful silver fountain pen to fly more than once out of his hand. Unruffled he would only fish it out from wherever it landed, never letting it phase him or swat away his train of thought. He wrote every night in a place like this, among strangers and chaos. About her. Avoiding the dark quiet of his own four rooms as long as possible – well after last call.

But the night was young and Brian had some words that needed to be free and he lit a cigarette, paying no mind to no smoking signs and admonitions. He raised his empty mug and waved it at the bartender. And drank down half again when a new one appeared.

“What are you writing?” a small but clear voice asked to his left.

Brian didn’t care to stop but the voice puzzled him because it was out of place here – it possessed no edge, no wheeze or whiskied breath. A sidelong glance revealed a petite, old woman peering over his arm, lips moving as she read the scratch marks jotted on the napkin. “Poetry,” Brian grunted.

“What kind of poetry?” the woman asked with curious clear green eyes meeting his.

“The private kind,” Brian snapped yet could not look away from those unblinking eyes.

The woman nodded, “All right then.” She waved to the bartender which made a delicate gold charm bracelet twinkle a little dance. Shortly, a glass of green concoction was delivered to her. With dainty hand she brought the drink to her lips and sipped. A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth and with her free hand, she smoothed the skirt of her green knit dress.

Brian lost interest in his poetry and studied the woman content to sit in a raucous bar and quietly drink. She looked straight ahead and focused on no particular thing – her gaze flitted in a lazy comfortable way that Brian couldn’t imitate. “Are you here alone?” he asked.

“Yes, quite alone,” the woman nodded.

“Wouldn’t you be more comfortable in your home? This is not a safe place for a woman alone.”

“Alice,” she said and smiled, “my name is Alice. And you are?”

“Brian,” he answered without thinking.

“Nice to meet you, Brian. Now you see I am not alone.” She winked and continued to sip at her frothy green brew.

Brian shook his head. “Oh no, I cannot be responsible for you. I have come here to write and be left alone,” he insisted. Why was the woman dressed from head to toe in green? Ghastly green at that?

“Yes, I know,”Alice nodded. “You come here quite a lot. You like to write on the napkins and stuff them in your pockets and mutter to yourself, don’t you? I wonder though why a young man who can afford such a pen can’t afford a pad of paper. Those napkins cost money you know.”

Brian smiled but Alice was impervious to the standard charm. “Oh, it’s just a few napkins. I buy plenty of beer around here. I think I’m entitled to a few napkins.” But he felt himself flush and wanted Alice to be somewhere else especially because her eyes bothered him, clear, unblinking, challenging in a way he couldn’t discern. “I have to get back to what I’m doing, Alice.” He picked up his pen again but the mood was gone and with it the words.

“Writer’s block?” Alice asked a little sarcastically and Brian felt those eyes on him again. A flash of recognition bolted through his mind and was gone. “I say, writer’s block?” Alice repeated.

Brian capped his pen and stuffed the napkins, all of them, in his pocket. He drained the last of his beer and threw some cash on the bar. “Sorry Alice, I do require the absence of company.”

Alice nodded. “I suppose I should be going too. Walk me to the bus stop?”

Brian’s gut told him to get away from the strange woman but his manners dictated that he oblige her. “All right then, let’s go.”

They stepped out into the night and the rain had slowed to a misty air that fogged gently over the slick streets. They walked slowly toward the bus stop which was only a block away but seemed so far to Brian because of Alice’s chattering. She went on about her daughter, recently deceased and how sad she was to have lost the one dear thing in her life.

“Yes, yes,” Brian muttered in mock consolation, wishing the bus stop were closer.

“She killed herself you know,” Alice said. “But of course you know, don’t you?”

There was a two second delay of the words impinging on Brian’s brain. “Suicide,” he said involuntarily.

“Yes, that’s right,” Alice’s voice sounded different and Brian looked over at her. She stood stock still, aiming a large gun at him.

“What?” Brian chuckled for a minute, the vision of the tiny woman weilding a weapon seemed so ludicrous – but there was a glint in those eyes, even in the dark and misty night, that made him suddenly cold. “Now Alice, why are you pointing a gun at me?”

“Because I want you to feel what she felt. Hopeless and seeing her life at an end. Unloved. Beaten to her knees. Are you feeling a litte bit nervous now, Brian?” Alice had transformed into a predator in a wink.

