The Anna Kippling Series - Novel Excerpt

http://www.adduling.com

Though SelfScribes has been up and running since March 2011, the enthusiasm I feel when I receive a new submission from a writer is still as prevalent as when the very first post was published. Today's excerpt comes courtesy of writer A.D. Duling. Her novel, the first of a four-part series, is The Anna Kippling Series Book One - The Key. (Click on the book cover to be transferred to A.D. Duling's website, but be sure to read the excerpt, synopsis and author bio here first!)

Excerpt from The Anna Kippling Series Book One - The Key

              She took her key out of her jeans pocket and inserted it into the lock. She turned until she heard the click again and pulled it out. She quickly stuck it back into her pocket and grabbed the door knob; with a trembling hand she turned it and opened the door. Once again she found the forest waiting on the other side.

Cautiously she stepped to the edge of the door way and reached her arm out; it went through! She then reached over and touched the branch hanging in front of her; it was solid!

 “Ok, so this is real…."

She scanned the forest as far as she could see and found nothing threatening; it actually appeared to look very pleasant! However, for safe measure, she returned to the trunk and grabbed the dagger. She stuffed it into the waist of her pants and returned to the doorway. If this was Tatania as she thought, she had some questions that needed answers!

Synopsis 

  Anna Kippling is a teenage girl, who by chance or possibly fate; discovers a key that opens a door to a world far different than hers! It has long been predicted of her coming and of what she will accomplish! A young man named Hayden, helps her escape from an evil Chancellor; He also evokes feelings in her, that she's never felt before! On their journey to his home, she unimaginably comes across her “Book of Answers”. When she asks it a question; she receives an answer. However, not always the answer she wants!
   

   She must once again face the Chancellor in order to save the Empress, But she has many allies! Some of which are supernatural! Magic is always at hand! Jewelry that can make her disappear and rewind time... to glowing trees with magical beads;that replenishes one’s health in minutes!
  

   No one really knows their true potential, until it is tested... No one really knows love until they've lost it!    

  

   And no one really knows death until they have to face it... 

 

 

Author Bio

Normally the author bios on SelfScribes are written in third person, but for a change, here's A.D. Duling in her own words...

  

"I am a full time mother, part-time author, artist and actually eBay entrepreneur! (whew!) I came up with the idea of Anna Kippling Series four years ago while sitting on my couch, fully pregnant with my fifth child. (Oh! Yes I have six children.....really I am not kidding....I really do!) The vision of a girl, a key and a magical world teased at my creative mind... so I waddled over to my computer and typed away! Four years later (another baby) and I had my final addition to my wonderful little "team" and two books completed out of a four book series dream! 

 

"I am now attempting to bring my wonderful story that has been a joy to write, to the public! I love this story and know readers will too! My realistic dream is to one day (after a lot of hard work) to see my book on bookshelves besides my own.....a Bestseller......always a possibility and I would love that!t

"I am in my early thirties (ok 33) and a total kid a heart! Maybe that is why my story seems to target the younger generation (haha! Listen to me!), yet there are a lot of YA adults like myself in this world that would love this book too!
 

"Like I said above, I have six children. Three boys and three girls. Yes! I got lucky! I am humbly gracious to have each one! Two were preemies and I almost lost my life having one of them....the other is a champion; he was born 16 week premature! He is three now and a spitfire! It is a true blessing to be a mother and even on the bad days, I am still grateful....

"I have been married to my wonderful husband for fourteen years in October. (I married young!) He deserves an award for best in "Putting up with a crazy lady!" I have experimented in so many categories that when "Author" became one of them, he lovingly shrugged his shoulders and gave his hand in support!

"Now don't ponder on the idea that I take this venture lightly....I don't. I was a book worm in my kid/teen years and love to read! Now I am writing and loving it! My imagination never rests and the world of Tatania and Anna Kippling has been a joy to create; that now I so want to share this adventure with others!
 

"I appreciate every visitor's time and support towards making my dream a reality! A simple "Like" or reading this bio, does a lot! I am selling my book in ebook and paper back at very, very reasonable prices. I appreciate purchases and comments/reviews are desperately wanted :0)

"Thank you for taking the time to know me and keep reading! I have tried things in my life that many people would not dare....I encourage everyone to try something new, take a chance and never give up!
 

"If you, yourself have contemplated on writing a book (no matter how young or older you are) do it!
 

"I have always believed it is better to try and fail than to always wonder "What if?""

The Anna Kippling Series Book One - The Key © A.D. Duling

 

Adaptation Interview: J.M. Boch

Novel available at AuthorHouse

After writing and self-publishing her novel Housewife Blues... Passion, Happiness At Last!, which was featured ALA International Book Fair in 2011, J.M. Boch decided to loosely adapt her novel into a screenplay titled Dead Weight. In the interview below, I spoke to J.M. about her adaptation process. Continue reading after the interview for excerpts from the novel and screenplay, as well as J.M.'s bio.

Interview With J.M. Boch

Q: What was the most challenging part of adapting the novel into a screenplay?   

JMB: For me it was cutting down on the dialogue.  I'm a story writer thus used to describing everything in great detail so the readers can picture what is going on.  A screenplay is completely opposite. 

Q: Describe your adaptation process.  

JMB: I never attempted writing a screenplay up to that point but felt my book would make a very entertaining piece.  I knew I could not guess at the process so looked in the trade paper to find a writer who could teach me how to adapt my book into a screenplay.  We met, conversed and agreed upon dates and times to work together on it.  It took 2 hours almost every Sunday for 5 months to complete.

Q; Were there significant story changes you had to make from novel to script?  

JMB: Yes, added 1 major character and changed the flow of the story to make it more enticing for film.

Q: How personal is Lisa's story to you?    

JMB: Writers are instructed to write what they know.  Remembering the writing process for the book 50% is/was from my personal experience.  The remaining 50% is from pieces of my life but embellished for entertainment purposes.

Q: How different would the novel and screenplay be if you had written it before being married and having children?  

JMB: Completely, I'm sure :)

Q; What prompted you to turn the novel into a script?  

