Below you will find an excerpt from each book. Just cycle down and enjoy...


Chapter 1 of Tall Man in the Hat

In Los Angeles a thick warm brume embraced the city's inhabitants like an unwanted lover, its suffocating advances objectionable and despised. Fierce and condemning the sweltering heat showed no prejudice, no bias, only devilish contempt as it burned like the fires of hell; not a few cases of heat stroke sending many to meet their maker, forcing others to jostle for scant sidewalk shadows like race horses do the inside rail of the Kentucky Derby. Only the city's dead were ignorant of the suffering, but even their graves were brown and flowerless.

To the west, in Marina Del Rey, a few blocks from trendy Abbott Kinney Blvd, a mansion looking north with Malibu and the Santa Monica Mountains in the distance, stood alone against the heat. The twenty-three-acre estate was in disarray - its groundskeepers fired - two riding lawnmowers abandoned on a trail of cut lawn that stopped like an unfinished highway, as if road crews had left their equipment at a dead end. Other lawn tools (rakes, hoes, trimmers) had been abandoned as if those wielding them had melted under the blistering sun, wisped up and away by hot vapors. There were other oddities: the outdoor pool had been drained and capped; and despite the heat wave, the Jacuzzi was as dry as the day its fiberglass shell was laid. Security lights as big and luminescent as searchlights on a helicopter were placed about the perimeter. It was as if the house was packed up, shutdown, and discontinued like an out-of-season hotel.

Certain structural modifications had been made to the house, as exhibited by a front-loading commercial dumpster sitting on the mansion's six-car garage driveway. Inside the dumpster, two-by-fours of odd sizes stacked haphazardly like strands of broken fettuccine and discarded pieces of metal furring twisted and coiled, the longer pieces having sharp edges that peered over the dumpster like curious snakes. Within the house safer plastic knives, spoons, and forks replaced metal eating utensils. Every unused electrical outlet had protective inserts. All medications had been removed a week ago, not even an aspirin could be found. There would be no overdose, accident or not. Industrial fire extinguishers - checked daily for a full charge - were located on each floor. Still, twice within the past week, the Los Angeles Fire Department had been called - resulting in two false alarms - because the mansion's owner thought he had detected the scent of smoke.

On the third floor, in a room suited to be called an enclosed bunker, a desperate man cowered like a frightened child behind newly installed three-inch metal walls. Despite the best efforts of an oscillating fan turbulently whirling in one corner of the room, he profusely sweated. The man had no idea what the weather was like outside, for the unbearable external heat was masked by the mansion's two central air conditioners that had pumped furiously for several days. No. The apprehensive man had no idea what was going on in the world, not since he'd locked himself in his man-made steel enclosure several days ago.

A strangled gasp escaped his trembling lips as he watched a wall clock tick silently away. The time was 6:30 PM. He shook his head in despair. I'm dead, he admitted. As if hypnotized, he stood underneath the wall clock and stared. Below average height, he strained his neck, and caught his breath when 6:30 became 6:31.

Hopelessness filled his countenance with absolute resignation. For the umpteenth time he wiped nervous sweat from his eyes. Despite the oscillating ceiling fan he could feel the fires of hell drawing close, licking his body like hungry tongues anticipating a scheduled meal. A meal, he mused bitterly, that's what I am.

His mental equilibrium was shot. It had been that way for weeks. He teetered on the edge of madness and would have welcomed the disabling consequence of insanity. But things were all too clear - he understood exactly what his future held. The hangman's noose has a way of bringing clarity of thought to the most bizarre of situations.

Shivering with fear he surrendered to the hopelessness of his condition. He stood transfixed under the clock and watched another minute expire, never to return, gone forever, forgotten and pointless when all a man has left is impending doom. Nothing more. Just doom.

His eyes blinked involuntarily with each passing minute, as if each sixty-second transition of time was accompanied by a gun's loud report. What have I done? Then he answered his own question, a condemning grin in his mind. You sold your soul, you idiot.

Dear God! How he regretted his fateful meeting with the tall man in the hat.

