Journey to other worlds with me.
Monday, April 2, 2012
INDEPENDENT BOOK BLOGGER AWARDS VOTING
Hello beautiful butterflies, if you love reading my blog and would like to help me, please vote for my blog from 4/10/12 to 4/23/12. This award gives me the opportunity to go to Book Expo America free of charge. The fairies and I will send a virtual bag of wishing fairy dust to everyone who votes for me and our thanks. Let me know if there is anything you would like to see more of on my blog and I will see what I can come up with.
Unspun by Rachel Firasek Cover Reveal and Other Goodies
The Fates are said to control our destinies. From our
first breath to our dying gasp, these creatures of legend weave the courses of
our lives. Even the gods are subject to their decrees. Spinners of dark
secrets, the Fates have been feared for the tragedies they weave. No man dared
confront the Relentless Ones . . . until now.
Title: Creating Fate
(An Unspun Novella, #1)
Author: Rachel Firasek
Genre: Paranormal Romance Length: Novella Release Date: July 10, 2012 Book 2
coming July 24, 2012!
She gave away her heart…
Giving her heart to a mortal
wasn't something the First Fate planned. Losing him nearly shattered her soul.
Upon his death, Clothos swore never to love—or weave life—again. Hoping she'll
change her mind before it's too late, Zeus commands the spinner of life to take
a much needed vacation from her immortal responsibilities.
He had to hide his...
Dane is close to cracking the
drug ring he's spent the last two years infiltrating, but needs to perform one
last heist to meet the head man and prevent an impending war. An undercover
agent, he’s now on the run from drug lords, thieves and with the very woman
whose tears make him forget his purpose.
Together they’ll find a way
back from the dark.
Chloe will have to put her
trust in the man she believes may have killed her fiance, or face an eternity
on Earth. Without the desire for life, hope could slip through the cracks of
time if he doesn’t love away her sorrow.
About the Author:
Rachel Firasek grew up in the
south and despite the gentle pace, she harassed life at full steam. Her
curiosity about mythology, human nature, and the chemical imbalance we call
love led her to writing. Her stories began with macabre war poems and shifted
to enchanted fairytales, before she settled on a blending of the two.
Today you’ll find her tucked on
a small parcel of land, surrounded by bleating sheep and barking dogs, with her
husband and children. She entertains them all with her wacky sense of humor or
animated reenactments of bad 80’s dance moves.
She’s intrigued by anything
unexplained and seeks the answers to this crazy thing we call life. You can
find her where the heart twists the soul and lights the shadows… or at
www.rachelfirasek.com .
Stealing Fate
(An Unspun Novella, #2)
Author: Berinn Rae Genre:
Paranormal Romance Length: Novella Release Date: July 24, 2012
Book 3 coming August 7,
2012!
She stole his fate…
Lachesis—now known simply as
Lacey—is a Fate, an ancient goddess in whose hands our destinies are unraveled.
When she’s not weaving fortune, she does what she wants when she wants. Until
she runs into a man she craves but hoped—and prayed—never to see again. It had
been a dangerous gamble to betray the god of terror, but in war, hard
choices--and enemies--are made. And she'll soon discover the most frightening
of immortals can really hold a grudge.
Now it’s his turn…
The most cruel of gods, Phobos
is a predator who takes pleasure in terrorizing the world. After millennia of
relentless searching, he finds the Fate who caused him to be cast from Olympus.
Now he plans to use every bit of his talents on the goddess to regain his lost
heritage without losing his heart in the process.
As the outcast god ignites her
passions, Lacey must come to grips with the destiny she has long denied
herself. And Phobos must find a way to escape the destiny that would force him
to betray the woman he has grown to love.
About the Author:
Berinn Rae writes romantic
science fiction/fantasy about extraordinary women who always get their guy. Her
Guardians of the Seven Seals series follows mythical creatures we believed in
as children, only to be forgotten as we aged. When not writing, she can be
found flying old airplanes, watching SciFi movies, playing RPGs, and pampering
an incredibly spoiled sixty-pound lap dog. Berinn lives in Des Moines, Iowa,
with her husband and dog. She is a member of the Romance Writers of America
(RWA). Born: Manchester, Iowa, USA Schools: BA in Management Information
Systems, University of Northern Iowa MPA in Organizational Leadership, Drake
University Find out more at www.BerinnRae.com
Chasing Fate
(An Unspun Novella, #3)
Author: Elle J Rossi Genre:
Paranormal Romance Length: Novella Release Date: August 7, 2012 She is forced
to kill . . .
When a much-needed vacation
turns into work for the third Fate, Atropos vows to sever the mortal’s lifeline
quickly and get back to the sea and sand. Having her mysterious quarry offer a deal
in exchange for more time is an unexpected complication. Always surrounded by
darkness and death, Attie takes a chance to get a taste of life and help right
a wrong that never should have happened.
He refuses to die . . .
Dru spent months praying for
death to take him. Anger over the brutal killing of his family festered until
those prayers turned to plans for revenge. Making a deal with the Death Fate
was the only way to extend his lease on life. He only needed a handful of days
to avenge those he lost, but within minutes of meeting Atropos he knew he’d
want forever.
About the Author:
Elle J Rossi grew up in rural
Indiana surrounded by great people, a huge family, and more animals than she
could count. But the sites and sounds of the world beckoned, so she left her
small town to escape into a creative world full of music. As a full time singer
she was able to lose herself in a thousand different songs in a hundred
different places.
After meeting the love of her
life and settling down, she yearned to find a new and fulfilling creative
outlet. Overly fond of the happily ever after, she wondered what it would be
like to have her own characters lead her down dark and twisted paths. The very
first word on the very first page sealed her fate. She’d found a new love.
She’d found her escape.
Now along with weaving haunting
tales about the journey to love, she’s creating cover art for authors around
the world and loving every second of it. For fun, she cranks country music to
take her back to her roots, and sings karaoke anytime she gets a chance. Her
husband, two children, and a cat that rules the roost keep her company along
the way and guarantees she doesn’t get lost in the enchanted forest. She
wouldn’t have it any other way.
Find Elle
at www.ellejrossi.com
Thursday, March 29, 2012
The Raie’ Chaelia by Melissa Douthit Review
The Raie’ Chaelia by Melissa Douthit
BUY AT AMAZON HERE
When
Chalice sets off for Branbury in the middle of the night with her grandfather's
instructions, she has no idea of the dangers that await her. The King's men
have destroyed her home village of Canton and she is suddenly thrown into a
Terravailian world that she does not know. Lost and alone, she is hard pressed
to evade the iron grasp of the madman who rules the land. With the help of a
friendly Chinuk, an old man, and a book that she discovers along the way, not
only does she find true friends and true love, but she also finds her true self
and what it means to be the Raie'Chaelia.
This was a complimentary copy given to me by the author for
an honest review. It seems I had the 1st edition so perhaps some of
my comments have been addressed in the newest version.
This book would be classified as High Fantasy which happens
to be my favorite genre. I like the world building that high fantasy offers.
Here are my thoughts:
This book is about Chalice and her journey to learn who she
really is and whom she meets on the way and what she must accomplish to save
her people. She finds out about mystical powers that she never knew she had.
She journeys with several people, one of them being Jeremiah and a little furry
creature named Bunebab. There are several mystical and spiritual messages in the
book that I really enjoyed.
