PUBLISHED NOVELS
Below are my published novels, along with the inspiration for each and some of the writing process.
Accounting for Clues
Below are my published novels, along with the inspiration for each and some of the writing process.
Accounting for Clues
Former CPA and private investigator Claude Monday helps friends at the police department on a serial killer case, in which accounting statements are found at crime scenes. Trying to solve the clues—and wondering what, if any, relevance they have to the murders—Claude becomes so wrapped up in the case, he neglects his wife, Kay, and teenage daughter. When Claude misses an urgent call, Kay advises he quit. Not wanting more victims, Claude continues. Can he avoid disaster? Or will the murderer succeed in tormenting him, worse than Claude could have imagined?
Available at Amazon.com and BarnesandNoble.com.
Here are the first five pages plus how I came up with this story.
Chapter 1
“How about it?” Jeffrey Wharton said over the phone. “Wanna help?”
Claude Monday strolled to the red recliner, ran thick fingers through his wavy black hair, and sighed. His wife, Kay, and Nicole, their brown-haired, eighteen-year old, were out on errands in northwest Oklahoma City. Should he say yes? He’d retired over a year ago. He switched his phone to speaker and rubbed his temples. “I dunno. Been a while. My mind’s stale.”
Jeffrey chuckled. “You? A stale mind? Never. Even in retirement I know you keep that brain busy. Bet you’re doing a crossword puzzle or something similar.”
Claude looked to the extra bedroom where the half-finished crossword puzzle lay on the couch. “Not right now. Anyway, you said this guy’s mailing statements, not crosswords.”
“Well, we know very little about accounting down here at the precinct. You, with your CPA license and fifteen years of experience, do.”
“Gimme a little time. I’ll let ya know.”
Jeffrey laughed. “Shoulda figured you’d analyze things first. Guess that’s why you switched to private investigating a few years ago. Just let me know.”
“Will do.”
The two said their good-byes and hung up.
Claude slid down in the chair and considered the options.
Could be stressful, he thought. On the other hand, it would be mentally challenging. The way getting a balance sheet to equal was a challenge. Assuming Jeffrey’s not hyping things up to get me involved, it sounds compelling.
He cautioned himself to size up the choices again, then thought how it was this kind of thinking that tested Kay’s patience, since she was much more spontaneous.
“Wouldn’t you rather know how events will turn out, so you can prepare for them? Rather than not knowing what to expect?” he’d asked her.
“That’s half the fun, the unknown. Gives us excitement.” She’d flicked her auburn hair over her shoulders, put an arm around him, and smiled. “You don’t want to plot out everything, do ya? Like right now?” She kissed him, undid a button on her shirt, then another. “Should this be planned too?”
He chuckled and shortly thereafter they were in bed. But that was years ago, before age and long hours drained him.
Back to this situation. I could be at it a while, with no guarantee of success. Heck, my most exciting investigative work has involved finding missing persons or surveillance and such. He had caught a murderer a few years back, his ever-observant vision spotting an unusual button that was traced to the inside of a rare sport jacket. The one the killer owned.
But that was the only murder case. It wasn’t like I tracked him down and had a gun battle. I just researched evidence and linked it to him. He returned to Jeffrey’s offer.
****
On the southeast side of town that evening a slender, brown haired man checked his crew cut in the bathroom mirror. “Perfect,” he decided after brushing it, although the stiff hair hadn’t moved. Details were important to him. Like looking the part he desired.
A groan from the master bedroom distracted him.
“Aw, you’re fine,” he grumbled. But Elizabeth, his wife of seven years, continued. It’d been a long, downward spiral since her miscarriage. Second one for her, first with him as the expectant father. She’d broken down right at the doctor’s, she’d had no idea it’d happened. That night she went to bed and hadn’t gotten off the mattress since. During these few weeks, the anger of their situation gnawed inside him, grew, and ate at him, until he couldn’t hold it back.
Why couldn’t she have just gone into immediate, psychotic meltdown? he now thought. Then she’d be in a sanitarium and I’d be free to do what I want to do. What I have to do.
She groaned again and called his name.
“I’m coming,” he said. “Whadya need?”
“Pillows are too soft, they hurt my neck.”
“Your neck’s fine,” he said. Then he came to her, saw the still glistening blue eyes—even in her state—and managed a smile before he kissed her, and then fixed her pillows. “There ya go. Now, I gotta go back to work, but I will return soon.”
Stop lying, he told himself. Since she slept most of the time, he never hurried home, even when it had been a long day. He looked at her, about to speak the truth. Those eyes and soft face, with high cheekbones and dimples when she smiled, restrained him. Besides, she had been the one who’d helped him earn his degree, had worked full time while he went to school and worked part time. She’d kept him fo- cused on his classes, even helped pay tuition. His turn to assist her.
She will get better. He frowned. Maybe. He felt the desire in him grow: the need of a new conquest; a triumph. Someone had to suffer like he had. Plus, surprisingly, this was fun. Not the preparation so much as the actual act. He recalled his last one, chuckled so loudly that he pressed a hand over his mouth, looked at his wife, then sighed. She remained still.
He thought about what he was really going to do: Scout the area tonight. Find a good target. Fresh, innocent, and naïve. One who’d never guess. Then plot moves to make sure it was done right.
One last look at Beth. She was a nice catch, with long blonde hair and perfect teeth. Another trophy on the mantle of accomplishments in his mind.
“On to another victory,” he whispered, then, to his wife, spoke out loud. “Bye, Elizabeth. Got more income statement spreadsheets to complete at work.”
She only moaned.
At Oklahoma City University, he surveyed the girls as they walked past, but none seemed like the one he believed would be a challenge.
Why wouldn’t anyone find this exciting? Blood flowed through him in copious quantities. The thrill of conquering them once their eyes lit up in the recognition that they weren’t going to get away, what fun.
He watched girls exit and leave the Alpha Chi Omega house at twenty fifth and Blackwelder, observed the types of books the female students cradled in their arms over their breasts, and tried to find books he deemed intelligent— finance, algebra (though he could never comprehend it), or biology (an easy one). And accounting, his passion. The pleasure of getting a financial statement to balance was almost as exciting as this hunt. When things balanced, it was as close to perfection as you could get.
A girl with a thick green textbook—the one he knew belonged to accounting students—passed. She did not meet his requirements.
Several more girls passed.
The minutes expired. Streetlights lit the way. He checked the time.
Doubt wifie’s worried, since she has her own concerns. But it is late and I have to get up for work tomorrow.
More students passed. He respired. “Tomorrow I’ll come by and—”
A voice halted his own. A female’s. His forehead beaded with sweat while his lips inched up. He watched her, as he checked for other factors.
The idea for this one
The beginning of this came to me one night after work, at a house I rented. Sitting in the recliner (given to me by my brother) I glanced at the TV cart (also from my brother) I used as an end table and saw my old, thick, 1300 page, green hard-cover accounting book I used for Intermediate I & II accounting. I sighed at how I never really used the degree to my full potential. The reason I chose accounting was I wanted to work as an FBI agent and they preferred accounting majors. Then I found out, around the last week of the last semester of my last year, my epilepsy would prevent me from being an agent. Though one of my duties is to audit payroll for over one hundred employees where I work and I enjoy that, I felt I was only using part of my degree. Being a CPA or such was out of the question-I barely made it through most accounting classes!
Staring at this book and now focused on getting my novels published—I had some short stories published at this point—I thought of using accounting in a novel. Immediately, I had the idea of a murder mystery where accounting statements were found at the crime scenes. I then had to figure out what, if anything, the statements had to do with the crime.
I wrote the first draft, not worrying about creating the statements or such. What a mistake! The next several drafts were both frustrating and discouraging. Not only was I limited in the way I could use numbers for the statements, worse, I had the days mixed up. Told in a shifting perspective, from investigator to killer, I realized my errors: For Claude, the investigator and lead character, it was a Thursday, where as for the killer, it was only Tuesday. How could a guy visit a crime scene or view evidence on something that hadn’t been committed?!
This one was to have been published years ago, only the publisher went out of business before the scheduled print date. First, it was to be published about nine months from when they accepted it—not bad, considering most books got published a year from acceptance. Then they informed me it wouldn’t be out until three months after the anticipated date—a year from acceptance. No big deal. Until those three months went by. Then another three. With no reply via email, I sent a certified letter. They answered back, saying the print date was pushed back further. When that day passed, I was pretty sure they were having financial problems. My novel, Internment, was also to have been published a couple of years before this one, only to have that publisher go out of business! So I expected a similar situation. Sure enough, they informed me via snail mail they were going out of business. I’d already paid to purchase some books and only got back half of my money. I guess getting some of it back was better than nothing.
The only good thing about it not being published was I found out, from another editor, many flaws in the story. I’d used the same words numerous times and, though they gave me a second chance, they rejected my re-write, this time saying they didn’t like Claude’s wife, Kay, so I changed her, among other things. Hopefully, this version is a better read.
Available at Amazon.com and BarnesandNoble.com.
Here are the first five pages plus how I came up with this story.
Chapter 1
“How about it?” Jeffrey Wharton said over the phone. “Wanna help?”
Claude Monday strolled to the red recliner, ran thick fingers through his wavy black hair, and sighed. His wife, Kay, and Nicole, their brown-haired, eighteen-year old, were out on errands in northwest Oklahoma City. Should he say yes? He’d retired over a year ago. He switched his phone to speaker and rubbed his temples. “I dunno. Been a while. My mind’s stale.”
Jeffrey chuckled. “You? A stale mind? Never. Even in retirement I know you keep that brain busy. Bet you’re doing a crossword puzzle or something similar.”
Claude looked to the extra bedroom where the half-finished crossword puzzle lay on the couch. “Not right now. Anyway, you said this guy’s mailing statements, not crosswords.”
“Well, we know very little about accounting down here at the precinct. You, with your CPA license and fifteen years of experience, do.”
“Gimme a little time. I’ll let ya know.”
Jeffrey laughed. “Shoulda figured you’d analyze things first. Guess that’s why you switched to private investigating a few years ago. Just let me know.”
“Will do.”
The two said their good-byes and hung up.
Claude slid down in the chair and considered the options.
Could be stressful, he thought. On the other hand, it would be mentally challenging. The way getting a balance sheet to equal was a challenge. Assuming Jeffrey’s not hyping things up to get me involved, it sounds compelling.
He cautioned himself to size up the choices again, then thought how it was this kind of thinking that tested Kay’s patience, since she was much more spontaneous.
“Wouldn’t you rather know how events will turn out, so you can prepare for them? Rather than not knowing what to expect?” he’d asked her.
“That’s half the fun, the unknown. Gives us excitement.” She’d flicked her auburn hair over her shoulders, put an arm around him, and smiled. “You don’t want to plot out everything, do ya? Like right now?” She kissed him, undid a button on her shirt, then another. “Should this be planned too?”
He chuckled and shortly thereafter they were in bed. But that was years ago, before age and long hours drained him.
Back to this situation. I could be at it a while, with no guarantee of success. Heck, my most exciting investigative work has involved finding missing persons or surveillance and such. He had caught a murderer a few years back, his ever-observant vision spotting an unusual button that was traced to the inside of a rare sport jacket. The one the killer owned.
But that was the only murder case. It wasn’t like I tracked him down and had a gun battle. I just researched evidence and linked it to him. He returned to Jeffrey’s offer.
****
On the southeast side of town that evening a slender, brown haired man checked his crew cut in the bathroom mirror. “Perfect,” he decided after brushing it, although the stiff hair hadn’t moved. Details were important to him. Like looking the part he desired.
A groan from the master bedroom distracted him.
“Aw, you’re fine,” he grumbled. But Elizabeth, his wife of seven years, continued. It’d been a long, downward spiral since her miscarriage. Second one for her, first with him as the expectant father. She’d broken down right at the doctor’s, she’d had no idea it’d happened. That night she went to bed and hadn’t gotten off the mattress since. During these few weeks, the anger of their situation gnawed inside him, grew, and ate at him, until he couldn’t hold it back.
Why couldn’t she have just gone into immediate, psychotic meltdown? he now thought. Then she’d be in a sanitarium and I’d be free to do what I want to do. What I have to do.
She groaned again and called his name.
“I’m coming,” he said. “Whadya need?”
“Pillows are too soft, they hurt my neck.”
“Your neck’s fine,” he said. Then he came to her, saw the still glistening blue eyes—even in her state—and managed a smile before he kissed her, and then fixed her pillows. “There ya go. Now, I gotta go back to work, but I will return soon.”
Stop lying, he told himself. Since she slept most of the time, he never hurried home, even when it had been a long day. He looked at her, about to speak the truth. Those eyes and soft face, with high cheekbones and dimples when she smiled, restrained him. Besides, she had been the one who’d helped him earn his degree, had worked full time while he went to school and worked part time. She’d kept him fo- cused on his classes, even helped pay tuition. His turn to assist her.
She will get better. He frowned. Maybe. He felt the desire in him grow: the need of a new conquest; a triumph. Someone had to suffer like he had. Plus, surprisingly, this was fun. Not the preparation so much as the actual act. He recalled his last one, chuckled so loudly that he pressed a hand over his mouth, looked at his wife, then sighed. She remained still.
