…where everything goes from roses and sunshine to something much more akin to the southernmost drafts of northbound horse?

I never was all that great at geography, but something about all this just leaves a bad taste in my mouth. I'd much prefer talking about it. Always had a knack for the storytelling part of it, anyway. And the editors over at The Ocotillo Review and Kallisto Gaia Press seemed to think so, too, because they recently notified me that they planned to publish my fourth story from my Long Gone & Lost collection, which I’ll be turning in for my MFA here in the very near future.

I’m fairly certain that the two fellows from my story would know all about those ill tasting after effects I mentioned, however. They may be all fiction themselves, but they were indeed inspired by real life events in a real life newsrooms. Dave Kindred wrote about a few folks just like these two who, mere days after everybody was riding a high that only those who win six Pulitzers will ever truly know, them and most everyone they knew were handing walking papers from their jobs. That's right, they were fired!

Sure, they may be one of the best papers anywhere, as the Pulitzers might suggest, but they would soon be so with half as many people.

Trust me when I say this, but if that don’t leave a bad taste in your mouth, nothing will.

I read Kindred’s Morning Miracle two years ago now. He wrote about the world famous Washington Post, and how after one of their best years ever, editorially speaking, half the people employed there lost their jobs because subscribers had dropped off and Facebook could do for free what no newspaper ever could.

What’s that, you might ask, that Facebook so excels at? Namely, creating a platform whereby complete strangers could hound and annoy people with enough asinine questions about the glorified junk somebody is selling that folks will actually give shit away–cars, furniture, boats, livestock, you name it–just so they don’t have to answer, yet again, what color that the blue 1985 Ford Tempo that's for sale might be, or what year model it was again, or what make of that model it might be, or–did I happen to mention the color already? I forget…

(I've had some questions arise on that last paragraph from the original posting of this this blog entry on my author website, so I thought it might need some explaining. You see the Marketplace feature of Facebook, the very culprit responsible for obliterating the common classified ad in a newspaper which in turn all but sank your average newspaper in terms of operating revenue, actually rewards such idiotic lines of questioning a product, because its algorithms push to the top of people's displays those items which are most talked about, so a series of completely useless details about said car, or likewise, 110 people entering one word exclamations, like " Nice!" or "P.O.S!!!" the more likely modifier of an 85 Tempo, especially those that receive a response from the author, actually get shown before those that have none. As a result, people now obliterate said site  with needless words, getting friends to help even, just to have that piece of crap car show up every time you refresh your page, thereby increasing its likelihood of someone purchasing it. I have no idea, but it was a fact I picked up from a fellow who bulls and resells POS cars on a regular basis. And now you know, as Paul Harvey used to say on the radio, the rest of the story).

But there at the Post, they threw parties one day. Couldn’t be prouder of how hard everybody worked to be just like a blood kin family. A few days later, they had security guards following people out to make sure they didn’t take a stapler that wasn’t theirs. They even fired some of the folks who won Pulitzers, I hear. They had to. They couldn’t afford them anymore.

Sadly, that sort of thing is still very much a reality for some of the folks I know well. In fact, newspapers are nothing like the bastions of economic security they once were. And sure, you gotta feel bad for the guy who tops his profession, only to be rewarded for his efforts with a layoff. But what if those employees fired–the ones the reader gets to know best in the story–are complete and utter slacker morons? I mean they serve a function-- albeit, doing something I don’t want to do--but somebody has to, I guess. Or not. But how would that dynamic affect the story?

I wondered. So, I wrote.

Wound up calling it “Forget the Alamo” (which isn’t near as heretical as it sounds to all my Texas purist friends. At least, I hope not, anyway). I can’t say much more about it, for now. Not until it publishes. They want first publication rights and all.

For more information, and to see a full compendium of items published this year, log on to my author website at https://outlawauthorz.com.

The streets of Tokyo teemed with people. A never ending flow of suits and interesting fashion statements. Crowed sidewalks and jammed traffic. Bumper to bumper people and cars. Just another weekday in the land of the rising sun.

Unlike most ex-pats living here, it wasn’t the culture that brought me, Jonathan Merced, from Perth. Old things and historic sites don’t interest me. Never have.

I came here for the hi-tech gadgets and neon lights. After three years I can safely say, Japan is stuck in the past. There is one major intersection, on all the movies, that is ‘bright lights, big city’; the rest is concrete, Pachinko, and the constant jabber of people on phones, to friends and to themselves. It never ends.

Only public transportation is silent, and I can get a chance to think. Riding the trains and buses is awesome. Totally quiet. It’s the reason most people sleep on their way to work or home. I assume all the talking tires them out.

It doesn’t tire me. I hate talking. It gets on my nerves. Angry, violent thoughts magically appear from nowhere, and in my vision, I’m stomping a person’s head on the ground--harder and harder until it cracks open. If I’m especially exhausted, the vision turns darker and sometimes other people come to the aid of the victim. In reality, they’d just get their phones out and stream to YouTube or some other site.

