"John…John, you better be up in there, son," a commanding voice growled beyond the bedroom door.

John sat up with a gasp and reached for the clock on his nightstand. Nothing was there, his hand swished around in the air. The room was unfamiliar. What the hell, and then he remembered. The new house, his room had been changed for the umteenth time. Now the clock was out of reach on his dresser, shit. He threw back the covers and stumbled over to look at the time.

A rumble of water coursing through the pipes in the adjoining wall said his father was already in the shower. Down in the kitchen, the distant clatter of dishes heralded a new day of housework for his mother. These early morning sounds were reassuring and yet there was a lump of terror in his throat.

The move from Ft. Bragg had been easy. His father had chosen a nice suburban house, one that pleased his mother. The two-story colonial with the broad front lawn was a far cry from the G.I. housing John had known all his life. He should be happy because his family was putting down roots for the first time. But he wasn't, there was another obstacle ahead. He dreaded facing another new school.

Whoa, the conversation with Jesus had seemed so real. It was a dream sure, but he believed in dreams. His mind couldn't reject the thought. He was to meet someone special, but when? This was his senior year, it had to be soon but there had been no time frame mentioned in that conversation. Damn, he hated the pressure.

His father had rammed that thought down his throat the night before. Sitting quietly at the dinner table, he had listened as his father laid out the objectives he felt John needed to acheive in this final year of high school.

John's two older brothers had both endured this same speech and it was supposed to be one of those serious family moments. John had tried to focus on what his father was saying but it was no use, his thoughts drifted.

"You're the youngest child in the family, John, and the responsibility now falls on your shoulders. There will be no slacking off from your schoolwork; I'll be here to help you when I can." The Old Man's speech droned on, his lips moving but the words faded from the boy's ears.

A fading memory returned. The playground at Ft. Hood on his very first day of school. The blow that knocked him down came from behind. His face landed in the dust and the gritty dirt got in his eyes and mouth. He rolled over to face his attacker and saw there were two boys his age standing above him.

"Aw, the sissy boy got dirt in his mouth," one of them said.

"My dad's a captain. You're the new sergeant's kid, I outrank you," the other boy said.

"Kiss my boot, sissy boy," the first one said.

The second boy looked up and his eyes went wide. "Oh, shit," he said.

John saw a shadow swoop in from the corner of his eye and the two boys cringed as a form slammed into them and they went sprawling. Brandon, John's eight year old brother, had come to save him.

Brand, two years older and already big for his age, sat on the two bullies and slammed their faces into the dirt.

"I saw what you did. You lay a hand on my brother again and I'll tear you apart."

The two boys screamed and teachers appeared, pulling Brand away to the office. John was left alone after that and Brand got yet another whipping from the Old Man. Life was easier when Brand was there to defend him.

"John…are you listening to me?" His father's eyes warned of imminent danger as John snapped back.

"Yes sir," he intoned, the lump in his throat went down real hard as he swallowed.

"What did I just say, son?"

"To work hard and keep up my grades, sir," John parroted.

"Good," he smiled. "I know you've heard this speech before but I expect it will be the last time I have to give it, do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, sir."

"Your brothers both did well in high school. I know it's hard for you, coming into a new school once again but I'm sure you won't have any problems."

"No, sir, I won't." John's dinner tasted like sawdust after that.

Nothing in this family was ever more important than his father's expectations for each of them. John was sure that's why his oldest brother Frank had moved all the way to Sacramento. He was selling life insurance in far off California, struggling to make it, and his wife was six months pregnant. Why California? Maybe Frank figured his father had never been stationed there and it felt safe. Any job was preferable to calling home and having to admit he was a failure to the Old Man.

John loved both his brothers equally. They had taught him the importance of living in this family and the skills to survive the challenge. His other brother, Brandon, was becoming firmly entrenched at the University of Maryland this fall. He had a brain to go along with his athletic abilities. Brand was very much like their father and that didn't help them get along any better. Both boys had fought their father's discipline for years, testing each other and yet finally learning to really love the Old Man. John wanted to be like them, only he knew it could never be the same. He was different.

All of them had been brought up to respect their father without question. It was as if they were part of the platoon the Old Man had led in the Korean War. But that had been a nightmare too and it seems he never wanted to be anything other than a supply sergeant after that.

