J. Timothy King

A series of libertarian novelettes, newly brought to print, portrays police-state tactics in America. Set in the fictional town of Abe’s Turn, “The Conscience of Abe’s Turn” (http://AbesTurn.com/) tells the story of four civil-rights activists who resort to espionage in order to challenge the police-state tactics of their hometown local government. They form an underground organization to serve as “Conscience” to the government around them.

“It’s extremely political,” says series author J. Timothy King, “but it doesn’t get into party politics. Our heroes have just as many conservative sympathies as they do liberal ones. So far, episodes have addressed freedom of speech and assembly, gun rights, due process, anti-drug laws, sexual assault laws, police brutality, and official corruption.”

The story is told in the style of a dramatic television series. Each episode not only tells a self-contained story but also develops a planned 24-episode story arc. Originally posted at http://AbesTurn.com/, the first four episodes have now been released as a book, about the size of a novel. This first volume also contains “Bonus Extras,” including a behind-the-scenes essay about the inspiration and politics behind the story and an additional short story involving the series characters.

For more information, visit http://AbesTurn.com/.

This series of dramatic novelettes, designed to appeal to television viewers, kicks off with its first 4-episode book.

Waltham, Massachusetts (PRWEB) October 4, 2008 — If more people are watching TV instead of curling up with a good novel, a new series of novelettes, “The Conscience of Abe’s Turn,” may provide an alternative, because it is designed and packaged like a modern television drama.

Author J. Timothy King explains: “I wanted to create something more like a TV show than like a series of novels, with shorter, tighter, individual episodes.”

All of the episodes feature the same characters, setting, and themes, and they have connecting storylines, just like a modern television drama.

Originally posted at the series website AbesTurn.com, the episodes are being released in books, each about the size of a novel, each containing 4 episodes. Each book also includes “Bonus Extras” similar to those found on DVDs of television shows. The first 4 episodes have been released, with a planned 24-episode story arc.

The Conscience of Abe’s Turn is about four civil-rights activists who resort to espionage in order to challenge the police-state tactics of their home town, Abe’s Turn.

“It’s extremely political,” Mr. King explains, “but the heroes have just as many conservative sympathies as they do liberal.”

The Conscience of Abe’s Turn is currently on sale at http://AbesTurn.com/book1, at Amazon.com, and at BarnesAndNoble.com, with introductory pricing through election day, November 4.

Kids and toilets don’t mix. They’re always going wrong at the most inconvenient times, like when I need to go.

I pushed open the bathroom door and almost stepped in it, a puddle the size of Lake Erie. Carefully lifting the lid confirmed my suspicions. The bowl was filled to the brim. Inside was a tiny log of poo and a half-roll of toilet paper.

“Shit,” I said. Then, “Gerald Ferris Robinson, Junior!”

“What?” I heard his voice echo from somewhere on the first floor. You know, whenever the Beaver’s mother used his full name, he came running.

“Come here!”

Feet bounded up the stairs, making a noise disproportionate to their size.

“What is it, Ma?”

I motioned to the toilet and surrounding flood.

He said nothing.

“I have to use the toilet, and now I can’t. I work really hard around here cleaning up after you. And I really wish you wouldn’t make my life more difficult.”

He seemed to stand a little shorter.

“That’s all I wanted to say.”

He quietly slunk downstairs, turned on the television, and turned up the volume.

I hated working in the toilet. When I was growing up, whenever my mother asked me to clean the bathroom, I would wear heavy latex gloves to protect me from the germs. I would used a disinfecting cleanser, and when I was done, I would carefully remove the gloves and throw them in the trash. Then I’d wash for 15 minutes, all the way up to my elbows, like a surgeon.

Now, plunger in hand, I needed to unclog the drain. I always got Jerry to take care of this kind of thing. But Jerry wasn’t home from work yet, and I had a pain in my butt that called out disaster, and I don’t mean the kid. As I worked, I splashed even more water onto the floor. I felt wet floor sliding under my shoes.

Then I felt long, wet hair sticking to my neck and water dribbling down my blouse. I shook my head to clear the feeling. I hadn’t had long hair since early in ninth grade.  Click to continue »

If anyone could see her, he wouldn’t know what she was looking for. She walked along this rock-studded beach, time after time eying the sea.

