Virginia Authors Book Sampler Volume 3 Summer 2016
A Rook Communications Publication
Copyright Š 2016 Rook Communications. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the publishers, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. Individual stories are copyrighted by their respective authors and/or publishers and are included within this compilation by permission. Text is reproduced as submitted by the authors. Other than formatting to fit, it has not been edited or corrected for grammar, spelling, or punctuation.
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Cover photo by Victor Rook. A spider web in the afternoon sun at the Brentsville Nature Trail.
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elcome to the third issue of Virginia Authors Book Sampler (VABS). This one is jampacked with several mystery stories, as well as urban fantasy, memoir, romance, historical fiction, WWII, poetry, and more. Enjoy excerpts from these published books and choose which ones you'd like to read further. We've made it easy—if you like a story, simply visit Amazon.com or the author's website to purchase the full book. Or, if you have a smartphone, scan the QR code next to the cover of the book you'd like to purchase with a QR code reader app. Shazam, you'll be whisked away to the Amazon sales page for that book. Choose paperback or Kindle and make your purchase. You can also help support this publication by advertising your business, products, or service in the back pages. Issues of VABS are available for purchase on Amazon.com in print and Kindle ebook, and on our website as a free pdf download. Visit us at http://victorrook.com/VABS for details and links. If you have any questions or comments, feel free to email me at vic@victorrook.com. Victor Rook Editor-in-Chief
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It only costs $25 to be featured in an issue of Enjoy excerpts from these wonderful literary Virginia Authors Book Sampler, which includes works. If one or more interest you, simply visit a print copy mailed to your Virginia address. Amazon.com or the author's website to purchase the full book in print or Kindle ebook. Submit 2500 words of the first chapter(s) of your published book along with a large book Fast Buy: cover photo and large author photo to be If you have a smartphone, install a QR code featured in a four-page spread. Include URL reader app and aim your phone at the QR code links to the Amazon page for your book and on the first page of each story. It will instantly your author website, and a 170-character author take you to the Amazon purchase page for that bio that includes where in Virginia you live. book. Choose paperback or Kindle and make your purchase. Help support these writers! Visit the link below for detailed submission specifications and to pay to reserve your spot in an upcoming issue. We look forward to promoting your hard work!
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IN THIS ISSUE: NI: THE URBAN SAMURAI SERIES (BOOK 2) by Nick and Stacia Kelly............................. 4 Centuries ago, a female samurai died in battle defending the honor of her master, only to resurrect as something stronger, faster and far more lethal than she’d been in life. Learning to blend with humanity over time, she recruited and trained her sisters. They lived in shadows, hunting the supernatural predators that threaten the human domain. THE SEEDS OF GRACETON by Vee Daniels ............................................................................ 8 In the mid-1860s, Kirk Petersen’s family settles on a homestead in North Dakota. After tragedies, he moves to Fargo, where he meets Alice, a beautiful woman running from her past. Morris Nesslebaum is in Fargo looking for work and land. In Fargo and on the homesteads, these lives and others’ set out to form their own town. They are the “Seeds of Graceton.” LITTLE FRIENDS: VOLUME 1 by Tom Mullen ..................................................................... 12 World War II was probably the most documented event in all of human existence. The series is a mini-history with a focus on the air war, the men and women, the events, and the times. Volume 1 covers some of the road to war, the Pearl Harbor attack, and discusses the development of the early pursuit planes – P-26 to P-39. It talks about the use of airmen as infantry (Bataan), the economy of 1941, and more. A ROSE FOR SERGEI by Kolleen Kidd .................................................................................... 16 I was twenty-one when I met Sergei Kourdakov, a former KGB agent and Soviet naval intelligence officer who had defected from the Soviet Union. The moment we met, Sergei reached for my hand and would not let go. The immediate, heated attraction surprised us both, and changed my life forever. My memoir is the intriguing true story of our time together. MYTH, MAGIC, AND METAPHOR by Patricia Daly-Lipe ..................................................... 20 Myth, Magic, & Metaphor attempts to put together a fairly simple creative writing classroom scenario. The idea is to awaken the aesthetic sense, the creative muse who lurks within us all. The method is multisensory, interdisciplinary, and holistic. Philosophy, art, music, and linguistics are some of the disciplines used. The goal is to have the reader recognize and enjoy the process. DAMN THE NANNY by S. Kelley Chambers ............................................................................. 24 This profound account of one mother's riveting day-to-day relentless battle to teach her preteens and teenagers responsibility for their actions, discipline and respect for authority. Bullying and being bullied, teenage pregnancies, disruptions at school and many other unpredictable situations are confronted with cutting-edge humor and creative punishments. WRETCHED FATE by F. Sharon Swope and Genilee Parente .................................................. 28 Sam Osborne and his secretary, Casey Jones, join us once again in the second book of the Sam Osborne Detective Series, where Sam takes on the job of sleuthing out the disappearance of valuable Kuan Yin statues from the home of successful romance novelist Jacob Hardy.
MY HORMONES ARE KILLING ME by Maria Yeager ..........................................................32 The purpose of this book is to bring awareness to this little-known disorder of the uterus by telling my own story of my 17-year medical struggle with adenomyosis. The book also delves into hormonal imbalances, which could lead to this condition, particularly estrogen dominance. IN SEARCH OF GOOD TIMES by Victor Rook .......................................................................36 Joseph Manley, a blue-collar worker from Idaho, loses his job during the 2009 economic recession. A strange turn of events sets him off on a road trip to seek out the fictional sitcom families from “Good Times” and “All in the Family.” A WALK AMONG THE DEAD by Fred Fanning ......................................................................40 After her father, a US military policeman, dies in a terrible automobile accident, young Maggie Hoffmann and her mother return to Berlin. There, Maggie attempts to connect with her father’s memory by following in his footsteps and joining the Berlin police force. A gripping mystery set in Germany right after the fall of the Berlin Wall. BEHIND THE BADGE by J.D. Cunegan .....................................................................................44 For Jill Andersen, being part of the Baltimore Police Department has always been both a tremendous honor and a serious responsibility. Her father, before his fall from grace, had instilled in her a great respect for police and the work they do day-to-day. But when a teenage boy winds up dead on the outskirts of downtown Baltimore, Jill finds herself once again faced with those who would abuse their badges to fulfill personal agendas and uphold biases. THE OBSESSION by Dawn Brotherton .......................................................................................48 When the phone calls began in the dead of the night, Jackie chalked them up to a prank caller. She'd had her share of harassment coming up the ranks of the Air Force but always shrugged them off. But when she began noticing changes around her house she hadn’t made, and unsigned love letters began arriving, she knew she needed to worry. SECRET LIVES by Ann Alexandra .............................................................................................52 Ace negotiator Jillian Harper can’t understand why she’s been shipped off to Miami for a cultural convention, just as hemisphere-wide negotiations to fight drug trafficking reach a critical climax. The mystery deepens when her quaint taxi driver delivers her—not to the hotel where the convention will be held—but to the estate of prominent financier Blake Crawford. FLEETING MOMENTS by Mickey and Zachary Tamer ............................................................56 This book is a collaboration of poems written by my father and me. Our poems may touch on the similar topics of life, death, finding and losing religion, and love. These emotional themes come from our own vantage points and reflect our different ages, experiences, and writing styles, while still sharing many similarities. SPONSORS .............................................................................................................................. 60-62 BONUS: BOOK TITLE WORD SEARCH ................................................................................64
chance, Danger.” He heard his target’s slow footsteps moving closer and knew he was losing leverage. The footsteps grew quicker, and then Danger pounced, appearing in Ryan’s field of view. He stood triumphantly over Ryan’s vacant boot, laser rifle aimed to finish off the detective. Instead, Ryan squeezed off two shots, hitting his target square in the chest. “Player Two – Game Over.” “Aww, man,” the dejected kid called Danger groaned as his Laser Danger chest piece went from green to red. He moved his gaze to Ryan, frustration set all over his head and shoulders. Ryan tsk’ed and rose to his feet. “Good game, kiddo, maybe you’ll get me next time.” “That’s what you said last time.” “Yep,” Ryan nodded, “and it’s probably what I’ll say next time. Now, be a good kid and throw your uncle his shoe. My toes are goin’ numb.”
NI: The Urban Samurai Series By Nick and Stacia Kelly Genre: Urban Fantasy Pages: 169 (Kindle)
Amazon.com and staciakelly.com
Chapter 1 “You’ll never take me alive, coppers!” Detective Ryan Calder dropped to the cold ground as lasers fired over his head. He’d flanked and cornered his suspect, but this one had a guile and wit reserved for only the craftiest foes. “Give it up, Danger. We’ve got you surrounded!” His target replied with a snort and a laugh. “Don’t be a fool. I’ve already shot down your partner. You’re next.” It was true. Danger had gotten the drop on Ryan’s partner, finishing him off when they chased him into the suburban backyard. Backup wasn’t coming, and if Ryan didn’t think quickly, he’d be finished, too. “There’s still time for you to turn yourself in. Use your head or it’s over for you.” “How ‘bout you stand up and take it like a man, cop? I’ve got you pinned down, and I can wait here all day long.” Ryan reached down and untied his boot, leaving it in place. Then he crawled on his belly on the frosty lawn. He inhaled and exhaled through his nose to minimize the visibility of his breath in the winter air. “Last
Curled up in the pool of sunshine streaming through the dirty windows of the old warehouse, she stared down at the old leather book in her hands. She should head back to the current place she called home. They’d be calling the cops on her soon. She’d skipped school and instead wandered around the city, people-watching all day. She wrapped her cold fingers around the leather bound edges. She’d never thought she'd be able to do the things she'd been able to do in the last week. All because she'd wandered into the old bookstore and found the thing hiding on a back shelf, drawn to it as she'd never been drawn to anything before. The oddity of it all, her in a bookstore. Her newest foster parents would swear she'd never cracked open a book, much less knew how to read. She knew much more than that now, so much more. Her black lacquered nails looked garish against the fragile pages. She'd learned 4
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Spiros and the demons. He’d missed Thanksgiving, but homicides didn’t care what the schedule on the wall said. He tried to make it up today with the visit to his sister and her family. He felt the glare of said sibling and tried not to smirk. “You took your boot off? My stars, Ryan, how competitive are you?” “I don’t like to lose, sis. You know that better than anyone.” “Really, Ry?” The detective looked up to meet his sister’s brown eyes. Chloe “CC” Calder-Williams gave him the same look she had ever since they were kids. The smirk finally crossed Ryan’s face. All grown up with a husband, kids and a house of her own, and she was still his baby-faced little sister. “Okay, okay,” Ryan shrugged, “I’ll let him beat me in Gruden Football next time I visit.” CC waved a finger at her brother. “You’d better.” Danny Williams, CC’s husband, emerged from the back of the house, towel-drying his hair. “Hey, it’s good for the kid to lose every once in a while.” She was outnumbered, but not outsmarted. “You’re just glad your team won. If not for your ‘partner’ over here, you and DJ would already be on your way to the toy store.” Danny smiled. “I’ll take him anyway.” He kissed his wife on the cheek. “I know,” she replied, pulling him back for a quick kiss on the lips. Ryan grinned and picked up his coffee. His baby sister was living the American dream. House in the suburbs, complete with two kids, PTA, and the church choir. She and Danny were in love and still managed to show it with two children underfoot and his grueling government contractor job. If things had been different, maybe he could have wound up in that life. Then again, with what he knew, he was certain a “normal” life wasn’t a possibility. “Sounds like a fun trip.”
quickly to be gentle with the pages because of how easily they crumbled. She'd lost one page that way already. Her finger trailed over the page, the words blurring, then righting themselves in English. She wasn't sure what the original language had been, but every time she focused on a page, it shifted and then righted itself before her eyes. She'd show them. Her foster parents whispered about her behind her back, sometimes to her face. The newest ones, she’d been with them, maybe three months, maybe less, seemed nice enough. She couldn’t wait for her 18th birthday to get her out of the system and out on her own. She’d been looking for a new place to live when she’d found the old bookstore. She’d wandered into it, hidden in a back alley in Chinatown. Another day she should have been in school. Job hunting and home hunting. She wanted a place of her own and people of her own, not the ones Social Services kept throwing her. The wind ripped through the warehouse sending the book’s pages flipping. An old can clattered across the cement floor. She turned to make sure it was only the wind, when she turned back, the words swirled on the new page. Words leapt up at her. As she read, her heart began to beat faster. Supplies. She’d need supplies. Finally, something to help her make the changes she longed to. She shut the book as gently as she could and tucked it back in her black backpack. No need to carry the fragile thing in her arms. She stood and made a quick mental calculation. Back to Chinatown for supplies before heading home. Hopefully, her foster parents hadn’t already called the cops on her. Maybe things could go her way for once. Ryan took a sip off of his coffee, checking his phone for missed messages. Today was his first day off since the whole incident with 5
Virginia Authors BOOK SAMPLER “Yes, sir?” “Stow it. Call your boss. I’m sure she’s worried sick about you.”
Danny grabbed the coffee pot, pouring himself a cup. “You want to tag along? Plenty of room in the Soccer Mom mobile.” “Thanks, but I can’t. I have to get back.” He put his empty mug in the sink and patted Danny on the back. “Next time, partner.” CC rolled her eyes and hugged her brother. “You can’t leave without saying goodbye to the kids.” Ryan’s exchange with his niece and nephew was much less personal. The playroom, which CC kept meticulous when the kids were in school, looked like it was hit by a tornado. Madison was nestled in a corner in a pile of dolls, reading a book to them. Danny “DJ” Williams, Junior, aka “Danger”, had cleared the center of the room and was focused on the video screen. His arms flailed in the air as he played his favorite video game, Gruden Football 2016. “Okay, guys, I’m out of here.” Madison looked up long enough to wave goodbye and blow a kiss. DJ half-grunted a goodbye over his shoulder. Ryan shook his head. Each of the kids was a carbon copy of their parents. With a smile firmly planted on his face, the detective walked back out of the playroom and out of the Williams’ home sweet home. The V8 engine of the Impala roared to life as he approached the car. Brushing some snow from his shoulders, Ryan opened the door and dropped into the driver’s seat. “Well, that was subtle. Couldn’t wait till I got in the car?” The slightly electronic voice of the artificial intelligence replied in a confused tone. “I was certain you wanted the car warmed up upon your arrival.” “Yeah, that was a nice touch, Jace,” Ryan replied. “However, cars don’t have a proximity sensor or trigger based on their owner’s body temperature.” “I have adjusted the Impala to be capable of both functions, as well as...” “Jace.”
Dr. Zenshi Jin Ronin, Shia to most, barely glanced at the incoming call flashing on her screen. She was still several shades of irritated at Jace, her AI, who had so rudely accepted Detective Ryan Calder into their battles without her knowing or approval. Not that she wasn’t thankful for the sexy Detective’s help in the battle with the Rissu demon, but she preferred to keep human interactions with the other realms as limited as possible. Instead, she forced herself to focus on the several screens she now had set up on her desk in the home office. Since she’d moved back into the warehouse, she’d fully committed to designing the surrounding buildings she’d purchased years ago. The outsides of the three other buildings remained untouched except those areas that were needed for structural safety. Inside, new hardwoods gleamed, office spaces, training spaces and even space for vehicles. Jace designed a state of the art security system, shielding everything inside the small area from satellite detection, keeping them effectively hidden from prying eyes around the world. She might not be able to block out the other realms, but she’d become very adept at hiding in the human one. She’d built a sanctuary for herself and her sisters, having a nagging feeling that things were going to get much worse before they got better. The screen to her left blinked again, this time, Ilsa’s beautiful blond visage flashed with her name. The gorgeous Scandinavian helped to manage the business end of things for the Samurai sisters. Eleven of them spanned the globe each demon hunting in her own territory. Shia tapped the screen and opened up the connection to the only other woman 6
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Shia smiled, “True. And she’ll love having the little one underfoot.” Shia clicked a few more buttons and tapped on the screen sending out orders to the others. They needed to know they had a new and future sister in their ranks. She swiveled her chair back to face Ilsa. “We really should call a family meeting.” “True. We need to figure out funding, do supply checks and see about getting Shellie and the child home safely.” Ilsa twisted her long blonde hair up and secured it with a claw. “We’ll start calling them to you over the next few days.” “Agreed.” Another chime rang out around the office space. Shia laughed. “Impatient AI doesn’t like me keeping him blocked from talking to me. I’ll let you know when they arrive. I’ve got to get on scene.” Ilsa smiled. “Enjoy.” Shia grinned back at her, a rare grin. “Oh, I always do.” She winked and tapped the screen closed before clicking the other call open. “Lady.” Shia cut him off before he could begin. “Shellie will eventually be making her way home with the child. You may have fun changing the warehouse next door to suit Shellie, a five year old, and perhaps a …
even remotely close to her in age. “Ignoring me?” Ilsa smiled at her. The plush leather office behind her resonated with all the vibrancy of the finer things in life. For the most part, the Samurai weren’t lacking in material goods or technology, which hadn’t always been the case. “No, Jace, I’m ignoring.” She tapped close on the incoming call from the AI again. She’d turned off all his communication paths in the office. She turned back to the others screens giving Ilsa a side view of her face. “He’s gotten a little away from his programming.” “I can’t believe how much you rely on technology nowadays. There was a time.” Ilsa said. Shia slanted her a look and then went back to her screens. “Times change. The wise person learns to adapt.” Data streamed past her eyes, news reports from around the nation. Commentaries on blogs, videos and more. She stopped trying to absorb all of it at once, instead focusing on letting something stand out and demand her attention. “Have they returned yet?” Ilsa asked, her face turning to the side, the sounds of a keyboard clicking away on the other side of the world. “They’ll be traveling by normal means, and she’s had to hide the child so they both can heal. They’ll be here in due time.” Shia sighed. Shellie, the North American Samurai had disappeared tracking a Rissu demon and child a few weeks ago. She wasn’t going to rush their return and do more harm than good to the young one who’d be entering their domain. “Do you want to do the honors of creating a link for the child or shall I?” “Let me build a background for her. Since Shellie found her, we should likely make her the young one’s relation.” Ilsa smiled. “She more of a mother type than any of the rest of us.”