“You must have me confused with someone else…”

Alice smirked. “The pen dear, I helped her pick it out. There is not another like it. It is special, just like you.” And Alice pulled the trigger, relishing the shock in Brian’s eyes. And again and again until there were no more bullets left to discharge. Alice looked down at the lifeless body for a long while. No one came, no sirens, no shouts – just her, the gun, the body and the wet, dark night. She bent and emptied his pockets of the napkins, the pen and just for good measure his wallet and watch and stuffed it all in her green purse. “Didn’t you know, Brian, a bad penny always has a way of turning up? But if you’re smart you toss them in the gutter.” Alice smiled and shuffled to the bus stop.

CHRISTINE’S BAD PENNY IS THATTA WAY

Following

About ten year ago maybe a little less, there was an independent film that came out called Following. It was a very quirky British film that centered around an odd duck who by chance one day followed someone, the whole day and watched what they did. For some reason this became a fascination with him and ultimately led him into a whole passal of trouble and he found the tables turned in a very uncomfortable way. I thought it was an interesting film and moreso an interesting concept because it makes one ponder, why would one person want to follow another?

I don’t know if any of you have been followed but I have and it’s a rather surreal experience. Because at first it may seem a bit flattering, you know? Like “Wow, I must be interesting, woo hoo.” But then ego gives way to reality and you really do start to wonder why it is a certain person just keeps turning up wherever you are. How they just manage to be anyplace you are, get involved in activities you are involved in and so forth.

I guess I’m not a total bore, but I certainly wouldn’t call myself fascinating. I just go about my business, have some fun, talk, chat, read, write, have a few laughs. You know, pretty much like anyone else – so what is there to see? I suppose it does have something to do with attraction or maybe it is just flat out curiosity. Is it possible that an average person like myself could be so alien to another that they would feel the need to study me, watch me, see what I do and say? Since it has happened I guess the cursory answer at least would have to be yes.

On the other hand maybe it has little or nothing to do with me, the watchee (if you will) and more to do with the watcher. I ponder sometimes what goes on in a mind like that – that they would follow someone else and just watch them. What would be the point, what need or desire would it fulfill? Is it that they are simply so unengaged in life that they have become a permanent spectator, too afraid to actually make direct contact and outwardly learn about someone, get to know them? Are they just taking notes because they are trying to develop a character study for a story? Is it only the unattainable that interests them? I’ve come to no real conclusions just more curiosity about the whole thing.

Anyone have any thoughts on this? What do you think the motivation is? Why do you think that? I’m seriously interested in your thoughts about this.

My Life, Without a Horse – by cA Hughes

 

When I was five, I wanted a tree swing; also a pony.I would fantasize about it, the pony I mean. I got the tree swing. I sat on it while daydreaming about the pony. Her name would be Cinnamon, as her coat was that same red/orangey-brown color as the spice and she’d have a black mane and tail. My feet’d be muddy and walking her around through tallish grasses.

Gnats and butterflies and dust would dot the air, flecks of gold cresting and dipping in summery sunlight.

Even I, in my imagined yet still filthy gingham, would look lovely and hardy in the country light with Cinnamon in a stately follow.

Straddling Cinnamon, I was happy.Behind my closed eyes, I’d rest my face against her neck and tangle my stubby fingers in her mane. I was hypnotized by the heavy, hollow thud of her hoof-falls as we meandered through the countryside.We communicated in our secret way; she knew me by scent; my breathing, the rise and fall and squeakiness of my voice soothed her spirit. And she’d buck anyone else who attempted to ride, brush or feed her.

She would be mine and only mine.This was the best part because in my life without a horse, there was nothing mine.

I don’t know where this desire for a horse came from. We lived in the city. There were no tall grass fields or creeks or beautiful summer days hazy with shining little bugs that looked like fairies in the setting sunlight. No stands of trees aged with gnarled branches. “Where would we keep a horse?” asked Mother.I said in the garage, desperate. “That would be cruel,” she said. Then her eyes glazed over with a dreamy shine. “Horses need to be in a field, they need to run and graze and have sun on their backs…”

I put a horse on my Christmas lists and asked for one each birthday for the next six years.

“Where did she get such an idea?” My father asked Mother once. He was upset that I had been giving them the silent treatment for three straight days after my seventh birthday.

“All little girls want a horse,” she said.

He chuckled at that. “And why is that?” he asked.

My mother got red in the cheeks and I saw a dark, quick flicker in her eyes- so quick I doubted it the moment I saw it. It happened sometimes, mostly when she was talking to Father about us girls. “They just do,” she said.

