...a couple years ago, I received a gift from my brother-in-law. "Grace," by Richard Paul Evans.
Being a far cry from the genre I'm accustomed to reading, I trusted in my brother-in-law's taste, turned the cover, and entered R.P.E's world of hope. It took less than twenty pages to suck me in.
With a "voice" as subtle as an evening breeze over the Gulf, Evans touched on the subject of child abuse, as dwelt with through the eyes of children themselves. Driven to tears and questioning my own masculinity, I closed the book and went to Google, wanting to find out more on Richard Paul Evans.
That's how I discoverd the entire story behind the writer from Utah.
The story of how an "unknown" from Salt Lake City penned a story named "The Christmas Box," printed a handful of copies at the local Kinkos, and handed them out to immediate family over the Holidays.
That's how the magic began.
He started receiving phone calls from strangers who had somehow gotten ahold of his story. People he'd never spoken to before, spilling tears of thanks over the distance of a threaded phone line.
Richard decided to try his luck at the local Utah publishing houses...and struck out.
Following in the same words of hope he so perfectly described in "The Christmas Box," he self-published 9,000 copies of his story, burning through his family's savings.
Through a local distributing company, he managed to sell 3,000 copies in less than a month.
Orders started coming in to every book store in and around the Salt Lake City area. A short time later, a second printing was needed.
"The Christmas Box" became only the second self-published novel to ever make the New York Times best seller list, debuting at #2.
In less than a year, one of the top literary agents at that time asked for a copy, cried her way through it, and signed him without hesitation.
Soon after, the same publishing companies who wouldn't spare him a moment of their time, were banging down his door for the rights to sell his book.
Following an auction lasting over the span of several days, Simon & Schuster won the rights for the hard back editions with a winning bid of over four million dollars.
Since then, Richard Paul Evans has written 9 books, each one finding it's way to the top of every best seller list.
I recently finished reading "The Sunflower," the true story of an orphanage in Peru. Another tear-jerker. A journey into the dramatic lives of homeless children in the third world nations of South America. Of families sending their own kids into the streets to fend for themselves when the cupboards go empty. Of how the majority of homeless children roaming the streets in Cuzco, Peru are boys, with the girls getting kidnapped for slavery purposes. Of black-market tours for American pediphiles to journey into South America in order to fullfill their fantasies with an overabundance of runaways and high availability of sexual slaves. And of a single American doctor, desperately trying to make a difference.
Peru is a place where an Anaconda as wide as the trunk of a mature willow, can slither with the speed of a grown adult, and the strength to crush anything in it's path. It's where simply dipping one's fingertips into any waterway could result in losing them to a hungry school of piranhas, or an eighteen foot croc. It's a place where, during the printing of "The Sunflower," and exhibition team of scientists were investigating local claims of a spider large enough to have been spotted carrying off several chickens in it's front fangs.
Welcome to Cuzco, Peru, where more than a million orphans under the age of sixteen run in fear of a danger far worse than anything the jungles can throw at them. Us.
Welcome to the world of Richard Paul Evans. An inspired writer who did it his way. And he's got a hundred million fans around the world to vouch for him.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Tom Smallwood
True Story...
Following in his father's footsteps, Tom Smallwood made his living as a Michigan autoworker, assembling seatbelts for General Motors. It wasn't glamorous. It was however, a steady income, something his wife and 1-year old daughter were grateful for.
Then in 2008, a few days before Christmas, the axe fell. Tom had never been laid off before. Had never experienced that feeling of emptiness. Of having to ask, "what now?"
At some point that evening, while sitting down with his wife, discussing finances and a future clouded in doubt, Tom recognized a leather bag partially hidden behind several rows of shoes on the closet floor. It was a ball bag. And inside, his bowling ball.
For many of us, the sport of bowling is an enjoyable way of spending an evening with the family. Knocking down some pins, sharing a few laughs, maybe get lucky and throw a strike or two. As a youngster growing up in central Michigan, bowling stood for something far more important to Tom Smallwood.
Having discovered his talent for the sport at an early age, Tom made a name for himself locally, winning several tournaments and a decent collection of trophies to show for it. He'd always dreamed of going pro. However, as time passes and needs arise, he eventually made the decision that so many of us find ourselves facing at some point in our lives. Giving up the dream for what he called, "the guaranteed-income."
But what happens when the guarantee runs out?
