Novel excerpts

Becoming Supernatural - Chapter 1 (paperback on Amazon books)

jmillerwilson — Sun, 06 Sep 2009 13:44:25 GMT

Becoming Supernatual follows the wild ride of Mark Justin who rejects and supresses telekinetic powers until he has to save a life. Then there's no stopping the local and Christian press coverage, a syndicate takeover of his church and the chaos of expanding energies he can't contol. Nothing in life prepares you for becoming supernatural but in the end you save yourself and the ones you love anyway you can.

The first of a trilogy, it's self-published by Lulu. Appreciate any comments.

Chapter 1 - Summer 1972

Mark Justin and his band of merry tripsters were cruising south on Texas 124, out of Houston heading to the coast, not Galveston, too many lights there to get the full sense of the event. They were headed for a remote beach up the coast. No one in the '64 Volkswagen van had seen it yet but it had arrived that night on the Texas coastline and every FM station from Victoria to Port Sulfur was raving.

"Listen compadres, I'm not telling you to do anything illegal but if your head ain't right and you're still dressed and dry, let's just say you'd better find a way to the coast in the next few hours. It's 2 A.M. Southeast Texas and the Rover wants to hear from all over what my friends are seeing and doing in the water tonight. There's magic in the Gulf and I'm taking your calls until dawn," announced The Midnight Rover, on Galveston's Power 98.

Mark drove the party van and sipped a cup of his favorite brew, a mixture of coffee and beer he called Maxwiser. Nasty but effective, it left no residual fuzz of a hangover even on the longest road trips. In his early 20's and still buff from running high school track, Mark was taller than most and handsome in a jut-jawed way with killer blue eyes and long blond hair.

With the summer rotation of UT students Mark's usual friends were long gone and the ‘drive board' was where he found these paying customers for this little excursion. Forty eight hours ago he had tacked his card on the bulletin board in the commons under The Tower and advertised, "Experience the Gulf: one special night-$10 round trip." Now he had five companions, three girls and two guys, and more than enough cash to cover it.

Their destination was High Island, a small beach town northeast of Galveston across the bay, isolated from the lights and traffic. Mark had surfed Cosby's Beach for years and knew the cut through the dunes that opened to the wide long beach that should be deserted despite all the radio buzz. The idea was to party on the beach and skinny dip for a few hours in the most fantastic migration of phosphorescent plankton to hit the Texas shoreline in fifty years.

When the van rolled through the dunes, the coast was literally clear-not another vehicle in sight. And the water glowed. Mark drove slowly down the beach, taking some time to adjust to the dark and the amazing lights in the naturally phosphorescent surf.

Like an inverse shadow, the plankton reflected the energy from everything in the water. That night, a gallon of the Gulf contained hundreds of thousands of the bioluminescent dinoflagellates each secreting a mixture of protein and enzyme intended to light up and frighten away predators. It was this extreme concentration of the plankton that generated the rare light show in front of him.

The sea foam was electric white as it rolled up the beach and then dissolved into twinkling stars seeping into the sand. Breaking waves glimmered white-green at their crests, fish were streaks of lime flashing through the troughs and hermit crabs left sparkling trails as they scooted across the back wash. Even straight it was dazzling.

The tripsters went bananas. Before Mark stopped the van they stripped and piled on to the beach jumping up and down, dancing and singing, celebrating their sensory overload. After a beer-toast to new friends and psychedelic plankton, six naked screaming hippies sprinted into the water to see it up close.

At belly button depth they stopped moving and started laughing as another surprise surrounded each one of them. From every body a perfect ring of reflective light beamed life energy in all directions.

An aura revealed is an awesome sight. In this water it shown first as intense white-green (like a glow stick) close to the body, fading to lighter green within a foot, then trailing off to a deep green that disappeared into the night water about three feet away.

Mark and April stayed back apart from the others. They had hit it off since she called about the ride but now it was love at first sight, a common problem for him. She was so cute and relaxed he could not help himself. They were tall, slender and blond, a fine match for the gene pool.

But Mark had sworn off relationships; too many expectations with too much consequence and unpredictable results-not worth the effort, until now.

"Hell of a light show," he said to break the ice.

"You should see it from here. God, it's everywhere. Come on, slow poke," she laughed and pulled him deeper until the water was chest high.

Now their full body energy was reflected and lit up the water around them. They were close enough so that their auras were indistinguishable and she playfully pushed him away.

"You're all aglow Miss April. Lots of energy in that lovely body of yours."

But as he moved away she stopped laughing and just stared at him, at the water around him. Transfixed and amazed, mouth agape, she panicked.

"Stop a second. Damn it! I can't believe I'm seeing this. Tell me real fast Mark Justin and don't lie about it. Why the hell is your light not like mine?"

He couldn't answer the question. Instead of a white-green glow like all the others, his aura was an rainbow of red, green and yellow light, blending then separating and fusing again; ebbing and flowing to some unknown biorhythm. It swirled around him like a watery kaleidoscope pulsing color in all directions. To April it was inexplicable, powerful and frightening.

"Wow, that's a relief," he finally replied. "I thought you were looking below the surface." She didn't laugh.

"Okay, okay, there are lots of pretty colors. It's just the Maxwiser. You know it does that to everybody if you drink enough, so take it easy. But it's pretty cool, huh?"

"That's pure-dee bullshit, but it's so far-out I don't care. That is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. All those colors, dancing around you like some kind of Tim Leary psychedelic ballet. It's fan-damn-tastic."

He just smiled and hunched his shoulders not knowing how to respond or explain the light show emanating from his body.

"I swear, Mark Justin. You are so trippy and you don't even know it. Come back over here right now. I gotta take your pulse from inside that thing," she said with open arms and a smile.

But spoiling their perfect moment, Mark noticed new lights flash across the beach. A pickup truck had cut through the dunes and was slowly heading down the beach toward his van.

At that moment his dream date ended and the freak show began.

In the bed of the pickup, standing together against the cab, a tall naked longhaired hippie wearing only a flapping black trash bag for a cape was flanked by two totally nude blondes each holding a kerosene torch high above the truck cab. They looked like a bargain-basement entry in an East Texas porn parade.

Mark quickly warned April and began swimming toward shore as fast as he could. Realizing how vulnerable they were, he felt more threatened with every stroke.

In seconds he reached shallow waters and jogged up the beach. From the dark side he grabbed his jeans out of the van and then walked into the torchlight. Hoping for the best he waved in Captain Trashbag, the bouncy blonds and the rest of the crew.

"Ahoy matie," shouted the captain shining his flashlight on Mark. "How's it hanging?" The blonds giggled on cue.

"Just a little party in the water. Looks like you're dressed for it so come on in and join us. It's unbelievable out there." Mark smiled, admiring the porn stars.

The captain and his naked beauties leaped out of the truck onto the beach, ready to party, but trouble was behind the windshield. Three fully dressed 20-something, stubble-faced, baseball-capped rednecks unloaded from the cab and stepped in front of the blonds. Two approached Mark.

"Got any dope?" one of them asked.

"Well, you know, not on me." Mark replied and extended a hand in friendship knowing it was the moment of truth with these guys.

Instead of returning the greeting the closest one slammed a meaty right fist into the side of his face, instantly knocking him down. The punch was strong but it was the skull-and-bones silver ring that gashed his left temple and chipped the cheekbone next to his eye.

The bone was nearly exposed and a bloody stream poured into his eye. In an instant he was half blind and on his knees, fighting off total darkness as the pain ripped through his head.

At that moment, his companions, Jason and Keith, stumbled up the beach into the flickering torchlight. Laughing and expecting to party with the newcomers, they had no clue about the danger in front of them.

But it was the third and the largest of the rednecks that clarified things when he pulled a Louisville Slugger from behind the seat and ceremoniously slammed it three times on the truck's weathered hood. The blows sounded like muffled gunshots across the windy beach.

"Alright you stoned out hippie maggots. I am not screwing around. You are trespassing on my beach. That means you shits are going to have to pay the freight."

"Hey man, don't be so harsh. Let's just take their dope and bail," said Captain Trashbag.

"Shut up, bag boy. I'm gonna have a little fun. Hey Bubba, you and Cuz empty out the van. Gotta be some good stuff in there. The speed is mine. You can have the rest."

April and the other girls had just enough time to circle around out of the water, slip into the van and put on their underwear before Bubba slid open the door. Their screams shook Mark to the bone as he tried to find his bearings and use the van's bumper to get back on his feet.

"Hot damn! Buddy, they got women too. We'll herd ‘em over your ways," Bubba yelled as the girls ran around the front of the van and stopped.

"Hello ladies. You with these creeps?" asked Buddy whose 6'3" frame towered over them as he tapped the bat in his hands. His glazed eyes and wicked grin scared them beyond words.

"Well, the correct answer is, ‘Not for long,'" he said and took a few steps toward Jason.

"Dude, don't you want to party?" Jason asked.

Buddy answered by smashing the barrel of the Louisville Slugger into his gut; a brutal crunching blow that dropped Jason to his hands and knees.

Breaking out in a toothy smile, Buddy added a quick two-step kick in the ribs that flipped Jason over and out on the beach.

Then he turned back to the other tripsters trembling in the torchlight. "Now, are we all paying attention? That's good because I have a little announcement. I've decided to take some more batting practice and then I'll be impounding your van back to my garage. Hey Cuz, you find the keys to that heap?" he yelled across the beach.

"Oh yeah. Some dope and money too." Cuz said holding up the booty.

"Damn hippies. Don't you know that possession of narcotics is still a felony in these parts," Buddy said waking over toward Keith.

"So, here's the deal, boys. I'm gonna finish off these maggots then we'll get what we can for the van after we party with their chicks. Any questions?"

Mark was helpless. A thundering headache, bloody eye, and the nausea of a concussion overwhelmed him. He knew the whacked out speed freak meant to kill them all but he could only watch. So he focused on the bat.

"Alright scumbag. Your turn to meet The Eliminator," Buddy said to Keith as he started to swing for a deadly headshot.

But in mid-stroke, two feet from Keith's forehead, the bat stopped.

"Hey, gotdamnit. Let go of it! Now that is your death warrant. You hear me?" Buddy threatened as he yanked on the bat.

But it didn't budge and suddenly he looked more like a crazed mime struggling to pull a bat out of thin air than a meth-crazed psychopath.

And then his voice changed too.

"Gotdamnit, now my hands won't move either. Sumbitch is stuck to me!" He screamed at a stunned audience.

Finally the bat moved, in reverse. It arched back over Buddy's head, swooped down in front, and then behind him again in an arching tetherball motion.

And Buddy rotated with it.

Suddenly he was the target; terror just inflicted reflected back by an unseen force.

"What the hell? My legs are stuck too. Bubba, help me gotdamnit! I can't move. Stop it. You're breaking my legs!" he yelled in sheer panic.

Bubba and Cuz dropped the girls and ran toward him but they froze in their tracks, invisibly hog-tied. The rednecks and the tripsters all watched as Buddy, now crying for mercy, slowly twisted in the sand like a human drill bit.

Then, as if picked up by a hurricane gust, Cuz and Bubba launched off the sand and flew over the cab of the pickup, crashing into its open bed. They cried and groaned for help but Captain Trashbag and the blonds had disappeared, taking cover under the dashboard inside the truck.

Mark's stringy hair hid part of his bloody face but his eyes cut through the night and remained fixed on the passed out psychopath. Both of Buddy's legs cracked then splintered as he continued torking deeper into the beach

April could see and feel Mark's fury.

"Stop it, he can't hurt us any more!" she yelled and grabbed his arm. "Stop it now! You are killing him!" she pleaded.

"What?" Mark broke his focus to look at her, "I got nothing to do with it. I'm not touching him."

But Buddy did stop his slow spin in sand.

Mark wiped his bloody eye and tried to smile at her.

"Well, you have to admit, his luck did take a turn for the worst," he said feebly trying to win her back.

But April loathed him. With his face grotesquely bloodied and swollen and wielding some kind of uncomprehendable power, he had morphed from adorable to terrorable in less time than it takes to smoke a cigarette.

"How could you...How can you do that?" she stammered and raised her voice to ask, "What on earth are you, Mark Justin?"

He couldn't answer; he didn't know either.

Suddenly, more afraid of him than she had been of Buddy, April ran to join her girlfriends gathered around Jason, still face down in the sand. Feeling Mark looking through her, she didn't look back.

"Hey, you in the truck, get dressed!" Mark turned his attention to Captain Trashbag and the blonds. "It's time for you to collect this garbage and get off my beach."

They struggled to dig Buddy out of the sand but with Mark's help they untwisted his legs and laid him next to his friends in the back of the pickup. Peeling out and swerving down the beach, the truck disappeared back through the cut in the dunes.

The glowing waves still broke in bright white shifts and the sea foam still dissolved into a million stars on the beach but the tripsters didn't care.

They were down.

Jason was bruised and coughing from a broken rib, Mark could barely see out of a swollen left eye and the girls continued crying as they finished dressing and got back in the van. Mark washed his wound in silence, doing his best to stop the blood and tears.

On the drive back to Jason's house in Houston, April never looked at him-no thanks or forgiveness there. She just hugged the door handle and sobbed.

He was not a mind reader but knew what she was thinking,

Get away from this monster as fast as you can before he does something like that to you.

They pulled up to Jason's house at daybreak and the boys quietly helped him into his room and bed. Keith decided to crash there too. He'd rather face Jason's Dad in a few hours than spend another minute with Mark.

"Dude, I saw what you did to those guys," he whispered to Mark. "Are you like some kind of extraterrestrial or from a parallel universe? You can tell me. I'm cool, you know, unless you'd have to kill me." His eyes went huge.

"Oh s***, wait. I didn't mean it." And he reflexed the two-finger hippy salute that makes everything right, "Peace, brother. No more violence."

"Me?" Mark whispered back. "You can't be serious. It was you, man. I saw it with my good eye. Don't bullshit me. You put a spell on the bat and another one on those three maniacs. You're a wizard aren't you? Wait," he held up a stop-sign hand, "don't erase my memory. I won't say a word."

And he folded three fingers to return the peace sign as he backed out of the room, bowing like an infidel and closed the door.

He was feeling better, even smiling, as he returned to his van. But the girls were gone. He retraced the route out of the subdivision but they were nowhere to be found. He was alone and suddenly deeply depressed knowing they had run away from him.

"Don't blame yourself, Markus. No one knows what really happened on the beach. Lives were saved-nothing else matters. Questions without answers will suck you dry. S-U-C-K, man. So drive. Just drive," demanded his inner dialog.

"Good advice, boys, but I can spell."

He took a deep breath and a long pull of Maxwiser then slipped a favorite 8-track into the player, found ‘Good Vibrations', and the Beach Boys were live as he started the long drive back to Austin. He needed a few stitches but that would have to wait. He could make it.

But ten miles down the road, hands shaking, exhausted, and convinced his left eye was going to explode, he pulled into a 7-11. The pain, depression and anger opened an abyss and it swallowed him.

Nothing made sense and everything pissed him off. He would never have April or any girl that mattered and he had wanted to kill those guys. Kill them all. And he would kill someone before long.

"Who the hell am I?" He yelled at a passing semi.

"Hey mystery boy, we sent that one to Research. Take a number. Someone will be here soon to suck you dry," answered the voice in his head.

He was going mad and the only thing that made sense at the moment was to end this torture. Instantly he knew the 50-foot overpass just ahead was high enough to do the job.

And he was about to put the van in gear when the passenger door swung open.

"Hi. You headed to Austin?" asked a slim, short haired, smiling brunette.

"No, not going to make it that far. You don't want to be in here." He waved her off not looking.

"Yeah, thought so. You'd better let me drive," she said throwing a backpack on the floor and climbed into the passenger seat.

"Come on, rainbow, that's no way to think. It's time someone did something for you, " she said reaching over, pressing her hand on his swollen face for a moment and then gently pulled him toward her.

"You are going to crash, sweetie, but in the back seat," she said and helped him curl up on the bench seat where he immediately passed out.

* * * * *

Perched on the lowest limb of the giant elm tree a mockingbird sang in the warm afternoon breeze as Mark awoke in his van parked in the shade about 20 feet from his Austin apartment. Abruptly sitting up on the backseat bench, he was looking in the rear view mirror at a face that was exactly as it had before the road trip.

"April, the naked blonds, the psycho speed freak that tattooed me and..."

He looked back in the rearview mirror and rubbed his perfectly smooth face and forehead.

"Did it happen? That could not have been a dream so, yes, it happened. Right?"

He listened but his internal dialog was off the air.

Looking around the van for evidence of the beach trip, he didn't see anything different from the usual dirt, trash and stains always there.

"It would help if the maid came in occasionally," he said as he got out and walked toward his apartment.

"Hey, Justin. How many times I got to say it? You pay single rent," said Jack Dearborn, owner and irritating slumlord of this six-unit off-campus complex. "Start shacking up and I'll need another fifty bills per month. Now tell old Jack the truth. That brunette has her own key, right?"

"No sir. There's nobody living here but us chickens. Just take a look at this disaster area," Mark said unlocking the front door. "Could anyone live in this mess but me?"

The door opened to a spotlessly clean den and kitchen area. From floor to ceiling it was immaculate. Beyond clean it was a disinfectant miracle. Even the Maxwiser rug stains were gone. He knew that Jack knew only a woman would live in a place this tidy.

"So Jack, tell me about that brunette. Was she perky and cute?"

"Yeah, sure, melted my heart. Hellofa job in here, though. I might have something for her if she'll do that to all my units. But it's still fifty bucks from you."

"You are so right, Jack. Fifty bucks it was."

He pulled out his wallet and stared at the money the five tripsters had paid for the beach trip.

"I'll be damned. It was real," he mumbled and took off his shoes to enter.

"Sorry Jack. She's not coming back. No maid or girlfriend I ever knew could do this."

He closed the door in Jack's face and slowly walked around, marveling at the sanitized kitchen with its bowl of fresh fruit, sparkling linoleum, and light petulie oil fragrance. The bedroom was equally impeccable; clothes hung, sheets changed, all Downy fresh. He knew from Philosophy 101 that Aristotle would call this the heavenly reflection of a cheap earthly apartment.

"She did this to be sure I get it. A Clorox epiphany for the prodigal son, coming-of-age, accepting his gift. There's just one problem, lady. I don't want it," he said aloud entering the spotless bathroom.

"Do you hear me?" he screamed at the perfect face in the mirror.

"I DO NOT WANT IT!"

Sennett Lakes - Prologue

brassworks — Tue, 18 Aug 2009 02:28:33 GMT

The following is the prologue for one of my novels, still in progress. Would appreciate any comments, critique, ideas, whatever.

Sennett Lakes - Prologue

The van gasped and choked as she nursed it down the narrow dirt track. She knew it wouldn't run much longer. She accepted this fact with weary resignation. At this point, she'd settle for just pulling over. She could sleep in the van. She'd been cozy enough dozens of times on the foam mattress back there.

The van lurched around a curve, where the woods opened into a level clearing. She squinted through the haze on the windshield, as the wipers slapped back and forth in the downpour. The headlights picked out a small group of people, four or five young men or older boys. Surprised, she stomped on the brake and brought the van to a halt, skidding a little on the streaming gravel. They turned to look at her, blinded by the high beams. One moved away, then another, then they all ran into the black night.

The tapered shafts of her headlights came to rest on three colorless lumps on the ground, one of them large, which they had left behind. She revved the engine to keep it going; the headlights brightened. The lumps looked like gunny sacks.

Vandals, she thought, stealing stuff. What kind of stuff is there to steal, out in this Godforsaken wilderness? Other than meager strands of wire strung beside the road, she hadn't seen anything resembling civilization since she'd come through a crossroads about twenty miles back.

She had been driving forever. She'd followed instructions from a travel guide to find some stupid campground, but dark had come on early as a storm approached. Then the road on the way to some place called Trinity Falls was closed because of construction, so she had had to take a detour on a narrow road, barely more than a cow path, curling around the mountains and lakes. She had thought the detour had come back out onto the main road, not much better than the detour, but she wasn't sure. In the last mile, she had seen no trails or driveways leading off the road at all. Finally, she had spied this dirt drive and turned onto it in an effort to turn around, knowing by then that there wasn't enough gumption left in the van to backtrack to that settlement. She was frustrated and too tired to care about the hunger that gnawed at her. She had about run out of energy to expend on bad cars, bad roads, bad directions, and bad weather. And now, vandals - !

Uneasy that they might return, she thought she'd better get out of there, if she could coax the van along. She took her foot off the brake and the van crept forward. She peered through the rain. The clearing looked wide enough for her to skirt the bags of booty, turn around, and get out. The van had a bigger turning radius than Ringling Brothers Circus. At least the gravel looked hard-packed. The last thing she needed was to sink into soft sand.

Lightning split the sky, thunder crashed with it, and lit the clearing. The unmistakable brilliance revealed the largest of the bundles as a man, lying on his side in the rain, curled tightly into himself.

My God . . . ! She stood on the brake and stared. Prickles rose across her neck. She swallowed hard, her blood racing. Fear dragging her feet, she climbed out of the van and approached the still figure. Heedless of the downpour or the lightning overhead, she studied the still form with horrified fascination. She didn't want to let the idea fix itself in her mind that he could be dead, but it danced around the edges. What if he is?

