Book Excerpts

TITLES

Enchanted Hunt by Dorothy Ann Skarles
Spice Up Your Writing by Billie Williams
The Accidental Spy by John R. Lindermuth
The Devil Can Wait by Marta Stephens
Dark Lullaby by Mayra Calvani
Mazurka by Aaron Paul Lazar
Beyond Writer's Block by Dana Reed
Ancient Secrets by Billie Williams
Riders of the Seven Hills by Lad Moore
The Lure of the Witch by Betty Sullivan La Pierre
Music by C. M. Albrecht
Silenced Cry by Marta Stephens
Healey's Cave by Aaron Paul Lazar
Death on Delivery by Anne K. Edwards
A treasure hunt to end all treasure hunts.

Enchanted Hunt
Magic realism
Dorothy Ann Skarles
publisher: Twilight Times Books
http://www.twilighttimesbooks.com
ISBN 1-933353-14-7 (ebook)
Print version coming soon.

Chapter One

The End of the Rainbow

  Out of the thicket, Lee and I heard the doleful sound of dogs and stopped to listen. The cries were far off, as if they were only racing, not heeding any direction or scent of game.
  "Hear that," Lee said, adjusting the rifle around his shoulder. "Those dogs have got themselves a real attitude." He tilted his head so he could hear if the challenge cry of a hot trail would spring to life. "Damn fools. They're supposed to be huntin', Cat, not playin'," his tone indignant. "They're gettin' more and more like you, real scalawags. Always takin' off, chasin' some kind of a rainbow of their own."
  I gave him my best grin and then winked. "I recall Uncle Akana included you when he called us scalawags." I looked up at the sky. "Besides, it's getting late. Dog's know when it's time to quit for a Bud."
  Lee hit at a fern and clumped through the tall grass. "First things first. Beer later. Boar could still be feedin'."
  "Now you sound like that workaholic father of yours," I said following in his foot steps, listening for any sudden change in the tone of the animal's chase, but Lee was right, the dogs were probably only on the track of a mongoose. "Stop being a worry-wart. There's four days left to get that extra pig we need for the luau."
  "This catering job's important, Cat. Can't mess up."
  "I know, old buddy. It's the first one since Uncle Akana passed away. But later or even tomorrow, we'll kill us the biggest damn wild boar in these mountains. You'll see."
  Lee gave a toothy smile. "With you it's always tomorrow, play today."
  I moved up and took the lead. "We go south."
  "South?" Lee gave me a suspicious glance as he moved along side. "Dog's off in other direction."
  "Yeah, I know." I glanced at him and saw his eyebrows lower. "But since the dogs are trailing anyway, and not down to business, I thought we'd take a little time out too." I had the feeling this wasn't going to be easy. "I have something to show you."
  "What, another treasure?"
  "Not exactly."
  "Then what?"
  "You'll have to see for yourself."
  "Humph," Lee grunted. "I no like Cat's eyes glitterin' like yellow gold."
  Lee's stare made me feel hesitant for the first time. He wasn't going to be easy to convince that what I did was right. And if I failed. . . Well, his hot Hawaiian blood would probably boil to the surface, and he'd punch my teeth out.
  "Why we quittin' boar hunt to go on wild goose chase?"
  For a second, I pretended not to hear him. Maybe I thought if I told him a little at a time.
  "Cat got your tongue?" Lee flicked his finger against my head with a snap.
  "Hey, take it easy."
  "Flower no go with black head." He stepped over the red pompom bloom of the Ohia tree. "What you show me?"
  "I found the real thing, Lee. I found the petroglyphs."  Lee groaned and grabbed for the good-luck piece around his neck. He rubbed the round smooth lava a full three seconds before he asked, "The stone drawings Uncle Akana told us about?"
  "The very same," I nodded.
  I stopped to get my bearings, along the slope where we stood, my senses alert to the possibility of a napping wild pig hidden in the underbrush. A sudden hot wind blew a coiling tendril across my face. The frayed ends of the climbing plant reached out like fingers around my throat before I pulled it away. A máhú kona. . . a queer wind. It somehow reminded me of the jungle in Vietnam. I bent over to rub my knee where a piece of shrapnel hit that last day of the war. At thirty-four the knee joint was giving me a lot of trouble.
  "We go this way up the ridge," I said, pointing.
  "You sure?" Lee asked as he noticed the incline and nodded his head at my knee.
  "Do the tough keep going?" I crouched down under the branches of a young Ohia tree and circled to my right, ignoring that twitch of pain in my joint.
  A bird called, rising from the cliff face, wheeling high above, turning out toward the sea. Today, I was in the Kohala Mountains on the Big Island of Hawaii and instead of tracking Viet Cong, I was on the trail of treasure. I not only could smell success, I could feel gold in my hands, and I knew that this time, after so many years, I was going to be a winner.
  "Damn it, Cat," Lee made a face moving in beside me. He squinted and deep lines furrowed the great jutting brow as he slapped at some long grass. "You're like a dog with his nose to the ground hot on the scent for that friggen treasure. What was on those scribbles anyway?"
  "A whole series of pictures Lee, one picture after another." Excitement filled my voice. "A secret burial cave, canoes, a kings club—all kinds of artifacts."
  Lee's mouth popped open and he stared at me. "Jesus! Show treasure chest?"
  "You got it," I nodded. "Right at the bottom of a king's foot." I couldn't help but turn my grin into a big wide smile. "The indentations were deep and easy to read."
  "You crazy, man!" Lee shook his head. "Fire-goddess guard stone drawings!"
  "No one saw me, no one. Not even Pele." Lee's superstition often caused me to flout the very thing he feared.
  "My God Catamount, don't you realize you desecrated those pictures even by touching them!" Lee's voice went up an octave.
  "Honest, Lee. I didn't violate anything." A sudden flash of what I did crossed my mind and I amended. "At least, that wasn't my intentions."
  "If fire goddess take it in her head, she kill you!" he roared.
  "Not a chance," I tried to keep a laugh out of my voice. "I've got the dark looks of a handsome Irishman and the straight nose of an Indian, and they say Pele likes her men."
  "You laugh, Catamount James. Always laugh and joke around." Lee looked grim. He slapped away a low tree branch. "Always take goddess too lightly."
  When Lee used my full name, I knew I was in for one of his little speeches. He pointed his finger in my face. "Thousand times I've told you, Pele not goin' to let you or anyone else get near that secret burial cave much less find treasure."
  "Well, so far I've done all right," I said feeling a bit cocky. "And I haven't seen hide nor hair of the volcano goddess."
  "Pele let you see her when she ready." He pulled his lips tight together.
  I moved beside Lee, momentarily touching him on the shoulder. Sweat plastered his shirt to his back. "Look! I'll be careful, okay."
  His lips turned slightly up. "Sometime, you act like stupid haole when it comes to goddess. Didn't your Grandfather ever tell Cat-of-the-mountain that many things in world you can not see—like your Irish leprechaun?"
  "Would I be forgetin' the invisible fairy or my shaman grandfather," I said in my best Irish dialect. Ever since we were kids, Lee and I would slip back and forth between my brogue and his Pidgin English.
  Lee gave me a withering look. "If it suited you, you would."
  "Sneer all you want, but this time, old buddy, we don't need leprechaun's or shaman's to be revealin' the hidden' place of this secret gold. All we have to do is follow the tabu sticks."
  "Tabu sticks!" Lee croaked. He stared at me as if I had finally lost all my marbles.
  We moved along a narrow trail, the green rain forest enclosed us now on three sides. It was like a miniature Grand Canon running to the top of the mountain, a perpendicular precipice opening only to the sea.
  "Six of them Lee. And right beside the first two sticks was the biggest rock you ever saw. I swear, it was the size of that wooden barrel in your yard with the palm tree in it."
  "When? When you find key to treasure?"
  "Yesterday. Before you got to the tree house."
  "None of your jokes, Catamount."
  "This is no joke. This is Fo'REAL," I said using Lee's favorite saying.
  "No shit!" Lee looked stunned. Little beads of sweat formed on his brow.
  "Think of it! A king's cave! A king as in alii!"
  I watched Lee's face turn several shades of gray. I could feel his fear, mixed with anticipation, rise in temperature. So far so good, I thought. He's dealing with his superstition without loosing his temper or biting my head off.
  "My God, Cat. " Lee's eyes opened wide, disbelief on his face. "Tabu sticks mean not only Pele guard stone, but Kahuna priest. How you find it?"
  "Well. . ." I paused and thought about the Hawaiians who'd hidden their bodies, bones and idols away in caves, and who'd constructed clues in such a way that only a high Kahuna knew about them.
  "Well," Lee repeated, his voice breaking.
  "You won't believe this. . ."
  "Quit stallin', and get on with it!" Lee urged.
  "A rainbow sort of led me to it."
  Lee groaned. "A rainbow he says. Now I'll be gettin' the whole tale. I suppose there was a leprechaun?"
  "Not a leprechaun, exactly. . ." I paused, hardly believing what I was going to say myself.
  "Well what? What?"
  "A boar."
  "What? You caught a wild boar?" Lee's voice cracked.
  "No! Knucklehead. I found boar prints. A rainbow and boar prints They both led me to the petroglyphs."
  Lee glanced up through the trees at the sunlight. "You sure the heats not gettin' to you old buddy? Maybe, you get light-headed, like sometime in cave."

