I Never Do This - by Anesa Miller - A Monologue - And Playlist!

 I love campfire songs. Of course, when I joined the youth choir, they teased me no end. I remember Jo Beth saying, “Watch out, Britney. Here comes our little pop star.” That type of thing.

Really liking this show...

I really thought I'd seen all styles of books...but there's always another writer who presents a story that is so compelling that you keep on reading, no matter what the pages look like... Let me explain... Or better, show you... Starting with the Playlist... And I have to admit upfront, LOL, that every time I read Per Say rather than Per Se, I cringed... literally...

I keep my radio tuned to the station that rotates between country and oldies. It felt like a good sign when the Grateful Dead came on mid-chorus. Sugar Magnolia. Bobby set to drumming his knees.

“Mason was a good ’un. The kind that die young.” I give Bobby a sharp look, but he has dropped his head, playing with a grass blade, and I think he’s being serious. Not smart-alecky. 

Of course, he wouldn’t notice the likes of me. For one, he was two years ahead of me. Not to mention he’s from a rich family, the kind of boy that’s going to college. We were not in that class. But in spite of everything, the two of us did come together. We never dated, per say. He never took me to a dance or movie or nothing. We didn’t have friends in common that we might of run with as a group. After all, I was not the outgoing kind and had never really dated at the middle school. But against the odds, we crossed paths that fall of my sophomore year. It started at a sock hop after a football game the week after my fifteenth birthday. The dance was winding down. I was hanging around till the group of girls I palled with decided we were ready to split. Kids in couples, or the ones who had hopes of getting next to someone, were waiting for the last romantic slow song. It started at last—“Baby Hold On” by the Dixie Chicks, one of my favorites back then. Bernard happened to be standing with his friends in my field of vision, and when I heard that song, nothing could of been more natural than to raise my eyes on him—the angel-haired boy I’d dreamed about since last spring. That’s when a miracle happened because, somehow-some-way, Bernard glanced at me, right in the same moment. Our eyes hooked, and he didn’t hesitate more than a second—he walked right over to me. The gap between us was, maybe, twelve feet, but it felt like he was flying across the whole Ohio River to a separate world where I was living my little-small life. He put out a hand. His face had a sweet, kind of lopsided, grin. His voice said, “Shall we dance?” I had never heard anybody, let alone a kid around my age, say a thing like “Shall we dance?” Now, I know—and more or less knew at the time—he might of been looking to make some other girl jealous. I saw one or two of them, back where he’d been standing, drop their jaws when he put the move on li’l LaDene Howell. But why would I care? It did not cross my mind that this was anything less that a gift from God. When I took his hand, I stepped into my Cinderella story. His touch shot a bolt through me that felt stronger than the hardest drink I’ve had in my life—if he hadn’t taken me into his arms, I doubt I could’ve kept upright. My knees were that weak. But he kept the hand I put in his, pulled it to his heart, so my breasts fit on either side of our wrists. My temple came to rest on the front of his shoulder. His other hand and all his fingers traced the bones across my back and settled on my shoulder blade. I thought I might grow wings and really be like him. I know he must of felt me tingling all over. His slightest touch had done that to me. When the song stopped, at first I couldn’t raise my eyes. After a moment, I followed his hand lifting mine to his face, and he planted a kiss between the knuckles of my first two fingers. He said, “Aren’t you from Devola? One of the Howell girls?” In that euphoric state, it didn’t cross my mind that Effie and Jo Beth’s reputations might of preceded me. I nodded, or maybe I said yes, although it felt like I couldn’t possibly use my voice right then. He kept holding my hand and kept talking. “You like to hang out at Devola Lock and Dam? Me and my friends go there a lot. Come out this Sunday, if you can.” He gave my hand a final squeeze, turned away, headed back to his friends. The world could of ended right then and left me happy. But he glanced over his shoulder and said out loud, “Thanks for the dance!” To me he looked like the happiest, most carefree boy that had ever lived. I wanted to eat that like a last meal. It took a little while for us to wind up together. That first Sunday I rode my bike to the park to meet him, it was like he said—a bunch of kids hanging out in a group. Boys from the various sports teams that were known as arrogant jerks. A couple of girls on the benches—the fashion-plate type that belong to clubs, daughters of lawyers and judges. Some brandished cigarettes and blew puffs in a showy manner. I stopped while there were still shrubs along the roadside to hide me, listened to the boys’ loud laughs, the girls giggles, and didn’t go up to them at all. I turned right-round and rode home. But all that week, I reviewed how Bernard had