Allan Hudson's Blog, page 58

4Q Interview with author Michael Smart - The Bequia Mysteries.

  


This week on 4Q Interview, we are happy to have author Michael Smart. The following is taken from his amazon bio.

Michael Smart is a native New Yorker, experienced blue water sailor, and pilot, two passions the protagonists in his novels also share. Michael writes mysteries and science fiction. His debut novel, Dead Reckoning, is the first volume of the Bequia Mystery Series, set in St. Vincent and the Grenadines, a tropical archipelago in the Eastern Caribbean where Michael lived and sailed for many years. Michael draws on his knowledge of the islands, its people, and his sailing experiences around the Caribbean to create intimate and lively portraits of the islands and the people surrounding these compelling mysteries. His links are listed below.
4Q: Dead Reckoning, to my understanding, is calculating one’s position related to known sightings, winds, currents, compass errors, etc. What does this title tells us about your debut novel?
MS: It’s a metaphor for the circumstances facing the main protagonist, Gage, who is in a stage of his life where everything is uncertain. He’s in uncharted waters, navigating a life he’s attempting to remake for himself after burying his past, and his demons, but uncertain how to get there. In his former life he’d led an emotionally isolated existence, avoiding personal attachments, a mantra for his survival. But now he’s broken that cardinal rule, including a burgeoning romantic relationship with Police Superintendent Jolene Johanssen, whose love awakens dormant emotions and reconnects him to the world. A relationship he’s unsure he’s emotionally equipped to handle. And a close friendship with the discerning Commissioner of Police, Mike Daniels, who perceives more regarding Gage’s past than Gage is comfortable with. When Mike is shot by an unknown gunman, Gage is sucked back into a lifestyle he thought he’d left behind, and risks upending his new life, resurrecting his inner demons, and losing those he’s grown close to and cares about.  So he also has to navigate these inner conflicts, while pursuing a deadly quest to discover who shot his friend, and why.   


 
4Q: Can you condense your eight years’ experience of sailing around the Caribbean to a few paragraphs and how it relates to your novels?
MS: I’ll do it in one sentence: A grand, epic adventure! The Caribbean provides the most pleasurable sailing in the world. The North and South Atlantic, the Pacific, the Mediterranean, the Indian Ocean, may provide more challenging sailing adventures, but for me the Caribbean is the most pleasurable, with its constant gentle northeast trade winds, its tropical islands, its beaches, and its people. And for me, no other lifestyle matches that of living on the water aboard a sailboat. In writing the Bequia Mysteries series, the Gage character actually came to me first. Then I decided to set the stories in the Grenadines. It was a time when I was considering returning to live in the Grenadines. But I knew it wouldn’t be the same as before, some things I wouldn’t be able to still do. Too much time had passed, my perspective and my body had changed. Climbing to the top of a mainmast, for example, was out of the question. I wondered what it’d be like living there now. As I thought about those things the character developed, and also the themes. So Gage arrives in the Grenadines aboard his staysail schooner ‘Wherever’, which by the way is treated as a full-fledged character in the novels. He has an entirely new perspective than in his past life, and he has to cope with reinventing himself.
 
4Q: Please share a fond childhood anecdote or memory with us.
MS: There are so many. It’s difficult to focus on just one. Growing up was also an adventure for me. My family travelled for my dad’s work, so we lived in many different places around the world. And each experience had a formative affect on who I am today. Like my fondness for reading, and the sea and sky. While my father usually travelled by air ahead of the family, my mother and my siblings made the passages by sea. Next to being a kid having the run of a ship, reading provided great entertainment during those long sea voyages. Living in London, I feasted on graphic novels like the popular WW11 RAF ace “Battler Britton”, and discovered authors like Leslie Charteris of the great Simon Templar Saint series, and John Creasey’s The Toffseries, joining their American counterparts Raymond Chandler, Dashiel Hammett, and John D. MacDonald. I cut my reading teeth on these authors, their characters, and their stories. They inspired me to want to write. I think the “Battler Britton” comics also lit the fire in me to fly, to be a pilot.
 
4Q: After Dead Reckoning, there is Deadeye and Deadlight that are part of the Bequia mysteries. What’s next for Michael Smart?
MS: I also write science fiction, and my first science fiction title is due for release this summer. I’m also working on the fourth novel in the Bequia Mysteries series, and another mystery with a sci-fi twist.  
 
Thank you Michael for being part of The South Branch Scribbler and participating in the 4Q Interview. Watch for an excerpt from one of Michael’s novels in April. Date to be announced.   CONTACT:

EMAIL: michaelwsmart@hotmail.com; michaelwsmart@bequiamysteries.com
WEBSITE: http://www.bequiamysteries.com/
BLOG: http://www.bequiamysteries.com/blog/
AMAZON AUTHOR CENTRAL: http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B00IYXAH8A
AMAZON AUTHOR CENTRAL UK: http://www.amazon.co.uk/-/e/B00IYXAH8A
SMASHWORDS: https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/michaelwsmart
GOODREADS: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7870921.Michael_W_Smart
GOOGLE+: https://plus.google.com/u/0/113754433649367271314/about
LINKED IN: http://www.linkedin.com/pub/michael-smart/a3/395/282
PINTEREST: http://www.pinterest.com/michaelwsmart/
FACEBOOK: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Michael-W-Smart/560971790701349
ABOUT ME: http://about.me/michaelwsmart/
 
Next week on the Scribbler you will be able to read an excerpt from the newest novel by Wodke Hawkinson - a pseudonym for authors PJ Hawkinson and Karen Wodke.

Guest Author JP McLean of British Columbia

If there’s one thing I’ve learned about the world of writers, it’s how kind and generous a lot they are. Allan Hudson is a perfect example of that generosity. Thank you, Allan, for inviting me to visit the South Branch Scribbler, and for the support you’ve shown the writers you showcase here. It’s an honour to be invited to your blog.
You’ll find me online at J.P. McLean. I use initials because Jo-Anne is often misspelled, which is deadly in today’s online world of search engines. I live on a small Gulf island off the eastern shore of Vancouver Island, British Columbia. The rugged beaches of the west coast feature prominently in my novels, as it seems I never tire of the landscape.

It’s the perfect setting for the contemporary thrillers that I write, especially because they all contain an element of fantasy that will leave you believing the impossible and wary of the night skies. And if you lose yourself while reading them, or just lose track of time, I’ll have done my job.

When I started writing The Gift: Awakening, I thought it would be a one-off book. But it turns out, writing is more like potato chips for me—all that salty crunchiness, yum—and I couldn’t stop at just one. So, I traded in the one-off idea for a trilogy and outlined two more books, The Gift: Revelation and The Gift: Redemption. 
I thought a trilogy would satisfy my craving, but it didn’t. I’m now in the process of publishing a fourth book, The Gift: Penance. Of course, a fourth book has ruined the whole trilogy concept, and now I’m busy replacing references to The Gift Trilogy with The Gift Legacy. Notice how Legacy makes room for further adventures from these characters who just won’t sit still? That’s what you call learning through poor planning. 
For the South Branch Scribbler, I thought I’d share a sneak peek at Penance. It will be released in April in trade paperback and electronic formats. If the story piques your interest, you can read excerpts and more about the series at www.jpmclean.net.
 
The sturdy concrete piers of the Burrard Street Bridge rose up from the False Creek seabed, its steel girders looming eighty feet overhead. My small kayak felt inconsequential by comparison. I rested my paddle across the hull and drifted forward into the bridge’s shadow. A weak sun struggled behind the overcast sky.
My breath condensed in white puffs. I loved these crisp, cool mornings alone on the water. It was peaceful. Out here, life felt simple, uncomplicated. Almost what I imagined normal felt like. A
light breeze stirred the chilly air. The kayak rocked gently, its yellow hull reflected in the ripples that lapped quietly against the hull. I gazed up toward the underside of the bridge deck where car tires thumped over the expansion joints.

In the distance, the rumble of outboard motors drew my attention. Time to get a move on. I tugged my cap down over my ears and blew a warm breath into cupped hands. The dry suit that kept my body warm did nothing for my head. The temperature hovered around five Celsius and the cold was finally getting to me.
I gripped my paddle and continued seaward, my strokes cautious of the outboard motors that grew louder as they approached from behind. Six strokes later, almost out of the bridge’s shadow, the tandem outboards roared, drowning out all other sound. I darted a wide-eyed glance behind and then hunched my shoulders and braced for the inevitable waves that would follow.
The marine speed limit in False Creek is five knots or dead slow. They had the dead part right. They raced by on either side of me with their throttles wide open. I barely got a glimpse of them before I felt the powerful effect of their wake. My kayak rolled dangerously when the first wave hit broadside, but it was the second wave that swamped me. It struck from the opposite direction and lifted the hull, dumping me into the frigid water.

I
flailed in the dark, trapped upside down in the seat of my cockpit, groping for the tether to my lost paddle. I’d practiced the Eskimo roll that would right me dozens of times, but all of those self-induced rolls hadn’t prepared me for the real thing. It wasn’t the sting of salt water in my eyes, or the frosty temps of a February ocean, which made holding my breath difficult, it was the clear memory of drowning—my drowning.

