Jody Summers's Blog, page 2

5 Things Not To Do When Writing A Book

Writing your first book? Prepare to make mistakes! It’s going to happen lots of times and the important thing to remember is to not get discouraged. You will be told there’s too many books and not enough readers, that it’s too difficult an industry to get into and other excuses why you shouldn’t get started or keep at it. Avoid negativity, understand that this is a process and there will be ups and downs, times you have to focus and times you need to walk away and take your mind off of it. Here are some things you need to avoid when you get started:

Don’t be anti-social: Interacting with people is great for two reasons. One, it allows you to build a following of fans who will read and share your work. Two, it will help you understand what your audience is in to, what they are looking for and give you the insight you need to write something they love.
Be inspired, not influenced: You will find great ideas everywhere, listening to people’s stories, sitting in the park and watching them interact, going to the gym or even at a restaurant. However, moments should inspire you, not force you to make drastic changes to your work because you want people to like it more.
Focus on more than one book: One thing I learned early on is that if you want to be a successful writer, you need to write a series. When reading a book, people get attached to characters. They want to connect with that character even more and follow them around from story to story. If you have an idea for a great book then do it. But if you have an idea for a series, go for it as well.
Don’t ignore the characters: Just as the reader will connect with the character, you need to as well. You need to understand how they would feel and think with each situation, what they would do or say if they were in the same situation that you are.
Don’t be afraid to go back: If something is bothering you from the beginning or early part of your story then don’t hesitate to go back and change it. Time and time again you will find that where you are would be so much better if you tweaked where you came from.

I wish you all the best on your journey. There is nothing like the moment when you hit “save” on your final draft and know that it’s completed. A lot will happen after that moment but it’s one of the most thrilling and proud moments of a writer’s life.

The post 5 Things Not To Do When Writing A Book appeared first on Jody Summers.

How To Market Yourself As An Author

As an author, you probably have a lot of questions when you start out. Beyond the obvious ones about actually writing the book(minor detail), you are probably curious what you can do to market yourself. The truth is that there are so many authors out there today that it’s hard to find an audience and distinguish yourself as a writer they want to read.  That’s even after you narrow your scope to an audience that’s interested in your genre or has the time to pick up any book and start reading.

However, the goal shouldn’t be to just get sales, it should be to build a fan base based on people who appreciate your work and love to share it with their friends and family. In order to do that you have to put yourself out there, making sure that you are easy to find and easy to follow. Here are three areas where you can see the best results:

Get on social media: I was never a big fan of social media and had my doubts about it until I realized how much of an advantage it provided me to market my books. The fact is that when you begin socializing with people on these platforms, you are connecting with them on a very personal level and it’s the easiest way to introduce them to your work and also get feedback in return.
Put your book everywhere: Appreciate the big 3 (Amazon, Facebook, Google). As far as traffic these are the biggest sites in the world and they all offer platforms for you to market yourself and your books on them. Take advantage of these platforms, make sure you have a presence and are easy to find.
Interact with fans: Your fans can make or break you. If they like your book they will recommend it to their friends and family, building your audience at a tremendous rate. People who love to read love to talk to others about the books they’ve read. That’s why it’s so important to be friendly, be social and show appreciation to those who take the time to read your work.

Always remember that people have a passion for their specific area of interest. If you write horror, then make sure those are the people you focus on whenever you are marketing. There are a lot of writers who hate the idea of labeling themselves because they want to branch out and do different things but understanding what your audience wants and where they are looking is the key to building your name. Remember, it’s not the book you are trying to sell, it’s yourself.

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DARK CANVAS chapters 6 and 7

                              6

 

 

 

Kira put on her running shoes, her shorts and a loose fitting t-shirt with a little Velcro strip sewn to the inside. It was where she kept her small spray bottle of mace. She loved to jog around the French Quarter, but still one couldn’t be too careful these days. To top off her ensemble, she wore a Saints baseball cap with her hair in a ponytail stuck through the hole in the back. Her last necessity was the stretchy phone-cord style bracelet with the house key on it around her wrist. After donning that she stepped out on the front porch and began to stretch her legs.

While she stretched, she considered her last experience while painting. As much as anything else she couldn’t decide if her altered memory scared her or not, but regardless: she knew running would clear her mind and get her back in the mood to paint again.

The painting was coming along great, but she was a little puzzled about the direction it seemed to be taking. She was producing elements she hadn’t pictured in her mind before she began to paint, so how was she painting them? Once again, it was a riddle that wasn’t going to get solved. She crossed the little courtyard, went out the front gate and settled into an easy jog down the cobblestones of the French Quarter.

In just a few steps, she was churning away in an easy comfortable stride and relishing the sensation of exercising a well trained body. Jackson Square was just moments away. She crossed Decatur and headed out on the Moonwalk. The Moonwalk; it was a funny name and only the locals knew this little walking trail was named after Mayor Moon Landrieu who had championed the redevelopment and preservation of the Old French Market district.

The day was still early and the foot traffic heavy; between that and her mace, she felt plenty safe jogging this way. For the hundredth time, Kira considered how wonderful it was to be able to run here, along the Mississippi River. With any luck she might see and hear one of the riverboats plying the waters of the mighty old river.

Crossing Jackson Square, she couldn’t help but sense the looks she was getting. It was a familiar situation she absolutely hated. Her long tan muscular legs attracted plenty of attention by themselves, particularly in the shorts she was wearing. Even though she did her best to diffuse attention by wearing an ugly baggy shirt, no makeup and her hair sticking out of the baseball cap (which also served to obscure her face a bit) it still didn’t really work. And worse, she couldn’t dress that way all the time.

There were occasions when she was out running errands during which people would still recognize her from a magazine cover or a billboard she’d done. She didn’t look forward to those incidents. Early on, she’d come to understand fame wasn’t as wondrous as those who didn’t have it seemed to think it was. To Kira, it was more the price she paid for what she had done in her life, rather than the reward. At first it seemed neat to be “recognized” when she went somewhere, but all too quickly she understood that others saw that recognition as a right to introduce themselves. They took any opportunity to say ‘hi’, interrupt what she was doing, or who she was talking to and ask for an autograph, say how much they loved her work, or tell how beautiful she was. Mostly it was very innocent and there was no easy answer for it. She couldn’t be rude, well, she could, but it merely gave the impression of the arrogance people already expected and didn’t change anything anyway. So Kira got in the habit of wearing big sunglasses and baseball caps even when she went to the grocery store. Sometimes the simple act of attempting the disguise brought the attention she was trying to avoid.

She only got one whistle as she crossed the square and the street by Café Du Monde, and turned left and down onto the Moonwalk. By careful habit, she glanced casually back over her shoulder. No one was following. It was a good habit and a sad necessity, Kira thought, but as she’d learned in her self-defense classes years ago, observation and awareness were the first and best line of defense.

The air was warm and sticky, but there was a nice breeze coming off the water and much to Kira’s delight there was a riverboat chugging its way down the river towards her. The nostalgic sight made her think of the history of the Mississippi and the vast water traffic that the mighty old river used to carry. The days of the fabulous riverboats were actually making a bit of a comeback in the lower Mississippi as entrepreneurs had discovered the pervasive desire for a bit of adventure, glory and opulence mingled with the flavor of history.

The rhythmic motion of running left Kira’s mind free to float back to the painting again. It was shaping up so much differently from the way she’d envisioned it. She’d researched numbers of photos and paintings from the Civil War to give her a reference for what she was doing. From that, she framed the scene in her mind, but there was something about the changes which were happening that felt so, right. She couldn’t explain it. She still didn’t know why the man’s face in the picture looked so sad. He was sitting in kind of an awkward position with one leg up and one leg out. His arms were down and his whole posture suggested he was holding something, but what? She hadn’t a clue what might go there. Also, there was that horse. Certainly, she’d seen plenty of paintings which included horses, but she hadn’t intended to add one, yet there it was.

