Tim Greaton's Blog, page 8

A new realease and new direction heading into 2013...

Hi, everyone. First, I want to thank all of you who have been regularly emailing, Facebooking, leaving messages on Twitter, Amazon and all the many other places that we're all connecting in this modern social network age. I really appreciate your feedback, comments and support. Thank you.

I especially appreciate those of you who have taken the time to leave reviews for my print and audio books wherever you might find them. Your willingness to share your time and effort is amazing and will never be forgotten...and believe me readers pay attention. Every review you leave means there are hundreds if not thousands of potential readers deciding to take a chance on my work because they trust your opinion. Those reviews are absolutely the biggest favor you can do for any author. For the record, I leave reviews for every book I read, and this year I'm going to leave the same reviews on many more sites so that the authors get a wider benefit from my feedback. I definitely believe that anything I can do to help my fellow authors is a privilege and a responsibility.

2012 has been an amazing year. My available titles have more than doubled. My sales have been shooting straight upward, and Focus House Publishing has been working hard to improve the quality of my covers, edits and all other aspects of my releases. I am appreciative for every effort. THANK YOU!

So what's coming up and how are things changing? First of all, until today, I had no idea that there were readers who actually pay to receive my blog on their ereaders. It's just a little tidbit that Focus House never happened to mention, so for those blog subscribers I apologize for not posting more often. I honestly didn't realize you were in the wings. I promise your subscriptions will be much more worthwhile because I will be posting here regularly for the remainder of this year and all throughout 2013. If something changes beyond then, you will be the first to know.

Today's news: "The Santa Shop, Anniversary Edition" is now available on Amazon. It's 50% longer than the original story, which equates to 60+ pages in a print edition. You'll find out more about Skip's history, his family and all the characters around him. I've also updated the story for our modern times and have reimagined and added several scenes that I think you'll enjoy. "The Santa Shop" has now been read by nearly a quarter million people, and judging from the feedback (97 reviews on Amazon averaging 4 1/2 stars) most really love the story of grief, emotional struggle and redemption. I wrote the novel as a simple Christmas story, but it has grown WAAAY beyond that in the past ten years. The accompanying Samaritans Conspiracy twist is earning me regular emails, and "Red Gloves" the 2012 second book in the series has nothing whatsoever to do with Christmas and is currently my second bestselling novel. So, because I never intended the Santa Shop storyline to be complex, it's not surprising that the few negative comments it receives are that it is too simple. Well, I promise the Anniversary Edition is not. If you wanted more from "The Santa Shop," you now have it; the Anniversary edition provides a deeper, more descriptive experience but with the same emotional payoff throughout. Please try it and leave a review to let me know what you think. I have a few other quick points to make, but here are the Amazon links to all the Samaritans Conspiracy books. Of course, you'll find them at every other retailer as well. Santa Shop paperbacks are available and within a few months paperbacks and audiobooks will be available for most if not all of the titles.



While we're still on the Samaritans Conspiracy discussion, I should mention that Focus House has been telling me for a couple of months that a new cover is on the way for the "Hollywood Ending," which for those of you who aren't aware is the extra chapter, one year in the future, that I wrote for one of the major movie studios. Focus House released it because of feedback from a blog post, but no one expected it would sell in the hundreds or thousands of copies per year, which it has. In short, a new cover is coming sometime soon. I should also mention that "The Santa Shop" is absolutely FREE everywhere in ebook right now. I'm not sure how long that will last, but please feel free to take advantage. Remember, if you like it but want an even more emersive experience, pick up a copy of the Anniversary Edition next.

Since I'm now starting to feel as though I've gone from saying nothing on this blog to saying too much, I guess we'd wrap up today with a brief discussion about the direction that I'll be taking this year. A new novel in the Samaritans Conspiracy is coming early in the year. The working title is "The One Who Jumped." It's the story of the very first person in the Santa Cyle who actually leapt from the bridge in Gray, Vermont. You'll be shocked at the turmoil it causes. My next novel-length release will be a real estate thriller. For those of you who aren't aware, I was a top selling broker in Southern Maine for many years and was the number one broker in my region when I walked away from the profession in 1997-98. 2013 will also see the continuation of "Her Yearning for Blood," "The Dislocated Man," and my "Colonial Evil" serial novels. The first section of all of those series are FREE and will remain FREE everywhere.

 



Regarding these serial novels and all the other projects I'm working on, please know that readers have direct feedback about which serials and series get written and how fast. If you love a book or series, leave reviews, tell your friends, make sure they're buying it; tell everyone on Facebook and all over the net as well. If a particular series or serial does well, I promise you Focus House is going to lean on me to work on that first.

So, to wrap up today's post, you can expect to see a lot more of me on my blog, and I have a lot of great projects in the hopper (including a continuation of the Zachary Pill series) for this year. I'm looking forward to sharing a little bit more about the process of creating books as we move into the new year!

Your friend always,

Tim Greaton 

It's finally here! "The Dislocated Man, Part One" FREE TODAY ONLY!

You can catch a sneak peak of "The Dislocated Man, Part One" below, but there's really no need because you can download your Amazon Kindle edition for free RIGHT NOW.


   "The Dislocated Man, Part Two" is also now out!  

“The Craft of Writing Queries” by Robert Begiebing

Hi, Everyone.  I'm sure you all remember the fabulous submission information that Robert Begiebing provided on one of my recent guest posts. Well, Robert is back on Derek Flynn's blog (a blog you should all be following, by the way) and this time he's talking about “The Craft of Writing Queries.”

Don't miss this one: http://derekflynn.wordpress.com/2012/08/14/guest-rant-the-craft-of-writing-queries-by-robert-begiebing/


Also, don't forget to check out Robert Begiebing's latest release, "The Strange Death of Mistress Coffin."

A first glimpse at "The Dislocated Man" a terrifying paranormal romance, ghost story collaboration with Larry Donnell...

Thanks so much for taking the time to investigate this truly terrifying paranormal romance. Larry Donnell is an exceptionally gifted up-and-coming author, and I'm honored to share the literary stage with him through "The Dislocated Man"...



            Jack Werth slid into the men’s room and saw a young man, probably one of the new mailroom trainees, slamming his palm repeatedly against the sink. His shaggy blond hair, red cheeks and uncontrolled anger reminded him so much of Emil that Jack paused by the door and just stared.