He thought about what he was really going to do: Scout the area tonight. Find a good target. Fresh, innocent, and naïve. One who’d never guess. Then plot moves to make sure it was done right.
One last look at Beth. She was a nice catch, with long blonde hair and perfect teeth. Another trophy on the mantle of accomplishments in his mind.
“On to another victory,” he whispered, then, to his wife, spoke out loud. “Bye, Elizabeth. Got more income statement spreadsheets to complete at work.”
She only moaned.
At Oklahoma City University, he surveyed the girls as they walked past, but none seemed like the one he believed would be a challenge.
Why wouldn’t anyone find this exciting? Blood flowed through him in copious quantities. The thrill of conquering them once their eyes lit up in the recognition that they weren’t going to get away, what fun.
He watched girls exit and leave the Alpha Chi Omega house at twenty fifth and Blackwelder, observed the types of books the female students cradled in their arms over their breasts, and tried to find books he deemed intelligent— finance, algebra (though he could never comprehend it), or biology (an easy one). And accounting, his passion. The pleasure of getting a financial statement to balance was almost as exciting as this hunt. When things balanced, it was as close to perfection as you could get.
A girl with a thick green textbook—the one he knew belonged to accounting students—passed. She did not meet his requirements.
Several more girls passed.
The minutes expired. Streetlights lit the way. He checked the time.
Doubt wifie’s worried, since she has her own concerns. But it is late and I have to get up for work tomorrow.
More students passed. He respired. “Tomorrow I’ll come by and—”
A voice halted his own. A female’s. His forehead beaded with sweat while his lips inched up. He watched her, as he checked for other factors.
The idea for this one
The beginning of this came to me one night after work, at a house I rented. Sitting in the recliner (given to me by my brother) I glanced at the TV cart (also from my brother) I used as an end table and saw my old, thick, 1300 page, green hard-cover accounting book I used for Intermediate I & II accounting. I sighed at how I never really used the degree to my full potential. The reason I chose accounting was I wanted to work as an FBI agent and they preferred accounting majors. Then I found out, around the last week of the last semester of my last year, my epilepsy would prevent me from being an agent. Though one of my duties is to audit payroll for over one hundred employees where I work and I enjoy that, I felt I was only using part of my degree. Being a CPA or such was out of the question-I barely made it through most accounting classes!
Staring at this book and now focused on getting my novels published—I had some short stories published at this point—I thought of using accounting in a novel. Immediately, I had the idea of a murder mystery where accounting statements were found at the crime scenes. I then had to figure out what, if anything, the statements had to do with the crime.
I wrote the first draft, not worrying about creating the statements or such. What a mistake! The next several drafts were both frustrating and discouraging. Not only was I limited in the way I could use numbers for the statements, worse, I had the days mixed up. Told in a shifting perspective, from investigator to killer, I realized my errors: For Claude, the investigator and lead character, it was a Thursday, where as for the killer, it was only Tuesday. How could a guy visit a crime scene or view evidence on something that hadn’t been committed?!
This one was to have been published years ago, only the publisher went out of business before the scheduled print date. First, it was to be published about nine months from when they accepted it—not bad, considering most books got published a year from acceptance. Then they informed me it wouldn’t be out until three months after the anticipated date—a year from acceptance. No big deal. Until those three months went by. Then another three. With no reply via email, I sent a certified letter. They answered back, saying the print date was pushed back further. When that day passed, I was pretty sure they were having financial problems. My novel, Internment, was also to have been published a couple of years before this one, only to have that publisher go out of business! So I expected a similar situation. Sure enough, they informed me via snail mail they were going out of business. I’d already paid to purchase some books and only got back half of my money. I guess getting some of it back was better than nothing.
The only good thing about it not being published was I found out, from another editor, many flaws in the story. I’d used the same words numerous times and, though they gave me a second chance, they rejected my re-write, this time saying they didn’t like Claude’s wife, Kay, so I changed her, among other things. Hopefully, this version is a better read.
The Chair
How far would you go to give shocks to another person for answering questions incorrectly on a game show? What if you wanted revenge on them and were paid to give the shocks? How might you react afterwards, should you encounter this person?
In The Chair, contestants and their shock-givers confront these questions. After watching their show on TV and seeing how it was edited, they discuss going public. When the show host learns of this, he threatens legal action-while, to himself, promises a worse fate for the former show guests. Then, faced their greatest crisis, the game show participants struggle for inner strength they are unsure they possess—and wonder if revenge was their only choice.
Where to buy the book
The Chair, published by Silver Leaf Books, is available at www.silverleafbooks.com, www.amazon.com or www.barnesandnoble.com.
First five pages of The Chair plus the inspiration for the story.
Chapter 1
In Morgantown, West Virginia, Hugh Broderick viewed the clock atop the milk crates he used as shelves in his one-room studio. The glowing digits showed it was time. He retrieved the remote, sat on his bed, grabbed the pizza he’d ordered, then paused. Could he handle this? Would it bring back those feelings?
He consumed a few slices but this upset his stomach so he ambled to the refrigerator and opened a beer. After drinking half the bottle in one swig and noticing it didn’t help, he grabbed another, then a third, a fourth.
“What the hell,” he muttered and took out the whole six pack. Seeing the duplicate package behind it, he grabbed that also then lay on the bed and turned to the new Prime Television channel. The show hadn’t started. Hugh looked at the stucco walls then at the two easels with overlapping illustrations, his work in completing a master’s degree at local West Virginia University.
The show came on. Would the camera focus on him during the entire scene? He hissed air through his lips and shrugged. Who cared? The money to be paid would be a godsend, his bank account nearly empty. Unlike other students, familial financial support was non-existent, his parents already deceased. He’d sold but a few paintings and gave thanks for the partial scholarship and grant money, his debt not as huge as most collegians.
His stomach continued to turn. He recalled the TV people had said the camera would flash to him only on occasion, to view his reaction of former friend Victor Givens.
Hugh thought of those who knew him. Perhaps they’d offer praise after hearing about the pain he’d dealt with, thanks to Victor. At least the financial part of his suffering would soon be taken care of, he could straighten out his debts in the coming weeks with money left over. The show had also been a sort of revenge, the accident having ruined a relationship with a girl due to him having spent numerous hours in physical therapy. Plus, he’d found it difficult to let go of the emotional scars. Retaliation had felt good.
He smiled. But as he reached for a pizza slice and raised it to his lips, he heard the announcer and hesitated.
* * *
That evening, Ty Sampson welcomed friends into his spacious, three bedroom A-frame house. He passed the powder room’s mirror and paused to check his thick, mousse-filled brown hair. All looked good. He led everyone into the vaulted den with its big screen TV. “Got it yesterday,” he said of the eighty-inch TV. “When they realized I was host of a new game show, they practically gave it away."
"Sweet," Kerry Hounslow said as he fingered the ebony shelf then checked his thin red hair and white sport shirt in the reflection of the still-off TV. He was never concerned with appearances except when around the elder Ty. The lead show-host slapped palms with his on-air assistant and bragged they were on their way to being the best show ever.
Kerry swallowed. “Ever?”
Ty gave a sly smile. “Okay, not ever. No way we’ll top the Super Bowl. We’ll be the best rated non-Super Bowl show and become rich beyond all expectations. And that will allow us to do some good for others.” He bowed his head, his voice losing its timbre. “Like helping my little brother by donating to the charities that help him.”
Kerry nodded and felt a pang in his chest, remembering Ty referring to his mentally challenged brother. (“Mentally retarded,” Kerry heard Ty’s voice in his mind. “Call it what it is. Doesn’t make him inferior just ‘cause you call him retarded. Political correctness makes us all liars.”)
“Show’ll be awesome,” Ty said. “Reality TV in game show format, a whole new genre, copycats abound.”
Someone inquired about food and Ty led them to the kitchen table which was piled with caviar, prime rib, and other delicacies.
“Sure know how to throw a party, Gatsby,” Kerry chuckled.
Ty p-shawed. “Just call me Ty, I’m not one to brag.”
Both men laughed. Ty then raised his goblet of champagne, announced the moment had arrived, and thanked everyone. “May this be the start of something great.”
Partygoers clinked glasses, cups, and beer bottles then drank. Ty moved to the big screen and turned it on. He raised the volume. “History in the making.”
* * *
Introductions began and Hugh dropped the pizza back in the box. His joints quivered and his chest felt heavy. Images in his mind became an unfolding photo album: Victor’s wide eyes and shaking body. He wondered what others would say about him giving Victor the shocks. Why did he care? The money was on its way. He grabbed the pizza and ate a wide bite, licked his lips, and smiled despite his body still feeling like a live wire. He gripped a beer bottle, opened it, and consumed a large portion. “Better,” he breathed.
On the television, Ty welcomed viewers and announced his first contestant. “This is Victor, who came all the way from Buckhannon, a small town in wild and wonderful West Virginia!” The crowd applauded as the camera switched to a close-up of the host.
“Our contestant is asked questions on a variety of subjects. To win the grand prize, twenty five million, he must correctly answer eleven in row. Get one right, you win five hundred dollars. Two right, one thousand. Three and it’s fifteen hundred, four is two thou. Five right, five thousand. Nine, it jumps to twenty five thou. But he gets ten right, he’s a millionaire. And if he gets one more, he’s our grand prize winner. Twenty five million! Enough to start his own country. However…” he lowered his voice, “There are a few twists. First, if he gets a question wrong, he can continue and start over though he loses his money. Second twist...” His chuckle sounded like a horror villain’s laugh. “Unknown to our contestant, we have a surprise. He has but one minute to answer and for each wrong or unanswered question, he receives an electric shock. The more answers he gets wrong, the higher the voltage becomes. Now, the best part.”
The camera pulled away to reveal a view from a little studio. Visible through a one-way glass window was Victor who was wired with electrodes on all his fingers. A camera inside the studio showed Kerry wearing a scientist’s lab coat. Ty introduced him as a doctor and mentioned his Ph.D. In front of Kerry was a machine with dials and switches. The assistant spoke with someone to his left who was standing in front of a lever.
“This is Hugh,” Ty said. “Also from West Virginia. On a dark, midnight dreary, Victor took Hugh on a joy ride Hugh would never forget. What followed was a near death experience. Thanks to some alcohol and speed—from the car, not the drug—the boys nearly died in a collision.
“Hugh still suffers nightmares and flashbacks; the event so traumatic he and his girl broke up. Now he’s got a chance to even the score. He will be the one giving the shocks. The Spanish proverb says revenge is a dish best eaten cold. Let’s see what kind of dish Hugh serves. And if Victor will eat it.”
Read the rest of chapter 1 at www.silverleafbooks.com.
The inspiration for this story
I read The Power Of Your Subconscious Mind by Joseph Murphy, a sort of “prayer book,” explaining how to pray effectively and why sometimes prayers work and sometimes they don't.
Hoping for a more current book by Murphy, I found one by another author that seemed interesting. Thankfully, the library had it because it had obvious statements, 'borrowed' from other books, and had oversimplified thinking. This author seemed more interested in describing themselves and their so-call celebrity friends, then claimed the way to succeed was to write down your goals. They said the reason so many American POWs converted to communism during the Korean war was the Chinese Communists, assisting North Korea, made POWs write statements down and sign their names to them. Statements that said how bad capitalism was and how good communism was. Simply writing it down, the author said, had converted Americans to communism.
Not believing anyone would change political ideology that quick, I tossed the book aside, turned on the TV, channel surfed, then experienced what I call an Aha moment. An idea: What if you could make people do things by having them write them down and sign their name to it? Murder? Theft? Intriguing. I picked up the book, saw a footnote regarding the Korean War information that mentioned another book. I got it, read the several pages on the Korean War though it helped little. While skimming through the book, I stopped and read about the Milgram expirement.
Stanley Milgram was a psychologist who did experiments to see how much suffering an ordinary person would inflict on another when ordered to do so. People answered an ad for a science experiment. They were directed to an office and introduced to another average citizen and a man in gray lab coat with a clipboard, the scientist of the experiment. The scientist explained he was doing a study of how punishment affected learning and memory. The one person, labeled the scientist’s ‘helper,’ then sat in a chair and had electrodes attached to their hands while the scientist led the person brought in off the street into another room where they’d listen to the 'helper' spell a series of words. Should the 'helper' misspell a word, this other person was ordered by the scientist to give an electric shock. At first the shocks were small and tolerable. But with each incorrectly spelled word, the scientist increased the voltage and ordered the person to deliver another shock.
Unknown to the person giving the shock, the experiment was not to test memory and punishment. The person in the chair was an actor who pretended they were being shocked. The research was to test how far people went when ordered by an 'authority' to inflict punishment.
The research was chilling. Mystified by how German citizen could have participated in the concentration camp killings, Milgram believed it was a deep-seated belief we have to follow authority that compelled such actions. Normal people, left on their own to give another person such a shock, would have stopped once the other person said they'd had enough. However, add an 'authority figure' (i.e., a scientist in a lab coat, the 'boss') who then orders the shock be given, and you have a whole different situation.