I agree that high fantasy should have world building but
this book goes a little overboard. The author describes everything in minute
detail every other paragraph it seems. It downplayed the story and I found
myself putting the book down quite frequently. I like the concepts that she
brings about in the book but the end result is hard to figure out.
Honestly it took me a good while to read this book and I
found myself wanting to skip past a lot of the descriptions.
I did enjoy the parallel world references and I think they
need to be explained further in future books. I am reading Book 2 and so far I
like what I’m seeing.
As well as the extensive descriptions, the use of elaborate
wording made me struggle to figure out what was trying to be said and I had to
use the dictionary a lot which discouraged me and at times made me want to stop
reading the book due to the interruptions this caused. I don’t think it was
really necessary and think it could have been explained simply without the long
words.
Due to the above reasons, I am giving this book 3 fairies
for the story concepts and would recommend this to high fantasy readers who don’t
mind extensive descriptions and elaborate wording. It definitely wasn’t a bad
read, just a difficult read for me.
I also found that there were a lot of unfamiliar words and
had difficulty following along because of that. Perhaps a glossary of terms in
the back of the book next time would work much better and give the readers the
information they need without feeling like they are lost in a sea of confusion.
FIND MELISSA DOUTHIT AT THE FOLLOWING SOCIAL MEDIA SITES:
BLOG
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
Lisa April Smith Guest Post
Exceeding Expectations
Online
Book Tour
Featuring
Lisa April Smith
March – April, 2012
About Lisa April Smith
Author Lisa April Smith lives with
her husband, He-Who-Wishes-to-Remain-Anonymous, in
Eternal Playland, Florida,
a delightful spot just off I-95. Ms. Smith describes Eternal Playland as
"a little piece of level
heaven with occasional dampness, where the bugs are plentiful but respectful,
and even the smallest strip mall contains at least one pizza place and a nail
salon."
Before discovering a passion for
writing, Ms. Smith sold plumbing and heating, antiques, taught ballroom
dancing, tutored, modeled, designed software and managed projects for IBM. She
She returned to college multiple
times to study anthropology, sociology and computer science, in which she holds
degrees, as well as psychology, archeology, literature, history and art. Combine
those widely diverse interests with a love of travel and a gift for writing
page-turners and it’s easy to understand one reviewer’s unbridled praise for Exceeding Expectations, “She (Ms. Smith)
has a brilliance for conveying characters, and the intellectual capacity to
place them in historical settings that sparkle with glamorous detail . . . that
make it fun to read . . . ” But it takes much more than lush settings, an eye
for detail and a love of history to write a page-turner. Read what another
reviewer said about Exceeding Expectations:
“Lisa April Smith . . . has woven an intriguingly rich tapestry of delightful
well-developed characters into a perfectly balanced plot bursting with riveting
mystery, crimes of the petty and the horrible sort, suspenseful twists, and
romantic tension complete with love scenes that sizzle and pop. . . Clearly, this
author has, and wishes to share with her readers, what the French call joie
de vivre – not simply the joy of life – but an all-encompassing appreciation for
every facet of life.”
For more about Lisa, her books, and upcoming projects visit her
website: http://www.LisaAprilSmith.com.
Lisa April Smith
can be contacted at WriteLisa(at)LisaAprilSmith(dot)com
Follow her on Twitter:
http://www.twitter.com/LisaAprilSmith
Friend her on
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/LisaApril.Smith
Today, as
part of her Virtual Book Tour, I have the pleasure of hosting author Lisa April
Smith. Welcome, Lisa.
A: Thank you
for inviting me, Heather. Delighted to be here.
Q. When you’re not writing, what you enjoy
doing to relax?
I love travelling outside
the US
– which we do from time to time, when I can convince He-Who-Wishes-To-Remain-Anonymous
to cooperate. However, if you’re talking about everyday activities, I read,
watch reruns of “30 Rock,” play golf, tend to my cactus and orchids, visit
museums, talk on the phone with my kids, volunteer tutor at an afterschool
program and do laundry. While most people consider laundry a tedious chore, I
find filling and emptying the washer/drier an excellent mindless break.
Ironing? Not so much.
Q. I’m sure
fans would like to know, did you always want to be a writer?
I always knew that I could write, but I understood enough
about the field to understand that the risks were enormous – that many writers devoted
years of “blood, sweat and tears” to projects that never sold. Being a realist,
and someone who likes to pay the rent and eat regularly, I didn’t allow myself
to consider writing fiction until I could afford to.
Q. If you could spend an hour with any
author, dead or alive, who would that be and why did you choose him/her?
A. Tough decision. I think
if I had to choose one it would be Mark Twain (Samuel Clemens). He was a
brilliant author, entertaining speaker and daring social commentator.
Portraying black characters as brave, loyal, admirable human beings with souls,
he took a stand against slavery and social injustice. Black or white, his
characters were memorable, flawed and real.
Clemens’ life was dotted with failures, loss and personal tragedy, but
he was known for his wit and engaging disposition. How I would love to sit down
with him one lazy afternoon for an unhurried chat.
Q. How would
you describe your approach to writing? Are you a "fly by the seat of your
pants" or a "plot and outline" type?
I’m a former IBMer. When
it comes to work, I don’t do things “by the seat of my pants.” I define significant characters and sketch out plots beforehand.
Except
when we’re traveling, five to six days a week, I’m at my desk about 7:00 am. Some
people call it drive, discipline or dedication. Personally, I think it’s a clear
sign of a compulsive disorder.
Q. Because I
enjoy finding out what people love apart from books, tell us - what are some of
the things that you love?
First off, I adore my family. Next comes friends. I want to
know how they’re all doing. Whatever they want to share. The highs. The lows. The
funny anecdotes. The complaints. The promotions, awards, glowing praise,
weddings and new babies. The rotten colds and dreaded illnesses. If they just
need a sympathetic ear or my help. Life is not a spectator sport. I want to be on
the field, in the action.
Under subjects, in no particular order, I love learning about
history, psychology, anthropology, sociology, archeology, outer space, reading the
best examples of any book genre and art. I enjoy the widest variety of music including:
Country and Western, jazz, opera (light and serious), Broadway, Rhythm and
Blues, Flamenco, Classical Guitar, Blue Grass and Indian ragas. Doubtless I’ve
forgotten a few.
After giving your question a lot of thought, I’ve
concluded that my passions could be reduced to this. I love learning about human
achievements and all facets of human behavior, past and present.
Q. Where do you get your inspiration?
A. My books are generally inspired by media coverage
of events and people that I find intriguing. In 1998, Florida television and newspapers were reporting a story
of a local Palm Beach
socialite (ironically named Fagan) arrested for kidnapping his daughters eighteen
years earlier, when they were 2 and 5 years old. The primary reason that it had
taken eighteen years to find Fagan was that he had successfully reinvented
himself. As William S. Martin, a handsome widower with two young daughters and
no apparent means of support, Fagan had met and married a wealthy Palm Beach widow. After
their divorce, another affluent woman agreed to wed and maintain his family’s
plush lifestyle.
Neighbors, friends and the teachers at the girls’
tony private school all described him as “likeable,” “charming” and “devoted
father.” Throughout his arrest and subsequent proceedings, his loyal third wife
steadfastly stood by him, as did both daughters. Perhaps what most surprised
people who followed the case was that the girls’ mother, a research scientist
teaching at the University
of Virginia, through the
media and her attorney, repeatedly begged her daughters to meet with her and
they refused. To my knowledge, that continues to this day.