Angry blue eyes swung his way.
“What the fuck’s wrong with you?”
Jack shook his head. “I’m okay. How ‘bout you?”
“Do I look okay to you?”  He stripped his blue tie off with one vicious pull.
Jack raised his hands.
“Hey, I was just trying to help.”
“Well fuck you, fuck your help and fuck that Boonsen bitch who just fired me!” With that, the early twenty-something exploded past him.
They could be twins.
The eerie similarity to Emil clotted Jack’s thoughts in place. Then, as though through someone else’s eyes, he watched his hand follow the angry young man and hover near the doorframe. The door slammed shut.
Jack came to his senses and yanked his hand away, but not in time!
White hot agony shot from the tip of his pointer finger.
"Goddamn it!"
He gasped and pulled his finger out of the impossibly small gap between the steel door and the jamb. It was as though an elephant had stomped on his finger. He clutched his thumb and squeezed the sharp pulsar. It didn’t help. A part of his brain luxuriated in the throbbing which seemed to thrum through his whole body.
"Goddamn it, I’m not going back to that.”
He dampened the perversion inside of him and willed the pain to lessen. There came a languid sense of focus as his breathing slowed and he squashed all thoughts of that horrible time from his mind. Approaching the sink, he pushed the lever and doused his aching finger. The cold water shocked then soothed the dented flesh around the bruising knuckle. He shook it and doused it again.
At least there aren’t any client reports due.
Typing was going to be out of the question for a few days…maybe longer. He cupped both hands and splashed cold water on his face, neck and stared into the mirror. No way could Hannah find out about this.
Through the closed door, he could hear laughter and the first strains of “Jingle Bells.”
Remembering he had come for a reason, Jack relieved his bladder then returned to the mirror where he stared at the reflection of his dark eyes and tried to understand how the past had crept up on him again. It had been years—well, at least months—since he had even thought about acting that way. He dunked his finger several more times, took a deep breath and wiped his face with his good hand.
His therapist would have a great time with this.
“Time to go back, Jack old man.”
One more deep breath then a practiced smile slid onto his face as he exited the bathroom and flowed back into the maelstrom of co-workers and plus ones pretending to have fun. He waved to catch the attention of the nearest overgrown elf. Everything about the T. Boonsen Equities’ Christmas party—right down to the waiter’s green costume, replete with fur boots and a floppy green hat—was ridiculous.
“What can I get for you, sir?”
“Double scotch.” Jack said. He fought the urge to suck on his sore finger.
“And I’ll have a triple martini with a splash of cranberry juice,” Derrick added as he stepped up to Jack’s table.
“No problem,” the young waiter said, brushing his hat’s white puffball from his forehead and moving back through the balloons and streamers. They would have been more suited to a birthday bash than a Christmas party.
“Ten to one, he screws our order up,” Derrick said. “The kid never wrote anything down.” 
Jack feigned a smile. Leave it to the Director of Sales to complain even at a Christmas gathering. Why couldn’t Hannah understand this was why he needed a glass glued to his hand tonight? How else would he survive so much face time with T. Boonsen management?
Dressed in the same red tie and inexpensive blue suit he’d worn earlier at the office, Derrick Branson patted his gigantic stomach. “I’m going to start spending some time at the gym. That’s my big resolution. You always keep fit, Jack. What’s your secret?”
Jack wanted to suggest the obese man use his mouth for something other than a funnel, but he wasn’t quite that drunk. Besides, at forty-two he was too old to be following the angry mail clerk out the door. These days, financial companies had no problem letting experienced brokers go only to replace them with new recruits willing to work longer hours for less pay. T. Boonsen Equities was no exception. Over the last ten years, average salaries had plummeted as youth among the staff increased. 
God, I miss the nineties.
“A little basketball and jogging on the weekends,” Jack offered, which was mostly true.
He sat and admired Hannah from across the party floor. Though not quite as slim as some of the young trophy wives roaming the room, she was blond and stunning for a woman in her mid-forties. Hannah caught him looking and gave her best coquettish smile, a promise of wanton things to come. By the time they got home the boys would be asleep. Jack smiled because even if sleep won out over intimacy, he would be cuddling with a woman he still desired after twenty-two years of marriage. She and their two sons were everything. They made even the barely tolerable parts of his life somehow better.
“So I’m thinking of turning a couple of the newbies over to you, Jack. You’d make a helluva team leader,” Derrick offered.
Translation: I want you to train your replacements.
Jack reluctantly pulled his gaze from his wife’s shapely calves and faced Derrick’s intent gaze and fiery red nose. Why was it that people with authority felt the need to wield it even after hours? He drained the last of his scotch.
“I can’t train anyone right now, Derrick. I’m the only agent old man Van Hausen will deal with, and the partners specifically asked me to get his portfolio back on track this month.” He didn’t bother to add that he had finished work on that account earlier in the week.
“I never actually spoke with Van Hausen,” Derrick said. “What’s he like? Do you think you could introduce me?”
“Hi Jack, Derrick.” Like the goddess she was, his wife had come over to save him.
“Hello, Hannah,” Derrick said. “You look lovely as always.” The way the heavy man’s eyes traveled up and down her sleek red dress and paused at her chest suggested he meant it.
So much for who’s got the most power.
“Hi, Hon,” Jack said pulling her down for a kiss.
“I came over to take my husband away for the next slow dance.”
“He’s a lucky man,” Derrick said, “but it’s okay because the buffet has been crying out my name for a while now.”
Just then, the elf returned and handed the men their drinks from a full tray. Derrick fell silent because, of course, the waiter had gotten their orders right. Jack kicked his double scotch back in one gulp.
“I thought you wanted to walk out of here?” Hannah said, her tolerance reaching its limit. In the previous five years, Jack had fought two bouts of depression, the last one requiring him to join a program for six months. She had already made it clear, medication was one thing, but she would not live with a drunk.
“Last one,” Jack promised, even though he was already thirsting for his fifth—or was it his sixth?
“On that note….” Derrick heaved his considerable frame to his feet and shuffled toward the lavish buffet.
“Like an emphysema patient to a smoke shop,” Jack said.
“Really?” Hannah lifted his empty glass. “What’s your analogy?”
“An apologetic puppy wagging his tail?” Jack suggested.
“Okay, that one was cute. But I’m serious. Our kids aren’t growing up with a lush for a role model.”
He pulled her down onto his lap. It amazed him how it still felt like a first date with her. He nuzzled her ear until strains of the Kiss ballad “Beth” poked through the din. Wordlessly they made their way to the floor and enjoyed the sway in time. After two decades together, they had an unspoken rhythm that was at once familiar and exotic. Date nights with Hannah always confirmed what Jack had known since the day they met: she was the perfect woman for him. By the time “Beth” transformed into “Lady” by Styx, the party around them had faded into a wash of surreal sound. It was only Hannah and Jack, Jack and Hannah.
“You are amazing,” he breathed.
“That is so true Jack,” she whispered, “but it’s very nice of you to notice. You’re not so bad yourself.”
“That was a little weak as far as compliments go, Mrs. Werth,” he said, nibbling her ear.
“I prefer to give my compliments at home,” she said.
“Not fair,” he countered, running his hand up and down her waist. “I still have to wait for Bonnie and Clyde to give their yearly ‘make us some money’ inspirational speech. That’s probably two hours away.”
“You know I could have sworn I brought my pills but they’re not in my bag,” she told him. “Nobody went near it when I went to the ladies’ room earlier, did they?”
“No way,” Jack said. “I was like the secret service for that purse.” Then, more seriously, “That’s not like you to forget.” 
“I know but…well, I must have left them on the dresser or something. I’ll just have to go home and get them. That’s all.”
Jack stopped dancing.
“I don’t want you driving, not without your medication.” Hannah had been diagnosed with a mild form of epilepsy several years earlier. It had taken three different drugs and almost six months for her to get her driver’s license back. Though she had never had a seizure while driving, he didn’t want to imagine the possibility.
“You’ll have to take a cab,” he told her.
Hannah pouted for a moment then nodded.