JMB: I work part-time as an actor and noticed how there were so many remakes over the last few years, not enough films that a large percentage of the population can actually relate to, etc.  I simply felt that a film like this would be highly entertaining and possibly help others to not make the same mistakes as Lisa to avoid so much struggle in life.  We are only here once.

Q: What are some of your favorite novels and screenplays?  

JMB: The genre is nothing close to what I write but I love the writer Dean Koontz, his Odd Thomas series any many more titles.  Screenplays - wow that is a tough one - there are too many.  Spur of the moment these come to mind - Something's Gotta Give, Forrest Gump, The Godfather...there is too many to list, honestly.

Q; If "Dead Weight" was filmed, how do you envision it (look, tone, actors, etc.)?  

JMB: The look is throughout different decades which includes flashbacks and somewhat complicated.  However, we believe it has the film noir essence.  I have a list of actors in mind and in the process of contacting their agents. For the main characters; Lisa-Cameron Diaz or Reese Witherspoon, Dave-Patrick Dempsey.

Excerpt from Housewife Blues... Passion, Happiness At Last! (Novel) 

Pages 6-7

 

   The same routine every morning when not working (3-4 days per week):

1.      Wake up at 6:50 a.m. to make sure her two high school age daughters are awake and getting ready.  Make her coffee while digging in her purse for singles for the kids lunches…she has to ask him or uses money she makes that’s supposed to be for vacations and advertisement for a side business she’s had ready to roll for six years.  Makes sure the girls are dressed decently and ready to leave on time.  Then says, ‘bye, have a good day, drive safe’ and quietly closes the front door after they head out.  Hopefully not waking the younger two children so she can have her coffee in peace.

2.      If it’s warm enough she takes her coffee and enjoys a smoke with it at her table on the patio…enjoying the quiet and view of the rolling hills (mountains actually but small ones from her point of view) and trying to fully wake up.  If it’s too cool she brings her coffee and smokes in the only room in the house her and her husband smoke in…the ½ bathroom downstairs that has a fan/vent in it.

3.      7:40 a.m. Is she awake? No, not really, going through pre-menopause has caused her to be extra tired for two weeks out of every month and she feels she could sleep all day.  However, it’s now time to wake up the two elementary age kids, another girl and at last the son they both wanted so badly.  Luckily three out of four of her children have the get up and go energy when necessary like their mom and there’s not much of a fuss.

 Excerpt from Dead Weight (Screenplay)

same scene as novel excerpt

THROUGHOUT HOUSE -- MORNING

Lisa engaged in her morning routine while not at work.

EXT. PATIO

We see the microwave CLOCK through the window. ­It shows 5:50 a.m. Lisa sitting at patio table having a cup of coffee and a cigarette.

INT. UPSTAIRS HALLWAY

We see Lisa's bedroom alarm CLOCK as she passes her room.  It shows 6:00 a.m. Lisa walks to Hannah's room then Traci's.  Peeks in to make sure they're awake.

KITCHEN

The microwave CLOCK shows 6:45 a.m.  Lisa is digging in her purse for lunch money to give to the girls.

TRACI AND MARIA'S ROOM

Traci's alarm CLOCK shows 7:00 a.m. Lisa is back to wake Maria.  She gently shakes her shoulder and quietly speaks.

LISA

Time to get up for school, sweetie.

Lisa takes a few steps to JOEY'S ROOM and awakens him in the same manner.

LISA

Joey, time to get up for school.

KITCHEN

The microwave CLOCK shows 7:15 a.m. Lisa gets glasses of juice for Maria and Joey.

LISA

What kind of cereal do you guys want?

FRONT DOOR

We see the CLOCK in the dining room and it shows 7:30 a.m. Lisa kisses Hannah and Traci on the cheek as they leave for school. 

LISA

Bye girls.  Have a good day.

EXT. DRIVEWAY

We see the CLOCK on the stereo display in the minivan, that reads 8:25 a.m. Lisa, Maria and Joey enter the car and exit the driveway.

INT. TRACI & MARIA'S BEDROOM

We see Traci's alarm CLOCK that now reads 8:40 a.m. Lisa puts dry cat food in Traci's cats' dish.

UPSTAIRS HALLWAY

We see Lisa's alarm CLOCK, which reads 8:45 a.m., through the doorway.  Duchess chases Lisa down the stairs and follows her out the patio door.

EXT. PATIO

We see Lisa flip open her cell phone.  Close-up on the time which is 8:50 a.m. she sighs, closes her phone. 

Lisa sets the filled dog dish down then goes to the outside sink and re-fills the water dish.  She sets it down near Duchess who's gulping down her food. 

Lisa sinks into a patio chair and plops her legs on an opposite chair at the patio table.  She reads the paper while having a cigarette and sipping at her coffee.

MONTAGE:

INT. THROUGHOUT HOUSE -- MORNING

Lisa spends an hour or two cleaning the house; sweeping, morning kitchen mess, etc. She has music blaring from the stereo on a classic rock station.

FAMILY ROOM

The CLOCK on the wall above the TV. reads 9:45 a.m. Lisa is dusting and the radio blares Nirvana's 'All Apologies'.  On the chorus Lisa joins in the singing and belts out 'I'm married, buried, yeah, yeah, yeah'

KITCHEN

Lisa washes her hands after all the cleaning.  Her finger itches beneath her wedding ring.  She tugs at it, finally gets it off and smiles. 

BEDROOM

Lisa enters her bedroom with a little bounce in her step.  She puts the wedding ring in her jewelry box on her dresser.  Looks at her stationary bike and rolls her eyes.  Flops down on the bed and takes a snooze instead.

INT. DINING ROOM TABLE -- DAY

Energized from her nap, she sits down at her laptop to edit her book.