Sweating profusely now, her body was being taxed enough to drag her thoughts away from anything but the sensations of her exertions. Smiling, she focused on her stride.

 

                               7

 

The horses were feeling frisky, and Sean felt guilty for not working with them, but cleaning out his dad’s room had somehow unnerved him, and he couldn’t concentrate. He didn’t want to concentrate. He just wanted to work and forget. So he went to the back of the barn to his toolbox and got out the tape measure. At least he could start on those stalls. As a matter of habit, he always kept a little spare lumber in the barn and it would suffice for his purposes today.

The next order of business was to measure and mark the corners of the stalls. And two hours later he was hot, sweaty, and had hay dust stuck all over him. He’d made a good start. The main posts were in place and attached and he had the crosspieces installed on one side. That done, he decided it was a good place to stop for the day. The slight guilt of knowing he could’ve gotten further was offset by the excitement growing in his mind about leaving the ranch for a while. He was anxious to clean up and pounce on the computer. There was still the destination decision to be made and other plans to make after that.

Walking back to the house, he tried to decide whether cleaning out his dad’s room felt liberating, chilling, or both. There was a vague inescapable sensation of dread about going in that room which surely promoted his procrastination, but now cleaning it definitely felt like a step in the right direction. He glanced briefly at the urn on the kitchen counter as he continued upstairs. Hmmph, he thought. What a nuisance. Guilt and annoyance filled him as he marched to the shower.

Refreshed from his shower, Sean put on some sweats, went downstairs to make a bologna sandwich with some chips and tea, then back upstairs and planted himself in front of his computer. Excitement was ballooning inside him. He couldn’t believe it. The thought of taking a little vacation seemed like a full-blown adventure. Damn, he thought ruefully, I must really be bored.

Wandering around several sites for a while, he looked at beaches and tropical places. Somehow, they seemed too romantic to visit alone. Alone. Boy was he tired of alone. Filling up his life with work was only a replacement for loneliness, he thought. He punched up TheSingleScene. com again and began looking at the faces. There were a few profiles he stopped to read, but mainly he just looked at the pictures. Mustering up any serious interest required more patience than he currently possessed. He managed to kill almost another hour before he remembered a face he really did want to see again..

After another brief search, he found it: The Canvas of Life. Kira’s face. She looked to him like a vision from a dream and her eyes seemed to peer directly into his heart. She had long darkish hair, thick and full. It was only a headshot, though, and he couldn’t help but wonder if her figure was as lovely as her face.

She was probably stuck-up or dim-witted. He smiled. Sour grapes, he thought. The address was only a PO Box, but it was in New Orleans. Hmmm, he’d never been to the French Quarter. Hell, he’d never been anywhere. Sean had already finished his food but sipped thoughtfully on his tea, looking at her photo. Compared to that vision, the whole Julia experience seemed but a distant nightmare. It had no more impact on him now than stubbing your toe might encourage you not to walk. Looking again at her photo, he wondered, how did you come to be in this line of work, Kira? Painting from ashes? Ashes. Like his Dad’s. Maybe this could be an excuse to meet her and solve his own problem with his dad’s remains. He could even see the French Quarter too. Now that sounded like a vacation. The idea rapidly blossomed in his mind and ignited his imagination. He’d call her in the morning and make an appointment.

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DARK CANVAS chapter 5

                                           5

 

 

 

Sean Easton was an easy-going fellow with dark hair and light eyes and one of those strong bold jaw lines that lends itself to the impression of strength. Of course, the 6’2” frame didn’t hurt that image much either. Success had followed everything he’d tried. As a wrestler and a quarterback in high school, his efforts had propelled him through college on a football scholarship. He’d graduated almost by accident with a degree in psychology and no idea what he wanted to do with the rest of his life. Certainly there’d been some offers to play pro ball but somehow that hadn’t appealed to him. Being raised to the simple life, money had a remarkably tenuous hold on his mind and fame held even less.

The thing that truly held him back, though, was not his lack of ambition; it was his peculiar talent; empathy. A true empath has the ability to receive the emotions of others. In Sean’s case his special sensitivity to receive other people’s feelings had become so strong that he felt overwhelmed in crowds and in some cases struggled to determine whether feelings he experienced were internally or externally generated. As a result he had begun to seek his own company to escape.

His empathic abilities colored everything he tried to do, and in many ways made him an outcast, as the one football hero who not only didn’t care to date but seemed to avoid the company of others altogether. That, more than anything else, had left him a loner, and that was why he remained on the farm with his father even after he graduated from college.

Days turned into weeks after his father’s death, and on days like today, sitting on a tractor in the field, Sean knew he had to find more to do to keep himself busy. Loneliness had descended upon him like a great dark weight that seemed to expand as the days melted away. The only remedy, he understood intuitively, was to fill up his time.

He’d spent the last few weeks finishing up the corral at what was now his little ranch about twenty-five miles south of Kansas City in Louisburg. It consisted of 120 acres, a small farmhouse built among a little stand of trees on top of a hill, a good size barn, two ponds and its own well. Most of the land was rolling hills and almost half of it was still rich with timber. His grandfather had purchased the place many years ago and it was the only home he’d ever known. To Sean’s surprise, his father had left a will and not only was the farm now paid for, but he had some money in the bank, too.

The heavy work was like a huge poultice over the nothingness Sean was feeling and sore muscles seemed to remind him he was alive. But that time was drawing to a close, and the benefits he’d gotten from that brief respite of manual labor were on the verge of losing their potency. Sean needed something to not only fill his time, but was rapidly approaching the point where he needed something to fill his heart, too.

The strangeness and emptiness from his father’s death lingered. And to make it worse, he’d had a couple of odd episodes in the last few weeks. He’d had some sort of blackout and awakened to find himself elsewhere on the farm with no recollection of how long he’d been out or how he’d gotten there. It scared him and forced him to reconsider the whole idea of living alone with no one to know if something happened to him. Why weren’t there any family relationships in his life? It had been a question that had lurked in his mind for years. He didn’t know where his dad was from or where his parents had met, or anything about any other relatives. These considerations left him feeling even more lonely and isolated, a condition he was all too familiar with as a result of his unusual awareness.

For him the term “empathy” didn’t have much meaning, and when he used his ability, it felt like he was stealing somehow. He’d coined the term ‘snitching’ to refer to his sense of sneaking into other people’s emotions, and it always came with a twinge of guilt.

It had been two months since his dad’s death and the quest for some family, some roots, led him to the Internet. And the Web itself soon became a new passion. It began simply by researching his ancestry, learning about the Easton family, and slowly morphed into an obsession. When he wasn’t working the fields or the horses or doing any of the hundred other responsibilities he had to handle for the ranch, he was back on the ‘Net.

He’d learned that Easton wasn’t as common a name as he thought and he read about the distribution of the name around the country, most of the Easton ancestors either came from Ireland or England and the surname itself was a “place” name derivative. None of this information, though interesting, had proven useful.

Why was there such a lack of records? Surely, he thought, there’d be something with his mother’s maiden name on it. Again nothing. He couldn’t even find photos of his family’s life. It was like his entire family had never existed.

The more he searched, the more the void within him grew. On a whim, Sean scoured the public records for his mom’s death certificate. He found it, but no maiden name was listed. Nor could he find a birth certificate. Next he searched for articles about her death, but small town newspapers didn’t always have records transcribed to computer when they were over thirty years. Maybe he would go the Louisburg courthouse and search through the microfiche records.