In Milgram's research, 65% gave the 'shocks' to the very end—even if the person in the chair cried, screamed, pleaded or begged for the shocks to end. But that 65% didn’t gleefully give the shocks. They agonized, twitched, perspired, shook, stammered protests, and pleaded for the other person's release or to end the experiment. Yet they gave the shocks until ordered to stop by the scientist—and this only after each lever had been pulled and the 'helper' had been ‘given’ an ultimate shock of 450 volts. As for the one third who did stop before going this far, none protested until after the alleged shocks had been in the 300 volt amount. For perspective, the average outlet has 120 volts.
Milgram then added a twist: the scientist and his 'helper' switched roles, whereby the scientist was in the chair and the 'helper' was the one increasing the voltage and ordering the test subject to continue. Whenever the scientist said he'd had enough, the one giving the shocks always obeyed, even if the 'helper' ordered the person to continue.
In a further experiment, Milgram had two scientists participate—one turning up the voltage and ordering the shocks to be given, the other in the chair, ordering the experiment to stop. Here, test subjects were confused. Which to listen to? The subject would look from one to the other, demand to know which command to follow. With the scientists in disagreement, subjects would then try to determine who the bigger ‘boss’ was (e.g., by size, height, etc). Failing with this option, the test subject followed their better instincts and ended the shocks.
This fascinating (and disturbing) experiment stayed with me. A year later, flipping through channels one spring evening, I briefly watched two really bad game shows (The Chamber? The Chair?) One had John McEnroe as host, which had me change the channel pretty quick. One of the shows, if my memory is accurate, strapped contestants into a chair in some kind of chamber that would then spin, twist, and turn. Contestants were also sprayed with cold and warm steam (or water, I forget) then were asked questions for, I guess, prize money. Whenever the contestant decided they'd had enough, that was the end of their turn and, I assume, they would get whatever prize money they had won. After I changed the channel, I had an idea: Combine a game show with Milgram's research. People giving shocks to other, innocent contestants, who didn’t know who was giving the shocks.
I played around with this image for several months then hit on a new premise: Have the contestant and shock giver know each other. Better yet, have the one giving the shocks wanting revenge on the contestant.
I finally believed I had a good enough story to make a novel. Well, at least, good enough to try to make it a novel. I mentally created characters and motivations that might push them to seek revenge.
I recall promising myself to finish this before I planned on taking off work a few days, wanted to relax, knowing the first draft of The Chair was done. Except it took longer than I thought & the last week, I spent 5 or 6 hrs working on it (maybe 1-1 ½ hrs in the AM, 4 or 5 hrs in the evening). But I got it completed— with two days to spare!
In The Chair, contestants and their shock-givers confront these questions. After watching their show on TV and seeing how it was edited, they discuss going public. When the show host learns of this, he threatens legal action-while, to himself, promises a worse fate for the former show guests. Then, faced their greatest crisis, the game show participants struggle for inner strength they are unsure they possess—and wonder if revenge was their only choice.
Where to buy the book
The Chair, published by Silver Leaf Books, is available at www.silverleafbooks.com, www.amazon.com or www.barnesandnoble.com.
First five pages of The Chair plus the inspiration for the story.
Chapter 1
In Morgantown, West Virginia, Hugh Broderick viewed the clock atop the milk crates he used as shelves in his one-room studio. The glowing digits showed it was time. He retrieved the remote, sat on his bed, grabbed the pizza he’d ordered, then paused. Could he handle this? Would it bring back those feelings?
He consumed a few slices but this upset his stomach so he ambled to the refrigerator and opened a beer. After drinking half the bottle in one swig and noticing it didn’t help, he grabbed another, then a third, a fourth.
“What the hell,” he muttered and took out the whole six pack. Seeing the duplicate package behind it, he grabbed that also then lay on the bed and turned to the new Prime Television channel. The show hadn’t started. Hugh looked at the stucco walls then at the two easels with overlapping illustrations, his work in completing a master’s degree at local West Virginia University.
The show came on. Would the camera focus on him during the entire scene? He hissed air through his lips and shrugged. Who cared? The money to be paid would be a godsend, his bank account nearly empty. Unlike other students, familial financial support was non-existent, his parents already deceased. He’d sold but a few paintings and gave thanks for the partial scholarship and grant money, his debt not as huge as most collegians.
His stomach continued to turn. He recalled the TV people had said the camera would flash to him only on occasion, to view his reaction of former friend Victor Givens.
Hugh thought of those who knew him. Perhaps they’d offer praise after hearing about the pain he’d dealt with, thanks to Victor. At least the financial part of his suffering would soon be taken care of, he could straighten out his debts in the coming weeks with money left over. The show had also been a sort of revenge, the accident having ruined a relationship with a girl due to him having spent numerous hours in physical therapy. Plus, he’d found it difficult to let go of the emotional scars. Retaliation had felt good.
He smiled. But as he reached for a pizza slice and raised it to his lips, he heard the announcer and hesitated.
* * *
That evening, Ty Sampson welcomed friends into his spacious, three bedroom A-frame house. He passed the powder room’s mirror and paused to check his thick, mousse-filled brown hair. All looked good. He led everyone into the vaulted den with its big screen TV. “Got it yesterday,” he said of the eighty-inch TV. “When they realized I was host of a new game show, they practically gave it away."
"Sweet," Kerry Hounslow said as he fingered the ebony shelf then checked his thin red hair and white sport shirt in the reflection of the still-off TV. He was never concerned with appearances except when around the elder Ty. The lead show-host slapped palms with his on-air assistant and bragged they were on their way to being the best show ever.
Kerry swallowed. “Ever?”
Ty gave a sly smile. “Okay, not ever. No way we’ll top the Super Bowl. We’ll be the best rated non-Super Bowl show and become rich beyond all expectations. And that will allow us to do some good for others.” He bowed his head, his voice losing its timbre. “Like helping my little brother by donating to the charities that help him.”
Kerry nodded and felt a pang in his chest, remembering Ty referring to his mentally challenged brother. (“Mentally retarded,” Kerry heard Ty’s voice in his mind. “Call it what it is. Doesn’t make him inferior just ‘cause you call him retarded. Political correctness makes us all liars.”)
“Show’ll be awesome,” Ty said. “Reality TV in game show format, a whole new genre, copycats abound.”
Someone inquired about food and Ty led them to the kitchen table which was piled with caviar, prime rib, and other delicacies.
“Sure know how to throw a party, Gatsby,” Kerry chuckled.
Ty p-shawed. “Just call me Ty, I’m not one to brag.”
Both men laughed. Ty then raised his goblet of champagne, announced the moment had arrived, and thanked everyone. “May this be the start of something great.”
Partygoers clinked glasses, cups, and beer bottles then drank. Ty moved to the big screen and turned it on. He raised the volume. “History in the making.”
* * *
Introductions began and Hugh dropped the pizza back in the box. His joints quivered and his chest felt heavy. Images in his mind became an unfolding photo album: Victor’s wide eyes and shaking body. He wondered what others would say about him giving Victor the shocks. Why did he care? The money was on its way. He grabbed the pizza and ate a wide bite, licked his lips, and smiled despite his body still feeling like a live wire. He gripped a beer bottle, opened it, and consumed a large portion. “Better,” he breathed.
On the television, Ty welcomed viewers and announced his first contestant. “This is Victor, who came all the way from Buckhannon, a small town in wild and wonderful West Virginia!” The crowd applauded as the camera switched to a close-up of the host.
“Our contestant is asked questions on a variety of subjects. To win the grand prize, twenty five million, he must correctly answer eleven in row. Get one right, you win five hundred dollars. Two right, one thousand. Three and it’s fifteen hundred, four is two thou. Five right, five thousand. Nine, it jumps to twenty five thou. But he gets ten right, he’s a millionaire. And if he gets one more, he’s our grand prize winner. Twenty five million! Enough to start his own country. However…” he lowered his voice, “There are a few twists. First, if he gets a question wrong, he can continue and start over though he loses his money. Second twist...” His chuckle sounded like a horror villain’s laugh. “Unknown to our contestant, we have a surprise. He has but one minute to answer and for each wrong or unanswered question, he receives an electric shock. The more answers he gets wrong, the higher the voltage becomes. Now, the best part.”
The camera pulled away to reveal a view from a little studio. Visible through a one-way glass window was Victor who was wired with electrodes on all his fingers. A camera inside the studio showed Kerry wearing a scientist’s lab coat. Ty introduced him as a doctor and mentioned his Ph.D. In front of Kerry was a machine with dials and switches. The assistant spoke with someone to his left who was standing in front of a lever.
“This is Hugh,” Ty said. “Also from West Virginia. On a dark, midnight dreary, Victor took Hugh on a joy ride Hugh would never forget. What followed was a near death experience. Thanks to some alcohol and speed—from the car, not the drug—the boys nearly died in a collision.
“Hugh still suffers nightmares and flashbacks; the event so traumatic he and his girl broke up. Now he’s got a chance to even the score. He will be the one giving the shocks. The Spanish proverb says revenge is a dish best eaten cold. Let’s see what kind of dish Hugh serves. And if Victor will eat it.”
Read the rest of chapter 1 at www.silverleafbooks.com.
The inspiration for this story
I read The Power Of Your Subconscious Mind by Joseph Murphy, a sort of “prayer book,” explaining how to pray effectively and why sometimes prayers work and sometimes they don't.
Hoping for a more current book by Murphy, I found one by another author that seemed interesting. Thankfully, the library had it because it had obvious statements, 'borrowed' from other books, and had oversimplified thinking. This author seemed more interested in describing themselves and their so-call celebrity friends, then claimed the way to succeed was to write down your goals. They said the reason so many American POWs converted to communism during the Korean war was the Chinese Communists, assisting North Korea, made POWs write statements down and sign their names to them. Statements that said how bad capitalism was and how good communism was. Simply writing it down, the author said, had converted Americans to communism.
Not believing anyone would change political ideology that quick, I tossed the book aside, turned on the TV, channel surfed, then experienced what I call an Aha moment. An idea: What if you could make people do things by having them write them down and sign their name to it? Murder? Theft? Intriguing. I picked up the book, saw a footnote regarding the Korean War information that mentioned another book. I got it, read the several pages on the Korean War though it helped little. While skimming through the book, I stopped and read about the Milgram expirement.
Stanley Milgram was a psychologist who did experiments to see how much suffering an ordinary person would inflict on another when ordered to do so. People answered an ad for a science experiment. They were directed to an office and introduced to another average citizen and a man in gray lab coat with a clipboard, the scientist of the experiment. The scientist explained he was doing a study of how punishment affected learning and memory. The one person, labeled the scientist’s ‘helper,’ then sat in a chair and had electrodes attached to their hands while the scientist led the person brought in off the street into another room where they’d listen to the 'helper' spell a series of words. Should the 'helper' misspell a word, this other person was ordered by the scientist to give an electric shock. At first the shocks were small and tolerable. But with each incorrectly spelled word, the scientist increased the voltage and ordered the person to deliver another shock.
Unknown to the person giving the shock, the experiment was not to test memory and punishment. The person in the chair was an actor who pretended they were being shocked. The research was to test how far people went when ordered by an 'authority' to inflict punishment.
The research was chilling. Mystified by how German citizen could have participated in the concentration camp killings, Milgram believed it was a deep-seated belief we have to follow authority that compelled such actions. Normal people, left on their own to give another person such a shock, would have stopped once the other person said they'd had enough. However, add an 'authority figure' (i.e., a scientist in a lab coat, the 'boss') who then orders the shock be given, and you have a whole different situation.
In Milgram's research, 65% gave the 'shocks' to the very end—even if the person in the chair cried, screamed, pleaded or begged for the shocks to end. But that 65% didn’t gleefully give the shocks. They agonized, twitched, perspired, shook, stammered protests, and pleaded for the other person's release or to end the experiment. Yet they gave the shocks until ordered to stop by the scientist—and this only after each lever had been pulled and the 'helper' had been ‘given’ an ultimate shock of 450 volts. As for the one third who did stop before going this far, none protested until after the alleged shocks had been in the 300 volt amount. For perspective, the average outlet has 120 volts.
Milgram then added a twist: the scientist and his 'helper' switched roles, whereby the scientist was in the chair and the 'helper' was the one increasing the voltage and ordering the test subject to continue. Whenever the scientist said he'd had enough, the one giving the shocks always obeyed, even if the 'helper' ordered the person to continue.
In a further experiment, Milgram had two scientists participate—one turning up the voltage and ordering the shocks to be given, the other in the chair, ordering the experiment to stop. Here, test subjects were confused. Which to listen to? The subject would look from one to the other, demand to know which command to follow. With the scientists in disagreement, subjects would then try to determine who the bigger ‘boss’ was (e.g., by size, height, etc). Failing with this option, the test subject followed their better instincts and ended the shocks.