Writer Bio: 

J.M. has been writing for over 14 years and has two self-published books. Housewife Blues… was recently featured in the Author Solutions booth at the ALA International Book Fair in San Diego – Jan. 2011.  Boch recently sent her 3rd book, a romance novel and 4th book, a children’s book, off to publishers.   Currently, she is simultaneously writing the script for a television show based on her 1st book, MOLLY’S ADVENTURES, and two new screenplays. The television script is a cross between ‘Little House on the Prairie’ and ‘That 70’s Show’. Other writing includes screenplay DEAD WEIGHT, shorts – THE GOOD MOM and WEIRD LUCY and a treatment – TRUST ME. Boch has worked part-time for 13 years as a SAG & AFTRA background actor.

Excerpts from Housewife Blues... and Dead Weight © J.M. Boch

Bloodletting - Screenplay & Novel Excerpts

Ideally, before viewing this post, you've already read my interview with William D. Prystauk (if not, be sure to read it right away for his insightful remarks about adapting, inspirations, his writing process and more.) The interview gives background about Bloodletting, his original feature screenplay that he turned into a novel. Below is an excerpt from the screenplay, followed by the same scene in the novel. It's interesting to see how the novel's prose is expanded and developed compared to the concise, to-the-point screenplay narrative/description.

Bloodletting - Screenplay Excerpt

Page 26

by William D. Prystauk

Please note: Any screenplay format that looks a bit "off" (such as how the dialogue is centered) is due to the limitations of blog format, not William's original script. 

EXT. CHURCH OF THE TRANSFIGURATION - DAWN
 

Denny and Erin, a little unkempt, climb the front steps of the church. Denny tries one of the large doors.

DENNY BOWIE
I know they're locked and...

The door opens. Denny stops Erin while YAWNING. Slowly, they step inside.
 

INT. CHURCH OF THE TRANSFIGURATION - CONTINUING
 

Denny, keeping a watchful eye, walks ahead of Erin towards the pew with a shadowy life-sized Christ on his cross.
 

ERIN MARR
Churches look so unholy in the
dark.

Denny brings a finger to his lips. Erin peers at the cross.
 

ERIN MARR (CONT’D)
I can't see anything except...

Erin SCREAMS. Denny rolls his eyes. SIGHING, he moves closer to the pew and lights a candle.
 

DENNY BOWIE
So much for the element of
surprise.

He follows Erin's eyes to the crucifix.
 

STACY'S NAILED TO THE CROSS.
 

She wears her own barbed-wire crown of thorns and her right side sports a wound. Blood from her injuries cover the floor and the cross. Denny tries to get a closer look, but Erin clings to him for dear life.
 

DENNY BOWIE
It's the girl I met in the bar the
other night.

Denny turns and faces Erin.

DENNY BOWIE (CONT’D)
She told me to stay away from
Penny. Said she was evil.

Lights pop on. Denny and Erin turn and face the front doors.

Bloodletting - Novel Excerpt

Chapter 16 (Pages 107-111)

by William D. Prystauk

     In my heart, organized religion was the root of all evil and I had little tolerance for any temple and the many hypocrisies that accompanied it, but the Church of St. Francis Xavier was different. They truly gave a damn, and because they represented an entity as staunch and old world misogynistic as Roman Catholicism, I was surprised the Vatican hadn’t shut the place down long ago. Besides outreach programs for the poor and unemployed, this Jesuit apostolate devoted themselves to gay and lesbian Catholics caught in the crossfire of political rhetoric and selective biblical interpretation.

      At five on the dot, Erin and I, unkempt and drained, stood before the pale granite of the fairytale-like 1880’s church. With the gold statue of Saint Francis looking down upon us from the stone balcony of the second story, as if he’d stepped away from his alcove to bless Erin and me, we passed the black iron fencing, and climbed the stone steps up through the center of a trio of arches to the waiting door.
I silenced a yawn then gripped the handle. “I know it’s locked and ...”

    The wooden door opened with little effort.

    My raised hand stopped Erin from rushing in. Slowly, we stepped inside.

    Keeping a watchful eye, I moved far ahead of him. With the lights of the pre-dawn dancing through the mosaic glass in a kaleidoscope of color, I sensed the enormity of the parish. There were far too many recesses, columns and pews to hide behind, let alone the darkened mezzanine. Worse still, the Latin cross-shaped house of worship was under renovation, and filled my nose with lingering odors left from plaster and sealant, though I was more concerned about the additional places from equipment that allowed for more hidden surprises. Fearing an ambush, I moved forward anyway, trying to bury the sound of my heart so I could listen for any misstep from the caller who was most likely already here. Against my instincts, and with a shaky hand, I moved straight down the center towards the shadowy, life-sized figure of Christ on his cross, making sure the heels of my boots didn’t clunk or scrape along the uneven stone floor of the transept. The church and its ornate frescoes rose above me and whatever intimacy I felt outside its gates was now completely lost. I was alone in the shadows in a vast warehouse of stone and glass that would amplify the smallest of sounds.

    With my own tell-tale heart continuing to hamper my ears as I plodded along, guided only by those haphazard rays of light, I took pride in our silent approach, when, “Churches look so unholy in the dark” made its escape from Erin’s lips. I slammed a finger against my mouth, signaling him to shut the fuck up. But Erin just peered at the crucifix. “I can’t see anythang except ...”

    Erin’s scream rang throughout every corner of St. Francis Xavier’s. I rolled my eyes and sagged in defeat. Taking a small flashlight from my back pocket, I calmed my nerves and wondered if my ears were bleeding from the dancer’s shriek.

    “So much for the element of surprise,” I half-said aloud. 

     Following Erin’s horror to the crucifix, I thumbed the switch and the light found the spirit of his cry: a frail, willowy girl nailed to a cross.

     Erin’s fingers dug their way into me as he slammed his eyes shut and buried his face into the back of my olive drab. I kept my bearings. Listened first. No movement meant the killer was long gone. I tried to move forward, but Erin was steadfast. I shined the light onto the corpse and the hair gave her away.

     “It’s the girl I met in the bar the other night.” I turned towards Erin and he released his numbing grip though his eyes were still closed. “She told me to stay away from Penny. Said she was evil.” \

     Erin cried and the echo rang out. “Honey, let’s go. Please.” His voice alien and strange. He tugged at me in desperation, but I wasn’t going anywhere.