Finally, she crouched next to him. His arms cradled his head, knees drawn up to protect his belly. She touched his shoulder. He recoiled.

Startled, she jerked her hand away. He's alive! Tentative, she reached out again. He mumbled, his protest weak but anxious.

"It's all right," she said softly. "They're gone." She sure hoped they were.

She pulled his arm carefully away from his face. The man groaned. The skin on his forehead looked badly scraped, but wasn't bleeding much.

The van engine, which had been idling weakly, died with a indecisive sputter. The headlights yellowed.

Bones, check for broken bones. Had they been beating him?

She didn't know what to look for, how to check for broken bones. He wore a light work jacket with a sweater and a shirt. Could she feel anything through those?

She touched the dark bruises on his forehead first, cringing as her fingers met rough flesh. He moved under her hand, his resistance feeble. She hesitated, then kneeled in the mud and held his head still with her knees while she probed gently. He was not conscious, but neither was he far away. He kept muttering "No" and "Get away," as near as she could decipher his slurring.

The skull under the broken skin seemed intact, not giving anywhere she touched. She felt around his scalp and found two or three goose eggs rising where he must have been struck.

She felt each arm, then reached under the open jacket and pressed softly down the ribs. He winced and cried out, his voice ragged and faint. She jumped as her hand came away warm and wet, stained dark in the dim light.

Blood streamed down her wrist in threads with the pelting rain. The storm cracked around her, lighting everything with a clarity she didn't want to see. Ozone singed the wet air. Her throat tightened, her ears ached. No, don't think about it . . . but the blood raised terrible images before her mind's eye . . . No! . . .

"No!" Panic drove her hand hard against the man's jacket, desperate to wipe away the blood. He recoiled and his sharp yelp pulled her back to his need. . . . no . . . She willed herself to a tenuous calm, to create distance from the blood, to ignore her knotted guts, to shove those visions away . . . don't think about that . . . I've got to help him, somehow . . . She steeled herself to continue.

It's got to be a knife wound, she thought, calming herself with the necessity of the situation.

She renewed her search gingerly, cringing as she put her hand back under his jacket into clothes now soaked as much with rain as blood. More than a cut? As she probed, he flinched and gasped. Must be a couple of broken ribs. She felt along his legs, but he gave no notice.

What am I going to do? I don't know this guy, I'm lost, and the van is dead. She knelt in the rain next to the still man. Fear, frustration, and weariness overwhelmed her, and she began to weep. The rain washed over her, mixed with her tears. She bent forward, keening soundlessly as a familiar misery filled her beyond endurance.

Her head settled on the man's shoulder. He stirred at her touch, muttered again.

Oh, my God . . . She came back to herself. I've got to help him . . .

She sat and looked at him, wiping her eyes. She breathed deeply to get herself under control. She straightened with resolve.

Got to get him out of this rain, she thought. She got up out of the mud and went to the van. She got in and turned the key, but the starter only whined as it turned over sluggishly. Finally she gave that up and just let out the clutch, holding her breath until it began to roll. She stopped it a few feet short of the man. She turned on the interior lights, got out again, and opened the side doors. Then she went back to the man and knelt beside him. She touched his face gently with her hand. He jerked away.

"Can you hear me? Please, listen. I need to help you, but you need to help me. I can't lift you alone. If you can get up, I can help you. I have a bed in my van, which is right here. It's warm and dry, with blankets, and you can rest there until I can get some help."

She patted his cheek. "Come on, mister, come around."

He rolled his head a bit.

"Do you hear me? Talk to me. You've got to talk to me."

A raspy murmur rumbled from him, which she took for cognizance, as dim as it was. The storm, moving slowly on, boomed less often, but lashed the clearing with a few parting shots. A bolt of lightning with an immediate crack of thunder must have struck nearby, the report sharpened with the shriek of a blasted tree. The man winced.

She continued to stroke his face, as he approached consciousness, talking him closer. The steady downpour helped to bring him around. His eyes finally opened, dull and unfocused. "Come on, mister. Work with me. It's the only way you'll get help. You can do it. You just have to get on your feet now. I can help you."

At length, he began to move, tried to roll onto his knees, whimpered with pain. She steadied him. She talked him up onto his feet and helped him straighten his legs under him. He was a lot bigger on his feet than he had looked on the ground, and weighed far more than she had thought. Only half conscious, he swayed. She exerted all of her strength in helping him to balance. He swore and held his side.

"Come on, now. It's just a few feet away."

He leaned too heavily on her. I have to do this, she thought, straining to support him. "One step. Move your foot," she grunted. "Now another. It's only a few more steps."

Slowly, the two of them staggered to the van.

"Now, step up . . . into the van . . . " she gasped. "The bed's . . . right in front of you." She leaned down and took his thigh, physically lifting his leg to place his foot into the step well.

"You can reach the bed now . . . come on . . . it's right here in front of you . . . another step up . . . and you're in . . . "

He reached in obediently, but couldn't seem to muster the strength to pull his weight up.

"Come on." She locked her arms around his hips. Her voice racked with her effort. "On the count of three . . . one . . . two . . . three . . ." She heaved as he pulled himself up, straining to lift him inside. He got his other foot in, then his upper body sprawled on the bed. She swung his hips around and he lay on the edge of the mattress, moaning gently. She collapsed in the step well. They both wheezed.

She realized that the rain still pelted her. She got up, knees wobbly from exertion, shut the doors, and went around to the driver's seat to turn off the headlights. She came around again and climbed back in.

Finally . . . in . . . out of the wet . . . Now, got to get him out of those wet things and see to that cut . . .

She took off her own jacket, soaked through, and her old cardigan, which was nearly as soggy. Then she turned to him, and removed his boots and one pair of the two pairs of socks he wore. They were still fairly dry, the only dry things left on him. She unbuckled his belt and opened his trousers, and peeled the wet fabric gently from his legs. She threw them on the floor in the back of the van. The jacket was not difficult to remove while he lay there, but the pullover sweater posed a problem. She didn't think she could or should wake him enough now to have him sit up; that wouldn't do his ribs any good. Getting him on his feet probably hadn't been good for those ribs either, but it was the only way to get him under cover.

She thought for a moment. She'd have to cut the sweater off - with what? Then she remembered the sewing kit under the bed. She dug under the bed frame for a small plastic box with various sewing notions in it, and found a pair of scissors, not very large, but she hoped they would do. They'd have to. She began to cut the sweater. The wet wool balked in the blades. She moved to his back, where the sweater was drier, and continued, but she had blisters before she was done. Fortunately, the sweater was thin. At last, she was able to pull the remains of the sweater away from him. The dark-green plaid flannel shirt just unbuttoned, and soon she had removed it as well. Her breath caught at the sight of his white tee shirt, the fresh blood a broad swath across his torso, almost black in the dim light. She swallowed hard, then cut it away as well and threw the bloody rags to the back of the van with everything else, fighting to throw her fear back there as well.

She pulled a couple of blankets from the blanket rack and covered his legs and hips, then turned her attention to the wound in his side.

Ugly, it stretched diagonally from the right of his naval up his side and along the ribs, about nine inches long. It seemed deep to her. Although it didn't spurt, which would mean a cut artery, it did bleed steadily, showed no signs of slowing down. She found her lantern-shaped flashlight. A closer look at the open lips of the gash revealed that the knife had only cut entirely through the abdominal wall in one place; she couldn't see anything through that rupture. With no experience, she couldn't know for sure if the knife had cut any internal organs, but she thought the small size of the rupture was probably a good sign that it had not. But the wound lay as flat and open as a butterflied fish. Already, blood was pooling under him as it ran down across his belly. Fear built in her as she folded a towel and placed it to soak up the blood.

She didn't want to think about what was next - stitches. The bleeding could not be controlled without them. Even without experience, she knew stitches were necessary here, and soon. Her stomach lurched at the thought of doing this. Though she was adept with needle and thread, she had never applied them to human flesh before. But she could not spend all night just applying pressure, and hoping someone would find them in the morning. She had no idea how far they were from civilization, and could not depend on being found soon. Would someone miss this guy, and come to look for him? Would they know where to look? Had that gang found him here, or had they brought him here?

She braced herself. It's got to be done, or he'll bleed all night.

She hung the lantern from the rack. Digging through the sewing box, she found a small spool of nylon thread and a leather needle. In a make-do measure to sanitize the needle and thread, she wiped them and her hands with mouthwash from her toilet kit. She threaded the needle.

She looked at the man, and drew a deep breath. Bending over his ear, she did not touch his face. She didn't want him any more conscious than he had to be, but she thought he ought to be warned.

"You need stitches," she said in little more than a whisper. "It's going to hurt, but it's got to be done now. Then you can sleep, and I will get help for you."

She sat up and looked at the cut.

Gotta do it.

She cringed as she pushed the needle through one side of the gash. The skin was tough and resistant. He cried out and squirmed, but she leaned over him, pinning him down with her chest across his, her elbow behind him, and continued, nose only a few inches from the wound. She poked the needle through the other side, drew the thread together, tied a knot, and snipped the thread free. The lips at one end met. One down. How many to go?

She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand and continued. With each probe of the needle, he resisted her, but was too weak or not awake enough to succeed. She dithered with her mind to take it off the ugly task only inches from her nose, refused to look ahead of each stitch at the length of the gash, not wanting to know how much more lay before her. She made it mechanical, poking the needle through each side, drawing the lips of the wound together with the thread, tying it off, then wiping the skin before moving on. She didn't know how close together the stitches should be, but she thought they would be better closer than farther apart. It came to her that this was not all that different from sewing up the stuffing into a bird for roasting, and the punchy edge of hysteria that hovered in the shadows almost made her laugh - never again would she be able to look at the Thanksgiving turkey the same way.

Finally she sat up and stared, glassy-eyed, at her work. She had made eighteen stitches, a line of knots that wavered a little, but was relatively straight. Her fingers were blistered and bloody, her hands cramped. But the wound was closed and now only oozed slightly. That would probably diminish.

She fetched a face cloth from her bag and, wetting it from a jug of water she had, she carefully wiped the wound clean. Then she washed herself as well.

She cast about for something to use for a bandage. A clean bed sheet on the blanket rack caught her eye. It was soft, nearly rotten with age. She tore a long strip from it, folded it to make a pad, and covered the rough stitching. She tore the remainder of the sheet into wider strips and bound the wound and his whole torso to help secure those ribs she thought were broken. Then she pulled the blankets over him.

Done with the big job, she looked to his forehead. The torn flesh above his right eye looked more like abrasions than cuts, as if he'd run afoul of a concrete block. It wasn't bleeding, but it was raw.

She began to wash his face gently. He stirred, jerking when she first touched him, muttered thickly. The cool wet cloth against the scrapes on his forehead roused him. His eyes opened, as black as the night, opaque with pain. He couldn't see her, his gaze unfixed.

"Get away!" he mumbled with feeble anger. He rolled his head.

"Easy, there," she said. She stroked his forehead. "It's all right. They've gone away. No one is going to hurt you."

"Get away!" he insisted, fretful.

"It's all right." She kept up a low murmur to soothe him while she continued to rinse the cloth and wipe his face and hair, cleaning away some blood but mostly mud. The dense, raven-black hair had a wiry quality that even the soaking rain and mud hadn't subdued. Either he usually wore it long, or he was overdue for a haircut, for the coarse mane cloaked his ears and the nape of his neck.

He calmed under her hand. His eyes slowly closed and the tension drained from his body. She made a small pad from a piece of the leftover sheet, and wrapped his forehead with the last of the cotton strips to hold it in place.

She was finished. She had done what she could for him.

She found herself shivering. Although she'd removed her soaked outer things, most of what she still had on was damp, and her jeans were just plain wet. The storm had long since passed, and the night air flowing in behind the storm had chilled. She dug out dry socks, a fresh jersey, a sweatshirt and some sweat pants from her bag. She eyed her patient, but he remained unaware. Nevertheless, for modesty's sake, she turned her back to him before baring her torso. She pulled the clammy jersey over her head, peeled her jeans away, and threw both in the back of the van with everything else wet. Time enough tomorrow to tend to that stuff. It felt good to put on something dry.

As she rubbed her feet with a towel to warm and dry them, she studied her patient. He looked about thirty. A heavy, unkempt mustache even more wiry than his hair nearly obscured his mouth, curling down around the edges of it. She might have called him horse-faced, but the moustache balanced the long face. The cheeks and chin were evidently shaved regularly, although dark stubble meant he had not done so for a day or two. Even this early in the season, his face was an even tan from evident outside work.

Now that he was comfortably wrapped in warm blankets, she thought about what she'd seen of him while she had treated him. He was lean and tough, his shoulders well developed, evidently from hard physical labor. His hands were big and square, work-thickened, almost leathery in texture, and etched with the kind of working dirt that doesn't wash off, the capable fingers littered with old scars and new, nails by turns trimmed or ragged, all dirty. His skin was smooth and clear, and black hair only lightly covered his chest and abdomen. There had been no need to remove his briefs, but she had noted his maleness; she had to admit to herself that she was relieved that he did wear underwear. At least he wasn't a complete philistine. Sometimes, you just don't want to know too much about a stranger. Not that it really mattered - once he was under profession care, she'd probably never see him again. But she found an odd comfort knowing she was helping out someone who appeared to have been brought up properly.

In the confined space of the van, as the heat of two bodies began to take the edge off the cool night air, she noticed his scent, mingled with the smell of sweat and faintly of animal manure. He must work in a barn, she thought. The masculine essence was distinctly his own, yet somehow familiar. It had been a long time since she had been close enough to a man to notice his scent, unmasked by cologne or aftershave. The smell of the rain and mud had receded, as had the smell of fresh blood which had loaded her senses while she had worked on him.

She watched him for a little while, his breathing now deep, regular, and quiet. He seemed as comfortable as could be expected.

It came to her that she was worn out. She was almost too spent to lay herself down. There was plenty of room on the bed, so she shook out the last blanket from the rack and curled up in it on the bed next to the man. She turned off the dome light and the lantern and settled to sleep.

Although bone-tired, she lay awake for a long time, trembling. Now, without the distraction of this man's needs, cold memories came unbidden and blurred in her mind with fresh images of this man.

After some time, she sat up and turned on the dome light again. She didn't know why it mattered, but she couldn't settle for the night properly until she knew who she was in bed with. If knowing allowed her to get to sleep, so be it . . .

She gritted her teeth, reached over the end of the bed, and pushed aside the wet things on the floor until her hand met with his trousers. She was relieved not to get any more blood on her. She fished in the pockets for a wallet and was surprised to find one, a primitive leather wallet with two pockets. Guess the thugs didn't get that far . . Sitting up, she looked for identification. A twenty and a few ones constituted the cash. She pulled out a driver's license.

Carroll Ginn Westfall III. Birthdate: March 11, 1963. Height: Six feet, one inch. Weight: 190 pounds. Hair: Black. Eyes: Black.

She stared at the picture on the license, and compared it with the man lying on the bed next to her. Of course, he looked like a convict in the picture ID. Everybody did. Hair color was right. She supposed the eye color was right; they had looked black when he had opened them, but in the dim light his eyes would have looked dark anyway. If the right one isn't black now, she thought, it will be by morning. It was puffing up and promised to be one royal shiner.

She studied the license, looking back and forth between it and the man on the bed. Finally she felt satisfied enough to settle for the night. She put the card back and placed the wallet on a shelf where it would not soak up any more dampness, then turned out the light, and snuggled back into the blanket. As deep fatigue overwhelmed her, she began to shake again. She knew not if she shivered from weariness and emotion, or from the April night chill that crept through the single blanket. After a while, only half-conscious, she wormed under the edge of the covers she had laid over the man, and finally eased toward oblivion. The shared warmth of the blankets and of another living soul soothed her.

She slept.

To the Quick, Chapter 1, Part 1-- Look again pls

gabe_gregoire — Thu, 20 Apr 2006 22:03:15 GMT

To the Quick

by Gabriel N. Gregoire

The first thing I noticed about Chuck Martin’s wife Romy when she came downstairs into my office was that she wore too much perfume. I didn’t recognize the scent. I just knew she smelled like a flower shop. She walked with difficulty in high heels on the uneven basement floor, leaning on her husband for support.

When he wasn’t holding up his wife, Chuck followed a step behind her like a beaten dog.

I swept the playing cards in front of me into a pile, jammed them into the box and set them aside. Then I told my nephew Joe to clear out of the seat in front of my desk to make room for the nice lady. It was a shame. I was winning at Go Fish. Romy sat down and Chuck remained standing. Joe stood staring at them with a wrinkled nose. I could tell it was still raining outside from the dark splotches on Chuck’s Red Sox windbreaker. Romy’s clothes, a cream-colored dress with a matching hat, were untouched. She held her purse with both hands and looked at me like she was the one behind the desk.

We exchanged pleasantries and I introduced Joe, who grabbed my cell phone and booted up the Tetris game.

Mrs. Martin smiled primly at Joe.

Chuck said, “How ya doin, buddy? Little young for a cell phone, aren’t you?”

Joe shrugged and turned his ankles in for a second, his thumbs busy on the keypad.

“How can I help you today?” I said.

Romy sniffed. “Go ahead, Charles. This was your idea.”

Chuck shuffled his feet. “If you don’t mind, I’ll cut right to the chase, Mr. Jordan.”

“Please,” I said. “Call me Nick.”

“I’m a real estate agent, Nick. I have an office over in Brookline. An America’s Best branch.”

I nodded.

He went on, “My brother works for me, and I noticed a couple of weeks ago that his expense withdrawals lately haven’t matched his receipts. I keep very strict books, but I only update them every so often. Like when taxes are due, or you-know-who here gets on my case.” He bobbed an index finger in his wife’s direction. She looked at her nails. Chuck went on, “I checked back over the three years he’s been with my office, and I found a few more discrepancies. I don’t know how they got past me. But I don’t want to accuse Gary unless and until I’m absolutely sure he’s embezzling. I’m hoping that’s where you come in.”

I leaned back in my chair and laced my fingers behind my head. “You think your brother is skimming off the top for his own personal gain, but you want to be certain. Interesting. Other than the bookkeeping discrepancies, do you have a reason to suspect him?”

“Well, no,” he said.

“I told you,” said Mrs. Martin, “this is a waste of time. God knows you can’t even balance a checkbook, Charles. ‘Strict books.’” Then, to me, “I’ve always had to take care of our finances. I offered to keep the realty records too, but he insisted on doing it himself.”

Chuck’s face turned red, but he held his tongue. I had a feeling he was used to doing that. I opened a drawer in my desk, which was an antique cherry number, sturdy and worn. My office was in the basement of Pearl Street Antiques. It was just a bare stone room containing my desk and computer, two chairs and a single window just above eye level if you were standing up. It was pretty crowded if you had a few clients and a nephew in there all at once. The room was off to the side as you came down the stairs, surrounded by other rooms full of armoires, ancient bedsteads and handcrafted bookshelves. It wasn’t much, but the rent sure beat anything downtown. The side benefit was that the furniture in my office represented some of the best that my landlord had to offer. Plus, I lived two flights up, so the commute wasn’t bad. Joe was staying with me for four days while my brother attended a seminar in Chicago. I took a legal pad and a fresh Bic out of the drawer.

Joe put my phone back on the desk. “Can I draw?” he asked.

I tore off a piece of paper and handed it to him along with the pen. “Sure, pal. Knock yourself out.”

He began to sketch out a house. His lines were quick and short. “What’s embezzling?”

Mrs. Martin sniffed again. Probably had sinus issues from all the perfume. “Maybe we should come back when it’s more convenient for you, Mr. Jordan.”

“No, no,” I said. “Joe was just about to try out drawing on some of the other desks in the showroom, right Joe? Just use a book so you don’t mark the wood. Go on, just stay where I can hear you.”

“I don’t want to, Uncle Nick. I want to stay here with you.”

I ruffled his hair. “Uncle Nick’s got to do some business, Joe. I’ll take you out for ice cream later. Any flavor you want. Okay?”

“Can I go outside and play with Ralph?”

“No. No going outside without me. Besides, it’s raining. Ralph’s in his doghouse and he’s probably asleep. Just draw me a nice picture, okay?”

Joe nodded, sullen, and trooped out of the office. I knew that eventually he’d grow out of accepting bribes. But he’d be safe in the rest of the basement.

I dug out another pen, uncapped it and scribbled a few loops on the legal pad to make sure it worked. Mr. and Mrs. Martin were watching me like I was onstage.

I cleared my throat. “I’m going to need addresses, e-mail addresses, cell and house phone numbers, and pagers if you have them. License plates and vehicle descriptions will help, too. Plus any other details you can remember that might have anything to do with the case.”

Chuck smiled for the first time since I’d met him. “Thank you, Nick. You have no idea how much this means to me.”

Romy crossed her arms and looked away, her lips thin and tight.

“Please,” I said. “Call me Nick. Here’s a schedule of my rates.” I opened the drawer again, found the chart and wrote a figure on it. I handed it to Chuck. “That should cover my expenses for the first week. The rest of the fees are non-negotiable.”

Romy snatched the schedule away from her husband and glared at it. “You certainly get down to business, don’t you, Mr. Jordan.”

