NADIA Picture Tour, Stop 7

Easing over the top edge, Jenna took in everything at a glance. On the far side of the roof, set
up behind the façade, a lone SWAT sniper held a rifle trained on the shop across the street. Three
more cops had spread out on the rooftops of the neighboring buildings: two on the left, one on
the right. She crouched, frozen, until she was sure no one noticed her. Then she stole up behind
the cop, using the rooftop’s air conditioner unit for concealment. As she got closer, she could
hear the radio’s chatter. They were discussing a shot heard from inside the building across the
street. The chatter hid any noise she may have made.

When she came within range, Jenna struck, thirty feet of anaconda in a five-foot package.
Wrapping her arms around the cop’s neck in a sleeper hold, she constricted his throat, cutting off
any cry for help. The struggle was brief, and in seconds, he was unconscious. She grinned as she
fought back the urge to plant a lipstick kiss on his forehead. Men are so easy.

She pulled out the cellphone and called up the number in the memory, hit the dial key, and
put the phone to her ear. “Okay, I’m in position.” She hung up and picked up the rifle, examining
it closely: Winchester, Model 700 action on a military sniper stock. Weaver 12X scope, set for
range and elevation… She eyeballed the distance again, checked the breeze, and corrected the
scope. She took the cop’s hat and set it on her head. Hello, boys, here I am. Just another one of
the guys. She made sure the phone was set to vibrate, settled the stock into her shoulder, and
waited for the call.

* * * *

This week's entry is another from Unalive, Book 2 in my multi-award-winning thriller series The NADIA Project. And once again, we're here in beautiful downtown Front Royal, Virginia, on a rainy afternoon in November.

To say that Front Royal is "up in the hills" is probably a relative term, as I'm not sure how someone from the area would define "in the hills." But the little town does sit at a higher elevation in an area that's pretty hilly by midwestern standards. So yeah, we're in the hills.

This shot was taken down Main Street, facing west. I was still manic from just being there, and had totally lost track of where I had parked, but sundown was approaching fast, so I figured I'd find it later.

I figure we have one or two more stops on the tour coming, folks. So till next week, I'll sign off. Feel free to share the link to this page. I'd rather not stay  the best-kept secret in the publishing industry. ;-)

 

NADIA Picture Tour, Stop 6

Jimmy stood in the middle of Kearny Street and watched the first police car screech around the turn out of a corner of his eye. He stared at the man behind Donna, the man who held a pistol to his friend’s head. A grim smile crossed his face in the light of the street lamp. If I get a chance, you’ll never know what it you.”Here I am, punk.”

“You got a lot of mouth for an old man.” The pistol was steady.

 

The kid’s pretty cool. “What do you want?”

“I want the NADIA, and a car. I know you’re in this mix somewhere. Get ‘em, I leave, the women live.”

The police car pulled up sideways across the street. Another one blocked the other end. They shared the duty of splattering the area with red and blue lights. Four officers approached up the lane, pistols ready in two-handed grips. Two covered Donna and the man behind her, while the other two approached Jimmy. One of these was a stocky white-haired man with a captain’s bars on his shoulders. When he spoke, his voice was calm and even. “I’m Officer Grimes, Front Royal Police. Show your hands, get ‘em in the air.”

Jimmy raised his hands slowly, palms out. But he remained standing, facing the shadow hunched down behind Donna. The grin never left Jimmy’s face. If he could unnerve this crud, it would give him an edge. And Jimmy needed every edge he could get. He kept grinning in Donna’s direction as he spoke to the police officer. “Officer Grimes, my name is James DeBartolo, and I’m a US marshal. My badge is in my pocket, and my weapon is on the sidewalk behind me.”

“Get on your knees, Mr. DeBartolo. Right where you’re at.” Jimmy sank down, one leg at a time. The grin turned into a grimace as the pavement bit into his knees. “Make it quick, Grimes, the ground’s pretty hard, here, and I ain’t got as much paddin’ as I used to.”

Two more police cars showed up at each end of the street, and the uniformed officers advanced, bolstered in their courage by their numbers. Spotlights trained on Jimmy, and on the storefront, illuminating the whole front office area. Grimes and his deputy stopped twenty feet away, in a position where they could watch both sides of the street. He stood, hips square and feet apart. “Suppose you show me that badge now, Mr. DeBartolo?”

“Okay, I’m gonna reach into my jacket pocket.” Jimmy drew out his wallet and flipped it open, revealing his marshal’s badge. “Badge six-four-five-eight. Call the DC office, ask for—”

“We’ll check it out on our own, thanks.” Grimes spoke into the microphone on his shoulder. An agonizing minute later, Jimmy’s knees felt like they’d been applied to a bench grinder. Grimes spoke to him again. “All right, Mr. DeBartolo, you can stand up.” He turned to his junior partner. “Matt, cover the store front, make sure that boy don’t move. Tell Kenny and Dwayne to cover the back door, and get State to send down a hostage team.”

Jimmy struggled to his feet and hobbled over to stand in front of Grimes. “Officer Grimes, I know this is your town and all, but I’m afraid I gotta pull rank on you here.”