“You could...come with.” Her long nail painted a tracery on his chest.
“God, I want to. You know I do.”
“But you’re going to stay.”
“Yeah, I have to.”
“Okay,” she said. “It shouldn’t take me long. Save the horizontal dancing for me, or else.” Her exaggerated snarl made him laugh.
“Okay, okay.” He started to say something else but paused.
“What, Jack?”
“I should go with you. Tipsy hot woman, cab, miscreant driver; all the earmarks of—”
“Jack, Jack. Stop right there. I’ll take Yellow Cab, the one we use for the kids. Their drivers have always been good.”
“I just worry about you.”
“I’m the one who should be worried.” She pointed at the cluster of empty glasses on the table. “Promise me you’re going to behave.”
“Okay,” he agreed. “Less drinking and more face time with the real miscreants of the world.”
She leaned forward and kissed him lightly on the lips.
“You do realize you’re one of those investment banker miscreants, right?”
“Yeah, but I’ve been forced into it by my gold-digging wife who always wants more luxuries…like food and clothes for the kids. Next you’ll want to college educate them.”
“Maybe we should get them out of elementary school first,” she suggested. “I better get home. I’m feeling a little warm.”
“See, I should go with you.”
Hannah gazed into her husband’s eyes. “Really, babe, it’s okay. I’ll be right back.”
Knowing he was just being foolish, he nodded and watched her sway toward the far end of the conference hall where she would find her coat and the exit. At the last minute, she turned and waved. Something about her smile made him regret not going. He got up but then watched as she disappeared through the door.
The next hour was nearly as arduous as he had imagined. He moved toward the brown-nosing end of the hall where brokers wore permanent smiles and spouses aggressively flirted upward. Jack didn’t know for certain, but he assumed the flirters really would have slept with upper management if they thought it would gain them or their spouses an edge. He also wouldn’t have been surprised if those people abandoned one spouse for another, anything for a nicer home, fancier car or larger expense account. Of course, at the center of the kiss-ass whirlwind, he found Thomas Boonsen and his wife, Edith Boonsen, perched like silver monarchs at the end of the immense conference table. Around them crowded the most hardcore of their flock. One man—a hedge fund manager from the Seventh Avenue building—was actually spreading jam on a biscuit and handing it to Mrs. Boonsen who accepted it with the aloofness of a queen. Jack wished he could say she had been less haughty when he first entered the game or that had he seen the way the Boonsens really were he might have made different choices. But he would have been lying to himself.
He just found it increasingly hard to suffer it.
“Jack Werth,” Thomas Boonsen said, somehow noticing him through the throng of greedy hangers-on. “How’s my favorite manager of temperamental clients?”
Suddenly, every eye within fifty feet was staring at Jack. More importantly, a pathway opened up so he could actually approach the exalted couple to make his yearly bow of respect.
“I’m not sure managing one temperamental client makes me an expert.” He moved close enough to shake Thomas’ hand.
Since the queen’s blue-veined hand didn’t reach his way he simply nodded and smiled at her. Her return gesture could have been a wince. She had never been one to mingle much with the help, though everyone knew she was responsible for a majority of company decisions, including who got fired and who didn’t. The balding manager with curly red hair at the sides knew exactly what he had been doing when he handed her a jam-filled cracker.
“I see big things ahead for you and T. Boonsen,” Thomas said generously.
Translation: We’re going to make big money with or without your help this year.
“Thanks,” Jack said. “I hope you and your family—”
“Mr. Werth! Mr. Werth!” His assistant’s panicked voice lanced through the din.
Every eye at the clotted end of the room snapped to see a young redhead pushing her way toward them, a cellphone aloft in her hand. Though in her late-twenties, she still had a vicious case of acne and an awkward teen aura about her. Not having seen her since shortly after the party began, he was surprised that his secretary hadn’t actually left already.
“Mr. Werth, it’s the police,” Allison said, her voice carrying easily now that the room had fallen silent. “They’re calling from Mrs. Werth’s cell phone.”
Jack felt as though a glass dome had slipped over his entire body. People separated so he could retrieve the cell phone.
“They tried all her speed dial numbers,” the young woman said. “You must not have your ringer on.” 
His chest tightening into a ball of black coal, Jack shoved back the way he had come. Most of the partygoers parted for him. At the distant end of the room people were still dancing, gesturing, their faces filled with smiles. He reached for the phone.
“He-Hello. This is Jack W-Werth.” He could hear sirens wailing and commotion pushing through the other end of the receiver.
“Mr. Werth, my name is Sergeant Abbott with the Minneapolis Police Department. I’m sorry to infor—”
“Where is my wife? Tell me where she is!”
“Mr. Werth, there has been an accident.”
“No. No. Where is she? I need to talk with her.” Jack’s head felt like an overheated steam furnace. His heart pumped fear straight into his brain.
“The medics are with her right now, Mr. Werth,” Sergeant Abbott said. “It might be best if you came here to the scene—”
“Is she okay? Is she going to be okay?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Werth. The medical technicians and the doctors will have to make that determination…”
“Which hospital?”
“We have a lot of victims here, Mr. Werth,” the sergeant said. “It has not been determined yet—”
“Which fucking hospital?” Jack screamed. He ignored the stares and expressions of horror and detached interest.
“She is still at the scene, Mr. Werth.”
“Where? I’m leaving right now!”
 The lights were getting dim and a rushing sound reverberated in his head. Vaguely, Jack heard someone speak.
“I’ll drive you.”
Minneapolis valets were neither common nor known for top notch service, but one of the two young attendants outside the Kirstwood Hotel’s lobby retrieved Derrick Branson’s late-model Chrysler in record time.
“Do you need me to sign anything?” Derrick asked the uniformed thirty-something who hustled around the car and handed him the keys.
“Just get him to wherever he needs to go,” the young man said.
Jack fought back tears as a movie of his life with Hannah played like an emotional whip in his mind. He could see her smile at the Brown campus where they met. She was still smiling when they moved into their first cockroach-infested apartment in Grand Rapids. He even remembered her laughing the day the doctors made him bring their first-born, Chet, home from the hospital without her. He slid into the passenger side of Derrick’s car and barely noticed the Burger King bag that Derrick snatched from the seat before he could sit on it.
Why did I let her leave without me? I should have—
He buried his face in his hands and fought the tidal wave of emotions that were swirling like hot lava though his mind.
I need you, Hannah. I need you to be okay. Please be okay!
“Seat belt, Jack,” Derrick said.
Jack looked up.
“Yeah. Sorry.” Absently, he pulled his belt around and locked it in place.
“The Nicollet Island bridges are still closed for construction,” Derrick said. “We’ll have to cross at North Plymouth. Sound alright?”
Jack nodded.
Derrick momentarily jerked to a stop at the entrance to 6th Street before the Chrysler’s tires squealed and jumped out into a stream of cars.
Jack willed cars to move, lanes to open, anything that would get them to Hannah’s side sooner. He was tempted to call the policeman back, what was his name…Sergeant Abbott? But he knew it wouldn’t do him any good. The man had refused to give him any information over the phone.
I need you, Hannah. The boys need you!
“I know you can’t help it, Jack,” Derrick said, jerking his car into the outside lane and passing a carful of teenage girls, all of whom seemed to be giving them the finger. The girls’ horn blared as Derrick’s Chrysler slid in front of them.
“Jack, let go!”
“What?”
“You need to let go of your keys. You’re bleeding.” Derrick reached behind the seat and pulled out a wrinkled fast food bag. With one hand, he somehow managed to pull out two napkins embossed with a large “M.” He passed them to Jack.
“Squeeze these instead.”
“Okay.” Jack did as he was told. He didn’t even remember pulling the keys from his pocket. He willed the blood to stop but like Kool-Aid on a white tablecloth, a red stain spread rapidly through the napkins.
Twice in one day. I definitely can’t tell Hannah.
He felt the same flood of shame as he had the day it all started, the day he had seen the surprised expression on his brother’s dead face. Jack didn’t remember much after that, but the doctors said he had nearly bitten through his own thumb by the time the ambulance arrived. Then, after several hours in surgery, he had been confined for two weeks to Ward Six for psychiatric patients.
Fourteen? I was only fourteen when Emil died.

