Robin Murarka Presents Akin - A Literary Masterpiece of Life! A Personal Favorite for 2025!

 "Do I exist? Not in your sleeping dreams, my boy. And fear not purging my memory from reality, for the truth is more pious a goal than delusion."

But this is god, Aydan . . . the ground bleeds this into plants, animals . . . even us . . ." "That sounds nice, Samaye . . . I would like to be in a world surrounded by these patterns, as they are in Tphetria . . ." "These are just stories to most, my brother. They are corrupt people . . . my people," Samaye explained. "I had to leave for my soul could not consume it. I could not understand it." "What do you mean?" Aydan asked. "The structures . . . they are created through god . . . through the groups. But it is my own family, my brethren that work as slaves. Not as family. There is a group, a powerful group . . . the Methias . . . they . . . were like us. But they adorn themselves in vanity . . . and they use god's knowledge for purposelessness. They attain their knowledge from strangers . . . strangers from far away. And they keep it hidden." He began to cry gently. "It hurts my heart, akin. That so many suffer for their greed. They keep the knowledge to themselves and the strangers hidden. And when I encounter the Methias in the street . . . they are like me . . . like you. Of flesh, with soulful eyes. The confusion in me is like a disease, akin." His crying deepened, and he began to lose his breath and heave as thoughts began to consume him. "I am . . . perplexed . . . akin . . . the man in the mask . . . the rest . . ." he struggled to say between gasps. Aydan suddenly became concerned and called to him. "Samaye . . . you must calm yourself. Count with me . . ." Samaye began to cry harder, the sobs turning into grunts as the intensity of his groaning became louder and harder. As he heard Samaye, a hollowness began to form in him. "It . . . it is . . . akin . . . it is . . . inconceivable . . . that my brother . . . my own akin of flesh . . . would harm me so," Samaye uttered in between gasps of breath mixed with tears and grunts. Aydan closed his eyes and pressed his palm against his door. "My akin . . . brother . . . mewah akin . . . oh god . . ." Samaye began to heave as if he was choking. Aydan's face grimaced, and he too began to cry. "You must breathe, Samaye . . . we are together, you and I." Samaye fell to the ground and curled up, holding his stomach. "My stomach pains . . . it hurts so tremendously. I . . . I . . . think of his smell . . . and it . . . it ills me, akin . . . "It ills me . . . that such a terrible feeling should . . . should . . . associate itself . . . to the thought of my own brother!!!" His gasping turned into a steady cry, weeping heavily as he began to drown. Aydan's own chest began to tighten, feeling helpless towards his companion. "Not everyone is our brother, Samaye . . ." Aydan responded after a moment. "Not everyone sees us as we wish to see them. Do you see?" Samaye clutched his hair in his hands and wept wholly. As Aydan listened to him, he began to contemplate that Samaye was not fooling himself into believing that the Fayem was his brother. It seemed he truly saw him as that. He cried with the deep seated pain that only betrayal could fuel, not delusion. "Why, Samaye . . ." Aydan asked. "Why do you think he loves you . . . that he wants to . . . that he could? He is not your brother . . . he is an animal." "Akin . . ." Samaye responded, crying deeply. "Do you believe he does not yearn to be loved freely and completely?" Aydan opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out. The gentleness of Samaye's rebuttal shattered any preparedness he had in his criticism of Samaye's perspective. The truth was, as he thought of the Fayem and all the cruelty in his nature, he could not argue that the Fayem yearned for love. As his mind contemplated it against his will, he found himself more and more convinced that this was indeed the case. And as he did, the fear and hatred became less fortified within him. It was a feeling he was not comfortable with, and although he tried to re-envision the atrocities of the past day to re-enforce his stance, Samaye's voice, like the hand of god, ushered all arbitrary thoughts away, leaving only unpleasant truths. "I . . . I don't understand, Samaye . . ." Samaye sat in the darkness, holding his head in his hands. He contemplated the physical pain within him along with the confusion of the abuse. He nodded to himself. "Akin . . . why did he manifest his hatred upon me when I have done nothing but love him?" Samaye's words shook Aydan's head, and he burst into tears, uncontrollably crying at the thought of the sheer vulgarity of such hatred that would facilitate the abuses that Samaye had suffered. "I don't understand, Samaye . . . I don't know . . ." He cried like a child, not knowing where the tears were coming from. "Why are his actions so hurtful to me, Samaye? Why do I expect more of him?" Aydan asked. He became furious and began to scream. "He is an animal! Not a man! Not a man to do such things to you! Not a man! Why are you hurt? He is not a man, he is a beast! A demon placed upon this world with nothing like us in his chest! He is a beast! Why do you cry? Why do you cry at a bastard animal acting as such?" "I know nothing, akin, except that he yearns for my love, just as I do his . . ." Samaye responded immediately. Aydan slammed his hand against his door repeatedly, trying to alienate himself from Samaye's words. He believed it to be true, but loathed his own certainty of it. Samaye lay down, curling up in his cell as tears ran down his cheek. He did not sob, for the thoughts came and went, but the confusion that remained hurt him with every emergence. "I don't understand, akin . . . why would he hurt me so?" Samaye asked as one such emergence arrived, causing his tears to flow faster, his body tensing up. And with every sob that Aydan heard, he understood them not to be fuel to the effect of hating the man, but attempting to understand his motivation and purpose, his capacity to hurt Samaye in such a manner while he was loved. It was the pain of confusion, almost mind-numbing confusion, brought about by his attempt to understand why one would reject the love, the real empathy, compassion and trust Samaye had so freely invested into him. Aydan was confused by his feelings, for he resided in a realm of fear and openly accepted that none were his friends or comrades. Yet, the way that Samaye was, was of a completely different nature. He was suffering immensely and the victim of his faith in someone like the Fayem, but there was something he carried within him . . . something familiar to Aydan that he both deeply respected and desired. There was a border, he saw. In the darkness, his senses numbed, he could almost visualize it. His world, entirely existing before this point, Aydan was alone, surrounded by teeth. Bethelhurst meant as well as he could but was never a companion of sorts, never Aydan's ally. And though he navigated the world around him successfully, the concept of an ally was unspeakably rich to him, as if seeing this border in the darkness opened up his thirst for love. It was as if he discovered a gaping hole in his stomach, and there was a vacuum there, and though he could not feel it before this moment, it had been there all along. Aydan slammed his hand against his door, once, forcefully. "Samaye." he called out. "Samaye!" he yelled. "Yes." Aydan calmed himself, choosing his words carefully. "Are you my brother?" Samaye began to weep uncontrollably, pressing himself against his wooden barrier, stretching the wound on his back. "Because I . . . am your brother," Aydan continued. Samaye placed his palm against his door, crying profusely. "And I am going to break this."

~~~

He had dreamed of voices that morning, but they were not all his creation, but from some other place, some unseen place, unlike him, reaching out to him. They called him brother, as did Samaye. He wept as he thought of his friend, his brother, his brethren. But just as the tears arrived, so too did they stop, as he dismissed reality in favor of fatigue and deep breathing as he fell into the world of sleep. Perhaps his friend would be there in the morning, and he was mistaken. His hands felt the sand beneath him with every temporary moment of consciousness, as if he hoped to find grass, or water, or something other than the crystalline pebbles against his fingers. He rubbed his hand in them angrily, losing all hope, unable to even wet his lips, afraid that if he opened his mouth, his tongue would shrivel up and die, taking him along with it. He lay down, finally, feeling weight upon his body, pushing away from it, nuzzling his head in the sand. With his nose now completely blocked, he opened his lips only minimally to take in air. He tried to filter out the loose sand that came in with every breath but could taste the rocks against his tongue and even tried to chew them in some delirious state, hoping to extract flavor and juices out of them. Perhaps no one had ever tried, he thought, and he would discover something miraculous that would empower him. He recalled something he had contemplated as a child. His eyes closed, he tried to whisper the concept, trying to resonate it within. "If . . . "If . . . I can sing . . . if I can sing . . . if I can sing the words . . . then I am not defeated." He lay there, hearing them, thinking them, feeling them. He repeated, louder. "If . . . I sing . . . if I can sing the words . . . I am not defeated." He took a deep breath in and felt the words, like blood, coarse through his system . . . and began to scream. "If I have the luxury of song, I am not defeated! Hear me! I am not defeated!" He took another desperate breath in and whispered to himself. "If I am song . . . I will never be defeated . . ." Then the wind in the desert was all that could be heard. The miniscule crackling of fragment after fragment, pieces of orange earth dancing in the wind, running a gauntlet up and down the dunes of the dry infinite sea. They filled his hair, his ears, and piled up on either side of him. As if attracted to the fleeting warmth in his body, the little creatures that touched him lay down with him, upon him, to be close to his spirit. His hand closed around the sand, holding it in his fist. He kept his eyes closed and began to sing. "The world closes around me . . . "But I am still here, I am still here." He stopped in between every line to pause and gather energy. "The lands swallow me whole. "I am still here . . . I am still here. "I am still here . . ." he whispered quietly, feeling the embrace of the dream world. "I will always be here." Still. Perfectly still. It was the stillness that awoke him. His ears perked, and some vessel of awareness ran down his ear, into his mind, and began to scream as loud as it could, and his awareness was piqued. "Hmmm . . . ?" Aydan weakly muttered in a half dazed state. Underneath the sand, something moved, and his hand limply emerged, sensing the wind. This piqued his awareness even more. Half buried now, Aydan shifted, feeling his entire body ache in agony. He moaned in pain, and in doing so tore the dry calluses on his lips, sending shearing impulses of torture through his entire body. He finally managed to prop himself upwards on one hand and sat up, his body muffled in small particles of sand. He remained still, trying to sense something, anything, but could not. It frightened him, more than he expected it to. Gently, he tried to open his eyes, brushing caked sand away from his face, carefully freeing his eyelashes. He peeked every now and then, and seeing and hearing nothing began to push his anxious mind to bridge the gap between unease and terror, forcing him to become frantic in his effort to discover what universe he had fallen into. As his eyes opened, he saw the red haze of an emerging dusk color in an unmistakable gradient along the sand in front of him. The sun, as if staring directly at him but gentle enough to receive a stare back, was right in front of him, flat against the horizon in perfect proportion to the world. Aydan stared, his body hunched, and was entranced. Something was happening to him, and he could not determine what it was. A rush of emotion is how he described it to himself, too fast to be interrupted. As if insanity and reality had collided to create an absolutely pivotal moment where the universe was bending in some strange manner to kiss him. He looked to the side and saw a leg in the sand, connected to something that was now buried by the world, and knew it belonged to his perished friend. He began to cry, for he found it to be the most beautiful and vulgar thing he had ever seen. Samaye was in darkness, gone forever with unrequited hope, yet this color upon his leg, upon the sand, and even upon Aydan, provided by the sun, kissed it all. Aydan raised his hand at the sun, trying to feel the thickness of his feeling, but felt nothing. He stared at the orange fire, and as it began to hide under the horizon, so too did he begin to feel alone and empty. It was as if the presence of the sun introduced noise to the environment, and though this was not the case, as it vanished, Aydan felt scared at the silence he found himself drenched in. He saw Samaye's leg once again, this time void of color or light, but simply lying there, unmoving, horrific in its suggestion of what lay connected to it. It was not an object but a sign of something more terrible, some beauty lost but not simply missing now and forever, but rather defiled and broken by the world. His dazed thoughts were disconnected, and though he contemplated how distraught he was, he simply did not have the capacity to dwell on it. The sun was gone, and whatever magnificent feeling had emerged when he awoke went with it, replaced by the real world, one he seemed to collide with in what seemed to be only unpleasant manners. "Samaye . . ." he whispered as tears filled his eyes. He leaned down backwards, resting his back against the ground as if lying in bed, preparing to die. He was filled with anguish at that moment, with nothing but thoughts of failure and betrayal and the woe of witnessing the loss of the soft creature that lay beside him. He had never experienced a hopelessness that had no exits and though, for a moment, he regretted leaving the cave, as he felt the cool sand under his palms, he became suddenly assured that though it ended as it did, it was eventuated in freedom.