Grimes’ eyebrows rose in surprise. “Pull rank? I’d think you’d rather be kickin’ back with a beer or two and tellin’ war stories to the grandkids.”

“You seen some combat, have you, Grimes?”

“Three tours in the ‘Nam, 82nd Airborne.”

“Then you know what I mean when I say this is classified. It has to stay that way.”

“What are you saying?”

“I gotta do this negotiatin’. No one else can hear what’s up, especially newspaper and TV folks. That includes you. Understand?” Jimmy looked at the empty window frame, at Donna, still standing, the pistol pointing at her wounded head. She looked as if she might fall over from fear and fatigue any second.

The man behind her shouted, “We were talking, old man. You know what I want.”

Jimmy yelled back over his shoulder, “Lemme clear things up out here first, and I’ll be right with you.”

“We’ll be waiting, then.” He began to drag Donna back into the rear office area.

Jimmy held a hand up. “No, wait! I need to make sure we can get you what you’re askin’ for. Stay right there, and we can talk.”

“You didn’t say the magic word, geezer. Later.” Donna disappeared back around the corner and into the conference room, towed by her bulky shadow.

* * * *

The Story Behind The Picture

Stop 6 brings us back to the Downtown area of Front Royal, Virginia.

I arrived in town just after 5:00 PM on a November night. Light was fading fast when I found a parking space, and I had just enough presence of mind to note two landmarks: The laundromat just across the street from where I parked, and the sign for Jackon Sreet. Good enough, right? I mean, it was just a small town, after all. Not like I could get turned around.

I grabbed my phone, put my hood up against the rain, and took off at a run, snapping every shot that looked cool, and I can ell you, Front Royal is a very cool little town. The folks who live there obviously take pride in where they live, as you can see by how clean the streets are, how well kept-up the businesses, and how friendly the citizens are.

Nobody seemed to mind the out-of-town lunatic dashing up and down streets taking pictures (I almost took a shot of the bank, but then I thought better of it. I didn't need an extended stay in town for suspicion, if ya know what ah mean). I think I even muttered, "Oh, my God, this is where it happened!" more than once as I snapped shot after shot until well after dark, when I found a nice cafe to grab some dinner.

I figured I'd go back and move the car closer, so I wouldn't have so far to walk. There was only one problem.

I now had no idea where exactly I'd parked. I had a general idea (You know, "laundromat" and "Jackson Street"), but how exactly to get there was the issue. On top of that, everyone with half a brain was NOT out walking in the rain after dark, so asking for directions wasn't as easy as, say, parking the car.

It took another half hour of wandering aimlessly up and down every street I came across until I found Jackson Street, and then I thought I was on the wrong end of town, so I turned the wrong way, and had to double back after I came to the edge of town and found nothing I recognized.

It was after I came all the way back up Jackson Street when I finally found the rental car (while clicking the remote control door lock every few steps and watching for the flash of the lights).

Half a block from the cafe I'd spotted.

Didn't have to waste the gas after all.

Next week, we'll have some more fun. Meantime, read. Review. Repeat.

God bless you, guys.

NADIA Picture Tour, Stop 5

Carlos Villanueva stood at the edge of the parking lot and looked over Manassas Battlefield Park. Lifting the binoculars to his eyes, he examined the field below one more time. Joel Perry sat in jeans and a T-shirt in the grass at the edge of the meadow, looking at the ground and not moving a muscle. Not another soul in sight. “I don’t like it, Tab. He’s all alone, no one else to meet us. Daniels said he’d be out here, too.”

Sergeant Tabitha Grubka sat in the passenger’s seat of Carlos’ coupe, tightening the laces on a combat boot. “Joel’s probably being watched from the tree line. I bet Agent Daniels simply doesn’t trust us. After what they’ve been through, I’d be pretty careful, too.” Finally satisfied with the fit of her boot, she climbed out and closed the door. “Not that I’m complaining, but I’m way out of my element here. I’m a bit-chaser, not a rifleman.”

 Carlos turned around long enough to give her a good-natured smirk. “That’s why the rest of the team have weapons, and we don’t.” He glanced at his watch. “Well, five minutes past H-Hour. I assume Joel’s waited enough. Let’s go.”

They strode out of the parking lot, past the visitor’s center, and down the hill, Tabitha occasionally rearranging portions of her battle uniform. Carlos glanced over his shoulder. He could barely see Erick at the top of the hill, watching the western side of the park. Dave Gunderson would be watching the other side. Not that Carlos felt any safer. No weapons, no radios, he said. If I’m wrong, what’ll they tell Tab’s parents when they send her home in a coffin? His stomach did a couple extra flip-flops for good measure as he stole a glance at Tab. Besides squirming in her bulky uniform, her face looked as pale as his felt. Her eyes darted constantly, looking for some undefined threat from the trees.

When they drew within a few meters, Joel raised one hand over his head. With the other, he held out a radio.

When Carlos took it, a short squawk came from the speaker, followed by a familiar voice, one he’d only heard on the phone the day before. “Sergeant Villanueva, this is Agent Daniels.”

Okay, we play it this way. Carlos keyed the handheld. “Go ahead. This is Villanueva.”