     Putting my arm around Erin’s waist, I spun him about to face the doors, leaving me to face the body, and brought him in close. I lifted his chin and told him to look at me. He did.

     “Go outside, have a cigarette and wait for me. Don’t call the cops.” I stopped my new lover from speaking with a calming kiss. “Go.”

    Erin sniffled, nodded and rushed outside with fast clicks from his heels to the safety of the sunlight.

    I moved forward with tentative steps towards the cross, careful enough not to get too close. I focused on the body: the Jesus girl wore her own barbed-wire crown of thorns, above a face in repose, and her right side had been cut open, mocking what the spear of destiny had done to the original rebel some two-thousand years before. Her pale, tortured body was covered in zigzag patterns of gashes and whip marks. Railroad spikes punctured her palms and ankles. Blood covered the floor as well as the handmade cross of rotting, damaged wood, set before the altar. Past the desecration shined the true, painted crucifix in the rotunda of the sanctuary, a riveting fresco in an arched frame below the church’s grand dome. It must’ve taken time to pose the girl, and the portrait behind her body was in all likelihood used as a guide.

     I shifted to the side, crouching low to let the light play along the base of its altar at the edges of the black pool. With the best angle for light and reflection, I found it: bootprints. Two sets. One very large and one much smaller. There was nothing more though my heart told me someone else had to be there, watching, orchestrating, gloating – the Mistress directing her minions.

     The Jesus girl had to have been alive for the final moments because her blood had cascaded from deep cuts in her armpits and covered most of the prints on the floor. No blood had been tracked beyond the confines of the altar, though its metallic odor cut through the smell of the drying plaster.
Shining the light on her face, I caught the trails from tears and the pale, downturned mouth as if she were at rest. And for some reason, in that hall of absolute peace, as I expected her eyes to open, I heard a drop splash onto the floor as if the church was crying for her.

     I wondered if she peered out the colored glass and begged for mercy. Then I remembered the giant crucifix that had hung around her neck and could hear her saying, “Why hast thou forsaken me?” in her final moment. Maybe Jesus was her one true love and this was her one chance to totally immerse herself into the spirit of his death to try and feel what he had felt. To completely appreciate her savior via a forced imitation of Christ with her in the starring role. I could see her bringing her captors, her torturers no satisfaction as she grew quiet and still while peering out of the stained glass. Yeah, she didn’t beg. She smiled because she was going home. Going home to her love. I just can’t imagine the hell she went through to get there.

     I looked at her one last time before getting back to work. I searched in vain for her silver crucifix but couldn’t find it and knew the necklace had become a trophy.  

     And as I got closer to the bootprints in an effort to better see the patterns, the lights popped on. I twisted around, snapping a wide-eyed gaze toward the front doors.

© William D. Prystauk

Dimensions - Sale in July!

Shameless plug... :)

In the spirit of summertime, the Kindle edition of Dimensions will go on sale beginning July 4!

A fast read, it's a great option for an airplane ride, day by the pool, or quick breaks at work.

Currently $4.99, the sale price will be $2.99 until the end of July.

Until then, here is an excerpt:

   Lionel was the first man with whom Allison ever fell in love  – of all men, a man from the other dimension. It was too much like Sadie. Allison was even in the same point of her life as Sadie had been when she met Bill. Had that been the reason Vera had closed her eyes to Allison and Lionel’s flirtation? It was yet another reminder of Sadie and the past, the one wound that would never fade. Sometimes she envied her neighbors, whose memories still buried old hurts and softened bad images. She used to be like that, but found it unlikely she’d ever regress.
  Vera tried to push these thoughts from her mind as she entered her house. She needed to stop blaming Sadie’s death for her own inability to impress important facts to Allison. Vera knew that the more honest she was with Allison, she too would lose some of her memory wash, but she feared it was time to level with her daughter. Her relationship with Lionel may already be too serious.
   Vera found Allison on the front porch, a notebook in her lap. She held a pen in her hand but she wasn’t writing – instead she stared at the pounding surf, waves crashing beneath the early evening sky. Vera closed the screen door behind her and took a seat in one of the Adirondack chairs near Allison.
   “Where’s Lionel?” Vera asked in lieu of a greeting.
   Allison looked at her, surprised, then exasperated. “Mom.”
   Vera felt like a broken record, but she began to restate all of her tired warnings to Allison. She reminded her that she still had to act as she always had, to be polite but not too chatty and especially never form attachments to the guests. She was finding the courage to continue – there was so much of which Allison wasn’t aware – and tell her about Bill and Sadie and Matthew, but Allison interrupted her.
   “You’re acting as though I’m in love with him,” she said stoically. “He wanted a sandwich. I’m not forming an attachment. I’m leaving for college soon.”
   Allison’s cheeks burned. It was a lie, of course, and she had difficulty even saying the words. She cared deeply for Lionel, she loved him. He claimed to love her, too. It was Allison’s carefree attitude, he told her, that originally attracted him to her. He didn’t talk about his home or job, and Allison didn’t press. He did ask questions, and despite Vera’s warnings, she didn’t understand what was harmful about answering banal inquires such as what the next city looked like and how her parents treated the guests in the house. But she dodged more intimate questions with a laugh or a smile. They met discreetly, often sneaking out for a late-night swim when the beach was dark and empty. Allison began to smile as she thought of the previous night, then remembered Vera’s presence.
   “I have homework to finish,” Allison announced and closed her notebook.
   Vera would later regret not taking Allison by the arm and forcing her to sit there longer, to have the full conversation that Vera envisioned in her head. Instead she let Allison stand and reenter the house.
   “Why was I the only woman able find a wonderful man from this dimension?” Vera asked later that night when she got into bed next to Paul.
   Paul laughed, and Vera agreed that the question did sound funny when stated aloud, but she was worried.
   “Perhaps I should go in and talk to her.”
   “Unless this is the point where we’ve done the most we can,” Paul said.
   Allison and Lionel’s romance played out just as Vera feared. The differences between the dimensions were apparent, and Allison eventually caved, telling Lionel everything she’d held back about the guests and the role of the house. Vera was furious and also panicked when she discovered that Allison had been so forthcoming with Lionel. She didn’t know what effect that would have on any of them. Paul tried to comfort Vera – they were lucky, after all, that Allison was privy to such limited information. But Vera was still upset, sure that she would have been able to stop things from progressing so far if she hadn’t hesitated. Allison was crushed when Lionel disappeared. They were fairly certain he returned to his own home, but Allison was as inconsolable as if he had died.
   “Can he return?” Allison asked repeatedly, much to Vera’s chagrin. The best thing, she figured, was for  Lionel to forget about the dimension and never return again. But Allison’s heartbroken face pained her. There was the occasional guest that managed to visit the house more than once – Vera decided she would be honest with Allison.
   If Lionel was very strong, Vera told her, there was always a chance he could return.
   He wasn’t, and he didn’t.
   What bothered Vera immensely was that Allison’s memory of Lionel refused to fade. Her broken heart healed, of course, and later Allison immersed herself in college life. She no longer cried for Lionel, but she clearly recalled him. This confused Vera, for although Allison had an interest in the guests, she never seemed particularly in tune with them. Allison had always lacked the psychic ability that Vera possessed. Eventually they never spoke of Lionel anymore, but Vera was certain that Allison still remembered.