looked at the park in khaki shorts, his powerful legs in sockless boat shoes, wide forearms emerging from an oversize blue T-shirt. So clean, so relaxed—shooting the breeze with wide shrugs and grins. Not smoking. Clearly a nicer boy than the company he kept. So the next Sunday, back I went, down the narrow asphalt road. River water pouring over the dam filled my ears. Sitting on top and around the lone picnic table, it was more or less the same group from the week before. It was a gorgeous day of early fall, no longer hot but still sunny, still warm, trees barely touched with yellow and rust. I told myself I had as much right to hang out at the lock as anybody. Sure, I did. My family used to stroll over here, evenings. My dad took his boat out on the river all the time. My sister Effie claims he took us fishing almost every weekend when she was little. Too bad none of that made it into my memories. But while I hung back debating myself, Bernard caught sight of me from where he was standing by the picnic table. I still remember how his arm shot up above his head, and he waved real wide like he was signaling somebody off in West Virginia. And he called to me. He had found out my first name. He called me by my name: “Hey, LaDene Howell—!” And he smiled real big. I was pretty near a total fool at that point, but it made a nice impression that he wasn’t ashamed for his friends to meet me and see that he had some kind of fondness for me. I knew it meant he was a nice person deep down. Honest to God, I still think so, no matter all the shit that was soon to meet the fan. It turned out, the boys in Bernard’s crew were actually quite interested to hear about my family. The notorious Twist-line men, that is. Everyone has heard tales about some of my relatives: Jake Blaine Howell who used to pimp out his own wife and sisters, back in the day. Old Eustis Howell who did a murder for hire in 1987. It never occurred to me that those connections could spark people’s interest in my own self. I was happy to confirm that, yes—my uncle was Big Bobby Howell who’d come home from Belmont just a couple years prior. And, of course, renowned bar-fighter Bobby Frank was my cousin. I omitted the fact that my own family had cut ties with most of them years ago. It only struck me as a little scandalous that those boys on the picnic table were swigging from cans of beer. Bernard soon pulled a bottle of pink wine out of a backpack. He twisted the cap off and handed the bottle to a girl sitting across from him. There were no glasses, so she drank from the neck and passed the bottle to her friend. That one drank and passed to me. I tasted it—my first alcohol. A couple of turns had me knocked pretty near on my ass. Everything about hanging with this group was so new to me, I really didn’t notice right off when the party starting breaking up. Or rather, it started breaking down into couples who scattered here and there, down to the cove to make out under the willows and on the little sand beach by the river. The odd boys out shuffled off to a black and chrome Silverado pickup parked on the asphalt. The driver revved his engine and drove away down the road. That’s when my wish came true—Bernard was alone at the table with me. We talked a little more, I’ve no idea what about. In years to come, I would review every touch and sensation at least ten-thousand times, but I can’t recall a single specific word we exchanged. I just knew that he was being sweet, not mocking me, or treating me like a lowlife hick, regardless who my family was. I talked a lot more country than him and his friends, but he showed no sign of caring a snap about such things as pronunciation or community standing. Of course, sex was not a secret to me. Momma had explained many times which body parts were involved and that it was the number-one thing girls must deny boys as a sacred duty. Jo Beth and Effie teased me in the privacy of our bedroom, telling all the details of their exploits. One time, I remember Effie asking me, “How many times you been fingered, LD?” The answer was zero, but I was so horrified she might think it had happened even once, I pressed a pillow over my head. Naturally, she only said it for the fun of freaking me out. So I had learned a lot of racy things, but the upshot was I viewed sex as something dire and disgusting. When I fell in love with Bernard, it truly didn’t cross my mind that what I was craving with him was sex. I utterly believed this was something higher, some fine and beautiful destiny. I could no more have turned him down than I could of stopped the sun in the sky. All told, I went out to meet him by the river six weeks in a row. I looked back later and counted up every meeting on the calendar. He took time to kiss me and hold me. He pressed me up against the wall of the pump station, and he brought along a soft plaid blanket for me to lie on. I thought I had discovered a lovely new world that held a special place for me where I would live in grace from then on, lonely no more. Indeed, a new life did open for me. Just not the one I imagined in those mad romantic days.

~~~~

Now I'm a country girl, so I began to recognize many of the words that were used... And we soon realize that a young girl is being interviewed by an officer who starts out asking questions... Then she took over saying that if they wanted to hear the whole story, she'd be happy to start... And she did...