Twenty years had transpired since that cursed meeting when he made that contract with evil. At the time it seemed like a good idea: the fame, drugs, women - all of it, all of everything. What a wild adventure it had been. But things change with time. And now it was time to pay up, and no power on earth would negate that fact. A rueful expression changed to a forlorn one, godforsaken and hopeless. The contract for his soul was firm, clear...final. Was it worth it? He didn't need to answer; his shaking bones confirmed what he already knew.

He jerked uncontrollably as another minute disappeared, watched the remnants of his life wind down like a worn-out spring of an antique watch. And that had been it from the start: just winding down. Twenty years of fame and fortune coming to an end.

He stared at the clock. Each second seemed to transpire faster than the previous one. There was no escape from the tall man in the hat. It dawned on him that the analog clock would keep running long after he was dead. He had bought it at the beginning of the year; its' shape - a brass techno head - was never a determining factor for purchase. He purchased it because of its synchronization with atomic clocks used by Global Positioning Systems. The clock was never wrong.

He truly hated that clock, but he stared anyway, watching another minute expire. His oval face sagged, fleshy jowls dangling from despondency. His nose, the shape of a Western Meadowlark's bill wrinkled at its bridge as if smelling the stench of his impending doom. His walnut shaped eyes hid under bushy, unkempt eyebrows that supported a furrowed brow. Gray speckled stubble covered his face. It had been several days since the sharp edge of a razor had touched his neck. Since the psychological feeling of despair was more real to him than the olfactory property of bad hygiene, a bodily odor hung thickly about him - shower floors were ominous, wet and slippery and best not used.

Another minute ticked off. He shuddered again. His entire body shook to the core.

There was not, unfortunately, much he could do. Tragically, others would follow in his place, lines of eager men - men darker than he - jostling for position like hyenas at another's kill, each wanting more in exchange for their soul; all eventually finding themselves in the same dilemma. Yes. Everyone had his time under cover of night, and with the rising of the sun all would inevitably pay in full, just as he was about to do.

The man blinked as if coming out of a trance, and gazed about the room through thick glasses that couldnŐt hide the dark circles under his eyes. Lines of regret compressed on a high forehead as he surveyed the walls that had become his prison. Platinum covered plaques hung everywhere, each one indicating another multimillion selling rock 'n' roll hit. Numerous pictures signed by influential and powerful people in the recording business hung as reminders that his singing career was long and successful. And now it was time to pay up.

One soul for a glorious singing career; wasn't that the deal? The answer burned panic into his hazel eyes. An involuntary shrill of fear ran up his spine and caused him to shudder again. His eyes darted back and forth, searching for a way to escape, but he was imprisoned - a frightened man finding solace in an artificial womb of decorative wall panels over hardened steel.

Stark naked, he crossed the room. He wanted nothing on his person, not a single thread of stitching that might catch fire, nothing that might hide a poisonous snake or a deadly spider. He even forsook his hairpiece. The same hairpiece his fans always saw him with. Long and full it lay like road kill on the room's huge mahogany desk. He moved behind that desk. As he sat, his stick-white legs seemed to buckle under the pronounced weight of his short frame. Through the years he had become fat, but not obese; liposuction and tummy staples had ensured that.

Fearfully, he glanced back at the clock, hoping another minute hadn't yet expired. He wished he hadn't looked. Disappointment metamorphosed into desperation. Like a bed-bound invalid on life support he was close to taking his last breath. His life was over; he could never escape - he had a bargain to keep. But the intrinsic nature of self-preservation had its own inertia, providing him with the will to try. So try he did.

His shaking hand reached across the desk to manipulate an intercom system. He toggled the switch for the guard at the front door of the house. Leaning close to the microphone he spoke with the dullness of someone who has repeated the same name over and over.

"Preston." He waited for a moment, and then leaned closer. "Preston?"

After a few anxious moments a voice finally came over the speaker. "I'm here."

Preston's voice sounded bored over the expensive two-way radio he grasped in one hand, the other hand expertly manipulating a switchblade. With that knife he notched another mark representing another call from his employer - fifteen in the last three hours - on the front door frame of the mansion. Preston was a lean, ropy man. Only twenty-three years of age his sleepy eyes - hidden under dark eyebrows and a bushy tuft of long, dark hair - had, in his adolescent years, attracted young girls. That attraction abated after drifting from job to job.