It’s not something you ever forget: the desperation that compels you to inhale water into your lungs. The way the weight of that water sinks you more effectively than any anchor. It’s the disquieting euphoria of finally letting go. The panic that should have compelled me to jettison, instead froze me in place. A memory flashed by at the watery sight of my outstretched arm. Last summer that same arm reached for a surface that I could see, but couldn’t reach.
Precious seconds ticked by.
I felt my cap lift away in the current. It was enough to shake me from the nightmare. Latent terror galvanized me into action. I yanked on my paddle’s tether and re-established my grip. In an adrenaline-fed stroke, I swept my paddle in a powerful arc and rode the momentum to the surface. The instant my face cleared the water into a halo of light and oxygen, I heaved a ragged breath then coughed and choked in another gulp of air.
“I’ve got you,” a man’s voice called. His red kayak bumped against my hull. A dark beanie covered his head. I pressed my knuckles against my eyes to clear the stinging water. My rescuer steadied the kayak while I caught my breath.
“Thank you,” I sputtered. The mother of all ice cream headaches stabbed across my forehead. As I caught my breath, I took in the man who’d come to my rescue. I put him in his late twenties. A day’s stubble covered cheeks flushed red with the cold. He had the shoulders of a weightlifter and a firm grip on the cleat behind my cockpit. He’d laced his paddle under the bungee cording to steady me.
“That was a lot easier to do in waist-deep water,” I rasped, my throat burning. No wonder the instructor insisted we repeat the Eskimo roll exercise each time we went out. She’d said I’d likely never use it. Yeah.
“You probably shouldn’t have been out here alone. You did well, considering.” He offered a conciliatory smile.
My natural impulse should have been to claw my way out of the cockpit. “I probably should’ve done a wet exit.” I’d practiced those, too, struggling back into the kayak to pump it out. At least the neoprene spray skirt had kept most of the water out of the kayak.
“I saw you go under. Luckily, I was just across the channel.”
“Thank you.” I glanced around for his partner, but was grateful enough for his help to not mention the fact that I didn’t find one. A wave rocked us and he held us steady. His upper arms were impressive.
“We need to report those yahoos,” he said with contempt. “They’re going to get someone killed out here.”
“You know who they are?”
“No, but I know where they rented those boats. Where are you headed?”
“Back to my car. I put in at Kitsilano, but now I think I’d better find somewhere to warm up first.” This outing was supposed to help me build the upper body strength my new kayaking hobby demanded. Perhaps I’d been too ambitious.
“I know a place. Do you know Scuppers?”
“No. Where is it?”
“Not far. It’s where I was headed. Want to follow me?”
“Yeah, thanks,” I said then reached over to offer my hand. “Emelynn Taylor.”
“Owen Cooper,” he said jutting his hand out to take mine in a fierce grip. “Nice to meet you, Emelynn.” He offered a confident smile that reached up and crinkled the corners of his dark brown eyes.
Owen disentangled his paddle from the bungee webbing and swung around. “This way,” he said, paddling landward back under the Burrard Street Bridge. Within minutes we’d slipped under the grey steel and concrete of the Granville Street Bridge. We passed a small marina with swaying sailboats and pulled alongside a dock parallel to the rip-rap shore of Granville Island.
“You can tie up there,” Owen said, pointing to the end of the slim dock. He continued ahead while I secured my kayak. I unfolded myself from the cockpit and climbed onto the dock. My limbs shook from the effort, or maybe it was the receding adrenaline. It didn’t help that the cold breath of winter on my sopping wet head sucked the heat out of me. I needed to get warm and fast. With stiff shoulders, I pulled my dry bag from the rear hatch.
I shivered as I clutched the bag to my chest and scanned the docks for anyone out of place. Constant vigilance was a heavy weight I would gladly shed if I could. I walked to the far end of the dock to find Owen. I was halfway up the ramp when I spotted him and stopped short, staring like an ill-mannered child. Owen operated an electric winch, which had just pulled him from his kayak and deposited him in a wheelchair at the top of the ramp.
He looked over and waved me up. I snapped my mouth closed and checked my footwear. I didn’t know the man, but I could have sworn I saw him grin. I swallowed my embarrassment and continued up the ramp, watching him unhook the harness apparatus.
“Sorry for staring. You caught me by surprise,” I said.
“I usually do.” His grin widened into a smile. “Your reaction was stellar. Maybe one of the best. I wish I had it on film.”
“Guess I’m fortunate you didn’t have a camera,” I said feeling the heat of a blush warm my face. “It was rude. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It’s cheap entertainment for those of us easily amused. Come on; let’s get warm.”
~~~
The Gift: Penance is coming in April, 2015. If you’re interested in receiving an ARC of Penance in mobi or epub format in exchange for an honest review, I’d be happy to send you one. You can email me at jpmbooks@xplornet.com. 
I love hearing from you. Connect with me on Twitter @jpmclean1, Facebook, Goodreads or visit my blog.
Thanks again, Allan. Happy reading, everyone!


Thank you Jo-Anne for sharing from your latest novel.  Please drop by Jo-Anne's website for more information on her writing, her series of novels and what life is like on the west coast.

Next week the 4Q Interview will feature Michael Smart.  Michael spent 8 years sailing around the Caribbean which became the setting for The Bequia Mysteries.

Wall of War - An excerpt by Allan Hudson

In 1953 Father Suetonius Graft, an amateur rock climber discovers a cave while scaling a 600 foot rock face in the Peruvian Andes. Poking his flashlight in the hole he discovers  skeletal remains. The curled bones reach out from a fallen boulder luring him inside. 

You read the first Chapter of the Wall of War here (archived 05/09/2014) This exciting novel of Incan gold, an unfortunate priest, a Spanish crime lord and Drake Alexander is coming in the Fall of 2015. Following is an excerpt. Copyright is held by the author.

*
That thought alerts him to what steps he must take, he is enlivened with the idea that he must somehow verify this as well as the dimensions. His energy is renewed as he imagines what the discovery can do for his church. That must to be why God saw fit to send a priest. As he begins to recite the rosary in his mind, he withdraws his note book and pencil from one of his stuffed pockets. He turns it sideways so he can sketch on the widest portion. He draws a rough image of the wall and the figures it contains. When he is satisfied that his drawing is as accurate as possible he writes a header, The Wall of War.
Flipping the page he begins walking off the dimensions carefully noting the sizes as best as he can estimate, he wants to be conservative but yet not diminish its grandness. He is shocked once more when he hurries to the end he first discovered to judge how thick the wall is, at least eight inches. He touches the rough back while shining his light up and down. It is textured and unfinished, given little, if any consideration. Stepping away from the wall he shines his light back and forth over the fearsome figures thinking the work must have taken years. He can barely contain his emotions. He shuts off his light and finishes his prayers in the darkness.
Fifteen minutes later he turns the light back on, replaces the notebook and pencil, pauses to think of anything else he should do. It is starting to get cooler, the sweat on his body long dried. Donning his t-shirt he decides he can’t leave now. There is one more thing he has to find. How could the workers possibly get in and out of this cavern he asks himself, how could they bring their supplies in. He has to know because there is no sign of any engineering where he entered; there are no other bodies either. He will take another half hour trying to find another entry. He points his light to the rear proceeding cautiously towards the void.
Moving to his right where he can see the bench, he follows that. It extends half as long as the wall on the opposite side. The clutter is similar from one end to the other, except in the center where remnants of woven bowls lay half eaten away. They contain shards of dried foods, possibly avocados distinguishable by their wrinkled skin, stem and petrified leaves still attached.  He walks slowly beyond the shelf towards the bare rock wall sidestepping the scattered debris, watching for cracks when his light shows him that the cavern sides are closing in. He flashes his light back at the golden wall gauging that he is at the farthest end from where he entered. He returns the ray of light to his front and sees another slight bend. He follows the curve until the sides shrink to an opening that comes to the middle of his chest, about four feet but twice as wide as him.
There is huge split in the floor where the pathway he is on ends. He creeps carefully to the lip shining his light down. There is nothing to see except granite. Scrunching down on his knees he shines the light into the hole. He guesses the gap to be about six feet wide. He lifts his lamp and what he sees amazes him as much as the hammer but not with the same exuberance. He grins as he thinks to himself, “the experienced discoverer now”.  His gaze takes in what seems to be a store room, broken barrels along one wall. The bent spears propped against another narrow stone ledge suggest an armory and directly in front of him, twenty feet away, is a stairway amazingly cut from the hardest stone. It is a captivating sight. The steps follow two wide cracks in the mountain, joined together at one time with fresh timber. The wooden, un-rotted ends are still wedged onto the rock treads. The central part of the stairway gave way centuries ago and vacations at the bottom of the dark pits.
The steps turn sharply to the left about seven steps up and are filled with rocks and dirt. There must have been a cave in Suetonius realizes, that would explain the fallen rocks in the caverns. He stares at the whole scene for many moments trying to understand what he’s found. His whole body tingles, small ripples pimple his arms and upper body. He is experiencing an epiphany of what all his previous life has meant. He gleans from the confessional that everyone wants to know, “Why am I here? What purpose do I serve?” How blessed he feels. The heavenly reality is physically accompanied by an abundant flow of adrenaline from the stress he is experiencing. He asks himself, “what if this fell in the wrong hands”. It’s located in the wilderness; it would be vandalized to no end. He will have to be very careful; without a doubt, there are people who would kill for this knowledge. He trembles bodily as the idea ferments.
He will write it all down as soon as he returns to his lodgings. He will write in the most obscure of the several languages he knows. Checking his wrist for the time, he is disheartened knowing he should leave or he might not get off the face before dark. Giving the room one last sweep of light he notices something reflective in the far corner. It’s small whatever it is, he can’t find it again. Then there it is; a tiny ray of something bright. He keeps his hand steady trying to see what is making the light bend. It is about twenty feet away cornered with other detritus. Dust blankets everything. It is difficult to discern from where he crouches. The ray wavers as he moves his hand so slightly. Reminded of the star of the Wise Men, is this to be a guide for him, he ponders. He doesn’t think too long until he decides he has to have it. It could be the proof he seeks.



