Paperclip - A Paranormal Thriller Based Upon History - By Dan Woll and Walter Rhein!

Smoke

Mort LeFrance was conceived in the cab of a pickup truck in the parking lot of Folsom prison in the spring of 1946. His dad, Lenny, had been doing five for aggravated assault but secured an early release when he was offered the option of taking an experimental drug in exchange for an early parole. He never asked about the risk, and called the situation nothing more than “tossing back some shots for a bunch of skinny, limp-wrist, government pencil-pushers.” 
Lenny was never much on details, so he neglected to ask the contents of the tincture he imbibed. Upon his release, as he stumbled through the Folsom gates he recalled seeing what years later in Haight-Ashbury would be called chem trails. 
He paid little attention, intent on expelling two years of pent-up frustration on his long-suffering wife, Sissy. Whatever drugs he’d been given came along for the ride and something was passed to his firstborn and only son, Mort. 
Very early in his life, Mort began seeing things that weren’t there. Generally the visions came to him in the form of smoke. He saw a haze invisible to others. The black mirage would twist and dance in the air like ink poured into water. Mort could watch the show for hours, and sometimes his mother would find him with a far-off look that seemed to focus on everything and nothing all at once.
The toughening of Mort began early. The more he was beaten, the angrier he became. He was a hellion with everyone except his mother. To the rest, he was a malevolent force of nature, just like his dad. That worked fine on the playground because he was bigger and tougher than all the other kids. No one ever made fun of his club foot more than once. 
He grew tall and lanky with shoulder-length hair and knuckles perpetually scuffed from work or fights. Mort was in his late teens when he rolled in to watch the 49ers game at the 81-Z where his mother worked. He should have been in school, but he’d been kicked out. He was too young to drink but that had never stopped him before. 
“What’ll ya have?” asked Sissy with a tender smile. 
“Anchor Steam,” Mort replied. Sissy winked and lifted the selection from behind the bar. She’d had it ready. Mort kept one eye on the smeary screen and the other on Sissy as she strolled away to the other customers. There was a drunk sailor down at the end who was watching Sissy with more intensity than Mort cared to allow. The screen above crackled as the announcers began to spout their endless verbal refuse. “They should play these games without narration,” Mort mumbled. “All I want to hear is the sound of helmets crashing and cries of impact. I can’t take the false poetry of these TV punks.” Nobody answered. That meant nothing to Mort; he was used to talking to himself.
He glanced to the end of the bar just in time to see the sailor slap Sissy on the behind. Sissy jumped as if stung and the sailor flashed her a lecherous smile. Mort made sure to look away before Sissy glanced in his direction. He wanted to allow her the dignity of pretending it had never happened, but he clenched his jaw so tight his teeth hurt. He took a flavorless swig of his Anchor Steam and tried hard to keep his hand from trembling. Over the course of years, Mort had lost all tolerance for any sort of physical aggression against his mother. Mort’s old man, Lenny, was never slow to raise his hand against either mother or child. Mort’s early attempts to defend Sissy were successful only in drawing attention onto himself. After those beatings, Lenny would usually take off to this very bar. In those moments, Sissy would hold Mort close and try to quench the fire inside him. Rinse, dry, repeat. Comfort was harder to come by when Mort reached puberty and became too big to cuddle. Sometimes Mort feared his rage was so insatiable that he might take it out on his mother, so he took to leaving the house... 
Riding with the Angels brought a sense of purpose for a while, but it didn’t last. Around the fringes, Mort always had a vision of the smoke. With time, the dancing ink became clearer, more sinister, and impossible to escape. He could see faces, he could see acts. Mort came to understand that Lenny was pure evil. Sissy was not. Mort suffered an unbearable tension caused by enjoying his father’s gift of bullying and hurting on the one hand, and nursing a love for his mother that went so deep that when he thought about it, emotion welled up inside him as if he were going to throw up. He took his inner conflict on long strolls down by the dock and tried to let it out in low, haunting whistles. Most men were bad. The smoke showed him that. Striking first became self-defense when you had premonitions of what was to come. They all had it coming, and would respond tenfold if given the chance.

~~~

I felt it was important that potential readers know up front that this fantasy/ scifi novel was based upon "true events" with "possible" results... Having the book pop up at Reviewers Roundup was a challenge to read that I'm glad I responded to...

This is an extraordinary story. In many ways... For instance, Operation Paperclip was exposed as true in 1915...Scientists had brought over Nazi German scientists after the war, given other names and provided safety as they moved into society. We also know that tests were being made of the effects of LSD on people... This story is based upon those events.

At the same time, paranormal abilities of children, or results of earlier tests on people, were being watched...

I considered the character Mort LeFrance as, perhaps, the most important character. He was the result of a double-whammy. His father was a victim of tests as a prisoner, with subsequent results given to his son... Later, without being aware of what he was doing, He drank a pitcher of lemonade, not knowing it was laced with LSD... Although the researchers feared he would soon be dead, he lived...

Mort LeFrance was given a gift of smoke, which allowed him to decide who was good and evil... Most were evil in his eyes...  They died...

His mother had been the only person he loved and who loved him. She died...Somebody had to pay...

During his search, he discovered a young girl who also had powers...

There was strength in how she stood defiant, but not enough to disguise her inherent vulnerability. The young girl wore a white spring dress with green embroidery over the heart and a blue ribbon in her hair. Twelve years old, she still had the elfin-like build of a small child. Throughout her neighborhood she was known to be polite and kind. An air of joy surrounded her and her presence brightened any gathering. Strangers felt a pull to assist her in moments of distress. Unfortunately, at that moment, the street was empty save for one dark figure and his creature.
Before her stood a snarling beast. The animal was a savage German Shepherd, with feral muscles rippling under greasy hair. Time slowed for the girl as the beast focused its considerable blood lust upon her. The dog’s ears peeled back, its hackles raised. Ridges formed in its face, and teeth flashed beneath curled lips. Worst of all, its eyes shone like lasers; bloodshot red, they bored deep into the girl’s soul and reflected no hint of mercy or compassion. Next to the dog the stranger stood with long hair protruding from beneath a black Stetson hat like strands of a soiled mop. A self-satisfied smirk was plastered across his face and he seemed to draw pleasure from beholding the girl’s terror. He waited, neither commanding the dog to attack nor to heel; savoring the moment, fixated on the girl’s terrified trembles. The cowboy stood over six feet tall, thin with hard muscle. 
Darkness emanated from him. The girl could sense something beyond the lurking rot of a corrupt adult. She often saw things others could not, things that existed on a plain of reality between sleep and consciousness. Through the filter of her special vision, midnight smoke billowed from the sockets of the cowboy’s eyes.

