Seeing Ghosts

Greetings, Fire Enthusiasts.

It took me nearly twenty years to write and publish my debut novel, Dance on Fire. It kicked off a series about one particular vampire that God seems to be using for good. I'm currently working on book four in that series. The sequel took only eight months to get those first two drafts completed, and I published it a couple of years later.

I love my vampires.

However, after that second one, I was sick to death about writing about them. I needed something different.

So I ran away. I may have once again set my fiction in my real life hometown of Kingsburg, California, but I and my main character quickly fled for the central coast. Steinbeck country. Salinas, California. It's about a 2.5 hour drive from my house.

I'm a sucker for ghost stories and, these days, for more paranormal than horror, especially if there's some romance. Seeing Ghosts was just the breath of fresh air I needed.

Synopsis:

Paul Herrera is bequeathed a mysterious old house near the California central coast by an aunt he never knew. The woman who shows it to him is the spitting image of his wife, taken from him three years earlier in a senseless car accident which also took his unborn son.

While he deals with the ghosts of a past he cannot let go, there are new ghosts Paul must deal with - alone for a week in an expansive two story house that he will soon discover holds many secrets.

For the authors out there, how do you keep track of the layout of your buildings? It drives me crazy to have to remember where I placed the important window, how many paces I meant for the stairs to be from the front door, etc, etc. So, although I absolutely used the real Queen of Heaven Cemetery in Salinas, the house that stood nearby was not going to work. I had to have a different house. I found one. Not really. What I found were floor plans for a two story house that would work perfectly. 

  

Before I leave you with a couple of brief excerpts, I would be remiss if I didn't share something about the cover. Once I decided to go fully independent, I sought to re-cover my first two novels. I found author and digital creator Maria Zannini. I was so pleased with her work that I have asked her to continue to work her magic on every novel since. On this one, what you should know is this: once she read the details of Seeing Ghosts, she told me that she had been saving the image for one of her books which she thought instead would be perfect for mine. "It's been my all time favorite cover," Maria told me recently. "I took the details of your story to heart and it led me to this vision." Did the details lead her or was it something else? Maria had one final thought to leave me: "The spirit world can be as close to us as flesh," she said. 

Excerpt 1:

I suppose you can say this whole thing began and ended with ghosts. Not all my life, of course, but only all that ever really mattered. Everything before meeting Angie happened simply to get me prepared for our life together. No real living had occurred until that moment. After Angie died, I was left only with ghosts. Now tonight I lie beside another woman who is not my wife, and who I have yet to touch. I marvel at her even, peaceful breathing as I stare at the awful ghost that sits calmly, but menacingly, near the foot of the bed.

Aunt Flora is dead and has been for several months. There’s really no reason on God’s green earth why she should be here, in my home, a place she’d never visited in life, but here she sits just the same, and I’m sure I know why. Perhaps it has everything to do with her not having a
home of her own any longer, or because she’s lost her husband once again. She seems to grin at me as if she can read my thoughts.

Now she nods dramatically to say that she can, indeed.

“What do you want, Flora?” I finally ask, whispering. I try to be as quiet as possible. It seems like a useless proposition. Peace is an illusion to me at this point; like something so far out of my grasp as to be laughable.

“You know what I want, Paul.” Her voice is low and calm, but seems to reverberate against the walls. “You know very well what I want,” she says as the all-too-familiar lightning flashes outside probe into the bedroom and illuminate her. A gust of wind rattles the window briefly. It
must’ve been the reason I awoke in the first place. I’m pretty sure it was just wind, but who could know at this point? In any event, there’d be no more sleeping.

I see Flora’s terrible features—that aged and deep-wrinkled skin pulled over high cheekbones; and that profound smile that brings no pleasure, but only sets me on edge. Thunder roars in the distance as if on queue. I am intimately familiar with this particular storm. Both it and Flora seem to have followed me.

“I can’t help you with that, Flora,” I say.

“Yes, I know. All you can do is bring everything to ruin.”

I stare at the ghost and say nothing further, taking in the sight of her with her long-sleeved white blouse, dark slacks and black shoes. It’s incredible to me that I’m having another conversation with my aunt. It’s clear she holds me to blame for what’s happened. If I wasn’t afraid before, there’s no denying it now.

Flora reclines against the winged-back chair that was Angie’s favorite and smiles. Her arms remain atop the arm rests, the perfect picture of quiet. Another bolt lights up the sky and my eyes immediately find her claw-like fingers as they seem to be digging into the upholstery.
Now I know better and I shiver at this apparently perfect culmination of events.

“It’s not over, Paul,” Flora says. Her tone is firm and reminds me of a wild animal’s growl. “You know damn well what I want! It is all that I have ever wanted. But you have taken that from me. You have taken far too much. Now I shall do the taking. Do you hear me, Paul? Do you understand what I am telling you?”