Of course the Army had different plans. The sergeant rose to the top of his grade and became known as the toughest non-com in the outfit. The Army sent him around the world to put things in order and their family paid the price for it. But as it was his duty so it was theirs. He had dragged them with him across the planet and they had accepted the burden.

John had another fading picture in his head of a seven-year-old boy holding a transistor radio to his ear. That was him standing on the parade ground at Baumholder, Germany where his mind first awakened to the allure of music. They lived on the quad just opposite the parade ground. John knew every John Phillip Sousa tune the military band played before he was eight.

Looking back on the years of his short life, music that was popular at the time divided up those years. It was the only thing that held true no matter where they moved. Music anchored his sense of reality and took the place of friends he never seemed to have.

John often thought that the Purple Heart is a medal which should be awarded to the children of career soldiers. The Army brats of this world were often the first true casualties of any conflict. But the Old Man had one pinned to his uniform and their mother had warned the boys never to ask about. John knew something had happened in Korea, something bad, and his father still bore those scars deep inside.

Because they never dared ask, for a long time John and his brothers knew little about their family on dad's side. His father often said the Army was all the family they'd ever need. It wasn't until John was almost nine years old that he learned the truth.

They were driving north from Texas into the great mid-western dust bowl. It was just before dawn and reveille was still almost an hour away when the Old Man drove his family through the front gate of Ft. Hood. The guard snapped off a regulation salute to the man at the wheel.

This time they were leaving behind the Old Man's fifth assignment in as many years, and moving was already getting old hat to John. Not as old as the Ford station wagon which kept them on the move. That was always kept in perfect running order. Now it was packed with family and luggage while their few prized possessions were towed behind on a rented trailer.

Crossing into Oklahoma, John sat gazing through the rear window with sleepy eyes at the dry, barren landscape that spread out around him. Brandon was teasing Frank, who had to leave behind his first serious girlfriend and already felt miserable enough. Their little brawl was enough to get the Old Man's attention and someone was sure to get whipped for that.

They pulled off the road to gas up and the boys were lined up beside the car.

"Brand, I want you to knock off the chatter," the Old Man said. "I'm sorry you all have been inconvenienced by this new assignment but you will stop bickering before your mother gets upset, is that clear?"

"Yes sir," the little recruits all replied in unison.

"Good. I've decided we're going to take a little detour this afternoon and I'm asking you to be a little considerate of everyone's feelings today."

No whipping? What was going on here? This wasn't like the Old Man at all.

"Where are we going?" John asked. As the youngest he could get away with such an obvious insubordination.

"I thought we might visit the house where I grew up," the Old Man said flatly and they all stood in a gaping silence as he turned away and went to lean against the hood of the car. John stood staring at his father's broad back, the cloth of the work shirt soaked with sweat in the early morning heat. The Old Man just stood there, his face lit by the rising sun, staring off into a sky the color of beaten copper.

John's father had never mentioned his hometown to any his boys before and they looked uncomfortably at one another, unsure if this was a good thing. John only knew that his grandparents had died years before when the Old Man was a little boy. Distant cousins had raised him and at seventeen he had joined the Army. To actually see his father's place of his birth was beyond John's comprehension.

Emotion was not something they ever encouraged in their father, he didn't always control his feelings very well. Each of John's brothers had felt the lash of a belt when he was angry. John alone had never been called into the kitchen and told to drop his pants. Not that he was such a goody-goody but the Old Man seemed to be more forgiving when it came to his youngest boy's transgressions.

Hitching up his hand-me-down jeans, John strode towards the front of the car and stood beside his father in the dusty gravel. Hooking a small arm around his father's waist, he looked up. John was frightened at the look of sadness that overshadowed the Old Man's usual stern countenance. Sensing his son's discomfort, John's father reached down and ran his fingers through the boy's hair.

"Don't be sad," John said pleadingly.

"I have to be, it's all part of life," his father replied. "I was your age when my parents died…it took me most of my life to understand that I still miss them. It was a hard life out here, John. I found a home in the Army to escape this place and maybe it was wrong to run away, but… maybe this will be the last time we have to move. I sure hope so. Your poor mother needs a real home."

The dry grass along the highway was coated with a chalky dust that swirled up as they resumed the trip. Some of it rolled through the open rear window of the wagon and powdered John's bare feet. It would be another hot day. The Old Man pulled off the main highway onto a narrow two-lane blacktop that knifed its way into the rolling prairie landscape.

