Tag Archives: books

It Makes Horse Races ..

Posted on by
Reply

Differing opinions are what make horse races.  And among writers you certainly have differing opinions.  One such case is the question of what is more important in a novel: character or plot.  I’m not going to take sides – exactly.  Today, I’m going to talk about characterization.  Next week, I’ll talk about plot.  And beyond that, I’ll discuss another important aspect of the novel. But, today, it’s character.

You need the reader to identify with your main character. You’d like for your reader to imagine living inside your character’s skin. You want the reader to say, “Yeah, I’ve been there.” Or, “I can see myself in that position.”  This implies that the reader knows enough about the leading character to able to do this.  So, the writer must show the reader, sooner or later (but not too late) what makes this character tick. Many suggest that the reader meet and get to know something about your protagonist in the first chapter—if not on the first page. The reader cannot establish a relationship with the protagonist without knowing what the character thinks.  Reading about what he or she does, but not why she does it, will not likely draw the reader into a close relationship.

Most would agree that the protagonist must want something desperately. The reader must understand this need, and must feel that the character deserves it. Here again, actions can show the reader a lot. But knowing what the character is thinking, what the character is feeling, will place the reader in the character’s shoes. You want your reader to say, “I would have felt the same way.” Or, “I would have done the same thing.”

Of course, we as writers often have the protagonist doing things we would never have the courage to do.  That’s okay.  We might feel like doing it – if only we had the guts to do it. Or we might think the character is stupid for doing that.  But, that’s also okay as long as the reader understands the motivation, can see the need to do this from the protagonist’s point of view.

We must make the reader really care about our leading lady or leading man.  This person is someone the reader would like to know, spend time with, have coffee with or maybe just watch a sunset with. Now, the protagonist is a real person.  And now, we want the readers to say, and to feel, that the protagonist deserves better.

The basic premise in most novels is that the protagonist is trying to achieve something, to reach some goal, to accomplish some task. Part of our job as writers is to make the reader pull for the protagonist.  That goal must become important to the reader.  The reader can think the goal is silly, or not worth the effort, or perhaps even a bad idea.  But, it is our job to make the reader hope that this leading character will actually achieve that goal.

Say the protagonist is a woman trying to cross a line. It could be a goal line, a finish line, an imaginary line, or a line between two countries. It makes no difference. It is the goal she has set for herself. She has worked hard to get close but there are so many obstacles, and they seem to grow bigger and more difficult the closer she gets to that line. And suddenly, it doesn’t look like she will make it. Now, the reader actually may think it is not the thing to do. It’s too dangerous, or it’s likely to cause grave physical damage. If she doesn’t stop now, she could end up dead, or in the hospital. She should give it up. But, it is extremely important to the protagonist, and because it is, the reader is going to back her. “I don’t think you should do this, but if you must, I’m with you all the way.”

As the reader turns the pages at this point, the writer wants to make it so compelling that the reader is actually feeling the strain of trying to cover the last few feet. The reader’s muscles have tensed up, and perhaps the reader is actually leaning in the direction the protagonist is trying to go. Do it right, and the reader will be affected physically, not just feel the struggle to advance, but will actually strain (unconsciously) to help the woman achieve her goal.

Not easy to accomplish.  But do it and you have a character the reader will remember.  And that’s the key to success.  The reader will remember to tell others about this great character.  The reader will look to buy the next book featuring this character.  You will be on the road to success.

The keys. Make the reader identify with the character; care about the character; feel for the character; help the character reach her goal.

Next: the case for the plot.

A Spark of Imagination

Posted on by
4

Jodie Wolfe creates novels where hope and quirky meet. She’s been a finalist in a number of contests. Today, she reveals how one bit of quirkiness managed to get into her latest novel. It’s a fun read.  I think you’ll enjoy it.

It first started with a love of guinea pigs. When my sons were young, we had several furry pets. The first to join the family was Fluffy. We didn’t know a lot about raising guinea pigs at the time. We placed our new pet in a glass aquarium so we could easily watch the new addition to the family. Our standard poodle would sit for hours on end watching the guinea pig. We called it “‘Fluffyvision”.  🙂

Unfortunately, Fluffy wasn’t as healthy as we thought, and she didn’t last overly long. My sons were soon asking for a replacement. Next came Squeakers. When we were bringing her home in the van, she squeaked the whole way, which is how she got her name. She was an incredibly intelligent guinea pig who knew to run to the refrigerator, and when opened, which drawer held the carrots – one of her favorite treats. She lived for many years. When she made an untimely demise, we went to the pet store and found two more guinea pigs – Checkers and Cocoa. By this time my sons were in high school.