I think she was right about that. My daughters have been pleading with their dad and me to get a horse. “Maybe someday,” I say. It is possible since we live in the country. We take walks on streets along the horse ranches nearby and I think, We can get a horse and keep it at a stables. I ask them what they think of the name Cinnamon for a horse.

“I like it,” says the older one.

“Aw, I like Fred,” says the younger.

“Maybe we should get two,” the older says.”Then I can name mine Roses”

“How about three?” say I. “Cinnamon, Roses and Fred.” We like this idea and discuss what our horses would look like- the color of their manes and coats, whether we’d braid their tails with ribbon.

The books I’ve read in which girls had horses, there is no boy-craziness. The girl with a horse does not need anybody. She is independent and free, strong like the legs of her steed. And though beautiful and ethereal, horses do seem somewhat phallic; look at the neck, look at the long face broad at the top; look at how they must be straddled and ridden. A girl conquers the phallus, astride her steed. It can take her to her life; take her away from her life. She is control of her destination and the route there. She is not a princess but a queen. She is not a queen but an outlaw. She is not an outlaw but an explorer, a knight, a cowboy. All of these things and natural and wild.

Free.

copyright cA Hughes

Are We Society Bots?

 

After the nearly 10,000 spam hits I’ve gotten on this blog, I’ve started thinking about this whole spam-bot thing. This isn’t another post complaining about spam, though it’s tempting, it’s really about how maybe the weird little things in life actually mirror who we are. Bear with me and we’ll see if I can make my point.

I’ve noticed with the spam that there seem to be trends. For example, one week it’s all sicko stuff, the next week it will be apparently from Russian or Yugoslavian guys, the next week from real estate people and this week I’ve gotten almost 2,000 spam hit from the drug planet. Every kind of drug you can imagine, which I dare not specify lest, they send another 2,000 my way. But it’s not the numbers or even the spam that interests me – it’s the trends. It’s the type of message they are spewing all over the place.

We live in a modern and technologically -savvy world. Heck, there is a gadget for everything, even a special clip for your potato chip bag, every method under the sun for your love-making preferences and a drug for everything that ails us. Still, we’re all restless, can’t seem to find our purpose in life, our soulmates, happiness, nirvana, whatever you want to call it. We’re still as screwed up as we were 30 years ago – maybe more so. Now doesn’t that give you pause?

Don’t you have to wonder that if none of this stuff is really floating our boats, if none of it is solving our woes, if none of this is tickling our fancy, then there must be some other reason for it all? I’m not going to go into any conspiracy theories here, because there are spambots for that too, so why would I take the time. But, I will say that if none of this stuff is solving our problems then it must be solving someone else’s. Right? I mean, no company keeps doing something just for the heck of it. They don’t advertise things to death because they aren’t selling it. So, if you put aside the ‘reasons’ they say they are selling it – to make you feel better, so you won’t hurt anymore, because you deserve the best, I’m okay, you’re okay, blah, blah – then you have to look at who/what it might behoove.

I think the spam bots are trying to tell us something and that that something is that we will not find our answers in pill bottles, blue videos, dates with Blonde Russian girls or real estate seminars. That no matter how many pills, vids, seminar, get rich quick schemes, promises of true love and so on are promoted that the answers lie somewhere else.

We’ve become convenience junkies – from junk food to remote controls. Why walk when you can drive the two blocks to the grocery store? Why cook when Micky D’s is down the street? Why talk to your family at the dinner table when you could be eating KFC in front of the big screen t.v.? Why be responsible when there is always someone else you can blame and make responsible for you?

We’ve become prisoners of our own laziness and apathy. We’ve stopped caring about each other and given in to a preference for living in our own little worlds, where companies and advertisers will gleefully supply us with everything we think we need or want. Hell, it’s all just money to them. And they are probably just as wound up in this silly string as everyone else.

Yep, we’re the little society bots who get up every morning, fire up our computers, check our emails, stop by Starbuck’s to get our fix, crank up our sound systems in the car and dial the cell phone and the heck with everyone else. You think I’m kidding but I’m not. I find it really sad and i worry, that we’ll someday all end up as Borgs or some odd configuration of man and machine all because we bought into the idea that life should be easy, that we are entitled to every little thing our hearts desire and that we shouldn’t really have to work too hard for it. Shouldn’t have to stand on line, shouldn’t have to be polite to our neighbors or care if some fellow is stranded on the side of the road.