                                      Click HERE to read more.

A sneak peek at my latest frightening release: "A Colonial Evil"...

Thanks so much for taking a sneak peek at my latest release: "A Colonial Evil, Episode One." My last few projects - "Her Yearning for Blood," "A Colonial Evil," and the upcoming "Dislocated Man" collaboration with Larry Donnell - definitely come from a darker place than some of my previous works. If you're a fan of paranormal, horror or dark fiction, I think you'll enjoy these 30-page episodes being released at least one-per-month in each series.
Someone once told me she fell in love with the Harry Potter stories because she enjoyed seeing a fictional character grow up to have a better life. As a real life boy who came from a different but similarly miserable childhood, I think these stories might be my way of excercising some of my own Muggle demons from many years ago.
I hope you enjoy the results.  

 
A Colonial Evil Episode One (Tendrils)  1  Feeling like Mary Shelley's Dr. Frankenstein, hair askew, sweat matting his platinum bangs to his forehead, Sedge heaved the bucket up and poured pale yellow liquid into the large pot he'd borrowed from Mrs. VanGasbeek on the first floor. The vile-smelling liquid hissed as it hit the hot metal. Steam roiled upward and spread like sewer gas throughout his tiny apartment. Fighting the urge to gag, he poured the last of the urine into the pan then rushed over the sink and puked up a pink liquid he assumed to be stomach acid and blood. He hadn’t eaten in several days.
Running trembling hands beneath the faucet, he splashed his stubble-covered face then scooped cold water into his mouth. It did not help. The sour taste of bile combined with the cloying scent of boiling urine sent his frail body into a series of dry heaves that made his ribs hurt. When the spasms finally passed, he slumped to the floor with his back against the sink cabinet. After a few minutes, he wiped the spittle from his lips and forced himself unsteadily to his feet. Wet fingers reached for the haphazard stack of old texts strewn across his table. Flipping to page sixty-seven of the top leather book, where a spoon held his place, Sedge ran a quaking finger along the text:
. . . and so the possessed would be brought into the room where a brisk fire was already ablaze. Then, while a priest whispered words of prayer and sprinkled Holy Water over the victim's head, urine would be emptied into a heated pot. While the possessed slept, the urine would boil completely away. If fortunate, upon awakening the victim would be free of possession.
Sedge read the paragraph three times before it finally got through to his sleep-deficient brain. He opened the cabinet above the sink and fumbled around the shelf, panic building inside him. Where had it gone? It had to be there! Finally, his hand closed around a small, square bottle of Holy Water he'd stashed there four days ago.
A trickle of relief washed some of the tension away.
When the priest had first refused to give him the water, Sedge ripped half a dozen hymn books from their cradles and hurled them across the chapel. It wasn’t until one slammed into a pair of gigantic candelabra and sent them crashing to the floor that the priest begged, “Please stop.”
Thankful the candelabra had not been lit, Sedge paused.
"I don't have a choice."
"This is a place of peace," the priest said.
"I need the water from you,” Sedge pleaded, “a priest who truly has faith!"
“But that is why I cannot give it to you,” the old priest said. “The Lord’s blessings cannot be given indiscriminately, not even if you were to tear every stone from this chapel.”
With guilt thick like mucus in his throat, Sedge collapsed into a pew, hot tears streaming down his cheeks. "I'm sorry,” he said. “This is wrong. I need the Holy Water so badly…but not—not like this.”
“How long has it been since you slept?” the kindly priest asked stepping close enough to pat Sedge’s bony shoulder.
“I’d like to say I’ll rest when I die,” Sedge said, “but that’s not true. He wants me and there’s nothing I can do to stop him.”
“Who, my son? Who wants you?”
“It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters.”
The old priest’s shoulders slumped and his wizened lips trembled.
“Wait here, son.” He turned and limped up the three stairs of the cathedral's stage and pushed the rich maroon curtain aside to reveal an archway to quarters behind. Reclaiming some of the majesty of his position, he stared sternly back at Sedge and said, "You will do no more damage and reverently await my return with the respect deserved by our Lord. Is that understood?"
Uncertain what he was waiting for, Sedge nodded and retrieved the hymn books to return them to their cradles. One of the candelabra had bent but he propped it up as best he could. The work was complete by the time the priest returned with a tiny glass vial in his hand.
“I don’t know if the Lord whispered his approval or if the sadness in your eyes got the better of me,” the compassionate priest said, “but here is your Holy Water. With it, I hope your soul can begin to heal.”
Now, four days later, holding the clear container a few inches from his eyes, Sedge wondered if the contents were indeed blessed. Was it possible that the elderly man had given him nothing more than tap water? Either way, it was too late to do anything about it. He pulled the cork from the flared glass mouth and placed the bottle on the counter. It was another tense moment as he threw two more books to the floor in search of the gift his mother had given him on his sixth birthday. That Holy Bible was the only thing that he had taken from his parents' home before running like a frightened hare five years earlier. As Sedge's fingers closed upon the heavy text, it occurred to him that he hadn't slept in three nights.
Soon, real soon.
He blinked away his blurred vision and struggled to read the finely printed words on the page:
. . . And if you desire to share in Satan's power you must—
Sedge snapped the book shut and glared at the red-embossed letters on the cover: EVIL INTENTIONS.
Disgusted, he threw the Satanic tome to join the other unusable texts on the floor. Finally, he fished out the correct black bound edition of the King James Bible. He glanced away and back several times to ensure that it was, in fact, The Holy Bible. Then, without regard to which page it was that he chose or even if it was from the Old Testament or the New, he began reading:
"The righteous cry, and the Lord heareth, and delivereth them out of all of their troubles . . .
And he read on for a full minute:
. . . The Lord redeemeth the soul of his servant: and none of them that trust in him shall be desolate."
With finality, he uttered the last sentence and sprinkled the contents of the small vial onto his head. The warm water trickled down through his thick, unkempt hair. Was it possible that his need to run, to remain exiled, to fear might finally be over?
Whether fed by wishful thinking, an actual intervention from a power greater than himself or maybe for no other reason than pure exhaustion, Sedge's emaciated body slumped to the floor. Like doors to an underground tomb, his eyelids slid shut and, for the first time in many months, Sedge fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.
A tiny mouse scurried from behind the heating strip, under the table and over a discarded copy of Murder Or Justice: The Salem Trials. The grey rodent stopped briefly to lick a bead of Holy Water and sweat from Sedge's brow before continuing its journey into the living room and beneath the tattered couch. Meanwhile, the evaporating contents of the pot continued to roil upward and fill the apartment with a stench that landlord after landlord would try unsuccessfully to eliminate for years to come.   2Thirty-five-year-old Wanda was in her Bragdon Maine home, only two blocks from where Sedge Delorme had grown up. On a shelf by the door, three thick black candles cast a flickering light on her unusual living room. All the shades were pulled, and the ragtag furniture had been pushed back to the walls or, in the case of the coffee table, relegated to the space under the kitchen table in the next room. Etched with a paring knife into the ugly green linoleum floor was a pentagram at the center of which she kneeled. The backs of her prematurely-wrinkled hands rested on her thighs, palms facing upward. Both creased eyelids were closed.
"Ohhhh, Master, guardian of my soul," she chanted, "please open the pathways and allow your humble servant access to your boundless knowledge."
The candles flickered, sending out three billowing streams of smoke. Wanda's eyes remained closed as the ribbons of greasy black crossed the room and danced above her head like snakes to an Arabian flute. She felt a menacing but also soothing aura embrace her.
Her breath caught.
It was as though she faced a vicious family dog that should protect her but could as easily have torn her to shreds. Feeling simultaneously helpless and secure, she bathed in the dark presence that had returned from many years in the past.
"Oh, Master, holder of my heart, show me what I must do next."
Suddenly, the smoke serpents scattered to three separate corners of the room then zoomed violently back together in a collision of solid blackness. The evil entity dropped down to envelope Wanda's frail body.
She winced as an icy vapor coated her skin, slid into her nose, her mouth and filled her chest with searing cold. Gasping, she heard faint sucking sounds that she knew was the sound of what little youth and vitality she retained being drawn away. Weeks ago, no longer able to bear the sight of her rapidly aging body, she had broken every mirror in her home. How much longer could this go on? Though it was a price she had willingly agreed to pay, doubts were always present.
Wanda felt the cold, hungry smoke pushing down on her, threatening to burst her feeble lungs. A great pain built deep in her ribcage where her haggard heart thrummed to keep blood pumping into the straining cells of her body. And then, suddenly, the pain was gone.
Faces, dark and ugly but full of power, flashed before her mind. She knew these men and women for who they were: witches who had gone before her, practitioners of the black arts who had died during a time when Wanda's craft had been commonly practiced and openly feared. She envisioned their mouths opened in pain and terror as stones were hurled against their bodies or piled atop their earthly flesh. She could see wooden mallets smashing their arms and legs, but still those who had gone before her struggled on. The fires of rebellion had burned so deeply inside those great hearts that not even death could defeat them. Yes, she could sense their pain but also their glory. Departure from life had not been an end for them, only their deliverance to the Master.
Wanda heard skin cracking as she imagined fires eating away at her own weak flesh. But in that same inspired vision, the flames failed to touch the essence of the spirit within her—
Suddenly, there was a bright flash as the flames burst outward in a fierce display of angry splendor. Wanda reeled back from the impact and intentionally moved outside of the pentagram. The connection was broken and the fiery vision was gone. But she had survived and now knew what to do next.
Her leathery face split into a frightening semblance of a smile.

