The Ogre and the Princess

Orville came in, fresh from Memorial, just as we were ending our shift change briefing. The ambulance crew was just getting him settled in Room 326 with the help of some of the shift aides finishing their good deeds for the evening.

Laura, our shift nurse, took down the word from a tired second shift supervisor: "New transfer, total hip replacement. He's combative, disoriented, and PIA."

Oh, great. That's all we need. Another THR who's here to finish out their last days with the rest of the Skilled Ward's "sliders."

I'd been at Hope Terrace nursing home for over a year by them, and was starting to get hardened from the stream of old, infirm, and helpless who were relegated to the "Forget Me Ward" biding their time, slowly sliding downhill until one of us finds them cold and still on the 3AM bed check. Most of them never even had families who visited anymore.

We took over after the second shift crew went home for the night. Rosie gathered a fresh supply of bed linens for the first check and I joined her on rounds while Shirley filled fresh water pitchers and Linda grabbed the cuff, stethoscope and thermometer for TPR's. Rosie and I walked into 326 and said hello to Fred, Orville's roommate. Fred had been at Hope Terrace going on his twentieth year, after taking a drunken header off the town's one viaduct. He was... okay, in most ways. Fred was just highly disoriented most of the time, and it was all we could do to keep him from tottering off down Andrew Avenue, calling every male "Jack" and asking for a ride to get a beer. Yeah, Fred was all right.

Orville was another matter. After Rosie and I said our hellos, Rosie lifted Orville's covers to check for moisture or a mess, when Orville's hand shot out and grabbed her by the wrist. She cried out in pain and surprise and tried to pull back. But as weak as the old man's lower body was, he had incredible arm and hand strength. He uttered an incomprehensible stream of what could be interpreted as obscenities, and wrench Rosie's arm.

I reached over to rescue my partner, but Orville's other hand came up before I could dodge, an iron-hard fist that smashed into my mouth and sent me reeling across the room.

Before I could get back up, the rest of the crew charged in with a Posie jacket. It took all five of us to hold that old codger down so Laura could zap him with a dose of Thorazine strong enough to mellow out an angry buffalo, and then we trussed him up so he couldn't do anyone else any more harm.

That was our introduction to "Orville the Ogre," and nothing changed after that. A few weeks later, I transferred to second shift, going in at 3PM and working until 11. Bed checks were replaced with therapy sessions and baths, and if you think it's easy giving a chair shower to a retired farmer with a mean streak a mile wide and the upper body strength of a bull, you have another think coming.

We had a total of thirty-six patients in the "Forget Me Ward," and spending all the extra time and attention keeping everyone else away from The Ogre kept us all hopping. We kept him tied to his wheelchair, secured by a restraint strap to the handrail in the hall, whenever we weren't feeding him or wrestling through his physical therapy. He was constantly hallucinating. The rock by the flagpole in the yard was a pig. The nurse's station was the cattle trough. In his barely intelligible, mush-mouthed way, he let us all know in no uncertain terms how he saw us, and I don't recall the term "human" being used once. Anything or anyone who wandered within range of those long, powerful arms got a punch or a pinch, or whatever unpleasantness he could unleash against one so foolish.

And then it happened. Family Day. Or what passed for Family Day in the "Forget Me Ward." A family actually came to visit one of the patients. A young mom and dad, in their twenties, there to see Grandma Lettie. And with them came Little Cassie. Three years old, dressed in a fairy princess gown. The cutest little thing anyone there had ever seen, and precocious as only a toddler could be. She skipped down the hall from the main lobby, just ahead of her parents. Past the utility room where we rinsed soiled bed linens before bagging them up for the laundry, past the nurse's station where Nancy prepped the medicine cups for the 5 o'clock round, around the corner--

And straight into the waiting arms of the Ogre.

I was watching him, I swear I was. I was young, I was fast, and I was strong, but I couldn't outrun a three-year-old princess, and I had no chance to save her. Horrified, we all watched speechless as the old farmer swept her up and drew her into his lap.

And hugged her close as she threw her arms around his neck with a happy squeal.

Orville the Ogre's face transformed. Stress lines disappeared, replaced by laugh wrinkles. The hard, angry eyes opened wide. For the first time, we heard his soft, hoarse voice, clear and strong. "Hello, there, young lady. Who may I ask are you?"

"I'm Cassie, and you can be my grandpa," she replied, and grabbed his weathered face in both hands, planting a warm, sloppy kiss right on his nose.

Orville laughed.

And three nurses and eight aides let go a collective sigh of relief. I stepped forward, still shaking, to help Cassie down, but her parents stopped me. "It's okay," her father said. "We just lost my dad, and if Cassie wants another Grandpa, I'm fine with it."