Now I’m the one who leans back. I sit up first, positioning myself against the tall headboard. Here is a trend I can’t shake free of—me being awake as the night wanes. Another burst of lightning flashes across the Central California sky and then disappears, casting the room back into shadow. Thunder sounds. The storm is fast approaching. I say nothing more as I recline and simply stare at my dead aunt who sits and stares back, composed for the moment. It would seem I’ve become quite comfortable with ghosts, doesn’t it?

Excerpt 2:

It was good to laugh with my brother. We’ve always been very close and laughed constantly. I couldn’t have asked for a better sibling. It also helped to keep the tears at bay. I hadn’t cried yet, but I felt I would at some point during the day. I was stronger now than I had been that first black anniversary, but not by much.

“We all loved Angie,” Ray said to me, and he was right. Not a week goes by when someone doesn’t tell me that. They no longer do it with words, of course, wanting to spare my heartache, but I can see it clearly in their eyes. I love them for that.

“I know,” I said.

We hung out for the duration of my drink and then made plans for dinner at my place later that evening. I knew there were two reasons for this. The obvious one was to hold my hand, so to speak, until this day of recollections ended, and the second, because my television was nearly twice the size of his. That hadn’t always been the case, but the large television he owned was mounted to the living room wall in a house that Ray no longer had rights to. Not only did my ex-sister-in-law take the house in the divorce, but she made sure to kick him in the nuts by taking his pride and joy as well.

I started up the truck and checked the pre-sets on my stereo as Ray drove away. I stayed away from the one elevator music station for fear of hitting Manilow, or Bee Gees or something dangerous like that. Instead, I trolled only at the classic rock, figuring my tender emotions would be safer there. Boy was I wrong.

It was mid-guitar solo, but I instantly recognized the song and cracks began to form. “Heaven” by Warrant transported me back. I pictured Angie that first time I laid eyes upon her, while she was having lunch alone at a Carl’s Jr. Restaurant in Fresno. I didn’t try to meet her then. A week later, I saw her again at Save Mart in Kingsburg. I spoke to her then for the first time, asking her if she might have been that same woman I’d seen days before. Flash forward and I recalled how radiant she looked and the glorious way she giggled all night the day I proposed marriage on our two year anniversary. Lastly, I saw how absolutely beautiful she looked that last Valentine’s Day, not yet two months pregnant but glowing already.

Whether it was those recollections, the inevitability of this terrible day, singer Jani Lane’s emotion as he sang about memories rushing back and making it pretty hard, or even his unfortunate death in 2011, or the combination of all of it—I finally lost it then and there and cried. Thankfully, no one witnessed my meltdown but the local cemetery ghosts.

As you get more familiar with me you'll soon come to realize that although I thoroughly enjoy scaring you, I'm no longer a big fan. You're more likely to catch me watching a romantic comedy than a slasher these days. In Bath, England, you must visit the House of Frankenstein museum. Mary Shelly was from there. They have something like five floors of artifacts and displays. It really is very good. However, the person who sells you the tickets will also tell you that they have a basement...if you dare. There is a sign that warns you not to touch the actors. I did descend those creepy steps; however, after imagining the jump scares that awaited me, I quickly turned tail and walked my ass back up those steps!

The point of this is Seeing Ghosts was just exactly what I needed. I emerged refreshed and ran swiftly back to my vampires. As I said, I'm with them once again, writing the first draft of their latest adventure.

We'll talk soon. 

One Writer's Journey

Greetings, Fire Enthusiasts. My story is full of missteps, wasted time and not a lot of success.

Or, maybe, just perhaps, God’s perfect plan.

My writing story began in junior high. I don’t remember reading much before that. I seem to recall a field trip that ended up with us visiting at least one used book store. This would have been ‘81. Jaws had been out by then, so, too, The Amityville Horror. Although my parents listened to everything other than 70’s hippie music, I somehow managed to stumble upon the rock band Kiss, and was captivated by the spectacle and the music. So, it was, I discovered hard rock music and horror fiction at just the same time. Lots of dark themes there.

There was a time where I thought I might be a musician. I fooled around with recording sounds in my bedroom. Drumming on the bed (We all did it!), some acoustic guitar. I dabbled in writing my own lyrics. I did eventually buy an electric guitar - which I still have, but that came much later and far too late in my adolescence. I figured out quickly that lyrics were not enough space to write in.

I remember one summer in junior high school I wrote a slasher story. All my friends died in it, of course. The next summer, I found it and dusted it off. I read it and begged the question, “who wrote this drivel?” Then I sat down and began the re-writes. The next summer, I found it and dusted it off... “Who wrote this drivel?” You get the idea.

