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“An Extremely Well Written Book.

Sliding Beneath the Surface

The St. Augustine Trilogy:

Book I

Young adult, paranormal & historical

A review placed on her blog, Goodreads & Amazon by Jonel from Canada.

“Dillon manages to capture writing in the first person brilliantly. Everything is portrayed the way that a teenage boy would think it, right down to the jumbled up thoughts. It adds a very intriguing aspect to the novel. He also portrays the volatile emotions of a teen quite well. The descriptions and narrative in this novel set the scene for the action very well. There was a seamless flow from one section to the next . . . an extremely well written book.”

To see Jonel’s full review on Amazon, click here.

Chapter 3 – Sliding Beneath the Surface

The St.Augustine Trilogy: Book I

Young adult, paranormal/historical

3

Weapons and Poltergeists

“You’re something else,” I said to Carla as we neared Lobo’s house. “I can’t believe how quickly you turned that old guy around.”

She just shrugged her shoulders and said, “A girl’s got to do what a girl’s got to do. Besides, underneath all that big bad gruffness, he’s really pretty soft.”

“Uh huh, right.” Carla sometimes tends to make excuses for people, as you can see. “The problem is he doesn’t like me.”

Carla snorted. “Lobo rarely shows he likes anybody. Out there,” she said, changing the subject, and pointing at the dock about fifty feet from where we stood, “is where I go fishing when I come here to—”

Before she could finish her sentence, a big flapping of wings made us both look back towards the workshop. I ducked as a big crow swooped down and dove at my head. The stupid bird came so close I felt air fanning down from its wings. Flying past us, it landed on the balcony over Lobo’s front porch facing the bay.

“Caaa,” the thing said as it balanced somehow on a single leg. He didn’t seem to have two. Yeah, I know. Animals can’t say anything, but I felt like that crazy bird had said, “No Trespassing.”

“Meet Edgar.” Carla laughed. “He’s Lobo’s one and only pet.” The crow stared at me with its little black eyes. The thing looked like it was defending the house or something.

“Yeah, well, Edgar was aiming for my head.”

“I noticed. Sorry, but he’s about as hospitable to new people at first as Lobo is.

“No kidding.”

“He named him after Edgar Allen Poe,” she said, changing the subject.

“So that’s a raven and not a crow?” I asked, trying to show Carla I at least knew about “The Raven.” That was the only one of Poe’s writings I had read.

“No, he’s a crow. Lobo found him late one night on his porch after a bad storm, half-dead. Poor bird lost a leg that night.”

Edgar moved his head side-to-side. I figured he was getting a good look at me with each of his dark eyes in order to plan a more accurate attack.

“So you fish, huh?” I asked, doing my best to ignore Edgar. “I never knew that.”

“Catch ‘em, and release ‘em.” She flashed one of her great smiles as we stepped onto Lobo’s wood porch under Edgar’s watchful gaze. “What about you?”

“What, me fish? Nah, I’m a city kid all the way through.”

“Well, Golden Boy, I’ll have to teach you one of these days.”

In front of us, most of Mr. Lobo’s front door looked a lot like a church window. An oval stained glass picture, taking up about half the space, showed a wolf on a cliff at night, howling under a full moon with the Orion constellation in the background. Surrounding that was a strip of individual mirrors and around those, another strip of clear glass. An oval inside an oval, inside an oval.

“Nice door.” I caught a glimpse of our multiple reflections in the mirrored pieces. There was small, slender Carla in her short, black leather coat and big old chunky me in my orange and blue Florida Gator jacket. My shaggy blond mop on a square head versus Carla’s perfect oval face peeking out from long, shiny black hair. Another oval to fit with the stained glass door.

It seemed like I could see Carla’s light brown eyes and my blue ones in those mirrors, but it was probably more my imagination. Those reflections weren’t really big enough to show such detail unless maybe you got up real close. The only thing similar about us, really, was that we both wore the same washed out color of blue jeans. The two of us. What a contrast. Not as much of a contrast though, as watching Carla standing toe-to-toe with big old Lobo.

“That glass door panel is not only nice,” Carla corrected “it’s an original Tiffany. Very valuable.”

“A what?” Valuable? In that old house?

“A Tiffany. Stained glass designed by Louis Comfort Tiffany from New York sometime near the end of the nineteenth century or the beginning of the twentieth. It was his company that did all the stained glass in both the old Ponce de Leon and Alcazar Hotels here in town. Lobo says a rich friend gave it to him as well as three Tiffany stained glass lamps in his house.”

“It must be nice to have rich friends.” At times like that, Carla’s understanding of history and architecture really overwhelms me. “Why would your friend want a wolf on his front door?” I asked, pointing at it, glad I could at least say something, if only to ask a question.

“You just said it. His name,” she replied as if I should understand. I must have given her one of my blank stares. “Lobo means wolf in Spanish.” She followed this explanation by another sentence, also in Spanish.

“Which means?” I asked, only recognizing a few of the words. Yes, I knew what the word lobo meant wolf, but I hadn’t made the connection, nor did I know what else she had said to me.

“I told you to be more observant of the world around you and you’ll learn a lot.” With a wink and a grin, she tapped the wolf on the stained glass door with a fingernail.