Cassie and Orville talked for another five minutes together. She showed him how she could dance in her pretty pink dress, and Orville oohed and ahed over every twirl, every dip, and every little bow.

Finally, her mom and dad called her over, and Cassie gave Orville one last hug with a promise to come see her new grandpa again, soon. Then she skipped off to say hello to Great Grandma Lettie.

I came to get Orville later to help him to bed. I barely avoided the punch thrown at my head as I untied the strap from the handrail, and ignored his mush-mouthed verbal assault as we rolled down the hall.

As I secured his Posie for the night, he scowled up at me one last time for the day. "Ain' summon gonna feed that damned pig?"

I chuckled to myself on the way out the door. Cassie, you better come back soon.

Simply Asking

Most people who know me know I'm not a proud man. God knows I haven't done much of which to be proud, in the grand scheme of things. I'm just a man. That being said,  I have done some things that I thought were pretty cool.

I got to meet Jim Varney once. For those who aren't familiar, Jim's most famous character was Ernest P. Worrell, a most loveable klutz very high on my cool-people list.

Another thing I'm pretty proud of is my writing, not in a "Oh, look at me, I'm awesome!" kind of way but more in a "Hey, I came up with this cool story and some folks liked it enough to publish it" way. It even won an award. So I guess that's pretty cool.

Which brings me to the heart of my post this week: I'd really like it if you bought my books. I have four out now, and you can check them all out by clicking on my "My Books" page.

I'd love to write full-time, and from the feedback I've received on my work, folks enjoy it a lot. But getting published, even winning awards, are wholly different from getting the exposure I need to become a commercial success. After making the "1 per cent cut" to get published, now I find myself trying to out-shout a half-million other writers out there trying to sell their books as well, and I'm afraid I'm not one to "jump in the mud and wrestle with the pigs."

So what I'm asking for, is everyone who has read my work and likes it, please tell your friends, post on Facebook and Twitter, and just spread the word. For those who haven't dived into my books yet, or hasn't read them all, I'd sincerely appreciate it if you bought my work.

Based on other feedback, You'll like what you read.

Thanks for your time. We'll be back next week with another peek inside my head (Not too scary, I assure you.) 

Author Influence: David Weber

Greetings once again, fellow castaways.

This week, I want to talk about yet another of the writers who have had significant influence in my literary taste, and writing style.

Few of you may even be aware of David Weber, unless you're big military science fiction fans. Thos who are, know exactly what I'm talking about when I say the term "Honorverse."

I was introduced to Mr. Weber through the first book in his series about Starship Captain Honor Harrington, aka who Janeway should have been.

 

 

Okay, I can already hear the What? in your voices. "But Kate Janeway was... Janeway!"

 

Yes, and she was also the reason I quit watching the Star Trek  franchise. I was just not attached to Capt. Janeway in the way that I was to others in the franchise. James T. Kirk was the "Photon Tordedo Kid," and Jean-Luc Picard was "Make it So." Yeah, they both had their appeal. JT was Mr. Action, always ready for the brawl, the phaser set to stun, the beautiful alien babe for whom to fall head over heels before the episode was over. Jean-Luc was Mr. Classy, ready to negotiate, able to talk his Shakespearian way out of just about any situation. But he always had a Klingon security chief and a first officer who could back up his talk with a big stick. Or bat'leth. Whatever it takes, right? Does anyone disagree with the statement "Worf kicks boo-tay?" Yeah, I thought not.

 

 

 

Okay, so fast forward a little bit to a bookstore where I was browsing one day for a something that would see me through a flight to Dallas. I find this book, On Basilisk Station, by David Weber. David Who?  No, that's Doctor Who. I said David Weber. I'm looking for a good read, and this looks like it's at least less boring than Arthur C. Clarke.

 

And I am sucked into the Honorverse. Weber creates this whole new universe and makes people live in it. What really set it off for me was the way Weber manages this huge cast of main characters in a way that each one has their own distinct personality, and they all undergo their own transformation throughout the book (See last week's post. I'm big on transformation).

 

Anyway, here's Miss Honor Harrington, lady starship captain, and she isn't all "Oh, the aliens are revolting? Let's invite them over for tea and crumpets." She is a commander. One who issues orders and expects them to be carried out. One who isn't squeamish about launching huge amounts of whoopass against the enemy, whether it's a flight of nuclear missiles ship-to-ship, or a lightning flurry of punches hand-to-hand.

 

Plus, she's got a twenty-pound lil' buddy full of claws and temper who's adopted her as his own: Nimitz, the treecat.