I wrote throughout high school and junior college. I penned some short stories, took a lot of English and creative writing classes and eventually began writing something called Dance on Fire. It was supposed to be a crime story until a vampire that the author had not planned on emerged from some shadows. Whoops!

1988: Then came the pretty girl...

First things first, I can’t blame what came next - or the lack thereof, on her or the children that soon followed. Once it was clear where we were headed, I left school and started working full time at Sun Maid Growers of California. Our world headquarters is in the tiny town of Kingsburg, California where I was raised and still live. That was June of 1989. June of 1990, Aida and I were married on a Friday evening, the two year anniversary of our first date. Our first home and first son, 1994. Our second son, 1998. He’s the one who kicked me out of my office because he needed a nursery. The nerve of some people! 

I did try on occasion to resurrect my writing, but there was something I did not yet have: discipline. If I didn’t have three hours to write, I threw my fit and didn’t write. Later, if I had forty-five minutes, lots of writing. When I turned thirty-eight, I began to feel the regret I’d have if I didn’t dust off that first novel and finish it.

I finally did finish the book. I found a small publisher that loved anything vampires. Dance on Fire, a title I hated and swore I would change decided by this point that it would refuse to be called anything else. It was published in 2010. The sequel basically wrote itself. The first two drafts were completed in something like eight months. Unfortunately, soon thereafter, just as I was ready to publish again, my publisher closed down. I had a pity party for a day and then decided I was fully independent.There was a time where I thought I might be a musician. I fooled around with recording sounds in my bedroom. Drumming on the bed (We all did it!), some acoustic guitar. I dabbled in writing my own lyrics. I did eventually buy an electric guitar - which I still have, but that came much later and far too late in my adolescence. I figured out quickly that lyrics were not enough space to write what I wanted.

On the other side of the coin, at the day job, I went from a crew leader to an Administrative employee in 1998. I was suddenly a supervisor. The Processing and then Packaging Departments. In 2012, I was sent to one of our small facilities and eventually promoted to manager there. In 2016, I was promoted again to Safety Manager for the entire company. I’ve been doing that ever since, that’s now thirty-seven years with the same company. I have managed to self-publish six novels in fourteen years. If you wonder why so few, there’s your answer.

I have tried a great many things. I have been featured in magazines and newspapers. I have done guest blogs. I have written articles and reviews (see above) for a local online magazine. I have had nearly every social network. I blogged. My books are available in a local store in our town and I sign books at nearly every event. I have attended book club meetings after they have read one of mine. Always a fun time because it’s the love of books and not necessarily all about me. Recently, I ran ads for a while. I made a thousand dollars. Too bad it cost me three thousand to make that. I joined a local writers’ group. Now I’m blogging again. Surprise! Substack is the latest in a long line of things that I have tried.

 

The quality of my books? I have heard few complaints. Perhaps the good Lord is only giving me a measure of success. Perhaps there’s more to come, and I simply need to pay my dues. I don’t know. All I do know is this: quit and your failure is certain. I would rather die trying. Think about that.

By the way, I’m still married to that pretty girl. Thirty-Six years now.

We’ll talk soon.

Welcome to the Carnival 13

 

Hello, Fire Enthusiasts.

Once upon a time there was a scary carnival. Full disclosure: I’m not particularly fond of spooky carnivals. Not a fan! So why was I there? I wasn’t. I was writing it.

And not just me. There were thirteen of us.

The idea was a project that would be fun and would benefit charity. “It started as a conversation between me, Julie (Julianne Snow), and Jason (Darrick),” said Author Brent Abell. “We talked about doing some sort of book together, and it grew from there.”

The three authors steering the project came up with the setting and the characters. Author John Everson wrote the first chapter and then that was sent to the next author. They added their chapter, turned it in, and then it eventually made its way to the next author. On the date that the material arrived via email, the author was left with one final instruction. “As you’re working on your piece,” the email read. “Please keep in mind that this is a blind write for the authors coming after you, so your discretion is greatly appreciated.”

I asked Brent if there was ever a worry about keeping the authors on path. “It was easier to keep the cats corralled than we thought it would be,” he said. “We also figured the running order to have John start, and have us at predetermined points in the order to get everything back on track if things got weird. I know my chapter had to swing it back to reality before Julie closed it out.”

“You are number six.”