“Showoff,” I said, looking through the clear outer oval of the door into the house. Couldn’t really see much in there except an archway to the left and a dark hall in line with the door. On the other side of the archway looked like a living room.

As if I hadn’t spoken at all, Carla grabbed my arm, opened the door, and pulled me into the house. “When I teach you to fish, I’m also going to give you some Spanish lessons.” That’s what you get for having a friend who’s lived in Mexico. And who’s father was Puerto Rican.

Being with her some more sounded great, but not the lessons part. “What would I ever do without your guidance?” I asked as she shut the door once Spock joined us inside.

“Oh Lord, you might fall apart into little tiny pieces,” she teased.

The house smelled musty. Large hand-cut beams and wood planks made up the ceiling. The floor? Nothing but smooth, but old looking, cement. No carpets or rugs anywhere. The dark hall I had seen before went past stairs leading to the second floor and ran straight to the back of the house with rooms on each side. Through the archway on the left, I could see furniture, including a couple of stained glass lamps like Carla said. Instead of going in there, we took a quick right turn into a tiny kitchen. There we raided the fridge, grabbed some drinks, and then walked across the hall into the room with the furniture.

When we entered, Carla flipped a switch turning on the two stained glass lamps I had seen before, and one other—all old-fashioned things, like you would see in a museum or something. Expensive, maybe, but not very impressive. To our left, a picture window showed a nice view of Matanzas Bay.

In front of the picture window sat a small dining room table—dark wood of some kind. Over it, hung one of the stained glass lamps. On the floor to the right of the window, a large alligator curled around itself—one of Lobo’s realistic carvings, I figured. The thing looked like it might whip its tail around at any minute, smashing anything in its way.

The rest of that room though, made me think of museums again, and even libraries, places like that. It was clean too, not like the man’s truck and workshop. Except for a huge fireplace made out of bare, grey coquina opposite the arched doorway, dark wood paneling covered the walls. On those walls were book and display cases painted white. The three display cases surrounded the unlighted fireplace, a circular one above it and two long rectangular ones on each side.

“How cool,” I said, walking over to the case to the left of the fireplace. It contained old weapons. I mean there were old-time revolvers, muskets, rifles, spears, knives, bayonets and even bullets. “How cool,” I kept saying until I realized what an idiot I must sound like. When I touched the case, an icy chill ran its way up my spine and my head started throbbing even more. I jerked my hand away as if I the case had burned me. What the hell?

“Boys and their toys,” Carla called from somewhere behind me as if she hadn’t seen what happened. “And you keep saying you could care less about history.” I heard her pop the top of her Coke can.

“Uh, well, there’s … some fascinating stuff here all right.” As I stepped back from the case and turned around, my headache eased a little.

“There you go, Jeff. You and Lobo really do share some interests.”

“Yeah, sure,” I replied vaguely, trying to shake off the effect of that spike in my headache and those chills in order to focus on what Carla had said to me. “With your buddy’s attitude, I’m sure we’ll end up the best of friends.”

Carla just laughed. Seated on the light brown leather couch facing the fireplace, she still wore her coat. The house was a little chilly, but tolerable, so I took my jacket off and flipped it over my shoulder. Cold doesn’t bother me as much as it does Carla. I wondered if Mr. Lobo would light the fire for her when he arrived.

In front of where Carla sat, stood a low, rectangular, wood coffee table, almost the same color as the couch. Dead center on its high gloss top rested a white ball about six inches across set on a small, cup-shaped holder. It, the ball, had holes and designs carved all over its surface. The thing looked familiar, but I didn’t bother trying to figure out where I’d seen one like it before.

Facing each other on opposite sides of the coffee table were two matching black leather recliners. On the floor near Carla’s feet, Spock had somehow wedged himself between the couch and the coffee table. Carla, I noticed, had placed her friend’s bottle of water on the coffee table in front of the recliner to her left.

“Carla,” I asked, after opening my own Coke and taking a swallow. “Back there in the workshop you reminded Lobo that he helped you with a problem once. What kind of problem?”

“Oh, that,” she answered and looked down at her drink. “Let’s talk about it later,” she suggested.

“Aw, come on,” I pushed. “Your pal’s not here yet. We have time.”

Closing her eyes for a few seconds and then nodding, Carla began her story. “Well, it was soon after my parents died a couple of years ago. That’s when I started living with Grandma full time. We both got freaked out when … well things started happening.” Her eyes kept darting back and forth between her Coke and me. I had never seen Carla that uncertain about what to say.

“Things started happening like what?” I prompted.

“Well … objects … moved around without me or Grandma touching them. Not only that, but we’d get up in the morning and find furniture all over the house had shifted out of place. Then books, dishes, all kinds of things, started crashing to the floor, sometimes even flying through the air.” While she talked, Carla hugged herself, like she was getting colder. “We could even sit there and watch that all happen. It was really scary.”

“So, somebody was playing tricks on you, right?” This wasn’t sounding like the Carla I knew.

She looked up at me with this dead serious expression. “No, no tricks. Some people said we were haunted. They called it poltergeists. That’s German for ‘noisy ghosts.’ ”

“Yeah, OK, but you don’t mean like on those old poltergeist movies on TV do you? A family fighting evil spirits and things like that?”

