Book Lover Place

Chapter 16 (Rusted Ashes Cemetary)

The rest of the house was just as lavishly decorated as the front, Christian noticed, as they were led through to the back.  In his heart, he hoped the back had been untouched by this nightmare that claimed the rest of the city.  “Let it be as beautiful as the house is,” he thought.  To his dismay though, it was almost more depressing than the parts of the city they were forced to bear witness to.  Trees barely climbed for the sky as if an unknown force was pulling them, leaning them, back to the ground.  Mud covered the ground.  Not a single flower.  Not a single patch of grass.

“Is that?  Are they?”  Tiberius sputtered, pointing at the mud.  Cryo nodded, humming to himself.  “An abomination of Sephiran’s creating.  They are called mini-minions.  They were originally considered imperfect, unshapable forms of Sephiran himself.”

Sephiran.  Sephiran.  That name for some reason struck a chord in the back of Christian’s mind.  Just before the thought began to burrow its way to the surface he shook it off, concentrating on Cryo, who was oddly at peace with his surroundings.

As had happened before, the mini-minions began to take shape when the boys got too close.  Their bouncy, muddy bodies covered the entire back yard.  There were at least a hundred of them.  Christian and Tiberius readied their weapons.  Cryo, as usual, was one step ahead of them with an arrow already knocked.  “They aren’t very smart,” Cryo stated belligerantly, aiming where half of the minions had formed a straight line.  With that, he loosed the arrow.  Sticking out of a tree two hundred feet back, mud dripped off the arrow.  Cryo looked over at a shocked Christian and gave a cocky smile.  Christian spinning his sword aroung caught Cryo’s attention this time.  “That sword,” he pointed, incredulously.

“My grandfather’s sword?  What about it?”

“That sword,” Cryo half choked, “is made of the same material as my bowstring.  DIdn’t you ever wonder why it is so light?”

“So this is mithril?  That would explain a lot.”

“Enough monkey babble!”  Tiberius screamed.  “We’re not done yet!”

Christian and Cryo looked at each other, astounded at his sense of urgency.  “Let’s do this!”  Christian exclaimed.  Cryo gave a nervous groan.  At the sound of that, Christian turned back, shocked.  “What’s that about?  With your bow, you’re Billy badass, but now you’re all nervous?”  Cryo looked at Christian, ashamed.  “I’m not very good at hand-to-hand.”

“GOOD!!”  Tiberius yelled.  “More for us!”  Hacking and slashing, all the mini-minions, save one, were mud puddles in less than two minutes.  The boys decided to play rock paper scissors for the last one.  Tiberius turned, smiling victoriously, and threw his axe.  A sickening crack sound, followed by the mini minion falling apart were sign enough.  Tiberius’s axe stuck in the tree with half an arrow sticking out from either side.

“You like?”  Tiberius taunted.

In that moment, the entire backyard simultaneously formed one large mini-minion, swallowing Tiberius.  “Tiberius!” Christian screamed.  “Don’t worry,”  Cryo reassured him.  “He’s fine.  Tiberius!  I know you can hear me!  Push outwards just above your head!”  He fitted an arrow as he yelled intructions.  AS soon as the protrusion appeared, he loosed the arrow.  The giant minion fell to pieces and evaporated.  There stood an unscathed Tiberius.

“Thanks,” Tiberius said, smiling.  He turned around and the smile faded.  The arrow was stuck in the back of his axe.  “Show off,” he mumbled.  Cryo, obviously pleased with himself, motioned for the boys to follow him.  “Come on!  On the other side of this eyesore some would call a fence, is the cemetary.”  The fence was nearly rotten all the way through.  “My family’s house backs up to the cemetary.  We were placed in charge of disposal of all remaining bodies, so we made a cemetary and placed the bodies here.  The cemetary used to be a nice looking place, but as is the same with everything else, it has fallen to ruin.  An unknown force haunts our cemetary now as well.  At night, you can clearly see four red eyes.  Hopefully, with you obtaining the axe, this place can see some peace.”  Christian nodded in agreement, looking at Tiberius.  With that, Christian pushed on the fence.  The entire length of it collapsed.  The sight revealed was horrifying.  Large chunks of the ground were missing, gravestones were deformed, and to make matters worse, it was dark and raining.  “Ever since that cloud appeared over the city, it has rained here.”

Christian stepped over the fallen fence onto sodden ground.  The sky grew darker, obstinate to its guests desire.  A few feet in, the boys saw what Cryo had been talking about.  Four red eyes seemed to float around near the back of the cemetary.

“The gravestone you are looking for will be marked by my father’s name,” Cryo called out to them.  “His name is Akion!”

“You’re not going?!”  Tiberius exclaimed.

“I don’t step foot in here.  This place has cursed my family,” Cryo explained, pointing to the numerous holes in the ground.

Christian and Tiberius shrugged it off, noticing the annoying pattern.  When it came to anything with his family, he didn’t want to get his feet wet.  “Ok, lets find this gravestone.  You check that side and I’ll get this one,” Christian delegated.  Christian walked up to one of the gravestones and read: “Here lies Mack.  A dead soul, a rotten soul.  He needed to be here.”  Tiberius walked up and read another.  “Susy LIES.  Some things will never change.”

“What’s wrong with these people?”  Tiberius questioned loudly.  “This is just sad.  Here’s another one.  This one says, Frank resides here.  Home is where the heart is.  He forgot his.”  Disgusted, the boys continued to move forward.  The next four rows were broken and unreadable.  Looking ahead, Christian noticed the four eyes hadn’t moved.  They were simply content watching this spectacle… for now.  There were only three more gravestones ahead of them that were unbroken.  Tiberius walked up to the first one, reading out loud.  “Marie brought us dust, ashes, and curses.  Keep that in mind.”

“Only two more!”  Christian exclaimed.  “I’ll get this one,” he yelled, pointing to the small, simple headstone.  All it said was duck.  “Duck?  Who names their kid duck?”  Just then, flames shot out of the ground, engulfing the four eyes.  Christian did what the stone said, he ducked.  Tiberius looked up to see where the roaring sound was coming from.  Climbing over broken headstones and debris, he saw the high wall of flames near to where Christian had ducked behind a headstone.  He rushed to the final headstone.