That’s a quote from the television show The Prisoner. I never saw it, but I’m very well versed in this quote as it’s taken from the Iron Maiden song “The Prisoner” which was inspired by the show. Doing some quick research, I found that Number Six was born March 19th (Original Star Patrick McGoohan’s real birthday). Mine is March 22nd. I found that quite interesting, but I digress…

“Come one, come all!” the blurb on the back cover began. “Step right up and join thirteen masters of macabre literature as they take you on a journey unlike anything you’ve ever traveled. We’ve got freaks, fantasy and fear; all lined up waiting to take your breath away. Will you be tempted by the Freaks of the Flesh? Astounded by the Freaks of Fantasy? Baffled by the Freaks of the Mind? All this and more awaits you for just the small price of three tickets... and your soul.”

The book came in at 158 pages and was published October 29th, 2013, just in time for Halloween. It is no longer in print, but did do some good. “Before going out of print,” Brent said. “We were able to donate $200 to Scares That Care.”

I certainly have my copy. Shall we start the bidding at $100?

“I really enjoyed the process, from the initial development of the idea, all the way to the final product,” said Author Julianne Snow. “It was incredible to witness the cohesive story at the end, written in 13 distinct voices.”

“Wow, I can’t believe it’s been over a dozen years since this came out,” said Author Armand Rosamilia. ”I wrote chapter ten, so I had a lot of reading up to that point and remember having a few ideas but then saw the previous authors had used them. My part was about 2,400 words and I wrote it quickly, within a few hours, and sent it back. Got the edits and then couldn’t wait to read it all once it was completed.”

Brent has been the only member of the group that I have had consistently any kind of contact with since that time. We’re both Iron Maiden and Chicago Cubs fans, so we chat online now and again. Revisiting this book gave me the opportunity to chat with Armand for the first time and also check in again with Julianne.

“I’m still friendly with quite a few of the writers in this project, and I’m still a big supporter of Scares That Care,” Armand said.

According to the site: “Founded in 2006, Scares that Care has raised and donated over $400,000 to organizations and families with a child affected by illness, severe burns, or people fighting breast cancer.”

Writers, can you imagine taking part in a project like that? Perhaps you already have. If so, please share that experience.

For me, I think it was one of those things where you think it could be fun in the beginning, then regret raising your hand just before it arrives at your email because you’re scared to death of embarrassing yourself or having bitten off more than you can chew, and then ultimately glad you played a small part and that it all worked out.

Of course I was kidding about auctioning off my copy. I’m keeping it.

We’ll talk soon.

A Titanic Experience

 

Greetings, Fire Enthusiasts.

I can remember having a laugh at the “failure” of James Cameron’s film Titanic in the summer of 1997. The talk was of how expensive the film was and now, suddenly, the film found itself pushed back until closer to Christmas. I laughed at the film-makers…until we screened the film.

There was no more laughter after that. It was so good. So very well done. Like nearly everyone, I found myself captivated. The story of what happened to that great ship on that fateful night, April 15th, 1912, came alive in my mind and has been there, somewhere, ever since - like it never had before. In yours, too, I imagine.

We took our first international trip to Ireland in 2017 (there’s a lot less snow in that beard, as you can see). That’s when we were first blessed to visit Titanic Belfast which, according to the site, “is a world-leading visitor attraction in Belfast’s Titanic Quarter, telling the story of the Titanic from conception to sinking and legacy through interactive galleries, special effects, and full-scale reconstructions.” This year, we visited Ireland once again and that legendary ship seemingly met us on every turn.

We traveled Ireland and Northern Ireland this past June, moving in a clockwise motion starting in Dublin and ending in Belfast 13 days later. On day 6, we visited the seaport town of Cobh - originally called Queenstown until 1920. It was the final port of call for the doomed ship. On April 11, 1912, the Titanic and its 1308 passengers and 898 crew members sailed away and never docked again. Today, in addition to telling the story of how the town was at the center of rescue efforts for the sinking of the Lusitania and recounting emigration and maritime history, the Cobh Heritage Center tells the tragic story of the ill-fated Titanic.

At Belfast City Hall, the Titanic Memorial Garden commemorates the 1512 people who perished that fateful night, including the captain. It’s a free exhibit on the public grounds that surround the impressive building. By the way, I understand some count the lost at 1517 (see below).

There’s a lot more gray in the beard of that guy - and a lot less hair come to think of it. Ugh! Although I am about ten pounds lighter, so I’ll take it.

The website reads: “The self-guided Titanic Experience extends over nine interactive galleries where you discover the sights, sounds, smells and stories of the ship, as well as the people and city that made her.” They are not kidding around when they state that. Whether you stay for several hours or make a day of it, you will walk away knowing and understanding so much more about the ship, the politics at play and the every day lives of the people who put everything they had into designing it on paper, building the structures needed and ultimately bringing Titanic physically to life. By the way, I would be remiss if I didn’t mention that part of the thrill of your visit is where you’re standing. According to the Site, it is “located beside the Titanic slipways, the Harland & Wolff Drawing Offices and Hamilton Graving Dock - the very place where Titanic was designed, built and launched”.