He checked the old Kansas City papers which were available on- line, but there was nothing about his mom’s death. Kansas City obituaries apparently didn’t extend this far south to his home town.

In the course of his search, he stumbled on a few articles about a string of deaths around the Louisburg area which had never been solved. For some reason, he found these episodes intriguing. One article summed it up: “…still baffling police. Almost all of the deaths have been women and they have all been strangled but that is where the similarity ends. Of the ten victims reported missing, only six have been found in various locations around the Kansas City/Louisburg area. Oddly, no robbery was involved and the police have confirmed there was no evidence of rape either. The extensive manhunt continued for weeks but no further clues have been found. The entire series of incidents remains a mystery and the lack of suspects and any apparent motive has left the police unable to reasonably assert that the murders were due to a serial killer.”

The police had apparently assumed there was a connection but without any suspects, the file had eventually been closed.

One thing which struck Sean as odd was the fact that the killings stopped around the same time as his mother’s death. There were no more reported incidents of killings or missing persons after she’d died. What a coincidence he thought, as he completed his research for the day.

Sean’s obsession with the Internet and his loneliness inevitably led him to some internet dating sites and his good nature and looks quickly gleaned him substantial interest for dates. After a tremendous amount of trepidation and a few short emails, he finally agreed to meet a girl named Julia at the Houston’s restaurant in the Plaza in Kansas City. The experience, however, only sufficed to confirm his fears.

Sean arrived at 11:15 on Thursday. He had parked in the garage above Houston’s and it was a beautiful day. He was nervous as usual, and had picked out his best pair of jeans and a white Oxford style button down. As he entered the restaurant he turned straight into the bar and selected a seat where he could see both the front windows and the waitress stand where the customers were getting greeted as they walked in.

Houston’s was an upscale Bistro type restaurant. They specialize in steaks, soups and a great wine list. The Bar was a massive dark wood and brass affair, shaped like an elongated “U” and gave a sense of opulence as did the entire restaurant. He ordered a beer from the waitress. She was nice and efficient, cute too, but something was bothering her. She was deeply worried about something. Dang it! Sean thought. Turn it off. Think of something else. It had only occurred to him when he sat down that Julia might not look like her picture and if she didn’t, how would he recognize her. On the other hand if she didn’t look like her picture maybe he wouldn’t want to recognize her. Surely people didn’t do that, he thought. What would be the purpose of putting a picture on a site like that that didn’t look like you? Wouldn’t it make things awkward when you met? The more he thought about it the more he thought someone was bound to do that, put an old photo up or a glamour shot or something, and the whole line of thought was making him even more nervous.

He didn’t have long to wait, however. He saw her the minute she walked in the front door. She had long straight blonde hair, longer than in her photo and when she turned, her clear blue eyes were penetrating. She smiled at Sean and he stood up and began to walk towards her, feeling his mouth go drier with each step.

“Hi there, Farmerboy,” Julia said with a mischievous grin.

“Hi, Julia. Sean reached out his hand to shake hers but she ignored it and gave him a big hug. Sean reciprocated and managed to recover from his shock enough to ask,

“You want to get a table in the dining room or just sit at one of the bar tables? There is a 20 minute wait for the dining room.”

She was still smiling at him as she replied, “A bar table is fine with me.” She moved in again as he turned.

She was close. Close enough to imply intimacy and Sean wasn’t sure how to react. He slipped a hand loosely around her waist as he guided her gently towards a vacant booth near the back and slid her into the seat before taking the opposite one facing the windows. Fortunately, they were far enough from the windows that she wasn’t too badly backlit. “So we both made it,” Sean began, immediately deriding himself

for such a stupid comment. If this was the best he could do, he should give it up right now. Julia’s response, however, gave no hint of his self- perceived stupidity.

“This was a great idea Sean. Welcome to dating in the 21st Century.”

“No kidding. Who would’ve believed it even five years ago?” Sean was sensing something from Julia and before he had really given it any thought he added, “And don’t worry I’m nervous too.” Sean saw her puzzled expression, immediately realized what he had done, and unerringly anticipated her next comment.

“Uh, was I acting nervous? I hate to think I’m that obvious.” Her discomfiture was much greater than her comment would predicate.

Sean had to think fast. “Nah you weren’t obvious at all. I just assumed that anyone in a new situation like this would be nervous.” Julia seemed at least mildly mollified and Sean relaxed a fraction realizing he would have to be more careful.

“Well that’s true enough I suppose. Have you been looking on the internet long?”

At that point the waitress showed up and asked what they would like to drink. Sean ordered a beer and Julia got a glass of chardonnay. The waitress left menus and said she’d be right back with the drinks. As she did, another emotion impinged on Sean’s awareness. That waitress was flat ass pissed about something. The feeling jolted him and he found himself watching her back retreat. Catching himself and realizing his diverted attention would be misconstrued, he turned back and answered Julia’s last comment, hoping the delay wasn’t too obvious.

“Actually I just stumbled on the site a week ago and it was the first dating site I have ever looked at. I can hardly believe I’m actually doing this.”

Julia seemed to jump at the opportunity. “Well I’m certainly glad you did, Sean.”

The comment seemed consistent with her repeated attempts at physical closeness and Sean was already sensing something else from this woman. She definitely found him attractive, he could feel it, and for that matter he thought she was too, but there was something else he couldn’t quite pin yet. Sean’s pause was unnerving Julia so he let go of his musings to answer.

“I’m really glad to be here too Julia. What do you do for a living?” Sean was less interested in what she did for a living than merely keeping the conversation flowing. Also Julia was watching him very intently and between that and his mind still trying to categorize what he was sensing from her, he found himself a little unnerved. Julia seemed a tad embarrassed as she answered.

“I’m doing data entry over at Sprint at the moment but most of my work experience is as a legal assistant. I lost my last job fairly recently, though.”

“What happened, if you don’t mind me asking?” Sean felt like he was prying but if he didn’t ask he was afraid he would seem disinterested. Sheesh! This whole process was extremely taxing.

“Well,” she began hesitantly, “Let’s just say my last boss was interested in more than my legal skills.”

Was she blushing? Sean felt a surge of anger swelling inside him at a boss taking advantage of a situation like that. “Did you tell him you weren’t interested?” Sean heard the heat in his own voice and hoped it wasn’t perceived as criticism of her.

“Yep. Several times. He was married too.”

“That bastard!” Sean blurted out before he really thought, but it was out there now so he continued, “Whatever happened to ethics? Hitting on an employee is bad enough but doing it when you’re married is just atrocious.” Sean was so unused to sharing his ideas, he found himself overly concerned with how his comments were being perceived. Too parochial? Too Boy Scout? Suddenly it occurred to him that although this interaction was taxing, he was finding that sharing was nice. What a pleasant surprise.

Julia chimed in quickly. “I know what you mean, Sean. It’s as if no one cares about morals anymore. And he was blatant and unconcerned about it too.”

Sean kept wondering if it was his imagination or was she taking every possible opportunity to say his name. He was feeling a closeness to her, though, and he found himself thinking it felt good. Oh hell, he thought, it was probably just his empathy. He decided to disclose a little more about himself.

“Well, maybe it’s me. I guess I’m more than just a little naïve sometimes, but I still believe the golden rule works as well today as it did thousands of years ago.”

Now he sensed that his positive impression on this girl was heightening by the moment and he was beginning to have fears of her seeing him like some kind of a Boy Scout. That sensation didn’t last long, though. It was chased away quickly by his sensing her physical desire for him. He could even see the pulse in her wrist elevating. It was more information than he really wanted at this point, and fortunately her nervousness kept her talking, taking his mind away from those concerns. He tuned back in as she asked a question.

“Well I’m thinking about suing but I haven’t found a good attorney yet. I don’t know Sean, what do you think?”