This fascinating (and disturbing) experiment stayed with me. A year later, flipping through channels one spring evening, I briefly watched two really bad game shows (The Chamber? The Chair?) One had John McEnroe as host, which had me change the channel pretty quick. One of the shows, if my memory is accurate, strapped contestants into a chair in some kind of chamber that would then spin, twist, and turn. Contestants were also sprayed with cold and warm steam (or water, I forget) then were asked questions for, I guess, prize money. Whenever the contestant decided they'd had enough, that was the end of their turn and, I assume, they would get whatever prize money they had won. After I changed the channel, I had an idea: Combine a game show with Milgram's research. People giving shocks to other, innocent contestants, who didn’t know who was giving the shocks.
I played around with this image for several months then hit on a new premise: Have the contestant and shock giver know each other. Better yet, have the one giving the shocks wanting revenge on the contestant.
I finally believed I had a good enough story to make a novel. Well, at least, good enough to try to make it a novel. I mentally created characters and motivations that might push them to seek revenge.
I recall promising myself to finish this before I planned on taking off work a few days, wanted to relax, knowing the first draft of The Chair was done. Except it took longer than I thought & the last week, I spent 5 or 6 hrs working on it (maybe 1-1 ½ hrs in the AM, 4 or 5 hrs in the evening). But I got it completed— with two days to spare!
Chalktrauma
Navigating the complex labyrinth that is high school – friends, relationships, classes, and teachers–is challenging enough, but four friends find themselves grappling with the question of what’s more important: Loyalty or self-preservation? When Rock, Lilly, Damon, and Tom have a substitute teacher following the passing of their previous teacher, they react like normal high school students–joking, goofing off, and playing around until the new teacher displays a hidden “talent.” After students misbehave, she runs her long nails down the chalkboard, causing immense suffering amongst the teens. When a few suspicious incidents occur, Rock theorizes that their new teacher, Bella Christianson, has some mysterious unknown ability that is plaguing them.
After Tom, one of Rock’s friends, gets sick under mysterious circumstances, it’s up to Rock, his girlfriend Lilly, and his friend Damon, to find out what is going on with the new, young attractive sub, Ms. Christianson. There’s something about her that Rock finds uncontrollably hot, but at the same time, there’s something off about her. And to make matters worse, people keep turning up dead. Nonetheless, after being seduced, Rock begins a forbidden love affair with his teacher, all the while observing her strange behaviors. But how long can it last? Will Rock and his friends be able to survive their encounters with their dangerous teacher?
After Tom, one of Rock’s friends, gets sick under mysterious circumstances, it’s up to Rock, his girlfriend Lilly, and his friend Damon, to find out what is going on with the new, young attractive sub, Ms. Christianson. There’s something about her that Rock finds uncontrollably hot, but at the same time, there’s something off about her. And to make matters worse, people keep turning up dead. Nonetheless, after being seduced, Rock begins a forbidden love affair with his teacher, all the while observing her strange behaviors. But how long can it last? Will Rock and his friends be able to survive their encounters with their dangerous teacher?
Where to buy the book
Visit the following links to buy the book: Amazon.com and Silver Leaf Books.com. Click on either link and read the first two chapters.
Visit the following links to buy the book: Amazon.com and Silver Leaf Books.com. Click on either link and read the first two chapters.
First chapter of Chalktrauma and the idea for the novel.
Chapter 1
Bella Christianson tapped the hand-held board, she always had one in her reach. Chalk grains fell to the brown carpeted bedroom floor of her home in the southeast Louisiana parish of Orleans. She grunted then reminded herself of the more important issue and hit the board with her long, florally decorated nails.
“Sammy, c’mon, what’s taking so long? Most eighteen year old boys think of nothing else.” She smirked, certain her question would get him going. “Or are you a homo?”
Her student denied he was, groaned, and tried again. She asked if he was impotent, their intimate moments having gotten worse since that first night. He hadn’t satisfied her to her liking but she’d said she had faith in him. And she knew she was attractive, long auburn hair flowing toward a generous bosom, her smile a dentist’s dream. The fact she was an older woman to her male students was the clincher for them.
The fact they were at her place was a nice benefit. She normally tutored Sam at his parents’ house but due to it being remodeled, he came here to prepare for tomorrow’s big exam.
“Ready?” She took her position again—on top as always─she dropped the board and encouraged him to finish.
The boy eyed his bonds. She told him trying to break free was pointless, and bragged she always knotted the rope in tight, bowline knots, too. The only way a boy could escape was if he took Alexander the Great’s approach to the Gordian Knot. No way Sam could do that in his current position nor did he possess the cutting instrument. He pulled his hands from the bedposts anyway. They went a few inches before the rope tightened and lashed his wrists.
The female told him defiance was not his best option, then slithered down to him and placed her lips on his. “You’re a guy, love sex, want to do it over and over. Here’s your chance.”
They interacted some more yet she did not reach satisfaction.
“Sammy? C’mon. You can do it.”
“I can’t,” the young man moaned.
“Yes you can.”
Sam did not even try.
The woman’s voice went flat. “What the hell is your problem? You leave me no choice though it will hurt me more than it’ll hurt you.” She watched sweat form on the teen’s forehead then saw him glance at the doorway. “Uh-uh.” Bella waved a finger back and forth. “You’re not going anywhere, you didn’t follow the lesson plan. So...”
She retrieved the slate-covered rectangle and with the deliberateness of someone touching a fine piece of china, slid her nails down the board.
“No!” Sam protested he didn’t want the results he’d experienced when she’d done this before: a fainting spell. Then one side of his body became paralyzed. The next time it was a seizure. The worst was a heart attack—something doctors could not explain, dismissing it as arrhythmia.
He pulled at the rope and tried to lift his legs. She stayed on top of him, all the while sliding her nails down the board.
“Please! No!” the young man cried. “I promise to put out. Give me a chance!” He grunted, lifted both legs.
The woman shot up as if atop a whale who’d used its blowhole. She screamed for help as the chalkboard fell to the floor. She landed next to it, shoulder first. Bella uttered profanity, said she’d planned only mild punishment, but now she guaranteed harsh retribution of the worst kind.
Sam raised his legs to the ceiling, fisted hands around the rope, and swung his legs back down. His back went up. The headboard collapsed to a forty five degree angle then snapped back against the wall, his head doing the same.
“Damn it, Sam!” Bella pushed his legs down, pinned her knees on his shoulders like before. In one hand she controlled the board, Sam’s undulating body not a distraction. “I warned you.” Down the slate the edges of her fingertips went. A high pitched squeal more deafening than music at the loudest rock concert invaded the room.
Sam’s eyes teared and his mouth frothed like a dog’s. She felt his legs rise underneath her. The nails continued their descent. More screeching. Sam’s eyes expanded and his body twitched, convulsing as if electrocuted. In a few moments, they went stiff.
Bella lowered her hand and slid off him, dropping the board on carpet. “I warned you,” she muttered, undoing his bonds. His eyes did not blink so she closed them, pushed the chalkboard under the bed, picked up the phone, and dialed the three numbers, this process now routine for her.
She sobbed when the person on the other end asked what her emergency was. “Something terrible happened! I don’t know how, it just did. Someone needs to get out here now! I hope it’s not too late to save him. Please!”
Read Chapter 2 at Amazon.com or SilverLeafBooks.com
The idea behind Chalktrauma:
Came up with this story when recalling my best friend, Greg, in West Virginia. We were good friends but back then he made many claims, such as when he told me how, years earlier, he was the one who came up with a phrase a lot of us used in school then. Instead of saying “In your face!” we’d just put a hand close to our face and yell “Face!” Odd, I know but we were teens. I told him I’d never heard it until recently, to which he said “Well, it’d take that long to get up there,” in reference to the fact my dad had moved us recently from Niagara Falls. I scoffed, “I never heard that phrase until I moved here.” He paused, said “Oh…,” and changed the subject.
One day we were in my parent’s basement (actually it was a large bedroom converted into two smaller rooms, one crammed with three beds—I had six siblings—the other made into a small playroom) and were sketching on a large blackboard my parents bought years earlier. For some reason (anger, as joke or what, I don’t recall) I ran my nails down the board. Greg seized my wrist and, with clenched teeth, said “Don’t do that! It makes my heart stop!” Thinking of his other dubious claims, I dismissed this as him trying to scare me for a prank, laughed, and said something like “Yeah, right.” He kept insisting it was true, which had me lowering my lips and wondering if he really was serious.
Years later, recalling this incident, I thought Wouldn’t it be creepy if someone could do that to others, make their heart stop? I immediately imagined a teacher doing this if kids misbehaved (and quickly decided it had to be a female and she would use her long nails to make the sound more dramatic) then chose to make her a substitute since kids misbehave most often with a sub. I pictured incidents, each result being more serious. I added where the teacher (Bella, obviously in reference to belladonna) was young, attractive, and liked younger men. Most teen boys think an ‘older’ woman (in this case early twenty-something females) relationship is more impressive than being with a girl of their age so I added where Bella would take an interest in one of the students, (Rock) which would harm his relationship with his girlfriend, Lilly, as well as other friends, Tom and Damon.
Then I came up with a serious incident that would make Rock wonder about his choice. Though hardly original, over 2,700 years old, I did like the way I wrote the climactic scene.
Wonder if Greg remembers this…and if so, maybe he could tell me if he was lying or really telling the truth.
Chapter 1
Bella Christianson tapped the hand-held board, she always had one in her reach. Chalk grains fell to the brown carpeted bedroom floor of her home in the southeast Louisiana parish of Orleans. She grunted then reminded herself of the more important issue and hit the board with her long, florally decorated nails.
“Sammy, c’mon, what’s taking so long? Most eighteen year old boys think of nothing else.” She smirked, certain her question would get him going. “Or are you a homo?”
Her student denied he was, groaned, and tried again. She asked if he was impotent, their intimate moments having gotten worse since that first night. He hadn’t satisfied her to her liking but she’d said she had faith in him. And she knew she was attractive, long auburn hair flowing toward a generous bosom, her smile a dentist’s dream. The fact she was an older woman to her male students was the clincher for them.
The fact they were at her place was a nice benefit. She normally tutored Sam at his parents’ house but due to it being remodeled, he came here to prepare for tomorrow’s big exam.
“Ready?” She took her position again—on top as always─she dropped the board and encouraged him to finish.
The boy eyed his bonds. She told him trying to break free was pointless, and bragged she always knotted the rope in tight, bowline knots, too. The only way a boy could escape was if he took Alexander the Great’s approach to the Gordian Knot. No way Sam could do that in his current position nor did he possess the cutting instrument. He pulled his hands from the bedposts anyway. They went a few inches before the rope tightened and lashed his wrists.
The female told him defiance was not his best option, then slithered down to him and placed her lips on his. “You’re a guy, love sex, want to do it over and over. Here’s your chance.”
They interacted some more yet she did not reach satisfaction.
“Sammy? C’mon. You can do it.”
“I can’t,” the young man moaned.
“Yes you can.”
Sam did not even try.
The woman’s voice went flat. “What the hell is your problem? You leave me no choice though it will hurt me more than it’ll hurt you.” She watched sweat form on the teen’s forehead then saw him glance at the doorway. “Uh-uh.” Bella waved a finger back and forth. “You’re not going anywhere, you didn’t follow the lesson plan. So...”
She retrieved the slate-covered rectangle and with the deliberateness of someone touching a fine piece of china, slid her nails down the board.
“No!” Sam protested he didn’t want the results he’d experienced when she’d done this before: a fainting spell. Then one side of his body became paralyzed. The next time it was a seizure. The worst was a heart attack—something doctors could not explain, dismissing it as arrhythmia.
He pulled at the rope and tried to lift his legs. She stayed on top of him, all the while sliding her nails down the board.
“Please! No!” the young man cried. “I promise to put out. Give me a chance!” He grunted, lifted both legs.
The woman shot up as if atop a whale who’d used its blowhole. She screamed for help as the chalkboard fell to the floor. She landed next to it, shoulder first. Bella uttered profanity, said she’d planned only mild punishment, but now she guaranteed harsh retribution of the worst kind.
Sam raised his legs to the ceiling, fisted hands around the rope, and swung his legs back down. His back went up. The headboard collapsed to a forty five degree angle then snapped back against the wall, his head doing the same.
“Damn it, Sam!” Bella pushed his legs down, pinned her knees on his shoulders like before. In one hand she controlled the board, Sam’s undulating body not a distraction. “I warned you.” Down the slate the edges of her fingertips went. A high pitched squeal more deafening than music at the loudest rock concert invaded the room.
Sam’s eyes teared and his mouth frothed like a dog’s. She felt his legs rise underneath her. The nails continued their descent. More screeching. Sam’s eyes expanded and his body twitched, convulsing as if electrocuted. In a few moments, they went stiff.
Bella lowered her hand and slid off him, dropping the board on carpet. “I warned you,” she muttered, undoing his bonds. His eyes did not blink so she closed them, pushed the chalkboard under the bed, picked up the phone, and dialed the three numbers, this process now routine for her.
She sobbed when the person on the other end asked what her emergency was. “Something terrible happened! I don’t know how, it just did. Someone needs to get out here now! I hope it’s not too late to save him. Please!”