Glass Cases and IndieReads.net

Today is the start of a good month! Perhaps I can thank the solar eclipse.

First, Sarah LaPolla, an associate literary agent at Curtis Brown, Ltd., posted an excerpt of my novel Dimensions on her blog Glass Cases. Sarah features writers on her blog who are not her clients; it's a forum to showcase work of various writers. It's also an excellent blog for anyone interested in publishing and writing. Sarah posts about her own likes and dislikes in books, as well as trends in the publishing world. (Bonus: She's a Buffy fan!) It's a blog I follow regularly, as any writer should!

Another go-to site for writers is IndieReads.net. With the tagline "Supporting Independent Authors and Publishers", Shawn Graham posts interviews with writers and links to purchase books. Shawn interviewed me about writing, Dimensions and the process of self-publishing. You can read the interview here.

Happy reading and writing!

The Pan Trilogy - Part 1

The following is an excerpt from The Trials of Jonathan Darling, by Fionnegan Justus Murphy and Michael Winkler. It's the first book from The Pan trilogy, a re-imagining of J.M. Barrie's Peter Pan. Check back the next two Wednesdays for excerpts from the second and third books.

Excerpt from The Trials of Jonathan Darling

co-written by Fionnegan Justus Murphy and Michael Winkler

www.thepanbooks.com

     No one heard the faint wisp of wind over the surface of the water so far below.  No one heard the short whispers hidden by the waves lapping against the side of the ship.  It was the crowing that jolted them out of their meditation.
    The deck was instantly filled with uncountable little boys.  Each one armed with one kind of metal or another.  In a flash of adrenaline and shock, the battle had begun.
    Captain Cooper sprung from his chair and buckled his scabbard around his waist.  He squared his shoulders and opened the door to his cabin, filling the doorway with his determination.  His experienced eyes examined the fray as his ears found the pulse underlying the battle: the boots, the swords, the rigging, and the screams of men falling overboard into the waiting throng of crocodiles.  It all made a pattern that he could read.  There was something in the sound that was out of place, but he could not put his finger on what it was.  Something did not belong.
    They attacked a prone target,
    but we will be victorious in the end.

    Where is he?  

    Peter Pan was sitting on top of a barrel next to the railing playing his pipes, not paying the battle any attention at all.  The sound of his instrument cut through the battle straight into Captain Cooper’s nerves.  Such arrogance and disrespect would be directly addressed.
    Wait.
    An officer follows certain protocol.
    If he allows his body to take over
    like a common soldier then
    chaos will rule the fight.

    A little chaos is refreshing to the soul,
 That’s what she told you on the dock.

    Self-control will keep order
    and ensure victory.  

    There’s something to be said
for a little disorder.  

A little piracy.

    

    Cooper controlled his arm that wanted so badly to unsheathe his sword and bury it into that unprotected chest there, or that exposed armpit there.  

    A little piracy.

    Control the squall.
    Keep it in check.
    The Captain marched up to his enemy a little more quickly than even he expected, and just before he could speak, noticed his mistake.  

    Piracy.

    Pan had grabbed a rope and lassoed the Captain’s arms quick as a flash.  Cooper’s hands instinctively grabbed the new leash leading back to the monster.  He saw how this would play out in a fraction of a second.  He would step closer to Peter and just like before Pan would fly.  So he did.  And he did.  And with a flick of the Captain’s wrist the rope slithered and coiled and caught the boy’s foot.  

    Piracy.  

    He then heard his own voice call out “Take no prisoners!” and threw his body over the port side of the ship, still holding onto the tether tying the Captain to the Pan.
    As their bodies passed, each rich, red timber faded, peeled, swelled and shrank.  Boards cracked.  Green moss sprung from the cracks in the newly rotten and faded wood.  The wind changed direction and the Union Jack that proudly flew on the main mast billowed around on itself.  As it did the red crossed lines became white bones.  The royal blue field turned inky black, and when the flag completed its turn from west to east a skull faded out of the darkness and as it raised its head to look out onto the world it smiled.
    Peter Pan smiled, too.
    Splash!
    The sea supported them both for a second.  What rope was available was thrown and tangled around the two bodies by Captain Cooper’s nimble hands.  The waves threw them into the sidewall of the ship over and over again.  The Captain allowed his body to take over.  He would bite this and hit that, but as they sank his hands knew their most important job was to not let go of the rope.
    Finally.
    They rolled until there was no more up. The water pressed in on Peter Pan more forcefully than it ever dared before.  It smothered him with its relentless, dark coolness and no matter how much he commanded it to back away it insisted on pushing closer.  His bright, hot fire began paying the price and Peter felt, for the first time in a long time, disconnected from the world around him.  He needed to be out in the air again.
    This isn’t the end.  Up!
    Up! Up!
    But the Captain held firm to the tangling rope, and each attempt to rip free only expended more of Pan’s energy.  Soon, Peter was fighting with as much desperation as he felt, one of his few completely honest moments.  A fist much harder than any boy’s cracked the Captain’s ribs.  Nails much thicker and longer than any boy’s opened his skin.  Salt burned into his stomach.  Everything grew darker as they fell further down.  