The old farmhouses they passed looked worn out and tired. Many of them sat deserted now, surrounded by dilapidated outbuildings and collapsed silos. Occasionally, they passed a new farm built right up beside the road. Shiny metal buildings and brightly painted equipment surrounded the modest farmhouses that looked more and more like suburban tract homes.

The car slowed several times, their father's eyes searching the distance for something. Finally they slowed and turned into a narrow dirt roadway. An old rusted mailbox stood at the corner, the name and numbers faded away years before.

The short jerky drive through the rutted lane brought all kinds of creaking and groaning noises from the Ford's chassis. John was sure the wagon was going to fall apart. Then all movement stopped and he stood up on the rear tailgate to look around. Ahead lay the ruins of a farmhouse.

Long plowed fields surrounded the tiny decayed farmyard, and the smell of soil made rich with fertilizer assaulted John's senses. He could see a new farm had sprung up around them, distant silos rising from the furrowed ground like a mirage. It wouldn't be long before the plows raked their steel teeth across this place and the remains of his father's house would be gone forever.

They began to pile out of the car but John's mother called to them as the Old Man got out and walked towards the foundations.

"Let your father have some time alone," she commanded.

They watched the Old Man continue up the path to the house and stand looking at the blackened ruins. John could tell that a fire had happened here a long time ago. Weeds and small trees had grown up through what remained of the stone foundation. After a while the Old Man turned to the car and motioned for them to join him.

He held John's hand as they walked through the weeds, showing them the wellhead where water had been pumped by hand. A part of the barnyard had already gone under the plowman's blade but they poked around in the ruins and John retrieved a rusty horseshoe.

The Old Man laughed when asked if they had used horses to pull a plow but the sound quickly died on his lips and he got a far away look in his eyes.

"We had two horses when I was born, one of them died when I was about four or five. I remember my father putting me up on the back of that old black mare and leading it around the yard by the halter. I learned to ride all by myself when I was six but we had to sell the gray the following year. She cost too much to feed and times were poor. I cried when my father led her down the road to the trailer. I thought it was the worst day of my life."

He hesitated, the memories painful to recall. But he raised his chin and set his jaw against the emotions, it was time to address the troops. It was time they understood what had set their lives in motion.

"It was only two weeks later that a storm blew the roof off the barn. My father hired a couple of hands to help him fix the shingles. I was sent to stay with my cousins in Tulsa so the men could sleep in my room.

"The fire started late one night and took the entire house in all of ten minutes, they told me. The closest fire department was over in the next county, too far to do any good. The neighbors called for help when the flames grew so high all their dogs started barking. It didn't matter, the house was a pile of embers by the time the fire truck came.

"The hired men had run off and left my parents asleep in their bed. The coroner said they were probably already dead from the smoke before any flames even reached them. It was a blessing…a quick ending to a hard life."

The three boys all stood respectfully and looked at the pile of charred wood and stone that was the place of their father's birth. The sun beat down on their bare heads and each of them was covered in sweat and dust from the road.

Now John knew why his father had welcomed a life in the Army. Nothing the Bateman family had experienced was as bad as life must have been in this bleak and desolate place.

"I felt guilty for a long time that I wasn't here for them," the Old Man said, his voice filled with such a harsh sadness John thought maybe he would cry. "But life became better for me after I moved to Tulsa to stay with my aunt. As a child I can remember moments of joy in my life. But living here wasn't one of them. All I want to remember about this place is sitting on the porch as my daddy played his guitar and sang to us."

The Old Man looked around, choking back his emotions and John saw the tears on his face had cut lines across his dusty cheeks. Wiping his face with a handkerchief, the Old Man smiled at them. It was the moment John remembered best, the moment he felt such a great love for his father.

They were his family, standing there, waiting for him to finish. The Old Man squared his shoulders and spread his arms wide.

"I want to thank you all for coming here with me. It's important for you to see where I came from; maybe it will help you understand our lives together. I know it's been tough on all of you, but you've been real troopers…things will get better soon, I promise. Now, how about a family hug?"

They all gathered in his arms. A tradition they had all shared whenever they arrived at a new place in the family history. The Bateman family shared everything in life; the ups and downs affected them all. John learned just how important this togetherness was to his father as they stood on that pathway before his ruined past. The Old Man may have commanded their lives as if they were his troops. But they never failed to obey him, and through it all he never had to demand their love.