Read Chapter 2 at Amazon.com or SilverLeafBooks.com
The idea behind Chalktrauma:
Came up with this story when recalling my best friend, Greg, in West Virginia. We were good friends but back then he made many claims, such as when he told me how, years earlier, he was the one who came up with a phrase a lot of us used in school then. Instead of saying “In your face!” we’d just put a hand close to our face and yell “Face!” Odd, I know but we were teens. I told him I’d never heard it until recently, to which he said “Well, it’d take that long to get up there,” in reference to the fact my dad had moved us recently from Niagara Falls. I scoffed, “I never heard that phrase until I moved here.” He paused, said “Oh…,” and changed the subject.
One day we were in my parent’s basement (actually it was a large bedroom converted into two smaller rooms, one crammed with three beds—I had six siblings—the other made into a small playroom) and were sketching on a large blackboard my parents bought years earlier. For some reason (anger, as joke or what, I don’t recall) I ran my nails down the board. Greg seized my wrist and, with clenched teeth, said “Don’t do that! It makes my heart stop!” Thinking of his other dubious claims, I dismissed this as him trying to scare me for a prank, laughed, and said something like “Yeah, right.” He kept insisting it was true, which had me lowering my lips and wondering if he really was serious.
Years later, recalling this incident, I thought Wouldn’t it be creepy if someone could do that to others, make their heart stop? I immediately imagined a teacher doing this if kids misbehaved (and quickly decided it had to be a female and she would use her long nails to make the sound more dramatic) then chose to make her a substitute since kids misbehave most often with a sub. I pictured incidents, each result being more serious. I added where the teacher (Bella, obviously in reference to belladonna) was young, attractive, and liked younger men. Most teen boys think an ‘older’ woman (in this case early twenty-something females) relationship is more impressive than being with a girl of their age so I added where Bella would take an interest in one of the students, (Rock) which would harm his relationship with his girlfriend, Lilly, as well as other friends, Tom and Damon.
Then I came up with a serious incident that would make Rock wonder about his choice. Though hardly original, over 2,700 years old, I did like the way I wrote the climactic scene.
Wonder if Greg remembers this…and if so, maybe he could tell me if he was lying or really telling the truth.
Internment
Eighteen year old Justin Hopkins ekes out a living writing freelance articles for magazines. When he receives an offer from his psychiatrist uncle to help write about ground-breaking research, Justin jumps at the chance. He travels to his Uncle Blake's isolated ranch with hopes of big-time publication. There, however, he is held captive and worn down, physically and mentally, by Blake and his followers—all, as Blake professes, to make Justin as ‘strong as possible’, in body and mind. Can Justin survive the torment? Or will he succumb and join the others, even bring harm to someone else, now believing it will make them as ‘strong as possible’?
Where to buy the novel
Visit the following links: Amazon.com, BarnesandNoble.com, or TheWildRosePress.com for the ebook. Buy the print book at: TheWildRosePress.com or Amazon.com.
Or, if you live north of Oklahoma City, in Edmond, visit Best of Books in Edmond, in KickingBird Square (NW corner of Danforth and Bryant, near the east side of the plaza)
Visit the following links: Amazon.com, BarnesandNoble.com, or TheWildRosePress.com for the ebook. Buy the print book at: TheWildRosePress.com or Amazon.com.
Or, if you live north of Oklahoma City, in Edmond, visit Best of Books in Edmond, in KickingBird Square (NW corner of Danforth and Bryant, near the east side of the plaza)
The first chapter of Internment, along with a little backstory at the end about my inspiration for the novel and some of the writing process.
Chapter 1
Justin Hopkins awoke lightheaded and dizzy in a cramped room, on a concrete surface. He shivered. His reedy body tended to go cold easily. He was wearing a lightweight T-shirt and pants, olive drab, like the ones worn by the people he’d seen yesterday. Or what he assumed was yesterday. He had no idea how long he’d been out. His shoes and socks had been removed.
His stomach grumbled, and his muscles ached as if he’d done heavy lifting. Before passing out—after having drank some wine—he’d been eating a ham sandwich. It had to be at least twelve hours later, he deduced, or his stomach wouldn’t be having this conversation with him.
He cleared his head, brushed brown hair from his eyes, and called for his uncle. Silence greeted him. A second attempt netted the same result.
“Somebody!”
No one came forth. Despite a foot being asleep, he rose and limped to the door, as slowly as moving through water. He struggled to remain upright.
The door had no knob on this side, only a metal block with a deadbolt keyhole.
“Anybody out there? What’s going on?” Justin pried at the crack between the thick oak door and jamb but was unsuccessful. “Uncle Blake, let me out of here!” He pounded until his hands hurt, leaned on the exit, then slid to the floor. It was as cold as snow. The room was unheated and with it being fall, northern temperatures were not mild. He sprang up and searched for an escape. The smooth lavender walls were bare, no windows. He wrapped his arms around his chest. His teeth chattered so he did push-ups, sit-ups, jogged in place until he got warm, then tried the door again. “Damn it, somebody, let me out! What the hell’s going on?”
No response. He sagged to the floor, ignored its chill. What had happened? How long had he been in here, and why? He got back up and hit the door with his fists. “Let me the hell out!”
A twist of metal on the other side. The knob turned, a rush of air. He stepped back as the image and face made him even colder. “What do you want?” Uncle Blake said. His previously combed gray hair was unkempt, blue eyes cutting through Justin like diamonds on glass, jaw clenched. “What is wrong with you?” He closed the door behind him.
“What is going on?” Justin clutched Blake’s sleeve.
“Relax.” Blake pulled free, ordered Justin to sit on the bed, then joined him, his voice softer. “Understand, I love you very much.”
“Then why are you putting me in here? Where are my clothes? My wallet and phone? My truck?”
“They’re in safekeeping, no need to worry.” “What is going on?”
His uncle smiled a grin that made Justin shudder. “I’m helping you. We are.”
“Who’s ‘we’?”
“Tonya, Theo, Murray, Vera, and Johnnie,” Uncle Blake said of his five houseguests, Justin having met two of them the night before. Tonya, her smooth oval face, light-brown hair, and wide smile having caused his heart rate to increase, Theo thin but tight-muscled with short, black hair.
“Who are Murray, Vera, and Johnnie?”
“Vera and Johnnie are husband and wife followers, Murray also one of us. You’ll see.” Blake rubbed Justin’s shoulder. “You were lost and are now found. My--our—job is to mold you. You are at the perfect age, on the precipice of manhood so we will make you better. Much better.”
Justin now understood the letter had been a ruse and recalled the day he’d received it, handwritten name crude yet legible: Blake Panzer, from his psychiatrist uncle whom he hadn’t seen in ten years.
Eighteen years old, Justin had mostly raised himself in the tiny town of Salisbury, West Virginia, his parents more interested in traveling than raising him or his sister Tamara. Nine years his senior, she had left when he was ten. The only things he remembered about her were her blond hair and the ruby ring she’d gotten from their grandmother, a ring that displayed the graduation year and school name on one side, faces of comedy and drama on the other. He’d hoped to get one but dropped out to pursue his goal of writing nonfiction, had some articles published in travel magazines but barely made enough to survive.
In his letter, Blake claimed he’d done research on isolation and how it affected memory, how well people related to others after they’d been alone for lengths of time, said it was groundbreaking work, to be published in a prestigious journal or perhaps as a book. He’d requested Justin’s assistance regarding grammatical and editorial details. With dreams of big-time publication flowing in his mind, Justin, who usually considered things and analyzed them prior to making a decision, had made his choice before nightfall and was in his blue F-150 pickup the next morning, on his way to rural northern Minnesota.
Uncle Blake’s ranch encompassed several wooded acres, no other homes around, the pitched roof of the one-story, L-shaped redbrick house making it seem bigger. A wooden front porch ran the length of the house. It was balanced by two large French windows on either side of the white door. Behind it, several hundred feet back, a barn housed a few cows.
Justin now wished he hadn’t let his emotions and imagination do his deciding upon receiving his uncle’s letter.
“We’ll make you so much better,” his uncle now repeated.
“I don’t want to be better!”
Blake clicked his tongue against his teeth a few times, responded all of them said that but once the experience was over, they had thanked him. He mentioned Justin had heard Tonya and Theo praise his results, boasted he had saved them and would do the same for him.
Justin protested he wanted no such salvation, the response surprising him in that he had a precocious respect for authority. He had always admired the military for instilling it in others, had been in Junior ROTC until he dropped out of school, and rarely argued with elders.
Now, with his muscles weary and appetite voracious, he attacked his uncle, reached up, and grabbed the tall man’s shoulders. Trying to shake him was like trying to move a building. “Let me outta here. I just want to—”
A coarse, heavy hand landed on Justin’s jaw. He saw stars and staggered.
And in the beginning…
Came up with this idea after reading an author claim to reach goals, you had to write them down. I chuckled, had done that many times, and succeeded less than fifty percent of the time. Then there were times I didn’t write goals down—and still succeeded! The author stated American POWs converted to communism during the Korean War due to North Koreans and Chinese making POWs write statements down and sign their name on the document. I tossed the book aside, dismissed this as another how-to-succeed-without-really-trying author selling books.
After surfing cable channels, I thought What if you could get people to do things by having them write them down and sign their name? Like robbing a bank, convince them it was to help the poor or killing someone would keep the population down.
Inspired, I read the book Broken Soldiers, that told how POWs were hauled away to huts, places unheated with no air conditioning and I believe it was said temps were 100 in the summer and below freezing in the winter, huts packed so tight if one POW wanted move when sleeping, everyone had to. I think the book also said prisoners were given one ‘popcorn ball’ of food daily to share. Soldiers were beaten, tortured, interrogated for hours, then asked simple questions: America isn’t perfect, right? The soldier had to admit this and write it down. He was then asked what flaws America had. If he couldn’t think of any, interrogators supplied them: Unemployment, which didn’t exist in a communist country. Crime and violence, also rarely found in a communist country. America, the land of equality, had upper, middle, and lower class whereas socialist and communist countries didn’t. Before the beaten, tortured POW knew it, he had a list of things criticizing America and praising communism, which he had written himself. The book said, years later, those POWs, still in North Korea, continued saying communism was better, admitting only that capitalism might be good for America.
This gave me the idea: Someone today in a similar situation. I imagined a twenty-something guy, on his own with some kind of big-time goal and someone lures him in. My initial idea had me groan: make him an author wannabe. Always disliked novels where the character was, guess what….a writer! But I couldn’t think of any other profession where no one would notice him gone. Obviously couldn’t be a best-selling author or someone (agent, editor) would realize him missing so I made him a struggling writer (non-fiction, of course, made sure this guy hated fiction) who receives an offer from someone close (his uncle Blake), I adding the guy (Justin) raised himself, parents never around, his uncle a father figure. With the promise of big-time publication, Justin visits Blake’s ranch and is held captive and brainwashed, Blake doing this to ‘purify’ Justin, make him as close to perfect as possible. I made Justin eighteen since, by mid-twenties, most people’s values/beliefs aren’t so amenable. The rest of the story was simple: Chapters where Blake would question Justin about different things or his beliefs.
While writing this, I was sure people would think I’m an atheist, communist, Luddite or some such thing since the assumption is authors insert their own beliefs/agendas into their work. But I don’t believe most of what I had Blake questioning Justin about. They were just unanswered questions I or others have had.
Although excited, I was wary, failed at a novel a few years earlier, didn’t know how to end it (still don’t) and someone had published something similar. I then completed a novel but despised it. To coax myself, I planned to start on a Friday, energized by the upcoming weekend, and would only write for an hour. Not too daunting, I told myself, Just an hour, hoping by Monday I would be so involved in the story, I wouldn’t feel like not writing after work.
It worked well…thoroughly enjoyed writing this. Then Carla, a former co-worker not afraid to criticize or complement my work, read it. She’d tried the other novel and after a week, said she couldn’t get past chapter two, which was fine, I just wanted to be sure I wasn’t too hard on myself as I’m usually not! She then returned this second one—three days later. Panic set in. If she’d given a week on other and didn’t like it, how bad was this one?
I waited anxiously as she got situated at her desk then finally handed the pages to me. “Here ya go,” was all she said. I finally asked, “Whadya think?”
She nodded, smiled, and said, “I couldn’t stop reading it.” She also gave some pretty good feedback, most of which I used.
One downside. After submitting this to about two or three dozen editors, I finally got an offer to publish! I was excited, felt I was on my way to the big time, told everybody about it, some kidding, “Don’t forget us when you’re famous.” Then, after more than a year of not hearing from the publisher, I e-mailed them. No response. Concerned, I sent them a letter. Still no response. Their phone number was disconnected. After further research, I learned they’d gone out of business! To say I was depressed was an understatement. As if that wasn’t bad enough, a year later, I was to have another novel published—and, eighteen months later, after several delays in publication, this publisher also went out of business.
But I persevered. Years later, finally had my novel, Friendship, published. Of course, it made no best-seller lists, my advertising attempts on Facebook and such notwithstanding. Hope this novel does even better. Always believed success in most artistic professions has more to do with marketing than talent anyway.