Order on Amazon or staciakelly.com to continue reading this book. Stacia and Nick Kelly reside in Northern Virginia with their son. This is the second book in their Urban Samurai series. Stacia and Nick Kelly
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cated through an interpreter who precisely relayed his message, for he, too, was employed by the railroad. “America needs you! We want to open the west for farming and cattle to feed our growing population in the East. We want to make sure there are white people from sea to shining sea! And what’s in it for you?” He paused only a second to glance around the pool of men with desperate blue eyes; it was a rhetorical question and he knew he had their attention. “Land, that’s what! Lots of it. And it’s practically free. And I’m here to help you get to it.” The man’s enthusiasm was certainly reflected in his eyes, his voice, his gestures as he stretched his arms and fingers toward the small gathering and occasionally pointed at specific individuals whose attention he was sure he’d captured. Most of the men were drawn in, some against their will, but there were some doubts nonetheless. They, too, made use of the interpreter. “Free land?” several asked doubtfully when the railroad man paused a few moments to wipe his brow, even though it was still cool. The short spring was struggling to arrive so there was no weather-related reason to perspire yet. If clothed differently, he could have been mistaken for a revivalist. “Yes. Well, practically free,” he confessed quickly and went on. “And almost all arable. There’s government land for homesteads and some railroad land, too. There’s work. Work on the farms. Work on the rail lines. Yes, land and work! What many of you don’t have here.” The Norwegians nodded to each other, reluctantly acknowledging that lack of farmland and work was a growing problem. Indeed, there were even alarming rumors of food shortages in some parts of Norway. “What about the savages we’ve heard about?” one man asked, raising his hand to
The Seeds of Graceton By Vee Daniels Genre: Fiction Pages: 488
Amazon.com
PART ONE: The Petersens Chapter 1
“C
ome to America! We need you!” the rich-looking man from the American railroad implored the small group of Norwegian men who’d gathered outside the parish church in the southwest Norwegian district of Stavenger. He was expensively dressed, his hair and moustache were impeccably styled, and the fob and watch he pulled from inside his jacket with shiny brass buttons was highly polished. There was a mixture of admiration and resentment among the men in the audience. Who was this man from far, far away to tell them America needed their labor? He seemed to think it a simple matter to leave one’s family and homeland to settle somewhere on the other side of the world. Still, he was wealthy-looking, far different from the tattered, hungry group standing before him, which listened intently as he raved about the wonderful attributes of the wide-open settlerhungry American west. “Gentlemen!” the railroad man communi-
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attract the railroad man’s attention. “Bah! The Army’s taking care of that small problem as we speak. We guarantee you, in a few years there won’t be any savages left in America.” “So we can get rich by growing wheat?” another asked, as if to summarize. “Yes!” The American excitedly jabbed his finger toward the questioner. “Yes! It’s easy to grow wheat and with the railroad, it will be easy to get it to market. And,” he asserted and continued to jab the air in front of him, “you don’t have to farm to get rich! There’s lots of other work to be had. But we think the land, especially in the upper plains, would be most suited to you Norwegians.” The railroad man’s final statement sounded rather condescending but the audience seemed to overlook it. The combination of his speech, the colorful Norwegian-language pamphlets he handed out, and glowing local newspaper items painted an irresistible picture of America. The men began to murmur among themselves as the railroad man watched with satisfaction. Why should one stay here and face the possibility of homelessness, work shortage and potential starvation when America had so much to offer? they asked one another. If it were not possible for entire families to leave together, why shouldn’t the younger sons grab the opportunity? The American fielded questions and slanted the answers to his advantage. There were no hardships to worry about, he assured them. If one didn’t want to farm, there were plenty other employment opportunities: rail work, from building cars to laying lines, to servicing the workers, mill work, iron work, whatever. There was plenty money to be made. If they couldn’t bring their families with them, not to worry. The separation would be only a temporary sacrifice; the young men would make enough to send for their relatives
forthwith. Unfortunately, the American wasn’t being entirely truthful; certainly, he was touring Norway to exaggerate the promise of the American west but his most hurtful fabrication wouldn’t be realized by the emigrants until perhaps years after they’d migrated. In most cases, those who left unaccompanied or without their entire families would never have enough money to send for the remaining members and consequently would never see them again. Perhaps he didn’t even know the truth; after all, it was his job to encourage emigration, not to worry about the fate of immigrants. Kirk Petersen was one of those struggling men, mostly from farms, listening raptly to the railroad man. He had just walked the several miles into town to search for work, hoping to replace some poor townsman who’d suffered a terrible accident. However, there were so many more potential replacements than there were accidents. Getting employment anywhere was nearly hopeless on other farms and even in the larger towns such as Stavenger on the coast, especially for former farmers. Just as he was ready to collapse from exhaustion against an abandoned home, he happened upon the small crowd of hungry men listening to the American. Now aged twenty-eight, Kirk Petersen had been born into a large, very poor family well outside one of many cold and dying towns. All his siblings – and then their spouses – crowded into the house that was once adequate for one family. Unfortunately, there was little choice but to live this way. As the extended family expanded, there was less to eat; on the other hand, moving away would mean nothing to eat. So everyone stayed until Father Petersen died and the elder brother inherited the meager farm. For his own growing family’s sake, he wanted his four brothers to find their own way to support their 9
Virginia Authors BOOK SAMPLER respective families. Mother and two as-yet unmarried sisters were allowed to stay. Here in this crowd, Kirk came to the absolute understanding that he’d have to leave his beloved home and homeland to make a better life. With more force than he intended, Kirk elbowed a new acquaintance who was standing next to him. As Jens massaged his now-tender left side, Kirk excitedly expressed his newly-discovered simple plan. “I’m going to America!” Between his sore ribs and his own resolution to leave, Jens didn’t respond right away, so Kirk turned his new friend toward him with both strong hands and shook him vigorously. “Did you hear me, Jens! I’m going! I’m going to America! I’m going to be rich like that man there. But I’m not doing railroad work. No, sir! I’ll get land and grow wheat like the man says. And become rich that way.” His dark blue eyes blazed as he continued to shake Jens for emphasis. He raised his hand enthusiastically as the railroad man asked his final question: Who wants to go?
wipe away his own tears. His unmarried sisters, eighteen and nineteen, had already run out the door weeping heavily; being the closest to their age, he was their favorite brother, and he knew that. “Mother,” he said, wanting to push her away just a bit, to see her face, to let her see his sincerity, “Listen to me. I will send for you as soon as I get my land. You and the girls. I promise. I’ll send for you real soon. You’ll see.” But they both knew the truth. She was aging even faster since her husband’s death. She would probably expend her remaining energies watching over grandchildren while these daughters, her daughter-in-law and her remaining son worked the farm. Besides, Kirk had a wife and two sons. There would be more children. There would be no room–or money– to take on the extended family. “And tell my brother I will pay back the money as soon as I can.” Kirk suspected the loan was resented and he sincerely intended to pay it back but only Mrs. Petersen suspected it would never be repaid. She’d heard many stories about men who had seemingly vanished or had written back about their financial hardships in America. Kirk, his wife Helga and their two sons boarded a sloop to America in mid-1862 with just the clothes on their bodies and two satchels. The first three days were somewhat adventurous, though at times sickening, for the passengers. Then came the boredom, crowdedness, discomfort, hunger, filth, mal de mer, and public child-birth. As they huddled in their own small space, Kirk often daydreamed to pass the time. His favorite memory was that of spotting Helga Thorensen for the first time and immediately making a decision to court her. He chuckled and shook his head. Helga was leaning against him and their toddler was sleeping across her
Chapter 2
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nbeknownst to Kirk, Mother Petersen had pleaded with her elder son to lend Kirk most of the little money their father hoarded over the years and to take as collateral what few possessions Kirk actually owned. Kirk had worked at available odd jobs in Stavenger to help support the household; he’d also acquired possessions abandoned by some who’d already emigrated. Kirk and his mother and sisters shared a heart-rending farewell. After kissing and embracing his sisters, he held his sobbing mother for as long as possible. “Mother, please don’t cry any more,” Kirk implored, vainly trying to inconspicuously 10
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lap. She smiled, waiting for an explanation. “I was thinking about what fortune I had the day I first saw you,” Kirk said with his eyes closed. “Oh?” She turned toward him without disturbing Wilmer. She was ready for conversation. Her handsome husband was never the most talkative of his family and there was not much new to discuss, even after just a few days on board. Almost everyone had the same story. “If you and your mother had come into the shop only minutes earlier, I would’ve been covered head to foot with fish gut. Then I suppose we would not be here, together.” “And I suppose you’re right,” she teased, imagining a much younger Kirk dripping with the smelly mess. “But you never told me that. What happened?” “Even after all these years, I don’t really know why I never told you. I guess I was forever embarrassed by the incident.” Kirk never knew if the “incident” was an accident or a purposely, malicious act. He’d been in Stavenger, fortunate to have found work for awhile at a fish market. He had immediately replaced a fired worker; new help was easy to find. Indeed, Kirk heard the yelling and clanging pots and watched a burly, angry man storm out, turning back at the open door to cuss and gesture one last time. This was a sign that the owner, a Mr. Hallberg, needed an assistant right away. Competition was great. Kirk was the closest and ran through the doorway. “Mister, do you need help?” the sixteenyear-old asked eagerly. After a quick lesson on preparing fish for sale, Kirk reached for a pot above his head, naturally assuming it was empty. It was not. Its contents–fish innards– showered onto him. He spat and coughed and ran out the back door, where he got sick. Fortunately, there was a well nearby and he cleaned himself off.
The shopkeeper had no reaction, no apology, no concern when Kirk returned because he was busy with a customer, a woman with her daughter, to whom Kirk immediately felt magnetized. “And that young lady was you,” he said, smiling at Helga, concluding his story. He fell silent again as he reflected on their brief courtship and their marriage up to this point. Kirk had adored the girl from the very beginning. Though not especially pretty, she had kind eyes and a warm smile. Her hair was dark brown, an unusual color for a Norwegian. As if ashamed of it, she kept it under a cap but some had slipped out to reveal soft shoulderlength hair. Kirk longed to touch it. When the ladies left, Kirk asked his new employer if he knew them. Surprised at the young man’s boldness, Hallberg raised his eyebrows. “Certainly,” he responded grumpily, still upset with his previous helper, but he answered anyway. “That’s Mrs. Thorensen and... her daughter.” Then almost sympathetically, he lowered his brows and added, “This is usually their last stop and they turn right upon leaving here.” He saw Kirk’s eyes light up and understood, even though he’d seen nothing particularly attractive about the girl. Order on Amazon to continue reading this book. Vee Daniels, aka Gail Williams, resides in Nokesville, Virginia. She’s enjoyed writing since childhood. This is her first published novel and is finishing the second book of the Graceton trilogy. Vee Daniels 11
others, born years afterward and/or who never wore a uniform, researched the documents and histories, conducted interviews and wrote their account of the events. If you visit a bookstore today, you will probably find a recently published book concerning WWII on the shelves. In addition to the books, there are monthly and quarterly magazines providing just-learned facts and re-telling the old stories. The story telling will of course die off as those who experienced the war take their places with the past. It is estimated that after December 2014, out of the original 16,000,000, surviving veterans of WWII will fall below one million. The number of books published will become fewer, but the interest will remain into the 22nd Century – and probably beyond. As I type this in the winter of 2011-2012 in the state of Virginia, we are gearing up to celebrate the Sesquicentennial of the American Civil War. The last undisputed veteran of that war, Albert Henry Woolson, died on 2 August 1956 – about 30 years before the re-enactors who were at Manassas a few months ago were even born. I believe we take a degree of pride in reveling in what our family members or ancestors did that left us the world we live in. Reasons for an individual’s interest are extremely varied. My interest in WWII began when I listened to my dad and uncles share their wartime experiences. They would get out maps and point at Pacific Islands I never heard of. Using a foot ruler, I could determine they were far beyond California, which was far from my native Indiana. They would talk of wisdom (or lack of) of such men as FDR, MacArthur, and Truman. Over the decades, I read scores of books that added to my understanding of events. I subscribed to magazines that also increased my knowledge of the people and places of WWII. I wanted to write my own history, but where to begin? There is certainly no lack of
Little Friends, Volume 1 By Tom Mullen Genre: Aviation/WWII Pages: 90
Amazon.com
Introduction The Japanese signed the instrument of surrender on 2 September 1945 at 0904 hours, officially ending World War Two. The war that officially began at 0440 on 1 September 1939 was over. In his book, An Army at Dawn, Rick Atkinson said it lasted 2,174 days and killed 27,600 people every day: 1,150 an hour, 19 every minute, or one every three seconds. American naval historian Samuel Eliot Morison calculated that America’s participation, which began with the attack on Pearl Harbor, lasted 1,364 days, 5 hours, and 44 minutes. The exact number of dead, wounded, and missing is incalculable. The numbers were mind-numbing then and still are 70 years later. Russian soldiers I talked with in Bosnia in 1998 told me the Russian Army alone lost over 20,000,0001, maybe more, but they will never know. In the decades since the war’s end, thousands of survivors – soldiers, sailors, marines, and spies – wrote and sold their stories. As the veterans and witnesses died off, This is what they said: I don’t claim it to be fact. 1
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millions of youth squandered for – what purpose? You decide. Secondly, the Greatest Generation is going fast. When I was little and went out with my tall, powerful father, all the men I met while with him were WWII veterans. Now, the only one that I personally know is his brother, my Uncle Gordon, and he is 90, the last of my twelve veteran uncles. I certainly hope I’ve paid them proper homage. And … I hope you enjoy my small story of these men and their planes. “Little Friends” was a sobriquet applied by bomber crews to their fighter escorts. I use it rather loosely to refer to all United States Air Force pursuit and fighter planes.
material. World War II was probably the most documented event in all of human existence. U.S. Army records weigh 17,120 tons. That’s about 188 miles of filing cabinets arranged side by side. The Admiral Morison that I referred to above wrote a fifteen-volume History of United States Naval Operations in World War II. My collection of the Time-Life History of WWII occupies over three feet of my bookshelves – and that is a small percent of my library. It hit me: I always found that learning which (plane, ship, etc.) was the (first, last, best) and what made it special was interesting. For reasons explained later, I decided to start with the American fighter planes of the war. I’ve been reading about these planes for over forty years and when I started doing research, I often said to my wife or myself, “I didn’t know that”. The strength of the U.S Army Air Force (USAAF) peaked in March 1944 at about 2.4 million personnel, but, undoubtedly, the number that served in it from 7 December 1941 to 2 September 1945 was larger. Narrowing it down a bit, from one source, there were over two hundred and four fighter squadrons. Who had the more “important” story to tell? While serving in the Army during World War II, soldier Bill Mauldin created a couple of cartoon soldiers, Willie and Joe. In one cartoon, one of them said to the other, “Heck, if this isn’t the most important hole in the world. I’m in it!” I think that’s a good summary of what was important to the individual soldier. Understandably, the greatest events of the war were the ones he experienced. No writer can share with you all their stories, but I brought together a few. When I talk about an individual, I very often include his age and/or date of death. Two reasons: one, to emphasize that most died young and the few in my stories represent the
Why Fighters My interest in the equipment of World War Two (WWII) began with its fighter planes. My brother Dick and I were visiting my dad for the weekend (our parents were divorced) and Dad took us to the five and dime in Veedersburg, Indiana, to entertain us. This was about 1957, and over fifty years later I remember the excitement of the plane models we found and selected – the first two models we ever owned. Both were manufactured by Aurora and cost sixty-nine cents each – no sales tax. (I remember the disappointment I felt when they went to $.79.) One was a Japanese Zero and the other a Messerschmitt 109. The Zero was cast entirely in yellow plastic, and the 109 in a dark red. We got them back to my Grandmother’s house (where my dad lived), and amid the fumes of Testor’s plastic glue we assembled them. Fortunately for Tom and Dick, they were very well-made of heavy-gauge plastic and fit together easily. After the planes were together, we put on the decals. These also went on easily. The Zero had 6 “Rising Suns” – one on each side of the fuselage, and larger 13
Virginia Authors BOOK SAMPLER ones on lower and upper side of both wings. The 109 had “Iron Crosses” in the same places. My Dad told us their stories as he knew them. The Zero fought in the Pacific and my dad was a WWII blue water sailor in the Pacific. He had personally seen them ripping through the skies above his ship on more than one occasion. They were fast – very fast – and extremely agile. I don’t remember the exact words he used to tell his 10- and 9–year-old sons concerning the enemy planes that must’ve stuck fear into him at that time. (It never crossed our minds that they scared Dad. Nothing scared Dad.) American planes had trouble fighting them, but they lacked armor and, once hit, would probably come down. He knew very little about the Messerschmitt, but he said it was good plane and had cannons. Nazi Germany meant absolutely nothing to us, sitting in Indiana in the fall of 1957. After all, these were our first miniature tools of war.
our Wishes the Our Empire has been brought to cross swords with America and Britain.” From the third paragraph Japanese’s Declaration of War on the United States. However, before any Americans were aware of this declaration the Japanese Imperial Navy attacked the US Naval and Army forces stationed at Pearl Harbor. About 752am on 7 December 1941 Japanese Lieutenant Jinichi Goto, flight leader of the carrier Akagi’s torpedo planes dropped his torpedo at the battleship Oklahoma. He fired his guns as he passed over the ship. At that moment, a bullet struck and killed 17 year old Seaman Lawrence McCutcheon. Probably the first man killed that morning. In the 2001 movie, Pearl Harbor U.S. Army Pursuit pilots Captains Rafe McCawley (Ben Affleck) and Danny Walker (Josh Hartnett) managed to get their P-40s into the air and shoot down several Japanese planes. (In the movie they flew P-40Ns which did not enter service until 1943.) When I watched the movie’s dog fight between the Kittyhawks and Zeros I was amazed at their twists & turns and thought, ‘Dad said they couldn’t do that’. Later research confirmed Dad’s words; most of the sources agreed with Dad: the P-40 couldn't dog fight a Zero and expect to survive. For example, a the U.S. Army Air Force (AAF)2 had 223 planes at Pearl Harbor on 7 December, based at Hickam, Wheeler, Bellows, and Haleiwa. Only the base at Haleiwa was not attacked and several planes managed to get into the air from it. Two real pilots, Second Lieutenants (2d Lts) George (nicknamed “Wheaties”) S. Welch* and Kenneth M. Taylor were just leaving an all-night party (the first wave of
Crossing swords …
Art by Liz Makowski
2
The U.S. Army Air Corps (USAAC) existed from 2 July 1926 to 9 March 1942 but it was subordinated the AAF on 20 June 1941.
“It has been truly unavoidable and far from 14
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183 Japanese planes arrived at Pearl at 755am** leaving a party 755am!?). As in the movie, Welch called their field, which was Haleiwa, and told them to get two planes ready. They were fired on by the Japanese during their rush there in Welch’s Buick, but unlike the movie their take off was uncontested. Still wearing tuxedos, they rose into a flight of 12 VAL bombers (Aichi D3A, code named VAL) and each shot down one. Were they the first probably the air-to-air combat victories of the United States. To make that claim precisely I would need to know the time Pearl Harbor pilots blasted the Japanese planes from the sky and no one was watching a clock. Officially, the AAF credited Welch with four kills and Taylor with two. Both received the Distinguished Service Crosses (DSC). How many other planes gone into the air over Pearl Harbor? According to Walter Lord's book Day of Infamy three PBYs that were patrol and twelve B-17 from the 38th and 88th reconnaissance squadrons. No Marine or aircraft managed to get airborne over Pearl. Eric Hammel in his book Air War Pacific said on that day a scout-bomber, a SBD (D for Douglas) from the Enterprise got one kill. He also said that a total of thirteen P36s and P-40s managed to get their wheels off the ground.
2d Lt Welch was heir to the Welch Grape fortune and probably one the wealthiest service members at Pearl. He was killed test flying an F-100 Super Sabre on 12 October 1954. Welch on left, Taylor on right. (USAF photograph). Welch didn’t shoot down another plane for a year – three credits on 7 December 1942. He ended the war with sixteen kills. Taylor had a total of six kills in the war. He died in 2006, age 86. The movie was full of historical inaccuracies, and although badly panned, but was one of the top grossing movies for 2001. (I liked it. Probably the best graphic display of events at Pearl to date.)