The conversation continued amiably, but another emotion kept impinging on him that didn’t seem to fit. Was it sadness? Desperation? What could a woman this lovely be desperate about? The thought kept gnawing at him as their orders were taken and the waitress returned with the food, but as they began to eat the sensation kept building and between words and bites of food it was making Sean progressively more uncomfortable. In a sort of mild panic he picked another topic hoping to divert those emotions he was sensing.

“So have you been married before?” The moment the words left his mouth Sean realized it was a mistake. There was just the briefest of hesitations on Julia’s part and Sean could feel the sadness swelling inside her like a mutant cancer. It was so powerful that it clenched his own heart and he desperately wished he hadn’t asked the question. He was certain now he didn’t want to hear the answer.

“Well I was married for a couple of years when I was younger but more recently I had been dating a guy. He was pretty special. We had been dating for over a year when he was killed in a car accident. The report said he must have fallen asleep at the wheel and crossed the median. He hit a semi head on.”

Now Sean was on the verge of being overwhelmed. He was completely unused to being around someone while they were expressing something so charged with emotion. It felt, to him, just like someone he loved deeply had recently been killed, only feeling it from someone else was worse. Taking a deep breath he forced himself to pull back. He felt as though he would start crying if he didn’t and it was all he could do to stammer out the next sentence. “I’m so sorry for your loss,” he began, “and I’m even more sorry to have brought up such a painful topic.”

Sean watched her face as she continued to relate falling in love with this guy and him dying suddenly. He felt like he was bleeding inside. The pain coming from Julia was so intense that Sean had the sensation that someone was grabbing his heart and squeezing. Sitting rigidly in his chair, he tried desperately not to embarrass himself. He abruptly excused himself to go to the bathroom.

When he got into the restroom he glanced to see if anyone was in the stalls. Picking out the handicapped one, he went in, closed the door, and cried. He’d barely cried when his own father had died, how could he be so upset over a simple recounting of someone else’s tragedy? The whole situation unnerved him but it wasn’t completely new. He didn’t even go to see sad movies for fear of crying in the theatre. When Sean went to a movie, he didn’t see the movie he lived it. For him it was a personal experience, feeling all the emotions that the characters were feeling while they were feeling them. This made his movie selection much more considered. Leaving a movie being depressed was not his idea of how he wanted to spend his money. But now feeling someone else’s tragedy, he realized, was much worse. He lingered a bit longer in the restroom putting cold water on his eyes in an attempt to minimize the swelling. They were still red and Julia was going to know. This was all so embarrassing that Sean actually found himself contemplating alternate exits. It was no use. He was just going to have to face it.

When Sean returned to the table he immediately picked up on her surprise and concern. It was more than he could take. He had no desire whatsoever to share with this woman, whom he barely knew, the truth about his emotional flaws or empathic abilities, but on the other hand he was a damn poor liar. So he grabbed at the first idea that came to him.

“Julia, I’m sorry but I’m going to have to go. I’m suddenly feeling sick.”

Before she had a chance to answer, he put money on the table to pay for the meal, pushed his chair back and was out the door.

He had escaped but the sense of relief was ameliorated by the horror he felt about his exit. Fiercely, he forced himself not to imagine how his exit must have made her feel. He didn’t want to think about it. This whole dating thing was a stupid idea anyway. Stomping all the way to the parking lot, he got into his truck and let the miles slowly dissipate his anger and shame as he unconsciously navigated the route back home.

Damn his gift! Gift, yeah right, he thought, more like a curse. Part of him wanted so much to connect with someone but owing to his snitching, the whole dating process was a tremendous undertaking, fraught with emotional perils he couldn’t begin to anticipate. He kept hoping that he’d find someone someday, but couldn’t imagine how that would ever happen. People imagined him to be shy and reserved when in reality it was their flood of feelings that forced him to retreat.

Still the days passed and he’d busied himself with ranch chores. On a farm there was always plenty to do and the feelings he sensed from the animals were easily understood and handled. As a result of his aborted dating experience he decided to take on horses. He could justify it by rationalizing the use of the extra money which he didn’t really need, but truly, it was the perfect panacea for his loss and disappointment. Even though the horses had only been there a few weeks, he was enjoying them immensely especially his favorites, Lightning and Ebony.

The next morning Sean was up early and out behind the barn rebuilding the dilapidated door that led to the storm shelter. It was just some more busy work but it needed to be done. The warm sun on his face reminded him of being on a sunny beach. He’d only been to the ocean twice: once in South Padre, Texas and once in Daytona Beach, Florida, but listening to the waves and playing in the surf were memories he’d never forgotten. Maybe he’d take a little vacation, he decided suddenly, but before he did he wanted to clean out and rearrange his father’s room. He’d avoided even opening that door for many weeks now, and it was high time he faced it and got it done. Making the decision lifted his spirits. It gave him something to do and finally finishing a task he had so avoided gave him something to look forward to.

By late morning he had returned from riding and had Lightning unsaddled, brushed down, and cooled off. The day was slowly waxing hot. He fed and watered all three horses, then trudged toward the tractor. On his way, he thought he caught a whiff of something rotting, but discarded it as probably a dead possum. There was the west side field to mow, and that would consume most of the rest of his day.

Hours later, he awoke to find himself face down on the steering wheel of the tractor. The field was half mowed and the tractor was off. He didn’t remember a thing. Shit, he thought to himself. This was the third time.

Sean parked the tractor back in the barn and walked wearily back to the house, hot and sweaty, and wondered what might be happening to him. The spells had only started after his dad’s death. Maybe he should go see a doctor. On the other hand, he hated doctors, and was feeling fine otherwise. He was still debating with himself when he got back to the farmhouse. Maybe after eating he’d get back on the Internet for a while and see if he could find himself a beach.

Yawning, he looked up from the computer. He’d been so busy wandering the world on the ‘Net he’d forgotten the time. Bloodshot eyes drifted absently up to the clock. Damn! It was 10:30.

As much as he told himself he didn’t want to, he became caught up looking at profiles on dating sites, particularly TheSingleScene.com where he’d met Julia. It seemed he gravitated back to that site because it was the first he’d signed onto and he could get suggestions of other things going on in town. One section that kept catching his eye was the Oddities and Absurdities section. There were any number of interesting links to view and one called “Canvas of Life” caught his attention.

Clicking on it took him to a different website. The photo that appeared riveted his eyes. A gorgeous girl looked out at him from the front page along with a little advertisement about her business and a phone number. Mixing ashes with paint? Yuck! What an odd idea. It almost seemed to him like grave-robbing. Nevertheless, that photo haunted him long after he shut down the computer and made his way to bed.

The damn rooster woke him up at dawn, again. He actually laughed out loud at the thought. It was worth having that old bird just for the early morning giggle, and the scrawny thing was certainly too old and tough to eat anyway.

Sean’s mind was still fuzzy, the feathery fingers of sleep reluctantly giving up their grasp. Throwing back the covers, he let the chill in the air propel his feet to the shower. There was work to do and a little hot water would ease his already stiff muscles.

Feeling refreshed and awake, Sean dressed, ate breakfast and walked back up the stairs to his father’s room, hesitating only briefly as he opened the door. Part of him still anticipated that awful smell his memory had associated with this room. But though it was musty and reminded him a bit of an old folks’ home, that particular stench was gone. Standing in the doorway, he slowly glanced around: the unmade bed by the window, the bed pan on the bedside table next to a dirty drinking glass, the house shoes set neatly on the floor by the bed, dirty clothes in the hamper by the closet, the urn on the dresser.

When he’d set that urn with his father’s remains on the dresser, it was because he couldn’t think of anywhere else to put it. Frankly, he’d prefer not to actually see the damn thing at all. It occurred to him to put it in the barn or the basement, but those options seemed somehow disrespectful.

