There you are!

There you are!

                It seems like only a week ago when I last posted something new. But in reality, months have gone by in a flash causing me to take a moment for reflection and wonder what the hell I’ve been doing all this time.

                Truth be told, I have been busy. My primary job has continued to be a rewarding challenge, but with those challenges, there has been very little time for creative writing. Not that I’ve stopped completely. I like to think that I’ll be six days dead before I ever stop writing.  The ideas for the stories just keep coming, or maybe it’s a scene I can implement into a bigger work.  So I am still writing.

                When I moved halfway across the state, I thought it would be worthwhile to find a writer’s group.  Years ago a group of us who had met through a creative writing class would get together periodically and review each other’s efforts.  There was nothing vindictive about the process. It’s a great practice to get some feedback and constructive criticism. Okay, maybe a dash of brutal honesty happens as well.  But it can be extremely helpful.  So I was fortunate to discover a couple of people in this area who share an interest in the creative writing process. We’ve formed a small group and we’re looking to add a few more writers.  You just have to check your ego at the door and be willing to listen.

                Someone asked me recently what one of the best traits a writer should have.  After considering it for a moment, my reply was simple: A thick skin.  Regardless as to how good your work may be (and it is work, no matter how you slice it) you can always make it better. It’s like cooking. A dash of spicy dialogue here, a twist in the plot, some orange zest and maybe a splash of wine can have a huge impact on a dish.  You set the mood with the scenery, subtle observations, background music and then as the old entertainer Jackie Gleason used to say “Away we go!”  I’ve lost count of the number of times someone has read an early draft of a story or chapter and said they didn’t like it.  Maybe the storyline wasn’t to their liking. Or a character they liked gets into harm’s way.  Or the pace wasn’t fast enough. Or they would say something like they already knew exactly what was going to happen next.  Their comments were usually nothing even remotely close to what I had planned. Yet I would give a slow nod, as if I they completely understood the story, thanked them for their time went on my way. It’s the same approach I’ve taken with editors who have rejected my work.  You can’t take the rejection personally. You just accept it, nod your head politely and then follow Gleason’s line:  Away we go!

                Sometimes the reaction I get takes me by surprise.  Once I gave a friend named Kathy a copy of a short story I was working on to proofread.  The next time I saw her she came up and punched me, hard, in the chest. No greeting, no warning, just “bam”, right in the chest. As I stood there staring at her, she told me that she had had nightmares after reading the story, believing that my killer was coming after her, chasing her.  That’s the kind of reaction writers live for. Here’s another example. At a recent meeting of our writer’s group, I offered up the segment below as part of the latest novel I’m working on. To set the scene, this is the story of a serial killer. While most of the book is being written from the cop’s perspective, I want to include some segments with an omniscient narration on the killer. Now as part of the writers’ group process, I read the following passage aloud.

The killer was elusive. The killer was a cold, calculating, efficient machine. No computer could analyze the killer’s moves and predict where or when the next victim would be found. No one could determine the motive that lay beneath the actions. Only someone who had lived in the killer’s body, who had the same experiences, the same influences, the same events coursing through their veins would have even the slightest glimmer of a possibility of figuring this out.

            “I’m too smooth,” the killer said softly, closely studying the reflection in the mirror. “That’s smooth spelled with seventeen Os.”

            Everything was moving forward according to plan. The next victim was being developed, that timid bottle blonde from the bar last week. She was so uncertain of herself it was as if a strong wind could change the direction of her focus. Her name was Janet. She was a preschool teacher, helping four and five-year-olds learn their colors and the alphabet.  For a moment the killer wondered if that was the extent of Janet’s own knowledge. She certainly didn’t appear to be experienced in the ways of the world when it came to dating.

            It had almost been too easy to cut Janet from her small group of friends at the bar. With the crowd noise, the interactions of both men and women reveling in the music, the booze, the pheromones and the physical contact, it was only a matter of paying attention, of waiting for the right moment to pick her off.  Each of her three friends had been drawn to the dance floor, where the press of bodies was intense.

            “Janet, my dear, you are about to discover the world of excitement. The world of romance, of passion, of intensity that you could never imagine is all waiting for you. And I intend to be the one to introduce you to it.” 

            The killer spun from the mirror and snapped off the lights. It was time.

One of my associates in the group looked at me and said that this passage got her very excited in a way normally reserved for her husband. Now while that wasn’t exactly the reaction I was looking for, I’ll take that as a compliment.

ROLL WITH IT

Roll With It

            Despite the best of intentions, like the idea of posting a new message at least once a month, too often things happen and life just gets in the way. So, to quote the old troubadour Steve WInwood, you’ve got to roll with it.  I realized today that I hadn’t posted anything since October.  So now it’s time to get back on track.  I won’t make any attempts at a schedule, but I will try in all earnest to write with more frequency.

            I’ve never stopped writing let’s get that straight right now. What I haven’t been doing is posting. I don’t spend much time on Linked In or Facebook, listing updates with any frequency. I do know some people who are on those sites with such frequency that you tend to wonder how they can do anything else. In that regard, I’m a bit of a dinosaur, where the occasional update is more than enough. But that’s me. Everybody should be free to do their own thing, so if you choose to put up pictures of your cat and share with the world what a remarkable creature that is, have at it.

            As to the writing, let me start off with this update. After several starts and a number of infrequent stops, I’ve put the finishing touches on “Vanishing Act” the sequel to my first novel.  This is a mystery that involves Jamie’s best friend, Linda, who rolls back into Jamie’s life with all of the subtlety of a tornado. The story has been accepted by Agora International, who has previously published my other works. I’m not sure when this will be available, but I’m anticipating that it will be out within the next couple of months.  In the meantime, it’s back to the keyboards for me.

            I borrowed a move that some of my favorite authors, like Harlan Coben, Greg Iles and Elmore Leonard have done in the past, where a minor character is introduced in “Vanishing Act” and will become the protagonist in my next effort.  Truth be told, Jefferson Chene, the character I’m referring to, is someone I created years ago and I’ve been working on variations of novels with him ever since. Chene is a bit of an anomaly, abandoned at birth and raised by Catholic nuns in an orphanage, so he has a bit of an identity crisis that keeps him on edge.  He’s a cop, trying to track down a serial killer.  I’m about a hundred pages into this one, with the working title of “Why 319?”

            In addition to writing, I’m also hoping to spend some time looking for either a literary agent or a traditional publisher who would be interested in taking a chance on me. With four novels completed, I’d like to think I’m a rookie no more. But that’s just my opinion. Time will tell.

            My last post mentioned my efforts to work on a screenplay about vampires. That’s still in the hopper as well, so I plan to divide my writing time between Chene and the vampires. It will depend on my mood when I sit down to write as to which project gets my attention. 

            Last time I also gave you the beginning of a story called “Tick Tock”.  Here’s the conclusion of that one. 

They were on a stone bench just outside the building. Kellen was having a hard time sitting still. Over to the right, where the athletic buildings should be, was a vacant stretch of land.  Across the quad should have been the science building. There was a massive two story barn. Kellen could see horses in their stalls through the open double doors. There were oak trees lining the cobblestone path that wound its way between the buildings.  He doubted if there was a parking structure a quarter of a mile to the east, where it was supposed to be. There probably was no need for it.

“Where are we?”

“I believe the question you really want answered is ‘when are we’,” Ballard said softly. His eyes were focused on Kellen, awaiting his student’s expression. He was pleased when the grin split Kellen’s face.

“So it is time travel!”

“In a manner of speaking.”

Kellen began firing questions like a machine gun in a Schwarzenegger movie. “So how does it work?  Where have you been? Can you go into the future as well? What about the girl?”

“Steady, Mr. Travis. One thing at a time.”

Kellen slowly drew a deep breath to gather his thoughts. He realized even the air was different.  Cleaner. Despite the hint of livestock drifting in from the stables, it was considerably cleaner than in his own time.  His own time. That concept would take some getting used to.

“To answer your first question, I’m not really sure how it works. It has something to do with my office.  I’ve had the same rooms since the seventies. Prior to my occupancy, it belonged to a physics professor named Beckett. I believe he was the one to unlock the secret of the room.”

“Whatever happened to him?” Kellen asked.

“He never returned from a summer vacation. No one ever heard from him. They don’t know if he met with some type of accident or illness. Once the winter term started, they hired another professor on a permanent basis and offered me the office. Mine was being renovated and they were moving the science classrooms and offices into a new building.”

“So you don’t know how it works.”

“Not exactly. I’ve only been able to go back in time, never forward.”

“How far back?”

Ballard gestured toward the barn. “Just before the turn of the century. 1890’s I think.”

“You’re nothing but an old fake,” Kellen said, leaning back against the bench and crossing his arms over his chest.

“Whatever do you mean!”

“You don’t do hours of meticulous research. You use the machine to come back in time. No wonder you have insight into the different areas of your class. You’ve been there!”

“It’s still research,” Ballard said with a scowl. “Don’t discount it.”

“Does it take you anywhere beside the campus?”

“No. Although I have traveled about a few times into the surrounding villages and cities. But you have to be careful to blend in. You don’t want to raise suspicions or create some form of paradox.”

Kellen had risen from the bench and was pacing back and forth with nervous energy. “So have you changed anything?”

“I only observe.”

“You only observe! You could have saved lives. Ferdinand, Hitler, Hiroshima, the Hindenburg.  Earthquakes, hurricanes, disease, accidents.  And all you do is observe!”