Chapter 1
Justin Hopkins awoke lightheaded and dizzy in a cramped room, on a concrete surface. He shivered. His reedy body tended to go cold easily. He was wearing a lightweight T-shirt and pants, olive drab, like the ones worn by the people he’d seen yesterday. Or what he assumed was yesterday. He had no idea how long he’d been out. His shoes and socks had been removed.
His stomach grumbled, and his muscles ached as if he’d done heavy lifting. Before passing out—after having drank some wine—he’d been eating a ham sandwich. It had to be at least twelve hours later, he deduced, or his stomach wouldn’t be having this conversation with him.
He cleared his head, brushed brown hair from his eyes, and called for his uncle. Silence greeted him. A second attempt netted the same result.
“Somebody!”
No one came forth. Despite a foot being asleep, he rose and limped to the door, as slowly as moving through water. He struggled to remain upright.
The door had no knob on this side, only a metal block with a deadbolt keyhole.
“Anybody out there? What’s going on?” Justin pried at the crack between the thick oak door and jamb but was unsuccessful. “Uncle Blake, let me out of here!” He pounded until his hands hurt, leaned on the exit, then slid to the floor. It was as cold as snow. The room was unheated and with it being fall, northern temperatures were not mild. He sprang up and searched for an escape. The smooth lavender walls were bare, no windows. He wrapped his arms around his chest. His teeth chattered so he did push-ups, sit-ups, jogged in place until he got warm, then tried the door again. “Damn it, somebody, let me out! What the hell’s going on?”
No response. He sagged to the floor, ignored its chill. What had happened? How long had he been in here, and why? He got back up and hit the door with his fists. “Let me the hell out!”
A twist of metal on the other side. The knob turned, a rush of air. He stepped back as the image and face made him even colder. “What do you want?” Uncle Blake said. His previously combed gray hair was unkempt, blue eyes cutting through Justin like diamonds on glass, jaw clenched. “What is wrong with you?” He closed the door behind him.
“What is going on?” Justin clutched Blake’s sleeve.
“Relax.” Blake pulled free, ordered Justin to sit on the bed, then joined him, his voice softer. “Understand, I love you very much.”
“Then why are you putting me in here? Where are my clothes? My wallet and phone? My truck?”
“They’re in safekeeping, no need to worry.” “What is going on?”
His uncle smiled a grin that made Justin shudder. “I’m helping you. We are.”
“Who’s ‘we’?”
“Tonya, Theo, Murray, Vera, and Johnnie,” Uncle Blake said of his five houseguests, Justin having met two of them the night before. Tonya, her smooth oval face, light-brown hair, and wide smile having caused his heart rate to increase, Theo thin but tight-muscled with short, black hair.
“Who are Murray, Vera, and Johnnie?”
“Vera and Johnnie are husband and wife followers, Murray also one of us. You’ll see.” Blake rubbed Justin’s shoulder. “You were lost and are now found. My--our—job is to mold you. You are at the perfect age, on the precipice of manhood so we will make you better. Much better.”
Justin now understood the letter had been a ruse and recalled the day he’d received it, handwritten name crude yet legible: Blake Panzer, from his psychiatrist uncle whom he hadn’t seen in ten years.
Eighteen years old, Justin had mostly raised himself in the tiny town of Salisbury, West Virginia, his parents more interested in traveling than raising him or his sister Tamara. Nine years his senior, she had left when he was ten. The only things he remembered about her were her blond hair and the ruby ring she’d gotten from their grandmother, a ring that displayed the graduation year and school name on one side, faces of comedy and drama on the other. He’d hoped to get one but dropped out to pursue his goal of writing nonfiction, had some articles published in travel magazines but barely made enough to survive.
In his letter, Blake claimed he’d done research on isolation and how it affected memory, how well people related to others after they’d been alone for lengths of time, said it was groundbreaking work, to be published in a prestigious journal or perhaps as a book. He’d requested Justin’s assistance regarding grammatical and editorial details. With dreams of big-time publication flowing in his mind, Justin, who usually considered things and analyzed them prior to making a decision, had made his choice before nightfall and was in his blue F-150 pickup the next morning, on his way to rural northern Minnesota.
Uncle Blake’s ranch encompassed several wooded acres, no other homes around, the pitched roof of the one-story, L-shaped redbrick house making it seem bigger. A wooden front porch ran the length of the house. It was balanced by two large French windows on either side of the white door. Behind it, several hundred feet back, a barn housed a few cows.
Justin now wished he hadn’t let his emotions and imagination do his deciding upon receiving his uncle’s letter.
“We’ll make you so much better,” his uncle now repeated.
“I don’t want to be better!”
Blake clicked his tongue against his teeth a few times, responded all of them said that but once the experience was over, they had thanked him. He mentioned Justin had heard Tonya and Theo praise his results, boasted he had saved them and would do the same for him.
Justin protested he wanted no such salvation, the response surprising him in that he had a precocious respect for authority. He had always admired the military for instilling it in others, had been in Junior ROTC until he dropped out of school, and rarely argued with elders.
Now, with his muscles weary and appetite voracious, he attacked his uncle, reached up, and grabbed the tall man’s shoulders. Trying to shake him was like trying to move a building. “Let me outta here. I just want to—”
A coarse, heavy hand landed on Justin’s jaw. He saw stars and staggered.
And in the beginning…
Came up with this idea after reading an author claim to reach goals, you had to write them down. I chuckled, had done that many times, and succeeded less than fifty percent of the time. Then there were times I didn’t write goals down—and still succeeded! The author stated American POWs converted to communism during the Korean War due to North Koreans and Chinese making POWs write statements down and sign their name on the document. I tossed the book aside, dismissed this as another how-to-succeed-without-really-trying author selling books.
After surfing cable channels, I thought What if you could get people to do things by having them write them down and sign their name? Like robbing a bank, convince them it was to help the poor or killing someone would keep the population down.
Inspired, I read the book Broken Soldiers, that told how POWs were hauled away to huts, places unheated with no air conditioning and I believe it was said temps were 100 in the summer and below freezing in the winter, huts packed so tight if one POW wanted move when sleeping, everyone had to. I think the book also said prisoners were given one ‘popcorn ball’ of food daily to share. Soldiers were beaten, tortured, interrogated for hours, then asked simple questions: America isn’t perfect, right? The soldier had to admit this and write it down. He was then asked what flaws America had. If he couldn’t think of any, interrogators supplied them: Unemployment, which didn’t exist in a communist country. Crime and violence, also rarely found in a communist country. America, the land of equality, had upper, middle, and lower class whereas socialist and communist countries didn’t. Before the beaten, tortured POW knew it, he had a list of things criticizing America and praising communism, which he had written himself. The book said, years later, those POWs, still in North Korea, continued saying communism was better, admitting only that capitalism might be good for America.
This gave me the idea: Someone today in a similar situation. I imagined a twenty-something guy, on his own with some kind of big-time goal and someone lures him in. My initial idea had me groan: make him an author wannabe. Always disliked novels where the character was, guess what….a writer! But I couldn’t think of any other profession where no one would notice him gone. Obviously couldn’t be a best-selling author or someone (agent, editor) would realize him missing so I made him a struggling writer (non-fiction, of course, made sure this guy hated fiction) who receives an offer from someone close (his uncle Blake), I adding the guy (Justin) raised himself, parents never around, his uncle a father figure. With the promise of big-time publication, Justin visits Blake’s ranch and is held captive and brainwashed, Blake doing this to ‘purify’ Justin, make him as close to perfect as possible. I made Justin eighteen since, by mid-twenties, most people’s values/beliefs aren’t so amenable. The rest of the story was simple: Chapters where Blake would question Justin about different things or his beliefs.
While writing this, I was sure people would think I’m an atheist, communist, Luddite or some such thing since the assumption is authors insert their own beliefs/agendas into their work. But I don’t believe most of what I had Blake questioning Justin about. They were just unanswered questions I or others have had.
Although excited, I was wary, failed at a novel a few years earlier, didn’t know how to end it (still don’t) and someone had published something similar. I then completed a novel but despised it. To coax myself, I planned to start on a Friday, energized by the upcoming weekend, and would only write for an hour. Not too daunting, I told myself, Just an hour, hoping by Monday I would be so involved in the story, I wouldn’t feel like not writing after work.
It worked well…thoroughly enjoyed writing this. Then Carla, a former co-worker not afraid to criticize or complement my work, read it. She’d tried the other novel and after a week, said she couldn’t get past chapter two, which was fine, I just wanted to be sure I wasn’t too hard on myself as I’m usually not! She then returned this second one—three days later. Panic set in. If she’d given a week on other and didn’t like it, how bad was this one?
I waited anxiously as she got situated at her desk then finally handed the pages to me. “Here ya go,” was all she said. I finally asked, “Whadya think?”
She nodded, smiled, and said, “I couldn’t stop reading it.” She also gave some pretty good feedback, most of which I used.
One downside. After submitting this to about two or three dozen editors, I finally got an offer to publish! I was excited, felt I was on my way to the big time, told everybody about it, some kidding, “Don’t forget us when you’re famous.” Then, after more than a year of not hearing from the publisher, I e-mailed them. No response. Concerned, I sent them a letter. Still no response. Their phone number was disconnected. After further research, I learned they’d gone out of business! To say I was depressed was an understatement. As if that wasn’t bad enough, a year later, I was to have another novel published—and, eighteen months later, after several delays in publication, this publisher also went out of business.
But I persevered. Years later, finally had my novel, Friendship, published. Of course, it made no best-seller lists, my advertising attempts on Facebook and such notwithstanding. Hope this novel does even better. Always believed success in most artistic professions has more to do with marketing than talent anyway.
Friendship
Friendship has friends questioning each other’s trust and respect as life presents serious challenges. Arturo and Sophia plan a special night but circumstances prevent this from transpiring. Sophia then finds a suggestive photo of Arturo, which strains their relationship. Renaldo deals with alcoholic parents and his own temptation to drink, especially during a crisis involving his girlfriend. Millicent struggles with her introversion and an overprotective mother. Conrad is out to prove his manhood to his buddies. Wyatt has strong principles that are tested by the lure of the flesh. And Andrea thinks every guy she meets is Mr. Right—until a few dates, when he becomes Mr. Wrong. Impatient, she wonders if she will ever find her man. The responsibilities of adulthood have the friends drifting apart and feeling alone, even helpless. When the most formidable situations arise, will the friendship last?
Where to buy the novel
Visit the following links: BarnesandNoble.com or Whiskeycreekpress.com for e-book and print versions. Go to Amazon.com for the e-book or Amazon.com for the print book.
Where to buy the novel
Visit the following links: BarnesandNoble.com or Whiskeycreekpress.com for e-book and print versions. Go to Amazon.com for the e-book or Amazon.com for the print book.
Here is the first chapter of Friendship. Feel free to browse. If interested, at the end of the chapter, I describe how I came up with the idea and the ups and downs of the writing process. Hope you find it entertaining.
Chapter 1
Sophia Imeldo asked if tomorrow was the night, the two of them. Her boyfriend, Arturo Dominguez,
assured her it was, after the party. With an exhale, she pictured herself in his long arms, feeling his thin black hair through her fingers. He said he'd see her in second hour trig, told her he loved her. She said the same and placed her phone on the nightstand then nestled under her powder blue comforter. Semester's end was imminent, their last at Stillwater High School, all seven of them. Would they stay in touch? They were all enrolled across town at Oklahoma State University, had planned to rent apartments though they hadn’t so much as looked at one. Sophia promised herself to look at apartments next week, vowed she and the other six would remain friends until there was but one survivor.
The crew gathered at Stillwater Pizza for lunch the next day. A golden chandelier glowed in the center of the place, above the glass covered buffet. In a booth the seven discussed that night's party to be held at the vacant, one room studio Sophia's mom owned. It had been the first place the woman and her ex had bought, mother still hoping they’d reunite despite him moving out west. With another woman. Yet Sophia's mom had left that morning for another visit with her former mate.
By nine p.m. the one room house thumped with music, bass tones the building's heartbeat.
"Where's Millicent?" Arturo asked.
Sophia brushed her short, brown hair away from her eyes then raised and lowered shoulders. "Who knows?" she yelled over the din, saw their friend Andrea Todd already with an arm around a stranger on the ragged blue sofa. Ted, Sophia told herself, his name the only thing she knew about him. She explained to Arturo perhaps Millicent was being fashionable then thought back to lunch and remembered the small, black haired girl with even darker eyes had seemed someplace else mentally. Besides, Millicent Petrovich was absent at most nocturnal celebrations.
"Want some?" Renaldo Loveless pointed to his cup. Sophia peered over the rim, contents an odd yellow sprinkled with brown specks.
"Egg nog," the thin, well chiseled brown haired, brown eyed friend informed. "With a little .. " He chuckled. "More than a little Crown Royal. Why wait till Christmas?" He repeated his offer.
The girl shook her head left to right, surmised this wasn't Renaldo's first drink, and went outside where dozens of kids chatted or danced, each with a drink in hand. She scrutinized the area then sighed at the fact the nearest neighbor was over a block away.
More cars pulled up.