The heavily worn antique furniture stared back  at  him;  a long dresser, end tables, and the matching dark wood bed frame. It all reminded him of his dad and the sadness that was the reason he’d waited so long to clean in here. Scratching his head, he brooded over where to start. The linens needed washing. Nope. He was going to chuck ‘em, along with those clothes on the floor and the rest in the closet. He headed for the bed first; that would be easy enough. He got as far as the sheets and decided to go get some trash bags.

Moments later he returned, feeling energized by finally acting on his decision to get this done. Maybe once he was finished, he’d move into this room. It did have a better view. Surprisingly, the thought chilled him. Then again maybe not, he decided. Somehow the idea of sleeping in his dead father’s room seemed a little too scary to contemplate. Maybe later.

He went back to the closet and pulled out a pair of ancient work boots he had to stretch to reach in the back corner. There was still another pair back there, so he threw the ones in his hand toward the trash bag. When they landed, one fell over and from the corner of his eye he saw something and did a double take. Did something fall out of the left boot? Grabbing the last pair of raggedy shoes in the corner, he moved back over to the bag to take a look. Gloves. A pair of gloves lay on the floor beside the boot. Sean picked them up, inspecting them closely. They were old, stiff and real dirty. Why the heck did his dad have dirty gloves in his boots? The leather was very worn and seemed to be crusted with mud and—blood? Was that blood on them? Maybe his dad had cut his hand. Sean looked for holes in the leather, but the gloves were intact. That meant the blood came from somewhere else. His dad didn’t wear gloves when he hunted, did he? Sean sat back on his heels, his knees creaking slightly, wondering how long those things had been back there. They certainly looked old. And why in an old boot?

Without understanding his actions, he dropped the gloves back in the closet and dismissed the incident. The next stop was the drawers in the dresser. There were underwear, socks, t-shirts and undershirts, all destined for the trash bag.

When he pulled out the last shirt from the bottom drawer, a newspaper article floated gently, leaf-like, down to the floor. He put the clothes in the sack with everything else and held the article with both hands. June 3, 1973. It read: “Jennifer Easton Stockton and her two-year- old son, Mike, were the only fatalities in a seven-car pile-up on Interstate 65 yesterday. The freakish ice storm that coated local roads with over an inch of ice is blamed for the sad tragedy. Witnesses said…” Why was this here, Sean wondered? Easton. Could this be his Dad’s sister? Possibly the only relative he’d ever even mentioned. The age would be about right, but why is this the only remembrance of anything? Sean placed the article carefully in his pocket. With an uneasy feeling, he finished clearing everything from the room and went to get his cleaning supplies.

An hour later, he was scanning the room looking for anything he might’ve forgotten. The urn on the dresser and the gloves on the table were all that was left. He had pulled them back out of the closet but couldn’t bring himself to throw them away. It had seemed wrong somehow, and the urn was just sitting there. Maybe he should bury it. At a loss for a decision, he threw the gloves back into the closet and took the urn downstairs until he could figure out what else to do with it.

Next, Sean decided to go do a little work outside and then get back on the computer. Which reminded him of his vacation idea and the fact that he’d need to get a hold of his friend Brian and see if he’d be willing to take care of the horses for a few days. But where the hell was he even going? He still had no idea. Go? Hell! Just taking a vacation at all was a stretch, much less one by himself. After all, he’d never done it before. He was not going to talk himself out of this.

Reaffirming his decision, he walked down to the barn to take care of the horses. They would be restless by now, and maybe he’d start working on those stalls.

The post DARK CANVAS chapter 5 appeared first on Jody Summers.

DARK CANVAS chapter 4

                                          4

 

 

 

Inspiration: from the Latin Inspiratus-Divine guidance or influence exerted directly on the mind and soul of humankind.

 

After that nightmare, the day stretched on interminably.

She hadn’t started anything but the background of Louise’s painting the day before, because she’d been distracted by her reminiscences, she told herself. More likely it was simple fear. Now, as she carefully mixed ashes with paint, and began thinking about details of what she was about to do, nervousness reared its ugly head again. Before this, she’d only done her mother’s painting utilizing cremains. Now, here she was, about to begin the meat of her first commissioned painting, and it scared her to death. What if she made a mistake?

The tentativeness about connecting that next brushstroke to canvas loomed large in her mind so she finally decided to call her client, Louise Grayson, for final approval.

She completed her preparations, took several deep breaths and made the call. Louise answered on the second ring.

“Hello,” The voice sounded a little drowsy, causing Kira to glance over at the clock. 8:45 on a weekday. Surely this wasn’t too early. “Good morning, Louise. This is Kira McGovern. I hope I’m not

calling too early.” There was a short pause, and then Louise sounded much brighter and more alert.

“No, Kira. Hello. I was sleeping in a little but I needed to get up anyway. Thanks for calling. What can I do for you?”

Kira was in a hurry to get going and didn’t feel like mincing words. “I’d like to start on your painting today and I want to do a Civil War scene like I mentioned at lunch the other day, but I thought I should at least double-check with you before I start. I’m not sure of the details, but definitely a Civil War scene.” The words all seemed to come out in a rush, but there was only the briefest of pauses as Louise took it in.

“I think that’d be great. It would make my dad so happy to be in a Civil War scene considering his fixation with it. As a matter of fact, I bet he’d be ecstatic about it. Please—go for it.”

That was exactly what Kira was hoping to hear and what she’d anticipated from their earlier conversation.

“Great! I’ll get started here in just a few minutes and call you as I make progress.”

“Don’t bother, Kira. Just call me when you’re done. Do you need any photos from me or anything?”

Interesting, Kira thought. That idea hadn’t even crossed her mind. “No thanks, Louise, I’m good. I’ll give you a call next week.”

“Sounds great. I’m really excited about you doing this. I have a good feeling about it.”

That was nice, Kira thought. It further bolstered her tentative confidence. “Thanks, Louise. I’ll give it my best.”

What a relief. Kira didn’t want to have to deviate from what she’d already planned to do. Feeling significantly lighter, she finished mixing the paints, adjusted her canvas, moved her stool into position and got to work. Everything she had done to start this business, and even this first commission with Louise had seemed almost preordained. It felt right. She was so thrilled with the success she’d had with her mom’s painting she could hardly wait to see the outcome of this one. It suffused her with the warmth of purpose. She was getting her life back on track.

 

——-

 

“Wow!” She said, turning her full attention back to the painting after dismissing another train of thought about her mother. She’d just finished painting a bridge. Furrowing her brows, she struggled to recall thinking about even wanting a bridge over the river she’d imagined in the scene. Yes, she had, but nothing like this.

Kira marveled at her own detail. The structure seemed substantial but falling into disrepair, and now there were the beginnings of a horse on the left and trees in the background. It was looking like a winter scene. Had she thought of it being winter? She wasn’t sure. It seemed right, though. She decided she liked it.

Lifting the brush her attention turned to people in the picture. Two brushstrokes later, she was again flying away on the wings of time, the creative fugue seizing her completely.

It was years ago, and her modeling career had been in full bloom. She’d gone to Paris for a shoot. Everything was beautiful. The blue autumn sky was clear and crisp. People were out everywhere, and it seemed you could see the Eiffel Tower from anywhere you stood. They hadn’t had the opportunity to spend much time in the city on that occasion because the photographer decided he wanted a more country- like setting.

The train trip into the French countryside had taken an hour or so and Kira was amazed at the incredibly vivid scenery. There were lush green hills and fields with crops blowing in the wind. It was beautiful, and she’d found herself feeling glad and lonely at the same time. There was such a sense of history in Europe. Everywhere she went she could feel the parade of centuries that had etched its way across this glorious landscape. Kira could almost imagine a French knight striding alone on one of the hills in full armor on a sturdy warhorse. Even though she was fully aware of how hard those times were to live in, it all seemed so romantic.

