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Swing Low: Chapter 8

Chapter 8:

It's been a busy week, so don't have any unique articles to write about at this time, so without further adue, here is my next chapter:

If you're new to this, start atThe Beginning. And thanks for sharing my stories with all your friends.
Installment #9 of:Sing Low: The Hangman of the WoodsBy B.C. Crow (Download audio podcast here) ()Chapter 8I witnessed one such judgment with my own eyes. It hurt. But not as bad as if it hadn’t happened. We all have dreams. Sometimes we rob ourselves of them; sometimes others rob us of them. Some men deserve what they get. The hangman has ended many men’s dreams; I can only imagine they’d be nightmares if not otherwise. At the same time, he preserved and enriched the dreams of the innocent. I found a taste of those beautiful dreamers that day. That day, my dreams acquired a greater depth, not to mention, duration.Each vine that slapped against my face and each cracking twig under my feet took me one step closer to a mystery that I couldn’t have been prepared for. I don’t fancy myself an adventure seeker and never have. If ever there was someone to hang back and play safe, I was that person. True, I had my moments when this philosophy was incongruent with my actions, but for the most part I’ve always been conservative.While growing up I would position myself so that in a game with peers, I was safely out of the main flow. I did not want to be called on, or risk anything. In school, I never volunteered a comment or answer. If ever called upon, I would simply try to regurgitate exactly what I knew the teacher wanted to hear, even if I disagreed with the answer. Was I a coward? Yes. Definitely. But I was comfortable in my level of ambiguity.Only in the last year had I deviated much from my typical behavior. I hadn’t thought much about it until that day in the woods. I could find no reason for the change, but upon inspecting my life, I saw myself as two people. First there was Iddo the ever cautious and cowardly teen. Then there was Iddo the compassionate, or Iddo the bold, I wasn't sure which. That’s the part of me that landed myself in this situation.I couldn’t kid myself. I was still afraid. More than afraid, really; I was terrified. Maybe shock was what compelled me to do the insane. The sounds of insects filled the air again, and my cheap shoes glided over the spongy leaves of the ground like feathers. My feet felt so light, and my stomach was twisting so acutely, I barely realized I was walking. The hangman had bidden me follow, and despite my better judgment, I couldn’t help but comply.For a good ten minutes, I trailed behind this giant, oblivious to my own motives. Slowly my wits eased back into focus, and I was able to clear the fog in my head enough to think beyond my automatic reactions. I looked hard at the hangman’s back. If I’d never followed him, I would have always remembered him as a giant, twice the size of any normal man, thick with that bone-grinding mouth of his. Now that I could study him, I realized that he was likely just under two and a half meters tall. I knew that in some parts of the world this wouldn’t be considered too terribly uncommon, but for us, being a good deal shorter than the rest of the world, he was a giant. Yes, he was still thick. Most of him was muscle, but his midsection hinted at a girdle of fat hugging his belly.He didn’t look fully Asian, either. I’d seen lots of people of mixed blood, usually an American or European white guy mixing his seed with some Asian woman. Their offspring were beautiful. They were the type you might find on TV. Never would they associate with someone of my class. But this was the first time that, at least as I presumed, I’d seen a man whose foreign parent was black. He had the deep strong voice and darker skin that were unusual around here. While one of his parents must have been black, the other was obviously Asian. This was all too apparent in his face. In the couple times he looked back at me, I got to study his face a little more. Obviously, he was somehow deformed.Yes, his face did look like a cross between an Asian and a black man, but it clearly wasn’t right. Symmetry still ruled his features, but no race of man would have normally produced such a shape. I’d heard of Microcephaly, where a baby is born with an abnormally shrunken head. Could this be its opposite?The farther I followed him, the more I learned about him. Sometimes you don’t have to talk with a person to learn about them. His terrifying face was slowly taking a different shape in my mind. Instead of the spanning grin that at first held so much malice and intimidation, I now saw a physically and quite possibly mentally deformed man who was driven out here because nobody could accept him anywhere else.I almost imagined him as a young boy, with parents who thought he might grow out of his face, only for them to discover that he would always be slow witted and deformed. Then, in desperation, they fell back on the only culturally acceptable practice they knew to follow. They abandoned him in these woods. This explanation made sense to me. If that had happened, and he survived, it would explain his resentment for all these fathers who came to forsake their children. He would wander the woods looking to dole out punishment for the inhumane treatment he’d received at the hand of his own parents.But what of this infant he now carried in his hand? Without the presence of that noose on the end of the coiled rope wrapped around the man’s shoulder, the hangman might actually look gentle. But how could I know? No way could he take care of the child. Then again, the baby was surprisingly happy. I could hear it coo and giggle.The more I watched the hangman, the more I felt my heart calming to a normal beat. Finally, I found myself in possession of my own wits enough to address him.“Sir?”He didn’t respond.“Excuse me, sir—”He turned around.For a moment those giant teeth that stretched around his face seemed to stare right at me. His eyes were almost completely covered by his dark bushy eyebrows. I had to look down at his feet. “W-where are we going? What’s going to happen to the baby?”He just let out a deep hearty chuckle, then started back into his song. “. . . Coming for to carry me home . . .”If he didn’t want to answer me, then fine. But I was still going to follow until I knew the baby would be safe. Not that I could do anything if the hangman suddenly turned violent. Still, I had to know. If he wouldn’t answer me straight, I would have to see for myself. Maybe I’d be able to grab the baby while this hangman slept. I could sneak away at night. Then again, he did seem gentle enough with the child. But what was he going to do with it?After half an hour of hiking, my legs throbbed with the pace this much larger man set. I also wanted to scream out and demand that if he didn’t know any other songs, to either quit singing or to talk like a normal person. But he was no normal person and I knew I’d never find the courage to voice my annoyance.As we continued he must have read my mind. He went from singing his repetitive song to humming it. For the next couple of kilometers, the woods seemed to thicken, and I had a hard time keeping up. Stumbling along, I wiped little droplets of blood from the itching scratches that spidered up both my arms. Maybe this man was purposefully trying to torture me, leading me along the most wretched parts of the woods to test my resolve. If he wanted to see me crack, he wouldn’t have much farther to go. I was ready to sit down and give up. We were traveling deeper into the forest, and more or less in the direction I needed to go. But his hiking was too fast for me, and I’m certain that I could have found an easier way around this stretching thicket.With infuriating exhaustion, I stopped, leaned up against a tree, and wheezed. A dull ache was growing in my side, and if I didn’t stop to rest, it would have become unbearable. The hangman just kept trudging along. Part of me wanted to shout for him to wait. Another part of me thought good riddance. It didn’t matter. Within a minute he could no longer be seen or heard. I was alone again.I looked up into the sky. Streaks of sun blazed down through the canopy. The smell of sap from the broken branches left in my wake was not exactly pleasant. Maybe it was because of the abuse they reaped on my bare skin, or maybe they just stank naturally. I never would have guessed that so much time had passed since I first took to the woods, but from the angle of the rays, I could presume that noon had arrived, and maybe even passed. My stomach chose this time to growl its confirmation of the lunch hour.The side ache that hindered me was fading and I debated pulling out my meager packed lunch. My options were eat, try to catch up to the hangman, or continue on my way to New Tum District. Several kilometers of forest still separated me from the town. In fact, because of my delay, if I abandoned all thoughts of pursuing the hangman, I might still have to spend two nights instead of just one in these woods. I hadn’t brought enough food for a third day.I struggled with indecision. My thoughts kept getting distracted by the humming of an insect or the alarmed chirping of birds. Then I heard something else, totally out of place. It was distant, but audible enough not to be mistaken. It was the muted sound of cheers and laughter. The sounds bounced off the trees, hiding the direction of the sound, but there could be no denying, I was hearing people. The only place I could imagine the voices coming from would be from wherever the hangman had hiked to.I pushed off the tree, forgetting about my lunch, and walked with every degree of caution I could muster. If there was really a group of people this deep in the woods, and if the hangman had been leading me to them, they might be just as weird and dangerous as he. I couldn’t turn away. Carefully I avoided snapping even the smallest twig as I moved. Too many questions needed to be answered and I couldn’t live with the unsolved mystery of this day lingering forever in my mind.As I crept along, the sounds both diminished and grew louder. The stinking sap that invaded my nostrils was replaced by a savory aroma that made my stomach growl louder. I only noticed this because my stomach was making more noise than my feet.The closer I got, the fewer voices were heralding the hangman’s return. Still, those that were making noise had become clearer. I was moving in the right direction. Then the dense undergrowth of the woods cleared and I found myself in a relatively open section of forest. I studied the ground at my feet. Many other feet had compacted the earth where I stood. Slowly I raised my head up. I had to blink a couple of times to be sure. What I saw was impossible to believe.End of Chapter 8Thanks for reading. Remember to comment on anything you liked or that you think should be fixed.Click here to read Chapter 9Copyright 2017: While I encourage you to share this link with your friends and family, please keep in mind that this is copyrighted material. Under no circumstances do you have the right to re-publish any or part of this content without specific written permission from BC Crow and Blue House Publishing.

Swing Low: Chapter 7

Just another chapter?

I don't have any unique articles to write about at this time, so without further adue, here is my next chapter:

If you're new to this, start atThe Beginning. And thanks for sharing my stories with all your friends.
Installment #8 of:Sing Low: The Hangman of the WoodsBy B.C. Crow (Download audio podcast here) ()Chapter 7In the woods, justice is swift. Judgment pronounced without a trial. The punishment can even precede the crime. But the crime would surely happen otherwise. The judge and executioner were one. No law, save a higher law, can guide such condemnation. Still, who could ever forgive a soul who waited till after the heinous crime was committed, especially when the murder was obviously imminent? There was one who wandered the woods, striking fear into all those who dare attempt the cowardice act. He couldn’t catch all, but for those he did find, no mercy on earth is meted to them. They will never return home from the woods.The man pinned me to the great tree. Bits of bark and twig wedged between my shirt and sweat slicked skin. He was frantic—I was frantic! He’d heard all the same stories that I had. Undoubtedly he wouldn’t navigate these woods if not for the courage lent him by his bottle. In his distraction, he eased up on choking me and I drew in short labored breaths. His clammy palms still prevented me from wiggling away, but my vision cleared enough to see again.Sickeningly sweet palm wine assaulted my nose. Nasty alcohol laced saliva sprayed from his mouth. The stench also seemed to pour in the form of tainted sweat, mostly in great rivulets draining through his greasy hair as it beaded toward his darkened nose and chin. His body contorted as he struggled to hold me and look all around at the same time. The low voice of the singer bounced off every tree, as if the person was everywhere and nowhere.My captor’s eyes swiveled, eventually returning to look at me. I could see a bloodshot panic around those dilated pupils. He knew something. A story that I didn’t know. Enough to be terrified. If he was panicked, I was doubly so. With one free hand, he brought a finger to his lips, ordering me to be silent, as if that was a problem. I couldn’t have made a sound if I tried. This whole thing was a nightmare. I expected to jump awake, get a drink of water, go pee, and go back to bed with hopes of a better dream. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I felt relieved that my bladder hadn’t already emptied itself. I could still wake up from this. Only in dreams was I ever so frightened that running or speaking was impossible; but no, this was no dream.I’ve often heard that the human mind can be brilliant, but slow. That’s why we rely so heavily on computers. But as this was happening, that axiom held little weight. My mind was racing faster than light, almost fast enough to give the illusion that these thoughts were all speaking at once. There was regret that I wouldn’t make it to school; sadness, knowing my mother would never know what happened to me; the awful realization that I would die a coward; the curiosity of who or what was nearly upon us; the poor baby on the ground, swaddled in blankets, unlikely to live beyond the day; guilt for disappointing my father, and wondering if this was his vengeance that he was directing from the grave; then, oddly enough, I thought about Krystal, and wondered if she would cry when she heard of my disappearance. More than likely she’d just want to speak at my funeral.“You brought'im ta me,” the drunk whispered, snapping me out of my end-of-life daze.Was it just me, or was his speech getting worse? “I didn’t bring anyone here, I-I-I’m alone.”“I was'n born'esterday!" He hissed, spittle spraying from his lips, landing across my face. "No boy you'age has any reason a be out'ere alone. You’re with'im, aren’t you?”“N-no, I d-d-on’t know who—”“Quiet!” He placed his free hand over my mouth. The taste of his salt, mingled with the sour sweetness of his alcohol-infused sweat, invaded my mouth. I nearly gagged, but knew better than to let that happen.Only a moment ago, I was about to be strangled to death, and would be by now if not for this new threat. Maybe it would have been a better death than suffering at this new monster’s hands. Clearly my captor didn’t expect me to help fend off the new threat. He thought I’d brought it to him. Then I realized why he hadn’t killed me yet. If he thought I was connected to this singing beast, then he planned on using me.No, not that, either. He was probably too drunk by now to think that clearly. He was just too distracted to finish me off.Whoever was out there was no friend of mine. My captor had to know this. If anything, I would simply serve as a fat human shield, my captor holding off the threat long enough for me to die an ignominious death, and for him to make a run for it. I doubted this man could escape, though. I’d just be a fleshy nuisance before the drunk was killed, too.There must be a way to free myself. Planning under pressure was not my strong suit. All I could do was wiggle and squirm, try to break free. No sooner did I try, than I found a knee shoved hard into my lower gut. I’d never been outright assaulted before, but always thought that with my extra bulk, a blow like that might have been softened some. Yeah, right! If not for the hand holding me up by my neck, I would have collapsed in pain. All the fight in me was gone. How pathetic I was. Of the fights I’d witnessed in the past, few were ever resolved so quickly. Most men, and almost as many boys, could take a punch and keep on fighting. Then there was me, pacified by a single blow. At least when I died today, nobody else would know.“I am not going to swing today,” the drunk whispered to me. “Do you hear me? If your friend tries putting that noose around my neck, I’ll rip your throat out.”That confirmed it, I realized. The singing man was the one they called the hangman. Obviously escape was possible. How else would any rumors about the hangman get started? If only I could—No. It wouldn’t work. I was not that agile. Very few people had escaped this hangman to tell about him. Someone like me wouldn’t stand a chance. That’s ignoring the fact that I first had to escape this drunk. With two seemingly impossible foes to escape from, I knew my death was inevitable. Still, I couldn’t quite accept that. How does one accept one’s fate? All I knew was that I was terrified. Fear of death, pain, brutality, and somewhere in the mix, I was worried about my mother. Compounding my discomfort, the bark and twigs that were matted to my back kept scratching and causing my back to itch.My body trembled and a small whimper escaped my lips as my jaw quivered. The drunk whispered, “I’m going to move my hand. Don’t you dare make a sound.”I resolved to obey, but I don’t know why I cared what he told me. After all, regardless of what happened, he still planned on killing me. I watched his hand as it pulled away from my mouth. I choked back a sudden urge to cry. Instead I watched as the hand moved down. His leg came up, and I saw him pull a large sheath knife from his boot. As he raised the sharpened steel, his eyes arched past me, then around in a circle. He was looking for the hangman. The hangman was nowhere to be seen, but his singing was everywhere to be heard. He sounded so very close.Just as my captor’s eyes found their way back to looking at me, a rope suddenly looped around his neck. His eyes went wide with delayed surprise and then he was yanked backward. His knife fell from his hands and his feet flew high in the air. He landed about three meters away from where he’d been standing.My body was heavy, and my feet could not support me as the man was dragged away. This was my only chance to escape, but I couldn’t muster the strength. I sank to my knees and watched in horror. In front of me, kicking and cursing, the man was being pulled by the neck with a thick coil of rope. On the other end of the rope, about fifteen feet away, was the biggest creature I’d ever seen. At first I couldn’t believe he was actually a man. He was a veritable giant with features the likes of which I’d never seen on any man in my life.Barely even straining, his muscular arms—almost as thick as my considerable belly—pulled the murderous father several feet with each tug. His body wasn’t out of proportion, either. The trunk of his body was massive, covered in a tan homespun-style vest with brown cotton or wool trousers. But his head! The rest of his body could have passed for a normal, albeit giant, man, but that head was enough to paralyze anyone from a single glance.Most people’s heads are taller than they are wide. This man’s head was wider than it was tall. It looked almost lemon shaped, if the lemon were lying sideways and was as large as a watermelon. Stretching from one end of his face to the other was a gargantuan smile. Each tooth was at least twice as large as both of my thumbs put side by side. This bulking deformity of man could have easily bitten the head off the drunk who was now at his feet.Great bushy eyebrows crowded close to each other above those dark slanted eyes. Maybe it was a shadow, but even the whites of his eyes seemed a darker shade of gray. The hangman looked down his flat nose at the now pitiful drunk. Anyone would be pitiful compared to this lumbering mass of muscle. With one hand, big enough to wrap halfway around the drunk’s chest, he grabbed the man by the ribs and lifted him into the air. With the noose firmly snugged around the drunk’s neck, the giant’s other hand gripped the opposite end of the rope with a white-knuckled fist. As if it was no big deal, he single-handedly lobbed the man’s body into the air, arching him over a high, stout branch of the nearest tree.Arms and legs flailed wildly as the drunk flew into the air. Then his neck cracked as the full weight of his body was snapped straight. His limbs flinched, but he didn’t have time to suffocate. He was spared mercifully by that broken neck. The giant let the body dangle for only a few seconds before lowering him. The whole while, through that massively toothy grin, the giant kept repeating, “Swing low, sweet chariot / Coming for to carry me home . . .”The drunk never had a chance. Whatever stories he’d heard, he must have imagined them to contain some degree of exaggeration. If he’d known what he was really up against, he’d have run for all he was worth, not daring to wait around until the hangman showed himself.The giant started into another verse as he unfastened the rope from the corpse’s neck. “Sometimes I’m up, and sometimes I’m down / Coming for to carry me home / But still my soul feels heavenly bound . . .”I'd escaped one death only to be confronted by another. Yet all I could do was stare at the casual brutality of the scene before me. I would be next, but running never crossed my mind. My jaw hung low in shock. I was hypnotized by this creature. I completely forgot about the baby, bundled several meters away; at least I forgot until the monster lumbered over to where it was crying.Without thinking I yelled, “Not the baby! Don’t hurt the baby!”The giant looked back at me, pausing in his song for only a second or two. His smile remained, but he looked almost hurt. Then, more gently than I guessed a behemoth of his stature could manage, he cradled the child in the palm of one hand. He ended his song, “Tell all my friends I’m coming there too / Coming for to carry me home.” As he intoned these last words, he looked at me again, and with one huge hand, he waved for me to follow.End of Chapter 7Thanks for reading. Remember to comment on anything you liked or that you think should be fixed.Click here to read Chapter 8Copyright 2017: While I encourage you to share this link with your friends and family, please keep in mind that this is copyrighted material. Under no circumstances do you have the right to re-publish any or part of this content without specific written permission from BC Crow and Blue House Publishing.