“I don’t know what the repercussions would be. If I tried to inform the world about Hitler in 1935, who would have taken me seriously? Do you think I could just walk up to Roosevelt and tell him what would happen in the next ten years? How would I get him to believe me?

And even if I did save someone from an earthquake, how would I know who to save? Which one person is worth more than another? That’s not a choice I could make.”

Kellen stopped pacing and stared down at the professor. He could see the bones in his skull through the translucent skin. “What about the girl?”

A smile slowly crossed Ballard’s face.  “Tick. Tock.  My one true love.  She was a graduate student when I began teaching here. My first class. I was only a couple of years older, but she grabbed my heart with both hands and has never let it go.”

“You randy old dog! You had a fling with a student!”

“I never did.”

“Oh, so you waited until she graduated. Or just until she was no longer in your class?”

“I never did,” Ballard repeated.

Kellen’s face went slack. “You never did.  You never made it with the girl? Never?”

Ballard slowly shook his head.

“Then why is she here, back in the whenever that we are?”

“Her maternal grandmother was one of the first female professors at the university.  Robin Albright was her name.”

“The grandma or your babe?”

A glimmer of disgust rolled across Ballard’s face. “Her name was also Robin. She was named after her grandmother. Her mother also attended the university. I’ve seen her here in the early fifties.”

“Did the mother look like Robin?”

Ballard nodded. “Almost identical. A slight difference in the eyes. Robin’s were a little rounder. A dazzling shade of green. Almost jade.”

“So Robin’s the key.”

Ballard shifted on the bench and Kellen could hear his bones creaking and settling. It reminded him of an old house moving on its foundation.  “What key?”

“Professor, you’re a great teacher. You can get your class so geared up about history that they swear you invented it just for their enjoyment. You can weave stories about the times of war and politics and twist them around so they make sense. But when it comes to women, you don’t know shit!”

“I beg your pardon!”

Kellen sat down beside the old man. For a moment, he thought he looked even older than he had minutes before. Perhaps time travel was getting too strenuous for him.

“Look, Professor. No disrespect, but you’ve got to be blind not to see the connection. You can only travel back in time. You always return to the same site, your office inside the university. Every time you return, you catch a glimpse of the same woman. By your own admission, the woman who grabbed your heart with both hands and never let it go. Don’t you realize what this means?”

Ballard merely shook his head again slowly.

“You get another chance. The opportunity to spend time with the woman who stole your heart. That doesn’t happen every day. It hardly ever happens at all.”

“You’re so young. How would you know of these things?”

Behind them the doors to the building swung open and a steady stream of students began making their way toward the bench. Kellen stood and motioned for Ballard to follow. Slowly they began walking toward the stables, away from the throng of students.

“It’s not about age. At least, not mine. You never married. Probably because you never considered another woman after Robin. Is that right?”

“Other women had no appeal for me,” Ballard said quietly.

“Don’t you see? That’s what this whole thing is about. You and Robin are supposed to be together.  What happened to her after graduate school?”

“She moved on. Started teaching at another university. A very successful career.” Ballard was speaking as if the conversation bored him.

Kellen leaned close. “Did she marry? Have a bundle of kids? Start driving a minivan? What happened?”

“I don’t know.”

Kellen scoffed in disgust. “Let’s go back, Professor. I’ve got work to do.”

 

• * *
•  

Back in his office, Ballard dropped the pencil on the desk and moved to the more comfortable leather chair behind it. He settled in and closed his eyes to rest. Kellen was using his telephone, chattering away to someone. Ballard was too tired to care.  After a few moments, he heard the phone being returned to the cradle.  Raising one eyelid, he saw Kellen lift the pencil and slowly began to roll it across his fingers.  “It’ll never work,” Ballard muttered. He closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep.

He awoke a short time later to find Kellen sitting opposite him, a smug smile on his face. Ballard had the strange sensation that something was different, but he couldn’t determine what. He was reaching across the desk to retrieve his pencil from the blotter when the door opened. One look and the breath seemed to stop in his lungs.

“Darling. Aren’t you ready? I should think you’d be in the car with the motor running by now.”

“I kept him too long,” Kellen said, rising from his chair. “It’s not often someone gets one last chance to meet with such a popular professor on the eve of his retirement.”

“I can’t wait for it to start. We’ve been talking about this trip for years.”

Ballard’s eyes were still frozen on the figure at the door. She moved now around the desk and leaned in to graze his cheek with a kiss. He tilted his head and stared into her jade green eyes as she pulled back, a warm smile spreading across her face. “Hurry along, Darling. I’ll be in the car.”

With that, she turned and left the room. She squeezed Kellen’s hand on the way, and then closed the door silently behind her.

“What have you done?” Ballard asked.

“What you should have done.  I merely got the two of you together.”

“How?”

“I checked the alumni office. She had taken a job at a smaller university across the state. Worked there thirty years. Never married. Poured her whole life into her work and her students.”

Ballard swallowed hard. “Just like…”

“Just like you. So I went back to the first time, where she was a grad student. And I talked some sense into you.  Tick tock.”

“But the paradox…”
           “I wasn’t around in the seventies, Professor. You were. The whole time I met with that version of you, the current you was snoozing right in that chair. Close your eyes and think for a moment. Do you have any memories of Robin that you didn’t have before?”

Ballard did as Kellen suggested.  He could visualize snippets of events, like clips from an upcoming movie. She was in every one.

“My god!”

“Nope. Just as it was supposed to be.”

Ballard drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. He looked now at his left hand, still stretched out to retrieve the pencil. A thin gold wedding band adorned it. He raised his eyes to Kellen.

“What’s in it for you?”

Kellen shrugged. “I’m just setting things right. But we did make a deal with the university.  I took a little side trip after my meeting with the earlier you. Changed my major to history.  As your favorite graduate student, I received your nomination to succeed you next fall.”

“Well done, Mr. Travis.”

Kellen escorted Ballard out of the building to the parking area, where Robin sat waiting patiently.  As the professor keyed the engine he looked up at Kellen one last time. “Thanks for everything.”

“No need to thank me. I got what I really wanted.”

“What’s that?”

“Your office.”

                                                            END

It’s about time!

There are times when we are forced to neglect something that we really enjoy doing, like reading a very good book, exercising, getting together with friends or any number of other activities. Usually it’s a crush of time, as in there are not enough hours in the day to get everything done. And when you’re juggling work with all those other distractions, it’s easy to keep putting off something you really enjoy. Like writing. But when you force yourself to sit down and take a few minutes, it’s like catching up with an old friend, someone who doesn’t nag you about how long it’s been, about how tired you look, or the new wrinkles you’ve acquired since the last time you’ve gotten together. It’s more like, “pull up that barstool. Wrap your hands around a tall, cold adult beverage and just relax. And welcome back.”

So at least for the moment, I am back. It’s been far too long since I’ve posted anything new. I tried doing the Six Sentence Sunday, hoping that I would get onto a schedule that would make me commit. But despite my best intentions, that just hasn’t worked for me. So I’m going to try and post at least once a month. We’ll see how that goes.

Now I must admit that despite all of the recent changes (new job, new location) which I am really enjoying, I have still been writing. But my latest project has taken me away from Jamie, my fictional lady love from “Balancing Act” and the sequel “Vanishing Act” which is already over 250 pages in the first draft. But there’s a lot of that story yet to write. Someday, Jamie, someday, you’ll get back to the forefront of my mind. But lately, my creative writing thoughts have been focused on bloodsuckers. Yes, it’s all about vampires.  I’ve undertaken a project with a friend that could be quite an experience. We’re trying to put together a crew and all the logistics to shoot a low budget series for cable television.  So cross your fingers. We’ll see what shakes out.

Late last week I was talking with a good friend who had experienced an epiphany. While she’s never seriously considered it before, other people have been encouraging her to try her hand at writing. She’s damn good, incredibly insightful and concise with her words. She takes no prisoners and gets right to the heart of the matter, taking no prisoners along the way. And she really rocks. So I also told her to get busy and write. Because we all have talents, some of them are easier to spot. Others need a little prodding.  So like an ancient follower of Jerry Garcia would say “Write on, babe”.

With previous posts, I’ve always tried to include part of a story I’ve written or one I’m working on. Here’s the first half of a short story I did a while ago called “Tick Tock”. No vampires included, just a little taste of the curious.  Enjoy.

 

 

 

                                                TICK TOCK

 

            The room was the opposite of the stereotypical mad scientist as portrayed in the movies. Though crowded with books and dimly lit, everything was neatly in its place. Yet Kellen couldn’t shake the mad scientist image as he walked into the room. For years, the good professor’s classes had been filled to capacity, with many students waiting several semesters before getting a chance to attend.  He was known as something of an oddball. Eccentric. Crazy. Demented. Determined. Driven.  These were all words used to describe Ballard over the years.  Yet no one argued that the man knew his material. He practically breathed it.

            His forte was history.  Physically, he looked like something out a bad sixties movie, with his scraggly beard and John Lennon  glasses. His body was mostly skin and bones, a lanky, awkward figure that appeared incapable of battling a strong wind.

            Kellen moved slowly along the wall, glancing at the spines of the books arranged meticulously throughout the room.  Ballard’s specialty was twentieth century world history. Yet most of the books could hardly relate to that broad topic. Titles such as “Quantum Physics and You” “Understanding Molecular Biology”  “A Study of Geothermal Propulsion and its Relationship with Lunar Gravitational Cycles” were just a few of the books Kellen examined.  He pulled the one about quantum physics from the shelf, curious to see its condition. The pages were well thumbed, with little comments in the margins.  A type of shorthand, with lines and squiggles and the occasional exclamation point.  One page held a single word, “HA” circled repeatedly and surrounded by five pointed stars.  

