Littledon! Chapter 3

For the introduction and chapter one, click here.

Chapter 3

Now, it may be wondered why every Littledonian would be so ready to trust the testimony of an untried youth. After all, might not Vincent have merely seen a large dog? He certainly had never seen a wolf before this day, only heard the harrowing stories about them.

How then could he identify a wolf, except by the vague stories which made them out as oversized dogs? But then to distinguish between a large dog and a true wolf became a mere matter of interpretation. Why had nothing like those ideas passed the mind of any Littledonian?

Nothing more appeals to credulity than service upon the greatest fears and the deepest indignation. Nothing more assures belief than the very outrageousness of the matter. And if the wolf turned out to be a large dog, then little harm was done but for a trifle wasted time and energy. Safer, then, to track the beast down and be sure.

Tramping out on the road, the band spoke little. Each man held his weapons before him, gripped like their very lives. Vincent had his whittling knife. His father had a broad hammer. Mr. Lawson, Mr. Warwick, and Mr. Merritt all had swords passed down from their ancestors. Mr. Cartwright had an iron-tipped pike. The younger Warwick had a knife of his own, while Mr. Lawson had a decent bow for hunting stags, though he was most often known to root out hares and rabbits with his swift greyhound, Rosie.

As they strode away the nearby hills, the morning mists settled down, leaving the grass dewed and the air cleared. The clouds above were breaking up, letting down a few castings of sunlight there and elsewhere, though rarely at whatever place was currently here.

Nearly a league out, Samuel Yates came along, on his way into Littledon. Mr. Yates was a younger man. His farm was not much farther, and no doubt his wife there caring for their child, born only a few months earlier.

The men hailed him.

“Hallo, there!” Mr. Yates answered, waving his worn hat, surprised at the vision of seven men travelling in company. “What’s all this about, then?”

“Wolves!” replied the younger Warwick vigorously.

“Ah, more wolves?” Mr. Yates gripped a patch of his coat covering his belt, where surely rested a good knife. “Whose flock were they at?”

“Weren’t at a flock ‘at we know of,” answered, Mr. Merritt.

Mr. Warwick spoke, “Vincent Conn caught glimpse of a wolf. Lone, we think.”

“And hope,” added the baker, Mr. Lawson. “You haven’t seen it, have ye?”

“I should say I haven’t!” declared Mr. Yates with anxiety boiling in his tone. “Where abouts did this happen t’be, Vincent?”

Answered the boy, “Maybe five hundred paces past your farm, sir.”

“Shall you join us, Yates?” asked Mr. Cartwright.

Mr. Yates turned his eyes back up the road, and gave that great consideration. Alas, he had been on his way to visit the town physician, seeking a salve that could soothe a fever in his minikin daughter.

It was roundly agreed by all that Mr. Yates had better see to the medicine. He did ask, nearly demand, that the men make haste and locate this wolf, or at least keep an eye on his plot. Men such as these needed no request to take upon obligations so noble. Reassured, Mr. Yates bade the men good luck, and departed.

Past the Yates farm, Vincent soon identified the place where he had seen the wolf, collecting the length of chain up from where it had fallen. The only sign of it was left in the mud, in the form of tracks larger than those of a dog. The mere size of the prints brought a renewed fear to the men. No dog they’d ever seen could make such impressions.

Being the best hunter among the men, Mr. Lawson was tasked with interpreting the tracks and following them. The tracks immediately led onto the roadway, which yielded less and made tracking more difficult. By the mess of prints running over each other in circles, likely the wolf had sniffed at the ground where Vincent had turned and fled.

With several good turns of his own and hard staring at the ground, Mr. Lawson was able to identify which direction the wolf had gone. The men all followed, heading directly for the Yates farm. Not a single word was uttered, out of concern for Mrs. Yates and the wee girl.

In the stories, it seemed that wolves could do near anything; scratch their way past doors, leap through windows, and all manner of devilish tricks. One legend claimed a wolf came down a chimney and leapt at a family from their fireplace, even as logs burned upon it. Many doubted the tale, but who could know?