One day I had a photo frame on my entrance hall table. I’d recently purchased the frame and hadn’t decided what to put in it yet. The frame came with a photo of a woman in it. One of my sons asked me who it was, and I teasingly said, “That’s your great Aunt Gertrude. She lives in Texas on a guinea pig ranch.” We spun all kinds of stories about the factitious family member.

So, when it came time to write the third book in my current series, I told my sons that the heroine’s name was Gertrude. They immediately encouraged me to somehow add guinea pigs to the story. I didn’t know if it was a feasible option since my books are set in the 19th Century. I started researching to see if it was a possibility. I learned about Queen Elizabeth I who had a guinea pig when she was a little girl. Some sites even mentioned the exotic pet trade in Virginia as early as 1627. I had enough information to know I could in fact include guinea pigs into my story.

Here’s a sneak peek at the back cover of my new book, Wooing Gertrude:

Enoch Valentine has given up finding peace for his past mistakes. He throws everything he has into being the new part-time deputy in Burrton Springs, Kansas while maintaining the foreman position at a local horse ranch. But when trouble stirs on the ranch, he questions whether he’s the right man for either job.

Peace has been elusive for most of Gertrude Miller’s life, especially under the oppressiveness of an overbearing mother. She takes matters into her own hands and sends for a potential husband, while also opening her own dress shop. Gertrude hopes to build a future where she’ll find peace and happiness.

Will either of them ever be able to find peace?

Thanks, Jodie, for giving us a peek into how some “quirkiness” got into one of you novels.  And I must add, Wooing Gertrude is available now on Amazon.  And dear reader, please leave Jodie a comment, maybe on how some little bit sneaks into one of your novels.  Thanks.  jim

Here’s where you can find Jodie online:

Jodie Wolfe is a member of American Christian Fiction Writers (ACFW), and Faith, Hope, & Love Christian Writers (FHLCW). She’s been a semi-finalist and finalist in various writing contests. When not writing she enjoys spending time with her husband in Pennsylvania, reading, walking, and being a Grammie. Learn more at  .www.jodiewolfe.com

Right Brain, Left Brain

Posted on by
12

In the summer of 2020, I had a major medical problem.  This is not a complaint.  Everything came out okay – eventually.  I was in the hospital for a month.  This included three surgeries, ten days in ICU, and four days when I was “unresponsive.”

After the month in the hospital, I spent the better part of the next month in bed.

But after those two months, I was at least beginning to think about a “more normal” life. My brain was functioning.

Sort of.

Prior to entering the hospital, I had A Plot for Murder almost finished and was looking forward to a fall release.  With the book nearly finished, that was still a possibility. But a strange situation occurred.

We had planned to remodel the kitchen, and I began to draw up plans.  Of course these went through several iterations as we refined what we wanted, and what would fit into the overall space available. Part of this had to deal with retrieving some “lost space” where the builder had left small areas empty behind walls.  We got the blueprints and decided to utilize some of those little bits. When combined with the space currently in use, this allows us greater freedom in our design.

All of this went along easily.

But, when I sat at the computer to work on finishing the novel, nothing happened. I could put down words, sentences. But I was having trouble concluding the book.  My imagination was gone.  And the words I put down, now at a critical part of the book, were flat. There was no feeling in them, no imagination, no rhythm in the sentences.

This situation continued for over a month.  Good work on drawing plans for the kitchen. Uninspiring words for the novel.

And then one day, I wrote a paragraph I liked. Over the next week, the way to handle the ending began to come into view. Paragraphs began to fit together. The ending worked well.

Sometime later, I realized what was happening. My left brain had come back to life first. My right brain lagged behind. Strange. My hospitalization had nothing to do with the brain. No head injury.

But it certainly appeared as if the left brain woke up and started to work faster than the right brain.

Perhaps there is a message for me here.

jim

“From the first sentence, it captures your attention and carries you on an intriguing mystery-solving adventure.” Avid reader Sharon S.

“I’ve read so many mysteries/suspense stories that all sound alike. A Plot for Murder is very distinctively and enjoyably different.” R. Bruner.

Rod Granet, award-winning novelist and womanizer, is the main speaker at a writers conference. But after the opening session and in front of a crowd, Maggie DeLuca, Father Frank’s sister, accuses Granet of stealing her story and says he will pay.