     Finally.

     They hit something.  It was too soon to be hitting the bottom, and it was no rock.  Without warning the Captain knew nothing but pain.  Drowning never existed.  Peter never existed.  The Island never existed.  Pain was all there ever was and all there ever would be, and while one part of his brain screamed “Pain!” the rest of his brain confined that section, and set to work solving the problem.
     Where is the pain?

     Right arm.  There it is.  

     His left hand did its job while the Captain faded into the pain, deftly feeling along his arm to the source.  It felt along the hard and long snout and up to the eye.  Enough pressure and it compresses like a hard-boiled egg; even more pressure and it breaks open.
     The crock rolled in pain, tearing flesh and bone.  Splashes broke the surface that suddenly came back into view.  A pair of grown adult hands grabbed the Captain and pulled him up to the surface.  They broke and before the Captain could gather a breath to shout, Pan was in the air and gone, flying off to the horizon.  His laughter skipped off the water and bounced over the surface of the newly formed Jolly Roger.
     Cooper drifted off into a place without nerves.  The other sailors hoisted him back onboard and carried him to his room where they tied a leather strap around his bicep.  They laid him down in his bed and let him sleep as an iron skillet was taken off its shelf and placed in the oven in the kitchen far below his room.
     Four hands stoked and fueled the fire endlessly throughout the night.  Drake, the master carpenter onboard, worked tirelessly to build the Captain’s new namesake.  His eyes dried and he continuously wiped oil and sweat from his face.  The skillet glowed red and was shaped, glowed red and was shaped.  Two men kept the fire raging while ringing pierced their ears with each hammer strike and the sound of saw teeth becoming dull grated on their nerves.
    The Sun rose and the Sea was calm.  It had taken its tariff and seemed pleased for the moment.  The fire-stoking duo was sent to their hammocks and a fresh pair of bodies took over while Drake showed no sign of fatigue.
    The Captain awoke in severe pain.  What rum was left in storage was poured over tattered sinews, rent flesh and splintered bone.  There were no signs of infection aside from the fever and incoherent speech.  Like a loyal pet, Smee never left Jimmy’s side.  At times they would speak to one another, but about what no one could follow.
    As the Sun set Drake had the Captain carried to the kitchen where the head of the hook hung out of the doorway of the glowing hot oven while the handle of it sat in the embers.  A blade sliced away useless skin and muscle.  A fresh saw evened out the radius and ulna.  Finally, Drake put on a thick leather glove and removed the black hook that was once a skillet from the fire, revealing a forked end that glowed red.  The captain’s breathing grew quick and shallow as he watched the glowing terror approach him.  His teeth clenched on a leather wrapped stick and sweat poured down his brow past frantic eyes.
    Smee could not watch the rest.  He turned his head away when Drake’s leather gloved hand held the hook in place while the other recoiled a hammer, ready to drive the glowing points into the evened out bones.  But something inside Smee forced him to keep his eyes open.  If Jimmy would have to endure the procedure, then Smee would at least watch the shadows on the wall.  He saw the warbling shadows play out the scene through his tears.  The hammer swung, almost impossibly fast, and clanged against the curved edge of the hook.
     Drake’s apology as he wound up for the second strike was drowned out by the Captain. Pain rocketed out of his throat and filled the room, sending shivers through everyone in the room the same way the hammer sent spasms through the Captain’s body as he fought against the men restraining him.  Every head on the ship turned from bow to stern.  Signs of the cross were made and prayers were said.  Each strike of the hammer flung a louder scream from his shaking body.  It took every bit of strength in four of his men to hold him down.  Every curse in the Captain’s vocabulary was slung at them, the screams darting over the water and through the woods.  Fairies lowered their heads and stopped glowing.  The Indians woke in wonder at what new god had finally come to the Island.  Pan smiled and continued dancing while playing his pipes.

©Fionnegan Justus Murphy

www.fionnegan.com

National Pastime - Novel Excerpt

The following is an excerpt from Chapter 8 of Fred Sottile's latest novel
National Pastime
published by Outskirts Press and also available on Kindle.

Click on the book cover for more information.

National Pastime (Chapter Eight)

by Fred Sottile

    Azy moves to LA. They’re the power struggle of the century, Azy and Charlie. Neither willing to admit their love, both competitive, both jealous and both totally devoted. The relationship is so complicated that they themselves never even try to define it. They both just know the rules and right now, for the first time, it’s all about Charlie.
   
    Azy knows what she has to do. It’s instinctive. Charlie has serious business here and Azy has to make sure that when it pays off big, that she can take some credit. She doesn’t mind sponging off of a scam. She is supposed to. A scam is nothing but a scam. Take advantage is the rule. This is different.
   
    National Pastime is a new idea, a whole new kind of TV. We had shows in the past that we thought were all there were. News, comedy, drama, kids shows, game shows, sports shows, etc and all of a sudden we had reality shows. Reality shows were a whole new genre of TV shows. This is like that. National Pastime is not just another “throw the dice” game show. It is not some scripted reality show. It is not a sport that only professional athletes can play. National Pastime is PARTICIPATION TV. You actually participate actively. You can prepare. You can predict when you will be on and you can develop yourself for success at the show because it is not a onetime thing. National Pastime will become a way of life for the people who play. You play over and over almost as an American right. You participate in something that is basically yours because you are a citizen. Baseball is an American phenomenon that becomes part of every young man who wants a chance. National Pastime can become a show that never ends. Truly for the young American man it was designed for, NP becomes the true national pastime including all the recognition and prosperity.
   
    Azy sees the visionary aspect and realizes that to get investors, she needs to bring that vision to the complacent rich.
    The tricky part is that it is Gregory Meola who is the salesman. Not only does Azy have to sell National Pastime to a bunch of strangers, she has to sell herself to Gregory Meola. Without his embrace of her doing the work, she becomes the “Yoko” of the whole deal. That is not going to work. Her first step is to go straight to her best ally in the endeavor, Greg’s wife Millie.
   