I haven’t mentioned how exactly we take these tours. Perhaps I will cover this in more detail in a future article. Suffice it to say, it ends up being a large group on a private tour. This one was 29 travelers, mostly friends from our town. We have an itinerary and travel around by fancy coach. However, whenever we have free time, my wife and I are gone like a shot! There is always something we’d like to see. One of the last things was to visit Belfast Cathedral. We got there too late the day before and found it closed, so we made special effort to arrive all the earlier the very next day. We knew nothing about it other than it looked like something to see. Wouldn’t you know it, there was one last Titanic thing to see. The Titanic Pall was dedicated on the 100 year anniversary on April 15, 2012. A pall is a funeral cloth and this one has 1517 hand-embroidered Gold Crosses, Star of Davids and Crescents to commemorate a person who died. As I mentioned earlier, the number of the dead varies. Perhaps they went with the larger number to ensure no one was left out. I don’t know. What I do know is it is amazing. According to the pamphlet, “It was designed and crafted by two staff members at the School of Art and Design at the University of Ulster. Made from Merino felt, with a backing of pure Irish linen and a fine velvet border, the Pall is hand died with indigo.”

My lovely wife, as you can see, is far braver than I. Well, somebody had to hold the camera, right? #liar

We didn’t take this tour to learn about the Titanic. As far as I knew, she was only to be a small part of it. Perhaps a few hours one day out of 13. Little did I know.

We’ll talk soon.

The Sentinel, A Flash Fiction

Greetings, Fire Enthusiasts.

Any Prince fans in the house? I mean real Prince fans. Ones who are familiar with the entire catalogue. Fans who have been permanently banned from Paisley Park because they’ve been caught there after dark trying to sneak in!

I’m kidding. We don’t condone that sort of behavior here.

So, where am I going with this? If you know Prince - I mean really know his music, then you are well aware that he could write the most spiritually uplifting song, even mentioning Jesus by name, but then turn right around and pen the dirtiest song ever. What are we going to do? He was a genius, and that can’t be contained.

So, am I Prince now? No. Absolutely not. However, last time, I published snippets of my most recent novel. It had lots of demons and lots of profanity. This time, I’m going the other way…

I am the Secretary of CVFW (Central Valley Fiction Writers) here in California. We decided to run an internal Flash Fiction contest (We’re talking about opening it up to anyone next time). I had never attempted writing such a thing and ended up being awarded the Honorable Mention. The only thing was we were provided no prompt. I was so excited to launch into action, but no prompt left me stymied. I started reading through every 1001 Flash Fiction prompts list I could find.

So, while reading my Bible daily and spending time following what is going on in Iran, Israel, etc., I happened to stumble upon a prompt to do with a secret room.

And out came the following…

The Sentinel

Abarim Mountains, Jordan.

Dawn.

Deep below Mount Nebo, a tremor.

The sentinel takes note of it but stands at ease. Imposing to behold, though he wears no armor, holds no weapon. He is clad in simple garments, but a quiet confidence. He has little need of food, or water, or rest. His only light comes from one of the few objects about him. He has one charge.

In the distance, people and their machines. When close enough, like now, he can discern conversations. They are sometimes light-hearted, accompanied by laughter and excitement. Sometimes they are heavy with heartbreak and pain, disillusionment. They are drawn here from the four corners of the globe.

He closes his eyes. This next tremor is twice the strength of the last. He waits. If people have noticed, there are no audible signs. There comes another. This one carries significant power. There is a jolt.

He detects a gasp, and notices two conversations stop abruptly.

He turns and surveys the non-descript room about him with fresh eyes. It isn’t a room at all, certainly not by human standards. Animal, yes.

The whole earth seems to leap suddenly. It is followed immediately by the sound of rock falling. Lots of them. He neither stumbles nor must steady himself. There are screams, so that isn’t true of others.

The screaming doesn’t stop, rocks continue to fall, and the earth continues to shake.

He surveys the objects at his feet that have been entrusted to him. One is brilliant, somewhat blinding even for one such as him. It can also burn to the touch although he has never succumbed to that temptation.

The ground begins to roll and the walls, amazingly, bend and twist. The noise of it unheard of before. “Achtung!” he hears someone very close shout. Watch out.

More rock falls, and shafts of daylight enter the space like theater spotlights.

A quaint expression appears on his face as he steps back. He doesn’t bow to the objects about him but does allow a brief hint at respect at their parting. Suddenly, an entire wall gives way behind him, throwing brilliant light against the opposite wall. He hears shouts and the cacophony of foreign tongues as people panic and flee.

