Allan Hudson's Blog, page 57

Guest Author Tim Baker of Flagler Beach, Florida.

The Scribbler is pleased to have Tim Baker as a guest author this week. Tim was recently featured on the 4Q Interview. He is an accomplished author with ten books to his credit. Tim was born and raised in Warwick, Rhode Island. After graduating from The Wentworth Institute of Technology in 1980 he embarked on a career in Architecture and Engineering. Along the way he has also worked in the natural gas industry, construction and ice cream sales. In his spare time he enjoys a wide variety of activities including sports of all kinds, music, motorcycles, scuba diving, and, of course, writing.
An avid dog lover, Tim was a volunteer puppy raiser for Guiding Eyes for the Blind, raising and socializing potential guide dogs. Find out more about Tim by clicking his link below. 

Following is an excerpt from one of his novels.




Eyewitness blues ch 18
 
 
Mercedez tracked the progress of the day by watching the shadows creep their way around the basement.
She fought the need to pee for as long as she could, but inevitably lost the struggle. Two hours later, thanks to the dampness of the basement, her jeans were still wet from her urine. The duct tape on her face and around her wrists combined with the cramps in her legs were an added bonus to the overall misery. Judging by the fading light that made its way through the small window, she decided she had been there for at least eight hours.
When she heard the door open and the footsteps on the floor above, she was oddly comforted, even though she knew she should be afraid. Just to be able to move her arms and legs would be a welcome feeling.
A man’s figure made its way down the stairs. When he emerged from the shadows, she recognized him. Everybody called him Spanky, but she thought his real name was George. Maybe it was his lack of hygiene, or the way his eyes seemed to be looking off in two different directions, she wasn’t sure, but there was something creepy about him.
Creepy or not, at least he wasn’t Lorenzo.
Mercedez knew the next time she saw Lorenzo he would be there to kill her. Spanky wasn’t the guy Don sent on such assignments, he was more of an errand boy. At least she had that working in her favor. Now she just needed to figure out a way to take advantage of it.
The duct tape prevented her from asking the question, but her eyes conveyed it.
“Lorenzo sent me over to check on you,” Spanky said.
As hard as it was to believe, he smelled worse than the basement, and his breath was absolutely toxic even from two feet away.
 He released her and pushed her toward the stairs. When they emerged in the kitchen he pointed toward the bathroom.
“Go ahead,” he said.
“Too late,” she said, indicating her stained crotch.
He shrugged and took a container of milk from the refrigerator. After downing a few gulps he offered it to her. She wanted a drink more than anything, but the thought of sharing the milk with this repulsive man turned her stomach, not to mention the prospect of being left tied up in the basement again with no opportunity to relieve herself later.
Mercedez casually glanced at the front door…and the secured dead bolt. The windows, at least the three she could see, were all closed.
Escape was the only way she would leave this house alive, and this was probably her best, if not only, chance.
Spanky had his back to her while he checked the contents of the refrigerator. She scanned the kitchen for a weapon.
Nothing.
The box-cutter!
She always carried a box-cutter in her purse. Could she get to the other room and get it out fast enough?
Probably not.
Maybe she could overpower him—he wasn’t much bigger than her—then run away. She casually lifted one of the old wooden chairs at the kitchen table. It was heavy enough to put a good hurting on the slender Spanky, then she could make a run for it.
The pain and stiffness in her legs dismissed that plan. Unless she knocked him out cold, or killed him, she wouldn’t be able to run fast enough to escape.
Spanky straightened up and closed the refrigerator.
“If you don’t need the can, I guess it’s time to go back downstairs,” he said.
There was no sympathy in his voice, so appealing to his chivalry wouldn’t work. There was only one card left to play.
Mercedez reached back into the buried parts of her mind and recalled her dancer’s mentality. The ability to disconnect from the situation and ignore the reactions of men wanting a piece of her while she smiled and coaxed them into giving her money they could ill-afford to part with.
It was part of her skill set she had hoped she would never have to rely on again, but…
She flipped the mental switch and slipped her arms around Spanky’s neck.
Before he knew what was happening, she kissed him hard. She felt her stomach clench at the foul taste and fought it with everything she had. She ran her fingers through his greasy hair and grinded her pelvis into his already swollen crotch.
His hands quickly found her ass and Mercedez increased the passion in her kiss and added more pelvic pressure to his crotch. She slid her mouth to his ear and allowed her tongue to dance around it as she feigned heavy breathing.
“Anything you want,” she groaned. “Nobody has to know. You tell them I was gone when you got here.”
His hands released her ass and pushed her away.
“No way,” he said. “No friggin’ way.”
Mercedez moved back in and massaged his groin. “Come on, we can have a good time. We can make it look like I surprised you. They’ll never know.”
She knew it wouldn’t matter to Gammino if she had somehow produced an assault rifle and shot her way out of the house, Spanky would pay with his life anyway. She just prayed that he didn’t know that.
He pushed her away again.
“Stop,” he said, adjusting his crotch. “I’d love to take you around the world, but if you get away on my watch I’m as good as dead.”Damnit!
“No. We can...”
“Be quiet. There ain’t no we. We ain’t doin’ nothin’. You’re going back downstairs and I’m going back to tell Lorenzo you’re still here. Done deal. Now let’s go.”
He extended his arm toward the basement door.
Mercedez went for one more stall.
“I guess I should go to the bathroom after all,” she said.
“Hurry it up.”
The windowless bathroom offered no chance of escape. She searched for some kind of weapon. With the exception of a sliver of soap on the rust-stained sink and half-a-roll of toilet paper, the bathroom was empty.
She reached for the doorknob, but stopped short. She spun around and pried the dried soap from the back of the sink. 
Obviously Spanky wasn’t leaving.
The television in the front room was on.
She started working her wrists. The soap had definitely helped prevent the duct tape from bonding to her skin completely and after several minutes she was able to slip free of the tape. She removed the tape from her ankles and finally the piece covering her mouth.
She stretched her arms and legs as she took inventory of the options.

The basement windows were too small and too high to allow her to get out through one. There was a workbench along one of the basement walls.  At one end of the bench were several old cans of paint. As quietly as she could she searched the bench for a weapon—a hammer would be ideal. The only items she found that could serve as weapons were a screwdriver and a rusty old bow-saw, the kind used for trimming tree branches, neither of which gave her any kind of tactical advantage. She would have to get too close to Spanky to use them, which would result in a skirmish that she would probably lose.
She looked at the stairs and remembered the noise they made when used and knew her chances of sneaking upstairs undetected were not promising—and even if she were successful in making it to the top of the stairs, was the basement door unlocked?
Even if she got out of the basement she would still face the problem of overpowering Spanky, unless she could slip out a back door or window undetected.
The odds were not in her favor. She needed a better plan.
Something Gammino had once said came back to her…The reason I am where I am is because I learned to turn my disadvantages into advantages.
Right now her biggest disadvantage was being trapped in the basement.
And just like that the pieces fell into place. 
Spanky flipped through the channels and stopped on an episode of Man vs. Food. The host was in New York City eating hot dogs. Just as it was getting interesting he heard a loud noise from the basement, like somebody had knocked over a bunch of cans.“What the fuck?” he muttered. Peering down the stairs into darkness he called out.
“Yo, what’s going on down there?”
No response.
He flipped the light switch. Nothing happened. He flipped it back and forth several times with the same result. He took a zippo from his pocket and lit it. Holding it in front of him he moved down the stairs. About halfway down his foot slipped in a thick liquid.
“What the…”
He tried to maintain his balance, but his other foot slipped as well. Before he could stop himself he had tumbled to the bottom of the stairs and landed in a heap against the concrete wall. He didn’t have to try to stand to know that his ankle was twisted badly and maybe even broken.  “Jesus…” He ran his hand over his body, feeling a thick, wet, slimy substance, which, in the limited light, he assumed was his own blood.
The sudden movement to the right caught his attention and in the blink of an eye he knew he was in deep trouble. 
Mercedez watched from the shadows as Spanky slipped on the paint-covered steps and tumbled to the bottom. She sprang from her hiding place and emptied the contents of another can of paint on his face. When he was sufficiently blinded she took a third gallon and slammed it across his head repeatedly until he stopped trying to get up.She dragged him across the floor and duct-taped him to the same column she had been tied to.
Spanky moaned several times, but offered no resistance. When the roll of tape was empty she was satisfied he would not be able to squirm out the way she had. For good measure she kicked him as hard as she could in the groin. His body went limp. Mercedez stood over him for several seconds to make sure he was out.
Satisfied he wouldn’t be a threat, she carefully climbed the slick steps and locked the basement door behind her.
She found the keys to the van on the kitchen counter, and retrieved her purse. She locked the house behind her before driving away.
   Thank you Tim for sharing part of your story. Get the novel here  Read more about Tim on his website .


Next week on the Scribbler the 4Q Interview will host Susmita Bhattacharya of Cardiff, Wales when she answers 4 questions regarding her latest novel. Susmita has been featured as a guest author on the Scribbler previously. A very talented writer.

Teasers from SHORTS Vol.2 by Allan Hudson

Who doesn't love children? I have three fantastic grandkids. My collections of short stories is for them. Vol.1 is for the oldest, Matthieu. Vol. 2 is dedicated to the only girl, Natasha. Vol. 3 will be out shortly and dedicated to the youngest, Damien. I could never put the joy these three amigos bring me into words but I can leave them a legacy.

These excerpts are a taste of what you can expect in Vol 2. Links where the eBook can be purchased is below.