The Other plane A much lesser known pursuit plane that managed to get into the air on that day was the Curtiss P-36A. The P-36 shown (in the book) is on display at the National Museum of the US Air Force (USAF) was the first P-36 delivered to the USAAC. It is painted like the plane flown by 2d Lt Philip Rasmussen at Pearl and Rasmussen is shown climbing in wearing his pink pajamas. Order on Amazon to continue reading this book. Tom and Suhair (his editor) live near Stafford, VA. He is a retired Army field grade officer and was a contracted research writer for over eight years. He worked for the Army, Marines, and Navy. Tom Mullen
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was also very good looking, which I found even more intimidating. I worked as a secretary at the Office of Information for the Armed Forces, a division that came under the Office of the Secretary of Defense. I was also twenty-one years old. We had recently met at my office in Rosslyn, Virginia. Sergei had flown in from Los Angeles and was meeting with Government Officials in Washington DC. Sergei’s incredible story was making headlines in the United States. Future plans were being considered for Sergei to record/broadcast his story in another section of our office, the American Forces Radio and Television Service. My boss was the liaison officer tasked with assisting Sergei. As Sergei got up from the table and sauntered off in search of the men’s room, I could see that all eyes in the restaurant were on him. Both men and women stared at him, even the wait staff. I was not surprised at their seemingly awestruck reaction. He was very tall with huge broad shoulders and muscular arms that strained at the seams of his shirt, the result of years of body-building. His stride was confident, purposeful, and he definitely commanded attention. He stood out in any crowd. While I waited for his return, I leaned back in my chair and enjoyed the view out the windows. The restaurant was on the top floor of the hotel, and you could see all the grandeur of Washington DC, Georgetown, and Georgetown University right across the Potomac River. The view was breathtaking at night with the city lights twinkling ever-soslightly in the reflection on the water. It was captivating; I never tired of that view. In the early evening the city lights illuminated the streets and radiated a soft, peaceful glow over the city. The lights also helped hide the scary, dark parts of the city, and I liked that. I wrapped my fingers around the stem of
A Rose For Sergei By Kolleen Kidd Genre: Non-Fiction/Memoir Pages: 174
Amazon.com
Chapter 1: Key Bridge Marriott Fall 1972 “Excuse me; I would like to go to the men’s…how do you say in America… restroom?” Sergei asked in his broken English. “Is that the right way to say that?” “Yes, that is the right way; you could also say men’s room. And it’s okay to excuse yourself,” I said. “It isn’t rude. I’ll be fine sitting alone a few minutes at the table until you return,” I assured him as I smiled and tried to refrain from laughing. He was so incredibly polite. The way he spoke, his broken English combined with his Russian accent, could be very amusing at times. We were having dinner at the JW Steakhouse at the Key Bridge Marriott in Arlington, Virginia. My date was Sergei Kourdakov. He was twenty-one years old, and he had defected from the Soviet Union over a year ago. He had been a member of the KGB, the Commissariat for State Security or secret police, and a Soviet naval intelligence officer—intimidating credentials for sure. He
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flipped up at the ends. “Cute,” is how most people would describe me. Although just recently a DC taxi cab driver told me, “A pretty girl like you should not have to pay for anything!” That taxi ride was definitely one of those scary parts of the city moments. I jumped as I set my wine glass back down on the table. Sergei had quietly returned by way of sneaking up behind me and grabbing my shoulders with both of his hands. His enormous hands seemed to totally engulf my shoulders and upper arms. He had startled me, and he found that rather funny. I looked over my left shoulder and I could see him leaning over me with a huge grin on his face. I had to laugh at myself for being so jumpy. I turned my head back towards the table. He bent down lower and whispered in my ear, “No, wait.” He then placed one hand at the base of my neck and slowly traced a line with his fingers up my neck. As soon as his fingers reached my chin, he tilted my head upright and straight back so I was looking up toward the ceiling and directly at him as he leaned over me. I was totally entranced; his touch was gentle and cool on my warm skin. It was very sensual, and I felt my heart beating rapidly as I let out a slightly inaudible gasp. I was motionless as he lowered his head and his lips touched mine, ever-so-tenderly. He kissed me several times in this strange, exciting, upside down position, his hand still holding my chin, his fingers caressing my neck, his tongue brushing against my lips. And then suddenly, it was over, and he took his place across the table from me and broke into a huge, satisfied smile. I sat frozen in my chair. Now that my senses had returned I realized we had created quite a scene right in the middle of the restaurant. Again all eyes were on him and now on me. I hoped people thought my red glow was from embarrassment when in reality
my wine glass just a little too tightly. It must be a case of “second date nerves,” I thought. Just take a deep breath and try to relax, I told myself. I had been on many dates; however, nothing even came close to this. Sergei was so different from anyone I had ever met, let alone dated. He was a Russian defector whose past history with the KGB was nothing to take lightly. It was serious business, and the element of danger was not lost on me. My thoughts flashed back to security briefings from when I worked at the Defense Intelligence Agency (DIA). We were taught to be on the lookout for anyone trying to coerce secret information from us. These people could be friends or neighbors, someone that you would not ordinarily suspect. They had a word for people like that…spy. The thought that Sergei could be a spy did cross my mind, but I knew I had never told him I used to work for DIA. I brushed those thoughts away for now since I knew I tended to be overly suspicious sometimes. But then, I always did love mystery and intrigue. It was hard to believe that Sergei was my date for the evening. When I was a child I was afraid of Russians. I never forgot the air raid drills we had in elementary school. My father was a pilot in the U.S. Air Force and my family lived on military bases. When the air raid siren blasted we practiced hiding under our desks at school, using them for protection from shattered windows, as we prepared for an attack that might one day come from the Soviet Union. And yet, here I was now, having dinner with…the “enemy.” In fact the whole scenario did not seem real, meeting like we did. We were attracted to each other right from the first introduction. That surprised me, not me being attracted to him, but him being attracted to me. Next to Sergei, I thought I seemed rather ordinary— petite, five feet tall, slender, blue-green eyes and long, straight sandy blonde hair that 17
Virginia Authors BOOK SAMPLER my cheeks and neck were hot and flushed from his unexpected display of affection. “What do you think?” Sergei asked. “Did you like that?” Did I like that? Was he serious? Did I like that? I was speechless for a minute, trying to compose myself from what was in fact the most incredible kiss I had ever experienced. It was a kiss that renders you powerless because of its intensity and the meaning behind it. And yet it was a gentle, yearning kiss. It was a kiss that exploded through my whole being with a burning desire. It was like fireworks in my mind, my heart, my soul. It was a kiss that you wait for your whole lifetime. “Ummm…well, yes…I did like that,” I shyly responded in all honesty. I prided myself on my honesty but suddenly wished I had demurred on my answer. I was still flushed and self-conscious that the rosy glow on my cheeks lingered and that he could tell how I felt about him. I knew that I was really starting to like him, a lot in fact. I couldn’t help but wonder why he asked me if I liked his kiss. I did not have to wait long to find out the reason for his sudden display of affection. “I kissed you like that because I saw guy kiss girl like that on TV, and I wanted to try it!” he explained in his sexy Russian accent. He had an expression of delight on his face and looked very pleased with himself. I couldn’t help but smile back at him; he had an easy way of making me feel comfortable around him, protected, even with the mind-blowing kiss. How could I be upset about the TV kiss? He looked so proud of himself regarding that mission. Mission accomplished, I thought. Very well accomplished and executed indeed. We talked incessantly after that, learning more about each other as we enjoyed our dinner. However, I couldn’t help but notice that Sergei would periodically look around the restaurant, as if scanning the room for
something. What? What is he looking at, or looking for? I was curious, but I didn’t mention it then. We were having a wonderful time together. And then out of the blue he said the most startling thing to me. “You are beautiful girl,” he said, dragging out the r’s in his accent as if saying gurrrrl. His words caught me by surprise, and I blushed slightly. Well, that comment was certainly unexpected. I could only smile up at him because once again I was speechless. “Beautiful girl like you,” he said and then hesitated slightly. “Beautiful girl like you…you could be spy!” he said in all seriousness. He stared at me and through me with his piercing blue eyes, a look of concern…or was it confusion…across his face. My heart sank right then and there. He thinks I’m a spy! How did I ever end up in a situation like this?
Chapter 2: Major X Summer 1968 Some of the most popular, sought after jobs for young women in Northern Virginia were secretarial positions with the Federal Government. These positions were exciting and professional—the pay scale was quite good. And it was well known that the health and retirement benefits were better than a lot of private companies. It was secure work; you knew the Federal Government wasn’t going to close or move. It was the perfect job after graduating from high school. A college education wasn’t always necessary to ensure success in the work place then. If you worked hard and had exceptional typing and shorthand skills then you had an excellent opportunity to move up the ladder—from a secretarial job to an administrative assistant position. And that was just the plan I had in mind. 18
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I knew all of those timed typing tests in high school would pay off eventually. Tests were on a manual typewriter. The keys were covered by placing a sheet of white typing paper over the keyboard, so you were in essence typing blind. My best time was 100 words per minute for a one-minute timed test with no errors. It was an outstanding score. On the other hand, my stenography note-taking skills needed some slight improvement, but I had passing scores. I landed the perfect summer job in 1968 after a recruiter from DIA came to our business classes at Thomas Jefferson (TJ) High School in Alexandria, Virginia. I was sixteen years old and would soon be finishing my junior year at TJ. Typing, shorthand, English, and business classes were my favorite subjects. It was spring time, and the recruiter was in search of competent students to fill summer clerical positions with DIA. In addition to good business skills, students had to qualify for a security clearance and pass a background investigation with flying colors. I knew a security clearance would not be a problem. My father was a Lieutenant Colonel in the Air Force and a highly-decorated fighter pilot. He had even set a world flying record in 1954 when he won the Bendix Trophy Race in an F84 Thunderstreak jet. Dad was intelligent and handsome, six feet tall with dark hair and blue eyes. And he loved his family first and foremost. I, along with my three brothers and two sisters, knew how to stay out of trouble. Honesty and respect were just a normal part of growing up on military bases. We were very fortunate to have wonderful and loving parents as role models. I was thrilled to have obtained an interim clearance, and I started my very first job at a DIA office in Northern Virginia. I was not allowed in certain sections of the building yet, so I had to work in the outer office area only, which was a little confining at times. The
office was your typical government office with gray metal desks and gray metal file cabinets. It seemed everything was gray except for the black standard, rotary dial telephones. On the plus side, my supervisor, Mrs. Bradley, and the other secretarial staff were extremely friendly and cheerful. I was fortunate to have such good mentors since my goal was to learn from them, work hard, and be as professional as I could, even though I was the youngest employee at that location. I needed a good recommendation at the end of the summer so that I could apply for a fulltime job with DIA after I graduated from high school the following year. Aside from the all-female secretarial staff, there was a large group of military officers and civilian employees, mostly male, that passed by my outer office area each day en route to their various meetings throughout the rest of the building—classified areas that I was not allowed access to. They were all young, late-twenties to mid-thirties, professional, intelligent, very personable, and extremely polite. They were definitely not like the loud, awkward guys from high school that I was accustomed to seeing. Maybe there was hope for those high school boys later in life when they grew up. I definitely preferred guys that were more mature. Order on aroseforsergei.blogspot.com or Amazon to continue reading this book. Kolleen lives in Leesburg, Virginia with her husband. She was an Admin Asst. with Dept. of Defense, a teacher’s aide, and Registrar for Fairfax County Public Schools. Kolleen Kidd 19
new word that is catching on and communicating to us on many levels. The word is ‘globalization’ and it implies extensive opportunities for worldwide development, achievement and collaboration. Globalization is the result of a historical process. It reflects both human innovations and technological progress. The good news is that globalization also begs for creativity. There is dynamism to creativity; an enthusiasm which is generated deep within the individual. Creativity empowers a release of tension. For this reason alone, it is essential. This book was originally written with the encouragement of Richard Lederer in 1999. So much has changed since then. In this book, I encourage an interdisciplinary approach to awaken the creative muse within all of us. The readers’ recognition of their own creativity can be expressed in many disciplines, from the creative arts to science, but my main focus is writing. Each of us has a story. We relate to the world in as many billions of ways as there are humans on this planet. A little aside about Richard Lederer. This is what he said a few years ago when asked about his work:
Myth, Magic, and Metaphor By Patricia Daly-Lipe Genre: Spirituality Pages: 168
Amazon.com and literarylady.com
Introduction No matter what our attempts to inform, it is our ability to inspire that will turn the tides. - Jan Phillips, Marry Your Muse
I
n this post 9/11 era, despite our differences in opinion, race, creed, or nationality, let us not lose sight of one fact. We are all human beings. And as human beings, we share this planet, a small blue ball spinning around within a gigantic universe (which may be a small dot among many universes). The scope of our environment, going to the stars and beyond, is immeasurable, but within each one of us lurks a bright light waiting to be released. The light has no limits. It has no structure. It is called creativity. I call creativity the muse who lurks within us all. She wants and waits for us to recognize her, to free her, to allow her to express herself. She is a gift that binds us as mortals to something much bigger. Organization, rules, limits of all sorts are taking over our psyches. The idea of no rules and the ambiguity of intuition are frightening concepts to so many of us today. But there is a
Not long ago, I visited a nearby progressive elementary school and chatted for about fortyfive minutes with the sixth graders about the joys of language and the writing life. One of the boys in the class asked me, “Dr. Lederer, where do you get your ideas for your books?” Ever since I became a writer, I had found that question the most difficult to answer and had only recently come up with an analogy that I thought would satisfy both my audience and me. Pouncing on the opportunity to unveil my spanking new explanation, I countered with, “Where does the spider get its web?” The idea, of course, was that the spider is not aware how it spins out its intricate and 20
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beautiful patterns with the silky material that is simply a natural part of itself. Asking a writer to account for the genesis of his or her ideas is as futile as asking a spider the source of its web and method of its construction.
Playing within and behind, beyond and above. Unite with the intimacy of commitment. Trust takes time But the gift is there … waiting. Try out the words and let them try you out. The words are not demons. Let them – and believe me, they will – take over. Sit back, laugh, cry as the words flow. Watch as the imaginary becomes the actual. Experience the mystery, the magic of seeing, written on a page, words you never could have imagined writing. Talk about therapy! Vincent Scully, the great Yale architectural historian said it best. “Put the right words together with the visual facts so that all of a sudden sparks fly and a new skill is born – the ability to see.” The key to writing is writing. Phyllis Whitney said, “I think with a pencil.” Your real tool is your mind. Your medium is words. Hélène Cixous, Professor at the University of Paris VIII and a remarkable author, wrote in Coming To Writing:
The young man, in response to my question, appeared thoughtful for a moment. Then he looked me squarely in the eye and shot right back, “The spider gets its web from its butt!” I checked out the boy’s assertion, and, sure enough, spiders do produce their silk from glands located in the posteriors. The glands open through tiny spinnerets located at the hind end of the abdomen. Well, it may be that for lo these many years I’ve been talking and writing through my butt, but that doesn’t stop me from being an unrepentant verbivore. Whether you are a scientist, a technician, a doctor, a housewife or an artist, you have something unique to say – no matter where it comes from! So let the words flow. Allow them to topple, trip, and stumble. Play. Enjoy. Explore. Theodor Seuss Geisel, better known as Dr. Seuss, said, “Adults are obsolete children.” Youth is not a time of life. Youth is a state of mind. Let the child come out; he or she is in there just waiting to be released again. As a child, remember how you tumbled through life. No condemning. No judgments. Free.
“In the beginning, I adored. What I adored was human. Not persons; not totalities, not defined and named beings. But signs. Flashes of being that glanced off me, kindling me. Lightening-like bursts that came to me: Look! I blazed up. And the sign withdrew. Vanished. While I burned on and consumed myself wholly. What had reached me, so powerfully cast from a human body, was Beauty…. A desire was seeking its home. I was that desire. I was the question. The question with this strange destiny; to seek, to pursue the answers that will appease it….”
A Poetic Meditation (by your author) On this earth, there is oneness. A rhythmic flow, a great symphony that is life. Trees with roots, stems and leaves Shells, fins, furs and wings, all living things. Each has a purpose and to each, an end And then … a new beginning. Let us recapture the imagination of a child See once more the mystery, beauty and joy of God
Problematically, in that unsettled, indefinable way the creative muse works, Mlle Cixous concedes (with a chuckle, I assume), “Yet what misfortune if the question should happen to meet its answer!” It is, after all, the journey not the 21
Virginia Authors BOOK SAMPLER destination which brings its rewards. Writing opens doors, doors which may lead not to answers, but to more questions. Writing is a way of introducing wonder and surprise to ourselves. To use Mlle Cixous’ words, “My writing watches. Eyes closed.” Or enjoy what Theodor Seuss Geisel (aka Dr. Seuss) wrote:
(The Gospel According to John) The word is a sign or symbol of the impressions or affections of the soul. - Aristotle
L
anguage contains everything from history, to sociology, economics, philosophy, religious thought, even stories. Think of the word ‘community’ as meaning ‘common unity’. Language has been used and abused throughout history but it still reflects human destiny and reveals all that is known of life itself. Language is ACTIVE; language USES us! Especially the English language. Listen to Richard Lederer on this score:
"I like nonsense. It wakes up the brain cells. Fantasy is a necessary ingredient in living. It's a way of looking at life through the wrong end of a telescope. Which is what I do. And that enables you to laugh at life's realities."
Let’s face it – English is a crazy language. There is no egg in eggplant nor ham in hamburger; neither apple nor pine in pineapple. English muffins weren’t invented in England or French fries in France. Sweetmeats are candies while sweetbreads, which aren’t sweet, are meat. We take English for granted. But if we explore its paradoxes, we find that quicksand can work slowly, boxing rings are square and a guinea pig is neither from Guinea nor is it a pig.
That mysterious faculty, which some call genius, cannot be ‘taught’. But it can be discovered. Look for the extra-ordinary in the ordinary. Go a step further and take the ‘order’ out of ‘ordinary’. For example, you might remember some incident which may have seemed commonplace at the time but which, upon reflection, you found significant. Write about the incident and as you write, let the words take control. You may find that the words move up from a simple description to a plateau of revelation. Writing does that. It is a combination of intuition, desire, and openmindedness combined with hard work, long hours, and a solid foundation which allow a writer to write and to write creatively. It is my hope this book will assist you, my reader, to become the writer. Enjoy and discover your own creative muse.