The train had finally stopped at a little town called Rosieres- en-Haye. It was just a nugget of a town in the French countryside and had apparently been the site of a US airbase during WWII. The United States had given it back to the French after the war, but it had gone into disuse, and the town itself had diminished greatly from the lack of commerce. The buildings, however, were absolutely spectacular. They were quintessential French Country with warm colors and heavy woods inside and out.

The photographer had picked a quaint, low-ceilinged café, and with a few words to the proprietor and some exchange of money, the crew had begun to set up.

Kira was casually glancing out one of the windows, enjoying the view, when a rifle shot exploded the peaceful setting and her friend at the next window spun around, blood spraying everywhere. She hit the floor in a leaden heap, a huge hole in her chest and blood pooling almost before her body came to rest. Emotions avalanched Kira— Sadness. Loss. Grief.

 

“Oh my Lord!” Kira fell back from the canvas, gasping for breath. Her brush fell from her limp hand as she stared in astonishment at the painting, and her other hand shot up in response to a sudden sharp pain in her chest. There was now an old man sitting by the bridge. His face was finished, as was his upper torso. His arms were down but she’d just started on the hands. Who was this man? And what was that memory? Memory?! It wasn’t a memory—it had never happened! Well, the rifle shot had never happened. The trip to France had happened. The photo shoot had, too, but what was this vision of her friend being shot? That had never happened. Her gaze fixed again on the painting, as her thoughts raced. There was a sense of sadness upon the face of the man she’d just painted. Who was he? Her eyes wandered carefully over the canvas, now noticing the water under the bridge was finished, too.

Kira put down her brush. She needed a break. Her mind was in turmoil and her heart was thumping in her chest like the hooves of that horse she’d begun to draw. Did she remember imagining a horse? She wasn’t sure.

Opening the refrigerator door she pulled out a pitcher of tea. What the heck was going on with her anyway? This couldn’t be written off as a dream: she had been awake. She opened the cupboard and pulled out a glass. Her memory was accurate right up until that rifle shot, she was sure of it.

Rifle shot? It still confounded her. She’d never heard a rifle shot in her whole life, except on TV. How did a rifle shot come to be in her memory? As she sat and pondered the puzzle, a shiver ran along her spine that had nothing to do with the ice in the tea.

Between last night’s nightmare and today’s odd intrusion on her memory, Kira was decidedly shaken. She could use a bit longer break. Crossing over to the computer with her tea, she sat down and began rummaging around on the Internet for sites where she could place her new ad. She made a list of some of the bigger sites, like Yahoo!, but was pretty certain they’d cost more than she wanted to spend just yet. She’d read somewhere that cross-linking with other sites was an inexpensive way to get some added exposure and she could do that in a few days once her website was up and running. What she needed were some specialty sites. While she searched, an ad popped up for Eharmony.com. Dating sites might be good. Match.com was too big though: they wouldn’t cross link, but what about some of the smaller sites. She took a different tack, and made some more lists. Later, she could get on the phone and begin to make calls. After that last skewed vision, it might be a good idea to take a day off from painting. This last little foray into the Twilight Zone had unnerved her way too much. As a matter of fact, she thought, maybe a little exercise would do her some good.

So, with the rest of her day planned, she refocused her attention back on her Internet search.

The post DARK CANVAS chapter 4 appeared first on Jody Summers.

DARK CANVAS Chapters 2 and 3

                                               2

 

 

 

Fear stalked Kira like a ravenous wolf. It was a formless voiceless thing that coiled its tendrils around her heart. Walking carefully through the moon-shadowed forest, she held her hands up to catch the copious snowflakes falling all around her, felt the dread and wondered, while her heart raced.

With the eerie silence that accompanies snowfalls and the moonlight dancing through the boughs and flakes, the entire scene was a unique combination for the senses. Slowly, she walked while the hair on the back of her neck continually tried to stand on end. Where was she, and why was she so afraid? Her hands felt cold and clammy, and her pulse continued to accelerate. Home, she thought. She needed to get home.

 

 

Absently, she lifted her hand to catch the snowflakes and looked more closely to see the different shapes. Her eyes widened. They weren’t snowflakes. They were ashes!

Her gaze flew to the woods surrounding her, at the feathery flakes pouring thickly from the sky. Mounds of ashes everywhere!

Now the tendrils of terror coalesced into a cable as it wound its way around her heart, then ever so slowly began to squeeze. Her pace quickened, and as if in answer to her actions the ashes began to fall harder. She wanted to run, but the powdery residue clung to her feet. Pulling furiously, she tried to free her feet, but the harder she pulled, the more the now viscous amalgam clung.

A thick, foul, rotting smell accosted her senses. Her stomach clenched. Lifting her gaze to look for the source of the disgusting smell, she watched in shock as something began to bubble up out of the mounds of ash. As the first shape squeezed itself free, the grey flakes slid like feathers from its surface. It looked like the top of a glass globe. More globes broke the surface, shedding their strange coating and rotating towards her.

Slowly, moving in unison, they all turned to face her and shock turned to horror as she recognized severed heads were encased in the glass, each face frozen in the terror of its demise, eyes wide and mouths rigid in a final mortal scream. The unnatural silence of the night shattered at the sound of a ghastly scream. A scream that was coming from her.

 

Kira awoke with a start and instinctively reached for her chest. Her racing heart began to slow, even as she felt it. Nightmare again! She sniffed. The smell was gone. It had seemed so thick she’d half-expected it to linger. Her stomach still ached. Her pulse was still easing to a more normal pace as she noticed the sheets were soaked. She was going to have to wash them.

Turning her head in the darkness, she glanced over at the red numbers on the face of the clock: 5:00 a.m. “Man! Another nightmare!” she spoke out loud to the darkness.

The first tentatively warm days of March were here and it had been weeks since Kira had begun her mother’s painting. The horrible dreams had commenced shortly thereafter. She’d thought them unconnected at first, but as the days stretched on, she’d become more and more certain they were somehow tied to her new painting. The realization had caused her to consider stopping, but she couldn’t. The whole process was too cathartic. It was filling the void of her previous career as well as the loss of her mother and giving her life meaning, which she desperately needed. She also had a soul-deep certainty that what she was doing was important far beyond her current endeavor for her mother.

Should she get up, or try to sleep some more? Thunder rattled the walls and for a moment, she had the sensation of still being in the dream. That made the decision for her. She was awake now, and the clock explained why it was still pitch dark outside. There was plenty to do, and falling back to sleep wasn’t an option anyway. Like her dad had always said, “Time enough to sleep in the grave.” How appropriate, she thought ruefully.

With a sudden motion she threw back the covers and got up. Shit, she thought. She was going to have to take another shower and wash her nightshirt, too.  What a night!

 

 

                                            3

 

 

 

From his bed, Jason looked out of the window at his son Sean, watching him building the fence around the corral. As Sean wielded the large posts into their holes, Jason found himself feeling proud of the great physical power residing within his son, even though he knew it wasn’t a product of his own genes. His love for Sean was a bittersweet delight. That boy was about the only person or thing he’d ever truly loved, and these days it seemed better to reminisce about such things rather than the disease raging within him, slowly finishing its work on his sixty-year-old body.