  "No. This was different, Lee." I knew he referred to my fear of being closed in. "I was following this big suckers tracks. The biggest prints I'd ever seen when it started to rain. Then I noticed it." I paused trying to get my thoughts together. "The rainbow. It was all around me. It was as if I was in the center of it, the ground a regular kaleidoscope of colors. Red, yellow, blue, green. . . I saw them all. They moved right along inside each cloven hoof print. One right after the other."
  Lee slowly moved his head from side to side as if he couldn't take it all in. "You tellin' me you found end of rainbow?"
  "That's what scares me. It was as if those boar prints and the rainbow were one."
  "I still think sun fry brain. Could have been your own washed out tobbie tracks."
  I glanced down at the rubber shoes I liked to wear. They did fit like mittens around each big toe, a little like a pig's cloven foot. "Not a chance." I moved a step ahead of Lee and wondered if I should tell him now.
  "Maybe, other hunter wear tobbies, find petroglyphs."
  "That's impossible," I snapped, wondering if I hadn't lost my mind along with my tracking ability to do what I did.
  Lee gave me a probing look. "Why? Rock with pictures still in same place, isn't it?"
  "Oh, it's still there," I said quickly, and looked away before Lee read the half-truth in my eyes. He could always tell if I was keeping something from him and I almost gave a noticeable sigh of relief when we heard the dog's bark and yip, off in the distance, changing Lee's trend of thought.
  "They're heading' this way, but still playin' games." Lee stood a moment looking down at some tangled vegetation, listening. "Think we should call dog's back in? Make sure the youngling is still hangin' in there?"
  "Kaloha is a youngling but. . ." I hesitated, it was only the dog's second time on a pig hunt, "and she's good at tracking after the other dogs. If they don't pick up our scent soon, they'll probably go back to the tree house."
  Lee shook his head. "Never know. With their attitude no tellin' what they do."
  We moved along a rough and stony glade, our senses ever alert to the possibility of a pig hiding in patches of dense undergrowth. Lee adjusted his backpack before falling into step beside me. He had taken his rifle off his shoulder, and held it in readiness for any unseen threat. The .357 Magnum I carried in my holster that day instead of the forty-four, stayed where it was. It, along with the knife strapped on my leg was only used as needed to finish off the boar. In this part of the Kohala jungle, our rate of movement was slow. Often not more than one mile per hour. And I knew we still had another hour to go. At times I would pause, wipe sweat from my forehead with the sleeve of my shirt and point the direction. I was looking for some old rotting stumps, the sign that we were at the beginning of the old priest's trail.
  Lee, breathing hard, was mumbling. He fixed his attention on me and asked. "You follow rainbow prints along loop of trail?"
  "Like a map," I nodded.
  I could read Lee's face like a book. He was going along with me all right, but he didn't like it. That stiff jaw of his, with his teeth clamped shut, put a scowl on his face that would scare even a wild pig. I knew if I'd had any sense, I'd drop this thing now. I adjusted the straps on my backpack and pointed the way along a curved path.
  "Ever wonder why my Uncle told us story 'bout gold?" Lee pulled at a blade of tall grass and put a green strip of it in his mouth.
  I shrugged. "Maybe, just to tease two kids who believed in pirates and hidden treasure."
  "No," Lee shook his head. "You forget. Stories always had a purpose."
  "Maybe, he was wanting to make us rich."
  "You kiddin'. In that, he was a little like my old man."
  "Yeah, I know," I grinned. "It's only hard work and toil that makes you wealthy."
  Lee grunted. "And work is somethin' we both know you're not too attached to." He walked around an old rotting tree. "I think he told us these stories to see what we would do."
*nbsp; "You mean he wanted to see if we'd hunt out the truth? Follow our fortune, so to speak?"
  Lee nodded. "Remember, how he used to say it was our fate. You think he ever see this rock?"
  "If not, he had to know about it," I said walking a little faster. Even with Lee's browned skin, I could see his coloring pale.
  His face took on a puzzled look. "But that would mean some really high priest entrusted him with sacred knowledge."
  "You got that right, old buddy." I knew that even though people still believed in Kahuna's, most of the few remaining priests were too hard to find to even talk to. A hang-up from the old days when they had to stay hidden or go to jail, or worse, be killed. "Probably, it's the same one Uncle Akana used to tell us about."
  "You mean the one who went underground?" Lee skirted around a lizard sunning itself on a tree branch.
  "Yeah, the one who could talk to the trees and wind."
  "Maybe, but I still think that kind of heavy info only passed down from generation to generation."
  "I wonder then how Uncle Akana got hold of it? We should have asked him."
  Lee's eyes opened wide, his mouth at a slight gap. "Ask about Kahuna secrets! Are you crazy, man?" His large hand reached for the stone around his neck. "You must be gettin' haolefied or somethin' to even think of such a thing!" He moved around a bush and quickly glanced from side to side as if to see if someone was there. "Don't you know yet that you never stick nose in Kahuna business!"
  Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpsed a Kamehameha butterfly perched on a knee-high Braken fern. "I wonder," I said out loud as its highly-colored wingspan of about four inches glided into the air.
  "Now what?"
  "The Kahuna who drew those pictures."
  "What about him?" Lee's right foot suddenly slipped on a wet spot from the morning's rain.
  "Nothing," I shrugged. "Only, one drawing looked a little like that century old King Kamehameha."
  "King Kamehameha!" Lee blurted, looking startled. "King in drawings?"
  Oh, oh, I thought seeing Lee's face turn from friendly to fierce to fear. Wrong thing to say. " No," I backed down, trying to appease him. "The drawing only resembled him."
  "Kings, burial a secret. No one go there even if they knew. It is Kapu!"
  Lee's spouting bits of Uncle Akana's teachings along with Kahuna religious overtones didn't look good for me, I thought. I knew to a Hawaiian anything Kapu was serious business. Kapu meant it was forbidden by tradition. I could see Lee was upset even at the mention of the great King's name.
  "Look, I didn't say it was King Kamehameha."
  "Uncle Akana never tell us gold hidden in King Kamehameha's cave."
  "No, he didn't. But he didn't say it wasn't either."
  Lee's face seemed to puff up into one round scowl. "For your sake Catamount, best leave this alone."
  "Listen Lee," I said warming up to my subject. "I'm only saying if a high priest drew those pictures, he'd know who the big cheese was. . . wouldn't he?"
  Lee scowled at me. "Big secret like that not put in drawings."
  "It's logical, Lee. King Kamehameha's birthplace is in the Kohala, why not his burial-cave? It is possible."
  "You bring up damnedest things to worry 'bout," Lee snapped. He twisted around some wild banana trees and walked ahead of me.
  "After all," I continued, "didn't you tell me every high chief had his own Kahuna. Maybe, the one who did the drawings is related to the one Uncle Akana told us about."
  "Will you get off it Cat!" Lee spit the chewed piece of grass out of his mouth. His large, muscled frame pushed through the tall grass like a trashing machine at harvest. "You've been on this kick ever since you gutted your first boar, and found fish hook in stomach."
  I glanced at him from the corner of my eye. "Yeah," I said remembering. "From that time on, I felt as if I were being impelled by some unseen entity to follow in the steps of the ancient Hawaiians."
  Lee nodded. "Uncle Akana said the hook was made from human bone that probably came from some high chief. Gave Hawaiian who had it much mana."
  Mana meant power, I recalled, a supernatural or divine power that every Hawaiian sought. And making fishhooks from some chief's bones or even finding one, gave him that power. "He also said that even though I was a haole, he could see my inner soul would watch over my first spiritual treasure."
  Lee finally gave me a small lopsided grin. "He said the mana you found that day would grow. Give you potency and vigor." He made a rapid gesture with his fist in front of his crotch. "Someday, make you a guarding lion." He laughed and then playfully punched me on the shoulder. "Remember?"
  "Two guarding lions," I said, and punched him back.
  For the next few minutes, we walked along in companionable silence, each with our own thoughts. I could still recall how excited I was as a kid to find out my father was going to be stationed with the army in the twenty-fifth infantry division on the Island of Oahu. I met Lee and his uncle the second day on the base. Uncle Akana was making arrangements with some of my father's buddies to cater a Luau with real Hawaiian wild pig.
  Lee and I hit it off right away. Especially, when we found out our birthdays fell on the same day in August. In a month's time, we would turn fourteen. It was then Lee's Uncle decided to take us both on our first wild boar hunt for a birthday present.
  "We had fun times, didn't we Cat?" Lee said, interrupting my thoughts.
  I gave a soft chuckle. "Remember when I found that old canoe?"
  "Yeah, it took six horses to haul back to the tree house."
  "You thought the Menehune carved it because Uncle Akana told us it came from a Koa tree."
  Lee gave a silly close-mouth grin. "And you said you didn't care who crafted it, you were keepin' it anyway. A Kohala treasure, you called it."
  "Yeah."
  "Was no stoppin' you, all right. Now, tree house look like museum."
  "I guess I really am the guarding lion." I gave another chuckle and put two fists on my chest and pounded like Tarzan.
  Lee grunted and threw up his hands. "Guard all you want puma old buddy, someday. . ."
  "Yeah, yeah, I know. Pele's coming to get me."
  "Yah, damn right! Eventually, she will, you know!" He smacked a hanging vine away from off his face. " Don't know why you do it, Catamount!"
  I shrugged my shoulders, and paused to get my bearings. "It's a fever. The same fever my grandfather had. Each treasure I find only makes me think there's something more, bigger, and better still out there."
 : I had been following a rock wall concealed by dirt, fern and trees for some time when I finally saw the tabu sticks. "There," I whispered. The place had a stillness about it, a primitive kind of enchantment that I didn't want to disturb.
  Off in the distance, a high bark penetrated the warm air that seemed to float overhead. The mournful cry vibrated between the branches of soapberry trees and Hawaiian olives. I knew it was Kaloha.
  For a moment, Lee stood listening with me. Then he made a quick survey of the area. His skin was damp with sweat. I wasn't sure if it was the heat from the sun filtering through the trees or fear.
  Creepers crawling back and forth over the stick's surface, making them almost invisible, covered the long, thick pieces of wood standing about two feet apart. If I hadn't noticed the bird's nest in the center of its growth, I would have missed them. I knew they had been placed here to guard what lay beyond.
  "You're with me aren't you, old buddy?" I whispered again. From the corner of my eye, I was conscious of tiny beads of perspiration standing out on Lee's wide face, the index finger on his right hand tapping nervously on the butt of his rifle.
  Lee made an odd sound in his throat. "Yeah, I guess I always did want to see the end of a rainbow." He hauled back a hanging branch from one of the taboo sticks. "But I bet your ass, some Kahuna is really gonna be pissed."

Author Bio

Dorothy A. Skarles who writes under daSkarles has appeared in a variety of publications. She has published more than 200 articles in Trade Journals, Magazines and Newspapers. She earned her first byline as a cooking columnist for a local family owned newspaper in California.
  Along with her love for writing D.A.Skarles also loves animals. She once owned a 99 percent wolf from Alaska who lived to be thirteen years old. She hopes one day to write a book about her experiences with this wonderful wild animal.

TTB titles:
A Scent of Diamonds
Enchanted Hunt
Learning To Write The Easy Way

Enchanted Hunt Copyright © 2002. Dorothy Ann Skarles. All rights reserved by the author. Please do not copy without permission. Previously published with title "The Hunt."

*************
Spice Up Your Writing! Write to Entice
By Billie A Williams
ISBN 1-932794-16-6
978-1-932794-16-8
Filbert Publishing
$11.95
Available anywhere you buy books.

SAGE - healing powers. any genius of the mind family, having two-lipped corolla and two stamens; sages are cultivated for ornament, as the scarlet sage with brilliant red flowers - or for flavoring, aromatic leaves used, when dried, for seasoning meats, cheeses, etc.

Sage

  Writing books abound all offering *sage* advice. Wise, discerning, words meant to encourage enlighten and eliminate all self-doubt. Ways to add beauty and/or spice to your written word.
  A time will come when they’ll all seem to be repeating each other’s message. Think of the proliferation of how to writing books and you will begin to understand everyone learns in a different way. One man’s trash is another’s treasure. You can please some of the people, some of the time-or you can’t please everybody, all ring especially true when it comes to the how to write.
  Think of how many different popular authors there are, not only are their books different their writing style probably is too. So, sage advice for one may be nonsense to another. Here I will list some of the books I love with some of he reasons why they work for me. Take it or leave it. What you don’t agree with now, you may later-or perhaps never. This is after all, only my humble opinion as most books about writing are. And you have a right, even an obligation to test, question and decide for yourself yea or nay to each particular book.“When the student is ready the teacher will appear,” says an old Zen profit.
  That said, let’s begin. The top of the heap comes much repeated “JUST DO IT”- “Ribe Tuchus,” butt in the chair and just write-long hand, with pen/pencil and paper, matchbook covers toilet tissue if you must. Computer keyboard, typewriter-whatever you’re comfortable with, begin! Put words on the page, in a journal, in a computer file, but to be a writer-drum roll please-you must write. No surprise there is there?
  A point I’d like to make here is that Sage Advice needn’t come from someone who has written for a century or more. One of my most favorite books is by a young woman Marcia Golub, author of I’d Rather Be Writing, Her writing reminds me of a younger more modern Brenda Ueland. So warm, friendly and encouraging, she made me wish she had been my English teacher those many long years ago before my creativity had the life red penciled out of it. She is a gentle nudger, she feels to me like person whose lap you could curl up on and listen to her tell stories until you were ready to write or tell your own. With her kind encouragement and sage advice-from some one so young, absolutely, she’s a treasure.
  If you need ways to find inspiration, get past the first sentence, write and still be a good parent, and a zillion other writerly problems, curl up with Marcia Golub and get ready to be inspired, writing, and devoid of guilt about the child busy in the other room.
  Some sage advice from 1934 check out Dorthea Brande’s book Becoming a Writer. Here you will find insights into how everything in your environment affects your writing. How you can harness your unconscious mind. Brande’s advice is as important and on target as it was when she first presented it to her 1920’s classrooms. It is a practical, sound, inspirational approach to writing filled to the brim with charm and wit. As she said herself, “This book is all about the writer’s magic.”In Writing From The Heart, Nancy Slonim Aronie, writes a chapter titled “Before You Knew Everything, Everything Was New.” She says “good writing is not about good grammar. Good writing is about truth.” She reminds us of how it was when we were children. Everything from a rainbow to a spider’s web, a furry caterpillar to a blade of grass, or a found penny were to be viewed with awe and wonder, a first, a prize, a mystery or a treasure.Somewhere between birth and growing up we lose that living on the cusp of the present the living in the moment. As we lose the innocence and urgency, the more it takes for us to be influenced or for things to have an impact on us. Aronie invites us back to that time when we were wide open, when our hearts were full of wonder. She asks us to return, be there, be in the here and now and write from that deep within place of our heart, before it was so hard to surprise us or put us in awe of the world around us. Bonni Goldberg in Room to Write agrees and adds, “You see with your instinct, your intuition and your imagination.” She encourages, “When writing, exercise your full range of vision as well.” [Vision being the seeing as well as the way of seeing]Aronie speaks of the pain we harbor locked deep in our hearts and invites us to cut it loose on the page. She says your reader doesn’t need a detached description, big words or imitations of some other great writer’s voice. “They need you, with your language, your rhythms, your story. They need your heart.” She says.
  If you can conger up a time when you felt the emotion your character needs to depict at that point in your book/story, reach deep inside yourself first-feel that emotion again, see with your heart’s eye, your own reaction - you can better translate that to the page and make your character come to life for your reader as a believable being.
  While Aronie agrees that reading and studying the good authors is an excellent learning experience for the writer, they can be your teachers she says. But, and this is a Huge but, “THEY CAN’T FEEL YOUR PAIN FOR YOU,” She continues, “If the narrator’s heart is not open, we cannot be moved.” And that is only from her chapters on being in the now and pain, there is much, much more to this small book.
  Sage Advice can come from unlikely quarters; even the venerable Stephen King has two books on writing out there to help the aspiring, wanna be. From writing books and magazines that are general in scope, to specific genres there are equally as many geared toward your specific inclination.
  Don’t know what to write about? Open a copy of Shery MaBelle Arietta-Russ’ Write Sparks, or Bonni Goldberg’s Room To Write or and here is one that never runs out too What If? Writing Exercises for Fiction Writers, by Anne Bernays and Pamela Painter.
  Have no idea of format? Look into The Marshall Plan for Novel Writing Workbook by Evan Marshall. Writer’s block? If you believe there is such a critter open Jenna Glatzer’s Outwitting Writer’s Block and Other Problems of the Pen. Now that you figured out you’re going to write-where to go for information on the specific genre of your choice? There is almost no limit to your choices here. Writing Mysteries, edited by Sue Grafton with sage wisdom from a number of mystery writers is billed as A Handbook by the Mystery Writer’s of America, OR You Can Write a Mystery, by Gillian Roberts, Writing the Modern Mystery, Barbara Norville and Writing the Mystery, by G. Miki Hayden with interviews by some of the mystery authors you’ve come to know and love. These are only a few of the dozens on my personal writing shelf.