"Anything...have you seen anything?" the mansion's owner asked, nervousness in his voice. Preston used the knife's blade to pick out a piece of evening dinner from his teeth. "Preston!"

Preston's cheeks bubbled and then exhaled. "Paranoid moron," he remarked, to no one. His eyes rolled as he brought the two-way to his mouth and pressed the transmit button.

"Nothing...sir." His tongue scooted across molars, finding food fragments and spitting them out. "Everything is clear."

The terrified man toggled a switch connected to a different guard stationed at the back of the house. "Simpson," he said, fearful expectancy inching into his tone.

Simpson was a new hire with a new family. He had that terrified look of a young man realizing the responsibilities of family and life. Just out of high school, he had recently regretted not applying himself to studying. Instead, he had wasted his time trying to be the next Michael Jordan. Skipping classes to play basketball kept him in the dark regarding his ability until after graduation. He responded quickly.

"Yes, sir."

"Anything?"

"All clear, sir. Excuse me, but I've got to use the restroom."

"You've seen no one?"

"No one, sir. May I - "

The man toggled a third switch. "Jenkins."

In the hall outside the triple-bolted three-inch steel door that was the only entrance to this man-made prison, another guard responded. This security man was the largest of the three guards. Broad in the shoulders and thick in the neck, he looked like a comic book hero with indestructible muscles. The guard's resume stated he held a black belt in karate. His employer did not mind that the man did time for assault and battery, as well.

"Yeah?" The guard had a deep voice that rumbled slowly, a confident voice.

"Stay on your toes, Jenkins." The anxious man glanced at the clock. "He'll be here any minute."


The Muse on Writing (Inspiration Writing)

The explosion of inspirational material made possible by ever increasing spiritual hunger means that current demand for inspirational writers is increasing exponentially. Publishers cannot meet the increased hunger by merely hiring more writers. They must seek effective inspirational writers.

This chapter is an introduction to inspirational writing. Granted, there is no single format or formula to inspirational writing just as there is no universal pill that will cure all ills, but practical and spiritual problems can sometimes be overcome with the proper written word just as specific physical illnesses can be overcome by precisely prescribed protocols.

The objectives of this chapter are to define inspirational writing, to discuss the distinguishing characteristics of well-written inspirational writing, and to prompt the reader to search within to determine the personal reasons for wanting to write.

Long before my writing career began as a young man—I should at least acknowledge that, now having become a “middle age” man, I have written and published short stories, two novels, and one lengthy thesis that itself sits on a dusty, library shelf at my alma mater—I had determined that books could heal. Don’t misunderstand me, I don’t wish to infer that books possess curative properties, but certainly most anyone would agree that words can hurt. If they can hurt, why can’t they heal?

Perhaps it is only natural that my predisposition to reading and writing inspirational work can provide a draw similar to gravitational pull, for I find that I almost involuntarily seek out heavenly bodies of sage advice and try to apply what I can to my life.

At times, after sampling the culinary tidbits of human wisdom, I realize I have improved my standing in the human race, at other times I realize what I thought as sage advice was actually just gluey, sticky, mumbo-jumbo words covered in crystallized glitter. So, my first bit of advice is that caution must be the rule when reading the inspired works of others. To continue my gastronomic theme, don’t approach the world of inspiration like you would a buffet. Whether reading or writing inspirational works, zero in on the right course and serving size that will satisfy the hunger that drives you to write or that drives someone to read.


Excerpt: Aleatory Junction
Jack and Shane stood on the knoll overlooking the fields of the Shane Hill chinchilla farm. A chill in the autumn air made Jack zip up his nylon jacket as he surveyed the setup. He felt something foreign in the jacket and withdrew a newspaper article from a pocket. He was just about to read the article when Shane began describing his farm. Jack stuck the news article in his jacket pocket and forgot about it.

Numerous stalls, each measuring six by sixteen feet, peppered the farm. There wasn’t a barn on the farm, which struck Jack as odd. Next to the nearest stall, resting on what could be kindly called a dirt road was his Packard. He stared at it like he was looking at an injured horse.

“We’ll get ’er done,” said Shane matter-of-factly. He motioned to the stall next to the Packard. “You know, chinchillas are sort of a cross between the rabbit, squirrel, and rat. I raise them for the fur. House ‘em in the stalls.”

