M.C. Pearson's Blog, page 9

ON BEING A RAT And Other Observations including talk on writing, trauma, full moons, and the memes of me by Chila Woychik

What I thought:

If you love poetry, writing, and surreal thinking, this book is for you. As I read, I felt like I was in a dream state. The lyrical prose as well as the poetry, had the quality of writing that I haven't seen in a long while. I felt inspired to write again, missing the muse--as Chila described--that comes upon a writer. I've been denying my muse for too long. I highly recommend this book to any one who desires to be a writer. I know that I'll reread this several times.

I wouldn't characterize this as Christian, not that it went against Christianity, it is just not under the genre.

It is time for a FIRST Wild Card Tour book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason it is called a FIRST Wild Card Tour is that you never know if the book will be fiction, non~fiction, for young, or for old...or for somewhere in between! Enjoy your free peek into the book!

You never know when I might play a wild card on you!


Today's Wild Card author is:

Chila Woychik

and the book:

ON BEING A RAT And Other Observations including talk on writing, trauma, full moons, and the memes of me

Port Yonder Press (January 1, 2012)

***Special thanks to Chila Woychik for sending me a review copy.***

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:



Chila Woychik is a multi-published author and managing editor at Port Yonder Press. She lives with her husband of 30 years in the lovely state of Iowa.


Visit the author's website.


SHORT BOOK DESCRIPTION:



ON BEING A RAT is a strange literary mix that's been called "lyrical, inspiring, gut-wrenchingly honest, special." It's a genre mashup of creative nonfiction with light doses of memoir and poetry sprinkled throughout. A definite crossover book; a definite book of the heart. Rated PG13 for language and adult themes. Illustrated by Glynda Francis.






Product Details:

List Price: $5.99
Paperback: 160 pages
Publisher: Port Yonder Press (January 1, 2012)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 193560046X
ISBN-13: 978-1935600466

AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:


And by the way, everything in life is writable about if you have the outgoing guts to do it, and the imagination to improvise. The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt. ~Sylvia Plath

INTRODUCTION

I write to pay the doctor

I write to pay the nurse,

I write to pay the funeral gig

and driver of the hearse.

I've often wondered what it'd be like to be a crosswalk attendant, herding busy little children and placid old ladies across an intersection while waving an officious octagonal red sign: STOP.

I'd see a driver I knew but didn't like, or one who forgot to acknowledge me once years ago, then I'd run out into the middle of that car-less lane, spread my legs like a resurrected Colossus, and thrust that command into her curious face. The real or imagined group of children and old ladies would safely pass behind me, I'd continue eyeing the motorist—sternly of course—then finally signal her on. And if I were in an especially benevolent mood, I'd not take down her license number and report her for indecent exposure.

But no, not a crosswalk attendant—I don't have the patience. A barricade snatcher. A roadblock remover: pulling down the weave-and-bobs—straightening paths.

I write like I feel—gritty sand lining my soles, the smooth hardness of pinewood flooring under each step, the long sharp splinters scraping through skin, flesh and bone to show up on the topside where I can see them stark draped in blood, feel it deep. Writers are the ultimate masochists, after all.

I lay my pen on the tiny porch outside my door and let the sun renew it with words. That's me in the lawn chair beside it—a browning me. My leathered self will make good shoes one day for all those poor African children still running around barefoot on the hot soil outside their huts. Or maybe I'll be a laced book cover filled with words from my very own sun-pen. I'd write a science fiction story with beautiful soylent green ink.

Much is metaphorical here—not as it seems. It's written for writing's sake, as if I were to say, "Let me tell you I'm dying." Well of course I am. So are you. But I digress.

I am dying—a slow, utterly methodical death: a tractor beam once latched to my bones and won't let go. It works from the feet up, and gravity assists.

You cry for me because your mother said it's the thing to do; your preacher taught you how to bow your head. Don't turn around—it's got you too!

A mist rises from a nearby mound. It could be me—that mist—or simply the caretaker's mower-dust. If the breeze blows just right, I'll ghost your solid, entwine your hair. Promise me you won't shampoo—but carry me along: tiny dust-particles of me.

The piece of protruding granite is what you recall best—that's where you stood under an umbrella while the rain flattened the mound on top of me, there where the cold black dirt pressed on the box around my cold white frame. Take out your hanky; wipe the lawn clippings from my name; tell me you still care.

Tell me you'll find my photo when you get home and magnet it to your fridge. Tell me you'll visit my now-defunct Facebook page and click LIKE—my last status: CHOCOLATE—here today, gone tomorrow. Tell me you'll look into those once blue eyes of mine, all grey and dusted now, and smirk. I saw that!

This isn't a religious book though I mention God; not a medical advisory though I speak of pain. It's a circus, a mortuary, a grade school, a limousine ride. Will it be worth the paper it's printed on or the screen you hold in your hand? I just hope you remember it next week.