As I was following the case I found myself
thinking that there was an even juicier story behind this headline-grabber and
set out to create one. I began with a few core facts. A man with an invented
name and history, twice married to wealthy widows, living in Palm Beach, playground of the mega-rich and
famous, and involved in a crime. Two adoring daughters unaware of their true
identities. Over time my imagination happily supplied the rest. A townhouse off
Fifth Avenue.
A sprawling estate in Virginia.
Romantic Paris in the years prior to WWII. A riveting past for Jack Morgan: skilled
lover, lack-luster artist and irresistible rascal. A full-blown range of
challenges and hard-wrought triumphs for his traumatized daughter Charlotte
(Charlie).
Q. If Exceeding Expectations was made into
movie, have you given any thought as to casting?
A. That’s
a question often put to me at book events. I can see George Clooney as Jack
Morgan at fifty. He has the talent to play serious and comedic roles, and the
looks and sex appeal to play Jack. The problem is, what actor could make viewers
believe that he’s George Clooney at twenty-five and thirty? Maybe false
eyelashes would help. Deborah Previte, the Bookish Dame, thinks Andy Garcia is
a Raul Francesco clone. I’d love to hear suggestions from readers. As for my
heroine Charlie, I see a young Gwyneth Paltrow playing her. Sadly, I don’t know
how to turn back time in real life.
Q. I've heard
that Exceeding Expectations has a
sequel. Can you tell us the title and when it's going to be available?
The
title is Paradise Misplaced (another playful reference to an iconic
book). I can’t say with certainty when it’s going to be available. I suggest
fans check my website http://www.LisaAprilSmith.com
for the latest information. The one thing I can say about it with certainty is,
“I promise a page-turner fun ride.”
About Exceeding Expectations
It’s
1961 and Palm Beach
socialite, irresistible rascal and devoted father Jack Morgan encounters genuine danger while staging his suicide to
shield his beloved daughters from disgrace. Next, meet his daughter Charlotte (Charlie), an over-indulged 23 year-old struggling to cope with the
traumatizing loss of her beloved father, her sister’s resulting mental
breakdown and the discovery that she’s suddenly penniless. Fortunately Raul, an
admiring young attorney, appears to offer assistance. As terrified as she is
about daily survival, Charlie soon realizes that she has to learn what drove
her father to kill himself. With Raul’s much needed ego-bolstering, the drive of
necessity and unforeseen determination, Charlie finds a practical use for her annoyingly
lean 5’ 11” frame. In time, this career finances her hard-wrought independence,
her sister’s costly treatment and an emotional eye-opening journey to Paris.
Jumping
back in time to romantic pre-WWII Paris,
readers meet young Alan Fitzpatrick –
aka Jack Morgan – lack-luster artist and expert lover and the bewitching girl
who will become the mother of his children. Not even Charlie’s relentless detective
work will uncover all Jack’s secrets, but in a fireworks of surprise endings, she
discovers all that she needs to know and more:
disturbing truths about her father, her own unique talent, crimes great
and small and a diabolical villain.
Chapter One of
Exceeding Expectations
January
2, 1962
Glancing down at the Porsche’s speedometer Jack eased up on the gas. The nearest car was a mile back, but a cop could be hiding around the next bend. Being stopped by the police did not fit into Jack’s plan. He blamed the excitement. And guilt. Composing the single page to his daughters had been agony. There was no nice way to say he intended to kill himself. There were no comforting euphemisms for suicide. No words to excuse a mortal sin. And worst of all, no way to ease the pain his beloved girls would experience. But they, and everyone else, had to believe his intention was absolute and irreversible or the plan would fail. After several miserable gut-wrenching attempts, Jack wrote how much he loved them and said that this was something he had to do to protect them.
Knowing he could rely on Petal’s steely strength, Jack’s letter to his wife was more direct. He had explained that he was doing this to save her and his girls from scandal and disgrace. And as he was making this noble sacrifice, he knew she could be relied on to be good to his daughters. Petal might not be the maternal sort, but no one could accuse her of being tight-fisted. After reading the letter, his dying declaration, and waiting for two Chivas Regal’s straight to take effect, she would call a few select members of her powerful family, and her attorney. The results of those calls would be a discreet obituary in The New York Times, another in the local paper, hinting at a long-term debilitating disease, and no further investigation. A quiet memorial service would be held in Manhattan, Petal’s preferred place of residence, and she would be stunning in black for the next six to ten weeks, depending on her social calendar.
The best thing about his plan was its simplicity. He would wait until two or three in the morning when the roads would be deserted, park the car on the middle of a bridge and disappear into the night. The bridge and town had been carefully selected – less than a five-mile walk to the railroad to prevent someone later recalling giving a lift to a stranger. And the town had to be small – an insignificant speck on the map. The smaller the town, Jack had reasoned, the less sophisticated the police force. Fielding, Florida, a town that lacked a drug store, supermarket, bank, and beauty parlor was ideal. Serious crime in Fielding probably consisted of intimidating the kids who tipped over outhouses on Halloween and jailing the same town drunk every Friday night. A costly abandoned car, coupled with the later discovered suicide notes, guaranteed Jack would be the topic of intense gossip for years, and the object of a bumbling investigation for no more than a week. The Porsche would get more attention than the lack of a corpse in an area where alligators outnumbered house pets, and a Ford with all four fenders intact was considered a damned fine automobile.
Once he boarded a train he’d be fine. Men who rode the rails kept secrets. They were members of a tribe of vagabonds who preferred the town around the next curve – adventurous men ready to share a pot of tramp stew with another kindred spirit. And he was eager to join them. For the last two and half decades, his life had revolved around his girls. Jack had chosen that life and never once regretted it. A man couldn’t have finer daughters than Amelia and Charlotte. But they were grown now and maybe he had earned himself a change. He thought he might head for Texas, a leviathan-sized state where a man’s past was not apt to be questioned. And Texas was known for its horses. He loved horses — riding them, watching them trot, canter, toss their heads, nurse their foals. Gorgeous, glorious creatures they were.
After several hours of driving through towns too small to boast a stop sign, Jack reached his destination. A weather-beaten building with a concave roof housed the grocery that doubled as Fielding’s post office. He gave his letters to a leathery man behind the counter and gazed at a jar of pickles with interest. He had been so focused on reaching his destination he had forgotten to eat lunch. “Is there a place around here to get something to eat?” “Just Wiley’s. Kind of a bar/restaurant down the street. Lost its sign in the last hurricane, but you’ll find it.”
An orange neon light in the window erratically flickered Budweiser. Jack glanced inside. It was more bar than restaurant, and grimy. Lacking an alternative, he entered. A wall of vacant knotty-pine booths faced a long bar backed by a mirror so streaked with fly droppings and smoke, that reflected images appeared cloudy. Five or six patrons turned to note his presence and then quickly resumed what they had been doing. Jack proceeded to the bar’s last booth and took a seat where he could oversee the comings and goings. The gym bag containing twenty-seven thousand dollars he stowed under the table.
A blowsy overweight waitress with an elaborate hairdo and a too-tight skirt approached. “Need a menu?” she asked as she wiped the table with a dingy towel.
“What time do you stop serving food?”
“The kitchen closes at eight.”