The entire book proceeds from page 1 through to the final page with no stops, other than a short breath (and a bold phrase) to indicate a different scene. I was fascinated by the ease by which I was reading--without the distraction of chapter heading, pagination, etc., that readers (actually publishers) have become accustomed to--indeed, actually demand for the most part...

Then I was thinking about what law officer would actually have the patience to allow such a takeover of the questioning activity. My mind turned to Sheriff Country, and the one woman who just might have the patience as long as she knew the story would continue. Which it did for 207 pages with No White Space to be seen! LOL... Just the facts Ma'am--Just the facts... Well, not exactly, I learned today!

Now the thing is that she and a cousin was brought in for something that actually takes place almost at the end of the book... Yep, but this young lady, felt it was necessary to establish the background which had led to the situation where she was holding a knife and cutting a few places on his body... No, this is not satire, a comedy, or any other genre you might think of... It is a crime drama that happens to start many, many years ago...

I, LaDene Faye Howell, will recount the events of August 12, 2019, including all relevant background leading up to the encounter that I understand you are investigating. I will tell all in full truth and will hold nothing back to protect myself from the eyes of the law. Other persons involved do not know the full history of how and why things took place as they did. I’m the only one who can tell it all. I am the person who cut Mr. Jonathan Rutherford with a ten-inch folding knife, approximately. I made two cuts to his face, or rather the forehead—just about one inch long each, with the sharp edge of the blade tip. Also one cut on his chest. Very shallow cuts. In doing this, I acted alone. In fact, I meant to keep the exact nature of my actions secret. I told Mr. Rutherford to play dead. He may have been screaming when I said it. He did scream at one point, as I recollect. But I feel certain he heard me. I bent right to his ear. “Act like you’re dyin’,” I told him. He had been talking too much in general over the whole evening. I tried many times to quiet him down for his own good. I tried to do this in a nice way. A calm way. But once I took the knife, I finally got his attention. He will surely testify to that. I said it would all be for show. No. I never stabbed, struck, nor slapped or kicked Mr. Rutherford in any way. I did not strike him with my hand, knee, or any object. It is possible he was struck by another person. He may have been shoved or otherwise roughed up in a minor sort of way. I don’t know all details of that to a certainty, but I did not witness any physical beating being done to him. For most of the evening, Mr. Rutherford appeared to cooperate willingly with all that was happening. He was offered food and drink over a period of three to four hours. Yes, I myself gave him snacks and cold tea. No, I never heard him say flat-out, “You folks just let me go, now.” He did not say that. He was free to talk and dispute, which he did. Like I say, he talked more than was probably wise on his part. Yes, from his viewpoint, he probably felt he was subjected to harassment. Maybe even intimidation. I expect he did feel that way. Let’s just get it down on your recording right now that this man you keep calling my “confederate” is Robert Franklin Howell. He is known to most as Bobby Frank. The knife belongs to him, that’s correct. He “produced” the knife at an earlier point in the evening. From his pants pocket, I guess, but I didn’t see for sure at the time. Absolutely not—Bobby Frank did not cut anyone. Not in my presence. Not last night, nor at any time in our past history that I have ever observed. Bobby Frank is a relation to me. I’ve known him all my life. He’s a second cousin by a different mother—what some people call middling kin. We’ve always been friendly. No, we are not “intimate partners” and never have been. I’m aware that you are empowered to lie to me, but don’t bother saying that Bobby Frank pinned something on me. Like it was my revenge, snatching the old man, or I had a dire plan from the git-go, or any other shit on that line. He’s not about to say that. And I won’t be pinning stuff on him that he didn’t do, neither. I will only speak what really happened. I pledged to that already. I am 27 years of age. Bobby Frank is about nine years older than me, so that would make him 35 or 36, I guess. I don’t know where he’s been residing lately. He may not have a proper address. It looked like he’d been more or less camping in the house on Duck Creek Road—that house where the incident with Mr. Rutherford took place. That house used to be in our family. It was our Gramma Dot’s place. I don’t know who owns it now. You are aware that I sent my sister to check on the old man, right? When we left him at that house, I stopped and called her. Told her to go over right away and see to his welfare. How he was holding up after what happened. Mr. Rutherford was the principal of Marietta High School for many years. He was in charge when Bobby Frank attended there, and he was still principal later on when I came up. That’s how we knew him, from back when. No, categorically not—we never stalked him, never surveilled him, nothing like that. It was a pure stroke of fate that he happened to exit the Speedway on State Route 60 precisely when he did. Me and Bobby were driving north at that moment. It was me who recognized him. Well, that only makes sense, don’t it? It’s been, like, 20 years since Bobby was in school. Only about ten years for me. Okay, twelve years, to be exact.