Way of the world, over here.

Jabber. Jabber. Jabber.

It’s one of the few things that grate my nerves. I can handle a few minutes but ten to fifteen is pushing it. Even my MP3 player can’t drown them out. They seem to get louder and louder. Before I know it someone has pissed me off, and in my head they are getting stomped.

Such thoughts are not good but try as I might, I can’t block them. The talking never stops on the streets, in offices, hospitals or riding elevators. The constant noise is maddening.

Today I have a late start at the school and that means I have to dodge talkers in the early afternoon. It’s the worst time to be on the streets. The sun is out and the country is wide awake.

My ear buds are in and Megadeth is blaring, and for a short time all is right with the world. Until a woman next to me answers her phone. Her voice is high and shrill. Her laughter is the call of a hyena. She cackles and overreacts with every second breath. My Japanese is limited but I understand she is meeting this phone friend in five minutes. Five bloody minutes. She couldn’t wait. 

In my head, I picture grabbing her long wavy hair and yanking it backwards. Forcing her head to smack into the concrete and driving my boot down into her face--again and again and again. I imagine her screams dying out. Onlookers shocked but phones are uploading to YouTube. Live action attack. Foreigner goes nuts.

I imagine someone is calling the police on an old flip style phone. He can’t upload video on that. The woman is unmoving on the ground. Her face is caved in. Calmly, I walk away, turned a corner and my mood changes. There’s a happy feeling warming my insides.

However, dark thoughts continue to ride with me, hanging around like a bad smell. They don’t seem to want to vanish as they usually do.

There’s a young man leaning against a convenience store wall and shouting on his phone. He’s pissed at his mother. She found his magazines and DVDs, and he is disgusted she snooped through his things.

His jabbering is far too loud and he has no problem exposing himself as an asshole to the entire world. So many people openly stare at him.

I imagine in my bag is a kitchen knife. Full of confidence, I stride up to him. My right hand is inside my bag and it is gripping the knife handle. With a finger on my lips I try to shush him. He should keep this call private.

He gives me a look of contempt and raises his volume.

Fine.

I’ll shush him.

In my imagination, I move with lightning speed, my right hand comes out of my bag and the kitchen knife gets noticed too late. The man has no time to react. I drive the knife upward, under his chin and into the roof of his mouth. The blade sticks in the mouth plate and I use my palm to punch it higher. His right eye deflates; goo is sliding over the eyelid. I know that most of it is coating the knife’s sharpened steel.

He drops his phone as he collapses to the ground. I can hear the mother on the other end still yelling at him. Her voice is as bad as his.

I imagine taking his wallet and learning his address. It’s full of money, so I pocket the wallet for later.

His mother’s voice follows me as I turn and cross the street. Onlookers are busy with phones while others have lost interest and continued on with their day.

I’m across the road in seconds and that damn woman’s voice continues to grate my nerves. I can still hear the bitch. Her voice matches the shrill of police sirens filling the air.

Up ahead, I spot a black taxi. Its rear door is open, meaning it is looking for passengers.

Learning through the open back door, I ask if it’s alright to get a lift. Sometimes they refuse foreign passengers. This cabbie says no problem and I show him the driver’s license. He nods and pulls out into the traffic.

The ride is silent. In this country, public transport is the best.

END

http://sfwtr.com pop in  for a visit. I don't bite hard ;-) 

PROLOGUE 

The crescendo of his heartbeat rose in his ears. It began as a low, deep sound of a bass drum accelerating to the medium tone of the tom-tom. It drowned out all other sounds of that glorious day, like the cheerful song of the spring robin. His ears turned deaf to every audible vibration, including the wind rustling through the branches of the willow tree.

Why couldn’t he hear the wind? He could feel each gust tussling his hair. How a few dark strands caught on his stubbled jaw. He would brush it away if he could move. Right now, he didn’t want to move. Nothing mattered. Not the wind or his hair. Not even the birds or the tree. All that mattered stood before him. God help him. Nothing could deter him from his fascination…with her.

His eyes coursed over her delicate features. Chestnut curls. High cheekbones. Full, voluptuous lips…

Calling her beautiful would be unjust. A sin even. Lust came natural to anyone. But with her, it went deeper. She radiated like an angel. Soft. Sweet. Heavenly. It drew him in. Yet her presence, the way it made him shake inside, kept him wanting more.

The breeze blew her ringlets from the nape of her neck. Each swaying lock carried a hint of sandalwood. The same scent rushing through his nose. One more breath and he’d be intoxicated.

Her skin, a soft shade of peaches-and-cream, glistened every time gilded sunrays broke through the swaying branches of the weeping willow.

When he gazed down into her eyes, his breath caught. He tried swallowing the lump in his throat, but his constricted chest held it in place. Her warm, inviting eyes were a rich shade of gold woven with flecks of olive green. She was looking past him to the broken, shale wall surrounding the estate.