Her toe banged one of the large rocks, causing her to hobble as she continued her weary search.

She stopped, yes, her eyes wide, gazing out toward the water. Smile on face, she met the object as it approached her.

It was he. And she did embrace him. But her smile turned to tears.

“Damn plan,” she muttered under her breath. “Damn, stupid plan! We were happy. Why did you do this to me?”

The next day, she heard about it on the radio, “From footprints on the scene, authorities are looking for a woman, about five-feet-five-inches, a hundred thirty pounds, with a limp.”

Each morning Jace walked by her house on his way to school. Each afternoon he passed it on his way home. Sometimes, he would also pass at other times. Occasionally he would catch a glimpse of the bright-faced girl with wavy blonde locks. She sat under the two conifers that towered overhead. But as far as he knew, she never noticed him.  Click to continue »

This short-short is based on a true experience. -TimK

Down the sidewalk he darted around the dozens on their way to wherever they were going. He wore dress slacks and a beige, woolen jacket, and his black shoes clapped against the concrete. He stopped at a street corner just long enough to see his breath rise through the air and to hear a verse or two of a crusty-voiced, slurred beggar’s chant: “Disabled veteran. Spare a little change. Spare a little change…” There was more, two syllables, but though he tried to comprehend it, it remained unintelligible.

He crossed the street and continued running, the chant echoing in his mind. “Disabled veteran. Spare a little change. Spare a little change…” What was that last word? It sounded like “get out,” but that couldn’t be right. He tried to breath through his nose.

It was getting dark. He had to use the lighted dial on his watch. Four-fifty. In ten minutes, the streets would be filled with people and cars, a sorry situation for him to be in. He was late as it was. He quickened his pace to the beat. “Disabled veteran. Spare a little change. Spare a little change get out!” Or maybe “about”? Or “amount”?

The interview had been scheduled for 3:30. MapQuest said it would take a half-hour to get there. But this was in the city. He left at 1 o’clock. He was twenty minutes late for the appointment.

Then he needed money to pay the parking garage. He needed to find an automated teller and get out of the city before rush hour, or else what chance did he have of getting home in time to pick up the kids?  Click to continue »

I bet you thought she didn’t exist,
Laura’s nemesis.
I swear, I’ve met her.
I’ve stared her in the eye,
And she is death.

She spins a careful web.
She is never wrong.
Artful, she lures the victim.
Graceful, she quaffs his breath.

He knows not how nor why.
The more he fights, the worse his bind.
He is a weeping husk.

This is, to her, normality.
Life is a myth.
Real is conformance and pow’r.

Yet I pray Mia will take me in,
That I might live again.

I wrote this poem in the midst of a bad job, a dysfunctional employer-employee relationship. Everyone says they appreciate ingenuity, initiative, and individual personality— Who wouldn’t? But in practice, some companies are just plain intolerant toward their employees. Dress used to be the bugaboo of the corporate world. Now it’s operational conformance: You will not improve the process. You may be yourself, but you will fit in. Or else you will leave. I left, to work at a tiny, fast-paced company, the entire staff of which could fit into a large conference room. And I’m motivated and happy again. -TimK

Joanna T. Knight is a pseudonym. It’s also an anagram of Jonathan T. King (which is also my name). -TimK

Once there were two bears named Carolyn and Amanda who were sisters and best friends.

One night, after their mother and father tucked them in and turned out the light, Amanda suddenly realized her night light wasn’t shining.

“Carolyn,” she said to her older sister, “I can’t see, because the night light isn’t working.”  Click to continue »

With thanks to Tom DeMarco, Timothy Lister,
and those whose names are withheld for their own protection.
-TimK

I’m not leaving.
But my resume is up to date.

I’m just experiencing culture shock.
In a culture of oneupsmanship.

But I’m not one of those who wash out.
And go on to bigger and better things.

Reasonable hours: The average engineer works 56 a week.
And makes 87 thousand dollars a year.

And the payscale is competitive.
With the third world.

And fair.
To those rewarded with a cut.

I’m proud to be one of the winners hired.
Then told what not to do.

Proud to be developing a great product.
With second-class quality standards.

Proud of my accomplishments.
Overcoming conjured-up crises.

Proud to be one of the team.
That can’t get together on anything.

I’m not leaving.
But my resume is up to date.