Books, Reviews, Short Stories, Authors, Publicity, a little poetry, music to complement...and other stuff including politics, about life... Life is Sweet...
An eclectic collection of poetry and short prose for Ukraine. Poetry about war, warriors, hope, and sunflowers; multi-genre stories, featuring work from: A. L. Butcher, Roman Nyle, Charles Yallowitz Vickie Johnstone, Andrew P. Weston, Rebecca Miller, Michael H. Hanson, Victoria Zigler, Joe Bonadonna, Richard Groller Rhavensfyre, Anthea Sharp, Marta Moran Bishop, Colene Allen, J.C. Fields, Diana. L. Wicker, Inge - Lise Goss, Sean Poage and Rebecca Lacy (multiple contributions by several)
The Stories and poetry are in a mix of US and UK English. The authors, editor, and cover designer have given their work and time for free to support those people fleeing war in Ukraine and its terrible consequences.
All royalties raised will go to humanitarian charities.
Stand Together is an important Anthology on its own... Even more so because all proceeds will go together humanitarian charities supporting the Ukraine War and its terrible consequences... My first post announcing the book can be found by checking the top location in the right column...
Reviewing an anthology is not the easiest thing to do... Simply because there are so many different stories, some of which a reader may not enjoy as much as others. Of course, I found this to be true. However, there were many poems and short stories that clearly warrant a "recommended" notice from me...
More importantly, I hope that each reader who sees this review will realize that the most important aspect of buying this book is to help those in Ukraine who continue to suffer under an autocrat who leads the country and has chosen to bring war for no other reason than his own quest for power...
Michael H. Hanson, speaks eloquently in just a few words in his "Wounds in Ukraine": The deepest wounds are in Ukraine, raw ruptures in both flesh and earth wrought by this age’s darkest bane granting young souls a dire breech birth...
Yet all of the mext words spoke to me, "Those Who Divide" by Charles E. Yallowitz, seemed more about here in America, and yet, it seems also, everywhere...
Those Who Divide
Charles E. Yallowitz
They are the ones with voice
Born with a power
To influence and talk
Expected to lead us
Into the better world
But they always fall
Swallowed by the sins
Pride and greed
Vanity and wrath
They are twisted
By society’s pull
Their voices turn to evil
Spouting hate and fear
Causing friends to fight
And families to splinter
Neighbors become enemies
They ignore their damage
Seeing only the faithful
The ones bowing at their feet
This praise is tainted
Grown from ignorance and terror
Yet it is not enough
Drunk of power
from their voice
They become the great dividers
Crying for action
And hurling childish insults
At those who don’t agree
Blindly building a void
A pit of animosity
Between our fellow man
Until the pit is all we see
And their putrid voices
Are all we hear.
***
Then Andrew Weston, worried as to whether we will reach the point of Indifference, in his poem Lodestone... while Vickie Johnstone cries out her words about Rape in Ukraine, the words so horrific yet we know they represent the truth of war...
And I begin to realize that this is not the kind of book that you would want to recommend as a must-read. And yet, it is that, just because it is so horrific in Truth... Surely we want to seek God... But God is not in War... God is Not in Hate and Violence... Yet the words continue... And we find God is with each who mourn of war...
Anthea Sharp moves to write a short story, entitling it The Tree of Fate and Wishes and begins with a young child waking from a dream of blood and ashes, only to learn that it had been decided...War...
Tell me, readers, how do you proceed to talk about children who face being in the midst of war? Then another starts talking about the smells of the results of war brought by one to another...knowing that smoke, blood and more will stay for days, for weeks and longer...
But not all stories are sad, a number look to older days of another time, a distant past, while another will find that there was once two brave girls who decided they were going to do something to stop the war...and of course, the happiness and joy that followed... But also...
Is War really just a part of normal living? I don't think so...and neither do the writers who have donated their words, their writing endeavors, to help those who are living within Ukraine under such dire circumstances... All of us must work together...Stand Together, to try to get past this chaotic period of hate and destruction...All we would need to do is Love Our Neighbors... Is that so hard to do? For surely there is something less than war, hatred and violence in our future... For this we cry out...
Dusk brought a noisy kookaburra to the tree above Damien. He sat straddling a huge gum trunk that bridged the creek, throwing stones into the shallow water below. The bird stopped every now and then and cocked its head as if listening for a reply, but all around was silence. After two more bouts of cackling din, it flew off, and peace descended once more. The air was becoming chilly as the sky darkened, but he didn’t want to go back to the cabin just yet. It was beautiful here. He’d first heard of this place from his mum. She travelled a lot before she married. And he could imagine her here as a younger woman in her flowing hippy skirts and singlets. She loved being outdoors. He swallowed hard and remembered her funeral. Damien had been Lily Schwartz’s favourite child. He was the youngest of six and born just before his father left them to return to America. Damien could feel the resentment of his siblings as he stood by her coffin, except his sister April. She gave him a pat on the shoulder, a sad smile, and walked away. He leaned close to his mother and sniffed. There was nothing. She’d always smelled like Brazil nuts, not that she ever ate them. There was something in the oil of her skin or something that gave her that unique odour. It wasn’t an unpleasant scent. When he was little, he’d loved it. But now, like her, it was gone.
The pastor had hardly finished talking when arguments broke out about who was taking what from the estate. The quarrels carried on during the small wake held at Lily’s Oakley home. He’d looked out the window as the first car pulled away. It was April. She wouldn’t be able to put up with their sxxx. Damien was staying in what was once the bedroom that he’d shared with Troy, his brother. It was the only room that had remained untouched. All the other areas of the house were being evacuated of furniture and possessions. Out on the street, car boots and back seats were laden with stuff. There was even a ute with a trailer, piled high with Lily’s things. Damien took a long drink of his mum’s Bacardi and sighed.
Lily would have been hurt and angry to see these avaricious arseholes she’d raised. She wasn’t even in her grave yet. ‘Hey, bro, you’re quiet.’ ‘G’day Troy. It’s a sad day.’ ‘Well yeah, but she’d been sick for a long time. It wasn’t some big surprise.’ Troy might have been trying to guilt-trip him, but Damien wasn’t falling for it. ‘That’s not what I mean. It’s a sad day when you lot have all turned into a bunch of vultures.’ ‘Well, it’s hardly me causing problems! If Evie thinks she’s going to get the house just because she nursed mum at the end, she’s got another think coming.’ Troy sneered in the direction of the kitchen where voices were still raised. ‘Why not? She did all the work. She cared for mum when you were all too busy. If you’d had to pay a nursing home to do it, there’d be nothing left.’ Troy glared at Damien.
‘And why should you even have an opinion? You’ve never been around for any of us. Half the time you aren’t even in the country. Remind me again what it is you do exactly? Last I heard you got chucked out of the army, and not even the Aussie army. No, you had to be just like Dad, didn’t you, a Navy bloody SEAL. Well whoopty-doo! My...hero. But you are just like Dad. You run off and don’t give a sxxx about anyone else. I’m surprised the old man isn’t here with his hand held out.’ Damien didn’t move fast, but he used his bulk to pin Troy against the wall. Then he grasped both of his brother’s wrists and began to twist them. Troy tolerated it for a second or two, but they both heard the bones creak. ‘Stop it. Let me go!’ But Damien didn’t let go. ‘You talk about the old man like that again and you’ll be joining Mum. You don’t know him. You never bothered to meet him as an adult. So, don’t go spouting crap. Next time it will be your little neck, and I will break it.’ Troy ran to the door clutching his arms, his face red and snotty. ‘You’re a fxxxing madman! I hate you.’