Something about the lush green grass and the smell of roses tugged at him. Wasn’t I about to… God, she’s beautiful.

He ignored his duties. Why shouldn’t he? Nothing could be more important than this moment under the willow tree with her, his golden-eyed angel.

His eyes searched hers for proof that she sensed the same magnetic force drawing them together. A force so powerful it was irrefutable as it called to his soul.

He waited for her to meet his gaze, shifting his weight from one foot to the next. The motion captured her attention. Her mesmerizing eyes focused back on his face. He released his breath, exhaling a slow sigh as he watched a smile spread across her lips.

Those lips…

He inhaled deeply, taking in her scent. It made his heart hasten when he imagined them pressed to his, allowing him to taste their sweetness.

She stepped in, closing the distance between them. Her eyes descended from his, lingering on his shoulders. He watched in silent awe as her arm stretched toward him. When gentle fingers touched his arm, a line of fire coursed through every nerve, wrapping him in a cloud of desire. He fought against the groan creeping up from his lungs as her fingertips stroked his skin.

Her eyes wandered further down his body, causing his muscles to flinch.

In the passing breaths, his eyes fell to her tiny waist and well-curved hips.

Every single inch—a masterpiece.

He could no longer withhold his desire to touch perfection. Reaching out to her, he hesitated for a heartbeat, but pushed his fears aside. His hand caressed her neck, sweeping slowly up skin as soft as rose petals. Then he cupped her cheek. She closed her eyes, her breath releasing a gentle sigh.

Her subtle reactions affected his soul. He knew women, but not like this. They’d never found the secret chamber that held his heart. Had never come close to touching it. But this beautiful angel in front of him—she knew. She’d not only found his heart, she’d brought it to life, made it race like a river rushing through a canyon. He wanted her more than a rose wanted sunlight. Needed her more than the air he breathed.

A smile played at the corner of her lips. She leaned her cheek against the warmth of his hand, her breath tickling his palm. “Can you feel it?”

Her voice was like a whisper from heaven. He reveled in it. Wanted to bottle it up and keep the sweet sound with him wherever he went.

“Yes,” he breathed out.

She opened her eyes and ran her hands up his arms as he enveloped her in an embrace. Her fingers continued until they met at the back of his neck, interlacing at the nape. The look in her eyes tugged his heartstrings. His hands met at the small of her back, where they stopped and gathered her dress.

Say it. Tell me what your heart wants. I need to hear you say it.

Her lips parted, the words playing there as she stared into his eyes. He braced himself, waiting for those words he wanted to hear. His heart no longer raced. It pounded so fiercely, he thought it would beat out of his chest.

But she didn’t speak.

Let me know those lips.

She leaned closer.

Yes.

His beautiful angel stood on her toes, her lips brushing his in a soft, sweeping motion.

God, yes!

To his dismay, the ecstasy that enveloped them ended. Their sweet moment stolen like a priceless jewel. The heat of her body, of their passion, tore from his soul as she pulled away.

His disappointment consumed him.

Not again.

The tears forming in her eyes glistened as a sunray filtered through the dangling branches. Her bottom lip quivered.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice cracking between words as he brushed a tear from her cheek. He feared that he already knew the answer, yet was still desperate for her to prove him wrong.

“You have to wake up, my sweet,” she said, her voice urgent, desperate.

“I’m not asleep. How can I wake up if I’m not sleeping?” He reached for her, wanting to pull her against him, to bask in the warmth of her touch.

She took a step back, tears sliding down her face, lips turning down in a frown. “You must.”

“No,” he begged. “Don’t go. Stay here with me.” Moisture stung his eyes as he pleaded with her to remain.

His voice betrayed him when nothing more than a whisper passed over his lips. “Stay.”

He reached out to her. This time, when he touched her skin, or what should have been her skin, the warmth was gone. There was nothing.

No!

His heart squeezed. He tried again, reaching for her, but his fingers caressed nothing but air. His eyes widened.

God, no…

Her image weakened. She reached her hand toward his face, as though to stroke it. He couldn’t feel the warmth, just a gentle breeze blowing through his hair.

Though her silhouette faded, her voice carried once more to his ears. “Wake up. Please, wake up…”

His heart grew strained with disappointment as the scenery slowly blurred and vanished. He kicked his legs, trying to ground himself as he tumbled into an abyss of darkness. He searched for something to catch him, to stop his descent into black. Nothing was there.

Suddenly, his body jerked into a sitting position as he gasped. His eyes burned. Bright light reflected off the walls surrounding him.

My angel.

He gazed around the room with desperate eyes.

Where is she?

His heart pounded fiercely as he searched the room.

She has to be here.

He wanted to scream her name, wanted to beg her to return, but couldn’t. He didn’t know her name.

The room spun, or at least he thought it did. Maybe it was his mind. Squeezing his eyes shut, he grabbed his head, holding it with both hands as he tried focusing again. A deep inhale brought the sweet scent of sandalwood to his nose.

