Allan Hudson's Blog, page 53

Guest Author Roger Moore. A story plus 4Q Interview

Today on the Scribbler we're excited to be trying a new format. There is a wonderful short story followed up by a 4Q Interview with Professor Emeritus Roger Moore  who is an award-winning academic, poet, short story writer, novelist, film maker and visual artist. You can discover more about this talented gentleman by visiting his links below. Remembrance Day has been featured on commuterlit.com. Copyright is held by the author. Used by permission.                Remembrance Day Roger Moore   The old man watched a drop of red wine slide slowly down the side of the bottle. It was November 11, his birthday....Seventy-three years ago, Father John had taken the boy's ear lobe between thumb and forefinger and pinched the nail deep into the flesh until the blood ran. ..."This afternoon you will go down to the bamboo grove and cut a cane. Bring that cane to me and I will bless it."...That night, the boy woke up. Snuffles, snores, and an occasional sob broke the dormitory's silence. The bamboo was a long, cold serpent drawn up in bed beside him....The next day he awoke to his seventh birthday.  ...Father John beckoned and the boy followed him to his cell and knelt with his hands stretched out like those of Christ on the Cross. The priest struck him with the bamboo cane six times on each hand...." Your Savior, blessed be His name, suffered more, much more for you," the priest sighed. "Examine your soul. Find fault with each flaw, for you are unworthy."... The boy spent his birthday kneeling in prayer. He contemplated the wounds of Christ. He imagined each blow of the hammer and imagined the pain of cold nails biting into his warm flesh. He tasted bitter vinegar as it dripped off the sponge, gasped at the thrusting spear, felt the lash's sting as it fell across his flesh. He became the flagellated Christ and knelt before the crucifix, staring at himself eyeball to eyeball in the same way he looked at himself in the morning mirror....The crucified Christ gazed back at him, his brother, his soul mate, his double...."The eye you see is not an eye because you see it," Father John droned on. "It is an eye because it sees you. Christ sees you as you kneel there. He sees. He knows. He judges. Examine your soul with care," the priest raised his right hand and made the sign of the cross in the empty air. "Stay there until I return."...After an hour, a red drop of paint slipped slowly from the nail hole in Christ's right hand. The boy blinked. The red drop trembled then fell....After two hours, Christ opened his eyes and smiled at the boy. ... After three hours, salt-water formed at the corner of Christ's eye. It glistened in a sunbeam that entered through the cell's narrow window.... After four hours, tears began to flow down flesh and painted wooden face....It was Remembrance Day, the boy's birthday. He was seven years old....Seventy-three years later, the old man sat at the table. He watched the red wine trickle down the bottle. He remembered it all and his tears flowed again....    4Q Interview  4Q: When did you start writing?  RM        I was sent to a boarding school at an early age, when I was six or seven years old. I don't remember when exactly, and I don't remember much about the first two boarding schools I attended. What I do remember is being sat down every Sunday morning at a desk in a classroom along with all the other boys and being told to write a letter home to my parents. Those letters were censored and the resultant mild-as-milk prose was mailed home once a week. The reality of what I went through at my first two boarding schools and the wonderful words of the weekly letter praising the virtues of the boarding school life remain in my mind as a constant reminder of the ability of words to contrast the world that is with the world as it ought to be. I continued the habit of the weekly letter home until I left school at eighteen years old. Letter writing has continued as a constant in my life, reinforced now by the wonder of e-mail. Another constant is the real journal that I kept, written under the bedclothes by flashlight and telling a different story from the official one, yet just as false as the weekly letter. The third school I was sent to, age eleven, was very different and much less oppressive; it allowed more freedom, encouraged a certain amount of autonomy and creativity: the content of my letters surely changed as a result. Certainly my out-of-class writing did, and one of the first poems that I remember writing imitated the style of the Villon ballades that we were studying in French class. This poem of which I can still remember the refrain dates back to when I was fourteen years old.  4Q: How and when did you become interested in multi-media?  RM        In 1995 I was invited by members of the Faculty of Education at the University of New Brunswick to become involved in the Oaxaca Project, a Faculty Exchange Program with the Escuela de Idiomas in the Universidad Autónoma Benito Juárez de Oaxaca, in Mexico. When I arrived in Oaxaca, I presented four traditional seminars on teaching second languages to a faculty group that was computer literate. Even the students knew more about computers than I did. I found this lack of knowledge on my part to be a source of much embarrassment and I swore to take steps to improve my knowledge of the uses of technology.  The next year, 1996, I won two university awards, one for teaching and one for research.  While the teaching award offered no financial reward, the research award did and I invested my winnings in the first phase of a Certificate of Multi-Media Studies at the University of New Brunswick. I started the certificate in 1996 and finished it in 1999. I began the Certificate with a phobia for computers, but by the time I finished the certificate, my wife and I had built a webpage and had posted the first Ongoing Online Quevedo Bibliography, Francisco de Quevedo being the seventeenth-century Spanish poet on whose works I did my doctoral studies at the University of Toronto. Clare and I have always been interested in photography and we soon built web pages that showed aspects of the archaeological sites in the Oaxaca Valley. I was very interested in the possibilities of online teaching and several of my own courses soon involved having the students build their own webpages onto which they posted their essays. The traditional essay thus morphed into the web page creation. In 2002 I was granted a half-sabbatical and I enrolled in the Digital Film and Video Course run by Tony Merzetti at UNB. This allowed me to develop an interest in both film and video and my short film Birthday Suit, adapted from one of my own short stories of the same name, won second place in the Rogers Viewers Prize in the NB Silver Screen Film Festival of 2004. I wrote, directed, edited, and produced Birthday Suit, under the guidance of Tony Merzetti, my NB Film Co-op mentor, and participated in one way or another, both in front of and behind the camera, with another dozen New Brunswick short films. My webpage contains a description of the making of this movie. In 2007, I was invited to deliver the Sixteenth Milham Lecture at UNB and the making of this movie was the subject of that lecture.  https://moore.lib.unb.ca/movies/BirthdaySuit.htmOther aspects of my adventures in multi-media can be found on my website.  https://moore.lib.unb.ca/poet/Welcome.htmlAs an introduction, I would suggest viewing the readings of my Welsh poems https://moore.lib.unb.ca/poet/VR2_Welsh.htmlWaterfall is a nice introduction to my video poems.  https://moore.lib.unb.ca/poet/VP5_Waterfall.html  4Q: Tell us something about your childhood.  RM        My childhood was, in many ways, lost. I was (and still am) an only child and I scarcely remember my parents. They both worked and I only ever saw them on the evenings and weekends during school holidays. Looking back, I realize how little I knew and know about them. My own reality was a life at boarding school that was remarkably unpleasant in the first two schools, but not too bad in the third school, the one I attended from age 11 until age 18. My childhood at home was a shuffling from grandparent to grandparent and from aunt to aunt, interspersed with summer holidays on the continent with one or both of my parents. My life in school was the usual one of the only child separated from his parents and family. This separation was intensified when I went to school in England and the differences between my Welsh family and my new English self were augmented. This "difference" was accentuated by my ability to speak foreign languages. I was banned from speaking Welsh, though I did pick up little bits here and there from my maternal grandfather who was the last person in the family to speak any Welsh, but I made up for this by speaking French, Spanish, a little bit of Basque, and smatterings of language from whatever country we visited during the summer holidays abroad. This childhood of loneliness in a world of adults gave me one enormous blessing: the ability to entertain myself by creating a wonderful world filled with chessmen, puzzles, toy soldiers, a model railway, and an avid interest in books. This creativity remained with me throughout my life and has been a source of great comfort in my coaching, teaching, research, and creative careers. Q4: What are you working on right now?  RM        I have several projects on the go, as always. In 2010, my novel, People of the Mist , won an honorable mention in the David Adams Richards Award of the WFNB. I took it to the Humber School of Creative Writing in 2012 and completed a creative writing certificate with them, using the novel as a focus. I am still working on the novel. While at Humber, I met a group of wonderful people who wrote mainly in prose and I have remained in touch with them via an online writing group that we constructed together and still maintain online. I have written short stories for some time and have had