Damien finished his drink and poured another. From the kitchen Troy’s high-pitched whining had halted the bickering, but Damien knew it would start again. He took his drink and a handful of sandwiches to his room. He found an old Pantera CD and played it at full volume, wondering if any of his siblings would have the guts to tell him to turn it down. No one did. The next morning the sounds of the suburbs had started early. It was Monday morning, and the traffic rose to a loud hum by seven. Damien was making a coffee when the garbage truck chugged up the street, stopping and starting with the grind of the engine, the hiss of the brakes, the thud of the bins. His siblings had left by around ten the previous night, and it was good to see them go.
His phone chirped, and a text message came through from April. Are you all right? Damien smiled. She was the only one who cared. He replied that he was fine and was going on a holiday for a couple of weeks. Lily had kept her car keys hanging inside a kitchen cupboard for as long as he remembered. Things could have changed while Evie was in charge. He swallowed the last of his brew and opened the door. They were hanging where they had always been. He took a last look around. Next time he came back to Melbourne, if he ever did, this place would be sold. With a shrug of his shoulders he left. The care home was only one block back from the beach. That time of day it was busy. Cleaners and carers disposing of linen and cleaning rooms, nurses following around medication trolleys, and the smells of cooking as breakfast was prepared was just part of the morning routine. No one had noticed Damien as he ducked into George’s room. Inside it was dark and quiet. The last time Damien visited, George was still hooked up to beeping monitors, but this time only an IV line pump, making a tiny clicking sound as the fluid was pushed through, was the only noise. Damien thought about opening the blind, but instead turned on the overhead reading light. The bed by the door was empty. George had been shifted to the one by the window. ‘Jesus, mate, you look like shit.’ George’s skin looked maggoty white. It clung to his thin face, which was little more than a skull. There was a feeding tube in situ. Damien wasn’t sure if that stayed in all the time or if someone was coming to give his friend breakfast. ‘Can’t stay, mate. I just came to say, “See ya.” I’m off on a bit of break. I think I need it.’ He looked down at his hands, aware that he was probably talking to himself. ‘Mum died. We buried her yesterday.’ He gazed at the chink of light beaming from the window. ‘I guess everyone is dying.’ George was so still Damien had to watch his chest to see if he still breathed. ‘Not much of a life for you like this, is it, old buddy?’ He slapped his knees and stood. ‘Well, I better get going. Not sure where I’m headed, but I won’t get there if I stand around all day talking to you.’ He laughed weakly at his own joke and flicked off the light. ‘Bye, mate.’
As he opened the door to leave, a doctor and two nurses were about to come in. The doctor looked taken aback. ‘Can I help you?’ he asked. ‘Do you know this patient?’ ‘Yeah,’ Damien mumbled. ‘He’s my mate...
~~~
Damien and George had been mates, fighting and killing along side each other until they...were... not... Now, the doctors were talking about how long his mate might live, but they were happy to have learned, at least, who he was... Damien? He couldn't or just didn't want to hang around to see somebody else close to him die--the death of his Mum had been enough for bringing back bad family memories that still haunted, even while his siblings loaded up her possessions, hurriedly, wanting to get as much as possible before the other one got more than they did... Typical family death for many across the world...
But Damien and George had at one time been Seals. A name that garnered respect for their training and skills that few matched... But, now? Damien just wanted to get to some place isolated, quiet... Did he guess, though, that somebody was following him? Had he killed one too many men who really weren't the enemy? Where could he go to find just a little peace?
Sienna Nilson was in the midst of a major storm brewing, possibly a tornado, but she really didn't have time to stop and evaluate what to do about a storm. She had to get back to her farm, to her sheep who would be frightened by the thunder and lightning... Soon she was regretting her decision...her cruiser was being thrown across the road side to side by the wind...and up ahead power lines could go any minute! Her car was being thrown around as if a giant was using her vehicle to practice pitching... Until... suddenly...
It was calm again. The tornado had gone through, but there were still power lines dangerously down on the road... She sat, calming, when suddenly she could see lights! A another car was coming straight for the downed lines! She started blowing her horn and flicking her lights off and on, and finally seeing the driver realized what could happen...and started braking, finally, just inches before the car and trailer with an entire family... The story was soon all over the area. Sienna was now a hero as the father told how he could have lost his entire family, if Sienna hadn't acted as she had...
And all Sienna wanted to do was to get back home and see what kind of damage had been done there. While at the same time somewhere nearby, Damien had met a beautiful woman at a bar and both had decided to spend some private time alone...both parting happily with a morning kiss... Thing is, they found that lovely lady dead the next morning...
And Lisa was a friend of Sienna, who had just met Damien and was now thinking he might have killed her friend... Damien? He was beginning to think he knew exactly what was going on...and it might get worse... And the problem was that Damien needed Sienna's help because of her knowledge of the area and possible places somebody might be hiding/ living...
Way back when I getting ready to graduate high school, I thought about traveling away from home... I picked Australia--it was English-speaking (mostly) and I knew my secretarial skills would land me a job most anywhere... Well, that was a pipedream that flew right out of mind, as I actually did graduate and got a job that same July at West Virginia University near my home...
So, even if I never made it there, I've enjoyed stories set in the country down under, like Crocodile Dundee's two movies and this story. It is uniquely well written, keeping readers guessing exactly what is happening...and who is involved! Well done, Pam Farley. This one is highly recommended just for the fun of the storyline! Right, Mates?
It's Fascinating How His Spirit Can be Found Just About Anywhere when His love is there... I got chills from what happened, did you?
Beloved, God’s Holy Spirit is the one who will help us be prepared and remember, "He is the best man that is left behind to help us be prepared to serve."
Note: "We must realize that the bottom line in this parable is that some people are not what they appear to be."
Note: " These foolish people were not willing to help serve and make a sacrifice for the Kingdom of God."
Beloved reader, these young bridesmaids were friends of the bride but chose to take a chance on her wedding by taking shortcuts thinking they could do it their way and hope all would turn out right in the end but they soon found themselves an embarrassment to themselves and to the bride who had placed her trust in them.
Dear reader, there are some in the church today who appear to be ready to meet the Lord but have never surrendered their life to Christ.
Beloved, they go through all the patterns of being right and being a good church member but they have never surrendered to be a servant and serve.
Saints and fellow peers, some people have gone forth attempting to build their Kingdom instead of following the command of our Lord to be a light that others may see.
Beloved, because of these five foolish young maidens choosing to do it their way, the wedding party would be made to walk in less light on a dark path.
Saints, the church body as a whole today seems to be on rocky ground with more and more pastors resigning because of the stress they face every day taking its toll on their life and family. Pastors today cannot trust anybody to help them because somebody will expose them to better themselves at their expense and that is why God placed it on my heart to build a Pastor's Oasis where they can spend a few days alone with God and get recharged.