And then, nothing. The shaking stops. All is quiet.

The sentinel steps through the opening and out into sunlight. It should blind him but doesn’t. He makes light work of clearing the wreckage of rock and vegetation at the entrance to the cave, and then stands aside and surveys the vista before him, both far and near.

People stop running and turn back. Some need to be helped up. Many wipe dust from their faces, but everyone seems well despite the traumatic event. They stare his direction, but he is not detected.

The closest man draws near. His frame is bowed, and his lined face somewhat covered by tufts of scraggly white beard. The sentinel studies him. Arthritic hands clutch a small stack of books, a pamphlet and a map. He shuffles his feet, approaching tentatively. He raises his free hand to shield his eyes. He suddenly stops as if pushed and stands to full height. His materials fall. The sentinel does not follow his gaze. One famously became a pillar of salt once doing that.

“My Lord,” the man whispers and says nothing else.

People are speaking now all about them, but neither the sentinel nor the old man take any note of it. Everyone is growing curious. Questions are being asked in many tongues, and several approach.

“Que es?” one asks in Spanish. What is it? Others ask in Swedish, Japanese and Russian.

At first, the old man makes no attempt to answer. He just gapes, tears form in his eyes. He slowly falls to his knees.

“What…is…this?” a dark-skinned man asks slowly in a heavy accent.

“The ark,” the old man never takes his eyes from the object and says at last, tears cascading down his weathered face.

The sentinel gently touches the old man on the shoulder. “Arise, Brother.”

“What ark?” a young man asks as he walks past. Many others follow.

The old man stands and looks the sentinel full in the face. “It is, isn’t it?” he asks. “That is why you are here?”

The sentinel nods in return.

“W-we must tell the world.”

Immediately, they are both taken away.

Many others as well from all over the world.

Many are not.

So, no. Not Prince. Prince-like? Perhaps if one squints.

I’m still pissed he’s gone by the way. His death never made sense to me. It was the one that most caught me by surprise.

We’ll talk soon.

The Color of Sound

 

Greetings, Fire Enthusiasts.

It’s been a while since I actually showcased my writing, so I thought I’d spend a little time doing that this post. Like many of us, I love writing and creating. Marketing? Not so much. In any event, it has to be done in order to compete with the ocean of books that are floating out there.

I can’t recall the chicken or the egg part of the story, but I do recall thinking about writing a tale that might offer an explanation as to why loved ones might choose to end their lives. Sadly, suicide has touched us all. But, what if it wasn’t them…?

I came up with a teenage girl, doing her best despite terrible circumstances, suddenly gaining a superpower.

The voice that Jewel Foster hears in her head is not her own. It tells her terrible things and has since she can remember. It’s a miracle she’s made it to sixteen.

One extraordinary night changes everything.

There are scales over the eyes of mortals to prevent them from seeing the immortal. Jewel loses these and can now see the angels and demons that surround and interfere. Neither side is pleased that she can see them.

Now, both sides in a spiritual war press against her; a war that has raged since the Devil was cast out of Heaven.

Last week, one wanted her dead.

This week, they all do.

In the story, Jewel is being raised by a single mother in a small town. Mine, in fact. I keep using Kingsburg, California. She has one friend, wears the usual black, keeps her head down, and tries her best not to antagonize the voice in her head because she knows how terrible he can be. It isn’t Christian Fiction. This is R-rated material.

One night, she abruptly sits up in bed while the voice is on a rant and strikes her head hard against something. She doesn’t know what. All she knows is her glasses are broken because she heard them break. That is until she sees them sitting safely on her nightstand.

She picks them up carefully and puts them back on.

They’re not broken. But I heard them! What broke?

She looks back to the vinyl flooring and then widens her search area: the edge of the bed below her, the nightstand to her immediate left with its long-manicured wood legs, her thick mauve curtains that nearly touch the floor and a pair of the ugliest little feet she has ever seen poking out from behind them. They appear to be rotting with open sores.

What?

They look like they belong to a corpse that has been horribly burned in a house fire. They smell like it, too. Like rotten eggs. They do not move.

She covers her nose and follows the feet upward with her eyes. There’s a figure there partially hidden by the curtain panel. There’s a hand there holding onto the fabric, as if for dear life.

Her body tenses. She is seeing something and not seeing it at the same time, as if an out of body experience.

My God!

Her body goes rigid. Only her eyes seem to be able to move.

Blackened hands begat mangled fingers. Whatever it is, a right hand clutches the curtain. She can see the fine details where claw-like fingers almost pierce the fabric.

A terrified face peeks out now from behind the panel and looks at her. It is twisted in revulsion. The left hand holds the forehead, just as she did moments before. The nose that should have been centered there is missing. Only the stump of it remains. There is a gaping hole, thankfully draped in shadow. Red eyes stare back at her. Mucus leaks out of one like tears.