 

Yeah, man. Together, they be azzo-looly bad.

 

So I pore through Basilisk Station and start in on the rest of the series with great joy and aplomb. Then I discover Weber has written stories and books about my favorite AI's the Bolos. For hose who aren't up to speed, picture giant super-tank the size of a battleship, but on land, with immense firepower and the capacity to huck suns the size of basketballs at targets. That could be a bad day for someone. Oh, and did I mention Bolos are artificially intelligent as well?

 

 

 

I can tell you from reading many stories and books featuring Bolos, it takes a real talent to make a machine come to life convincingly. It's about as hard as writing humor, in fact. But Weber does it well. He's coordinated with John Ringo and other writers on various projects I've seen on the shelves. His voice is clean, his characters strong, his worlds are vivid, and his cultures are realistic. His action sequences will have you clutching the book with both hands, reading just one more page.

 

I think I've found my replacement for the late great Robert A. Heinlein.

 

Go to your favorite bookstore and check out David Weber today. You'll be glad you did.

 

 

Transformation

Good day, fellow Castaways on the Distant Shores of my mind. I apologize for the late post this week; it's been an awfully full schedule at the Keith Household. We have many things in transition, and sometimes time gets to be a premium. But here I am. Grad a coffee cup from the cart, fill it with warm, earthy goodness, and while you're at it, swipe a Danish or two. Let's sit by the fire and watch the snow fly by the windows on its way to SOMEWHERE ELSE, PLEASE!!!

I believe the key element in any story is something called Transformation. A character starts the story in one place and ends in another. The character can be a person or a  place, or even a situation. Without transformation, I believe, we really have no story. I only saw one exception to this maxim, in all the years I've read, and that story (written by someone else) hasn't seen the light of day. It was a study on the writer's part.

Even in stories where the main character doesn't transform, someone or something else should. A prime example of this is The Soul of Caliban, by Emma Lindsey Squier. The dog Caliban, an ugly, vicious brute of an animal, still with odd, unpredictable moments of tenderness, maintained his character throughout the story, even up to the last moment when his owner, Leon Suprenon, shoots him, thinking the dog had just mauled a baby. But it was Suprenon who transforms, too late, as he comes to realize Caliban was defending the baby against a pack of wild wolves.

On a more epic level, Frodo Baggins in The Lord of the Rings changes throughout the span of the story line, coming home from war to see his village changed as well, formerly a pastoral paradise now tainted by pollution and corruption. He is no longer the joyful lad drawn against hi will into the conflict of the story. He is now a man ready to take a forceful stand against the forces that damaged his home.



In my series The NADIA Project, several characters go through their own transformations.

Nadia begins the series in a kind of blissful ignorance. By the end of the first book, she is painfully aware of the truth behind her existence, and has become determined to hold The Pinnacle accountable for their arrogance. She changes in many ways, becoming a little harder in some ways, and more flexible in others as the circumstances around her change, and more facts come to light. These changes come about gradually as the story progresses. But some elements stay constant as well. Her love for Jon is always strong, even though it's tested to its limits in Unalive.

Jon becomes changed from a reckless man haunted by his own mistakes, to one who becomes accountable to an authority closer to him (Dr. Hermsen), to one who finds himself actually seeking guidance from Jimmy, in circumstances he realizes he's totally unequipped to handle.

Jenna is the most fluid of all my characters, and I believe that's why she's the most popular one in the series. She's the bad guy, she's the good guy, she's neither, all rolled into one ball of fury and vengeance. She herself begins the story in blissful ignorance as a Pinnacle enforcer. Then, once she realizes she's being manipulated dishonestly, she begins to take steps to correct the relationship she has with her employers.

Bunny is the dark, snarky loner who finds his match in a dynamic, flamboyant Hushi.

Hushi is the brilliant, vivacious anime princess who realizes moments are too fleeting not to grasp.

Sofi is the crushed, angry survivor who knows she is loved for who she is, and for what she is.

Jimmy and Donna are the two most constant characters in the series, maintain their values and integrity all the way through, even with the hard lessons life has thrown at them.

I think the more you make your characters change, the better your story is, especially if it spans more than one book. Transformation is the heartbeat of the story.

Who is your favorite character in literature, and how do they change?

The Dream.

My father died in February, 1985, after a nine-year fight with a cancer that was supposed to be "easily treatable" and "no big thing" when the doctors found it in the fall of 1976.

It was probably the hardest blow I ever had in my life. This was the man who taught me what it was to be a dad and a man in this world. He never said, "here's how you do it." He just did. Frank was a gentleman among gentlemen, respected and honored in our town.

