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essay, some repetition
    5. My America
    I’m an immigrant. I’m from England, and it was England I longed for as a child; America felt like exile. My parents did relief work in Spain during its savage civil war, feeding starving children, until my father was “disappeared” by the victorious dictatorship. He smuggled out a note, and with that and the threat of financial repercussions, they were able to get him free, though banished from the country. Thus we came to America on the last commercial ship out, in 1940, as World War Two engulfed Europe. I don’t like discrimination against immigrants; too many are far worse off than we were, victims of totalitarian abuses. America is a refuge.
    I’m a writer. I write because my imagination will not be suppressed. America has the freedom for the flowering of the arts, including writing. When I write, I receive love for my fiction and ire for my success. I understand what it is like to be the object of such mixed attentions.
    I’m a naturalized American. My education, career, family, and future are here. I believe in the Constitutional values, for I chose to subscribe to them, and wince when I see them abridged. Unfortunately there is some of that occurring now, as fanaticism, greed, and lust for power prosper in the name of patriotism. I do have a notion where that leads. Yet I hope and believe that in time America will cast off these illnesses and return to the grandeur of its aspirations.
    America is relatively wealthy and free and proud, so is loved and hated regardless of its merits. Love inspires tolerance; hatred sponsors terrorism. I saw one building become a ghastly smokestack, and a plane crash into another like a deadly chicken coming home to roost, and I saw the tall towers fall. I saw the heroes and the bigots roused, and the shock of illusion shattered. I remembered the assassination of President John Kennedy, the bombing of Pearl Harbor, and I thought of the Chinese curse: “May you live in interesting times.”
    I’m an immigrant. I’m a writer. I’m American.
    Note: I shared the shock of the nation when 9/11 happened, so when Hugh Downs solicited me to contribute to his volume My America , I did so, becoming one of 150 Americans to do so. It was published a year after the event. As it turned out, there came to be hundreds of volumes about that day, so this one wasn’t that remarkable, but it was worth doing once.

Caution: graphic rape by a woman
    6. Serial
    The security screen gave a silent alarm. Newton sat up in his pajamas, gazing at the screen. Someone was studying his premises, doing a systematic survey. A scintillatingly beautiful woman.
    He touched the intercom button. “Maria.”
    â€œMaster,” she responded immediately.
    â€œHere to me. Bedroom.”
    â€œCan I fix hair, put on something sexy?” she asked eagerly.
    â€œNo.”
    She did not respond. In a moment she entered, garbed in drab working clothing that could not conceal her excellent figure. “Master?”
    â€œSomeone is spying on the estate. A woman.”
    â€œI call police?”
    â€œNo. Take the car this afternoon. Make sure you are seen leaving. Go to a motel for the night. See a movie. You have time off.”
    â€œMaster, I no want time off!” she protested. “I want you rape me like you used to.”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œMaster, please. I still got body.” She tore open her blouse to reveal her full breasts. “You no need other woman.”
    Newton frowned. “Do not argue with me, Maria. You know that only annoys me.”
    â€œThen punish me! I argue, I disobey you.” She ripped off the rest of her clothing. “I bad girl! Spank me.”
    â€œMaria—”
    She stepped into him, pressing close, bearing him back on the bed, hungrily kissing him. “Punish me!” she repeated. “Torture me. I scream real good.”
    He heaved her off him, but she clung