3 

Rochester, New York: Sedge felt a sharp, stabbing pain in the hollow valley beneath his ribs when he awoke on the kitchen floor of his small apartment. A putrid smell filled his nostrils. For a moment he wondered if his malnourished and neglected body was finally giving out on him. Of all the horrors—daggers dipped in blood, limbs being brutally ripped from their sockets—he would never have imagined that a heart attack would be the cause of his death. He chuckled at the irony and a fresh bolt of pain bit into his rib cage.
Gasping, he rolled onto his back. The pain miraculously disappeared.
He saw his Bible laying on the floor beside him and wondered if it was as pleased as he was to no longer have his body crushing it into the hard floor. Sedge turned his attention upward. The light above seemed to descend in a cone as it reflected off a thick, grey mist between him and the ceiling.
The pot!
He scrambled awkwardly to his feet and pushed Mrs. VanGasbeek’s heavy pan away from the burner. He heard a sizzling sound and winced. Yanking his burnt palm away, he coughed in the foul smog and dropped to his knees then closer to the floor where the air was at least breathable. Had he fallen asleep on the couch, he might never have woken because surely the urine vapor would have killed him.
Sedge crawled to the living room, forced open all three windows and was somewhat surprised to see a dark sky and the few lights that only an early morning in Rochester could bring. Hanging his head out the window, he drew in several frigid breaths.
Vanessa was stretched seductively across the cigarette billboard on the roof of the four-story building across the street. Her soft, friendly eyes stared back at him. Sedge had never seen her in any other ads, which came as no surprise since he didn’t own a TV and seldom read magazines or newspapers. But she reminded him of a young Vanessa Williams, the woman who had lost her Miss America title because of nude photos. Though he often marveled at the way her narrow waist accentuated her curves and dark skin contrasted against her silky white dress, his fantasies about her were based in friendship not romance. At least he could talk to her without fearing she would wind up dead by morning.
“Maybe I could get a job with your agency, Vanessa,” he joked, his words coming out in puffs of condensation. He pulled on the stained, pink Disney World T-shirt that hung loosely from his emaciated frame. “I assume thin is in for male models, too.”
Her expression didn’t change, but her eyes suggested the tiniest hint of humor.
Sedge’s gaze dropped to the quiet street below.
"Do you think it worked?" he asked her.
He glanced up. All evidence of humor was gone from her expression. She didn’t believe it.
"I hope you’re wrong," he whispered. "This has to be over."
Kind but unconvinced eyes stared back at him.
Sedge spoke for a few minutes longer, mostly about what he would do if he were able to mingle with people again. Finally, the cold October air became too uncomfortable, so he said goodbye and drew his head back inside. The heavy smog had dwindled to a light haze. Unfortunately, the stench if anything seemed to be stronger. He didn’t mind, though. He would gladly have immersed himself in that terrible odor for the rest of his life if it meant he could finally live his life like other people. He didn’t want to have to fear every phone call or knock at the door. Leaning into the thin stuffing of the old couch, he allowed his thoughts to pause. The concept of freedom, true freedom, seemed overwhelming. Ichabod had never allowed him that luxury.
Sedge closed his eyes and allowed the tiniest hint of a smile.
The dark presence watched and waited.

End sneak peek. You can download the entire episode HERE .

My guest Robert J. Begiebing talks about "Selling Your Novel: Creating a Compelling First Impression"...

I'm really pleased to have Robert J. Begiebing as a guest on my blog today. A recipient of the Langum Prize for historical fiction, Robert is the author of seven books, a play, and over thirty articles and stories. He is the founding director of the Low-Residency MFA in Fiction and Nonfiction, and Professor of English Emeritus, at Southern NH University.


I could go on with the introduction, but I think Robert's following post speaks beautifully for his credentials. If you're a writer who wants to make editors, agents and dare I say readers take early notice of your fiction, you've definitely found the right advice to follow. So here's Robert...

 Selling Your Novel: Creating a Compelling First Impression, Robert Begiebing
I’m often asked how to approach an agent or editor with a manuscript for a novel.  Let’s assume that through many revisions and critiques you’ve completed a novel.  You have a referral or a list of agents and editors to query.  You know you only get one shot in the door with each editor or agent, so how do you prepare the most engaging materials possible?  The three basic elements are the query letter, the synopsis, and the first thirty pages (or three chapters, whichever comes first).  There are lots of sources to get help with the first two, but the manuscript sample is perhaps the most difficult and most misunderstood.  So assuming you know how to set up a manuscript typographically, let’s focus on the manuscript sample, based on my own experience and on what I’ve been hearing from editors and agents for years in answer to questions from others.
What does a professional reader NOT want to see in the opening of your novel?
·        Giveaways to your amateurism: all kinds of authorial tics or other repetitive annoyances and hack constructions, (from the use of ellipses to indicate suspense, to italics to indicate moments of fear or stress, to single-sentence paragraphs to indicate climactic zingers or sentimental emphases, and so on).
·        Prologues, especially lengthy ones, that if containing information absolutely needed should be reprocessed into the tale itself; avoid, in short, anything that keeps the reader from getting right into the central drama.  A venerable editor at Norton upon encountering a prologue of any kind used to say, “Get out of the bathtub!” because she read so many fictional prologues set in tubs where protagonists ruminate on life and their problems.
What are the attributes or qualities of successful opening pages, some of which a professional reader hopes to see in your ms.?
·        Indications that by your reading, your writing experience and education, and by, in short, your long and painful apprenticeship, you are no longer an amateur or dilettante.
·        Energy, animation, originality of VOICE (a question of your point of view choices and the narrative persona you’ve created).  One agent told my workshop students he looks for a certain “intensity” of voice or language.
·        A texture of mind or descriptive power that comes through the prose.
·        “Profluence” ( we’re getting somewhere, on to something, care where the story is going, a power of interest, set up early and satisfied later).  The Pull: novelist John Gardner’s sense (from Aristotle) of character (the emotional core) and plot (the profluent focus of your narrative plan).  An engaging drama has begun.
·        An “Inciting Incident” that radically disrupts the balance of forces in your  protagonist’s life to which he/ she must react, through progressive complications (a point I borrow from Robert McKee’s book Story).
·        Drama vs. Exposition/ Explanations/ Backstory.  Resist the Urge to Explain (RUE) and weave in necessary but brief segments of backstory later, once the reader is hooked and the drama is fully underway.
·        A sense of your opening chapter especially as the crucial “manner by which reader gains entrance,” to quote Douglas Bauer’s The Stuff of Fiction.
·        Questions raised in the reader’s mind.
·        That opening sentence.  As an editor at Houghton Mifflin once said, “If you can’t write that opening sentence, I don’t have much hope for your ability to write the rest of the book.”
·        Your mastery of dialogue (see three chapters devoted to it in Renni Browne and Dave King’s Self-Editing for Fiction Writers)
·        A clear sense of the book’s subject matter and major characters.
·        Any foretelling of theme, purpose, or significance in an intriguing manner.
Once more, you certainly want to avoid any coy, irrelevant, or expository/ explanatory material too soon that might be bottling up your real beginning of the conflict and drama.
Happy writing. Enjoy the journey.
Your friend,Robert J. Begiebing



The 20th anniversary edition of The Strange Death of Mistress Coffin, a novel set in 17th-century New England, will be released on August 14, 2012 and is now available for pre-order. Originally published the early 1990s, Mistress Coffin was a Main Selection in The Literary Guild, The Mystery Guild, and Doubleday Book Clubs, and is currently optioned for a film.
Visit his website at www.begiebing.com. Link to Book at Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Strange-Mistress-Hardscrabble-Books-Fiction-England/dp/1611683386/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1343818134&sr=8-2&keywords=the+strange+death+of+mistress+coffin

My guest Robert J. Begibing talks about "Selling Your Novel: Creating a Compelling First Impression"...

I'm really pleased to have Robert J. Begiebing as a guest on my blog today. A recipient of the Langum Prize for historical fiction, Robert is the author of seven books, a play, and over thirty articles and stories. He is the founding director of the Low-Residency MFA in Fiction and Nonfiction, and Professor of English Emeritus, at Southern NH University.


I could go on with the introduction, but I think Robert's following post speaks beautifully for his credentials. If you're a writer who wants to make editors, agents and dare I say readers take early notice of your fiction, you've definitely found the right advice to follow. So here's Robert...