Swing Low: Chapter 6

How Long Before I'm Can Write Really Well?

There are reasons people shy away from the woods. I had little choice. I had to brave them. It is true, death hangs below the branches of those age-old trees. -B.C. Crow

Like any professional career, writing is hard work. There are times when I look at the chapter I want to write and think, I have so many element that I want to fit in here. When I think of how I want the chapter to end up, I can easily get discouraged. At those times, I have to remind myself to have faith in myself. The path may not be easy, but I can do it.

Before I ever started writing, I was a contractor. When I first started out in construction, I knew very little, and was too week to do much of the work I did know how to do. But something funny happened. The more I worked, the better I became. I grew stronger, more coordinated, and I developed a knack for the tasks I had to perform.

Developing the right skills didn't happen over a couple hours, days or even months. It happened over years. I've been doing this now for two decades and I still am learning. Writing is the same way. I've been writing now for five years. Relatively speaking, I'm still at the early stages of my writing career.

For parallel comparison this was my timeline as a contractor: 1st year-grunt; 2nd-10th year-laborer; 10th-20th year-professional contractor. As a writer, I'm still a laborer. I'm still learning as fast as I can so that in another five years, people will look at me and say, "He make it all look so easy!" I will get there. Somedays I think I should be there already, but then I read a really good book and see new things that I didn't know before. It's times like this that I realize that, however good I am now, I can be a lot better than.

If you're just starting on this path, don't give up. Every endevour you pursue will require dedication and work. Work will always be the defining characteristic of any successful person. Of course heart helps too. But without work, heart is just a bunch of good intention.

If you're new to this, start atThe Beginning. And thanks for sharing my stories with all your friends.
Installment #7 of:Sing Low: The Hangman of the WoodsBy B.C. Crow (Download audio podcast here) ()Chapter 6There are reasons people shy away from the woods. I had little choice. I had to brave them. It is true, death hangs below the branches of those age-old trees. Only a desperate fool braves the punishing shade. The desperate fool doesn’t always come back out. The woods are full of life, and death. It’s the way of nature. But the abominations of man call upon the retribution of the woods.There were no roads or paths cutting directly through the woods. Everyone knew that the woods sheltered the most dangerous of evils. Everyone except maybe Krystal. This was more than mere superstition; Stronger even than the religious believed in their own gods. It was just the way of it. If you had business on the other side, you found a way around. If you couldn't afford to go around, you didn't go at all. Sure, there were a couple of small trails that penetrated the very edge of this formidable place, but even they petered out quickly. They just serviced locals looking for firewood. Rarely did they venture deep enough that you couldn't see or hear civilization.I followed one such trail, for the first hundred meters into the woods, before it ended. Trees and greenery crowded me, filling every void like water fills an ocean. I could still hear sounds of civilization. The blanket of bamboo, shrubs, and other plants were smothering the smells of the city. I noticed the stink of civilization again, but only upon exiting a particularly thick patch of undergrowth. Another hundred meters and even that was gone. Everything about the city was gone. My chest tightened with fear. Ever since my first day at the concrete plant, I had little time to explore these woods. Not because I was still afraid of them, but because I had no time to explore them. Now I had no choice but to enter them. Unlike before, I couldn’t just skirt the inside edge. I had to cut through the middle, hopefully emerging on the opposite side. I’d never been more than a kilometer inside here before. What awaited me in those mysterious depths, I would never have believed.For an hour I walked. The eerie quiet that had set me at unease before disappeared, replaced by the sounds of the forest itself. Maybe these sounds had been present before, but I hadn’t noticed them. Trees creaked and groaned, straining under their own weight. Birds and insects sang to their own rhythms. Occasionally I paused as a loud crack issuing from some nearby thicket warned of larger, potentially dangerous creatures. Then, as if nothing had happened, all I would hear was the refreshing trickle of some stream, often no larger or deeper than my foot. This was a kind of place I could lose myself in and actually be happy. The first banana tree I came to was empty, like it had recently been picked. I didn’t know how I would find food, especially if I had competition for it. I still felt at peace. No politics, no grind. Just nature--hopefully just nature. If one could learn to survive nature, one could easily thrive in nature.Of course, there was still the folklore surrounding these woods. It would be nice if Krystal was right and it was all exaggeration. Just a bunch of tales meant to frighten and excite. My mind flashed back to every story I’d ever heard. Then like a cat slinking across the edge of my memory, waiting to pounce, the dangerous drunkard from my past assaulted my peace of mind. There had been someone or something more out here than even he. What was it that I'd seen back then?The memory was a shadow. There was true bulk to the thing. It was larger than any man. It couldn't have been a man, maybe some form of gorilla. But no, there weren't any apes around here. The more my mind wrestled with the memory, the darker the woods felt. When at last, a nervous chill tingled through my core, I realized I was needlessly punishing myself. I’d taken something beautiful that I could sense and turned it into something horrifying.I stopped and with a few calm breaths, collected my thoughts. I realized the feeling for what it was and it helped me relax. I’d just gained a small measure of wisdom and knowledge. If I looked for, or even thought too long about evil stories, I’d find darkness. Not only in the world out there, but inside myself. My mood would absorb the darkness. If I looked at nature or dwelled on the goodness of people, I’d discover the beauty all around me. I’d find peace.This train of thought also led me to consider those stories from another perspective. This time I wasn’t thinking about the atrocities that were associated with them, I was more or less understanding how some people could work their way to doing dishonorable acts. Not that I could ever understand enough to see myself ever doing them, but I could see how enough talk could eventually morph a person into the very evil they were obsessing about. If one talks about a subject long enough, then they believe it. If they believe it long enough, they accept the reality of it. Eventually they surround themselves with like-minded people, and without realizing what has happened, they are part of a culture. Cultures are not all good. They serve to justify the behaviors of their members, even if those accepted behaviors are despicable.While I knew that I shouldn’t dwell on the stories I’d heard, I also knew that I should at least be mindful of them. I was making my way through the very woods that seeded these stories. If there was any truth to them, I should take every degree of caution that was practical to stay safe. As far as those stories went, I suspected that few people knew more about the folklore surrounding the woods than I.From man-eating cat to raging bears, the scariest creatures were the men of the woods. The witches were said to have meetings out here somewhere. If you were unlucky enough to stumble into their ring, your body would be trapped in a stump, your soul feeding their devilish spells until your body shriveled and turned to dust.The Believers too would retreat to these parts, join one another in singing and praying. While the witches summoned the dark powers, the Believers were said to draw powers of light from the sun. The heat of their fervor was said to blind a man to all sense. The Believers didn’t just draw on your life to spread their spells like a witch, they brainwashed you into performing their spells with them. It’s been said that a Believer is more powerful than a witch, because witches consume everything, whereas Believers just add to their numbers. It is rumored that they can even raise the dead to further their aims.Then there was the hangman. Little was known about him, just whispered terrors that circulated among the circles of drunken men late at night. He was said to be more than a man, or, rather, less than a man; some creature of the forest itself. I’d heard more whispers of the hangman from the older men at the concrete plant. I didn’t know what all to make of it.I had serious doubts that I would cross paths with any of those supposed dangers. The one thing that I feared most was the bones of the little ones. Deep in my heart, this was the reason I entered the woods in the first place. After my first encounter with the drunkard those eight months ago, I knew they’d be here. My secret hope was that I’d find the little ones still alive, maybe do something to help save them.The problem stemmed from the birth control laws of the region. Afraid of overpopulation, poverty, and who knows what else, when the Chinese government tried to grab a piece of the territory after the indigenous countries crumbled, a law was enacted that each family could have no more than one child. Doctors were required to assist in all abortions to families with more than one child. Not everybody could afford doctors, though. Many children were born at home with the aid of midwives.Despite a mother’s hope, nobody could hide a second child forever. In one way or another, taxes will find you, no matter how poor you are. Once a baby was born, nobody would demand that it be executed, but when the authorities found out, a lifetime tax would be added to those families, most of whom were already in the dregs of poverty.For some reason, regardless of how financially well off a family might be, many fathers would take their young seconds into the woods, only to return alone. Nobody ever asked any questions or pointed any fingers. It had become one of those cultural blind spots. So many were guilty that nobody dared accuse. Even I dared not ask my mother if she’d ever had a second child. I knew this was a painful topic for her, but that didn’t mean that she or my father was actually guilty of it. I couldn’t imagine it of them. If they were, I really didn’t want to know.It so happened that while I was pondering this, I heard another snap of a twig. This one was close. I froze, held my breath, and tried to hear beyond my own heartbeat and the slight whistle in my lungs. Every bird and insect seemed to mirror my stealth. But nothing happened. I exhaled and lifted my foot to take another step—but then another stick cracked. No, something was out there, and it was close.My legs were aching, but I dared not shift to a more comfortable position. I was sure that I was about to encounter whatever or whoever was out here. Surrounding me was a thick curtain of trees. Somebody would have to be no more than four meters away to see me, but how close was the noise? Another snap, and I relaxed. The source of the noise was staying in one place, not terribly concerned with stealth.I wanted to keep moving, but how could I? After having given myself a thorough self-evaluation, I knew that I’d be saddened beyond all measure if I ever found out that this noise was some helpless abandoned baby. Most likely it was just an animal and I was fretting about nothing. I would walk over, scare up an unsuspecting creature, and be back on my way, laughing at myself.Still, I lifted each foot, careful to place it back on the ground only if there was a rock or patch of wet leaves. Until I knew what lay before me, I would be as silent as a ghost. As I neared the noise, I hugged a giant tree. It was almost as thick as myself. Using it for cover, I leaned my head around to get a better view. My breath caught. On the opposite side of the tree, just beyond a few smaller brush trees, I saw a man. He was slowly pacing around a small bundle on the ground. In his hand was a bottle of poor-man’s wine, though he could obviously afford better. This wine, made from palm trees, had a nauseatingly sweet smell that I could detect from where I stood. It was strong stuff and he was sucking it down fast.The man’s hair was well trimmed in a longer cut that was popular with the thirty- and forty-year-old men of our region. From the neatness of his clothes, I could tell that he was a man of some means. He ate well enough, because his body was fit like only a balanced diet could provide. Instinctively I knew that he was not a Believer. They never drank alcohol. A witch, maybe, but I doubted it. Then I saw a tiny innocent hand pop up from the bundle on the ground. It reached for its father. My heart sank. The man was here to dispose of a second. My blood boiled. Here was a man who could afford the tax but was choosing not to.Seconds passed, and a small cooing emanated from the bundle. This child, not even a year old, must have known something bad was happening. It was spreading on the sweetness as thick as frosting on a cake. It was that same skill every baby instinctively knows. It re-wires a woman’s heart, turning her from a carefree woman into a mother. It morphs a selfish man into a providing guardian. Crying would not help it here. Crying would only make its father angry. It had to appeal to the man’s heart. This appeal was probably why the man was still pacing around the child, and hadn’t already left it alone or killed it.I watched intently. The man had come very deep into the woods to be rid of this infant. His resolve would not be easily deterred. Plus, every swig from his pungent wine bottle would allow a little more evil to fog his brain. The man was not simply going to leave the child alone. He planned to kill the baby, else why would he still be waiting around? He was trying to gain courage from the bottle to do that last terrible deed before he went back home.I had to do something. The father never strayed far enough from the baby for me to run in and snatch it. I’d never been good at confrontation. He was a full-grown man, and despite the strength I’d gained in the last couple months, I couldn’t hope to stand up to him if he got violent. Nor would I be able to outrun him. But would he let me leave and take the baby with me? He wanted to be rid of it. Maybe-My body trembled. I had to act. I was to be a doctor because I valued life. How could I live with myself if I neglected my own conscience? My breath came in ragged gasps. I was going to do something. Sweat prickled all over my chest, and I half wished I hadn’t followed my curiosity to this spot. But that kind of thinking was wrong. I gave my conscience a figurative prick. I needed to be here. Because I was here, I might save my first life. It was now or never.With my back to the tree, hoping the man would not figure out where I spoke from, I shouted, “Hey!” Even though my voice sounded more like a loud squeak, I knew he’d heard me.“Who’s out there?” he threatened. “This is none of your business. Come out where I can see you!”The tone of the man’s voice alarmed not only me, but the baby, too. A startled cry rose from its blankets and I froze. Memories of another drunken man some eight months ago returned. I remembered how ferocious his temper had been when he’d run into me. This man’s speech wasn’t slurred, but it would be soon. Whatever compassion held him back was now replaced by guilty rage. This would not turn out good for the baby or for me. I had to make a run for it. I had to grab the baby and flee into the woods. Maybe I’d get lucky and he wouldn’t catch us. But my feet would not move.Though I wanted to peel away, my back seemed to press tighter to the tree trunk. All of a sudden I found a muscular man with flammable breath standing in front of me. I had no route of escape. My eyes bulged. His hand was an iron vise that clamped around my neck. I could no longer hear the baby crying; all I could focus on was the protruding veins of his forearm as his muscles stretched his hairless brown skin tight. His unyielding hand was cutting off the air to my lungs.I tried to kick, only to find my feet just flailing useless below me. He had me pinned to the tree, with my feet off the ground. My head went hot and dizzy, and my eyes felt like popping as I struggled to focus on the man’s face. I don’t know if my brain was oxygen deprived or what really happened, but at once, silence seemed to permeate the air, as if the absence of sound was a thick insulating mist. It's hard to notice how loud the noises of a forest are, until they stop. Despite my fuzzed vision, I could see his eyes widen. As if a spirit was entering the world, music could now be heard.The melody grew like a wisp of wind, focusing like a vision. It amplified louder until it focused into a deep clear voice, soft and booming all at once. I’d heard this song before—eight months ago, just after I’d encountered the other man who’d entered the woods on the same mission as this man. As the man loosened his grip on my throat, we both listened. I hadn’t seen many black men in my life, but that deep singing bass was the voice I would have associated with a very big black man.“Swing low, sweet chariot / Coming for to carry me home . . .”End of Chapter 6Thanks for reading. Remember to comment on anything you liked or that you think should be fixed.Click here to read Chapter 7Copyright 2017: While I encourage you to share this link with your friends and family, please keep in mind that this is copyrighted material. Under no circumstances do you have the right to re-publish any or part of this content without specific written permission from BC Crow and Blue House Publishing.