Sophia returned indoors where Renaldo continued to drink and carouse. The girl spotted short, thin, red haired Conrad Nessleton cramped in a corner by himself, beer bottle at his lips. Near Conrad, Wyatt Everson pushed a blue plastic cup past his long nose to dark red lips that seemed darker due to his pale skin. Sophia doubted the cup contained alcohol, Wyatt having pointed at others and, in harsh tones, lectured about their lack of discipline and self-restraint.
She went back outside, bumped into Arturo, viewed the crowd and cringed, he inquiring if she was okay.
"Things’re getting a little out of hand."
Arturo chuckled. "It's a party, what'd you expect?"
She mentioned how everyone was drinking. Arturo held up empty hands, denied he was. When she countered he had been, he laughed, said to let her hair down. She grinned and replied hers was too short.
Arturo took her arm in his, led her back inside, and offered a dance as Maroon 5's Sunday Morning played. A couple more slow dances and Sophia's lips were in upward posture, her having consumed a cup of rum and Coke® from Arturo helping.
A girl asked Arturo to dance. Sophia stumbled aside.
"What's with her?" the girl asked, her eyes the color of daytime skies, golden locks spiraling past her shoulders, the contrasting dark bandana tied into her hair easily visible. Arturo lifted a shoulder and snickered, dismissed Sophia as a previous steady, unable to let go.
The female shook her head. "High school girls. So immature." She introduced herself as Phoebe Martinson, a college freshman, and they danced a few numbers until a tall college guy cut in.
"Arturo, let’s dance," a voice from behind the boy had him glancing over his shoulder.
"Oh," he said upon recognizing the person, his mouth long.
Sophia frowned. "Don't act so disappointed." She put arms around him, no longer felt like she was on a Tilt-A-Whirl ride. He winked. At someone else. Sophia pushed eyebrows together and tapped him.
"Huh?" He faced her then cast his glance to the ground and suggested they go inside for more drinks which they did, Sophia again with a buzz though her vision remained even. For ninety minutes, she watched Arturo crane his neck at intervals though he remained by her side. As crowd size increased so did the noise, Sophia observing the large gathering, all either drinking or drunk. She advised they end the party.
Arturo checked his watch. "C'mon. Clock hasn't even struck twelve, party's just starting."
The girl gave a sweeping gesture, asked him to look at everyone.
"Yeah. They're having fun."
She pointed to Renaldo, he in a discussion with a guy she'd never seen. The two young men raised their voices. The other guy pushed Renaldo.
Arturo stepped between them, retrieved his Polaroid, and asked to take their pictures, photography a passing interest, his digital camera recently broken.
Sophia joined up with him and, when things calmed, led him to the love seat, they trading kisses. Done, she opened her eyes then pulled away. He stared beyond her. She glanced over her shoulder, unable to guess whom he viewed. Conrad stood in the same corner, still with a bottle though he remained his usual, quiet self. Andrea laughed loudly at Ted's commentary on why people get drunk if the hangover is so bad, inched closer to him while he snaked his arm around her.
Arturo's rising distracted Sophia. She followed him. Profanity was uttered outside. Sophia shoved her boyfriend, ordered him out there. He did not move. She pushed him away and ran out. He caught up to her out of doors and they stopped in front of the action.
"Don't cut in on me with a woman," the guy—same one who'd argued with Renaldo—said, hands clenched, attempted a fighter's stance then swayed and pushed Arturo, challenged him. Arturo extended an arm around the guy, suggested they talk as the girl dissolved into the crowd, Arturo offering to drive the guy home. He balked.
Sophia rushed in, ran her fingers through her hair, and smiled at the stranger.
"Let me take him." She surveyed this boy, his sturdy build and short brown hair. Her smile enlarged. "You live far?"
He denied he did, stumbled to Sophia's car, straightened up, said he was but a few blocks from campus, and winked.
"Good. It'll make a quick trip." Sophia put a hand on him, led him into the passenger seat, and jingled her keys at Arturo, said she'd be back shortly.
"Don't take too long," Arturo said. "Can't be without you."
She sighed. Until she saw him head to the girl with long blonde hair. Sophia flattened her lips then glanced at the stranger in her car. The lips returned to their previous form. "C'mon." She peered at Arturo and slammed her door shut. Wheels stirred up noise as did the engine. The car sped down the road, Sophia murmuring profane sentences. She turned to the guy. Her heart raced. All her female confidants would envy this opportunity.
"Name's James," he said, smile so bright Sophia felt she needn't have the headlights on. He sounded much more sober.
She searched for his hand, unable to think. "Oh." Uneven laughter. "You're a poet and don't even know it." She wanted to slap herself, gave the same, uneasy chuckle, and shook his hand.
The guy told Sophia where to turn and gave that smile. She offered her best welcoming grin. "Name's Sophia."
"You go to OSU?" Hopefulness in his voice.
"No," she said then added, "But I will this fall."
He pointed at his place. Sophia pulled into the driveway, rocks and dirt crackling, popping. Two other cars here, house a dilapidated flat with cracked windows and siding that looked like it would fall off in a wind gust. Lights were on. Several figures moved past windows.
"Roommates," James explained, leaned to her, and grinned like he'd been told the winning lottery numbers. She did the same. They embraced, her tongue in his mouth. He groaned passionately, muttered she'd saved him from a fight, possibly an arrest, kissed her numerous times then led her to a supine position.
Sophia did not resist, observed him undo his shirt, and thought of Arturo. Tonight was their night. Supposed to be. Yet she felt as ardent about this stranger as she had with Arturo.
They continued necking. A door slammed. The two froze. Shoes on wood. James sat up, looked through the windshield.
"Jesus, what is he doing?" James buttoned his shirt, straightened his hair. Sophia also rose and cleaned herself up. James rolled the passenger window down.
"Hey, man, it's you. Didn't know you were out here, thought someone had broken down out here, needed help."
James turned away from his friend and waved a hand. "Denny, you smell like a brewery."
"What about yourself?" The roommate eyed Sophia. "Hey, that's not Judy. Where is she?"
Sophia watched James give a harsh stare. "We're through, remember? She dumped me."
"Huh? Oh yeah. Sorry, forgot. That's too bad." Denny patted his friend's arm. "I see it didn't take long to .. uh .. get over her." Forced laughter.
James demanded his friend go back inside. The guy obeyed and James gave Sophia a long face, apologized, opened the door, and thanked her.
She clutched his forearm. "Wait. We were.."
"I'm sorry." James got out. "Maybe another day." He motioned to the house. "You know where I live. Stop by anytime." He picked up her hand, kissed it. "Sometimes things aren't meant to be. Later."
Sophia scowled, his last word said like she was a buddy, she waiting for him to add "Dude". He entered the house, the clamor of voices and laughter inside audible. She gritted her teeth, backed out, and sped down the street, rest of the drive an opaque memory, her tears not helping.
A block and a half from the house, an odd glow caught her sight. On the same side of the street as the house. An orangish hue. She increased her speed, her stomach as if she watched a suspenseful movie. She parked half a block away, small flames up ahead. Where the party had been. The fire, however, was contained, Sophia relieved it had rained earlier in the week, the wooded area behind the backyard a threat for a brush fire during arid stretches.
Approaching the building, she debated notifying the fire department, house but a smoky pile of wood and bricks. A beam fell with a creak.
She moved to the house as if able to save anything though she could think of nothing worth saving. Two voices sounded, east of the house. Sophia squinted in the semi-darkness, watched the two hurry off. One of them laughed. The pattern sounded familiar. Sophia's hair quilled like a porcupine's skin upon attack. She pressed her eyes shut as if doing so would change this person's tone. A second kind of laugh. Feminine.
Laughter and conversation faded, Sophia alone with the night. Water emerged from her eye ducts. The girl drew in a long stream of oxygen and released it. She had misheard. Hopefully.
The house was nothing but a funeral pyre, orange specks glowing in spots. The teen thought about her mother's reaction then decided she wouldn't mention it and when the older woman saw the house, daughter would pass the incident off as anonymous negligence. Tomorrow she'd clean up as much as possible to soften the blow though why her mom would be upset about losing a quasi-condemned building she could not fathom. She returned to the two who'd left. Had she guessed correctly on the male's laughter? Nah, she told herself, Just sounded like his.
Once home, she called. The other line rang. And rang. And rang. She rationalized he'd turned his phone off. Finally, a click.
"Hello?"
The voice did not sound familiar. Sophia's internal organs seemed to shut down. She pulled the phone away from her ear.
"Hello?" the voice spoke louder.
About the novel
Had this idea for five or six years, had always wanted to do a coming of age story, preferably while the characters were in college, as it seems to be the time where one grows up the most as a person, chooses their interests, occupation, etc, things that they tend to stay with for most of their life.
I then recalled when in college the one year, some friends and I would play pick-up basketball at the Oklahoma State gym (a.k.a. the Colvin Center though it was nothing like it is now, having been re-done in ’04) on a few Sunday afternoons. When done, we’d go to a Godfather’s pizza on the northeast side of Stillwater (campus is closer to the southwest part of town), the restaurant in the far northeast corner of the Cimarron plaza. Went all the way over there because they had an all-you-can-eat-buffet on Sundays for $1.99 (or maybe it was only 99 cents. Am I that old, they actually had all-you-can-eat for just 99 cents then? I think it was $1.99). We did this for about a month or two then with spring and warmer weather, got involved in other stuff.
This had me wishing we could have done this more often, might have resulted in longer friendships (lost touch with all of us who did this, unless my friend Jim, who’s now in the southeast U.S., joined us then but can’t recall if he did) so I imagined a group of friends who did last, would get together for pizza, discuss happenings, etc. and what conflicts might arise. However, I didn’t have any real good scenarios so I worked on other ideas that sounded better.
When I finally concentrated on this story, I thought of Arturo and Sophia and came up with the scenario of them planning a special, big night, only to have it spoiled by other circumstances. Coming up with the scene of her finding a suggestive photo of Arturo and how it would affect them, I knew I had a start.
After creating the other characters and their situations—Renaldo and his drinking, Millicent and her problems, etc.—I felt I had a story. Oddly, I had some of my worst and best writing while doing the first draft. On approximately a dozen evenings I quit after just an hour—even thirty minutes—because I was staring at a blank page; knew what I wanted to say, just didn't know how to say it in a way I hadn't already used. I also outlined two chapters (Something I swore I would never do after outlining my first novel and hating it; Still despise that first novel) because I had no clue how to start them.
It took nine weeks to write the first seventy percent of the novel. Then, in one week, I wrote the other thirty percent! Words came forth like the proverbial water from the broken dike. I did four hours that Saturday and Sunday (unusual for me though it had happened). Monday I did four hours also, which was stunning in that I'd never done more than three and half hours on a weeknight.
Wednesday I broke that record with a four and half hour stint, which was certainly surprising but Tuesday was the big stunner. I started shortly after five p.m. that night....and didn't stop till just after eleven! At one point I remembered I wanted to record something at seven, got up to set the recorder, then looked at the clock—it was nine forty! Had to verify the time was correct with another clock (which it was) but I wasn't ready to quit so I kept going, and eventually felt sleepy which I thought strange, in that I usually didn't get that way until eleven. I re-checked the time, assuming it was ten or quarter after...and it was almost eleven! Fortunately I finished that scene shortly thereafter and went straight to bed, no dinner, nothing. Wednesday, as I said, I did four and a half hours. Thursday, after three more hours, I completed the climactic scene, only had the final chapter to go, pondered continuing but since it was late and it was my sister's birthday and I wanted to call her, I chose to quit for the night. Estimating I only had four or so hours of writing left and with this week-long marathon nearly done, I opted to do just two hours Friday and finish with two hours Saturday (always like to finish that first draft on a day off).
And that's how it happened—never felt so drained after writing The End but it sure felt satisfying! Unfortunately, haven't had such a burst of writing since. Have come close, a few days of four and half, even five and half hour sessions near the end of a novel. But never a six hour stretch, bookended by two days of four-plus hours of writing. Too bad! Perhaps in the future...though I'm still waiting!
Chapter 1
Sophia Imeldo asked if tomorrow was the night, the two of them. Her boyfriend, Arturo Dominguez,
assured her it was, after the party. With an exhale, she pictured herself in his long arms, feeling his thin black hair through her fingers. He said he'd see her in second hour trig, told her he loved her. She said the same and placed her phone on the nightstand then nestled under her powder blue comforter. Semester's end was imminent, their last at Stillwater High School, all seven of them. Would they stay in touch? They were all enrolled across town at Oklahoma State University, had planned to rent apartments though they hadn’t so much as looked at one. Sophia promised herself to look at apartments next week, vowed she and the other six would remain friends until there was but one survivor.
The crew gathered at Stillwater Pizza for lunch the next day. A golden chandelier glowed in the center of the place, above the glass covered buffet. In a booth the seven discussed that night's party to be held at the vacant, one room studio Sophia's mom owned. It had been the first place the woman and her ex had bought, mother still hoping they’d reunite despite him moving out west. With another woman. Yet Sophia's mom had left that morning for another visit with her former mate.
By nine p.m. the one room house thumped with music, bass tones the building's heartbeat.
"Where's Millicent?" Arturo asked.