“Like the man said,” I said. “Cut to the chase. I’ve been doing this for quite a while, and trust me, it’s better for all of us if we get the details ironed out right up front. I have a success rate in the high eighties. I earn my money, Mrs. Martin.” After that, I bit my tongue. Usually people didn’t get under my skin.

Chuck said, “Of course, we understand. You’re doing us a favor, and that means compensation. Nothing could be simpler. Right, darling?” He put a hand on her shoulder.

“If something seems simple, you haven’t seen the truth yet,” she said.

I had to agree. But I didn’t let her know that. Instead, I started taking down all the information I’d asked for. Chuck also volunteered that Gary was in charge of showing a house in Duxbury, a nice place with a pool. It was his first in that price range, and he was eager to find a buyer. I wrote down the address. I looked up when I turned the page of my notebook, and I noticed a bandage on the heel of Mrs. Martin’s left hand. It was the large, square kind. She caught me looking and put the hand behind her purse.

I cleared my throat. “I accept cash and checks. I hope that’s not a problem.”

Chuck smiled like a kid who was about to pass in his first homework assignment. “Of course not. I brought my—our checkbook.”

I handed him my pen. While he was writing the check, I turned to the old Hewlett Packard and fired off an e-mail to Llewellyn, my young assistant:

Llew-

You were right about the Martins. Good work. Run Gary and Charles Martin through NCIC. Might as well check Romy Martin, too, under her maiden and married names. Also find out all you can about the America’s Best office in Brookline. Stop by when you get something.

-Nick

I hit ‘send.’ I knew Llewellyn checked his e-mail like a madman. I took the check from Chuck. “I’ll start as soon as this clears,” I said. “Is there anything else?”

Chuck rubbed his chin and shook his head. “This is quite a place the owner has here,” he said. “How long has he been in business?”

I said, “Frank? As long as I’ve known him. Years. Feel free to take a look around. He just got a few nice pieces in last week, and I don’t think he’s moved them yet.”

Romy shuddered. “I want to go home, Charles. I’m getting a chill in this damp basement.”

Chuck’s face reddened. “Yes, dear,” he said.

I showed them out of the office. As we went toward the stairs, Romy leaning on Chuck, I saw Joe at a walnut roll-top, toiling away with his nose an inch from the paper. The Martins and I went upstairs. Frank was with a couple of customers looking at a set of chairs when we went through the ground-floor showroom. I nodded at him. Outside, the rain had slackened, maybe enough to walk to the ice cream stand with Joe and Ralph. I shook Chuck’s hand and watched the Martins walk away. Before they turned onto Putnam, Mrs. Martin pulled an umbrella from her purse. She handed it to Chuck, who opened it and held it over her head as they walked. He dug out his car keys with the other hand, let his head fall, and ushered his wife around the corner.

When I turned around, Joe was hanging out the front door, holding onto the jamb with one hand and gripping my phone with the other. “It’s Lacey,” he said.

I took the phone and put it to my ear.

Lacey and I had been going out for nearly a year, which was a record for me. She was divorced, full of stories about her deadbeat ex-husband, which set an easy standard for me. Lacey was a business student at UMass and she wanted to start her own record company, so we were always going to see live music and trying to get backstage to talk to the bands. It was easy for her, but I often ended up waiting at the bar while she took notes and drew stares from people who probably thought she was some kind of groupie. The good part was, she was always making me mix CDs that kept me on the cutting edge of the Boston scene, such as it was. Lacey’s sister Jackie played bass for a band called Gomorrah, so when she wasn’t studying, Lacey booked shows for them and fielded calls from interested parties. She was pretty busy. Usually, I was the one to call her.

“Hey, Lace,” I said. “Everything all right?”

“Nick. I’m glad I caught you. What are you doing?”

I told her about the Martins, mentioning the figure on the check Chuck had written.

She said, “That’s awesome, honey. Congratulations. Hey, if you get a few more cases like that, you might be able to afford a ring.”

I knew she was kidding, but I also knew there was a reason for the joke. “I’m going to the bank in the morning,” I said. “Want to have breakfast?”

“That would be nice. I have something I want to talk to you about anyway.”

“Good or bad?” I asked. I watched Joe, who had moved to the stoop and was now dropping an acorn into a puddle on the sidewalk.

“Remains to be seen,” Lacey said. “Don’t worry.”

I didn’t say anything.

Joe had already forgotten about his puddle project. He tapped my arm and made a pretend phone with the pinkie and thumb of his other hand.

To Lacey, I said, “Hold on. Joe wants to say hi.”

“Okay.” She made a kissing sound.

Joe took the phone and said, “Hi, Aunt Lacey.” He called her that even though he knew we weren’t married. Kids. He went on, “We’re going for ice cream. Want to come?”

Frank’s customers were finished shopping, and they looked happy. I’d probably be lugging a piece or two to the van for Frank in the morning. It was the least I could do. I motioned for Joe to move away from the stoop. I couldn’t hear what Lacey was saying to him.

He stood on one foot and hopped in a circle. “Okay. Want to talk to Uncle Nick again? Okay. Bye.” He pressed the ‘end’ button with deliberation and put the phone in his pocket. Then he hopped over to me. “I’ll answer the next one, too,” he said.

Now it was Frank’s turn to stand in the doorway. He raised his eyebrows, and I knew he wanted to talk. I knew what it was about, too. I told Joe to go get Ralph’s leash and meet me in the back yard in five minutes. He ran for the stairs, and Frank and I stepped into the ground-floor part of the showroom.

He sat in the chair he had set up by the plate glass window. He took off his hat, a moth-eaten gray wool cap with a red band, and placed it on his knee. He mopped his face with his hand. “So, how’s it going?” he asked.

“Not bad,” I said. “Going to the bank in the morning.”

“That’s good. And you’re still seeing the girl? What’s her name?”

“We’re having breakfast after I deposit this check tomorrow. You’re welcome to come along. Joe will be with us.”

Frank touched his hat absently, then rubbed his beard with the same hand. “That’s all right. Bonnie and I will probably be at the doctor’s by the time you wake up.”

“Everything okay?” I asked.

“She’s been having stomach pains.”

“Could be something. You’re right to check it out. Give her my best.”

“Tell her yourself,” he said. “We’ll stop by in the afternoon. After you’ve gotten your money out of the bank, that is.”

“Sure.” Frank was giving me a deal on the rent because he and my dad had been on the same rowing team at Stanford, and because he was a genuinely nice guy and I wasn’t exactly rolling in it. He would expect at least part of what I owed him tomorrow, if I was reading his subtleties right. Which I was. “Joe and I are going for ice cream. Bring you back a sundae?”

“Have you heard from his dad?” Frank asked.

“Joe senior? He’s due at Logan tomorrow night. He’s parked there, in the daily lot.”

“Expensive.”

“Yeah, well, that’s Joe. Champagne taste, champagne budget,” I said.

Frank took out his timeworn wallet. “Let me pay for your ice cream.”

“You don’t have to do that. We’re fine. Just come by tomorrow.”

Frank chuckled. “I want some mint chocolate chip, Nick. Here.”

I took the ten-spot. “Sprinkles?”

He smiled. “What do I look like to you?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“Get out of here.” He folded his wallet, put his hat back on and patted his breast pockets.

I pointed to his glasses on the table by his chair. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

I went back down to my office and sat in my chair for a minute, wondering about the Martins. The surprising thing was, I was thinking mostly about Romy. I put their check in an envelope, then filled out a deposit slip for my bank and put that in the envelope too. I put on my jacket, a sharp brown leather one that Lacey had given to me, and put everything in the inside pocket. As an afterthought, I checked my email. Llewellyn had already written back:

Nick-

No time to come by. Promised dinner with mother tonight. But I did get in some computer time. Charles and Gary Martin don’t have any priors, but Charles declared bankruptcy ten years ago. He had a bike shop with a college buddy. Bad location, and the friend turned out to be an a******. Charles’ credit score is somewhat respectable now, though. The America’s Best office is doing well for him. Thing is, I couldn’t find any business loans from when he set up the franchise. So I figure his wife’s pretty well off. I had a friend over at the Globe check their database for me, and I found out that her father was an oil shipping magnate until he died at sea. Body was never discovered. His name was Douglas Horn. According to the article, little Romy Horn was on the ship with him the day he died: August 30, 1976. They were pretty close. He did everything for her. The funny thing is, nobody really knows exactly what happened. There was some rough weather, but the ship was as close to a supertanker as you could get during the 70s. Horn was the only one that didn’t make it back to shore. Anyway, Romy never really recovered from her father’s death, until she went away to college. Her mother died of lung cancer the same year she graduated. That’s all I’ve got so far. You’ve got my number.

-Llewellyn

I closed out the screen. I was on my way back up when I noticed Joe’s drawing on the roll-top. I picked it up. The house he’d begun was now complete, and it had eyes in place of windows and a big smiling mouth instead of a door. There was an apple tree in the yard, with three people standing under it. Their heads were too big for their bodies. They were labeled, ‘Me,’ ‘Dad,’ and ‘Uncle Nick.’ I folded the picture and put it in my jacket pocket with the envelope, intending to magnet it to my fridge later. I headed to the back of the basement and unlocked the delivery door, which led directly to the back yard via a broad but dark staircase.

I stopped at the top of the stairs when I heard someone talking. Joe was saying something to someone. They were at the gate to Putnam Street and my view was blocked by the tall hedge by the back of the building. On my way to the gate, I heard Ralph growling.

Then, a man said, “Okay, kid. You just tell your father what I said. And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll shut that dog up.”

I threw open the gate. Joe’s face was pale, damp with tears, and his grip on Ralph’s leash was loose. The man saw me and turned away, striding across the street between cars that were waiting for the light to change.

“Hey!” I shouted. “You! Get back here.” I told Joe to go inside and lock the door, and then I ran after the man. The light had changed, and a silver SUV almost hit me. The driver honked and flipped me off. The man, who had been walking quickly with his head down, broke into a run when he saw me coming.

I chased him. I felt for my phone, then remembered that Joe had it. I yelled again, this time to a couple of skateboarders who were hanging out on the corner. “Stop that guy!”

One of the teenagers took a step forward, but the man who had been talking to Joe bowled him over and kept running. He was a block ahead of me when he stopped next to a black Lexus and scrambled to get the driver’s side door open. He fumbled with the remote, giving me the extra second I needed to close the distance.

He was climbing into the car. He reached for the glove compartment. I didn’t know what he had in there, but I was pretty sure it wasn’t a bouquet of roses. I grabbed him by his suit coat and hauled him out of the car into the middle of Pearl Street. “Who the hell are you?” I demanded. I swatted his sunglasses off his face, which was sunburned and pinched with a sparse goatee. I shook him by the lapels.

My mistake was in letting his feet touch the ground. He swept both arms between mine and up and around, breaking my grip on his jacket and grabbing my right hand in the process. Somehow he got behind me and twisted my arm. He wrapped his free arm around my throat and squeezed like a weightlifter.

We had stopped two cars, and one of the drivers had gotten out. Now, he shouted, “Hey, let him go.”

A couple of pedestrians had stopped to watch, and the skateboarding kids stared from a few yards away. One of them pulled out a cell phone and started to dial.

I could feel the man breathing heavily. I was starting to see spots. Then he shoved me forward. I caught myself on a parked car. The man had jumped into the Lexus and started it. I rolled out of the way as he gunned the engine, leaving a thin blue cloud of rubber-smoke as he screeched down the block, running the light and disappearing.

I leaned on the car next to me and let air into my burning lungs. Someone came up and patted my back and asked if I was all right. I nodded. It was the skateboard kid with the phone.

“Who was that a******?” he said.

I shook my head. “Do you have a pen?”

He shrugged and took a step back.

A lady with a bag of groceries crossed the street to get to me after looking both ways. She put the bag on the curb and opened her purse. She handed me a pen with a shy smile. “Your jacket is torn.”

“Thanks,” I said. I took Joe’s picture out of my pocket, turned it around, and wrote down the license plate number of the Lexus.

***

In Praise of Protestant Folly: Book One - Excerpt from Chapter One (Be brutally honest)

Erika — Wed, 16 Aug 2006 16:35:24 GMT

CHAPTER 1: THE BIRTH OF A GREAT PLAN

Everybody wants to know the story. I’ve been asked a dozen times how the whole saga evolved. So to satisfy your curiosity and put an end to the inquisition, I thought I’d put everything down on paper in as much detail as possible.

It all started a little over a year ago when I visited Atlanta to present my manuscript to the world’s premier Christian publishing firm, Christian Reader’s Press, or what I affectionately refer to as CRAP. My environmental engineering job at Miser Pharmaceuticals afforded me little more than a paycheck and at twenty-nine, a mediocre job in a small Georgia town just wasn’t cutting it. I had harbored a long-time passion for writing and once I settled in Coldridge and took the leap of faith into Christianity, that latent passion became a burning obsession, an obsession that drove me to write my controversial novel, the book that would start it all.

I finished my book only one month prior to visiting CRAP. Having been rejected by Faithful Artistic Book Distributions (FAD) via a form-letter email, I thought I’d try my luck with a personal solicitation to CRAP. The Sunday before my planned breakthrough, I drove to Atlanta and prepared myself for a Monday morning ambush.

I walked into the front door of the publishing house that Monday morning and heard the receptionist greet a man at the front of the line. “Welcome to Christian Reader’s Press. How can you help us help Jesus today?”

The man nervously addressed the Kelly girl like she was a literary gate-keeper. “I have a manuscript I wanted to submit for review by your publication,” he stammered.

“Is it salvation, sin, or saint specific?” the young woman asked as though reading from a poorly written script.

“Actually, it’s just a book about a couple’s struggle to live a good Christian life in the midst of marital conflict and adultery…”

The receptionist cut him off at the word adultery. “I’m sorry. That is sin tainting saints and salvation and we don’t do that here,” she politely informed him. “We only publish good, clean Christian books.” The receptionist smiled.

“Oh, you mean ones that suck,” I yelled out from the back of the line, unable to contain my sarcasm. Needless to say, this was not the appropriate time or place for such scathing humor and I was very politely escorted out of the building by some strong Christian men with side-arms who told me that Jesus loves me, just not my sense of humor.

“Perhaps not,” I remarked to my muscular escorts. “But then again, God gave me my sense of humor, didn’t he? He saved a cynical sinner not a joyous saint. I hardly think his salvation demands something so impossible on my part as a fundamental personality change. And if it does, there’s not much I can do about it or else I wouldn’t have much need for Jesus, now would I?” While I was quite proud of my clever little diatribe, the wit seemed to be lost on my affable companions who looked to be the victims of either too much steroid use or too few brain cells. Perhaps a little of both.

“Oh well, I guess that one’s out,” I mumbled standing on the sidewalk outside of CRAP’s headquarters.

They were a prominent publishing house even if their acronym explained the quality of their publications. The big gray building on Peachtree Street was a beacon in the Christian literary world and it had seemed the perfect avenue for my ground-breaking story of spiritual struggle. I knew for certain I had a great manuscript and wanted only to find a reputable publisher for it, one who I thought might understand the Biblical symbolism and not try to adulterate the Christian meaning. I had hoped CRAP was just that organization, but now it seemed they were definitely out.

Walking down the sidewalk, it occurred to me that I might actually have to find a non-Christian publisher for my book. I had tried my luck with FAD, but Providence had yet to smile on my much-maligned project. Now having been tossed out into the cold cruel world by CRAP, I was left with very few Christian outfits left to solicit. Nonetheless, the thought of finding some secular outfit like the Diablo Press to market my novel seemed wrong, like I would be placing my precious God-glorifying manuscript in the hands of disinterested pagans who would either misconstrue the story or bastardize the message. I was convinced that so long as my book made its way to the right erudite editor, it would be hailed as the masterpiece it clearly was. Looking back now, I wonder if perhaps I should have pursued the secular publishing route more vigorously. But you know what they say about hindsight.

Why no one wanted to publish my book was a mystery to me. The title was unusual and catchy. “The Christian Whorehouse Chronicles” was certainly unique in the marketplace. Why I was having such a difficult time finding a publisher for it seemed slightly unnerving, like there was a great right-wing conspiracy afoot to prevent all books dealing with Christian prostitutes from polluting the shelves. I started to wonder if I needed an in in the publishing industry, some sort of promotion.

I lugged my manuscript with me to the coffee shop just a block down from the CRAP headquarters and slipped in for a latte and a scone. All is better with coffee and scones. Even the most dejected authors can find respite in such aromatic enclaves. And as I sipped the latte and savored the maple scone, I looked over at the woman sitting at an adjacent table. She was reading “An Easy Life of Meaning” by that Pastor from some non-denominational Church in California.

Although I hate to interrupt people in the midst of reading, I couldn’t stop myself from asking her a few important questions. “Excuse me, I hate to bother you,” I politely interrupted. “But I was just wondering what you think of that book?”

The middle-aged woman with short blond-hair looked up from her chapter to address my question. “Oh it’s wonderful,” she crooned with a thick southern accent and widening smile. “It is just so inspirational and thoughtful.”

“Really?” I asked, finding her description harder to swallow than the scone in my mouth.

“Oh yes! You know it’s been on the best-seller list for weeks. And it’s really helped transform many Christian lives.” The woman leaned towards me with a hint of desperation in her voice, trying to enlighten me to some liberating truth that had sadly evaded my grasp.

“But do you think it’s well written?” I asked, probing further.

The woman knit her brow. “Well, it’s good, if that’s what you mean.”

“But do you think it’s well written?” I reiterated.

“Well, I like it,” she replied, still unable to address my actual question.

“And I appreciate that,” I said. “But do you honestly think it’s well written?” I refused to give up my questioning despite the woman’s obvious lack of understanding.

The woman cocked her head to the side. “I really don’t understand your question.” At last honesty came forth. The heavens opened and angels started singing in the background (which sounded strangely like Sara McLachlan in Dolby surround sound). “If you like the book, isn’t that all that matters?”

“Well I read a good bit and think there’s a little more to ‘liking a book’ than finding the subject engaging or worthwhile. I guess you could say I value good writing as much as captivating subject matter.” The woman peered at me through her wire-rimmed spectacles, stumped by my comment. I thought it wise to elaborate. “The reason I ask is that I read the book and found it over-rated. His writing I felt was uninspired and his points painfully obvious. But as you so rightly pointed out, my opinion must be the minority.”

“Well, if it helps people apply the Gospel in their daily lives, then it can’t be bad,” she argued.

“But how does telling people to live according to Jesus’ teachings help them live according to Jesus’ teachings?” I asked pointedly.

“Well it tells them what they need to do,” she said pointing her right index finger at me.

“Yes, but how do they control their thoughts and emotions?”

“Well, he’s not talking about that,” she snapped back. “He’s telling us what to do, not what to think or feel.”

“But is that what Jesus emphasizes? What we do? Or is it that Pharisaical attitude which lauds a person for their outward actions precisely the kind of thinking he rebukes?” The woman stared at me sourly and while I refrained from adopting an argumentative tone, it was clear from the scowl on her face that she saw my questioning as a personal attack.

“Well, some people I guess just think they’re too smart for the Gospels,” she haughtily replied. It was what I like to refer to as the Christian Country Club smirk and it always assures me the person I’m talking to is, at heart, an insecure dullard.

“Perhaps,” I added flippantly. “But I guess that’s better than thinking you’re too dumb to believe anything else.” The woman, not so dull as to not recognize the insult hurled her way, got up from her chair in a huff and took her precious book and keen mind out the coffee shop door.

While the exchange had provided me with some mild entertainment on this otherwise unfortunate day, I did have to cede the woman’s point about the book’s popularity. Granted, I thought it was uninteresting, trite and simplistic (and shallow and did I mention simplistic?), still, the author had an audience and now quite a bit of publishing fame. No matter how inadequate a writer he was, he was sure to find a publisher for any bit of rubbish he typed. Hardly seemed fair to me. But then, life seldom is.

I left the coffee shop sometime after eleven and decided I would make good use of the remainder of the day by contacting yet another Christian Publisher, Jesus News Corporation or, more appropriately called, JUNC. JUNC was headquartered out of Los Angeles, which you would expect, and I was living in Atlanta so this would be no face-to-face solicitation. I would have to handle this matter on-line.

I made my way to the parking garage on Peachtree St. (because everything is on Peachtree St.) and started on the drive back to Coldridge, my sleepy little hometown. Fortunately, I missed rush hour that Monday, so the drive back home took its usual three hours. Coldridge was just far enough from Atlanta to make you not want to go to the big city often, but close enough to make you feel pathetic for not visiting more.

As I headed south on the Interstate, I glimpsed the Atlanta skyline in my rear view mirror and reminded myself why I was leaving. Although I spent the majority of my life in and around big cities, the city life no longer held much attraction for me. Perhaps all those years in California bred in me a distaste for all things urban. Or maybe the last five years in Coldridge had given me a new-found appreciation for small-town life. In either case, seeing the skyscrapers in my rear view mirror was precisely where I wanted to see them. Atlanta had its charms, great shopping, happening night-life and of course, publishing firms, but most of those things didn’t enthuse me too much anymore. It was a good drive back.