Beloved, some pastors today make statements that their life feels like a person who has found themselves in a powerful earthquake, the buildings around them are falling, concrete and steel is being twisted to pieces and they are losing their balance. Beloved, these pastors make statements like they feel as if they are reeling back and forth as they try to make sense of what is taking place, and their ability to make sound decisions is limited because of all the shock and destruction that is going on around them.
My question to us dear reader is, "How did we get in this lukewarm condition and what are we going to do to try and make ourselves ready to meet our Lord when he calls?"
Beloved, God’s Holy Spirit is the one who will help us be prepared, and we need to bear in mind that the blessed Holy Spirit is the best man that is left behind to help us be prepared to serve and complete the wedding, and He is the one when things are not going well that will flood us with his divine presence assuring us that our groom loves us with a pure intimate providing love that he alone can give to satisfy a lonely heart.
~~~
Years ago, I had read a study book by John R. Tucker (look to the right) which included an indepth look at the book of Matthew which included the Parable of the 10 Virgins... In this version which is intended for young Christians, beginning at age 9, Dr. Jerry Hulse, also separates out exactly who is prepared for the upcoming visit from the groom...
I remember really loving the song which dwells on the parable... however, yet it really doesn't reflect what Jesus' message was to me... It's that first line of the song, "Give me oil in my lamp, keep me burning..." You see, there were many virgins who had been told of the coming of Christ, the Bridegroom. The book talks about those who fell asleep, tired of waiting, or, perhaps, as some would say these days, they were bored. They had nothing to do and were tired of waiting. Or, maybe they played a favorite video game to fill the time, while wondering--Where Is He? Why do I have to wait, surely He knew we would be waiting for Him...
But, really, in Truth, We do not know when He will come to us...to each of us... Of course, this is not really about having oil--or having prepared a large meal assuming it would be on this day or that--but rather that each of us must choose each day who we will follow...
The book is fairly short and has only three chapters. The first dealing with the parable. The second was, for me, somewhat surprising. I don't think I've ever heard a sermon about these people. Yet, in our hearts, we may sometimes find ourselves using the word. Me? I have, especially in the last decade more than any other time... It is about Hypocrites in Church...
I thought it was interesting that the author chose to use the dictionary to define who are hypocrites (I thought that was a wise decision):
Dear reader, the Webster's dictionary defines a hypocrite as a person who puts on a false appearance of virtue or religion, and it also defines a hypocrite as a person who acts in contradiction to his or her stated beliefs or feelings.
Saints, when someone makes a remark that they are better off where they are than attending your church because there are too many hypocrites in your church are making a statement before all creation that they are spiritual enough to judge the people in that church and without realizing what they are doing, they are bringing a searchlight on their own soul.
Going back to the parable, then, we can easily see that most of us have, at one time or another, chosen "not to be ready" when Christ might come... I have, and have talked about it, and will probably do so again as I write my memoir(s). How often, even as we know that God is a God of Love, who only asks us to love one another, do we find ourselves using hurtful words...
But I must say, however, that we have all seen that Christianity is being used in so many different and offensive ways that we are caught, yes, caught, off guard, not being able to know exactly who are those who claim to be Christians... I think that we must, perhaps for the first time ever, begin to challenge actions by those who claim God is behind what they are doing, especially in America... or in Russia as the leader chose to attack another country for no other reason other than power and a desire for more...
I woke up this morning realizing that I had once again acted on my own emotions rather than placing my faith in Him... He had earlier promised that He was in control of all that could happen... Reminding me, this morning, that he is laughing at us for such fear, because of a lack of, or better said, a desire to help in bringing us back from the brink of chaos here in America. Even while knowing that He has seen this all before, referencing as far back as the day He was crucified, that God's Love is Stronger and Eternal and will Never be Lost to Those who hide behind religions of any kind in order to hate and bring violence upon others of His children...
How soon we forget...
I had a friend send me this pic recently... I think he found it offensive... I found it heartwarming...
Choose this day whom you shall be... God is a God of Truth--of Love... I choose Jesus... Each day... I choose again... Sometimes, stopping and forcing myself to know He is above All... I need not fear...
She had the GPS search for the nearest location of the gym she had a membership in. She was hungry, but wanted to go someplace nicer than the places where she had recently dined. And a shower was currently more pressing than a meal. Unfortunately, the nearest one was in Sacramento, an hour or two east of her current location. She got onto the freeway and headed east. Three hours later, showered and refreshed, she sat alone at a table in a nice Italian restaurant, the laptop open, next to her plate of veal marsala. She was making a list. Cash, transportation, housing, income. How had other people managed these things? She thought about all of the people she had tracked down, especially the ones who had lasted the longest out in the wild. Learn from the best.
By the time the table was cleared and the bill presented, she had some glimmerings of a plan. Tonight it was sleeping in the car again. Tomorrow, a shower and new clothes, and then visit some banks. She drove around until she found a quiet spot where she thought she wouldn't be disturbed until morning. I need to call mom. Damn. It would be so much easier if mom had email at the new place. She reached for her purse, and remembered she didn't have her old phone, with her mother's new number in it. The events of the last few days caught up with her, and she buried her face in the sleeping bag, and let the tears come. Why now? Why not in a couple months, after it was all over? Scott, I'm so sorry. Mom, Jen, I just can't do this.
~~~
I'll be out of town until they stop looking for who killed him.
This is a way cool book! Fun to read just because of the way it was written. Consider, for example, that the above is the title of Chapter 1... Makes you sit up and say, "Whoa! What's Happenin' Man?" Right?
And each chapter gets a similar catchy title that makes you keep wanting to read... I have NEVER read a book that drew my immediate attention to the chapter heading. Most don't even have one... In any event... Get prepared...
Sandra is on the run... She is being hunted... Hunted just like she hunts... Only thing is that it is her job to help people find people... Now those who don't want to be found are on to Sandra... And she was already leaving when she discovers that Scott is now dead... Her partner is now dead but she has no time to grieve... Sandra recognizes that the guy who is hunting her now, and Scott before he found him... is good at his job! But is he as good as her? Sandra knows only one thing... She has to run and disappear! Hopefully, not to be found...
He was left hanging, and the suspense was killing him.
The officer at the scene stepped aside so Jack could enter the office. The small room was crowded. Another uniformed officer stood in a corner to allow more room for the group huddling around the body in the chair. One of them was his partner, Jaime Gonzales. "Took you long enough," Gonzales said, squeezing past an empty ambulance gurney. The medical examiner moved aside to let Jack examine the body. "Who kills somebody with a piece of wire?" Gonzales said. He held up the murder weapon, a length of picture hanging wire, with two handles made of wooden dowels.
Jack looked at the wire, and then at the bloody marks around the dead man's neck. He felt the arm of the dead man above the elbow. "Someone pretty strong." he said. "I bet this took a while." There were evidence cards still standing up around the desk and floor, marking blood splatter. Jack looked around the room. "Not likely he found that thing in here," he said. "So, he brought it with him. Premeditated," Gonzales said. Jack looked over at Gonzales. "If you were planning on killing someone, and you had plenty of time to choose just the right weapon, why not bring a gun, or a knife? Why make it so hard on yourself?" "You're thinking the guy gets off on it?" Gonzales asked. Jack shrugged.