“You’re talking about Hollywood fiction.” She spoke in a firm, but quiet voice. “What happened to us was very real. It got so bad my grandma even thought about having a priest come in and bless the house.”

“Really?” I had seen that done on TV shows for houses being haunted and all, but I didn’t think good old logical, history-loving Carla could accept such a thing. “So did you? Have the priest come in?”

“No, somehow, Lobo showed up at our place before that could happen. The three of us talked for the longest time.”

“So what did he say?”

“To make a really long story short, he told us we weren’t being haunted. Instead, he said all of those things moved because of me.”

“You? No way. How could that be?”

“He said everybody and everything are … connected in ways you really can’t see. For some people in the world, like me, that connection is so strong at certain times in their lives they can … well, make things move sort of like remote control.”

“Come on Carla,” I said, “you didn’t believe him did you?” Her story had gotten a little too weird for me. Wouldn’t you have thought the same thing? Anyway, after what she said, I started getting nervous. At that moment, talking to this Lobo guy about my dream didn’t seem like such a good idea, and my head responded by again aching a little more.

“No, I didn’t believe him at first,” she replied. “To me, his words made no sense. He went on to explain though, that when some teenagers with this ability get upset about something, they can move things without touching them at times and not really understanding what’s going on. It also has to do with hormones and certain types of energy levels, he said. In my case, he told me I had a lot of anger and sorrow about my parents’ death all bottled up inside. My moving things was just my mind and spirit’s way to, well, let those feelings out in the last place I saw my parents.”

At that point, I absolutely didn’t know what to say. Instead, I chugged a couple of cold swallows of Coke. As Carla continued talking, she looked like she was going to cry. Her eyes glistened and when she spoke again, her voice sounded soft and small. Quite a contrast to her usual way of expressing herself.

“When Lobo talked about the feelings I had for my parents, I, well … burst into tears. He had it right. I was super angry and sad because of losing them, but I needed to stay strong for my grandma. You know, keep my feelings to myself and all. I had lost a mother and a father, but she had also lost a daughter and a son-in-law she loved a lot.”

After saying all that, Carla took a deep breath, wiped her eyes with her fingers and said in a stronger voice, “My crying made me feel better. Lobo told us my inner healing had already begun and things should start getting back to normal if grandma would talk to me more about my feelings.”

“So, did they? Get back to normal?”

“Yup,” she replied with a little smile, “but slowly. After Lobo’s visit, I started coming over here more often. We fished and talked a lot. He worked with me on controlling my ability to move things without touching them. Finally, after about a month or so, no more weird happenings in Grandma’s house.”

Before I could say anything, I heard heavy footsteps on the porch that made us both turn and look towards the hallway. I could see Lobo approaching through all that clear and stained glass in his front door.

Quickly, Carla looked back at me and said, “Look, I got you in here, but now it’s up to you to work with the man. From here on, you’re pretty much on your own.”

As I watched the front door open, I started feeling like I had just stepped into some very deep water.

###

For a brief description of The St. Augustine Trilogy, click here.

For Sliding Beneath the Surface on Amazon.com, click here

For reviews of this book, author interviews and blog tours, click here.

For the Official St. Augustine Trilogy Facebook Page, click here.

 

© 2011 by Doug Dillon. All rights reserved.

Chapter 4 – Sliding Beneath the Surface

The St.Augustine Trilogy: Book I

Young adult, paranormal/historical

4

Rules

When Mr. Lobo entered the room, his weird-looking eyes instantly locked with mine.

Without shifting that laser-like gaze, he lumbered over to the recliner opposite me on the other side of the coffee table and sat down. Even when he picked up the bottle of water Carla left for him, he kept up that intense stare. Man, I felt like a germ under a powerful microscope—a germ still fighting a headache.

No one spoke, and the silence around us seemed to get heavier somehow, thick like clear syrup or something. I tried not squirming in my chair, but it was hard. I mean all that silence got really uncomfortable, you know? Instead of looking at Carla’s friend directly, I stared at the Tiffany floor lamp next to his chair. It’s glass bowl pointing downward showed little green leaves against an light orange background. What can I say, looking at the thing kept my mind busy.

And another thing. It wasn’t freezing in the house, but it sure wasn’t warm—no heating going on that I could tell. Carla had her coat on and I wore a heavy long-sleeved shirt, but old Lobo sat there in that same sleeveless shirt he wore in his workshop. The guy seemed not to notice the room’s coldness at all.

The snapping sound when he opened his bottled water broke the spell, but only when the man chugged a couple of deep swallows did he look away. What a relief not to have those eyes slicing through me for even a short time. In seconds though, he was staring at me again, hard as ever. Still no one spoke. At that point, I figured if nobody else was going to say something, I would—anything, to get things moving. Yeah, I wanted the guy’s help but sitting there facing him in complete silence, especially with Carla watching, wasn’t working for me. “Ah, Mr. Lobo,” I did my best to smile, “Carla thinks that maybe you can—”

“Save it” His deep voice filled the room. “First rule, don’t call me Mr. The name’s Lobo, nothing more.”