    Millie and Azy always had a kind of “there but for the grace of God go I” relationship. Outwardly, they had nothing in common and though there was no kind of competition between them, their relationship had an element of respect that comes from both fear of, and attraction to, the unknown. Both women wondered if it wasn’t the other that was on the right path but both realized that there was no way in hell that either one of them would ever find out. Azy could never be Millie and Millie Meola could never ever have been Azy Heflin.
   
    Azy tells Millie that she wants to work on finding investors and she wants Millie to help smooth the possible resistance from Greg. Millie goes along with Azy and thinks Azy can be helpful. She and Azy both have always stayed way out of the boys business but Millie feels that since she helped with the original interviews for players that Azy should have a chance to play too.
   
    The other hurdle for Azy was Charlie’s family. Oy Vey ist Mir. The mother, the brothers and all that Yiddish. Azy was not what you would call orthodox and neither was Charlie for that matter but the High Holy Days are the High Holy Days and when you are asking for money. Sometimes it pays to be part of the twelve tribes of Israel.
   
    It was quite a meeting, Azy and Charlie, Gregory, Buddy and Antonette, all together discussing how Azy would fit in to the process of gathering investors. It was cordial, it was respectful, it was bullshit. Finally Greg told Azy that he wanted to talk to her alone.


     “Azy, have you looked at the contracts?”


     “Yes, I’ve read them.”


     “Do you understand that they are not negotiable?
     “This is really a serious and complex agreement. There is a lot on the line here. There is no room for error or carelessness. I’m going to watch you in a way that is going to make you uncomfortable. I know you have a thick skin but I have worked with Charlie all these years without any breach of trust. No matter how we communicate we always ultimately trust each other. We always have. You and I cannot have a power struggle. It can’t happen. This is not a game. I just want you to be ready for distasteful questions and questions that you might think are accusations or an insult to your intelligence. I know you can operate Azy. That is not a question, but you are going to have to accept me as your boss. I will have no hard feelings if you tell me to fuck myself and quit. I will have hard feelings if you make a mess that I have to, or cannot clean up.”


     “Look Greg, I know that it is you and Charlie who are the partners here. I want to help you. If you are uncomfortable than I too will leave with no hard feelings but until you are, let me have my shot. I want to make Charlie proud. I’ve always taken advantage of him without hurting him. I did it because not much matters to me and I knew that what I did didn’t matter much to Charlie. Now Charlie has something that does seem to matter to him and because of that it matters to me. Charlie has been the best “good sport” I ever met. I think you know that too. We’re lucky. Under that stone cold exterior is the kindest man I’ve ever known. He lives in a world that he feels would eat him alive if he let his guard down for a minute and all he wants in life is a place to let his guard down. Even his own family hammers him, in of course, the nicest possible way.  Anyway, I just couldn’t live with myself if I allowed my trivialization of everything else he’s ever done to be the standard for what he is doing now. I am ready to give him my blood.” 


     “Alright then Azy, you’re in. By the way, going to Millie was a good idea. The last thing I need is for her to wonder. With you around, it’s almost like she has an eye on me and that’s a good thing. We have been living too far apart for too long and that is not the way we are. We’ve never been more than a couple of hours away from each other and I don’t dig it like this. I know she misses me too and is giving me this latitude because she is the most understanding woman ever. The last thing I want her to do is worry that my fire for her is cooling off. The phone is always there and the trips home are like magic but we are not dating, we’re married in the real old school way. The time missed with my boys is another story, but Millie has got to know where my heart is and it wouldn’t be bad if you let her know once in a while. Be her friend. The boys know how their dad feels and I can make up the time with them. I just want to make sure that my girl knows that the ring on her finger is connected to the ring on mine.” 


     “Jesus Guido, don’t get this mushy with me, I’m still a little jet lagged. Never thought I’d say it, but, I’ll try to be there for you. Jeeez, so, anyway, do we have a prospect list?”

© Fred Sottile

American King - Novel Excerpt

The following is a novel excerpt (Chapter Four) from
American King by Fred Sottile

Click on the book cover for more details or to purchase

    Heading out on the road with a suitcase full of cash, is very high on my list of recommendations for just about everybody. At first, you don’t have a problem in the world, but after the initial glow fades, you realize that you have a large responsibility. What to do? What to do? The research that I was doing for the king was still valuable, but now, with my windfall, I had to consider upgrading my general plan. I needed to relax and think. The South is great in the winter and I was lucky again. Just when I was unsure which way to point the van, God, in his infinite wisdom gave me a sign. It read, WELCOME TO MODIFIED COUNTRY -  TONIGHT - OUTLAWS.   Fantastic, a little diner dinner, and then an outlaw stock car event. I wondered if there’d be any super sprints. Open wheel cars are downright hairy. The greatest part is, when you are at a stock car race, you know you’re in America. You can feel it.     
       
                              
     The stands were full, and I couldn’t help gawking at some of the “real characters” that you see at these events. The guy sitting next to me was a skinny redneck-looking dude, about sixty, with a butch-waxed head, and a grease-stained Iskendarian tee shirt. He started right in, telling me about the track, and the cars, and the history of the whole town. I started right in being polite, showing a little respect, you know, faking it. It wasn’t long though, before my condescension turned to real respect. This man was a walking encyclopedia. I couldn’t get a word in, and I didn’t want to.  Racing and politics. Racing and religion. Racing and just about everything. The “feature” was a real heart stopper. A number of spectacular multiple car wrecks, and three separate battles for position developed every time the announcer yelled “we go green”. After twenty nine laps of “the real deal”, everybody was disappointed that the race finished under the yellow.  “That just ain’t right”. I felt the same way.          
                                                   