Romance:
Writing a Romance Novel for Dummies, Leslie WaingerThe Complete Idiot’s Guide to Getting Your Romance Published by Julie Beard.
How to Write Romance for the New Markets, by Kathryn FalkWriting Romances, a Handbook by the Romance Writers of America, Edited by Rita Gallagher, and Rita Clay Estrada

Screen Writing:
Screen Play , by Syd Field and all of the screen plays you can find, such as The Shooting Script for the Shawshank Redemption, by Frank Darabont

Thriller:
Writing the Thriller, by T. Macdonald Skillman

Science Fiction and Fantasy:
Writing Science Fiction and Fantasy by Crawford Killian

Children:
Writing for Children & Teenagers, by Lee Wyndham, revised by Arnold Madison
Story Sparkers, A Creativity Guide for children’s Writers, by Debbie Dadey & Maria Thornton Jones
Writing Fiction for Children, Judy K Morris
Picture Writing, Anastasia Suen

  There are so many more, I wish that I could list all the ones that I have, plus all the ones that are available. So if something doesn’t work for you I encourage you to try another book and another until you find the one that resonates for you-if it isn’t out there write it.
  But there is no excuse, if you can read you can find advice on what, how to, and even where to submit when you’ve written your masterpiece. With many books out as audio now, and voice recognition software, being able to read is no longer a pre-requisite to being a writer.
  The advice you will find in some shape or form echoes Caroline Joy Adams voice in The Power to Write, “Powerful, inspired writing is writing that flows along easily, fueled by a sense of high energy…filled with feeling, an intriguing story line,” And as in everything, there are opinions on writing that are diametrically opposed, have conflicting even radically conflicting advice. Take for instance the absolute need to outline before you begin-to some, it stifles their creativity reminiscent of school English classes where you spent as much time on outline as you did on story. To another, outlining clears the way for them to write up a storm with out worrying about where the story is going or how they are going to get there.
  Neither method is right for everyone. Some do a general plot outline, some begin with a character and after creating a full biography including backstory, they get out of the way and let the character tell the story. Then there are those who simply sit down and start to write and write until the story is told. Pantser or plotter, it’s up to you.If a combination of methods works for you-wonderful. There are two that work for me dependent on the type of story or where the main idea started originally. The Marshall Plan for Novel Writing, by Evan Marshall is done using what he labels Sections. Following his way to outline with this you do sections, each section you make a sheet for Which VP Character (your using), Where the action takes place, When (in relation to your stories time line) and then the characters old goal (from the previous scene if there was one) then you list who or what would be against this VP Character achieving their goal, then list the major conflicts that would occur in this section - what does your character do to try to achieve her/his goal in spite of the against thing/person. Finally and of course, they fail to reach their goal and must decide on another small goal to move the story forward and them toward their major story goal that you decided on as your main Plot/Theme. While you are building your story you are creating a synopsis which is the bonus for using this method.
  The other method I have used successfully is outlined by Robert J Ray in The Weekend Novelist and The Weekend Novelist Writes a Mystery using the scene card method. Using this method you write out your character sketches, interviews and backstory, each scene that you plan on for your story gets a scene card with the VP characters name, what he wants or needs in this Scene and the conflict he is facing. The storyboard you create to keep your story focused is another way to pull your synopsis together at the end.
  Another method I’ve stumbled upon recently is called The Snowflake and was developed by fellow author Randall Ingermanson. http://www.rsingermanson.com . Visit his web site to get your own free copy of this version. He plans to turn it into a book soon and it will no longer be free on his website. His is a concise and brilliant rendition of the method of story - think of a snowflake with all its branching and connecting - Ingermanson has come up with the better mousetrap, so to speak.
  So while Sage Advice may be the spice your writing needs, in order to work for you it must be accessible, useable, relevant to the current you. Some books I have on my shelves I’ve never been able to get through. Some, after a time I pick up again and wonder how I could have not used it before. The rub her I believe is, as another brilliant and sage author, Natalie Goldberg says in her any books “When the student is ready, the teacher will appear.” Now that is simple, clear, perfect advice. Keep searching, but don’t forget to back track because sometimes the book you put on your self or weren’t ready for once upon a time, suddenly fits like a leather glove.
=============================================

Here’s what they are saying:

“If you’ve struggled, wondering how you can get your writing to sparkle like a bright penny, this book is dedicated to you.
  Written in her typical down-home style, prolific writer, master story teller, and lover of the written phrase, Billie A Williams has laid out an easy to digest palate of sensuous, tangy, salty, and (yes, sometimes) bitter writing techniques you can immediately use to literally spice up your writing.”
Reviewed by B.A. Erickson, author of Filbert’s Guide to Getting Published Without falling for scams, hooks, lines, or sinkers

EXERCISE:

1. Pick a book you thought about giving away or donating to a library because it held no use for you-preferably months if not years ago, revisit it. Is it still a dud? Try this with several books. I’d be very interested in your reaction - email me at billie@billiewilliams.com
2. Decide what genre you prefer to read/write if you haven’t already. Now go to your library, bookstore, your own shelves, pull three how to books for that genre, look for the chapter that lists the rules or the got to haves for that genre. Within every genre there are reader expectations you must fulfill, finding them and fulfilling them, while no absolute guarantee of success, at least gives you a better edge against absolute and certain failure.
3. Write a paragraph about your own sage advice. Send it off to an online writing e-zine. It may be your first publication and introduction to the writing market and your brand new beginning. Good Luck.

*************

Title: Accidental Spy
Author: John R. Lindermuth
Pub: Lachesis Publishing
http://www.lachesispublishing.com
Genre: Historical Suspense
ISBN: 1-897370-56-3

  Lessons learned have value for the future, provided we acknowledge them. Alas, they do us little good in the immediate circumstance. I’d been done in by my own greed and persistent need of coin. That was my situation, but recognizing it did me no service the next morning.
  Hands bound behind us, sad-eyed Jonas and I were loaded like so many sacks of grain into the back of a wagon drawn by two tired horses. Bohner drove while Moser sat at the front of the dray facing us, pistol laid across his drawn up knees, and smiling his insidious smile. The two men who had captured Jonas rode alongside on horseback.
  Thusly, constrained and chagrined, I began the second leg of the journey fate had prepared me.
  As we learned, Moser was the sheriff who had tracked us from Berks County. Bohner and the others were his deputies. Bohner and Souder were cousins and the miller had been a party to the scheme to take us from the start.
  “But, if you knew who I was and where to find me, why did you put us to all this bother?” I asked Moser as we bounced along.
  “Ah, but it would not have been nearly so much fun,” he answered with that putrid smile. “Actually, it was Bohner’s idea. He seldom has much humor and it was such a good idea I could not deprive him the opportunity of following through.”“How did you know where we had gone?”
  “We had the help of your friend.”
  “Flip betrayed us?” Jonas asked.
  “Of course. It was the choice of his neck or yours. You didn’t really think he’d gone off with a girl last night, did you?”
  Jonas and I exchanged a glance. “I never saw the girl,” he said. “Flip only told me about her.”
  “It doesn’t matter,” I consoled the lad. I was in no mood to dwell on the issue, nor did I entertain desire for further conversation.
  Stretching my legs before me, I wiggled my hips seeking as much comfort as was possible on the hard wagon-bed.
  We rode under a sky of flawless blue, the air stirred by our passage crisp but not unbearable with the warmth of the sun that fell on our backs. The countryside between Lebanon and Reading is comprised of wide fertile valleys squeezed between rolling blue hills. The atmosphere made the hills and valleys misty, softening the line of the ridges which seemed to melt into one another. Up the hillsides, the sumacs and maples were showing red, the birches and aspens gold, leading the charge of trees turning their colors. Crows spoke loudly from the ochre fields, scattering flocks of migrating flickers. It was all quite lovely and meaningless to me in my despair.
  I did not take lightly the consequences of our fate. Thanks to the Quaker influence, punishment of crime in Pennsylvania was less severe than in some neighboring states. The criminal code punished with death only two offenses-murder and treason-neither of which we were guilty. Still, there was a good chance we would be dealt with harshly. I desired silence in which to brood but Jonas and Moser would not allow it.
  “What’s to become of us now?” my associate asked.
  “Had my way you’d hang,” Moser said, “or at least get a good flogging. You might lose your ears. But it’s not up to me. I’d say you can look forward to a good long time in gaol. The way things are going, though, who knows, you may be offered opportunity to serve your time in the army.”
  “In the army!” Jonas cried out, shuddering.
  Moser shrugged his big shoulders. “General Washington’s always in need of cannon fodder. Desertions have been heavy, not to mention the usual losses. You might not get paid or fed very well, but it’s an option.”
  “I’d rather take my chances in gaol,” Jonas said. “At least there’s no one shooting at you there or trying to stick a bayonet in your gut.”
  I’d lost my wig, which vanity had cost me dearly, and the sun shone hot upon my shaven pate.
  Moser guffawed. “How ‘bout you, Dan?”
  “I’ve already had the experience, thank you.”
  “Yeah,” he said with another chuckle, “and of desertion as well.”
  I gave him a cold glance. “You seem to know much of my history.”
  “Oh, yeah. You’re a famous man, doncha know? Lots of lawmen have studied you and sought you out.” Beaming and with a swell of his chest, he added, “But I’m the one kotched you.”
  The horses clopped along, the wagon bouncing and swaying in the rutted road, and we were jostled and swayed and bruised to their rhythm. My thin flesh afforded little protection for my poor bones. Moser’s words were as salt to my wounds.“Your mother will be proud of you,” I told him.
  “Here now, watch what you say of my mother.”
  “I’d never speak ill of a woman-even if her son be a bastard.”
  Screwing up his face, Moser bent forward and swatted at me with his big hand. I twisted to the side, but his blow caught my ear a stinging glance. “You’re gonna pay,” he snarled, “oh, how you’re gonna pay.”
  As we traveled, I’d noticed Moser and his men passing back and forth a jug of rum. My lips were dry and my tongue thick and dust-coated but I had reason not to resent their stinginess. I saw it as a gift of another kind for later. The manner in which Moser now slurred his words convinced me that time was drawing nigh.
  Soon the road bent down an incline, swung round the base of a hill and entered a tunnel of tall trees. On one side, the forest rose steeply up hill. On the other, a brushy bank fell into a hollow where a creek could be heard tumbling and singing over rocks. The wagon slowed.
  Bohner slumped in his seat, the reins held loosely in his hands and the tired horses setting their own pace. The two riders swayed on their saddles, heads bent forward, chins digging into their chests. Moser, too, was nodding, eyes going shut then popping open as he rocked from side to side.
  Now was the time.
  “My bladder’s bursting,” I shouted. “Might we stop?”
  Jolted awake, Moser shook his head, looked around him. “What? Huh? Oh, yeah.” He scratched at his chin. “Yeah. Might be a good idea.”
  He tapped Bohner on the shoulder, ordered a halt.
  Standing erect, Moser stretched, scratched some more. Then he leveled the pistol at me. “No funny business, you understand?”
  “All I want is relief,” I assured him.
  Jonas and I slid off the tailboard. We leaned against the wagon a moment, stamping our feet to relieve the numbness before attempting to walk. On my first steps I staggered as much as those who had imbibed the rum.
  Moser jumped down beside us, thrusting the pistol into the top of his trousers. The riders dismounted and tended to their own business.
  “You’ll have to unloose us,” I told Moser as I ambled to the side facing the hollow.
  “Uh-uh,” he said.
  “Then how are we to piss?”
  Scratching his head, he glanced from one to the other of us. “I’ll loose your friend,” he said after a little thought. “Maybe he loves you enough to undo your fly for you.”
  I’d been working my knots since we’d boarded the wagon and now I knew a good shake would free my hands.
  As Moser bent to untie Jonas I threw my weight against them, sending both tumbling down the bank. Then I dove headlong into the brush.
  I regretted leaving Jonas in the lurch; he was a good lad. But, in such circumstances, it was every man for himself.