Unlike his children.

We grew up in the wrong end of La Porte, Indiana, an industrial town that fell on hard times during the Carter Administration, like so many other factory towns across the country. We lived on Pulaski Street across from one of the local bars, and there wasn't a week that went by without one of us getting into a fight, skipping school, getting drunk or high or both. I think all that trouble just came part and parcel with the strong personalities we all had inherited. Dad did his best, but there was just too many of us, and there were too many outside influences working against us.

1985 was my last year of active duty with the Air Force. My oldest brother was still in the Army at the time we got the calls from home. My squadron commander and First Sergeant found me in the barracks day room watching TV, and had me packed and on a plane in another hour. Allen had a critical job with the Army, and was unable to get home for another two weeks. During that time, Dad hung on in the hospital, waiting for us all to get together one last time. Even unconscious and on dilaudid, he was more stubborn than any freak in a black hooded robe.

After the funeral, I returned to duty with a huge black hole in my life where Dad used to be. My last connection with the concept of "home" was gone. My brothers and sisters all had their own families to worry about. From here on out, I was on my own.

It was six months later when I had the dream. I know that dreams can reflect what is in the heart, but dreams can also be sent.

I found myself in my grandfather's house, where we had moved after my parents split up. Standing in an empty kitchen, I heard the sounds of someone in the basement woodshop. The whir of an electric motor vibrated throughout the house.

Descending the basement stairs, I turned right. My father stood at the lathe, turning a piece of wood. The chisel sent chips flying over Dad's shoulder as he worked his way down the length of maple, rounding the board to begin a table leg.

My heart beat heavier as I spoke my thoughts. "Dad? You're not supposed to be here."

He stopped long enough to check his contour gauge against the wood. "Yes, son. It's okay. I got permission."

I had to fight the words out. A fresh wave of grief washed over me. "Why did you have to die?"

He stopped and put the chisel down. He didn't look straight at me, not at first. He spoke softly, not sad, but wistful. "It was my time. You have to understand that."

The lump in my throat made my voice thick. I silently cursed the fog of tears that kept me from seeing him clearly. I wanted to run to him, throw my arms around him and never let go. But I knew, inside, that I couldn't. Some unspoken command from an undeniable authority held me in place. "I miss you, Dad."

"I miss you, too. But I want you to know something." Now he looked at me, and his eyes held the same love he'd always shown me, even when we'd done something he wasn't proud of. But one thing we all knew, no doubt: Dad loved us. He continued. "I'm happy where I am. And I'm supposed to tell you that we'll all be together again."

He picked up his chisel again, the favorite round-nosed one that he made himself, and went back to work on the table leg. It was time to go back upstairs.

I woke still feeling everything, remembering every word of the dream. My heart still hammered. My pillow was damp from tears. But until that moment, I didn't think I would ever be okay again. Now I knew. I knew that things were going to be all right.

Because my father told me they would.

I Want To Thank The Academy...

Good day, fellow castaways. Before I get started on this week's post, we have some business to conclude.

From  last week's comments, a winner has been selected to receive a free eBook of their choice from my (now multiple) award-winning series The NADIA Project.

Jill Denney, come forward and collect your prize! (sorry, should have had you all leave an email address in your comment to make it easier to collect!) Send me an email at cyrus DOT keith AT yahoo DOT com, and I will send you your eBook.

Thanks one and all for your comments. Sorry for the headache, Rob, but I like blue way too much (though my actual favorite color is red).

Now, the next item of interest is this:

*Insert girlie squeal* Two of my books have won Top Ten honors in the Annual Preditors and Editors' Reader's Poll! Yes, my novel Critical Mass took 4th place in the Best Thriller Novel category,

and my novella Lies and Paine took 4th place in the All Other Short Stories category.

Thank you to everyone who logged in and voted for me.

I'm deeply honored.

Last week, I regaled you with an excerpt from Lies and Paine.  I think it fitting that this week, you all get a sample from Critical Mass.


The blurb:

 Jenna Paine is a super spy, genetically enhanced to be more than human.

Nadia Velasquez is a living weapon of mass destruction.

When the secret organization who built them both decides they are no longer useful, two enemies are thrown together for the only purposes they could have in common: survival and revenge.

 There's only one way out of The Pinnacle, and that's on a coroner's slab. Jenna lives through a treacherous attack vowing to exact her vengeance on the people who trained her to be the most deadly agent on the planet.

 

 Wounded and on the run, she turns to the man who's sworn to make her face charges for her involvement in The Pinnacle's nefarious schemes.