     They say “when the green flag drops, the bullshit stops”, but what they don’t say is, when the checkered flag drops, the bullshit doesn’t stop. The old guy just kept rollin’. He went from physics, to global weather, and was on bird migration, when we hit the parking lot. Then he told a girlie story and said, let’s get some coffee. He said, “We’ll go to the other diner.” My head spun. The other diner? Had he seen me in the diner where I had dinner?  What’s going on? When we got there, I had to laugh to myself. The place was called, THE OTHER DINER. Well, OK, that’s one for paranoia. The parking lot was full of racers who hadn’t “eaten right” all day. I thought I was in for a wait, but the man  knew two “old boys” sitting at the counter who recognized him, and graciously chugged their coffee and gave us their seats. The waitress asked, “separate checks?” When I said, “No, this one is my turn,” the man moved about a foot away from me, stuck out his hand and said, “You can call me Scottie.” I couldn’t help it, I came back with, “Well then Scottie, you can call me Kirk.” I was going to have pie and coffee but Scottie ordered first and selected the biggest most expensive steak dinner on the menu, and a large vanilla shake. Caught up in the momentum, I had a Monte Cristo sandwich and a coke, just before midnight. Feeling full and ready to go, I couldn’t believe my ears when he asked the waitress for pie and coffee.                                                         

  
     Having enjoyed the company, and feeling that I had showed an old motor-head a good time, I was ready to head out. Scottie wasn’t done. He said, “Talking with you has been great. I can see that you can appreciate the finer things in life. C’mon, let me show you my shop.” Again I followed. S&M Fabrications was the home of a machinist gone mad. Amidst the mountains of parts, hardware and materials of all kind, was an immaculate Bridgeport machine, and stations for lathes, drill presses, welders, pipe benders, bending brakes, milling machines, a cutting table and two drafting tables. Not one thing newer than nineteen seventy five. “S&M”, I asked? Marty was killed in seventy five by a drunk driver, was the response. “Yea, but S&M”, I asked again? “Scott & Martin” he boinked back at me. Looking at me like I was some kind of idiot. “Right, sorry, never mind” I conceded. “Sorry about your partner.” I realized a lot was just as Marty had left it. “What exactly do you fabricate?” I asked. “Mostly pipes” Scottie told me. “A lot of folks out here have dune buggies, Baja racers and sand rails. I’m the exhaust guru.” He pulled out a book of off road, hot rod photos. I don’t know which of us fell asleep first. 

                                        
     I woke up Sunday morning to the smell of coffee, and the sound of a lathe coming up to speed. Scott had already gone out to bring back fresh pastries, and said, “You got dinner. Breakfast is on me.” “Fair enough“, I said. “Is this your day off?” Scottie explained that he didn’t take a day off, that he lived here, and to him, one day was the same as the next. My eye kept going to a shotgun that was mounted on the wall, and Scottie noticed me looking. “It doesn’t shoot any more” he said, and asked, “You interested in guns?” I told him that I didn’t know much about guns, but was always fascinated by them, and asked him if he had one that I could fire. He asked if I was more interested in rifles or hand guns. I told him I’d like to try both, and that it was a shame, that the shotgun was retired. He said, “The shame is, ammo costs money, and I’m in, shall we say, the slow season.” “I’ve got money for ammo” I said, “Ya got any good working guns?” Now he really laughed and said, “Oh, I think we might be able to dig something up.”         

                                     
     In the gun shop he was like a kid in a candy store. I noticed he was getting quite a variety of bullets. The owner asked, “Did you lose a relative? You’re over three hundred bucks.” Scottie looked at  me and said, “Damn, I’m sorry, I guess I’m getting carried away.” I asked, “How long will it take us to waste all this lead?” He replied, “As far as time goes, it depends on how far you want to be from the targets.” I told him I wanted to be far. He said, “Well then, this ought to do it.” He was happy. Turning to the owner, I commented, “Not much business.” He answered, “Can’t be. We ain’t open.”                                                

     I was grateful for a chance for a little target practice. I wasn’t sure if I fooled him or not. The way he said, Well hell, I guess you’re a natural, kinda’ led me to believe that he was letting me know, that he knew, that I was, well, not a complete beginner.                                                            

     After dinner, which was my turn to buy again, we dragged back to the shop. Lo and behold there was a smashed exhaust header leaning up against the front door with a note on it that said, DO YOUR THING - JOSE - 9050. I was happy for Scott. I asked, “Don’t you have to fit this in the vehicle?” He said, “No I have the blue prints and a fixture. Let’s just say this ain’t the first one of these I’ve made.” I asked, “Why don’t you just make a few and have them ready?” He patiently explained that you had to reuse the flange. I was going to tell him that while it was apart, that he could probably, easily make a few copies of the flange and……..and…….I decided to drop it. He went right to work. After a few hours he gave me five bucks and asked me to run for snacks. I came back with four paper bags of groceries and a pizza. 2:00 AM I woke to the flash of a MIG welder. “Almost done” he said. Next time I woke up, you guessed it, coffee and pastries, and a lathe coming up to speed. I asked, “Didn’t you see all that food I brought home last night?” He shrugged, “Yea?” “Just gotta’ have a pastry in the morning do you?” I continued. He grinned, “Oh, no man, my old lady brings ’em every morning, well, except Saturday, on her way home from work. She’s an overnight baker.” Old lady? Scottie had a girlfriend? I never gave it a thought. This guy was full of surprises.                                               

     Full of surprises? I asked what was going on with the lathe and Scott said that he was working on a number of projects. Always a bunch of stuff in the works, I think was the way he put it. He said that he thought my gun handling was OK, and asked me if I was interested in this. “This” was an automatic hand gun, made right here. He handed me a nine shot clip of nine millimeter hollow points and a large, very impressive looking silencer. He invited me to go out back and squeeze it, gently. The action was so smooth and easy, and the sight was already set for where I was standing. It was accurate, but lots of guns are accurate. This one though, had no flash, and was ninja quiet. I was quiet too. Speechless for a moment. Finally, and dead serious, he asked, “How many do you want?” I looked him right in the eye and said, “Two. Two and a matching machine gun.” He hesitated about ten seconds and finally said, “The machine gun is going to take some time.” Some cash changed hands, and I asked, “Time frame?” He gritted his teeth and said “Not more than two months.”

© Fred Sottile