Where the hell…

He opened his eyes, again, taking in beige-colored walls, an oak chest of drawers, clothes strewn across the floor. When his eyes settled on a pair of black, snakeskin boots, his heart panged.

Of course. I’m here. But that means—

He was home, in his bedroom, alone.

Falling back into the bed, realization burned his stomach. Another dream…it was just another dream.

There was no golden-eyed angel.

The only thing that remained from the dream was the wicked headache. As much as he wanted to cover his head and never leave the bed, the aspirin in the bathroom called to him.

As he stood, his foot crunched a can that lay on the carpet. His eyes passed over a shimmering blue and white beer can. An empty liquor bottle lay on its side, just two feet away.

No wonder my head is pounding. A hangover. I have a damn hangover.

He laughed, thinking about why he began drinking in the first place. To forget her.

What a joke. Not all the liquor in the world could erase her image from his mind.

Staring aimlessly, his heart grew weary, knowing he would never truly feel skin as soft as satin, never look into eyes as rich as marmalade. His soul grew restless.

She would never be his salvation. Only his tormentor.

Available on:

Amazon: http://amzn.to/kmWTHW

Barnes & Noble: http://bit.ly/WtHwBn

Smashwords: http://bit.ly/WtHWSW

Kobo: http://bit.ly/WtHwKo

iBooks: http://bit.ly/WtHwiT

What is writing fiction all about? If you're an author, ask yourself this question. It's important, and here's why. You have to make a decision about why you write. If you write to make a big splash on the literary ocean, then that's the wrong reason. If you write because you believe what you have to say is important, then that's the wrong reasonburning_book. If you write because the story is everything, then you're writing for the right reason.

Some of you are sitting out there scratching your head and saying, "Hey, my story is important and it will set the world on fire." You could be right, and your story might be one that will ignite change and raze the world. But could someone else tell the same story, and do it better? If you answer yes, then you are writing for the right reasons. Why? The story is everything.

Some of you are still sitting out there and scratching your head saying, "That's your opinion." Well, yes, and no. It is my opinion, but it is also the opinion of many of our illustrious predecessors in the craft. They wrote because they had to write. They had to get the story out. It was building inside of them and unless they wrote it down, they would burst. Dostoevsky couldn't write unless he had an idea behind it. Meaning had more importance than just telling a story. Others, like Conrad and Dickens felt the same way. The story didn't take on significance to them unless it had meaning, an underlying idea that would give their story life.

It isn't enough to tell a story about boy meets girl, boy loses girl, then boy and girl unite. I've read many number of stories that are about that simplistic. Throw in a vampire, or put these people on another planet, throw in some sex to make it erotica, or have them chase a killer and you have a story filled with action, but it's empty. What made Dickens great is that he cared about the society he lived in. He saw things around him that needed to be told, that needed to be corrected. He could have written dozens of non fiction books about the differing classes in British society, and how they didn't address poverty or child labor, or how the weak are preyed upon by the unscrupulous and those obsessed with making money. He did it within his timeless tales. Those ideas were all there and he addressed them brilliantly. Dostoevsky wanted to discuss the criminal class in Crime and Punishment, but more importantly, he wanted all of us to know how many people are affected by a murder, how the criminal class thinks, and to discuss the conscience of man.

Once upon a time, people read a book and discussed it in the marketplace, just like

people talk about television shows today. TV is weak and filled with scandal and stupidity. Books spur a deep conversation, connect us, create empathy for our fellow man. American Idol doesn't. Shows like Scandal diminish us, they don't spark conversation about ideas, just salacious gossip. Authors wrote about ideas within a story. The story was everything, and that is why their books last, are continually read by generation after generation. They are not sterile, or bereft of meaning, they make us think.

Over the past few years, I've listened to many authors talking about their writing, and have read their interview on the many blogs out there about books and authors. The writers all say they enjoy telling a story, or God wanted them to write, or friends and family encouraged them because they said they have talent, etcetera. Out of all the thousands of authors interviewed out there, the reasons are surprisingly the same.

Where it gets sticky, and the reasons once professed start to change dramatically, is when you get into a fight over the author's ability to tell a good story outside the fantasy land of friends and family encouragement. I'm talking about the writer who starts butting heads against the real world of publishing. Any good editor or reviewer will tell you about those authors, the ones who use the cheesy cheap vanity presses, or Smashwords and other sites like those to put an Ebook on Amazon. You know, the self-publishing world. The truth emerges, and it ain't pretty. It doesn't have anything to do with God, or that they can humbly enjoy fashioning a good yarn. No. It becomes, "I'm good, and I know it."

Writing fiction to those authors is all about them. It's not about the story. But they're wrong, and here's why. As writers we have a responsibility to write with clarity and truth, and as Vonnegut says, to pity the readers and say what you mean. Even if you're writing about a vampire, or another world, authors still have a responsibility to follow that line of truth. My stories are not about me. And they should never be about me. It's the story that's important. I want to make you think, and to wrap it up within a story. Even if you can't remember my name, it's my fervent desire to help you remember the story. The story is everything.