Tom applied for several jobs around the area. Never received a response. As days grew to weeks, and weeks to months, frustration mounted.
During his free time, in between those circled help wanted ads and the constant strain of a necktie and a practiced smile, Tom found himself at the bowling alley, rekindling better times. And with each failed attempt on the job market, his bowling average improved.
It was during one of those overcast, somber afternoons, when Tom Smallwood recalled that dream of his. The one from his childhood.
A goal was set. If he wasn't employed by May, he'd try out for the Pro Bowlers Association.
May arrived. His telephone remained silent.
Tom entered the PBA's tour trials. A tournament of sorts, where upwards of 120 hopefuls bowled nine games a day for five days, with the PBA accepting only the top scores for their league tour. Nine games a day. To the many contenders, the tournament became more of a gauntlet. A test of wills.
And when it ended, Tom found himself in third place. He'd qualified for a spot on the tour and a minimum paycheck at each event for a year.
The laid off autoworker had fulfilled his dream.
...but the dream didn't end there.
Witchita, Kansas. The PBA World Championship.
From the first frame, Tom knew he was on a roll. Knocking off one opponent after another, he found himself standing alone in the finals against the reining player of the year.
It was on this day, on National T.V., when a little known, ex-auto worker, needing a strike and 7 pins to win, threw back to back strikes, and won the PBA Championship and a $50,000 check.
Like a modern day fairy tale.
About a month later, Tom's telephone finally rang. General Motors was offering him his job back.
He said, "Thanks...but no thanks."
Following in his father's footsteps, Tom Smallwood made his living as a Michigan autoworker, assembling seatbelts for General Motors. It wasn't glamorous. It was however, a steady income, something his wife and 1-year old daughter were grateful for.
Then in 2008, a few days before Christmas, the axe fell. Tom had never been laid off before. Had never experienced that feeling of emptiness. Of having to ask, "what now?"
At some point that evening, while sitting down with his wife, discussing finances and a future clouded in doubt, Tom recognized a leather bag partially hidden behind several rows of shoes on the closet floor. It was a ball bag. And inside, his bowling ball.
For many of us, the sport of bowling is an enjoyable way of spending an evening with the family. Knocking down some pins, sharing a few laughs, maybe get lucky and throw a strike or two. As a youngster growing up in central Michigan, bowling stood for something far more important to Tom Smallwood.
Having discovered his talent for the sport at an early age, Tom made a name for himself locally, winning several tournaments and a decent collection of trophies to show for it. He'd always dreamed of going pro. However, as time passes and needs arise, he eventually made the decision that so many of us find ourselves facing at some point in our lives. Giving up the dream for what he called, "the guaranteed-income."
But what happens when the guarantee runs out?
Tom applied for several jobs around the area. Never received a response. As days grew to weeks, and weeks to months, frustration mounted.
During his free time, in between those circled help wanted ads and the constant strain of a necktie and a practiced smile, Tom found himself at the bowling alley, rekindling better times. And with each failed attempt on the job market, his bowling average improved.
It was during one of those overcast, somber afternoons, when Tom Smallwood recalled that dream of his. The one from his childhood.
A goal was set. If he wasn't employed by May, he'd try out for the Pro Bowlers Association.
May arrived. His telephone remained silent.
Tom entered the PBA's tour trials. A tournament of sorts, where upwards of 120 hopefuls bowled nine games a day for five days, with the PBA accepting only the top scores for their league tour. Nine games a day. To the many contenders, the tournament became more of a gauntlet. A test of wills.
And when it ended, Tom found himself in third place. He'd qualified for a spot on the tour and a minimum paycheck at each event for a year.
The laid off autoworker had fulfilled his dream.
...but the dream didn't end there.
Witchita, Kansas. The PBA World Championship.
From the first frame, Tom knew he was on a roll. Knocking off one opponent after another, he found himself standing alone in the finals against the reining player of the year.
It was on this day, on National T.V., when a little known, ex-auto worker, needing a strike and 7 pins to win, threw back to back strikes, and won the PBA Championship and a $50,000 check.
Like a modern day fairy tale.
About a month later, Tom's telephone finally rang. General Motors was offering him his job back.
He said, "Thanks...but no thanks."
Thursday, February 18, 2010
My Little Girl...