Jack was only half listening. Where was he going to get the tools and parts he needed to fix the Packard?

He glanced at Shane. “How far is the nearest town?”

Shane shrugged. “My guess is you came from it, though I’m not real sure where you came from.”

“I stopped for gas in Aleatory.”

“Never heard of it.”

Jack’s anxiety heightened. How long was he going to be stuck in this place?

Shane motioned to the detached garage that stood next to a two-story, box-shaped house.

“You might find what you need in the shed, but it’s getting late. You’re welcome to spend the night.”

Jack stared at Shane, suspecting the chinchilla farmer had no idea how badly a man could want to head on down the road. But that wasn’t going to happen. Not today for sure.

He pulled out his phone again, ignoring Shane’s quizzical look. Still no signal. He slammed the cover shut and bit his lower lip. The wind shifted and his nostrils flared with the scent of musky urine filtering from the many pens.

Shane seemed to breathe deeper, as if the odor were the fragrance from a bouquet of flowers.

“Can I use your phone?” Jack asked.

“Don’t have one of those here. But I can take you into the city tomorrow and you can use the one at Herbert’s Barbershop.”

Jack laughed, wondering if Shane noticed the derision. “Everyone has a phone.”

Shane looked up into the sky. A rim of stacked clouds formed a canopy over a swirl of crows that swung and plunged like trapeze artists under a large tent.

“Not many folks out these parts have phones,” he said flatly. “Maybe you West Coast types might consider that possibility.”

Yes. Shane had definitely noticed the sarcasm.

Jack felt Shane staring at him. An apology was probably in order, but none was forthcoming. Who in this day and age didn’t have a phone?

No phone. No car. A horse-drawn milk truck. An outhouse next to his home. A water-well that looked in good working order; and a farmhouse that seemed relatively new but had the design of an early 1930s version. Not a single vehicle besides his own anywhere in sight. None of it made sense.

Then it struck him and the words came out of his mouth like a leaking faucet. “What date is it?”

“The twenty-second.”

“Twenty-second of what?”

“September.”

Jack had to build up to that moment, to that realization his reasonable intellect told him couldn’t possibly be plausible in any sane world. It was too difficult to ask the important question first. No, save that for last. The order of questions was a sanity check no matter the answer.

“Year?”

There was a slight pause, and Jack could tell it wasn’t that Shane couldn’t remember.

“1933,” the chinchilla farmer finally said.

The ground beneath Jack’s feet seemed to roll. His knees nearly buckled.

Shane looked at Jack. “What year did you expect it to be?”

“2006.”


Candy Cane Murder

Often, the multifarious nature of fiction writing requires, among others, both imagination and well positioned facts. For some writers, these twain shall not meet, or, at their best, provide the most superficial of introductions. For others, including yours truly, the struggle continues to not only pair the two, but also combine each until the resultant metamorphous precludes the remembrance that any differences ever actually existed. The tenuous fabric of fact and fiction must be, for me, woven into a reality that identifies to others my loving and eternal gratitude to a largess for which I can never fully repay, but most certainly feel warrants the ambition to do so. I speak of the loving sacrifice provided by the Son of God. Jesus died for my sins; my Heavenly Father accepted that sacrifice as the forever atonement for my sinful nature. Thus, I write.
***

In Israel, in early spring, the Judas tree erupts into a display of heart-shaped, rosy-red flowers that have for centuries provided either artistic color to a sometimes-bland landscape or vibrant contrast to a blended backdrop. Still, this tree is more famous for its history than its budding petals. A native of Easter Mediterranean, the tree sprouts blood colored flora on its trunk, not only on its twigs. When in full bloom, the tree resembles a deeply, red-speckled canvas against an admiring Middle Eastern sky. Before the appearance of its smooth, green leaves that thickly cover the slightest blemish, the tree sheds its flowery petals like tears from a cry. Legend has it that the tree’s flowers became blood-red after Judas Iscariot hung himself, his betrayal of the Son of God too heavy a burden to bear.

...

The evening’s breeze, a stealthy caress hidden by a moonless night, traveled from one palm tree to another. Leaves swayed back and forth like green, satin sheets hung out to dry. In the background, Puerto Rico’s Bahia Fosforescent bay lay in its bioluminescence glory.