 After years spent hiding from The Pinnacle, Nadia runs into the one thing she never counted on: Shelf life. As her body breaks down, she realizes it's only a matter of the short time she has left to redeem her existence and give her daughter a chance to live free.

 

 In the final showdown, the two transhumans join forces against a common enemy, and The Pinnacle come to know the deadly significance of…

Critical Mass

 

 

 

 

Excerpt:


A flip of a switch at the end of the hall lit up doors on the left and on the right. At the far end of the tunnel, another staircase went up. Jon entered the first room on the right and turned on the light. A small counter and fridge greeted him. On the counter sat a coffee maker. He started a pot and walked back out into the common room.

Eleven people taunted him from candid photos tacked on the corkboard. Next to each was a printout. Jon put a finger on each photo as he named them out loud, a ritual he engaged in every time he came down: “John Bowman. Armando Lopez. Bruce Wilkes. Vladimir Kuznetzov. Bernadetta Caglioni. Noor Ah’halaami. Sirdar Karina Hattangadi.” Four other photos were pegged to the board in a separate group. “Jenna Paine. Walter Brady. Alan Whitfield. Mark Boyle.” Whitfield’s and Boyle’s pictures had thick borders drawn in red marker.

Footsteps on the stairs interrupted his thoughts. Bunny came around the corner and joined Jon at the board. Today’s T-shirt said BYTE ME. When he spoke, his Brooklyn accent came through strong, showing how many late hours he’d put in on this data. “Whaddaya think, Jonny?”

Jon waved at the top group of photos. “I think we’re up to our elbows in alligators. These people have more power and influence than most kings do. Are you positive these are the ones who built Nadia?”

 “They’re the ones who put in the order. I’d stake my life on it. They’re all tied into the Global Unification Alliance. They dump tons of cash into it, on the order of billions a year, but they refuse to take a bow for all their little Boy Scout good deeds for the day. They’re clients of Twin Oaks Spa, and none of them ever go there without at least two others.”

The skinny little man touched a fingertip on the note beside each picture as he recapped. “Wilkes owns more ships than most third world navies. There ain’t a thing comin’ across the Atlantic that he don’t approve. Lopez moves oil and cattle  all over Mexico and beyond, and for some reason all the drug cartels leave him be.”

“Maybe he’s moving more than cattle and oil.”

Bunny scowled deeper. “Or maybe they’re all afraid of him, Jonny. Ever figure that?” He went on with his litany. “Kuznetzov started in electronics engineering and got into arms dealing about twenty years ago. Rumor is the Russian mob is his little lap dog. Caglioni owns Aeritalia Airlines and Itamax Clothing. Miss Noor Don’t-Even-Ask-Me-How-To-Pronounce-It is a secret majority holder of Vandalore Industries, and a half-dozen other major conglomerates. She farts dollar bills, Jonny. In secret, of course. And our friend the Sirdar swings a bigger stick in OPEC than anyone wants to admit. She’s a sly one, that.”

Bunny sat in one of the chairs and spun it so he faced Jon. “Bowman we know. Dude owns the news. He paid Nadia’s hospital costs from the time she came alive ’til Twin Oaks released her. So he knows about her, and he was the one who sent her to Iran to ‘interview’ President Javad.”

Jon interjected, “That implicates him in the murder of President Bello in Nigeria, because another NADIA was used in that assassination. We have the video to prove it.”

“But to bring him down, Jonny, we have to bring Nadia forward, show the world that she’s an artificial person. So unless you wanna give her up, you gotta catch him some other way.”

“We need one more person on our side, to get through his mask.” Jon fingered the photo of Jenna again. “If we can turn her, she may help.”

Bunny shook his head. “That’s like reasoning with a rattlesnake. You met her twice, and you’re lucky to be alive.”

“Exactly. She doesn’t want to kill me for some reason. I think I could talk with her, if I could just find her.”

 “If you’re an example of what she does to people she likes, I’d hate to see what happens to people she don’t like.”

“You’ve seen it, Bunny. Mark Boyle, the man who took the girls hostage. She popped his head with one shot. I wouldn’t be so sure she didn’t do Whitfield, too.”

“Still think she had somethin’ to do with that breakout in Vegas?”

Jon nodded. “The Air Force thought they had Nadia. Three dead Air Commandos and a crashed police car later, and suddenly they have nothing. Jenna and Nadia have similar builds, and they had the same hair color and style then. I think that’s too much of a coincidence, don’t you?”

Bunny pushed his glasses up on his nose with a nervous finger. “You sure you wanna get within ten miles of that?”

“We have to start somewhere, Bunny. I can’t touch the big wheels yet. The OSI wants solid proof before they can call out the dogs. Jenna could be just what the doctor ordered.” Jon went into the kitchenette and filled two cups as the conversation continued.