And why is it that writers write but fingers don’t fing, grocers don’t groce and hammers don’t ham? If the plural of tooth is teeth, why isn’t the plural of booth beeth? One goose, 2 geese. So one moose, 2 meese? If teachers taught, why didn’t preachers praught? If a vegetarian eats vegetables, what does a humanitarian eat? You have to marvel at the unique lunacy of a language in which your house can burn up as it burns down, in which you fill in a form by filling it out and in which an alarm goes off by going on. English was invented by people, not
1: Words In the beginning was the Word; and the Word was with God; and the Word was God. 22
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general “truth” in society. With the internet, these memes can spread throughout the world extremely rapidly. In other words, communicated language causes others to think and, often, believe. According to Webster’s Dictionary, ‘to think’ means “to have the mind occupied on some subject; to judge, to intend, to imagine, to consider.” It is a transitive verb which means that thinking requires an object. As Paul Brunton stated in The Hidden Teaching Beyond Yoga, “[W]e cannot see any object without thinking of it as being seen. If it is to exist for us at all, it must exist as something that is perceived.” And he takes his case a step further. “We perceive the object because we think it; we do not think the object because we perceive it.” First the thought, then the thing.
computers, and it reflects the creativity of the human race (which, of course, isn’t a race at all). That is why, when the stars are out, they are visible, but when the lights are out, they are invisible. “The genius of democracies,” wrote Alex de Toqueville in 1840, “is seen not only in the great number of new words introduced but even more in the new ideas they express.” To which, in 1936, Willa Cather might be said to reply, “Give the people a new word and they think they have a new fact.” Well, quite aside from Mr. Lederer’s funny, but sadly accurate insight on English, let us take a more serious look and explore the facts behind language as suggested by Miss Cather. Words–so innocent and powerless as they are, as standing in a dictionary, how potent for good and evil they become in the hands of one who knows how to combine them. - Nathaniel Hawthorne
Intuitively I felt that the functions of language were of a duel nature – that of suggestion and that of communication, and I attributed to the poetic use of words a superiority over that of everyday communication. - Eugene Jolas, Man from Babel
As Hawthorne points out, words, though seemingly benign, have power. While the spoken and written word can be used to create beauty and value, they can also have a negative effect on the world and humanity if not chosen wisely. One vile word can hurt a person. A sentence can do more damage. It can demean and devalue a person or group of people, induce embarrassment and even shame. Groups of words can be repeated orally or in art (advertising, film, music), and turned into propaganda in order to enforce an agenda. That propaganda can result in enormous danger as evidenced by the Nazi’s success in using propaganda to build antiSemitism in Germany in order to accomplish their ultimate goal of genocide. Today, we have social media “memes” – the repeated use of words, both oral and written, that can spread quickly and become adopted as a
In other words, search for the metaphysical essence of the word. Order on Amazon or literarylady.com to continue reading this book. Patricia lives in Haymarket, Virginia. She is an awardwinning writer of seven books. The cover art for Myth, Magic, and Metaphor is from her own painting. Patricia Daly-Lipe
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hoping the music would drown out his temper tantrum. Even though he is the youngest in the family, his defiance reigned supreme. He forcefully opened the bedroom door and yelled upstairs at me. “It’s not fair! I hate this house and I hate you!” I turned down the music, walked over to the stairs and looked over the banister. “Life isn’t fair! Deal with it! If life was fair, then I would have a face like Halle Berry, a body like Beyoncé, and money like Oprah Winfrey. But since I am stuck with what God gave me, so are you. Deal with it.” He slammed the bedroom door and continued yelling that he hated me. I shouted over the railing at the closed door, “Save all of your hate words for the Christmas season. Remind me that you hate me and you don’t want me spending hundreds of dollars on you. But for now, get that room cleaned because inspection is in one hour.” The month of December is the most peaceful month of the year. You would think our children were walking around strumming harps and singing angelic hymns. Darrin and I have absolutely no trouble the entire month. The trash is taken out without a fuss; they bathe without an argument, clean their bedrooms and even volunteer to clean the kitchen. After the toys and games are broken, lost or the novelty wears off, they mutate back into ungrateful spawns who talk-back and act disrespectful. Well, I had become fed- up with their selfishness and bad attitudes. The bedroom door swung open again and Desmond angrily yelled upstairs, “One hour! I can’t clean all of this mess up in one hour! It took me a whole week to make this mess.” “Well then,” I calmly stated, “you better stop throwing stuff and start cleaning up and when you're done, a plate will be in the oven, but you won’t eat until I inspect.” “Shit!” He screamed and began growling
Damn the Nanny By S. Kelley Chambers Genre: Parenting Pages: 210
Amazon.com and skchambers.com
Chapter 1: Money like Oprah “It’s not fair!” ten-year-old Desmond screamed as he stomped down the stairs to clean up the mess he made in his bedroom. “I hate this house!” He screamed at the top of his lungs while stomping back and forth around the basement. “Good,” I yelled as I leaned over the handrail, “I hate messes, so now we are even.” My husband, Darrin and I, noticed that as each of our children hit the age of ten, they began to make personal demands while denying parental requests. When Desmond reached fifth grade, like the others before him, he felt as if he had some type of royalty privileges. The kitchen sits directly above the bedroom our three boys; Quasim, Travonté and Desmond share. Our daughter, LaCrystal’s bedroom is upstairs with ours. On this particular Saturday morning, I was in the kitchen preparing Patti LaBelle’s homemade buttermilk biscuits, so I could hear Desmond throwing shoes and other heavy articles against the bedroom door and hitting the walls. I turned up the volume on the radio, 24
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and mumbling under his breath. He slammed the door and started throwing stuff against the walls again. I made a mental note of his pottymouth, but decided to deal with one problem at a time. I finished making a big breakfast of hot; butter-milk biscuits, sizzling bacon drizzled with maple syrup, and oatmeal seasoned with brown sugar, plump raisins, pecans, and cinnamon. I made sure to I left the oven on low so the aromas of the foods wafted through the air. He called me downstairs an hour later and I inspected his side of the bedroom. The shoes were neatly placed under the bed. The clothes were placed in dirty clothes hampers, the bed was made and disheveled papers were placed neatly on his dresser. It was clean! I thanked him for a job well done and reminded him that his plate was waiting for him in the oven. When he came upstairs to eat, he apologized for his behavior. I told him I appreciated the apology and reminded him that we could not afford a live-in maid, so until I received a genie in a magic lamp and three wishes or money like Oprah, anyone who made a mess would have to clean it up.
bedroom door during the weekdays while we were at work. On Saturday mornings, we would give him the Game Boy for the weekend. One particular Saturday, I went to retrieve the Game Boy and found that it was no longer on the bookshelf where I had placed it. It was sitting on top of the TV. The following week, I placed it on the dresser but it ended up on the bookshelf. Finally, I placed the Game Boy in our bathroom in a cabinet drawer, when I went to retrieve it on Saturday it was back on the bookshelf. To make matters worse, we received a letter from Quasim’s school telling us that Quasim’s homework was not being turned in and his grades were dropping. I knew I had to prepare a punishment that would address violating our privacy and cause him to focus on his academics. I decided to patiently wait and watch for two weeks before I acted. One evening during dinner, Darrin and I broached the subject and asked Quasim about his homework. We wanted to know why he felt his grades were declining. He shrugged his shoulders and nonchalantly told us that he forgot to do his homework. I asked in a voice as calmly as I could muster, “You’re at school for 7 hours and you forget to turn in your homework? Are you in class or are you on a space shuttle orbiting Earth while everyone else is in school?” “I just forget,” he casually stated. “I don’t see why it’s such a big deal anyway.” “Do you forget to go to breakfast and lunch?” Darrin asked. Without answering, and with a dumbfounded look on his face, Quasim started looking around the dining room. “Did you know that since you don’t have excellent grades and your test scores are average, when you do the homework you receive points that are added to your letter grade and they can actually help improve your chances of passing?” Darrin explained to him.
Chapter 2: SS Video Game Quasim loved his new hand-held Game Boy Advance. He played it regularly, at the breakfast table, during lunch, and at dinner. He played it while watching TV, doing his homework, and occasionally, while he was falling asleep. A few times I had to pry it out of his fingers while he slept. When he was told to put the game away, he would hide it for a few minutes until he thought no one was looking, then he would pull it out and start playing it again. Darrin and I limited Quasim’s playing time to weekends by taking the game away on Sunday nights, prior to bedtime. We placed it on a bookshelf in our bedroom and locked our 25
Virginia Authors BOOK SAMPLER Rolling his eyes, Quasim replied, “Yes, I know how the grading system works,” insinuating he was fed up with our questioning. “I’m not worried about that, I’ll get my grades up before the grading period ends.” He blatantly informed us. He finished dinner, completed his homework and, without a second thought, went to watch TV until bedtime. His two-week time period was coming very close to ending and my patience was running low. After several calls and a few meetings with his teacher’s, we agreed upon them sending home a homework completion form on Friday’s. When he was assigned homework; he completed it, the teacher initialed it, and on Fridays a form with each teacher’s signature was sent home confirming his progress. This worked for a week until Quasim brought home excuses: He had a substitute teacher, there was no homework, the teacher walked out of class and never returned, and the class was in the library all day. He faithfully came upstairs every Saturday pleading for the Game Boy though. One Saturday afternoon he came upstairs begging to get his Game Boy and I handed it to him. He smiled, took it, and went downstairs. I went downstairs a few minutes later and found him sprawled out on the dining room floor and his fingers were moving so fast across the buttons on the Game Boy they looked mechanical. It was time to put my plan in action. I went over to him and I asked for the video game. As I pulled the cartridge out, he sat up and watched my every move. I went into the bathroom, lifted the toilet seat lid, and dropped the cartridge into the toilet. Plop! It floated down to the bottom and settled in a corner. He ran into the bathroom after me, pushing me out of the way and looked into the
toilet. His mouth opened and closed like a guppy. I dropped the entire Game Boy into the toilet. It drifted to the bottom and rested beside the cartridge. “Are you crazy?” He shouted. “No,” I calmly stated. “But if you think we will allow you to continue breaking into our bedroom every week in search of that Game Boy, playing it all day and lying about your school work, then you are crazy.” “This is crazy, I can’t believe you!” He continued to shout as he angrily paced around the toilet like a predator circling prey. “You better believe it, buddy. I will be as crazy as the Mad Hatter before I allow you to continue with this addictive behavior.” I turned and walked out of the bathroom just as he reached into the toilet to retrieve the game pieces. Later, I learned he tried to dry the game pieces out, but it never worked the same. Eventually, his homework started coming home, it was completed and turned in on time, and the grades improved.
Chapter 3: Barbershop 101 I was sitting at my desk reading on my break when I received a call from the sixth grade principal. “Mrs. Smith, are you sitting down?” “Yes,” I replied as I closed the book. “I am.” “Desmond is being suspended for three days. Apparently, during art class he took out a pair of scissors and clipped off a classmate’s pony-tail.” “You’re kidding me, right?” “We’re sending home a disciplinary referral, for a three-day suspension, but it’s up to the parents of the other student if they plan to press criminal charges. The staff and I are looking into expelling him, but we have agreed to wait until you discipline him. We 26
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like your form of discipline, and it seems to work better than anything we can give students.” I was definitely going to put Desmond back into therapy until graduation. Instead of going to the senior prom, he would be sitting in a therapist’s chair dressed in a cummerbund and tuxedo. “Hello, Mrs. Smith, are you still there?” “Yes, I am here.” “We’d like to give you a few days to think of a suitable punishment at home because the school is unsure of which disciplinary action to take for this particular situation. Do you have any idea of how you plan to handle this?” I told him I had no idea at the time, but I would contact him later during the week. I called Darrin and told him of the incident. After the initial shock, he asked me what “I” planned to do about Desmond. Why was everyone pushing the discipline on me? I did not have all the answers. Was the staff afraid to discipline a sixth-grader? I left work early and got home a few minutes before the school buses dropped off the students. Desmond arrived home and saw me sitting at the dining room table. He slid into a chair next to me. I remained completely silent. Several minutes pass before he attempted to explain his version of the incident. After repeatedly insisting the girl was his friend and she gave him permission to cut her hair, he informed me that her parents would be okay with the cut. After all, he only cut off a little bit. The principal was exaggerating. “Son, do you know that you can be criminally charged? Furthermore, do you even understand what criminally charged means?” A blank stare confirmed he had no clue as to the gravity of his actions. He truly believed it was a minor incident that was blown out of proportion.
Darrin came home, looked at Desmond, shook his head, and without a word, went upstairs to take a shower. Shortly afterwards, LaCrystal and Quasim arrived home from high school. They cautiously surveyed the situation and shook their heads before going to start their homework. I continued talking to Desmond. “What in the world was going through your head, Desmond? I don’t have the time or patience to be sitting in court or the principal’s office over such senseless and reckless behavior. If you have uncontrollable thoughts running through your head, please, let me know so I can try to seek professional help for you.” “There is nothing running through my head.” “I figured that. But why did you do it?” “I was bored.” “You were bored? Lord, give me strength.” I got up and walked a few steps away, making sure I was more than an arm’s distance away from him. I looked out the window at the trees and took a couple of deep breaths. Order on Amazon or skchambers.com to continue reading this book. S. Kelley Chambers and her husband reside in Fredericksburg, Virginia, with their spoiled Pomeranian and psychotic cat. This is her first creative non-fiction book. S. Kelley Chambers
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back down, and he took a deep breath to calm himself. “It doesn’t hurt,” the boy said softly. “I don’t need to go to a doctor.” Nurse Roberts’ brow wrinkled. She returned her hand to his head and patted gently, her voice touched with tenderness. “I can’t make that decision,” she said. “But if you really want to stay in school and your knee doesn’t hurt, I’ll check with Principal Stevens. Stay here, and I’ll be right back.” The boy sat stiffly, his face stoic, lips pressed tightly together even as a tear finally spilled. He wiped it away quickly. Principal Stevens, a lanky man with broad shoulders, entered the room trailed by the nurse. He settled his tall frame into the chair facing the small boy. “Nurse Roberts thinks you probably should go home after such a fall and maybe have a doctor check you out. You hit your head when you went down.” “No, please,” the boy said, his voice barely a whisper. “It was just a little bump.” He didn’t meet the older man’s eyes. Like most students at the school, the boy respected the principal, who made the children feel important by listening carefully to what they said before any scolding or warning. “Your parents might be angry with us if we don’t send you home,” Principal Stevens said. “I know this is the first week of school, and I’m glad you like your teacher and classroom. But there will be many more days of school to come.” “I don’t need to go home, Sir,” the boy said, his voice now steady and calm. “And my parents will be upset with me.” “Everyone has accidents once in a while. Why would they be upset?” the principal asked, but he noticed the boy peering out the window. “I want to stay. My knee and my head don’t hurt.” The urge to cry won, and tears fell softly on the small boy’s lap.
Wretched Fate By F. Sharon Swope and Genilee Parente Genre: Detective Series Pages: 318
Amazon.com and swopeparente.com
Wretched Prologue A small boy sat quietly on the high-backed chair, his feet not reaching the floor. His posture was rigid, his face blank, as a woman in a white uniform attended to his bleeding knee. She dabbed very gently at the wound. “There,” Nurse Roberts said. “I think we have all the gravel out.” Her warm and friendly smile went unreturned. Sighing, the nurse took a tube from the table beside them. “This may hurt just a little, but the medicine will prevent infection.” The child remained silent as a tear welled in his eye. Nurse Roberts unwrapped a large BandAid and covered his scrape, and then placed a hand lightly on the small boy’s head. “Thank you for being such a brave little man. I think we have your knee all taken care of for now, but it was a pretty bad scrape. We should call your parents and see if they want to come get you and take you to a doctor.” The boy jerked his head upward, knocking her hand from its resting place. “No!” he cried. “Don’t call them!” His head dropped 28
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Principal Stevens noticed, but didn’t comment. “I know you want to be courageous. But I’m sure your parents would rather have you home.” The tears became sobs. The boy was now breathing heavily. “They won’t let me come back,” he cried. “I want to go to school. Please.” The principal drew back in his chair and looked over at the nurse, a question in his eyes. “Why wouldn’t you want to go home, young man?” As quickly as the crying began, it stopped. The boy brushed the tears away, took a big breath, let his eyes wander the room, and then find their way back to the principal’s face. “I made a friend in class,” the boy confided. “The girl with curly hair and the pretty polka dot dress. She said she’d be my friend after the other kids made fun of my clothes. I never had a friend like her. Can I please stay in school today and play with her?” ”We’ll let your parents decide when we call them, Son,” Principal Stevens said. “If they say okay, we’ll send a report home on what happened, and the nurse can check on your knee tomorrow. Okay?” The little boy looked up at the man, his eyes holding no joy. “Okay.” But that was the last day anyone in school saw the little boy.
defend himself against the occasional belligerent person, so, he kept up the regimen he began many years ago when he was on the police force. Now, at fifty-two, his body was softly rippled with muscle and it lacked the usual tire around the middle that most men his age carried. He stood in steamy water letting his muscles relax. Eventually, he turned off the water, grabbed a thick towel, and dried himself. Facing the mirror, he picked up a comb to try to put his thick brown hair into place. One strand fought his ministrations and fell loose over his forehead. Sam smiled at the errant curl. He yawned, cocked his head, buttoned the last button of his soft blue cotton shirt, and picked up his sports jacket on the way out the door. All in all, Sam was satisfied with his life. He’d traveled a rocky road for so many years. He had lost his son, gone through a divorce, and more recently, lost his dog Buddy, who had finally succumbed to old age. Just having the detective business running smoothly felt deeply satisfying. Sam knew that despite the bumps of life, he was lucky. He didn’t work for money. Sam had not needed to support himself since his father passed away and left him a small fortune. But being idle would have killed a man used to police work. And idleness didn’t sit well with him. His mind craved puzzles and his body was always ready for the next challenge. These days, Sam took the cases he wanted, and left plenty of time for other activities, such as meeting up with his old friends on the force. Occasionally, he headed out of town with a fishing pole. Sam went downstairs to his newly remodeled office space to greet the person largely responsible for developing a system to keep the detective operation running smoothly. His secretary, Casey Jones, was
Wretched 1 Sam Osborne relished the feel of steaming hot water on his tired muscles after his morning exercise routine. He wasn’t a fitness nut, but he made sure that his five foot six frame stayed in good shape. Although he was a private investigator, he hated carrying a gun. He knew he at least needed the capability to 29
Virginia Authors BOOK SAMPLER blond and beautiful, but Sam didn’t hire her for that reason. He’d helped Casey with her own case, then hired her when he realized how bright she was. Except for a few boxes from his old office yet to be unpacked, the remodeling move was almost complete. It had been well worth the expense and effort. He’d transferred from a downtown office—a cramped second-story space—to his own home in order to create a warmer, more familiar environment. He’d also had the space reconfigured to accommodate Casey’s wheelchair. As always, Casey’s smile was like popping a fresh mint into his mouth. “Sam. Good morning!” she said, pushing her silky tresses back from her face. “Coffee?” “Of course.” “I have maple glazed donuts from Mabel’s.” “Look, Casey. You’ve only been back from maternity leave for a month. Are you shooting for a raise already or just trying to fatten me up?” Casey laughed heartily; the sound reminded Sam of a summer wind chime. He was so glad she and her husband, Danny, had come into his life. “How’s little Gus this morning?” Sam asked as he took a big bite from the delicacy Casey offered. Her smile turned into a yawn. “Oh, he was fine when I left, but he wasn’t fine most of the night. He kept Danny and me hopping with his fussing. I suppose he’ll sleep like a charm for Sarah this morning.” Sam took another small bite. “I’m sure Sarah will know how to handle him. She raised you, after all.” Casey nodded slowly, her far-off gaze revealing to Sam that his secretary’s mind was still at home. Then, she squared her shoulders and looked around her desk until she located a note.