“Hurry!”  Christian bellowed, unsheathing his sword.  “I’ll do what I can, but we’re gonna need that axe!”

“This one is it!  This one says AKION!”  Tiberius exclaimed.

“Great!  Grab the axe!”  Christian yelled, dodging fireballs left and right.

Tiberius, confused as to what to do next, did what anyone would have done.  He pushed and pulled on the gravestone.  Of course, nothing happened.  Leaning in for a closer look, a finer print appeared directly under Akion’s name.  “Here lies Akion, reaper of humanity.  Weapons harm him not, yet soulless creatures did.  His memory rests here, but his soul does not.”  Below the inscription was a small box with four letters jumbled up.  The edge of the box had instructions.  “Unscramble this word to reopen the gates of hell.  Open this box to release the unforgiven, the savior.”  Thinking out loud, Tiberius said,”Ok, Cryo said the password was Akion’s son’s name.  Wasn’t Cryo an only child?”  He arranged the letters in order.  A loud crack, followed by smoke was proof of success.  Looking up for a moment, Tiberius stared.  The four eyes had revealed themselves.  The four eyes belonged to two horses, which were drawing a Ghost carraige.  The carraige itself was engulfed in flames, as well as its rider.  The rider was nothing more than a skeleton.  The flames gave it a very malicious look.  The skeleton looked directly at Tiberius with its empty, fiery sockets, and uttered one word.  “Bone!!”  Fire erupted around the carraige!  “Bone!”  It screamed again.  Fire shot up into the air and fell all around Tiberius.  One fireball headed straight for him.  He ducked as low as he could get.  Peeking upwards, the fireball had dissappeared.  Just then, the grave opened up, revealing the most amazing thing he had ever seen.  Double bladed, long handle, a spike at its base, rope criss-crossed the handle, and the upper torso of a man with its arms reaching towards the sky on the tip.  Between the crossings of the rope, were about twenty upper torsos of people.  About half of them were a dark red, while the other half glowed bright red.  As soon as Tiberius touched the handle, he was recognized.  The axe spoke to him!  “I am all that’s left of Akion, previous weilder of this soul stealer.  This meter,” the axe explained, “is the soul meter.  The more souls that have been absorbed, the more power, the brighter the meter.  Do not be alarmed when silver and blue flames come out of the axe.  This is simply more of the axes power, which cannot harm you, as long as you are its weilder.  You are Tiberius and my weilder now.”  Picking up the axe, a strange power surged through him.  He stood up and looked at “Bone.”  He knew what he had to do.  Tiberius gripped the handle tighter.  Bright flames shot out of the axe.  The axe itself began to glow blue and the meter started to fill.  There were quite a few souls here.

Bone turned his attention on Tiberius.  Christian was of no concern now.  He had been placed here to make sure no one was able to obtain that axe again.  It will never leave the cemetary.  Flames shot out of the carraige again.  Tiberius didn’t move.  The flames completely surrounded him, yet he was never burned.  Not even touched.  Tiberius swung the axe, sending a flaming soul ball towards bone.  Flames of blue, silver, and orange erupted as the ball made contact.  The roar was deafening.  Only two red eyes remained.  Bone was furious.  The flames covering his body burned brighter, hotter.  Flames shot high into the air, some of them falling near Christian.  Tiberius averted his attention to Christian.  Bone saw this and smiled maliciously.  He sent flames hurtling directly for Christian.  Tiberius ran as fast as he could towards his friend.  Closer and closer the flames got.  Christian ducked and covered his head.  The flames were so large, even from the sky, Christian could feel the heat.  He closed his eyes tight.  He never even saw Tiberius run in front of him.  “No!”  Tiberius yelled defiantly as the flames fell on them.  He swung his axe towards Bone.  Flame and soul ball melded together and hurtled at an incredible speed towards Bone.  A large explosion ripped its way through the carraige and all around it.

Tiberius looked down at Christian.  “Are you ok?”  Christian looked up at him.  “Yeah, I”m… Watch out!!”  He screamed.  Bone was right behind Tiberius with bony fingers outstretched.  Tiberius turned, looking right into his eyeless sockets.  “Time’s up.”  Axe blade connected with skull.  Bone turned to smoke and dissappeared.  The soul meter filled completely.  Rusted ashes cemetary was now nothing more than a crater.

–

My name is Chris Bryant.  I’m 26, born and raised in Lexington, Ky.  I love to write.  I have been writing since I was little, always short stories about action or adventures I’d have liked to have been on.  The Sword of Hope is my first of many books to come.  My dream has always been to be able to get one of my stories published.  This is my first full length story.  I can’t wait to see how everyone likes it.

Learn more at: http://theswordofhope.com

Why did you decide to write this book?

It has always been a passion of mine to write, but I had never tried to write anything of this length or depth until The Sword of Hope.  I believe it’s mostly because I didn’t have the proper knowledge of how to fully describe what I saw in my head on paper.  Also, it has been a dream of mine to get one of my stories out there, published, and shared with the world.

Do you have any secret writing tips you’d like to share?

Sure, although I’m certain it’s nothing that another writer won’t suggest.  Be creative in everything written.  My secret is trying to relate the experience of the character with something a person has actually been through.  Ex:  They’re walking through the forest.  Its hard to breathe.  The air is thick.  So, I describe the difficulty of breathing like trying to breathe through a wet washcloth, which I’m sure people have tried.  This gives the audience a sense of what the characters are experiencing.

Tell us a quirky or funny story about you!

I find inspiration everywhere I go.  I could be driving around or sitting still looking at the trees or people or just watching the surrounding area wherever I may be and some small part will stick out, inspiring an idea for something new.

Have you ever battled writer’s block? How do you deal with it?

Battled writer’s block?  Sure, we fight sometimes.  I usually beat it back with a pen.  Sometimes, it gets a little extreme and I have to pick up a notebook, but I usually come out on top, couple scrapes and bruises here and there. Haha  Seriously though, yes, I deal with writer’s block just as anyone else does.  I just wait patiently until something sparks my curiosity or relates to the subject I’m currently working on and then I jump back in.

What’s your favorite quote?

I actually created a quote I’m particularly fond of:  The positive in me will always outweigh the negative around me.