Jack removed his buck suede jacket and placed it on the seat beside him. Assuming this place closed at midnight, he had five long hours to kill. “Bring me a draft beer and a hamburger. And if you could spare a newspaper, I’d appreciate it.”
She soon returned with his beer and a ten-page weekly tabloid filled with notices of church events, and feed and grain ads. It was a typical weekday night in a small town bar: plenty of griping and boasting, lengthy recitations of what could have been and should have been, a few stale jokes, more men than women, a lot of talk, little action.
“Would you turn up the radio?” a customer called from the far end of the bar. “That’s me and Wanda’s favorite song.”
The bartender adjusted the dial. A twangy melancholy western tune drowned out the dull background noise.
“Turn it down! Turn that blasted thing down!” several customers shouted in unison.
The bartender found an agreeable level of volume and conversation resumed. It started to rain about nine — a light drizzle at first and then a steady hard-driving downpour. On her return trip from the ladies room, a woman in her late thirties, attractive in a tired way, paused to inquire if Jack would be in town for a while. He politely explained that he was just passing through and she rejoined her companions at the bar.
“That would be eighty cents, including the beer. Would you mind settling up now?” the waitress asked at nine-thirty. “I’m leaving in a few minutes. Buddy, that’s the bartender, he’ll take care of you. I’m going home to my kids.” Jack handed her a dollar and told her to keep the change. At ten o’clock Jack went to the men’s room and ducked into a stall. Removing the bills from the gym bag Jack distributed them around the money belt. Twenty-seven thousand dollars. Money painstakingly gleaned from his checking account in amounts that wouldn’t later arouse suspicion. It wouldn’t finance the way of life he had been enjoying very long, but it could buy ten new Chevrolets. More than enough for a fresh start.
Customers, who had been checking their watches and shaking their heads for the last hour or more, decided the rain was not going to let up. One by one, they finished their beers, turned up their collars, cursed the weather and dashed into the street.
“Last call,” the owner announced to Jack and two stragglers. “Closing at eleven cause of this miserable weather.”
“No more for me. I gotta go to work tomorrow,” the older of the two remaining men announced. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and paid his tab. Jack closed his eyes and listened to rain pounding the wood roof. The last customer drank his beer and stared out the front window at the unrelenting downpour. He was about Jack’s size and weight, somewhere in his twenties – a kid. His light brown hair was home-cut and in need of a trim. His pants were deeply creased and stained with what Jack guessed to be grease. A handyman, or maybe a mechanic who worked nearby.
Jack grabbed the empty gym bag, handed a dollar bill to the bartender, and headed for the door. The kid blocked the exit.
“My truck’s about a mile or so down the road. It weren’t raining when I started out. I’d be grateful, mister, if you could give me a ride,” the kid said.
Jack appraised the kid grinning back at him. Crooked teeth vied with one another for space, and his tired green eyes spoke of a resilience born of hardship. The faded denim shirt he wore over a grimy T-shirt would provide no protection from the cold and rain. Jack looked at the bartender owner hoping for some indication that this kid was a local, but the bartender was busy counting the day’s receipts. “You having any trouble with that truck?” Jack tapped his chest. “This old ticker of mine doesn’t work as good as it used to,” he lied. “If you need a hand with that truck, I’m afraid I’m not going to be able to help.”
“I got no trouble with the truck. Runs dandy,” he assured Jack. “I left it at a farmhouse to be unloaded. Sold them folks a cord of firewood. But they had to unload and stack it theirselves. That was the deal. They unload it and stack it theirselves whilst I go into town.”
Jack weighed the risk. He had twenty-seven thousand dollars in the money belt, but this kid didn’t know that. All he knew was that it was pouring, it was cold and he needed a ride. Eleven o’clock was far too early for Jack to carry out his plan. All that awaited him was two or three hours of boredom in a parked car. “What’s your name, kid?”
“Folks mostly call me Iowa.”
“My name’s Jack and the Porsche across the street is mine. Wait here. No sense both of us getting soaked.” By the time Jack reached the car and jumped in, his hair and clothes were drenched. Mostly Iowa had fared little better. “Which direction?” Jack asked his passenger.
“You’re headin’ the right way. Just follow the road a piece. I’ll tell you where to turn.”
“Is it on the left or the right?”
“Left.”
“I expect you live around here.”
“Just passin’ through.”
They soon left the residential part of town. The driving rain and incessant flip-flop flip-flop of the windshield wipers blurred his vision. Jack tried the high beams and quickly switched back. Pointing to a dim light on what appeared to be a house he asked, “It that it?”
“Nope. That ain’t it. It’s up yonder a bit.”
“When I first saw you, Iowa, I said to myself, now there’s a fellow who knows his way around cars. You a mechanic?”
“I fiddled with cars some. Nothing as swanky as this.”
For the next two or three miles there wasn’t a break in the road — not a path, planted field, farmhouse or shed, only endless sawgrass and pine trees. “That had to be some hike into town. Are you sure we didn’t pass it? You did say it was on the left?”
“Yep. On the left.”
While Jack had been struggling to locate the elusive house and truck, Mostly Iowa had been facing right. Damn! What an idiot he had been! A solitary man wearing expensive clothes and a flashy gold watch. A new Porsche – obviously his. A mysterious gym bag that had never left his side. A transient loner who needed a ride. “We must have passed it. I’m going to turn around.”
“Just pull over here!” Mostly Iowa’s eyes were cold. His right hand expertly cradled a knife.
Targeted like a deer by a hungry kid. Stalked! Jack’s foot remained on the accelerator. “You don’t want to do this, Iowa. How about I slow down to ten, fifteen miles an hour and you jump out? We part friends and forget this ever happened.”
“You stop this here car or I’ll stick you like a pig. It wouldn’t bother me none to kill you.”
Now Jack was a man who liked a good laugh as much as the next guy, but irony had its place. Dying the very night he scheduled his fake suicide was not his idea of a joke. Iowa grabbed Jack’s right arm. “Stop this car or I’ll cut out your gizzard and leave it for the birds.”
“I’m not stopping the car as long as you got that knife,” Jack said in a calm friendly voice. He could feel the frightening tip of the steel blade through his suede jacket. “Toss it out the window and I’ll stop the car.”
Iowa grabbed the steering wheel. The Porsche hydroplaned and fish-tailed, barely avoiding trees on both sides of the road.
By intuitively releasing his grip, the finely engineered racing car realigned itself. Jack glanced at his passenger looking for some hint of humanity, still hoping to change the kid’s mind, yet very much aware of the danger. “You’re going to get us both killed. We’re doing twenty miles an hour. The ground is soft from the rain. Open the door and roll out.”
“Not a chance in hell, you miserable fuck. You’re going to die.”
The knife slashed the jacket and dug into the money belt. If it weren’t for the thick wad of bills, the blade would be boring into his rib cage. Jack deliberately swerved the car right and then left. Iowa grabbed the wheel. Using the butt of his right fist Jack smashed his attacker’s hand. Iowa howled with pain and dropped the knife. He alternated curses with punches aimed at Jack’s head.
Jack fought to simultaneously keep the car on the road with his left hand and ward off his attacker with his right. A pothole caught Iowa off balance. He slid away. Jack used the opportunity to use the bent right arm that had been guarding his chest and lash out, landing an explosive blow with his clenched fist. He could feel the bridge of Iowa’s nose collapse, hear the bones crack.
