Tim Greaton's Blog, page 11

A Serial Killer in Our Midst…

Another murder tonight, Transformers' Doofus of the Moon, like a cemetery resident, a unique thriller, lonely on the threads, Violins and Frogs… Our best week ever AGAIN in digital book sales! I can't tell you how thankful I am to all of you who keep mentioning my name, leaving reviews, and generally help me to get the word out about my stories and books. Once again this week, we had our best-ever in digital sales. It was also our best month ever in digital sales. We may also have had our best month in print sales, but those numbers typically aren't available for several months.What do I mean by "Our" best week over? That's easy. I mean you and me. During the contest, Priscilla Burnette posted something about "Team Greaton," and that's exactly how it feels. I couldn't do any of this without the support of my many readers. So, THANK YOU, THANK YOU, THANK YOUJ!
Bones in the Tree : It's hard to imagine, but this story has turned into a novella, of which I just completed the second draft. It now runs over 40 pages and is over 13,500 words. What that means is after having just completed the 2nd of at least 4 drafts, I have already invested over 33 hours in this tale. I'm hoping another 10 hours will wrap it up, but rest assured either way it will be published TuesdayJ.
Once Upon a Stradivarius wins first place! This flash fiction story of exactly 600 words won first place at the Musings of the Mistress of the Dark site. Thank you to everyone who voted! You can find the story listed under the Short Stories tab at the top of this blog as well as at Mistress' site: http://mistressofthedarkpath.wordpress.com/2011/06/29/and-the-finalists-for-the-writing-contest-are/.
Other new stories this week: In preparation for the Mistress' writing contest, I also wrote two additional stories. Violin Intentions and Violin and the Frog Motion. Both run about 600 words and can be found under the Short Stories tab at the top of this blog. Zachary Pill, The Dragon at Station End : As you can see above, I got caught up in the long-delayed Bones in the Tree novella and wound up investing quite a bit of time and energy in the other three stories as part of the Mistress' writing contest this week. That means I have not yet begun the first Zachary Pill, The Dragon at Station End edit review, but rest assured I will begin sometime between now and Wednesday. Focus House is still shooting for an August release date on this one. Wish me luck J.
Here's another Zachary Pill excerpt… Zachary couldn't help thinking the old nurse was like a set of bones you might see standing against the wall in science class. If it weren't for the pulsing blue veins beneath her pale skin and the graying strands of hair that she continually stuffed like dead grass beneath her white nurse's cap, she could easily have been a cemetery resident. Her skeletal hand gestured for him to sit up on a long padded table in the center of the small x-ray room. A large machine with a single robotic arm stood beside the table. The end of the arm looked like a huge camera with a moving platform below it. "Go on, get up!" Zachary slid onto the padded table where she promptly yanked his sling loose. Agony ripped through his mangled arm as it twisted and fell into his lap. Zachary tried to stifle the scream, but a tiny yelp still escaped his throat."'More of a weed than a tree," the nurse said. Zachary supposed it was an insult, but his arm throbbed so badly he could barely think. Suddenly, the nurse reached out and pulled his wrecked limb onto the platform below the x-ray camera. Every nerve in his arm screamed in agony."You're trying to kill me!" Zachary exclaimed."Quit your whining or I'll yank it again!"She's belongs in a horror movie!Why hadn't Nurse Nightshade let him to Dr. Gefarg's office first? He couldn't have been any worse off than spending time with Nurse Pain! Even as he thought it, bony fingers bit into his skin and pushed his arm to the side. He swallowed and tried to calm his pain-wracked nerves enough to speak. "Just tell me…where you want my arm. I'll do it myself." His body still quaked from pain."Wouldn't be so much fun," she said, no smile on her pinched face. "Now stop moving, or I'll have to adjust it again."  Becoming statue-like, Zachary was determined not to give her any excuse to put him through that again. She laid a heavy pad on his lap then retreated behind a glass window to one side of the room. A whirring sound came from the x-ray camera above his arm. When the nurse came back she, of course, reached out as though to jerk his arm again. Zachary flinched. Daggers of pain shot straight into his brain. "Maybe I was going to be gentle," the nurse said, her transparent skin stretching over a skeletal grin. Zachary glared at her.Gray lips thinned and eyes narrowed, but the old nurse was more careful as she repositioned his arm the second time. She then ducked her behind her glass window and let the x-ray machine whir again. Coming back, she said, "That's it.""I can go?"  She gave him a full smile―a sight better suited to a Halloween party than a clinic—and said, "Unless you're having too much fun." Her grin widened, and for a moment Zachary could have sworn he saw fangs….
Slugger the Cat is a serial killer: I fear that I might get some hate mail for pulling our animal segment away from Fat Duck long enough to focus on Slugger the Serial Killer. Rest assured, Fat Duck has had a great week, though he was a little frustrated when I hosed the dried grass off his beak after seeing it stuck there for over an hour yesterday. Next time we'll discuss how a Fat Duck's local fans is trying to change his name to Watch Duck J.But in tonight's blog I've decided to introduce (or maybe reintroduce) Slugger. Imagine a huge yellow tabby, sort of like Garfield but not quite that fat, who weighs about 12 pounds. He's about fourteen years old now, and is most known for his willingness to endure any torture as long as the net result is people attention. I typically have to throw him off my chest several times while trying to get five or six hours of sleep, and I suspect both my sons also have to send him packing multiple times a night.Slugger, like most cats, spends much of his time relaxing, usually on top of someone in the family, but sometimes he just sprawls across a windowsill, chair, or bed. However, once he steps through his cat doors to the outside, he turns into a first-class predator…well, if lazy and first-class can be part of the same predator package. A few years back, he used to bring in at least one mouse a day, and sometimes as many as five. Because I'm the original don't-hurt-anything-if-you-can-help-it guy, I have yelled at him thousands of times for attacking and dragging these poor helpless mice into our house. Now, either because he doesn't like to be yelled at or because he enjoys letting them loose and playing with them more than killing them, more often than not these days he doesn't kill them. Last week, my wife and dog cornered one mouse in the kitchen where I was able to slip a bowl over it and set it free outside. The same thing happened tonight. Unfortunately, only the second mouse survived tonight. The first one was DOA on my dining room floor. I since also found entrails in the basement so it looks like it was two dead and only one survivor tonight.So, yes, Slugger is a lovable ball of fur, but once outside "Jack…" might be a better name.
My week: This has been one for the record books. Several of the charities I worked with received sizable checks this week (in the tens of thousands). I finished four stories and won a writing contest. The folks at Focus House Publishing made some amazing improvements to my blog (I helped a little J). I have been signed up for at least six new social networks; Gather is one of them, but I forget the rest offhand. It will take several weeks to get even the basics established but I hope you'll scout me out and friend me everywhere (Twitter, Gather, Facebook, Myspace). At several of the sites, I have little to no friends. It's sad L. I didn't get to as many home projects as usual this week. We did get the last three flower pots hung on my porch, and I have the rest of the flowers to plant around the well (maybe tomorrow) but really it has been such a busy professional week, I had little time for anything other than helping one nephew move. I was really pleased to see what a beautiful new yard he has for his children.  
News – Shia LaBeouf: Bad Boy or Nitwit? I should first point out that I try very hard not to write incendiary or personally disparaging pieces, not about average people and not typically about celebrities, either. So, I should say in advance: Shia, if we're ever sitting across from each other on a production one day, please know I tried not to make any more offensive statements about you than you made about yourself this past week.Of course, with the new Transformers: Dark of the Moon movie coming out this week, Shia and all his onset cohorts have been out spreading the word about their latest special-effects laden action masterpiece (I haven't seen it yet). I have personally seen at least a dozen articles about Shia as well as several of his onscreen interviews. For me, a couple of issues have come to mind.First, I really don't believe that even celebrities should discuss their relationships, past or present, without the full permission of those partners. You'll note that I don't ever mention personal conversations or even personal information about the many people I come in contact with each day. So, when Shia decides to reveal all the women he has supposedly slept with, even while they had other boyfriends, etc…, I find the comments to be in very poor taste. If you ever liked someone enough to sleep with them, it only seems reasonable that you'd respect them enough to shut up about it…or so I think.I also have to wonder what makes Shia think he's physically all that. I've seen a lot of movie stars over the years, and Mr. LaBeouf, while reasonably healthy, is not nor ever has been the picture buff maleness. When you make statements alluding to your heightened muscularity, etc…, it's probably best that you actually have a few muscles showing when you slip into a tight tee shirt.Finally, I know a lot of people are impressed when a talented star like Shia asserts that he's not going to make any more blockbusters. Instead, he is going to go off and make pictures that he can be proud of, that can stretch his talents, that will allow him to explore his…blah, blah, blah. Okay, I get that the Transformers trilogy has likely padded Shia's pockets to the tune of tens of millions of dollars, and I also get that he will continue receiving royalties on those movies for the rest of his life, but what about all the other people that depend on filmmaking for a living? Every time a big star removes himself or herself from the box office rolls, two things happen: first, their popularity and box office clout shrinks almost overnight closing their window. Second, many of the big blockbuster movies with the big budgets DO NOT get made, which in turn means less profit for the studios, less jobs for all actors, and less work for all people in the filmmaking industry. Shia, rather than attempting to repeat Warren Beatty's career (which I heard you say this past week), how about following Will Smith's trajectory for another decade or two? Will Smith has blockbusters lined up from here to the end of time. He's making another Men in Black, another I-Robot, another Hancock, another I am Legend, and another Independence Day, not to mention the dozens of other secondary movies and projects he and his family are involved in. I'm not impressed with how much money Will Smith is making, but I am super-impressed with how much he is doing to keep so many studios, actors, and movie crews in the black.In short, Shia, you're not all that…but I believe you could be. I hope you'll rise to the challenge.
Why am I so fascinated with The Santa Conspiracy? By now, most of you know that I grew up in a difficult environment. My way of coping was to lock myself away with stacks of novels. I was reading YA books by the time I was 6 and adult novels by the time I was 7. In the thousands of books I read as a young person, what I sought out over and over again was a hero. I don't know if I wanted to actually be that hero or wanted one to come solve all my childhood problems, but either way I always gravitated towards the hero's journey. When I read a book or watch a movie, I want a good guy or gal to root for, and I want—no, insist—on a happy ending.So for me, The Santa Conspiracy was the heroic journey taken to a whole new level. What if entire neighborhoods, entire hidden societies existed not to tear down people down, but to build them up.When I dip into book two of The Santa Conspiracy, it will be with an eye toward the legal system and how heroes might be working right under our noses to make our world a better place.Wouldn't that be a nice change of pace?
Thanks so much, Cynthia for your positive review of From My Cold Young Fingers.
Her review…
««««¶ (4 out of 5 stars) July 1, 2011 at Smashwords 
A Unique Thriller
This was definitely a unique thriller with many twists and turns. The creation of the "underworld" brought a new perspective of life after death. Definitely suspenseful, heart-wrenching at times but well worth the read. Thank you, Tim.
In the next blog (Wednesday July 6th): has Fatty spawned a new Watch Duck cartoon? How do you make fried snowballs, my grandmother attempts murder dozens of times, and more….
Thanks for investing your valuable time with me. I'll always strive to make it worthwhileJ!