Swing Low: Chapter 5

How to find your inner ambition.

When the world is flooding us with novels, the only way a writer can stand out, is to be novel, -B.C. Crow

Life is full of decisions. For a part time writer like myself, I have a lot to juggle. Not only do I have a full time job that has nothing to do with writing, but I also have a growing family, church obligations, and all of life's other strings that are constantly tugging on my attention.

Most likely, you're busy too. Unfortunately, most people aren't as productive as they could be. For an interesting read, check out theNielsen reportfor media consumption among American households. From what I could gather, the average American spends over 4 hours each day watching TV. If you factor in the other forms of media such as movies, game consoles, radio, internet, the average person is absorbing just under 10 hours of media each day! Holy cow, that's a lot!

So the question I have, as a writer: Should I entertain or be entertained?

Naturally, you can apply this to any area of your life: Are you a participant, or are you a spectator?

If you find yourself being more of a spectator than you'd like, but don't know how to break out of your current predicament, I have two pieces of advice that have always kept me motivated and ambitious.

First, be curious. Easier said than done you may say. Well, maybe. The thing is, if you find yourself in a mental funk and don't know how to break out of it, try doing a few things you've never done before. This last year, my wife and I decided that all of our dates for the year would be doing things that we deemed "Not Fun." Mostly this was to help us open our minds up and try different things. In doing this, we found some pretty cool things that sparked our interest and our curiosity. For example, we spent an evening working with honey bees. We got to suit up and transport hives. We learned about the different kinds of bees and how to tell them apart. We didn't think it would be fun, but it was one of our most memorable dates ever. There was no way we could have had the same experience by watching a bee documentary.

The second bit of advice, is to act. Curiosity in and of itself isn't enough. You could watch YouTube videos all day, but unless you actually get out and do something, you're still just a spectator. And yes, I know, this sounds like the end goal, to be active. But it's also the most important stepping stone to becoming active. Newton's first law of motion applies when he said that: objects at rest tend to stay at rest. Likewise, objects in motion tend to stay in motion. Even a car needs jump-starting if it's battery is low.

Even if you don't know what you're doing, get out and do it. If you're finding your curiosity lacking, do something that doesn't even sound fun. If you do this enough, you'll get addicted to it. Life can be just as addictive as television. The only difference is that by living, you can actually accomplish something.

Everyone has the ability to be ambitious. I don't care if you're stuck in a wheelchair, or whether you fight depression--If you have a mind that can think, you have a mind that can learn and grow. Be curious. find a dream that moves you to act. Then do it. Being a writer is one of many dreams that I have. Don't forget to share this with your friends, and I hope you enjoy this next installment of my latest book.

If you're new to this, start atThe Beginning. And thanks for sharing my stories with all your friends.
Installment #6 of:Sing Low: The Hangman of the WoodsBy B.C. Crow (Download audio podcast here) ()Chapter 5I’ve often looked at other people, believing them strange. As I’ve aged I’ve learned that I’m just as weird to them as they are to me. In our community, my father was the only man in my family who might have been considered normal by the metric of social conformity. As my school year ended, I learned that the right decision is often the hardest. A good lesson that would pay to remember. Nothing worth doing should ever be done lightly.Finally, that blessed day came. The last week of the school year had arrived. At school the first order of business was to register for the next year. Since there were only a few optional classes, most of the program was highly structured in its progression. This meant that to reregister for classes in the coming quarter, there was little that needed to be formalized, mostly just a signature and a commitment to pay next year’s tuition. When the form asked for my commitment, I penciled in “transferring.”Apparently once a person gets into the journalism school, few ever transfer out. Not only does one expect to make good money in the profession, but there seems to be a sort of fraternal spirit abounding in the faculty and future alumni that prevents them from seeing any other professions with as high a prestige.“Iddo has decided to transfer,” the counselor suddenly announced to the whole class. For the first time in months, Krystal actually glanced my way. Everyone was staring at me. “Perhaps our star linguist can explain to us where he thinks his gift of speech will serve him better?”I hadn’t expected this rebuffing, and in the last couple months I’d withdrawn from social encounters so much, that my face burned with embarrassment at having to explain myself. “I- I—”“Stop stuttering,” the counselor snapped. “And stand up. We’ve taught you enough here that you should be able to audibly convey your point.”The desk squealed as my belly pressed it forward a centimeter or two. When I was on my feet, I filled my lungs and held the breath for a second, then exhaled. There was no shame in my decision, and I resolved to take pride in my new ambition. “I will be transferring to the medical college in the New Tum District.”I don’t know what I expected, but what I heard was definitely not anywhere near the anticipated effect. Laughter bounced around the room. Not just from the students, but the counselor and my teacher were laughing at me, as well. “Skipping straight to college? You want to give up a career of comfort and luxury for a chance to get sick every day? How does cleaning bedpans and giving placebos compare to molding communities and the world through the spoken and written word? You’ll become a slave to the rich and poor alike. Mostly poor.”My cheeks burned. This was exactly the attitude that disgusted me about journalists. I don’t know where my courage to speak came from, but I felt so strongly about my calling to join the medical profession that I asked, “When you get sick or your child is born early, would you rather have an intelligent doctor helping you, or would you rather risk going to one of the local witches for help?”A boy next to me immediately rebutted, “If I’m rich, I can get American doctors to help me. All our doctors can do here is prescribe placebos. They’re basically witches pretending at being doctors. And if a baby has problems when it’s born, big deal. We’re only allowed one, anyway; better luck next go around.”Inside my gut, I felt a twist of anger and nausea. I remembered my first dangerous encounter in the woods, when the drunkard had nearly killed me. How had this disregard for young life become so ingrained in our culture that even the kids my age didn’t see a baby’s life as precious? I wanted to scream, but my shame overweighed my desire to be heard. And why should I cower? Wasn’t I right? Wasn’t all life sacred?“Well,” the counselor finally said, “Iddo can do as he pleases in this matter. But remember, boy, there is a transfer fee of three hundred yuan to leave this curriculum. Good luck to the rest of you. I look forward to seeing you all next season.”The counselor left the room. I slumped back into my chair, my heart drooping even lower. I was aware of the transfer costs to enter the college prematurely, but hadn’t expected a transfer fee to leave this school. There was no way I could ever pay it. I was going to be stuck here. Not only would I be confined to this school and career, but now all my schoolmates knew of my dissension from the prevailing mind-set. Not having friends is one thing. To be openly abused for your belief is something entirely different. How could I go on?As I was walking home, Krystal ran to catch up to me. I was surprised. We hadn’t spoken in months. I looked up at her; she clearly wanted to talk, but she held her tongue for what must have been an eternity to her. When she brought her eyes to meet mine, I could see something there that I’d never seen before. I immediately turned my head back down. Sincere pity is a hard thing to accept, regardless of who offers it. Usually her pity felt more like a cartoon bandage on a pimple. This time she looked as earnest and honest as I could have ever imagined.“You shouldn’t be ashamed of wanting to be a doctor.”“Everyone thinks I’m crazy for it.”She put a hand on my shoulder. I flinched, and she withdrew it. “Listen, Iddo, back in America, becoming a doctor is a very respectable thing. I don’t know why nobody here seems to think so, but I’m glad that you do.”“It probably doesn’t matter. I can’t pay the transfer fee. I’m going to be stuck here.”We walked in silence for a full minute. I half wondered if she might be able to help me with my financial problem, but quickly dismissed it. I knew enough about her father to know that he wouldn’t part with any portion of his money. He might have been American, with more money coming to him monthly than I could ever save in a year, but he was well known for being stingy. With so many poor people around him, he felt that if he gave money to one person, then before long he’d be solicited to support the whole town. No, he wouldn’t help. Even Krystal would find it difficult to gain access to his money. In a way, I couldn’t help but pity her in return. She might have been a little pompous, but I suspected that she really did have a heart. In America, she could have become something bigger. Here, I feared that she would adopt our culture. Her father, bum of an American that he was, would never be the source of opportunity that could have otherwise been hers.“Krystal, I’m sorry.”She looked at me knowingly, but then feigned confusion. “You’ve got nothing to be sorry for.”I did, and she knew it. Why else would she have avoided me for so long? Silence hung in the air for another minute. This was the most balanced conversation I’d ever had with this girl. I didn’t want to talk, but found my lips moving to fill the void. “I’ve wanted to be a doctor for a long time now. My father never approved of it. Like everyone else, he thought I’d be better off in journalism. The thing is, I don’t agree with the school or the mentality of everyone in it.”Krystal really did look confused now. “What do you mean, you don’t agree with it?”“You heard the way the kids talked in class, didn’t you? All they care about is money. They have no ethics. They even talked as if life didn’t really matter that much.”“They were just being stupid. Nobody really thinks like that.”I shook my head. “Everything I’ve seen would suggest otherwise. No doubt you’ve heard the rumors. People taking their infants to the woods.”“Those are just stories,” Krystal defended. “There’s no truth in them. Nobody would murder their own children like that. I can’t imagine you’d actually believe those tales. Just like witches, if you believe that fathers take their extra babies to the woods to slaughter them, just to avoid an extra-child penalty tax, I’m guessing you’d also believe in witches.”She said this as if I’d be crazy to believe in witches. I wanted to argue the point. I don’t know if Americans have such things to worry about, but Krystal was just plain naive.She apparently didn’t want to talk about it. With easy effort, likely something she’d learned here at school, she steered the conversation back on track. “If you don’t make it to medical school, do you think we could at least be friends again?”“I’m not a very fun person to be around,” I reminded.“I like being around you,” she said. She must have noticed my baffled expression. “You don’t say much, I’ve noticed. But I can tell that you're a very gentle person.” She immediately regretted saying that. Telling a boy that he's gentle is seldom a compliment. “What I mean is, while every other boy in our school is trying to be macho or suave, you're just, nice. You’re a little shy sometimes, but that’s not bad. I just get the feeling that you want to do the right things for the right reasons.”I didn’t know what to say, so I just stammered a meager, "Thanks". We walked quietly until the smell of her aromatic body lotions was nearly overpowered by the smell of dried salt fish from the upcoming marketplace. It was time to part ways. “If I don’t make it out of this school, I’ll be your friend,” I said. Making friends was not a priority to me this year. Why should it be? I didn’t plan on staying. But now, changing schools was looking impossible. I'd have to make friends to survive. Krystal had friends. If I was to start, I might as well start with her.She smiled, and this time when she put a hand on my arm, I didn’t flinch. I was still awkward and didn’t know what to do next. Luckily I didn’t have to do anything. She lifted the hand, patted my shoulder once more, then gave me a fake punch in the chest. “I’ll see you around, big guy.” She turned and walked up the gravel path that would eventually lead to her house. Mangy dogs yipped as she passed them by. She turned only once to wave at me.Something was different about Krystal. I don’t know what it was, but I realized that I was glad to have talked with her. Even so, that didn’t stop me from brushing off my arm where she’d touched me. Force of habit, I suppose. I also realized that I was still standing in place, just watching her go.Something was different about me, too. I felt lighter as I walked along. At work my duties didn’t seem so burdening. I shoveled gravel for that first hour, not even tiring like I’d been doing for the last couple of months. But as the shift dragged on, my memory turned to that three hundred yuan transfer fine. Again, my spirits sank and I wondered what to do. My mother and I had sacrificed so much to make this work, and in the end, I would still be stuck here.That night I was afraid to tell my mother about the bad news. I’d almost resolved to wait until tomorrow when she asked, “Iddo, I know something is troubling you. Why not just have out with it?”I lowered my head as a tear wet the corners of my eyes. I willed it to dry so that my mother wouldn’t see. When I’d finished telling her, she just stared stoically at me. She was thinking hard, then a tight smile crossed her lips. She got up from the table and walked over to a small cedar box. From inside the musky container she pulled a beautiful pearl necklace, my grandmother’s necklace. I hadn’t seen her wear it more than twice in the last five years, the latter occasion being at my father’s funeral.“You can’t sell Grandma’s necklace!” I protested. It was the only real heirloom of worth we had, and I knew that it meant the world to her.She just rested it on the table, brushing a finger, then two, across the polished milky surface. Her eyes were full of tender memories. When she finished reminiscing, she smiled. Her eyes were moist with love. “When I think of the best way to honor our ancestor’s memory,” she said, “it’s not by hoarding their old belongings. Even if some part of us lives on after we die, I don’t think that money or possessions are what we’ll relish. If we leave anything to our children or grandchildren, I think we’ll be most happy by leaving them an opportunity. Your grandmother would haunt me if all I did with it was store it in a jewelry box. But if it can help you live your dream, and you have a wonderful dream, I think that’s what she’d want. It’s what I want for you.”I couldn’t hold my tears back anymore. It would seem that today I was ignoring most of my natural reservations. Without compulsion, I leaped into my mother’s arms and hugged her tightly. It was one of those rare moments of sacrifice that binds a mother and son. Yeah, mothers are always sacrificing for their children. That’s just what they do. I know this, but this time I couldn’t help but show my gratitude.The next day I skipped my first class as I worked with the school counselor to arrange all the transfer documents. I went through the day, and didn’t even see Krystal. I don’t know where she was, but I had enough on my mind that I didn’t really miss her. I did want to tell her the good news, but there were still two days left before the school year ended. There’d still be time.The end of the week came and went. I'd just exited the computer lab, curious to find a map of the woods. All I found was an out of focus aerial image of the vast forested jungle. Going around this thing would be expensive. Did Mother really expect me to hike through them, or would she find some way of getting me to New Tum District? She'd already sacrificed Grandmother's heirloom. Did she have another piece of valuable jewelry to hock? The thought of cutting through the woods terrified and excited me. I could do it, I think. Maybe it was all just fantasy. If I ever got more than a kilometer into the dense growth, I'd usually turn back from fear. I was no adventurer. I was just hopeless Iddo.The image of the woods from that computer screen were still fresh on my mind as I left the school building for my last time. I don’t think I had a burning desire to see Krystal, but I still found myself wandering close to her house to see if I could catch a glimpse of her. I saw her father outside occasionally. He was usually drunk or throwing cat calls at passing women, but I never did see Krystal. I stayed at home for one month following the end of the school year, and eventually I stopped walking by Krystal's house. She was quickly becoming a memory of my past.But since I couldn't stay at home while attending medical school, and since I would need to find work in New Tum, my mother insisted that I leave now instead of later when school was about to start back up again. I wanted to stay at home with her, but she argued that finding a job before school started up would be better.She was right, of course. I tried to get ready five or six different times, but the cement company kept offering some good overtime work. Finally, when there were only three weeks left until school started up, I couldn’t put it off any longer.With just enough money to get by, not even enough for a bus ride to the district, I packed what I could into my school bag. The rest of my clothing was bundled into a ball and tied to the end of a stick. Conversation was quiet as my mother accompanied me to the edge of the woods. I was suddenly aware of her quick breaths. I knew it had nothing to do with whatever illness she’d been unable to shake.“Thanks, for everything.” I gave her a hug.“You will be careful, yes?” She asked.“I’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”“Maybe we can find another way,” she wavered.“It’s all right. I can do this. I love you. Good bye-” It was harder saying this than I’d imagined.“Don’t worry about coming back for any breaks. Just work hard and save your money. You can come back at the end of the school year.”“You’re the best,” I said. Again, I gave her one last hug.She stood in place and watched me leave. My last image of her before the woods completely hid her from my view, was her looking helpless. Her one hand was over her chest, the other up high enough to bite at her knuckles. She would be lonely. I wanted to turn back, but I knew she’d beat herself up if I stayed on account of her fears. So I pressed on, deep into the thickest part of the woods.End of Chapter 5Thanks for reading. Remember to comment on anything you liked or that you think should be fixed.Click here to read Chapter 6Copyright 2017: While I encourage you to share this link with your friends and family, please keep in mind that this is copyrighted material. Under no circumstances do you have the right to re-publish any or part of this content without specific written permission from BC Crow and Blue House Publishing.