When I work with my editor I'll even pause and ask her what she thinks is true to the story, to the characters. I listen to her advice and think hard about what she says. I have to leave the role of writer for a moment to see if the story is working. For those who hang on to their prose as if it's an organ you're trying to surgically remove, it can never be about the story. This is a little something to think about over the weekend. Ask yourself the question and see what you really answer, what lies in your heart. If your story is everything, then you might be a teller of tales that will last beyond your life and change the world, if only a little bit, like one person at a time.
http://www.jvause.wordpress.com

**Posted under the pseudonym, "Tom Spencer."

When I was a boy, we lived in Idaho.  I'm not going to say exactly where in Idaho. I have my reasons. This state is known for it's tough, scraggly wilderness areas.  There is much to do and see in Idaho.  From raging white water rafting to scenic beauty to camping, many tourists are attracted to my home state.  My father's boss, Mr. Johnson, had a cabin near what is now known as The Frank Church—River of No Return Wilderness Area.  It consists  of parts of several mountain ranges, including the Salmon River Mountains, the Clearwater Mountains, and the Bighorn Crags. The ranges are split by steep canyons of the Middle and Main forks of the Salmon River.  The Salmon River is known as "The River of No Return."  There's a good reason for that.  It has extremely swift currents that can drag you under.  Many have died on this river.  Certain scenes of the movie "River of No Return," with Marilyn Monroe and Robert Mitchum, were shot on this river. As I said, Mr. Johnson had a cabin near this area (it was known as the Salmon River Breaks Primitive area in the 60s. It was renamed in Senator Frank Church's honor in 1984) that myself, my dad and grandpa camped out at Mr. Johnson's cabin many a summer night.

It was in August of 1965 when I heard the first scream at the Johnson cabin.  I was a shy, awkward 14-year old boy who felt more at ease in the wilderness than I did around people.  It had been a fruitful day of fishing for trout.  The deal was whoever caught the first fish of the day had to clean all the fish.  It never failed I always caught the first fish of the day for reasons I still can't understand.  Usually, about 3PM, we would call it a day and head back to the cabin.   I would finish up the fish cleaning, grandpa would coat them with his favorite flour and seasonings. Grandpa would have made a killing selling his fried fish if he had ever decided to do so.  But, back to that scream...we had finished up eating, and grandpa decided to open the windows to let a little air in the cabin.  We didn't want the place stinking when Mr. Johnson would visit it after we would leave.  Right after grandpa started opening the windows, the first scream of that awful night occurred.  It's a scream that is, to this day, hard to describe verbally.  It is even more difficult to explain in the printed word.  It was the combination of a woman and lion screaming.  I know that is a difficult to imagine.  But, that's the best way I could describe it   Aaaaooooooooooyyyyyy.......AAAAAAOOOOOOOYYYYYY is as best as I can put it in print.  It was incredibly loud.  We had glasses on the edge of the sink that literally vibrated right off and broke on the floor.  Yes, they were not only loud, but the screams originated within 100 feet or so from the cabin.

My dad and grandpa grabbed their .12 gauge shotguns which they always carried with them when we went camping.  Grandpa took the old kerosine lantern with him outside to get a better view of whatever it was out there.  That kerosine lantern was not very bright.  But, we could see movement in the dense bushes behind grandpa's old Chevy truck.  I said, "Dad, behind grandpa's truck....LOOK!!!"  It was visible for the briefest of times....maybe as long as one heartbeat.   My dad said later he did not see anything when he fired that shot of buckshot.  But, he hit something.  We then heard the mother of all screams.  It was a deep, guttural scream not unlike that of mountain lions I have shot in California poaching on my property.  It was definitely a scream of pain this time though.  Whatever it was, it took off at an inhuman speed.  As I said, I did see it.  It had human form.  But, it was not human.  It was approximately 6 ft tall and maybe 140lbs at most.  I saw it for only a second that particular moment.  But, I would see it again.  

We all went back inside since whatever it was had taken off.  My grandpa was a tough, no-nonsense type of man.  I never saw him upset or scared....until that night.  Grandpa was shaking like a leaf.  He was so nervous he couldn't light his own cigarette.  He finally asked me to light it for him.  Dad was white as...well, a ghost.  I wasn't any better.  I felt sick to my stomach and was nauseated.  I looked at both my dad and grandpa and asked, "What was that thing?  I think you got a piece of it, dad."  My dad looked at me and said he thinks he winged it also.  "Whatever the hell it was, I got a feeling we ain't seen the last of it," grandpa correctly predicted.  Indeed, it was only the first encounter with "The Thing in the Wilderness" that particular night. 