“So you want I should change my search to her?”

“We’ve hit nothing but dead ends on the others. We sure couldn’t lose.”

“What would the Doc say?”

“I’ll make it right with Donna. She’s the team leader, but I’m still the chief investigator.”

 “Okay, buddy, it’s your neck. Myself, I wouldn’t feel safe on the same land mass as that woman.”

Handing one cup to Bunny, Jon took a sip from his, swishing the brew around in his mouth before answering. “I didn’t say I’d feel safe, Bunny. But she’s our best chance.”

“Suggestion—if we can’t find her, there’s one sure way to get hold of her.”

“Do I even want to ask?”
"We get her attention and let her find us.”
A vague sense of dread rose in Jon’s chest as he sighed and rubbed his neck. “Yeah, I was afraid you’d say something like that.”

Look! A Facelift with a Giveaway!

Okay, now read carefully: If ya wanna win a FREE COPY of one of my books, do the following:

1. Read the blog post.
2. Go to the bottom of the blog post and leave a comment.
3. I will select my winner from the people who leave a comment.

Now, that's done. Onward!

This week to commemorate the facelift on Distant Shores, I want to give away a copy of one of my eBooks (winner's choice).

I'd like to give you all a quick tour of the blog first.

1. I wanted to make the blog easier to read, and the white-on-black color scheme wasn't cutting muster (yes, it's muster, not mustard, LOL). So I changed the color scheme to something hopefully a little lighter on the eyes. Let me know what you think, and if you have suggestions to improve, I'm wide open.
2. Notice the Google Translate gadget at the right. That's right, I have picked up some followers from non-English-speaking countries, and I want to expand into those areas. So I checked this out, and I think it does a fair job of translating from what I know of the languages I tested. Pretty cool, huh?
3. I fixed the gadgets and widgets on the side to make everything fit just a little bit better. I think it gives the whole thing a little more professional look, don't you think? By the way, if you've seen something you like here on the Shores, feel free to follow me via email. You won't get SPAMMED, I promise.
4. I added the rest of my books to the footer on the page. I'll get the sizes and shapes fixed, I promise. We're a work in progress.

I hope the new look fits, and like I said, if you have any suggestions on how to make it better, let me know. We're going to keep on setting off the occasional Blog-Bomb, and we will continue to destroy stereotypes as we expand the Civility Movement. I can't promise I won't say anything that will set you off, but I want everyone to think, as well as offer tools for making our world a little easier place to get along in.

Now, for the fun part: What follows is an excerpt from my latest book Lies and Paine. You can buy it by clicking on the link on my BOOKS page.

Blurb:

Jenna Paine doesn’t know how “special” she really is. Raised by her scientist mother and a Japanese tutor named Mama-San, her special abilities go unnoticed in the hustle and bustle of her schoolwork and training. However, other eyes are watching as well, from behind a veil of secrets. And they have plans for someone with precisely Jenna’s talents.

In college, she meets a group of people who introduce her to a new vision for world peace, and a way to realize it.

But when the cost for peace is measured in blood, can Jenna get out before it’s too late?

Excerpt: 

 
 When Jenna woke again, it was dark. The security light in the parking lot sprayed stripes through the blinds and across the floor. All was quiet, save for the swish of loose cotton scrubs as the night nurse made her rounds in the hall. As her steps faded off, another sound captured Jenna’s attention: a soft breath from nearby. She shifted her head to home in and her gaze caught on a shadowed figure sitting in the chair in the darkest corner of the room. She sniffed the air, confused.

No one she knew. Not Steven…! As the other options beat against each other in her mind, Jenna's body stiffened in alarm.

She lay tense and waited, hoping the man in the room didn’t notice she was awake. He just sat in the chair watching her. His breathing remained slow and steady, and no scent of fear or alarm reached Jenna’s nostrils. He was either a non-threat or insane. So the move was hers to make.

Jenna took stock of her body. The lingering soreness would limit her only a little. If he intended harm to her, this man would find no helpless victim. He might not mean her ill, but then again, he had no business in her room in the dark. “What do you want?” she growled.

The voice was smooth and comfortable, a rich baritone. “I wanted to see you firsthand.”

“Who are you?”

“A sponsor.”

What the hell does that mean? “Sponsor me during the day. Now get out.”

He shifted in the chair. “I’ve waited too long. I think I’d like to stay for a while.”

Jenna reached for her call button. No distant chime answered her push. The light above her headboard stayed blank. She threw the cord and handle down and shot to her feet. “You can leave on your feet or on a slab, buster—”

“I know what you want, Miss Paine.”