“Tell Corporal Perry he can stand up, and thank him for his cooperation. You can go now.”

Carlos scanned the tree line at the edge of the field again. The late afternoon light made it impossible to pick out any details among the greenery. “I thought we were going to meet today, Jon.”

“Maybe another time.”

Carlos cursed under his breath. He wanted answers, not more questions. “What’s NADIA?”

“Something you don’t talk about on a radio.”

“Jon, you can tell me what I need to know, or I can keep digging until I find everything out, including where you’re hiding Bunny Kalinsky. He’s facing quite a suite of federal charges, you know. What’s it going to be?”

He unkeyed the radio and motioned to Joel to go back to the lot. Not taking his eyes from the trees, he whispered, “Meet Dave up there. I have a recorder in my car. Start talking. Everything you remember.”

Daniels’ voice crackled from the handheld again. “There’s a cannon fifty meters to your left, over toward the stone bridge. Look in the muzzle. Out.”

Carlos’ heart jumped. “No, wait a minute! Daniels, where are you?” Silence was his only answer.

Tab pointed. “There’s the cannon.”


“Hang on,” said Carlos. “I’ll go check it out. If it’s a trap, get back to the car. Round up the others, and zero in on Daniels and his crew. Comb the damned woods till you find them.”

“What then?”

Handing her the radio, he said, “Make ’em spill their guts.”

He approached the cannon slowly, looking for wires or hidden antennas and mumbling to himself. His hands shook; he stilled them by force of will. “This is ridiculous, they’re on our side.”

His inner voice answered. Oh, are they? What makes you so certain they’re friendlies, Jéfé?

He carried on the conversation with himself all the way to the cannon. “Because if they were working for the bad guys, they’d have popped me and Tab for even asking about NADIA.”

Or they would have put one of their antimatter bombs in this cannon, ready to take out the whole park, right? Reach in—I dare you.

“Shut up, Carlos, they’re the good guys like us.”

How do you know?

He was at the cannon. “’Cause I’m going to find out right now.” Shining a penlight down the muzzle, he saw a tangle of litter and several pop cans. “I hope there aren’t any spiders in there.” He took a deep breath and began to withdraw the trash one item at a time.

He unwadded the fourth candy wrapper to find a series of numbers scrawled in marker on the inside. After tossing the rest of the trash in the nearest can, he returned to Tab. “GPS coordinates.”

She hugged herself and shivered in spite of the heat. “Let’s just get out of here, Carlos. I get a bad feeling—”

--from Critical Mass

* * * *

Good day, fellow Castaways! Congratulations again, Lisa Reece, our winner of the Irving's Cabin contest!

This week, Once again, you've seen the picture behind the story, and now, you get the story behind the picture! Yay, hoo-rah, and other colorful interjections of a celebratory nature.

As indicated in the scene above, this shot was taken at the Manassas Battlefield Park at Manassas, Virginia.

The entire week I was in Virginia, the weather was cool and rainy. It never actually stopped, though sometimes it let up to a light mist. It lent a kind of haunting sadness to the place where, in July of 1861, nearly 5,000 men died in the first land battle of the American Civil war.

I arrived at the Visitor's Center and climbed out into the rain and wind. I made a mad dash to get inside the center just before the rain really cut loose, and browsed around inside for a while until the weather let up.

As soon as the clouds relented, I ran outside and pranced around like a total and complete fool. I don't think the staff quite understood why I was so excited about being there. Sure there was history all around me, and I was drinking that up like a sponge. But I also had to get the best shot I could before the rains busted loose again.

I ran up and down the line of cannons behind the Visitor's Center, taking shots here and there. I took the one I posted above, with the water droplets dangling from the bottom of the barrel, and the colors struck me. In the background, you can see a farmhouse that was rebuilt, as the original was blasted to matchsticks by artillery.

I didn't get a chance to wander the whole park. The battlefield plain is pretty big, after all. But it inspired in me a sense of loss, as well as commanding a quiet reverie for the significance of the drama that unfolded so long ago.

I intend to go back to see it all. I would encourage everyone to see it.

Next week, we'll post Stop 6. Till then, stay frosty.

NADIA Picture Tour, Stop 4. The Picture Behind the Story

A narrow footpath wound through the trees, shaded and cool in the late summer heat. A rabbit said hello by way of scurrying through the underbrush to parts unknown. A squirrel overhead chirred its irritation at an invading starling. Jon breathed in the woods all the way to the far end of the path where it emerged in front of Irving’s cabin.

Jimmy DeBartolo sat on the porch in a creaking rocker, whittling. In his gnarled fingers, the body of a bird was taking shape. Jon paused to admire the work, noting how steady Jimmy’s hands were, despite the outward ravages of age that had taken so many of Jimmy’s generation already. The devil knows he’s going to have a fight on his hands when he comes for Jimmy, so he’s just putting it off until the old coot’s softened a bit. Like that’s ever going to happen. Next to the old man, against the wooden siding under the shelter of the porch, leaned a worn but sturdy Garand combat rifle. He looked up as Jon approached, and his wrinkled face split into a huge, toothy grin. “Hey, Jon.”