As we had finally gotten our wits about us, we again heard the unholy scream.  This time, it was closer.  Grandpa quickly grabbed his shotgun. "Whatever that damn thing is, he's pissed off now.  Get your shotgun, son. This might be a long night," said grandpa.  My dad grabbed his shotgun and they both looked out the window.  Dad told me to go hide under the bed.  There was no way I was going into that bedroom by myself.  I wasn't leaving.  There were four windows from the kitchen back toward the sparse living room. Dad then told me to keep a look out the windows in the living room....it was only one big picture window.

 Again this thing screamed!!!  It was incredibly loud.  I can't stress enough how loud it was.  In some respects, it sounded like T-rex on the "Jurassic Park" movie.  It doesn't seem possible something this small (relatively speaking) could scream this loud.  It just seemed impossible. Grandpa, who was momentarily taken aback and shaken, had regained his composure. "I'm going out there to give this damn thing something to scream about!!!" grandpa exclaimed.  My dad said he wasn't letting him step out that door.  "We don't know what this is.  Until we do, none of us are leaving this cabin," Dad told us. He didn't have to worry about me.  Nothing could have forced me out that door now.  We all fearfully waited to see what would happen next.  It had been at least an hour since that last scream.  BAM!!!!!  Something had slammed against the living room door!!  The front door hinges had come loose from the impact.  My dad told grandpa to stay at the kitchen door, he was going to the living room door.  My dad grabbed me and told me to stay behind him.  Again, silence for an hour and then two hours.  Nothing.  It was now about 1AM.  Nobody was sleepy.  We were too scared to sleep. 

It was now closing in on 3AM.  Grandpa had his head on the kitchen table with the shotgun resting near his head.  Dad was alternately waking and then snoozing.  I was doing neither.  I was still petrified by the night's events.  I was looking back and forth at both doors, at the windows and shaking with fright.  I then just casually glanced toward the big picture window in the living room where I was sitting with my now snoozing dad.  THERE IT WAS AGAIN!!!  This time, I got a very good look at it.  It had a grayish, milky skin layering.  It had deep sunken eyes that were blacker than the night sky. It was thin and tall.  It looked right at me.  I was too shocked to even move, much less scream.  BAM!!!!! Another huge impact on the living room door!  This time, the top hinge flew completely off.  The living room door was still shut.  But, it was only hanging in by the bottom hinge.  One more hit and the door is coming down.  My dad and grandpa jumped up immediately with this latest attempt to knock down the door.  My dad tried opening the door.  But, it was jammed.  Again, the unearthly scream pierced the night air.  "OOOOOOAAAAAYYYY.....OOOOOAAAAYYYY!!!!!!"  Grandpa opened the kitchen door, my dad screamed at him to close the damn door!  Grandpa did, but not before he got off a shot from his shotgun.  Grandpa later said he didn't see anything when he fired.  But, he wanted "The Thing" (as I still call it) to know they were armed and could inflict considerable pain.  After he fired off that shot, grandpa closed the door and propped a chair up against it.  Dad did the same thing to the now unstable living room door.  We all sat back down....and waited.

As it turned out, that was the last time "The Thing" attempted to get inside the cabin.  I think it was like grandpa had said, it was pissed off and was wanting a piece of each of us.  Dad had clearly winged it with some buckshot. The next morning, as we slowly awoke, dad went outside (with his shotgun, of course) to inspect any other damage to the cabin.  The living room door was smashed inward.  It would have to be replaced.  But, the damage was not limited to the cabin.  The rear bumper of grandpa's Chevy truck had been completely ripped off!  I don't even like to think about the strength of something that could have done that.  Dad looked at the bushes where he had fired his shot that night.  There was a chalky substance in the bushes similar to blood splatter.  We figured it must have come from that creature.  We immediately gathered up all our equipment, supplies and headed out from there.  When we got home, my dad called Mr. Johnson to tell him a bear had attacked the cabin.  Mr. Johnson said he has lived here 35 years and never seen any bear.  But, that was our story and we decided it best we stick to it or else wind up in the state mental institution.

We never went back to Mr. Johnson's cabin for reasons I am sure you can now understand.  We never told Mr. Johnson the truth.  My dad told Mama about what happened.  But, she never believed it.  Few people ever believed us. Most people think grandpa and dad had too much whiskey and gave me some also.  Grandpa and my dad are gone now.  They were both avid hunters.  But, after that night at the cabin, they never went hunting again in the wild, to my knowledge.  I still have both of those shotguns used that night in my dining room closet.  Just in case.  As for "The Thing," your guess is as good as mine as to what it was or is.   It did not look anything like the many instances of "Big Foot" that you have read about or seen pics of on TV and the internet.  Personally, I think there are many things in nature that can't be explained away by science.  Science is not the definitive answer to everything on earth.  That night at Mr. Johnson's cabin convinced me of that.  Like my grandpa and dad, I never ventured back into the wilderness of Idaho again.  I was and still am too damn scared.  Whatever it was that night, might still be looking for a bit of revenge from the only surviving member, that scary night in August, at Mr. Johnson's cabin.