...following yet another long night doing something I'm not fond of...
making a heap of cash for someone else, while earning enough morsels to keep a roof over our heads, and holding off the bill-collectors, I arrived home hours after bedtime and found this letter sitting upon my desk.
It says..."I Love You Dad. Goodnight.
I really miss you. I prayed about you geting on a different shift.
I try to pray every night I juist forgit sometimes.
From Abby to Dad :)"
I plopped into my chair, teared up, and remembered why I'd have to get out of bed the following morning and do it all over again.
The flailing economy drove a nasty right hook into my family's well-being a short time ago, causing me to miss out on many events, and the kids left scratching their heads in frustration.
My absence in their lives began as an irritable sting roughly 18 months ago, but has since matured to an open wound.
While I'm off attempting to secure the family's future by doing something I've come to realize a long time ago that I wasn't placed on this planet to do, my little girl sends prayers to Heaven just to have me all to herself once in a while.
Prayers...
Sometimes we think they're ignored. Sometimes we think it's a pointless act. A waste of time. No one's even listening up there.
I received an email from my publisher...
Barring any setbacks, my first novel now has a late 2010 target date. The story I titled "Broken" so many moons ago, will soon be in print.
At night, before my little girl crawls into bed, she whispers a prayer.
Call me crazy, but I think someone's listening...
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
The Week that Was...
MONDAY...
Received two emails which encouraged a positive outlook on an upcoming week cast under gray skies and frozen temps.
The first was from John Sandford, the best-selling writer of Lucas Davenport's "Prey" series, along with a cast of others. I'd written him a few days earlier in regards to how one of his characters, BCA Detective Virgil Flowers, reminds me so much of Owen Wilson, (itty bitty cowboy from "Night at the Museum,") that I can no longer read his work without picturing Owen's face in every scene involving Virgil.
Sandford's response was, "Fascinating deduction. I can see the resemblance."
He then went on to inform me that Davenport's character was actually created after NBA coaching legend, Pat Riley, who's dapper attire, mixed with that gangster-like persona, sparked an idea, which manifested into one of the best Homicide Detectives between here and Wonderland.
Considering how I've read nearly everything he's penned, reading that message was an honor.
Next email...a publishing house, (actually two working together,) interested in my manuscript, was asking me to revise a few sections, and return it to them to look over.
Only a lifelong dream...okay.
And on a sidenote...the Colts and Saints arrived in Miami to prepare for the Super Bowl. The Colts were favored, but them Saints...riding that emotional rollercoaster of Southern Hope...that would be something.
TUESDAY...
My Oldest Son revealed to me that he was interested in going to Tampa University down in the Gulf Coast.
I glanced out the window. Glared at the somber gray skies, like a frigid net holding us all in place to wallow in our own gloom. Checked out the temperature...14 degrees, and said, "Can I go too?"
Stayed up until 3 am revising the manuscript. Slept on it. Re-read it in the morning. Liked it enough. Exhaled a deep breath...hit SEND.
WEDNESDAY...
In an attempt at sparking fire under the asses of a depressed work crew, one of the top henchmen at my German place of employment, Heinrich Anus Gugenshplat, made his presence felt by stopping at each workcenter in order to verbally put us in our place, which was already lower than the top layer of frozen soil under the ice outside.
"Nein! Nein! Nein!" Stop...cough...entwine hands behind back before continuing..."Meir! Meir! Meir!"
To us here in the states, we're guessing the guy's a bit emotional over his horse's ninth birthday. But in the Mother Land, this stands for No! No! No! and More! More! More!
He then adds fuel to the spark by sending down The PitBull, whose nothing more than a senseless, overgrown hothead, handed the title of manager, for no better reason than to use his 6 foot five inch frame to instill fear into us mere mortals, thus "scaring the company into a more productive outcome." Just what the economy needs...
But I'm stuck on something old Heinrich blurted out during his tantrum. "Nein." Which still means "No!" in German...but one more than eight to me. And I think to myself...Drew Brees, the quarterback of the Saints...his uniform number is 9. Hmm...
THURSDAY...
Big storm rolling in.
I find myself on page 127 of John Sandford's "Rough Country," starring none other than Virgil Flowers, (Owen Wilson,) when I come across the line, "...you can get So Close...But"
I stop reading. Think of my blog title, and wonder..."has Sandford been reading my...duhh. What are the chances? Keep reading and forget about it."