some good fortune with them recently. One story was short-listed by the CBC short story competition (2010), another won the WFNB that same year, and two more received honorable mentions in the WFNS Atlantic Competition and in the WFNB Creative Non-Fiction competition in later years. In addition, I won the WFNB short story competition (2015) with a fifth story. It is time now for me to gather these stories together and publish them in a single integrated volume. I am working on this and, at the same time, since I have about fifty stories written, I am also thinking of a second, and possibly a third, collection. Meanwhile, I have gathered my best poems into a Selected, and I will be sending this off to various publishers in the course of this year. In 2014 I was diagnosed with prostate cancer and my fight against this awful disease lasted right through until 2015. I am cancer free right now, for which I would like to thank all those people who worked on and with me to bring about my cure. I kept a journal throughout the diagnosis / treatment / cure period and I have written a book of poems that I have also condensed into a chapbook. Both sets of poems are out at poetry competitions right now and I will be publishing them sometime during the course of 2016. I will self-publish and give copies to my friends if there is no interest from the commercial presses to which I intend to submit them.
 More details about my career in various forms of creativity can be found on the following sites: http://moore.lib.unb.ca/  http://moore.lib.unb.ca/poet/http://w3.stu.ca/stu/sites/nble/m/moore_roger.htmlhttp://quevedo.lib.unb.ca
http://wfnb.ca/member_profile/roger-moore/
 

Thank you Roger for participating on the Scribbler.




Next week please visit again and read an excerpt from returning author Katrina Cope of Australia. 

4Q Interview with Ivan "Doc" Holliday. Star of Roadhouse Rehab

Ivan 'Doc' Holiday  is the special guest on this month’s 4Q Interview. Originally from New Brunswick, Canada, Doc is a resident of Daytona, Florida and is the cooler (head bouncer) at the Riverside Café in Vero Beach. He is also a published author of a training video & four books – The Bouncer’s Bible, The Cooler's Grimoire, Sun Tsu & the Art of Bouncing & The Bouncer's Bible 2nd Edition.  An amateur bodybuilder who’s most recent accomplishment is third place at the Daytona Classic BodybuildingChampionship Over 50 Masters class. Bouncer, biker, singer/songwriter, psychotherapist, philosopher, & avid cigar smoker, Doc is also the creator of the upcoming reality show Roadhouse Rehab and is being featured in a French International television documentary  '24 hours-Danger' as the #1 cooler in the world.

 
4Q: You have recently posted about a television program planned for the near future where your vision for a reality show based on your experience as a club bouncer will receive worldwide coverage. Tell us what is coming.
DH:  The show is called '24 hours - Danger' a French Canadian documentary.
The TV5 people at Groupe PVP productions approached my agent Erik Di Somma and said that they and their network partners at TV5 Monde in France found eight top bouncers in the world. They said they picked me over the 2nd choice, a large 300lb Japanese bouncer/sumo wrestler working at a Yakuza nightclub in Japan, based on charisma, film presence & expertise in the trade. We spent 4 days shooting in Daytona beach and Vero beach.  It was a tough grueling shoot schedule but we got it done. On February 11th at 9pm the show will air worldwide. Half the show is about the bodyguards in Haiti working the election & the other half is me doing what I do best.  


4Q: You have a strenuous bodybuilding regime and have reached recognition by being selected third place in your first contest. How did that feel?
DH: It was so great. At 57 years old and able to look in the mirror and see a 6-pack for the first time in your life is life changing! It makes you feel not only youthful to a point but born again!  It all started 6 years back when I was discovered and shot my first test/sizzle reel with the very famous wildlife director Peter Von Puttkramer of Gryphon Productions. I learn fast that the camera adds 20lbs!! I began training hard with bodybuilding & boxing to drop fat and gain muscle. Over a period of 6 years I have shot 4 sizzle reels & a music video with 4 different productions companies. Each time pushing myself to be the BEST. Always striving to be better on camera and in better physical condition. I went from 230lbs -26% bodyfat to now 197lbs - 8% bodyfat. Now I not only feel like the world's #1 cooler but look the part even more. The camera doesn't pull any punches..what you see is what the viewing audience judges you on and more than ready.

4Q: Tell us a childhood anecdote or fond memory.
DH: I have been a boxer for 47 years. Every morning I go to my backyard and train. My sparring partner Tray drops by for a few rounds and I also teach boxing to troubled teens on occasions. My idea of Rational Emotive Therapy..we box and talk. I tell my kids that the jab in boxing is like life...always gonna be in your face waiting to set you up for the knockout.  I am very particular about who I teach and who I invite to my home. Every time I wrap my hands my mind goes back to Bob Edgett's Boxing club and my Uncle Tommy Hudson. Thought not really my uncle, I loved him like one & enjoyed learning the art of boxing from these two mentors. Bob was a great man & I am honored to have been a member of this boxing club. Uncle Tommy's son's Tom Jr. & Jack were top notch golden gloves fighters but Uncle Tommy always took time to work with the slow southpaw kid who didn't catch on as fast as the other kids. Uncle Tommy would say ' you ain't awkward your different..Marvin Johnson was a great southpaw champion. & you'll be even better!' I later in life learned to box orthodox finding out that I was left eye dominant but right-handed. These lesson's I learn from Uncle Tommy and Bob Edgett have carried me though the tough fights in my life. Whether in the ring or in some bar the skills I learn have molded me into the man I am today. I'm very proud to be half-Hudson from my mother's side of the family...great boxing family name in our area.

4Q: Tell us about your reality show.
DH: Over 90% of all Lawsuits filed against a nightclub or bar are a direct result of over -excessive and untrained security personnel.  Roadhouse Rehab will be an American show that stars myself - Ivan 'Doc' Holiday, Professional Cooler / Bouncer. At 57 years old, I have worked over 200 nightclubs & bars in both Canada, US & the UK, a career spanning 34 years.Accepted worldwide as a leading authority in the field of Nightclub & Bar security today, in the Roadhouse Rehab series, I  travel around the USA & the world employing my expertise to establishments that serve alcohol & entertainment to the public with security problems. Problems like aggressive bouncers who like to start fights, drinking or doing drugs on the job, sexually harassing females, perform illegal sex, let girl's underage in the club and the list goes on. Once the bouncer's are trained, I go hands-on to help the new & improved security team use their new skills to get the club's troublemakers under control. Each episode will involve a different type of establishment with different types of music, bouncers and customers. Strip clubs, Rave clubs, Gay bars, Biker bars, Rock bars, Country & Western clubs, saloons, roadhouses, pubs, taverns, Cabaret Bars, Karaoke Bars, Sports Bars, and the list goes on. Event Security, Band Security & Private Security venues add another dimension to the mix. The one thing they have in common, is if they serve alcohol &/or entertainment to the public...they need Security.
The reward is the establishment gets new security gear, Security shirts, security radios, flashlights. The clubs get a new security camera system, & professionally trained  certified security staff. 
 


Thank you Doc for taking the time to share your thought and ideas on the Scribbler. For more information on what is happening with Mr. Holiday’s future, go here - ttp://roadhouserehab.com and http://thevltragroup.com/our-shows   Next week on the Scribbler, you can meet guest author Roger Moore of Fredericton, New Brunswick. PhD, 3M National teaching Fellow, AAU Distinguished Teacher. Professor Emeritus, St. Thomas University. Talented author and a pleasant gentleman.  You'll like him.   