I always wanted to write a novel about Incan Gold and a mysterious discovery, a discovery so enormous in historic and monetary value that people would kill for the secret. That's Wall of War. Watch for it in Fall 2015.







Please visit the Scribbler next week and meet guest author JP Maclean of British Columbia. Read an excerpt from her new novel Penance , set to be released in April, 2015

Guest Author Katrina Cope of Australia

So pleased to have Katrina Cope back on the Scribbler. She has been featured here before with Book 1 of The Sanctum Series. Now you can read an excerpt from Book 2. Her links are listed below. 
Scarlet's Escape Wow! What a ride. Ever since I have pressed the publish button on my first book ‘Jayden & the Mysterious Mountain’ on September 2nd, 2013, I have learnt so much about the publishing industry, indie and mainstream (with still a lot more to learn). I learnt from my mistakes and worked on fixing them making sure not to do them again for the next release of ‘The Sanctum Series’. This is the whole reason why the 2nd book ‘Scarlet’s Escape’ took so long to release after the first. I started with no history, no contacts and not knowing anything about the whole industry. You have a great original story with lots of emotion, characters, and twisted plots not to mention a nice cover – it’s going to take off all by itself, right? Ha, ha! No, I wasn’t that naive but I had a long way to go. I am delighted that as my first book reaches more people I am starting to have more people like my work and they are keen for the next stage in the series. I have also had the honour of receiving a 5 star rating from Readers’ Favorite reviewer Dinorah Blackman for the Preteen category and it is now posted on their site: https://readersfavorite.com/book-review/26767
Copyright belongs to the author. Used by permission.

 When they entered, they were astounded by the amount of weapons in that one building. It was like a huge gun closet where the collector had gone mad. There was every kind of gun and rifle, many more than the two boys had ever seen before. Further inside there were grenades, missiles and boxes and boxes of explosives.
“Alpha?” Jayden spoke over the communicator.
“Copy contender.” Avando’s voice sounded over Jayden’s headset.
“Can you see this?” Jayden asked him in shock.
“Yes, I can. Unfortunately, it is as I had suspected. I will need you to destroy it.” Avando told him.
“Destroy it?” Jayden queried in surprise.
“Yes, this is why you have been sent in. It is a great danger to our people.”
“Copy,” Jayden responded getting over his initial disbelief. “How would you like us to do that?”
“Well, looking at all those explosives, the best way would be to blow it up.”
“Really?” Jayden was surprised.
“Yes! There is too much to be able to do anything else.” Avando confirmed.
“Copy Alpha.” Jayden set to work with Aaron’s help.
They began to work, rigging all of the explosives and setting them all ready to blow in five minutes. Then they prepared to leave in haste, heading for the main door. They peered out the window near the door and as they went to open it, they realised that it also needed a code to exit from the inside.
“What?” Jayden said out loud involuntarily. “Who puts a security lock on a room from the inside?” His voice started to tighten in panic. “Aaahhh! Puzzler?”
“Copy.” Eva’s voice sounded over the headphones.
“We need a code and we need it now!” Jayden started showing a slight panic.
“Just try the code that you entered last for getting in,” she stated like it was obvious.
“What was that?” he urged.
“C59835,” she advised.
He entered the code but found that it didn’t work. “No good Puzzler,” he said as dread filled his voice.
“Ahhh! Okay!” she sounded surprised. “Show me the pad and I’ll set to work.”
Jayden showed her the pad so that she could copy it and get to work on the code. “Be quick, puzzler. We only have four and a half minutes left to get out in one piece.”
“Copy,” she said and went silently to work. At four minutes left Eva spoke. “Try these…” and she rattled off several different codes, which Jayden entered quickly, but with no success.
“No good puzzler. Give us some more, please.” His voice was even tighter with tension now.
“Copy,” she said and silently went to work again. At three and a half minutes left, her voice came over the headset again. “Right try these,” she said and ran through several more codes, again with no success.
“We need more quickly,” Jayden almost screamed at her. The sweat from the stress was starting to run down his face. He wiped it away with his sleeve and looked at Aaron anxiously, only to see his emotions mirrored in Aaron’s face. To make matters worse, the security alarm had set off from not having the correct code put into the system before the required time. Terror crossed both boys’ faces at the same instant. “Now puzzler. We need the good code now!” He was yelling both from panic and the need to be heard over the alarm.
A few seconds later Eva’s voice sounded over the headset. “Right try these ….” She called out a few more, finally with success. The light turned green and the alarm stopped, with only two and a half minutes remaining to get far away from the building and out of harm’s way.
They opened the door to see that there were soldiers running in their direction. They both glanced at each other with a look of dread crossing their faces, but they had no choice left now other than to make a dash for it, out the door in full view of the soldiers. Immediately they heard voices yelling at them, then shooting, and next they heard bullets hitting the building behind them. They continued to run to the side of the building from where they had come from, but they were not so lucky as to be able to make it.
It all happened so fast. Jayden felt himself falling forward to the ground. No matter how hard he tried he could not get up. He started to crawl forward in the direction they were planning to go. He glanced around quickly to see how Aaron was doing and saw that he was also crawling along the ground. ‘Great,’ he thought sarcastically, ‘that’s not going to help us get out of here quickly!’ They both picked up their rifles and started shooting back at the soldiers, which slowed their advancement after them. Aaron and Jayden continued to crawl. Their progress was annoyingly slow and the soldiers started aggressively coming at them again. So they were forced to start shooting back, slowing them down yet again. When they retaliated enough to deter them, they continued crawling towards their exit. Jayden glanced at his watch. To his horror he saw there was only thirty seconds left.
“Contender!” Avando’s voice came over the headset. “You really need to hurry, as you are still in the danger zone.”
Jayden didn’t respond but continued moving as fast as he could with Aaron in close pursuit.
Fifteen seconds. “Come on contender!” Avando almost shrieked over the headset.
They were already going as fast as they could, so all that they could do was to continue on at that speed. Ten seconds … five … then it happened. One brilliant flash accompanied by a large whoosh, which flooded over them.
“Contender?” Avando spoke over the communicator. “Contender?” Urgency now pierced his voice. “Come in Contender! Contender?” Nothing. Silence followed Avando’s voice.    Thank you Katrina for sharing this excerpt from your novel. Please visit Katrina's website for more information on this keen author and her novels. http://katrenee11.wix.com/katrina-cope-author


Please visit again on Friday, March 13th and read an excerpt from my second novel - The Wall of War .  A tale of Incan gold. I am presently completing the second draft with hopes of having a completed novel by Fall, 2015.

Guest Author Maggie James of Bristol, United Kingdom.

Stockholm syndrome: the psychological tendency of a hostage to bond with, identify with, or sympathize with his or her captor.

What happens when you love the man you should hate?

Beth Sutton is eighteen years old when Dominic Perdue abducts her. Held prisoner in a basement, she’s dependent upon him for food, clothes, her very existence. As the months pass, her hatred towards him changes to compassion. Beth never allows herself to forget, however, that her captor has killed another woman. She has evidence to prove it, not to mention Dominic’s own admission of murder.

Then Beth escapes…

And discovers Dominic Perdue is not a man who lets go easily. Meanwhile, despite being reunited with her family, she spirals into self-destructive behaviour. Release from her prison isn’t enough, it seems. Can Beth also break free from the clutches of Stockholm syndrome?

A study of emotional dependency, The Second Captive examines how love can assume strange guises.
This is Maggie's third appearance on The Scribbler. In December, 2014 you read the Prologue to her captivating novel, The Second Captive. In January, you read Chapter 1 and today you can read Chapter 2. (You can access the previous posts from the archives on the bottom left side bar) .

Copyright is held by the author. Used by permissions


CHAPTER 2 - Dominic 
When the idea to kidnap a woman first comes to me, I’m not too fussy about whom to take. Someone young, pliable, whom I can mould into the perfect companion, but other than that, I’ve few criteria. I search, but somehow no woman strikes the right note with me. One day, driven by an impulse I don’t understand, I retrieve from my junk room an old photo, one I’ve not looked at since my father died. As I stare at it, I realise what’s missing from my plan. Restitution.
Beth Sutton’s the one who’ll help me achieve it. At eighteen, she barely qualifies as a woman. She fits the bill, though; her resemblance to her predecessor is striking, given they’re not related. I’ve chosen well. I’ve discerned from our conversations that there’s tension at home. Issues with her father, apparently. She yearns to cut loose, without knowing what she wants from life. It’ll be my pleasure to teach her. If I break her in right, all she’ll want will be me.
I dress with care for our dinner date tonight, taking pains to preserve the image she’s formed of me. The successful financial risk-taker with the flash BMW, the man who’ll wine her, dine her, show her a good time. Such foolish, schoolgirl fantasies. What I have to offer Beth Sutton is more solid, more real, a permanence that’ll force her to grow up. In time, she’ll come to love me, accept the security I’ve given her, thank me for it. Sex isn’t the reason I chose her. Rutting like animals holds no appeal for me. What I want is more complex. A companion, yes, but a mother figure as well, and for that her age is an obvious disadvantage. I’m prepared to wait, though. In my head, she’s my companion first, and then, when she’s earned a few privileges, she can take care of me. Beth being so young is good, really. With her glowing skin, her shiny hair, she’s clearly healthy. Not destined for an early grave like Mum. Dead at fifty, a mere seven years after my birth. A miracle she ever conceived, given the thirty kilos of surplus flesh she carried, not to mention her stratospheric blood pressure. She did, though, and refused to contemplate abortion.

‘Told her to get shot of you, but the bitch wouldn’t have it.’ Oh, blunt was my father’s middle name. I was seven years old when he laid that one on me, right after his hand cracked against my face, knocking me backwards. We’d just returned from Mum’s funeral. She’d been my shield against this man. Always there, protecting me when he lashed out at either of us. Now my safeguard was gone.
Her voice echoes in my head, a memory from long ago.