~~~

What is it that makes one man accept, yet another man strives beyond that which he was borne into? Robin Murarka presents an epic fantasy world in which to explore that one question... But is there even an answer? For how can we know what we want until we are born and then come to a specific life following that of his father, while at the same time choosing to roam free, gaining strength from those walks out into the wilderness--the land surrounding him... Ayden was such a man. While his father and he were working in fields, Ayden day dreamed of far lands... And then, he had a dream! And, in that dream he learned that it was he who chose what was to be... and he had indeed chosen! Although not really understanding...

In a place with names that you will not recognize, you will find that, even in a different land, there are things that make men fear--they didn't know about Demons, perhaps... But never being sure because it was only feelings, thoughts, worries that had led to their living with those who would accept their life as the only reality...

Ayden had dreams--visions. But his father, fearing that others would hear of his son, would explain them away as just nightmares of a time in a different place than where they lived... But Ayden would watch what was happening in his village and question the actions of people who saw things differently, perhaps just from their own experiences, such as a deaf man who could not hear when a young girl asked him for water, she spoke louder and louder until it was noticeable that the wellman had not heard her and then that man was removed from his position to determine whether he was possessed or could be healed... and he was placed in a central pit in the village, where their god Vespa would decide his future... Ayden watched as he was in the pit, hoping that the man would look up and see some of his encouragement, his concern for the man... I saw a great parallel of this town and daily life before religions had been formed and, then, as to the early life of Jesus here on earth...