“Baby Hold On” by the Dixie Chicks, one of my favorites back then. Bernard happened to be standing with his friends in my field of vision, and when I heard that song, nothing could of been more natural than to raise my eyes on him—the angel-haired boy I’d dreamed about since last spring. That’s when a miracle happened because, somehow-some-way, Bernard glanced at me, right in the same moment. Our eyes hooked, and he didn’t hesitate more than a second—he walked right over to me. The gap between us was, maybe, twelve feet, but it felt like he was flying across the whole Ohio River to a separate world where I was living my little-small life. He put out a hand. His face had a sweet, kind of lopsided, grin. His voice said, “Shall we dance?” I had never heard anybody, let alone a kid around my age, say a thing like “Shall we dance?”

There are two family/community dynamics within this novel... One is that the town is divided by those who are rich and those who are poor...

Also, one family has divided as well because of two major events... LaDene's older brother was killed in the war and thereafter their father changed... And, the side of the family from which they split was involved with criminal activities. LeDene's father had turned to religion to try to understand the loss of his one and only son in battle...

Effie had long since quit King’s Way, after she got called to account in the middle of Contrition for her car being noticed with a bumper sticker that said “WTF,” in reference to George Bush (“W,” that is). Not only blasphemous language (implied), it disrespected our God-appointed President, so Effie had some ’splainin’ to do. I understood full well this was the same reason why I was headed two states away with my thick ankles and bread-dough belly. Yes, I accepted it. Bowing out quietly should be easier than living under the judgment of everyone I knew, and everyone my family deemed important. But would it actually turn out any easier? That kind of thing is tough to measure, isn’t it? 

“Don’t gawk,” Blake said. “Work.” She hit me a sharp blow with the 15-inch stick of PVC pipe. The one she carried was fitted with a three-way joint that left red half-moons on my wrist. I gasped from surprise almost more than from pain—she whipped that thing out and struck so fast, with no warning. Of course, I didn’t cry or complain. Just gave her a big-eyed stare for one second before looking down to the dustpile my sweeping had gathered. She bestowed a word of explanation. “You’re lucky to be in the house, here. It’s way better than scrubbing bathrooms, breathing that full-strength bleach.” 

LaDene fell in love, allowed herself to get pregnant, thinking she would be getting married and only later knowing that his family would be paying for her to be sent far away to birth the child, after which she would be returned home--she was just 16...

As time goes by she moves on, out of her family's life and when her favorite cousin got out of jail, he looked her up...which led to LaDene handling the knife that cut the local school's principal... 

But, WHAT A STORY! In fact as I think about the method, this could actually be written in journal or diary form as a biography... If so, God Bless the young girl LaDene who, really, never had a chance to...be...herself... Because when you're reading it all from her POV, you just gotta listen...

My child was the only thing that existed in the world for that time. She looked around for about two minutes before she fell asleep, but I know she saw me, and I believe she had her own understanding of who I was and why we were together on that first day of her life.

...Some new person inside me wants to go forth and take on the world, right the wrongs and slay the dragons. A new inkling of possibility grips my insides, it wants to get personal, get rough. Before I think about it, I’m on my feet dancing. I swing around the pole, twirl, sashay, jump over oil patches, bound off a bumper. My toes write poems in scattered gravel. My hair sweeps, unloosed from its captured braid. Wind is rising in the cottonwood. At some point I notice I’m in the middle of the parking lot. I lean my head back and sing out loud. Not that I know the words—

This book must be experienced as opposed to read... The thing is as I sit here now, I'm not quite sure I even know how it ended... After her cousin found her, there was a lot of drinking and drugs, but that shouldn't affect the reader should it? Tell you what, I'm going to depend upon the Sheriff to actually close out this case... What I know is that LaDene made it out alive, singing about Freedom... and that's enough for me... Just do it! See what happens when a writer does her own thing! Cool! Right? 