"Cleaning crew found him like this?" "No crew, just that one guy. Took one step into the room, saw the dead guy, and stepped back out fast as he could. Took him another 10 minutes to call 911." Gonzales was holding an evidence bag. He lifted it up. "Dead guy is the owner, Scott Jason Tremain. Does skip tracing, some divorce stuff. Could have had a lot of enemies." Jack looked at the floor. "How much of this blood was tracked around by our people?" "None of it," Gonzales said. "Even the cleaning guy knew not to step in it."
"So the doer wiped his shoes off before walking out?" Gonzales looked at the floor. "No footprints. How do you strangle a guy with a piece of wire and not step in the blood?" "Careful planning," Jack said. "Like someone for hire?" Gonzales asked, his tone doubtful. An office called into the room from outside. "Morgan? Dispatch wants to talk to you. They say they have report of shots fired at this location." Jack took the radio. "I didn't hear anything." "A call came in just a minute ago," a woman's voice said over the radio. "Same address, said she heard gunfire, called right away. I said we had officers at the scene already, and she hung up." Jack looked around at the people in the room, and those he could see through the door. "Anybody hear shots?" he called out. Heads shook and shoulders shrugged. "No gunfire here," Jack said into the radio. He handed it back to the officer. "Related?" Gonzales asked. "Who knows," Jack said. "A woman. Said she heard shots from this location, just a minute ago. Didn't stay on the line." As the two of them walked out of the room, Jack motioned to the gurney. "We're done with him, you can take him out." Jack walked over to the uniformed officer who had let him in. "Did anything look like it was missing when you got to the scene?" he asked. "They took a computer, I think," the officer said. "Cables and stuff were on the desk, but nothing was attached. Probably a laptop, everything was on top of the desk, no keyboard, no mouse. The desk was locked." Jack turned to Gonzales. "The phone was reading zero messages. Make sure it gets to the lab, see if they can get any deleted messages off of it. I'll have Jules get his phone records. I want to listen to that 911 call, something's screwy there."
He turned to the officer. "Get me that bag of his effects. I want to open that desk." The dead man was wheeled out, and Jack went back inside. There was an automatic in the top desk drawer. There was no magazine in it, and no round in the chamber. He found the magazine in the bottom drawer. This was not a guy who thought he would ever have to use the gun. There was no filing cabinet. There was nothing in the desk that seemed to relate to any business that a private detective might have. It looked like everything was on the missing computer. There was nothing more to go on in the room.
~~~
Jack is a good cop AND a good guy... Soon he was looking for Sandra, but Sandra doesn't know who to trust. Still, sooner or later, she has to have some type of help... She was willing to bargain with Jack if he'd play along... In the meantime, she already knew that she didn't have time to deal with anything but getting away...and then a bit of luck came about... And she joined a band...
This motley group who traveled in a trailer needed only one thing from Sandra--money for gas. She quickly said, "I'm In." But she soon discovered that most of the music played at small venues across the states was original... and...really good! Soon, she was acting more as a manager and found she was good at it... They were moving into little bars... and after the first night, it was so packed that they put up speakers on the outside and there was literally dancing in the streets!
Ok, I thoroughly enjoyed the break from reality that this story brings... My only regret that I couldn't also be listening to the music created by this group who threw out eclectic sounds that soon were being heard far and wide, so far, that Sandra realized that she needed to leave so that they could proceed to get the glory that was due to them... and none of the danger she presented...
Just for fun, I'm sharing one of the songs... Get ready to get into it!
Got a five leg dog,
The guitar played another bar alone, letting the words sink in.
He don't walk too well.
Again, the guitar took the next verse, as if in response.
Got a fun-ny gait, ...
Likes to sit and wait. ...
But we have our fun, ...
'Cause he LOVES to RUN!
The guitar took off, and Sandra could picture a dog running free and fast, five beats and a leap, five and a leap, fluid and smooth.
Hold him still until you say go,
He'll be back before the echo.
We will always be together,
Love to watch him run forever.
Pocket jumped up on the stage and sat down behind the drum kit, and Charlie followed, picking up his bass. Tentatively, Pocket started marking beats, just little taps on the cymbals. Charlie thumped the bass on the first beat of each measure, feeling his way into the music.
"I gotta say," Cocayne said to Sandra,
"he's made it work,
but it's only half a song.
There's no metaphor yet,
no kick in the pants,
make you think,
pull you off the floor finish to it."
She got up and joined the band on the stage, nodding her head with the beat. She took the microphone.
If you think you're strange,
Can't quite make it right,
Like it's never been,
Yours to fit right in,
When you hear the gun,
Just get UP and RUN!
Don't hold back
until you get there,
Let them talk 'cause
what do you care,
Show them all
there's nothing to it,
We were born to ride
right through it.
Now I have to say
Ladies and Gents
That's Just how a song
Actually Gits Writ!
Seriously, readers will really get into the song, and, if you noticed, there's a line thrown in that when you hear a gun, better get up and run!
And Sandra hugged each one and off she ran, but she was indeed in contact with Jack... You get the feeling that once you read a rhyming group of words, you just happen to go with the flow? Well, this is one lover of music--of all kinds--that willingly closes this review, keeping track of the beat...
His final thought was what a good deal he had gotten on the parachute.
That, folks, is the title of the last paragraph in this book... I think I'll just go out and find a little more jammin' to close...
Introduction...When I arrived home, I noticed a business card taped to my mailbox fluttering in the wind like a butterfly’s wing. I took it off, annoyed at whatever roofing company was trying to drum up business, and thumbed through my mail. But the card had a raised golden seal with five words printed beneath it: the Federal Bureau of Investigation. “Contact me at your earliest convenience.” The note on the back was written in slanted printed letters. “Urgent.” My chest tightened as I dialed my husband. “The FBI?”
David was on a business trip, and his voice sounded distant now. “What did the agent say when you called him?” “You think I called him back?” I’d never been contacted by the FBI, but it seemed like an opening to a movie, the kind in which the unsuspecting woman ends up in a gas station bathroom cutting her hair with a knife and dyeing it with shoe polish hoping for a clean slate in Topeka. “Did you rob a bank?” His voice was teasing, laced with impatient incredulity. “If not, call them.” “Does the FBI typically come to a person’s house?” I asked. “I don’t know. Call him back, before it gets too late.” It was already dark. “Whatever this is, it’s not good.” I dialed the number.
“Thank you for calling, Mrs. French.” The agent’s formality caused my throat to thicken. “Are you familiar with the Cesar Sayoc case?” Of course. Every news channel had been covering it around the clock for the past few weeks. In the days leading up to 2018’s midterm elections, Sayoc sent prominent Democrats pipe bombs in a wave of attacks. Fear of political violence spread across the nation. When the news first broke, I’d been on a job. I’m a ghost, but not the scary kind. The writer kind. Almost all celebrity books are written by ghostwriters like me, unknown writers who learn the minutiae of their celebrity clients’ lives and toil in obscurity to meet tight deadlines. But it’s true. Most famous people don’t have the time, skill, or inclination to write a book while starring in a television show, running for office, or training for the Olympics. That’s where I come in. I sit down, hear their stories, and go to their homes, studios, movie sets, weddings, or Olympic training centers and create books that will be in stores in twelve to eighteen months.