                                                 SHORTS Vol. 2



I was going through the storage area in our garage one day and had to dig through four boxes of mementoes I'd been hanging on to for years, items that linked the happy moments in my past. I wondered what it would be like if I had to move and I couldn't bring them with me.




1. Four Boxes of Memories.


Lloyd Minister settled frumpily into his new chair. He drained his busy head of the day’s events resting his foggy colored mane gently on the plush leather. He drew in a huge breath through his nose, the aroma of the tanned hide of his cushioned throne, rich and pleasing.  He pulled the handle on the chair side and a footrest responded like a storm trooper lifting his fatigued legs. On his lap, wrapped in several elastics were a cluster of envelopes that he had kept for many years, nothing special really, the result of a boyish hobby he started over 80 years ago. There wasn’t any room in one of the boxes for it but he couldn’t let them go, it would be losing his own sense of something unique, silly to anyone but him.


He shut his tired and elderly eyes, once a deep brown, now faded of old age. His wrinkled face was wide and square shaped by nature, cheap cigars and the rough seas that blasted winds and water upon his being as he fished the Atlantic Ocean from the time he was a bewildered boy alongside his father. His prodigious hands rested on the arms of the chair, the fingers splayed, they looked like baby squids.  His husky torso was clad in his favourite blue and white plaid shirt that stuck outside of a pair of dark blue Dockers. He was wearing his Dora slippers his four year old granddaughter insisted her Daddy buy for “Gampy”.
He opened his eyes and they were about level with the two little girl explorers on his feet. Like many times before when he laughed at them, he remembered the delight when he wore them for the first time, tiny Gracie danced about overcome with little girl glee, clapping her hands and making him dance in his new slippers, she had a pair the same and he remembered the jolly fun. He laughed now with hearty guffaws until his tummy hurt. He caught a couple of laughing tears with his chunky forefinger.
As his vision cleared he looked around his new home. He had a large bedsitting room, his own washroom, ample fine furniture, a few antiques from his own ancestors and a closet full of good clothes. The walls were bare of course and bore a hellish pink. He had told his son Eugene changing the color would be their first task otherwise he wouldn’t live here. Before Eugene left earlier he assured his old man that they would go shopping tomorrow.
“Don’t worry Dad, we’ll go up to Livingston’s Hardware in the morning and find something with a little less passion, something with some hair on its chest, to make sure people don’t think you’re an old funny guy  with pink walls.”He smiled thinking of his boy, wrinkles doubled around his eyes.  It was a good thought, safe and cared about. His brief interlude was disrupted as he focused on the four boxes by the front door. They were simple Banker’s boxes, bought flat, resurrected at your office type. They stood in a straight line in front of the closet, decked out with square brown lids. The significant red numbers on the top of each, from 1 to 4, made them look like toy blocks for an adult. In reality it held the most precious items, the bullion of his life. The contents were the dearest of everything he owned. They were his boxes of memories.


The second story was inspired by one of my relatives. A gentleman that helped shaped his own granddaughter's life. When she wanted to get married, she asked him a very important question.


2. Reaching the Pinnacle

Jeb Davis is almost out of breath. The last half a kilometer of hiking up the mountain has been at a 25-degree angle. And it’s starting to get steeper. Mount Carleton in northern New Brunswick is not for cream puffs. He stops where the trail evens out for a meter or so near the exposed root of an enormous birch tree that has to be as old as his great grandparents if they were still alive. The bark on top of the root is rubbed away from countless soles. With one hand on the trunk, he stoops over to catch his breath. He adjusts his backpack with his other hand, hefting it a bit higher, and looks up the trail to check on his granddaughter. Thirty meters farther up, she is going full steam. He chuckles. It has always been so. Mindy Kane does everything at full throttle.
She doesn’t know he’s not behind her and she’s still talking. He can’t discern what she’s saying, but her voice comes back to him like vapor through the trees, a rhythm that’s part of the forest. A chorus of black-capped chickadees with their two note song provides a natural harmony. Breathing deeply he inhales the scent of damp, dying leaves that only autumn can bring. He watches her as she hikes under yet another huge birch tree with a canopy of mighty limbs. Yellow and lime-colored leaves cling to more than half the outstretched arms. The stream of early morning light passes through the half-naked limbs, dappling her lithesome body and bulky pack. She must’ve asked a question and realized something wasn’t right when silence ensued. She stops and looks back. Jeb can see the teasing twinkle in her eyes even from this far. She yells out, “Whatsa matter, old-timer? Can’t hack it anymore?”He’s smiling when he scolds her. “Watch your mouth young lady. Respect your elders. Listen, Mindy, you said breaks every thirty minutes. We’ve been chugging up this ruddy hill for almost…”Standing upright, he checks his watch.“…forty five minutes. Now get down here and give your Gramps a break.”  The third story was inspired by three friends that liked to get away on camping trips. Grown men that acted like boys when they were on their own. Trouble always seems to follow them.  3. Pioneers in a Hurry.
 
It feels lonely where I’m standing even though more than a hundred people are about me, divided and aligned by wooden pews. The church is cavernous absorbing the low buzz of sympathy and disbelief that whispers from the crowd of mourners. I can’t take my eyes from the decorative urn that holds only ashes. The burnished wood gleams; the hockey player etched upon the front reminds me of Robbie, the man that was my friend. The tiny tomb blurs in my vision, memories burst in my head like someone threw a deck of them in the air and you try desperately to see them all. I search for the one that sparkles, of the time him and me and our brother-in-law became boys again, pretending we were pioneers of a sort. It was a defining moment in our lives.
We were all crowding fifty. Robert was the oldest, we called him Robbie and he knew everything, man was a walking newspaper. He was average height, average build but there was nothing average about the confidence his blue eyes expressed. He and I were friends before but by the time the weekend was over we became greatfriends. Our mutual buddy Nicholas, a slender and kindly man, was also our brother-in-law as we all married sisters; he centered the veneer of our friendship. He was the youngest, certainly one of the smartest. He usually always has the best pot east of Vancouver. He’s the type of guy you always want to hang with, the ones that keep you laughing. We called him Nick. My name is Randolph. I prefer Randy.
We were loading the boat at the marina; it was about 7:30 am on a Saturday, the first week of November. The sun was hidden behind low eastern clouds. The rest of the sky was empty, topaz blue. We joked about our good fortune with the sun about to burst out on our first camping trip together; we had vowed to go rain or shine. I was walking back from parking my truck listening to Nick tell Robby about the time he and I had went winter camping. Every time Nick told it the weather was much worse and quite a bit colder.

The three of us were soon in the boat, Robby and I sharing the middle seat of an eighteen foot dory. Facing the stern of the boat we could watch Nick as he guided us out of the bay towards the nearest shore of the long slender Island about a kilometer away, our adventure destination. Sailing under an aging wooden bridge, Nick steered it through the rippling waters following the starboard shore. Giving the throttle a slight turn lifting us and the bow, he reached into his jacket pocket, withdrawing two similar packets of twisted aluminum foil the size of a twelve year olds fist. He gestured for us to each take one. He shouted out over the engine noise,“It’s not too early to get high.”  The fourth story is about a detective named Josephine Naylor. Her friends call her Jo. InSHORTS Vol.1 she made the most startlingdiscovery of who was killing the young girls inher city. This story continues the saga of Jo Naylor.  4. Near Dead.The wire slowly tightens around her slim neck. With both hands Detective Josephine Naylor desperately claws at the thin cord as it begins to dig deeper into the soft skin of her throat. Her breaths come and go rapidly in short wheezing gasps. In a few seconds she knows she won’t be able to breathe at all.  Fear clutches her every sense as she feels the taut wire break her skin. Her hands reach back to claw at her assailant’s brawny, hard muscled forearms as thick as a block a of wood. She rakes her nails along the leathery skin to no avail. The twisting of the wire stops, just before it cuts through the esophagus. The deepest, scariest voice whispers,“You Bitch, you arrested your own father.” Jo Naylor freezes, wanting to choke, barely able to draw breathe. The pitch of the whisper changes to anger, more of a hiss. “Now I’ll never be able to kill him.”She tears at her throat, kicks out one leg connecting with something solid that reacts like stone. She is slowly being lifted off her feet by only the wire. Standing on tippy toes reaching for the hands that hold the wire, she sees death. It’s night time. The grisly scene is set in the bluish glow of a full moon. The tall, broad shouldered man holding Josephine’s life in his meaty mitts never saw the shovel coming. It’s a round mouth, curved on the edges, caked with a little brown mud where it joins the wooden handle which is about four feet long. On the opposite end, Jo Naylor’s partner, Adam Thorne, is swinging with his whole body. The flat part of the shovel connects with the side of the big man’s head. It would’ve floored most men but the giant only staggers. His hands let’s go of the garrotte. Jo falls to the ground, gasping in short rapid pants, hands protecting her throat.  Thorne turns to face the snarling man, ready to swing again. Pawing at his broken face, the man is reeling from the blow. His bluish presence sways momentarily in front of Thorne. Adam chucks the shovel to the ground reaching for his gun. The assailant stiffens as if sensing his own danger, he moves automatically and unbelievably fast for someone so large. His huge fist is aimed towards the threat, he can only see with one eye. He connects with Adam’s chest driving the air from his lungs, the gun flying into the air. The powerful blow propels the detective’s body backwards ten feet and to the ground almost landing on Jo. The man runs.  The fifth and final story is my fascination with the 1800's in the American west and thesettlers that travelled the frontier. My family has every thing they own packed into a wagon, even the kids.  5. Six Jutlands and a ConestogaThe six Jutland draft horses strain as they pull the Verhoeven family over the last rise of their 1,200 mile journey. Bram Verhoeven walks beside the team, just ahead of the heavy wagon, using the long leather reins to guide the lead horse, front left. The tireless leader, Hercules, with his mate on the right, the grand dame, Ellen – named after President Arthur’s wife – guides the team of sturdy horses. Both are fifteen hands high, large quartered, relentless workers. The hill they are climbing has long grass swaying in the wind that urges them on. The lowering sun is partially hidden behind the crest, casting bright rays. The groomed heads of first Ellen then Hercules break out of the long shadows into the golden waves of the western sun. Small sharp ears, thick beige manes with loose strands turn bright yellow. Their chestnut fur turns redder still as the animals walk into the sunlight, exposing the short neck, the muscled shoulders, the wide withers and the strong back of these willing animals. Bram watches the horses as they rise, pair by pair, into the brilliance. His dusty face splits with a smile of pure joy. Time almost slows down in his anticipation of the view his family is about to encounter. He’s seen it before. He owns it now. Wiping the sweat from his brow with his right forearm, he looks back at his wife, Lena, who is standing up inside the front of the Conestoga, awaiting the horizon he has talked about for the last two years. Her right hand is raised above her head as she grasps the outer rib that holds the coarse hand-woven fabric of the wagon’s bonnet. Veronica, the youngest, is beside her, wrapped in Lena’s left arm. Her head, which rests upon her mother’s stomach, is covered with the same dark red curls; her face, with the same orange-ish freckles and the same mischievous eyes he has. Sheila, the oldest girl, leans on the front board, a smaller version of Bram’s wife, with a thin pretty face, straight brown hair tied up in a bun, eyes that study everything and a smile that artists search for. They all catch his movement and wave at him.His oldest, Jonas, rides their quarter horse, Fancy, bringing up the rear, towing their Jersey, Cinderella. Aron, who is ten years old today, is a year younger then Sheila, two years younger than his brother and two years older than Veronica. He is perched on the lazy board on the left side of the wagon. He braces himself by hanging on to the ropes that hold the water barrel. His father had promised him they would make it by his birthday. Looking at his Pap, he waves a free hand when he sees him looking back.“Happy birthday, Aron.”   Thanks for visiting the Scribbler today. If you like what you read, you can purchaseSHORTS Vol.2 as an eBook  here.  Watch next week when the Scribbler has Guest Author Tim Baker of Flagler Beach Florida and you can read an excerpt from his novel, Eyewitness Blues. Tim is a talented writer and you will definitely like his protagonist, Ike. 