“Morning, Jim. Another quiet day.” Jimmy’s flint-hard eyes scanned the woods as he answered, “Thank the good Lord for that.”

 “How’s Papa today?” Jimmy grinned wider.

“’Bout ready to kill Beth, I think.”

“I think I’ll say hi before I head downstairs.”

“Okay, if you really want to. I’m gonna take a walk around.” The old man rose and picked up the rifle before stepping past Jon and onto the packed earth in front of the porch. He shifted it to an easy grip in his gnarled hands and slunk off through the woods with an easy, well-practiced stride. Seconds after he reached the tree line, he disappeared as if he were only a ghost in John’s imagination. The only evidence of his presence was the half-formed wooden sculpture on the seat of the rocking chair.

Damn, I’m glad he’s one of ours. I’d hate to be on that old man’s bad side. Jon stepped through the screen door and into Irving Ratzinger’s living room. Irving’s easy chair, threadbare and sunken, hunched in its corner, empty. The comfortable clutter that defined the man’s life was neatly arranged around it, the photo of his beloved Hilda within easy reach. Hilda’s prize smallmouth bass leered from the wall above the old TV in the opposite corner. Irving’s collection of dog-eared paperback westerns loitered on their shelves, separated from his how-to books and his Foxfire Series. Everything here made this cabin a home in every sense of the word.

Everything except one. The smell of Irving’s latest culinary masterpiece was noticeably absent in the air. Even though it had been three months since the heart attack, Jon’s nostrils remembered the scent of Irving’s apple strudel, among other delicious creations from “Papa’s” kitchen. How many glazed rolls had he washed down with German roast coffee around that table over the years? Not nearly enough, came the answer from Jon’s stomach.

A woman’s voice came from down the hall, frustration tempered by a good humor. “Lay back down, you old fart, and let me get your meds in.”

Jon chuckled, imagining the struggle taking place as he made his way to Irving’s room. When he opened the door, Papa was struggling to get out of bed. Beth Nelson was trying to wrestle him back down. She looked over her shoulder at the creak of the door hinges, a tuft of curly brown hair dangling in her eyes. In spite of the effort she was exerting against the old man in the bed, she smiled.

“Can you help me out here? I have to give him his shot.”

Irving grabbed her wrists and sat up again. His German accent was thicker when he was this tired. “I said I was all right, young lady, and I want to get up.”

Beth twisted her arms free and pressed on Papa’s chest again. He began to sweat with exertion. She was just plump enough to give her a weight advantage, especially with Irving’s weakened condition, and the strain began to show.

When Jon decided enough was enough, he stepped in and touched Beth’s shoulder. She let go of Irving and stood. “Papa,” he said, “you know the shot makes you sleepy. So take it and get some more rest. Beth can handle lunch when you wake up.”

The old man lay back, pouting. “The way she cooks? I’d rather eat my left shoe!”

Beth’s eyes popped; her mouth gaped. She snapped back in mock indignation. “I’ll have you know, sir, my meals are perfectly well-balanced examples of excellent nutrition—”

“That taste like old tires!” Despite the rough tone of Irving’s voice, the twinkle in his eye told Jon he was just being difficult for the sake of mischief.

Jon said, “We can’t all be gourmet chefs, Papa. You’ve had a rough time the last couple of months. It’s not going to kill you to let someone else take care of you for a while. Besides, Beth’s been a nurse for…” He shrugged, looking at her. “At least a month. When was it you took that correspondence course again?”

Beth threw a half-hearted punch at Jon’s midsection, easily dodged with a laugh. “Thanks a bunch, you jerk. I’ll have you know I got my RN from Stanford ten years ago.” She turned back to Irving. “Please, Papa, I have to give you this shot. Donna says a couple more weeks and you should be as good as new. Or at least as good as before your heart attack.”

Irving paused while he mulled it over. “Can I have it in my chair?”

“If Jon can move your monitor into the living room, I don’t see why not.” She gave Jon a coy smile and blinked her eyes.

“Gee, how can I say no to that,” said Jon with a grin and a wink to Irving. “Let’s go, then.”

* * * *

Okay, this one has a double-sided story. First, mine, and next, our contest winner's.

As you all know, recently I was in Virginia for a company road trip, and found some awesome settings to punctuate the most critical scenes of my award-winning series The NADIA Project. Unfortunately, I could not locate the perfect shot for Papa Irving's cabin, and so I posted a contest. I have to say, the final voting was close. It came down to the difference of one vote (Tell me your vote doesn't count!). And we have our winner, Lisa Reese of Nort udda Border, eh? Congratulations, Lisa!

Okay, so as you've seen, this week's post is a couple days late. I had to get hold of Lisa and get the story behind the photo from her. Now, granted, the shot isn't from Virginia. She covers it in her story. But if Hollywood can relocate a house for their own purposes, so can I. My apologies to Virginia. I'm sure there is a cabin somewhere in that wonderful state that would fit the bill. I just didn't have time to find it, which works out well for Lisa. So without further ado, here's Lisa's story behind the picture behind the story:

"Every year my family and I go camping with friends in Jasper Alberta. We love combining three things while we’re there: hiking, geocaching and photography. The day I took this picture was no exception.