I got back to Coldridge around three o’clock that afternoon. It was the town’s busiest time of day oddly enough. Kids getting out of school, buses roaming around, and shift work ending at the local plants filled the town with more traffic than it seemed capable of accommodating. And of course, being just a sleepy rural town in Georgia, the roads were all two-lane and the traffic lights were timed to make sure you stopped at every one. It was a quaint little place though, with a low crime rate and a Church on every corner. There was little to attract visitors and only a handful of substantial employers in the town but, to me, it all seemed to meld together nicely.

As I drove into my driveway that day, I glanced around at all the antebellum homes lining Oak Street and tried to convince myself how fortunate I was to be living in such an idyllic place. My house was a few blocks down from the town square near the historic district. It was a quaint two-story Victorian with the gingerbread that forever needs touching up and ornate wainscoting that was far more attractive to the eyes than the pocket book. I always loved the wrap-around porch, upstairs bedrooms and myriad of little rooms on the first floor. Of course, the place needed a lot of work, which is why I got it for such a great price and the yard may have been considered small by rural Georgia standards, but it was more than ample for a single woman who works.

That Monday, I went inside the house, tossed my keys on the living room sofa near the front door, and fired up the computer. Time for a little email magic. The JUNC website always had nice depictions of Jesus and doves and some sweet muzak that reminded me of being in a doctor’s office. But hey, they were into books not music, so I never held it against them. Their submission guidelines for manuscripts were nothing particularly special. Just your typical word count and formatting requirements. Of course there was that one caveat that gave me slight pause: “Material deemed unsuitable for a Christian audience will not be considered for publication.”

I wondered then if my book was too cutting-edge. “The Christian Whorehouse Chronicles” surely was an explosive title. But it was a brilliant story of a young woman’s struggle to live out her Christian life in the midst of prostitution. At its core, the story confronted the free-will conundrum, asking the age-old question, how can sinners ever turn from sin by their own volition? The artist in me refused to amend the title or soften the subject matter. After all, what better place for my book’s protagonist to evangelize than in the bedroom after performing felatio? Granted, it may have seemed slightly improper to some Christians. But I wasn’t advocating these things in the book, only presenting a view inside the mind of a conflicted young woman mired in a lifestyle she didn’t know how to escape from. If any person of faith read the manuscript, they would see the Biblical message and the hopeful conclusion. I just wanted to glorify God in a fresh way, get people thinking about Christianity in a whole new light. Surely any publishing big-wig with a Christian worldview would see that if he just read it.

But that was my problem, getting off the slush pile and into the hands of an editor. It was that desire that led me to the CRAP lobby, only to find my unappreciated sense of humor tossed out along with my manuscript. But JUNC was slightly less restrictive than CRAP and might just consider my hard-hitting novel. And at this point, they seemed to be my last hope.

I typed my usual cover letter and emailed it to JUNC, providing a brief synopsis of the story and the unique features of the book. Now I would just wait several weeks until they replied saying they wanted to see the intriguing manuscript.

As I sat at the computer that day, I started to think that I might have better success with writing if I had more time to write. My environmental job at Miser Pharmaceuticals paid decently, but it wasn’t exactly giving me the life of luxury I had hoped. Granted, Jesus didn’t care if I lived in luxury, but I sure as hell did, so I’m thinking it must have been on his mind too. I had taken off work that Monday to push my manuscript on someone at CRAP, but all that got me was a mildly amusing exchange with two dim-witted security guards and a Christian Country Club elitist. It was getting near time when I would have to decide how much I believed in my novel. What would I sacrifice for the “Christian Whorehouse Chronicles”?

And so it was here in my house that I first had my epiphany (which could have been mistaken for a caffeinated sugar rush. It felt like a real epiphany though, and I’m pretty sure that’s all that matters.) If I was intent on getting my novel published, I would have to create a name for myself much like the pedestrian author of “An Easy Life of Meaning”. I would try to propel myself into the public eye at whatever cost. All for the sake of my masterpiece. All for the glory of God. That’s when the plan first took shape. It started off as just one idea for garnering the attention I needed. It of course grew into the plan that sent me to Vegas and back to California. The one that finally landed me here.

The War of Two Men

Power to the J — Sat, 01 Dec 2007 02:44:28 GMT

A fantasy novel. If you read this and give me some sort of critique I promise to return the favor!! (5000 words)

Chapter One

"Jelven"

It was going to be a very easy day.

Toner Selraw reached into a purse hung from the belt of a man who was obviously from a far away land and had way too much money for his own good. Less than a quarter-hour ago he had done almost exactly the same thing to a similar person, and the quarter-hour before that, and so-on. Lots of wealthy folk, not used to the high-speed life of one in a city such as Jelven, were in the city which made for easy work; even in broad daylight.

He bumped into the man, taking a fistful of money from his purse and apologizing at the same time. He almost smirked as he backed away and thought of what his mother used to tell him when he was a child: Make sure you stay in school and get a real job, or else you'll never have an easy day in your life! In the past week he had made more than some do in an entire year.

It was no problem for him as he put the money into the purse and blended into the throng of people surrounding him before the man whose money he had just taken would notice that his purse felt pretty light. He never would have dreamed that the pointless visit from the Lord of Norabel would work out so well for him.

Now he would just wait for another opportunity to come his way. Or maybe his prey.

Leaning against a yellow brick building he looked up and down the busy street in front of him and scanned the crowd as inconspicuously as possible.

The streets of Jelven were made entirely of an old brick with flowers growing in the odd patches of dirt around various buildings in town. All of those buildings were also very busy, but there wasn't enough room for him, even with his expertise, to slip through the crowded space; he would find no work over there.

Upstreet was the residential area of the city that was crowded by a bit more spread out. Many of the people living there protected their neighborhood as they would their own first-born. There was no work there, either.

So, the only option was to look downstreet. The road only continued as it did for about three hundred paces or so, and then there was a large fountain. It was one of the main attractions in that region of the city, and from there he could slip into the crowd effortlessly. That was his spot without a doubt.

All he needed now was a target. Sooner than he thought, he found him.

"That fool innkeeper acted as if he didn't know who I am!" The voice belonged to a man dressed in extravagant furs despite the warm weather, and was flailing his arms around carelessly, knocking them into surrounding patrons. He had a thick, curling mustache that was the style of rich folk several years prior, and a horrendous excuse for a wig sitting atop his head. But, best of all, a bulging wallet hung from his waist.

Toner thought it too good to be true. It was. A guard of some kind stood next to the man. He outweighed Toner twice, and was almost as much taller than him, and Toner was not a small person. The man was very dark but Toner could see an elaborate tattoo all over his bald head, face and any other exposed skin, all of which were shiny with sweat. Toner knew that the tattoo covered most of the man's body, and that meant one thing: a Skoorbian. Not just any old Skoorbian, either, but a Warrior Skoorbian. That meant that the man in fur was probably as important as he made himself out to be and doubly as rich.

While trying to maintain a calm and relaxed image he pushed himself off of the building and into the crowd. He brushed past a few people, and bumped into some others, but soon he was easily able to follow the pair. He didn't have to worry about staying back and trying to trail them, however; people didn't feel unsafe walking down a busy street in broad daylight, and they certainly didn't notice if someone was behind them.

As they reached the fountain the man was still complaining overdramatically, and Toner was almost ready to make his move. The purse was pointed appropriately towards the Skoorbian, so speed would be even more important than it usually was.

Everything seemed to slow down as Toner focused on the purse. He reached forward and grabbed down inside of the wallet. He felt money and felt filled with happy excitement. The feeling was quickly replaced by pain.

The Skoorbian had Toner by the wrist, and then twisted. Toner screamed in agony and doubled over.

The ghost of his mother was smirking at him.

Skoorbian were generally considered fierce and were not to be reckoned with. A Warrior Skoorbian were one of the strongest and most fearsome group in the world, and Toner had been caught off guard by one he had pissed off. Not a good combination to say the last.

Toner had, in his greed, momentarily let his guard down, which was his first mistake-a big one at that. Additionally, the Skoorbian was much stronger than Toner, who relied primarily on speed and what sometimes seemed like invisibility. He had chosen the life of a criminal. He had been since he was thirteen, and in the last five years he had been caught his fair share of times. But none of those times were more painful as the beating the Skoorbian was giving him.

He had made a big mistake, and was suffering because of that. Greed.

Greed was what he had been taught to avoid, and the words Ol' Cyle had said to him years ago went through Toner's mind: Never-and I mean never-go after two people unless you have two people. Three unless you have three, and so on. Nothing good can come from it, kid, and the chances are very good that you'll get your ass kicked in the process.

If only he could have remembered that two minutes ago; then he wouldn't be in the current predicament. Sweat trickled down the Skoorbian's head and fell off of his face and dropped onto Toner, who was in enough of his own sweat as it was.

"You just made the worst mistake of your life," he said, pulling his fist back. "And I'm going to make sure you won't forget it as long as you live."

Toner felt his pulse quicken. He nervously looked around for any kind of help. The wealthy man was looking down at Toner with a sick look on his face that was a mix of a sneer and a grin. A crowd had formed around the trio, and the area had grown eerily quiet. Yet no one reached down to help Toner. But why would they?

A measly thief.

He wore clothes that were never completely clean, and had pockets everywhere for his stolen goods. His boots were battered and torn, and he let his hair grow out to cover his face so he could be as unidentifiable as possible.

The Skoorbian spit at Toner, hitting him directly in the eye.

He wasn't expecting any resistance at all, and thanks to his spitting, Toner was furious.

Toner, still holding his broken right-and power-wrist, the Skoorbian swung his fist towards Toner's face. He apparently didn't think that Toner would be able to move.

He was wrong.

Toner swung out of the way, pushing his left hand against the ground and pivoting his body to the other side of the Skoorbian's. The Skoorbian missed, lost balance, and released Toner. Toner took his left elbow and smashed it against the Skoorbian's kneecap as hard as he could, and heard a gratifying pop.

A cry of pained rage came, and a gasp from the small crowd. The Skoorbian fell to the ground, but swung his arm as he did. He hit Toner's ear, knocking him back. Toner stood, blood trickling down his face, and looked towards the Skoorbian, who was pushing himself up with both hands.

"Why you..." the rich man was speaking, and then he lunged towards Toner. It was a golden opportunity for Toner.

The rich man charged forward and Toner raised his right hand in a weak attempt at a punch. The rich man dodged easily, but in doing so he shoved his own face into Toner's left-handed uppercut. A loud crack was heard, and the man instantly fell to the ground with a thump and then he was completely motionless. Toner's left hand was in pain now as well, and it was bleeding, but he could still use it.

The Skoorbian walked forward slowly, both fists raised. "You should have known better than to anger a Warrior Skoorbian." Now, the Skoorbian had the rage factor working in his favor.

The Skoorbian were feared for a reason.

He punched towards Toner's face, and Toner raised his left hand to try and block the punch. He didn't stop it or even slow it down, but he did redirect it. The punch nicked Toner's chin and was pushed away, which hurt badly, but not as much as a direct hit in the face would have.

With a grunt, the Skoorbian stomped his foot on Toner's. Toner yelped, and the Skoorbian moved close, pulled his arm back and punched with the kind of force that hardly seemed possible. Toner had no hope of moving at all, let alone blocking the strike.

A crunching noise came before anything else, but then the pain came swiftly, and in large quantities. His cheek was nothing but pain, and inside his mouth Toner felt a pool of blood with a few teeth taking a swim in it. He couldn't go down, not like this.

Toner pushed off his front leg and used the momentum to go back a few feet just as the Skoorbian swung again. He missed and Toner ducked and punched at his enemy's stomach. The shots were blocked by a forearm, and the Skoorbian pulled his arm back once more. He hit Toner again, in the same spot, and the pain was mind-numbing. He hit the ground full force, slammed his skull against it and skid a few feet. Black came from the corners of his eyes, and he saw the Skoorbian coming back for more. Toner stood shakily, preparing to fight for his life.

"In the name of King Lanrar II of Jelven I order you to stop at once!" The voice made the Skoorbian move to it and the crowd to evaporate at a remarkable speed. At least they would have a story to tell when they got home.

The crowd parted and the Skoorbian moved to let a City Guard through. She wore the uniform-a yellow and red suit with a pin of the Jelven lion insignia at her mid-stomach.

She was young, with brown hair that stopped just short of her eyebrows in the front and drifted down to the middle of her back. She was short, but muscular, and despite the thick, curved eyelashes that her eyes hid behind Toner could see that they were hard; she was tough and wasn't somebody to be taken likely.

Toner didn't recognize the guard, but he figured that he should have by her unforgettable physical attributes and demeanor. This meant only one thing: se was new; otherwise she would not have tried to step in so early in the fight-the city was in no order those days, and everybody seemed corrupt. The new, baby-faced guard looked down at her new, not-yet-scuffed and not creased boots, which now had blood on them. The scene was brutal and pretty disgusting, so Toner couldn't blame the woman for looking a touch disturbed. The Skoorbian looked as if he was still in the heat of battle, and the guard simply turned away from the Warrior and looked at the rich man. She knelt to check his pulse, and then looked up at Toner. As she did, a sick look came onto her face that she quickly tried to cover up, and that just made Toner feel worse emotionally, and it made his wounds seem more obvious, and then more painful. I'm in worse shape than I thought, Toner thought.

"What in the name of Teluka has happened here?" her voice was soft and high-pitched, which Toner would've expected based on his inferences on her age, but it was a bit surprising based on the other inferences he had made about her personality. With a bit of defiance that Toner wasn't surprised to see, she looked from one man to the other.

Toner didn't think it was physically possible to answer, and the Skoorbian was probably considering whether he should talk of kill them both. The guard didn't seem to be in too much of a rush for the answer, so for a moment they sat in total silence.

At last, the Skoorbian chose the former of his two options. "This dreadful excuse for a man was trying to steal from the good Master Wamut."

Toner tried to be charismatic and say, Oh, I'm not that dreadful, but he only ended up spitting blood all over his shirt.

"Is that so?" the guard said, standing up as she did. Whether it was intentional or not, that motion only made her seem more intimidating as she towered above him, standing like a silhouette as she blocked the sun.

"'Ut ‘e ‘it me," Toner said, his voice much more comprehensible now than he would have expected it to be.

The guard apparently understood, and did nothing for a while. The crowd was beginning to form again, although everyone stayed clear enough of the bloody scene not to be implemented or covered in blood, but close enough to hear what was going on. Finally, the guard slowly walked towards Toner, bending to pick up a tooth on the way before handing it over upon arrival.

"Although it was a little bit hard to understand this guy," the guard had a hint of mockery in her voice, but she masked that quickly when she looked into Toner's eyes from a closer distance. "I think you and I both did. Why did you decide to hit him?"

Everybody was afraid of Skoorbian, and Toner could hear the shakiness in the guard's voice, but that made him no less happy; the guard seemed to be sticking up for him.

"I already told you what he tried to do. What else do I need to do to further explain myself?"

"It would be wise to watch your tongue. I hold your future in the palm of my hands," Toner could hardly believe what was going on. The guard was being good, and honest, which was a hard thing to come by in a guard-in anyone-who lived in the city Toner called home. She hasn't been working long enough yet. She'll catch the contagious disease going around these parts soon enough.

"I could say the same thing to you," the Skoorbian said, the anger in his voice apparent and unhidden.

The guard turned slowly, her hand reaching towards the hilt of her still sheathed sword with no great speed, perhaps not to cause the Skoorbian to attack. "I don't know of customs from wherever you're from, my friend, but around here you treat authority with respect, understood?" the two stared at one another with ferocity.

Toner tried standing by pushing his bloody palms into the mass of liquid on the street and tried to quietly walk away. A few more paces and he would be able to escape...

"Hold on," the guard said, quickly turning around. "You are not going anywhere."

With a sigh, Toner stopped. He had no hope of escaping. If there was a small chance, he had already ruined it.

"You see," the Skoorbian shouted, "the worm tries to escape!"

"I am fully aware of the situation, thank you."

"Chop off my toes if you are!" That was a new and somewhat startling expression.

Toner could hardly believe his luck: A forgiving guard and a man getting himself in trouble for no reason, when he could get out of trouble if he could just keep his mouth shut.

Beyond the Skoorbian's shoulder, another City Guard was walking cautiously towards the scene. That was a man Toner easily recognized: Deloran. He was growing old, and grey was beginning to overpower the black in his hair, but that didn't make him any less of a force to be reckoned with. He was strong, seasoned, well-connected, and he hated Toner, who had slipped out of his fingers (literally) one too many times.

Deloran reached them. "Ret, is there a problem?"

The guard-Ret-turned. "Everything is under control."

"Damned if it is," the Skoorbian called out. "At least now I've got someone who knows what he's doing." He shot a fiery look at Ret, and then at Toner. "This man tried to steal from Maser Wamul's money!"

"Of course he did," Deloran said, not caring to hide the anger and dislike in his voice. "I could've figured out that much in two winks. What is your name, sir?"

"Zlen Yeismah."

"Well, Zlen-"

"Sir," Ret said, pointing towards Zlen, "we need to arrest this man."

"Really? I'd be more concerned with this little thief if I were you," he kicked Toner in the stomach, who rolled over, groaning in pain. The crowd once again began to dissipate, and a buzz louder than before filled the area as everybody busied themselves seeing nothing. "Come on. We'll take the both of them over to the Detention Center and see what Balston has to say about all this."

"What?" the Skoorbian boomed. "I did nothing but defend myself. This is-"

"You need to shut up and do as I say," Deloran said, grabbing Toner's shirt and pulling him up with force.

The Skoorbian remarkably obeyed, and Ret grabbed his hands, put them together behind his back and pushed him forwards. Deloran did the same to Toner, although with a bit more force. He raised a hand to a man in a shop and pointed to the rich man's body.

They walked on towards the Palace, which loomed overhead as always.

The ghost of Toner's mother was howling with laughter.

They walked through the streets, headed directly towards the Palace, drawing more than a few looks from the people preparing for the next day as if their home would be glanced upon by the Lord of Norabel, which Toner was convinced he would not-he never trusted rulers.

Toner felt as if he were about to fall over and die, and Ret looked at him with concern, but not enough to do something. He couldn't blame the man; Toner would've kicked a weak man already bleeding on the ground if he was in the same situation.

He tried to stand tall, and when he pushed his shoulders up and his chest out it didn't hurt all that much and it made him look much stronger and better feeling than he was. He was still surprised that he was alive, let alone walking, so it was an improvement.

Now they were in Tersow Square, the final landmark before the Palace. From the square there was a long, wide road that branched off for homes, but led in a straight line to the Palace.

More attention was beginning to come their way, as all realized that they were headed for the Palace, but more specifically the Detention Center. Even the Skoorbian was beginning to look on edge.

Idly, Toner began thinking of what his argument would be. He had tried to steal money, and then knocked out the man he had tried to steal from. But the beating he got was rough and over the top, so there might be a way that it actually worked to his advantage.

A large stone gate was outside of the Palace Grounds, and the two halves of it spread open creakily, allowing them to walk through their stride. They closed with a bang just as quickly, and the six or seven guards looking at them winced when they looked from Toner's face and then off to the Skoorbian, who was unscathed. Toner began to realize how remarkably lucky he was.

Toner turned and saw for the first time the madness going on on the Palace Grounds. There were literally hundreds of Servant going in and out of the Palace, carrying statues, banners, mops and almost everything else imaginable. Some nodded towards the guards and when they walked a quick hole opened up in the throng and was filled with twice as much speed.

He had no idea where anything was and when they entered the large wooden doors leading to the inside of the Palace Toner was reminded of how much his jaw hurt by gasping.

Like all in the Palace, the ceiling was domed, but it had a marvelous painting of a stormy day at the ocean. The floors were a hard marble, but there were so many Servants' feet all over it he could hardly tell. Large staircases were on either side of the room, and they led to more and more floors. And this was the small part of the Palace.

Deloran and Ret didn't seem to notice anything at all, but even Zlen was wide eyed. Sadly, the wonder didn't last and they were in the Detention Center in under ten minutes.

It was a large room with portraits all along the walls. There were doors all along the sides of it, and a desk was in the middle. A bald man with a large belly who was obviously short even from far away was sitting there and he looked up when they entered, taking everything in with an unreadable face. This was Balston.

The guards stopped walking a few feet in front of the desk, and for a few moments everyone looked anxiously at Balston, who seemed to be judging everyone and taking notes in the personal journal he kept locked away in his head.

"So," he said in a scruffy, ragged voice as he continued to look from one to another. "What happened?"

Ret looked at Deloran, who nodded, and Ret spoke. "I found this one," she looked at the Skoorbian, "beating this one,"s he looked at Toner. Zlen was once again fuming in rage.

Balston leaned back, his hands together. Toner felt himself tensing until the man spoke. "Why?" he asked simply. Toner was amazed at how calm Balston was.

A brief silence.

Zlen began. "He tried stealing from my mas-"

"QUIET!" Balson's voice was a roar, and it had lowered so much that it was deeper than any man's voice Toner had ever heard before. "You will speak when I tell you," he controlled his voice a bit. "Is what this," he sneered, "half-piteous wretch says true?"

Ret seemed a bit shaken up. "Um... y-yes, it is. Well, I don't know. I only showed up at the end. I'm..."

Balston quieted him instantly with a wave of his hand. "Is it?" he was looking at Toner now.