 
 

Guest Author Lisette Lombard. An excerpt from EBO.

Lisette is a native of Monterrey, Mexico. EBO is her first novel and is a YA paranormal romance. It's an exciting story about vampires and love. Lisette is published by Morning Rain Publishing of Ontario, Canada. She is their first international author. The link to Lisette's website is below. Following is an excerpt from her novel.






I impatiently awaited nightfall. Just an hour or so of sun left before it would all be over. It appeared endless and pointless to me. As the chief had promised, the whole village dressed in dark; singing and dancing to joyous tunes as laughter filled the air. Clay pots, filled with food to the brim, covered the tables set along the main courtyard. People from nearby villages had arrived too. Some observed as I walked amongst the Ashanti, others did not notice, yet no one approached or made mention of me.
Josephine came and went from my side, the small mutt always at her heels. Not once did she laugh. Her feet did not dance to the merry rhythm of the instruments played by skilled musicians. She did not cry, either, yet her eyes told me the whole story. Every time those bright green eyes looked into mine, another piece of my heart was chiselled away.
Never did my eyes leave her. My gaze followed her throughout the day, trying to decipher what she might be thinking. She never spoke, but observed all that happened with the curiosity all children her age must have.
Everyone approached Josephine with gifts. She was presented with beautiful necklaces, rings, earrings, and bracelets made from an assortment of materials: leather, beads, elephant hair, and ivory. Elaborate dresses made by the women, embroidered with beautiful detail. Every time someone handed her a gift, she would look up and nod her head in appreciation, wearing a polite and faint smile on her face.
More than once I recognized a shadow of concern on the cheerful faces of the gift bearers. Josephine’s eyes conveyed the sadness she felt in her heart, but all were surprised by the mature way with which she conducted herself. Such restraint and poise were not normal in one so young. After receiving the offering, she would observe it quietly, turning it this way and that in her little hands and then pass it over to me for safekeeping. After the first dozen or so gifts, I had to turn to Ekuwa for help. She, in turn, stowed them away in Josey’s hut to be packed that night for her travels home.
The chief watched over the whole ceremony. Alert, and always informed of my whereabouts, he tried to anticipate any trouble I might cause. Twice I was asked to his side, and I understood he was assessing my mood, just in case I decided to end the whole ordeal, or maybe snatch the girl and disappear.
Without a clear idea of what weapons or pleas he thought he could use to stop me, at times I was amused, and at others awed by the man’s courage. He must have known in his heart that I would behave – for Josephine.
As dusk approached, the chief walked over to where Josephine and I sat watching dancers move to complicated tunes the musicians played. Taking a seat next to us, he spoke, “Josephine, I know you are in pain. There is not much I can say, or do, to make your heart heal faster, but it will heal. I promise you this: you will always have a home with the Ashanti. Your hut will always stand ready for your return, be it for a visit, or permanently. All Ashanti generations to come will know of your existence and receive you as a sister. You will be reminded of this from time to time, so your young memory will not forget as you grow. Part of you is Ashanti now.”
Unfolding a cloth, the chief revealed two bracelets. Each consisted of a single solid band of gold, about half an inch wide, and each had two solitary diamonds embedded on top. They were simple, yet beautiful. There was something about the bracelets that made me want to touch them, but I held back as he handed them to the child.
Josey looked at them with curious eyes. She tentatively touched the diamonds and turned those wide emerald eyes on the chief, then on me. A tear formed, but it did not spill as she placed her arms around the chief’s neck, hugging him tenderly. Then she straightened and extended her arm for him to secure a bracelet on her wrist while she took the second one with her free hand.
Once he had adjusted the bracelet, she turned and with sure fingers placed the second bracelet on my wrist. I was surprised, but it somehow felt right. Looking into my eyes, she held my gaze with such intensity that I felt the world spin around me – and she was gone, running, brown hair fanning behind her shoulders, to show Ekuwa her new prized possession.
“What is this?” I asked the chief as he sighed, his eyes following Josephine. “She has been presented with numerous gifts today, many are beautiful and colourful, yet she has only shown real appeal for this one. She is too young to know the difference between gold and other materials. Why is this so special to her?”
“There is something unique about this child,” he answered. “She knows this is meant just as she interpreted. The bracelets are meant for both of you to wear. I confess to also using them as a test. I have watched her carefully since you arrived, more so since her parents died. Her reaction assures me she is more than we see, and the connection you feel is just as strong for her. The bracelets will keep your connection no matter how far you are from each other; although in your case I doubt any charm or magic is needed to ensure that.”
“Thank you.” I was touched by the gesture. What was it with these people? If I had only known that night – standing at the edge of the village not long ago – how my essence was to change, I probably would have walked away. So many human feelings, forgotten over a century, now so raw on my skin, in my mind and heart. Yes, if I had only known... now it was too late.
The sun set over the horizon, and just as suddenly the music stopped. Josephine was heading toward me at that moment. Lowering her precious auburn head, she stopped to think for a minute before taking my hand. Tugging lightly, she led me to her parents’ bodies, which lay on a platform to one side of the courtyard. Flowers surrounded them, beautiful bright flowers of all colours and sizes. Sweet incense burned all around them. Just sleeping, I thought. I hope she remembers them as sleeping.
“Ebo.” Her voice was clear as stream water, the first word she had spoken all day. I almost fell to my knees with pain. “They are gone, Ebo.”
This time I did fall, pulling her tight against my chest as I knelt on Africa’s red earth. Tears finally came. She held on to me as her body heaved with uncontrollable sobs. Not the wailing I have heard other children make, just deep, heart wrenching sobs.
Everyone in the village watched. They were not allowed to cry, but I sensed the sorrow pass from corner to corner of the village as sure as wild fire on dry brush.
The minutes were patient as I knelt with her in my arms. Eventually her breathing evened, and her sighs came at longer intervals. She raised her head from my chest and looked into my eyes again. I found it unbearable, for it was I who had brought her such sorrow. There was no reproach in her gaze – still too young to understand that because of me, Mulos had wrenched from her what she loved most.
“I know,” I told her tenderly. “I am forever sorry, my love.”
As I stood, ashamed of myself, she beckoned me to carry her, stretching her little arms to me. I carried her back to her hut. Ekuwa followed closely, but my stare was enough of a warning for her to let us continue alone.
Lost in thought as we advanced, I startled as Josephine’s body stiffened in my arms. “Josey?” Then the scent hit me. Hissing, I swung the child across my back and crouched low to the ground in one flowing motion as she instinctively held on with all her might. Every muscle in my body tense, I concentrated
on where the danger was coming from. I had been too distracted, absorbed in her sorrow, to sense his arrival. I should have anticipated – been ready for him.
“Ebo. The monster is back,” she whispered in my ear.
How had she known so soon? Had she seen him? Scanning the land, I tasted every scent, vigilant for movement or sound. He was alone, disguised as... what was it? Where was he?
Sensing the chief, I turned to find fear, anger, and a million questions alive in his eyes. I nodded, confirming danger was amidst us, and continued scanning my surroundings. By now everyone was still. The soft rustle of leaves could be heard, every night sound amplified by the villagers’ silence.
The chief raised his arm and lowered it slowly. Huddling in groups, all women and children crouched low to the ground, with the young ones in the centre. The men stood tall and strong, alert.
“Josey, do not let go unless I tell you,” I growled. My voice ran a shiver through her body, but still she held me tight.
Close by, Ekuwa longed to take the child. I motioned for her to stay still, unable to decipher where Mulos was hiding. The scent moved too quickly. North, south, northeast.
“Damn,” I hissed. “Mulos! Show yourself!”    EBO is no doubt a story worth reading. Thank you Lisette for sharing an excerpt from your novel. This is the link to Lisette's website where you can learn more. http://llombard.weebly.com/  Please drop by the Scribbler next week and read teasers from the five short stories featured in my second collection. SHORTS Vol.2    
 