When Sayoc mailed his first pipe bombs, I was with a client in a hotel lobby. The television news anchor on a nearby TV described how the bomber had targeted Bill and Hillary Clinton, Joe Biden, several members of Congress, Barack Obama, George Soros, and Robert De Niro. The other hotel guests and I got closer to the screen, which showed images of a cylindrical object wrapped in electrical tape, wires emerging from both ends. Black ISIS-like flags were taped to them, as well as photos of the recipients with a red X marked across their faces. Someone was terrifying the nation right before the midterms. Bad news for democracy.
My client shrugged and continued the interview. “Anyway, so let me tell you about why I support the president, even if people say he’s divisive. He’s a unifier, if anything.” Days after the first attack, the FBI identified this domestic terrorist as a stockily built Florida man who lived in a van covered with pro-Trump posters. The feds found binders full of media clippings, photo collages of people’s faces, and writings that said, in a 180-degree twist on the words of Christ, “Kill your enemy.” He’d taken his cues from every serial-killer documentary ever made. “I saw it on the news,” I said to the FBI agent.
“But what does any of this have to do with me?” “We found your address on Sayoc’s computer.” He paused. “Your husband was on his list.” I sat down at the kitchen table. I’d never thought David, a conservative Iraq-war veteran, would ever be listed with Bill Clinton, Joe Biden, and Robert De Niro. We’d been Republicans our whole lives, and I’d helped many conservative leaders on book projects. “He targets prominent critics of the president,” he said. “Would that include your husband?” It would. David, who wrote for the conservative magazine National Review, had been one of the only Republican thought leaders to oppose Trump. His name had even been briefly floated for a quixotic, third-party run for president of the United States. He declined, but not before his reputation among Republicans was sealed: traitor. “What do we do?” “He may have sent you a package we haven’t intercepted yet,” he explained. “We’re working with the US Postal Service, but one could slip through.” I put my forehead in my hand, and my teenage son—who’d been hovering nearby—walked over, eyes wide with concern. “Look out for nondescript manila envelopes you aren’t expecting,” the agent said. “And alert your neighbors. None of the packages have detonated, but they could.” I couldn’t breathe. I’ve always prided myself on having a certain amount of emotional awareness and flexibility. Being a ghostwriter requires it. I’d worked with celebrities like Kim Kardashian, The Bachelor’s Sean Lowe, a Chinese political dissident, and prominent Republicans who had inhabited the nation’s top political positions. As a ghost, I don’t write “he hit Clara’s daughter” but “he hit my daughter.” I don’t write “the car crash killed the passengers” but “the car crash killed my friends.” I describe scenes in such detail that I sometimes experience secondary trauma vicariously living through the moment to capture it in the first-person written word.
But in 2016, I felt a different, more personal type of trauma. That’s when things started to change in the GOP. Within a party proclaiming faith and freedom, an unsavory element bubbled to the surface. David and I were doing what we’d always done: speaking out about our values, values which had not changed. But as the political climate shifted, we suddenly were at odds with our own community. Either you were with the GOP, or you weren’t. We’d been ostracized because we refused to support a president who made a cameo in the Playboy film Playmate 2000 Bernaola Twins. We’d been confronted at church because we didn’t support a man who’d admitted to groping women. And now we’d been targeted by a domestic terrorist. I sat at my kitchen table, my hands shaking. Someone had to point out that the emperor—not just the Bernaola Twins—had no clothes. But at what cost? Not only was I forced out of my tribe, I’d lost my main source of income. My political clients wanted a ghostwriter to write what they told them to write. That’s the job. I was supposed to reflect their views for their books, not write my own. Not only did I write their books, I traveled with them, wrote speeches, and even sat at Fox News headquarters to sharpen their talking points. I specialized in witty insults, clever turns of phrase, and political statements aimed to provoke liberals. Combativeness was part of the fun, delivered with a wink. People would argue during the day and have a drink together in the evening. But the wink was gone, replaced by mean tweets. Acrimony had settled into our brows, and people from different political parties actually loathed each other. I tried to continue my political work but vowed not to twist the truth or bear false witness against my liberal neighbors. Because I lived in Franklin, Tennessee, I didn’t have many actual liberal neighbors, but you get the idea. I wouldn’t mischaracterize liberal positions, I wouldn’t make generalizations about an entire group based on the craziest outliers, and I wouldn’t assume the worst of every Democrat. Hadn’t my own approach to politics contributed to the problem? Couldn’t we all agree things had gone too far? Though my political clients had previously respected my opinion and enjoyed our back-and-forth dialogue, they now resented my questioning their talking points and softening their forceful rhetoric.
I soon quit, or was fired by, all of them. That put me in a financially precarious situation. Now I was in a physically precarious one. I clutched the FBI agent’s business card. Since my multiracial family had taken a stance against Trump, we’d been mocked by Republicans, targeted by White nationalists, threatened with death, and alienated from our church community. But the American story is one of defiance, especially of the political kind. My unwillingness to bow the knee to an unsuitable president was the most American thing I’d ever done. And the ensuing rupture allowed me to see my nation and fellow Americans in new, more accurate, and ultimately more meaningful ways. I quit the GOP, which means I am no longer bound to toe the party line. Now I’m liberated from all expectations and can reveal what really happened. That’s what I’m doing now. Instead of writing for others, I’m telling my own story. As a ghost, invisible to the people around me, I’m coming out and making myself known. After floating along the outskirts of the powerful while our nation has digressed into unbelievable hatred, I’ve got a story to tell. It’s not tidy, nor is it easy, and it’s more than a little frightening. All good ghost stories are.
~~~
After an Introduction like no other, it was strange, then, to turn to the beginning of a woman's memoir, that was very much like any other personal memoir... So I wanted to share a little so you can get the flavor of French's background...
We tried to stuff that shadow in a mothball-filled closet back in Kentucky in a box labeled “Grandfather’s KKK Robe.” I’d heard stories about the “old” Ku Klux Klan, which—I’d always been told—kept law and order after the Civil War.
“What do you see?” she asked. Soft, prisms bounced around as I moved my head. Magical and mesmerizing. “Rainbows.” I twirled a tress of my dark hair. “What do you see?”
My aunt took a drag from her cigarette and peered into the ball with me. “I’m a seer, so I see a lot,” she said. “But mostly, I see . . .” I straightened and prepared to discover the secrets of the universe. “Dollar signs.”
I breathed out my disappointment but continued to look into the ball as the clock ticked. While we waited, my aunt told me about belonging to an Indian tribe and invited me and Grandmother to their next meeting. “We wear Indian headdresses, do dances, and even have our own Indian names,” she said, but Grandmother waved her off. She was the daughter of a Cherokee princess—one of our ancestors had been named Shield Eater—but her generation didn’t broadcast their identity on the mountain. When my dad left the mountain, we left behind all the Cherokee lore, the black magic, and the astrology.