Lac Beauvert is known for being beautiful to photograph, and there are some very iconic shots that can be taken of the mountains in behind the Jasper Park Golf Course, and my husband had just given me a brand new camera that I wanted to try out. But instead of just taking the iconic shots we followed a walking trail along the lakes edge to the left. After you get well past the main parking and tourist areas you can see this little cabin across the lake, just poking through the trees.

I don’t normally photograph buildings but I really liked this one, and it’s seemingly secluded location—I say seemingly because it is one of several cabins you can rent through the Fairmont Jasper Park Lodge—despite that, it struck me as the sort of place I’d want to live if I could, so I took one photo. I remember I could only take one, and had to hope it would turn out as my family hadn’t noticed that I'd stopped and were well out of sight. This would have been fine if there wasn't a bear in the area, so we had to stick together.

Thankfully the photo turned out, and I loved that picture so when I heard about the contest for Irving's Cabin, I couldn’t think of a more welcoming little cabin than that one, nestled in the trees in Jasper."

And The Winner Is...To Be Announced!

Greetings, fellow Castaways!

The entries have been received, and the time has come to select a winner for our Irving's Cabin contest!

I know who took the pictures, but only two of you know. Because I've weeded the entries down to the top two, and guess what: YOU, dear readers and fans, get to pick the entry who will win one signed print book from my already published selection!

Irving Ratzinger is the character we are finding a home for. He's already got a house, but I need to know which one you all see him in. He's a survivor in the truest sense, a God-loving Jew, a gourmet-trained chef, and a combat veteran, now settled down and living in the woods of the Shenandoah River Valley. His abode in the little clearing whispers comfort and peace to all who enter, and the aromas from his kitchen promise no guest will ever walk away hungry.

What I NEED all of you to do, is vote by COMMENT!!! That's right, send me a comment right here on THIS blog! Comments will not be published, so no one will know who voted for what cabin best represents "Papa" Irving's lifestyle of quiet comfort and peaceful living.

Now, I'm going to do something that looks odd, but I have a reason: First, a picture to conceal the first picture when I post it on Facebook and whatnot:

And to business!


First up, we have Cabin 2, because that's what I wanted to do:

Once again, I know which person entered this shot, but you don't. Now, look at Entry Number 1:

Both beautiful shots. Thanks to all who entered. The only way we're going to have a winner is if you vote, right here, by sending me your comment on which is the cabin that fits Papa best. The winner will be notified by me and announced on Facebook, and the next stop on the NADIA picture tour will feature that picture, plus an excerpt featuring Papa's Cabin.

Let's go, folks. And...VOTE!!!

NADIA Picture Tour, Stop 3

"Jimmy listened on his Bluetooth while he crouched behind a car across the street, holding the combat shotgun steady on the reflective glass of the office front window. He knew exactly where to aim, to make sure he was sighted in on Jenny’s phone. He assumed from his visit that the women were held in the conference room. From where he was set up, they should be out of the way. As soon as he knew who picked up, he was going to send another message. He’d keep talking until the phone was answered. “Come on, punk. It’s time we had a chat.”

The line clicked, and a man’s voice came back through his earpiece. “You need to watch your mouth, old man—”

Jimmy squeezed the trigger and held it. Three rounds of 12-gauge buckshot splintered the window and Jenny’s desk. Bruce’s chest collapsed as a fist of lead pellets punched him like a truck, and he fell in a bloodied heap against the back wall of the office. Jimmy kept the shotgun level as the view through the storefront opened up. With the glass gone, he could see into the office area, covering the entire front of the office.

Another figure moved, diving behind the remains of Jenny’s desk, and a head popped up, looking for him. But where Jimmy was set up, he still maintained the element of surprise. He popped off the last two rounds in the shotgun and grabbed his AK-47 as the head dropped back behind Jenny’s desk. He wasn’t sure if he hit the man, but he could fix that easily enough. He sent three rounds of .30-caliber, copper-jacketed lead through the wood of the desk, saw someone jump, and heard a man’s agonized scream.

The smell of cordite in Jimmy’s nostrils, and the sight of the rifle’s barrel in his vision, brought back memories of other times and places he’d wanted to forget so badly, but they never let him go. Thirty years in the Army, including two wars and countless covert operations across the globe, would never let him forget. He could still see the blood, hear the cries of wounded and dying men. In his dreams, he still walked fields and paddies strewn with bloated corpses, mutilated and rancid in the tropical heat, or frozen solid and snow-covered. He’d taken part in that butchery, had trained others how to kill, had lain in wait for blood so long and so often, that it had made him in its own image. He was no longer the plumber’s kid from Oklahoma, no more
the retired insurance agent from Platteville, Oregon. Plain and simple, Jimmy DeBartolo was a warrior, and destined for a warrior’s fate.

---Unalive

* * * *

Hello, it's me...

What you're looking at this week is a photo I took in downtown Front Royal, Virginia. I saw this awesome little storefront and knew it had to be the offices of Genetek!

Front Royal is a very "Alive" little town nestled in the Shenandoah River Valley, and in the foothills of the Appalachians. In fact, I drove under a pedestrian walkway not far from this site that was labeled as part of the Appalachia Trail.