I call this a haimoir—a haiga-memoir—a sort of mashup of life writing trauma self-realization and the seas. It's a drizzled-down me, but it's you too; it's us. Take life seriously, but not too seriously. Take this truth for what it's worth.

The default prose form found within is the lyric essay: creative nonfiction's choir. Can you say "vignette"?

You'll also find moderate doses of poetry; I don't claim to be a poet.

In THE OBSERVATIONS, I've laid open a few brief glimpses into my earlier years as well as a section on my bout with Post Traumatic Stress—darker than the rest— but the nice thing about tunnels is their finiteness: you'll reach the end; watch for rats. Friendship is discussed, as well as the usual "why am I here?" of living.

THE WRITING part is all about, well, writing. This is, after all, a thinly disguised writing tract.

In NATURE I've glanced around, up, and surface deep—at the rural, the moon & the tides.

In the ADDENDUM, I've included a couple of letters to friends—letters, yes, on writing.

Essays and randomness and poems and hardness and love—a fever in the ice storm of life. Wear your coat. Bring a fan.

I started soft—

a tentative line

an untried word—

slowly grew

to run-on sentences

and strung-together paragraphs.

I've been read

straight through

bared and seen

between the lines

into the me.
Pull me down like the book I am—

read for all you're worth …

but please don't bend the pages.











PART 1 - THE OBSERVATIONS

Writing is finally a series of permissions you give yourself to be expressive in certain ways.

To leap. To fly. To fail. ~Susan Sontag









My head as a doorstop

I continue to live inside a dichotomy:

what was and what shall be.


It's not a hammering so much as an extended pinch, inside, over my left eye today, right eye yesterday, right ear the day before that. Some days they join forces, the nerves, and pinch in sync, holding with varying degrees of intensity. If they pinched together with the same amount of pressure, at exactly the same time, my head might roll off my shoulders, cross the floor, pass the door, and plop into the watery ditch down the driveway. Someone would no doubt stop, pick it up, and use it for a doorstop or lawn decoration atop a metal pole near her sidewalk. My head. My beautiful, aching, bodyless head. Gawk at me, passersby; gawk and braid my hair …

I suspect my nerve endings balk at being subjected to the brightness of a computer screen hour after hour, day after day, week after week. I soothe them when I think about it, when the pinching stays too long, with copious amounts of vitamin B and sometimes Tylenol, but my liver rebels at the Tylenol, so I try to limit that.

Today I meet with a friend who likewise is dealing with a headache. We shall compare notes, not on pinched brain nerves, but life—how it's treating us, how we're responding to its circus of rides and carnie con-men. We'll drink flavored coffee and pretend it hasn't been six months since we last saw each other. We'll pretend we're still young and foolish, I in my leather and she in her jeans.

I continue to live inside a dichotomy: what was and what shall be. The pain in my skull is me trying to mesh the two.

A POST TRAUMATIC OBSERVATION

It wasn't me you talked to

when we chatted over latte.
Hollowed out, I listened

and your voice was like an echo.

Somewhere in the midst of me

I lived, but shell-dropped empty

like a mine-field tripped and dripping.

Robots have been made to speak;

metal can be programmed.

How much more the living

can pretend to think and feel.

I can live remotely now,

I've done it for so long.

___
Now we sit with latte

and the sounds and touches sting;

it's the hurt-exchange of life,

but damn, this hurting's good.





Trauma's the thing

Life is flinching in the midst of breathing,

gasping at the thought of dying.


Just visiting, the haunting hung

coiled cobras in the air,

then slithered out in statue-slow …

inch by week and year.

The light worked in between the blind

and air replaced the stale—

forever turned to yesterday

and numbness turned to feel.

I asked the wind to rearrange,

re-man the scattered blood of dust,

repaginate theology

and give me back as much.


Heavy prolonged stress squeezes the flimsy out of a person. Previously tolerated "maladjustments" can no longer be tolerated. Counseling becomes necessary.

Now I wake anew every single morning. Life's small potatoes get skinned, boiled, and eaten (with a little butter and salt, please).

The number seven is magical, they say. Seven years 'til our cells completely regenerate. Seven years 'til Jacob possesses Rachel; no, Leah, and seven more for Rachel. Seven days in a week. Post traumatic stress often resolves itself in toto only after seven full years have passed; such is the case for some brain trauma patients too. Seven. It's a number worth remembering.

In this big starred universe, pain rides on; even Pegasus isn't safe. Who's to say a falling star's not weeping? "Life is pain, highness," says Wesley to Buttercup. And it's masks. And ships at sea, commandeered by dreaded pirates and rodents of unusual size.