~~~

Mort had found the location of the family involved with his mother's death. They all would pay. He'd moved into the neighborhood to plan and had met the daughter, Carlie. She was afraid of Mort and his dog, but she also was able to see the smoke coming from the cowboy's eyes... Her abilities were not yet developed but she realized who he was and what he could do...

Mort chose the night and did the work to ensure the entire family burned, but with Carlie's awareness, she was able to get out of the first floor bedroom she had, while her family were trapped on the second floor. She knew who had done this, but had no way to prove it. But she knew they would meet again...

Mickey was just 10 years old at the time. He enjoyed showing how he was able to predict coin tosses with an older friend...After he had shown his special skills, Curly advised him to not be so willing to let people know what he could do.... Even then as Curly spoke, Mickey had chills run down his spine as he sensed what his friend was trying to tell him. He stopped trying to share his predictions with his parents or anybody, but he kept a notebook of all that he was able to know in advance...

But nothing explained to him how and who had written in his notebook to be aware of the Cowboy... Mort...

Dan Woll had written this book years earlier and had decided to try to finish it by asking Walter Rhein to consider whether it could be made into a co-authored novel.  Obviously, they were successful and is presented to readers as an edgy, strange, and scary story about how, potentially, scientific tests have resulted in terrible changes to humans... Whether this is a plausible story, we don't know, but, just the awareness of what occurred in the past, related to drug trials with LSD and more, provides an awareness of the reality of what has or could have happened in our lives, especially to those in jails or in military service...

How the story moves forward and ends is fascinating... Can the power of good succeed through the paranormal experience? The book is thought-provoking, imaginative and exciting to consider as we read... It's not exactly an easy book to read, especially about Mort, who is both the victim and the villain. I found his backstory made a memorable statement about physical abuse in the family. On the other hand, the two children who had gifts, some of which neither had yet known about it, until they "happened" was fun to watch. I enjoyed the book and recommend it highly for your consideration...

GABixlerReviews

MYSTERY MEN. Local writers Walter Rhein, left, and Dan Woll collaborated on Paperclip, a thriller inspired by real-life weirdness, including MKUltra.

https://volumeone.org/articles/2019/01/10/27677_good_guessers_local_authors_publish_new_thriller

Warren Adler Presents His Only Cozy Mystery Novel - Flanagan's Dolls!

At that point the front bell tinkled and the Flanagans exchanged puzzled glances. An eight o’clock customer was as unusual as snow in July. Emily patted her hair, but Flanagan was swifter, having slapped away Caesar’s heavy head and padded through the long hall. At that hour, he knew, serious business was afoot. It was not the time for browsers, not in October. 

At first, he saw no one, until he heard the squeak of the main room floor. An older man turned abruptly, offering a startled, slightly annoyed look through thick spectacles. In one hand, the man held a brown slouch felt hat. In the other was a doll with a china head. Flanagan, responding to habit, dated the man as circa 1930s, with a polka-dot bow tie that could not hide a wattled neck, striped shirt, blue serge double-breasted suit with wide lapels, a gold signet ring on his pinky. 

Note: Dolls are NOT
 the One Requested

Frozen in time-period, Flanagan concluded, probably retired for twenty or thirty years. He had well-shaved shiny red jowls which shivered as he spoke. “I’m looking for a certain doll,” the man said, gazing down at the object in his hand. “Not this.” He was holding one with a long-sleeved taffeta dress with buttoned bodice and white laced-trimmed petticoat. She was wearing a hairdo with a wraparound braid. “That’s a shiny finish, porcelain,” 

Flanagan said, mostly to establish his authority on the subject of dolls, which was hardly awesome. “Doesn’t matter. She doesn’t want it. I’m not a collector,” the man said grumpily. “But I know what I’m looking for.” 

“A man with a mission. Good starting point,” Flanagan said. The man leveled magnified steel blue eyes on Flanagan, whose attempt at ingratiation fell flat, prompting the strictly business approach. 

“I’m looking for Bonnie Babe. ‘Bout twenty inches high. Brown hair. Brown eyes that close and a mouth that opens.” 

“Bonnie Babe, is it?” Flanagan asked. He could vaguely recall the item from his insurance days. People often made claims for antique dolls stolen or destroyed by fire. 

“Bonnie Babe,” the man repeated, lips tight. “For a child.” There was a brief flicker of alarm in his eyes, an excess of sudden blinking. Flanagan was on the verge of saying something facetious, but seeing the brief pain, held back. “Bonnie Babe, you said.” He had said it twice. 

“Remember the box. Bought it for my daughter when she was a child. Middle twenties, I’d say. Millie was photographed with it, you see. Now Charlotte wants it and I promised I’d find it.” 

“Have you got the picture?” 

“Back in Flint. If I saw it, I’d know it.” The man shook his head. “I promised it.” His determination was as real as his apparent frustration. Still the man did not smile and gave off unpleasant vibrations, which considerably sparked Flanagan’s disinterest. He was about to shrug the customer away. 

“It’s my granddaughter. She’s at Lakeside General for a heart operation. Leaky valve. Fair chance. Tricky.” His last remark seemed unsure and his eyes could not hide their worry. “She’s being prepped for an operation. I told her I’d try to find it. Not try, exactly. I said I’d find it. You know what a promise means to a little girl?” 

“Let me check my inventory,” Flanagan said, ignoring the answer. The oldest mush in the world, a doll for a little ailing girl. He felt that tug of storekeeper greed. Manna from heaven. The perfect customer. No browser, he. “Be back in a jiff.” Flanagan went back to the kitchen where Emily was rifling through the catalogues.

“Live one?” she asked. 

“To die for.” He chuckled. “Dolls. He wants a Bonnie Babe. Brown eyes that

close. Mouth that opens.” She tapped her teeth and her green eyes grew dreamy, which was her usual thinking mode, followed by running her fingers through her hair. 

“Not Bye-Lo?” 

“Bonnie Babe,” he repeated. “For his sick grandchild. She’s going to be getting a heart operation. Call it a desperate need.” Emily got up from the chair and headed up the winding metal staircase which led to their office, gathering speed as she ascended. He went back to the store, where the man still stood essentially in the exact same place. Nothing else interested him. 