Sparkling effulgence gave the bay its dynamic luster as ocean water carried by prevailing winds and strong currents provided an abundance of plankton through the bay’s shallow entrance. When captured by the bay, the plankton-simple bioluminescent organisms-congregated, waiting only to be agitated, after which the plankton emitted a bluish white light.

Soft, evening rain fell incessantly, causing the radiant bay to glow ever brighter. Disturbed by moister drops, the concentrated plankton began to glow like thousands of mini-suns in a dark pool. Bay of Fire--that is what many natives called the spectacle. The bay began to froth as boiling milk. Each raindrop exploded into a bluish-white petal.

It is a sight to behold and wonder.

Mother Superior Milagros Muniz sat upright and rigid at a secluded hillside villa that overlooked the Bay of Fire. The villa rented for $250 a day, but she did not plan to stay even one night. She spoke to a tall, medium built priest who was leaning back into a matching chair, the fingers of his left hand stroking his chin in thought.

“The jibaro is gone,” she said, a sadness in her eyes. She gazed out of the villa’s window and watched the Bay of Fire glow, its speckled light resembling a thousand tiny hands swatting at the darkness. Obligated, the visiting priest followed her gaze. He had only arrived in Puerto Rico the previous night, and upon arriving had immediately rented a car and driven to this predetermined rendezvous location.

“I’m getting more than I bargained for,” he said, nodding toward the bay when she shot him a questioning glance. “I’m glad it rained tonight, otherwise I would have missed this.”

Both watched the raindrops strike the bay, the water droplets turning into miniature marshmallows in a dark chocolate drink. The bay lit up with tiny lights-shiny white bulbs on a Christmas tree-each bulb a flurry of bioluminescence motion that made the water more akin to an agitated milk mixture. How could anyone watch and not marvel even though a scientific explanation did enough to remove that wonder? The priest drew in a breath. Though business was at hand, he allowed himself to both stare at the glimmering bay and speak.

“I’ve studied the history of your island,” he said. “The jibaro is the man of your land. The farmer. The deep roots of a people who have forgotten their genesis. A cultivator of your so-o-u-l.” He drew out the last word.

“Don’t you mean ‘soil’?” Mother Superior said.

The priest nodded and smiled. “Yes. Of course.”

“Sadly, life changes,” she said, unmistakable regret in her voice. “We have forgotten our beginnings. We no longer need the man of the soil.” She continued to watch the bay churn. “We have traded working the land with gutting the land. Our farm-based work force is almost nil now.” She suddenly seemed sick of the world, and spoke bitterly. “Industry has won the battle, if you can call that a victory, and man is lost.”

The priest shrugged his shoulders, the black cassock rising. “It’s hard to stop change,” he said, almost apologetically. He pulled himself from the bay’s view, and as if on queue, Mother Superior did the same.

“Now,” she said, intertwining the fingers of both hands, a dubious expression on her face, “what compels Rome to send you to me?”

The priest’s placid demeanor revealed little other than that he appreciated her caution. “I admit I don’t look like a Redeemer.” In fact, he did not. He appeared much too young. His long, sandy colored hair almost touched his shoulders. Blue eyes seemed black when his dark, bushy eyebrows blocked out ambient light. He paused, expecting a reply. None came. “You have a message for me,” he said. “That is why I am here.”

Mother Superior leaned back in her chair. “A message?” she asked. “All we say are messages. And what you say now means little to me.” She did not intend to take the man on his word.

The priest sympathized with her lack of trust, or more likely, her need for verification. He shook his head approvingly. He understood that she had to be sure. To her the Prince of Darkness was indeed the great deceiver. Therefore, the cat and mouse game began with only one rule: Nothing spoken until the right thing heard.

“I bring no message to you,” he said, unwavering in this cryptic game of tit-for-tat. “It is you who brings the message.”

Clearly unimpressed, Mother Superior only smiled.

“I can say this,” the priest offered, “God’s Son died for man’s sins. God’s Son sits at the right hand of the Heavenly Father. The blood of God’s Son covers man’s sin.”

Her guarded expression softened, and she was about to ask him if he had accepted God’s Son as his Savior, but stopped short as he continued. “I help others choose between the light and the dark.”