“And what might that be?”

The man reached deliberately into his jacket and drew out a dark, blocky object. He raised it above his head as he rose to his feet in slow motion. “This wrong you have suffered. You want that to never happen again. You’ve learned a hard lesson, Miss Paine. But the issue is not closed. Leonardo Cabrizzi is still out there, and he wants you dead. There’s only one way to make sure he never comes after you again.” He stepped forward. His hand reached out from the shadows and into the wedge of light from the window. Clutched in his grip was a 9mm Beretta equipped with a silencer. With care he laid it on her nightstand and backed away.

“We can protect you up to a point. But only you can make it stop.” He reached back into his jacket and brought out a small envelope, which he laid next to the pistol. “Make it stop. Good luck, and goodbye.”

Jenna waited until he left before turning on her light. Inside the envelope she found an address scrawled on a piece of paper and a candid photograph of a slim, proper man with a long, aquiline nose and sharp features. She stared at it for a long time, memorizing every wrinkle, every corner of that hawkish face. He glared at something off the camera, like an angry crocodile about to lunge.

She closed her eyes, and the pain flooded back into her memory. Again, she felt the frigid splash that woke her in that basement, heard those men laughing and cheering each other on. The taste of blood, the smell of her own fear. Make it stop.

Opening her eyes she snatched the pistol from her nightstand and racked the action. Anger collided with anticipation. She was stupid once. It damned well wasn’t going to happen again.

Book Review: Tower of Sarah

Good day, Castaways.

Light the campfire, grab your flashlights and hold them under your chins It's that time.

Yes, this week, I'm doing my first... Book Review! (insert duh-duh-du-u-u-u-uh! music here)

I will say I don't normally read horror, though I do have quite some respect for H.P. Lovecraft and Stephen King. The two works I do have in my library are King's

The Eyes of the Dragon

and William Cornwell's

The Bone Lord.

I highly recommend them both.

Add to them another one.



Ben Eden was a fellow EPIC winner I met at EPICon 2012. Like I said, I don't normally read horror, but I do make exceptions, and I'm glad I made this one.

Sarah Bridges finds herself in a rather odd place, with no idea how she got there. She just opens her eyes one morning and there she is, on the roof of a massive tower in the middle of... somewhere.

Hundreds of miles away from the place Sarah once called home, Eddie Conroy is trying to put his life back together after the horrible accident that killed his young wife and left their son alive, but... changed.

What they have in common and how they come to cross paths is one of those stories so full of spoilers I hesitate to say anything more for fear of giving something away.

I love stories with twists, and Ben Eden certainly threw a fair share into this book of evil, good, and the persistence of a father who'll go anywhere to get his only son back from the clutches of a force worse than death.

I can guarantee you won't see the twist truck coming. It'll hit you full force and carry you down the highway a good couple miles. Ben knows how to weave a story that will keep you guessing, even after you see the evil present itself, and that tower? Well, that's another surprise that jumps up and bites you right in the nose.

Overall, a nicely balanced ride that makes for a highly pleasurable read.

Let's see, we need to have some equivalent to a star rating, don't we? Well, because I love to be different I'll have to come up with something unique. Until then, I'll give Tower of Sarah  four out of five... somethings.

Get it here: http://www.gypsyshadow.com/BenEden.html#Tower

Meat and Potatoes: Your Votes, Please.

And Good Day, fellow Castaways.

I know I started this blog as a way to help my readers get to know me better, as a person and where I stand, as well as just hang out and chat.

I am a writer. That means I write and sell what I write. I'm not trying to insult your intelligence, I'm just laying it out like it is.

I'm also too proud to beg. Let's face it, you get enough commercials throughout your day, you don't need me adding to all that racket, and I hate trying to "shout louder than everyone else out there" to draw attention to my work. Knowing this, I am aware it makes my sales suffer, because I'm not out there dancing the Hoity-Toity and shouting through my bullhorn. I just think it's more important to be courteous.

Well, I'd like you to buy my books. They've been very well-received by those who have read them, and in addition, I've received some fairly prestigious awards for my writing. Consider that my version of a commercial. I really need people to buy my books so I can pay my bills.

You might notice off to the right a little and down, a box filled with undersea wonders and a legend "Top Ten Finisher." That's a badge given to me by the fine folks at Preditors and Editors, an organization dedicated to watching out for writers and making sure they don't get scammed by jackwagons posing as reputable publishers, who might otherwise take advantage over someone with a dream of being published and marketed. Let's take a closer look at that little thang, shall we?