Who inspires you the most?

I can’t say there’s any one person who truly inspires me.  It’s more of a collected group.  Anyone and everyone inspires me in different ways.  Some more than others, but regardless, all are equally important.

–

My name is Chris Bryant.  I’m 26, born and raised in Lexington, Ky.  I love to write.  I have been writing since I was little, always short stories about action or adventures I’d have liked to have been on.  The Sword of Hope is my first of many books to come.  My dream has always been to be able to get one of my stories published.  This is my first full length story.  I can’t wait to see how everyone likes it.

Learn more at: http://theswordofhope.com

By Guest Blogger Chris Bryant

There was a time, a long time ago, when I wasn’t where I am now.  I didn’t used to examine every detail. I didn’t try to explain everything as something else.  The time I refer to is when I was a child.

As a child, I didn’t have a care in the world, other than which toy to play with first.  Life was simple, for the most part.  As it is with most families I’m sure, not everything was perfect.  My little brother and I grew up with my step-dad, who adopted me at a very young age.  We were raised with military precision.  Loud noise was not tolerated, talking back, sitting slouched, a certain level of cleaning, etc.

All of my childhood, I disliked this authoritative figure, even to the point of hate.  It wasn’t until I had grown into the person I am today that I realized how influential he really was and regardless of his methods, he was simply preparing us for the worst.  I am eternally grateful.  Also, from this, at the time, seen negativity, sparked something in me I never knew I had.  A talent.  I still remember the first day.  I asked my step-dad to draw me a picture of a train for school, which he did and did well.  I was impressed.  I had never tried something with such detail before.  So, I decided that afternoon to try myself and was amazed at the quality of the picture I had recreated.  From that day forward, I swore to myself I’d never trace again and I’d strive to draw things with more and more detail.  I’d never settle for less than a challenge.  To this day, I still hold to that.

As a teenager, I began to see the amount of detail I was putting into everything I drew.  I started understanding it, understanding the shadows, the lighting, the angles, and much more.  Thus, another talent was born, writing.  Although, I didn’t fully understand what I was trying to describe and used words that were by far more adolescent than I use these days, I enjoyed what I did.  I still drew, but it became slightly less, mostly due to the young adult lifestyle I lived.  Hanging out with friends, school, and of course homework took precedence.  Yet, through all of that, my mind still soared with the birds and swam with the fish.  I climbed mountains, walked with the indigenous, treasure hunted, battled mummies, and much more.  My artwork grew more detailed as well, surpassing my writing style with ease.  My vocabulary still lacked definition and my words lacked meaning.  It wasn’t until my twenties that I finally saw what I needed to do.

As an adult, now in my early twenties, I began to really expand my vocabulary.  It may sound funny, but this actually worked for me.  I’d watch movies with the subtitles on and when there was a word I didn’t know, I’d write it down and use it in one of my stories to expand my vocabulary.  Subtitles have actually become a great tool and I still continue the process to this day, whether it be to use the words I hear or just to learn the definition.  My art began to form better, my words began to flow more.  It was around this time I really embraced writing.  I began the project that is now my first published work thanks to all that I’ve learned over the years.  I don’t think my writing style would be liked by so many if I hadn’t learned from all the experiences I’ve had over the years.  I’ve included an example from a new chapter of my next book I’m currently working on as an example.  I hope you enjoy it.

“NOOOO!!” Shino screamed, running towards the creature. “FOOL!” The creature bellowed, blasting Shino back six feet on his back. “Do you not know who I am? You insolent little maggot! You cannot fathom the power I possess! How is it you plan to beat me? HAHAHAHA!! You are weak! I am Sephiran. You are dead.” Shino watched in horror as Sephiran gutted his parents first before turning to finish what he had started. Just as Sephiran swung down on Shino, A loud clang rang out just above him. Standing there, covered in sweat and burned from fighting fires, holding a sword blocking the attack was Chingon!

“Creature, you fight me! I am the sanctuary’s hope and no other has the honor of this fight!”

“Hahahaha! You are brave, small one, but you cannot defeat me. Not with darkness in your heart. Yes, I sense it like it’s a sign lit up for the world to see. You are mine!” Sephiran snapped his fingers as he rose to his full height, his dark blue wings folding behind him. At his full height, seven feet, he towered over the two men beneath him. His green robes conformed to his jet black body. The only part of him that hinted at color were the white accents around his eyes, nose, and mouth. His eyes, blood red, glowed like a street light.

At the sound of Sephiran moving, Chingon lunged. As he did, his right arm began to burn. Black seared his whole side before he could yelp a cry of pain. In the short time the rest of his body up to his neck burned, Sephiran approached Shino again. “Let’s see if you can fly, hero!” With that, he threw Shino as hard as he could. Shino flew through the air towards, then past the wall of the sanctuary. He was in a daze as his world began to disappear. He was falling quickly. He didn’t know if he’d survive the fall or not. How could he be a part of that boys life if he was about to die? Could the keeper have been wrong?

Chingon felt a surge of energy rising up in him. The energy felt wrong though. It wasn’t the good he stood for, rather the evil he kept in his heart for so long. How could he be the bad guy? His destiny has become clouded. As the power in him rose, he made a quick decision to do one last good deed. He put his arm out, palm towards the wall, fingers outstretched. He felt for Shino’s falling body.

Just before slamming into the ground, a cushion of cerulean light cushioned the fall. Shino’s sight blurred and he blacked out.

“One final good deed before servitude?” Sephiran laughed. “Yes, I knew what you did. Why would you save such an insignificant insect like that? Your last act and you save someone unimportant. Your decision making skills had better start getting smarter or you won’t be spared again.” He snapped his finger again. The rest of Chingon’s face burned, the agony with it unbearable. Chingon fell to his knees in pain, screaming and clawing at his face. When it finally stopped burning, an unrecognizable Chingon stood and faced Sephiran. Parts of his face were missing from clawing at the burning flesh. “Now for the finishing touches, my general,” Sephiran said, waving his hand at Chingon. The charred remains of his body hardened, his own skin thickening and forming armor, harder than any man made steel. A mask of great evil was shaped around his head and seared in place. The good in Chingon was gone. Chingon was gone. He was now the black knight and he was his master’s general. What were his orders? 