For there were also men of high rank and power... And they lived by the old rules and spoke of danger, their gods' wrath and people were afraid, often not knowing from day to day what would be happening. Soon, Ayden awoke, with a deep sharp smell that he could not place. Where was he? And as he listened and felt around, he realized he was in the dark, and discovered he was locked there. Getting just a small portion of food that was almost spoiled. What had occurred? All that he knew was that others were in the same location and that at certain times, he could hear screaming, or cries of pain nearby. And at night, he listened and could hear a man weeping in the next cage and Ayden called out to him, figuring that they wouldn't have nearby guards to hear... And soon, Ayden knew and would call to him: "Samaye . . . is that you, Samaye?" "It is pronounced Soo-ma-ya in Tphetria, Samaye responded...: And, so, two men were no longer alone and grew stronger in knowing that they had a friend, even a brother as they talked and learned of the other. 

"Hear . . . what, brother?" "My heart, Samaye . . . it aches with pain, not for my or your fate, but for the forgotten and pained dal my defa brought. I rejected it, and I am sure it hurts where it sits now. I see it wrapped in cloth, sitting alone, and my father stares at it, woe and sadness filling him for its unfulfilled purpose." Samaye smiled. "You are a very cruel man, Aydan, to have hurt such a sensitive dal." "Yes!" Aydan yelled. "Yes, that is correct. That is exactly what I am trying to say to you. Both you and I are bathed in horror, yet my mind focuses on his back and his hurt face and most importantly, his sensitive dal . . . what a strange, twisted state of being I am in, Samaye." "We often do not control what our hearts tell us, Akin . . . though we sense when we are being deceived . . . as you are right now. Yes?" "Most certainly," Aydan replied. "I am being deceived right now, my brother. And my birth giver is the deceiver. What roots he has implanted in my mind, to be able to cause me to suffer grief for him whilst I await the adoration of a cruel blade." He was silent then, unaware of whether his eyes were open or closed, nothing but darkness and Samaye's voice representing all there was in the universe. He became serious, suddenly, and closed his eyes, pensively thinking. He imagined Bethelhurst's face and the ghostly mask of the Fayem. He imagined the interior of the cave and reached up to feel his still sore head wound. As he touched it, he grimaced, and then began to cry silently. He did not open his eyes, however, and still imagined his father's face. The failure of his communication was beyond him; he began to accept that it would have failed no matter what he had said or done, and that all the intricate planning he had analyzed earlier that day was the result of his naive perspective of those he held close to him. "Akin?" Samaye called out. Aydan was silent for a moment, and then responded. "Yes, Samaye." "I am your brother, and I trust you," Samaye replied. Aydan began to cry further, as if Samaye's words pierced all that he had perceived his real Kunda to represent to him. He felt tragic as woe consumed him amidst feeling overwhelmed with pure grief at the unspeakable betrayal that Bethelhurst had committed. "You know, Samaye . . ." Aydan spoke in between calm but teary breaths, "it is not his refusal to acquiesce to my plan that hurts me. It is an old pain that has awoken in me, spurred by the graveness of this situation and how unflinchingly unheard I am by his heart." He continued. "Even in this place, whether it be naive or simplistic, there can be nothing wrong with the pleasure my heart seeks in sharing the taste of salts with you. That this is of priority to me, that you share in the uplifting feeling such a sensation may bestow upon you, from a hole in the middle of the earth . . ." He began to cry deeply. "That this that comes from my heart is made to be questioned or despised, criticized in any manner, is blasphemy. It is . . . a terrifying event . . . unholy. And this bastard father of mine, he oozes nothing but malice towards what my heart seeks to attain." Samaye placed his hands against his door and leaned his head against it, listening to Aydan. "There can be nothing wrong with pure intent, akin," he said. Aydan heard him, thought, then nodded. "There can be nothing wrong with pure intent." Aydan began to repeat it over and over. "There can be nothing wrong with pure intent. "There can be nothing wrong with pure intent." He began to speak louder, his tears stopping, his fists beginning to clench. "There can be nothing wrong with pure intent!" He hit his door with the side of his fist and paused. He took a deep breath in and began to scream. "There can be nothing wrong with my intent!!!" He banged the door hard and took a position at the rear of his hole, pressing his back against the wall opposite. He placed his feet square against the wooden barrier and took a deep breath in. "Do you hear me, Samaye?" He bent his knees back and struck down hard against it, causing the door to shake and echo through the cave. "Kick your door, Samaye! Kick it!" Samaye felt around his door and did not fully understand what Aydan meant until he heard another loud thud as Aydan's feet landed upon it again. He sat in the middle of his hole and kicked his door. It pushed him backwards, towards the wall behind him, which he then pressed his back against. He twisted his body as he felt his wound touch the rock, using his hands for leverage. "Kick it, Samaye!" Aydan slammed his feet against it, over and over, the soles of his feet becoming sore and pained. Samaye began to kick as well, taking longer with each kick but pressing as hard as he could. "You bastard liar," Aydan whispered. He imagined his father's face and thought about his claim to Aydan as a son. "Bastard!" he screamed as he kicked his door as hard as he could, hearing the wooden fibers tear from the inside. He could not feel his feet though he knew the abuses they were now suffering would cause him anguish for some time to come. "Kick your door, Samaye! We are free if you will it with me!" He began to kick his door quicker now, and still harder, gathering a motion in between breaths. Samaye maintained his speed and also began to hear his door buckle as he slammed his feet against it. "Kick!!!" Aydan's door began to stretch, and with every kick more and more fibers tore. He could feel it giving way to his pressure, enticing him to kick even harder. "Break, you son of a whore! Break!" Outside the cave, Maki slept, curled up on both his feet, like a bird. He rested his head on his hands, which rested on his shoulder as he stood, perched, his knees bent fully, perfectly balanced in a deep sleep. The loud thuds from within the cave were only murmurs outside; yet the alien sounds began to prick at his sleeping mind, and it started taking notice of them. Aydan touched the bottom of his feet and felt open wounds, torn from the door. He then heard a loud crack as Samaye's door gave in, breaking in half. Samaye screamed in agony, immediately. "What, Samaye? Have you broken through?" "Akin . . . my leg is caught on the rupture in the door. I cannot move, but it is open. It is open, brother. We are free . . ." Aydan naturally began to secrete tears as the urgency behind his kicks increased double fold. "I am coming, Samaye. I am coming!" He kicked and kicked, becoming angry and desperate as it seemed fiber after fiber tore but still did not collapse the door. Soon, however, a piece broke off, and he kicked around it, making the hole bigger and bigger, soon causing almost half the door to lay in tatters outside his cell. He immediately patted the floor cautiously and began to walk on all fours, navigating outside of his cell carefully. "Speak, brother! Speak so that I can find you!" "I am here, akin . . . come . . . here . . . my leg is caught in the door . . ." Aydan crawled quickly to Samaye's cell and touched his leg, for the first time feeling his warm flesh. It brought tears to his eyes, and he held onto his foot for an instant, then kissed it. "I am here, brother." Samaye began to weep as well, feeling the lucid warmth of Aydan's face against his skin. Aydan felt around Samaye's leg, examining the positioning of the door. He created a visual imprint of the positioning of the sharp fibers and tore away, piece by piece, anything surrounding Samaye's leg. "I am going to lift your leg now, and it will hurt." Samaye held his breath as Aydan took hold of his ankle and pulled it upwards, withdrawing sharp slivers from Samaye's leg. Samaye clenched his voice and grunted, trying to keep hold of the searing pain. Aydan slowly moved his leg to the side and placed it down. He moved into Samaye's cell and found his hand, taking hold of it, pausing for an instant. He caught his breath as he grasped tightly at Samaye. "Are you ready, brother?" he asked after a few moments. Samaye clenched his friend's fist in acknowledgment. Aydan wrapped his arm around the back of Samaye and began to prop him up, out of the cell, making Samaye lean on him. Just as they stood, they paused, suddenly. Aydan whispered into Samaye's ear. "Quiet, brother. Something has moved." They stood completely silent in the darkness and began to hear a slight shuffling in the cave with them. Aydan looked about, squinting, trying to catch a glimpse of something but could see nothing. Samaye was becoming faint for his exhaustion and loss of blood but held onto Aydan for support. Aydan leaned Samaye against the wall noiselessly and squeezed his hand, letting go. He spread his arms out in the darkness, stepping very quietly, trying to catch whatever it was that moved. Suddenly, something jumped out and grabbed him, biting his arm. Aydan began to slam his fist down on it over and over, trying to get it to release him. It pulled him to the ground and climbed on him, hitting his head. "Naga! Naga! Naga, naga!" the creature yelled. Aydan immediately recognized the voice of Maki and became furious. He reached back and punched Maki's face both fast and hard, causing him to fly back and hit his head against the rock in the center of the cave. Aydan scrambled on all fours, and like an animal ran to Maki and began hitting him. He took his head and slammed it against the rock repeatedly. "Die!!!" he screamed. He soon stopped, feeling the motionless body of Maki, dropping his head against the ground. Aydan sat there, his hands drenched in blood, and began to cry. "Akin . . . akin . . ." Aydan heard Samaye's voice, and as if awoken by it, wiped his face with his arm and stood up slowly, walking cautiously in the darkness towards his friend. He wrapped his hand around his back and kissed the side of his face, then suddenly hugged him. Samaye hugged him back, and they both limped out of the cave, following the feel of the wall.

~~~

And soon they were growing stronger, even though their bodies remained weak from hunger, for they had...togetherness... And Adken soon began to wonder whether they could escape. And they began to plot the possibility. And succeeded! But Samaye was hurt during their escape and even though they were able to get away, Samaye grew weaker and weaker and finally died. And Adken could not accept his death and stayed there with him until he had to finally bury his brother... And so Adken was to travel on alone. But Samaye had called his brother Akin as they had talked and Adken had accepted Akin as his new name...

Samaye's face was the last to fade, and Aydan paused, kissing his cheek, before covering him up entirely. As he placed sand over Samaye's eyes, he felt a hollowness within himself. It was as if up to that point, he had still believed that Samaye might have opened his eyes at any moment. But once his face was covered and no movement, no excitement or disruption ensued, though Aydan both expected and waited for it, he sat in silence, subtly disappointed. He remained beside the grave and closed his eyes. He took a sip of water and froze sternly in place. "I reject all that was and is. I am returning you to the earth, my friend. "I will carry you with me. "I reject all that was and is. I am re-born." He placed his hand on the sand, over Samaye's buried face. He began to cry. "I will carry you with me, brother." He sat for a few moments longer, then arose and looked at the horizon. He tore fragments of Samaye's tunic off, wrapping them around his feet. He wrapped the rest of Samaye's blood stained cloth over his head, covering his neck, and began a trek away from the rising sun. He took one final look at the lump in the sand and proceeded to move forward, a dismal mood coating his face. He carried the bladder strapped over his shoulder and walked in steady steps. He was used to treading the desert and naturally knew how to maximize his distance with the energy he had. He traveled away from the sun, hoping that he would stumble upon some alien township or village, one that had no knowledge of him or the Aizik. He would present himself as a traveler and hoped it would be well met. His hunger pains came and went, and he tried not to think about food. He was in a precarious mood, concentrating on his diminishing water supply and each step he took. He knew his energies would eventually end, and so every step was a direct investment to his survival, survival being the last thing his friend had silently urged him to pursue. Desert crossings were practiced exercises. One had to keep themselves occupied in thought, unfocused at the heat or pain, continuing to persist in order to succeed. Aydan found thoughts easily, as there was much to think about. He pondered Samaye's body and felt resolved knowing it was truly loved as it was left. It seemed placed, Samaye's death, for he was not one for this world. His simplicity of thought was superior to those around him, yet his perpetual confusion would have cursed him till the day he died. But even as he thought this, he pondered the life they could have led, exiting the desert together, living as brothers, finding loved ones and forever supporting one another in their endeavors. It was the laughter that hurt the deepest . . . all the laughter they would no longer share, and it made his heart sink. "Now is the perfect time to grieve," he thought. "All the grief in the world will fuel my steps and make the passing sands blink." "But grief . . ." he thought as he felt it surge through him like knives. "It cannot be simply quantified, though I wish it could." He paused for a moment, wondering if Samaye had just been sleeping, considering turning back. He turned around to assess the situation and saw nothing but a sea of yellow. He resumed walking. "Soo-ma-ya," he whispered. "How I would repeat it a thousand times if you would awaken, my friend."