            Kellen returned it to the shelf and began looking at another. There was a text on geology, another on rotations of the moon and still another on out of body experiences.

            “Are you an avid reader, Mr. Travis?

            Kellen tried not to jump as he closed the book.  For some reason, he felt like a child, caught in the act of something innocent yet forbidden, like a hand in the cookie jar.

            “Sorry, Professor. I was just curious.”

            “You didn’t answer the question. Are you an avid reader?” Ballard took the book from his grasp and gingerly returned it to the shelf.

            “I am. At least, I like to think so.”

            “Good. Nothing as boring as a young man who only gets his enlightenment from music videos and cable television.”  Ballard motioned toward one of the chairs beside the desk.

            Kellen sat and withdrew a notebook and a recorder from his bag.  Ballard made a clucking sound with his tongue against his teeth and gestured at the recorder. With a wiggling forefinger, he encouraged Kellen to return it to the bag.

            “Nothing bothers me more than a student who spends good money, whether his own, his father’s or scholarship funds, only to turn off his own mind and turn on one of those wretched machines. It’s simple laziness.”

            “I’ve noticed that you don’t allow those in your lectures,” Kellen said.

            “Absolutely not. If you can’t be bothered to attend my class and pay attention, then I can’t be bothered with you.” Ballard quickly dropped into the chair beside Kellen, not the one behind the desk that he expected the professor to take.  “So, why are you here, Mr. Travis?”

            “It’s an interview for the school paper. We discussed this after class the other day. I’m a journalism major.”

            “Yes, and I’m a historic colonel. I suppose that means I outrank you.” Ballard smiled broadly, displaying wide teeth stained  yellow by nicotine.

            “I guess it does,” Kellen said.

            Ballard crossed his legs at the knee, then folded his arms across his bony chest. “So what do you really want to talk about Mr. Travis?  The same old drivel that’s been done time and again by every other reporter who couldn’t come up with a new angle?  Or would you like to explore new territory?”

            Kellen looked closely to see if the old man was joking. He had read every piece done on Ballard by the numerous reporters who preceded him. One was pretty much a carbon copy of the next.  By the time he read the fourth one, done nearly twenty years ago, he felt he could quote them all with his eyes closed.  Ballard had come to the university in 1972.  He was named department chair in 1987. Had considered writing a brief history about the Vietnam War  (or Gulf War, depending on the reporter) but had reconsidered.  Single.  Lived just off campus in one of the old bungalows that had been built in the fifties. Hobbies included photography, astronomy and sailing.

            “New territory please.  I know that our journalism professor always sets up these interviews in advance, but I’d like to cover something different.”

            “Hmm. Let’s see. How different would you like?”  Ballard tugged at his thin whiskers, then fiddled with his glasses.  “Are you serious, young Mr. Travis, or just repeating what you think an old man wants to hear?”

            “I’m serious, Professor.”

“Really?”

“Really.  There’s got to be more to you than what’s been done before. I mean,  every one of your classes is always full. The way students respond to you. You’ve been here over thirty years, yet your popularity has never faded,” Kellen said.  He was winding down, trying to put his finger on something else that was eluding him. He could almost reach out and touch it. And then he did. “And these books! It’s obvious you’ve read them all, probably more than once.  But they are so far from your field of study, it seems kind of…”

“Odd,” Ballard suggested.

“I was going to say different.”

Ballard nodded slowly. “Different. Very good, Mr. Travis. Do you have some prepared questions, like a good reporter should?”

“Not really.”

“Surely you’ve done your homework, Mr. Travis.  It won’t be much of an interview if you don’t have questions to ask.”

“Oh, I have questions, Professor. Tons of them.  But I work better when I just let them flow. I follow the conversation closely. Take it where it leads me.”

“That’s like trying to write a term paper without an outline,” Ballard said smugly.

“I never use outlines.”

A look of surprise slowly dawned on Ballard’s face. “Yet you are an excellent student. You’ve been at the top of my class more than once. And I’ve read your papers. Very thorough.”

“And never an outline. They’re too restricting.”

“So where would you like to begin this flowing conversation of yours?” Ballard plucked a pencil from his desk and began to slowly roll it through his fingers.  From one to another and back again. Over one finger, then under the next. Gradually, he picked up speed.

“It’s already started, Professor. I want to learn what makes you tick,” Kellen said, sliding onto the edge of his chair. 

“Tick, you say?”

“Yeah, tick. You know, tick tock. Tick.”

Ballard twirled the pencil faster. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, but failed to reach his eyes. “You just said the magic word.”

Kellen felt a chill run along his spine. He shuddered, then sat back in his chair. Ballard slowed his pencil, then placed it firmly in the center of his desk blotter.  He stood up and stretched his arms above his head, then twisted slowly from side to side. After a moment, he walked to the door.

“Coming, Mr. Travis?”

“Where?”

“Why, to see what makes me tick, of course.” Ballard chuckled dryly, then opened the door and stepped into the corridor.

Kellen jumped to follow him, slinging his bag over his shoulder. He had dropped his notebook on the desk, but figured he’d recover it later. As he stepped into the corridor, he skidded to a halt beside the professor.

“What the hell?”

“Not hell, Mr. Travis. Tick tock.”

Ballard was leaning against the wall, calmly watching students move toward classes. Kellen stared at the procession. The clothes were all vibrant colors, tie dyed with no specific patterns. Everyone wore denim jeans that had enormous amounts of material from the knee to the ankle. And the hair. Everyone had hair. Mounds of hair. Large, balloon shaped curls.  Long tresses that appeared to have been ironed.  Scraggly beards adorned most of the men who cruised past, their eyes hidden by sunglasses, even inside the building.

“What the hell?” Kellen repeated.
          “Here’s your new territory, Mr. Travis. Tick tock.”

Kellen covered his eyes for a moment, then pulled his hands away. Most of the people had moved into classrooms. His gaze flicked to the walls. Posters promoting concerts were directly across from him. He moved to the wall, running his fingers over the paper stock.  This one claimed Jefferson Airplane was coming to town.  Beside it was one for Hendrix. Someone named Joplin had been scheduled but was crossed out, a large red X drawn through the picture in what looked like lipstick.

Kellen twisted around, staring at Ballard. “What have you done?”

“Tick tock, my young friend. You are about to learn what makes me tick.” Ballard pointed a bony finger down the hall.

A door opened, flooding the area in bright sunlight. Ballard caught Kellen’s eye and curled his cupped fingers. Kellen moved back to stand beside the professor. They watched together.

Someone entered.  From the distance, Kellen immediately thought it was a girl, but with all the long haired guys he’d just seen, he thought it best to withhold judgement until he was certain. The person moved slowly down the hall. There was no hurry to their stride. Closer now, Kellen could see he had been right. It was a girl. No, not a girl. A woman. Slender, with jet black hair just down to her shoulders.  She wore a skirt so short that most of her legs were showing. But they were good legs. No, not good. Great legs. Very shapely.

She carried a binder and a couple of textbooks against her chest, tucked into the crook of her right arm. A purse barely large enough to carry a pack of matches dangled off her left shoulder. As she approached, Kellen had to remind himself to breathe.

“Tick tock,” Ballard muttered.

The woman strolled past them, then turned the corner at the end of the hallway. Gradually, they could hear the sounds of her footsteps fade away.

Kellen caught himself staring after the last spot she had occupied before turning out of sight. Shaking himself, he turned to Ballard. The old professor was leaning against the wall, a look of tranquility spread across his features.

“She makes you tick,” Kellen said softly.

“And tock. Come along. It’s only the beginning.”

Ballard entered the office, gently leading Kellen by the arm. He guided him to the chair he had originally occupied, then scooped up the pencil from the blotter and began to make it dance across his bony knuckles.

“Only the beginning,” Ballard said again. “Tick, tock.”

Kellen felt his eyes drawn to the pencil, its journey a steady rhythm of rolling hills and valleys. He closed his eyes and could still see the pencil move on the inside of his eyelids. It was an effort just to pry his eyes open. The pencil was slowing now, like a train coming into the station with just enough momentum to carry it to the right spot on the track.

“Ready, Mr. Travis?”

“I don’t know. Is this going to be another flashback?”

Ballard chuckled dryly. “Really, Mr. Travis, do you think I drugged you? Hypnotized you? Filled you full of post-hypnotic suggestions?”

“I’m not sure what you did to me,” Kellen said, slowly let his eyes wander around the room. It looked exactly the same as it had when he’d entered only a short time ago for the interview. Or did it?

Ballard spread his bony arms like the wings of some awkward bird. “Think back, Mr. Travis. Consider your history of this fine university. What do you know about it?”

Kellen blinked rapidly in an attempt to clear his head.  “Not much. Just that’s it’s been around damn near forever. Good reputation. Strong records in the liberal arts field. Languages, writing, history, music. That kind of stuff.”

“Stuff. Really, Mr. Travis. From one who hopes to make his mark on the world with words, you have a habit of using bland, weak ones.”

“Only when I’m totally confused, Professor.”

“Very well. Let’s continue.” Ballard led him to the doorway and back out into the hall.

This time the corridor was filled with male students. Each was wearing a jacket and tie. They were practically identical. Brown tweed, in various shades.  Large, clunky shoes that laced high up the ankle were the style.  Kellen pressed himself against the wall and stared out at the sea of faces moving past. There was very little conversation, just the murmur of bodies passing between the walls, the whisper of fabric.  The walls were bare, lacking any type of adornment. Suddenly, the corridor was empty. Somewhere in the distance, a muted bell rang.