I hope you’ve enjoyed this preview and an insight into what made me the writer, artist, and published author I am today.  I will continue this trend for years to come, I’m certain of it.  My writing can and will get better and better.  Your enthusiasm and support is fuel for me to become the best I can.  I will rise to the challenge of creating something masterful that will blow the minds of the fiction world.  Most importantly, before I go, without you, none of this would be possible.  From the bottom of my heart, thank you.

–

My name is Chris Bryant.  I’m 26, born and raised in Lexington, Ky.  I love to write.  I have been writing since I was little, always short stories about action or adventures I’d have liked to have been on.  The Sword of Hope is my first of many books to come.  My dream has always been to be able to get one of my stories published.  This is my first full length story.  I can’t wait to see how everyone likes it.

Learn more at: http://theswordofhope.com

Chapter 1

2:02 A.M.       Bel Air, West Los Angeles, California

She booted her laptop in the basement four stories below her room on the top floor, opened the vault program, connected to the vault’s computer, activated her decryption software and deactivated the alarm. Then the combination to the keypad which was located on the left of the vault door was decrypted, because entering the combination onto the keypad activated the retinal-eye identification system and the cameras outside and inside the vault would record the activity. Thus neither was activated and her entry and exit wouldn’t be recorded. She removed her driving gloves from her jacket pocket, opened the well-balanced door with ease, and the recessed overhead-fluorescent lights in the ceiling went on.

The vault was ten feet high and wide by twenty feet deep, and had been made of super-strength concrete and hardened with steel fibers and reinforcing bars to withstand thirty thousand pounds per square inch of pressure. Only the door was visible and its concrete of the same quality was encased in stainless steel to provide an aesthetic finish.

She walked inside and placed her empty hard-cased luggage on the rectangular table in the middle of the vault and opened it. A large metal drawer labeled DVD & VHS was opened with her key. She selected the ones she wanted and placed them into her luggage. Then the metal file cabinet was unlocked, opened and selected manila folders were placed into it and the cabinet relocked. Finally, she took her key, opened the cash locker’s stainless-steel door and removed the metal box. She emptied the box and filled the remaining space in her luggage with sixty bundles of one hundred Benjys each held together with currency straps. The bundles were stacked neatly, and then the empty metal box was returned and the door locked. The cash locker was sad because all of her old friends were gone, but the DVDs, VHSs and folders enjoyed their inheritance.

She took the Victorinox luggage from the vault, closed the door, locked it with her laptop and checked it to make sure she had not left any tracks of penetration. Then reset the alarm with her laptop and closed the screen. She stood in her jeans, Pendleton shirt, sheepskin jacket, tennis shoes and ball cap, with no logo, for a few moments and listened. Her wrist watch read two twenty. Right on time. She picked up the Victorinox again with her right hand, because the wheels made too much noise when it rolled across the hard floor, laptop in her left and bag over her right shoulder. The elevator would make too much noise, so she walked up the stairs with calm and silence, her two essential close friends who were part of her needed persona and arrived at the massive foyer and stopped. She raised the screen on her laptop, deactivated the estate’s perimeter alarm, and the five of them went quietly through the massive front doors, still close friends.

She and her companions went to the garage and used her garage door opener, went to her Ford Escape, opened the rear cargo door and placed her hard case next to a duffel bag filled with clothes and some personal belongings; then placed her laptop on the passenger seat with the screen facing her. The Escape with the close friends inside traveled down the half-mile long driveway from the house, stopped before the massive-double wrought iron gates that matched the height of the estate’s surrounding granite walls of twelve feet and allowed the electric gates to open. After driving through, she stopped, reactivated the perimeter alarm with her laptop, made sure her penetration was not detectable, turned it off and placed it in her briefcase which was on the floor in front of the passenger’s seat. It was next to her new constant companion and close personal friend, Mr. Glock 21, who had .45-caliber persuasive skills and had had rhinoplasty, a sound suppressor attached to his muzzle. All is well that begins well.

Lillian McGraw smiled with satisfaction as she drove north to Mulholland Drive, then turned right, passed Beverly Glen, Coldwater Canyon, Benedict Canyon and Laurel Canyon and headed to Multiview Drive. She turned left and went down to the house of a friend who was out of town. The view from the living room and the observation deck overlooked the kaleidoscope of lights that shimmered in the San Fernando Valley and Universal Studios.

Now it’s my turn.

–

Daniel McNeet retired from a successful career in the business world, uses his experiences to expose what he considers to be the important things in life — a lack of moral sense, corruption in politics, injustice and the intolerance in our society. He is trying to the best of his ability to make a contribution to the betterment of our society. He definitely does not stand by waiting for someone else to make a difference. Find out more at: www.danielmcneet.com

Why did you decide to write this book?

Because of political corruption in the highest levels of our government.

Do you have any secret writing tips you’d like to share?

I write organically. I put two characters together in a situation, become curious as to what they will do, watch them and transcribe their actions.

Tell us a quirky or funny story about you!

I got out of the shower and dried my body. I walked down the hallway looking for my wife. I found her in the living room. She was sitting with a lady a mutual friend of ours talking quietly, and I did not hear them. I said, “Good afternoon.” My wife said to me, “I forgot to tell you I was going to be entertaining a guest.” The lady said, “I did not recognize you with your clothes off.” I told them with a smile, “Good afternoon, ladies.” They laughed, so did I, and I walked back down the hallway still laughing to myself.

Have you ever battled writer’s block? How do you deal with it?

No, not yet. But I am sure it will show up one of these days. And, if it does, I will win the battle and will be pleased to tell you about it.

What’s your favorite quote?

“No man is above the law and no man is below it: nor do we ask any man’s permission when we ask him to obey it.” President Theodore Roosevelt 1908

Who inspires you the most?

The love of my life, my wife.

–

Daniel McNeet retired from a successful career in the business world, uses his experiences to expose what he considers to be the important things in life — a lack of moral sense, corruption in politics, injustice and the intolerance in our society. He is trying to the best of his ability to make a contribution to the betterment of our society. He definitely does not stand by waiting for someone else to make a difference. Find out more at: www.danielmcneet.com

By Guest Blogger Daniel McNeet

Good day, good people.