Then I check my email. Find one from the publisher...they like what they're seeing and want to talk...
FRIDAY...
Contract signed. "Broken" has been accepted. A typical first time writer contract, with little at stake, but high royalties...just in case. A publishing house in Michigan will print it, one closer to home will distribute it...and who knows.
Feeling downright giddy, I march into work and am immediately bullrushed by the PitBull. Picture the mindset of a toddler, biting/stomping/hair pulling/belching and so on, in the body of a disgruntled linebacker...The PitBull.
"You need to seriously think about your performance this week," he barks into my face before allowing me a chance to mentally switch gears from Bliss...to Misery.
With very little hesitation, I fire back with, "And you should take comfort in the fact that the measure of a man isn't determined by one's people skills!"
I wasn't sure just then if I'd heard that one somewhere and was quoting it, or had managed to pull it out of my skeletal closet on a moment's notice. Either way, I felt every bit as tall as the slobbering fiend standing before me.
Caught off-guard, PitBull huffed, he puffed, but no matter how hard he tried, he simply couldn't fire off anything remotely close to what I'd just thrown at him. Blushing in anger, he stomped off...and my bliss returned.
The snow became a blizzard, and I thought...hmm, sign my first contract on the day of The Storm of the Century. There's a joke in there somewhere. I'm sure of it.
SATURDAY...
Digging out.
SUNDAY...
Super Bowl...Saints win.
"Nein! Nein! Nein!"
Received two emails which encouraged a positive outlook on an upcoming week cast under gray skies and frozen temps.
The first was from John Sandford, the best-selling writer of Lucas Davenport's "Prey" series, along with a cast of others. I'd written him a few days earlier in regards to how one of his characters, BCA Detective Virgil Flowers, reminds me so much of Owen Wilson, (itty bitty cowboy from "Night at the Museum,") that I can no longer read his work without picturing Owen's face in every scene involving Virgil.
Sandford's response was, "Fascinating deduction. I can see the resemblance."
He then went on to inform me that Davenport's character was actually created after NBA coaching legend, Pat Riley, who's dapper attire, mixed with that gangster-like persona, sparked an idea, which manifested into one of the best Homicide Detectives between here and Wonderland.
Considering how I've read nearly everything he's penned, reading that message was an honor.
Next email...a publishing house, (actually two working together,) interested in my manuscript, was asking me to revise a few sections, and return it to them to look over.
Only a lifelong dream...okay.
And on a sidenote...the Colts and Saints arrived in Miami to prepare for the Super Bowl. The Colts were favored, but them Saints...riding that emotional rollercoaster of Southern Hope...that would be something.
TUESDAY...
My Oldest Son revealed to me that he was interested in going to Tampa University down in the Gulf Coast.
I glanced out the window. Glared at the somber gray skies, like a frigid net holding us all in place to wallow in our own gloom. Checked out the temperature...14 degrees, and said, "Can I go too?"
Stayed up until 3 am revising the manuscript. Slept on it. Re-read it in the morning. Liked it enough. Exhaled a deep breath...hit SEND.
WEDNESDAY...
In an attempt at sparking fire under the asses of a depressed work crew, one of the top henchmen at my German place of employment, Heinrich Anus Gugenshplat, made his presence felt by stopping at each workcenter in order to verbally put us in our place, which was already lower than the top layer of frozen soil under the ice outside.
"Nein! Nein! Nein!" Stop...cough...entwine hands behind back before continuing..."Meir! Meir! Meir!"
To us here in the states, we're guessing the guy's a bit emotional over his horse's ninth birthday. But in the Mother Land, this stands for No! No! No! and More! More! More!
He then adds fuel to the spark by sending down The PitBull, whose nothing more than a senseless, overgrown hothead, handed the title of manager, for no better reason than to use his 6 foot five inch frame to instill fear into us mere mortals, thus "scaring the company into a more productive outcome." Just what the economy needs...
But I'm stuck on something old Heinrich blurted out during his tantrum. "Nein." Which still means "No!" in German...but one more than eight to me. And I think to myself...Drew Brees, the quarterback of the Saints...his uniform number is 9. Hmm...
THURSDAY...
Big storm rolling in.
I find myself on page 127 of John Sandford's "Rough Country," starring none other than Virgil Flowers, (Owen Wilson,) when I come across the line, "...you can get So Close...But"
I stop reading. Think of my blog title, and wonder..."has Sandford been reading my...duhh. What are the chances? Keep reading and forget about it."