Jewel lowers her hand to her mouth. She needs to scream. She can already almost hear herself unleashing it. It will wake Layla as well as neighbors on either side of them.

Probably neighbors across the alley as well.

It will rattle the windows and threaten to break any delicate glass in the vicinity.

Only she doesn’t scream.

Something not of this world beats her to it.

As the story progresses, Jewel meets another student at school who also has a demon hounding him, making him think that it’s him. She tells herself to stay out of it but finds that she can’t do that.

Jewel stop, she thinks, but ignores it.

“No, they won’t,” she says, her voice strong. “And I’ll tell you why. There’s a voice telling you these things. I’ve heard it. I had one, too.”

She watches him tense.

“It told me horrible things to keep me down,” she continues. “It’s gone now, but you have one. It’s holding you back. ‘How in the world did you ever make Captain,’ it said to you. ‘I’m thinking you really should eat your dad’s Winchester.’ I forget what model number.”

He sits back, too. His face twists, then softens again. “1300,” he says. “It’s in my closet now. He hasn’t missed it. How did you…?”

“I told you how,” she replies and quickly leans forward. Before she can stop herself she finds that she has taken his hands into hers. His eyes look down at them. She tugs them one good time and he looks back up at her. “Don’t do it! ‘Only hurts for a second’ is bullshit! It hurts everyone who knows you forever!”

The bell rings. Break is over.

More blood drains from his face, if that is possible. His face twists up again and he quickly yanks his hands free and stands.

I told you, the more rational side of her brain thinks, sadly. She sits back away from the table.

Football Player says nothing further. He spins and storms away.

She stares straight ahead and tenses again. If Football Player regrets walking away or looks back at her even once, she never sees it.

The thing that has been torturing him was standing behind him the entire time. He stands near the bench seat that Football Player has just vacated. The thing glares at her.

“Pretty proud of yourself, aren’t you?” he growls.

Jewel only stares.

“This isn’t over, you know,” he says. “He doesn’t believe you… I won’t let him.”

Jewel exhales loudly. “Yes, he does.”

The thing just shakes his head.

Jewel unexpectedly smiles. “Yes, he does,” she says. She feels strangely empowered. “He’s going to put that gun right back where he found it. He’s going to do that today!”

The thing smiles back at her. It’s the same toothy grin he gave her in class. “No, he isn’t,” The thing says, still shaking his creepy head, dramatically. He slowly backs away. “Fuck you, Jewel, but he isn’t going to do that.”

“Fuck you right back, you little barbecued bastard.”

The thing laughs.

She meets her guardian angel who cautions her to stay out of it, but she can’t do that. She physically interacts with some minor demons, but he warns her that it’s easy when they’re small.

“So, you are the girl?” she says. Her voice is low, but strong. “I have heard so much about you.” She closes her mouth and nods very methodically. “So very much.”

She sits up, but her grip never wavers. It’s like a vise.

“None of us have ever heard of such a thing,” she continues. “It’s quite extraordinary.”

Jewel searches frantically about her, but there is no escape.

The demon furrows her brow. There are no eyebrows there. Only rough skin that perhaps once held hair. Jewel sees the skin pull up into deep ravines there below her forehead.

“Are you looking for your angel?” she asks, then nods sarcastically with a cruel smile. “Of course you are.” She leans in close once again. “He’s not here. Hoo! Just us.” She grins and another glob of spittle breaks free and falls onto her. “What shall we talk about?”

Jewel just stares, eyes bulging.

“What’s this? Nothing to say? But you have been so brash and ballsy these few days, and now nothing? I am quite surprised. I expected more.”

The demon stiffens and sits up as if momentarily distracted. She looks off as if listening for something. She stares at one wall and then turns toward another. Still, she continues to dig incrementally into Jewel’s face. She releases pressure then applies it again, like a cat that has caught its dinner and wants to play with it first. Jewel can do nothing but watch. The demon’s face, seemingly content that a bigger cat hasn’t come to claim her meal for herself, turns back to Jewel.

“Sad,” she says, finally. “I had hoped for more. I tell you what we’ll do,” she begins. “I will remove my hand from your face. You will say nothing unless I tell you. Understand?”

Jewel nods slowly.

“Good, but here’s the thing: If you disobey me, I will rip out your fucking tongue and eat it right in front of you. Do you hear me, child? Right in front of you.”

Lastly, since the story takes place in the same town as my edgy vampire series, could the two worlds collide…? Yes, I think they will. Throughout the story the vampire myth gets broached a time or two. Not enough to catch your attention, but just enough that the reader only remembers when Jewel makes a surprise meet/cute with a character from that series. Yes, The Color of Sound is a standalone book, but also actually Dance on Fire book 3.5. She will join the team in what I’m writing next: Dance on Fire 4.