“Now what?” Kellen whispered.

“Watch, young Travis. Tick tock.”

Kellen remained where he was, listening to the deafening roar of the silence. Soon a door opened to his left. Shifting his gaze, he knew what he would find. He wasn’t disappointed.

It had to be the same woman. The shape of the face, the hair color, even the size of her body was identical to the one he’d seen only moments before. Of course, this one was concealed behind a skirt that reached to the floor. Her torso was hidden behind a short velvet jacket, buttoned tightly across her chest. He glimpsed a white lace blouse with a frilly collar that covered a throat that he knew would be tender and kissable. The eyes were down, focusing on the floor and her path along the corridor. The hair was pinned up tight against the back of her skull. Kellen knew it would dangle to the tops of her shoulders when the pins came out. He watched silently as she rounded the corner and disappeared.

“What a babe,” Kellen said.

“Your powers of perception are very accurate.”

“Maybe when it comes to women. I’m not so sure about anything else at this point.”

Ballard took him by the elbow. “Let’s go for a stroll. Perhaps I can explain it better to you outside.”

Six Sentence Sunday

Six Sentence Sunday

Things have been crazy lately and I haven’t had as much time to work on the sequel as I would like. Hopefully I can get back on track and make these installments on a regular basis.  Just to clarify some points, the story is narrated by Jamie Richmond, the female protagonist from my first novel “Balancing Act” that’s available both at www.amazon.com  and at www.internationalagora.com. (Shameless plug, ain’t it?) 

Anyway, this particular scene comes from a New Year’s Eve party where Jamie has played matchmaker. On short notice, she has successfully paired her best friend Linda, with Vince, her doctor. The six sentences below describe what Jamie sees at the stroke of midnight.

I had expected a gallant kiss on the cheek, or perhaps a brief embrace. Instead I saw Linda with her arms draped around Vince’s neck. His hands were on her tiny waist, holding her steady as the crowd on the dance floor around us swayed with the orchestra. They were kissing. But this wasn’t one of those Hollywood air kisses, or the drab kiss of an old couple that has as much heat as a snowball in a February blizzard. This was a ‘make the girl swoon with visions of ecstasy’ kiss.

Where Was I?

Now where was I?

There’s a line from a rock and roll standard by the Grateful Dead that goes ‘what a long, strange trip it’s been.’  Amazing how that one line can sum things up so well. It’s been almost a month since the last time I posted something. Not for the lack of material, just a lack of time.  My non-writing life has kept me on the go these last few weeks, with travels taking me a long way from my keyboard. Ain’t complaining, just explaining. And as an old country boy that I used to work with would comment, ‘nuff said’.

My last post talked about character names. Finding the right name for a character can be a trial. Many times in the past, I wrote a story and changed the names half a dozen times or more before I found something I really liked. And to keep from having all my characters sounding too Vanilla I use different methods to come up with some really unique names.

The obituary list in the newspaper often has some very classy ethnic names. In addition, you might get a glimpse of the history behind this individual, which may slip into your character and help to flesh them out. Baby books can be useful too. Sometimes I’ve deliberately used a name that was traditionally male for a female character, or a male sounding nickname to give you a little glimpse as to how the character might act. An earlier post had parts of a short story called “Goody Twoshoes” which was the name of one female character. Another one in that same story was Wanda Wildchilde. Both names were distinctive, and they may have given you some clue as to how they would behave. But having my characters go against the stereotypes is half the fun of writing.

And sometimes, I can’t resist the temptation to use the name of a real person who has crossed my path at some point. Now, I won’t admit to using such a name for the victim of a killer, or that creepy psychopath that was getting away with murder. So I’ll have to leave it up to you. Is that character’s name real? Or is it just a twist of my imagination?

Last time I shared the first part of “Alderschot” a story that takes place at a rural train station.  In case you’re curious, there really is such a place. At least there was a few years ago. Alderschot was the little spot where the east-west railroad tracks crossed the north-south line, and it was where my train from Niagara Falls connected with the train going to Windsor, Canada. This little station was the inspiration for this story. And now, here is the rest of “Alderschot”. 

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

Annie took a step away from the train. “I’m not getting on board.”

     “Me neither.”

     They moved back together, keeping the train in sight, until their backs pressed against the chain link fence.  The steps suddenly folded back into position and the doors slammed shut. The train shuddered, and then began picking up speed as it moved out of the station. With the rails shimmering, it rolled south around a bend and into the fading daylight.

     “Maybe we’re imagining things,” Annie said.

     “No way. I’d walk home before I got on board that train.”

     As the last car rounded the bend, the sky was filled with a shower of sparks and the roar of an explosion. Maurice and Annie were thrown to the concrete. Pressure from the blast squeezed them against the links, forcing indentations from the wire into their skin.

     Somehow Annie’s voice penetrated the noise surrounding them. “We’ve got to help them!”

     “I can’t move.”

     Neither one could pull themselves away from the fence. Then as quickly as it had started, the pressure was gone. Maurice rolled to his knees. His hands trembled as he pushed himself up to

his feet. Instinctively, Annie reached for his hand. She doubted that her own legs would support her.

     “They need our help,” she said, leaning against him.

     “Nobody could have survived that blast.”

     “We’ve got to look.”

     His eyes flicked to the smoke rising from the curve, to her face and back again.  “I ain’t no hero.”

     “Neither am I. But we still have to look.”

     Together they moved to the edge of the platform. They didn’t have the strength to jump to the tracks. First they sat then squirmed off the edge, dropping the five feet to the jumble of cinders beside the railroad ties.  Annie realized she was still holding his hand, but made no effort to remove it. They proceeded slowly toward the bend.

     “You feel it?” Maurice asked.

     “The energy. What was it you said before?”

     “Static. Like lightning about to strike.”

     “I think it already did.”

     They inched closer to the curve, their progress impeded by the force of the explosion and the aftershock. Annie realized she was lagging behind, letting him break through the pressure a step at a time, like someone breaking the trail on a snow covered path. But it was easier to walk in his wake than forge a separate path.

With her head down, she didn’t notice they had rounded the curve until she bumped into his back.

     “How bad is it?” she asked.

     It was several moments before he found his voice. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

     Still holding his hand, Annie moved up beside Maurice. There was a loud cracking noise, as the area immediately before them filled with the sparks of supercharged energy. Then as quickly as it had begun, it dissipated.

     “Where is everybody?” Annie’s voice sounded loud in her ears, but in reality it was barely a whisper.

     “I have no idea.”

     The ground between the rails was free of any litter or debris other than the jet-black cinders that lined the tracks. Even the wooden ties, stained dark with creosote and the drippings of a thousand crossings, looked typical of the railroad. Beyond that, the tracks were vacant.

     No bits of blood splattered clothing.

     No body parts.

     No luggage.

     No shredded magazines, newspapers or books.

     Nothing.

     “Oh my God,” Annie said softly. “Where could they be?”

     Maurice took a tentative step forward, gingerly placing his foot on a tie before moving ahead. He bent smoothly at the waist and placed his free hand on the rail. “It’s cold. No vibrations. Nothing’s been over this spot recently.”

     “How is that possible?”

     “Beats the hell out of me.” He straightened, and then slowly turned his head from side to side. Annie watched him draw in several deep breaths and slowly let them out.  “Smell that?”

     She sniffed daintily at the air. “I don’t smell anything.”

     Maurice turned completely around to face her. “Precisely. You said before that you’ve traveled by rail a lot.  When’s the last time a train rolled through a station or crossing and didn’t leave the odor of diesel fumes twenty minutes after it moved on?”

     “You’re right. I could always smell the exhaust. But what does it mean?”

     He turned her around and they started walking back toward the platform at Alderschot. The path offered no resistance now.  “It means there was no train. What we saw didn’t exist.”

     “But the people. The Thibodeaus. The family. The fishing buddies.”

     “Up in smoke. Ain’t nobody going to tell us otherwise.”

     “But they were real, Maurice. We talked to them. We watched them interact. They were as real as you and I are.”

     They had reached the edge of the platform. Maurice put his back to concrete wall and laced his fingers into a stirrup. Annie put her right foot in his hands. Without speaking, she placed her palms on his shoulders. Annie pushed off the ground as Maurice lifted her up. Like a circus act, she was suddenly on the cement walkway, watching him vault from the pit to stand beside her.

     “Now what?” Annie asked.

     “We wait.”

                             *

     They sat on the concrete bench, their baggage at their feet. Annie kept glancing at the loudspeaker above the shelter, trying to will it to come to life. She noticed that her watch had stopped. Probably the results of the shock wave. Or whatever it had been. In the distance, the sun began its decent.

     “How long do you think we should wait?” she asked.

     Maurice gave her a brief smile. “As long as it takes. There’s got to be a real train through here sooner or later. Unless you feel like hiking until we hit civilization. You got somebody waiting for you?”

     “No. It could be hours before something comes through.”

     “Could be miles to go before we found someone. Best to stay put.”

     He had barely finished speaking when they heard a loud click above them, followed by a buzz of static.

     “Shit. Not again,” Maurice said.

     “Wait.”

     A voice with a high nasal pitch rang out from the speaker. “Attention, any southbound passengers. Estimated departure from Alderschot to all points south will be fifteen minutes. Repeat, fifteen minutes to depart Alderschot. Hope to have you aboard before the sun sets.”