    I almost hate telling people that I'm a writer because almost every single one of them immediately asks the same stupid question: "Where do you get your ideas from?"

    If you meet a chef do you ask him/her, "How did you decide what kind of food you like to cook?" Do you ask the major league baseball player, "How did you figure out how to catch that third-inning fly ball?" Would you ask someone, "Why did you decide to fall in love with that woman?"

    You don't open a web page or tap your smart phone to find a list of people you will love or food that you want to cook or stories that you want to write. We all encounter large numbers of people and events and some resonate with us and some don't. Who knows why?

    Every time I'm about to start a new book I have to ask myself what story I want to tell. For me, the answer is always based on the emotional situation I want to explore – revenge, redemption, betrayal, perseverance, whatever. In order to get my level of energy up I need to find the emotional core to the story I'm going to write.

    I liked the idea of a decent, courageous lawman willing to do whatever it took, no matter the personal cost, to bring a gang of ruthless killers to justice and that idea became Shooting Crows At Dawn.

    I liked the idea of child mistakenly thought dead rescued through the innate decency of an ordinary person and returned safe to her family and from that idea arose The Concrete Kiss.

    I liked the idea of a technically smart but socially clueless young cop being mentored by a skilled detective in the hope that someday the kid could himself become a great member of the Murder Police and from that notion came Death Never Sleeps.

    I first need to find some emotional situation that excites me and then construct a story around that idea. Every writer is different. Lots of crime novelists like writing what I call "puzzle stories," books with complicated plots and clues. There is a crime. There are lots of suspects. The killer may or may not even be on the suspect list. The detective follows the threads until, eventually, he or she finds the culprit.

    I could write a book like that but I won't write a book like that because there's no excitement, no emotion, in it for me. For me, it's just work. I may as well be digging a ditch. There are plenty of writers who love writing puzzle books, who enjoy figuring out the clues and the plot twists. Good for them. I enjoy reading books like that. I just don't enjoy writing them so I immediately cross all kinds of pure puzzle stories off my list.

    Getting back to the "where your ideas come from" question, it's not so much how you think up a story. It's more about looking at that list of story ideas and then deciding which one you think you will enjoy writing versus all those other stories you could think of that would be drudgery to write.

    Where do those story ideas come from? The same place that a chef gets the dinner menu and the artist gets the subject for his/her painting. They all come from the individual's imagination. If you don't have any imagination then you aren't going to be much of a fiction writer, painter, chef, musician, etc.

    Maybe people who ask the question don't have much of an imagination. Maybe it's like someone who can't add 11 + 19 in their head asking the accountant how he knows that the answer is 30. He just does. That's how his brain works. But here's the crucial thing: the real trick is not coming up with the correct total. It's figuring out which numbers to add together in the first place.

    –David Grace

The title says it all in this collection by Paul A. Toth. New York Times journalist and A Southern Yankee blogger Dan Newland has this to say in his pre-publication review: "These stories are a veritable showcase for the concise and subtle craft of a sort of 'watchwork' writer whose faux aloofness belies a raging zest for life and minutely detailed attention to the people and places around him, which borders on the obsessive, while investing profound empathy in every line he writes."

And this from friend, Nashville genius writer, and editor of The 2nd Hand, home to many of my stories: "The veracity of the facts of this recollection are lost to time, but it's no matter, the book he's asked me to introduce here is one of those story collections that, if history is kind, I'd wager will resonate years, decades, centuries hence itself, well beyond whatever fall is in store for each and every one of us near- and/or long-term to turn us all into refugees in our own right."

So with far more humility than that paragraph invites, I say to editors, "This is a collection as relevant as its title. Here it is, relevance, and that's what I've always meant to offer. Something that adheres to these times and not the mediocre nostalgia that steams from the MFA factory chimneys."

Glenn Langohr’s New Books- Roll Call & Lock Up Diaries, Expose the True Story of How the Son of a Sheriff and His Buddies Videoed the Gang Raping of an Underage Girl

New Books-”Roll Call” & “Lock Up Diaries,” Expose the True Story of How the Son of a Sheriff and His Buddies Videoed the Gang Raping of an Underage Girl.

In Glenn Langohr’s novel Roll Call, the Haidl rape case unravels in gruesome detail and exposes all the dirty little secrets. The case drew national attention in part because Haidl’s father was the assistant sheriff of Orange County, California. In Glenn Langohr’s, Lock Up Diaries, he takes the reader inside of California’s hardest core prison where prison vigilante justice on sex offenders is a matter of honor for many inmates who have been abused in childhood themselves.

Glenn Langohr-Portrayed as B.J in Roll Call

Pelican Bay Prison art for Gladiator by Glenn Langohr with Kindle/Nook

Lock Up Diaries on Kindle/Nook

Roll Call book cover

“Those without sin cast the first stone” A district attorney receives video evidence of his son dealing drugs from a released Pelican Bay inmate.

