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Gift of Terror Castle Frank Daman Certain incidents occur in our lives that trigger subsequent major events. “Critical points,” if I remember correctly, is what psychologists commonly refer to them as. There have been several critical points in my life. All of them led me to choices, forks in the road of life that were set in front of me. The earliest fork in the road that I remember was when I chose a book to read for the first time. It was next to a monkey-with-cymbal toy, but I gravitated towards the fascinating book. I can’t remember the title of that book. Actually, I couldn’t read the title, then, but I was only two-and-a-half years old and not exactly versed in the little strokes and curves of print known as words. I was mesmerized by this fabulous thing in front of me, an odd looking bunch of papers. That book fascinated me. I remember the picture that was on the cover. It was a sailing boat, a red one, with several men on board, and a lighthouse was in the distant. The waves were royal blue, a little too dark for the color of the sea. That was trivial, though, since something about the whole illustrated cover reeled me in like a magnet. That book had a spell on me, and I remember carrying it under my arm like it was a valuable item that needed to be guarded. I remember stroking the front cover over and over again, fascinated by the shiny, smooth surface. I remember flipping through the pages, admiring those that were illustrated, and fascinated by the weird looking lines that filled the others. Words, they were, but to a toddler, they were still just strokes of ink, fascinating strokes of lines. Thus started my love affair with books. It took a little while to recognize and master the words, but even as a young one, I did not think of learning the letters, words, and sentences as a major task. In fact, I loved learning, cherished the attempt, and even adored the difficulty tremendously. The next fork appeared a few years later. I was in the second grade and received a prize for being first in the class. I had a choice between picking a book or a board game. It was a major accomplishment being first in the class I was told. Of course, I picked 46
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the book. I remember ripping out the wrapper that encased the prize and fumbling with the gift within, even though I knew that it was going to be a book. It was a juvenile detective mystery book! I still remember the trembling of my little fingers and the tiniest gust of air that escaped my growing lungs, as I gawked at the wonder in front of me. Heaven’s gate was opened for me then. It was my very own book! What a book it was! It was a hardcover edition of the juvenile detective series Alfred Hitchcock and the Three Investigators entitled Secret of Terror Castle. It was the first adventure of the Three Investigators – Jupiter Jones, Peter Crenshaw, and Bob Andrews. By this time, I was not limited to admiring the pictures only. I was able to read; at least, I could read enough to make sense of the story therein. I loved that book, loved going through the pages, figuring the story out one word at a time. I must have driven my mother crazy, bugging her, pulling on her apron, begging her to help me with the difficult words. There were plenty of such words, especially for an eight-year-old. I was persistent though. I plowed through those golden words, savoring every one of them like they were sweet nectar. The mystery. The thrill. The suspense. The chilling climax. I gulped them all down, frugally, making sure that I did not miss a single word. The whole reading adventure transformed me during that phase of my life, I must say. It started a raging conflagration within me, the burning desire to write, to thrill others like the writer of the Terror Castle thrilled me. I wanted to create a piece of work that would jumpstart the reading engine within an eight-year-old child. That was so long ago. Several stories, poetry works, essays zoomed by my pen during the passing years. A lot of them satisfied me personally. Several thrilled my friends. All of them made a difference to someone in some way. I am sad to say that I lost that important book during one of the moves we did during my teenage years. I remember rubbing my teary eyes, as if doing so would ease the pain that kept welling up from the infinite void within. Being a child of poverty, I couldn’t afford to get another. School expenses took priority and rightfully so. It took a while for me to finally cope with that loss, though. I must confess that I didn’t completely get over it. I don’t think anyone 47
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possibly can with something that shaped a major turn in one’s life. There were other books that zipped through my reading life, but none could reach the paramount status like Secret of Terror Castle. Time flew by. High school swam by. College and post-graduate studies joined the completed list. I wrote through those years, too, but something was hindering the flow of words with each attempt. Some invisible barrier was holding me back, like a mischievous troll, and that bothered me, because my writing engine was running out of gas, and it bothered me that I couldn’t figure out what that invisible troll was. The answer and the solution to my concerns came a few years ago, as I was driving by a subdivision speckled with garage sale signs. I drove by slowly, since there were several cars parked on the side of the streets with eager buyers heading towards the various driveways sprawled with items calling out to them. Suddenly, even though I was out on the street, a certain green book on a table pitched by a crowded driveway pulled my eyes sideways towards it. Instinctively, I slammed on the brakes and focused on the book. It looked so familiar. Those torrents of feelings that I experienced so long ago flashed back like a ravaging hurricane. It couldn’t be. I quickly parked my car by the side of the street a few houses down and walked hurriedly towards the table and to the book that opened the dam of rushed feelings within me. As I got closer, I knew, and my thumping heart confirmed that feeling. It was the book, The Secret of Terror Castle. It was the hardback version, too, the same one that was presented to me amidst a small ceremony eons ago. Though there were several other tattered books around it, the book that called out to me was in mint condition. The smell of a new book was still lingering between its pages. Five dollars. That’s what the seller wanted. Five dollars. That was all that it would cost me to get back my youth, to get back those fateful feelings and emotions when I took that fork in the road, so long ago. I would have given five thousand dollars! I have the book in my library now, safe and sound, nestled between the other classics that I squirreled away over the years, but Terror Castle stands out like a beacon among them. After all, it is the first book that made the difference in my life. 48
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That book has done it again. It showed me the fork again. I was retired to the fact that I would not be writing actively with everything else going on in my life. That was before getting my second chance. My revised life now has me writing actively. The words have started flowing again. I position my laptop at a comfortable level, now, and it is time to work. It is time for the cycle to begin again. It is time to write once more.
Old Books - Sarah Sturtevant
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Be Afraid, Be Very Afraid Joyce Dunn The title is intended to be the “hook” to get you to read this. Why would I choose that? Because it seems to me that many of us have become addicted to fear. The attack on 9/11/2001 kicked fear into high gear, but it was there even before that. Some of the biggest money making films are based almost entirely on fear: horror movies, alien invasions, and violence of many kinds. TV programs have adopted this same idea. Many shows are based on criminal acts of one kind or another. Then there are the “reality” shows. They focus on fear of failure: being voted out by companions, coming in last in the race, getting fired, or risking pubic humiliation on stage by judges. Maybe other people consider this merely entertainment. I disagree. Fear is one of the most contagious attractions in our world. Not only contagious, it is virulent. It allows us to find someone or something to hate. It not only allows but encourages. If hate and fear are justified, then we are justified in using violence towards what or whom we hate and fear. It also allows us to stroke our egos, convincing ourselves that we are “better than” what it is we hate and fear. Fear is a powerful tool that can be used by those who have an agenda they want to promote. It’s been said that frightened people are not thinking people; if we can make someone scared enough, we can make them do or believe anything. When we allow ourselves to immediately buy into whatever fear is being promoted, we become pawns, unconscious pawns, who have no idea we are being used. This kind of fear-mongering allows us to believe our fears are valid without ever having to rationally examine them. Are there things in this world that a rational person should be afraid of? Of course, there are but not enough to justify wrapping ourselves in a permanent cloak of fear. That kind of pervasive fear produces goblins and enemies when, in fact, they are not there. It also 50