************

Book Title: The Devil Can Wait
Author: Marta Stephens
Publisher: BeWrite Books (UK)
ISBN: 978-1-905202-86-7
Genre: Mystery/Suspense
Purchase at: http://www.bewrite.net, http://www.amazon.com, http://www.barnesandnoble.com

Chapter One

Chandler, MA

  "Fogerdy!"
  The old man cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled for his dog over the howl of the North Atlantic wind. The shepherd's muted bark came to him from the distance.
  At three in the morning, the stretch of beach between Williams Landing and pier twenty-eight was cloaked in impenetrable darkness. The wind raged with particular vengeance on the pre-dawn hours of November 12. It churned the waters of Chandler Bay and spewed a biting mist off the swells before the waves slammed onto the shore. Still, the cold snap that swept across the isolated section of beach was as expected as Thanksgiving turkey and pumpkin pie.
  Moist sand sunk under the weight of the old man's steps. He staggered and leaned into the gusts to keep his balance. He aimed the flashlight beam deep into the night and yelled for his dog again. Tiny pellets of snow spat at an angle past the shaft of light before disappearing into the darkness.
  "There you are, you stinker."
  Ten yards ahead, the dog stood poised like a pointer barking incessantly at the incoming waves.
  "Crazy mutt."
  The dog lowered his head and eased toward the water's edge.
  "Fogerdy. Here, boy." He clapped his hands to get the pet's attention. "Get over here."
  The dog remained fixed; his hackles on end.
  "What's gotten into you?" he asked as he bent to leash him. "You're never this …" The man swept the light in the direction of whatever had caught the dog's attention. He squinted, leaned in for a closer look, and recoiled. Disgust hit as hard as the stench that rose from the decomposed body.The Homicide unit of the Chandler Police Department expected the annual hike in crime that seemed to always usher in the holiday season. But the floater cases and a recent outbreak of the flu among the officers had crimped the department's roster. Three of the eleven detectives were out on sick leave; two were recuperating from injuries sustained during a high-speed chase. Those left to serve double duty were on the short end of a fuse with no apparent escape from the madness.
  Sam Harper stirred and moaned at the high-pitched ring of his cell. He frowned at the phone's intrusive shrill. A familiar sound that no longer jolted him out of bed as it once had. He pried his eyes open, tempted to throw the phone against the wall. Instead, he remained face down with the pillow wrapped tight around his head. Unable to block the irritating disturbance, he grunted and snatched it off the nightstand.
  The congested voice on the other end of the line belonged to Dave Mann, Harper's partner of just over a year. Mann had a hell of a cold and his usual laid-back demeanor had given way to irritability. His patience had vanished six murders ago.
  "Didn't you hear me call? Twice. I let the damned phone ring forever."
  Harper winced as the red alarm clock numbers came into focus. "It's four in the morn-"
  "Got another floater."
  "Jesus." Harper didn't have to see the body to know the victim was another teenage boy. This was the third case in a matter of weeks. He knew what they'd find - nothing. They'd have a corpse and a cause of death, but no motive or weapon, no time of death, no trace evidence and no suspect.
  "Where?"
  "Beached a quarter mile south of Williams Landing. Are you coming?"
  "Yeah. I'm up."
  "Sam?"
  "I said I'm up. Just give me a minute!"
  "It's colder than hell out here. Come on, Jack's already done with the preliminary. We're waiting on you."
  Harper wiped the corners of his mouth as he tried to block out Mann's rant. "I'm on my way." He tossed the cell onto the bed, rubbed his eyes and glanced at Kay's empty pillow. His fiery six-month affair with the city's assistant prosecuting attorney ended abruptly with a single phone call she received from the New York D A and his offer to give her a shot at a high profile case. The first teen's body surfaced days after she left. Harper convinced himself that was the only reason he was thinking of her now. He slammed a fist into her pillow, swung his legs out of bed, and forced her from his mind again.
&nbs; Harper parked his Jeep along the shoulder of the road. Jack Fowler's medical examiner's van, three marked units, and Mann's Nissan were parked a few yards ahead. Beams of portable spotlights shone like beacons on the beach below while the usual gathering of city personnel crowded the scene.
  Mann, an ex-college quarterback, was a head taller than the two techs on duty tonight and a hard target to miss from any distance. When the first tech raised his camera for a shot, Mann leaned in, and pointed at the angle he wanted. By the time Harper reached the beach, Mann had moved on to inspect the other tech's initial crime-scene sketches. Jack also stood out among them like a smudge on a page. He was the middle-aged guy with a '60s crew cut sporting his trademark red sneakers. At his feet, the black body bag stretched across the wet sand.
  Harper and Mann had chased after a faceless killer since the end of October when the first teenage boy bobbed up like an apple in Chandler Bay. The corpse in the body bag gave Harper reason to suspect they were dealing with a serial killer. He held that thought and jerked his collar snug around his neck as he made his way down the snow-covered embankment.
  "Hold it, Doc." Harper shoved his hands into a pair of latex gloves.
  "About damn time. What took you so long?"
  "Got here as fast as I could."
  "I've got more bodies than hours in a day to do them." Jack did nothing to disguise his irritation. "I don't have time-"
  "Give me a break, will you? You're not the only one pulling double shifts. What do we have?" Harper reached for the tab on the body bag's zipper and pulled it open while Jack described the obvious.
  "Another male, looks to be in his mid-teens. Has a trace of a tattoo left on his chest, just like the others." Jack paused and gave his watch a quick glance. "The killer's playing with you, Harp. Look at the throat - slit this one wide open."
  Harper frowned and leaned forward for a closer look at the three-inch gash. "Okay, so he beats the crap out of vic number one, strangles the second, and slices up the third. What the hell's pushing this guy's buttons?"
  He swept a glance over his shoulder toward the bay. Every officer on the force knew the water temperatures dropped by early September; the colder the water, the slower the putrefaction process. That single fact meant the murders were weeks old when the bodies rose from the bottom. To Harper, it meant only one thing - a snag.
  "What difference do motives make when we don't have a suspect?" Mann asked. "The guy's probably three states away by now."
  "Or right in our backyard watching every move we make." Anything was possible. Harper understood Mann's frustration, but the worse thing they could do was second guess the killer.
  "Then how do we find him? We have no prints and no trace. Any viable DNA got flushed off the bodies the minute they hit the water. If you've got a new theory, let's hear it."
  "We follow the trail."
  "What trail? We've got nothing."
  "He'll make a mistake. They all do."
  "Not this guy. He's thorough. Empties their pockets, doesn't leave anything behind," Mann said. "Damn near a perfect crime."
  "But not quite." Jack pointed a gloved finger at the caps on the victim's two front teeth. "This one's had some fine dental work done, and where there's a cap, there's a dentist with records."
  "So we'll ID the vic and the doc who drilled him. He'll have an old address and phone for the kid, landing us right back where we started. Nowhere." Mann turned away.
  "He can't hide forever," Harper said. "If he left the state, the shortest way out is north, to New Hampshire. We'll send out another BOLO."
  "And tell them what? What are they supposed to be on the look out for?" Mann asked.
  "The killer's calling card is his choice of victims and location. If he's moved on, you can bet some other detective unit is scratching their heads or worse, not making a connection between murders."
  A frown rippled across Mann's brow as he studied the victim's face. "I say we're looking at this all wrong. Somewhere there's a kid trying to make a name for himself. That's what this is all about."
  "I don't think so," Jack said.
  "Sure it is. It's a territorial thing. No different than a drive-by shooting only this one is up close and personal."
  "We would have heard something by now, someone would have talked. These are anything but random murders." Harper turned his back to the wind and shifted his weight from one foot to another. "The killer chose his victims - street-smart kids without loyalties. Hundreds of kids to choose from, why these three?"
  "It's gang related. Nothing else ties them together." Mann pressed his point.
  "I don't buy it. If that's what the killer wants us to think, he just made his first mistake."
  Mann and Jack seemed to hang on those words.
  "The murders were premeditated - thought out, and that tells me one thing. There was a connection among his victims. Figure that out," Harper said, "and maybe we'll find him before he kills again."
  "We're out of leads, Sam. We have no suspects."
  "Sure we do."
  "Who, damn it? Face it, we've got a thumb up our ass on this one."
  Harper studied his partner for a moment. The case had gotten to the entire detective unit. But now wasn't the time to let tempers blow like pistons.
  "We'll go back and re-examine each of the cases. We've missed something. The kids on the streets don't get tight-jawed for nothing."
  "You think they're protecting the killer?" Mann asked.
  "No, their skin. They're scared, you can bet one of them knows who did this and why."
  "That puts us back on the serial killer theory." Mann shook his head. "It doesn't fit the profile."
  Harper knew the FBI's description of a serial killer concluded offenders were usually white males between the ages of 18 and 32. He also knew there were as many exceptions to the profile rules as there were offenders. No one, including the FBI, wanted to risk misidentifying a serial killer based on a minor point like not fitting a typical profile.
  "The best lead we had was the tattoo artist down by the docks," Mann said, "and you know where that led us - zilchville." He paused to raise his hand to his temple. "This reminds me of the Cromwell case."
  Harper shook his head. Cromwell had worked as a cabby for twenty-three years when he lost his job. He systematically killed every person he blamed, including the doorman at the Hyatt Regency for giving his fares to the other cabs. He knew each of his victims well enough to use a different method to kill them according to their fears.
  "Cromwell snapped; he lashed out," Harper said. "Whoever killed these boys was precise and deliberate."
  "I agree," Jack said. "No seventeen-year-old I know is sophisticated enough to plan an elaborate scheme like this. Kids act on impulse. They leave their victims where they drop." He nodded at the corpse. "This isn't your classic gang killing." Jack stooped next to the body and carefully lifted the boy's arm. "Look at his skin; same rough, pimple-like texture as the others. It's a normal change of decomposition. It happened in cold water - out there - in the deep and you can't dump a body in the middle of the bay without a boat. How many boys have access to the type of vessel needed to maneuver these waters?"
  Mann looked away and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hand. "I'll call the port authorities again. See if anyone reported any unusual activities at the docks since the last murder."
  "I found traces of drug use on the other two kids," Jack said. "If I were you, I'd keep looking for a high-end dealer."
  "That's not all those two had in common. They both had rap sheets; this one probably does too. We need to look at their records again." Harper methodically examined the victim's face and hands. "Bloated, fingertips are puckered. Aside from the missing flesh around the face, there's not much sign of decay."
  "Like I said, twenty-degree water temp acts like a preserving agent. The body fat turns into that soap-like consistency he's covered in. A shot of saline into those fingertips will pop them right up. If not, we have his teeth imprints."
  "How long do you think he's been dead?" Harper asked.
  "You know the process."
  "Right, Jack, would you cut me some slack here? Just answer the question."
  "Can't even come close. You know that. Too many variables."
  "Then damn it, toss me your best guess."
  "Hypothetically, same as the others - weeks. Look at his skin, Harp. He's not the first floater you've looked at. Soft tissue of the nose and ear lobes are gone, adipocere - that soap like substance is over eighty percent of the body. It takes weeks for that to happen."
  Another strong gust of wind cut in from the bay. It threatened to topple the portable spotlights and sent a ripple of snow flurries across the beach.
  "What about those?" Harper stooped down to examine the laceration across the top of the victim's head.
  "This kid floated in face down, head hanging; got rammed against the rocks," Jack said. "In floaters, the blood flows down to the head. If it wasn't for the obvious cut across the throat, I'd say those would be a toss-up between ante- or post-mortem injuries. As it is, I'll wager post-mortem. Want to bet another steak dinner I'm right?"
  "I quit betting against you, remember?" Harper tilted his head and continued to study the corpse.
  Jack looked at his watch again and stifled a yawn. "All right. You guys done here? I have five others to do before I cut him open. Which one of you wants to watch?"
  "I'll do it. Call when you're ready." Harper peeled off his gloves and shoved them into his pockets.
  A moment later, Jack and his assistant struggled to carry the body up the snowy embankment to the city van. While the techs took care of the lights, Harper turned his attention to Mann. His partner's hacking cough sounded worse than it did the day before.
  "Who found him?"
  Mann tried to suppress another cough as he thumbed over his shoulder at the squad car where the dog and his owner were waiting. "Last name, Zirmack, Gene Zirmack. Lives up the road. Retired. Works part-time as caretaker at St Paul's Church. Said his dog got loose. He was chasing after him when he found the vic."
  "Did he notice anything unusual?"
  "Besides the stiff? No. He said if it hadn't been for his dog running off, he wouldn't have been down this far."
  "Must be his lucky day."
  "Yeah, well, we're taking him in for a statement."
  Harper reached for the door handle of his Jeep when the sound of the waves lapping against the rocks below made him shift his attention. The sun wouldn't crest for another half hour. Chandler Bay and the distant horizon were indistinguishable from the black of night.
  "You think Jack's right?" Mann asked.
  "About what?"
  "That the killer's playing with us. You believe that?"
  "These kids weren't killed to impress us. Whoever did this made damned sure the murders couldn't be traced back to him."
  "Then why toss the bodies in the bay? He had to know they'd wash back to shore."
  "Yeah he did. The question is, did he do it because he wanted them to be found or is he cocky enough to think we'll never catch him?" Harper asked himself the same question a number of times. He swung open the car door and again looked over his shoulder toward the bay.
  "Three bodies in eighteen days. Assuming they all decayed at the same rate, he's killed one kid every week. If he's still at it, we're already too late to prevent … Jesus, who knows how many more."