“My wife’s looking it up,” Flanagan said, rubbing 

his chin. “Nothing else will do it?” It was a stupid question, he knew. When there was a want, a specific identifiable need, no substitute would ever do. He had learned that long ago and it had made his reputation as an insurance investigator. A missing object had a life of its own. Dollars could never compensate for its loss. He never understood what made people attach themselves to things, but then it wasn’t necessary to understand why the earth was round, either. He was not surprised when the man did not answer the question. Emily came into the display space with an illustrated book of doll collectibles, laying the open book on the checkerboard surface of a Victorian walnut games table. 

“That’s the one,” the man said, pointing a roughened finger. “Designed by Georgene Averill for the Averill Manufacturing Company in 1920. It was a biggie.” She thumbed through the back of the book and whistled. “Pricey.” “Cost me twenty bucks. Bought it for my oldest daughter. Handed down to my youngest, Millie. That’s Charlotte’s mother. Pretty beat up after five girls. Threw it away finally. It’s in a lot of snaps, though. I want one good as new and I don’t give a damn about the price. People in your business are a bunch of robbers. Selling old junk for such high prices.” 

“Even so, we can still be friends,” Flanagan muttered. 

“Not now, Flanagan,” Emily admonished. “Obviously the man is upset.”

“I’d pay it, though,” the man said, unrepentant. “Pay more. You name it. Especially if I got it fast.”

“We’d have to do a search,” Emily said. “There are sources.” “I need it fast and I’ll pay.” 

“We’ll do the best we can.” Again she tapped her teeth. “Maybe we can find one around town.” 

“We’re really good at poking around,” Flanagan said brightly. It was strictly a placebo.

“Remember. Bring me the real thing and I’ll pay whatever you ask,” the man growled. 

“It’s the fund thing in this business,” Flanagan said, knowing that the tiny barb would barely prick the man’s hard old hide. 

“We’ll try,” Emily said, bowing to pragmatism. They were so heavily invested in inventory they could not sell, being a middleman without risk was balm for her antique dealer’s heart. And Emily was not one to let a lucrative sale go by the boards. 

The man pulled out an engraved card and wrote a telephone number on the back of it with an old ink-filled Waterman and handed it to Emily. “That’s the telephone number of her hospital room. Her mother and me are there most of the time. Faster the better,” the man said. Flanagan looked at the card.

“T. Richard Ingersoll.” The bell was already tinkling before Flanagan could offer his good-byes. He followed Emily back to the kitchen where she poured two more coffees. “Aside from giving the girl a boost, we sure could use the do re mi. The time frame’s a bummer—unless.” 

“—unless we can find some old lady with self-indulgent parents who had the temerity to buy the little apple of their eye a nearly two-foot-tall Bonnie Babe.” He looked at the open book, turned it around. “Even a voice box in the lower back, a lace cap with satin ribbon and crocheted cotton booties.” 

“So who in town might have had one of these back eons ago?” 

All her little thought tics came into play now, the teeth tapping, fingers brushing through her hair, to which she added the soft shoe tap under the table. Her green eyes grew vague and fixed and her cupid’s bow upper lip curled in under itself. He knew better than to intrude, urging his own concentration on the matter of collecting dolls, looking over pictures of Baby Grumpy, Patsy Baby in Hamper, Lil Darlin, Bubbles, Tantrum Baby, Kaiser Baby, Dream Baby, although none could boast the heft, size and sweetness of dear old Bonnie Babe. As he expected, Emily began to verbalize her thought processes. 

What her mind’s computer was turning over, he knew, was the directory of old Lakeside Falls families, descendants of those who came to the great lake region to earn a living from the waters, either as boatman, woodsman, and traders, fruit farmers and, much later, as health nuts. As often happens to the converted, Josh had taken to the lore and history of his town and had made it his business to know everything he could about its origins and mores. 

Emily, too, had surrendered to the same urge. Her dictum was: If you don’t know where you come from, you’ll never truly know where you’re going. Familiar names of streets, storefronts, orchards, joined the listings. The Pratts, the MacPhersons, the Pettigrews, the Foxstones, the Downses, the Larsons, the Honnigers, the Goldmans, names that he, too, recognized from childhood days and their summer sojourns. 

But the Foxstones, Emily’s family tree, went back five generations, six if you counted Big Jim Foxstone who arrived in Lakeside Falls by getting drunk and falling off a coal barge on its way to Canada. Lord knows how many Foxstone seeds were sprinkled around Lakeside Falls before Big Jim got religion and sobriety from Emily’s great great grandmother, whose life and legend made today’s women’s libbers seem like shrinking violets. “It wouldn’t have been the Pratts, who lost their timber business back during World War I according according to Dad. The Goldmans, on the other hand, were great child indulgers. Sarah Goldman got a pony with solid silver harness for her fifth birthday. Of course, Lizzie Honniger got a dollhouse for her tenth that took up an entire room and was furnished with genuine antique doll furniture.” 