Dark Side of a Promise - An excerpt.

Dark Side of a Promise. The novel!

Drake Alexander and his comrade, Dakin Rush, are being followed in another vehicle by the shadiest of characters. Why?

An excerpt.


Chapter 14                     September 29 5:36pm             Dhaka
 
Drake spots the parking garage at the rear of the office building as Dakin bullies his way through the traffic, cutting several vehicles off as he swerves into the parking lot entrance. He says, “There’s a garage in back off to our right, head to the top floor. I’ll watch to see if they follow.”
“Okay,” Daiken says as reaches down to his ankle, removing Rae’s gun from its holster. He places the Sig on the center console, close to his right hand. He notices the garage is emptying, probably people leaving work. There are no cars going in so he speeds along. Stopping for a ticket at the automated entryway, he removes the slip of paper and the gate slowly lifts. The Land Ranger penetrates the gloomy entrance, many lights are burnt out. The up ramp is to their immediate right and hugs the outer wall; cars are parked inward on the opposite side, at an angle. The outer walls are open, with huge concrete columns every twelve feet, giving some light to the dark interior. Steel rails line the ramp on its climb to keep cars from going over; many are rusted.
Drake is looking back as they enter and spies the Isuzu coming around the corner of the building towards the garage.
“Here they come. When you get to the top floor, use the truck to block off their path so they’ll have to come in on foot. We’ll take cover on each side of the top area if we can. Let’s try to take them alive, Dakin.”
There’s nothing else to say. His concentration is intense, he is going into battle. Catecholamines are hormones that are released by nerve impulses; their receptors are all over his body. His heart rate, pulse, blood pressure, all goes up. His face flushes and invisible caterpillars crawl over his skin.
The Toyota reaches the top floor, which is open to the sky. A waist-high patterned concrete wall surrounds the roof. The exit ramp is directly across from them as they clear the entrance ramp. The building is about twenty five meters wide and thirty meters long, there is a twelve meter drop to the ground. There are about a dozen cars sprinkled about. The center parking lanes have cars nose-to-nose. The center and outside lanes are separated by a six- meter-wide right of way that circles the top floor. Stunted shadows creep along the roof as the sun lowers its arc to the west.
Dakin swings the big truck around so that the passenger side faces the entrance ramp. The bulk of the Land Cruiser blocks the ingress to the top floor. He turns off the ignition and pockets the keys. Swinging open the door, he grabs his gun jumping from the cab to take cover behind the farthest vehicles to the left. There is an old Mazda quarter-ton truck backed into a slot about eighteen meters away. On the near side of it is a shiny new Smart car, mostly window. It would be poor cover, but still a distraction. He crouches down in the truck bed, which is empty except for a spare tire. Standing the tire up, he uses it for a shield. He can glance through its center while keeping his head covered. He holds his gun steady with his right hand; the left has been dressed and lightly bandaged by the hotel doctor. On it, he wears a paintballer’s glove with the finger tips missing. He wriggles the fingers, feeling lucky they all work.

Drake crawls over the console and gets out Dakin’s door right behind him, running to the right toward a 1969 Chevy Impala parked nose out seven lanes back. It’s black, festooned with several shades of primer where its owner has obviously made repairs, auto body camouflage. It’s parked near a bantam Japanese import, which is crowded in on the other side by a light grey, not so new Beemer, facing in.
He crouches down at the rear of the Impala, behind the back tire. It is semi-cloaked in the early evening shadows. Behind a black car in a dark spot and in his black clothes he’ll be hard to see. He checks the door of the car. It’s unlocked. He closes it gently until he hears it click. He, Dakin and their vehicle form a V at the top floor, leaving anyone coming around the truck an open target.

He pulls out his gun, switching off the safety. He is using .45APC hollowpoint cartridges. Used in the M1911 with a 5 inch barrel, the shells are man stoppers. With nearly 500 foot/pounds of bullet energy and large diameter, it will leave a deep and lasting wound channel, lowering his targets blood pressure quickly. It is especially effective on humans.
Both men are crouched behind cover. They can hear the Isuzu as it approaches. The groan of the oncoming engine falters as it nears the obstruction at the entrance to the top floor becoming a purr as it idles. Drake and Dakin can hear a discussion behind their vehicle but it is not loud enough to discern what’s being said, it was likely their pursuers debating as to their approach. The defenders align the sights of their weapons on the openings near the Toyota and wait.
Bunker has impatiently grabbed a parking stub from the machine as the Land Cruiser they are pursuing spirals towards the second floor just above them. He eases the SUV through the gate, pausing inside the wide doorway. Bunker looks over at Saul, who sits fuming in the passenger seat and says,
“We do this my way Morgan.”
“Who made you the boss”? He asks. “Rizzato wanted me and Hajani to take out Bashara, find out if he spoke to anyone about him. I should be telling you what to do.”
“So, where’s Hajani now? Where’s Bashara?” The sarcasm shuts Morgan up.
Bunker reaches into the back seat and grabs a hard body case. More to appease him than to protect him, the big Serb thrusts the case toward Morgan saying, “Put that pistol away and take this.”
Saul opens the case to find a FAMAS bullpup, a French assault rifle. The weapon has the action and magazine behind the trigger, built more into the stock of the gun closer to the shooter’s face. It’s a shorter, lighter assault weapon maintaining a long barrel. Unfortunately the shorter stock makes it more difficult to avoid barrel spray, making it a poor choice for long distance. Today, however, it will be deadly in a confined space.
Morgan’s attitude changes as he clutches the rifle. Admiring its stubby design, he says, “I’ve never fired one like this. I’m more familiar with an M16, but I think I’ll catch on quick enough. Ah, here’s the safety.” He flips the safety back and forth, puts the gun to his shoulder, aiming out the window. He adjusts his shoulder, his grip for a few seconds, leaving the safety on full auto.
Sitting taller in the seat, he places the butt of the gun between his thighs, holding the two grips at ready. He stares at the dimly lit entryway, grits his teeth and said, “Let’s do it.”

Bunker proceeds with caution, expecting an ambush at each level. Some patrons are leaving on the lower levels down the opposite ramp; there is no one behind them. They are approaching the top level when Bunker sees the Land Ranger blocking their path. He stops his vehicle and muses aloud to his partner. His first thought is that the people they are pursuing might be below, waiting for them to retreat or planning to attack them from the rear. The Ranger is about 40 feet away. He shoves the brakes tightly to the floor while depressing the accelerator also. The rear wheels are screaming, bleeding blue smoke. The ass of the SUV starts to swerve when the speedometer hits 40. He yells for Morgan to brace himself then releases the brakes. The vehicle shoots forward and is going 60 when it hits the Land Ranger. The four-wheel drive Sportivo sports an all terrain push bar mounted on the front bumper. It catches the Land Ranger at the bottom of the passenger door, the towing hooks digging into the rocker panel. It lifts the passenger-side wheels several inches off the floor. It’s like a furious elk digging pronged horns into its opponent’s flank.