“Goddamn you! You jackass. You busted my nose!” Iowa fumbled beneath the seat.
Seeing the dreaded knife reappear, Jack made the only decision left. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He braced himself and floored the Porsche, aiming the passenger side at a massive oak tree. Iowa reached for the wheel again, too late. The car hit the tree with a violent jolt, throwing both men forward. A branch smashed the windshield a microsecond before Jack’s head reached it. The glass shattered harmlessly, but his chest had struck the steering wheel with an impact that left him gasping for air. The motor groaned and sputtered as Jack waited with his eyes closed. His chest ached with every breath. Tentatively touching his forehead he discovered a swelling throbbing bump. Jack opened his eyes. Mostly Iowa had not fared as well. He lay slumped against the door. Blood from the broken nose bathed his face, neck, and shirt. Jack didn’t know if he was dead or unconscious, but he wouldn’t be a threat for a while.
“Why didn’t you jump when you had the chance?” Jack asked the limp figure. “Soon as I find out what kind of shape I’m in, I’ll figure out what I’m going to do with you. If I can walk back to town, I’ll send someone out to help. And that’s better than you deserve, you dumb bastard, considering you were trying to kill me.”
Limb by limb, joint by joint, Jack tested his extremities. His arms, hands, and fingers moved, painfully, but they didn’t appear to be broken. He flexed one leg and then the other. “My legs seem okay,” he informed his silent companion. His chest and shoulders ached. “Probably cracked a few ribs and there’s a buzzing in my ears. Going to be sore for a while, as well as black and blue, but I’m alive. What about it, Iowa? You going to make it?”
Jack leaned across the inert body expecting to hear a heartbeat. Nothing. Silence. The kid was dead! Jesus Christ! He hadn’t intended to kill the kid. His goal had been to prevent his own imminent demise.
“Now look what you did, Iowa. You tried to kill me and you ended up killing yourself. God damn dumb kid!” he said to keep his teeth from chattering. “God damn dumb kid!” His entire right side throbbed and he was trembling. “Got to get out of here.”
He tried the door handle. It turned, but the bowed door would not budge. He threw all his weight against it and grimaced. It groaned in sympathy and swung open causing him to crash onto the muddy ground. The rain had subsided to a trickle. Jack wiped his hands on soggy moss and sat down to think beside the demolished car.
There was nothing more that could be done for Iowa. His problems were over. Jack’s problems had tripled. In a day or two, Petal and the girls would read the letters he had mailed. A first-class plan wiped out because he wanted to help out a dumb kid. Okay, he told himself, if faking his suicide by leaving the Porsche on a bridge was no longer possible, he simply needed a new plan. A new plan. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. The Porsche would be traced to him. They would find a dead kid in his car. If he disappeared now he would be accused of murder. Unless . . . Unless . . . Iowa was about his size. The police would assume the body belonged to Jack Morgan if – if it was unrecognizable. But how? The car and its contents would have to be burnt beyond recognition. He could do that. Provided he kept calm, and no one came along in the interim, it was a good alternative plan.
Jack removed the ruined suede jacket. It could go on the corpse. A scrap of burnt suede would add to the illusion, as would his wedding band. He had intended to sell it before he reached Texas, but it would be better used now. As he removed the ring he noticed his prized gold watch. They might look for it. It was too bad about the watch, but it too had to go.
The tight quarters inside the crumpled Porsche, coupled with Jack’s reluctance to touch the bloody corpse made the exchange time consuming, exhausting, and grisly. As a final touch, Jack traded shoes with the dead man before shoving him into position behind the wheel.
An hour had passed since the crash and no one had driven by. His luck was holding. Now he needed matches. Matches or a cigarette lighter. His pockets yielded neither. His plan would fail because he lacked a pack of matches that every bar and restaurant supplied free. Think, he told himself. There had to be a solution. The Porsche’s cigarette lighter. Would it still work? Leaning over Iowa’s body, Jack located it and pressed it. Thirty seconds later it popped out glowing red. God bless the Germans! Every twenty or thirty years, it took a war to remind them who was boss, but they sure knew how to build a car. Jack looked for something to start the fire. Downed branches were too wet. A dry rag. He kept a towel in the trunk.
Jack walked to the rear of the car to unlock the trunk but it wouldn’t release. He kicked it with his heel. Another sharp kick. The trunk creaked open. A white, still-folded hand towel lay tucked in a corner. A few more minutes and it would be over.
He stuffed as much of the towel as would fit into the gas tank, then replaced the ignition key. As he was about to press the cigarette lighter he remembered the knife. What if it were found with the remains? Palm beach socialite Jack Morgan didn’t carry a switchblade. He would have to find it. Ten minutes passed as he searched the car and the corpse. He was about to give up when he felt it lodged under the passenger seat. He folded it, tucked it into his belt, and inserted the dependable lighter.
Half a football field away Jack leaned against a tree and waited. Several times the flame appeared to die, only to flare up again. And then the rag ignited with an enormous pop – followed by ear-splitting thunder. Roaring flames, the height of a church steeple leapt from the car’s rear. Jack could no longer make out Iowa’s silhouette in the flames. Just a few more minutes, he told himself. The smoke and heat from the blaze reddened his face and seared his lungs. When it was time to leave Jack strode away in Iowa’s ill-fitting shoes, away from the wrecked Porsche, the town of Fielding, and his past. Then he heard it. A train whistle. The magical hollow sound of a train whistle. And it wasn’t far off. Damn, if he wasn’t a lucky so-and-so. One of God’s favorite children. Jesus tolerated the pious, sober, and abstinent. Yes, He tolerated the tiresome righteous and their smug unforgiving Christian smiles. And He had little pity for the tyrant, the merciless, and the cruel. But Jesus loved the ordinary sinner. Isn’t that what the bible taught? The Almighty loved sinners. Without sinners there would have been no reason for Jesus to come to earth and experience the joy and pain of mortals.
Intoxicating freedom mingled with the chilling air. Jack could forget the chafing money belt, cheap ill-fitting shoes, sore feet, and aching muscles. He had a new name and a thousand new possibilities. The next time he found himself with a drink in his hand he would remember Iowa and raise his glass to the tragic dumb kid.
“This one’s for you, Iowa, you miserable misguided creature,” he would say. “May the good Lord take mercy on your soul and your time in Purgatory be brief.”
Glancing down at the Porsche’s speedometer Jack eased up on the gas. The nearest car was a mile back, but a cop could be hiding around the next bend. Being stopped by the police did not fit into Jack’s plan. He blamed the excitement. And guilt. Composing the single page to his daughters had been agony. There was no nice way to say he intended to kill himself. There were no comforting euphemisms for suicide. No words to excuse a mortal sin. And worst of all, no way to ease the pain his beloved girls would experience. But they, and everyone else, had to believe his intention was absolute and irreversible or the plan would fail. After several miserable gut-wrenching attempts, Jack wrote how much he loved them and said that this was something he had to do to protect them.