Life is flinching in the midst of breathing, gasping at the thought of dying. It's climbing ropeless up sheer rock faces, groping for the next finger hole of hope. Steady on! Only a thousand feet to go and after that a jungle, a minefield, a rapids. (Can I stop smiling now?)

Once, not long ago, I was flung off the cliff of the moment, thrust into an illicit relationship with destiny, an affair not of my making. Was I making love or being raped? The lines were fuzzy.

Let's face it: suffering discredits goodness. I'm agnostic in practice though faith-based in theory. I pray but know he'll do what he darn well pleases when he darn well pleases. Will he listen? Maybe. We have a book that says so, but how much happens beyond that book, I can't say. That's agnosticism in its bleakest and most honest form. Don't judge me, yet believe me when I tell you that years of abuse tend to wring out every ounce of one's ability to understand and adhere to faith in standard form.


It's over.

Hell has sucked me dry

of worry and care

that crippled me cramped

like a fly

caught between

a window and screen.

Indigo flames

singed emoting

(of the female kind),

left me androgynous—

unable to cry

for the most part.

Ever been to hell?

Surely it's preparation

for heaven,

that tearless realm

and life,

where everything

groans.
"Support our troops!" we cry, but I say, "Love our veterans!" And when he neglects church, take him cookies anyway. Sing him a song. Pet his cat.

The unrelenting grip of Soldier's Syndrome slips finger by slow finger. The marrow's been affected—emotional leukemia at the deepest level. Transplants of love and friendship aid healing, yet time is still key, and the clock never ticks fast enough. Eternity gains perspective when seconds feel like years. How long have I been gone? Six eternities and counting.

I sipped more than slugged the low-carb beer. "I hate medicine," I told the doctor. Post Traumatic Stress was the diagnosis. A drunk driver had hit me. Now I sat sipping a beer. It seemed oxymoronic.

The no-booze rule is one of several shams perpetuated by certain religious groups, presumably to keep their flocks in line. After all, what's a shepherd to do with drunk sheep?

So take your medicine, but leave the booze on the shelf. We have a label to keep, and it's not Jack Daniels. Don't mourn for me. Just tell me what to do rather than teach me what to be. Slam another pill, pop that one last sedative…you'll find me in the kitchen, washing my glass.

Legalized comfort bypasses the need for a physician, yet begs for a strong moral compass. I have the compass.

Ever seen a diabetic cram down three pieces of cake and then have less mental control than someone who's had a glass or two of wine? Yet we insist on justifying the one while condemning the other. In situations like that, it's only fair to ask if someone's passing gas or if that's judgment we smell.

Regular pleasures bring healing and release. Life is hard and we're not forbidden comfort. Lately I've been awash in raging rivers. I've dragged myself to shore more than once, spewed algae-water and finger-combed debris from my hair. Now I watch from the bank while the river does its thing, etching my future. In the lull of the day, I find a shady tree and groan. Sometimes I write.


Life shards feeling flesh

with splintered crossbeams

whittled, thrust

impaler-style

through cavities of me.

They scrape

along my spine

reducing life

to ground

and feeding death.

My heartbeat slows

but courses on …

skipping so, and faster now.

Oh God for a platform

and feet that dangle less.
Without the hard we stay too soft, and heaven is reduced to myths like life. Theology aside, it's plain to see that God forbids we get too comfortable.

Hopelessness is bred in me; hope's absent unless I find it, grab it, hang on 'til my knuckles whiten and flesh down to bone. Even then, ghost-like it vanishes with the slightest breeze. Why should I hope? Crying's easier than groping for light. I'd rather fall off a cliff than assure someone they'll never fall off a cliff; how can I promise them hope? I'm past the idealism of pure joy on earth; if hope survives me, I may yet find it on the other side.

I am Frustration. I am Memory-Lost. Sometimes I read a line a dozen times before it sticks. My creative force has slipped. I type slower, speak slower, think at a snail's pace. I'm Life shapeshifted by Post Traumatic Stress, bastardized by Fate.


Stand at the edge with me;

stand where I've stood so long,

look where I look, where I've looked,

where I've wept, weeping still,

and as I turn to walk away, stay.

Stand at the edge with me—

now understand:
Joy if lost is pain

and healing slow.
Lewis wrote "The Problem of Pain" as a studied treatise, not a life observation, that is, until his beloved Joy died. Then the "problem" became a "grief."1 In the midst of doubt, anger, and the profound numbness that followed, he was finally able to write with feeling, to know himself beyond himself. Pain deals in change. Will you understand if I'm never the same?

Share your heart, but not so plain;

give me less to wonder on.

We wrap our babes in swaddling clothes, with blinders on. Soon enough their fingers lift the veil, push away the hidden. It's the way we do it, and no mistaking the big mistake when they grope to swallow every fresh cookie on the counter, drink in swill.