The door of the Land Ranger buckles like tissue. The tires on the driver’s side bubble with the weight and screech as they slide along the concrete until they catch in an expansion joint.  The Toyota pitches onto its side, crushing metal and glass, making a horrific noise. The stench of burnt rubber gives the sound more weight. Bunker is relentless and floors the Isuzu, its own tires proclaiming insanity. He bulldozes the whole mess for another twenty feet until the roof of the Toyota smashes into the Chevy Drake is crouching behind. The Chevy caroms into the import, the import into the BMW then everything stops as the rear of the 252i hits the back wall.
In the mere seconds before the Ranger hit the Chevy, Drake has scrambled to get away from crashing cars. When he saw they were still coming, he dived under the import and crabbed his way toward the Beamer. The import struck just as Drake was half way through. As he was crawling, splayed out, the car started moving, centimeters over his head. The noise was deafening as metal strained and complained and tires howled. The rear crunched into the side wall, with the front starting to cave in. The front tire of the beamer cut off Drake’s escape route, but he managed to get out from under the car just as everything stopped. He rolls into a kneeling position, hidden behind the rear fender. He listens to the sudden stillness until he hears their voices. One he recognizes.
For a few seconds the only noise is glass still shattering and the hissing of steam being released from the Land Ranger’s busted radiator. Morgan had braced his feet on the dash after laying the bullpup across his lap. He had been holding the overhead handle with one hand. He relaxes and sits forward, grasping the gun and resting his arms on his knees. Staring at the crashed cars he looked over at Bunker for a second.
“Fucking ‘A’, Bunk!”
Emotionless, Bunker demands, “Get out and get down, quickly.”   Get the eBook or paperback here       Thanks for visiting the Scribbler. Drop by next week when the 4Q Interview features the Ivan "Doc" Holiday. The #1 bouncer in the world. Star of the reality show Roadhouse Rehab. The Legend!   

Guest Author Becky Pourchot.

Becky Pourchot is an author, a  writer and a purveyor of fine pastries. She loves ghosts, the silver moon ...and the occasional double cheeseburger. Originally from Madison, Wisconsin, she now resides in Flagler Beach, Florida. You wild find her links below as well as the link to her paranormal talk show, That's SO Bizarre.

Today's short story is from Clutch and Throttle


Clutch and Throttle: Tales From Daytona  
Bikers have stories – it’s a simple fact.
    Get a group of bikers together and it won’t be long before the war stories start flying…

Their first bike. Their first spill. How they got that limp.  
Living and riding in the heart of America’s motorcycle mecca has given newbie rider Becky Pourchot and forty-year biking veteran Tim Baker an array of unusual tales. 
In a “his-and-hers” collection of short stories, these authors reflect on their journeys, while providing insight into riding and life.   
Ride along with Clutch and Throttle to learn not only how they got their respective nicknames, but how their views from behind the handlebars are the same……yet different.          No Longer Just the Girl Next Door- An excerpt from Clutch and Throttle: Tales from Daytona  By Tim Baker and Becky Pourchot. To be released March 3rd, 2016  Early autumn in Florida means eighty-five to ninety-degree days—temperatures that you’d like to wear as little clothing as possible, but being a newbie on my motorcycle at the time, I didn’t want to take any chances. In spite of the heat, I decided to wear all my gear: jacket, boots, and jeans. I was sweating up a storm. My clutch had just been adjusted at Tri-City Cycle in Flagler Beach and I was getting used to the new grip placement, which meant having to relearn the feel of it, and of course, once again stalling over and over. We live in a small town, so pretty much at every street corner there was someone I knew hanging out in their yard watching my drunken bike ballet. As pathetic as I may have looked, I’d reached the point that I didn’t care. I just smiled and called out playfully to my neighbors.“Still learning!”  and then I’d proceed to once again stutter and stall until I made it out of the intersection.  I’ll admit it. My initial motivation for learning to ride a bike was not about riding fast through the Loop, or making it to all the big bike events. It was about image. What better way to accessorize your leather chaps and your skull themed do-rag than with your very own Harley Davidson. Right? When I rode with my husband on the back of his bike to Daytona for Bike Week and Biketoberfest, appearance was everything. I had a cute black zip up bustier that pushed up my boobs just so, the perfect leather hair wraps that I wore in playful pigtails, the leather jacket, and high heeled Harley boots. Going to the Iron Horse was not simply hanging out at a bar it was “going out”, playing dress up. For this girl who grew up in suburbia, where women dressed in their expensive yoga clothes even when they weren’t doing yoga, dressing in motorcycle themed clothes was wildly rebellious. I was playing the bad girl. To me, Bike Week was costuming at its finest. With my own vanity on the forefront, I talked with a lady at a local riding school about taking classes. Although she was encouraging, I found myself feeling ill at ease about the whole idea. It became apparent from this short conversation that there was much more to riding a motorcycle than learning to keep your hair in place at sixty mph. Clearly learning to ride a bike was not about fashion, but instead about how to manage a four hundred pound machine on public roadways. Suddenly I wasn’t so interested. Fast forward a year. I needed change. I was tired of being the soccer mom. I wanted something new, so I finally broke down and signed up for a course.For the course, our fashion requirements, though functional, did not fit my biker chic ideals. We were asked to wear long sleeves, gloves, jeans and over the ankle boots. It was ninety plus degrees with off and on heavy rain. I assure you by the end of each seven hour day, I was not looking pretty.After the three day course I went out and bought all the gear, including a Harley Brand jean jacket. I then added my hand-picked biker patches – Yin and Yang, peace symbol, Beatles, sugar skulls. Within a few short days I had acquired all the necessary parts to mastering my chosen image—a hippie biker chick. It was then that I bought Old Reb. She matched my attire quite nicely. I looked the part, I suppose, but something happened when I got that bike… somewhere along my journey up and down the back roads of Flagler Beach—probably at one of those thousand stop signs I stalled at—I had given up on looking cute. This was all about the bike. The road. Mastering something I wanted so badly. And so, I rode the back roads, up and around, in a little loop, practicing shifting, learning the feel of the clutch and the throttle. Forget looking sexy and cool, all I wanted was to learn how to keep my bike from stalling. My concern for my outside appearance fell by the wayside. My jeans were no longer there to show off my ass, they were there to protect my legs. My Harley Davidson jacket—the one that cost me the price of an iphone—was no longer there to show off my plethora of patches, it was there to ease the pain of road rash if I was to fall.I stopped trying to be the cute girl on a bike and became a person who simply wanted to tackle a difficult, yet wonderful task.
On South 20thAvenue, with the ocean view up ahead I pulled to a stop sign. And you know what?  I didn’t stall! As I paused at the stop, feeling my little victory, an attractive guy I knew from around town was in his driveway. He saw me and waved. I waved back.  “I just got this bike!” I said shouting across the road to him. I must have had a stupid grin on my face. He smiled back.  “Nice,” he said as he walked up to me.We talked bikes for a few minutes (something I’m finally able to hold my own on now) and then he paused and looked me over with a cool smile.“I have to tell you this. You’re looking really hot on that bike.”This took me by surprise, because the only type of hot I felt in the moment was sweaty from all my gear. When I was riding I was not thinking about who I was trying to portray myself to the be…the pretty girl, seeking approval. Instead I was thinking about keeping that bike rolling, not crashing, savoring the feel of the bike as it picked up speed.Yes, I’ll admit I did like the compliment. It made my day. Knowing that I was not only kicking butt on my little machine, but also happen to be looking good doing it, was enough to put a big smile on my face.“See you.” He winked and I headed off.As I twisted the throttle and picked up speed I noticed I didn’t think long about his flattering comments. Within minutes they dissolved as I returned to the feel of the road. I became once again a part of my bike, free and connected with my surroundings. I smiled to myself feeling another victory for the day. Not only did I stop myself from stalling, I liked who I was becoming –a motorcycle rider, no longer just the girl in the cute jeans.     Thank you Becky for that delightful tale. Drive safely. You can find Becky's books at www.beckypourchot.com Listen to her paranormal talk show at www.tsbshow.com.   Next week you can read an excerpt from the international thriller Dark Side of a Promise . Drake Alexander's first encounter with a deadly force in a foreign country does not go the way he planned. Now the police are involved. 


Feel free to tell me what's on your mind in the comment box below. Thank you for visiting.
       

January 15th post delayed until Saturday.

Hello readers. The post for today had a few glitches in the process and will not be completed until tomorrow. Becky Meyer Pourchot will be here with an excerpt from her novel - Open Souls. Good stuff!