Knowing he could rely on Petal’s steely strength, Jack’s letter to his wife was more direct. He had explained that he was doing this to save her and his girls from scandal and disgrace. And as he was making this noble sacrifice, he knew she could be relied on to be good to his daughters. Petal might not be the maternal sort, but no one could accuse her of being tight-fisted. After reading the letter, his dying declaration, and waiting for two Chivas Regal’s straight to take effect, she would call a few select members of her powerful family, and her attorney. The results of those calls would be a discreet obituary in The New York Times, another in the local paper, hinting at a long-term debilitating disease, and no further investigation. A quiet memorial service would be held in Manhattan, Petal’s preferred place of residence, and she would be stunning in black for the next six to ten weeks, depending on her social calendar.
The best thing about his plan was its simplicity. He would wait until two or three in the morning when the roads would be deserted, park the car on the middle of a bridge and disappear into the night. The bridge and town had been carefully selected – less than a five-mile walk to the railroad to prevent someone later recalling giving a lift to a stranger. And the town had to be small – an insignificant speck on the map. The smaller the town, Jack had reasoned, the less sophisticated the police force. Fielding, Florida, a town that lacked a drug store, supermarket, bank, and beauty parlor was ideal. Serious crime in Fielding probably consisted of intimidating the kids who tipped over outhouses on Halloween and jailing the same town drunk every Friday night. A costly abandoned car, coupled with the later discovered suicide notes, guaranteed Jack would be the topic of intense gossip for years, and the object of a bumbling investigation for no more than a week. The Porsche would get more attention than the lack of a corpse in an area where alligators outnumbered house pets, and a Ford with all four fenders intact was considered a damned fine automobile.
Once he boarded a train he’d be fine. Men who rode the rails kept secrets. They were members of a tribe of vagabonds who preferred the town around the next curve – adventurous men ready to share a pot of tramp stew with another kindred spirit. And he was eager to join them. For the last two and half decades, his life had revolved around his girls. Jack had chosen that life and never once regretted it. A man couldn’t have finer daughters than Amelia and Charlotte. But they were grown now and maybe he had earned himself a change. He thought he might head for Texas, a leviathan-sized state where a man’s past was not apt to be questioned. And Texas was known for its horses. He loved horses — riding them, watching them trot, canter, toss their heads, nurse their foals. Gorgeous, glorious creatures they were.
After several hours of driving through towns too small to boast a stop sign, Jack reached his destination. A weather-beaten building with a concave roof housed the grocery that doubled as Fielding’s post office. He gave his letters to a leathery man behind the counter and gazed at a jar of pickles with interest. He had been so focused on reaching his destination he had forgotten to eat lunch. “Is there a place around here to get something to eat?” “Just Wiley’s. Kind of a bar/restaurant down the street. Lost its sign in the last hurricane, but you’ll find it.”
An orange neon light in the window erratically flickered Budweiser. Jack glanced inside. It was more bar than restaurant, and grimy. Lacking an alternative, he entered. A wall of vacant knotty-pine booths faced a long bar backed by a mirror so streaked with fly droppings and smoke, that reflected images appeared cloudy. Five or six patrons turned to note his presence and then quickly resumed what they had been doing. Jack proceeded to the bar’s last booth and took a seat where he could oversee the comings and goings. The gym bag containing twenty-seven thousand dollars he stowed under the table.
A blowsy overweight waitress with an elaborate hairdo and a too-tight skirt approached. “Need a menu?” she asked as she wiped the table with a dingy towel.
“What time do you stop serving food?”
“The kitchen closes at eight.”
Jack removed his buck suede jacket and placed it on the seat beside him. Assuming this place closed at midnight, he had five long hours to kill. “Bring me a draft beer and a hamburger. And if you could spare a newspaper, I’d appreciate it.”
She soon returned with his beer and a ten-page weekly tabloid filled with notices of church events, and feed and grain ads. It was a typical weekday night in a small town bar: plenty of griping and boasting, lengthy recitations of what could have been and should have been, a few stale jokes, more men than women, a lot of talk, little action.
“Would you turn up the radio?” a customer called from the far end of the bar. “That’s me and Wanda’s favorite song.”
The bartender adjusted the dial. A twangy melancholy western tune drowned out the dull background noise.
“Turn it down! Turn that blasted thing down!” several customers shouted in unison.
The bartender found an agreeable level of volume and conversation resumed. It started to rain about nine — a light drizzle at first and then a steady hard-driving downpour. On her return trip from the ladies room, a woman in her late thirties, attractive in a tired way, paused to inquire if Jack would be in town for a while. He politely explained that he was just passing through and she rejoined her companions at the bar.
“That would be eighty cents, including the beer. Would you mind settling up now?” the waitress asked at nine-thirty. “I’m leaving in a few minutes. Buddy, that’s the bartender, he’ll take care of you. I’m going home to my kids.” Jack handed her a dollar and told her to keep the change. At ten o’clock Jack went to the men’s room and ducked into a stall. Removing the bills from the gym bag Jack distributed them around the money belt. Twenty-seven thousand dollars. Money painstakingly gleaned from his checking account in amounts that wouldn’t later arouse suspicion. It wouldn’t finance the way of life he had been enjoying very long, but it could buy ten new Chevrolets. More than enough for a fresh start.
Customers, who had been checking their watches and shaking their heads for the last hour or more, decided the rain was not going to let up. One by one, they finished their beers, turned up their collars, cursed the weather and dashed into the street.
“Last call,” the owner announced to Jack and two stragglers. “Closing at eleven cause of this miserable weather.”
“No more for me. I gotta go to work tomorrow,” the older of the two remaining men announced. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and paid his tab. Jack closed his eyes and listened to rain pounding the wood roof. The last customer drank his beer and stared out the front window at the unrelenting downpour. He was about Jack’s size and weight, somewhere in his twenties – a kid. His light brown hair was home-cut and in need of a trim. His pants were deeply creased and stained with what Jack guessed to be grease. A handyman, or maybe a mechanic who worked nearby.
Jack grabbed the empty gym bag, handed a dollar bill to the bartender, and headed for the door. The kid blocked the exit.
“My truck’s about a mile or so down the road. It weren’t raining when I started out. I’d be grateful, mister, if you could give me a ride,” the kid said.
Jack appraised the kid grinning back at him. Crooked teeth vied with one another for space, and his tired green eyes spoke of a resilience born of hardship. The faded denim shirt he wore over a grimy T-shirt would provide no protection from the cold and rain. Jack looked at the bartender owner hoping for some indication that this kid was a local, but the bartender was busy counting the day’s receipts. “You having any trouble with that truck?” Jack tapped his chest. “This old ticker of mine doesn’t work as good as it used to,” he lied. “If you need a hand with that truck, I’m afraid I’m not going to be able to help.”
“I got no trouble with the truck. Runs dandy,” he assured Jack. “I left it at a farmhouse to be unloaded. Sold them folks a cord of firewood. But they had to unload and stack it theirselves. That was the deal. They unload it and stack it theirselves whilst I go into town.”
Jack weighed the risk. He had twenty-seven thousand dollars in the money belt, but this kid didn’t know that. All he knew was that it was pouring, it was cold and he needed a ride. Eleven o’clock was far too early for Jack to carry out his plan. All that awaited him was two or three hours of boredom in a parked car. “What’s your name, kid?”
“Folks mostly call me Iowa.”
“My name’s Jack and the Porsche across the street is mine. Wait here. No sense both of us getting soaked.” By the time Jack reached the car and jumped in, his hair and clothes were drenched. Mostly Iowa had fared little better. “Which direction?” Jack asked his passenger.
“You’re headin’ the right way. Just follow the road a piece. I’ll tell you where to turn.”