Nearly to the farmhouse and grim as ever, sight was caught of the beast. It was larger than any dog, and it looked fierce and pointy, more bones than the usual muscle of dogs. And in its teeth was a snowy white lamb, crimson where its blood stained the wool.

The wolf saw the party and froze in its tracks, only a dozen paces away. Its hackles raised and a guttural growl somehow escaped around the dead lamb. Its breath misted in the chilly air, near enough to smoke in appearance.

All frozen, the men stared at the beast in terror. Its eyes were horrible as it sized them up. They nearly seemed to glow as red coals, bloody and thirsty in a mixture that rattled together the bones of each man.

Then a strange thing happened. The wolf turned and made ready to sprint off into a stand of trees. No longer scalded by those hideous, hateful eyes, the men quickly regained their faculties.

“Quick!” shouted someone, but Mr. Lawson was too fast for the wolf.

Nocked already by the first bound of the animal, he loosed an arrow which caught it farther back than a sure kill. Still, it was a marvelous shot, which managed to bring the wolf to a stop, being that the arrow moved about as the animal did, giving it much pain.

It dropped the lamb and tumbled to the ground in a rage, howling and yelping and scrabbling all about in the mud and grass and blood. Fearful of approaching the ferocious efforts all a blur of teeth and claws, the men watched with a terror.

The wolf made efforts to snatch the arrow in its chops, managing only to increase its agonies as its writhing moved the shaft all the more about its belly. The vision and the noise was worse than any nightmare the stories had ever incited.

But at last, regaining enough of his wits, Mr. Cartwright pushed elbow into Mr. Lawson. He gave command, “Finish it off, then!”

Mr. Lawson took his time aiming with this arrow and waited until the wolf paused for a shaving of a moment. This shot was sure, claiming the animal and quieting its clamors.

Over the whole valley spread an eerie stillness.

Littledon! Chapter 2

For the introduction and chapter one, click here.

Chapter 2

The countryside around Littledon was regularly hazed with mist in the mornings, especially those mornings which came out of chilly nights. Not frosty, but chilly, and this was just such a morning. The sky was a smattering of puffy white and smears of gray clouds, and the hilltops just bulged out of the soupy fog spilling over the ground. It was a quiet morning, as everyone went about his work in pleasant silence.

Until young Vincent Conn tore into town with great dispatch and frantic callings, and from that moment on, the stillness was shattered. The fog within Littledon seemed to recede with the very stirring of passions among the residents.

“I saw a wolf! I saw a wolf!” was his cry, and he continued on down the street, to give every available ear the message.

He was a fast boy though, and many heard a confused jumble of noises as he shot past.

“What’s this he said?” Mrs. Hornsby asked.

Jack Fischer answered with his own confusion, “Something about a wool-fire, I think.”

“No,” replied Mr. Hornsby, coming in to his shop from the street. “‘Twas about sawing at wool.”

“Well, what sense does that make?” Mrs. Hornsby asked. “Wool is for spinning or stuffing, but never for sawing at!”

“And why is he so worked up about it,” wondered Jack Fischer, “if it’s not a wool-fire?”

And others had their own mishearings further muddled by discussing with others around them who, similarly, heard very little.

In short order, however, those few who’d heard properly had passed their correction through the town, and all who were mistaken were soon insisting that they’d heard “I saw a wolf” all along, and would never speculate such things as “sawing at wool” or “wool ice thaw” or other such obvious nonsense.

Once the town had gathered into the square, Mayor Kingsley brought Vincent Conn up onto the balcony of the inn, so that everyone could hear. Vincent was panting and sweating, despite the persistent chill in the air.

Before he could catch his breath to speak, several in the square began to whisper about just how many wolves he had seen and just how large they were. Murmurs and moans began to rise and the mayor had to rebuke the crowd so that Vincent could recount what he had seen, in more detail than his feverish shouts.