4Q Interview with Tim Baker of Flagler Beach, Florida

The 4Q Interviewis pleased to have Tim Bakerof on the Scribbler. He is an accomplished author with ten books to his credit. The following was taken from his Amazon Bio: Tim was born and raised in Warwick, Rhode Island.
After graduating from The Wentworth Institute of Technology in 1980 he embarked on a career in Architecture and Engineering. Along the way he has also worked in the natural gas industry, construction and ice cream sales. In his spare time he enjoys a wide variety of activities including sports of all kinds, music, motorcycles, scuba diving, and, of course, writing.
An avid dog lover, Tim was a volunteer puppy raiser for Guiding Eyes for the Blind, raising and socializing potential guide dogs. Find out more about Tim by clicking his link below.   
4Q: Most of your novels are centered on an extremely likable character named Ike, the hero all of us guys dream about being. Tell us how this character evolved to become the focus of many of your stories?
TB: That’s a great question, and one I’ve answered many times!
Ike began as a secondary character in my first novel, Living the Dream . His role was to act as a go-between for two of the main characters. At the time I didn’t put much thought into who he was or what his story was…I didn’t think he would ever reappear.While writing my second novel, Water Hazard , the protagonist, Steve Warwick, found himself in, pardon the pun, some pretty hot water. Steve was an “everyman”, so I needed to have a plausible ally who could help him – so I decided to resurrect Ike.Once Water Hazard was published Ike became an overnight sensation.With each novel his legend grows.My sixth novel, Unfinished Business , only featured Ike in a brief cameo role…which did not sit well with his fans! I think the reason for his popularity is the fact that Ike lives by a strict moral code which is a cross between “do no harm” and “take no crap”. Ike has a very strong moral compass, but he isn’t above bending, or on occasion, breaking the rules in the name of what is right.I’ve had dozens of people ask me if he is a real person – and if not who is he modeled after…I’ve even had women ask me to arrange an introduction! 
  4Q: Besides your writing, you are also a radio personality with a daily show on Surf 97.3 FM.  Tell us how this came about and what can a listener expect when he tunes in here
TB: I was attending a networking event here in Flagler Beach called “Entrepreneur Night”. Music at the event was provided by a local disc jockey named Vern Shank. After the event I wound up at a table with 4 or 5 people, Vern being one of them, and he mentioned that he had bought a small AM radio station.An off-the-cuff remark by my friend Armand led to a weekly talk show program for the two of us discussing writing and writing related topics.Eventually the station went FM and the talk show didn’t fit the format, but Vern offered me the 3 hour time slot we had previously occupied for a music show.Thus Tim Baker’s Friday Night Music Extravaganza was born.I play an eclectic mix of good old fashioned rock and roll, B-sides, cool covers and some deep cuts that are a bit on the obscure side.Vern has also given me a daily 3 hour show from 10:00 am – 1:00 pm where I play beach, island and sunshine music that makes you feel like you’re on vacation – which is what Flagler Beach is all about!!!
My shows can be heard anywhere in the world at www.flaglerbeachradio.com
 
4Q: Please share a childhood anecdote or memory with our readers.TB: Since I just answered the question about the radio station, I’ll share a story that involves my love of music.I was the fifth of seven children, with four older brothers who were hard-core hippies. I often joke about how I was the only kid in the third grade to know who Jimi Hendrix was and what Woodstock meant.This story takes place while I was in the fifth grade, circa 1969.One day per week the class was granted a 60-minute “creativity period” where we were allowed to do anything we wanted, as long as we created something.It was, by far, my favorite part of the week.During one creativity period I was at my desk converting pink erasers into race cars, complete with thumbtack wheels and paperclip exhaust pipes.As I worked, I withdrew into my own “zone” - totally oblivious to all around me – until the teacher, Mr. DeStefanis, came over and tapped me on the shoulder… “Mr. Baker,” he said in a very respectful tone, “while I am a fan of Creedence Clearwater Revival too, the rest of the class could probably concentrate better if you weren’t singing so loudly.”I didn’t even realize it, but I had been singing “Born on the Bayou”, fairly loudly, while I worked!To this day, I have to be mindful of not drifting into the zone too deeply, lest I start singing The Beatles or Led Zeppelin!
 
4Q: What’s in the near future for Tim Baker and what about a couple of years down the road?TB: I am currently working on my eighth novel, a book called Full Circle .
It’s a story I actually began writing in 1988, but never finished. I’ve always loved the concept of the story and decided after my last novel, Eyewitness Blues , was released last August, it was time to finish it. Although, “finish” isn’t the best way to describe it…I’ve actually started from the beginning, keeping the original theme, but using new characters and bringing the story into the 21stcentury.
Full Circle is about karma and the effects that our actions have on the world around us, and how they come back to us as well.  

Thank you Tim for sharing your thoughts on The Scribbler.  I enjoyed reading about Ike and am looking forward to reading more of your novels. Tim’s books are available at Amazon and Smashwords! The following link will take you to his website which has links to all of his work. www.blindoggbooks.com   

Please visit next week and meet Guest Author Lisette Lombard f Monterrey, Mexico and read an excerpt from her novel EBO
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Guest Author Michael Smart - An Excerpt from Deadlight.

This is Michael's second visit to the Scribbler. He was featured in the 4Q Interview last month. His links are below.



I am a native New Yorker, inheriting a love of reading and travel from my adventurous mother, and inspired to write by the pioneering mystery and science fiction authors on whom I cut my reading teeth.
My restless urge to travel carried me around the United States and to distant corners of the globe after college, and eventually to Key West Florida, in search of a crew position on any cruising yacht heading for far horizons. In the interim, I completed flight lessons and acquired my private pilot’s license.

I did find a yacht, a home built fifty-five foot gaff rigged schooner, headed for the Caribbean, and embarked on my first ocean crossing under sail. A life changing epiphany. I spent the next eight years living and sailing around the eastern Caribbean. I share many of my sailing and flying adventures in my Logbook Tales blog series.

Little did I know, years later I’d embark on a new career as a novelist, my sailing adventures providing inspiration for the exotic setting and colorful characters in the Bequia Mysteries. I also endow my protagonists with my passion for the sea and sky.