Still, I leaned in closer. “You need an Indian name to go with your blood,” Aunt Zinnia said. “Momma’s one half, and you’re one eighth, but I see it in you. Clear as day.” I shook my head. My dad would never let me attend any sort of Cherokee dancing rituals. We weren’t allowed to do any kind of dancing, but I felt the pull. My aunt packed up her crystal ball. “Guess he stood me up.” “Didn’t we know he wouldn’t come?” I asked, hesitantly. Because of Grandmother’s rag? Because my aunt was a seer? She tossed back her head and laughed. “I like you.” She flicked her ashes into a tray without looking. “Momma, she looks and talks like us, don’t she?” I shared their coloring, facial construction, and conversation style. I loved watching these women, whom I so resembled, move and talk. Fierce and beautiful. “Your eyes will melt many a man’s heart.” Aunt Zinnia pulled out a cigarette from her case. “The color of those old blue bottles your daddy finds in the woods. Cobalt.” Their own eyes were dark like coal, but my heart swelled at their sugarcoated insistence that I belonged in this stone house with magical apple peels and dishrags. I was one of them. My aunt blew the smoke from her cigarette away from my face and leaned in closer. “And you have the gift, don’t you?” “What gift?” “You can see.” I thought about it. My eyes worked. I clearly saw that the small home had provided shelter to two parents and seven tightly packed children. I saw the middle room, which had two beds—one for my grandparents and one for the two girls. I saw the room with dueling pianos where all five of the brothers had slept on one feather bed in a room with ice on the inside of the window in the morning. I saw what they still called the “new addition,” a closet-sized space with a toilet which replaced the outhouse my dad dug. When they got electricity and plumbing—reluctantly—they built a tiny addition with a single commode. My cousins stood over the toilet and watched the water flush away to parts unknown. Still, my grandfather didn’t trust it and never used an indoor toilet even once in his life. “It’s not my way,” he said. Aunt Zinnia always breezed in and out of our lives, and I felt honored to be in her presence, and I hung on her every word. “You have the gift. To see things that are far off, have passed, or will come.” As she took a drag from her cigarette, her eyes never left mine. “Reckon?” I hesitated. At church we were warned against soothsayers and psychics, but deep down I wanted to be like these women, to be special. She put her hand on my knee. “You have it. Don’t fight it.” For the second time in an hour, my destiny shifted. I had some sort of mystical power, and I only hoped my future husband—apparently a Mr. Quinn? Mr. Copeland? Mr. Shelby?—would appreciate that part of me.
Grandmother put the chicken into the oven to stay warm, and the gravy needed to cook a bit longer. We walked through the middle room, which had a two-handed saw painted with vibrant deer-filled vistas hanging on the wall, into the far room. It had a couch, two upright pianos, and a chair in the corner. Grandfather had black lung disease from the deep-hole coal mines, but he smoked a pipe. The aroma—a blend of woods, vanilla, and tobacco—mixed with the smell of the stove. Slumped in his chair in his worn-out overalls, he bore an eerie resemblance to my father and uncles. While we waited on dinner, I tried to make conversation.
“I’m reading a good book.” I held out my novel to my grandfather, who took in the pink cover without saying a word. Outside, the snow pelted in a horizontal pattern. Ice tapped the windows. He beheld the book for a long time, and no one moved. I didn’t know he couldn’t read and could write only his first and last names, a skill Grandmother had taught him so he could sign his Tennessee Coal Company checks. Not for a second did I consider anything to be beyond their capabilities. They had that lived-through-the-Depression resourcefulness, which meant they never threw anything away and stared problems in the face until the sun came up the next morning. Their spines were as strong as steel, their hair as black as coal, and their bodies as unshakable as the mountain.
My dad broke the silence and addressed his mother. “Why don’t ya play us a tune?” My grandmother shook her head. Before she’d gotten married, she played piano on gambling boats, but marriage and seven kids put a damper on all that. Uncle Jasper stood up. “Come on now,” he said, patting the bench beside him indicating a seat for me. Jasper wore a red and black flannel shirt under his overalls; his glasses were tinted so he looked like a hillbilly celebrity. “Let’s play some music for these nice folks. They drove all this way.” They drove all this way. My sisters and I were on the mountain, but not of the mountain. He sat at one of the pianos and played the opening chords to “Your Cheatin’ Heart.” My grandmother, unable to resist the pull of the notes, sat at the
adjacent “dueling piano.” Uncle Jasper could play the banjo, guitar, and piano. But Grandmother was a savant. Her hands pounded the keys, yellowed and some worn all the way to the wood. She played all eighty-eight keys, no matter the song. “Your cheatin’ heart,” Uncle Jasper bellowed. I took lessons from a Baptist lady. One finger played one note. A mistake would stand out during recitals. But there was no such thing as a wrong note here. Grandmother played from the heart, several keys at once, sweeping her hand over the piano with confidence and ease. The music was syncopated, the beat was loose. I never knew where the notes would take me.
~~~
If you've read any books by Dolly Parton or other southern writers and enjoyed them, I think you'll enjoy the early part of this book, especially. I did! School, church, and playing music took place in my early home life, so if it sounds like yours, you'll be right at home in Nancy's early life... maybe not all of it though...
She was an early reader as well, so I can see where she would look toward writing as a career. But being able to listen to somebody else's story and make it sound like their own? I'd think that takes a special kind of person and skill. And French was doing well as a ghostwriter for many celebrities and other personalities...
Until they turned on her...
Even as I read her story and so many other book, I still can't quite figure out where all the hate came from that arose in America... Nancy and her husband, David, had been conservatives for most of their lives. David wrote for the conservative magazine, National Review. And was known as one of the "Republican thought leaders." But both David and Nancy had been one of the very few who refused to support DJ Trump. While I don't consider myself a conservative, I, too, had been questioned about my choice to not support a republican candidate (as a Christian)... The French family was greatly affected financially as they made the choice to not support a candidate who admitted to "groping women..." And, then, being targeted by one of those followers that listened to Trump and acted as they were incited to do...
Nancy also shared an early sexual assault within the church. Her story was included in a Discussion of Sexual Abuse earlier (see right column for info). When I think of her extended title for this book, I can't help but wonder whether this, then, is a major part of our American Story... Sadly, that is very possible... On the other hand, there are uplifting and heartwarming stories which have been shared... which, for me, supported my belief that God is touching people who are speaking Truth at this critical time in America...
Nancy began to seek out other jobs and soon was offered a column in "The Liberty Bell." It was the first time she'd ever had an ongoing job. While along the way David wanted to, and joined, the military services. And adoption was one of the callings for them...
Discussions were constant as things were happening, such as when Steve Bannon had joined the alt-right and was now supporting white nationalists... Yeah, those who were previously in their lives in some way were now part of what I call the cult... Then, Nancy was in somewhat of a panic about her "sin" being discovered--which really had been an assault--as David had been contacted to possibly run for president as well... Seriously, folks, you just can't make up this book!
This is a personal favorite for me, for many reasons... but mostly because Nancy French, and her family, Placed God as their highest priority! I call this a Must Read, especially before November!
Hi! I have to laugh at myself on this one...Not Really, I neglected one site from which I usually check to find out exactly who R. J. Halbert was! It was recommended to me on Facebook--couldn't find the original notification, sigh) So, of course, I went looking on Facebook! Even as I noticed that this book had special inserts for music, I didn't find it... Now after many have already come to visit on this latest wonderful book, I find that this is a writing duo...and also, professionally and musically connected with the Kelly Clarkson Show...! But, I'm still curious about the music inserts... If I find out anything more, I'll be back!