Grab your nerve and splash their canvas with blood and black and wrong. Hold them breast-bound but guide their face toward the easel of reality. Draw patches of hope and love and gentleness but don't start over. Paint it true. Push the Dali.


Bloodless tales

wick my wounds,

cart me distant

whisper-soft

from Lucy Maud and PEI

to Little House and Laura.
Then Mars exploded

bloodied me

and Laura lost her innocence.
Nowadays I romp and weep

with Sylvia and Ginny Wolfe

and masochistic nihilists;

I've learned to lick

my own foul wounds

and prize the taste of ache.


Thick and thin, I've known it all, and it's known me. Before anorexic, I was. Before the dream of perfect lines, I had them. It's speed and fury, reckless limits, little white pills.

Some days I think I'd rather die than lie too fat; it's pain and trauma at the base core level.


The thin thought, line, bone—

a part of me too long—

too long and tall and straight

like skinny standing strong.

Though twiggy yesterday—

today's another face—

a line filled in with thick

and thinness not a trace.
On a recent trip north while on the outskirts of a small town, I hit a bird. It flew in front of me—black wings flapping—crashed into my windshield, then flipped onto the road. I looked back to see it struggling for its very existence.

Five years before, I flew in front of a driver who, unlike me, was in the wrong lane. Though I lived to tell about it, my wings had been clipped. I lay struggling in the road for the next five years, wondering if I'd ever regain what I lost in those ravaging few seconds.

Life does that. In times of random injustice—injustice undreamt of in my childhood and young adult years—I can say with the rest, with the best, it's a bitch. Through no misdeed of mine, I got owned, ready or not.


Lying there, in dust-like grams—

it sloughed itself as dying goes

at life's deep crap-holes stumbled on—

the flecks still flickered, shimmering

against a rising sun.
(In an open universe, some gathering

occurs, and God is not contained.)

Bit by dram the damned relives

in small-souled breaths;

I choke at ample oxygen.
My broken faith is broken still

but gains with time

what time misspent
but God the going's slow ...


God, O God, where art thou? Thou art as distant to me as the lady combing rice in the Yunnan Province of China or a piece of floating space debris circling Pegasi. In this feeling-dead world of post traumatic stress, skepticism is king, queen, and court jester.


READJUSTING

Exploring the dark

like a honeymooned virgin

I grope, but slowly,

feign tension, stay sheeted

with a wait-turned-wonder

and feelings familiar

yet not this way …

as still unnamed.
A kiss and lightly, a touch just there

then sting and ache and ever-changed

but good like dying in a Cleopatra-way.

I lie in a bed another will make,

has made, had made,

and softly cry myself to sleep

from the sheer exhilaration.
I'm dead, mortally wounded, yes, dead to you and all but this never-ending anxiety. I'm learning my way around the dark; the stars help: a flash here, a fall there, a streak of lightning, a blinding pain.

Why is it I don't want to leave? It's a strange thrill—a clinging to the fog, a dampening on my arms 'til my elbows drip dew and my hair lies in tangles—but still it doesn't feel like love to me.

(I'll not call it "love" 'til I see it on your face …)

Rivers of Living Water by Suzanne Lorente

What I Thought:



Suzanne Lorente is beautiful. Her voice and her heart are full of love and joy. I was blessed to first hear Suzanne sing when I was in high school and attended Los Gatos Christian Church. She was one of the choir members as well as one of the soloists. Her voice is like melted milk-chocolate...rich, thick, and oh so addicting. I'm so glad that she made this cd. I hope that you visit her website and listen to her music. It is so relaxing and soothing.

It is time for a FIRST Wild Card Tour book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason it is called a FIRST Wild Card Tour is that you never know if the book will be fiction, non~fiction, for young, or for old...or for somewhere in between! Enjoy your free peek into the book!



You never know when I might play a wild card on you!





Today's Wild Card artist is:



Suzanne Lorente

and the CD:

Rivers of Living Water

Lorente Publishing

***Special thanks to Suzanne Lorente for sending me a review cd.***



ABOUT THE ARTIST:

Suzanne Perry Lorente has been a child of the Lord since age 7. Her gift of music began at age two and has carried her through her life. She is an accomplished long time song writer, singer, guitarist and performer from the age of 13. At a young age, Suzanne chose a career of a professional entertainer as a single singer/guitarist in well known night clubs, dinner houses and special events, with a repertoire of more than 400 songs. During this same time frame, she achieved an Associate of Arts degree in Mass Media from Stephens College in Columbia, MO, and a Bachelor of Arts Degree in Music from San Jose State University in California. As time marched along, she realized God's calling on her life to turn her heart toward Him as she could hear that "still, small voice" asking her to leave the relentless work of night clubs and secular entertainment. "It was a vow that took place in a day, and His promise took place over my lifetime. I am so blessed and God has kept His promise that He would give me the songs to sing for His children and for His glory." Suzanne has sung first of all for her family, then in choirs, started and sang in many small groups and trios, sang solo for so many audiences and congregations throughout the United States, and left behind a legacy of musical scenarios as she tells her stories of how each of her songs came about. She has recorded an ageless cassette that continues to be in demand, and a new CD, that has high-lighted the songs God has given to her. Suzanne has been teaching voice and guitar since she was 14 years old. She is presently singing in the little City of Dixon, CA for their Farmers Markets, weddings, and events, as well as with her trio, Suzanne Lorente and Friends, as they embark on recording a CD together. They are out doing concerts whenever possible and wherever the Lord leads. "It's wonderful to see God change the lives and hearts of people as we just sing our songs and allow Him to work through us. I love that!"



Visit the author's website.



SHORT BOOK DESCRIPTION:

This CD is a wonderful spiritual uplift and encouragement for any Christian who wants to grow, not only by hearing God's Word, but by doing what He's asking us to do. We have to take that first step and that's what this CD motivates believers and non-believers to do. The songs are original Christian Gospel scenarios that anyone can relate to, and that's what gives you the anointing strength to keep on going. You will love the beautiful orchestral and vocal backgrounds with each song as Suzanne Lorente and her trio envelope you with their angelic harmonies. God has put His Hand of blessing on Suzanne and given her songs throughout her lifetime of ministry. She and her gals are planning a tour and would love to include your church or event if it's possible. May God bless every listener and urge them to follow the Lord by listening to His "Still, Small Voice!"



Product Details:



List Price: $14.99

Music CD

Publisher: Lorente Publishing

Language: English



AND NOW..A SAMPLE OF A SONG FROM THE CD:

(To hear more samples, please visit Suzanne's website)



Here is one of the songs, "Misunderstood." This song is an original of mine written on January 1st of 2010. I am the voice for those who have been aborted, abused and misunderstood. This is quite sad, but it's telling us that each one of these has identified with the misery, torture, and abuse that Jesus went through on the cross. Many 100's of thousands have died a martyr's death, and are with the Lord because He loves them. Please listen carefully! This could be such a blessing for the Christian pregnancy centers and homes of abused women and children.







Here are the lyrics:



Misunderstood – Matthew 18:1-7



Words and Music by Suzanne Lorente



Arranged by Jeannine O'Neal





How can it be they don't hear them, they don't see



What can I say? Jesus loves them, they are free.



No-one will take time to listen as they cry



Knowing that I have the answer, I know why.





They've been misunderstood time after time



Their tiny voices still ring in our minds



No-one to love them, no-one to care



What they have to say doesn't matter…anyway.





There is a hard part to living, not to be heard



Hate takes the joy out of giving, their vision blurred



Where is the love that could give them wings to fly?



Knowing that I have the answer, I know why.





They've been misunderstood time after time



Their little voices still ring in our mind



No-one to hear them, no-one to care



What they have to say doesn't matter…anyway.





Could you be one who can't hear them, you can't see?



Are you aware they are people like you and me?



What would have come of the children who were slain?



There'd be a world of compassion…no more pain!





We have misunderstood time after time



Their tiny voices still ring in our mind



Someone will love them, someone will care



What they have to say really matters…anyway.





He's (Jesus) been misunderstood, but not for long



Each tiny baby to Him will belong.



He really loves them, He really cares



What He has to say is what matters…anyway!



What He has to say is what matters....anyway! Matt. 18:1-7





Additional high vocals Suzanne Lorente, Cecelia Dettle



Copyright 2010 BMI-0777 All rights reserved



See my website for further information



www.suzannelorente.com

Captain Jack's Treasure by Max Elliot Anderson

What I Think: If you have a 9-12 year old boy, here's a treat to give him! Max Anderson has written a wholesome and exciting series about pirates! Read the first chapter below. This is the second book in the series. You can order both books at Amazon.com.

It is time for a FIRST Wild Card Tour book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason it is called a FIRST Wild Card Tour is that you never know if the book will be fiction, non~fiction, for young, or for old...or for somewhere in between! Enjoy your free peek into the book!

You never know when I might play a wild card on you!


Today's Wild Card author is:

Max Elliot Anderson

and the book:

Captain Jack's Treasure

Port Yonder Press (August 15, 2011)

***Special thanks to Chila Woychik of Port Yonder Press for sending me a review copy.***

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Max Elliot Anderson grew up as a reluctant reader. After surveying the market, he sensed the need for action-adventures and mysteries for readers 8 and up, especially boys.

Mr. Anderson was a producer of the nationally televised PBS special, Gospel at the Symphony that was nominated for an Emmy, and won a Grammy for the double album soundtrack. He won a best cinematographer award for the film, Pilgrim's Progress, which was the first feature film in which Liam Neeson had a staring role.