“Now what’s all this, Vincent?” Mayor Kingsley asked.

“Well sir,” began the young man, still huffing, “I saw a wolf!”

As though hearing it fresh, gasps arose from those gathered, but Mayor Kingsley frowned and persisted. “Where, boy? You must tell us where, and how it came about that you could see it!”

“Yes sir!” Vincent straightened his back and made not to look at the crowd so directly, as it was clear he was nervous. “I ‘as out yon, sent by my da to deliver a length of good chain he finished yesternight. And around a bend I come, when there too come a slinkin’ in the bushes somethin’ like a dog, big like Mr. Roderick’s, only bigger still!”

From the townsfolk came several cries: ‘Oh, my!’s, ‘Gracious above!’s, and one “Only a dog?”

Vincent fixed his eyes on the Mayor like a peg in oak joists, and went on. “Well, I thinks to myself, ‘Ne’er before seen one like ‘at before, and I’ve had eighteen good years to look!'”

“And then what happened?” Mayor Kingsley asked, his face a plaster of worry.

“Too scared’a move a muscle, I was!” Vincent risked a glimpse at the people, and saw such fear in them as well. “An’ it was hid halfway behind those bushes, but it was comin’ out to the roadside, and then I saw it full.” He paused with a tremble.

“How big was it, then?” someone shouted out, for the mayor was frozen by the telling.

“Head up at my chest, and three arms long!” Vincent pantomimed the measurements with his digits.

At this, more prayers arose from the crowd, and more gasps too. One drifting into the meeting about this time would notice immediately the consumed state of the air, and would guess that wisdom was in equal condition with it also. However, none in Littledon had procrastinated attendance, and the spent quality was ignored for the threat of the wolf.

Thus, nearly every person in the town thought not for himself, but revised his own opinions on the apparent reactions of others. In this manner, the reactions more rash and hysterical stacked upon one another and were magnified to a degree that banished sagacity.

“Wha— What did you d— do?” stammered Mayor Kingsley.

Knowing now that the depth of his terror was far outweighed by those of the town, Vincent turned and addressed the people in a strong and confident voice. “Why, I threw down my chains, and ran right back townwise, and got everyone in on the news.” He looked back to Mayor Kingsley, “And now we’re everyone here.”

Kingsley nodded stiffly, “Right good thinking, Vincent, my boy, giving call so fast.”

“Aye.” Vincent searched out his father among the crowd, and added. “I’m right sorry about the chain, da. I figure on helpin’ to make another’n.”

“No matter, son,” replied he. “Tis no matter.”

“Besides,” spoke up the baker, Mr. Lawson, “No harm what comes to a man matters much to a chain. We’ll fetch it, on our way to find the beast.”

“Find it?” asked Mayor Kingsley with tilted head, as though the words didn’t quite agree with his judgment.

“Well, o’ course we must find it,” the baker said.

A few others nominated their agreement, not many though, just a few.

“Can’t very well have a creature like ‘at roamin’ around these hills.”

A flurry of conversations broke out in the square, most fearful of the proposed task. And yet there was no other option than to send out a cadre of the toughest men in the city. A wolf could not be suffered, no matter how dangerous slaying it or running it off might be.

Soon, all were agreed that a party should go, which brought forward the matter of who should comprise it. Mr. Lawson, the baker, was first to volunteer. He was not a young man, though he was not withered either. He was fit and brave, and he welcomed his duty to Littledon.

Vincent Conn’s father was next to subscribe to the charge. He was the town’s blacksmith and was the strongest by far. Mr. Merritt joined, as did Mr. Cartwright. Both of them owned large flocks, and paid good wages to their workers. Mr. Warwick added himself and his son who was soon to marry and begin a family of his own. The younger Warwick had to reassure his betrothed a dozen times that he would be careful as one could be when out hunting a wolf.

Quite a few of Littledon’s young boys declared to accompany the effort. All were rebuffed for their age, since experience could be levied against all in the square. None in Littledon had run off any animal, but for the pests of the field, such as deer, birds, rabbits, and the occasional fox.