Little Miss Hannibal…

Monsters in small packages, The Killing is dead, a new Tim Greaton release, and Fat Duck - a new routine….Evil wears a pink dress: It's no secret that I consider myself to be one of the most fortunate fathers on the planet. I have three wonderful children who are all growing up to be equally wonderful and talented adults. My oldest is now twenty-one and recently moved into her first apartment; I'm happy to say that her landlord does not allow pets. So, why is that good?‎My wife and I didn't realize what a precious little monster we were raising until my daughter was about three years old. As a pretty serious bodybuilder at the time, I would get up each morning at about 4:30am to drink my protein powder and egg mix before heading out to the gym. Imagine my surprise when I opened the refrigerator to find our new tiny kitten shivering in a bowl of soup. I'm guessing the soup had probably been warm when the little creature first sat there.And my daughter got worse from there, enough so that I would leap out of bed at the slightest hint of her maniacal laugh. One morning, I heard her cackle and bounded out of bed to find the kitten drenched on the opposite side of the bathroom from the still-flushing toilet. If my crime scene reconstruction is correct, she must have dropped the kitten into the bowl and flushed. That poor thing must have made one giant leap clean across to the other side of the bathroom—no small feat for a tiny kitten :-(Then there was the time she dropped the same cat from a second floor window....But it was one morning when I woke hearing her talking to someone that truly terrified me. "Go ahead, touch it," I heard her say to her little brother.Terrified, I kicked free of my blankets—but it was too late! Already, my toddler son had exploded into tears. I burst into the living room to see him plopped diaper-first on the floor, holding his finger up to me, a giant wasp between his legs.His hysterical crying was only matched in volume by my daughter's gleeful laugh.Fortunately, she grew out of it. Now all grown up, my daughter recently said, "A policeman stopped me for an expired registration today, Dad." Then like a hand model she pointed toward her smile. "But he couldn't resist this face and let me go." I remember loaning her the money to get her car registered only to have her show up a few days later with only about half the money she owned. Before I can say, "Where's the rest?" she says, "You know you're impressed, Dad; that's the most I've ever paid back." Then she saunters off with that smile. Come to think of it, maybe she's still a monster J.Fat Duck's my outdoor son: Last week I said I'd like to see Fatty reach a new pinnacle of success. And, now, we can safely say that it has happened. Fat Duck has a new routine that leads him ultimately up onto the porch each night at between 7 and 8pm. Here's how his day goes…Fatty rests easy all night in the safety of his pen on the porch. During this time he enjoys one or two full bowls of clean water and at least three slices of bread. Come morning, he expects me to open his cage and feed him another two or three slices of bread before he wanders off the porch (sometimes with a little encouragement and sometimes after leaving me with several "gifts"). Of course, the rest of the day is spent either in the shade by the pond or on his hay bale acting as our lawn ornament.Then at about 5pm he starts to wander the hundred feet or so back along the side of the house. His wandering always seems to end somewhere between the house and barn. Then for the next couple of hours, he looks completely confused as he walks back and forth, constantly glancing up at the porch. I'm convinced this is when he thinks, "I really want to go up there, but they'll kick me off if I'm too early."Then finally just about the time twilight hits, he migrates to the stairs, hops up one at a time, and sits next to his pen. That's about the time my wife or children see him out the kitchen window and say, "Your son is ready for you."
My Review of The Killing (season finale) AMC television show starring Mireille Enos, Joel Kinnaman and Billy Campbell. My rating ¶¶¶¶ ¶ (zero out of five stars)The last episode I will ever watch..., 29 June 2011 It's probably important to say that I saw every one of the thirteen episodes of Season One. Like many reviewers, I thought the first couple of episodes were great with strong performances and quirky characters. The mystery was convincing, as were the personal problems that seemed to be cropping up for everyone from the cops to the suspects. But then something terrible started to happen. Actually a number of terrible things started to happen. First, the characters started to fluctuate from good to bad. Some viewers would have called it human, but I called it intentional misdirection. The writers wanted us to assume everyone on screen could possibly have been Rosie Larson's murderer. So, let's say that we're comfortable with the constantly stirring pot and the incredible panoply of red herrings the writers used to make us believe virtually anyone, maybe even the murdered girl herself, could have done it, all in the name of keeping the viewers uncertain and guessing. Maybe this is exactly what a real murder investigation is like, but to me it felt like cheating…not unlike when the writers of Lost swore their island wasn't a dream or a vision of purgatory, but then it turned out to be exactly that. No, for me the writers of The Killing were jerking my chain just a little too much. I might have given up on this show sooner, but I had been waiting the entire 12 episodes to learn who the killer was. So, I figured it was worth seeing it through to the end. Besides, maybe once I understood the mystery, I would feel better about all the misdirection.And then comes episode number thirteen…unlucky number thirteen, it turns out. So what happened? That's easy: NOTHING HAPPENED…at least nothing in the way of a murder being solved. This burns me in so many different ways, not the least of which was regretting the thirteen hours I had invested in this charlatan of a television show? The unwritten contract was that I would watch and would ultimately learn the identity of the killer. What makes it even worse for me is that AMC waited until the last minute to renew the series. What would the producers have done if they didn't get renewed? My guess is that we, the viewers, would have been screwed.But the joke is now on them. I believe many of us have learned our lesson. Those producers can't be trusted, therefore when I learn the identity of Rosie Larson's killer, it will be from Yahoo news or someone discussing it within earshot. Because one thing is absolutely for certain: I will never watch another episode of The Killing.
Bones in the Tree, update: As I promised, I finished the first draft of this story. It's in editing stage now. At last count it runs about 36 pages but will likely be trimmed back by ten to twenty percent. The story will be posted for free on Smashwords and a few other sites by Tuesday 5 July 2011. It will also be available for 99 cents on Amazon and Barnes and Noble the same day. If you read it and like it, please leave a review. If you don't like it…well, silence is golden J.
Thanks, Mark Reeder, for your amazing comments regarding The Santa Shop (Paperback)His review…««««« (five out of five stars)Simple Truths and Powerful Themes, May 12, 2011 From the very beginning the idea of a Santa Shop caught my imagination, but what kept me reading were the believable characters, simple truths and powerful themes wrapped up in a delightful package of iridescent prose. Tim Greaton is not just a writer, he's a consummate storyteller. His books should be on everyone's short list of must reads.

My Thanks: I once dreamt of writing for a living. Though a lot of my time is spent writing for nonprofit corporations and charities around the country, work that is incredibly fulfilling and that I will continue to do long after it is required on my end, each and every day more of my income comes directly from readers of my books. Please know that I couldn't be more sincere in my appreciation. THANK YOU ALL FOR GRANTING ME THIS LIFE, THE LIFE OF A WRITER!

A Boy Turns into A Dragon…

I didn't mean to invent a religion, the Fonz has feathers, GM wins big, aggravation IS ME, Tennessee Pennsylvania and Maine pipe in…
Bones in the Tree : I'm so aggravated with myself to report I still haven't finished the Bones in the Tree first draft. I have, however, decided that as soon as the blog is complete tonight, I will rectify that one way or another. I have only a few pages left to go in the story, and even though my project list is stacked from here to Heaven (including my publisher's request to hurry with the next book in the Zachary Pill series before the first one is even out!) I will finish Bones… tonight. Zachary Pill, The Dragon at Station End : Amazing news! When I settled down to open the ridiculous scrolling list of emails tonight, the first edits for Zachary Pill… were in my box. As soon as Bones in the Tree is complete (first draft tonight, edits Monday and TuesdayJ), I will be settling into some serious fantasy edits. It's funny, when I finished my final draft of Zachary Pill … (after something like five years) I never wanted to see that story again. Now, after a couple of months of Ripped… edits, I'm anxious to visit my dragon wizard boy again. By the way, the buzz about this book is really rising. I get as many emails and request for updates on Zachary Pill, The Dragon at Station End as I do on all my other projects combinedJ. It is definitely moving forward and will be available to all of you soon (I'm going to post another tiny excerpt just because I canJ.Here it is…Zachary stomped on his captor's boot and scrambled to get his feet beneath him. Somehow he managed to yank one arm free. Before the orc could grab him again, Zachary's hand closed around the ice-cold wizard's amulet. Though fear mixed freely with dragon rage in his veins, Zachary took one last look at Robin's brother—then jerked on the disc. The cord dug into his neck but did not break. Ignoring the pain, Zachary twisted and yanked again, this time splitting the heavy string. Like a roaring locomotive, pressure rushed into his head and pushed against his skull. A prickling sensation raced across his shoulders and sent goose bumps down his arms. Feeling an inexplicable sense of freedom, Zachary flung his medallion across the room where it struck a tapestry and fell to the floor.  A primal scream passed his lips as joints erupted in pain. He could feel his limbs contorting and stretching. From the bottoms of his feet to the top of his head, bones shifted and made cracking noises as they grew and bent at odd angles. Both arms shot out and the flesh around them swelled with dense muscle and newly formed scales. His joints burned in agony, and his fingers grew long and curled with knife-like claws sprouting from the ends. He saw his skin harden into a golden red crust. He knew he was screaming as his clothing tore and fell into shreds onto the floor. His neck pitched forward and his cheeks grew wide and long. His gums ached as rows of pointed teeth erupted from his upper and lower jaws. He felt thick slabs of muscle filling in the area around his cheeks and sensed he had enough power to chew through stone. Zachary tried to run his tongue over the new teeth, but it flicked out beyond the end of his snout and forked into two snakelike ends. His knees were forced into a crouch by flesh that thickened like tree trunks around his thighs. When he moved, the claws on his toes scraped the floor. Just when the pain of morphing began to fade, a fiery itch erupted from behind. It felt like something was trying to crawl out of his back as two additional limbs sprouted and unfurled like huge kites behind his shoulder blades. Within moments, a pair of golden red wings thickened into layers of muscle that rippled like eels beneath his scales. He stretched the new limbs and felt a glorious sense of power. For the first time, Zachary realized that the orc no longer held him. He could see its legs pumping toward one of the exits. "What's this!" Gefarg roared.Zachary snapped his neck around and hit his snout on the railing of the first balcony. Up until then, he hadn't realized how tall he had become….
Fat Duck is Fonzie Cool: As you all know, Fat Duck isn't fearless but sometimes it's hard to tell, especially if you're expecting him to run (or fly) for the hills when a little thing like a dog or a lawnmower goes charging his way.This week we have about twenty Canadian Mallards hanging out with Original Duck in the pond and along the shore of the brook (they're eating about four loaves of bread a day, tooJ). And over the weekend whenever I am working on projects around the house Patsy our dog gets to run free outside as long as I'm out there. Well, as you can imagine, she bolts out the door and flies off the porch like a superhero—and those poor ducks are her villains. She barks and pursues every last one of them into the water…except Fat Duck.Fat Duck just doesn't move quickly, not for me, not for my kids, and certainly not for a foolish dog. Oh, Patsy tries. She charges his way, possibly hoping that he'll finally see the light and realize he's supposed to be afraid of her, but ultimately the dog veers off rather than winding up in an in inevitable poultry pile-up with Fatty. As I was mowing around Fat Duck's hay bale earlier with my very large, very noisy lawn tractor, he did step off his bale, but only slowly and only as though it was entirely his choice. As I got closer and closer, he sauntered over toward the pond where he could sun himself near the shore. Then, once I finished mowing his area, he sauntered back. If someone had been watching, they might have thought it was me who was waiting for him to move so I could mow.With his cool, all Fatty lacks is a leather jacket and a motorcycle.
My week: My week can best be described as frenetic but productive. I completed a ton of great charitable projects, got a ton of writing related projects done (and as many of you know, Carrie Rourke is Focus House's publicist and she's like an orphanage taskmaster from a Dickens' novel), and this weekend I got my windmill renovations finished–though I've now decided to add another story to the upper sectionJ), I got most of my lawn tractor parts installed, and I even had a dry enough day today to get my lawn mowed. Huge bonus! My sister-in-law who is absolutely amazing with landscaping and planting showed up at our house this morning with a car full of plants. She spent several hours adding flowers to our grounds everywhere. Now if only we can keep them aliveJ.Other than having a sunburn, this past week definitely gets goes to the success column. Another blistering to-do lists starts off this week, so I'm hoping to get a good start in the morning (which means Bones in the Tree needs to go quickly tonight…pleaseJ)
News – The Chevy Volt: Does This Change Everything? I have to admit that I have not yet tried the new Chevy Volt. As a matter of fact, no city in Maine was included among the early release regions. But I am exceedingly curious and expecting it will be a car I'll want to own. The real question, however, is how many other people will want to own it? I'm inclined to believe A LOT!General Motors along with several other companies has flirted with electric cars in the past. We'll bypass the hopes and wishes of antique and collectible prototypes that all crashed and burned at the shores of battery woe and focus on GM's first real attempt at mass-producing an electric car. The EV1 was a lease-only trial program that lasted from 1996 to 1999. Hundreds of EV1 vehicles hit the road. But the cost of the program was high and the customer satisfaction was low. Battery technology was insufficient at that time and the public lacked interest for the most part. But battery technology has improved (though still isn't truly economical yet) and public interest in alternatively-fueled cars has skyrocketed recently, especially with gas prices edging toward four dollars per gallon every few months.Recently, a number of the OPEC nations made public statements that they needed more money to manage their economies and therefore oil supplies should be limited so that prices could rise to fund their needs. Saudi Arabia's response was swift and definitive: they told the other OPEC countries that the world economy couldn't afford higher fuel costs and that they would unilaterally increase their oil production by any amount needed to offset any artificial production shortfalls. The reason Saudi Arabia did this, I believe, is because they know that consumers in the industrial nations are already teetering on the edge of changing to fossil-fuel alternatives, and one more season of notably high fuel prices might send us all scurrying toward electric car for good. What would all the OPEC companies do if we stopped buying the tar below their feet? But if Saudi Arabia isn't going to allow prices to rise in the near future, and if GM has already failed with the EV1, what makes me think that this time will be any different?First, I have to say that this opinion didn't originate with me. I've read about it in several news articles in the last year or so, but most recently I read a New York Times' Op-Ed piece by JOE NOCERA. And ultimately he based his opinion on information on the over-arching lesson that GM learned with their EV1 program: what consumers want even more than a gas/diesel alternative is RANGE. We want to know that if we get in our car and go anywhere, we're not going to run out of juice and be stranded.That's why he and I and dozens of other technophiles believe GM is going to succeed this time. They're going to blow past Nissan, Tesla, and every other company that markets any electric vehicle that can't drive 300+ miles on a single charge. It's true that the Volt cheats a little to extend its range by actually using gas when there is no more electricity, but it does it with an attractive MPG rate and only after all the electricity has been used up. So I'll wait for the new Volt to hit Maine, and I'll likely wait for the first wave or two of engineering flaws to be fixed, but I will definitely be among the up and coming consumer mass that will definitely choose GM Volt over gas vehicles in the very near future.
Why is my From My Cold Young Fingers' Under-Heaven different from Purgatory and other more accepted versions of Heaven? When I first plotted out my fictional heavenly setting, it never even occurred to me that anyone would have a problem with it. After all, it's fiction. I hadn't set out to invent a religion or even seriously toy with spirituality. I was really just trying to tell a story about a fictional boy and what happened after his fictional death.Imagine my surprise when I received an email from a woman in Tennessee shortly after the book came out. She had read The Santa Shop and loved it, so when she saw From My Cold Young Fingers available, she immediately purchased it and started reading.But after Chapter Two, she stopped!As she explained to me, at Chapter Two she realized this wasn't a story about her Heaven, didn't reflect her religious beliefs and it sure as heck wouldn't have gone over big at Sunday School. It took her several weeks of staring at that book on her mantel before she could pick it up again. After all that time, she finally came to realize that my novel was just that, a story. And once she did read it, she felt the need to email me about how silly she felt and how From My Cold Young Fingers has now become one of her favorite novels of all time.A charitable Christian group I work with also questioned this book. Somehow my story's variation on the standard beliefs came up in discussions. No one was mad, but the fact that they felt the need to mention it to me caught me completely by surprise. Does this mean that every time Stephen King writes a novel, he has to explain that he doesn't really believe in werewolves, witches, etc… (though maybe he does, and maybe one day he'll be the one everyone calls "Maine's Other Author"J).So, the answer to why my fictional heavenly place is different than other views of Heaven is simple: it's not real. It was intended as entertainment only. Sure, I'm flattered by people who say they hope my Under-Heaven does exist. But, all religious beliefs aside, I'll be happy if Nate, Aunt Alice and Grandma Clara become your fictional friends the same way they have become mine.
Thanks so much, NookgirlPA, for your pleasant review of From My Cold Young Fingers.
Her review…
««««« (5 out of 5 stars) April 1, 2011 at Barnes and Noble 
Great Book!
I just finished reading this book. Unfortunately it had to end. It was one of the best books I have read in a long time. I would recommend this book to anyone. It definitely makes you think about your own beliefs and even believe a little deeper after reading it. You will not be disappointed!! Loved it!
In the next blog (Wednesday June 29nd): a girl abuses cats and a baby, my review of The Killing's season finale on AMC, a definite release date for Bones in the Tree and more….
Thanks for spending another few minutes with me. I remain your most loyal friendJ!