‘I’m going upstairs for a bit of a sleep.’ My seven-year-old self, absorbed with my Lego, doesn’t respond. Something for which I’ve always blamed myself. I never get to hear her voice again. I carry on playing, grateful for the fact it’s a weekend and my father’s at a football match. He won’t come home for hours yet. When he does, he’ll stink of booze.
At six o’clock, I realise I’m hungry. The house is silent. Normally at this time, Mum’s in the kitchen, cooking our evening meal, plating up my father’s food for whenever he decides he’s had enough alcohol. I run upstairs, intending to ask her to cook fish fingers tonight, unaware of what awaits me.
Her door is open. Mum’s on top of the duvet, fully clothed, her head turned towards the window. A tiny flash of awareness sparks in my brain that something’s very wrong here, but at seven I lack the ability to process the thought. I stand by the side of her bed.
‘Mum? Mum, I’m hungry.’ When she doesn’t respond, I shake her shoulder, wobbling the flesh on her arm. I walk to the other side of the bed.
Realisation hits me the minute I see her face. Her mouth hangs slack, a line of spittle running from one corner. Eyes wide and staring. At seven years of age, her death strikes me hard with a cruel reality check. A brain aneurysm, swift and lethal, has snatched my mother from me.
I crawl onto the bed beside her, pushing myself into her arms one last time. When my father storms upstairs, hours later, demanding food, that’s how he finds us.
 Memories that over two decades later are fuzzy around the edges. Her face has faded to a blur in my head. All I have is the memory of her voice, the squeeze of her arms around me, her scent in my nostrils. Dad slung all her possessions in the bin after her death. Her clothes, all the photos of her, everything destroyed. Just the memory of her warm arms, along with the scent of Samsara, remains. An evocation that fades over the years, as any perfume will, leaving only a faint trace at the back of my skull. When I go into department stores, I head for the fragrance counters and breathe in my mother. A bottle of Samsara sits in my bedside cabinet, a constant reminder of her.
So Beth Sutton has big shoes to fill. It’ll take time for her to grow into them, adapt to what I’m asking of her, but she will. I’ve been waiting twenty-one years for her to keep me company. Tonight her new life will begin. 
***** 
I’m supposed to be cooking for Beth, but the kitchen is cold, unused. My stomach, knotted at what I’m intending, rebels at the idea of food. I’ll eat later, when Beth’s safely stowed in the basement. I’ve picked well, choosing a girl so confused, so mixed-up. When I first approach her in The Busy Bean, something about her calls to me. Is it her air of vulnerability, the way her shoulders speak of unhappiness as she drinks her coffee, unaware of me watching through the window? Oblivious of the fact I already know her name and where she lives?
Not a soul knows she’s coming here tonight. ‘You’re my guilty secret,’ she tells me when we’re at the Harbourside. When I probe, veiled questions designed to dig out who, if anyone, she’s told about us, I’m reassured.
‘Easier that way.’ She shrugs. ‘Otherwise I’ll get the ‘whilst you’re under my roof’ lecture from Dad.’ A smile. ‘Nobody knows about you, Dominic.’
That’s good. Very good. So far, Beth Sutton has proved an easy catch. I smile back, reeling her in further. Oh, I’m adept at the gestures that crack open a female’s defences, my teachers the DVDs I watch. I take my cues from the masters of the art: Brad Pitt, Colin Firth, Johnny Depp. In real life, I’ve never had a girlfriend, never wined and dined a female apart from at Troopers Hill. It’s been a good many years since any woman set foot in this cottage.
A memory stirs within me, deep and primeval. I clamp down on it, hard. Tonight’s not the time to remember such things. This evening is about Beth. What I can offer her. And what she’ll give me in return, once I’ve broken her in. The relationship we’ll forge will be good. Strong.
Not like my parents’ marriage, its pendulum swinging between bitter rows and angry silences. They married late in life. Past forty, my mother’s health not good, keen to produce a child before the menopause claimed her, she settled for Lincoln Perdue as her best bet. As for him, I’m guessing he wanted a live-in maid service, his meals cooked and his laundry done, with sex on tap to boot. He must have figured a wife to be cheaper than a combination of housekeepers and whores. Being a father didn’t come as part of the package, though. Small wonder he loathed me from my birth. Especially my eyes, which entrance some people and repulse others. One a soft brown, warm, with faint gold flecks, inherited from my mother. The other blue, chilly, with hints of green, straight from his genes. People’s eyes can change colour during childhood, from what I’ve read. Had my mother lived, I believe my blue iris might have darkened under her influence to match its sibling. I’d have ended up with her eyes. Instead, I’m a weird hybrid.
‘The child’s a damn freak,’ I hear Dad shout at Mum once, when I’m supposed to be asleep. Instead, I’m crouched on the landing outside my bedroom, listening to yet another argument, my mother’s words ricocheting off the walls like bullets.
‘I’ll take Dominic and leave you, Lincoln. If you don’t shape up. Quit the drinking. The other women.’ My father merely snorts in reply.
My life would have been different had she followed through with her threat. Instead, the aneurysm claimed her three months later. At seven years old, life abandoned me to Lincoln Perdue, the rest of my childhood spent tiptoeing around the cottage, in constant fear of his rages. Mostly he ignored me. After Mum’s death, my father, wealthy from his building business, hired a local woman to clean, do the laundry and prepare our meals. To the outside world, I presented an acceptable face: smart clothes, enough food to eat, nothing to spark alarm from the teachers at school. Inside, I withered, starving emotionally. The pendulum swung in favour of my blue eye, and the gradual warping of whatever genes my mother gave me commenced. Her influence still lingers a little, though.  Despite my plans for Beth Sutton, I’m a better man than my father was. He was a cruel man. I’m not.
***** 
When I’m ten years old, I discover his porn stash. Dad’s downstairs, watching sport. The muted voice of the television commentator reaches me as I lie on my bed, together with my father’s shouts of derision. Bored, I wander across the landing into his room, careful to avoid squeaky boards. The cottage where we live consists of two old miners’ residences, converted years before into one, its eighteenth-century floors prone to creaking. If he catches me in his room, it’ll mean the back of his hand cracking across my face, but I sometimes steal in here anyway. The room always has a stale odour from his frequent belching and farting.
I slump against the wardrobe, hugging my knees, my cheek resting on my arm. My gaze travels across the floor, spotting something under the bed. I unravel, going over to peer underneath. A pile of magazines sits, pushed against the skirting board over the far side of the bed; the one I’ve seen has slipped from the top. My fingers reach in, pulling the magazine towards me.
After so many years, my memory of the woman on the cover is still sharp. She’s naked, on her hands and knees, facing the camera. My eyes skim over the curves of her waist, her heavy breasts, towards her mouth. In it is a large red ball, the woman’s lips stretched around the plastic, leather straps securing it in place. I’m repulsed, the image being beyond my ten years of age. My fingers reach out to trace the O-shape of the woman’s mouth as it embraces the sphere that’s gagging her. Later on, I do understand. Whilst it’s not a path I’ll ever follow, the photo calls to something buried deep in my psyche. The need to control, inherited from my father.  
***** 
I don’t know much about Dad’s other women, of course. He never brings any of them to the cottage, but sometimes he arrives home, belching alcohol, his shirt buttoned up in the wrong holes. When he does, the perfume of his latest whore mixes with the whisky on his breath. I wish he’d do it more often; he’s mellow afterwards, his urges slaked, meaning I get shouted at less. Over time, as I transition into a teenager, the visits to the whores decline, along with Dad’s health. Years of booze and burgers take their toll. His waist balloons, stretching his trousers around his belly like the woman’s mouth around the ball-gag. Red veins scribble themselves across his nose and through the whites of his eyes. Sometimes, he clutches at his chest, pain slashing deep lines into his forehead, beads of sweat dotting his skin.
One time, his right leg swells, turning as red as his cheeks. He phones the doctor, fear in his voice, as I escape to the sanctuary of my bedroom. My father isn’t a man who bears pain well. A day or so later, I check the prescriptions that have arrived in the bathroom cabinet. One for angina, the other for cellulitis. I prise off the lids, the child caps no match for a thirteen-year-old, and I tip the contents into my palm; some tablets are round and red, like my father, others are small and white. I Google both conditions. After that day, I play more sport and avoid burgers in the school cafeteria, keen to avoid ending up like Lincoln Perdue. That’s when I realise I possess a degree of self-awareness my father lacks.


The year after, I turn fourteen, and my father starts to wheeze, his breath sounding like air dribbling from a balloon. An inhaler joins the prescription bottles in the bathroom cabinet. As his asthma worsens, it’s never far from his side, either in his pocket or next to the television remote as he slumps in front of the weekend football. The visits to the whores are rare these days, declining in inverse proportion to the height of the stack of magazines under his bed.  
***** 
I’m sixteen when I first contemplate suicide. The idea comes to me as I lie on my bed, listening to my father curse at the television downstairs. Earlier on, he hit me. His cellulitis has flared up again, and his mood’s foul as we eat dinner. As a result, I’m nervous, my fingers clumsy, knocking my glass of water across the table. My father hauls himself to his feet, his face ruddy with rage.
‘Stupid bastard!’ His right hand swipes my cheek, knocking me from my chair. I grasp the table to prevent myself falling further, the jolt as I do so spilling his beer. I don’t wait around, heading straight for the door, but even with his bulk, he manages to grab me. His arm lashes out, once, twice, fiery pain spreading though my face. My father is panting, sweating, and utterly repulsive. As soon as I recover, I’m up the stairs and out of his reach, his curses following me to my room.
As I lie on my bed, I realise my existence is pointless, meaningless from the moment Mum died. The world would be better off without me, and vice versa. What stops me is the inability to decide how best to kill myself. I’ve no access to sleeping tablets, and I’m too much of a coward to slash my wrists. Drowning holds no appeal either. Too likely to be ruled an accident; if I’m to commit suicide, then I want the world to know I chose to end my own life. With a note, explaining why.
The solution comes to me. The basement. I’ll hammer a hook into the wooden rafter that runs across the ceiling, and I’ll hang myself. Release from the hell I live every day is possible; I savour the thought, knowing it’s available if my father gets truly unbearable. Instead of a noose, I slide into my first episode of depression. A dark beast that’s stalked me ever since, eager to sink its fangs into my flesh.
Beth will rescue me from its bite.  