Swing Low: Chapter 4

How to make your book stand out?

In a word, I was too cowardly to do what I knew to be right, as I had been too cowardly to avoid doing that what I knew to be wrong.-Charles Dickens, Great Expectations

There's a lot of good books out there. I've read countless novels. I soak up both fiction and nonfiction. But there is no way I could ever read all that is published. Each year, close to 1,000,000 books are published in the United States. Naturally this includes self-published books. But that's a lot of literature!

Who's writing all this stuff? That suggests that 1 in ever 300 people in this country publishes a book each year. How on earth are you going to read all that? More importantly, what does a writer have to do to get noticed in this flood of novels?

The answer: Be novel.

This doesn't just apply to writers. But in every aspect of your life. If you ever want to be noticed, you must stand out. The problem, and most people intuitively understand this, is that we feel like we need to fit the mold. Writers write to publisher and reader expectations. People follow the crowd. It takes a lot of courage to stand up and be unique.

Don't be different or weird just to be noticed. Do be true to yourself and your dreams. When I write a book, even if nobody likes it, as long as I've been true to myself, I've succeeded. For example, you'll notice that none of my books contain sexually explicit scenes. I can't comfortably share a book like that with my family, so I'm not going to write such a book. Also, I don't cuss. Rarely will I include profanity in my books. My expectations for what an adult book should be are very different from 95% of the popular books on the shelf at the bookstore.

But, you may ask, has anyone noticed you (BC Crow) yet?

Well, no. Not yet. But that's the flip side to this. I may never get noticed. But trusting your own gut and listening to your own voice instead of the crowd is still important. It's called integrity. Always hone your craft. Be better today than you were yesterday. But don't follow the crowd just because the crowd says you should. If you do choose to follow the crowd, do so only if they happen to be going where you want to be going, also.

Life is a journey. Walk the life that gives you pride in your accomplishments. Write the book that you would want to read.

I don't mean to be preachy. But I do like to give a few thoughts before I start into my story. Did you know that another way for an author to get noticed, is through referrals from word of mouth? If you find that you're following me and reading this story, that might mean that you're enjoying it. Please remember to share this with your friends so they can discover it also. Anyhow, enough with that. Lets get to the story...

If you're new to this, start atThe Beginning. And thanks for sharing my stories with all your friends.
Installment #5 of:Sing Low: The Hangman of the WoodsBy B.C. Crow (Download audio podcast here) ()Chapter 4You have a responsibility. I feel this deep in my bones. We all do. Despite my poverty, I never felt poor. Not until the year my father passed away. Growing up in a matter of weeks is never easy or fun. But life cannot wait. Neverland only exists if someone else can remain responsible. The pirate of childhood, the murderer of bliss, he’s always lurking. To some he passes, as they are too drunk to notice. Into others he hooks that stainless barb, and rips away their flight.But the world still hurls itself through space, its denizens either living or dying. The world may suffer quakes and fires, but it never stops its course. All small things are witness to the structure of the grand. If a greater plan exists, beyond our mortal view, then eternal progression must be real. It must be necessary. Thus, all your actions are important.We were all poor, so we didn’t know any different. But there was poor, and then there was destitute. Even I found the pounds shedding off me little by little. I was still fat, but two months after my father’s death, I noticed a thinning in my appearance. Not only was I eating less, an attempt to save more money to pay for next year’s school and board, but I was physically more active. While some of that fat disappeared, some of it had to have been turned into muscle. I’m not saying that I looked strong, but I felt strong. In the mornings I’d go to school, then in the afternoons I’d shovel gravel. The work was getting easier, so I had to be gaining some strength.Strength is a funny thing. The stronger I became physically, the more confident I felt mentally—sort of; I still had no friends. I still felt out of place in journalism. I still felt like people were talking about me behind my back. Most of all, I was still embarrassed to be doted on by Krystal. So, while I felt more confident, I hadn’t quite overcome myself completely. But things seemed a little clearer. Instead of slouching in a corner, I kept my back straight. Instead of looking down at my desk when teachers asked me questions, I’d almost look them in the eye. But that’s as far as I could progress socially.The third quarter of school had started. I had all new teachers. While I continued to share the first-period class with Krystal, I’d advanced to the class she’d just completed for the second period. I suspected this meant that she’d have to coach me in the fine art she’d developed of surviving that particular teacher. I wasn’t looking forward to it.As usual, after our first class let out, she visited the restroom and I quickly walked ahead to find my place in the cafeteria before she had a chance to drag me to her usual table. How she managed to find anyone to sit with still astonished me. But there were always several others who seemed to enjoy her company. I think it’s because she’s white, and foreigners seem to radiate a unique attraction among the natives, no matter which country they live in. Whether they liked her, or were just curious about her, I might never know.Sitting alone, I unrolled my cloth package and took out a lump of rice and dried fish. The fish smelled sharply of brine and old oil. Not nearly as bad as before Mother had worked it over a little. In its unprepared state, it would fill the whole school with a pungent odor, the kind you try to avoid when navigating the fish market. Even the poor people who shopped there would find their stomachs tightening. I had to eat quickly before anyone got too offended by its smell. Luckily, and unluckily, there wasn’t much, so this was easy. Bad breath would be a serious consequence of the meager meal, but it was better than starving. Besides, I was already at the bottom of the social ladder. I couldn’t get much lower.As I was trying to carry the smell and flavor of it down with my rice, I committed the big mistake of withdrawing into my thoughts. Anyone of teenage years knows that you should act like a good soldier and not ignore your settings. You’ve always got to be aware, ready to act or react before a socially embarrassing situation creeps up on you. Sometimes when I found myself lost in thought, I was lucky to go unnoticed. This was not one of those times. When I came to myself, I looked up to see Krystal standing before me. She gave me one of her classic pity smiles before sitting next to me. She wasn’t alone, either. Well, technically she was the only one who’d come over, but every eye in the cafeteria seemed to be with her.“I’ve been noticing your lunches lately. I’m guessing times are hard since your father . . . well, I brought you this.”She pulled from her plastic grocery bag an extra sandwich. “I made it for you this morning. I hope you like it. I can bring you one each day, if you’d like.”Did she have to say that so loud? Couldn’t she see what she was doing to me? I didn’t grab the sandwich from her. She set it down on the table in front of me. Somewhere behind me I heard a boy calling out, “Krystal--Iddo, such a lovely pair; kissy-kiss and smoochy-smooch, then cuddle like a bear.”Krystal didn’t respond, but she had to have heard. My face went hot and panic took over. I bolted out of my seat, surely drawing every eye that wasn’t already on me. I grabbed the sandwich and stalked over to the exit, dropping it in the waste bin before ducking out of the room.I don’t know what Krystal thought, but I could hear some laughter. I couldn’t physically see her laughing with the other kids. But I was sure that she’d find a way to justify in her mind that all was well with herself. All the confidence that I thought I’d developed at work melted away, and I sought out a quiet corner where nobody would notice me. I pulled out my books and pretended to work on homework, just in case anyone did happen to look my way. I didn’t want them to think I was hiding.As I sat there on the floor, I ran through all the ways that I could have better handled my encounter. If I’d just thanked her for the sandwich, which I honestly would have liked to eat, everyone might have just given up watching. But no, I had to make a scene. Now everyone would be talking about it for days. My stomach grumbled. I held it, hoping it wouldn’t keep voicing its hunger through the next class period. Maybe I’d be able to catch a break, and sneak back into the cafeteria and grab that sandwich after all the other students had finished their food and left. No, by then, the waste bin would be full, and if I were caught digging through it, there’d be no end to the ridicule.That afternoon, despite every effort I placed into listening to my teacher, I couldn’t take my mind off the lunchtime incident. I loathed the end of class, when I’d have to confront Krystal again. But when the time came, she wasn’t waiting for me at my locker. I don’t know what twist of fate allowed me this miracle, but I took full advantage of it. After making my exchanges, I nearly slammed the locker as I darted down the hall and out the school doors. I’d survived the day. Now I was on my way home, or, at least, to work. At work, I’d be able to sweat the day’s humiliations away.Something funny happened, though. The next day, I went to school, and Krystal chose to sit at the other end of the classroom in our morning period. I looked at her several times, wondering why she’d broken routine. She didn’t once acknowledge me. At lunch, she continued to shun me. Could I be so lucky? I’d spent so much time trying to avoid her, and now she was finally leaving me alone. Why, then, did my eyes keep going back to her? Was I missing her self-serving patronization, or was I just afraid it was too good to be true?I really was a loner now. Nobody talked to me. I would from time to time get shoved out of the way, or have a wad of paper thrown at me, but that wasn’t uncommon. I’d be gone next year, and none of this would matter anymore. So why did my chest ache with loss, as if a deep sadness decided to root itself in my soul? Maybe I'd done wrong by her. Until now, I'd never even considered her to have feelings. This was Krystal after all. She was confident and pretty in her plump American sort of way. I felt that I maybe should mend the issue. Somehow, I might regret it if I didn't.This impression made precious little sense to me, so I did the only thing I felt in my power: I ignored it. What a stupid roach I was. Some people believe in a divine hand or spirit that helps guide them throughout their lives. Whether it’s your conscience, God, or some natural energy, if you ignore it long enough, it will leave you alone. Eventually my guilt subsided. My confidence disappeared with it. Somehow, even though I wasn’t eating any more than before, my body started surrendering some of its newly gained muscle for fat again. Shoveling gravel at work wasn’t getting any easier, it was getting harder.At night, I would stare at a free Coca-Cola calendar, counting the days left until the school year was over. Even the perfectly beautiful peppy girl on the calendar, with her flowing black hair bouncing around a shower of bubbles and sparkles, failed to cheer me like it once had. She looked like the world was a party, and nothing could ruin her joy. If anything, it only reminded me of my own miserable state.End of Chapter 4Thanks for reading. Remember to comment on anything you liked or that you think should be fixed.Click here to read Chapter 5Copyright 2017: While I encourage you to share this link with your friends and family, please keep in mind that this is copyrighted material. Under no circumstances do you have the right to re-publish any or part of this content without specific written permission from BC Crow and Blue House Publishing.

Swing Low: Chapter 3

The sound of your own voice.

There is nothing wrong with being a dreamer, so long as you are also a doer. Dreams are what fuel ambitions.                  -B.C. Crow

So I've been recording my voice as I verbally proofread these chapters. I gotta say, I don't like the sound of my own voice. Have you ever felt that way?

It seems that anyone I ever talk to, hates listening to a recording of their own voice. Now if you listen to my little podcasts, you'll also notice something else. Just me reading something sounds much worse than acting.

When I first started recording these chapters, I was curious to see how good I could make them sound. Now I'm realizing that a more realistic goal, is not making them sound as terrible as my unprofessional voice seems to trend. If you've ever actually listened to an audio book and compared it to say, my readings, you'll know what I mean. Those voice artists are awesome. But what makes them so much better than you or me?

Part of it, at least from what I've heard, is that they put actual time into their profession. They have multiple people helping them produce a show. And yes, it is a show. You may not actually see them. But they are actors. They just have much larger speaking parts than most visual productions.

I'd love to learn their trade. But already, I have my own focus. My focus is on writing a good story. If you've been following along on my podcasts as I proofread this, and you're not sure if you like the story, try reading the chapters instead, at least for a little while. I'd hate for my annoying voice to spoil your enjoyment of the book.

I guess I can only hope that if you are listening instead of reading this, that my voice isn't as annoying to you as it is to me. But in either case, I value you and your willingness to take valuable time out of your life to pay attention to something that I've put a lot of thought and energy into. I hope you have a good experience, and that you feel like you'd want to come back for more. Who knows, maybe by the end of this book, with any luck, I'll have trained my voice to sound good too.