Corpses Wrapped in Dirty Sheets…

An infestation of bats, toilet paper down river, a wizard's battle sneak peek, Fat Duck - a genius, Falling Skies might fall, Island Gal talks Santa, and more…
Poverty makes for interesting housing: Of all the emails I receive, the most surprising to me are the ones commenting about my childhood experiences. It seems that people enjoy hearing about true stories, especially when they show what an unusual childhood I lived.My dad never made it past the eighth grade, which meant that in the world's eyes he wasn't qualified for a decent paying job. In Maine, in the 1960s, junk cars and broken machinery could often be found beside the road and in fields next to every other home. My father spent his days tracking down the land owners, getting permission to pick up these old iron hulks he would then sell to a salvage yard for barely enough money to support his family, which included my four-year-old self and two young sisters.We lived in an old, dilapidated farmhouse with no heating system, only cold water and an outhouse. The electricity didn't work much of the time, sometimes because the bill wasn't paid and other times because the rural lines were down. One winter, when a predicted three-inch snowstorm turned into an angry four-foot nor'easter, the snow drifted so high we could only see outside from the second floor windows. My dad had to dig a tunnel just to get out the front door. This particular storm coincided exactly with my younger brother's due date, which meant for four days my mother lived knowing that if she went into labor, there would be no medical help.  Fortunately, nature—or my brother—held off for another few weeks. Knowing that we couldn't live like that any longer, my dad did the best he could and arranged the purchase of a rundown building in the city. It stood on a corner lot, sandwiched between a huge warehouse and a railroad track. Riddled with issues that ranged from dangerously steep stairways, to numerous past fires to an infestation of bats, it wasn't the greatest place to raise a family.Only a few thousand feet from the Androscoggin River, which was a literal open sewer at that time, our neighborhood often smelled bad enough to make visitors gag. I remember many days sitting on the river bank and watching clumps of toilet paper and brown foam churn over the falls and bob downriver like corpses wrapped in dirty sheets. Our new home wasn't all bad, though; by the time my youngest brother and sister were born (there were six of us then), I had made a few friends and had found that life in the city at least offered a nearby park and a library. Unfortunately, the fighting between my parents had grown worse. In an attempt to escape the insane screaming and sometimes physical battles, my older sister and I moved upstairs into the two ancient rooms on either side of the open attic where bats and lord knew what else resided. Several mysterious and dark crawl spaces also haunted our imaginations. I remember waking one particular night in my room on the railroad side of the building. I had long since grown used to sleeping through the vibration and noise of the passing freight trains, but when I woke and jumped bolt upright in bed, I knew something was wrong. A cold breeze whipped through my room. Confused, I looked around and realized that my entire window was gone. The passing train must have shaken it loose from its frame. I poked my head out to see thousands of glass shards strewn across the sidewalk four stories below me. Tired and cold, I sat down on the floor, pulled my blankets around me, and stared out past the railroad bridge at the distant moonlit rooftops. It was a beautiful night.
Fat Duck's perfect day: Every few blogs, I find myself wanting to report that Fatty has reached some new pinnacle of success, that he has somehow exceeded the expectations of not just myself but of his growing legion of fans. Well, yesterday was that day.I went out onto the porch at the usual time of around eight in the morning and opened his cage. I then tossed him several fresh slices of bread to eat in peace before I flung the rest of the loaf out to Original Duck and his twenty or so Canadian visitors. Too impatient to wait for Fat Duck to finish breakfast, I went inside and immediately got caught in a string of phone calls. An hour and a half later, I reemerged on the porch to see Fatty had waddled about forty feet from the side porch to the front porch where he was now resting comfortably next to the front door. Confused, I retraced my steps and realized there wasn't a single duck poop anywhere along his trail. Odd.Knowing for sure he was sitting on a mess, I returned to the front and gently urged him to fly down into the yard with the rest of the outdoor children. For once, he didn't balk and instead gracefully flew over to his hay bale to begin his day's work as our lawn ornament. I hardly noticed, however, because there wasn't even one mistake anywhere on the porch. Fat Duck had been on the porch for nearly two hours and hadn't made a single mess.I knew he was special and almost certainly a genius of his species!This morning, I let Fat Duck out of his cage and went inside to answer some emails while he finished breakfast.  Half an hour later, I returned to the porch to see not one, not two, but five separate poops leading like breadcrumbs around the corner of the porch. And, there, sitting proudly by the front door was my little white friend perched on top of yet his sixth present of the morning. He's special alright.
My Review of Falling Skies, (2-hour pilot episode) TNT television show starring Noah Wyle, produced by Stephen Spielberg. My rating ««¶¶ ¶ (two out of five stars)On the cusp of being mediocre or worse..., 23 June 2011 I should first say that I've been working some ridiculous hours, almost to the point of unmanageable, so when I sat down to watch this show the first time, I fell asleep within the first twenty minutes. Fortunately, a kind soul recently invented the DVR so all was not lost. I successfully finished the show the next night and thought it was okay but definitely just that.Noah Wyle stars as Tom Mason, the father of three boys, who have all survived the first wave of alien invaders here on Earth (Massachusetts, to be exact). Sometime before the show opens, one of Tom's sons has been kidnapped and enslaved by an alien "collar" that looks like nothing so much as a giant cockroach pressed against his spine and neck. With much of the population dead, Tom finds himself and his remaining teen son pressed into service in a last ditch human military resistance. His youngest boy seems to have been tossed into a few scenes as a failed attempt at emotionally hooking the audience.  I'd like to tell you that something amazing beyond the typical post-apocalyptic fare happens, but I'm sorry to say that the ragtag group of 100 freedom fighters lead 200 civilians through the typical landscape of abandoned cars and burnt-out buildings. The acting seems for the most part to be half-hearted and the costumes and overall cast appearance can best be described as disheveled and uninspired. The casting of Will Patton as the tough-as-nails military leader is especially notable for its lack of originality. Patton is effectively playing an alter-ego of the similar but villainous military group leader he played in Kevin Costner's post-apocalyptic movie The Postman (1997).  Effectively this show represents Stephen Spielberg's War of the Worlds for TV minus a major network budget. I would have been forced to rate this lower, but summer is always slow for supernatural or alien shows and Noah Wyle has done some incredible TV in the past, so I'm holding out hope that he and the producers can somehow rise above the obvious budget limitations and deliver something more than what has started out to be moderately watchable drivel.  
Zachary Pill, The Dragon at Station End, update: I fear you may all be disappointed that I don't have the exciting news I was hoping for. I learned this morning that edits are still incomplete and likely won't be available to me for at least another few days to maybe two weeks. I also have not received the next round of edits for Ripped From My Cold Young Fingers, which gives me at least another few days to finish up my Bones in the Tree story. With some luck, it will be available sometime next week. I'll update you in Sunday's blogJ.I did want to leave you with a small excerpt from Zachary Pill, The Dragon at Station End however. Here it is…"Zach, hurry!" Though his father hollered, his voice could barely be heard over the harsh sounds all around them. Surprisingly strong for a small man, his father nearly ripped his good arm out of its socket as he pulled him through the doorway. "Get into the bathroom!" Zachary hurried to do as asked and ducked as a bat with blood red eyes hurtled past his head. It made a sickening splatter as it struck someplace in the bedroom behind him."Enough!" Zachary's father shouted in a voice so loud it made Zachary's ears hurt. Another bat bounced off the hallway wall and hurtled toward them, but his father chanted something and a bolt of blue light burst out of the wand and struck it in mid-flight. Blinded from the flash, Zachary heard the bat fall in wet thump on the hallway floor not far from him. The air was filled with the sickly smell of charred flesh. He felt his father's hands thrust him into the bathroom and he heard the door pulled shut.
"Lock it!" his father ordered.
Ashamed to leave his father alone with the bats but too terrified to do anything but obey, Zachary groped along the door and forced his trembling fingers to turn the lock. Then, he backed away until his cast struck the towel rack on the back. Pain vibrated through his arm like a hammer struck cymbal. He fought the need to scream, but couldn't stop the breath that came and went in great gasps. Needing to hear what was going on, he clamped his good hand over his mouth and tried to block the sound of his own sobs.
"Krage, I'm done with this!" his father bellowed. Simultaneously, a flash framed the bathroom door with a blinding blue stripe. Then everything went black again. Something heavy thumped into the door. Zachary feared for the worst. "Dad?" he whispered. Then more loudly, "Dad!"There was an explosion of glass, from the living room maybe, and loud crashing and banging sounds reverberated from all over the apartment. Suddenly, another flash of blue light left spots of blue light swimming in Zachary's eyes after everything went dark again. Something was different this time, though; the darkness was accompanied by silence. No crashing, no wind, nothing. Zachary could hear his own heart beating in his ears. "Dad?"The knob jiggled. "Get away from there!" his father hollered from somewhere in the kitchen. Blue light flashed again revealing dark curls of smoke, and something like a heavy boot struck the bathroom door. Zachary coughed and grabbed for a towel to cover his nose and mouth from the smoke that was making it hard to breathe. He heard feet run past the bathroom door."Tell Krage I'm coming for him!" his father yelled. "Tell him I'm coming!"
Thanks, Island Gal, for your positive review of The Santa Shop (Paperback)Her review…««««« (five out of five stars)Poignant and uplifting, June 15, 2011 Tim Greaton has written an incredible book. It takes the reader on a journey through twelve months with a man whose life takes a tragic turn on Christmas Eve. His self-imposed guilt, surrounding that evening, weighs him down until he decides to take his own life. What happens at that moment shows us how we are magically tied together as humans. How every thoughtful thing we do, or say, to each other, can help lift another person up from the depths of depression. Can inspire them to do something positive with their life. And may save their life. The Santa Shop is a truly inspirational book. J.
My Thanks: I once dreamt of writing for a living. Though a lot of my time is spent writing for nonprofit corporations and charities around the country, work that is incredibly fulfilling and that I will continue to do long after it is required on my end, each and every day more of my income comes directly from readers of my books. Please know that I couldn't be more sincere in my appreciation. THANK YOU ALL FOR GRANTING ME THIS LIFE, THE LIFE OF A WRITER!