He has produced, directed, or shot over 500 national television commercials for True Value Hardware Stores. Mr. Anderson owns The Market Place, a client-based video production company for medical and industrial clients. His productions have taken him all over the world including India, New Guinea, Europe, Canada, and across the United States.

Using his extensive experience in the production of motion pictures, videos, and television commercials, Mr. Anderson brings the same visual excitement and heart-pounding action to his stories.

Each book has completely different characters, setting, and plot. Young readers have reported that reading one of Mr. Anderson's books is like being in an exciting or scary movie.


Visit the author's website.

SHORT BOOK DESCRIPTION:

Sam Cooper lives right near the ocean, on the Treasure Coast of Florida. All he's ever heard about since he moved here were the fabulous treasures that have been found, and those still waiting to be discovered.

For his birthday, he received the gift of his dreams. It's the latest, top-of-the-line, metal detector. Along with his friends, Tony, and Tyler, all are convinced that they will be the ones to dig up the next great find.

They meet a crusty sea captain named Jack. He's fixing up an impossible looking old tub. The boys believe it's going to be used to search for treasure at sea. They get permission from their parents to help with the restoration job in the hopes that Captain Jack will share his wealth.

When Sam's father nearly dies, from a heart attack, the true values of life take on new importance and meaning.

What is Captain Jack's mysterious secret? And what is he really planning to do with that boat?

Readers will gain a new appreciation for family, they will learn about the dangers of greed, and oh the stories Captain Jack can tell.



Product Details:

List Price: $9.95
Reading level: Ages 9-12
Paperback: 178 pages
Publisher: Port Yonder Press (August 15, 2011)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1935600141
ISBN-13: 978-1935600145

AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:


Catching the smugglers out on Lost Island was all that people around Harper's Inlet could talk about for weeks. Everyone wanted to know which three brave boys had been involved. Sam, Tony, and Tyler weren't allowed to tell anyone about the mystery. The FBI told them to keep it to themselves for their safety. They had become heroes, yet no one knew their names.

After going scuba diving, getting caught up in a terrible storm, and being stranded on Lost Island, it might seem that Sam Cooper and his friends, Tony and Tyler, would have had all the adventure any three boys could want for a summer, a year, or an entire lifetime. Only that's not how it worked out. But then, that's the way it is with boys. Boys are made for danger, adventure, excitement, and conquering things. And that's exactly what these guys looked for all the time.




Chapter 1
Captain Jack's Hopeless Boat

The storm Sam and his friends had survived wasn't something any one of them could soon forget. Maybe they never would. So you might want to excuse Sam for what he thought one night, a couple of weeks later.

Lightning knifed across the night sky and thunder roared so loudly that Sam was sure his windows would shatter into a million pieces any second. It didn't help much that his bedroom faced directly toward the ocean. And those silly stories about lightning coming from angels taking flash pictures, or thunder from them moving their furniture around up in heaven didn't do him any good either. When he pulled the covers over his head his dark comforter still couldn't keep out the bright flashes of light.

Sure glad I'm not out there on the ocean again tonight, Sam thought. Man, that'd be terrible.

Suddenly, as if he'd pushed the start button on a DVD player in his head, violent images of the storm he, Tony, and Tyler had survived, came crashing in. With each flash of light, he remembered how the mast had broken like a twig and the boat split in half while he and his friends held on to what was left.

Sam grabbed the extra pillow on his bed and held onto it for a few minutes with his eyes shut tight.

A little later, when he couldn't sleep, Sam slipped out from the safety of his covers to get a better look at the angry storm. A huge surf crashed against the beach. He watched white caps on the pounding waves with each giant lightning bolt. The weather forecast this summer called for heavy storms in and around where he lived. The big one he and his friends had been caught out in was the first of the season.

Great, he thought. Another storm. Now we'll have to forget our plans to go fishing in the morning.

Sam lived in Harper's Inlet, Florida, not far from an area people call the "Treasure Coast." "Treasure" should have been Sam's middle name.

He and his friends had often seen people line the pier with their fishing poles dangling over the water below. Most of their time had been spent in the scuba course. Then, after the accident, their parents made them stay home. Part of the reason was to keep them away from each other, and because they'd done something so dangerous.

Sam and his friends had talked many times about how much fun it would be to go down to the pier, sit around, and do nothing all day. During all the time that Sam had to stay at home, just the idea of going outside again seemed like getting out of prison. Well, today was supposed to be their day. They had permission, Tony's father bought the fishing licenses, and everything was set. Except now, the storm would probably change their plans. Sam climbed into bed again and somehow, even with all that racket, fell back to sleep.

"Sam, Sam, your friends are here!" his mother called from down the hall.