He reflected on the oddity of the love he felt for Sean, the miracle really, and the strange circumstances that had led Sean to him in the first place. As Jason reminisced, shivers ran down his spine—shivers that were wholly unconnected to the cancer that was killing him. There had been so many black moments, so much evil, culminating on that stormy night when Sean had been four years old. The darkness had taken him once more and he had strangled the life out of his beloved Sarah. At the instant her beautifully delicate body had gone limp within his grasp, his senses had returned and the horror which had coursed through him as he’d released her throat seemed to awaken him from a nightmare. It had

 

 

so exceeded all the other malevolence he’d done in his life that something inside him had finally snapped. On that most terrible of nights, Jason had finally found the strength to snap the chains within his mind, and at last break free of the evil blackness that had stalked him for so many years.

From that moment on, he had devoted his life to raising Sean and to being the best father he could be. It had seemed the only modicum of redemption left to him, the only opportunity to repay the world for some of the wickedness he’d unwillingly wrought on others.

Now with bare months left to live, Jason was becoming frightened of his own imminent demise, not so much of death itself but the retribution that he knew must await him for the vile deeds which had littered his miserable existence.

He leaned back on his pillows, wracked with pain, and noticed again the sick hospital smell that permeated his bedroom. At least that’s how he thought of it, but it had just a vague hint of rot that was distinct from typical sick room odors. The hated stench seemed to grow despite all of Sean’s efforts to eradicate it. Jason closed his eyes and tried to block it out.

Another bout of agony racked his tormented body and as he reached for the pain pills on the bedside table, his weakened heart finally surrendered. Eyes bulging in terror, he tried to mouth the word “No,” but it never came and as the life left him his hand fell limp just short of the table.

With his final sigh, a vague miasma rose from him. A nebulous shadow of the miserable and wretched Evil which had infused him for all those years rose from his body and dissipated into the cloying hospital room smell.

Had Jason’s olfactory sense still been functioning he would definitely have detected a lessening in the stench of his room.

Outside, Sean felt a chill ripple up his back, but the sensation was wrong. Even though the temperature was cool, his body was so heated from the morning’s labor that his clothes were almost warm to the touch. No, this chill reminded Sean of the impressions he’d get from others when he walked into a room.

Putting aside the posthole digger, he let the sensation wash over him. It almost reminded him of being around someone who was very angry, only this was more indistinct; like anger, only diffused, spread out, but still intense. This was a new experience for Sean and it puzzled and scared him. Then he realized what it was. It wasn’t anger, it was terror, stark naked terror! Sean didn’t think he’d ever felt this feeling before and wondered fleetingly how he was able to identify it. But where was it coming from? He found himself looking around to see if anyone had approached unnoticed, but of course no one was there. Only the sounds of the birds and the wind moving through the trees in the distance impinged on his senses as the sensation grew. Maybe he should check on his father, he thought suddenly. His father.

Dropping the posthole digger, he raced to the house. He’d never even remember opening the front door as he ran in screaming, “Dad! Dad! Dad, are you ok?” Even as he yelled, Sean knew he wasn’t going to get an answer. He bolted up the stairs, probably only lighting on three steps out of thirteen, and ran to his Dad’s bedroom, still yelling as he entered.

“Dad!”

No response.

Unearthly quiet pervaded, and Sean was as absolutely certain that his father lying there on the bed was dead as if he’d taken his pulse. The sense of life had left the room. That form on the bed was no longer his father. Without its spirit it was just meat, and Sean could feel the difference.

As he crossed the room to the bed by the window, Sean had another odd sensation. Something else was different. It seemed as though the heaviness in the room was gone. He walked to the far side of the bed. Apparently his dad had been looking out of the window. At me, Sean thought, watching me work.

Sean gently lifted his father’s hand and turned his head upward. As his father’s face turned towards him, he dropped the hand abruptly and stepped back. The look on his father’s face was the visual embodiment of the sensation he’d experienced in the corral. His eyes were bulging and his lips were pulled back in a distorted snarl. There was absolutely no doubt in Sean’s mind: this was the source of the powerful terror he’d felt. Here, before his eyes, was a vision so fearsome it caused Sean’s knees to go watery, a unique experience in his life.

If Terror itself had a face, this was it.

Sean regained his composure and carefully smoothed his father’s features with his hand. Just that act seemed to relieve him. What could have possibly frightened his father so? Sean’s curiosity was piqued, but at the same time he felt certain he didn’t really want to know. The raw emotions coursing through him slowly subsided; or rather they gently morphed into the more normal sadness and feeling of loss.

Then he realized he knew what had changed in the room. It smelled better. Some of the noxious odor which had persistently lingered in the room, despite his repeated efforts at cleaning, was now gone. That’s what made the whole room feel lighter. How could an odor make a room feel depressing?

In his current state, Sean’s brain couldn’t cope with riddles. His mind reeled and his head was beginning to ache. What should he do now? Standing there alone in the farmhouse with his dead father on the bed, clarity of thought seemed a distant memory. He was alone, really alone.

Sean finally broke his stunned inactivity by calling the funeral home. They suggested coming to pick up Jason’s body and having the judge pronounce his father officially dead. Then another trip to the funeral home would be required for Sean to make the necessary burial decisions. Without any prior instructions from his father, he listened absently as the funeral director droned on and on: about the various types of caskets, vaults, flowers, and preparations required for the body.

It was eerie, depressing, bewildering, disgusting, overwhelming and somehow felt so wrong that Sean finally decided on the simplest solution—cremation. It seemed more decent and required fewer decisions, even though Sean was somewhat appalled by the ill-masked chagrin of the funeral director at his lower-cost choice.

“Well, if that’s the direction you really want to go with your father, that will be fine. Certainly it’s the cheapest method of handling his remains.”

Several days later, the funeral was a simple reading by a local minister. Sean and the minister were the only ones in attendance and Sean left the ceremony feeling detached, disoriented and uncertain of his future.

The post DARK CANVAS Chapters 2 and 3 appeared first on Jody Summers.

DARK CANVAS the Novel new chapters every week!

DARK CANVAS

 

Dedicated to my dear friend and mentor Chuck Kuhns

N o vember 27, 1929 – January 22, 2000

 

                                         1

 

 

 

tabula rasa– (tăb’yə-lə rä’sə) From the Latin tabula, tablet and rasa, erased. Defined as: The mind before it receives the impressions gained from experience or a need or an opportunity to start from the beginning.

 

With thoughts nowhere near the room she was in, or the work she was doing, her brushstrokes flowed across each canvas like butterfly wings, a bit of shading here, a small detail there. Kira saw a blank canvas as a tabula rasa, a term she’d stumbled on years before. The term never failed to flicker into her awareness as she began a painting. First, she conceived the image in her mind, and from there found it more productive to leave her hands to her subconscious. Her mind would roam anywhere and everywhere, and when her attention returned to the canvas in front of her, the painting was more complete. It still surprised even her.

She’d been painting since age six and was blithely unaware of how extraordinary her talent was. At age eighteen she’d put down her paints for many years to follow what, for her, was an easy path to a successful modeling career.

Her mother’s failing health and the decision to end that career had precipitated the move back, and though her return to New Orleans had been almost prescient in its timing, she’d still only gotten to spend a few months with her mother before she’d passed away. At first, with money in the bank and time on her hands, she’d simply pulled out the canvas, dusted off her skills, and once again begun to paint. In the past her talents had led her to do landscapes as well as portraits of extraordinary faces she’d encountered, flitting from one to the other easily as they tweaked her imagination. Now with the Ides of March approaching and her mother gone, she was left feeling detached and empty and reconsidering every aspect of her life. She’d been especially ambivalent about ending her modeling career, but had watched too many models hang on desperately to a life that had passed them by. No matter who you were, the years took

 

 

their toll, and she at least felt as though she’d used good judgment as to when to quit. At any rate, she’d encountered just about as much fake as anyone should ever be faced with in a single lifetime.