“Shawn Dougherty called early this morning to tell you she’s meeting up with her mom,” Casey said. “She wanted to express her gratitude again for your help in putting the two of them together.” “I hope it goes well with them. Just because they are related by blood doesn’t mean they’ll get along …” His voice faded as he went into his own office and sat down behind his thick wooden desk. Casey wheeled in after him, a pile of papers on her lap. She lifted them off her chair and put them on the edge of his desk, retaining just the top sheet. “I finished up the reports, Sam. Time to take this check to the bank.” Casey turned her chair to leave, but turned it back around again. “Oh, and you probably have a new client.” “Probably?” Sam asked, his nose in the reports he was flipping through. Casey’s eyes twinkled. “It really seemed like a Sam Osborne case to me.” Sam’s gaze rose slowly from the papers to meet his secretary’s green orbs. “Okay, spill it,” Sam said. “It seems that a rich and famous author has some valuable statues that keep disappearing from his mansion. His very locked up mansion. His extremely locked up house that no one goes into except one longtime servant and the author’s agent. There have been four robberies in four months and he’s distraught about the disappearances. He’s filed a police report, but it’s not exactly a priority at headquarters.” “Okay, you’ve piqued my interest. What time is he coming into the office?” Casey turned back towards the door and began wheeling out, calling over her shoulder, “Oh, he’s not coming in. Doesn’t like to leave the mansion if he can help it. He wants you to go meet with him at two. I took the liberty of 30
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agreeing.” She chuckles softly. “Like I said, sounds like a Sam Osborne case.”
budged below one hundred sixty-five pounds. She knew some women might be pleased with that consistency—especially if they were five inches taller. But, she was five-foot-three. Rosalie wanted to look more like the women in the magazines and less like a Rubenesque statue with a boob job. She walked away from the mirror, picked up clothes from the bed and dressed. Back at the mirror, Rosalie ran her hands through her curly black hair, which was usually lustrous, full, and shiny. She also knew her eyes, a deep rich green, were her best feature. She was often teased about how cute her petite little ears were, and they went along well with her small wrists and ankles. Now all I need to do is find a man interested in tiny parts on an overweight woman. The thought finally made her laugh. At forty-two, Rosalie knew it was time to put away dreams of a husband and children. She hadn’t dated much in the last five years, though she’d certainly had her share of dates in her thirties. Her small circle of friends, while supportive and encouraging, no longer even bothered fixing her up with blind dates. Her attitude was too negative, they said.
Wretched 2 Rosalie McGovern stood naked in front of her bedroom mirror. She tried hard not to grimace as she peered into the glass. The magazine article insisted this exercise was a basis for self-growth. She was supposed to remove all outside adornment, study her full image in the mirror, and visualize her body as an extension of her inner beauty. “‘You must learn to love your own shape and accept it as a part of you,’” Rosalie read, “‘because no one else will accept you, if you don’t accept yourself.’” She leaned toward the mirror. Sure, of course. But that doesn’t make it any easier to face this mirror. And it doesn’t make the extra flesh go away either. She glanced back at the magazine. “Take your breasts in your hands. Feel how soft and full they are,” Rosalie read. She slammed the magazine face down in disgust. “I’m not a fool and I’m not a pervert,” she said to her image, shaking her finger at the mirror. “My breasts are nice and full, but they are too big. My nipples aren’t rosy pink like the heroines’ in novels. They’re light brown and dimply.” Determined to try a more positive approach, she sighed and ran her hands slowly down her sides as the magazine had instructed. The lumps and bulges she felt towards the middle stopped her, and she finally hung her head in frustration. Abruptly, her head snapped up and her eyes blazed. “Bloody hell! No article is going to change the fact that I’m fat!” she spat at her mirror, and then threw the magazine across the room. This is silly and useless. I am what I am. Rosalie had tried every diet she’d ever heard about; despite that, the scales rarely
Order on Amazon or swopeparente.com to continue reading this book. F. Sharon Swope (former newspaper columnist) and Genilee Parente (freelance writer) live in the Woodbridge area of Virginia. This is the second book in the Sam Osborne detective series. F. Sharon Swope & Genilee Parente
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doing a hysterectomy. I was so discouraged when I learned this. I thought about all the other people out there who might be suffering with the same condition. I can empathize with the frustration of not being able to get any pain relief because of a lack of a solid diagnosis. As I continued my research, this book took on a life of its own. Through my research, I learned that adenomyosis has been linked to a condition called estrogen dominance. As I learned more about this condition, all the pieces of my medical history suddenly came into clear focus. When I realized that a simple hormonal imbalance could cause a myriad of health conditions, I became even more motivated to get this information out to the general public. I am writing this book to help those out who might be suffering from similar symptoms. I strongly believe that more attention and research need to be given to not only adenomyosis but also the possible underlying condition of estrogen dominance. It is also very important to get this information out there so others may get help quicker than I received my diagnosis. Even if I just help one person, writing this book will be worth the effort.
My Hormones Are Killing Me By Maria Yeager Genre: Internal Medicine Pages: 86
Amazon.com and mariayeager.com
Introduction Adenomyosis….this is a word I had never heard of until just a few years ago. Most of my life I had heard about fibroids, endometriosis, painful cramps, heavy bleeding - all associated with a woman’s menstrual cycle - but adenomyosis was a term that didn’t come up until I was in my forties. I wondered why I had not heard about this little known disorder of the uterus during my seventeen year journey of severe pain and heavy bleeding. My story began in 1990 with my first attack of severe abdominal pain. For the next seventeen years, I had numerous medical tests, surgeries and procedures performed to find the cause of my pain. I was also put on a list of medications that could fill up this entire page. The list of doctors that I saw during this period is probably just as long as my medication list. I did not get complete relief from my pain until my hysterectomy in 2007. It was at that time that I learned I had been suffering from adenomyosis. I decided to do some research and learned quite a bit about this disorder. I learned that this condition is very difficult to diagnose, and it can’t be definitively diagnosed without
The Early Years Growing up in a small suburb of Cincinnati, Ohio, I had very few health problems. Of course I had the occasional cold or flu, but other than that, I was a fairly healthy, active and happy child. My menstrual cycles started when I was 14 years old which is normal by any measure. However, as my teen years progressed, I noticed that my periods were quite painful, lasting up to ten days, and were very heavy. There were times during those years when I was having so much pain that I could barely walk. I was given NSAIDS to help control the pain from the cramps. This 32
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did help some, but I remember thinking that I seemed to have more problems with my cycle than my other friends. My family did have a history of some health issues involving the reproductive organs. My maternal grandmother was diagnosed with breast cancer in her late 30’s, and she passed away from this disease in 1940 at age 41. I have been told she also suffered terribly from asthma and severe allergies. Stories have been told about how family members would take her on vacation to Michigan to get some relief when her allergies were at their worst. Later in life, her sister also died of breast cancer. In addition to my maternal grandmother’s health issues, other family members have suffered from heavy and painful menstruation, passing large blood clots during menstruation, uterine fibroid tumors and even osteopenia during the premenopausal years. When I started having trouble, I didn’t think too much about it because a lot of my family members endured similar symptoms. I specifically remember having horrible cramping and very heavy bleeding one summer day during my teen years. Some of my friends wanted to go to a movie, and I really wanted to go. I took Motrin during the morning hoping that it would help the cramping in time for me to be able to go to the movie. I curled up in a fetal position on the couch and waited for the cramps to pass. The cramps were intense, and I was sweating and felt nauseated. I was so pale that I looked like a ghost! When it came time to go to the movie, I decided to go even though I felt awful. For the first half of the show, I was in such pain that I really didn’t enjoy myself at all, but the cramps finally started to let up about halfway through the movie. By the time I left, I wasn’t in too much pain, but I was utterly exhausted. I slept like a log that night. In 1983, I left home to attend Eastern Kentucky University. I continued to have very
heavy periods and some pretty intense cramping. Living in a dorm with a bunch of women made me realize that I wasn’t alone in dealing with menstrual issues. Some of them had horrible pain and looked terrible during that time, and others just seemed to get through each month like it was nothing at all. I was so jealous of those lucky girls who had it easy each month! Seeing this, I came to the realization that I was just one of those unlucky girls who gets to go through life with long, heavy and painful periods. But, I wasn’t the only one! Around this same time, I began to suffer terribly from allergies. I remember being in class at EKU trying desperately to listen to my professor while holding a Kleenex up to my nose due to the terrible congestion. I would hold that Kleenex with one hand and try and take notes with the other hand. It was miserable, but I just accepted it thinking that this was just some kind of genetic thing since my family had a strong history of allergies, especially on my mom’s side. Then, in the summer of 1985 while on summer break from college, I woke up one night with tremendous abdominal pain and nausea. I had just worked a ten hour shift the day before, and I felt fine during work. Luckily, I was at home and not at school when this happened. I thought I had the stomach flu at first, but the abdominal pain became so severe that I began to think that something much worse was happening to me. I vomited for several hours, and then I started to have dry heaves. The abdominal pain was intense. I tried to sleep but would wake up and realize that I had only been asleep for a few minutes. When the dry heaving finally slowed down, my mom made me some soup and tried to get me to eat some of it. I tried, but it was almost as if there was something in my throat preventing me from swallowing. I absolutely could not swallow one sip of soup. I gave up 33
Virginia Authors BOOK SAMPLER and went to rest on the couch. I slept about 45 minutes, the most I had slept in about 24 hours, but when I woke up, I had such severe abdominal pain that I could barely stand up. My mom decided to call the doctor, and he told her to give me some Mylanta. He said that if she didn’t notice improvement in me over the next few hours to take me to the emergency room. Finally that evening, my mom decided enough was enough, and she drove me to the hospital. As I look back on it now, I have spotty memories of what happened from this point forward. The only memory that I remember of my trip to the hospital was holding a pillow to my stomach and looking up at my mom as she was driving. I must have been blacking out as I had to rely on my mom’s recollection of what happened from this point forward. We arrived at the hospital, and I was taken back for the examination. The emergency room doctor believed that I had a bad case of the stomach flu. I was severely dehydrated, so I was put on an IV for rehydration. I was given some kind of milky drink that was supposed to settle my stomach, but about 15 minutes after drinking it, I vomited it up. After this, I can only recall a few moments until the following day. I found out later that the doctor had ordered some sleep medication to be put into my IV, so I had been sedated. When I had finished receiving fluids through the IV, the emergency room doctor once again came in and was very concerned about my condition. He decided to examine me one more time before I left to go home. This time, he pressed on the right side of my abdomen, and I jumped. Seeing this, he immediately ordered a complete blood count. When the test came back, I think everyone was shocked. I had an extremely high white blood cell count that, coupled with the right sided abdominal pain, suggested appendicitis. He called my uncle who was a surgeon to come in to perform an
appendectomy. I remember my uncle standing over top of me and talking to me. “Maria, you have acute appendicitis, and we have to operate.” “When?” I asked. “Right now” he replied. That was about 2 a.m. I was wheeled into surgery at around 3 a.m. When I woke up from surgery, I was shocked to find out that I did indeed have appendicitis. In fact, the appendix had ruptured and was covered with gangrene. My uncle told my mom that it was probably the worst appendix he had ever seen! He said I was going to be sick for a very long time. The next morning, I remember being visited by nurses from other floors and even the pathologist who examined my ruptured appendix. They were amazed that I actually walked into the hospital the previous night. “You should have been come in here by ambulance and unconscious! How in the world did you walk in here with an appendix in that kind of shape?” Nurses, lab workers and even my uncle were so surprised that I was able to walk into the hospital on my own accord. The pathologist said that it was the worst appendix that he had ever examined in his lab. I recovered quicker than most people expected. In fact, I was back to work three weeks after surgery. I vividly remember the horrible abdominal pain associated with this ruptured appendix, and I will never forget what my uncle said to me: “Maria, if you EVER have pain like that again, get yourself to a hospital IMMEDIATELY! This could have killed you!” This one statement stayed with me and ended up playing a major role in what I was about to go through….
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this was a complication of the ruptured appendix. Did I have an intestinal obstruction? This pain was so severe, and waiting might be a terrible decision, especially after what my uncle told me. I was terrified! Finally I called my mom. She immediately came over to take me to the hospital. While I was waiting on her, I started to think about how I was going to let her in. I was in so much pain that I didn’t think I was going to be able to make it to the front door of my apartment. When the doorbell rang, somehow I mustered up every bit of strength that I had to get to that door. “What happened?” she asked. “I don’t know. All I know is I’m in severe pain and I don’t think I can make it to the car,” I replied. I was scared stiff, and all I could think of was what had happened to me when my appendix had ruptured. “You can do it. Come on. You can make it.” She grabbed hold of me, and I put my arm around her. Although I was doubled over in pain, I did make it to the car. She drove to the hospital, and all I could do was to try to stay calm and just breathe. When we arrived, my mom helped me into the emergency room. My mom filled out all the paperwork while I sat there doubled over..
My First Full-Blown Attack Three years after graduating from college, I was working at a laboratory in South Carolina. It was a Friday night in the spring of 1990, and I was going on a date with my boyfriend at the time. I was really looking forward to this as it had been a really busy week for me. I felt great, and we went out to eat and to a movie. After the date, I went home and went to bed. My period was just ending, and I was feeling a little tired. At about 4 a.m., I woke up to extremely bad abdominal pain and nausea. I had not felt this sick since my ruptured appendix. I couldn’t stand up because of the pain, and I literally crawled to the bathroom. The pain was coming in waves across my lower abdomen and into the small of my back. Sweat was dripping down the sides of my face and I felt extremely nauseated. I pushed myself up on the toilet because I felt like I had to have a bowel movement. However, I couldn’t. The waves of pain kept coming over me, and at times I felt like I was going to faint. My whole shirt and my hair were wet with sweat. I would put my hands on the sink and bend over and just try to breathe through the waves of pain. A couple of times, I got so lightheaded I saw stars. I kept telling myself that I couldn’t pass out because I was alone in that apartment. Thinking back on what happened when I had a ruptured appendix, I began to panic, thinking that something terrible was happening to me. Was this somehow linked to the appendicitis? All I could think about was that statement from my uncle, “Maria, if you EVER have pain like that again, get yourself to a hospital IMMEDIATELY! This could have killed you!” What was happening? Should I go to the hospital now or give it some time? Being a scientist, the thought crossed my mind that
Order on Amazon or mariayeager.com to continue reading this book. Maria lives in Haymarket, Virginia. She has a degree in Microbiology and has worked in the field for nearly 25 years. This book came about from her own health struggles and to help other women. Maria Yeager 35
framed picture of him and his sister from his trip to Florida the previous year, his plastic engraved nameplate, and a few of the company's ball-point pens. "There isn't much to remove." "How about we head on out to Alpha's Bar and Grill for a bite to eat tomorrow? All-youcan-eat chicken wings. My treat." "Sure, I have a feeling I won't be doing much cooking this weekend. Have to figure out my next move. See you around six o'clock?" "Deal." After saying goodbye to his co-workers— all who liked and respected him for not going all-out manager on them after his promotion— Joe made his way to the large parking lot. A few others carried boxes to their cars and trucks as well, but he tried to avoid eye contact. He opened the back door of his green 2002 Chevy Impala sedan, a car he was hoping to replace in a few months, and gently placed the box on the back seat. Once in the driver's seat he let out a small, but relieved sigh, turned the key, and drove through the gates. Joe had done well for himself, even before he was promoted, having saved up enough money during his eighteen years at Bowman's to renovate a small cabin in Irwin, Idaho, about forty minutes outside of Rigby along Snake River. Nestled deep within the Douglas firs of Swan Lake Valley, the rustic cabin set back from the main road about a hundred yards, providing the seclusion he desired after a long, stressful day. He had discovered it one evening while returning from a weekend camping trip at Grand Teton National Park. The overgrown gravel driveway tempted his need for exploration. Two weeks later he was moving in and putting his finishing touches to it. The simple, single-story structure had a raised front porch, which he quickly adorned
In Search of Good Times By Victor Rook Genre: Fiction Pages: 224
Amazon.com and victorrook.com
Chapter 1 HIS NAME WAS Joseph Manley. Joe for short, though some of his friends called him Jim on account of his middle name being Isaac, making his initials J.I.M. He realized it could have been worse. One look at Jim and you could see he was just an average Joe. Not average, though, in his genuine curiosity about the world. Like the time his plant in the nearby town of Rigby, Idaho, laid him off. Sales at Bowman's Industries skyrocketed the year before, and Joe was promoted to Inspections Manager. But with the 2009 economic recession, people became far more interested in paying their mortgages than buying newfangled stoves. Today was his last day at the plant, temporary downsizing they told him, but he knew he wouldn't be returning any time soon. "Help you with that?" his closest workmate, Paul Harris, asked as Joe placed a single medium-sized cardboard box next to his metal desk. Paul needed something to do other than worry about his own job mortality. "Nah, but thanks." Joe tossed in a lamp, a 36
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with a wooden swing for nighttime idling and introspection. He planted beds of hostas along the shady pathway that led from the driveway to the front door. And he hung bird feeders from the dozen or so trees that surrounded his cozy abode. Inside, the cabin was divided into a medium-sized living room with a brick fireplace, a rustic kitchen, and a washroom. A split-level floor in the middle led to his small back bedroom and an adjacent bathroom. A balcony, where he'd often look out over the gentle creek below, extended outside of his room. It was just what he needed. At age forty-three, Joe had all but given up on finding someone to settle down with. A few short-lived relationships with unimaginative women made him skeptical of venturing further. He liked his solitude, though it could get lonely sometimes at the cabin, especially when the need came up to talk to someone about the day's happenings. Calling his sister, Elaine, once a week usually sufficed—although she spent more time babbling about her husband and bratty kids than listening. Just as well she lived on the other side of the country, he thought. Distance has its merits. Joe pulled into the driveway just as the southern Idaho skies turned a deep amber and haloed the distant mountain tops. It was actually a beautiful day, despite losing his job. He walked to the front door, leaving the box behind for now, and wiped his feet on the coarse-bristled Welcome mat before entering. Beep. "Joe, this is Elaine. So how did it go today? Are they going to give you any severance pay? I hope so. When Walt got laid off they gave him a full month. Put that down! Oops, gotta run. Timmy just took a corkscrew out of the kitchen drawer and is chasing his little sister around the backyard with it. I'll talk to you soon."