***** 
As I head downstairs, ready to collect my girl, the twin smells of disinfectant and air freshener assault my nostrils. Such odours were banned when my father was alive; he claimed they triggered his asthma. Since his death, I’ve kept the cottage as clean, as neat, as Mum always did. It’ll impress Beth, of course, when I bring her through the front door, when she realises this is no squalid bachelor pad, stale with old pizza and cigarettes. The pine freshness will also prevent her from realising there’s no food cooking in the kitchen.
The keys to the BMW are where they always are, together with my house keys, on a hook behind the front door. I’m nothing if not neat. My fingers reach up to grab them, this morning’s threatening letter from the bank shoved to the back of my mind. OK, so I’ve been on a losing streak. A few lucky deals and I’ll be on top again. I’m Dominic Perdue. The markets never beat me for long.
As my hand takes the keys from the hook, an urge to check the basement stops me. One last look, to ensure everything’s ready for my guest.
I replace the keys and backtrack to a door on the right, opposite the staircase. My hands reach out and pull it outward, revealing steps leading downward. The basement isn’t large, occupying the space under one cottage out of the pair, before some previous owner knocked both houses into one. For some reason, he or she didn’t do the same with the basements, keeping them as two separate rooms accessible from opposite sides of the cottage. It was my father who blocked off one of them, its entrance now walled up and papered over. Across the ceiling of the remaining one is the wooden rafter from my suicidal fantasies. A tiny window sits high up on one wall. I guess Beth’s new home is about twelve feet each way, giving plenty of room for her needs. Three things are in the basement, the bare minimum she’ll require. My father would say I’ve been generous in what I’ve provided. Beth Sutton will have to earn whatever privileges I choose to grant her. Her first few months in here will teach her that.
I remind myself I’m granting her the most precious privilege of all. The right to life. The last occupant of the basement didn’t enjoy such a luxury.
Enough. I’m as ready as I’ll ever be. Time to collect Beth Sutton and introduce her to her new life.    

Maggie James' novel will keep you spellbound until the very end. Buy it here.
 http://www.amazon.com/Second-Captive-Maggie-James/dp/1503280241/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1425725824&sr=8-1&keywords=the+second+captive




Please drop by midweek to read an excerpt from Katrina Cope's novel Scarlet's Escape. Katrina has been a guest on the Scribbler and I am pleased to welcome her back. She lives on the Gold Coast of Australia.







 

4Q Interview with Christopher Graham. The man behind The Reading Ape.

This week the 4Q Interview is fortunate to have Chris Graham (aka The Story Reading Ape) as a guest. Hundreds of folks in the writing world know of Chris but not much about him. He is an unselfish, relentless worker on behalf of authors and writers the world over. His popular website, thestoryreadingapeblog.com is home to countless articles about authors, writing and editing advice, a place to meet indie authors and readers, see book promos and a lot more. He lives in Manchester, England with his extremely patient wife.
He is nota published author.
4Q: I’m interested in knowing how the story reading ape came about, why did you decide to give so many writer’s a boost and how did you come up with the name? CG: I've been a reader for as long as I can remember – often, it was just the books that kept me going otherwise life alone in the middle of a desert was not exactly interesting after you'd gazed in wonder at the stars every night and 'found' your fellow denizens crawled, slithered, stung or bit you (and those were the HUMAN kind lol).I always made sure I had a good stock of mixed reading material with me, often going to UK with an empty bag and going back to the Middle East with 20+ Kgs of second hand books...The idea for setting up a blog for authors came after I'd joined Goodreads (I'd found their app on my first eReader in December 2012) – while there, I often saw authors requesting to be hosted as guests on blogs, or to have their books promo'd on them.So I checked out what was involved in blogging, what the best blog provider was, etc. then wrote and published my very first post – you can see it HERE
The NAME of the blog resulted from a statement once made by Sir Terry Pratchett in his book 'The Science of Discworld II: The Globe' “The anthropologists got it wrong when they named our species Homo sapiens ('wise man'). In any case it's an arrogant and bigheaded thing to say, wisdom being one of our least evident features. In reality, we are Pan narrans, the storytelling chimpanzee.”I extrapolated from that to story listening apes and modernised it to story reading apes, leading eventually to the blog name.A google search soon found a Great Ape reading 'The Origins of Man' book and I re-worked the image to make my Header and Logo.
4Q: Tell us about your writing. CG: My 'writings' are the occasional article and story on my blog, from which it can easily be seen that I am definitely NOT an author lol.Anyone interested can see the stories at the following links: Mrs McCluskey A Short Halloween Tale McKinley Experiment Successful Or my most popular Blog Post: AUTHORS Don't be TWITS when TWEETING and making Online 'Friends' My most re-tweeted post: You READ – but do you leave REVIEWS?
4Q: Please share a childhood anecdote or fond memory of growing up. CG: I have lots of great memories from childhood ranging from listening to my Grandfather telling stories in the evening ( he was a wonderfully expressive teller who made all the voices and facial expressions while he acted out the stories), to my Mother teaching me how to read.Both of them instilled in me, a love for stories and helped develop my imagination so I could LIVE INSIDE the stories I read...
4Q: Aside from the being the story reading ape, what advice can you offer indie authors? CG: Keep writing, refining, improving and sharing the stories inside you and always remember Only YOU can live your dream – NO-ONE else can live it for you.
 



I want to publicly thank Chris for not only participating on the Scribbler but for giving my novel and my blog a huge boost. I am indebted to him for hosting me on the story reading ape blog.
Chris' online links are below;
Blog   -  Facebook Timeline   -  Facebook: Promotion of New Authors and Books
Twitter   -  LinkedIn   -  Google+  -  Goodreads   -  YouTube You can find his book reviews on: Goodreads Smashwords Barnes & Noble Amazon:    UK   -  USA   -  Canada   -  Australia




Next week on the Scribbler two regular authors will be featured. Maggie James will share Chapter 2 of  The Second Captive. You read the Prologue and Chapter 1 previously here.




The tail end of the week will feature returning guest Katrina Cope with an excerpt from her novel Scarlet's Escape. Two exciting authors with teasers.



 

Reaching The Pinnacle - Part 2. A short story by Allan Hudson.

Welcome back to the redesigned Scribbler. If you dropped by last week you would've read Part 1 of Reaching The Pinnacle ( if you didn't, scroll down and you'll find it in case you want to read it first). Jeb Davis and his granddaughter Mindy are hiking to the top of Mount Carleton. The second installment follows.

 No one ever saw him again.
Jeb begins to speculate anew of what might’ve happened to Norton when the skitter of a squirrel overhead disrupts his thoughts. He stops to look up. Standing under a large maple tree that has already shed its reddish leaves, with only a few here and there reluctant to let go, he finds it easy to watch the clever brown acrobat dart from limb to limb, chattering. Jeb soon loses sight of the critter when it darts up the trunk of a neighboring spruce tree. Turning his gaze uphill, he contemplates the sharp rise. He tugs on the straps of his pack, tightening them across his chest. Sniffing the cool air, so clear he can smell the trees, he pauses a few moments longer. Pleased with himself, he heads out to rendezvous with his granddaughter. 
* Eight hours later, Mindy and Jeb are sitting on a fallen log three meters from their tent complaining about their overworked muscles. Jeb is reminded of some he hasn’t used in years. A large fire crackles in front of them in a makeshift pit they made with odd sized rocks. The surrounding trees provided the wood. A slight breeze from the north moves the sharp smoke away from them. The pleasant aroma of burning pine seems almost therapeutic. The clear sky is black with a million pinpricks of light. It’s down to 12 degrees and both have donned heavy fleeces. The flames flicker in the dark, throwing off a welcome heat. Mindy uses a long slender sapling as a poker to prod the wood into flames. They talk about their day in gleeful rapport.- How Jeb had bragged about his famous salami and gouda sandwiches, which he’d made for their lunch, only to discover he’d forgotten to pack them. They’d had dry gorp and granola bars instead. - Their astonishment when they climbed above the tree line – nothing but grey, cracked stone the last two hundred meters – where they discovered the whole valley and sister mountains to the south were visible. They both loved the sensation of height and had remained silent for many moments. - The abandoned Ranger’s station at the very top of the mountain – a four-by-four square meter structure with a double-hip roof. Guy wires of thick twisted steel braced all four corners to solid rock. The fierce winds that streamed across the mountaintop at times would otherwise carry it away. Jeb scolding Mindy for trying to climb the structure – exclaiming that the apex of the roof was actually the highest point in New Brunswick. Her slipping off the roof, and Jeb breaking her fall.
   - The kettle of bald eagles that coiled about the sky on hidden thermals – updrafts created by the mountain sides – and how majestically they had soared. They had left Mindy wishing she could fly. - The vivid orange and ovoid globes dotted with yellow patches: amanita flavocona – a poisonous mushroom they had found attached to red spruce the species favored at high elevations. Jeb showing off, telling Mindy the common name was “yellow warts.” Ugh! was Mindy’s response.
They shift into silent spheres on occasion, one pondering what the other has said. Jeb asks about her boyfriend. Is he taking the job out west? Is that what she wanted to tell him? No answer! So he talks about her experience testifying at court as a member of the RCMP’s Firearms and Tool Mark Identification Section; her knowledge of firearms is extensive. Jeb tells her how many of his acquaintances passed away in the last year. They argue about which team will win this year’s Stanley Cup. Even though they haven’t won a championship in her lifetime, she refuses to turn her back on the Maple Leafs. They touch briefly on the dead body she found last year. She chatted about the new Glock 19 Gen 4 handgun she purchased. Jeb told her about the marvelous young woman of 68 he had met at dance classes, and asks if Mindy minds? They both stare at the flames and become quiet. Jeb has a closed mouth smile; Mindy has a smooth brow and glad eyes. Yet they look uncannily alike.Jeb’ stomach rumbles and he breaks from his trance. “Time to eat, my dear. Open the wine if you don’t mind.”He jumps up, hastens to his pack just inside the unzipped tent to remove two heavy tin foil plates – like supermarkets sell their pies in – each wrapped in a thin thermal towel. Mindy already has the wine, plastic glasses – his neon green, hers bright pink – and the cork screw. She had taken them out when she’d unpacked her sleeping bag before dinner. With a practiced hand, she slits away the top foil, twists in the corkscrew and opens up the grape.