“Uh, OK.” I tried to look and sound as relaxed as possible. Actually, I was starting to get irritated.

“Rule number two, Mr. Golden,” he lectured, like I thought he might. “If you want my help, you do things my way. Got that?”

When he said, Mr. Golden, with the emphasis on the word “mister,” I could feel the tension building in the pit of my stomach—the edge of anger. The man didn’t want me to call him mister, but he was saying it to me just to be sarcastic. I knew, because something like that had happened to me before. You see, I had this woman teacher once who used to do the same kind of thing, saying “Mister” all the time to the guys and “Miss” to the girls. On the surface, it sounded respectful, but the way she said those words made people want to smack her. So, there was Lobo doing the same thing, acting the dictator and all. I felt like I was back in school, but instead of saying anything to the old guy, I stole a quick glance at Carla.

She shook her head ever so slightly, warning me to keep my cool. Then she winked and gave me a nice little encouraging smile. That melted at least a little of the resentment I felt.

Before I looked back at Lobo, I took a long, deliberate swallow of Coke instead of responding to him right away. OK, I tried not to show that remaining resentment, anger, or whatever you want to call it, but I also wanted him to know he couldn’t intimidate me.

“Yeah, I got it,” I nodded. You old fart! At least I wasn’t going to let him control my thoughts, right?

Lobo took a sip of water and then studied the air all around me like he did when I first saw him. What he was doing, I had no idea.

“Jeff Golden!” He spit my name out as if he was getting rid of a bad taste in his mouth. “Rule number three!” he barked like a drill sergeant. “If you want help from me, stop feeling sorry for yourself so much and worrying things to death. Instead, pay attention. If you paid more attention to your life, you wouldn’t end up angry all the time and thinking the whole world is against you.”

Right after he said all that, I started feeling cold, like I wanted to put my jacket on or something. I tried to be angry about how aggressive and mean-spirited he sounded, but I think I was too surprised by my body’s reaction to what he apparently knew about me. It was really weird, you know? I mean, other people in my past had told me the same thing, but they knew me pretty well and old Lobo didn’t. On top of all that, the man had said what he did in front of Carla. Before I could sort out my thoughts and feelings any further, Lobo jumped on me again.

“Listen up, young man. If you had been paying attention the right way back in Orlando, you wouldn’t have made yourself so miserable. ‘Poor me,’ you said deep inside your mind over and over again. ‘My teachers are unfair,’ you told yourself. ‘Lots of kids don’t like me because I’m pretty smart and I have a near photographic memory,’ you wailed inwardly. Then down deep, you whimpered, ‘Woe is me. I spent most of my life around adults and don’t really know how to relate to most teenagers.’ You griped that your mom didn’t really care about you. You continually moaned and groaned about not having the nice life style you used to have before your parents went bankrupt. Worst of all, you convinced yourself you were the cause of your father’s suicide. None of that has changed, has it?”

I couldn’t reply. No words came to mind. My stomach twisted and did flip-flops. My head pounded even more than before. I tried to think of ways Lobo could have gotten all of that information about me. Even Carla didn’t know those things, especially about my dad’s suicide. All I could do was stare at the man with what I’m sure must have been the most idiotic blank look in the world.

“Lobo, come on,” Carla pleaded, “you’re going way too far.”

“The answer is obvious.” Lobo ignored Carla and continued to stare at me. “You’re still sitting on that same little pity potty you’ve been on for a long time now. It’s always somebody else’s fault, isn’t it, huh? Instead of working on your problems, you fight them in silly ways. You even gave your teachers grief because they pushed you to do better and you thought you were being picked on.”

“Lobo! Stop it! What’s the matter with you?” Carla sprang to her feet, and as she did, Spock also jumped up, letting loose a huge bark. I had never heard Carla shout at anybody before and it really startled me.

“Remember rule number two?” Lobo growled, looking first at me and then at Carla. “It goes for both of you. Do things my way or leave. Your choice.”

“Fine!” Carla yelled back at him. “Jeff, I’m so sorry. I had no idea this would happen. Come on, let’s go.” She had embarrassment and hurt written all over her face.

I tried to collect my swirling, confused thoughts. Too much had happened too quickly. At that point, part of me wanted to tell Lobo where he could stick his damned rules and then run out of there with Carla as fast as possible. I was embarrassed, scared and angry, but I had agreed to do things his way if I wanted help with my dream. Sleeplessness and the dread of that nightmare coming back even one more time finally overcame my reactions to the man’s terrible, controlling ways.

“Uh, well … that’s OK, really,” I whispered. Yeah, part of me wanted to shove Lobo’s water bottle down his throat, but a bigger, more exhausted and fearful part of me sensed the guy might really be able to help. With a look of absolute surprise, Carla slowly sat back down, looking at me as if I had lost my mind. I have to admit that I even startled myself.

“Well, well, well,” Lobo said in his rumbling voice. “You have some potential for self control after all.”

“Just get on with it.” I tried sounding tough, as if I could care less. Besides, I didn’t need his empty compliment. Yeah, some of the anger seeped out even though I tried not to give in to it.

“Oh, I’ll get on with it all right.” Lobo’s eyes blazed even more brightly than before.