GABixlerReviews

Note: I didn't get the entire Playlist done. The last words being sung, may or may not have been an actual real song. Also I wasn't sure about which Freedom song was correct...

Extraordinary Retribution by Erec Stebbins - An Excerpt...

1

By the time he reached the razor-wire, the Syrian landscape had shrugged off the delusion of the irrigated greenery around Damascus. Here, the Old Man, the desert, could not be hidden and refused to be banished. Cold even in the oppressive heat, crueler than the scalped links fencing out trespassers, the sands smiled sadistically, remembering centuries of slaughter and dreaming of future screams of anguish.

For the man in the truck, gazing across the landscape, the screams returned to him now. Howling, gasped, panicked. His own and many around him. Images of dank stone, blood and waste-soiled cells. Eyes. Faces. Tormentors and their hideous tools. The weeping of grown men echoed inside his mind as the winds stirred the dry sands around his vehicle. He squeezed the steering wheel tightly, refusing their summons, determined more than ever to rise above their damage and demons. He had come too far to be defeated now.

He stepped out of the begrimed pickup truck and slammed the door. Glancing over the barren land, he followed the fence line to the horizon. The entrance was at a large distance around the perimeter of the compound, hidden in part by an outcropping of desert rocks. His well-paid sources had been accurate: an entrance from the rear would likely go unnoticed. And what madman would ever break into this place? He did not expect vigilance.

 He moved around to the back of the truck and untied a dusty canvas covering the bed. Underneath were several heavy crates. He opened each, removing weapons and explosives, strapping them to his body, and moved to the passenger side of the vehicle. From the glove compartment, he removed a map, glanced at it fleetingly, and pocketed the ruffled pages. It was memorized.

Night fell quickly in the deserts of Syria. In the darkness and desolation, short metallic clips sounded and fell mute on the empty sands. As a shadow, he passed through an opening cut into the gray outlines of the fence and vanished into the blackness.

Through the sandy winds sweeping across the compound, lights twinkled from a handful of incandescent bulbs. Near the gated entrance, he left a guard inside a small shed, seeming to doze peacefully, the unnatural angle of his neck observable only at close range. Before him, a desolate stone structure was dimly outlined by the band of the Milky Way, a single window of light visible in the darkness. Voices could be heard, at times loud and rude, spilling clumsily from the room. Harsh, staccato bursts of laughter confirmed the presence of the prison guards inside. He darted past the window and pressed himself flat against the compound walls. He slid along the rough surface toward the door, arm raised, his hand ending in an extended, metallic cylinder. He made no sound until he spun and kicked in the flimsy wooden door.

He saw four men around a small table, cigarettes in their mouths, pornography and cards strewn haphazardly across the stained wood. As the door swung madly on its hinges and smashed into the wall, they jumped, confused, turning toward him. Even that small pause meant death.

He fired several shots in the confined space. The explosions were amplified and echoed throughout the stone chamber, spilling down the poorly lit hallway opposite to the gunman. Two of the men arched, their heads snapping backward as the bullets blew open their skulls. The whitewashed walls were sprayed red. As the other two men lurched upward and towards him, he spun, his right foot arcing like a sledgehammer coming down, whipping the nearest man backward onto the table. Glasses shattered, and cards dispersed as the guard rolled roughly and fell hard on the stone floor. The intruder channeled the momentum of the spinning motion, and his gun hand came whirling around toward the second man, who now stood unprepared, barely having obtained a fighting stance. His attempted blow was smashed aside, and his jaw shattered as the man’s gun arm brought the metal crashing downward. All four guards now lay still around the table, two dead, two unconscious.

The assailant aimed his weapon at the guard near his feet, firing directly into his head. He then turned and aimed at the other prone figure, rendering a similar judgment. He studied the faces carefully. “At night, five remain once the others leave for the day. And Mahjub works late.”He didn’t need to be told this by his informant. Yes, he knew Mahjub worked late. He would never forget. Nor would he forget his face. Mahjub was not in this room. He must be….below. He had been busy, perhaps.  But not now. By now, he would have heard the shots. He would be afraid.

The assassin smiled.

Two floors below, buried deeply in the Syrian sands, a long hallway with numerous cells ran its begrimed course. Broken men were locked behind stone-walled enclosures with iron doors. The cells were like graves: shallow pits scraped into the rock, devoid of light or even the space to stand. At the far end of the hallway, opposite the stairs, was a small room without a door. Inside Mahjub Samhan clutched a knife in one hand and a pistol in the other. Both hands shook as he cowered behind an upturned table in the middle of the room. He cried out in a high-pitched voice.