Now, back to Front Royal: It was everything I hoped it would be, and they have some awesome food there, I can tell you. Make sure you stop at the Mill Cafe and have a bite to eat, because it's rock awesome.

I was really excited to come into this town and find it was everything I wrote and then some. The setting couldn't have been more perfect if I'd visited there myself before writing the NADIA Project.

A steady drizzle tried to dampen my spirits and totally failed as I ran up and down the streets, finding corners for this scene, and stores for that scene, and before the sun went down I was totally lost, had no idea where my rental car was, and I'm pretty sure some folks probably thought I was bonkers for even being there. Okay, more than sure. Some folks I met and shared my story with, actually told me "You're bonkers for writing this town into a story like that."

But you know what? It was perfect for the location, it was perfect in the reality of the scenes and settings. It was perfect in its history (some major battles took place in the Civil War around that area, and some buildings in that town look like they could have been there then), and it was perrfect even with the weather being just a mite waterlogged.

And this is only the beginning. I have some more awesome shots to share from Front Royal.

BUT HERE IS A REMINDER: I have an active contest going on. I need the best picture of Irving Ratzinger's cabin. The finalists will be picked by yours truly based on truth to theme, composition, and appeal, and you all are going to vote for the best one, to receive a signed print copy of the winner's choice from my books (see the "my books" tab at the top of the page to peruse your choices). I still need a couple more entries to make it a good contest.

So send your submissions to me at cyrus DOT keith AT yahoo DOT com or to my page at Facebook in a private message, and put CABIN CONTEST in the subject line. You don't have to be the photographer, but I don't want any copyright conflicts. Help me find Papa Irving's Cabin, and YOU could win!

NADIA Picture Tour, Stop 2

The early morning sun had not yet cleared the ridge behind the cabin, but light was
beginning to shine down into the valley, gently waking the Shenandoah River. The water
sighed as it flowed over deadfalls and rocks along the shore, and an occasional ripple
betrayed the fish beneath the surface.

Nadia sat on the edge of the wooden dock watching the sun come up. Her toes came just
short of reaching the murky river. She could see the light growing brighter with each passing
minute, and watched the mist float above the water, like a curtain waiting to be drawn,
caressing her lightly as it passed with the river. Birds struck up their songs in the trees,
awakening the morning. Behind her, a faint rustle in the undergrowth told her that a rabbit or
some other small animal was beginning its busy day. She sat and thought of nothing. Or, at
least, she tried to think of nothing.

In reality her mind raced, trying to understand what was going on around her. She felt
caught up in something malevolent, something that threatened not only her, but anyone
around her. She had no sooner met Jon Daniels than the two were running for their very
lives. To find that her mind was not her own was a confirmation that something was
seriously wrong with her. Finding out that she wasn't even human was a shock she wasn't
sure she could handle.

* * * *

You've seen the picture behind the story. Now read the story behind the picture.

In this chapter of Becoming NADIA, our intrepid Miss Velasquez sits on a small pier overlooking the Shenandoah and ponders her predicament.

To find this pier, I had to combine some luck with a little local knowledge. I was in Front Royal, enjoying a trout and a delicious Old Mill Ale at the Mill Cafe (okay, it's free promo. If you're in Front Royal, eat there. You will NOT regret it). At the next table, a couple was eating across from a young man in his med-thirties or so, who was waiting for his fiancee to join them. A minute or so after I received my meal, who should come up the stairs to the tavern portion but a young lady who could be no other than the aforementioned fiancee, accompanied by the cutest little seven-year-old girl, who just so happened to be best friends with the lady. Now, does this kind of relationship ring a bell for anyone?

So, anyway, I overheard the child talking about how she loved reading. I couldn't resist joining the conversation, and it turns out Abby is a voracious reader and a brilliant little lady of superior intelligence. Not only that, her birthday was a scarce month away. By now, she's eight. Happy Birthday, Abby!

So okay, I couldn't resist. I hauled out a copy of Becoming NADIA and signed it for Abby, and then presented it to her as an early birthday gift. You'd have thought I was some kind of rock star. Thank you for making my evening, Abby. So then the subject of course went to the reasons I was in Front Royal, Virginia, all the way from Michigan. And Jim (the young man affianced to the lady Abby came in with) gave me some ideas of places to look for suitable shots overlooking the mighty Shenandoah River.

Following his directions, I found quite a few great places for photos, more to come later. But this one stood out. The other piers were already pulled in for the season, but this one just kind of called to me as I wandered along a small road on the north bank of the Shenando'. It's a beautiful river, and a gorgeous part of our great country. Oh, and somewhere on Facebook (I think) is a picture of me an Miss Abby with her birthday present. And I hope she enjoys it immensely.

Happy Birthday again, young lady. May your future be ever brighter.

NADIA Picture Tour: Stop 1 (The picture of the story, and the story of the picture)

Hearing: “Nadia? Nadia, I need you to open your eyes for me, please.” The gentle male
voice sounded alien to her ears, as if from a great distance. Who's Nadia?

Comprehension: She understood someone was talking to someone named...Nadia.