 Selling Your Novel: Creating a Compelling First Impression, Robert Begiebing
I’m often asked how to approach an agent or editor with a manuscript for a novel.  Let’s assume that through many revisions and critiques you’ve completed a novel.  You have a referral or a list of agents and editors to query.  You know you only get one shot in the door with each editor or agent, so how do you prepare the most engaging materials possible?  The three basic elements are the query letter, the synopsis, and the first thirty pages (or three chapters, whichever comes first).  There are lots of sources to get help with the first two, but the manuscript sample is perhaps the most difficult and most misunderstood.  So assuming you know how to set up a manuscript typographically, let’s focus on the manuscript sample, based on my own experience and on what I’ve been hearing from editors and agents for years in answer to questions from others.
What does a professional reader NOT want to see in the opening of your novel?
·        Giveaways to your amateurism: all kinds of authorial tics or other repetitive annoyances and hack constructions, (from the use of ellipses to indicate suspense, to italics to indicate moments of fear or stress, to single-sentence paragraphs to indicate climactic zingers or sentimental emphases, and so on).
·        Prologues, especially lengthy ones, that if containing information absolutely needed should be reprocessed into the tale itself; avoid, in short, anything that keeps the reader from getting right into the central drama.  A venerable editor at Norton upon encountering a prologue of any kind used to say, “Get out of the bathtub!” because she read so many fictional prologues set in tubs where protagonists ruminate on life and their problems.
What are the attributes or qualities of successful opening pages, some of which a professional reader hopes to see in your ms.?
·        Indications that by your reading, your writing experience and education, and by, in short, your long and painful apprenticeship, you are no longer an amateur or dilettante.
·        Energy, animation, originality of VOICE (a question of your point of view choices and the narrative persona you’ve created).  One agent told my workshop students he looks for a certain “intensity” of voice or language.
·        A texture of mind or descriptive power that comes through the prose.
·        “Profluence” ( we’re getting somewhere, on to something, care where the story is going, a power of interest, set up early and satisfied later).  The Pull: novelist John Gardner’s sense (from Aristotle) of character (the emotional core) and plot (the profluent focus of your narrative plan).  An engaging drama has begun.
·        An “Inciting Incident” that radically disrupts the balance of forces in your  protagonist’s life to which he/ she must react, through progressive complications (a point I borrow from Robert McKee’s book Story).
·        Drama vs. Exposition/ Explanations/ Backstory.  Resist the Urge to Explain (RUE) and weave in necessary but brief segments of backstory later, once the reader is hooked and the drama is fully underway.
·        A sense of your opening chapter especially as the crucial “manner by which reader gains entrance,” to quote Douglas Bauer’s The Stuff of Fiction.
·        Questions raised in the reader’s mind.
·        That opening sentence.  As an editor at Houghton Mifflin once said, “If you can’t write that opening sentence, I don’t have much hope for your ability to write the rest of the book.”
·        Your mastery of dialogue (see three chapters devoted to it in Renni Browne and Dave King’s Self-Editing for Fiction Writers)
·        A clear sense of the book’s subject matter and major characters.
·        Any foretelling of theme, purpose, or significance in an intriguing manner.
Once more, you certainly want to avoid any coy, irrelevant, or expository/ explanatory material too soon that might be bottling up your real beginning of the conflict and drama.
Happy writing. Enjoy the journey.
Your friend,Robert J. Begiebing



The 20th anniversary edition of The Strange Death of Mistress Coffin, a novel set in 17th-century New England, will be released on August 14, 2012 and is now available for pre-order. Originally published the early 1990s, Mistress Coffin was a Main Selection in The Literary Guild, The Mystery Guild, and Doubleday Book Clubs, and is currently optioned for a film.
Visit his website at www.begiebing.com. Link to Book at Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Strange-Mistress-Hardscrabble-Books-Fiction-England/dp/1611683386/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1343818134&sr=8-2&keywords=the+strange+death+of+mistress+coffin

Sneak Peek of "Her Yearning for Blood," a new take on vampires in our world...

Thanks again for all your support. July has turned out to be another spectacular month in book sales (the best month of the year so far, and it's only the 14th!). None of that would be possible without so many of you enjoying my work and spreading the word. Please know that I am and will remain forever grateful.

Below is a sneak peek at my new "Her Yearning for Blood" series. Please forgive what I'm sure are a good bunch of errors. Unfortunately, the Focus House editors haven't yet gotten a chance to straighten it -- and me :-) -- out yet.

I hope you'll drop me a note and let me know what you think :-)