Meanwhile enjoy this cool video until then.

Soviet Jazz Funk - 1974.

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Guest Author Sarah Butland.

This is Sarah's second visit to the Scribbler. She was born in Ontario, the year was 1982. She moved to New Brunswick for over 15 years and now resides at home in Nova Scotia, Canada. Butland has been married to her high school sweetheart and has a superstar son named William, and a cat named Russ who all make her house a home.

On her last visit, we were able to sample the beginning of her paranormal tale - Blood Day. See it here This week you can read another section.





It was the first time I tried to take a deep breath and noticed I couldn't.Their image had me confused. I couldn't believe they would show up this way, at such an uneventful time in my life. I remembered dressing for the grade 12 prom, knowing how I'd be mocked for finally showing my scars by wearing short sleeves. The first time anyone would see my bare skin with the exception of my face. I decided to be comfortable and stand out versus being mocked and uncomfortable.While I prepared I knew I would turn heads by just being at the prom but longed to only turn my parents’ heads. They were gone for so long yet their presence was as missed as it always was. My foster brother, a few years my senior, offered to be my date. He bought the corsage, the matching suit for my dress and told me I was beautiful. I then ended up canceling, faking illness and escaped to my room to cry myself asleep in my dress.I skipped graduation, too. These are huge events where I expected my parents to be. Life changing experiences, especially without proper guidance helping me through. Top of my class in marks, bottom in the social game and not missed until my name was called and no one stood to accept the diploma.  The school mailed it to me which was then forwarded a few times as I was still in foster care. And then my 19th birthday when I was officially on my own. I expected something special, looked forward to it being a me day and I made it so as it was all up to me.That morning I awoke to an empty house, made my favourite breakfast then packed my things and took a bus to the bus station in hopes of going far, far away. A few things stopped me – not lack of money or courage, though. Lucy stopped me.We remained in touch although going our separate way. I was on a full scholarship for interior design and she, well, she chose a different path I'll reveal later.Instead of during these times in my life when I decided I needed my parents, they showed up now when I thought I needed them the least. As my chest expanded, oxygen reached my blood and I coughed I realized this was my first breath and maybe I did need my parents’ images after all. It was strange before, my breath would never fog up the mirrors, wouldn’t fog in the cold and I never found anything took my breath away. It seemed to already be gone. Seemed impossible and unlikely but true. Instead of my own reflection my parents were staring back at me. They looked no older than when I had last seen them – almost three decades before. Standing perfectly still, too timid to move, I stared back at them. Suddenly, out of the reflection I heard my mother's voice but it still took me a few minutes to realize it was the image of my mother speaking.“Happy birthday, Veronica.” My name never sounded so sweet. Even as a child hearing my father sing it, the music of it now was the most beautiful thing I ever heard. Suddenly a flood of information overwhelmed me; the reason I was named Veronica, the reason my parents were taken when I was so young, why I didn't bleed. When I looked down I saw my mother and father's arms reaching out from the mirror, and, finally, I took a deep breath.“Babydoll, how are you? Are you OK?” They must have thought I was only a statue I stood silently for so long. Then I didn't know whether to simply reply, to run out of the house or to kiss the mirror. After contemplating the situation for several minutes I decided just to reply and see what happened. Expecting to ruin the moment, to have it diminish with my sanity it instead worked only to confirm their presence. “Sorry, I'm fine. Just startled really. I'm good though, wonderful. I have my own place now. What are you doing here? How are you doing here?” I was rambling which was to be expected under the circumstances, I guess, if there ever was an expectation for this. Honestly, I really didn't know if this circumstance actually happened before or would again. I had no idea what was going on. Shrinking to the floor, using my legs for a cushion, I didn't take my eyes off my most recent indulgence. Now I no longer wondered why I bought the mirror, I knew it was for them. This was what the universe planned and I was just along for the ride. As suddenly as I saw them they disappeared, leaving only a wealth of knowledge in their wake just as they had before. Still sitting with my legs folded beneath me I tried to stand with no luck. Instead I crossed them and began my meditation ritual, the same one I had seen my mother conduct while I played in my crib. I understood, even then, the importance of solitude and calmness. Today, on my 28th birthday, I needed it most.
Thirty minutes passed but it seemed brief. The images of my parents long moved on still haunted me but I knew sitting still wasn't what I needed most. Although helpful and revitalizing, I needed to write. Making my way to my new office, designed with efficiency and beauty in mind, I quickly grabbed a bottle of water from my mini fridge and sat down. Always old fashioned I reached for a pencil, some paper and “ouch!” gave myself a paper cut in my haste. Instinctively I put my finger in my mouth and covered it with saliva. It covered my tongue in a bitter taste I never had the pleasure of experiencing before and as I took my finger out and looked at it I smiled. I was bleeding red. 
                                                   ***
Our Return to VeronicaWas it better to have loved and lost than to have loved and to give away? To watch a loved one grow, prosper and be happy without the sense of family you longed to provide? Watching her bleed was the greatest thing we ever did.“Veronica, the true image of our love, you're beautiful.” A proud father stood over his newborn baby and cried, gushed and rejoiced. The universe took far too many years in his mind to provide but now that it has it's a miracle to bestow. Yet he knew, for his babydoll to be all that she could be their time together would be cut short. Ethan looked from his newborn baby's majestic blues to the emerald greens of his lover's and he knew immediately what she was thinking but she said it anyway. “I love you, Ethan. Veronica is beautiful and she is exactly what our relationship needs.” She whispered the last part, worried the doctors and nurses would hear but they were distracted with the clean up. They'd done this many times before and knew to respect the new parent's privacy, as much as they could after helping the woman give birth.“Scarlett, we needed nothing but gained everything through Veronica. Let's cherish the time we have and teach her as much as we know. Of course, it'll have to wait until you're both cleared to go home.”     He is already pressuring me, she thought. Just enduring a 15-hour labour and delivery was something no man could understand, even one as wise as Ethan. She glared at him as the doctor did what he did in Veronica's passageway into what the world has become. Scarlett almost wished her daughter was born into a different world or, at the very least, a different time. But wishes were like night dreams, plentiful but not sought after. Veronica's world would be made the best it could be in the months ahead to prepare her for so many years alone.
Their future absence, however, wouldn't be mentioned until the last possible moment. They were together now and now was what they had. If only she could heal quickly or Ethan would accept that the days ahead would be hard on her. If only children came to them in a way that wasn't so harsh but then everyone would be running around with babies and the world would be an even worse place than it already was.“If only's” were worse than wishes as they were on everyone's mind, in everyone's heart – well, at least those ones who had a heart – and they meant nothing to anyone for almost everyone accepted that some things were impossible. She didn't and Ethan didn't so it was up to them in the short time they had to show Veronica the possibility of what she could become; with or without a family to support her.The doctor finished his duties and vanished, leaving the nurses in charge of instructing the new parents as much as possible to what they could expect. Although expectations were something Ethan and Scarlett never believed in, they nodded and gave the impression they were listening. Then a male nurse helped Scarlett out of bed and into a wheel chair, through the hall and into a recovery room. Just a number to them, another patient moving to the next stage and they'd go back to their waiting area to anticipate the next woman. So cold, harsh and mechanical. A world she'd be glad to be rid of.And, in a sense, Scarlett did rid herself of that world in just a few long days. Finally, Ethan, Scarlett and Veronica were home and able to realize the unnormalcy again of their lives. Without gawking eyes, listening gossipers and prodding hands they were free to explore this new experience. Then the visitors started.Never before had the couple realized how many people thought they were friends. They didn't have family but they were quickly being introduced to other families who offered to do whatever needed to be done for the new family. It was on the tip of Scarlett's tongue to admit she needed them to leave, she desired to be alone with Veronica and to ask for them, whoever they were, to take Ethan with them to give her a break. Instead Ethan would always interject and politely explain that they had everything they currently needed but would absolutely call if they found they were in need of something more. Scarlett shook her head knowing that they didn't have anyone's phone number but didn't speak up.Staring at her sleeping baby was something that brought her calm. Usually one to sit on the floor to meditate, that wouldn't be the way she'd relax in the next few days. Instead she gazed upon the miracle of life and reflected upon all it offered her in the 42 years of living it. They had a bassinet for Veronica, pure white with metallic threading and a small stitched elephant on the side but they rarely laid their little girl in it. Scarlett could seldom let her go and when she did, Ethan was ready for a turn.Even when awake, which was getting to be more hours than she was asleep, Veronica didn't cry, wail or whine. She seemed to be listening, taking the world in as only an innocent child could and her parents embraced that. When the house was deserted and they could be one, Ethan and Scarlett continually talked, instructing their baby with as many lessons as the time they had would allow. They talked as if their daughter knew what was being said, understood it and embraced it. The words would be spoken in many languages, teaching their young one not only lessons but about their dedication and love. Stories weren't read from books but created from past lives and experiences and all the while Veronica watched and often nodded in response. She already knew that for some reason or another she was a chosen one, that her life was special beyond comparison. She didn't realize that she wasn't actually alone, that there were others similar to her but so far away from her that she wouldn't meet them for decades to come. For now, she embraced all that the world had to offer with a sense of foreboding she didn't care to acknowledge.The colourful toys given to her by strangers still in their boxes, Veronica instead played with the knowledge, the lessons and languages caught in her head. It was obvious she listened well to her parents while they spoke about her and to her but it wasn't until the final day she knew them that they would actually make any sense. Scarlett and Ethan remembered the day as their third most important, with their meeting being the first and the birth of Veronica the second. They were heartbroken and mystified but not confused as they knew this day would come and they knew it would be exactly three months after the birth of their first, and then, only child. Twenty-eight years later they had no desire to relive the moment but knew if they did they'd both be stronger for it. They knew that after meeting their now all-grown-up daughter through the realm of reflection she'd be forever lost if they didn't finish the conversation they started so many years before. Ethan took his love by her hand, led her to a white marble desk and sat her down before a paper, pen and a vase of bougainvilleas. He knelt beside her, took Scarlett's hand and helped her write their final letter.
   Thank you once more Sarah for sharing your wonderful tale. Read more about Sarah and discover where to buy her work at www.sarahbutland.com