That night, Granet is killed.

The sheriff quickly zeros in on Maggie and she is hauled off in handcuffs. When Father Frank comes to her aid, the sheriff threatens him with jail if he interferes.

A Texas Ranger is assigned to the investigation. He sees Father Frank as a valuable asset. Even as the sheriff continues to harass Father Frank and interrogate Maggie, the Ranger pushes Father Frank to get more involved, telling him the sheriff considers Maggie his only  suspect. Father Frank is faced not only with his sister being the prime suspect in a murder case, but also threatening letters, a rifle shot through his car as he drives across a bridge, and the sheriff’s promise to put him in jail if he investigates the murder.

Can Father Frank stay out of jail and alive, and find the real

 

If you’d like to order a copy of A Plot for Murder: Murder at the Writers Conference, use this link which will offer you a choice of formats and retailers.    https:books2read.com/u/mYAW2P

 

Anthologies

Posted on by
4

Of late, I’ve received a number of questions regarding anthologies.    So today, I’m going to talk about anthologies.

First, what is an anthology?  In the simplest terms, an anthology is a collection of written works. It can be a collection of poems, plays, short stories, songs, novellas, or excerpts from longer books. These do not have to be related in any way, although often there is a theme associated with the anthology. There is not a real limit on how many – no minimum and no maximum.  The works are generally chosen by a compiler, which can be a single person or a committee.  An anthology generally contains works by several authors. However, there is nothing preventing an anthology containing various works of a single author. And, today, anthology may be used for a series of TV shows, or recordings of a single group or performer.

So, there is much room for an anthology to take various forms.  But, here are some suggestions to consider if you or your group is thinking about producing an anthology.

It is often a good idea to have a specific theme for the anthology.  For instance, an anthology of mystery short stories. Or an anthology of great opening chapters. How about an anthology of poems associated with Valentine’s day? An anthology of one-act plays.  It is best to have a defined theme, but one not so narrowly focused that few items will be submitted.

Along with a specific theme, a specific goal should be set. It should be in writing, agreed upon by those involved, and re-read at every meeting. Some examples of a goal might be to highlight the writing talent of the best in your group, or area, or whatever domain you are choosing. Or, it might be to give a chance at publication to many who have not been able to achieve that yet. It could be to reward many authors who submitted an entry to your contest, or selected people who attended your conference.  Please note, this is generally different from the theme, although it is certainly possible the two could be the same, or similar.

While we are on the subject of a goal, the organizers must decide how finances will be handled. How will the project cover expenses upfront? Decisions need to be made early whether the anthology will be sold for a profit, or given away. I recommend, for anthologies made up of works from authors without a huge following, it is agreed that royalties will not be paid. Naturally, this must be determined before the call for entries. If the project pays for the expenses of production and a surplus exists, from the beginning those submitting works should agree any profits be used either to fund the next project, or donated to help the library or some other group fostering literacy. If you have high profile authors involved, then the division of royalties should be clear before submissions are sought.

It is best if the anthology is viewed as a group project. This is particularly true in the early stages. Get the group behind it and you are halfway there. A committee can and should work on finding participants (authors), help in the selection process, and offer to proofread the document before submitting it for publication.

However, it is best to have one editor. There can be a committee to help during the selection process. But when you are getting down to the final editing, while several may read for possible mistakes, a single person should be making the final decisions. Committees can get hung up with differing opinions and the project can grind to a halt.  In the end, one person has to be in charge to complete the project.

Anthologies can be an excellent project for a writing group. It can generate a lot of enthusiasm and participation. It can serve as excellent publicity, and often results in increased membership. Anthologies often prompt people who are reluctant to write, or to try for publication, to overcome that hesitation and become an active writer.

And they can be fun.

James R. Callan

Please add your thoughts on anthologies.  We can get an anthology of thoughts on anthologies.  Click the “comments” below.

The Mystery of Writing

Posted on by
14

Today’s guest blogger is Patricia Gligor, a Cincinnati writer of mysteries. Her latest is Small Town Mystery series, Book #2 – Murder at Maple Ridge.  She’s had a varied career, including managing a sporting goods department and proprietor of a resume writing service. But her passion has always been writing fiction. Here she talks about the mystery of writing.

 

I’ve always been in awe of the writing process. And, after seven published novels, I’m still amazed – maybe more than ever – at how writers’ minds work, including my own.