The Suicide Bridge…

Bones still dangling, from Fat Duck to Wise Duck, Mistress of the Dark Path cries over Santa, a kid stupidly climbs to the top of a bridge, Air Force fighters ground another flight…
Stories & Books: I'm sorry to report that my latest story Bones in the Tree is not yet complete—even in first draft. I don't know where the weeks go, but I certainly could use a couple of extra days each week. Some rocking good news, however: as many of you know, last week was my best week in digital book sales. This week we tied it! And it has been an amazing week of great reviews, too. Is it possible that next week will be even betterJ?Thank you everyone! I couldn't do it without loyal readers who keep spreading the word.Really, THANK YOU!
Understanding Fat Duck: I've often thought that understanding animals is a key to being able to take care of them. In Fat Duck's case, I'm pretty sure that yesterday I passed the understanding test.When it comes to living in the moment, I'm convinced that Fat Duck takes that philosophy to a whole new level. Watching him sit on his hay bale for hours on end, you might be inclined to think he is pondering the great questions of existence, and you might be convinced he would better be named as Wise Duck. However, I've come to believe that the majority of his meditation time is spent wondering who those people keep calling "Fat Duck" and why "Original Duck" has more girlfriends than he does (it's all about speed, by the way). So yesterday when Fat Duck found his way up onto the porch just before bedtime, my wife asked me if he would let her pet him. My answer was "Don't do it; you'll just make him poop."Well, she did…and he did…and I went and uncoiled the hose, AGAINL.Sometimes, I hate it when I'm right.
My week: I had a crazy busy week filled with a bunch of successful projects. The problem is that there are just so many projects that no matter how many I get done, there are so many more I'd like to do. I could be cloned a dozen times and not fully accomplish my wish list (not that I would clone by the way; it didn't work out so well for Michael Keaton in MultiplicityJ). Among the completed home projects were taking some old furniture to the transfer station, providing my daughter with four chairs for her kitchen (they had a table but no chairsL), successfully disassembling the top of my windmill and putting together a repair plan for which I'll gather the rest of the needed parts this week, and helping a friend with some landscaping that needs to get done before hot weather settles in and kills any chance of growing healthy new grass. I also was able to give away a nice love seat to friends who can use it (they'll pick it up this coming week). Professionally, it was a great week. I got lots of amazing charity work done. Unfortunately, I missed my own completion wish date for the Bones in the Tree story, but time is a limited commodity and I was just plum out. Of course, it doesn't help that I've somehow grown the story from six pages to almost thirty pages. As I mentioned on a Facebook post, there's probably a reason I'm known more as a novelist than a short story writerJ.
News – Why are our Airlines so incapable of handling Stir-Crazy Passengers? A few weeks ago, a United Airlines passenger whacked someone in front of them for reclining back in their seat too far. This is only one of many accounts of passengers getting out of hand thousands of feet above ground, but in this case the altercation led U.S. Air Force fighter jets to actually escort the Ghana-bound flight back to Dulles International Airport in Washington. Of course, we understand why the slightest whisper of the word bomb, explosion, or terrorism sends our airplanes bolting for the nearest safe landing haven, but what about mothers who make their kids cry, men who get mad because the wrong soda is served or passengers who scuffle over an over-reclined seat? Let's leave aside for the moment the question of why an airplane seat can recline far enough back to actually bother the person behind it and instead address the simple question of why airline staff can't control these situations that would be little or no problem in a restaurant, post office, or even a movie theater. I've seen movie attendants approach disruptive groups of people and calm them down with just a few words, and I've watched a postal worker—somehow—calm a customer raging on about the wrong colored stamps. But for some reason, our flight crews seem to have only one response to anything exceeding an irritated grumble: ground the flight.For those of you that don't know, sending a flight back to its original airport or ditching it at an interim site can cost anywhere from a few thousand dollars to as much as thirty thousand dollars, not to mention the lost time and money for all the passengers of that and other flights that are backed up and delayed. I haven't even a clue how you would also calculate the cost of the fighter jets needed for the flight in question above.Here's what I say, let's install at least one special seat on every airplane. Let's enclose it with bars, put a burly Air Marshal in that spot for every flight, and install a special sign on the ceiling. Then the next time some bonehead temporarily loses his or her mind, he or she can trade places with the Marshall and the DUNCE sign can be turned on along with permission for everyone to photograph and film them in their predicament. After a few dozen of these folks find their angry pusses streaming into laughing living rooms all over the world, I suspect the Marshals won't have to trade seats too many times in the future.  
Is there really a "Christmas Leap" like I described in The Santa Shop? Over the years, I have heard of various locations around the country that have had multiple suicide deaths (like the Empire State Building) but Christmas Leap is a fictional place in the fictional town of Gray, Vermont. I hope, however, that the overhead steel bridge and that steep ice-clogged ravine are as real to my readers as they were to me when I wrote them. I will tell you that a very similar bridge in Maine (the one photographed and ultimately shown in the first edition cover of The Santa Shop) is real. I'll also tell you that one cold September night a certain fourteen-year-old boy with a name strangely similar to mine foolishly scaled the top of that forty- or fifty-foot-tall bridge. It was pitch-black and I was alone—which begs the question: what the hell was I trying to prove and to whom? The wind was gusting that night, and at the top of the bridge a seagull was squatting, refusing to move. As I crouched, hand gripping the cold steel frame, I remember having only one over-riding thought: knowing what an idiot I was. So, for me, it wasn't hard to write that scene. I still remember those ice-cold rivets burning into my palms and wind whipping at my back as I looked down at the cold rushing river that glittered like black tar below me. Had that seagull not moved, or worse, attacked me, The Santa Shop might well never have been written. Thinking back on all of this, I would again suggest that every scene, every character, every event in any of my books is in some way a direct result of the life I've lived. And I'm so very thankful that I got a chance to tell these stories. Fortunately, I didn't have to pay for the stupidity of that night with my life, but I'm sure there have been other less lucky children who have died for even less stupid things.My heart goes out to all of them and all of their families.
Thanks so much, Susan A… for a touching glimpse of your personal history and your kind review of The Santa Shop.
Her review…
««««« (5 out of 5 stars) June 17, 2011 
An emotional story that will stay with you...
We tried to hang in there that first year. My father attempted to play the dual role of mom and dad, but eventually his depression caught up with him. Alcohol became his alternative and what money we had went toward feeding that need in him to drown out his sorrows. Our Christmas' became a decorated tree with little or nothing under them. Every year, I would cry myself to sleep and mourn the loss of my mother who had always known how to make holidays so special. By the time I had reached fourteen, it became too much. I planned ahead and saved every dollar I had, usually it wasn't much, maybe twenty or thirty total. Then, just a couple days before Christmas, I would go to whatever store was within walking distance to purchase little gifts for my brother and father. I wrapped these meager offerings up and placed them under the tree with the order they not be opened until the appropriate time.
Once Christmas eve had arrived, I would drag my brother to the living room and awaken my father from his drunken stupor. Under my supervising eye, they would open those gifts and each might give a smile. It wasn't much, but somehow I had to make the holiday better for them. They had both fallen to depression, drinking, and other things by this time and I was the only one hanging on. In some way, I was trying to give them a bit of happiness. Then, after the wrapping was cleaned up, my father passed out again, and my brother back in his room, I would go off alone to cry. I had done what I could. All the holidays until I left home seemed to pass this way with only one or two minor exceptions.
That first Christmas when I was eighteen years old was spent in Army barracks in North Carolina. I had just arrived at my unit two months before and only the soldiers who had been in the unit longer were given leave to go home. Perhaps not more than a dozen or so of us were left and I didn't know the others. I sat in my barracks room with its ugly cinder-block walls, once again depressed and even more alone than ever before. Then someone started pounding on all the doors, ordering us out into the hallway. We stumbled out, it was perhaps around 7pm so most hadn't gone to sleep, yet it was dark outside already. They told us all to go to the barracks entrance steps. I didn't want to and argued against it, but they told me it wasn't an option. To my surprise, upon reaching the entrance, a gathering of families were outside singing Christmas carols for us. It was a very cold night, yet they braved it to give us a little cheer. We even received cookies as a small gift. The children smiled so happily, knowing us soldiers needed that extra lift for the holiday. For ten minutes they stood there, just singing in chorus, in the cold, before moving on to the next building. It touched my heart to see people who selflessly came out on their holiday evening to show that they remembered us. The soldiers who sat alone in the dreary old barracks. Maybe they will never know how grateful I was for that kindness, but I hope they did.
So you are probably wondering why I related my story to you. Well, if it touched you at all, then this book will as well. It is about depression, Christmas miracles, and people giving out of the goodness of their hearts. I couldn't read this all in one sitting. It brought out my own memories and caused tears to pour forth from my eyes. I had to walk away from it a couple of times, but always felt compelled to come back and read more. It touched me deeply and I'm glad I read it. For this reason, I'm giving it five stars. Any author that can write a story that pulls so deeply at my heart is truly talented. You will not be sorry for having read this story. It is truly a beautiful tale. Susan "Suzie" A. Mistress of the Dark Path (be sure to visit her blog Musings of Mistress of the Dark Path, a place for people who love to read)…
In the next blog (Wednesday June 22nd): a bedroom window crashes four stories to the sidewalk below, my review of Falling Skies the new Spielberg' TNT TV series, exciting news about Bones in the Tree and Zachary Pill, The Dragon at Station End (I hope)  and more….
Thanks for so graciously investing your time with meJ!