She grew silent, sipped the last of her coffee and tapped the table with her knuckles. “Lucy Downs. If anyone got a doll like that it was Lucy Downs. Of course, she was a few years older than me….”

~~~

Flanagan's Dolls

By Warren Adler

I was drawn to this book because of the title...my mother collected dolls that were real-life sized in her older years and I still have the one we named, Glenda. None of them were "name" dolls except for Shirley Temple, who we all loved as an actress. Still, it was fun to take Mom shopping and looking for older dolls that were not considered "collectible" but rather that she could enjoy looking back on as her own children...

Flanagan and his wife owned an antique store, but they didn't have any dolls to offer when a man came to visit their shop, looking for a specific doll, Bonnie Babe. The man had purchased the doll years ago for his daughter and it had been handed down among the family until it was so old that they had to throw it away...

But tragedy had struck--his granddaughter was in the hospital, waiting for surgery. She had seen so many family photographs of Bonnie Babe, that her heart was set on having Bonnie Babe with her as she was in the hospital. Her Grandfather would do anything--pay anything--to get that doll he had promised. His appeal was gruff, anxious, and almost demanding to the owners of the shop. Could they get that doll--fast?!!!

The interesting twist early in the story is that, almost immediately, it was the search for the doll that came to be the lead in for the murder mystery in which Flanagan becomes involved... 

All it took was the phone call to the potential owner of the doll and the realization that they might possibly own a very valuable doll that somebody wanted to buy... Or, it could have been just incidental, that Lucy Downs' son, who was a compulsive gambler, chose that time to get into his mother's doll collection and stole and sold five of those valuable dolls...

 Flanagan was thrilled when they found a doll to specifications so quickly, and he went to pick up the doll...

Immediately something was different from the original contact. No, they didn't have the doll...Sorry...please go away...

And when Lucy Downs soon died, it was Flanagan that didn't believe it was natural. He had watched her looking worse quickly as he had tried to deal with the doll issue... and it was he who was finally able to convince officials that she had been murdered...

I especially enjoyed Flanagan and Emily as main characters... They seem so suited for each other and the personal interaction, dialogue and romantic side of their marriage was explored fully and resulted in a novel that was still a Warren Adler masterpiece, but was also much more fun to read and become involved with. 

Adler is not genre-specific, but I must admit, I'd like to see another Flanagan cozy mystery. The expertise given to this retired couple may be more than the average "amateur detective" situation; however, the obvious enjoyment of this couple's life, as owners of an antique shop, is contagious. After all, who else but Adler would include a 13-gong antique grandfather clock among their inventory...and then try to explain to potential customers that the clock was "not" broken, but that it was unique...and made that way... Could Flanagan talk somebody into buying that particular clock? Well, he and his wife both certainly tried! Every beautiful clock needed a home.

The family drama was also very successfully done as we look into the lives of the Downs family and see that they had quite a unique situation that perhaps allowed so much confusion that death could occur so quickly and, perhaps, easily... After all, it was Flanagan who pushed to do a formal investigation into her death.

While some may not enjoy the addition of numerous puns between the starring couple, I found them quite endearing and a pleasant exchange between a loving couple that, frankly, was refreshing in today's world...Adler's wit appeared here as in no other book that he's written, I'll wager, based upon those I have read and their genres... In fact, the characters, good and bad, are worthy of praise. I found the other antique dealer in town--the one who had bought the stolen dolls--just as one would expect for unscrupulous sellers who thrive in a business where it is easy for deals to be made in favor of the seller, not the buyer...

This stop off into the Cozy Mystery genre was especially delightful and a surprise in light of other books by the same author... If you are a fan of Warren Adler, don't allow this one book to be bypassed. You will miss a unique voyage into another side of the writer, that is rarely seen... Appreciate it for that alone! And enjoy! But, yes, the mystery was tangled enough that I wasn't quite sure...whodunit! Highly recommended.


GABixlerReviews

Mary Lynn Plaisance Presents The Small Chandelier - A Fantasy Tale of Morality???

,,,"That girl Sandy," Jenny shook her head while talking aloud to herself. "She's one of the sweetest customers I have. She's got a heart of gold. Always satisfied with my work. She never complains about one thing. I adore her. She's one of my best friends...makes me feel good all over inside."

Jenny went back to pulling the clump of weeds that didn't want to come out of the ground. She used two hands to et the grass out and it wouldn't budge. All of a sudden, Jenny screamed so lous, her voice was heard in the shops that surrounded her little cottage and in Walmart.

"Joseph, there's a big snake right here! Help me! Hurry!"

"Jenny, don't move. I'm coming, honey." Joseph heard her yelling for help over the sound of the riding mower. People came running out of their shops, including Sandy from Walmart. jenn's voice seemed to echo to Sandy's ears and she knew it wasn't good.

"A snake bit me, Joseph. Help me!"

Joseph cut the riding mower off and went running to Jenny. She was terrified. She saw others standing around her and no one knew what to do.

"Where did it bite you, honey? I don't see any marks...and I don't see any snake."

"I saw a big snake, Joseph. It bit me on my leg and slithered away."

When she saw Sandy, there with five other people from inside the surrounding shops, she asked, "Sandy, did you see the snake. You just left. You had to see the snake. It was big and tall, standing right in front of me."

"No, Miss Jenny. I didn't see any big, tall snake while we weretalking... or after I left."

"Joseph, I think it went under the house. Look for the bit marks. It's right here on my leg." Jenny had shorts on and gloves to pull weeks, but the way she was sitting, Joseph couldn't see the snake bite. Her hat was still a foot away from her, still on the ground. She turned her leg to show Joseph.

"Oh my God. It's beginning to turn blue and it's getting swollen. Stay calm, honey. It's not good to get your heart rate up if it was a poisonous snake. I'll call 911. Did you see what kind of snake it was."

"I don't know what kind it was, but it was huge. It was tall, Joseph. It looked like it was standing in front of me." Jenny was trembling with fear.

...Jenny's eyes were beginning to give a blank stare at Joseph.

"Jenny, don't pass out. Please, please don't pass out on me. Stay calm, honey. The paramedics are on their way here now. They's on the phone with me. They said to stay calm and take deep breaths. They're almost here."

"I'm trying. My leg hurts and I'm getting dizzy."

"Stay calm, honey. I can hear the sirens now. The hospital isn't far. Everything will be okay. They're almost here."

Sandy and the rest who were standing around began to cry seeing Jenny like this and not being able to help her.

Still trembling, all of a sudden Jenny managed to say, "Joseph I don't want to die, but I'm not afraid anymore. Everything is so good for us now in this screwed up world we live in. I've cried a lot of tears in the past two years that were nourishing my soul. I'm ready to harvest those tears into peace of mind. We're so lucky to have each other. Remember, I don't want to die, but I'm not afraid. Hold me, I'm cold..."

!!!

The Small Chandelier

By Mary Lynn Plaisance

I found it fascinating that this author, taking a concern from her present life, could pound out a story of how she would fix things if her fantasy could come true! I was told that the small chandelier presently resides in her Louisiana shop. Yet he takes that one item and builds around it to represent "good" and moves on from there...

Jenny and Joseph, the main character couple, have been able to build up sufficient funds to buy a small, cottage for Jenny to open her own shop, "Jenny's Parlor of Beauty... Everybody was excited about the new location. And with a little chandelier that was already in the house, Jenny had been able to create a small cozy waiting area for her clients...

They had been both shocked when they learned that the chandelier was always lit and had been since built years ago...There was no power lines and no light switch. Yet the glow welcomed all who came...

Until one day, it was Joseph who came to the shop, looking for something--anything to help Jenny... And the chandelier talked...

Jenny had been bitten, it was thought, by a large snake as Jenny and Joseph were working in the Shop's yard. Jenny had screamed and screamed when the snake came toward her and she cried that she had been bitten. Joseph looked but there were no bite marks and no sign of the snake. Before long, however, Jenny's leg was turning blue and she was losing consciousness...

When the doctors came back out from their check, they verified that she had not been bitten...but there was definitely something that had been done to her leg...Most surprisingly, they discovered that her blood was blue...but had concluded that everything else was working fine and that she should regain consciousness soon... But they were going to call in specialists to check on her blood color...

But while she slept, Ruth, her mother, started talking to Joseph about what was going on in the news. New York was being bombed... They talked about Jenny having felt concern for something like this for years, and both had realized that Jenny had a sixth sense about things beyond what they felt.

But Jenny didn't awaken. Finally, in desperation, Joseph visited Jenny's Shop... First, he went back to see if he could recover Jenny's hat which had been swept under the house when the ambulance left. Immediately he heard a hiss and went to get a broom...He pushed that under, heard another hiss, and realized that there was no way he could pull her hat out at this point...But there was definitely a snake living there!

Later he went into the shop and heard a soft feminine voice telling him to sit under the chandelier. She told him, "I am the light..." Holding his breath in amazement and distrust, he still was willing to hear what she said... First she explained about the snake, that the snake had chosen Jenny because she was good, and that her hat served as a connection to Jenny...

But she explained that Joseph had a part too...She gave him instructions that he had to follow because Jenny was needed to help save the world from destruction. She was the 20th person needed and the time had finally come to move on a plan that had been put into place decades ago... The time was now--as long as Joseph was able to do what he had to do to help Jenny evolve...

Even after I finished this book several days ago, I am still amazed as to the creative imagination needed to fold today's world, into a fantasy realm that was found on another planet, so that our world could be saved...through magic... For surely we know that is not the way of earth...war after war and deadly radicals and leaders have proven that... Sure, it's fantasy, but, you know, I loved how the book ended... Sometimes justice takes somebody with blue blood, different from we humans that can't seem to make our way through to peace...

Meaningful, insightful, unforgettable. The book is just plain fun. I loved it and might even say it's my favorite of Plaisance's books...at least until I read another one... Highly recommended!


GABixlerReviews

Christopher Rice Presents - The Vines! NY Times Bestselling Author!

BEFORE...

Spring House had its portrait painted many times before it was destroyed by fire. Images of its grand, columned facade are so prevalent throughout gift shops in southern Louisiana most tourists to the region return home with a haunting sense they had visited the place, even if they didn’t take a bus tour of the old plantation houses that line the banks of the Mississippi River.  
Hundreds of years after the conflagration that reduced the antebellum mansion to timbers and weeds, the house and grounds were restored to a more tourist-friendly version of their original splendor by one of the wealthiest families in New Orleans. 
Several of the slave quarters were removed to make room for a quaint gazebo, and the cane fields where African slaves labored and died in the punishing heat were replaced by manicured, fountain-studded gardens that have since played host to countless wedding receptions.

The affluent families who pay for these events feel no meaningful connection to the place’s violent, bloody history; otherwise they would have second thoughts about staging such gleeful celebrations atop soil forced to absorb decades of systematic degradation and assault. No doubt, many of the brides in question grew up in homes where an etching or a painting of Spring House hung in the foyer or the upstairs hallway or, at the very least, the guest bathroom, and they too were seduced, sometimes subliminally, by these ever-present

reproductions of its pastoral sprawl and muscular profile.  But there is one rendering of Spring House that continues to cause dispute among academics, and it is not found in gift shops. The sketch is primitive, but telltale architectural details of the old house are plainly visible: the widow’s walk and the keyhole-shaped front door, to name a few. 
It depicts a gathering of slaves who have been forced to stand and watch while one of their own is whipped by a man who is clearly the overseer. 
The inexplicable event that seems to have interrupted the overseer’s work is a matter of great contention among those devoted to the study of plantation history. 
Some shape has descended from the branches of a nearby oak tree and twined itself through the overseer’s airborne whip, capturing it in midair and bringing a sudden halt to the bound slave’s violent punishment.  Even though it has no signature or date, the academics and tour guides believe this sketch to be the work of one of the many privileged white historians who took it upon themselves to document the personal narratives of freed slaves after the Civil War ended. Perhaps these accounts of misery moved one of these well-intentioned writers to work beyond the limits of his abilities, resulting in a crude illustration meant to manifest the sublimated rage of his interview subjects. Or maybe it is the work of a former slave, who summoned all the steadiness of hand she could manage and put her own revenge fantasy to paper. 
But these scholars are sure the sketch does not depict an actual event. It’s a metaphor, they insist, an angry dream spilled in ink. Of this assertion these students, who devote their lifework to studying the bloody and complex history that runs catacomb-like beneath the bus tours and the spinning racks of postcards and the five-figure weddings, are absolutely sure. 
And they are wrong. 