I love old houses and, several years ago,I went for a walk in my neighborhood and happened upon an old Victorian. As I stood gazing at the house, I thought about what it would say if its walls could talk. And the first book in my five-book Malone mystery series, Mixed Messages, was born. My twenty plus years in Alanon, a 12-step program for the friends and families of alcoholics, helped me to create two of the characters and gave me a subplot that would continue throughout the series.

I live in Cincinnati, Ohio and I’ve always wondered what it would be like to live in a small town. In my first Small Town Mystery, Secrets in Storyville, I explored that possibility. I worked in retail for many years, managing a sporting goods department, and I had lots of stories to tell – through the eyes of my main character. I’ve had friends ask me which scenes really happened and which were figments of my imagination.

Which brings me to my newest release: Murder at Maple Ridge. Once again, an old house inspired me. One I’d driven by – and admired – for many years on the way to a park about an hour from where I live. The knowledge I gained working in sporting goods – about firearms and hunting –was invaluable.

So, although I know what inspired me to write each book, the question remains: Where did the ideas come from to fill all those blank pages? How, as I write, do just the right people, places and things from my life experiences pop into my mind? How do physical and personality traits of people I know or have met, bits and pieces of overheard conversations, places I’ve lived or visited and a multitude of other things coalesce to create the characters, the plot and the setting for a book?

I’ll probably never know the answers to those questions but that’s fine with me because the not knowing, the endless possibilities, is what makes writing an adventure – and a mystery.

To read about her books and/or to order them, go to: http://tinyurl.com/8sd2cz4    

And we’d love to hear your “mysteries” in the writing process. Click on the little balloon at the upper right of this blog to get to the comments.  OR, down below the icons for FB, Twitter, etc, and click on “replies.”

 

What’s in a Name?

Posted on by
Reply

Have you read a book lately that had a character with an interesting name? Did you wonder where that name came from?  Did the name just pop into the author’s head?  Or was it an accident – that turned out to be fortuitous?  Or is it a name that will become an icon of the future?

Suppose Margaret Mitchell had named her protagonist Jane.  Would that have started the reader with a different impression than when she chose Scarlett?  Before we even meet Scarlett we have a feeling about her.  Scarlett reminds us of heat, emotion, energy, fire.  We expect a fiery, energetic, volatile woman.

Do we start out with a different impression if the man guy is named Winston or Joe?

J.K. Rowling is one of the most successful writers of our time.  Do you think she spent time on her characters’ names – and not just the major characters?  And did they start us out with an impression?  Draco Malfoy?  Nymphadora Tonks?  Ron Wesley? Servius Snape?  Those names did not just trip off her tongue; she worked to come up with them.   Why, with all those great names, did she name the protagonist a rather plain name – Harry Potter?  Perhaps she wanted to give us the impression that he was an ordinary person, a reluctant hero.

The name is part of the character.  Why do some people change their name in real life?  Because they want a different persona, a different outward expression that better reflects how they feel about themselves, how they want to be viewed.  So you, the writer who is creating this character, need to decide how the character views herself.

In Deadly Additive,  Donn Taylor named a secondary character who always operated on the edge, Brinkman.  An accident?  I don’t think so.  Ian Fleming gave us some insight into the character of his antagonist in The Richest Man in the World when he named him Auric Goldfinger.

Can the name mislead us?  Certainly, if you want it to.  Just don’t let it happen by mistake.  Tiffany can be a person who spends her life helping the homeless, living and eating with them, and then returning to her one-room under the Elevated. Maybe her parents are rich and she was to be a debutant.  But the girl wanted to do something more important.

You can use the name to help make the case for who this person is, or who the parents imagined she might be.  Holly Golightly was a happy, carefree woman.  Sam Spade was a straight forward, no-frills, hard-working person who dug for clues.

Suppose your heroine is named Catherine. If she calls herself Cat, that tells us how she sees herself, and how the reader should view her.

Select the names of your characters carefully.  Do not use the name as simply a way to distinguish one character from another.  Make a conscious effort to select a name that helps build your character.

You work hard to give your book a name that will entice the reader to pick it up and read.  Select your character name to make that character and your book memorable.

I’d love to hear your comments on your favorite names in books.

Free Ice Water

Posted on by
Reply

To those of you who have been with me for seven years, I apologize. But the other day, a friend ask me to reprise this blog.  So here it is.  It still has merit today.