My Friend Died…

I cried writing this blog, how you can succeed, the most powerful sci-fi ever written, Special Education for Fatty, a Bones in the Tree sneak peek, MountainMama's conspiracy review, and more…
A Dead Duck: Something just occurred to me this past week as I fed the dozen wild ducks currently visiting our pond and brook. Is it possible that I do it to relieve my guilt? Let me explain…          Possibly because my mother didn't want him to, my father gave me a baby duck for Easter when I was about six or seven years old. Since we lived in a Maine city, not a particularly suitable environment for ducks, my mother had probably been right. My parents did own their own home but our lot was small, probably less than a quarter acre, and it sat on the corner of two streets. Just one look at the fuzzy yellow bird, and I was instantly committed to making him safe and happy. That first day, my little duck followed me everywhere. If I went around the house, he waddled after me. If I went into the yard next door, my little duckling would race as fast he could to keep up. To say I was smitten would have been a gross understatement. Enchanted might have been a better word, and that enchantment grew stronger with each day. For the next three weeks, if I was home, my little duck and I were together. Our house was only two blocks from the corner store and about the same distance from a nearby park, and my little duck happily followed me to either location or any other place I had a mind (and permission) to go. I can still remember his little quacking grumbles when I would go too fast and his happy squeaks when I would stop and pick him up.  Three weeks to form a bond. Three weeks to learn about companionship, loyalty and unconditional love. And three weeks, to have it all shattered—ripped away along with a big chunk of my childhood innocence.I, of course, was committed to keeping my little duck safe. I kept his nighttime box filled with lots of grass, some bugs to eat, a bowl of water, and I had placed that box on the floor right beside my bed. Nothing was going to happen to my little friend."Maybe I could sleep with him," I told my mother on several occasions. "He might be cold all alone in his box.""No," she told me. "He's got warm feathers and will be fine right where he is."I wish I could tell you what I used to cover his box that fateful night, what I used to cover his box any night. More importantly, I wish I could go back in time and help that timid little boy to make a better decision, show him how to protect his tiny friend and himself, but instead all I can do is remember with deep sadness. Sometime during that night, my little duckling, who obviously missed his boy, found his way out of that box. And, once out, he managed to flap or crawl or hop up into my bed. Looking back, I pray that little duck found some semblance of peace and comfort when he snuggled up to his little boy. What my mother probably realized, and what that boy and his duck were soon to learn, was that little ducks can't survive the weight of a person rolling on top them, not even a little person like I was back then. When woke early that morning, I panicked not finding my duckling in his box. The cover was off and he was gone. I searched under the bed, under the bureau, in the closet and out in my brothers' and sisters' rooms. But it wasn't until I returned to my own room to start searching all over again that I realized a fuzzy little bird was snuggled dead against my pillow.Every few days, I write about Fat Duck, Original Duck and sometimes about the Canadian mallard visitors that will visit us more and more frequently when cold weather sets in. I feed them, I talk about them and I enjoy them. I think karma has likely forgiven me for my crime, but it never lets me forget. That's probably why tears are streaming down my cheeks as I type this public goodbye to my little duckling friend. If only I had known more, if only I had paid more attention, if only…if only…. I wish that we had had more time, my little duckling and me. I wish that we could have been friends for a little longer. But, instead, it has to be enough that he's still in my heart.
The Magic of Success: Success. It's a neck of a term, but what does it mean? And why do some people appear to achieve it, while many others do not?Some people might say that success is fortune. Others might say fame. And yet others would, no doubt, insist that wonderful relationships are what it's all about. What do you think? All of the above, or none of the above? I suspect that I'm with you; I think that a fair share of all of the above is closest to true.The next logical question would be: how do you know when you're there? I think the answer lies not in an actual tally of net worth or total number of close friends. No I think it is more a matter of knowing oneself, knowing what you would need to feel fulfilled.So how do you find out what you really need? Here's a simple exercise that appears to work as well as any. Take out a pencil and several sheets of ruled paper. For the next fifteen minutes write everything you could possibly want, have wanted or might want in the future. Everything, no matter how crazy or off the wall.Sounds simple enough, doesn't it?Now go through that list and pick the five things that excite you the most. Don't worry that you couldn't possibly do that or worry that a particular goal would take too long to achieve; just pick the five things that excite you the most. Once you have those five things, pick the one goal that sends a chill down your spine, the one that even stands above the other four. Write it on an index card and put it in your pocket.Now, you might wonder where the magic comes in. Here it is. Here's the difference between those who gain great personal success and those who don't…Keep your card with you and read it every day until you really believe you can make that goal come true (and you can!) Then add one final simple ingredient—GO MAKE IT HAPPEN!Welcome to the magic.
Fat Duck is SPECIAL: Okay, I think we can all agree that I'm a bit of a softy for animals in general and for Fat Duck, in particular. And the reason I think it's important to state this from the outset is because I have to be honest here: Fat Duck has some issues. It's true, they're not his fault. And it's also true that, issues aside, he does pretty well. But we just have to face a few undeniable facts. Case in point…Fat Duck got confused not once, but twice, in the last few days. As near as I can tell, he forgot that his hay bale (hangout) is in the front yard. Here's what happened: two mornings in a row, we have had between ten and a dozen wild ducks stopping in for breakfast. That means that when I let Fatty out of his pen on the porch and shoo him down onto the driveway to eat alongside Original Duck, there have been too many extra bills to feed, and Fat Duck is waaay to slow to get to the bread before his smaller, wilder competitors snatch it away. So, Fat Duck gives up and flies a few feet toward the barn rather than fight over breakfast. Unfortunately, once he flies in the wrong direction, he never seems to remember what the right direction is. I felt bad for him both mornings and herded him toward his hay bale until he remembered and hopped on. This morning, I got smart and fed him privately in his pen before letting him loose. Stomach full, mind clear, he flew straight and true toward the bale.Yes, Fat Duck is special, but together we have apparently come up with a solution that keeps my hay and duck lawn ornament intact J.
My Review of Ender's Game, an award winning novel by Orson Scott Card.My rating ««««« (five out of five stars)Possibly the most powerful science-fiction story ever written..., June 15, 2011 I first read this novel back in the mid- to late-80s, shortly after it first came out as a novel (it started as an award-winning novella in 1977). I was absolutely blown away. Maybe it happens when a person comes up through a traumatic childhood, as I did, but seeing a fictional child like Ender tested to such a horrifying degree, and seeing him endure and fight on no matter what the odds, was awe-inspiring.
And that's just my review of Orson Scott Card's protagonist. This novel is so much more than just Ender Wiggin. It's a future world populated by believable people and believable events. It's a ruthless world, much like our own, but it's a world that presents hope, even if through a dystopian lens. Ender Wiggin was specially bred into a family of three genius children. For personality reasons, he is the only one of the three that is chosen by the Defense Department to be trained as a soldier in the upcoming and inevitable war with the alien Bugger species. Through snippets of conversations outside of Ender's experience we begin to understand that Ender may be the only human being on Earth that is qualified to save our planet. As the story unfolds, we also learn that for him to grow into his abilities in time, he must be pushed and prodded and, yes, even punished, whatever might be required to temper him into the human weapon that can defeat an interstellar army that outnumbers us ten if not hundreds to one. The training that poor boy Ender endures makes today's video games look like Pong. The action battle sequences are amazing and seem so real that I suspect a version of the author's invented teaching methods are possibly in use at military academies today. I've read this book multiple times over the last twenty-five years, and I expect I'll still be rediscovering its power in the next twenty-five. Read this book, experience its emotional depth and power, and let a master storyteller blow you away with an ending that is without equal.
Ripped From My Cold Young Fingers, update: As you all know, I have completed my first of four review edits and am waiting for my next round. I'm told I'll likely receive my first Zachary Pill, The Dragon at Station End edit to review on Monday, so this week I have been working on two stories and an article, which you'll be seeing soon. Below is an excerpt from the first draft of the first storyJ.
Bones in the Tree, an excerpt ( first draft, please forgive the many mistakes J): Tombstones in the backyard. Uck! Trust me, I know how creepy that sounds, but it's true. Somehow my father and mother got permits to have their own private cemetery fifty feet from their back deck. In Pasadena, California, something like this would have been unheard of, but apparently the State of Maine doesn't do things quite the same way as the rest of the world. I guess when you live so far out in the woods, nobody really cares what you do.It has been almost a year since my mother died of the same disease that took my father–lung cancer. It seemed almost amazing to me that neither Ray nor I had wound up with a similar problem, since we had grown up breathing my mother's relentless secondhand smoke the same way my father had. When we were kids, she used to smoke four packs a day, which basically meant she had smoke coming out of her mouth from the time she got up in the morning until the time she went to bed at night. The shame is that my father had never smoked a cigarette in his life, at least not directly. Thanks to my mother, though, he inhaled hundreds of thousands of them over the forty-seven years they were married. Thinking about it made me wonder what would have happened if she had died first. Would he have craved the nicotine enough to get sick or maybe even start smoking himself? We would never know, because he found himself occupying space under the backyard tombstone five years earlier than she did.I settled into one of the Adirondack Chairs my father had made before it became too hard for him to walk the fifty feet from the house to his workshop. For some reason, the chair seemed a lot more comfortable now than when I had sat in it during the one cookout I had actually shown up for since quitting community college a decade earlier. I could still envision my father wearing that silly John Deere chef's hat as he expertly flipped burgers and hot dogs for my brother Ray and me. "Eat, eat," he said to me several times that weekend. "It'll put a little meat in those pecks." I smiled. My dad knew I had always been insecure about my chest size, mostly because of the jerk I married who couldn't keep his eyes off from anything larger than an A-cup. Little did my dad know that it wouldn't be his burgers, but a surgeon named Andre, that would finally solve that problem for me.  I chuckled at the irony and winced. I was still a little tender from having the damn implants removed almost 3 months to the day after Brian left me for one of his undergrad students, a girl with A-cups. I lifted my arm, stretched my left shoulder and gently massaged the scar under my chest. It was getting better, but I wouldn't be playing volleyball anytime soon.That earned another solitary chuckle.Volleyball in Maine! That was about as likely as cell phone service north of the Auburn/Lewiston area, which is to say not likely at all. Horseshoes and square dancing was about as much physical activity as anyone typically got in Menyon Falls, and I wasn't all that sure about the square dancing. From what I remembered of Maine, what little exercise most people got was from either making kids or chasing them. I had left too early to make any kids, even though the Robinson brothers and I had done our share of practicing. Had anyone been in the backyard, I might have blushed. An acorn struck the deck. I kicked it off the deck that I had just swept that morning.Just thinking about that twisted triangle of relationships made me feel like the biggest kind of tramp. Though I had never dated both brothers at the same time, I used to break up and swap one for the other on a regular basis. It made for some high drama in Menyon Falls; that much was sure. I could remember the brothers sending each other to the emergency room at least five times during my relationship juggling. When I finally moved away with my college writing professor, the brothers still hadn't been talking. I probably should have felt guiltier, but the brothers, born almost nine months apart to the day, had been beating the tar out of each other as far back as first grade. And since I hadn't dated either of them until we were in the fifth grade and hadn't started swapping back and forth until seventh grade, I figured they were unlikely to have grown up as friends anyway.What was I thinking? Ten years had passed. The brothers were probably both married and sharing family vacations by now. I was especially pleased that the thought didn't cause me any jealous pangs. No, my romance with the Robinson brothers had ended when Peter came into my life.Peter!Just the thought of his name made me want to scream and throw something. Who did he think he was! He'd picked me up like some novelty at a Maine gift shop, and then discarded me much the same way. Oooo!Two more acorns fell beside me, and I kicked them like soccer balls with all my might. The effort sent pangs right through the center of my ribcage.  I massaged both scars this time and wondered what kind of a man would want me now, after I'd maimed myself for that womanizing bastard! I didn't know, but at least back here in Maine, Peter wouldn't have a front row view of my failure to replace him. I leaned back in the chair that suddenly didn't feel nearly as comfortable.Suddenly, something occurred to me. The oak tree was at least seventy feet from the deck. With little to no wind, how were acorns falling all the way over here? I stared up into the old oak tree that shaded most of my parents—my—back lawn. Ray had deeded his half of the house over to me before the probate court had even finished processing my parents' meager estate. It was great of Ray, especially given that he didn't yet own a home of his own. But he'd been in medical school and was now working on his residency at Maine Medical Center, so I suspected he could have purchased a much nicer home anytime he chose. Though he never said as much, I got the impression his roommate—mate—George was the reason he had put off any major purchase for so long. If I had to guess, George was still playing the field and driving Ray nuts with jealously. When the two of them picked me up at the Portland Jetport, the tension hung in the air like swamp fog. That was the longest most silent drive I could ever remember. When, two hours later, we finally drove up the long gravel driveway to my parents' house, I have never felt so relieved. Next time, Ray would either come alone, or I'd take one of those scary four-seat airplanes from Portland to the tiny Farmington airport. A plane crash would definitely have been easier to take than the wreckage that Ray and George's relationship had become.  I was still staring up into the oak tree when I heard a chittering sound and saw an acorn come sailing out at me. I ducked and heard it the little nut smack loudly into the back of my father's Adirondack chair. "Hey you!" I yelled, trying to peer up through the heavy foliage to see the guilty party. I saw a few leaves move and heard a noise that sounded strangely like a tiny animal snickering. After a few more minutes of being laughed at, I stomped into the house. I wasn't sure who I was angrier at, Peter for forcing me to move back to this ridiculous state, or the owner of the tiny gray arm that flung another acorn at me just before I slid the patio door shut.Ping….
Thanks MountainMama for your amazing review of The Santa Shop (Kindle Edition)Her review…««««« (five out of five stars)Poignant and uplifting, June 15, 2011 The Santa Shop by Tim Greaton is a poignant and uplifting story about one man's journey from the depths of despair and despondency to the dawn of redemption and recovery. Skip Ralstat lost his family in a fire. He blames himself for not being there to save them, and his guilt leads him to plan his own suicide by jumping from a bridge called Christmas Leap. Along the way his plot gets hijacked by the "Santa Conspiracy". Well written and edited, Mr. Greaton has a wonderful talent for making his characters real, the dialog believable, and the locations familiar. You feel his pain and grief, you stand on the bridge with him, and you experience his awakening and hope. A beautiful story. Wrapping up: I apologize for taking so long to get the chat/blog session started tonight, but my youngest son had a Freshman Year awards ceremony, and family is always a priority. We were very proud to see him accept his award this evening J.
My Thanks: I once dreamt of writing for a living. Though a lot of my time is spent writing for nonprofit corporations and charities around the country, work that is incredibly fulfilling and that I will continue to do long after it is required on my end, each and every day more of my income comes directly from readers of my books. Please know that I couldn't be more sincere in my appreciation. THANK YOU ALL FOR GRANTING ME THIS LIFE, THE LIFE OF A WRITER!