Then I check my email. Find one from the publisher...they like what they're seeing and want to talk...
FRIDAY...
Contract signed. "Broken" has been accepted. A typical first time writer contract, with little at stake, but high royalties...just in case. A publishing house in Michigan will print it, one closer to home will distribute it...and who knows.
Feeling downright giddy, I march into work and am immediately bullrushed by the PitBull. Picture the mindset of a toddler, biting/stomping/hair pulling/belching and so on, in the body of a disgruntled linebacker...The PitBull.
"You need to seriously think about your performance this week," he barks into my face before allowing me a chance to mentally switch gears from Bliss...to Misery.
With very little hesitation, I fire back with, "And you should take comfort in the fact that the measure of a man isn't determined by one's people skills!"
I wasn't sure just then if I'd heard that one somewhere and was quoting it, or had managed to pull it out of my skeletal closet on a moment's notice. Either way, I felt every bit as tall as the slobbering fiend standing before me.
Caught off-guard, PitBull huffed, he puffed, but no matter how hard he tried, he simply couldn't fire off anything remotely close to what I'd just thrown at him. Blushing in anger, he stomped off...and my bliss returned.
The snow became a blizzard, and I thought...hmm, sign my first contract on the day of The Storm of the Century. There's a joke in there somewhere. I'm sure of it.
SATURDAY...
Digging out.
SUNDAY...
Super Bowl...Saints win.
"Nein! Nein! Nein!"
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
The Minister...
...stop me if you've already heard this one
A minister walks into a motel in hopes of purchasing a room for the night.
He walks up to the counter, greets the young man on duty, pays for his room, and is given a key.
He accepts the key, studies it for a moment in his hand, then slowly turns back to the young man standing behind the counter.
Clearly disturbed, the minister leans toward the lad and mumbles, "Is the pornography channel in this room disabled?"
With his brow furrowed, a look of disgust on his face, the hotel clerk leans away from the minister, crosses his arms, and says, "No. We only have normal porn at this motel. And you're sick, Mister."
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Katnisssss...
...posted this a few months ago. Its made a few rounds on Facebook, perhaps led to a squabble or three, but all in literary fun. So as I currently find myself wallowing in "edit-hell," I thought I'd re-post my short about a chilly day in the woods when a pale-ish girl named Bella,(perhaps you've heard of her,) happens upon a "firey" deviant from District 12. Stephenie Meyer would not approve...but I'll take my chances:) Enjoy...
What little warmth remained, was held within the blanketing pine grove on the forest floor. A nearly impassable thicket of brush stretching from one trunk to another, and growing upward sometimes ten feet or more through a soft cloak of moss. Like a natural barrier from the outside world, teams of wildlife used the pine grove as a safe haven from both predators and the falling temperature, as winter's hostile embrace slowly tightened.
In this thicket, where even the solemn gray skies failed to penetrate, where cloved hooves and various forms of paws could pad across the forest floor atop millions of scattered pine needles without making a sound, an abundance of wildlife felt assured of their safety. They were wrong...
Walking hand in hand under the shaded canopy of evergreens, their movements seen as a fluid blur of motion, their footsteps as silent as the early morning air itself, Bella and Edward Cullen glided through the dense undergrowth with the stealth of a falcon slicing through an updraft at high altitudes.
Bella's hair had thickened since being turned. Appearing soft, like woven yarn the color of mocha, long strands trailed along behind her as she glided lithely through the forest. At her side, Edward's golden pelt of wavy curls bounced upon his neckline with each measured step. Together they resembled a pair of shimmering ghosts, fingers entwined, their souls skimming the forest floor without disturbing the fallen pine needles under foot.
On their feet were matching tennis shoes, white Nikes. A lightly fitting, ivory dress hugged itself to Bella's slim form, while Edward challenged the wooded thicket in khakis and a simple cotton t-shirt. The inclimate weather didn't bother them. Their pale bodies were already cold like stone. In fact, only one condition drove them to the pine grove with such urgency. Hunger.