His heart beat quickened again, and he only looked at Balston. "Answer me."

Toner simply nodded in response.

Another long silence came, and Toner realized he was sweating as badly as he had been during the fight.

"Well, well..." Balston said, making Toner jump in surprise, realizing how on edge he really was. He stood, looking out the window, and then he began pacing around his desk. "I have a few questions in regard to this... quarrel. If this man," he looked at Toner, anger in his eyes, "tried stealing from the other's ‘master,' then why are they both here?" He was now standing right in front of the four of them, looking deep into each one's eyes in turn.

Zlen spoke. "That is what I have been trying to say the entire-"

Balston slapped Zlen clean across the face, and the sound echoed throughout the room. "I thought I told you to be quiet!" Zlen looked ready to strike back but was held where he was by the two guards, although Toner didn't think they'd be able to do much if Zlen really wanted to get to Balston, who went back to his seat. "I'm guessing that this man was not exactly cooperative. Am I correct?"

"Yes sir, you are," Deloran said.

"Is there anything the master can tell me?"

"Actually," Deloran said, a small, small grin appearing on his lips, "he knocked out the master."

"Who did?"

Deloran motioned towards Toner, and his heart sank. "Really... this adds an entirely new dimension to the argument, doesn't it?"

"Yes, I'd say so," Deloran said but it was obvious that it was a purely rhetorical question.

"Allow me ten minutes of deliberation. Put them in Waiting until I'm ready." Toner felt his body being pushed and soon he was thrown into a dark, stinking room that resembled the previous one in no way. There was a long wooden bench where a scrawny man sat, and Toner and Zlen sat as far away from each other as possible.

After a while, the scrawny man spoke. "What'd you two do?" he looked from one to another.

There was silence.

"'Ot inah ‘ight."

"What? Oh," he looked at Toner's mashed up face and then at Zlen. He chuckled. "Whish I coulda been there. Looks like one of the best ass whuppings the city's ever seen."

Either the scrawny man hadn't seen many fights in the city, or Toner's face must've been worse than he thought.

"Well I'm Puvv. I'm in here for trying to steal a broom. Old Balston out there said he needed to think but I think he's just gonna make me stay here awhile to teach me a lesson and then let me go," there was a brief pause that Toner was thankful for but Puvv apparently wasn't. "From the way you're talking right now it sounds like Balston hit the big one. I could hear that one from in here... Am I right?" Utter silence. "I'm not trying to start anything; just asking."

The door swung open and bright light shone in despite Balston's silhouette. "Puvv, go home. You two, get in here."

Everyone followed orders without a word and when Toner limped outside Balston was standing in front of the window, looking down. He didn't turn when he spoke. "Neither of you did particularly well, but one did worse than the other. Selraw, you're sentenced to six months. Yeismah, you have three moths."

For once Zlen didn't talk and Balston turned back to the window. "There will be no less, and possibly more if you choose to misbehave. Now, I'll call in-"

A gurgling noise came from Balston's neck that would stay etched in Toner's mind until the day he died. Blood came from it, and the head of an arrow as well. The window's glass was all over him, and he staggered back.

Toner yelled in terror, and then repeated the sound when he saw a flaming boulder coming through the window. It hit Balston and set him and most of the room on fire. Now that the window was busted open he heard the warning bell ringing.

Outside, screams were being drowned out by growls coming from the Grounds and when Toner looked he saw hundreds of half-human, half-he-didn't-know-what charging the Palace. Dogs. Half ugly dogs. They were all massive, even the smallest of them made Zlen look like a child. They all wore thick blackmail, but Toner could see brown fur underneath it. All of them had behemoth weapons that matched their bodies, and those weapons were becoming stained with blood at an alarming rate. They roared a sick sounding battle cry that was another sound that Toner would never be able to forget. When they did, large, sharp, teeth were revealed and some of the things put their teeth to use by biting at a kill. Toner thought he was going to throw up but when he bent over to do so he only dry-heaved. Zlen looked down at him as if Toner's weak stomach disappointed him and said: "Viktra."

Viktra? Viktra weren't real. They existed only in children's stories, and even in those they were something of a rarity. But, he couldn't say that whatever was outside was anything he had ever seen before. It had to be them. Toner could hardly believe his eyes.

A black arrow that was as long as the entire of Toner's body whizzed past his head and he was taken out of his trance. He turned and ran, not knowing where he was. Outside was a throng of terror, and everyone was headed towards the nearest staircase.

People shoved ad kicked and some even punched. But soon everyone was in reverse as a few in the front fell with arrows sticking out of their body. Roars of the Viktra followed.

Toner ran as fast as he could, almost slipping a few times. Up ahead he saw some jumping out of windows. They were at least five levels up. Toner ran to the banister and leaped over it, making his way down the stairs much quicker. He landed on top of a crate and his knees almost gave out but he got back up and ran. He ran left and right, dodged Servants, arrows, Viktra and swords, and soon was in a kitchen. He saw a window and ran for it and saw that he was only seven or eight feet above the ground. He jumped, rolled and stood.

Most of the Palace was in flames by then, and the city itself was faring no better. Dead bodies were everywhere, and Toner walked into the throng of chaos that was Jelven, the pain in his body suddenly reminding him that it existed and causing him to limp weakly.

So much for an easy day.

My first fantasy book - please review

Snookwriter — Fri, 01 Jul 2005 22:34:22 GMT

Hi, this is my first attempt at writing a novel. Below is an excerpt which will appear about midway through the book, to explain the history behind the story. I would like some honest reviews please. I'm also drawn as to whther to do this as narative in the middle of the book, or whether to do an introduction.

"I will tell you how we got to where we find ourselves." Said the old man, shuffling his feet walking toward the chair in the corner of the room. The old man sat down; his knees creaked as he lowered himself.

"The world was created by eight ancient and wise gods," the old man began, his voice growing softer as he remembered the story. "These gods came together under an alliance to create a world of beauty, a world where no evil would ever be committed, a world where all things would live in peace and harmony, and no divine interference would be needed.

"Once the planet was created and they had created vast numbers of species of plant and animal, they created man. Man was to be the guardian of the planet; they would care for the flora and fauna. The gods named the planet Guarla and left the planet in the hands of man and returned to their eternal duty, bringing good to our universe and others.

"Guarla flourished, man and beast grew in numbers. The planet was blue and green, a vision of stunning beauty. At this time man was simple, living on what the land provided. Greed, envy, hate and other emotions like these did not exist. Man did not know what it was like to wield a sword, as none were necessary. There were no kingdoms, no wars."

The old man paused for a moment, his eyes were misty, something had moved him.

"Although Guarla was created by an alliance of eight gods," he continued his voice breaking a little, and some of the words coming out as a whisper, "there are far more gods than this. No one, not even the gods, is sure how many gods actually exist. Some of the gods are playful, some are creative, some are smarter than the rest, and some are fanatically good. But in order for creation to live in harmony evil must balance with good, for every good god there is an evil one, these gods are cruel and sadistic, some more so than others. It was one of these gods who stumbled on Guarla."

The old man paused again, this time his face was going red and there was a rage burning in his eyes. Garat looked into the eyes of the old man and shrank back, there was something there, something that made him feel
miniscule and insignificant.

"His name was Slathir," The old man began again, there was anger in his voice now, "he is famed amongst the gods as being the most wicked and unforgiving god. At the time he was young, a mere two million years old, he was also foolish. Slathir believes in his right to take whatever he desires, regardless of what it is and whom it may belong to.

"Slathir saw this planet as easy pickings, there were no other deities here, for they had all left, the people were all peaceful and did not have even the simplest of weapons.

"For the simple fact that he could, Slathir decided that he would make this planet his own. Slathir called forth his minions and the people of Guarla were forced into servitude.

"Slathir founded a capital, it was called Karlir. This city is now all but rubble, destroyed by the passage of time. Slathir also formed an elite bodyguard of humans; he named his bodyguard 'The Union of Slathir'. They were handpicked from the hundreds of thousands of human slaves that Slathir and his minions had captured."

The old man sighed, he was looking weary, as though this story was a great weight on his shoulders.

The old man continued, "There were rebellions, the human population now knowing what weapons were and having been trained to use them retaliated against his cruel reign. However Slathir's minions were too powerful and the humans were not skilled at warfare, there were no generals and in a pitched battle they did not stand a chance, they were slaughtered by the thousands.

"Despite Slathir's cruelty there were some humans who came to love him as their one true god, these people begged their captors to allow them to join The Union of Slathir. Some of these individuals were granted their wish and over the next few centuries The Union of Slathir became not only a bodyguard, but a warrior religion, fully populated by humans who worshipped Slathir.

"Members of the Union lost their humanity, they were no longer the guardians of the planet. They became as evil and twisted as Slathir, perhaps more so. They began slaughtering animals to Slathir, but this soon became human sacrifice. Slathir was surprised, but pleased, at how easily these humans had been corrupted over the generations from their simple ancestors.

"Slathir's rule over Guarla had lasted for four and a half millennia, when one of the gods who had created the planet returned to see how it was evolving. His name was Verino. On his arrival at Guarla, Verino circled the planet so that he could gaze upon the beauty of Guarla. Verino was shocked and appalled at what he saw, the fields were barren, the forests were burned, where once beautiful lush rainforest had stood there was now desert, and many of the animals were diseased or slaughtered. But the thing that shocked him most of all was that the humans had created settlements, this was not supposed to happen they were supposed to be nomadic creatures who cared for the environment. Instead of this they were now in permanent settlements and were polluting the planet. Verino could not understand how this could have happened.

"Then he saw the temple." The old man's eyes were now filling with tears, none of the party could understand this, surely it was just a story. If not then why should it have such a deep and moving meaning for the old man, for this would have taken place many millennia ago, long before the old man was alive. "Verino cried out in horror for he knew who had designed this temple, there were hundreds more like it on many other worlds."

"Verino knew that the ancient law of the gods decreed that no god may harm another. This meant that although Slathir had desecrated this planet, Verino could not retaliate in any way.

"Verino decided to go and see his brother, he went to the palace to confront Slathir directly. Upon gaining audience with his brother, Verino explained the position to Slathir, how this planet had been created to be a bastion of good and was intended to be left alone to grow on it's own with no intervention from the gods. Slathir was not happy with the appearance of Verino, and impressed upon him how easy it would be for him to kill him.

"Verino unsure of whether Slathir could be trusted to follow the ancient laws or whether he meant his threat, decided to leave. He left Slathir and travelled to the far side of Guarla where he posed as a normal human and tried to gather forces for a rebellion. The reason for this was that this would be a way around the ancient laws, if he could get a human to remove Slathir from his physical form, Slathir would not be dead and it would not even be Verino who made the sword stroke. Removing Slathir from his body would banish his soul to the Dark Realm where it would stay for all time.

"However before any human could defeat Slathir, Verino would need to charm a sword. Verino visited a blacksmith named Burtcher, who was famed throughout Guarla for his skill. Burtcher created a beautiful longsword, which he christened Lightstar. The magic Verino instilled in the sword made it appear old and tarnished and it's true beauty was hidden from sight behind a veil of magic. However when in the hands of the correct person, the sword would instantly become beautiful and weightless, the bearer would also be instantly imbued with incredible swordsmanship.

"Verino continued with his plans to create a rebellion, and amassed a great army. From the ranks he selected the troops with the greatest potential and made these his General's, he taught them the basics of warfare, and allowed them to choose their own officers. However there was another man in the ranks who Verino was interested in, his name was Carthuris, he was a humble farmer.

"Carthuris had lost his entire family to Slathir in the name of holy sacrifice, they had been butchered by the Union. But Carthuris' heart was not bent on revenge. Whilst he mourned the loss of his family and felt that justice should come to those who had committed this crime against him, he more than anything just wanted the people of Guarla to be free from Slathir's reign. Although he was not skilled in combat or warfare, he was strong in heart. Verino chose this man as his champion, and bestowed upon him Lightstar."

"Old man," interrupted Rillad, "when are you going to get to the point?"

"Patience my boy," the old man replied, "the whole story is relevant and when I reach the end you will see that."

"War waged for the next two years," the old man continued, "while Verino worked his way slowly toward the Karlir. Until finally Slathir realised the threat that was posed by this mass of humanity and decided that he himself would lead his army in one last battle. At this time Slathir did not know that Verino was behind the rebellion as Verino had decided to allow the humans to run the whole campaign and had stayed away from the army entirely.

"On the eve of the great battle Verino visited Carthuris and explained to him how he was the only one who could remove Slathir from his physical form, and in so doing banish him and his minions to the Dark Realm."

There was a grin on the old man's face now, he was happy and his tone had turned joyful.

"Once he had finished talking to Carthuris, Verino left the camp and rose to a position where he would be able to watch the battle from above. The following morning when the guards went to awaken Carthuris, he had disappeared.

"Carthuris, knowing that in the heat of battle it would be almost impossible for him to get from one side of the battlefield to the other, had left the camp in the middle of the night to circle around the enemy. He was waiting in a position where he would be able to attack Slathir during the battle, when all the enemy's attention would be concentrated elsewhere.

"When the battle began there were many casualties on both sides, however the bulk of the casualties were on the human side of the battlefield. Carthuris waited for an hour before making his move; he needed to be entirely sure that the whole of the enemy's attention was directed toward the battlefield. He crept up behind Slathir's personal guard, like a thief in the night, and he dispatched them quickly with the skill of an accomplished assassin.

"He shouted out to Slathir, who turned instantly to look at where the voice had come from. When he turned and saw a human standing there in the colours of the enemy troops he laughed. He did not believe that any human could pose a threat to him, he was a god after all. Slathir turned his horse and rode to where Carthuris stood, "Kneel before me and call me master if you wish to live," growled Slathir, to which Carthuris replied "you are not my master, and I will never bow before one so evil. Get off that horse and fight me."

"Slathir still believing that this human posed no threat got down from his horse and approached him unarmed. "I cannot fight an unarmed creature, evil or not," Carthuris stated. Slathir hissed, "I am more than a match for you, you cannot harm me," in reply.

"Carthuris drew Lightstar and as soon as Slathir saw the sword he could feel the power held within it. Slathir drew back, and asked frantically "where did you get that, that is no human weapon?" Carthuris replied to his question in a calm voice "A kind man gave it to me. Now, do you want a weapon, or not?"
Slathir turned and grabbed his sword from his horse, he then instantly charged at Carthuris. The battle between Carthuris and Slathir lasted for an hour, when eventually Carthuris stabbed Slathir through the heart.

"Slathir screamed, however the scream of a god is nothing like that of a human, everybody on the battlefield stopped and covered their ears it was too much to take. The scream stopped within a few seconds, when Slathir's body crumbled to dust. Slathir's spirit was released, this caused all of Slathir's minions on the battlefield to disappear. Slathir and his minions had been banished to the Dark Realm.

"This left only the Union on the battlefield fighting for the enemy. However once they saw what had happened to Slathir and his minions they turned and fled.
"Once the battle was over Verino came to Carthuris and talked to him. He explained Lighstar's power and told him that although it may not look beautiful when in the wrong hand's it still holds incredible power and must not fall into the wrong hands. Carthuris pledged that he would find somewhere to hide the sword.

"This Carthuris did, and he did it well, he told a hand full of his most trusted friends where he had hidden it, so that the location could be passed to future generations. It would lie in this spot until a time when it was needed again, although the hope was that it would not be.

"Once Verino had visited Carthuris and sent him on his way, he went to see his Generals, whom welcomed him with open arms whilst celebrating their victory. Verino calmed his generals he needed the calm and sober for what he was going to do next.

"When he had calmed the generals he began talking, he explained that now there was no enemy they were free, but not in the same way that humanity was free before the arrival of Slathir. Humanity was now awakened, it's potential had been unleashed and they would no longer be capable or happy to live the life that they once had. He spoke to them about government and kingdoms, and once he had finished he spread a map of Guarla on the table. On this map he began to draw lines, he drew twelve areas on the map, and these he split between his twelve generals. He then told them, "These will be your territories and they are yours to rule as you wish, either by government or as a kingdom. But make sure that you treat your subjects well, each of you must keep an eye on your neighbours and ensure that they stick to the path of good, if anyone of you start to go astray the others must stop you." This was the start of Guarla as we know it, shortly after this assembly the leaders of the new nations met to create the Guarlan Council and the Guarla Accord.

"Not long after the battle, the head cleric of the Union, Padiam Nesuway, began to go mad. His madness became so extreme that his followers had to tie him to his bed, so that he did not harm himself or others. It was not long after this that his madness would kill him, but before he died he appeared to return to sanity with a crystal clear mind. The same followers who had tied him to his bed released him, and he was allowed to return to his duties as head cleric. He began having very realistic dreams, they had substance, and he could touch and feel in them. The majority of these dreams he had during sleep, but occasionally they happened when he was awake, he would go into a trance like state and collapse on the floor. During the dreams that he had when awake he would speak, telling people what he saw.

"One of his juniors decided that he would record what Nesuway spoke the next time that Nesuway had a dream. Once Nesuway had read the record of his spoken word, he decreed that this was not merely a dream it was a prophecy. Shortly after this Nesuway returned to madness and killed himself.

"Nesuway's prophecy was that Slathir would return and conquer the world. But he would not be able to return by himself; he would be guided into this world by another soul, and would be confined and hidden in the body of that individual, until such time as the separation ceremony was performed."

"And that's where Trilla comes into the story!" Shouted Rillad, his voice full of excitement.

"Yes," answered the old man, talking to everyone "that's where your adventure begins."

"I don't understand," Trilla said "Why me? What made Slathir's soul attached to mine? There's nothing special about me."

"Bad coincidence I'm afraid." the old man replied to Trilla's questions, "Your soul was created at the instant that the Union's prayers became powerful enough to breach the barrier between our universe and that of the Dark Realm, thus binding his soul to yours."

"I don't feel any different since the separation ceremony," Trilla queried "surely I should feel like something's missing?"

"No, his soul has been hidden from you since your soul was created. You never knew he was there so what can you miss? Though I am surprised that he has not corrupted your soul."

"So what happens now? How do we stop Slathir?" Garat asked.

"You cannot stop Slathir, only the person who can wield Lightstar can stop Slathir. You can however find Lightstar and bring it to me in Freetown where I shall be addressing the Guarlan Council. I will then try to find the correct person."

"Where is Lightstar, do you know? Are you one of the descendants of Carthuris' friends?"

"Yes I do know, and yes I am descendant of one of Carthuris' friends, that is how I know the story for all written versions of events have long since decayed. You can find Lightstar in a cavern on the north face of Yalara."

"Yalara!" said Chikara, "where on Guarla is Yalara?"

"It is in the Quinaqua mountain chain. The local tribe will be able to guide you to this cavern. They have not lost the old ways of humans, for they were too small in number and too remote for Slathir to bother with. They believe the cavern is the home of a god and do not approach it. Although Slathir did not corrupt them, they felt his presence on the planet and fear that if they get too close to the cave the god will strike them down.

"Now unless you have any more questions my bones are tired and I must get some sleep, for I have long journey ahead of me. I would suggest that you do the same."

The old man slowly got out of his chair, and walked across the room to the door on the far side.

"How the hell did we get into this?" Chikara asked as soon as the old man had gone through the door, "we don't even know who he is, or what he's got to do with this, but we're listening to his every word."

"Just calm down a minute," Garat said, as he strode over to her, and put his hands on her shoulders, his voice went quiet, "I'm trying to think."

Rillad was sat on the deerskin rug by the open fire, "Well I say we go. What have we got to lose, after all it doesn't sound like we're going to have much fun with Slathir around."

"I agree with Rillad," Garat whispered, he coughed to regain his voice, he spoke up, "we have to do something. I'm still not sure about the old man, there is something in him that makes me feel small, something that makes me a little frightened of him. But still there is something else which is making me feel as if I should trust him, something deep within me is urging me to do anything that he asks."

Trilla walked over to Garat, instinctively she put an arm around his shoulder to comfort him, and then withdrew quickly when she realised what she had done.
"I have come this far," she said to Garat, "I may not have wanted to, I may not have had any choice in the matter, but nevertheless I have the same feeling as you, that we should trust the old man and do as he asks."

"I would prefer it if you went home," Garat replied, "we will take you to a harbour and buy you passage home, you are not built for this."

"I am my own woman," Trilla growled, she was angry at Garat, how dare he say such a thing, "I will decide what I do and where I go. No one is ever going to give me orders ever again."

"Well I can't let you three go on your own," Chikara sounded defeated, I guess "I'll have to come with you."

Excerpt from "Whispers from the Hollow

writer45 — Wed, 22 Apr 2009 09:59:46 GMT

Hi:

By trade I have been a non-fiction writer. Ihave written mostly science articles and newspaper stuff. I was also a reporter/producer for a local affilate of NPR, but this is my first work of long fiction.

John

Whispers From The Hollow

By: John M. McGowan

The Upper Peninsula of Michigan

Late summer 1932

The only thing Frank Winthrop loved better than his 1931 Model A Roadster was his girlfriend Abigail Gleason. He and Abby had become engaged to marry just last week. Her parents had thrown a lawn party in their honor the previous Sunday. A semi-formal affair that was attended by what Abby's mother called, all the best people. The Gleason's were somewhat snobbish for Franks taste, but he loved Abby dearly.