Marta Stephens is a native of Argentina who has made Indiana her home since the age of four. This mild-manner lady turned to crime with the publication of the first in her Sam Harper Crime Mystery series, SILENCED CRY (2007) which went on to receive honorable mention at the 2008 New York Book Festival and top ten in the 2007 Preditors & Editors Reader Poll. The second book in the Harper series, THE DEVIL CAN WAIT, was released by BeWrite Books (UK) http://www.bewrite.net on November 3, 2008.
  Stephens holds a Bachelor of Arts degree in Journalism/Public Relations from Ball State University (IN) where she is employed in human resources. She is a member of Sisters in Crime International, Sisters in Crime Speed City Indiana Chapter, and the Midwest Writer's Workshop.
  Aside from her writing, she is trained in graphic and web design. She co-designed the award-winning book cover of her debut novel, SILENCED CRY with friend Scott Parkison (IN), created the book trailer, and designed/administers her website, http://www.martastephens-author.com, her personal blog, http://mstephens-musings.blogspot.com, and the authors’ blog, MURDER BY 4 http://murderby4.blogspot.com.

  Stephens lives in Indiana with her husband, daughter (22), and son (20). She enjoys oil paintings, gardening, the family’s pet Boston Bulls and mini Daschunds, and shared moments with family and friends. 11.14.08

Dark Lullaby
by Mayra Calvani
Whiskey Creek PressTrade paperback ISBN: 978-1-59374-907-1, $12.95
eBook formats ISBN: 978-1-59374-908-8, $5.99
Dream Realm Award Finalist!

Excerpt from Dark Lullaby

  "Who's that woman?" Gabriel demanded.
  "I don't know."
  "Don't tell me you don't know. I saw the way she looked at you--the way you looked at her."
  "She's just an old woman, a silly superstitious old woman."
  Gabriel was sure Kamilah lied. He grasped her by the shoulders and turned her to him. "Why was she afraid of you?"
  Kamilah laughed, her cheeks flushed. "Listen to what you're saying. Why would she be afraid of me?"
  "I don't know. But it's a fact that she gasped when she saw you, that she was afraid."
  She shrugged. "She must have mistaken me for somebody else."
  "But why did you look at her like that? I saw your face."
  She scowled. "I don't know what you're talking about. Obviously you misread my face." She wrestled away from his grip. "I want to go home."
  "Home?"
  "Yes, home. To the forest. To the cottage." She stomped her foot and kept going, leaving him behind.
  Craning his neck, Gabriel looked back toward the scarf stand but the old woman was gone. "Damn!" he muttered.
  He trotted after Kamilah.
  Kamilah started running, her shrill, childish laugh defying him. Never stopping, she ran all the way to the mountain trail. With the heavy backpack and his sore leg muscles, Gabriel had a hard time keeping up with her. People turned to stare at them. Desperate to catch up with Kamilah, Gabriel clashed into a man as he crossed the street.
  Gabriel muttered a curse. He felt like strangling Kamilah. Her erratic behavior was wearing thin.
  "Wait!" he shouted when he saw her going up the trail.
  She glanced back over her shoulder and flashed him a feral grin, her flushed cheeks contrasting deeply with her brilliant eyes. "You cannot catch me, you cannot catch me!" She sang loudly in monotone, between gasps. "You cannot catch me, you cannot catch me!"
  As Gabriel ran after her the dull pain on the right side of his ribcage came back. He halted, panting. He leaned forward with his hands on his slightly bent knees and his eyes shut to concentrate on the ache.
  Massaging the painful area, he made an effort to regain his breath. When he looked again to the trail Kamilah had vanished into the woods.
  The hell with her. If she thought he would run after her and play her little hunting games, she was mistaken. He would very calmly find his own way back to the cottage. He reached into his backpack for the bottle of water and took a big gulp. After resting for several minutes the pain lessened and he felt better. In the deep chambers of his brain an alarm went off--for the first time the pain in his torso began to seriously worry him. He didn't think it had anything to do with indigestion or any exotic virus or bacteria. Words like tumor and cancer flashed through his mind but he tried to shove them away. He couldn't think about this now. Once back in Baltimore he would go to a doctor and have a complete examination.
  He'd been hiking for about an hour when a sound came from deep within the woods.
  Gabriel stopped, his head turning to the source.
  The sound was familiar… the distant shrill murmur of children playing.
  As suddenly as the sound had appeared, it vanished.
  Goose bumps rose on his arms. Had he imagined it? He massaged the sides of his head while drops of sweat trickled down his back. The burning sun and the humidity didn't help clear his mind.
  After taking a few deep breaths, he continued his way up the trail.
  About a quarter of an hour later he heard the sound again. This time it appeared closer.
  Gabriel stopped and peered into the woods. He closed his eyes and concentrated on identifying the sound. Yes… the shrill murmur of small children playing. Ridiculous but true.
  Gabriel decided to investigate.
  Once under the canopy of the trees, moist coolness and shadows enveloped him. He welcomed the feeling and continued deeper into the woods, the ground soft and mushy under his boots.
  After a few minutes it struck him the sound wasn't getting closer or farther. Even though it was distant, it seemed to be everywhere, all around him.
  Tilting back his head, he stared at the dense canopy of trees. Soft beams of light filtered down. He turned around slowly, light-headed and somewhat dizzy. For an instant he felt himself floating as the distant murmur of children caressed his mind.
  "Kamilah!" he shouted. "Kamilah!"
  He stopped turning and stood immobile, listening to his own heavy breathing, to his thudding heart.
  "Kamilah, I know you're here somewhere! Stop playing games!"
  He scanned the surroundings. Something about the tree trunks caught his eye. Their surface wasn't smooth as normal tree trunks. Lines marred the surface, natural lines which seemed to come from within the bark itself.
  The lines, as if carved by a human hand, appeared to be forming something.
  As realization dawned on Gabriel he gasped and stumbled back, nearly falling on the ground. He looked around him, terrified. Each tree trunk portrayed a different face… a baby face, crying, the mouth wide open in anguished misery.
  The shrill murmur of children became louder than ever.
  And then Gabriel understood it, heard it clearly. This wasn't the murmur of children playing. This was the sorrowful crying of infants.
  He ran back toward the trail as fast as his legs would allow him.

Note: A Spanish version of the above excerpt, taken from Mayra's yet-to-be-published horror novel, Dark Lullaby, appeared in El Nuevo Dia newspaper, San Juan, Puerto Rico.

What reviewers are saying...

"Mayra Calvani is a masterful storyteller… Dark Lullaby is complex and compelling…"
-- Habitual Reader

"Dark Lullaby is an atmospheric paranormal horror that grips you from page one and refuses to let go until you've raced, breathless, to the end. The prose is so smooth there are no speed bumps as you devour the entire novel in one or two sittings."
-- ePinions

"If you like chills, foreign settings, and moral dilemmas, this book is for you!"
-- Gloria Oliver's Blog

"Dark Lullaby is a page-turner. A horror story from the top shelf! You'll love it."
-- 5 stars from Euro-Reviews

"This is a terrific horror tale that hooks readers who in spite of knowing that Kamilah is malevolent from almost the first siren meeting with Gabriel wonder what her motive is and who she is. Fans will assume due to Gabriel's descent into paranoia and Elena's increasing manic panic attacks and anxiety-depression that borders on bipolar that this is a psychological thriller; but the Turkish locale and Kamilah make it so much more. Mayra Calvani will have fans hooked in a one sitting read as the author's appreciative attentive audience will want to know is it madness or something more paranormally chilling."
-- Harriet Klausner 10/02/08

**********

Mazurka
by Aaron Paul Lazar
Publisher-Twilight Times Books>br?http://www.twilighttimesbooks.com

Chapter One

  We’re going to die on our wedding day.
  The right wing dipped and the storm raged, battering the massive Boeing 747. Overhead bins snapped open, disgorging travel bags and paraphernalia into the aisle. Cries of alarm filled the air and cold sweat wetted my brow.
  Camille grabbed my arm.
  “Talk to me, Gus. Take my mind off it.”
  Her complexion waxed green and she brushed damp curls from her forehead, leaning back with eyes squeezed shut. A bolt of lightning burst against the window as the aircraft wobbled its way toward Paris.
  I forced a smile. “I think we’re over land now. Almost there.”
  Her eyes blinked open, searching mine. Hope glinted momentarily until the plane shuddered again, reinforcing her deep-seated flying phobia. I wondered how I’d ever get her back on the plane for the return trip to East Goodland, New York. I twisted the overhead air vent, letting the tepid air ruffle my hair. With a deep breath, I collected myself and tried to sound natural.
  “You’ll love Paris, honey. It’s so full of color and motion and … people. An amazing assortment of people.”
  Her eyes darted to the window. “Uh-huh. Tell me more.”
  Another bolt of lightning flickered, blinding me. I braced myself as the plane rocked. The wing quivered in counterpoint to my heartbeat; its metallic stutter growling in protest.
  “Notre Dame is spectacular, dark and mysterious. The view from the bell tower is incredible. It’ll take your breath away.”
  She shifted in her seat and shot me a glance.“You were there with Elsbeth, right?”
  I looked into her eyes. No jealousy lurked there. “Yes. Ten years ago. Our anniversary.”
  My throat clogged. Elsbeth, my soul mate, my fiery partner, had been murdered five years earlier-shoved from the cliffs of the Letchworth Gorge.
  Camille kissed her fingertips and gently pressed them to my mouth. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you sad.”
  I flashed a half smile. “It’s okay.”
  She sat up with interest, ignoring the rocking aircraft. “Let’s talk about Paris.”
  I turned to her, taking her hands in mine. “What’s the first thing you want to do when we arrive?”
  “Besides kiss the ground?” she asked.
  I laughed. “Yeah. Besides that.”
  Rain splattered against the window, dancing in parallel conga lines as the high wind smeared it against the glass.
  “I want to walk along the Seine and find a café. I was craving fresh croissants and strawberries before my stomach started to flip flop.”
  A sudden gust caught the plane, sheering it sideways. I nearly lost my lunch. Mopping my forehead with my sleeve, I tightened my seatbelt. Camille froze, plastered against her seat. When the plane stabilized, the captain’s voice boomed over the loudspeaker.
  “Folks, this is Captain Wilcox. Sorry for the bumpy ride. I’m going to try to fly above the storm. Meanwhile, please remain calm. Observe the seatbelt sign and stay in your seats. As soon as it’s safe to move about the cabin, I’ll let you know.”
  Camille took a deep breath. “Where’s our hotel?”
  “On the right bank. Just around the corner from Notre Dame. Walking distance to the Musée D’Orsay, the Louvre, the Jardin de Tuileries. A perfect location.”
  The left wing dropped and the plane pitched. She grabbed my hand.
  “If we make it at all,” she said.
  Without warning, the jet plunged, diving through the clouds. A volley of flames erupted from the engine outside our window. Camille’s eyes widened and a sob burst from her lips. My head snapped against the headrest and the force of the descent pinned me to the seat.
  Oxygen masks dropped and dangled elusively in the air. I pried one hand from the armrest and fumbled for my mask. Reaching for it, I snagged it and stretched the elastic strap around my head. Camille caught her mask, placed it over her mouth, and looked at me. Terror flared in her eyes.
  I clutched her hand as a kaleidoscope of images flitted through my brain: Camille in her wedding dress, my grandson’s impish smile, our dogs, Max and Boris, asleep by the fire.
  We plummeted through a time continuum that blended slow motion with eternity. I struggled to remember the crash position as my heart drummed beneath my ribs. The captain’s voice thundered over the loudspeaker, words muffled beneath the roar of the descent. Craning my head against the heavy force, I faced Camille. It was surreal. A dream. A nightmare.
  Abruptly, the aircraft stabilized. A stainless steel coffeepot rolled down the aisle and lodged against my foot. The fire in the engine extinguished and the plane ascended as innocuously as it had hours earlier from Dulles Airport.