Sophia brushed her short, brown hair away from her eyes then raised and lowered shoulders. "Who knows?" she yelled over the din, saw their friend Andrea Todd already with an arm around a stranger on the ragged blue sofa. Ted, Sophia told herself, his name the only thing she knew about him. She explained to Arturo perhaps Millicent was being fashionable then thought back to lunch and remembered the small, black haired girl with even darker eyes had seemed someplace else mentally. Besides, Millicent Petrovich was absent at most nocturnal celebrations.
"Want some?" Renaldo Loveless pointed to his cup. Sophia peered over the rim, contents an odd yellow sprinkled with brown specks.
"Egg nog," the thin, well chiseled brown haired, brown eyed friend informed. "With a little .. " He chuckled. "More than a little Crown Royal. Why wait till Christmas?" He repeated his offer.
The girl shook her head left to right, surmised this wasn't Renaldo's first drink, and went outside where dozens of kids chatted or danced, each with a drink in hand. She scrutinized the area then sighed at the fact the nearest neighbor was over a block away.
More cars pulled up.
Sophia returned indoors where Renaldo continued to drink and carouse. The girl spotted short, thin, red haired Conrad Nessleton cramped in a corner by himself, beer bottle at his lips. Near Conrad, Wyatt Everson pushed a blue plastic cup past his long nose to dark red lips that seemed darker due to his pale skin. Sophia doubted the cup contained alcohol, Wyatt having pointed at others and, in harsh tones, lectured about their lack of discipline and self-restraint.
She went back outside, bumped into Arturo, viewed the crowd and cringed, he inquiring if she was okay.
"Things’re getting a little out of hand."
Arturo chuckled. "It's a party, what'd you expect?"
She mentioned how everyone was drinking. Arturo held up empty hands, denied he was. When she countered he had been, he laughed, said to let her hair down. She grinned and replied hers was too short.
Arturo took her arm in his, led her back inside, and offered a dance as Maroon 5's Sunday Morning played. A couple more slow dances and Sophia's lips were in upward posture, her having consumed a cup of rum and Coke® from Arturo helping.
A girl asked Arturo to dance. Sophia stumbled aside.
"What's with her?" the girl asked, her eyes the color of daytime skies, golden locks spiraling past her shoulders, the contrasting dark bandana tied into her hair easily visible. Arturo lifted a shoulder and snickered, dismissed Sophia as a previous steady, unable to let go.
The female shook her head. "High school girls. So immature." She introduced herself as Phoebe Martinson, a college freshman, and they danced a few numbers until a tall college guy cut in.
"Arturo, let’s dance," a voice from behind the boy had him glancing over his shoulder.
"Oh," he said upon recognizing the person, his mouth long.
Sophia frowned. "Don't act so disappointed." She put arms around him, no longer felt like she was on a Tilt-A-Whirl ride. He winked. At someone else. Sophia pushed eyebrows together and tapped him.
"Huh?" He faced her then cast his glance to the ground and suggested they go inside for more drinks which they did, Sophia again with a buzz though her vision remained even. For ninety minutes, she watched Arturo crane his neck at intervals though he remained by her side. As crowd size increased so did the noise, Sophia observing the large gathering, all either drinking or drunk. She advised they end the party.
Arturo checked his watch. "C'mon. Clock hasn't even struck twelve, party's just starting."
The girl gave a sweeping gesture, asked him to look at everyone.
"Yeah. They're having fun."
She pointed to Renaldo, he in a discussion with a guy she'd never seen. The two young men raised their voices. The other guy pushed Renaldo.
Arturo stepped between them, retrieved his Polaroid, and asked to take their pictures, photography a passing interest, his digital camera recently broken.
Sophia joined up with him and, when things calmed, led him to the love seat, they trading kisses. Done, she opened her eyes then pulled away. He stared beyond her. She glanced over her shoulder, unable to guess whom he viewed. Conrad stood in the same corner, still with a bottle though he remained his usual, quiet self. Andrea laughed loudly at Ted's commentary on why people get drunk if the hangover is so bad, inched closer to him while he snaked his arm around her.
Arturo's rising distracted Sophia. She followed him. Profanity was uttered outside. Sophia shoved her boyfriend, ordered him out there. He did not move. She pushed him away and ran out. He caught up to her out of doors and they stopped in front of the action.
"Don't cut in on me with a woman," the guy—same one who'd argued with Renaldo—said, hands clenched, attempted a fighter's stance then swayed and pushed Arturo, challenged him. Arturo extended an arm around the guy, suggested they talk as the girl dissolved into the crowd, Arturo offering to drive the guy home. He balked.
Sophia rushed in, ran her fingers through her hair, and smiled at the stranger.
"Let me take him." She surveyed this boy, his sturdy build and short brown hair. Her smile enlarged. "You live far?"
He denied he did, stumbled to Sophia's car, straightened up, said he was but a few blocks from campus, and winked.
"Good. It'll make a quick trip." Sophia put a hand on him, led him into the passenger seat, and jingled her keys at Arturo, said she'd be back shortly.
"Don't take too long," Arturo said. "Can't be without you."
She sighed. Until she saw him head to the girl with long blonde hair. Sophia flattened her lips then glanced at the stranger in her car. The lips returned to their previous form. "C'mon." She peered at Arturo and slammed her door shut. Wheels stirred up noise as did the engine. The car sped down the road, Sophia murmuring profane sentences. She turned to the guy. Her heart raced. All her female confidants would envy this opportunity.
"Name's James," he said, smile so bright Sophia felt she needn't have the headlights on. He sounded much more sober.
She searched for his hand, unable to think. "Oh." Uneven laughter. "You're a poet and don't even know it." She wanted to slap herself, gave the same, uneasy chuckle, and shook his hand.
The guy told Sophia where to turn and gave that smile. She offered her best welcoming grin. "Name's Sophia."
"You go to OSU?" Hopefulness in his voice.
"No," she said then added, "But I will this fall."
He pointed at his place. Sophia pulled into the driveway, rocks and dirt crackling, popping. Two other cars here, house a dilapidated flat with cracked windows and siding that looked like it would fall off in a wind gust. Lights were on. Several figures moved past windows.
"Roommates," James explained, leaned to her, and grinned like he'd been told the winning lottery numbers. She did the same. They embraced, her tongue in his mouth. He groaned passionately, muttered she'd saved him from a fight, possibly an arrest, kissed her numerous times then led her to a supine position.
Sophia did not resist, observed him undo his shirt, and thought of Arturo. Tonight was their night. Supposed to be. Yet she felt as ardent about this stranger as she had with Arturo.
They continued necking. A door slammed. The two froze. Shoes on wood. James sat up, looked through the windshield.
"Jesus, what is he doing?" James buttoned his shirt, straightened his hair. Sophia also rose and cleaned herself up. James rolled the passenger window down.
"Hey, man, it's you. Didn't know you were out here, thought someone had broken down out here, needed help."
James turned away from his friend and waved a hand. "Denny, you smell like a brewery."
"What about yourself?" The roommate eyed Sophia. "Hey, that's not Judy. Where is she?"
Sophia watched James give a harsh stare. "We're through, remember? She dumped me."
"Huh? Oh yeah. Sorry, forgot. That's too bad." Denny patted his friend's arm. "I see it didn't take long to .. uh .. get over her." Forced laughter.
James demanded his friend go back inside. The guy obeyed and James gave Sophia a long face, apologized, opened the door, and thanked her.
She clutched his forearm. "Wait. We were.."
"I'm sorry." James got out. "Maybe another day." He motioned to the house. "You know where I live. Stop by anytime." He picked up her hand, kissed it. "Sometimes things aren't meant to be. Later."
Sophia scowled, his last word said like she was a buddy, she waiting for him to add "Dude". He entered the house, the clamor of voices and laughter inside audible. She gritted her teeth, backed out, and sped down the street, rest of the drive an opaque memory, her tears not helping.
A block and a half from the house, an odd glow caught her sight. On the same side of the street as the house. An orangish hue. She increased her speed, her stomach as if she watched a suspenseful movie. She parked half a block away, small flames up ahead. Where the party had been. The fire, however, was contained, Sophia relieved it had rained earlier in the week, the wooded area behind the backyard a threat for a brush fire during arid stretches.
Approaching the building, she debated notifying the fire department, house but a smoky pile of wood and bricks. A beam fell with a creak.
She moved to the house as if able to save anything though she could think of nothing worth saving. Two voices sounded, east of the house. Sophia squinted in the semi-darkness, watched the two hurry off. One of them laughed. The pattern sounded familiar. Sophia's hair quilled like a porcupine's skin upon attack. She pressed her eyes shut as if doing so would change this person's tone. A second kind of laugh. Feminine.
Laughter and conversation faded, Sophia alone with the night. Water emerged from her eye ducts. The girl drew in a long stream of oxygen and released it. She had misheard. Hopefully.
The house was nothing but a funeral pyre, orange specks glowing in spots. The teen thought about her mother's reaction then decided she wouldn't mention it and when the older woman saw the house, daughter would pass the incident off as anonymous negligence. Tomorrow she'd clean up as much as possible to soften the blow though why her mom would be upset about losing a quasi-condemned building she could not fathom. She returned to the two who'd left. Had she guessed correctly on the male's laughter? Nah, she told herself, Just sounded like his.
Once home, she called. The other line rang. And rang. And rang. She rationalized he'd turned his phone off. Finally, a click.
"Hello?"
The voice did not sound familiar. Sophia's internal organs seemed to shut down. She pulled the phone away from her ear.
"Hello?" the voice spoke louder.
About the novel
Had this idea for five or six years, had always wanted to do a coming of age story, preferably while the characters were in college, as it seems to be the time where one grows up the most as a person, chooses their interests, occupation, etc, things that they tend to stay with for most of their life.
I then recalled when in college the one year, some friends and I would play pick-up basketball at the Oklahoma State gym (a.k.a. the Colvin Center though it was nothing like it is now, having been re-done in ’04) on a few Sunday afternoons. When done, we’d go to a Godfather’s pizza on the northeast side of Stillwater (campus is closer to the southwest part of town), the restaurant in the far northeast corner of the Cimarron plaza. Went all the way over there because they had an all-you-can-eat-buffet on Sundays for $1.99 (or maybe it was only 99 cents. Am I that old, they actually had all-you-can-eat for just 99 cents then? I think it was $1.99). We did this for about a month or two then with spring and warmer weather, got involved in other stuff.
This had me wishing we could have done this more often, might have resulted in longer friendships (lost touch with all of us who did this, unless my friend Jim, who’s now in the southeast U.S., joined us then but can’t recall if he did) so I imagined a group of friends who did last, would get together for pizza, discuss happenings, etc. and what conflicts might arise. However, I didn’t have any real good scenarios so I worked on other ideas that sounded better.
When I finally concentrated on this story, I thought of Arturo and Sophia and came up with the scenario of them planning a special, big night, only to have it spoiled by other circumstances. Coming up with the scene of her finding a suggestive photo of Arturo and how it would affect them, I knew I had a start.
After creating the other characters and their situations—Renaldo and his drinking, Millicent and her problems, etc.—I felt I had a story. Oddly, I had some of my worst and best writing while doing the first draft. On approximately a dozen evenings I quit after just an hour—even thirty minutes—because I was staring at a blank page; knew what I wanted to say, just didn't know how to say it in a way I hadn't already used. I also outlined two chapters (Something I swore I would never do after outlining my first novel and hating it; Still despise that first novel) because I had no clue how to start them.
It took nine weeks to write the first seventy percent of the novel. Then, in one week, I wrote the other thirty percent! Words came forth like the proverbial water from the broken dike. I did four hours that Saturday and Sunday (unusual for me though it had happened). Monday I did four hours also, which was stunning in that I'd never done more than three and half hours on a weeknight.
Wednesday I broke that record with a four and half hour stint, which was certainly surprising but Tuesday was the big stunner. I started shortly after five p.m. that night....and didn't stop till just after eleven! At one point I remembered I wanted to record something at seven, got up to set the recorder, then looked at the clock—it was nine forty! Had to verify the time was correct with another clock (which it was) but I wasn't ready to quit so I kept going, and eventually felt sleepy which I thought strange, in that I usually didn't get that way until eleven. I re-checked the time, assuming it was ten or quarter after...and it was almost eleven! Fortunately I finished that scene shortly thereafter and went straight to bed, no dinner, nothing. Wednesday, as I said, I did four and a half hours. Thursday, after three more hours, I completed the climactic scene, only had the final chapter to go, pondered continuing but since it was late and it was my sister's birthday and I wanted to call her, I chose to quit for the night. Estimating I only had four or so hours of writing left and with this week-long marathon nearly done, I opted to do just two hours Friday and finish with two hours Saturday (always like to finish that first draft on a day off).
And that's how it happened—never felt so drained after writing The End but it sure felt satisfying! Unfortunately, haven't had such a burst of writing since. Have come close, a few days of four and half, even five and half hour sessions near the end of a novel. But never a six hour stretch, bookended by two days of four-plus hours of writing. Too bad! Perhaps in the future...though I'm still waiting!