For devotees of the English language: invidious is an adjective which demonstrates jealousy and hostility.

How to read Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone? “Why, very quickly, to begin with, and perhaps also to make an end. Why read it? Presumably, if you cannot be persuaded to read anything better, Rowling will have to do.” Harold Bloom in 2000

Is Mr. Bennett engaging in invidious comments? Or, is he just expressing his opinion which he has a right to do?

Give respect, get respect. Book reviewers benefit the authors and the readers. There is no benefit, consideration, good manners or respect in denigrating a reviewer because he or she gave an author’s book a review the writer did not like.

Comics and other live audience performers know better than anyone that you cannot win against hecklers or vitriolists. The same can be said for the same ill-mannered ilk on the Internet. If you are a victim of a heckler or vitriolist on the Internet, what can you do? Should you respond? Can you win by engaging them in the negative interaction? Is the stress worth it? If so, what would you say? What about trying “Received”, “Noted”, “Understood” or other? Can they be effectively ostracized or should they be? After all, one of the many good things about the United States of America is: every person has the right to express their opinion, no matter how ill-founded in fact it may be.

A lack of respect is not new and has nothing to do with the Internet. It only has to do with the human beings who use it in a disrespectful form. But they do have sponsors and role models.

“. . . we saw ‘Midsummer Night’s Dream’, which I had never seen before, nor shall ever again, for it is the most insipid ridiculous play that ever I saw in my life.” Samuel Pepys 1662

Nathaniel Hawthorne said of Edward Bulwer-Lytton in 1851, “Bulwer nauseates me; he is the very pimple of the age’s humbug. There is no hope of the public, so long as he retains an admirer, a reader, or a publisher.”

“About a year ago, from idle curiosity, I picked up ‘The Old Curiosity Shop’, and of all the rotten vulgar un-literary writing . . .! Worse than George Eliot’s. If a novelist can’t write where is the beggar.” Arnold Bennett in 1898 regarding the work of Charles Dickens.

So, much like beauty, respect and disrespect are in the eyes of the beholder. In the four quotes above the eyes of the beholders are the readers Mssrs. Bloom, Hawthorne and Bennett and the eyes of the play watcher, Pepys. Are they being disrespectful and if so why?

What is your thought on handling this Internet ilk, those who engage in jealous, hostile and malicious comments, accuse falsely and pass rumors which injure their targets?

If you have read any of the books above, are they right? What are your thoughts and comments?

Comments and constructive criticisms with honesty, their constant companion, will always be welcome at www.danielmcneet.com.

By Guest Blogger Guy Quigley

When I met my wife Wendy in Majorca in 1968, the last thing on my mind was falling for a twenty-year-old girl from Zambia. In Africa, she lived on 100,000 acres cattle ranch and that summer she was vacationing in Palma Majorca with her parents. As fate would decree, I happened to be staying at the in the same hotel.

By that time, I had already lived in New York for a period of time and had returned to my apartment in London close to Hampstead High Street. My business was flourishing, my TR5 PI, was red and gleaming and my lifestyle played like a movie script. Club nights were always Friday and Saturday at Annabelle, Thunderball, La Cage Dior, Casablanca or a host of others.  The British phrase for such behavior was called Bird Pulling Night.  To keep the flavor of the day, one of my neighbors directly underneath me was a member of the hot British pop group “The Kinks”, so things were always hopping.

However, that summer in Majorca, the ultimate selfish bachelor, now twenty-six and with no intention of marriage got smacked in the face by this exciting and interesting female. It was a case of Hook, Line and Sinker. In a matter of days I was talking unabated rubbish to this girl, something I had never done in the past and I mean never. My girl or lady friends never lasted longer that a month and I believed this encounter with Wendy to be just another in a long line conquests. After all it was the swinging sixties and to go back to London with bragging right about a young white girl from Africa was a must. It didn’t work out like that as the aforementioned unabated rubbish consisted of how crazy I was about her and as I freely started to use of the love word for the very first time ever, I was compelled to propose as something deep inside me told I wanted to be with her forever.  They say that love is an itching of the heart that you can’t get at to scratch.  That’s got to be Irish.

Of course coming from a thespian background, I had to do it in the old-fashioned chivalrous way.  Thus, I went down on my knees in a popular square in Palma and asked her to marry me. Wendy pleaded with me to get up and stop embarrassing her. I made it clear that unless she agreed, I be there all evening.  I really knew how she felt and when she finally capitulated and agreed, thus, I stood up to an abundance of Spaniards, who came out of surrounding stores shouting Bravo, Bravo and clapping their hands.

Our relationship was now six days old and here I was going to get married.  Wendy and her parents came back to England and I promptly took her to Ireland to meet my parents. I remember, my eldest sister telling me on the phone that she would always stand by me no matter what. I didn’t quite get it. Then my mother, the ultimate actress, informed me that her physician was a lovely young colored man. I finally got the message and came to the conclusion that they all thought that because she was from Africa, that she must be black.  My mother was always a little suspicious of Wendy’s amazing tan.

It all took two weeks and I was committed, ring, date and the whole enchilada.  Save the letters via snail mail, my only contact over the following six months was a valiant effort with a three hour marathon telephone call, via Paris, Khartoum, Nairobi, Lusaka, Livingstone and finally Kalomo. I was now ten miles from their ranch, but the idiot could not connect me and decided to play “Malcolm in the Middle.” This clown would tell me what Wendy said and then ask me for an answer. It was frustrating, yet farcical, as I would eventually find out after living in Africa. Thus, I never saw Wendy again until April 1969 when I boarded a plane to Lusaka, Zambia with marriage on my mind. My brother Gary and friend Graham pleaded with me at Heathrow not to go. Their attitude was who goes to Africa, even on vacation when one can go to the South of France. They couldn’t understand that I would give up my lifestyle, go into the middle Africa and marry a stranger. They had a wealth of great ammunition in their efforts to stop me, far too much to bring up at a single sitting, but I never wavered and took the flight.  I could talk about the landing amid the gunfire and my paranoia when I got off the plane, but that’s another day.

That one-week’s vacation has taken me on the trip of a lifetime. Next year we will be married forty-three years, with three children and five grandchildren. Guess there are times in one’s life when your God is with you.