If you're new to this, start atThe Beginning. And thanks for sharing my stories with all your friends.
Installment #4 of:Sing Low: The Hangman of the WoodsBy B.C. Crow (Download audio podcast here) ()Chapter 3Do you ever have days when your inner conflict is so strong that every choice of thought becomes wrong? Circumstances even change to our liking, yet for liking them, we commit the greatest of sins. If we reverse the scenario and hate what has happened, we become enemies of our own conscience. Even though we tell our minds that we truly want the old ways to stay the same, we can’t ever bury the deception that is told to us, by us.As I once was, so now do I place you at the crossroads. The only way forward, as far as I can surmise, is to be true to yourself. The dead will always follow us. We can never shake their influence. To some, this will disturb, but for me, it lightens my burden. No matter how far we stray from our parents’ best intentions at guiding us, their many other virtues will live through us, our future children, and theirs.This is immortality. With any luck, every generation will grow in wisdom and strength, becoming better than the one before. I pity those who never knew their parents and who must start the chain anew. Even more, I pity those who feel complacent about their parents’ progress, and fail to improve upon the generations of ancestors who strove before them.Weeks were inevitably followed by months. Every day the same. Go to school and try unsuccessfully to fit in. Not that there weren't any changes. The first was that I found myself walking through the woods more often. I knew I shouldn't. My mother would definitely not approve, and I really felt uncomfortable disobeying her. But I still went almost every day now. Unless I had a reason to hurry home after school, I'd add an extra hour to my walk home as I moved deeper into the formidable jungle. My defiance to my mother's instructions was illogical. Something about my encounter with the drunken man made me push past my promises. I don't think even I understood this irrepressible urge to venture in. Still, it never stopped nagging at me. I had to know what was in there.The place terrified me, but also seemed to sing to me. On more than one occasion, I’m sure that I’d heard the trees’ serenade. This day, as if in the distance, that low sweet sound seemed to speak to me. Sometimes I’m up, and sometimes I’m down / Coming for to carry me home / But still my soul feels heavenly bound / Coming for to carry me home. My mind might have been playing tricks on me, but if I didn’t hear the song plainly, I heard it in my heart. Usually as soon as I thought I heard it, I’d stop to listen, but it would be gone. The woods were a strange place, indeed, but I was a strange boy. I almost felt like I belonged there.I paused at one point when I found a rare moonflower. The delicate blossom, native to these woods, was still folded in on itself. I knew that it would be the jewel of the forest when it eventually opened. The flower, so fragile, would remain closed until the sky was dark. Then, under the light of the moon, it would spread open in a wide graceful twist. Its silky white petals would almost glow with the moon’s reflection. I wanted to stay here and witness it. This plant, so alone among all these trees, seemed perfectly at home. I wondered if I could ever be as comfortable in such formidable surroundings as this flower. Like the plant, I was at peace here. But I didn’t live here. I lived somewhere, arguably more formidable.By now I’d become somewhat familiar with at least the first kilometer that skirted the forest. When I reached a small valley, I followed a trickling stream. This same stream, only a few centimeters deep, and a third of a meter at its widest, would trickle down to the edge our neighbor’s garden. Every time they took advantage of the stream for watering their little track of vegetables, it would dry up completely for everyone else below them. Since most people relied on wells, this didn’t bother anyone. At least not anyone I knew.As I exited the last grove of trees, I dipped my hand into the water one more time. The coolness seemed to beckon me back into the trees. Nothing at home for you. Only sadness. Only pain. Come back and stay. These dangerous woods spoke peace to me. The stream was its voice. It truly was my imagination this time.When I looked back up, I could see a lot of commotion at my house. We rarely had company. When we did it was seldom more than two or three people. This time there must have been close to thirty, milling in and out of our little shanty. Most of them were family and neighbors. My stomach fluttered near my throat. The way everyone was milling about, heads down, shoulders slumped, told me something was wrong. Very wrong.Mother had been sick. For the last couple of weeks, she’d had a cough that wouldn’t subside. Of all the days to waste wandering in the woods! I ran toward our home. Oh please, oh please—I tried forcing the fear to a back corner of my mind. If by chance everything was just fine, I wouldn’t want anyone to see my eyes full of tears for no reason. But why else would everyone be here? And why did I even care what everyone thought of me? No one paid me any mind most of the time. Anyway, this was my mother!But it wasn’t my mother. I picked her out almost immediately. She was in the middle of the crowd, sitting—crying—alive. When she lifted her head, I could see how deep her sorrow truly ran. “Oh no,” I whispered. “Father.”“I’m so sorry,” and “Don’t worry, we’re here for you,” wafted at me from family. The local Christian well-wishers bade me “God bless you” and “Peace be unto you.” They always seemed to flock around tragedies, passing out their abundant supply of warm sentiments, not to mention a collection plate for donations to help support their prayers on behalf of the family. All this was happening as I made my way to mother. I paid little attention to who spoke. They were all hollow, anyway. At least I knew my relatives were sincere, but what, really, could any of them do?Mother looked up at me as I approached, as if she sensed my coming. Her arms, held tightly to her chest, now opened and swallowed me into them. I know boys aren’t supposed to cry, and I tried hard to be the man that I now had to be. But as soon as Mother drew me in, my jaw felt ready to quiver away from me. My eyes melted into great overflowing pools of salt water. My perfectly clear nose, now blotchy red, bubbled with translucent mucus as it ran into my mouth, mixing with my saliva. In under half a second I’d gone from forced composure to sobbing volcano.I’d let my mother down. I wasn’t strong, not even for her. Lost in my shame, I didn’t realize that she’d found some measure of composure. Someone always has to be stronger. She’d had more time to let this sink in than me, it was her turn to comfort me. Still, this was not acceptable. Why? I don’t honestly know. But I pulled away from her and ran. There would be no place to hide in our two-room shanty and I needed to be alone. There was only one place to go. I ran back to the woods. I didn’t go very deep into them. Just enough to avoid being seen by the mourners.Back at the little stream I’d followed only ten minutes before, I found myself sniffling at my reflection. What a blubbering mess I was. Father would not be proud of my sulking. “Be the man you need to be,” he’d tell me. Yes, the man that was needed, not the boy I wanted to be. But with him dead, I might be able to study medicine now. No sooner had the thought entered my head than I slammed my palm into the trickling water. It was a weak gesture and I felt more hollow for trying. How could I possibly look at my father’s death as a blessing? He’d been a great man and he’d treated Mother well. This couldn’t be said of all the men in our community.Determined to rectify my disgrace, I pulled myself back to my feet. More slowly this time, I walked back to our little home. This time when somebody apologized for my misfortune, I acknowledged them.“Thank you,” to my aunt.“If there is a God, I’m sure he’ll watch out for us,” to the Christians.Finally, to my mother, “I’m sorry I ran. I won’t leave you again.”“Iddo,” she soothed. “I don’t know how we’ll get by, but at least we still have each other.”I hadn’t thought about the future as it pertained to getting by. But now I wondered. Mother had no work. Her days were filled with cooking and cleaning our clothes by hand. Sure, she’d helped the neighbors with their chores, and this in exchange for a few eggs or an occasional chicken. That was meager compared to what Father had contributed. He went to work six days each week, and even then, we just scraped by.If nothing else, at least all the mourners were good for one thing. They all pitched in a little money to help us until Mother or I could find a way to support ourselves. All except for the Christians. But they had their place, too. Those donations they gathered helped fund their part of the charity. They offered to bury Father in one of their above ground tombs. It was a free service they offered anyone who died.After maybe five to ten years, when the body was just bones, it would be removed to make room for the next occupant of the concrete cubicles. They would say that this was done in similitude of our Savior leaving his tomb, but everyone all knew it was because the cemetery had limited space. Besides, the Believers, who also claimed a belief in Christ, had soured a lot of people from the mainstream Christian faiths. Since very few people could actually afford a permanent resting place for the dead and in an attempt to garner sympathy toward mainstream Christianity, these normal Christians offered burial service to anyone who needed it. As a result, the cemetery was always overcrowded.As children and teenagers, we used to make fun of the practice. We’d sometimes wander through the tall weeds of these cemeteries. The stacked tombs, sometimes six high, were each about half a meter tall, and just shy of a meter wide. Bodies would be inserted or removed through one end, then sealed up. Near the time that a body was ready to be removed, the weathered seal would break, revealing a perfect skeleton. As kids, we’d reach into the concrete boxes where the cheap ends had fallen away, and scare one another with the white skulls inside. Only an adolescent would be so brash. I may still be a teenager, but I doubt I’ll ever be adolescent again.“Where is he now?” I asked.“They’ve taken him to be cleaned.” These words were hard for Mother to say, and our next-door neighbor put a hand on her shoulder.“How?” was all I could ask next.This was obviously too hard for her to answer. She tried but our neighbor with the comforting hand stepped in to help. Her sweet voice held none of the sympathies that the other mourners carried. Yet it was this firmness that made it so genuine. It was something real, from a real person. “It was an accident at work. My husband watched it happen.” She paused.Most of the men in our little community worked together. You could say that the Tusk White Concrete Company practically owned our neighborhood. I was just about to press her for more details, but held back as she inhaled deeply.“Your father, may he never be forgotten, was on the shovel of a four-story building. They were setting the next lift when his scaffolding fell apart.”“Didn’t he have a harness?” I asked. “They’re always tethered.”Nodding, she continued, “The way my husband put it, their tethers are made with cheap stiff ropes. Most times, if somebody falls, curse those stingy Tuskies, the rope will swing them to a safe stop. This was one of those time, though, when your father was directly below the tether. There was no swing. It snapped his back. He died about an hour later.”There it was. One minute everything is great; the next, it’s all ended by dangling at the end of a tight rope. Everyone knows the risks of working at the Tusk. Something like this happens most years. Usually it’s somebody else. Everyone keeps working there because we’re so poor that we take what we can get. But the Tusk owns us, and they know it. We’ll likely get a month’s wages from them, but they’re not required to help us beyond that.The next day after school, Mother and I walked to the company to collect Father’s accident pay and to apply for a job. We would both work part time. The wife of a dead husband with a child to raise can work wonders on even the most hardened of business scum. By the time we left, we both had work. I would shovel aggregate after school for four hours on weekdays and ten on Saturdays. Mother would clean the tools and mixers, chipping hardened concrete off the surfaces if it had been left on for too long.Neither of us was very good at the work, which earned us both a dock in pay that first week. I had a hard time because my muscles weren’t up to the new task of lifting several tons of gravel each day. I might eventually develop the muscles. Mother’s job, on the other hand, was especially hard for her. The job would normally give a person hard calluses, but then her laundry scrubbing would take them off again. Because of this, her hands were always red with blisters and cracked skin. At night, she wrapped them in old cotton cloths. I was always tired and I knew she was, too. Still, she managed to cook dinner every night and put on a pleasant smile. The time for mourning was gone. Now it was time for working.School was like cleaning your foot off on the dirt. On the top clean side, all tuition for the year was required up front, meaning that I could finish that year of schooling without any additional costs. The bottom side, sinking as if it were in the new mud, meant that we’d have to save up for next year. Between Mother and myself, there was little extra to go around. Every week we set aside a little money for our basic needs, and the rest would be saved for school. This caused me great consternation. Not that we were poor. We’d always been poor. A little more so now, but if I had to work so hard for my own schooling, I wanted to go to school for something that I wanted to learn and do.Weeks passed as I tried to muster the courage to talk it over with my mother. After all, hadn’t I vowed not to bring this topic up again? I was supposed to be content with following my father’s ambition, and working in journalism, especially with his death sealing my honor to his will. Every quiet evening that passed, another brick was placed between me and my hope of ever breaching the topic.One night, as we were sitting down for our late supper, Mother looked at me with those deep tired eyes. A mysterious smile threatened to overtake one side of her face as she held back one of her coughing fits. “I’ve been thinking,” she started.Naturally I was confused. Usually when she began a conversation with those words, there was no smile. She was taking her sweet time getting to the point, but I said nothing. I just listened with all the attention of a dog waiting for a scrap of gristle.“I loved your father very much. But even though we loved each other, we still had our disagreements. He wanted the very best for you. A life in journalism here would provide a nice income for you. I never openly disagreed with him. Now that he’s gone, I have to consider, do we keep you following his path, or do I let you follow your own? I know that you’ve been wanting to be a doctor for some time.”At this point, my eyes were wide with astonishment. Not only had she read my mind, but was she about to give me permission to change schools?Her smile widened and she leaned forward. “Before this school year ends, I think you should choose. You can continue where you’re at or move to medical.”I wanted to jump up and hug her, but I didn’t. I wanted to shout for joy, but I didn’t. I just continued staring at her with surprise. I even mostly suppressed a cheesy grin of excitement. “Thank you,” I said as politely as possible, knowing that she expected more of a reaction from me. Maybe she could see beyond my display of restraint. “I’ve been thinking about this, too. I really, really would like to transfer. I feel bad to dishonor—”“Don’t you dare,” she snapped. Your father was a good man, but that doesn’t mean he had perfect judgment. Life is full of disappointments, sorrows, and hard times. If you aren’t careful, it will be too easy to get caught up in them. It happens all the time. If you can’t find the joy in living, you might as well give it all up, and don't you ever think of giving up."My joy is in seeing you happy. I know that your joy will be found in helping other people. Providing a financially stable home for us was your father’s joy, and that’s why he wanted you to go into journalism, so that you could provide for your family better than he did. You have your father’s strong will, but you inherited my compassion.”I didn’t feel like I had anyone’s strength of will, and I didn’t know if compassion was the reason for me wanting to become a doctor, but now was not the time to argue that. My heart was pounding so fast now. I was afraid that my mother would see my excitement and for some reason I felt like I should be tempering my outward emotions. I know it wasn't important, but at my age, it felt necessary.“Being a doctor might not be as lucrative, but it’s still not a bad career. There’s no school near here, though. You would have to leave me at the beginning of the year and go stay in the dorms over near New Tum District.”At that comment, my racing heart seemed to trip on itself. “But what about the pre-med building at my vocational school right now?”She shook her head. “I’ve already looked into that. Vocational pre-med would start you in the right direction, but you could spend two years there, then go to college, or you could go straight to college, study real hard, and just take a couple of the college-level pre-med classes. You don’t actually need to graduate from the vocational level. They’re mostly a place for kids to grow up a little before getting into the real school.“Besides, the next two years count as college credit regardless of which school you attend. You’ve already got the maturity to handle college and the brains to deal with a tough first year in a new curriculum. I’ve already called and cleared it with the college. With your grades now, they agree that you could probably manage the jump.”She was right. It would be hard, but I knew I could endure it. Besides, with our financial situation, paying for an extra two years of schooling versus combining those same classes in a real college or even testing out of them altogether, well, I would have to do it. Hard as I knew it would be, this was the path open to me. It's what I'd been wanting so badly. My body felt physically stronger, and deep inside, I knew I had it in me to succeed.There was one other implication. I knew it and undoubtedly my mother knew it, so it was hard to say it with a straight face. At this point, I figured it would just be a technicality. But I had to mention it anyway: “But that’s on the other side of the woods, maybe a day or two if I walked straight through them.” I know she didn't really expect me to hike through the woods. She knew what went on in there. Maybe she'd already thought of a way to pay for the trip around them.Her smile faded and that minor change in her face caused my breath to pause. She nodded. “It’s time you became a man. I can’t protect you from the world forever. There are dangers and unforgivable things that happen in the woods. But we can’t afford to send you on a transport around them. Eventually you’ll have to learn to master your fears. I already know that when your father was still here, you were disobeying us, spending more and more time in those woods. I think by now you must know a little of how to find your way in there.”My face grew hot with guilt. I slouched in shame. “I didn’t know you knew.”“Remember, I wash your clothes every day. You expect me to believe that those sticks and leaves that broke off in your pockets came from the marketplace? Not to mention how you always came home at least an hour later than usual? I knew.”I looked back up at her. Her smile was fading, but not because I’d been disobedient.“There is one small problem from what I can determine,” she said. “School costs the same, but the dorms will be an added expense. We barely have enough as it is.”End of Chapter 3Thanks for reading. Remember to comment on anything you liked or that you think should be fixed.Click here to read Chapter 4Copyright 2017: While I encourage you to share this link with your friends and family, please keep in mind that this is copyrighted material. Under no circumstances do you have the right to re-publish any or part of this content without specific written permission from BC Crow and Blue House Publishing.

Swing Low: Chapter 2

A coming of age story, with a twist.

All our knowledge has its origins in our perceptions.          -Leonardo da Vinci

I love storytelling. There's nothing quite like a good story to inspire and excited my imagination. I love both Fiction and Non-Fiction. Did you know that our brains are hardwired for stories?

It's true. Why else would TV, Movies, and books be so popular? Before technology and modern writing had their place among us, verbal storytelling is how information was passed from one generation to the next.

I often wonder how it would have been, after a long day and a good meal, to gather around the hearth as a family. With a fire crackling and a loaf of pan bread rising in it's heat. The hints and smells of tomorrow's pastry filling the room. Then to listen as the household patriarch entertained the family with a story.

All worries would take a back seat as tale filled the room. He'd tell it so well, that the moral was disguised in the art of the narrative. The kids wouldn't even realize that they were learning some of life's most important lessons. They would just see in their minds, the fantastic story coming to life, more vivid in detail than any modern movie could convey.