"Her Yearning for Blood, Episode One"
Three loud explosions sent dust spewing up like a sooty volcanic plume above the abandoned military base. I gritted my teeth and rushed as fast as my leg brace and crutches would allow across the endless, cracked expanse of concrete, all that remained of the military buildings that had been demolished when the town council had driven the US Army out of town fourteen years earlier. Far ahead, the distant tree line towered over sparkles of afternoon sunlight that reflected off the windshields of several cars parked at the overgrown entrance. Glancing back, I saw dark haze filling the sky. Another explosion vibrated the concrete beneath my feet and sent something whizzing past my head. Ducking and twisting sideways, I caught one of my crutches on the rough concrete. For one terrifying second, I thought I might tumble and re-shatter my right knee. Fortunately, fate and instinctively shifting my weight to the opposite crutch kept me upright, even as my left armpit screamed out in pain. The air smelled like a mixture of burnt rubber and diesel exhaust. I coughed, pulled myself upright and rubbed sore left ribs as I tried to get my bearings again. The filthy cloud had already filled the sky making it impossible to see either the cars or the treetops ahead. A dozen teenage girls screamed somewhere behind me. Boys yelled. “Rachel, Amanda!” I called out. When neither of my friends responded, I hobbled toward what I hoped was Amanda’s car. The screaming faded as I swung through the flat, murky landscape. I heard the boys planned to find a way into the Army base’s cement-sealed manhole covers, but explosives! Any fool should have known better. Assuming the rumors about secret laboratory catacombs and stockpiles of weapons were true, exposing them to explosives should have been the last thing anyone wanted to do. I never should have come. “Rachel, Amanda!” I stopped to massage my aching side and felt pretty certain I had cracked a rib. At this rate, I would be in a wheelchair before senior year even started. It was getting hard to breathe and the smog burned the inside of my nose and throat. Covering my mouth with my blouse collar, I inhaled several semi-clean breaths. The cloud of grit-filled smog made it impossible to see. How had I let Amanda talk me into coming? But even as I asked the question, I knew the answer: I had hoped Evan would be here. Stupid! I’d already crippled myself for him, and still he didn’t— I would not allow myself to complete the thought. Idiot! “Rachel, Amanda!” I yelled, waited thirty seconds and yelled again. The last I knew, Amanda had been flirting with a football player near one of the concrete-filled manholes and Rachel had been with the new boy who moved in next door to her and her grandmother in the low-income apartment complex on Route 112. That left me alone to wander in hopes of finding Evan who, of course, would never have come here. He hadn’t hung out with any of us since third grade, the year his father died. I remembered the event clearly because my grandfather had also been found dead in the woods that same day. The police claimed it was a passing serial killer, but no one in Groacherville had ever believed that. The explosions seemed to have stopped, but rather than thinning the dark smog grew worse, brown and clotting like an airborne cancer. I could barely see my outstretched hand. Anxious to get free of the smoke before I suffocated, I took several more inhalations through my collar then held my breath and hobbled as quickly as possible until I had to stop and suck air through my blouse again. A healthy person might have been able to crawl across the ground where the air was probably better, but I couldn’t even bend my knee forget crawl on it. Several panicked voices surged toward me from the right. “This is the wrong way, Sherrie!” one girl squealed. “We should have seen the cars by now!” “It’s not my fault,” the head of the football cheerleading squad snapped. “It’s not like I’m a ranger or anything.” She coughed. “Let’s go right.” Cough. “The cars must be that way!” I probably should have called out, but Sherrie Tepper would have been more likely to steal my crutches than wait for me. Besides, she and her gaggle sounded as lost as I was. I drew more tainted air through my shirt. Suddenly, fear of dying on a concrete pad at the end of a dead end road seemed entirely too possible. Shaking the thought from my mind, I pressed forward. I had only moved a dozen steps when the faint sobs from Sherrie’s group faded completely into the cloying smog behind me. Feeling as though a death shroud had been thrown over the abandoned military site, I fought a rising panic and forced myself to keep going. Patches of sand, cracks and loose chunks of concrete made using crutches treacherous in the murky air. I had only to reach the concrete edge, I told myself; then I would be able to follow the border until I could see the cars. Unfortunately, the growing pain in my side and the feeling that I might not be going in a straight line gave me reason to doubt I could make it. To make matters worse, every few steps I had to stop to breathe through my collar. Thinking the smoke from the explosions would have to settle at some point, I kept my eyes on the skyline, but the swirling smoke made it impossible to see beyond a few feet. After my fifteenth or twentieth stop, my side and armpits were sore and my lungs ached from holding dirty air so long. My world had become a nightmare of pain and fear. But each time I wanted to give up, I convinced myself that it wouldn’t be much further, that the cars and my friends were just ahead. Suddenly, one of my crutches sank and twisted out of my hand, spilling me onto rock-strewn sand. A thousand spikes of pain slammed from my kneecap straight to my brain. Though my doctor had removed the cast and replaced it with a plastic and foam brace a week earlier, he had warned the knee would be fragile for at least another few months. Just one more price I had paid for trying to impress Evan Groacher. That’s what I got for thinking he might actually see me as something other than the grease-covered dork who made out his bills whenever he stopped for an oil change or tire rotations at my father’s garage. The worst part about my accident was that he had not even been coaching the girls’ soccer team that day. Knowing I was either the unluckiest or dumbest person in Groacherville, possibly both, I struggled to get up but agony shot like lightning bolts from my knee. I had definitely fractured it again. Fighting back the nausea, I remembered that I had at least reached the edge of the concrete. Coughing, I peered out into the gloom but could see no sign of Amanda’s gold convertible nor any of the other cars. I also couldn’t hear anything but my own ragged breathing. “Help!” I screamed, not bothering to disguise my terror. “I’m over here!” My bad luck held. No one answered. Chattering and screeching sounds came from the murk beyond my feet. Though Maine wasn’t known for dangerous animals, fear clawed up my spine. I grabbed the nearest aluminum crutch and made ready to defend myself. “Amanda, Rachel. Anyone!” Sucking breath through my collar like a fire-victim, I tried to understand why the air had not cleared yet. Instead, the brownish haze hung like polluted swamp fog. My eyes started to sting. Wincing, I tried once again to pull myself up by my crutches but swooned from the pain. My knee couldn’t be moved. Deep growling sounds came from off to my left. You’re imagining it, I told myself. The deep noise came again. “Amanda, Rachel!” Did they leave me? Not Rachel–not unless she thought I had caught a ride with someone else, but Amanda would definitely have hurried away before the police arrived to investigate the explosions. The ex-cheerleader had lost her license two months earlier and wasn’t scheduled to get it back for another month. If her father had not been on one of his long business trips, she never would have dared to drive here at all. The screeching came again, so close that I instinctively jerked my feet away from the sound and nearly passed out from the pain. I held onto consciousness and tried to make out the threat. Unfortunately, the only thing visible beyond my black shoes was the bizarre roiling smog. Could the explosions have released a military toxin? For years, it had been rumored that the Army had sealed off a honeycomb of secret underground laboratories and weapons caches beneath these acres of concrete. I had my doubts. My parents seldom discussed Fort Groacherville, but the few times they did mention it was only to express relief that the local disappearances had finally stopped when the base had been dismantled. That was fourteen years ago. Regardless of whether the rumors were true or not, had I known the boys planned to dynamite their way belowground I never would have come. Something stung my finger. “Ow!” I yanked my arm away from the sand as dozens of other painful stings exploded across my fingers and hand. More pain shot like a gasoline fire across my other hand and up my ankles. Insects! I screamed and tried to drag myself back to the concrete. The movement was like stabbing a sword into my kneecap. A surge of white hot agony shot straight up my spine. The pain spreading across my skin seemed like a mild nuisance in comparison. Dizzy, unable to move my legs, I held both hands up and saw…ants! Large, red fire ants! I tried to brush them from my fingers and palms, but the vile creatures seemed to have attached themselves to my body. I could feel hundreds of tiny pincers embedding in both my legs. I must have fallen on an anthill. Knowing that I had to get away, I ignored the agonizing jolts to my nervous system and pulled myself backwards toward the concrete. My hands sank into the sand as I struggled to drag my lower body. My teeth ground together. It felt as though an engine was backfiring inside my knee, but I had to get free of the anthill. It took a half dozen heaves before I finally I felt concrete under my hands. My arms and shoulders trembled from the effort as I dragged my rear end over the hard foundation edge but then slumped, exhausted. Even if I managed to survive one last agonizing jolt to my ruptured knee, my limbs were stiffening up, the muscles growing numb and tight. Insect venom made my body feel like a swelled water balloon. I could feel my consciousness slipping away. Like a blanket of pain, I felt thousands of stinging signals coming from all over my body, including my scalp, neck and cheeks. In a final effort, using every last ounce of strength in my cramped arms, I lifted myself and shifted backwards once, twice, three times. My knee exploded with pain as my foot struck the edge of the concrete. Why hadn’t they stayed on the sand? Tears streamed down my cheeks. I could still feel tiny pincers digging into my flesh, stinging me everywhere imaginable. It was as though hundreds, thousands of tiny electric probes were being pressed into my body. I didn’t have the energy to wipe them from my lips, nose. I heard moaning and angry screeches. It took me several seconds to realize I was the one moaning. The brown air clotted around me, close as coffin walls. My lungs longed for oxygen. Still the ants crawled inside my clothes, my ears. Pain had become my companion at death. The screeching came again, closer this time. I felt something on my chest. Realizing my eyes had drifted closed, I forced them open to see gray fur, red eyes, and a tiny mouth filled with oversized fangs. A squirrel, but not like any squirrel I had ever seen. The little creature screeched again, saliva dripping from its open maw. It leaned forward, and I knew it was going to bite my nose, my lips. I fought to stay conscious but the pain and lack of oxygen were a potent mix. I had to get away, but how? All I could do was to lie on the hard concrete surface that was, apparently, to be my bloody altar. The squirrel’s claws dug into my chest as it lunged for my neck. I opened my mouth to scream– Suddenly, a huge shadow surged out of the roiling fog. I felt myself slipping away, but not before a silver blade swooped out of the sky and sliced neatly through the squirrel’s neck. Warm blood splattered my face. “Hold still,” a deep, familiar voice said as cloth wiped across my chin, cheeks and forehead. “They’re attracted to blood.” My field of vision started to close as a hand squeezed blood from the squirrel’s headless corpse…onto the floor of a deep, dark cavern. I knew I had slipped into the land of dreams, but the thick clots of red liquid beside me seemed important somehow. I was hungry.
            Thomas scratched his razor sharp fingernails along the concrete wall to let Belinda know he was coming. Being in the final stage of transition, she would be susceptible to any sudden changes, especially surprise visits. Someone just “popping in” could easily overwhelm her nervous system and send her body into a mindless rage, which would force her consciousness to cling precariously to the few last vestiges of her thinking-self that remained. Belinda had one maybe two days remaining at most. Thomas didn’t look forward to putting her down but he would. Such was the responsibility of a clan leader. A new guard stood watch outside her locked steel door. Originally, an accountant or bookkeeper of some form, he was calm and matter-of-fact, exactly the sort of personality that the council liked to see turned. It had been decades since an aggressive or excitable vampire had been allowed into the Boston clan. Volatile types inevitably attracted the attention of human authorities and were harder to control, especially as the time for burning drew near. No. Accountants, mild-mannered house wives, even classical musicians were, surprisingly, a much better fit for the brutal and short life led by members of the clan. You needed only look at their last leader for proof. Belinda had been a nurse. The guard bowed and moved to open the door. Thomas slashed his nails across the blond man’s cheek, just deep enough to teach. “You always knock first,” he hissed to the novice. “She must be aware that someone is entering!” The guard wiped blood from his already-healed wounds. Bowing, he licked the red liquid from his fingers. Thomas pounded on the door. “Belinda, it’s Thomas!”  “I’m still me,” came her voice, still strong, still in control. “Come in.” Thomas nodded and the guard unlocked the heavy, reinforced door. Belinda’s burn chamber was as comfortable as could be devised. Her bed and most of her furnishings had been moved into the concrete room, as had her collection of 80’s rock and pop albums. What was left of the obsolete turntable sat in shattered pieces of clear and fake wood plastic on the corner of her dresser. A dozen albums and covers had been slashed into ribbons and now decorated the floor like ungainly confetti. The two-shelf album stand beside the bureau, however, remained largely untouched with hundreds of musical choices intact. “I can have someone bring you another record player,” he said, turning to his predecessor. “That would not be wise,” Belinda said, from her standing perch at the edge of her bed. Steeled into a semi-crouch, she looked like a wild cat waiting to pounce on its prey. Her trembling hand ran through snarled brunette hair. Her black tongue licked across chapped lips. Flakes of dried blood covered what used to be a complexion as perfect as pale porcelain. Crystal blue eyes were bloodshot with red stains in the corners. “Music causes my mind to wander.” “You are looking well,” he said, which was true given that she had spent at least twelve of the last twenty-four hours screaming and digging at the flesh around the iron manacles that bound her wrists and ankles. Only a constant supply of fresh blood had allowed her body to rejuvenate quickly enough to stay ahead of the injuries. He glanced to the four adult bodies stacked like discarded luggage beside her bed. Normally, clan members were burned long before they reached this stage. Belinda, however, would choose her own time…or be unable to. “Have you verified the rumors?” she asked. “Jared and Short William found nothing.” “What about the trio I sent to Maine?” “We think they were intercepted by the Burlington Clan,” Thomas said. “I presume all three are dead.” Belinda slumped to the bed. “So I should stop fighting. There’s nothing but fire.” “Do not give up!” Faster than any human eye could have followed, Belinda flew from the bed toward Thomas’ throat. She stopped with a clash of chains less than two feet from him. Her breath smelled of rot and decay. “You do not tell me what to do!” she snarled. She still had fight left in her. Thomas would have expected no less of a clan leader, even one so close to the burning. He bowed his head in deference. Regardless of the circumstances she would always be his leader. “Your Highness, I meant only that there is reason to hope. The trio tracked rumors through a dozen Maine villages and towns. They were on their way to a place called Groacherville when we last heard from them.” Belinda’s chains clanked as she tested the extent of her shackles. Thomas remained still. A clan leader never backed away from danger. Besides, he knew the chains’ limits. She snarled, backed away and asked, “Do you now believe this rogue vampire exists?” Thomas nodded. “I believe the rumors have some basis in fact. I’ve already sent another team to the Maine town. I’m hopeful.” “You may go then,” Belinda spat. Then her head sagged. “And I will find some way to survive.”        Thomas nodded and left. He wished she could.
End Sneak Peek.
Be sure to pick up your copy of "Her Yearning for Blood, Episode One," coming July 2012.