On a recent road trip, we passed through Wall, South Dakota, and visited Wall Drugs.  That’s almost all there is in the small town.  But, it is something to see.  It now fills a square block, and claims to be the largest drug store in the country.  I have no doubt it is. It has many, many rooms for various items that might tempt a tourist to part with some dollars, play areas for kids, some excellent art, and a restaurant that can handle 500 people at a time.  Oh yes, there is a pharmacy, but it is almost lost among the opportunities to buy just about anything.

You have no trouble finding Wall Drugs. For a hundred miles east and west you will see signs along the highway for Wall Drug Store.  Many of them simply say, “Free Ice Water.  Wall Drug Store.”

Today, with our air-conditioned cars and fast food places every ten minutes, free ice water doesn’t seem to be much of a draw.  But back in 1931, things were different.

In 1931, the owners of Wall Drugs, a young pharmacist and his wife, were about to give up that hot summer.  They had agreed they would give it five years and if they couldn’t make it in that period, they’d pull up stakes and move to a big city. Their five years were almost up.

One hot day, the pharmacist’s wife came in and said she had an idea that might get some of the people driving down the highway to stop and come into the store. What did people really want on a hot summer day driving in a hot car through a dusty area?  Ice water. She suggested putting up signs on the highway that said, “Free Ice Water.”

The pharmacist and a high school boy drove out and put up the signs. Before they got back, cars were stopping and people were asking for free ice water.  Some of them decided to get ice cream. And some bought other things. Business began to grow. By the next summer, they had to hire eight girls to handle the sales.

In 2012, a good day will see 20,000 people come through the Wall Drug Store. The highway signs advertise many items sold at Wall Drugs. But many of the signs still read, “Free Ice Water.  Wall Drug Store.”  And “5 Ȼ Coffee,  Wall Drug Store.”  Yes, when you get there, you can get free ice water and you can still get a cup of coffee for 5 Ȼ.  But the customers spend much more than a nickel.  The same family still owns the store, although it has passed on to the children and grandchildren of the original couple who found a way to bring business into their store.

How did they do it?  They found what people really wanted and provided it.  But, it was the simple signs that brought the people in.  As writers, we need to decide what it is that people really want in a book. We must then provide it.  But the big step is to advertise it. Let people know that what they want is available.  The difference is that today, we will put our signs on the Internet highway.  People cruise down it every day, twenty-four hours a day.  We must get our signs out there.  Simple, to the point signs, that offer the public what they want.  Maybe we give something away.  It might be a first chapter.  It might be a drawing for a free book.  (You can’t afford to give a book to everybody.)  Maybe it only needs to be a very short blurb that entices the passerby to stop for a moment, read a bit more, maybe decide to buy.

The key is to provide what the public wants, and tell them about it so they can pass the word around.

One last thing. You’ll notice I didn’t say “readers.”  We might as well aim for a larger group.  Write a book that will bring more people into the reading community.  Expand our fan base. Find today’s “Free Ice Water” and put out those signs on the highway.

And today, I’d appreciate a comment as much as a glass of ice water.  Thanks.

 

On Amazon in digital, paper, or audio formats:    https://amzn.to/2UDjXxw

 

Why and How

Posted on by
Reply

A couple of weeks ago, I sent a scene that was cut from A Silver Medallion to several friends.  The response was gratifying to say the least. They not only liked it, but questioned why it had been left out.  They felt it was a powerful scene.  It’s a little long for a blog, but I wanted to share it with you.  And I’d love to hear your reaction to it. Rosa has been found in a shed at Eula’s house.

Crystal began again the painstaking task of discovering what had brought this beautiful young Mexican woman to Eula’s home in the piney woods of East Texas. Gradually, in a mix of Spanish and English, her story emerged.

She was twenty-three years old and until a year ago, she and her husband, Miguel, had been living in Santiago, Mexico. They were anxious to start a family, “to make niños,” she said. But neither could find a decent job. They had no training and when they did get work, often they earned no more than fifty pesos a day.

Crystal whistled. “Fifty pesos! That’s about five dollars. A day. Can you believe that, Nana?”

Rosa smiled self-consciously and continued. She and Miguel lived with her parents, and had only a two by three-meter room to call their own.

One day, Federico, a man they had seen around Santiago but did not know, offered to buy them a beer—a luxury they rarely had. They accepted. Inside the dark cantina, the three talked about the town, the weather, and work. When Miguel complained that good jobs were impossible to find, Federico replied that much money was to be made in the United States. He spoke of making ten, fifteen, even twenty times as much as they could make in Mexico.

“Federico say he has friend who make thirty times more than Miguel make in Santiago.”