Like his father, and his father before that, this hard working head of the house would be a master of verbal storytelling. I can only hope that one day, I will be able to impart my stories with the verbal skill of those great fathers of old. Until then, I have to write, re-write, and edit some more. Feel free to comment and help me in this endevour as I improve this book and my craft as a whole.

If you're new to this, start atThe Beginning. And thanks for sharing my stories with all your friends.
Installment #3 of:Sing Low: The Hangman of the WoodsBy B.C. Crow (Download audio podcast here) ()Chapter 2We live in a unique time. Our pocket in this world seems like it is cluttered with lint. The only thing to be done is to pull that pocket inside out and shake it clean. Just like my dilemma of trying to fit in, shaking one’s life clean would require a great deal of discomfort for most people. I don’t think I could have always done it. But I’ve never been the boldest of my peers. Like me, I think most teenagers use their peers as a measure of their self-worth. I don’t know why I struggled so much then. No doubt confrontation, rejection, and self-doubt all contributed to my placid demeanor. Many of the other boys and girls had a sense of purpose or ambition that aided them. I didn’t really understand them, or belong. I’ve often wondered, would I have had more friends if only my father had allowed me to follow the profession of my heart. I wanted to be a doctor, but they don’t make any real money around here. They just get sick more often.So I found myself at the mercy of the only friend I had in the whole school. But to be her friend came at the cost of my self-respect. I would have rather had no friends. But now, looking back, I wonder if I couldn’t have been better to her. Maybe I could have done something for her. Often we look back on our past and see our experiences through the microscope of wisdom. In moments of reflection, most people, despite regrets, feel they wouldn’t change a thing. I know this as well as anybody. I feel the same way, with this one exception. If only I’d have known, I’d have treated her differently. I tell you this because there is one thing that I hope you never have to regret, either.Krystal was leaning against my locker, pinning the flimsy yellow clanker shut. Her pink lips, too big and moist for human lips, reminded me of a peeled pomelo. I took a deep breath and dragged my feet across the hall to my locker. As I reached out to open the short metal cabinet, Krystal’s lips parted. Her tongue graced the top of her front teeth as if they needed wetting before her proud and relentless voice threatened to dry them out.“How was your class?” she started, but, as usual, she didn’t wait for my reply. “Same as usual, I bet. By the way, I checked to see if the theater director chose her cast yet, but she hasn’t. I’ll let you know as soon as I find out. So did Master Haimi give you much homework? I didn’t get any from my teacher.”I had an above-average command of the English language, probably better than Krystal. But since she was born to it, she’d opted out of her language classes last year, and was now ahead of me in the curriculum. Since Master Haimi had been her teacher last quarter, Krystal rarely failed to recap where she supposed I was in my lectures. This brought her some degree of pride. She had a great memory, but liked to flaunt it. I always felt belittled by her approach.“I’m guessing she's started in on her whole political society lectures now, am I right?”I could barely nod before she blurted, “Don’t worry, the assignments will be easy enough. At least I had no problem. Of course, not everyone in the class aced them, but I found them to be so common sense. If you have any questions, you should ask me.”As quickly as possible, I replaced my textbook and grabbed a folder from my morning class. Even though I gently closed the locker door, when the latch caught, the whole thing rattled. Please let Krystal have somewhere else to go, I hoped.“Good news—I can walk home with you today.”My shoulders sank. Here we go again.There was one nice thing about walking home with her. Since she was a native English speaker, I could hone my own command of the language. Of course, that was if I ever got a word in.Most everyone here spoke decent English. It was unusual to hear anything different anymore. Still, natives to the language, by which I mean Americans and Britons, had their unique sayings, like “pulling your leg” or “What’s up?” These didn’t make sense literally, and the more of them you knew how to use, the smarter you would sound. Well, even if I couldn’t get a word in, I suppose that was okay, too. If I didn’t feel up to it, she could carry the entire conversation. She wouldn’t even mind.Maybe it was the way she brought up Master Haimi. Maybe it was just because I was flustered over being called out in class. But without realizing it, I was the one talking. I didn’t dare share with Krystal the thing I’d witnessed in the restroom. I didn’t even mention the thoughts I had about God and the Devil. But I did tell her about my near humiliation in class. I shouldn’t have. That just gave her the perfect opportunity to coach me through the next couple of weeks.Krystal was quick to take the conversation back. “Since Haimi is starting into her politicking lectures . . . you’re not a Believer, are you? Of course you’re not. That’s good. Here’s the gist of it. If she ever calls on you again and you haven’t been paying attention—because admit it, she’s pretty hard to listen to—just make something up about how it’s important to believe and not believe at the same time.”I looked at her a little confused and she backpedaled.“Don’t misunderstand me, I’m not talking about being a Believer-believer. What I mean is, you see, she’s going to try and teach you how as a journalist you have to know how and when to believe in somebody and their story. You can’t be a truly good journalist if you don’t believe in what you’re writing. But then you need to know when you can stop believing, and find the next thing to believe in. It’s all relative to who you’re talking to at the time, and what the story is that you need to publish. One day you have to be a devout Buddhist, the next you must be a drunken brawler, or be convinced that you can find mercenaries a paying client. You might even need to sympathize with the witches and Believers if the situation requires it, only to be loyal to the municipal judges the next moment.“Switching from supporting one political participant to their opponent in the same campaign is a trick that only the best journalists can pull off. You wait and see. I’m going to be such a journalist. My name will be famous. Everybody will know who I am and they’ll all want me to represent them. I won’t just be a reporter; I’ll be a celebrity.”Krystal finished her lecture with a playful bump to my shoulder. It didn’t hurt, but I rubbed it, anyway. If I rubbed it, maybe the memory would wear off, and it would be as if she hadn’t touched me to begin with. Not that she had lice or germs or anything like that. Sometimes I would almost get the courage to tell her that I’d rather walk alone. But every time I looked at her condescending face, I’d lose my resolve. There was just something behind those haughty eyes of hers.I didn’t say anything that day, nor would I ever. But I dreamed of it all the time. The truth is that I was afraid of confrontation. There were other times when I wasn’t so annoyed by her, but it’s hard to explain. I almost felt like she was wearing a mask, that below the layers of foundation, lipstick, and mascara there was another Krystal. This other Krystal would be hurt by my rejection of her. Her sturdy frame and fleshy mask might hide it, but there was something small and fragile under that stylish blond mop above her head. So, I bore my torment in silence.We walked along the dilapidated lane together. The streets had been poorly maintained before the war. Now you had to look hard if you wanted to see that the road had once been paved at all. Tall trees hung over it, their large green leaves shaded us from the intense sun. A few rays of light spilled through the foliage, but we unconsciously skirted them.Just like in class, my mind stopped paying attention to everything and recessed back into my own thoughts. Let Krystal talk. She wouldn’t notice I wasn’t listening. Even if she did ask me a question, she would just answer it herself a second later. How could she ever hope to be a great journalist if she never learned to listen to others? Then again, she had apparently listened well enough to remember what Haimi had lectured on in the previous quarter. And from what she said, maybe listening wasn’t the important part. Believing was the most important part.I shuddered. Believing. That would just bring me one step closer to being a Believer, especially if I ever need to do any interviews around one of those fanatics. Everyone knew that was dangerous. But thinking beyond that group, how could I just sympathize with something or someone, then stop the moment my story was done? Being passionate about writing is one thing, but to believe is something that runs deeply. If I could choose to believe, then forget the next day, what kind of a person would I be? Would nothing be sacred?An old bike tire bounced in front of us. We both had to stop while three grubby children ran after it with sticks. The last one was too young to even need clothing. He was probably four years old or so. Another year or two and his parents would have to start buying him some pants. The kids’ parents were nowhere to be seen. But that was the way of it around here. The parents always had so much going on and the kids always returned home for supper and sleep. The little boy especially would not wander too far away. He would still likely be nursing until he started school.Krystal huffed, as if it was a big joke. She never could get used to it. Kids that old running around naked, breastfeeding till they were five or six. I looked at her as the kids darted out of sight. Her bewildered face still betrayed her foreign upbringing.“You’ll be quite the sympathizer.” The words just slipped out of my mouth.She looked at me, an eyebrow lifted. Had I really just said that? Her questioning glare turned back into a smile, and she nudged me with her elbow. Again, I started the procedure of wiping her gesture off. Crazy girl. She probably assumed me to be telling the truth. Why not, though? Most people here hadn’t quite picked up on sarcasm yet. I think the only reason I had, at least to a small degree, was because Krystal insisted on being around me so often. Americans are so rude. That’s why they’re one of the few cultures that fully embrace such demeaning chatter.At last, about two kilometers from my home, she waved good-bye and headed up a side street. Her home was on one of the wealthier blocks. She’d told me once that when her mom had died, her dad moved here to be an on-site reporter.I had a different idea of why he moved here. If he did much reporting at all, it was minor compared the other personal interviews he conducted around town. Fair skin and a thicker wallet could open many doors.Once Krystal’s street was out of sight, the lane took a meandering turn. I’d arrived at the corner of the city’s market. The place was a bustle of activity. Everything you could buy was for sale here. Fish, vegetables, shoes, knives, snake oil. It may not all be quality merchandise, but what’s a hammer that breaks when it pounds a nail? Nobody around here could afford a hammer made of good steel. Instead, you just learn how to hit the nail softer so the hammer doesn’t shatter. Since the nails were softer than, say, American nails, you also learned to hit them better, too, else they would quickly bend out of shape. That was the way of things around here. Times were hard, so you learned how to get by. We adapt to the circumstances before us. Such one-sided compromise is the only way to survive. But it can also be unsettling at times, especially when it concerns the non-merchandised parts of our society.Staring at the commotion of the market, I made a rash decision. I wanted to be alone with my thoughts. The market smelled like old meat and dried salt-fish. Then there was all the noise, which made thinking impossible. So I did something stupid. I stepped into the woods. More of a jungle, the locals don't refer to this tropical forest as such. That would suggest a sense of normality to the vast island of dense growth. No, the woods are different. Everyone here knows it. Not only was it foolish of me to brave the outskirts of these ominous canopies, but skirting the market would add an extra half hour to my walk home. I live every day in fear of people. Could a few trees really be any worse? Besides, I was in no hurry to get home.I'd walked only a few hundred meters into the dense overgrowth when an unsettling circumstance presented itself. At first I didn’t think much of it. Just a rustling of shrubs and other vegetation. But as the sound drew closer, I caught sight of the movement. My heart quickened a few beats and my feet stopped moving. Maybe if I stood still I might go unnoticed. It could only be a witch or a Believer. I guess it could be an animal, but that would be too lucky. Animals are far from being the most dangerous things out here. Both witches and Believers were strange. Neither was the sort that you wanted to meet alone.I slowly crouched, as low as I could, hoping the trees would make my fat frame invisible. What I would have given to be skinny right then. Whoever was coming was getting closer. At first I heard them to my left, then my right. They were zigzagging, as if trying to find me. I held my breath and willed every hair on my chubby body to hold still. I closed my eyes and waited for the worst.Suddenly he was right in front of me. His tangled hair and sweat-streaked shirt made him look wild. I didn’t mean to scream. It just kind of happened. “Please don’t hurt me, please,” I squeaked.The man, startled, tripped, landing only a meter away from me. I was sitting on my knees, his wild red eyes locked onto mine. They seemed to burn into my flesh as he scrutinized my presence. He pushed himself to his knees, then shot out a hand. The force of the fist was mild, but it knocked the air from my lungs as he grabbed the front of my shirt, pulling me off balance so that I nearly fell into him. “How long ’ave you been ’ere? Were ’ou following me? What’d ’ou see?”“N-nothing, I s-s-saw n-n-nothing.” I tried to turn my head from his flammable breath.He said no more, but those red veined eyes bored so deep into mine that I had to look down. I saw his hands. They were hard, callused hands. One of them was dripping blood. When he’d tripped, he’d broken a bottle of cheap booze, sending a shard of glass into the side of his hand. He didn’t seem to notice. He was drunk. But this was a different drunk. He had done something that he was ashamed of. Witches prided themselves in their wicked ways. Believers would say that anything they did was justified by their faith. This man was trying to hide a powerful guilt in that bottle. I knew why he was here. I’d heard the rumors before. I’d never believed them, and my parents denied the possibility. But I knew.“I’m just going home from school. Please, I just heard you coming and got scared.”“You should be scared. Sneaking ’round ’ere like this, in the middle o’ th’ woods.”“I didn’t mean to—th-th-the market is just right there.” I pointed a shaky finger toward where I’d come from.He released my shirt. I tried to move back. It’s hard when your whole body feel like noodles. He seemed to waver a moment, but then he was back on his feet. He ran a few meters, tripped on a fallen log. He steadied himself, then disappeared in the trees. I could still hear him as he put a little more distance between us. Slowly I found the strength to stand again. I rested my hand against a tree, my arms and chest were still quaking. But the fright was over now. My body would realize that any minute.I had a decision to make. Turn back and go through the market, or continue in the woods? I decided the market would be the safe play. But when my feet were firm enough to carry me there, I found them taking me deeper into the woods. I am not an adventurous type. My decision to stay in the woods confounded even myself. I felt as if there was something deeper inside me, tugging me forward. It was a part of me I’d never felt before. Maybe I was under a spell, but that man was no witch, and he was definitely no Believer.Thick thorny brambles covered many of the open spaces beneath the canopy of tall ancient trees. Those places not forbidden by these noxious shrubs held the occasional banana tree or bamboo thicket. But directly below, in the shade of those impossibly high trees, of which were this place's primary inhabitants, hiking was made more easy. Little grew beneath those branches except for the fungi that forever ate at the decomposing remnants of leaves and old fallen trees. So, I stuck close to these gravity defying behemoths, walking unencumbered as I searched for the better part of an hour.Yes, I was searching. It took me the whole hour to realize that I was searching. My true motive was revealed to me. Nobody goes wandering in the woods alone. Not without good reason—and a compass. If you don’t know the woods, and I didn’t, you could get lost for a long time. At last I convinced myself that I would not find what I’d unwittingly been searching for. I turned around and headed back in the direction I’d come from.After two hours, I was still in the thick of it. I should have been back at the market by now. I stopped and listened. My throat whistled with every breath as I tried to hear any sounds from the city.Silence.My stomach knotted, and I felt the forest closing in on me. I was too old to cry, but I wanted to. Nobody would notice out here. My eyes closed, squeezing just enough tears to blur my vision, until I heard a snap. I stood tall and rigid. Snap. There it was again.Through the trees I caught a momentary glimpse, maybe even just a shadow of a man—no, a beast. It was huge. Too far away for me to see any detail, its hulking form appeared sporadically between open patches of trees. It walked like a man, but there’s no way I could even fit my arms around its head. The thing seemed to be looking down into its massive arms. I couldn’t see its face, but the way it hunched over, it seemed sad. But what do I know. My eyes were fuzzy, and even if they weren’t, I had no idea what I’d just seen. Maybe I hadn’t seen it at all. Maybe my fear was just playing tricks on me. My legs had no problem this time. They carried me away as fast as I’d ever run.Like the drunken man I’d met earlier, I stumbled and pressed on. My chest ached. I was not the running sort. I didn’t eat a lot. Maybe I had a bad thyroid. My belly just never seemed to take on any shape but round. After a while my body finally said, enough! Cramps in my side and mucus in my lungs forced me to take a break. I sat down, wheezing and coughing.Will I ever get out of here?A dog barked.What other man or creature lurks in these woods, ready to kill me?Another bark.What am I going to eat?The third time the dog barked, I stopped my self-pitying spiral.Why would a dog be out here?A faint smell of stew caught my nose.I stood up, and life flowed back into my flesh. I’d done it. I’d found my way out!Walking at a quick pace, I followed my nose and the barking of the dog. The trees thinned and I cleared the woods. I found myself only two blocks from home. The neighbor’s dog had retreated, but I could smell dinner coming from several of the houses. Too tired to run, I walked as quickly as my feet would carry me until I got to the sagging slab of cheap weathered wood that was my door.“Iddo! Where have you been?”My mom was relieved and angry at the same time. Telling the truth would not be good for me. I tried to think of something that wouldn’t involve me getting switched. But before I could come up with anything, I heard my voice mumble, “In the woods.”“What?” She let a pan drop two inches onto the table. It made loud clunk, and a few small splashes of thickened soup flew out. I think she let it fall on purpose, for effect. “You know better than to go wandering off in the woods! What were you thinking? Are you okay?”“I’m fine,” I breathed, not wanting her to know how shaken I’d really been.She came over and wrapped her arms around me. That wasn’t at all what I’d expected. “Please don’t go in there. I’ve heard the most terrible rumors about those woods. If I lost you . . . promise me you’ll stay out of there!”I pulled back, not wanting to let myself crack under her embrace. “I’m sorry.”“Sorry is not good enough. I want you to promise that you won’t go back in there.”I bowed my head. “Okay.”“Now go get cleaned up. Your father will be home soon. Not a word about this to him.”“Okay.”That definitely had gone better than I’d thought it would. And was she protecting me? Not a word about this to my father? My mother’s name, Soportevy, translates to “angelic girl”—a fair assessment, especially considering the circumstance.My father got home, and we ate mostly in silence. At least I was silent. They tried to find things to talk about. My father asked me about my day, and my mother diverted his attention.“You’re awfully quiet today, Iddo,” he said. “Usually I can’t get you to stop talking.”That was true. Even if I didn’t say much at school, I usually found talking around my family much easier.“I just have a lot on my mind today.”“Please, do tell,” he pressed. “The air is getting a little thick around the table with all this silence.”I looked at my mother, who had a worried look in her eyes. She knew that I couldn’t lie, yet she didn’t want me to tell him about getting lost on my way home.“Come on, out with it,” he demanded. Then his eyes took on a cold stare. “This is about being a doctor again, isn’t it?”My father, being a strict but poor man, wanted a life for me that was beyond his own reach. His shrewdness in public understanding moved him to place me in grammar school. This was preparatory to the vocational training in journalism that would soon follow.To be a journalist in any other part of the world might be considered an honorable profession, but even in my muddled thinking, I knew what a journalist here meant. For me it stank of mildewed potatoes. But we’d argued this all before. I’d committed to following his plan.Arguing with my father’s logic was like telling a rock to dance. A journalist here could go far, so long as they printed the propaganda of the ambitious governing bodies. But an unbiased journalist would not only find their career at a short end, but sometimes their life, also.In any case I shunned the idea of becoming a rich, fat house cat of the publishing world, one that wanders among press with an eye for the next morsel to feed my own selfishly obese lifestyle.The last time I’d raised the issue was a Sunday, on the first week of April. I’d complained to my mother in private, since all my direct appeals to my father had failed spectacularly. She always smelled of a fresh morning. Not the kind you might see on a soap commercial, but more of the morning that melded a clean smell of sweet-fruiting blossoms with the tangy scent of burning sticks. This from the endless meals she cooked by fire for our family. She was the essence of purity and hard work, and she seemed to absorb my sorrows and radiate comfort. I asked her to convince the dictator of our home to allow me to follow the course of my own heart. That was the first time I ever saw the sweet tears of my loving mother. In the pureness of those glimmering drops of polished glass, a thousand words of understanding were passed into my soul with the clarity that only the eye-dew of a mother can convey.My ability to put into words what even the great Michelangelo might struggle to paint is obviously lacking. Still, she let me know that she loved me, that she fully supported my tender wishes to help others by studying medicine, and that, despite her compassion, she could say nothing against her husband and master. My heart wrenched in disappointment, not only for the futile nature of my predicament, but also for her sorrow and the part I played in causing it. I decided then and there that I would never trouble her heart over the matter again. I would follow the prescribed course set by my patriarch and bring them the monetary treasures that would, if not lighten my conscience, at least distract theirs somewhat.My father knew I still disagreed with this course of study. So, I can easily see why he immediately jumped to the conclusion that this was the subject of the night’s silence. “I’ve already told you that I’ll stay in journalism,” I said, trying to disarm him.He eyed me suspiciously.Nervous, I ran my hand through my hair. That was dumb. His face lit up and he reached toward me and plucked a leaf from out of my hair. He held it up and his stare interrogated me. He knew. That leaf could have been from anywhere, but I knew that he knew.If my skin was white like Krystal’s, I’m sure my face would have been blushing bright red. Granted, it would have to first make its way through all her layers of makeup. But even though my skin is dark, a parent knows a blush from their own kid, and my face was hot with it.“I—I . . .” I sighed. “On my way home from school, I was on the edge of the marketplace when I saw a man run out of the woods. He saw me, and grabbed me. He accused me of following him, but I told him I hadn’t, then he ran away. I’ve heard lots of weird things about those woods. I guess I’m just trying to make sense of them all.”There—I’d said something. I hadn’t admitted that I’d been in the woods, but there was enough truth in it for me not to give myself away in a complete lie. But now, instead of releasing tension from the air, the opposite seemed to occur. “What kind of rumors have you been hearing?” Father asked.His eyes were intense. Mother froze as if this new revelation was worse than my drifting into the woods.“Silly things, really.” I half laughed, not wanting to continue. But those penetrating eyes of his. “I hear rumors at school about men taking babies into the woods, only to return without them.”Mother stood up. I’d clearly said something that upset her. It’s not like we hadn’t talked of this before. But now it seemed more personal, since I may have actually met one of these men. I moved on, trying to find something different to say that might ease her from that topic. By now I could see that there might be some validity in those rumors. Then there was that large—“I’ve also heard stories of witches, Believers, and a large man or creature, or something.”Mother walked quickly out of the room. My eyes followed her, then I looked back at my father with a question in my gaze.His attention had also followed Mother out of the room. Looking back at me, his stare softened. “Did you see any of those other things, too?”“No.”“I know you went into the woods. I can see the scratches on your arms.”I looked down. Sure enough, little pink pinstripes crosshatched both of my forearms. I looked up, ready to plead forgiveness. It wasn’t necessary.“You’re old enough, you might as well know. But don’t talk about this with your mother. Clearly it upsets her deeply.”That night, I slept poorly. The things my father had told me confirmed many of the echoing rumors I’d already heard. I was right about that man leaving the woods. Father hadn’t said much about the witches or Believers, but the large manlike creature, he did admit to having heard rumors about that. He said he didn’t know what to think of the matter, but that there was danger there, and it might be related to those men who go into the woods in the first place. He reiterated my mother’s desire that I not go back into the woods.I tried to sleep. But every time I closed my eyes, I saw that massive head. Giant arms would reach for me and I’d nearly fall out of bed.End of Chapter 2Thanks for reading. Remember to comment on anything you liked or that you think could be fixed.Click here to read Chapter 3Copyright 2017: While I encourage you to share this link with your friends and family, please keep in mind that this is copyrighted material. Under no circumstances do you have the right to re-publish any or part of this content without specific written permission from BC Crow and Blue House Publishing.