Does history suggest the Katie Holmes' divorce will topple Tom Cruise from his box office pedestal?

Many of us have grown up watching and appreciating So the question is simple: how many bangs and bruises can Tom’s reputation take before the public turns its back on him and his offerings? But before we answer that question, let’s review the damage previously done. First, back in Roman times, just after Top Gun, Rain Man and Cocktail, there was the 1990 divorce with actress It doesn’t help that Scientology was invented in 1952, by Ron L. Hubbard, a science fiction writer whose roots stem back to the early pulp magazine era. Hubbard’s fingerprints are easily seen on this religion which claims that millennia ago beings were dragged here from another world by an evil leader called Xenu (I swear, I’m not kidding; this is what the science fiction writer claimed, and this is what his Scientologists believe today).  Supposedly, 75 million years ago, Xenu then killed most of the aliens by setting off chains of nuclear explosions around the Earth’s volcanoes, but not before the alien souls were stuffed into human forms and primed with all sorts of crazy ideas, including the existence of one or more gods. Of course, all these “little-known” facts will cost you a bundle to learn, because Scientology requires its believers to ascend a ladder of enlightenment before they can realize their own potential and get a peek at this grand space opera-ick history. By some accounts, it can cost tens of thousands of dollars to reach even the lower levels of Scientological awareness, but rumor has it if you don’t have the requisite cash you can don a geeky uniform and trade a few years labor for lessons. I encourage my readers to do a few internet searches if you question anything I’ve said or would like to learn more.
Tom Cruise survived the impotence and cult accusations stemming from his 1990 divorce and, scarcely ten months later, went on to marry Of course, like all good-looking leading men, over the years Tom has been peppered with gay accusations, but it wasn’t until the 400-day movie shoot of Eyes Wide Shutin 1998-99 that the rumor mill went into overdrive about Tom and Nicole’s inability to be intimate that the gay rumors hit full tilt. Those rumors were still strong (and I believe wrong) when Tom separated from Nicole two years later in February of 2001.  Of course, the whisperings of Scientology being behind the split were even louder than the gay innuendos, but I think it might be telling to note that Nicole was pregnant (later to miscarriage) at the time of the split. We all know how much Tom loves and dotes on his children, so I’m betting that unborn child is major clue as to the how and why of the relationship’s sudden end.
Once again, however, Tom Cruise bore the storm of public opinion with seeming ease. His box office exploits neither slowed nor dipped in gross sales. Minority Report, The Last Samuraiand Mission Impossible IIand III were all proof positive that Hollywood’s most dependable leading actor could still carry huge sway with audiences. Even the Of course, we’re talking about the period that started with the 2005 private audition and public courtship of Tom took the news pretty well. After stumbling for only a few months, he acquired financial backing and took an ill-fated stake in United Artists studio, only to preside over two notable big screen flops: Lions for Lambsand Valkyrie. The mistake was to be short-lived, however, and soon Tom moved away from UA and onto other movie ventures while also seeming to put the cap back on his personal reputation.
His 2008 small but popular bow as Les Grossman in the hit comedy Tropic Thunderpointed the way to better times, and his next film Knight and Day, costarring Once again, questions about sexuality and Scientology are swirling like seagulls over the trash heap of Tom Cruise’s personal life. Can he weather another public relations storm, or will the movie-going public finally write him off as another “old” actor who has been allowed to feed too long and too well off the forgiveness of the world’s kind audiences? Who can tell?
I, for one, think that the beautiful Katie Holmes will move on to have a comfortable life and a moderately successful career, not unlike the trajectory she was on when she came into the partnership, and certainly not in the least bit hurt by her short relationship with Hollywood’s thrice-married, elite leading man. I also think that Tom Cruise will brush off his Teflon suit, grab the next dozen guaranteed money-making scripts and fly onto thousands of more theater screens, at least until at a few creases start to show. That’s good news, too, because though I swear I’m heterosexual, I like a good Cruise flick as well as the next guy.

An emotional freight train...crashing through the walls of a California courtroom...

Have you ever read a story that made you ignore the ringing phone, made you late for appointments and made you absolutely NEED to read late into the night? If not, then you're in for a treat because Rebecca Forster is an author who understands that storytelling is, first and foremost, about making us yearn for the next page, and then the next, and then the next. In "Hostile Witness," the first book in the Witness series, she creates a whole lot of reader yearning. 

Our story begins with Josie Baylor-Bates, an attorney who has turned away from the fame and fortune of a super-successful criminal defense career. For reasons we don't understand, she settles into a quiet California beach town where elderly estates and urinating in public are among her more challenging cases. However, when beautiful Linda Sheraton, one of Josie's past volleyball teammates, comes banging at her door, we quickly learn that Josie is not just taking time off, she's terrified at the prospect of returning to her previous high-profile career. But when she learns that Linda's sixteen-year-old girl daughter has been wrongfully imprisoned for the murder of a seated California Supreme Court Judge, the hellish gates of her past come swinging wide open.

And all of this happens in just the first few pages. To say this unfolding legal drama is an emotional freight train would be a gross understatement. Step into Rebecca Forster's "Hostile Witness" and you'll agree that this is one legal thriller that puts relationships up front while giving us front row seats to a no-holds-barred courtroom battle.

Definitely a keeper. Read "Hostile Witness."

Reviewed by "Maine's Other Author"(TM) Tim Greaton