Their eyes were dilated to the size of black pearls. The telltale sign of a vampire in need of sustenance. The couple moved about the thicket unnoticed. Together, they breathed in the scents of their surroundings. Hardened pine sap sweetening the frigid air. A tinge of mildew from the moistened needles underfoot. The sour taste of decaying leaves scattered about and rustling in the breeze. And blood. Pulsing through the veins of a crouched puma nearly hidden in a stand of creaking hardwoods. Sloshing under the thick coat of an elk, head bent low, sipping water from a stream across the valley. And a rogue buck. It's antlered head tilted awkwardly to the side, small teeth knawing on the bark of a towering evergreen. Completely unaware of their presence. So close Bella could practically taste it.
"Mine," she breathed.
Edward released her hand and nodded his approval.
As Bella dropped to a crouch, her attention focused entirely upon the nearby deer, Edward closed his eyes and leaned his head back, taking in the various scents of the forest around them.
It was then, as a gentle current sifted under his nose, and merely an instant before Bella launched herself into the air, when he detected another presence in the area. An alarming essence. And worse, one he recognized.
Startled, he sucked in a breath as Bella lifted herself from the ground.
Edward could only watch helplessly as she spread her arms wide, fingers curved into talons, her sleek form dropping silently upon the unsuspecting deer, when an arrow streaked by his face, leaving a whisper of death in it's wake.
The arrow pierced the deer's heart the very moment Bella's fingertips managed to brush a handful of coarse fir along the animal's back. Caught off-guard, she tumbled over the deer and landed with a thud in a nearby pile of leaves and debris.
In a fluid motion far superior to any maneuver a mere human could accomplish, Bella rolled upright, ignoring the dried leaves tangled in her hair, and crouched defensively, her eyes searching the tree tops.
She spotted her almost immediately. Hoisted roughly thirty feet up a massive elm, a girl not unlike herself in size and shape, was nestled comfortably upon one of the tree's heavier limbs.
Very much human, the girl of nearly the same theoretical age as Bella, was balanced on her knees, her back resting against the elm's trunk. Hair a shade lighter than Bella's, fell upon her shoulders in thin waves. She remained as still as the tree itself, her body poised behind an armed bow, her arm bent at the elbow, the sheathed arrow targeted upon Bella herself.
From where he stood, Edward took in the dramatic standoff with an air of apprehension. Both females remained poised for attack. He watched as Bella's mouth slowly opened, releasing an irritable snarl. From the tree, the girl was a statue, seemingly frozen in place behind her weapon. Now all but forgotten, the dead buck remained on it's cloven feet. The arrow had struck so perfectly, instantaneous death caused the deer to simply lean into the pine tree who's bark it had been feasting. Dead before even realizing it. Limbs now supporting a carcass.
Deciding that he'd better intervene with haste, a thought entered Edward's mind. One that didn't belong to him.
"Hello Edward."
His eyes traveled back to the girl in the tree. While her focus remained on Bella, her thoughts had apparently strayed. A thin smile creased his upper lip.
"Hello Katniss," he whispered. "Nice shot."
The words, "Thank you," formed in his head. The grin widened.
"I guess I can assume that your repaired hearing from the Capitol is functioning well."
"It was the least they could do."
Edward turned to Bella, who remained crouched and hissing.
"Bella...sweetheart, it's her kill. She earned it."
"Little showoff," Bella growled. "That arrow wouldn't work so well on me."
"You mind putting a leash on your pet?" The words entered Edwards mind as if sent through a bolt of lightning. He quickly nodded.
"Bella please," he said. "Let's take the elk down at the stream. There'll be plenty for both of us."
With a huff, Bella finally straightened, but defiantly refused to turn away from the arrow, which remained targeted at her throat. Still smiling, Edward walked into the firing range, wrapping his arm around Bella's shoulder and guiding her out of harm's way. At last, Bella grudgingly turned toward the distant stream.
As the pair dropped below the quiet hillside, he glanced back toward the giant elm. The girl was gone. A moment later, a thought entered his mind. "Thank you Edward." He again nodded his head.
"Stop that," Bella snapped.
"What?"
"You know what. Reading her mind. Don't think I don't know what you're doing!"
"Sorry, Sweetheart. It's just...well."
"Well what?"
Edward grinned sheepishly. "The two of you...at each other's throats back there. ...that was hot."
"Shut up, Edward."
"Sweetheart...there's a leaf in your hair."
"Shut up, Edward!"
Okay, so what if...
An icy breeze, carrying with it the season's first snowflakes, a shimmering dust visible in glimpses only, darting about like hovering insects, left the air gun-metal cold.