Swing Low: Chapter 1

Pre-release of Swing Low, is underway

A few years back, I experienced a particularly sleepy period of my life, a time when I received very little actual sleep. I will simply call this time “First Child" The dreams spawned by this bizarre new change in my life, gave birth to the idea for Swing Low. -B.C. Crow

I hope you read myprologuein the last post. If not, l recommend starting with that, since it helps set the stage for this book.

Remember, I highly encourage any constructive comments on this and other chapters. Also, no matter how good I or others proofread, there always seems to be something missed. Please feel free to point those out for me.

Most of all, please remember to share this with your friends. After this pre-release is over, then I'm finished giving it away for free. But anyone who signs up for my newsletter before then, will get a complimentary ebook version when this is officially published.

Thank you again for being a part of my final draft. Now the part you came here to read:
Installment #2 of:Sing Low: The Hangman of the WoodsBy B.C. Crow (Download audio podcast here) ()Chapter 1School. What a circus of emotions and self-doubt. Where did the other boys find the confidence to stand out? I’ve spent my whole life trying to just fit in. Peer pressure has always pushed against my self-identity. I’ve come to learn that in this I might not have been alone, even if I was a complete loner. Friends would have been nice, but I didn’t know the first thing about finding them. For a while I tried to shut out that chapter of my life. I resurrect it now, because it serves a need. Exposing my naked shame has become less burdensome. Sometimes a story is bigger than one’s self. And one must bear that burden and its disgrace openly for the greater good. In truth, as I look back, my journey gave me a unique perspective. Sometimes I was just one of the crowd, other times I was the odd one. I had my own choices, but none were easy. Following the crowd meant betraying myself. Following my own will meant parting from socially accepted patterns. Perspective is something that should be treasured, so I am grateful for my humbling experiences.I feel that my journey started just a few years ago. The particular day I think most of is so vivid in my mind, not just because it happened the day after I resolved to enjoy journalism, but because of an epiphany that I experienced. It was the start of much soul searching and questioning that has directed my thinking over the last few years.“Hey buddy,” a kid named Akamu yelled out. I turned, eyes opened hesitantly. Now would be a bad time to trip on the war-torn cobble walkway. Akamu was in my class, but among the more popular of students. Having learned to be cautious, I opened my expression to one of accepting, but also not committing to the salutation. As Akamu ran up to me, my face remained passive. Inside, though, little butterflies of hope tried to raise my hand in greeting. My emotional safety measure worked yet again. Instead of stopping to acknowledge me, Akamu rushed past as indifferent to my presence as I was to any of the many stray dogs that I too had ignorantly passed this morning.I don’t remember the other boy’s name, but I do remember that he was new to the program. He'd transferred to grammar from computer science school last month. This transferring between programs is not uncommon, but after the first year of vocational preparatory schooling, the effort to catch up in the new field of study becomes much more difficult. What I do remember of this boy is that he was not the handsome kid that Akamu was, and that I hated him. Okay, well, maybe hate is a little harsh, since I’m generally not inclined to harbor harsh feelings toward anyone. But I was a little jealous of him. Within only one month, the newbie was able to reach a level of esteem among the students that I had been unable to accomplish in the whole year.As many men know, fifteen is an awkward age for a boy. Maybe I’m overgeneralizing. Some, like Akamu, seem to trudge through this pubescent stage of life with enough confidence to betray their own misgivings. Not me. If the physical arrangements of this age weren’t bad enough, the mental deficiencies are enough to vex the smartest of boys. I think everyone at this age is living in a muggy mental fog.After Akamu passed, I fixed my eyes on his back. I wondered, if I did move to the pre-medical school of biology, would the fresh start be enough to propel me into the higher echelons of adolescent admiration? This fascination took root in my daydreaming as I continued my walk to school. All the while Akamu and his friend could be heard laughing in front of me, at least until we joined other students and were funneled into the school building. Good thing their faces were directed away from mine. Mine was blotching red with embarrassment. I don’t know if their jokes were directed toward me. They probably weren’t, but it sure felt like it. I hated being the timid loner.Large green trees and shrubs had grown back, but still couldn’t hide the drab after effects of the war. The school buildings were among the exceptions with colorful facades decorating the neighborhood. The exterior of each prep school radiated an atmosphere indicative of its study. The grammar school was bright and colorful: reds, yellows, oranges, all mixed with tie-dye patterns, cleverly insinuating the need for creativity. How else could a future journalist write such a convincingly vibrant lie for the powers that would soon pay their wages? The facades that displayed uniformed walls of reds and blues belonged to the two pre-med schools just two buildings down. Separating our field of study and theirs was the engineering school, a crisp gray-and-blue facade suggesting the need for strenuous mental focus. Along this whole street, various other schools were arranged, either connected to another building, sharing a building, or in some cases for the larger ones like business and manufacturing, standing alone.Inside they all looked the same. If the colorful exteriors helped portray a high enthusiasm for academics, the dull beige interior was enough to transform any exuberance into melancholic submission. There were two main classes each day, the first of which I was walking into and finding my seat. The subject of both classes varied from day to day, with the first class usually dedicated to general topics that would be studied regardless of the school, leaving the second class for more-specialized training. Most days I would sit down a few minutes before Krystal. She was one of the few Caucasian kids I knew. I’m pretty sure she was from the United States, and it seemed odd to me that she would end up here. While I don’t know much about American culture, I had to guess that she was annoying there, as well.Krystal, like most Americans, was a little on the heavy side. Her thick stumps for legs climbed into a milky sausage trunk before ascending into a perfectly rounded face. Taller and more developed than most girls her age, she boasted with every artificially fruit-scented pore of her body. Her hair was always done up so perfect and massive that the kids sitting behind her had to lean into the aisle to follow the instructor’s lessons.She wore more makeup in a day than my mother put on in a year. She must have had dry skin, too. This made little sense to me, since the climate here is so humid to begin with. Still, she almost always could be seen rubbing some fruity lotion onto some part of her body. Not even the expensive clothing she donned each day could compare with the one ornament she favored most. It wasn’t one that could be seen, but definitely heard. Her prized possession was her voice.Never before have I known anyone who loved to talk as much as she did. She always had an answer or question for the teacher, even if it was ridiculous. Her brimming self-confidence persuaded her to volunteer that voice of hers for any and every musical expression of talent whenever the opportunity arose. Finally, and most unfortunate for me, I was the one boy in the class she pitied enough to befriend.“Hey Iddo,” she often began. “How are you doing?”Generally, before I could respond, she went into something more self-serving, like on this particular day when she mentioned, “Oh hey, did you know that I tried out for the multi-school play this quarter? They’re doing The Wizard of Oz, that’s an American musical, and I’m hoping to get the main part of Dorothy. Of course I already know every song in the show, so it would only make sense for me to get the part.”Not being completely oblivious to American cinema, I did know, and had seen the movie version once before. If I could have responded, I would’ve mentioned that Dorothy wasn’t the part I’d like to see her play, but the character of Glinda the Good Witch. The reason for the witch was because she had a much smaller talking role but was more elegantly adorned. Krystal and her natural pomp would never do as Dorothy because Krystal was the least humble-looking person the director could cast. I should know something of this, because, due to the poverty in this part of the world, humble-looking people were abundant. I was unable to convey my opinion to Krystal, as the instructor had scratched the outline of his lesson onto the chalkboard to begin the class.The irony of comparing Krystal to a witch at the beginning of the day only compounded the experience I had during my lunch break. Like usual, I kept my head down and tried not to attract any attention. After having eaten my lonely meal, I endeavored to leave the cafeteria before Krystal finished hers and made a show of recognizing my singularity. I don’t know if her intentions were usually meant to cheer me up, or if they were more an attempt to make herself look compassionate. In either case, the times she did catch me, it was usually to my social detriment. Hiding from social interaction was depressing in its own way. But if I was going to feel like a loser, I might as well do it on my own terms. After making my way to the restroom, I locked myself in one of the stalls. I only had to urinate, but due to my self-consciousness, I wouldn’t have been able to perform in the shared trough.As I concluded my business, a group of five or six boys entered the room. From their voices, I knew them to be the sort that I shouldn’t find myself alone with. Thus far I’d managed to avoid a situation with them, but I’d heard of others who weren’t so lucky. So, pretending that my business wasn’t complete, I stood on the toilet to wait for their departure. What I witnessed with my ears and to a small degree my eyes, for the cracks in the stalls did permit a little spying, I would never forget.On the boys’ agenda was an experiment in the black arts of witchcraft. I’d often heard of this practice, and my parents warned me of neighborhoods to avoid for that reason. But this was the first time I’d experienced with my own senses the abominable practice.“I learned this from my cousin’s dentist,” Kelii bragged. Kelii, being the chief among the miscreants, went on to explain, “Yeah, he took me to this witch doc, and I brought my dad’s phone with me to record what he said. The crazy quack must have been a hundred years old, but he said this chant with his hands on my head. Then with his bare fingers, man, he just pulled out my wisdom teeth—didn’t even hurt.”“No way!” at least two of Kelii’s friends said, not disbelieving, but rather in excitement.Whether Kelii had transcribed the chant, or if it was by memorization, the boys began their ritual with Kelii acting the part of dark priest. After having all but one person link arms in a circle around a boy, Kelii placed his hands on the kid’s head and repeated the spell that would bring strength to his fingers and numbness to the patient. Having made an end to speaking, he pierced his comrade’s tongue with a cheap stud. With excited, albeit distorted, praise, the newly adorned friend exclaimed, “Thweet, dood. Di’in eben hurt a-aull!”Two others asked to have the task administered to them, one of them chickening out when his turn came. The other had his tongue pierced with a similar result. During the entire ceremony, I couldn’t help but feel what can only be described as a muddle of thought. My body felt as if it was being wrapped in a thick blanket of darkness. Not cold darkness, but hot clammy darkness. It made me shiver with claustrophobic discomfort. The Devil. It could only be the evil master of sorcery himself. In that darkness, I received my most disturbing epiphany ever.If there was a Devil, and if he truly was capable of giving such powers to those who call on his nature, shouldn’t this son of perdition have his opposite? Shouldn’t there also be a God? Usually people are brought to believe in God by feeling good or guilty. For me the seeds were planted in my mind by that enemy of light. Everything I’d ever believed, or rather disbelieved, came into question.Despite my experience, what followed later that afternoon would overshadow my morning epiphany. My questions about God would ebb over the next few days as I redirected my focus. Funny how inaction can dull the most powerful of epiphanies.But for now, my thoughts continued churning throughout the second-period class discussion. I just couldn't shake the memory of those piercings. I wasn’t quite distracted from the lecture. How I paid any attention was a miracle. Master Haimi, the teacher of second period, was discussing political events. She mainly referenced the growing crime rate. Her lecture touched on the roving bands of marauders that plagued the region.These mercenaries are like pirates of the land, pillaging and taking advantage of anyone they can plunder. Most of them, with exception of the youngest bands, are rarely punished. Even if they’re caught, the sentence is only severe enough to give the appearance of justice. With few exceptions, the judges are as much invested in the marauding as the troublemakers, receiving bribes, gifts, and services from them.Like a weapon without a cause, these remnants of the war contribute to the corrupt nature of our government. Since they are often employed by corrupt political figures, and since we journalists-in-training would likely be helping with some of their propaganda, we needed to learn how to get on with them. But they weren’t the most dangerous people we had to worry about. Usually they just rough you up and move you on your way. They don’t care about politics. As long as they get paid and have their fun, the rest of the world could be swallowed into the earth.According to Master Haimi, the real force to be reckoned with when discussing politics was the Believers. Those of us considered common pagans were the prime target for these religious enthusiasts. They wanted power. Rumor was they had it, too. At least they had it over nature. They still wanted political power, but their numbers were still too few. This also was something they were trying to correct. They wanted their celestial law to be common law. Master Haimi related how these Believers had once visited her.“You’d better read up on these fellows, or you’ll never be able to stand up to them. They come at you so meek and unassuming. But when they speak, their words stab at your bones. They leave scars that tear at you long after they leave. They aren’t friendly toward the witches, but that’s probably because the witches know all their tricks. Once you become a Believer, they have you for life. Only a few have ever escaped their spell. Those who do can never bring themselves to believe in anything, let alone God, ever again.”There it was again. God. I sat in my chair, chin resting on my desk. Master Haimi’s voice droned on while I drifted into my own foggy world, trying to make sense of it all. There was a conflict happening. The Devil had never seemed so unassuming, but now I knew he was real. God had never seemed important, but shouldn’t evil have its opposite? And if the god of the Believers was really the Devil . . .“Iddo!”I jumped in my chair, smacking my knees hard on the bottom of the desk. Laughter rippled around the classroom.“Iddo, I asked you a question. Were you not paying attention?”I pulled at my shirt. The back of my wooden chair had used my own sweat to plaster the shirt to my back. The breeze that often came through the open windows rarely cooled the un-conditioned air of the classroom. “Yes, Master Haimi, I just—”The bell rang. My breath caught for an instant. I let it out with a sigh of relief. Master Haimi was waving her arms frantically, trying to settle the class down while she finished her interrogation. We’d all been sitting still for the last two hours without stretching. She lost the battle as kids ignored her and rushed to the door. I wove in and out between the other students, my book bag slapping against everyone’s legs. Amid their annoyed protests, I was able to lose myself in the crowd before she could grab me by the ear and humiliate me even further. I had no doubt that she’d remember to pick on me first thing tomorrow, but by then I’d be in a better frame of mind to answer her.There was one thing worse than being scolded by Master Haimi. That thing was waiting for me at my locker. I debated turning around and letting the master have her run at me, but I had little doubt that fate would be so kind. This threat at my locker would wait for me. It always did.End of Chapter 1Thanks for reading. Remember to comment on anything you liked or that you think could be fixed.Click here to read Chapter 2Copyright 2017: While I encourage you to share this link with your friends and family, please keep in mind that this is copyrighted material. Under no circumstances do you have the right to re-publish any or part of this content without specific written permission from BC Crow and Blue House Publishing.