–

Guy Quigley was born in Ireland and hails from a third-generation Irish thespian and musical family. He and his wife, Wendy, relocated to the United States in 1983. They have three children and five grandchildren. He is a graduate of CBS in Ireland.

In writing his novel The Rebel Son, Guy drew heavily on his life experiences in Africa, which include ownership of a cattle estate in Zambia. He owned and operated a real estate company in Salisbury (Harare City), Rhodesia (Zimbabwe) and acquired a private pilot’s license for travel between cattle estates in Zambia and offices in Rhodesia. He was forced to cease operations due to the explosive Liberation War.

Learn more at: http://guyquigley.com/

By Guest Blogger Guy Quigley

Previously I had blogged about meeting my wife in Majorca and ended it there. However, when I wend out to Zambia to marry her, and the aircraft landed amid gunfire, I though, just my luck. Here I am in Africa, against the advise of everyone and landing right in the middle of a Coup. So I stayed on the plane and waited for the crew. At the same time, her father, George Horton kept on insisting to Wendy that I had stood her up, as all the passengers had deplaned. The taunting of my bride-to-be came to an end when I finally got off with the crew who had informed me that the gunfire was a salute to the Tanzanian President who had just landed before us. So Wendy was right, I was right and her father was wrong.

It was a three hundred mile drive to their cattle ranch in Zambia’s Southern Province, just seventy miles north of Livingstone and the Victoria falls.  Her dad being of American origin always drove American trucks and cars and this old 1964 blue Impala, big and long as it was, had seen better days.  I recall that half way through the trip; the old man pulled over and asked Wendy to drive. I was asked to scoot out of my door and let Wendy out of her seating position in the middle of the front bench seat. I was aghast and boldly stated “What if a snake is waiting for me?” They both laughed at this statement, thinking it was the most ridiculous thing they had ever heard. I was not amused; after all there were no snakes on Hampstead Heath.

Once on the property, I met my old sarcastic nemeses, Wendy’s mother Stella. She was the hauthy-haughy one of the parents, who when we met in Majorca and wanted to get married after one week broke into hearty laughter.  Stella was amply laden with cutting sarcasm and an upper crust air that could slice to the bone. However, I got her number in Majorca and she knew it, so we became great friends. On my wedding day, she was teaching me to shoot (no guns in Britain) with George’s hand made Wesley Richards .318 rifle from Bond Street London.  There was a persistent crocodile in one of the dams on the ranch. I never did get that crock, as we had to go. I told Stella that we are supposed to get married in about fifteen minutes and that we were not dressed and three miles from the main house.  With her typical wave of a hand, she stated that nobody was going to go home. A free booze-up for the entire community, courtesy of the Horton’s would not be ignored.

After about a year in London, the old girl and Wendy plotted to get me to Africa and I fell for the pitch. What the hell I was going to do was another story. The only meat I ever saw was in a supermarket. But, I’m a fast learner and after five years there, we grew our place into 40,000 acres. We had a Simmental herd of pedigrees from Germany and yours truly had learned how to deliver their calves, arms right up to the armpits in the lazy cow (that sounds too British). But that’s the way they were, no dropping calves like our ranch stock, these babies lay down and demanded to be treated like ladies.

I could amble on here, but I must get to the heading and the word complacency. So here goes. Wendy and I had acquired a German shepherd dog from The Rhodesian Police (lived in Salisbury too). She was slightly smaller than the others and was rejected by the police. We named her Cindy and she was the coolest of dogs. I trained her at the police department with the regular cops and upon our return back to the ranch after a couple of years away, Cindy learned to lion hunt without getting herself killed.  Bigger dogs think they have a chance, but one swipe from a lion can take their head off. So she hunted with the little terriers, running around the lion in circles and frustrating the beast.  Oh yes, compliancy. Remember the snake story at the start of this blog, well after five years; this moron was now walking around at night with a flashlight that was not switched on. On one occasion, Malcolm, a kid who worked for me and myself were walking over to Wendy’s grandmother’s home.

Cindy was in front of me and she stopped dead in her tracks and I almost fell over her. The dog-kept backing into me until I got smart and switched on the flashlight. There in the doorway was the most magnificent Egyptian Cobra, fully hooded and ready for business. Double bonus, this baby was at crotch level for the strike.  I nearly had a senior accident and then I gave the light to Malcolm and told him to keep it focused on the snake. I returned with a .410 and blew its head off in the doorway.  Let me say that after that the flashlight became my best friend and old Granny Horton demanded that I fix and repaint her door.

Just one story of the African days.

–

Guy Quigley was born in Ireland and hails from a third-generation Irish thespian and musical family. He and his wife, Wendy, relocated to the United States in 1983. They have three children and five grandchildren. He is a graduate of CBS in Ireland.

In writing his novel The Rebel Son, Guy drew heavily on his life experiences in Africa, which include ownership of a cattle estate in Zambia. He owned and operated a real estate company in Salisbury (Harare City), Rhodesia (Zimbabwe) and acquired a private pilot’s license for travel between cattle estates in Zambia and offices in Rhodesia. He was forced to cease operations due to the explosive Liberation War.

Learn more at: http://guyquigley.com/

By Guest Blogger Guy Quigley

This is my first blog and what a “LULU” it is. My friend Joe (Surname withheld) who lives between Dublin Ireland and Durban South Africa had to come to the United States on August 2nd 2011 to attend a deposition in a vexatious litigation case brought upon him by a party he does not know and who does not know him.

I am the real target where all the arrows are aimed, so they made the net enormous and encompassed several of my friends. Joe was scheduled on US Airways from Dublin to Philadelphia via Charlotte, NC with an arrival time in Philadelphia of 4:15PM; add to that an hour and a half of rush hour traffic and it can be easily established that he would be at our home by 6:00PM.

As fate would decree, the flight arrived in Philadelphia first, thus, shaving three hours of his travel time and he duly arrived at our home at around 3:00PM. We were elated that he was early and our elation was soon diminished when Joe went grey, started to sweat and collapsed in a chair and slipped into a semi-unconscious state. Being old friends who had lived in Central Africa, we immediately assumed that he was suffering from exhaustion and he would pull out of it.