                                        DEADLIGHT - CHAPTER 1

I awoke to the cackling cries of roosters, my mind clear and refreshed, the phantom ache of my wounds no longer a waking presence.
The fresh fruity scent of a brand new day greeted my short trudge up the steep road from Friendship Bay. The sky held the promise of a bright cloudless day, the last lingering lentils of puffy white fading, as the cerulean blue sky paled beneath the rising sun.
The day also promised another mind-numbing medley of meetings. The meetings my tedious daily routine since the recent scandals and their aftermath. I’d soon be immersed in the dread I’d fallen asleep to. No longer a nebulous worry, it had coalesced into solid form, whole and substantial. And as dangerous as a cobra poised to strike.
And I’d soon be unemployed. My second retirement. The first had occurred twelve years earlier, prior to relocating to the Grenadines from Florida. Unlike the first retirement, this one promised to be acrimonious, accompanied by a foreboding sense of a job left unfinished.
I feared for the future of the Royal St. Vincent and the Grenadines Police Force. Questioned if I’d achieved any real impact, contributed to a lasting difference. And beyond that, I feared for the future of these islands I now called home.
St. Vincent and the Grenadines remained under siege, though the public remained unaware of it. We’d barely dodged the last bullet, aimed at a takeover and control of the Island Nation by a foreign entity. But we hadn’t escaped unscathed.
The Attorney General had been forced to resign, and soon after Prime Minister DeFretas followed, the only viable option to prevent a complete collapse of the government. Arturo Bacchus, number two in the party leadership, had assumed the office of Prime Minister until an early general election could be called. The party held a scant one-seat majority in parliament, and the opposition appeared poised to win a landslide at the polls. I’d be out of a job sooner than I’d expected.
The threat, although exposed, remained. A foreign Bogeyman, Superintendent Jolene Johanssen’s description for the nameless, faceless enemy, was still out there. Still possessing designs on St. Vincent and the Grenadines. We’d uncovered his operation, and his possible motive, given St. Vincent’s strategic geographic location. But not who.
At the main road I flagged a dollar van heading into Port Elizabeth. Drowsy smiles and “Mawnin Commisshunah” greeted me as I hopped into the back, one buttock on the edge of the wood seat. The van overloaded as usual to meet the first early morning ferry to Kingstown. The van’s passengers packed into the back, each hairpin turn squeezing the crush of bodies together.
Normally I’d have police transport, including a Coast Guard Cutter for the trip across to St. Vincent. Normally I returned home only on weekends, living at my rental residence in Kingstown during the week to avoid a daily commute. But sometimes I needed to get away. Needed the solace of my own space, the respite of personal time; the reason I’d returned home to Bequia the night before.
The van unloaded its passengers on the road facing the crowded, bustling wharf. Passengers and vehicles swarmed around a red and white ferry tied alongside, like bees around a hive. Cars, vans, small trucks, and motor bikes, mounted its stern ramp lowered onto the dock.
Gazing out across the tranquil harbor, brightening as the sun peeked above Bequia’s highland, I glimpsed the Coast Guard Vessel “Chatham Bay,” a twenty-four foot fiberglass Boston Whaler normally based on St. Vincent, accompanied by the sixteen-foot skiff, SVG 12, based in Bequia. They headed toward the dry dock at the Hamilton Marina, the rigid bottom inflatable Whaler towing a small fishing boat.
Returning to the van, I asked the driver to drop me in Hamilton instead. The road through the harbor passed the spot where I’d been found, shot and dying, a little over a year before. I’d crawled through the littered yard between the marina and supermarket to get to the road, my lifeblood flowing from three bullet wounds. An involuntary constriction squeezed my chest, and my pulse quickened, as the van drove past the spot.
A year and a half later, I still have no memory of the events immediately following being shot. Or how I’d made it to the road.
At the Hamilton Marina dock, I encountered an unexpected surprise. Superintendent Jolene Johanssen and two CID detectives disembarked from the Boston Whaler. Disheveled and preoccupied, she nevertheless projected a striking presence among the men on the dock. Tall, gorgeous in a natural, earthy manner, brilliant and determined, she evoked an intense familial pride. The kind I felt for my own daughter. In many ways I treated her like a daughter.
“An early morning I see,” I said in greeting.
“Morning Chief.” She and her contingent of police and Coast Guard personnel stamped to attention and saluted, Jolene’s less formal than her colleagues.
“As you were,” I said to the gathered group. “What’s this?” My question directed at her.
“Some fishermen spotted that fishing boat washed up on Petit Nevis. They went to check it out and found a body on board. Dead at least two days. I summoned the Coast Guard and Detectives Cato and DeSilva. We processed the scene. I had the Coast Guard tow the boat in for further processing and called Calliaqua for a cutter to transport the body”
“Any identification?”
“No ID on him,” she said. “Decomp is pronounced, and sea birds have been at the remains. Not a pretty sight Chief. Just this in his pocket.”
She held up a clear plastic evidence bag containing a few coins, some paper currency, and an odd shaped bronze medallion the size of a silver dollar.
The breath rushed from my body, like I’d been punched in the gut. My senses reeled. My knees turned weak and spongy. A vertiginous wooziness clouded my vision.
“Chief. You OK?” Jolene gripped my arm. Her voice reached me as though from a great distance. My eyes refocused on her face.
“You look like you’ve just seen a ghost or something.”
“I need to see the body,” I said.
Concern filled the hazel eyes staring back at me, and etched delicate lines across her mocha toned brow. The arm she’d placed around mine attempted to hold me back, or maybe hold me up. I moved toward the covered bundle lying in the Boston Whaler.
Her eyes, and the eyes of the detail, followed my movements as I knelt next to the body. I turned back a corner of the canvas tarp covering it. I stared down at the bloated, unrecognizable face. I lifted a side of the tarp, revealing the corpse’s right arm and hand.
“Will someone please hand me a pair of gloves.”
I didn’t see who the outstretched hand holding the blue nitrite gloves belonged to. My gaze fixed on the corpse before me. I lifted the corpse’s right hand. A ring embedded in the blackened swollen flesh of his fourth finger bore the same design as the medallion. The dizzying sensation returned, not due to the sight of the lifeless, decomposing body. I’d seen many, too many, and worse, in a long law enforcement career. But the body lying beneath the tarp had been one of my own.
I’d lost colleagues before too. Felled in the line of duty. A hard thing to witness. A terrible burden to bear. Especially when your decisions and orders had placed them in harm’s way.
I needed a plausible excuse for my initial reaction. I needed to resume a professional, detached demeanor. No other person knew of this constable’s existence. I needed it to remain so for a little while longer.
On the dock I drew Jolene aside. Her earlier concern dissipating, replaced by a knowing curiosity. She knew me too well, and possessed a keen perceptiveness. Another of her remarkable traits.
“I want you in charge of this case,” I said. The sharp edge in my voice only increased her curiosity.
“Inform the Coast Guard vessel coming for the body I’ll ride over with them. But I’ll be back home tonight. Let’s meet at my place around eight. I’ll want as much on this case as you can put together by then. So you need to get a move on.” 
I perceived the questions forming, many of them, but turned away before she had a chance to voice them. Not the time or place.
“Oh,” I said turning back to face her. “Bring Gage.”  





Thank you Michael for sharing an excerpt from your thriller. You can read more about Michael on these links.

Michael Smart
Michael W. Smart Author WebsiteGoodreads  Google+ FacebookPinterest 


Mark the date of the upcoming 4Q Interview on your calendar -  next Friday, May 1st. Happy to have Tim Baker from Flagler Beach Florida answer four questions. Author, radio personality, creator of Ike, busy man.

The Honey Trap - Part 3

This Short Story is an idea for a novel that has been kicking around this old head for a bit. This is Part 3.
The previous 2 Parts from the past week are archived on the left side bar.

Now here's where YOU come in.   Please let me know what you think?




              The Honey Trap Part 3



Nelson Cartwright’s stance is severe like a steel beam, rigid and unbent even though he is 74. His six foot frame is clad in a cargo pants tucked into paratrooper boots, a white crisp t-shirt is covered by a dark gray fleece. His narrow waist and barrel chest are echoes of his military past.  He is the Defence Minister of Canada. The whole of the Canadian Armed Forces is at his command, including the Canadian Security Intelligence Services and all of its assets. Activating one of their deepest agents is the reason he is meeting his boss outside the office, very late at night. Off hours one might say.
Chief Warrant Officer T. Beers Jr. owns the house he waits in, on the outskirts of Ottawa. The man is Cartwright’s nephew. The couple and their two children went for dinner and movies, a night at the Sheraton on Parliament’s expense account. They left four hours ago running late for a 6:30 dinner reservation. The politician stands to the side of the picture window, shaded by the long drapes.  The roadway is slick from a brief spring rain. The sodium glow of the streetlights makes it shine like a skin. Cartwright’s bald head gleams in the low light as if just polished. Deep set eyes are impossible to read.  A jutted chin proclaims pride of an untainted past. The man he works for demanded an emergency rendezvous at a secure location where there is no possible chance of eavesdropping. The Prime Minister of Canada said he would meet him at 10:45.
Cartwright steps away from the window when an unfamiliar light colored cargo van wheels into the driveway, rocking from haste and inertia. Spray from the wet street swirls about the tires like pinwheels. The skidding of the heavy vehicle when it comes to an abrupt stop can be heard from the open side door of the house, the exit facing the driveway. Cartwright hastens through the living room glancing at his watch. 10:44. It has to be the PM, he is never late. Dropping to the next level with six steps, he moves in long hurried strides along the dim hallway that leads to the garage and egress. The van has stopped right at the short walkway outside the door. The side light has been left off so Cartwright doesn’t recognize the stooped over figure wearing torn jeans and a black hoodie when it opens the screen door. For a moment he is unnerved. Dropping his hands to his side, he steps back, his defenses are instinctive.
The person stands erect and slips off the hood. Robert Mahovlich is good hand taller than Cartwright, slighter. Normally slicked down hair is disheveled from the head covering, the eyes are red veined, the skin frightfully pale.  The Prime Minister says,
“The doctors committed my son today Nelson. They took my boy away.”
“I’m sorry Bob. Really I am. I know how much you love him. You’ve done all you can Bob.”
Mahovlich appears utterly defeated, chin sagging, slack lipped. There is no gleam in his eyes, only sorrow.  A spark ignites within his deepest psyche instilling him with a need for completion. He raises a fist to his advisor, grits his teeth and says,
“I haven’t done everything. We can destroy the man responsible for this.”
Cartwright takes the PM by the forearm, moving him inside to shut the main door.
“Follow me, we can talk safely here.”
Straightening his shoulders, the PM follows Cartwright into what looks like an open rec room. Toys, a large TV, pool table, stuffed couches, and brightly colored bean bags fill the room. The wall on the right has a simple bar area. Pointing at one of the chrome barstools for Mahovlich, Cartwright walks behind the pine counter to where a bottle of Lagavulin 16 year old scotch rests beside two glasses. When he begins to pour a measure for each he says,
“How did you get here?”
“Hunter is driving”
The hand that is not pouring golden booze is raised. Cartwright says,
“I don’t want to know anymore. Not when it comes to Hunter.”
Sliding the thick bottomed glass holding two inches of perfection towards the PM he says,
“I think I know why we’re here Bob but let’s cut to the chase. What’s going on?”
Mahovlich maintains a bit more grit in his demeanor. The politician is replaced by a father, a parent with a vast array of assets at his disposal. Swishing the liquid a bit, he gulps down a good swallow. The loving bite makes him draw in his breath.
“Hoooo!”
Looking Cartwright directly, he says with obvious distaste,
“What’s the latest on Hoch?”
“We knew where he was up until last Saturday, three days ago.  We had our sights on him when he returned from Turkey but lost him…”
The men argue, scheme and barter for over an hour, the bottle half gone. With a thump of his fist on the bar, the PM says with finality,
“I want that bastard behind bars or…or…”
Cartwright knows when to back down. He nods at the PM and says.
“I understand.”
Mahovlich reaches for his hood, satisfied that more aggressive action against Hoch will begin. He eyeballs the Defence Minister and says,
“You have absolute authority to do as you see fit to make this happen.”
Cartwright frowns.
“And the responsibility if this goes sour.”
The silence is answer enough. Cartwright watches the PM make to leave, the van still running outside. Only one last thing to authorize.
“You want Hunter on this?”
“No. Vartanian.”
“Vartanian? One armed Vartanian?”
“Definitely. She wants the bastard as bad as I do.”      Hope you enjoyed the short story. I'd be happy to know your thoughts. All comments welcome and thanks for stopping by.    Please visit again on Friday when The Scribbler welcomes Guest Author Michael Smart with an excerpt from his thriller - Deadlight!   