Sadly the trip to that assignment wasn't the last one they would have to take. But through the grand experience of living in the Bateman family John had been given a free view of the world. Germany, Japan, Hawaii, such exotic and wonderful places. Texas, North Carolina, Florida, but such drab assignments were behind them all now. Here John would settle down in the Maryland suburbs. This time they planned to stay. This time he hoped it was all true.

John could understand why his brothers felt like they had to abandon ship when they came of age. The Old Man's tough discipline seemed to be aimed primarily at their backsides. But they had grown up wild and almost entirely like their father. John felt the odd one in the house. Maybe he was lucky to be the last in line.

"John, breakfast is almost ready," his mother yelled up the stairs.

John jumped. Shit, he had been daydreaming since looking at the clock. A hurried shower, a whack at the dozen hairs on his chin and he dressed, pulling his sneakers on as he hopped down the stairs. Wolfing down the eggs and ham under his mother's gaze, she clucked her tongue in disapproval.

"You're too late, your father left five minutes ago. But I expect you'll get to meet some of your fellow classmates on the school bus."

The Old Man waited for no one. Either his boys were disciplined enough to be on time and catch a ride with him or they got left behind. It was just his way of saying he loved them but there were rules. John had a license and could have driven himself to school. But that required a car, for now he would have to ride the bus.

All summer long as they settled into the new house, John had wondered what it would be like to enter a school and actually graduate from the same place. He had endured eleven grades at seven different schools. His education was a changing gallery of faces he didn't know and experiences, most of which he would like to forget. The new school, Montgomery High, had a great reputation in the county and he was looking forward to sinking his teeth into whatever social life could be found.

And that brought his mind back to Jesus and the dream. He'd known for some time that he might be a little different than the average kid, ever since the night he had that date with Rebecca Moore. It was easier to understand now what he was feeling back then, but it was supremely outrageous at the time.

It was a dance at what was labeled the teen club on base at Washington Heights outside of Tokyo, Japan. The Army had a way of making these things happen. They stenciled Teen Club on a regulation sized piece of plywood and tacked it to a Quonset hut door and there you were. In other words, the event was destined to be a real bummer. Nobody in a uniform could seem to understand what kind of music the kids wanted. The base Special Services unit had provided the records. Elvis, the Everly Brothers and Lawrence Welk proved it was going be a long night.

This was all in the early sixties but there was not a Beatles record in sight. John had laughed about it, but at the same time it hurt. Not knowing what their contemporaries back in the States were listening to affected all the army brats.

Becky Moore had been chasing him for three months. She was the aggressive type whose father happened to be base chaplain. Unfortunately for John there wasn't another girl in the eighth grade that could match her tenacity.

"Will you go to the dance with me this weekend?" Becky had asked.

"Uh, I don't dance much," John said in response.

"Really, what happened? Your mother told my mother that you took ballet classes in Germany."

John remembered thinking that he might have to kill his mother for giving away that little secret. But the ballet class had been his brother Frank's idea. It was meant to train John's body before taking judo lessons. He knew Becky would crucify him with that information if he didn't respond favorably. He invited her to the dance.

The old wooden slats in the floor snapped and crackled as the kids made their way across to the tables and chairs set up along the wall. The refreshment stand served only cola and was manned by a private first class. Uniforms had surrounded John all his life, this one was just part of the scenery.

"Two cokes," John had requested.

"Coming right up," the uniform said. John read the name Perkins off the tag clipped over the right breast pocket.

"Thank you, Mr. Perkins," John said when handed the opened bottles. Becky was across the room talking with the girls so he decided to hang out and wait for her to come over.

Looking over at the private, John asked the obvious question. "What did you do wrong to pull this duty?"

Perkins eyes narrowed as he looked John over, what did a kid know about such things?

"My name is John Bateman, "John said," I'm sure you've heard of my father."

Perkins swallowed hard. Oh yeah, he knew John's father. The Old Man had made his reputation from day one on this post.

"I didn't clean my work area well enough," Perkins answered.

"Sorry about that. At least you didn't draw sentry duty," John said.

"I'm in the motor pool, kid, when will I ever fire a rifle? Your father is real Army all the way," Perkins replied.

"This isn't a loyalty test, Mr. Perkins. I'm no stoolie for my father."