Beep. Joe tossed a frozen chicken alfredo dinner into the microwave and listened to the day's messages. Though he usually felt obligated to call his sister back right away, he wanted to break free of this habit. He was sure she had her hands full tonight anyway. As the night sky lifted overhead and the stars and the moon adorned the cabin with angles of shadow and light, Joe lit a fire in the fireplace. Then he sat down in his favorite easy chair to see what sort of entertainment he could force out of the television. The shiny 32" LCD screen contrasted with the rustic logcabin motif, but was less noticeable when the lights were down low. "One hundred and fifty channels and never a good thing on," he said aloud. What ever happened to the good old days when you could count on an evening of quality entertainment, he thought. He'd repeat this routine every night: surfing from channel to channel as if the remote were a video game controller and the object of the game was to prevent himself from dying of boredom. Channels changed when commercials kicked in—not another Cialis commercial—or when a reality show with telltale zooms into the dismissive faces of unknown people assaulted the screen. Those were the worst. It seemed every other show was a crime drama, or set at a hospital where the doctors bickered above their dying patients. Or sitcoms where the husbands were portrayed as stupid and the wives as always right. Some, like The Biggest Loser, where contestants competed to lose weight and get healthy, had their redeeming factors. But who wants to be reminded of how out of shape the U.S. population is? He finally settled in on an episode of All in the Family on TV Land. Archie Bunker was pacing the kitchen early in the morning. He was soon joined by his wife Edith, as well as 37
Virginia Authors BOOK SAMPLER his daughter Gloria and son-in-law Mike, all who sensed something was wrong. It turned out Archie was worrying about being laid off from his job as rumors of a twenty-percent company cutback lingered. "I know just how you feel, Archie," said Joe. "I felt this day coming for me too." He listened as Archie shared a touching story about when his own father lost his job and never recovered from it. Edith held his arm and comforted him. Luckily, Archie was spared when a nighttime security guard revealed he wasn't on the list. Joe decided to turn in early even though he could sleep in the next day. Tomorrow was the first Friday of what may become a very long weekend.
not let the shock of it get to me." "Well, I'm not ready to strip down to my underwear here, but four or five more of these things and I just might." Joe let out a slight belch and smiled as he raised up his beer. Then he turned toward the bartender, who had just laid two large baskets of glossy red wings in front of them. "Mind if Paul and I strip down to our underwear while we chow down on these?" "Sure, knock yourself out," replied Dave, cracking a smile. Joe figured it must be fun being a bartender and listening to the ridiculous ramblings of drunken patrons. "I think I'll take some time off and see if I want to work in the same area," Joe continued with Paul while dipping a wing into a bowl of blue cheese dressing. "Maybe I should move to Florida and be closer to my sister. I don't have any family left in Idaho." Joe's parents had both passed away. His father's truck got sideswiped on the way back from an auction one rain-soaked evening, killing him instantly. His mother passed away of a stroke two years later. He resented his sister Elaine for not helping to clear the house of its belongings. She returned to Florida shortly after the memorial service. "I thought you said you can't stand your sister?" "You're right, dumb idea." Joe licked his lips to catch every last drop of wing sauce. "Maybe I need a trip somewhere." "Where would you go?" "I don't know, camping or something. Go over to Yellowstone for a week or two, or back to the Tetons. Met some nice campers there last time. Nothing like looking up at the stars over a warm campfire. "Sounds like a good get-a-way." "Hey Paul, let me ask you something. Do you ever look back and long for the good old days, when we were young? Except not be young, just live in a time when there was no,
"Over here!" shouted Paul, as Joe edged his way to the bar at Alpha's. "Wanna get a table?" "No, this is fine," responded Joe while wiping a wet spot off the stool before sitting down. "I'll take a Bud Light, Dave." The bartender popped open two cold bottles and placed a half-eaten bowl of pretzels between them. "Get you guys anything to eat?" "Sure thing, I'm treating my buddy here to a night of chicken wings and spirits," replied Paul enthusiastically. Joe wasn't sure if Paul's cheerful attitude was due to him not losing his job, it being Friday, or a combination of both. Either way, Joe thought of him as a good friend, always willing to listen and share the burden of everyday guy problems. "So, how are you doing?" "Not too bad." Joe tilted back his bottle for a sip and grazed over the pretzels. "I remember losing my job down at the treatment plant. One of the gals from work called me at home afterward and told me to sit in my underwear and crack open a beer. I guess it was her way of saying just relax and 38
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you know, no email or Internet, no reality TV, no news stations that told you 24/7 how bad the world was becoming?" "You mean like in the 1800s, living off the land with just your horse, a stack of wood, and a pen of pigs?" "No no, I mean like in the '70s, when you and I were just kids. Sure we had problems back then—the Vietnam War, same old government corruption—but people seemed to be more real, you know. People walked around smiling at each other more, talking to each other face to face instead of burying their heads in their cell phones." "You're not thinking of going all hermit are you? Becoming a hippie or moving to Montana to be the next Unabomber?" "Not a chance. Well, maybe a hippie. I did like the music back then. No, I just wish...I wish the world wasn't moving so fast. Sure technology is good and all, but I'm afraid we're going to lose ourselves in it." "That's what beers are for," chuckled Paul as he raised his bottle up in a symbolic toast to olden times. "Takes that hard-tech edge off people. I get what you're saying, though." Paul looked down the bar at three nearby patrons rabidly text messaging. "I think that's why I bought the cabin," Joe continued. "I feel so much at peace out there." Joe dipped another chicken wing into the dressing. "Last night I watched a few of the old shows on TV." "Which ones?" "All in the Family and Good Times." "Yeah, those were good shows. I have a hard time watching them now though, Archie screaming all the time and such." "I thought I would too, but there's no more screaming on that show than some of these reality shows with bitching housewives and whining teenagers. Hell, even chefs are chewing out cooks. At least Archie screamed for a purpose. Last night he was worried about
being laid off." "Why do you like Good Times, you're not black?" said Paul, pointing to his own lightbrown skin. "You don't have to be black to enjoy a black show." Joe smiled. "I don't know, it's like their family stuck together, worked things out. Plus I was the kid's age when the show came out, and I have an older sister." Joe looked down for a moment. "No J.J. in your family? No DYN-OMITE?" Paul cackled with his best inner-city ghetto impersonation, followed by a long sip of the new beer in front of him. "Nope, no J.J. I don't know. I kind of feel like they would be a fun family to know. The Evans family. And the Bunkers." Joe looked off to the side at the same texters while starting his second beer. "Look at them down there. Makes me want to puke." Five hours later and a dozen beers between them, Joe and Paul finished up the last two wings. It was almost midnight and the bar was starting to wind down. Drunken hollers and screeching car tires echoed into the distance as the younger patrons sought hipper places to share in their inebriation. Paul laughed at Joe as the two made their way to their cars. "See, their hard-tech edge is gone now." Order on Amazon or victorrook.com to continue reading this book. Victor lives in Manassas, Virginia. This is one of five books he's published since 2007. It was inspired by his love of 1970s sitcoms and music. Victor Rook 39
“Maggie, over here,” Werner said. He was standing next to the front door of the building. He smiled as he stood there drinking coffee from a Styrofoam cup. The steam rising from the lid. The smell of coffee wafting from the cup. He was a tall man with dark black hair. He always dressed in suits with his trademark trench coat. “Be right there Inspector Albrecht,” she said. “Glad you got here. We have a body on the third floor. Medical examiner's there now.” “I’ve got it; why don’t you go get some sleep.” “Thanks, Maggie, but I’d like to get you started off right then I’ll go home.” “Suit yourself.” Giving him an approving grin. They walked into the building and up the three flights of stairs to the flat. As she entered the room, her demeanor changed. The tired posture left. She became alert and interested as she looked over the crime scene. Her time in narcotics taught her the techniques she needed to get this investigation started right. This was a typical building with six floors and two entrances. The flats were one and two bedrooms with aging tenants whose children had already grown and left home. The building was in a solidly lower-middle-class neighborhood. Maggie and Werner walked into the flat and stood outside what appeared to be a bedroom. Soot covered the ceiling and fire damage could be seen on the walls and furniture. The room smelled like burnt wood. “Sergeant, what do we have?” she asked. “Maggie, good to see you. A deceased male, about 70 years of age,” he said. The sergeant smiled at her as he stood just outside the bedroom door. “Is the medical examiner in there?” she asked as she pointed to the bedroom.
A Walk Among The Dead By Fred Fanning Genre: Mystery/Suspense Pages: 278
Amazon.com and fredefanningauthor.com
Chapter One Deputy Inspector Maggie Hoffmann shut the car door and leaned against it, taking the last drag off her cigarette. She looked up at the burned and broken windows of the flat on the third floor. This was the first murder investigation she would lead and as she stepped on the cigarette, she looked like this was the worst day of her life. She was exhausted from being on duty the last three days for the German Unification celebrations in Berlin. It was October 1990 and it had been over 40 years since the end of World War II in Germany. She was still young and could take the long hours, physical effort of patrolling, and the demands of arresting protestors. Maggie was young for her position, tall, and blonde. She served in the German Army when she was younger and then became a police officer. She worked her way up to Deputy Inspector. Maggie was best described as being “Easy on the Eyes.” Her best features were her bright smile, although she didn’t smile much anymore, and her big brown eyes. As she walked toward the building, Inspector Werner Albrecht called out to her. 40
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“Yes, his team plans to take the body after you’ve had a chance to look.” As she walked into the bedroom, she asked, “Doctor, what’ve you found?” The doctor was still standing over the body lying on the bed. “Maggie, he’s about 70, impact wounds on his head, his throat is cut, and probable cause of death is bleeding out, death was probably around 3:30 am,” he said. As the doctor spoke Maggie walked up next to him and looked over the dead body lying on the right side of a queen-sized bed. Blood was on the neck and was pooling on the right side of the body on the sheets and blanket. Blood was also on the victim’s face and coming from his nose and mouth. “Sounds like overkill.” “Sure, slit throat was more than enough.” “What was used to beat him?” “Looks like a large stick or club. He was also struck with a fist.” “Thanks, doc, I’ll come by and see you later.” Maggie stepped back against the wall away from the bed where she could see most of the room. She focused on the bed and in her mind’s eye began to see how the murder might have been committed. She probably saw the same thing Inspector Albrecht did, as he looked just behind her. This was a basic detective technique. She imagined two men, one sitting atop the victim in the bed beating him with blood coming from the victim’s nose, the other man ransacking the room. She imagined the man on top of the victim pull a knife and cut the victim’s throat. As blood ran onto the bed, she saw the man stepping off the victim and striking him one last time. As she looked at the soot on the ceiling and the burned furniture she imagined the smell of lighter fluid. She imagined the man that was ransacking the room now spreading lighter fluid on the floor. This man
lit a match and set the place ablaze. She turned her head toward the corner window where she imagined both men escaping out the window and down the fire escape. She was jarred from this scene by someone speaking. “Maggie here is the name and address of the victim’s son,” said a police officer. “Thanks, that’s very helpful,” she said. “No problem, I’m glad I don’t have to deal with the family.” After Maggie had finished her initial assessment, she and Inspector Albrecht walked out to her car. “Good luck Maggie, I’ll check with you later,” he said with a smile. “Thanks, Werner, hope you get some sleep.” As she got into the car, she said a silent prayer that she was up to the challenge. She'd been through a lot and hadn’t taken any time off to rest. She knew that Inspector Albrecht would make sure she got this right. As she drove back to the police station, she couldn’t help think that the fire was used to cover-up the murder. The question was, what were the murders looking for in the flat? *** She parked in the lot and entered the building at the stairway. On mornings like these, she wished they had an elevator in the building. After four floors she was pretty winded by the time she reached her office. As she sat down at the desk, she thought how fortunate she was that the victim’s son lived in another town and she could have the local police notify him. She had always hated to inform a victim’s family. She could still feel the cringe when the police came to her house to tell her mother that her father had died in an auto accident. She was just a young girl. She made the call. “Dettelbach police station, may I help you?” the operator asked. 41
Virginia Authors BOOK SAMPLER “Hello, I am Deputy Inspector Maggie Hoffmann in Berlin. May I speak to the shift commander? “Yes, I’ll get him for you.” “Hello, Commander Berendt here.” “Commander, I hate to call you under such circumstances, but I need an officer to notify a family member. I’m faxing you the information now,” she said as she fed the paper into the fax machine. “No problem we can probably have it done within a couple of hours.” “Thank you, commander, I appreciate the help.” “You’re welcome Deputy Inspector, goodbye.” She could use a hot coffee while she waited for the notification. She walked down the hall to the break room. As she stood at the coffee pot, she couldn’t help notice how quiet it was. It was as if the rest of the world were asleep. Well, good for them. Unfortunately, she didn’t have the luxury. She’d been living on coffee and cigarettes for three days. She didn’t know for sure, but she couldn’t have had more than six hours of sleep. As she walked back to her office, her mind wandered. She sat at her desk to check out the victim while waiting. She typed the victim’s name “Hans von Manntoell” into the computer and the screen filled with letters. Her eyes were drawn to the words at the bottom of the screen “CONVICTED WAR CRIMINAL.” She felt drained sitting at her desk and the coffee didn’t help, but this added a charge to the air. It said he was a NAZI Colonel, part of the SS and did a short prison term for minor war crimes. She wondered if something from his past had caught up with him. Maybe she needed to figure that out to find his killer. It had been two hours since she spoke to the Commander in Helmstedt. Well, it is time, she thought. Here goes nothing. She called the victim’s son. Johann von Manntoell was a tall,
blonde haired, young man. He was physically fit with a quiet nature. He was born and raised in Berlin to parents that had lost everything in World War II. He was a lecturer in Religious Studies for the church and had lived on church property since leaving home. “Hello,” Johann said. “Johann von Manntoell?” she asked. “Yes with whom am I speaking?” Johann asked. “This is Deputy Inspector Hoffmann of the Berlin Police. I am very sorry for the loss of your father, but there are some things we need to speak about.” “Thank you, Deputy Inspector. Do you know anything about my mother?” “No, your father was the only one in the flat. Could she have been somewhere else?” “I don’t know; My God, I can’t think now. Is there a number where I can call you back? I will see if my mother is at her sister's.” “Yes I understand, please call me back as soon as you can, my phone number is 06915556231.” As he hung up, she could tell he was taking this hard. She needed to alert the desk sergeant about his mother. With the push of the telecom button, she asked, “Desk Sergeant please?” “Sergeant Hauser, can I help you?” “Sergeant Hauser, this is Maggie. The victim from the murder at Leichardt Strasse has a wife that lived there with him. Put out a bulletin for the uniformed officers to find her.” “Got it, Maggie, I’ll get it out now.” Maggie remained at her desk. She needed to do more digging on the victim.
Chapter Two “Hello Aunt Käthe this is Johann,” he said. “Johann what on earth are you calling about this early?” asked Käthe. 42
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“I hate to call you with such bad news but I am afraid I need to find my mother.” “Why she is here, visiting for a few days.” “I am glad she is with you. I am afraid there is something I must tell her, but I need to tell you first. I received a phone call from the police. Father died in a fire. I don’t know how my mother will take it.” “My God Johann I am glad you spoke to me first. Give me a minute and I’ll put your mom on the phone. Over the phone, Johann could hear his aunt get his mother to the couch so she could take his call. “Johann dear how are you?” she asked. “Mother I'm all right.” “We are having a lovely time, but I’ll return home to your father this weekend.” “Mother, I have some grim news.” Johann’s voice was shaking and he was upset. “Johann what on earth could it be? Compose yourself and tell me. I am sure it is not all that bad.” “Mother I am afraid it is. Father has died in a fire. He was found after the fireman put out the fire at your flat very early this morning.” There was silence on the other end of the phone. Johann cried, “Mother, Mother, are you alright?” “Johann this is Käthe. Your mom fainted. Let me get her some smelling salts and a glass of water. I will have her call you back in a bit.” “It is a great comfort to have her with you. As a nurse, you are the best person to be with her.” “Johann, what about you? Are you doing alright?” “I am sick…I don’t know what to do at a time like this.” “Are they sure it was your father? With the fire damage, it could be someone else, couldn’t it?”
