Jeffrey L. Blehar's Blog, page 10

Anyone tried Inkshares?

I have just heard about this site and was wondering if anyone has had any experience with it.  It sounds like it could be an interesting way to get stuff published and out in to the world.  It also seems like it could be a nerve-wracking experience trying to hit the “pre-order goal”.

I decided to put something I have been working on up (while I work on editing Nighthawks for Createspace).  It is a series of shorter, loosely connecting vignettes based on how characters deal with different form...

Nighthawks: A Book of the Broken FREE weekend is extended

I want to thank everyone who downloaded my first book this past weekend.  I was surprised by the number of downloads.  I decided to extend the free download period by a day.  The book will be available for FREE for one more day (Monday 10/2).

I have gotten some good feedback to put to use on the final edit for the paperback.

Once again, thank you so much…

Progress (A Short Story)

Sweat poured down her body; swinging a machete in the deep jungle required vast amounts of energy and stamina, both of which she had in spades.  She paused from her path-clearing to take a long swig from her canteen.  The sweat on her heavily-tattooed arms glistened in what little sunlight filtered through the dense canopy.  She knew where and when each tattoo was acquired — each with its own story.  A lotus from Cambodia, a skull from Nicaragua, a lion from South Africa; one for every gig sh...

Saturday Spotlight: Armageddon 2419 A.D.

Armageddon 2419 A.D.

Author: Philip Francis Nowlan

Cover Art: Ed Emsh

Originally Published: Amazing Stories 1928

Reviewed Edition: Ace 02935 (1962)

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Influences: Erle Stanley Gardner (A.A. Fair)

Erle Stanley Gardner (1889-1970) was a lawyer who loved litigating and courtroom antics, but was bored with actual law.  In his spare time, he began writing stories for various pulp publications.  His first was published in 1923.  He is most famous as the creator of Perry Mason.  Mason was the lawyer hero of 80 novels.  Under the A.A. Fair pen-name he wrote a series of novels centering on the Cool and Lam Detective Agency.

Perry Mason was the most wholesome of the long-running pulp heroes.  M...

Nighthawks – FREE on Amazon for the weekend.

Nighthawks will be free for Kindle on Amazon (KDP Select) from Friday through Sunday (9/29-10/1).  The paperback should be available within a few weeks.

Influences: Brett Halliday

Brett Halliday was the pen-name of Davis Dresser.  One of the most prolific pulp writers in the crime genre.  He wrote under a slew of pen-names (he pulled of some westerns and romances to boot).  I chose to write about Dresser under his Halliday pen-name, because it is the Mike Shayne mysteries that I consider his most influential.

As a boy, Dresser lost an eye to a barbwire fence and wore an eye-patch for the majority of his life.  Like Chandler and Hammett before him, Dresser failed at man...

Nighthawks available on Kindle

Nighthawks: A Book of the Broken is now available on Amazon for Kindle as of today.  I am excited for this story to see the light of day.  It available for $.99 for a limited time.  I hope some of you decide to check it out.

If you like Depression era gangsters, hard-boiled detectives and a healthy dose of the supernatural in your murder mysteries, this may be right up your alley.

After a break for a few weeks, I will be starting on the second Book of the Broken.  I already have much of the outline done.  Since it deals with time in an odd way, the second book will be both a prequel and a sequel to Nighthawks.

The link to the Kindle site:

The Machines: Underwood Noiseless

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The Underwood #5 had become the industry standard for typewriters by the early 1930’s, leaving the other companies competing with each other for the remaining marketshare.  Underwood, not content to rest on their sccess, re-engineered the #5’s basic design.  The shortened the throw arm, and added a multi-hinge spring which reduced the snapback.  These innovations made for a quicker, smoother process, but it also reduced the noise, significantly.  They also enclosed the whole assembly, furthering noise reduction…the Underwood Noiseless line was born.

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1931 saw the introduction of the Noiseless Portable.  It was a clone of the Remington Noiseless Portable, and was even manufactured by Remington for Underwood.  At the time, Remington was able to make more money from a licensing deal with Underwood than from selling the same exact machine with a Remington name.

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By 1941, Underwood had moved on from the Noiseless Portable to the Champion, which became seen as the elite portable machine.

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Eilert and the Woboetah

 

An expansion of a thought.  The image of a lighthouse high on a rocky cliff top came to me and stuck in my head for a few days.  This is what developed around that image…

Eilert and the Woboetah

 

Eilert woke with a start. Why was he awake? What had woken him? The wind howled and the driving rain pelted the little cabin, but it was neither of those things; he had grown accustomed to the unrelenting winter storms. He sat upright, in his bed, in the total darkness. That was it! There was no light from the lighthouse pouring through the cracks in his shutters. In all his years living in the little cabin, the beacon shined every night. Jenkins, the lighthouse keeper never failed in his duty. Something was wrong.