What little warmth remained, was held within the blanketing pine grove on the forest floor. A nearly impassable thicket of brush stretching from one trunk to another, and growing upward sometimes ten feet or more through a soft cloak of moss. Like a natural barrier from the outside world, teams of wildlife used the pine grove as a safe haven from both predators and the falling temperature, as winter's hostile embrace slowly tightened.
In this thicket, where even the solemn gray skies failed to penetrate, where cloved hooves and various forms of paws could pad across the forest floor atop millions of scattered pine needles without making a sound, an abundance of wildlife felt assured of their safety. They were wrong...
Walking hand in hand under the shaded canopy of evergreens, their movements seen as a fluid blur of motion, their footsteps as silent as the early morning air itself, Bella and Edward Cullen glided through the dense undergrowth with the stealth of a falcon slicing through an updraft at high altitudes.
Bella's hair had thickened since being turned. Appearing soft, like woven yarn the color of mocha, long strands trailed along behind her as she glided lithely through the forest. At her side, Edward's golden pelt of wavy curls bounced upon his neckline with each measured step. Together they resembled a pair of shimmering ghosts, fingers entwined, their souls skimming the forest floor without disturbing the fallen pine needles under foot.
On their feet were matching tennis shoes, white Nikes. A lightly fitting, ivory dress hugged itself to Bella's slim form, while Edward challenged the wooded thicket in khakis and a simple cotton t-shirt. The inclimate weather didn't bother them. Their pale bodies were already cold like stone. In fact, only one condition drove them to the pine grove with such urgency. Hunger.
Their eyes were dilated to the size of black pearls. The telltale sign of a vampire in need of sustenance. The couple moved about the thicket unnoticed. Together, they breathed in the scents of their surroundings. Hardened pine sap sweetening the frigid air. A tinge of mildew from the moistened needles underfoot. The sour taste of decaying leaves scattered about and rustling in the breeze. And blood. Pulsing through the veins of a crouched puma nearly hidden in a stand of creaking hardwoods. Sloshing under the thick coat of an elk, head bent low, sipping water from a stream across the valley. And a rogue buck. It's antlered head tilted awkwardly to the side, small teeth knawing on the bark of a towering evergreen. Completely unaware of their presence. So close Bella could practically taste it.
"Mine," she breathed.
Edward released her hand and nodded his approval.
As Bella dropped to a crouch, her attention focused entirely upon the nearby deer, Edward closed his eyes and leaned his head back, taking in the various scents of the forest around them.
It was then, as a gentle current sifted under his nose, and merely an instant before Bella launched herself into the air, when he detected another presence in the area. An alarming essence. And worse, one he recognized.
Startled, he sucked in a breath as Bella lifted herself from the ground.
Edward could only watch helplessly as she spread her arms wide, fingers curved into talons, her sleek form dropping silently upon the unsuspecting deer, when an arrow streaked by his face, leaving a whisper of death in it's wake.
The arrow pierced the deer's heart the very moment Bella's fingertips managed to brush a handful of coarse fir along the animal's back. Caught off-guard, she tumbled over the deer and landed with a thud in a nearby pile of leaves and debris.
In a fluid motion far superior to any maneuver a mere human could accomplish, Bella rolled upright, ignoring the dried leaves tangled in her hair, and crouched defensively, her eyes searching the tree tops.
She spotted her almost immediately. Hoisted roughly thirty feet up a massive elm, a girl not unlike herself in size and shape, was nestled comfortably upon one of the tree's heavier limbs.
Very much human, the girl of nearly the same theoretical age as Bella, was balanced on her knees, her back resting against the elm's trunk. Hair a shade lighter than Bella's, fell upon her shoulders in thin waves. She remained as still as the tree itself, her body poised behind an armed bow, her arm bent at the elbow, the sheathed arrow targeted upon Bella herself.
From where he stood, Edward took in the dramatic standoff with an air of apprehension. Both females remained poised for attack. He watched as Bella's mouth slowly opened, releasing an irritable snarl. From the tree, the girl was a statue, seemingly frozen in place behind her weapon. Now all but forgotten, the dead buck remained on it's cloven feet. The arrow had struck so perfectly, instantaneous death caused the deer to simply lean into the pine tree who's bark it had been feasting. Dead before even realizing it. Limbs now supporting a carcass.