“Aunt Käthe the police have confirmed that it was him.” “Johann, please take care of yourself. Your mother couldn’t survive losing you both.” “You will call me back when mother is better?” “Certainly, Johann.” “Aunt Käthe, what would we do without you?” “Thank you, but I love taking care of my family. Remember, take care of yourself.” He thanked God his Aunt Käthe was with his mother. Now he must call his supervisor and ask for a few days off to go to Berlin to work with the police on his father’s death. “Hello, may I speak to Herr Wertheim?” “Can you hold?” asked the operator. “Yes, I can hold.” “Herr Wertheim here.” “Yes, this is Johann here. My father has passed away and I need a few days off.” “My God Johann, this is sudden. I hadn’t heard he was ill.” “Yes, it was sudden. He died in a fire in his flat.” “Yes…yes please take all the time you need. Please call me if you need anything. Order on fredefanningauthor.com or Amazon to continue reading this book. Fred and his wife live in Fredericksburg, Virginia. They have two adult sons. He is an award-winning author of nonfiction books and articles. A Walk Among the Dead is his first novel. Fred Fanning 43
littered throughout. As the first taste of blood crept over Devin's lips, he wondered if those spots were dried blood from victims past. He had heard the rumors; he knew he was likely not the first to find himself in this situation. Another violent swerve sent Devin's 17year-old frame flying into the side of the van again, and he bellowed in pain when his left knee slammed full-on against the metal. He had torn the ACL in that knee a year and a half earlier in a high school basketball game. The blinding physical pain aside, he had likely lost his shot at getting a full ride to a big-time school -- the University of Maryland had been on his short list, even dating back to his middle school years. His dreams of playing for the Terrapins were likely over, but the work Devin had put in over the last several months had opened up other doors for him. Now the only door he wanted to open was the one leading out of the back of the van. But it was latched shut. The van accelerated at such a rate that the motor began to vibrate, and Devin prayed under his breath that the engine would give out. Force these bastards to pull off to the side of the road... if they're gonna kill me, let them do it to my face. The months since his injury had not been without their issues, but Devin was about to graduate from high school, and he had already been accepted to college. In fact, the whole reason he had been in downtown Baltimore in the first place was to meet up with a friend about possibly living on campus together. The friend never showed, and before Devin could turn around to catch a bus back home on the north side of the city, a plain white van had slammed to a stop in front of him and four figures wearing all black had grabbed him and tossed him into the back. He had heard the stories. About what had happened to others in this city. He knew all about what some of the locals called rough
Behind the Badge By J.D. Cunegan Genre: Mystery/Thriller Pages: 316
Amazon.com and jdcuneganbooks. wordpress.com
CHAPTER 1 Devin Buckner's left shoulder slammed against the side of the van as it skidded along the pavement. The tires squealed in protest and the vehicle threatened to topple onto its side, but once the rubber collided with the pavement again, the van righted itself and lurched forward. By the time Devin gathered his bearings, the van swerved to the right, causing him to stumble forward until his face smashed into the rusted partition between himself and the driver's compartment. A horn bellowed a motorist's discontent before the van swerved again, and as Devin reached for something to grab onto, warm blood pouring from his nostrils, it accelerated and the motor gave as mighty a roar as it could muster. A large sign on the partition taunted Devin: Please buckle up - it's the law! Only there was no buckle, and no seat on which Devin could plant himself. Even as he got back to his knees, nursing a broken nose and a shoulder that throbbed, his eyes took in his dark surroundings. What metal wasn't rusted was a faded gray, with small dark splotches 44
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rides, and even though the van was without any identifying markers, Devin’s gut told him he was at the mercy of police officers. Whether they were rogue or exacting a bastardized brand of justice that higher-ups would tacitly endorse, he couldn’t tell. But the stories he had heard on the streets were apparently true, and as the van continued teetering back and forth, Devin settled on the knowledge that his name would soon be added to the list. Now the van was pushing ninety, maybe even a hundred miles an hour. It switched lanes so suddenly that Devin's stomach churned. He cupped a hand over his mouth, trying desperately not to be sick, but the pain in his surgically-repaired knee and his shoulder was becoming unbearable. Tears clouded the boy's vision, and he was launched into the opposite side of the van when the vehicle skidded along four lanes of traffic and took an exit. At the start of the ride, Devin had tried to keep a mind on which way the van was moving, but being thrown around like a proverbial ragdoll had caused him to lose his bearings. Whoever was driving didn't bother slowing before cutting a hard left, practically at a full ninety-degree angle, before again swerving in and out of traffic. Blaring horns created a symphony of chaos as Devin lost his footing and slammed back-first into the double doors leading out the back of the van. He felt the doors give under the force of the impact, but the rusted chains holding them together never gave. Devin crumpled onto the floor, almost curling into the fetal position. Blood dripped from his nose into a small puddle on the rusted metal, and the pain in his shoulder flared again when the teenager tried to push himself at least onto his good knee. By the time Devin got his bearings again, he noticed the van had cut a hard right. Almost immediately, it made
yet another right, swerving hard to the left to avoid another motorist who laid onto the horn with such volume and duration that it was clear how angry they were. The sound was drowned out, though, by Devin's scream when the top of his head slammed into the partition. One more hard turn and he rolled to the right, his other shoulder slamming into the metal. His shoulder popped out of joint, and Devin's scream echoed in his dim, cramped surroundings. When he finally settled, Devin did become sick, retching that morning's breakfast all over himself. He could hear a chorus of laughter through the partition, and he howled in pain when he tried to lift his left arm so he could wipe his mouth over his sleeve. When the van made one more violent, ninety-degree turn to the right, Devin rolled with the momentum again, and this time when his back slammed against the side, an audible crack mixed in with his grunt of pain. By this point, exhaustion and agony kept Devin from moving. He lay in a heap several feet from the fresh pile of vomit, gritting his teeth and sucking in labored breaths. All the work he had done over the past year and a half to get his life back together was playing on a loop in his mind, and Devin knew that he was never going to get to see all those plans unfold. Even as he felt consciousness slipping from his grasp, Devin gave one more silent prayer, asking for peace for his mother and justice for what was to come. The van skidded to a stop, the force of rapid deceleration banging the back of Devin's head against the side. The blow knocked him unconscious, so he didn't hear when the front doors to the van were thrown shut and heavy footsteps approached the back. The chain came undone before the double doors were pried open, and a burly figure clad in all black, including a full mask and gloves, climbed 45
Virginia Authors BOOK SAMPLER aboard and grabbed Devin by the back of his maroon hoodie. With a grunt, the man dragged the teenager's body from the back of the van and tossed him onto the pavement. The corner of Madison and Tyson was dead at this time of day, with no onlookers in the vicinity. The parking lot at the First & Franklin Presbyterian Church was empty. The burly man stood over Devin's unconscious body and folded his arms across his chest while three others -- all wearing identical gear, joined him. The lone female in the group cocked her head and cracked her knuckles, flexing her shoulders in the process. “Is he dead yet?” she asked, her voice muffled by the mask. “Naw, shithead's still alive,” the burly man replied. “Barely.” “We fucked him up good, though,” the taller, thinner man added. “Busted-up nose, probably broke quite a few bones in the process... I say that's some of the best driving you've ever done, Freddie.” “Don't matter how many times we do this,” Freddie bragged, “still fun as hell.” The only man yet to speak pulled a handgun from the holster on his back, cocking it and pointing the weapon at the side of Devin's head. “I say it's time we put this dog down once and for all.” The burly man placed a hand on his shoulder. “Hold on a sec,” he ordered, turning to glance over his shoulder. Once he saw there was no one around, that the only other car on the street was a block away and driving in the opposite direction, he let go of the man's shoulder and nodded once. “Go ahead.” The gunshot rang out into the morning air, scattering a group of pigeons huddled nearby, and Devin Buckner's brains splattered all over the pavement.
CHAPTER 2 “Is it just me,” Officer Greg Sorenson asked as he lifted the yellow crime scene tape so the two plain-clothed detectives could duck underneath, “or are the murders in this town getting more and more gruesome?” “What's the matter?” Ramon Gutierrez quipped as he slapped baby blue latex gloves over his hands. “You gonna be sick?” Jill Andersen couldn't help but laugh at her partner's joke, seeing as how until a few months ago, retching at crime scenes was his thing. Ramon was the greenest detective Jill had worked with in her almost four years in Homicide, and for the first year or so, he vomited almost every time they found a body. Sometimes, he threw up as soon as he got out of the car. Other times, he would be fine until he saw the body or caught a whiff of the remains. But he appeared to have broken that particular habit, and Jill was proud of him for it. Not that she’d ever say so. But as they approached the body, Jill felt that familiar rumble in her gut. Not just because of the gaping hole in the victim's head, bits of skull and brain matter spattered on the concrete, but because their victim appeared to be a child. Lead medical examiner Juanita Gutierrez was hunched over the body, making her preliminary assessment, and the look on her face told Jill this wasn't going to be a good one. “Please tell me this isn't what I think it is,” Jill said as she crouched next to her friend. “'Fraid so,” Juanita said with a sigh, handing Jill the driver's license she had found on his body. “Devin Buckner, 17 years old.” Jill studied the card with a frown. “North Baltimore. What was he doing downtown?” “Other than getting his brains blown out,” Earl Stevens said as he approached the small cadre of police officers, hitching up his pants and making sure his cowboy boots didn't step 46
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in any of the viscera, “we're not sure. So far we got no eyewits.” Jill frowned in disbelief. “How are there no witnesses?” Juanita pointed at the entry wound with the tip of her pen. “Preliminary time of death is about nine or 10 this morning.” Watson folded his arms over his chest. “Traffic's light here at that hour.” Jill pushed herself back to her feet, readjusting her ponytail and turning to stare down Madison. The traffic was fuller at this hour, bottlenecking as motorists tried to sneak a peek at the crime scene, but it was nothing compared to what Pratt Street near the Inner Harbor saw most of the day. The traffic lights worked a pattern that Jill knew by heart. Baltimore was her hometown; aside from the four years she spent fighting for Uncle Sam, stationed in both Virginia and Iraq, Jill had never known any place other than Baltimore. She was proud to protect this city to the best of her ability, and she hoped she was doing a better job than her father had. At one time, Paul Andersen had been the best and brightest the Baltimore Police Department had ever seen. But along the way, he had been corrupted -- like so many others in this city -- and he found himself on Death Row after committing a trio of murders. Two months ago, the state of Maryland had him executed for it -- a personal tragedy that was nothing but the latest in a long line of tragedies for the Andersen family. “So... simple GSW to the head,” Stevens theorized, crouching beside Juanita, close enough that their shoulders brushed together. Juanita glanced up at him and did her best to suppress a smile, even though her eyes still lit up. “I'm not so sure. I dunno what happened to this kid before he took one to the temple, but his nose is broken, he's got a dislocated shoulder, and there’s dried vomit on his shirt. And that's just me eyeballin' him.”
“Jesus,” Stevens muttered under his breath. With her back now turned to the others at the crime scene, Jill wandered down closer to the junction between Madison and Tyson. A gentle breeze fluttered around her, and she could hear seagulls soaring through the sky, undoubtedly on their way to the Inner Harbor in hopes of scrounging up breakfast from the myriad of restaurants locals and tourists alike frequented every day. But this section of Baltimore, while still downtown, was not the attraction that the Inner Harbor and the Power Plant were, and the lack of foot traffic mirrored that. Stealing a glance over her shoulder, and confident no one was paying attention to her, Jill reached up to her left temple and peeled off her skin graft to reveal a silver eyeplate that ran from the bottom of her cheek up to her hairline. The plate surrounded an infrared eye, which connected to a microscopic supercomputer embedded in her brain. Tapping her temple again, Jill activated her infrared sight so she could scan the road. During her time in the Army, Jill had volunteered for a secret experiment called Project Fusion. Dr. Trent Roberts had seemingly perfected the advancement of… Order on jdcuneganbooks.wordpress.com or Amazon to continue reading this book. J.D. lives in Hampton, Virginia, and has an extensive background in journalism and a lifelong love for writing and reading. He’s also an avid auto-racing fan. This is his third novel. J.D. Cunegan 47
around the room. Drawers were pulled out. Blood splattered the refrigerator, stove, and walls. The small table was crooked in the middle of the floor. Young continued following the blood trail. Leading to the hallway were finger smears where someone had grabbed the door frame. In the hall off of the kitchen lay the trim figure of a woman. She was face down in an unnatural position. Her blonde hair was now crimson. The walls were covered with blood spray. A red pool had formed beneath her head. “Has she been processed?” Young asked the technicians on the scene. A tech rose from his position near the body. “We’re done with her. We’ve bagged her hands in case, but her fingernails were pretty short. I don’t know if we’ll be able to get anything. Looks like she put up a fight though,” the tech said, as he grabbed his bag and followed his crew out of the room. Another officer approached Young as he stood looking at the body. Her clothes were slightly askew but still covered her body. The iron smell of blood was thick in the air. “What do we know about her?” Young asked. The officer consulted his notebook. “Her name is Miss Jane Albright, age twenty-six, teacher at Warrensburg High School. Recently divorced. She bought this house about six months ago. We’ve just started canvassing the neighbors. So far, it sounds like she pretty much kept to herself although people have been seen coming and going on the weekends. Nothing extraordinary. Look around at this house. She was probably trying to fix it up,” he said, gesturing to the stacks of wallpaper and carpet samples stacked against the wall. Young took a long look around the room, taking it all in. “When was the last time anyone saw her?” “The guy in the next house over saw her
The Obsession By Dawn Brotherton Genre: Mystery/Suspense Pages: 213 (Kindle)
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Missouri, early 1990s There was so much blood. Police Officer Lieutenant Kyle Young entered the crime scene slowly, taking in everything as he went. Young was a well-built man in his early forties. His cropped, black hair was remnant of his days in the army and so was his dedication to the job. The small house was neat, making the spattering of blood all the more obscene. The windows in the living room were without curtains or shades but that wasn’t uncommon in this neighborhood. The nearest neighbors weren’t close enough that a person would worry about people peering into their home. The striped wallpaper appeared to be modern and newly applied. The furniture was inviting, but the matching throw pillows and blankets were scattered across the floor; their floral patterns obscured by a deep stain of red blood. As Young made his way to the kitchen on his right, he followed two sets of bloody footprints—one barefoot and small; the other considerably larger with no tread. The phone was off the hook and books were scattered 48
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undeveloped. “Time to get back to the gym,” she muttered to herself. She caught her reflection in the cheap full length mirror she’d propped up against the wall of her bedroom. With a decent figure, Jackie always thought of herself as average looking, not as a head-turner. Her 5’6” frame was slim, yet she lacked long, runway-model legs. Jackie was quite happy with average on the whole. She would prefer to be noticed for her brains or abilities, rather than her looks. The phone rang again. Jackie glared at it, willing it to stop ringing. The constant phone calls with no one on the other end were driving her crazy. When she heard her mother’s voice on the answering machine, she grabbed the receiver. “Hi, Mom,” she said. “Hi, darling. How’s it going?” It was always nice to hear her mother’s voice. They didn’t talk very often because Jackie’s work schedule was unpredictable. “It’s great,” Jackie replied. “If only the mud fairy would come and finish these walls, I’d have it made.” She heard her mom’s quiet chuckle. “I’m still waiting for a little elf to clean my bathroom.”. “What’s Alison up to in her spare time?” Jackie asked. “She’s helping out at the library on the weekends. For some reason, your sister likes sorting the donated books for the book sales— says it soothes her.” “How many does she buy to take home with her?” Jackie asked. She knew her sister very well. “Her bookshelves are overflowing,” her mom answered. That was one of the few ways the two sisters were alike. Although Alison was two years older, she was more of an introvert and had never moved away from their hometown.
take the trash out when he was on his way home last night. She waved at him, but they didn’t exchange any words. It was about eight.” “Who found her?” Young’s gaze settled on the framed pictures propped against the wall—unfinished business that would never be finished now. The officer flipped to the next page in his notebook, “The secretary from the school called her a few times this morning when she didn’t show up for work. She never answered her phone so the principal drove by on his way home. Apparently he lives in the next neighborhood over. He saw the lights on and stopped. He looked through the front windows, saw the mess, and called the police.” Young looked around thoughtfully. “Guess it’s too much to ask that you found the murder weapon lying around?” “Nothing yet. She was stabbed with something, but that only accounts for some of her wounds. She was badly beaten before she died.” “Maybe they’ll find trace on her,” Young said. He shook his head in disgust. “Not even safe in her own house,” he muttered.
Chapter 2 “Hello?” Silence. “Hello?” This is getting old, Jackie Austin thought as she put down the phone and turned back to her latest project— mudding the sheetrock. This had to be her least favorite part of fixing up this old house. She stretched her back by reaching to the ceiling then touching her toes. After a few more stretches, Jackie tucked her shoulderlength, brown hair behind her ears and refilled the mud bucket. Having played sports for many years, she was conditioned to a good workout; but putting up sheetrock, mudding and taping required muscles previously 49
Virginia Authors BOOK SAMPLER Jackie couldn’t wait to get away. She’d joined the Air Force against her father’s advice, selecting a career field that, until the late 1980s, was open only to men. The only female in her military training class, she had finished second, but when she reported to Whiteman Air Force Base in Missouri, she had to start over from the bottom. She had to demonstrate her worth to a whole new set of peers, instructors, and bosses. But she loved taking on new challenges. Her latest project was tasking her in a whole new arena. Jackie’s dad said she was a fool to buy a house. She was only 23 years old and didn’t know the first thing about making such a large commitment, but Jackie believed she was making the right choice with this purchase. Jackie had read the books, researched the points, and studied the interest rates. She knew that paying rent was throwing money away. She would have a steady military paycheck so now was the perfect time. And the fact that her dad said she couldn’t do it was all the more reason to go ahead with her decision. “Tell Alison she can bring me some books when she comes to see me. I’ll read them at work,” Jackie told her mom. “I don’t understand how you can get any reading done at work,” her mother said for the hundredth time. “Don’t you have other things you should be doing?” It was hard to explain her routine as a missile launch officer to someone outside the career field, let alone to someone outside the military. “Mom, we have to be underground twenty-four hours at a time. There’s only so many times you can run the checklists. We’re there just in case.” She didn’t have to explain what she meant by just in case. Her mother knew that much. Jackie and her crew partner were prepared to respond in case of the catastrophic need to
launch an intercontinental ballistic missile. Although they drilled constantly for that eventuality, Jackie didn’t really believe it would ever come to that. The fact that crews all over the United States were sitting ready was enough of a deterrent for her. “But, when I’m not underground, I have a lot of work to do around the house, so I’m going to let you go. I love you,” Jackie said. “I love you too,” her mother replied. “Call us soon!” “Yes, ma’am.” Jackie hung up the phone and stood still for a minute, taking in the room. As soon as she laid eyes on this house, she had fallen in love. It was the first one she’d looked at when she moved to Warrensburg, Missouri. The white, single story house had a wraparound porch with ivy lovingly rising up the trellis. The many windows and doors provided adequate circulation to cool the house as there was still no air conditioning. Even the kitchen had a small, screened in porch off the side of the house to allow for eating outside the warm house. The mother-inlaw’s apartment attached to the back could help with the mortgage when she got it fixed up and rented out. While a second lieutenant’s pay was not measly, she could use all the extra income she could get. Jackie had looked at numerous houses, but kept coming back to the white house with the ivy. Even the realtor had tried to talk her out of it because of the extensive work it needed, but Jackie would not be put off. She made an offer on the house and it was accepted within a week. Because the house was owned by a woman who’d recently gone into a nursing home, the sellers threw in all the furniture so they wouldn’t have to move it. While she knew she’d made the right decision, she did have to admit that living alone had some disadvantages. At night the 100-year-old house had its share of unnerving 50
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you,” Jackie declared, tugging on the stubborn plant with one hand as she pushed the hair out of her face with the other. “Oh, you’d manage fine…your garden might not though,” she chuckled. “Ha, ha,” Jackie said sarcastically, but she grinned from ear to ear. “Ellie called on me yesterday,” Mae said, referring to the neighborhood gossip living on the other side of Jackie’s house. “Wanted to gab about the odd hours you keep.” Jackie had heard this before. Theirs was an older neighborhood and the houses were fairly close together. When she, a single woman, bought the McCall’s place, it caused quite a stir around the small town. On top of that, the neighbors couldn’t help but notice her odd schedule, coming and going at all hours and sometimes not bothering to come home at all. Because she had no garage or even a driveway, the absence of Jackie’s little black Taurus was easily noticed on many nights. It was enough to fuel the small town gossip. “And what did you tell them?” Mae smiled as she watched Jackie struggle with a defiant weed. “Why the truth, of course! You spend your evenings with a variety of men—sometimes even overnight!”