Crap. Not the thing to say. “Sorry,” I replied, trying not to get things even more stirred up. “That sort of slipped out.” I knew how to play the ‘keep-the-adult-happy’ game until I got what I wanted.

“Uh huh,” Lobo replied in a less intense voice but with an even deeper frown than usual. “Happened all the time back in Orlando, didn’t it? Exactly as you conducted yourself with me seconds ago, you gave a smart mouth to your teachers and other adults to try and keep them off your back. If that didn’t work, you played word games and manipulated as many of them as you could until you got to do things your way.

“With your friends, you covered up your intelligence, used the worst language you could think of, drank beer and got into trouble to show how cool you are. Oh, you ended up with friends all right but what kind were they, huh? I’ll tell you what kind—the dropouts, the deadheads, and the juvenile detention crowd, that’s who. Have I got it right so far?”

I didn’t say a word. Instead, I shrugged and looked down at the white carved ball on the coffee table. Anything was better than looking into those flashing eyes. What he had said was too impossibly close to the truth to deny, but I had no intention of agreeing with him.

Lobo shook his head, downed the rest of his water and then stabbed a big, old finger at me. “As far as your parents are concerned, you try to wipe them out of your mind most of the time, don’t you? It’s easier that way isn’t it? If you don’t think, you don’t have to feel. Well, I’ll tell you one thing, that fight between you and your father had nothing to do with his death. He planned on killing himself long before you argued with him.”

Man, I’m telling you, I felt like I was drowning in all of Lobo’s words. The guy somehow knew my history and had gotten deep inside my head where nobody else was supposed to be. As scary as all that felt, what he said about my dad’s death … well … it choked me up a little. Talk about embarrassing. I hadn’t been teary-eyed since my dad died a couple of years before. As much as I hated what gambling did to him, his death hit me like a runaway car.

There was absolutely no way Lobo could have found out about that problem between my dad and me, and nobody in this world could have known what Dad was planning. As logical as that seemed, when Lobo said what he did, this strange wave of relief swept through me. I really did blame myself for my dad’s death, but I never told anybody.

“I’m going for more water.” Lobo abruptly got up from his chair and left the room, his voice less harsh than it had been. His absence reminded me of how it feels when a sudden severe thunderstorm finally goes away.

###

For a brief description of The St. Augustine Trilogy, click here.

For Sliding Beneath the Surface on Amazon.com, click here

For reviews of this book, author interviews and blog tours, click here.

For the Official St. Augustine Trilogy Facebook Page, click here.

© 2011 by Doug Dillon. All rights reserved.

A Message from a Paranormal Realm, Part 9

In our paranormal nonfiction book, An Explosion of Being, my wife Barbara and I decided to include a chapter channeled directly from another realm of reality. The title of that chapter was, “To the Reader from a Source with No Name”. Actually, we did have a name of sorts. We simply called it The Source.

The idea was to give readers a more personalized, direct link in the unknown. Now, after many years, I am extending that connection to readers of my blog in series of 11 bite-sized portions. Your inclusion into our private network of communications is offered openly, with hopes that you might feel just a touch of your own infinite connections.

If you would like to find the other 10 postings in this series, just look for them in the blog category titled, Paranormal Communications.

“Love is another area which you will sense from birth as an entity. Throughout your lifetimes, the needs of self-acquiring love will be met by others who sense the need of rekindling a private part of your existence before the present one. Your bonds of man and woman are eventually changed into a total conceptual agreement in this realm that denies physical, sexual differences.

“Your aims are now created to find one another’s satisfactions through physical attachments. You may show another a part of your soul, which otherwise stays protected. Love, therefore, becomes an expansion of your own awareness. Truly to yourself, it teaches one that he must reenter openness, unprotected by falsities, thereby exploring the depths of personal, spiritual and physical existence.

“Be calm and adjusting to your own love. Each entity’s respect from himself will grow and thus be fed by another who shares his needs, thus recreating the same procedure for that individual. Finalizing your self-beliefs on love and its ultimate impact will someday become clearer to your entities, because of due lack of consideration toward others in your realm. This love maintains itself, usually, at a temporary level.

“Your responsive qualities are pre-purposed to surface quickly. From childhood, you see the needs of love being met not only through yourselves, but also through others. Your children will stem from a unit of immeasurable love. This is not the physical conception of which I now speak. It belongs to the soul.

“Your development since birth has been partially a memory- linked connection through the aspect of soul love. “Forced love does not exist. It is fruitless. Physical agreements of sharing physical needs are not measured through love. They are again temporary. Your own needs that find beauty in a fulfillment will reach the depth of another individual. Perhaps your part will lessen, but the other has still gained much from the initial experience containing love.

“We are each a part of one another’s existences. This complexity forms a multitude of questions within your beings.  This is understandable. Your letters to those in religious positions many times question this partial concept I will try now to clarify your need of understanding these connections.

“As each entity forms its own existence, it completes a cycle which needs only lubrication. This lubrication shows itself as a way to remain intact within one’s self. The area of exposure is then sent outwardly to gain a connection with the next part of your encompassing soul. Your religion shows this as old testimonials from individuals who have sought to relive the aspiring memorabilia of soul integration.