Deciding that he'd better intervene with haste, a thought entered Edward's mind. One that didn't belong to him.
"Hello Edward."
His eyes traveled back to the girl in the tree. While her focus remained on Bella, her thoughts had apparently strayed. A thin smile creased his upper lip.
"Hello Katniss," he whispered. "Nice shot."
The words, "Thank you," formed in his head. The grin widened.
"I guess I can assume that your repaired hearing from the Capitol is functioning well."
"It was the least they could do."
Edward turned to Bella, who remained crouched and hissing.
"Bella...sweetheart, it's her kill. She earned it."
"Little showoff," Bella growled. "That arrow wouldn't work so well on me."
"You mind putting a leash on your pet?" The words entered Edwards mind as if sent through a bolt of lightning. He quickly nodded.
"Bella please," he said. "Let's take the elk down at the stream. There'll be plenty for both of us."
With a huff, Bella finally straightened, but defiantly refused to turn away from the arrow, which remained targeted at her throat. Still smiling, Edward walked into the firing range, wrapping his arm around Bella's shoulder and guiding her out of harm's way. At last, Bella grudgingly turned toward the distant stream.
As the pair dropped below the quiet hillside, he glanced back toward the giant elm. The girl was gone. A moment later, a thought entered his mind. "Thank you Edward." He again nodded his head.
"Stop that," Bella snapped.
"What?"
"You know what. Reading her mind. Don't think I don't know what you're doing!"
"Sorry, Sweetheart. It's just...well."
"Well what?"
Edward grinned sheepishly. "The two of you...at each other's throats back there. ...that was hot."
"Shut up, Edward."
"Sweetheart...there's a leaf in your hair."
"Shut up, Edward!"
Saturday, January 9, 2010
...sometimes it gets discouraging. The daydreaming and the ideas. Those interesting thoughts and periodic flashes of something that could one day be considered brilliance.
And just when I find myself falling into one of those, "writing grooves," when pretty much everything starts making perfect sense...I read a novel so utterly tantalizing, I'm instantly tossed back into my place, along with the other twenty million author wanna-be's drifting aimlessly about, lost in thought, or just lost.
Edgar Sawtelle was born mute, speaking only in sign, to his parents in a remote farmstead in rural Wisconsin.
While the novel is named after young Edgar, the story revolves around the "Sawtelle Dogs," a fictinal breed of canine started generations earlier by Edgar's grandfather, who sets out to create the perfect companion.
What begins as a slowly moving, poetic glimpse into the Sawtelle' s family history, veers without warning toward a drama, smells of mystery, hints of the super-natural, to finally emerge as a tragedy, whispering the likes of Shakespeare's "Hamlet."
David Wroblewski swares that he never intended to re-write "Hamlet," that his intentions were of original thought. And while the characters honestly don't resemble the ones from Shakespeare's famous play, which I read a thousand years ago in English Lit, it's the storylines that run parallel. And frankly, it doesn't matter. Edgar's story is unforgettable.
And if perhaps the story itself isn't enough, Wroblewski's style of pen keeps the pages turning...
"...They were almost home, walking the road, the world cottoned out ahead, when something caught Edgar's eye. He stopped near the narrow grove of trees that projected into the south field atop the hill. A granite ledge swelled from the ground there, gray and narrow and barnacled with moss, cresting among the trees and submerging near the road like the hump of a whale breaking the surface of the earth. As his father walked along, Edgar stepped into the wild mustard and Johnson grass and waited to see if the ground might ripple and seal over as the thing passed. Instead, a shadow floated into view at the ledge's far end. Then the shadow became a dog, nose lowered to the mossy back of the leviathan as though scenting an old trail. When the dog reached the crest of the rock, it looked up, forepaw aloft, and froze..."
Fifteen drafts and several years were spent creating "The Story of Edgar Sawtelle." The laborous edit work, the re-writes, the third party volunteer work...tedious to no end. And in this case, it paid off.
Some novels I read and can pretty much visualize the movie set as I thumb through the pages. "The Road." "Feedomland." "Gone Baby Gone." That vampire saga we've all been caught up in. Suzanne Collins's "Hunger Games" in the not too distant future I'm sure. As for Edgar...I hope it's left alone. I don't want Hollywood to change the sights and sounds so perfectly described by Wroblewski. It's that good...
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