Rosa looked from Crystal to Eula, as if asking them to understand. After a moment, Rosa continued her story.

For several days, she and Miguel could think of nothing else. At night, huddled together on their tiny bed, they would whisper about going to the United States, making lots of money, then lots of babies. Maybe someday they would buy a car, maybe have a house all their own. They laughed, thinking of the possibilities. Then morning would arrive, and as they ate breakfast of tortillas and beans in the kitchen with her parents and her two brothers and three sisters, reality would set in.

Miguel would go out and try to find work. Most days he got nothing. On lucky days, he might make sixty pesos. When Rosa could not find work, she would help her mother wash clothes in the river, pat out tortillas, or tend their small garden.

Then at night, wrapped in each other’s arms, Rosa and Miguel would grin as they talked about making twenty or thirty U.S. dollars for just one day. If they both worked, maybe even fifty dollars. That would be more than 500 pesos in a single day! They would giggle and hug each other tighter. Such a large amount was not possible, but it excited them just to imagine such things.

Rosa grew quiet and gazed out toward the lake. A cool breeze carried a single, golden leaf to the edge of the veranda. After a minute, she started again.

Rosa and Miguel wanted to talk to Federico again, to ask him more about work in the United States, but they would need to return his generosity. They spread all their money on the bed. They had enough pesos for two beers. They should not spend it on that, but searching each other’s eyes, they nodded and left the house to look for Federico.

They found him near the cantina and Miguel offered to buy him a beer. Inside, Rosa declared she was not in the mood for beer; she really wanted some cool water. As Federico drank, they asked him how his friend got to the United States. Federico said to get there and find a job was very expensive.

Rosa squeezed her eyes closed to hold back the tears. They had no money. They would never have enough.

Miguel took a sip of beer, then raised his eyebrows and looked at Federico. “Your friend. Was he rich before he went?”

“No. He was as poor as you, my friend. A man paid his expenses.”

Miguel stared at Federico. “I wish I knew such a man.”

 

A week later, Federico stopped them on the street.

“Señor Jose de Allende knows a man in Texas who needs a maid.”

Rosa and Miguel looked at each other, grins spreading across their faces.

Federico smiled and continued, “Señor Jose will pay all the expenses to get Rosa to Texas.”

Rosa wanted to jump up and down, scream for joy, and give Federico a hug. But that was not done in Santiago. She tried to sound calm and simply asked, “When would I go?”

“You would leave in four days.”

“Can I go with her?” asked Miguel. “I can look for work after we get to Texas?”

“No. You will stay and work for Señor Jose until Rosa saves enough money to repay Señor Jose. And both of you must save money to pay for Miguel’s trip to Texas.”

“What is the cost? And how much will Rosa make?” Miguel asked.

“Señor Jose has that information. You can ask him before you leave.”

For days, their waking hours were filled with dreams of Rosa working in Texas, and calculating how much she might save. She would buy no clothes, no shoes. She would eat little and spend less. She would save everything possible. She would save money faster than anybody ever had. Miguel would come to Texas soon.

For just a moment in the fading light on Eula’s veranda, a sparkle flitted in Rosa’s dark eyes. “We are much happy. We talk of nothing but go to Texas. We see pictures of Texas on TV in cantina. All people has car, house. I say I keep all my pay, spend nada. Soon mi esposo come to Texas.” As quickly as the shine had come to her eyes, it vanished, replaced by a vacant stare.

“So, this Jose guy arranged it?” asked Eula.

Rosa nodded.

“How did you get here?” Crystal asked.

“It is horrible. We drive two days, five of us in back of car. We only stop for petrol, get tortillas and beans. They make us do bad things. Next night, they put us in boat to cross river. Say make no sound or Americans shoot us. I am so afraid. We are too many for boat but they put all in. I think it go down in water. I no can swim. I want to run, go back to Miguel. But I think of money I make in Texas. Think when my Miguel come to me. I bite my lip, make no sound.”

Crystal bit her lip, trying to hold back the tears. The fear tasted bitter, fear of being packed in a vehicle headed for an unknown destination in a country you had never seen, then forced into an overcrowded boat at night, unable to swim. All manner of sinister situations popped into Crystal’s mind. How desperate Rosa had to have been to risk all on such an uncertain venture.

Rosa told how they were pulled out of the boat, then put them in the back of a truck. She could hear them snap a lock shut. The truck lurched off, throwing those in the back first to one side and then the other.