Next week you will be able to meet Becky Meyer Pourchot of Florida, USA, and get an opportunity to read a sample from her enticing story - Open Souls.


 

4Q Interview with musician Andrew Moore.

The Scribbler is very pleased to feature local musician Andrew Moore on the 4Q Interview this week. A multi-instrumentalist from Moncton, NB, his music is described as a heavy hitting rock/blues, tonally experimental sound.  I’ve had the pleasure of listening to Andrew preform and I like the jazzy edge he adds to his music.  This is an artist to watch. His links are listed below.
 
4Q: Thank you Andrew for being our guest. Please share with us your musical journey. When did you realize how important music was to you and that you wanted to be a performer?
AM: Thank you for having me!  I think that it goes back to a show I played when I was 19.  Music had always been deep in my bones and even as a child I was always tinkering with it in my head but I really think it was that show that solidified it for me.  There were a couple hundred people that had shown up to jump around to a rock show and I remember their energy like it was a tangible substance.  There’s a feeling you get from playing music in front of people and let me tell you, it’s literally a drug.  This was the first time I had that feeling and I’ve been addicted to it ever since.
 
4Q: I walk into the local music store and I see a CD by Andrew Moore. I buy it and take it home. If I’ve never heard of you, what could I expect when I put it in the player?
AM: Make sure someone didn’t put something funny in your drink because I have no CDs for sale at the moment.  But, say I had a CD in the local music store? At this point, I’m not sure.  The album I’m currently making has taken a couple different turns as I keep adding to it.  My best guess is that you’d hear a mix of Pink Floyd, Supertramp, Jack White and The Roots.
 
4Q: Please share a childhood anecdote or special memory.
AM: A childhood anecdote! Well, as a kid I spent a lot of time in my own head.  My mother has always said that I never needed anything to be entertained.  I could amuse myself for hours, without toys.  So as a kid I used to play around with melodies and sounds in my head but sometimes it would transfer over into audible noises and sometimes words.  One day when I was about 10 years old, I was lying on the living room floor, in my own head once again playing around with my imagination and somehow ended up under the rocking chair, experimenting with melodies and phrases.  Things became audible and sure enough as fate would have it, my brother came into the room, utterly confused.
 
4Q: What does the future hold for Andrew Moore the musician? Where are you playing and what are your recording plans?
AM:  I’m really excited for 2016.  I’ve been working on a record for the past two years and it’s on the brink of completion so I’ll be aiming to have it released by February.  As for shows, I have nothing currently booked.  I really want to get the record finished before I play again.  In saying that, I play at Plan B every few months so you can see me there in February or March.  I’ll also be looking to hit the festival scene this summer. <iframe width="560" height="315" src="http://allanhudson.blogspot.com/2016/...https://www.youtube.com/embed/tLqBPv622v8" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe> 
Since the interview was completed, Andrew has a show booked at Plan B for March 12th.
 
Thank you Andrew for being our guest this week. I look forward to hearing more of your tunes and wish you all the best for your future endeavors.
You can discover more about this talented artist by visiting his website at www.andrewrdmoore.com     Next week on the Scribbler author Sarah Butland will be back with the continuation of her short story Blood Day. The first part was featured on the Scribbler last year. Glad to have her return.

I can't believe that one year has gone by since the Scrib...

I can't believe that one year has gone by since the Scribbler interviewed Santa Claus. That was fun and if you missed the interview you can go here to read it.








I would like to thank all of the 15000 visitors and readers that dropped by since then, people from all over the world. Many thanks to the folks that purchased my novel and short story collections.






I am especially indebted to all the guest authors and artists that participated in the Scribbler over the past 365 days making it the success it has become. 




A special thank you must go to several people that have shared my blog and supported it faithfully and they are;

Susan Toy - fellow author and special guest.

Lockard Young - another talented writer and friend.

Christine Beers for always sharing.





The future is bright for the Scribbler with many new authors lined up for the coming year. More artists & musicians as well as storytellers will be featured.










It is my wish that everyone has a safe and happy holiday.








Merry Christmas                   Joyeux Noel

Rosh Hashanah                   Eid Saeed

Vrolijk Kerstfeest                  Frohe Weihnachten

Buon Natale                         Happy Holidays

And to all a very Happy New Year.



And here's some funny stuff for you.







The Scribbler will start off the new year with the  special guest Andrew Moore on the 4Q Interview. A musician that is causing ripples in the local music scene.

Guest Author Mark Tilbury of Cumbria, England.

 
A huge thank you to Matter Kings (aka Matt Williston) for the mention of The South Branch Scribbler on his radio show, Thursday evenings at 9PM (ATZ) 93.5FM CKUM








This week's featured author is Mark Tilbury.


I live in a small village on the West coast of Cumbria after living in Oxfordshire, where I was born and raised. I had lived there all my life apart from five years spent serving in the Royal Navy on submarines. The navy introduced me to lots of different characters and cultures and taught me a lot about the importance of teamwork and acting responsibly.

I have always had an overwhelming urge to write. Poems, short stories, novels, even random stuff that just pops into my head. I sold a couple of short stories to magazines back in the nineties, but then I was widowed and left on my own to raise two young daughters, and my writing went on the back-burner as I readjusted my life to cope with my new situation.