“What makes man rich has changed,” she said, “and with that, greed and selfishness has flourished.” She abruptly changed gears. “I too know the love of Jesus, and accept His gift of love as the covering of my sins. But sin takes on many faces, greed being one.”

He understood completely. “And with that greed comes the selling of one’s soul. And with the selling of one’s soul come I.” He watched her node in satisfaction. “You have the name,” he asked, knowing that the conversation was over and only the answer remained.

“My sisters in Rome have supplied me with the name,” she said, removing a single sheet of paper from a tooled leather chest that came with the villa.

The priest shook his head, his nostrils widening as he breathed deeply. He cleared his throat before speaking. “Give me the name of the one to be redeemed?” He seemed to be fighting to control his excitement.

She handed him the slip of paper with a name and instructions scribbled on it, watched as his eyes widened for a brief moment, and even then almost imperceptibly. He looked up from the note and asked, “These are my instructions?”

“Yes” was all she said.

He shook his head in affirmation, his chest rising, a great load lifted. “Then it’s off to the United States.” His eyes, pools of incredulity, regarded Mother Superior for a moment. “What I don’t understand is why?” he asked. “This man has not sold his soul yet.”

Mother Superior did not lock gazes with him. She stared at the box from whence she took the note. She clearly struggled to keep her emotions in check. “He is…my nephew,” she responded. She noticed the perplexed look on the priest’s face deepen. “My nephew is a Baptist minister,” she explained. “He didn’t feel it necessary to become Catholic. His relationship with our Lord required no mediator.” As if she were not satisfied with her own explanation she continued. “Our world is leprous with religion. I long ago quit wondering which one more completely cleansed the soul.”

“But why visit him, if not to redeem him? Am I to talk to him about God?”

She shook her head. “No. You are to protect the family. The Prince of Darkness will attempt to kill his…” She stiffened. The abrupt change could not have been any different that if she had been frozen in time. Her expression suddenly changed to one of distrust. “You should have already been briefed regarding the circumstances; I was only to give you the name, location, and brief instructions.”

Caught in a lie, the priest laughed nervously. The ambient air cracked with tension and the villa suddenly seemed hostile. He stood and withdrew something from beneath his cassock. Mother Superior looked up, clearly startled and resentful at this deception, oblivious to whatever he now held in his hand.

“Who are you?” she asked angrily. “And what did you do with the real—” Her eyes blinked at the glimmer of light that reflected off the blue, marble handled switchblade just before its sharp edge sliced her neck from jugular to jugular.

The priest watched the woman grasp her throat, blood pouring between her wrinkled fingers like sand in a broken hourglass. In less time that it took him to wipe the blade of his knife on her apron, she was quite dead. He too fell silent. Certainly not adversely affected by her death, he nonetheless had never planned to kill her. The irreverent display of emotion, or the lack of, clearly showed any regret was due to annoyance only; after all, when others discovered her body, too many people would know much too soon that so much had gone wrong.


The Carpathian Shadows, Arminius, by William W. Koonce
There is no ill omen the equal of an assassin’s contract. Someone must die. If not the name on the contract, then the assassin’s life will do. Perhaps that serves as motivation superior to bounty. The assassin must be devoted but not fanatical. The nuance is one of emotional degree—devotion can elude passion while being pragmatic. The profession of an assassin is anything but perverse—it is an honorable profession, where dedicated men and women hone their craft to the same high standard a manufacturer does when building surgical instruments that slice flesh from navel to sternum. There is no self-reproach in the assassin’s mind—in the end, it is the coroner’s knife that makes the final cut...

“That wasn’t nice,” Belarus said, still gasping. “I was rather enjoying her suffering.” He had the look of a man of hate, nothing more or less, simple loathing for an old friend. He glanced about the room. “Seems you’ve killed everything but me.”...

Arminius wasted no time. He ran over to the ornate bookcase and slammed his elbow down on one of the shelves. The wood splintered while urns shattered on the rocky floor. Ripping off one of the longer splinters, he now held a stake. He barely made a move toward the fireplace before Belarus flew over the desk, his tattered suit smoking, hell’s rage in his eyes, razor talons on his fingertips, mouth open wide exposing barbed thorns of death. “I’LL KILL YOU!”