“We have no light. I can see nada. Smell is asqueroso. After many hours, truck stop and I hear man open lock. When door open, light is so bright we no can look. Sun is very hot. We are in little park with baño. They give us cold hamburger, put us back in truck. They lock door and drive more hours. The heat–I think I pass out. We have no water.”

The Mexican woman closed her eyes and continued in a whisper, “Felipe start to shake. His skin is muy hot, but he say he is cold. We yell, hit wall with fists, but truck no stop.”

Eula shook her head and sighed. “My God.”

Eyes still closed, Rosa’s voice grew even softer and Crystal had to lean close to hear. “When we stop, we carry Felipe out. We are at small stream. We try give him water. But he is no breathing.” She made a small sound, as if she were trying to catch her breath. “Man say he is dead. Put us back in truck. I no know what they do with Felipe.”

Rosa stared down at her hands, clutched together in her lap.

Crystal shivered in horror-struck silence. Felipe died of heat stroke and the smugglers just dumped his body.

“Damn murderers,” Eula muttered.

For a long time, the three sat in silence. Was that the end of the story? Crystal was almost afraid to ask, but she had to know. “What happened next?”

For awhile, Rosa remained silent. Then, without looking up, she continued in a voice now devoid of feeling, “We stop. Door open and we get out. We are in building. They make us take off clothes. All clothes. Antonio say he no do it. Señor Blackwood hit him on head with piece of metal, drag him off. I no see Antonio again. I think he is dead. They take . . .” Her eyes closed.

Crystal and her grandmother exchanged glances, but neither uttered a word.

Rosa continued. “Things. Man give us new clothes. We dress. Others go back in truck. I stay there.”

The sun had slipped below the horizon and darkness sifted down through the trees to envelop the landscape. Light from the living room cast a soft glow on the veranda. Crickets began their nightly serenade, while frogs added the bass notes. Night birds called to one another.

Under normal circumstances, Crystal would sit back and enjoy the night sounds of The Park. Tonight, she tuned them out, waiting for Rosa to finish her story, wanting to hear it—and afraid to.

When she could stand the silence no longer, Crystal asked, “Where was that? Where did you stay?”

“At house of Señor Blackwood. I stay there, until ayer.”

Crystal shuddered. Being forced to undress in front of strangers … to suddenly have no control over your life.

What work did Rosa do? How long did she stay? Did Blackwood demand sexual favors? How did she get away and how did she get to The Park? A thousand questions swirled around in Crystal’s mind, all demanding answers.

The young woman seemed so distraught, so on edge, the wrong question might destroy any chance of hearing the rest of the story, perhaps cause her to run away from The Park. That would be easiest on Crystal¾and Nana. But, the Mexican woman had suffered so much already. She needed their help. Besides, Crystal was so far into this mystery she had to find some answers.

“How long, quanto tiempo, did you work for Mr. Blackwood?” Crystal asked.

“Eleven meses,” Rosa said.

“Eleven months!”

“Why’d you stay so long?” Eula did not share Crystal’s fear of frightening the woman into silence, or flight. “I’d have said, ‘So long Blackheart. I’m out of here.’”

“Were you free to leave?” asked Crystal.

Rosa furrowed her brows and said nothing.

Crystal tried again. “Would Mr. Blackwood allow you to leave?”

Rosa shook her head. “No. He say, I leave, or talk to people, Miguel have accident.”

A few seconds passed before the full meaning penetrated Crystal’s understanding. Rosa could not leave without putting her husband in serious danger. Crystal clamped her mouth shut lest her anger erupt in a scream.

Eula leaned toward the Mexican woman. “How much did you save?”

Vertical grooves formed between Rosa’s black eyebrows. “No entiendo.”

Unlike her usual delivery, Eula now spoke slowly, pronouncing each word carefully. “In eleven months, how much money did you save?”

Eula raised her bushy, gray eyebrows at Crystal.

Crystal took a deep breath, trying to calm herself, and turned to Rosa. “Why did you save nothing? How much did Mr. Blackwood pay you?”

“He say he pay me minimal wage.”

“I’d bet on that,” muttered Eula.

“Was it ‘minimum’ wage?” Crystal asked.

“Si. Minimum wage. But when I asked him for my money, he say he take money for food I eat, room I sleep in.”

Crystal and Eula exchanged looks, but said nothing. Even at minimum wage, she should have made over ten thousand dollars.

“I tell him I eat less. Other time, he say he take money for clothes.” Her shoulders, her mouth, her very spirit, sagged. “Sometime I get five dollars. One time I get ten dollars.”