Chapter Two

  The air filled with a hubbub of shouts in assorted languages. The nearest attendant unsnapped her belt and walked the aisle, scooping up items that had become airborne during the dive. As she deftly comforted passengers, I marveled at her rapid recovery. A faint, haunted expression lingered in her eyes as she went about her duties.
  The captain’s voice blasted through tinny speakers.“It’s okay now, folks. We made it through the worst of it. If anyone needs help, press your attendant button. Sorry for the drop. We have mechanical failures, but nothing we can’t handle. Just breathe normally and ignore the masks until we come around and pack them back into the consoles. We’ll be touching down in about an hour. The temperature in Paris is sixty-five degrees Fahrenheit.”
  I released her hand and unfastened the mask, shaking my head to clear it. Camille ran her fingers through her hair, stifling a sob. Her hand flew to her mouth and she exploded with emotion.
  I wrapped my arms around her and pulled her to me. She convulsed against my neck, gulping through tears. Stroking her back, I inhaled the familiar scent of her. Relief shuddered through me as we collapsed against each other.
  She lifted her tear-stained face to mine. Urgently, I pressed my lips to hers. She kissed me back, let out another small sob, and lay her head against my chest. After a while, she settled back in her seat and leaned against my shoulder. Her eyes glazed over as she stared into the black night. Fat raindrops slid along the glass, intertwining in black ribbons that pelleted and split in the wind. With sudden resolve, Camille sat up and looked at me. Strength and purpose returned to her eyes. I watched her pull herself together as she dabbed at the tears and pulled her hair into a ponytail.
  The plane banked slowly to the right. A field of lights twinkled below.
  “We’re almost there,” I said. The words sounded trite, yet vibrated with magnitude born of near disaster. She snaked her arm through mine and leaned against me. I reached for her hand, needing the closeness of her touch, and rubbed my thumb across the soft skin on her hand. She was warm and real. Alive. We lay back against the seats as the rest of the plane returned to a semblance of normalcy.
  The calming aroma of coffee filled the air. Without warning, the giant figure across the aisle sat up and threw back the blanket partially covering his enormous body.
  “Professor? Was ist passiert? (What happened?)” Siegfried asked in his thick German accent.
  He pushed his long blond ponytail over his shoulder and rubbed huge fingers over sleep-soggy eyes, resembling a child waking from a nap. I turned to face the brother of my departed wife and smiled. He’d slept through the whole thing.
  “A little turbulence, Sig.”
  The word wasn’t in his vocabulary. I raised one hand in the air and mimicked a plane flying rapidly up and down. He nodded briefly and flashed a drowsy half-smile, closing his eyes again as he snuggled under his blanket. While the passengers queued at the restrooms, I decided to follow his example and closed my eyes. Memories of the bizarre phone call that caused Siegfried to join us on our honeymoon panned across my brain like a flickering eight millimeter movie.
  Frieda Hirsch, Siegfried’s great aunt, issued the summons to Germany when the cancer within her claimed her future. Her doctors gave her only months to live, thus prompting the middle-of-the-night phone call that shocked me from my sleep.“Siegfried must come to Germany,” she pleaded. “I have something very important to give him.” Her stumbling English was translated with the help of her grandson on the extension. After the long and complicated call, Camille and I agreed to deliver Siegfried to Germany en route to our honeymoon in Vienna.
  I tried to shake myself from the reverie, but couldn’t wrench my eyelids open. They were weighted closed, sealed with sticky taffy. The plane’s engines thrummed with a steady whir, as if we hadn’t been plunging toward the earth moments earlier with fireballs erupting from the engine outside our window.
  Across the aisle, Siegfried began to snore. I closed my eyes and enjoyed the quiet rhythm of the sound. 10/02/08

***********

Ancient Secrets
By Billie A Williams
ISBN 978-1-59705-396-9
Wings ePress, Inc.
http://www.wings-press.com

CHAPTER TWO

  Daringer Smith hung up the phone from checking in with the hospital in Friendship to see how his mother was doing. He picked up the box with the beaded necklace from the table next to the phone. Then he sat down on the couch and opened the box, “If only you could talk,” he said. “Some how I think you are connected to mom’s condition. I only wish I knew how.”
  He removed the necklace from the box, still wrapped in its silk scarf and laid it next to him on the couch. The box appeared to be old, but was it as old as the beads. It seemed in very good condition. There was no opportunity to check it out earlier, now he turned it over and over feeling the texture of it in his hands, examining the velvet cushion that the beads had lain in. The gilding was merely gold colored paint, it seemed cheaply made. Still it was very old. The encyclopedia of anthropological discoveries may be of some help he thought as he started toward it, but then changed his mind.
  Throwing a needle at a haystack hoping to chase mice from under it would be more productive. He needed to find what area the necklace came from, even what part of the world would help. Mother’s travel journals, he thought, but which one. Daringer unpacked them from his suitcase. They were dated, but that meant nothing to him. If he had saved all her postcards she sent him during her travels he may have known where she was at what time.
  The phone rang and jarred him from his thought train. He answered it expecting news of his mother or one of his sisters’ to be calling. He breathed in a huge sigh of relief when he recognized Abigail Stonehenge’s voice on the other end of the line. “I was about to call you,” he said. Knowing it was a lie. He hadn’t decided if he should call her because he didn’t know if he could keep from telling her about the beads or the necklace and he wasn’t sure he was ready to divulge their existence to anyone just yet.
  “I drove by and saw your car in the driveway,” she said. “I was anxious to tell you about a new dig we will be starting in the summer.”
  Relieved that she didn’t start with questions right away, he relaxed. “How excellent for you. It’s what you have been waiting for. Where is it?”
  “Would you believe Mathare, Africa?”
  “What in the world?” he didn’t get to finish his questions as someone barged in and she needed to hang up.
  “Lunch tomorrow at Trader’s?” she asked.
  He agreed, they settled on a time before she hung up. Abigail was the most energetic ambitious person he had known in a long, long time. When he introduced her to his mother she was very excited about her. They seemed to hit it off right away. This pleased him. He enjoyed her company immensely and couldn’t wait to get her input on the beads, yet he was afraid to mention them for some reason he couldn’t explain to himself let alone anyone else.
  As Dean of and Senior Instructor in the Archeaological Department their careers seemed to run parallel and they often collaborated on papers that they published in various scientific journals, so why was he leery of mentioning the beads to her. He couldn’t put his finger on his apprehension. A pang of something near trepidation enveloped him as he picked the beads up and placed them back in their box. As he went to close the lid his chest became heavy, his breathing labored as though he was smothering. Quickly, he opened the box and the sensation went away. Fear replaced the trepidation as it gripped him. A shudder cascaded down the full length of his torso leaving a damp coldness that stood the hairs on the nape of his neck on end. What was this necklace-- he placed the open box on the desk in his den, walked out and shut the door. The heavy oak door seemed to stop the intense heavy air that surrounds the presence of the beads. The unnaturalness of the whole incident drained his energy. He sat down to read his mother’s journals to see if he could discover where she had acquired the beads.
  The stress of the days of his mother’s coma and his travels quickly put him in a deep sleep. The word Catomanor formed some where in his subconscious. He could feel it. He could hear it as the journal slipped from his hands and sleep claimed his conscious mind.10/02/08

**********

“Riders of the Seven Hills”Tales of Red Clay and Blue Denim
By Lad Moore
Publisher: BeWrite Books

  Every Thursday the “slop man” came. He was an old black man with a gray beard, driving a wagon pulled by two equally gray mules. I didn’t need to listen for the metallic crackle of those wagon wheels or the clack of mule shoes to know he was in the neighborhood; I could smell the slop wagon from two streets over. The slop man stopped by each week to pick up well…slop. Slop was all our kitchen waste that couldn’t be burned in the burn barrel. Slop was everything from bacon grease to curdled milk, potato skins to banana peels. It was an alphabet soup of discard-an end product with no recipe. In the week between slop man visits, the stuff would “simmer” on the back porch-bubbling and gassing in a metal bucket with only a cup towel as a coverlet. It would ripen to nasal maturity by Wednesday, particularly when it contained meat scraps.
  It was my job to meet the wagon with our slop bucket. The old black man was always smiling and seemingly proud to receive our contribution, pouring it into a larger tub. Our slop had now joined a horrific sort of community stew.
  “What do you do with this stuff?” I asked the old man, while swatting at the horde of flies that circled his wagon like gulls trailing a scow.
  “This is food for my hogs,” he explained. “I own me thirty-five hogs and pigs, and it takes this wagon load every week to take care of my fine animals proper.” I could see a swell of pride in his chest, bibbed by overalls that were slick black from layered grime.
  Mulling over the hog’s diet that day, pork took a swift decline in my culinary rank. But I eventually forgave hogs their diet, just as I had earlier forgiven catfish their similar scavenging forage. The Good Book cites forgiveness as one of the most central charities of man. While slop made me pause momentarily, I found that crisp breakfast bacon and a fish fry after an outing on the lake are perfectly honorable ways to practice forgiveness.
  One day, after the slop man left, I had some pressing questions for my grandmother: “Mommie, I’ve been thinking. I bet we could sell our slop to that man. If I went around to the neighbors, I bet I could get everybody to agree, set a price, and we could make some money. If we all stuck together, he would have to pay us for the slop. And after all, we do need money.”
  “But we’re helping Mr Henry and he’s helping us,” she said. “Charity is like trade because both parties benefit. If Mr Henry didn’t haul away our slop, we would be forced to get rid of it some other way. Lordy, how would you like to bury it in the yard? Our slop helps the hogs prosper, and when Mr Henry takes them to market his family is provided for.”
  It was the day I learned that charity is mutually gratifying.
  Tuesdays and Fridays were “ice man” days. Like the slop man, the ice man was also old and gray. The similarity ended there. His wagon was bigger and sturdier to withstand the heavy loads. Its wheel rims were twice as wide, and bits of gravel would explode under its weight on the pavement. He had two fat draft horses instead of mules.
  Wo-haw! Ice man!” he called out in a booming voice. He announced his arrival because he didn’t have the benefit of the slop wagon’s odor as a pre-introduction. I would greet him at the driveway and watch him peel away the layers of burlap sacks that slowed the ice from melting in the summer sun. There they were-coffin-sized blocks of ice, buried in sawdust. From a leather scabbard on his belt, he would remove a pick and chip away a small chunk for me to suck. Then I would hand him a nickel, which signaled our usual order. Mommie always bought four cents worth of ice, and the remaining penny was the man’s tip.
  A four-cent quantity of ice was two squares slightly larger than a sack of sugar. Mommie always broke it up and put it in the freezer box for iced tea. I thought it odd that we continued to buy ice after we inherited Uncle Archie’s electric refrigerator. We could easily do without it, because we had ice trays. In fact, most people had electric refrigerators and ice trays by now. So why did the ice man continue to come around our neighborhood?
  My curiosity was piqued, but I did not want to ask the ice man directly.
  “Mommie,” I said, taking pause at licking my ice. It was but a tiny shard now, and dripping furiously. “Why do we waste money buying ice when we don’t need it? Sometimes we don’t even use Tuesday’s ice up before we buy more on Friday. We could keep our ice trays full, and two nickels will buy a Pullman loaf of bread.”
  “Mercy!” She said, wagging a long index finger in my direction. I knew a lecture was coming. “How about some thank-you’s for the ice he always chips off for you? “Old Wainwright has been coming to my house for twelve years and never missed a time. He’s been honest and reliable for as long as I have known him. He was faithful to me all the years I needed him, and now that I don’t, do I just turn him away?”
  It was the day I learned that loyalty is a cousin to love.