“Kamil? Saif?” There was only silence. “Bassam? Nadeem!” He wiped the dripping sweat from his eyebrows and tried to focus toward the stairs. A solitary bulb dangled limply from exposed wires in the middle of the hallway. His left leg began to shake. “Answer me! Who is there? What is happening?”

Suddenly, before he could focus or react, a shadow seemed to leap from nowhere, an explosion slapped his ears, and the bulb burst. Shards of glass rained on the stone floor like small bells. A terrible darkness blotted out his vision. In panic, Mahjub screamed, firing shots wildly into the blackness.

A bright light leapt from across the darkness, blinding him. A sizzling rod landed only a foot away from the table. Momentarily confused and distracted by the fire, Mahjub stared down at the stick burning beside him. Explosive? Too late, he turned his weapon toward the sound of rushing footsteps from the hallway, the searing afterimage of the flame obscuring his sight.

A gunshot rang. His right shoulder exploded in agony. His knees buckled, and he fell backward against the wall, releasing a howl of pain as he slid to the floor. He dropped the knife from his left hand and reached over to hold his injured shoulder, grimacing as he felt the warm blood coat his arm and fingers.

He squinted against the light as it was raised above his head. He saw a tall, dark shape behind the flare, a gun in one hand aimed at him. In a swift motion, the table was righted and the flare violently wedged into the rotting boards like a candlestick. The figure crouched beside him.

“You always were a coward, Mahjub,” spoke the voice in accented Arabic. Trying to block the pain, Mahjub strained to place the origin. Saudi? Pakistani?He stared at the face partially concealed in shadow. He had never seen it before. Light hair, blue eyes…American? Nothing made sense. Had the Americans turned on them after all this time? Did they need to bury this operation so completely? With all the chaos in the nation, did they care so much now?

“You don’t recognize me, do you, Mahjub?” the figure asked, almost with amusement. “How fitting, to lie here in pain, your death awaiting you, and not know the first thing about your tormenter.”

Mahjub felt the panic well within him again. “Sir, please, don’t kill me. Whatever we have done wrong, we can fix. We will not speak. We will disappear. Please, not like this.”

Mahjub’s eyes widened at the sound he heard. The man with the gun laughed. Laughed at him! “Mahjub, how do you live outside this place?” The Syrian only looked at the gunman in distress.

“I mean, when you buy fruit at the market, mixing with decent people, or entertain your mother-in-law, do you think about breaking men’s fingers? Sodomizing them? Do you think of blood and vomit when you stir her coffee? Do their screams, their pleas for mercy keep you awake at night?”

“Sir, no, please, I don’t know…”

“You know,” said the man, his blue eyes seemingly glazed over, frosted, utterly cold. The shadowed form whispered ominously, “See, I know what you do, what you are.” Mahjub felt his blood run cold.

“These poor men here,” said the pale man, gesturing toward the hallway, “they don’t know who you are, but they know what you are.” The man spoke with such venom, a snake’s hiss. “It took some time to track you down.”

Mahjub began to cry, clutching his blasted shoulder, grime and blood on his hands and face. A man with such power over others, now powerless, weeping like a child. “Please….”

There was no pity in the cold blue eyes before him. “Consider me more merciful than you ever were.”

The man stood up and aimed the weapon.

“No!” Mahjub began to scream, but a final gunshot ripped through his throat, silencing his cry as he fell against the wall. He gasped vainly for breath, his healthy arm at the gurgling wound, his eyes swimming, his feet kicking madly as he drowned in his own blood. It was over in less than a minute.

The assassin spat on the dead man, turned, and carried a set of keys from the room. One by one, he unlocked the doors along the hallway as he walked toward the stairs. He spoke loudly. “They’re all dead! Leave now, if you can. God soon brings fire to this place!”

Soft sounds of bodies stirring could be heard within the cells. The hinges of one door ground behind him. When he reached the first step, he dropped the large keychain and ascended to the upper floors.

The truck made a startling sound in the desert night as he turned the key. Twenty minutes. That was enough. If they had not escaped yet, they were as good as dead anyway. He stared down at a small radio transmitter on the seat next to him. A red light blinked at the upper-right corner. He pressed the button underneath, and a bright orange glow flashed before him in the darkness. Several seconds later, the sound arrived, the rumbling blast from an explosion as the compound was blown into the sky, rubble and embers raining down on the dark sands.

The last shall be first, and the first shall be last.

He doubted Jesus had meant it that way. He shifted gears and raced away from the inferno.

It had begun.