~~~ 

As we learn more about Akin, we learn that he was a special man, hearing voices, questioning all that he was facing, knowing that he must continue on, not knowing where, but knowing he had to keep moving forward... With no water no food, they had moved further away from where they had been captured and held... Only one thing kept them, and then, just Akin, moving... There was no choice. Sitting down and sleeping was just...not...an...option...

Readers, this is an epic story, one that demands you spend time with it from the very beginning. The writing is extraordinary, moving from poetic fluency into cries of hate and fury as the characters come in and out of this lengthy heroic effort to find life at its very core of both sorrow and majesty! How can this occur, you ask? I don't know; I really don't. Yet the words haunt me. Knowing that somewhere in a desert of sand there is one body of a man who died searching for freedom, buried by an adopted brother who cried together to the very end...  While finding in another area that another man reaches out, opens his home and shelter to a stranger whose own life will be changed by that new openness and awareness of agape love for one another. To me, this story represents all that we who open our minds and hearts to love one another can become... We will learn to turn away from anger and hate and allow the words of caring, concern, empathy, sympathy, to control where our own future lies... and... become...brothers and sisters...May it come soon...

If you have been seeking guidance about turning away from the hate, the violence and fear of retribution that seems to permeate many of our people, you may find the strength you need to start questioning in this book... But, do read it with an open heart and mind, for that is the place where Adken started while he later became Akin... Thank you Robin Murarka for seeking me out and telling me about this book! It is one that will be remembered for many, many reasons! Added as a personal favorite for me! Do check it out!