     Annie reached over and squeezed his hand. “That’s the normal voice. Hokey wishes and five-minute intervals. Reality.”

     Maurice gave her a slow smile. “You seem to know a lot about these trains.”

     “My aunt raised me. Mom’s sister. She died last spring. Before she went, she gave me a rail pass. Good for a year. I’ve never been on a train before. At least, not that I can remember. I’ve been using it the last six months.”

     Maurice nodded thoughtfully.  “Grandmother took care of me. She lives in Motown. Cooks the best food I’ve ever had. Gave me a pass for the summer. Before I start my senior year of college. A chance to travel. See some of the world.” He nodded again. “Never seen anything like this. Let’s see how real this train is.”

     The quarter of an hour passed quickly. They walked up and down the platform, trying hard not to appear anxious when the train was visible in the distance. The shiny silver cars roared

into the station and every door burst open with the gasp of air brakes. Several conductors stepped onto the platform, stretching their legs and surveying the night sky.  Animated people were visible through the windows, adjusting packages and children into their seats. Annie and Maurice walked from the engine back, peering through the windows at the passengers.

     “What do you think?” Annie whispered in his ear.

     “Looks pretty sweet to me.”

     “I hope we can find two seats together.”

     He glanced down, looking at her pale fingers laced through his own.  One of the conductors approached them.

     “Plenty of room in the next car, folks. Only another minute before we leave Alderschot. Don’t want the trains to run late, ya know.”

     Quickly they climbed into the car.  Near the back, they found two seats together, facing forward. Annie took the window. Maurice stowed their bags overhead, then settled in beside her.  There was the clank of doors, followed by the whoosh of brakes as the train began to rock slowly out of the station. The conductor appeared beside them, making sure everyone was settled into their seats.

     “Has there ever been an accident on this line?” Annie asked quietly.

     The conductor’s face, a friendly grin a moment before, twisted quickly into a scowl. “You another one of them?”

     “One of what?” Maurice said.

     “One of them gore-mongers. It was all over today’s paper. Bloody anniversary and all. You’d think people had better things to do with their time.” He started to turn away.

     “Wait,” Annie pleaded, “can you tell us about the accident?”

     “I got a bunch of cars full of people to tend to, Missy. But if you’re really interested, give me a minute.”  The conductor finished his turn and continued to check on the rest of the passengers.

     “What do you suppose that was about?” Annie asked.

     Maurice shrugged and kept his attention on the window. They were passing the bend in the tracks, where they had hiked only a short while earlier.

     A few minutes later the conductor returned and dropped a thick newspaper in Maurice’s lap.

     “You can read it for yourselves. Much as I hate to admit it, the account is fairly accurate. Don’t know why young folks the likes of you would be so interested though. Only a freak thing.”

     Annie leaned over as Maurice opened the paper. The article covered three columns on the right, marking the anniversary of the

train wreck, twenty years ago to the day. Only two survivors out of three hundred and seventy.  A young boy of four. A girl only

two-years old.  On the following page were old photos of the scene.  Passenger cars were scattered and tumbled across the tracks, as if an angry child had backhanded his toy train set in a moment of frustration.  A sidebar gave quick details of the events leading up to the crash, and listed some famous people who had perished.

     “Sweet Jesus. They never knew what hit them,” Maurice said, his voice a soft whisper in her ear.

     “Turn it over.” Annie pointed a shaky finger at the paper.

     He did as she asked. On the following page were other articles, reflecting the improved safety standards for the railroads, expanded training for the crews and charts showing the steady growth of rail travel.  A small box at the bottom of the page caught her eye.  Under the caption “Where Are They Now?” were two blurry photos.

     The four-year old boy.

     The two-year old girl.

     Next to the original pictures were computer generated versions, using an age progression software program. Although grainy, the images were fairly accurate.

     “That’s us,” Maurice said softly, letting the paper drop to the floor. “You and me, babe.”

                   The End

Six Sentence Sunday

Here’s the next part for “Vanishing Act” the sequel I’ve been working on.

Malone pulled me from the chair and dipped me backwards, bent down and gave me a long, hot, wet kiss. He only straightened up when Linda cleared her throat.

            “Apparently things are heating up in the kitchen. Maybe I should come back later,” she said with a wide smile on her face.

            “That’s just how we say good morning,” he said.

            “If that’s good morning, I can only imagine what ‘good night’ looks like,” Linda said, with a sassy smile on her face.

What’s in a Name?

I’m the first to admit that I have not read all of the collected works of William Shakespeare, but as friend said recently “it’s on my Bucket List”.  And while I have enjoyed seeing some of his works brought to life in various theatrical productions, there’s one line that has always captured my imagination.  Straight out of Romeo and Juliet, I give you “What’s in a Name?”

            Now names have always captured my attention and my imagination. I was tagged with a moniker that has been joked about for years (the Mark of Love… does that mean you are a hickey?) I have been envious of cool character names, those that bring a certain image immediately to mind.  There’s Robert B. Parker’s “Spenser”, Robert Crais’ “Elvis Cole”,   Jim Rollins’  “Grayson Pierce” and the great John D. MacDonald’s “Travis McGee” to name just a few. 

            Years ago I really got interested in what those names mean. I picked up a couple of great books that gave the origin of the names as well as the meaning. There’s even a website out there with similar information. www.behindthename.com.  So when I’m writing, it is part of my fun to come up not only with unique names for my characters, but those that might also have a hidden meaning for my readers.  For example, in my last two posts I had the two halves of a short story called “The Game” about a vampire, his conquest and a certain stubborn guy who gets in the way. The story was set in a part of western Michigan, which has a large Dutch population. The girl’s name was Lina, which is a Dutch name that means pure.  The guy who was interfering was DeVoss, which is also Dutch and means fox.  And the vampire’s name was Reznik which is Czechoslovakian and it means… butcher.  So that’s my way of giving the readers a clue as to how the character might behave.  Sometimes it’s accurate and sometimes the author can be poking fun at the character, such as one writer of a certain young adult series does by naming her klutzy female lead Swann, which always brings to mind a graceful bird.

            But sometimes, a name is just a name. I use it because I like the ring to it. Or the way it fits the character, or maybe because it reminds me of someone. In my novel “Balancing Act” Jamie, the female lead, becomes romantically involved with a guy who only uses his last name, Malone.  Jamie spends a good part of the novel trying to guess what his first name is, coming up with some very bizarre names. By the end of the story, she still doesn’t know and that little mystery will keep her going. If you want to learn more about Jamie and Malone, you can find the book at www.internationalagora.com. (Yes, I know it’s a shameless plug!)

            And in keeping with the pattern that I’ve established, I’m going to share the first half of another short story with you. This one is called “Alderschot” and it’s about a little train station in Canada where you can meet some very interesting people. Enjoy! 

Alderschot

     The train swayed into the station, jostling the passengers with a sudden stop. The conductor, a rotund woman with dishwater blond hair and an unlit cigarette clamped between her lips, trudged through the cars. In a bored monotone that had announced a thousand cities a thousand times, she called out, “Alderschot. All those connecting south must exit now. Alderschot.”

     Thirteen people stumbled from the train. Most were inexperienced rail travelers, who were expecting a sprawling station of brick and wood, with uniformed attendants, a restaurant and a newsstand. Only one young woman had made this trip before and knew what really awaited them. The last of the passengers had barely touched the concrete platform beside the rails before the train started up and rapidly pulled away.

     “But where’s the station?” asked an elderly man who was clutching the elbow of an equally elderly woman. “There’s nothing here but a rain shelter and a couple of stone benches.”

     The young woman dropped her knapsack beside the bench on the right, resting it against the cyclone fence that extended the length of the platform. “Alderschot doesn’t have a station. It’s merely a crossing where the east-west lines and the north-south ones intersect.” She removed a baseball cap from her head and shook out her hair. It was strawberry colored and barely grazed the top of her shoulders.

     “But how will we know when the train’s coming?” the old man asked.

     Before the girl could answer, a speaker mounted on a pole beside the shelter squawked to life. “Estimated time of arrival for the southbound passenger train is forty-seven minutes. Repeat, forty-seven minutes.”

     The girl jerked her thumb at the speaker. “Remote feed from Grimsby. It’s one location north. They actually have a station master there.”

     “You seem to know a lot about this place, Miss – - -”

     “Annie. Just – - – Annie.”

     The old man’s face wrinkled into a smile. “We’re the Thibodeaus. Joe and Minnie. Never traveled by train before. Always took the big jets and rushed across the territory. No sense wasting time.”

     “Now all we have is time,” Minnie said. She was a frail woman in a bright red dress with an enormous white bow across the waist.  Minnie eased onto a corner of the bench and leaned daintily against the back of the shelter.

     Annie scanned the rest of the group. There was a young couple with two small boys in matching strollers, a group of three coarse looking women trying desperately to retain their youth, and two old guys decked out in enough fishing attire to stock a sporting goods shop.  At the north end of the platform sat a young black man, whose long legs dangled off the concrete while he stared at the gleam of the silver rails.

     “So what do we do out here in the middle of nowhere for half an hour?” Joe Thibodeau asked.

     “Forty-three minutes now.” One of the three women had drifted over to join them. She had slate black hair, cut very short. Her face was pitted with acne scars. She wore jeans and a baggy sweatshirt adorned with a pink triangle.

     “Not much to do but wait,” Annie said. “There are no main roads around here. No buildings or homes. You can’t buy a ticket at Alderschot.”

     The woman’s eyes narrowed as she studied Annie. “The hell are you? Railroad information?”