The youngest to go along would be Vincent, as he would show the men where his eyes had seen the subject of their endeavor. It was agreed that, young as he was, Vincent had displayed a sound mind, good judgment, and had no small amount of time with the smithy’s hammer. His shoulders were broad with powerful, lithe arms, and his chest strong as any man’s, except for his father, who was nearly an ox.

It was arranged. Mayor Kingsley made an official declaration blessing the enterprise, and wishing them swift and certain victory. All agreed with the pronouncement, though the applause was slim. After all, these men were setting out on a hazardous mission, and no one was mistaken about that.

Each volunteer went to his house to retrieve some supplies and what weapons had been handed down from old. Then, reassembled, the party set out.

Chapter 3…

Littledon! Chapter 1

I wrote Littledon! during the process of preparing The Remaking for publication. It is a rewrite of the classic fable of the Boy Who Cried Wolf. Instead of catching on to the boy’s lies, the town always believes him, which makes the story more humorous than the original, and ultimately, more tragic. It is a novella, which means about a hundred paperback pages.

Littledon! will be serialized on my site as I work on the sequel to The Remaking. However, for those who do not want to wait for each chapter to be released, the whole story in its entirety is available on the Kindle. Within a few weeks, a paperback version should be released as well. Enjoy!

Littledon Cover

Introduction

Littledon! takes off of the classic story of the Boy Who Cried Wolf. The fable originated in ancient Greece, yet did not become widely known in Europe until the late 15th century, due to lack of available translations.

It’s a very simple story, really. Simple and short. The boy plays tricks on the town, raising alarm of wolves attacking the sheep when there are none. He then laughs when the townsfolk are angry about the false alarm.

Repeating this prank several times, the boy destroys his reputation. Finally a real wolf comes to feed on the flocks. The boy calls frantically for help, but no one believes him, and the flock is eaten up.

The lesson, of course, is that one should not lie to others, since a shattered reputation is all but impossible to repair. Even for a prank, one must take care not to play the joke at the expense of others. They deserve better, and they will be reluctant to help someone who takes pleasure in making them look a fool.

Now, what if the town always believed the boy, no matter how many times he is shown to be utterly wrong?

This is a very small change, and yet it teaches another valuable lesson; that embracing a lie is as dangerous as telling one. A lie which is widely believed may destroy a great deal.

This rewritten fable can be applied as a lesson regarding any hyperbolic mob that is ginned up into a frenzy by a charlatan.  Littledon! is not specifically about any particular lie, and many lies enjoy social proof by mere popularity. Therefore, I leave it to the reader to apply this story wherever he sees fit.

There was one particular lie that stuck in my craw and gave me a real itch to write Littledon! However, that issue is only marginally more applicable to the story than most others.

So feel free to interpret this story however you like! I welcome feedback on how the story is best applied from your view. Feel free to contact me through my website (jtoconnell.com), or even just leave your thoughts in a review at Amazon.com.

Readers may be better prepared by receiving one further note regarding this novella. I did not want this story to be bogged down with a particular time and place. Such geographical and historical concerns can be interesting, and yet would ultimately detract from the overall story.

After all, the Aesop original could apply to nearly any culture that herds sheep and has rambunctious boys. Timelessness is a product of tapping into the fundamentals and nuances of humanity.

For that reason, Littledon! uses a mixture of accents. I tried to make the blend consistent and yet imprecise in just who these people are. The prose is somewhat Victorian, though I could never be accused of expertise in that regard. So much the better, since the modern reader has different needs than those of a century and a half ago.

I wish you an enjoyable read.

Chapter 1

Littledon was a sleepy town, a quiet haven nestled among the hills. It was peaceful and serene, which is just how the townsfolk liked it. There were quite enough rainy days to keep the crops watered, though so many as to douse the spirits of the farmers.