Striving for a New Type of Audio Book, Check it Out!
Stop it, Lyana … Today is not the day. Lyana shook the intrusive thoughts away and refocused on her surroundings. The further they travelled away from downtown, the more serene the surroundings felt. The streets were lined with historic homes, perfectly manicured lawns, and lush, tree-filled rolling foothills in the background. Three miles … two miles … one mile.
Right on cue, Boston’s “More than a Feeling” came on the radio. Lyana looked back just in time to see Ariel and Zach sharing a sibling moment, rolling their eyes as she and Ian mimed the iconic opening guitar riff. They sang along in full voice.
{listen}
I looked out this morning and the sun was gone Turned on some music to start the day
I lost myself in a familiar song I closed my eyes and I slipped away
The music continued as they made their way towards the house.
It’s more than a feeling {More than a feeling} When I hear that old song they used to play {More than a feeling} I begin dreaming {More than a feeling}
“Re-routing,” the voice from the GPS chimed in. They had missed the turn while basking in their musical glory days. Ian turned around and headed back the way they’d come. Within minutes, the GPS left them baffled once again. “Re-routing. Please make a U-turn ahead.” “I don’t understand. It says it should be right here, Lyana,” said Ian. “You must not have been paying attention. Turn around and I’ll look to the right. You look left.” “Re-routing. Please make a U-turn ahead.” “Argh! This is the same stretch we just did. See there’s nothi—” They turned around one more time, before finally spotting the nearly hidden driveway that was numerically out of order and barely marked.
They turned down the driveway and entered what looked like a gateway into another world. Bushes were thick on each side, leaving just enough room for the car to pass. Only a few brave rays of sunlight broke through the shadowy trees that lined the narrow path. Ian drove for what seemed like miles. “Where is the house?” asked Zach. His voice was almost a whisper. The sky grew dark and low-hanging fog marched toward them, making it difficult to see in the distance. It was mid-morning, but it might as well have been dusk. An uneasy hush settled throughout the car.
The change in scenery from the quaint downtown they had just experienced was stark; this was the opposite of what she had hoped to find. Lyana needed this to be so much more than a new beginning, or a fresh start. Trying to make sense of it all, tears began to gather in Lyana’s eyes. The sudden shift in the car from hopeful expectation to uncertainty triggered painful memories of the devastation and heartbreak she felt after the loss of her mother earlier that year. On top of living through the unthinkable only a few years earlier, the heartbreak of losing her mother nearly pushed her over the edge. Even though their relationship was strained, in her culture family was everything. Each generation was deeply connected to the next and losing her mom felt like a vast piece of her was gone forever.
Lyana had been an outsider in her small Irish community with her long dark hair, olive complexion, and brown eyes. Her family moved to the area in pursuit of the American Dream and had lived there for years, several generations calling it home. She was the first one to leave. From the very beginning she and Ian knew it wouldn’t be an easy road for two small-town kids looking to pave their own way and leave life in that small town behind, breaking free from the generational expectations attached to them within the confines of a twenty-mile radius. They were so young and naïve—they believed just walking away from where it all began would give them a chance to fix the brokenness within. That belief crumbled in the months leading up to the night Lyana had taken the kids and left. Ian had come too close to repeating the mistakes of his father. It was the darkest season of life they had known. Once again, she was the first one to leave...
“No, I didn’t know that. But … speaking of fog …” began Ian. “Is this going to be one of those lame dad jokes?” Zach interrupted. “No, no. Not this time.” Ian stopped walking and Zach nearly ran into him. “I was just going to say that my brain has been a little foggy ever since I got back from the last conference.
I got something for you, as always.” Ian paused, watching Zach’s expression morph from confusion to curiosity, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a woven leather bracelet with a stone attached to it. Zach held out his hand and Ian dropped it into his eager fingers. Zach turned the bracelet over in his hands and looked closely at the stone. “This is so cool!” he said, slipping the bracelet on his wrist. It was a little big, but Zach didn’t seem to mind. “What’s this symbol?” he asked, pointing to the image carved into the stone. “That’s called an ouroboros,” said Ian. “It looks like a snake eating its tail.” Zach traced the intricate circular image with his right index finger. “That’s exactly what an ouroboros is,” said Ian. “It’s like infinity,” said Zach, mesmerized by the gift. “I love it.” They started walking again. Ian was pleased by how much Zach liked the gift. He always brought gifts to the kids after his trips. He welcomed the challenge of finding something unique to surprise them with every time. After a rare moment of silence, Zach began posing questions about infinity. They both loved talking about impossible things and Zach was an expert at asking big questions. Just as Ian was about to respond to Zach, he tripped over something, lost his balance, and fell to the ground. “I’m fine,” he said before Zach could express his concern.
But Zach wasn’t looking at him. He was looking at the ground in front of him. Ian stood up and brushed the dirt from his knees and followed Zach’s gaze. “Dad what is that?” Zach asked. The two began to remove the brush and leaves that had gathered on what, upon closer inspection, appeared to be a door. A door in the dirt. It was a door, framed by crumbling concrete, but to what? A cellar? A shelter? Ian was fascinated by the oversized, rusting hinges that were decorated with what looked like a Celtic symbol. No, much earlier. Different culture. Maybe Sumerian? He leaned in to explore further. “Dad, help me with this.” Ian looked at Zach, who was tugging at the door’s old iron handle. He stepped over and helped Zach pull on it. At first, the door didn’t budge, and Ian thought it might be sealed shut. But then it moved. They pulled harder and the door moved even more. It was heavy—much heavier than Ian would have guessed. With each attempt, Ian’s imagination ran wild with ideas of what might lurk beyond.
“Well, hello,” a voice said from behind them. Startled, Ian and Zach dropped the door with a loud bang and turned in surprise. Ian studied the man. He appeared to be in his fifties and stood about five feet, nine inches tall. The years had been kind to the stranger. He was neither overweight nor frail—probably an athlete in his younger days, thought Ian. His dark hair had begun to recede, and the greys showed ever so slightly through the remaining hair on his head and the unshaven scruff on his chin and jawline. He was unassuming, dressed in workman’s overalls and steel toe boots. His dark eyes, however, had a gripping intensity—they instantly pierced into Ian’s thoughts. Looking into them was like seeing the experiences of his life reflecting back at you. And yet there was a quiet confidence in his demeanor that eased Ian’s quickening heart. “I’m Marshall,” the man said. Ian was trying to recall the name. “The Caretaker,” he added.
“That’s right. I completely forgot.” Ian had wondered, when they closed on the house, when they might run into the caretaker, but then had nearly forgotten about him in the time since. Zach was squinting, carefully studying Marshall. “I’m Ian Keene. And this is my son, Zach.” Zach continued to stare at the man, not unkindly, but wearing a curious expression. Marshall nodded. “Are you fellas a bit lost?” Ian shook his head. “We were just out getting a feel for the property. This is an amazing place.” Zach interrupted his dad with a list of burning questions. “Have you been here long? What is this door all about? Did you know the previous family that lived here? Do you have any kids? Have you …” “Whoa, bud, slow down!” Marshall’s expression didn’t change. Ian couldn’t tell if he was bothered or tickled by Zach’s curiosity. “I’ve been here as long as I can remember,” he replied. He didn’t bother to answer the other questions. The light of day was starting to fade as the three stood at the mysterious door. Ian was about to press for more information about the door when Zach spoke up.