The coals are pushed into a heap, with two pockets shaped on top, into which the heavy tin plates fit. The coals glow with heat, manifested by pink, white and red flares. A lick of blue flame erupts around the edges, where the heat finds something solid. Jeb puts on his hiking gloves to place the plates on the fire and the heat singes the loose threads on the end. The burnt nylon stinks.Once the homemade roasters are sizzling, with aromatic juices of garlic and butter scenting the air, Mindy says, “Oh, Gramps, those smell good. How long?”“Probably twenty minutes. Why?”Jeb can see her smile in the light of the flames. It couldn’t be any bigger.“I want to tell you the surprise now.” Jeb is jubilant, he’s been thinking of every possible scenario since she informed him of something she wanted to tell him earlier. “Excellent.”He grabs his neon green wine glass and tips it toward the wine, noticing she brought a bottle of Jacob’s Creek, Select. One of his favorites. “Good choice, young lady.” “Yeah, I know how much you like it.”

“Must be something special.”“Definitely.”After filling their wineglasses, she touches the edge of her glass to his. Mimicking fine lead crystal, she chants, “Pa-tinnnnnng. Here’s to the best Grampy ever.” Jeb blushes and clears his throat, soaking up the comfortable vibes. “To my favorite granddaughter.”“Hah! I’m your only granddaughter.”“Okay then, my favorite grandchild… and don’t tell the boys I said that. I love your brothers just as much.”Mindy winks at him and takes a sip of wine. The firelight makes the blonde highlights stand out in her short curly hair. He has a hard time seeing her as a cop. “Well?”Mindy balances her glass on the log beside her and reaches into her jeans pocket to withdraw a small bag the size of a book of matches. She holds it up so he can see it. It’s too dark to see it’s made of grey velvet and silk tassels as she tugs the puckered opening apart. Reaching in with two fingers, she withdraws an original Vera Wang engagement ring. The 1-carat marquis diamond encased in an ornate band sparkles in the glow of the fire. She slips it on her left ring finger.
“Darrick asked me to marry him.” Jeb can see how happy she is. He can read it in her eyes, the way they widen in delight. Jeb’s good with this turn of events. After all, Darrick’s a solid man who dotes on his granddaughter.“And you said yes of course.”She concentrates on her ring for a moment, the facets teasing her eyes as she turns her hand toward the light as she happily nods her head.
“That’s wonderful news, Mindy. I’m so happy for you. Congratulations!”

‘Thank you, Grampy”They both stand to hug. Mindy gives him a loving squeeze. By Jeb’s reaction, she knows she’s made the right decision. He backs off and holds her at arm’s-length. “What did your mother say?”“I haven’t told her yet. I wanted you to be the first to know.”“Me?”Mindy is shy now and breaks away from her grandfather. Pointing at the roasters, she says, “I think those might be done now.”Jeb turns to eye the sizzling platters, steam escaping from the holes he made in the tin foil with a fork.“A little more will be okay, I cut those potatoes kind of thick. So, you didn’t plan this trip just to tell me that did you?”“No, there’s more. C’mon, sit down again.”She rests upon the dead tree and when Jeb sits beside her, she holds his arm close to her and leans her head on his shoulder.“I want you to walk me down the aisle.”Jeb stares at the embers as she tells him. His elation is complete, a pulsing sensation of love and happiness. The coals turn all bleary as he tries not to blink. His reaction confuses Mindy and she asks gently, “Well?”Jeb can’t talk, scared he will blubber. He offers her a gentle wave, asking her for a moment. She leans forward and sees the gleam in his eyes. She knows he will say yes.The glowing embers and tin plates fade away. In their place a little girl walks from the living room and approaches him in the kitchen. Jeb is standing with his back against the cupboard, arms crossed as he munches on an apple. Mindy stops three or four steps away. He stops chewing and looks down. She’s almost eighteen months old and only thirty-one inches tall. The face that looks up at him is a perfect oval, the eyes uncertain. Jeb can’t think of anything more dear. After a few seconds she blurts,  “Panky!” That was the first time she tried to say his name. The boys called him Gampy then because they couldn’t pronounce Grampy and that was the closest she could get. Jeb glowed with adoration, thinking nothing could make him happier.Until the same little girl grew up.Jeb untangles his arm and hugs her close.“Thank you for this, Mindy. I guess I’m just about the happiest Grampy in the world right now. So… when’s the wedding?”She replies nonchalantly, “In four weeks.”   Please visit the Scribbler on Friday when the 4Q Interview hosts Christopher Graham, owner of the sharing site, the reading ape. Chris is every author's hero.

A short story by Allan Hudson. Reaching The Pinnacle - Part 1

True events inspired this story. As it is told, well, it didn't happen this way but it could've. Grandfather and granddaughter hike to the top of Mount Carleton. Sitting around the campfire that night, the young lady shares what's on her heart.
Copyright is held by the author. 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.”He looks around to see another root growing out from the other side of the tree. It forms a knuckle about a meter and a half across, perfect for two regular sized bums. The ground is littered with fallen leaves – creating yellow and orange flooring. The sun shatters when it hits the tree, creating an inviting tumult of rays and shadows. He has to climb a small embankment about hip high, made of hard-packed dirt and smaller roots. When he finally plops on the exposed wood he wiggles out of his pack. Mindy drops hers, pulls a chrome water bottle out of a side pocket and jogs back down the hill. Scooting up the lip in a skip and a jump, she rounds the tree and, spying the makeshift seat, she says, “Shuffle over there a bit, Grampy.” Before he can reply she offers him the water. “Ah thanks, Mindy, my mouth is as dry as the bark on one of these trees.”
Sitting, their sides touching, she leans into him as he takes a long swig.“I’m glad you decided to do this, Gramps.”Wiping dripping water from his chin with his forearm, he switches the bottle from his right to his left hand and gives his granddaughter a sideways hug.“I’m so pleased you asked. It’s been a long time since just the two of us have been on an overnighter. What…maybe 7 or 8 years? You were at university.”Jeb drops his arm to sit forward. He sets the water bottle on the ground, leaning against the root. Mindy huddles forward, placing her elbows on her knees. Her head is in a narrow ray of sun and she appears golden.“Wow, I can’t believe it’s been that long. That was when we went to Gros Morne National Park in Newfoundland. That was an awesome trip.”With her chin in her hand, she turns her head toward Jeb, her wide smile defines happiness. Jeb is sitting similarly, elbows on his knees. They’re about the same height so they’re eye to eye. Jeb melts under her stare; she’s looked at him that way since she was a baby. He knows her. Fine lines crinkle his temple when he scrunches his brow. “You’re up to something, aren’t you, Mindy?”She frowns back.“Of course! But you have to wait until I’m ready to tell you.”Jeb is ready to offer a guess when she cuts him off. “Don’t even try to guess or I won’t tell you at all.”He stares at the ground, defeated. “Okay”Changing the subject as he offers her the water, he says, “So, what do you think? Another hour to the top, right around noon? We’ve been at this for almost three hours now and it usually takes an old duff like me about four or five, but you… you’re almost running uphill.”They both laugh at his worn out joke. He can see she’s raring to go. He’s amazed at her stamina – always has been – but as a police officer, she has to remain fit. He deems himself in damn fine condition for his 71 years, but he’s no fool and knows he can’t keep up.

“You take off, Mindy. Do the home stretch like you enjoy. I’ll meet you at the campsite. After we’re set up and eat, we can do the last half a kilo to the top. I think the old forest ranger’s station is still there.”She jumps up, brushes a couple of vagrant leaves from her behind.
“Okay. You sure you don’t mind?”
“I haven’t minded before. I’m good. I might stop once in a while to admire the splendor and beauty of our natural surroundings.”
She nods at his formal delivery knowing she’s just been told that he’ll be taking his good old time. Ever since he’d seen The Lord of the Rings, he was always quoting Gandalf about how he “means to arrive when he should.” She, on the other hand, thrives on pushing herself. The solitude of the forested hillside absorbs her stress and she forgets about upholding the law. Truthfully, she doesn’t like putting the tent up with Jeb; he’s too slow. She can have it up in ten minutes on her own, whereas with him “helping” it usually takes a half hour.“Yeah, you do that, Gramps. Watch out for killer squirrels!”“Oh! And I have something to tell you, too! But…!” He wags his finger at her, reminding her she knows the rest“You crafty old dog!”“Don’t call me an old dog. Now get outta here.”He turns back to the leaf-covered vista before him, where he sees the downward slope of the terrain through the thinly scattered trees. The brush is kept trimmed four meters on each side of a narrow brook that flows three meters on the other side of the trail. The path follows the rill for another fifty meters before it twists northeast on its way to the pinnacle. He pushes his pack out of the way, rises and turns on his seat so he can watch her go uphill.
She is already halfway to the large tree where she left her pack, at a serious strut. The way she carries herself reminds Jeb of her father; she has the same physique. Of course, that vision is from when he was younger; they haven’t seen him for twenty-five years. The lovely oval face and cinnamon-colored eyes that can be so intense are from her mother, Heather – Jeb’s daughter. The determination and grit are her own. Watching her shoulder her pack and latch the loose nylon straps, he can only think how proud he is of her.
Jeb’s mind drifts as he stands to shoulder his own pack. Thoughts of Mindy’s father trouble him even with the passing of time. He wonders where he is. The family hasn’t heard from him for such a long time. Couldn’t stay off the bottle; probably drank himself to death. As Jeb climbs down the short bank to head up the trail, he can still remember the last time he saw him. Norton Kane was a self-employed carpenter, living in a rooming house down in the east end of Moncton. He’d work for seven or eight days and go on a bender for two or three. A highly skilled craftsman when he was sober, he was always in demand. All he owned was an old Ford truck, his tools and enough clothes to fill a medium-sized suitcase. A year earlier Jeb’s daughter had had enough. Caring for two boys, aged six and five, and Mindy, only two, she threw him out for good. Norton had stopped at Jeb’s place early one morning, a Saturday that was grey with an overcast sky. The first day of spring didn’t bode well. Norton’s knock on the door woke Jeb up. Opening the back door to admit his son-in-law, he had to step back from the reek of cheap booze. His hair and clothing were disheveled, his manner pleading and his swollen eyes filled with despair. He needed $200.00. He was starting a new project on Monday, a set of stairs in a new house by the golf course, he’d pay Jeb back next week. Jeb knew he’d never see the money again, but he didn’t dislike Norton, who had started out an honorable young man. He gave him $100.00 and wished him an abrupt goodbye. Norton didn’t even say thanks. Two days later, Heather got a call from an angry homeowner demanding to know where his carpenter was. The gentleman had arrived at his house late afternoon to find the work site as if work is still in progress. Norton’s truck was parked in the driveway, rear hatch and driver’s door open. Tools were set up in the garage, with the wide doors rolled up. Sawdust and building materials were lying about. The door to the house was open but Norton was nowhere to be found.