The Sumati people celebrated the festival with far more zest than his village did. Even when he was a street dweller, the day of Jamali would bring everyone together as the rich commonly joked with the poor, and all interacted more or less as equals, even if only facetiously. Akin and Jarvis smiled at each other but talked very little as they left the house, traveling down the winding path to the maza. Already in the distance they could see and hear screaming and music as people hammered on drums and sang, throwing water upon each other. The main festivities always surrounded the temple, and every edge of it was filled with celebration. Large groups of people stood, holding each other, singing anthems in unison. Abruptly, it would be interrupted by someone throwing a huge vat of water on the singers who then sought playful revenge. The river was constantly used, from morning till nightfall, on the day of Jamali. After stored water was exhausted, people would travel to the river with their buckets and vats, in arms, refueling for more jovial mischief. When they arrived, the festival was in full swing. People, both men and women, were running about, drenched, laughing and screaming. The dashas were filled with patrons as prices were cheap to accommodate the festivities, and in the jovial spirit of the city, many traders gave away free beer and food. Children scurried about everywhere, laughing and playing. It was different here than anywhere else Akin had been. The lines between classes were shattered, and both men and women interacted with each other in what seemed a childlike furor of glee. The day was sacred to the citizens of Sumat, not so much anymore for the religious meaning, Akin thought, but because it provided them relief from the stringent restrictions of everyday life. Even he was filled with emotional joy as he watched people genuinely laugh and smile, though he felt uncomfortable at the sudden arbitrary change that he feared would eventually regress. The main feature of the festival was to begin soon, and people had already gathered all around the maza to watch the Manu priests. Akin and Jarvis joined in the fray and stood arm in arm with random strangers, joining in the singing, letting the contagious euphoria carry them along. As the people sang in imperfect unison, Akin was again surprised at how loud it was. Every time Jamali came to Sumat, Akin felt it was louder than anything he had ever witnessed before. Their voices resonated so thunderously, in fact, it felt as though the temple itself would collapse. People still ran about, playing with each other, and it was as if the singing gave them the peace of mind that the day would never end, that they could run about, drink and eat, with no worries of tomorrow. Still, it was evident that some people had segregated themselves from others, isolating their brethren in certain areas and not participating in the same gallantry. It was not entirely strange, as there were always those who chose to profit from or take advantage of others during the festival, but this time it was an uncomfortable stalemate directed at members of the other Kunda. Both Sumai and Mashaya middlemen remained controlled and collected in their respective camps, prepared to retaliate in the case of any breach. The rest of the people appeared unfazed, however, regardless of their loyalties, as it was highly taboo to initiate violence on the day of Jamali, and far more preferable to the average man to just ignore their concerns in favor of celebration. Even the leaders of each Kunda participated, albeit in a more subdued manner, while their immediate underlings stood watch. The Manu priests soon emerged in their blue robes, wrapped from head to toe, showing only their eyes, causing the entire maza to quickly silence. They were beautiful draperies: one long, dark-blue cloth that was wrapped over and over, covering their bodies entirely. They walked slowly and deliberately down the steps as the temple servants carried huge containers of bread and vegetables. Other servants proceeded with torches and burning herbs, leaving tantalizing aromas in their wake. The priests' robes were cleaned twice a day while they bathed and replaced in their entirety a few times a year. As a result, they always maintained the same color and thick appearance which matched every other priest. The Manu never left the temple except for religious processions, and it was as enticing for the people of Sumat to see these mysterious beings as it was to receive the bountiful offerings that the servants threw into the crowds. All that was visible of the priests were their eyes as they quietly stepped in perfect unison with each other. As they reached the end of the temple steps and touched the maza, some people began to scream and cry, many dropping to their knees in worship, kissing the ground beneath them. The temple itself had always stood in the center of the city, the central focus of it, and the priests were its masters. They were representatives of something powerful and mysterious to the common Sumati which made their presence something like a surreal, waking dream. That they only made one round of the temple corners made the madness even worse as people tried to absorb as much as they could in the brief moments they had. Akin and Jarvis mostly remained unaffected by the presence of the Manu. Although Jarvis watched with the same casual nature he always had, Akin had more disdain in his perspective as he watched people wail in despair when they neared the priests. He watched women and men cry, holding their hands together, begging for forgiveness and blessings. They kissed the ground upon where the priests had walked and smothered their faces in it, even to the point of bleeding. As the priests walked, many people attempted to follow them, pushing through the observing crowd to circulate at the same speed. The mania was intense as people nudged against one another, trying to get to the front and move in time with the procession. It was expected, and adults were able to mostly cope with it. Children, however, were often trampled upon, and Akin could hear screaming and crying from distant parts of the crowd as the more stimulated patrons maniacally shoved through like a force of nature. As the priests re-emerged in front of the steps, they faced away from the temple and stood in place. From the top of the stairs and within the temple emerged servants dragging along four men who had been severely beaten. Their feet dragged against the steps painting streaks of red along them as they bled out, and upon reaching the bottom of the stairs were thrown to the ground, in a pile, in front of the priests and the crowd. Suddenly, a thunderous voice emerged from atop the steps as did a number of other voices all around the maza. As Akin looked up, he saw an Iman Ir screaming at the crowd, his body flared. "People of Sumat!" he screamed. Akin could vaguely hear the other voices repeating similar phrases in different places. "You asked for justice, and justice is given! My Oam has bestowed a gift upon you, the culprits of murder!"

Lord, Will We Ever Turn Hate Into Love for our Neighbors???

GABixlerReviews

Freaknik Lawyer: A Memoir On the Craft of Resistance by Harold Michael Harvey

I am a beacon of light in this world--Silent Unity

"He had in his soul all that went to make a fanatic,
a knight errant. Ready to sacrifice himself, fearing
nobody and nothing, strong in body, study in
commitment, full of unending belief."
--W. E. B. Du Bois

Harold Michael Harvey is an American novelist and essayist. Harvey, author of Paper Puzzle and Justice in the Round, is an award- winning journalist and political pundit.He has a B.S. and a JD degree. He is a Contributor at The Hill, SCLC National Magazine, Southern Changes Magazine, Medium, and Black College Nines. Contact him at hmharvey@haroldmichaelharvey.com.

Any book that has the title Freaknik Lawyer deserves some immediate attention for potential readers. For me, the title represents recognition and honor given to the author for handling nearly 200 individual pro bono cases for students who were unexpectedly caught up in what was considered spring break for Black students in surrounding areas of Atlanta.Working your head off free...Now that's what I mean by getting your freak on! Respect and thanks goes to Harvey when he stands by his promise, even when nobody else followed through as planned! You are one cool Dude!