The Honey Trap - Part 2 by Allan Hudson

The following short story is posted in three parts. Part 1 was last Friday (see it below) Part 2 today and Part 3 on Wednesday. It is about an idea for a novel that has been kicking around in this old head for a bit.

Now here's where YOU come in.   Please let me know what you think?

              The Honey Trap Part 2


Her inquiries led her into a pit of serpents. She had been captured by the same ruthless gang. Probing for information she did not have, it was Hoch himself that removed three of her fingers making the young man they kidnapped watch, terrorizing his very soul.  Prior to the fourth finger to go missing she and the son were rescued by Drake Alexander and his unruly cohorts.
He had been her sergeant when she was part of the Special Ops during her time with the Canadian Armed Forces as a member of their elite Task Force 2 Commandos. Now Alexander hunts criminals. Her career with the CSIS was put on hold during her rehabilitation when she lost her arm to infection and eventual gangrene.  Some consolation was that Alexander and his band of vigilantes killed or captured the entire terrorist cabal. Hoch, however, was not amongst them.

Now she’s a one-armed gardener, sun worshipper and a thirty seven year old retiree and always looking over her back. She is consulted occasionally but only as an advisor. She misses the espionage, the rush only danger can bestow. More desperately than that, she wants the man that took her fingers, her arm. She knows from her sources, usually reliable, that Hoch was seen in Istanbul less than ten days ago. CSIS have agents searching for him.                                                   

In her training room upstairs over the garage, she studies her unclothed body in the mirrors on the gable end that has no windows.  One of the dormer windows to her left admits the first stream of early morning light to paint her upper body the color of butter. Being open, summer scents of pine sap and salt water drift in. Bright blue workout pants, white spandex top, red cotton panties are scattered around her feet like lost thoughts. After an intense workout every square inch of the smooth skin that covers her big boned frame is taut, normally dark as brown sugar and beaded with perspiration. The three limbs are rippled with girlish muscle, flexible as a whip. All 70 inches of her physique is sensuously proportioned. 
The only blemish is the missing arm. Turning to her right side, the faint scars around the flap of skin used to cover the amputation site causes her to yearn for her other hand. Not wanting to think of the ordeal that brought her here, she shakes her head, staring defiantly into her image’s bold eyes. The blue is the color of cold morning seas. Short curls, brown and loose, collapse on her wide forehead.  Her square-like face is Slavic, making her an ideal agent for most of Europe.  Again her thoughts turn to her former trade, the lure of intrigue.
Rosa kicks the panties away from her foot and strides towards the bathroom at the other end of the exercise room, bypassing the weight machine, the treadmill, a stair climber that is on the rim of “worn out”.  An antique teacher’s desk sits against the guard rail for the stairway that separates the large room. Bella’s laptop is in the center, open mouthed and always powered up. On the edge is one of her throwing knifes. A nine inch, double edged sticker made of 440 Stainless Steel.  Bella likes it because it’s easier to sharpen than the high carbon steel and it doesn’t rust.  
She picks it up, caressing the sleek handle. Her index, middle and ring fingers grip the handle opposite the thumb. Arching her arm, she stares at the outline of a used dartboard on the far wall twenty feet away and throws. The knife spins perfectly vertical striking the pockmarked board an eyelash away from the center dot. She doesn’t check where it struck, its close enough. She’s thrown the knife a thousand times since she lost her other arm. She was right-handed. Turns out she’s even better with her left.
The shower is hot, steam filling the small bathroom. The shower stall is brightly tiled with whites and blues, the glass door runs with beads of soap when she rinses the shampoo from her short hair. She lets her mind go vacant while the water cascades over her. Her arm outstretched, hand against the tile, head directly under the stream. She’s feeling sorry for herself. She’s tried to make a life here, she wants for nothing financially. Her neighbors are kind and honest. She rarely locks her door. The waters where she lives are much like her temperament, at times calm and lazy as if on canvas and other times reckless and driven with passion. The owner of the gas bar in the village center expressed an interest. She likes his smile and silly jokes. Raising her face to the streaming water she can’t understand why she can’t be happy here.
She reaches down to close the taps, the shower head sputters and drips. Shaking her curls, she grabs a thick black and white stripped towel from the bar and begins drying herself off. While frisking her hair with the towel she vows not to give up. Not to give into the sense of being unfit. She’ll prove to her superiors that she deserves to work again.  Later this morning after she plants the root cuttings she has been cultivating, she will practice with her gun again.
 Slipping into a short purple robe decorated with silver dragons, she hastens downstairs to the mud room connecting the house and the garage. The walls are mostly glass and the warm sun glows, turning the water to the north a shimmering orange. Pausing only for a moment to admire her property, she thinks of how peaceful it is, how unlike her spirit. She trots off to get dressed before breakfast thinking about the adjustment needed on the front sights on her Beretta Tomcat.     Don't miss the ending of this short story. Drop by Wednesday for the finale. Please leave your comments! Especially those that like action stories!   International adventure with Drake Alexander and his band of cohorts.  Dark Side of a Promise is  novel you don't want to miss.Available here    

The Honey Trap- an idea by Allan Hudson.

Hello Faithful Readers. I need your Help! Especially those that like action stories!

The following short story will be posted the coming week in three parts. Part 1 today. Part 2 on Monday and Part 3 on Wednesday. It is about an idea for a novel that has been kicking around in this old head for a bit.
Now here's where YOU come in. Would you read the novel? What would you do to improve the opening? Please let me know what you think? What do you think the title means?

                    

                    
                     The Honey Trap

Bella Maggs weighed 40 pounds when she was four years old. Her mother passed away from cervical cancer when Bella was eight and as big as a teenager. By the time she was twelve, she was full grown. Four days, two and a half hours after she was handed her high school diploma, her father was killed in a car accident. She was one day away from her eighteenth birthday. To suggest her childhood had not been propitious is akin to suggesting the Marianas Trench is under a lot of water.
The doctor’s diagnosed her immense girth as an eating disorder, prescribing exercise and a healthier diet. Her single parent father spoiled her and couldn’t say no.  School kids bullied her in elementary school but that stopped by the time she reached junior high. By then she’d stopped feeling sorry for herself and toughened up. Bella Maggs is not stupid. In fact, her Intelligence Quotient at 161 is considered exceptionally gifted or in everyday talk, she is a genius.
In high school she was not without friends; she had a beautiful round face of the fairest skin, ruddy checks like a fresh apple and a pleasing smile. She tried hard to be liked. Her friends were smaller than her. Standing at 5’10’, she weighed 225 pounds when she entered grade ten. Boys were scared of her and she was rarely asked out. The only boy that wanted to take her to the prom was Kelvin Van Grut, the only other genius in her school. At 6’4”, a 119 pounds, loose limbed and bony jointed he reminded people of a marionette.  Everybody called him Pinocchio.
June 25th, 1991, at 2:10 pm the senior graduating class of Victor Loerch Memorial High School received their diplomas. Bella and Kelvin arrived at the prom 20 minutes late at 7:20pm. The heckling began at 7:21. The snickers and whispers at the odd pair were not disguised. Mean spirited teenagers openly taunted them. At 7:42 pm, Bella Maggs ran tearfully from the gymnasium. No one that knew her then ever saw her again. Her father’s funeral had been handled by his only sibling, a younger sister. Bella managed the disposition of all her father’s assets in absentia. What couldn’t be sold was given to his sister to dispose of. Bella refused to surface. Nine months later she said goodbye to her aunt. 
* 
In 2010, Rosa Vartanian moves to Treasure Island near the picturesque seaside community of Cocagne. She buys a rundown cottage on the perimeter facing east. During the first twelve months of occupancy, she convinces her four closest neighbors to sell her their properties. Everybody has their price. She now owns one quarter of the football field sized landmass. All the buildings have been given away or razed, the properties graded, large majestic pines groomed, scrap trees cut down and others replanted. A modest story and a half occupies the center of her property. A separate three car garage holds her vehicles with the upstairs housing her training rooms. Picket fences, clever shrubs ensure her privacy without seeming a snob.  Multi-hued sunrises shimmer across the bay. The waters are capricious.
Vartanian can speak more than a dozen languages. She has been warmly welcomed by the curious Acadian population of the hamlet. When it was discovered she could speak French, she was invited into their homes. The fact that she only has one arm doesn’t faze them a bit.  The myth of her being wealthy seems unreal given her humbleness. When they politely inquire where she is from or any reference to her background she cleverly changes the subject.  Or they get the only-child- parents-deceased- outline. As far as the missing arm, she states that it is due to a car accident. No one needs to know that she lost it in the state of Lower Saxony in Germany. 