     “I travel this route a lot. It’s cheaper than a car or plane fare.”

     The woman shrugged and moved back toward her friends. The anglers joined the impromptu group and found an ally in Joe. As the conversation turned toward flies, lures and favorite fishing holes, Annie leaned against the fence and closed her eyes.     A scrape of leather on concrete, close enough to stir the air on her bare leg, snapped Annie out of her reverie. It was the dark-haired woman with the sweatshirt.

     “If there are no people around here, does that mean no cop either?”

     Annie smoothed her hair back with the tips of her fingers. It was a lifelong nervous habit she had never been able to shake. “I’ve never seen anyone who wasn’t on the train. Why? Something wrong?”

     “Nah. But the guys and I were getting a little tense waiting around. And it’s going to be a long, boring ride south. So we thought we roll a couple of joints and put a coal to them. You know, pass the time and all.” She bobbed her head and gave Annie a knowing wink. “I’m Pat. C’mon, join us if you like.”

     “No thanks. I don’t mind waiting.”

     Pat nodded. “Suit yourself. We’re going down to the far end, so we don’t freak out the old folks.” She contorted her face in mock horror. “They might get wild and turn us in.”

     Annie watched Pat lead her companions away from the rest. The young couple had removed the boys from their strollers and watched them chase a small beach ball around the platform. Something about this little band of travelers made her uncomfortable. Maybe she was getting paranoid. But with all the craziness dominating the news lately, who could blame her. Planes being bombed. Old athletes getting away with murder. Movie stars were getting busted faster than Colombian drug lords. Maybe she should just ignore it all and mind her own business until the connecting train came.

     She moved away from the shelter, swinging her pack by the strap.  Annie dropped it flat on the concrete and used it as a cushion, bracing her back against the fence. This time she kept her eyes open, watching the others. Something was definitely not right.

     The loudspeaker squawked to life. “Southbound train will arrive at Alderschot it twenty-nine minutes. Repeat, twenty-nine minutes.”

     “Swell,” Annie mumbled. “That’s just swell.”

     It was a few minutes before she realized someone was watching her, watching them. The one person she’d forgotten. Perhaps she was subconsciously ignoring him. Now with a slow rotation of her head, Annie focused on the young black man at the north end.  He had one leg drawn up before him, with his arms draped around it. His chin rested on his kneecap. When he sensed her gaze, he unwound his limbs and rose easily to his feet. With a long, fluid stride, he moved to a spot a few paces from her and rested against the fence. He dropped a battered gym bag on the ground beside her.

     “You feel it too?” he asked.

     “Feel what?”

     He raised his hands and flexed his wrists, as if he were about to perform a magic trick. “Static in the air. Or some kind of energy. It’s almost spooky.”

     “It’s just the waiting. It does that to people.”

     He shook his head. “Not me. I’ve been waiting most of my life. I’m used to it. Grandmother always says waiting is a virtue. But this place. It just doesn’t feel right.”

     “Why not?”

     “Look at this group. It’s like a poster for train travel. You’ve got your young family, the old married people, the retiree-fishing buddies, the trio of Pat—”

     “They’re all named Pat?” Annie stole a glance at the women on the far end of the platform.

     “Women like that are always Pat. Or Terry. Or Dale. Can’t decide if they want to be boys or girls. So they pick a name that could be either.”

     Annie’s embarrassment was evident in her face. “You were saying.”

     “Then there’s you, the pretty young female traveling alone, and your handsome black man, striving to meet the challenges of the modern world.” He struck a pose with his forefinger resting thoughtfully on his cheek.

     “Maybe it’s just a coincidence.”

     He scuffed his toe on the concrete. “Don’t know about you, but I’ve never been much of a believer in coincidences. Maybe I haven’t traveled that much, but I know when something feels out of whack. Like now.”

     Annie patted the concrete beside her and introduced herself.

     “Name’s Maurice.  Why don’t you tell me what you think of Alderschot?”

     Annie played with her hair and let her breath out in a slow, whistling sigh. “I’ve been here a couple of times before.  Usually it’s only about a ten-minute gap between trains. Hardly long enough for you to really notice the surroundings.”

     There was a dull click announcing the loudspeaker coming to life.  “Thirteen minutes for all southbound connections. Thirteen minutes to Alderschot.”

     “Like the voice,” Annie said, nodding toward the speaker, “it sounds like an old tape recording. In the past, the voice was more animated, with little comments sprinkled in. And what about the time? Why not half an hour, or twenty minutes? Nobody gives thirteen minute warnings?”

     “Maybe it’s a different station master with a lousy watch. Could be the other guy’s day off.”

     “C’mon, Maurice. You said it yourself. There’s something wrong here.  Something definitely out of whack.”

     He stretched his legs out before him. “So what do we do, Annie? Climb the fence and make a run for it?  Start walking down the rails in search of one of those pumper cars like in the old movies?”

     “I don’t think we can get off this platform. Something tells me we’re stuck here. Whether we like it or not.”

     “Looks like we’ll find out soon enough.”

     The speaker clicked once more, declaring last call for all southbound passengers. As if the passengers had wandered off somewhere and needed prodding to get back to the platform in time. 

Even as Annie silently studied her watch, there was no train in sight. The others shuffled closer to the shelter, anxiously awaiting the arrival. The rails shuddered and a sudden gust of wind brought the scent of diesel fumes. There was a rumble, and then the train appeared vaguely in the distance. It roared into the tiny crossing, brakes squealing and cars rocking over the rails. The train was filled with older cars, including the type with rows of seats that sat facing each other, to better accommodate families and groups traveling together.  As it lurched to a stop, the side door opened on two compartments at the far end of the platform and a hinged step swung down as if by remote control.

     Annie started to rise from her bag. Maurice gently closed his fingers around her arm.

     “Don’t.”

     Her eyes flicked back and forth between him and the train. No one was exiting the cars. Maurice remained on the ground, his back against the fence. Through the windows she could see the outlines of many people. They all appeared bored or sleeping. No one stepped forward to help the Thibodeaus or the others climb on.  The father of the young family simply hoisted the strollers aboard, swinging their cases up with a well-practiced motion.

     “Where’s the conductor?” Maurice whispered. “Or the porter. No one’s moving aboard the train. No one’s moving at all.”

     “I want a closer look,” Annie said.

     “Don’t get on.”

     They moved together, peering through the windows of the first car.  The Thibodeaus were already aboard. They were settling into a pair of empty seats in the front of a car, not far from the bathroom.  The family with the children was in a row where the four seats faced each other. The father was stowing the strollers in the overhead compartment while the mother got the boys situated.

     “This train’s jammed,” Maurice whispered in her ear.

     “But everyone’s finding a seat.”

     He urged her down to the next car. The fishing buddies were being reunited with another pair of anglers across the aisle, digging out pictures of past excursions.  In a dark corner at the rear of the car, the trio of women had found space in another of the rows where four seats faced each other. Their bags were piled onto the empty slot, preventing anyone from interfering with their group.

     “Everyone’s not just finding a seat,” Maurice said, “everyone’s finding the perfect seat. No couple or group is being broken up. It’s like the perfect traveling experience.”

Six Sentences

A friend encouraged me to sign up for Six Sentence Sundays, which will motivate me to write more on the sequel I’m currently working on and to post it here on the blog for your enjoyment and comment.   Since I missed the deadline last week, I thought I’d take a minute and get ahead of the game for a change.  So, here is my first submission, an excerpt from the novel “Vanishing Act” which is in development.  Enjoy.

Malone was going to kill me.

There wasn’t a doubt in my mind. He was going to kill me.

I knew it in my heart, in my soul, right down to the marrow of my bones.  From the top of my wavy red locks to the bright red polish on my toenails, I knew it as a sure thing.

That is provided I got out of this alive.

Still on the Dark Side

Last time I wrote about the “Dark Side” where some of my story ideas seem to come from. Now, I’m not totally hooked on horror or the creepy things that make you jump outta your skin in the middle of night.  I enjoy a good story. As an avid reader, I seem to bounce between mysteries, thrillers and crime novels. Once I discover somebody new, if I really enjoy their work, I’ll get it into my head that I want to read everything they’ve done.  Guys like James Rollins, Harlan Coben and Greg Iles can weave a thriller like nobody’s business.  The late Robert B. Parker, Robert Crais and Michael Connelly always get my attention with mysteries. And with crime, nobody holds a candle to Elmore Leonard.  Sometimes I’ll get so caught up in one of their stories, I’ll lose track of time. But when it comes to horror, there is always the King. Stephen King rocked my world years ago. And maybe that’s got something to do with my own Dark Side.

            If you’ve ever read “The Stand” by King, you can probably relate to what I’m about to share. The novel is about germ warfare that gets loose from a government lab and is quickly wreaking havoc across the country.  When I first got my hands on the book many years ago, I was so caught up in the story that I literally couldn’t put it down. The disease was spreading everywhere. And the early warning sign that the bug had arrived was when somebody sneezed rapidly three times.  It was in the early morning hours when I finally put the book down, grabbed a few hours sleep and then headed off to work.

            Several hours later, I was standing in line in a fast food place when, you guessed it, somebody behind me sneezed three times. I don’t remember walking or running out to my car, but the next thing I was clutching the steering wheel convinced I was now contaminated and did not have long to live.  Someday, I hope to be able to capture such imagery in a story of my own.

            In the meanwhile, I’ll keep trying. And as promised, here’s the second part of the story from my last blog that was a result of my visit to Hope College.  Enjoy.