My three favourite authors are Stephen King, Tom Sharpe and Catherine Cookson. My favourite book is Misery by Stephen King and I think the film adaptation is brilliant as well. An excerpt from his debut thriller - The Revelation Room.
 Edward Ebb looked at the Infiltrator and shook his head. The Infiltrator didn’t look in good shape, which wasn’t any wonder seeing as Brother Tweezer had shot him out of a tree overlooking the courtyard. The Infiltrator had sustained a broken wrist and a broken leg to go with the bullet wound in his left shoulder. He kept whinging and whining that he’d broken his spine, but Ebb doubted the validity of the claim. He’d kicked and thrashed well enough when Ebb had poked a hot needle into the wound in his shoulder.
Ebb conceded the Infiltrator may well have suffered internal injuries as well, but he didn’t care. He wasn’t a doctor. It was of no consequence. But he needed to tread carefully because Satan was at his most potent when lying dormant.
The Infiltrator looked in a pitiful state tied to a chair in the Revelation Room. Lumps of congealed vomit lodged in his beard. His bald head gleamed with sweat beneath the overhead lights.
Ebb unscrewed the cap of a bottle of Evian spring water. ‘Are you thirsty?’
The Infiltrator croaked something unintelligible.
‘What’s the matter? Afraid it might be holy water?’
'No.'
‘Who are you?’
He looked at Ebb with devious eyes. Full of pity. Full of deceit. Full of hate. ‘I’m… a… bird-watcher…’
Ebb laughed. ‘A bird-watcher, huh? So how come you had a long-range camera in the tree with you?’
‘I was—’
Ebb shook his head. ‘We’ve had the film developed. Guess what?’
His nose started to bleed again. 'What?'
Ebb resisted an urge to poke out an eye. ‘There wasn’t one picture of a bird on that film. Not one. But there were plenty of pictures of my courtyard.’
‘I—’
‘Who sent you?’
He looked away. The way liars did when backed into a corner.
‘Did a demon send you to spy on me?’
‘No.’ The word came out in a bubble of blood.
‘Would you like a drink?’
'Yes.'
‘Then tell me who sent you to spy on me?’
‘No one. I—’
Ebb turned the bottle upside down and tipped half the contents onto the dusty concrete floor. He then righted the bottle and took a swig. He wiped his mouth. ‘That’s so good. Nice and cold. Straight from the fridge.’
The Infiltrator licked his cracked lips with a lizard tongue.
Ebb screwed the cap back on the bottle. ‘I’ll let you have some if you tell me who you are.’
The Infiltrator’s eyes narrowed. He looked like a fox with the scent of chicken in its snout.
Don’t trust him, Pixie-pea.
Ebb jumped. He turned around to face three skeletons secured to wooden crosses on the far wall. The middle skeleton had a pink wig lodged on its skull and sunglasses covering its eye sockets. Ebb addressed it cautiously. ‘Don’t you worry about that. I’ve got his cards marked.’
Never trust a man with a beard, Pixie-pea.
Ebb gawked at the skeleton. ‘Leave me alone. I’m busy.’
The skeleton seemed to grin at him, but that had to be a trick of the light. Skeletons didn’t grin. A one-eyed cat could tell you that much. He turned back to face the Infiltrator. ‘Tell me who you are and I’ll let you have a drink.’
‘A…bird-watcher…’
Ebb threw the bottle at him. It bounced off his forehead and landed on the floor next to his chair. The Infiltrator attempted to escape the ropes securing him to the chair. He wriggled like a maggot on a fishhook. At one point, he almost tipped himself over.
‘Sit still. I shan’t pick you up if you upend yourself.’
The Infiltrator stopped writhing and stared at Ebb with those deceitful eyes. ‘Please. I’m… in… agony.’
Ebb snorted. ‘And I’m a busy man. All you need to do is tell me who you are and who sent you, and this will be over and done with.’
Done and dusted, Pixie-pea.
Ebb ignored the voice. ‘Wouldn’t you like that?’
The Infiltrator nodded his head and winced. Ebb noticed that two of his front teeth were missing. ‘How would you like Sister Alice to splint that leg and wash your wounds?’
The Infiltrator nodded and snorkelled blood and snot back up his nose.
‘So tell me who you are?’
The Infiltrator exercised his right to remain silent.
Ebb reached into the pocket of his white ceremonial robe and pulled out a small glass vial. He held it up in front of his quarry. ‘Do you know what this is?’
‘No.’
‘It’s holy water. Do you know what holy water is?’
The Infiltrator nodded.
Ebb smiled. ‘Good. So you’ll understand it burns the skin of evildoers?’
The Infiltrator’s eyes widened. They looked to Ebb as if they were making a grand effort to launch from their sockets and fly to the moon. And well they might. If he was connected to a demon, he was in for a tough time. A very tough time indeed.
‘Please…don’t…do…this…’
Ebb uncapped the bottle. There was a tiny dropper attached to the lid. He drew some of the liquid into the dropper and stepped closer to the Infiltrator. Close enough to smell his rank body. The stench of bodily waste was almost too much to bear. God alone knew what diseases the Infiltrator harboured.
The Infiltrator wheezed and rasped like a knackered engine trying to whirr into life. ‘Geoff…my name’s…Geoff…’
Ebb stepped back and studied the weasel’s face for signs of deception. ‘Geoff? Geoff who?’
The Infiltrator sucked in air through clenched teeth. He gasped five or six times, as if he were about to deliver a baby demon, and then shook his head.
Ebb took a deep breath and tried to summon patience. It was wearing as thin as the Infiltrator’s hair. ‘Geoff who?’
The Infiltrator looked away.
The demon was toying with him. Teasing him. Trying to provoke him. Ebb refused to rise to it. ‘I don’t particularly care what your name is. I want you to tell me who sent you.’
The Infiltrator scraped his tongue over dry lips. ‘I’m a bird-watcher.’
Ebb shook his head. ‘Did Satan send you?’
‘No.’
‘Does Satan reside in you?’
A long drawn out wheeze, and then: ‘No.’
Ebb smiled. ‘I expect nothing other than denial from a terrorist.’
The Infiltrator shook his head. His eyes rolled back in his head. Further indication to Ebb that he was harbouring a demon. ‘I’m not—’
Ebb raised a hand and stepped back. ‘I fear no evil. I shall not stand in the shadow of evil. I am the light, and I am the resurrection.’
‘I’m…Geoff,’ the Infiltrator croaked.
The words sounded like they’d been raked over hot coals. The hot coals of Hell. ‘Show yourself, Satan.’
‘I’m…not…Satan….’
Ebb smiled. ‘Denial is always the first port of call for Satan’s seafarers.’ He stepped forward again and held out the dropper. ‘The holy water shall determine your validity.’
The Infiltrator stared at him with those treacherous eyes.
‘Do you fear the holy water, Satan?’
Satan did. He’d written it in a thousand lines upon the Infiltrator’s face. And well he might fear the holy water. Just as he’d been right to fear the hot needle that Ebb had thrust into his wounded shoulder. Like all cowards, Satan was not as good at taking pain as he was at dishing it out.
Ropes pinned The Infiltrator’s hands to his sides. Tweezer had secured him well. Tweezer seemed to enjoy tying people up, especially people who had betrayed The Sons and Daughters of Salvation. Ebb dripped a few drops of holy water onto the Infiltrator’s right hand.
The coward did not stand on ceremony. He bucked and writhed and tipped himself sideways onto the cold concrete floor. His head hit the ground with a nasty thud, reminiscent of when Ebb had hit his mother over the head with a shovel many years ago.
‘Come forth, Satan. Come forth and show yourself.’
Satan seemed content thrashing about on the floor inside the Infiltrator’s body. Ebb had intended to drop acid onto the weasel’s other hand, but he didn’t want to risk his own safety by getting too close. A wounded animal was a dangerous animal.
‘Come forth, Satan. Come into the light and face the truth.’
Satan’s rage frothed and bubbled on the Infiltrator’s lips. Ebb wouldn’t have been at all surprised to see ectoplasm forming a cocoon around that filthy, matted beard. He stepped back to a safer distance and screwed the cap back onto the bottle.
‘I shall send Sister Alice and Brother Tweezer to attend to you later.’
The Infiltrator didn’t look very grateful. He wriggled and moaned and scraped his head on the rough concrete floor as if trying to burrow his way out of the Revelation Room.
Ebb was in no mood to pander to whims. He left the Infiltrator to bask in self-pity and walked out of the Revelation Room. He locked the door behind him and rested his back against it. As soon as he understood Satan’s purpose here, the Infiltrator could go straight to Hell courtesy of death by a thousand cuts.     Thank you Mark for your teaser. Wishing you much success with your book. Please drop by Mark's website. www.marktilbury.com What's happening next week on the Scribbler....?  Leave a comment, tell a joke, tell us how your day's going?