noises. Logically, Jackie knew it was the house settling, but logic didn’t slow her pounding heart as she lay awake in bed…just listening. And then the phone calls had started. It wasn’t every night, but at least two or three times a week. The phone would ring, but when she answered, no one spoke on the other end. Jackie remembered how she and Alison used to play tricks on their mother. Using the old rotary phones, the girls would dial their home phone number, quickly hang up and then hide, stifling giggles. The phone would ring back. Their mother would answer it, but no one was there. Several prank calls later, their mother would roust them from their hiding place and send them on their way. It didn’t seem as funny to Jackie now that it was happening to her. Even though phones had progressed to push buttons and the trick of dialing your own number didn’t work anymore, Jackie still felt as though someone was hiding and laughing at her every time she answered the phone. *** “Mae, is this a flower or a weed?” Jackie called to her friend sitting on the front porch. “That one should stay, but the one next to it needs to be pulled. They’ll quickly overrun your garden.” Mae Wade leaned back on the porch steps as she oversaw Jackie’s efforts. Mae was an elderly woman who lived next door to Jackie in the quiet family neighborhood. She had to be close to 65, but Jackie wasn’t about to ask her. She was in great shape and could often be found puttering around in her garden or mowing her grass. She wouldn’t even think of letting anyone else do it. She was used to being independent and planned on staying that way. “I don’t know what I would do without
To continue reading, order on Amazon or blue-dragon-publishing.com/authors/dawnbrotherton Dawn is the author of the Jackie Austin Mystery Series, the Lady Tigers Series, and a contributing author to A-10s Over Kosovo. She hails from Williamsburg, VA. Dawn Brotherton 51
little man came running up to her. "Need a cab, miss? Right this way, miss." And before she could say ‘yay’ or ‘nay’ he had grabbed her two suitcases and hobbled away with them. He looked like a character out of a Dickens novel, so she stifled the objection that had begun to surface and, chuckling softly, followed him half a block to where his car was waiting with it’s motor running. He had apparently tried to dress like a professional chauffeur instead of a taxi driver. An ill-fitting black cap sat on top of his head. It was tilted over his right eye, letting patches of curly white hair dangle recklessly over the back of his neck. He looked more like a vagabond, with his baggy black pants hanging loosely, and a worn jacket poorly fitted to his slightly crouching body. But the warm twinkle she caught in his eyes gave him a friendly aura that told Jillian he would get her where she was going. In spite of his apparent years, he casually tossed her suitcases into the trunk and stood by the open door awaiting her arrival. It wasn't until they were on their way that Jillian realized she hadn't even told him where she wanted to go. Caught up in his caricature, she had gotten lost in her own thoughts. And, come to think of it, she hadn't noticed any taxi markings on the vehicle. "Do you know where the Vista Bonita Hotel is?" Jillian leaned forward to ask. "Oh, yes, miss. ...three hundred and thirtyone luxurious rooms overlooking the beautiful beaches of the Atlantic...six elegant restaurants for your dining pleasure, each specializing in a cuisine from a different part of the world...," he rattled on as if quoting from an advertising brochure. As he continued, Jillian sat back in the seat and relaxed the muscles that had momentarily tensed with concern. He must be a local eccentric, she thought. Even the car they were
Secret Lives By Ann Alexandra Genre: Romance Pages: 366 (Kindle)
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Chapter 1
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till rather dazed, and more than a little angry, Jillian dragged her suitcases outside the airport terminal. She didn't understand why she'd been sent on this trip, and with such shotgun speed, just when the negotiations were at a critical juncture. The slightest discord could bring everything crashing down. Besides, anybody could have covered this convention. And just about anybody else would have killed for this 2-week vacation in Miami. Because that’s what this convention was—a 2-week vacation. It didn't make any sense. None, whatsoever. And if that weren't enough, there was Jonathan's inexplicable behavior. Why on earth did he fly off the handle—and so violently—just because she had to go on a business trip? He'd never lost his temper before, over anything. It wasn't as if this were the first business trip she’d ever had to make, or that he’d never had a business trip of his own. Honestly, she shrugged to herself, and men say women are inscrutable. Thank goodness for suitcases with wheels, she thought, as she looked around for the taxi stand. She turned toward the sign for taxis, and was about to trudge forth, when an odd 52
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riding in suited his quaint image—an old black cadillac from the early nineteen-fifties that was shined to perfection. Maybe he was just a rich eccentric. Or maybe he had always been a taxi driver and hit the lottery, but was too old to change his lifestyle. Oh, well, what did it matter? She just wanted to get to the hotel and figure out what was going on. What on earth was she doing here in Miami, just when everything she had worked so hard for these last fifteen months was finally coming to fruition back in Washington? On the verge of thirty, Jillian could look at her professional life with satisfaction, and with the expectation of significant successes yet to come. She was the youngest special assistant to the Secretary of State—and the only female one at that. Rumor had it she would eventually move to a prominent position on the White House staff. Her judgments, seemingly unorthodox to veteran diplomats, had time and again shown an acute sensitivity to the intricate motivations that governed the relations of different nations and peoples on this ever-shrinking, ever-troubled, planet. She had not had an easy time because the diplomatic arena was still a man's world, but she was satisfied with her achievements so far and confident in the future. So why had she been shunted off to this convention? She felt as if she had been booted out of Washington. Had she made a mistake? Had she offended one of the foreign delegations? Surely she would have realized it. But if she hadn't offended anyone, what was she doing in Miami? She had been working so hard on these negotiations. Just when everything seemed to be coming together, suddenly she was told to pack her bags and head for the Festival of Nations— and don’t report back until it was over. It was her reward for a job well done. “Get lost!” her boss, Richard, had said as he slapped the plane
tickets into her hand and pushed her out the door. Well, she certainly could use a vacation. Oh, well, as long as she was here, she could at least try to enjoy it. Richard did promise her she would be home for the actual signing of the treaty, so why did she care? But it wasn't Jillian's nature to let go so easily. Fears and suspicions kept nagging at her. It had been a privilege to represent the United States in these negotiations. The negotiations were dealing with very sensitive and highly controversial issues, but if they succeeded, there might finally be hope for eliminating the major sources of illegal drugs, and maybe, in the process, undercut some of the criminal underground. WHY did Richard push me out the door just now—any little snag could delay completion of the agreement for months, MONTHS! If she hadn't known him so well, Jillian would have thought that Richard was trying to get her out of the way so he could take all the credit for any success. But that wasn't Richard's way, she reminded herself. If anything, he had been her greatest supporter. And it was at his urging that she had been assigned to this set of negotiations in the first place. I just have to stop going over every little detail, Jillian told herself. I'm in Miami now, not Washington. But trying to get herself to focus on that only frustrated her even more. It was important to Jillian to feel that her life was useful, to have work she cared about, to feel at the end of an enormously stressful day that all her efforts had been worthwhile. Working for the federal government, for the good of the nation, gave her that sense of usefulness and worth that she so craved. The bottom line of the commercial world—money, money, and more money—just didn't motivate her. She wanted to—needed to—give of herself in a constructive and positive way. And she did. 53
Virginia Authors BOOK SAMPLER Nevertheless, a sense of emptiness had been invading her life lately. Not because she didn't have a life outside of work. She always made a point of making time for the things she loved to do. And she was seldom at a loss socially. Tall, slender, with thick rich brunette hair that hung luxuriously and lazily around her shoulders, Jillian looked the classic beauty, even if her nose did seem a little too big for her face. And maybe it did lean a little too much to the left. No matter, because high cheek bones, an oval face, a creamy smooth complexion, and arched brows compensated for any imperfections. But her eyes were her most startling feature. Every emotion, every wisp of hope, every sparkling light that danced with joy overflowed from her deep, watery, dark brown eyes. Long slender lashes curled seductively over those cavernous pools, but they could scarcely conceal the midnight fire that blazed within whenever anger raged inside her. And yet, the soft warm velvet touch of her glance could melt a stone. With those tell-all eyes, she had to work at hiding her feelings, and work at it she did. To protect herself, Jillian had learned to maintain an emotional distance from people. It was a skill that helped make her such a crackerjack at assessing people and their motives—and their weak spots. With cool aplomb, she could size someone up with one brief conversation, or in the very least acquire a strong sense of where a person was coming from—and where they wanted to go. That's why she was such a good negotiator. She could quickly, and very accurately, assess what delegations from other countries really wanted and how much they would, and would not, give up to get it. And then there was Jonathan. What had first attracted Jillian was that he came across as comfortable with himself, and confident in his beliefs. He had no illusions about life and people, and, as a result, didn’t feel the need to
play games. He was cool, calm, and collected, so to speak. Almost to the point of being unemotional. He was so cool and easygoing all the time that occasionally she had wondered if he ever actually felt anything. Surely, no one could be devoid of emotion, but how could anyone be so consistently even tempered unless it was contrived? While their relationship was physically intimate, she had often sensed a lack of emotional connection. He placed no pressures on her, made no demands. And she never sensed any possessiveness or jealousy. But Jonathan had gone off the deep end when she told him she'd be leaving Washington for two weeks within just a couple of hours. His vitriolic attack, so completely out of character, seemed aimed at making her feel guilty for leaving him just then, as if she had a choice. His demand that she postpone her trip angered her—to the point where they were having a shouting brawl over the phone. And then he showed up on her doorstep as the taxi arrived to take her to Washington’s Dulles Airport, and contritely asked her to stay in town and let someone else go. When she refused, he resorted to vicious abuse. When she finally jumped in the taxi and slammed the door, she breathed such a sigh of relief that she surprised even herself. Oh, well, she had thought, maybe they needed a break from each other. Jillian had always expected—naively, she was coming to believe—that a man and a woman could meet on the same plane. Social roles for women had loosened up enough to allow that. Men no longer had to rely on the subordination of women to secure their sense of worth. They no longer had to be in control of a woman's life, make decisions for her as well as for both of them, in order to feel successful and in control of their own lives. It was past the time when men felt threatened by women who could make, and did make, their 54
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own decisions. Or so she had thought. Love was not a one way street for Jillian. It was for two people, not one. For two lives, not one. Two people sharing, and caring, for each other, and for themselves together. Were these really just fantasy concepts that couldn't be translated into real life? Sigh. She sorely longed for the tenderness and intimacy of a good loving relationship, for the freedom to give all of herself to another person, without having to hold anything back because you were afraid of being hurt. Trust was the key. But could a love like that ever really be found? Did it exist only in books? And in dreams? Sometimes the hunger for the feel of that special love overwhelmed her, and then tears would overflow from those deep dark pools of hers. But the hunger remained, more intense now, it seemed, than ever before. She loved working—it was an essential part of her life, but she was a healthy human being who understood that people needed other people if their lives were to be full. She believed a good, balanced, life included a loving relationship as well as a fulfilling professional life. But was it really possible to have both? Suddenly Jillian was startled out of her reveries. She had been staring out the window, caught up in her own thoughts, and not really paying attention to where the taxi was going. But the images in front of her finally registered on her brain, and it struck her as strange that the landscape had changed from crowded city buildings to sunny coastline. She must have been daydreaming there in the back seat for quite a while—there weren't even any homes along this road! Just coastline! Beautiful coastline. But deserted coastline. Although Jillian had never been to Miami before, she was told that her hotel was in the midst of the crowded resort area along Miami Beach, not isolated in the hinterlands outside the city.
Chapter 2
"Y
es, miss, yes, miss," the funny old man replied to Jillian's anxious inquiries. "We'll be at your destination in about five minutes, miss." As Jillian started to sink back into her seat, and let out her breath, that word caught her attention—destination. Hmmm, most people would have said ‘hotel’, or the name of the place. But ‘destination’? Look, Ms. Smart-aleck, Jillian told herself, you'd think you were some VIP or something. You HAVE been working too hard. Maybe Richard was a little sharper than you gave him credit for. Maybe you do need a vacation after all! And then Jillian sat bolt upright! She could feel the adrenalin rushing through her body. The car pulled up to a huge iron double gate, which opened after only the slightest moment of hesitation when the car stopped in front of it. Could this possibly be the entrance to a hotel? Could it? She could feel every nerve awakening in her, muscles tensing, her mind already calculating her escape, where to get away to ... or from? Her pulse began to race, and a prickly sensation suffused her whole body. Order on Amazon to continue reading this book. Ann Alexandra lives in Manassas, Virginia. She loves animals—especially cats—and music, theater, dancing, and singing. She is passionate about reading! Ann Alexandra 55
Fleeting Moments By Mickey and Zachary Tamer
Under the Blazing Sun
Genre: Poems/Songs
Under the blazing sun We’re all sewn together as one A mend on a sleeve A new kind of weave The spinning wheel continues to run
Pages: 78
I wonder where I've been Maybe a snake's new skin A leaf on a tree A cricket's knee Or a mole on a chin
Amazon.com and zacharytamer.com
All go around the loop Even before primeval soup Boiled in a stew Dropped in the loo Parts of all kinds of goop
Bittersweet No need to tend the fire The wood has all been burned The book seems unfinished But the final page has turned The crocus and the jonquil Stand in defiance of the snow Warmer suns are coming As the embers lose their glow The chill in the cabin Goes deep into the soul Outside spring unfolds As cold grips the final coal I loved the book Though it didn’t seem complete I thought of spring and winter And how they’re bittersweet Some book endings I guess we’ll never know It’s spring outside the cabin Open the window let her go
But I sit, sipping my tea Wondering what I will be I'm hoping that day Is far far away For now it's great being me
Time The hourglass sands Are wet and stopped Sofia sits at her desk And stares at the clock The teacher’s watch won’t slow down His youth was stolen With hardly a sound A cantankerous child This thing called time Making hurry move slowly And slow Really unwind
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We chase this Frankenstein creation Out of control Till we find we've lost Both body and soul
Of heads hips and feet Showing colors Alive and bright A dazzling Mating rite
How can we know When we're hungry or tired When it's time To grow up Or time to expire I think I'll Throw everything away That keeps time So time can't Keep me Or keep me in line
Spring jonquils gave way To summertime heat The dance now moved With a syncopated beat Dancers paired with Their heart's mate Came to unwind Or to celebrate The melodies and motion Had a different tune More from the earth Less from the moon
Filament
Hot Julys became Pleasant Septembers Once roaring fires Now glowing embers The music morphed A full orchestral sound Jeans and short skirts Are long tails and gowns Strauss sets the pace For dancers to move With a certain easy grace
A flicker of light in a cellar Desperately clings to shadows, Casting antique yellow incandescence. A cobweb, a pull cord, a paint can, A trunk, photos and toys Flashing in and out of existence. Darkness awaits its invitation. Listless currents of heat Losing ground Wire and thread Barely hanging on finding a melting point. With the slightest pop the room disappears leaving nothing more than forgotten memories of a time that used to shine.
As change marks time On the clock The dance is the tick And the tock Moving to tunes we choose From the waltz To Blue Suede Shoes Until Our music stops
The Dance The room was alive With a West African beat A swirling display
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Virginia Authors BOOK SAMPLER Love in the Hills
II
Things don’t seem as bad as they used to No nothing hurts as bad anymore The fields are green with grass the sun is shining down on you.
Cherry, Walnut, Maple, Oak, Mahogany, Hickory Poplar and Pine hues of the earth cover the workshop floor. From this clutter timber is measured cut, planed dovetailed, sanded shaped and primed. They become your cabinets your trim your floors; the bones of a house. They are tables filled with coffee clattering plates board games and food. Soaking up secrets laughter and tears. Witness to breakups first kisses, weddings funerals and births. The creaking of boards The wind in the rafters Front porch swings And mended fences. Work done yesterday or one hundred years before. The spirit of the carpenter imbued Into his craft and into our lives.
Pale legs curled between a shadow Your silhouette penciled in the hills Leaves never turn brown They live on in Technicolor No things don’t seem as bad as they used to I let go of the pain The winds are always changing But you… you remain the same Smile and light the night sky Thirty two brilliant stars paint art in the atmosphere and spotlight the pasture side. Oh things are so much better now The dandelions turn to wine And the buttercups stay gold Hand in hand We sprawl in the sun Motionless jumping jacks Cookie cutters to the sky Etched into constellations Even after we die.
The Carpenter A whirling saw blade flings particles skyward. Sawdust hangs in a sunbeam; in that moment time floats. Serrated blades of green grass stand tall and menacing but soon are blanketed under a soft layer of dust.
III The carpenter’s wife scans the room. Her cabinets have no doors or drawers The floors need to be sanded and stained The walls need to be patched and painted The tables and chairs are all off kilter. She smiles, and exhales a sigh of relief. 58
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At least I didn’t marry a dentist.
I buckled that tool belt less When I turned my tassel left. I made my own path with new twists and curves. Along the way I have stumbled And made wrong turns but what I heard between the clanging hammers and the saw tooth’s zipping bite always leads me back to the right path in my life. I watched and I listened And this is what I learned. That love is the foundation which a family builds upon. A carpenter can build a house But the bones don’t make a home. How to treat a woman. How to tell a joke. When to keep quiet. And when to take a stand. How to drink whisky And how to throw a punch When to make your own way And when to take a helping hand. Through all of these lessons, The laughter and love, I saw the man I hope I can someday become.
IV When I was a child I despised that buzzing shrill. Saw blades whining The monotonous thud of hammers Always waking me too early on Saturday mornings. The sawdust that clung to the high grass Only a nuisance that reminded me of waking from a dream. V Tonight the rich aroma of toasting wood hung on the crisp fall air. Eyes closed, head high, I inhaled deeply; my body warmed and energized. Memories came wrapped in moonlight: The sun rarely woke the night’s deep slumber when we loaded tools into my father’s truck. We spoke early morning words in hushed voices of the dawn, The floor of the truck littered with pencil shavings, The cab steeped with sweat and coffee grounds; Infused with the sounds of Ray, Otis, and Allman Brothers. We worked through the moments between dark.
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VI When he gave me my first tool belt I puffed out my chest and put my shoulders back buckling that canvas and leather pouch at my waist. On the surface I was the Outlaw Josey Wales Deeper down it meant one day I could be like my father.
Mickey Tamer Zachary Tamer
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This book of poems is a collaboration between Mickey and his son Zachary from Manassas, Virginia. Mickey is a carpenter moonlighting as a poet, and Zachary has also published several children’s books.
Virginia Authors BOOK SAMPLER
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Virginia Authors BOOK SAMPLER
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SPREAD THE WORD This publication is available online in print and electronic forms, including a free downloadable .pdf at:
http://victorrook.com/VABS Tell your Author friends If you know of any Virginia authors who may be interested in being featured in Virginia Authors Book Sampler, tell them to go to the above website to submit their books and bios. Advertise your business This publication is made possible in part by the generous advertisers on the preceding pages. If you have a business, product, or service anywhere in the U.S., you can advertise within Virginia Authors Book Sampler. Go to the website above and click on Advertise Your Business for ad specifications and payment. You can also carry print copies of the publication. Share us on Facebook and Twitter The above website has Facebook and Twitter share buttons on the main page. You can also find us on Facebook at: https://www.facebook.com/groups/VABSGroup
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BOOK TITLE WORD SEARCH (Vol. 3) D U N O T D H L N N U S Z U S K O X I K S Q N C Y
M C I R Z Q A R I I U C A B I M E J O Q B A B S G
Z Y T O U B K E Z T B V K M F C P R C L I K E Q O
N D H N T M U D D H T Z F X O V A D O Q R M H H E
G F N O U D L O P E N L X K Z B A H S M I T I W D
R V O I R Q D K T U H Q E N B K S B V T P R N E L
K U T S H M O L Q R X T R F U C L E D Y N U D V B
F C E S V L O Y T B D T G K R Y E O F F O Q T B Y
H K C E Y B K N X A J B L N Z I O B O I C T H W L
M A A S I L O Z E N B H S M O G E I E E Z A E H A
S D R B P G B X D S I H Z Q F M O N T N R W B A F
Q R G O K P E Y S A A O Z O Q S A A D O P Y A T A
E G F E V H V Q B M Z R H A O X F K S S Z D D E T
A ROSE FOR SERGEI A WALK AMONG THE DEAD BEHIND THE BADGE DAMN THE NANNY FLEETING MOMENTS IN SEARCH OF GOOD TIMES LITTLE FRIENDS
I Y O H Z F R I U U S C E O D D N E L U H M G Q T
R F S T S S Y P I R R E Z K E L F T N A O J E O C
L A D V T B F U E A M K V H I O C Z I F W P S T J
Y P E V C N T N E I S U C I R L B Z Z C Q A U M Z
X B E K X P Y S Y S K T Q S L K L R R H U C X V R
Q M S B H N N Q O E E E E K P T L I S Q M I K A W
T O E G K I E A H R B R T F W B E P N O L U F Q P
X K H Y F A L Q W I G Y L T X R F R X G X K A K B
R R T D A M N T H E N A N N Y V B W C T M Q D V J
M Z J U N W N R I S T O R L I K H N C E M E C B E
M Y T H M A G I C A N D M E T A P H O R S A J T T
S T N E M O M G N I T E E L F U W Y X H H Z F T S
MY HORMONES ARE KILLING ME MYTH MAGIC AND METAPHOR NI THE URBAN SAMURAI SERIES SECRET LIVES THE OBSESSION THE SEEDS OF GRACETON WRETCHED FATE
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