But today was different, no fancy people, no dressy cloths, or crystal glasses filled with champagne. Today it was just the two of them. They decided to spend the evening at their favorite place in the world, a secluded cove on the Sturgeon River. They loved to go there and watch the sun go down behind the Huron Mountains. Abby packed a picnic supper, and he brought the beer. He thought, for a rich girl she sure knew how to have a good time. As they lie on the blanket watching the colorful show, the sun finally disappeared. When twilight descended they reluctantly decided it was time to go. Soon it would be dark, and the road not much more than a wide path, was bad enough in the daytime. Frank was finishing his last beer while Abby was putting the leftovers back in the basket.

Suddenly the sky lit up, and there was a great boom, a hundred times louder than the loudest thunder. Frank and Abby were never seen again. There was a search of course, but all that was ever found was the burned out wreckage of Frank's Model A Ford, and a clearing formed in the woods from the impact of the meteor. There was no crater, no pieces of meteor, nothing, just a perfectly round clearing. All over the world that day meteors struck the ground. One scientist had commented that luckily they landed in isolated areas and caused minimal damage. The blast was so powerful it'd blown Frank's car into the river.

The following week a farmer, Oliver McGee, on whose land the cove was located, used his old Farmall truck to pull the wreckage from the river. He decided the clearing was the perfect place to leave the car, sort of a tribute. Over the years many more dead machines were added to the odd collection, but on that day the car graveyard and the mystique surrounding it were born.

Early summer 1962

Chicago

Growing up part of the baby boomer generation of the 1950's my twin brother Zack and I lived in Chicago until the summer of 1962. School that year was the usual hustling between classes and extracurricular activities. It was our first year of middle school, which was called Jr. High back then. I chose to play football as my activity, and Zack, he joined the math club. Go figure. Zack and I looked alike, but we had very different personalities. Zack was quiet and introverted. I was a wild child always in trouble. Zack like our parents was a neat freak and studious. I was a pig, and a dreamer, never doing very well in school.

Our parents were numbers people. My father was an engineering professor and my mom a mathematician. Can you imagine what it was like being their child? I had trouble doing long division. The only subjects I was any good at were history and English composition. They were horrified. How could a son of theirs be such liberal arts material? If I hadn't looked exactly like Zackery, I'm sure they would have returned me to the hospital, and demand a refund. Our parents, both professors at the University of Chicago gave most of the day, and some nights to their students. Our family always seemed to be in such a hurry. There was little time left for each other, or for us.

So it came as no great surprise, at least to me, when summer vacation of 1962 started off with a bang. It began with a family meeting. Such meetings were common in our house, but this one was different. Zack and I were told unceremoniously, and coldly of our parents impending divorce. There was no, we're sorry, or it'll be ok. Nope, none of that mushy stuff from our mom and dad. But the big surprise was yet to come. The next day we found out we were being sent to live with our maternal grandparents in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. My mother said she felt it would be the best thing. I was thrilled. Zack was devastated.

I loved the Upper Peninsula. It's a magical place with warm summers, and snowy winters. Herds of deer graze in fields of Christmas trees. It was an unspoiled land of natural beauty. My childhood memories are filled with life long friendships and family warmth. As far as I'm concerned, our parent's divorce was the best thing that ever happened to me. I never figured they liked me very much anyway; Zack was their golden boy. Our move up north had the opposite effect on Zack. He was a city boy and pretty much a sissy. He was also emotionally cold like my parents and never warmed up to all the love and kindness my grandparents tried to give him. He hated it.

Our grandparents, Poppy and Lil, as they preferred to be called, were wonderful people. We were treated like their own children from the first day. Even as difficult as Zack could be, they never gave up trying to make him feel loved and wanted. It's a shame he never returned the favor. When I think back to those days, I always remember Lil's quick wit and her fascination with Indian traditions. She claimed to be half Micmac Indian, and we always attended at least one powwow each summer. During the summer she also worked in her garden, and taught me how to grow things. When she gardened she always wore her favorite huge hat. It was the biggest hat I've ever seen. When I was a kid I called it her cartoon hat. Then there was Poppy the farmer, who always had a book tucked in his back pocket. You could see him in the field plowing on his tractor, and reading a novel at the same time. They were quite a pair. Everyone should be so happy. I even began to enjoy school. The classes were smaller, and the teachers seemed to really care about you. My teachers and my grandparents encouraged my love of writing.

I felt important for the first time in my life. I also had friends for the first time. In Chicago, I never had any friends. That school year I made three friendships that would last my entire life. The first few weeks at a new school are usually the worse, but that's when I met Ralph, John and Mike. I made other friends as well, but these three guys along with Lil and Poppy, were to become the core of my world. I wish I could say Zack was part of that core, but of his own accord, he was always an outsider, even with me. The guys and I became inseparable, and did everything together. We attended the same classes, went to the same parties, and played sports together. A couple of us even dated the same girls. We called ourselves "The Crew". I don't remember why, but we thought it sounded cool. Zack was never a member of the Crew.

Every summer, The Crew, joined up for a 3-month adventure. We spent every day together. Once in a while we would get into trouble, but mostly we just had fun. We would fish, hunt and hike all summer long. I never understood why Zack and the guys never seemed to hit it off. They tried to be nice to him, but he always acted like an ass. I tried to include him on several occasions, but these usually ended badly. It was no different at school. He just couldn't get along with people. There were a couple of guys that used to f*** with him everyday. Granted, these guys were bullies, but Zack just seemed to bring it out in people. They zeroed right in on him. I often found myself in the middle of a fistfight trying to protect him. Because no matter how big of an ass he could be, he was my brother. Later at home, I would find him alone in his room, but he never cried, never. He would just stare at the ceiling with a look of hate in his eyes. His rage scared me.

Sometimes our mother would come to visit during summer vacation, but more often than not she would call with an excuse. Zack always begged her to take him back to Chicago, but she would say "not this time", "always not this time". He grew to hate her as much as he hated everyone else, including me. Our father never came at all. To her dying day Lil said our parents loved us. I think she said it for us, but she also said it for herself.

That last summer after high school graduation was no different. I pretty much did my thing and he did his. I was preparing to attend Northern Michigan University in the fall, so I could remain close to home. Zack on the other hand got a scholarship to Berkley. He wanted to get as far away as he could. Late one evening I saw the Sheriff's Cruiser pulling up our drive. Zack had already been in trouble a couple times that summer for getting drunk in town. This time he started a fight, but lucky for him the sheriff was Mike's dad. He drove Zack home and warned him not to do it again. To show his appreciation, Zack flipped him off and staggered into the house.

"Sorry." I said.

" What's wrong with you brother?" He asked.

"He's got problems."

"Yep"

A call came over the cruiser's radio and the sheriff drove off quickly with lights flashing. Zack had problems for sure. More than we would ever know.

One day near the end of summer Zack came home from town drunk once again. Trying to stand straight as possible while holding on to the doorframe, he announced, "I enlisted in the Army."

We all stood there unable to speak for a minute. You have to remember it was 1968. The Vietnam War was at its peak.

" Have you lost your mind? What the hell is wrong with you, and what about Berkley?" I asked.

My grandmother started to cry and Poppy just shook his head in disbelief.

"I just want to get far away from this place, and I didn't figure Berkley was far enough," He slurred.

The next week we drove him to the induction center in Marquette.

Summer was over. I started school and Zack started boot camp. Days stretched into weeks. Soon it was midterms. We got regular letters from Zack saying how well he was doing, and how much he like the Army. I figured it was all bullshit. He was miserable; he was always miserable. Then about four months after he got to Vietnam the letters stopped. My brother was reported MIA. Later a telegram arrived saying Zack was killed in action.

His funeral was a closed casket affair. During Vietnam it could take several weeks to get a soldiers remains back to his family. He was buried with military honors in our family plot on Poppy and Lil's farm. I was given his flag, saluted and thanked for his service and that was that. My brother was no more.

One

New Beginnings

I went back to school and finished the semester, the year, and the ones that followed. After graduation I took a job teaching English at a prep school in New England. At least a teaching deferment would keep me out of that damn war. With much sadness I said goodbye to Poppy and Lil.

My teaching position at Stony Brook was right out of a novel, or so it seemed. Located in a pristine area of Maine called Eagle Lake. It reminded me of the U.P.of Michigan. The campus looked like a Norman Rockwell painting or an ad for L.L. Bean. The buildings were turn of the century, and looked like an old college campus with large limestone buildings, and lots of ancient oaks. In many ways it was a great gig. I taught a couple of sections of English composition and had plenty of free time to pursue my writing. I was provided with lodgings and three square meals a day, so I had little to worry about except teaching and writing. If not for the students it could have been a wonderful place.

Many of Stony Brook's students had been tossed out of the finest schools in New England. But, when they came to us accompanied by a rather large donation check that fact was usually overlooked. Like many prep schools of the 20^th century; Stony Brook was struggling to survive.

During the academic year I tried to hold on to my sanity while teaching, a bunch of over privileged, self-centered brats the importance of communicating with the written word. What I lived for was summer. Every summer I'd head for the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. Going back to Poppy and Lil's farm made the rest of the year bearable. I even enjoyed the eighteen-hour drive. As soon as I crossed the Mackinaw Bridge from Lower Michigan I felt renewed. The fresh scent of pine in the air was invigorating. When I got to Marquette I would stop at the first phone I spotted and call Lil.

"I'm about there." I said.

She would say, " Hurry home; I got supper waitin for you."

I was home.

Poppy and Lil never changed. That's what I adored about them.

Many of my childhood friends were still there. Mike was the sheriff now since Sheriff Trebolt, Mike's dad, died the year before. Ralph was the High School Principal, and John had moved back after he finished med school and took over ole doc Randal's practice. Everyone seemed settled, but me.

The day after I returned that summer of 1974, a Sunday I think, my friends and I did what we do every summer; we went hiking in the woods north of Poppy and Lil's farm. When Mike and Ralph went off the trail to take a piss, John and I stood there on the trails edge. He asked me to come by his office on Monday.

"What for?" I asked.

"Not here, it can wait." John said.

"Why so cryptic man?"

"Not cryptic, just not the right place, Ok?"

"Ok." I said.

Ralph and Mike returned a moment later and we finished the day with a swim in the lake, and hiked back to the farm. When we got back Lil had supper waiting for us, just like always. I spent that evening with my typewriter and the words seemed to flow from my fingers. After a couple of hours I needed a break, so I decided to take a walk. The night was warm and moist and songs of crickets filled the air. A reddish moon was rising over the horizon. Before I knew it I was standing at the foot of my brother's grave. I sat down next to the marker and began to weep.

"Ah hell Zack, why did you do it?"

I guess nobody ever understood Zack, not even me.

"I wish you were here now. I miss you."

After awhile I got up to head back to the house, but felt I wasn't alone. Even the crickets had grown quiet. There was an eerie silence. I looked around but no one was there.

"Poppy...Lil is that you?" No one answered. Then the feeling was gone as quickly as it started. I glanced at my watch; it was well after midnight, and Poppy and Lil had turned in a couple of hours ago. I quietly entered the house taking my shoes off at the door and padded up to my room. The room was dark and I looked out the window. My window faced the old barn and the cornfields beyond. As my eyes adjusted to the total darkness I could swear I saw movement where the barn met the fields, but only for an instant...then nothing.

"Probably a coon or a fox." I thought.

I lay down, not feeling sleepy at all, thinking I would read for a bit. The next thing I knew it was morning.

Oh, the wonderful smells that rose from Lil's kitchen that morning, bacon, fresh coffee, fried potatoes and onions. My stomach was singing. When I got downstairs she had fixed me a plate that could feed three people, but I dove in and ate every last bit.

"God Lil I can't believe I ate all that food."

She just gave me that pleased look and said, "You need a bit of fatting up. Will you be home for supper?"

"You better believe it." I said.

I think that made her day. Lil is one of those women who just love to cook and love to watch others eat. I kissed her goodbye and headed to town to talk to John.

Lil and Poppy's farm was on Old River Road about fifteen miles from town, town being Houghton. Not much more than a village on the tip of the Keweenaw Peninsula, Houghton was home to Michigan Tech...go Huskies!

Excerpt from "Whispers from the Hollow

writer45 — Wed, 22 Apr 2009 09:56:55 GMT

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John

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The Last Resort: A Wanderlust Mystery

april_star — Tue, 04 Sep 2007 11:17:40 GMT

Prologue

The cloaking fog appeared strangely protective. There were areas along Anastasia Island's coastline where no one could hear you scream. And it was in such an area that the bottle was launched, spinning through the air and landing with a splash. It bobbed and weaved quietly eight feet above the sandy bottom before deciding on a direction. Seemingly, it appeared to be floating a quarter mile off the northerly point of St. Augustine Harbor.

As the day progressed, feeling the pull of the tide, the bottle moved imperceptibly westward before making a gradual circuit around the jetty outward along Salt Run inlet. Starting its journey into the path of the sunlight. Glinting through the sparkling Atlantic, the bottle reflected blue, gold and pink.

Three days later it had cleared the inlet area and was moving north by northwest, about two hundred feet offshore, in fifteen feet of water along the Ancient Sand Dunes.
The rolling waves of the Atlantic and gentle westerly breeze blew across the tropics. Despite the westerly wind, the bottle continued to float west. St. Augustine, Florida has over four and a half miles of beach that stretch along the northeastern tip of Anastasia Island. It is situated right in the middle of modern Florida -- a mere 40 miles from the glassy skyscrapers of downtown Jacksonville, 100 miles from the rocket ships of Kennedy Space Center and 100 miles from the fantasy theme parks of Orlando -- but its nearly four and a half centuries of history make it seem worlds away. The bottle had floated aimlessly for over 200 miles and seven days before drifting into an offshore basin where the water circulated in a counterclockwise motion. The bottle was in the extreme south of this basin. The circulation moved the bottle westward, back toward home.

For two days, the bottle washed back and forth against the rock and wooden structure of the south end of the jetty; as if it were uncertain whether to go inside, toward St. Augustine, or outside, back into the Atlantic.

The romantic symbolism of bottles containing proclamations of love and being tossed out to sea have intrigued people for as long as there have been bottles. Oceanographers have charted these romantic journeys; Hollywood has made blockbuster movies out of the tenderness from the notion.

The bottle that had been hurled out in the Atlantic on a balmy spring day from St. Augustine Harbor contained no messages of undying love and passion. Nor did it contain charts or maps of shipwrecks. What it did contain was secrets, lies, betrayals and the most unspeakable of crimes-murder. And just as the journey of the bottle itself, it would alter the course and direction of many lives beginning with the life of whoever discovered this message in a bottle.

Novel Excerpt: Rise of the Egyptian Star Empire

Cypher-X — Tue, 25 Dec 2007 19:44:12 GMT

I've only written the first chapter. I need an honest critique of it:

Atwar-Nihmose walked out of the settlement to check on his guards. All was good. He gleamed at the tiny blue dot that he remembered as the Earth. From what his mentor Gnaauson Ka'Hakar had told him, they were approximately 100 million light years away from his acclaimed planet.

He looked up at the sky to view the Lenatori Navy shifting on by. Atwar browsed the vast area when he felt something he had never felt before, love. He saw the girl of his dreams walk by and place herself in front of a well lit fire. Atwar’s heart started beating irregularly. He had never found true love back on Earth.

This could be it! He thought. Atwar clenched his fist to regain his pride and walked over to the fire coolly.

“May I sit here?” He asked politely.

“Sure,” she said with her kind, yet exotic voice.

“I have never seen you around here before. My name is Atwar-Nihmose and I am the leader of this settlement,” he grabbed her plush hand and laid a soft kiss on it, “May I ask what your name is?”

“I am Keyana. It is a pleasure to meet you.” Atwar and Keyana talked for awhile. Atwar got closer and closer to her as the time flew by. Atwar could tell that she was attracted to him and that he had a shot to be with her. Atwar felt he was ready to make a move when she asked:

“What do you want in life?”

“You…” He went in for the kiss and she accepted. They were like two souls connected. After a few minutes, Atwar grabbed her hand and began to ask her to his quarters. “I never got your last name.”

“Ka'Hakar.” She whispered into his ear. Atwar’s heart sank.

“Are you related to Gnaauson?” He asked softly. Atwar knew what the answer was, but he was reluctant to hear it.

“Why, yes… um… I am his...his…”

“Wife of course!” added in a familiar voice. Gnaauson Ka'Hakar came walking out of the darkness towards them. Atwar quickly let go of Keyana’s hand as if he were stretching. “I am glad that you have finally met my wife Keyana, Atwar,” he said with joy.

“Ah, yes,” sighed Atwar, “We were just talking about how nice it was out here…”

“Of course it’s nice; we are in Lenatori country now! Why don’t I join you two for some tea?” Atwar immediately stood up.

“Oh no, I am far too busy at the moment. I must be checking on the rest of the guards right now, maybe another time. Goodbye for now.” He weakly waved to Keyana and Gnaauson Ka'Hakar as he nervously walked back toward the guards at the front gates. The guards were trying to hide a grin from Atwar as Atwar came back looking angry and embarrassed. He caught the looks on their faces and for some reason it angered him so much that he unsheathed his hunting dagger and stabbed the closer of the two men in the leg.

“Are you laughing now!” yelled Atwar with disgust and anger.

“No sire! I never meant… argh!” Atwar maneuvered the knife around in the man’s thigh.

“I hope I never see such a look again out of the two of you.” He pulled the knife out of the man’s leg. “You!” he pointed at the uninjured guard, “Take him to the hospital tent. Let Sahara deal with him.” Atwar cautiously looked around to see if anyone noticed his little incident then walked through the gateway satisfied that Keyana had not seen what he had done.

Atwar rose early in the morning to try to look for his friend Nahim. He found him in the hospital tent talking to the guard that he had stabbed in the leg the previous night. Nahim and the guard noticed Atwar come in and immediately stopped talking.

“Atwar are you well?” Asked Nahim.

“I am just fine, I was wondering if I could talk to you alone, Nahim.”

“Yes, sire.” Atwar walked outside of the tent with Nahim at his tail.

“Listen Nahim, do you remember what life was like for me back in Egypt?” Nahim looked down at his feet and thought for a second.

“Well, you did have everything you ever wanted…”

“No, I did not!” roared Atwar. “I’m sorry my friend, I had a bad night.” Nahim looked a little taken aback at his friend’s yell.

“What happened?”

“I… I finally found someone…” Atwar told Nahim of Keyana by the fire and how he fell in love with her the moment he set eyes on her. He left out that her husband was Gnaauson Ka'Hakar. “I do not know what to do.”

“Atwar, we are leaving on another journey to find a better suiting land in three days. You need to lead us on that journey. You can not go around and steal other men’s wives just like that.”

“I know… it is just that I have never felt that way about anyone before. I have to see her.” Atwar pulled away towards Gnaauson Ka'Hakar’s quarters.

“Atwar!” yelled Nahim. “Listen, about the guard that you stabbed last night…” Atwar froze.

“What did he tell you…” he muttered.

“He just told me that you stabbed him in the leg for some reason. I did not hear why. He was about to tell me why you did it until you came into the tent. Atwar, why did you do it?” Atwar shuddered for a moment. He could not let anyone know about what he did with Gnaauson Ka'Hakar’s wife. Atwar was leader of his Egyptian men, but when it came to the Lenatorian’s, he was just a small captain that Gnaauson Ka'Hakar was in control of. Atwar was put in charge of the Lenatorian guards last night and by stabbing one of the guards and having the other take him to the hospital tent, he could have been in terrible trouble with Gnaauson Ka'Hakar, especially since the two guards witnessed him “introducing” himself to Gnaauson Ka'Hakar’s wife.

“The man is a lunatic, he knew who I was and he spit on my leg. I had to put him in line so I took a leg for a leg – never mind Nahim, it is not important. I need you to do an important task for me right now. Start gathering some provisions for the trip. Go now!”

“Yes sire!” Nahim strode off to the supply tent to gather what he needed. Atwar postponed his trip to Gnaauson Ka'Hakar’s quarters and headed right back into the hospital tent where the wounded Lenatorian guard lay.

“My liege… it is a pleasure to…uh see you again!” The injured guard said nervously. The guard studied the angry look upon Atwar’s face. “I just wanted to let know that your secret is safe with me… I promise I will not mention anything to-“

“It is too late for that; I need to know now if you have told anyone…”

“No I swear, I did not, I-“

“Good, let’s let it stay that way.” Atwar pulled the same hunting knife out that he had used to stab the same man last night.

“Sire, please! No!” It was too late. Atwar brutally struck the man in the heart and body several times with a blind rage as the blood splattered everywhere including his own body. The last he heard of the guard was the disgusting gurgling sound of blood clogged up in his throat. Atwar covered the guard’s nose and mouth to further suffocate the man so he would die faster. He felt the man’s pulse until it was no more. Atwar wore a frown on his face when he finally realized what he had done. He cleaned his blade and was ready to set off to his tent to wash up until he heard someone coming. He immediately took his knife and forcefully pricked himself in the chest as he lay on the floor. Sahara walked in and immediately pulled out his sword after briefly viewing the bloody site. He gazed upon Atwar and called out for help.