~~~

The Vines

By Christopher Rice

With a title, The Vines, coming from a writer who sometimes writes horror, it was clear what this story was going to be...  Rice even jokingly shares in his video that vines fighting against humans was a major part...

What you don't know at this point is that...it takes "blood" to cause those vines to come alive... Anything else beyond that would be a spoiler alert since the horror can only be "experienced" as you read--we can not tell you, else you won't believe us... Or, if I tell you, like that old saying, then I'd have to kill you.

The history of the mansion, located in Louisiana, is the key issue. As a working farm in older days, the plantation had many slaves who had worked the land, had died there--had been buried there. When the plantation had burned, it might have been taken as an omen--that the land had received so much pain and blood from those days and needed to be cleansed... But it could not destroy the hate of those who had lived, and died, there...

And that hate could be revived... When something in today's world happens...

Caitlin Chaisson is now living in the new southern home that was built more for living and social life...All the signs of the slaves have been taken away and anything that had disturbed the land had been left for hundreds of years. But there was one old picture found that nobody knew who had painted it. It showed slaves being forced to stand and watch as the overseer punished one of the men...at least until something had pulled out of the woods and twined around the whip being used--stopping everything, caught in that moment of freedom...

But all the evil has not left the plantation--because it is the people who lived there which brought the evil to the home... Caitlin had been hosting a party when she came upon a scene of evil...her husband was having drunken sex with a women who'd attended the party...and when they wanted more, they ran out into a shed to continue their tryst.