“The light between each of you now remains as a constant flame. Your beliefs are founded upon a premise of pre-planned purpose for reconnection with others who have formed this ability. Be attainable as a source for other people to rely on, as their changes will be supported through yours.

To find our book online, just click on the title, An Explosion of Being: An American Family’s Journey into the Psychic.

 

 

 

Reincarnation: Life Before Life

A review of

Life Before Life: Children’s Memories of Previous Lives

Written by

Dr. Jim B. Tucker, M.D., child psychiatrist, and Medical Director of the Child & Family Psychiatry Clinic at the University of Virginia

Published by St. Martin’s Griffin,  251 pages

If you are truly interested in reincarnation, rebirth and past lives, then this is the book for you.

A continuation of the work done by Dr. Ian Stevenson, also of the University of Virginia, this book offers clear evidence that at least some people do have previous lives. Culled from reports across the world, Life Before Life offers the reader case study after involving young children who claim to have lived before their current physical existences. At the time this book was written, 2,500 such instances had been scientifically investigated.

The reader may find the wording a little dry but what Dr. Tucker presents here are not just the stories these children tell but also the rigorous analysis he and his team use to assess the validity of such claims. It is through that very academic presentation, however, that the startling truth of what so many youngsters have said becomes quite evident.

Obviously, the majority of these cases arise in cultures where reincarnation or rebirth is part of a religious belief system such as Hinduism and Buddhism. The interesting thing that arises in Dr. Tucker’s studies is the discovery of numerous cases that come from places where such beliefs are not predominant such as the United States and Europe. Add that to the fact where one or both parents of such a child are religiously opposed to the idea of reincarnation and you have set the stage for an even higher degree of verification.

The stories told by these children are fascinating, and in my view, very instructive. Through these young voices I find infinite potential for all humankind just beneath the surface of our everyday reality.

To find this book on Amazon, click here.

Chapter 2 – Sliding Beneath the Surface

 

Sliding Beneath the Surface

The St. Augustine Trilogy: Book I

Young adult, paranormal & historical.

Chapter 2
Lobo

Automatically balling up my fists, I braced for the attack. Karate kicks a friend taught me flashed through my mind as that dog noise rang in my ears. Glancing down at Spock, I reminded myself he was good-sized, and I hoped he might jump in to help us.

Spock? In that split second as I looked at him, I realized something was not quite what it was supposed to be, but I didn’t know what. Then it hit me. Old Spock was doing nothing but standing there calmly at Carla’s feet, as if nothing was happening. Obviously, the possibility of being ripped apart didn’t concern him at all.

Startled, I looked at Carla and saw her trying to stifle a giggle as she pointed towards the edge of the bamboo forest. Amazed at how she could find anything funny about our situation, I frantically tried to find what she wanted me to see. “Son of a …” I really wanted to add the word “bitch” in there, but I stopped myself even though I felt very justified. You see, Carla doesn’t like what she calls “foul language,” and I had been really trying hard to change my ways in that area of my life. Actually, even now as I’m talking to you, I’m watching what I say, believe it or not, sort of practicing. What did I find that stimulated such a reaction? A huge speaker hidden in the branches of a large oak tree.

When I looked back at Carla, she chuckled and pointed out a tall platform back in the bamboo. Uh huh, another stupid speaker. I had no idea what type of sensor I had activated, nor did I care.

After the snarling, growling, and yapping dog sounds stopped completely a few seconds later, she burst into laughter. I usually love it when she laughs, deep and rich sounding, but not at that moment. I mean, I couldn’t believe she had tricked me. The headache I had been fighting the past couple of days throbbed even more. I hadn’t told Carla about it. “Thanks a lot,” I shouted at her. I was really embarrassed she had seen me so scared for no good reason.

“No, no, no.” She wagged her finger at me with a more or less serious face. Her almond shaped eyes were wide with determination, even as she continued trying to stifle another burst of laughter. “Don’t you go venting that famous Jeffrey anger on this girl. Look, I’m sorry, really I am. I was just about to warn you when you walked ahead of me and triggered the system before I could say anything. With what’s going on inside your head today, you didn’t need a scare like that.”

“Oh,” I said. As quickly as it arrived, my hot temper drained away. No matter what, I couldn’t stay mad at Carla for long. “Apology accepted, but if you’re so sorry, how come you’re still laughing?”

“I’m trying hard not to, but I wish you could have seen your face when the dogs sounds started.” Then she lost it, and laughed her way through her next sentence so hard she could barely say the words. “Really … for a white boy … I swear … you got … ten shades lighter.”

With a final laugh, Carla coughed, caught her breath, and said, “That alarm system is Lobo’s way of scaring off unwanted visitors without actually having to use real dogs. So, are you finally ready to meet him?”

“Anything to get away from you letting me get attacked by wild dogs,” I said, trying to sound serious, even though I realized I probably had looked pretty silly.

“Oh poor baby,” Carla said with one of her sly, sexy smiles.

God she looks so good when she smiles. I mean she looks good all the time, but her smiles are something else, like a flash of warm sunshine. Ruining the moment, the screech of a power saw sliced the air for a short time and stopped. It sounded like it came from the small, unpainted building. I remembered hearing that saw noise from Carla’s back yard.