“Atwar, what has happened here?” yelled Sahara cautiously. Atwar and Sahara never got along. Atwar was lying on the ground slowly bleeding from his pricked chest.

“That guard…” he said weakly. “He was working against us; he tried to kill me…” Atwar pretended to pass out on the ground as the majority of the guards came running in with their swords at the ready.

“Take him to his quarters and clean him up there!” Sahara commanded the guards. The guards lifted Atwar up on a makeshift stretcher and lifted him up to his quarters. The guards set him down on his bed and waited for a spare doctor to come in to help him. A doctor finally came in, only it was a woman. Atwar gazed at her face and noticed who it was immediately.

“Keyana…” he said weakly.

“Atwar, what happened?” She took out a wet cloth and cleaned Atwar up good. She ordered the guards to leave them. “That is odd, it was only a flesh wound, yet you acted as if you were dying…”

“Keyana please,” Atwar started to talk normally.

“That guard, I saw what you did last night…” Atwar felt as though he was going to be caught and killed. He felt ashamed that she had to witness what he had done.

“It was for our own good, those guards saw us and they started grinning at me as though they had some great news to tell your husband to get me killed.”

“What happened to you just now then?” Atwar did not know what to tell her. So he thought up the same story that he told Sahara. “That is terrible… I have known that man for years… he tried to kill you?”

“Yes, he grabbed my knife out of my sheaf and pricked me with it. I tore it out of his hands and I killed him with it. I had to, he was going to kill me and then Gnaauson Ka'Hakar I just know it.” From what he saw, Keyana believed him. She grabbed his hands and kissed him on the lips.

“Then this can never happen…” she whispered in his ear. She strode off out of his quarters and into the warm afternoon. Atwar lay there trying to take in what had just happened. He got up and peaked out of his tent. The entire settlement was in an uproar. Village people fighting and pouting, children running all over the place, the livestock was running wild all over the town.

Atwar watched as the remainder of the guards looked inside of the bloody tent and immediately come out of it with disgust. He saw an oddly familiar figure enter and exit the tent. The man he saw do this started to tear up and soon run to the guard tent looking as though he knew something that the others did not.

Wait… could that have been the other guard? He knows too much, I will have to kill him as well! Atwar saw Nahim running over to his tent. He ran back to his bed and lay there moaning and groaning.

“Atwar!” Nahim’s voice came in. “I heard what happened?” Atwar looked up at his friend.

“I need you to do me another task.” Atwar coughed. “The other guard that was with the guard I stabbed… he is a traitor!”

“You mean Rahza?”

“Was that his name? He and the guard I just killed were plotting to kill Gnaauson Ka'Hakar and me. I command you to find him and execute him on site.” Nahim bowed his head and ran off with two other guards. Atwar got to his feet once again and looked outside of his tent to watch his friend seize and attack Rahza.

“Rahza!” yelled Nahim. Rahza came out of his tent putting away a piece of parchment in his pocket. “Come here.”

“What is it Nahim, I was just in the middle of doing something very importa- ugh!” Nahim stuck his blade into his gut with great fury.

“Wha- wha- you oppose- Gna-g-. “ Rahza fell to the ground. He was laying in the middle of the settlement bleeding to death. Nahim signaled his men to finish him off. The two men grabbed their long swords and pierced Rahza in every direction until he was dead. Nahim and his men left the site and walked shamefully back into Atwar’s quarters with Atwar now laying on the bed again with a smug grin on his face.

Atwar-Nihmose sat on a great rock just outside the settlement. Atwar was never able to find love when he was Earth. His friend Nahim would sometimes catch him crying a bit at night. Nahim was a good young man who had had a woman waiting for him back on Earth. He knew what Atwar was feeling; he was loosing all faith in his inability to court a single woman, besides Keyana, that he fancied.

At times Nahim would think of it and give a small chuckle because the subject humored him a bit. He was smiling until he saw Atwar crying on the rock outside of the settlement.

“Atwar, what is wrong?” asked Nahim sincerely.

“Nothing, nothing,” sobbed Atwar trying to hide his tears.

“Listen, I know what you are feeling and I have to tell you that you should not have to worry about it at all.” Atwar glanced up at Nahim. “Atwar, you are the leader of this settlement and we need you to help guide us to a better home. You can get any woman you want, all you-“

“No my friend, you do not know why I am feeling like this.” Atwar looked to his right and starred at the girl of his dreams who was sitting with Gnaauson Ka'Hakar in front of a blazing fire.

“Her? That is… That is the wife of Gnaauson Ka'Hakar!” Atwar starred at her and then to her husband, the man that gave Atwar and his people passage to this new land. “Atwar you can not go around stealing the wife of your mentor! So that was the girl that you had met before?” Atwar began to tear up again.

“Nahim, there has to be another way for me to be with her. I need her, I can just feel it! I am the leader of this settlement and whatever I say goes!” Atwar began using his anger to send out orders to his friend, Nahim. “I need him dead so I can have her! Here is the plan…” Nahim reluctantly took his friend’s orders and slowly walked away back into the settlement.

Sadie Marabou’s Flamboyant Revival

witchi1 — Tue, 09 Jan 2007 19:15:45 GMT

Greetings

This is the first work I have ever posted for critique. It's the first three chapters of what I envison being a humorous journey of self discovery, peppered with much humor and joyful irreverence.

I look forward to candid and helpful response from any who care to take the time.

I apologize for the fact that the formatting was removed in pasting the file, if you prefer the excerpt is attached below.

Thanks, witchi1

-------------------------------

Sadie Marabou’s Flamboyant Revival

Chapter One

They say desperate times call for desperate measures.
That would be now.

In spite of all my best efforts to avoid it, had I become my mother. Now mind you, there is nothing wrong with Delilah Marabou unless you want to count the fact that she survived most of her life with the aid of good vodka and Valium.
While I could get a little boozy now and then, I preferred exercise for stress relief instead of sipping my way into a Stolie induced stupor. That I went to such lengths to endure my days or my own dreary company, was very telling. I had become the poster child for the run-down and run-over. Pathetic. Lonely. Divorced. All good reasons to run far on a treadmill.
That was yesterday. That was the old me. The new me had, in a few frenetic hours, broken free of the proverbial pumpkin shell.
As I picked at my chipped pink nail polish in the harsh light of the County Jail, the conformist part of me that had allowed banal decades to pass was yelling its dying words in my head. You fool! You’ve done it, you’ve really done it! In my mind it’s just like when Charlton Heston finds the Statue of Liberty’s remains in Planet of the Apes and falls to his knees on the sand.
Somewhere along the line, my inner bohemian—the secret personal vessel containing intuition, inspiration and wonder—had succumbed to the voracious demands of my husband, his exalted career and our collective children. Between these millstones my Self had been ground down to the point of non-existence. My whole life was dedicated to achieving their dreams and successes.
My mother must have an inner bohemian, too. The vodka and little yellow pills keeping it quietly sedated in a dark corner for all these years. She obviously had chosen a more effective bohemian management plan, than I had. This morning when I woke up, so did that other, long dormant part of my being . . . and she was not pleased.
She-bo—as I have named this delightful and somewhat terrifying part of me—took over my brain, shifting my vision like magic glasses to illuminate all the murky and dubious truths I had long denied. And after a long look, I was dismayed that I had spent twenty-four years cultivating a petri dish for the growth of ho-hum mediocrity. My own special virus. A depressing and sobering notion.
It was not an end-it-all suicidal type of depression, it was more general deflation, disillusionment and reticent acceptance of what I had become.
On the surface, I had it made. Great house, beautiful kids, gorgeous rich husband. All the usual markers of a happy American life.
The kids, my only link to spontaneous fun, were grown and gone. Off to better themselves and the world, happily ensconced in their chosen Ivy League schools. Occasional emails let me know they were still on the planet and at least pretending to pay attention in class. They reassured me that I was a good mom. I doubted it, but they told me anyway.
As for my ex-husband, Richard, well he was okay for a controlling egotistical jerk. He wasn’t mean or nasty, he was just impossible to get the better of. Arguing with him was like dancing with Jell-O; just when I thought I’d actually gained solid footing, he would evade and maneuver so that I was left with nothing but sticky befuddlement. He never hit me, he never yelled, and he didn’t fly off the handle. Instead, he made a clear list of demands backed up with completely reasonable arguments, punctuated by the fact that the household was being run on his money, and then he would leave. For days and weeks at a time. It was understood that even though he was absent, the house and all it contained, including me and the children, were his.
Richard’s profession in high finance kept him on the move. We didn’t see much of each other in the near twenty-four years of our so-called marriage. It must have taken its toll on him, too, because he left me for a younger woman in the London office. Apparently, she “gets him”. As far as I was concerned, she could have him.
That was six months ago.
I wasn’t heart broken at our divorce. We didn’t have much in common other than a physical attraction that melted the paint off the bedroom walls. And that only took us so far. He liked golf, country clubs, and the Wall Street Journal. I preferred hiking, Eric Clapton and lazy days reading novels. Not that I did those things, but I preferred them. Richard held disdain for other people and I held hope for their well being. Yeah, I was blinded by the sex, because we didn’t have it going on anywhere else.
                    #
This morning when She-bo woke up and assessed the mess I had made of my life, she went a little ballistic.
It started off simply enough as I removed some nic-nacs and pictures to freshen up the livingroom. I noticed the paint needed re-touching but before I knew it, “re-touching” had escalated into a Jackson Pollockesque re-decorating extravaganza. I pried open every can of left over paint I could find in the garage and threw it at the wall---with impressive force, I might add. She-bo was thrilled, spurred on by the way the sunlight glinted off the wet paint that sailed through the air in wide arcs and landed on the wall with satisfying splats.
We were inspired---She-bo and I---to do more. To break out of the petri dish of mediocrity and reclaim some ground for caged bohemians everywhere.
I rummaged around in the garage, banging open cupboards and rifling through tool boxes in search of the perfect tool to sever the umbilical of corporate wife “yes-dom”. And there, shining like a beacon in spite of a thick coating of grease and dust, was the hedge trimmer. It felt good in my hand. I applied the choke, primed the engine and pulled the cord. It sputtered to life with a puff of smoke and a growl that echoed my own wild need to cut free.
I knew just the right target to ease years of frustration. I revved the hedge trimmer and went to work. The nine-foot tall privet hedge separating my yard from Mr. Peterson’s had long been a source of irritation for me. It stole the sun and sucked the very warmth from the air.
Mr. Peterson was old and crotchety when we moved in, years later, he was ancient and mean. He loved his hedge.
I hated the hedge. I couldn’t see the sunset because of his infernal hedge.
It was good that the old bird was hard of hearing and had not noticed the holy hedge desecration until I had carved the word ‘love’ from its center. I was just completing a little heart shape at the end when Mr. Peterson stepped out for his mail. There were six or eight google-eyed on-lookers licking their lips at the prospect of a fight between a middle-aged crazy woman covered in paint and mean old Mr. Peterson. I’m pretty sure they were making book on the outcome.
Mr. Peterson stalked over with his mouth working furiously in his eggplant colored face. I stood my ground next to the tall leafy letters, hedge-trimmer purring like a large cat in my hand.
“What in the sam-hell do you think you’re doing?”
I just smiled beatifically at him and finished the valentine with a flourish. I shut off the trimmer and made a deep bow to my impromptu audience. They applauded. Mr. Peterson glared at them, spat on the ground and stomped into the house.
Was that it? I wondered. Maybe he was more reasonable than he ever had been before. Maybe having “love” carved in six foot letters in his yard launched him to unprecedented kindness. Granted he was not instantly transformed into St. Francis, but I was elated! I had broken free of my cage and it seemed that I might even be helping poor Mr. Peterson find something besides misery in his life.
I wiped my hands on my jeans and turned to leave when the heavily laden peach tree caught my attention. It dawned on me that Mr. Peterson’s liberation could be helped further by sharing the fruit with others. I plucked the juicy peaches and handed them to the sidewalk on-lookers who took them reticently at first, but soon were merrily stuffing them into their pockets and hastily formed baskets made of upturned shirttails. Mr. Peterson had the best peaches for blocks around, but he never ate them, and he never shared. It always bothered me that the golden orbs would fall and rot with no one to enjoy them.
I climbed several feet up the knobby branches, straining to reach the sun kissed prizes at the top. Then I heard the sirens. Peering between the leaves with a peach in my mouth and one in each hand, I watched as a patrol car rolled to a stop in front of Mr. Peterson’s house. The siren ended on an awkward whoop and out stepped a mirror spectacled deputy.
So much for the idea of Mr. Peterson being inspired to kindness. He appeared outside his front door and stood looking from the erstwhile hedge to the deputy to me in the tree. I couldn’t help but be reminded of a bulldog with his back up and his jowls quivering with righteous indignation.
“What’s the problem Mr. Peterson?” Asked the deputy as he stepped into the yard.
“You got eyes, dontcha? Look what that damn woman did to my hedge! And now she’s stealing peaches! I want her arrested. I’m pressing charges for trespassing, vandalism and burglary.”
She-bo was outraged.
“You mean old snake!” I screeched from my perch in the leaves.   “Why don’t you try being friendly for a change? Let the kids eat these peaches. They’re just going to rot. And as for the ‘hedge from hell’, well, I’m not sorry one bit! It blocked all the sunlight from my yard. I can hardly grow hostas let alone sun flowers. And besides, now you have something nice to say to the neighborhood. Right, deputy? How can making ‘love’ with a hedge be a crime?”
The deputy’s eyes widened in surprise and I could swear he bit his lip trying not to laugh.
The double entendre dawned on me. “Ooh! I didn’t mean it like that. I meant—”
He stopped me with a wave of his hand.
“Yeah, I know what you meant. What’s your name?” He removed his sunglasses, pulled a notepad from his shirt pocket as I scrambled down the tree and landed like an outlandish tropical bird in front of him.
I was a spectacular sight with multiple colors of paint spattered from head to toe, scratched and leafy, peach juice dripping off my chin and an inch worm making its way to the shelter of my cleavage. The deputy (his badge said J. Donahue) was trying hard not to laugh and somehow remained professional in the face of wanton bohemianism. I was proud to be a taxpayer providing a salary to J. Donahue.
“Sadie. Sadie Marabou.” I said hoping I sounded suave. I was having fun and J. Donahue was cute. No wedding ring, either.
“Spell that please.”
I did.
“That’s an interesting name. Marabou.”
“It’s my maiden name. I took it back after my divorce. A marabou is an African stork. It’s famous for its soft white underside.” Jeez! Why not ask him to just go for it in the yard?
“Really? I’ll have to remember that. Date of birth?” He was still trying to control his amusement at me and the whole situation.
“Oh gosh, really?”
“Yes, Ms. Marabou, really.”
“August 17, 1963. And I thought you were one of the good guys.”
“I’m good.”
He continued with one inane question after another but I hardly noticed. I was busy checking him out. Nice buns. Nice biceps. Nice face. Yep, he was nothing but nice, nice, nice. I kinda wanted to nibble on his ear just to see what he would do. About that time Groucho Peterson appeared walking toward us with his wheelbarrow, the handles of some garden tools sticking out of it.
“She’s gonna clean up this mess, I tell ya!”
Mr. Peterson plucked a metal rake out of the collection and thrust it at me. I backed away.
“No way! This is art! I’m not changing a thing!”
“You’re cleaning up my yard!”
“No! I’ll pay my fine and you can clean your own stinking yard!” I knew it wasn’t entirely reasonable, but I was in the full control of She-bo and She-bo doesn’t do raking. Who knew?
Mr. Peterson pushed me with the rake and I pushed him back, not hard, but the old geezer lost his balance and fell into his wheelbarrow. He struggled there like a turtle on his shell until J. Donahue gave him a hand out.
“Assault! I want to add assault to the list of crimes against me! This woman is a menace! She pushed me!”
“Me? You’re the one shoving rakes in people’s faces!”
“Okay, okay. That’s enough.” J. Donahue interceded in a wonderfully police like manner. I felt safe from mean Mr. Peterson and his rusty tools. “Mr. Peterson, are you all right?”
“No! I’ll have to see my internist. Get her off my property!”
“Ms. Marabou, come with me to the station so I can file the report.”
“Sure!” I answered, happy to go anywhere with J is for Justice Donahue.
“Mr. Peterson, do you require medical assistance to be called in?”
“I’ll call my doctor myself. Don’t trust nobody.” The old goat grumbled under his breath.
“Good. I’ll come by later to get your side of the story, Mr. Peterson.”
“I’ll be here.” And with that he retreated to his house, plenty of pluck in his step with a tirade of curses that could pink the cheeks of a New Orleans hooker.
“My house is right here, can I change my clothes and get my purse, please?”
“Make it fast.”
                    #
I left J is for Justice in the paint splattered living room with his mouth hanging open in an unnatural manner. Its a fair certainty that he never met anyone who had intentionally thrown paint all over the walls. I have to say it was rather awe inspiring, still dripping in places and pooling in kaleidoscopic puddles on the floor. The energy that had propelled the act was still present in that room. It was She-bo’s room. And when J is for Justice stood there, mouth agape, I knew he felt the presence of She-bo and she talked to part of him.
I peeled off my painted clothing pulled on jeans and a soft new red v-neck tee shirt. I teased a few leaves out of my hair, washed peach juice and sweat from my face, indulgently considered taking two minutes to pluck my brows but decided to pass. I laced up my Keds wishing they were Sketchers or Rocket Dogs or anything young, hip and cool. I needed bohemian foot wear. A stop at the mall later was in order.
J. Donahue had made the rounds downstairs. I could tell, because he wasn’t in the livingroom any more, and he looked at me as if I might actually be normal after all. The power of illusion. The rest of the house looked like a sane and reasonable person lived there. Only to me did it look like a prison, created by me, for me.
The family that had lived here was long gone. All that remained were decorator drapes, carefully chosen objects d’art that displayed a sense of competent serenity, and one woman having an identity crisis. The kids had spent most of their free time at friends’ houses. Ours wasn’t fun. It was fake, and kids know fake when they see it. They have built-in bull-s*** meters and when it gets too deep, they blow you off.
I would have had soft afghans spilling over antique furniture surrounded by art the kids had made. Their pictures would have been the ones from fourth of July picnics where they were covered in watermelon, looking dazed in wonder at the night sky full of fireworks. I like real. I like messy. I like the sticky watermelon moments in life.
“You ready?” Justice was pulling open the front door and I noticed the yummy way his muscles moved in his arms. Oh man, I hadn’t had a yummy guy in too long.
“Let’s go. Do I ride with you or can I take my car? I want to go shopping later.”
“You need to ride with me, I have to bring you in formally. You’ll be held until a judge can hear the charges.”
“Held? As in ‘jail?’”
“It’s more of a holding area. It only takes a few hours until the judge hears the charges and decides what to do with the case. It’s like Night Court. You remember that show? In and out.”
“Oh well. I don’t really have anything better to do today. I’ll see how the other side lives.” I followed him to his cruiser where he opened the back door and I slid in. It was the worst seat I ever sat on; hard plastic with nothing to hold onto. He shut my door and let himself in the car. He cranked the engine over and adjusted his mirror so he could see me.
“The other side is not pretty Ms. Marabou. You really should be more careful about breaking laws.”
“I appreciate the advice. But I simply had to cut down that damnable hedge!”
“Did you ever think of getting the city to tell Mr. Peterson to lower it?”
“No. I was too much of a conformist.”
He snorted in disbelief.
“Until today. Before today I was completely predictable, normal and boring as hell. I’m not sure what happened, but today something just snapped and I had to break out.”
“The new paint in the living room part of your coming out?
“Breaking out. It’s not like I’m telling the world I’m gay or something. Not that I am. And if I was, it wouldn’t be bad. I’m not homophobic or anything.” I added quickly.
I’m sure he’d heard similar “I just snapped” stories from people who committed arson, murder and all manner of hideous crimes. I wasn’t sure where rearranging a hedge fit in the scale of justice, but I was hopeful I would get off light.
“Is being normal all that bad?” He looked at me in the mirror. I could have gone diving in the Cayman Island blue of his eyes. Bohemians simply adore pretty eyes.
“I don’t know, I was numb for most of it. Can I ask you a question?”
He nodded.
“What does the ‘J’ stand for?”
He hesitated a moment, “Justin.”
“I was close. And to answer your question, yes. Painting that wall marked a new beginning for me. Jackson Pollock, the abstract expressionist, found beauty in chaos and harmony in diversity. It’s my new creed.”
“Be careful, Sadi— er, Ms. Marabou. I’d hate to see a nice lady like you end up in trouble simply out of boredom.”
“I’m not looking for entertainment, Justin. It’s so much more than that.”