* * *

About the Author
Riders of the Seven Hills is Lad Moore’s third published collection of short stories and is a collage of memories that he subtitles Tales of Red Clay and Blue Denim. Much of the collection follows his rites of passage in Marshall, Texas. It contains several stories set in East Texas’ famed Caddo Lake and brings to life many of the characters and experiences he encountered along his path. His accounts are true, except in the cases where Lad says he “Ran out of truth before he ran out of words.”
  Lad’s earlier books include his popular collections, Tailwind, and Odie Dodie, both published by BeWrite Books. In addition, he has been published more than six hundred times in print and on the internet. He is a five-time contributor to Adams Media’s Rocking Chair Reader and Cup of Comfort anthologies, as well as the best-selling Chicken Soup for the Bride’s Soul. Lad has also been published in many internet literary venues including Amarillo Bay, The Pittsburgh Quarterly, Paumanok Review, Stirring, and Manx to name a few. His true story, Forgettin’ Satd’y Night, was first published in Virginia Adversaria, resulting in an Editorial Board nomination to the Texas Institute of Letters. He is a past winner of both The Wordhammer Award and The Silver Quill.
Lad Moore lives on a small farm in East Texas near the historicsteamboat town of Jefferson. 10/02/08

**********

Title: 'THE LURE OF THE WITCH' (#11 Hawkman Series)
Author: Betty Sullivan La Pierre
Pub: SynergEbooks
Release Date: October 2008
Format Available: (download) PDF Format
ISBN: 1439211043
Contact Betty at: bzna93a@aol.com

THE LURE OF THE WITCH
(Synopsis)

  Sarah Willis, a teenager, was reported missing to the Medford police by her father. When Greg Willis decided the authorities were dragging their feet, he hired private investigator Tom Casey, better known as Hawkman, to find his daughter. Since Greg and Cathy Willis had been divorced for a year, Hawkman found it a bit difficult to combine the information and decided to have Sarah’s belongings brought to his office, much to the dismay of the mother.
  When Hawkman began to dig into Sarah’s personal items, his wife, Jennifer, convinced him he didn’t understand the workings of a young girl’s mind, and needed her help. As they dug into the inner parts of Sarah’s computer, diary and notes, they discovered some disturbing facts which led them to a ranch in the Medford hills.  Hawkman investigated the piece of property and the owners happened to be Darek and Lea Thompson, a wealthy family with a teenage daughter, Brenda, who attended the same high school as Sarah, and another reported missing girl, Patricia Riley.
  After Hawkman interviewed people surrounding Sarah Willis, and gone through the books found in her room, he felt some sort of witchcraft played a role. The more he spoke with Brenda Thompson’s boyfriend, Jerry Olson, he came to the conclusion the Thompson family had something to do with the girl’s disappearance.
  Time became an essential commodity, as Hawkman sensed something bad would happen if they didn’t search the ranch as soon as possible. Lea Thompson had forbidden him to set foot on any of their property. He tried to call Detective Williams of the Medford Police Department for assistance, only to discover he was out on a serious case, and couldn’t be reached. Hawkman left an urgent message, then he, Jennifer and Greg Willis took the chance of getting arrested, and entered the Thompson property without permission. What they found was shocking.

Betty Sullivan La Pierre Mystery/Suspense
Author of the renowned "Hawkman Series"
Website: http://bettysullivanlapierre.com
Pub: SynergEbooks: http://tinyurl.com/3by4b4
MySpace: http://www.myspace.com/bettysullivanlapierre
10/02/08

**************

Music
Author: C.W. Albrecht
Publisher: Ebooksonthe.net
ISBN 978-1-59431-6 21-0
Genre: Mystery/Suspense
Ebook $5.50

  Detective Steve Music is a disillusioned cop with problems. Shelly Lambert is a woman who lost her son to a predator eight years ago. Continuing to suffer from grief and feelings of guilt, Shelly works with a coalition that helps locate missing children. When eleven-year old Jerry Beakey goes missing, Shelly and Steve join forces in their search for Jerry. That is, until Steve begins to unravel lies about Shelly's past, lies that rip them apart. Now, each separately continues to search for Jerry, but Shelly and Steve have to overcome their own demons if they hope to find Jerry—and catch a murderer.
07/21/08

***********

Silenced Cry
by Marta Stephens
(C) 2007 all rights reserved
Publisher: BeWrite Books (UK)
ISBN: 978-1-905202-72-0
Crime mystery/suspense

Chapter 1

  The hour-long sessions started at nine in the morning, twice a week, whether narcotics detective, Sam Harper liked it or not. The only good thing about this damp and cold Massachusetts morning was that it marked the midpoint of Harper's commitment. Internal Affairs had drilled him for three days in a row. Now the police shrink wanted a piece of him. He was sick of her dogged questions. That was his job, to wear the other guy down. Three sessions left, three hours of digging into his past, into the events of that night--that goddamned night.
  Neither the mild vanilla scent floating up from a flickering candle on the doctor's desk nor the subtle gurgle bubbling from a tabletop fountain were doing their job to relax him. Harper rubbed the arms of the leather chair with his thumb as he calculated his next move. He stared at her and finally broke the silence.
  "You ever kill a man, Doc?" A subtle twitch of her brow told him he had her attention. "A split second. That's all it takes, pull the trigger, and whoosh! He's gone."
  Dr. Brannon lowered her gaze and resumed her scribbling. The navy overstuffed chair seemed to swallow her small frame.
  "Why did you go there?"
  "Mellow was our only link in the case. At least that's what Gillies thought. He told me every damned thing hinged on getting to Mellow before homicide got their hands on him."
  "And you had reservations?"
  Harper looked away as the Chandler Police Department psychiatrist took notes of his crumbling life.
  "Does it matter?" His glance swept up to the dark paneled wall behind her desk. Framed certificates hung in an orderly row like crows on a wire. They mapped out her qualification and gave credence to her ego.
  He didn't need her to question his motives or to dig into his past and drag the memories of that night to the surface. They were there, frozen in Harper's mind--the second he got off his round. He'd never forget the blast or the hammering rain beating against his face. The look of Frank Gillies' lifeless eyes had scorched itself into his memory. Harper leaned forward and dropped his head. Fists jammed against his eyes as if to rub out the intruding images. He had spun the moment any number of ways, but the outcome never changed.
  Brannon crossed her legs. She folded her hands and tapped her fingertips. She watched in silence, waiting to analyze his next thoughts.
  "You do realize you don't go back to work without these sessions." She picked up the notepad again. The sound of her pen striking twice against its surface made dull impatient clicks. "Look, Detective. No one said this was going to be easy, but you have to open up. You are the only one who can do it."
  Harper didn't buy her attempt to bring him back into the conversation. He didn't know if he could, as she said, open up. He pursed his lips and glanced out the window.
  "Damned wind's picking up again, Doc." He buried his mouth in the L of his thumb and index finger touching the outer corner of his eye. He rose and turned his back to hide the familiar burning that blurred his vision. Apprehension had become his unwelcome companion, a reminder of the failings he refused to accept. Anger crept in. It bubbled and seared holes into his sense of reason.
  "Should've been me." He closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose, and cleared his throat. "I was right in Mellow's line of fire. The damned piece was inches from me." The thrust of his fist made a hollow sound against his chest. "You don't get it, do you?"
  "Yes, I do. Let's start there."
  "What's the point? You know what happened. We've been over it a million times. Don't you get tired of listening to this crap?"
  "It's the only way."
  "We can talk all you want. Won't change a damned thing. Won't bring him back." He dropped back into his chair and swept a hand across the stubble he hadn't shaved in three days. "What're you going to do? Tell me to think happy thoughts? Will that do it? IS that going to stop the dreams?"
  "Tell me about them."
  "Not today." He wrestled between his grief and growing suspicions of Gillies. What really went down five days ago in front of the Roving Dog Saloon? He jabbed a white knuckled fist onto the arm of the chair and looked away. Every sordid detail came rushing back without prodding. "It was past eleven that night when Gillies got the tip that Mellow had violated parole."
***
  "Come on. Gotta go." Detective Frank Gillies rushed to Harper's desk and slammed an opened hand against it on his way to the elevator. "The big guy just answered our prayers."
  Harper caught his partner's grin and his thumbs up gesture. The gray had gone beyond Gillies' temples to the mass of short locks that covered his head. Harper's glance dropped to the new spot that had landed on his partner's tie six hours before from a greasy burger. One of many meals that had settled around Gillies' middle.
  "Let me guess. Stewart Martin's leaving." Harper turned to the next page in the file. He prayed every day that Detective Martin would transfer.
  "Yeah, right. Soon buddy, real soon, but not tonight. Word is Mellow blew a guy's brains out." Gillies struggled to slip his arms through the narrow sleeves of his overcoat.
  "Wasn't he just released a couple of days ago?" Harper was unmoved by the news. Mellow was nothing to their case against Jimmy Owens. They were after the supplier, not the low-end dealer. "When was this?"
  "Few minutes ago. Over on Calvert near the Trenton overpass. Homicide's on their way. Come on." Gillies shook his head. "Will ya put that crap down already?"
  Harper turned his head in time to see a bolt of lightning crackle and spark across the eastern sky followed by a quick clap of thunder. He adjusted his sight on the windowpane and the ribbons of rain flowing down the glass. "We don't need him."
  "He knows where to find Owens."
  "Di Napoli is on it."
  "Di Napoli can't find his ass with both hands. Move it, Harper!" Gillies rushed toward the fourth floor elevator and jabbed the down button.
  Harper glanced at his watch. It was exactly eleven twenty-five p.m. He grabbed his coat off the back of a chair and motioned to Gillies he would meet him downstairs. His partner was a master at spewing out insults. Harper wondered how he had managed to measure up to the man's expectations when Di Napoli, the eight-year veteran undercover assigned to work with them, couldn't. He took the steps two at a time and reached the lobby as the elevator doors opened.
  "He's out, what, four days and breaks parole?" Harper pressed Gillies. "It's a waste of time. The guys in Homicide aren't going to let us anywhere near him. Hell, you know what they're like. Bunch of assholes."
  "No shit. That's why we're going someplace else."
  "Where?"
  "A dive over on Howard and Third. Just got a tip the fucker's sitting in a booth right now."
  Harper pulled his coat collar up and looked out the glass doors. The March rains were pounding down for the fourth consecutive day. The odds on staying dry weren't adding up in his favor. He swept a glance over to Gillies and caught a similar sense of hesitation before the two of them made a run for the car.
  Another bolt of lightning lit the sky followed closely by a clap of loud thunder.
***
  "Harper?" Dr. Brannon leaned her head to one side. "Where did you go?" The light of a small Tiffany lamp on the corner of her credenza illuminated the right side of her face. "Want to let me in on your thoughts? It's just you and me here," she said, tapping her pencil on her notepad again.
  He threw back his head against the back of the couch and closed his eyes. His left foot dangled over his knee while the restless right tapped on the floor.
  "Right. You, me, and that thing." He motioned toward the tape recorder on the coffee table.
  She glanced at her watch. "Cut the crap, Harper. This is your third session and you have been defiant from the very beginning. Let's get one thing straight. I'm not out to get you, understand? The bad guys are out there." She pointed toward the door. "You want to fight them, fine. Go ahead. but walk out that door and I'll make sure you don't come back." She stared at him in icy silence. "You don't have a choice, Detective."
  "The hell I don't. I risk my life every goddamn day. That's my choice just as much as it was my duty to follow my partner to the dive that night. I didn't do anything wrong. And there's not a damned thing you can do to change it." Heat rushed to his face. "Who do you think you are, anyway? All you do is sit in your office and analyze the hell out of us. Where do you get off ordering me around?"
  "You have a problem with authority?"
  "Just you."
  "Interesting. Let's get back to what you were thinking a minute ago."
  He hated her self-assurance. He frowned--wished he could run. He glanced at the door then turned to focus his sight on the wet bark of the maple tree in front of the window.
  "It's spitting snow."
  "Damn it, Harper. I'm sworn to secrecy. Nothing you say leaves this room." She paused for a moment. "I am not going to risk your confidence unless you give me reason to think you are capable of hurting yourself or others." Again, she waited for a response. "Did you hear me?"
  "Guess its only rain." Guilt continued to eat at him. If only he'd shot sooner. If only he had known. If only. The questions outweighed the number of plausible answers. He rose to his feet again and paced.
  "No one was supposed to get killed. Not Mellow, sure as hell not Frank." His fingers sliced through his hair and spiked the blond strands with the random pass of his hand. The knot in the pit of his gut tightened like a vise. The sessions, the job, he had to get through one to have the other. "I just wanted the truth. What the hell was Gillies thinking?"
  "He knew the risks," she said, without taking her eyes from him. "Let's talk a minute about you. What have you been doing with yourself?"
  "What difference does it make?" He knew the drill. Sure, the shrink time was mandated, but he didn't want to talk about himself and the baggage he had swung over his shoulder. She remained straight-faced and waiting. There was no way around it that he could see. The doc seemed as determined to make him talk, as he was to remain evasive.
  "I finished a fifth of Scotch, and when I was good and drunk, I watched soap operas. Only damned thing I know more depressing than me these days."
  "You do that often?"
  "I'm fine. All right? I can handle the booze."
  "How do you know I was asking about the booze?"
  She caught him off guard with that remark. How damned stupid was he anyway?
  "Do you think you have a problem with it?"
  Harper sized her up with a seasoned glance. Her dark green sweater set off the red tones in her hair that curved slightly beneath her chin and framed the curvature of her face. She was easy on the eyes, but too damned clinical for his taste. Nothing worse than a scrutinizing shrink to kill the moment. He assumed she was in her thirties, like him, but obviously twice as smart and a lot more obnoxious. Part of him wanted to tell her about Frank Gillies, how he died, and the thoughts that had haunted him since that night. He could still hear Gillies' voice as they ran out to the car. He fingered the change in his pocket, leaned his forehead against the cool windowpane, and tuned her out.
***
  Harper rushed into the car and slammed the door. He wiped his face and secured the straps of his bulletproof vest.
  "What's Mellow doing in a bar?" he asked Gillies. "Is it near the scene?"
  "Nah. It's down in Avondale." Gillies switched on the siren and cut through traffic. "Hole in the wall place smack in the middle of slum lord row."
  "That's clear across town. How long ago was the shooting?"
  "What do I look like, some fucking information sign?" Gillies growled. "How the hell should I know? Idiots in homicide can figure that one out."
  "You sure your informant has it right this time?"
  "What the hell's with ya and the million fucking questions? All we need to do is talk to the guy about Owens before homicide gets to him."
  "Doesn't make sense," said Harper. "Most shooters would run like hell, not stop for a drink. Besides, what makes you think he's going to talk now when he wouldn't before?"
  "No one accused him of having brains, ya know what I'm saying, college boy? You and me, we'd be out of jobs if little shits like him had any brains."
  "Who called in the shooting?"
  "Shit, Harper. Here, let me get my crystal ball out." Gillies sneered. "That's Homicide's problem, I could give a rat's ass about it." He shook his head. "All right, look, someone in dispatch called up about the shooting. Thought we'd want to know. That's all. Just following a lead, all right?"
   Harper knew about Gillies' connections. Not who they were or how he managed them, but that they existed. They didn't always pan out, but the grin that split Gillies' face and the urgency in his voice implied this one was a sure thing.
   "Seems stupid of Mellow to screw up right after making parole."
  "Yeah, well, like I said, if little shits like him had brains we wouldn't be here."
  Harper had seen anger take over people's minds. It shoved them over the edge without saying how far or how hard they would fall. Maybe Mellow hadn't figured the distance yet.
  Gillies turned off the headlights and nosed the unmarked patrol car into position across the street from the Roving Dog Saloon. The deserted street and the rain thumping against the car roof gave a false sense of tranquility.
  Harper glanced across the way at the tavern door and the red neon lights shaped like a dog just above it. The dog's legs and tail appeared to move back and forth making him seem to rove for a good mug of beer. The sign's light cast an eerie red glow and shimmered off the wet objects beneath it. Harper pulled up his collar, cupped his hands around his mouth, and blew warmth into them.
  "What now? You're sure he's in there?"
  Gillies winced as he watched the windshield wipers slap the water from side to side. "Only one way to find out. It's your turn, rookie."
  "The hell it is. I ran after the scum in the Capelli case, remember? Chased the guy five blocks through a foot of snow before you cut him off with the car. You can be so damned smug sometimes. You and that stupid grin of yours. This wasn't even my call."
  "Ah, come on. Rookies aren't allowed to say no. Besides, you're younger. What are ya, thirty-one, thirty-two now?"
  "Cut the jabs."
  "What? What'd I say?"
  "Cut the rookie and college boy bit."
  "I'm just joshing with ya. Don't go getting sensitive on me, all right?"
  "It gets old." It was almost midnight. Harper was tired and in no mood for Gillies' mindless humor. "Haven't been a rookie in years."
  "Is that so?" Gillies chuckled and threw him a playful punch. "All right. Listen. Ya don't even have to talk to the asshole. Just see if he's in there. Don't want him running out the back or nothing and have to chase the little creep in this shit."
  "That's it, huh?" Harper leaned his head against the window and watched the rain. "It's not letting up."
  "Go on. It'll take ya two minutes. We'll wait him out. Ask him a few questions and go home."
***
  "Was that a typical surveillance?" asked Brannon.
  Expressionless eyes studied him from behind a set of silver framed reading glasses.
  "No. We always worked together before. That night." Harper shook his head. "Nothing made sense. One minute we're just going to talk to the guy. Next thing I know I've got two fatalities to answer for and I don't know what in the hell happened."
  "What do you mean, you don't know?"
  "We didn't need Mellow to get Owens. Gillies knew it as well as I did. He acted as if we were the only ones on the case. There was a whole team of us including some undercover. But Gillies, he was so bent on going after Mellow that night. It was almost as if..."
  "What?"
  "He wouldn't take no for an answer. What the hell was I supposed to do? he was the senior partner. Had to trust his judgment."
  "Did you?"
  "That's what we're supposed to do, trust each other." Harper lowered his glance. "That night, after it was over, I checked with dispatch." He swallowed hard. "There was no shooting reported anywhere on or near the Trenton overpass."