Sometimes it was sunny and sometimes it was not. No one took enough notice to think it was too much of one or the other. The worst complaint Littledonians would waste on the weather was that this day could be less as it is, and more of what it is not.

With a town as small as Littledon, it was only natural that each person knew every other. What is more, most could not imagine a city so bustling with people that one could never know everyone else. It seemed a curious thing, this idea of living so near to others and knowing nothing about them. Surely, such an arrangement would come to fray, and even common courtesy would be abandoned to anonymity. Clearly, Littledonians were more courteous than city folk; this they knew instinctively.

Which is not to say they did not have squabbles. Hardly a man in Littledon got along with everyone, except for Mr. and Mrs. Goodwin, who were the two oldest residents, and were widely considered to be kindness itself. Yet, they were exceptional.

Of course, it should not therefore be assumed that Littledon was rife with argument. For the greater part, there was harmony in the town. What discord came about was seldom heated, and those who had disagreements could at least stand each other well enough.

And besides, there was one thing about which every single Littledonian agreed; their only trouble was wolves.

For Littledon was not just a town for tillers and croppers. At least half the folk owned sheep, and quite a few maintained substantial flocks. Scarce was the hill whose grass was not scarred by the teeth of the lamb, the ram, and the ewe. Wool was commonplace in keeping out the brisk chill of morning, and nary was there a sock of any other material.

Altogether, sheep were rightly the most important enterprise in Littledon, and not a man, woman, or child had any illusions otherwise. It may be reckoned therefore, that wolves were the sole and sovereign enemy of tranquility.

If wolves had been on the prowl, then for days following, talk of the town would dwell only upon what little truth was known and also a great deal of rumor that invariably arose in place of knowledge. People did not greet each other in the streets. Instead, they would cry out, “Say, did you hear about the wolves been at such-and-such farm?”

“Yes!” he would answer. “Ate up half a doz’n his flock, they say!”

And sure as ever you can be, the other would up the ante. “Half a doz’n? Why, I spoke with old Mr. so-and-so myself, and he told me straight, ’twas a full doz’n at that, if it were a single spotted lamb!”

The other would answer him, startled, “You don’t say?” And after receiving his confidence, the two would part. Thereafter, being reinforced in their knowledge of the crime, each would feel it their duty to perhaps stretch the truth just a little farther to the next person they discuss it with.

After all, concerning a threat so savage and despicable as wolves, one cannot do injustice by exaggeration. So a solitary snatched or slain lamb becomes two, and then becomes four ewes, and then ten ewes and two rams, and then half the flock!

Only once did this discourse go awry, when one boy, carried away in his relating the disaster, added that farmer Honeycutt had come to fight off the wolves and been veritably eaten up himself! Several of the townsfolk had gone to the aid of poor Mrs. Honeycutt, only to find Mr. Honeycutt very much alive, unharmed even, and annoyed at all the ballyhoo over a single sickly sheep gone missing.

For many years, though, the wolf attacks had nearly gone away. An entire generation had been spent fending off the great packs of old, the scourges of the hillsides. Those wolves had been daring and malevolent. They went after children and aged folk, and even stalked the streets of Littledon. The noise of claws on cobblestones was the greatest terror of town lore, and it was true, which was terrifying all the more.

Men had banded together, hearty men with sturdy backs and broad shoulders, men who could swing a club, and were sharp in a scrap. In groups they set out into the hillsides. Many packs were killed and many men met their end as well. At last, the remaining wolves were driven off and no more had been heard from them in a great deal of time.

Mr. Goodwin had been a mere child during the year of the last Great Hunt, and he liked little more than to tell stories of the valiant and courageous men that had done such great and lofty deeds. Some Littledonians told tales of the exploits of their ancestors, who invariably had led the last hunt, for no one knew with certainty who it had been, but all were confident their own lineage gave them such noble blood.

Of course, everyone knew that wolves were still out there, lurking somewhere in the hills far beyond. You could no more destroy every wolf than you could clean every spider out of a hay loft. You must look all at once in every tiny nook and narrow cranny. And as countrysides go, Littledon had numerous nooks and countless crannies.