Sensation: A gentle touch registered on her arm as the voice spoke again. “Nadia? Open
your eyes, dear.”

Identity: She was Nadia. There was something in her mind, a nagging feeling that it
wasn't right, couldn't be right. But the man insisted. “Open your eyes, Nadia.”

Awareness.

 Nadia complied, though with some effort. The lids were stiff, unresponsive at first. She
had to think about moving them, and finally she forced them open. After a few more
experimental blinks, a small but intense white light pierced into her eyes...

---Becoming NADIA, Chapter One

Ah, welcome, fellow castaways on the third rock from the sun, adrift through the darkness of space. Starting this week, I'm going to take you on a journey through my Thriller series The NADIA Project. We'll go in roughly chronological order, but only loosely. The idea is to show you, up close and personal, the locations of certain scenes in my series.

The idea came to me when I was offered a chance to see the area firsthand as part of my day job, and I am pleased to say I found all the locations I needed, to give you, my readers and fans, an awesome visual of the story arc.

Now, mainly, the pictures are all centered around the Washington, DC area, because that's where most of the stories take place. Of course, the stories actually spread out all over the world, from Oregon to Nevada to Tahiti and the Czech Republic.

So these posts are going to comprise two parts: The picture of the story, and the story of the picture.

This first "picture of the story" is Dr. Petr Hamund, bringing his creation to life in her first moments as the light shines in.

The "story of the picture" is simple: It was an accident.

I was taking pictures of data tags on equipment I was in the process of testing for certification, and my thumb accidentally slid across the little button on the screen of my phone that flips the camera from forward-facing to rear-facing, and then snapped its own little picture.

I was going to delete it, but then I noticed the awesome pattern of the glare spots, and it jumped out at me that I was unwittingly one of my own characters.

So enjoy.

Next up, we take another trip.

How to have a successful Signing Event

Greetings, Fellow Castaways!

I can only apologize for having been absent this past couple of months. Life stuff jumps up and gets in the way, and to tell the truth, my old enemy Depression crept in too, for a while. But these are truly no excuses. I once again apologize for being absent, and ask for your forgiveness.

I have been blessed and honored to be received at several events recently for signing events, enough for me to have a grasp on what makes a successful event. This is for my writer buds, and also for any bookworm who walks into a Barnes & Noble and sees the author table right by the front door to the store with the hopeful face seated behind it.

I do claim some authority on the subject, having seen with my own eyes as well as discussing techniques and results with store managers.

So, for readers, here it is: Writing is mind-wringing, hard work, and that author at the table is really putting themselves out there for their craft. So please do us a solid. Approach that table and at least look at the product. That does a whole lot of good for the self-image of person behind the table, and you may find your next brain-treasure! And that's the simple, one-step reader's method of a successful book signing.


Now, you writers, listen up:

1.) Show up. You're coming to work. Dress like it. Business casual works well. Look like you're educated and professional. Bring promotional material as well. There are exceptions, I'll grant you. If you're at a Farmer's Market or Flea Market, jeans would be okay. But they need to have no holes, and you should be in a button-down shirt or golf shirt in any case. I have signs from Vista Print, yard-sale sized, with my book covers on them, and a collapsible easel from Staples. Cost for a sign and easel, less than fifty dollars. The store might provide you with a table and the books, but you need something to draw attention to yourself besides that little dinky table-top sign the store provides. Bring business cards, bookmarks, and any other swag you want to give away. More on give-aways later.

2.) Sink into your persona. Look, I know most writers are an introverted, shy lot. It comes with the territory of the way our brains work. Almost every single writer I know or have ever met, struggles with social situations. So we need to have barriers in place to be able to interact with the public at large, and at a signing event, baby, you are at large and in charge. So you have a couple of "safeties" to use, to provide a degree of separation between you and .....(gasp) people (gasp) ..... First is your Author persona. Whether you use a pen name or your own name, your "Author" persona is the face you want your fans to see. The Author is out-going, friendly, and engaged. If this is not you normally, then you get to pretend you're someone else for a while. Make your Author self a character. You did it for people who don't even exist. Just extend the same thing to someone who does, at least to the public eye. Use that character. BE that character. You can do it.

3.) Use your other barrier. The other barrier is the table. You're on  one side, your fans are on the other side. Don't make that silly snorting sound and tell me you don't have fans. YOU. HAVE. FANS. People are reading your book, and if they aren't yet, they will be. If you do everything I'm laying out here, you will have made at least one fan before the end of your event. I promise you this. But you need to act like everyone in the store id your fan, whether they know it yet or not. But that table is there to keep you safe, too. It's a symbolic barrier, but it helps to keep you from panicking and running out, if you're of that sort of mind. It gives you room to be the Author, just like a stage gives an actor room to be the Character. It's your stage. Use it like one.

4.) Speaking of give-aways, don't give books. Might as well get that out of the way. You're there to sell books, not give them away.  Post a give-away, and people won't buy your book, but they'll sure as all get out sign up for your give-away. Because people like stuff that's free, and they'll pick free over something they have to pay for, every single time.If you're going to have a contest, make sure it isn't for the book you're currently promoting. Give away your swag bags. Give away bookmarks. Give away little stones with your name on them. Give away your car, for crying out loud. But don't give away your book.