He sort of heard it, but the sound seemed to be coming from another world. And from the wild dreams he often had, he couldn't be too sure. The next thing Sam knew, he became the jelly in a jam-pile sandwich on his bed. From out of nowhere Tony and Tyler jumped on top of him. Everybody knew, if Tony pounced on you, a guy wouldn't forget it. They rolled Sam up in his covers and pushed him onto the floor.

Tyler was small for his age, but he still did his best to keep up with Sam and Tony. Tony could stand to skip a meal or two and he was never at a loss for something to say.

"Hey, you guys, cut it out!" Sam said.

"You cut it out!" Tony shouted. "We had to wake up early, get our stuff, and come over here, only to find you, king of the sleeping slugs, still in bed. Now get up."

"But the storm."

"What storm? Haven't you looked outside? The sun is shining, there's a nice breeze, and we already saw people fishing off the pier on our way over here."

"Yeah," Tyler said, "and they're catching our fish."

"So get moving before we drag you down there in your P J's," Tony threatened.

"You wouldn't dare!"

"Oh wouldn't we?"

With that, Sam broke away, ran to the bathroom, and locked the door so he could get ready. "Go on to the kitchen. My Mom will give you something to eat. I'll be out in a minute," he yelled from inside the room. Tony and Tyler did as he said—and before long he joined them.

Sam's mother had packed a delicious lunch for each of them the night before. It included peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, fruit punch, potato chips, chocolate cake, and a few surprises. Soon Sam and his friends were on their way, walking toward the pier, for a long lazy day.

Sam took a deep breath. "Sure is great to get out again."

"I know," Tony said. "I thought my dad would never get over us losing that catamaran."

"Us?" Sam asked.

Tony just looked back at him.

"What are we going to use for bait?" Tyler asked.

"Nothin', " Sam said.

"What do you mean, nothin'?" Tony asked. "You just gonna whistle, and call 'Here fishy, fishy, fishy'?"

"We'll use lures that my dad gave me. They'll look just like little fish to the big fish we're after. I have a bunch in my tackle box. You guys can use any of them you want."

Sam's tackle box clanked and rattled as he walked toward the pier. Its green paint had plenty of scratches and rust from years of use. His grandfather had used the old thing first. Then he'd given it to Sam's father. But his job as a research biologist didn't leave much time for fishing. So he'd given the tackle box, and three rods and reels, to Sam.

The box had a black, metal handle on top, and a nearly scratched off sticker with a largemouth bass jumping out of the water on the end of a fishing line. Sam's tackle box held extra reels, fishing line, several different lures, red and white plastic bobbers, lead weights—everything he'd need for fishing.

"Whatcha got in that box?" Tony asked.

Sam winked and said, "All I can tell you is, when it comes to fishing, if I don't have it, we don't need it."

"Did I ever tell you about the last time I went fishing with my dad," Tyler asked, "before we got divorced?"

"No, but I'm sure you're about to," Tony said.

"It was the funniest thing you ever saw. Well, I thought it was funny." He blinked and jerked his head. "Anyway, we went out in this big boat with a bunch of other people. I hadn't ever been fishing before."

"So how'd you do?" Sam asked.

"That's the funny part. I caught my dad...three times."

"Ha! You must have thrown him back then 'cause I just saw him when we got rescued from Lost Island," Tony said.

"It gets worse. I didn't just catch him three times, but, call it beginners luck if you want to, I caught the most fish on the whole boat too!"

"How in the world did you do that?" Sam asked.

"I don't know. All I did was drop my line in the water and bam, a fish hit my hook. I finally had to quit because I was getting so tired from pulling in all those fish."

"You're lyin'," Tony said.

"Am not."

Sam put his pole up on one shoulder. "I'll bet that made the rest of the people feel better, you leaving a few more fish for them."

He shook his head. "Not really. They still didn't catch very many."

"I can't think of anything worse than catching your dad and the most fish," Sam said.

"Well, it gets worse."

"Not possible."

"Yeah, because I got sick and threw up all over the deck."

"Boy, I hate it when that happens," Tony said.

"My dad hated it too. He kept on apologizing to all the people and the captain."

"So what happened?" Sam asked.

"What happened is my dad has never invited me to go fishing again. I used to think that was one of the reasons he left us. Today is my first time fishing since that all happened."

Sam smiled. "Promise me you aren't going to catch any of us today, Tyler."

"And no throwing up on the pier either," Tony warned.

"I'll try not to."

By this time they were walking along the beach. They noticed several people searching in the sand with metal detectors.

"There's a bunch of them out today. Wonder why?" Tyler asked.

"I read that it's best to search for stuff right after a big storm like we had last night," Sam said.

"How come?"

"Because all that wind and the waves tear up the sand and move it around so it's easier to find things."

"That must be right because I don't remember seeing this many people most days."