The Mass Grave…

Crazy murder investigation, a daughter is gone, Bones in the Tree, Mark Reeder didn't see that coming, Ripped… is wrapped, a note to Fat Duck fans, roses roses everwhere, and more…
Best News First! I have completed my first round of edit reviews on Ripped From My Cold Young Fingers! It has been a long slog but finally, yesterday morning after a 5-hour late-night marathon followed by a 6-hour Saturday morning, I finished. So what does that mean?The folks at Focus House granted me full veto edits BUT ONLY if I agreed to four complete edits: editor then me, editor then me…and so on. We have now finished the first most grueling round (averaging me between 1 and 6 pages per hour, depending on the section and the number of suggested edits per page). We have three more rounds to go. I would expect that each successive round will be about twice as fast as the one before it…but I'm guessing. Since the first round of Zachary Pill, The Dragon at Station End edits are not ready for my review, it looks like I have a week to focus my energy on two new stories and a non-fiction release article kids. They are:·         Bones in the Tree - Not a horror story but a little tense J.·         Millie's Tomb (working title) – a captain's treasure destroys a family and leave's Brenda's life in tatters.·         The Super-Loop – How to make an amazing airplane for kids.
I'm telling on Fat Duck: Fatty and I have had a predictable week. The last few nights he's found his own way onto the porch just before dark. BUT a couple of times he has snuck back on the porch after morning breakfast. The first time I found his little "accident," he and I had a talk and I offered to keep it a secret. But after today's three really terrible "incidents," I told him that no matter how famous he has become I'm telling on him. So here it is:Fatty is doing poo on the porch!So there!Now, the questions are: will Fatty see a drop in his ever growing fame because his fans all know? Or will I see a drop in readership because who wants to read books by a tattletale J?
My week: My daughter moved out this week with her fiancé, and is off on her first apartment adventure. Though I wished she had slowed down a little more, she felt it was time. So, a good part of my time this past week was spent moving furniture and helping her fill a last minute list of needed items. But, as of now, she's officially away.I know some parents feel the need to push their children out into the world as quickly as possible, but my wife and I have never felt that way. Though I hope my children leap with amazing success into life and careers, they are always welcome back to our home. Of course, my youngest son accepted our generous offer (he's in his first year of high school) and says he's going to live with us until he retires at age 65. Of course, we're expected to continue buying his game systems until Play Station 26 comes out J). I also spent Saturday afternoon (with help) creating and installing new rockers on an antique rocking chair for a friend. She was ecstatic with the result and won't wear those oak rockers out in this lifetime. Sunday afternoon I finished planting new rosebushes around our newly landscaped well. I also planted this year's annual flowers around the railing of our windmill. I promise to post pictures as soon as the new grass is in.
News – The "Mass Grave" investigated in Texas: Is it just me or does someone need to explain to ALL police departments that there has never NEVER NEVER been a proven case of a "medium," "tarot reader," or "prophet" who has actually been successful in helping to solve to solve a crime, find a runaway or recover a body. This is craziness. Just because Patricia Arquette (Medium) and Jennifer Love Hewitt (Ghost Whisperer) both did amazing jobs with their ghost communication television shows, that doesn't make these supernatural reports any more true. For all of you supernatural fans, please know that I'm with you. I desperately want to believe that ghosts surround us and that angels are directing traffic to get us back and forth to work and school safely, but that doesn't mean we should wait for a ghost to pass a message or zoom through traffic lights expecting higher beings to intervene.Let me repeat, contrary to all the wacky stories we hear in oddball news outlets and all the stories told by self-proclaimed mediums on Larry King and other interview shows, there has never EVER been a police case solved by a psychic, medium or other person who was not personally there or involved with the crime.  So which yahoo in the Texas police department took this report and wasted taxpayers' money on someone's inspired dream? Whoever it is should be forced to join with hundreds or maybe even thousands of other law enforcement officers who have humored similar reports. They should all be sent to a simple seminar called: MEDIUMS DON"T SOLVE CRIMES, INVESTIGATORS DO!
Where do I get twisted ideas for stories like The Shaft? I'd like to say that every story has an easy-to-pinpoint basis, but they come from virtually everywhere. Some might come from overheard comments or from insane news story (like the one above). Others are exaggerations of true events I might have experienced, and yet others seem to crawl straight from the air into one of my ears. As for The Shaft, I can only say that I'm often accused of being too humane. I've been a strict vegetarian for the past 16 or so years. I protect animals of nearly every stripe and don't even like to kill most insects (excepting ants, mosquitoes and ticks–ants damage my house and the other two chomp on my animals and family members). So, for me, The Shaft was a story about forced survival, friendship and finally death. I hoped that by painting the characters, both the man and the spider, with a sympathetic (or is that empathetic-I never get those straight) brush, I would allow the readers to understand the need for survival doesn't negate capacity for caring. I've always said that though I am a vegetarian, I would be the first one in the woods with a rifle if my family needed food and it was the only way. I always loved the Native American view of hunting: Though a hunter kills, he does it with respect and thanks. Though it provides little compensation to the poor dead deer, it at least demonstrates that need not aggression is the driving motive. Of course, veggie burgers are now available to all tribal members J.  
Thanks so much, Mark Reeder…for your generous review of From My Cold Young Fingers.
His review…
««««« (5 out of 5 stars) May 21, 2011 
I Was Fortunate...
In the next blog (Wednesday June 15th): A dead duck, my review of Ender's Game, the secret to YOUR success and more….
Thanks for spending time with me J!

A Halloween of Shame…

A kid finds work, Fat Duck has a routine, my movie review of Unstoppable, an update and excerpt from Ripped From My Cold Young Fingers, Thanks to DebA for her review of From My Cold Young Fingers, and more… My First Job: I sit here staring at a blank page trying to think of a story, any story, from my past that might have value, entertainment or otherwise. My first thought is, how sad it is that I'm well past four decades and can't think of a single story worth your time? Fortunately, my mind refused to believe I'd lived four completely useless decades, so it burped up a tiny dribble of a story. Whew! Apparently I've lived at least six hours of notable time J.I grew up in a rural Maine city, which means we had running water, electricity, a train (oh, make that 6 hours plus a train story for next time J), enough traffic to grab bumpers and skateboard behind, and pretty much everything that everyone else has or had at that time. I lived just one block from a family-owned corner store and bakery. The owner of that store was gruff and seemed to be in a constant "let me explain something to you" mode, at least in regards to the neighborhood children that used to flock to the place like seagulls around a fast food parking lot. It was Halloween Day, and I was probably ten or eleven–just at the age when you're supposed to be too old for Halloween but secretly look forward to it.Well, one Halloween Day the gruff old store owner who knew every neighborhood kid by face and family, if not by name, intercepted my best friend Jones and I as we were passing through his fine establishment for one of the dozen reasons we thought of each day."You kids want to make some money?" he asked.Excited, Jones and I exchanged glances. It was every kid's dream. Sure, there were older people with jobs, and even some older kids had jobs, but how many kids our age had a chance to pad our usually empty pockets. Of course, we jumped at the chance."Sure," I said. "What do you need us to do?"Of course, Mr. Gruff didn't take our job acceptance at face value, not when he had a chance to lecture us on the way the world used to be so undependable but was now filled with kids who had no sense of responsibility. He finished by saying, "So you two really think you can do this job and be responsible, because I'm not so sure."I didn't even have to look at Jones to say, "We can do it!"We were probably going to have to unload a truck or maybe do some sweeping or cleaning. Either way, it seemed certain we could wrap this project up, get paid and still have plenty of time left over to harass hundreds of little kids as they went about their candy collecting that night. Yeah, it was turning out to be a really good day.Chests out, faces pursed with determination, we followed Mr. Gruff outside the store and around the corner. When we marched past the back of the store and the next two buildings, I wondered if there was a hidden warehouse down the block."Where's he taking us?" Jones whispered from about three steps behind the store owner.I shrugged. Everyone knew that the store family owned several nearby buildings, but I had no clue which ones. About the fourth building down, the store owner marched into a long, narrow driveway that was overstuffed with a fancy motorhome. Jones and I had, of course, seen the motorhome hundreds of times as we walked, ran, and bicycled up and down that main artery between the local grocery store, library, and our railroad-bordered neighborhood two blocks the other way. Neither of us, however, had known the vehicle was his. It made sense, I thought. Why wouldn't a rich store owner own a fancy motorhome?"So what do you think?" Mr. Gruff said, standing beside his shiny vehicle.Was he looking for a compliment? Neither Jones nor I really knew anyone with money, so we had never been this close to a motorhome. What did he expect us to say? "It's nice," I offered."So what do you think of your job?" he asked, hands on hips, staring at the motorhome. "You want us to clean it?" Jones asked, his neck craned to look up at the monstrosity. I knew what he was thinking. We were barely taller than the tires. We'd need a couple of good ladders and a pretty powerful hose to get this job done. I also had a sinking feeling that this little project might interfere with our Halloween adventures.  Suddenly, being employed wasn't sounding like such a great idea."No, I don't need you to clean it," Mr. Gruff said, brushing a tiny piece of dust off the shiny blue finish. It did look impeccable, certainly in comparison to the rust buckets that both Jones' and my parents drove and seldom, if ever, cleaned."Neither of us has a license," I offered, truly confused as to what other service he might be expecting."I want you two to guard it," Mr. Gruff announced. That sinking feeling in my stomach suddenly turned to a cramp. I swallowed hard, having already put the pieces of the puzzle together. "You want us to guard your motorhome tonight," I said, "on Halloween."Mr. Gruff wiped his hands on his apron, something I noticed all bakers tended to do. Back then, it seemed like a stealthy signal from a secret baker's guild, but I've recently come to believe it's just to clean their hands.     "Most kids your age are useless," he said, "but you boys seem to be a little different. You said you wanted some work, and here it is. Frankly, I'll be depending on you to make sure no one throws anything at my motorhome tonight. 'That going to be a problem?" He wiped his hands on his apron again. Like a couple of whipped dogs, Jones and shook our heads. We took the job.Just as agreed, that evening at 5:00 pm we trudged up the street to take our positions in front of the motorhome, a vehicle we had already grown to hate. Mr. Gruff had two folding chairs ready and even handed us both a Coke."Remember what I told you," he said. "No one touches my motorhome. Got it?"With no enthusiasm at all, we nodded. The first hour passed and we were okay. It wasn't really that dark and only a few really young kids in costumes had walked by with their parents. Who cared about Halloween? By 6:15 pm, however, our resolve was tested when we saw a dozen of our friends going by, some in costumes, some not, but all with big smiles on their faces. They were heading out to have the time of their lives.Not us. We sat there. And sat there. And sat there. By 6:30 pm, the silence between us was as thick as Mr. Gruff's chocolate frosting.Another cluster of our friends passed."No one tried to throw anything yet," Jones finally said.I glanced behind and up at the motorhome that towered over us like a school principal. It didn't have a single smear from thrown candy or anything else."Seems a shame to make them waste money when nothing's going to happen," I said. I was leaning forward in my seat…just to ease the cramp in my back. "Wasn't that Kenny?" Jones said, pointing down the street to a shadow that could have been anything from a dog to an elderly woman. "Yeah, I think it was," I said, standing…to get a better view of Kenny's shadow.Jones was already on his feet. "You don't want to wear a stupid costume, do you?" he asked."That's no fun," I told him as we jogged in the direction of our friends.6:30 pm. THE END
Fat Duck Settles Into a Routine: Fat Duck and I seem to have found a routine (assuming a routine can be as short as 5 to 7 days). At about eight each morning, I let him out of his cage. I then throw bread across the driveway to Original Duck and his few wild mallard followers. I then throw three pieces of bread to the bottom of the stairs for Fat Duck. After nibbling at a few crumbs he left outside his cage the night before, he flies down to the driveway and eats most of his breakfast. On the good mornings, he then wanders off to the side of the pond and his hay bale. On the bad mornings, he forgets and comes back up onto the porch where I have to shoo him away whenever I happen to notice he's back.Then, for the rest of the day he lives the life of Riley and relaxes by the pond. Near dusk, he waits for me to come fetch him off his hay bale. Now, this isn't as simple as it sounds, because the hay bale has to be approached circularly so that I come at it from between the bale and the pond, otherwise Fat Duck might instinctively fly into the water (which, as we've discussed, he hates). Once I have circled around and come up behind Fat Duck–he never looks anyone in the eye–and poke him in the back. The poke is necessary because sometime during the afternoon, he has both forgotten that he can fly and has developed a fear of 16-inch hay-bale heights. I sometimes have to poke him a second time before he takes the hint and re-remembers that his wings are for flying and he flutters down onto the driveway. I then march behind him until he sees the porch stairs.And that's it. Once he sees the stairs, he remembers how much he likes it up there. I follow him up, herd him a couple of steps and close him into his cage. As I fill his water bowl and drop in a couple more slices of bread, he says, "huh-huh," a sound like you might make if you cleaned your glasses by fogging them up, which I choose to believe is Fat Duck for "Thank You." Of course, next week, he may have a whole new personality. After all, that's what makes him famous.My Movie Review of "Unstoppable" – 2010, starring Denzel Washington and Chris Pine, directed by Tony Scott.My rating «««¶¶ (three out of five stars)A half-mile-long freight train full of toxic chemicals accidentally has its throttle set to full speed and is sent hurtling–unmanned–through the Pennsylvania countryside. Experienced engineer (Denzel Washington) and new conductor (Chris Pike) throw all caution to the wind to pursue the "land missile" in a separate locomotive. Will their most unusual scheme succeed in saving Stanton, Pennsylvania? Or will they just be adding their own deaths to the inevitable carnage? I have to say, this movie is populated with an incredible cast, starting with Dewey the bumbling conductor that lets the train roll away (Ethan Suplee of My Name is Earl fame), Galvin the head of train operations (Kevin Dunn), Connie the Yard Boss (Rosario Dawson), Ned the Welder turned Locomotive Chaser (Lew Temple). Combined with the two a-list stars, this should have been a slam dunk. Unfortunately, the premise teetered on the edge of unbelievable for me. Suffice it to say that when someone says it's impossible to derail a train, I say *&^%$#it! What exactly would be so hard about pulling a couple of rails? Last I knew, trains can't fly, especially around curves. What? You don't have time to pull rails but you do have time to round up military-style rescue crews and special on-top-of-the-track derailment equipment? Okay, so let's get past that unlikely conundrum and move onto the lesser plot issues. Since when don't railroad companies know what their trains can and can't do under power? Since when do onboard engineers have to make guesses instead of companies relying upon disaster assessment specialists and advisors? Again, I'll leave that issue to smarter men.So what do those concerns leave us with? A pretty good piece of action eye candy with some mostly good speeding train effects. It also allows us to enjoy some pretty great actors saying and doing some almost believable things. Worth a Redbox fee, but probably not more than that. "Ripped From My Cold Young Fingers," update & excerpt: I was desperate to give you all good news this evening and say my review of the first edit is done. Unfortunately, I still have about 50 pages to go, which means another day to a few days. Here's an excerpt from the latest edits…"Grandma Clara! Grandma Clara!" I yelled as I rushed into my kitchen. Uncle Finneus appeared beside me. Of course, my grandmother had long ago returned to Heaven for the night."Out," I said, to my Uncle Finneus. "Out of here right now!"I was glad when he shrugged and disappeared. The last thing I needed was for his black sensibilities to affect my grandmother's willingness to help."Grandma Clara!"Suddenly she appeared. Her face was tight with concern."What is it, Nate?""It's Vicky. Her light turned red. She's going to die!"Grandma Clara's hand shot to her mouth. "Oh no," she breathed. "That poor child!""What do you mean that poor child? We have to do something. We have to stop this!"Though her body trembled with concern, she said, "I'm sorry, Nate. There is nothing we can do. I can't interfere down there. No one can.""That's crazy. God created the Earth, everything. Why can't he help my sister?""Nate, the Earth, the heavens, even Hell, they're all part of a system. That system can only exist with rules, rules that we can't break.""This makes no sense. You know what's going to happen!"Uncle Finneus knocked from the other side of his basement door."Not now!" I screamed at him."We have to help, Grandma. I can't just let her die.""Nathaniel," she said with a measured tone, "there is nothing we can do. I'm sorry."Uncle Finneus beat at the door."I said not now!""It's time for me to go, Nate," Grandmother Clara said. "I can't be party to this.""To what?" I asked, turning to face her. But she had already disappeared."For God's sake, Nate. Open the damned door!"I did as demanded, and Uncle Finneus stormed up into the kitchen. He had his hat in hand and his hair was wildly askew. His eyes danced angrily back and forth. I watched as he took a series of breaths to recover himself. He ran his fingers through his hair, and then somewhat calmly placed his top hat back on his head. Within his anger, I thought I recognized a sliver of what had allowed him to fight his way up to me. The fire was still in his eyes as he spoke."Do I strike you as a particularly frivolous man?" I could hear the sarcasm in his voice and didn't think this was the moment to mention that I didn't know what the word frivolous meant. I shook my head."Then why, pray tell, young Nathaniel, would you choose to ignore my knocking when it was evidently URGENT?""Uncle Finneus, maybe this isn't the best time for you to drag your point out too long. My sister is about to die, and I need to call Aunt Alice and the others for help. What do you want?""Your grandmother was lying.""Grandma Clara?" I asked."None other.""She can't lie," I said. "She's an angel."Thanks DebA for your kind review of "From My Cold Young Fingers - Advance Reading Copy (under-heaven)" (Kindle Edition)Her review…««««« (five out of five stars)Very Nice, 25 May 2011 This story about a little boy murdered in the 1940's takes an immediate twist when we discover that all kinds of souls (even those from Hell) can meet in a place called Under-Heaven. An unexpected pleasure to read. The mystery about Heaven, life after death and this possible place in between was fascinating. The plot moved well and kept me intrigued the way scenes moved from Under-Heaven to Earth and back again. I really enjoyed the story and the unfolding mysteries kept me guessing right to the end. I highly recommend the book. Nate and the entire cast of other characters were lovable and the author certainly brought them to life. While not a Christian book, this fictional Under-Heaven satisfied my belief system and gave me hope that in our world filled with pain and tragedy, there is goodness and purpose. Pick up "From My Cold Young Fingers" and you will not put it down. Wrapping up: I apologize for taking so long to get the chat/blog session started tonight, but my youngest son had his high school Freshman Year awards ceremony, and family is always a priority. We were very proud to see him accept his award this evening J. My Thanks: I once dreamt of writing for a living. Though a lot of my time is spent writing for nonprofit corporations and charities around the country, work that is incredibly fulfilling and that I will continue to do long after it is required on my end, each and every day more of my income comes directly from readers of my books. Please know that I couldn't be more sincere in my appreciation. THANK YOU ALL FOR GRANTING ME THIS LIFE, THE LIFE OF A WRITER!