No one ever saw him again.  To be continued....Please visit on Tuesday, Feb 24th for Part 2. This story was originally published in SHORTS Vol.2 Available from amazon.com $1.99.     http://www.amazon.com/SHORTS-Vol-2-Allan- Hudson-ebook/dp/B00QY1DRMM/ref=sr_1_5?ie=UTF8&qid=1424430918&sr=8-5&keywords=allan+Hudson      February 27th the 4Q Interview is back with none other than the most generous man in cyber space. When it comes to supporting authors and books, Chris Graham ( the reading ape ) goes beyond helpful.

Guest Author Mohana Rajakumar of Qatar

Mohanalakshmi Rajakumar is a South Asian American who has lived in Qatar since 2005. Moving to the Arabian Desert was fortuitous in many ways since this is where she met her husband, had two sons, and became a writer.  She has since published eight e-books, including a momoir for first time mothers, Mommy But Still Me;a guide for aspiring writers, So You Want to Sell a Million Copies; a short story collection, Coloured and Other Stories; and a novel about women’s friendships, Saving Peace.  Her coming of age novel, An Unlikely Goddess, won the SheWrites New Novelist competition in 2011. Her recent books have focused on various aspects of life in Qatar. From Dunes to Dior, named as a Best Indie book in 2013, is a collection of essays related to her experiences as a female South Asian American living in the Arabian Gulf. Love Comes Later was the winner of the Best Indie Book Award for Romance in 2013 and is a literary romance set in Qatar and London. The Dohmestics is an inside look into compound life, the day-to-day dynamics between housemaids and their employers. 
After she joined the e-book revolution, Mohana dreams in plotlines. Learn more about her work on her website at www.mohadoha.comor follow her latest on Twitter: @moha_doha.                                    Love Comes Later                                                  Prologue Abdulla’s mind wasn’t on Fatima, or on his uncles or cousins. Not even when he drove through the wrought iron entry gate, oblivious to the sprawl of family cars parked haphazardly in the shared courtyard, did he give them a thought. Despite the holy season, his mind was still hard at work. Mentally, he clicked through a final checklist for tomorrow’s meetings.  I can squeeze in a few more hours if Fatima is nauseous and sleeps in tomorrow, he thought, rubbing his chin. Instead of the stubble he had anticipated, his whiskers were turning soft. A trim was yet another thing he didn’t have time for these days, though longer beards were out of fashion according to his younger brother Saad, who had been trying to grow one for years. Beard length. Just another change to keep up with.  Change was all around him, Abdulla thought. The cousins getting older, he himself soon to become a father.  Abdulla felt the rise of his country’s profile most immediately in the ballooning volume of requests by foreign governments for new trade agreements. By the day, it seemed, Qatar’s international status was growing, which meant more discussions, more meetings.  He slid the car into a gap in the growing shadow between his father’s and grandfather’s houses. It would have to serve as a parking space. The Range Rover door clicked shut behind him as he walked briskly toward his father’s house, BlackBerry in hand, scrolling through his messages. Only then did the sound of wailing reach him, women in pain or grief, emanating from his Uncle Ahmed’s house across the courtyard. He jerked the hands-free device out of his ear and quickened his pace, jogging not toward the majlis where the rest of the men were gathering, but into the main living area of Uncle Ahmed’s, straight toward those unearthly sounds.  The sight of Aunt Wadha stopped him short. Disheveled, her shayla slipping as she howled, she was smacking herself on the forehead. Then came his mother, reaching her arms out to him with a tender, pitying look he hadn’t seen since his pet rabbits from the souqdied. But it was Hessa, his other aunt – Fatima’s mother, his own mother-in-law – who sent him into a panic.  Ashen-faced, her lips bleeding, she was clutching the evil eye necklace he had bought Fatima on their honeymoon. At the sight of it, the delicate gold cord in Hessa’s hands and not around his wife’s neck, Abdulla felt his knees buckle and the BlackBerry slip from his hand.  “What has happened?” he said. He looked from one stricken face to another.  Numbly, he saw his female cousins were there. At the sight of him the older ones, glamorous Noor and bookish Hind, both women in their own right whom he hadn’t seen in years, jerked their shaylasfrom their shoulders to cover their hair and went into the adjoining room. In his haste, he hadn’t said “Darb!” to let them know he was entering the room.  “Abdulla, Abdulla...” his mother began, but was thrust aside by Aunt Hessa.  “Fatima,” Hessa screamed, staring wildly at him. “Fatima!”  Rather than fall onto the floor in front of the women, Abdulla slumped heavily into the nearest overstuffed armchair. Fatima...  They left behind gangly nine-year-old Luluwa, Fatima’s sister, who resisted when they tried to take her with them. His father, gray-faced and tired, entered. Abdulla slouched and waited, the growing dread like something chewing at his insides. His father began to talk, but on hearing “accident” and “the intersection at Al Waab” he remembered the Hukoomi traffic service SMS. Then he heard “Ahmed”, and a shiver of horror ran up his back. The driver had been Ahmed, his uncle, the father of his wife.  Later that night in the morgue, in the minutes or hours (he couldn’t keep track) while he waited to receive her body, Abdulla flicked his Zippo lighter open and struck it alight. Holding it just so, he burned a small patch on his wrist just below his watchstrap. Even this couldn’t contain his rage at the truck driver who came through without a scratch, at his uncle, or at himself.  The morgue was antiseptic, mercilessly public. The police advised against seeing her, insisting that he wouldn’t be able to erase the memory of a face marked with innumerable shards of glass.  Surrounded by family and hospital staff, he couldn’t hold her, talk to her, stroke her slightly rounding stomach, the burial site of their unborn child. Any goodbyes he had hoped to say were suppressed.  He would mourn the baby in secret. He hadn’t wanted to tell relatives about the pregnancy too soon in case of a miscarriage. Now it could never happen: the need to visibly accept God’s will in front of them would prevent him from crying it out, this woe upon woe that was almost too much to bear.  Fatima’s body was washed and wrapped, the prayers said before burial. His little wife, the round face, the knowing eyes he’d grown up next to in the family compound, and the baby he would never see crawl, sleep, or walk were hidden to him now for all eternity. The secret she was carrying was wrapped in a gauzy white kaffan, her grave cloth, when he was finally allowed to see them. The child who would have been named after Abdulla’s grandfather if a boy, his grandmother if a girl, whose gender would now remain a mystery.  At the burial site, as was customary, he fell in line behind his father and uncles. Ahmed, the father, carried his daughter’s slight form. They placed her on her right side.  Men came to lay the concrete slabs that sealed the grave, so her frame would not rise up as it decomposed in the earth. Abdulla regretted not stroking the softness of her chin or the imperceptibly rounding curve of her belly. I am burying my wife and our unborn child,he thought, the taste of blood filling his mouth from the force with which he bit his cheek to stem the tears. Their secret would be lost within her lifeless womb. News of a double tragedy would spread with the sand under doors and into the ears of their larger circle of acquaintances. Someone would call someone to read the Qur‘an over him. Someone would search out someone else for a bottle of Zamzam water from Mecca.  None of it would stop the acid from chewing through his heart.     Loves Comes Later is available at amazon.com where it has received 36 five star and 38 four star reviews. An exceptional novel of love in mixed cultures.Thank you Mohana for sharing the beginning of your novel.     Next week you will be able to read my short story, Reaching the Pinnacle. Jeb Davis and his granddaughter plan an overnight camping trip. They hike to the top of Mount Carleton. Sitting around the campfire, the young lady tells her Grampy what is on her heart.                                                  
                       

Guest Author Vashti Quiroz-Vega Of South Florida

  Vashti is a published author and an award winning blogger. Since she was a child, writing has always been a passion. She is a writer of fantasy, thriller/suspense and horror. Please visit her website to discover more about this very keen author.
http://about.me/vashtiqvega
        A Time to Mourn and a Time to Danceby Vashti Quiroz-Vega   Who falls in love with a ghost? I recall when I first laid eyes on Abigail. She wasn’t attractive in my eyes. Her skin was pallid like an ivory mist. Her limp, pale hair reflected just a glint of sun. Her lips, barely blushed beige, were thin and ill-defined, but when she looked my way with her heavy-lidded green eyes, she captured me. I couldn’t look away. I should have looked away. I had a task to do––so I watched. She had a sweet way about her that lured me into her world. Was it possible to take part in her world? I observed her. She did caring things for those around her and had a generous heart. Oddly, she never seemed to expect anything in return. She was kind to animals and nature. She enjoyed singing, although she wasn’t very good at staying in tune. I spent hours, days, and then weeks observing her––trying to find something that would make my errand easier. I could not. What about this creature held me captive? Abigail was virtuous, but also an odd and clumsy creature. I lost count of how many times I had to swiftly cover my mouth, fearing that my laughter would betray my presence. Once, she picked up a tarantula spider. It appeared to prance happily in place on her palm. She gazed at it wide-eyed and giggled with glee. Then she dropped it. The spider shattered when it hit the ground. She wailed for hours.  Another time she witnessed a small boy feeding bread to a swan. She ran to them and picked up a piece of bread lying by the boy’s feet. She attempted to feed the swan at the same time the boy did, but instead she clumsily struck the swan’s beak, making it irate. She gasped as the angry bird took the boy’s arm in its beak and pounded the small limb with one of its massive wings. Abigail screamed for help and managed to pull the boy away, but not before the swan had broken his arm. The boy ran away to his parents, red-faced and howling, his arm dangling by his side. She dropped to the ground and created a puddle with her guilt and sorrow. She did not eat for days. That’s when I finally approached her. “Why do you starve yourself?” She jumped and stared at me. “Do you wish to die?” “No, I wish to live.” Her eyes were wide and her pale lips trembled. “I hurt a small boy and deserve to suffer.” “You did no such thing. The bird hurt the boy, but his arm is healing well. He plays happily as we speak, regardless of the cast he wears. You have no need to go on grieving.” “How do you know this?” She looked at me askance.  Thinking quickly I responded, “I was told about what had happened to the boy, and I just saw him minutes before I ran into you.”  She stared at me, brows crumbled and eyes squinted, and then she smiled. “I’m glad to know this, thank you. My name is Abigail.” “Then you must nourish yourself, Abigail.”  I looked around. A red fruit hanging happily from a nearby tree caught my eye. I picked it and handed it to her. She extended her hand slowly and took it. She bit into it quickly, repeatedly holding the ripened, sweet fruit with both hands. She devoured it in no time. As she swallowed the last morsel, I wiped a bit of dribble off her chin. She giggled and her cheeks turned the color of an orchid rose. I laughed. “My name is Azrael,” I’m not sure why I told her. I reveal my name to few. “It’s nice to meet you, Azrael. Would you like to take a walk?” She wore a large grin on her face. I nodded. “Oh, good! This forest is quite beautiful. I enjoy hiking here. The smells, the sounds––fascinate me!”  I smiled at her, and we began our stroll. “This beautiful place can also be quite dangerous. Doesn’t that scare you?” “No.” Her face was as innocent and pure as a daisy.  