“Uh … Dad, we should get back.” Ian recognized Zach’s tone. It wasn’t one of fearfulness—Marshall seemed like a harmless enough man—but one of slowly building anxiety. The sky was darkening, after all. Their explorations had simply left them without a concept of time. Marshall nodded, looked over at Zach. “You two really should hurry along before …” He froze. It was almost as if he’d seen a ghost. The sudden change in Marshall’s demeanor unnerved Ian, but it was short-lived. Marshall continued, “Before it gets too dark. You wouldn’t want to get lost in this forest.” Marshall had positioned himself in front of the cellar door, a subtle signal that their explorations had come to an end for the day. “I’ll be happy to show you around the property another time.” “We just might take you up on that,” said Ian. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Marshall. Come on, Zach.” Zach stared a beat longer at Marshall, then focused back the way they’d come.
As the two of them walked away, Zach glanced back toward Marshall. “He’s already gone,” said Zach. Ian turned to see that Zach was right. Marshall had left just as quickly as he had appeared. Zach turned his focus back to his father. “Well, that was weird.” “Yeah, you think?” The two of them talked about meeting Marshall and laughed about how they had completely forgotten someone else lived on the property. They couldn’t believe how quickly time had passed during their adventures. As they approached the house, Zach ran on ahead, clearly eager to share their adventure with his mother and show her his new bracelet. Ian walked in as Zach was excitedly talking about the door in the dirt.
Lyana stood up and swiped at her face, brushing the hair back from her eyes and smearing paint near her eyebrow. Her face and hands had more than a few splotches of paint now. She’d clearly been hard at work while they were away. Ariel came running down the stairs to see what all the commotion was about. “You found what?” asked Lyana. “Dad and I found an old cellar door in the woods, and then we met Marshall.” “Marshall?” The look on Lyana’s face told Ian that she had forgotten as well. He laughed and said with a smile, “The Caretaker!” “Oh, of course! I’d forgotten about him.”
Lyana’s face suddenly went white. She looked over at the stove, then the refrigerator. “I’m sorry, I totally lost track of time. I don’t have a dinner plan.” Ian already had his phone out. “No worries. I just found a pizza place that looks promising,” he said. Later, their appetites sated, Ian took in the scene before him at the kitchen table. Their stories had painted the house with joy. It practically glowed from the roars of laughter, the energy of its new residents bringing it to life again. Still, two stray thoughts threatened to distract him from that joy. What had spooked Marshall? And why did the man seem familiar? Ian shook the thoughts from his head. Surely it was nothing. • • •
Marshall slipped amongst the trees to watch Ian and Zach head back to the house. When young Zach turned around to look for him, Marshall shook his head. This is an unexpected twist, he thought. When the two finally disappeared into the distance, a sudden breeze picked up and swirled the leaves into a ground tornado, conveniently covering the cellar door once again. Marshall glanced up into the trees and shook his head again, allowing a half-smile creeping onto his face. A few moments later,a puzzled Marshall walked through the front door of his rustic cabin, closing the creaking door behind him. The late evening sun trickled in through the singular window, painting the wooden floor in patches of fading amber light. Marshall went to the bookshelf and scanned it, making sure everything was in its place. It was, and that confounded Marshall even more. He stepped over to his table and scraped a match against the textured surface, then lit the antique lantern that sat there. The smell of kerosene filled the small room. It was a reassuring smell for Marshall. A comforting smell. He desperately needed something comforting in that moment. He sat and picked up a half-finished carving of a ram. He turned it around in his hand, briefly admiring his own craftsmanship, then set it back down on the table. He glanced around the room as he had done so many times before, entranced by the dancing shadows. He was familiar with shadowy places, having spent so much time in them. Like in the wings of an auditorium. Marshall’s eyes grew heavy. He scooted the chair back, stood, pulled the curtain across the window, then shuffled over to his bed and lay down. The flame from the lamp continued to flicker as he lay there, exhausted.
~~~
Ian and Lyana had been friends since children. Both had felt that they never quite fit in no matter where they might have lived. It was only natural for them to take off together...
Still Ian had been quite successful in his career, considering what might be his next major event... It was Lyana who had always been on the hunt for a home. Out of the city in a place where they would be able to smell fresh air of the country... And reconnect as a family... Both of them had been in family situations which were not, to say the least, ideal, so that when she stumbled on an advertisement online, she had proceeded to make an appointment with the realtor, even though Ian had not yet returned from overseas...
Driving into what seemed a quaint, older town where children played outside, people were stopping to talk to their neighbors, Liana became even more enthused. It took a little time to actually find the place, but when they did, it was hard to believe that it was available! Ariel and Zach were their children and they, too, felt the draw of the town, their new home... Actually, it was...Amazing!
And yet...even as they were moving toward the home, there were people coming out who looked like they couldn't wait to get out of the house. Later, the realtor confirmed that he'd had trouble finding somebody who wanted to stay, even once they had moved in...
Even Ariel had asked in wonder, "Are We In Narnia?"
What could be wrong with those other people who had wanted to leave? Lyana whispered to herself, It's Perfect!
It was so perfect, that Lyana immediately began to bring the pantry into use so they could begin to bring in what was needed to begin cooking...and more... She was almost done and decided to put the mirror that had been in the room, back where it had once been... It was then she stood looking at her image, only to be distracted by a small girl moving behind her--who was she? But when she turned around, there wasn't anybody there... But Lyana would often stare into the mirror, only realizing later that she had lost so much time. What was happening?
Then when Ian had gone off to explore the house, only rushing back later to talk about the fantastic room he had been in, knowing he wanted it for his office... Only when he went back with Lyana, they couldn't find the room, even though he had been describing it to her as they searched...
Halbert leads his readers in and out of situations and then leaves us wondering--tantalized--quite in the web of mystery about this house in which many had refused to even live in. But, now, there was so much about the place and the town that made them happy to be there... But Lyana soon began to show signs of forgetfulness, of gazing off into somewhere where there was nothing there. Her health began to decline more and more...
It was Zach, who had once been diagnosed with Asperger's Syndrome who began to work to put things together of what could be happening... Early after they had moved in, Zach had found a door built into the ground. The Caretaker had approached them that day for the first time and, as it was getting dark, had suggested he would show them around the grounds at another time. But Zach had never forgotten that mystery and talked his sister into going to find it and see what it was... That day, they did get in and Ariel quickly saw a bracelet that belonged to Zach!
When Zach had first arrived in the house, he wanted to pick out his room, went towards the steps and started counting... 13... It was one of the things that calmed Zach and so each trip upstairs would be counted... until the day that when he counted, he counted 13...14...15... Zach was now even more determined to discover what hidden secret this house had!
And I can guarantee that readers will have the same heighten curiosity! The book keeps readers in suspense right from the beginning on through to nearly the end... Highly recommended! Unique, creative, and delightfully entertaining...