He fought with his galoshes as he pulled them on, in the dark. He found his sole lantern, lighting it with an accustomed ease. It was old, but reliable; Eilert hoped it could take the storm’s punishment. The treacherous cliff paths were no place to be without light on a stormy night. He pulled on his thick raincoat and hat as he prepared himself for the elements.

He left the warm safety of his cabin for the half-mile trek to the lighthouse. He fought against the rain and the wind as he progressed over the slippery shale-strewn path. The lantern was far from adequate, but provided him with enough light for the arduous journey. It took some doing, and a few slips, but he managed to make it to the lighthouse keeper’s cabin without serious harm. The door to the cabin was open, light from the fireplace gave Eilert some solace. The fire gave the cabin a warm, cozy feel. He didn’t bother to knock, but entered the cabin unannounced.

“Jenkins?” He yelled. His mind registered the blood and body before he had finished speaking. Jenkins’ body lay still in a small pool of blood; a bloodied log from the stack of firewood lay nearby. Panic seized Eilert as he stared at the horrific scene.

He didn’t know what to do. The village lay three treacherous miles below the cliffs where he stood. It was too dangerous to try the hike down to the village for help. He had to light the beacon. If there were any ships in the bay seeking safe harbor, they would need the light. He also knew, if he lit the beacon, the murderer would know someone had found Jenkins.

Eilert was not a brave man, but he knew he had to light the beacon, murderer or no. He left the cabin and made for the lighthouse, fifty yards away. The gale had increased, making his walk more treacherous. A gust of wind caught Eilert off-guard, ripping the lantern from his grasp. He now had to finish the walk in the dark. He slid his feet as he made his way to the lighthouse, so as not to fall.

Fear gripped Eilert. Thoughts of his long-passed grandmother flooded his mind. He could see her, rocking in her chair, on the porch of the cabin he now called home. She would rock and watch over the harbor below. She told young Eilert stories of a creature roaming the rocky cliffs. A fierce, hairy beast with sharp claws. She called it the Woboetah. It lived in a cave hidden amongst the sheer cliffs and fed on children and unsuspecting sailors. Eilert now knew this was a tale to keep him from exploring the dangerous cliffs, but he couldn’t shake the feeling something was watching him from the dark.

He made it to the lighthouse. He climbed through the small door, and slammed it shut behind him. He thought to lock the iron door before beginning his long climb up to the beacon. He climbed the iron steps, all two-hundred-forty-two of them. He was breathless when he reached the top. He tried to peer out the glass enclosure, but the rain was coming down in sheets. He could see nothing. He prayed and tried to light the beacon. It lit. The murderer now knew someone else was on the cliffs.

He made the long climb back down to ground level. Eilert knew he was in the safest place he could find. He decided to hunker down for the night in the base of the lighthouse, behind the iron door.

He slept in fits during the night. Images of the Woboetah haunted his dreams. He woke with the first light of dawn, still exhausted. Sometime during the night, the rain tapered off and the wind died down. Eilert hoped the killer had used the stormy night to escape the cliffs. He again climbed the iron stairs to extinguish the beacon, before leaving the safety of the lighthouse.

The iron door opened with a screech – metal on metal. The overcast and gloomy morning did nothing to ease Eilert’s dread. He poked his head out of the door to survey the path. A thick fog had settled over the cliffs. Eilert made his way back to the lighthouse keeper’s cabin.

He entered the cabin, keeping his wits about him. A sudden shock caused his knees to buckle; Jenkins’ body was gone. Eilert leaned into the doorjamb to keep from falling to the floor. It would take hours for the fog to lift, making it safe for the hike to the village. He didn’t have hours; he had to go now.

He scanned the room for a weapon of any sort. He found nothing of use. A small steak knife was the best he could manage. He tucked it into the waistband of his pants and headed out into the fog. He knew the path down to the village by heart, but it didn’t look the same, in the fog.

Eilert made the trip to the village once a month; more often in the summer, less often in the winter. He traded small carvings he made for food and other necessities. He was known as an eccentric hermit among the townspeople. They saw him as odd, but harmless.

He struggled along the path, the deafening silence adding to his fear. Again, he found his mind wandering to the Woboetah. He knew he had more to fear from a flesh and blood killer than a mythical cave-dwelling monster, but he could not escape from the thought.

He froze with a start. A sound echoed through the fog. It sounded like wolf paws on the slate rock, but a wolf hadn’t been seen on the cliffs in over a century. He couldn’t tell from where it came. He drew his knife and waited in silence. The sound failed to repeat. Eilert waited, but still no sound. He resumed his walk, maintaining a wary vigilance. There it was again…the same sound. Eilert froze, again.

“Hello?” He yelled out into the gray morning. He waited for a response.

*

The position of constable in the small fishing village was more of an honorary title than an actual profession. The job was usually given to a man too old to head out to sea. Fishing was in every man’s blood. Fish provided a livelihood for the people of the village and the lighthouse on the cliffs above provided a safe return.