Caitlin was devastated--it had been a celebration for her birthday, but had now become a mockery of what was supposed to be with her lover, her husband. Instead, this was her final birthday gift... Caitlin runs from the sight of this betrayal, to the gazebo, where she discovers she has cut herself with the women's champagne glass as she had thrown it to purposely break...

She sat there with the blood dripping onto the floor, remembering how she had heard comments about her looks and why her husband would marry her... But somehow seeing their embraces had been much worse than ever knowing that her husband did not love her... Even her best friend, Blake had tried to tell her, but Caitlin had turned from him, not being willing to believe. Now she knew.

And she uses the broken flute  and cuts into her arm, intending to end her  life...until she hears what is happening at her feet, sees what is happening on the gazebo floor... tendrils are arising up from between the boards of the gazebo, slowly moving toward her, now dripping blood... vines, looking something like a calla lilly...and it suckles her arm, her blood. But it is the smell that overpowers her, a smell...like fire... and she dreams?

And so she has no time to wait. She must bring herself to the very raw edge of her power, the place where she can feel a writhing, feral chaos in the darkness on the other side.  The darkness below. The darkness underfoot...

But when the door to the slave quarters behind her blows open, she sees neither the overseer nor Spring House’s bastard owner. She sees a perfectly framed view of her husband, Troy Mangier, halfway out of his suit, bare ass flexing as he drives himself into the beautiful young woman. And Caitlin feels herself jostled inside of her dreaming point of view—who was it? A slave?  The past and present have met in a fever dream...

And when she awakes, her arm is no longer bleeding--it is almost healed...

Caitlin feels a strange new power...and she knows exactly what to do with her new friends, the vines...


It is easy to see why Rice is a best-selling author...The Vines is edgy, creepy, and yet totally involving so that the story, through the main character's eyes, makes perfect sense... But with her best friend coming back into her life, even though she had pushed him away when he'd shared what he knew about her husband, Blake proves a true friend, as he works with her, dealing with what is actually happening... 

With a bit of fantasy, sci-fi, as well as horror, Rice presents a horrifying, exciting tale of what may happen when evil enters into and controls the land it has claimed. On the other hand, how the book ends if quite an extraordinary story in itself and, to me, proves that their is both vengeance and renewal that is possible... Given that today's headlines talks about a governor who is being questioned on being racist, we find that there is still more to learn about the uneasy relationship between Black and White people... Sometimes, The Vines helps make decisions for us... 

Memorable, remarkable in its merge of history with the present, and a lesson for all of us in many ways... This is one of my favorites of his books... Highly recommended.


GABixlerReviews

Christopher Rice is the recipient of the Lambda Literary Award and is the New York Times bestselling author of A DENSITY OF SOULS and the Bram Stoker Award finalists THE HEAVENS RISE and THE VINES. He is the head writer and an executive producer of "The Vampire Chronicles", a television show based on the bestselling novels by his mother, Anne Rice. Together they penned RAMSES THE DAMNED: THE PASSION OF CLEOPATRA, a sequel to her bestselling novel THE MUMMY OR RAMSES THE DAMNED. BONE MUSIC, the first installment in his new Burning Girl series, was released March 1st, 2018, and the sequel, BLOOD ECHO, will be released in February 2019. With his best friend, New York Times bestselling novelist Eric Shaw Quinn, Christopher hosts the YouTube channel THE DINNER PARTY SHOW WITH CHRISTOPHER RICE & ERIC SHAW QUINN (#TDPS). THE DINNER PARTY SHOW began as a podcast and Internet radio show. You can download and stream all of their episodes at www.TDPS.tv. He lives in West Hollywood, California. Visit him at www.christopherricebooks.com.

Author photo credit: Cathryn Farnsworth Photography

L. J. Sellers Presents The Other - A Psychological Suspense Thriller!

Chapter 1

Monday, October 8, 2:15 p.m., Mt. Angel Psychiatric Hospital

Logan stared through the caged fence. Like a prison yard, the tall metal barrier curved inward at the top, discouraging anyone from leaving. Today, he had permission—and an escort, of course.
His attendant Bruno unlocked the narrow iron door and held it open. “Let’s make this fast, okay? I’ve got an electro therapy to escort soon.”
Logan cringed. He’d had shock treatments, and they’d left him shaky, confused, and anxious. Instead of curing his depression, they made him doubt himself.
He eased toward the opening, eager to see the oak-filled meadow and hear the birds clustered in the trees. Dread filled his stomach too, and he wished he’d worn his comfort hoodie. Beyond the wall, anything could happen. The world was a chaotic, dangerous place filled with selfish unpredictable people. Yet he longed to be free of the walls. Free of the medications. Free of the doctors who thought he was crazy.
“Move it, Lowgie.” Bruno waved him on as though he were a recalcitrant pet. Recalcitrant. The sounds pleased him, and he repeated it a few times under his breath. Another great word he’d learned recently and hoped to use in his writing. Even thought he hated Bruno’s nickname for him, he ignored it. He’d learned that bullies got bored with taunts if they didn’t seem to cause harm.
Outside the fence, Logan blinked at the vastness of the sky and open space. What if he ran? Bruno would taser him, then he’d get moved to the high-security side of the institution and never see the outside world again. Logan started down the path toward the oak trees, inhaling the crisp fall air as though he’d been deprived of oxygen.
Behind him, a cell phone rang and Bruno answered, his voice fading as he slowed to argue with the caller. Logan picked up his pace, delighted by his moment alone, surrounded by the lovely quiet of the park-like setting.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught movement and spun toward it. For a moment, stillness. Then someone rushed between two trees. A boy, about thirteen. His face—glimpsed briefly—was hauntingly familiar. The intruder darted out again and Logan gasped. He was back! The boy with a face just like his own, only younger.
The Other, as Logan had come to think of him, disappeared behind a big oak.
A heavy silence pressed on his chest and he struggled to breathe. It was just another hallucination, he told himself. He’d had them before. But why now? And what did it mean? He couldn’t tell his counselor. She’d been alarmed the last time he mentioned the boy, and he didn’t want her to think he was insane.
Logan laughed bitterly. Dr. Carlson already did. That’s why he was here. No, he was here because his mother wanted him locked away. Recently, he’d heard attendants complain about losing their jobs when the hospital closed. The thought terrified him. Where would he end up? Would it be even worse?
Things could always get worse. His aunt’s expression echoed in his head. She’d tried to be a mother to him, but her negativity had shaded his perception of everything.
Logan turned back, his nature walk ruined. Depression hit him hard. Who knew when he would get another outing? The medication they kept shoving down his throat was obviously making him worse. But if he complained, Dr. Carlson would chide him for not adapting. She might even increase his dose.
How would he ever escape the vicious cycle and the walls that confined him?