Guest Author Rob Rayner.

This week on the Scribbler you will meet Rob Rayner. A multi-talented gentleman from St. George, NB.




I never knew what I wanted to be when I grew up.

In addition to a few go-nowhere jobs, I’ve been a journalist (in Cambridge, England), a teacher (in Colchester, England; Glovertown, Newfoundland; and Charlotte County, New Brunswick), and an elementary school principal (in St. George, New Brunswick).

I’ve been writing as long as I can remember, news and features as a journalist, tracts and diatribes on education as a teacher, stories to read to students as a principal, and, all the time, stories for their own sake. Rather to my surprise, I’ve now written one crossover novel, nine YA novels, fourteen novels, and three adult novels.

Although I forsook being a school principal to teach music at home, and to have more time for writing, I still love the world of school, and often talk to students about writing. Many of my stories have grown out of, and continue to grow out of, my experiences working with children of all ages.

When I’m working on a book, I usually write in the morning, starting early, and play and teach music in the afternoon. If I’m under pressure to finish something, or I’m obsessed with a story (which I regard as a good sign), I tend to write at every spare moment, and when I’m not writing, I’m thinking about what I’m going to write.

When not writing, or playing and teaching music, you’ll find me (just suppose you want to) walking, reading, skiing, taking photographs, feeding and watching the birds, or listening to music. I play keyboard, and a bit of sax and clarinet, with Stepping Out, a band that performs standards, country rock, blues, and old rock and roll, and I use the guitar to accompany songs I’ve written to introduce some of the characters in the stories.

I live in St. George, New Brunswick, on the Magaguadavic River, where I drive Nancy, my wife, to distraction by getting obsessed with writing, and by watching lots of soccer on TV (go Newcastle United and Wolverhampton Wanderers), and by playing loud music.





My crossover novel, Colorland (have to use the US spelling because it’s published in the States), tries to explore the concept of a ‘higher self’ that we call upon when we need to achieve something normally beyond us, maybe in an act of heroism or desperation, maybe fortuitously when pursuing an interest and having everything ‘click’ at exactly the right time.

As Ridge, in the novel, explains:

“You know how sometimes something happens, and afterwards you think what you could have – should have – done, if only you had the nerve and the confidence to do it, but of course by the time you think that, it’s too late.”

Isolde nodded.

Wenden mumbled, “Only, like, all the time.”

“Well – it’s like having the nerve and the confidence to do it straight off, at the moment you need to do it,” said Ridge.

Colorland is an adventure story of rebellion, comradeship, and betrayal; of reluctant initiation into the arbitrary necessity of violence; and of love, requited, unrequited, and lost.

The novel is published by Speaking Volumes Press and is available in e-form at Chapters/Indigo, Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and iTunes, and in print form at some Chapters/Indigo/Coles stores, and in both print and e-form from the publisher.

 

Here’s the prologue:  

     Isolde is crying again.

     Wenden, waking, hears her through the thin walls of the old farmhouse. He rises and pulls on shoes and a warm jacket. They all keep their clothes beside them at night, ready to dress in a hurry. Across the room, Meru stirs and murmurs in her sleep. She’d been on first watch, until Ridge took over at midnight. Wenden tucks her blanket around her.    

     When Speed brought them here, and showed them the two spare bedrooms, they decided one would be for the girls and one for the boys. But Isolde comes to Ridge most nights, despite his aloofness, and Wenden goes next door and sleeps in Isolde’s bed, in order to leave them alone. Sometimes Meru creeps in with him, for warmth and comfort. Only once has it gone beyond that. Wenden wonders if he should be offended by her lack of desire for him, but he understands, because he sees how Meru looks at Ridge. It’s the same as he looks at Isolde.          

     He pauses in the hallway, listening to Isolde’s weeping. He’d like to go in and comfort her, knowing she’s alone, remind her that Ridge can’t help how he is, he’s like it because he saved them all, but she knows this. Besides, he fears how his friend would react, in his present state, if he found them. Even in Ridge’s aloofness, Wenden knows the vestiges of his bond with Isolde remain, as responsibility for her, if no longer love, and he doesn’t want misunderstanding to unleash his friend’s ruthlessness. 

     He stands on the veranda. The morning sky is red and immense, and the plain stretches in shades of russet and brown as far as he can see. Speed is somewhere out there, checking the perimeter, as she does every morning. She promises they’re safe here. No-one can approach without their knowing in plenty of time to flee, and the city can’t afford aerial reconnaissance. Not yet.

     The sun is just up and the air is cool. Wenden reckons it’s late October, which means they’ve been there nearly a year. He wonders if that’s cause for celebration or lament. 

     Ridge comes around the side of the house and stands beside him.

     “Isolde’s crying,” Wenden tells his friend.

     “She’s always crying,” says Ridge.

     “She can’t help it.”

     “I know.”

     “My watch,” says Wenden. “Get some rest.”

     Ridge goes inside. He peers in his room. Isolde is grey. Like Wenden, like all of them, like everything. He’s almost forgotten color, since he’s been trapped on this side. Sounds are muffled, in harmony with the grey pall, except the sounds of danger, or of anything at which he directs his essential ruthlessness. It’s what he’d learned to summon – what he’d needed – in the months before they found sanctuary with Speed. Now he curses his transcendence, at the same time as he knows that one day he’ll need it again.

     Isolde sits up in bed, a grey wraith, sniffling, wiping her nose with one hand, one shoulder bare as the baggy tee shirt she wears to sleep – one of his – slips down. She reaches her arms towards him. She rises from the bed like smoke. Her hands slither over him. Her voice comes from a distance.

     “I want to feel you.”

     “You can’t.”

     “What do I feel like to you?”

     “I’ve told you over and over. Like nothing. Just a … a resistance.”

     She tries to smile. “I’ve never resisted you. Not for as long as I can remember.”

     “Sorry.”

     “Don’t you feel anything in Colorland? I don’t mean just touch, but feelings?”

     He tries to summon feelings.

     His coat round her shoulders, her hand in his, the day old trace of her scent on a borrowed shirt flit through his memory and are lost.  

     “You ask me that every day.”

     Outside on the veranda, Wenden rises from his seat on the steps to greet Speed.

     She says, “Everything okay?”

     Wenden shrugs. “Isolde’s crying again.”

 

Thank you Rob for joining us on the Scribbler and this teaser to your thriller, Colorland.


Discover more about Rob at the following links.
Blog/website: www.raggedbeliever.wordpress.com
Book trailers (and some music stuff): www.youtube.com/raggedbeliever
Email: raynernr@nb.sympatico.ca





Please visit again next week when Mark Tilbury of Cumbria, England shares an excerpt from his thriller - The Revelation Room.


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