"Thanks," Perkins said. John noticed the guy couldn't be more than nineteen. Perkins smiled and they looked awkwardly at one another until Becky came over and broke up the staring contest.

"Oh this is just so boring," Becky moaned.

"So go find us a table and I'll be right there," John said, handing her a bottle.

John turned back to Perkins and regarded his youthful face, probably from Iowa or some rural mid-western state.

"Don't let the Bateman name scare you, I am not my father."

"I'm Larry, that's short for Lawrence," Perkins grinned. "Got yourself some nice little girlfriend there."

John knew the guy wasn't sincere as he said that, what was he really meaning to say? He found himself wanting to get closer to this guy, but why?

"Sorry you had to pull this cruddy duty post, I'm sure there's a lot else you could be doing," John said.

"Naw, it's all right What else could I be doing?"

John felt like Larry was asking him something but he didn't understand. A second uniform arrived to relieve Larry and they exchanged a few words about the inventory of sodas and chips. John didn't want him to leave, he wanted to talk.

"Guess that about does it for my shift," Larry said. He really had the most magnificent eyelashes and John found himself staring up into that youthful face.

"Can we go outside and talk?" John asked, not really sure why this was happening.

"Uh, I guess so, but I don't think your girlfriend will be happy," Larry said.

"She isn't my girlfriend, she's a bitch. Let's just go."

"Ok then," Larry said.

They ended up walking to the motor pool as the conversation grew sparse and John knew there was an unspoken feeling developing between them. They found themselves undressing on a canvas tarp in the back of a deuce and a half truck. The parking lot was dark and quiet except for the whispers of their conversation. It just seemed so natural for John to be there in Larry's arms.

He'd never been naked with anyone like this before. All these new feelings welled up inside. He was in the arms of another guy, the stiffness of manhood pressed between them and it felt good. But as Larry lay on top, hugging and kissing him the joy caused John to suddenly climax. He gasped at the sudden release and moments later Larry did much the same. There was so much more they could have done but it seems neither of them had much experience at this.

John was big for his age and that had certainly fooled Larry into thinking he was older. But as they dressed Larry asked and John admitted he was only fourteen.

"This was never supposed to happen," Larry said. "You're too young and my ass will get in real trouble."

John tried to plead his case, he felt something strange and magical had happened between them. Larry knew better. "It was just sex, kid, well sort of. We can't be doing this, John, you can't. You need to grow up first, sex will come later." He was right of course. John knew that he had felt wonderful but he didn't know how to explain it. Was he queer?

Larry shipped out the following week for a post in the Middle East and John never heard from him again. That chance encounter brought a whole new perspective on life, one that made him ashamed of the feelings and yet thrilled at the same time. Unfortunately sex with guys was not something John could discuss with anyone in his family.

But as chance would have it, here in the ancient culture of Japan, John became exposed to the wisdom found in Buddhist philosophy. He found a refuge from the memory of those disturbing feelings Larry had uncovered, and he began to work his way through this strange new discovery.

Frank had studied the martial arts for years, one of the safe hobbies a kid could have in a military family. He brought home the first books John read on Zen Buddhism and the boy was hooked. Discovering that there was a Buddhist study group meeting once a week at the local community center, John decided to drop in. Instead of joining the Boy Scouts like all his friends, he went to the class and began to learn.

They were an eclectic group. Servicemen, housewives, businessmen and students, all joined together by a common bond. John was introduced to two Asian Buddhists and a gentleman from India who had spent part of his life in a Tantric ashram in the northern provinces of his country.

John learned that the philosophy embraced many cultures and each had a different view. By being the youngest person ever to enroll in the group, John caused a little concern at first. But once assured of his serious intentions they welcomed him with open arms. It was the Buddhist way.

John found in Buddhism the means to focus and elevate his mind to a consciousness that he never knew existed. It didn't take long to realize that the study would have to become a lifetime commitment. But at fourteen there wasn't much stability in his life anyway, the Army had seen to that. John needed something to call his own.

At first the teachings were almost incomprehensible to his untrained mind, but John had never shied away from a challenge in his life, it would have been unthinkable in his family. The philosophy embraced pacifism, something he could not easily discuss with the Old Man. His mother was another matter and she seemed to understand his need. It was the solution to John's youthful obsessions and a source of comfort amidst the raging hormones that seem to propel him forward.