Fortunately, Claudine, our eldest daughter, who happened to be in our home at that time, took one look at Joe and called 911. I had Joe on the floor at this point with wet towels and an ice pack on his neck. Within five minutes, Officer Lawn from the Plumstead Police Department arrived through the door followed in hot pursuit by paramedics. Within fifteen minutes they took Joe out of the house on a gurney, had him hooked up in the ambulance to the bevy of electronics and drips and took off at sirens blaring. Together with my brother Gary (who had popped in to say hello to Joe and never got that far), we followed the ambulance to Doylestown Hospital. In the emergency unit, cardiologist, Joseph F.X. McGarvey Jr., who happens to be a neighbor of mine waved to me saying “Hello Guy”. Joe the cardiologist spoke to Joe my friend and then came out to talk to us. He stated that our friend was in the throws of a massive heart attack and he was taking him into the theater for an immediate “stint”.

It was all over by 6:45PM and three days later we still have our friend with us who has now been released from hospital. The point of this blog is to really thank the doctors, nurses, paramedics, police and the entire Doylestown Hospital staff for their professionalism and efficiency

Yes, we currently do have the best medical system in the world, so we should never forget it.  However, if one looks at the timelines and the changes in schedules that allowed our friend to have the heart attack in our home instead of an airport terminal in Philadelphia or Charlotte or for that matter the pick-up car, where he could have died, one has to say that the hand of God was very much present.

–

Guy Quigley was born in Ireland and hails from a third-generation Irish thespian and musical family. He and his wife, Wendy, relocated to the United States in 1983. They have three children and five grandchildren. He is a graduate of CBS in Ireland.

In writing his novel The Rebel Son, Guy drew heavily on his life experiences in Africa, which include ownership of a cattle estate in Zambia. He owned and operated a real estate company in Salisbury (Harare City), Rhodesia (Zimbabwe) and acquired a private pilot’s license for travel between cattle estates in Zambia and offices in Rhodesia. He was forced to cease operations due to the explosive Liberation War.

Learn more at: http://guyquigley.com/

THE ESCAPE

FROM CHAPTER 15

Father Burke took the hand offered him and shook it. “Don’t speak anything of it, my son.” A twinge of regret seemed to come to his eye, the same sort of look that had befallen the nun. Something strange had occurred here, and even the priest seemed to suspect it.

“When you can,” Father Burke continued, sounding choked up, “and if you legally can, come back and see me. Something’s not right here.”

Jake’s heart skipped a beat. He’d been correct, after all. “What do you mean?”

The priest leaned in close. “Willie always calls me to baptize any child, alive or stillborn,” he whispered. “But he didn’t call about your child. And that doesn’t sit right.”

At the words, a furious anger erupted in Jake Fallon. Suspicion had become certainty. Something strange had happened to his child, and he knew now that he couldn’t leave the continent until he uncovered what.

Garbled shouting carried down the hillside from the direction of the road – from the area where they had left the nun and the boy.

The priest’s eyes darted toward the sound. “Must be trouble. I’ve got to get back there.”

“I’m coming, too,” Jake said.

“No you’re not,” the priest barked. “Take the boat and get you and Sarah out of here.”

“If something’s happened to Sister Margaret, I’m not getting on that boat,” Sarah cried hysterically.

Jake turned quickly on his wife. “Yes you are,” he said, his voice laced with warning. “You’ve been through enough. And you’ll only get in my way.”

“You can’t expect me to—”

“Hide in the boat,” Jake interrupted. “I’ll cover you with the sacking and branches. Just be calm and quiet and wait for me.”

“Jacob!”

“Wait for me, Sarah.” Jake looked deeply and adamantly into her eyes. “I mean it.”

Jake fairly had to force his wife into the boat. When she finally lay down, he kissed her on the mouth, and then moved his lips in silence, telling her that he loved her.

Her eyes welled with tears as she mouthed back that she loved him, too.

Jake covered her with the sacking and branches, and then turned to follow the priest up the ridge and along the path – all the while completely uncertain about what he was going to do if they did, in fact, encounter a fight. He’d heard Sarah’s stories about his valor on the plane, of course, but a part of him still couldn’t believe that he was capable of such things. If he found himself in a live or die situation, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to defend himself. Still, he couldn’t leave Sister Margaret to the defense of a pious priest.

Silently, the men moved closer to the road until they were within sight of the Land Rover. Jake could easily see the scene before him, bathed as it was in the light of the vehicle. On the road just in front of the headlights, Sister Margaret was being held down by two young terrorists in their early twenties. A third, slightly older man was unbuttoning his trousers for the coming rape. Daniele stood in front of the headlights, gazing helplessly at the scene.

The older man turned to the boy. “Get out of here!” he hollered in English.

Daniele screamed fearfully, then took off and ran for his life down the uneven track toward his village. Meanwhile, Sister Margaret screeched abuses at the men between prayers for God’s mercy.

Before Jake could even calculate what he was doing, something snapped in him.

Quickly, he picked up a thick piece of Mopani hardwood and charged out of the bush and into the lights of the vehicle. He leveled a blow first on the man with his trousers around his ankles. It was a calculated and precise blow, one that brought the hardwood to splinter in an explosion of shattered wood and blood, sending the man staggering sideways and toppling to the ground.

When the dust had settled, all eyes turned to Jake. The two men holding Sister Margaret released their grip. The nun immediately rolled to one side and curled into a ball.

Before the men could charge, Jake pounced, taking them by surprise. His fist found its mark against the ear of the man to his right, sending him face-first into the dusty track. The second man grabbed Jake’s arm and swung him around, throwing him off balance and landing him flat on his back. Jake lost his breath. Before he could even roll to his side, his attacker leapt onto his chest, the knife in his hand gleaming in the headlights.

Jake fired his hands forward, grabbing the wrist holding the knife. He grappled with his attacker, who brought the knife to bear on Jake’s sternum. Jake felt the blade pierce his shirt. He struggled, closing his eyes tight, all his strength concentrated on pushing the knife away. Then, all at once, the blade retracted. Jake opened his eyes, seeing a scuffle unfold above him. When his eyes adjusted fully to the light, he was shocked to see Father Burke with his arm wrapped around the terrorist’s neck.