**********

Healey's Cave
by Aaron Paul Lazar
Genre: Paranormal Mystery
ISBN:
Publisher: Twilight Times Books
http://www.twilighttimesbooks.com
Release date: August 2008
URL: http://www.mooremysteries.com

Chapter One

  Sam Moore was free. Free from the tether of the alarm clock, pushy pharmaceutical reps, runny noses, and waiting rooms packed with patients. On the first day of retirement, at the age of sixty-two, he was ready for a change.
  He stood behind the barn and looked toward the garden. It lured him with a peculiar intensity he’d never been able to explain to Rachel. The pull was visceral, infused with a strong lust for the land. Cirrus clouds skated across the sky, racing eastward and the cool May breeze ruffled his hair, caressing him.
  He should be happy. But a familiar sense of melancholy washed through him. It was always there, ever present. It retreated occasionally, when he was busy caring for patients. But as soon as he stopped-to take a breath, to look out the window, or to eat his lunch-that undercurrent of sadness, born of loss, returned.
  It had been this way for fifty years. Fifty years of longing for the truth, of missing his baby brother.
  Where are you, buddy?
  A flurry of starlings swooped past him. Their trickling waterfall calls resonated, frightening the goldfinches feasting at the thistle feeder. He watched the birds settle on the branches of the black walnut tree. Their blue-black plumage glistened in the sunlight.
  The breeze rose, stirring the leaves in the cottonwoods.
  Is it a sign?
  Sam shot a glance toward the house, embarrassed to have such thoughts. He was glad Rachel couldn’t hear the crazy ideas that populated his mind.
  Was Billy dead or alive? Snuffed out on his eleventh birthday, or whisked away by a kidnapper? Was he living somewhere? In Alaska? Canada? Forced to change his name as a child, brainwashed to forget his life as a Moore? Did he have grandchildren, like Sam? Or…
  Sam’s heart blackened. He hated this part.
  If Billy were kidnapped, he would’ve tried to come home once he gained access to a car. He had been old enough when he disappeared to remember what town he grew up in. So…if he hadn’t returned, he must be gone. Gone for good.
  Sam sighed again and pushed back his thick gray hair. Two starlings lit on the bird feeder and pecked at the seeds. The wooden feeder was flanked on both ends with suet holders, and Sam’s hands were greasy from the peanut-flavored cakes he’d slid into the receptacles earlier. A woodpecker hung upside down, poking at the treat.
  As he watched the birds, he realized it would be harder now to ignore the questions plaguing him about Billy’s fate. He’d have time on his hands. Lots of time. Aside from tending to Rachel’s needs and babysitting the boys, he’d have hours to imagine the best and the worst.
  He sighed and put one hand in his pocket, jingling his keys and watching the birds.
  He’d just have to keep busy.
  Squaring his shoulders, he walked into the barn and yanked on the starter cord of the rototiller. It coughed, belched black smoke, and stalled. He nudged the choke back and tried again. The engine roared to life. Sliding the choke all the way down, he shifted the tiller into reverse and backed out of the barn.
  Sam guided the tiller toward the garden. The wet grass needed mowing, though it had been cut four days ago. May had been festooned with rainstorms, a real record breaker. The knobby tires dug into the ground as he passed the bearded iris bed behind the wooden fence bordering the cutting garden. Saffron, cranberry, pristine white, and pale lavender-blue petals clamored for attention beside the Japanese Kerria, whose tiny orange flowers glowed on the branches.
  His mind drifted to patients and the young doctor who’d taken over the practice.
  I wonder how Garcia’s doing?
  He'd dreamed about retirement for the past forty years. And here he was, on his first day of freedom, about to embark on a full day of gardening until he dropped into the lovely sleep born of physical exhaustion-and his first thought was about Garcia.
  Doctor Andrea Garcia had worked by his side since she graduated from the University of Rochester Medical School. She was good. She’d take excellent care of his patients.
  But would she remember to test Jenny Boyd for strep?The annoying voice hissed inside his head.
  Forget about it. It’s not your job. Not anymore.It was hard to sever himself from a practice that flourished for forty years. Forty years of growing this “limb” that became such a part of him, and everyone expected him to simply chop it off. Just like that! It wasn’t going to be easy.
  He stopped and looked at the cloudless sky. The strong sun shone through pure azure, although it was just eight in the morning. Leaves rustled in the whispery willow and sugar maples that dotted the grounds. He smiled, drank in the scent of honeysuckle perfuming the air, and propelled the tiller forward.The jungle grew to his left. He’d hacked away at the bamboo-like shoots for weeks. The official name of the rapacious weed was Japanese Knotweed, a rapid-spreading invader that killed everything in its shadow. Last year's stalks were dry and crisp. They stood twelve feet high, crackling in the breeze. He imagined them taunting him, calling to him.
  You can’t stop us. We’re taking over.
  In the past few weeks, he'd removed half of the patch that stretched over five thousand square feet, but there was a lot left to clear. Yesterday's bonfire had been impressive. Fueled with dried knotweed, dead apple tree limbs, and bundles of crispy weeds, it roared into an inferno, inciting stares from passersby. The coals were still warm when Sam added more branches to the pile that morning.
  He reached the vegetable garden near the above ground pool and set the tiller in motion between the wide rows of sugar snap peas and asparagus. Rachel and he had feasted on purple-tipped asparagus for the past few weeks.
  Asparagus on buttered toast. Mmmm.
  His stomach growled. He’d skipped breakfast and bolted outdoors before the sun had crested over the hill. Sam muscled the machine around the row of peas and started on the other side. The soil churned like butter. Baby beets grew thick within the long row. He smiled again, pleased with the result. He’d defied Upstate New York conventions and had boldly planted the beets at the same time as the peas. It was on March 27th, a rare, eighty-degree day, perfect for the first till.
  Normally, the beets went in during the first week in May. This year, he pushed it ahead and hit pay dirt when they flourished in the cold, wet weather of April. The thick greens were five inches tall now. He and Rachel would enjoy sweet buttered beets by the fourth of July.
  Sam reached the end of the row and followed the expanse of the Swiss chard, lettuce, and dill. A few volunteer potato plants from last season pushed through the dirt. They towered over the others, ungainly and unexpected. He considered yanking them in the interest of neatness, but couldn’t do it. They’d survived the winter. They’d earned the right to grow.Lila trotted out of the woods. Her sleek, white body moved with feline fluidity. She meowed twice, raising her tail in greeting. Sam switched off the tiller and leaned down to pat her. She pushed her head against his hand and turned in small circles as he made a fuss over her.
  “Whatsa matter, Lila? Are you hungry? Where’d you go last night, girl?”
  She purred and placed her delicate paws on his knees as he crouched beside her. He stroked the smooth fur on her neck and scrubbed his fingers behind her ears.
  “That's a good girl. Good kitty.”
  When Lila was satisfied, she abruptly terminated the liaison and trotted toward the house. Sam restarted the tiller, finished working the soil between the corn and potatoes, and headed over to the knotweed patch.
  He was ready to dig today. Although the job of clearing wasn’t yet complete, he ached to set tine to soil and stir it up. It would allow him to smooth out the area, rake it, and eventually