Antimatter News and Fat Duck News That Matters…

Fat Duck gets curious, Tim plants a lawn and builds garden boxes, Antimatter is captured for 17 minutes, all about the Santa Conspiracy, filming begins soon, Maria Staal's review, and more…I didn't Know Ducks Could Be Curious: Fat Duck continues to amuse tons of people. Some days I think he receives more emails than I do. That's okay, though, because he hasn't let the fame go to his head yet–even though some mornings his head feather do rise to make him look a bit like ElvisJ.  It turns out, Fat Duck pays more attention than we all thought. To describe my yard, it would be easiest to envision a pond, then a house, then a huge barn behind the house, all in more or less a big line. What that means is that Fat Duck usually sits on his hay bale toward the front of our house, near the pond. This weekend, I had been working for several hours in the yard beside the barn, a spot where Fat Duck could see me from his perch a hundred or so feet away. But when I began working behind the barn, he couldn't see me but could probably hear me. I had been doing some landscaping back there for about thirty minutes when I suddenly saw my hefty white friend land about twenty feet away. To my knowledge he'd never been in that section of the yard before, not even close.  I didn't know what he wanted, but it almost looked as though he just wanted to see what I was doing. It was all quite cute, until Patsy, my dog (see new video of her and Fat Duck) started romping a little too energetically and sent Fat Duck winging back toward our porch.So, the question is: Do I have a curious Fat Duck or just a Fat Duck who was reminding me of his cage and snack time? Leave a comment. I'd love to know what you thinkJ.My weekend: Last weekend was spent filling the atypically flooded area around my well. This weekend I managed to finish up spreading the loam and grass seed over that entire area. Of course, the robins and other small birds are eating that new seed at an alarming rate, so I fear I may have to plant weed seeds next timeJ. I also spent part of yesterday and today helping my sister-in-law and her husband remove debris from the back corner of their yard and build two four-foot square planter boxes about 18 inches high each. She is an amazing gardener and her yard should appear in a magazine one day. In the meantime, it was nice to help people who are always available whenever we need them. I've often thought that our lives should not be measured by money or passing friends, but by the number of deserving people that we're able to help. Wouldn't it be something if rather than bragging how much we've earned or what we've purchased, if instead we were able to say I helped a dozen people I cared about this past week, year….Another good portion of my weekend was spent reviewing first edits for "Ripped From My Cold Young Fingers." I'm within a few days of wrapping up and hope to report that very achievement in Wednesday's blog. We'll see J. News – CERN Researchers trap antimatter atoms for nearly 17 minutes! How did they do it? By trapping the hard-to-pin-down atoms in a magnetic field. I believe it was less than a year ago when Hadron Collider researchers near Geneva were excited about merely capturing antimatter for a few seconds. Now seventeen minutes! Not being a scientist, I can't say exactly what the ramifications are, but I can tell you THEY'RE HUGE. We are on the verge of breakthroughs that will make technology of today look like Colonial-era gadgetry in a few decades. Time travel, maybe not. But new energy, yes. New transportation almost certainly. And space exploration and colonization might well be next. Let's hope so, because our kids are going to need the spacecraft construction jobsJ. Keep HADRON COLLIDER a favorite on your news search scroll. Mark my words, Star Trek-like science is just around that corner. How did Skip Ralstat and The Santa Shop come about? Thanks to Carrie and the rest of the crew at Focus House Publishing, I've had a few weeks filled with interviews, story requests, and lots of questions about my novel The Santa Shop. Those questions lead me to remember one pleasant post office clerk who had seen my book release announced in the local paper. He picked up a copy and for several weeks would ask me about it each time I stopped in. His first assumption was that it was a true story (it's not). I asked him why, and he said, "It's the strangest thing. Maybe it's because I know you personally, but every time Skip is described I see you, and every time he speaks I hear your voice." I like to think that all of my stories hold a little "Tim," that every character I write is in some way a reflection of myself. When I wrote about the pain that Skip endured, I found myself drawing upon memories of my brother's death (he died in a car accident when I was a teenager). I also found myself remembering an elderly man that I used to deliver newspapers to when I was even younger than a teen. I remember that kindly old man telling me that one day that he was worried about how his wife would get by when he died because he was very ill. Just a few weeks later, she was watering their roses and died from a bee sting. To this day, I remember the staggering emotional agony that man suffered after her death. Then and now it makes me wish he had been the first to go. So those two personal experiences fed a lot into Skip's journey. Beyond his grief though, The Santa Shop was born of my desire to know why conspiracies are relegated to and always perpetrated by the bad guys. When I envisioned Skip's world, I knew I wanted to provide him with help, even in the depths of his grief. I also knew that he shouldn't directly see or even suspect that help existed. And those two concepts, grief and my wishes for a conspiracy for good were the ingredients that became the first book in my Santa Conspiracy series. Of course, The Hollywood Ending is an extending ending for that book. More books in the series are planned, but my slate is so full I can't promise when. Keep sending emails, though. A little pressure never hurt anyoneJ.  Tim's upcoming appearances: Some of you may remember that late last year I was writing a script for a book trailer. Well, that trailer and other videos are moving into production in the next couple of months. I understand that I'll be with them while they shoot on location at sites ranging from a Santa Shop-like bridge to several mountain settings. I assume shoots dates and locations will be announced in the local New England papers, but as soon as I have times and other information, I'll share as much as I canJ.
Thanks so much, Maria Staal, for your kind review of "The Santa Shop."
Highlights of her review:««««« (5 out of 5 stars) May 27, 2011 Interesting story with a large feel good factor
The Santa Shop…leaves you feeling good….

In this first person narrative, we get acquainted with Skip, a man who after the tragic loss of his wife and baby son ends up living on the streets of Albany. Filled with remorse and guilt about the death of his family, he decides that he can't go on living…. As we follow Skip on his journey, we...sympathize. The people he meets…are believable and real…(like) Father Johnston, a priest who lets Skip sleep in the chapel…Barwood Stone…and Jenny, owner of a corner store.

The Santa Shop is…well written…and keeps you wanting to read on. Ultimately you feel...the world really can be a better place…. I recommend The Santa Shop to anyone who is in need of a feel good story….  In the next blog (Wednesday June 8th): More about Tim's crazy menagerie of pets. My review of something or other, a story from my past, an update on "Ripped From My Cold Young Fingers," and more…Thanks for hanging with me J!

The Night My Family Died and How Fat Duck Nearly Broke My Neck….