“Is it on the left or the right?”
“Left.”
“I expect you live around here.”
“Just passin’ through.”
They soon left the residential part of town. The driving rain and incessant flip-flop flip-flop of the windshield wipers blurred his vision. Jack tried the high beams and quickly switched back. Pointing to a dim light on what appeared to be a house he asked, “It that it?”
“Nope. That ain’t it. It’s up yonder a bit.”
“When I first saw you, Iowa, I said to myself, now there’s a fellow who knows his way around cars. You a mechanic?”
“I fiddled with cars some. Nothing as swanky as this.”
For the next two or three miles there wasn’t a break in the road — not a path, planted field, farmhouse or shed, only endless sawgrass and pine trees. “That had to be some hike into town. Are you sure we didn’t pass it? You did say it was on the left?”
“Yep. On the left.”
While Jack had been struggling to locate the elusive house and truck, Mostly Iowa had been facing right. Damn! What an idiot he had been! A solitary man wearing expensive clothes and a flashy gold watch. A new Porsche – obviously his. A mysterious gym bag that had never left his side. A transient loner who needed a ride. “We must have passed it. I’m going to turn around.”
“Just pull over here!” Mostly Iowa’s eyes were cold. His right hand expertly cradled a knife.
Targeted like a deer by a hungry kid. Stalked! Jack’s foot remained on the accelerator. “You don’t want to do this, Iowa. How about I slow down to ten, fifteen miles an hour and you jump out? We part friends and forget this ever happened.”
“You stop this here car or I’ll stick you like a pig. It wouldn’t bother me none to kill you.”
Now Jack was a man who liked a good laugh as much as the next guy, but irony had its place. Dying the very night he scheduled his fake suicide was not his idea of a joke. Iowa grabbed Jack’s right arm. “Stop this car or I’ll cut out your gizzard and leave it for the birds.”
“I’m not stopping the car as long as you got that knife,” Jack said in a calm friendly voice. He could feel the frightening tip of the steel blade through his suede jacket. “Toss it out the window and I’ll stop the car.”
Iowa grabbed the steering wheel. The Porsche hydroplaned and fish-tailed, barely avoiding trees on both sides of the road.
By intuitively releasing his grip, the finely engineered racing car realigned itself. Jack glanced at his passenger looking for some hint of humanity, still hoping to change the kid’s mind, yet very much aware of the danger. “You’re going to get us both killed. We’re doing twenty miles an hour. The ground is soft from the rain. Open the door and roll out.”
“Not a chance in hell, you miserable fuck. You’re going to die.”
The knife slashed the jacket and dug into the money belt. If it weren’t for the thick wad of bills, the blade would be boring into his rib cage. Jack deliberately swerved the car right and then left. Iowa grabbed the wheel. Using the butt of his right fist Jack smashed his attacker’s hand. Iowa howled with pain and dropped the knife. He alternated curses with punches aimed at Jack’s head.
Jack fought to simultaneously keep the car on the road with his left hand and ward off his attacker with his right. A pothole caught Iowa off balance. He slid away. Jack used the opportunity to use the bent right arm that had been guarding his chest and lash out, landing an explosive blow with his clenched fist. He could feel the bridge of Iowa’s nose collapse, hear the bones crack.
“Goddamn you! You jackass. You busted my nose!” Iowa fumbled beneath the seat.
Seeing the dreaded knife reappear, Jack made the only decision left. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He braced himself and floored the Porsche, aiming the passenger side at a massive oak tree. Iowa reached for the wheel again, too late. The car hit the tree with a violent jolt, throwing both men forward. A branch smashed the windshield a microsecond before Jack’s head reached it. The glass shattered harmlessly, but his chest had struck the steering wheel with an impact that left him gasping for air. The motor groaned and sputtered as Jack waited with his eyes closed. His chest ached with every breath. Tentatively touching his forehead he discovered a swelling throbbing bump. Jack opened his eyes. Mostly Iowa had not fared as well. He lay slumped against the door. Blood from the broken nose bathed his face, neck, and shirt. Jack didn’t know if he was dead or unconscious, but he wouldn’t be a threat for a while.
“Why didn’t you jump when you had the chance?” Jack asked the limp figure. “Soon as I find out what kind of shape I’m in, I’ll figure out what I’m going to do with you. If I can walk back to town, I’ll send someone out to help. And that’s better than you deserve, you dumb bastard, considering you were trying to kill me.”
Limb by limb, joint by joint, Jack tested his extremities. His arms, hands, and fingers moved, painfully, but they didn’t appear to be broken. He flexed one leg and then the other. “My legs seem okay,” he informed his silent companion. His chest and shoulders ached. “Probably cracked a few ribs and there’s a buzzing in my ears. Going to be sore for a while, as well as black and blue, but I’m alive. What about it, Iowa? You going to make it?”
Jack leaned across the inert body expecting to hear a heartbeat. Nothing. Silence. The kid was dead! Jesus Christ! He hadn’t intended to kill the kid. His goal had been to prevent his own imminent demise.
“Now look what you did, Iowa. You tried to kill me and you ended up killing yourself. God damn dumb kid!” he said to keep his teeth from chattering. “God damn dumb kid!” His entire right side throbbed and he was trembling. “Got to get out of here.”
He tried the door handle. It turned, but the bowed door would not budge. He threw all his weight against it and grimaced. It groaned in sympathy and swung open causing him to crash onto the muddy ground. The rain had subsided to a trickle. Jack wiped his hands on soggy moss and sat down to think beside the demolished car.
There was nothing more that could be done for Iowa. His problems were over. Jack’s problems had tripled. In a day or two, Petal and the girls would read the letters he had mailed. A first-class plan wiped out because he wanted to help out a dumb kid. Okay, he told himself, if faking his suicide by leaving the Porsche on a bridge was no longer possible, he simply needed a new plan. A new plan. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. The Porsche would be traced to him. They would find a dead kid in his car. If he disappeared now he would be accused of murder. Unless . . . Unless . . . Iowa was about his size. The police would assume the body belonged to Jack Morgan if – if it was unrecognizable. But how? The car and its contents would have to be burnt beyond recognition. He could do that. Provided he kept calm, and no one came along in the interim, it was a good alternative plan.
Jack removed the ruined suede jacket. It could go on the corpse. A scrap of burnt suede would add to the illusion, as would his wedding band. He had intended to sell it before he reached Texas, but it would be better used now. As he removed the ring he noticed his prized gold watch. They might look for it. It was too bad about the watch, but it too had to go.
The tight quarters inside the crumpled Porsche, coupled with Jack’s reluctance to touch the bloody corpse made the exchange time consuming, exhausting, and grisly. As a final touch, Jack traded shoes with the dead man before shoving him into position behind the wheel.
An hour had passed since the crash and no one had driven by. His luck was holding. Now he needed matches. Matches or a cigarette lighter. His pockets yielded neither. His plan would fail because he lacked a pack of matches that every bar and restaurant supplied free. Think, he told himself. There had to be a solution. The Porsche’s cigarette lighter. Would it still work? Leaning over Iowa’s body, Jack located it and pressed it. Thirty seconds later it popped out glowing red. God bless the Germans! Every twenty or thirty years, it took a war to remind them who was boss, but they sure knew how to build a car. Jack looked for something to start the fire. Downed branches were too wet. A dry rag. He kept a towel in the trunk.