Sam let out a deep sigh. "Yeah, I really wish I had a metal detector."

Tony added, "Think of all the money we could make with one of those babies."

"We?" Sam asked.

"Well, you'd let us in on it, right?"

"I might."

"You'd better."

"Your dad could buy each of us one if he wanted to," Tyler told Tony.

"Not after we lost his boat and all that scuba gear."

Sam looked at him again. "We?"

Tony reached the pier and stepped onto its worn boards. Sam thought their footsteps sounded like the hollow booms of big base drums.

"I don't think I've ever seen so many people fishing before either," Sam said. "Wonder if the storm stirs up the fish, too?"

"Hey, Tyler," Tony said. "Watch out for all these people. You wouldn't want any of them to catch you."

Sam and his friends had to walk way out near the end of the pier until they found an open spot where all three could set up. They began the long, lazy day of fishing they'd dreamed about for so long. space The hours crept by, the shadows grew longer, and each boy caught at least one fish.

"We didn't do so well today," Tyler complained. "Nothing like my last time."

"It's okay. That's why they call it fishin' and not catchin'," Sam said.

It had been a fun day, but now it was time to pack up and head for home. Living by the ocean, Sam loved the water. He knew that Tony and Tyler loved it, too. The smells from the sea, the pelicans swooping down to gobble up a fish in their big scoop-of-a-mouth, the gentle breezes, all helped Sam and his friends to relax. They saw dolphins jumping far out in the water.

They came to the end of the pier, walked along the beach for a stretch, and turned toward Dodds' Marina. Tony pointed to an old boat near the marina that they hadn't really thought much about before.

"Hey, you guys," Tony said. "Have you seen that sorry excuse for a boat? Man, he's got to be kidding. You put that thing out in the water and it'd sink for sure."

"I saw it when we came back from Lost Island," Sam said.

They walked over to the dock for a closer look. The boat was in bad shape and needed more than a simple coat of paint. Some of the windows were broken, and the railings were either rusted or missing. Just then, a short, heavy-set man climbed up from below. He looked almost as worn out as the deck he stood on. His tired eyes searched around as he stretched, rubbed his back, and then saw something on the dock near where the Sam and his friends stood.

In a loud voice the man called out, "Ahoy, you boys. Could one of you toss me that rope by your feet?"

Sam looked down to see a large coil of rope. "You want the whole thing or just one end?"

"The end will do."

Sam grabbed it and walked toward the side of the boat. He handed the rope up to the man and as he did, Sam stared at his dry, cracked hands. Some of the cracks were bleeding a little.

He didn't know what to say, so he asked, "This your boat?"

"Naw, I found it bobbing around out there in the ocean, pulled her in, and claimed her for my own."

"Really, you did that? Whose was it?"

"Probably belonged to pirates or smugglers, I expect."

"How could that be? I mean, it's in pretty bad shape," Sam said.

"I'm just kidding you, matey. I bought her off a guy that was about to sell her for scrap. I'm fixin' her up. She's all mine."

"Mister," Tyler asked, "why isn't your boat in the water?"

"They got me in this thing called a dry dock. That's because she needs a lot of work on the topside, and the bottom."

"I'll say," Tony whispered.

"Looks like you're all by yourself. Isn't anyone helping you?" Sam asked.

The old man shook his head. "Nope, just me, that's all. You wouldn't be looking for a job, now would ya?"

"A job? What kind of a job?"

"Helping me fix up this old tub. I could use the lot of ya."

"I don't know," Sam answered. "I'd have to ask my dad."

"That's a good idea. Why don't you do that? If your parents say it's okay, come on back and I'll put you to work. I'll pay you for your trouble too."

"We'll tell you tomorrow if we get permission."

"Sounds good to me. I'll be right here. This pile of boards isn't going any place unless a hurricane comes along. Right now that's about the only thing that could move her from this spot," he said, letting out a loud, long laugh. The boys could still hear it as they walked away.

"I think it'd be a great idea to work on that old boat. We could make some money, too," Tyler said. "I wonder what he's fixing it up for?"

"Probably to search for treasure. One look at him and anybody knows he could use the money," Tony said.

"Is there any treasure around here?" Sam asked. "I read about the Treasure Coast before we moved."

Tony laughed. "I can tell you aren't from around here. The Treasure Coast is farther north."

Sam stopped walking. "Oh, and I suppose boats can't go up and down the coast?"

"Sure they do," Tyler said.

"A treasure hunting boat. Yeah, I'll bet that's it," Sam whispered.

"I think we should help him," Tyler said. "Then he'll feel like he has to invite us to go out and search for treasure with him. I mean, he'd have to share it with us like partners."

Sam thought for a moment, "A treasure hunting ship. Wouldn't that be something? Just think of all the gold and stuff we could find with a boat like that."