Still, as much as she loved painting, the whole experience had seemed a bit empty until she’d stumbled onto her new business, Canvas of Life. Now, as she stared at the canvas before her, she was both nervous and excited as she prepared to begin Louise’s painting, her first real commission. But instead of starting, she paused for a moment and sat there on her stool with her arms crossed, reflecting on the events that had led her several months ago to mix her paints with cremains—the ashes of the deceased.

January, two months, ago had been frigid for Kira in more ways than the weather. She stood, surrounded by the cold stone of the mausoleum, only half-listening to the echo of the funeral director’s words as he droned on about the various urns and containers available for the storage of her mother’s ashes. Her mind was actually on the funeral itself, which had been two days earlier. It had been lovely, and she’d cried herself dry. Now, there were no more tears, and whatever this man was trying to explain was of no interest. Almost unconsciously she made a choice. His smile, as he turned away, looked as vacant as those he painted on the deceased.

Moments later, a footstep focused her attention on the assistant who was just returning from the recesses of the funeral home with a container in his hands. Before she knew it, she found herself departing that ornate house of death with a heavy heart and a heavier brass urn. All she could think of was that the urn felt cold and hard, a feeling that would quickly seem to epitomize her life.

 

——-

 

February had finally arrived, but the intervening weeks had seemed to Kira like years. Mardi Gras was just around the corner. All the warehouses were full of local revelers who, unlike the throngs that flew in to see the great event, were feverishly building colorful and imaginative floats that, for the next week, would be part of the tremendous parades which meandered around the city, stopping traffic and attracting crowds. Hotels were filling up, taxis were running and all was poised for another year of one of the world’s most extravagant events.

 

 

The constant clamor of revelers and parades, and the general festive mood meant little to Kira. She had yet to fully absorb the enormity of her loss, lingering instead in the denial phase, not even seeing the vague beginnings of the acceptance that would eventually come. Her painting had become her only surcease.

She stood in front of her canvas, trying to paint a scene that depicted a part of New Orleans most people didn’t see, or at the very least failed to notice. It was a section of City Park, surrounded on all sides by buildings, roads, train tracks and humanity, that if seen from a certain angle looked, for all the world, like the heart of the Florida Everglades. Absently, she looked out the window at her lovely little garden.

She’d moved in to one of those amazing residences that most people visiting the French Quarter never even glimpse. It was a two- bedroom flat that was part of what used to be a large home. These gorgeous little nooks were very sought after and seldom seen because they were so well hidden. Down the back streets of the Quarter, there are many places where one or both sides of the uneven streets are lined with seven and eight-foot, old, wooden privacy fences. Periodically, the casual passerby would see a locked gate and be left to wonder what could possibly be behind it that would require a lock. Once the gates were opened, however, the neophyte would be shocked to see a most pristine and varied garden with a carnival of colors and shapes, framed by more wooden fence. A beautiful low, black, wrought iron lattice, lined the brick walkway, and the outline of a dainty little porch was poised in front of a carved wooden door. Inside these little havens, sometimes large and sometimes broken up into smaller flats like Kira’s, were virtual architectural anachronisms. They were surviving tributes to the skill of craftsmen of the past when the French Quarter was the wealthy area and a most prestigious place to reside. These homes comprised part of the hidden treasures of the Quarter, and when Kira had first seen hers she fell in love with it immediately.

The canvas she was working on was set up by the window looking out into the courtyard. It always astounded Kira that such beauty could exist like a barrier between her exquisite little flat and the filth and ugliness of the streets just outside her gate. Flowers bloomed in a myriad of colors; bougainvillea, hibiscus, roses, even a small mimosa tree all spread a tapestry of color across the miniature panorama.

Her mind continued to float dreamily as her hand moved, but

 

 

the moment her consciousness returned to the painting she stopped and inspected the work. She was now working on the water. She noticed the rich browns and blacks overlaid with the variegated grays of the reflected lichen. Absently, she let her mind slip back away, and the brush in her fingers again danced mindlessly across the canvas—brown, red, green, black. She shifted on the tall stool that was wedged under her left hip. This was how she stood, with one hip on the stool, and her right leg straight on the ground. Familiarity of the stance, the distance of the canvas, the smell of oil paint, the feel of the brush in her hand all produced an almost hypnotic readiness within her. It was like a form of meditation to precede the creativity; once those conditions were met, her brain shifted into “painting” mode.

Moments stretched into minutes, then hours, and the afternoon waned as she worked on the soft and simple landscape which had touched her eye the day before. She glanced up at the urn on the dark wood mantle for the hundredth time, something still tugging at her mind. Fingers danced to correct a proportion, as her thoughts settled on memories of her mother. How inappropriate, she found herself thinking again, to have one’s life enshrined in a brass vessel. It drug up images of Egyptian tombs and Anubis statues, which stood in sharp contrast to the beauty that was her mother’s life. Her mother had been such a sweet and gentle spirit, never very ambitious but always kind and willing to give of herself and her time to those she cared for and the people she met.

Pausing, she glanced at her work and considered the next shades she’d be using and the mixtures they’d require. She looked again at the lichen on the foreground tree to see if she still thought it needed a bit of work. Sure enough, even in the morning light, she felt the lichen needed more gray, but what hue? A steel gray was too dark. Hmmm, she thought, running through her imagination to find a picture of the color needed. Ash gray. That was it! Ash gray was the perfect hue to give that lichen the feel she wanted. But it needed to be a pure light ash but nothing came to mind until her eyes, wandered absently to the mantle. The urn! It’d made her think of her mother’s ashes. In that urn! In that ugly, lifeless, brass urn!

Her next  thought  had  initially  repulsed  her—she  wondered if mixing Titanium white with the ashes would produce the color she wanted. My God, not my mother’s ashes! Where had that idea come from? Wait a minute, she thought, what if she did mix those ashes with

 

 

paint? What if she mixed ALL of those ashes with different paints and made something from them? Wouldn’t that give her mother’s remains more life and feeling than a nasty, cold urn?

The initial repulsive quality faded, and the more she’d thought about it, the more she’d felt like it was a much more respectable resting place for her mother than that stupid hunk of metal. What would be wrong with enshrining her mother in a painting? But what kind of painting? How would one go about deciding what to paint? It would have to be something with meaning to her mother’s life, something that symbolized who she was. A portrait maybe? No. Her mother wouldn’t have wanted that. She’d shied away from photos of herself all her life. Having her remains in a portrait of her would have appalled her. Maybe a family portrayal—nope that didn’t work either. Not personal enough. Maybe a scene of something important to her mother. That idea sparked the thought: the Old Mill from her childhood! Yes, that was it!

Without yet realizing she’d done so, Kira had decided to paint a picture, using her mother’s ashes, of a scene which seemed to mark the heart of her mother’s memories as a little girl. How fitting. The thought of it had seemed so right, and had given Kira so much pleasure; she’d actually determined to set aside the landscape and start her mother’s painting immediately.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

What is the most amazing coincidence you have ever had?

I was once at a cattle call for extras on the movie “Rush” and I found myself sitting at a table with four other people named Jody…. We all had to get out our IDs before we believed it…..

What’s yours?

Put a Cork in it! Wine tasting and Book Signing

Come join me tonight at the Put a Cork in it Winery in Bricktown. Walk or boat on the canal, grab a taste or two of wine and get a signed copy of my books.

The address is 115 E. California St. Oklahoma City. I’ll be there from 5-8pm.

Come on down and say hi!

Book Specials

Watch my blog for intermittent specials on my books. This weekend I’m running a Dark Canvas-Kindle give away for 3 days. Friday the 4th through Sunday the 6th you’ll be able to download Dark Canvas for FREE!

Stay tuned to my blog for other specials….you never know when something will pop up!