Reading the third book by Michael Harvey, for me, was an honor and privilege. It was the sub-title, A Memoir on the Craft of Resistance, that literally shocked me... We are about the same age, but what I learned about Harvey's early life, in no way related to mine, I was poor white and my mother worked "all the time" to keep four children fed and clothed. But my life was fairly normal for us...

There was no way for me to know up north that a young Black boy was, at the same time,  experiencing so much pain--just to get an education. My opinion and respect for Michael Harvey increased about 100% through reading this latest book, Freaknik Lawyer. Mr. Harvey is known to me only through his books and his online presence. But, after all he has gone through, he still has the character and respect to write in my copy, "I hope you find this memoir worthy of some of your reading time."

When I consider the divide in America right now, it is knowing the author and his books, which helps me have hope that this administration will never be able to incite those of different races that can share lives together, learn from them, and realize while we are different, we are so very much alike in our basic moral character.

Michael Harvey attended segregated schools in his early life.

In this age of social media intimidation and bullying, name-calling is at a new level. At the beginning of the 2020 Presidential Election cycle, I wrote a piece pushing back on people who debated whether Senator Kamala Haris was Black enough to be a Black candidate for President...Damn, a life dedicated to serving others at great sacrifice to myself and my family, and after three scores and nearly ten, I come down to "Acting White...bastardized by Black Right-Wing shills, for White Likes." This description from a young Black woman who was not born when I committed my first act of resistance against tyranny and injustice...(this) caused me to reflect on a life dedicated toward the abuse of American democracy in the affairs of my community. And Freaknik Lawyer was born...

Readers will read and learn about Plessy and Brown, perhaps like you've never read about it. The life that was affected by both is one that must be told from one who first broke through into a segregated school, but also was faced with and learned how to begin to deal with the Craft of Resistance.

Imagine, if you will, that the law has been changed and children were allowed to pick what school they could attend. Harvey was one of the few who chose a better white school, in order to ensure he would learn all that he can... And was bullied and tortured by white students every day...

Education was important to the family and choices were made upon that desire to do what was needed to obtain as much as needed to handle what your goals in life were. It was in the late 1800s when Paul Calvin Coley graduated by Meharry Medical College. Part of the graduation ceremony included: "If the prejudice of the whites against the negro was not dead, it was dying. You should meet prejudice in a Christian spirit. The future depends not upon the color of your skin, but upon the force of your brain, your capacity to toil and the comprehension you have of your profession... And one of the surprising factors that stunned the community was that the top scorer was a "colored man" named Paul Coley...yet prejudice and discrimination also affected this brilliant young man.

For Harvey, in 1964, an event impacted his life was when the students were first given the choice to decide whether to go to an integrated school. The white power structure had a hard time dealing with this change, even to the extent of trying to imply in the news,  what Negroes should do: "Self-respecting Negroes Don't Want Integration"... Michael found that he was then caught in the middle...shunned by the white students...and ridiculed by the Black students. Making it through high school in a integrated school was enough, he moved on to college in Black schools... Michael's one reason for trying different schools was his desire to be a professional ball player...no, he never made it...

The struggles of Harold Michael Harvey may have run parallel with other Black individuals who chose to resist...For me, a white reader, I have to say it was a stunning, perplexing time that I knew little about. Only one Black girl was in my junior and senior high and we became friends...Many whites have never known what was done to humiliate and denigrate those who were seeking education in the south.

Even as the book ends, Michael still wonders why he chose to act as he did and where did he find the courage to have met each trial as it was presented.

What we can never forget is the fact, we first came in chains."

--Muhammad Ali

The book closes with a "Prayer for Relief." I think about the realization that it is only in the last three years that I have seen such incitement of division, prejudice and disrespect for one another. And that, in fact, the Black race is still fighting something that has existed since they were freed from being slaves. I add my prayer statement to that ending of the book by Michael...Therefore, "Be strong and courageous; do not be frightened or dismayed, for the Lord is with you wherever you go"...Joshua 1:9. 

May it be in our lifetime that there is no more division based upon the color of our skin...

A Must-Read recommendation from me...


GABixlerReviews

Freaknik Lawyer Is Up for Prestigious 
Lawrence W. Levine Award

Book Launch at Historic Douglass Theatre in Macon

Freaknik Lawyer is only available online

Harold Michael Harvey Presents Justice in the Round:Essays on American Jury System - Hits Directly into Today's News!

Note: This was added on 1/14/2025 The earlier videos were no longer allowed

I then realized that I was now watching MSNBC so knew that this commentator would surely have covered this death... I was right and grateful that I switched to this station!

I'm using even though you may have to watch on YouTube

When I first saw the tape on television when Eric Garner was attacked and later died, I can only describe myself as being shocked. There was, in my opinion, no other way to interpret this scene as being anything but brutal and unnecessary. Sadly, I was not surprised. But, still, I just cannot understand how this can happen. 

Note that the first video is randomly picked based upon my search on "I Can't Breathe..." Tell me, when someone says "I Can't Breathe" while another man has a choke hold on the individual, can there be any reason to continue that hold? Not with many other individuals holding that individual down, right?!

Then I learned of the latest book by Harold Michael Harvey. Its title Justice in the Round--I knew I had to read it! Let's face it, the resulting outcome of such actions as shown above ultimately reach the courtroom. Too often, we are amazed at what the outcome is, especially when there is a mix of White cops and Black victims. In my opinion, a death resulting from an attempt to arrest an individual, supposedly for selling cigarettes is, simply, unbelievable and unable to be accepted by any rational, caring individual.

This nonfiction book is certainly worthy of your highest consideration. First, let's look at the author's credentials...

Harold Michael Harvey is an American award winning journalist, former lawyer, political pundit, novelist, essayist and publisher. He earned a degree in Political Science from Tuskegee Institute and a Juris Doctorate degree from Atlanta Law School. Harvey was honored for “Outstanding Work in Newspaper Journalism,” in 1976 by the National Newspaper Publishers Association. The Gate City Bar Association bestowed upon him their prestigious R. E. Thomas Civil Rights Award in 1996 after Harvey represented over 180 college students arrested in the City of Atlanta during a black college spring break ritual known as “Freaknic.”
Harvey is the author of the critically acclaimed legal thriller, Paper Puzzle. It was originally published in 2009 and republished in 2011 after Harvey formed the Cascade Publishing House to publish his works and the works of other authors who feel more comfortable in a small publishing house.
Allvoices.Com assigned Harvey to cover the 2012 Democratic National Convention which was held in Charlotte, North Carolina. Also, they honored him with two semi-monthly American Pundit Awards, once in February 2012 and again in April 2013.

As can be seen, his extensive training, experience and awards shows his outstanding contributions to the legal system.  Second, the book contains sufficient historical background information, research, and timely up-to-date references, to show that the author is totally experienced  in topical knowledge from the past as well as today's world. In other words, in my opinion, he is an expert readily able to speak and write on the American Jury System.