5.) You're at work. Be at work. I've spoken with store managers who say most of their guest authors sit at the table writing, or texting, or Facebooking, or reading. If you do that stuff at your day job, you get fired. Do that at a signing event, and your fans "fire" you by not even approaching the table. Remember what you're there for. Writing is a business, and you need to treat it that way. By all means, have fun. But don't lose track of where you are, and what you're doing. You are there to sell books. You are there as a merchant, as a vendor, as a representative of your art, your craft. You didn't pour all that blood, sweat and tears into your book to let it languish on the shelves and servers of your vendors. You have an awesome gift to give the world, and here is where you have a chance to let the world know how they can come and live in your world for a little while. So, back straight, hands on the table, head up, eyes forward (except unless advancing on to the next step). You're there. BE there.

6.) Engage your fans. This is the next step after "Be at work." People are going to be walking around, browsing other shelves, other tables, doing "customer stuff." Be ready to talk to them. This is the hard part for me. But it's easy once I've assumed my Persona, parked at the table, and set myself for work. The first time is the hardest. Believe it or not, it's good to have some words ready. Have some different things to say, depending on the situation.

Watch people as they pass by. LOOK at them. When they look back, say hello and ask how they're doing. Probably one in four of them will come to the table and ask about your book. Greet EVERYONE who walks by within normal bookstore-voice range. Make sure they know you're there. Most folks aren't even aware of anything around them until they're well past your table. Saying hello is being polite.Asking about their well-being invites a response. In any case, and most importantly, invite a response.

When folks pick up a book at the next table, tell them, "I have your next read right here." Make sure you smile when you say that. Yes, it sounds pushy. But they are looking for a read, and you have one right there. Might as well call a Diamond a Diamond, right?

7.) Be ready for conversation. Luckily enough, folks that want to talk, will want to talk about your writing. And that, my friend, is what you're always ready to talk about. You were excited enough to write the book. Be excited about people getting excited about reading it.

I say, "Be ready," because you're going to get them all. The ones who end up buying, the ones who don't buy but you wish them well anyway, the ones who just want to talk with an author, and the ones who you really don't want to talk to. You know the type. The faux intellectuals who throw ten-thousand dollar words around for the express purpose of impressing you with their vocabulary. Just smile and nod, let them get it off their chest, and eventually they'll move on.

8.) Have fun with it. I know this is Point 8, but it should be noted that this is your Number One Priority. Seriously. If people see you having fun with the event, they will want to have fun with you. Smile a bunch, be energetic, and have fun. Did I mention "Have Fun?" Make it fun, and they will come. And don't worry about numbers. Don't stress about how many you sell, or don't sell. I have it on good authority that most local authors sell six to ten copies at a two-hour signing. I usually do ten to fifteen sales per event.

9.)Check in with the manager before you leave. Build a relationship with the manager and staff, and you won't go wrong. They'll be glad to have you back.

10.) Send the store manager a thank-you email. This is just common courtesy. Within one week after your event, send that email, and mean it. Tell them what an awesome time you had, and leave room for a future return.

There you have it, folks. There are a lot of folks who spout "the rules" and such, and not all of them know a hoot of what they're talking. But I'm telling you, if you follow these ten steps, you'll not only have a great time at your signing, you'll make sales as well as fans, and fans are a writer's best friends.

And we could all use some more friends, right?

Heroes! Part 2

Greetings, fellow castaways.

This week, let's look at more heroes, examining the Hero Type.

I've said before that heroes are no more than ordinary people, placed in extraordinary circumstances, that simply decide that those circumstances are not going to be the end of them.

But I've come to know that defining "Hero" is a whole lot more complicated than that. I've seen heroes who are born to the role. When I see a two-year-old place himself between his sister and danger, there's more to that "hero" thing than ordinary people. I don't know of too many toddlers who would face down who he sees as a giant wielding a knife against his sister, even if I was only showing her that a knife means "owie," and to stay away from owies.

We see heroes in our warriors, who wouldn't normally do what we're asking them to do, in that they volunteer to be subjected to unimaginable fear and violence, to place themselves between evil and the innocent.

We see them in police and firefighters, who go to work every day with no guarantee they'll make it home for supper that night.

But heroes aren't always those action stars of our world. We also see heroes in those who take stands politically or socially. Little old ladies who sit on buses. People who challenge the norms of our very society, who make us rethink our own paradigms. Teachers who inspire greatness in their students. My high school physiology teacher remains to this day one of my greatest heroes, because he not only made complex systems simple to understand, but he excited us all with the minute workings of the human body. My junior high school speech teacher was 4-foot-6, but she drove us to tackle ogres and giants of stage fright and performance fears.

I write about heroes who charge through flames, fight the bad guys, storm the mountain fortress, rescue the princess, and even heroes who cook fabulous dinners, research the answer, pull cures for diseases out of their hats, and lead investigations. But these are only a small portion of the true heroes of our world.

I believe, now that I think of it, that a better definition of "hero" is "One who inspires greatness in others, through thought or through deed." That opens up a whole lot of room for heroes.

Who's yours?