“He’s in his workshop,” she said. “Not good. He doesn’t like being interrupted when he’s concentrating on his carvings. He might even be a little grumpier than usual, so try not to be offended.”

“Great, can’t wait.” I groaned, massaging my left temple with the tips of my fingers when Carla turned away. “Sounds like so much freakin’ fun.” The idea of facing some bad tempered old man was not really how I wanted to end my day, you know? Bad dream or no bad dream. By then though, we were approaching Mr. Lobo’s beat-up truck. To the left of the truck, light shown between the blinds of the two large windows in the workshop, but I couldn’t really see anything inside.

“Being sarcastic isn’t going to make things any better,” Carla said. “We’re not here to have fun, we’re here to get you some help, OK?” She sounded like a mother taking her child to see the doctor for the first time.

“Yes, momma,” I kidded, using a squeaky child’s voice, “I promise I’ll be good.”

Carla rolled her eyes, shook her head and punched me in the arm. “You are absolutely hopeless sometimes.” When I say punch, I mean punch! For a small person, she packs a wallop.

As we walked past Lobo’s battered truck, I stopped, stuck a finger in one of its many rusty holes and felt the rough, crumbling metal give way when I pressed down. It didn’t seem possible something so old could possibly run. Inside, I saw pure mess. There was stuff everywhere—Styrofoam cups, bags from fast food places, stained rags, notebooks, what looked like balled up clothes, and all kinds of tools.

“Come on,” Carla called. She and Spock were already standing in front of the workshop door.

“Well, at least he’s not a neat freak.” I whispered those words, jerking a thumb back towards the truck as I joined her at the door. “Anybody that messy can’t be all bad.”

“Wonderful,” she whispered back, smiling and putting her hand on the doorknob. “You both have something in common. Isn’t that nice?”

Ignoring her question and hint of sarcasm, I tried looking through the partially opened blinds. All I could see were long, thin slices of equipment, wood, carvings and someone moving around.

Again, the high-pitched whine of an electric saw shattered the silence making poor Spock tremble. Carla gave him a hand signal to stay where he was, and then waved for me to follow as she entered the workshop. Once we stepped inside, that piercing noise blasted us full in the face causing us to cover our ears. With each step, wood shavings on the concrete floor crunched beneath my feet. The air smelled strongly of sawdust Mr. R. Lobo was creating. He stood opposite the front door close to the building’s back wall, bent over. He had his back to us, his bare, muscular arms moving forward ever so slightly. Even so, I could tell the guy was big, way bigger than me, and I’m close to six feet tall.

A workbench covered with tools sat against the wall to our right. Stacked up on the floor to our left were wood blocks and tree trunk sections of varying sizes. A large table in front of all those dead tree parts held carvings of people and animals. One of them, a large head of a realistic looking eagle, stared at me from its tree trunk base. Carla’s friend had talent all right.

The guy wore a dark blue, sleeveless shirt and faded black jeans. Both his belt and badly scuffed work boots looked like they might have been brown at one point in time. A thin strip of leather kept his long steel grey hair pulled together at the base of his neck, creating a thick strand that ran down between his shoulders.

When I took another crunching step, he straightened, flipped a switch on the table saw in front of him, and pulled a rag out of his back jeans pocket to wipe his hands. There was no way he could have heard that one footstep, but it sure seemed like it. A wonderful silence slowly filled the workshop as the saw motor ground to a halt.

“Lobo,” Carla said before the man could turn around, “this is my friend Jeff Golden and he—”

“You know better than that!” The man scolded. What a voice. A deep one, like a big old Harley cranking up. While using the rag to wipe sawdust off his hands and arms, he turned around and faced us. “Nobody comes here unless they’re invited by me personally, especially this boy who has problems buzzing around him like angry yellow jackets.”

Angry yellow jackets? The guy’s attitude reminded me of a crappy teacher I had last year. Hated the man. Not a good beginning.

Lobo didn’t have a big belly like a lot of older guys. A broad chest matched his big shoulders, but the man’s face is what really made me stare. It looked like the front of a ship, as if it could cut through water. A large thin nose stuck out above a small mouth with full lips that puckered just a little. From those lips on each side, a permanent frown sliced down to a sharp chin. Other deep lines across the rest of his face and neck showed the man did have some age on him, like Carla said.

His eyes though, are what really caught my attention. Deep set under thick, bushy brows the color of his hair, the pupils looked completely black. Even so, they glittered as if a tiny powerful light inside each one kept trying to get out. I swear, when he looked at me, I thought for a second I was seeing twin lasers rapidly firing in my direction. Talk about weird.

Carla walked over to him, placed her hands on her hips and slowly raised her head so that Mr. Lobo couldn’t help but look at her. I tell you what, all five foot four inches of Miss Carla Rodriguez was poised like a little snake ready to strike. I wanted to smile, knowing Lobo was in for it, but I didn’t. The guy deserved it.

“You Lobo are my friend,” she said in a level but firm voice. “Jeff is also my friend. I help my friends and I expect them to do the same for each other and me. You worked with me when I had a special problem at my house and now Jeff needs some help. Maybe you can even get rid of those yellow jackets you mentioned for him. Now how about it?”