30 months ago she’d been tracking down a group of neo-fascists that fantasized of a renewed state, proclaiming for a separate slice of Northern Germany.  From universities groups chanting left wing slogans against immigrants, they grew to autonomous groups fashioned after Islamic jihadism with no one commander, no head to sever. The racists caused havoc and death mainly amongst black communities, Muslim neighborhoods and gay habitat. In their attempt to garner worldwide attention, they kidnapped the son of Canada’s Prime Minister who was attending the University of Cologne, demanding an exorbitant amount of money for his release.  Underneath all the law enforcement activity of both countries, the Canadian Security Intelligence Service (CSIS) had agents in action throughout Europe.  None of them were more covert and better connected than Rosa Vartanian. She had been in Germany anyway.
Within twenty four hours, Vartanian uncovered a connection between the men in the security videos from the University that the Saxony State Police shared with Canada’s RCMP, and Rudolf Hoch, the slime she’d been sent here to shadow a month ago. Hoch was a skin head, a rich skin head. He was charged with the murder of his parents, owners of Hoch Shipping. Nine months later Rudolph walked out of the courtroom a free man. The prosecution could not prove he was guilty. His mother was Canadian, well connected to the business elite and present political hierarchy. It had been suggested to CSIS that Rudolph Hoch bore watching. They sent Rosa Vartanian.


Read Part 2 here on Monday, April 20.
          Part 3 on Wednesday, April 22.

Looking forward to your comments.


For real adventure, try the Dark Side of a Promise.
The clues lead to more diabolical crimes than you can imagine. Available here
   

Guest Author Diana Stevan of Campbell River, British Columbia.

Originally from Winnipeg, Diana  now resides in Campbell River, British Columbia, and enjoys meeting with her fellow writers twice a month. She’s written a stage play, some short stories and many poems. She’s had a poem published in the UK journal Dreamcatcher. A short story was published in Escape, an anthology put out by Peregrin publishers in 2012. She self-published her debut novel,  A Cry From The Deep  in October, 2014, and also hopes to publish soon, her baba’s story, No Time For Tears, that takes place between 1915-1929 in what is now Ukraine, as well as another novel that takes place on a psych. ward in the 70s.   
Together with her husband, Robert, Diana has been fortunate to travel extensively throughout North America, South America, Europe, Asia, and the Middle East. They have two children and three grandchildren.  Her links are below.                                                  





                  An excerpt - A Cry From The Deep.

                                                    

                                                         Chapter Two

Catherine’s view from the airplane, with its endless sky and ocean, triggered thoughts of God and purpose in life. As a child, she believed He was somewhere in heaven, and her guardian angel floated in His realm. That all changed when she learned about other religions. And then, with 9/11, there were more questions, but she still believed in something bigger than herself, something that guided people on some unknown path, for some unknown purpose. She wondered if what she was doing was part of a greater plan.
Three weeks earlier, Catherine had been a contented lavender grower. Well, not completely contented, but pretty good, considering. She frowned as she thought of how soon she’d be meeting Hennesey, a man she despised. From everything she’d read on the Internet, she knew it would take all her resources just to be civil. If these events were not directed by some divine being, then what was this all about?
Distracted by Alex’s fidgeting, she checked her daughter’s seat belt. They were about to land. Catherine hated take-offs and landings, and having a bouncy child by her side didn’t make flying any easier. It hadn’t bothered her when she was in her twenties, but after reading an article that cited the large number of crashes at airports, her body tightened minutes before take-off or landing.
Alex peered out the window. “Mama, I can see the boats.”
Catherine scanned the earth below as the plane flew over a marina. Somewhere down there was Hennesey’s boat.
“Maybe he’ll give us a ride,” said Alex.
Catherine frowned. Why had she agreed to this? Everything pointed to disaster.
 
~~~
 
The Golden Eye, the ultimate in diving boats, was tied up at the far end of the dock. Alex was already running ahead.
“Alex, wait!”
 Catherine caught up with her. “Slow down. The dock might be slippery.”
Alex slowed to a turtle’s pace.
“Very funny. Would you just stop for a minute? I want to take some photos from this angle.”
They were still some distance, but Catherine could see a man hosing down theGolden Eye’s deck. She fastened her long lens onto her Nikon camera and zoomed in on him. She’d have recognized Hennesey anywhere from the press he’d received. He was dressed in a Hawaiian shirt, worn loose over his creased khaki pants. The passing years had not been kind; his modest paunch and thinning hair reminded her of Jack Nicholson in his fifties. She snapped a few pictures—one of him with a water hose in his hand and another of him picking up some diving gear.
As they approached the Golden Eye, a woman with ebony skin and a mass of black, kinky hair pulled back in a pony-tail came up from the galley below. She looked about thirty and was dressed in a lime-green halter top and purple capris too tight for her broad hips. When she spotted Catherine, she said something to Hennesey.
Hennesey came forward from the aft and said gruffly, loud enough for Catherine to hear, “They sent a woman.” If he’d intended to be off-putting from the start, he was certainly successful.
The woman stuck her hand out over the side of the boat and said, “You must be Catherine. I’m Joy. We talked on the phone.”
Catherine smiled and shook her hand. Hennesey had been out the time she called or perhaps, pretending to be out. “He didn’t know I was coming?”
Joy smiled at her and then at Hennesey. “I didn’t tell 'im. He has this thing 'bout women on boats.”
“But you…?” asked Catherine.
“I live with 'im,” said Joy. “Besides, I’m a cook, not a diver. Climb aboard. I’ll show ya around.”
“This is my daughter, Alex.”
“Well, how d’you do, Alex?” Joy turned to Hennesey. “Are you just gonna stand there?” Grumbling, Hennesey reached over the side and swung Alex on board.
The boat’s port side was positioned about six inches from the dock and rocked with each passing boat. As Catherine was about to take Hennesey’s hand to climb over the gunwale, she glimpsed the water between the vessel and the dock. Suddenly dizzy, Catherine closed her eyes to calm her nerves.
When she opened them after a few moments, Hennesey said with a puzzled look, “Are you coming?”
Frowning, she took his hand and climbed over. As she crossed the water, the terror of falling in gripped her like a vise.
She must have blanched, because Hennesey said, “Are you all right?”
“Yes, I’m fine.” She hated lying, but she hated exposing her fear more. “The meal on the flight wasn’t great, and we came straight from the airport.”
“Mama, you said the food was good.”
“I meant good for airplane food.” Catherine rolled her eyes, suggesting that Alex had got it all wrong.
Alex shook her head. “Whatever.”
Joy laughed. “Well, if you two want to get started, I’ll show this minx 'round.” Joy took Alex’s hand as if they’d been friends for life. “I may even have an ice cream for you.”
Alex’s eyes grew round. “You have ice cream on the boat?”
“You betcha. We love our sweets. Can’t ya tell by lookin’ at our bellies?”
Catherine took an immediate liking to Joy. With her on board, the assignment might not be so bad.
 
~~~
 
Hennesey’s office, a short walk from the marina, was on the second level of a small business mall. Piles of books on shipwrecks, navigation, and ocean climates sat on a couple of old wooden chairs, and near them, an ashtray full of cigarette butts revealed an addictive personality. Various papers were strewn on his oak desk and a black phone, a bygone of earlier days, rested on a dusty window ledge overlooking the marina. And on the wall, several photos of Hennesey on the Golden Eye vied for attention with a map of the world showing various diving sites marked by colored pins.
Hennesey pushed aside some papers on his desk and took out a metal box from a filing cabinet behind him. He used a key from the chain he wore under his shirt to open the box, revealing a package wrapped in green silk. He carefully unwrapped it to expose a gold mask about two hands wide, its features simply executed. It was small, but it reminded Catherine of pieces by Henry Moore, a British sculptor who’d used relics from ancient and primitive cultures as inspiration.
She bent down to have a closer look. “It’s exquisite.”
“Inca gold. Worth close to five hundred thousand dollars.”
“And you keep it in a filing cabinet?”
“Not usually. I’m expecting a customer later.”
She was surprised he was showing it to her. Perhaps, he wanted to impress her. “Where did you find this?”
He grinned. “If I tell you, will you cross your heart and spit you won’t tell anyone?”
“On second thought, maybe I don’t want to know.”
He shook his head as he polished the mask with the cloth. “You people have so much morality oozing from your pores, it’s a wonder you’re able to do any work at all.”
She could’ve told him he was an asshole, that she knew he blew a hole in the ocean and was taken to court for dredging a coral reef and killing sea grass, but she said none of this. She didn’t want to get off on the wrong foot.
Instead, she said, “We all have opinions. It’s what makes the world go round.”
“You can keep your fucking opinions. If someone isn’t screaming about the fucking cultural heritage, they’re screaming about the fucking environment. They scream about everything. The last time it was about sea grass, as if there wasn’t enough of it anyway. It’s like lawns, it keeps growing.”
“That’s not what I read.”
“See, the media twists everything.”
She looked him in the eye. “One reporter called you an arrogant son of a bitch, a diver who thinks he’s above the law.”
Hennesey guffawed. “I’ve been called worse. What do you believe?”
She raised an eyebrow. “I’m leaning toward the media.”
“At least you’re honest.”
“I try to be.”
He rewrapped the gold mask, put it back in its box and returned it to the filing cabinet. He locked it and returned the key to its hiding place under his shirt. “So, Frank tells me he wants you for this dive. I find that curious.”
“Why?”
“I did a little background checking of my own. I know about your break from diving and why. Want you to know, I’m no goddamned babysitter.”
She snorted. “You worry about your end, I’ll take care of mine.”
“Yes, sir!” He saluted as he said it.
She hadn’t meant to reply with such a bite, but his attitude, complete with mocking grin, got the best of her. Why was she even considering going? Her instincts were advising her to run. She hadn’t come on board the project yet, and already he was under her skin. The media had one thing right. He was an arrogant asshole.     Thank you Diana for sharing part of your intriguing story. I look forward to reading the entire novel. I'm sure she would appreciate your comments.  You can discover more about this talented writer by visiting her website - www.dianastevan.com        

Next week, you can help me with a new short story. I will be posting a first draft, unedited sample of a story I am considering  for a novel someday in the future. Let me know your thoughts.