Crystal frowned. “Five dollars? For a whole day?”

Rosa shook her head. “No day. Un mes.”

“Five bucks for a month. What’d you do for this Blackwood guy?” Eula snapped.

Crystal had wanted to ask the same question, but hesitated. She held her breath, afraid of the answer, angry before it came.

“I do all things. I cook. I clean house. I wash clothes. Plancha.”

“Iron,” Crystal translated for Eula.

“I fix yard, grass. I wash car. I do all things.”

Crystal leaned toward Rosa. “You did all these things and you never got more than ten dollars for a whole month?”

Rosa nodded.

Eula swore under her breath. “Damn crook. He ought to be hung up by his—“

“Nana!”

“She won’t know what I’m saying. And anyways, he ought to be.” Eula softened her tone and leaned toward her guest. “Why’d you leave yesterday?”

Rosa turned away and this time, silent tears started to run down her cheeks. Crystal’s eyes misted over and she wanted to take the young woman in her arms and rock her. Instead, she looked toward the tranquil lake, hoping it might uncoil her stomach, shield her from the anguish permeating the veranda like a dense fog.

Darkness had descended, and off to the left, a slender crescent moon had emerged from behind the pine trees. A thin cloud sliced across the upper part of the silver moon. It appeared like a dagger. A dagger aimed at Rosa.

“Three days back, woman come to work at house. She come from Mexico. We talk. She hear of Miguel, mi esposo. She tell me . . .” Her voice broke and moments passed before she could continue. “. . . he is dead.” The tears started again.

“Dead?” Crystal felt like someone had hit her in the chest. “What happened?”

Rosa wiped her eyes and opened her mouth, but the crush of emotion prevented words from forming. A minute passed, and then another before she could answer. “Lucita tell me he get hurt working at hacienda. Jose no let him go to doctor. Two weeks, he die. She tell me they bury him . . . el mes pasado.”

“Last month!” It exploded almost as a scream. Crystal could feel the vein in her neck throbbing.

She slid over and put her arms around Rosa. The young woman, ramrod straight and somewhat distant until now, melted against Crystal as sobs shook her small body.

Crystal rocked the swing slowly, gently patting Rosa. The woman’s sobs gradually subsided, but an occasional low moan verified her continued grieving.

Crystal held Rosa tightly, both to give the young Mexican woman comfort and to ward off the sudden chill seeping into her. Crystal was not married yet. But she had lost both parents when she was seven and her pain had seemed hopeless for such a long time. No one could comfort her. No one could comfort Rosa.

And then, the chill was gone, replaced by a rising heat. It enveloped Crystal’s stomach first. It moved to her head so that her face felt feverish and she rubbed a hand across her brow, expecting to find beads of sweat. Her breathing accelerated, now rapid and shallow, and her jaw twitched as she clenched her teeth. This Blackwood person had kept Rosa a prisoner, locked in by threats and fear of what would happen to her husband if she left. And when Miguel died, this . . . creature . . . didn’t even tell Rosa.

Bile rose in Crystal’s throat. That Rosa ever found out Miguel was dead was an accident. Jose and Blackwood did business together. Blackwood undoubtedly knew of Miguel’s death long before Rosa found out. But of course he didn’t tell her. That would break the lock on her chains. His slave might escape. 

Crystal’s nails dug into the palm of her hand.

Somehow, Blackwood must be stopped.

 

A Silver Medallion, in paperback and digital formats.  http://amzn.to/1WxoEaF   

“A Silver Medallion is a gripping, action-packed adventure from talented author James Callan.” NY Times Bestselling Author Bobbi Smith.                                     “A Silver Medallion reads like a gold-medal thriller.” BookLife Prize in Fiction.  Readers’ Favorite Book Award Winner.

I welcome your comments.  Thanks,  jim

 

Real Life Spawns a Book

Gallery

Posted on by

This gallery contains 2 photos.

Author Frankie Capers has four children, ten grandchildren, and eleven great-grandchildren.  It’s probably the great grandchildren that provide her with many of her stories. Frankie, besides poetry, writes children’s Story-Coloring books. The child can color the story as the story … Continue reading →

Helping a Stranger

Gallery

Posted on by

This gallery contains 3 photos.

I received this from an Austrailian author, Kitty Boyes.  I don’t often post these, but I thought this raised a question sufficiently interesting that I would put it up.  I would love to hear if any of you have experienced … Continue reading →