For at least ten seconds, Carla and Lobo stood staring at each other before the man shifted his gaze back in my direction. This time, he not only looked directly into my eyes, he also looked all around me—like he was scanning the air or something. Really strange. Then he threw the rag in his hands onto the table saw behind him causing a little soft sounding eruption of sawdust.

“Take him up to the house,” he finally said, still staring down at Carla. “Pull some drinks out of the fridge for us when you get there. I’ll clean up and be with you shortly, but we do this on my terms, got it?”

“Of course,” Carla agreed with the sweet little smile she gives people when she gets her way. Without waiting for any more discussion, she grabbed me by the arm, and in no time, we were on the way to Lobo’s house. I didn’t say a word until we were outside.

 

For a brief description of The St. Augustine Trilogy, click here.

For Sliding Beneath the Surface on Amazon.com, click here

For reviews of this book, author interviews and blog tours, click here.

For the Official St. Augustine Trilogy Facebook Page, click here.

 

Being Dharma: The Essence of the Buddha’s Teachings

A Book Review

Author – Ajahn Chah

Shamhala, 221 p.

He was a Thai Buddhist Master

Ajahn Chah taught many westerners who went on to become teachers of Buddhism themselves. When you read this book, you will understand why so many people gravitated to what he had to offer.

This book is actually a collection of Ajahn Chah’s teachings, gathered from friends and other sources. Demonstrating a deep understanding of the Buddhist path, the creator of this material is at once funny and piercingly direct. The following chapters titles assigned to this collection clearly speak to the essence of what is coming up: “The Trapper’s Snare”; “Beyond Cause and Effect”; “The Path to Peace”.

Serious though his guidance is, Ajahn Chah humorously advises readers not to take themselves too seriously.

Click here to find this book online.

The Tibetan Book of the Living and Dying

A Book Review

Author – Sogyal Rinpoche

Born in Tibet
Raised by revered Tibetan Buddhist master Jamyang Khyentse Chökyi Lodrö
Founder of Rigpa, an international network of Buddhist groups and centers
Book forward by His Holiness, the Dali Lama

Harper San Francisco, 425 p.

A down-to-earth presentation of Tibetan Buddhist spiritual wisdom by an honored teacher who grew up in that tradition. The essence of his work is captured in this quote on page 11:

“In the Buddhist approach, life and death are seen as one whole, where death is the beginning of another chapter of life. Death is a mirror in which the entire meaning of life is reflected.”

In chapters like, “Impermanence”, “Evolution, Karma and Rebirth”, and “Heart Advice on Helping the Dying”, the author imparts deep meaning for readers that is well worth the reading.

Below is something the Dalai Lama said in the forward for this book:

“If we wish to die well, we must learn how to live well.”

I offer these two quotes, because as a Hospice volunteer who visits dying patients, I find the words in The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying so very applicable. For me, the very useful guidance here  in how to effectively assist the dying on their journey was worth the price of the book just by itself.

Click here to find this book online.

“Sliding Beneath the Surface was amazing!”

The St. Augustine Trilogy: Book I

Young adult, paranormal & historical

A review placed on her blog, Addicted to Books, by Jennifer Moody.

“Sliding Beneath the Surface was amazing! It actually incorporated history into a great plot and made you want to learn more about what happened at St. Augustine’s. He makes a 15 year old boy, Jeff, goes through more than any other boy should. But luckily for Jeff he has a great friend Carla them together makes a pair for this paranormal ride that they each go on. I found myself laughing at so many parts at this book. Carla is also Jeff’s crush so it only makes this book more interesting!

“With this being this author’s debut book I am amazed that he did so well! I will be reading more of this author’s work. I will be anxiously awaiting the next book in this series. And I will be buying more of this author’s books.”

To see Jennifer’s review on her blog, click here.

“I enjoyed this book from the first time I opened it.”

Sliding Beneath the Surface

The St. Augustine Trilogy: Book I

Young adult, paranormal & historical

A review placed on her blog, Mom of 2 Book Reviews, by Samantha Truesdale.

“In the book we meet 15 year old Jeff Golden, or “Golden Boy” as some like to call him. His life started to fall apart when his mom moved their family from Orlando to St. Augustine. Lately some really strange things have been happening. He keeps having a horrible nightmare that seems to real for comfort and the number 28 seems to be showing up everywhere he looks. His friend Carla, a 15 year old Native American girl, says she has a friend that may be able to help with his problem.

“Carla takes Jeff to meet Lobo, and he is definitely not what Jeff was expecting. Jeff is told he must do things Lobo’s way, or he won’t help. Jeff will be introduced to a whole new world he could never believe even existed. How will Jeff handle all of this? Are the signs around him really as dangerous as Lobo claims? Will he be able to overcome and solve all of the puzzles around him?

“I enjoyed this book from the first time I opened it. I loved Jeff’s character. I think Dillon did an awesome job of capturing the mind of a 15 year-old boy. I loved reading the scenes and laughing out loud while Jeff was freaking out. I enjoyed the friendship between Jeff and Carla. I also enjoyed learning about Lobo.”

To see Samantha’s review on her blog, click here.