We continued walking. She stopped to smell wildflowers, drink water from a small waterfall that emptied into a noisy river, to point at birds she recognized and insects. I thought today would be the day, but torrents of crystalline water gushed, white fluffy clouds whipped across intense cerulean skies, daffodils vibrant as stars quivered and danced. It was much too lively a day for death to intrude. “I must leave now.” “So soon, Azrael?” She sighed heavily and her body slumped. “The sun will set soon. Perhaps you should go home before it becomes dark and you can’t find your way back.”  She nodded with a frown. “Goodbye. It was very nice exploring the forest with you. Thank you for a lovely time.” She departed.  I rushed in the opposite direction. When I was sure to be far enough away, I crumbled to the ground. “Why? Why must I end the life of such a creature?” I cried to the heavens. “There is no malice in her. She is a lamb!” I felt a deep burning ache in my chest. Large drops fell from my eyes. I touched my cheek and looked with amazement at my wet fingers. A voice in my head reassured me that my task had good purpose. I rose from the ground and left the forest. * The next day I visited the small forest outside Abigail’s home again. It was alive with her presence. She moved rhythmically to the sounds of the birds chirping, ducks quacking, water flowing, and the whistling of leaves caressed by the wind. I hid behind a large tree and watched her sway, twirl, and pirouette. She moved gracefully––until she stumbled, plopped to the ground in a seated position, and then began to laugh wholeheartedly. “Are you alright?” I walked toward her trying to conceal my own laughter.  She whisked her head toward me and grinned. She jumped to her feet and pranced to me. “I knew you would come!”  Her enthusiasm filled me with joy. “I couldn’t stay away.”  She giggled at my words. “Come, I want to show you something.” She grabbed my hand and pulled me along a different path from the one we had walked the day before. “Where are you taking me?” “You’ll see . . . ” We arrived at an open area. “All right, stop right here,” she said. I gathered my brow. She paced forward and stopped in front of something, then waved me over. “Come, but be careful.” I took apprehensive steps toward her and after a few steps, I saw it. The hole. “What is this?” I asked. “This is a natural sinkhole,” she said in a matter-of-fact voice. “Isn’t it magnificent? It’s almost perfectly round. It’s beautiful, surrounded by vegetation and––” “Enough!” I yelled. She jumped and recoiled. I didn’t see beauty in this hole, hidden away in the middle of the forest. I only saw peril and fatality. “Many have lost their lives here in the depths of despair.” I pointed at the hole. She stared at me, her green eyes wide and questioning. “Who do you think I am?” I asked in a thunderous voice. She trembled. Her mouth hung open. “You don’t even know me, but yet you venture to bring me here? To this evil place?” “Evil?” she said. “Yes, evil!” She gasped and flinched. She shook her head and covered her opened mouth with both hands. “I didn’t know,” she whispered through her fingers. I sensed the pain and horror of the victims whose bones lay broken, discarded and forgotten at the bottom of the hole. A veil of blackness enshrouded me. I couldn’t see past her death. I stomped toward her. I grabbed her by the throat and lifted her off the ground. The thick odor of corpses long dead exposed my psyche to influences that led me to do what I was created to do––kill.  I released her neck. She coughed and wheezed. She collapsed to one knee. I picked her up by the shoulders and dangled her over the hole.  Her eyes opened wide. She glanced down into the pit and screamed. “Please don’t hurt me! I don’t want to die!” She gazed at me with imploring eyes.  Her words touched my heart once more. She wanted to live. I swung her over my shoulder and hurried from that awful site. I placed her down gently on lush green grass near the edge of the forest. I looked at her. Her hair was a sunburst on a blooming honey locust; her skin, opal cream; her verdant eyes, glistening jewels. I wiped the moisture from them, and her luscious cherry lips quivered. Had my vision been so impaired that I had thought this creature less than perfect?  “You are a good man,” she said hoarsely, no doubt from damage inflicted by my tight grip. She tried to smile, but couldn’t quite make the expression. “Go home now. Do not return to that hole. It is an evil place.” I helped her to her feet.  She stepped away, then hesitated and turned toward me. The look of gratitude on her face surprised me. She ran to me and kissed me on the cheek. “Thank you,” she said and walked away.  Abigail’s kiss on my cheek lingered and set me ablaze. I stood there like a statue, fearful that any sudden movement would end the moment too soon.  We continued to meet every day at the small forest near her house. We took long walks. Abigail danced, talked, sang and was excited by every small creature she ran across––from a butterfly to a snake. I enjoyed our walks. I relished her company. No creature has ever been so exquisite. I never wanted to leave her side. I had forgotten, if only for a brief moment, who––or what––I was. I was the opposite of her. One day I returned to our usual meeting place and found her sitting still on a rock. It was not like her to be so subdued. “Hello,” I said.  She lifted her eyes and looked at me inquisitively. “I thought I would not see you today.” “Really? Why?” She shrugged. Her body was slumped and her face slackened. She seemed strange, unfamiliar. * “What is the matter?” My heart pounded. “I feel weary, that’s all,” she said, but I knew it was more than that. “Are we going for a walk today?” “No, I don’t feel up to it.” “Have you lost your will to live?” I asked.  She looked at me sideways and then scowled. “I do not want to walk. I do want to live!” Sparks of life flew out of her eyes. I grinned at her. She tried to stay serious, but burst out laughing instead. I sat by her side. She leaned her body toward me and rested her head on my chest. She closed her eyes and fell asleep. I was overcome with emotions new to me. How did I get here? Why has this strange girl grown so fond of me? What does she see when she looks at me? Does she not see the blackness in my eyes? Does my long, sable, tangled hair not look suspect? I am large in stature and powerfully built––does this not seem menacing? It would be so simple to place my hand over her small nose and mouth while she slept until she could draw breath no more, or break her neck with a quick flick of my wrist. She would never know death had come for her. But she slept the sleep of an infant over my beating heart. Surely death could wait for another moment, one that would be less filled with upright virtue and pure faith. She believed in me, and she saw goodness in me that no one had ever seen. Most people knew me instinctually and tried to flee from me in fright. She welcomed me into her heart. Yes, death could wait. She awoke. As she opened her eyes, the day seemed brighter. “How long have I been asleep?”  “Not very long. Did you sleep well?” She grinned. “I never slept more soundly.” “Now that you’ve had your rest, would you like to go for a walk?” She extended her hand toward me, and I reacted. She caressed my face. I closed my eyes to isolate the gentle stroking. No one had ever shown me such kindness. I opened my eyes and saw the most beautiful creature I had ever seen, and she was touching my face in a way that made my heart beat faster. “I must leave now. I promised my mother I would not stay out late today.”  She stood up slowly, and I watched her walk away. She looked over her shoulder once and smiled. That’s when I decided to disable the communication with above. I knew I could not complete this task. Not now––perhaps not ever.  I returned to the forest several times after that, but she never showed. After a few days, I decided I could not wait any longer. I missed her. So I went to knock on her door. A burly man opened the door, and I got the expected wary look. “Yes, who are you looking for, son?” He looked at me sideways. “I’m looking for Abigail.”  The man’s face turned solemn. “What do you want with her?” “She is a friend. I haven’t seen her in a while. I worry for her.” “There is reason for worry. She is very sick. The cancer has come back with a vengeance. Her life is only about pain and anguish now.” His voice was hoarse, and wells formed in his eyes. “She was always such a sweet, happy girl. She does not deserve to suffer so.” Shaking his head, he turned to go back inside the house. “Wait! Where is she?” My pulse raced.  “Oh, you don’t want to see her like this. It is an awful sight.” “I do want to see her. I need to see her. Please tell me where to find her.”  “She’s at the hospital,” he said. The hospital was not far. I was there in no time. I watched her briefly from her hospital room door. She squirmed and groaned on the bed. I locked the door and approached her––my heart was breaking. I waited too long. It is because of me she suffers so. I could have spared her this agony. When I reached her bedside, she saw me and smiled despite the anguish she endured. “I knew you’d come.” She tried to remain still but at times she could not, and a moan escaped her lips. I passed my hand over her head and caressed her face. She held my hand with both of hers.  “Abigail, do you want to live?” My voice quavered. She shook her head slowly and whispered, “No.” Streams of sorrow meandered down her face.  For the first time I expanded my large, black wings and allowed her to see them. “Don’t be frightened.”  “You never frightened me. I knew all along you were an angel.” She winced and whimpered. “I am the angel of death.”  She gazed lovingly at me. “Give me peace.”  I reached for her and held her in my arms. I leaned my head forward, and she caressed my face. I kissed her on the lips. The sweetest kiss I’ve ever known. And she breathed her last breath.  Copyright © 2014 by Vashti Quiroz-Vega. All rights reserved. Used by permission


Thank you Vashti for sharing this entertaining story. Her novel, The Basement, is a suspense/thriller aimed at preteen-teen readers. Find out more at http://about.me/vashtiqvega
 
Please visit the Scribbler next week to read my latest short story, Reaching the Pinnacle. Grandfather and granddaughter hike to the top of Mount Carleton. Sitting around the campfire, the young lady shares what is on her heart.