Once I’d become aware of his power, I’d been able to refine the signal. Knowing where he was now made my job that much easier. For reasons that bewildered me, Reznik had settled in Saugatuck. It’s more of a summer vacation spot, right on the coast of Lake Michigan. But in the dead of winter, it looked as dismal as a vampire’s soul.  Still, it’s about halfway between two larger cities, where he’d have better pickings from the transients, the college kids and the runaways. I’d expect most runaways would have headed south a long time ago, before the first snow fell. But you never can tell.

            Now the board was set. It was simply a matter of making the first move. And I knew just where to start.

            There’s a cozy little stretch of Saugatuck that reminds me of an artist colony. Lots of little creative shops, a fistful of eateries and saloons and the requisite fudge shop. All this commerce booms in the summer, but now it’s relatively quiet. And only a few blocks from the residential section where Reznik was whiling away his winter.

            Finding a vacant summer cottage was easy.  It took less than a minute to break in and set things in motion. Lina was going to be so helpful. I thanked her, but I don’t think she heard me.

            From her duffel bag I removed a couple of select pieces of clothing.  A sweater I’d seen her wear at Mackinac and a pair of tattered jeans, strategically ripped at the knees and the ass, just beneath the back pockets. I lit a couple of candles. The clothes were tossed haphazardly on the bed. There was also a push-up bra with matching thong panties in deep red.  What vampire doesn’t love red? Inhaling deeply brought her fragrance to my nostrils. I draped the bra by one strap on the doorknob, crumpled the panties in my hand and flipped them to the floor by the lamp table.  Standing at the foot of the bed, I raised one hand and pointed two fingers at the clothes. A flick of my fingers dispensed just enough of her soul to energize the clothing. Reznik was close enough. He’d taste it, feel it, and he’d want it.

            And then he’d come running.

            In a flash I was back in the Escape. The cold would mask my presence. And I doubted that he’d be looking out for the likes of me. Now it was Reznik’s turn.

Check.

            My senses picked him up long before I heard him. I slid low behind the wheel, watching him move up the street with a spring in his step. He was literally bouncing down the sidewalk, looking for the world like a teenage boy about to get lucky. Reznik had no idea how accurate that image might be. He was a scrawny little dude, no bigger than a minute.

            Reznik didn’t hesitate when he came to the house. Maybe it was her perfume lingering in the air that drove him along. The way the fragrance reacted with her body chemistry was incredible. Some women use it as a cover up. Lina obviously used it as an enhancement. The scent still tickled my nostrils here in the cold. I watched Reznik float up the steps and glide through the door like some kind of apparition.

Showtime.

            I was inside the house almost before he got the door closed. In the distance, I could hear him humming, playfully calling her name.

            “Lina darling, I found you. Don’t be shy. I know you’re here somewhere.” Reznik’s voice was almost feminine, high tones with a trace of giggle. Maybe that was part of his appeal. He sounded about as dangerous as yogurt gone bad. But I knew better than to be deceived by appearances.

            He was in the bedroom. Almost nonchalantly, I stepped into the doorway. Reznik was sitting on the edge of the bed. He had scooped up the thong and was rolling his fingers across the fabric, as if trying to coax her body to appear before him. Reznik must have sensed my presence, but he remained on the bed, drawing slow, deep breaths. At last he turned slightly to face me.

            “Ah, you must be the Renegade. I suppose you have my Lina.”

            Now his voice was deep and scratchy, like ground gravel. I got the image of a heavy smoker who had just guzzled six ounces of fifteen year old scotch. I watched his eyes flicker from green to red while he worked up his anger.

            “I have what’s left of her.”

            “You shouldn’t have done that,” he said with a slow shake of the head.

            I shrugged, keeping my right hand outside the doorframe. “Story of my life. I’m always doing things I shouldn’t have.”

            “You can’t really believe you have the power to overtake me,” Reznik snarled.

            “There’s only one way to find out.”

            I was watching for the tell, that little giveaway sign when he was getting ready to make a move. I expected him to pounce. Or maybe just explode. But he simply sat there, curling his fingers around her panties like he was in total control of the situation.

            “So what do you want, boy?”

            “I want you gone. This is my territory. I staked the claim a long, long time ago.”

            A raspy chuckle escaped his lips. It was totally unexpected. I could feel a nine inch fingernail scraping down my spine.

            “Territory! You destroyed Lina over territory? You idiot!”

            “Screw you.”

            “Vampires don’t recognize TERRITORY!”

            I swear I didn’t blink. I know damn well I didn’t move. But one instant he was still resting on the bed, looking like some preppy teenager. The next instant the outer shell was cast aside like a dead bug splattering on your windshield as you raced across the interstate.  I’m six foot tall and Reznik was suddenly towering over me, one clawed hand clutching the front of my army jacket, yanking my feet clear off the ground. How the hell did he do that?

            “TERRITORY!” he spat again. Something burned and sizzled on my skin where his saliva hit. But I couldn’t move a limb to wipe it off.  The rage on his face was so much more than I anticipated.

            “I WANT THE GIRL!” He snapped out each word in its own sentence, pausing to shake my spine each time for punctuation.

            “What do I get in exchange?”

            Reznik twisted his head. Whether in amazement or amusement, I couldn’t tell. His features were distorted. The talon on his forefinger tore through my clothes and pierced my skin. If I had any blood, it would have been oozing from the wound.

            “You’re a cocky bastard, aren’t you?”

            “I have my moments.”

            “As do I.” With that, he jerked my body higher, slamming my skull into the ceiling. My vision blurred. Somehow I kept my senses. Reznik lowered me once then jammed me against the ceiling again. My right hand dangled now, almost next to his face. It wasn’t exactly the way I planned it, but it was close enough. Rotating my wrist, I brought my hand up to his ear. Then I jabbed it home for all I was worth.

            Reznik howled with rage, releasing me from the ceiling. I was ready, drawing my knees up before I hit the floor. He staggered back. I lashed out with one boot and caught him in the mid-section. He flipped over onto the bed, one bony finger digging at his ear.

            “You bastard!” he screeched.

            Breathing deeply, I summoned the powers. With Reznik momentarily distracted, I had to act quickly. Snapping my hands open like a wide receiver about to snag a bullet from Dan Marino, I could feel the energy jump from my fingertips.

            And just that quickly, the tables they did turn. It was as if a high energy cocoon was wrapped around the vampire, strapping him to the bed.  Adrenalin, or some distant relative of it, coursed through my body. I slumped against the wall, watching him squirm, willing my heart to slow down.

            “What did you do to me?” Reznik snarled.

            “You wanted the girl. I happened to bring a piece of her along with me.”

            I know it’s not the piece most guys would have wanted.  But it was amazing how Lina’s delicate pinky finger had gotten his attention.  It had been soaking in minced garlic for the last three days. Guess that probably helped get my point across.

            “You ready to bargain?” I asked.  I could see the left side of his face starting to dissolve. He knew there wasn’t much time left. Dropping to one knee, I pulled the axe out from under the bed where I’d hidden it earlier. Decapitating a vampire has certain finality to it. There’s no coming back from that. I lifted it high enough so he could see. Immediately Reznik understood my intentions.

            “What do you want, Renegade?” He continued to struggle against the force field. The more energy he expelled, the stronger the binds would hold him.

            “Same as before. I want my territory. But I’m not unreasonable.”  I pulled Lina’s severed finger from his ear canal and tucked it in my pocket.

            Reznik slumped back on the bed. What might have been a look of thanks crossed his expression. “How reasonable?”

            “You want the girl. I want you gone. We can both get what we want.”

            “I thought the girl was dead.”

            I shrugged. “For the moment.”

            “You would completely reanimate her if I agreed to leave the area?”

            Thinking of the finger in my pocket made me smile. “Well, a hand job might be a little different, but for the most part, she’d be as good as new.”

            A scowl crossed his lips. “And all I have to do is leave this frozen oasis and never return?”

            “That and spread the word to your brethren. This area is off limits.”

            He considered it. Obviously Reznik was unaccustomed to bartering. He was the type to conquer whatever he wanted, throwing the remnants over his shoulder when he felt the urge to move on. I didn’t know if he was stalling or not. With my left hand behind my back, I curled the fingers into a fist. It caused his bands to tighten.

            “All right, damn you,” Reznik snarled. “Give me the girl and I’ll be on my way.”

            “And you’ll spread the word.”

            “Yes, I’ll write it with piss in the snow if that’s what you want.”

            “I don’t want you to make a hasty decision. We’ve probably got a couple more hours until sunrise.”

            Reznik rocked his head back and forth in disgust. “You really are a cocky bastard. We have an agreement.”

            I stepped back to the door. Just in case he got cute, I still had a few other tricks up my sleeves. With a flick of my wrist, the cocoon dissolved.  Reznik sat up.  I gestured to the outer shell that he had so easily discarded.  In a blink he assumed that persona.

            “Now what, boy?”

            “Now we all go for a drive. I assume you have wheels nearby.”

                                                * * *

            Reznik’s wheels were appropriate for his disguise.  It was an old Ram pickup truck that had seen better days. There was a cap over the bed. I couldn’t see in, but I was willing to bet he kept an extra coffin inside. The windows were blacked out, as were the ones on the cab.  I wondered briefly if Reznik was the traditional type of vampire who slept through the day, or if he was a fan of sunscreen. I shook the notion away. We had driven to South Haven and found a deserted park near the marina.

            “This is where my territory begins,” I said. Unlocking the rear hatch of the Escape, I pulled the plastic away from Lina’s face. Reznik was beside me. Immediately he drew her into his arms and pressed his face to her cold neck. He hefted her dead weight as easily as if she were nothing more than a bag of donuts.