It does have a tentative title other than simply number 4, but I’m keeping that close to the vest for now.

We’ll talk soon.

An Introduction: Rapid Fire Style

Hello, Fire Enthusiasts.

First things first: Fire Enthusiasts? What the hell does that mean? Yeah, it’s a phrase that I started using back in the day, and I just kept it. Dance on Fire was my first novel, and I was gearing up to take over the world with it. That was about sixteen years ago. Did I take over the world? Nope. Still trying.

Okay, you probably didn’t ask for this, so let’s try and keep it fun and short. Rapid fire, anyone?

• Why do I write spooky stuff? Good question. I don’t really recall enjoying reading until I discovered scary books in my teens. I have been gobbling them up more or less ever since. I rarely watch horror movies these days. My wife certainly isn’t going to sit down to watch anything scary with me, so on those rare occasions I’d be relegated to watching on my trusty Mac with headphones on. I do have a framed The Exorcist poster in my library/office (mostly hidden behind the door), but you’re more likely to catch me watching An Affair to Remember or Notting Hill.

• I'm not that guy who wears black all the time. I do not wear black except for a couple of weeks in spring, a couple of weeks in fall or if I’m hiding beneath air conditioning thanks to our central California heat.

• I have all of those 70’s and 80’s heavy metal albums, but can also be caught rocking the Bee Gees, Manilow or Gene Pitney. Did you say “rocking” Manilow just now…?

• Favorite book? Something from Uncle Stevie, Slade or Barker, right? Nope. I previously mentioned that honor goes to Pat Conroy and his brilliant book, Beach Music.

• I’m a sucker for a good, haunted house story, but I go to church most every Sunday hoping never to meet one. No Ouija Boards in my home. Nope.

• Did you find a spider? I’m your guy. Snake? You’re on your own.

• I bet you can't wait until Halloween? Nope. I'm all Christmas. I start decorating as soon as my beloved Cowboys lose on Thanksgiving Day (hopefully not), and then keep it up until New Year's Day.

• Although I often chop and dismember characters in my fiction, my day job is protecting employees’ fingers and toes as their Safety Manager. I work for the World’s Favorite Raisin which is headquartered in my hometown. 

• I finally gave up on world building with my first novel. I decided if Uncle Stevie could use Bangor, Maine all of the time, why couldn’t I just use Kingsburg, Ca. You will find it on a map just south of Fresno. The actor Slim Pickens and athletes Rafer and Jimmie Johnson were from here. It’s also apparently a very haunted locale. I’m really going to have to explain that one of these days. grins

• I like my Starbucks Vanilla Lattes on those rare occasions, but usually just have coffee at home with French Vanilla-flavored creamer. On the road, I will have it however you are serving it.

• Concerts? I’ve seen many, including Matchbox Twenty, Def Leppard, Poison, Sammy Hagar, John Mayer, Pink, Scorpions, Van Halen and Kiss multiple times. Prince was probably the best, although Neil Diamond and James Taylor were also really good shows. As you can see I managed to get into a picture with Van Halen on the Balance Tour. That's me kneeling in the front.

• Broadway shows. We have season passes in Fresno for the touring versions. I haven’t been disappointed by one yet. We did see The Phantom of the Opera on Broadway once while visiting New York City. We saw Hamilton at the Pantages Theater in LA. I’ve seen Jesus Christ Superstar three times, including the anniversary one that had both Ted Neeley and Carl Anderson from the film. My favorite show is Wicked. “Defying Gravity” gets me every time. Some horror writer, huh?

• Meet anyone famous? I met Duff Goldman. He was visiting our company and putting on a bit of a cooking show for us. I paid to have Sam J. Jones sign my copy of Flash Gordon once, but we happily chatted for about 10-15 minutes since it was the end of his day and a bit slow. He was very cool to me and my oldest son, and when he heard I was in Safety, he asked me a lot of questions.

• Traveling? Why Yes. Once we hit the empty nest stage, we took the plunge with Italy in ’17 and loved it. My wife teaches, so summer is hot in Europe. On the other hand, shut up! You’re in Italy. We have since been to Scotland and Ireland in ’19; Germany and Prague in ’22; Spain and Portugal in ’23; Iceland in ’24; and England last summer. This year, Ireland. Potentially while you’re reading this.

Thanks for stopping by. I intend to keep these posts/articles short as we all have other places to be and only so much time in the day. This summer, I will begin working on book 7 which will be a return to my vampires. I will do my best to keep you coming back for more.

We’ll talk soon.