The book includes individual, completely free-standing essays on topics ranging from specific cases, such as the Zimmerman case in which he was found not guilty, to the jury itself, how it was designed and then a discussion about each jury member's activity. These excellent articles are then folded almost seamlessly into the book, as if they were initially created as chapters, each serving to move the book forward to completion. Together, the book represents a major contribution to today's published works. While the essays could be considered opinion pieces, there is sufficient actual facts and historical research provided, which makes it a valuable source from which future actions and, hopefully, additional writers can move forward to bring about societal and legal changes.  

What I realized more than ever before from reading this book is the extent to which the jurors play in making that final decision to convict or not convict. Let's face it most of us gain our experience of what takes place in the courtroom based upon television law and order-type programs. In reality, we see the events between the police officers and victims or criminals if tapes are available on television news. Then we hear the verdict or see the backlash from the jury verdict, again on television.

What Harold Michael Harvey has provided is an in-depth look at what happens between the event and the final verdict of the jury. It was not a surprise to me that Harvey speaks from the standpoint as a representative of the Black race. Who better to see events we know that are happening, and use his own set of experience and expertise to write essays on the actions of the jury system?!? Many of you have been reading the excerpts during my spotlight this week. 

For purposes of my review, I'm using the parts of the book which had the most impact on me as the reader of Justice in the Round. 

Now the main meeting for Tuskegee students is the
National Bio-Ethics Center, formerly the site of the
John A. Andrews Hospital, where the famed
Tuskegee syphilis Study was conducted, when poor
black farmers and military veterans were inoculated
with the syphilis germ and not provided with a
vaccine to cure it. These men unknowingly passed
this disease onto their wives and girlfriends. They
were used has human guinea pigs.
~~~

Looking Back to Look Forward

...August 20, 1970, in old Collins P. Huntington Hall, which, until early one August morning in 1991, when a fire burned the interior of the building, gutting it and leaving the brick facade, housed the School of Arts and Sciences. The building had for 86 years, serviced thousands of eager minds, who for the most part, were descended from men and women who had been shackled, forced into ships, stripped of native garb, language, God, and human dignity only to toil, unpaid, in the murky still waters of American democracy...

Ellison, in his factious depiction in "Invisible Man" of a historical, black, elite southern university, which many scholars believes is based upon his experiences as a student at Tuskegee Institute, portrays it thusly:

"You must see this slave, this black Aristotle, moving slowly, with sweet patience, with patience not of mere man, but of God-inspired faith--see him moving slowly as he surmounts each and every opposition. Rendering, until Caesar that which was Caesar's yes; but steadfastly seeking for you that bright horizon which you now enjoy."

Taken out of context, there may be a problem in understanding why these were important for me. Let me try to explain that, being a White person, watching a white researcher give syphilis to black students and surrounding neighbors at Tuskegee is truly outrageous! What White doctor would have the nerve to even consider trying to do such research at any White institution across the country?!  Why is it okay to withhold truth to some and not others?

I've read other books about the good works at Tuskegee. But Harvey takes us into some of the dark side and reveals how the White man has acted or reacted in relation to the well known Tuskegee Institution.  It seemed that every step forward actually soon showed that the forward movement really didn't happen--at least in the minds of the majority of those of the White race.

"It seemed that this (racism) would never change. It was that way for my daddy. It was that way for me. And it looked as though it would be that way for my children. I was so mad I just stood there trembling and tears rolled down my cheeks."

Oh, Lord, I thought, how can the members of the White race ever explain to God how we have chosen over and over to act as we have to members of the Black Race? 

You see, the major thing about the American Jury System is that jury members, and I'm talking specifically to the White Race now, are those who make the decisions that result in the world shouting out, "What?" when injustice has occurred to members of the Black race.

But Harvay, as he writes, speaks out to both races. For instance, again, in

talking about Tuskegee he notes:

Ironically, Brimmer in his four-decade tenure on the Tuskegee Board and with his nationally recognized business acumen did not attempt to create an advanced degree in business. This gets to the nexus of what plagues African American communities in this country. There is never any attempt to capitalize upon the goodwill and legacy already achieved by institutions of black cultural development in America. We continue to re-create the wheel without moving forward.
I dare say, you could not find any Black Studies program on any Historically Black College or University campus in 1971. Yet black scholars made a demand upon historically white colleges and universities to do what their black counterparts at Historically Black Colleges and Universities were either afraid to do or found counter productive to the advancement of black culture.

Since I have said similar things about the former higher education institution where I worked for nearly 40 years, I was quickly able to realize that this author was willing to look and find problems and define them, hopefully for some response of action. Imagine if more people were willing to look at our own lives and be willing to speak out, even in a small way, to ensure that we are all working for the advancement of all Mankind?!?

Harvey has taken on one of the top problems in the United States. Reading Justice in the Round has made me more aware, more conscious of my own role in changing the interrelationship we have with individuals from other races and, in particular African-Americans. 

Yesterday, I had to go for a mammogram and, and in a busy waiting room at the hospital, I purposely maneuvered myself to sit next to a Black family and promptly started talking, meeting Liam, a beautiful little boy who was initially shy but came to share his beautiful smile. Why? Because I believe it is time for White people--all of us--to reach out and touch our Black brothers and sisters whenever we can. It's time to ask, "What would Jesus do?" about how the White Race at large continues to shun Blacks in daily non-verbal ways and, worse, use excess violence and even murder members of the Black Race when it appears to many that there was no reason for such force.

And here's the killer statement that pricked my heart... "Blacks have always been willing to discuss racial issues from their perspective of history."

He adds:

While whites (feeling uncomfortable with the subject or simply feeling there is no need for such a discussion), have not been willing to engage in honest dialogue. Whereas black people have equality to gain whites fear losing the privilege of white skin.

I don't profess to have been similarly discriminated against as have Blacks,  I do know that it was white men in power who were unwilling to talk with me about options regarding my final years of employment where I have given nearly 40 years of my life. I was no longer willing (or physically able due to job burnout) to do what I was told without question. Metaphorically, like Eric Garner, I was unable to breathe...and my doctor told me I had to choose between my job and my life... The difference, of course, is that I chose life and walked out... Eric Garner didn't had a chance to go on...breathing...

The time is upon us to set at the table of brother-hood and learn how to live together as "one nation under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all."  If we do not dare try honest dialogue, all else is cheap window dressing and will doom any initiatives to bring the country with all of its ethnic and cultural groups together in the spirit of good old American democracy.

Red and Yellow, Black and White, we are all precious members of the world. The author says that we are all racially biased and must work to overcome such feelings. I agreed before I read this book. I am totally in agreement with what has been created and published in the book Justice in the Round. It has gone on for much, much too long. We must all listen and learn from those who are willing to speak, be specific, and tell what has been wrong in our actions...

Earlier this week, I posed the question whether you would have voted as the jury did in "To Kill the Mockingbird." Today, I add the true finale of the court scene...It was the entire Black courtroom audience standing to honor the work of the white lawyer, even though he had lost the trial... We all know when truth and justice has happened... Truth was said in this movie, but justice did not occur...

Truth is being said, and seen in videos of today's race relations on the streets of America... Why isn't justice following when it is so clear to our minds and hearts? Read Justice in the Round. I consider this not only A Must Read but one of the most important nonfiction books you may ever read! 


GABixlerReviews

Sandy Wolters' Justice for Emily Fantastic Paranormal Romantic Thriller!

http://donnagore.com/

Patrick watched as the townsfolk moved forward, said their goodbyes and left. When everyone was gone, he moved forward. He looked at the deep, cold hole in the ground with what was left of Emily. “I don’t know how I’m going to do it, but I promise you, Emily, that I will not let him get away with this. Thank you for everything you did for me and the people around you.” He tossed a rose into the hole and walked away...~“Rachael, please help me.” Rachael went rigid and continued to stare at the vision. This ghost knew her name. It was quite unnerving when a ghost called you by name. The ghost gradually began to disappear. She was nearly gone when Rachel shouted, “Wait! Who are you? What do you need help with?” Just before the ghost disappeared, Rachael heard in her head, “I’m Emily.”
~~~