Chapter 2

 Tuesday, October 9, 1:17 p.m., Portland, Oregon

Rox MacFarlane touched the left side of her forehead. “The pain is right here, and it’s so consistent I worry that I have a tumor.”
Her neurologist, an older woman with a silver-haired bun, shook her head. “That’s unlikely. No one has ever developed cancer from these treatments.”
The therapy, called transcranial magnetic stimulation, was over, thank goodness, but the side effects were getting worse. “My hearing loss isn’t improving either, and I think I had a mild seizure last week.”
The doctor’s eyes widened. “Tell me exactly what happened.”
The episode had been weird, and she still had trouble describing it. “My head suddenly felt strange, kind of tight and loose at the same time. So I sat down, feeling sort of paralyzed for a moment. Then I was fine. Except my head was fuzzy, as though I might have lost some time.”
“Oh boy.” Dr. Benton pulled her rolling computer over and began typing notes. “What were you doing at the time?”
“Changing a light bulb.”
“That sounds like a seizure. I’ll write you a prescription for medication that will prevent another one.” The neurologist squeezed her arm. “I’m sorry this is happening. Side effects from this treatment are rare. But I assure you, they’re temporary.”
“What about the headache?”
“Let’s give it another week and see if it goes away. If not, we’ll do a CT scan.”
Not good enough. Rox’s jaw tensed, but she let it go and stood to leave. “You’ll call in the prescription?”
“Of course.” The doctor looked as worried as she felt.
Rox headed out, wishing she’d never heard of the damn treatment. What had made her think sending hundreds of magnetic pulses into her brain was a good idea? Oh right, she’d wanted to know what it felt like to be normal.