~~~

When I Hear LM Preston - I Think Great YA Action!

First in Series
See My Review!

The Pack:
--Retribution--
Book 2:The Pack Series


By LM Preston






I have got to say that I've not found anybody writing YA that provides more action and adventure than LM Preston...OK, I don't read that much YA, but what I can guarantee is that Preston is an author who I trust will provide two things: Kids that fight against evil and strive for achievement--and some type of supernatural plus futuristic gizmos that are excitingly new and unique! Inventions, like a glide-board are now replaced by little gadgets that just fit on the shoes...plus you can use them to climb walls by placing them on your hands, for example. If Preston doesn't have the James Bond crew beat with her inventions, she at least rivals them for creative imagery that gets her kids out of the dangers they always seem to be involved with...Surely, you've read at least one of her books!

Just take a look at her cover for Retribution...fantastic, isn't it? I have this little habit of checking to see whether the front cover image matches the character in the book...This one I thought fit perfectly except for her eyes and you'll understand why when you read the book... The Pack series takes place on Mars, which has been taken over by Earth to house all criminals--rehabilitated or not... Earth has been crime-free for years and if something happens on Mars, people on Earth just cut off possible interaction with the planet...Now, wouldn't that be fantastic to have occur?

Shamira is the daughter of one of The Elite--those that live on Mars as the Lawmakers and Protectors. Shamira is now in training for becoming an officer, but, as she was earlier involved in crime solving (The Pack), she found a number of like-minded teens who started to follow and help her. They are now known as  The Pack and Shamira has been working and hoping that they all finish training and move on... The fact that some of them may have criminal backgrounds is not important to Shamira; she has learned to trust them. But that does not hold true for those making decisions.

It was the Pack that had destroyed the Monev--criminals and a location where drugs were being made and criminals continued the lives they had lived on earth. Now, Shamira's trainer and mentor has scheduled a final training review session at this site--she's not sure exactly why since it supposedly has been left as it was after being destroyed. Still, The Pack takes to the road, following Cal, when suddenly they are attacked, but they can't see their attackers (yes, they are invisible). One shot Shamira made had briefly fired open some of the material and she had seen part of one of their faces. Soon they were driving off, but one of The Pack had been hit, another was missing, and so was Cal!

They found Cal dead...

The Pack all were now under investigation and forced to stand down while others took over. Of course, Shamira knew that was not going to happen! So the group began to meet at various places to discuss what they were going to do. But one of The Elite kept her on edge, convinced that one of her friends had betrayed Cal and it could be any one of them, including Shamira...

But then a fire was set at Shamira's home and both her parents were seriously hurt. Shamira was afraid to trust anybody, even Valens, one of her friends who professed his love for her... Convinced that she had to act alone, she forced herself to argue with them and turned her back to investigate on her own...

What she discovered was that there were more missing kids on Mars...and much worse...

Can you tell I thoroughly enjoyed the second in this series! One small problem is that this writer is so prolific that proofreading errors slip through--but none that prevented the story from being totally enjoyed. Phenomenal One Press is still new, so I'm positive that these are clerical errors that will disappear in the future. This author is a great writer--and I'd have to tell her again, slow down and don't worry about publishing deadlines...Readers will wait for your books!


GABixlerReviews

Author: LM Preston, www.lmpreston.com
blog: http://lmpreston.blogspot.com/ (go to blog to see trailers and giveaways)

L.M. Preston was born and raised in Washington, DC. An avid reader, she loved to create poetry and short-stories as a young girl. With a thirst for knowledge she attended college at Bowie State University, and worked in the IT field as a Techie and Educator for over sixteen years. She started writing science fiction under the encouragement of her husband who was a Sci-Fi buff and her four kids. Her first published novel, Explorer X - Alpha was the beginning of her obsessive desire to write and create stories of young people who overcome unbelievable odds. She loves to write while on the porch watching her kids play or when she is traveling, which is another passion that encouraged her writing.

LM Preston
YA SciFi Author
WEBSITE: www.lmpreston.com
BLOG: http://lmpreston.blogspot.com/
PARTY BLOG: http://bookpartylmpreston.blogspot.com
TWITTER: http://twitter.com/LM_Preston
FACEBOOK:http://tinyurl.com/2fev6qc

Writing stories for and about kids that overcome the impossible...