Meet Bella Maggs and Rosa Vartanian - a CSIS Operative.



Don't miss out on an exciting adventure with Drake Alexander and his band of ex-soldiers, a French ex-pat and a stalwart Bengali Cop. Dark Side of a Promise  Available at amazon.com

Guest Author Wodke Hawkinson. An excerpt from Dark Longings.

Wodke Hawkinson is the name under which writing duo PJ Hawkinson and Karen Wodke produce their collaborated works. The authors have been friends since high school, but formed their writing team in 2009. Dark Longings is their latest release. They have four other novels which include Betrayed, Zeke, Sue (a sequel to Zeke), and Tangerine, along with three short story collections: Catch Her in the Rye, Blue, and Alone. They have each produced solo works in addition to their co-authored books. Both authors reside in different Midwestern towns and do much of their collaboration via telephone and internet. However, they have been known to discuss ideas while casting their lines at a quiet lake, as they both enjoy fishing.  
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DARK LONGINGS
By Wodke Hawkinson
                                             Prologue The city never slept and even at four in the morning, people moved about. A young mother rushed to an all-night drugstore to purchase medication for a sick child. Music blasted from windows where parties pounded through the night. Teenagers slipped from their slumbering homes to keep forbidden rendezvous. Sirens wailed as emergency vehicles sped along neon boulevards. Women cowered in darkened bedrooms while men bellowed in drunken fury. Shady deals were conducted on dangerous corners and in murky alleys.
A dirt track ran parallel to the broad river that divided the city. Short turnoffs led down to the water every hundred yards or so. The road was largely deserted at this hour, empty lots leading to industrial buildings to one side and dense brush and trees on the riverside. A sedan bounced along the rough road. Two men in the front seat rode in silence. The first turnoff proved occupied by a group of homeless dregs gathered around a small fire. Just as the driver began to turn onto the second dirt ramp, he noticed a pickup truck backed down to the water. He could just make out two forms lounging on the tailgate, holding fishing rods. He swore softly and proceeded onward.
“Tough luck.” The man in the passenger seat shot his partner a horsy smile.
“Maybe the next one,” the driver said, checking the rearview mirror for other vehicles. The roadway remained dark.
At the next turnoff, he scanned the riverside for people. Finding it empty, he backed in and braked smoothly at the water’s edge. After putting the car in park, he and his companion got out, closing their doors quietly.
“Nice night,” the driver remarked, gazing up at the stars.
“Bit chilly, if you ask me,” the other man replied with a grin. His blocky teeth shone in the moonlight.
Together they managed to remove a large tightly-wrapped parcel from the trunk, hauled it to the river, and threw it in. The sound of the splash carried through the crisp air.
Down the riverbank, they heard an excited exchange between a couple of fisherman.
“Holy shit! Did you hear that? Was that a fish?” A man’s voice rang loudly across the water.
“If it was, it was a big one!”
The two men near the sedan looked at each other in the dim glow of the parking lights. “It was a big one alright,” the toothy one snickered.
His partner rolled his eyes, pushed the trunk gently closed with a gloved hand, and got into the car. His associate joined him and they drove back onto the road and into the night.
 

Sunday - September 30
 
Ruby hurriedly tossed her apron into the hamper in the kitchen of Margot’s Café where she worked part-time.
“Done for the day?” A chubby redhead with a pretty face asked as she headed for the swinging door with both arms full of plates of food.
“Nope.” Ruby shook her head. “Got a five-to-nine tonight, Tina. An eleven-to-two tomorrow, and the breakfast shift Tuesday. You?”
“I’m done at two and don’t have to come back until Tuesday afternoon. Have a nice weekend.” Tina shoved a hip into the door and exited the kitchen.
Ruby waved to the rest of the kitchen staff and slipped out the back door. Several steps deeper into the alley, she unlocked a small door next to the restaurant and slipped inside. She was careful to relock the door before turning to climb the stairs. Midway down the hall, she unlocked another door; she was home.
Renting the apartment over the café was one of the perks Ruby enjoyed for being its most dedicated employee; she’d never missed a shift in the two years she’d worked at Margot’s. The rent she paid was measly compared to other apartments in the area and even though it was small she was glad to have the place.
Ruby sighed as she grabbed her homework from her desk. The day was nice for a change but she knew it wouldn’t last long. She bounced down the front stairway, exited through the nondescript door, and made her way to a table under the awning of the café. Lifting her feet into the chair next to her, she leaned back slightly and watched the bare branches sway in the park across the street. Rain was predicted for tomorrow, but Ruby thought it might come earlier.
Tina stepped out the front door. “Fancy seeing you again,” she said with a grin. “Want something to eat?”
“Just an iced tea, please. No sugar.” When her drink arrived, she pulled her feet from the seat, opened her laptop, and powered up. She hoped to get two papers finished before her evening shift.
Time slipped away as her fingers flew over the keyboard. She was nearing the end of the second paper when she paused to stretch. Her attention was drawn to a young man walking toward her with a slight spring to his step. His dark hair was tousled and his intense brown eyes sought hers. Ruby felt a delightful shiver slide up her back. As quickly as the feeling came, she shoved it down. She and Kenny were no longer a couple; no matter how much chemistry sparked between them, or how much she’d like them to be.
Kenny was equally pleased to see Ruby outside Margot’s. He felt his pulse quicken as he drew near. When she looked up, their eyes met and he smiled. Her green eyes seemed to bore into his and he could almost read her thoughts. His smile slipped a little, knowing she wondered if he was still using. He wasn’t, but how could he make her believe him?
“Have you been working out? You’re looking really good,” Ruby commented as Kenny pulled out a chair at her table and sat.
He knew what she was really asking. “I am good, Rube. I got a job running deliveries for Dick’s Auto Parts and moved out of my dad’s place. I’m living with a friend over on Donder Road; 1426, apartment D.”
“A friend, huh?” Though her tone was skeptical, she grabbed her phone and added the info to his contact list.
“A guy, Ruby; his name’s Terry Campbell. You’re the only girl for me and you know it.”
Before Ruby could change the subject, a young man approached their table, hailing Kenny as he came. Kenny frowned and stood up, meeting him a few steps away.
Ruby pretended to return to her report, but she eyed the stranger furtively. He looked sick, like a prison camp survivor. He was gaunt; his chest appeared sunken through the opening in his light jacket. His hair was unwashed and his clothes looked slept in. He fiddled with a dirty bandage on his neck and tried to pull Kenny into a conversation.
Kenny shoved him away, knocking him to one knee. This action surprised Ruby; she’d never known Kenny to be physical. In fact, he usually went out of his way to avoid violence.
As the guy regained his footing, Ruby heard Kenny say, “Just keep away from me, Chad. I’m not going back. I don’t want anything more to do with…” His eyes darted to Ruby, found her watching. He dropped his voice so she was unable to hear anything more.
Turning quickly, Kenny started backing away from the café. Chad’s eyes pled with Kenny to wait.
“I’ll see you later, Ruby,” Kenny called and gave a half-hearted wave in her direction.
Tina stepped out the door with a couple of menus, but by then Kenny was disappearing around the corner and Chadhad crossed the street and was stumbling through the park. Ruby watched until she couldn’t see them anymore.
“Huh! Guess they didn’t want anything.” Tina retreated back inside.
What the hell was that all about? Ruby stared blankly at her computer screen for a while. Once she realized she wasn’t going to get back into her school paper, she gathered her things and took them upstairs to her apartment.
She lay on her sofa, staring out tall windows that overlooked the street and remembered back to the days she used to hang out with Kenny at his dad’s. Lord, how she’d loved him, still did. But she was clean now and she couldn’t take a chance of being dragged back into that pit. She finally drifted into a restless sleep, awakening in time for her next work shift.
Her mind returned to Kenny often throughout the evening and she almost hoped he would call her. Maybe it was better if he didn’t; their new relationship was tender, teetering somewhere between friendship and something deeper. By bedtime, she’d reined in her unruly feelings and pushed her longings to the back of her mind where they belonged.





Thank you so much PJ & Karen for sharing an excerpt from your newest Novel. More about the team of Wodke Hawkinson can be found here.
Our novels  Zeke Betrayed Sue Dark Longings Tangerine
Our short story collections: Alone  Catch Her in the Rye Blue
Visit our readers/authors website: Find A Good Book To Read
Visit our website: wodke-hawkinson.com





Next week, I had originally planned to share my latest short story but am postponing it until April 17th. Instead I am featuring guest author Diana Stevan from British Columbia with an excerpt from her novel, A Cry From the Deep.