Roll Call by Glenn Langohr takes the reader into the story behind the story of the Haidl rape case. In prison on drug charges during the writing of “Roll Call”, Glenn Langohr felt the rape victim’s pain and further embarrassment of being labeled, “a promiscuous girl who aspired to be a porn star”, by private investigators and attorneys intent to clear the son of the sheriff of rape charges.

“I was sick of the hypocrisy of our criminal justice system,” Glenn stated.

Though “Roll Call” is a drug war novel with the intent to bring compassion and smart on crime back to the Justice System, the thread with the Haidl rape case is one of many twist and turns of corruption uncovered for social justice in his books. $16.99 paperback or 2.99 with kindle on Amazon.

Kirkus Discoveries- “A Master Director of modern pulp thrillers and a harrowing down-and-dirty depiction of the War on Drugs, sometimes reminiscent of Solderburgh’s Traffic, by former dealer, California artist Langohr.”

Also by Glenn Langohr- “Lock Up Diaries- A California Pelican Bay Prison Story Series”

A depiction of life inside of prison and a look at the political landscape between races, segregated by cell after being released from the Pelican Bay SHU in California. The amazing details of prison life – code words that prisoners use, explanations of how they communicate from cell to cell – really make you feel you have entered a different world, or like you are watching a movie. 2.99 with kindle, 7.99 in print and 6.97 in audio book on Amazon and other outlets.

“A raw, breathless descent through the inner circle of the California Penal Hell. Fraught with detail that only someone who’s been there could know.” Review by Phillip Doran, author of A Reluctant Tuscan

After a decade in prison on drug charges, Glenn Langohr’s vision is to help other drug addicted and lost prisoners find their voice through writing and art. He uses prison art for some of his book covers and started a publishing company, lockdownpublishing.com to open a new avenue for prison authors. Past radio interviews include KSBR 88.5 in Orange County and Buy Back America in Utah

For Glenn Langohr's complete list of books in print, kindle and audio book in the U.S. go here~ http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B00571NY5A For the U.K. go here~ http://www.amazon.co.uk/-/e/B00571NY5A

Available for interviews and reviews at rollcallthebook@gmail.com http://www.audiobookprisonstories.com

Glenn Langohr

about his book: I wrote Race Riot to show the world that by sending people to prison for being addicted to drugs, we are breeding bigger criminals where gangs and violence are the calling cards. In prison a drug addict is bred into a displaced human being once released. While in prison, it gets politically racial and everything is solved with violence and gangs are bred. Race Riots over things like drug debts, alcohol, disrespect and any trivial reason are regular things. In Race Riots, BJ, a young convicted drug dealer struggles to survive a race war between the Black and White inmates.

• “A raw, breathless descent through the inner circle of the California Penal Hell. Fraught with detail that only someone who’s been there could know.” — TV Producer Phillip Doran

Infamous convicts like Gary Gilmore, Jack Henry Abbott, and Charles Manson would agree with the rough-and-ready story that is this book. Glenn Langohr’s “Race Riot” ranks right up there with the best in nonfiction prison literature available today.

All of Glenn Langohr’s drug war and prison books are available in print, kindle and audio book to listen to a free sample here- http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B00571NY5A

For Glenn Langohr's complete list of books in print, kindle and audio book in the U.S. go here~ http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B00571NY5A For the U.K. go here~ http://www.amazon.co.uk/-/e/B00571NY5A

Available for interviews and reviews at rollcallthebook@gmail.com http://www.audiobookprisonstories.com

about his book: Lock Up Abroad contacted me to be on their show this year as they focus on Prison Life in the U.S. They want me to be in one of the final episodes to end with a redemptive theme. While being interviewed they asked me, “How much of your books are fiction?” I told them, “Society can’t handle all of the truth!” With this in mind, I wrote Prison Riot.

Prison Riot is a true crime memoir where BJ, a young and battle tested inmate serving time on drug charges, gets caught up in a Mexican gang war over gangland tattoos. The prison explodes into chaos as each building erupts in deadly violence. For BJ, the war isn’t over when he and over a hundred inmates get housed in solitary confinement, it’s just beginning. For getting involved, he’s labeled a southern Mexican gangster.

• “Wow! I read this book in one sitting, I couldn’t put it down. The way Mr. Langhor writes this book, made me feel like I was in that cell woth B.J. and Giant, I actually felt claustrophobic and trapped and could almost feel the pepper spray burning me.” — MSMAD 2009

• “I am reading all of this authors books and this one is incredible. I can’t even imagine having to survive through what this guy has lived through. Prison war riot, Solitary confinement, respect, pride, survival. Forget reality TV, this is much better, it is reality!” — JDOG

To check out all 8 of Glenn Langohr’s prison books in print, kindle or audio book ( Listen for a free sample ) go here http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B00571NY5A