Free Pre-Release Book Party

Kickoff to Swing Low: The Hangman of The Woods

I really enjoyed it. It was as if the author of Swing Low, went into the woods, ate some funky mushrooms, then sat down to write. -My dad

The time has come my literate friends, to read another book. But wait, this book is not only good, its FREE!

Yes, this is the free, pre-release party I’ve been so excited to share with you.

I’m going to release this book differently than I’ve ever done a release before. In fact, this is quite different from most book releases.

I’m doing this differently for a couple of reasons.

1.  I recently went back and re-read my first series, the Nephilim Series, and realized that I had a lot of errors in it. You may wonder why I didn’t have it edited. The problem is, I did have it edited. But after several revisions and proofreads by multiple people, a lot of things slipped through. It took putting the book down for over a year for me to revisit it with a fresh mind. (Rest assured, I am revising those earlier books.)

So, while I’ve tried to polish Swing Low as good as I can, I thought I’d kick it out to any of my fans to read before I release the final version. Not only will you be able to read it before it’s officially published, but if you find any mistakes, or have any constructive criticisms, I encourage you to comment or email me with those findings. They might very well make it into the final version.

2.  I’m still a relatively new author. I’ve been writing now for four years, and this will be my 4th published book. Frankly, I want you to give my books a try, risk free, so that you can discover me, and help get the word out about my brand of storytelling.

3.  You may also notice, that I’ve included a podcast of each chapter as I present them. Now, keep in mind, I’m no professional reader. Yes, this will be my own voice, (sorry) so don’t expect it to be Audio Book Quality.

No, I’m mostly doing this because I understand that many of you are like me, busy. Sometimes it’s easier to listen to a book, or in this case, a series of chapters, while you’re doing dishes or driving to work.

But that’s not the only reason I’m giving you a downloadable version. By reading the book out loud, it should force me to catch mistakes that I and other proofreaders might accidentally skim over.

For the next several weeks, I’ll release one or two chapters per week. At the end of this, I’ll take all those free comments and suggestions from you, and I’ll make the final published draft. Each of you who are subscribed to my newsletter will then receive a complete complimentary copy of the final ebook.Please help me give this book away to as many people as possible by sharing your interest of this, with them. You can do this via word of mouth, Facebook, Goodreads, or any other way you feel fit.

So, thank you for being a part of my final draft. And without further ado, our feature presentation:
Installment #1 of:Sing Low: The Hangman of the WoodsBy B.C. Crow (Download audio podcast here) ()Author’s NoteA few years back, I experienced a particularly sleepy period of my life, a time when I received very little actual sleep. I will simply call this time “First Child.”Up until then, I was a scheduled person. I would go to sleep every night at ten, and wake up every morning at six. My daughter was an angel. And, as I have learned, angels don’t sleep—not easily, at least. During this time of constantly disrupted sleep, my mind started confusing reality with my dreams. This made for some interesting stories that my wife still tells at family gatherings today. But since my waking world and my dream world were so intertwined, I found myself remembering the most incredible dreams in vivid detail.These dreams sparked a whole notebook full of ideas that will play a major part in many of the novels that I plan to write in the future. Swing Low just happens to be among those dreams that to this day remain vivid in my mind. I watched most of this story play out in one evening, and I knew that I had to write it down.While this book may seem a little different from many books you may have read, at least you now know where the inspiration for it came from. I don’t care about sticking to a specific genre like many other authors do; I really just write what intrigues me at any given time. Despite however many books I've written, or am currently writing, I'll never fail to write that which excites me the most.To me writing is a hobby, a craft which I am constantly trying to improve upon with each new novel. If you choose to pick up my books, I hope you find them entertaining and unique. In this book, I’ve included much of what I dreamed, but expanded it a little, also. This story takes place in southern Asia, but not in any real country or on any specific landmass. I’ve made up a territory that exists somewhere between Laos and Singapore.The timing is meant to be in the very near future, perhaps sometime between now (2017) and the middle of the 21st century. While some references to religions and countries or races are mentioned, none are meant to be criticisms. They are just part of an imaginary world that existed one night in this head of mine.I hope you enjoy Swing Low: The Hangman of the Woods. Feel free to check out my other books. You can find them on my website www.BlueHPublishing.com or you can visit your bookstore of choice. Like I’ve said, my stories don’t all fall in the same genre; thus, you’re not reading the same story over with different, albeit predictable, characters or plots. At least I hope that every new story I tell is a new experience and a great diversion.Sincerely,B. C. CrowPrologueMy name is Iddo. I am short and fat. If I'd been born in America, this might not be so bad, that is to say, the fat part of me. While most Americans seem fat, some even more so than myself, they’re all much taller than an average person here. I, unfortunately, am short, even when compared to the people in my own region. Even so, there are many days when I wish I had been born to that country of plenty. But if not the United States, then even Europe might have sufficed. Alas no, I live in one of many war-torn areas that sit between China and Australia.This southern end of Asia, still suffering from the effects of the most recent wars, was governed by no less than four powers, as far as I can see things, though it seems incredibly jumbled. China was the closest and most obvious influence, even though they didn’t escape fully unscathed by the war, about which tensions remain high. The second most prevalent influence on the region was the local government, which is ruled by none other than the sons of our own land. Criminals now, at least of bureaucracy. I don’t know what they were like before.Blessedly, in the last year, things have been improving. Considering recent events, it’s no wonder.The last two influences, at least at the time, were minor in the actual governing of affairs, but had a significant influence on day-to-day life. After all, the Europeans and Americans seldom encourage anything but the spread of their Western culture. This is accomplished primarily by language.Everyone I know speaks at least four languages, while the Europeans speak two, maybe three. Americans seldom speak more than one. For this reason, English has slowly become the national language, that is, if we are to call ourselves a nation. While we have bodies acting as governing officials, we are basically without law and true country. Like the Mong, who sing the meow of the stray cat sonnet, we too are seeking blindly that sense of belonging where nobody can stand together.Forgive me in my ramblings. One thing I’ve always been good at is telling a story far greater than anyone has patience to hear, or in my case, read. I’m not too good at speaking. I do have some talent at writing, though. English has always come more easily to me than to others. As a child, it won me admiration and wonder by all who knew me, only to be followed by strong tensions.As the most uncomely of children growing up, I had to learn ways to compensate for my figure. The prettiest of people are always accepted and popularized, regardless of personality. The rest of the population must improve their character to win any satisfaction in the pitiless arena of friendship. Now, if that remaining crowd is destined to work so hard on their wit, how much more should somebody of my countenance strive to be personable?I failed, of course. I mistook personality for cleverness. The more I learned, the more I alienated myself from others. With any luck, I’m starting to get over that. But that’s not my story.The real story begins at a tender teenage year. Yes, this is a tale, a true tale that starts with me. My intention, however, is not to tell of my experience, nor that of our ragged region. This is about a strange man, more hideous in appearance than myself. But since I cannot tell of him without including something of my own part in the matter, I hope that you will patiently humor me.A major portion of this happened a couple of years ago. Because of this, my memory may have faded somewhat. Still, these are my true feelings and the memories are as I do and wish to remember them. With any luck my story will be retold, lasting longer than the hapless prophet of old, whose name I bear. As I write this down, I would that my book not suffer the same fate as the lost scripture of that seer of antiquity. Of course, I’d have to publish it if I hoped to have any chance of it surviving. I don’t know if anybody would even read this. I write it anyway, that I may bear witness, proving my efforts with the gifts He entrusted to me. After all, as the Believers say, the records we make here on Earth will be used to help judge us in heaven.Thanks in part to Western influence, though we’re still a disorganized people, the schooling system hasn’t decayed like the rest of society. In fact, it has improved. If you ask me, this is how the Caucasians hope to eventually stabilize our land. Unfortunately, even the best schemes of man find ways to go astray. The meandering path which I originally found myself on was the very path most encouraged by my late father. To save you the doldrums of my whole life history, I’ll begin when I was fifteen years old.End of PrologueThanks for reading. Remember to comment on anything you liked or that you think could be fixed.Click here to read Chapter 1Copyright 2017: While I encourage you to share this link with your friends and family, please keep in mind that this is copyrighted material. Under no circumstances do you have the right to re-publish any or part of this content without specific written permission from BC Crow and Blue House Publishing.

Should you write with an agenda?

Do I write with an agenda?
This is kind of like celebrities. Once they get famous, they feel like they need to tell the whole world what it should be doing. Most writers however aren't famous. And even if they were, having an agenda can get pretty old pretty fast.

Having said that, I've known authors argue both sides of this. I know some authors who simply want an adventure for the reader to lose themselves in. I've also known many authors who want their novel to bring a particular point to light.

The truth is, that whether you want to make a political, moral, or other type of point in your literature, the reader is often going to take something away with them. You may just be writing a techno-thriller, but you may get them thinking about the ethics of technology or you may have them walking away thinking that in the future, casual sex will be so socially acceptable, that everyone should engage in it. You may even get them thinking of something you never even mentioned, but that came about as a consequence of your novel. For example, they might turn into conspiracy theorists because your shadow organization seemed plausible to them.

The thing is, everything you write, will say something of what you believe. The question therefore is: Do you actively control and plan what that message will be, or do you just let the story happen?

I subscribe to the camp, that you must control the message. Primarily, I want to write a book that entertains. But I would consider myself a poor steward of your time, if I put little thought into what you took away with you. As I've said, you will almost always take something away with you.

When I begin a book, my thought process goes like this:
1. Cool idea.
2. How can I turn this into a story?
3. When the reader closes the book, am I comfortable with what they take away with them?
4. I sure hope I'm not the only one who likes this book.

As you can see, I'm not trying to pound a point into your head. Nobody likes a preachy author. I just want to be responsible with the most important thing you've given me. Your time.

Thank you for giving my books a chance. I hope you enjoy them, and that when you finish reading them, you can sit back and say, yes, that was a good book.