She drove straight home, knowing the pharmacy would take hours to process her medication—which she might not even take. She hated new prescriptions, especially those that crossed the blood-brain barrier, because she never knew how her chemistry would react. As she pulled into the driveway of the duplex she shared with her stepdad, her work phone rang. Rox pulled it from her shoulder bag and glanced at the number. A landline and not one she’d seen before, so it was probably a new client. Good news. She was bored and ready to work again. “Karina Jones, how can I help you?” Rox shut off the engine and climbed from her car.
“You’re the extractor?” The woman’s voice was pleasant, but a little timid.
“Yes.” Rox headed toward her door, and Marty rushed from his side of the house. “What did the doc say?” Shorter than her six-foot frame by several inches, her stepdad wore his gray hair buzzed and his eyebrows bushy.
She gestured at Marty to be quiet, and he followed her inside. Rox put the new client on speaker and turned up the volume. “Who gave you my number?” Her work occasionally straddled the lines of legality, so she had to be careful. She ran her investigations under an assumed name and paid cash for the anonymous burner phone she used to conduct business.
“A friend named Sam Fenton,” the woman said. “He’s a sergeant with the Portland police.” Most of their clients were referred by officers she and Marty used to work with. Law enforcement people understood that sometimes citizens needed specialized help that cops couldn’t provide.
“What’s your name and situation?” Rox took the phone into the kitchen and set it on the table. Marty went to the fridge for a couple of microbrews.
“Shay Wilmont.” The woman sounded steadier now. “I’m worried about my nephew. He’s in a mental institution, and I need you to get him out.”
Rox glanced at Marty, who rolled his eyes.
She didn’t blame him. The idea seemed wild, even for her. “I’m sorry, but that’s not in the scope of what I do.”
“Why not?” A little defensive now. “I thought you rescued young people from oppressive or dangerous situations.”
“I do. But a mental institution—” Rox stopped. Some facilities were fine, but others were horrible, depending on who was in charge. “If your nephew is being abused, then report it to state authorities. I don’t think I can help you with this.”
“He shouldn’t be in there!” Shay Wilmont raised her voice, her timidity gone. “Logan’s not mentally ill, just autistic.”
The label slammed into her gut. She hated the term, preferring to think of herself and others with the condition as having non-typical neurological responses. Her heart went out to the boy. If her own quirks had been worse as a child, she could have suffered the same fate. “How does his condition manifest?”
“He gets stuck on certain words and repeats them, sometimes for minutes. And he’s obsessed with LED flashlights.”
Both seemed harmless enough, so something didn’t add up. “How did he get committed?”
A pause. “His mother claims he’s both violent and suicidal.”
A few people with spectrum disorder needed antipsychotic meds to keep them under control, but those cases were rare. Rox started to decline again, but the woman cut her off.
“I’ve never seen Logan hurt anyone, and until recently, I never heard him mention suicide. He’s spent way more time with me than with his mother, so I would know.”
Marty handed Rox a bottle of dark beer, shook his head, and mouthed Say no.
Rox was torn. A mental institution would be difficult, if not impossible, to extract someone from. But she wanted to help the poor boy. It was shameful to lock him up just because he made people uncomfortable. She’d made her own mother so jittery, Georgia had abandoned her family. The call of fame and fortune on Broadway had done its part too. “His mother has custody?”
“Yes, but Logan has lived with me since he was three.”
That was a little weird. “What age is Logan now?”
“Fifteen.
Old enough to speak for himself about where and how he wanted to live. “His full name?”
“Logan James Wilmont.”
That didn’t ring any bells, so the kid’s behavior had not likely made the news. But she would check him out anyway. “Where is he institutionalized?” The word tasted bitter in her mouth.
“The Mt. Angel campus of the state hospital.”
The old facility was thirty miles south and had been controversial off and on since its inception. Why couldn’t the kid have been in a small private hospital instead of a concrete fortress? But at least Mt. Angel wasn’t a new building with modern security. Still, Rox knew she had to decline. Instead, she heard herself say, “I’ll consider your case, but first I’d like to meet with you in person to get more information.” She never took a case over the phone. She needed to visually assess who she was dealing with.
Across from her, Marty shuddered and made aggressive hand gestures indicating she should backtrack. Rox ignored him. “Can you meet me today?”

~~~

The Other
The Extractor Series

By L. J. Sellers

No matter how many books I read or movies I see, when it involves being in a psychiatric hospital, I immediately remember the song, Going Home, from the historical movie, Snake Pit. I always felt such sympathy for those who were there because they could not deal with the reality of their lives, yet still wanting and needing to go home as soon as possible. How much worse it would be, I thought, if they were there when they shouldn't have been!

Sellers presents a psychological thriller that is not only a page-turner, but a revelatory statement of the cultural view of somebody who may be different...

Rox knew that she shouldn't take this request for extraction...But she had heard what she could not accept-- Logan, 15, was in a psychiatric hospital, but was not mentally ill--he was autistic... Rox didn't even like the word, she preferred  non-typical neurological responses. And she quickly realized that she could have been in the same situation as Logan if things had not been different for her. Logan's situation hit her in the gut and she knew she would not refuse, even though Marty was there waving and mouthing "No...!"

Rox stalled by asking for her routine first meeting so that she could "meet" Logan's aunt, Shay Wilmont. Marty pointed out how difficult it would be to enter a supervised facility with guards and staff. Rox agreed but, she needed to do this. Her own efforts to "be normal" were over but had resulted in severe headaches and even a seizure...Marty even used that to question whether she could be prepared to handle something happening to her within the facility while trying to get Logan out... (which did happen!) Rox knew. however, she would never forgive herself if she didn't at least try...

Sellers presents a much more complicated Extraction in this third novel, which results in Rox being left and placed as a patient in the Hospital. But, even that, does not include the underlying secretive and psychological actions that are revealed in the final part of the book. This storyline is obviously the best of the three books as it expands into the psychological aspects of the characters beyond the young boy who is to be extracted...

It's the most dangerous, unpredictable and unforgettable... And the surprises continue to roll out up through and including the final ending! Quite an achievement that twists an ongoing series into an entirely different genre that is shocking to the reader. I was totally floored by this journey into another plot that is almost, if not more so, as compelling as the Extraction. Sellers writes she is excited about this book. I can certainly understand why! It is tantalizing, fascinating, and yet utterly within the realm of possibility--and that's why it's extraordinary... 

I'm certainly happy to have officially "read" this author, with a outstanding series that included brilliant ongoing characters, as well as minor characters that evolved as each book continued. What a delightful way to meet and become a fan for a new unread author! Sellers is like all great authors...you don't think about their writing because it becomes secondary to the storyline and characters... Let's just say, this writer became a personal favorite in just three books... So, do check out The Extractor Series and start with the first. You'll be happy to have a chance to get to know the characters before you meet The Other...  


GABixlerReviews

I was born in Santa Rosa, California—the third of six kids—but I’ve spent most of my life in Oregon. I grew up in Cave Junction, a small town in Southern Oregon. The day I turned 18, I packed my VW bug and moved to Eugene. Five years later, I graduated from the University of Oregon with a degree in journalism.

I’ve always loved to write. I was one of those nerdy kids in school who liked to write reports—about Peru, ocean life, pollution, whatever—I loved researching and writing about everything. I also wrote some fiction as a kid and some short stories in college, but never took it seriously then.

After graduating, I moved to Phoenix (needing a dose of sunshine). The country was in recession too, and I knew people in Eugene with journalism degrees who were flipping burgers, so I had to leave to find work in my field. My first career position was with Arizona Senior World, and I loved it. My favorite assignments were the people profiles—old people doing amazing things. (I hope to be one of those people in 40 years or so). I’ve also written several profiles for Oregon Quarterly as a freelancer.

My stay in Phoenix was fairly short. I got married and had a baby, then felt compelled to move back to Eugene, Oregon where my family was. I’ve been here since, raising all kinds of kids and working full time, first as a food server, then as an writer/editor.

But one day long ago, I was reading a particularly bad novel and tossed it to the floor, thinking I could write a better story than that. I had never considered writing fiction until that moment, but I felt challenged to see if I could actually do it. On August 7, 1989, I sat down to write my first novel. I used a Commodore computer, and it took about three months. The story was called Personal Justice, and it was about a woman who tracks down the pedophile who murders her child. (Jeffrey Dahmer was in the news then.)

It wasn’t a great story (because it lacked complexity) but I discovered I loved writing novels. I got absolutely hooked on the process and immediately started another. When I finished it, I sent the first three chapters to an agent, Al Zuckerman, president of Writers House. (What audacity!) Three months later he called me and said he couldn’t sell that story but that I had talent and that I should send him an outline of what I was working on then. And incredible moment of validation. He eventually represented that book (now The Baby Thief), but didn’t manage to sell it.

Still, his encouragement and faith is why I never gave up submitting my work, even though it took nearly 20 years to break through. (Lots of agents, novels, screenplays, close calls, and bad publishing experiences along the way.)

Meanwhile, I landed an editorial job at Pharmaceutical Executive magazine, where I learned more about drugs than I ever thought I would. It was a great job, and I learned to be an editor (as well as a writer). After seven years, they closed the Eugene office. While I looked for a new job, I wrote The Sex Club, the first in the Detective Jackson series. I feel very passionately about the subject matter, so it was a story I had to write, even knowing that it might never be published. At the time, I wasn’t sure if the Jackson character would end up being a series, but I made him likable, so I could bring him back if needed.

Then I spent two and a half years with an educational publisher. During that time, my job used up all my mental energy, and I didn’t write any new fiction. I discovered that I’m not really happy if I’m not writing a new story. But during that time, I self-published The Sex Club, which earned great reviews and reader support.

I was laid off again in March of 2008, one of the early casualties of the recession, and decided to make the most of the situation. I expanded my freelancing efforts, committed to putting my fiction career first, and finished writing Secrets to Die For, the second story featuring Detective Jackson. In October 2010, with four Jackson books and two standalones on the market, I quit freelancing to write full-time. In May 2012, Thomas & Mercer bought all nine of my backlist titles and two frontlist Jackson books. I now have twelve Jackson novels, five standalones, and three Agent Dallas stories featuring a young, female FBI agent who specializes in undercover work and infiltrating criminal groups.

Last year, I wrote three books in a new series about an ex-CIA agent called The Extractor, who rescues young people from oppressive situations. I also conducted my own real-life extraction in Costa Rica when I rescued my sick grandchildren from their mentally ill mother. I’m currently working on a movie script for that 18-day harrowing experience … and writing a new Jackson story.