However, for a full generation in Littledon, wolves had been naught but bedtime tales of terror and glory. They were near enough to ghosts for all the experience anyone had with them these days, so complete had been the victories of bygone decades.

So when two or three sheep vanish, one leaving behind a puff of bloodied wool, the townsfolk quickly slipped into a tizzy of terror. No one knew how many wolves there were, or if indeed wolves were the culprit in the first place. After all, not a hide had been seen, nor a print that could not have easily been a farmer’s hound. Wolves of those wizened tales simply must have much larger paws, mustn’t they?

And hearty as the men in Littledon were, they had grown accustomed to dealing with other matters, such as how to dig out stones and pull up stumps, so as to till more ground, and also where best to hide the spirits so the women of good sense could not keep the men from drinking their sense out of their heads!

Wolves, then? Honesty must show Littledon wholly unprepared for another hunt, and perhaps too fearful of the old legends to crack shutters open at the rick-tick-click of claws that may come down the cobblestones any night.

Thus, when Vincent Conn made report of seeing a wolf with his very own eyes! panic indeed was the quietest response.

Chapter 2…

Chapter 3…

The Remaking Released!

The Remaking is now out both on Kindle and paperback. Pick it up, give it a read, and review it!

It’s something of a crossover between 1984 and modern Young Adult. So many YA books have gone halfway with that, I decided to take it a few steps further. Let me know if I pulled it off!

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The Remaking Sample

The Remaking is now available for pre-order on the Kindle and order in Paperback. You probably could get the paperback a week or so before the official release date.

In any event, here’s a bit of a flashback for Sela, the main character in The Remaking.

16

Her hand moved delicately across the canvas, skinning the faintest shade of charcoal off the stick. She retraced and added another careful swath. Even though the table was inclined, Sela hunched over it, trying to twist her posture enough to untwist her drawing.

She had been practicing for a few weeks, and she wasn’t sure whether there was any improvement. She could smudge out decent skylines. Who couldn’t?

But she was having a devil of a time trying to draw organically. Every time she drew an animal or a person, it came out awkward and misshapen. And not the sort of misshapen the way a cartoon is supposed to be. All of her human renderings had a demented look, as though a first grader had drawn them.

Sela was fifteen, just a few months away from turning sixteen. And she had discovered art. Just like ballet a few years earlier, she wasn’t very good, at least not yet.

The art teacher at school, Mr. Garvey, encouraged her to keep working at it. He said that drawing was a skill that took time to develop. He also praised the things she drew, but then, he praised every other kid’s drawing in the art class too. That’s sort of what an art teacher is supposed to do, Sela figured.

Still, it was a nice sensation, the smooth canvas slipping softly against the edge of the charcoal. Even if the face already looked stretched and alien, Sela enjoyed it. She liked the idea that she could create something. Something that didn’t exist until she got her hands dirty.

Maybe if she could develop her ability to draw, she really could put the creativity in her mind out onto the canvas, let the image speak for itself. Her father had bought these nice pencils and canvas, had put together the desk himself.

She wanted to be able to justify buying more canvas, however much it might cost. The concept of money was still new to her, since her parents usually got whatever she wa—

“Hello, Sela.”

She whirled around to face the voice. “Leon!”

He looked through his glasses and down his nose at her, a smug look of contempt on his young face. “Who were you expecting? One of your shallow friends?”

Sela glared at him, but she knew not to protest the insults. Her friends liked to have fun, and so did she! It didn’t make them shallow to hang out on the weekends, to help each other put together cute outfits, and to talk about boys.

“What’re you doing here?” she asked.

Leon’s family had moved up north a year earlier, three years after they had initially moved to the suburbs of Nashville. Sela had been more than happy to see him go.

“I came back to town with my dad.” He smiled at her, the way a hammer might smile at a nail. “We’re just here for a few days.”