            “And where does it end?”

            “At the Top of the Mitten, right down the center of the peninsula, that’s the boundaries of my territory.”

            He nodded once.  I peeled the rest of the plastic off her body and Reznik placed her gently on the front seat. With a final glance in my direction, he moved back behind the wheel and started the truck. I pitched Lina’s duffel bag onto the floor by her feet.

Nodding once to the vampire, I extended my hands toward the girl. There was a brief flash of energy that struck her chest. I could see it radiating out to her limbs. Curling my fingers back into fists, I stepped back and slammed the door.

            “Don’t ever return,” I said.

            “Don’t worry, boy. You’re not worth the aggravation.”

            I watched the truck pull away from the marina and head for the interstate. Chances are Reznik would drive south. I was willing to bet he’d be nibbling her neck just as soon as her body temperature returned to normal. Lina wouldn’t remember a thing about our time together. Reznik could come up with a plausible story for her missing finger too.

            It was another hour before my favorite diner would open for breakfast.  I sat in the Escape and relaxed. Reznik thought he probably got the better part of the deal. He could leave the area and take his girlie prize with him. He was so excited to get her back it might be months before he realized the change. By then it would be way too late.

            Yes, I did reanimate her.

            She would be alive with Reznik, until he made her part of the undead. But she’d never be as powerful as she was before. See, I only used a small portion of the energy that I’d drained from Lina to bring her back. The rest of her would be part of me for a long, long time to come.

            Checkmate.

                                    The End

The Dark Side

Greetings,

Last week I had the opportunity to meet a number of people at a career fair at the local community college. A friend had recommended me to talk to soon-to-be college students and their parents about a career as a writer.  Since I also have some practical experience as a freelance reporter, it was an opportunity to talk about different types of courses  that I had taken and writing related jobs that I have had.  And at the same time, it was a chance to reach a new audience and maybe sell a few more books.

During the evening I met a number of very interesting people. Many of the students were shy or reluctant to talk about their writing efforts in front of their parents.  There were several moms who were obviously hoping to live vicariously through their kids, thinking their daughter might be the next Stephenie Meyer or JK Rowling.  But what was most enjoyable for me was the one young lady who turned up her nose in disgust at the mention of the Twilight series. When we talked about horror, she didn’t want it sugar coated. She wanted the real thing.

Now, I’ve dabbled in different genres over the years. My novels are all mysteries, but short stories are fair game. For some reason, most of my short stories are the type of fantasy or horror that many people associate with “The Twilight Zone” or “Tales from the Crypt”.  It’s like these stories come from the Dark Side of my soul, where  there is rarely the chance for daylight to penetrate.  One of these days, I may take one of those old short stories and see if I can elaborate it enough to make it into a novel.  And there’s one in particular that I might just try that with.  I’ll share the first half of that with you below, but thought you’d like to know the origins of it.

I enjoy meeting other writers and students who are interested in writing. Occasionally I will be invited to speak to a class, which can be a blast.   Last year I was invited to Hope College to speak to a class that was studying the horror genre. During conversations with the professor, she said she was looking for some type of assignment that would correlate with my presentation. I suggested that I would write the first part of a horror story and bring it to a break. Then she could assign that to the students to complete.  She jumped at the chance.  So with a nod to the young lady who wanted her horror stories to be ‘real’, here is that same short story beginning that I used at Hope College.  Next time, I’ll share with you the ending I created.  Enjoy!

                              The Game

            So I brought the body with me.

            Really when you think about it, what else could I do? It’s not like I could dig a grave through two feet of frozen snow just to get to the permafrost layer beneath it. And with my luck, if I dug a crater in the snow, we’d get a January thaw in this cozy little town beside the lake and somebody would find a Popsicle no human wanted to discover in the bottom of their freezer. Un nuh. No way was I gonna to take that risk.

            So I brought her body with me.

            Well, it’s not like she’s propped up in the front seat of the Escape, strapped in with the seat belt and bopping along to Coldplay and Stevie Ray Vaughn as we cruise down 31.  She’s wrapped in heavy plastic, stowed back in the cargo area along with the spare tire, the cooler and my tool box.  I talk to her sometimes, but she just won’t answer me. Whatever happened to the art of communication?  Two people having a quiet conversation, talking about music and literature and politics and hopes and dreams, sharing histories. That’s a thing of the past. And it’s a damn shame.

            Anyway, just to set the record straight, I didn’t kill her.

Well, not exactly.

But then again, maybe I did.

            She’s just a girl. If she’s old enough to legally buy alcohol, I’m going to be the next winner on “American Idol”.  Lina was a drifter, one of those perky college coeds who spent the summer up in Mackinac, giving tours from horse-drawn carriages by day and waiting tables at night. She was supposed to be making enough money to go back to college in the fall.  But then she met him.

Reznik.

            Now I’m sure that’s not the name he used. It was probably something more stylish, more modern, like Ian or Tyler or some flavor-of-the-month kind of name. But from what she described, poor Lina never had a chance.

See, Reznik has a pattern. He starts out timid and shy. Then slowly cranks up the charm. He’ll use a little flattery for the girl maybe a small gift or two. Then when she least expects it, he overwhelms her.

“It was like he always knew where I’d be,” Lina said. “I’d turn the corner and there he was, looking kind of lost and sad. But he’d brighten right up. He’d say he had been searching for me. He just wanted to see me. Just a glimpse, he’d say. And his eyes would take on this incredible sparkle. Like there was magic twirling inside him.”

“More like the devil dancing in his eyes,” I said.  That was part of Reznik’s style. But I’d interrupted this conquest before he could finish.

“You sound jealous, DeVoss.”
”No,” I said, “just curious.”

“What’s weird is that it wasn’t long before I could never stop thinking about him,” Lina said with a soft faraway look on her face. “I’ve never been that wrapped up about a guy before. But he filled my thoughts during the day whenever we were apart. And then he was in my dreams every night.”

I’d become aware of Reznik’s presence months ago, when the summer was beginning to fade. The raw energy he controlled was flung in so many directions it took me weeks to gain a bearing on his location. And several days more just to track him down. I don’t want him in my playground. It’s not that I’ve got anything against vampires. 

After all, I’m not exactly human myself.

                                                            *

            So that brings us back to Lina. Reznik wanted her. He was getting ready to taste her, to indoctrinate her into the world of the undead, when she disappeared.  Well, that’s what he thinks. The old boy may be wondering if he’s losing his touch. To have such a delectable young morsel within easy reach, only to have her suddenly snatched away.  

I’ll bet he can still taste her kiss on his lips. Still feel the lush softness of her touch. Still be enchanted by the heady scent of her perfume.  How rare it is to find a girl so young who understands the impact of a subtle fragrance.  But now she’s mine. While it didn’t take him long to find a replacement, he must be curious. And I’m counting on that curiosity to bring him to me. This life can be such a chess game.

            “Where are we going, DeVoss?” Lina asked.

            “South. Once the season ends in Mackinac, there is little reason to stay around. There’s much more to do in the south.”

            “What about Traverse City or Mt. Pleasant?”

            I shook my head slowly. “No, we need to go further south. That’s where the action is.”

            We were traveling at night, when there’s less traffic on 131. I wanted no witnesses to what I had in mind. The Escape was eating up the miles like a wolf following the scent of a wounded deer through heavy snows. The front seats were warm. The heater blasted away. I watched her closely. Waiting for the opportune moment. At last I found the spot I was searching for. It was a rest area, long vacant at this time of year, especially at this time of night.  I eased the truck up close to the building. There was no one to be seen.

            I nudged Lina awake.

            “Sleepy,” she said, biting back a yawn. “Just let me sleep.”

            I leaned close to her and whispered, “Oh I will. You can sleep forever.”

            Her head slumped back against the seat.  I had been running one hand through that tangle of honey blonde hair, gently coaxing her back to sleep.  Now I cupped the back of her head. Quickly, before she could realize what was happening, my other hand clutched her chin. A twist! Her neck snapped. The sound was like a frat boy cracking his knuckles. And then she was gone.

Vampires have their methods. I have mine. Flexing my fingers, I prepared to take her face in my hands. Someone once told me that the eyes are the gateway to the soul. If they only knew how true that is. Tenderly I placed my forefingers on the ridge below her eyebrows. My thumbs lightly caressed her cheekbones as I cradled her face. Lina’s delicate, soft skin was still warm. My face was only inches from hers. Chanting the ancient words softly, I leaned even closer, staring into those vacant eyes. Now! Draw the flesh down! Eyes wide open.

            Her soul’s energy slammed into my chest with all the intensity of a runaway train. I could feel my heart jumping so erratically, it threatened to break out from behind my ribs. But I couldn’t stop it now if I wanted to. Colors whirled in her eyes, a Technicolor tornado. I couldn’t breathe. If this had been a cartoon, little lightning bolts of energy would be dancing back and forth between us.  But this was no cartoon. This was real. It was a minute later, or maybe an hour. I never could tell. At last the colors faded from her eyes. Gently I rolled her lids down with my thumbs.

            Slumped against the driver’s door, I held my hands a shoulder’s width apart. Turning the palms toward the dashboard, I could see the skin become luminescent.  I held them that way for a minute until the effect faded.  Lina must have been destined for a long life. There had been ten times more energy in her than I’d ever seen. But now her energy, her soul would serve a different purpose.

            Now it would sustain me.

            And I would use part of that energy to trap Reznik.