Jake surged forward again, grabbing the distracted attacker’s knife and plunging it immediately into his chest.

The man went limp, and Father Burke let go. Without hesitation, Jake jumped up and rushed to the other man, who was only now staggering to his feet. Before he could get his bearings, Jake stuck him firmly in the heart. He then withdrew the knife and stuck him again.

“Did you kill the other one, too?” Father Burke called out with mild hysteria.

Jake wheeled around and checked the man with the trousers around his ankles. The man was already dead. The wood had split his head wide open, pieces of gray matter bulging out above his ear.

“Jesus,” Father Burke said softly as he stepped in beside Jake.

“Watch your mouth, old man,” Jake said.

A stirring sound came up from behind. It was Sister Margaret, her face wet with dusty tears. Father Burke darted over to help her off the ground. The young man watched as the priest slung the nun’s torn clothing over her shoulders. He noticed that the priest was shaking from head to toe.

“This the first kill you’ve seen, Father?”

“You’ve done this before,” Father Burke replied with a shaky voice.

“I guess I have.” Jake felt almost as bewildered as the priest looked. “It seemed to come naturally, like from somewhere in my past.”

“It came from your past, all right. And if I may add, it would seem a violent past.”

Jake took a moment to observe his handiwork. Three men lay bleeding in the dust.

All dead. All attacked with the precision of a man quite used to killing.

“What are you going to do about Shadrick?” Jake asked, deflecting.

“Don’t concern yourself with that.” Father Burke took the nun under his arm as he spoke. “I’ll get Margaret back to the mission and seek help for Shadrick and his boy.”

Jake nodded. As Father Burke watched, he collected from the nearest terrorist the sheath for the knife he held. He wiped the blood off on the dead man’s shirt, placed the knife in the sheath, and stuck it in his belt. He then rolled the bodies into the bush. When he’d finished, he stalked around the site, picking up three AK-47s left in the dust by the men. He strapped each of them over his shoulder.

“Father, I have to go to Sarah.” He looked to Sister Margaret, who had retreated to the Land Rover and was leaning against it, quaking violently with fear and shame. “Say goodbye to Sister Margaret. Now is not the time . . . for her or for me.”

Father Burke grabbed Jake in a bear hug. “She’ll be fine, my son. With prayer and time.”

Jake pulled back and nodded.

“My address and telephone number are in the envelope you carry.”

The young man checked the envelope in his back pocket. It remained.

“Go, Jake.” Father Burke waved him away. “There are likely more ZIPRAs crawling the area. You must get to the lake.”

Jake turned, but did not yet make tracks. “Where will you go?”

“I have yet to read the last rites for the gentlemen you dispatched.”

Jake looked back at him, astounded. “The last rites for these animals? These men who would rape and do God-knows-what to a nun?”

“It’s God’s work I do, Jake. Always remember that.”

Jake scoffed. “But they’re probably heathens; or worse, they could believe in black magic.”

Father Burke smiled. “All the better for them that I do this, then. And either way, it sure won’t do them a bit of harm.”

Jake shook his head in reservation, then did as he was told. The last he saw of the priest, he was helping Sister Margaret off the ground and into the Land Rover.

~~~

Jake climbed to the crest of a slight hill overlooking the lake. Hearing voices in the distance, he put his ear to the wind. Two men appeared, moving along the edge of the lake. Jake’s heart raced. The men were heading directly to where he had hidden Sarah. With adrenaline flowing wildly, there was only one course now: he would have to intervene.

He crouched in the weeds, waiting for his opportunity. It came when the two men stopped to light cigarettes. Jake crept down the incline, careful to keep himself concealed in the bush. The men stood now between Jake and the covered boat.

Jake kept to silence, moving along on his stomach, but the ZIPRAs did not. Twigs cracked underfoot.

“Jacob,” came a voice from the underbrush, “is that you?”

Sarah, mistaking the terrorists for her lover, had spoken and blown her cover.

Jake watched as one of the ZIPRA fighters lifted his hand to silence the other.

Sarah whimpered again. “Jacob?”

They heard her this time. Jake was sure of it. He watched as, to conserve their precious smokes, they promptly stomped the top of their cigarettes against a tree and placed the unused portion into their pockets. Quietly, they slid their weapons off their shoulders and dropped their Russian-issue khaki military bags. They moved slowly toward the hidden boat, their weapons at the ready.

Jake waited again for the opportune moment. When it came, he charged without hesitation. From the bush he darted, hammering into both men, taking them into the dark water of the lake. By the time they surfaced, Jake had already planted his knife into one of the men. The terrorist floated away, face down, with the knife still protruding from the side of his neck. This seemed to startle the remaining terrorist, and Jake used the moment of distraction to get a grip with his arms around the man’s neck. They flailed in the water, face to face, eyes interlocked as they struggled.

Jake, with the upper hand and in complete control, stared long and hard at the man he strangled. All at once, his mind flashed to the campfire in the bush. A lifeless body hanging from the tree came into focus for a couple of seconds. And then another flash: the face of the man he grappled with, sitting by the fire with an albino.

Jake shook the thoughts from his mind as he forced the terrorist’s head under water and held it until there was no resistance. Finally, he let go. The second man drifted away into the lake.

Jake sloshed to the shore and picked up the weapons on the water’s edge. He examined them, found that two of them looked clean, and threw them into the boat.

The others he flung out into the deep water. He then turned to the military bags.

Quickly he opened the bags, searching for food or medical supplies. But all he found was one bag nearly empty and one bag crammed with documents. He dispatched the empty bag into the lake, throwing the other over his shoulder. Then he stood and pulled the branches off the boat.

–

Guy Quigley was born in Ireland and hails from a third-generation Irish thespian and musical family. He and his wife, Wendy, relocated to the United States in 1983. They have three children and five grandchildren. He is a graduate of CBS in Ireland.

In writing his novel The Rebel Son, Guy drew heavily on his life experiences in Africa, which include ownership of a cattle estate in Zambia. He owned and operated a real estate company in Salisbury (Harare City), Rhodesia (Zimbabwe) and acquired a private pilot’s license for travel between cattle estates in Zambia and offices in Rhodesia. He was forced to cease operations due to the explosive Liberation War.

Learn more at: http://guyquigley.com/