Justice for Emily

By Sandy Wolters

I loved this first novel that I've read by Sandy Wolters...Romance, ghosts, psychic revelations, for me, adds up to a book I would pick up to consider. When the writer has created characters with whom I immediately get involved, especially a sassy heroine, all the better! So then when the mother of a potential love interest comes to bless the union and suggest they get "acquainted..." Even moving her suitcases into the master suite! I am thoroughly hooked! Big Time!

Even if the man's mother has been dead for quite some time...

But his mother had always known that Patrick's wife would have special abilities and they both realized that his mother had probably led Rachel to this little town...and to her son...

"Emily grew up here in Brownwood, Texas, and always extended a helping hand to those around her. Although she was only thirty-three years old at the time of her death, over the years she had sculpted herself into the matriarch of the inhabitants of this small town. 
"She genuinely loved the town and the people in it. Outside of her children, it seemed her only interests were helping those around her. Joe Clapton and his wife, Cheryl, were here with their children. Several years ago, Joe lost his job, and they were finding it difficult to keep food on the table. When Emily heard of their circumstances, she started a food sharing program by visiting the local restaurants and convincing them to donate all cooked food that was earmarked to be thrown away so it could be distributed to those families who needed it instead. 
"Walt Sheridan was standing off to the side looking bereft. He had been a friend of Emily’s since grade school. When he was arrested for burglary, Emily went to visit him in jail to find out why he had chosen this path. She found out that he was unable to find work and felt he had no other options. Against her husband’s objections, Emily helped Walt start a successful lawn service. 
"Katie Spencer was also here with her boy, Joshua. Katie had been a sixteen-year-old girl who found herself pregnant. Once again, thought Patrick, enter Emily. Emily had provided Katie with emotional support as well as advice on her options. Emily’s influence resulted in her keeping her baby and finishing high school. There were hundreds of people here for this woman who had made a difference in their lives in small ways and in large ways. 
"Patrick’s attention turned to Boyd Campbell, Emily’s husband and his boss. A rage so deep that Patrick felt it ripple through his entire being gripped at his soul, making him edgy. It was apparent Boyd felt Emily did not deserve a funeral. He probably wouldn’t have had the graveside service except there were so many people in town who loved Emily that he felt he had to do something to keep up appearances. Noticeable to all, Boyd failed to bring the three most important people in Emily’s life to say goodbye: her children. 

~~~

Rachel was a homicide detective in Phoenix. She had resigned but her boss, instead, put her on leave, knowing that her last case had been extremely difficult and wanted her to have a chance to think about what she wanted to do. She had got in her car and just took off. Though she was directionally challenged, and had stopped to look at a map, she had a feeling to go one way rather than the other and had wound up in Brownwood, Texas...

Where it didn't take long for Patrick to find her, immediately...knowing...

But what he was mentally thinking about at the time was that she might be able to help him in the murder investigation. After all, it was his boss, the Chief of Police, who he knew had killed Emily...

http://media.photobucket.com/user/mickey83

Emily was his wife...

And nobody knew what it had been liked behind the closed doors of the Campbell's House...

Even Patrick was surprised though when Rachel started talking about the second ghost in the house! She explained that she was not like his mother had appeared, because Rachel could see through her. Rachel had told him she'd ask for help and Rachel had told her to try to find Paddy's Mom... But then the ghost had told her  name...

Emily!

Rachel knew that she was going to help! She interrogated Patrick as the officer on the scene and discovered that his boss had forced him to forget about protocol, to rewrite his statement and later the gun was gone from the evidence room, even though it showed Patrick had turned it in.

One little twist was that when Rachel and Patrick were ready to present to the DA, he immediately asked if she was "the" Rachel that his friend had talked so much about. Rachel was thrown by the name of her ex-fiancee and, even more, when he came into town to work the case at the DA's request! A love triangle it was not and Patrick, especially, had real problems dealing with it! LOL But, fortunately, they played by the rules for this important case and gathered the evidence even though Emily's husband had her cremated and had worked it so that no autopsy had been done!

But it wasn't enough for a trial and he walked...

NOT! Lots more and a reallllllly cool ending! That just had to happen! Can't guess? No problems! You've got to read this one anyway! Enjoy! Justice at its finest...


GABixlerReviews

Sandy Wolters

Biography

I’ve been an avid reader for years. To my husband’s dismay, I have bookshelves full of books, rooms full of books, boxes full of books. My cars have books in them. I just can’t seem to get rid of them after I read them. You just never know when you will want to read it again, right?

About two years ago, my husband gave me the dream gift, a Kindle. It was love at first sight and my first foray into the world of ebooks. To say the least, I am a technologically challenged person but when a reader, such as I, is told that you can have the book you want to read in seconds, I’m going to do whatever it takes to learn how to use it as quickly as possible.

While I still have books everywhere, I no longer take ten or twelve books with me when I go on vacation. The only thing I need is my Kindle. It never leaves my purse.

My genre of choice is romance with a paranormal twist. My authors of choice are Diana Palmer, Iris Johansen, Catherine Coulter, Jill Gregory and of course, the queen, Nora Roberts. I am also very partial to Michael Connelly, who is not a romance author but damn that man can write!

In my life prior to becoming an author, I was Legal Assistant/Office Manager for a wonderful local estate planning attorney (no criminals that I know of). Prior to that, I also worked my way up the ladder in a large corporation, from payroll clerk to supervising nine employees in operational accounting.

When my children, Shandelle and Pilar, were small, I took a few years off to be a full-time mom and help my husband with his accounting work for his auto repair shop.

After, Michael, my husband, sold his business, he changed professions and started working for a national construction company.

Michael and I raised two beautiful, strong women so that’s who I write about. The women in my books are strong individuals that have moments of weakness and frailty to work through.

For more information see website at www.sandywolters.weebly.com.

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