His one and only sexual experience languished in the back of his mind, popping back up occasionally to taunt him. Now he was going into the last year of high school and he had to be careful. Nothing attracts negative attention like the odd kid in school and John felt more than qualified for that post. He was a Buddhist, possibly queer and still technically a virgin. Not good odds from his point of view.

The fact that Jesus had said his life was going to change wasn't much comfort. John believed in dreams as a window to the inner consciousness, a way of seeing into his deepest thoughts and feelings. This one had been particularly unsettling because he had come away from it with only more questions about himself and somehow had to find the right answers in the swirl of life around him. This wasn't going to be easy.

The school bus dropped him off in front of an enormous brick and glass edifice, Montgomery High. Dutifully following the signs that directed new students to the gymnasium, John stood in the A-D line and gazed up at the banners hung from the rafters. "County Champs, 1965, Basketball," the largest one read. Good way to start, he hated basketball.

Montgomery was a huge high school, built in response to the baby boom following World War II. It incorporated all the finest in scientific labs and study spaces for the college bound, along with the auto and woodshops needed for those students interested in technical training

John's homeroom teacher, Mrs. Babbage, shook his hand when he reported in. It felt awkward being seated amongst a group of kids who had probably known each other for years. He'd been through this many times before and it was never easy.

He caught several girls checking him out and smiled when their eyes met. His take was that the guys didn't seem friendly at all. When the bell rang they all spread out through the school. It would be his first day of stumbling around looking for his assigned classrooms. Bumped around in the halls as he searched for room numbers above the doors, John already knew what it was like to be on the bottom of the pecking order.

First period was English and that was a plus, it had always been his best subject. All those years on military posts throughout the world had given John a love of literature. He had read entire library's full of books while seeking to escape the dullness of life on an Army base and it had always served him well in school. John had never seen a television until he was seven.

He took a desk in the third row, figuring the front two rows were too aggressive for a new guy. Experience told him this was a good place to observe his classmates. To his surprise, Mrs. Thatcher, the English teacher, turned out to be a young attractive blonde woman about thirty years of age.

"Good morning, class," she intoned in a deep southern drawl and John saw her eyes sparkle; she thought this was going to be fun. "Since I know you'll be asking, I'm from a small town in Georgia so please bear with my accent. My other students seem to find it amusing but then you Yankees amuse me too."

A few snickers around the room at that statement and Mrs. Thatcher laughed.

"I'm joking with you guys, come on, lighten up will you? My husband is from New York, can't get much more Yankee than that, can you? Did you know that the greatest literature in our nations' history was written by both southerners and northerners alike…?"

She slipped right into a discussion of the syllabus for the semester and John realized she was a slick operator. Yeah, he liked her right away. While she wrote an outline of reading assignments for the next three months on the blackboard, he had a chance to look around at his classmates.

A few tense studious types sat in the front row. One girl seemed to be writing down every word Mrs. Thatcher said. The second row contained a big jock looking character who might be repeating this class, he didn't look too happy. John leaned sideways and looked at the row behind him.

Sitting at a desk against the far wall was a boy whose looks startled him. The kid had shoulder length blonde hair that he wore swept back behind his ears. It was so white that John thought he might bleach it but then considered maybe the guy was an albino. He had a handsome face, no, he was beautiful, and John smiled to himself, wondering why he had chosen that word.

John had been staring until the boy looked up and their eyes met. The boy gave him a broad smile before turning back to whatever he was writing in his notebook. John looked back to the front of the room but couldn't get the image out of his mind. Those eyes had seemed to look right into his head

Mrs. Thatcher told them to copy the reading list while she took the roll. John raised his hand when she called Bateman and shifted in his seat to keep an eye on the blonde boy. A name, all he wanted was the boy's name. She finally called out "Alan Sommers" and the blonde raised his hand.

"Here," the boy said.

The sound of his voice affected John in the strangest way. All the tension of the morning fell away and he felt totally relaxed. He ventured a peek back at the boy, just one more image to carry him through the moment. His eyes met Alan's once again and they both smiled this time. Everything seemed right in the world.



On to Chapter Two

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Singer Without a Song is © 2005 - 2006 by Chris James.
    This work may not be duplicated in any form (physical, electronic, audio, or otherwise) without the author's written permission. All applicable copyright laws apply. All individuals depicted are fictional with any resemblance to real persons being purely coincidental.


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