In The Blog Tonight: The Night My Family Died, how Fat Duck Nearly Broke My Neck, my upcoming appearances,  my movie review of I am Number Four, an update on and excerpt from Ripped From My Cold Young Fingers, Thanks to Alex Le Soum, the UK author of Space Turbulence, who reviewed The Santa Shop, and more… The Night My Family Died: I was taking my first creative writing course. My college professor was an older woman who was constantly glancing my way in class, almost as though I was an oddity to be categorized and explained. She once asked me to read a portion of a story aloud but then rather than critiquing my segment as she had with the other students, she fell silent. Another day, she asked the class to write a story within the duration of the class. I finished mine and received the highest grade in the class. She then said, "We know you can create a free-flowing narrative, but I'm betting you'll have a tougher time with structured non-fiction." She assigned a standard "problem, argument, summary" format. I found it fairly straightforward excercise so wrote both a factual essay about the "problems with" nuclear power and a spoof about the "advantages of" nuclear power. Of course, children that glow in the dark thereby saving energy, and children with muliple extra limbs for harvesting the garden were positive points. Needless to say, I had hurdled another of her challenges. We were about halfway through the semester when she asked us to write a true essay about our past. This is more or less what I wrote…From the time I was an infant, I remember being frightened of noises at night. I can't explain why but I always felt that my family would one day be in danger. There were six children in my family back then, and I was barely seven when it happened. I heard a constant loud tapping on one of the second floor windows. It was really late at night, and I instantly knew this was the moment I had always feared. I sat bolt upright in bed and tried to pinpoint the sound. It was coming from one of my sister's rooms on the other side of the second floor. Someone was trying to get in our house. I had to let my dad know!I was so frightened that my tiny body was nearly frozen with fear, but I somehow forced myself to peer out my bedroom door. I could hear someone, maybe several someones, moving around. The strangers were already inside.And they were between me and the stairs to the first floor!Not knowing what else to do, I crept along the backside of the wall to my older sister's room. Sharon was sprawled across the bed with blood covering her chest. They had slit her throat.Gasping for breath, but not daring to scream, I forced myself to keep breathing. Some how, some way, I had to get my three other brothers and sisters to safety. I could hear pounding coming from the next room. Fear clamped around my chest, I crept to my brother Ralph's room…and had all I could do not to faint. He was dead. Blood covered his pillow. His head was gone.Not much more than a zombie now, I knew they were all gone, and probably my parents, too. There were a couple of loud thumps, but I no longer cared. I went to the next three bedrooms and confirmed what I already knew. Each and every one of my siblings was dead. Brutally killed in the middle of the night, right in our own home! I didn't know why I hadn't been slaughtered yet, but I knew it wasn't fair. How could it have happened. Why us!I ran to my room, but not from fear…I was beyond that. I ran because my head and my heart couldn't take any more. The intruders had already killed everyone, taken everything from me. My most raw, darkest fear had come true. I crawled under the covers and rocked back and forth. At first, the noises I made were just gutteral reactions to pain… At this point, just moments after I had turned my handwritten essay in, my professor looked up from her desk. "Is this true?" Her lips were quivering. "Did this really happened to you?" I nodded…I made those gutteral sounds for maybe an hour, maybe longer. But then I began to pray. I hadn't been a religious kid, not really, but I had nothing left to do. My world was shattered. My entire family was dead. I prayed and I prayed. I prayed for it to be a dream, for God to somehow come down to Earth and make things okay again. I prayed to not be scared anymore, but most importantly I prayed for the lives of the people I loved. I had never realized how much I loved and needed each and every one of them until that moment. From the deepest most sincere core of myself, I prayed for things to go back to the way they were. Two or more hours must have passed. The intruders had come and gone, and somehow they had missed me. For some reason, fate and those murdering thugs had left me to suffer through this terrible ordeal…alone. Finally, drained, a husk of a person, I pulled my covers away from my head and prepared to relive the nightmare all over again.Like the walking dead, I trudged out into the hallway and heard banging. I looked and could see a tree limb tapping loudly against the glass. Not an intruder? Holding my breath, I moved cautiously into my older sister's room. I stared and couldn't believe what I was seeing. The red ribbon from one of her stuffed animals was stretched across her throat. I hadn't seen blood at all! Her chest rose and fell in steady breaths. I hurried to my brother's room and found not a headless boy, but my brother with a pillow over his head and a red tee shirt draped partway across that same pillow. And from room to room I went to find unlikely but logical reasons for each and every one of my violent visions. My family was and remains alive and well. And my professor? She finished reading that essay then stood in front of the entire class and said, "I want you all to hear something. This is the way we should all hope to write someday. And for the rest of this semester, this young man can do anything he wants. He has a perfect grade in my class."To this day, I could be hooked to a lie-detector machine and couldn't tell you truthfully that event NEVER happened. Was it an answered prayer or just a waking dream?Logic says one thing, but….This true story was posted earlier at the http://mistressofthedarkpath.wordpres... website. I'd like to thank Susan A. for asking if a dream had ever influenced one of my stories. This was my response…one dream may well have influenced my very life.Fat Duck Nearly Broke My Neck: Unfortunately, Fat Duck has gotten into the recent habit of sitting on his hay bale most of the day and forgetting where he belongs at night (I know, I know…last week he seemed to be trained!) The last few days, I've simply swatted him off his bale and walked behind him as he waddles toward the porch. Once he sees the stairs, he remembers where he belongs and flies up, one step at a time. Quite cute, and I'll film it soon (now that the mysterious battery problems with my son's Flip camera have been solved; it appears you can't just plug it into the USB port and expect the standard, non-rechargeable AA batteries to recharge. Oops ) Just before last Sunday's blog, I was in a rush—as I always seem to be–to get to my email, blog and chat session on time, so I forgot Fat Duck on his bale.  When the family realized I had abandoned him, they tried to get me away from the blog, but I suggested that my fourteen-year-old son could handle it just fine. Unfortunately, Fat Duck had found his way out onto the 25-foot-long stone dam that separates our brook and pond. My son tried but couldn't nudge him off with an aluminum fishing net, so he called for help. Flustered, I went outside to take care of it myself…in the dark…with no flashlight…and, as usual, fearless and clueless. In the pitch black, I pushed through the branches at the end of the dam and marched right out onto the foot-and-a-half wide dam that consists mostly of loose mortar and lots of missing stones. My son, of course, shined the flashlight at me from the other side of the brook, blinding me, while I tried to coax Fatty to hell off before I killed myself. As you might have guessed, he ignored me…right until I tripped and fell head first. I got a face full of butt feathers as Fatty flew off and landed handily on the grass. I, in the meantime, landed in the pushup position on a rickety stone shelf with my hands barely catching the edges. It's true that my brook and pond are relatively shallow (maybe two feet of water and another two of muck) and I likely wouldn't have drowned, but a face full of granite sure wouldn't have been much fun. As I recovered myself and marched Fatty to the porch, I noticed with some frustration that he didn't seem to be in any pain at all. He happily fluttered up the stairs, once "remembering" what to do, and was soon waiting for me beside his cage. I closed him in for the night, winced from a pulled side muscle and went inside.Upcoming Appearances: I don't have a time yet, but I will be appearing on the www.angelsandwarriors.com radio blog in the very near future. I'll keep you apprised of a time when I have it. Movie Review: I am Number Four – 2011, based on a book by Pittacus Lore, a pseudonym for James Frey and Jobie Hughes. My rating ««««¶ (four out of five stars)John Smith (Alex Pettyfer) is an unsettled teen who along with mysterious Henri (Timothy Olyphant) seems to be in hiding and off the grid. We soon learn that John is one of a number of alien teens sent to our planet to escape a frightening alien death squad. The story begins with John accidentally giving away his alien nature, which forces him and Henri to immediately pull up stakes and move…barely in time to avoid certain death. Henri leads them to the small town of Paradise, Ohio where he seeks information of some kind. Tired of being ostracized and alone, John rebels against Henri's orders and says he's going to school. There he meets beautiful Sarah (Dianna Agron), and starts to realize he is more different and more powerful than he ever imagined. Aliens descend upon the town and what happens next may well decide the fate of our world. I have to admit I liked this well-cast movie quite a bit. I am admittedly a fan of most hero movies (excepting most military-only plots) and this one left me feeling that my daughter's movie rental fee was well-invested. In my mind (especially since HBO's Deadwood), Timothy Olyphant can do no wrong…but his character Henri seemed to be both under-utilized and under-developed. John Smith was a convincing screwed up kid who winds up embroiled in a mess beyond his control and not of his making. The plotlines seemed believable, given the unbelievable premise, and the supporting cast did a good job, even with shallow character set-ups. If you liked Jumper (which I did), I'd say you should see this movie. A little slow to begin, but once it churns along the payoff is worth it. Rent this movie and settle in for a good dollop of action and entertainment."Ripped From My Cold Young Fingers," update & excerpt: For those of you that are curious how "Ripped From My Cold Young Fingers" is coming along, I'm now about 67% done with my review of the first edits (3 more much faster, I hope, rounds to go). It looks like I'm still at least a week out from completing this, maybe two . I hope you'll agree the time is worth it. Here's an excerpt from the latest edits…Though all houses in Under-Heaven look pretty much the same, it turns out that under certain circumstances, a house can be expanded―downward, to be exact. I learned that the day my Uncle Finneus arrived. At first I thought I had imagined it, but then I heard knocking sounds a second time. It wasn't coming from either my front or back door."Grandma?" I said.We were sitting across from each other in the living room. For a moment, she looked as baffled as I felt but then nodded and pursed her lips."This should be interesting," she said.Mystified, both by the knocking that seemed to be coming from my kitchen and by her comment, I got up to investigate. She followed."Open your basement door, Nate," she said. "Whoever is down there can't come up unless you allow it.""But I don't have a basement door.""You do now," she said.The pounding had grown louder and more insistent. Together, my grandmother and I crept more than walked into the kitchen. A wood grain door now adorned what used to be a blank hallway wall."Go ahead," Grandma Clara said. "Let's see which member of the family has managed this little feat." She motioned with her chin.Hesitantly, I turned the knob and eased the door open.A smartly dressed man with a curled mustache and a formal suit stepped energetically into my kitchen. He was tall and, all the way from his shoes to his top hat, was garbed entirely in black. Maybe I had been in Under-Heaven too long, but that much black nearly hurt my eyes. His shoes were polished to a brilliant sheen, and his suit looked so neatly pressed that I imagined he must never dare to sit down. His hat had a flat top like I remembered seeing on a circus poster once. He was what my mother might have referred to as a "dandy." He removed his hat and bowed, revealing immaculately combed and greased-back dark hair with a perfect part running down the center. His mustache was trim and looked to be curled with wax at the edges."You must be, Nathaniel," he said popping his hat back atop his head and extending a hand. I glanced to my grandmother. She nodded. I shook his hand."I'm Finneus T. Buckland, previous of Earth-fame, known as the inventor and distributor of Buckland's Amazing Bottled Tonic, the finest medicine known to man—up until that time, of course." He tipped his hat and bowed again with a flourish."Still haven't got that foolishness out of your head, have you, Finneus?" Grandma Clara said."Well, well," he said. He eyed her up and down. "It certainly is less than pleasant to see you here, Clara."She gave him one of my favorite warm smiles. "Pleasant or not, you old cur, get over here and give me a hug." He did as instructed but made a face toward me as he dramatically extricated himself from her grip."I came to meet my nephew, not to frolic with haggard old angels," he said, turning his attention back toward me. "How are you, young fellow?""Fine," I said. I could sense there was something very different about him, at least very different from anyone else here in my Under-Heaven. "Are you from Hell?" I asked. It was an uncharacteristically bold statement for me, but something I would find happening more and more as my exposure to my uncle grew.He laughed a deep and cheerful belly laugh."We like to think of it as the other heaven," he said.Grandma Clara was grinning like a young girl. I wondered at the connection. Did angels fraternize with the damned? "You know each other?" I asked."He's my grandfather," answered Grandma Clara."Correction," Uncle Finneus said. "I was your favorite grandfather.""Since my other grandfather was dead before I was born, you were my only grandfather.""That, notwithstanding," Uncle Finneus said, raising his chin in mock indignity, "I was still your favorite grandfather, was I not?""You haven't changed an ounce," she said to him. "I'm going to go now, but don't you warp my grandson too much, you hear.""Now, Clara. You know all the warping comes from above. We folk down below keep things in a much better per¬spective."For a brief moment, I was terrified. Even if it weren't for the man's dark color and origin, how could she leave me with a complete stranger like that? I opened my mouth to object, but she spoke first."You'll be okay with him," she said, "but keep your eyes open, Nate." Grandma Clara winked at Uncle Finneus. "He's a slippery old coot, and a bit more dangerous than most, given that he's so likeable." She flashed a goodbye smile at Uncle Finneus, and then faded away. I was a little shocked. Other than the one time when I had been sick, she had always used the back door.My surprise at her exit must have shown because Uncle Finneus said, "Don't fret that none, young fella. She was likely just showing off a bit for my benefit.""Can you fade, too?" I asked."Doesn't matter much," he said. "Crawl and skulk is what they'll tell you I do best, and they wouldn't be entirely untrue about that, either.""Why do you say you're my Uncle if you're Grandma Clara's grandfather? Wouldn't that make you my great, great—""Save all the greats, young man," he interrupted. "I prefer the term Uncle and that's what we'll be sticking with. Grandfathers are old and withered fellows―two things I am not. I'm currently in the youth of my death, and I shall not have you labeling me otherwise. Are we clear on that?""Yes, Uncle Finneus," I said with a grin. How could anyone not have liked this man?
Thanks Alex Le Soum (London, UK) for your kind review: Author of "Space Turbulence," a science fiction murder mystery (The Kolian Chronicles) http://www.amazon.com/Space-Turbulenc... Alex's review…««««« (five out of five stars)Fantastic read, 23 May 2011 This review is from: The Santa Shop (The Santa Conspiracy) (Kindle Edition) Downloaded this book to my Kindle last Friday. I started reading it during a lull on a visit to an elderly relative, I had intended only to read a few pages, but the story drew me in so completely that before I knew it I'd read the whole thing. I loved the unexpected twist at the end, really clever. Truly a very emotive story, brilliantly crafted. I whole-heartedly recommend this to everyone...and not just for Christmas reading. This is a great book for any time of year. Wrapping up: Those of you that were following my Facebook posts, emails, or chat notes tonight know that we had a tornado watch here in Maine as I created this latest entry to "The Perfect World." The warning time has passed and we have, thankfully, come through unharmed. Once again, I'm convinced that Maine is one of the safest places in the US to live. It's now 12:30 am (I know, crazy late) and I'm typing the last words while my dog Patsy barks like a lunatic in the living room a few feet away from my office. I flip the light on and, sure enough, there's the beautiful red fox in the driveway only a couple of feet from Slugger my yellow tabby cat, who strolls in the house like it's no problem. One night, a year or so ago, Slugger actually chased a larger fox across the yard. When I dragged him in, he squirmed to get back out his cat door–I guess so he could go play with his murderer. Needless to say, I held him tight.My Thanks: I once dreamt of writing for a living. Though a lot of my time is spent writing for nonprofit corporations and charities around the country, work that I will continue to do long after my need passes, each and every day more of my income comes directly from readers of my books. Please know that I couldn't be more sincere in my appreciation. THANK YOU ALL FOR GRANTING ME THIS LIFE, THE LIFE OF A WRITER!