Pearsson was not happy with his role as constable. He would rather have been at sea. He was past his prime, but he felt he had a few more good seasons in him; the ships’ captains all saw it differently. Now, he just pretended to look busy. There was no crime in the small village of hard-working folk, so there was not much use for a constable.

This reason is why Pearsson was surprised when a group of women came to see him when it was nearing sundown. They were the wives of some of the town’s hardiest fishermen. Only the bravest and strongest men went out on the seas during winter. These wives had a concern and appealed to Pearsson to put them at ease.

“What if Jenkins fails to light the beacon tonight?” Laura asked.

Pearsson was not worried about the situation and responded to the concern, “Jenkins has never failed in his duty as lighthouse keeper.”

This time, Margery spoke up, “The light was late last night and our men were almost dashed on the rocks. What if it happens again?”

The wives were concerned and Pearsson knew there was only one way to appease them, “I will pay Jenkins a visit tomorrow and convey your worries to him.”

“But what of tonight?” Clara asked. She was the youngest of the women present.

Pearsson answered, “It is too late in the day to begin such a dangerous trip. I’ll go at first light. You have my word.”

The women accepted his plan, but muttered to each other as they went about their business. This left Pearsson alone to contemplate the dreaded hike he’d have to make, in the morning.

Pearsson watched the cliffs, in eager anticipation as darkness crept over the village. He prayed for the lighthouse to illuminate the sky and show the ships safe passage home. He waited. Darkness fell and no light. The rains had started and the wind would pick up any time. Most of the ships had made port, but a few had yet to return. He had a difficult decision to make. He could make the treacherous hike up the cliffs to the lighthouse, or he could wait until morning when the trip would be safer. If he waited until morning, the ships still at sea would have no clear-way back into port.

Pearsson chose to make the trip up to the lighthouse. Three miles up loose shale paths in the howling wind and rain. It was a fool’s errand, but he had a lot to prove. He wanted to show he could still be useful. If he accomplished this, then maybe a ship’s captain would hire him on for the spring season.

A three-hour march led him up the cliffs. It had been over a year since he had braved the path up to the lighthouse. His lack of memory of the paths hindered his progress. He found his way to the top of the cliffs and then found his way to the lighthouse keeper’s cabin. It was cold and dark.

“Jenkins?” He yelled into the dark. No answer.

His priority was to get the lighthouse operating, the whereabouts of Jenkins would have to wait. He managed to get into the lighthouse and up the stairs with no difficulty. Once he got the beacon lit, he returned to the cabin. On the way to the cabin, he stumbled over the broken remnants of a lantern.

Once he got back in the cabin he needed to warm himself; he needed a fire. He approached the fireplace and slipped in something, but managed to catch himself on the mantle. He set to work starting a fire. After the fire was well under way, it provided enough light to see. He looked to see what he had slipped in and saw the pool of blood on the floor. A search of the cabin yielded no results; Jenkins was nowhere to be found.

Pearsson remembered the hermit lived near the lighthouse, but wasn’t sure of the location of his cabin. He would have to wait the storm out and look for it come morning. The night brought little sleep for the old man. He was worried for Jenkins. The storm died down before dawn and a thick fog rolled in over the cliffs.

He set out in the general direction of the old hermit’s cabin. He wasn’t sure of the exact location, but there weren’t too many places for a cabin to fit, up here. He trudged along, in the fog and the silence. Then he heard it. It sounded like stone on stone. What could it have been?

“Hello?” He yelled into the fog. The noise stopped.

Pearsson realized, he had no weapon. He listened for any hint of what may be out there. Silence. He resumed his search for the hermit’s cabin. He saw the silhouette of the cabin, in the foggy distance. The sound returned, only it was closer to him. He couldn’t tell the direction from which the noise came, but it was coming closer. He turned, trying to see in the fog. It was getting louder, but he couldn’t see anything in the fog.

He ran toward the cabin, stumbling over the rocks as he went. He could hear nothing but the sound of his own panicked heart beating in his ears. He didn’t know if he was being chased or not. He dared not look back, he focused all his strength on reaching that cabin…

*

Early the next morning, the village elders asked for volunteers to search for Pearsson. The party began their climb mid-morning, after the fog had lifted. They found the keeper’s cabin and lighthouse abandoned. A pool of dried blood, on the floor, before the fireplace was all that remained of Jenkins.

The search party split into smaller groups to search the surrounding cliff tops. One group found Eilert’s empty cabin, with no sign of the old hermit. Another group stumbled upon a honeycomb of caves carved into the cliff walls by centuries of wind and wave. A few of the bravest men entered the caves in their search for Jenkins, Pearsson, and the hermit. The men grew afraid of the possibility of becoming disoriented in the vast cave system, and turned back, leaving much of the cave unexplored. The search party returned, with heavy heart, to the village as the sun set over the raging sea. No sign of the missing men was ever found.

One brave soul remained amongst the clifftops to light the beacon for the returning ships. For the first time in three nights, the lighthouse guided the village’s fishing ships home as another storm rolled in off the icy sea.