Awards have a way of translating into sales. That's why I'm bringing this up today. Becoming NADIA finished in the top ten best thrillers of 2011. Thanks for all who voted.

Preditors and Editors works hard to keep the business end of writing clean, and I want to take a moment to recognize them. Yay, you. Thanks, guys.

But back to the Top Ten: Every year, P&E opens up the polls for voting by readers on the best new works, both eBook and paper.

So, to the heart of the matter: What I'd love everyone to do is vote for my two books that are up this year: Critical Mass for best novel-length thriller, and Lies and Paine for All Other Short Stories. I've even included the links below. You can vote for both.

For Critical Mass, click here: http://critters.org/predpoll/novelthrill.shtml

For Lies and Paine, click here: http://critters.org/predpoll/shortstory.shtml

Thanks for indulging me, guys. I really appreciate it. Like I said, awards tend to translate into sales, and I do need all I can get.

Next week, we resume our regularly-scheduled chaos.

Why Failure = Excellence.

Good day, fellow castaways. I pray this Holy-Day season finds you well. The Keith Household wishes every one and all of you a Merry Christmas, and a joyous and prosperous New Year.

I felt it appropriate this week to expand on the theme of excellence, because so many people seem to have a wrong idea on what "excellence" is. So I'll talk about what it means to me, and if it touches some of the same nerves in you, then we're all a little closer to knowing each other.

Let's revisit the little league pitcher from last week's post. Kid had awesome hot talent. That I will not argue; it's evident in the way he shuts down whole teams' batting lineups. But instead of studying him and making their kids learn to hit him, the league decided to disband his team.

The argument was that they didn't want their kids to have to face failure over and over against him, and it would damage their self esteem.

I get it. Failure sucks. I tried out for little league when I was seven years old. Man, I was eager to get going. I love baseball. I love everything about it, except the overpaid spoiled brats who have to wring every last penny from families who just want to have an afternoon at the ball park. But that another story. I love baseball, and I tried out.

Coach was on the mound (in the days before pitching machines), and he hucked a pumpkin up there to see what I'd do with it. For those of you not familiar, he tossed an easy pitch right over the plate for me. Well, as my biggest brother at the time was already popping home runs and taught me how to hit, I was ready for it. I laid into that ball like a cheap rug, sending a pretty hot grounder between first and second base. I take off down the line to First Base as hard as I can. Second baseman (an older kid on the team) scoops the ball up and rifles it over to the first baseman just before I got there. The ump calls me out. That's it. I'm out. I failed. I couldn't stand the humiliation of all those boys looking at me, watching me fail. So I took my mitt and left the field in tears. The coaches called me to come back, but I couldn't go back there and fail again.

True story, it happened exactly that way. I missed out on playing team baseball because I couldn't handle failure. Poor me. My mother tried to talk me into going back to they tryouts, and eventually I did, but by that time tryouts were over. The field was empty. My chance was gone. Mom should have gabbed me by the ear and dragged my keister back to that ball diamond and made me try again right away. My life could have turned out different.

Failure is a part of life, and I might suggest is the largest part of excellence. Everyone here has been 'round and 'round the mulberry bush about Thomas Edison. You know, the guy who invented the electric light bulb, and other such awesome things. He said the key to his success was the thousands of failures he encountered in his search for the right combination of wire, glass, etc.

When someone asked him about all those goofs, he said, "What failures? I just discovered a thousand ways not to make a light bulb before I discovered the way to make one." Or words to that effect. Feel free to look it up.

Life is full of frustration, failures, mistakes, humiliation and scorn. Just watch the news. But life is also full of celebration, success, honor and pride of accomplishment. And it's nothing to celebrate if it isn't preceded by someone pouring their blood, sweat and tears into their dream, and failing time and again only to try one more time and get it right.

What if we gave up the first time we tried to walk, and fell on our padded little bums? Hell, let's all just crawl around on all fours. Falling hurts, and we wouldn't want to pick up any bruises. That might affect our self-esteem.

That's why "participation trophies" make me sick. It may seem cruel to make kids suffer through losing. Good gravy, I know what it's like. And yes, some kids are more sensitive than others, and they most certainly will  be crushed if they don't get that first base hit. But guys, let's remember the pros in baseball only make it only about a third of the time, and that's the better hitters.

Excellence is NOT winning all the time. In fact, if anything, excellence is losing, trying again, losing some more, trying again, getting bashed in the face, trying again and wiping the blood from your nose, trying again... You get the picture.

Excellence is staring failure in the face and daring to try one more time. One more submission. One more lap around the track. One more pitch. One more step.

Excellence isn't in our wins. Excellence is in our failures. Winning is just the end result when we don't quit.