Chapter Two

So, I contemplated the quality of my manicure and likewise the quality of my life in a shabby little holding cell waiting for the judge to have time to see about my case.
The urgency with which I had acted had cooled off some, and in its place I found myself mentally defending my actions to everyone. Richard, the kids, my mother.
My mother would be convinced that I had suffered a psychotic break and would insist I see her therapist. I didn’t want therapy. I didn’t want to be pushed into a neatly labeled mold again. I had been there, and I didn’t like it. I had endured a tightly scripted life, supported my husband through his years of philandering and corporate ladder climbing, and you know what? I hadn’t had a good time.
I never got to make any decisions. Richard did all that. Where we lived, who we associated with, how the children were disciplined, where we vacationed, how we invested. Everything. I had become spineless. I wasn’t merely a doormat, I was a large woven mat with the words ‘Step-here’ in ornate hand-stitched letters. Some flaw in my character invited people to run willy-nilly all over me while I lay smiling asking if they would like another drink.
But that couldn’t be the real me. The real me, way down deep inside had a lot to say. The real me had told mean Mr. Peterson to clean up his own yard. I had totally checked out a hunky policeman and I had chopped down the Great Barrier Hedge with power tools. I had Jackson Pollocked my living room for Christ’s sake! I was an emancipated woman, right?
The fact was, I was totally freaked out. My whole world had turned on its ear since the kids had left home and then somersaulted again when Richard officially left me. Every star by which I navigated had gone super nova, leaving me in the dark, alone and wishing for a compass to steer myself to a friendly shore.
Enter She-bo. She was the pure concentrated essence of all I cherished---distilled and aged in a secret place in my heart for years. Potent and powerful, she blasted onto the scene like nitroglycerin, forever changing the landscape of my life. It was better this way, eradicating the etched grooves of redundancy in one clean sweep. At forty-three I didn’t have time to come creeping out of my shell in little bits and pieces.
I leaned against the cinder block wall and closed my eyes. I imagined Richard or the kids getting the news that I had been hauled to the police station. Part of me cringed in habitual obeisance to the impenetrable walls of disapproval and general lack of understanding I would be met with. Richard would never in a million years understand the need to break free; he was the jailer, not the inmate.
As for the kids, well, they’re kids. They would be more resilient than their father, and would hopefully forgive the shock. They would be unique in the fact that in their Ivy League cliques they were surely the only ones whose mother had a rap sheet, albeit a short one.
I took strange comfort in the fact that I would have a rap sheet, it was proof of something gritty inside. If I had enough guts to break the civil law, surely I could break the laws imposed by Richard Wandering Dick. It was a wonderful irony that being thrown in jail would be so integral in freeing me.
Justin Justice came by the cell and nodded at me, a dark lock of hair swooped down over one brow making him look dashing and a little dangerous. He smiled at me, not so much with his lips, but with his eyes, pointed to his watch and indicated that it would be a short wait by holding his finger and thumb about an inch apart. He walked away tapping a folder against his thigh. The man sure had a nice rear view.
After what I considered to be far too long to contemplate the heavy nature of my thoughts, I went to face the judge with Justin Justice by my side. I felt pretty good about that. Technically, he was the enemy, but I considered him one of my co-liberators.
Yeah, he’s also hot. Sue me.
Mr. Peterson’s report was read aloud. I sounded very villainous in that context. I felt like I should have a piece tucked in my underwear or something just to live up to the menacing description of my deeds.
Justice submitted his report and I tried not to look at him like a cat inspecting a bowl of cream. I don’t think I was successful because the judge kept looking from him to me with one eyebrow cocked.
The Honorable Masterson was a pleasant looking lady. She asked good questions and listened with an attentive air like a television news interviewer. When she finally turned her attention to me for my side of the story, I felt like I could trust her with the truth.
“Ms. Marabou, please explain to me what you were doing on Mr. Peterson’s property.”
“Your Honor, I was cutting down a hedge that had blocked the sun from my yard for years. Mr. Peterson steadfastly refused to lower the hedge, in fact he let it get taller. In retrospect, I should have gotten the city to help me, but I admit it felt good to cut it down myself.”
“Well, you didn’t cut it down, Ms. Marabou. You carved the word ‘love’ in it. Correct?”
“Well, yes. It seemed like the thing to do, better than just mowing it to the ground. What better thing to take down a barrier than love, right?”
“A very interesting philosophy Ms. Marabou, and while I may agree with you on certain aspects of it, your behavior, being at odds with the law, demands that I penalize you. The charges are trespassing and vandalism. Since this is your first offense and I venture it will be your last, I will be lenient with you. I understand the hedge is still viable and that the peach tree suffered no damage, therefore the sentence is a two hundred dollar fine, and twenty hours of community service. You can start by cleaning up the mess you made in Mr. Peterson’s yard. Do you have any questions?”
I didn’t.
A quick strike with the gavel and it was over. I walked out of the court room with Justice by my side. I stole a look at him from under my lashes and hummed to myself.
“Ms. Marabou, if you’ll pay the court, I’ll drive you home. My shift is over and I would hate to see you take a taxi all that way.”
“All that way” was fifteen miles, not a bank breaker in a taxi cab, but I liked the idea of hanging out with the cute cop a little longer.
“Thanks, Justice”
“Pardon?”
“I mean Justin. Sorry. You acquired a nickname while you weren’t looking.” I blushed under his inscrutable gaze.
Then he laughed. He had a smile like warm syrup on waffles.
“I like it. Justice.” He repeated the name slowly like he was trying it on. “But it’s our little secret, huh? The guys around here would tear me up if they found out.”
“Just between you and me.”
I paid my fine at a plexiglass window that had lettering in peeling gold and black paint. At one time it had said Rockbridge Maryland Circuit Court. Now it was missing enough letters to be a challenging puzzle on The Wheel of Fortune.
“Ready?” Justice asked. He had disappeared while I signed papers, presumably to the attached police station, and changed into civilian clothes. If he looked hot in a uniform, he was walking lava-man in faded blue jeans and tight black tee shirt.
“Oh yeah.” Ready wasn’t the half of it.
                    #
The ‘68 Camaro sat like a dragonfly, metallic blue and glistening in the late afternoon sun ready to spring into flight. It was an instant turn-on, a car guaranteed to get Justice a fair collection of wet panties should he seek them.
He held open the door for me and I slid in the interior of the car and looked around. You can tell a lot about a person by their car. The tachometer on the dash and the Hurst shifter thrust up through the floorboards screamed intense, potent and spicy. The exquisite care taken in executing every detail of the vehicle showed the more carefully controlled side of my pal, Justice. Leather stretched in seamless gray across the seats, tucked and rolled expertly on the edges. This car was his baby, his woman, his hobby and his friend. I couldn’t help wondering if he would treat a girlfriend with such regard or if that special treatment was reserved for classic autos only.
Justice eased in behind the wheel and cranked over the engine. I thought I would die right there. He had a million horses under that hood and they were all clamoring to go. The throaty power of pistons pumping vibrated the seats and sent blood coursing through my veins.
I must have looked like an awestruck kid at her first fireworks ‘cause Justice watched me, amused.
“You like it?”
“What do you think? I’m dying here! Let’s go!”
“You got it, Jackson.”
It took me a moment to realize what he said and when it did dawn on me that he had nicknamed me after my new painting style and life philosopher, I laughed out loud. The sound of my amusement swallowed up in the roar and growl of the Camaro.
Justice took me for a ride. He hit the interstate and put his foot in the accelerator, flattening me against the seat as the ponies under the hood hurtled down the road like a rocket. Dodging slower traffic, he veered down an off ramp so fast that my stomach flipped as we caught sick air. We wound our way down one of the many rural roads that leached out into the countryside from the city’s center. We roared past farms and fields, over quaint bridges spanning silver streams and around tight curves that wove through the gold and green of field and wood. We listened to ZZ Top—loud. The wind whipped my hair into a frizzy nest that spun and twisted in the rushing air. I couldn’t stop grinning. This was as good a sex and way the hell better than chocolate.
Justice swung into a gravel spot on the side of the road where logging trucks turn around. Dust swirled up around us as he stopped the car and killed the motor.
“Can I ask you something, Jackson?”
“Yeah, sure.” My eyes were bright, exhilaration staining my cheeks pink.
“I was just wondering why? Why the paint and the hedge? Are you sorry now?”
I laughed lightly belying the seriousness of both the questions and my answer. The sun was beginning to go down and the light was turning that sweet soft shade of lavender when it seems the mysteries of the universe are right there on the periphery of our sight. I have never been quick enough to see them, but I know they are there.
“With all my heart I believe in what I did today. I was on a recovery mission—to recover . . . well, me. It’s not something you’d really understand, being the type of person you are. And that’s a good thing.” I added quickly as a flicker of defensiveness rippled across his features. “Somewhere, years back, I lost track of my self. I want to find that me and get to know her.”
“You sound a little schizo there, Jackson.”
“I’m perfectly integrated, thank you. It’s just easier to explain it that way.”
“You mean what you said to the judge. About love taking down barriers?”
“Absolutely. Where there is love, I mean real love, there can’t be any walls. That has to be true, I heard it on Dr. Phil.” I laughed. Well, I had heard it somewhere, maybe it was a book—but it seemed like the sort of thing Dr. Phil wouldn’t mind being credited with.
“What was so hard about your life that you didn’t stand up for yourself?”
Now that was a damn good question. What indeed? I answered the best I could with words giving form to ideas that were still untried.
“I was living the wrong life and didn’t know how to get out of it. Just plugging along, doing what I “should” and hoping it would be enough. Turned out it wasn’t. It never is if you don’t have love, and lots of it. I settled for mediocre and called it fine and I tried to make myself believe that ‘okay’ was ‘great’. I was a flavorless, beige woman lurking around in the background.”
“I wouldn’t say anything about you is beige or flavorless today.”
“No, I think I’m off to a good start.” I smiled at him and he nodded as he considered all I had told him.
“You still want to go to the mall?”
I had forgotten my idea of shopping for shoes. It didn’t seem so urgent now.
“Nah, you can take me home, Justice. Thanks.”
He smiled at me from under dark lashes.
“You’ve been checking me out all day, Jackson. You ought to know that I’ve had my eye on you, too.” He paused and ran a hand carelessly through his hair. “I know it’s quick and all, but I’d like to take you out Friday night.”
“Oh,” was all I managed to squeak out. I hadn’t thought of that. Not even once. How odd that it never crossed my mind that he might think something of me. I couldn’t have conjured a finer testament to pitiful self-esteem. I must have looked like I needed an explanation, because Justice gave me one.
“It’s not every day I run into someone who’s shaking up the normal way of doing things, looking for more. Especially a pretty woman. The girls I meet are all stuck on themselves and pretty much stupid with make-up and fashion. But you’re different. You have more—”
“I’m older.” I cut him off, feeling a trifle embarrassed with the compliments. “I may not have lived my life the way I wanted for too many years, but I know what I like. And I know what I want. And now, there’s no one to stop me getting it.”
“What do you want?”
My mother always said actions speak louder than words.
I kissed him.
For a second he was slow to respond and I thought I had freaked him out, but then his hands came around my shoulders and pulled me close. His lips were velvety and they moved with a roving ease that left me warm in all the right places.
It was a short kiss, experimental and sweet. When it was over, I smiled devilishly and sat back in my seat.
“Take me home, Justice. It’s been a busy day for us both. We don’t want to over do it. What time on Friday?”
                    #
The Camaro moved away like a tiger prowling amidst the pearlescent-gold herd of Lexuses and Mercedes that made up the car pool in our neighborhood. It was a perfect illustration of a new truth; I was just like that, a hot-rod Camaro trying to fit in with beige luxury cars. The whole thing really had been destined to fail—my marriage and career as a corporate wife and stay-in-her-place Mom. Eventually the racing stripes and headers would show themselves.
I was overcome with a desire to leave and never come back to this stuck-up neighborhood again. I could feel the very ground sucking the life and color out of me. Mr. Peterson could grow his stinking hedge to the moon and it wouldn’t matter. I would be gone. Nothing but taillights.
In the garage I found a freestanding yard sale sign. It was a tall wooden post that had the words Yard Sale Today printed on a slate board hanging from little chains attached to a cross beam.
I cut a cardboard box into squares that would fit over the slate pieces and wrote HOUSE FOR SALE in thick black strokes and taped them into place. It would do until I could list the house properly. I felt better knowing that the house was “on the market” before I set a foot inside it once again.

Chapter Three

A ravenous rummage in the refrigerator produced a not too wilted salad, some cheese cubes and a bottle of Pinot Grigio. A few Triscuits made it dinner. I flopped in front of the TV, sipped wine and channel surfed. Thelma and Louise was on. I had never seen it.
Just as it was getting really interesting—I love that Thunderbird—my mom called.
“Hello, sweetheart. How are you today?”
She had taken it upon herself to make sure I was not withering away after Richard’s departure. She called and fretted and offered unsolicited advice to the point of me wanting to run stark naked around the house with a flame thrower just so she could be justifiably worried.
On further consideration, it wasn’t all that far from what had actually happened. Trade hedge trimmers for the flame thrower and even if I was clothed, I was definitely exposing myself. Maybe mom was onto something.
“I’ve had a busy day.”
“Oh?” She asked in that way that made it seem like I couldn’t have possibly done anything worth talking about let alone classified as “busy.” It ticked me off enough that I decided to let her have it right between the eyes.
“Well let’s see, Mom, I repainted the living room, I cut down Mr. Peterson’s hedge, stole some peaches, got hauled to jail by a hunky cop, was found guilty of trespassing and vandalism, paid a fine and went driving with said hunky cop in his hot-rod, got kissed, and put my house on the market. I’m about three quarters of the way through a bottle of Pinot and I’m thinking about the Ben & Jerry’s in the freezer.”
“Stay right where you are. I’m coming over.” The phone went dead and I knew that my own dear mother was half-way here before I had even hung up the phone.
I giggled a little bit at the thought of Delilah Marabou speeding through the night to reach her daughter, who, in Delilah’s mind, needed a straight-jacket and heavy sedation.
My mother does love me even though we have had many years of disappointment in our relationship. But since Dad died and we only have each other, (I am an only child) Mom took it upon herself to reconstruct my life. She lives well off my father’s careful investments filling her days with bridge, shopping and therapy—and fixing me.
I regret having no siblings, but my parents wouldn’t over complicate their lives or over commit emotionally with a passel of off-spring. Go figure. As I look at it now, I think Dad was plain selfish, and Mom went along with it.
Just like me. Riding the current, being pulled along in the wake of our men. Doormat syndrome was hereditary.
The screech of Mom’s tires as she slammed on her brakes in the driveway announced her arrival. I opened a fresh bottle, poured a second glass of wine, refilled my own and sat back waiting for Miss Delilah to descend upon me.
“Sadie! Sadie, where are you?”
“In here.”
I heard the pat-pat of her Reebok’s on the wood floor, then she came in. I didn’t look up immediately.
Her stunned silence was dramatic, topped only by the verbal tirade that followed it.
“What on earth have you done to the wall, Sadie? Have you lost your ever lovin’ mind?” Mother was Southern,—pronounced suuthun—and the more upset she became the more suuthun she sounded.
“Why, Mother, how good to see you. Would you like a glass of Pinot while you admire my humble tribute to the late, great Jackson Pollock?”
“Why would anyone want to honor that mo-ron? He was such a strange man, Sadie. What were you thinking?”
“Sit down, Mom and I’ll tell you. But first, a glass of wine.”
“Is it that bad, sugah?”
“No, it’s not that bad. But it does require a looser frame of mind than you usually operate from.”
“Oh Lawd.”
“See what I mean? I might not say anything to you until you have two glasses if you keep that up.”
“I won’t be able to drive home. Sadie Marabou, you tell me what the devil is going on around heya right this minute.”
“Have a sip?”
“Oh, all right. You can start with that painting and just work your way through that list that gave me fits all the way heya.”
Agitation released Mom’s Alabama upbringing in broad strokes. She took the glass I offered her and sank back on the sofa, all the while watching me like a sniper with the target in her sights. I wasn’t intimidated. I was used to her antics. She was a whole lot of bluster and not one bit of bite.
“The simple truth is, I found this room, this house, to be boring beyond words. Besides which, nothing in here is mine. So I started with this wall. It’s a small start in the reclamation project.”
“Don’t be foolish, it’s all yours. The courts awarded you with it.”
“It’s not an award, it’s a goddamned prison sentence! This place is my very own cell, cleverly disguised as a home.”
“Watch your language, Sadie. Now, tell me what you mean by that.”
“I mean that every piece of furniture, every single thing in this house was picked out by Richard. He chose it, he paid for it, he told me where to put it. Point to anything, Mother, go ahead.”
She looked around the room and smugly pointed to the kid’s pictures.
“Richard’s photographer friend took the pictures. Richard, acting as art-director, chose the settings, and while he didn’t actually shop for the outfits, he dictated what he wanted them to wear.”
“I don’t believe it. Why on earth would a man carry on so?”
“Do you really mean you don’t believe me, or are you being dramatic? ‘Cause if you don’t believe me, then there’s no point in going on with this whole discussion. The whole thing is based on that.”
“Based on the pictures?”
“Really, Mom. You’re giving me a headache.”
“Well, I never!” But there was too much of my story yet untold for Mom to give up in a huff. She took a long swallow of Pinot and composed herself. “I’m sorry, dahlin’. Just start from the beginning and I’ll try to be a diligent listener.”
“Thanks.” I sipped my own wine and reached for a handful of salted almonds. “So, I took a look around this house today and I was thoroughly disgusted with it and my life. Nothing here reflects who I am. I like Jackson Pollock, so I paid homage to his bohemian spirit, and in turn, it fueled mine.”
“Your what?” She looked startled and took another long sip of wine. I would say she slugged it, but Delilah Marabou never slugged, she preferred to “drink with enthusiasm.”
“My bohemian spirit. Pay attention.”
“What is a bohemian spirit? If I may ask?”
“It’s the wild untamed part of a soul, the part that speaks truth, lives in love and is fearless. Everyone has one. Most people just keep theirs shut up inside.”
“And I suppose, yours is, er . . . out?”
“You could say that.”
“And that’s what spurred this flurry today?”
“Yes. After I painted the wall, I felt so exuberant, so wonderfully alive that I had to keep going. I found the hedge trimmers and without any real thought, moving purely on impulse, I carved the word ‘love’ out of Mr. Peterson’s hedge.”
“Oh Lawd.” She took a long sip of wine and refilled her glass.
“I even decorated it with a little heart. He called the cops on me.”
“What on earth were you thinking, Sadie?”
“I told you, I wasn’t really thinking.”
“Are you going to be a serial criminal now?”
“Only with hedge trimmers. I don’t go in for the heavy stuff. No chainsaws or axes.”
Mother laughed at the joke but she was still confused by the whole thing. It was beyond her for now, but at least she had laughed.
“Well, that’s a relief at least. So what happened after the police showed up?”
I didn’t want to go into the details of Justice, he was my tasty secret, but I had to share the bare bones about the encounter. Mom wasn’t satisfied.
“You said he was hunky. How hunky?”
“Mom, he would make the angels weep.”
“Oh Lawd.”
I hadn’t heard this many “Oh Lords” out of her since Wandering Dick went off to London. It was a good story, and she was surely dying to share it with her bridge ladies. Of course, the names would be changed to protect the family honor. The ladies would know anyhow, but they could pretend that everything was fine with their friend all the while giving advice and admonition in equal doses to the nameless unfortunate in Delilah’s story.
“He came to the house so I could change my clothes, took me to the police station where I answered some questions and saw a judge after a few hours in a holding cell.”
“You were in jail all afternoon? Why ever didn’t you call me?” She looked like I had betrayed her.
“Didn’t need to. I was in and out of there. And besides, if I had called you, I wouldn’t have gotten to ride in Justin’s Camaro.”
“Who is Justin?”
“Oh, right. The hunky cop, Officer Justin Donahue. He gave me a ride home since his shift was over. He has an amazing hotrod and we went for a little ride in the country. I kissed him and then he brought me home.”
“Oh LAWD! You kissed a stranger? Have you lost your ever-lovin’ mind?”
“Apparently. I’m going out with him Friday.”
“You are going out, on a date, with the police officer who hauled you to jail?”
“Yep.” Maybe he’d bring his handcuffs. Bad, Sadie!
“Sadie, I think you are becoming unbalanced. You should see my therapist. I’m certain he can help.”
I had been to Joel Lowenstein before and I had not found any comfort in his office. He spent the whole session trying not to look at my breasts.
“No, thank you. I feel great. Better than I have in a long time. I put the house on the market and I feel that the whole world is opening up for me.”
“You’re selling the house? Your only source of security and tax shelter?”
I cut her off as she took a breath to continue. “Before you ask me if I have lost my ‘ever loving mind’, I will tell you that I haven’t. I simply don’t want to live here any longer. This house is, was and always will be Richard’s.”
“What about the children? Where will they come to when they are off school?”
“I’ll get another place. It’s going to be fine, Mom. Really.”
“I’m sure it will, sugar. I truly hope so.”
I patted her hand and we sat together with Thelma and Louise filling the silence while we sipped wine. We were both stunned when the girls clasped hands and floored the gas barreling the Thunderbird headlong into the open maw of the Grand Canyon.
“Sadie, what kind of movie are you watching? Those girls just killed themselves.”
“I think they would rather be dead and free than mixed up with that posse of men chasing them.”
Her face changed as she considered, her eyes moving from the television to the Pollocked wall to me. When she intertwined her fingers with mine and gave a squeeze, I knew we had connected in a deep and vibrant way.
“Freedom is a powerful motivator, I suppose.” She raised her wine glass in salute. “Here’s to freedom, Sadie.”
Delilah Marabou may be the epitome of a society lady, but she knew the nature of a wild heart. More than she realized.