A few days? she thought. Great… just great.

He looked different. Sela realized that he was fifteen now too, and he had grown. He would grow more, but he was as tall as she was now. Tall and lanky, all of his earlier chubbiness stretched out over several extra inches of height.

“Yeah, I figured you should it hear from me; you guys are moving.”

Sela rolled her eyes and dismissed the statement, “No we aren’t.” Her father had promised the family would stay in Nashville. That was the benefit of his job as a research professor.

She turned back to her canvas, and then sighed when she saw the dark line that had streaked across the page. It must have happened when she had whipped around. Leon again!

“Yes, you are,” Leon insisted. “You’re moving in a month, to Megora. Me and my dad’ve set up everything.”

“We’re not moving,” Sela replied. When they had last moved, her father had promised that Nashville was where they would stay. Maybe the line on the page could be a horizon. She put the charcoal to the canvas. And what would that make the misshapen face? Some hideous ghost?

“You’re moving. And there’s nothing you can do to stop it.” His voice was uncaring, as though the mere fact that he was saying something made it simple truth. “The Council wants to fund your dad’s research. They’re giving you guys a lot. If was up to me you’d have to get one of the condos outside the Tower, but dad got you one inside the Tower of Hope.”

“Well, isn’t it great that none of this is up to either of you,” Sela fired a glance back at her cousin.

The malice in his grin was razor-sharp. “It’s not up to you either. You’re moving, and so what if you don’t want to.” He almost laughed at the frustration he saw in her own flustered expression.

“We are not moving!” Sela spun back to the desk and slammed the charcoal pencil back into the box with the still-wrapped pencils. It broke in half, and she didn’t care.

She wanted to throw the whole box at Leon, stain that annoying expression with charcoal, shoo him out of her room, out of the house, out of her life forever.

Why? Why! Why did he have to come back just to tell me this!

Sela huffed a breath out and turned back around. Leon was still there, his grin now cranked wide with all the glee he got from bothering her. He seemed to have a special place in his heart for annoying her. He never laughed, and yet the same dark joy was there. What was the word she had learned in English class? Schadenfreude?

Leon liked to control things and he treated people like they were things to be controlled. Only his father was beyond his disdain, and by extension, the people his father revered.

Sela had even seen Leon talk down to his own mother, and he had not seemed at all distraught when she had passed away in a car accident two years earlier.

He just stared at Sela, standing in her doorway, arms crossed as though to block her from leaving his bitter company. Some guests, like some fish, stink immediately.

Unveiling the Cover

My book, The Remaking, is set to launch late next month. I cannot be happier with the way it has turned out. So here’s the cover. I will post a few comments about The Remaking in a few days. This is going to be a slightly different book. It might stir up some interest, though likely through some controversy. More to come later.

Please visit my author page on Facebook! Like and Share!

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The Remaking Teaser

I have been working on two things; getting out of debt and completing another book. I’m close on the first goal and already there on the second. The Remaking should release late next month. I’ll be unveiling the cover art very soon!

Here’s an (ominous) teaser.

Welcome to the Remaking, a global effort to restructure human relations and increase social stability.   Under the guidance of the Provisional Council, the Remaking has eliminated war, eradicated famine, and solved poverty; all while returning most of the natural world to the Earth.

Enjoy your time in Megora, and follow all rules and regulations!

Please note, Ghosting is a serious offense and will not be tolerated.

You may apply for a residence, however the Council reserves sole discretion to assign dwelling spaces as necessary.

If you do not have a biometric account yet, make an appointment with the Agency of Medicine. Your biometric account can be used to make paper-free payments at many restaurants, theaters, and Megora’s state-of-the-art transit system.

Your opinion is valuable to us! The Agency of Vision is eager to hear from you. Visit the website so we can hear your thoughts. And don’t worry, there will be no repercussions… We promise…

Yeah, that doesn’t raise any hair on the neck, right?

More to come soon! Please visit and Like my author page on facebook!