Yep, we be society bots n’ shit. But I’m kind of hoping that the people out there who still think – give this some thought. Otherwise, we may soon find ourselves impelling through space into a bigger universe where we are the bots spamming the bigger guy’s computers.

WC

Let’s All Do The Rant

 

When I was a kid and for much of my adult life, I was shy. I know, nobody ever believes me when I tell them this but it’s still true. In fact, when I was a kid I was just shy of being afraid of my shadow. I hardly ever spoke, certainly not to people outside of my family and my few little friends.

I don’t know why, my family wasn’t particularly quiet or reserved, we didn’t have butlers and grand aunts commanding particular modes of behavior. Perhaps I just preferred to sit back and listen. Make myself invisible and watch, like a spy on a secret mission.

I’m certain it is one of the things that sent me in the direction of writing. Because despite my lack of verbosity (is that a word?), I had thoughts…millions of them, ideas, images, dreams. Yes, they were all there and not being spoken. The blank page became my best confidant and may be still.

As I have lived life, had some experiences good and bad, grown more confident in who I am, all that good stuff, I’ve become much more verbal. Not much of a surprise, eh? And thanks to blogging, I have learned the fine art of ranting. Now, this is not to say that I didn’t rant before I became a blogger, sure I did. But I really didn’t have the technique and discipline down. I was all over the place. I was here and there and every fricking where. Also, my voice would rise higher and higher as I reached the all important point. To be honest, not too impressive.

But…in my little dive of a blog I’ve learned to keep my voice level, make my points, use humor and even anger (sometimes) and even edit to drive my rant home.

But I see other friends/bloggers who are in the place I used to be. Not wanting to say the wrong thing. Somehow tarnishing their image as the nice person or considerate person or the one everyone likes because they are just so very kind. The ones who are just dying to rant. Dying to scream at the top of their lungs. Let out all the complaints, real and imagined. Bitch, moan, harp, cry, whine and drama-queen, without fear of rejection or reprisal.

So, here’s your chance. Want to rant? Yeah? Go for it. Right here. Right now. Whatever is on your mind. I don’t care. I give this space to you, my friends and fellow bloggers. Let her rip. Have a ball. I promise you’ll feel much better afterwards.

WC

Chocolate Goes Underground?

You know I was thinking…I know, it’s dangerous when my gray matter gets going…but I digress. This world is getting more and more politically correct. Things we thought were just plain normal a decade ago could possibly be against the law today. For instance, what if some yahoo junior Congressman decided that chocolate was a public danger? What if they made it against the law?

Now, you’re probably laughing and think, oh that’s just too ridiculous but hey transfats are against the law in New York now, right? Why not chocolate? It release endorphins, changes moods, contributes to body fat, cholesteral and makes otherwise sane people drive to the grocery store at three in the morning. Face it folks, chocolate creates altered states in we humans. Somebody could probably make the case that it should be added to the list of schedule one narcotics.

But oh for the humor of it, I wish it would happen. Imagine, we’d have chocolate police. Belguims would be considered risks to national security (unless they gave up their recipes and revealed the locations of their factories). People would start smuggling it in from Switzerland, black market racketeers would be producing car panels made of chocolate and some poor housewife would be busting in the dead of  night by the chocoloate police, whilst munching on her front bumper.

There’s be chocolate labs tucked away in abandoned buildings, small apartments and little out of the way cafes across the country. People would be stopped to have their breaths sniffed by the chocolate brigade.

Valentine’s Day would be a thing of the past. Christmas, Mother’s Day, Birthdays, anniversaries would all be a little less fun and delicious. Cake would only come in vanilla and fruit flavors. Hagan Daas would go out of business. A whole section of Starbuck’s menu would be erased.

PMSing women everywhere would be roaming the streets looking for their fix – and beating up their spouses if they didn’t come through. Easter would be one big hard boiled egg.

Millions of people would be thrown out of work and have to earn their incomes working for shady folks who knew how to move the goods. It would be a veritable nightmare.

I can feel myself breaking into a sweat, my heart is racing and I’m starting to pant a little. Please, not the chocolate!!!!

Gotta go, there’s a 1 pound trader joe’s chocolate bar I have a date with. Just to be on the safe side, I’m going to plant some in my garden and see if anything grows. Hey, it couldn’t  hoit. 😉

WC