Jack walked to the rear of the car to unlock the trunk but it wouldn’t release. He kicked it with his heel. Another sharp kick. The trunk creaked open. A white, still-folded hand towel lay tucked in a corner. A few more minutes and it would be over.
He stuffed as much of the towel as would fit into the gas tank, then replaced the ignition key. As he was about to press the cigarette lighter he remembered the knife. What if it were found with the remains? Palm beach socialite Jack Morgan didn’t carry a switchblade. He would have to find it. Ten minutes passed as he searched the car and the corpse. He was about to give up when he felt it lodged under the passenger seat. He folded it, tucked it into his belt, and inserted the dependable lighter.
Half a football field away Jack leaned against a tree and waited. Several times the flame appeared to die, only to flare up again. And then the rag ignited with an enormous pop – followed by ear-splitting thunder. Roaring flames, the height of a church steeple leapt from the car’s rear. Jack could no longer make out Iowa’s silhouette in the flames. Just a few more minutes, he told himself. The smoke and heat from the blaze reddened his face and seared his lungs. When it was time to leave Jack strode away in Iowa’s ill-fitting shoes, away from the wrecked Porsche, the town of Fielding, and his past. Then he heard it. A train whistle. The magical hollow sound of a train whistle. And it wasn’t far off. Damn, if he wasn’t a lucky so-and-so. One of God’s favorite children. Jesus tolerated the pious, sober, and abstinent. Yes, He tolerated the tiresome righteous and their smug unforgiving Christian smiles. And He had little pity for the tyrant, the merciless, and the cruel. But Jesus loved the ordinary sinner. Isn’t that what the bible taught? The Almighty loved sinners. Without sinners there would have been no reason for Jesus to come to earth and experience the joy and pain of mortals.
Intoxicating freedom mingled with the chilling air. Jack could forget the chafing money belt, cheap ill-fitting shoes, sore feet, and aching muscles. He had a new name and a thousand new possibilities. The next time he found himself with a drink in his hand he would remember Iowa and raise his glass to the tragic dumb kid.
“This one’s for you, Iowa, you miserable misguided creature,” he would say. “May the good Lord take mercy on your soul and your time in Purgatory be brief.”
SOCIAL MEDIA LINKS
FIND HER ON FACEBOOK HER
FIND HER ON TWITTER HERE
Tuesday, March 20, 2012
NIGHT RISING-VAMPIRES OF BABYLON REVIEW
Night Rising
Book 1—Vampire Babylon Series
By
Chris Marie Green
Reviewed by Daniel L. Baldwin
BUY THIS BOOK HERE AT AMAZON
BOOK TRAILER FOUND HERE
Reviewed by Daniel L. Baldwin
BUY THIS BOOK HERE AT AMAZON
BOOK TRAILER FOUND HERE
PRODUCT
DESCRIPTION FROM AMAZON:
In
this first book of an all-new trilogy, life proves stranger than the movies
when a Hollywood underground coven of vampires comes to light-and gets targeted
by the tough-as-nails daughter of a sexy screen siren.
Stuntwoman Dawn Madison hasn't been on the best of terms with her father since her movie star mother died. Still, he is her dad, and when he vanishes while investigating the bizarre sighting-caught on film-of a supposedly long-dead child star, she comes home to Tinseltown to join the search for him. Working with his odd colleagues, she discovers an erotic and bloody underground society made up of creatures she thought existed only on the screen.
Stuntwoman Dawn Madison hasn't been on the best of terms with her father since her movie star mother died. Still, he is her dad, and when he vanishes while investigating the bizarre sighting-caught on film-of a supposedly long-dead child star, she comes home to Tinseltown to join the search for him. Working with his odd colleagues, she discovers an erotic and bloody underground society made up of creatures she thought existed only on the screen.
This book does not
disappoint—it is a page turner from page 1.
Those of you that like reading stories on Vampires this series is for
you. The first book introduces us to
Dawn Madison, who has returned to Los Angeles, CA to help find her missing
father—Frank Madison—nobody knows what happened to Frank and have not been able
to locate him. This first book also
introduces us to the Underground—the world of vampires—what goes on in their
world below LA. As Dawn, Breisi, and
Kiko (a psychic) start looking for Frank, they come across the guardians—a
hybrid breed of vampires—their only task is to protect the underground from
being discovered—a confrontation between them and the Paranormal Investigation
team from Limpet and Associates leaves Dawn and her colleagues—Breisi and Kiko
injured and no closer to finding Frank than they were when Dawn first returned
to LA. This is a must read for those of
us that are drawn to the world of Vampires—this gives you a peek into the
underground world of the vampire world.
I am looking forward to reading the remaining five books in this series
to see how everything turns out—see if Dawn will be able to find her missing
father, Frank before it is too late.
This first book keeps the reader intrigued and wondering what is going
to happen next. It keeps you on the edge
of your seat.
This
is Heather; I’m adding that we are giving this a 5 Fairy review for the edge of
seat page turns.
FIND
CHRIS AT HER SOCIAL MEDIA SITES:
Gone Reading Website
GONE READING WEBSITE
To all my followers, I was contacted
by Bradley S. Wirz founder and CEO of
this company-
They
are offering a special coupon of 25% off anything on their site except for
their bookends for my followers.
Use
coupon code: EARTHSBN25
Here
is their mission statement:
(posted
with their permission)
Dear Fellow Readers
& Book Lovers:
If you’re like me, you just can’t
imagine living in a world without reading. Unfortunately, for almost a billion
people today, that’s exactly where they find themselves. There are
countless villages, towns and vast regions of this planet where the power of reading
has yet to shine its light.
Even in wealthy countries, libraries struggle for funding while
demand for their services has never been higher.
Gone Reading International, LLC was founded to counter these
problems and spread the magic of reading. We believe that when people
have open access to great reading materials, life always changes for the
better. When libraries and reading materials are made available, people
and their communities thrive through increased opportunity and self-empowerment.
That’s why Gone Reading International donates 100% of our after-tax profits to provide new funding for libraries
and reading-centered non-profits. By purchasing GoneReading brand gifts
and merchandise, you’re treating yourself and the world at large to a wonderful gift.
All purchases from GoneReading help contribute to our philanthropic work.
In
the Developing World
We donate to great non-profits such as READ Global and Ethiopia Reads, amazing organizations with proven
models, long track records, and dedicated teams on the ground. Such
groups partner with local villages and communities in the most underdeveloped
parts of the world to create new libraries that effect real change.
In
the United States, Canada, United Kingdom & Australia
GoneReading is currently piloting a fundraising program to raise
money for public libraries and reading-centered non-profit organizations within
the U.S. Details are still pending, but if you represent such an
organization in the United States, Canada, the United Kingdom or Australia and
would like to learn about participating in this program, simply Contact Us.
Although our company just started in 2011, our goal is to
provide significant financial assistance to libraries
around the world, allowing them to achieve greater scale and impact.
Make
A Purchase & Share Our Story
We invite you to join the GoneReading family by making a
purchase of our gifts for readers, and equally important, sharing our story
with the book lovers and readers in your life (feel free to use the “share”
icons in the bottom right of this page).
Happy Reading!
Bradley S. WirzFounder & CEO
Gone Reading International, LLC
So
take a moment and check out this great site for a great cause.
Thanks,
Heather Powers
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)